The Captive (or The Cell) (A Sci-Fi Short Story) (Not For Kids)
The Captive or The Cell, I've never been able to
decide on either of those overly-simplistic titles, is a departure from The
L Squad. It's still about aliens and space travel, though it is not for
children. Even though I'm trying to gear this blog toward children, as The LSquad and, my follow-up, Norman Normalson & The Normal are
definitely for the middle-grade reader, I will not censor this story. I don't
believe in censorship and I will not condone it or acquiesce to it. There is
only one word, used once to which parents might object, so fuck it. Oops, now
twice. The overall tone and theme are also not kid-friendly. I think fans of The
Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, and the like will enjoy this story.
It's too short to really do anything with and it's been sitting on my computer
for years, so I decided to post it here and share it with the blogosphere.
The Captive (or The Cell)
Transmission 1:
Hello? I have no way to know if this is working. My name is…
names don’t matter in space. If you’re receiving this transmission my security
code is 616-662-61312. I’ve been captured. I don’t know where I am or by whom
I’ve been captured. I will transmit whenever I can for as long as I can. My
only hope of refuge is that this transmission is receivable and traceable. I
will attempt to transmit daily in short messages. If my captors learn that I’ve
been able to retain my communicator, I will surely lose all hope of
communication and rescue.
Transmission 2:
Hello? My security code is 616-662-61312. If this actually
works whoever decided to implant communicators in the heads of space travelers
is my personal hero. Of course, I’m a long way from home and probably from
anyone who would receive and comprehend this message. In the thousand years or
so since we’ve achieved interstellar space travel, only a handful of those
who’ve gone missing has ever been found. Still, the only thing that can keep me
sane is the hope, the minute possibility of communication and rescue. So I’ll
keep talking, talking to no one in hopes that a transmission reaches someone.
My captors… my captors are coming…
Transmission 3:
Hello? My security code is 616-662…ah, fuck it. If anyone
can hear me, just talk to me. … That’s what I thought. This is stupid and
pointless.
Transmission 4:
Hello out there. I’ve tried transmitting and I’ve tried not
transmitting. At least transmitting grants me the illusion that I may reach
someone. Or is it more of a delusion? Either way, it’s all I have, so here I
go. I still have only vague images of the crash. No real memories. I have no
idea how I got here. I have no idea what happened to the rest of the crew. I
can’t imagine I’d be the only survivor. Out of a crew of hundreds, only a
junior ensign survives? That makes no sense. There have to be others. There may
be someone on the other side of this wall. Some may even have survived and
escaped capture. If that’s true and you’re picking up this message, please
come. You have to come save me… Us?
Transmission 5:
If there is a rescue mission being planned as I speak there
are some things you should know. My captors are fairly large. They have extremely
long appendages. Their technology is very primitive, with the exception of
their weaponry. They seem to be a very war-like species. I imagine if they
developed the technology to reach home… home… what a delightfully torturous
thought. I wonder what my family’s doing. I wonder if they’re even aware I’m missing.
It could take years for a distress call to even reach home.
Transmission 6:
Sorry about my last transmission. I kind of drifted off
there. I was describing my captors in four words or less. Sorry. You know, like
the game show. I guess it’s the simple things, the things we take for granted
that one misses when it’s uncertain if I’ll ever get to even watch a game show
again. There I go again letting my mind go drifting away on wonderful fantasies.
Please allow me to recompose myself. I’ll be much more together for my next
transmission.
Transmission 7:
I fear if my captors achieve the ability to reach our home
world they could conquer us easily. Their weapons are advanced so far beyond
ours. It could be fortunate that this primitive species seems so much more
intent on creating weapons than advancing any other technology. Individually
they seem pleasant enough. They often come and try to communicate with me, but
the sounds they make are so bizarre I can’t imagine how they can be construed
as words. Their tone is usually gentle and there seems to be a genuine attempt
to communicate, but I can’t even emulate the sounds they’re making much less
understand them. They also bring me some horribly offensive substances that I
can only assume is supposed to be food. I try to consume some, but there is
very little that my body will accept. I’m growing weaker all the time.
Transmission 8:
An escape pod. The captain shoved me into an escape pod.
Completely against protocol. I’m just a junior ensign. I didn’t have the right
to take one of the escape pods. The captain and senior officers get them first
and it works down the chain of command. Maybe the ship didn’t even crash land. Maybe
it was dest… Aaahaaahah! I don’t want to think about that. It had to crash-land.
It had to. The whole crew can’t be gone.
Transmission 9:
Is there anybody out there? There has to be somebody out
there. I can’t be the only survivor. Somebody. Please. These walls. All I see
is these walls. I’m imagining things. I see things that aren’t there. People.
Creatures. Just… just things. Someone help me. Get me out of these walls.
Transmission 10:
I’m transmitting less and less. I feel like I’ve been asleep
for days. I can’t even bring myself to get off this hard slab, with which I’ve
been provided to use as a bed, anymore. I no longer see the purpose. I’ve never
experienced such a feeling of solipsism. But I know… I know my only hope is to
keep transmitting. That’s all I have left. All I can do is talk to space and
hope, there’s that word again. That evil, teasing word. Hope. All I can do is
hope someone hears me. Someone with the ability to save me from this nightmare,
this endless nightmare. At least when I’m asleep I can dream of things… of
things outside these walls.
