Astronaut's Eyes

I’ve grown tired of seeing my reflection in the glass of my helmet, a stranger with her gaunt eyes and cracked lips staring back at me. At least I won’t have to for much longer. The stale, dry air of so many recycled breaths inside my suit is growing dangerously thin on oxygen.

The last canister of air beeps loudly. Not long left then. My heartbeat quickens with the realization, but I also feel a sense of peace. This ordeal is almost over.

I haven’t broken or allowed myself to cry since that first day when a rogue rock nearly split my hull in half. If I hadn’t been geared up for routine maintenance, I’d be dead. Perhaps it would have been better to have been sucked out into the void instead of floating around in a ship that feels more like a tomb.

No grand adventure is waiting for me beyond the stars. No fame. Only this agonizingly slow death.

I wanted to be the first person to reach a new galaxy, now years of supplies drift lazily past. I reach out as a water packet drifts by, silver and glinting. I part my sore lips as my fingers skim the edge, a knee-jerk gesture of longing. A piece of dried meat, sealed in plastic, floats past. Then another, taunting me. What’s left of the moisture in my mouth huddles together on my tongue and I can almost taste the salted pork. But with the airlock compromised, there’s no way in, no way out. I can’t break the helmet seal—I’d be dead in seconds.

A shadow blocks the meagre light of a nearby star from a porthole and my heart jumps.

For just a moment I dare to hope that someone has come to my rescue before remembering it’s impossible. Even if I’d managed to send an alert before the generator went down, it would take someone nearly a year to reach me from the closest settlement. Not even considering the time it would take a message to reach them in the first place.

Another piece of debris floats by, but it moves too smoothly, gliding fluidly past the glass. Using what little strength I have left, I push off and float to the window, squinting. The darkness shifts and for a second I’m sure I’m delirious. But there, in the dim light, a shape flickers and solidifies.

“You're hallucinating, Elyra,” I whisper hoarsely, voice cracking.

I check my air tank but it hasn't run out. Whatever is out there is as real and alive as I am. I press myself closer and watch as something, some creature, swims soundlessly in the emptiness of space. Terror and awe take turns overwhelming my mind.

Long tendrils unfurl from its body, trailing behind in soft, graceful arcs. Drifting past with ease, its slender body inhaling and exhaling to push itself along, like a jellyfish or squid from Old -Earth. Another one passes, then another— different sizes, iridescently flashing white, silver, and icy blue. Somehow, here in this galaxy, these creatures can survive in a vacuum.

But maybe, then, it isn’t.

My breath holds in my throat as the creatures slow, swirling in place as though aware they have my attention. I take a half-stumble back as the largest one moves ever so much closer, directing the rest. Blocking out starlight, it easily dwarfs what’s left of my ship.

In unison, their movements change. Their pulsing grows exaggerated. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen in my veins, but my fear fades away. Bodies inflating and deflating. They shake, grow still, then begin again. A few tentacles reach out to me, beckoning.

They’re showing me that they’re breathing, I realise.

A crazed thought enters my mind as desperation creeps in. A choice lies in front of me, I can stay here and suffocate inside my helmet, or...

Or I can try to live. I don’t exactly have anything to lose.

My lungs begin to burn as my air tank clicks off, empty. I’m running on fumes now. Pushing off, I glide towards my control room— or it was before the rock tore through it. I bring myself to the jagged edge and gaze out at the dozen creatures floating just outside my ship. They feel sentient. Kind.

I can see them so clearly now, their bodies shimmering, tendrils twirling like soft ribbons, suspended weightlessly. Again, they turn to me, exaggerating their breathing. My head grows heavy, vision fading at the edges as my lungs scream for air.

My fingers shake as they graze the release on my helmet.

It unlocks with a soft click. Chest tightening, I slowly force the air from my lungs. My heartbeat’s deafening as I slide the helmet up and off.

Whatever is out here is thick, denser than water, pressing into my mouth and nose. I gasp and it forces its way in, coating my throat. As panic floods my veins my body thrashes wildly, instinctively resisting the thick, viscous liquid air. My hands claw at my exposed throat, but it doesn’t burn. I feel something wrap around my chest, squeezing and releasing, encouraging me to inhale and exhale. I do, and the substance fills me, pushing deep down into my lungs with each heave until no air remains.

I can breathe. Slowly, and with great effort, but I can. My mind begins to clear.

My eyes snap open as I’m let go, in time to see a tendril pulling away. It stops, hovering within reach.

An invitation. I reach my hand out, but hesitate.

“Wait, please,” I plead, but no sound reaches my ears.

Like them, I try using exaggerated gestures. I point inside my ship, then back to them. I hold out my hands, fingers spread wide.

Wait.

Keeping my eyes on them while stepping backwards, I can only pray they understand me. I devour nearly a week’s worth of water and food, which is hard to do in this viscous substance. Stuffing a rucksack with rations, I head back to the tear in the hull. If I’m going to die in this strange galaxy, I’m at least going to see what else is out here first. See where these creatures want to take me, have my adventure.

I sigh with relief to see they are still there, waiting for me, tendrils dancing in the void. Pushing off my ship, I glide towards their embrace.