Chapter Text
SOL 18
Bradley looks out to the horizon and takes it in, still can’t believe that he’s here, on Mars, commanding a mission. It’s surreal but also exactly what he’s been working towards his entire life.
“All right, team. Stay in sight of each other. Let’s make NASA proud...” Bradley instructs. He can see Seresin and Trace, knows they’ll likewise be tracking his whereabouts.
He looks over to where he can see Seresin, in the middle of an extra-vehicular activity, or EVA experiment. He’s bent over and hammering at a rock, and even from this distance Bradley can tell he’s recording notes on his arm computer.
It’s quiet.
Peaceful. Then -
“In grid section fourteen twenty-eight, the particles appear predominantly coarse, but as we move to twenty-nine, the particles are much finer, and should be ideal for chem analysis,” Seresin’s voice announces and Bradley sighs. It was nice while it lasted. Seresin has left his communications channel open again, likes hearing his own voice and Bradley keeps quiet, knows already what is going to happen, months aboard the Hermes giving him plenty of first-hand knowledge.
“Hear that, everyone?” Lt. Commander Trace’s voice comes through the radio. “Seresin has discovered dirt. Alert the media.”
Bradley looks toward the Mars ascent vehicle, or the MAV, where Trace is doing one of her assigned tasks, for which he knows Seresin is no doubt going to poke her about.
“What’s your job today, Trace? Confirming the MAV is still upright?”
“Visual inspection of equipment is imperative to mission success,” Trace says over the comms, voice calm and unruffled. “The MAV is still upright.”
Bradley manages to bite back a laugh, but Floyd can see his smile, ducks his own head to hide his amusement and he gets it. They’re close, spending so long a time together enclosed in high-stress conditions that are at the same time boring and monotonous. They’re all also very fucking good in their fields, experts in multiple fields with skills that complement each other.
“Seresin, you keep leaving your channel open...” Bradley says, knowing he’s probably failing from keeping the amusement from his tone. “Which leads to Trace responding, which leads to us listening, which leads to me being annoyed.”
“Trace, Commander Bradshaw would like you please shut your smart mouth.”
“Speaking for the smart people of the world... We would prefer you use a different adjective to describe Trace’ mouth,” Floyd provides and Bradley’s glad he has his back turned, because his eyebrows have shot up to his hairline.
“Did Floyd just insult me?” Trace asks, and her tone sounds confused, and Bradley understands why, because Floyd has caused him the least grief so far. Huh. He supposes everyone has their breaking point.
“Doctor Floyd. And yes,” Bradley replies.
“Happy to turn their radios off from here, Commander... Just say the word,” Fitch’s voice offers, and he’s inside, tracking the group’s communications.
“Fitch, constant communication is the hallmark of a good team –”
“Shut ‘em off,” Bradley directs, and then it’s blissful silence, but he can see Seresin throw his hands up in the air in clear complaint of such treatment, he can imagine hearing him, his voice familiar in his head after months aboard the Hermes. No doubt Bradley will get an earful of bitching about it later, Seresin, like all of them, quite happy to let his opinion be heard by everyone loud and clear; including the commanding officer.
“I apologize for my countrymen, Garcia,” Bradley offers, although it’s a joke really, and he can tell it lands as one. Garcia is the only one among them who isn’t American, he’s Spanish and the European representative on the crew. Garcia is shaking his head, more amused than anything else.
“Accepted. How many samples do we need, Commander?”
“Seven. One hundred grams each. Drill at least thirty centimeters down.”
It carries on calmly, himself and Garcia working together effortlessly, using the drill to bore holes and Bradley glances to note both Trace’s and Seresin’s positions every thirty-seconds or so, notes that despite the hand waving he can see Seresin carrying out the man is objectively fine. He just has a big mouth and is no doubt complaining to absolutely no-one that his radio should be turned back on. Despite all that it continues on as normal, and he pours Martian soil and rock fragments into sample bags.
“Um... Commander? You should come inside... You’re gonna want to see this.”
Bradley frowns, can hear the tightness in Fitch’s voice, and considering the effort and sheer time it takes to move from inside their temporary habitat, or HAB, to put on their spacesuits, test them and then carry out the appropriate pressurization and it’s not like popping over to your neighbor and asking to borrow a cup of sugar.
“What is it?”
“We got a mission update. Storm warning.”
“I saw the warning in the morning briefing. We’ll be inside long before it hits.”
“They’ve upgraded their estimate,” Fitch pauses. “The storm’s gonna be worse.”
Bradley stands fully upright, turns a full 360 and scans the skies, and now, on the horizon that had been behind him, is dark, the stirred up sediment cloud quickly growing in size. Fuck. He orders everyone inside immediately, and they all confirm they’ve heard him, comms turned back on wordlessly by Fitch.
Inside Bradley reads the update, the other five are reading as well. He doesn’t keep secrets from them. He may be commander but they are first and foremost a team. He can feel it though, the weight of the decision that will be his to make and how none of them will like it. Hell. He doesn’t like it either. They’ve all worked fucking hard to get here, the best of the best. To consider going home before their mission is complete is a kick in the teeth. It feels like giving in. It feels like failure.
“...twelve-hundred kilometers in diameter, bearing 24.41 degrees...”
“That’s tracking right towards us,” Fitch states. Bradley’s mind races.
“...based on current escalation, estimate a force of...” shit shit shit “Eighty-six hundred Newtons.”
“What’s the Abort Force?” Seresin asks.
“Seventy-five hundred,” Floyd offers, and he’s not smiling.
“Anything above that and the MAV could tip,” Trace provides, expression tight. Bradley gets it, this is what they do, talking out a problem to come to a collective solution and considering every angle - it's what makes them such a good team.
“We’re scrubbed?”
“Begin abort procedures,” Bradley confirms and he knows them all too well to not notice the disappointment on every single one of their faces. However he will play it safe, because they’re his responsibility to bring home alive. They’re his team but also after so many months he also considers them family.
“Maybe it won’t be as bad as they say,” Trace offers and Bradley shoots her a quick look.
“They’re estimating with a margin of error. We can wait it out,” Garcia offers, and Bradley knows they’re trying to gently challenge his decision. Offer them a way out. A way to stay. A quick look at Seresin means Bradley catches his nod, he’s agreeing with Trace. First time for small miracles.
“Let’s wait it out.”
“Commander?” Fitch asks, can clearly tell Bradley is wavering, thinking about it, even if he won’t seriously consider it. Fuck.
“Prep for emergency departure.”
“Commander…”
“We’re scrubbed,” Bradley states, voice firm, not allowing any further room for argument. It’s his decision. His final decision. “Prepare abort procedures. That’s an order.”