We were about thirty space-miles east of Pluto, entering the Oort Cloud when Commander Healy told me to use proper reckoning whilst referencing position. That was right about the time a meteor struck us amidships taking out the engine room, and more importantly at the time, life support systems. The ship crumbled and burst around us. Commander Healy and I, alone on the bridge, made our way to an escape pod.
It was not until after the whoosh of the pod doors closing followed by the whoosh of the air lock followed by the whoosh of the pod jettisoning itself out into space, that I noticed that one of the explosions had impaled a carbon rod into my abdomen. I collapsed.
Upon waking, I found that Healy, with the help of the medpack and wiki had removed both the rod and a sizable chunk of my liver.
That was all some time ago. Now hopelessly adrift with rations long gone, I watch Healy running an acetylene torch over this same organ newly rescued from the stasis pack it has been preserved in.
We’re hungry. And have long since given up any hope that rescue teams from Enceladus would find us.
He’s apologetic as he eats. It’s chewy. And over a particularly difficult bit he confesses passing off Wyclef Jean lyrics as his own to his High School Composition teacher.
I nod, “It’s okay.” I’m weak and tired and unsure exactly what will happen next time Healy gets hungry.
“Anyone ever tell you, you have a dancer’s legs?” he comments now and I return to the communications console.
If you are hearing this: At our rate of drift, I expect we are ten-thousand astronomical units beyond the Heliopause. East of Pluto.
Just start looking for us somewhere east of Pluto.
Hurry.
It was not until after the whoosh of the pod doors closing followed by the whoosh of the air lock followed by the whoosh of the pod jettisoning itself out into space, that I noticed that one of the explosions had impaled a carbon rod into my abdomen. I collapsed.
Upon waking, I found that Healy, with the help of the medpack and wiki had removed both the rod and a sizable chunk of my liver.
That was all some time ago. Now hopelessly adrift with rations long gone, I watch Healy running an acetylene torch over this same organ newly rescued from the stasis pack it has been preserved in.
We’re hungry. And have long since given up any hope that rescue teams from Enceladus would find us.
He’s apologetic as he eats. It’s chewy. And over a particularly difficult bit he confesses passing off Wyclef Jean lyrics as his own to his High School Composition teacher.
I nod, “It’s okay.” I’m weak and tired and unsure exactly what will happen next time Healy gets hungry.
“Anyone ever tell you, you have a dancer’s legs?” he comments now and I return to the communications console.
If you are hearing this: At our rate of drift, I expect we are ten-thousand astronomical units beyond the Heliopause. East of Pluto.
Just start looking for us somewhere east of Pluto.
Hurry.
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