Chapter Text
Log Entry
Mission Day 878
Okay, so I've started writing everyone involved with my rescue their own email.
I wanted to write each individual person their own email, but I quickly found myself running out of things to say. For instance, there was a team of people whose full-time job was test-driving my rover. They never found anything wrong with it, but it was their full time job to drive that rover into the dirt to expose any problems that could compromise a four-year mission. I confess, since I don't know any of them personally, I sent them all the same email. I made up for it, however! I've offered them a beer and pizza office party.
That's fair, right? You save my life, I buy you pizza. That seems fair. Not unbalanced at all.
I wrote each team an email thanking them. All the project teams at JPL for the rockets, and all the equipment testers, and the entire physical team, the psychiatric team, astrophysics for course calculations, every Chinese team involved with the Taiyang Shen. Dozens of different teams and different emails. I'm keeping a spreadsheet of every team I've contacted and what I've promised them.
Beer and pizza. I've promised them all beer and pizza.
At this rate, I will be throwing NASA and JPL a joint party. Hopefully my settlement will give me enough money to cover that.
There's also a lot of people who deserve a personal email.
Those are harder.
Some aren't that hard. A lot of government officials get personal emails because Venkat told me so. Don't tell them, but they all also basically got the same email. A lot of celebrities pitched in to my rescue fund, and the celebrities I don't know were pretty easy to write to. I looked up what they were famous for and commented on it. NASA is holding some soirée for all the big donors, so with each email I'm personally inviting them to that event.
Annie taught me how to do all of this wine-and-dining before we left because I was the unfortunate astronaut saddled with press relations, but we never anticipated something of this scale. She's sent me a literal waterfall of emails telling me who to contact and what to say, and I've BCC'd her on every email so she can see them all.
The personal emails are hardest to write. Emails that aren't being sent because NASA told me so, but because they're the people who made my rescue possible at all.
Rich Purnell, astrophysics. Twenty-something man with Aspergers. No friends to speak of, loves his work. He had the idea one day, took all of his vacation time to work out the calculations, and stormed into Venkat's office with the solution. According to Bruce and Venkat, he doesn't even want any credit. He is insistent that he only did it because it was a great excuse to use the supercomputer. But I can see through that a mile away. Nobody voluntarily gives up all of their vacation time and risks getting fired to sit in a freezing database hallway waiting on a computer. His idea saved my life.
Mindy Park, satcon. A masters of engineering who had a calm night shift taking satellite imagery of the solar system. Wasn't even involved with the Ares missions, happened to be on staff when Venkat sent in the request for the imaging. She's the one who figured out I'm alive. Any other imager would have glanced sadly at the photos and sent them along. But not her. Venkat says she says she was doing her job, but learning my sleep schedule and becoming my professional stalker is not doing your job. She's the one who reported every time something went wrong. Every time I typed a hysterical message into Pathfinder, she's the one who routed it to the correct people.
Venkat Kapoor. When I was about to give up, he talked me off the ledge. He sat on everyone's ass to make sure everyone did everything they could to save me. He may have been doing his job at first, but he's the one who stayed up the next couple weeks through the night to keep checking up on me and making sure I was okay. The man was there when no one else was, and we've barely ever spoken in person. I probably need to apologize to him for, uh, nearly killing myself on his watch.
Mitch Henderson. He sent those coordinates to Lewis, gave them the choice to come back for me, and his reward was to get fired. He lit his entire life on fire to give Lewis and everyone else the chance to commit mutiny. He has a wife and children that agreed to get thrown under the bus if it would give me a chance at life. (Just another family I ruined).
Teddy Sanders. He voted against the maneuver. And... I agree with the decision. I would have too. He wanted to keep as many people alive as possible. He wanted to keep the people I love alive. He didn't make that decision because he's cold, he made it because he's a good director. I want to tell him that while the entire rest of the crew might be pissed at him, I'm not, and I will stand by his side in the PR disaster to come.
Bruce Ng. From what I understand, he went from six to about 1.5 hours of sleep a night, trashed JPL's budget, and was caught drunk in his office more than a few times watching The Watney Report. He's the one who had to say “We need to take off Hull Panel 19" even though nobody wanted to do it, and if I remember correctly, he's the one who walked me through those ridiculous procedures. I was pretty out of it. I probably said some weird fucking shit to him. Probably should apologize for it.
I can't handle any of these emails right now.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 878
I shut the laptop and lay down. I'm lazing around in the gym turned bunk room, and Martinez is sitting up against the wall on his tablet doing god knows what, not paying any attention to me. It's easy for me to pull the blankets over myself to lay down and think.
I've barely begun the work of thanking everyone, and already it feels like my chest is being kicked in. Every time I read another person's contributions, I see what they gave up to try and save me. Me, a person they'd never met, a shitty person, a person millions of miles away, a person who by that time had already lost most of their marbles, a person who wants to repay them by dying.
So many people gave up so much of their life to try and save me. There are hundreds of people who tripled their work hours, kissed their families goodbye for months or years under the workload, traveled across the world to test equipment or source materials or build things or god knows what. Hundreds more people sacrificed their hard-earned money to donate to saving me, sacrificed their hard-earned time to campaign with #BringHimHome.
What makes my chest feel like it's caving in is the fact that they should have left me fucking there. I'm one guy. All that time and money could have been used for someone else, for starving kids in Africa or women's rights and education or helping people get access to clean water.
