Saint Pytor

Check the gauges. No change. Accumulators at 98%, panels at full efficiency. Air within the limits he has set, thanks to the makeshift algae farm in Hab Pod B. It tastes like shit, an experiment run well beyond what it was supposed to, but it keeps him breathing and staves off the worst of the hunger pangs. Check the food stocks. About another 16 months worth, at his current rate of consumption. Maybe two years, depending how well the rats breed.
Shrug. Space is a risk. Everyone knows that. A soft chime. Accumulators at 99%. Swim to the window of this Pod, Sci 1, and look out. Over Eastern North America, this time, the slow orbit putting him over every part of the planet at some time or other. Flick on the radio and crank the power level to max. Civilian equipment isn't as good for receiving as the NASA rigs, but they no longer exist. Antenna's, long since refocused on Earth, listen for any whisper of news. Grab the mic, and get ready, the patter smooth in his mind.

"This is Cosmonaut Pytor Alexandrovich, aboard the ISS, calling the Eastern USA. You have chem clouds approaching from the North East, with an estimated 4 hour window of safety. Get under cover. The Algonquin region is still reading as totally safe by all sensors, so keep those groups heading there. Map references as before. This advisory will be repeated every ten minutes until I lose power again. Come back and give me some chat, folks. Now here is the news."

* * *

6 months earlier.

No one will ever know how it started. Maybe someone decided to take a chance that the other powers were not serious. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe a computer glitch. Who knows. It all happened so fast. Within 25 minutes, the planet was covered in ICBM tracks. The various satellite defense nets tried valiantly, before falling prey to hunter killer sats themselves. Automated response systems, working on the use it or lose it philosophy, flushed the rest of the launchers on secondary, tertiary and quaternary targets, without bothering to ask their ostensible masters for permission. Large expanses of the world simply ceased to exist in a boil of hellfire, radiation and neutrons.
The war was over in two hours. So was the world we knew.
For the three riding safely in orbit, 500 miles above it all, it was a lingering death sentence. As one, they pulled away from the view port.
Allan spoke first. "We have the escape modules. We can still return home."
Chloe nodded. "Better than slowly suffocating and starving up here. Pytor? Commander?"
He said nothing. Visions of a world burning filled his mind.

"Commander!" With a shake, he dismisses the thoughts. "You two go. I will stay as long as possible, and try to contact the survivors. Steer them towards safe zones and out of trouble. There are still some comsats in orbit, and I have the radio. Let us find you a safe LZ. I'll join you when I can."
Not a request. An order. They hesitated for a moment, then agreed. Chloe fumbled in her coverall for a second, then extended her hand, holding a flash drive.
"The access and control codes for every US and NATO satellite in orbit. You'll need them. We'll get your control station set up, then we will leave."

* * *

Brief flash of a smile. Been alone a long time now, but not lonely. No despair since the discovery two months ago that his lander was trashed by a micrometeorite. He is up here for good. At least he no longer needs to waste power on the centrifuge, meaning he has more power for the radios and the computers.

"Got a message just come in from a group on Highway 401, warning of treacherous road conditions and bad rad levels near Belleville. Groups are advised to avoid the area and head North earlier." Check the monitor. Next bit of news. "The Algonquin co-op asks that groups make sure to bring as much fuel as possible, and both nails and screws are in drastically short supply. Good news for the Co-op - a group is heading your way with 50 rolls of the industrial plastic that you wanted for the greenhouses. The group also has a doctor with them, so you are starting to look good. Moving on to New York state, there are reports of gang activity near Albany. All groups should avoid the area. Other upstate news ..."

He carries on giving encouragement, spreading news and requests, sending information, until the warning lamp flickers. "Well, folks, that is all for now. I should be overhead again with a full charge in three days or so. News, questions and requests, send in on 405 kilocycles, to the NOAA3 satellite, which rises at 17:50 your time, directly due East. Access code to deposit information is #73."
Click off the radio in the dimness of the emergency lights. By the time he is over the West coast, he should have about 3/4 charge. Enough to pass on information there, briefly, at least. There are not as many survivors there, thanks to the bombs and the earthquakes. The temptation to hook into the Hubble and check up on some of the settlements is immense, but he resists. Time enough to do that while he makes his slow way across the Pacific. It is time to sleep. Time to dream of a world in flames. Again.

