SHORT STORIES : The Abyss

July 08, 2256

He remained glued to the wall of the cave, restrained by thick, tenacious slush which cocooned his body, leaving only his head exposed, his face bitten by the chilling winds. His head lolled drunkenly over his shoulders as he gazed beyond the darkness. No longer was he afraid to die as he had been while escaping his ship, the Nysenco, but instead confronted it with a feeling of indifference, feeling only nauseous and disoriented.

Should've just stayed on and died along with the others, he thought dismally.

It was Gorman's first instance of regret since he had boarded the escape pod only to crash land on this desert wasteland. He had always upheld a small hope that they would get here on time to save him, putting in the distress beacon as he emerged from the wreckage that was his escape pod. It may take a few days, or weeks, perhaps, but he might still be alive, if he could find some food and water to drink, and if by some chance it hadn't been poisonous. The chances were slim, nearly zero; yet there was a faint glimmer of hope that lay within his heart. It was better to be poisoned than to starve to death, so if he found something, anything that looked even remotely edible, he would take his chances.

But Gorman had found nothing, and now here he was, glued to the wall, starving, nearly dehydrated, his throat prickling with thirst. It was freezing inside this cave, and his entire body had broken up in gooseflesh. The cohesive jell-like substance that kept him firmly in place against the cold wall was like icy snot blanketing him but still offering him no protection from the harsh climates that raged this cold, barren planet, seeping deep into this cavern.

Gorman wondered absently how he had managed to breathe without his space suit. His face was completely naked, but he was still able to breathe naturally, his respiration shallow but unhindered, the air untainted. The atmosphere, he noticed, wasn't at all unlike that of earth's; breathable, and perhaps less polluted than that of his home planet. Perhaps the company could start a colony here, where communities of humans could live peacefully and safely...if not for those creatures...

They were everywhere. Gorman shuddered as he heard their bellowing drone as they continued to scale the walls and ceiling and crawl over the floor, all around him. He was the center of their world now for reasons he couldn't comprehend. If only he could get a decent look at them, but it was much too dark. All he could see was their gleaming, silver teeth and their eyes, those red orbs glowing in the darkness. They were watching him from all directions, pinning him down.

Try as he might, Gorman couldn't figure out how those things had gotten him here to begin with (it had to have been the creatures, though--who else could have done it?). He couldn't remember having been knocked out, precisely, or taking any sudden blows. Had he simply passed out at some point? It was the only explanation that made sense. Perhaps he had hit his head harder than he'd previously thought when the escape pod had crash landed here, perhaps his injuries much more severe than he'd originally diagnosed. But Gorman hadn't suffered a concussion. For a short time after the crash, he had been dizzy, his head throbbing in the blow, his body quivering. But the symptoms had quickly subsided and he felt otherwise unharmed. Gorman then stumbled out, sent out the distress signal to earth, and searched for something that might be edible. One moment, he was on the desert wasteland, and the next, trapped in this cave, unable to move freely.

How far away had he been from his escape pod? Gorman had no way of knowing, but could rememeber seeing no sign of a cave anywhere as he explored his surroundings, nor any signs of life whatsoever. The atmosphere might have been the same as one earth, but unlike earth, this had appeared to be nothing more than a desolate rock floating around in space, completely lifeless; or at least that's what Gorman had first assumed.

He realized now just how wrong he'd been.

Gorman had lost all hope of a rescue at this point. The company would never hurry on his account because expendable despite the ten years he had worked for them and despite his making captain. A captain of what? Of a shipping crew. His kind were a dime a dozen and so was his crew. They were all completely worthless in the greater scheme of things. The company might send a rescue crew for him, but they would do it when they were good and ready. Gorman would most surely be dead by the time they arrived.

YOU should talk, you fucking hypocrite, a voice nagged him in the back of his mind.

In a way it had been right; Clarence and Fornsburg were as good as dead and so were most of the others, but he could have saved Trish--

And put HER through the same hell I'm living now? Gorman thought bitterly.

The creatures came closer toward him, gusting white smoke in his face, making his eyes water. Gorman could feel their hands pressing against his face, and he thought for sure that this was it, that they were going to finish him off. How liberating it had seemed to him, to be finally taken off this desert shithole of a planet, even if his next destination had been eternal oblivion, his lights forever extinguished. It was certainly better than being glued to the wall, freezing, trapped inside this shitty cave. His head ached, but not from the pressure their hands put on it, for it was no pressure at all. Their hands barely caressed his cheek, not even breaking any skin. It was as though they were merely toying with him, leaving him to die against this wall and making it as miserable as possible for him.

"Get away from me," he croaked, his voice barely audible.

They grunted back, blowing another puff of noxious white smoke in his face.

It was almost as though they were laughing at him. They handled his head gently, careful not to damage him. But why? he wondered briefly as he grew even more drowsy, the abysmal cave growing even darker, his vision dimmer until he couldn't even see the red glare of the creatures' eyes.

There was a brief sensation that he was falling, which lasted only a few seconds before Gorman finally lost consciousness.

 

* * *

 

Gorman felt a laying of hands over his face and head, and heard a murmuring of distant voices in the darkness beyond, wondering what was going on, who had been touching him. The creatures were gone now, no longer scaling the walls, slithering or hissing at him. In his haze, he could make out no distinct features of any of the men that approached him, could only see a series of blurred figures, hazy bodies of whom he could only hope to be the rescue team.

Was he dreaming, or were they really going to get him out of this?

A gloved hand pushed his head upward, very gently against the sticky wall. "Sir, we got a live one here!"

"Don't just stand there, cut him down!"

Gorman heard a series of farting noises, sort of like the sound of duct tape being torn off multipled tenfold. Then he was falling forward, blindly in the darkness, only to be caught half-way by sets of arms clamping against his shoulders.

"Got him sir, but he ain't lookin' too good."

"Can he speak?"

"I dunno, sir. Seems to be semi-conscious, but--"

Gorman looked ahead, and saw only the skewed outline of a human face closing in on him, someone looking down upon him, but he couldn't make out who.

"What's your name and rank, sir? Can you speak? Whose your commander?"

Gorman opened his mouth, wanting to answer. He wanted to tell the inquirer of his name and rank: Captain Vince Gorman of the Starship Nysenco. He wanted to give a narrative of how that rogue group of pirates had intercepted his ship, of how the synthetic human, Tripps, had activated the self-destruct, and of how his entire crew had been killed in the ordeal. Even of how he had left Trish behind, of how she had cried hysterically, thrashing her fists madly against the window, screaming "LET ME IN, GORMAN, PLEASE!" as he sat in the escape pod, excerting a tremendous amount of strength and effort to remain seated, reminding himself again and again that if he opened that door now, he would be killed as well.

He wanted to share all of these memories with his saviors, feeling open, comfortable now, somehow, because perhaps it had all been over. But he couldn't tell them anything, couldn't answer any of their questions, because his throat had not only been parched now, but burning, as though he had swallowed hot coals. He could neither speak nor swallow. Someone touched his forehead, and his face burned with irritation. Touching it was like picking at an open sore that only wanted to be left alone to heal without disruption. Gorman's eyes watered, spilling down the raw flesh of his cheeks.