But I know damn well if I had died Sol 6, that money wouldn't have gone to those causes. It wouldn't have gone anywhere. People were willing to get off their asses for me, some random dude on another planet, but they don't get off their asses for sub-Saharan communities without access to running water. Those people shouldn't have joined NASA, they should have joined the fucking Peace Corps. This is my same old rant about how people should care more about developing nations, and I've been ranting about it for years and it's never changed a thing.
Annie briefed me on how I'm supposed to act, and here's basically what she said: Look, we all know you're pretty fucked up these days, but the public Cannot Know. As far as they're concerned, you're happy, you're healthy, you're thrilled everyone tried to save you. I told her that that was ridiculous, since my video logs were being released, but she said with the cleanups, no one will ever know. Yeah right.
Annie, I want all this shit to blow over too. But it turns out, this shit will not blow over. I'm fucked, forever, and all I want to do is try and help others from it, try and make something good out of it.
It feels like elephants trampled my chest. This shit will not blow over. I'm fucked. Forever.
I wonder what I would have thought if it were someone else? Not someone I love, some stranger I'd never met. Like if it happened while I was in college, before I had big dreams of being an astronaut. I was a cynical son of a bitch. Probably wouldn’t have cared.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 881
"You know, we're close to Earth. We're getting a great data transfer rate, and the light-minute delay is getting reasonable..." I say, leaning over to Johanssen.
"What's your point, Watney?" She says.
I grin. "We can get back on Twitter."
She rolls her eyes. "Ugh."
Since Ares III was the third mission, enthusiasm about the Ares missions was dying down while we were winding up for launch. We all made official Twitter accounts and social media presences and participated in an Internet effort to revive the enthusiasm for the mission series. It had a reasonable amount of success, in part because I'm a Twitter whore and Johanssen is a nerd goddess to freaky nerds everywhere.
"We can do a Q&A!" I say, enthused. I love the idea of talking to lots of people, even if they are only tweets.
"They're gonna ask you about Mars," Johanssen says. "We won't even get questions."
"Don't be so sure," I laughs. "I mention your nerdisms in the logs. You might have some fans of your own."
Johanssen rolls her eyes. "Fine. If you set it up, I'll do the Q&A."
Twitter
Mission Day 881
@dedenman: @ares3watney Why did you get selected for Ares III?
@ares3watney: @dedenman for the vine
@ares3watney: @dedenman no uh I don't know probably for my resilience or whatever
@ares3beck: @dedenman @ares3watney was that a botany joke?
@ares3watney: @dedenman @ares3beck This is why I dig you so mulch
@dedenman: this in @ares3watney king of bad puns #BringHimHome
@rdjkillsme: @ares3watney what's the most embarassing movie on your media stick?
@ares3watney: @rdjkillsme Probably The Incredibles, although I'm not embarrassed by it
@ares3watney: @rdjkillsme It's a beautiful story about hard work and good values
@anihloz: @ares3watney how did you get multiple masters without drowning in debt?
@ares3watney: @anihloz I did not. I was paying off debt when we left for Mars (1/2)
@ares3watney: @anihloz And if the NASA lawyers are correct I will be coming home to debt (2/2)
@anihloz: @ares3watney wtf they won't pay off your debt after leaving you on Mars??
@ares3watney: @anihloz Do you hear that @NASA? The people think you should pay my debt off!
@anihloz: @NASA you left @ares3watney on Mars the least you can do is pay his loans
@coolkidzaregreat: @ares3watney what's your biggest fear? ...besides Mars
@ares3watney: @coolkidzaregreat it's a tie between cops and, like, infidelity
@coolkidzaregreat: @ares3watney why infidelity? Have you been cheated on?? 0.0
@ares3watney: @coolkidzaregreat in high school I kissed my girlfriend's twin sister on accident
@loveislove: @ares3beck what is your favorite holiday?
@ares3beck: @loveislove Christmas. Snow, family, living room fires, and children opening presents.
@hrgerard: @ares3beck how does it feel that people are speculating on your love life?
@ares3beck: @hrgerard nobody from Ares I or II had people speculating about their love lives
@ares3johanssen: @ares3beck @hrgerard this can all be blamed on an astronaut who shall remain nameless
@ares3watney: @ares3johanssen @ares3beck @hrgerard are you calling me cupid?
@ares3johanssen: @ares3watney @ares3beck @hrgerard we are blaming you
@dancingqueenxx13: @ares3beck have you ever danced with @ares3watney?
@ares3watney: @dancingqueenxx13 @ares3beck no but I would love to
@ares3beck: @ares3watney @dancingqueenxx13 why are you encouraging this
@ares3watney: @dancingqueenxx13 @ares3beck does this mean you won't dance with me
@cjpearson: @ares3lewis when do you get back?
@ares3lewis: @cjpearson Mission Day 898! I don't know what day that is on Earth, though.
@abossylady: @ares3watney how did you make it through Mars?
@ares3watney: @abossylady I have a ph.D. in selective denial
@waffl3o: The first thing you thought you would do when you got back VS what you did?
@ares3watney: @waffl3o what I thought - awesome one liners
@ares3watney: @waffl3o what happened - mostly crying
@dantheman8395: @ares3watney what is your middle name?
@ares3watney: @dantheman8395 Richard. My parents call me dick when I'm being annoying.
