Mayday
Predator Press
When Security Officer Rand took the job on the small mining facility four years ago, there were bad omens everywhere.
On the first day, the Chief of Operations gave him a tour of the facility. "Sometimes," says Doctor Richard Kief in a well-rehearsed, blasé tone. "We have accidents." Throwing the switch, the ore smelter screeched closed and a high-pitched alarm sounded. "It costs this facility $150,000 a minute to close these filters, because it stops production." Kief sort of spoke into the air around him, almost unaware of Rand. "I love to do that," he added.
As the searing liquid ore started to settle, the fluid became increasingly transparent. "Still," says Kief, "in the event of on ongoing Missing Person Investigation, it's company policy to look here."
Chills ran through Rand's spine, as he quietly imagined what he might see in there: the cloudy shadows of bobbing human remains.
Seeming to have read Rand's mind, Kief continues. "Depending on what cycle the smelting is, you're not going to see much left. Especially if it's been more than an hour or so. Probably just their gear if you're lucky." Kief stared into the glowing fluid.
"We have accidents," he repeated absently.
***
Four years later, Rand wiped the condensation from the cracked porthole with his thick glove, smearing it cloudy with blood. Seeing the station's wobbly, random trajectory and the floating debris of the station never failed to trigger a sense of vertigo.
He pressed the yellow button again. "SOS," he repeated. "This is acting Chief of Security Steven Rand of mining facility 77. We have been attacked."
The sound of his voice betrayed his fading hopes of rescue.
"I believe I am the sole survivor," he added. "Mayday."
Rand was starting to succumb to hypothermia. He wasn't shivering very much anymore. And he was getting sleepy. It was a mistake to sit at the console. Fatigue overtook him, and he pulled the blankets closer; this was almost a futile gesture as they no longer retained any heat.
"Mayday," he repeated, drifting off into slumber.
The sleep was not restful, as his mind churned the horrors over and over. Rand's mother called these things "Devil Marks"; the indelible mental leftovers of having witnessed a traumatic event.
There was no warning of the attack, save the moment when Kief blew his brains out with a .45 caliber pistol in this very chair. The attack came so suddenly afterward, the splatters were still all over the cockpit.
As for the attack itself, it was very surgical and precise; most of the station remained largely intact. It still held oxygen and it's internal pressure. But the inertial dampeners were destroyed, and the station could no longer keep it's "spin", and as a result there was no artificial gravity.
But the real danger was the hopelessly damaged temperature regulators; as the relentless cold of space overtook the failing heat in the vessel, any survivors --such as Rand-would be dead in a matter of hours.
They could just wait him out.
Tiredly, Rand woke again. He didn't know how long he had been out this time. Weakly, he rubbed his glove against the glass one more time, but the condensation and blood had frozen solidly.
As he leaned in closely in an attempt to peer through the opaque window, Kief's frozen blood cracked and snapped as is separated from Rand's suit and the chair.
Rand saw nothing.
Even the debris was gone.
He pressed the yellow button.
"Mayday," he slurred, before drifting into sleep one last time.
When Security Officer Rand took the job on the small mining facility four years ago, there were bad omens everywhere.On the first day, the Chief of Operations gave him a tour of the facility. "Sometimes," says Doctor Richard Kief in a well-rehearsed, blasé tone. "We have accidents." Throwing the switch, the ore smelter screeched closed and a high-pitched alarm sounded. "It costs this facility $150,000 a minute to close these filters, because it stops production." Kief sort of spoke into the air around him, almost unaware of Rand. "I love to do that," he added.
As the searing liquid ore started to settle, the fluid became increasingly transparent. "Still," says Kief, "in the event of on ongoing Missing Person Investigation, it's company policy to look here."
Chills ran through Rand's spine, as he quietly imagined what he might see in there: the cloudy shadows of bobbing human remains.
Seeming to have read Rand's mind, Kief continues. "Depending on what cycle the smelting is, you're not going to see much left. Especially if it's been more than an hour or so. Probably just their gear if you're lucky." Kief stared into the glowing fluid.
"We have accidents," he repeated absently.
Four years later, Rand wiped the condensation from the cracked porthole with his thick glove, smearing it cloudy with blood. Seeing the station's wobbly, random trajectory and the floating debris of the station never failed to trigger a sense of vertigo.
He pressed the yellow button again. "SOS," he repeated. "This is acting Chief of Security Steven Rand of mining facility 77. We have been attacked."
The sound of his voice betrayed his fading hopes of rescue.
"I believe I am the sole survivor," he added. "Mayday."
Rand was starting to succumb to hypothermia. He wasn't shivering very much anymore. And he was getting sleepy. It was a mistake to sit at the console. Fatigue overtook him, and he pulled the blankets closer; this was almost a futile gesture as they no longer retained any heat.
"Mayday," he repeated, drifting off into slumber.
The sleep was not restful, as his mind churned the horrors over and over. Rand's mother called these things "Devil Marks"; the indelible mental leftovers of having witnessed a traumatic event.
There was no warning of the attack, save the moment when Kief blew his brains out with a .45 caliber pistol in this very chair. The attack came so suddenly afterward, the splatters were still all over the cockpit.
As for the attack itself, it was very surgical and precise; most of the station remained largely intact. It still held oxygen and it's internal pressure. But the inertial dampeners were destroyed, and the station could no longer keep it's "spin", and as a result there was no artificial gravity.
But the real danger was the hopelessly damaged temperature regulators; as the relentless cold of space overtook the failing heat in the vessel, any survivors --such as Rand-would be dead in a matter of hours.
They could just wait him out.
Tiredly, Rand woke again. He didn't know how long he had been out this time. Weakly, he rubbed his glove against the glass one more time, but the condensation and blood had frozen solidly.
As he leaned in closely in an attempt to peer through the opaque window, Kief's frozen blood cracked and snapped as is separated from Rand's suit and the chair.
Rand saw nothing.
Even the debris was gone.
He pressed the yellow button.
"Mayday," he slurred, before drifting into sleep one last time.
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