Losing Mars

by Peter Cawdron

  Rodriguez yells, “Don’t panic,” in a voice that makes my heart race. “Deep breath and relax.”

  We’re wearing swimming goggles, which is some relief at least. I’m not sure how he does it. I’m expecting him to float as we go under, but Rodriguez remains standing, with his arms pressed against the ceiling and his legs spread wide on the floor of the cabin. All eyes are on Specialist McGovern, who’s breathing through a respirator. Not fair. Longest damn thirty seconds of my life. Rodriguez, though, is unmoved. Occasionally, a lone bubble slips from his nose, joining a thin layer of air trapped against the roof of the cabin.

  I equalize my ears as the chopper comes to rest on a specially constructed carriage on the floor of the pool. NASA doesn’t want any cracked tiles. Traumatized astronauts, yes. Damaged training facility, no.

  McGovern barely moves his hand and already we’re all moving for the doors. Thumbs up and we’re off, only my buckle doesn’t release. I punch at the button but it’s stuck. The doors are open and the other candidates are already heading for the surface. Legs kick, disappearing from sight. I struggle, fighting with the harness. A hand rests on my shoulder. I look up into the eyes of Master Chief Rodriguez. He holds up his hand, making as though he was calming a child. Bubbles slip from his nose. His hair waves in the water.

  I can hear him in my head. Relax. Don’t panic. I close my eyes for a second, slowing my heart rate, feeling my muscles go limp. My lungs are burning, bursting, exploding, but I make it through the moment. There’s no nirvana on the other side, but the angst eases, slipping away. I think this is what drew the mental comparison here in orbit around Phobos. I’m feeling the same sensation as I avoid a loose belt drifting within the Redstone, working my way around the cockpit and into the storage area as though I had all the time in the world.

  Rodriguez has a knife out. He slips it between me and the belt and saws at the webbing, cutting away the threads. The belt gives and I float free, but I’m not frantic. Since it’s a five-point harness, I’m still caught. I can’t panic. Well, I can, but I choose not to. Instead, I twist, working my way out of the seatbelt. Rodriguez helps, gently turning me.

  I reach for the lip of the door, grabbing it and preparing to kick for the surface. Rodriguez pushes away from the helicopter. He’s fully clothed, wearing heavy black boots and thick cotton fatigues, but he moves with grace. A support diver swims in beside him, ready to help, but he ignores her.

  Specialist McGovern comes up beside me, offering me his buddy breathing valve. Above, I see legs kicking as the rest of the candidates swim toward the edge of the pool. Several other divers drop into the water, sensing problems below, rushing to help.

  McGovern nudges me, handing me the respirator, offering me a breath of air before I kick for the surface. As tempting as it is, I wave him off. Rodriguez was right. Panic is the enemy. As painful as it is, as horrible as I feel, I’m okay. I’ll survive. The point of this is to learn how to cope in an emergency. Taking that breath would undo all I’ve experienced. Instead, I push the buddy breathing mouthpiece to one side and kick for the surface.

  Buddy breathing.

  That’s the answer I need.

  The Redstone is crippled. All electrical systems are offline, but mechanical ones will still work. I have a buddy breathing port on the front of my suit. All I need is an oxygen cylinder like the one inside my backpack. I have to bypass the environmental controls, and I won’t be able to filter CO2, but I’ll have oxygen.

  I reach the storage area and pull a life-support pack down, clipping the hose on my front and start the flow of oxygen. Pressure builds, and I can breathe. Back in Houston, I’ve broken the surface and I’m sucking in huge volumes of air. Inside the Redstone, I’m surprisingly calm. My heart rate, rather than racing, has settled as I remembered my training. Now, it resumes its normal rate and my thinking clears.

  I bleed off the excess pressure, wasting air and pushing myself slightly backwards, but it’s the only way I can reduce the carbon dioxide saturation until I can either hook up a lithium hydroxide canister to absorb the CO2 or get power restored and run life support. For now, though, I’m alive.

