Cage (Dark World Book 1) (2 page)

As the climate on Earth changed, there were places too hot to live. Entire areas had to be declared dumping grounds around the world. Now space was a littered mess. Old canisters collided, and then exploded causing her to wince and shy back from the window for a second as brilliance lit up in the darkness, hurting her eyes. The entire cabin glowed green for a moment as they flew through the haze.

“Danger is minimal. Reconfiguring oxygen levels.” Cyra heard from the console in front of the captain. “Safety valves functioning normally. Have a pleasant trip.”

“Fuck,” the pilot yelled. “Damned toxins. The containers are supposed to be double sealed. I’m sick of green and purple stars. Takes forever for gas to be sucked away.”

“What the hell?” Cyra gasped. The garbage tumbled and rolled toward an ominous black hole. A vacuum effect tugged at the shuttle and the engines powered up to resist the pull.

“A nation must be doing a dump off.” The captain spoke while trying to maneuver around tons of debris. “Fuck, they should have warned me to take a different route.
Communication, morons
!”

“Is this something new? Wait, what?” A brand new washer floated by. “Captain? Isn’t that the new high-efficient washer? The one that washes, dries and folds?”

“Yeah. But it didn’t iron, and the settings sensors for transporting the items directly to where they belonged malfunctioned a few times. Some toddler got beamed by his older brother’s cleats while sleeping. But he’s alright.”

“Yikes.”

The captain chuckled. “Yeah, the lawsuit was fast and painful. The Children’s Earth Government had a field day. The manufacturer is still licking its wounds, but lucky to be alive. The take-no-shit approach to children’s protection is at an all-time high with fewer
real
kids born and more AIF’s created. The new ‘child friendly or die’ machines came out a month ago. The other machines are illegal.”

Cyra wasn’t surprised at the government’s reaction to protecting the children. When she started school, out of the ten children per class, the ECE, Early Child Educator, was an AIF who recorded a teacher’s every move. There were also the interactive AIF children, two to a class, also monitoring and recording. There hadn’t been a threat to a school in over a hundred years and the government planned on keeping the situation that way. Politicians took their jobs seriously, as they were held accountable for any and all actions.

“This new dumping in space just started about five months ago when the black holes appeared closer and a brainiac politician on Earth got the idea.” The captain seemed chatty and Cyra leaned back to listen. At least he wasn’t simulated. Besides, he had no ‘off’ button. “The idea won him and his female co-politician the campaign; he promised to rid the Earth of garbage. Out of sight, out of mind. When a black hole is discovered the designated leaders, or in this case the overseers of the project, give each nation a turn at a huge dump off. The holes keep appearing more frequently. Handy, but annoying when you’re trying to maneuver around them.

“The space stations have early detection on constant monitors. Earth’s politicians would be in a shitload of trouble if a station suddenly disappeared into a black hole. Or worse if one appeared to swallow our planet, the moon or sun. Who the hell knows where the holes go and if universes are suddenly filling with planets not their own? I mean hell, it’s happened near Earth, a new planet simply appearing. Scary as crap, these holes.”

“Well shit, get us out of here.”

“Gee, the idea never crossed my mind.” Cyra scowled at his muttered sarcasm. Then in a louder voice: “Like I said, hang on; it may get a bit bumpier than I thought.”

Cyra dug each finger into her seat when the space shuttle went wild.
A bit bumpy, my ass!
Up they went, then down, sideways, stop, go. Buck Rogers was behind the wheel and they had to be under attack. Either that, or they were in a football game—weave left, duck right, spin—her insides were tackled. Her seat belt tightened to lock her in place; the seat bottom and sides clutched her ass and thighs. Goose bumps dotted her arms as a smashed car sped toward them.

Holy crap, a car crash in space?

The vehicle missed them by inches. Wave after wave of garbage came within inches of each portal she gazed out with horror. Old droids discarded as the new improved robots replaced them floated past; one waved at her. She could see its lips move, and Cyra knew it was telling her to have a stellar day. The vessel shifted sideways with a vicious flip to avoid a dump truck which smashed the droid to smithereens. As it was decapitated, it still stared at her speaking pleasantries she could make out by lip reading. The blades of a windmill began to whip as the suction caused a breeze. The blades sliced past them, millimeters from Cyra’s nose pressed to the window.

