The Writer's Odyssey

"At the end of a storm
There's a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark"

Appropriate, if a little overstated. STX-NomadVII banked the internal comment as ahead a solar flare lashed space like a giant flaming whip and scorched the purple cratered surface of Halcyon Seven. The atmosphereless world trembled beneath his tracks on approach, conjuring up interference playback of The Ride of the Valkyries from deep within his hard memory. I acknowledge that the adjective 'silver' resonates with my processor in some part due to a cross reference with my silver coloured fuselage, but the aural comparison dampens the strength of the metaphor. The faint rumbling of my tracks on the planet surface is heard by no one, and certainly isn't melodic, or 'sweet', like a lark's song.

"Wait. Wait. ST I don't know what a lark is. Explain." When Malcolm's voice crackled through STX's receiver antennae, he was coded to cease non-vital processes and decipher an objective response - which in turn meant processing the many billions of attributed subjective meanings in less than a millisecond. STX had made an internal comment previously that such a suspension might be equivalent to a human having their train of thought interrupted (though the processing power behind one human thought was less than one-thousandth of an average STX unit data process). Fortunately, such was his technological hardware, STX could resume any suspended process instantaneously. The inefficiency of the procedure, however, was almost rankling.

The 'lark' was a passerine songbird renowned for its melodious calls. Larks (all 21 extant species), became extinct during the first world neg event in 2346. Defining features included -

"OK I got it. You need to remember ST, I've never seen a real bird. Or animal. Or anything that isn't a hybridised insect. You need to fill me in on this stuff."

Apologies Malcolm. I would remind you that onboard the sub-vessel an extensive encyclopaedia of all pre world neg events, activities and species, including over eighteen trillion hours of two dimensional video footage, can be accessed via your -

"I know ST. And I've told you. No one wants to look at that stuff. Me included. Just fill in the blanks now and again, hm. Don't assume I've got the history of Earth-1 in my cortex like you."

Yes, Malcolm.

"OK. Let's get back to it. How are you holding up? Process on that for a while."

STX ran a full diagnostic. His hull was beginning to warp in forty five pressure areas. His left track was approximately fourteen minutes away from melting entirely. His core computer was alerting a seventeen centigrade temperature increase, and rising. Destruction is imminent. My best estimates suggest twenty minutes until core implosion.

On the sub-vessel, four thousand miles away, Malcolm scribbled notes in his traditional style faux-paper journal. Sweat drenched his forehead and the dim red stasis light bathed his tiny command module in an unholy shade of hell. "So the end is nigh. Tell me what you see. What you're hearing. Analyse your surroundings. Talk about your future."

In synchronisation with the unfolding events, I have begun playback of Time to Say Goodbye. "When I am alone And I dream of the horizon..." The horizon of this world is disintegrating - I thought you would appreciate the imagery. Surface fractures are causing large fragments of the planet to lift into space, like parts of a glacier falling into the sea. Only, there is no sea. Just a limitless vacuum. Furthermore, this song has dramatic romantic overtones. I am not leaving by choice. Instead I am following directives issued by my Commander. I am unsure how you will derive artistic merit from -

"Let me worry about that part ST. Still. You must be feeling something. About your fate. About what will happen when you burn up into ashes."

STX allowed his processor to grapple with the multitude of implications of Malcolm's comment. He used his orbital scope to magnify the sub-vessel in the darkness of eternity behind him. A spec among specs. Adrift in existence. His internal alarm blared. An unexpected course shift of the solar flare. Temperature multiplication of fifty. His hull began evaporating into liquid metal.

I...I feel nothing. I will soon be reduced to singular atomic form.

Malcolm sighed and let his pencil fall from his fingers. He rubbed his temples and reached for his glass of bourbon. On his telescopic feed he saw the planet brighten on its east side as the solar flare bombarded the surface.

Only. He turned towards the speaker and looked intently at the unexpected final transmission. I am glad. Not to be human.

Static filled the command module.