By Tom Koperwas
The Epsilon had been damaged by exotic matter while traversing the Cargyle Wormhole to the frontier world of Big Hope—so much so that the pilot, historian Theodore Jawlensky, was still engaged in last-minute emergency repairs when the skiff entered the planet’s outer atmosphere. Two thousand feet above the surface, the little spacecraft was in trouble, trailing flames and black smoke. Coming down fast, Jawlensky managed to level the craft enough to make a pancake landing in a large depression filled with sand. Frantically jumping out of the burning ship, clutching his emergency survival kit, he ran across the soft, shifting surface to a safe distance, where he stopped to watch the tall plume of smoke rising from the boat that had transported him so far for so long.
The young man cast his intelligent eyes about, fixing them on a small knoll at the far end of the depression. Straightening his long black cloak, he began to stride toward it, reflecting on how far he’d ventured off the main star routes of The Beaten Trek, those well-traveled space lanes used for commerce and colonial development. Only a few meager reports existed of the daring colonists who’d gone down the Cargyle Wormhole all those years ago to Big Hope, the legendary world of plenty. Jawlensky had taken the journey to learn of their fate and record the facts for posterity.
But what had become of the lush paradisiacal planet he’d read about, which had promised so much prosperity and security? All about him, the land was parched and arid, with no evidence of human habitation.
When he arrived at the knoll, he ascended it until he reached the top. Down below, in the lowland, stood a small town, its streets and roofs shimmering in the desert heat. Quiet and still, it looked like an insubstantial dream. Descending the knoll, he walked toward it. As he approached the town, he glimpsed people walking slowly in the streets. He called out to them, but no one answered. As he stepped onto the main street, he heard what sounded like the muffled sounds of footsteps and people. But the young woman he first approached turned and walked quickly away, to his bemusement. Standing close to a building, he looked up, expecting to see curious children peeking out of its blank windows at the stranger below; but there were no small inquisitive faces to be seen. Several solitary figures appeared on the streets, but remained out of hailing distance. When he moved toward them, they drifted away silently, entering the buildings like expressionless mannequins.
Jawlensky stood still in the hot glow of the sun and watched the dusty haze of the desert in the streets. The town appeared to be in the desert, but not part of it. Near yet distant, aloof and alien, it was an unwelcome refuge for strangers.
Then he saw the cat. A small cat that wasn’t afraid of him. Bending down to pet it, his hand passed through the animal’s fur and flesh as if it were a wraith. Standing up straight, eyes wide, he looked about at the buildings fading in the air. A moment later, the town was gone.
It had been real, for he’d seen it and heard it. But now all he could do was stare with disbelief at the hot sand where it had stood.
A bright flash of light drew his attention to the top of a nearby pile of rocks. Curious, the historian walked toward the shimmering source. Soon he saw the people who had been signaling him, holding pieces of broken glass in their hands—a dozen dirty men sitting high atop the jumbled rocks, dressed in filthy, tattered rags, looking like desperate and angry castaways stranded in a bitter land.
“You’re from the burning ship,” barked a short man with a sharp voice. “You disrupted the image from Ephesius.”
“Ephesius is one of Big Hope’s moons, isn’t it?” replied Jawlensky. “But the town looked more like a living thing than a mere image.”
“How very observant of you, sir,” interjected an older man sitting close by. “My name is Leonard Kaufmann, political theorist; and the man sitting next to you is Bill Inglis, an anarchist. The town you saw, like all the others scattered in the lowlands, are not Fata Morganas, as they were once called on Earth. Unlike the reflection of a mirage, they’re real-time projections of living towns on the moons. Big Hope has ten of the latter, and each moon is inhabited by the original colonists. They fled there years ago when the climate here went bad, spreading destructive deserts everywhere. The image you saw from Ephesius faded when you touched it. But don’t worry, it’ll reappear elsewhere soon. They always do. Meanwhile, there are other towns from other moons to watch.”
“I see,” said Jawlensky, slowly. “So the colonists went to the moons to escape the environmental catastrophe. That means…”
“They marooned us here,” Inglis interrupted angrily. “We’re their criminals and exiles. There are plenty more of us scattered elsewhere on the planet.”
Kaufmann handed a battered cup brimming with water to the historian. Sipping the water, Jawlensky eyed the crude rock shelter overhanging the small freshwater spring. A few simple utensils lay scattered about the pool. There were no weapons, tools, or electronics to be seen. The outcasts evidently spent their days wandering from chimera to chimera, coveting the happy and comfortable lives of their compatriots… lives they could never have and enjoy. Why did the colonists project the images of their towns onto the planet? Were they meant to be a form of heightened punishment, a kind of retribution? How much had these people tormented and endangered the colonists?
“Thank you for the water,” said the historian. “My name is Jawlensky. In brief, I’m a historian from The Beaten Trek searching for the colonists of Big Hope.”
“Well, you’ll never see them now, Mr. Historian!” laughed the anarchist. “You’re imprisoned down here with us!”
Jawlensky fell silent, and looked up at the darkening sky filled with numerous moons.
Inglis couldn’t be more wrong, he thought to himself, rubbing the miniature communicator embedded under the skin of his right ear. Little do any of them know that I sent an emergency signal from the Epsilon before it entered the atmosphere. The colonists will inform me of the time and place of my rescue when they’re ready. I’ll go to their moons and record the incredible history of the colonists who came to Big Hope and succeeded against all odds.
The men of the rocks would remain here forever, sweltering in the sun, pining for those worlds of pleasure far beyond their reach.
* * *
Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His story Vacation won a Freedom Fiction Journal Top Crime Editor’s Choice Award 2024. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in: Anotherealm; Jakob’s Horror Box; Literally Stories; The Literary Hatchet; Literary Veganism; Bombfire; Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; The Sirens Call; Yellow Mama Webzine; 96th of October; Underside Stories; Danse Macabre; A Thin Slice Of Anxiety; Androids and Dragons; Chewers & Masticadores Canada; The Piker Press; Stupefying Stories Showcase; Metastellar; etc.,