by Sean Clark
“Spread your arms and lift up your legs.” Comes the call from one of the aids. “Close your eyes and try not to breath any in.”
Cecil purses his lips and bends his head down. The white mist rains down on them, slightly warm. The solution smells of chalk and ammonia, burning deep inside Cecil’s nostrils. The dry shower stops, and Cecil lifts his head back up, shaking it back and forth, causing a snow of excess particles. He runs his hand over his scalp, which had been shaven short for the first time in a long time.
The group continues to walk to the other side of the room, where Cecil spies the large pods, leaned back against the wall on a rack. His heart races in his chest. A few of the men mumble between each other. Linus, at the beginning of the line, keeps his gaze pointed stoically forwards.
The back of the pod had already been attached, forming a half cylinder around them. Suspended in the middle of the pod hangs an ominous human shaped tray, padding located behind the head and back. One by one, the men begin to enter their respective pods, leaning their bodies back against the structure inside.
“We will now commence the initial preparations.” The aid announces. His face obscured by his surgical mass.
Cecil feels the man’s cold hands on his exposed skin. The sound of Velcro echoes through the room, and he feels the straps encircle his ankles. The hands run up his leg, pulling open the flap to his person underneath. Cecil can feel as the aid beings to fiddle with his manhood, preparing for the catheter, a step Cecil never liked. Another appears before him, standing atop a footstool, bringing with him a handful of electrodes on wires, ready to stick to him. As the aid reaches for his forehead, he could see the man’s eyes examining him up and down. Cecil flinches as he the catheter enters his urethra.
Cecil’s eyes quickly dart over to the other men who are going through the same process. Closing his eyes, he resigns himself to taking deep breaths, in and out. The aid eventually steps down after placing a final electrode over his heart.
Opening his eyes, he spies the cover of the chamber looming above him. It is suspended on a big arm, in place to drop it down on seal the pod. The clear glass shines in the bright light of the room, and the rubber seal around the edge resemble the lips of a big mouth ready to swallow him.
The final aid shows up, a pair of needles in hand, neatly wrapped in plastic to keep them sterilized. The suit had another gap in the lower arm for just the purpose. Cecil feels the doctor pull the sleeve open and swab his arm with a moist cotton ball, and carefully bring his arm into position to strap it down.
“Mr. Ruiz, I’m sure you’re familiar with this process. Please breath as normal.”
Cecil takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly out his nose. He feels the needles make contact with his arm, and slowly sink in. His hand balls up into a fist out of reflex, his mind racing to force himself to relax and allow himself to breath normally. The other needle finds its way into his skin in a similar fashion, and the tubes connected to them are tied in place by a rubber band bound just below his elbow. Waiting silently, his heart pounding, he counts the seconds that go by. A cold sensation starts to run up his arm, startling him as his breath catches inside of his chest. Teeth gritted in concentration, he forces the air slowly out of his lungs.
The aid stands up to take one last look at him, before pulling Cecil’s glasses away. “Ready at pod one.” Cecil hears a voice announce as the world becomes blurry before him. “We’ll make sure these end up on the ship.” He quickly assures Cecil. The mechanical arm holding the front panel starts to descend, and Cecil closes his eyes. The seal whines as it forms into place. Cracking his eyes slightly, he spots Atreo walking by the chamber, looking as stern as usual. The old man gives a hearty salute to Cecil, who is unable to react. The sound of his breathing echoes in the now enclosed chamber. His heart pounds in his chest.
“Mr. Ruiz, please close your eyes.” He can hear the hollow sounding voice from outside the chamber. He complies, focusing on the glow from the lights penetrating his eyelids. The pod shifts backwards, and a mechanical hissing was heard around him. He takes a final deep breath, and the coldness overtakes him.
Book Two: Return to the Planet
Chapter 26
Fire enters Cecil’s lungs as he draws his first breath, chest tight as if someone sits upon it. His fingers and toes are numbed with cold, and moving them sends jolts of pain into the nerves running down his arms and legs. As he flexes his limbs outwards from his body, his joints seem to react sluggishly, tendons struggling to tighten and relax as they pull on the sore muscles.
