Escape From Asylonia, page 9
part #1 of The New War Series
The Temüjin craft, with which his ship had become so gruesomely entwined, absorbed the largest waves of electricity, yet still the current was potent enough to throw around both parts of the maimed hybrid with ease.
In another instant, the might of the storm caused the Temüjin ship to explode, ejecting the brown corpse of its scorched pilot. A bolt of electric lightning punctured the charred guts of the amphibian, disintegrating him on impact.
Even free from the Temüjin ship, David was in no better a situation. Lightning crashed against all sides of his vehicle. Though it failed to penetrate Attreus One's reinforced armour, its impact was enough to jerk David around inside the ship, bouncing him from wall to wall like a squash ball. The ethereal whisper of Alan Attreus breezed through his unconscious mind.
Now or never, David. Wake up. Wake up, son. Almost there. We’re almost there, just sit tight...
His body was hurled to the left and bumped to the right, was launched in the air and ploughed into the cockpit like a lifeless ragdoll, pawed and gnawed at by the restless pitbull that was the storm.
Attreus One tumbled and spun and fell and bopped and rebounded in the playful hands of electricity. A single blow drubbed the ship, throwing her pilot's lifeless carcass backwards against the cockpit.
Sit tight, David. We’re almost there now. Time to wake up, son. Time to wake up. Now or never...
David slumped to the floor, a limp arm flopping against the control panel and teasing a protruding lever. The jaws of the ship growled with flames in a surge of momentum, bullying the ship around until she was spat out from the mouth of the storm.
Now or never, David. For Christ’s sake, son. Now or never. WAKE UP!
The atmosphere outside the ship leaked through, reviving David just long enough to realise that he was in a world of serious trouble. He leapt for the yoke, only to reel in horror as it came off in his hands.
The surface was rising up to meet him, a deep ocean threatening to swallow him whole. Stricken by pain, full of fear and wracked with failure, David Attreus panicked. Feeding on that panic, his mother branded her image behind his hot, wet eyes. Her own eyes were hot too, angry flames flaring away in place of her corneas. She reached out to throttle him, pin him down.
You just bloody well stay right where you are, David Attreus. You’re only going to get into more trouble. Stay there and stop being so bloody foolish. God, what are you doing to me, David?
He looked around for Ganesha and found her trapped in a gap under the seat. Attreus One propelled him closer to his fate, the G-force holding him prisoner against the cockpit. He shot his leg forward, as far as he could manage, trying desperately to pull Ganesha towards him.
The painful screams of fire and wind outside the ship attacked his eardrums. Darkness met with the deep blasting noise of Attreus One plummeting into the ocean of The New World.
XVIII.
In the delicate chill of the early Asylonian morning, as a shallow sun rose into a clear blue sky, bringing the world into focus with a crispness and clarity which it lacked at any other point of the day, Rochelle Asa turned out of her house and ran.
Her petite feet, decked in sturdy, mud-stained sneakers, beat at the soft ground below. Twigs snapped and leaves scattered as she pushed forward, gently and with ease at first, then quicker, harder, as though at any moment some invisible thing would gain on her. Her strong thighs lunged in great strides as she ran to the steady rhythm of her own thumping heart. The pines of the forest gave off a faint golden glow in the light of the rising sun. The shredded bark of their grand trunks met the damp grass, populated with lavender shrubs, all combining to fill Rochelle’s nostrils with a rich, bittersweet perfume. A cold snap of air slipped through her smooth, narrow lips, as refreshing to her throat as the cold water she carried in a small, red sports bottle.
Her long auburn hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, stretching the skin of a milky white forehead, where most of the cold breeze was absorbed in a single, acute spot which bothered her only when she let it. Relieved of its bite, the rest of the breeze brushed smoothly over her compact frame, nibbling away at the light beads of sweat on her arms and legs, and making her feel good.
Her pert breasts, set in an ocean-blue sports bra, rose and fell gently as she drew breath. She smiled. The dirt track beneath her feet gave way to smooth asphalt which treated her limbs kindly, leading her out of the forest and into a suburban part of town still reeling in a heavy slumber.
