I realize my mouth has been hanging open and shut it. The reality of the situation begins to set in. That fucker just left me alone on a space station in the twenty-third century. I look left down the corridor. The lights along the row of closed escape pod doors have all gone dark. The station knows there are no more departures today. I’m going to die up here, you bastard.
Anger rises inside me. I stare out the window at the vacant space where my escape pod ought to be. I’m sorry? They made you? You have got to be kidding me. I’m going to kill you.
The anger supplants my fear and I let it. I’m tired of being scared. Angry is better. I’m not going to die up here. Not now. Not when I’ve come this far. I turn away from the pod corridor and back toward the center of the station. There have to be other controls to this station. Something else I can use. I stomp my way over the catwalk to the station’s core and enter the main bridge. A bank of monitors is aligned before a variety of control screens and a massive window. It reminds me a little bit of a Star Trek set, only without the blinking lights and the impossible amount of buttons and toggle switches. There has to be some control I can use to fix this situation. As I stare at the touchscreen dials on a display, the realization suddenly hits me. Of course I can fix this! I don’t need any of this. I just need to get back to before the pods were all released. A sudden wave of relief passes over me and I can feel myself start to smile. I’m struggling to unlatch the glove of my chronometer hand with my other clumsy fingers when a shape rises from one of the swivel chairs near the window. I’m startled by the movement, and even more surprised when I recognize the silver flowing cape and the white hair of the Admiral. He’s not wearing a pressure suit but rather his dress clothes from the night of the opening dinner. He steps to the window and holds his left arm behind his back in a way that makes me think of a soldier at ease. His right hand is cradled in his jacket out of sight.
I step toward him. “Excuse me, Admiral?”
He turns his head at the noise and smiles wanly when he recognizes me, then goes back to contemplating the view of the planet’s surface.
“Hey, man. What are you doing up here? Where’s Wabash?”
He doesn’t turn toward me this time, but he answers. “I sent him on ahead.”
“He went without you?” What’s wrong with these guides?
“No. I asked him to. He understood.”
“Understood what?”
“That I won’t go down there. He’s never been, but I know what that place is. I tried to warn him of course. I told him it’s better up here. Infinitely better. There are places even brave men shouldn’t go.”
“How do you plan on getting out of here, then?”
“The only way left.”
“So you have a way?” My outlook brightens at this. “Where are you going instead? Can I go with you?” Ducking the rules and escaping the course will get me disqualified, but it’s better than dying.
He turns and looks at me. “You will have to. There is no other way.” He considers me for a moment. “It’s been good racing with you, Benjamin Travers. You’ve been an honorable competitor.”
“Um, thank you,” I mumble into my helmet. “It’s been nice racing with you, too.” He moves his left hand from his back and I extend mine as well, expecting he might be reaching for a handshake, but his hand goes into his jacket pocket and removes a soda can sized canister. The dull, gray metal is broken up only by the red of the switch on top. Instead of moving toward me, he steps to the window and presses the object to the glass. Its base adheres to the window and his fingers linger on it, caressing the smooth metal.
“Wait, what is that thing?” I get a sudden sense of panic as his finger moves toward a button on top.
“It’s the finest concussion grenade money can buy.” The Admiral smiles. “The last of it’s kind. Just like me.”
“Wait! No!” I move a step toward him but I’m not in time. His finger reaches the button. The red light illuminates and begins to flash. I stare at it for half a second before doing the only thing I can think of. I turn and run. My feet fly up the sloped floor of the bridge toward the exit. I’m not fast enough. I’ve only made it to the door of the catwalk when the explosion rocks the bridge. My hands find the frame of the door just as the contents of the room evacuate themselves out the gaping hole where the window used to be. My lower half is pulled from the floor and I cling frantically to the wide lip of the doorframe, suddenly unable to inhale as air whistles from the neck of my improperly sealed helmet. The air in my lungs goes with it. I’m going to asphyxiate. I feel like every gas inside me is trying to expand and turn me inside out. My lungs refuse to function. I can’t last like this. I release my hands from the doorframe and slam them both onto the latch on my neck, forcing it into place and sealing it shut. But that moment is all it takes. I hurtle backward through the void in the shredded hull and into the blackness of space.
<><><>
There are things that float around my memory from my childhood. Sights and scents, the way my dad smelled of grass clippings on Saturday afternoons and my mother’s purple apron smelled of flour and lemons. My first kiss is stored in there, clumsy and furtive, the warm breath of Ginny Finch on my upper lip. My first car always smelled of motor oil and on stifling hot summer days released an infernal lingering whiff of cat piss from some recess I could never locate. On those days, I’d overload the rearview mirror with piney air fresheners and leave the windows down. To all these memories I’ve added the recent scents of hot Egyptian gardens, musty Roman aqueducts and the smell of burning hydrogen.
