Worn out poster on the wall is peeling off. It’s made out of an actual paper. I study it curiously. The letters are faded out but still legible.
NEBULA 7.
We shake hands. I’m joining the maintenance crew.
“She’s sturdy old lady but her days are numbered. It’s her last voyage before she’s scrap. The cap has something special in mind. You’re lucky. First job and all that.”
His breath smells of alcohol. He bangs on a pipe as in to emphasize how sturdy she is.
I still can’t believe I’m here. Nebula 7, it’s not wait I expected. The place’s a mess. The more time I spend here, the more I realize just old the ship is. By now, the most of its systems are held together by duct tape. From the moment I peered inside I dreaded the moment the main engine will engage.
“Back in ol’ days she used to do 99. Now, it’s 70 at best.”
I look at him all confused.
“Ninety-nine percent light, dummy.”
He’s right. I remember watching a historical documentaries about it. It was the first and last ship to ever go that fast.
Bzzt. A crackly voice comes up through ancient speakers. “This is your ca.. speaking.”
I’m in my bedbox, winding down. Hearing captain speak jolts me up. It’s hard to make out what he says though.
“Nebula is truly one of its kind. I’m fortunate to be her 17th captain.”
It’s a whole speech. I miss a lot. Neverminded, I’ll ask Bob tomorrow.
“Shackles are off, ladies and gentlemen. We’re going to finish strong.”
I have hard time falling asleep. Something about the speech.
“Wakey, sleepyhead.”
The day’s work is hard. We walk the entirety of our section a few times. Bob insists on checking field generators every hour or so. By the end of it I’m really tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Eventually, I drifted off but it wasn’t a restful one.
I stare at his moustache while he babbles away. He was like this the whole day. At some point, I just started to tune him out. It was the captain’s speech what left him so excited. I excuse myself and go straight to bed.
I’m about to quit my job. It’s my second week of squeezing through narrow maintenance shafts and corridors, inspecting readings of this and that, and listening to Bob. I took 3 long showers and run out of my quota days ago. My hands are greasy and tired all the time. I seriously consider leaving while I still can. Nebula is still in orbit. Shuttles are coming and going, carrying supplies to fill its belly.
Nevertheless, Bob’s enthusiasm is sort of infectious.
“Only a 3 days left. She’s gonna soar!”
I stay. I should’ve known better.
On the last day, we take the shackles off. Me and Bob. It takes both of us to remove the rusty regulators. They have been attached since forever. We have to cut them off. I almost lose a finger. We accidentally annihilate part of ceiling in the process. Fire alarm breaks out. At the end of it, power regulators lie on a pile next to the newly connected conduits. As far as I can understand, we’ve enabled ship to push as much as juice as it wants into the engine.
“She’s ready to go now.”
Bob pats me on the shoulder. He’s proud of what we’ve achieved.
“I betch ya she’s gonna do 99. Perhaps more.”
I stare the speed display in anticipation. It reads 0 c.
Suddenly, the world shakes. We’re off.
Pain. Burning. Darkness.
My entire perception is an explosion of excruciating pain. There is no room for me. I’m a only paper-thin vessel for a universe of pain.
My whole being experiences nothing but agony. There is room for nothing more.
It’s taking an eternity or a mere fleeting moment. There is no way to tell. The time just isn’t. There is only pain.
Someone is screaming. It’s a terrifying cry of terror. It’s me.
The display reads 0 c.
Bob’s eyes are blank. He’s dead.
I stumble out and roam the ship aimlessly.
Eventually, the shock wears out and it’s replaced by sorrow. Flashes of working alongside Bob: Dummy. She’s gonna Soar. 99 perhaps more.
Tears.
Faint recollection of something bad. Have I been to hell?
Someone finds me sobbing and takes me to a bridge.
Everyone’s here.
Emotions run wild. We’re a terrified herd. Monkeys in a can. Our technology a witchcraft.
Captain addresses us: “We checked and then we checked again. The undeniable truth is we left the Milky Way.” He looks around the room “Check for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
I stare through the glass of a helmet into the void. The airlock is packed. Despite this I can’t hear nothing but my breath. The air was vented and door opened.
In my view, Milky Way smaller than the palm of my hand.