  Huŏxīng Wu

  “Think. Think.”

  I’m able to breathe, but the current situation isn’t sustainable. I close the hatch, ready to pressurize the cabin, but without power, that’s not happening.

  Whatever happened to the Huŏxīng Wu, it didn’t lose all it’s power. It continued transmitting telemetry so at least some of the vital electronic components survived what I can only imagine was some kind of electromagnetic pulse.

  Within the Redstone, the flight recorder and core electronics are shielded against solar outbursts and cosmic rays. I hope they survived too. There’s a bunch of circuit breakers to protect the various independent computer systems that act as the brains of the Redstone from being fried during an electrical surge. I only hope that prevented any serious damage. Damn, we went through this exact scenario with the engineers in the days before our launch, but no one thought we’d actually ever need to reboot the entire craft. It was a billion-to-one possibility we skimmed over in the final days before we departed, cramming for the final exam as it were.

  First thing I need is light. I rummage through a toolbox and find a flashlight. As it’s got its own battery and was off when the pulse took out the Redstone, I’m hoping its okay. EMPs can damage equipment that’s offline, generating a current that overwhelms components, but since the circuit was broken, I suspect it will still work.

  I flick the switch and a beam of light rescues me from the darkness. After bleeding off a little more air, and circulating fresh oxygen, I begin removing panels from the underside of the cockpit. Things would be a helluva lot easier if the cabin was pressurized and I wasn’t wearing a spacesuit. This procedure was clearly never intended for someone wearing thick gloves. I guess the assumption was that as these settings are internal we’d be in our jumpsuits not a cumbersome spacesuit. Working with the tiny nuts is difficult when my fingers are like those of The Incredible Hulk.

  The flashlight reveals six circuit breakers all flipped into the off position. There are instructions about isolating the source of any potential short and powering up systems in a specific order, only swapping out circuit breakers if needed. A couple of the breakers have popped loose, something I doubt they were designed to do. I hope they’re not broken. There are only two spares.

  My eyes are a blur. I’m being poisoned by CO2. My head hurts. I should stop trying to reboot the craft and rummage around for a lithium dioxide canister, but I’m not thinking clearly. I feel compelled to restart the Redstone.

  I’ve got to restore power and get life-support running again. The engineers at NASA in their ever-prescient wisdom knew that if anyone pulled this panel off, they’d be in one helluva state. No one messes with a spacecraft reboot without being in a really bad way, so they labelled everything with big ass numbers and simple, color-coded words. It’s spaceflight for pre-schoolers. I could kiss them.

  Electrical supply (Wait for Yellow light).

  Computing (Wait for Green light).

  Life-support (Wait for Blue light).

  Navigation.

  Reaction controls & main engine

  Communications array (Wait for Red light)

  With trembling fingers, I push the first breaker back in place and wait. It’s probably less than ten seconds, but it feels like forever before a single yellow LED lights up on the control panel. I’m already poised, ready to flick the next switch.

  “Green. Green. Come on, green.”

  It’s only now I stop to wonder what if one of these subsystems fails? If there’s no green light, there will be no blue, no yellow. My heart races. I flush the air from my suit, replenishing oxygen in a feeble attempt to keep the CO2 from building up.

  Cabin lights flicker back to life, filling me with hope, but still there’s no green.

  “Come on, baby.”

  The green LED flickers. I cup
my gloved hands around the circuit box buried deep within the panel, sheltering it as though I were blowing on embers, willing them to grow into a fire. Slowly, the flickering stabilizes into a solid glowing light. Bathed in yellow and green, I push in the breaker for life-support. My finger rests on the switch. This is it. Without this, I’m dead in under an hour at the rate I’m purging the atmosphere in my suit. I flick the switch and wait.

