A Walk Between Stars

by Tyler Parsons

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Half Title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tyler R. Parsons

  Copyright © 2015 Tyler R. Parsons

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 069258613X

  ISBN-13: 978-0692586136

  To Mindi, who supports me in all my crazy creative endeavors.

  Tyler R. Parsons

  CHAPTER ONE

  The ship exploded while I was reaching for a wrench.

  Quinn and I were well into the second hour of our space walk, repairing the power array, when the vessel shuddered under a massive internal explosion. The ship’s hull cracked in the silence of space, sending us spinning out and away from the ship.

  The safety cord attached at my hip jerked me to a brief stop about ten meters out, before rebounding slowly back towards the ship. I reached out frantically, and found purchase on the end of one of the massive power array blades, bringing my slow rotation to a halt. Quinn still drifted at the end of his line, spinning and flailing.

  A long crack ran the entire length of the ship. The crack was about fifteen centimeters wide at most, but that was enough to forcibly jettison the inhabitants into the vacuum of space along with the ship’s atmosphere and any loose debris.

  “Whoa!” Quinn’s voice echoed inside my helmet. “Briggs! Briggs, you ok?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and you?”

  “Fine man. As soon as I stop spinning,” he said, drifting close enough to the other side of the array to grab hold. “Ah. What the hell was that?”

  “Our ride cracking open,” I said.

  We stared at the debris—including the body-like shapes—floating farther and farther away. Quinn swore under his breath. All I could do was nod in agreement. The scene was slow and surreal.

  Quinn screamed, "SUCK!"

  I pulled in a deep breath. He met my gaze.

  We're alone. They're all dead!

  "Any idea what happened?" I asked.

  “No clue,” he said, “but we’re in trouble.”

  The ship kicked again with a second explosion. Blue flames flashed from the crack, extinguishing immediately. With my stomach tight and my eyes a bit blurry, I held firm to the power array as it bucked under me.

  The large console door our safety straps were attached to ripped free at the hinges and flew straight at me. I tried to pull myself flat against the array, but it came too fast, and I wasn’t nimble enough in my suit. The two meter tall chunk of metal struck me in the shoulder, throwing me back hard into a support brace—knocking my breath away—then ricocheted off into space. A second later I gasped deeply to a sharp pain shooting from shoulder blade to kidney. The strap at my hip tightened then jerked, pulling me away from the array. I panicked, grasping and kicking at the vacuum that surrounded me, but I was too far out. I continued to float away from the ship, being drug by the twisted door at a constant speed. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Quinn swinging into me like a sluggish wrecking ball in a ballet.

  When I regained consciousness, the ship was nowhere to be found. I was strapped to the twisted metal door by my tether. I craned around, twisting to get a better look behind me.

  “It’s gone,” Quinn said in a deadpan tone.

  Figures.

  I tapped my arm pad to wake up my computer, brought up the emergency menu, and turned my suit’s distress beacon on. I told Quinn to do likewise.

  “Way ahead of you, “ he responded. “But who’s gonna hear it out here?”

  I shrugged. He was right. We were working a deep space research vessel. No one would be anywhere near our coordinates. No one’s coming—at least not in time.

  I checked my water cells. They were fully topped off; showing ninety-seven percent. “Quinn, what’re your cells at? I’m pretty much full,” I said.

  The suits ran on water. In addition to keeping the occupant hydrated, the suit could convert the water to oxygen, for breathing; and hydrogen to power the computer, communications, heating, cooling, and the waste disposal systems. With full water cells the suit could keep a man alive for seven to ten days, although he would find himself mighty hungry by the end.

  “You don’t wanna know,” he said as he activated his arm pad to check. “I had more than enough to get the array back up, but not much more.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Eight percent” he said.

  Jeez, I thought. “That sucks.”

  We both knew our suits weren’t compatible for transferring water between them. He wore an old Simmons J-6 that was nearly two decades older than the suit I wore; not to mention a different manufacturer with proprietary valve systems. We wouldn’t be sharing any water.

  “How efficient is your suit?” I asked.

  I could hear him take in a deep breath then exhale slowly. “I might get twelve to fifteen hours out of that. Maybe even bump it up as high as twenty if I stop hydrating.”

  Day one. We decided sleeping was an easy way to slow down our metabolism and oxygen consumption. Quinn insisted we sleep in shifts —just in case. Neither one of us were particularly tired, so we played rock, paper, scissors to decide who would sleep first. I lost.

  When I awoke, Quinn was dead. While I was sleeping he had chosen to give up the ghost.

  Selfish bastard.

  Quinn’s visor was open, exposing him to the vacuum of space. His face was swollen purple and covered in frost. His eyes were crusted over with blood and ice.

  I tapped his arm pad. It showed his reserves at three percent. He would have been dead in half a day anyways, and there was nothing either of us could have done about it.

