Deadgivingbirth

Stanitskiy woke up with an impeccably clear and chillingly cold feeling that he was here in absolute solitude. And it wouldn’t be so bad if he were on Earth: it was highly dubious that all its inhabitants had suddenly perished, leaving him to die as an outcast. No, Stanitskiy lay in bed, in one of the tens of thousands of cabins aboard the interplanetary station "Babylon – 15." Some might say that a million immigrants from various planets in the Alpha-Omega system also weren't likely to vanish instantly and without a trace. However... how does one ignore such a crystal-clear premonition? The premonition that he was alone... completely alone... and there was no one else and there would be no one…



That frosty sensation in his chest—a mixture of lostness, hopelessness, and confusion—might not have grown stronger with each passing second, but neither did it weaken. In short, Stanitskiy was thoroughly displeased with what was happening.



He gave a mental command to the cabin control unit, and the blanket was thrown aside. While Stanitskiy washed and dressed with the help of hidden machinery, the bedroom made the bed, smoothed the sheets, dusted itself, refreshed the flowers in the vase, and sprayed the room with a blend of invigorating, mood-enhancing, and cognitive-boosting aromatic substances.



The intrusive loneliness, oddly strange and foreign—something previously unexperienced—did not let go even when Stanitskiy left the cabin, allowing it to shut down all unnecessary devices, turn off the lights, and lock the door with an electronic bolt.



"What is happening?" Stanitskiy thought, striding down the chrome-plated corridor-alley between the doors of other cabins. "Or maybe nothing at all, and this is just a product of my imagination?"



The thought spun and spun, searching for new facts, trying to explain them, to build a plausible system. The most obvious realization struck him only when Stanitskiy approached the light elevator: there were no humans in the corridor, which meant not a single reasonable being! Nobody was walking, crawling, flying, or moving in any other way. But where were the Venusians, Martians, Plutonians, and Alphans? Where were the others?



Stanitskiy glanced at his timepiece—the clock showed “9:52.” Eight minutes to ten, and no one had woken up?! To say the least, it was unlikely.



As he wondered what to do next, Stanitskiy ran his hand along the scanning panel of the light elevator, and it immediately arrived at the 27th floor, after which it invitingly opened its doors. Stanitskiy stepped inside, commanded it to take him down to Dining Hall III, while he pondered deeply. What if he found nobody there either? Doubtful, but... why, damn it, was the corridor empty?!



His mind suggested a couple of scenarios. First: an alarm went off at night, instructing everyone to leave the station. Why not? It seemed plausible enough. Yet the siren should have woken up Stanitskiy too. So why didn't it? No, that didn’t make sense; he dismissed that version.



The elevator finally "opened," and Stanitskiy proceeded toward the brightly lit doors of Dining Hall No. 3.



His second assumption, he mused on the way, could be some kind of trick, a silly prank, a joke by the others against him or someone else's joke. Nevertheless, the question arose again: how was it that among the vanished, Stanitskiy remained? Did something or someone help him, save him, preserve him? Or condemned him to something worse? It was hard to speculate, especially given the overwhelming lack of data...



The canteen doors did not open as he approached. Ah-ha...



Stanitskiy pushed against the reinforced glass rectangles, but they stubbornly wanted to remain closed. Then he leaned in, pressed with his shoulder, and slammed into them between the doors. It didn’t help. He knocked with his fist, hoping either to activate the opening mechanism or attract someone’s attention. Alas, the station remained just as empty, cold, and lifeless as before.



Everyone had disappeared somewhere; fine, he understood that. But what now? Starve because of someone else's whim? Stanitskiy snorted—and then remembered the “backdoor”...



As he walked, he tried in various ways not to dwell on melancholy thoughts that kept intruding into his mind. Still, he found himself forced to give in to them when it turned out that the backdoor was also locked and resisted all efforts to open it.



The situation was becoming more interesting—and increasingly nerve-wracking. Stanitskiy paused, bit his lip, and let his thoughts swirl. Were both sets of doors jammed? Or was it a systems failure? Perhaps part of a trick, a prank, an emergency situation?... The possibilities multiplied like microbes in a fertile environment.



So what now? Surely he wouldn’t go back to the cabin—what's the point? That meant he had to continue the search, or rather, the investigation. He needed to wander around "Babylon"; perhaps he might stumble upon someone.



Stanitskiy stepped onto the auto-ladder; it didn’t budge. A new breakdown, another oddity. Stanitskiy climbed a hundred stuck (was it?) steps and emerged into the grand foyer, otherwise known as the Hanging Gardens, of course named after the famous wonder of the world. He looked around, and at first, nothing unusual caught his attention.



