Stranger Times

A Long Way Home

Winner of Contest #10, in the Quests and Missions Writing Contests.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/66659211-quests-and-missions-a-book-of-contests

The story prompt was the poem 'Dreamland' by Christian Rosetti.

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NAV: LADAR detects inbound object. Radiation signature indicates presence of antimatter.
NAV: Object is capable of course correction. Probability of collision: 1.
NAV: Plot projections for survival of priority 1: Cryo-pod population.
NAV: Initializing

I woke in agony, experiencing birth for the second time.

My lungs burned as I heaved in air, and spasmed as they forced a slimy mess of mucous like fluids out. My arms ached with the small effort of holding my head off the steel deck in front of my cryo-pod.

I headed and vomited, over and over, until my mind could think of something other than pain.

Tenderly, I lifted my head and tried to push myself into a crouch. My hands were slippery with sweat, but I managed to use them to push myself up.

I rolled back, but I managed to keep from falling.

Small victories.

I looked around, and registered the massive screen for the first time.

In massive letters that blazed against the black screen, was written "Navigator Imperative. Cryo-Stasis interrupted 74.11.19.14.54 early. Manual assistance required."

The Navigator was an artificial consciousness, one of the most advanced computers ever built. It's designation was to pilot our Ark ship while everyone slept. Having it fly a ship in a straight line was like asking a physicist to drop a rock on the ground over and over, but we wanted something smart to be able to handle unexpected incidents.

The screen went blank for a heartbeat, before new words replaced them. "Ballistic resistant iso-suit required. All other decks still depressurized. Locker 22-9A."

I grimaced, shook my head, and tried to stand. I surprised myself by managing it on my first try, despite a bit of a wobble.

Being so coordinated, so quickly, was a surprise. I felt the back of my neck, and rubbed my finger over a small pinprick, already healing.

"What did you give me?" I asked aloud.

"Move with haste. Locker 22-9A." The screen flashed in response.

I wanted to press the issue. Part of me was already clenching my fist and tensing my arm, looking to vent my frustration out on the screen at least.

But I turned and marched, as fast as my still aching body would allow, to the small equipment room at the end of the walkway.

My lungs still ached, but I was aware enough to notice the scorching heat of the air around me. Each breath seared my lungs, and the sweat streaming down my face wasn't only from recovering from cryo-sleep.

The ache in my head grew slightly worse with each column of pods I passed, to the point where I was clutching my head and grinding my teeth before I reached the door.

Another screen, to my left, lit up. "The suit will counteract the side-effects of the stimulants."

Part of me knew, but I still hadn't acknowledged it. "You drugged me? Why?"