Tag: Process

She thought to herself. All around her there is a calming warmth, like a snug blanket wrapped around her. But not quite, almost akin to floating in a very warm pool of water, where you know you are wet, but you don’t feel wet. There is a hum about her too, comforting, like a soft electrical tingle in her finger tips and toes. Even though it is pitch black and she can not see she is not scared. No, she thinks, at the edges of her consciousness she is terrified, but she feels compelled, externally, to not panic. Like someone is whispering sweet nothings in her ears just below what she can make out, but the warmth of breath on her neck, and the sense of someone caring is tangible. The oddness of it all envelops her. She is oddly disquieted by the lack of her heart beating in her chest. Surely at peace as she is, the constant thrum of the lub-dub of her heart, and the sound of blood rushing in her ears should be present. What had happened? Why couldn’t she remember where she was or what she was doing. The warmth and floating sensation persists. The blackness around her could stretch for miles. Or it could be a mask. Either way her eyes are unseeing. Is she waking up in a med pod? Did she fail her mission to obtain the asset? Questions are tumbling around in her mind. A brief pinch in her head, like the beginnings of a head ache, but now its gone. What was she just thinking of? The float is warm. She could just drift away, off to sleep. “YES” – the warmth speaks, like honey in her ear. Oozing around her, the suggestion to slip away, go to sleep, just rest – relax. Feeling herself giving in to the sensation of gently rocking, somewhere in the blackness she can hear her mother singing a lullaby. A gentle finger moving a lock of hair from her face. The warm embrace, the touch of warm soft skin on skin. The slight hum of electric static from an off turned radio. The clicking of the rocking chair upon the orange sun lit floors of her bedroom. Oh!, she thinks, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that memory before. So nice. She’s a teenager, rolling over in bed, away from her opened blinds, snuggling against her comforter, “I don’t want to go to school” she moans. The warmth begins to ebb away slowly, a cold chill nips at her fingers and toes. She shivers, nakedly from the cold.

The darkness begins to recede, in its place a swirling mass of shadows and smoke. She coughs deeply, and begins to choke. Hard wracking coughs that assault her lungs. She can feel her eyes begin to bulge, her neck straining, her finger bones pop with the strain. She isn’t choking but suffocating in the grey white cloud. “She might need the atmosphere we detected K”. Garbles a voice echoing from every which direction. “Yes – Yes! We did notice that too.” Replies the same voice. “Best be quick about it then K.” It answers in reply. “Too right K.” It says, still having done nothing but remark upon her strangled state. “Oh thank you K.” The woman lay on the ground asphyxiating. With an audible whistle the room begins to fill with a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen and various other gases. The same as the tiny yellow morsel they had consumed, in which they found her. Gasping for her life she lies upon the ground heaving and floundering. Trying to catch her breath and get her bearings. “Your friends are dead.” The room vibrates with the words, but no one is inside the room. With a cracked and dry throat she croaks. “I know.” The room itself begins to shrink, and reorganize. No longer a cube of three meters to a side, but an elongated hall, all illuminated in the same silver grey and off white. The hall ends at her back but stretches out into a pin point of light in front of her. Without getting up she is pushed forward, gently. “The man inside with you had significant trauma to his brain. Tell us, did you have anything to do that?” Asks the echoing voice quietly. “No! – no, I was trying to fix the sabotaged cockpit flight controls. Richard’s was murdered by our pilot Zeke.” The walls shimmy in response. The forward pull of the hallway speeds up. The woman has the distinct sensation of traveling without moving. It is disconcerting. “Tell us, what of the man partially welded to your hull?” Enquires the echoing voice. “I don’t know? I assumed Zeke was trying to sabotage us so that he could obtain the asset by himself. Keep the glory for his own.” She responds with a dry bark. “Wait – did you say welded? What welded? How is that possible?” She exclaims. The hallway starts to expand, a large yellow and black ship begins to uncover itself from the wall. The hall disappeared behind her, a large rectangular room containing her ship The Mangelo has arranged itself around her. She approaches the rear of the ship where, near the top side, the propellant storage tanks are located. Too physically weak to climb, she realizes she can’t recall when she last ate or drank anything. The ship before her appears to sink into the floor, raising her up to see the top of the vessels hull. There, frozen in place is the body of the pilot. “Can you tell if the power is still on with the ship?” She asks aloud. “We have rendered the core inert.” Responds the echo. Crawling over the pipes and exposed cabling on the hull she can see that the pilot, Zeke, had unfortunately braced himself to work by putting one boot under a secured conduit and then leaned over another cable bundle to switch the engines over to the reserve tanks, causing the current to arc, welding himself in place. Dying of electrocution painfully, in the process causing the overload of the capacitors and resistors blowing out the control panels in the cockpit. It wasn’t sabotage, at least on Zeke’s part. Just an unfortunate accident stemming from their second hand pilfered vessel, and shoddy rushed schedule to assemble it all. “So how did Richards get a pipe in the head?” She mumbled. The deep echo voice rumbles.”The analysis of the data from the biometric recorder seems to suggest he was trying to pull a stuck valve open on a holding tank, when is grip failed, slipped off the wrench and impaled himself. His gps tracker shows him flopping around.” Responds the voice dryly. “Which caused the machinists lubricant to dribble into the cistern.” She says, flatly. A little numbed by the revelation. Suddenly there is a violent rocking motion to the room, as the woman tumbles over sideways falling to her hands and knees with a violent thud, the room shrinks down into a cramped sphere, only slightly larger than the woman if she were to crouch. The light within the grey white room begins to shimmer into a dazzling brilliance. “Would you like to know what your wrist biometric unit says – Racquelle?”

Part Fifteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.