I’m still in awe every time I look out the window, even after six days in space orbiting around Mars. The view of the planet captivates me. It’s amazing that I was the one chosen by human-kind to experience this.
I’ve always wanted to explore and push my limits. Now I have. In a world dominated by men, I’m the first person—man or woman—to orbit Mars. The first human to make it this far from Earth. The journey here took ten months, but truthfully it’s been a lifetime of pushing boundaries. I’ve broken the ground for future generations of women to go out and do exactly what they want and make a difference in their own world in their own way…
“Something isn’t right,” I mumble to myself while scanning the readings in front of me. The more stressed I am, the more I tend to talk to myself. It clarifies my thoughts, solidifying the end goal and making that goal seem more tangible. Either that or the isolation of space has muddled with my brain. “Exactly what I need right now,” I add, still grumbling to myself. It’s been over an hour since I last received an update from Earth. We have a very strict protocol of pings, what we call the in and out transmissions between us. Normally, a twenty-four minute lag is standard, but the cursory check-ins have not been arriving as expected. I have no way to know if they are receiving mine either.
“Not receiving transmissions. None since thirteen ten. Please respond.” Well, this is probably a waste of time, but I send it anyway. At least I can say I followed protocol. If they receive that, and they respond, it will take at least forty minutes. But since I haven’t been receiving anything on our scheduled check-in times, my guess is I won’t hear a thing. What would cause mission control to go dark?
“I have no idea. I’m a doctor, not an engineer.” I’m talking to myself again and my frustration grows with the situation. I am literally in the vast reaches of human-explored space. Could the radio silence mean the surveillance cameras are down too? The possibility that they are not getting any kind of transmission—that I am totally cut off, is frightening.
I can’t help wondering whether my parents are thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about them. My mom and dad were so proud when I was selected for this mission! Embarrassingly proud. And entitled too, based on what they spent on my education growing up. They never spared a dime when it came to the best schools, the highest-ranked professors and the most prestigious extracurricular programs. They didn’t let me forget about it either. They always had high expectations and while they certainly gave me the foundation to succeed, they expected me to exceed those expectations. Failure was not an option.
My surgeon mother was the most detail oriented and exacting woman I ever met. There was a grade point average that very clearly set the bar impossibly high and falling under that mark was not an option. A concept that my father still drills into his computer engineering team he manages at NASA. Their professions didn’t leave much time to interact with children and the most attention my sister and I received was when we were held accountable for our grades. Since we were in boarding school from the age of six, it usually only occurred twice a year. I was ten years old the first time I brought home a B on a report card. You would think someone had died when they spotted it. In addition to the grounding and subsequent tutor, I learned quickly that “Beckers don’t get B’s.”
Following in my mother’s footsteps, I studied Pre-Med at Harvard before applying for a prestigious residency for various medical studies at NASA. The studies monitored the effects of lack of privacy, sleep disturbances, monotony, and the discomfort of being in microgravity. The debate over sending a doctor versus an astronaut with a typical military background for the first trip to Mars lingered well beyond my appointment to the mission. The fervor eventually died down a month or two after the final decision was announced, when I easily ranked leaps and bounds higher than everyone else in the psychological resilience and self-awareness studies conducted to clear astronauts for space travel.
As the only crew member on board, I’m tasked with keeping notes and diaries on everything. From the high-risk and stressful situations to bone density and muscle strength in this environment, to the fact that the enormous tin can I have been sailing through space is now clearly malfunctioning. The last hour has been a real test of my patience with technology that should have been updated a decade ago. Calmly, I start through the checklist of everything I’m monitoring on the communication transmission console to see if I can identify a possible cause on my end for the silence.
I’ve been called cold and emotionless by colleagues in the past, a stark contrast to my appearance since I inherited my father’s red hair and light blue eyes. They give off a playful, carefree vibe. Right now, I am anything but emotionless as my mind reels with the implications of what could possibly be happening right now. Communication lags were one of the largest concerns at NASA for this trip, due to how they can isolate the astronaut and put a strain on relationships. Though that hasn’t been an issue for me so far, the gnawing feeling that something is wrong is an uncomfortable sensation that I’m not familiar with processing. I was raised, with boarding schools and busy parents, so I’ve always been great at finding my own sensory stimulation to pass the time.
I keep a very structured schedule and right now I would much rather be in the hydroponic garden where I should be cultivating the plants that not only provide an organic air filtration system, but also makes a pretty tasty salad, if you can accept the absence of dressing. Twenty-eight years of being a proud meat eater and here I am craving rabbit fodder. Space will do some funny things to you once you’ve been up here long enough.
Focusing back on the console in front of me, I admit that everything looks normal. Nothing is obviously malfunctioning besides the wayward communication system. Logically, if everything else appears to be working properly but communications are not getting through, then something must be blocking them, right? That would make sense if I was in occupied space, but I’m not. I’m the only thing out here unless you count Mars twin moons and any mythological little green men that are on the surface of the planet. I chuckle at my humorless joke.
It’s not that I don’t believe there are other inhabited worlds out there. I do, but I think it’s silly to think they would be this close to Earth. What are the odds? If there are any aliens on Mars, or in this area of the Milky Way, they would likely be some offshoot of humanity. At least, I like to think so. I like to think that we’d have at least something in common with them, whether it’s our determination to evolve at a steady pace or perhaps physiological similarities.
Frustrated, I stretch back and try to relax. I need a break. I’m not really hungry, but I could eat a fruit bar. Just as I select the peach flavor, I’m rocked by a sudden jolt that sends my snack flying out of my hand. The cabinet handle in my right-hand jerks as the impact runs through my body. I grab onto the side rail near my hip, as I steady myself instinctively.
I didn’t imagine that. It was slight but it was noticeable. That can’t be good. Has an object hit us? Has the Skylab been penetrated? I wonder if I’m about to die? Hull penetration would be fatal quickly…
I gasp as my thoughts are cut off abruptly by a squeaking noise behind me. Spinning around as quick as I can with no gravity, I stare at the hatch door. After almost a year of being sealed shut, the squeaking noise is coming from the handle as it spins. It starts slow but is picking up speed as the tension of disuse gives way.
If my heart could speed up more, it would. As it is, the traitorous organ is thundering in a panic in my chest. An overwhelming sense of dread floods my system and I hear my blood roaring in my ears. My body is hyper aware of everything around me as my breathing hitches in a staccato rhythm. What is going on?
“Fucking hell.” I press my body back against the cabinetry as I watch the hatch slowly keep turning. Isn’t that thing locked? Where did that thought come from? Grabbing my head on each side, I rub my temples acknowledging that hysteria is settling in. Of course, it’s fucking locked. But it’s turning now.
Who could have unlocked it or…who did? There is no mistaking that I’m not imagining things. Something is most definitely trying to open that hatch.
A warning blast that sounds like an air horn snaps me out of my daze. Springing into action, I float back to my control console and start typing furiously. Calling up Protocol Eight Point Two, I try to manually override the countdown that has already begun. Whatever hit or attached to the Skylab has either caused significant damage or triggered some kind of alarm. The onboard computers have detected a breach somewhere, whether structural or perhaps a security measure. The fact is that the self-destruct has been activated and in ten minutes, the Skylab will explode and I’ll be dead.
