image [https://i.imgur.com/aNhjB7M.png]
As the space capsule descended through the upper atmosphere, its outer layers sizzled and flared in a blaze of plasma. A shuddering jolt rattled the lone occupant. The man, strapped into his harness, gripped the sides of his seat as the ceramic exterior of the pod began to glow an angry red. His breath came in short, controlled bursts with the G-forces pushing against his chest. Once sleek and state-of-the-art, the capsule was now a battleground of failing systems and frantic alarms. Its design had been perfect for being in perpetual orbit, but re-entry had always been a worst-case scenario. A shrill alarm pierced the man’s head like a jackhammer as the atmospheric friction tried to tear his vessel apart. Through the soot-coated porthole, he saw flakes of material ripping off. The electric RCS thrusters -an elegant piece of engineering meant for orbital adjustments- fired erratically, struggling to cope with the sudden strain.
Shaking the fogginess from his mind, the man grasped at the emergency controls, gripping the red lever and engaging the air breaks. The maneuver was intended to increase the atmospheric resistance with surfaces that extended away from the pod, but in its current state, it felt more like trying to steer a comet with a paper fan. The capsule shuddered violently as the control surfaces deployed, their metal frames groaning against the forces at play. He heard a tearing sound and a new wave of lights joined the constant strobe along the console. One of the air breaks turned red on a display and the capsule was thrown into a clockwise spin.
The porthole turning towards the planet below revealed an expanse of shifting golden sands. The man cursed and ejected the air breaks, which were now doing more harm than good. He flipped up a cap labeled “Maximum discharge override” and pressed the button underneath. Grabbing the joystick, he desperately pulled to the left. The batteries dumped their entire storage to flare the thrusters, canceling the spin for just a moment. Right before the batteries gave out, he flipped a switch on the board above him. A pair of wings extended from the sides of the pod with a reluctant creak, catching the atmospheric currents and guiding the capsule's trajectory.
All the lights and alarms ceased at once and the craft switched to analog steering. The once chaotic descent was now a controlled glide. He tried to level out the craft and approach the ground at the lowest speed possible but the impact was rough. He hit a dune which sent him into a rapid flip which ended with the cockpit’s back end sinking itself a quarter-meter into the sand. The inertia smashed his head into the back of the cockpit and he blacked out.
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The desert's arid breath enveloped the capsule, the grains of sand sifting through the breached hull. The occupant pulled himself from the wreckage, crawling through the twisted metal and shattered panels. He emerged into the glaring sunlight still wearing his one-piece cryostasis suit. Resembling thermal underwear, it was not well adapted for what he assumed was the Sahara.
He was of average height and build with olive skin, though his sleep had left it lighter than it would normally be. His black, uncut hair was hastily tied in a tight ponytail. The most distinct thing about him was his tattoos. Thick, black lines started at his fingertips and extended along the tendons on the back of his hands, rapidly dividing. They started in a circuitry pattern with straight lines connected by 45-degree angles, but as they crawled up his arms they transitioned to organic branches which weaved together into tendrils of smoke reaching his shoulders.
Attempting to pull the suit off, he felt resistance. Only looking down did he realize a shard of metal around 10 centimeters in length embedded in his side. At once the pain hit. Lighting stretched across his body as twisting dug the shrapnel in deeper. It was only matched by his dislocated arm, which hung limply by his side, and the headache that had gotten worse after the crash. His adrenaline had allowed him to escape the cockpit but that was now gone.
He couldn’t stop the scream from piercing the air. Pain racked his body and it took all his willpower to remain standing. He struggled to keep his thoughts clear with what he was starting to recognize as a concussion. Every breath caused new jolts of pain radiating from his side. Without an arm, he couldn’t do anything about the other problems, so he turned back toward the capsule. It was not in good shape. The technology that had once seemed so infallible was now strewn across the sand. The culmination of years of research was reduced to hunks of metal that speared into the ground like grave markers.
With each step a mountain to cross, he stumbled back to the capsule, leaning onto the side. If he hadn’t had the insulation of the suit, his arm would have seared on the hot metal immediately, but even the cloth was heating up quickly. With a shove, he felt his arm pop back into the socket. This time he was able to grit his teeth through the pain but the effort only made the fragment in his side dig in. Gasping for air, he could no longer stand and rested his back on the metal, using it to slide to the ground and pulling away before he burned.
As much as he wanted to rest, he had limited time to act. He used his good arm to apply pressure around the wound while using his teeth to rip off the sleeve of his other. There was more blood than he thought and it quickly coated his hand. He bundled the ragged sleeve around the spike and then, after a few breaths of hesitation, ripped the metal out, causing another scream. The pain and his headache would have caused any food he had in his body to be expelled, but with a lack of such, he was left compulsively retching.
When he was done, he shook off the oncoming unconsciousness and looked around, seeing a piece of the outer shell nearby. With conviction, he dragged himself closer, now feeling the blood soaking through a scrap of fabric. He removed the rag and used it to grab the flat chunk of metal, the wet blood hissing and emitting a horrid smell as it came into contact. He gritted his teeth and pressed the metal to his wound.
