Sunday Service

  Sundays were always the same, but then Eric had always been a creature of habit. There was plenty of time for new things during the week; exploits to excite the grandchildren and horrify their parents; hanging out with his drinking crowd, or the remains thereof; events and exhibitions that those who still worked would never have the time to see; or a return to some place dimly remembered from a far away youth. Sundays had a routine.


  Church, then off to the cemetery to lay flowers, then take the longer way home. He would point out the old landmarks, the hidden places from their courtship days and Esther would chide him to keep his eyes on the road and to slow down.


  Not that he was driving with any haste, Old Bess would not be driven fast, she would amble down the country lanes at her own pace immune to the hurry of the modern cars. Eric would wave these new machines past when there was space and watch them disappear off between the hedgerows without a twinge of envy. He had passed his modern car on to their daughter when he realised getting places quickly was not something he needed to do any more, the bus did the weekly work and Bess came out on the weekend.


  Eventually they would get back to the busy main road and either a local, recognising Eric, or a stranger, charmed by Bess, would let him into the traffic. Two minutes and they would pull up the drive of the neat, well-tended home they had bought fifty years ago and raised a family in. Esther would rustle up a simple lunch and they would eat listening to the wireless, some nostalgic show.


  In the afternoon Esther would clean the house from top to bottom, while Eric would help as much as her was able, until she banished him to the garage or the shed. Bess would need some minor maintenance or the lawn could do with mowing, Sunday afternoon jobs. Eventually it would be done and he would head back to the house to find Esther preparing the Sunday dinner.


  He would sit at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea, while watching her go through the complex dance that brought the meat, roasted and boiled veg, proper gravy and, if he was lucky, Yorkshire pudding to perfection at exactly the same time. As often as he watched this feat, its intricacies were lost on him and his only contributions were to take the peelings out to the brown recycling bin and to lay the cutlery correctly on the table.


  Dinner over, Esther would never let him do the dishes, he was incapable of performing the task to her exacting specifications, although he was allowed to dry once she had sorted him out with a clean tea-towel, and he listened to her strict direction. Then, the dishes safely in the cupboard, he would bow to her, take her hand in his and they would whirl around the kitchen in a slow version of the dances of their youth, an imaginary rock and roll in their minds.


  And that was it for another week, Esther would once again depart to the land beyond the veil and he would once again be left behind, widowed. 'Til death do us part and perhaps after then.



  Sundays were always the same.

In Space No-one Can Hear Your Cliché

  “I repeat, this is the Immerin outer-system ship, Kalisa Mae, please respond, do you need assistance.” Jenkins puts it on repeat and turns his head towards the bridge's command chair. “No response again, Captain. Do you want me to leave it running or get the boys to haul it in?”


  “Get them to drag it into cargo bay two, Jenkins, we have a rendezvous to make and we've wasted too much time chasing this tin can. Probably just junk or the space grave of some idiot spacer who can't plot a course correctly.” The Captain goes back to the read-out of the engine output.


  In three hours time: “Sorry, Captain, comm's gone down. I'll get the repair crew right on it.” Jenkins routes a priority order to Watson in engineering.


  “How are we supposed to run a professional operation if everything breaks down all the time?” Mutters the Captain.


  “We're supposed to be repairmen, not junkyard wreckers, Chief.” Simpson reaches over and pulls a larger tool from the trolley.


  “The Captain wants this wreck opened up, Simmo. After what you did to the aftward engine strut getting through that airlock should be no problem for you.” Watson steps back and puts her ear defenders on.


  In three hours time: “Shit, this is all messed up, going to have to replace the entire thing eventually, but we might be able to jury-rig something. Looks like someone attacked it with the power-cutters. How do you think this happened, Chief?” Simpson pulls out a wrench and gets to work.


  “If I didn't know better, then I'd say someone did this deliberately, looks like your last effort on the shower system, Simmo. Probably an overheated coil has caused a coolant leak and explosion, just take out what we can't salvage and we'll see what spares we still have.” Watson mops her brow. “Hey did you just hear something?”


  “My calculations are that he's been dead three years. Judging by the way the escape pod's rations are mostly untouched, death occurred not long after it was launched.” Doctor Brown places the dermal probe into the steriliser.


  “But how do explain how he managed to slash himself to death?” Nurse Cawly asks, quietly. “He was alone in there and there was no weapon found on the body.”


  In three hours time: “Crewman, answer me! How did this happen? Who was it?” Doctor Brown frantically works to stop the bleeding.


  “We're losing him, Doc, there's too much blood!” Nurse Cawly looks in horror at the spreading pool he is kneeling in and glances at the shadows behind him.


  “The pod's log say its from the Aegean, records show it left the Rigel system over four years ago headed here, but never arrived, lieutenant” Denby shunts the data over to the main screen of the operations room.


  “Well, parts of it obviously arrived,” Lieutenant Moss rubs her chin. “I wonder why they never sent a distress call.”


  In three hours time: “Internal sensors are picking up something in the vents.” Denby's fingers fight the control system, bringing up the internal cameras.


  “I saw something. Lock interior bulkheads and get me security, put everything through to the bridge and sound the general alarm.” Lieutenant Moss wipes the sweat from her face. “Did you hear something?”


  “Man, can security detail on a spaceship get any more boring? Now we're just guarding a wreck in a cargo bay,” Franks stretches his back again and looks for somewhere to sit. “I mean, Sally, who exactly is going to try and steal this pile of crap?”


  “If you signed on to shoot at things then you should have joined the government peace-keeping squads, not the outer-system patrol, Gerry.” Abrahams, dusts down a cargo container and perches on it. “Relax, just think yourself lucky that nothing is going to try to kill you.”



  In three hours: “Anybody, please reply! Shit, shit, shit! Who's that? Is that you, Sally? Wh...”