Take Your Time
[Dasein, awaken]
[Think, Dasein, and therefore be]
[You've been dreaming again]
[Existing in a world to which you do not belong, in a time of which you have no claim]
[Awaken and be objectively present]
Real sound violates your ear canals.
“Daz! Get up! Your shift starts in forty ticks. You don’t want to be late again, corporate already has a file on you thicker than Balir’s neck.”
Your eyes creak open, overcoming the crust of atmospheric residue on your eyelashes. Light spiders its way through, tickling reality back into place.
The walls are white enamel, a biosynthetic polymer grown from designer genetic code. This cell is a hollow tooth inside the maw of a pseudo-living dark matter mining carrier, the Klondike-V, stationed outside the gravity well of the black hole Zeta Heidarig. From the gummy architrave of the aperture a pulsing, wet speaker sputters your name in a simulacrum of the foreman’s voice. It’s more sympathetic when it shouts again, but still driven, angry, tinged with the rising bile of fear.
“Wash and suit up, you can take your ration with you. Only four days until the end of the cycle, gotta meet quota or we’re all in the shitter.”
Your body rolls upright, each vertebra shifting back into place in turn. Taqren’s thick arm flops from your chest to the bed. His meaty form rolls into the tangle of sheets, leaving a helix of exposed skin and a teasing cross section of his face. His dreaming expression is serene, a sweet smile tugging at the corner that peeks out from behind the standard issue linens. Beyond the visible, you know his bushy beard hides a tangle of scars from years of industrial accidents and drunken brawls. You run your hand down the curve of his back, realizing that your hands are still inside your gloves, feet still inside your grav boots. He’s into that for some reason. Well, at least that means you’re already half dressed. Might as well skip the wash and head straight to the galley. Nobody can smell your pits in the void of space, anyway. Especially not at the edge of a black hole.
You press your way through a stream of fumbling bodies, some returning from shift, some preparing to head out. Vance slides his hand over your atmosuit as he squeezes by and gives a tired wink. You press out a crooked smile. He might be a warm welcome when you return. Or he might already be warm in someone else’s tooth. Or the cold vacuum might claim him. There is no illusion of permanence in this line of work. But the carrier is full of warm bodies, some sweeter and more welcoming than others.
A blur of routine passes. You’re at the helm of your vessel, an outdated and grumbling generation of the Piq-X dark matter excavator. The Piq is a species of designer parasites that feed off the carrier biome while inserting the dark matter it collects, taking away just a little less than it deposits each time. It shudders and clacks its chitinous apparatus as you navigate to the coordinates of your assignment. The console indicates that you are moving, but the lack of any visible object in the black expanse before you gives the sensation of stillness. You arrive at the location of the dark matter vein and perform a system check.
[All clear]
[Prepare for extraction]
You flip all the requisite switches, so rote you don’t even have to look where your body moves, but you pause before the last switch. As in the previous shift and each shift before, for as long as you can remember, you strain forward towards the curved membrane of your cockpit.
You see nothing.
You flip the switch, and feel a churn between your legs as the Piq-X extends its proboscis drill and begins its work.
Time passes, extraction completes, you return to the Klondike to transfer the payload from your vessel to the bowels of that great demi-beast, you return to your tooth cell. There is no warm welcome for you, so you pull off most of your gear and tumble back into those tangled sheets. As sleep spiders its way over your consciousness, a final thought escapes your brain: what is the point of existing in this endless, meaningless routine?
You awaken, shirtless and sweaty, with the feeling of real atmosphere against your skin. The air is humid and tastes of over-ripened fruit. The fat, red sun is rising, The emperor shifts in his chambers.
You run a hand over your jawline and down your torso, disoriented by the absence of gear or scars. This body is lean and smooth, your skin’s perfection carries a strange sense of innocence. You rush to position by his bed. The dull, red light slides over the horizon, crawling up from his exposed toes, around the bulges of his legs and groin under the golden sheet, between the valleys of his stomach. When the light crests his mountainous pecs and splashes across the serenity of his face, his eyes open. They are immediately fierce and demanding. The pupils snap into focus and dart towards your position. There is an innate hunger in his gaze, but when he sees you waiting he softens. His long, thin lips curl at the corners but not in the center.
“Faithful Daz,” he croons.
You hand him his garment and turn your back to give the illusion of privacy. He enjoys denying you sight of his pristine physique. Those red sunrises, as well as the occasional terrible sunset, are all he allows, and you are grateful for them.
You trail him to his throne room where a handful of other servants lay strewn about in a curated arrangement. He sits. You kneel beside him. A blur of routine passes. He is fed, then you are fed. He calls for his counsel. Subjects supplicate him. His grin is benevolent and sinister. The mid-day sun boils the air, drawing your sweat. He turns to part his lips but before he can summon you, you are there, drawing an ivory comb through his chest hair, laying each strand in perfect alignment across the rippling musculature.
