The Clipping of Eros' Wings

by Dominic Raths

Falling from the sky with engines burning, the pilot engaged all safety measures for impact with the watery surface below that encased the entire planetary moon he was orbiting over. Commandeering the ship was easy, falsifying a pilot’s license was easy, escaping Earth undetected was fairly straightforward, and exploring the next galaxy over was a simple case of mathematics and navigation skills he studied in his own time and executed with relative simplicity. Things like that came easy to him. And now, less than three minutes until impact, with a stern and determined gaze he deactivated all electrical systems and blocked in the excess fuel to prevent leakage into the sea below. The last thing he would need would be to explode or be fried on impact, if he were to survive the plummet at all.

Less than a minute until impact. He climbed into one of the emergency pods and detached from the ship in a free fall, engaging the boost function for but a moment to distance himself from the ship as to not be crushed by it or the wake it was destined to make. There was no time to initiate flight. In the rearview monitor he could see the ship, Eros C, swan dive into the tempest like some great metal and silicon bird of prey shot down by a hunter god. The sound was tremendous and rung in his ears, like a thousand dogs howling while a skyscraper imploded. It bobbed in the sea like a child’s bath toy, rocking to and fro in a subtle waltz from a disinterested lover. A moment later he fell skidding to the water and blacked out. He awoke to a cacophony of clicking and beeping and emergency messages of impact. The sensors detected water and inflated the raft system of the pod. Instinctively he clutched his aching head and found his arm was injured- strained but not broken upon closer inspection. Using his non dominant and non-injured hand, he scrolled through the computer data. He was on a planetary moon, one of seven surrounding a rock and metal-based planet four planets from this solar system’s star. The moon he was on had an atmosphere comparable to Earth’s and appeared to be completely covered in water, it’s consistency not unlike the oceans of Earth. The pilot bit his lower lip and furrowed his brow. The computer said he had been drifting for ten hours and the ship had sunk six hours ago severing all contact with the pod. It was able to finish sending out a series of distress signals to all near by stations before it met it’s watery grave. The computer blinked on and off for a moment. The pilot desperately pretended not to notice.

On the escape pod were enough medical and nutrition supplies to last him four weeks. Those four weeks came and went with no messages of help or solace. The pilot had quickening thoughts of solitude and fear. A hatred for his hubris and despise for his fellow man creeped around the corners of his mind like a stalking predator. He tried to keep his mind busy with built in audio and entertainment installed into the computer, but he could not focus. Tears welled in his eyes and trailed down his cheeks, dropping off of his chin into his lap. This is exactly what he wanted, and he hated himself for it. He had no one to blame but himself.

The moon orbited the planet every twenty hours. The temperature outside was often palpable but he dared not go out into it. Some days the sea was calm and others it was choppy and thrashed the pod around like a rag doll. He was unable to find much information on this moon in the pod’s limited database other than it existed and was not home to any known intelligent life. In the vastness of space, we have found that places like this are common and uninteresting compared to others.

As the weeks passed, he grew more and more tempted to explore the sea and leave the womb he found himself trapped in. A day without food after the fourth week he decided to do just that instead of dying in a cell. The green star was rising and the ocean looked all magenta and serene in the daylight. It was a calm and balmy day outside. Just as he opened the pod door though the computer blinked again and detected a landmass not three miles away. He clambered back in to check on it, but it flicked off and on again revealing nothing. Discouraged, he sat at the controls trying to find what it had previously claimed to no avail. With a heavy sigh he went back out into the daylight. Somehow, off in the distance, he felt as though he could make out something. Some sort of flatland, a beach head of sorts. Was it an illusion of his tired mind and hungry stomach? Whatever it was, he decided to use the last of his energy to try and reach it.

The water lapped up against the inflated skirt that encased the pod. He got on all fours and reached into the sea, splashing it around a bit. It was warm to the touch, lifting the craft and lowering it like a mother cradling a newborn. Gazing into it, he saw no activity or forms of life, only his shimmering reflection broken up by the living waves scurrying to and from in an endless search for wholeness. He stood and looked again towards the beach. He breathed in deep and jumped into the sea.

Wiping the wet from his face and treading water, gasping for air, he oriented himself. He was sure he could swim three miles even in his depleted state. Staring out to the beach, he began his journey, arm over arm, stopping every couple of minutes to check his progress. Arm over arm. He gained distance from the pod, it bobbing with it’s door ajar some ways behind him. Arm over arm. He treaded water for a moment, a large swell carrying him away from both the pod and his destination. Again, arm over arm, tread water, arm over arm. He looked up and the beach seemed no closer than before, but the pod seemed ages away. Arm over arm, tread water, swell takes him away, arm over arm, swell. The pod was a speck on the horizon. The land mass remained distant. Arm over-

Something nudged his foot. Instinct kicked in and he flailed and thrashed, turning himself about to try and see what it could have been but saw nothing. He treaded water glaring at the sea this way and that, keeping his legs kicking close to his body. After what felt like an hour of waiting, he continued his trek towards the ever-distant beach. Then something grabbed his ankle and pulled him under. He kicked and kicked. The pull was gentle and gradual. He reached for his leg and scratched at some sort of tentacle. After much struggle he was let go and was able to follow his froth back to the surface. When he broke it, he gasped and cried out in anguish.

The pilot was tired. The salty water masked his frustrated tears. He tried desperately to wipe away and clear his vision and when he was finally able, he cried out again. The beach was missing. His pod was missing. He was in the middle of the sea treading water above some monster, alone and forgotten by his fellow man. There was no salvation nor was there any peace. He breathed in and out, tired legs kicking. He closed his eyes and thought of home, the one he hated so much, the monotony and the pain, the witnessing of people hurting for no reason. He attempted to float on his back and was able to do so. Water occasionally forced its way into his nostrils, and he hacked it up in coughing fits and regained composure. He thought of his long dead parents. He thought of his son. He thought of every dog he’s had who passed away. He thought of every lover. He thought of every morning and evening he could remember. Vaguely, he felt a sense of finality and peace.

When it grabbed his ankle again, he did not struggle. It pulled him gently into the water by both legs. His arms and hair flowed backward. He held his breath and closed his eyes. The water flowed past his skin in warm and cool flows, like fingers caressing his tired body. Slowly he let the air flow out of his aching lungs into a stream of bubbles escaping toward the surface. He opened his eyes and saw the light of the star dimming the deeper they went.

He was set down in a cave underwater with the rest of the lost travelers who found their way onto this rock covered in water in space. Its inhabitants were not unkind, but sympathetic and would surly weep if they could comprehend why so many found their way here to die. They folded the pilot’s arms and dressed him with seaweed. One looked to the other for an explanation. The other looked back in sorrow as if to say, no, this is just the way things are here. This is our fate as much as it is theirs. If I could change that…

-Originally written February of 2020