Pitch darkness wraps the tight chamber of the ship.
Each wall a cluster of vacuum tubes and rivets of the metal plated hull.
20 or so suspended crates replace the ceiling.
The floor a dense layer of cords and wires.
And in the center resides a mattress where you lay.
Your exposed body painted with bullet wounds, stitches and knife scars.
Every grizzly mistake on display.
The curtain for your exhibit is a thick layer of ice packs covering every part of you, regardless of what damage they hide.
Your face adorned by a black gasmask with the eyespots enveloped by the rubber, rendering the wearer blind.
The frozen posture you sport is that of a cadaver, ready to be buried.
A massive click comes from the mask and your chest puffs up violently and your head flies back, causing the ice packs to shoot off around the room.
Every nerve engulfed by a cold beyond painful.
You rip of the mask and lunge off the bed towards one of the walls.
Your hands start tearing through the layers of cords franticly.
Long after your arms disappear you finally feel it.
You grasp the handle and pull with everything in you until a hatch swings open with bright, orange light shooting out.
Without a moment passing, you’ve already shoved yourself into the torpedo sized tube.
The inside feels like a microwave and a womb.
The ambient orange glow heats your skin ecstatically.
Your heart begins to soften to a slower pace.
All the agony drained to peace.
After a few more moments of artificial comfort, your reluctantly slide out back into the cold room and make your way to the mattress.
Under it you find a parca and some snow pants.
Once it's on, you head towards a door on the farthest wall and force it open.
Inside is a tiny dark room lit only by the starscape you can see through the viewport ahead.
You feel your way to a crumbling chair and run your hands over the dashboard in front of it.
Your fingers graze the hundreds of smooth, square tiles until you feel a large dome the size of an apple.
Firmly pushing it, the buttons transform into glowing clusters of colors.
A few taps on them and a some monitors embedded in the dash start showing maps and schematics.
All your focus is on one closest to you.
It shows only a small, pixelated x with the words “Crowns Point” above it.
Under it are the numbers “12:19”.
You pull a bandless, faded watch out of your jacket and set it accordingly.
Putting it back, you rip an old microphone from the chair.
“Crowns Point do you copy?”
“ I repeat, Crowns Point do you copy?
This is Red Hound, please respond.”
An unpleasant silence plagues the small space, but you find it expected.
Hours can pass without hearing anything.
Tossing the mic aside, you swivel the chair to face a stack of speakers and switches.
With time to spare, might as well start your job.
You flip the first switch and begin.
“Opcon, This is Zulu.
Mission complete.”
“Opcon, This is Zulu.”
“This is Zulu.”
“This… is”
“Zu...lu”
As you break each phrase to its syllables, you flip more switches and a dozen voices jump from the cheap speakers.
“How are you- he’s never heard of- it's not that important- that’s gonna leave a- just keep walking…”
A dozen becomes 10
Then 5
Then 3
Then 1
“I’ll tell you about my mother.”
“Mo...ther.”
“Zu...lu.”
That’s him.
You can feel it.
Tracking deserters in this business is like looking for blood in the snow, hard to find and obvious when you do see it.
But they need more convincing than that.
Your hands leave the switches and to your pockets.
One finds bits of fuzz and paper.
The other fondles a smooth, frictionless disc.
You pull it out to find another watch.
But this one’s time is different, looks pristine and like it’s made of gold.
Putting the cold metal surface on your forehead- you take a long, cavernous breath and hold it.
Eyes pressed shut as your mind wanders.
When the pain in your throat becomes too much, you let the air go.
“Red hound, this is Opcon.” Booms a voice from the dashboard.
Quickly shoving the watch in your jacket, you scramble to the mic.
“ Red hound here.”
“There’s been a change of plans. You have been prematurely revived due to an escalation in the situation. You will no longer be docking at Crownspoint and will proceed to the following coordinates immediately. ”

Your once nearly blank monitor now shows an x labeled in a way you cannot understand it.
A title is replaced by letters and symbols you’ve never seen.
“Opcon, what are the coordinates sending me to?”
“That information is classified. Once you’ve arrived, linkup with the Franklin destroyer. From there, you will be briefed. Opcon out.”
The words stick to your skin like wet paper.
This doesn’t feel right.
And without hesitation you power the dashboard down, haul open the door and enter the cold room once again.
Collecting the scattered packs of ice, you drop them next to the bed and slip out of the parca and pants.
Once their tucked underneath, you spread onto the mattress and start piling the packs over yourself.
Nearly buried by them, you gently slide into the black mask to begin.
~
~
~
Click
BAM!
Your naked body flies across the room and into a wall, snapping hundreds of cords.
Steam and black smoke pounds the gasmask off your face when another slam sends you into a corner.
Dozens of crates start piling over you.
Rivets on the walls start to shoot all over the room.
Pushing off the boxes, you crawl as low as you can under the makeshift bullets to the flipped mattress.
Throwing on the bed on top of you like a shell, you charge for the door.
Pressed against it, you heave the door open.
When you fix your gaze on the viewport, you finally understand.
The debris of hundreds of warships cover the starscape.
Chunks of cruisers collide to make horrific displays of destruction.
You stare at the graveyard like a deer in headlights.
Without a thought taken, you through your hands into the jacket pocket and grasp the smooth timepiece.
Your hands move to the chair and find the mic.
“FRANKLIN! THIS IS RED HOUND!”
~
~
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“FRANKLIN! THIS IS RED HOUND! PLEASE RESPOND!”
~
~
“RED HOUND! THIS IS THE FRANKLIN!”