piss

<p>The crew of the <em>Meridian</em> basks in the false-color light of Perseus, a white main-sequence star. It seems to soothe the dull ache of post-resurrection. 84 years in transit, on the cusp of death the entire journey. No one really in the mood to break the silent revelry.</p> <p>The window pane display of the star flicks out of existence. You turn your head to ask what happened, but you are alone. The air is cold and stale and artificial gravity has disengaged. In place of a crew, a shroud of dust coats every surface. All systems on standby, displays glowing dully through the dust.</p> <p>You pull yourself to the nearest console, sliding the anchor webbing across your torso. Brushing off the inputs and activating the display to inquire the current location of all crew members. It only reports your location, listing you as a potential intruder without much real concern. You scan the personnel files to find the statuses of the entire crew as missing or expired. You are not listed among their number, instead Garaway is shown as captain of the <em>Meridian</em>.<!-- more --></p> <p>Reviewing the ship’s logs, you aren’t shown on board until just minutes ago. The ship’s analysis of your arrival is uncertain, aside from the fact that you suddenly occupied the space that was occupied by air immediately before you existed there. It also reports, what seems to be erroneously, that you are the first living thing aboard in the past 12,055 years.</p> <p>As reported by the logs, 12,098 years ago the crew awoke from stasis, summarily entered orbit around Perseus, and a burst of exotic particles originating from the star passed through the ship. Self-diagnostics detected no signs of damage. The crew began to behave erratically from this point forward. After a brief and unintelligible discussion, six of the crew divided themselves among two of the four onboard shuttles. One shuttle made a pass so near to the star as to ensure lethality from total compromise of shielding. The other flew on a straight vector without any calculable destination until the ship lost tracking of the vessel.</p> <p>Of the six crew members that stayed on the <em>Meridian</em>, three of them became increasingly violent, and unflinchingly mutilated each other with their bare hands. Two of the crew returned to their quarters and performed minimal tasks required for survival for the duration of their natural lives. The final member, Parsons, got into one of the maintenance crawl spaces and without once moving, he succumbed to dehydration.</p> <p>After a reported twelve millennia of standby, the power plants of the <em>Meridian</em> are too weak for a return flight. Earth ended transmissions after 200 years of increasingly infrequent requests for information, presumably giving up hope for the mission. You begin to dictate a message explaining your experiences to be transmitted, along with the ship’s logs, back to Earth, in the hope that anyone will be able to recognize the format and language.</p> <p>As you finish a sentence, an apparent loss of vision and violent vomiting leave you in shock. Liquid strands of your first and last meal in years wobble and boil away in the vacuum. Your tongue tickles with boiling saliva as your limbs drift around your body. With freshly evacuated lungs, your diaphragm tugs fruitlessly for breath as your abdomen begins to distend from the negative pressure. Your eyes adjust to see not just the remaining wisps of your vomit, but all the stars possibly visible to your drying, naked eyes. Turning to your right, you see Perseus as she truly is, her brilliance burning deep into your retinae. You once again bask in her light. As you sink into unconsciousness, you wonder.</p>