"Sir, with all due respects, I don't think this is the time. This guy ain't lookin' good at all. Think we better get him to a hospital ASAP!"

Gorman half-expected the creatures to spring from the wall, tearing into the calvary and then get him pinned and glued against the wall all over again. But that didn't happen either. Gorman could hear them snarling from a distance. He looked up again, and instead of the indestinguishable features of the leader, he saw the blazing red orbs that were the creatures' eyes and their long, silvery fangs biting down upon him, cutting into his skull and swallowing the chunk of torn, bleeding flesh and shattered bone of his severed face whole.

"Okay, then, let's get 'im outta here!"

With that said, Gorman went under once again.

 

* * *

 

Aboard the Starship Nysenco, Captain Vince Gorman lay naked in his quarters, over his cot, and Trish lay on top of him, kissing him fiercely over the mouth as he held her close to him, feeling her plump breasts and hardened nipples pressing against his chest.

"You know, if the company ever found out about this--" Trish began, releasing her hold on Gorman and lay beside him, her bare back and ass pressed against the wall.

"They'll never find out," Gorman said smugly, pinching her nipple gently.

"But what about your wife?" she asked timidly.

"Mmmmmm...what about her?" Gorman chuckled quietly to himself. "I see her about two months a year, and hey, a man's got needs, right? Needs all year-long, particularly in the dark, lonely reaches of space."

"You know, if she were to ever find out..." Trish grinned mischievously, and Gorman wasn't sure of what to make of it. They'd had sex quite a number of times, and she had never once brought up the subject of what the company might say if they were to ever find out, nor of how his wife might feel about this. He felt a small nibbling of guilt, almost enough for his penis to go flaccid once again, but not quite, and he still remained rock hard.

"My wife is none of your concern, Trish, and she never was. Why bring up such negative thoughts, anyway?"

"I don't know," she answered innocently. "I was just thinking--"

"Odds are, she's getting a little on the side herself, so I have no reason to feel bad about any of this." He reached over, grabbing the back of her head gingerly, and pulled her close. "Don't worry about my wife. You're not married, and she is none of your concern."

She smiled devilishly at that as he drew her closer and kissed her fiercely in the mouth again, forcing his tongue down her throat. His fully erect cock sank deep into her moistened cunt, very slowly, and she moaned passionately. "Mmmm...if you say so, Vince."

He nodded. "I say so."

She rose slowly to her knees, her breasts swaying to and fro, and placed her hand over his crotch, rustling her fingers through the thick tuft of Gorman's pubic hair. She licked his scrotum, and then devoured his erect penis, lashing her tongue over its head, swirling it and flapping it over his penis, and Gorman lay back, moaning softly, as waves of sensual pleasure continued to wash over him. He closed his eyes as her fingers began to caress his testicles, in total bliss right now.

Times like this made Gorman wonder why he should feel guilty about this whole situation at all. Trish could always satisfy his needs much better than his wife could ever hope to..or at least that's what he kept telling himself. Gorman loved his wife, but in a lot of ways--particularly on moments such as these--he connected more with his computer operative. Perhaps that was because he and Trish had seen more of each other throughout the year than Gorman and his wife. It didn't matter. He enjoyed his wife's company; enjoyed the time off he had been allotted. But there was still some chemistry shared between he and Trish--

(help me, Gorman, Vince, please, LET ME IN!!)

Gorman jolted upright, startled, cold sweat breaking over his body.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing...nothing at all."

His racing heart began to steady, and he started to lay back down and relax again. What was that all about? He couldn't say for sure. It was just a bad dream, a nightmare he had had once. Nothing more. It couldn't be real, because Gorman would have never allowed Trish to die like that, not if saving her had been so easily. It was impossible, unthinkable--

(you can't leave me in here, you son of a bitch, YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!)

Startled again, jolted into another panic by nothing more than a random image. God, what was happening to him? Had he lost it, gone insane? No, it's not real, goddamn it! It CAN'T be! There never were any pirates, or alien creatures. I never left Trish to die, because she's right here, and the Nysenco couldn't have blown up, because we're both on board right now!

"I know what's bothering you," Trish said suddenly.

"What...what're you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Trish said scornfully. "I could deal with you using me to cheat on your wife. Your marital problems aren't any of my concern. But why did you leave me to die like that? You could've saved me if you wanted to. The others were history, no doubt about that. But you could've saved me!"

Again, the haunting image running through his mind of Trish pounding her fists hysterically against the glass, an expression of utter horror on her face, panic, tears streaming from her eyes, her auburn hair whipping wildly against her face as she continued to thrash against the door. YOU CAN'T DO THIS, GORMAN, YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME TO DIE HERE! YOU CAN'T, GODDAMN YOU, LET ME IN!

"I couldn't!" snapped Gorman, leaping off the cot, now enraged, with no idea of what was going on. Trish remained on the cot, on her side, gazing at him with hate now smoldering in her eyes, spurning him. "Don't look at me like that, damn it! You know I'm right. The only way I could've saved myself was to leave you behind. That ship was gonna blow any second, and had I opened the hatch to let you in, we'd both be dead."

Was that true? Had he truly not had the time to let her in? He couldn't be sure. It had seemed like an eternity, waiting for the escape pod to launch from the ship, Trish pounding upon the glass, pleading for him to allow her into the pod, to allow her to live. He wanted to, but couldn't. As the escape pod was finally dislodged from the ship, he felt only emptiness, knowing that Trish had died, knowing there was no way that she could have survived.

In his mind's eye, Gorman could see Trish, still thrashing her fists against the glass, begging to be allowed into the escape pod, even though the escape pod had now been long disjointed from the ship, floating away into the endless depths of space. He could see as the ship finally exploded, the flames engulfing Trish, with that haggard expression of panic still on her face as the sea of fire swallowed her whole.

Gorman continued to drift off throughout the cold abyss of space...

"You didn't have to leave me," Trish said, frowning. "You could have quickly opened the hatch, pulled me inside, and slammed it shut again. You could have saved me, but you didn't, because you're a coward! You were never anything but a coward, only out to save yourself. I was never anything but a sex toy to you. You didn't care about me or the rest of the crew, or of your wife, for that matter. All you ever cared about was yourself."

Suddenly, Trish began to dissolve before Gorman's eyes, melting quickly into this yellowish puddle of slime over his cot, then vanishing completely.

Panic seized him, and the darkness fell on him.

He was no longer in his quarters, aboard the Starship Nysenco, but back inside that darkened, abysmal cave all over again. He struggled to move, but couldn't, because the cold adhesive mucous kept him pinned against the wall. Staring off into the abyss, he found a pair of blazing red orbs staring back at him, and a cold white mist froze the sweat breaking over his face. A set of elongated teeth closed over his skull.

The abyss swallowed him whole.

