Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  “Yes, only eight days of travel away at high speed!” Hasmik starts to laugh softly.

  “Speaking of which, how much air and life support time do we have in these suits?” I say to Erita.

  “With or without the life support pack running?” she retorts. “Without, as I said earlier, the suit alone is worth half an hour. With the pack on continuously, you get three days.”

  “Oh no,” I whisper.

  It takes four days to get to our location from Atlantis. From Ishtar, about the same or longer.

  “Hey!” Erita addresses Hasmik. “Did you plug in your life support pack and turn it on?”

  Hasmik’s face looks confounded. “Yes, I think so. They explained it but I am not sure I remember now; my mind is so messed up—”

  “Check!” Erita says roughly in a commanding officer tone. And then she explains to Hasmik where to look and how to check.

  Hasmik does as she’s told and her pack is successfully enabled.

  “What else have you got there?” Erita continues.

  Hasmik picks up the brick-shaped thing floating on a short cord from her waist. “Xelio gave this to me to hold.”

  Erita makes a snort. “Lucky you. And, smart Xel. You know what that is? He gave you an electromagnetic propulsion field generator. Which means you can use it to move around, to propel yourself in any direction. Short distances, of course, and good for about three days also. But still, really lucky!”

  Then Erita explains to both of us what other suit features we have. We’ve heard most of this already, but now we are getting training in the field.

  “So, these are like ropes here? Cords and cables?” Hasmik asks, pulling out a short length of cable from her suit.”

  “Yes, use it to attach yourself to other people or things.”

  “How long is it? Does it pull out all the way? Is it flexible like a bungee cord? What kind of material or fabric is it made of? Is there another?” Suddenly Hasmik has so many questions.

  I recall that Hasmik works with defense fabrics in her civilian job which gives her some kind of level clearance in fact. No wonder she’s curious.

  It’s not like we have anything else to do.

  Just as I think that, my heart constricts with agony. George! Manala! Xelio!

  “Have you tried calling on your suit’s local comms?” I ask. “Maybe they are nearby, and alive?”

  “I did, but there was no answer. Let me try again,” Hasmik says, and her voice regains a tone of sadness.

  “Have you tried cycling frequencies when you called?” Erita says.

  “No . . . I don’t know how.”

  So, Erita explains.

  Hasmik starts tweaking her suit comm control and cycles as instructed to search the entire radius. There is crackle and silence and random space noise on her audio, which we all get to hear.

  Suddenly, another crackle, and then, voices.

  “Hello! Hello!” Hasmik exclaims.

  “Hasmik! Is that you?” Xelio’s strong voice comes clearly on the linkup.

  “Yes! Oh, is this Xelio Vekahat? I am so glad you are alive!” Hasmik exclaims with such joy that my own hope soars. “Is Manala with you?”

  “Manala, George, myself, Consul Seval Denu, Command Pilot Uru Onophris, and several others—we are all sealed inside a partially damaged transport. Safety seal is holding, with basic life support. However, we are drifting without propulsion. Where are you?”

  “Oh, I’m here!” Hasmik exclaims. “I don’t know where here is but I am drifting in space.”

  “Shamash, this is Tefnut, with Lark,” Erita cuts in. “We’re in a similar predicament on the opposite side of Helios from you.”

  There’s a brief pause, then Xelio says, “Bashtooh, you’re alive, daimon! Good to hear your voice, Tefnut!”

  And then he adds, “I think we did it. Or should I say, Lark, Manala, and the rest of the six did it. According to the others, the enemy grid is no longer out of reach in its dimensional bubble. The alien spheres are now physically solid, tangible, and wonderfully vulnerable in our space-time. We can blast them into oblivion. And we’re presently doing just that—at all the four planet locations.”

  “You’re serious?” Erita says with a smile. “That’s great! How do you know?”

  “A one-way communication from Phoebos came in on Manala’s interstellar. They’re having a good time flying in combat without us.”

  “Ah,” Erita says. “But do they have a huge bi-directional solar jet frying their ships like we do?”