@iwillgotospace: @ares3lewis what made you want to be an astronaut?
@ares3lewis: @iwillgotospace that's a long answer, but the short version is: The Mercury Thirteen
@iwillgotospace: @ares3lewis THOSE GUYS WERE SO COOL
@ares3watney: @iwillgotospace @ares3lewis THOSE GUYS WERE GIRLS
@iwillgotospace: @ares3watney @ares3lewis YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN
Mark Watney
Mission Day 884
Christ Jesus, it's orbit day.
Vogel has been making tiny algorithmic speed and angle changes for the past week, putting us in the path of dropping into Earth's orbit. But the last part of the procedure must be done by our own living breathing Rick Martinez. It's a series of tiny changes, but they need to happen in quick succession for us to drop into perfect orbit, and then he has to hang by the console so that NASA can confirm we're in the correct orbit once he's done.
He claims he has enough fuel, but with all the adjustments we've made so far, he's working with a tiny amount. He has to have a surgeon's hands or we'll fly off into deep space.
There's nothing any of us can do, either. We will sit in our seats with our seat belts on, because that's protocol, but there's nothing for us to do but watch him pilot us home. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that life or death isn't riding on me, but that means the agitation running through my arms right now will probably evolve into full-blown panic once it's go time.
For now, though, I'm sitting at the Rec Room table, pushing breakfast around my plate, and trying to calm the ten millionbutterflies in my stomach.
I look over at Rick, and I can't believe I'm saying it, but he looks more anxious than I am. He's spent the last few days practicing his ass off, but this morning he is hanging out and mentally preparing.
"You know, I get it now," I say to him.
He looks up at me, clearly thinking about something else. "What?"
"Why we brought you," I say.
He laughs softly.
I put a finger up. "But for this, all right? Don't get a big head. I'm sure we could figure it out if you weren't here, anyways."
Martinez smiles faintly. I think I did make him feel better for a moment.
Melissa Lewis
Mission Day 884
Lewis has a word with Beck in the hallway.
She has complete confidence in Martinez, and has been given no reason to think they wouldn't successfully fall into orbit.
Her main concern is Watney. He'd been amazing, unbelievable in tight situations. But when the situation was entirely out of his control, he had a tendency to decompensate.
"You know he will probably take this hard, right?" Lewis says.
Beck nods. "Yeah."
Lewis isn't concerned for herself or the rest of the crew. They can handle Watney in any situation. She simply hates that they all know what is coming and yet there is nothing they can do to help him.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 884
Can someone come make me feel better?
We're all clicked into our seatbelts in the comm room. Martinez has his game face on. NASA is walking Martinez through the launch sequence, and the rest of us are sitting quietly. Everyone else looks okay. A little concerned, nervous, but mostly game face and impatience for this to be over.
I'm trying to resist the urge to fight my seatbelt because I'd like to be curled up in a corner right now. This feels like a sandstorm all over again, where all I can do is wait for the time to pass and find out if I die or not.
"It's almost over, Mark," Johanssen says from next to me, reaching out to pat my hand.
I don't grab her hand back because I'm embarrassed she felt the need to do that at all.
Their lives are all at stake, too, and they're not sitting here having a childish freakout. Mental illness, neurological changes, I don't care, all I know is that we are all highly trained astronauts and I'm the only one who's freaking out.
"Ready for Launch," NASA says.
"Launch," Martinez says.
There's not a launch, here, only the barely-audible firing of the control jets on the side of the ship.
Martinez's face is lined in concentration, and we all try not to watch him too hard as he reads the complicated readouts on his screen.
My heart beats wildly against my chest, but I have enough practice with panic by now that I'm able to clench my arms and pretend it isn't happening.
We watch Martinez move the joysticks. Nothing changes.
My heart continues to beat at my sternum, and for a wild moment I think it will break out and I'll have a heart attack. But I don't say anything, only bring my hand up to my chest as if that can keep my heart in place.
God, this is too fucking drawn out, I can't handle this, whether or not we all live or die is in this silent room and all I can do is watch.
Melissa Lewis
Mission Day 884
She keeps her eye on Martinez as he pilots, but there isn't much for her to do. His communication is directly with NASA. That leaves her an eye to keep on Watney.
She can see his white grip wringing his hands together and can see the way his eyes are open a little too wide, but all in all she is extremely impressed... and relieved.
Just as she looks back at Martinez, he leans back and breathes a sigh of relief. NASA says "Mission Success."
She lets out a breath, smiling. Looks like this day won't be so hard after all.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 884
As soon as Martinez whoops, I unclick myself from that damn seatbelt.
Everyone else is whooping, so I opened my mouth to join in. I'm acting happy and relieved, but my body hasn't caught up yet, heart beating against my ribcage like death is right around the corner.
And it might be. The EDV might fuck up and we might run out of food or the heating could go or something else stupid could happen and it could all be over right before the end. That's why my heart is beating against the inside of my chest like it's searching for an escape. The only escape I can picture in my head is death, whether that's here or there.
I'd like to slip out into the hallway, but someone will follow me, and then we'd have a 'talk,' and I'm sick of these dramatic and unnecessary talks.
The anxiety is turning into depression fast, hardening into blackness in my chest. My hands aren't shaking anymore because I can't make them move, can barely make my face smile and talk along with all the positivity happening in this crammed command center.
