Hello good folks of YWS! I've been rather inactive on the forum lately, though I've also been working feverishly at this short story. I recently finished it a few weeks ago and only just thought of posting it, so here it is. It's a bit of science fiction, though it strays into the psychological horror genre if you're keen enough to pick up on it. As a warning, it runs about 32,000 characters or 12 pages of font. Hope you like it and enjoy!
“You want me to get on that?” Marc said as he eyed the rickety looking starship. The vessel looked as if it had been cobbled together in the last few days. He hoped it hadn’t.
“If all goes well, you’ll be fine,” the smuggler chuckled with dark sarcasm. The man standing before Marc was slight of stature with light brown hair pulled over his tanned scalp. With a fleeting thought, Marc wondered where the smuggler’s birth planet was, but shoved the thought from his mind, deciding that it was irrelevant. Thoughts were always drifting through Marc’s mind, a fantastic menagerie for him to ponder while the world left him behind, dreaming. This realization had only recently come to Marc’s attention and this meeting was the fruit of his decision to change.
And change he would. Ever since his introduction to reading, Marc had been fascinated by tales of thieves and pirates marauding the stars. They terrorized shipping lanes, swooping in from the darkness to rob blind their victims. That is, until one of Earth’s flagships descended upon them to deal swift justice in the form of high-caliber cannon fire. The truth was far from Marc’s dreams of piracy and adventure, though he had always longed to man one of Earth’s great battleships, protecting her borders and enforcing her laws. Marc’s aim was to pursue this vision by flying to the post of his choice and presenting commission documents after failing to be accepted into officer training school. It was a splendid plan. The next step was to get to the Panther, one of the newest flagships, with the documents. Marc received his forged commission a month before from a friend he’d known in high school. His name was Steven Pinkham. Steve was an artist and a pretty good one too. He even managed to get a convincing looking signature on the papers, flourish and everything. Steve charged a lot, but Marc found that it was worth the price. He laughed when Marc came to pick them up.
“Got someone you’re trying to impress?” Pinkham asked with a smirk. Marc grimaced and handed him the money, eager to be free of his presence. Commission in hand, he was off to the Panther.
Marc wiped sweat from his brow and felt his heartbeat return to its normal pace as he started toward the ship’s entrance. The ramp protruded from the belly of the vessel, settling unevenly on the tarmac. Swallowing his doubts, Marc stepped on and proceeded into the craft. Once inside, he saw how small the ship really was; the bridge consisted of a bank of panels below the forward window and a pair of crash couches. Taking another step into the bridge, Marc saw the cabin doors. They were positioned such that if he were facing the ship’s entrance ramp, they would be to its immediate left and right. Turning around, Marc faced the smuggler and pointed to the starboard cabin with a raised eyebrow.
“All yours. Now sit down for take-off” the man mumbled at Marc.
Marc smiled for the first time that day and seated himself in the nearest crash couch. Strapping in, the smuggler sighed and began flipping switches on the ship’s control panel. Then, he pushed a small black button that reminded Marc of a beetle and the entrance ramp began to retract. Marc could feel excitement rise in his stomach as the engines powered up.
The foreboding aspects of the day had come to a close and Marc felt optimistic of his coming engagement despite the questionable accommodations. Earlier that day, Marc crept into the spaceport through a hole in the chain-link fence that bounded the short runway. The runway, a strange antique, retained its usefulness in providing older spacecraft and the occasional jet plane with a place to land. Stepping through the hole, Marc strode, as casually as possible in his excitement, behind a squat hanger that stood at the edge of the runway. A short glance over his shoulder reassured Marc that he was alone as he stepped into the shadow of the hanger, reaching for the back door. Hand on the knob, Marc heard a far-off cry; the high-pitched shriek of a woman in a 1950’s horror film. The scream sent a shiver down his spine, though it took on a comical tone as Marc thought of the scream’s origin.
