First Post|Previous Post|Next Post
The bridge was only half lit for the overnight shift, and the alternating red and cyan mood lighting showed strongly. Aside from Jack, who stood in his nightshirt, everyone wore their class B uniforms. “Just over 40 klicks, sir,” said the radar operator.
“On screen.”
Stephen’s awakening, one deck down from Jack’s cabins, was much more abrupt, much more violent. The first blast of the klaxon jerked him upright in his cot, tumbling him onto the floor, while the truncated second blast left him distinctly frightened. Clearly the alarm meant that something was wrong; its cutoff mid-shriek could only mean that Roth was severely, perhaps mortally wounded. The rushing feet outside his door did little to ease his anxiety. He was suddenly aware that mere inches of steel separated him from the vacuum of space and oblivion, a fact seemingly underscored by the pulsing red and cyan lights that provided the only illumination to his cabin.
The rushing feet subsided, and the whoosh of the ventilation system, along along with the myriad other background noises of the Roth fell away, leaving the silence of a tomb.
Whatever the answers were, they were not to be found in his cabin. Having thrown on clothes, he felt his door for heat. Finding none, he backed the door with his foot and eased the door open half an inch, ready to clap it to and shoot the bolt. The half-lit wardroom was empty.
First Post|Previous Post|Next Post
No comments:
Post a Comment