“Status?”
“Hydroelectric turbine functionality at sixty percent. Geothermal environment control at ninety-five percent. Main solar panel array remains inoperative at zero percent efficiency due to sustained cloud cover.”
“M?”
“All systems operating within recommended stasis parameters.”
“The power loss didn’t affect him?”
“Built-in medpod backup generator systems operated at one hundred percent efficiency, diagnostics report no loss of current.”
L removed the pouch, then made her way to Level G. “How long do I have?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases. Extrapolating from logs showing operating system downtime, withdrawal symptoms began at fourteen hours, eighteen minutes.”
“Time?”
“Forty-two minutes.”
“Alert at ten hours.”
“Ten hours and counting.”
She’d just descended the ladder to H when the power went out again. Red lights came on and the alarms started.
“Status?” L asked.
“Running diagnostics.”
She kept a hand on the ladder, ready to climb.
The computer chimed.
“Hydroelectric system at seven percent. The generator requires emergency maintenance.”
“What about the backup?”
“Hydroelectric system is the secondary backup power supply. Primary solar panel array inoperative. Backup wind turbines inoperative.”
“There’s no wind?”
“Wind turbines require sustained wind. Sustained wind requires sunlight.”
L rested her head against the closest rung. “Where do I need to go?”
“Hydroelectric generator access is located outside, past the solar panel array. Level A exit is the closest.”
L climbed. “Of course, it is.”
She passed the infirmary level and kept going to the residences. Next to the dining room, she opened a storage closet.
Half a dozen insulated suits hung in individual cubicles. L grabbed one and held it to the light.
They’d only bothered with them once, after M tried fighting off withdrawal by repeating every story he remembered dealing with the sun. When that failed he’d asked the computer to fill every monitor with beach scenes, sunrises and spring. Seasonal Affective Disorder, the computer said when L asked. The need for sunlight. The nutritional pouches contained the United States Department of Agriculture recommended daily nutritional requirement of vitamin D3, but M wanted more.
He needed sunlight. Real sunlight. No more light therapy providing the clinically recommended UV-limited 10,000 lux of artificial sun. No more dawn simulators waking them in the morning. Just no more. He wanted the sun. Needed it.
Finally, he’d convinced her to let him go outside. She wanted to ignore him, but not if it meant being alone, so she waited in the dining room while he went outside.
Waited until he returned in tears.
He’d thrown his helmet against the wall hard enough to crack the plastic before collapsing to his knees.
“Everything’s dead,” he said through his sobs. “There’s no sun.”
She’d held him until he started twitching.
“How the hell do I wear this?” she asked.
“A hazardous materials suit is personal protective equipment designed as an impermeable whole-body garment.”
“I know what it is, how do I use it?”
“Instructions for hazardous material suit usage located in the breathing apparatus containers.”
She grabbed a box, following the pictograms to climb into the bright orange plastic, sliding the breathing mask on before placing the helmet over her head.
“Can you hear me?” Her voice echoed, the mask and the plastic helmet distorting sound and vision.
“Yes.”
“Time?”
“One hour, one minute.”
“Now what?”
“Level A exit located behind the dining room.”
L walked the hall, each footstep causing the whole of her suit to move around her, creating a strange plastic sound that never seemed to stop. The artificial air tinged with the same odd smell as the habitat itself, but at least the monitor showed she’d more than enough oxygen.
At the exit door, she shook her head. Only a few hours before she’d go into withdrawal anyway, killing her long before running out of oxygen if this took too long.
Better than stasis.
“Unlock the door.”
The air lock cycled, and she stepped through. Flakes of ash drifted by her feet. Outside, everything drowned beneath a layer of grey. All shades of grey, from almost white to almost black and everything in between.
Mountains towered over her. Grey mountains covered with dead trees.
The ground sloped higher, heading into the foothills, everything the color of death. The grey of the earth gave way to the grey of the mountains leading to the grey of the sky. Clouds, ashy and eternal, covered the world.
“Time?”
“One hour, six minutes.”
“No,” L said. “The real time.”
“Two-forty-six AM standard local time.”
“So, no sun up there anyway.”
“Please repeat your request.”
“Never mind. Where do I go now?”
“The hydroelectric generator is located six hundred and fifty-seven yards due west.”
L laughed. “West? There’s no sun, remember?”
“Switching oxygen monitor to compass.”
She checked the wrist pad on her suit where an arrow replaced the O2 stats on the small black screen.
“West, fine. That way.” L walked, creating clouds of ash with every step. When the solar panels came into view, she stopped and knelt. She dug with her hands through the ash until reaching the dirt beneath. “Everything’s dead.”
