Elias Thorne
The ping on the radar, signaling an incoming ship, jolts me from my half-conscious state.
I blink, certain I am hallucinating again. I''ve been amazed the last few months by what a desperate, starved, traumatized mind can conjure. And there is no way it''s the rescue ship. Rescue should still be weeks away. If they even mounted a rescue mission at all, which I''m not convinced they did. It would be a massive amount of time for humanity to waste just to confirm four dead bodies and a crashed space ship.
The makeshift shelter I''ve constructed in the remains of the Boundless Sky''s airlock creaks around me, the sound of metal contracting in the planet''s brutal temperature shift. Night is coming.
The ping sounds again—clear, unmistakable. Something is entering the atmosphere.
My heart shoots into my chest as I drag myself to the cracked display panel. Eight months of false hopes have taught me not to trust anything, especially not my own mind.
But there it is: a bright dot descending through HDX-937b''s upper atmosphere, following a controlled trajectory.
"Hello?" I rasp into the comm unit, its wires spliced and taped together after the crash. Static answers me. I clear my throat, fighting against months of disuse. "This is Science Officer Elias Thorne of the Boundless Sky. Do you copy?"
More static, and then—impossibly—a voice crackles through.
"—repeat, Radiant Hope to any survivors of Boundless Sky. We are beginning descent procedures. Please respond—"
The transmission cuts out, swallowed by the planet''s ionized upper atmosphere.
I stagger to my feet, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"I''m here!" I shout, though I know the signal is too weak to transmit. "I''m still here!"
There''s no time to wait for better contact. If they''re coming down, I need to be visible. I lurch toward the airlock controls, already in my enviro-suit as I have been for nearly two months now. I have to get outside. Have to signal them before they decide there''s nothing left to save.
But after my suit is on, my hands hover over the decompression airlock.
If I am hallucinating, and I hit this button, I''m dead. This detached airlock is the only source of atmosphere I have left.
If I''m hallucinating, though, I suppose, it''s one hell of a hallucination. Complete with voices and radar pings. Not likely to be a hallucination.
I glance down at Bennett''s body. She''s still in her suit where I laid her, helmet clasped shut to contain the sickly-sweet stench of decomposition that had begun to fill our shared space.
I know she’s already dead, but I can’t bring myself to open this airlock door if I don’t check her suit’s seals first. I check all the clasps quickly.
The radar pings again.
I hit the button. The air hisses out as the doors open for the last time.
As I stagger from the wreckage, a fireball cuts through the thin atmosphere like a blade. It moves impossibly fast, a distant speck growing larger, sharper, until I can make out the silhouette of a landing shuttle.
I''m not imagining it. Not this time.
I exhale, a ragged sound against the helmet''s stale air circulation. My fingers tighten around the battered fabric of my suit, the duct tape barely holding the seals together. My body sways with exhaustion, with disbelief.
I blink against the glare, half expecting the vision to blur, to vanish the way it has in my dreams. But it doesn''t. The shuttle is real. It''s here.
A cloud of dust erupts as it nears the ground, landing struts extending, engines roaring in a deep, guttural tremor that shakes the cracked ground beneath me.
The shuttle''s ramp begins to lower, corrosive toxic dust swirling around it. Their shuttle airlock opens, and as it opens, I realize with sudden horror I need to tell them about the dust.
“The dust!” I shout into the radio, hoping they can hear me now. “The dust is toxic! Don’t let it into the shuttle!”
Greaves lets out a choked laugh—half glee, half sheer disbelief. "Holy shit, Elias. You''re alive. What dust?”
“This!” I scream, pointing to the air where the dust is swirling around us. “The dust!”
The lead figure hesitates, then continues forward with more caution. Two others exit behind her, their movements suddenly more deliberate.
"This is Captain Margot Raines of the Radiant Hope," comes a measured voice through my comm. "Dr. Thorne, please clarify the nature of the threat."
The crew of the Radiant Hope, our sister ship. We trained together at the GSA before we split off into two individual crews for the mission. Standard protocol dictated they follow our flight path when our signal went dark—but it appears they weren''t expecting to find survivors any more than I was expecting to survive.
I force myself to breathe, to push through the fog in my brain.
"The surface dust," I manage, each word an effort. "If it gets into your bloodstream, it''s fatal."
There''s a moment of silence, then rapid-fire orders from Raines. "Arden, Greaves, Full decontamination protocols. Nobody removes helmets until we''re back on the Hope."
Dr. Harlow Greaves, still moving toward me despite the warning, glances down at his suit already glittering with the fine particles. “Threat level?" he asks, the medical officer''s training immediately kicking in.
"Blood contamination is lethal, but surface contact and ingestion don''t appear to cause symptoms,” I rasp, my own training kicking in alongside his.
