Celagrades: An Original Short Story

Trace was lost, drowned mercilessly by his own senses. Red and and white lights flashed and clashed with the swirling blur of amethyst outside his cockpit, while apocalyptic chirps and whirrs struck his eardrums like lightning. Soreness and nausea overwhelmed the rest of the poor privateer as though it were the moons of Hermes all over again.

“AUTO-STABILIZE, AUTO-STABILIZE,” the computer’s voice announced, over and over. On cue, the cyclonic sensation began to subside, and Trace found himself the strength to think, then to act. One hand on the joystick, another on the throttle, and both feet on the yaw pedals gave him back control of his vessel’s destiny, and with instincts and training in tandem, the view outside began to resemble space once more.

Once he had reached a full, stable stop, Trace addressed the remaining alerts, flicking whatever switches and pressing whatever buttons were necessary to confirm his ship would stay in one piece (or not deafen him at the very least). It wasn’t until he read the blank value for hull integrity and the bright words, “AUTO-EJECT ACTIVATED” that he realized that there was no ship—just a cockpit with its humble pair of emergency thrusters.

Trace leaned back in his seat with his hands squeezing his face. The client warned him about the Celagrades. Enormous size, titanium-like exoskeletons that practically cloaked them on scanners, eyeless faces only a mother could love—so long as Trace kept his eyes open and forward, he felt like he wouldn’t need to worry about such hapless hazards floating slowly through space. Alas, when hurdling at meteoric speeds through the void, those ugly-cute do-nothing drifters seemed to pose far more of a threat, as evidenced by the shattered, scattered flotsam of his ship that had already begun to mingle with the bizarre liquids of the Stream.

The thrusters guaranteed he wouldn’t just be a rock in space, but they lacked the juice to bring him to his destination. The best Trace could do was was activate the distress signal and wait for a rescue. With hope, they could bring a ship that could salvage any of the astro-probes that weren’t totaled in the collision. At least then, he’d have a little dignity, and maybe a fraction of the pay, once all was said and done.

It was truly ironic. After years as a born-aboard boy bouncing between cargo cruisers, it was the stories of the Lumini Stream and the captains who would brave it that inspired Trace to act on those spacefaring dreams of his. Now, even as he stood in awe of its honey-like strands of unidentified liquid, the contents of which his cargo would have labored to unravel the mystery behind, he found himself wanting to be literally anywhere else.

But there was nothing Trace could do but ponder what would need to happen next to get back on his feet—until the arrival of another Celagrade whizzing by reminded him of how well things turned out the last time he allowed to let his thoughts wander.

Here was to hoping his rescue wasn’t planning on taking their time.