Shallow Breathing

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But I heard my own perfectly. Even if the sound waves hadn’t been trapped inside my helmet, ringing in my ears, I still would have heard my screams. The sound would have reverberated within my own body. Through my bones and muscles. It may have resembled screaming under water, dull, distant, with more bass and still very present. Like when you’re a kid on a hot summer day, cooling off in a pond or lake. First, you do a few handstands near the shore. Then you practice holding your breath. Then you see how loud you can scream underwater and how long you can scream before there’s no more air in your lungs and you have to resurface.

When I returned to the Hab and couldn’t get back in, I knew something was wrong. The airlock was in override mode and no one inside would answer. First I thought, maybe they’re busy responding to some error code. Maybe they’re trying to fix something, and they had to redirect the airlock’s power source to do so. So I sat back down in the driver’s seat of the LRV and waited. I figured in a minute or two, they’d update me on the situation, but after ten minutes of no response from any of the crew, I started to panic. I got back up and walked around the Hab to the front where the biggest viewing portals were located. Those windows look out from the command station, where there’s always at least one person on duty. Ray was supposed to be manning Communications that day; sending and receiving messages both here on the moon and with our teams back on Earth. As I approached the portals, I could feel my feet slowing down. As much as I needed to know what the situation was, my body didn’t want to know. Maybe my body already knew what my mind refused to consider, because as I looked inside, the screaming inside my helmet was already there, deafening.

Blackness. Everything inside was blackened. The lights were flickering, but still on, so I could see the shadows on top of shadows. I saw the charred outlines of consoles, doorways, and - human remains. Ray was still at the communications console, what was left of his still smoldering body hovered over what was once a computer keyboard. His favorite coffee cup, that stupid stoneware mug he picked up at the gift shop in DC that time, still atop the smoking filing cabinet to his right. Whatever happened in the Hab happened fast. Fast enough that he didn’t even have time to register a threat, let alone protect himself from it. That thought elicited another scream which pounded my eardrums. Then acid rose up my esophagus. I closed my eyes and focused on driving it back down. The last thing I needed was zero visibility from inside my helmet. As much as I didn’t want to see any more, my survival was very much dependent upon the availability of all my senses.

I looked down at the O2 meter on my suit. Twelve percent oxygen left. I’d already used seventy-five percent on my mission including the trip out to the crane and back on the LRV. I’d wasted another thirteen percent sitting on my ass, waiting outside the airlock. Less than ten minutes of oxygen left. No signs of life inside the Hab. No promise that the inside of the Hab would offer any oxygen, either. If there had been a massive fire or explosion, the oxygen supply might have entirely burned up.

Think. Think. I tried to think, but my mind was unfocused. My thoughts kept fading out, only to be quickly replaced by the mental image of Ray’s charred body – again and again. I’d shake the picture out of my head, only for it to return. Or worse, be replaced by the image of myself, mere minutes into the future, choking to death on my own carbon dioxide.

The LRV! My mission had been to correct the spacial distortion on the crane and retrieve the latest supply drop. I didn’t have access to the resupply manifest, so I didn’t know what was in it. It could have been five hundred adult diapers for all I knew. Or a few hundred pounds of protein bars. But just as possible, it could have contained something that would buy me some more time. I thought if it were another fully equipped EVA suit, maybe I’d have a chance. I don’t know how the hell I was planning to change from one suit to the other if that was the case, but it was a strand of hope and I held on to it.

I made my way back to the LRV as quickly as I could (in my big, obtrusive suit in one-sixth gravity), and I opened the supply crate. Three letters jumped out of the pile that made my heart soar. OGS. No fucking way. Oxygen Generator System. It takes water and through the process of electrolysis, it splits each molecule to give you oxygen and hydrogen. This was my lifeline. But I only had about five minutes to somehow get inside the Hab, install it, find water, and get the bitch working.

It’s funny how you can procrastinate and take forever to finish a task, but when you’re facing a serious deadline, you can really move. It took me nearly an hour to do my crane-fix and supply pick-up mission, when it could have easily been completed in fifteen minutes. I started thinking about how much extra oxygen I would have had left if I hadn’t taken forever earlier. Then it occurred to me that if I had been more efficient on that mission, I might have returned to the Hab just in time to be barbequed alive. Jesus. What the fuck happened in there? I wanted to believe that the disaster was contained to just Communications, but the overridden airlock was on the opposite side of the Hab and no one inside had responded.

