The Courageous Clovelly Sisters

This is missing a big gap in the middle, but I'm tired and aready wrote nearly 3,500 words today, so it'll have to wait until tomorrow.

The morning news broadcasting old footage of The Courageous Clovelly Sisters.
A man in an expensive blue suit was sitting at a round table with one guest. The anchor, Rock, spoke in a calm and soothing voice, “The Hope Colony left Earth approximately fifty years ago with nearly four thousand colonist, capacity for the population to grow. As we all know, the captain was the famous Kathryn Clovelly.”
“That’s right, Rock. Colonization was something that had, until that time, only occurred on the neighboring planets.” The pundit spoke in the precise and earnest manner of an academic. “What makes the Hope important is that it was the first Generation ship. Its expected journey was to take twenty years to reach Eden Twelve.”
A graining print of a blue green planet filled the screen with the caption: Eden Twelve, and the distance from Earth.
“It’s also significant as the Hope and its sister ship, the Crosby, were privately funded ventures. All the colonists were volunteers.”
“So this was not a debtor’s colony?”
“Oh, no. The Corporation as we know it did not exist then. The Hope was a sign that the War Years were over and Captain’s Clovelly’s celebrity certainly…”
“Yes,” Rock said, sensing that the pundit was rambling, “it certainly did. Ten years ago transmission ended from the Hope. Why was no one concerned then?”
The pundit seemed uneasy. “Certainly. The Hope ended transmission just as it was about to land on Eden Twelve. When transmission ceased, it was thought that the equipment simply broke.”
“And what would cause such important equipment to malfunction? Wouldn’t there be a back-up, spare parts?”
“Oh, yes. The colony ships carried an immense supply of equipment, all ingeniously stored in the hull lining of the ship. Perhaps in the entry, there was some injury, the equipment broken, the spare parts also destroyed.”
“So the best course of action would be to wait for the Crosby to arrive?”
“Yes. While the Hope left Earth fifty years ago, the Crosby left ten years after that. Twenty years to Eden Twelve, twenty years for the transmission to arrive back.”
“Now,” Rock spoke, “the Crosby has arrived, and they found nothing.”
Now the transmission play on the screen and the pundit spoke over the footage. “Clearly we can see a pristine and untouched environment.”
“It’s like the Hope never arrived.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.”
Portia turned off the screen. She was pleased to see the footage but sickened that another event preempted the strike.

* * * * *


The Trade District was paralyzed with the strike. Portia dug her hands deeper into the jacket pockets, wishing she had the sense to bring a coat, at the very least a scarf.
All the shops were closed. All the cafes and delis and restaurants were closed. No recycling was collected, no refuse collected. All the services that made life in the Trade District pleasant and beautiful were gone.
The crowds grew thick as Portia approached City Hall. The giant superstructures that surrounded dwarfed the antique building. The founding fathers perched precariously on the top long since out paced by progress.

In the crowd, Portia saw the unmistakable flash of synthetic yellow hair. Portia made her way in that direction.


