Mission 52 - a short story [1682 words] by Joanna Pogwash
Communications... check. Control systems... check. Fuel tank 1 pressure... check. Fuel tank 2 pressure... check. Oxidizer pressure... check. Manifold pressure... check. Engine pressure... check. Auxiliaries... check. On-board... check. Stabilizers... check. Navigation systems... check. All systems... check. Sequence 1 check... complete. Green light... proceeding to countdown.
I don't care how many times you practice anything or how realistic the simulator is, it's never like the real thing. Fifteen orbital repair missions plus three stints in the Space Station, but this time was different. We were never coming back from this trip. Planetary colonization is a one-way trip. There's only enough fuel and supplies for one way, besides there will be nothing to come back to by then. My heart is racing. I must calm down. "Get a grip, kid! This is just routine." I can hear the seasoned Mission Commander say. He can sense my anxiety.
My whole life has been a preparation for this mission. Since I was old enough to hold a crayon, Mom's refrigerator was covered with my spaceships, along with the walls of my room, my sheets, and even my pajamas. I was destined to be an astronaut and I proclaimed this fact through every backpack, lunchbox, and pair of sneakers I could find and get Mom to buy. Every decision as I was growing up was made with this destiny in mind: from the courses I took in school, what sport I pursued, and which college I went to. Each one was a step closer to the Johnson Space Flight Center and ultimately this mission.
There was so much more than my obsession riding on this mission: the fifty-second act of desperation of a dying race... and probably the last. With the population growing out of control, in spite of epidemics and armed conflicts around the world, the environment becoming more toxic by the day, and resources becoming ever more scarce, mankind simply had to find another inhabitable planet, and fast. The plankton was dying and with it eighty-five percent of the planet's oxygen production. Years of waste and chemicals dumped into the sea had set this doomsday clock of nature into this, its final countdown.
Astronomers had located fifty-two most promising planets from among the many worlds that were either too hot or too cold, too big or too small, having no atmosphere or too much atmosphere to allow the solar rays to bathe the surface with life-giving energy. The days were too long or too short, no oxygen or no carbon dioxide for the plants. So many things had to be right and within such a narrow range of possibilities, that almost all were excluded, but there were fifty-two.
These fifty-two most promising planets had been arranged in order of proximity, each farther away, each requiring more and more fuel and time, stretching the limits of interstellar travel, and fifty-one had been crushing disappointments. Each one had some critical flaw, some "show-stopper," as the planetary ecologists referred to them. The first had such high levels of background radiation that the colonists didn't survive for long. The second had such high pH or alkalinity that our life, whose building blocks are amino acids, could have never survived outside of the ship. Each failed mission had sent back the discouraging news. The colonists had been brave. I reminded myself that they would have died here too. Our fate is always the same in the end.
One-by-one the candidate planets had been reached... and eliminated for some insurmountable incompatibility. One-by-one the hopes of civilization had been raised to a crescendo and dashed to the ground--the precious, life-sustaining ground. This planet we have always called home. How could we have come to this point of desperation? How could we have let these problems fester past the point of crisis to the point of no return? If we could focus our efforts sufficiently to be leaving, why could we not have focused our efforts sufficiently to preserve what we had? How many times had I asked these questions?
The trembling of the rocket--the calm before the storm of lift-off--banished these thoughts from my mind as my senses became flooded with the sensations of this indescribable rush, "we have ignition! We have lift off! Mission 52 is on its way!" The feeling of helplessness that overcomes you in the first seconds when you are pinned back, knowing that there is no safety release, no ejection seat, no parachute, and no way to turn back the fury, is both overwhelming and life-changing. Either you will make it or you won't. There are no other options and you are headed toward the outcome like a bullet out of a gun.
Six seconds in and something doesn't feel right. The shaking is too violent. There is a continuous transition from one sensation to another: the vibration, the pull against my body, the sound of the great thrusters. "Increase stabilizers." Twelve seconds in and the shaking returns to normal, or perhaps "expected" would be more accurate. Twenty-one seconds in and a warning is raised. "Relieve excess manifold pressure." Twenty-nine seconds in. "Close manifold relief."
