by Olivia White
Every sound hung in the dead air. Every rustle, cough, beep. The whirring and humming of the machinery, self-sustaining rhythmic pulses. Sometimes, it felt like an intensive care unit. Caleb strolled down the corridor, each footfall ringing out heavy echoes in the silence.
Overhead, a speaker crackled to life. "Core temperature: optimal. Oxygen levels: sufficient. Life signs: normal."
"Thanks," Caleb said, although he wasn't sure who to. The automated voice was hardly much of a conversationalist.
The alternative, though, was talking to himself. Caleb wasn't keen on that idea, at least outside of the recording booth.
Around him, the station purred along. It wasn't silence - not quite, anyway - but it was as close as it could ever come, out here.
Caleb stared out the window, at the distant stars, across the vast black gulf. He stared at the Earth. It seemed like a dream, now. He'd pictured what might be going on down there a thousand times over in the past. No longer.
The door to the recording booth was shut, as it should be. Caleb swiped his access card and the red light turned green. He stepped inside, taking a few moments to marvel at the equipment, far beyond anything he'd played around with before this gig. He'd never gotten used to it.
Caleb walked into the room and sat in the big swivel chair, sinking into it, the leather crackling under his weight. He sighed, reached out, his fingers hovering over the switch.
"Ship status report," he said.
"Core temperature: opti-"
Caleb flicked the switch, silencing the voice. It was something he always did, called it up only to shut it off. He had no idea why. Just felt right, he supposed.
With a deep breath, Caleb flicked the other switch. Outside, he knew, above the door, the light had gone from green to red.
"Goooood evening listeners," he began. "It's your host Caleb Bell here, beaming live across this little installation we call home. Boy, do we have some show lined up for you tonight. We got music, the best of the best, all the way from the home planet. And maybe, just maybe, I'll take a few calls."
Caleb stopped. He was delaying again. This was the fourth night now.
"No," he said. "We won't. Enough's enough. This can't go on. This ends tonight. I'm going to tell you a story."
"You all know why we're here. Why we traveled into the vast reaches of space. Mankind's desire to expand, both knowledge and territory. The project was well documented everywhere, and it's not hard to find out about it. 'The Men Who Would Kill God', some called us. Superstitious nonsense. It was always obvious that mankind would try something like this, one day. But as I say, it's not hard to find out what we stood for. This isn't the story of what we were doing. This is the story of what happened to us.
"For a while, this thousand-strong space station operated well. We'd have newcomers aboard, sometimes, and every so often a group of us would head out in the shuttle. Occasionally some of us left. Those who stayed, though, we got on with things well. Being out here isn't as hard as you might think, at least not when there's a job to do.
"We got on fine, and the world moved on without us. Soon, at least from what we picked up on the news networks, people largely forgot about our little project. All the controversy, all the outrage, then eventually we were just a little speck in the night sky, doing our thing.
"One day, the news networks went silent. The airwaves followed shortly after. We waited it out, at first. A shuttle was expected a few weeks later. It never came. Of course it didn't.
"What could we do, really? We had a few shuttles of our own. We launched one of them, a recon team inside, with the goal of re-establishing contact with Earth. They landed. We never heard from them again. Second shuttle, nothing. We debated, for weeks, over whether to send a third. In the end, we decided against it. The station is well stocked, more than enough to last for double our lifetimes. All we could do was wait it out.
"You can imagine, then, that Earth was a frequent topic of conversation. We discussed it until there was nothing left to say. And then, eventually, we forgot. Or at least, everyone else did."
"It played on my mind a lot, dear listeners. I was always alone up here, you see. A lot of the other guys, they had wives. Some of the women had husbands. Some families here too. A few children even born up here. Imagine that. Born in space.
"I had nobody, though. And so I had a lot of time to think. And that's when I came up with this, the radio station. Just an hour each night, just something to lighten the mood somewhat. It helped, I think. People seemed to enjoy it. They'd high five me in the corridors, or call me up during the shows. People sure liked hearing their message read out on air.
