Willman Frontier Laboratory
August 4th, 2163
Silence cut like a razor, spilling blood by the gallon and filling the air with the pungent smell of iron. It was a massacre, taking place in an empty hall which told no secrets. It was a protest against human ingenuity – a strike against the great pioneers.
At the end of the hallway stood a nondescript door leading to a standard biological laboratory, where a balding white man in his early forties lay decomposing on the harsh concrete floor, his eye sockets black and hollow, his skin broken by small holes all across his body as if his innards had planned a vast exodus en masse. His lab coat was stained a sinister grey color, and that same liquid spread from his body to create a puddle around him on the floor. It had the consistency of blood, as well the smell.
On a usual day, the Willman Frontier Laboratory was not a quiet place. It was a place where eight hundred individuals – scientists, largely, along with their families – lived and worked in relatively close proximity, and where everyone seemed to be in quite a hurry to run from metal box to metal box, to share some step toward discovery.
But the silence had spread beyond the laboratory, through the hallway and out into the small colony. The living quarters were silent, no children played, no colleagues chatted in the dining hall. Instead, the dead populated the Willman colony. By the hundreds they lay, their eyes devoured, their skin perforated from the inside. They were many, they were all. There was no room for the living.
Alone, rocking back and forth almost involuntarily on the floor of a maintenance closet, Doctor Hector Russell tried in vain not to hyperventilate. The door was shut firmly in front of his face, shrouding him in utter blackness save for the dim light emanating from the gap at the bottom. Hector expected to hear footsteps outside, a rescue party or, perhaps, a colleague: come to tell him that none of it was real. But there were no footsteps. Only silence, and the man’s own ragged breathing. He kept rocking back and forth on the cold floor. He kept moving, he needed to, else the sensation inside him drive him to utter madness. If he stopped, he could feel them pull, outward. If he stopped, he could feel them crawl beneath his skin.
Lavit Launch Facility, near Toulouse, France
August 7th, 2163
It was a beautiful summer morning, and the sun was just peeking over the hills and small towns of southern France, bringing a gentle warmth to those early risers already awake to see it. The country had developed in bounds in the hundred plus years since the start of mankind’s spacefaring age, but it had certainly retained its’ natural beauty. The wonders of Earth comingled with the wonders of man: it was no longer a battle, but a gentle armistice. The dawn broke from behind the Lavit International Launch Facility, giving the massive chrome building a yellow highlight, and cast shadows on the parking lot beneath.
The lot was almost vacant, save for the vehicles of a few insomniacs and some interns hard-pressed by an imposing deadline. On the far edge of the lot near the highway, a man sat upright in his nondescript rental car taking generous swigs from a bottle of Irish whiskey. He wore on his hardened face a look of total detachment, as if forced to watch an execution that he had a hand in orchestrating. His face was recently shaved, and his hair trimmed back down to regulation length. He had on a ceremonial military uniform with his rank – Operations Sergeant – emblazoned on the sleeve and two medals adorning his breast. With bloodshot eyes, he adjusted the rear view mirror to take a look at himself in uniform: a sharp looking man devoid of all hope met him in the glass. The medals glimmered in the sunlight, and a name, J. Howard, sat matter-of-factly beside them.
With a sigh, John Howard put away the bottle and stepped out of the vehicle, retrieving his luggage from the trunk. He didn’t bring much – primarily civilian clothes, and a small selection of pictures and mementos – but expected to find his “equipment” waiting for him on the inside. He had volunteered to lead an international fireteam of soldiers on board the expedition to investigate the silence at the Willman Laboratory, but unlike the majority of his fellow passengers, he felt very little. He knew nothing of the dangers, but wasn’t worried. This was just another mission, like all the rest, and he knew that he may not return: just like the rest. Walking slowly toward the building, he saw the monolithic launch pad next to the facility, atop which sat the Sentinel, the state-of-the-art freighter vessel that the Global Coalition had received from the American Alliance. Boarding that ship would be a smattering of specialists from all backgrounds and from planets and colonies all across the solar system. They would be hurled into an unknown space at light speed, to confront an unknown danger. To John, this was his life now, and he would do his duty as best he could. It was all he could do, now. His love had been dead for years, and so had he. He was just running on autopilot.
August 4th, 2163
Silence cut like a razor, spilling blood by the gallon and filling the air with the pungent smell of iron. It was a massacre, taking place in an empty hall which told no secrets. It was a protest against human ingenuity – a strike against the great pioneers.
