Omega-7

Our commitments can sometimes lead us to lives of isolation. Connecting to our memories and the simplest elements of reality can be our salvation, perhaps.

It had been six months since he had arrived on Omega-7, a small mining outpost in the Kragon Quadrant. Six months he thought. Half-way through his one year required rotational assignment on this desolate planet.

He had just finished his routine inspections and repairs of the robots, robonauts, and automation equipment. Without them functioning in proper order there would be no production of transplutonioum that was so vital to the very existence of The Colony. No production would mean an extension to his tour on this forsaken rock. He did not wish to endure the hot dry dust of this piece of cosmic s**t any longer than demanded by his Colonial Mining Contract.

The Colonial Mining Contract not only stated the terms of his engagement, but had become the blueprint of his everyday existence. Governing his every action. Ruling his every thought. Violations of the Contract carried very specific penalties, and as near as he could tell provided very few rewards. That very fact made the “miracle” even more miraculous.

He had entered his quarters through the set of triple airlocks, after enduring the routine sanitation and sterilization procedures within the two inner chambers of the airlock system. He had still not become quite accustom to the feeling of violation that left with him, even though he knew it was essential to his very survival. He continued his routine.

First, water. Replenishing his body with the cool clear liquid was at times pleasurable; one of the few pleasures permitted him under the Contract. Today however the long hours out in the dust of the rock made his body scream with thirst. He drank quickly.

Then he proceeded with the normal required reporting and logging. The drudgery that had become his sole companion filled the room. Checking his message log he noticed something unusual. In six months he had not encountered such a message. It simply said, “Personal item delivered via Bell transport to Kragon:Omega-7.”  The Bell transport was used solely for the transmission of only the most vital materials and was strictly controlled by The Colony, which made the entry even more unusual.

He slowly rose from where he had been seated, still aching from the labors of the day, walked across the room to the transport bay and entered the high bay room. There, within the cavernous tomb of deafening silence, centered upon the transport platform, sat a small plain brown box. The very sight of it almost made him breakout in laughter. Here upon a platform designed to receive replacement equipment and parts, objects often ten times his size, sat a small brown box of merely six inches square.

Cautiously he strode over to the box and carefully picked it up. Examining closely each side of the box he found no markings, no identification, not a hint of its origin or its purpose. Further satisfaction of his curiosity would have to wait. For now he needed to get out of this tomb before the onset of the Miners Misery which he had recently begun to experience. Miners Misery, such a seemingly harmless term for process of quietly going mad that often affected the miners on the automated outposts. His mental fortitude, a stout trait that had never faltered, had only recent been challenged, and then only when we was in the tomb for extended periods of time.

As he returned to the living quarters he felt the anxiety that had begun to well up within him start to subside. Though these bouts of fleeting insanity were still well within his control he had begun to realize that his remaining time on the rock would be as much an exercise in mental exertion to retain his sanity as it would be physical exertion to meet his quotas. This is the detail they don’t put into the Contract, he thought, the fact that they own your mind as well as your body for the tour.

Making every effort to reconnect with the stark reality that is his miner’s existence he slowly made his way to dining area. There he sat, placing the brown box directly in front of him on the table. For a brief moment he flashed to the remainder of his normal routine and his stomach ached from hunger, calling to him to put aside this meaningless diversion and continue with his food preparation. Whether it was a remnant of the Misery or something else there was a growing sense that whatever was in this box was important. After all, as is stated in the Contract, “the Bell transport is used only for the transmission of vital materials and solely at the discretion of The Colony.”

He refocused on the brown box. Pulling a small knife from across the table he made a slight score along one edge of the box. Instantly his senses were assaulted with a familiar smell. Familiar as it was he did not yet connect it with the image of any object. It was simultaneously familiar and foreign, something out of place in this world of rock, dust, machines and Misery. He continued to score the edges of the box until he had completed three edges that would permit the opening of a flap. With each cut the intensity of the aroma increased. A smile began to form across his consciousness; even without him yet realizing what wonder was held within the box.

Slowly he lifted the flap. He deliberately slid out from within the box a package of wrapped paper. Upon the paper, affixing together the delicately folded edges was a glittering gold stamp in the shape of a heart. How could this be? Now recognizing the smell that had seemed so foreign within this foreign world his confusion grew. Gently peeling back the crisp white paper and laying it flat his eyes widened with excitement and joy. There sitting on the stark white background were six perfectly formed cookies.

The smell now grasped his mind like the terror from a nightmare. He was overcome with the smell of brown sugar, flour, seasonings, nuts, and chocolate. In his mind he could hold each of these ingredients, separate and apart. Savoring them. Exploring them. He combined in his mind the individual colors, textures and tastes until they had formed into the perfect recreation of the cookie. He reached out and slowly raised one of the cookies to his lips. Nibbling, so as to conserve the precious morsel as well as to savor every bit of flavor to its maximum extent, his mind began to wander.

The form had been a clue, the flavor connected this clue to an answer, and now that answer sprang forth in full bloom with the force of thrusting rocket. These gems, these miraculous morsels of pure ecstasy, they were not just cookies. They were Her cookies.

With every nibble, every savor, the image in his mind became clearer. First the image of Her long thin fingers working and shaping the dough. Lovely, caring fingers which had on other occasions been the source of sparks of joy as they would touch his skin. As she continued to work the dough Her arms gently rocked it upon the table. The very arms which he longed to have wrapped around him in Her familiar loving embrace. Each bite of the miracle gift brought clarity to yet another portion of her image. Her long black hair that glistened like the stars. The deep blue eyes which had captured his very soul such a long time ago. The perfect lips which add just a bit more sweetness to each bite that he took. The fullness of her bosom that reminded him of the warmth of the fresh cookies. The narrow waist where he would wrap his arms when next they met. Her long, slender legs that resembled more the graceful notes of a familiar melody.

As Her image coalesced in his mind he approached Her and took Her into his arms. With every further morsel of the miracle gift his passion began to rage uncontrollably. They fell into each other’s arms and he looked long into her eyes. With a great sense of apprehension, born more of the miles and time of separation than any form of fear, he pulled Her body toward him. As their lips met, yearning to feel the touch of another soul, everything went black. The last image that flashed across his mind was that of the perfect cookie.

“Colony base. Omega-7 rescue team.”

“Omega-7 this is Colony base. What did you find?”

“We found him face down. Right in the middle of transport platform. Looks like another case of the Misery.”

“Get it cleaned up. We have a new Miner landing for his tour.”

“Roger that, we’re on it. Funny thing though. This one has a smile on his face.”

Author's Note

I realize that this story can still be improved. I will not limit your comments. All comments that would improve the story or my writing are welcome.

Reviews

[Stanley Wilson]

great story humour and darkness with mystery too enjoyed this read