The Hermes-Triton Incident (English)

Outer Sol System: 01:54 E-Time, 267-2113 A.D. E-Date

The shrill alarm pierced his subconscious as the acrid smell of electronic smoke filled his nostrils. He coughed. Then he heard the voices.

“-e can’t take much more!”

“Get our point defense up!”

“Hull breach! Damage control teams, repo-”

“Fires in compartments 15 through 43!”

“Life support critical!”

“-oximity alarm!”

“Incoming! Brace for impa-”

Then silence.

Outer Sol System: 02:29 E-Time, 267-2113 A.D. E-Date

More beeping. A cautionary woman’s voice greeted him: “Life support critical: O2 levels nonoptimal. Please replenish oxygen and filters at the nearest sta-”

Fuck.

“-tion. Leak detected. Please affect suit repairs as soon as pos-”

Double fuck.

He opened his eyes. Something glinted off his visor, then was gone. Realising he was spinning, he groped for his RCS control module and flicked the stick. The spinning slowed, then stopped. As consciousness returned to him, a semi-truck hit the inside of his head. He groaned.

“Leak detected. Please affect-”

A quick once-over of his suit and its readout confirmed the computer’s warnings. Addressing his suit’s computer, he said, “Godammit Lucy, I heard you the first time.”

The alarms stopped. “Sorry sir, but protocol dictates-”

“Yes, yes, I know.” A pause.

“We’re in a pickle, sir.”

“Yes, we araahhck-” His answer turned into a strangled cry of pain as the semi returned.

“Would you like me to administer pain suppressants, sir?”

“mnyeswhydoyouevenhavetoaskugh?”

“Protocol, sir.”

He heard a cool hiss and the pain slowly subsided. His newfound clarity only gave way to more problems, which Lucy was all too happy to point out. “Sir, I must recommend an immediate course of action. O2 reserves are at 15% and dropping. Monopropellant reserves are at 3%. CO2 buildup is nominal.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” he said as he opened the suit’s emergency repair kit. The kits were basically Duct Tape with years of R&D. Many different compounds and solutions had been tested, but adhesive strips proved to be the most efficient. Sometimes the simplest solution was the best one.

With this in mind, he pressed the patch over his leg where the slice in the suit’s high-strength aramid weave was located. Lucy chirped, “Leak stemmed.”

Secure in the knowledge that his suit was no longer leaking oxygen, he looked around. Now, this was no easy task in an “EVA lifevest”, as they were referred to. The suits were designed to be as light and as small as possible while still being able to keep the wearer alive in the vacuum of space in case of sudden decompression. As a result, they lacked both visual and tactile mobility. After craning his neck as much as he could, he gave up and thumbed the RCS stick once again, this time starting a slow turn.

“Alright Lucy, let’s see what the he-”

His question was cut short by the sight that greeted him: thousands of metal fragments, half of a cruiser, and-- Oh God, the bodies.

At least twenty or so space-suited forms mingled about the fragments, seemingly devoid of life. He began, “Lucy, set a course for those crewmen! See if any of them-”

“They’re dead, sir, I already scanned. I suppose now is also a good time to mention that I have yet to receive a response to your suit’s automatic distress call.”

With this, the reality of the situation set in. He fought the urge to get angry or panic, both of which he knew would only waste time, oxygen, and energy. Shakily he said, “Let’s find a suit dock. I’m not quite ready to leave this land yet.”

“Sir, we’re in space. The nearest landm-”

“It’s an expression, Lucy. You need to stop interrupting me.”

“Understood, sir. Thank you for your feedback.”

With an eyeroll and another flick of his RCS controller, he sent himself drifting towards the icon marked “SUIT DOCK” that Lucy had placed on his visor HUD.

She cautioned him: “Although I recommend urgency due to your dwindling O2 reserves sir, I also advise that you watch out for debris. It is highly unlikely that enough monopropellant remains to handle a course correction in case of impact, not to mention the possibility of further damage to the suit and the current lack of repair kits.”

“Should I be taking notes?” he quipped.

Lucy began, “No need, sir. I automatically record…” but he tuned her out, instead focusing on navigating the debris field. The distance counter ticked down as he neared the waypoint, moving from triple to double digits. When it dropped below fifty meters, Lucy gave him a heads-up. “We should be within visual range now, sir.”

