The End

“Becker to LaSalle,” the suit’s communicator blurted. “What’s your status, Jason?”

LaSalle tore his gaze off the prisoner and looked at his wrist. “Sorry to report, sir, but you might be leaving without us.”

The communicator paused.

“We have a few minutes left, Jason,” Becker assured him. “We’ll think of something.”

Becker glanced at his crew, who all stared at him with stoic expressions. They each knew they were doomed and were putting on a brave front. He nodded at them gravely.

“We’ll keep working on our end,” LaSalle replied to the communicator. “But, sir, you need to return to the ship when time’s up!”

“We’re not leaving you,” Becker immediately replied.

LaSalle glanced at his crew again and saw their answer. “I don’t think you’ll have any other choice, sir. The ship comes first.”

The communicator paused, then Becker’s voice sounded grim. “I’m recommending you all for commendation.”

LaSalle took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Oh, for crying out loud! They either sold the act a bit too well, or it wasn’t an act! He glared at the pad in his hand. It was never wrong, he reminded himself. But this time, maybe it wasn’t right, either.

“I was only supposed to repair the nitrogen generator today,” he griped, lifting the pad to eye level again. “Not crash into a sun!

“All right, Bitsy, you say there isn’t a sun in our path,” he growled at the pad. “Fine! How do you know there isn’t one?”

“Please restate the inquiry, the pad replied.

For the love of -! He took a moment to compose himself. “All right. What factors do you look for to indicate that a sun is in the ship’s path?”

“There are several factors that indicate the presence of stellar masses,” the pad recited. “Dramatic increase in gravimetric attraction, increase in the level of electromagnetic radiation in the visible and non-visible spectrum, intense thermal increase, catastrophic coronal-!”

“Okay, okay,” he snapped. “That’s enough! So, do you detect any of those things in the area?”

The pad paused. “Sensors detect intense gravimetric increase. Electromagnetic radiation increasing beyond lifeform tolerance levels. Thermal readings above ship’s recommended tolerance level. Indications of coronal discharge -!”

He could barely resist the urge to strangle it as he hissed through tightly clenched teeth, “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Electromagnetic radiation levels increasing beyond -!”

“No!” he shouted at it, startling the aliens. He had everyone’s wide-eyed attention, even orange-head’s, who pointed his weapon with stiff, trembling arms. But he forced himself to ignore them and address the pad instead. “It tells you that we’re crashing into a sun!”

“There are no stellar masses within sensor range.”

“How can that be when you just described one?” he angrily demanded.

The pad paused. “Please restate the -!”

“A sun is a ball of radiation, gravity and light, right?” he demanded.

The pad paused. “Stars are composed of varying percentages of gases, the most common of which are -!”

“Shut up and listen!” He’d had enough of arguing with it. “The readings you sensed outside the ship are from a sun that we are on a collision course with! Now, analyze those readings and tell me where they could have come from!”

The pad paused. “Sensor readings are consistent with those of a type G stellar mass.”

He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his temper. “You mean, a sun?”

“Affirmative,” the pad replied.

“So, if we’re on a collision course with a sun,” he carefully said, doing his best not to snap the pad in half, “Don’t you think you should correct course?”

“There are no stellar masses within sensor range.”

“But you said -!” He immediately clamped his mouth shut. There was no time to argue. He had to outsmart the system, instead. But how?

“Okay,” he said, thinking on the fly, “So there’s some stuff ahead of the ship, right?”

“Please restate -!”

“Never mind!” No time to argue, and no time to waste. “The sensor readings from outside the ship. Do they pose a danger to the ship and its crew?”

“Affirmative,” the pad replied.

“So, don’t you think you should make a course correction away from the danger?” he desperately urged.

The pad paused.

And paused.

It took forever, but it finally said, “Affirmative.”

“Well?” he snapped. “Make the correction!”

“You are not authorized to -!”

“But you are!” he shouted right into its mic. “Make the correction!”

The pad paused.

“Affirmative.”

The deck lurched slightly as drive systems engaged in a sharp maneuver, but the sensation was brief and gravity plating kicked in soon afterward. LaSalle and his crew glanced all around, wide-eyed, then smiles broke out amongst them.

“Becker to LaSalle,” LaSalle’s suit blurted. “I don’t know what you did down there, but it worked! The ship’s steering clear of the gravity well!”

