by CJ Birch
“The big question is why are they here at all?”
Ash leans over one of the pods and peers inside. “It’s kind of eerie. They look like they’re taking a nap.”
“They’re well preserved for two hundred years. Centuries ago humans used to mummify their dead. Like that political leader they had on display for centuries. Before they bombed his mausoleum to pieces.”
“It’s so strange, creating a place to go visit your dead.”
“They used to bury their dead in giant parks. There were markers to tell who was where. I imagine people used to get comfort, thinking their loved ones were still hanging around, enjoying all the trees and flowers.”
Ash, always the pragmatist, makes a face. “What a waste of space.”
“Let’s finish checking the rest of the ship. We might find some answers to all these questions,” I say.
But we don’t find any answers. Twenty minutes later, we reach the bridge and find it empty like the rest of the decks. It’s very—I don’t want to say primitive—but it’s the first word that pops into mind. A second later, I amend it to sparse.
Because the ship tapers, the bridge, which is at the tip, only has space for three seats. They’re bunched together near a large screen below an impressive console. Each chair has an elaborate seat belt harness akin to an old-fashioned parachute. It gives you an idea of how fast the ship has to go to reach orbit.
I take a seat in the pilot position. There are about a million buttons and switches lining the console in front of me. They’re color coordinated. A third are blue, another third red, and the rest are black. Only one is green. Unfortunately, we can’t use the ship to communicate with the Persephone because the technologies are incompatible.
“Are we going to be able to fly this thing?” Ash lowers herself into the copilot seat.
“There isn’t much to it. Seal the ship and hit launch.” It sounds a lot more simple than it is, but the later Mars missions were almost all automated. There’s no doubt the astronauts of that era could calculate liftoff. But it was much safer having the computer do all the complicated calculations. We don’t have that same knowledge, but luckily we don’t need it. This ship was built long before access codes, but well after space suits.
“It’s a bit like time traveling.” Ash’s got that big grin on her face. Part of me is happy to see her sense of adventure is back, but another part—the part that knows better—is a little terrified.
“It definitely makes you appreciate what you have.” You could fit eight of these on Persephone’s bridge. It would’ve become cramped real fast during the three month trip to Mars.
“It would’ve been fun. I mean, you’d definitely have to be more choosy about who your flight mates are.” Ash starts opening compartments and rummaging around. A minute later, she pulls a large plastic booklet from underneath her seat. “Well, the good news is, I found a flight manual.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“We’re going to have to learn how to fly this thing.” She flips through several of the thick pages. “Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”
Instead of excitement, I’m homesick for my own bridge. A bridge that’s currently commanded by a thief. And it’s time we took it back.
In the end, it only takes us a day and a half. Ash is a quick study. The short prep time works in our favor for several reasons. We lost all our food and rations during our escape from the avians. Any food on this ship has rotted ten times over. But I’m most worried that whoever put the crew in pods will come back and catch us here.
While Ash studies the manual, I figure out how to dismantle the shield. We don’t want to take any chances of it interfering with liftoff. It takes half a day, but I manage to figure out how to shut it off. It uses the flow of the river as a power source. All I have to do is divert the water. I take a broken piece of the inner hull of the ship and jam it into the stream like a dam, stopping the water from reaching the mechanism. In less than an hour, the shield goes down. When it does, the real countdown begins. With our protection gone, anything can wander in. It’s not only the avians we have to worry about.
I spend an entire afternoon checking the structural integrity of the exterior of the ship. In two hundred years, not much has degraded. Plastic is hard to breakdown. The shield helped as well, keeping the elements from degrading the metal. To say I’m surprised is an understatement. I’m astonished we even found the ship, that it’s also still functional, doubly so.
“This might seem like a silly question.” Ash asks from her spot in the copilot seat as we prepare for takeoff. “But if we don’t have any food, how are we going to survive once we’re up there?” Ash points in the vague direction of the sky. And she’s right. Once we leave here, we’re leaving behind stability. There are many dangers on this planet, but they’re survivable. Our deaths aren’t as inevitable as they are if we launch ourselves, without resources, into the unknown. But I don’t plan on us being in the unknown for long.