“Copy that.”

He floated past a large metal bulkhead, twisted and blackened by an explosion. The suit docking station appeared, nestled in a rotating slice of spacecraft that was torn from its parent vessel. Somehow both the emergency power, monopropellant, filter, and oxygen supplies for that portion of the ship had wound up in the same fragment and escaped critical damage. The suit dock and its indicator lights were active.

Outer Sol System: 00:00 E-Time, 270-2113 A.D. E-Date

“Sir, it has now been t-plus three days since the destruction of the Special Operations corvette UFSES Hermes. I have received no responses to distress signals.”

It was the third time he had heard that exact same statement, albeit with different day counts. Each one was another nail in his proverbial coffin.

My life vest will be- is my coffin. The thought amused him, and he chuckled to himself. The chuckle also caused a wheezing cough to rack his chest, flinging bits of spittle onto the inside of his visor. He was no longer afraid of dying alone, out here in space.

As it turned out, the suit dock had been damaged, and was slowly leaking its supply of monopropellant and oxygen. He had arrived just after it was half empty, and only discovered the leak later when he returned to replenish his suit again. At least there were battery cells and more CO2 filters, he thought.

When he first heard the name of the ship in Lucy’s automated message, he had been confused, trying to rack his concussed mind for a memory of the vessel. Unable to recall anything more than pieces and fragments of blurry memories, he had asked her for a report of what happened. She explained, “the United Front for Space Exploration’s Ship Hermes was a Mercury-class corvette tasked with the delivery and support of Special Operations Group’s Incisor Platoon to Triton in an effort to establish a stockpile station for future water, methane, and ammonia mines on Neptune. As they were nearing Neptune, a hypersonic round struck the aft thrusters, disabling engines one through four. A moment later, an unidentified vessel appeared from the far side of Neptune and fired three more rounds, disabling life support and power generation. A final round pierced the fuel tanks, causing a sudden detonation and destroying the ship. I calculated that your chance of survival was 2.38095238%. I believe you are, as you humans would say, lucky.”

Given the impossibility of a burial in space, he figured the least he could do was collect the fallens’ ID chips. 3 deck officers, 5 crewmembers, and 39 members of Incisor Platoon: 47 dead. He was the only one left. Lucy confirmed this, and logged the information on the chips. They now resided in his suit’s breast cargo pocket.

Recalling all this again opened up a pit of anger and grief, which hopelessness was all too happy to push him into. He resisted, instead promising himself and his crewmates he would find those responsible and…

Well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. The whole stranded-in-space-without-recourse thing had been quite preoccupying. Well, if I can’t hunt them down, maybe someone else can.

“Lucy, create a log entry. Subject: ‘Situation Summary and Final Log’. Text: ‘Currently stranded in vacuum, suit supplies nearly exhausted. UFSES Hermes confirmed lost with all hands but me. Distress beacon has gone unanswered, with three days passing since we were fired upon by an unidentified vessel. See the attached AI incident report for more details.’” He paused, considering his next sentence. “‘By the time this log is discovered I will most likely be dead. Whoever finds this, I ask that you find those responsible and… make them pay.’ End text. Lucy, append the incident report you prepared earlier, including the IDs of all fallen crewmembers. After you submit this, put yourself into stasis. I want you to reactivate when I’m discovered. Bring them to justice. Give peace to the fallen.”

“Copy that, sir.” She paused. “Log created with appended report. Activating stas-” Silence returned, only interrupted by the sounds of his suit’s futile efforts at sustaining his life.

I guess this is it then. He thought back on his life, one of service and sacrifice; he considered those closest to him, those who loved and supported him. He realized how little he appreciated their efforts. As he closed his mind to the inevitable, a tear floated from his eye. The weariness broke through, and he once again succumbed to the darkness.

Outer Sol System: 11:47 E-Time, 270-2113 A.D. E-Date

More beeping. A cautionary man’s voice greeted him. “Resuscitation successful: blood pressure and O2 levels low but rising. Administering fluids and nutrients.”

