30 Days

30 days since the incident. 30 days stuck in this stupid tin can spinning at 10 revolutions per minute; just fast enough to simulate Earth’s gravity. 30 days since I left the Los Angeles (or what remained of it) sinking slowly into the cromosphere of Jupiter II. 30 days since I stood on my feet or could even sit up.

What the hell happened? One minute I was lying in my rack, just about to nod off. The next thing I knew I awoke floating up near the lights in my bunk room. Dan was stuffing me into an EVA suit. He had everything on me except the helmet.

“I gotta get you outta here, buddy. Reactor’s been hit. Ionizing radiation everywhere. Only a few minutes til’ it goes critical.”

Dan guided the suit’s helmet over my head and twisted, locking it into place. Air hissed up around my ears as the suit’s compressors kicked in. Pain shot up my left arm. I grabbed it. Dan’s voice was now muffled by the polycarb visor half an inch from my nose.

“You broke it when the ship got hit; smashed into the wall across from your rack.”

He pointed at a big dent about the length of my arm in the dull aluminum panel next to me.

“Good thing the anti-grav went out at the same time or you would’ve fallen to the floor too. I wrapped a medband around your arm before I put you in the suit. It should kick in any moment now.”

The pain was already fading, and soon it was replaced by a warm, tickling feeling.

“You gotta get to one of the lifeboats. We never finished installing them so they’re still sitting on the hanger deck. That area depressurized, but that’s what your suit’s for.”

“Where’s your’s?” I asked, realizing he was only wearing the ships standard jumpsuit.

“Don’t have one. Left it in the work bay, which isn’t attached to the ship anymore. Lucky you brought yours back here for cleaning.”

“Yeah, lucky,” I mumbled through the suits visor.

My suit wasn’t the only one in the cleaning cabinet across the hall, but each suit was custom fitted for its owner. Each air system calibrated to their respiration rate, waste recyclers calibrated to their perspiration rate and metabolism. Even if you could physically fit into someone else’s suit it’s neural interface was unique to its owner. You might as well be wearing a multimillion dollar Halloween costume without that working. Dan was fucked and he knew it, but even if he had his own suit he would have helped me into mine first.

This was supposed to be a quick test run to work out the kinks in the Los Angeles’ FTL drive. It was only supposed to last a few days and then we would be back in high Earth orbit. There was only a skeleton crew on board; nowhere near enough crewmembers to deal with a disaster of this magnitude.

“I’ll help you get to the hanger airlock, let’s go,” Dan said, grabbing my suits harness and shoving me down toward the bunk room door.

Out in the passageway debris filled the air, slowly floating towards the far end of the hallway.

“Depressurization. Everything is blowing towards the end of the ship that got hit. We sealed off as much as we could, but it won’t be much longer until we reach zero atmosphere.”

Dan pulled himself through the passage in front of me, brushing tangled, burnt bundles of wire out of our path and shoving loose panels aside.

“As far as I know you’re the only crewmember that had access to his EVA suit. What a shame.”

We reached an airtight door in the main passage which ran the full length of the ship. The door after it was to the airlock that led to the now depressurized hangar deck, but first we needed to pass this one. The control panel to the left of the heavy alloy door was trashed. A length of shattered carbon beam pierced its small display.

“Gonna have to open it manually, give me a hand.”

Dan moved to the side of the lock, and pried off one of the manual access control covers. I pulled myself to the right and yanked open the other. Inside was the bright red release handle, marked with yellow reflective tape. I watched my tingly gloved left hand float up and wrap its fingers around it. I gave it a yank. Simultaneously Dan pulled the other. With a chunk and a hiss the bulky door unlocked, popping open a few centimeters. Thanks to zero gravity we easily pulled it open.

Debris was flying past us faster now, zooming down the last passage and collecting at an air vent near the far end. Like some kind of galactic log jam, anything larger than the vent’s opening bunched up around it. A mess of wires, panels, and even the chest piece of someone’s EVA suit clogged the passageway just in front of the last airlock to the hangar deck.

“How are we going to get to the airlock now?” I questioned Dan, who was currently floating upside down above me.

“Don’t worry, I got this.”

He reached down and pulled a disintegrator pistol from a previously unnoticed holster on his hip.

“One of the Marines gave it to me right after we got hit. Said I might need it.”

He took aim at the closest piece of debris and fired. A blindingly bright, white ball of plasma shot from the gun’s mass effect coil, instantly turning the jam of debris and some of the surrounding wall into a cloud of fine, black just, which quickly blew into the vent.

“Woah, be careful, you almost hit the door!” I exclaimed, my voice bouncing around inside my helmet.

“Guess I had the power turned up a little high,” Dan shrugged, re-holstering the pistol.

We pulled our way along the passageway, finally reaching the outside door of the airlock. Once again we both pulled the manual release handles. I floated into the chamber, which was just big enough for one person in a bulky EVA suit. Dan floated by the door.

