idalie
α΄ΚΚ α΄κ° Κα΄ΚΚΚα΄Ι΄
βFortitudine vincimus β By endurance we conquer.β
β Alfred Lansing, Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage
The Echoβs interior waxed and waned, bulging at the seams as itβd struck the ground, furrowing soil and wet plant matter up around the twisted hull. Like some foreign seed, half dug. An acrid, uncomfortable stench of electrical burn emanated, dew and rainfall seeping between torn metal plates, its sharp drip as though a sink overflowing, tracing moisture down interior chamber walls where it gathered at the foot of malfunctioning stasis pod. Faces pristine, their staggered release from cryosleep left the dead appearing sallow, hollow in cheek and eye, lips pulling taut away from their teeth.
Twenty-five years had elapsed in seconds; there was no memory of being sky-bound, nothing that ought to have signified their extraordinary progress of bending space to skip across it. Nothing but a ship and her mournful groans, the bitter taste of hospital-grade oxygen and cold limbs. Heavy, numbed but able to fumble their way to yank the interior handle.
Lights hung, wires exposed as theyβd come loose, modules and scattered debris now sprawling across empty hallways and water-damaged crew spaces. The Echo was constructed to keep colonists first few months of acclimation to their new home in mind, outfitted with temporary accommodation and lounges to ease the spoiled and technology-reliant into proactive members of a foundling society β β albeit with the fading, insistent beeps of alarms β β this would no longer be the case. A ship for 5,000 proved to now represent an apocalyptic solitude. On Earth, it was common for doomsday to loom about the heads of so many, discreetly indulging ignorance where it encroached. Adapt to the symptoms, be blind to their cause.
Accustomed to such populated end times, in the quiet of a new dawn under another sun, silence settled over the remnants; their bretheren having not died with a bang but a whimper.
350 souls remained aboard, and not all could confess to being glad they were spared. Families halved, lineages lost, surnames blinking red as the sheer amount turned the chamber an eerie atmospheric crimson. At the helm of the control panel, a step above the formations of pods, slumped a silhouette in the glow. In life, heβd been known as Officer Yusri Lee as posed by the embroidered tag sitting over his sunken breast, yet in death, tattered overalls hung loose on the emaciated and mummified remains. Hair still soft at the touch.
⬩ β¬₯ β β¬₯ ⬩
Your last recollection was Earth. Its acidic, sun-baked atmosphere, the hours of preparation and assistants who aided you into these tiny, streamlined coffins with their uncomfortable stretcher-like beds and glass displays.
The air tastes of cool petrichor, something unaccustomed as the rich breeze gently encompasses you, humidity beginning to build with the warmth youβre unable to bask in. Save for the glow of sunlight that outlines each break and fracture of the ship, you find yourself amidst row after row of deceased markers, unscathed, albeit weighed by drowsy ache. Peeling the remnants of medical tape from your eyes, it appears the dim surroundings have some purpose aside from their new-found responsibility as a cemetaryβ β β quelling the growing migraine at the base of your skull.
The robotics assuredly had a harder landing, tossed from their docking stations with few still clinging to their charging points. Those suffering worse damage twitch and tremble, chattering in loops of dialogue set by the manufacturer, calling out for replacement parts and attention. Their self-diagnosis, unbeknownst to their limited understanding, is terminal.
Is this the life you wished for? Desperate survival that could fuel you to rise above your rank and obtain the respect of your peers? Perhaps it's providence.
Or have you done something to deserve this? What was it you left behind?
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