I wake up to the sound of silence. It washes over me like a
wave and settles like a blanket, making me painfully aware of the sound of my
quickening breath, and the pounding of my heart. On a station like this,
silence means that the machines have stopped. No more air scrubbers, no more
correctional thrusters, no more reactor. On a station like this, silence means
death. I unstrap myself from the wall, arching my back to gently propel myself
out of my sleep cocoon. I take a couple deep breaths, trying to stem a rising
tide of panic. Never have I heard such a silence. There is always something
clanking, hissing, or humming in the belly of the station. For them all to shut
down at once, something big must have happened. Something catastrophic.
The station is an old one, built before shielding was
perfected and everyone was freaked out about some micrometeor punching a hole
in the hull and sucking everything out into the airless dark. So each hallway
junction and every door has its own little airlock. Mine takes the longest time
to cycle, I can’t count the times I’ve been late to a shift because of it, and
some internal hose was nicked over a century ago and won’t stop hissing
whenever it opens or closes. I hated that door, and now I could kiss the bloody
thing, because it’s just saved my life. The station is gone.
I can see out of a reinforced port in the outer airlock
door, and instead of the cream-coloured curve of the interior hallway all I can
see is darkness punctuated by the endless stars. I can’t see anything else, for
all I know it could be just my cabin floating around in space. I take deep
breaths, trying to control my heart rate, because panic really can’t help me
here. But my head is pounding, and I can see by the stars that my tiny section
of the station is rotating gently, and something foreign comes into view. I’m
distracted by the puzzle of it, the novelty, for I’ve certainly never seen
anything like it. All bent and warped panes, both light and dark, radiating
slowly from some central point. But I can’t shake some horrific feeling of
familiarity, and all too song I realise what it is I’m seeing. It’s the
station, ripped apart into pieces no bigger than a bed, sending a cloud of
debris spinning out into space. The entire station, completely and utterly
destroyed. Except for me.
I can’t help but stare, unmoving, as my little alloy bubble
slowly tilts away. I’d lived here for ten years, and now, now it’s all gone. I
don’t really feel anything, which surprises me. I thought I would feel…
something. As it is I just feel cold, and tired. There is no food in the room,
not a great supply of air. The room nears its first full rotation since I woke,
and all I can do is stand at the door and look at the stars. Avoiding thoughts
of the station, of me and my own safety, of death. Just existing in the moment.
Something is falling towards me, angular like the head of a chisel, with
blazing blue lights in lines down the side. I wait for it to approach, and over
the next hour it just grows bigger and bigger in my view, until it is just a
wall of dark metal stretching out to a new horizon. Now it is if I am falling
towards it, alone in my room and hurtling towards an unyielding ground. The air
is starting to taste thin and my lungs are burning. I can’t help but take big
gasping breaths, I feel weak at the knees, and all the thoughts I’d been
avoiding crash into my head and make me dizzy. The station is gone, the air is
gone, and I’m falling into this strange alien doom. Tears wet my cheeks and
spatter against the window. I’m going to die. I’m going to die, and I can’t
breathe and I’m falling and I’m going to die and I am so very, very scared.
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