I nearly miss the Martian warship as it zooms by, but the glint off its metal from the distant Sun is enough to give it away. My eyes follow it out the front window—just reinforced see-through glass now that the touchscreens have been deactivated—until the ship becomes a pinpoint then disappears entirely.

We’ve stopped accelerating. Microgravity, the sensation of zero gravity, sets in, and I feel blood trickle into my head. My limbs start to float, and the only thing keeping me grounded is my seatbelt. Although we’re not speeding up any more, we are still traveling expeditiously away from Mars, somewhere around forty-seven thousand meters per second if my mental math is correct.

“They’re gone,” I say to Timour. All I see is an outline of his body; the rest is covered by the shadows of space. “Why did they simply leave?”

He shakes his head then takes off his helmet. “I can’t hear you,” he states, his voice muffled by my own helmet. That’s strange. Either he muted us from each other before, or the blackout interfered with our microphones. I take my helmet off and repeat the question, the ends of my ponytail splaying around my head.

“They know we’re done for,” he responds, voice tight. “Besides, we’re unlikely to be their main target.”

“Plato,” I state numbly.

“Or maybe they’re after the item we took and have a reason to believe one of our bigger dropships has it,” Timour provides. “Maybe their leader called them in.”

The silence is deafening. “I can’t hear them anymore,” I say. “Admiral Chambers, do you copy?”

Nothing.

“Warship destroyed our comms,” explains Timour. “This is the problem with having everything run electronically.”

“How is that possible? They didn’t hit us.”

“I don’t know,” he replies, but I get the feeling he does know and isn’t willing to share.

“I’m going to go check the main battery,” I declare, unbuckling my seat belt. He doesn’t say anything as I float above my chair and toward the back of the ship, using the handlebars along the wall to move. I pass a rear window on the way there and stop for a moment to take in the view. A crescent of Mars sits in the distance while the rest of it is as black as its surroundings; the Sun appears tiny next to the planet, although it’s only an illusion due to how much farther away the Sun is. We only left Mars minutes ago.

I move away from the window and further into the back room, hook my toes under the footholds to stay upright, and run my hands along the wall until I find what I’m looking for. I feel a smooth indent, and I hold down a latch on the inner handle in order to pull the compartment open. Inside is an emergency survival kit that I open carefully, trying to keep all the contents from floating out. I reach my hand in and grab a flashlight.

“I’ll hold the bag.”

I metaphorically jump and turn to my right, where the outline of Timour is waiting, his hand stretched out expectantly. “Oh my god, you scared me!” I whisper-shout. Closing the survival kit, I give it to him.

“Were you expecting an alien?”

“I’m starting to think you are one,” I quip. I’ll worry about his secrets later.

“At least I’m a friendly alien,” he states.

As if! There are only two outcomes to coming into contact with aliens in the future; genocide for the aliens, or genocide for us humans.

“I provide light for the damsel in distress,” he continues and pulls something out of the survival kit. A crunching sound is followed by glowing light. The two thick glow sticks brighten as he waves them back and forth quickly a few times. I’m happy to be able to see his face again.

“I’m no damsel,” I say as he hands me the yellow glow stick. “I’m an independent woman who can take care of herself.” Raising the luminous stick in my hand to eye level, I look back to the one he’s holding with longing. “I want the purple one.”

He laughs and trades with me. “Yeah, your maturity is overwhelming.”

I can’t help but smile and retort, “I know what I want.” After we loop our glowsticks around our necks, I flip the flashlight in my hand so that I can turn it on, but no light comes out the end. I screw open the head to take a peek at the batteries, and the smell hits me before I see the slightly charred remains. I quickly twist the head of the flashlight back in place, afraid of the residue battery hitting my face. “When’s the last time these were replaced?” Surely my father would’ve been more attentive. Survival is his domain.

Timour doesn’t comment. I inspect the other flashlight, and the same surprise awaits me. We’ll have to rely on the glowsticks. I float to the absolute back of the dropship, this time actually hearing when Timour follows me. The propulsors of the ship are on the outside, but I should only need to access the battery from within, given that no external damage was done during the Martians’ warship attack.