Severe dizziness begins to set in. I haven’t been on my feet in months.
I sway on my feet. Greaves steps to my side to support me.
“Even more amazing, then, that we’ve found you alive,” Captain Margot Raines says, her voice a mixture of awe and joy. "We expected to find nothing but bodies. Where are the others?"
My chest sinks, hollow and heavy. I look away, my gaze fixing on the distant horizon where the planet''s toxic dust swirls in perpetual motion.
"The rest of the crew," Greaves says "Where are they, Thorne?"
My throat closes. I open my mouth, but no sound emerges. My hands begin to tremble inside the patched gloves.
His grip on my arm tightens. “Elias? Maya, Carlos, Anne—Where are they?"
I stand, frozen, unable to meet his eyes.
Greaves''s excitement drains away, replaced by dawning comprehension.
"Captain," Arden''s voice cuts in, sharp and strange, over the crackling comms. He''s stepped away, deeper into the wreckage, his sensors sweeping the area. “I’ve found Laurent.” Laurent, her body wrapped carefully in canvas, placed in the most sheltered corner of the wreckage we could find.
“I’ve found Rivera,” Raines calls out, her voice unsteady. We laid him near the airlock entrance where he’d died, canvas folded over his wrecked remains.
A sudden cry from the direction of the airlock makes everyone freeze.
“Oh my God…” Arden’s voice is barely recognizable. "Bennett''s in here... and there’s—“ he pauses, unsure of how describe the fetid husk of an airlock I’ve been living in two months. “There’s evidence of habitation,” is what he chooses to say. “Ration packet wrappers, the water recycler. Thorne was living in here with her body.”
A heavy silence falls over the comms.
Greaves recovers first, his medical training kicking in. His feet move before his mouth does. “I need to get him to the shuttle. Now."
“Arden, help me move the bodies,” Raines murmurs into her radio, her usually composed voice unsteady. Her eyes return to me, assessment mixed with something like horror and pity. "Greaves, get him stabilized."
Greaves nods, gripping my arm and guiding me toward the shuttle. "Let''s get you out of this environment, Thorne. You need immediate medical attention."
I close my eyes and let him guide me toward the shuttle, every step toward it feeling like a betrayal.
Raines'' composure returns, though I can hear how she struggles to maintain it after what she''s seen. "Arden, also take sealed samples of the dust, and recover the Sky’s memory core if you can."
My chest constricts so suddenly I can''t breathe. Heat flushes through my body, a violent surge of something between rage and despair.
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If you can. As if it''s just an afterthought. As if Rivera didn''t make me swear with his dying breath to protect our scientific data and get it back to Earth. Now Raines tosses it off like some optional souvenir to grab if convenient.
I rip my arm out of Greaves’s grasp. "The data is non-negotiable," I say over the radio, my voice suddenly stronger than it''s been in months.
Raines straightens, clearly surprised by my sudden force. "Of course, Dr. Thorne. We''ll recover everything possible."
"Not ''everything possible,''" I manage raggedly. "Everything."
Raines’ voice is solemn. "I''ll make sure of it personally, Elias. I promise."
Something in her tone reaches through the fog. I remember training exercises, Raines’ attention to detail, her respect for protocol. If anyone will treat those memory banks with the reverence they deserve, it''s her.
I slacken into the arms around me.
"We need to move now," Greaves cuts in sharply, his medical scanner beeping alarmingly as he connects it to my enviro-suit. "His heart rate is dangerously irregular. Let''s get him aboard."
I''m shaking. I can''t stop shaking.
Greaves guides me through the shuttle''s exterior door and into the cramped airlock. The door seals behind us with a hiss, and he immediately activates the decontamination sequence. A fine mist begins to spray from nozzles in the ceiling and walls, coating our suits with decontamination solution. The liquid beads on the surface of our helmets, carrying away the microscopic particles that could mean death if they breach our protection.
"The others," I manage, my voice barely audible on the radio. "Don''t leave them here."
"We won''t," he promises through his mirrored visor. “Didn’t you hear the captain? We’re bringing everyone home."
I nod, a small movement that sends waves of dizziness through me. The adrenaline that kept me upright is beginning to fade.
My knees buckle, and Greaves catches me under my arms.
"Whoa, easy," he says, concern sharpening his voice. "Just a few more minutes and we can get you out of this suit."
My breathing becomes shallow, each inhalation harder than the last. The edges of my vision begin to darken. My body has reached its limit.
Greaves''s scanner beeps urgently against my chest. "Shit," he mutters, eyes darting between me and the readout. "Heart rate dropping, blood pressure crashing." His voice rises, pitched toward the comm. "Thorne''s crashing."
"Can''t override safety protocols," comes Raines''s tight response. "Four more minutes minimum."
