The Stars, They Are

It was cold out there, but still warmer than the ship.

Somehow the man-thing-smelly-beast-creature managed to get into an airlock. Somehow he managed to get into a space suit. Somehow he managed to open the airlock. Even after a full investigation, no-one admitted to helping him do so, even though it was apparent the ‘Mike’ would have been incapable of doing it himself.

He drifted away from the ship, off into the void, floating free at last. Free from the horrors of the insane future world, where there was no beauty, no humour, no life for him to live. Away from the world he did not understand or belong in.

The Captain could have sent out a rescue pod to collect him, but he chose not to. The man had made a decision and perhaps the only right one he ever made. He took communication with the space suit off-grid so heard the ‘Mike’ thing’s final words for his ears only.

As the oxygen supply dwindled and the suit drifted further away, the man-thing began to sob, possibly tears of joy as hallucination took hold. “This place, I didn’t understand how you could live like this. This empty, barren place, there is no colour here. No-one smiles, no-one dances, no-one sings. You have given your life to machines and you have nothing for yourselves.”

He gasped. Awe overcame him. “My God, I think I see it now.” A brain starved of oxygen entered a delirious state in the final moments, stretched into perpetuity. “The light, it is so bright now. The stars, they are… beautiful…”

And then he was gone. And the ship went on.

WE ALL BELONGED IN OUR OWN TIME AND PLACE

Later, in his cabin, the Captain laid down his log for the day, recording the curious adventure for posterity. The Jonah had first brought interest, then disgust and depression upon the crew and they were all better off without it on board.

It was a text book case of singularity. We all belonged in our own time and place and space and he was glad he was in this one. All’s well that ends.

It was a Captain’s privilege, rewards of life service, to access relics of the before time. His personal fetishism was twentieth century soul music. He decided to listen to some neo-clssical jazz.

As the sweet, sculptural rhythms of Napalm Death filled the cabin, he pondered the artifact’s last words and stared out his porthole window (another perk of rank) at the infinite blackness of the void they called home.

Yes, they are, he mused.