Dance of Orion

Micrometeorites crack into The Spacecraft as it exits the Orion Nebula, stripping away layers of cosmic dust. Once semi-nude, its Gun-Metal-Gray body reflects a lifetime of experience. Blast marks from battles survived. Rushed repair jobs. Polite stencils instructing maintenance crews from a forgotten age.

Traveling on inertia alone, The Spacecraft crosses the quadrant without fanfare. A planet torn apart by its moon-children ejects Blood-Red magma into space. The hulls of battleships float by as mechanized asteroids. Tourists wait in traffic outside an''Eat at Joe's'' themed space station. A few of the onlookers take pictures of The Spacecraft as it passes by.

Repairs are underway inside its cockpit. A humanoid, wearing a snug spacesuit, floats within a maintenance cavity under Helm-Control. A gloved hand reaches out from the cavity and tosses a tool into zero gravity. When its palm lights up Emerald-Green, a tool with a matching colored collar zips across for a catch. The humanoid continues repairs until the defective part, still sputtering sparks, drifts out as well.

The lone humanoid is a man, betrayed by his buzz cut, sleepy eyes, and two-day-old stubble. From one temple, a Gold-On-Green striped cerebral tap runs behind his ear before disappearing into his spacesuit. And around his neck, a thick prison collar with a single chain link dangles under his Adam's apple. His hands, moving with confidence over Helm-Control, demonstrate his abilities as The Pilot.

With gravity control back online, The Pilot's feet, the collection of floating tools, and the defective part all settle to the floor. He then brings up the current trajectory--a gravity well, rooted in the Trapezium Cluster, has taken hold of The Spacecraft. With a few taps, he drafts a new course, opening a wormhole for The Spacecraft. An alien countdown begins as the cockpit lighting changes to a Dim-Argon-Blue.

A subspace bubble warbles to life around The Spacecraft. The color of its propulsion skirt changes from Cobalt-Blue to a blinding bright light. Ahead of the bubble, space collapses in on itself, leaving an intense brightness. The Spacecraft streaks into the light, disappearing from normal space.

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Automatic doors briefly part, allowing The Pilot to walk into the dark cabin. On habit, he taps at wall-mounted controls. Cabin lights flicker to life. To his right hangs an armory cage containing four dusty pulse rifles. To his left at waist height, a wall-mounted tray of dirt. Inside the tray, an animated stick plant features Red-On-Yellow flower-faces. The Pilot reaches over the tray, pulling on a food dispenser. He swallows a few of the pellets without a drink and lets the leftovers drop into the tray. The flower-faces awaken and slurp up pellets like tethered cattle.

Halfway along the cabin stands a pristine, dust-free media system. The Pilot kneels at its base, taking hold of a title with ORION across its binding--written in the same stencil as the outer hull. He inserts the title into the player. Cabin lights dim. The connected stage--a circular column, floor to ceiling, with a bright Neon-Blue base--warbles to life. He throws himself back, falling into a beanbag hidden in shadow.

A countdown spins within the hologram--5, 4, 3--before the likeness of a "real" woman appears. She starts her dance with her back to The Pilot, her hips swaying with seductive power to a thrash metal ballad. When her hands pull up her mane of Raven-Black, she reveals a bare back taut with muscles.

The Pilot watches The Dancer, as scan lines of her projection wash over him, overloading his retinas with her sensuality and suggestion. He appears cold and emotionless, but the color in his face rises, flushing Crimson-Red.

Back in the cockpit, several sparks flash out from the previous repair, followed by a column of smoke. A Danger-Yellow warning highlights the active trajectory.

The Dancer turns to The Pilot, keeping her eyes closed. Straps of Onyx-Black webbing cover her more sensitive areas. Her hands switch to forking the sides of her hair, leaving her cleavage undefended.

The Pilot, as if under a spell, as if yearning for a narcotic, crawls to her on all fours.

In the cockpit again, the view fills with several planetoids ahead in subspace.

The Dancer frees a hand and rests it against her side of the barrier while coming down to kneel. Her lips, colored with Midnight-Black lipstick, part as a silent invitation, never smiling. When near enough, The Pilot accepts and moves in closer to kiss.

The Spacecraft violently jolts! It drops out of subspace, suffering power loss to multiple systems. The Dancer disappears. Gravity control fails, and The Pilot finds himself floating. He kicks off the nearest bulkhead, aiming for the automatic doors. They do not open. He pries them apart before forcing himself through.

Complete chaos! Electrical discharges flash out randomly--from Helm-Control, from the bulkhead. With the trajectory gone, The Pilot pushes past floating tools and frantically uses his hands to slap and slam at the impaired Helm-Control. For every fault he collapses, another ten take its place.

Moving through the field of planetoids, The Spacecraft bounces and twists as if it were an extension of his adrenaline gone mad, before it spirals out of sight.