I’m about to open the latch when Timour’s hand wraps around my wrist. “I wouldn’t do that,” he says.

“Why?”

“Imagine opening those flashlights—but a hundred times worse,” he warns.

“The ship’s battery isn’t made of lithium-ion,” I tell him. “We’re not dying from toxic gases today, don’t worry.” I make a move to open the latch again, and he forcibly pulls me away from the metal compartment. I lose my foothold and start to float away, but because his hand is still around my wrist, my momentum stops. “What is your problem?” I’m anxious to slap his hand aside, yet at the same time knowing that I’d rather him reel me in now than flail about the microgravity until I find another handhold.

“I’m sorry, Ailee,” he says, allowing me to swing my toes back under the footholds. I shake his hand off and grab the nearest handlebar for support. His gaze pierces me. “But think for a moment. Other than the main battery used for propulsion, we have two backup generators, a separate system for comms, a separate system for life support, and a separate system for artillery. None of those are working. You opened the flashlights; you saw what happened to the batteries. The solar panels aren’t generating electricity, nor are the rectennas capturing energy wirelessly: Our screens and lights are out.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“How do you know all this?”

“Listen.” He stops talking abruptly, and we breathe as quietly as possible.

He’s right. The usual light buzzing of electricity and rush of ventilated air are absent.

“Life support?” I squeak. This isn’t supposed to happen. All critical systems on spaceships are redundant, meaning that there must be several replicates of every instrument and device necessary to human survival. And yet…

He nods dismally. “Temperature, pressure, and oxygen.”

“Space is a vacuum and the dropship is lined with insulation,” I stare absently at Timour’s legs, wheels turning in my head, “so we don’t have to worry about temperature for a while. As long as we don’t open the the airlock—”

“Assuming you can manually open it,” Timour cuts in.

I nod. “Assuming. Either way, it’s best not to open it for now, because we won’t be able to repressurize the ship. So that leaves… oxygen.”

We stay silent for a few moments as we quickly do the math. Timour speaks first, “We have twenty-five-point-three days of oxygen left. Wait, that doesn’t seem right.”

“Five-point-one days,” I counter. “The air is seventy-eight percent nitrogen.” I pause. “And there’s two of us.”

“Two-point-five-five days,” he amends.

“Yep,” I joylessly concur. “Any backup oxygen?”

He shakes his head. “This dropship is too small. It’s not meant to be away from Plato for longer than a couple hours. Commander Renner and the other Starships are on larger dropships. They’re likely to have backup oxygen.”

“We shouldn’t worry about them,” I say, briefly imagining them going through the same scenario and losing life support. I can’t afford to worry about them. I need to keep a clear head. “Electrolysis is how we usually make oxygen, which requires an external power source.”

“Batteries,” Timour states. Our batteries are apparently dead.

“Or solar energy.” I ask, “Are you sure the solar panels aren’t working?” He nods. “How do you know? You said earlier the warship did this, but I didn’t feel anything hit us.”

His lips press together into a straight line.

“Timour, if you know something, tell me,” I demand. “This is not the time to keep secrets. I know you are Liansan, and I’m Empirical, but this is our survival at stake. If you’ve seen something like this before, you need to let me know. Now.”

He sighs, but relents, “The Martians used something called an electromagnetic pulse—EMP for short. In its weaponized form, an EMP emits a fast burst of high energy that destroys any electronics within the targeted area. Solar panels, batteries, the wires that transmit electricity to our touchscreens and lights and life support. Basically, anything that transports a bunch of electrons is fried.”

“But what about our spare batteries?” I question. “They weren’t in use when the Martians set the EMP off.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. An EMP forces strong currents to run through electronics whether or not they’re on, causing them to either couple or short-circuit or even melt and fuse together.” He looks away, ashamed. “Maybe this is my repayment to God.” He stares at nothing and remains silent until I become uneasy.

