by Glenn Damato
We reach the end and I begin again.
“The Lord is my shepherd . . . I shall not want.”
Blair screws her eyes shut and cries.
Don’t stop. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Never stop.
Fourth reading, all of us speak as one. Yes, Jürgen too. Mikki sniffles between lines.
Six readings.
“The Lord is my shepherd . . . I shall not want . . .”
There’s no air, but we somehow find breath for seven readings.
We’re one tight ball of hands and arms and faces, all of us, clutching each other, no one outside our mass of individuals, no one alone. It’s good.
Tranquility. A new calm. Our minds ease, our minds rest.
Eight readings.
Time loses meaning. It’s no longer necessary to breathe. It becomes an unconscious act, the pain forgotten. Eric speaks with his eyes shut, each word puffed out separately.
Ninth reading.
Nothing matters now. The words are our only reality.
Eric’s eyes, closed. He’s thinking.
“The Lord is my shepherd . . . I shall not want . . .”
Eric screams, “Stop! Stop! Just stop!” He wipes his hand across his face. “The power panel is a voltage drop.”
No one moves. Just quicks pants and huffs.
Norberto asks, “What?”
“Everything here, a voltage drop. Switch everything off.” Eric huffs in three breaths. “To get the voltage higher. Lights, panels, sensors, fans. Everything. Including the power panel. There’s a whole sub bus . . . under that.”
Ryder mumbles, “Shut down the whole panel?”
Darien says, “No! Can’t run the script without the panel.”
Eric’s words are calm and clear. “Script eighty-five millimeter position. Schedule the script to run in one minute, disconnect, shut down the panel and the sub bus. Reactor still on internal local power, absolutely nothing else draws. Take the whole power panel out of the equation.”
“No!” says Darien, shaking his head. “No way to get information. No way to know if it works or not.”
Norberto adds, “We’ll be blind. Know nothing about the status.”
“So what?” I growl through my burning throat. “Eric! Listen to me! Schedule a new script to set the reflector at the higher position. Then shut everything down, just like you said. Everything! Do it!”
FORTY-SEVEN
Endurance dies. Only the people within live and breathe.
Eric gives the signal and Darien throws the breakers. The cabin, every panel, every readout goes dark. The only illumination is from handheld lights, set to red to preserve night vision. Ryder releases Jürgen, and props two of the lights upward so they shine against the ceiling and bathe the compartment in a dim red glow.
“In forty minutes it will work, or not,” says Eric. He’s at his end. “No, wait. Even after the point of adding heat, need time for the thermionic generator to put a sustaining charge on the banks. Thirty minutes more.”
Ryder is next to Eric. “How do we know when enough time passed?”
“I can count seconds,” says Indra, her voice barely audible. “I did that . . . when I was a little girl. See how accurate I could be. I’ll hold up my finger when I get to sixty.”
“I’ll count seventy minutes,” Laine says. She can scarcely pronounce the words.
It’s so dark. Fast huffs and pants from all around. Paige and Norberto bleed all the remaining compressed oxygen from the suit packs. It isn’t much. Now CO2 is the problem. Massive headache, hard to think at all.
Time passes without knowing. Indra and Laine no longer counting off minutes—but no one notices. Or cares. Minds fade fast, fast and unseen.
“Twenty minutes, I think.” I force myself to announce. “Indra, still counting?”
She turns her head slowly. “Messed up.”
All their gasping grows louder.
“Jewel!” I call across the darkness.
A faraway voice answers, “What is it?”
“How many children . . . do you want to have?”
She doesn’t respond. “How many—”
“Heard you!” She growls, the words hard. “What kind . . . of stupid question?”
“How many?”
“Screw you.”
“Okay, Jewel. Just . . . think about it.”
“Three,” calls out another female voice. Senuri.
“No kids,” gasps Mikki. “Hate diapers.”
“Stupid,” snorts another voice. Irene? “Don’t you feel it? We’re dying.”
I struggle to think of words. “Irene. I bet you . . . bet you . . .”
Ryder slides to my side and wraps his arm around me. “Be still,” he mouths. “Conserve air.”
Is it happening? Truly, truly dying? Too gone to know it?
That’s what it’s like to die. You don’t know it.
“Indra!” I rasp. “Counting?”
No answer.
“Been an hour,” says a gruff voice. Andre?
Ryder’s breath is warm and good. He shifts his weight, leans his head closer. “Need to get . . . breaker. Now. Before.”
I nod. I don’t know why.
He rises to his feet but almost falls over. “Eric. Almost time.”
“No!”
“An hour?”
“Wait. Do it before, will trip . . . system. Wait!”
Ryder leans against the wall. What’s he worried about? Oh, the reactor. A cake, baking. Is it ready? I know—the frost will tell us.
Frost, or no frost.
Is it possible to stand?
Which window? Opposite the hatch. I grab at blackness. Ryder pulls me, and I stand on floppy legs, two straws really. Now the window. All iced over. I wipe it with my arm.
Ryder holds a light against the glass. Rocks. Frosted over. There’s the cable. There’s the mound.