The lights before him are blindingly bright. Cecil closes his eyes tight, attempting to block out the harassing glow. His teeth chatter together lightly as he tries to pull his arms up to cover his chest, but they struggle to move.
Breathing out sharply, he feels the hot sensation exit his chest, passing out through his nose. His lungs struggle to inhale a second gasp of air through his parted lips. His face feels numb and raw, mouth dry. He swallows and attempts to lick hips lips, which are coarse and cracked. A sharp pain shoots up his arm, extending from elbow up to underarm. Fighting against the pain, he flexes his bicep, each movement excruciating. His back creaks as he attempts to push himself upwards.
Managing to shift to his side, he reaches for the tubes and IVs stuck in his arm, pulling at the thick rubber band wrapped around his arm. “Whoa there, Ruiz. Slow down, kid.” A familiar voice enters his ears. Cecil’s fingers slip, failing to get a grasp on the knot holding the ends of the band together. He collapses back onto the suspended rack, still struggling for air. A body of warmth approaches him, burning his flesh. The man’s fingers begin to fiddle with the needles, pulling off the band that holds them snugly buried in his arm. A feeling of relief washes over Cecil as he feels the long bits of metal exit his arm.
His feet and legs tremble, attempting to support his weight partially upright on the structure of the pod. His ankles go free with a satisfying rip of Velcro. Cecil opens his eyes a crack to see Atreo’s wary face leaning over to grab him by the shoulders. Feeling the old man’s arms tugging at him, Cecil sits up straight, eventually tumbling forwards into the director’s arms. Atreo guides Cecil down to the floor in front of the pod, where he collapses listlessly, steam evaporating off his body.
Cecil keeps his eyes open long enough to watch the muscles in his arms trembling and twitching, attempting to warm themselves up. Atreo throws him a towel, which Cecil grabs to place over his shoulders. Moisture begins to form on Cecil’s face and body, condensation from the warm air around him. Body still stiff, he begins to rub the rough towel over the exposed parts of his body.
Sitting with knees resting on the cold, hard floor, Cecil watches as Atreo goes to each of the opened pods, beginning to pull out the other men one by one. In his exhaustion, he can see each of the men reacting to the sudden shock and warm air. The last open pod now vacant, Atreo takes his seat among them, breathing heavily, a slight sheen of sweat on his own forehead.
“Let me guess…” Cecil looks up at Atreo, breathing still strained. “They didn’t have time to outfit the ship with the proper machinery to help this process?”
“Shut up, you fuck.” The director breaths heavily. Finally getting to his feet, Atreo moves over to the side of the ship, motioning with his jaw for the others to get up. Coughing and wheezing, they follow suit.
“Gentlemen, I present you, Mars.” Atreo crosses his arms, nodding out the window as bright celestial object comes into view, a small red dot shining in the sea of darkness. The men line up against the window, all trying to get a better look. Cecil stands back, trying not to think about the destination.
The men, ragged, look out the thick windows, eager nonetheless. Cecil counts the three members, noticing one member lacking. “Wait.” Cecil stammers, causing the others to look back at him. “Someone isn’t… where’s Linus?”
The other look between each other, then back at Atreo, who sighs heavily, eyes fixated out into space. “Linus�
�� didn’t make it. His body didn’t respond to the oxygen carrying nanites. Lia informed me about his unfortunate habit of smoking that he said he had quit. Unfortunately, it interfered with the way his body was able to absorb the oxygen from the system. By the time we had noticed it, it was too late. Removing him from cryo at that point would have ended up with him having severe brain damage. It was about a month into the journey… his pulse eventually slowed to nothing and his brain activity ceased. I’m truly sorry.”
Cecil collapses to the floor again, crossing his legs to lean his head down, his sore back muscles stretching in the process. The others avoid eye contact with each other. Atreo stares out the window, back turned to the others.
Condensation drips from Cecil’s brow, as his cold skin starts to approach room temperature. He stands up and grabs the towel again, which had been strewn on the floor. The others remain silent, pacing around the room, joints popping and cracking.