 

Gorman awoke, shaking, his sheets, blankets, and pillows soaked in cold perspiration, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was all a dream. Yet another dream about the creatures and everything else he had been through and endured eight long months ago.

He gazed at the calendar against the wall. The date, of course, was March 15, 2257.

It had been eight long and agonizing months of recovery since they had pulled him out of that dank, dreadful cave. Six of those months he had spent in quarantine, where he had gotten very few visitors, except for the doctors and nurses in their dressed in their thick body condoms, who went in to check on him, making sure he was still alive, still healthy. During that time, his rash had disappeared, and after a while, he was free to go, after six months in that quarantine cell, isolated from the rest of the world. Gorman was excited to finally be set free from that hell. But had he truly been free at all, truly recovered. Physically, he had healed from whatever infection or injury sustained during the whole ordeal. The mental scars had been the worst. They were still clearly and hideously visible even now, the wounds reopening again and again through viscious night terrors and jarring flashbacks he couldn't escape.

uring the six-month quarantine, Gorman had gotten one visitor aside from the doctors and nurses: Trish had paid him a visit many times, by phone, or sometimes appearing in his room without the standard protective Biohazard suit, condemning him for leaving her behind. Trish would never forgive him for that, it seemed.

The ship's log had corroborated every aspect of Gorman's narrative, that indeed the Nysenco had been hijacked by space pirates upon its return from a routine delivery to Colony XL369. They knew of how the pirates had shot at Clarence in his quarters, rupturing the hull of the ship, and how that sector had been shut down automatically by the ship to save the other occupants, thus preventing Clarence and the two pirates from escaping the room. The ruptured hull sucked Clarence and the two pirates into its deadly grasp, devouring them and spraying jets of tattered tissue and bodily fluids into the cold vacuum of space.

At first glance, it might have seemed that Fornsburg had been abandoned by the captain, but everyone realized that there was no saving him. He had been shot in the stomach and the wound had torn even wider from the distance he'd crawled, leaving behind a long trail of cooling blood, his intestines protruding from the torn flesh. Gorman would never have gotten him the proper medical attention on time; he would have only slowed the captain down.

Gorman hadn't even witnessed the death of Lambert. He'd only been informed of the man's death later on after it had happened, from Fornsburg's dying lips. There was nothing to be done for him either.

As for Trish, Gorman never got into the specifics of what had happened to her, only that she could not be saved either. If not for that damning countdown blaring from throughout the ship, coming very close to the end, to the final climatic explosion, he would have pulled her into the escape pod and they would have both survived. But there were barely seconds remaining on the clock when he himself had made it inside. She would have gotten them both killed.

"Damn you, Tripps, it was your fault she died!" Gorman nearly screamed, but managed to bite it back at the very last second when he realized that his wife had been sleeping next to him. He looked over to her, and saw Jessica sleeping stirring in her sleep, but never awakening. Gorman smiled. Jessica always had been a heavy sleeper, he thought warmly. He brushed a lock of her curly, auburn hair aside and kissed her over her temple. "I love you," he whispered in her ear.

If you love me, then what were you doing with that filthy slut?

"What the--"

Gorman shivered, beginning to perspire again, feeling the cold sweat dripping down his naked body. Images of Trish's fully nude form spiraled through his mind, the way her breasts heaved with every breath, how he jammed his erect penis into her vagina and into her mouth, spraying his semen over her, and how much pleasure they had both given each other during those long days and nights spent together in space. The time spent with you makes these long, lonely trips across the universe worthwhile.

"No--"

Gorman gasped, suddenly uneasy, the guilt gnawing at him as it always did when he was around or thought of his wife, thought of the way he had cheated on her all those times in space with Trish. But Jessica never had to know about any of that now that

Jessica stirred, nearly awakening now, and Gorman threw his hands to his mouth, wanting to scream again, but preventing himself from doing so, lest he really did wake up his wife. She couldn't know of any of this. Jessica would only know of what had been put on the official reports, and nothing more.

"I'm sorry," whispered Gorman, kissing Jessica in the mouth, and listening to her moan in her sleep. "I love you, Jessica."

"Mmm....love ya, too," she murmured, and was then fast asleep again.

 

* * *

 

Gorman flushed the toilet and went to the sink to begin washing his hands. He paused, looking dimly at his own features in the bathroom mirror: his face thin, pale, and currently unshaved, his dark eyes and hair the color of chocolate. Gorman sometimes wondered how he could have managed to look at himself in mirror after all that he had been through, all he had done. But as he washed his hands, applying the dove hand soap and rinsing it off under the warm faucet, he reminded himself yet again that what had happened to the crew of the Nysenco had not been his fault and that there was nothing whatsoever that he could have done.

"You left me to die, Vince!"

He saw the image of Trish standing behind him in the mirror, startled, and turned around right away, blinked, and saw nothing but the shower stall. "Christ, what's happening to me?"

He shaved, and then stepped into the shower, welcoming the cool water spraying down upon him from the showerhead, washing away the sticky sweat from his body, closing his eyes as though in sexual bliss. He could almost feel someone licking his chest and then reaching lower to give him a blow job, the sensation welcoming, until his mind's eye flashed the image of Trish sucking his dick. Gorman moaned, then grimaced as Trish's flesh was spontaneously set ablaze and melted away until she was nothing more than charred bones, still groping him with her hands, which were now like claws, piercing into his skin.

Gorman shuddered, his eyes springing open, wincing in pain and shock, his arms knocking over Jessica's razor and hair supplies clumsily, before he realized that Trish was now gone. He began to relax once more, allowing the cool water from the showerhead to wash over his body.

It began to thicken, as though the showerhead were shooting hot semen in his face and shoulders. The room began to darken and Gorman was back in the cave, not yet glued to the wall, but going through the process, a huge chasm over his head dumping cold, thick mucous over his body, soaking him in the adhesive substance, paralyzing him all over, so he could do nothing. His naked body broke out in gooseflesh, and he could see the cool white mist diffusing in the air, but had been oblivious to its origin. In the background, he could hear the hissing, wheezing sounds of the creatures, but couldn see where their sounds were coming from. Gorman struggled to move, to free himself, and--

And he then found himself back in the shower again, nearly slipping and cracking his head open before he managed to regain his composure once more. Another chilling hallucination...or was it an omen? Couldn't have been. Just post-traumatic stress, like Doctor Harragan had diagnosed.

Gorman jerked the lever, abruptly cutting off the water from the shower, and stepped out hastily, yanking a towel off the towel rack. Christ, I think I might be getting worse, he thought warily, but then remembered how he had been just a month ago, and how things had been in the quarantine facilities. Trish had even called him on the phone in the quarantine cell. Gorman could remember how he had been raving about it to the doctors, and how they had constantly assured him that it was all a bad dream, or all inside his head, and that Trish had perished along with the rest of the Nysenco. It's probably just survivor's guilt, the doctor had said to him on one occasion. You feel guilty because you made it out alive and she didn't.

"Survivor's guilt my ass," Gorman muttered now.

