It was a sunny morning upon a windswept beach to which I awoke, with a small crustacean jaunting up my leg in search of breakfast. I politely removed it from my body, observed that the sex was not readily discernible upon this species, and sent it about its own activities. The sun felt warm against my neck, and the cool breeze off the sea basted my flesh with mild relief.
I stretched and aroused myself, and enjoyed the peace and tranquility of these surroundings. The birds and animals seemed little, if any, impressed by my presence. They scurried about their business, playing and feeding within the trees and bushes. All this and a clear, calm day should easily have been reflected upon my disposition; however, for all its glory, there was something terrifyingly wrong. I didn't know where I was, how I had gotten here, or why I was here.
The last cognizant memory I had was fighting for my life, not swimming upon an empty beach. I was seated in my Neurar Fighter, completely pre-occupied with the Daryltan Raiders closing in on my vector. I was behind a dead planetoid moon, in a binary star system, with no known habitable spheres. The dog-fight of laser and pulsar guns ensued, and I found myself with a three-to-one disadvantage. If these are the facts of a situation in some reality, then how did I arrive here, without my craft, and where in the Galactic Core am I?
After an hour of deep contemplation and meditation, I concluded that I was not suffering from the vague delusions of sleep or hallucinogenics. All my mental functions appeared sound, so the first next course of action was to assume that whatever agency was responsible for my present position, whether abduction or escape, was not automatically on my side of the fight. Therefore, a thorough and cautious search of this region was next on my business agenda. This was readily accomplished by climbing a tall, tropical tree and surveying the available beach and terrain.
There appeared to be no artificial structures within my visual range, however, after approximately 800 meters, camouflage would prove effective without mechanical aids. The brush-like vegetation surrounding the beach spread about 300 meters inland, to be replaced by veldt-like grass that would easily reach my waist. The grassy plain reached several miles to the mountains, which appeared to sit upon the very horizon. At first this seemed to be all there was to see with no gist of intelligent, or socially developing, lifeforms. Upon watching a predatory bird track and attack its lunch, I noticed what appeared to be a two-meter wide patch cut through the entire length of the veldt, running parallel with the beach I was marooned on.
Such a discovery indicated that someone, or something, opened this trail for the significant purpose of using it more than once. I immediately began to consider who might build such a path, and for what purpose it might be used, and if the same person or persons might be responsible for my presence here. But the purpose of its presence was not as immediate a problem as the fact of its presence, because there were no visible points of origin or destination. Such a path could progress endlessly in either direction and arrive nowhere. To determine which way to go, I first had to get to the path.
The exercise of walking in the jungle, under a tropical hot sun, proved a task of major proportions. As well, it did not please several of the local inhabitants who were feeding in my line of sight. The brush, though green and soft to the eye, was interlaced with black thorns sharp enough to leave their inscriptions in my leather leggings. The veldt grass also demonstrated its own method of deterring a wayward wanderer, by deteriorating like the blooming of dandelions. The resulting 'snow' storm blinded me, and caused the loss of two extra hours.
Finally, I broke through the grass onto a trail just wide enough that I could touch both sides by stretching arms out. From the tracks on the ground, it appeared that a mechanical vehicle of some immense, or extremely dense, size had pressed the grass into the very earth from which it grew. But, fortunately for me, the tracks displayed the direction of travel. I faced into the afternoon sun and began to walk, again.
While still in the brush country, I had risked eating some of the local fruits and berries. However, the veldt grass held no such resources, so I hoped most sincerely that my destination would prove closer than my vision anticipated.
Having nothing else to do, I reviewed everything I could about my previous situation. I walked myself through the battle, again and again. Yet, I could in no way explain the power which had transported me out of one solar system into another. Neither could I identify the singular red sun which hung over my head. Without knowing the sun, I had no reference to naming the planet I was on. The more I thought about it, the more depressing seemed my present situation.
The Daryltan Raiders were from Epsilon Bootes and, from all my knowledge tapes, could not possess any theoretical technology capable of designing a devise to put me on this piece of rock. Their zone of influence is restricted to only seven star systems, none of which have such advance science, nor possess a red sun. Therefore, either my mysterious savior, or saviors, is unknown to the Daryltans. Or, they have gained a secret conspirator. But which. What known race would secretly possess this science?