The mist continues its methodical work, indifferent to my deteriorating condition.
Greaves grips both my shoulders now, lowering me carefully to a seated position against the airlock wall.
"Stay with me, Elias," he says, his professional demeanor cracking.
"The others," I mumble, feeling like I’m about to pass out.
“Being loaded," Greaves assures me. "Rivera, Laurent, and Bennett. And the memory core. We''ve got everything, Elias. Everyone''s coming home."
Relief washes through me, stronger than any medicine Greaves could administer. My eyes close briefly, the weight of my eight-month vigil finally, truly lifting.
Greaves tells me to open my eyes for him, to stay with him, but I pass out anyway.
<hr>
When I wake up, I''m in a sterile med bay, soft artificial light casting everything in an unfamiliar glow. The hum of the ship''s life support systems surrounds me, steady and rhythmic. Nothing like the unpredictable silence of the deadworld.
A soft beep registers at the edge of my awareness—a heart monitor, steady but slow. My body feels impossibly heavy. Every muscle is sore, my skin hypersensitive and raw.
The scent of medical-grade antiseptic fills my nostrils, sharp and clinical—nothing like the stale, recycled air I''ve breathed for months.
A voice pulls me from the fog. "Elias?"
It''s Greaves, standing beside the bed, arms crossed but eyes softer than I remember.
I try to sit up, fighting my weakness. After spending months lying around, conserving calories, I can’t bear to be horizontal.
But unlike last time I was awake, I’m not able to on my own.
Seeing my struggle, Greaves frowns but adjusts the bed, raising me to a semi-reclined position. "Better?"
I nod, though the movement sends a wave of dizziness through me. The new angle gives me a better view of myself—arms like twigs, skin hanging loosely where muscle used to be. My chest rising and falling with careful, shallow breaths. I can''t tear my eyes away from the ruins of my body.
Greaves follows my gaze, his expression softening. "We''ve started a nutrient infusion protocol," he explains, gesturing to one of the IV bags. "Your body needs to recover. We''ll begin with liquids tomorrow, then soft foods as your digestive system adjusts."
I stare at the purple-yellow bruises that map my forearms, at the puffy, red lines where the suit''s seams cut into my skin.
"How long was I out?” My voice is rough, barely more than a whisper.
"A few hours. You were dehydrated, malnourished. We had to stabilize your vitals before waking you." He shifts uncomfortably, his professional detachment slipping. "You gave us a hell of a scare."
I exhale, looking past him to the window. The stars blur beyond the glass, distant and untouchable. I''m not sure if I should feel relief or something else entirely.
He checks something on his tablet. His voice catches slightly. "Those mineral compounds—we''ve never seen anything like them."
My skin crawls at the thought. I''d stopped noticing the fine dust that coated everything, that worked its way into every seam and seal.
The same dust that killed Carlos, seeping into his bloodstream through a single cut.
I look down at my arms, half-expecting to see the glittering residue still there. All I see is pink, raw skin.
"You''ve been scrubbed clean," Greaves continues, watching my reaction carefully. "Three times. We weren''t taking any chances."
He moves closer, his white medical coat a stark contrast to the subdued colors of the equipment.
I find myself staring at the pristine fabric, wondering how something can be so untouched, so clean, when everything I''ve known for months has been coated in deadly dust particles.
“We assume they had something to do with the Sky’s crash,” he says carefully, “So after we rescued you, we immediately left orbit. We’re en route to Earth.”
"The others," I say, eyes still closed. "Have you—"
"Captain Raines has prepared the bodies for transport," he says gently. Then, softer: "They''ll receive full military and civilian honors when we return."
I nearly scoff. As if medals and flags could make up for what happened.
"Let me check your vitals," Greaves says, moving to the monitors.
I watch his hands as they move methodically—adjusting IV lines, tapping notes into a tablet. Each touch seems to linger longer than necessary, each glance at the readouts weighted with something that breaks through his professional veneer.
I wish it were Laurent checking my vitals.
My heart aches.
"How bad?" I ask.
His eyes flick toward me, then back to the monitors. There''s a moment of hesitation before he answers, like he''s choosing his words carefully. "You survived eight months on a deadworld. I''d say you''re doing remarkably well, all things considered."
"That''s not an answer," I bite back, irritated by his evasion.
Greaves sighs, setting down his tablet. When he looks back at me, his expression has changed—the clinical mask slipping to reveal something raw and pained. "Severe malnutrition. Your muscle mass is down almost forty percent. Second-degree pressure sores where your suit rubbed against bone."
I can''t help but look down at my body as he speaks. The sheet has slipped away, exposing my chest—ribs pushing against papery skin, hollows where muscle should be. My right shoulder is a mass of angry red tissue where the suit''s joint repeatedly rubbed against the same spot.
