Storytime: Capsuleer

The following is a completely fictitious story. This is not a past life. This did not happen to me. I have no idea why I have written it, except that it wanted to be written. So, enjoy!

I've been floating in this capsule for 157 days as far as the computer is concerned. I have no idea where I am. Everywhere is deep darkness and a field of stars that doesn't change. It feels like solitary confinement, which is not something I savor remembering. After all, I only just escaped it to end up in this blasted toothpaste tube floating through the ether.

Back on Ganymede, I was sentenced to 8 cycles in solitary, because I had the audacity to hum a tune in the food line. 8. Cycles. I wish I could tell you how long that is in a time span you would comprehend, but I do not know the calculations and am not bothered to assist you. Apologies. It's rather exhausting to sit in a matchbox in space with nothing but your mind to babble at you like an old man at the market.

Perhaps I have become a tad bitter. No matter. Here I am, in space. In a well. I might as well be in a well for all the good it does me. I have just a little bit more rations left, but my word my suit doesn't fit anymore. It hangs off me and gets caught on the most random of objects when I try to stretch my legs. For example, there's a tiny switch next to the throttle responsible for opening a compartment filled with chewing gum. Why does my suit catch on this miniscule switch every time?

Yet there it goes, just now, catching on that switch, throwing open the compartment. Now there's chewing gum floating in the capsule, which I chase down like a cat trying to catch bubbles.

You might be wondering why I was imprisoned on Ganymede in the first place. Well, here's why. I don't bloody know. Maybe I said something to some diplomat at some point that turned them blue or purple or whatever frelling color it is they turn when they're upset. All I know is one minute I was having a conversation with said, whatever-they-were, the next minute a couple of over-drunk Alpha Centauri are hauling me to the brig with threats of spacing me. "What? What did I say?" But they never could tell me. I don't even think they knew. They put something in my food, and it was lights out. Next time I woke up, ta-da, Ganymede. Population: 254. Prison population: 243.

Now it's 242. Ha!

* * *

I don't know how long I've been quiet. Let me ask the computer. Computer doesn't know. Well, I've been drifting in and out of consciousness lately. It's dreadfully boring out here. But now I'm bothering to log something, because now there's something to see!

A tiny little gold dot is approaching me. I keep flashing the lights of the capsule, but it makes no sign of seeing me. So, I tried hailing it, but received no response. I have no idea what's going on with this thing. It looks like a small craft, but who knows in this quadrant with the random junk floating around.

Funny, they blame all the humans on Earth for junking up their orbital ring, and yet there's more junk out near Saturn than anywhere else. This doesn't look like junk.

* * *

Been a few days. Now the computer is back to knowing what day it is. Must mean we're closing in on something with enough circuitry to assist us. Though, strangely, the computer seems to think the present Earth year is 1978. Odd.

The object is closing in. I'm hearing something finally coming in from the craft, but it's in radiowaves. This makes no sense. Why radiowaves? Who sends anything in radiowaves anymore?

* * *

Here it comes. I'm right on it. It's small, gold, has little antennas sticking out of it. Who built this piece of shit?

The sound it's making. I can hear it clearer now. I'm trying to hail the craft in hopes of getting out of this tuna can. Which does not smell like tuna at all--I'll spare you the actual description of the smell.

No response. But it's still making noise.

Now I'm right on top of it... I hear... Singing.

"Young man, are you listening to me?" It says.

"Yes, I'm listening to you! Hail! Who are you?"

"Young man, what do you want to be?"

"I, what?"

"Young man, you can make real your dreams."

"What is this? What is the meaning of this? Is this some sort of joke?"

"Young man, put your pride on the shelf."

"Well, now there's you're just being pretentious."

"It's fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A."

"What? Oh. Oh no. Oh no. Please no. No, no, no, no, no, no." I know this is a song. I feel so foolish. But of all the songs. Why the catchiest one ever invented by humanity?

And then it flies past me. A piece of gold foil broadcasting the Village People from Earth. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

On I float, deeper into the darkness. And, well, if you hear me singing the Y.M.C.A. over the muon frequencies, you wouldn't be wrong. At least you can't see the dancing. Best you don't. Best not speak of this at all.

Over. Out.

---

I thank you for your time. Adiamas.

​--Kyriel