“Yes, sir,” LaSalle said though a broad smile. “But I can’t take any credit for it.”

LaSalle looked at his prisoner, but he wasn’t looking back. He stared at the deck for a while before taking a big breath, then he sauntered over to orange head. He peered curiously at the weapon still gripped tightly in the alien’s trembling hand, trying not to meet those staring, bugged-out eyes. They were pretty alarming.

He held out his hand to orange head, indicating the weapon with a significant glance. “May I?”

Orange head glanced at LaSalle, who shrugged and gave him an encouraging nod, so the alien eased his grip on the weapon and handed it over.

He looked it over carefully. A simple trigger mechanism. Apparently, a standard no matter which planet you came from. He tossed the pad to the deck and in front of their stunned eyes, aimed and pulled the trigger. The pad exploded in a mass of very colorful and very satisfying sparks.

He turned to orange head, handing the weapon back, butt-first. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

“Got it!” the frail young ensign cried in triumph, holding up the pad in her hand like a trophy. Her smile faded significantly when she saw everyone staring at her with a curious expression. Pointing at their prisoner, she feebly added, “We… we can talk to him now.”

He was suddenly very dizzy and trembling all over. His legs were so wobbly that he couldn’t stand up much longer. Stumbling to the bulkhead, he planted his arms against it, but they shook so much that they could barely support him. His stomach knotted, and he leaned forward, head down and mouth open, waiting for the vomit to churn up from his gut, gasping for air because it was just so damned hard to breathe! Because he remembered.

“They’re not here, are they?” he muttered, his voice hoarse from a dry throat.

“Please restate the inquiry.”

He didn’t have to turn around to know what he would see, but he did anyway and immediately stumbled backward against the bulkhead. He was alone on the Drive Deck. There was no LaSalle. No young ensign. Not even orange head. And the pad lay on deck where he’d tossed it, still fully functional.

He slid down the bulkhead to the deck, folding his legs to his chest. “But they were, weren’t they?”

“Please restate the inquiry.”

“They were here,” he muttered, remembering. Finally remembering. “They were just exploring the ship, and you murdered them.”

The pad paused. “Records indicate Security Services assessed a danger to this vessel and eliminated the threat.”

“You killed them,” he muttered, feeling nothing inside. “They were just looking around, and you killed them.”

“Records indicate Security Services assessed a danger to this vessel and eliminated the threat.”

“Why?” he asked, his throat even dryer. “What did they do?”

“Records indicate intruders initiated a cascade malfunction in cryogenic units resulting in the complete loss of all crew,” the pad replied.

His head dropped to his chest. He didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore. “Except for me.”

“Affirmative.”

He was working on the nitrogen filters back then, too. Seemed like he was always working on the nitrogen filters. Every damn waking cycle.

“How long?” he murmured. He barely had the strength to ask. Maybe, he didn’t want to hear the answer. But in his heart, he knew it had been ages since he spied on them from the ventilation system as they moved about the ship. They were curious things, so much like him and yet so different. He was on maintenance rotation when it happened. That’s why he wasn’t asleep If the aliens had boarded an hour later, he would have died with the rest of the crew. But he’d been lucky, or so he told himself back then.

It must have happened… what? A hundred sleep cycles ago? Maybe more? He’d lost count. But his memory was still coming back. He slept for a long time between wake cycles, too long according to the pad, although he didn’t yet remember for how long. It would explain why he was so dehydrated when he awoke, why he’d forgotten what had happened before, even the mental breakdown that made him imagine that they were still alive, and that the ship was headed for disaster. The pad had once told him that they were symptoms of prolonged cryogenic sleep, just as it had tried to break him from his delusion by playing along. But he’d forgotten about all of that, until just now.

“Please restate the inquiry.”

He paused. Did it matter? Did it matter whether he slept for days, weeks, or centuries? Did anything matter? He was still alone on the ship, no matter how the pad answered.

“Never mind,” he mumbled.

And he sat there, waiting for Security Systems to lift the bulkheads so he could finish his job and go back to sleep. At the next wake cycle, he would forget everything that had happened anyway. His psychotic episode. The aliens. His loneliness. Everything. Erased, like they had never happened.

It was a small mercy, but it was all he had.