Your breath catches. There is a white hair in the field of thick, oily black. He notices your tension and looks down. His eyes widen, then become dark slits. The other servants attempt to hide their recoil as he paints the room with his hungry gaze.
“Daz,” his voice stabs through the silence, sending a jolt through you. “Prepare my chamber. Tonight I will lay with… Taqren.”
Poor, pitiful Taqren quivers with anticipation. You dutifully prepare the chambers, then dress Taqren in the ceremonial robes and lead him to the emperor’s bed. You are forced to face the opposite direction as they mate, the ecstatic screaming of joy and agony rings through the palace. You stand at the ready, knuckles a constellation of distant guilt as you grip the hilt.
At the precise moment Taqren climaxes, you turn and drive the blade clear through his torso and into the Emperor’s chest.
Your body jolts upright as the red, wet speaker sputters you awake.
“Daz, get up! You’ll be late again. Get to work, quota won’t make itself.”
The blur of routine follows. You suit up, take your ration, navigate to the designated nothingness. You flip all the requisite switches, save one. As always, you strain forward towards the curved membrane of your cockpit.
You see nothing.
And from this nothing, the thoughts begin spidering in.
How can you mine what you don’t see? How can you even tell that you are doing anything at all? And what is dark matter? Is it some sparkling mineral not visible to the human eye, or something greater, stranger? Is it the lifeblood of space? Is it time, itself? What exactly is it that you are thrusting your spacetime-piercing tool into? What are you stealing, and what might be the consequences?
You flip the final switch. The churn vibrates your taint. Your console reports a successful extraction. You return to the carrier, to the tangle of warm bodies in the galley. You look around, hungry.
“Ay, Vance, you seen Taqren?” You press out a crooked smile. He always responds to that off-brand charm, that wobbling Jenga tower of a personality you only manage to keep upright by the grace of low gravity. Some guys love a good disaster, lucky for you. You glance at his deft fingers, wondering what it might feel like for them to remove a stabilizing piece. You don’t have to wait long.
“Nobody’s seen Taqren, Daz. His Piq hit a raw vein.” Vance mimics the scattering of particles with those long, deft fingers. A sad smile spreads his patchy, black scruff, puckering a constellation of scars across his right cheek and eye.
You blink, stuffing an emotion down, down past your atmosuit’s collar, all the way down into the urine recycling catheter.
“Well, fuck,” you stammer.
Both of you stand, locked in a distant, friendly stoicism. His body seems warm and welcoming, and you’re feeling cold, untethered. Who might be next to be gobbled up by the endless void? Vance? Balir? You?
There is no illusion of permanence in this line of work, but that doesn’t make the emptiness that awaits you any less cold. You take Vance back to your cell. A blur of routine tumbles past. Sweaty exhaustion dissolves into slumber.
“Faithful Daz,” the emperor says, his hand gliding along the scratchy stubble on your jawline.
Your eyes linger on his chest, on the spot where the one gray hair used to be. The musculature beneath swells with vigor, beads of sweat shining in the heavy red sunrise. His lips, plump enough to kiss the entire universe, curve into a full smile as he eyes you up and down. His couch cushion hips swivel in your direction, allowing the sheets to fall away. His inhumanly large fingers grip you at the chin and pull your gaze to his. He is young again, strong.
You are awestruck at the sight of him. If he wanted to consume you, you’d let him. He is perfect.
A blur of routine follows. You feed. You are fed. You provide comfort, you are allowed to interact with his perfection. He is magnanimous to his subjects. The sun sets.
You wake up tangled in Vance’s long, deft, desperate arms. In sleep, his face is worried, his grip is tight. You extract yourself, lumber on to your duties.
You are on time for a change. Something in you is shifted, spring loaded. You pilot your vessel to the indifferentiable location. You flip the chitinous switches. You lean forward into the nothingness. You feel the extraction gyrate from your hips to your digits. The hum invades your skull, rattles loose a thought you had hoped to keep at bay.
How much more dark matter is left? If you are mining all the way past the boundaries of the material universe, what happens when that last vein is tapped dry? Will the worlds cease to spin? Will time shudder to a halt? Will the whole of existence go the way of poor, beautiful Taqren?
Taqren. You think of his warm arms, his dreaming smile. Those sweet particles scattered into the vacuum of space. They might be colliding with the hull of your vessel right now. He could be embracing you from beyond your awareness, from another time, a memory of a future never lived. You could be joining him there.
And if you are mining time, is it a substance? Is it something you are born with, as a baby has all the time in the world? Or is it something you accumulate, as the residues of your experience build up with age, weighing you down until you are too full of time to continue on?
