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A burned and battered man turned slowly, rolling over on his back. Pain
shot through his body. He started to lift his right arm, but stabbing agony shot through it, causing him to moan
and clutch his arm with his other hand. The moan echoed in the burned, stinking room.
"Help! Can anybody hear me?" There was a complete lack of sound around him. His voice sounded loud and
out of place. He listened breathlessly, hoping for a response. He was in no shape to help himself. He gasped and
moaned as he tried to move, close to crying, but not quite allowing himself that luxury. He held his right arm
with his left hand and managed to get his feet under him by pushing against the wall. A small light, coming from
behind a pile of trash, lit his way to what seemed to be a control board. Was he on a ship? If so, was he in space?
Was he alone? The complete lack of sound seemed to verify all these suspicions.
He looked around, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He was in a burned, metal room full of trash. The trash
appeared to have once been furniture and equipment, but the smoke damage made it all look like crumpled carbon
paper. He pulled trash away from the light and found it to be a personal recorder. After pushing the "on"
button several times he found the memory core to be damaged and lifeless, but the screen glowed with a friendly
blue light which he needed so badly. Just that small amount of light gave him hope. It was something to cling too.
He couldn’t imagine how he would have coped with complete darkness. He turned the recorder to get a better look
at the room around him. Nothing was familiar. It was as if he had been beaten, drugged, and dumped in a strange
place. He? He? Who was HE? Why were his name and personal life shrouded in a hazy mist of nothingness? He suddenly
wished he had a mirror. But considering the feel of the burns on his face, maybe he was lucky not to have one.
The man stumbled over the wreckage while tucking his broken right arm into his shirt as a temporary splint. He
needed medicine. He needed help. Setting the personal recorder on the control panel, the man took up a handful
of partially burned plastic sheets and dusted off the panel until he could read the words, at least those which
had not been burned off. How could so much damage occur and he still be alive? He shook his head in wonder, then
groaned at the agony this small movement it caused. He read the words slowly, so their significance could sink
in. "Astrogation," "Navigation," "Communication," "APU" . . . wait a minute,
APU seemed to be what he wanted. He couldn't begin to imagine what it meant, but his fingers eagerly reached for
the red switch and flicked it up. The lights came on overhead, nearly blinding him. Screens came on in front of
him. One seemed to be a damage control report. The list of damage scrolled continuously, but it was meaningless
to him. He turned and looked at another screen and his miraculous survival seemed to be explained.
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