  “Apparently, they do have something of the sort,” Xelio replies. “There are huge plasma explosions that started issuing from the grids just before the Logos voices did their magic thing. These explosions are currently hanging suspended like fiery nebulas around Rah, Septu, Tammuz, and Ishtar—perfectly contained, of course—inside the same dimensional bubble-space that our own fiery plasma jets occupy.”

  “Wait, what?” Erita’s voice is incredulous. “Those spewing jets are contained?”

  I, too, stare with a frown, as I listen.

  “Oh, yeah,” Xel says. “These jets exploding from Helios barely had time to crack open our unfortunate battle barges before the new quantum containment shield sucked them in. Otherwise we’d all be fried and subatomic by now. Everything for countless mag-heitar around these solar jets, including us and the debris, would be incinerated.”

  He pauses.

  “Whatever else the Logos voices might’ve accomplished, they inverted the dimensions. The enemy grids got tossed out of their space-time, while the energy of the explosions they caused in our space-time got pulled in.”

  Chapter 97

  “Oh, that’s great!” I say. “Xelio, this is Gwen! I’m so glad to hear we have one thing less to worry about right now! Because we’re drifting in the direction of that solar jet, and we don’t have any propulsion packs to get out of the way!”

  There’s a short pause.

  “Ah, My Imperial Lady Gwen, it is good to hear your voice,” says Xelio. “Well done on the mission objective. What happened to your propulsion pack?”

  “It got separated from me somehow,” Erita says gravely. “Probably ripped off during the explosion, judging by the missing hookup and tear at my waist.”

  “You have a tear in your suit, Erita?” I say. “Oh no! I didn’t know!”

  “Not a big deal, just a surface layer tear,” she responds calmly. “Mostly localized and self-contained. Pressurization still works, and if there’s any leak, it’s going to be very slow. Nothing to be done about it anyway.”

  “Oh, Erita!” I say anxiously.

  “Relax,” Erita tells me with a bright smile that I can see through her helmet.

  “So, what’s going to happen? Is there hope for a rescue? What’s the plan?” I say after a small pause, as I try to calm myself and everyone because the alternative is a dark place.

  “Well, considering that we can’t seem to get anyone else on this interstellar linkup on our end,” Erita says, “Shamash, you need to tell me the status of your own comms.”

  “Not sure if we’re any better off than you right now,” Xel says. “The transport we’re in has no working comms. We’re bouncing off Manala’s suit high-security comms just to talk to you. And apparently the tablet is somewhere outside with Hasmik. So far, it seems we can receive but not transmit to Ishtar or any of the other planetary locations. Could be temporary interference, with all the new quantum fields going up.”

  “Can you relay to Phoebos our location coordinates using the transport’s on-board long-range beacon code?”

  “Already done,” Xel replies. “I transmitted a broad-range message to all stations that we’re alive, and our coordinates. But that was just for our location here, before I knew you two needed help also. Let me do the same for you—Give me a few daydreams, now.”

  “Oh yeah. We have all the daydreams in the world,” Erita snorts. “Go do your thing, Shamash, we’ll wait.”

  There’s
a crackle, followed by silence. But then, moments later, another voice comes on the line. “This is George Lark,” my brother says loudly. “Gwen! Are you there?”

  “Oh my God, George!” I exclaim. “George, yes, I’m here—you’re okay?”

  “Sure am, sis, but please don’t call me God. That’s reserved for the future Mrs. Lark.”

  I chortle with silly joy, hearing my older brother’s typical humor. “Oh, George, love hearing your voice—you, silly!”

  “You too—mwah on the airwaves!” he responds, and I bet I can just imagine the Cheshire Cat smile on his face as he mouths the air-kiss. “You hang in there, Gee Two! I promise, help is coming,” he says. And his tone grows strong and serious.

  “You promise?” I smile bitterly. “You know, I am literally hanging here . . . in space.”

  “I know. You’re my Major Tom. But—way better.”

  “Naturally.” I grow quiet, swallowing so as not to let him hear me cry.

  “Okay, while Mr. Vekahat works the beacon code,” George says, “Here’s M’nala. You talk to her, okay?”

  “Okay. . . .”

