Quiet Places

I'd rather it have ended differently.

Because it ended with the end, and I had never expected that. I had always hoped that my time would come for a new tomorrow, a better future. I had hoped that I might end with a bittersweet fresh start.

But here I am now. I am trapped in a nonresponsive personal spacecraft, travelling at the speed of sound. And by the laws of the Universe, the laws of physical rule and rumor, I know that I cannot ever stop. My mass will carry me to the end of time long after my body has ceased to pulse.

I have tried all that I can, but it is for naught. The little backlit buttons have gone dark now, as dark as the void just outside my window.

The wires are fraying. The console is mockingly clean and the mirror just above the visual monitor reflects a horrible sight back at me: the face of a broken soul.

I know that I will not be returning to my planet.

It has been hours (or perhaps days? Weeks, even?) since my last connection with my home. Longer, perhaps, since my last spoken words. My hands lay folded in my lap, my gloves tossed aside to unknown other realms of time and space. I glance up, not trusting my own eyes, and in the mirror I do not see a warrior. I do not see the man I had always dreamed to be. All I see in that mirror is the little boy I was when I joined the Interlink: that same scared, clueless, lost little child I never wanted to see again.

It takes everything in me to avert my eyes and I know that I will not be returning to my planet.

So I lean back, allow myself a long, long blink. A sigh, more of exhaustion than of fear or worry, slips from my mouth, and I do not try to stop it. I once wished to be destined for victory and greatness. Now I only wish for a quick, painless end.

I should have stayed. I could be home now, with my quotient group, having something cold to drink and a nice game of punt. If I had stayed, I would awaken in the early morning to that beautiful double sunrise which never ceased to stun me, though I had seen it several thousand times in my short life there.

No one could have known. That, now, is my only consolation. There was no way I could have avoided the impact; by the time I realised I was in danger, it was far too late.

But I see clearly now. I am trapped in a nonresponsive personal spacecraft, travelling at the speed of sound. And by the laws of the Universe, the laws of physical rule and rumor, I know that I cannot ever stop. My mass will carry me to the end of time long after my body has ceased to pulse.

And I will not be returning to my planet.

The worst part is that I will not know when the end comes. It will be, I assume, rather like drifting off to sleep: quick and instant, and I will never feel a thing.

I am afraid. There is nothing I can do, no measures to be taken, no com stations to be phoned for assistance. I am far beyond the range of their satellites. I am far beyond salvation.

To calm my nerves, I sing. It is a great honour to possess a Vocality on my planet, a great honour to sing aloud and let the world hear you. So I sing to myself the oldest song I can remember: an ancient lullaby, older than the mind of Time herself. There are no words, it is one pure syllable.

When I finish I find myself shuddering, with cold and with fear and with sadness. The only light is the light of the void itself, and the stars and planets a billion trillion lightyears away.

As I watch, I am not afraid anymore. They welcome me into their sacred realm, with a song and a whisper of higher glory. They open their arms to me, and I cannot feel the cold anymore.

I will never return to my planet.