An altogether too-rare feeling of total happiness calmed her beating heart. She was much too busy enjoying the moment to bother with the fact that it wouldn’t last. In that moment, she was a million miles away from everything, floating effortlessly on some celestial plain where the sun and the stars and the Gods above all conspired to make everything just right.
The sun rose higher, burned brighter behind Rochelle, chasing her through wide, flat roads leaning abruptly into ninety degree turns, and taking her towards Main Street. She passed a clutter of bars and eating establishments embedded into the side of the street, all offering delicacies from each of Asylonia’s settling races. She ran on past a church, then took a right, wondering fleetingly, as she often did, if the church was used for the purpose intended by the humans who had built it. Religion in the traditional sense did not seem to play a big part in the lives of the Asylonians she knew.
As the harbour drew closer, she caught sight of the endless row of fishing boats floating peacefully inches above still water, glistening radiantly with the sun’s gold and silver reflection. The scene supported her belief that the early mornings were the perfect time of day to take her exercise. Not only was this the one time that accurately captured the true beauty of Mother Earth on this otherwise artificial planet, but this was perhaps the only time of day when she could pace through the streets without raising the ire of the townsfolk.
Taking her morning run in the breaking of dawn, when most of the planet still slept, she felt safe, as though the fresh air and reminders of her home planet somehow protected her from their scorn, their verbal taunts and physical threats.
Here, she was calm. Here, at the beginning of a new day, she was filled with peace, contentment and a certain degree of happiness. The fresh air helped to clear her mind long enough, and completely enough, to think. She thought of a cure, an answer, some plan or invention she could put into place to make amends for the suffering she had caused.
She floated from one idea to the next, regarding each one as a moment of genius gifted from some divine muse, before dismissing it just as quickly as illogical or impractical. The higher the pile of disregarded ideas grew, the longer she ran, setting out each morning in search of fresh inspiration. Somewhere in her mind, or out there in the beauty of the morning, she was sure she would stumble across an idea as flawless as any she could imagine.
She would find a way to ease the pain she had caused to those families, pain she absorbed into her own heart and felt intensely, tying her stomach in knots and chipping away at her conscience. The inescapable knowledge of what she had done, not just the mistake itself, but its consequences, went everywhere with Rochelle. It haunted her dreams and, in her waking moments, formed great, black clouds of depression which loomed overhead. Shame, disgrace and sorrow were less fleeting feelings, and more permanent states of being for Rochelle Asa. Quelled for a while by the endorphins of her early morning exercise, they would always inevitably reappear to occupy most of her day.
Slowing for a moment to admire the sun as it rose on the horizon, Rochelle felt a pang of stiffness creeping slowly through her toned limbs, and relaxed into a walk. She moved towards a bronze iron statue, a figure of interlinked chains representing unity between all races on Asylonia, which leaned crookedly the middle of a grass verge. Her flat, muscular stomach clenched as she slipped her heel into a gap between one of the chains, and leant forward. Gripping her toes with fingers as strong as they were nimble, she stared dreamily at the water through the golden darkness of her slim, glossy eyes.
Up ahead, something stirred. First a ripple, then a tremor, then a great burst of froth, erupting out of the water as though fired by a cannon. Rochelle watched, at first mesmerized by the disturbance to the otherwise serene water, then horrified, as the tips of four fingers poked helplessly out of the froth.
XIX.
Twenty five feet up from the ocean bed, David Attreus felt a sting behind his eyes. In the first instance, he noticed a dim light, humming among the wreckage of Attreus One. In the second, he saw that the source of that light came from a shattered sign hanging from the cockpit. The emergency oxygen supply had come into play.
The thud of his heart against his aching sternum, and the nagging dizziness in his brain, left him drunk and disoriented. He raised his arms before his face. Even in the pale light, he could tell that the sleeves of his space suit had been torn clean off, replaced with a coat of scars which crisscrossed up and down the white flesh of his arms. He pressed the flat of his palms beside him and winced at the bitter pain in his swollen wrist.
