Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. by Glenn van Dyke, Renee van Dyke Page A

light on his helmet dimmed, then turned off, but he took comfort in knowing that he was near her. In near total darkness, he bumped into a chamber, worked his way around it and continued. Stumbling the last few steps, Steven collapsed atop the chamber that he sensed held Ashlyn inside. Three seconds later, a small beep from her chamber acknowledged his arrival. Relieved, knowing he had nothing more to do, he waited for the chamber to open.
    Each passing second seemed an eternity. His mind was locked within a fog that kept him from giving thought to how he would escape. His heart barely pumped. Each slowing beat drummed in his ears, a distant and unforgiving reminder that his life was ebbing away.
    He straightened, trying to take his weight off the chamber as he heard the clicks of the latch trying to unlock itself. A moment later, the latch recycled and tried again. Something was wrong.
    The dim lights in the ceiling died out, pitching the room into darkness. From deep within the bowels of that darkness, his chest seized, unable to expand. He was out of air. It was with eyes that were losing their clarity that he realized his mistake. A small fleeting twinge of panic flashed before him. His last thoughts were of a small, white, flashing button on the panel beside him.
    His world grew silent. There were no more gasps for air, no more struggling for survival. As death lay claim to him, his connection with Ashlyn left him. He had no thoughts neither of his wife or children, nor of hope or despair—no flashing reminiscences of his prior life. There was simply—nothing.
    “20—19,” announced the computer.
    Even as his heart was near to taking its last beat, to his unhearing ears, a shrieking alarm from the chamber sounded, echoing throughout the large room.
    “13—12—11.” From some distant, unfathomably faraway place within his subconscious mind, he heard Ashlyn scream. Though he was unable to feel his body and his eyelids were frozen open, her scream was like a final, rallying battle cry. With a gut driven force of will, he gathered the last ounce of his strength and banged his useless stump of a frozen hand on the flashing white button. “0.”

***
     
     
    “Robbie, lower the doc down. The admiral got the door open,” yelled Stratton over the noise. He saw that Cole and Martinez were getting into trouble and he stepped up, offering support. “Hitch, Paris, Tomlinson! The door is open. Get your butts out here and help.” When there was no reply he called again, “Moore, when the doc arrives get him set-up inside.”
    Robertson began to descend. A violent wind shook the transport. Two bolts of lightning struck its topside in quick succession. “It’s like riding a brahma bull.”
    “There’s no way I’m getting into the sling!” said Victor.
    “Hanson, if he doesn’t get into the sling, throw him out the door without it! That’s an order,” said Robbie, yelling over the din of noise to his co-pilot. “I’m not leaving without the team.”
    “You heard the man!” said Hanson, rising from his seat to enforce the words, “Get into the sling or jump. Either way, you’re going.”
    Victor slowly got into the sling, looking like a scared kitten. Hanson latched Victor up and pivoted the sling outside the door.
    Almost instantly, the transport was rocked by a wind shear, causing it to plummet thirty meters. Hanson, had he not been secured by a tether, would have been tossed from the transport. As it was, he barely managed to clamber back inside before the transport bounded left, almost pinning him against the crystalline shroud through which it was descending. The ship’s dampeners were maxed, but they had little effect against the violence of the approaching tornado.
    Seconds later, explosions and flames burst all around them. “That’s as low as I can safely take the transport,” shouted Robbie to Hanson.
    “Sorry, Doc, you’re on your own the rest of the way,” said Hanson as he began to lower