Not A Blog™

I’m pulling more from the vault to kill some time so I can catch up on other things. This is a short story I wrote a while back with the full intention of submitting it to a gamut of sci fi magazines. I did submit it to one—Asimov’s—and it promptly got shot down, as is their wont. Following that, I got lazy, started on other things, and sort of forgot about it.

I’ve since concluded that I’m just not going to submit anything anywhere for any number of reasons: I’m too lazy; I really don’t care that much; and science fiction magazines—the dead tree kind—have plummeting circulation numbers. So I figured I might as well post it here.

In the dark, consciousness was all I had. It’s tough to panic when everything is gone. The mind reels until you realize nothing is happening and you get the whole thing under control. Now I just have darkness and thoughts. I don’t know how long I’ve been like this. I don’t remember the last thing that happened. I can’t recall who I am.

Amnesia is emptiness without knowing what’s missing. Not only do you forget what you knew, you forget what you’ve forgotten. It’s as if I never lived. I may have died but by some cruel device I’ve regained my consciousness. I’ve been reborn only to die again. I don’t recall an afterlife. It must be quiet.

My mind becomes delirious with the transition to sleep. Before I slip away I’m jolted to attention by an explosion of static. I wait for the static to burst again but it does not come. It must have been a hallucination. I am prepared to dismiss it altogether when I perceive something low: a quiet hissing. It creeps up in volume and flips inside out, resolving into a song.

It is familiar, this song. It marches along with mighty resolve, likes gods on their way to war. I find myself following along with each swell of the orchestra. The composition collapses, stabbing, finally ending with one drawn out chord. As the music drops down, a professional female voice overtakes it.

“Today, the world is in mourning. Earth’s first manned spacecraft to Mars, the Prometheus, lost control on the last stage of its decent. It has been confirmed that the spacecraft landed in one piece, however, it is too early to say whether there were any survivors. Continuing efforts are being made to contact the ship. The Prometheus is—” but static obliterated the narration and the radio falls silent.

There was an accident but I remember none of it. It’s tough, being blind and paralyzed but fate has cursed me further. I can hear, but I cannot respond. I assume there are no other survivors; I have heard nothing except static, music, and the human voice. I always imagined that a man paralyzed could feel the beating of his heart in his ears. Maybe some men can, but I cannot. I must be more tired than I thought.

I wake after an unknown length of time, disturbed by the radio. It has suddenly come to life once again.

“—are trying to contact the ship. Computer modeling of the crash indicates that the crew may have lost their communications uplink. If there are any survivors, they may be able to hear us but are unable to respond—” and the radio cuts out again. The sporadic nature of the device concerns me. If the radio does not work, what are the chances life support will hold out?

For the first time since my reawakening, I had a dream. My first sleep was feverish and cold; this time my mind was engaged. I am standing in a large sterile room. A scientist approaches. He is quite young, I think, to be in charge of this place. In fact, he is a child in an oversized lab coat. He says, we can’t figure it out. The fact echoes off the ductwork, fading to silence. Even though I have never seen this place, I understand his concern. There is a computer in the basement like nothing ever built before. We do not know how it got there and the best minds on Earth do not understand its workings. As I walk toward the elevator on the far side of the warehouse, I lose my footing, the image, and the dream.

I had time to think, but there was no longer anything to think about. It is odd, this inactivity. I am not used to it. After a slow moment of empty thoughts, the radio clicked on. No static this time. It was as if someone hit a switch.

“Spokespersons with NASA and the Joint Nations for Space Exploration say there is no sign of life aboard the Prometheus. Instructions have been sent repeatedly, detailing methods of communication without radio. The ship is equipped with emergency lasers and environmental dyes for this purpose, but so far there is no indication of any contact. Others stress the crew may simply need more time, or could be incapacitate—” the signal disintegrated and the radio fell silent.

Yes, I thought. We’re incapacitated. One of us, anyway. Possibly others. But without any way of signaling even my immediate environment, there was no point in thinking about it. Besides, it was time to sleep again. I felt as if I had only been awake for minutes, but I had no way to measure the time.

In my second dream, I am standing in a smaller laboratory, surrounded by equipment. It is the same building, I know, but deep underground. Equipment clicks and hums as I look at it, and falls silent as I turn away. A colleague approaches me, throws an accusing finger in my direction and says, “this is all your fault.”


I am defensive. “I cannot control external factors in the experiment. We do our best to isolate the unit, but,” I pause and shrug. “If something gets in through fifteen layers of scrubbers, would a sixteenth have made a difference?” I understand why my friend is upset. We were running rudimentary algorithms on the mysterious computer when a piece of dust got into a circuit and fried the whole thing. We may never figure out how it works now.

I am once again stirred awake by the radio. It has become a friend somehow, those disembodied voices are the only pieces I have of home. Today it was an interview program.

“—if we can reactivate it somehow, we will have much more information on the status of the ship and crew.”

The voice switched from old male to professional male. “What if there was extensive damage to the ship’s computer systems?”

“Well, there probably is. That’s a chance we’ll have to take, and something we’ll need to work around.”

“But even if the computer can somehow be made operational, how will you find out? If the radio uplink is disabled, you have no way of knowing if your actions have any effect on Mars.”

“You are correct. We will send the necessary commands to activate the radio. If we don’t get a response, well—” The speaker trailed off, leaving the obvious unstated.

“I see. Thank you, Doctor, we will—” again the radio lost the signal. They will never be able to contact us with the signal dropping out all the time.

Life support must be close to failure. I thought I remembered something about suffocation being the worst way to die. Someone told me they would rather chew cyanide than asphyxiate. I don’t have that option and so lay helpless. I try to remember what moving is like, but the sensation is gone. I mentally kick, thrash, scream, anything! Everything! Everything is useless. Mental energy must be like physical energy. Shortly after my tantrum I fall asleep once more.

[Continued on Monday]