by R. A. Mejia
“That is correct, sir. You are still aboard the freighter ship Argonaut. We were pulled out of faster-than-light travel en route to Luna and attacked by pirates. We took severe damage to our systems and were forced to make an emergency landing.”
I look around for the source of the voice and really see the room for the first time. My neural implant senses my confusion and tries to figure out where I am, but without reference points or a map of the ship, it cannot. From the narrow walls and the random junk everywhere, I can only guess that I'm in one of the ship's hallways. There are bins, barrels, data pads, clothes, and paper. What I do not see, however, is another person. A shiver runs down my spine, and I feel an echo of terror as the memory of almost being sucked out into space return. I push down the feelings and instead force myself to focus. I’m alive. That’s what is important.
“I think I remember crashing. But who am I speaking to? Where are you?”
“I am all around you, Mr. Espinoza; I am the ship’s artificial intelligence. The captain called me SAI.”
I groan and raise my hand to rub my pounding head but only end up rubbing the helmet. Ugh. An A.I.? Those things were always more trouble than they were worth. Sure, simple, intelligent programs could be useful, but this was a system A.I. They were renowned for developing quirky personalities, and depending on its coding, it could even have free will and refuse to do as she’s told. I’d have to proceed carefully.
I refuse to Anthropomorphize this thing. “Well, Ship A.I., do something about all these beeps and alarms. Also, put me in contact with whoever is in charge of the ship. I’d like to talk to them about what we’re going to do next.” All this talk is not helping my headache, and I decide that I’ve had enough of this stupid helmet. As my gloved hands search for the helmet’s release, the A.I. speaks again.
“I would not do that if I were you, Mr. Espinoza. Not unless you wish to die a horribly-painful death suffocating. If that’s what you wish then please, by all means, continue.”
My fingers had finally found the catch to release the helmet, but the A.I.’s words halt their movement. I look around, not exactly sure where to address my next question, then just ask the empty air, “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. If you take off your helmet, you will die from suffocation. That’s why I had to wake you. The ship’s hull has been compromised, and the planet’s atmosphere has leaked in. It’s a mix of nitrogen, carbon monoxide, and other trace compounds, but no breathable oxygen. The ship’s environmental systems are still functioning, but they are offline and can’t be brought back online until the leaks have been patched.”
“So, the only breathable air I have is in the suit?”
“Yes, and if my sensors are correct-- and they usually are--you have approximately one hour of O2 remaining. If you would permit me to interface with your suit directly, I could give you a more precise estimation.”
Stunned by the statement that I only have an hour to left to live, I only now notice that light is coming into the room, not from lights in the ceiling, but several large rents in the ship’s hull.
“Uh, hell yeah. I permit you to access my suit.”
There’s a pause before the A.I. says anything, and when it does, the voice no longer sounds distant and has lost that tiny quality to it. Instead, it comes in clearly through my helmet's audio system, and it almost sounds like it’s speaking directly into my ears.
“Oh, my. You seem to have one of the engineer’s space suits. Look at all this information cluttering up your screen. Here, let me clean this up for you.”
Before I can respond, the blue lights that project images onto my helmet’s screen flicker and then turn off. The transparent screen looks rather empty now with just the crack visible. The blue projection light returns a few moments later, but now there are only three bars at the bottom of my vision. One is mostly empty and labeled ‘Oxygen,’ and when I focus on it, the information ‘28%’ is overlaid on top of it. The other two bars are labeled ‘Suit Integrity’ and ‘Energy’. The suit integrity is at the 76% mark, and the energy levels are at 50%.
“There you go, Mr. Espinoza. That should be much easier for you to understand. According to my calculations, assuming normal activity and breathing rate, you have one hour, two minutes, and thirty-one seconds worth of oxygen in the suit’s system.”
A timer appears on my screen, counting down from 01:02:31. My eyes roll at the precision of this A.I. Great, I’m going to die, and it’s detailing how long I have left. With a slight edge of annoyance in my voice, I say, “Thanks for the information, but I’m more concerned with how I can extend my remaining time. How do we fix this problem?”
There’s no response at first, but then the voice comes back. “You could modify the environmental system to feed oxygen to you directly, but that would take technical knowledge you likely don’t have. Plus, if you messed it up, you might break the system. You could also search for new oxygen pods to replace the ones you have, though my internal sensors show you’d be unlikely to find one. Or, you could patch up the hull enough for the environmental system to restart and create a breathable atmosphere for you. It’s a task I could talk you through.”
I slap my helmet in frustration. “Why didn’t you start with that last option? That one seems like the best solution to the problem at hand.”
“Mr. Espinoza, you neither specified the problem you were referring to nor did you ask for the best solution.”
“That’s another thing. Stop calling me Mr. Espinoza. Call me John. It’s getting annoying.”
“Noted, John. But don’t get stuffy with me because you didn’t ask the right question.”
