2. Pods in the Bright

The pods (a gamble at best) launched.

To where exactly, in the past-present is an unsurity, but as they used to say, time would tell.

One of the younger Travellers who had been tasked with monitoring the flickering screens heralding their communal doom had managed to hotwire a panel (rebelliously; recklessly, but what is youth for if not to test ones limits,) to be able to triangulate and remotely monitor the other pods.

Why this wasn’t a built-in feature was beyond them; Who were these original architects? What was the purpose of this system?

Some bullshit tourist trap, like the Ark? Something initially designed as a waypoint (now a deceased sanctum) for the pearl-clutching (Youngling had heard of pearls, and how the greedy had pried them from the mouths of mollusks to string together for a neck garment, definitely an unnecessary luxury once the wars came) privileged; screens with over-zealous ambitions and optimistic messages of “ALL IS WELL” despite the reality obviously being the inverse.

The interface was rudimentary, and the radar was limited, reaching to a mere 1Ly from their position.

Lightyears were a base unit of the ark, and from the archaic records the young one knew that the Groundlings used an even smaller unit to calculate distance.

Kilometers, or Miles (why there were two units was unclear, but Youngling knew that it was yet another vapid reason for the wars, or so said the elders), both of which being microscopic compared to the Arks base unit of lightyears. Why did the Groundlings even care about such a small scale? Why bother?

It’s no bother now anyways: the ground is likely to enter the Brightness and cease to exist on this plane.

In the lightyear the young one could see, there were at least 10 pods within communication range, assuming the communication modules could be remotely activated.

A big if, to be sure, but fuck it, they hotwired this bitch so why not try. If all there is in the future is Brightness, why not try? Maybe the Youngling could sing with their comradores, like they all used to on the ground with Care Ree Oka;. Another tale of yesteryear from the elders.

The determined youngling set to work, accessing the task manager first to see what programs were in fact running this (this was SUCH a rudimentary system, an embarrassment for the species if it’s rudimentary nature hadn’t benefited them in this 25th hour.)

Simply named, ComSec appeared to be the security program for the communications, and Skynet was the broadcast. Easy, just have to bind those two.

Next was a trickier program: AntiGone, the logic processor that triaged the hierarchy of messages, meaning that given the current broadcast by the pods, NOTHING would supercede the SOS survival message, an auto reply even empty ships would project. To approach that problem, we would need to find a message more important then Saving Our Souls.

Would “We Are Dead” be more or less important? What about “We Are Alive, but not for long?” be more impactful? What about “Help Us, goddamnit.” (Goddamnit was somethinging the Youngling heard an elder exclaim when they’d slammed a pod door on their hand after a scheduled inspection, and not knowing what a Goddamnit were met with the elusive answer of “something that caused the wars, now FOCUS”.)

They decided to append an 3m0tic0n to the SOS, to maintain the original message and hopefully work with all systems of receipt, but to also let anyone who might encounter this messiginal-milestone know that it’s not just an auto reply.

The broadcast now read [S.O.S 🎈👋🏼].

The Youngling had heard about Ball Loons; floating pieces of rubber filled with gasses, or the less floating oxygen, used to somehow celebrate a religious holiday or planetary orbital revolution based on birth. What a weird species humans are.

Sighing and sitting back, the Youngling decided that in these cramped quarters, this is the best they could do with such limited resources.

They wondered if anyone else was trying to communicate. Did anyone else feel like they had to do something, or was this just something happening to them? Was it normal to feel… Lacking power? Adrift? Guilty, despite having no role in the cause of the wars, OR the downfall of the ark, other than their inherent existence, which was no choice of their own?

So what is there to do while waiting for the promised Brightness? There were no games in the console, which was something the elders has described about Their pocket boxes.

They had played vortex in the early days of the pocket box, a rotational brick game. Or minesweeper, a war reenactment of explosive devices. There was chess, another war reenactment with different characters having different roles, just like they had on the Ark.

And then there was Tetris. Those who worked in the storerooms had to manage stacking and organization when the productions wing was still producing, with new deliveries daily, placing things in their right spaces so they knew where they were and there was enough room for everything the Ark needed to continue in comfort. Tetris was like that.

The Youngling had helped their family in the storage room until they were t8; it was one of the earliest memories they had, a memory swiftly suppressed once the wars started and the final solution was implemented.

They kind of missed the simplicity of those early days of the war, when They thought it could have ended quickly. But the Youngling realized that the wars had always been going on, really, but the difference was that this time the Groundlings had turned to atomic explosives again, trying to destroy the atmosphere because “if they couldn’t have it, no one could”.

Or at least it looked that way from the Ark. The youngling always wondered if what they saw was what was actually happening.

They had heard of virtual reality, or VR. That was around the Christian Era 2010-2020 if their shoddy history served then now. But was this that?

What if the glass of the ark was really just a screen, like that one flickering and foretelling their doom, the one they were tasked to monitor?

