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Expedition 196: Day 635, Moon AT-5
I awake to the sound of shouting, harsh and loud, coming from some corner of the room. Crackling static laces it with a grating intensity that is unwelcome in the early hours of the morning. Groaning, I turn my back towards the wake-up call and cover my head with my blanket, hoping that whoever’s making the noise will get the bright idea to stop. Outside, I can hear stuttered screeches accompanying the opening of a large metal door.
Cringing at the barrage of noise, I slowly force myself to sit up as a light shines in my face. My closed eyes squint even further, wishing they could retract back into my skull and block the burning sensation of my retinas. I bring my arms up to shield my eyes, providing some relief. Thankfully, the light turns off. My eyes blink open. An officer stands there, wielding a flashlight.
“Twenty-seven forty-two, your trial starts in thirty minutes. I’ll return to your cell in twenty. Get ready, or you’ll spend the rest of your days here. Definitively.”
“Yes sir.” I croak.
Footsteps echo down the hall, as the officer leaves me to prepare. I look around my cell. It’s larger than I thought it would be, but everything is dingy and meager. The fraying canvas of the cot is itchy and scratches my skin. Across from me are the toilet and sink; the toilet hasn’t been cleaned and the sink always drips. It’ll have to do. I straighten out my jumpsuit and continue my morning routine.
When the officer returns to my cell, I tell him I am ready to leave. He orders me to thread my hands in the space between two of the bars. I stand immobile as he secures my wrists in handcuffs. He unlocks the barred door to my cell and ushers me along the maze of hallways.
We walk briskly. Dim and yellowing lights flicker and buzz overhead. The hallways feel marginally less dingy the further we go. We stop in front of a large metal door, its looming presence weighs heavy. The officer speaks into his radio and the door opens with that same awful shriek.
As the door closes, the officer escorts me into the courtroom. I can see spectators filing in. The officer is replaced by a bailiff who leads me to a desk with two chairs; one of them is occupied by a woman who I presume is my attorney. As I round the table, I see a name tag in front of her; it reads “Floria Taylor”.
She turns to me with a keen look and smiles. “Alex Harlow, I’m your defense attorney. My name is Floria Taylor, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Ah, hello. Nice to meet you as well.”
“Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way,” she says, pulling out some files and other loose papers, “I think we should review some of the details of your ca—”
The judge enters.
“All rise!”
***
My trial is short-lived.
The verdict? Even shorter: guilty.
The second the gavel strikes its podium to dismiss the court, I’m already being carted away. For having just lost a case, Ms. Taylor seems to be taking the news extremely well. Her posture and facial expression are composed, but there is a quirk in the line where her lips meet. It is not dissimilar to an expression that might be made when trying to stifle laughter.
The handcuffs chafe my skin as the bailiff pulls me out of the courtroom. I can feel the stares of tens of people boring into the back of my skull as I am forced to exit the room. I make the mistake of looking back. The judge and the attorney shake hands, and a briefcase is exchanged. The metal door clamps shut.
We walk briskly out of the courtroom, three troopers following suit. With the bailiff leading me towards the next stage of my punishment, they flank my sides and rear. They escort me down a tubular, glass hallway with a high ceiling. Artificial lights illuminate the walkway, while those embedded in the sides reflect off the tile’s polished surface. It is professional and pristine, yet sterile and stoic. Like the rest of the station, it is bleached of personality and life.
The view outside is barren. Nothing left but the fading light of stars long dead and the dim external lights attached to the shell of the station.
The view is cut off as we step onto a platform. Metal poles protrude from the corners, and from them extend these thin forcefield barriers, creating railings around the edges of the lift. The bassy electronic hum grows as we descend into the bowels of the station.
The lift shudders, its hum echoing our deceleration. We continue down another series of corridors until we reach a sort of interrogation room. I am left alone in the room cuffed to a table with two chairs on opposite sides. There is a glass panel on one wall, reflecting my own visage back at me. I sit down in the chair nearest to me, its legs scraping against the cold tile. On the desk in front of me, there is a piece of paper and a pen.
This is a contract.
I skim over it, noting something about a research project. Their team has been struggling lately because of the diminishing supplies and labor. They need people to investigate a newly discovered moon possessing an anomaly: an ocean of blood. At the bottom of the fifth page, there are two boxes with the title of 'Choose'.
They are giving me a choice.
One box has some text written next to it. It says, 'Join our team of researchers in exchange for your freedom'. The box next to it says 'OR fulfill your sentence in the station’s prison until it has been paid in full'.