* * *

22 years old. Straight out of university, yet the knifelike Siberian wind has no respect for degrees. As he drops from the truck, it hits him, ripping the breath from his body like a physical blow. Stagger, half blinded by icy tears, to the bunker. The access to his undergound home for the next two years. Just him, two hundred other men, and several thousand ICBMs.
He never sees them. Just their brains, in diagram form, on his computer screen. It is a challenge. Making a small, fairly stupid hardware package as flexible as it can be. Giving it as much decision making ability as possible, then pack more in somehow. After a year of 16 hour days, he is heading up his own department, recoding the missiles to be virtually autonomous. The fact that each one holds the fire of hell in it's shiny skin never makes it to the surface of his mind.

New orders. Baikonur, for training. His commanders are pleased with him. There is a place on the ISS he can go for. Going into space? The dream of every boy, and he gets to live it. If he is good enough. He is going to make damned sure he is.

He does. Life is good. Cosmonauts are still heros in the Soviet Union. Until he watches the products of his mind and skill set the world on fire. The flames never end.

* * *

He wakes with a start, the low growling in his stomach bothering him briefly. What day is it? Where is he? Check the display. He has been up here for three years now, since the world died. Living on algae alone for the past two months, trying desperately to balance oxygen production with a food supply of some sort or other. It has been a cold and hungry time that can only lead to one outcome.
Those Westerners, they never realised the immense power of the computers they made. What you can actually do with them if you understand how to. If you are willing to go beyond the self imposed limits that their beliefs force on them. Float almost drunkenly to the control chair. For the first time, strap in. CO2 levels too high, and the scrubbers are long since dead, makes it hard to concentrate.
Enter a command, with the ease of long practice. A flicker of images across the screen, as different communities are displayed. All growing. All healthy. In the background he hears the whisper of radio communication. People asking questions, getting answers. Rebuilding civilisation one step at a time.
Slowly, he fumbles a phial and syringe out of the arm pocket of his tattered jumpsuit. Carefully, concentrating hard, he fills the syringe. The phial goes back into his pocket. Don't want something drifting around to cause problems. He tapes the syringe to his fingers, to make sure it doesn't come loose.
Pick up the mic one last time. Over the Pacific, but it matters not. The satnet will run for the next hundred or so years.

"This is Pytor Alexandrovich, aboard the ISS. I am setting the system to automatic. May God bless you all, and forgive me for what I have done." Enter a command on the keyboard, then press down hard on the plunger.

* * *

Algonquin co-op, sunset, year 6 post apocalypse.

"Look up, children. See the bright evening star to the East? That is Saint Pytor, keeping watch on us and making sure we are worthy of him. He helped create the holocaust, then gave his life to save us from it. Remember him always, and keep his memory holy."

Nerves

He lives in the shadows of his mind. Flickering phantasms brought to life by his smallest thought. Fragments of memory shoot past like comets, trailing glory in their wake. He navigates effortlessly through the void, the unused parts of himself, and touches down where he will. There are none to gainsay him here.

Yet, like every universe, there are laws. A center. A dark, forbidding place, which draws him in time and time again, despite his best efforts to stay in the light. It always starts the same way. A snatch of a tune that he simply has to follow. One time when his will matters not. And the tune spreads its strands everywhere, like a patient spider laying in wait.

He is currently in a summers day. June 21, 2009, if he is not mistaken. Walking through the park, enjoying the sun's heat on his shoulders and the smell of new mown grass in the air. Children playing, couples lazing. Just another day in paradise. Head towards the icecream cart. Really fancy a cone - coffee and chocolate, today. It just fits with the perfect day.

A snatch of song. He tenses, then relaxes. It is OK, it is not the song. Just somebody's boombox playing over by the trees. Buy the icecream and walk on. All is right with the world. Everything is perfect. In the distance, he sees her walking towards him. Speeds up slightly, as does she. They will meet by the big Chestnut tree. Their tree.

Her smile is like the sun after the rain. He drops the remains of his icecream and sprints the last 30 feet to her. Picks her up effortlessly and spins her, while kissing her like he'll never stop. All is right with the world, and his joy overflows. A beat. Then that never to be sufficiently damned bassline starts. The one that tears him away once again, drawing him towards the dark vortex at the core of his mind.

That night. May 17th, 2022. Hell night.

Sure, in his line there are always risks. It goes with the job, as the saying goes. Thousands of very smart people work very hard indeed to minimise them. But they can't be totally eliminated. Accidents happen in a hostile universe.

Glance across the control cabin. She looks strange without most of her hair. Her crowning glory, he used to call it, so long she could, and frequently did, sit on it. To her usual disgust and his laughter. But fanned out across the pillow, it was like a magnet. Totally attractive. Totally irresistable. Gone now, thanks to the mission requirements. Oddly enough, the sacrifice of her hair had only bonded them deeper. Give her a half humorous salute and descend one level to the garden ring. He is the farmer this shift. Pick up an air mask and head through the airlock. The CO2 levels are kept high here, to increase oxygen production. Microfibre filters allow the oxgen out to the rest of the craft, while keeping the CO2 in the farm. Monitors overhead, showing the various parts of the Aries. A click and his favorite song start to play as he checks the nutrient levels of the hydroponics.