He imagined Jack the Ripper loose in the spaceport, a scream escaping here and there between the hangers as he did his work. Now Jack’s origins had always been foggy to Marc. He knew he had come from a place called London, but as for its location, Marc was clueless. His dark musings came to an abrupt halt as the crunching of dirt beneath boot soles signaled the presence of another. Trying the door, Marc found that he was locked out of the hanger with no place to hide. A sense of urgency ran through Marc’s body as his muscles tensed and his hair stood on end. Where could he go? Did he have time to run back the way he had come? Around the far corner waddled an overweight man in a police uniform. Marc let out an awkward gasp that was somewhere between a sigh of relief and a belching laugh. Straightening his posture and lifting up his chin, Marc tried to display an air of authority as the guard came closer.
Looking up from his slow progress, the man noticed Marc. Squinting his eyebrows in confusion, he frowned at his presence.
“Hey! What are you doing back here? …You know this is off limits, right?” So much for authority.
“Oh. I’m so sorry. I seem to have gotten lost” said Marc, almost sardonically as he took a step towards the guard.
“Well… I should lead you out of here and.. and tell my supervisor about this.” Taking another step towards the man, Marc smiled at him.
“I don’t think anyone needs to know about my being here, don’t you?” Bridging the final gap between the two, Marc made to reach for his wallet.
“Uh.. No, I can’t take bribes sir…” the man choked. A swell of confidence rose up in Marc breast as a grin danced across his lips. He smiled at the guard. Taking a quick, final step towards the other man, Marc balled his fingers into a half-fist and punched him in the throat. The chubby man went down wheezing and clutching his throat, eyes wide with shock. As the man’s gasping and sputtering slowed down, the full weight of what Marc had done came crashing down upon him. Was he dead? What would he do with the body!
Marc felt cold as he fell to pounding on the hangar’s rear door. He didn’t know why he’d done that. It was impulse. It was the guard’s fault; he should have left! Frantic glances to his left and right kept him aware of his isolation. He continued his pounding until, with a rusty screech, the door opened from the inside. Peering out of the darkness, the smuggler appeared in the doorway.
“Good to see you’re on time.” The smuggler’s expression remained blank. “Why are you sweating?”
They say first impressions are everything, but Marc wasn’t too worried about his rapport with this fellow; he was expendable. A rumbling from the spacecraft pulled Marc from his thoughts as the final layer of atmosphere fell away.
“It’ll be a two hour flight out of system and we can jump to hyperspace.” Marc had never been an expert on faster than light travel, but it was a modern convenience and the alternative was taking a one-year journey on a sub-light cruiser. Faster-than-light drives travelled at about four hundred times the speed of a sub-light engine, shortening a light-year journey to a little less than one day.
For the first two hours, Marc was content to gaze out the little ship’s main viewport, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the spectral forms that glide like ghosts through the heavens. The smuggler looked up with a start, surprising Marc as he grumbled:
“Out of system. Strap in.” Marc reached to his left and pulled the couch’s crash netting across himself, latching it. Farther to Marc’s left, the other man did the same, proceeding to rap a few keys on the control panel. As Marc watched, the stars seemed to wobble and shake. And then the sky went black.
The pitch dark of hyperspace had always brought with it a disconcerting apprehension and Marc soon remembered why he hated faster than light travel. The smuggler unlatched himself and stood up from his crash couch, looking at Marc.
“I’m going to sleep until we get there. You should do the same.” The man swallowed and walked off to his cabin.
Seeing the experience evident in the smuggler’s choice, Marc decided to do the same. He pulled off his netting and strode to his room. Stepping across the threshold, Marc surveyed the accommodations. They were meager, but the bed looked clean. Allowing himself to relax, he fell onto the bed, closing his eyes.
“Lights. Twenty percent” Marc mumbled at the ceiling. Blinking as he opened his eyes, Marc tried again. “Lights! Twenty percent!” The glaring fluorescents were unyielding. Marc grumbled to his feet and looked around the cabin. Next to the door, midway up the wall was a small, beige object. It was a grimy, overused looking thing and Marc stood staring at it, unsure how to proceed. The thing was of simple construction and consisted of a short piece of plastic protruding from the wall at an angle. Intrigued, Marc reached forth and poked it with his finger. He continued prodding at the strange protrusion until, with an audible click, the lights promptly went out.
