The Archer's Paradox - The Travis Fletcher Chronicles by Chris Devine Page B

it for some time. Eventually she looked up. “I am no longer welcome among my people.” Deep emotions made the words tremble slightly. The Journalist looked across the table, startled but afraid to ask why. “I will tell you some day, but not today.”
     
    Cat ended The Journalist’s reverie by gracefully flowing to her feet, reminding her of a feline uncurling itself after resting by a fire. She felt like a new born foal or deer against this person; all gangly legs and no balance. Every movement she made was unhurried, perfect, and precise, with all the grace of a ballerina. Could this be the product of living in kilometre high trees? The Journalist mused. One slip and you’re road kill.
    Cat appeared to stare into space for a moment. “We must go.” she said suddenly. “We are expected on the bridge.” The Journalist grabbed her notebook and pencil from the desk area and followed her to the door, which slid open as they approached. Behind them the table, chairs and the remnants of breakfast melted into the floor.
     
    The corridor stretched for hundreds of metres in each direction with no apparent points of reference and was wide enough to accommodate at least four or five people walking abreast. Instinctively The Journalist took a mental note of the symbols on the door of her cabin which were made up of two columns consisting of dots and horizontal lines. She assumed it was some sort of numbering system but had nothing to base it on. This was a big ship and she would hate to get lost trying to find her cabin again. She still had no recollection of getting there in the first place. She could feel the floor tugging at her feet each time she took a step. As they walked the floor gently pulled them forward. It was like a cross between skating and water skiing, only there was no wake or mark in the floor behind them. They were now moving at a fast run although they were only walking at a leisurely stroll. They passed the occasional crew member but the floor smoothly traced them a safe course without breaking speed. She held back an urge to cling onto Cat in fright and tried to imitate her nonchalant manner.
     
    Their progress began to slow until they arrived at a bank of twenty doors, one of which slid open on their approach. Inside was a cubicle some two metres square with a column of buttons and symbols by the door. A lift! Finally, something The Journalist could understand. Quick, check the floor numbers. There was a sign opposite and she hurriedly wrote down the sequence of symbols so she could find her way back, if needs be. Cat pushed button ‘dot’. Deck number one? The Journalist jotted down the symbols from her door, then started noting the symbols on the lift’s panel. Underneath was deck ‘dot dot’ then three dots and four dots. Aha, a pattern was forming. Then there was a line, a line with a dot above, a line with two dots. Her concentration was interrupted by the doors opening; she did not even feel the lift move. She estimated that they had travelled about thirty decks in a few seconds. They stepped out into a long anteroom some thirty metres wide and at least fifty metres long. Each wall was lined with doors, and the ceiling appeared open to the void, showing a panorama of stars. The end wall had only one door, this is where they headed. The room was deserted and took seconds to cross as the floor assisted their progress. The door slid open as they approached.
     
    Beyond the door was a parabolic room about another hundred metres long and the same at its base, built on two levels. They had entered on the top level which consisted of a platform, where they were now stood, and a mezzanine floor that followed the curve of the wall. The wall was lined with consoles that bristled with holographic displays and high backed chairs, some were occupied but many were not. The chairs, unlike those in the bar, were permanent pieces of furniture, but glided silently and effortlessly as the crew went about their