Gritting his teeth, David pushed upwards to stand, but some heavy, unseen thing rubbed against his shins, pinning him awkwardly to the floor. A low, deep growl rumbled in the back of his throat as he squirmed beneath the heavy pilot's chair crushing his legs, bending forward to push his palms against it. Channelling what little strength he could find, David shoved at the seat. It hit a wall of shattered display screens and broke apart. Soft chunks of leather and foam fell about the remains of the ship.
The legs of his suit had been torn, too. They hung from his limbs like rags, and revealed a gaping wound oozing with dark, viscid blood. Grimacing at the sight, David tore away at a scrap of suit fabric, and fashioned it around the wound in a tourniquet. Hurriedly, he scattered the rubble around him, creating enough room to move, and clambered to his feet, pressing his hands against the inner-wall of the ship for leverage. Despite the carnage which lay within, the shell of Attreus One had survived seemingly unharmed. David prodded and poked, feeling his way around the ship towards the bow.
And then he saw her, immobile and intact in the mess of ripped cables and computer boards; Ganesha, impeccable, indestructible Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles, Lord of Beings, Patron Saint of Shipwrecks. Crouching low, David keeled forward to his knees, the twisted metal of Attreus One’s armour pricking and paring at his exposed flesh in a way that made him think of crawling across broken glass. His fingers teased the computer towards him until he was able to grasp her in his palms. As though overcome by the joy of the reunion, David slipped backwards and crashed on his backside, holding Ganesha with both hands and pointing her at the bow with outstretched arms.
Water burst through the creaking, deformed jaws of Attreus One, as fast and as forcibly as the regret of never properly learning to swim violated David’s conscience.
Abandoning for a moment the instinct of survival, David gave his only priority over to tucking Ganesha safely into the waist of his ripped suit, then launched himself forward.
The ocean snatched him up and he kicked frantically against her, certain that what he lacked in breaststroke talent, he made up for with an innate desire to stay alive. He carved his way through the current until the last ounce of his strength washed away in the heart of the ocean.
Bitter salt water flooded his gullet. Darkness and silence surrounded him once more. The ocean began to pull his unconscious body up towards her surface, creating small, chopping waves through which his fingers momentarily waved, before collapsing back across his chest.
XX.
Out in the warm air of the harbour, Rochelle Asa watched in horror as a limp body emerged from the depths of the ocean. Her focus centered on the single gut instinct that had carried her through every action and decision she had made en route to The New World, and to that very point in her life. A subconscious thought overpowered her, as though her next act would go some way to atoning for her sins. Rochelle kicked off her muddy shoes, peeled off her ankle socks, flung them over her shoulder, and raced into the water until she was waist deep. At that point, she dived forward, and powered her way to the body through the calm ocean waters.
Reaching David, Rochelle hooked her own arm under his and draped it across his chest, her fingertips bruising the side of his ribs. Pulling him backwards, her free hand sliced through the ocean surface, and her legs kicked frantically beneath it.
XXI.
David Attreus woke to the feeling of soft, feminine lips caressing his mouth. A vicious cough pushed bubbles of salt water from his lips. His eyes fell open and found the creamy-skinned woman standing over him. He barely noticed that she was drenched, all the way from the twisted strips of hair which glistened in the sun and hung heavily against her sleek, strong jaw, right down to the ends of her soft, delicate toes. It was the dark gold of her eyes which snared his attention, drawing it away from two hardened nipples, protruding against the underside of her soaked sports bra, and away from smooth, well defined legs. Her training shorts were darkened by sea water that leaked down the healthy curves of her hips and buttocks. A graceful allure penetrated her breathless, water-ravaged appearance. Logic abandoned David. He had been kissed by an angel.
'Am I...Am I dead?' he whimpered, salt water dribbling from his pallid lips.
Rochelle smiled. To David, it was a smile beautiful enough to lend credence to the angel theory.
