"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.