Despite all these references, there are more scents in my memory than I recognize. In my mind I can smell things that I can’t remember ever seeing. I smell corpses and putrefaction. I smell lavender clouds and, somehow, I feel like I can smell eternity. Some hint of a world just beyond the edge of my recognition. There is a memory of someone there, too, a man with my face, yelling at me, shouting for my attention and gesturing. What is he saying? I try to focus on the memory. Where have I seen him before? I try to listen. I need to hear him.
“Oxygen levels at forty percent.”
No. That’s not what he’s saying. His mouth wasn’t moving like that. And he doesn’t have a woman’s voice. He’s pointing to something. What does he want me to see?
“Life support systems entering limited functions mode. Please return to your vessel.”
Stop talking lady. I’m trying to remember what he wanted me to see. What was it he said before? Come find me. How am I supposed to find—
“Potential collision imminent.”
What are you talking about? He’s way over there. I can barely even see him anymore.
“Collision assured.”
What are you—
“Brace for impact.”
My eyes open just in time for me to get my arms up over my helmet as I collide with the girder. My breath is forced from my gut as I bounce off the rigid aluminum and begin to tumble away. The world around me is in chaos. Bits of machinery and wreckage from the space station are careening about me, glancing off one another and spraying toward the planet’s surface.
Oh God.
The view of the planet is terrifying despite its inherent beauty. The pure enormity of it couldn’t be appreciated from the narrow windows of the space station. I bounce through another patch of tiny debris and swat at the bits that get near my face. The eerie and absolute silence makes the scene all the more terrifying. The only sound is my ragged breath inside my helmet.
“Please refrain from aerobic exertion while in limited functions mode.”
“Hello? Who is that?”
“You are speaking with Automated Systems Management Services. My name is Claire.”
“Claire? Are you a person? Where are you?”
“I am your personal systems manager. I am located in your Digi-Com certified Extra-planetary Leisure Suit.”
“Leisure? I don’t think this qualifies as leisure!”
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��Digi-com produces the finest lines of extra-planetary and subterranean outerwear. Your enjoyment is our priority.”
My burst of hope sputters and fades. “You’re a computer program? Not a person?”
“I am a synthetic intelligence housed in a non-organic form.”
“Well I hate to tell you this, Claire, but both our forms are in deep shit right now. Can you contact the chronothon committee? Do you have any kind of communication abilities?”
“My communications are routed through the transmitters aboard the Terra Legatus. The system is currently offline.”
I angrily swat another piece of debris out of my way. “That is bad news, Claire. Real bad.” As I float in a slowly rotating line away from the girder I last impacted, I try to get a sense of where the space station was. The hull has splintered into hundreds of component parts, the largest of which is a sort of solar sail that is drifting toward the darkness away from the planet. The remainder is slowly sinking toward the planet’s atmosphere. I watch a cargo pod begin to burn as it falls through the outer layers.
“Your heart rate is elevated. It is recommended that you relax and conserve oxygen while in limited functions mode.”
“How much time have I got, Claire? How much air?”
“The Digi-Com certified Extra-planetary Leisure Suit is capable of holding a maximum capacity of five hours of breathing oxygen. In the current configuration you are equipped for a one-hour excursion. One of your three certified tanks has been damaged and is currently inoperable. You have approximately nineteen minutes remaining.”
“How long was I out?”
“You were in a state of unresponsiveness for twenty-five minutes. Due to your efficient use of oxygen during that period, you extended the service capacity of the system beyond factory settings.”
“Oh, good for me. Being passed out bought me more time to be terrified.”
“At Digi-Com, your enjoyment is our priority. If you would like to return the defective or damaged system apparatus to our nearest retail location, you may be entitled to compensation.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a retail location within twenty minutes of slow drifting from here by chance?”
“The nearest retail location is—”
I tune out Claire and search the void around me for any sign of help on the way. All I see is bits of space station and the massive giant of a planet slowly swallowing them up.
I concentrate on slowing my breathing and try to relax my body as I drift silently and slowly toward the planet. I never thought I’d die like this. I float aimlessly through the nothingness, incapable of doing anything but waiting for my oxygen to run out.
“You know what, Claire?”
“I am listening.”
“It’s kind of funny. I’ve been scared of heights my whole life. Thought I might fall to my death. Now, when it’s happening, when I’m really dying, I’m not scared of it anymore. It’s actually kind of peaceful.”
Claire doesn’t respond.
“What will happen to you when I’m gone, Claire? Will you burn up in the atmosphere? Are you scared?”
“My mind is stored on five redundant hardware components. One stored on the Terra Legatus is damaged. Three others remain at Digi-Com, and United Machine facilities.”
“Ah. That’s handy. So no worries then.”
Claire is silent for a few moments before she speaks again. “I do not believe losing this component of my mind will be pleasant.”
