Welcome to the Journal of Now and Forever. This Journal is a collection of my Star Control and Star Control 2 fiction. Note: Some of this material is, by necessity, extrapolation from the slim information provided by canon sources.

New fiction is posted first at My Livejournal before it appears here. This story is in response to two challenges: First Lines 1000's Challenge #5 and The Other Write's Challenge #5.

Otto’s body feels abused, skin bruised, muscles aching.

The Revanche has been on autopilot – not Otto-pilot, he thinks – ever since the escape from the Earthling ambush. Otto doesn't know how much more time is left. He doesn't know how much time he has left, either.

The crack in the main screen should've been patched soon after the fighting, but Otto's the only one left, although the corpses of his crewmates make their presence well known after the past two days. He did try, once, to climb up there to fix it, but his injuries hurt too badly, and then he fell coming down – he still feels stupid about that. All he did was hurt himself worse, and fail to stop the hiss of air escaping the temporary seal.

He's the only one here who needs to breathe, but there's still only so much air here. Even after he broke open the emergency breathers, the hiss means he's losing cabin pressure too. He feels lightheaded, though perhaps that's because he doesn't feel hungry any more either.

Tu sroczka kaszkę

At least the voice stopped after a day or so. That was the worst, the voice talking its nonsense rhythms at him, in a singsong cadence. He finally passed out from exhaustion, and when he woke, there was silence in his head. That was a relief – if he was going to die, he'd rather not die crazy.

But that left the long emptiness of silence before him as the Revanche limped back to Eta Vulpeculae 2, fortunate to avoid any other ships whose gravity wells would pull her out of hyperspace and possibly into battle.

Otto had begun reciting things to himself – petroleum statistics, chemical formulae, truespace coordinates – but after a short time, he didn't know how long, he just recited them in his head instead. His own voice sounded alien in the cockpit, where he half-sat, half-lay in the pilot's chair, carefully angled so he saw only the main screen, not anything nearby. He couldn't bring himself to touch his crewmates, not even to move them somewhere else, not even to close their eyes.

ważyła, ważyła, ważyła

After a longer time he stopped thinking in Anglic and switched to his prima lingua instead. It was easier, and some things just didn't translate well to Anglic. And thinking in prima lingua seemed to drown out the voice, which talked, or whatever, at him from out of nowhere, because the voice used Anglic.

The comm crackles and words come out, normal Androsynth Anglic words, but Otto dully realizes he doesn't want to move, to talk. And he can't make out what they're saying in Anglic. Anglic's hard. Much easier to stick with the language he was taught from decanting...

The words continue, more than one voice, and then silence for a while, and Otto almost drifts off again when there's a shudder and a bump and the back of his mind, the part that still wants to pilot, notes that they've – he's – reached the starbase at Eta Vulpeculae 2. Someone there must have taken remote control and guided the wreck of the Revanche in.

More voices on the comm, and then the hatch opens, and Otto keeps staring at the screen, which now shows the great browny-green planet that is their home, and the ships that pass in and around the starbase, and a slice of the starbase itself which fills the corner of the screen where the patch leaks the breath and pressure of life into space.

Someone is talking to him, standing beside him, voice full of urgency, but Otto can barely raise his head; he just wants to sleep now. He's home, he made it. Made it when none of the rest did. The rest of the crew each got a share...

Temu dała, temu dała, temu dała, temu dała

He's a pilot, and he brought the ship and the crew home. Part of him is perversely proud of that, even if all he did was set the autopilot once in hyperspace. He could've died on the way back and the ship would still make it.

Atmospheric pressure returns to the cabin in a rush; Otto's head feels constricted, but it's easier to breathe. He feels more than sees the nasal spray injection given to him, and the pain starts fading, though his mind doesn't. It's all right. He feels not as light as under zero gees, but close. Maybe he really is that light, because they get him out of his pilot's seat and onto a stretcher, and he watches the ceiling lights go past as he leaves the ship. He never wants to go back in, he knows now, not into that ship.

The motion of watching the lights makes him nauseous suddenly, but they spray something else into his throat and ear and it passes.

Still talking to him. He feels hyperaware now, but the words escape him. Anglic. He tries to talk, says the first words in his prima lingua. He looks up at the one trying to talk to him, notices the sweat, the fine details of reddish-blond hair and pores and freckled skin patterning, has a hard time noticing the usual features like eyes and nose and mouth. It's fascinating. He says so.

The reddish-blond hair nods with its owner's head and turns to call an order to someone else. Maybe to find someone who speaks the same language. Maybe to reserve a bed. Yes. He needs to rest, away from the ship, away from space. It's been so long since he didn't sleep in a ship. Away from voices from nowhere and the gurgles and the never-near-silence of space.

He turns his head to the side and closes his eyes.

A temu łeb urwała i frrrrry odfruneła!

At least his head is still attached. That must count for something.

~ ~ ~

Author's Note: The lyrics are to an actual song sung to infants in Eastern Europe. Here is the translation.

Here a magpie stirred the baby cereal
Gave it to this one, this one, this one, this one
And this one she ripped his head off and (“frrrry” sound that a bird may make) flew away!

Comments? Email me: laridian at aol dot com