Prose 5

Winter. 1616.

‘Hand me that cutter, will you?’ His voice was rust on iron in deep water.
‘This junk?’ Old metal with a thin cylindrical shape was a foot away from Grayson, resting in the cold hands of M.
‘Thanks’
‘We have better things for that, you know.’
‘I know’ Grayson said, sighing in frustration.
‘Am I annoying you?:
‘Every day.’
‘Sir I can leave if you’d wish.’
Grayson cocked an eyebrow, ‘Oh? Go where?’
‘Out the hatch.’
‘Oh out the hatch.. certain death. Wet on all sides you know? Quick, but not quick enough, freezing and suffocating at once.’
‘I think I’d make it.’
‘Well, I’m not going to have you try it, not this time. Unfortunately I still need you.’
‘Unfortunately! Do you hear yourself?’
‘Unfortunately it’s the only voice I’ve heard in 709 days.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Where do you think your voice comes from M? I programmed you. Hand me that box of wire. I think I’ve finished this.’

+++++

‘Okay M, hit it.’

Stars winked in and out, and for the first time in nearly two years, Grayson felt the thrill of traveling at lightspeed.

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