Rescue is a story taken from Galaxies and Fantasies, an eclectic collection of tales from Andy McKell. The collection crosses genres from mythology to cosmology, fairytale to space opera, surrealism to hyper-reality. It is published by Elsewhen Press, featured in this issue with a Q&A with its founder Peter Buck.
“Can anyone hear me? Is anybody out there?”
I listen to the static crackling in my helmet’s headphones. All I’ve heard in three days is that damned static, and my comms batteries won’t hold out much longer. I’ve salvaged as many batteries as I could, but they aren’t designed to last for long and the ship’s main comms systems are trashed.
“Hello? Anyone out there?”
Anyway, battery life isn’t the issue. The breath of life is.
I look around the wreckage of my spacecraft. Broken hull plates lie around amid the scattered, shattered pieces of equipment and the splayed bodies of my crew, my shipmates.
It hurts me to look at them, even after three days.
Their screams replay in my head over and over, until they cut off as vacuum filled the ship.
We’d taken a hit from the aliens when we crossed the front line carrying urgent battle command data to the fleet commander.
It took out our engines and life support and... And most of my shipmates. The survivors struggled into spacesuits as the air hurricaned past us, carrying crewmembers out the gaping holes in the hull.
The pilot crash-landed on this damned asteroid. Better than drifting sunward and slowly burning up, I guess. She did fine, real fine. Nearly made it. Till we brushed a ridge and the hull ripped open.
That was the end. The ship was finished and...
And so were the rest of the crew.
I’d looked for survivors in the sections of the wreckage I could access. There were none – just the broken bodies of my friends. I scavenged their air: the air that should have kept them alive. It felt like I was stealing from them, the ones I’d worked and fought alongside. Grave-robbing from friends who’d not even had the dignity of a funeral. I hated myself. I tried not to look too closely at the mangled bodies as I detached their life support kits. I cannibalized the air tanks and my stomach churned with every act of desecration.
There’d been enough air to last me three days. Those three days are almost over.
“Can anyone hear me? Is anybody out there? 3-X-1 calling for help.”
No reply. I’ve been calling for three days. It’s about time to make my decision.
I take out my energy pistol and check it over, fumbling it in my suit’s thick gauntlets. Yeah, my finger fits into the trigger guard, designed for use while suited-up.
I stare down at it; the barrel glistening in a shaft of harsh starlight. A beautiful tool that saves lives or ends them.
The decision’s mine to take. The life’s mine. I’m not gonna suffocate to death. I’m gonna choose the way I go, and this way’s quick. I’ve made peace with my life.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on the life behind me and the task ahead. I raise my pistol, touch the muzzle to my helmet’s face plate, hoping the blast melts it fast.
Will I have to watch it melt or will it be instant?
This isn’t the way it was supposed to be, to end. I’m staring at the muzzle. It’s shaking. I grab it with both hands. It steadies. A little.
It’s time.
Now or never.
I can’t do it. But I must. My racing heartbeats burn up the time I have left.
What’s that? I jerk my head around. I’d heard something.
Static in my ears. And something else. Something muffled, rhythmical. I don’t care right now what the hell it is as long as it makes me hold off squeezing the trigger.
Am I fading? Or is it the batteries, already? Doesn’t matter. I have to do it.
The sound takes on a shape. Words? I listen hard, my eyes still fixed on the pistol.
“3-X-1, are you receiving me?” A female voice: delicious, warm, enticing.
Oh, the joy of hearing a voice after these long days and just in time, just before... My faceplate fogs as my breathing intensifies. I push those thoughts down and holster my sidearm. I yell into the mic. “Hello! Receiving you. Identify yourself.”
“Search and Rescue here, looking for combat survivors. State your condition.” I hear a quaver of emotion in her voice. She must be real pleased to find me alive.
“Sole survivor. Short of air. Come quick.”
“We’ve detected your suit’s emergency beacon. Estimated travel time, three hours. Can you hold on?”
Can I hold on? I have to, somehow. “Damn right, I can.” I laugh. I laugh from joy and relief, or maybe insanity. “Listen, we’re a courier ship. We got hit in the battle. Carrying urgent data. Can you get here–”
“3-X-1, we have your location. Shut down your comms and suit beacon to save battery and avoid detection by the enemy.” It’s an order.
I understand her unspoken suggestion that I should save air by not talking so much. I laugh again. She’s right. She’s right, and she’s coming to save me and I will love her for the rest of my life.
I shut down the power and lie back, trying to breathe slow. Up above and all around me out there shine the stars the great empires are fighting over: stars that people were dying for. Dammit, they’re just points of light.
