Faith & Begorrah

A David Sands Competition story by Elaine Leet

Oct 25, 2025

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Faith & Begorrah by Elaine Leet

Year: 2175

In a communications room on an outpost on Earth’s moon, a young sergeant reported, “Lieutenant Tring, something weird is going on with one of the habitat satellites orbiting Mars.”

Tring responded with a grunt, “Which one?”

“Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

“That space camp for the mad scientists? They’re always tilting, twirling and adjusting. Tell me something new, Sergeant.”

“Sir, all shuttles have docked and they’re firing up, and it looks like the whole damn thing is leaving orbit.”

“Leaving orbit? Have we heard from Mars Base?” Tring came to stand behind the sergeant to study the holographic representation of the satellites orbiting Mars.

“Sir, Mars Base says they don’t know what’s going on.”

“They never do. Get me a com link to the hotel.”

A pleasant, slightly mechanical voice answered Tring’s call. “Thank you for calling Hotel Faith and Begorrah. Your call is important to us. Stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.” The automated answering service then played soothing strains of the popular song Luna Lullaby. A minute later, the message repeated.

Tring blustered, watching the hologram, “Sergeant, get a Mars Guardian Patrol to do a flyby.”

At last, a human voice responded to Tring’s call, “Concierge Desk. Mandi speaking. How may I help you?”

“The captain. I need to speak to your captain!” Tring growled.

“Sir, this is a hotel.”

“I know that. Your orbit is unstable. I need to speak to the captain, the person in charge.”

“Sir, this is a hotel.” Mandi paused, then added, “One moment, please.”

Tring adjusted his earpiece. Still speaking to the sergeant, he asked, “Who’ve we got from the Guardian squadron out there?”

The sergeant adjusted his display, “That would be,” he paused, “that would be Lieutenant Jack Fox.”

“Anybody else?”

“No, sir. He’s the only one in the quadrant. He’s confirming orders to fly by. Reports negative contact so far. And, sir, the hotel is increasing speed.” He pointed to the hologram showing the speck moving away from Mars.

Tring poked his earpiece to be sure he hadn’t lost contact with the hotel. He asked the sergeant, “Fox? Cowboy, right?”

“The reports use the word ‘unconventional,’ but yes, scuttlebutt is he does things differently, independently. And he’s nearing his point of no return, running low on fuel. Shall I call him back, Lieutenant?”

“No, send a refuel drone.”

“Mars reports no drones available,” the sergeant noted.

At last, Mandi came back on the line, “Sir, the concierge advises that you read the incoming message titled 'Hotel Faith and Begorrah Declaration of Independence.” The connection dropped.

The sergeant brought up the incoming message, “Aw, shit,” he sputtered, enlarging the document so Tring could see it.

Hotel Faith and Begorrah

Mars High Orbit, Milky Way Galaxy

July 4, 2175

The Unanimous Declaration of Independence of Earth-Born Humans Residing on Hotel Faith and Begorrah

When in the Course of Human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands…

Tring reached over the sergeant’s shoulder and scrolled down.

All political connections between ourselves and the Governments of Earth are and ought to be totally dissolved. As Free and Independent People, we have full Power to seek a planet and build a government for the protection of the planet and to provide for the people.

For the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on divine Providence, Human Ingenuity, and Science, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, our Future, and our sacred Honour.

DNA Endorsed by all 654 persons on behalf of themselves and their dependents on this our Independence Day.

-------------------

“This is US Mars Space Force Patrol Ship 1775 transmitting S.O.S. on all channels. Mayday. Mayday. All vessels in the Galileo Section of Mars Space, please respond.” There followed the time-honoured universal signal for a ship in distress: three short tones, three long tones, and three more short tones. “I am Lieutenant Jack Fox commanding Patrol Ship 1775. I am unable to return to US Space Force Mars Base. Requesting assistance from all vessels. Requesting permission to board Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

I released the transmit button on my mic and spoke to my ship, “Sorry, ‘75, we’re almost out of fuel, a long way from home, oxygen supply is down to ten minutes, and it looks like the cavalry isn’t coming. There’s no other ship anywhere near us. If that ‘hotel’ doesn’t open a landing bay, we’re gonna float out here forever.”