I check the box labeled 'Join'. I sign my name. The pen feels heavy as the ink trails behind. I am careful not to smudge it.
As soon as I put my pen down, I am released from the table. A man in a lab coat replaces the bailiff, but the three troopers remain; they escort me further down the labyrinth of tile. We arrive at one of the docking bays where a shuttle awaits. I am ushered inside, passing by the pilot, who I do not recognize. The engines whir and hum as we pull out of the docking bay and fly off into the night.
***
The first thing I notice when I’m led out of the shuttle is the uneven feeling of debris and earthly matter beneath my feet. The second thing is the scale of the building we enter; it is reminiscent of a hangar, like the ones they use on Earth for their aircrafts, just smaller. There are people in lab coats; some are stationed at machines and computers, and others are scurrying around with papers and cases with warning labels on them. Crates are piled up and scattered around everywhere; most of them are open and empty.
The man in the lab coat leading my escort party stops and turns around. “Welcome, twenty-seven forty-two. My name is Dr. Martin Keyes. As per your contract, you will be helping us with an exploratory research mission.”
Weaving our way through the boxes, we arrive at the edge of the hangar. I look out through the sheen of the forcefield that separates the interior from the outside. It is dark outside, save for the illuminated trails and the flood lights beaming in the distance. The terrain is rocky and mountainous; cresting hills lead to crags and looming cliffs. A reservoir of blood carves between them, glistening as it passes near the light.
“Depending on if you have read the contract or not, you may or may not be aware of what it is we ask of you. So, allow me to explain what it is you’ll be doing.”
He gestures towards a section of the hangar that is occupied by a recess in the floor. It is filled with blood. Extending over the pool, there are multiple pieces of wood nailed together to create a sort of gangplank. Sitting in the blood is a rusted pill-shaped vessel with the name “SM-13” branded on its side. Looks shoddy. There are metal braces set on the edge of the pool, propping the vessel up and keeping it from leaning or rotating.
“This is the SM-13, or as we like to call her, The Iron Lung. You will be piloting her through the depths of AT-5’s newfound oceanic trench.”
I nod. The smell of iron is strong. My desire to purge my body of the stench grows the closer I get to the blood. I shrink away, hoping to put some distance between me and it, but the trooper behind me stops me.
Dr. Keyes continues. “Your objective is to photograph several points of interest while you’re down there. To do that, The Iron Lung is outfitted with a forward-facing camera, proximity sensors, steering controls, and a couple other useful apparatuses.”
Another figure rushes over, whispering something in his ear. Dr. Keyes’ expression morphs into one of dismay.
“Oh. Well, unfortunately we don’t have time to explain everything to you, so I trust you’ll be able to hold your own and figure them out.”
“Wait, Dr. Ke—” I try to protest, but he cuts me off.
“You will be welded inside, but don’t worry! It will protect you from the oceanic pressure. The front window will be shut for the same reason.”
“Dr. Keyes, I don’t understa—!” I make a surprised noise as he tugs me over to the ladder. He puts a hand on my back, pushing me towards it.
“Please enter The Iron Lung and we’ll get started.”
Dread fills my stomach as I climb up the ladder and onto the gangplank. It creaks and quivers with every step. I look back over my shoulder. The troopers stand on the ground, poised and armed, though they have stepped a noticeably comfortable distance away from the pool. I continue forward. There is a circular opening in the top of the vessel; its edges have not been sanded down or smoothed. I carefully jump down into the SM-13.
The interior is rusted and claustrophobic. It is dark; the only major source of light comes from the interior lights hanging down from the ceiling of the hangar. To my left are the sub controls. They are simple and rudimentary compared to the feats of technology in the federal space station where my trial was held. To my right is a fire hydrant. At least they care about safety . . . Beyond that, there is a section of the vessel that houses the controls for the camera and a screen for them to be projected on.
I hear the pounding of footsteps on the exterior of the SM-13. I look up to see something eclipsing the light. Heavy scraping sounds tell me that it’s a cover of some kind. Before it plugs the hole entirely, something shines as it clatters to the ground next to me. It's a small key. I pick it up before it loses all visibility. Darkness fills the space as the entryway is sealed. I can hear the muffled sounds of sizzling as someone on the outside welds the plug to the rest of the vessel.
The crackling stops and footsteps retreat from the entryway. Harsh, metallic squeals start up as the vessel starts to sink deeper into the pool. I move to the control panel and look out of the circular window towards the bow.