In the darkness, Marc stumbled back and tripped, connecting with the floor with a resounding thump. Cursing and rubbing his hip with one hand, Marc reached out with the other to support himself as he stood. As his hand ran up the wall, it connected again with the object, forcing it upwards with a soft click. The lights responded immediately, flicking on and jolting Marc. In a fit of realization, Marc breathed deeply and allowed himself to calm down. He was relieved at finding the light controls, but dismayed at its inability to dim. Turning around, Marc made a note of the path to his bed and flicked the switch.
A mild breeze brushed Marc’s cheek as he sat up. He was lying in a vast field of grass that stretched to the edge of the world. It was dusk and the sun had just set, though the air was warm and comfortable. A mosaic of colors spilled across the sky, slowly fading as the sun sank beneath the horizon. The field rolled and swayed with a rushing sound as waves of cool air rustled the tall grass. Marc sat down on a small bluff above the undulating mass of green and watched the sun set. The wash of color slowly gave way to the soft glow of moonlight as dusk dissolved into darkness.
Standing, Marc noticed a thin path winding through the grain. He started down the path, hands in his pockets as he reveled in the night’s clear air. The rustling continued and a smile danced across his lips; the weather was perfect. In his corridor of tall grass, Marc was shielded from the increasingly violent gusts of wind that swept down into the valley. It must have been a river valley, as every step seemed to carry Marc further downward. The distinct odor of fresh cut grass billowed down from the bluffs as Marc began to feel the chill that accompanied the rolling breezes.
Clutching his hands across his chest, Marc tried to conserve warmth as he ventured ever further into the valley’s basin. With the suddenness of night’s onset, Marc’s path came to a stop and before him stood a wide river. The water lay still and placid, though it wasn’t stagnant. The smell of grass became less pungent as Marc approached the motionless surface. Not a ripple danced across the wide band of water. With this observation, Marc listened for the rustling of grass and the quiet whistling of wind between the blades. Where had the wind gone? Marc approached the river, donning an air of caution as he looked about for any sign of resurgent gusts. His feet squelching in the mud, Marc reached down and pushed a finger through the water’s placid pane. A single ripple bulged out from his touch and cascaded across the river as Marc watched in quiet contemplation. As the ripple caressed the far bank, the water’s surface erupted into a shower of glass.
A primal yelp escaped Marc’s throat as he scrambled for cover. Diving into the tall stalks of grain to his rear, Marc avoided the slivers of glass whistling down around him. Looking up and removing his hands from the back of his neck, Marc took a stepped from the foliage. The bank looked just as it had, not a shard in sight. Despite this strange observation, Marc felt unease creep into his shoulders. Then he noticed it. Babbling away, the river spilled off to his right, the motionless pane replaced by the convoluted surface of a very active river. Marc’s fears were confirmed by a guttural sound from his rear, a dark growl suggesting the cruelest intentions. Spinning around to reveal the source of the sound, Marc lost his footing and fell, sideways, into the river. Too surprised to catch himself, Marc careened head first into the rushing tumult. A shock of cold water flooded his senses and the world grew suddenly bright.
Marc sat up in bed, breathing hard and shielding his eyes from the fierce, fluorescent light. The smuggler stood in the doorway eyeing him.
“Trip’s over.”
How long had he slept? Marc swung his feet out of bed as he waited for his heartbeat to slow down. He remembered something about grass and a river, but the image faded from his mind as he looked for his shirt. Upon finding it, he slipped it on and padded out onto the bridge.
“We’re dropping out of hyperspace in five. Strap in.”
Not much of a conversationalist. Marc hadn’t noticed, as twenty hours of sleep was not conducive to noticing anything. The sheer amount of time that he’d slept surprised Marc. He was a heavy sleeper, but even for him twenty hours was a stretch. Sitting on the crash couch and strapping in, Marc gazed into the formless black that filled the main viewport. The hum of the engines fell to a deep rumble and was soon replaced by a screaming whine as the stars came back into view. The view provided by leaving hyperspace never failed to bring a smile to Marc’s face. Outside the ship, the stolid black became punctuated by millions of dots of dark gray, barely distinguishable from their background. The starlight grew in intensity, burning a sharp blue before returning to their natural white. Grinning, Marc pulled off the crash netting and stood from the couch.