"But all the while, I couldn't stop thinking about down there. Then one night, I had a dream. I was staring into the blackness of space, and the earth crawled up to meet me. And I heard, as it were, the sound of torment, of suffering. I heard the people of Earth as they were now, not as they once were, and I awoke screaming in the darkness.
"The next night, I had the same dream. And then again, and again. Eventually, it no longer scared me. I kept it to myself, of course. Didn't want locked up. I realized, though, just what had happened. Was it the Rapture? Was it judgment? The details were unclear. But in the dream, what was clear was that nobody had been spared. Nobody but us. We were up here, floating in the void, safe.
"The next night, I prayed. I prayed so hard. I'm not a religious man, listeners, not at all. But when you have an experience like this, it's hard not to turn to the Almighty. So I prayed, and I asked, were we supposed to have been saved? Are we the chosen? I waited for an answer. I waited and waited, listeners.
"No answer came, and I knew then what must be done."
"It wasn't hard, once I made the decision. It came pretty naturally, in fact. Everyone trusted everyone here. Of course, working in maintenance, I had a lot of access. And, well, if you know the project you'll know there were a lot of volatile chemicals on board. Only took a bit to poison the very air we all breathed. I did this without a thought for my own safety, of course. I was prepared to judge myself just as I was judging others. And judge myself I did.
"It was disconcerting, watching everyone get sick while I stayed perfectly healthy. People noticed, I'm sure. But how could I have orchestrated it? The truth was, I didn't. I didn't expect to be okay. But to see them all suffering, the med bays filling up, and eventually the dead lining the corridors, this was my reward, and it was beautiful. I was fine. Fit, healthy, better than ever. I did not understand why, not until now.
"I gave them all a proper burial, of course. Released their bodies out the airlock and watched them float past. While doing this, I realized, I was the one. I was the last man left alive. I was the chronicler, the final voice of humanity. I was the broadcaster, the one who was left at the end of all things, to leave this message for whoever might be out there, whoever might come looking sometime in the distant future. I am the last voice you'll ever hear.
"It's been six years since the last of them died. Six years I've been here, waiting. Six years waiting for judgment to claim me, and it never has.
"A week ago, I had a dream. I dreamed of space, of time, and the endless black void. It's time now, listeners. I've put this off too long. I am Humanity's final words. I am Caleb Bell, and this is what happened here. To all out there, goodnight, and goodbye."
Caleb flicked the switch, then the next one.
"Ship status," he said.
"Core temperature: optimal. Oxygen levels: sufficient. Life signs: normal."
Caleb was already closing the studio door behind him.
"Thank you," he said, then felt a pang of sadness. He'd miss that voice, he thought.
Caleb took a deep gulp of air. As fresh as ever. His head felt fuzzy and warm. So this was it, then.
The airlock opened and Caleb stepped inside. A rush of cold air hit him as the door closed, hissing as the locks engaged. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth to say one final thing.
The outer door opened.
<
br /> The space station hangs dormant, suspended in the void. The occasional beep echoes through dead air and whispering corridors.
Overhead, a speaker crackles to life.
"Core temperature: optimal," the voice says. "Oxygen levels: sufficient."
There is a pause, almost as if the soft, mechanical voice is hesitating.
"Goodbye, Caleb Bell," it says. There is silence. Then slowly, almost inaudibly, a faint pulsing sound, a rhythmic, steady noise.
The speaker crackles again. "Life signs: normal."
Deep within the station, something stirs.
XXII - XX (13th Variation)
Garcia smiled.
The End
About the Author
Ashton Raze is the pen-name of an author and video game developer from the South West of England. With Owl Cave, Ashton has written/co-directed Richard & Alice, Sepulchre and The Charnel House Trilogy. Alongside this, Ashton has written a number of pieces of interactive fiction using the Twine engine, including the recent Prom King (and other stories).
You can find Ashton on Twitter @ashtonraze or on the web at AshtonRaze.com or the Bright Lights & Glass Houses microsite.
Cover artist Richard Warner is a game and graphic designer based in Scotland, specializing in both print and web. You can find him at Digital Folio.
