They were
on the approach leg to G.O.D. 4. Fifty thousand miles out and closing slowly
for docking.
Federation Officer Angelo could feel him – somewhere on
the station – could feel him through the metal hull of the space-ship, almost
as if he was breathing down his neck.
He shivered and pulled his overcoat closer over his
shoulders. ‘What a wreck,’ he thought to himself looking out the porthole at
the massive revolving wheel of the crippled space station. Dilapidated and
uncared for, it had long since fallen into disrepair. Once a proud looking
edifice, it was now a hulk of stained and rusted metal.
He vaguely caught a glimpse of his unshaven chin in the
reflection of the porthole. He stared harder, trying to focus on his profile
but it was hardly visible, as if he had no substance. He seemed to blend in
with the background so well that he was hardly even there: just a vague
silhouette. This was one of the reasons they chose him for this mission. He was
very good at incognito.
But it wasn’t just an affectation. Some days he felt like
he was fading away altogether. He often felt like he needed someone to pick him
up and shake him and say ‘You are here. This is you. This is your body. I can
see you.’
His physical appearance was nothing to write home about.
His swarthy dark looks would have been classed as handsome but for his slightly
bulbous nose. He wasn’t too tall or too short. He wasn’t too thickset or too
thin. His personality suffered from the same sort of nondescript nothingness: he
was neither here nor there. He never did anything remarkable or memorable,
never boiled over, or froze. A tepid kind of fellow whom people forgot about
before they’d even met him.
The problem was that he had no edge. He had no edge
because he always went with the flow of the river and never swam against the
tide. He never got upset or angry. He seemed to have no pride that could be
pricked. Pride is a branch that is likely to snag you and hang you out to
dry….make you stand out from the crowd…make you a target for people wanting to
be better than you. He was a nothing man; more shadow than substance. He never
presented himself as a ‘this’ or a ‘that’. He didn’t have a label. He was as
insubstantial as a swirl of smoke. No man hated him and no man admired him.
His only two relationships had ended prematurely when his
partners finally found out that he was a ‘Yes Dear’ man and that they were
merely dancing with themselves; that they were having an affair with their own mirror
image, which was most unsatisfying. He could read a woman like a book: her
moods; her thoughts; her likes and dislikes. He knew what she wanted to hear. He
did and said what she wanted him to do and say. The women couldn’t get to grips
with him – fight with him – put a handle on him so they knew how to think of
him; how to remember him, and ultimately, how to control him. He never
contradicted them, never refused them. He never had an opinion that wasn’t
theirs. He was who they wanted him to be: an obliging nobody.
There needs to be some grit in an oyster for a pearl to
grow; some pain or trauma in your past that defines your personality. It seemed
like Angelo had no grit. He was all angel and no devil. He had no strong side,
but then again, he had no weaknesses. No Achilles heel. No one could get a hold
of him. A man of a million faces. If you had to describe him, nine times out of
ten you would end up describing yourself. He was no-one and everyone. He was
one of the most frustrating men alive and he was a perfect undercover agent.
He looked out the window again and thought about the
Prophet: the man he’d come to fetch. Now there was a man who was someone. The
Prophet had been a thorn in the side of the Federation for many years now, and
yet all attempts to neutralize him had been unsuccessful. The Prophet’s ability
to predict when the police were going to raid had earned him the status of a
hero to the criminals and reprobates inhabiting G.O.D. 4 and public-enemy
number one to the Federation police. Worse, he could apparently tell when and where
the police’s illegal drug and arms shipments were coming through, because they
were being hijacked with startling regularity. The Pirates loved him. He was
one of the most well protected people in the solar system.
The Prophet was in the spotlight this time because of his predictions concerning the wormhole. He had said
that aliens were planning to launch an attack on earth through the wormhole,
and they intended to wipe out the entire human race. He also prophesied that
the team of cosmonauts who were going on the much publicised expedition through
the wormhole would not be coming back. The authorities were very eager to try
and stop this kind of scaremongering. Word of his prophesies had even reached Earth
where a veritable thunderstorm of controversy was brewing up concerning the safety
of the people being sent through the wormhole. Petitions were being drawn up
daily demanding the mission be aborted and, more improbably, that the wormhole
be closed by exploding some sort of nuclear device in it. Failing that, there
was extreme pressure being put on the Federation to ensure the safety of
mankind, and many people were questioning whether they were doing enough to
guard against an alien attack. The ravens were ruffling their feathers and the
cacophony of cawing was starting to become overwhelming.
The Federation now earnestly needed to shut the Prophet up.
Thus Officer Angelo had been sent to G.O.D. 5 to bring him back. Alive or dead.
N
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK AT THE SAME TIME FOR THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE.