  It’s funny the things my mind gravitates to under pressure. I guess it says something about my mental state, but Super Bowl LXVI floods my memory. Final quarter. Scores are locked. The Steelers are on their own ten yard line. Seconds tick down. Snap. Defense rushes, forcing the quarterback to retreat into his own in-goal. They’re on top of him. Intercept here and it’s an instant touchdown for the Packers. Somehow, an arm reaches out of the collision of half a dozen bodies. A pass is thrown, sailing high down field. Hail Mary, full of grace. The wide receiver isn’t even looking. He’s running hard, outpacing his defender who’s looking at the trajectory of the incoming pass. At the last moment, he turns and there it is, inches from his shoulder, right between his cupped hands. Another thirty yards spent almost tripping over his own boots as he struggles to keep his balance and… blue light!

  “Yes!”

  To hell with everything else, I sail around in front of the control panel. Diagnostics run across the screen. Thousands of metrics scroll by. The Redstone is complaining about how she’s been treated, and rightly so.

  I bring up life-support, switch to cabin pressure and activate the post-EVA refresh cycle. With that underway, I return to the junction box. Navigation and reaction controls come up immediately as they don’t require cycling. Communication does, though, because the antenna needs to lock onto the communications satellites in orbit around Mars, allowing me to reach Shepard and Earth. Redstone has its own long-range communications dish for independent transmission, but I’ll get better bandwidth through the satellites deployed in support of the surface mission.

  I put the panel back in place and return to the cockpit seat. With internal pressure holding, I remove my helmet. Stale air has never smelled so sweet. The sense of relief is overwhelming. I’m not sure how much time has elapsed since the flash of light within the Huŏxīng Wu, but I need some time to compose myself. Sweat beads on my forehead. My hands feel clammy. I pull off my gloves, leaving both them and my helmet drifting aimlessly in front of me.

  I’m shaking. I feel weak. I need to regroup.

  “Breathe, Cory. Breathe.”

  Although I’m still wearing my snoopy cap with built-in speakers and microphone, like my suit, it’s dead. The electronics, though, are pretty simple and I’m confident it’s just the battery that’s been fried. I take the commander’s seat, strapping in. Simple acts like these help me feel grounded. It’s an illusion, of course, but anything that fools my mind is welcome, helping fight my nerves. I plug a wire into my headset, setting the other end in the auxiliary port on the control panel.

  “Washington, Redstone. Commander Washington, this is Redstone. Hedy, are you out there? Come in, over.”

  There’s no reply. As Hedy was wearing a full EVA suit with shielding against radiation, I’m hoping she faired better than I did in my lightweight launch suit. Even if she lost comms, there’s a good chance her environmental controls are still working as those are mostly mechanical.

  “Hedy? Can you hear me? Redstone lost power. I’m working through the reboot checklist. Core systems are back online.” I flick through several screens, punching at buttons. “I’m activating navigation lights. You should be able to see me lighting up like a Christmas tree.”

  Outside, in the darkness, strobe lights flash intermittently. I’m expecting a knock on the window, hoping she’s nearby, praying she didn’t lose power but knowing she probably did. I start working through the diagnostics, noting which systems haven’t come back online and which are partially functional. I’ve lost video. Cameras must have burnt out. Audio should be fine.

  “Hedy. Forty minutes ‘til dawn but I should have signal acquisition with Shepard before then. I’m relaying through the ExoMars satellite on the emergency channel. If you can hear me, hold tight.”

  My muscles hurt, something that’s an unusual sensation in space where heavy exertion is rare. Lactic acid built up within my body while it was deprived of oxygen and now I feel stiff and sore. I make contact with the ExoMars satellite and send an emergency beacon response which the onboard computer will recognize as a high priority.

  “Shepard, Redstone. Do you read me, over?”

  I have no idea what time it is down there, but I’m sure they’ll be desperate to make contact. I run through base level metrics on the spacecraft, checking batteries, fuel pressure, purging lines. I don’t want any surprises when the engines light up. Core metrics are all nominal. Under the category of crew life support, there are two readings. One heartbeat is normal, if slightly elevated, the other is ticking like a clock.

  “Hedy?”