As Stanitskiy walked across large semi-transparent glowing squares, colorful segments of the vast floor, his gaze slid along walls adorned with ultra-high-quality, super-realistic plants, miniature waterfalls, streams, and fountains, and unnaturally beautiful flowers in pots attached to thick rings in the ceiling by equally thick chains... Through three-meter styled windows, a pleasant, computer-modulated light streamed in. Everything was as it should be—yet something, something was definitely wrong. What was it?



The answer came from the nearest fountain. Stanitskiy approached it to verify: there was no mistake. And indeed, there was no mistake. The fountain was working: water flowed from a bending pseudo-clay pipe, landing in a container made of the same material—but it accumulated there. The drainage system was malfunctioning.



Stanitskiy checked the neighboring fountain. The same thing: water flowed, filled up, but the excess was not being pumped away. So, either the pump or the connected drainage system was damaged. Or (though Stanitskiy didn’t want to even consider this possibility, in his situation every likelihood should be reviewed) the station's regulating system was out of order. Meaning the “nerve center” of all mechanisms, devices, units, robots, etc., was malfunctioning or not functioning at all. Such a prospect was far from pleasing.



First and foremost, this could mean further total destabilization of both internal and external governance of "Babylon,” which would simply kill the space station. Following that, and it seemed, its only tenant would perish when the lights went out, when he would be unable to wash or relieve himself, when food spoiling or running out in the refrigerator would lead him to starve, when the auto-ventilation would cease oxygen production and inflow, and finally, triggered by a myriad of failures, glitches, and breakdowns, the rotation predictor, location corrector, and sealer would crash... Stanitskiy, one way or another, faced death. The difference lay in time—and degree: within a few days on the station or perhaps later, if he could endure, if he could last, in a colder than the fiercest winter, lightless, and soundless belly of space.



Such prospects chilled him in the chest.



“Stop. No panic,” Stanitskiy commanded himself. “Nothing has happened yet, and hopefully, nothing will. I must take action.”



Yes, action. But how?



To check his hypothesis, Stanitskiy hastily made it to the middle of the Hanging Gardens and, touching the sensor panel, summoned the elevator down to the Large and Small Circular Viewing Aquariums. Stanitskiy's plans did not include observing aquatic creatures—fishes, frogs, newts, dolphins—and their virtuoso ersatz-replacements. If the central system was hit, then the aquariums would fall into stillness; living beings residing in the water would die one by one, mechanical ones would run until they were out of fuel or charge, and the water would begin to stagnate and contaminate. Of course, all this wouldn’t happen right away, but a certain trend could undoubtedly be observed already.



Fate did not allow those plans to come to fruition either: the lift got stuck at the top. Stanitskiy poked the sensory buttons—no use.



Suddenly, obeying what felt like a groundless impulse, he glanced at his watch and brought up today’s date on the micro-screen. September 12, 2658, according to the earthly calendar. September 12?! But he went to bed late on the evening of the 10th! So, his sleep lasted thirty and a half hours?! No, it couldn’t be! Probably, this was the next "glitch" on the list.



Stanitskiy fiddled with the settings on the timepiece but found nothing peculiar other than the unusual date. Instantly, the feeling of lostness returned, a freezing breath of some unknown impending disaster, infinite and hopeless solitude.



Stanitskiy cursed, left the clock alone, and strode confidently toward the light elevator, “hidden” in the smooth metallic tube to the left of the eclectic designed patch of artificial leafy-coniferous grove. What if the elevator refused to take him?..



Fortunately, the elevator worked. Stanitskiy commanded it to take him to the upper, fiftieth floor. It was where the heart of the station resided—the very center, whose failure threatened Stanitskiy with inevitable and nightmarish slow death.



“And if my guess is correct,” he thought, “there won’t be any contact with Earth. Therefore, all troubles, all 'for' and 'against', all possible consequences—alongside the extremely unlikely fame and far more tangible blunders—will become entirely and solely my responsibility.”



Indeed, such great responsibility would hardly be taken on by even Nemov, the main steward of "Babylon – 15."



The door marked with the station's insignia—a thick black letter "B" enclosed in a square, red on the perimeter and white inside—did not open. Locked. Stanitskiy rattled the handle, bumped his shoulder against the unyielding rectangle—fruitlessly.



In the midst of this fruitless activity, a thought struck him. Even if the central system was down, it wasn’t completely! The doors to the dining hall and the platform in the Garden weren’t functioning, yes, but simultaneously, both grav elevators, which Stanitskiy used to move, operated flawlessly, without hiccups or other surprises.