  My eyes watered slightly, blurring my vision. The damn suit prevented me from rubbing them clear. All I could do was blink.

  Day two. I awoke to a growling belly and the disturbing stillness of Quinn floating next to me. I thought about cutting him loose and letting him drift off. One good shove and we’d fly apart—two minutes later he’d be nothing more than a speck in the blackness of space.

  Instead, I pulled him in, and used his safety strap to tie him flat against the door panel.

  “I hope you don’t mind pal,” I said, “but I think I’m gonna look for my own place.” I chuckled. “Maybe something with an ocean view.”

  I pulled his visor down—something I should have done yesterday.

  "Goodbye man. You were all right.”

  I took up residence on the opposite side of the door. Out of sight, out of mind—hopefully.

  Day three. The hunger started to infiltrate my every waking thought.

  I found myself sleeping more and more, drifting in and out.

  Day four. I caught a second wind. The boredom was beyond anything I could have imagined. When I was awake, I spent my time trying to amuse myself in various ways. Anything to keep from thinking about my situation, and my loss.

  When playing “Name That Tune” with the music stored in my suit’s computer got old, I played connect the stars—first looking for any shape that could be construed as a man or beast, later finding every letter of the alphabet in the stars, which eventually progressed to finding random words.

  When that got too repetitious to continue, I opened
the tool pouch strapped to my leg, to see if there was anything in there I could occupy my time with. I pulled out the laser torch, and cut the head off of a bolt in the door, shaved the edges until it roughly resembled a six sided cube. I torched dots into the sides of the cube; one to six. I cut a second bolt head free and duplicated my efforts. I tossed the pair of rough metal dice back and forth, watching them slowly float and spin between my hands. I magnetized the panel on my upper left thigh, where I would typically store loose tools or parts on a job, and tossed the dice. They hit my leg and snapped to the magnetized surface. Craps anyone?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Day five. My com systems woke me with a crackle. “Respond,” a voice said.

  “Respond,” it repeated stiffly.

  I jerked awake, to a large cigar shaped ship no more than five meters in front of me. What a glorious sight. It was so close that it made it difficult to judge its size accurately. But it looked like it may have been a couple hundred meters long and fifty meters tall.

  “Respond,” the voice echoed again.

  I could feel the thick coating of dryness causing my mouth to stick to my teeth. I worked my mouth and tongue to spread the saliva around. It pinched a little as I opened my mouth and croaked, “Hello. I’m here.” Thank God.

  I unstrapped myself from my floating metal plank and pushed off, landing against the port hatch. I could see through the window in the port to a small decompression area, and through a second window on the other side of the chamber; into what was the ship’s interior. This was not a human port.

  The voice spoke. “Come to the port,” it said, again very stiff and proper.

  “I am,” I said. “I’m at the port.”

  Then my savior’s bulbous bug-like head and upper torso appeared. I recognized the species immediately. We called their race the Manti, because of the obvious similarities they had with the praying mantis from earth. They had two arms, four thin insect-like legs, and exoskeletons; with a head, thorax, and abdomen. Their heads were slightly more humanoid, with two large eyes broken into five facets each. They had elongated arms, but instead of hands at the end of their arms, they had about a dozen sharp armored digits running up and down each side of the forearms.

  It moved its mandibles. Pause, then “Where is your ship?” came through the com system.

  Ah, that explains the formal stiffness in the voice—it was a translator.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been adrift for five days.”

  “Where is your ship?” it repeated.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen it since the first day.”

  “Correction. What is the status of your ship?” it said.

  “Oh,” I said, “completely inoperable. No other survivors.”

  “Can it be repaired?”

  “No. No I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Understood,” the voice said. “How may we help?”

  “Uh,” I stammered, “You could invite me to come aboard.”

  Pause. “Impossible. Sorry,” the voice said. ”How may we help?”

  “What do you mean impossible?” I asked. Why the hell not?

  Another long pause, followed by the voice, “Our atmosphere is not compatible with your biology and much too corrosive for your suit to withstand.”

  It came back to me. The Manti originated from a cold planet; far from the heat of their star. They weren’t water based like humans, but rather methane based. At the colder temperature and higher pressure of their planet, methane is a liquid rather than the gas it is on earth. My hope fell.

  “How cold is it in there?” I asked—not that there was any chance I could just bundle up.

  “Negative 252 celsius.” It said. “How may we help?”

  I looked at my arm pad—thirty-three percent on my water cells. “I don’t suppose you have any liquid water in there?”

  “Please hold,” the voice said. Then a long pause while I could see it turning to talk to someone out of view. A minute later, “We have the ability to process water for you.”

  “Great.” I said. At least that’s something. If they can top off my suit, maybe I can last long enough to starve to death. “How about food?” I asked.

  The Manti looked down at a computer pad he held and worked the screen with several of its pincer-like digits. Then looked back at me and said, “Yes.”

  Oh, now we’re getting somewhere. I started to chuckle to myself in anticipation.

