By Chris Gee
Between The Pilot and The Dancer, who is the real prisoner?
MUSIC CUE: "Orion" by (Metallica)
The Spacecraft exits Messier 42. Micrometeorites entering the nebula strip away its layers of Mustard-Yellow dust, leaving behind a snail trail of cosmic material. When semi-nude, travel scars cover its tagma-style, gun-metal-gray body. Blast marks from battles survived. Rushed repair jobs. Polite stencils instructing maintenance crews from a forgotten age.
Travelling on inertia alone, The Spacecraft passes through the fringes of conquered space. Blood-Red magma spills out from a planet as its moon-children tear it apart, taking a millennium to do so. From a forgotten battle, the hulls of battleships float by as mechanised asteroids. Tourists queue in the approach for an "Eat at Joe's" themed space station. A few onlookers, stuck in traffic, take pictures of The Spacecraft as it passes by.
Repairs are underway inside the cockpit. A humanoid, in a snug spacesuit, floats within a maintenance cavity under Helm-Control. One of their gloved hands stretches out and tosses out a tool, letting it float away in zero gravity. Their gloved palm lights up Emerald-Green. Nearby, a tool with a matching Emerald-Green collar lights up and zips across for a catch. The humanoid continues repairs within the cavity, repeating the fix-and-tool-toss cycle — Hot-Pink, Indigo-Blue, Sunset-Purple — until the defective part, still sputtering sparks, drifts out as well.
The lone humanoid is a man, betrayed by a Raven-Black buzz cut, fatigued brown eyes, and two-day-old stubble. From one temple, a cerebral tap runs behind his ear before disappearing into his suit. And around his neck, a prison collar with a single chain link dangling under his Adam's apple. His gloved fingers fly with confidence over Helm-Control as he brings various systems online. When gravity returns, his feet settle onto the floor with the grace of a dancer. The collection of tools and the defective part make a soft landing.
Serving as The Pilot, the man brings up the current trajectory as a projection across the cockpit view — a black hole looms ahead of the current flight path. With a few taps, he drafts a new course, sending The Spacecraft into a wormhole before the event. An alien countdown begins. Cockpit lights change to Contact-Blue.
A subspace bubble warbles to life around The Spacecraft, as the colour of its propulsion skirt changes from Cobalt-Blue to Bright-White. Ahead of the bubble, space collapses in on itself, leaving an intense brightness. The Spacecraft streaks into the light, disappearing from normal space.
Automatic doors briefly part, allowing The Pilot to walk into the dark cabin. By routine, he taps at wall-mounted controls, turning on cabin lights. To his right hangs an armory cage containing four dusty pulse rifles. To his left at waist height, a wall-mounted tray of dirt. Inside the tray, an animated Olive-Green stick plant with a collection of sleeping Red-and-Yellow flower-faces. The Pilot reaches over the tray, pulling on a food dispenser. He swallows a few of the pellets without a drink and lets the leftovers drop into the tray. The flower-faces wake and spend their time picking up the pellets like tethered cattle.
Halfway along the cabin stands a pristine, dust-free media system. The Pilot kneels at its base, taking hold of a title with ORION across its binding — written in the same stencil on the outer hull. He inserts the title into the player. Cabin lights dim. The connected stage — a circular column, floor to ceiling, with a bright Neon-Blue base — warbles to life. He throws himself back, falling into a waiting beanbag against the opposite wall.
A countdown runs within the projection — 5, 4, 3 — before the likeness of a 'real' woman materialises. She starts her dance with her back to The Pilot, hips swaying in perfect time to a thrash metal ballad. Her hands hold herself in a tight, searching, lonely embrace, before letting go and forking up her hair of Raven-Black. And with her mane held high, she reveals a bare back taut with muscles.
The Pilot watches The Dancer, as scan lines of her projection wash over him, overloading his retinas with her sensuality and suggestion. He appears cold and emotionless, but the colour in his face demonstrates otherwise, flushing with red.
Back in the cockpit, several sparks flash out from the previous repair, followed by a column of smoke. Warning-Yellow highlights the active trajectory.
The Dancer turns to The Pilot, keeping her eyes closed. Straps of Black-webbing cover her more sensitive areas. Her hands switch to forking the sides of her hair, leaving her Powdery-White cleavage undefended.
The Pilot, as if under a spell, as if yearning for a narcotic, crawls to her on all fours.
In the cockpit again, planetoids from a dissolved mass bear down on The Spacecraft.
The Dancer frees a hand and rests it against the projection wall while coming down to kneel. Her lips, coloured with Black lipstick, part as a silent invitation, never smiling. When near enough, The Pilot accepts and moves in closer to kiss.
The Spacecraft violently jolts! It drops out of subspace, suffering power loss to multiple systems. The Dancer disappears. Gravity control fails, and The Pilot finds himself floating. He kicks off the nearest bulkhead, aiming for the automatic doors. They do not open. Using the strength of his biceps, he forces himself through.
Complete chaos! Electrical discharges flash out randomly — from Helm-Control, from the bulkhead. With the trajectory gone, a large planetoid dead ahead fills the cockpit view. The Pilot pushes past floating tools and frantically uses his hands to slap and slam at the impaired Helm-Control. For every fault he collapses, another ten take its place.
Moving through the field of planetoids, The Spacecraft bounces and twists as if it were an extension of his adrenaline gone mad, before it spirals out of sight.
END MUSIC CUE.
About the Author
Chris Gee and his family reside in the suburbs of Melbourne, Australia.
He has maintained his passion for short story writing since his stateside formation.
Brian Biswas lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, USA.
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