His heart felt somewhat less frantic. Stanitskiy had a slight advantage; it would be good to know exactly what kind. And it was fortunate if the current situation did not mean absolute unpredictability leading to a total disorganization of “Babylon's” systems.



While Stanitskiy typically indulged in thoughts tinged with sadness and failure, a robot—food delivery—quietly zipped past him, wheels buzzing.



Food delivery? Now? But for whom?!



Undoubtedly, he had no other choice, and Stanitskiy followed the robot.



The corridors twisted, turned, and branched until they led to a massive tall single-leaf door. The robot, paying Stanitskiy not the slightest attention, pulled out a magnetic key from its belly storage. It extended an arm made of titanium joints, touched the illuminated orange-yellow area with the card, and activated the opening mechanism. Slowly, as if in slow motion, the enormous door slid noiselessly into the meter-thick wall.



The robot put the key back, turned around, and rolled back down the corridor—presumably along the same path it took to get here.



Stanitskiy cautiously and distrustfully gazed at the inviting gaping maw of the doorway. In there? Hmm, how else? And what's the point of doubting? Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold. The door, indicating its presence not with noise but movement, closed behind him.



Stanitskiy stood in the middle of a laboratory. Entry was strictly forbidden. Moreover, as far as he knew, scientists working here were not allowed to operate without protective suits. Stanitskiy scanned the area for protective gear. The hooks where it hung were found, but they were all empty.



To test a fleeting thought, the man turned to the entrance door. Of course, there was no alternative way to open this giant: either with a card or not at all. With complete clarity, Stanitskiy realized he had fallen into a trap. Understanding who set it and why would be useful. Was he really such an important bird? Although among rational beings, Stanitskiy appeared to be the sole individual remaining on the station, and from that, it followed... What followed? An explanation failed to materialize. Each of the half-dozen versions flickering through his mind lacked not only details but often entire significant chunks.



Hissing like a tired giant snake, the door to the room across from him opened by itself. Through the thick bullet- and laser-proof glass, Stanitskiy could only glimpse part of the laboratory table and the edge of some dark brown bulky object standing on it. Well, he had to proceed. And he stepped into the room.



The second door closed, cutting off his way back. Wonderful!



Trying not to think about the predicament he found himself in and how to get out of it, Stanitskiy surveyed the space. An empty laboratory: overhead and side lighting; opaque, compartmentalized cabinets along one wall; a long broad table, and an item on it.



Stanitskiy instinctively stepped forward. The object... was a meteorite. At least, it looked like a very small real meteorite, or perhaps just a part of a mass traveling throughout the universe. Reason warned him: standing casually, without protective gear, near an extraterrestrial find of uncertain origin and nature was quite dangerous. Immediately, another voice replied: did he have a choice?



For a minute or so, Stanitskiy remained rooted to the spot, engulfed in doubt. Meanwhile, he examined the meteorite—or whatever it was. Dark brown rock, hard, with numerous chips, nicks, and holes. And, it seemed... yes! Undoubtedly, some movement was observable on the surface of the "stone." Overcoming fear, ignoring the warning signals of reason and intuition, Stanitskiy reached out his hand and touched the object on the table with his fingertips.



At first, nothing happened: the man simply felt concentrated cold emanating from the “stone”—and that was all. Then, suddenly, an influence surged in, catching him off guard, igniting a response. The tips of his fingers seemed to stick to the surface, frozen. Stanitskiy recalled a similar sensation from childhood: that's what happens when one’s tongue sticks to metal swings in winter—it seems trivial, but you simply can't pull away!



Suddenly, the horrified chill subsided. The ice encroached from his fingers, then spread to his hand and began to flow throughout his body. Stanitskiy imagined that he was captured by an unfamiliar force that nobody among humans, unnamed, imprisoned him with a defined and infinitely alien goal, the understanding of which, at least for now, seemed impossible.



Stanitskiy opened his mouth. Call for help? But what was the point? He was alone, utterly alone—now there was no doubt that he was stranded on a freezing station amidst the galactic expanse, going insane. Or was it already insane?..



Either way, Stanitskiy was unable to produce a single sound; terror settled in his eyes, and his heart thudded painfully. He struggled to free himself until the foreign force crushed him entirely. Then he froze.



After that, images filled his mind...



...A bubbly, spongy mass, dirty-orange in color. It expands, it grows, it moves...



...An unfamiliar planet—not Earth, and nothing close to it. A wide, lengthy field of stationary sand. Among the sand lie such "meteorites"...