He swung his fist blindly to the left, knocking over the soap dispenser, his shaving cream and razor, and his and Jessica's toothbrushes, which all went crashing to the bathroom floor. Gorman howled in rage, tears streaming down his face. He cursed everyone from the creatures to the pirates, his crew--Tripps in particular--the company for having him send them all out on the delivery assignment, the people living on Colony XL369, and most of all, he cursed himself as well.

 

* * *

 

Jessica slowly began to stir awake as Gorman entered the bedroom. She looked up dazedly at him, rays of morning sunlight with specks of dust shining through the shades, reflecting off of her auburn hair beautifully. "'Morning, Jessica," Gorman said, his voice quivering a bit, but he hoped that she wouldn't notice.

"Morning," replied Jessica, her breathing hitched. Her nostrils began to twitch wildly and she sneezed a couple of times into the crook of her arm, as she did every morning upon waking up, and sniffed wetly. "Excuse me."

Gorman nodded noncommittally.

He slipped on some socks, Hanes underwear, and a pair of jeans, then lost his footing somehow, stumbling backward dizzily before leaning against the bureau for balance.

"You okay?" Jessica asked, concerned.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He turned to Jessica , feigning a grin.

Jessica flinched, alarmed, staring at Gorman with a wide, innocent, and bewildered gaze, her mouth hung open, completely bewildered and dumbfounded. almost scared. "I don't--"

"I'm sorry," Gorman apologized, blushing.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the sound of Trish giggling. She was laughing at him. The creatures in that godforsaken cave were laughing at him as well. They were all laughing at him, everyone of them, their malicious laughter and hateful taunts echoing throughout the far reaches of his mind, his diminishing sanity.

Jessica sneezed again as Gorman approached her. She put her hand tenderly over his cheek, the worried look still remaining over her face. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes...no...I don't know, I--I keep seeing them--"

"Maybe you need to see Doctor Harragan again."

"What's there to talk about with him? What can he do to help me?"

"Please, Vince...I'm worried about you...."

Aw, ain't that sweet, Vince? She's just so concerned. See? She really DOES love you, doesn't she? And here you are, getting "a little on the side" during all those delivery missions with Trish. How could you say she's probably doing the same while you're away? Truth is, she probably cries her eyes out missing you while you're gone.

"Please, Vince," Jessica pleaded, "if you won't do it for yourself, then please, do it for me."

 

* * *

 

Gorman shut the door softly upon entering Doctor Harragan's office, and looked across, seeing Doctor Harragan seated at his chair, dressed in a beige sweater, white button-up shirt beneath that, with a tie. He was a thin black man with glasses, salt-and-pepper hair, cut very short, very professionally done.

"Have a seat, Mister Gorman."

"Thank you," Gorman smiled and grabbed a seat on the couch. "You can call me Vince if you want to."

"Okay, Vince, what brings you here?"

Gorman removed his black leather jacket and sat down on the couch, looking directly at the psychiatrist. "My wife said I should come," he answered, "she's been worried about my recent behavior. Can't say I blame her, really."

"And have you still been having problems?"

"You could say that," replied Gorman, fidgeting in his seat nervously, his leg twitching. "I'm still getting those flashbacks. In my dreams, my waking nightmares. Had one in the shower this morning. I don't know what it is, but sometimes--if for only a few minutes--it feels like I never left the cave at all."

Harragan nodded. "Post-traumatic stress can be like that. But you must realize, of course, that you did make it out of that cave. You are here, after all, aren't you, sitting in my office?"

"Yeah, I know that. But still, sometimes...sometimes I don't even know what the hell is going on. I don't even know what happened at times, not completely sure, anyway. Did I even make it off the ship at all?"

"Of course you did."

"Yes, but...sometimes I wonder...wonder if--When I was in quarantine, I got a phone call from Trish--"

"Trish?"

Gorman nodded, reliving the experience as he explained what happened.

 

It had happened about one month into quarantine. He hadn't had any visitors, except for his wife, who remained on the other side of the window at all times, as anyone else would have other than the doctors and nurses, who entered wearing their special bio-hazard suits. For the most part, Gorman remained alone, laying in his bed, in his blue hospital gown, turning himself over to relieve the bedsores. He didn't really feel sick, except for a rash breaking over certain parts of his body, itching like crazy, and then disappearing. Of course, they had to make sure he wasn't a threat to anyone else, a health hazard to the general public.

The phone rang, and he answered it, hearing the soft voice on the other end, the voice of Trish, cursing him for not taking her with him. "You shouldn't have left me behind like that, Vince. After all we had been through, and you could just turn your back the way you did."

"What the hell? It can't be. You're dead, goddamn it!"

Trish laughed maliciously. "Obviously I'm not, otherwise I wouldn't be here, in the room right next to you, quarantined, like you are, and cursing your name, wishing you eternal misery for leaving me behind."

"I had no choice! There was about ten seconds before detonation. I was barely able to get off the ship on time as it was. Had I let you in, I would've been dead for sure. Self-preservation, baby!"

"Well, don't worry about me, Gorman, I made it out okay. And I swear, I'll make you're life a living hell. I got a secret that I know you don't want your wife or anyone else knowing about." She laughed again, an evil cackle, and Gorman shuddered, knowing exactly what she meant without her even having to mention it aloud. But of course, she did anyway. "You injected your seed into me. I'll be sure to let your wife know about that little tidbit just as soon as I'm set free."

Trish was never one to blackmail anyone like this, or torture people, and she would have never disclosed such sensitive information like that, information that could completely shatter his and Jessica's marriage. Gorman knew she had been upset, and she had a right to be upset. Perhaps Trish had been right, and Gorman could have indeed saved her. But he didn't. He left her on the ship to die, and that thought now ate at him, gnawing at his heart. The painful guilt he felt over having cheated on her so many times. No matter how many times he had had sex and slept with Trish, he still loved his wife to death and didn't want anything to happen to break up their marriage. He couldn't believe that Trish would tell Jessica, no matter what might have happened. He couldn't allow that to happen, yet felt powerless to stop it.

"I told you I would make your life a living hell."

Trish then hung up the phone, and by that time, Gorman was quivering, his palms sweaty. He lay back, his heart racing, and allowed the phone to dangle on the floor on its cord. He pressed his fingers against his temple, fighting off an oncoming headache, and then fell asleep on his cot.

Later on, he reported what had happened to one of the doctors, who told Gorman that there was no one under quarantine by the name of Trish, and reassuring him that the woman he had reported called him had already perished. "You said so, yourself, Gorman. She's dead, perished along with the rest of the Starship Nysenco."

 

"Of course, the doctor had a valid point," Gorman said now. "How could Trish have called me on the phone like that if she was already dead?"

"Maybe you dreamed the whole thing up," Harragan suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"You said you fell asleep after she hung up. I'm suggesting that maybe you were asleep the whole time."

Gorman nodded in agreement. "Sure, its possible. I mean, it felt real, but at the same time, it had that diluted, dream-like quality to it." He paused, in deep thought, and then: "But the phone was still off its hook when I woke up."