As consciousness returned, he felt something pressing against his back. He tried to move his head to look around, but realized it was pinned too. All at once the panic hit him. The urge to breathe threatened to implode his lungs, so he gasped for air. Surprisingly, it came, as well as a fit of coughing and more desperate breaths. It suddenly struck him as odd that he was coughing in a vacuum in a space suit without oxygen. He opened his eyes, which only led to a partial blinding by the bright light above him. He tried to feel himself, but his arms refused to respond.

Trying again to look around yielded better results: he was in an industrially metallic room, the hatch of which was near the foot of his bed. Bed? He began to consider the possibility that he was indeed not dead. Further examination of his surroundings revealed an IV drip in his left arm and a bedside table with a vitals monitor and a handgun, both emitting a low glow. He pulled the IV out.

He tried to remember his SERE training while pins and needles jabbed the insides of his extremities as feeling returned to them. Through the fog that shrouded his mind, it slowly returned: Survive. A plan beginning to form in his mind, he moved to stand. Evade. This only caused him more pain as he quickly realized that the floor, too, was metal. Resist. And that there was artificial gravity. Escape. And that the return of feeling doesn’t necessarily indicate the return of basic motor function and balance.

Reaching up from the floor in front of the small table, he numbly groped for the handgun. His fingers found purchase on its cold grip. With blurred vision, he gave the weapon a once-over, trying to distinguish its ammunition and type. Trigger, safety, heating coil, cooling cells, holo-optic, power cell and readout- battery full- aha! Plasma cell and cell eject. With the knowledge of his new weapon, he disabled the safety and pushed himself up onto shaky legs. He started towards the door, but it hissed open and a figure entered.

“You awake mate? Cutter said he managed to revi-” was all the figure could manage before his now-widened eyes realized both his patient’s intent and non-comatose state.

He cut the figure's sentence short with a jab to the throat. This caused a short gurgle and strangled cough as the figure's larynx began to swell. He jumped to the door and closed it, engaging the interior lock as the figure fell to a knee grabbing his own throat.

Clearing the blurriness from his eyes, he directed his eyes, gun, and an interrogative at the kneeeling man: “Who are you and where am I?”

Looking up and with some effort through intermingled coughs, the man hoarsely responded, “Well, it would have been easiah if ya hadn’t punched mah windpaipe in!”

He noted the man’s Australian accent and his clothing: a gray space flight suit with an insignia he didn’t recognize, ripped name tape, and a chest rig sporting a tactical knife holster near the left collarbone holding a kukri. An empty holster sat strapped to his thigh, and a scruffy face was attached to his moderately built frame.

“I won’t ask again. Who are-”

“Alright! I’m James Blakenthall and you’re on the Wild Pride. This is just a salvage ship!”

“Where did you find me?”

“Christ, in a debris field drifting towards Triton!” More coughing. He rubbed his thoat. “Agghhh, you fucka! We were passin’ by and picked up ya beacon. After we broughtcha aboard we reviewed ya logs and decided not to space ya. Although now I’m reconsiderin’ that choice!”

He paused and let the information sink in. I’m not dead. That’s good. Now I need to secure comms and transport back to HQ.

“Where are we now?”

“Rock’s throw from the scrap field. We were about to begin recovery operations.”

“Where is my suit?”

“Scrapped.”

No, Lucy! The ID chips! “What did you do with the chips? Where’s the AI? If you as much as-”

“Jesus, un-knot ya panties and calm down! She’s fine; after extracting the logs, we put her in storage; same with the IDs. Can ya stop pointin’ that thing at me now?”

The thought suddenly crossed his mind that they may have been the ones who opened fire. I’m still alive, though. He decided to bide his time, and strike if necessary.

He lowered the gun and offered a hand to James. It was accepted, and he helped James to his feet. He then handed the gun to James, which he safetied and holstered. A moment of tense silence passed between the two men.

James cleared his throat. "So-ah, need a roide somewha?"

---

This was the original story that set me on my path towards science fiction greatness (assuming I've made oodles of money by the time you're reading this). I wrote this during my summer vacation between seventh and eighth grade while at a library. It originally ended before the main character was rescued, but I couldn't resist writing more once I added an Australian.