Icarus tale part 2
Nearer arrivals.
-I
feel lost, I says.
-Don’t
you worry, he responds. Everything is yourself and not wholly you around here.
-Who-
who am I?
-You
still are yourself, yet in another way.
-Am
I dreaming?
-Often
I dreamt of my unconscious self. I used to see empty images, written in blind
colors. They chose me, long ago. I thought I had made it; the end, but it never
really seemed to stop. Twilight upon dusk horizons, upon dawn and eve, and so
many sightings.
-Must
have been beautiful…
-Ceremoniously
I stepped away. I felt I was not needed here, I felt my superfluity. What was
at stake, was beyond my own reckoning. Let alone my comprehension. I was from
now on a witness of what I had made become.
-What
do you mean?
-Term
error access data#044506033
-Who-
who am I?
Suffocation.
Species relying on oxygen combustion to gather energy, absorb it through
various ways. This is called breathing. When the necessary proportions cannot
be attained, breathing becomes insufficient. This is suffocation. If the
breathing is stopped, the creature dies. Survival is the primal instinct. Every
creature fights for it.
The room was dark. A solid floor made of used
metallic sheets set together in a great patchwork, polished throughout time as its surface had been so swept. Walls
even darker, painted in lively colors, shades of green and purple, textured
with bizarre motives, torn by small asperities to an almost organic form. There
was a far-off sound, as that of a light wind, dampened by the outside walls.
There was no furniture, nothing decorative, just a plain, huge room. The
atmosphere was heavy as lead, vapors emanating unseen slits, of an opacity
that, correlated with the ambient darkness, would have blinded any optical
detector. One of the walls was not the same color as the others. With a
yellow-brownish hue to it, it had several repetitive drawings of great black
disks set side by side. First faintly, then clearer and clearer could be heard
the sound of great footsteps outside. Gathering from what could be heard, one
might understand they had stopped not far from the brown wall. Silence fell. A
loud squealing came down from the ceiling as the room was slightly lit, then
fell back into darkness, and so on an accelerating pace, thus shading the
distinctive form of a fan on the floor. The steams were shoved upwards as two
vent shafts opened to the far side of the brown wall, notches under the
ceiling. A great sigh was heard, and the brown wall split in two, revealing a
horizontal line of light, illuminating the room. After it had properly been
opened, the door emitted a choked sound as a tall armour-clad Pfhor stepped in.
He gave a few orders, two S’pht followed him and headed for the ceiling, eerie,
silently hovering. He then went to a corner of the room, where he found three
notches in the wall, each hiding a vaguely flickering switch. One was rightly
luminescent, shining its red light; the other two were darker, as if inactive.
He hit the first.
Twisting
corridors wound throughout the ship in an almost erratic pattern. They went to
and fro from deck to deck, not so much in a labyrinth fashion as its apparent
randomness in fact reflected a rhythm. Often the colours of the ceilings and
floors, and either walls were disturbing, harmoniously corresponding to the
sounds and the beats of the deep rumbling liquids that ran throughout the
various engineering departments of the vessel. Pfhor technology is somewhat
very mysterious, but the power they use in their spaceships always involves a dangerous
acid, of distasteful odour and hue, mostly pink. It streams and rivers
throughout the vessel, powering most of the devices. It is rarely covered, and
so often interlaces with the paths of the corridors, or traverses various
rooms, and shares with them the thumps of the engines, the whirl of the oxygen
rechargers, pattern buffers, the sweet music of the terminals, food generators,
stasis chambers, unintelligibly it echoes the various sounds, and emanates an
equilibrium generated by the wholeness of the musical patterns, the unicity of
the ship, its fundamental essence.
One
of the winding paths, corridor Gl’wron IV, that led to mass stasis chambers,
was silently being traversed by three discrete Figures. Two of them moved
imperceptively, their cloaks drifting above the ground. The great figure of
their leader, imposing in its full-plated armour fluidly ran the red grounds. They went up, then down, turned to
the left, right, never decreasing their speed, always following the path. It
wasn’t long before they stopped, near a flowing river of ooze, and the great
being, standing upright, towering in its blueness, and bringing a great
shielded arm up, pressed it against the center of a dark disk in the brown wall
he was facing. He stood silent, but the door would not move. One of the S’pht
had moved to the right end of the wall, where the brown joined the ambient
green of the corridor walls. In front of him was a terminal. Next to it a
switch. This he activated. A faint squeak could vaguely be heard, combined with
the slow to come distinctive sound of a great fan set in motion. Then the door
opened.