And a big dark circle around the mound.
I pant out three simple words. “Big, dark, circle.”
Ryder peers out. He must see it too. He wipes the glass more and squeaks, “Son! Son of a . . . bitch.”
Legs feeble, I’m going down.
Heads rotate, just a bit.
Eric mumbles, “What?”
I’m on top of somebody. “Eric. No frost.”
“No frost!” Ryder repeats. “Hear that? It’s . . . hot!”
Big dark circle, with no frost.
“Shit,” says Eric.
I tell him, “Ready.”
“No. Not yet.”
We’ll all just sleep if we wait. Ryder crawls toward the access hatch. The breaker. Shut the master breaker, turn everything back on.
When? Now? Time passes. Ryder sits at the edge of the hatch. “Hold me,” he says.
I take his arms. He puts his legs inside the hatch.
And drops.
Something rude slaps me in the face. My face against the cold floor.
More time slips. Can’t even see except straight ahead. Like a hole. Is this death?
Lights.
It hurts! Bright yellow, bluish too. Panels. Buzzers wail, three or four of them. Painful sounds! A wind comes. Soft, warm, wonderful. Sleep takes it all away.
FORTY-EIGHT
Alison leans forward, smiling.
“Your favorite stuff,” she says, placing a cup on the table in front of me. “Nice and hot this time.”
“Relax.” That’s from Ryder. He strokes my hair tenderly. “We’re safe.”
Sunlight, delicious air, joyful faces. The light is funny. Someone unfolded the America states flag and hung it over the large window. The low morning sun shines through the red and white stripes. The stripes are beautiful and somehow, in some crazy way, happy. Captain Stephen Baines, United States Navy, do you see this?
“Reactor running?”
They burst into laughter. “I guess so,” says Mikki.
I gulp tea. Yes, nice and hot. Everyone’s here, everyone so close together. “We re
st for one hour,” I tell them. “Then we get to work.”
Another explosion of laughter.
Their eyes will not leave me. They grin and giggle even as they stuff their faces with mush. That’s fine. A sunbeam peeks from behind the flag and plays on Ryder’s and Alison’s faces.
“When you’re feeling better,” Senuri says to me, “You can take a hot shower. Then sleep. Or whatever you want. This is a holiday, whether you like it or not.”
A third round of laughs and hoots.
“Reactor performing perfectly,” Eric says. “I’m not touching that bastard ever again.”
I drain the tea. “Need to figure out when we can get back to Liberty and pull the batteries.”
Ryder says to me, “Plenty of time for that. Since this is a holiday, we need to do something special. We should name this place.”
“The whole valley?” asks Indra.
“The whole planet. We earned that right.” Ryder places his palm behind my neck and caresses my skin with his fingers. “For thousands of years, humans looked up at this planet and saw a little speck in the sky. They invented names for it. But they never came here, did they? Why should they get to name it? From this day forward, this place, this place of ours, this big ball of red grit, will be known as Mars Free Planet.”
Cheers and applause from all around. I close my eyes and smile.
Shuko says, “Mars Free Planet, shit.”
“Mars Free Planet,” Ryder corrects him. “This is official.” He gazes at me. “What is the name of this place?”
All their voices merge as one. “Mars Free Planet!”
I take his fingers and press them against my cheek.
He runs his other hand though my hair again. “Get used to it. Let’s say it again, nice and loud, just to make sure we remember. What is the name of this place we call home?”
“Mars! Free! Planet!”
Breakfast goes on forever. Maybe it will take all day. Alison and Darien slide piles of used food trays back into the printer. Irene asks, “Where’s Jürgen?”
Tess looks away.
“Sulking in the airlock,” says Kelis.
Someone snickers.
Senuri says, “Cristina, you might not like this, but I propose we hold a common meeting at this time, an assembly. I believe we should discuss and vote under Article One on the question of whether to remove the captain and elect a new one.” She glances around. “We’re all here.”
“You’re right, I don’t like it,” I tell her. “We should wait until we’re rested and had some time to think. We can set a date for an assembly.”
Vijay would have been helpful figuring this out.
Senuri says, “We should focus on logistics, is what you’re saying.”
“Exactly. Not sure what that word means, but it sounds good.”
They laugh. None of my jokes can go wrong.
An alarm clangs, a blaring BING BING BING from the warning panel.
There’s a hiss from the equipment bay.
The panel shrieks, “Low cabin pressure! Low cabin pressure!”
Ryder shouts, “Hatch vent!” He jumps down into the equipment bay and twists the vent handle. The hiss stops. I drop down the hatch. At that instant a massive BOOM shakes the floor. Sudden sunlight streams through the little airlock window. I put my eye to the glass. The outer hatch is wide open! No Jürgen. Wait!
Jürgen, on the surface, with no helmet. He lies still, legs splayed across the ramp, the rest of him on the surface of Mars.
Ryder says, “He blew right out!”
How much time?
“Help me!” I leap at the two red L-handles between the airlock and the hygiene compartment. I rotate them together.
Ryder yells, “What the hell?”