Eventually they all file out and I'm freed from the social situation. But while they all bounce past the VAL door, I stop short of the turn. I don't want to turn the corner and see it, and then have someone notice that I saw it, and then ask. Because it still nags at me that what the hell man, you're almost to Earth, why the hell do you want to die?
It isn't bothering me that much right now, though. Right now, nothing is acute suffering or pain or agony. I'm sad and tired, and I've been sad and tired every day for years and I will be sad and tired for the rest of my life. I want to be done being sad and tired.
"You okay?" Lewis asks. She stops when I do. Now it's us floating in the hallway.
Yeah, sure, just want to die even though we got the good news that we all get to live. I throw a temper tantrum if I'm gonna die, I'm disappointed if I'm gonna live, there's no winning with me. I guess I want it to end on my terms.
"Yeah, fine," I mumble in her general direction.
She doesn't say anything, but instead makes that face, the one that says 'yeah, right.'
"I'm not in the mood for it," I mumble next. I want to be left alone, with no drama or intervention or anything.
Her gaze softens. "Come on," she says, waving. "We're all gonna celebrate."
She bounces away, and I follow because I know I have to.
When my eyes stick on the VAL like they always do, Lewis doesn't look back.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 885
It's probably not escaping their notice that I'm moping around more than usual lately.
I should be so damn happy. The chances of us getting to Earth are exceedingly high at this point. There's nothing worth being anxious about. If something breaks, we can get in a lifeboat, and they can get that lifeboat to Earth. If the EDV fails, they can build and send another one right quick. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, the odds are in our favor.
It's relieving my anxiety and panic, knowing that the odds are in our favor. But depression is filling the space where it used to be. I'm completely, utterly unexcited to go home.
I'm excited about the individual aspects of it. Getting to see my mom, and dad, and Buzz, and eating pizza again and maybe watching a Cubs game sounds awesome. But I'm not excited about the whole package, because in between pizza Cubs parties with my family, I will be committed to a mental ward, my house gone, all of the Ares III crew are will be with their families living their lives, and I will be abandoned to a sterile white room like I have been for the past three years. The life I wanted to return to died on Sol 6 along with Mark Watney.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 888
It's MDV receiving day. It's the same drill as docking day. We all hang out in the control room, watching Martinez fiddle with the controls, knowing that one mistake could break our ship or cost us months of time.
This time, though, there are very few mistakes (relatively) that could risk our life. Just our comfort levels.
It's the same for me, too, with white fists and a pounding heart. But today my pounding heart is dampened by sadness. I can't get up my usual frenzied panic.
When he's successful, the crew starts crying. They look so happy, hugging and cheering. I hug and cheer with them, but it feels far away and distant. My cheers are fake, I can feel the hollow place in my chest they come from, and I can't feel any of the happiness they feel. I feel confused and lost.
It dies down, we break apart, and they start to chatter about the good news. I'm content to listen to their voices. My chest is a mess of hot and light and distant feelings, aching sadness and puffy warmth. I catch myself staring across the group, eyes fixed on the screen. Reception Successful.
I'm not sad, I don't think. Or I am sad, but not sad as in suffering and depressed in pain, sad like I'm never will be happy again. I'm tired, and sad, and I'm glad that on Earth I will be get to be sad and tired somewhere comfortable and safe. I'm so tired. I'd like to go sleep.
My hand is suddenly warm as someone grabs it, and I realize I must have been noticed. It's Chris Beck, and he's looking at me. Vogel, too, stands by me looking concerned. It appears the entire crew crowded around me and stopped talking and I didn't even realize.
"Sorry,” my mouth says automatically. I didn't mean to steal all the attention away. That's exactly what I don't want. What I want is to be forgotten, put away in a drawer where I can be sad and tired and go to sleep and never wake up.
"Hey Mark," Martinez says. "How did the astronauts know they were going home?"
I lift my tired eyes to look at him.
"Because the pilot had found his Mark."
I dip my head and smile.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 891
"We're going home!" Beth yells into the Rec Room.
They've been doing this ever since the MDV was docked. Yelling about how we're going home randomly.
I give her the token smile she's looking for and go back to the pointless typing I'm doing on my laptop.
Her eyes narrow at me. "You know, Mark, I would swear you're not excited about it."
I shrug, not looking up from the laptop. I'm sad, I'm tired, I want to go to bed and preferably never wake up again.
"What's going on?" she pries.
"Nothing, Johanssen, I'm fine," I mumble, frustrated.
"Come on, Watney —“
"Leave it be."
Her eyes flare. "No! This is what you've fought for since this all started, and you're acting like you don't care at all. I will not leave it alone. Especially not when that could cost you your life."
I look up at her, and her blue eyes are staring into mine with passion.
Frustration kicks up from somewhere inside of me. "I don't owe you an explanation."
I try to return to typing, because I can't get away from supervision on this ship, but she doesn't let go. "It isn't like that. I'm trying to help you."
"What would help is if I could be left alone for five seconds!" I burst out.
And to my horror, it's true. The afraid, traumatized part of me that always wants a hug is in hiding right now, and the only thing I find inside myself is the overwhelming urge to crawl into a hole and die.
The memory of the Vicodin in Beck's quarters flashes to life. I could take some or all of those white pills.
Would it really affect how mentally fucked up I am later?
Would it matter at all?
"Based on what you've said before, that's not what you want," she says suspiciously.
