R. Lauthor, Nascar Bill
2017
Space Lord awakens in orbit around Earth. Plates of metal drift around him, unaware of the fragile man inside the skintight astrosuit whom they avoid. Through an infinite void of silence, he hears the echoes, the shrieks of the planet, the groggy final screams of a species that kept itself blindfolded. Icy sweat beads down his damp forehead. He so wishes he were back asleep. He looks up, and in a blur, feels the scraps of his cruiser’s shredded hull drifting around him. A few taps on his wrist, and a light blinks amber. SYSTEMS OFFLINE blinks at the top corner of his visor. He reaches for his comm system, but nothing responds to his signal. He swipes his fingers across the wristpad, but his wing-jets creak, and metal jerks and groans on his back. I’m dead. As he flips, the sees the drifting top half of his cruiser, sparking. Black tubes spew out coolant and fuel, which streak across the sky like an aurora. Space Lord takes deep breaths to slow his breathing. Too much anxiety, and you lose oxygen, you pass out, and that’s it. His breathing slows, and his heart rate slows, but pounds even harder than before. You can control your breathing, but you can’t control the thoughts that run through your head. I’m alone. Memory blurs the faces of the few people he ever cared about back on his home planet. The girl he left behind, who used to smile and laugh. His little brother. The many diverse people whom he met by going out in public, and saying, what’s your story? You can find happiness in the least happy of places; and when you can’t find it, you can always make it. And you look back and realize, those few times someone has ever tried to make you happy, it was never happiness, but luck – just luck. Those people are once-in-a-lifetime. And you were lucky to have met them. And this is the result of luck, he thinks. Silver waves ripple across the top corner of his visor. He taps on his helmet to receive the transmission. REPAIR MODULE OUT…REPAIR MODULE OUT…PLEASE WAIT… A blac
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