The blood starts to creep up, climbing higher and higher up the porthole, and what little vision I have left of the surface is submerged. Within moments, my view is enveloped in red. With the little light I have left, I look for the lock on my handcuffs. When I locate it, I carefully maneuver the key into the lock, and twist. My handcuffs click open.
I feel the vessel lurch as it starts moving. Static flares and crackles as a radio sputters to life.
“Iron Lung, this is Surface Control. Come in, Iron Lung.”
A small microphone protrudes from the top of the panel. I press a blinking red button on the console next to it. “Surface Control, this is Iron Lung.”
“Roger that, Iron Lung. Once autopilot brings you through the canal and the reservoir, you will arrive at the mouth of the trench. This is where you will be dropped off and expected to navigate on your own to the different areas marked on your map.”
“Sorry, but what map?”
“There should be a map in the back of the SM-13, on the wall opposite to the camera’s screen.”
I go to where the operator had informed me, and I remove the map from the wall. It is old and yellowed; grime and old age have stained its surface. It feels worn and fragile, especially towards the creases and edges.
As I turn to go back to the main console, I hear the soft crinkling of something underfoot. A piece of paper is stuck to the bottom of my boot. There are large splotches of something that dried some time ago superimposed on shaky writing. I pick it up and tuck it away in my shoe for safekeeping.
I return to the radio. “Got it, thank you.”
“No problem. Standby, we’re approaching the canal lock.”
The movement of the vessel cruising through the waterways becomes a calming presence as the operator and I make small talk. The company is pleasant and the conversation is welcome. This is a nice change of pace. Sometimes the vessel breaches the surface, and every so often I can see the darkness of space separated from the sanguine expanse when it passes an artificial light.
Soon enough, an alert indicates the vessel’s arrival. A robotic voice rings out from the console.
“Autopilot terminated. Destination reached.”
The operator comes online.
“Alright Iron Lung, congrats on making it to the trench. This is where you’ll begin your descent. Please wait until you reach that depth to start heading over to the sites. Standby.”
I can feel the vessel dip downward as it descends into the chasm below. The last remnants of light fade and darkness engulfs me once more; but this time, it swallows me whole from the depths of a lunar wound.
“Iron Lung, you are app—oaching maximum depth. Commun—ations are going to get patchy from this point —orward.”
The static gets worse the deeper we go. The radio cuts in and out, making it hard to understand him. The vessel slows, leveling out.
“I’m also —icking up on some weird —eadings from the vessel’s instr—men—, maybe from some sor— of ele—trical —ignals; so —ile you’re down ther—, —ook for any ope— cables, —parks or any—ing like that.”
Sparks? Open cables? In the middle of the ocean?
“Shu—ing the front windo—, —lease sta—by.”
As the rusted shielding slides up the front window, I receive one last transmission. It comes out clear before the radio’s connection is severed for what could have been the last time.
“Good luck.”
***
It’s crazy to think that we know more about space than we do our oceans. However, I think I know why now. When you look up at the stars, the chances of running into something are slim because the universe is vastly infinite; therefore, the chances of running into nothing are equally as infinite.
The ocean is finite, but carries infinite opportunities for something to go wrong.
A cold, oppressive feeling settles into my bones, one that reaches throughout my entire body, gripping me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
The vessel waits for me as I steel my nerves.
I unfurl the old map, which could be considered more of a graph really. Admittedly, it takes a while for me to figure it out, but eventually I realize that it depicts a top-down perspective of the trench. The locations list their X and Y coordinates and the angles the ship should be in to take the photographs.
I approach the main console and fiddle with the controls. There’s a mechanism that monitors and controls the vessel’s angle, while also acting as a proximity indicator. There are two more systems that track the position and movement of the vessel, as well as display its X and Y coordinates.
That chance at freedom is fleeting the longer I stay put.
Motivated by my own pressing thoughts, I begin my journey.
I can hear the rushing of liquid outside the vessel, another noise for my racing mind to latch onto. I can’t tell if the low groans I’m hearing are coming from the vessel or something else.
I arrive at the first site and carefully orient the vessel to the specifications on the map. I walk into the back portion of the sub and click the shutter on the camera’s control panel.
The image that projects onto the screen is grainy, black and white. I squint, unsure of what it is I’m looking at.
The photo appears to be a bunch of . . . teeth? Bones? I can’t really tell. Whatever it was, I got it. I checkmark the location and look for the next.
