The Breath We Share

Ship Log;

June 27th, 3095, 17:34 OST;

Private H. L. Jansen, Pilot, First Class,

Deep Space - Terrestrial Division;

“Everybody is dead. I don’t know how I survived. Why I survived. I’ve been here 8 months, trapped. But I have to leave now. My supplies are low and I’m running out of oxygen. By my estimates, the other ship crashed 25 miles northeast of here. I don’t know if anybody there is still alive.”

Jansen flipped off the console. He didn’t know what else to say. It didn’t matter anyway since the comms were down. His cries for help were trapped in this godforsaken ship, just like himself. He climbed into his suit and checked the oxygen levels. 23%. He had already siphoned off most of the tank. This was all that was left and it would have to do. He didn’t want to take a rifle, it would only weigh him down, but thought better of it, and grabbed one, strapping it to his chest. He packed up the last remaining food and stepped out into the black sands of the endless desert stretching before him. He had to believe that the other ship was out there. He surveyed the emptiness of the journey before him, then turned and took one last look at the wreckage behind him.

He had been the one driving, but it didn’t matter that it wasn’t his fault. Her hair was floating, reaching out towards him, golden against the dawning light, before... The last image he remembered as the breath was knocked from his lungs. They were saved but... The car had been split open, twisted metal guts spilling onto the pavement. And he had been the one driving.

The sands were soft, and Jansen’s boots sunk deep, disappearing with each step. The way forward would be painfully slow, but if he didn’t keep moving, he could only imagine the dark sands swallowing him. Disappearing forever. He fixed his orientation between the two suns, both fading behind him. Alpha Cigni to the south & Beta Cigni to the southeast. He could orient himself with the solar patterns, but once they set, he’d have nothing left to guide him. He needed to speed up, but the faster he tried to move, the harder the sands pulled him down. As he fought his way forward, he knew he was wasting far too much oxygen. He eased down on the valve of his tank, tightening it until it was nearly closed. He needed to pace himself, as each step became harder than the last, each breath trying to catch up. He wondered if he was already dead, if the distance was just too great.

Did they know then that the loss was only beginning. That no matter how tightly they held each other those first nights, they had become strangers. Instantly and completely. The growing silence… The averted eyes… They became ghosts to each other, spirits moving through the same house, breathing the same air, but immaterial as they both selfishly retreated into their own personal hell. Did she blame him... He had promised to protect them... The emptiness filled up with guilt, and the guilt filled up with anger, and the anger spilled out indiscriminate. And then the silence was broken.

Jansen forged ahead, the sunlight sinking into the black sands behind him, the landscape slowly transforming. Dark pillars of rock sprang up from the earth and the flatness gave way to craters and valleys, the black sands covering everything.  He felt a vibration beneath his feet, a tremor slowly increasing, getting closer. Fissures formed as the earth cracked and the banks of sand shifted around him, tumbling down into the darkness. Something was coming for him. Jansen stopped to catch his breath and looked back to see the two suns gently disappearing over the horizon, his old ship vanishing between them. He looked ahead through the dying light and thought he saw a glimmer in the distance. The other ship. He checked his tank - 12%. He eased open the valve and took a single desperate gasp of air. He had to keep moving. The vibrations continued to grow. It was getting closer.

They were supposed to get back to their lives...their jobs, their friends, each other...like it all still had meaning. But it became impossible.They began talking again and then they began fighting again. The little things took on greater proportions, echoing in the silence - the clothes on the floor, the stack of dishes in the sink, the uncut grass - the minutiae of life both distracted and destroyed them. Some days were better than others but their emotions moved in different rhythms. He would see her smile and his anger would erupt. How could she… She would catch him laughing and her eyes would pierce through him and then the guilt and anger would come flooding back...at her, at himself, at everything and nothing. He wanted to reach her. To reach out to her. But there was no escape from this. There was no meaning in this. 

Jansen was slowly suffocating, but he could see the other ship, its metal bones a beacon in the moonlight. He had somehow survived the journey but his oxygen was nearly gone - 2%. Jansen circled the ship, surveying the hull for damage, and found it mostly intact. Maybe it would still fly. The vibrations continued to grow, the ground convulsing beneath him, tearing itself apart. The sand rose and crashed like waves, and the earth split open in front of him, a growing chasm opening up, threatening to swallow himself and the ship. Whatever had followed him across the black desert sands was nearly upon him.  Using the butt of his rifle, Jansen gently coaxed open the airlock door, careful not to cause damage. The door slid open, slowly as if only to appease him, and as Jansen entered, the planet went still.

He woke up beside her and could feel her warmth. Her golden-grey hair draping the pillow, her head turned away. And for a second it felt like it did before. Before… And then it all came crashing back in a wave of guilt. We shouldn’t have done that, she said. It’s been a year and a half, he said. We need to… What, she said, her voice dangerous. Move on, he said and he knew it was wrong. He braced for anger, but only got silence. She left quietly, to another room but it might as well have been another world. Their pain had taken different paths, and he didn’t know if they would ever meet again.

