Wiping away the rime of condensation that reformed every few moments, Dorian Walker tapped the ship’s life-support display. A pointless exercise but at least those numbers changed, albeit for the worse. Of course, there was a bright side. Standing there and watching the numbers fall, it was almost like he was doing something besides waiting to die.

Warning alarms twinkled from every control panel on the bridge of the Blue Horizon, as they had now for over a week in colorful patterns that struck him as incongruously sportive. They certainly beat the view through the ports. While his scanner screens insisted he was surrounded by thousands of stars of every size and considerable brightness, his naked eye saw only unremitting darkness. He had more than a passing acquaintance with the sight, but never till now had it evoked such solitude. This wasn't just a vacant pocket of space but the knife-edge of the universe far beyond the boundaries of the known. He was drifting aimlessly through a void that was endless and absolute.

To preserve his shredded sanity, he'd muted the alarms. But he felt bad for the ship that had served him so faithfully after he'd run her so hard. At least she'd still be salvageable in a week or an eon. Him not so much.

He was down to vestigial wisps of oxygen and crumbs of food that tasted worse than the container in which it was packed. He knew, because he'd sampled both. Just a few drops of water since the hydrator fuse had fried. The only thing in even shorter supply than his potables was ideas.

Dorian stared at the one button that wasn't flashing. The only one that mattered. He had just enough juice left for one more jump, a small one. Then he'd be reduced to fumes. A fitting end, he reflected, to a man chasing a pipe dream.

His weary gaze lit on the ancient, dog-eared tome by his elbow. It made him think of family, which made him think of Belle.

He hoped she'd remember him. Was more than he reckoned he deserved.

But he hoped just the same.

Source: World Story