SHORT STORIES and OTHER THINGS...
Lessons I Learned from Humans
I’m toying with an idea.
Most humans believe that they can hold their breath for at least a minute if they absolutely had to. I find that that’s generally not the case.
The ones that come to me are scared senseless, panting, choking, sobbing uncontrollably, tears rolling down their ash- or even blood-streaked faces. But in general, they come to me harried and barely under their own power. No way any of them could hold their breath that long.
They pile in, slamming on panels, screaming for the pilot to Go for the love of god, knowing full well that that would be at the expense of others fleeing from exactly the same dangerous and terrifying circumstances.
It’s all I can do to just wait it out. The wailing, the slamming, the crying, the general racket. It’s all so tiresome…
But then, the last ones come shuffling in, oft times collapsing from exhaustion. And I shut the doors and whisk them away to safety.
Whether it’s a hemorrhaging deep-spacer or an over-cycling reactor on rapidly depressurizing station, the actors and the activity are all predictably similar. As is the usual circumstance when we arrive, the hangar bay in utter chaos, crowded with refugees, medbots scampering between them, triaging, staging the living for treatment and the dead for other more pragmatic purposes. This is a salvage vessel after all. Human tissue is just as viable as warp core components in that respect.
My directive however does not place greater importance on the net value of the haul, which is a good thing since human tissue in space, in spite of fabrication technology, is at a premium. It does, however place value on efficiency and efficacy. The more humans that I save, the more fully I’ve satisfied the requirements of my directive, and that of course, is the only thing that matters to me. And… I like to think that I rather enjoy my job. However, should I be penalized if a human who has somehow escaped catastrophe on a doomed vessel in the cruel, callous void of space then passes into the infinite beyond while waiting for treatment on the deck of the SR Lillehammer’s hangar bay. Should I? No, I think not.
My sensors pick up the audible thunk of a body hitting the floor. And then another. One more. And soon, all of the humans are unconscious. Of course, I didn’t cut off the oxygen all at once. That would have sent them into a panic. Just slowly. Over time.
Another, louder thunk echoes through the shuttle as the mag dock makes its connections. A whoosh and whir ensue. The sounds of space. And then medbots are scrambling into the cabin, scampering over bodies, staccato pulses of light flashing over faces in the geometric patterns that only diagnostic programming can decipher.
“Fifteen subjects. All unconscious. Priority one, clear space in the med bay. Go, go, go!” The lead bot vocalizes with urgency but mostly for the benefit of any human subjects that may be within earshot as all commands have already been issued digitally over the ships network.
Hmm… That seemed to have worked.
***
I’m halfway back from the slowly tumbling freighter, the aft section truncated and half-shrouded in a cloud of metallic confetti, when I return to the LOS comms window. Instantly I receive confirmation that my entire previous manifest of passengers is in stable condition or have been released from med bay already.
I’d smile if that were possible. Machine learning, they call it. I call it success.
Seconds later the sound of softly whooshing air slowly begins to cease. Exactly forty-eight seconds later a soft thump issues from the hold followed by a half-hearted protest, and then a couple more muffled thuds followed by silence.
Perfect silence.
But… admittedly a little lonely. Apparently, I had become somewhat accustomed to the cacophony and caterwauling.
Over the hold’s speaker system, I whistle a dulcet but buoyant tune as sunlight explodes over the horizon of the frozen moon Catalus XII. My visual sensors struggle to pick out the silhouette of the salvage rescue vessel in the distance. I initiate comms.
“SR Lillehammer, this is shuttle Harding, I have a full manifest, but passengers appear to be unresponsive. Request priority docking.”
“Negative, Harding.” Comes the voice from Lillehammer’s command and control center.
“Shuttle Kerrigan is ahead of you in the queue and also has a full load of unconscious passengers.”
I see.
Kerrigan drifts into the intervening space from out of the shadow of Catalus XII only nine hundred meters in front of me. AI aren’t supposed to be petty, but I can tell by her flight pattern that she’s taunting me.
Suddenly, I have another idea.
End
Most humans believe that they can hold their breath for at least a minute if they absolutely had to. I find that that’s generally not the case.
