Orbiting Iaclite

By Carlos Candela Terry

I wake facedown on the cool titanium floor, my vision blurred and my mind shrouded in fog. My jaw cracks with stiffness. Iaclite’s fiery, blue light shines through the portside window and bathes dust particles in a teal hue; they hover like a swarm of lifeless fireflies. I struggle to my feet, my hands leaving behind condensation marks that glare in the blue dwarf’s light. I can barely breathe. Signs of a malfunction in the life-support system. Did we crash?

I limp over to an engineering console—the effort leaving me dizzy—and squint to get a clearer view of the fractured display. A gash adorns the side of our hull.

We’re leaking oxygen. I seal off the tanks and access the emergency air supply.

The console buzzes. “Signal Failure.”

I look around. There’s a trickle of blood on the wall, which leads to a crumpled body. The harsh white of its lab coat is sprayed a sickly red. Dom. I grit my teeth through the nausea gripping my bowels.

The impact of Dom’s corpse disconnected the optic fibers linking the console to the rest of the ship. It’s receiving information but can’t get a signal out. I kneel and plug it back in. When I rise to my feet, my vision darkens.

I swipe at the screen as suffocation creeps over me. I wait, too drowsy to panic.

A nearby vent hisses. The leaking tank is sealed.

Air pressure normalizes. I gulp in a deep breath, eyes watering.

Sharpness returns to my vision and mind. Why didn’t the alarm trigger? And how were all of our oxygen tanks compromised?

Like most of the vessel’s systems, its security structures and algorithms are fitted with failsafes. Malfunction is practically impossible.

I consult the engineering console again. An hour of air left. Five oxygen tanks have been detached, and something punctured the last one from the outside. Additionally, our engines are suffering from critical failure. Without access to the scanners in the cockpit, it’s hard to tell how this happened. The ship’s condition should’ve triggered the alarm. But that hasn’t happened. Sabotage is indisputable.

No alarm means no distress signal, and no distress signal means no rescue. And if it has yet to be triggered manually, either I am the first to regain consciousness or the only crewmember still living.

I scan the robotics lab. Our subject is absent from the exam table. The restraints have been severed.

No-no-no-no-NO!

Dread rattles around in my skull with the discordant timbre of a misshapen bell. I don’t have time to find out what happened.

I stumble out the door toward the bridge in a panic, almost forgetting to link the timer to my holowatch for the remaining fifty-five minutes of air. I must send out a signal, then get to an escape pod before the air runs out.

Pain flares in my leg, like a knife plunged through the side of my knee. No bones jut out. Probably a sprain. Enough to keep me at a limp and munch at my time. My white lab shoes splash through crimson puddles and past gruesome scenes in the central corridor.

Don’t look.

Something grabs my ankle. I turn frantically.

Admiral Cotte. “It’s on the bridge… Get… Ou—” She loses consciousness.

Move!

I’m staring at a fork in the hallway.

Left, escape pods. Right, bridge.

Left, me. Right, the others.

Crap…

I go right.

On my approach, the blast door doesn’t open, so I pump the handle. As I do, I peer through the door’s window. The bridge is dark; a silhouetted figure looms in the shadows.

Its movements have a lithe agility and uncanny accuracy to them.

A cold, prickling pang bursts from my heart. My mouth is dry, my hands sweaty. When my hold on the handle slips, I stop and peek in again. Nothing.

My watch chirps. Thirty-five minutes left.

Come on! Either you wait here for certain death or risk a violent end and possibly survive.

I look down at my trembling hands and take a deep breath.

Don’t look. Just open it.

Finally, the door slithers up, leaving its frame agape. The corridor’s clinical light pours in. My shadow stretches into the bridge, creasing like a jagged blanket over the command consoles. The room reeks of iron. The orange distress-signal switch taunts me.

I inch inside, my head snapping toward every corner, my eyes—dry, pallid marbles—strain in their sockets. When I notice the pilot’s screen, my heart leaps. We crash-landed on an asteroid. The rest of the fleet is nearby.

Alloy on alloy clanks to my right—short, jolted notes like muted piano strings. My contorted reflection shines on its glassy, faceless head. As the machination towers over my slight frame, a single luminous lens focuses on me, scans me. Sees me.

My stomach lurches.

The motorized hominid jerks its smooth, carbon-fiber arm.

I duck.

Its galvanized fist crashes through the wall, creasing it as easily as aluminum foil.

I leap for the captain’s console. It grabs my leg, its vice-like grip crushing me. I scream, as the tip of my finger tickles the casing of the orange switch. The android pulls me back. My shriek rakes my vocal cords. I stomp back at its arm, but it remains rigid.

I hop on my free leg while holding on to the console—stretched out like a rubber band in the hands of a mischievous child. My unexpected momentum unbalances my assailant.

Yes!

I remove the plastic casing and flip the switch.

Nothing.

Come on!

With my leg as leverage, the android forces me to the ground and pins me to it with a knee on my belly. Its frigid hand grips my neck. There’s a slow, dispassionate squeeze. My head feels like it’s gonna pop.

The computer chirps. “Distress beacon activated.”

I stare up at a vacant, featureless face of plexiglass and metal.

I fade into the void, hoping I haven’t made a terrible mistake.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carlos Candela Terry is a fantasy and sci-fi nut that’s been consuming the genres since childhood. Following his formative years studying till he acquired his Masters in Music Composition, he transitioned to writing fiction, and is currently working on finishing his first fantasy novel. Besides teaching English and writing, one can find Carlos getting choked out at his local Brazilian Jiu Jitsu gym, playing Dungeons & Dragons, rock climbing or meditating on the other side of nowhere.

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