"Well this time, it is," I say, voice hard. "Look, if I pinky promise not to kill myself, will you please let me sulk somewhere alone?"
She shakes her head. "No. Because what if you have a flashback or something? I don't want you to have to suffer alone."
The answer warms my heart, but instead a sneer crosses my face, an emotional wall to keep out the truth.
"You can sulk over there if you want," she says, pointing to the chair.
I weigh her offer, take her up on it. I turn the chair towards earth and away from her, and sulk, doing my best to forget that she or anyone else is here.
I want to crawl into a hole, go to sleep and never wake up.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 891
Why is it that when I most want to sleep, I can't?
Martinez is completely knocked out next to me on the gym floor, but I'm tossing and turning.
7 days until we leave for Earth. I can't sleep. It's supposed to be because I feel like a kid at Christmastime, but instead it's because I have this awful twisting feeling in my gut that lurches anytime I get close to falling asleep.
The reason I'm not dying to get back to Earth is I no longer think it will be any better. The Hermes was a huge step up from Mars, and so it deserved happy crying and cheering, but Earth feels like it's will be more of the same here. Sterile white clean rooms, crappy reconstituted food, and as a bonus everyone I love will go back to their lives and forget about me.
Fuck, fuck, I wish I could stay here a bit longer, where I can shake Martinez awake whenever I feel like I'm choking on depression, where if I'm in a flashback Beck will set my hand to the floor until I come back, where they haven't left me. Because when we get back to Earth they will leave me, again, and this time it will be permanent. They will not come back because of guilt, or obligation, because once we're all home those will all fall away.
I want to go get up and stare at the VAL. I don't want to wake Martinez up, either, because as soon as he's home he's will leave me behind too. I don't see what the point of going through all the fuss for an intervention is if it doesn't even matter anyways.
Then again, this might be my last chance for a big damn intervention like this. But do I want it if it's fake?
Anyway, I can't tell him why I want to go stare out the VAL this time because I won't be able to bear the look on his face that says 'yeah, you're right.'
I owe them this. They saved my life, picked me up off the face of hell, they deserve to rest easy and go home to their families knowing they did good. If it takes me being quiet and out of the way in a mental ward to keep their hearts together, then that's what I'll do. I owe them this.
As I lower myself into the blankets for cold and restless sleep, I say to myself: I can always kill myself tomorrow.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 893
It was only a matter of time. They're all talking about how excited they are to have sex when they get back. They're in the Rec Room and it's breakfast, so I'm forced to listen to this while munching on my cereal.
Martinez, a true Catholic, refuses to share the details, saying only that Marissa's 'full in all the right places.'
"But haven't you ever wondered about other women?" Beth asks curiously. "I mean, you've only ever been with her."
Martinez closes his eyes and smiles. "When you got a woman like that, you don't need no one else."
I roll my eyes. In another life, I might have been into the crass line of conversation, but I am not feeling it. I will probably never will have sex again.
To be perfectly honest, I don't care all that much. Chasing women in my twenties and early thirties never paid off. Without the connection, sex is slapping body parts together. No thanks.
"What about you, Beth," Martinez snickers. "You ever wonder about other women?"
"That's not how bisexuality works," she says, rolling her eyes. "It's not like when I'm with a man, I miss women. People are people, dude."
Martinez knows this, and Johanssen knows Martinez knows this, but Martinez's eternally fifteen year old sense of humor can't resist.
“You’re just greedy,” Martinez says, snickering.
Johanssen rolls her eyes and ignores him.
"I'm excited to have sex in 1 g," Beck admits.
"I'm excited to have sex at all!" Martinez says. "I'm sick of my hands, right and left."
Lewis cringes from across the room, and Johanssen says "Jesus, Martinez." Vogel says nothing, trying to be dignified and not participate.
Martinez turns to me. "So what about you, dude? You had a lot of time — did you learn how to left-hand it?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
"I didn't even right-hand it, dude," I say, shaking my head. I'm not above crass humor, but Jesus, Martinez.
"Not even once?"
I'm annoyed. Please leave me alone. "No."
"All that time alone?"
All that time alone, all I was worried about was how I was alone on an entire fucking planet and I am will die buried in the sand forgotten.
I slam down the fork I'm holding. "Being left on a planet to die is a bit of a mood killer."
I'm cruelly glad about the way Martinez's face turns to one of horror, realizing he went a step too far.
He's trying to apologize, but I'm already on my way out of the Rec Room.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 895
It's time for a video chat with Dr. Bossy Beck and Dr. Irene Shields, now that we're close enough to Earth. They want to debrief me personally for the descent to Earth, given my new status as certifiable.
"I won’t lie to you. We anticipate this will be difficult for you," Dr. Shields says, "But unfortunately, due to the health requirements of descent, we can't give you any medication to ease the experience."
I shrug. Every time I need medication is exactly when NASA says 'no, you need all your brain cells.'
"You know, I fixed up the MAV and I was high as shit the whole time," I say.
Dr. Shields gives me a withering look. "That was not NASA sanctioned."
I roll my eyes. NASA sanctioned my ass.
"NASA has already delivered me a report," Beck says. ""Patient will likely pass out," NASA says. "Due to less than ideal weight and health." Mark, I recommend not fighting it when that happens. There's no reason for you to be awake."