Kaltans versus Humans. Humans versus Kaltans. Smooth skin, scaly skin. Scaly skin, smooth skin. What’s the real difference? Living creatures. Starfarers. Explorers with families and loved ones.
But they slaughtered my loved ones.
That’s enough to hate them, enough to volunteer to slaughter them and their loved ones.
Who knows how it started? I don’t know. I don’t care. Help’s coming and her voice was the sweetest thing I ever heard.
My thoughts drift. I wonder what she looks like. She’d be an officer, standing tall and commanding. I wonder what her name is.
Oh no! A cold shudder runs through me. She’d given no call-sign.
What if she’s the enemy? They’ll blast me from out in space when they find me.
No, wait. I’d said I was a courier. The enemy’ll want the data. I have to destroy it but the consoles are dead and I can’t get to the data center. I’d need cutting equipment. I have none.
Ignoring her orders, I switch on my comms. “Hello, Search and Rescue craft? Identify yourself.”
“Calm down, 3-X-1. My call sign is Syrex-12. My name is Nartana, from the Astalan system.”
It sounds like the right kind of accent. But... “Astalan is behind enemy lines, Nartana.”
“Yes.” She pauses, then continues, speaking slowly. “I was away at cadet training when they came.” Another pause, a longer one. “I lost my family. I don’t want to talk about it.” She sounds genuinely broken up. I want to reach out to her but have no idea what to say.
“Save energy and air.” She cuts me off with a click.
I understand. There is one difference between the two sides. The enemy is merciless. Planets destroyed, mass slaughter, torture, slavery... Evil, evil, evil!
I force myself to calm down, to use less air.
She wouldn’t want to talk about it if she was telling the truth. And she sounded genuine.
But if she lied I’d brought the enemy here. They’ll take the data. I check my pistol again.
I drift off...
I dreamed about my own family, the lakeside house, the laughter and games and love...
Dreams turn to fears as I wake. If anything happens to my family, if the enemy takes our planet, how will I cope?
Friend or foe? Who had I invited to my deathbed scene?
I’d been brought up to trust. The war wrecked that. Was I a trusting kid or a combat veteran? Both. Neither.
I can do nothing but wait with suspicion and hope battling each other, a war boiling in my thoughts. What do I know for certain? I run the question through my mind a thousand times. I don’t know enough. Can I trust her?
Part of me pictures Nartana and me getting together and... I’d comfort her and thank her... And together...
Another part of me pictures alien horrors laughing as they stomp over my dead body to reach the data core.
The hours tick by. My worries continue to drain my soul.
A great shuddering of the floor wakes me from sleep. They must have landed nearby. I check my air gauge. No wonder I’d dozed off: I have so little air left. They’re just in time – if they are who they said.
I lie still. I’d strapped myself down behind some wreckage so I didn’t drift off into space. Huh! Makes no difference where I die, not really.
I wait until I see beams of light approaching. Their helmet torches bob and sway as the landing party make their ungainly way over the rough terrain and wreckage in almost-zero gravity.
They’re here! It’s time. Time to find out if I’m to be saved or slaughtered.
Friend or foe? Scaly or smooth? Kaltan or Human?
I draw my sidearm, almost fumbling it again in those clumsy gauntlets.
Woozy. Light-headed. Anoxia: shortage of oxygen. Move faster, people! Let me see you!
The first to arrive bends low to squeeze past a low-hanging sheet of hull plate. I aim and say a quiet prayer.
The spacesuit design’s familiar. One of ours!
The arrival straightens. I see a face lit by the suit helmet’s interior lights. She is beautiful: perfect face, perfect eyes, just... Perfect! And not the enemy.
Her face holds no expression. “3-X-1, you can put the weapon down.”
I know that voice. Yes, it is Nartana! I cry with relief and holster my pistol. I will love her for the rest of my life. Just like I dreamed about, we’ll get together and...
Another shape appears behind her. Bulky, tall. Too bulky, too tall. I feel a rush of fear. It lifts its head. I see its illuminated face through the visor and that alien spacesuit design.
“You damned traitor!” I scrabble for my sidearm but fumble it. Damned gauntlets! The pistol slips away into the wreckage.
“My family is hostage. I had no choice.” Her voice quavers, her eyes are wet. “I am so sorry.”
I look at her, at those four, beautiful faceted eyes set in a perfect scaly skin.
I look at her companion and shudder at the sight of those revolting liquid eyes set in a pink face.
The Human raises its weapon. I start to beg...
An energy bolt hits me, ripping me apart, and—
Andy was abducted by pulp Sci-Fi magazines and seduced by Noir in his teens. He worked in marketing, franchising, and computing before launching a web design company. Various anthologies feature his multi-genre stories and more novels are in development. He hopes you enjoy the story.
Cover: Alison Buck