to be my own resting place, in a way.”
The vend beeps and she collects her food: good old pasta with sourgrass topping (a type of grass from Peynar that’s become a popular seasoning on Earth), a drink of water and a pale squishy lump called a jerriberry, a sweet synthetic fruit. It all tastes rather good, like it hasn’t been sitting for months. He watches her eat and it kind of pisses her off, so she waves a hand in his direction while she chews mulishly on her pasta and the crunchy grass.
Bartin takes that as permission to continue talking. She suddenly wishes she had ordered alcohol instead of water.
“I’ve always wanted to leave Earth,” he says conversationally, “ever since I was a boy. When I finally was able to have my first off-planet trip, I suddenly found myself….”
“Scared?” Myrha suggests when he doesn’t finish.
“Yes,” he answers rather dryly, “I wasn’t exactly prepared for the reality. I was never a fan of poetry, but I searched for some measure of comfort and assurance. I found Turobeck’s poems.”
She thinks (and the thought horrifies her), that she may be able to relate to Bartin. That they have something in common. Ugh.
“And the rest, as they say, is history,” he gestures around, “look at me now! I live permanently on another planet, one I basically have to myself, and I run my own business.”
Myrha has to admit, put it that way, and Bartin sounds like a big fat fucking success.
“Oh, I know you don’t think much of my facilities,” he gives her a grin.
She nods fastidiously.
“But just think about where we are! A relatively unexplored alien planet far from Earth! It’s full of discoveries just waiting to be made. Every time I venture out into the woods, or on the sea, I feel like an explorer. Rather like Turobeck.”
She immediately wants to roll her eyes, because this guy is comparing himself to the grand Turobeck. But…in some ways the comparison is apt. She can scarcely believe it, but Myrha’s not one to ignore truth. Even if it’s as difficult to swallow as sourgrass.
“So what’s with the contest?” she asks.
“I wanted to give someone else the chance to get off-planet.”
He answers so serenely that Myrha almost chokes on the altruism.
“But why my poem? Mine wasn’t about adventure or exploration.”
“Your poem could’ve been about many things,” he smiles at her indulgently.
And the fact that Bartin may be more than a fan, but also an avid poetry reader, interpreter and critic just freaks her out.
“You lied about Lieval,” she accuses him, mostly just to change the subject.
“I did,” he says simply.
She just grunts and continues to eat because she wants to grill him and yell at him and sue him, but at the same time…he got her off-planet. For free. And if that contest had told the truth about Lieval (a world of sand, sun, and complete isolation) she never would have entered. Maybe Bartin figured the same.
“It wasn’t by happy accident that I set up a hotel here,” he says.
She’s too busy swallowing so she just nods for him to continue.
“Eighty years ago, Turobeck disappeared during one of his explorations. Based on his last transmissions, the star-space he disappeared in includes Lieval.”
He sighs romantically, “When this planet reopened to the public, I just had to move here! Imagine living in the star-space Turobeck was exploring! His last new frontier.”
“Lynne says it’s possible he may have crashed here.”
“Lynne…?”
“Yeah. She also said that he may have just…blown up mid-flight. Or maybe he even landed on one of the other five planets in this system. Let’s be honest, Lieval isn’t the most exciting of the bunch.”
“You aren’t one to get your hopes up.”
“Not really, no.”
“Well there’s always hope, just not enough…evidence,” his thumb caresses the cord around his neck.
“Sure. Great. I still think he blew up or got sucked into this world’s star or something.”
Bartin sighs like she’s a lost cause, “Well you should try exploring the jungle sometime. Get out of the hotel. Do some adventuring.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll leave that to your tree-hugging guests.”
“Most of our guests do seem to appreciate our outdoor facilities,” he says with pride.
“Yeah, I saw one of them disappear into the jungle earlier today.”
“Spinner?”
“Who?”
“Tristan Spinner. One of my regulars. Short man. Very quiet. Kind of squeaky?”
“Likes to look at porn on his utiphone?”
He blinks at her slowly, “I wouldn’t know.”
“Yeah, he was the one.”
Bartin nods, “He’s a rather avid explorer. A lover of quiet and solitude. He visits every year, but I rarely actually see him.”
“What, does he like camp out there or something?”
