Away in the Ow Galaxy
Captain Bleh and his steadfast Ache-onauts still struggle against the forces of sickness and will-sapping malaise.
5 hours of dreamless, fitful sleep brought our heroes to a morning wake-up distinguished from other nights of neither with a pounding headache. The master of the ship hydrated, hydrated again, and then had a delicious Egg Omelette.
Several hours of mindless staring were ahead of our intrepid commander, until finally he could take no more, and lay down. one nap, two naps, and then he could lie no longer either on his couch, or to himself. the briefings on his viewer might as well have been shown to an empty chair, for all the attention he paid them. Another session would be required, another set of hours passing by in front of his numb and unseeing eyes.
He deserved better. He could give more. If the pain would stop, and the nights were longer.
It was time to go. There was no produce here, fruit would not grow in the cold, frozen chamber that held naught but seasonings. the storage lockers held only half of what ne needed, and the next possible supply vessel was far away in both space and time.
There was a place he could go, a marvelous world of color and sound that held the answers to all of his problems. It was not far, but travel to where the fuel was available was a journey to which he did not see a pleasant ending.
Slowly, painfully, he moved through his cabin until his uniform was assembled. it would not do for the crew to see him like this. Various pieces of his attire were spread around his private area, but he could clearly remember where he had placed them in days past. The warm, comfortable over tunic, the soft and sturdy denim trousers. The very effort of dressing was nearly too much for him to take, and a short rest was needed.
He sat dejectedly on the floor of the main room, holding sanitary socks in his hand and willing them onto his feet. Nearby was a cabinet full of unsorted relics, and his trained and disciplined mind guided his hands to a practiced activity, separating the important from the merely present.
Soon a small pile of sculpted, brightly colored figurines was set aside for later attention. it was a diversion, a distraction from the less pleasant task before him. Nothing had been done to address the gnawing emptiness inside, but the floor was not judging. It gave support in his time of pain, and he was thankful for it.
Two arm-lengths away were the final pieces of his wardrobe, the polished leather shoes he had worn to so many staff meetings. Soft, supple, the memory of them hugged his feet in comfort, the padded insoles and sturdy sides promising a safe, if not pleasant trip to the commissary.
One set of laces was fastened, and he stopped to catch his breath in a spinning world of agony. The second took two tries, but it joined the other on his feet.
And now, to stand.
Nothing had changed since his time on the low, padded couch. the hunger was there, as was the pain. But now he could address both. He could leave the chamber, walk out of his small, insular world into the threatening constellations beyond the portal.
If only the pounding, throbbing pulse in his temples would end…