“Please repeat your request.”
“Nothing,” she said. “Couple of inches of ash covering dead grass.”
L plucked out brittle stalks, letting them fall before standing and brushing the bits of soil off her hands. She rushed past the solar panels, all of them buried under inches of ash.
“Would the solar panels work if I cleaned them?”
“Negative,” the computer said. “Main solar power system requires a minimum irradiance level of one thousand watts per square meter. Current cloud cover remains steady between 91.143% and 93.004%. Irradiance negligible.”
L kept walking, turning to follow the slope and keeping an eye on the compass until the hydroelectric dam came into view. A square building stood at the bottom of the hill.
“Open the door.”
Red emergency lights flickered on.
“Now what?”
“Internal hydroelectric system diagnostics need to initiate from the control room due to limited access to necessary sub-routines.”
L studied the powerhouse, the building dominated by a giant round structure dropping away through the floor. Around the walls, a small catwalk led to a room on the opposite side.
Inside the control room, she sat in front of a bank of silent monitors.
“Nothing is powered on.”
“Hydroelectric system at three percent.”
L pressed buttons at random but nothing happened.
“How do I start this thing?”
“Hydroelectric power plants produce electricity similar to coal-fired power plants. A coal-fired plant uses steam to turn the turbine blades. A hydroelectric plant uses falling water—”
L slapped her hand against the desk in front of her. “I don’t care. Just tell me how to turn it on.”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
“Do you know anything about this shit?”
“Accessing secure databases. DNA authorization required.”
She stood, kicking the chair out of the way. Against every wall, more silent monitors and hundred
s of buttons and levers and switches.
“Couldn’t label anything with ‘On’ or something helpful?”
“Please repeat your request.”
“No.”
She rested against the nearest wall, took a deep breath. Then pushed buttons, flicked levers, and moved switches from left to right until she’d changed every single one of them.
Nothing happened.
“Any other brilliant ideas?”
“Please repeat your request.”
“Shut up unless you have something helpful to add.”
“Please repeat your request.”
L slid to the floor. “How is he?”
“All systems operating within recommended stasis parameters.”
“That’s good, I guess.” She closed her eyes. “Wake me in a minute.”
“One minute and counting.”
The computer chimed.
“Go away.”
“One minute has elapsed.”
“Time?”
“Three hours, forty-nine minutes.”
“How do I turn this thing on?” she asked.
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
“How do I turn on a broken computer system?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
“How do I check power levels?”
“Locate electrical service panel that houses and controls the incoming electrical service and distribution to branch circuits for fuse access.”
L opened her eyes. “Where is that?”
“The electrical service panel for the hydroelectric generator is located in the powerhouse.”
“I’m in the powerhouse. Where is it?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
She sighed. “Fine, what’s an electrical service panel look like?”
“Common configurations include, but are not limited to, a metal box with a hinged cover.”
“That’s so not helpful.”
“Please repeat your request.”
L knelt on the floor, searching beneath the desks. At the third wall of monitors, she found it.
“Now what?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
“How do I check a fuse?”
“A multimeter is commonly used to measure the resistance of cartridge fuses.”
She laughed, couldn’t stop it from bubbling out. “I don’t have whatever the hell that is. What else?”
“Some manufacturers have a built-in signal light attached to the fuse that will illuminate when a fuse is inoperative.”
L shook her head. “Next?”
“Some manufacturers have a glass enclosure showing a metal strip inside. If the strip is charred or broken, the fuse is inoperative.”
She bent closer, crouching beneath the desk in order to see better. One by one, she pulled the fuses, checking the small metal strip inside until she found one that was blown.
“Found it.”
“Please repeat your request.”
L studied the fuse, small and innocent in her orange plastic-encased hand. “Time?”
“Four hours, twenty-three minutes.”
“I need a fuse.”
“Please repeat your request.”
After taking a deep breath, she sighed. “Where can I find another fuse?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
“Of course not.”
She scooted out from under the desk and stood, searching the room. Each desk contained drawers filled with pencils, pens, and paper. L found half a bag of chips with an expiration date years in the past. They cracked like old paper between her gloved fingers, but even through the hood she knew what they’d smell like. Salt and oil, mostly. Potatoes. Her mouth watered, and she placed the bag on the desktop in order to feast on old, stale potato chips for dinner.
In one drawer, a thick notebook contained an entire manual on starting the hydroelectric plant. A helpful appendix gave step-by-step instructions for checking and replacing fuses.
No indication of where those replacement fuses might be stored.
“Status?”
“Hydroelectric system at two percent.”
“What happens at zero?”