  The Manti asked me to identify the water inlet on my suit. I lifted my left arm and turned so he could see the valve located there. He asked me to hold still, while he held up his pad and scanned me. Then informed me that they could easily manufacture a connecting valve. It then stepped out of view.

  “Hello?” I said.

  Nothing.

  I waited for twenty minutes—then felt a vibration. And pulled myself back to the port window to see the interior door being closed.

  The voice came on again, “You may open the port.”

  I tried the handle and it turned freely, clicked, then pulled open. There was a canister, maybe equivalent to three or four gallons sitting on the floor next to several silver wrapped bars. I reached for a bar, and pushed my finger into it. It gave way to allow a finger impression. Ration bars. “Thanks,“ I said.

  I connected the canister to the inlet valve on my suit. It snapped nicely together. Thirty seconds later my suit was fully charged.

  I picked up a ration bar and stepped into the small chamber, turned around, and tried to close the door. It was a pointless exercise. The chamber wasn’t deep enough for me to get the door sealed.

  I stepped back out, and turned to the interior window. “How am I supposed to eat this? Do you have another port larger, that I can decompress in?”

  “We have three ports,” the voice said. “All of equal size.”

  That’s not good. “So?” I said questioningly as I held the bar up to the window and wiggled it between my finger and thumb.

  “Please hold,” it said. Then turned to speak out of view again.

  “Our doctor has determined that it is safe for you to eat.”

  “What?” I said. “I assumed you checked it was safe for me eat already. I’m asking how you expect me to eat it out here in the vacuum of space?” I tapped my face plate for emphasis.

  “Apologies,” it said. “Our doctor has determined your species can withstand the vacuum long enough to place the food in your mouth.”

  “Really?” I said. “You think I should just pull my helmet off, pop in a bite, then put my helmet back on before I die?” Was it kidding?

  “Yes,” it said matter-of-factly. Then after a pause, “It will be very cold, and you must not hold your breath or your lungs will explode and you will die. Your species can withstand approximately fifteen seconds before passing out. If you pass out, you will die within ninety seconds.”

  “I’m familiar with the dangers,” I said. “It just never occurred to me to risk my life for a bite to eat.”

  “Are you not capable of performing this?” it asked.

  I shrugged. “I’d like to tell you that I’m not actually hungry enough to try. But honestly, I can’t. I’m starving.”

  I mulled it over for all of thirty seconds. As crazy as it sounded, this was possible, and would keep me alive longer, thus increasing my odds of rescue significantly. I opened the bar, tore off a chunk that was about as big of a bite as my mouth could handle, and steadied my nerves. I tapped my arm pad and navigated to the safety menu. I disengaged the safety override for my visor. Then I took a deep breath, and started blowing it out through my nose—completely. One second… two seconds… as I approached three seconds, my lungs felt empty and I had to force the remaining air out. I clenched my eyes down tight, and opened my visor.

  Fwoosh—I heard the air in my suit escape, followed by silence, then two loud painful pops as my ears tried to equalize. The cold bit at once, like plunging my face into a bowl of ice water. My previously empty
lungs, no longer felt empty as the hidden air that eluded my exhale expanded quickly under the lack of pressure. I continued to exhale. I immediately reached for my mouth trying to guide the piece of ration bar inside, it was clumsier than I had anticipated (doing it blind with a gloved hand).

  I felt the bar on my lips, and moved my mouth to take it in. I pulled my hand free, and snapped my visor closed. The suit took over, quickly pressurizing, and replenishing my atmosphere. I forced myself to count to a painful ten before trying to take in a much-needed breath. My lungs burned. I opened my eyes and felt the small ice crystals that had already started to form around my eyelashes crack and pull away. I blinked a few times to make sure everything was ok.

  Only then, did I remember I actually had food in my mouth and started to chew and explore it with my tongue. Something so bland and acidic never tasted so good. My ears re-pressurized as I chewed.

  I looked at the Manti, “Mmmmmmmm,” I said and gave him a thumbs up. He didn’t respond; likely he was unfamiliar with the gesture.

  “Please hold,” it said again, then walked off to the left out of view.

  I inspected the water canister closer.

  I had done the math on the efficiency of my suit over the last five days. I was getting about eight days out of a full charge. I could stretch that to nine if I didn’t drink after day seven. That might be long enough for help to arrive—providing the Manti run into someone in time.

  I looked at the ration bar closer. The denseness and texture of it was consistent with the ration bars I had experienced before, though the flavor was less satisfying—if that was even possible. I could not read the label, but the bars I was familiar with provided enough calories per bar to sustain a man for several days. My large bite should be enough for roughly a day. I counted the bars; there were six—well, six and two thirds. At three to four days per bar that was twenty to twenty-seven days worth. So I was back to suffocating long before I would die of starvation; providing I didn’t kill myself eating them in the process. Always the upside.