"I'm more worried about having a flashback and trying to tear apart the ship or something," I joke weakly. I am, though. Every nightmare I have about the MAV involves me trying to fling myself out of it into deep space.
"Those chairs have a lot of buckles. It would take a lot of coordination to work them. That's not something anyone has during a flashback," Beck says. "I don't think it will be a concern."
"I would like to bring something up," Beck continues. "Did NASA sign off on anti-nausea medication? I want to take the precaution, since we can't handle emesis in the flight suit on a descent."
Dr. Shields looks through her papers. "It looks like Dr. Keller approved him for Zofran, if you have that on board.”
Beck nods.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Dr. Watney alone," Dr. Shields says.
Beck nods easily, knowing this was coming, and picks up his tablet and leaves.
She smiles gently, putting the clipboard down.
"So, they want to institutionalize you upon your return," she says gently.
I swallow, saying nothing.
"At first, you’ll be isolated in a clean room. They're worried about your weakened immune system. Dr. Keller already told Beck, and he's told the team. But you’ll probably be held longer."
Great, extended time in a sterile white room with windows I can't open and an airlock I can't use. Great.
"After that, they want to transition you to inpatient facilities. I don't know if you know this, but Drs. Beck and Johanssen have been campaigning to let you move directly to outpatient and have you live with them."
I perk up. “Really?” My chest is warm.
She smiles. "Yeah. They're been pushing it hard, and I think it's a good idea. It's against standard protocol for suicidal patients, but I keep trying to say there is no standard protocol for this. Every scrap of evidence suggests that once you return to Earth your condition will improve.”
I'm not so sure about that one, but I don't say anything. Instead I let the warm feeling of acceptance puff me up. I get to go home with Beck and Johanssen. I'm not will get abandoned to some puffy room. My eyes water ever so , and I blink back the tears.
"Uh, NASA also wanted me to talk to you about your 'conduct upon egress,'" she laughs. "They don't want you being noncooperative with the doctors who are picking you up after descent."
I furrow my brows. "I won't be noncooperative if they aren't huge jerks."
She sighed. "They're infectious disease specialists in clean suits. They're gonna be huge jerks."
We talk a little more about what NASA expects out of me, but soon enough the conversation is over and I'm alone in the Rec Room.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 895
I walk into my lab to find both Beck and Johanssen there, already conveniently alone.
"Hey," I say lamely, standing in the doorway.
Johanssen raises an eyebrow. "Hey," she says back.
I rub the back of my neck, looking at the floor. "Dr. Shields told me about... about what you wanted for my outpatient," I mumble.
Johanssen shakes her head, confused. "Yeah? What about it?"
I don't know how to communicate what I'm feeling.
I thought they would abandon me in a hospital. They might, but they’re at least willing to give it a try. I have a reason to hold on for a little longer. I don't have to feel so hollow and empty and worthless because they think I'm worth holding on to even after we get back to Earth.
"I was surprised," is what I choose to say.
She shrugs. "We talked about this, remember? We want you to be near us."
"It was in passing, I didn't think you were serious." Oh, I thought and thought and thought about it, but I didn't think they for-real meant it. I figured they were saying it to be nice, that my hospitalization would get in the way, that it wouldn't end up being a big deal.
The hollow sad emptiness in my chest feels like it's been wrapped in a warm blanket.
"You okay Mark?" Beck asks, ever perceptive.
I look down again. I don't want to explain what's going through my mind, because like we've been over already, I am not worth the time and the space and the air it takes to explain. I can't find the energy to try. I've already been given way more than I deserve.
"Yeah, it's fine," I say, sitting in the chair by my laptop.
I'm getting used to the dichotomy; one side of me begging for the attention and the intervention, the other studiously staring at the floor and waiting for it to be over.
Beck accepts my crap excuse. They go back to talking about whatever it is they were talking about.
There's nothing worse than someone asking what's wrong, you responding fine, and them accepting it.
Something cold settles in next to the warmth. They're letting me in their lives now, but it won't be forever. This pushes back the date, but it will be the same outcome. Them, all moving on with their perfect lives and me, broken and alone.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 896
"The plan is like the Mars descent," Lewis said. "Pretty simple. We shut everything down, pile in the EDV with our stuff, and descend."
She walks us through the exact procedures, who will be doing what, where, when. Everyone's got a short list of things they need to shut down and make sure are in order, and most of it is polite tidying so the next team doesn't walk into a mess. My role in all the procedures is pretty simple.
"Watney," she said. "The morning of, you’ll be with Beck. You do whatever he tells you to do, eat whatever he tells you to eat, and take whatever he tells you to take. Got it?"
I nod roughly. I feel bad for not contributing more to the team, but frankly, it doesn't take a lot of people to shut down the Hermes. The Hermes has easy to use shutdown buttons. If they get started an hour earlier, they won't need me at all.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 897
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Now that it's here, tomorrow, I admit it. I'm excited.
I don't care if I will be sad and tired for the rest of my life, because at least I get to go to Earth, go home, see my parents, see the movies I like, and hey, I'll be fucking rich because of all the settlement money probably, and I have no idea how I'm supposed to get to bed tonight when I know that tomorrow night I will be falling asleep on an Earth bed —
Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Watney.
Okay, okay. Tomorrow, one way or another, it will be over.
Everyone's been bouncing around the ship, not saying much. Nobody wants to jinx it, I think, so we're been making this artificial polite conversation that we all know is a buttload of crap.