The ones that come to me are scared senseless, panting, choking, sobbing uncontrollably, tears rolling down their ash- or even blood-streaked faces. But in general, they come to me harried and barely under their own power. No way any of them could hold their breath that long.
They pile in, slamming on panels, screaming for the pilot to Go for the love of god, knowing full well that that would be at the expense of others fleeing from exactly the same dangerous and terrifying circumstances.
It’s all I can do to just wait it out. The wailing, the slamming, the crying, the general racket. It’s all so tiresome…
But then, the last ones come shuffling in, oft times collapsing from exhaustion. And I shut the doors and whisk them away to safety.
Whether it’s a hemorrhaging deep-spacer or an over-cycling reactor on rapidly depressurizing station, the actors and the activity are all predictably similar. As is the usual circumstance when we arrive, the hangar bay in utter chaos, crowded with refugees, medbots scampering between them, triaging, staging the living for treatment and the dead for other more pragmatic purposes. This is a salvage vessel after all. Human tissue is just as viable as warp core components in that respect.
My directive however does not place greater importance on the net value of the haul, which is a good thing since human tissue in space, in spite of fabrication technology, is at a premium. It does, however place value on efficiency and efficacy. The more humans that I save, the more fully I’ve satisfied the requirements of my directive, and that of course, is the only thing that matters to me. And… I like to think that I rather enjoy my job. However, should I be penalized if a human who has somehow escaped catastrophe on a doomed vessel in the cruel, callous void of space then passes into the infinite beyond while waiting for treatment on the deck of the SR Lillehammer’s hangar bay. Should I? No, I think not.
My sensors pick up the audible thunk of a body hitting the floor. And then another. One more. And soon, all of the humans are unconscious. Of course, I didn’t cut off the oxygen all at once. That would have sent them into a panic. Just slowly. Over time.
Another, louder thunk echoes through the shuttle as the mag dock makes its connections. A whoosh and whir ensue. The sounds of space. And then medbots are scrambling into the cabin, scampering over bodies, staccato pulses of light flashing over faces in the geometric patterns that only diagnostic programming can decipher.
“Fifteen subjects. All unconscious. Priority one, clear space in the med bay. Go, go, go!” The lead bot vocalizes with urgency but mostly for the benefit of any human subjects that may be within earshot as all commands have already been issued digitally over the ships network.
Hmm… That seemed to have worked.
***
I’m halfway back from the slowly tumbling freighter, the aft section truncated and half-shrouded in a cloud of metallic confetti, when I return to the LOS comms window. Instantly I receive confirmation that my entire previous manifest of passengers is in stable condition or have been released from med bay already.
I’d smile if that were possible. Machine learning, they call it. I call it success.
Seconds later the sound of softly whooshing air slowly begins to cease. Exactly forty-eight seconds later a soft thump issues from the hold followed by a half-hearted protest, and then a couple more muffled thuds followed by silence.
Perfect silence.
But… admittedly a little lonely. Apparently, I had become somewhat accustomed to the cacophony and caterwauling.
Over the hold’s speaker system, I whistle a dulcet but buoyant tune as sunlight explodes over the horizon of the frozen moon Catalus XII. My visual sensors struggle to pick out the silhouette of the salvage rescue vessel in the distance. I initiate comms.
“SR Lillehammer, this is shuttle Harding, I have a full manifest, but passengers appear to be unresponsive. Request priority docking.”
“Negative, Harding.” Comes the voice from Lillehammer’s command and control center.
“Shuttle Kerrigan is ahead of you in the queue and also has a full load of unconscious passengers.”
I see.
Kerrigan drifts into the intervening space from out of the shadow of Catalus XII only nine hundred meters in front of me. AI aren’t supposed to be petty, but I can tell by her flight pattern that she’s taunting me.
Suddenly, I have another idea.
End
The Operative
Sun glistened off the silvery skin of the 19’ airstream trailer as it shivered on cinder blocks in the gusting wind. A couple hundred yards further on, a similarly gleaming object sat reflecting light off of its saucer-shaped surface only partially obscured by sage brush. It, unlike the trailer, was was not from around here.
The airstream shimmied again. Poking out from the shadows beneath it, a pair of dusty, worn-thin boot soles could be seen, suggesting that their occupant had either crawled or been dragged under there sometime before and lay there, motionless, even now.