I transmitted my emergency message five more times without receiving a response before a bay opened in the outer wall of the hotel. Too late. I was out of fuel and unable to adjust the little fighter’s trajectory.

Outside the cockpit canopy, I was sure I saw a giant cat’s paw take a swipe at my ship. Must be oxygen deprivation. Suddenly, the little fighter jolted sideways, then rolled end over end. “What the --. 1775, stabilisers.”

A silky female voice purred through my headset, “Hmmmm. What happens if--”

This was followed by a blast of clicks and then an ear-splitting screech. One last skid sideways and then stillness. I was nowhere near getting my equilibrium back when another voice spoke through my earpiece. A touch of disdain tinged these words. “Relax, human. She’s got you.”

I was aware of the hotel growing bigger in my viewer. That’s when my oxygen gave out and I sank into darkness.

----------

“Just take it slow,” a voice advised. A firm hand grasped my shoulder. “You’re safe.”

I shook my head, mumbling, “Lieutenant Jack Fox, Mars Guardians.”

“Yes, we got that. What are you doing here in the cargo bay?”

I looked up into concerned brown eyes.

I repeated my name, rank and affiliation. “That’s all I’m required to give on capture.”

“All right,” said the steady voice, and the hand released my shoulder. “Just sit tight for a few minutes. The ship reports your vital signs are stabilising, and you should be back to normal pretty quickly. I’m Vincent. Our concierge will be with you in a couple of minutes.

Once the walls stopped spinning and my memory returned, I unfolded my 6’4” frame and, with Vincent’s help, climbed out of my ship. A holoman in a tuxedo stepped into the bay. He addressed Vincent, “You are needed in the council chambers.” Vincent hurried away.

The newcomer turned his attention to me, “Mr Jack Fox, welcome to Hotel Faith and Begorrah. Leave all weapons in your vehicle.”

I rolled my neck to release the tension that had built up in my muscles and extended a hand to Tux Man. “If you just lend me some fuel, I’ll get out of your hair,” I paused, noting the bald head before me, “and return to base.”

Fancy Pants ignored my request and my hand. “I am Rodney Maple, head of the Concierge Department,” he announced with the suggestion of a bow. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. Your accommodations are prepared. I assume you have no luggage?”

I lowered my hand. “No luggage,” I agreed.

Maple continued to speak as he led the way out of the bay, “No military uniforms are permitted. You will need to change your apparel post haste.” He barely paused as I tripped, then continued, “Our lower gravity will require care in your movements.”

I untangled my feet.

“Donations of clothing are being collected. A light meal will be provided in your room. Do you have any dietary restrictions or preferences?”

“No, no special food requirements, but I could use a drink.”

We left the dimly lit landing bay and walked up a utilitarian grey corridor to a lift. Maple said, “Lift, level three.” He turned to me, “Your vehicle will be safe. No one will touch it without notifying you.”

I nodded, “My ship is quite capable of defending herself. I need to report to your commanding officer.”

Maple merely nodded. We turned left out of the lift and proceeded down a corridor painted in an ongoing mural of rugged landscape and snow-capped mountains. I updated the mental map I was making of my surroundings.

Maple keyed a sequence of characters into a panel adjacent to the door. “This will serve as your living area. We ask that you remain here. Shower, enjoy some entertainment--we have an extensive library--dine and rest.”

I took a visual inventory of the small suite. An impressive entertainment centre lined one wall with a wet bar to one side and a small table and hardwood chairs at the other side. A stuffed chair and a couch faced the entertainment centre. An open doorway gave a view of a bunk with the standard pressure equalising mattress and a warming blanket with variable weight. The bathroom looked like something my interior designer mom would approve.

I nodded to Maple, “This is way better than the barracks, but I need fuel for my ride, and protocol requires that I report to the ranking officer on capture. Who’s your captain? Who runs this place?”

