The Cympian Chronicles

Stranded

"Anyone? Hello?"

A deafening emptiness reached out to him from the other side of the line. He had spent every moment since the incident dialing random frequencies, over and over, always with the same result. 

Silence.

John knew a few things about space comms... but only human ones. In any case, he was convinced that the whole thing was a weird, vivid dream, and he was just playing along to the whimsical tune of his subconscious.

He pressed the radio button again.

"Anyone out there? This is a distress call".

He took the only thing in his pocket and stared at it. It was a watch, covered in dry blood. It only displayed Earth time zones. Stranded in that big rock that ressembled some kind of moon, knowing what the time was back in Chicago seemed pretty useless. 

In less than 48 hours, he'd been kidnapped by aliens; the aliens had been attacked by other aliens; the spaceship had crashed (epically); and now he was stranded on a random planet. 

Maybe he'd done something to deserve it. After all, he'd spent his whole life studying ancient alien artifacts. What if he'd touched something he wasn't supposed to touch? Like in some bizarre, cosmic butterfly effect? He'd been to the archaeological sites on Mars and Saturn, and, admittedly, he wasn't always as careful as he was supposed to. But he wasn't reckless either... 

The fatigue came and went in waves. It was dark, and soon the moons would disappear behind the peaks. John hung the communicator back in his belt —nothing but a sleek, glorified walkie-talkie— and kept heading north. He'd sleep once he'd gotten off that God-forsaken rock. 

Was the ship supposed to land there? If it was, it didn't make sense for the planet to be empty, right? there had to be something up ahead. A control booth, a communication hub, a landline... Anything. 

 A static sound interrupted the silence. 

He rushed to grab the walkie and held his breath. A jarring, high-pitched sound gave way to another round of plain static.

"Pl... frequency... ".

John jumped in excitement, which turned out to be a terrible idea, because there was something about the gravity in there or the weight of the hermetic suit that made him dizzy. He quickly put the device over his head as high as he could, trying to get a better signal, as if that was going to help.

"Hello? This is a distress call....".

"Please clear. This is a private frequency". 

 John went mute. No, it couldn't be. It couldn't be a recording. 

"Please. Distress call. Emergency. Distress call!"

"Please clear. This is a...".

John threw the walkie to the ground in a fit of rage, and immediately regretted it. He rushed to pick it up; it was covered in white dust, but not broken. A faint signal was audible from the other side. 

"Hello? Distress call! Help!"

John's strained vocal chords strangled his voice into a trembling shriek. 

"Please clear. This is a private frequency".

John tried to control his trembling. He lifted his gaze up to the horizon, clenching his fists inside the gloves. All he could see through the helmet, now slightly foggy, was the plain, inhospitable surface. A pale line of dust separated the dark void above from the ground. John grabbed the thermal sensor from the tool belt and pressed until it beeped. The screen was cracked, but he could tell the number was below zero. The suit provided sufficient isolation against the cold, but he had no way of knowing how much exactly... or for how long. To make things worse, he noticed a scratch in the suit's right arm.