Jansen felt both at home and disoriented. The ship was identical to his own, but the tiny differences overshadowed the similarities. The overturned table on the wrong side of the galley. The wall with broken lab equipment instead of navigation consoles. The stained books scattered across the floor instead of… He screamed, but only silence echoed back. The ship was as lifeless as his own, but somebody had survived in here, at least for a time. Jansen headed to the stockroom to find it mostly emptied out. But there were still some supplies left, maybe just enough to get him home. As Jansen headed to the control deck, the whole ship lunged forward. A metallic scream filled his ears, like teeth scraping against metal, and the tremors returned, the planet once again erupting into chaos. Something was eating through the hull, coming up from below. Jansen unstrapped his rifle.

He saw her with the other man, coming out of the same restaurant they used to... She didn’t see him and he never mentioned it. He wanted to be angry, but he didn’t have anything left in him. He wanted to hate her. For that night. For the last two years. But the anger wouldn’t come. In its place was only... He didn’t know, there were so many things he’d never know. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t share this together, why one loss must lead to another, how the pain had become weaponized so quickly. But he was tired. Exhausted by the pain and anger. Ready to move forward. To escape from this. He put a gun to his head. He didn’t want to die but he didn’t want to live. Most of all he didn’t want to feel. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. 

Jansen sat down, leaned back, and waited, the rifle ready on his lap, the metal screaming below him. Sparks began shooting up from the deck as the metal twisted and swelled upwards, cracking under the stress. A puncture appeared and then grew. He checked his oxygen - 1% - and eased down on the valve until it was fully closed. He picked up his gun, the breath draining out of him and watched as the deck erupted upward. A ghostly white creature, long and thin, slowly rose before him, snaking its way into the cabin. It must have been 20 feet long - a translucent tube, with rows of teeth on one end tapering into a tail on the other. It coiled itself tightly and sprung towards Jansen, the teeth grinding together in anticipation. Jansen slammed his tank wide open, and leapt away, just in time as the worm crashed against the galley wall, writhing and turning and coiling once again. Jansen sprinted deeper into the ship, gulping down the last of his oxygen. He reached the ship core and pulled open the heavy steel door, ducking inside. The creature followed, it’s body shooting into the core after him, sliding and colliding against the far wall. Jansen opened fire and the worm let out a harrowing scream, writhing in pain, but appearing unharmed. Jansen ducked back out the door, slamming it closed behind him. He watched through the window, a small fortified porthole with tiny air vents dotted between a reinforced metal grid, as the worm’s head swung forward, its open mouth hammering against the door, teeth scraping and grinding against it but unable to take hold. The ship’s deck may have given way, but the core walls were too strong. The worm was trapped.

She came home early that morning. He didn’t even know she had been out or for how long. They had all but disappeared from each other’s lives. She didn’t go straight to her bedroom like usual, but sat down across from him, the air heavy between them. He waited, holding his breath. 

Jansen left the creature trapped deep in the ship core, and stumbled to the control deck, every muscle in his body fighting to survive, his tank all but depleted. There had to be oxygen somewhere on this godforsaken ship, and he had to find it fast. He powered on the main computer console, and the screen miraculously limped to life. “Computer...tell me...oxygen level...in tank 1” Jansen asked, choking on each word. “Oxygen levels in tank 1 at 0%,” the computer replied. “Tank 2.” Jansen asked. Oxygen levels in tank 2 at 0%,” the computer replied. “Main cabin levels?” Jansen said, as he crumbled to the floor. “Oxygen levels in main cabin at 0%,” the computer replied. “Is there… any oxygen… aboard… this… ship?” Jansen spit up, his lungs compressing. “Oxygen levels in ship core at 9% and rising,” the computer replied. How could that be, Jansen thought, his mind clouding over. “Confirm... last... reading.” “Oxygen levels in ship core at 10% and rising. Carbon dioxide levels at 86% and falling”, the computer replied. Summoning every bit of energy to hold off death, Jansen crawled slowly, painstakingly back to the core, the worm writhing and crashing about inside. He pulled off his helmet, and dragged himself upward to the door window, his mouth pressing against the vents, and gulped in the creature's exhaled breath. Slowly he felt life returning to his body, as he greedily swallowed in oxygen. The worm’s head appeared on the other side of the door, floating like a ghostly mirage, as they stared face to face, breathing life into each other. Thoughts of survival raced through Jansen’s mind. He could fix the hull. The core was in good shape and he might just have enough supplies. If he could keep the creature under control in the belly of the ship, sharing the air together, he might be able to make it home.

She looked up at him for the first time in a long time, her golden hair silhouetted by the rising sun behind her. I need to talk, she said. We need to talk, she said. About them. About what happened. About everything. I’m tired of being broken, he said.  I’m tired of being angry, she said. I’m tired of being alone in this, he said. I need help, she said. And he nodded, and the sunlight streamed through the windows.