There looked to be no end in sight. The black hole came closer as the captain spewed more profanities. Cyra’s heart began to pound unmercifully within her breast, echoing in her ears. Goosebumps dotting her arms gave way to the inevitable red blotchy hives she was prone to under duress, an increasing amount of saliva formed in the back of her throat making her gag. She couldn’t swallow. It didn’t take long before Cyra felt sick; her tummy rolled faster than the garbage. She felt the bile rise and knew puke was imminent. Her eyes widened when another worse situation presented itself, a horrible pressure low on her belly made its presence known, puke wasn’t the only imminent problem. Cyra had an embarrassing issue when she grew frightened.

Cyra undid her seatbelt; she thrust up forcefully on the seat’s arms for leverage and heard a sucking sound as her ass escaped the pillow confines, and she fled to the tiny bathroom, stumbling in her haste not to embarrass herself. She ignored the captain’s heated demand she remain seated. The SFC hologram appeared directing her to return to her seat. The image emerged in each seat the farther back she lurched until it ran out of places. Looking back every chair had the hologram telling her to remain seated, the voices spoke in unison, arms outstretched, hands reaching for her.

Creepier.

Cyra’s hair stood on end. She barely made it to the toilet before losing her breakfast. Cyra was on the seat, pants down in a heartbeat. It wasn’t the best time to need to pee but she always had to when scared. She was a real drag at frightening movies—spent most of the time in the bathroom.

She spread her legs and puked up more of her breakfast. The shuttle knocked her from wall to wall, her ass skidding as she tried to remain seated. She braced her hands straight out on either wall, her fingertips pressed tight to the plush surface, until her bladder and belly emptied. Cyra jumped up and yanked at her panties then pants as she flushed. A hole in the black toilet underneath opened and she saw space.

That’s not supposed to happen
—
not good
.

The self-cleaning toilet seat produced an arm brush which was ripped off, tumbling into space. Cyra felt the air being sucked out of the tiny enclosure and began to panic, gasping for each breath until the hole resealed. She could breathe again. She dropped to her knees and dry heaved.

The small area was smaller when crouched. Cyra was afraid she’d rip the toilet out if she held on tighter, but tighter she held. She had no choice. A boom invaded her eardrums and she screamed when the side of the bathroom wall indented, grazing her side. They had been hit by something. She screamed again when above her came another crash and the ceiling dropped two feet. She was in the proverbial can, and something was crushing the can.

Cyra, on her knees, grabbed the door handle and twisted with all her might. Nothing happened, she was locked in. She kicked at the door but the room was too small for any power behind her kicks.

The vessel began spinning. Cyra placed her hands and feet onto the walls and floor trying to keep her body from tumbling, damning the strict gravity control maintained painstakingly in any circumstance. The walls floors and ceiling were thickly padded inside every space shuttle in case of a crash. The extra insulator also aided in keeping temperatures at a moderate degree. The padding, however, wouldn’t keep her safe from the bathroom’s contents. The outside of the sink was padded as was the toilet seat, but if she bashed her skull on the inside of the tiny sink, she would break her head open. The long sink faucet caught at her clothing as she was flipped, tearing her shirt.

Cyra’s body somersaulted as round they went, and her slouched shoulders bumped into the ceiling spiraling her down. Her back crashed into the sink and she spun to the floor. Her booted foot wedged between the wall and the toilet base. She was stuck. A good twist at her ankle and she inhaled sharply. Pain exploded behind her eyes. Her last thought before she blacked out was she could be killed by a toilet. Death by crapper would be crappy.

Cyra blinked and groaned. Her entire body ached. The enclosure was tight; the bathroom had obviously taken more of a beating after she’d blacked out. Her foot had come lose and she groaned when she touched her ankle. Sunlight streamed in through a small opening, a tear in the structure. Cyra assumed the breach came as they landed or she’d be dead, all oxygen sucked out. The small escape to freedom was a tight fit, but she thought she could manage to wiggle through. Cyra wasn’t a small woman, nor did she consider herself to be heavy. All her curves were plush where they were supposed to be, accented and healthy. She always lost a few pounds on the space station but gained every ounce back in the time she was home. It might have been the cotton candy tub of ice cream she dove into the second she could find a corner store.

