Code 006-4

A very short story, easy, should be fun to read. Maybe.

Centuries ago, Earth participated in a ritual known as “Black Friday”. On this day, millions upon millions of consumers would storm through their markets in search of anything they could get their chubby, consuming fingers on. The history books rarely touch on the days leading up to “Black Friday”.

Legend has it, the weeks leading up to “Black Friday” were the busiest days in the product transportation business. Thousands of transport vessels rampaged across vast networks of concrete roads in search of a market in need of their goods. These vessels, known as “18-Wheelers”, would blot out the sun with their exhaust. They would crush personal transport vessels, known as “sedans”, in their wake.

As a child I listened to the story of “Black Friday” in History class. The teacher would try to change the subject to a fat, bearded man, but I always wanted to know more about “Black Friday”.
One day, scientists in Tokyo discovered the key to space travel. Several months later the first interplanetary flight school sent out an e-mail:

“Taf University is the premiere flight school in the United States. Apply today and earn your pilot’s license in only six weeks from the comfort of your own home!”

I have flown 47 delivery missions since graduating from Taf University’s Online School of Flight.

--

This record is for the SS Bargain Buster, Delivery #48, non-stop cargo service to the planet Deraj. Our payload is 10,000 Ducky Dino Figurines for the Disney-Deraj amusement park. This distress signal is unlikely to reach anyone with the means to rescue us, and that is just fine.

Time Stamp- 1800:00
My co-pilot calmly tapped me on the shoulder and pointed outside,"Look."
The plasma thruster on our starboard side had erupted into a glorious blue and orange ball of burning gases, popping and crackling as the erratic discharge of energy melted through the titanium plating.
My co-pilot sighed and looked down to continue the Sudoku puzzle resting in his lap.

I said," That can't be good."

The buffet of gauges and dials across the control panel erupted into a violent fury, needles thrashing erratically, warning sirens piercing every facet of the cabin, and that one special button lighting up for the first time in my 20 years of flight experience. 

I said to my co-pilot,” I think that box is probably a four,” and he nodded in approval.

The problem with a Sudoku puzzle can be summed up in one brilliant statement: You can think everything is going fine right up until the end, but that will be the point at which you realize one lousy number was out of place. That one lousy number will require you to start over. 

One might say they are an exercise in “Tabula Rasa”.
One might say too many of those misplaced, lousy numbers could be the death of you.

The radio screamed at us, demanding comfort and knowledge regarding the situation: the two things we were completely unable to provide," Our diagnostics are showing critical thruster failure, Dan, what's going on? Over."
  I lifted the mouth piece and said,” We think the box requires a four, but we are open-minded to other suggestions.” We waited a moment for any sort of reply, but it seemed our dispatcher had no opinion on the matter.
I held up the mouth piece again and said,” I am also pretty sure we are going to die.”
 

The dispatcher’s name is Ronald Smith. Ronald lives in the suburbs of Suffolk, Virginia, he is a taurus, and his favorite animal is a penguin. We know his favorite animal is a penguin because in the weeks leading up to his birthday on April 10^th, he reminds everyone in the delivery company he has “always wanted a penguin cake for his birthday.” Ronald is a unique individual.

 He has been our dispatcher for 47 missions, and I was a member of the party planning committee for his 50^th mission with us. There was going to be a cherry chocolate cake. It was not going to be shaped like a penguin.

Ronald Smith was either at a loss for words or simply realized there was no longer a cherry chocolate cake in his future and gave up on us. The radio remained silent except for the calming crackle of white noise.

Time Stamp- 1845:17

The cabin once again fills with the droning of artificial concern for our well-being.
My co-pilot, without lifting his head, mumbles,” It’s not a four. It’s a six. Should we maybe try to fix the ship?”
The notion of trying to fix the inevitable, add a touch of paint or perhaps some duct tape to hold us together just a little while longer had never crossed my mind.
Life support for our life support would be the ultimate joke on our existence.
I shrug,” I don’t see the point. Was it really a six? That’s surprising.”

Time Stamp- 1905:32

First the thrusters shut down and grew cold in the vacuum of space.
 Then to our dismay they separated from the main body of the ship and drifted off into the ethereal to be forgotten with time. My co-pilot looked up from the Sudoku to the sight of our thrusters wandering off on their own.
He said,” Well now, there’s something you don’t see every day.”
I said," I'll go get the paddles out of storage, we'll start rowing."

As my ship quietly committed suicide, and my co-pilot brazenly continued solving his puzzle, I reached for a pen and paper. The dictionary needed a new definition for the word “hopeless”.
Verb- “the act of watching your only chance of survival break off and leave.”
I suppose this definition would also fit my ex-wife Donna.

Verb- “the act of watching your only chance of survival break off and leave you for some fat, balding co-pilot. Whatever Donna, I was better off without you.”
I believe either definition would be a fitting addition to the Merriam-Websters Dictionary.

The ship began to slow. The speedometer traded light years for miles per hour, and the needle ticked lower and lower and lower until sat still at zero.

The flight school captain once told us,” If you’re thrusters malfunction in the middle of a delivery, do not worry. Without gravity and friction, you will continue on your trajectory at the same speed. When you reach your destination, slowing down is a different story.”

Several years later scientists in Sweden developed a reverse propulsion system that was a “revolution in pilot safety which would slow down a runaway ship in seconds.”
We were stranded.

 Time Stamp: 1910:28

The cockpit was infested by the obnoxious wailing of our monitors, pervading the eerie beauty we had once appreciated as young pilots.

