The Flight of the Argos
I stood in mute silence as I watched the thick, steel doors close over the faces of my family, sealing them away in the hermetic embrace of the Argos. With dull, distant urgency, the speakers throughout the corridor boomed names and numbers and around me, the frantic and the hopeful dashed with equal madness, heads swinging back and forth, trying to find an empty alcove as doors hissed shut all around them. Some, obviously, did not belong. They were stowaways, perhaps, picked up on the Argos’ maiden voyage across the United States when it gathered within its titanic belly the chosen and the faithful.
Others, like me, simply were not chosen. My mind reeled and my body was powerless to move. I had been condemned to death and I could not understand why. Were my prayers not fervent enough? Had I taken too much for granted in the Prophet’s words? One of the desperate shouldered me roughly as he dashed by, knocking me to the ground and in an instant it was clear. I could see before my eyes the Prophet and his Acolytes assembling in their chambers far above us, on the upper deck of the Argos, the great glass dome of the vessel shimmering overhead. I could see each of them drink ceremonially from their chalice, pray for a safe journey, and step into the rooms appointed to them, doors sealing shut. I could see why I had been rejected in that moment: I was unclean.
I did not know what brought on my visions nor how to stop them, but surely the Prophet had known, for did he not know every detail of his faithful? Were their lives to him like books in the library of the god? Surely, I reasoned, I was touched by the evil of the world and could not be a part of the Argos’ new world.
“It’s not fair!” I wailed, my voice lost in the panic, confusion, and alarms of the final moments before the second and final launch of the Argos. The other forsaken around me wailed and beat their fists helplessly against cold, faceless steel. But, despite the noise, the despair, and the trembling that came from within, I heard the slightest of sounds that stopped my tears and froze my heart. There was a hissing, like the sealing of the doors, but emanating from the walls all around us. I rose, skin growing cold. The stowaways, the faithless, and the aberrations could not be suffered to live on the ship of the chosen. The automated sequence was pumping poisonous gas into the ship.
I admit a moment of morbid admiration for the Prophet’s vision. Surely there would be those who did not belong, but how to remove them without a host of security prowling the behemoth bulk of the Argos constantly? The only way to make sure was to treat them like vermin in a house. I gulped as much fresh air as my lungs would hold and ran.
I did not know where to run and so I ran without aim, turning when the whim struck me, barreling through the coughing, choking men, women, and children who had been refused the Argos’ salvation. Slowly, grudgingly, I allowed gasps of air to escape my lips until my lungs were empty and burned with the urge to suck in the invisible venom. I ran as far as I could, but the corridors were endless, miles and miles of identical, sealed doorways. Though I had no reason to believe so, I instinctively thought that the poison must be heavier than air, and would fill the bottom of the corridor before the top. I scrambled atop the hinges of one of the chambers and pressed my lips to the steel ceiling, breathing in deeply several times. I felt no worse for the breaths, so I filled my lungs once more, jumped down, and forced myself to run.
I did not know what provoked my sight-without-sight, but I refused to be sacrificed for it. Let them condemn the unclean and rain damnation upon their weaker brethren; I would be no man’s fatted calf. I ran without seeing where I went and I threw myself through twist after turn in the darkening halls of my tomb. I saw an escape behind my eyes, but that was not what drove me on, chest burning, heart exploding.
No, what drove me was what I saw my escape would lead me to. The thing I desired even more than another breath of pure air. What every muscle in my body cried out for. The death of the Prophet.
Others, like me, simply were not chosen. My mind reeled and my body was powerless to move. I had been condemned to death and I could not understand why. Were my prayers not fervent enough? Had I taken too much for granted in the Prophet’s words? One of the desperate shouldered me roughly as he dashed by, knocking me to the ground and in an instant it was clear. I could see before my eyes the Prophet and his Acolytes assembling in their chambers far above us, on the upper deck of the Argos, the great glass dome of the vessel shimmering overhead. I could see each of them drink ceremonially from their chalice, pray for a safe journey, and step into the rooms appointed to them, doors sealing shut. I could see why I had been rejected in that moment: I was unclean.
I did not know what brought on my visions nor how to stop them, but surely the Prophet had known, for did he not know every detail of his faithful? Were their lives to him like books in the library of the god? Surely, I reasoned, I was touched by the evil of the world and could not be a part of the Argos’ new world.
“It’s not fair!” I wailed, my voice lost in the panic, confusion, and alarms of the final moments before the second and final launch of the Argos. The other forsaken around me wailed and beat their fists helplessly against cold, faceless steel. But, despite the noise, the despair, and the trembling that came from within, I heard the slightest of sounds that stopped my tears and froze my heart. There was a hissing, like the sealing of the doors, but emanating from the walls all around us. I rose, skin growing cold. The stowaways, the faithless, and the aberrations could not be suffered to live on the ship of the chosen. The automated sequence was pumping poisonous gas into the ship.
I admit a moment of morbid admiration for the Prophet’s vision. Surely there would be those who did not belong, but how to remove them without a host of security prowling the behemoth bulk of the Argos constantly? The only way to make sure was to treat them like vermin in a house. I gulped as much fresh air as my lungs would hold and ran.
I did not know where to run and so I ran without aim, turning when the whim struck me, barreling through the coughing, choking men, women, and children who had been refused the Argos’ salvation. Slowly, grudgingly, I allowed gasps of air to escape my lips until my lungs were empty and burned with the urge to suck in the invisible venom. I ran as far as I could, but the corridors were endless, miles and miles of identical, sealed doorways. Though I had no reason to believe so, I instinctively thought that the poison must be heavier than air, and would fill the bottom of the corridor before the top. I scrambled atop the hinges of one of the chambers and pressed my lips to the steel ceiling, breathing in deeply several times. I felt no worse for the breaths, so I filled my lungs once more, jumped down, and forced myself to run.
I did not know what provoked my sight-without-sight, but I refused to be sacrificed for it. Let them condemn the unclean and rain damnation upon their weaker brethren; I would be no man’s fatted calf. I ran without seeing where I went and I threw myself through twist after turn in the darkening halls of my tomb. I saw an escape behind my eyes, but that was not what drove me on, chest burning, heart exploding.
No, what drove me was what I saw my escape would lead me to. The thing I desired even more than another breath of pure air. What every muscle in my body cried out for. The death of the Prophet.
posted by Jonc0re at
10:57 AM
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