There wasn’t time for questions though. I had a job to do, and only a few minutes to do it. There was a new Pistol Grip tool in the supply crate. It looked like a robotic handgun with a long, thin shaft. I think it was sent up to help install cameras at the crane site, but I had another use in mind. I grabbed it and hopped over to the airlock. I used it to remove the covering on the control panel – exposing the wires beneath the digital display screen.

Now I want to make one thing very clear: I was basically a glorified janitor on this moon base. I did the grunt work. I changed batteries and light bulbs, picked up packages sent from Earth, and literally cleaned up after other people. They were the real scientists. I knew just enough to be trusted not to fuck anything up, but I had no idea if messing with these wires was going to actually open the airlock door. It was a hail mary for sure. And I’m certain that if anyone inside was still alive, they would not approve of what I was doing. Hell, I could’ve been fired just for opening up the supply crate! That wasn’t my job. Retrieving the supply crate was my job. But I felt certain, deep in the pit of my stomach, that I was alone now, and I was running out of time. So I fumbled with the control panel’s wires through the gaudy gloves of my EVA suit. I touched two wires together. Nothing. I tried it with two different wires. Same result. It was stupid. It was like I was trying to hotwire a car or something. I took a deep breath, held it in, then slowly let it out. Then I noticed the smooth, metal panel underneath the one I already had open. Maybe there was something in there I could use. Or do. I checked my O2 meter. Six percent. I felt completely and utterly doomed. I felt like giving up right there. But that’s never been my style.

When I was a kid, I missed the bus home from school and had to walk. It was the middle of January in northern New England. Deep snow and even deeper cold. I made it the three miles to my house, my ankles itched from frost-bite. But no one was home and it had started to snow. It wasn’t the soft, pretty, Narnia-looking snowfall. It was extremely windy, and the snow that was falling was more like hard ice, so every time it hit my face, it felt like tiny shards of cold glass cutting into my skin. The doors were locked, the windows were locked, and dusk had come. The closest neighbor’s house was a half a mile away and I had already resolved that I was not going back out into that mess. I huddled under the tiny overhang at the front door, between the frosted-over glass of the storm door and the wooden inner door. I must have stood there for at least thirty minutes, trying to warm up. Trying to come up with a solution to my problem. Then I remembered. Mom had asked Tyler to shovel off the roof of the back porch just the day before. She firmly believed that if we didn’t clear the snow off that flat roof, it would cave in under the weight of multiple snowfalls. One of the many things Mom was always and forever yelling at Tyler for was forgetting to lock the bathroom window when he came back in from the roof after shoveling (or smoking cigarettes, as was sometimes the case – though she didn’t know that). I went out back, and looked around Dad’s work piles. There was all sorts of junk out there; old radiators, oil drums, a half dozen junker vehicles, windows he had picked up on the side of the road (for what intended purpose, I don’t even think he knew). And there it was! A ladder. I dug it out from the snow; the red, wet skin of my hands sticking to the metal as I picked it up. I positioned it so the first rung started just past the bottom step that led to the locked door of the back porch and the top leaned against the rain gutter. I started to climb, and the gutter flexed and creaked against every move I made. I was certain it would break under the pressure of the ladder and from my weight against it. Somehow I made it onto the roof. The gutter had miraculously not snapped away from the house. I was so close to warmth now, I could feel it. I slowly and carefully inched closer to the bathroom window, focusing hard on my footing, so as to avoid slipping on ice and falling off the roof. When I finally reached the window, I pressed my hands as firmly I as I could against the glass of the bottom pane, and pushed upwards. It didn’t budge. I peered in to see the lock. Was it locked? Which way would it be pointing if it was locked? Left? Right? I couldn’t remember. But I was certain it had to be unlocked. Tyler never remembered to lock it. Then I thought maybe it was frozen shut. I moved my lips as close to the edge of the window as possible without touching it and tried to steam all along the edge with my warm breath. I did this around the entire perimeter of the window. It must have taken at least five minutes. Then I closed my eyes, took a breath, prayed that it would work, and pressed my hands once again against the glass. When I pushed upward this time, it opened! Glorious, beautiful, warm air rushed out at me from the open window. I stepped in with one leg, and straddled the window sill, feeling around with my foot for the edge of the claw-foot bathtub. By the time I got my entire body through the small window and closed it behind me, I heard the front door downstairs open and my mother coming in. So I could have just waited out front for her to return. But I didn’t know that at the time. And I was still quite proud of myself for solving my own problem and not freezing to death waiting for someone else to help.