“Thank you Dan,” I said, grabbing his shoulder with my good right hand and giving it a squeeze. I will never forget this. I’m gonna tell everyone back on Earth how much this meant to me.” My voice broke, I looked away from him.

“Hey, I know you would have done the same for me,” Dan choked, patting my gloved hand. “I put the data drive from the flight computer in one of your suit pockets. Hopefully it helps them figure out what happened to the Los Angeles. “

“I’ll make sure it gets into the right hands.” I caught his gaze once again. Small balls of tears were floating away from the corners of his unusually green eyes.

“Tell Mary and the kids I love them.”

“I will, right when I get back.” I said, patting his shoulder one more time before grabbing the airlock door.

Dan pused the door the rest of the way shut.

I pulled the inside handle marked “SECURE”, heavy bolts chunked home, sealing the door. A green lit button flashed on just next to the handle. Marred and scuffed from heavy use, a small placard above it read “DEPRESSURIZE”. I mashed it with the palm of my hand. The remaining air in the small chamber rushed out into space. The EVA suit become slightly stiffer as it fought the vacuum. After a final wave to Dan through the inside door’s small porthole I yanked another handle, opening the outer door to the hanger deck.

The normally brightly lit expanse was bathed in darkness, broken only by a few, dim emergency lights. Along the far wall of the hanger sat three large, rectangular, bright orange containers, each secured to the deck with thick cargo straps. These were the Los Angeles’ yet to be installed escape crafts. I crouched on the wall next to the airlock and pushed off with my legs, aiming for the container closest to the hanger door, or what was left of it. The door’s six inch carbon plating was torn like paper. More than half of it was missing, replaced with the starless void of space, drowned out by light from the nearby star, Proteus.

I quickly spun around so I was now flying towards the container on my back, feet first. I came to a gentle landing right next to the containers control panel. A green light blinked just above it. The capsule inside was undamaged. A few quick command inputs later and the container began opening. The top half folded back slowly revealing the cylinder inside, nestled in its aero gel packaging fresh from the factory. It was about five meters long and two in diameter. A small ion drive occupied one end, it would supply just enough thrust to move away from a dying ship. Halfway along the bright white cylinder were a set of retrorockets. These would rotate the cylinder to simulate gravity and help orient in space. The far end was the hatch; just big enough for someone in an EVA suit to squeeze through.

It was an outdated model. Designed to carry two people at most, escape craft of this type were build for small, mostly automated asteroid harvesters with only a few crew members. They were only a temporary safety measure. The Los Angeles’ real lifeboats were still under construction back on Earth. They would be much larger, each able to carry a quarter of the crew. For now I was stuck with this little coffin of a craft, but it was better than dying in the vacuum of space so I took it. After releasing the lifeboat’s tie-downs I carefully lifted it from the cargo container. I then pulled myself along its external handles towards the hatch, opened it and squeezed inside feet first. After securing the hatch I initiated pressurization. A few minutes later another green light blinked on.

I fumbled around my neck, finally locating my helmet’s release lever. I yanked the helmet from my head and shoved it up towards the hatch. It bounced off with a hollow thud, nearly hitting me on its way towards my feet. Awhile later I had managed to struggle out of the rest of my EVA suit. Its various components filled the air around me. Now to get this tin can out of the Los Angeles before the reactor blows, I thought to myself.

I vaguely recalled the safety briefing they gave us back in Earth orbit. Nobody expected anything to happen, and I didn’t really pay attention, but I did remember where the lifeboats nav controls were. I opened a panel near my head. An actual joystick and two small LCD screens greeted me. No neural interface here. Flipping a switch pulled up an external camera view on one of the screens. It was filled by the shredded cargo bay door. I grabbed the black, textured joystick in my right hand and gently pushed it forward. The hole in the cargo bay door filled more and more of the screen as the lifeboat crept forward. Eventually the screen was completely black. I shoved the stick to its limit, accelerating away from the Los Angeles and out into the void of space. The stricken craft shrank smaller and smaller on the rear view screen until it was swallowed by the crimson red atmosphere of Jupiter II.

“60 days until rescue.” Dan had said. 60 days before the Los Angeles’s sister ship, the New York would reach our last known location and begin scanning for rescue beacons. I engaged the grav-rotation and sank gently onto the padded floor below. The lifeboats environmental system conditioned the atmosphere to 22 degrees Celsius; optimal sleeping temperature. Still in my pajamas I rolled onto my side, cradling my broken arm. The adrenaline rush from earlier was gone. I was completely exhausted and my arm was starting to hurt again. There was nothing more to do but finish my interrupted sleep cycle. I closed my eyes, hoping this was all some crazy dream and I would wake up back in my rack. The lifeboats air circulation system hummed away and I slowly slipped back into unconsciousness. 60 days until rescue.