Part 1 (1/2)

RITE OF EXILE.

THE SILENT TEMPEST.

by E. J. G.o.dwin.

for Strength, for Love, for a sister Lost but Found.

Ruthie.

1.

Falling Man.

A new life is like a new tree.

it matters very much where and when it's planted.

- from Besir Orand'itee.

CALEB STENGER opened his eyes. Blackness. A black so complete he feared the long sleep through s.p.a.ce had ruined his sight.

He listened. His breath rasped against the close walls of the hibernation capsule, and a slow heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He was alive.

Have we landed? Why is the monitoring system taking so long to revive us?

Caleb s.h.i.+fted his weight on the contoured pad. Something scratched him, distant yet unmistakable. He lifted an arm, groaning as he forced his muscles to obey. His hand struck a flat surface, one much closer than the curved lid of his capsule.

A sudden apprehension sharpened his senses. The stench of ozone and burning circuitry stung his nostrils; broken gla.s.s covered his chest and arms. The texture of the surface above came to his fingertips: metal, not gla.s.s.

Caleb slid his hand to the left, and stopped at an array of recessed, circular control switches. He froze.

The only equipment that size belonged to the artificial hibernation system.

It lay across the short walls of the capsule, all its indicators dark, entombing the life it was programmed to revive. Air had seeped in through the cracks, slowly awakening him over a period of-how long?

Warren!

A vision of his nine-year-old boy gulping for air set his heart pounding. Blood raced through his body like fire. Twisting like a contortionist, he braced his hands and knees above him and pushed.

The monster sc.r.a.ped and snapped in protest. A seam of light crept in, but no more.

He let go, gasping from the effort. The terminal was caught on something. He s.h.i.+fted his position to gain more leverage, clenched his teeth, and tried again.

A heavy snap, and with a riot of grinding sparks and sc.r.a.pes the entire machine slid off the container and crashed to the floor. The lighted ceiling overhead shone like a blessed revelation.

Caleb tumbled over the edge of the capsule. Intravenous catheters snapped away from his wrists and ankles; gla.s.s fell from his chest like icicles. He stood, his breath rasping in and out, his torn jumpsuit soaked with sweat.

A ma.s.s of warped and shattered equipment lay across the room; frayed cables like tentacles sparked against the floor. A red display flashed and buzzed over the entrance: EVAC ALERT - CRASH LANDING.

He stumbled over the debris to the next capsule. Warren lay utterly still, his young face a pallid blur beneath fogged gla.s.s.

Caleb yanked and pulled on the mechanical release until his arms ached. Jammed.

He glanced around for something to use as a club, and spotted Warren's aluminum baseball bat sticking out from under the wreckage. Caleb wrenched it back and forth, cursing at his lingering weakness, stopping once to wipe the sweat from his eyes. At last he pulled the bat free, and he fell backwards, grazing his scalp on the side of Warren's capsule.

He leaped up. A cautious blow left only a blemish on the curved gla.s.s. Time was running out. He planted his feet, raised the bat high, and swung.

Nothing.

”Come on, d.a.m.n you!” A surge of strength fired Caleb's limbs, and he brought the bat down with every ounce of fury he could muster.

The gla.s.s crystallized. He forced himself to slow down, clearing the fragments away until his son's face appeared.

Warren's lips were turning blue.

Caleb set his ear against Warren's chest. The thump of the child's heart grew fainter with every beat, slower and slower. Caleb pinched the b.u.t.ton nose, terror engulfing him as he puffed gentle bursts of air into Warren's lungs. One breath. Two. Three.

The small chest rose and fell on its own; color returned to the skin. Eyes opened, bright and blue as usual, but they wandered aimlessly, as if witnessing a dream.

Caleb shook the limp form, but there was no response. ”Answer me, Warren. Warren!”

Only one hope remained: the medical supply room. Caleb removed the catheters one by one, applying a few seconds of pressure to each wound. Then he lifted Warren out of the capsule and stumbled through the wreckage to the door, arms shaking from the strain.

He activated the switch with an elbow, then halted for a moment in the corridor beyond. It ran more than half the length of the s.h.i.+p along the starboard side, from the bridge far to his left to the cargo hold closer to his right; yet he saw no sign of fire or any other threat.

Another jab at the control silenced the alarm. He turned right and stopped at the next door, the words MEDICAL SUPPLIES stamped bold and blue across its gray, satin finish. Precious seconds ticked by as Caleb's half-fogged brain struggled to recall the security code, Warren's limp body draped across his arms.

His third attempt succeeded, but his hopes fell at the broken equipment scattered across the room. Then he spotted a portable medical scanner lying half buried beneath the rubble. He lowered his son to the floor and hurried over to inspect the device. Though there was no indication of damage, the screen refused to come to life no matter how much he tweaked the controls.

A green light caught his attention: a power terminal on the wall above Warren's head. Caleb leaped over, clicked the scanner in place, and sighed with relief when alphanumeric characters flickered into view.

It took even longer to remember the complex pa.s.sword for Warren's neural implants. Though Caleb had never been a fan of this technological invasion of the mind, they allowed devices like this one to perform a full physiological a.n.a.lysis, exactly what he needed. The scanner took a few minutes to study the current brain map, then compared it to the one stored in the s.h.i.+p's medical database.

Caleb narrowed his eyes at the glowing screen. The words harbored no cruelty or compa.s.sion, only cold facts. Cerebral hypoxia. Lack of oxygen had damaged the frontal lobe, especially the areas that controlled speech and higher cognitive functions.

Warren's mind had been reduced to that of a three-year-old.

Caleb stared at the results, searching for a way to dismiss them. d.a.m.ned thing's been through a crash, his condition might improve in a few hours. On and on the denials paraded.

A b.u.t.ton with the word PROGNOSIS flashed below the results. It mocked him, pulsating like a heartbeat, daring him to face the truth.

He reached a trembling hand toward the screen.

PATIENT: Warren Amaruq Stenger CURRENT AGE: 9.71 yrs.