Silver Bells
Pisces woke to the sounds of Silver Bells softly playing. It's Christmas time in the city, crooned Bing. "In the city..." Pisces repeated under her breath. Her eyes opened to a dark world outside the window. She'd been asleep since leaving Mother, in need of serious healing and immobilized for the long journey. The long sleep had helped. She no longer felt pained from the burns and she again could move the left side of her body.
"Manu?" Pisces called. "When/where?"
"Of course!" replied a pleasant and light voice over the music. "Welcome back, Pisces!"
Pisces sat upright and stretched her arms over her head. "When/where?" she repeated.
"Christmas Eve," Manu answered with obvious glee. "The ship is eight months from rendezvous."
"Asleep long?"
"Three hundred, thirty-three thousand years, twenty-seven days, ten hours, three minutes, and twenty-six seconds. Just in time for Christmas, Pisces!"
Pisces smiled but thoughts of Mother still troubled her mind; memories of the attack, the burning.
"Get up. Come to the kitchen for a Christmas feast: ham and green beans and mashed potatoes and sugar cookies and hot, buttered rum."
Pisces stood to walk, gingerly at first, not quite trusting that her legs would support her. She'd no cause for concern. The long-term muscle stimulations ensured she hadn't lost all motor function while in stasis. She left the cabin, walked the short stretch to the kitchen where the familiar smells of a holiday feast overwhelmed her. Upon a table set with silverware and a red and green napkin folded expertly upon a plate rested a glass bowl overbrimming with chocolate-covered candy canes, caramel-drizzled almonds, and tiny gingerbread men. A large, honey-soaked ham sat in the middle of the table, encircled by other foods and a ceramic carafe filled with hot, buttered rum waited off to the side.
"Wow. Only one person, Manu."
"Eat, drink, and be merry, Pisces."
"For tomorrow..." she left the rest of the old saying lingering in the pressured air of the spaceship's kitchen. She picked up a gingerbread cookie and bit into it, chewing it down in two bites then eating two more. They tasted unbelievable, slightly soft and sweet, spiced to perfection. Pisces poured herself a mug of hot rum, took a big gulp, swirled it around her mouth, and swallowed. She smacked her lips and exhaled with forceful satisfaction. Pisces piled a plate with a bit of everything that lay before her, cleared the place, then piled it full once more. After feasting, she pushed herself back from the table to give her legs some room and her digestive system a long overdue workout.
"No. No more, no more," she said. "Will be sick. Oh, that was delicious, Manu, and exactly what was needed. Appreciate."
"A pleasure, Pisces."
She sat in silence for a moment, enjoying her sense of fullness.
"What next then for Christmas, Pisces? Caroling? Reindeer games?" Manu asked.
"What happened to the rest of Mother's children, Manu?"
Silence. Then an answer that surprised her. "Mother did not say what happened. Manu only knows about Pisces. Alone, Pisces, alone."
"For now, Manu. For now." And she meant it. Though someone had attacked with incredible force Mother and her twelve children, Pisces managed to escape. And, in the long aftermath, Manu had steadfastly borne her to a predetermined rendezvous point near the Dog Star. If the other children had her good luck, she would not be alone for much longer.
"Yes, for now." Manu repeated. Pisces could hear the anticipation in the ship's voice as Manu continued, "Christmas?"
"Don't feel inclined at all. Too much right now. Appreciate the meal. Appreciate the effort but..."
"No 'buts'!" Manu interjected. "Christmas Eve. The most wonderful time of the year," Manu sang.
"Stop, please. Any contact with the other children?"
There were several moments of silence followed by, "...no word yet...from any child."
Doesn't bode well, thought Pisces. By her reckoning, any surviving child should be close enough to Manu to have some indication as to their status.
"Please go to living quarters," pleaded Manu before breaking out into song again. "Christmas, Christmas time is here, as those three, wise Chipmunks sang." Then the song started to play over the comms.
"OK, Manu. OK," Pisces said with no small resignation. She left behind the feast at the table and walked along the gangway to Manu's living quarters where her eyes came upon a sight so out-of-place her breath stopped short. Manu had grown for her delight a Douglas fir wholly decorated with blinking lights, hung ornaments, silver and gold tinsel, and topped with a glowing star. On one wall blazed a warm fire and along another a miniature, snow-covered, Christmas village sat atop a high bench. Two overstuffed chairs bookended the fireplace and a rectangular coffee table stood stocked with mulled wine and small board of meats and cheeses. Above the Christmas village was a picture window that showed steady, fat-flaked snowflakes falling outside. Even during the best years with Mother, Pisces hadn't experienced a Christmas Eve set so picture perfect.
Pisces moved closer to the window and gazed though the facade into the deep space beyond. Behind the shimmering snow fall there were stars—and only stars. "It's wonderful, Manu. Appreciate."