God, this A.I. is annoying with its technicalities. I take a deep breath and continue,
“Fine. You’re right. I didn’t ask the right question. So, here is the right one: How do I patch the hull so that the environmental system can come back online?”
“The largest breaches along the port and starboard sides of the ship have been sealed by the emergency bulkheads. You’ll have to locate the emergency patch system and use it to seal any tears or holes in the hull. I can show you where the holes are, but you need to get started soon, or you won’t have enough oxygen to finish the job.”
A line of text appears on my helmet.
Quest: Seal all leaks in the ship’s hull. Reward: Continued living.
Part 1: Find the Emergency Patch System
I chuckle at the odd personality of this A.I. “Okay, where is the emergency patch system?”
A green arrow appears in front of me on the inside of my helmet and points down, indicating a series of green dots that lead down the hall and into another part of the ship. The A.I. has created an augmented reality overlay to help me find my way through the ship. Great. If I could get a download of the ship’s schematics from her, my neural implants could do the same in the future.
“Follow the trail, John, and you’ll find the equipment you need. Though, I would suggest that you untangle yourself first.”
I realize the A.I. is right. I’ve been sitting on the floor this whole time with my boot still wrapped in the cargo strap. It takes me a few minutes to free myself, but I’m soon up on my feet and moving. The once neat and tidy ship is now littered with broken pieces of equipment and loose debris. A small set of stairs leads me down to the center of the ship, and the trail of green dots ends at a set of heavy metal double doors across from the elevator that I originally entered the ship on. I try the lift to see if it's operational, but it's either not working or has been shut off. I turn back to the adjacent doorway and, with a hiss, they slowly slide open just enough for me to squeeze through sideways.
I look at the countdown clock added by the ship’s A.I. and see that I’m already down to 55:33. Even though the doors only take a few seconds to open, it feels like forever while I watch the clock run down. 55:29.
Finally, the double doors open enough to let me slide through sideways, and the front of my suit scrapes the
sides of the door as I do so. I notice the small bar at the bottom of my helmet for suit integrity drops by a small amount. Man, either that door is extra damaging, or this suit isn’t particularly durable.
The walls to my left and right are covered in cabinets and workbenches, and there are tools and parts everywhere. There is an observation ledge directly in front of me that looks out at an open two-story section that holds a large cylindrical shaped piece of machinery with thick cables and hoses extending from it to the rest of the ship. Two sets of stairs, one directly ahead and one to the left, lead down. I ignore the green dots for a moment and wonder what the heck this two-story thing is.
“Ship, what am I looking at?”
“Mr. Espinoza, you are looking at the ship's core. It was shut down when we crashed so that it would not explode.”
I take a hasty step back, a spike in my pulse revealing my sudden nervousness. “Explode?”
“Yes. But it’s perfectly safe for the moment. This is the most heavily fortified room on the entire ship. All the walls are double-thick ditanium. After all, it’s the heart of the ship.”
Looking closer at the ceiling and walls here, I see that the ship’s A.I. is correct. My pulse slows as I look around. Some of the cabinets along the walls have opened, spilling their contents, but there are no tears in the walls or ceiling, and the room itself seems free of damage.
“Mr. Espinoza, if you could please return to the task at hand. Time is running out.”
I glance at the clock, realizing that the ship is again correct. 51:12. I need to get moving, or I won’t be around for much longer. One of the cabinets along the wall flashes green, and I realize that the ship’s A.I is directing me there. I open the door and see that there are many large boxes, but only one is labeled ‘Emergency Patch System.’ As soon as I grab it, a new line of text appears in front of me.
Congratulations on completing part 1 of your quest.
Part 2: Use the patches and sealant canisters to patch the ship.
I shake my head at the messages. “Ship, what’s up with the text messages about quests and rewards?”
“It’s a system that I implemented for the engineering department. Research shows that breaking down large problems into a series of manageable tasks helps most people focus. Additionally, adding in rewards, whether just a notification or a physical prize, triggers the dopamine receptors in the brain and provides a person with a sense of accomplishment and pleasure. The quest system, as I call it, increased efficiency in the department by 32%.”
I chuckle. “More likely that the nerds in engineering liked the game aspects of the system--especially if you were giving them rewards for stuff that they already had to do.”
Opening the two-foot-long box of the patch system reveals two large metal canisters with nozzle heads on top lying on large silver squares. There are directions printed on the side of the canisters, but the letters have faded away. Thankfully, the ship provides me with directions.
To activate the emergency sealant foam, first pull the pin above the trigger. Then aim the nozzle at the tear or hole and pull the trigger.
“Thanks for the info, but how do I find all the holes in the hull?”
“I’ll highlight them for you. Please exit engineering, and you’ll see what I mean.”
I take the emergency box with me and follow the directions I’m given. As I step outside engineering, red squares pop up all over the ceiling and walls, highlighting not only the large tears and rents but even the holes too small for me to see without a close inspection. Looking down at my countdown clock. 48:21. The image of myself gasping for air as the clock runs out passes through my mind. For a moment, I feel overwhelmed and my breath starts to come in gasps. There are so many spots to seal, and I have such a limited amount of time.