Without a word, the smuggler turned the ship, bringing another vessel into view. The grin fell from Marc’s face as a colossal ship filled the viewport. The Panther. She stood looming before them, a symbol of power in human-occupied space. For at least a year, Marc had studied everything there was to know about the Panther—everything available to the public that is. The ship was the pride of Earth’s fleet and Marc needed to know what kinds of secret, devious projects must conspire in the Panther’s depths.
The smuggler looked sidelong at Marc and raised an eyebrow, “Now what?”
“Hail the Panther; tell them you need to dock for repairs. You were… being chased.”
Chuckling his assent, the smuggler opened a call channel as Marc headed back to his room. Picking up his boot, Marc withdrew a small pistol and a suppressor. Marc had spent three weeks drilling, sanding and testing the suppressor and was quite proud of his workmanship. Suppressors were hard to purchase and even harder to make. Removing the magazine and peering down the barrel, Marc made sure the gun was clean. With a start, Marc swung the pistol away from his face, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. He’d forgotten to remove the bullet from the chamber, though looking down the barrel of a gun was foolish regardless of whether or not it was loaded. Marc swallowed hard and returned the magazine to the gun, flicking the safety into the ‘safe’ position.
The sweat on Marc’s palms made it difficult to tie his boots as the plastic laces slipped through his fingers. Tying on the second boot, Marc slid the pistol in beside his foot and returned to the bridge.
“—ission granted. Dock in Bay Four.”
With that, the ship turned and floated down the side of the Panther and passed through a translucent shield into Bay Four. The docking bay was well lit and already occupied by two other ships, the closer of which was brown and bore the name Duma emblazoned on the forward section of her hull. Strafing left and spinning the ship around, the smuggler set her down on the bay’s right side where a security team was waiting for them.
“Oh—“ Marc glimpsed the men in the corner of the ship’s viewport and ran for his room. The smuggler narrowed his eyes as a shout came from outside:
“Open up! We’re here to escort you to the captain.”
The smuggler, shooting another glance in the direction of Marc’s room, pressed the beetle button and lowered the entrance ramp. Releasing the netting, he stood to meet the security team.
Marc sat on his bed, pistol in hand, staring at the door. His sweating palms made aiming the firearm difficult as it continued to slip from his grasp. Swallowing, Marc took one hand off the gun and wiped it on his pants, then the other. The pistol grip was still moist. Moving quickly, Marc pulled the gun to his shirt and wiped the grip, never taking his eyes off the door. As he raised the pistol towards the door, gunfire rattled through the ship. Surprised, Marc jerked his hand, firing a shot through the door. He gasped in shock, jumping to his feet. A sudden calm came over Marc as he jogged to the door, slapping the controls and entering the bridge. Before him stood one confused soldier with another at his feet, mortally wounded and groping at his neck. The more fortunate of the two looked up in time to see Marc raise his pistol and squeeze the trigger. The round flew through the visor and into the man’s head, shattering the glass and puckering his face with the impact. With a clattering and a thump, the soldier fell, dead, to the floor.
Marc paced over to the second soldier, coughing and sputtering on the floor between the two crash couches. A gurgling sound came from the man as he clutched at his neck and kicked his feet in a vain effort to escape. Marc couldn’t see his face; it was hidden by the helmet. All the better. As Marc took aim, he adjusted his grip on the pistol. Not a drop of moisture remained on his palm. Grinning, he fired.
As Marc turned, he noticed the smuggler for the first time. He was slumped over the ship’s control panel, peppered with bullet holes. A shocked expression was frozen on his face. The man’s blood mingled with that of the soldiers as Marc surveyed the grotesque display. Hadn’t there been four soldiers? Marc’s heart leapt into his throat. His exchange had been loud; the others had heard! The pistol had a suppressor, but it wasn’t a silencer. In a blind panic, Marc ran down the ramp, almost colliding with two very surprised soldiers. His boots sliding on the ramp, Marc fell backwards, swinging up the pistol and emptying the magazine into the two men. They fell backwards, rolling down the length of the ramp to the docking bay’s floor.