...The constantly growing and unceasingly moving sponge crosses kilometers and kilometers, not swiftly, yet surely, methodically, relentlessly...



...Now the spongy mass is in the field. It breaks apart into pieces, and the pieces burrow into the sand, covering themselves with it...



...Time passes, and the “meteorites,” all by themselves, like tiny rockets, launch upward. They soar higher and higher, until they escape the atmosphere, and further, the orbit, ultimately finding themselves in “free” space...



...Meanwhile, the sponge, buried within the oddly motionless sand, hardens and transforms... into those very “meteorites”!..



...The “stones” circulate through the Universe, soaring within it, across it, through it. Among real meteorites, next to them, and circumventing them...



...And there... yes, it's “Babylon – 15”! The steward notices a strange object embedded in the side of the gigantic rotating cylinder, a station serving as a dwelling and workplace for a million intelligent beings. An order is issued to deliver the object onboard...



...The “meteorite” is in the laboratory. People are surprised and amazed; they pose questions to one another and present theories. But everything ceases abruptly when changes begin to occur with the “stone.”



Yes, the "meteorite" transforms, softening, stretching, and enlarging! It metamorphoses into... that spongy, bubbly mass from whence it was born! The mass becomes larger and larger, spreading further and further. Those who touch it freeze in place as if paralyzed. The mass opens doors or breaks them, or flows through them.



Everyone flees in panic, screaming; they collide, obstructing one another. The expanding mass blocks all paths, spreads everywhere, crawls, slides, flows, catching victims. Again the cries and shouts emerge. The mass consumes and alters. Corridors are fully “covered” with it, but it continues to grow. Compartments, sectors, and decks are seized!



Changes repeatedly, persistently, occur with the station and its “inhabitants.” One person who touches the bubbly mass becomes a piece of titanium merging with the wall and vanishing from sight. A broken door does not freeze, but moves, transforming into that terrifying sponge…



Fear reigns on the station, where death mingles with birth, cold – with warmth, the living – with the dead. And everywhere—yellowish-orange bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!



“This mass, it’s a living material!”—the thought penetrates Stanitskiy's consciousness beyond his will. Rather, it possesses all the properties of the living, except for one paramount aspect—life. The mass is matter devoid of any feelings, akin to terrestrial stone, yet it can move, replicate... and transform others into itself! It’s the dead movement, life without life, live death. Deadgivingbirth.



Under its influence, the warm and cold flesh of reasoning and non-reasoning beings of the station turns to metal, plastic, and wood, light and darkness, cosmos and air. And in return, they change into humans and animals, pipes and wires, laser guns and complex mechanical systems. This is embodied madness, but elevated to a higher order. Madness-in-itself. Squared!..



...Stanitskiy trembled and convulsed. The mass let him fall to his knees and topple over.



The station inside and outside underwent the most incomprehensible and indescribable metamorphoses ever experienced with it and its inhabitants.



“Why... me...? – Stanitskiy managed to squeeze out from tangled thoughts, immersed in half-forgetfulness. He sensed the mass joining with him, but not wholly, that it saw and heard him, and felt him through and through, grasped his thoughts. – You... already have... “Babylon.” Why... do you... need me?”



The answer did not come immediately; the mass had no rush. When it finally responded, it put the last pieces of the puzzle shaped by unreasonable, nonsystemic, unalive, and beyond-dead enigma in position.



“I need a good captain and trustworthy messenger.”



“Trustworthy!” That word plunged Stanitskiy into profound horror. “Trustworthy!” That whom people believe!..



However, the master mass immediately muted unwarranted, excessive feelings and impulses of individuality. After a moment, “Stanitskiy” became indifferent to anything at all. Having transformed into a part of an extraterrestrial primordial matter, into an otherworldly progenitor, or perhaps conversely, having regained its true form and essence—that deadgivingbirth no longer understood, nor cared to know—who once was called a human took control of the station.



But the station ceased to exist—a colossal ship emerged in its place...



The planet where the mass-ruler was born was not its home. And since the old carrier sphere had been squeezed to the last drop, another fresh... still living one was required...



New, impressively-sized nozzles were forming on the ship-station, arising from nowhere—more accurately, from the matter and will of the sponge-virus.



The station-ship launched. Stanitskiy directed the process, the mass executed the necessary transformations. The ship moved inexorably towards its intended target.



The cosmos held a secret.



And there, on the monitors of watching Earthlings—still humming, bustling, ordinary, and familiar "Babylon – 15." Where everything was in its place, where everything was as it should be and had been.



The cosmos awaited its moment. It knew.



While Earth was still to discover...