Words All The Way Down

Inspired by the following prompt: [WP]Everyone dies. That is a constant. Some of us last a mere 10 cycles, some live across millennia. The galaxy is scattered with the uncountable corpses from people of a million civilizations, except for one. Humans will always be brought back to Earth or return to die there.

After pulling in to the space port, a press of the button started the external loud speakers. Like a morning call to prayer, the speakers echoed against the walls, “Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead.” This was Ysme’s death run.

After spreading out to the far reaches of the galaxy, humans found out the hard way that the foreign soil was not compatible with their remains. As such, all remains had to be brought back to Earth. If you had the money you could pay to make your final trip back to Earth, to die there in peace. For those without, the Corpse Ships sufficed. As a reward for their roll in spreading humanity across the galaxy, people like Ysme were allowed to crew a Corpse Ship. A death run all the way back to Earth were they could go die where it all started.

However, as Ysme serviced the chilling unit of the onboard freezer the honor became less apparent. Those that hadn’t chosen cremation were starting to smell. Ysme smacked the unit with a wrench in frustration. Within the hour, the whole ship would carry that smell and would continue to all the way back to Earth. A Corpse Ship indeed, they mused.

Ysme plucked a few keys at the adjacent computer terminal, restarting the diagnostic process; hoping that their more recent adjustments (wrench not included) made a difference. LEDs flickered on and off as the process concluded the status of each part.

Control Unit … Working

Memory … Working

External/Internal Thermometers … Working

Ysme relaxed while the diagnostic continued. As part of the last step, the engine whirled on to test the fan. With a bang, something whizzed past Ysme’s head and smacked into the wall behind them. A rubber belt lay on the ground. The terminal read, Engine Belt Obstructed.

Thankful for that small bit of fortune and the continued use of both eyes, Ysme searched through their toolbox for another belt. Once found, it was a short effort to reconnect the engine and fan. The diagnostic ran again, this time concluding with the message, Unit On. The resulting hum finally drowned out the chanting of the loud speakers.

Outside the ship, a procession had formed. In the procession, some were tall, others short. Some were opulent, others as plain as could be. The people were as varied as their containers for the dead. Their somber faces a singular, unifying feature. They had brought their dead.