No data.
The man closed his eyes, the message still repeating over and over. The red alert text still flashing in the nav. Meanwhile, he was getting closer: 2 hours 48 min to destination.
He floated back down and strapped in. He said the New Raceli warning message a few times aloud. It sounded similar, but maybe he said it wrong?
He tried again and again, with different variations. But the computer continued to spit out: “There is no king.” By then the incessant warning loop was driving him crazy. He tried one more time, this time holding the “dah” part a little longer: “daah king gya na.”
And the computer replied: There is no docking.
Computer, how does the Mark 7 land? the man thought.
The Mark 7 is made to dock with Galaxy class frigates utilizing the Racellian docking coupling.
Can the Mark 7 make a terrestrial landing?
Yes. And the man let out a deep breath. But then the computer continued: …with a compatible Racellian terrestrial landing coupler.
What if there is no coupler?
The Mark 7 cannot make a terrestrial landing without the requisite coupler module which provides inertial dampening and acts as a final approach homing beacon.
So I’m a bullet without brakes headed straight down into a planet, he thought. He asked the computer for instructions on how to override the warning. He issued the command and suddenly the pod was quiet. Just the soft red nav warning still flashing. He left it on and floated down to his bed. Then he strapped in and let out a deep breath of air, started coughing.
At least I know how I will die, he thought. At least it won’t be from running out of oxygen or dying of dehydration. That is something. He instinctively reached for the gun under his left arm that wasn’t there. He missed the gun. Wanted to feel it in his hands. But right then, the struggle for life and meaning and the quest to know exactly who he was had ended, and a calmness came over the little pod headed straight for Duval.
Computer, he thought. We lost.
Invalid query, came the reply.
And so the man relaxed, dimmed the lights and waited. There was nothing else to do.
After awhile the little pod started to shake violently. We’re getting close, he thought. He jostled around, his head hitting the pads, and he wished for a moment he had a helmet or another strap, but he knew it would be over soon enough. The final dive down into the atmosphere would only take a few minutes and then he and the pod would make a nice, big crater somewhere in Duval for the locals to gawk at. He started to sweat, the temperature inside the pod getting hotter and he imagined the cone glowing red, wondered if the old pod would simply burn up before he got to the bottom.
His mind drifted and he didn’t strain to remember anything. He thought of the girl, Jaylen. How he missed her. How she felt in his arms. He wished he could go to sleep and dream of her just once more but his time was over. So he remembered her. Dream memories, but they were his. The first time they met. He’d been so nervous, and couldn’t think of what to say.
And she’d rambled on about jump time calculations and dampeners warming up. Fed frigates with escape pods launching. The ramblings of an engineer. His beautiful engineer. And then an image popped into his mind. It was a memory from before. Not the ship memories with Jaylen, but something else. The picture in his mind was a merchant ship, cut in half by an ion cannon from a BG Destroyer, tiny escape pods spilling out of the broken ship. Where was he then? Who was he then? He didn’t know. He could see the tiny pods making a bee-line for a Fed space station. He could see them trying to evade the smaller fixed cannons from the shiny black Destroyer.
And then he remembered Jaylen’s voice again, “…rudimentary flight controls.”
Computer, he thought. Does the Mark 7 have flight controls?
Guidance controls are available to assist in final approach to coupler module, came the reply.
Will the controls work for atmospheric flight?
No data.
A little wave of hope came over him but he fought it. There is no way to land this thing, he thought. But then another Jaylen memory came. It was late and she had crawled up into a vent shaft to replace logic chips on the lower deck breathers. She looked down at him and smiled. Come on up, she said. Come on. Are you afraid? Don’t fail me now, Captain. I need you.
If I could just flatten out the pod’s trajectory maybe I could crash land the thing, he thought. I’m dead if I crash into a city, or a forest. But there’s a chance. So that’s it, he thought. Try to make a turn before hitting the floor. Flatten it out and slide to a stop.
Computer, what is New Racellian for “access flight controls”? The man thought.
“Jibun nabi Kudan” came the reply.
The man issued the order and nothing happened. Meanwhile the pod was as hot as ever and the shaking was worse. He figured impact was imminent and started to kick the padding again. Then he looked up into the cone and there it was: a single stick flight controller. He unstrapped himself and suddenly was tossed from side to side. Slowly he made his way up and could just see out the porthole. His heart leapt and his desire to live was suddenly stronger than