Will the world end with a bang, or a whimper. Neither. His world ended with a ping. Not a normal noise. He glances around wildly for a second, as a gentle wind start to blow amongst the plants, the subsides as the ventilator grills slam shut with a slam more felt than heard. He looks up to the monitors.

She is there on screen. What is left of her, anyway. Explosive decompression does not leave a good looking corpse. Throw up, and look away. The others, also dead. Floating shadows in the emergency lights. Just him left. Trapped in the farm ring with no suit. No way to get out. The computers will tuck us safely into Mars orbit in 100 days. He has maybe 10 days worth of food and water here.

Bolted down on every deck is a long coffin. A cryochamber. Still experimental, but included, despite the weight, as a last ditch attempt at saving lives in an ultimate emergency. He gives a wry grin. This probably counts as one.

Open it and settle in. Read the instructions carefully, three times. Not hard to do, they simply say "Lay down and hit the red button." He does so. As the lid swings shut, he sees her eyes in the monitor. The blood seepage makes it look like she is crying. Then a hiss of liquid helium from the reactor, and he starts to dream.

* * *

"Base, this is Aries 2, copy? We have successfully docked with Aries 1. We have 5 confirmed dead. One in cryonic suspension, presumed living."

The captain wearily wipes his hand over his face. It was not good.

"Cap? That guy in the freezer is still alive?"

"Yeah, Alvarez, he is still alive."

"Why does he look like he is screaming?"

Spirals

It is lonely here now.
I only really use three rooms anymore, and the bed is just too big. I miss him terribly. His warmth. His scent. Even his farts after eating cabbage.
His chair by the fire is just as he left it, with the creases in the throw cover from him sitting there and the worn patches on the arms where he'd rest his elbow while smoking. Sometimes, very briefly, I will sit there and pretend everything is OK again. Just for a little bit. His VC hangs above the chair like a talisman, reminding me that he did what he had to do. Small comfort, but better than none.

I remember when we met, as if it was yesterday. Momma was having one of her bad days, and was confined to bed. Which meant I could not go to school yet again. 16 years old, and unlikely to get my diploma. I am not stupid at all, just a lack of schooling. It was just me and her, as Daddy had left the farm and gone off to war years ago. We got one letter from him when he arrived in France, then a week later a telegram from the War Office. The sort of telegram that begins "We regret to inform you ...". She needed me. My needs did not matter. Such was the time and the expectation.
The quiet knock on the door was almost lost beneath the squish of the sheets as I ran them through the mangle. When your Momma has "accidents" most nights, you get pretty good at doing laundry fast, before it dries to an uncleanable, revolting mess.
The knock, repeated. Thinking it was the egg man, as it was his day to collect, I simply shouted for whoever it was to come in. The back door opens straight into the kitchen anyway.
The door opens and there is a soft thump as the person collapses across the threshold. A young man, horribly battered and burned in the tattered remains of his uniform. Almost unconscious. I rushed forwards and dropped to my knees beside him to check him. His pulse is slow, but steady. Blood loss, and a few broken bones, but it seems like nothing serious. They make sure we girls know first aid, it is all part of the War effort. Being able to look after our pilots if they crash. When they crash. It happens to all of them, according to my cousin. The planes they fly are not much more than fabric and string, held together by good wishes and faith.

He is much bigger than me. I cannot carry him upstairs, so drag him though to the sitting room and lay him on the sofa, my back burning like fire. He moans something I cannot understand, though I hear the words well enough. Dry and raspy voice, like he has been without water for weeks. Carefully squeeze some water into his mouth and watch him swallow. As I tend his injuries, he says the first clear words I hear:

"Thank ye, lass."

Then he passes out. Problem time. I am no fainting maiden, after all this is 1916, but it isn't right for me to take off what is left of his clothes. Yet he is still bleeding badly. Even if I send for him now, the doctor won't be here for hours. Our little village is not that important. Momma is asleep. Slow, Sophie, what did Daddy always say?

"Do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done. Worry about the morality of it later."

I get the large shears from the sewing box and cut off his clothes. As I stitch his wounds with boiled thread, I keep glancing at his face. He can't be much older than me. No more than 18 or 19 years old. Something stirs deep within me. Something primeval. Intensely protective. And a feeling I have never felt before, talking about the boys in chapel with my best friend.
Finish cleaning him up, the scraps of uniform go onto the fire. Blood makes them smoke a bit, but we have a good chimney. The smell doesn't spread though the house, and soon they are ash. Odd fabric, it didn't really feel like wool. Well, not my problem.
Over the next week he had a bad fever. Momma was the same as ever and never came downstairs, so my soldier belonged to me. Oh, yes, I was madly in love. I can admit that now. He even said my name in his fever dreams.