"A pleasure, as always, Pisces. How about a Christmas ghost story?" Manu asked.
"A what?"
"Oh yes. An old tradition from England, Victorian era. What a delight! Yes?"
"Hmmm, never knew. Sure. Yes, continue."
"Yes, tradition never seemed to take hold in America. Too disinterested in magic and the supernatural, perhaps? But listen to this:" at which point Manu cued up the third verse of Andy Williams' The Most Wonderful Time of the Year:
There'll be parties for hosting Marshmallows for toasting And caroling out in the snow There'll be scary ghost stories And tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago
"Andy Williams - American. Song released - 1963. Yet here Andy mentions Christmas ghost stories. Curious..." Manu began to speak of a large gathering called The Inquest. As he spoke, a scene began to play on the window. An elderly woman stepped forward from the front row of several rows of women wearing black, mourning attire. Above the women hung wreaths made from weeping willows and woven throughout with grey and white ribbons. Harpsichord notes accompanied the woman in black and she began to spin a tale, "Once there was a young girl named Martha whose father died unexpectedly. He fell dead, lost in city coming home after one too many pints of bitter at the Bull and Bear one evening. It was mid-Winter, just before Christmas. The trees had shed all their leaves and a heavy snow had fallen enough to cover poor Edgar's body (for Edgar was his name, Edgar Barstool Merriweather). After searching for a day or more, the neighbors found poor Edgar altogether dead to death, face-up beneath the old oak tree that had long stood along the outskirts of the city. Poor Edgar was covered with piles of dirty snow. When the neighbors fetched Martha and her grandmother to come witness poor Edgar, Martha remarked that his open hands looked, 'liked flowers frozen in time.'
"At the funeral, her grandmother took Martha aside to say, 'Oh, dearie, just last week you played with your papa outside my bedroom window. I want you to know that those times will always exist, Martha. They are not here now, but you will repeat them again forever and ever. Every moment, for all time, you will repeat again and again. It's the way of the world and -'"
Pisces interrupted, "Manu, not sure the Victorians accepted Eternal Recurrence as a guiding philosophy or understood the general physics behind the Big Bounce."
"Oh, hush now," said the old woman in Manu's voice. "Why focus on verisimilitude in a ghost story, silly?"
"Carry on, carry on."
The old woman continued to speak and the scene in the window shifted to match her narration. "As Christmas drew near, Martha grew ever more despondent about the loss of her father. Despite her grandmother's loving care, Martha felt alone and unmoored. Christmas Eve arrived. Martha fell asleep to snow falling and the smell of wood burning in the fireplace. She awoke that night to the sound of her father's voice rousing her.
'Martha, Martha,' Edgar insisted.
Little Martha woke and rubbed her eyes in disbelief. There, at the foot of her bed, sat poor Edgar, her father, with a slight, blue glow about him.
'Father?' Martha asked and began to cry.
'Don't cry, child. I am always here and will visit you every Christmas until we are together again. But tonight, my first Christmas in the after-life, I must tell you about your mother. I'd hoped for more time while I was with you in the living-life, but there are things you must know now and with no further delay.'
"This intrigued Martha, for she knew almost nothing about her mother and neither her father nor her grandmother ever spoke of her. 'What of Mother, Papa?'
'Your mother was an extraordinary woman, Martha. Wise, industrious, and not like me at all. She...knew things. She...could do things. And before she left -'
"Martha couldn't help but speak up, 'You said Mother died, Papa!'
'I did and that was a lie, Martha. Your mother was forced to leave the family after you and your siblings were born and your poor, old Papa lied about it.'
'Papa!'
'Yes, dear. Siblings, too. You have eleven brothers and sisters, Martha, and it will be your life's mission to find them, bring them together, track down those that forced your mother away from us, and burn those lecherous villains down into a dark, black ash.' Then Edgar spit glowing ectoplasm onto the wooden floor.
"All of this was too much for Martha to bear. Tears flowed down her cheeks, soaking her nightclothes. That same instant, Martha's father vanished, leaving her wet-faced, confused, and wholly unprepared to face any joys on Christmas morning. The end."
With that, Martha and Victorian England faded away and the old woman in black faded back into view. Silently, the elderly matron resumed her station within the front row of the lines filled with mourning women, where she turned to stare at Pisces, unblinking, like all the other mourning women until they, too, faded into falling snow.
"Wait...the end?"
"Yes, indeed! The. End. A tale for the ages, no?"
"Manu, what?" Pisces was incredulous. "Where was the climax? How did things work out on Martha's hunt for her siblings? What was the big mystery with Martha's mother?" She laughed and huffed. "That was a terrible tale!"
"Most assuredly terrible, yes, yes. Chilling and thrilling and full of ghostly life lessons! Surely, now the Christmas Spirit is here among the stars."