Marc stood, his hands shaking, and stared at the two bodies clustered at the base of the ramp. The smuggler could have done it. Before they killed him. That’s why they killed him! The panic became too much for Marc, dropping the pistol and sprinting down the ramp to the onyx colored floor. A short leap carried him over the corpses and farther from his hasty deeds. Every strained footfall seemed to echo about the cavernous room as Marc rushed headlong towards the exit.
Marc dashed down a series of short hallways until he found a small laundry room. Wrenching open the door, he shot a quick glance into the hall to confirm his safety and slammed the door closed. On the other side, Marc breathed a sigh of relief, resting his back against the door and sliding into a sitting position. As his heartbeat returned to a normal pace, he took stock of his surroundings.
Cold fluorescent lights beat down on forty or so neatly stacked piles of uniforms and a row of shiny washing machines stood against the far wall. The normality of the room seemed strange on a craft so shrouded in secrecy. Using the door handle to aid him, Marc stood in the eerie sanctum of the laundry room. Three paces and he was standing beside a stack of folded jackets. The breast of each was lined with a row of shiny brass buttons, embossed with the human naval insignia. Intrigued, Marc picked one up from the top of the pile. Marc unbuttoned the jacket as carefully as possible, wary of maintaining the clothing’s prime condition. Pulling it open, Marc peered into the collar of the jacket, checking the size. There was no tag! Were they tailored? Marc swung the jacket over his shoulders, sliding his arms into the sleeves. It was just his size. Beaming, Marc looked about the room for a matching pair of pants.
With a click, the laundry room door opened and out stepped Marc, dressed in the finest naval uniform. Pulling his commission papers from beneath his jacket, Marc strode down the hall. It seemed logical that the officer receiving new recruits would be located near a laundry room full of fresh uniforms, and so Marc wandered down whichever hall suited his fancy until he came to a door. The thick, cherry cedar threshold glowered ominously before him, its impression made more effective by the darkened atmosphere of the hall. Only moments before, Marc strode with confidence down the bright and empty corridor and a single turn had taken him to this ill lit niche.
Taking a deep breath, Marc stepped forward and put his hand on the ornate handle. Marc pulled the door open, surprised at the ease with which he did so. The door glided open, revealing a round, warmly lit office. The walls were covered in books of every kind, stacked to the ceiling. In the center of the office stood a dark, mahogany desk, bearing the nameplate: “Colonel Thomas Evans.” And behind it sat Evans, eyebrow raised. Colonel Evans was a large man of fine complexion with a pair of piercing blue eyes. They seemed to smile at Marc as he stepped into the room.
“And who are you?” questioned the colonel.
“Erm.. My name is Marc Caudan. I’ve come to present my commission papers.”
“Really? Why don’t you let me have a look at them. What ship did you come in on?”
“Uh…” stuttering, Marc’s mind raced. “The Duma! Yeah, in Bay Four.” A single bead of sweat rolled down Marc’s brow as a weak smile split his uncertain features.
“Oh. You must’ve been with the 10th Engineering Unit. Why didn’t you come down at 1400?” said the colonel with a reluctant grin.
“I got lost on the way… Wandered down a couple of empty halls, I guess. I’m sorry, sir” Marc inhaled and straightened his posture.
The colonel sighed and pulled Marc’s papers across the desk, pen in hand. Looking down, he began to read the commission, frowning. Evans let out another sigh and stood from his seat.
“You do realize what you’re doing, correct?” Marc stared at the man, beginning to sweat in earnest. “This is a court-martialable offense” Evans stated blandly. “This ship is no place for liars and cheats, Cauden.” With this, Marc relented.
“I’m so sorry, sir! It’s just, I’ve wanted this for so long and I couldn’t think of any place I’d rather serve than the Panther, sir. Please, I never meant to do anything illegal.” The illegality of his actions was quite clear to Marc, though he couldn’t think of a single viable reason, beyond his desire, to explain them.
“You know what, Marc?” A small smile crossed the colonel’s face as he offered his proposition. “We won’t bother with a court martial, and I’ll reassign you to a.. different posting for a couple of years. Less paperwork for me that way.” Smiling with giddy agreement, Marc nodded.
“Good” Evans said, returning Marc’s grin. “Why don’t you follow these men to your transport?” Reaching beneath the lip of his desk, the colonel pressed a small button, activating the intercom. “Sergeant, please send me two off-duty MP’s from the mess. Thank you.”