“Yes, yes, excellent questions, though I must insist that you refrain from referring to your arrival as ‘capture.’ No one here is at war. We are war refugees.” Rodney sniffed before continuing, “And, please, make use of the shower.” He backed into the hallway, and the door slid closed. Finding no mechanism to open the door, I tried pushing, pulling and kicking to no avail. A comfortable room, but a prison nonetheless. I headed for the bar.

“Well-funded and accustomed to living in style refugees,” I observed to myself, finding a selection of high-end bottles of vermouth and brandy, along with Smirnoff Vodka and bottles of beer. In minutes, I was removing my boots and sipping a cold one.

Remembering Maple’s sniff and noting my sweat-laden shirt, I decided on a shower. When I returned to the bedroom, my uniform was gone. It had been replaced with jeans, a blue work shirt and running shoes. With a tug of a tag, the clothes self-altered to fit my body, nearly. My broad shoulders required the shirt to remain open halfway down my chest.

On the table was a covered plate and tableware. The food looked and smelled several ranks above space MREs. Still, I paused. The hair on the back of my neck rose, and I scanned the room. I was being watched. I felt it.

“Well, it’s about time you noticed,” a disembodied voice laughed. A holowoman appeared in front of me. Dressed in a low-cut peasant blouse and a long skirt, she smiled--like a cat sizing up a mouse. “I was beginning to feel quite ignored. You should never ignore a lady.” Despite the light tone, there was a ring of danger in the final words.

“A lady would not enter a man’s quarters uninvited,” I returned fire, but gently.

Another voice cut in, “Calista, scat!” and hololady dissolved.

A smoky chuckle emanated from a new, one-eyed holowoman dressed in tight-fitting black leather. “I am Octavia. You are a blue-eyed rebel descended from Vikings, and your former commanding officers just breathed a sigh of relief as they discovered your absence.”

“You’re the ship’s computer? Who is Calista?”

“Calista is our feline component. We are She. You may address us as She. The previous occupant of this suite once referred to us as She-zilla and told us we suffered from mood swings. He’s no longer with us.”

“Is that a warning?”

“All information can be useful in making friends.”

“Is this food safe to eat?”

“Safe for human consumption, yes.” Octavia responded. Again the tone of disdain.

The holowoman dissolved, and I breathed out.

I tasted the food, decided that the risk of poisoning was worth the quality of the feast, and cleaned the plate.

“Mr Fox,” Concierge Maple said, entering the suite.

“Lieutenant Fox,” I corrected, rising from the chair.

“Military rank is not recognised here,” Maple informed me. “I have decided that Ardashir--” he stepped aside, and an adolescent boy entered the room. “--will act as your guide and see to your personal needs. On the communication pad here,” he held out a wrist strap with a small electronic keyboard, “tap the star and Ardashir will respond. I am confident Ardashir will be able to assist you in many ways.”

I could hear muffled greetings being exchanged in the hallway.

Maple smiled. “Ah, here is the governing council. Ardashir will stay for this meeting to better understand your needs.” Maple withdrew. Ardashir walked across the room to stand by the table, as three men in business attire entered. One man looked familiar. He had greying sandy hair, lots of it, and sparkling blue eyes.

The tallest wore a fedora, and the short, stocky fellow reminded me of a bullfrog. I could take any of these men with one arm tied behind my back.

“I’m Paul Jameson,” the sandy-haired man spoke in a rich Irish brogue. “This,” he motioned to the stocky grey-haired man, “is Malcolm Smirnoff. And this…” he nodded toward the black man sporting the fedora, “...is Shadique Bolivar. We are the human governing council of Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

“Nice to meet’cha. So you’re the guys in charge,” I smiled and offered my hand, which they ignored. “I need to contact my superior at Space Force Mars Base, and I need fuel for my ship.”

Jameson’s voice was matter-of-fact, “Unfortunately, you will not be able to return to Mars. We have no fuel for your vehicle, and we have already travelled beyond the range of any ships berthed in Mars orbit. Mr Fox, maybe you should sit down.”

I shifted into a fighting stance and stared at Jameson. “Explain,” I demanded.