It has now been one hour since contact ceased with the Willman Laboratory in Ursa Major following what was described by technicians as a “violent crash and static” on the other end. Government officials have not ruled out the possibility of some sort of disaster, but continue to insist that the cause is likely some sort of technical issue with the station’s transmitters –
At the end of the hallway stood a nondescript door leading to a standard biological laboratory, where a balding white man in his early forties lay decomposing on the harsh concrete floor, his eye sockets black and hollow, his skin broken by small holes all across his body as if his innards had planned a vast exodus en masse. His lab coat was stained a sinister grey color, and that same liquid spread from his body to create a puddle around him on the floor. It had the consistency of blood, as well the smell.
– laboratory was founded by Dr. Hector Russell, a giant in the fields of astrobiology and microbiology, for the purpose of studying the effects on known organisms in unknown environments, and for the discovery of unknown organisms –
On a usual day, the Willman Frontier Laboratory was not a quiet place. It was a place where eight hundred individuals – scientists, largely, along with their families – lived and worked in relatively close proximity, and where everyone seemed to be in quite a hurry to run from metal box to metal box, to share some step toward discovery.
But the silence had spread beyond the laboratory, through the hallway and out into the small colony. The living quarters were silent, no children played, no colleagues chatted in the dining hall. Instead, the dead populated the Willman colony. By the hundreds they lay, their eyes devoured, their skin perforated from the inside. They were many, they were all. There was no room for the living.
– a spokesperson for Russell Innovations will be addressing the public shortly regarding this situation, likely in an attempt to quell speculation. The government has already stated that, should the Willman Laboratory not contact Earth within the next four hours, a team will be dispatched to investigate what has unfolded at the most distant human settlement in all of the universe.
Alone, rocking back and forth almost involuntarily on the floor of a maintenance closet, Doctor Hector Russell tried in vain not to hyperventilate. The door was shut firmly in front of his face, shrouding him in utter blackness save for the dim light emanating from the gap at the bottom. Hector expected to hear footsteps outside, a rescue party or, perhaps, a colleague: come to tell him that none of it was real. But there were no footsteps. Only silence, and the man’s own ragged breathing. He kept rocking back and forth on the cold floor. He kept moving, he needed to, else the sensation inside him drive him to utter madness. If he stopped, he could feel them pull, outward. If he stopped, he could feel them crawl beneath his skin.
Lavit Launch Facility, near Toulouse, France
August 7th, 2163
It was a beautiful summer morning, and the sun was just peeking over the hills and small towns of southern France, bringing a gentle warmth to those early risers already awake to see it. The country had developed in bounds in the hundred plus years since the start of mankind’s spacefaring age, but it had certainly retained its’ natural beauty. The wonders of Earth comingled with the wonders of man: it was no longer a battle, but a gentle armistice. The dawn broke from behind the Lavit International Launch Facility, giving the massive chrome building a yellow highlight, and cast shadows on the parking lot beneath.
The lot was almost vacant, save for the vehicles of a few insomniacs and some interns hard-pressed by an imposing deadline. On the far edge of the lot near the highway, a man sat upright in his nondescript rental car taking generous swigs from a bottle of Irish whiskey. He wore on his hardened face a look of total detachment, as if forced to watch an execution that he had a hand in orchestrating. His face was recently shaved, and his hair trimmed back down to regulation length. He had on a ceremonial military uniform with his rank – Operations Sergeant – emblazoned on the sleeve and two medals adorning his breast. With bloodshot eyes, he adjusted the rear view mirror to take a look at himself in uniform: a sharp looking man devoid of all hope met him in the glass. The medals glimmered in the sunlight, and a name, J. Howard, sat matter-of-factly beside them.
With a sigh, John Howard put away the bottle and stepped out of the vehicle, retrieving his luggage from the trunk. He didn’t bring much – primarily civilian clothes, and a small selection of pictures and mementos – but expected to find his “equipment” waiting for him on the inside. He had volunteered to lead an international fireteam of soldiers on board the expedition to investigate the silence at the Willman Laboratory, but unlike the majority of his fellow passengers, he felt very little. He knew nothing of the dangers, but wasn’t worried. This was just another mission, like all the rest, and he knew that he may not return: just like the rest. Walking slowly toward the building, he saw the monolithic launch pad next to the facility, atop which sat the Sentinel, the state-of-the-art freighter vessel that the Global Coalition had received from the American Alliance. Boarding that ship would be a smattering of specialists from all backgrounds and from planets and colonies all across the solar system. They would be hurled into an unknown space at light speed, to confront an unknown danger. To John, this was his life now, and he would do his duty as best he could. It was all he could do, now. His love had been dead for years, and so had he. He was just running on autopilot.