Marc and the colonel didn’t speak as they waited for the MP’s to arrive. With a quiet whoosh, the doors swung open and revealed two soldiers in white helmets. They looked for a moment at Marc with blank expressions and stepped into the room.
“Transport 3 to the Stockholm” Evans called after them.
Arm in arm, the guards half dragged, half carried Marc down the corridor. They turned innumerable corners and rode down two elevators as Marc lolled in the daze of his defeat. As the mouth of the transport door yawned before him, Marc fainted.
The next two months drifted by in a translucent blur as Marc drifted about the Stockholm performing odd jobs and menial labor for the engineers. Colonel Evans had sent him to this dim abode where ambition counted for nothing. Marc’s dream of joining the glorious ranks of Earth’s defenders seemed hopelessly lost as clarity fell out of the world. Though the clarity did not stay gone, and returned with sudden haste as a single phrase resounded in Marc’s head and an image of the colonel hung in his thoughts, a dark, voracious smile splitting his grim and pock-marked features.
“We won’t bother with a court-martial.”
The echo of Marc's footsteps thundered in his head as his feet pounded the metal causeway. Noise rebounded off the walls and writhed about within the confines of his skull. The roar in his brain combined with the choking heat of this deck made cohesive thought impossible. Marc ran from the noise in his head, shaking sweat from his brow and blinking to clear his vision. Marc ran down hallways that hummed and buzzed, machinery grinding and shuddering behind the walls. To his left was the outside wall, the thickest wall on the ship that led directly to the vacuum. To his right was a thinner wall that led to various sections of the Stockholm’s engineering deck.
Only four hours ago, Marc was lying down in the officer's lounge when he heard a scream. Not the blaring, baby-in-your-ear kind of scream, but the dull thunder of a man experiencing his last few moments in pure terror-- through thirty feet of cotton. However muted it was, it roused Marc from his light nap. Blinking a few times and glancing around, he found that was alone in the room. Strange, there was usually a tired lieutenant or two muttering over a cup of coffee at the small card table in the center of the room. Other than the table, the place was spartan, consisting only of Marc’s couch, a snack machine and a pair of folding chairs. The walls were painted a neutral gray color and had remained bare for the entirety of Marc’s stay aboard the Stockholm.
Marc grumbled as he rose to his feet and shuffled over to the vending machine to peruse the snacks. Not that any of the choices were new, but Marc liked the feeling that his money was being well spent. Choosing a bag of chips from the top row of snacks, he examined the musty looking bag before ripping it open and peering in at its contents. The chips looked questionable, but they smelled great and Marc was hungry. Plunging his hand into the bag and munching away, he paced out into the hall. That was when he saw it. Marc could barely make out a face; it was only a smudge in the shadows. It called out to him.
“Cauden, come with me.” What semblance of a human face the smudge contained melted into darkness as its shadowed features twisted into a grotesque mask.
It remained motionless for a few moments and glanced up the small flight of steps to Marc, transfixing him in its gaze. The eyes shone a dull rust color, like a copper pocket watch in lamplight, as they swept across Marc, examining him. Marc, bag of chips in hand, stood motionless in the doorway, frozen in confused terror.
The eyes shifted and the darkness let out a ghastly shriek, chilling Marc's bones and freeing him from his stupor. As the smudge screamed its grim intention, it leaned forward and leapt up the stairs. Marc stumbled back, dropping his snack and pounding on the door controls. With a whirring and a soft click, the door shut out the angry beast. Eyes wide and heart pumping, Marc spun about, looking for a means of escape. From beyond the threshold came a grunt followed by a thunderous roar as the smudge attempted to claw its way in. Off to Marc's left, above the couch he'd been sleeping on, an air vent was situated roughly seven feet up the wall. He ran across the room, acutely aware of the monster's presence. Behind him, Marc heard a hollow thud as something was wedged into the doorjamb, prying it open from the outside. No time to waste, Marc rammed his fist through the cheap aluminum vent cover and ripped it from its holdings, thanking the ship’s designers’ frugality. Standing on the back of the couch he'd been sleeping on only minutes ago, Marc dove head first into the vent, wiggling his shoulders into a more comfortable pose. He tried in a vain attempt to pull himself along with his fingers and decided instead upon worming his way into the vent as the officer's lounge exploded behind him. The darkness had found its way in.