My head was beginning to ache from the effort when I realized that the grass of the veldt was gone. I was standing on "someone's" lawn. The grass was now opulently green and so well trimmed that it must have been cut the same day. Not mildly surprised, I immediately surveyed the area to see if I had been seen arriving. But there appeared to be nothing disturbed by my presence. I would have been satisfied with that decision, if my instincts didn't disagree so strongly.
Hiding in the veldt grass would not prove secure, since the blooms would collapse and mark my location. But the lawn was only a groomed meadow with a few sparsely positioned trees, with no secure place to stand unobserved. My only choice then was to become offensive rather than defensive. Still, there wasn't much to attack, just a real large yard to carefully investigate.
The grass had been freshly cut, but there was no sign as to the method of the cutting. There were not any tracks as would be made by tires, treads, feet, or paws. No pattern determined that an airborne craft hovering above the ground had passed over the area. Simply put, it appeared that the grass had cut itself. Things were really beginning not to make any sense, but the red sun was going down over those not-so-distant-now mountains. I had some immediate problems, too.
Hunger is not, although it gets justifiable notoriety, a man's greatest fear. But, when your stomach rumbles out loud like a volcano, few things replace the morbid agony of not knowing where your next meal is coming from. Viewed with honesty, and some small dignity, this emotional state over hunger only exists in men who are accustomed to daily fare; it is recognized that in the mass of worlds where hunger is part of the daily routine, it has lost its high priority flair. But regardless of the philosophy inscribed, I was very hungry.
Considering the irrational set of events and a world not wholly tied to any reality, my hunger was a sign I could recognize and understand. Rather than fear it, I relished it. Here was a problem I could identify, relate the available facts to, and then try to resolve. I gathered whatever berries and fruits appeared to be eatable, insofar as I had nothing to lose in the bargain. While conducting my search and collect operation, I espied a very old tree which would offer some cover against foul weather, and a place to climb in case of disagreeable creatures of the night.
The tree was twisted and deformed as though it had seen more centuries of storms and stress than I had seen days of life. Yet, for its immediate disengaging appearance, the tree possessed an attitude of awareness just as if it knew my needs and intentions. And approved. This strange idea haunted me while I ate, and while I determined my next course of action.
I had come to determine the planetary revolution to be slightly shorter than one Earth's Solar Day. And, although I come from Andre's Cloud in the Damocles Cluster, the Solar Day is still the standard for all space voyagers (pirates or otherwise). Since this red sun had set almost an hour before, I decided that I had eight to ten hours before sunrise. An eternity in a world where the inhabitants don't know of your 'friendly' intentions.
Darkness is a subtle opponent, made ominous by our stalwart dependence upon our eyes. The night's chief companion is fear, for when our defenses have been breached by the loss of sight, cowardice is just the first part of valor. The darkness in and of itself is merely a change in the environment and offers no danger. The real danger arises from our misinterpretation of the facts around us. The shadow of a tree or a bush takes on the appearance of a giant or a bear. Then, its all up to our imagination and childhood fantasies to scare us to death.
Under the protective cover of the old tree, I sat staring into the twilight of evening, ready for the approach of any nocturnal predators. My mind raced headlong toward panic as I recalled stories of the Moldans of Altair Seven, the Sgakegoats of Sirius Major, and my own experiences with the ectoplasmic Zerutos of Corrosion Four. I stopped to the realization that my heart was pounding like a thunderstorm, and my body was drenched with sweat. I admonished myself for behaving like a rookie pilot on his first solo mission.
As the night grew closer, two enigmatic spheres appeared on the northern horizon. The smaller one equaled Earth's own Moon, while the larger shone like a living sun, but gave off little light radiation. Marvelous! From the new illumination of these two tandem orbs, I reviewed and surveyed my surroundings, again. Cautiously I moved around the meadow sharply on the lookout for large creatures. However, I only saw a variety of small, amusing lifeforms passively involved in their search for a meal. None appeared threatened by me, and very few even bothered to be curious. It would be a peaceful night. I had hoped to see the star groups, but though not excessively bright, the two moons prevented a real clear study of the heavens.
Suddenly the serenity was broken. Not violently and publicly, but subtly and silently, as if a cold chill had passed through the entire world. I could even feel a change in the attitude of the stately old tree I leaned against. As I looked around to locate the source, I realized that my neighbors had only momentarily been interrupted from their individual activities. As if this tension was normal for them. But the old tree did not relax, it was still afraid. What could exist which would create such a fear in something as stable and self-assured as an ancient tree? Fire!
