The escape pod rose higher in the air, outside the feeble atmosphere, well beyond the reach of gravity.
The planet now looked like a pearl colored shooter marble, blotched with gray, surrounded by a sea of stars.
Wes and Mr. Duffley claimed to have identified many of them, classifying them into their scientific categories. Type M or Sol or something. They made little digital star charts, distributing them around.
They named them. Actually named them.
Wes went crazy with it, giving a lot of them comic book names.
Mystique.
Raiden.
Green Goblin.
Spawn.
Reed Richards.
Since they obviously didn't have enough to do, Dennis tried to give them extra duties, but Wes had it all figured out. Labor laws, practical applications of said star chart, you name it. They were working the prerequisite hours, so he was within his rights.
That's why, as Dennis stared at an hourglass shaped constellation, he thought of Wonder Woman and frowned.
So far, the boss man had been only taking puffs from the pod's oxygen mask, breathing leftover air from the base. A form of self punishment, perhaps.
Now, as he began to feel light headed from the abundance of carbon dioxide, he sealed the mask over his face, inserting a pair of IV's into his veins.
The temperature of the pod had decreased significantly, using the outside cold to aid the refrigeration process. The IV would act as a catalyst, lowering his body temperature even further, slowing his heart nearly to a complete stop, and thus he would lay for a long time, frozen.
"She has been judged," he breathed. "The wages of sin is death."
From somewhere on the base, I can hear strains of music. Most likely a radio or music player.
Elton John, singing something about hanging a mule and winding up behind locked doors.
Ironic. A chill runs down my spine.
I try to ignore it, focusing on the task at hand.
The egg I laid came out empty, just like I knew it would.
My baby, my dear beautiful baby, has yet to breathe the outside air. His umbilical cord still works. Somehow he's getting oxygen.
I think.
I hear a heartbeat, sounding like one of those big kettle drums at the symphony.
Bump thump.
Bump thump.
It must be okay.
The egg somehow senses me approaching, its mouth opening wide, though probably expecting something else to go down into its gooey depths.
I gently place my baby in the warm slime, a second womb to nurture it until it can breathe and stand on its own.
I found a place for the umbilical. It seemed like the right kind of place, but it's hard to tell because it's never been done like this before.
No matter. I did my best, and sometimes that's all a mother can do.
I carefully seal the mouth of the egg, lovingly caressing the sticky shell.
There, you silly egg, I thought. Bet you've never had one of those in you before!
I sensed a mirror nearby, or maybe a window.
No, I think this used to be my bedroom, so it has to be a mirror.
It doesn't matter. I don't want to see this thing I have become. Sometimes being sightless has its advantages.
There is a book, which I think is called the Zhuangzi, and in that book, there is this quotation:
"Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou dreamed I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon, I was awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man."
Was I the creature dreaming I was a woman, or was it the other way around? I don't know that either.
But one thing I do know: My boy is safe, and he's going to live.
All I need to do is give him some time, so he can hatch.
I caress the egg, lovingly coating it in a layer of slime. As I do this, the song from the radio continues to echo through my mind.
She hates how she feels,
But she hangs like a mirror,
Maybe a stranger could walk in and see her in neon...