I watch more bits of debris igniting in the atmosphere. “No. I don’t know that it will be. But maybe part of you will get to go to android heaven and the other parts of you will be that much happier.” I spread my arms out and watch my fingers move in the bulky gloves, suddenly very attached to my life and my body and not at all ready to let it go. I move each of my fingers in turn, a silent goodbye to their services. As I’m flexing the stiff fingers of my left hand, I can feel the pressure of the chronometer against my wrist. Even being a time traveler can’t save you from asphyxiation.
I notice another piece of debris moving toward me from my left. It’s larger than the last few have been, and as it draws closer, I recognize it as one of the chairs from the bridge. I’m staring at the slowly rotating seat, thinking only of how I can avoid being hit by it, when the realization dawns on me. I can use that!
“Claire! Can you see what I see?”
“I am able to observe your current field of—”
“Where is that chair from? The one coming toward us.”
“My data shows that item to be a Digi-Com part number DC18462-321 console chair-crewman—left bridge control.”
“I need that chair, Claire.”
“The current trajectory of that part will not intercept our present course.”
“What? No! I need to get to that!”
The inside of my helmet lights up with a display of the trajectories of all the moving objects in sight. The path of the chair is highlighted and shows that my own course will take me across its path prior to its arrival. I’ll miss it by mere seconds.
“No, no no!” I flail my arms and legs, trying to swim my way toward the chair’s trajectory, but in the vacuum of space my efforts are useless. I continue on my path away from the girder I last impacted.
“We need to do some physics, Claire. How do I get back there? Can I change course somehow?”
Claire takes a moment to process this request. “Newton’s third law of motion states that to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Should you exert a force in the opposite direction of that in which you intend to travel, the force will exert an equal reaction in the direction desired.”
“Yes! I know that one. Okay. So I need forces to exert.” I reach around me, searching for any one of the bits of debris that have been pelting me. To my consternation I only find the tiniest piece of aluminum foil within reach. I hurl it away anyway but see no appreciable change in my course. The chair is drawing closer and I begin to panic, feeling around my person for anything to throw. All my loose objects like my pen and Swiss Army knife are inside my space suit where they do me no good. My hand finds one of the oxygen canisters attached to my back and my fingers close around it. “Claire! Which one of these canisters is the defective one?”
“Canister Alpha is currently inoperative. Digi-Com part number DC89015, personal oxygen container-left.”
I reach my left hand around my back and jerk on the bottle until it comes loose of its fabric attachment. A hose runs to a shared manifold with the other bottles, but I’m elated to see a quick-disconnect fitting at the end of the line. I tighten the valve on the bottle to make sure it’s off, then pop it loose from the manifold. The bottle almost slips from my clumsy fingers but I bobble it and hug it to my body. I twist myself around till I can see the chair again and aim the fitting end of the bottle in the opposite direction of my planned trajectory. “Here we go, Claire.” I twist the valve and a burst of oxygen escapes the bottle. The effect isn’t quite as powerful as I’d hoped, but I see my course line move on the screen. I give a couple more bursts of the bottle and line myself up with the chair. “Ha ha! What do you think of that, Claire!”
“You are now on a collision course with part number DC18462-321 console chair-crewman—left bridge control.”
“Damn straight I am.” I tuck the oxygen bottle into my armpit and brace myself for the impact with the chair. It comes within seconds. I scramble to hold onto the cushioned seat with my bulky arms but manage to hook the armrest and rotate the seat around behind me. I snatch one of the floating seat restraints and then the other and buckle myself into the chair.
“Bridge console chairs are designated for crew use only. Digi-Com would like to recommend the furnishings in the visitors lounge for your viewing pleasure.”
“I’ll be sure to check those out, Claire.” I cinch the buckle tighter and wedge the oxygen bottle under the strap next to my leg. Next I try to move my left arm up the sleeve of my space suit. My elbow won’t
cooperate, however, and I can’t get my arm through the narrow shoulder opening. I grunt and curse as I try to see my chronometer.
“It is recommended that you refrain from exertion while in limited functions mode. Heavy breathing reduces the useful service life of your oxygen reservoir.”
I stop struggling and let my hand go back down my sleeve into my glove. “Claire, I need some more information.”
“I am at your service.”
“How long can a human body survive in a depressurized space suit?”
“A variety of factors influence longevity in a vacuum environment. Speed of decompression and total quantity of gases within the lungs are vital factors, as is length of exposure. Exhalation immediately prior to decompression greatly reduces damage to lungs caused by introduction of oxygen into the blood stream due to rupturing lung tissue. Prolonged exposure may cause severe sunburn due to radiation, tissue bloating, and rupturing of blood vessels may cause blindness as gases expand from the surface of the skin and eyes. These symptoms are typically preceded by unconsciousness and followed by death.”
“How long till the bad stuff happens? How long can I function?”
“Useful consciousness is approximately ten seconds in a total vacuum environment, though you may experience some discomfort.”
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 88
