They've got one out!

"They've got one out!" The shout rang out through the walkways, habitats and flyers of the planets, triggering celebrations in every corner of the Federation. People hugged their neighbours, shed a tear.

Two hundred and twenty nailbiting days were finally drawing to a close. When the exploration vessel had veered off course on a heading for the outer rim and the void beyond, a chase ship had been scrambled and sent out after it, knowing well that this was their only chance to escape gruesome death. Eventually travelling at near light-speed, the rescue attempt had used every gravity assist the experts could find, in addition to their powerful anti-matter engines, to reach the stricken vessel as quickly as possible.

Daily tri-vids had kept the populations of the Federation updated on both the stricken crew and the rescue vessel. Psychs had maintained a running commentary - peppered with sage advice - on the condition of the doomed vessel's crew, while the Senators bickered about the cost of the rescue. Ultimately, however, sense had prevailed and the Federation had done the sensible thing: what was in its power to do.

Across the screens, the tri-vid from the rescue ship briefly showed the runaway, and the slender umbilical cord that connected its crew members to life. Barely visible on the screens, the 10-kilometre long link was a mere thread, the circumference that of a slender spaceman. Then the vid shifted, revealing the second crewman pulling hand over hand towards the end of the tunnel.

Written to commemorate the rescue of the 33 Chilean miners.

The Deadly Race

The wind beat the waves into a frothy frenzy as I gazed out over the bay. The beams thrown out by the twin lighthouses, one at the end of either point, pierced the storm-crazed darkness. From the island, joined to the mainland only by sturdy walkways picking their way through the lashing trees, shone dull glows from shuttered houses, hunkering down to wait out the storm.

Having picked my way down the cliff, I passed through the dark streets of the town, heading towards the channel that cut the island off from the mainland. I sought my boat, last left near the slipway by the big tree.

As I approached, I knew it was hopeless. The channel, usually harbouring a gentle rivulet, was a raging torrent, whipped into a deadly race by the wind. Drawing nearer to the water, I noticed an oar pass by, and then a float-board. With growing horror I looked upstream, catching sight of what I dreaded. Several more float-boards and oars were heading my way, and limbs flailed in the water, heads occasionally breaking the surface. I had to act, and now.

Wading into the water, I caught the next board that came near to me, and then the next oar. Suddenly I sighted a hand moving past just below the surface of the water. I grabbed onto it, and the response was immediate, the relief at being rescued flowing up through my arm. I hauled at the hand and a body followed it, the young man finally finding a grip on the bottom of the channel. He staggered out of the channel and stood to one side of the slipway.

A short while later, all of the black swim-trunk-clad young men who had been caught by the storm were standing behind me, congratulating themselves on their narrow escape. I had ditched my efforts to rescue their equipment in favour of saving their lives.

They spent that evening in the local tavern, warming themselves with beer.