Anyway. Back to the airlock and the second panel. I opened that up and saw a handle under big, red letters. I immediately felt torn between total jubilation and complete stupidity. It read: MANUAL RELEASE. I wasted no time and pulled the handle down. I instantly heard the sound of metal retracting into the side of the Hab’s hull. I pushed the door open, grabbed the OGS and the Pistol Grip tool, and rushed inside, closing the door behind me. Now the inner door was my next obstacle. Four percent oxygen left in my EVA suit. Once the outer airlock door was sealed shut, the inner door automatically released. Thank fucking Christ! I opened it, wanting to move slowly, afraid of what I might see, but knowing I didn’t have that luxury. So I raced past the blackened carnage. It was exactly as I suspected. Everyone and everything in the Hab was destroyed in the fire or explosion or whatever had happened while I was tootling around – oblivious – in the LRV on the surface of the moon. I brought the new OGS to the station where the old one was. The readout screen was hard to see through the partially melted plastic, but it was clear that the old OGS was not functioning. Oxygen inside the Hab was non-existent. I disconnected all the wires and tubing, and pulled out the old, charred unit. Two percent oxygen in my EVA. I pushed the new OGS into place and reconnected everything. The shiny new screen displayed brightly, and the system began to boot up. I knew this was going to take a few minutes, so I immediately made my way to the galley and straight for where I thought the beverages would be stored. Now listen. I know that’s not how the OGS works. Usually they recycle wastewater directly through tubes to then split into oxygen and hydrogen, but I was literally down to a minute or less of my O2, and didn’t have time to figure that out. I saw an intake reservoir on the OGS when I was installing it, and my plan was to just pump some drinking water directly into it. The drinking water in space, by the way, is also recycled water. It’s made from astronauts’ urine and sweat and dirty shower water which is then purified, and then packaged so they look like those little Capri Sun pouches. Anyway, they’re all stored in a small, glorified cooler – so I had hoped the blast didn’t vaporize them. This is another instance where I know I got very lucky. I opened the door, and there they were. Intact. Glorious, life-saving water. I grabbed as many as I could hold between my arm and the chest of my suit and hurried back to the OGS. It was done booting up. I didn’t even check the read outs. I just pumped each pouch of water directly into the intake tube of the reservoir on the OGS and then plugged it back into the wall. Then, I waited. I looked down at my oxygen meter. My O2 had run down to zero. I was now breathing my exhaled CO2 at this point. I took small, careful breaths and looked back up at the OGS. The screen showed the process was working. But how long would it take? Atmosphere oxygen in the Hab was still at zero. I closed my eyes, felt warm tears spread over my lashes. Small, controlled breaths. I opened my eyes. Hab atmosphere oxygen was at three percent. It was rising! I took another small breath and coughed. My EVA air was almost certainly going to kill me before the air in the Hab was safe enough to remove my helmet. Five percent. Another small breath, and a lot more coughing followed. I looked around to see if there were any other EVA suits that might have survived the blast. There were some suits, but they were clearly damaged. I was going to lose consciousness soon. My only hope was to remove my helmet, and pray the OGS did its thing fast enough to save me.

So I did.

I disconnected the helmet and took it off. I tried to take another small, controlled breath, but I immediately started coughing and choking. Not just from the near total lack of oxygen in the Hab, but because of the smell in the air. Burnt plastic and rubber mixed with what I knew was the burning smell coming from the bodies of my former coworkers and friends. I tried to cover my nose and take another breath, but my vision began to get hazy. I could see the black around my vision becoming deeper, and darker. Then, nothing.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“LUNAR DOG 2, come in! LUNAR DOG 2, this is New Boston, come in!” The sound was painfully loud. My head was pounding and every frantic syllable coming from the speaker overhead was like a blow directly to my brain from a professional boxer.

