The Listener

Resonant Abyssal Listener, Second Grade, Noga Coris, 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 side, tearing through muscle, damaging organs, and rupturing major vessels. He managed to seal his suit in time—years of living on ships had made his emergency responses instinctual, but the injury was beyond what the Sprinter's meager emergency kit could meaningfully treat. In the small infirmary, Daven, 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 Havel: "Get out, all of you! Teren—your men, damage report. Check every single tether! Arel, stay on course. Vessa, 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, Doc?" asked the Captain quietly, his fists clenched tight. "I stopped the bleeding, cleaned the wound and treated the burns," replied Daven, still working over Noga's body. "But the tether shredded inside him. Polymer splinters, acid, exterior growth, corrosion salts… all through his abdomen." He paused. "I did what I could." "And?" Havel asked. "Sepsis, organ failure after that. 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 mattered 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 fluid tether to support Noga's 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 Vessa's voice from outside the door, "we sealed his room. Tovan and Sera are checking for other leaks." A heavy sigh escaped Captain Havel. 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 had 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 belongings I needed and lay on my bunk, eyes closed, trying to sleep. I needed to gather the strength I would need in the coming days. Flashes of Noga sitting, intently listening to his machines, kept me awake. No doubt a shock response to protect me from contemplating the fate of our journey. I was always curious about 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 was 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 unfurled 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. He 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 had prepared every instrument and medicine at our disposal for immediate use. Noga was still motionless, bandaged, wrapped, stabilized, and dead for all but the faint, shallow rhythm of his breath. "Pushed 1 liter, now a steady drip, pressure 80/50, pulse 120. The heater is primed, keep an eye on his temp. Pressure bandage is holding, get me if the wound starts weeping, or else changes," Doc greeted me. He was visibly stressed and exhausted, his head held high from professionalism and pure grit. Mine would be tested soon. "Got it," I answered, as I went over to Noga and appraised the situation. Noga was laying on the table, legs raised, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets and bandages, the few patches of exposed skin showing a distinctive pallor, his breathing fast and shallow. I checked his bandages, his fluid tether from the half-full flask to the anchor, read his vitals and noted them. His blood pressure had improved. His prognosis had not. As I continued working about and around him, I heard his voice, weak and faint. "Nella?" he asked, his head turned slightly towards me, eyes still slightly unfocused. "Yes, Noga, I'm here," I answered as I turned to him and gently took his hand. "Good to hear you." I smiled at him, my bedside manner kicking in automatically, though this time my smile was more sad than the usual reassuring type. "Don't try to move just yet," I quickly added as I saw him strain to lift his head. "How bad is it?" he inquired quietly, resting his head back on the pillow. "Let me get Doc real quick," I replied. "That bad, huh? Wait—" he stopped me before I had the chance to call Doc. "Just tell me. Please." I stopped, knowing full well that it was against regulations, but the sight of the gentle old man held me. "You had a severe abdominal injury. We got to you fast and managed to stabilize you," I said quietly. "And now you're getting Doc." I looked away. "Yes." He nodded. "That bad then." I quickly left the room. Doc woke up quickly, almost jumping to his feet as soon as I opened the door to his room. "He regained consciousness," I informed him, seeing the tension leave his face as he sat down to recollect himself for a moment. "Very well, let's go," he said, and we marched back to the infirmary. "Hello, Doc," Noga greeted us as we approached his bed. "Seems I've gone and got myself messed up real good." Doc sent me a quick look, but quickly turned back to Noga. "You've had major abdominal trauma, and the tether fragmented inside. An external tether." "You cleaned it?" asked Noga quietly. "Best I could," answered Doc. "And?" said Noga, his voice slightly quivering. Doc stayed quiet. Noga sighed. "Come on, Doc. We've known each other long enough." I watched as Doc's expression changed, a pained look replacing his calm professional demeanor. "It's contaminated. Badly." "Days?" asked Noga. "A few." Silence. "How long was I out?" "Ten hours." Noga stared at the ceiling. His lips moved silently. Once. Twice. A third time. I realized he was calculating drift. "I need six days and nine hours," he finally said. "Give or take two." Silence. "Doc, you need to keep me listening for that long." Doc moved to hold Noga's shoulder. "I'm sorry." Noga closed his eyes. "Yeah." Another pause. "I know." "Get me the Captain." . . . Captain Havel's face was grim as we listened to Noga's intense, almost fervent requests. "I need access to my tools. Not the repeater. You need to bring me to the listening room and keep me there." "Just a moment, Noga—" Doc tried to cut in. Noga ignored him. "I'll leave you as detailed a route-sounding as I can. It should bring us close to home, if the wind plays along. Did Arel report any deviation from our previous trajectory? No, never mind. Send him to me once I'm set up. He'll need to know where to—" Noga's monologue stopped abruptly as he winced in pain. I was at his side before I knew I had moved, holding