'No,' she chuckled. 'Just a bit damp.'
'Oh,' said David, his voice a hoarse blend of confusion and relief. 'So, you're not an angel?'
'No,' smiled the angel. 'I'm Rochelle.'
She reached forward and took his scarred hand in the soft grip of her own. Holding her weakly, David allowed Rochelle to help him to his feet. He observed that she was roughly an inch of two shorter than he, and perhaps a few years older. She stood straight, her posture poised and relaxed. He held her hand in his for a moment longer. After everything he had just experienced, her soft skin was like the touch of some divine being. He felt then that he would have gladly held onto that hand for the rest of his days.
'Rochelle,' he said, her name lingering lustfully on his lips. 'I'm David. Thanks for saving my life.'
'Don't worry, it's what I do,' the angel smiled again.
A shallow light seemed to wash over the darkness of her eyes, as though his words had encouraged a comeback of some long lost sense of pride. Rochelle tucked David’s arm over her shoulder and lead him away from the harbour.
'Come on,' she said. 'Let's get you back to the house.'
Her voice was at once tender and tough, with a delicate melody hidden among the pitch of her South African accent. Drowsy and sore, he could pay attention to little else than the woman beside him, shivering against her as she helped him through Main Street, and into the cool, damp forest.
'So who are you anyway?’ she asked. ‘Where do you come from?'
'Earth,' he replied groggily.
'Earth?'
'Earth.'
'But how? How did you get here? There's been no contact with Earth for months. I’d just about given up hope...’
Rochelle's mind wandered. She spoke freely and happily, as though unaware of David's ailing health, or of the dangers which lurked around the start of a new Asylonian day.
'Do you know,' she continued, barely pausing for breath, 'That I haven't spoken to another human being for at least, oh, I'd have to say eighteen months. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think I've spoken to any species at all in that time, at least not in anyway that wasn't a grovelling apology.'
Finally she paused, readjusting her hold on David.
'Oh,' she sighed. 'Will you listen to me babbling?'
'You're not babbling at all,' slurred David as he shuffled alongside her. 'You sound lovely.'
Rochelle's heart softened. The hint of another smile formed on her lips.
'Well, aren't you a gentleman? Anyway, here we are.'
With a swoop of a muscular arm, Rochelle pointed toward a log cabin sitting coyly in a clearing between dense pine trees. Out front, a silver pond trembled at the sun’s touch.
'Mi casa, es su casa.'
David rested against Rochelle's shoulder as she rattled a large bronze key into the lock and pushed the door open. Specks of dust danced in the piercing rays of sunlight. Wooden shelves lined the walls of the cabin from corner to corner. Each one was crammed full with over-sized encyclopedias, journals and textbooks. Here and there lay notebooks, empty cups stained with black coffee, amulets and trinkets and bottles and blankets. The faded scent of incense mixed with the earthy smell of the forest.
'Sorry about the mess, I wasn't expecting company,' Rochelle chuckled.
She cleared her plump, berry-red sofa of yet more textbooks, and helped David onto it, fluffing several cushions beneath his head, and covering his shivering body with blankets.
'OK, let me dry off and we'll get you fixed up,' she told him, adopting a cheerful bedside manner.
Fading slowly out of consciousness, David reached for the hand of an angel, the shrivelled tips of his fingers gliding against hers.
'Rochelle?'
'Yes?'
'Thank you.’
She smiled softly and brushed her hands through his soggy hair. He fell quickly and quietly into a deep sleep.
XXII.
David continued to slide in and out of long periods of sleep for the next several days. Staying close by throughout his recovery, Rochelle nursed him back to health.
She treated his wounds and wrapped them in bandages, fed him pain medicine to combat the sickening strikes against his spine and shoulders, and helped his body to rebound from the shock and trauma caused by the crash. A long while later, she would confess to being surprised that his injuries were only superficial. There would be no lasting damage and, given time, even the most persistent of his pains would subside. At regular intervals she would rouse him long enough to eat, and drink, and take his medication.