I'm finally smiling, widely, standing and looking out the window at Earth. The sight brings tears to my eyes. It's everything I fought to come home to, green wet jungles and billions of alive people and natural air. Everything that's good and right in this solar system is here.
Log Entry
Mission Day 898
It's the last day of the Ares III mission. We're going home today.
God, I don't even know what to say. Thank you everyone who helped get me back home, whether all you did was spend six hundred days stalking me or merely make a #BringHimHome tweet. I don't know who will read these logs, but I know someone will. So thank you.
I don't feel happy, exactly. My chest feels too small, like there's too many big and hot emotions piling up inside of it. My eyes are watering and I don't even know if I'm sad or happy or what the hell is going on.
I've already packed up all my personal effects. In a half hour I will take that box, put on a flight suit, climb in the EDV, and ride a controlled explosion down to Earth. We will land on a random cold field in the middle of Russia. I will take off that fucking flight suit, and for the first time in years I will breathe air that didn't come out of a can.
NASA iwill take a fleet of cars the size of an army and immediately throw me in an ambulance, but for the ten minutes between landing and them finding us, I will get to lay on blessed Earth dirt.
I will kiss that dirt. I will put my face on that dirt and kiss it, and if I get dirt in my mouth all the better. That's what I stayed alive for, after all.
Mark Watney
Mission Day 898
Fuck, I'm scared. Why am I scared? I don't want to do this, I want to go hide in my quarters. What the hell is wrong with me? Don't I want to see my mom? Kiss that amazing earth dirt? Eat pizza and watch the cubs?
I'm standing stock outside the airlock to the EDV, watching everyone put on their flight suits.
"How you feeling, Watney?" Lewis asks, working with her own suit.
I'm having trouble getting my limbs moving. I don't want to put this flight suit on. I think it's because last time I put on a flight suit and left the Hermes, I got abandoned on a planet for 18 months.
"Scared," is what I finally say.
Dr. Shields has spoken to us all about the possibility I'll lose my shit and start to tear apart the EDV, so they all think I'm scared of the actual space flight.
"It's all right," Beck says. "We've covered our bases."
They're all almost done, but I haven't even put on my flight suit yet.
"Mark, come on," Johanssen says. "It's time to go, get in the suit. You just have to get through this, and then you're home."
I swallow roughly, and grab the flight suit. She's right.
Man up, Watney. Get in the suit. Go home.
I was hoping that once I put on the suit, the calm feeling of go-time would settle over me. But no, as I strapped the suit together, all I felt was my heart jumping into my throat. My hands are shaking too badly to do this all myself, so Johanssen helps me with all the patience she can muster.
I clambered into the descent vehicle last and strapped myself in. Everyone else was already looking at me with concern, but I stare at the wall opposing me. The memory of the convertible is fresh in my mind. But this is not a convertible. There is no tarp over the top of the ship, it has all its hull panels, and has three sets of comms systems. I hold on to these facts.
"You fine?" Beck asked.
"Define 'fine,'" I say breathlessly. My chest is hurting badly, and I am resisting the urge to reflexively fight the restraints we all have.
Lewis looks over from next to me, and pulls my straps tighter in an act of concern. I can’t blame her.
The engines fired up, roaring, and my gut dropped through the floor. If I could cover my ears, I would have.
Thank God Beck at least gave me anti-nausea medication, or I would have vomited all over the inside of my helmet by now.
"Just ten minutes, then it's all gonna be over," says Johanssen's reassuring voice through the helmet radio. She has a nice voice, and I hold onto it like a lifeline.
NASA hops on the radio on that moment.
"Begin pre-flight procedures," says Mission Control.
"Copy," Lewys says. "CAPCOM."
"Go," Johanssen responds.
"Guidance."
"Go," Johanssen says again.
"Pilot."
"Go," says Martinez.
"Telemetry."
"Go." Johanssen responds.
"Mission control, this is Hermes Actual," Lewis reported. "We are go for launch and will proceed on schedule. We are T minus two minutes, 30 seconds to launch."
Beck is sitting next to me in the EDV, and he has been placed on full-time keep-Mark-calm duty until I'm secure on the ambulance. He doesn't say anything, the atmosphere in the cabin all business.
My heart is lodged in my throat.
"Five, four, three, two, one..."
The EDV shoots out of the sky toward Earth, a small rocket pushing it into free fall.
Unlike launching away from a planet, the g forces build slowly as we enter free fall. My heart stays lodged in my throat as we begin our descent towards Earth, and I can hear my breaths getting shorter and shorter.
"It's okay to pass out," Lewis reminds me. I think they'd prefer I pass out. Melissa, I'd love to, but my body has other plans.
We're gaining speed, and I can feel myself getting smashed against my seat.
Suddenly, I'm not with them anymore. I'm staring out a missing hull panel, staring up at the tarp which is ripping away from my ship. Staring at that one weird, five-sided bolt, rocketing towards my death.
"I'm having a flashback," I said to myself, trying to hold on to that. "I'm not on the MAV, I'm on the EDV. I'm going home." The crushing g forces feel the same either way. There's nothing to hold on to.
There are windows, the ripped tarp giving me a wide open view of the endless black void of stars that I will die amongst. It is cooler to die floating around in space than on that godforsaken rock, if a little bittersweet that it is so close to victory.