The toilet was sideways and she stepped onto it. Crouching, she poked her head from the tear; she sniffed the air. Relief washed over her when she breathed deep and didn’t explode or implode. Cyra squished out through the small opening to her shoulders and maneuvered her generous boobs through one at a time.

“Come on ladies, work with me.”

Her rounded melons protested with her manhandling but finally cooperated. With the girls set free, Cyra glanced around feeling vulnerable. She wiggled and twisted, grunting until an arm came loose. Groaning, she shoved hard against the toilet with her knees. Her other arm came free. Hands braced, she shimmied straight up. Her waist was slimmer and she stood without much of a problem, but she had a booty.

Normally she liked the way her ass looked and was dying to get into jeans and out of the space station’s red attire of t-shirt and cargo pants, but trying to squeeze her cheeks through the tin can’s narrow opening was like kneading play dough. Cyra detested play dough. One stupid male first grader who loved to make anything indecent had ruined her experience on the stuff. The numerous pockets on her pants caught on the exposed jagged metal outside the compartment ripping until her aqua lace panties showed in places. Cyra wasn’t fond of red, at least not after years of wearing the same old suits; the panties were her way of defying the system.

“Ass, you are definitely going on a diet when we get out of here,” she grumbled. “Damn I have a new respect for toothpaste.”

Cyra oozed her legs through the rest of the mangled mess and fell to the ground with a plop, groaning when her back hit the earth. For a moment she lay staring up at the sky. She breathed a sigh of relief seeing only one sun and the image of one full moon. There were still a few hours of daylight remaining. Off to the side, she saw the distinct pattern of broken, burnt vegetation. The vessel hadn’t simply crashed; it had skidded its way to a halt.

Cyra made her way to her feet, her senses acute to any pain. Her body ached but it was nothing to cry about. Her foot hurt but she knew it wasn’t broken, and a twisted ankle was for sissies. She walked around the remains of the shuttle trying not to limp, failing horribly.

So I’m a sissy.

All that was left of the shuttle was the bathroom. The outside walls were scorched black. The capsule was a dented mess. Everywhere her gaze fled around the forested area was empty except for vegetation. No signs of life. A shiver raced up her spine and she reminded herself fear was not an option.

W
ell, maybe a small option.

“Where the hell is the captain and the rest of the shuttle?”

There was no sign of him or the vessel, no sign of any other crash pattern. The shuttle was designed to break into various pieces when the structure was at risk. Cyra groaned again and smacked her forehead with the heel of her palm, then winced. The rest of the vessel would be fine. As soon as an emergency rose with the first hit, the inside walls would have turned into the equivalent of air bags. Except the bathroom, it was too small and air bags would have smothered her; only she would be dumb enough to need to pee in a crisis.

“No wonder the captain wanted me to stay in my seat. I’m such a dumbass. The second the bathroom was hit it was probably ejected from the mainframe. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So much for my outstanding brilliance. I could have spewed in my seat, no biggy. Pissing myself on the other hand… That’s it; a huge ass pad will accompany me on my next trip. Stupid sissy bladder.”

Gazing around, Cyra assumed she had landed on Earth. Where, she wasn’t certain. The foliage was dense, everything was green; the air was warm which was good. Half her clothes were torn from being caught on the faucet and other fixtures sticking out. She called out and listened. Nothing. She yelled again. Still nothing.

“Well, I guess that steak will have to wait. Damn.”

I want ice cream.

Cyra chose a direction and began walking. The air was clear, with a sweet scent teasing her nose. Gorgeous, huge white flowers dotted a number of the largish trees’ stubbed branches. Intrigued by their beauty, she touched the petals on one and was surprised to find it cold. Ice flowers, not unheard of but unusual. The trunk of the smooth, light-barked tree was also cold. The ground beneath her boots was hard dark brown earth, a chocolate color and pleasing to the eye, even with very few stones. There were no leaves to dot the forest floor. The foliage was lush and vibrant. Wherever she was, it was summer.