“I have a backup plan. Something I set up with Hartley a while ago.”
While there’s no way I could’ve guessed Sarka would strand us on this planet, I knew he would try to take over the ship. I had Hartley create backdoor access codes so he could stall the ship from leaving the planet. All we have to do is get this ship into orbit, attach ourselves to the Persephone when it passes us, and use those same backdoor access codes to gain access through a hatch.
Her face after hearing my plan is a mixture of incredulity and awe. “I don’t know whether to be proud that my crazy ideas are rubbing off on you or worried. That is the most bat-shit crazy thing I have ever heard.”
“It’ll work.” I turn my back to her, hiding my face, hiding my worry. “Are we ready to go?”
“Good to go.”
“Then prepare us for takeoff.” As I say this, my stomach climbs into my throat and hangs on with a death grip, preparing for the worst.
In all honesty, I’m not too sure of the plan either. But I don’t want Ash to know that. I’ve discovered over the years that pretending confidence sometimes helps. I’ve given this whole plan a fifty-fifty chance of working. That’s pretty shitty odds. But Ash tends to come with a thirty percent win rate, so that ups our odds to eighty. Not too shabby.
We debated what to do with the two pods. We only ever found those two and no evidence of there being more. I’m not sure what happened to the three other crew members. Maybe they died on arrival, or before the ship even landed. In the end, we decided to bring them with us. There was no way for the two of us to move the pods off the ship. And the idea of a burial was not even an option. I didn’t want to leave them behind on this alien planet. I can decide what to do once we reach orbit. So, in essence, there will be four humans leaving this planet. I couldn’t help but think about Yakovich. There wasn’t a safe way to go retrieve her body before launching the Roebuck. But we’ll come back for her. I made a promise.
As we buckle ourselves in the snap from our belts is loud. It echoes in the stillness of the cabin. I look down at my station. There’s a sticker on the edge of my arm rest. It’s a gray alien giving me the finger. I wrap my hand around it as Ash presses the green button. The engines start, drowning out all other sounds with the weight of four engines igniting.
It’s go time.
Chapter Thirty
We break through the clouds fast. Our ascent is so quick it’s easy to miss the details. The flash of the sun, the blur of the pinkish clouds as we blast toward the dark blue stratosphere.
I grip the arm rests of my chair. Ash grabs her knees. She presses them together as if the tighter she keeps herself the less likely our speed will rip her apart.
The rattle of the ship tells me not only is this possible, but pretty damn likely.
A red warning light flashes. Then, in comedic slow motion, the entire board flips red, like a surge of old-fashioned dominos. One goes, so the others have no choice but to follow.
I find myself thinking of ch
oices. How one action leads to another. One simple decision creates a cascade effect, like those dominos. I’m trying to decide what the catalyst was that led me here. Was it choosing to stay in that cave? If we hadn’t, we would never have found the NASA satchel and gone looking for the ship. But it goes further than that. It goes back to landing on this planet in the first place. If I’d played it cautious and reported back to the Posterus instead of landing, we wouldn’t be here now. But not landing on this planet is a little like asking a flower not to bloom, a supernova not to explode, and your lungs not to breathe. We wouldn’t be explorers if we hadn’t landed.
But the real reason we’re here right now isn’t because we landed in the first place. We’re here because of Sarka. If we hadn’t brought him along, if I’d stood up to the captain on the Posterus and left him behind, we wouldn’t be in this mess. In the end, I proved myself right. I can’t trust my father. There was a glimmer of hope that he’d changed. But he’s like that scorpion in the parable. He can’t help himself. It’s in his nature.
One moment of weakness, one capitulation has led me to this ship and this crazy idea. That one choice is the reason I’m hurtling through a planet’s atmosphere at 30,000 kilometers per hour toward probable death.
