Survival - 890 words

[ItisWritten]

This seems to be the place to share, so I'll start with one of my older bits. Any comments you wish to make are welcome. Specifics are preferred.
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Survival

Despair held the quartet in tableau; the result was final and inevitable. The vacuum of space awaited them with indifferent menace.

No one could say the punctured tank had been anything other than an accident, but the four survivors were now short on oxygen. Drawing lots seemed a simple and systemic method to decide which of them was doomed. The crew clutched each straw as if it gave life; only the unlucky crewman recognized the mockery, yet even he did not relax his grip.

No one said anything. Surviving eight days in the confined remains of the ship taught them more about teamwork than two years with the original complement of fourteen. The struggle to live created alliances where none were thought possible: the outcast was embraced; the prima donna learned humility; the eccentric joined the majority willingly; the elitist lost privilege and gained colleagues. By demanding it of themselves, they brought out the best in each other. For people who signed up to be team players this should have been easy; it wasn’t.

The collision had left the ship drifting through space. The survivors’ will and cooperation made it operational again. Even in the void, weight and mass was an issue—especially when balanced against the remaining fuel. Forced into hard decisions, they jettisoned everything non-essential: personal items; spare clothing; the bodies of dead comrades. Even whole sections of the ship were uncoupled.

What remained was now pared down to a single living space—the module that had originally been the galley. The drive section was immediately aft of them, its controls rigged so that one person could operate them. Short, overlapping shifts were strictly maintained, but that was about to change.

Breaking his paralysis, the doomed man turned to his locker and donned his pressure suit. The medium of death was his choice; the quick depressurizing vacuum or slow suffocation. He chose the latter. No one would deny him the oxygen in the suit, even though the shortage elsewhere would be the cause of his death.

The oxygen tank must have been punctured during one of the explosions that rocked the ship after the collision. That the tiny hole was missed amid the frenetic activity of saving the ship and themselves was not surprising, but the oversight sparked recriminations. Fortunately, the instincts that saved them once kept the round of accusations short. Not finding the leak was moot when faced with the consequence. The depleted tank was a loss of more than twenty percent of the oxygen supply. Far too much for them to chance survival when there was a logical alternative.

Dressed for death, he opened the inner hatch of the narrow airlock and sealed it behind him. The others watched through the hatch window in mute protest—and no small relief. Honoring his sacrifice was all they could do. He knew they were there, but did not look at them. To do so would aggravate everyone, and sparing them seemed best. Shrinking their world to the size of four people took all of eight days, and losing a brother from that community was a thought to be avoided. They were a team, and the loss would affect them more than they ever thought possible. Carefully—oxygen was precious—he cycled the airlock to store the air. He may not survive, but somebody had to. The outer hatch opened silently and he stepped irrevocably into space.

He heard their screams over the suit-comm before he understood what was happening. He twisted about, already drifting out of control toward the aft of the ship. Pieces of black material were streaming from the open hatch; seal medium that kept the pressure of the void at bay. If that did not hold . . .! The inner hatch whizzed past, missing him by no more than a meter. He watched in horror as his crewmates followed the spinning hatch into the killing vacuum. He might have reached them; he might even have held them, but he could not save them. They did not live long.

He floated in space for some time, shocked and inert. It was his fault, wasn’t it? He could have used the evacuation chute and departed like the other bodies. He chose the suit instead. He knew the ship was fragile; using the airlock was an unnecessary risk. That he witness this ultimate error was only appropriate. Would anyone ever know what had happened to the crew when he died? Somebody had to.

The ship was still drifting, though it was only a few meters away. There was just enough juice in his pack to reach it. Even if the inner hatch was gone, the outer hatch seemed sound, and the remaining tanks offered more than enough oxygen for one person. Pressurizing the galley would use at least one tank, but three of the tanks were untapped. He glanced down at the suit’s gauges. In particular the one that told him how long he had to live. There was enough time—if he wanted.

The reprieve from the doom of suffocation did not inure him to regret. Grief weighed on him, as it surely had the others. It was now up to him whether he dealt with the loss or joined the dead. Predictably, the former won.

Somebody had to survive.