Harragan shrugged. "Can't explain that one. But maybe the whole episode was guilt-related. You seem to feel a lot of guilt over what happened. Perhaps that's part of the problem."

"I guess."

"You mentioned that she said you 'planted your seed into her'?"

"She told me she was pregnant after we set off for delivery to Colony XL369. It was very early; she wasn't showing, and I had been the only one she told so far. If the company knew, they would have sent a replacement. We both agreed that for the time being, we should both keep it to ourselves. She said that she was probably going to have it aborted when we got back to earth anyway. Either that, or give it up for adoption when she comes to term."

"It was your baby?"

Gorman nodded. "I thought the best thing she could have done for both of us was to have an abortion. The last thing I wanted was for this to get out; more so, for it to get out that it had been my baby. That would have gotten the both of us terminated, and my marriage would be over as well. So for the time being, we kind of swept it under the rug."

"And when you left her to die, your unborn baby was killed as well."

"That baby was doomed anyway and would have been aborted even if we did make it to earth. It had to die, you see. It would have ruined both our lives if it were allowed to be born. A secret abortion was the only viable solution, when you got right down to it."

Harragan said nothing, just sat there, in deep thought, not judging Gorman for what he'd just said. He considered what he should say next, it looked like, and apparently could think of nothing.

"I know it sounds horrible," Gorman went on. "But that's how I felt at the time, and that's still how I feel now, even if I don't think much about the baby, only of Trish and the rest of the crew."

"Was there a great deal of tension between the crew of the Nysenco?" Harragan inquired.

Gorman shook his head. "No, we were like a happy little family out there in space."

Indeed they were like a happy family. Gorman, had always been an excellent captain, firm when he had to be, but always fair and treated the rest of the crew with great respect, and in turn, was well-respected and loved by his crew, especially by Trish, the computer operative of the Starship Nysenco, who had always had a bit of a crush on Gorman, even before their friendship had evolved into a secret sexual relationship.

For the most part, Gorman made the decisions regarding the crew and the ship itself and how things had been handled, but anything having to do with computers, Trish had the final say. She was very computer savvy, knew dozens of programming languages. She was very handy to have around and could usually fix most of the glitches that occur on the ships computer. Trish hadn't just been a computer geek, but an excellent friend and lover as well, always there to cheer Gorman up when he grew lonely in space, longing for his wife, to hold her in his harms. Trish filled the void when Jessica had been light years away, still back on earth. Of course she was more than just a techie and a sex object; she was an excellent friend as well, very intelligent, and had a great sense of humor as well, able to cheer Gorman up even at the worst of times, when the abysmal reaches of space seemed its most desolate and forlorn.

Clarence and Fornsburg did most of the heavy lifting. They'd been two hulkish men, firm and bulging muscles, and both at a height of around six foot four and weighing well over two hundred pounds. Clarence had been a bald black man with thick glasses and stubble, a round face and very broad nose. Fornsburg, white, with dark hair dipping just above his shoulders, grayish green eyes, and a thin beard. Both men had been the best of friends even before the company hired them, their friendship going back to high school days, when they'd both been on the football team, carrying it through the playoffs and winning the championship in their senior year. They had been given college scholarships, partied for four years in fraternities, getting drunk off their asses, and somehow ended up working for the company under Gorman's wing. They were good men, though, gentle giants, if you will, always following orders and pulling their weight upon deliveries and more and the captain was proud to have them under his command.

Lambert had been in charge of the scientific aspects of what they did and their deliveries. His prime job had been the medical specialist, in charge of giving first aide and CPR if one of the other crew members needed it. But anything having to do with science was something that Lambert would take care of. He'd always had such a dry sense of humor, very quiet, but still pleasant to be around, and always cooperative, devoted to serving Gorman to the best of his ability.

Gorman wondered now, if perhaps Lambert had been still alive, and if the ship hadn't been scheduled to self-destruct within a matter of minutes, if perhaps Lambert might have been able to save Fornsburg. Useless thoughts, really. Fornsburg had been as good as dead. A gunshot wound to the abdomen, his intestines spilled over the floor, and having already half bled to death. Lambert hadn't been trained or qualified to deal with anything of such severity. Still, the thoughts continued to plague him, the what-ifs--

(help me, captain....help...meeeeeeeeeee...)

Gorman shuttered in his seat.

"Are you okay, Vince?"

Gorman nodded curtly. "Yeah...yeah, I'm fine, I think. Its nothing." He looked over his hands and noticed to his horror that his palms began to secrete a cool, moist green fluid. His heart rate increased rapidly, and his mouth fell open, nearly uttering a shrill cry, but he managed to stifle it in time.

He blinked. And the fluid on his hand turned out to be perspiration and nothing more, not green, but transparent.

"Are you sure you're okay."

"Yeah...I'm fine." Gorman wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Okay, then." Harragan looked over his notes. "Now, according to your papers, there was a sixth member--"

"That would be Tripps," Gorman answered. "He was a Model II synthetic. Model II's are quite unstable; everybody knows that. I never did trust Tripps completely, always wary of him." He breathed nervous laughter. "Guess I had a right to be suspicious."

"He was the one who set off the self-destruct sequence, was he not?"

Gorman nodded. "That's right," he confirmed. "You know, I never could understand why we even needed a synthetic on board anyway. But it was company policy that all delivery crews had them. I could never figure out why. But it wasn't like he was completely useless. He still kept things neat and tidy aboard the Nysenco, cleaning up after the other crew members. Basically, he was the janitor. He rarely ever did much else."

"Was he an outcast?"

"I don't know if I would call him an outcast, per se, but he didn't exactly fit in either," Gorman responded, and went on to tell of how Tripps had always been so cold, almost inhumanly so. But then again, he wasn't human, so what could anyone have expected of him. Tripps never took any interest in socializing with any of the other crew members. He didn't seem to care. Just remained quiet, only cleaning and hanging about on the ship. Tripps might have looked human down to every last detail, but when you got right down to it, he was a machine and nothing more, merely a home appliance, like a toaster or a blender that could talk.

"Aside from Tripps, was there any tension or conflict among your crew?"

"I don't know if Tripps was a source of tension, really. I suppose being a Model II, he would have aroused some tension, and he did, seeing as how Model II's were always so unstable, particularly at times of great stress."

"Like during the hijacking?"

Gorman nodded. "Had he been a Model V, he never would have blown the ship up. We were long overdue for an upgrade, but the company was too cheap to replace the synth, so we were stuck with something that was barely even legal."

"Aside from the issue of the synthetic, were there any other conflicts?"

Gorman considered this question for a long time.

Yes, there had been other conflicts. The sexual relationship between him and Trish had been one of them. They never got into heated arguments over it, and were more than just a couple of fuck-buddies, but really good friends as well. But tension sometimes arose, particularly when they were around the others. Gorman sometimes wondered if maybe one of them might have suspected something, or if they all had a pretty good idea of what had been going on between the captain and the computer operative. It hadn't always been like that, though, nor was it like that even most of the time. But on occasion, these thoughts, these suspicions that they might suspect something did arise and bother him greatly. And on the couple of occasions while on earth, when he, Trish, and Jessica had been together, he absolutely couldn't stand it.