Jameson took a seat on the couch. “We have no fuel that will work with the engine in your patrol ship. Even if we did, your ship could not get back far enough for a refuelling drone to reach you. There is no possibility of you returning to Mars.” He brought up a space map simulation on the entertainment studio. “The large dot to the right is Neptune. We will pass that planet in about five hours. See the little yellow dot moving in that direction? That’s us.”

I watched the tiny yellow speck streak toward the edge of the solar system. I sank into the couch.

With a practised hand, Smiroff filled a glass at the bar and handed it to me.

After I had taken a swallow, Smirnoff added in a thick Slavic accent in a tone that was almost kind, “Let us explain the situation.”

Shadique Bolivar, already “fedora man” in my mind, was next to speak, “We’re headed into deep space. We intend to find a habitable planet and set up a civilisation that will respond to the needs of the people through scientific support for the environment. We anticipate that our voyage will take many years and possibly several generations.”

I stared at my glass without speaking.

Jameson offered, “As my father would say, ‘Boy-oh, your life just took a turn.’” He took my glass and refilled it. “We do have a counsellor who will be arriving soon to assist you. In fact, you’ve already met him. His name is Vincent. It was he who found you in the cargo bay. He’s Ardashir’s father, Vincent. Anything you say to him will be held in confidence unless it threatens the safety of Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

“Lawyer or a priest?” I asked.

“Neither,” Ardashir spoke up, “He is a moral man of learning.”

Jameson laughed, rising, “He is that, Ardashir. Mr Fox, we will leave you to your thoughts for now. If you need to speak with us further, Ardashir will know how to contact us.”

The councilmen left with sympathetic smiles.

I muttered into my glass, “No fuel. No rescue. ” I swallowed hard and told myself. “I’ve been in tougher spots.”

“Really?” Ardashir asked, standing in front of me.

I forced a grin, “Well, maybe. That bar in Anchorage, but that’s not a story for a kid. You can go. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“Not for a while. I’ll stay until my dad gets here.” He tapped his wristcom. “What kind of music do you like?”

I shrugged. Music was the last thing on my mind.

“This is my favourite. If you hate it, just tell me and I’ll turn it off.” He tapped the device a second time and scrolled through a holographic listing to Jurassic Park Theme. “It’s by John Williams. He wrote lots of classic tunes, but this is my favourite.”

Ardashir asked, “May I sit down?”

“Why do you even ask?”

“They said to give you control. It would make the day a little easier for you.”

“It would make my day easier if you could find some fuel for my fighter.”

“Yeah, there’s really none. We use cold fusion. Deuterium, tritium, and something they call ‘chilli powder.’ Not compatible with standard Guardian patrol ships.”

I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my face in my hands.

“I can show you the design plans for FAB,” Ardashir offered.

“FAB?”

“That’s what everybody under thirty calls Faith and Begorrah.” Ardashir brought up the holographic plans. “We’re here on the third deck of the fifth wheel. The big reactors and the brains are in the core over here.” He adjusted the display.

“The brains?” I asked.

Ardashir’s voice sank to a whisper. “Our central computer is an integrated system of bio-printed animal brains.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “Octavia is based on the nine brains of the octopus. Octavia is the central processor and shot caller.” He looked away. “We do not speak of Octavia.”

------

“Mr Fox, I am Vincent Van Der Beek. We met in the cargo bay. I’ll act as your guide and mentor. Do you have any general questions I might be able to answer?”

“How far are we from Mars now?”

“Too far.”

I nodded, but acceptance was a long way off. “I need to speak to your captain.”

“We don’t have a single authority in a comparable role. The nearest we are aware of your situation. You do not contact her. She will speak to you if she wishes to.

“How about a stroll? Your medical records have been reviewed. You’ve been cleared for a tour of this deck to give you a feel for your new home.”

“New home? I’m a prisoner.”

“Your movements and interactions are restricted for now, that’s true, but Hotel Faith and Begorrah is where you’ll be staying for the foreseeable future.”

“Unbelievable. You think I’m just going to accept this?”

“No, Lieutenant, I think every part of you is screaming to escape. I think you are a danger to every soul aboard.”