him down with one hand and checking his bandages with the other. "Not so fast," I said, forcing a sad little smile. "You still have a hole in you." "Yeah." Noga slowly relaxed back into the bedding. "Sorry, Captain," he added with a weak smile. "Got a bit ahead of myself." "Captain," Doc intervened again, sharper this time. "This will be dangerous. I will not allow it." "I'm done for, Dav," Noga said quietly. "We all know it. Let me help you get home as best I can." The room fell silent. For a moment, everyone simply looked at everyone else. Then Doc let out a long sigh and let his head drop. "Fine," he muttered. "But Nella and I are going to be your roommates." "Nella, please," Noga said, smiling faintly. "She smells nicer." Despite himself, Doc huffed. Captain Havel looked between them, then gave a small, tired smile. "All right," he said. "We make it so." . . . Transferring Noga was a long delicate process, Marek,Oren,Talik and Lira carefully rolled and carried noga on his bed, while Doc and I hovered around, making sure no lines were pulled and no piece of the delicate machinery to monitor and sustain Nogas health was damaged. Finally, Marek who was leading our parade opened the door to the small listening room. "How are we going to fit all this inside" he asked. Noga started giving instructions as to what could be moved, what could not, and how to do it. He was energetic, alsmost feverishly so, and only my constant reminders of his injuries, and the occasional harsh look from Doc, kept him from doing everything himself. "I could get used to this treatment" joked Noga "if it wasn't for you two all glaring at me all the time" "Nella, I think we missed a head injury diagnosis in our dear hard-necked patient" Doc shot sarcastically at me "It would appear to be a serious one at that, a concussion, or maybe the onset of dementia?" I dared to enter the back and forth between the two old companions Doc smiled broadly at me and Noga, who in turn let out a lound chuckle, the sudden contraction of muscles caused him to to immediatly gasp and wince in pain, quickly ending our short interlude from the reality of the situation. The reminder of the process was carried out quietly, effectivly, with only Nogas quiet remarks and instructions breaking the silence. After setting everything up only Noga and I were left in the listening room, he had his headphones on, listening intently, checking charts and taking notes. preparing his last route, our last hope. There was nothing more for me to do but wait. My mind drifted again, fixated for some reason on one of the many times he tried to explain listening to me. "They are moving, and we are moving, and the in between is moving. And it's all there, all written in the signal," he said, smiling. "Listen here," he said as he gave me his headset, pressing several buttons on his machines. "This is home—its own tone, pure and unadulterated, beckoning comfort and family," he told me, smiling, as a slow, high-toned chirping sound started to repeat unevenly in my ears. I counted the intervals, looking for a pattern in the signal, but there was none to find. As I told this to Noga, he just laughed. "Don't analyze it. Listen to it. To what it tries to tell you." He turned a few more dials on his interface. "Listen," he said. "Now this is how it would sound if we were moving towards it at 200 km/h." I tried to count the intervals, to compare the pitch, but there was nothing I coud point to, nothing to prove. I did There was a change in the signal—or was I just imagining it? An ever so slight modulation in the pitch and frequency. . . . Noga's final lesson "I've laid… . . . First failed attempts + Noga deteriorating . . . "You're constricting peripheral flow," I said automatically. "I know," Doc replied. "I'm trying to keep what's left where it matters." It wasn't wrong. It just wasn't right either. . . . Noga died that morning. Doc and I watched his last few breaths. Weak, irregular, no more. No compressions, no interventions this time. Even if we had tried, there would be nothing to bring back. "From the clouds we come," whispered Doc. "To the clouds we return," I quietly replied. We prepared his body, not knowing why. There would be no one to prepare ours. A short while after, Doc retired to his room. I don't know why I stayed. . . . Silence / grief . . . Listening alone → breakthrough . . . Confrontation with Captain . . . The maneuver . . . The wait . . . False failure . . . The bridge was silent. The hopeful murmur gave way to a drowning acceptance. Eyes kept looking for a sign that was not there. Could I have made a mistake? Was it the wrong signal after all? I knew I heard it. A fool's hope is no hope at all. If only Noga had lived for a few more days, a few more hours… Suddenly a cry—"There!"—and all eyes turned immediately, eager for a sign, a way forward. There was nothing but clouds. The wind blew, the hull creaked, the silence thick enough to slice with a scalpel. "I saw a flash," Tovan justified himself, pointing slightly toward the stern. "Bearing 20, slowly," ordered the Captain in a listless voice. "Let us hunt that flash." The ship edged its way cautiously, doubtfully. And suddenly, there it was—the most beautiful sight that has ever graced my eyes. Our home. Towers and anchor spires glinting through the clouds, almost brilliant, gleaming through a rip in the clouds, as if the sky itself parted just for us, letting in the light of the sun to guide us. My mind registered the crew's cries of joy, the tension held for so many days snapping in one jubilant moment, but I could not hear it, caught in my own flood of elated emotions, mechanically replying to congratulations, to thanks. Only the Captain's heavy hand on my shoulder awoke me from my stupor. He smiled, he beamed at me, failing to restrain his growing satisfaction. "Good job, Listener." . . . Apprentice Resonant Listener, Ungraded, Nella Peren, was listening.