The Saint

By Norman Goodman

My name is John Walmsley. Aeronautical engineer. First-class captain in the United States Space Forces. An elite astronaut-explorer since the Great Discovery. A role model. A martyr.

A dead man.

Or more precisely, I will be dead in exactly thirty minutes. Stopwatch set.

How do I know? That I’ll die, suffocate, expire, be extinguished like a candle in a vacuum?

Simple. In space, everything is calculated. Survival demands precision. Every movement, every breath, every software command is part of a strict protocol. Because space is not just inhospitable to us — it is actively hostile. It does not want us here. Space wants to erase us. To return us to entropy.

That’s how I know I’m going to die. I planned for it.

No air. No life. And soon, no John Walmsley. Death in space is clinical. There is no drama, no fire, no scream. Just the slow, inevitable suffocation. But in my case, death isn’t an accident. I summoned it.

The com-device crackles to life.

“Hey John, this is Henry. How’s it going, mate? Ready for that big moment, aren’t ya?”

His voice reminds me I’m close now. The corridor lies ahead — an erratic beam of energy that falls on the surface of X18Ze-40, in the Alpha Centauri system, just an ordinary planet, no different from millions of others. The Exalted, our name for the alien force responsible, instructed us that one human — one mind — must enter the beam. Alone.

The Exalted appeared to us first as patterns of pure energy — intelligent, harmonic bursts that pulsed through space like encoded music. The corridor, they said, was their invitation — a gateway to communion, meant only for one.

And that one is me. The Chosen. The specimen.

“God, I’d die to be in your place,” Henry laughs. “You lucky bastard! You’re humanity’s torchbearer. Just hang in there. Be yourself. A fucking saint.”

I answer with a calm they expect from me. “Thanks, Hen. I appreciate it.”

What a joke.

“Farewell to you and the others,” I add. “I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”

My lips twitch. A grin, almost a snarl. The surprise is coming.

“Hey John, ugh, it’s me again,” Henry returns, nervous. “We’re seeing some minor technical... inconsistencies. Can you check your systems?”

Inconsistencies. Cute.

“Sure. What kind of inconsistencies?”

He hesitates. “Something about your oxygen tank. A possible leak. But that shouldn’t even be possible.”

“Give me a second.”

Twenty-four minutes left. I check the screen. Everything’s going according to plan.

I fake urgency. “Oh God. Yeah, Hen, there is a leak! How did that happen?”

Panic blooms in his voice. “Don’t worry. We’re working on it. Sit tight.”

The line goes quiet. Sylvia comes on.

“Walmsley? What the hell is going on?”

“You tell me, Major. Am I in danger?”

Sylvia Ernowitz. Hard-nosed leader of the contact mission. Not easy to fool.

“Your tank is leaking. You’ve got about twenty minutes of oxygen. We don’t know how it happened.”

Her honesty makes her look weak. Vulnerable. I enjoy it.

“So... what’s the backup plan?” I already know the answer.

“There isn’t one. You know that.”

I sigh. “I’m going to die here, aren’t I? Alone.”

A long silence. They’re scrambling.

Nineteen minutes.

Let me tell you why I’m doing this. Why I’m killing myself.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t depressed. But this isn’t about sadness. It’s about control.

Sixteen minutes.

Just before I accepted the mission, I did something... reprehensible. A girl. Drugs. A camera. A trap. I was framed, maybe. Or maybe I walked into it. Either way, I was blackmailed.

The video goes public in thirteen minutes.

So, I made a decision: die a hero. Let the leak look like a tragic accident. Let the Saint go out in glory.

Sometimes I wonder what might’ve happened if I’d confessed instead — taken the fall, faced the storm, and lived. But I was too scared, too proud, and maybe too damned to try.

Ten minutes.

They called me a saint. Because I gave to charity. Because I knelt in pews and folded my hands and smiled for cameras.

But saints don’t run. Saints don’t stage their own martyrdom.

Six minutes.

The com crackles.

“John... I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s okay, Hen. Shit happens.”

“Shit happens?! How can you be so calm?”

“Henry... I’m proud to have served with you.”

He breaks. “You’re a legend, John. The best of us.”

The line hisses.

Sylvia.

“Walmsley... why do I feel like this is one of your stunts?”

“Is that your way of saying you’ll miss me?”

“Fuck you. You had to ruin this for me. We were so close.”

Two minutes, thirty-nine seconds.

“Life is a bitch, Major. The Exalted will have to wait for another specimen.”

“There is no other. Only you.”

Tears sting my eyes. Oxygen is thinning. Lungs contracting. Vision blurring.

A minute and ten.

“I’ve never been a fan of melodramas, Major. I enjoyed serving under your command. Sorry, Sylvia. I screwed up.”

“It’s not your fault. Maybe... maybe it’s the will of the Exalted.”

“So be it.”

“I always thought you were an arrogant bastard.”

“Hmm... hold that thought, Major. It’s time.”

I closed my eyes.

Her voice came faint and slow, like a prayer:

“Farewell, John. May the Exalted take you to a better place.”

But there was no reply.

 

About the Author

Norman is the published author of five novels, all written in Serbian language, published in the Serbian market.

The short story "Line 54(4)" became the winner of the annual contest of the "Mirko Petrović" library in Negotin (esat Serbia) in 2022.

Short story, "The right to die" became a winner on annual competition "Miodrag Borisavljević" (Serbia) in 2024.

Short story "Belgrade butcher" was published in US magazine Dark harbor in 2025.

Short story "Samsara – The house of pain" published in Gothic Gazette , pulp cult magazine, "Withered love" edition, in 2025.

Short story "Gospel of Ashes" published in Laughing man house publication — Smitten Land Issue 3, themed "Televangelism horror" in 2025.

A contract was concluded with the publishing house “Baynam Books Press” (UK) for the publication of the novella titled "Indigo".

Website: www.nenadmitrovic.rs