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The sun was dipping toward the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows over the desolate expanse. Carrion birds were circling in the sky, inspecting the body sprawled on the shaded side of a dune. Just as they were preparing to swoop in, the man woke up, coughing. He turned onto his side and began retching again.
When he was finished coughing up bile, he sat up, causing a fox-like animal to bolt away. He surveyed his surroundings. There was nothing but sand for as far as the horizon, but when he strained his eyes he glimpsed the tops of mountains to the east.
He then assessed himself. His wound was no longer bleeding but he knew the cauterized skin wouldn’t hold if he strained it. The most pressing issue was his thirst. His mouth ached and lacked water. He used an exposed pipe on the capsule to carefully pull himself to his feet. He needed to get to the emergency rations.
The capsule resembled the cockpit of a fighter jet, without the actual jet. It was an ogive shape like a cone with its sides bulged out. Where it would have connected to the rest of an ascent rocket was just a flat end, which was sunk into the sand. It lacked the large glass window of a standard cockpit, visibility sacrificed to resist the vacuum of space. Instead, a small porthole in the hatch allowed a limited view out. Or at least it did. The side that had the hatch had torn itself off when bouncing off the ground and lay some 10 meters from the pod.
Although he had crawled from the wreckage, the hole was large enough to climb through while ducking. The interior was a mess. Despite his injuries, it was a surprise he survived at all. The back half had crumpled into itself and the mechanisms all seemed dead. Although the solid-state batteries were safer than Lithium-ion ones, he was concerned that the mechanical stress would cause a thermal runaway and subsequent explosion. However, if that was an issue it would have exploded while he was unconscious. While he wasn’t a rocket scientist, his training had included the functions of the pod and basic piloting, something he was now grateful for.
The man pulled the cushion off the seat and found that, mercifully, the water and rations were undamaged. His thirst was now desperate, his mouth feeling as cracked as the wreckage and as dry as the surrounding desert. He snatched one of the metal bottles, pressing the release button on the side. The container became cold to the touch as the pressurized water in a lower compartment expanded into the main one. After a few seconds, he released it and twisted the cap off, greedily drinking.
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He allowed himself a second filling but knew he had to conserve water. Looking back into the compartment, he counted the supplies available to him. It seems like he had enough rations and water to last a week., though he would need some of that water to rehydrate the desiccated food. There were also animals. He glanced at one of the pieces of shrapnel.
His immediate survival solved, he turned to the back cushion, ripping it off. This cache was not as lucky. He took out two plastic crates. One was cracked but relatively undamaged. The other was so crushed that he doubted anything inside would be viable.
Opening the first crate, it seemed to be survival equipment. The first thing he pulled out was a LumaShpere. The perfectly round device was covered with a thin layer of silicone. The dark was rapidly setting in and he pressed a button that lacked any indication on the surface. Clinical, white light radiated from the sphere. Dragging his finger across one side turned the color a deep orange and the light started flickering. Heat poured out and he tossed it a short way off from the wreck. Although it would make him stand out from miles away, he hoped it would keep the nocturnal animals at bay.
Looking back into the crate, he found a sleeping bag and some clothes. The supplies were for if he woke up early and there was a delay in coming to retrieve him, not a crash landing in the middle of the desert. Finally, he found a notebook sealed in plastic wrap with a graphite pencil to match. He vaguely remembered one of the doctors mentioning cabin fever. Trying to grasp any memory was difficult though. Glancing around at the wide open landscape, he doubted that would be a problem.
He also found a simple medkit, just an injector, various bottles, rubbing alcohol, and bandages in various sizes. He took the injector and two bottles, labeled “Antibiotic” and “Coagulant” respectively, out and, poured around 20 cc’s of each into the machine that looked like a raygun with smooth white plastic and a needle on the end. He stabbed himself next to the wound, which was now a scarred imprint of the metal plate he had used. When he pulled the injector from his flesh the needle quickly heated to a red color, disinfecting itself before cooling down. He then used the rubbing alcohol to clean off any remaining biohazards and his other various cuts.
The other crate took some force to open. It was partitioned with foam like those used for photography equipment. On one side was a collection of scrap. He couldn’t even guess what the original purpose of the electronics was. The other side was even more protected, a second layer of plastic that he had to open. Inside, scratched and marked, was his datapad. His eyes widened and he grabbed the small tablet made of durable plastic and acrylic. He wasn’t religious but found himself whispering a small prayer as he pressed the button on the side.
After a moment the pad lit up and a flood of relief washed over him. The first thing he noticed was the icon in the corner indicating a lack of a signal. The short-range transmitter could only reach within 50 miles or so, and considering his location he wasn’t surprised there weren’t any radio-equipped settlements within that range. What was more concerning was that there was also no sat-link. His pad should be able to connect to pretty much any communication satellite. No connection meant there were no satellites, or at least they weren’t active. He put away the thought and checked the AI assistant, which was also disabled. It took more power than any other feature and was turned off by default. He had no way of charging the pad in his current situation, so he kept it off.