“Well… let’s get you guys changed into suits so we can brief you.” Atreo turns back from the window, walking to the big door in the room. Cecil is the first to follow, taking one last look at the open pods. A single one at the end of the row, near the door, had remain untouched, covered by a big white cloth. Cecil averts his eyes as he walks by.
The door slides closed as the last man enters the room. The living quarters are compact, despite having been designed for a crew slightly larger. Bunks line the walls, six on each side, with a locker for each. The round table in the middle of the room looks like it could seat a squad. Sitting atop the surface are various stacks of books and many papers, looking as if it hadn’t been cleaned for quite a while.
Cecil scans the walls, finding a locker labeled “Ruiz.” Opening it, he finds a pair of familiar coveralls. Reaching behind his back, he pulls the zipper the best he can, slipping the bodysuit off his shoulders. With the already damp towel in his hands, he pats his body down to dry off the newly uncovered skin.
Below his waist, he finds the clamped-off catheter still dangling from him. His sore fingers grasp at the end of the tube, pulling at the release valve for the balloon. Air slowly exists, before releasing its hold on the inside of his bladder. With a slow, steady motion, Cecil winces and slides the tube out of his body. The plastic device falls to the floor with a hollow ‘clack.’
Pulling off the rest of the body suit, he quickly dries off the rest of his body. Among the fibers of the cloth, Cecil can smell the unpleasant odors from the spray of ammonia they had received before heading into the cryo chambers. Dropping the towel around his feet, he fishes through the back shelves of the locker, finding a set of underwear. Stiffly slipping on the pair of boxer shorts and undershirt, he pulls the big coveralls off the hangar and onto the floor, stepping into the leg holes. The fabric is warm and coarse like he remembers.
At the very back of the locker is a small cylindrical case. Cecil opens it to find his glasses nestled away inside with a tiny cloth to wipe them with. He places them on his face, and the world clears up to him once again.
Chapter 27
Atreo shuffles his papers and books around, placing them in neat piles on his side of the table. Each man, now dressed in similar coveralls, pulls up a stool from under the table to take their place. The coffee machine beeps and Atreo steps away to attend to it. Cecil catches his regard that seemed to call him over.
Atreo divides the dark liquid up into cups arranged haphazardly before him. He quickly leans over to Cecil to whisper at him. “How are you feeling?”
“The same as always. This is the third time I’ve been through this process. I’m no stranger, um… sir.” Cecil stumbles with his words.
“That’s exactly why I’m asking. Anyways, keep an eye on them, too… just to make sure they are recovering fine from the cryo sleep. I’ll put you in charge of making sure they are in proper shape before we arrive.” He nods his head, following Cecil’s look. Cecil nods back the same, picking up two of the cups and retreating back to the table.
Atreo replaces the carafe before bringing over two more of the cups, setting them down in front of the men, and turning back to grab his own. Steam floats up from the cup as he takes a sip, clearing his voice after.
“We have about a week before we arrive.” Atreo speaks to the men surrounding the table. His face seemed leaner, as was his body, but his shoulders seemed to fill out the suit better. “I know it’s not that much time to prepare, but we only had so many rations to have on the ship here. Any longer and we could face issues, especially with potable water.”
“How does the situation down there stand?” Cyrus speaks up. He was the youngest of the group to be included on the mission, but only on the condition of having passed written tests and simulations with flying colors. Upon hearing of Cecil’s work in the navy, he had countered with his own tale of working logistics in the air force before coming to work for the program.
Galen and Nikomedes look between Cyrus and Atreo, waiting on an answer. Galen fiddles with a pen in his hands, clicking the cap on and off. The man was well weathered, giving him a look older than he actually seemed. He had never actually told his age to them, and Cecil could never put a proper estimate on him. The man had a deep scar under his eye, running parallel to his nose. He had explained once it had come from a piece of shrapnel from when he was working under Doctors Without Borders somewhere in India.
