Andrew sat strapped to his seat. His arms and legs were pinned to the life support chair, jacked into it “for his safety.” He was allowed minor head movements, but his helmet was also tied to the machine. Fresh air vented in. The tubes and wires lining his skin fed him the nutrients and hydration he needed at maximum efficiency.
Wayfarers of old would have killed for the longevity that his tiny support vessel gave him. Wayfarers of old also weren’t so miniscule in the vast expanse of space. They at least had the chance of being found.
Andrew craned his neck, so he could look out the tiny glass window into the black void. Tiny specks of light dotted his view, but that was better than what sat across from him.
Claire had died slowly, the life support unable to handle the bleeding in her side. It had segmented off parts of her body, breaking down pieces as they died, preserving what it could until all that was left was a brain and a beating heart, until even that stopped.
She’d cried, begged him to help her. But he was as trapped as she was. Unable to free himself from the constricting bonds of his savior.
Andrew shuddered to think about the material that even now was being fed his body. Had the machine begun utilizing her biomass to preserve him? He didn’t want to think about that but couldn’t prevent his mind from wandering.
The machine was prolonging his hibernation longer and longer. Waking periods were shorter and shorter as the machine maximized his resources. The SOS signal had been set to a steadily pulse into the cosmos.
Andrew awoke with a snapping of his eyes. He was face to face with the empty suit, and he had to struggle to move his head to the right, out the window, to the black speckled window. His neck muscles were weakening. He scanned his visor HUD for the date and was horrified to see four standard Earth days had passed.
His mouth felt dry as he smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He wiggled his fingers in the carapace of his suit and counted each sensation. When he hit ten fingers present and accounted for, he sighed with relief. He moved the spotlight of his consciousness down his body, passing his thighs to his feet and toes. He strained to wiggle through the haze of tingling sensation and swore he could feel the digits moving. Then with breath quickening and heart pounding in his chest, he realized he couldn’t feel the sliding scrape of the suit against his skin. He forced as hard as he could, straining against the suit until he realized his calves ended in stumps, pressing against the partitioned off suit.
“Oh, oh God,” Andrew wheezed. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “No, no. Please, don’t take all of it. Don’t! Just put me to sleep and don’t wake me again!”
But he knew even as the words escaped his lips that he would wake again. The machine had to wake him. It didn’t have the resources to put him into a cryo sleep.
No no no
Andrew struggled against his bonds, pulling with his arms, twisting his head back and forth. The escape pod floated in the same trajectory, heading for the nearest inhabited star system. It was too far. Much too far.
He didn’t know how long he was awake before sleep took him again. He stared out the window at the shiny stars until they blurred his vision.
When he awoke again, six SEDs had passed. The max the ship was allowed to keep him asleep.
He groaned, the movement of his neck too hard. He struggled mightily, forcing his head over to the window, peering out the glass. The stars appeared the same, the shapes of their constellations completely unchanged. Andrew knew he shouldn’t, but he cast the spotlight of his attention around his body and felt the ghost of movement. His fingers moved willfully, his toes followed. For a blissful moment he was standing and freeing his crewmate, what had her name been? It didn’t matter, he was unbuckling her and helping her out of the chair. They were embracing and crying with relief. The pod had landed and rescue teams and camera crews and the President himself was there.
And then he felt the emptiness. The ship had done its job.
Andrew peered out the glass at the empty stars. For a moment he wished a Lovecraftian horror would appear at the glass, a tentacle monster with too knowing eyes breaking in and ending his suffering. But he knew even that was fantasy, that out in this empty expanse of space all he had was the empty suit across from him, and the good Doctor partitioning off his parts to reclaim the biomass, to keep him going for as long as it could.
Andrew closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep for the final time. He knew he wouldn’t wake again. He wanted it to come. He wanted to feel his hands again. And for a last moment before the darkness collapsed around him, he did.
Dallas is based in Houston with his wife, daughter, fat orange cat, and dachshund. IT guy by day, author by night.