"You never told anyone about it before?"

Gorman shook his head. "I knew it would destroy our marriage if Jessica were to even catch a whiff of what went on between Trish and I, so of course I didn't tell her. No point in coming clean now, since Trish is dead. Might as well let sleeping dogs lie."

"Maybe you're right--"

"And its not like I would have slept around with just anyone either," Gorman went on. "It's just that Jessica and Trish were so much alike. They even looked similar, with the same complexion, same auburn hair, high cheekbones, stuff like that, although Trish was slightly taller and they both had somewhat different facial features. Jessica's mouth was a little wider, and she had hazel eyes whereas Trish's eyes were blue. But they did look a lot alike, too, even if they weren't blood-relatives at all. And it wasn't just physical features, either. They shared many of the same interests, the same personality traits. I'm not saying that they were like clones of each other; their were a few differences as well. But the similarities were almost uncanny." Gorman paused momentarily, sighed, and said: "Maybe the whole reason I had those affairs with Trish to begin with was because she reminded me so much of my wife."

There was a long, awkward silence.

"Were there any other conflicts among the crew?" Harragan asked. "Any heated arguments?"

"Sure, there were a few arguments. Given the close quarters we were in, tempers were bound to explode from time to time, and sometimes it happened quite frequently. But they were always resolved somehow. When it happened, the angered parties would just cool off in their quarters for a while and then bury the hatchet. None of our trivial disputes were worth killing each other over, after all." He laughed softly.

"And you remained friends, for the most part, is that right?"

Gorman nodded. "Yes."

"But when it counted, you left them all to die, just like that?"

There was a strong hint of judgement in Harragan's tone, and Gorman felt suddenly enraged. He threw himself to his feet, looking with sharp sudden anger toward Harragan, feeling an intense hatred toward this man now for what he had said. "It wasn't like that at all, goddamn it!" he screamed. "You weren't there, so you have no fucking clue how bad things got! I barely got out alive myself!"

Gorman began to tremble.

 

He suddenly found himself back on the Starship Nysenco somehow, sweating profusely, running down that corridor, racing toward the escape pod as soon as he had heard the announcement blaring from the intercom: "Warning! Self-destruct sequence has now been activated! You now have ten minutes to reach safe distance!" The corridor seemed to be endless as the countdown to detonation continued. Gorman couldn't seem to run fast enough. His left ankle struck something soft, meaty, and he went flying, his face hitting hard against the ground.

"Warning! Self-destruct sequence has now been activated! You now have seven minutes to reach safe distance!"

A moistened hand gripped loosely around Gorman's ankle, and he shrieked, alarmed, before looking behind and seeing that it had been Fornsburg, but he was dying. Never before had Fornsburg appeared so weak, so vulnerable, as he had now, on the verge of death. Upon looking in Fornsburg's eyes, Gorman had never before seen anything other than an expression of strength and utter confidence. Now, however, his face was pallid, gaunt, his eyes thin slits, his dark hair, drenched with sweat and blood, was now matted over his scalp, his beard now stained maroon from the blood dripping from his nose and his mouth.

Gorman realized what had happened, had seen where most of the blood had been coming from. Not from his nose and mouth, but from his abdomen. Gorman then lay eyes on the gaping wound. Fornsburg had been shot in the stomach, yet somehow managed to crawl all this way. Gorman hadn't noticed before, but could now see the long trail of drying blood streaked over the floor, where Fornsburg had dragged his dying body to seek help. In doing so, he had inadvertently torn the wound open further, and his intestines were now protruding and dragging along from his gaping, widening wound. And now, Fornsburg lay, his entire body now drenched in a pool of his own blood, pleading for help.

"Tripps," whispered Fornsburg. He coughed harshly. "It was Tripps..."

"What're you talking about? What happened?"

"Warning! Self-desctruct sequence has now been activated! You now have six minutes to reach safe distance!"

"Tripps set off the self-destruct. When the pirates intercepted our ship and killed"--Fornsburg coughed and wheezed--"killed Lambert, Tripps malfunctioned...went apeshit and...and set off of the self-destruct sequence." He paused, sucking down a huge gulp of hair, retching and uttering a few horrible gurgling noises as blood began to pour once again from the corners of his lips. "I tried to stop him, but"--he coughed again weakly--"but he shot me, he..."

"Warning! Self-destruct sequence has now been activated! You now have five minutes to reach safe distance!"

"Tripps," muttered Gorman, bitterly. "That son of a bitch!"

He rose shakily to his feet, his knees buckling, and he almost fell to the ground again but managed to regain his footing.

"Hey, wait a minute! You...you can't leave me like this...please!"

"Warning! Self-destruct sequence has now been activated! You now have four minutes to reach safe distance!"

"I can't help you," Gorman said somberly. "I'm sorry."

He then turned and ran further down the corridors, Fornsburgs cries for help now growing louder, somehow, echoing throughout the ship and tearing Gorman's soul apart: "Help me, captain....help...meeeeeeeeeee..."

He couldn't save Fornsburg, though. Fornsburg had weighed well over two hundred pounds, whereas Gorman had weighed barely a hundred eighty and was by no means a weight-lifter of any kind. Carrying Fornsburg to the escape pod would have been impossible, and Fornsburg had been as good as dead. The only merciful, humane course of action in the situation would have been to finish Fornsburg off by snapping his neck, but Gorman didn't even had time for that.

And so he kept running.

 

He then found himself back in the psychiatrist's office, now completely stationary, no longer running like hell, but still covered in sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. Harragan had fastened his hands over Gorman's shoulders, shaking him frantically. "Vince! Look, Vince, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry--I shouldn't have said that."

Gorman shook himself free from Harragan's grasp and backed away a few steps, still trembling, and collapsed back onto the seat behind him, looking up at Harragan, no longer hating the man, only afraid. Afraid of what might be happening to him, and afraid that his inner demons would hound him for the rest of his life.

"I'm sorry, man," Harragan apologized again.

Gorman closed his eyes, now seeing hundred of beads of green liquid clinging to the darkness, as though there had been a windowpane somehow, and it had now just suddenly stopped raining green slime. The beads began to smear now, staining the abyss, and Gorman opened his eyes.

He was back on board the Starship Nysenco, in a room that acted as both the dining area and a sort of recreational center for the crew. The ceiling, floor, and three of the four walls had been white, just as the table had been. The wall to Gorman's left wasn't really a wall at all, but more like a window, where one could look out into space, seeing whatever moons or planets they might be going by, or see millions of stars and galaxies shining from billions of light years away. The table hadn't been very long, but big enough to seat about five or six people. It was where the crew had eaten their meals, played card games, told jokes, or sometimes watch movies off the TV that hung from the ceiling across from where Gorman sat (Gorman always sat at the end of the table, and was sitting now). Sometimes, they would even try to pick up television signals as well, though success in this endeavor was usually very rare and only happened when they had been fairly close to earth or another planet that had been established by the company to be a space colony.

