A Simple Blue Dot
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Cryogenic travel wasn’t a perfect science yet, and it’s use as a weapon of war was dubious at best.
As far as I know, I’m the first.
Obviously, the “best case scenario” would be that I was intercepted and unfrozen to the news that peace had been achieved. That’s why I volunteered really; now that I think about it, I would’ve loved to awaken to the news that the war was over.
"Worst Case Scenario", a capsule breach followed by a brief, slow, fatal decompression, part by melting part.
Woulda been worth it.
But that’s not how it happened.
And after two weeks of silent surveillance, Space Station S.L.A. XOX –commonly known as “Slax”-- finally responded to my coded broadcast. And there she is on my tiny navigation screen, a simple blue dot.
“Slax” is so far out on the galactic fringe, my ship is a capsule containing only a life support system and eight ounces of navigational computers and communication transponders . Even I am “modified” to be lighter. Aside from Newtonian physics, we're dead in space: this little tomb with a great view doesn’t have fuel, engines, nothing.
Sure there’s a generic, standard “SOS” broadcast, but as I draw nearer, another far weaker signal should be detectable. The subtle 76 year-old coded message I’m broadcasting is to the descendents of spies doubtlessly long dead. Still, the beacon got intercepted, responded to, and I was awakened, right on time to “work my magic”: to pull the intravenous device from my arm, to listen closely in the dark. To learn.
I can hear them trying to hail me once in a while, but most of the time it’s complaining chatter about the logistics of having to land me. Obviously, the station has grown exponentially. This is not necessarily bad; it’s easier to disappear in a sprawling community that a tiny podunk. But the station spins on an axis using centripetal force to simulate gravity, and unfamiliarly named towers, spires, spikes, and satellites threatened to slam my lazily drifting crucible into oblivion.
By my body temperature, they know I’m alive. Hell, they probably know I’m awake.
I couldn’t broadcast if I wanted to. Which I don’t; all I want is what the spies have arranged in advance: credentials, a weapon, and good, simple transportation.
I’ll take care of the rest.
****
Hours later, a small uniformed black woman with intelligent, suspicious eyes questioned me as I wolfed down pancakes and sausage through an unfamiliar beard. I was in the medical unit recovering from atrophy, surrounded by questions and thugs.
“Why were you the only survivor of the Prima Donna?” she asked again. But with greater interest, she added “And where did you get this vessel?”
The yacht named “Prima Donna” had obviously been destroyed a few years ago, right on cue. “I kinda built it as a hobby based on antiquated technology. My plan was to auction it off.” I casually reply. It’s not even remotely believable, I know. But a calm demeanor and delivery coupled with credentials can take you a long way. “But please, there were more ‘capsules’,” I insist, somehow sincerely. “Surely I can’t be the only one to survive!”
“Sir,” says a thick looking youth with a furrowed brow. “The story checks out. Four identical pods have been found.” She looks at him as he shakes his head all dead.
For dramatic effect, I wait for the brazen little firebrand to break it to me herself. “Sir, as the sole survivor of the doomed vessel Prima Donna, all sixteen other souls lost, welcome aboard. Mister Curr, my name is Captain Dunbar. I’m the manager of Comcast’s Customer Support team.”
I take her hand and rip it from her body, and using it, proceed to kill everyone aboard.
And so it goes.
[LOBO]
Cryogenic travel wasn’t a perfect science yet, and it’s use as a weapon of war was dubious at best.
As far as I know, I’m the first.
Obviously, the “best case scenario” would be that I was intercepted and unfrozen to the news that peace had been achieved. That’s why I volunteered really; now that I think about it, I would’ve loved to awaken to the news that the war was over.
"Worst Case Scenario", a capsule breach followed by a brief, slow, fatal decompression, part by melting part.
Woulda been worth it.
But that’s not how it happened.
And after two weeks of silent surveillance, Space Station S.L.A. XOX –commonly known as “Slax”-- finally responded to my coded broadcast. And there she is on my tiny navigation screen, a simple blue dot.
“Slax” is so far out on the galactic fringe, my ship is a capsule containing only a life support system and eight ounces of navigational computers and communication transponders . Even I am “modified” to be lighter. Aside from Newtonian physics, we're dead in space: this little tomb with a great view doesn’t have fuel, engines, nothing.
Sure there’s a generic, standard “SOS” broadcast, but as I draw nearer, another far weaker signal should be detectable. The subtle 76 year-old coded message I’m broadcasting is to the descendents of spies doubtlessly long dead. Still, the beacon got intercepted, responded to, and I was awakened, right on time to “work my magic”: to pull the intravenous device from my arm, to listen closely in the dark. To learn.
I can hear them trying to hail me once in a while, but most of the time it’s complaining chatter about the logistics of having to land me. Obviously, the station has grown exponentially. This is not necessarily bad; it’s easier to disappear in a sprawling community that a tiny podunk. But the station spins on an axis using centripetal force to simulate gravity, and unfamiliarly named towers, spires, spikes, and satellites threatened to slam my lazily drifting crucible into oblivion.
By my body temperature, they know I’m alive. Hell, they probably know I’m awake.
I couldn’t broadcast if I wanted to. Which I don’t; all I want is what the spies have arranged in advance: credentials, a weapon, and good, simple transportation.
I’ll take care of the rest.
Hours later, a small uniformed black woman with intelligent, suspicious eyes questioned me as I wolfed down pancakes and sausage through an unfamiliar beard. I was in the medical unit recovering from atrophy, surrounded by questions and thugs.
“Why were you the only survivor of the Prima Donna?” she asked again. But with greater interest, she added “And where did you get this vessel?”
The yacht named “Prima Donna” had obviously been destroyed a few years ago, right on cue. “I kinda built it as a hobby based on antiquated technology. My plan was to auction it off.” I casually reply. It’s not even remotely believable, I know. But a calm demeanor and delivery coupled with credentials can take you a long way. “But please, there were more ‘capsules’,” I insist, somehow sincerely. “Surely I can’t be the only one to survive!”
“Sir,” says a thick looking youth with a furrowed brow. “The story checks out. Four identical pods have been found.” She looks at him as he shakes his head all dead.
For dramatic effect, I wait for the brazen little firebrand to break it to me herself. “Sir, as the sole survivor of the doomed vessel Prima Donna, all sixteen other souls lost, welcome aboard. Mister Curr, my name is Captain Dunbar. I’m the manager of Comcast’s Customer Support team.”
I take her hand and rip it from her body, and using it, proceed to kill everyone aboard.
And so it goes.
Comments