Everything seems to function as it should for another ninety-five seconds. With two seconds left in the first stage burn, fuel pump six completely drops out, but I can't feel it. The acceleration has reached its peak, with the maximum thrust and minimum weight, as the last of the fuel is burned. It shouldn't matter. The second stage will carry us into orbit and then up to cruising speed. When we are safely out of range, I will engage the thermonuclear drive and then relax and enjoy the ride and a very long nap. The rest should be routine and boring as usual, at least it better be.
Four minutes and fifty-one seconds following ignition and the initial panic that accompanies every lift-off has past. I begin running through the systems and checks. Everything seems A-OK. The brief concern with stabilizers, the excessive manifold pressure, and even the failed fuel pump are far behind me now, floating somewhere in the Atlantic awaiting retrieval, although it will more than likely never be used again. This mission will be successful. It had better be successful!
The checks are finally complete and we engage the thermonuclear drive, which will propel our space age Ark to near light speed over a period of several months, during which we will sleep and never notice. The trip will last over eighty-seven years, but we will sleep through it all. I engage the drive and key the computer to begin the IVs. As I drift off, I reassure myself one last time: everything will go as planned and this mission will be successful. It must be successful, or there will be no one left to care.
As I begin to waken, I feel the vibration and hear the rattle and creaking of the ship. This is not right. What else has gone wrong with Mission 52? The entire left side of my body is unresponsive. My left eye will not open. Somehow I throw off the fog of hyper-sleep and manage to sit up. I'm the pilot and I must make corrections. I must collect information. I must make decisions. Others are stirring. We have reached our destination and the computer is raising us from the death-like sleep.
We're entering the atmosphere. This is not supposed to happen. We're supposed to orbit and collect data, then find a suitable place to land. This must not happen! We have no boosters to lift us from this surface. This elevator only goes down. The shaking is becoming more violent. We're descending much too fast. The angle is all wrong. As I struggle to gain some control over our fall, I hear the others report. Each has their own job to do. "Oxygen is good." "Cabin temperature is stable." "This will be a water landing, folks!" The Commander announces and then adds, "there IS an ocean and we've found it!"
If we hit anything--even water--at this speed we'll be crushed by the impact. I must get control of the ship! I must have the thrusters, but that means we'll be going faster before there's any chance of going slower. I ignite the engines and we are all pressed backward as they kick in. I hear gasps and see fear on the faces in my peripheral vision. At last we're pointed upward, but still falling fast. Too fast. Much too fast. The thrusters cannot possibly break our fall.
We hit the water and are battered by the impact. I shake my head to throw off the mental fog that threatens to engulf my mind. I have no control as we sink beneath the surface. "Will this thing even float?" I ask aloud. It does float! We slow and then begin to rise. We finally reach the surface and I see waves towering over the ship. What else could go wrong with this mission? I had to ask.
We've landed in the middle of a typhoon. We are rolled and tossed like so much debris. My nose is broken and bleeding badly. I spit out fragments of what were my front teeth. We are slammed into what I can only imagine is a beach. Over and over again we are tossed and dashed into the unforgiving sand. As I lose consciousness I see others limp and lifeless, thrown to and fro without resistance. All I can think to say is: "Mission 52 Has Failed. I repeat Failed. All is lost."
"Cool! A spaceship."
"I saw if first."
"You can have it. See if I care. Mine is better anyway."
"Look what I found, Gramps!"
"Where did that thing come from?"
"I found it in the water."
"It belongs to someone. Throw it back."
"We're the only kids here. Why can't I keep it?"
"It's covered with germs. Throw it back... and wash your hands!"
"But he has one and I don't. It's not fair!"
"It's a reject. The letters are upside down. Throw it back."
"I never get to keep anything I find."
"Go build a castle or something and quit complaining."
"When I grow up I'm going to be an astronaut and I'll have a real spaceship. You'll see."
Submitted August 05, 2015 at 05:41PM by JoannaPogwash http://ift.tt/1N9IGj3 ShortStoriesCritique
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