What if it was their eyes? They had the Heath wing augment their cataracts, like most have done around t14.

What if this was just a dream; one they would wake up from, running to the gym for their prescribed physical activity while the dream drifts from their frontal context and the adrenaline fades?

While that’s a pleasant thought, it didn’t drag the Youngling from the reality of being alone in a pod, trying to find a way to activate the communication modules of the lightyear-near pods.

Refocusing, they set to the task.

Simply enough, they bound the two tasks they could. Easy. And they’d adjusted the AntiGone 3m0tic0n so hopefully it wouldn’t trigger an error, but would register as a unique entry. And now to force a ping to everything in range. Trickier.

Scanning the available programs, knowing they couldn’t rawwrite something on this console, they found several ping programs. Fuck.

Deciding redundancy is better than deficiency, they typed “Ping=0; Source=All” for all of the programs even remotely referencing outbound communications. Fuck it, bother everyone. Go out annoying, if the brightness is coming for us all, let it.

Sitting back, they waited. Not really expecting anything but at the same time, expecting everything.

Resources were gone on the ship. The pods of isolation were all they had left for base survival, let along survival beyond the next (24? 48?) hours. Hunger would probably take more than a lack of oxygen, at this point. They had been trained and taught about this likely eventuality. The Architects allegedly knew what they were doing, but they weren’t perfect and hadn’t figured out sustenance without substance yet. Shame, they could have been great. Maybe a food lotion? The Youngling added that to their notebook, should the Brightness be kind and they arrive successfully.

They closed their eyes, because they had done their due diligence, and staring at the screen wouldn’t do anything to force a reply. Nor speed it up.

Remembering fondly, the Elders used to say “A watch pot never boils”, whatever a watch pot is, the youngling didn’t know. They had asked, but their questions were always just an annoyance for the Elders and resulted in “Reeducation of the Tenants of Accuracy in Language” and “Respect of the Elders”. This was where this youngling spent most of their time, learning less than their cohorts but they didn’t really care. Nothing seemed to matter when everyone was miserable.

Drifting in and out of sleep, they were startled awake by a “Plonk* they didn’t expect. Why did it make noise? This wasn’t something they had heard on the ark… was it a dream? This was NOT in training.

They looked out the hatch and there was no sign there was impact, so that was good at least.

Turning their gaze to the console, they noticed a light in the footwell they hadn’t noticed before (and why would they have?)It was gently pulsating. Was this a warning?

Again, a “Plonk”.

Startling again, the Youngling frantically tried to find a speaker. Crouching in the footwell, they scraped a fingernail along the seemingly injection-moulded surface. It sounded like it was coming from inside the dash. Why though?

They found a seam: not quite at the seat they were pressed so crampidly against, but not at the screen either (the phrase “tight quarters” didn’t do this pod justice.) About 2/3rds of the way along, nearer to the screen than the seat, there it was.

Their fingers couldn’t quite grasp the lip, but they realized that since this pod was New-Old, it still used a metal in the seam connecting the plastic seat to the cushion.

Hoping they wouldn’t regret this or get in trouble with Elders (assuming they all met the Brightness together) the Youngling pried the seam open, splitting the seat from the cushion, and resulting in a thin shard of metal pressed tightly between their shaking hands rebounding in the tight space.

They felt a slick sheen on their forearm. They appeared to have split open not only the seat, but the the tender flesh on their forearm. Thankfully not a main vein, but alarming nonetheless. They tore off the bottom inch of their tunic and tightly wrapped it around the laceration. That’s what they get for trying something new, it seems.

They’d earn a chastising from an elder once they arrive at the Brightness; Another reeducation for this bold departure from the cautious expectation of the arks inhabitants.

The strip of metal, now slick with plasma and blood, was used to wriggle into the crevice on the dash. What a poor design these Architects had, to make some sort of auditory device hidden INSIDE the console. To what end? What did they expect? Did they even think this far ahead, or what it not Their problem when they designed this?

It slipped within, and broke off. Fuck. Trying again, now with a jagged edge, instead of being as direct the Youngling used a tilting method; left to right on a 45 degree angle instead of a sawing motion.

This time, the panel began to lift. Enough to grasp the edge, prying gently, then more forcefully, excitement and curiosity driving the determination to discover.

The panel pops off with an exclamatory crack, now broken, not just removed. Whatever, these pods aren’t designed for long term anyways; They were a last resort.

Inside was a more intricate panel, similar to the backend coding the Youngling learned in passing (they preferred the UX with the images and the rounded corners and easy to follow breadcrumbs.) It was sparse, but finicky.

And within, a small flashing light, beside an exceptionally rudimentary LCD screen (another thing, LCD had been “extinct” for long before the war, but the elders had an artifact they showed the Younglings, so it wasn’t totally unfamiliar) blinked menacingly at the Youngling.

On it, a simple message: MSG RCVD, HLP IMBND.

Message recieved, help inbound.

Well, fuck: Let’s see where this takes us.

What’s the worst that could happen?