The Listener

Abyssal Listener, 2nd grade, Noga Jordan, was dying. The bulk-tether snap had crashed into his room, scattering debris from the acid-corroded exterior of the airship; a jagged fragment had penetrated his left thigh, deep enough to compromise muscle and major vessels. He managed to seal his suit in time—years of living on ships had made his emergency responses instinctual—but the bleeding and acid burns had already progressed beyond what the Sprinter’s meager emergency kit could meaningfully treat. In the small infirmary, Doc, the ship’s apothecary, worked to stabilize him—compressing, sealing, cauterizing—trying to control blood loss faster than it could escape. The usual banter of the always talkative, jovial man had collapsed into clipped, efficient orders: tools, heat, pressure, now. The crew gathered too close, obstructing movement, breathing too loudly. Shock response. No one spoke. They all understood the prognosis. The despairing murmur was cut short by the angry, deep voice of Captain Habib: “Get out, all of you! Tierson—your men, damage report. Check every single tether! Alan, stay on course. Jess, make sure Noga’s room is resealed—fast. The rest of you—you have a job to do. Move!” The order restored function. Bodies moved. Space cleared. Now only Noga, the Captain, Doc and I remained—his apprentice, hands still slick with Noga’s blood, my mind running protocols that no longer applied, an automatic triage that only had one terminal conclusion. The air was thick with the acrid mix of cauterized tissue and residual acid. “How does it look?” asked the Captain quietly, his fists clenched tight. “I’m sorry, Captain,” replied Doc, still working over Noga’s body. “He’s lost too much blood already. I can keep him alive for a few more days—but no more.” Life on the ships was harsh, violent storms, acid corrosion, rebreather failures, other people. I had heard those words before, but never for someone who matterd this much. “Damn,” cursed the Captain, punching the wall in frustration. “A lousy week away from home, and this shit happens. Someone is going to pay for this.” “Everyone is going to pay for this,” whispered Doc, setting a drip to support Nogas failing circulation The Sprinter was carrying energy—the consecrated power blocks, heavy in its hold—urgently needed to supply the rebreather in our hometown. “Captain,” came Jess’s voice from outside the door, “we sealed his room. Tony and Sarah are checking for other leaks.” A heavy sigh escaped Captain Habib. He steadied himself for a moment—recomposing, resetting posture, forcing control back into place. “I’m coming,” he said, and stepped out. Doc's movement slowed - then stopped, he fell into his chair, lethargic now, as if something vital has switched off. holding his head in his bloodied hands. I was still standing over Noga's body, mechanically clearing instruments into disinfection basins, cleaning pools of blood off the operating table, the blood had already begun to darken. I noted it automatically. I didn’t know why. "Nella" Doc called I looked up “Go rest. Clean up. Bring what you need to stay in my room for a few days.” He paused, then added, “Come back in three hours. We’ll start a shift schedule.” I nodded. My mind registered the logic without resistance—his room was adjacent to the infirmary; mine was across the ship. “We need to keep him alive as long as possible,” he said as I reached the door, the words spoken as much to himself as to me. . . . Cleaning was easy, resting was not. I packed the few belonging I needed, and laid on my bunk, eyes closed, trying to sleep, I needed to gather the streangth I would need in the coming days. Flashes of Noga sitting, intently listening to his machines flashed before my eyes, kept me awake. No doubt a shock response to protect me from contemplating the fate of our journey. I was always curious at the friendly old man, who could guide us so confidently through the ever shifting currents - always listening, always smiling in almost childish delight. We had no one to guide us now; no direction back home. Lost. Bodies are easy, anatomy models are accurate, the rules simple. Breathing. Circulation. Keep it running. I was good at my job, my teachers said so, Doc agreed, I was in my element. I knew what could be done. Saving Noga is not one of those things. We took a liking to each other, he reminded me of my grandfather, telling stories of his many travels, of the things he heard or heard of, the things he listened to. He invited me once to try and listen. As I donned his headset, the chaos of sounds unfurling in my ears... garbled, distorted, overlapping beeps, hums, screeches, and static. There was only noise, no order there, no rules to follow, no models to memorize. Everyone said those were voices—cities, anchors, storms calling through the clouds. I could not distinguish any coherent sound, I was not a listener. . . . As I came back, the room was tidied up, Doc has prepared every instrument and medicine in our disposale for immediate use, Noga was still motionless, dead for all but the faint, shallow rythem of his breath Noga’s final lesson .... First failed attempts ... Noga dies .... Silence / grief .... Listening alone → breakthrough .... Confrontation with Captain ... The maneuver .... The wait .... False failure .... Reveal: the city ... Quiet confirmation of transformation