Years ago, when space exploration was infantile, space was occupied by stars and planets untouched by the vicious hands of mankind. Every young man across the globe was drawn towards flight school for this very reason. They all dreamed of being the very first human to step foot on a planet.
They would christen these virgin planets with such awe-inspiring titles as,” Bill’s Planet” and “Hi Mom” and “F**k”.

Today, at the height of the exploration era, those same stars and planets are occupied by plasma billboards advertising for Virt-U-Mart, for Gurz’Akala’s interplanetary legal services, and for the nearest McDonalds.
Planet “Bill’s Planet” foreclosed, and it is now on the market as “ Planet [Your Name Here]”
Planet “F**k” has gone on to be the home of the universe’s largest adult entertainment store.
The Guiness Book of Universal Records states “McDonalds” is the longest running business on planet Earth.  

 

The incessant nagging of the failing AI system continued uninterrupted until enough was enough.
I ask,” Do you mind?” and my co-pilot replies with a shake of the head. Reaching under the control panel, I grab a handful of hair-like fibers and pull. The fibers stretched taut and snapped with a satisfying pop. They all crackled and erupted in a sudden spark, their electronic-based fluorescence dimming instantly.

Centuries ago, a barbaric practice existed on Earth known as “pulling the plug.” It was the act of severing all of the cables in a family member’s life support to get them to shut up.
As I sat under the control panel tearing everything I could reach, I realized the practice of “pulling the plug” had some merit.

 

 

 

The overbearing AI figure scrutinizing our every move grew quiet, either because it accepted our fate, or because of my destruction of its AI Procedural Emitter.
 I prefer to think my ship was a realist.
The AI sputtered and buzzed before trailing off,” Life Support Systems failing…”
She was always a cynic.

My co-pilot taps my arm, drawing my attention to the grid laid out in his lap,” I think I got it.”
I lift the puzzle from his lap, reviewing his work for any errors. Perhaps when the salvaging crew stumbles upon our ship, they will discover his Sudoku, his last gift to humanity, and it would be a shame if there were any incorrect answers.

 

Imagine: as our wreckage tumbles through space, an alien race we have yet to make contact with scoops it up. Their first impression of mankind would be from the shoddy craftsmanship of our lifeless ship. Their second impression would be from the botched Sudoku puzzle. We would be the laughing stock of the United Planets.

I scan the Sudoku carefully,” It’s good, yeah,” and the lights flicker and die in the cabin.

 

We bath in the thick darkness of deep space, growing colder by the second.

 Light years away, commuters are on the interspace highway on their way to somewhere.

Centuries ago, human adults participated in a ritual known as “rush hour”. During this ritual, they spent hours surrounded by other vehicles on a solid concrete road system so they could go to work and spend hours upon a cushioned seating system. Historians sometimes use the term “The Great Depression” to describe this ritual, but there is some debate as to the actual meaning of it.

Light years away, commuters on the interspace highway are probably participating in this archaic ritual.

 

They are the consumers who allowed Ronald Smith to act as our dispatcher for 47 missions and paid for his son to go to Flight Academy last fall.

They are comfortable, cozy, and content.
They are the ever persistent human race, and they are blissfully unaware of our predicament and will remain so until the end of time.

 

Time Stamp- 1920:00

 

My co-pilot looks up from the puzzle with a subtle grin,” I got it.”
I reach for the Sudoku puzzle and he snatches it away,” No, not the puzzle. I haven’t solved it yet, but I have figured out our predicament.”

He rises from his chair and walks to the back of the cabin. He raises a hand and motions at me,” We have an escape pod…”

I cut him off,” Company had to reallocate parts of the budget for greater sustainability, so they axed the escape pods.”
He glares at me, so I attempt to ease his concerns,” They did install cup holders though, so that counts for something right?’

He returns to his seat and quietly lifts his pen to resume solving the Sudoku puzzle.

 

Centuries ago there was a documentary called “Office Space”. The film followed several works throughout their typical day and detailed the inner-workings of the American business system. The film is an excellent portrayal of how cutting costs can negatively affect a company’s profit margin. At one point in the film, a glitch in employee payroll is brought to light. The management made a poor decision in reallocating funds, and the end result was the office catching on fire.

 

Our delivery company made a poor decision in reallocating funds, and the end result was our delivery vessel collapsing in the vastness of space.

 

Time Stamp- 1930:45

 

My co-pilot reaches out for the Sudoku puzzle and tucks it into his jacket pocket for safe-keeping.
I shiver, so the layers of my thermal clothing bunch up in an attempt to fight back. The AI which guarded us for many years, treated us like her children, has fallen quiet, the occasional hum of her sound output device drifting throughout the ship is her last remaining sound.

 

My co-pilot says,” That happened so fast.”
The external glass panel separating us from the vacuum of space cracks.

I say,” You solved that puzzle in what, two or three minutes?”
The cracks spread across the panel in a bigger and bigger web.

I say," Want to press the special button, just for s***s and giggles?"
The heat modulator sparks and goes offline, plummeting the cockpit into the freezing temperatures of space.

He says," I hope you worked things out with Donna before leaving Dan. She still loves you."
The cracks grow thicker and continue to crawl across the glass panel.

I say," I didn't."
He says,” Well, it’s been a pleasure being your co-pilot for all

these years. My name was Tim by the way. I don’t think you ever knew it.”
The glass stops cracking, leaving us to sit in the serene silence of space at that moment.
I say," I didn't."

---

 

Reviews

[Mary-Jean]

I really liked your story, and I especially liked "The cabin once again fills with the droning of artificial concern for our well-being." There were some errors with quotation marks and using "you're" instead of "your" and a few other things. It would also be nice to know why the people weren't concerned about their safety.

[Impulse]

I love this!Beautifully written and very excellent use of vocabulary.All in all it flows together amazingly. 10/10