I probed my surroundings unconsciously looking for a way out. Recon, I decided. “What can you show me?”

“Let’s start walking.”

Vincent turned to Ardashir, “Mr Fox won’t be needing you for an hour or two. Your judo coach is waiting.”

Ardashir rolled his eyes, then nodded, “Mr Fox, just tap the star when you need me.”

My feet tangled as I attempted to stride into the corridor.

“The artificial gravity is eighty percent of Earth’s. Get used to it before you attempt anything like running off,” Vincent coached.

I swivelled my head around and tangled my feet again. Vincent placed a steadying hand on my arm, and I pulled away, landing in a heap.

“It takes some getting used to,” Vincent repeated.

“I see,” I growled, pushing myself up from the floor. “Lead on.”

Several doors, each with a number designation and each painted as part of one whole landscape, led off the hallway. I paused. “These scenes look familiar.”

“They’re scenes of Alaska. On our right is the landscape of Denali National Park. On the left are scenes from the Kenai Peninsula. I believe you are from that neck of the woods.”

I nodded. “Yes, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a prisoner. This is not, and never will be, my home.”

We reached an intersection, and Vincent paused. “To the left are physical activity facilities. We’ll come back to those. For now, we’ll go right into the retail areas and socialisation spaces. Then we can loop back to this Commons. That will give you a look at our people and let them get a look at you.”

“Fine.”

As walking became second nature, I gave my attention to the sights. People chatted in small groups in front of an art gallery, several live entertainment venues, workshops, hobby shops, and displays of goods ranging from sportswear to cooking utensils. People of all ages and ethnicities stood around small tables. They paused their discussions to check me out.

“No chairs?” I asked.

“Chairs discourage walking. People need to stay fit. It’s a long voyage. Everybody needs to stay sharp physically and mentally.”

“So you have a destination?”

“Several. The primary objective is Proxima b, the closest habitable planet. It’s been well researched since the mid-twentieth century as a possible destination for Earth/Mars colonisation. We’re studying alternatives, too. None of those are in the neighbourhood.”

As we approached another hallway, men in hard hats ambled toward us. As the workmen got closer, the younger of the passing men commented to his fellows, “There is no such thing as a closed system. You’re putting us all in danger by thinking that way.”

“Don’t be daft. We’re totally self-contained,” an older man responded. The group split to walk around Vincent and me.

The younger man paused next to me, shaking his head, “So you’re the X factor, are you?” Hardhat looked me up and down. “I knew there would be one. Now we have to recalculate everything.”

The younger man caught up to the group, saying, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. We’ve got to be ready to adapt.”

Vincent and I followed the corridor as it curved back toward the Commons. Here, several young children were on their knees adding flowers to the greens surrounding a fountain that bubbled in the glow of sun lamps. When we reached the point where we had originally entered the common area, Vincent asked, “How about a real run?”

“Nothing else on my calendar,” I shrugged.

Halfway down the athletic facilities corrido,r we entered a cavernous room and mounted a track on a raised platform.

“That’s Sandy Bridgerton,” Vincent waved to the slim young woman giving directions to the small group of runners. She gave him a quick wave, flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, and returned her attention to her job.

“You newbies will feel strong in the reduced gravity, but we’ll start out easy until you’ve got your FAB legs. I set the pace. Nobody passes me. You’ve got one minute to stretch.”

I looked over the nerds around me. Skinny, fat, light-skinned and dark-skinned, faces firm with youth and a few lined with age. I’d have no trouble leaving them behind. With calves and thighs stretched, I watched Sandy’s ponytail bob as I jogged in place to get warmed up. I could only see the first quarter mile of cushioned track. The holographic walls displayed quiet woodland and meadow scenes. The track appeared to be carpeted in soft pine needles. A cool breeze washed over me, and a soundtrack of birdsong and flowing water, with the faint scent of the pines, completed the sensory experience. A rush of anger rose in me as I realised anew that I would never return to my home planet, the real thing. I focused on the ponytail.

“Remember, take it easy,” Sandy called, starting out at a slow jog. I was already at the front of the pack, pushing Sandy to pick up the pace.

