So, it’s saturday, and it’s that time again!
The ninth Tale of the Nineteen Galaxies is here! Currently, I have fourteen already prepared in total (including this one and the previous ones), which means that pretty soon I’ll need to start writing more! Or will I? How about I get you lot to write some? Hmmm, might have to create an event on Facebook and get some other authors to start writing them! What do you think? Could you write a little flash fiction for the Nineteen Galaxies universe? Let me know…
Anyway, here’s Number 9!
It never had a name, not even in this timeline, just a numerical/alphabetical designation. Three lifeless rocks orbited a dying sun, only a millennium or so away from going supernova, and then perhaps it would turn into a black hole. He would never forget that system, not in a million years.
How could he? It was the first thing he could remember.
Space was… let’s face it, space was black with little white dots splattered over it, like a toddler playing with paint. Rosoff was getting bloody sick of it. His view was only of the damn stars. You would have thought someone could have been a little bit more exciting, say having blue dots, or red, or multi-coloured dots; anything but bloody white!
The ticking chronometer strapped to his wrist told him he’d been sitting in that seat for three hours. He paused in his boredom. How did he know what a chronometer was? Or what the colours were called? Or even what the hell an hour was?
He wasn’t even sure of his own damn name. It was stitched into the left breast of the black jacket he was wearing. He could understand the strange characters; which in itself was weird since he couldn’t remember anything beyond three hours ago. He could, of course, be wearing someone else’s clothes; who knew when you had no memory?
He had simply opened his eyes three hours ago, and not known his name, his home, if he had one, or even if he had a family. He had awakened in a small vessel -of that he was sure; blank screens, blank consoles, and blank lights surrounded him, only the starfield outside was lighting the cockpit around him. There wasn’t a decent enough light to see his reflection in the transparent canopy. Pity, he wanted to know what he looked like.
The air was getting thinner, his breathing getting harder and harder. He realised he was shaking; it was getting cold. No life support? There had to be only a limited amount of air.
He stopped himself for a second. How could he know all this, and yet not know his name? He felt his bottom lip tremble, and then tears began to form in his eyes. He plunged his tearful face into his open palms. Then he ran his wet hands through his long matted hair. The length and bad condition seemed at odds with the military-esque clothes he was wearing.
He gave up trying to understand how he could remember some things, and not others.
When he looked up through the elongated canopy above him, he saw something move out in space. It was pink, or was it red? Yes, definitely red. As it came toward him, he realised it was a fast-moving streak; an object moving at abnormally fast speeds.
In fact, it was moving very fast.
A loud sonic boom smacked the small craft around. The object came closer at a terrifying speed, and then the blurred streak slammed to a stop in front of the canopy, resolving into a massive image.
“Holy mother of –“
The massive object was in fact a starship, a red half-cone, with an underslung large fin, and covered in ramshackle hastily painted red and black spikes; it was vicious and bore an aura of evil around it that made Rosoff shiver. The ship began to pass underneath, manoeuvring itself to tractor the smaller ship into its shuttlebay.
Printed on the hull of the great ship were the characters In The Name Of The Patriarch. Rosoff didn’t know what it meant, but it was a completely alien language, and it intrigued him nonetheless.
Spots began to appear in his vision. Everything became red, his eyes trying to see in the airless atmosphere of the cockpit.
Then the black of unconsciousness took him into nothingness.