  “Gwen! This is Manala!” the high, nervous voice of the Imperial Princess sounds loudly in the speakers. “I am so sorry! So sorry you are so far away! But we will be rescued somehow, I know it.”

  “Of course, we will, janik!” Hasmik’s voice suddenly joins us from her lonely location.

  “Hasmik!” Manala cries. “Hasmik, oh please, please do not die!”

  “Manala, Hasmik, yes!” I say with rising emotion. “We are all going to be rescued, I firmly believe it! You must promise to stay strong, all of you!”

  “That’s right,” Erita’s voice joins us. “We’ve got to keep fighting.”

  Not sure how much longer we talk. Then, Xelio comes back in on the line to say he’s finished transmitting a second beacon emergency message on our behalf.

  “Now they just need to respond and send some fast ships to both our opposite coordinates,” he says.

  “Yeah. We have about three days for them to get here.” Erita adds.

  “What time is it? In Poseidon, I mean.” I ask. It’s mostly a rhetorical question, because I can look it up on my suit wrist controls, or on the tablet, and because right now it hardly matters. And yet it matters tremendously for our survival, long-term. We’re all on limited time here. And some of us have less time than others.

  “Looks like it’s only twelfth hour and twelve daydreams of Ra. Not even noon yet, in Poseidon.”

  “Use the water tube in your helmet to drink,” Erita reminds all of us who are stuck in space, locked up in space suits and not inside a transport shuttle. “It’s that little thing you can pull toward you with your tongue.”

  “Am I . . . drinking recycled pee?” I ask.

  “There’s a little extra water that comes packaged in the suit for optimum body balance,” Erita says. “But at this point, oh yeah.”

  “Well, well, Gee Two,” George’s voice breaks in. “Remember how I’ve always told you, since we were kids, that at some point I’m going to catch you drinking pee? I rest my case.”

  I chortle. “Shut up, Gee One. Wait till you get thirsty.”

  “Speaking of—how much resources and life support does your transport have?” Erita asks.

  An unfamiliar male voice now sounds on the comms. “This is Command Pilot Uru Onophris, formerly in command of War-6, now on board a damaged, 100-crew ferry-class depet transport. Pilot Qwas, we’re unfortunately very low on all the basics including breathable air, pressurization, and climate controls. There is a small tank of water that will help replenish the resources inside our suits. Altogether, between suits and transport, we have enough to survive four days, maybe five—which should be enough time for rescue. Normally this ship is rated for a 100 crew, but in the short-term ferry capacity, not long-term survival capacity. Nine crew in addition to the Astroctadra Mission members, for a total of fourteen souls, plus the one person outside, once we find her—or she finds us.”

  “You mean, Hasmik.” Erita says gravely.

  “Yes, I am here! Hasmik Tigranian!” Hasmik’s voice sounds, both frightened and forcefully cheerful, and her helmet shows on the tablet screen as she waves to us with her gloved hand. Of course, only Erita and I get to see her, since we have the only functional video comm equipment.

  “Hasmik!” Xelio’s voice breaks in. “Listen to me, Hasmik! You are going to need to find us somehow.”

  “I know!” Hasmik replies. “But I’m not sure how. . . .”

  “Look around you, do you see any large objects? The shuttle transport we’re in is a mid-range vessel, 100 personnel capacity, hard to miss.”

  “I’m looking . . . I see many pieces of things. Some of them may be large, but I cannot tell at this distance—”

  Suddenly there’s a beep coming inside my helmet.

  I frown, trying to comprehend where it’s coming from, and then, since Erita can hear it too, she interrupts. “Your tablet! Someone else is calling you!”

  My heart skips a beat with hope. Is that Aeson? It must be! Oh, please, God!

  “Hasmik, we’re getting another call! Sorry—so sorry—but I need to disconnect from you briefly,” I say with urgency, as I minimize her window, then swipe the blinking caller icon.

  Please, let it be Aeson. . . .

  It’s not.

  It’s Nefir Mekei, calling from Earth.

  “Nefir!” I exclaim. “Oh, Nefir, I am so happy to see you!”

  Yeah, I bet that was the last thing he expected to hear from me.