Atreo looks down at his papers, scribbled in pen with notes. “One month ago, the first cases of the sickness finally reared their heads. There’s been an official quarantine set up now, due to the number of infections. They are currently undergoing treatment with antibiotics, but the supply at the station is almost out. Our first course of action is aiding the medical bay, which is currently overrun. Galen will be the first in there. Him or the staff there can give you direction on how to eventually help when that time comes.”
Nikomedes examines his fingernails, continuously looking back between Atreo and his hand as the director spoke to them. He was broad, but always seemed to slouch as if to save on space. His head was completely bald, still glistening somewhat from the condensation. Atreo had previously praised his experience, having worked aboard the Second International Space Station, the total time being aboard about a year and a half. Cecil figured he could have been as old or older as Galen, but was just as spry as the others.
“Ruiz, Nik, you need to get in contact with those working around the possible sources of contamination; the hydroponics center and the waste management center. Ruiz…” Atreo nods, targeting Cecil specifically. “I know this is like a homecoming for you, but we can’t let this become some sort of celebration.”
“Yes, sir.” Cecil nods back, hiding his indignance.
“For now… try and calm your minds.” Atreo taps away at the table with his pen. “Ruiz will be around to deal with any issues you might run into while recovering from your long cryo sleeps. When we’re closer to the planet, we’ll receive a more specific list of what needs to be done and where we are need to go. For now, I have nothing more for you. Let’s eat up.”
Atreo picks up his cup of coffee, holding it in in the air silently. The others do the same, mumbling a few words of cheers. With a clack, Atreo sits his cup down and shuffles the papers back in front of him.
Cecil downs a big gulp of the bitter liquid. It is borderline scalding, but the warmth entering his body feels good. The others sit around the table, staring at their cups, watching the steam rise slowly and disappear into the air. Cecil takes a quick glance around at their faces, all seeming to brood. Atreo had opened one of the big hardcover books to thumb through, many of the pages having been dog-eared. The folded-in sections break up the neat lines of the book’s edge.
Cecil stands to walk to the opposite end of the hall where the plain cabinets had been stocked with food. Inside, Cecil finds stacks upon stacks of foil encased trays, marked with black fading nametags. In another drawer below are more packets, which Cecil digs through, finding a grouping of them labeled ‘Oatmea
l.’
“Who’s hungry?” He speaks, looking back to the crew. Atreo peers back at him for a second, then back to his book without a response. The others shake their heads, hardly giving a glance in his direction. Cecil pulls out four of the packets and throws them onto the table. “Everyone should at least have some. If you don’t eat now, you won’t have any energy later.”
Nikomedes pulls one of the packets towards him, examining it. Cecil takes the few steps to the galley and pulls the electric kettle off the heating plate. Nikomedes had ripped his open, laying the paper tray out for Cecil to pour the water in. Cyrus and Galen follow suit, the faint starchy smell entering the cabin.
Bringing the kettle back, Cecil brings out four spoons to pass around. He takes his own seat in front of the last tray of oatmeal. Stirring in the last of the dry oats, he brings the spoon to his mouth. The hot, mushy substance runs across his tongue and down into his stomach with little effort.
Atreo continues slipping through the pages of his book as the metallic sound of silverware fills the cabin. “Is the food really better on Mars, Cecil?” Cyrus looks up, half his tray still full.
Cecil examines his spoon for any last remnant of food particles. Setting it down, he looks across the table at Cyrus. “It is.” He announces confidently. “It’s fresh, and organic too. Sometimes the taste isn’t all there, but it is filling and nutritious. Mostly vegetarian, sadly.”
“There won’t be any of that there if the crop is infected.” Atreo mumbles, marking the place in his book with the tip of his finger. “Keep that in mind. Nik here will be in charge of testing what they have when we’re able to bring the instruments off the ship.”
Cecil turns his head down. Empty tray in hand, he stands up with the tray to bring it to the trash compactor. Cyrus looks down at the mash, spreading it around with the spoon. Uninterested, he crumples the tray, and stands up to follow Cecil’s lead. Before he can push the stool back in, the tray slips through his fingers, and he stumbles.