“LUNAR DOG 2, it has been forty minutes since your last transmission! Please respond!” I opened my eyes slowly. The stench in the Hab was awful. I took a long, deep breath through my mouth, trying not to use my nose, and exhaled slowly. No coughing. Sweet, fucking relief! I climbed out of the rest of my EVA suit and slowly rose to view the OGS display screen. Oxygen levels were back to normal in the Hab. I did it. I managed to not die. Progress.

“LUNAR DOG 2, this is New Boston, please respond!” I made my way to the Communications room, where Ray’s body was still frozen in place. I slowly moved his chair (and him) away from the console. The wire connecting the microphone to the console was fucked, so I didn’t know how to respond to the crew back on Earth. Was there another mic? The keyboard was charred. Would it still work? I tried typing a response and nothing happened. The screen was difficult to see, so I used the sleeve of my jumpsuit to wipe away the carbon on the surface. There, on the screen, was Gordon. Sweaty, terrified-looking, back-on-Earth Gordon.

“LUNAR DOG 2, this is New Boston, it has been forty-two minutes since your last transmission, please respond! Our monitors here are showing nothing but black. We are getting no visuals. I repeat, we are getting no visuals from you, LUNAR DOG 2.” I looked around. There were dozens of cameras installed throughout the Hab so the crew on Earth could keep an eye on what was happening up here at all times. The closest ceiling-mounted camera was just above the Communications console. I moved Ray’s stupid coffee cup, and stepped timidly onto the filing cabinet which was no longer smoking like it had been when I looked in from outside. I reached up with my sleeve and wiped off the camera’s lens.

“Holy shit! We’ve got visual! I repeat: We’ve got a visual from Comms on LUNAR DOG 2! Mike get over here!” I stepped back down and looked at the Comm screen. Gordon looked a lot less like he was going to stroke out, but that only lasted for a second. He leaned forward and squinted his eyes for a second, before they widened. Seth, his number two leaned in for a closer look at their monitor, which was obviously displaying the grim image of the now scorched Communications room at LUNAR DOG 2 – the official name of our moon base. I looked around for something to write on and write with.

“LUNAR DOG 2, what the hell happened? Mike’s here, and he wants a situation report ASAP!” I nodded to the camera and held up my index finger to indicate I needed a moment. They must have understood, because Gordon didn’t continue bombarding my aching head with obnoxiously loud, urgent requests. I opened the drawer beneath the Comm computer. There was nothing of use inside. I checked the filing cabinet. I don't even know why I checked it, because I knew everything inside must have burned. It was just piles of ashes in each drawer. I opened a hatch near the doorway and found what I needed. Graph paper, still sealed in plastic that had hardened, and a sharpie. I ripped the plastic off, and pulled out some clean, usable sheets of the paper, and began to write. Then I held my note up to the camera. Gordon carefully read each word out loud, so those around him could hear. “Some sort of explosion. In the Hab. While I was at the crane. Everyone is dead. What now.”

I waited. And waited. And waited while Gordon and Seth and Mike and everyone back at New Boston confided on-camera, but off-mic. Finally, Gordon stood up and Mike sat down in his place to speak directly to me. “LUNAR DOG 2, we saw the drop in O2 on the monitors, then saw it rise again. How did you get the oxygen back on, if it’s just you?” I wrote as quickly as I could about how I found the new OSG in the supply crate and replaced the destroyed one before I lost consciousness. They looked at each other, almost doubtful. Like, what? A girl can’t possibly have done that all by herself with no help from a man. Is that what they were thinking? I don’t know. But the next communication from New Boston nearly knocked me out again.

“LUNAR DOG 2, whatever happened up there…. Just before the explosion, someone used a code to override the airlock so it wouldn’t open. Normally, when there’s a fire, the airlock will automatically open to suck all oxygen out of the Hab, thereby extinguishing the fire immediately. Then it’s supposed to close, and oxygen levels return to normal. Because the airlock was overridden, this process didn’t happen.” I wrote on my graph paper; "That explains why I had to manually open the airlock to get back in." Mike looked around him at the men in the room in New Boston, then back at me on the Comm screen.

“Kasey, the code that was used to override the airlock… It was yours.”