Stevens staggered through the escape hatch and dragged himself away from the wreckage of the landing craft. He managed maybe twenty yards before he could go no more and collapsed in the silty dust. Stevens looked back. The once-sleek ship was now only an imploded skeleton. Mangled ribs steamed in the sulfurous atmosphere, the charred metal skin peeling back from the framework. He looked at his oxygen gauge—a few hours at most. Stevens knew the air was breathable, but not by much. Exposure to it would irreparably damage his lungs. He squinted up at the blazing, white sun; it was early in this planet’s day but already the temperature was above 100 degrees. Stevens sighed, closed his eyes, and slumped back on the sand. He was one hundred and thirty-seven thousand years from Earth, and he may never be going home again.
He allowed himself two minutes of rest. Though his eyes were shut, his mind raced. Stevens was painfully aware that to slip into dreams would mean never reawaking. When it came to this air, lung damage was the least of his worries. Though the oxygen-bound sulfides would wreak havoc on his alveoli almost immediately, there would be no grating breaths, no blood laced coughs, no strangled gasps. In this atmosphere also swirled a compound similar to morphine. Within moments of his first inhale, Stevens would slide into a cushioned daze followed by a seamless slip into unconsciousness. From there, the rising levels of the compound in his system would assure a painless death. This atmosphere was an almost merciful killer.
When his allotted minutes had ticked away, Stevens hauled himself to his feet and critically assessed his craft. Looping through his brain was the very first lesson he’d learned when he’d joined the program: You try until you succeed, or until you die. Giving up wasn’t an option.
While getting the craft off the ground again was clearly out of the question, there was still a possibility that Stevens could MacGyver a rudimentary oxygen converter from the emergency gear stashed in the storage cabinets. That could buy him enough time to fix the coms and radio for help. His colleagues were up there, locked in a lazy orbit around the dwarf planet. It was a slim chance, but enough. All he needed was a little bit of time.
Spare respirators and filters, which Stevens himself had been charged with stowing, were tucked into the rear of the craft. Unfortunately, a couple tons of rubble stood between him and the supplies. Stevens checked his gauge. Just under two hours of oxygen: the clock was ticking.
He’d promised that the nine months would fly by, and his daughter’s groan at the obvious pun had been softened by a shared grin. On a bedroom wall, beneath glow-in-the-dark constellations, hung a calendar. Stevens knew that his daughter’s ten-year-old hands were crossing out each day until her dad came back from the stars. For his part, Stevens ran a mental tally. When bored, he would calculate the hours, minutes, seconds until he’d hear his daughter’s shriek of joy as he walked back through the front door.
One more hour. The rubble was almost clear, and Stevens could see the locker. Ignoring the fire in his muscles, he went to work on the remaining warped metal. Designed to protect him from impact or environment, the dense plates now blocked his only chance at survival. He chuckled bitterly at the irony. With a herculean effort, he shoved, ducked, and squeezed through the final barriers. Forty-five minutes. Stevens wrenched open the sealed door and frantically rifled through the once neatly organized contents. With every slipping moment fear tightened its grip on his lungs, almost in anticipation of the moment when the dwindling oxygen disappeared.
Broken. The damn respirators were broken and only thirty minutes remained. With the desperation of a drowning man, Stevens threw himself into untangling wires and testing connections. Flashes of memories slipped through the chinks in his focus and he found himself enmeshed in the most common of moments, seconds he’d never thought twice about; had assumed he’d have millions more of. Washing dishes beside his wife, runs on mornings so crisp that there was no ignoring the blood singing through his veins, teaching his daughter the names of the stars. She’d memorized all but Andromeda, Stevens realized with a jolt. Who would teach her about Andromeda, the maiden saved from a sea serpent by the shining Perseus? Stevens forced a halt to the runaway train of thoughts. Time. There was still time. There had to be.
Ten minutes remained. Stevens finally dropped the hopelessly destroyed respirator and rummaged for another, less immediately remarkable object he’d initially tossed aside. Finding it, he paused for a heartbeat, staring at the name engraved on the metal box. Simon P. Stevens. The last time he’d ever see his own name in writing. It was a sort of black box, a final Hail Mary. Every crew member had one in case something went wrong. Something like this.
Stevens pressed his thumb into the tiny sensor pad on the side of the box and it sprang open. Inside lay a small recorder and a few slips of paper with a minuscule pencil. Again, he paused, dumbstruck by the sudden crushing reality of the moment. How does one reflect on life, make final amends, realize lifelong dreams in seven minutes with only a little black box? How does one say goodbye? Ignoring the recorder, Stevens reached for the pencil and paper. Scrawling a few sentences and a quick sketch, he then replaced the items and resealed the box. When the crew realized the craft had crashed, they’d send a rescue mission. By then, it would be too late for him, but they’d find the box.
Two minutes. Cradling the box to his chest, Stevens walked numbly out of the wreckage and sat, leaning against a rocky outcropping. One minute. Trying to measure his breaths, he let his eyes wander across the horizon. He took in the stark blue sky and the sparkling sand, the blinding light dancing across the twisted metal before him. He heard a slow hiss and slid a glance to the gauge, but it only told him what he already knew. The tank was empty.
In the end, life comes down to seconds. There are never as many as we imagine. It’s as if we live in a self-assured lie, believing that we will have all the time in the world. And when suddenly the hourglass is empty, all we plead for is a little bit more.
Stevens peeled off his mask, resisting the urge to breathe until, finally, he had to. The air was kinder than he’d expected. It was almost soothing, and he instantly felt calmer as it began to circulate. With a final glance around him, Stevens closed his eyes and leaned back. He could feel the gentle darkness of sleep settling around him. As he began to slip into slumber, he held the image and words he’d left on the paper in his mind: a drawing of Andromeda, and the last thing he’d said to his daughter before he left: “I love you. When you miss me, just look for me in the stars. I’ll be there.”