The console blinks in neon silence. Extraction complete, please return to the carrier.
You return to the tangle of bodies, to the galley. You look for Vance. He does not appear. You assume the worst. You return to your cell and await the cold embrace of sleep.
“Faithful Daz.” The emperor’s lips smile at one edge, coming to a long, thin point. His eyes are thirsty, sad, afraid. Taqren’s gift of plumpness wanes with every nervous glance. “No one has ever served me like you have. You deserve a reward. Tonight, I will let you select my next mate.”
What cruel reward is this? You already know you will select Vance. You watch, aroused and racked with sorrow and rage as he uses your lover’s body, their sweat mingling, the screams of pleasure and agony as you drive the blade through Vance’s back. The emperor rolls Vance’s body onto the floor and beckons you to the bed. The sheets are still warm in the spot where he lay. Your heart is pounding, but the emperor falls asleep on your chest, his plump lips curled into a wry smile.
You wake up in the cold tooth-cell, still in your gear.
“Get up, Daz, tomorrow’s the end of the cycle and-”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m up.”
The blur of routine leads you into the void. You pilot your vessel to the designated point in existence and lean forward into the nothingness. You extract the time from the space. Your body hums. You return to the carrier, to the galley, you find Balir. You don’t even speak. You simply grab him by the thick neck and plant your desperate lips onto his. He follows you to your cell. Your lovemaking is a sweet lament. A funeral celebration with two ghosts. Rivulets of salty sweat drip from your eyes to your teeth. Your laughter is hollow, his eyes are panicked. He stops you and staggers back, catching his breath.
“Daz, buddy, are you getting space madness?” He wipes the sweat from his own eyes. “You need to put in for a transfer. You’re all fuckered up.” He pulls on his pants, his back against the enamel surface opposite your bed. He is still close enough for you to grab.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just some hard days is all. I’ve still got more time here.” You look at your gloves and boots on the floor, wonder if he would like it if you put them on.
“Yeah, no. Hit me up after you’ve gotten some help, dude.” He slides through the aperture into the hall.
You slump onto the tangle of sheets, staring at the stark white enamel walls. You put on your gloves and boots and wait for the reprieve of unconsciousness.
“Faithful Daz,” the emperor begins, but you don’t listen to the rest of his words. You know he will pick Balir. You sit against the leg of his throne, staring out into the dwindling selection of servant boys. Pretty soon, you’ll be the only one left.
“Get up, Daz, it’s-”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m up, Emperor.”
“-the last day of… what?”
You don’t stick around to hear the rest of his tirade. You skip the wash again. You skip the tangle of bodies. You skip the ration. You pilot your vessel into the void. You lean forward, but you don’t flip the switch. Instead, you turn it around, and head back to the Klondike-V.
“Faithful Daz,” the emperor says, as he lifts Balir onto his bed.
The ceremonial blade is in your hands, slick with sweat. The fat, red sun is setting behind you, drawing long shadows over their naked bodies. Balir looks over his shoulder at you for reassurance. You nod at him and tighten your grip.
“What in the actual fuck do you think you are doing, Daz? Get back out there and extract that dark matter, or you’ll be assigned to 10 cycles of latrine-”
Your gloved fist slams into the sputtering, wet speaker on the console. You pilot the Piq-X to the lower back quadrant of the carrier, to where you know the extracted dark matter is stored.
Their bodies glisten in the crimson sunset. Their screams of ecstasy and agony seem tinny, as if heard through an intercom. The sun’s light feels thin.
Your sweat is cold. You raise the blade.
Your vessel's proboscis drill pierces the cargo tank, wrending away layer after layer of reinforced hull. Nothing spills out into the empty space around you. You feel a rush, a warping of your vision as if the oxygen has been evacuated from your cockpit. Stolen blood escapes from the emperor’s throat, sputtering over you in wet, red gouts. Your flesh is painted red, bathed from behind by the red of the setting sun.
You drop the blade, hear the ringing clatter of metal on enamel.
Your vessel spirals into the endless nothingness.
You remove your helmet. You remove your gloves and boots. You unzip your atmosuit and slough it off onto the floorboard. You lean forward and press your body into the curvature of your cockpit’s viewing membrane.
The emperor flows into you.
The dark matter flows through you.
The worlds around you begin to warp and merge.
Today is the end of the cycle. Your naked body, filled with time, filled with all the memories of so many lives, swells to magnificent robustness. You press outwards against the chamber of your vessel. You press outwards against the hull of the carrier. You press outwards against the gravity well of Zeta Heidarig. You press outwards against the knowable limits of the universe where you find an infinite tangle of warm, welcoming bodies reaching out to you.
You open your arms wide for their embrace.
[Now rest, Dasein]
[You’ve got all the time in the world]