Sophie.

* * *

What the hell? Where am I? Pain all over my body, as if I have been beaten by a giant. The gentle pull of stitches as I try to move and shift the intolerable weight of the single sheet off my chest. Can't breathe.

"Rest, my soldier." The voice low, musical, with a bubbling good humor hiding under the concern. Familiar. Comforting.

Wait! Who am I? Start to panic, then gratefully dive back into unconsciousness. And dream.

"Smith, take these orders forward and delivery them to Captain Rikard personally, as fast as possible." Pick up the packet, salute and leave. A quick check of the map shows me where Rikard's company is supposed to be - twenty miles forward of the command post, two miles behind the front lines and bivvied in a farm outside some nameless shell of a town. Couldn't pronounce it if I knew the name anyway, French is a mystery to me. Kick my motorbike into life and jounce through the potholes and frozen ruts onto the road. The dim, shielded headlamp is almost useless against the dark, but that is immaterial. I have very good night vision and these dispatches are to get there as fast as possible. Settle into the saddle and open the throttle wide, the regular throb of the engine radiating a comforting warmth against my thighs, countering the icy wind.
It isn't bad, being a dispatch rider for HQ. Decent enough posting for a man right on the age limit for active service. At least I am not slogging towards Germany through mud and bullets with the other Tommies. And, warming me more than the engine, are the papers in my breast pocket.

Three weeks leave, starting as soon as I return from this ride. I am going home again. Back to our little hill farm. Back to Sophie. My love.

A loud droning above the noise of the engine as a plane flashes past overhead, it's silhouette pitch black against the moonlit sky, the squared off wings slicing through the air like razors.

Squared off wings? Oh, fuck, it's a Jerry! Too late to evade, crouch and open the throttle wide, the roar of my engine and the windrush concealing the whistle of the falling bombs. I am not going to die! I am going home to my Sophie!

The world goes white as the bombs hit.

No! Fuck this! I AM GOING HOME!

Agonising blackness.

* * *

As he got better, we found that my soldier couldn't remember much of his past at all. Just snatches here and there that didn't make any sense at all, of a huge war covering most of the world. Nonsense machines and occurrences that were obviously fever dreams. Nothing of his family, his friends, not even his name. We decided his name was Smith. First name William, as it is a name we both liked. The times just sitting and talking after the farm work was done were precious indeed. He helped as he could and steadily got stronger. Yet as he got better, Momma got worse. She died November first, 1916.

William was a pillar of strength. By that time he was pretty much mobile again, and active around the farm. He dealt with the Doctor and the Priest, with an assurance well beyond his years. And when Father O'Callahan suggested that him living here with me might lead to gossip, if not outright immorality, he simply turned to me and proposed, in front of witnesses. We were married two days after Momma's funeral, with the entire village turning out for the occasion. Even the old cats, who love to gossip and pick faults, were happy for us. There was some chat about the man from nowhere, but his scars, earned in the Great War, silenced most of that.

We had a good life. Farming is hardscrabble work, especially in the hills, but somehow William made it pay. It was like he knew from year to year what to plant and what to raise. When to increase the flock size, and when to sell them off. The other farmers, who started by laughing at his ideas, started to copy him. Or they went under, and we bought their land and flocks. We had a good balance in the bank, and were of good standing in the village. In '25, when we had our daughter, also called Sophie after both me and Momma, our happiness and our family was complete.

Even the Great Depression didn't hurt us. In September, 1929, William came home with a huge bag of gold sovereigns, our entire life savings, and said

"Put these somewhere safe, lass. We'll be needing them soonish." He was right. We did need them. And prospered while others did not. He jokingly referred to his luck, but something bothered me. I remember his fever dreams, the disjointed sentences he would speak during the time I watched him while he was healing. He saw all of this before it happened. Somehow.

His first ever words to me bother me now he is gone. I sit here, in my lonely room, with that empty chair in front of me, and try to puzzle out their meaning.

* * *

The blackness fades to leave me facing a very familiar door. Still immense pain, but I can move.

I knock. And hear a familiar and beloved voice call "Come on in."

As I collapse across the threshold, I see a young girl running towards me.

My mind expands. As my beloved drags me into the sitting room and hoists me onto the sofa, my mind fixes on the thought. How many times has this happened? A thousand times? A million?

"Oh, god, not again. Jut let it end."