Where Rolls the Ore-Tron
Where rolls the Ore-tron over the mountains silently picking up matter and spitting out the undesirables. Out of the smoke stacks black smoke billow out. Through the barren landscape many more Ore-trons harvest, picking up metal deposits and storing them for refinement. Together they will harvest enough metal to build the hull of a new space ship, running off of the
Doomesday Drive, named after its inventor, Chuck Doomesday.
Chuck began his day as a mortician in the place of his employment, the morgue, where the dead gather. He had a voracious imagination, performing experiments on his subjects. He found that the human brain contains more energy, even when dead, than the most powerful computer of the day, in the year 2101. They contained even more than gasoline.
The flight of years began as Chuck harvested and refined the liquefied, human brain. Oh how the years went by. He tuned the fuel for his hovership and never needed to visit the gas station. He graduated to rocket ships and soon to the nebula crossing long range space ship, which is currently being constructed.
He did have a strange interaction during one of his trips to the morgue. He was driving his hovership, running off of brain fuel, when he heard a voice:
“Chuck…..are you there?” The voice said.
He didn’t hear it at first, then it echoed through his head. Another voice called out:
“Doomesday…you didn’t let me rest.” The voice said.
This voice was clearer than the first. Like the other, this one echoed in his head. As if it crept into his soul. That’s when he realized, these are the souls of the deceased talking to him! They want him to join them, in purgatory. What he did was wrong; he should not have taken away their brain, their thoughts, their memories. He ignored their cries and drove on. They pestered and bothered him until he gave in:
“Your souls are no more! There is nothing left of you besides the fuel that I harvested. You need to accept this.” Doomesday said.
They did and soon became his friends. He didn’t need to listen to the radio because his friends would sing for him. A thousand piece chorus sang as he drove. One by one, the souls would tell him about their lives. Eventually the voices died off as the fuel became used up. Even his favorite phantom deteriorated to a whisper and then nothing, he knew it was time to refuel.
He started to feel like god, or maybe the devil, playing with the afterlives of many, for his own benefit. He eventually tried to market it, but there were still a few bugs to work out. He spent many hours in the lab, a small room in the morgue that he dedicated to his work.
Chuck’s research continued, but he couldn’t get rid of the voices. He eventually started selling his product but couldn’t explain the voices. He came out and told the truth. The fuel is made out of human souls. His purchasers laughed and called him crazy, but they heard the voices too. It became a novelty, soul fuel, the stuff that lives are made of. Chuck became a wealthy man overnight. He was awarded man of the year for his invention. Soon interstellar travel was possible. People soon inhabited all the nearby planets thanks to his soul fuel. Even the solitary star jumper had friends to fly with.