Tevun-Krus #66 - Satanic SF

Angels - A Short Story by @jinnis

Angels

By jinnis

"Listen, Mac, whatever you think you've seen, it's not angels. Angels don't exist. We're meant to do a job, right? So please stop daydreaming and get the mining probe into gear."

Sarah snorts and tucks a loose curl of black hair behind her ear, challenging her teammate with narrowed eyes to contradict her. Mac only sneers, but at least he stands up and shuffles aft to the cargo bay where they store the probe.

Soon, the hissing of the welder drowns the gentle hum of the impulse drive, a sure sign Mac is at his job. As partners go, she should be glad for this lucky stroke, despite his tendency to take every flickering of his screen as a spiritual experience. Mac is a solid worker and craftsman, a handy asset on a mining bucket in the Belt.

However, they grate on each other's nerves more often than it's healthy. Sarah is glad their mission is bound to end in two more cycles, with a long break on Taranis station beckoning after debriefing. Only twelve additional, boring asteroids to survey.

She runs the analysis of another chunk of space rock, stores the data, and calls up her log when the ship's sensors trigger a warning on her screen.

Unidentified anomaly in sector delta-45b

Delta-45b sounds a bell. Didn't Mac claim he saw an angel in this segment of the last surround scan? Sarah calls up visuals and gasps when the main screen fills with pastel swirls and wisps resembling strands of mist. They twist around each other and remind her of moths above a lantern, butterflies dancing over a field of flowers.

Reluctantly, she presses the comm button. It takes a moment until the welder shuts down and Mac's steps resound on the grating.

"What's so urgent, Cap?"

Sarah hates the nickname and the sarcasm she perceives in his voice. But for once, she ignores it.

"Mac, is this what you recorded before?"

The elder man scratches his stubbly beard and nods. Fascinated, she studies the screen.

"It's beautiful. Let's have a closer look."

"Sarah, I'm not sure we should meddle with angels. They ... might get angry."

She suppresses another snort, not sure if Mac is dead serious or teasing. But her curiosity supersedes her annoyance.

"Let's explore. Something in this cloud causes the effect. You know the company offers a substantial reward for exploitable discoveries. This might prove our ticket to bliss."

The well-know scratching of fingers on stubble tells her Mac thinks hard. She doesn't wait for the result of the process and sets a course towards 45b. Privilege of the captain. Her crew surprises her with an unexpected statement.

"Fine, Sarah, the probe will be ready in a minute. Let's check the bugger. We might afford to upgrade this bucket. Or retire to a terraformed planet, those called paradise colonies, and buy that farm you're dreaming of."

Wait, what? Her gaze follows Mac's retreating back. Is this a joke? She thought the man hated her with a vengeance. She always makes fun of his spirituality and yet... Well, this is the wrong moment to ponder blossoming affection, born of isolation. There's an anomaly to explore.

Pushing all the disturbing thoughts about her partner to the back of her mind, Sarah concentrates on the approach.

The apparition, whatever it is, is incredibly beautiful. She can't identify Mac's angels, but the swirling colours, glittering like a butterfly's delicate wings in the morning sun, make her heart burn with longing. The Santos approaches faster than she intended, as if the ship were eager to get closer to the swirling mists.

"Mac? Are you ready with the probe?"

"Yes, Cap, ready when you are."

"Right, there is a force field. I want to bring us to the edge and then release. Only seconds now."

A shiver runs through the ship and the stick in Sarah's hand feels alive for a moment. Her eyes glued to the screen, she finally sees what Mac called angels. Ethereal beings, dancing to a slow rhythm around the apparitions dark centre, the place that beckons with unfathomable secrets.

Slowly, reluctantly, she releases the stick. The Santos dips to the left and gathers momentum, diving towards the swirling vortex like a frog into the pond behind her granddad's house.

There is no splash when they enter the mist, although Sarah, caught up in the picture of the frog, unconsciously waits for it. Instead, the Santos shivers and groans under the strains of unknown forces attacking her fragile hull. A screech assaults Sarah's eardrums and calls her out of her reverie. This is the moment she realises her mistake. They are in serious trouble.

She grabs the stick and, struggling for control, pulls it towards her chest with all the force her gravitation-deprived body can muster. The ship doesn't budge. Its list becomes more pronounced, and soon the nauseating feeling of being sucked into a tightening spiral down a drain overwhelms the pilot.

Helpless, Sarah witnesses the Santos tumbling towards fate at increasing speed. Through the screeching of the tortured hull, she doesn't hear Mac's approach. Suddenly he is there, clawing his way to her side across the buckling floor. She reaches out a hand, pulls him close, thankful for the companionship of another human. Mac ends up on his knees beside her chair, holding onto the armrest and her hand with force.

"Sarah, this is it. The ship can't take it. This is where we die. Pray to god the angels welcome our souls."

When Sarah tries to answer she realises she can't raise her voice above the hubbub. And only then she knows she didn't hear Mac's words, not in the traditional sense. They were inside her head, desperate thoughts mingling with her own. Frightened, she holds onto his hand, an anchor in a shifting reality.

The increasing pressure deforms the Santos' hull and reduces the ship to a lump of irrelevant matter, oblivious of the pain of two humans caught in the destruction. In the end, there is nothing but impenetrable blackness, and pain, and consciousness.

Lost in the abyss of a growing black hole, the intermingled remains of two souls cry for help, release, anything. But their pleading remains unheard. Almost squelched by agony, a tiny flame of hope is the last thing flickering in the eternal expanses of hell.