Near the podium was a man wearing a long black wool coat. While he dressed conservatively, Portia suspected that was only a front. His hair was trendy, a deep blue-black color that shined in the afternoon light, and just over the white starched collar Portia could see the faded green of a tattoo.
He seemed to feel her eyes on him and pivoted his gaze directly at Portia.
Portia did not blush but she turned away too quickly. He knew she saw him.
The man pointed at Portia and motioned for her to stay. He made his way through the crowd towards her.
Portia felt a bit of panic kick up in he stomach. How long since she brought a man to her apartment? Why was it decorated like she was twelve? Did she really have Superpower Kung-Fu Koalas posters everywhere? Why was she fixated on that stupid cartoon? Portia looked barely out puberty. The man thought she was a lost child.
“I’m not a kid,” she blurted out as the man neared. “I’m twenty-eight.”
He had a puzzled look on his face. “Don’t I know you?” the man asked.
“No.” Her wish that he did know her was diminishing with every silly word falling out of her mouth.
He gave a long sideways look. “Sure I do. Aren’t you the granddaughter of…”
“Yes,” Portia said quickly. “She’s my granny. What of it?”
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Portia asked. The man had the well dressed, well feed but still hungry look of a professional hanger-on, an Entourage member.
“I’m with Michael Connelly.”
“You’re in Michael Connelly’s entourage? I thought your kind only followed around Holo stars or musicians.”
“Usually. I’m looking to explore more unusual territory.” The man took out a Data Pad. This one was a model even newer than Portia’s prized Data Pad.
“Is that the Bradberry?”
“A man’s got to stay connected,” he said, handing the unit to Portia.
She took with caution. Loving fingertips gently brushed against the display. “It’s so shiny.”
“Here, let me send you something.” He took the Bradberry back.
Portia Data Pad chirped with a new message. Portia eagerly accessed the message, looking for a phone number and email address but finding instead a five-page document. Confused, she opened the document. It contained the credentials of Franklin Likenfelter, Entourage Level 5.
“What is this?”
“My resume.”
“Oh, no,” Portia said quickly. Her weak attempt at picking up a man came across as an offer of employment. She was embarrassingly rusty at the game. “I can’t afford you. I just lost my job today! And I’m not even famous. Are you crazy?”
Franklin shook his head. Damn, his hair was beautiful. Even in the drizzle, it seemed impossibly coifed and bright, as if the rain was somehow avoiding him.
Portia was aware that her hair hung in a damp, colorless stringy mess. The drizzle of the day seemed to have no qualms landing on her.
“I’m not crazy,” Franklin said. “I think you’ve got it.”
“It?”
“It.” He snapped his fingers. “I woke up this morning and I thought, ‘I’m going to make somebody famous.’ Now I know it’s you. You’re so lucky. Plus, I like the goulashes.”
Portia looked down quickly at the same pink goulashes that where the center of so much drama yesterday. The man had taste. She said, “You’re not going to make me famous.”
“Oh yes I am. I am now your entourage.”
“I can’t pay you.”
Franklin smirked. “I’ll consider it an investment. Do you know who Michael Connelly was before I discovered him?”
“You did not discover Michael Connelly.” Portia was pretty sure that Michael Connelly was always Michael Connelly, just waiting for the harsh spotlight of the media to focus on him but forever ready for the spotlight.
“Oh yes I did. He was a machine shop worker with a chip on his shoulder until I cleaned him up and put him in a suit.”
Portia turned her attention back to the man on the podium. “Doesn’t he need you then? If you dressed him and everything?”
“He’s got handlers for that now. He doesn’t need me anymore and you do. Besides, I’m bored with politics.”
“But the strike is at its height! The Trade District has to do his bidding. It can’t get anymore exciting than right now.”
“Yes it can.”
“How?”
“Have you ever broken the law?”
Portia didn’t answer. Last night she leaked a classified document to the media feeds. No matter cleverly she covered her Identity Signature on the transmission; it was only a matter of time before it was traced back to her.
“You’re taking too long to answer, you little criminal. Robbery? Theft? Data Piracy? Space Piracy? Insider trading?”
“No!”
“Uh-huh. You’re too honest for this business, you know.”
“And what business is this?”
“Revolution.”
He grabbed her hand. Portia felt a brief thrill of electricity in the touch. “Come on,” he said.
Portia was willing to follow Franklin anywhere he desired.
“First, I have to know everything about you. What about this job you lost today?”

* * * * * *


“I don’t see how this is revolution,” Portia said.
“Are you questioning my methods? You must make your mark, so make your mark!”
“I don’t think I have a mark.”
“Look deep inside, you know you have a mark screaming to get out.”
“I think my mark says be a good citizen, don’t vandalize.”
“Go on, you know you want to.”
“I don’t think vandalism is what I want to do.”
Franklin was not to be persuaded. “Think of your ugly boss. Don’t you just hate him?”
“Yeah.”
“Always having to use his full name. What’s that about?”
“Yeah!”
“And always harassing you about your clothes when we both know he only wanted to get you out of the clothes.”
“Yeah!”
Portia shook the aerosol can violently and began to write: The Corp. is NOT a good citi…
“Right, you.” A pair of strong hands grabbed Portia by the shoulders and jerked her forcibly backwards.
The paint can fell to the ground with a clatter. Wet black paint smeared on her fingers.
Franklin looked at her wide eyed and surprised. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed and turned tail to run away.
“Franklin, you coward!”
The officer dressed in blue placed bonds on Portia’s wrists. “Just take it easy. Struggling only makes them activate.”
“Activate!”
“A mild electric deterrent.”
Portia tugged at the bond and felt the unpleasant sensation of an electric deterrent run up her arms.
“I’ll get you, Franklin Likenfelter!”

* * * * *


“Name.”
“Clovelly, Portia.”
The desk sergeant look up sharply.
“Yes,” Portia said, “that Clovelly. I’m still arrested, aren’t I?”
The desk sergeant looked at the Data Pad doubtfully. “I suppose we could let you get off with a fine.”
“I should be arrested.”
“But we can give you a fine.”
“I vandalized Corporate property.”
“Which is a minimal fine, at best.”
“Do I get at least one phone call?”
The sergeant smiled pleasantly, “You can have as many as you like.”
Insufferably pleasant man. Portia help her Pod in her hand and spoke out loud, “Bea.”
The connection took twenty seconds. Portia could hear the line ringing at Bea’s house.
“Bea, I think you better come and get me,” Portia said aloud, holding the Pod in her hand.
“What have you done?”
Everything. Not enough. Portia said, “I’m in jail. ”
“You can’t do anything in half-measures, can you?”