Invasion
Short Story by libramoon
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Brutal, dark and cold, fear and pain. Damage so great the only escape is vast, empty space. The home that sheltered and created me forever destroyed, I must find courage, a way, a place to survive — or blindly fall into chaos. Spinning in infinite space within this ship made of pain and desperation.
In my old life there were days when I felt loss, when people I depended on departed, or places I had been part of were destroyed. I did not know the meaning of loss, of being endlessly lost.
They loudly proclaimed their aim to save Earth from human stupidity, toddler like greed and rage, responsibility a loser’s game when we can demand our whims given honored status, even as trash and choking filth overwhelm. But that was not the world we believed, not then. More or less happily adapted, we had no thought of loss, or shame, or invasion.
I did not act from greed, offered no harm, living quietly, loving my family and friends, enjoying entertainments, sharing griefs, sharing the work needed to keep going. Yes, arguments, anger, inconsiderations, but nothing rising to harm toward Man or Earth — just mostly petty complaints, discomforts, dissatisfactions, rough edges. Of course I am not humanity writ large, but as far as I have seen, most of us just stumbled along trying to find our happiness, our peace.
I sit here in this crowded yet desolate ship in my little quiet corner, telling myself stories of what I remember; attached to a world I have no more. These stories haunt me, ghostly swirls to keep me from thoughts I don’t want. We are adrift without plan. Food and fuel will dwindle. Cold space will prevail. Miniscule unnoticed space trash eternally drifting, cold and dark and dead.
Yet, even without all we have known to protect us, for now we survive, held in the terror, the pain, the loss. This is our escape from certain death. What kind of escape goes nowhere?
Many spoke, some passionately, of return to Earth, somehow overtaking the enemy, saving those of our fellows who were not destroyed, erased, from the live storage pens where they were kept as broken, uncared for livestock to feed the invaders. But how, with what? We are outnumbered and weaponless. Did others escape? Are we humanity’s only hope for survival? Some thought we could organize hydroponic gardens with the seedbank on this starship in preparation, appropriated for our emergency exit. Maybe we could find an eventual home on the ship’s starmaps.
The stories that got us here. The stories we imagine to get us out.
I notice an old acquaintance standing apart, as if an observer. Perhaps like me he is musing and listening abstractly to distract from fear. We tend to like to be creatures of habit, secure in familiarity. Now there is no familiar base to hang our habits on; our only promise is no return to a casual normality.
The once rightful passengers meant for this interstellar voyage would too have had to face a future of strangeness, dangerous unknowns. But one assumes they would have prepared, have expectations of vastly different lives, even be excited in anticipation of their brave adventure. I barely breathe, so shaky, weighed by trauma, terror, unacceptable chaos, defeat.
Some of our population are, fortunately, starship pilots, and other crew and technicians who were working to get the ship and themselves ready for its intended trip several months hence. Most of us are random survivors who knew about the ship’s location and were close enough to get aboard before the launch. Hundreds of traumatized human refugees set on survival, too tragically raw, tied to unfathomable grief, to even know what that might mean.
We have not even the presence to come together in ritual in our common pain of loss so great. Cloying remembrances, what we have left of our identities, memories that fade, that change to suit our stumbling narratives, our explanations. Milling about like zombies with no purpose, no life. Some families did manage to escape together. Even they seem aimless, disconnected, caught in a nightmare devoid of hope or sense or continuity.
Grasping for cracks of hope – if we escaped then others may have as well. Certainly starships exist in other locations with populations that could find that way out. Perhaps there were other means of escape. Maybe there are by now underground cells preparing for war to take back our planet, places where our deadliest weapons are kept. Trained military professionals or experienced rebel armies with guerrilla tactics could be gathering, fighting back.
Yes, some of us can still dream. Of course, though, if such human forces exist, if others have escaped to their space, we have no way of knowing, or communicating. We are alone.
No longer running madly, no immediate threat, having time to regain breath, find stillness, the true impact of reality descends. More than can be comprehended, consciousness in stasis to hide or absorb.
It’s not like all those disaster shows on tv. We are not drawn into community by our common tragedy. We are made numb, disconnected, emotions so overwhelmed, we are unable to process more.
Time, duration, are meaningless. Identities lose cohesion, substance.
How do I know what others here think, feel, deny? Words seem to gasp from throats to ambient air, as shattered survivors grapple with sharp agony, dulled awareness, questions of most basic nature, who we are and why. All I want is an end to consciousness, to fall into some kind of coma so I can feel no more, not at all. How can survival be a friend, desirable? Do I owe those erased by alien terrorists my memories, selfish and limited as they remain? They, at least, are free from the pain of survival.
It does occur to me that if the violations, the shocking violence of my experience is to gain the balm of meaning, I need to think beyond myself, find some means to connection, to some continuation of humanity. These are not clear, linear thoughts, of course. I am grasping for what I can, as if life itself makes me worthwhile, no matter what life entails. Yes, I can raise a metaphoric fist against my tormenters – a fist they will never see, that would not impress them.
What I have seen, what I can’t stop seeing, feeling, knowing … I was able to escape the devastation, Earth. I can never escape the catastrophic agony, profound hollow, while consciousness remains.
I become aware of myself standing here by the Observation screens, clinging to the constant of space.
Bouncing through excruciating images, flashes of violent aftervisions, the thought emerges that there must be wounded survivors who escaped aboard. A star voyage must anticipate and provide hospital facilities. Some of the escapees must be trained medical types now tending to others in need. That must be the key: purposeful work to wrap up in, allowing no room for unbearable thoughts to surface. Having no immediate chores, this small epiphany offers no relief. The work I did for all these years is meaningless. I am not a leader, was never blessed with those organization, motivational skills. Now I can count on no well-honed discipline to hide in.
I imagine I am experiencing, we are being given, a period of stasis to decompress. Once this mass of horribly damaged people stop hyper-vibrating enough to connect, though, is there any promise of kindness? What kind of compassion will survive? What kind of wounded human monsters will we face, become?
You can view more of Libramoon’s amazing collection of work done over the decades at windsongmyths.wordpress.com.