Pfhor wakes up. He is conscious, a loyal servant of the empire. He lives to fight, to serve or die. The makers are blessed; the war-gods prevail. We seek we crush we exist. Pfhor has a name. It is F’kaer’ha. Pfhor has a role. It has changed. F’kaer’ha has been removed! F’kaer’ha was called! He was unworthy of his duty!
The Pfhor awoke to
the surrounding world suddenly realizing his confinement. He was in a case,
upright, sleeping. No memory of how he got there, no event had been properly
registered since he had had to appear in front of officers after having been
dismissed by Officer Gthont. As all this comes flooding back he realizes no
matter what effort he makes he cannot breathe. The chamber he was in must have
been a stasis capsule.
Will F’kaer’ha die? It must not be! Dim notice through
glass case of other pfhor around him. All sleeping? Light! The mist is going, the
light flickers. Or spins. No more mist, it is gone. Must breathe!
His fingers were
loose. He scraped the walls of his exiguous confinement, fighting the
nothingness surrounding him. He hit the transparent shell. Its shuddering and
swaying indicated it probably was suspended from a roof. That mattered so
little. Only one thing was true. Why, how to survive!
F’kaer’ha is trapped! Breathe! Breathe!
The dim exterior suddenly lit up,
but the pfhor was already unconscious.
Again.
“
-…whereas on other accounts no
further information has been given on the accident that struck GPR-II last
week. It seems the governments won’t enlighten us in any way. It has officially
been described as a work accident and the case was filed, but not closed. But
everyone has its own theories. As our reporter Mr. Fenston inquired on the
subject.
-Yes, Terry. As you mentioned it
officials are very reticent as to giving out any kind of information. We all
know how implicated the various mining companies are closely linked with the
Icarus government over here. As a few testimonies I collected seem to indicate
a shuttle collision with the station. The current and probably most plausible
theory is that of an terrorist attack, probably against the government. Our
history courses are there to remind us of happenings such as twenty-first
century’s September 2001. Of course nothing can…”
-
You understand, Mr. Fergussons fury, when such broadcasts are made
across the solar system, do you?
-
Yes, of course, Mr. President, I understand it. I see what you mean.
Should it be generally or just partially censured?
-
Your sarcasms are quite inappropriate, Mr. Dole, I strongly recommend
you consider who you talk to when you do so. Let us not exaggerate. You haven’t
the future of a nation to deal with. Not exactly. But you do have an influence
on its public opinion. Peace is at stake. But not ours. I do not want it to be
so. You understand, of course you do. We do not seek to control. But sometimes,
we have to. This is sometimes.
-
Mr. President, your speech was most helpful, but I reckon I know how to
handle my business. I think to believe you know how to do so with yours is not
an exaggeration. Newswire is independent. We do not depend from any government
whatsoever. I’m sorry. Goodbye.
“… new policy is to combine news
and divertissement…”
…wake up and stand. Henry peered
around. He was sitting on a flat white table, lit by the ceiling lights. The
furniture was sober, grey metallic cupboards, upon one of which a tray lay set,
with an empty cup, and a recipient, what must have been coffee. There were two
chairs, white as was the table. A radio was now static, but he swore he had
heard it emitting proper understandable sounds not more than a minute ago. But
he had forgotten what they were. Memory… He would probably recover. He stood
up. Something struck him about falling. About standing. Then a door opened,
with a characteristic depressurization sound. A small man, late thirties
entered the room. He was dressed in a dark blue work-outfit. He spoke.
–
Finally! I’ve been waiting some time for you…You spend eight days
asleep. And apparently you weren’t exactly having the best dreams there are…
–
How. How did you find me?
–
You were drifting alone in space. Well, not exactly alone. You were clutched
to the surface of an small asteroid. Don’t ask me how I found you. These things
happen. I’m a miner. At least I was. See, you’re on board GPR-IIb as I like to
call it. It’s not much, but it’s all there is.
–
I, I feel lost.
–
That’s exactly what we are, lost. Well, we have all the energy we’ll
need, but no propulsion. And no radio, at least none to emit with. I’m afraid
I’m not very competent when it comes to radio-transmission. That thing
there(points at the static-emitting red box)could probably manage it one way or
another, I don’t know. Do you?
