Rocket Man
25 Dec 2018Today’s prompt: “You are an astronaut. Describe your perfect day.”
The day couldn’t have started better. Somehow, hidden in all the packages of freeze-dried creamed spinach and chicken teriyaki, there was a packet of beef enchiladas and, wonder of wonders, some shrimp cocktail. You could have sworn you were out of the good stuff. Maybe the beef enchilada fairy visited overnight.
Conditions were perfect for the descent to Mars. You and Maria take the lander down to the surface. It touches down as smoothly as a fat snowflake nestling in the branch of a fir tree.
“Let’s draw straws for who gets to go first,” Maria says. She produces two foil strips she’s saved from the tops of food packets, one trimmed shorter than the other. She turns her back to you, fiddling with the strips, then turns back around, the two ends poking out of her fist at an equal height. You suck in your breath and pick the one on the left. She opens her hand and holds up her strip, showing you she has the short one.
“Lucky bastard,” she says.
You step out of the lander. The surface is curiously springy, the powdery dust giving way below your footsteps. Despite the bulk of your space suit, you feel exhilarated. Maria follows, and then Paul, Aubrey and Colin from the other lander. You all set to work connecting pieces of the base.
You look up, shading your eyes against the sun’s glare. Deimos and Phobos are both out in the orange-y sky. It’s breathtaking. Your heart swells. You’re the first ones. The first humans on this planet.
You and Maria hop back aboard your lander to head back to the orbiter for more equipment. As you lift off, you hear a clank. You radio to Aubrey, who’s pulling the last of the gear out of the second lander, “I think I heard something as we took off. Can you see anything out of order on the outside of our lander?”
“I can’t see anything from here. Have Scott check you out as you get closer,” she says.
You relay the same message to Scott up in the orbiter, and he agrees to keep an eye out as you ascend.
You’re almost to the orbiter when Scott radios down, “I can see it now. The docking mechanism came loose. It’s still partly attached, but you’ll need to rebolt the one side. Easy fix.”
“You want to handle it?” Maria says. “I know you love your space walks.”
You do love your space walks. When you rode roller coasters as a kid, at the moment before the big drop, you always wondered if walking out in space alongside your ship would feel like that. But fixing a broken part on the outside of a spacecraft is like free climbing in Zero G. It’s intense.
You’ve just reattached the docking mechanism when Maria calls out, “There’s something wrong with the controls. The fuel – I can’t–”
Any further explanation is immediately cut off. The lander burns through a sudden burst of rocket fuel and jolts toward the orbiter. Your torque wrench is long gone. You’re lucky to hold on to the railing.
The lander hits the side of the orbiter with a crumpling sound, then pulls away. “Maria?” you call out on your radio. “Maria!” No one answers.
You work your way to the lander’s door and pound on it. “Maria!” No response. Frantically, you pound with both fists. You’re not even trying not to cry, even though you know your tears have nowhere to go. You beat both fists against the door.
Which is when you notice the frayed end of your broken tether float past your face.
You reach for the railing, but it’s already too far away.