Marc bumped and shuffled his way along until he came to another vent cover. The air duct was cold on his skin as he sat motionless, facing the vent cover, with no way to escape the duct. A dull shriek came from Marc's rear, the sound carried by the metal of the ductwork. As the thrashing from the lounge continued, the black of the vent seemed to surround Marc, closing in, burying him in this iron coffin to dehydrate and rot. Marc's palms began to sweat as his frantic thoughts raced to be free of the duct. Almost in an effort to beleaguer his terror, Marc marveled at his clarity of thought as the world took on a vivid sharpness. This had no calming effect on Marc's mind as his animal instincts screamed at him to move, move, escape this cloistered cell! In a fit of sheer terror, Marc wriggled forward and began ramming his forehead against the aluminum vent. The first two impacts rattled Marc’s skull and made him dizzy. As the duct cover seemed to sway before him, he noticed a latch, smothered in shadows, at the base of the vent. Stretching his neck forward and tilting his head upward, Marc forced his chin down on the small lever. His chin slipped from the latch, bashing the floor of the duct and sending another tremor through his brain. Marc’s eyes watered as he reached forward again, and with a series of small taps, maneuvered the latch into an open position. With a definitive thunk, the vent unhooked from the wall and fell to the floor below.
Marc flashed a grin at his success and took a breath of fresh air; his reward for escaping the duct. Marc wriggled forward and pushed his way out, landing in a pile of dirty laundry. Looking around the room, he found himself surrounded by industrial size washing machines, dryers and piles of drab, blue, work uniforms. Marc stood up in his pile of laundry and smiled to himself. He'd escaped death. And even standing in a pile of sweaty, old, dirty laundry, life was sweet.
That was four hours ago. Marc lay in a pile of laundry, doing his best to ignore the glaring pain of a vicious headache. Coupled with an intense stinging in his forehead was a dull throbbing at the base of his skull. In his effort to ignore the pain, Marc turned his attention to the apparent silence of the ship. He hadn't noticed it before, but this particular deck of the vessel should have been bustling with crew members and other support staff. Marc slowly rose to his feet and cracked his back. In the silence that followed, he listened. There it was. No. It was gone now. There it was again! A low thud-scrape-thud-scrape coming from the wall. Marc waited as the noise grew louder. As he listened, the noise reached its apex, the thunk of flesh puncturing metal followed by the sound of a wet towel dragged across an air duct. An air duct. Marc looked up just in time to see a fleshy spider clambering out of the vent and into his laundry room.
Letting out a cry that wasn't purely human in pitch, Marc bolted from the room, the image of the spider burned in his mind. A shiny black beak protruding from a mass of flesh and hair topped by eight or so jet black eyes. Those eyes had no pupil, but they followed him, he knew. The spider leaped the short distance across the room to the opposite wall and fell to the floor in a heap of laundry. Marc's feet pounded the metal walkway as he sprinted away from the horror that followed him. He could hear the rapid, heavy tapping of the spider's spindle-like legs beating the deck in pursuit. Marc willed himself to move faster as he thundered down the hall. As he ran further down the hall, deeper into the engineering deck, the air grew thicker. It sank into his lungs and choked him as he gasped for breath. The heavy, burning air seared Marc's lungs as he ran haphazardly along, stumbling every few strides. The monster was close; he could feel him. Sweat poured off of his brow, down his face and into his eyes as he ran. Marc's saliva thickened and impeded his breathing as his body begged him for water. Coughing and clearing his throat, Marc ran on. He tasted salt as the sweat that blurred his vision ran off his eyes and into his mouth. There, ahead he saw his destination, his salvation. Marc pushed his legs to run, to run faster. Stumbling across the threshold of a freight elevator, Marc reached out and steadied himself on the lift's far wall. His frantic eyes scanned the hallway that preceded him as he hammered the lift controls. A heavy, metal cage closed down around the elevator and Marc gasped for air. He'd been holding his breath. He was safe; he had escaped. With a pneumatic hum, the elevator began to rise.