He pounces on me and grabs my arms. I’m not letting go of the handles. I kick him with all my strength and it catches him by surprise.
Air jets from my nose and mouth. Someone shouts, “Oh, shit!”
Another alarm, a deep drone. The main panel cries, “Decompression! Decompression!”
All noise fades, like diving under a wave at the beach. I hurt all over, and there’s a gray mist.
Pull him back. Possible? Yes. Now, open the inner hatch. But it won’t move.
Latches! Pull hard!
Wetness, everywhere. Why?
I swing the inner hatch open, push it into Ryder.
Sunlight. Too bright! The rocky brown surface, all bare. I’m in the airlock. My lips and tongue are thick. He’s face down, ass up. Grab his legs. Cold! Heavy!
I pull hard and fast and fall backwards through the hatch. A smack on the temple. All is gray.
A ROAR . . . Ears popping, and I hurt, so I’m alive.
Cussing and crying—from other people. Eric shouts, “Get the nitrogen line!” They’re venting gas into the cabin. A clear thought bursts into my head: Do we even have enough oxygen to replace the air we just lost?
The outer hatch is closed, but I didn’t do it. Ryder clutches the handle. Eyes shut, mouth twisted in pain, knee firmly on my chest.
I scream, “Shuko! Down here!”
Head hurts all over. Ryder’s off me so I pull Jürgen’s upper body from the airlock. He’s cold, stiff, and his blood smears my flight suit. Is he even breathing?
“Shuko!” I yell again. “Blair!”
Fade out, then back again.
What’s happening now? Shuko’s sitting on Jürgen, going up and down on his chest with both hands. Blaire squeezes something that sticks into his mouth, a device from the medical kit, a resuscitator.
I sit up so I can cradle Jürgen in my arms. He moves, sucks in air, then dribbles a thick gob of saliva across his cheek. Blaire pulls the resuscitator off his face and he gasps, coughs, and squirms against my arms. His nose is the source of most of the blood.
“Jürgen! Can you hear me?”
His eyes open and he nods.
Paige mutters from above, “That was stupid.”
“Stupid!” someone agrees. Norberto?
Stupid? Who was stupid, Jürgen? Or me?
Full life returns to my brain. That triggers a scream directed at all of them. “What’s wrong with you?” I stroke Jürgen’s bloody head and hold him close. His heartbeat throbs against my chest.
We look at each other for a while, but it’s not fear in his eyes. It’s more like amazement.
Shuko listens to Jürgen’s heart and examines his head, eyes and mouth. Ryder turns to me. “Almost killed us.”
Darien pushes his face through the hatch directly above. “You crazy?”
I take Jürgen’s icy fingers into my hand and squeeze tight. They all watch, sniffing and coughing, staring, just waiting for me.
“All of us! I said all of us, and I meant it!”
No response except huffing. That’s fine. There are a few things more they need to know.
“We can survive this environment. But lies will kill us. We made mistakes. We’ll make more. So right now, we start fresh. We have to. Look outside! Look! There’s no one else here!”
Ryder shakes his head and there’s a weak smile. I gaze upward into the packed control center.
“Life is precious. We won’t last long without respect for every life. Protect each other, or everything we’ve been through was for nothing.”
Will it be enough?
Is this the purpose Paco spoke of?
The answer must be yes, because hands and arms reach out to me . . .
. . . touch me . . .
. . . pull me to my feet, and clutch me, so we are together . . .
All of us.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am tremendously thankful for the insights and contributions that a variety of people have made to this novel. First, my thanks to Cori McCarthy, Amy Rose Capetta, Tom Fagan, Diane Elliot, and Dolores Lowe, who provided critical feedback during the earliest phase of my writing and encouraged me keep trying and maybe shape something out of that raw first draft.
Al
so, I’m grateful for everyone who provided their expertise during every phase of development. Naomi Long helped me better understand the themes expressed in the story, and Tom Ligon supplied his engineering know-how to improve the authenticity of the technical struggles besieging the characters. Laura Montgomery and Jeffery D. Kooistra generously gifted me their time and thoughts when I most needed my spirits re-ignited. Special thanks to Robert Bidinotto for his “tough love” criticism that enabled me to see the light.
Finally, I would like to thank the following people for their ongoing confidence and encouragement: David Hannon, Mark Kirsnis, Dan Bohlke, Peggy DiGiacomo, Gene & Joyce Gonzales, Doug Roberts, Dena Ellison, Karin Divens, Dave Terman, Nolen James, Saurabh Saneja, Michelle Medhat, Tamara Wilhite, and my brother Paul Damato.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Glenn Damato studied physics and astronomy at the University of Iowa. He served in the US Navy as a nuclear propulsion plant operator aboard an attack submarine. He has worked as a McDonald’s cook, a taxi driver, a car salesman, a loan officer, a debt collector, a private investigator, a technical support engineer, and a software instructor. A lifelong space and aviation enthusiast, he holds a pilot’s license and while at sea level he enjoys sailing. He is the author of the bestselling memoir Breaking Seas. The Far Shore is his first novel.
We hope you enjoyed this book!
www.TheFarShoreBook.com