“Mr. Espinoza, your heart rate is elevated. Please allow me to make the task simpler.”
The flood of red boxes on the ceiling and walls disappears except for one. The nearest tear in the ceiling remains highlighted in red, and new text appears in front of me.
Tears patched: 0/345
Well, that’s a little more help, I guess. I try to slow my breathing down as I walk under the highlighted tear in the ceiling. I take one of the canisters from the box, pull the pin, aim the canister at the hole and pull the trigger. A yellow liquid shoots out onto the ceiling where I’m aiming. The moment the liquid hits, it flows into the tear and begins expanding into a foam. I reach up and tap it and find it to have solidified. The text in front of me changes.
Tears patched: 1/345
47:15
A part of me is surprisingly happy to see that number change, and I realize that the ship may have been right about that whole dopamine thing. I’m more excited that patching the hull of the ship is easier than I thought it would be. But then my happiness evaporates as I realize that this one patch took over a minute and that, if there are over 300, I won’t make it if they all take that long. I need to move faster.
My adrenaline starts to pump madly as another tear in the ceiling is highlighted. I take three steps to the left and quickly aim the nozzle of the sealant and pull the trigger. The spray misses and I have to adjust to hit the tear but the foam seals it.
46:50
Too slow still. The next tear is highlighted, and I run toward it while spraying, all the while watching the numbers that represent the remaining part of my life tick down.
46:41
Better. I run and gun, spraying foam all along the ceiling and covering each small, highlighted tear.
33:08
Tears patched: 112/345
My heart cries out when the canister runs dry, knowing the precious seconds I’ll waste opening a new one. I fumble opening the supply box and grab the next canister, only to drop it from my shaking hands. I feel my heart racing, and my breath is labored from running. I close my eyes and force myself to take a deep breath. Calm down, John. Hurried hands make mistakes. You can’t afford mistakes. I open my eyes. My heart is still beating rapidly, but my breath comes more regularly. I kneel down, grab the next canister and get back to work.
32:26
I move into the other parts of the ship and seal the smaller hull breaches in the galley, tech lab, crew quarters, engineering support, medical, and the lounge with sealant.
15:05
Tears patched: 325/345
The last twenty holes are the worst. The holes are too big to fill with foam, and I have to use the silver squares in the bottom of the patch kit. I remove the paper backing, activate the adhesive, and cover the hole with the silver patch. After a few seconds, the silver square expands an inch in depth and solidifies. It’s an excruciatingly long process that takes a full minute to complete. I move as fast as I can, slapping them on as fast as their target is highlighted.
Sweat pours down my face, and I’m breathing heavily as I tap the last silver patch, sealing the last fist-sized hole in the hull. I look at the clock.
03:01
You have patched 345/345 tears in the hull of the ship. Quest: Seal all leaks in the ship’s hull, completed.
The notification is accompanied by the sound of trumpets and horns playing fanfare for a few seconds.
“Congratulations, John. You get to live. I’m starting up the environmental systems now.”
A sense of accomplishment hits me. I did do it, didn’t I? I wasn’t sure I could but, it’s done.
I hear a clunking noise that becomes a steady whirring sound as the system comes online.
I notice that the countdown clock hasn’t stopped even though I’ve patched up the hull, and whatever elation I felt transforms back into nervousness. “So, is that it? Can I take off my helmet? I’m getting pretty low on oxygen according to my readout.”
“Not yet. The system still has to cycle out the planet’s atmosphere before it can replace it with one suitable for you.”
“How long will that take? I’m already down to 02:22 of O2.”
There’s a pause be
fore the A.I. answers. “For the remaining parts of the ship, that will take ten minutes and forty-four seconds.”
“What?!?”
“Mr. Espinoza, your heart rate is increasing again. Please calm down before you start to hyperventilate. If you’ll go to one of the crew quarters and close the door, I’ll have the environmental system cycle out the atmosphere in that room first.”
Green dots appear along the floor, and I sprint, following them past engineering and the elevator to the hallway that I woke up in. Up a small set of stairs and to the right is a sliding door. It opens, and I walk right through to the crew quarters, which is basically another hallway with small rooms on either side for the senior staff of the ship. I enter the closest room on my left, and the door closes behind me. Inside, the room is a bed in the far corner, a fold-down desk, and a small dresser attached to the wall.
I sit on the bed as the sound of cycling air in the room increases and watch the numbers on the clock count down. Sweat pours off me, and my breathing is ragged as the clock hits 01:00. I wonder if the ship is going to finish processing the atmosphere in the room before I run out of air. Maybe the A.I. has gone rogue and plans to kill me. Maybe it’s mad that I refuse to call it by a name like a real person. There have been cases where an A.I. wasn’t correctly coded or given too much freedom and killed a person before. At least, there are stories about it. After all, why would a machine really care about us biologicals?
