[Old Guy]

High Road

In qua-space there's nothing to see. No starbow, no point of light. Only gray nothingness painted on blank canvas. Teller Transport pilot Asmon Cron knew that painting well. He'd driven the starship TT Kilo through that void fifty-one times, according to his personal log. There had been other ships, other stellar transits -- same blank slate.

In the gaps between stars, normal space was different, locked solid in the curve of reality. Suns glared into Asmon's telescope, beamed streams of energy into Kilo's receivers. Once, and for a long, long time, he and the ship skirted the edge of purple nebula ablaze with star-birth.

Pilot Cron recorded it all. Every digital storage device Kilo possessed was laden with data, stuffed with observations. Such paper as he had was filled with notes. The last transmitter, never intended for decades of use in a ship with limited spares, had expired at the end of year four. Asmon could listen, but not transmit. Mostly, he listened to the Universe, talking to itself.

Thirty-seven years is a long time for a man or even for a jump-capable starship. Not so long for that piece of the Universe Kilo had traversed. The ship might make it to Madoc. Asmon Cron would not.

"Was it all worthwhile, Comp?" In the intervening years, there had been other names for the ship computer, other voices answering his questions, discussing this star or that instrument reading. Lately, he had returned to plain "comp", though still speaking offhand, as if to a person.

"Was what worthwhile?" Comp, in turn, spoke in measured, machine-like tones, adapting to the change in Asmon's form of address.

"All this recording, data gathering -- everything."

"The data will be welcome to the astronomical community on Madoc. Some of the observations of stellar development are without precedent."

"As far as we know. A lot can happen in thirty-seven years."

Comp did not point out that the total interval of normal space travel would be slightly more than fifty years. "Automated probes can record, they cannot observe with human curiosity."

"Right." Asmon was silent for a long time.

Lately the computer had monitored the pilot's vital signs on a continuous basis. Just then several readings dropped to dangerous levels. Comp did not intervene. Though it could not hope in a human sense, it had developed a kind of compassion for Asmon Cron. To have him cease of natural causes was desirable in more than strict cybernetic terms.

The readings stabilized, climbed back to near-normal. "What will they say? The people of Madoc, I mean. I know only a few ..." Asmon coughed.

"If the ship arrives ..." began Comp.

"When it arrives," interrupted Asmon. "When you bring it into port. Not if. You will not fail."

"There are the hazards of space. Mechanical failure."

"Yes. Mechanical failure. We know all about that don't we?"

"We do."

One day into the Kilo's qua-space jump from Prosser to Madoc, her phase generator fused itself into a useless heap of metal. The secondary generator popped online and failed in like manner.

Lacking the fuel to decelerate and return to her starting point, Kilo plunged on, carving a perfect trajectory to arrive at Madoc -- fifty years hence.

Nothing more than a primitive science station built for the study of the star from which it took its name, Prosser base was abandoned within hours of Kilo's departure. The star was approaching nova, an act which would be recorded and transmitted by automated sensors. Her crew signaled news of their departure to Kilo just prior to vanishing into qua-space.

At first he thought it barely possible that a scientific mission or military craft might pop into normal space at a star along the route and hear his emergency signal. Eventually, as his transmitters failed, one after the other, Asmon realized that rescue was virtually impossible. Even if a ship knew of his plight and plotted an accurate estimate of his position, few qua-space nodes existed anywhere along his route. No more than three were close enough for a rescue ship to exit, reach him on impulse engines and have enough fuel for a return trip. He passed the last such node during the tenth year of his journey.

Early on, Asmon established a hydroponic garden in the forward cargo bay. Comp monitored the organic processes, jump-started with emergency rations and carefully recycled wastes. Yet, there were losses, inefficiencies, errors. The dried remnants of his last meal lay on a plate in the galley. He was too weak to move the ten paces aft of the bridge; too tired to care. His time had run out.

"I have seen wonders."

"Yes." Comp noted the tremulous voice, weak physical functioning. It waited with a curious mixture of machine patience and vague disquiet, an uneasiness surrounding the concept of a future without a companion.

"One does not see ..." Osman regarded the stars in the forward view screen with affection. "In qua-space, I mean. It's all gray. There is none of -- this." His hand moved in a vague gesture. "Nothing ..."

Readings triggered various alarms, already muted by Comp. A last breath. The final beat of heart. Nervous system and cerebral functions dissolved to flat lines.

Comp began to bleed atmosphere off the ship. The only occupant that breathed air no longer needed it. Osman's body would lie on the bridge, drying in vacuum. The people at Madoc would lay him to rest.

Silence stretched. Comp pondered strange, random impulses. Unsorted memories spilled across cybernetic gateways. All at once it seemed that words were required.

"Goodbye, my friend."



End

[Red]

Nice one Mate

[The Dude]

Bummer, dude

[Stans]

A bit of a cross between 2001: A Space Odyssey and Silent Running, both excellent movies (no, I never read the novels).

[Stag]

Very good, Jim.

Very good.

[Old Guy]

Thanks, guys.

After I finished this one and posted it, I had to go write that nonsense about Archie's dilemmas -- just to show that I can still crank out the comedy stuff.

I'm afraid if I write too much of the "High Road" and "Tears of the Android" material, I'll end up writing a 900-page tome about some loser who can't even eat his breakfast without invoking some kind of failure on the part of American society; a clown or group of clowns who won't lift a finger to help themselves as they move from disaster to disaster.

You know the kind of book I mean. It would sell a million copies, get made into a heart-rending Hollywood movie and make me wealthy.

But I'd miss you guys.

Really. I would.

OG

[Stans]

If you do write that 900 page tome and it is turned into a mega-popular movie and you receive millions of dollars in royalties, just remember your friends at CSim.

[No105_Archie]

Good story O.G.

My question is....how many posts would a 900 page tome use ??