A series of un-related microfiction.
The cool grass crinkled under his bare feet, tiny blades tickling through his toes. Class 7 crew were only allowed on the grounds of the agriculture dome on special occasions, though this hardly felt like one. Four birthdays and one wedding on the plush, green turf since coming out of cryo, but this was different and the grass seemed dry. Water restriction? Off-season fertilizer?
Salm was dead and all he could think about was the grass.
The colossal communication antenna pierced the sky, a skeletal steel hand reaching desperately through the clouds of Axion IV, tearing past the autonomous guy wire drones that whir back and fort, pulling it into alignment.
Even our tech knows that our home is dying.
“…and the solar winds forever at your back,” the text above the bulkhead door read though the translation lens overlay. The astroarchaeologists will have a field day with this, the salvage tech mused, logging another High Value Salvage structure. His second interstellar colony vessel this cycle.
Where are they all coming from, though?
The lower maintenance corridor seemed to stretch for miles, a dark, flickering walk of extrude-honed segments of rubber, plastic, and steel. The track lighting sat low to the floor, a dimming pulse of red, glinting off of the mesh catwalk flexing beneath his feet. The intercom crackled overhead, scratching unintelligibly to life.
Claudia picked up the privacy cube and stood with it in her hands for a moment. The biometric reader cycled to green, emitting a soft click from the bottom of the cube. “Heavier than I expected,” she thought aloud, breaking the silence of the chaplain quarters. “So many beautiful ideas and so much love for the world. Now he’s just a plastic sack of ash and nanites.”
She sat at the P.I. desk, her hair hurried, extravagant evening gown wrinkled, back to the door, sobbing quietly. Something tragic had happened. Decaying blood on her collar with a brooch boasting her family crest; She moved a body.
“Mr. Wilcox,” she greeted me. “I need to hire you to help find my husband.” Easy money.
She jolted awake, a century away from everyone she loved, shivering in the post-stasis nanite bath. The sting of a million microscopic robots repairing her damaged epidermis washed through her neural processor. “Was this real,” she thought, “or just another false system boot?”
She jolted awake, a century away…
The chill of the Myamoto Stasis Bay on Deck 5, seeps into your bones as actuators vent SRD processing gas into the cabin, an echo of a suppressed memory, leaking through your faulty neural processor. Is this a blessing? Or a curse? No one has these memories any more; They’re just too painful.
“The trouble with BrainBurn is that everything looks like the dead of space,” Clara said, consumed by her infinite malaise.
“But Clara, everything looks like the heavens, now. Maybe now, you just finally get to see it.”
“Screw you,” Clara replied. “That’s just stupid.” Clara had enough of Alpha-9’s crap.
“Welcome back to Haumea Transit Station,” the digital voice pierced through the stasis-induced tinnitus. “Your travel from Warp Gate 7 has concluded with no errors. Risa Leisure Sim 817 has completed. You are free to walk around the station to get your bearing.” Clara touched her feet to the Stasis Bay floor, a shock of cold shooting through her nervous system, a reminder of how deep her stasis had been. “Login. HaumeaNet.,” Clara stumbled to remember the protocol. “Authorization: 479, Voice Print.”
Is the floor this cold, Clara mused, or am I?
Lois walked through the picturesque glade under the warm sun, with her arms stretched out behind her, the tips of the giant tulips tickling her open palms. “This beautiful place isn’t Zeta Prime,” she thought. “I must still be in stasis. It won’t be long, now.”
The colony wreckage spun chaotically through the debris cloud, its burning jump core crashing behind, debris cutting and scraping its exposed collision control matrix. Warning lights blinked frantically on the consoles strewn about the empty bridge.