I quickly climbed as high as I could into the tree's upper section, but could not see any source of light or smoke which would indicate a fire. If it were that, though, wouldn't the animals smell it, too? While still high in the tree, I noticed that my own anxiety level had increased, as if something invisible were trying to attack me. Yet, nothing was there.
After climbing out of the tree, I walked around the meadow once, again. Everything had returned to normal, that is, normal for this situation. I decided to sleep in the tree. If anything might happen, it would be the first to know. And I didn't want to wait for a graved invitation.
The rest of the night would have been peaceful, but tree limbs do not make a comfortable resting place. My continual need to find a new position did allow me occasions to view my surroundings. I saw no large predators. The largest was a kind of reptilian bird about the size of a Welsh falcon, whose unfortunate victim was a two-foot fuzzy caterpillar. The sight of such a squirmer made me think of the caterpillar which spoke to Alice in Wonderland. Had I not been so exhausted, I might have followed up that train of thought.
The twin moons overhead consumed much of my concentration. Nothing about this situation made sense, but these orbital spheres really beat all. They revolved one over the other, by my view, at the rate of once every three hours. A feat totally impossible by all the astronomy I had ever studied. Although it fed my insecurity, it was a fascinating sight to behold. The smaller one was an apparently dead planetoid while the larger continuously flickered and flashed like a neo-lyte lantern. I began to wonder if lifeforms could exist there. Sleep finally consumed my consciousness as I pondered the looks of intelligent creatures from that moon.
The screeching catcall of an airborne lizard rudely startled me out of slumber. As I opened my eyes to the new day, the sun had already topped the horizon. I sat up to stretch the knots out of my bones. As I turned to the left my heart stopped, the air escaped from my lungs, and my skin raced with chills. There, behind the tree, sat my fighter. Rusted through as if it had never moved in a millennium. It sat where nothing had been just a few hours ago. Immediately I inspected myself to see if I had been touched or affected. Fairly certain that nothing had happened to me, I began to search the area for signs of my strange visitors. The presence of the fighter was not as important as how it got there. And why. I searched the ground for tracks, the veldt for breaks, and the path for treadmarks, but nothing.
Frustrated and angry I returned to the fighter itself. From its obvious dereliction it would be impossible to fly it, in or out. The rust and corrosion were layered on the shell so that the slightest touch left fingerprints. However, it showed not a single trace of any lifting or carrying device. That meant it had to have been teleported. But still, by who? And why was it so debilitated?
My observations and security checks took most of the morning. The sun was not yet to its zenith when my stomach announced that it was again being neglected. I was beginning to gather eatables when a powerful shock ran through me, like an invisible hand scratching my back. I spun around and saw the old tree visibly shaking, even though the soft veldt grass stood tall, straight, and unmolested. It struck, again. So strong that I collapsed to my knees in pain. I barely heard myself scream as I passed out on the third stroke.
My mind awoke to the electrical screaming of various tortured nerve endings. The first reaction was to sit up. Apparently somebody had expected that and had taken precaution to prevent it. I might not have objected quite so much if my head hadn't been secured sideways, with my chin on my left shoulder. The crick in my neck was really screaming the loudest.
Now, I have been in the dark before, literally. But this was indescribable. A moonless night allows for shadows. A room without lights has a feeling of presence. Even a cavern has scents to identify itself. Here, I could not smell, hear, or feel anything which would give away any clue to my whereabouts. I did not feel cramped, as in small quarters. Nor I did feel a draft, which might mean a large open space. And the light did not exist even to see the shoulder I knew my face was touching. Since this was not leading anywhere, I redirected my attention to my immediate confinement.
I was bound to a block-type table barely larger than myself. I was not bound by straps or other physical restraints. It was a stasis field of some design. At first I couldn't move anything, from a finger or toe on up. And this position was an increasing pain in the neck. I tried to relax and realized that although everything was in essence frozen, I could still open and blink my eyes. Why? Because my eyes did not jeopardize my restraints or confinement. This indicated that my shackles were not a blind stasis field but a controlled and monitored force field.
I had to chance that a sophisticated system like this would monitor my telemetry as well as security. Therefore, if I relaxed enough to convince the system that I wouldn't get up, I might be able to move; my head first. I lay there remembering my pilot training when I had been required to stay awake for five days during a research test orbit. Slowly and rather easily, my muscles began to relax to the point that I could feel the pressure of the field lighten. I concentrated hard to ensure that the only muscles which moved were in my neck. And it finally worked. The relief sent a hard shiver through my body, which triggered the pressure control, again. So much for planning an escape, but at least my head would eventually stop hurting.