Transmission 11:
We’ve finally had a breakthrough. My captors have brought me
a substance, a sustenance that my body will consistently accept. The flavor is
wretched, but I’ve been getting stronger each day. I don’t even know what a day
is on this planet. From this room, I don’t know if it’s day or night. I don’t
know if this planet has days or nights. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this
room. Hours, days, weeks, months, years… I don’t know.
Transmission 12:
Some of my captors are kinder than others. I think. I’m not
absolutely positive there’s more than a few. I’ve never seen more than four at
a time and scarcely more than two. I honestly can’t tell them apart. They all
look exactly the same to me. I can’t tell if one’s male or female. For all I
know, they’re all asexual. They are the oddest looking aliens I have ever
encountered or even imagined. Actually, wherever I am, I guess I’m actually the
alien.
Transmission 13:
I’ve begun to consider a new possibility. What if my
communicator was damaged in the crash? I know it turns on. It confirms that a
transmission has been sent, but what if it’s not receiving? I’ve been
discouraged lately, but this is my new hope. There could be someone on their
way right now. I’m just not able to receive your transmission. If you’re
coming, keep coming. I’ll be here waiting. That’s literally all I can do, sit
here and wait.
Transmission 14:
I haven’t transmitted for a long while. Each time I transmit
it fuels my hope and leads to a new, increased dejection when I receive nothing
in return. The thought occurred to me that I should attempt to relay my
security code again, as I haven’t for a very long time. I could be reaching
someone I haven’t reached before. I’ve realized that the more time that passes
the greater chance there is for a search party to arrive within a transmittable
distance. This is a transmission from 616-… It’s been so long since I’ve
abandoned such formality I can’t remember my security code. It’s 616-… aaahh… something.
Transmission 15:
Is there anybody out there? What if my transmissions aren’t
going anywhere? What if this crude equipment, this archaic technology, is
blocking my transmission? What if every transmission is merely a soliloquy and I’m
just sitting in this room talking to myself? All this time, all this false hope
keeping me going is only drawn out torment. No I… I can’t think that way. I
have to keep going. I have to stay sane if I’m to survive. But why? What’s the
point? No one can hear me. No one’s coming. I’m going to die here, in this
cell.
Transmission 16:
I’ve been talking to myself, just to hear a voice, just to
hear a language I can understand. I realized that I might as well be
transmitting. That’s the only way anyone will ever hear me. That’s the only
chance I have to be rescued. It’s my only chance for survival.
Transmission 17:
I’ve finally left my cell. It’s not exactly what I had in
mind. My captors have taken me to another room and have begun experimenting on
me. It’s only poking and prodding… so far. I don’t like this new development at
all. This primitive species, with their primitive technology, aren’t capable of
sophisticated testing, which can only result in barbaric procedures if they
don’t find what they want soon. If there is a rescue operation underway I
humbly request that it be expedited to the maximum capacity.
Transmission 18:
There haven’t been any experiments for some time. Perhaps it
was an isolated incident. Or they’ve realized they don’t have the technology to
pursue whatever goal they may have. Or maybe there are other survivors who are
also imprisoned here. They could be conducting experiments on us one at a time.
Transmission 19:
I’m remembering more about the crash… or maybe it’s just a
dream. I can’t tell the difference anymore. When fantasies are all one has to
get by, it becomes difficult to discern fantasy from reality. The images in my
head tell me that as soon as my escape pod hit this planet’s atmosphere it came
crashing down. The gravitational pull on this planet must be very potent. I
lost control and hit the ground faster than I could adjust. I do have images in
my head of other escape pods, with perhaps more experienced pilots, defying the
extreme gravity. I caught a brief glimpse of them on my way down. I don’t know
if they landed or were able to escape the atmosphere before they were captured,
but there have to be other survivors. The escape pods wouldn’t take them far,
so they have to be here, on this planet. You have to be here. Someone has to be
able to hear me.
Transmission 20:
They’ve taken me for more tests. This time they extracted
bodily fluids. The ordeal has left me feeling very weak.
Transmission 21:
I’ve been thinking, trying to remember, and there’s been one
thing that’s stood out for me. How did I know about their weapons? What gave me
the idea their weapons were so advanced and powerful? The ship didn’t crash. We
were attacked. The ship approached the planet and was settling into orbit. We
were preparing to do a detailed scan of the planet before sending a team down
for further study. Before we could start the scan we were attacked from the
planet. They didn’t send ships to attack. They attacked directly from the
planet.
Transmission 22:
I’ve been taken for more tests. I’m no longer convinced that
these are actual tests. They’ve begun to lean much more toward torture than
strictly scientific experiments. I can’t be sure what intentions they have.
Their barbarism could be due to their crude methods and technology or it could
just be torture for the sake of torture. They could be trying to extract information,
but we’ve formed no mode of communication. Perhaps, they think I’m
intentionally deceiving them into thinking I can’t communicate with them.
Whatever their intentions I can’t take much more.
Transmission 23:
I’m now living in a constant state of fear. I can’t eat. I
can’t sleep. Every time one of my captors comes into the room I cringe and
cower. Each time I’ve been taken for experiments or torture has been worse than
the previous. I can’t imagine the horrors of which these creatures are capable.
Final Transmission:
There were other survivors. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen their
bodies. They were mutilated and displayed in cases. Their experiments are
brutal. I’ve heard screams from other rooms. They were dissected alive. I’ve
seen my future. It will not be a desirable end. I fear this will be my final
transmission. Don’t come here. Please, do not come here. Stay away. Stay far,
far away. Our people must never again visit Earth.
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