The way life amplifies your regrets is savage.
A pure white smoke fills the cockpit now. It hovers against the console like a wall of cloud. With no wind, no gravity, it has no where to go. If there is artificial gravity on these things, we haven’t figured out how to turn it on. It’s just as well. I don’t plan on us being here for long.
“Fuck, yeah,” Ash screams as we reach escape velocity, break free, and push through the exosphere.
I grip the armrest tighter. “Fuck.”
And then, as quick as it began, it’s over.
As instructed, Ash brings us into a high orbit. From above, the planet looks so lush and green. With the atmosphere softening the edges, it gives it a dreamy appearance. It’s much more serene than the reality of the place.
The best thing about these Mars ships is they’re built to survive. They’re sturdy stock, like the Neanderthals of the Homo genus, it takes a hell of a lot to break them. Unfortunately, like that ancient species, they don’t have the brain capacity of the newer models. We have basic navigation, but not much else. Once we reach orbit, we’ll be without power. We’ll be at the mercy of the planet’s gravitational pull. If all works out as planned, the ship will settle into a natural orbit. We can see where we’re going and where we’ve been. We have proximity sensors—so the ship will warn us if we’re about to crash into something and vice versa.
“What’s that noise?” Ash asks. A blaring fills the cabin, warning us of something.
I wave some of the smoke out of the way. It floats to the edges of the cockpit.
“It’s a proximity warning. From what I can tell, the Persephone is coming up behind us.” I flip through several more screens until I find the exact distance. “It’s about thirty kilometers away. Can you slow us down and match speed?”
“I can try. If I vent atmosphere from our forward compartment, that will push us back. Should slow us down enough to exit the ship. The rest is up to chance.”
Ten minutes later, Ash and I are waiting in the aft compartment. We’re ready to deploy the Roebuck’s emergency chute. All early shuttles and spacecrafts had them. The early shuttles had drag chutes to help slow them down and reduce the stress on breaks and tires. They changed the design of the ships for the Mars missions because they needed to land on surfaces that were uneven, so they used chutes to both turn and slow down the spacecraft.
Today, we’re going to use it for something it was never meant for. A grappling hook. If we time it right, we’ll hook one of the aft sails of the Persephone and hitch a ride. Once we’re confident our tether won’t snap and send us whirling into space, we’ll go for a little walk.
A piercing alarm sounds next to my head. Ash slams her fist onto the panel, shutting it off. The silence buzzes. We have two minutes to deploy the chute before the Persephone passes us by and we miss our opportunity. Miss this window and we’ll be stuck out here forever. Which on the plus side—with our lack of resources—won’t be very long.
I adjust the gloves of my space suit. These earlier models are much bulkier than I’m used to. Not that I have much call to go for space walks. I look over at Ash, she has this shit-eating grin on her face. Like this is something she’s always wanted to try and now’s her chance. It looks like the suit is consuming her. It’s several sizes too big for her. There were only two on board and she insisted I have the smaller of the two. The stiff material creates an awkward shell around her, unlike her regular suit which molds to her body.
I check our countdown. One minute left. In the distance, a small speck breaks from the mass of stars dotting the horizon. As she moves closer, I begin to see the details of the Persephone. She’s a beautiful ship. Sleek, if not modern. The matter sails bulge, obscuring the back of the ship from view. But they don’t deter from the trim shape.
We’ve slowed as much as we can. Now it’s up to the strength of the chute cables. I’m confident they’ll hold. Thirty seconds to go.
Ash nudges my arm. “I want you to know, if we don’t make it—”
“We’ll make it.”
“Yeah, but just in case.” Her eyes are wide and earnest. “I wanted to tell you how much…” She turns away for a second to gaze at the view spread before us. “I enjoyed serving under you.” There’s so much more left unsaid. But we don’t have time. I nod as the last alarm blasts through the small exit bay.