The next thing he checked was the various sensors integrated into the machine. They seemed to be functioning and he scanned himself with the medical analyzer. Most of the results he already knew. The concussion wasn’t getting worse, but there was significant swelling. He had been knocked out multiple times and brain damage was still a possibility. The biggest relief was that there was no internal bleeding. The shrapnel hadn’t pierced any organ. He still needed to be careful, but he should survive. If he could get out of the desert, that is.
The state of the pad told him his final concern was probably unfounded, but he still held his breath as he tapped through the menus. He opened the media library and the tension he had felt since landing released. The datapad had terabytes of books, articles, movies, and art. The culmination of human history and creativity was safe. His mission was not yet a failure.
Finally, he opened a third compartment, this one much more accessible. He retrieved a screwdriver and positioned himself upside-down on the seat so he could access the underside of the console. He unscrewed a panel and tossed it out of the cockpit. Inside he retrieved the bright orange flight recorder. The reinforced cast alloy was more than a match for the trauma of the crash. It would be the only way for him to tell what had happened to the capsule right before he woke up on a crash trajectory. However, he didn’t have any way to read the data. In pursuit of ruggedness, for which he was grateful, the datapad had no external ports and couldn’t connect. There was a cable that was tucked into the same compartment as the pad, but it only provided power through induction. He left the pod with his spoils and laid them all out in front of the LumaShpere “fire”.
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Changing out of the cryostasis suit by the warmth of the sphere, he donned the clean clothing, which was more practical for the desert. His new outfit consisted of rugged, dust-brown trousers with reinforced knees and a loose, breathable shirt.
He ripped the other sleeve from the tattered cryogenic suit and used it as a wrapping around a sharp piece of metal. He cut out the chair’s harness with the makeshift knife. The straps were thick and hardy and it took some effort to get through. There was just enough material to fashion handles for the sleeping bag, which he had folded into the shape of a tote bag.
Once he had stripped the capsule of everything useful, the moon was high in the sky. His injuries meant he wouldn’t be able to travel until the injections had time to work and he was unprepared to face the relentless sun without proper protection anyway. The medical kit hadn’t included any sunscreen or other protection. Deciding to remain stationary until the next dusk, he took the opportunity to tidy up the cockpit, where he would sleep.
With his injuries tended to and his supplies organized, the man leaned back in the interior of the capsule, allowing himself a brief moment of respite. The desert night was quiet and cool, and, for the first time since the alarms woke him, he could process what was going on. It was obvious that the mission had gone wrong. The question was, how wrong? His brow furrowed as he tried to remember the moments after waking up, but his memory failed him. Trying to come up with a theory, he was unable to concentrate enough and sighed in frustration.
The challenges ahead were daunting. His supplies wouldn’t last forever and, without power, he couldn’t get any answers. Additionally, the brain swelling seemed to be affecting his cognitive ability. For now, however, he took solace in the fact that he had survived the initial crash and could address his immediate needs. Tomorrow would bring its own set of trials, but tonight, under the canopy of stars, he allowed himself a moment of hope.
He remembered the notebook. Pulling it out, he flipped through the blank pages. Books were rare, especially paper ones. One as nice as this must have cost a pretty penny, though it was just a drop in the expense of the pod he sat in. He took a moment to mourn the efforts of the scientists back home, wherever that was.
Tearing the protective plastic off the notebook, he flipped to the first page. He considered himself passable at drawing, but he wasn’t used to working on anything but digital pads. The feel of pencil on paper felt instinctually right. The art pulled him into a trance. Sketching out the wreckage of the capsule as it looked in the setting sun, he was able to relax. The act of drawing grounded him, giving him a sense of control and normalcy in an otherwise chaotic situation. With each stroke, he felt a small piece of his humanity return, a quiet assertion of will against the vast and uncaring desert.
When he finally finished, he set the pencil down and inspected his work. A spike of sharp pain in his hand drew his attention, and he noticed a small cut he hadn’t tended to earlier. As he flexed his hand, a single drop of blood formed and fell onto the page, staining the drawing. He stared at it for a moment, the crimson mark a grim reminder of his fragile state and the precariousness of his situation. The drop of blood seemed to symbolize the fine line between survival and oblivion, a stark contrast to the hope he had momentarily felt.
Suddenly, a flash of light high in the air as bright as a nuclear explosion burned spots into his retina and he had to quickly cover his eyes with his palms. By the time he could see again, the light was gone but then the sonic boom hit, followed by the sounds of crunching metal. Judging by the time between the light and the sound, he estimated that whatever caused it was at least 20 miles off, maybe 30. The volume was mitigated by the distance but must have been huge for the sound to carry that far.
His datapad didn't pick up any radiation or the shockwave that would accompany a nuclear explosion, and there was no fireball. It wasn't nuclear, but it was significant. Whatever the light was, it was the only thing besides sand he had seen. A better idea than choosing a random direction and walking, he decided that it would be his guide. Uneasy but with a route in mind, he settled down into the capsule's chair and drifted off to sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring new challenges and perhaps answers to the mystery that weighed over him.
image [https://i.imgur.com/sZpoBbf.png]