Thick blackness and stars. No sound. A sliver of light splits space and reveals the rippling circumference of a large planet. Not Earth. White rays and prisms shoot off into the void, and the sliver becomes a half moon. Noxious gasses unfurl from the planet like tentacles. Shadows peel back back from craters that scar its surface like acne.
You watch this alien environment from outer space in some modular, hulking ship all smeared with the dusty residue of atmospheres past travelled. There’s a gaping wound where the fuselage used to be. Tubes and wires stream gently out into the void without caring that you might not ever get back home. The rest of the crew float silently amongst the cabin’s debris. Occasionally they bump into something – a wall, a chair, another person – and change trajectory without registering. They’re not going to wake up again. Something liquid passes by your face in a mouthwatering splash held together by the absence of gravity.
You think to yourself, ‘Where the fuck is Sandra Bullock when you need her?’ while remembering a Hollywood blockbuster you once saw. Calmly you climb into and pressurise your suit. You peer out into space and admire the stars one last time before jumping out of the wreckage with no idea how you’re going to get out of this mess.
This is the sound of Roly Porter’s Third Law.