Instead, We Watch Television
It didn’t take a genius to figure out something was wrong. Bleary eyes opened to a dim room, a soft red light flashing somewhere beyond his vision, a deep ache already coursing its way through his head. Donovan pushed himself up from the floor and onto his feet, a wave of nausea coming over him as he did so, and tried to take stock of his surroundings. The mess area never was all that tidy, with 6 full time astronauts mucking their way through it every day and spending most of their free time huddled around the kitchen’s table, but from what Donovan could tell, it looked like a tornado had swept through the place. Shattered piles of what must have been plates were scattered across the floor, joined by cracked cups and what looked like someone’s breakfast that had been abandoned once the carnage had begun. Upon closer inspection, Donovan could just see the dim glow of something reflecting off the corner of the counter. Tentative fingers reached out, just barely touching the substance before retracting his hand, rolling the liquid between his fingers, staining them red.
“That explains my headache,” he muttered, wiping his hand off on his pants. Something big must’ve hit the station to cause him to lose his balance and hit his head, big enough to turn the kitchen into a wreck. Almost unwillingly, Donovan made his way from the kitchen to the hallway, knowing he’d have to see the carnage to believe it.
The station was eerily quiet as he made his way to the viewing deck, an undeniable knot of anxiety beginning to form in his stomach. If the debris that had hit them was significant enough to knock into the station with enough force to disrupt everything that hadn’t been tied down, Donovan didn’t even want to think about the kind of damages it must have caused. Obviously, the emergency airlocks between sections would have kicked in by now, blocking off any parts of the station that were damaged enough to lose their airtight integrity, but the idea of having to fix it all in the coming weeks was daunting enough that Donovan almost wanted to give up his inventory and sleep the rest of the day off.
While most visits to the observation deck were met with awe, especially considering the station’s daily view of earth, Donovan could only feel his dread growing with every step closer to the viewing station. Already out the window he could see twisted bits of metal floating past, some more gnarled than others. It was impossible to see where the bulk of the damage had been done, but with as many broken bits and pieces strewn before him as there were, Donovan was not optimistic about this being a quick fix.
“Hey, guys?” he called out, voice echoing down the halls. The silence of the station combined with the dimmed lights made the place seem far more sinister than he’d ever seen it. “Guys?” Perhaps they’d all met a similar fate as him, knocked out by the initial blow, still unconscious in the aftermath. The uneasiness in his stomach had grown to be too much to ignore. They left me. No. He needed answers before he started jumping to the worst conclusion.
It didn’t take long to get to the docking area, which was as much of a disaster as the kitchen had been. Some of the debris must have had a direct hit on one of the two escape capsules, rendering it useless. The other capsule, however, was absent, affirming Donovan’s worst fear.
“So, I’m stuck here until they come back, huh?” His voice was thin as the realization hit. Who knew how long it could take to get a rescue organized? He could be stuck here for days, maybe even up to a week, and without knowing the extent of the damage to the station, it made it impossible to gauge how long he could stick around before conditions became inhospitable. With a groan of frustration and a half-hearted hit to the wall as he left, Donovan made his way to the control center. At least there he’d be able to get in touch with the ground and let them know his situation. That was, of course, if the debris hadn’t knocked out his communication.
You can’t think like that, he chided, breaking into a light jog as he cantered through the hallways. His eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the emergency lights, but the red glow cast along the walls made the place feel sinister. Donovan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so cautious. Living in the station for long had made him blind, oblivious to the dangers he faced every day. Having to come to terms with the fact that there was a very real chance he wouldn’t make it out of this place safely was made even more difficult now that he was alone, abandoned by his peers, his friends.
“They probably thought you were dead,” he finds himself muttered, rounding the corner into the control room. The thought didn’t make him feel any better.
For a moment, he can feel a desperate gleam of hope begin to grow in his chest at the sight of a pair of feet sticking out from behind the main console. Another crewmate! So they hadn’t left him alone after all. A sigh of relief finds its way from Donovan’s mouth as he approaches the unconscious form. No doubt they were in the same boat as him, knocked unconscious by the impact.
