(G) Astronomic Disaster

By S P Mount

With the otherwise extinction of all life–save for a payload of DNA samples of everything earthling–and with only his internal demons for company, the solace in extreme isolation Armistead Johnson always longed for proves exactly the opposite.

A nonbeliever, but, given the payload onboard his incapacitated starship nicknamed 'The Arc', he can't help but muse if he's the 'chosen one' or simply the sprat that escaped the net.

Is the clarity of mind he taps into with his dying breaths too little too late, or will an unexpected unification with futuristic technology bring about the repurposing of all life for the creation of a better world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: S P Mount
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370881949

S P Mount

Originally from Scotland, S P Mount travelled the far-flung corners of the world through a career in tourism before settling in Canada where he lives with his rescue dog 'Quentin'–the senior party of the small business they own together. S P considers himself 'against the grain'–a disposition that bemuses lifelong friends. While some of the darker aspects of his writing often arise to surprise even him, he usually roots for the underdog and has a penchant for trying to write the bad guy likeable. He has an innate aversion to clichés such as apple pie that tastes 'just like granny used to make'. S P has studied the art of writing for many years and achieved his creative writing qualifications in British Columbia. he is published in numerous anthologies. "I might have 'multiple personality disorder', but still, I know 'we' only ever need a table for one."

Book preview

(G) Astronomic Disaster

S P Mount

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 S P Mount

Table of Contents

Darkness After the Light

Light After the Dark

Life After Death

Darkness After the Light

A melted ballpoint pen slithered from the astronaut’s glove to tumble in front of his visor. Through the thin beam emanating from the penlight worn on his sleeve he watched it rotate clockwise, then, in equal revolution, anticlockwise. The wearied single hand of a clock, he imagined, corroborating that which he already knew–the passage of time had come to an excruciating halt.

Most pages of the notepad nestled in his lap had crumbled at the very prospect of ink. Nevertheless, those still intact fluttered it into the otherwise obscurity of the bridge with the graceful wing splay of the bird the ship was named for– ‘Mourning Dove'–even if no one had ever really called it that. Given the dire fate that befell humankind, the sentiment behind the name then, seemed both fitting, and not.

The sorrowful lament the species was known for was said to represent a message of life, hope and renewal–the very reasons the ship was built, and ultimately, the inspiration for its name. Armistead Johnson identified with the romantic ideology. Intrinsically, he always had. But he knew it was only pie in the sky. Humankind would... Could... Never change.

From the beginning of its technological evolution, humanity had set a course towards self-destruction. Over eons, it dragged proverbially primitive knuckles across the ground before it did the skies. For all its technological advances, it insisted on bringing about self-imposed extinction, until, ironically, on the very day supposed to signify its new beginning, it achieved its end goal.

There were no longer birds of any kind in existence. No dove to lament in vain, and certainly none to deliver an olive leaf. From everything Earthling that ever was, only one man, and a space vessel that did not by any means physically represent a bird at all, endured.

Armistead’s head rolled forward and jerked upright as if he had nodded off. If it were not for the weight of his helmet straining his neck, resisting unconsciousness would be akin to arm-wrestling with the Canadarm. It took inordinate strength and endurance just to keep his eyes open. He groaned both for the pain and the unbearable endurance of maybe waiting on nothing at all. The ship’s systems could be irreparably damaged.

Raising his arm to shift in his seat, the penlight unexpectedly made the glass sparkle of the antique paperweight his mother gave him. Redundant in microgravity, the miniature replica of Earth appeared to have established ‘orbit’ at the centre of a ‘universe’ of dried fruit and nuts disseminated throughout.

Despite a parched tongue long since abandoned trying to soothe lips arid as the water gullies of Mars it had been his mission to replenish, Armistead indulged the pain of a smirk.

Irony at its finest.

