Handwritten, over coffee for lunch.
—
Falling. He remembered falling, from somewhere, but falling through nothingness. Not black, but a blank something; whole, perfect and complete, something that would all end when he landed, if he landed.
This it came, the searing heat of pain, and gasping he remembered again, recalled flesh, the meat he was, this thing called life. He was screaming, thrashing against it, but there was no sound. For a moment, there was light, then everything faded.
Time passed.
It came slowly this time, light playing gently into his mind. His first thoughts were of the dull pressure all over, of a weight inside his chest. He felt the groan his throat made, the vibrations too slow. He shook his head and realised he was in some form of gel, his lungs full of it.
Crash? he thought, and then wondered what that meant. He waited. Floating in the soundlessness, he remembered the sound of the airlock cycling. No. Not a crash. Mutiny.
He shuddered, found himself crying. Fear and abject terror he’d had no time to feel before washed over him. He let it run through. Their faces at the airlock window seemed to leap out at him, their eyes sad and desperate, his own now full of tears and anger. Instinct forced him to move, and he realised he was strapped down, immobilised. This wasn’t his exosuit. Fear flashed through him again. Rescue? Impossible. The could not have turned back for him, couldn’t have found him again. They’d been on a long burn, having taken their last jump weeks before, bound for two cycles of slow cruising back home. He opened his eyes, forced them to focus.
He wished he hadn’t.