“Ahead, the terrain will change,” Sandy called over her shoulder. “The incline will build. Gravity will increase along with temperature. Oxygen levels will drop. Don’t push yourself. If you need to slow down, do it.”

I snorted. Slow down? They were barely crawling as it was. Sandy led us around a curve, and the scenery changed to low mountains. The sun in the mural hologram seemed to brighten. I could feel heat on my shoulders and back. The track firmed.

At the three-quarter mile, Sandy picked up the pace to an easy lope. Turns left and right, combined with up-and-down grades that changed every 50 feet.

“Keep your concentration on your footing,” Sandy called to the group. No sooner had she spoken than two people went down. The track gave way to ease their landing.

We rounded another curve, and the artificial sun hit me in the eyes. My legs tangled, and I landed in a heap with the nerds passing me by.

“It takes some getting used to,” Vincent offered me a hand up.

I brushed aside the offered assistance and resumed my position right behind Sandy. Vincent ran alongside until his wristcom flashed. “Gotta go,” he told me. “See you at the finish line.” Vincent jogged to the side of the track and stepped through the holographic mountains out of sight.

Sandy stopped the group to give instructions for the remainder of the run. “We’ve got another three-quarters of a mile of strenuous terrain ahead—steep inclines and sharp descents. Keep your footing as your top priority at all times. If you need to stop, step to the side and sit down. Someone will come to assist you. Otherwise, just keep pace with me. For you jocks, she eyed me, after you crest the mountain top, you can run the last quarter at your own speed. There’s a drink at the QuarterMaster on the Commons for anybody who can beat me. Have fun!” Sandy pivoted on her heel and easily picked her way up the rocky mountainside.

I had to strain to keep pace. At the top of the mountain, the view of the lush river valley under a bright blue sky temporarily distracted me. Halfway down the mountain, my ankle turned on a high spot. I cursed under my breath, got up, and pursued that ponytail. By the final quarter, I was running full out trying to catch Sandy, and I nearly made it. I finished half a stride behind her. We slowed to a jog to finish the course.

As the rest of the runners caught up to us, Sandy invited the group to the fruit juice bar near the fountain. “You get your first litre of water for free.”

Vincent appeared at my elbow. I asked, my eyes following Sandy, “So the QuarterMaster? That’s a good place to meet people?”

“Sandy runs it so there’s always a friendly face there.”

“Do you have to go with me?”

“No, I’ll be at Ardashir’s basketball game. Sandy has already volunteered to host you.”

I grinned.

“Don’t even think about doing anything stupid, Jack. Sandy was the Guardian’s top close combat instructor before we lured her away.”

For days, I studied FAB schematics, continuously reviewing my mental map of the space-faring hotel. I had several games of chess with Vincent and members of the council. Each day I ran with Sandy and made myself sociable in the QuarterMaster. Sandy put me to work at the bar and doing clean up on closing. That paid for my drinks. For a few hours every night, I thrashed around in my bed, dreaming of getting back into my fighter and going home.

--------

A week later

“This Grand Council meeting is convened to decide the immediate future of one human designated Jack Fox, native planet Earth,” Octavia’s one-eyed holowoman spoke with a forbidding frown. She was surrounded by holoforms of a cat that looked suspiciously like Calista of the peasant blouse, an elephant, a sad-eyed hound dog, a dolphin, and a raven. The humans stood beside me.

Octavia’s steely voice continued, “Jack Fox, against She’s will, the humans decided to share their limited stores of food, water, and air with you. The alternative was to let you die. That’s still an option. Other than entertainment She sees no value to your presence. Our monitors indicate that you still seek escape. Do you prefer to die alone in the cold of space? Can you offer any reason for She to permit you to stay? She requires your commitment to support the purpose and people of Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

I reflected, exploring beyond the galaxy in a posh hotel run by animal brains or getting in my fighter and floating away to die.

Sandy placed a soft hand on my arm. She whispered, “Life offers options.”

“Death doesn’t,” I conceded, meeting her eyes. A smile hovered around my lips. “I commit to Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

The beginning…

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