I can''t look away, transfixed by this stranger''s body that somehow belongs to me.
"Early stages of oxygen toxicity from breathing recycled air too long. Kidney function compromised from dehydration." He pauses, watching me examine myself with horrified fascination. "And that''s just the physical inventory."
I close my eyes, unable to bear the sight anymore. Heat rises to my face—shame, anger, I''m not sure which
"Your body was shutting down," Greaves continues, his voice less steady now. "Another week, maybe two, and we wouldn''t be having this conversation."
My stomach lurches violently. Another week. Just seven more days and I would have joined them.
My hands grip the thin sheet covering me, twisting it between my fingers.
A week. That''s all it would have taken.
My next thought is almost wistful.
So close.
Greaves notices my reaction, his features morphing with compassion and concern. It grates against something jagged inside me. I don''t want his pity. I don''t deserve it.
He moves to my side, a scanner in his hand. "I need to check your neural activity," he says, the device humming as he passes it over my head. His hands tremble slightly, betraying his composed exterior. "You''ve been through severe trauma, and we need to establish a baseline."
"My brain''s fine," I mutter, turning away from his concern.
"Let me be the judge of that," he replies, but there''s no edge to his words. A small, sad smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You were always a terrible patient, even during training.”
His voice shifts into something more careful, more measured.
"Elias," He says. "I know it''s soon, but I need to ask you a few questions about what happened. It will help me treat you more effectively. Medical assessment only," Greaves assures me, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "The official debriefing can wait."
I swallow, tasting the metallic aftertaste of the medication. "Go ahead," I manage, bracing myself.
Greaves pulls a stool closer, sitting at eye level with me. "I need to understand the physical conditions you endured. Food intake, water rationing, temperature fluctuations, atmospheric exposure—all of it. Any toxins or pathogens you might have encountered, including these minerals.” His voice is clinical, but his eyes never leave my face, watching for signs of distress. "Take me through the physical risks you were exposed to."
The question is straightforward enough. Medical. Practical. But as I open my mouth to answer—
Pressure alarms screaming. The canvas seals failing as night temperatures plummet to minus seventy. My fingers, numb and clumsy, trying to patch the rupture with sealant that won''t bond in the cold. Air hissing out. Precious oxygen escaping into the deadworld''s atmosphere.
Bennett’s voice, calm despite everything. "Try the emergency patch kit. The thermal-reactive one."
My own voice, reporting the situation. "Oxygen levels dropping. Four minutes until critical."
The wind picking up, carrying fine, glittering dust that seems to eat through everything it touches.
Bennett''s face, lit by emergency lighting. "If we can''t seal it, we need to relocate. Now."
"Elias? Elias!"
I blink, finding myself back in the med bay, Greaves'' hand on my shoulder, his face creased with concern. The monitors beside the bed are beeping rapidly, reflecting my spiking heart rate. His grip is firm but gentle, anchoring me to the present.
"You''re safe," he says firmly, his voice cutting through the fog of memory. "You''re on the Radiant Hope. You''re not there anymore."
I swallow, feel the sheen of cold sweat on my forehead. I give a short nod, not trusting my voice.
Greaves doesn''t remove his hand, the physical contact a tether to reality. "You don''t have to answer,” he says, his voice gentler than I''ve ever heard it, softened to the point of being unbearable. "I shouldn''t have pushed so soon."
I do not want to be treated like something broken in need of saving.
I throw his hand off mine. My response is positively robotic. "We retreated to a detached pressurized airlock three months ago. Oxygen recyclers operating at 25% capacity upon rescue. Water rationing down to 300 milliliters. Food intake down to half a ration pack per day."
He sets down his tablet and just looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since I woke up. "Elias, what you went through..." His voice breaks slightly. "Most people wouldn''t have lasted a month, let alone eight."
I didn''t survive because I''m special or strong. I survived because I was too stubborn to die and too afraid to join the others.
Greaves'' hand returns to my shoulder, a steady weight grounding me to the present. "You''re safe now, Elias."
But safety feels like a foreign concept, something that belongs to the person I was before the deadworld. Before I watched my crew die one by one. Before I became the only one left.
"Get some rest," He says, standing. He adjusts my blanket with unnecessary care. "We''ll continue when you''re stronger."
As he moves toward the door, I call after him. "Harlow."
He turns, eyebrows raised. I''ve never used his first name before, not even during training.
"Thank you," I say. "For coming back for me."
Something flickers across his face—guilt, relief, sorrow, I can''t tell.
“Of course,” he says quietly, voice thick with emotion he can’t quite hide. “You would have done the same.”
The door slides shut behind him, leaving me alone with the beeping monitors and the stars beyond the window.