The Persephone looms large and intimidating. It’s so close it looks like it’s going to crash into us.
Ash punches the release button on her left and the chute deploys. At this range the chute won’t have time to open. Instead it’ll get tangled with the matter sail on the Persephone’s aft compartment. We hope.
There’s twenty seconds of silence as we hold our breath and watch the silver canister arc through space. It pings the hull and bounces off. My heart plummets. And then, as if the impact was too much for the canister, it explodes and a long navy chute deploys. It catches a corner of the sail, entangling itself.
Before we have time to celebrate, the Roebuck lurches and spins to port as the Persephone’s momentum takes over and drags us forward. I fall to my knees with a hard thud and slide toward the aft portal, which is wide open. I try to grab on to one of the rails, but the bulky suit is clumsy to maneuver. I start to panic as the edge gets closer. These suits don’t have built in propulsion. If I fall out of the ship, I’ll be flung into space and left to drift until I run out of oxygen.
I must look like a mad woman as I scramble for something—anything—to grab hold of. I’m breathing too fast for my carbon monoxide filter and the glass on my helmet fogs up.
“Calm down.” In one fluid movement, Ash grabs my arm and snaps us on to the cable chute with a large carabiner. It’s all very slick. I’m still recovering when she clips my waist lead on to the cable. At the same time as all that, she manages to disengage the Roebuck from it’s tether.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
“I set a timer for disconnect.”
“What if we hadn’t left the ship yet?”
“We had a tiny window to leave. God, you’re lucky, because that really was bat-shit crazy.” Her grin is so large her lips have almost disappeared. And coming from Ash, it’s a compliment. But as I stare up at the Persephone, which is now only several hundred meters above us, I question my sanity. Would it have been so bad to live out the rest of our lives on that planet? We had food, water, shelter, not safety, but there’s no such thing as perfect.
Or maybe there is. Seeing the Persephone again, I realize this is the only place that has ever felt like home to me. I’ve spent my whole life running to somewhere. I was always escaping. The station, the farm, lower ranks, bad assignments, none of them gave me comfort. Everything I’ve ever done has led
me here. It’s no wonder I couldn’t leave it behind. There is no force that would allow me to let someone take that feeling of contentment and safety from me. There is no substitute for it. Not even Ash. As much as I love her, in the end, it would’ve only been a makeshift home if we’d stayed on the planet. I belong in space.
This is unreal. I’ve never felt so small in my life. Next to the planet, we’re dwarfed. It’s like we’ve fallen into a glass of black liquid with tiny, far off flecks of light.
We make our way, hand over hand up the cable. It’s long and arduous, and I’m sweating by the time we’re even halfway. A sensor on Ash’s air tank flashes. I tap her on the back and she stops.
“What is it?” she asks.
I pull myself closer. Her oxygen tank is a little less than half full. They were full when we left, but these aren’t the same as the tanks we’re used to. These use gas oxygen, while ours use liquid oxygen. It’s lighter and can hold eight hundred times more than the gas. We’re going to run out of oxygen before we reach the ship.
“We’re using too much oxygen. We need to slow down.”
Ash frowns. Her brow furrow is almost hidden behind the thick glass of her helmet.
“I know it doesn’t make sense, but the more we exert ourselves, the more oxygen we use. If we keep our pace nice and slow, then we may make it.”
Ash looks behind her at the Persephone. We still have a couple hundred meters to go. Even from this distance, the ship appears giant. The sightline down the length of the cable makes it seem far.
“I’ve got a better idea.” She wraps the cable around her wrist twice and grabs my arm. “Hold on.” Almost as an afterthought, she turns back to me and says, “Don’t worry, this won’t damage the ship.”
Shit. What the hell is she up to?
Ash oscillates the cable up and down in long, fluid movements. The strong, inch-thick line, begins to move. It goes slow at first, then picks up momentum, until it’s swinging in front of us. I hold Ash tight and watch as the true brilliance of her mind unfolds in front of me.
