Angel On My Shoulder
"Four-seven-niner, this is Angel On My Shoulder, I need you to modify your thrust velocity."
"Negative on the modify Angel On My Shoulder, I have injured onboard. Request clearance to dock."
Calm, cool and collected. My choice of pilot seems to have been justified.
"Look, if you try auto-docking at that speed, you'll have a lot more injured onboard four-seven. Throttle down."
And will presumably take out a good chunk of the space station. But the man, the...angel doesn't seem worried. It is something that I can understand, but not comprehend. Not now. Not anymore.
"Requesting clearance to manual dock then," my pilot continues. "Patient is critical, need to offload ASAP."
"What...no, negative four-seven-niner, clearance denied. This station does not allow for manual docks. Throttle down or spin into a go-around, it's your choice."
Choice...it seems like an alien concept. As alien as the foes we face. As alien as that which no longer appears on my shoulder.
"Negative on the go-around Angel."
"This isn't a military dock four-seven, we're civilian medical on loan to the UNSC. You try manual docking, you'll tear a hole-..."
"Not my call Angel, patient is level zero."
Zero...endgame...final hour...concepts that we've all gotten used to. All had to face. Perhaps face eternally. Take the world back to one, it can still increase back to two and beyond. To zero...is another matter.
I'm walking up to the cockpit at this point, listening to Angel. Listen to him hear the devil on his shoulder, maintaining the balance of conscience and practicality. Listen to him play the devil's advocate. It is a game that he knows nothing of. Nothing. Whatever the devil may advocate, the angel will always offer rebuttal. To play the devil, one must remove the angel. Remove it like any obstacle. Remove it the same way I intend to remove this obstacle of practicality. Not to be an angel to the patient...it is because practicality demands it. Not the devil, not an angel, just simple need.
"Level zero?" the angel asks. "I'm gonna need confirmation on that four-seven."
Laying down my palm...the hand of Man...I give it to him.
"Angel On My Shoulder, this is Director Church," I tell the man on the space station. "I respectfully request your assistance. Our situation is rather dire."
And then the silence comes. The calm before the storm. The last part of the cliff before one drops into infinity. That from which there is no escape, from which there is no return. It does not bother me. I know all about infinity.
"Four-seven-niner, you are clear for docking bay six, manual control, proceed with caution."
And thus the angel speaks. Or is it the devil? Sometimes it can be hard to tell. It's been so long since either angel or devil has appeared on my own shoulder. Walking to the back of the ship, to the patient, I wonder what he thinks. The man looming over him...angel? Demon? Or Man himself, with his capacity to be either?
He does not answer, for he cannot speak. Chances are he never will again. But that matters little. Few can...or will...speak to me, the counsellor notwithstanding, even as he greets me on the deck. A formality. Nothing more. No prayers of angels, no whispers of devils, just the facts and nothing more. Facts I can deal with, even if the bleeding hearts of the Oversight Subcommittee can't. They can't listen to the devils on their shoulders...
As for me...I have nothing left to listen to.
A/N
Somewhat obvious, but yes, this was based on the trailer for season 9. A good trailer in itself, though I still feel that the series reached its peak in Reconstruction and has yet to regain it. Still, came up with this regardless.