  As frustrating as it is, I can’t do anything to help her, not until I’ve checked over the Redstone. Even if Hedy knocked on the hatch or somehow signaled she was outside, I’d have to figure out how to salvage a functioning spacesuit and gear up before I could open the hatch. At best, she’d be left waiting for half an hour, assuming I can jumpstart another pack.

  “Shepard, Red—”

  “Cory?”

  It’s Lisa.

  “What happened? We lost you. All comms dropped out. Blackout across the board. Is everything okay? Are you okay? Where’s Hedy?”

  Lisa means well but the wall of questions is disorienting. I’m still coming to grips with what happened myself.

  “Cory?” Jen’s voice is softer. She must sense the struggle I’m facing—the lack of an immediate reply, the lack of detached professionalism. I’m trying. I’m failing. I swallow the knot in my throat. My mouth is dry, making it difficult to speak.

  “Ah, there was some kind of explosion on the Huŏxīng Wu.”

  “Explosion? Can you send video? All we’re getting is audio.”

  “Audio’s all I can send. Still bringing up subsystems. I—I don’t know what happened. There was a flash of light within the Chinese craft. Knocked out the Redstone. Crippled my suit. Took out power.”

  There’s silence.

  “I—I couldn’t breathe. Managed to get to an oxygen cylinder and hooked up to a buddy breathing port. Took time to reboot the Redstone.”

  “And Hedy?” Lisa already knows. She’s looking for confirmation.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you...” I can hear her voice breaking. It’s as though I can see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes, running slowly down her cheeks, the quiver of her lips and the shaking of her hands. “Don’t you say that. You—Don’t you leave my Hedy. You don’t abandon her. You can’t.”

  “I—I’ve lost contact.”

  Scott comes on the channel. In the background, I can hear Lisa crying, pleading with Jen, not wanting to accept what’s happened.

  “Hey, buddy. How are you holding up?”

  “Shaken.”

  Lisa’s not the only one crying. In weightlessness, my tears form droplets that blur my vision, refusing to fall down my cheeks. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Ah, we blew a bunch of circuits up here. I’ve got most systems online, but I just don’t know. Diagnostics are all over the place. Core systems appear stable, but I won’t know for sure until components like the engines light up. It’s…”

  “It’s” is not a sentence, but he knows. There are some questions I just can’t answer right now.

  “Okay… Sit tight. We’ll relay this back to Houston. Gonna need their input on this.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Hold station. Let us run through a few scenarios and we’ll come back to you.” Behind him, I can hear Lisa screaming, “Scenarios, what goddamn scenarios? Go and get her. Go and get my Hedy!”

  With t
hat, there’s no further transmission. Scott killed the line at his end. The sudden silence has me feeling isolated and alone. Abandoned.

  Since the Redstone is set to relay telemetry through Shepard, they’ll have access to everything I can see. I can only hope they’ll pick up on things I’ve missed.

  A red glow lights up the horizon, curving around the planet. Dawn is breaking. I disconnect the headset, switching to speakers so I catch any incoming communication. After unbuckling, I drift into the storage bay beneath the cockpit. Doing something constructive, anything, helps me. My hands are still shaking.

  The backpack on my suit is covered in thick white material. Beneath that, there’s a single plastic panel held in place by folding wing-nuts. Inside, various wiring looms wind their way between components, circuit boards, gas cylinders and tubes. I have no idea what I’m looking at. Astronauts are consumers, not producers. I poke around with a screwdriver, lifting various sections. What the hell am I looking for? Lisa probably knows how all this hangs together, but not me. Honestly, a chimpanzee would be just as effective at analyzing what went wrong with my suit environmental controls. There are no burn marks, but that’s not surprising given I was in a vacuum. There was nothing to oxidize.

  Hedy spotted burns within the Huŏxīng Wu. The cabin must have been pressurized when it first blew. What could have blown the seal on the hatch? Theses hatches are designed to withstand the weight of an elephant. Even if those taikonauts weren’t exposed to vacuum, that level of pressure would have been fatal. Whatever that was, being depressurized probably saved the Redstone.