“Boy, am I glad to see you--” The words catch in his throat, and Donovan has to turn from the scene to keep himself from gagging. Montgomery was never the handsomest guy. He had a ruddy face, skin pockmarked from years of teenage acne, hair buzzed close to his scalp. Now, he only looked worse, the side of his head caved in, half of his face drenched in blood. From the corner of his eye, Donovan can see the spot on the edge of the console where Montgomery must have fallen into, caked in blood.
After looking around the room for a spare blanket, Donovan settles on slipping his jacket off, laying it overtop his crewmate. Had any of the others been there, Donovan might have felt compelled to say something, but it seemed wrong to disturb the stillness that had fallen over the station. He never had been good with words, anyway.
With a shuddering sigh, Donovan does his best to side step Montgomery to get to the control console, forcing down another wave of nausea. As suspected, most of the systems had been knocked out. Communication, fuel cells, generators… The knot in Donovan’s stomach only seem to grow tighter as his eyes roamed the list, hoping against everything that he was wrong, that his worst fears weren’t about to be confirmed.
“Fuck!” The exclamation comes out before he can stop it, accompanied with a slam of his fist against the console, tears prickling in his eyes. The rest of the gauges in front of him are impossible to see through bleary eyes, so he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, taking in a deep breath through his nose. As far as he could tell, there was no evidence of a fuel leak, but the small victory felt hollow after taking a look at the CO2 gauge. Already the needle was situated in the red zone, creeping ever so slowly to the right. It might as well have been a clock, counting down his last few minutes. Once all of the oxygen had been used up, Donovan knew there was no hope.
The realization felt far more final than he was willing to accept. Numbly, Donovan backed away from the console, head aching in time with his heart as he turned his back on Montgomery and made his way to the crew quarters. It wasn’t until he reached the barracks that he realized he was still crying, a fact that annoyed him more than anything. Stubbornly, he wiped at his face once more, sniffling with resolve before pulling out his bag from under his bunk, rummaging through until he found what he was looking for.
The recorder was probably almost 10 years too old to be considered state-of-the-art, but it had gotten him through more lectures than he could count, and for that he was grateful. Wiping at his nose with his sleeve, Donovan took a deep breath before hitting play. The whole thing took maybe two minutes to record, but then again, he always had prided himself on being succinct. Once he was sure it had saved, Donovan slipped the recorder into the pocket of his pants, laid down in his bunk, and let himself fall asleep.
For the first few seconds, the only sounds are labored breaths and the muffled sniffle of a runny nose. The speaker seems to gain his bearings after a moment or two, and when he speaks, his voice is shaky but full of conviction.
“This is Payload Commander Jensen Donovan of the United Space Station, reporting from the crew barracks at 1900 hours. At an unknown time during orbit, the station was struck with a sizable piece of debris. The initial impact was enough to significantly damage many systems aboard the station, and knocked one member of the crew unconscious while another was killed. Of the six astronauts present, four were able to execute a standard evacuation of the station in a functioning escape capsule. Their whereabouts and well-being are unknown, but I wish them all the luck in the world.
As far as I know, the initial impact of the debris led to the death of Flight Engineer Mark Montgomery, who can be found in mission control. My thoughts go out to his family and his friends, and though his death was tragic, I know there’s nowhere in the world Mark would have rather been than up here with the stars.”
Jensen takes a shuddering breath, and though he doesn’t sob outright, it is easy to tell that he is crying. After a moment or two of composing himself, he goes on, his formal decorum lost. “There’s, uh, there’s a good quote by Paul Hawken, given as part of a commencement address to the University of Portland.” He clears his throat a bit before going on. “‘Ralph Waldo Emerson once asked what we would do if the stars only came out once every thousand years. No one would sleep that night, the world would create new religions overnight, we’d be ecstatic, delirious, made rapturous by the glory of God.’” He pauses, perhaps to remember the rest of the quote, or perhaps to wipe at fresh tears that had begun to pool in his eyes. “‘Instead, the stars come out every night, and we watch television.’”
From the other end comes a pregnant pause, and for a long while it seems the recording had been stopped until Jensen speaks up once more.
“I think that’s pretty damn important.”
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