“Electrical reserve depletion will result in primary shutdown of all functions; medpods and life support will be inoperative once all internal backup supplies are exhausted. Full computer shutdown will commence at 0.1%.”
“How is he?”
“All systems operating within recommended stasis parameters.”
L explored the room. Pulled drawers out of every desk, none hid spare fuses. Opening the door, she glanced around the catwalk. A small black container hugged the wall in the opposite direction from the one she’d taken to get to the control room. She ran in what felt like an orange garbage bag until reaching the small shelving unit.
A combination lock dangled from the handle. She jiggled it and the entire shelf moved. Half her height and twice her weight, it bounced against the concrete wall with every tug.
“Any chance you know the combination?”
“That information is not located in any accessible databases.”
She kicked the door, missing the lock, and the entire container shifted, something inside breaking with a crash.
“That can’t be good.”
With a final tug on the lock, sending something else crashing inside, L walked around the container. With a push, it moved with a screech of metal on concrete. Another push, another screech, another foot closer.
L let go and ran to the control room. She rifled through all the drawers. “Stapler, letter opener. How about a hammer? Come on, give me a hammer.”
Holding onto the stapler, she returned to the container.
The plastic stapler broke into pieces with one hard blow and staples showered around her.
She pushed the container, screeching against the floor another foot before giving up and racing back to the control room.
Sitting at the main panel, she turned in circles measuring everything she saw against the combination lock keeping her out of the container. She stopped, stood and stared at the chair. It, too, bounced along the cement and screeched on the catwalk.
Countless items crashed and fell each time she lifted the chair overhead and brought it down on the doors. The combination lock bounced unharmed, but the corner of the right-hand door buckled enough to grab on to.
Once more, she lifted the chair before dropping it on the container. A wheel caught the bent corner of the door, pulled it farther out. Far enough to stick an arm through.
She reached in, grabbing a handful of anything within reach. Screws, nuts, nails, and a handful of thumbtacks.
This time, she just pushed the container over, tilting it so the opening was on the bottom.
A hammer slithered out onto the concrete, followed by thousands of individual screws. The opening caught a screwdriver, blocking more from falling out, and she used the hammer to pull the door open wider.
Inch by inch, she beat the container into submission.
Sweat poured down her face but through the mask she couldn’t wipe it away. The breathing apparatus chafed and made her lips far too dry. Still, she kept working at levering the door from the container.
“Time?”
“Five hours, forty-three minutes.”
Finally, the door popped off, taking the combination lock with it.
In the far corner she saw a couple dozen small boxes with illustrations of the small glass fuse on the outside.
Each of the first four broken. The fifth box empty. The sixth the wrong size.
“Seventh time’s the charm, right?”
“Please repeat your request.”
“Shut up.”
L clicked the fuse into place.
The computer chimed.
“Hydroelectric system at one percent.”
>
The manual waited, opened to the page she needed. Green text scrolled down the monitor before transitioning to a blinking cursor.
<
After checking the manual, she pressed ‘Y.’
Again, green text too fast to follow.
<
‘Y.’
More green text.
<
The computer chimed.
“Hydroelectric system at 0.9%.”
<
L flipped through the manual while the cursor blinked. In the index, she scanned the letter ‘d’ until she found the word.
“Oh, hell,” she said, gazing in horror at everything she’d changed. Banks of buttons, levers, and switches she’d changed, pushed, and flipped trying to turn the thing on.
‘Y.’
She paused before hitting enter. Then pressed the button.
Around the room, levers and switches flipped by themselves, returning to their default settings. Pressed buttons popped up, others sank into the surrounding panels.
<
‘Y.’
Around her, lights blinked on, red to green. A loud crash sent her running to the catwalk. The giant round structure in the middle of the powerhouse began to turn.
The computer chimed.
“Hydroelectric system stabilizing at 0.7%.”
“Time?”
“Six hours, thirty-nine minutes.”
Halfway to the habitat, the computer chimed.
“Hydroelectric system at ten percent.”
It hit one hundred right before the computer alerted her at ten hours.
He’d taped a small drawing to the edge of one of the monitors. Devid ran his fingers along the edge, making the paper dance from the contact. The words were too difficult to read until the dancing stopped.
She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed being a part of Devid and Amy. Was it love? L had no way to know, not from what little she remembered of other deaths, the memories of the two of them incomplete and faded. She remembered their laughter, the way it fit together, like a jigsaw puzzle.
But the dancing paper, that sparked memory, cascading more memories into her. Things she’d forgotten she’d ever known. Things she’d wanted to remember, and feared she’d forget again. She remembered reading those words caught in the middle of a heart.
Eight Minutes, Thirty-Two Seconds Page 11