His eyes closed momentarily, mentally reprimanding him for thinking aloud yet again. Barely uttered, yet his words reverberated around the deck. He was certainly unnerved enough without the eeriness of what sounded akin to disembodied mimicry coming from the cadavers of his bridge crew.

The Communication Carrier Assembly (CCA)–fabric fitted with earpieces and microphones worn under helmets–was the only equipment still functioning. If the Interactive Voice Response (IVR) affectionately referred to as ‘Flo’, did not come back online, the crackle of his own voice from their ‘Snoopy hats’ would likely be the last he would ever hear.

Encumbered by boredom and the weariness of an arm that felt like lead, he directed the penlight as best he could to observe the paperweight. It rotated slowly, glinting vibrantly in a way the actual planet never would again. Pawed by numerous crewmembers enamoured with it before their first quantum leap, he considered there was more chance of life existing on its surface than on the planet itself.

Geographically precise, it was a less than subtle memento of home. The proverbial photograph in the absence of any girl to whom a soldier would yearn to return from the trenches. But then, Armistead Johnson had never been interested in girls.

His feigned smile failed to reciprocate the sentiment of his mother’s gesture when she slipped it into his rucksack after a family meal together. A last supper as strained as the spaghetti his father drizzled with tomato sauce and spicy chorizo sausage that was Armistead’s favourite.

A renowned psychiatrist, his mother was well accustomed to her son’s insincerity as he was to her diplomacy. He knew she only pretended to be oblivious of his intention to never set foot on Earth again. Apparently, as always, she had, she knew his mind better than he.

But that was before. When there was an Earth to choose never to return to. All that remained of what Apollo 17 crew from one hundred and sixty years before in 1972 described, as being a ‘Blue Marble’, was the actual marble replica that, seemingly, emerged to mock its demise.

Scrutinizing the metallic rustic tones of the continents and azure of the ocean artfully infused within, he considered the detail was quite remarkable. He never really noticed before, but planet Earth had been a vision to behold.

I’ll never set foot on it, or any world, again.

Once more the melancholy sentiment resounded from CCAs, followed by ghoulish ricochets of a potentially fatal sigh.

His Extravehicular Mobility Unit (EMU) had become increasingly claustrophobic. The prospect of the suit serving as his hi-tech sarcophagus was imminent. But, even if life support did re-establish to enable its safe removal, the certainty he could never leave the ship terrified him even more so.

Set out on a ground-breaking mission full of life, hope and renewal, the most sophisticated space vessel ever constructed was only destined then to eternally sail the universe. Already a tomb to his crew, he was captain of a bona-fide ghost ship.

He could take the easy way out, he knew, simply by closing his eyes and succumbing to exhaustion. Surprisingly, though, for a man who had been on a suicide mission, anyway, he found he could not allow himself to die–however tempting. He was the last of his kind. Surely there was purpose in that? Responsibility? But to what end, he could not fathom. Instead, he channelled the sentiment behind the actual mourning dove. He lamented the death of the world he so hated, while irrationally hoping for the impossible.

Waiting for the final breath that would bring about the extinction proper of every species Mother Earth had ever borne, he occupied his mind any way he might. He scribbled nonsensical poetry, relived memories, pleasant and sad, and even attempted to count a never-ending parade of nuts and raisins coasting through his narrow beam of light.

Oxygen from his primary life support subsystem gradually deflated like a helium balloon the morning after a party. The thermal radiation and respiratory pressure of air contained in his EMU was on reserve. His lungs demanded short, rapid gasps as its supply self-rationed. In the unpredictable, oft-violent turbulence the ship sporadically encountered, if he risked accessing the hatch to the mid-deck where replacement suits were stored, he could plummet the length of the bridge. But even so, without environmental systems, changing his suit likely meant instant death. The undress sequence was lengthy.

His head, heavy as a medicine ball, strained to turn for a different view through the leeside window, but again there were only distant stars.

With no perception of gravity or point of reference, it was impossible to tell if the ship was level or upended. The only indication the trajectory deviated was when the fruit