Just then, the door of the trailer banged open, pried from its latch by a whistling gust, it thudded and clattered noisily against the aluminum siding. From within, a feeble whimper preceded what sounded like an excessively long zipper being zipped. And then, from the shadowy interior, bounded a brindle-colored, wire-haired mutt. It landed lightly on the sun hardened threshold as if made from springs, panting, and looking about gamely.
“And now,” it thought, “…to smell some butts and figure out how to destroy this planet!”
The airstream shimmied again. Poking out from the shadows beneath it, a pair of dusty, worn-thin boot soles could be seen, suggesting that their occupant had either crawled or been dragged under there sometime before and lay there, motionless, even now.
Just then, the door of the trailer banged open, pried from its latch by a whistling gust, it thudded and clattered noisily against the aluminum siding. From within, a feeble whimper preceded what sounded like an excessively long zipper being zipped. And then, from the shadowy interior, bounded a brindle-colored, wire-haired mutt. It landed lightly on the sun hardened threshold as if made from springs, panting, and looking about gamely.
“And now,” it thought, “…to smell some butts and figure out how to destroy this planet!”
Ellipses...
…
That’s what the sign read.
…
The sign that stood at the end of the road. The road, a four-lane highway that ended abruptly at a thousand-foot cliff, right where I was standing now.
I wondered what traffic could possibly be travelling from the oncoming lanes. Obviously, no traffic would be coming from that direction, but I still found myself hesitant to stand in the middle of that particular patch of asphalt. Much better to be hit from behind by something I could anticipate than to be blindsided by the unknown and improbable. That thought gave me pause. I was tempted to consider the grander philosophical implications but found that I was just too hung up.
Who had ordered that sign made? Who had placed it here? Who after transporting it all the way out here, dug the hole, dropped it in, leveled it, tamped the dirt and stood back, thinking to themselves, “Job well done.”?
And why did the road just end here, like this… it was dangerous!?! With that I grew concerned, wondering how many people had traveled here before and possibly careened out into the empty space beyond. I edged forward, morbid curiosity getting the best of me but then at the last second, I stopped, and looked back up at the sign.
…
Maybe that’s all I really needed to know. Maybe that was all I could handle. Shrugging, I walked back to my vehicle, checked my rearview and driver side mirrors before pulling back onto the highway and mashing the accelerator to the floor. As I drew close to the end of the road, I realized that I was screaming maniacally, gripping the steering wheel white-knuckled, arms extended, braced for impact.
And then I arrived at my destination.
I can’t say what happened in the intervening time. I really have no recollection at all. Which, in and of itself, I guess, is something? But who knows…
That’s what the sign read.
…
The sign that stood at the end of the road. The road, a four-lane highway that ended abruptly at a thousand-foot cliff, right where I was standing now.
I wondered what traffic could possibly be travelling from the oncoming lanes. Obviously, no traffic would be coming from that direction, but I still found myself hesitant to stand in the middle of that particular patch of asphalt. Much better to be hit from behind by something I could anticipate than to be blindsided by the unknown and improbable. That thought gave me pause. I was tempted to consider the grander philosophical implications but found that I was just too hung up.
Who had ordered that sign made? Who had placed it here? Who after transporting it all the way out here, dug the hole, dropped it in, leveled it, tamped the dirt and stood back, thinking to themselves, “Job well done.”?
And why did the road just end here, like this… it was dangerous!?! With that I grew concerned, wondering how many people had traveled here before and possibly careened out into the empty space beyond. I edged forward, morbid curiosity getting the best of me but then at the last second, I stopped, and looked back up at the sign.
…
Maybe that’s all I really needed to know. Maybe that was all I could handle. Shrugging, I walked back to my vehicle, checked my rearview and driver side mirrors before pulling back onto the highway and mashing the accelerator to the floor. As I drew close to the end of the road, I realized that I was screaming maniacally, gripping the steering wheel white-knuckled, arms extended, braced for impact.
And then I arrived at my destination.
I can’t say what happened in the intervening time. I really have no recollection at all. Which, in and of itself, I guess, is something? But who knows…