The next question was how long I had been there, and how much longer before someone came to check on me. An impatient thought I would later regret. The stasis field apparently not only monitored my telemetry and security, but relayed this information to whoever operated it. My movements must have triggered a warning to "them", for I had just relaxed when a bright light came on directly in my eyes. My reflex response increased the pressure of the field even more. The light was so intense that I could not focus to see past it, in any direction. And when I closed my eyes, it still burned my corneas.
Suddenly, I had the sensation that the table was doing something. As if it were checking me over. By concentrating on relaxation, I moved my fingers to discover that where my body touched the table it was warm. Elsewhere, it was cool. Then I realized that I was naked. I was truly surprised that I hadn't noticed before. Probably shock. Belatedly, I blushed.
The computer survey lasted about 40 minutes, by my consideration. When the light finally went out, I believed I would be blind forever. And the table got real cold. Eventually I adjusted to the table's temperature, and my vision felt like it might come back. But the perpetual darkness prevented any test of my sight. I began to develop the sensation that I was being watched, by someone actually in the room. I didn't have the feeling that this person was real close, but nonetheless in the same area. And I didn't like the feeling. It was like being circled by a vulture.
The presence never went away, yet it never did anything else. Since I had originally awaken in here I estimated the time that past to be about ten to twelve hours. My vision had returned but the abysmal darkness refused penetration, yet I knew that there was a physical light source only inches from my face. My ears could pick out no sounds, even the ostensible breathing of my eternal watcher. There were no sources of machinery, movement or life, other than my own breathing and heartbeat. And my growling stomach.
Time is a very relative subject. It is relative to the amount of time you have to watch it. While pinned to a block table, totally nude, and in absolute emptiness, time becomes the most relative thing in one's life. How much time had I been there? How much time till someone comes along to talk to me? How much time till they feed me? When will life in the universe become extinct? What's the time difference between the emptiness of space and the emptiness of the space between my ears?
I might have thought of going crazy, but the situation was too impossible to have been the creation of my own imagination. This adroit idea kept me from breaking. I didn't know if my watcher(s) was testing my endurance or just forgot about me. That sense of presence was still with me, however, there had never been any response. I had tried to talk to it, without success. So I just talked to myself, and to my neglected stomach.
I told whoever was listening that if "he", "she", "it" or "they" intended to make me crack, the wait would be at least ten years, assuming I didn't starve first. I explained that the reason I volunteered for the Perimeter Fighter Service was a lost love which had lasted for ten years, four months, sixteen days, and twenty-three hours. Measured up until my blackout in that dogfight with the Daryltans. The pain, agony and loneliness she put me through could never be duplicated in any torture chamber.
That was when I took the attitude that host(s) was not in cahoots with the Daryltans. I then proceeded to describe the slimy worms and all the historical material I knew about them. I did not reveal any classified information, basically, because fighter pilots aren't told any since we have short enough lifespans. If this computer had the ability to read my mind then the information was already passed, and if not, there was no reason not to give it up. But since we, the Terrans, have fought the Daryltans for eight decades, and I have personally served for over seven years, I had a good reserve of war stories to tell.
I vaguely remember the shock, as if the table had electrically shorted out. Now there was a continuous vibration. The whole place must be in an earthquake. But I opened my eyes to find myself back in the yard. And the trembling was the old tree shivering, again.
I jumped up. At first it was in response to the tree and searched for any sign of danger. Then I realized I was back outside, and sought some sign as to how I got here, again. Was this real? Had I dreamt the table? Was the table real, and this a dream? Is this a sign of sanity, to believe you're crazy?
Two many changes, too little sense, too few facts. This place would be unnerving if the room with the table weren't worst. The yard had one advantage, a feeling of freedom. There was nowhere to go, and nothing to do. But considering the alternative, it was grand.
Again, I surveyed the area for signs. It was then that I noticed my fighter was gone. Did it 'pop' someplace else, like me? Or, was this moment in time before the last time I was here? If everything that had happened made sense, so did hopping back and forth through sequences of time. This train of thought explained one possibility for the rusted out fighter that had been here earlier.
My constant vigilance had consumed enough time. Right now, I needed to find a bush full of berries. My body was sure my mind had divorced it. An eternity had passed away since my last meal. I started walking down the path toward the bushes I had found before. I suddenly realized something was seriously different about the path.