“Well, he wouldn’t be the only one.”
She’s not really surprised. Myrha is sure that some of the tents and campsites must be nicer than the rooms here.
At that moment the captain comes in, grasping the wall and looking a bit peeked.
“I couldn’t establish contact with any of the nearest ports or the Orion Starline hub. And the port we were supposed to dock at, the one on Earth, hasn’t sent a message. Or at least, we haven’t been able to receive it.”
“We’re trapped here?” Myrha asks, standing up abruptly.
The captain’s grim expression confirms her fears. With the shuttle down and the port not responding it feels suspiciously like they’re doomed.
“I’m sure they’ll send an investigation team, since by now they must realize we are missing,” the captain says, as if through gritted teeth.
“That could take a few days,” Bartin says.
The captain glares at him, like it’s his fault, “I’m going to lie down now. Wake me if we receive any communication.”
After he stomps away Bartin raises his eyebrows, “Well, isn’t he a ray of sunshine.”
Myrha doesn’t feel like a ray of sunshine herself, and simply abandons the rest of her meal.
Tristan Spinner goes missing.
It’s day four and the captain still goes outside to stare at the sky, as if expecting a shuttle to land any second. Myrha spends her days out on the beach, and decides not to freak out. She’s still on vacation, after all.
However, near the end of day four, another guest voices discontent.
“I’ve not seen Spinner recently,” he confides during the odd time when most of them are together.
Myrha, as a rule, avoids the other guests. She still privately thinks they’re crazy, civilization-phobes, and doesn’t want much to do with them. Her only companion is Lynne, who remains mostly silent but will sometimes ply her with questions about poetry.
However, it seems like they’re all usually drawn to the vends at the same time to get dinner. So when Myrha’s standing in line, and there are a handful of other guests chatting at the tables, the concern about Spinner is raised.
“He’s not been at any of the usual campsites,” the guest continues.
He’s a stocky man with a rich brown beard and moustache, the one who timidly rang the bell on the first day. Everything about him is boorish: his large hands and feet, his wide jaw and his bulging biceps. Everything, but his reedy voice. Myrha turns to hide her smile, snickering into the palm of her hand.
“Maybe he’s off exploring new, uncharted areas,” a woman says.
Her husband stares at his utiphone and doesn’t touch his meal or offer an opinion. They’re an older couple, and although they’re vacationing together, Myrha hasn’t seen them look at each other even once.
“Yes, but he hasn’t checked in at any of the usual campsites,” Reedy Voice says again, stubbornly.
The other guests shrug and mutter, but don’t seem alarmed.
> “And,” Reedy Voice continues dramatically, “I’ve seen…lights.”
That garners a few stares. Myrha just taps her foot and hopes Reedy Voice will finish ordering his meal before continuing on with his story. She’s really hungry.
“I’ve been at campsite six, the farthest campsite out, since we arrived. For the past two nights I’ve seen lights in the jungle. I’ve tried to get to them, but never can. They must be far away. I try calling to see if anyone is there, but no one answers.”
“You’re having us on,” another man sneers.
He’s a man who always dresses in black and looks a little bit like the bounty hunters Myrha sometimes sees on the news strip of her utiphone.
“Are you sure you’re not just delusional?” Bounty Hunter continues, “Perhaps you ingested some bark? The jungle trees are known for their hallucinogenic properties.”
And really, that would explain the smell that lingers in the wooden hotel.
“I assure you,” Reedy Voice says in a clipped tone, “that I would have noticed if I had eaten bark.”
Bounty Hunter snorts and Myrha taps Reedy Voice on the shoulder.
“Can you pick a fucking type of bread or not?” she asks hotly.
Reedy Voice immediately flushes and randomly taps a bread option for his very boring sandwich (it consists entirely of lettuce). He scuttles off to the side.
“Thank you,” she grumbles and creates her order.
After her meal is done, she makes her escape for the door (and passes by Reedy Voice, hearing him moan “oh no, I got sunflower bread. I hate sunflower bread!” Sunflower bread isn’t all that popular on Earth, but it has a huge market on Boes).
Lynne is at the entryway, watching the proceedings with a casual eye, and they walk to the beach together. Myrha likes to spend as little