–
I’m… not sure.
–
Well, anyways, you’re lost, as you put it, and so am I. Were on board
what’s left of the digger I worked on, shortly after I had found you propulsion
went off-line. When I saw that Shuttle heading for the station I got in as
quick as I could and tried to get out of there. I knew I was violating orders,
mind you. I’m not sure what’s to become of me now. Its equipped for long time
mining through the bigger asteroids, so you have two rooms, a crew quarters, a
kitchen and a dining room, lavatories and a shower. No hot water, sorry. I have
a great food generator, it can only produce minaraled proteins. Not very tasty,
but its ok. Glad I have some company. Were you too on board the station? How
come you were in a spacesuit?
Rachel. Spacesuit. The shuttle, the
collision course.
-
Did you say you saw GPR-IIb? What happened at the station? What happened
to it?
-
I would say it was vaporized, but that’s not exactly fitting, since
debris are all around the place.
-
But, are there any survivors?
-
Us two, at the least.
The man sighed. He sat. He looked
sad, thought Henry. Of course he was. He was still under the shock of the news.
He didn’t exactly measure its importance. It was enormous. The other had been
conscious of it for a week. Rachel hadn’t survived. But she wasn’t alone. GPR
was a flying city. There were thousands. More. How had he survived? The
shuttle. Flashes stunned his memory. The flight. The escape pod. The others
being destroyed one by one. The … OH MY GOD!
-
Beg your pardon?
He realized he had said That out
loud.
-
No, nothing sorry, I , I just remembered my dream.
-
Well, that doesn’t surprise me, your expression, doesn’t at all! You had
fever all the long. I thought you wouldn’t wake.
-
Have you seen anything like war ships hanging around?
-
War … ? Well, not exactly. Actually, not at all. Not even police or
government or anything. Surprises me. Of course we are far from the original
location of the station, but I guess once they come they’ll notice us.
-
I guess so too. Where did you say was the shower?
Pfhor awakes.
No ritual. None today. You are
just awake. You have a name. Know it.
Pfhor is named F’kaer’ha. Is on the
summit of (column?). Room is
vast. Dark. Maybe Gods. Where ? What? Lost?
Closed, confined. F’kaer’ha must fight!
The pfhor was on a
ridge, with a ceiling just above his head. A pillar reached its summit just in
front of him. Its last part was rectangular, but underneath him was round. It
was very high, although undistinguishable in all the darkness around him. One
of the edges of the summit was a screen. The screen wrote:
Terminal #000 |
192.748.0.1 |
A dream.
Vast landscapes, nothingness surrounding.
Who are you? Who are you to lose yourself in such incoherence
You are not lost. You are living. Where the path
seemed traced, you write it now. I think I know: you must be freedom.
But when
will it happen? It happened yesterday, more precisely: tomorrow.
The
creatures are strong, but they have no knowledge. Our Hammer our fate. We were
wrought to proclaim. The creatures are nearer now. That is why we hammer with
our fists against the walls of oblivion. What moves? What moves us? Fury is the
answer but it takes time. And they are nearer. Time Is agony. You do not
suffocate.
gUp/PgDown/Arrows To Scroll |
Return/Enter
To Acknowledge |
Back on the ground,
the fighters arose. Some were clad in blue, but most were orange. The ceiling was
dotted with empty stasis casons. They had been sent back up a moment ago. None
of them were armed. They all stood upright. They were looking towards an
officer, in armour. The Hunter gazed at the room, above the heads. He halloed
satisfactorily. The two S’phts descended. He told the soldiers the journey was
over. He told them to take their weapons nearby, and wait. F’kaer’ha was
standing.
02:30 AM Henry felt
much better when the water had poured on his skin, and he had been able to eat.
Refreshed. He had thought of what his memories had told him. He remembered the
green blasts from the strange, small vessel. The flashes. The escape pod being
torn apart, and him flying out and taking cover on the nearest floating rock.
He thought of Garson, how he had been found, and what the man had done for him.
He could hear him say ” Don’t worry! You’d have done the same for me!” But he
wasn’t so sure. He thought of what the man had been through, and measured his
courage. He wondered whether to tell him what he had seen or not. And when.
They were desperate. But only he knew how much. What was going on?
Instincts are hidden in desperation.
Through the subconscious,
identity.
Will.