The fact was that I was walking in a wheel-rut. A wheel-rut which wasn't there the last time I was. And this was the wheel-rut made by a narrow, smooth-surfaced wheel. The depth indicated a large, heavy load. And it was fresh, because blades of grass were still straightening up. As I watched the grass, anticipation and anxiety challenged each other for domination of my mind.
Finally, a chance to find out who, what, when, where, how, and WHY! But, if this was made by those who owned the table, I shouldn't be in a real hurry to confront them. After a moment's thought, I decided answers were more important, right now, than fear of the table. I looked both ways along the path to see if there were any signs, then I studied the wheel-rut to determine the direction.
Another anomaly, how come every time I check the time, it's always getting dark? It feels like this world is in a perpetual state of evening twilight. And, of course, my direction of travel is toward the sunset. A stomach full of berries, a pocket full for later, and a long walk. What a life!
It turned out to be closer than I expected. But still took awhile, because I was going to be careful. The last thing I wanted was to be captured by someone worst than the table watcher. Or turned into something else's lunch.
Since I was headed in that direction anyway, I had the opportunity to enjoy a pleasant and colorful sunset. As the giant red sun touched the horizon to my front, a curtain of velvet-soft purple rose behind me. Ahead, the sky flashed and flickered as a rainbow of reds, yellows and oranges danced away from the sinking globe of light. My attitude mellowed and relaxed as these colorful soldiers of fire marched over the distant mountains. As the brilliant amber faded from the crimson torch, something vaguely familiar began to tug at the shadows of my mind. Try as I might, I could find nothing solid to hang onto. By the time I gave up this exercise, darkness had swallowed the world, and my perpetual tension returned.
The renewed blackness slowed down my movement and increased my anxiety. I started having the feeling that the observer had come back to rejoin me. But come back from where? The thing felt just beyond my arm's reach, yet, if I tried to touch it, emptiness filled my grasp. Whatever my imagination had put there, it never tried to harm or hinder me. Yet, it never tried to help, either.
I had walked perhaps another hour while trying to get a grip on reality. I knew that no matter who or what lay ahead, I had to be ready to face it, without doubts about my sanity. This whole situation was insane and it had nothing to do with me. Suddenly, I tripped over something in the road. My heart stopped, as I bent down and touched an arm. It was warm, but didn't flinch from my fingers.
My mind screamed as my muscles strangled the scream begging to roar from my mouth. The arm was severed from its body, and the warm life's fluid still flowed from an open artery, loosely hanging from a mangled upper arm joint. I fought myself to keep from vomiting, and running blindly away. All I could think of was that some demented butcher was stalking me, too. Panic flowed like a lake crashing through a broken dam. I sat in the middle of the path and silently cried, until my mind regained its control.
In a flickering moment of rationalization, I realized I had to find out about the person who had lost the arm. Perhaps 'it' wasn't dead and needed help. With the aid of the twin moons just rising over the horizon, I searched for a body, or sign that the body had crawled off somewhere. But there was nothing. No sign of a fight or an accident. I decided to examine the dismembered limb, perhaps there would be a clue. I gingerly picked up the arm, so I could see it in the moonlight. One solid glance at the sleeve and the world went blank. I never felt the ground as it rushed up and slapped me in the face.
Another eternity passed before I woke up on the table, again. This time in panic and rage, I fought the stasis field. The pressure increased until my chest felt it would cave in, but I had to get back to the path. I had to find out the truth.
That dismembered arm; its vision passed through my mind over and over, again. This time I let loose the horrible holler that threatened to choke me to death. It was my arm: my left arm. With my watch on it, and my name on the sleeve. But how, and why? I had held it up to my face, with the same arm! Control the panic! Regain some calm. Relax the pressure from the table.
Between the panic and the pressure my throat had to fight back the lonely contents of my stomach from erupting like an angry volcano. Remember your training. This is easier than those torture sessions. There are no outsiders manipulating my anxiety. There is only me and the table. Count from 100, slow breathing, one per count. The stasis field feels visible as it eases and lifts tons of pressure off me, which had been trying to push the table through the floor.
With all my mental and emotional strength I forced myself to calm down, to convince the table I wouldn't run. Now I could move my head. I had to see my left arm. I had to know it was still there. I had seen other pilots lose limbs. The throb I felt could be a pseudo-pain, like they had experienced. As my chin touched my shoulder I could barely see five, live, active fingers waving at me. An ancient idea flashed before me as I passed back into beloved unconsciousness ...Thank God!
Comments