Two minutes had passed even though it felt like a full night's sleep. Your motoric functions begin to come back online. Moving your hand over to the control panel, it instinctively flails around on the controls signaling your human commands. In the distance the Orbiter shudders as several systems whir alive to full optional standards. They aren’t the only one. Your eyes drawing in the crust take in the blackness of the interior. Tiny traces of warm light are seen poking out from the vast dull green of the metal hull displaying at all times the necessary walkways and ladder-steps to move around in the Orbiter. A barely perceptible light blinks, beckoning your attention at the helm. The cold metal does nothing but drive you back into Morpheus’s garden, but you know, no matter how long it may seem only another two minutes will pass. The Pale is strange, like it wants to be experienced in excruciating detail to remind us that we’re not supposed to be here. You hop down the ladder slapping both feet onto the cold metal, like sheets of ice beneath your feet. The Orbiter continues its barrage of motion and sound. Stepping over the sealed observation glass, you sit on the old leather chair of the helm. Flicking a few switches the operation comes online displaying the cause of the alert.
“Alert, twenty one out of twenty two hours remaining…Prolonged exposure imminent…”
The display informs you full of glee with itself for doing such a good job. Not the best news to wake up to, a sudden realization hits you just how long you’ve been here. And how long you were above Giedi Prime before, and Insulid! Nothing makes you forget time as well as being crammed in an Orbiter; not even the best bars could compete. You pat the display and turn it off.
The others should be returning soon, or at least calling in their ride off that dump. You look out the sealed observation glass, covered with double thick steel reinforced plating, still that same nasty green color. Before you could have seen the planet of Sabastus V, of the Induelin sector, its deep blue oceans and waves reflecting the light of its white sun. What a sight that must be, gentle enough to stare at and not go blind. It comes over the ramtops and glides across the sky before being swallowed by the waves. Now there’s old rusty metal, and beyond it nothing.
The Antithetical, the all consuming quiet. The Pale… such a thing is hard to grasp even for an experienced Orbiter. Exposure to it for long periods is dangerous, there are stories of Orbiters being unable to sleep ever again, some swear they went to or saw the future. And others still claim they heard something. Of course you can’t hear anything, because what’s there to hear? Come to think of it, what's there to begin with? Simple: there isn’t.
You move to the transmitter and bring it online. It buzzes a greeting and begins its tasks. Orbiters are the only ones who can talk to each other while in the Pale. It's easy to receive messages between fellow Orbiters; no matter the distance there’s always a clear and stable connection. After all there’s nothing between the two so why wouldn’t there be a stable connection?
You move through the channels with a steady click, trying to hear if someone else is also in need of some company even if it's only through a metal box. People ramble, most people use it to ramble. About what? Just about anything really: life, grad level philosophy, love, or nonsense to fill the waves, but it's fun to listen to others.
That's the thing you hate most about this job: the disconnection… the solitude… It's these moments that last the longest no matter how much you want it to be otherwise.
Your ear rests against the speaker trying to pick up what the radio is failing to. When suddenly the entirety of the Orbiter stops and all you hear is yourself. Your heart thumps in your chest suddenly – and fiercely on beat. You can hear a buzzing in your ears like mosquitoes… the creak of bones as you turn, even the straining of your muscles like ropes around your spine.
It's unbearable…
It's unbearable…
….
… Finally the ocean breaks. You awake on the familiar harsh metal of the Orbiter, so familiar… no light, no matter how miniscule, can be detected. Your hairs stand on edge; a sharp shudder runs down your spine. Your body informs you something is wrong that your brain hasn't realized.
You move over to the Orbiter emergency hatch. Instinctually you turn it, open and lift it up. Instead of the nothingness, you see a gentle light being swallowed by waves.