Gorman leapt off his seat, turning toward the left, where Doctor Harragan had been standing. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "This is the Nysenco!"

Harragan chuckled. "Is it now?"

A gun blast thundered from a distance, and Harragan's face exploded violently, vomiting thick chunks of blood, brains, teeth, and skull fragments, and Gorman flinched back, recoiling as the blood and brains stained deeply into shirt. Harragan dropped to the ground and died.

Gorman looked beyond and saw the crew of the Nysenco emerging from the darkness beyond, Fornsburg holding the smoking gun, the torn gunshot wound still over his stomach, bleeding profusely and spilling an endless supply of intestines. The rest of them had appeared completely intact and unharmed, exactly as they had been before the hijacking, and they were all there: Clarence, Fornsburg, Lambert, and Trish. Everyone present and accounted for in this little reunion except for Tripps.

"What the hell's going on here? This can't be happening!"

"You left us all to die!" Clarence barked scornfully. They all stared at him, eyes blazing hatefully, each one of them cursing him, condemning him for leaving them behind. "What's the problem, man? Were we not good enough for you? Did we not follow orders to your satisfaction? None of us were insubordinate. We all followed orders. We played the game. We respected you, man! And you turned your back on us when we needed you most."

"No!" growled Gorman, venomous spittle flying from his lips. "There was nothing I could have done for any of you, goddamn it!"

"I begged for you to help," Fornsburg spewed, his right hand clutching the wound over his abdomen, while the right hand firmly held the smoking gun, the finger still poised at the trigger. "I needed serious medical attention. I was dying! And you turned your back on me and left me hanging. Shit, man, you couldn't even put me outta my misery."

"I'm sorry, I--"

"I could live with having sex with a married man, Vince," Trish spoke up now. "It felt weird at first, you using me to commit adultery against your wife. But after a while, I got used to it and it didn't really bother me much anymore."

"You could have always said 'no'--"

"What I can't live with," Trish went on, despite Gorman's interjection, "is how you left me to die the way did. How could you do that to me after all we've been through, after all we did? How could you just watch, while I pound against the window, crying and begging for you to let me in? Do you have any idea how much that hurt me, Vince, how betrayed I felt?"

"There wasn't any time!"

"SHUT UP!" Trish screamed and burst into flames. Her eyes were blazing even more hotly now, damning Gorman's soul to hell, shooting knives at his heart for what he had done. Gorman watched, horrified, as the raging inferno continued to sear Trish's flesh, eating away at it, burning through layer after layer of flesh, then muscle, straight to her bones. Within seconds, she was nothing more than a skeleton, the fires still lit over her charred bones, and she stood there, condemning Gorman for leaving her behind.

"Don't you remember the old saying?" called Lambert. "A captain always goes down with his ship."

"Fuck you, Lambert, since when did you become a joker?"

"No joke, Captain."

"Fuck every last one of you!" Gorman yelled, the rage now consuming him, and he hated each one of them for having judged him. "There was nothing I could have done for any of you, understand? Get that through your thick skull right now. Had I died on that ship, it wouldn't have changed anything for you, because you would all be dead as well!"

No one said a word.

"And its not like its been pleasant for me either, you know," Gorman went on. "These past eight months were absolutely miserable for me. It was like I'd died and gone to hell, you know? Sometimes the dreams and flashbacks are I think I'm still back in that fucking cave, like I never got out at all!"

"Oh?" Fornsburg grinned. "And why do you think that is, huh?" He raised his gun toward Gorman. "I'll tell you why, Captain: Its because you never really got out of the cave at all." His grin widened, then he threw his head back and laughed mercilessly.

Gorman's entire body convulsed violently, but he remained on his feet.

Clarence, Lambert, and Trish, as well as the entire room, all dissolved simultaneously before Gorman's eyes into a pool of yellow pus. Only Fornsburg remained, holding his gun to Gorman. He grinned sadistically, one last time, then squeezed the trigger several times, and Gorman was taken down, staring off into the cold, dark abyss.

 

* * *

 

Gorman's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry at first, but the haze quickly cleared. He was back in the cave once again, glued to the wall, as he had always been. The time he'd spent on earth was but a dream, or perhaps a hallucination somehow brought about by whatever the creatures had been doing to him while he'd been out. Gorman wondered if perhaps it had anything to do with the cold white mist that one of the creatures had exhaled into his face. Perhaps the smoke had been some kind of a hallucinogen. It was very possible. But in any case, what had happened was merely a figment of his imagination. The eight months gone by passed only within his mind. How long had he been here? How much time had really passed? Several hours? Several days? No way of knowing. All Gorman knew for certain was that he had to get out of here, and for real this time, if he was going to have any hope of survival.

The cocoon holding him against the wall had hardened now. It was like glue, Gorman thought, moist and wet at first, but drying after a while, holding the pieces together. Gorman struggled to move, to break free from the casing; most likely a futile effort, but worth trying anyway. He was starving now, thirsty as well, his throat parched. Fatigue had beaten him down and he felt very weak, struggling to keep his head up. But Gorman was still able to apply enough pressure to break the hardened-clay-like cocoon down a little. He could hear it cracking, the more pressure he applied. He continued until he could do so no longer, and his head collapsed, lolling forward over his neck, his muscles now throbbing.

I've got to get out of here, he thought dismally.

There was a sharp hissing in the background. It had been the creatures, most likely, but Gorman couldn't see them, not even their glaring red eyes.

Jesus Christ, what the hell do those things even WANT with me?

He struggled to move again, applying more pressure. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, watering, his lips parting, gritting his teeth, Gorman exerted himself to the fullest, but barely broke a sweat. It would have been a bit scary, when you thought of it, that he would no longer be sweating, but he cast those thoughts aside and continued to struggle, hearing the hardened clay crackling, breaking down even more, until finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it crumpled into dust and Gorman was free.

He fell to his hands and knees immediately, coughing and wheezing, his temples throbbing painfully. The nausea became more prominent now, and Gorman vomited hot tar that scraped painfully against the back of his throat and the inside of his mouth. Afterward, he felt a little better, as though his body had purged itself of deadly poison, but was still light-headed and very thirsty, his throat painfully parched and his stomach very upset.

His night vision began to set in, and he could see how thin his arms had been, literally like toothpicks. Even in the darkness, he could now see how the bones left their imprint within his skin. He'd lost a great deal of weight during his time of captivity, perhaps too much weight.

I must look like shit, Gorman thought, I sure feel that way.

But somehow, he was alive, regardless of how he felt or looked. They had kept him alive somehow, but Gorman could figure out neither the means with which they had done so, or the reasons why they'd done it in the first place. Why had they glued him against the wall to begin with, especially if, after a while, it would be fairly easy for him to break free, once the mold had hardened around him?

