Strung Out
The inter-galactic module under the astro-belt flickers with a faulty warning light, sending me into intermittent panic attacks. These, at least, are peppered with the auto-voice's soothing assurances.
"You are not in fatal peril. There is a 65% chance you will survive." It's amazing how much the sound of an almost-human voice can calm you even when you're on the brink of death.
My oxygen-deprived brain sends me back to orientation where Filriddle-bot and I laughed when the cyb-instructor played the assurances audio file just so we'd know what to expect.
"65% chance of survival?" I'd laughed. "That's supposed to be soothing?"
Filriddle-bot laughed with me, as she was programmed to do.
Now where was Filriddle-bot when I needed her most? Golfing with Jera's stupid leisure-bot, as though the fate of the universe didn't rest in their hands. If only I could reach the control panel! But the ship is too far. I'm going to die out here, tethered to the ship by a stupid miscalculation.
After five minutes of emergency breathing, a technique that supposedly increases my survival chances by 25%, I'm beginning to feel more than light-headed. Space is black already, but the stars around the edges of my vision begin to blacken now.
The last thing I hear as I lose consciousness is Filriddle-bot, shouting her golf score into my helmet-com.
"Fifty-two! I won!"
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