The Son

Pit. Pat. Pit. Pat.

Feet on plastic, pacing, nerves worked out in motion.

Wuhwuhwuh.

Deep humming, the grav-belt, constant, allowing the comfort of sticking to the floor.

I walk through the stark-white halls of this damnable craft. It is a miserable sight, offering no solace to a man suffering from solitude. The windows are even worse. As I walk by the portholes I look out, expecting something for my eyes to cling to, despite the past 25 years telling me nothing will come. Emptiness. It's crept in and made itself at home since Father died.

White walls, white seat, white frame.

Press of a white button, twist of a white knob, and there is color, blue. The frame fills with the glowing projections of life beyond the craft.

Hand wave to the right, fingers flick up, both hands swirling. I prefer the purple projections.

I navigate through frames, checking messages, always full of expectations. Today it's the same lists I've lived since childhood.

Run craft diagnostics: ambient radiation collector, nanomaterial converter, Casimir quantum thruster, hull integrity.

Cargo check: climate control readings, cleaning, inventory, grav-belt checks, pregnancy checks, feed, water.

A new message, an expected message: MANDATORY CONFERENCE REPORT OVERDUE - CONTACT USER ID_00035744 ASAP

It can wait. It will wait. I have other duties to get to first, duties they gave me. They shouldn't give them to me if something else is so important. I'll take it as a suggestion for now.

More humming, more pitting, more patting.

The craft diagnostic will take care of itself. I'm at least 60% sure I made the right gestures to start it. I've walked too far from the holo-terminal now to justify going back. It'll be done one way or another.

The cargo bay is my favorite space on the craft, it contains my favorite childhood memories. Before stepping foot inside I check the climate control instruments.

18 °C, perfect.

43% humidity. On the dry side, unusual, but it's within the acceptable range.

Two flicks of the wrist to bring up an amber-hued projection from my watch. A swipe and a shake with the offhand. Check, climate control readings are updated for the report. There is a reminder: CONTACT USER ID_00035744 ASAP

I step through the double-door quarantine chamber and into the ecosphere. The chattering of quacks and bleats ring out as a greeting, perhaps for food, but I like to assume for me. Woven in between the innumerable cries is the intrusive humming of hundreds of grav-belts. No gravity-defying goats or ducks.

Two flicks, amber-hue.

Swipe, shake.

Check, grav-belts updated.

CONTACT USER ID_00035744 ASAP

My nose is assaulted from the moment the doors open. From the wall I take down the vape-vac, looking for the sources of the smell.

"I spy with my little eye a piece of shit."

The micro-porous surfaces will lead the urine away, but this is what remains. I walk over to the offensive pile, pulling the vape-vac's hose along as it dangles from the ceiling. I place the metal dome at the end of the tube over the unsightly stack, press a button to fully envelop the excrement with an extending metal plate, and I position the rod that protrudes from the dome upright. I slam the rod down and feel the plasma concussion vaporize the waste, pulling the rod back up I hear the suction start in the ceiling and rattle the hose as the noxious material is ejected from the craft.