Gorman looked ahead, but saw only darkened shadows. He could hear the creatures snarling. Their wretched noises assailed his ears from every direction, but they were nowhere to be seen. A few wet chomping sounds echoed from a distance. But where were they coming from? Were those alien beasts hiding somewhere, preparing an ambush, ready to strike at just the right moment?

"What the hell do you fuckers want with me?" Gorman cried hoarsely.

He rose shakily to his feet, nearly falling over twice, but managed to keep his footing, and then he began to stagger onward. The drunk staggered quickly progressed to an awkward jog up a steep hill. Gorman's lungs felt as though they were about to cave in, and sharp bolts of pain shot through each one of his joints below the waste, but he kept running, never looking back, refusing to stop even for a second. He reached the mouth of the cave and bolted outside, returning to the barren, desert wasteland outside. Gorman continued to run even then, never stopping. It wasn't until he had reached about a quarter of a mile away from the cave that Gorman finally slowed to a halt.

He stood, trembling, his legs quaking, every joint searing in agony. His heart was beating so rapidly now that it was at risk of tearing itself apart. Gorman gasped, panting and wheezing, struggling to breath, gulping air painfully into his dry mouth and sucking it down his clogged windpipe. His temples throbbed harder now, and he grew even dizzier. Gorman could now almost hear those wretched things back in that decrepit cave hissing, almost laughing at whatever they had done to him. He clutched both arms around his belly as it rumbled painfully, groaned, and then fell to the ground and passed out.

 

* * *

 

"Sir, looks like we found something!"

Lieutenant Rodrigues turned toward the sound of Sefton's voice calling from the left and saw a man lying face-down in the dirt, unprotected by a space suit. He approached Sefton's finding quickly--about as quickly as his space suit would allow--along with the rest of the rescue team, wondering: If this was indeed the man they'd been looking for, what had he been doing so far away from his escape pod?

"Turn him over and check his ID," Rodrigues ordered. Sefton did just that.

The man was little more than a skeleton, battered and beaten down heavily by the harsh elements of this merciless environment. Rodrigues took a closer look at his pallid, gaunt face. The man's eyes were closed, his chapped lips parted slightly. The man's flesh was very pale, as white as a ghost.

"Looks like it's Captain Vince Gorman of the Starship Nysenco, sir."

Rodrigues rejoiced; looks like they'd finally found their men. "What's his condition?"

"Unconscious, sir, but alive." Sefton and one of the others lifted Gorman off of the ground.

Rodrigues marvelled at the news Sefton had just given him. Amazing, was the only way he could describe it. Despite how beaten down Gorman appeared to be at the moment, he still managed to have survived on this desolate planet even without the protection of a space suit.

Rodrigues considered this further. If Gorman was able to survive, then that had to mean that the atmosphere of this planet wasn't at all unlike that of the planet earth. There were some possibilities to be explored now, potential to meet. This could become the next space colony; much cheaper, and with less time and development than there had been with all of the other planets, because the air apparently was already breathable for humans. Oh yes, the company was definitely going to want to hear about this.

"Sir, with all due respects," Sefton said, startling Rodrigues out of his thoughts, "I strongly suggest we put this man into a cryogenics tube and get him to the nearest hospital ASAP."

Rodrigues shot another glance at Gorman's pallid features and agreed. "Okay, then, let's get him outta here!"

 

* * *

 

Excerpts from Vince Gorman's log:
October 27, 2256

This is Vince Gorman, former Captain and sole survivor of the Starship Nysenco, now about a month into a six-month quarantine. Thus far, I show no signs of an infectious pathogen, though still kept under constant scrutiny from the CDC. To my great relief, I have finally gained the strength once again to write down my thoughts, so have begun this log which I hope to update on a semi-regular basis.

According to sources, I am apparently very lucky that Lieutenant Rodrigues and his crew had been scheduled to pass whatever planet I had been on at the time the distress signal had been sent out, and that they'd been relatively close. Had the company or anyone else had to send a crew from earth, or had it taken much longer for Rodrigues to arrive, I would most assuredly be dead by the time help did arrive.

The flight's log of the Nysenco corroborates most of the narrative I'd given, and dispells none of my claims, at least as far as the hijacking was concerned. That sort of thing is far from uncommon for anyway (and unfortunately it often results in the death of the entire shipping crew). Every job has a few hazards.

The events that occurred once I crash-landed on the planet, however, are a different matter. Upon further investigation of the planet and into the cavern I'd told them of, the search teams reported no signs whatsoever of any of the alien creatures I described. Apparently, they either vanished without a trace or were nothing more than a hallucination. I don't know if this whole thing stinks of a cover-up or not (wouldn't be the first time). But the company has invested into making the planet into yet another colony. I guess people are somewhat unlikely to live on such a planet even knowing there might be hostile organizims running around all over the place. The government's decision regarding the planet is still pending.

I still have yet to figure out what the creatures had wanted with me to begin with.

The company has stated already that they will not even consider reinstating me until I have passed a psych exam. Their altimatum is meaningless to me, however, because Jessica has--from what I've heard from the doctors--firmly requested that I resign my position there and seek employment elsewhere once I'm released. She'll get no argument from me. She also wants me to start seeing a psychiatrist, get therapy, at least at first, once the doctors release me from quarantine, which isn't something that I have any objections to currently, either.

And at night, when I am alone--not talking to my wife or any company employees through the phone line, or any of the doctors coming in here in body condoms--the terror returns. The creatures continue to plague my sleep, and I awaken screaming and covered in sweat. The guilt for what I've done still nags me. At times, I close my eyes, and I can still see myself back in the cave, at the mercy of those aliens, those viscious mind-rapists.

I'm pretty sure that I got out alive, and that this time its the real deal. Things aren't nearly as intense this time around. And I'm not skipping from one situation to the next, the way a movie goes through a transition from one scene right to another some time later (an inconsistency that never dawned on my while under the creatures' spell, nor had I realized it up until a little while ago). I'm back in real time now, experiencing every long and agonizing second crawl by at a snail's pace. There were other details this time around, too, that hadn't been present: such as how thin and weak I when Rodrigues had found me, little more than a bag of bones. In the hallucinated version, I hadn't lost any weight at all. Minute details like that, which my mind would have never conceived of were this merely a dream or hallucination. Also, the first time around, when it was all in my mind, the time it would take for a ship to reach earth from that other previously unknown planet had been at the most about a day. But in reality, with the speeds we are currently capable of, the trip would be at the very least a good couple of months, which is how long it had been (though I was frozen for most of the trip). The evidence that this is all a reality and that I really am home are overwhelming and that is something that I will always find reassuring.

But the seeds of doubt have already been planted and continue to fester deep within the darkest reaches of my psych and the thoughts that this might be merely another hallucination brought about by those creatures continue to haunt me, leaving me uncertain. I want more than anything to believe that this is real, that I really am home and that it's over and I can put that horrible experience behind me once and for all. But there is still a small amount of skepticism. There's still the cynical part of my mind that thinks: Maybe this really IS all inside my head, nothing more than a hallucination. Perhaps I never made it out of that cave after all.

 

The End.

January 2002
April 23, 2002