I’m already dead. All that’s left is the waiting.
The first thing I did—after trying to restart the engines, after doing the math, after uselessly calling for help, after all the frantic troubleshooting and cursing and rewiring and throwing things—was to close the heat shielding across the viewport. My death is coming, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch.
It was stupid to cut this close to the sun; there’s no safety net out here, and obviously the risks are… high. But I had spotted a really promising asteroid to mine, and the rest is history, I guess. My very short remaining history.
What do you do, when you know you’re going to die? It isn’t something I’ve ever thought about. Not because I haven’t thought about death—my mom died when I was nineteen, trust me, I’ve thought about it—but because you just, well, die. Right?
I only have a few hours. I’m caught in the sun’s gravity, the solar flare that fried my ship gone as quick as it came. I’ve been sitting here in the dark, too stunned for anything else. Should I write letters? If so, to who? There’s only one person that would have cared—cared in an ‘expect a letter from the dying girl’ kind of way—and she’s already gone.
But here in the dark, arms wrapped around my knees like a little kid, I think of her. My mom.
It was always just the two of us. And when the hull creaks abruptly in response to the ever-increasing heat, I’m viscerally reminded of being woken by a crack of thunder in that shitty old apartment on Hargrove. I couldn’t have been more than seven years old, tumbling out of bed to look for my mom where she slept on the couch.
“Mama, I’m scared,” I whispered; my room was too dark, and too quiet, but I felt guilty for wanting to wake her. I’d been at the neighbor’s all day while she worked a double, and I was old enough to understand how miserable that was.
But she was already awake and waiting for me with a lit candle, the light gentle on her tired face. “It’s alright, bug. The power’s just out,” she reassured me, hands out in invitation. I took a few steps to her, feet cold against the tile, and climbed into her lap; she pulled my hair back, away from the candle’s flame.
The memory is so real, so immediate, like I could tuck my head under her chin even now, safe, even with the storm raging outside, the wind rattling the cheap windows in their frames. If this is how my mind is choosing to do the life-flashing-before-your-eyes thing, then it’s an unexpected comfort.
But all too quickly the memory fades. I want to keep her with me; I have vids, but there isn’t enough power to watch them. My heart clenches as I realize I won’t be able to see her again, before I… go.
I wish I had a candle, that I could recreate at least part of that memory. Maybe then I could see her face, in my mind’s eye at least, the light flickering against her skin. It feels hazy as I reach for it, that image of her—any image of her—and I choke back a sob.
A candle, a candle… I consider looking for one in the storage locker of my little ship, but that’s dumb; there’s no fire in a spaceship. Plenty outside, I think sourly, but push the thought away, not wanting to visualize spiraling closer to my inevitable end.
But it isn’t so much about the flame itself, I realize. It’s the light. Its comforting warmth, the way it dances and moves. I wasn’t able to restore enough power for anything useful, but…
I unfold myself enough to reach the console, the one I’d managed to power from the backup batteries. I don’t want just light, I want candlelight, or as close as I can get, and sweat drips from the end of my nose as I start punching in commands.
Color temperature? Very warm, maybe 2000 K; power, low, let’s say 3%. Flickering is the trickier part, but it isn’t like there’s anything else to do. The heat has gone beyond oppressive, impossible to ignore, but I do my best as I program a randomization routine for the strip of lights that line the ceiling.
I close my eyes, trying to bring the memory back, finger hovering over the console like I’m preparing to cast a spell. And I suppose I am; I know it isn’t real, but I’ll do anything, anything to feel her with me again.
I trigger the lights, eyes still closed, terrified it won’t work and I’ll really die alone. Slowly, I open them. And see my ship, transformed.
Dozens of gently flickering lights fill the space with a warm, comforting glow, like something magical, or even holy; a memorial, a church. But I don’t want God. I just want my mom.
I feel tears track down my face as the memory slowly returns. I can feel her with me, and I shudder in relief. I’m spinning closer to the end, and I don’t want that to matter, but as I look out the shielding is melting into glowing slag around the edges and I can’t help but whimper.
“Mama, I’m scared.”
“It’s alright, bug. It’s alright.”
Hearing her, I squeeze my eyes shut and push myself deeper into the memory; I’m in her lap. She holds me tight. I look up to see her face, as familiar as my own; how could I have forgotten? The love in her eyes steadies me, as constant and unchanging as the universe.
The ship screams around me, or maybe that’s me, but no, no, it’s just the thunder, the rattling windows, I’m with her, I’m safe, mama, please; she squeezes me, face pressed into my hair.
And the ship comes apart, the hull finally giving way.
And I turn into light itself.