Marc was huddled against the lift's far wall as the elevator doors opened. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled out. It was colder up here on the crew deck. Marc made his was slowly down the hall until he came to a junction. As he crawled passed the hall on his left, he saw a small security detail armed with rifles. Marc stopped for a moment and looked at them. He heard the low squawk of a radio as one of the men talked to his sleeve.
"Found him." the man spoke again to his sleeve. "Yes, sir."
And then they were gone. The detail turned and jogged down the hall from which they had come. Marc listened to the retreating sound of footfalls, punctuated by the soft crackling of a radio, until they were lost in the low whoosh of air that was recycled steadily across the ship. Pondering this odd series of events, Marc resumed his labored pace until he reached the escape pod hub. The room was round, with arching supports sailing the ten meters to the ceiling. Unlike the officer’s lounge, the hub room was painted an industrial white with utilitarian red lines and numbers designating pods and space suit closets. A grin split Marc’s pained expression at the prospect of leaving the horrors of this ship behind. Again, his animal mind shouted at him to escape, escape! With renewed strength, Marc drew himself to his feet, swaying with the unsteadiness of his exhausted legs. As he crossed to the nearest escape pod, using the wall to keep himself upright, a thought occurred to Marc. Looking across the room with a scowl, he realized he would need to use the pod facing planetside. Marc straightened himself, and with a shuffling gait, stumbled across to the planetside pod’s control panel.
The panel was illuminated with a soft blue glow as Marc began typing in landing coordinates. With any luck, the pod would bring him down within a kilometer or so of the designated site. Marc finished entering what he assumed the correct authorization code and sighed. Looking about the room, he recalled the last two months he had spent aboard the Stockholm. It had been a strange posting, but at least it was comfortable. All because of that nosy colonel, Marc had to spend the next twenty-two months aboard the Stockholm, in low orbit around the colony Home. Home was an older colony, far away from any action. The strangest aspect of his almost two month stay had been the lack of communication or cohesive orders between Marc and his superiors. During that time, he received no direct orders from his commanding officer and only performed menial jobs about the engineering deck, asked of him by some of the engineers.
Shrugging, Marc glanced at the pod’s control panel to see if it had accepted his authorization code. On the screen, the word ‘Loading…’ was backed by a dark blue circle that slowly filled to show the authorization’s progress. The circle was almost filled when the PA system came on. A low chime signaled the system’s activation as a familiar voice began to speak.
“I told you we wouldn’t be bothering with a court martial.”
Marc’s eyes grew wide as he leaped for the escape pod. As he passed into the small space, the door slammed shut, ramming Marc’s leg against the craft’s floor and shattering his femur. Writhing in agony, Marc gripped his broken leg and tried in vain to reach the pod’s external door controls. As he lay back to relieve some of the tension on his leg, Marc saw the blast doors closing all around the escape hub. The automated speaker system intoned, “Beginning launch cycle”. Once again screaming in pain, Marc slammed his fists on the exterior of the escape pod, clawing at the door, anything to get it open.
Red lights scattered about the chamber became active as they warned anyone still in the room of the danger they were in. Pods began to fire. Direct vacuum launch was messy, but the Stockholm was old and budget increases were rare. As hydraulic doors slid open, escape craft were sucked out. Moments after, the doors slid closed once again, but those few moments were precious and with each one, minutes of air were lost. Marc began to panic as doors opened and closed, a constant roar of oxygen fleeing the ship. Air screamed past him as his pod ejected, taking his leg with it.
Marc lost his bearings momentarily as he spun out of the ship. Marc screamed the air from his lungs, hoping to live longer, though escape was hardly a possibility in his current state. Marc screamed again in the silent vacuum of space as his blood vaporized, obliterating capillaries in his fingers and eyes. Blood poured from lacerations that covered his broken frame, turning to gas and seeping away in the darkness. Marc peered out through his useless eyes, trapped inside his useless body. Space was cold and dark and became ever more so as the light faded from his eyes. And Marc escaped again.
Well that was a journey! And probably took a good chunk of your day to enjoy... Thanks for reading and feel free to demolish both plot and grammar in a review below!
-Subtle
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