Voyage of the Band, Part 1

JD Adler
Key West

Doug spent hours staring at it, the so called “hull” of the ship. There was just no convincing him it was sturdy enough to protect them from the void. The energy field stretched between the struts of the spherical frame revealed itself in shimmering rainbow waves crashing against one strut then back towards the other. He was doing it again, laying on his back on the floor of the top level just staring into the glittering energy shield and beyond, pondering which stars belonged to him, when Deru-Ti bellowed.
“Hu! Man!” Deru-Ti was barely tall enough to ride a roller coaster. Though the average carney would probably be more put off by the bright blue fur covering his mostly naked body (except for the loin cloth his crew mates had finally convinced him to wear). Perhaps the thick trunk, half the length of his body, descending from just beneath the single, multifaceted eye would also cause some chagrin for that poor, confused, hypothetical ticket-taker. For Doug, it was the hands on all four log-like limbs that he still was having trouble processing.
He rolled over and shouted back down the transport tube, “It’s ‘human.’ Just say one word, its not that hard! You could even use the friggin’ translator.” His pale, lanky frame dangled over the open tube that ran the axis of the spherical ship, tangled waves of dark brown hair falling beneath him. He made a vain attempt to smooth his thick, ruddy beard which had grown into a gravity defying mess in the months since the Nulians had first taken him. After the clothes on his back had finally fallen apart, he’d taken to wearing a green poncho. He’d acquired fabric in trade for a flute he carved out of
a plant he picked up in barter for his useless smart watch. Unfortunately, he had little in the way of tailor skills, so a poncho seemed the best fashion choice. The material was tough, but pliable and he was able to stitch several hidden pockets inside where he kept his knife, water ration, and the iPhone he held onto just in case he ever got home. Still wearing his old sandals, with the knotted, wild hair and beard, while hanging on to the railing above with one hand, he looked a lot like Peter Pan turned crazy old drunk. He shouted again, “Well? What is it?”

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