He shook his head, pressing his face against the glass. He pointed to the stabilizer readout—a flashing red 'Critical'—and then to the manual override lever across the room. He needed to know if the exterior bolts were locked before he pulled it, or the whole module would shear off the cliffside.
"Base, this is Scout One. The atmospheric stabilizers are failing. Do you copy?" Silence. Then, a rhythmic thump-thump from the airlock.
Elias keyed the internal comms. "Sarah, your suit radio is down. Use the hand signals we practiced. Are the stabilizers holding?"
He looked back at Sarah. She wasn't pointing at the horizon anymore. She was drawing a circle in the dust on the glass. A zero. It wasn't "three minutes." It was "three seconds."
Elias reached for the override anyway, his mind racing. If he pulled it, they might stabilize. If he didn't, they were definitely dead.
Through the visor of her helmet, he saw her mouth moving, but the vacuum of the airlock and the roar of the storm swallowed her words. She held up three fingers, then pointed toward the horizon. Three minutes? Third sector?
The intercom crackled, but only static came through. Elias stared at the console, his thumb hovering over the transmit button. Outside the reinforced glass of the observation deck, the storm on Kepler-186f was a swirling wall of iron-rich dust, turning the sky the color of a fresh bruise.
10. Failure To — Communicate
He shook his head, pressing his face against the glass. He pointed to the stabilizer readout—a flashing red 'Critical'—and then to the manual override lever across the room. He needed to know if the exterior bolts were locked before he pulled it, or the whole module would shear off the cliffside.
"Base, this is Scout One. The atmospheric stabilizers are failing. Do you copy?" Silence. Then, a rhythmic thump-thump from the airlock.
Elias keyed the internal comms. "Sarah, your suit radio is down. Use the hand signals we practiced. Are the stabilizers holding?"
He looked back at Sarah. She wasn't pointing at the horizon anymore. She was drawing a circle in the dust on the glass. A zero. It wasn't "three minutes." It was "three seconds."
Elias reached for the override anyway, his mind racing. If he pulled it, they might stabilize. If he didn't, they were definitely dead.
Through the visor of her helmet, he saw her mouth moving, but the vacuum of the airlock and the roar of the storm swallowed her words. She held up three fingers, then pointed toward the horizon. Three minutes? Third sector?
The intercom crackled, but only static came through. Elias stared at the console, his thumb hovering over the transmit button. Outside the reinforced glass of the observation deck, the storm on Kepler-186f was a swirling wall of iron-rich dust, turning the sky the color of a fresh bruise.
