by Jeffrey Ronay
Forty-year-old Tom Riley climbed into his spacesuit and dialed the helmet ring to the external setting.
Angie, the Suit’s reassuring voice, confirmed, “Suit pressure is nominal—internal temperature set to seventy-one degrees.”
A smile flashed on his weathered skin, tiny lines drawn from too much exposure to the radiation that goes with the territory of too little shielding from the sun’s rays.
He felt the Suit warm up. And there it was—that soothing little shiver he had come to expect—like a kid again, sitting by a space heater, dreaming on a cold winter night.
The Suit had been prepped but smelled just a touch like a used towel left in a locker room.
“Was my suit prepped?”
Angie responded calmly, “Suit prepped and sonic-cleaned yesterday at zero-seven-thirty hours by . . . McPhereson, Donald L., Petty Officer First Class.”
“Yeah, well, it stinks in here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Commander. Shall I cancel your rove?”
“Nope. Got work to do.”
***
In 2084, the great poet Alfonse Perez wrote, “I stood on a hill, surrounded by hills.” But the mountains on Titan were more than just hills; they leaped for the stars, their peaks disappearing in the orange atmosphere.
That’s what Tom Riley thought as he checked his air gauge and headed out across Harper’s Crater in the rover.
He followed the cactus-ice outcrops that decorated the crater floor—misplaced desert saguaro in a landscape frozen at minus two-hundred-eighteen degrees.
Suddenly, a soothing female voice popped into his helmet:
“Warning, suit heater malfunction. Please seek immediate shelter.”
The pain was immediate—it shot through him like ice in his veins. For a few seconds, there was a taste in his mouth of cold metal. And flashing in his head was that old Christmas movie where Flick gets his tongue stuck to a frozen flagpole. Then the taste stopped. And he knew he was dying.
He whipped the rover around, knowing he wouldn’t make it. “So this is how it ends,” he said.
Then, just before he passed out, he saw it—a liquid lion,
flowing toward him with ethereal grace. “Too cold for lions,” he murmured—and everything went black.
***
Tom woke up on a cart, squeaking and bumping down a dirt road. His helmet gone, he sat up, shielded his eyes from the light, and blinked at not one, but two suns.
“This isn’t Titan . . . am I dead?” he asked out loud.
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
Walking next to him was something that resembled a caveman. With a toothless scowl, it swung a club at him, aimed at his skull. But Tom rolled—the club smashing an inch from his head, splintering the cart.
He jumped off, ran past something that could double as a horse with fangs, and sprinted down the road.
Now, sprint is a joyous word. But Tom felt more like a kid in a potato-sack race, because spacesuits and grav boots weren’t made for running. So, more aptly, he teetered down the road like a toddler with a full diaper in need of a change.
In any case, this upset Caveman to no end. He let out a roar of displeasure.
Something grabbed Tom around the ankles, and he looked down, tangled in what he thought was a Spanish Bolas.
He fell hard, face-first, and broke the fall with a ground slap from his parachute training. As he rolled, he reached into his suit pocket, pulled out his stunner, and fired.
Caveman crumbled and ruined his loincloth.
Tom undid the Bolas.
He stood up, took a deep breath, and looked around—at the dirt road and fields of what looked like wheat—as far as he could see.
He clicked a COM button on his wrist. No joy.
“Where in the hell am I, and where’s my helmet?” was all he could muster.
Behind him, something beeped. Steady. Rhythmic like a clock. He drew a sharp breath, the world spun, and he collapsed.
***
Something tapped his cheek.
“Commander. Commander Riley, wake up, sir,” a woman’s voice chanted.
He squinted. Tried to blink, but his eyes were glued shut. His right ear ached as if something had bitten it. He reached for it, touched a bandage, and grunted from the pain.
He managed to get one eye open, and he saw her.
Angel Face, he thought.
Blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile that would fetch a man from an all-in poker game.
“You’re not the caveman,” he said.
“Excuse me, Commander?” said Angel Face.
He forced open the other eye. Looked around.
“Where am I?”
“Infirmary, sir,” Angel Face said with a smile.
“I made it back?”
“You never left. The outer door opened, and your suit depressurized in the airlock. I’ve got a souvenir for you.”
She handed him a pea-sized chunk of rock.
“Micro meteor. Cracked your helmet. Just missed your right ear.”
He stared at it in his palm. Nudged it over.
“Wonder where you came from?” he said.
An orderly entered the room wearing the stripes of a Spaceman First Class and pushing a cart. It was Caveman, cleaned up a bit.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant, I’ve got his meds.”
Caveman handed Angel Face a med cup with two yellow pills in it.
“Good to have you back with us, Commander,” said Caveman. He flashed a wide grin, and when he did, he exposed the gap of his missing front tooth.
“You don’t own a club, do you?”
“Commander?”
“How ’bout a horse with extremely long, pointy fangs?”
“Sir?”
“Never mind.”
“Yes, sir. Feel better, Commander.”
Caveman left, pushing his squeaky cart out of the room.
Angel Face moved to the sink and filled a cup. She glided back to his bed, smiled, and handed him the pills and the water. “These will help with the pain and make you sleepy.”
“Not sure I want to sleep right now.”
“Doctor’s orders.”
He popped the pills and rinsed them down. Set the cup down. “Keep me company, Lieutenant?”
“Oh, I’ll be here all night, Commander. You push the call button, and I’ll come running.”
“You can walk, if you like.”
“It’s a date.” Angel Face flashed a smile, turned, and headed out.
Somewhere, a liquid lion roared, and a caveman marveled at the gleam of a helmet not of his world.