I've been working recently on a new garage Alias/Project to go alongside the stuff I do with Bucky. I would generally describe it as a darker, old school (early 2000s), more bass centric garage. Bassy
_She had run the calculations many times. First on the ship’s computers, but as those deteriorated and power needed to be diverted she had written the equations out on paper. But once that ran out she scratched them into the walls. But the result was always the same. There was no way in physical possibility that she could muster enough power to get the wrecked freighter to get to even the edge of chartered space. No matter what was cut, or where the power was diverted, she would be far into the depths of the unknown by the day that the oxygen recycler ran through its last filters. That day was today.
_She got up from the cold dark hold of the ship. All power that would be in lighting was diverted to keeping the oxygen running and the engines going. The temperature was set to the minimum survivable heating, no amounts of extra clothes or makeshift ponchos in the form of mutilated bedsheets could keep the chill of the void away. She walked to what was left of the common area. Once well lit, it was now only illuminated by the impossibly distant stars. The screens of the computers were all as dead as the sky outside the window. The ground littered with papers, mathematical proofs of her demise. She wished that she could have something to eat before she embarked on the task she was about to do, but even after diligent rationing, the food had run dry a few days ago. After a long breath, treasuring the stale oxygen she must have breathed hundreds of times before, she entered the airlock and put on the spacesuit inside. It had once been an orange color but 100+ hours of use beyond its intended lifespan had rendered it bleached to a light brown. The suit was worn and threadbare like the patched tatters of a jumpsuit that hung over her half starved frame. She had gone outside almost everyday when she believed the ship could be fixed. That was months ago. She had long since given up hope.
_Instead she stepped out into the nothing with no purpose. Even after having stepped out of hatches like this hundreds of times, the thrill of having all sense of up and down was just as electrifying as the first time. The majesty of the deep sky, the great black expanse in all of its terrifying, cold, glory made her stop short and marvel for a few seconds. Then she remembered what she came here to do. With a deep breath she disengaged the tether. Ignoring the computer’s screams of protest, the clamps let go and she saw the ship, or what was left of it, fly out of view in a matter of seconds. Finally, alone with only the cosmos for its uncaring company, she floated for 10, 30, 60, minutes. Then the void sang her to sleep, the soothing touch of the great empty, the lullaby of suffocation. Eventually she rested, carbon dioxide in her lungs, and the stars reflected in her wide, awed eyes.
Void.
a short story by Samo Niles
_She had run the calculations many times. First on the ship’s computers, but as those deteriorated and power needed to be diverted she had written the equations out on paper. But once that ran out she scratched them into the walls. But the result was always the same. There was no way in physical possibility that she could muster enough power to get the wrecked freighter to get to even the edge of chartered space. No matter what was cut, or where the power was diverted, she would be far into the depths of the unknown by the day that the oxygen recycler ran through its last filters. That day was today.
_She got up from the cold dark hold of the ship. All power that would be in lighting was diverted to keeping the oxygen running and the engines going. The temperature was set to the minimum survivable heating, no amounts of extra clothes or makeshift ponchos in the form of mutilated bedsheets could keep the chill of the void away. She walked to what was left of the common area. Once well lit, it was now only illuminated by the impossibly distant stars. The screens of the computers were all as dead as the sky outside the window. The ground littered with papers, mathematical proofs of her demise. She wished that she could have something to eat before she embarked on the task she was about to do, but even after diligent rationing, the food had run dry a few days ago. After a long breath, treasuring the stale oxygen she must have breathed hundreds of times before, she entered the airlock and put on the spacesuit inside. It had once been an orange color but 100+ hours of use beyond its intended lifespan had rendered it bleached to a light brown. The suit was worn and threadbare like the patched tatters of a jumpsuit that hung over her half starved frame. She had gone outside almost everyday when she believed the ship could be fixed. That was months ago. She had long since given up hope.
_Instead she stepped out into the nothing with no purpose. Even after having stepped out of hatches like this hundreds of times, the thrill of having all sense of up and down was just as electrifying as the first time. The majesty of the deep sky, the great black expanse in all of its terrifying, cold, glory made her stop short and marvel for a few seconds. Then she remembered what she came here to do. With a deep breath she disengaged the tether. Ignoring the computer’s screams of protest, the clamps let go and she saw the ship, or what was left of it, fly out of view in a matter of seconds. Finally, alone with only the cosmos for its uncaring company, she floated for 10, 30, 60, minutes. Then the void sang her to sleep, the soothing touch of the great empty, the lullaby of suffocation. Eventually she rested, carbon dioxide in her lungs, and the stars reflected in her wide, awed eyes.