  But I don’t have time for bitterness, or past grudges, when the primary goal right now is to survive.

  “Imperial Lady Gwen,” he says with some surprise, looking at me from behind a desk inside ship quarters. “You are—where are you?”

  “In space! I’m in deep space! War-2 has exploded, and I’m marooned in space at our Astroctadra Mission coordinates, together with Pilot Erita Qwas, and no other known survivors at our location here. However, War-6 is also gone but Princess Manala Kassiopei is alive with other survivors at their location. None of us are able to get Aeson or anyone else on the interstellar comms—”

  “My Imperial Lady! I am so sorry! I had no idea of any of this!” Nefir leans closer to the screen and his expression focuses with intensity. “I’m going to contact Ishtar immediately. Please, allow me a moment—”

  And just like that, Nefir disconnects the call.

  I have a sudden sickening feeling. What if he’s just lying, and has no plans to call Aeson? Considering our history, I wouldn’t put it past him now.

  “So, the chazuf is going to call for help,” Erita says, floating next to me and watching the tablet. Erita knows all about Nefir and his actions in regard to my mother’s rescue, about his betrayal of Aeson’s trust and mine, and she shares our antipathy.

  “Let’s hope he does,” I say. “At least now we know the linkup works on his end. Maybe we can get through to Aeson and the others.”

  Erita takes the tablet from me and starts cycling through programmed icons, starting with Aeson’s. Unfortunately, there’s still nothing but crackle and static coming from any of them. She even tries tapping the Imperator’s pre-programmed line for good measure, but it is dead also.

  He is no longer the Imperator, just Romhutat Kassiopei, my father-in-law.

  And he is likely dead now, his ship in pieces, having become part of the accretion disk of Ae-Leiterra. . . .

  Just as my thoughts go down that dark path, the tablet bleeps inside my helmet.

  Nefir is back on the line. And this time he is holding up a tablet on his own end, and on it I see a face that I never thought to see again, that of my beloved husband.

  Aeson!

  So, Nefir came through.

  Nefir places the tablet flat on his desk and manipulates its touch screen. Suddenly he and his desk disappear, and our main view is replaced with the contents of the tablet screen. Aeson’s face, superi
mposed against the background of his own ship’s quarters, fills the display in closeup as he stares directly into the camera—and he appears distraught at the sight of me.

  “Gwen!” Aeson exclaims in a voice of such emotion that he’s never shown in public. “I’ve been trying to contact you, repeatedly, but cannot seem to establish a solid connection with two of our six coordinate points—including yours and Manala’s! What happened?”

  And so, I tell him. I tell him how we blew up, and how Manala’s ship blew up, and that we’re marooned and need help.

  “I’m coming for you!” he exclaims, stirring in his seat as if ready to run. “There’s a battle here, and we’re fighting for our lives and all of Atlantis—even now! And yes, I’m the Commander. I’m responsible for this Fleet, and may not in all good conscience abandon my post at such a critical time, even though we’re holding our own. . . . And yet—by all that’s holy, I am coming for you, im amrevu! You must stay strong, while I take the fastest velo-cruiser, and will cut all time, and aim for three days instead of four!”

  “Aeson, I love you!” I whisper. “But are you sure? Maybe you can send someone else? Someone like Quoni, again? Because you have a war to fight—”

  “Not this time!” he says with a fierce gleam in his lapis-blue eyes. “This time I will find you myself, for this is too critical, too much of a fine balance of time and circumstances to be left to someone else—I will fight the war remotely, from the velo-cruiser, on the way to you. I wish I could be at three places at once, but indeed Quoni and several others will be sent to get Manala and your brother and the rest of the survivors there. But you—I will see you soon, Gwen!”

  “Okay,” I say softly, as a lump starts to form in the back of my throat.

  “I’ll take care of her, Kass,” Erita says, moving in closer to peer into the tablet screen.

  “Erita—promise me you will continue as my Shield,” Aeson says with raw intensity. “Protect her! Stay alive, both of you!”

  “I promise. Now, hurry your ass over here.”

  And Aeson’s screen goes blank.