A shimmering distortion appears as various exotic particles and antiparticles appear out of nowhere and just as quickly annihilate themselves. A small dark shape is just visible against it, and it remains, now only noticeable as it occults the stars after the distortion dies away.
It tumbles on, going nowhere significant. After some time a faint glow can occasionally be seen from the object, vanishing as its spinning turns a different face.
Its presence is detectable elsewhere in the electromagnetic spectrum, a faint radio voice crying softly into the void.
For days it moves where fate had pointed it, the odd disappearing star, the glow not much brighter than a distant nebula and the radio whisper marking its presence. Then three new lights, all close together, gradually resolve themselves from the starry background. They draw closer to the falling vessel. It is apparently oblivious to their presence.
Two of the lights manoeuvre to take up station on either side of the ship. Bright beams appear from their pointed noses, shining on the stricken Constrictor, and partially illuminating each other. The third new craft descends out of the darkness, the Iguanas' torches showing up the vivid star painted on its hull and the flashes of the Galactic Navy's Search and Rescue insignia.
The rescue ship, a Moray Starboat, slowly closes with the tumbling Constrictor. Four small cylinders drop out of the Moray's torpedo tubes. Jet flashes appear from the cylinders as they shoot off around the spinning craft, until they suddenly dart in and latch themselves to it. Their jets fire more brightly as they slowly cancel out the Constrictor's spin.
The Moray locates the door to the dead vessel and extends a docking tube from its own main hatch. With an airtight link established people move down the tube and start working on the door.
Huddled in the heart of the ship, wrapped in every blanket they could find, the crew were ignorant of the arrival of the rescue mission. Wedged in various corners of the room against the tumbling, the first they knew of it was when the bulkheads started to press less uncomfortably against them. When the spin was damped out they were floating free in the Constrictor's mess room, staring at each other in disbelief.
The lights were dim, life support was operating at minimal level, they were freezing cold and condensation covered every surface and soaked into everyone's clothes. Yet for the first time in days there was the unbelievable prospect of not suffering in hopeless misery until they finally froze, or starved, or asphyxiated.
Arrachachak pushed himself against a wall, sending himself drifting across the room. He caught hold of a cupboard handle near the door and jammed his other hand against the opening panel. The light flickered off briefly as the ship's minimal power resources were used to open the door.
It slowly slid aside to reveal a spacesuited figure carrying a flashlight in one hand. The figure waved it through the door, and taking into account the unsuited appearance of those on board unlatched its helmet.
"Atmosphere OK," the revealed man reported into an intercom on his suit. "It's bloody cold, though." There was a mechanical grinding from somewhere to his left and a brief rush of warmer air. Light poured through from the same direction.
"It's your lucky day, sure enough," he called out to those on board. "Let's get you off this wreck."
The doctors had quickly ascertained that all six were in reasonable physical condition, and whilst they were relaxing with their first hot meal in days Kirrik and Marchero were met with another surprise.
Into the room strode a man in his forties, with a Naval uniform and familiar features.
"Ahcal?" Kirrik started in surprise, jumping up to greet his colleague.
"You sound surprised? What do you think it's like for us, finding you out here? And with this lot?" His eyes passed slowly around the others, as if trying to read them. "You're still dragging her around, I see," he noted, looking at Marchero.
"Worse... No, I won't say that. Whatever her opinions, she's done us a service, and we should be grateful."
"I'm glad," Jalsa commented. "Anyway, we'll go through the full debriefing later, but I think it's best that we know where you've been as soon as possible."
"Around the vicinity of Sol," Marchero told him smugly.
"Yes, thankyou," Jalsa replied sarcastically. "Kirrik?"
"She's right. You'll have an interesting time reviewing the logs from that Constrictor, if the computer is still working, anyway."
Jalsa eyed Kirrik suspiciously. "You're serious, aren't you?" he said after a while.
"Of course."
"That might explain why you were away for four months instead of three weeks," Jalsa noted drily.
"What four months?" exclaimed Silsi.
"That's what it's been since Kirrik and Marchero were last seen," Jalsa pointed out.