There was some hesitation on how exactly to put it. But it was a short reflection. He also wondered who would be interpreting the description - and perhaps melodramatically, who might even remain to interpret the label.
Out Of Order.
The words which had been the catalysts long ago were front and centre again, and were portentious in a way which By had only ever thought possible in some fictional universe. Then again, By supposed, portent was not finality, and he was still alive, in a sense.
He again glanced around at the deactivated forms which surrounded him. The once impressive square panel of switches and lights now seemed as useless as a prop. And facing that console, to his right, the motionless Les, who seemed to sleep.
He strained again, without much passion, at the latch. He stared at it blankly.
The monitors had been dead for almost eleven hours. The noises were louder; and he knew what their source meant, but denied that particular notion any reign over his waking efforts. The blasted latch. That fucking hook inside that what -- metal widget -- was so stupidly primitive but damnedly the most serious obstacle to carrying forward. Christ, he thought again and with hot nihilism, what kind of fail safe fails like this.
The smouldering flicker in his mind's eye blazed again just as he closed his eyes in exhaustion, and the dark side of the Moon exploded for the millionth time.
The goddamn power failure. The whole fucking world, Out of Order.
His uselessly trapped leg twitched, again, as the moon was demolished in his head. The noises got louder, and for the first time, a form was moving outside the glass. He breathed, half awake and still in shock, and began to brace for the end.
That was when his eyes snapped like sparkplugs. For she had surely made a sound.
Les was awake, and the hope and adrenaline was like a cluster bomb in his brain and the hated latch almost popped outright as he spasmodically screamed her name.
Everything was about to happen.
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