Space...

Posted on Mon 25th Jun, 2018 @ 5:16pm by

263 words; about a 1 minute read

Mission: Brushfires
Location: Beyond the Frontier
Timeline: Right about now

An attention-getting signal plays across subspace, a signal strong enough to be received within five light-years. Three tones, ascending in pitch. A calm voice, likely computer-generated, follows. "The Institute for Advanced Scientific Studies is under strict quarantine. Do not approach. Everything is under control. Appropriate authorities have been notified. Do not approach. This is a recorded message." The message pauses for a few seconds, then repeats following the tone. There are few space-faring civilizations out here, so far from the warmth of clustered suns. Those that do pass by heed the warning; dark stories are told about fools who ignored it, hoping for plunder.

The Institute is small, for a deep space station. The main pressure hull is shaped like a pepper-pot, or perhaps a Dalek. Viewports stud its skin, looking in on offices, laboratories, living quarters, a public bath. Within these spaces are corpses: humanoid, distorted by tetany, by Protean tumors of incredible size, by dehydration or mold. It is a hellscape pulled from the imagination of a Bosch, a Dali, a Geiger.

There is a shuttlebay. The doors have been forced open. A Zureeran shuttle remains on the flight deck, surrounded by its crew in armored pressure suits. They have fared no better than those inside the station. Death reigns uncontested within the Institute.

An attention-getting signal plays across subspace. Three tones, ascending in pitch. A calm voice, likely computer-generated, follows. "The Institute for Advanced Scientific Studies is under strict quarantine. Do not approach. Everything is under control. Appropriate authorities have been notified. Do not approach. This is a recorded message."

 

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