Jobe Thomson Isolation
Short Story
The lonely man wrote down the story of his life. He wrote of his youth, of starvation in harsh streets, of injustice and corruption, of the blank-faced men who ripped him from his mother’s arms and sent him to the sterile, artificial, clean academy. He wrote of values, morals imbued upon him and those he had firmly believed, of altruism and compassion, of obligation and honour, of connection and unity, and how all of it meant nothing now he was adrift in the vast void of space with no hopes for survival. The man sighed, laying down his pen. His quarters were dark. Most power had been diverted to the engines, meaning his breath condensed in the shrill air and icicles crept from the ceiling like long, broken fingers. The man wore several month’s beard upon his lean, tired face. His eyes were a sad blue and his skin milky with lack of nutrition. He wore a simple jumpsuit stained with grease and woollen mittens that did little to fend off the cold. He rose and crossed the room, fumbled with the drawer in the dark and deposited his journal and pen within. The drawer fastened shut with a soft click, eerily loud in the quiet room, full only of his own blank thoughts. He rested with his hands on the desk, head lowered. His mind was empty, numbed by months without stimulation, functioning only out of monotony. He felt only the deep heartbeat of the engines, ringing through the floor and wall, gentle vibrations serving to remind. The man felt like falling asleep forever. His quarters opened into a long, cylindrical corridor. He knew the walls were a sheer white without seeing them, he was aware of a time before when the lights had thrummed and the halls were warm, full of voices, laughter, life. Now they were empty and dead. He crossed the corridor into the adjacent room. Here strobing reds and greens spiralled across the towering engine unit, the room forming a ring around it. The thrum resounded from the engines through the floor and walls, louder here, a heartbeat set in steel. He kneeled by the operating panel and undid the latch. It slid free with a hiss, vapour caressing his face as it rose toward the ceiling. Within cords were revealed, thousands upon thousands of them, like writhing snakes coiled endlessly in a dark den. Veins which pumped life throughout the ship. The man worked in silence. Sparks flew, systems faltered, and units overheated as he worked to gain a few precious minutes, seconds even, while the ship willed itself to tear apart and return to
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