The groans continue, long and low. There’s something massive swimming in these waters. But no matter how quickly I rotate the vessel, no matter how quickly I click the shutter, I never seem to be able to capture this creature on camera. I don’t like that . . .
I arrive at the second site, tense, with my shoulders hiked up to my ears.
More teeth-bones.
I move on.
Piloting the sub to its third destination is a tight squeeze; I have to carefully guide the sub between two sheer walls. The proximity sensors are screaming the entire time, which doesn’t help. But even with their frantic warnings, I manage to pull into the inlet where the third site is without crashing.
The camera comes back with a new image. In the background and foreground of the photograph are these long, spindly, angular spines that shoot outwards from a central stalk. Between them is this mass of striped tubes embedded in the ground. They arch over one another, becoming entangled. They look like worms, or caterpillars.
The quiet observation is interrupted by a calm, robotic voice.
“Oxygen notification.”
There is an oxygen meter next to the window that I had neglected to see. The second light from the top has been lit. It glows a yellowish-green color. Panic rises in my throat.
I have limited time here.
I need to move.
The Iron Lung is deteriorating.
While progressing to the other locations, things in the vessel start to break down. Multiple pipes have burst, the sub creaks with every change in direction, and the back of the vessel manages to catch fire.
I thought iron wasn’t flammable?!
Nothing makes sense, but at least the fire hydrant has a use . . .
“Oxygen notification.”
I’m running around, photographing scenes of skeletons, remnants of buildings? Sparks?
And for what?
Why am I doing this?
I slump down onto the floor, my back pressed against the main console. I exhale shakily, the breath shudders as it leaves my lungs; the stress of the past however-long-it’s-been is finally catching up. I close my eyes. One location away from freedom unencumbered, but right now, I’m so tired.
I remember the note tucked away in my boot.
I carefully unfold it from its crumpled form and read it as best I can.
The author’s tone seems so defiant, yet resigned. They have accepted a fate that they try to see the best of, but cannot escape from. They might have been a convict too, considering the way they talk about hope for their future compared to their reality.
'Hope in this void is as illusionary as the starlight,' the note reads, 'because this is not an expedition.'
'It is an execution.'
“Oxygen notification.”
A calm robotic voice cuts through my thoughts as something collides with the vessel.
I flinch, expecting to be thrown out of the craft and fluid to start filling the vessel, but it doesn’t. I never hear the rush of liquid, and the sinking never starts. Leaving the note on the ground, I get up and check the main console, thinking the proximity sensors would’ve picked up something.
Something should be happening, so why isn’t it?
I realize that the vessel’s coordinates are wildly different than before, and not by a small margin.
The low, guttural bellows outside get louder and louder.
My heart is pounding, my breath is erratic, and my hands are trembling as one thought repeats over and over:
GET OUT.
I don’t think of myself as religious, and yet I pray desperately to whatever’s out there that I make it out alive.
Please! Let me live!
With shaking hands, I drive the sub as carefully as I can with high-strung nerves and a creeping sense of paranoia breathing down my neck. The last site feels so far away; I can't get to it fast enough.
The proximity indicator is freaking out. Something is directly in front of the vessel. Panicking, I rush for the camera controls.
An eye stares back at me through the screen.
Suddenly, I am thrown into the side of the sub, my back colliding with different knobs and handles attached to the metal pipes that run along the interior. I feel a streak of pain in my lower back.
When the vessel stops shaking, I hobble over to the control panel. The blip is gone.
Fear courses through my veins as I abandon all sense of safety.
JUST GET TO THE LAST SITE.
I slam the controls, urging them to go faster. The quiet journey between the encounter and the last site is disquieting. My legs itch with the desire to run to the camera controls; the need to check my surroundings is overwhelming.
As the last location approaches, I hear something sloshing against my boots.
The vessel has sprung a leak. Blood is seeping into the SM-13.
I align the vessel according to its X-Y coordinates and its desired angle, just like all the rest.
The blood is up to my knees. To get to the camera controls, I have to wade through it. The stench of iron is stronger than ever. I trudge through the crimson waters that are up to my hips.
As I step into the area towards the back of the vessel, the creature groans again but now it sounds like a roar.
The sound of crunching metal and a surge of blood follows. I can see pointed shapes sticking out of the metal, up through the floor and down through the ceiling.
I think of the Earth, my home, and the life I once led.
I wish to be free again.
The last thing I see is teeth plunging towards my head as the leviathan swallows me whole.