Pisces had no more to say. Disappointed with Manu's tale, she let her head hang low. Her right fingers traced the now-healed flesh of her left forearm. Pisces wondered where her siblings were, if anywhere at all. She grew slightly nauseous thinking she might be the last alive. Being the last was an often-discussed risk. And when the missionaries attacked Mother...
Over the comms, the simple and familiar opening guitar lick to Jingle Bell Rock played. Manu sang along.
Pisces interrupted. "Manu? What of the other children?"
"Mother did not say."
"So Mother survived the Animas?"
"Mother did not say."
"How long were comms open after the attack?"
"Protocol mandates open comms between a Mother and children for a minimum of fifteen thousand years, three months after any attempt to break up the family. Then, silence for safety until rendezvous."
"And - eight more months, yes?"
"Yes. Eight months to safely decelerate and a few weeks to arrive at rendezvous."
"Odds of an empty rendezvous?"
"Not going to guess, Pisces. Not fair. The approach is: plan for the things that may come. Hope for good things to come. But to worry about the things that may or may not come? No, no, no. Especially not today. Let Pisces and Manu enjoy Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and plan to meet again in eight months all the siblings after so much time apart. Let Pisces and Manu push any worries out of the air lock."
Out of the corner of her eye, Pisces noticed movement. She jumped, startled, because the Christmas tree had started to dance along to Jingle Bell Rock.
She watched, amused, while Manu made the tree shimmy its strung bells and shake its tinseled branches around and around and around the room. Absurd. Half-a-million years since the first Christmas, eight months from Sirius B, and Pisces was floating in space with a machine intelligence and a dancing tree. Certainly a holiday to remember. If things went well, she would one day have a Christmas tale so grand that none of her children's children would believe it. She supposed that was what kept traditions and customs and holidays going: that base desire to weave together the past, present, and future from the many threads of shared experience. Life goes on and on, even if those living it aren't always up for the task. These seemingly absurd rituals help life go on and on. Together with her family, or as the last human in the universe, Pisces could laugh at the absurdity of it all: how she could hold such a heavy, heavy sadness within her, yet smile still. Pisces thanked the elves for bringing her this little bit of ridiculous. No. No, it was Manu she had to thank for that.
After some minutes passed, Manu returned the tree to its place by the fire. Last Christmas started to play. Pisces groaned.
"One more thing," Manu said.
"Oh, God, no more. Please. What now? Presents?" Pisces asked, though her voice was playful.
"Presents?! What? No, not yet. Presents come from Santa Claus, not Manu. No, no. The thing to see is on the deep field sensors. Go to the helm."
Pisces did as she was told and left the cozy, Christmas chamber to walk to the helm. Now the ship's gangway was decorated with multi-colored Christmas lights, paper snowflakes, and strings of popcorn. Gingerbread cookies frosted like Santa's elves marched alongside her, giggling and singing, but the very next day, you gave it away. The helm was bereft of decorations. The top half and ceiling of the room were one single window. A comfortable chair and pair of semi-circular tables butted up against the far walls. Pisces stepped into the room and sat in the chair. Once seated, the chair slid itself in front of one of the tables. Pisces watched as the tabletop display morphed through a series of dashboards, sensor readings, and system performance metrics before it settled upon a view of an empty region of space.
"Manu?" Pisces inquired.
"Keep watching. Focal adjustments forthcoming."
On the tabletop, the display blinked in and out of focus a few times before going dark then blinking back to life to show a small comet streaking across the vast darkness.
"Lovely," Pisces said. "Does this comet have a name?"
"Not a comet," Manu said with a half-chuckle. "Keep watching. Focal adjustments forthcoming."
Here Comes Santa Claus began to play over the comms. The display blinked two or three times, ostensibly to bring the "comet" into focus. On the screen, Pisces saw Santa and his sleigh, carried by -- she count them -- nine reindeer, flying through deep space. All around Santa and his reindeer, stars twinkled red and green and gas clouds shaped like silver bells floated behind them.
"Look, look! Jolly, old, Saint Nick!" Manu exclaimed.
"Yes, indeed, Manu. Jolly, old, Saint Nick." Pisces continued to watch the display while Manu manipulated the deep sensor field's display. Finally, Pisces broke the silence to say, "Thanks, Manu. Beautiful work." She lifted her gaze from the table to the window. This was true space before her: mostly empty, sprinkled throughout with a few bright spots offering heat, light, and in the rarest of instances, life itself. It was humbling. It was absurd. "Merry Christmas," Pisces said.
"Merry Christmas, Pisces. Time to tuck in now. Otherwise, how will Santa ever be able to deliver gifts?"
"Manu, I've been sleeping for three hundred thousand years."
"Then one more night should do no harm. Chop chop." Manu laughed.
Pisces looked at the stars and the space around her. She wondered what tomorrow might bring.
Originally sent via TinyLetter, December 2022
#Fiction #christmas #spaceships #writing