A rough shake brings me back to reality as our descent rocket roars to life. The thick atmosphere of Earth has insane turbulence, throwing me around aggressively in my chair.
"Watney!" a voice cut into my head. The comms, Lewis yelling at me.
"What?" I slur back, the images of the MAV flashing in my memory.
"Stay with us," she commands forcefully.
I have no idea how I am supposed to do that. It is like trying to do something while half asleep. I try to hold on to the thought that this is not the convertible MAV, but I keep forgetting and suddenly I am strapped into an open fire, completely helpless. The roaring sound around me is the same.
Melissa Lewis
Mission Day 898
Lewis can’t help but think that Watney will never be cleared to own a gun again, let alone go into space.
He is hunched over in his chair, as much as anyone can be while strapped into one. He is clearly having a flashback, not responding to his comms and staring at the wall of the EDV like it is something else he sees there.
'In the middle of a flashback' is not a great place to be when descending to Earth because you might need to pull emergency levers and eject yourself from the cabin in case they fall into an ocean, or a missile hit the vessel, or any of the ridiculous eventualities NASA plans for.
Luckily, all of Watney's levers are within reaching distance of Vogel, who sits on Watney's other side.
Crew
Mission Day 898
Their deceleration boosters activate, and now they are in free fall until it is time to deploy the parachutes.
"His breathing is shallowing out," Beck says, kicking Mark from his seat next to him. "But he looks conscious."
"Mark, if you can hear us, the parachutes are deploying soon," Lewis says. "We will be on the ground in twenty minutes."
A huge unfurling sound and sudden pressure jerks the cab.
"See?" Lewis yelled. "There's the parachutes."
Mark Watney
Mission Day 898
The jerking motion throws me backwards, head knocking against the headrest. It is enough to jolt me backwards in time to hear Martinez say “Parachutes deployed."
"What?" I blink my eyes hard, confused. My lungs don’t have enough air, and I began working overtime to fill them.
"We will be on the ground within ten minutes, which means we'll be recovered within the hour," Lewis says. "Mark, you're home."
She was right, I know she was, with the parachutes successfully deployed there was no circumstance that could kill us now. Even if the parachutes dropped us, we'd land on the ground with serious injuries, but thanks to all the padding and prep, we wouldn't die. We were safer here than in a car driving on the highway.
"Oh my God, I survived," I say, throat dry. "Oh my God, Mars didn't kill me."
"You survived, Mark," Lewis agrees, and I swear I heard pride in her voice. "You survived 549 sols on Mars, alone, with no backup."
"Don't forge the months he survived on the Hermes with us!" Martinez laughs.
I laugh, but my laughter soon turns to tears. Not again, crying inside my helmet, it's disgusting every time. But I don't dwell on the mess, because there's a feeling in my chest and it's big and it's hot and I can't stop myself from sobbing in my seat.
"I get to see Earth again!" I sob. "I will see my mom and dad, and Buzz, and go to the movies and see all the remakes I missed, and watch anything that isn't 70s sitcoms. I'm gonna go outside naked because I can. I will hug a tree. I will —“
"We know," Johanssen laughs. "We haven't been home in a while either."
"I will kiss that sandy Russian field we land on," I am babbling now, unbelievably excited. "I will write little missives in the next Ares supply runs, and they’ll all say "fuck you Mars, I win.""
The rest of the crew is abjectly smiling, for it is their victory as much as mine. This is it, our real victory, rescuing me and making it home in one piece.
"Fuck you Mars," I repeat, laughing. "Fuck you Mars! I won when you blew up my Hab and decompressed my suit multiple times and broke my Pathfinder and sent me all those sandstorms after I fixed up the Hab and I won when I grew those fucking potatoes and I win now! Fuck you MARS!"
"Watney, the comms, our volume," Vogel says, and Beck shoves me on his behalf.
For ten minutes it's me, crying and babbling and yelling and nobody else able to get in a word edgewise. They start crying too after a couple minutes, and I'm sobbing loud and wet and my entire chest hurts with the effort of heaving against the seat restraints.
We feel a bump — more of a serious impact — but finally our EDV meets the ground.
"Are we on the ground?" I ask with barely contained excitement. We aren’t moving, but I have to make sure.
"Yes —“ Martinez says.
That’s all I need. I tear the straps off of my chair and launch myself at the door, swinging the handle open and tumbling in my 100kg spacesuit onto the shitty desert that the Hermes EDV lands in. I tear my helmet off too, setting a speed record for how fast a person can get out of a flight suit. I collapse on the ground as promised, the heavy gravity of earth immediately pulling me down.
I did kiss the dirt, too. The dirt tastes bad and the grass is scratchy and the dirt makes my teeth feel rough.
"Watney!" Lewis storms out, ready to chastise me for disobeying standing orders.
"What are you will do, revoke my right to fly?" I snark gleefully, unable to contain myself.
I flip over on my back, head against the dirt, staring at sky.
Clear blue sky as far as the eye can see.
I can't fucking believe it; I never thought I'd see this again. I can't fucking believe it, I made it home.
I'm crying now, and I've cried in front of them so much at this point that I don't even think to hide it. The sky is blue, there are wild plants growing in the dirt right beneath me, there's dirt beneath my fingers with bacteria and smells. The air is clean and crisp and didn't come out of a can, and I can smell the life in it.
"Fuck you, Mars. I win."