Content warnings

Disaster.

After stowing my suit and helmet on the shelf just inside the softly lit domed worship and meditation space, I pressed the button to cover the wide surface viewing portal, shutting out the iron-red landscape. Then I collapsed into a graceful cross-legged position. The sudden dimness of the meditation room reminded me of home—Earth—and a wash of tranquility soothed my jangled nerves.

My eyelids slipped closed as I sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled. Eyes still closed, I pictured my meditation instructor, her accepting smile and encouraging eyes.

I’m afraid, I allowed myself to admit. I’m on Mars, facing my first real hazard, and I’m afraid.

At the admission, my knotted shoulders relaxed a fraction. I’d been working so hard not to admit to having fears, even to myself, for eight long months. But now it was impossible.

Mars Colony HQ had warned us of incoming meteorites. Said a few might even hit ground. And this is what we’d trained for. What I’d trained for, even before leaving Earth–to remain safe in emergencies. I could do this.

I continued to breathe, in and out, in and out, eyes shut.

But Earth had free air, and Mars didn’t. I banished the intruding thought, and went back to calming breaths.

An explosion rocked the small meditation chamber, shattering the calming pattern of my breath. I leapt to my feet, panting. An early arrival? Oh gods! And it was far more violent than I’d been led to believe. Instinctively I tensed, hunching low, then chided myself for being silly. We’d been assured there was no real danger as long as everyone remained calm and indoors, underground.

But I wasn’t “safely in an underground shelter”. I sat inside the meditation dome, which peeked above ground. I hurried to suit up and head for safety, but before I stepped into the suit, another meteorite screamed overhead, the sound searing along my eardrums, a sizzle I felt as much as heard. It hit with a rolling concussion like the end of all things.

I was flung to the ground and barely stopped my skull from bashing into the floor. I felt my breath rasping harshly, though I heard nothing.

Beneath my hands, vibrations rippled through the engineered stone, stronger, then fading, then stronger again. BOOM boom boom Boom!…BOOOOM!…Boom boom.

I huddled closer to the ground, eyes pinched shut as if that might protect me. Then my ears rang as explosions rocked the world outside. I wished I’d remained deaf.

At last, it was over. Sitting up, I saw with relief that the dim lighting remained on. If that was on, then so was air recirculation. I waited another moment, then I stood and went to the shuttered observation window to view the damage. A crackle of shattered glass twinkled on the floor beneath hatch as I palmed the lock.

Nothing moved. The reinforced shutter refused to budge.

I snatched my hand back. Clearly I wasn’t thinking right, or I’d never have attempted to open the outer viewport knowing the glass had been breached!

Trembling, I tried to think through my next move. Of course–the radio. I went to the doorway and pressed the switch, but nothing happened. I tried three more times, stabbing harder each time. Still nothing.

My breath was far from calm at this point, my pre-meteor-strike meditation evaporated like water in the thin Martian atmosphere.

And that’s when I noticed the small light above the doorway glowing an angry red. Non-functional.

I was trapped.

My heart tripped into high speed, my racing thoughts spun like hamsters in wheels, and were just as useful. Calm down, I told myself. Laughter bubbled up my throat, but I refused to let it out. If I did, I’d panic. And I couldn’t panic.

The power’s still on, I reminded myself, so is the air. I’ll be fine.

The dim, meditative lighting faded, replaced by the weaker amber wash of emergency backup lighting. Without thought, my hands reached for my suit’s zipper. I was zipped up before I realized my training had kicked in at last: suit up against air loss or breach. I should’ve done this right away! My training had failed. I had failed.

My hands began to tremble, and I fumbled the latches around my helmet, sure that at any moment the window would give way and I’d die from hypoxia before I sealed the suit. My pulse spiked, my heart tripping and stumbling over itself as panic flowed in like the cold of space…

No. No!

I closed my eyes, focused on my breath. On my body. When my hands were steady—perhaps five seconds later, but it felt like five years—I carefully latched the helmet, securing it into place. The suit powered up, undamaged, though the radio still gave me only static.

Steady, I warned myself. So the meteorites took out some satellites. It’ll be repaired soon. Stay calm and preserve your air.

Clumsily, I lowered my suited self to sitting on the ground, legs stretched forward, back ramrod straight, cupped hands gently resting on my thighs. I closed my eyes, accepting the universe and my place within it–here, on Mars.

An unknown time later, my suit’s radio crackled. A female voice said “Suit 132, check in”. She sounded frightened, tense.

I smiled, and heard that smile in my reply: “Suit 132 here. I’m fine. Stuck in the worship chamber, air and power off.”

“Suit 132, you sound…very relaxed.”

“I’ve been meditating. My suit’s air is good for another–,” I checked the readout, “–four hours. No rush on me, HQ. I’m feeling quite at home.” Indeed, the amber illumination reminded me of the orangish Martian sky, which felt oddly comforting. After eight months of denial, I was truly “at home” on Mars for the first time. And it had only taken surviving my first emergency.

My smile softened, and I went back to steady breathing, calmly awaiting rescue just as training suggested.

M. E. Garber

M. E. Garber currently lives halfway between the Kennedy Space Center and Disney World, the ideal place for someone writing speculative fiction. When not writing, she’s often sipping tea, snapping pics, or tending orchids, sometimes all at once. Visit her online at reamstories.com/megarber or on Mastodon wandering.shop/@megarber