Code 006-4

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

The thrusters exploding into a glorious orange ball ,enveloped in thick black smoke, was the first sign we were in trouble.
My co-pilot still attempting to solve his Sudoku puzzle was the second.
The buffet of gauges and dials across the control panel erupted into a schizophrenic 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 radio screamed at us, demanding comfort and knowledge regarding the situation: the two things we were completely unable to provide. I lifted the mouth piece and said,” We think the box requires a four, but we are open-minded to other suggestions.”
I held the mouth piece and said,” I am also pretty sure we are going to die.” The mysterious individual on the other end, millions of miles away, fell silent. The cabin was once against filled 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 it?”
The notion of trying to fix nearly 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.
I shrug,” I don’t see the point. Was it really a six? That’s surprising.” The thrusters break off from the main body and drift off into the cool recesses of space to be forgotten with time. The ship begins to slow, the speedometer trading light years for miles per hour.

 

The indescribable silence of space was infested by the obnoxious wailing of our monitors, pervading the eerie beauty we had come to appreciate over our long careers.
I ask,” Do you mind?” to which 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 incessant mechanical figure scrutinizing our every move grows quiet, either because it accepted our fate, or because of my destruction of its AI Procedural Processor.
The ship’s AI seeks revenge with its dying breath, trailing off with,” 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.
I say,” 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. He reaches out for the puzzle and tucks it into his jacket pocket for safe-keeping.
I shiver, the layers of thermal clothing succumbing to the cold as my skin bunches 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.”
I say,” You solved that puzzle in what, two or three minutes?”
He says,” Well, it’s been a pleasure being your co-pilot for all these years.”
I say, “Was it really a six and not a four?”

 

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