“For being a pain?” I joke. “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think? After all, I’m perfect. What sin could I have possibly committed?”

My terrible attempt at humor goes unnoticed. The guilt on his face refuses to fade, his introspection making his eyes glassy.

“Hey,” I soften my voice. With the hand not keeping me in a vertical position, I reach out to lightly brush his arm. Slowly, he pivots his eyes from the side of the ship to my face, although he’s still not all there. His ocean eyes are murky. Polluted with something I can’t quite comprehend. “Are you alright? I know this is a bad situation, but that’s why I need you to help me.”

His head starts to turn away again, so I put my gloved hand on his cheek and tilt it in my direction. He doesn’t fight me.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through,” I lock onto his eyes, “and you don’t owe me an explanation. I’m in no position to judge what you’ve had to do in the past. But do you think God would want you to give up?” I’m not exactly a believer, but clearly he has some religious ties that are my strongest chance at getting through to him. Our time is limited. “You could save your life. You could save my life.”

He doesn’t speak for a couple moments. When he finally does, he whispers, “‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’”

My eyes widen. He’s lost it. He’s completely and utterly delusional. “I—who?”

He shakes his head and smiles, his eyes alight once more. I relax.

“It’s just something that’s important to remember,” he explains. “To remind me that our mission isn’t over. Speaking of…” His eyes lower. “I’ve never seen you wear that necklace before?”

My hand that was previously on his arm flies to my neck. “Um yeah, it’s…”

“Is that what the Admiral is after?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is it around your neck?”

I partially lie. “My thermals don’t have any pockets, so it was just easier to wear it rather than carry it back to the ship.”

“May I take a closer look?” His eyes plead with mine.

My spacesuit covers most of the necklace. The only way I can show him the full piece of jewelry is to take the suit off. “I think it would be better if we stay in our suits for now.”

Surprise crosses his features. “Your suit’s still working?”

Frowning, I ask, “Can you check the life support battery?”

He nods. I’m about to turn around when he instead pushes off the floor to float behind me. I don’t know why, but as I awkwardly stay still and let him open up my life support, I blush. I never allow anyone to mess with my suit—other than a couple veteran spacesuit engineers back on Plato. If I expect to make it out alive, I can’t be finicky about the help I receive.

“Dead,” he says.

“Can you hook up the oxygen tank to use the regulator and manual gauge instead of the wires?” Temperature control is a lost cause, but I still have some oxygen left to spare.

“Yes,” he replies. There’s a pulling sensation for a couple minutes as he rearranges the oxygen tank. Some clicking sounds later, the smell of burnt metal invades the air. “I’m going to put the battery and ruined wires with the fried flashlights.” When he comes back, he continues his work until finally—“Finished.”

“I’ll test it quickly.” Floating back to the copilot seat, I unhook my helmet and shift it in place around my head. Nothing telling shows up on my visor—no time, no speed, no light—but I feel the air in my suit drift over my face, indicating the manual oxygen transfer and pressure gauge are functioning. I take the helmet off as Timour approaches me, and the suit automatically stops delivering oxygen to conserve it. “It’s working. Thank you. Let me see your suit.”

He grabs the pilot seat to ground him, shaking his head. “No need. Our life support systems are coated in fibronium. They couldn’t spare enough for the rest of the suit, so lights and communications aren’t protected. But everything else should be fine.”

“‘They’ meaning your government?”

“The Liansan government,” he amends. Same thing.

His suit appears just like mine on the outside, navy and sleek—well, as sleek as a spacesuit can be. But the inside workings are really up to each astronaut’s home countries. There are specific regulations to uphold, but any materials not deemed a threat to the other astronauts on board are permitted.

“What’s fibronium?” I ask. Out of curiosity, before this mission, I read the blueprint for both Empirical and Liansan suits. “I thought the life support systems are coated in aluminum.”

“That’s what our spacesuit engineers wrote in the blueprints because they have similar weights, but… if we make it out alive, I’ll tell you,” he states, “Promise. Let’s get to work first.”