Mass Reduction

“Malcolm.”

I wake to my wife faintly calling my name, her weak voice drowned by the ship’s blaring alarm. The seat straps bite into my shoulders while my arms float helplessly in front of me. I try to speak, a bitter taste of iron in my mouth.

“Amy… are you okay?” The words barely leave my lips.

She doesn’t reply.

I instinctively reach for her, but she’s out of reach.

I force my eyes open and the world becomes a red-tinted blur. Droplets of blood hang somewhere between us. Her face is obscured behind her helmet, black hair covering most of it. Fog spreads across my visor. I’m breathing too fast.

Behind me, I hear crackling fire and the hiss of extinguishing foam. It calms me slightly.

The ship is still fighting.

I manage to focus on the screens in front of me. Through the blur and pain, I can make out fragments of words:

COMPROMISED. FUEL LOSS. UNSTABLE.

MASS REDUCTION. LIFE SUPPORT.

“Amy?… We are okay, don’t worry. I’ll fix this.”

She told me not to go through the asteroid belt, but it was the fastest way to reach Mars’ gravity well, so I didn’t listen. I promise I’ll listen to her better from now on.

I unbuckle my straps and slam hard against the floor.

As I fade, Amy’s limp hands softly tap against the console in front of her. She looks like she’s floating above me.

“Malcolm, we won’t make it!”

“Yes we will! Brace yourself!”

***

“We’re still trapped in Mars’ orbit. The emergency stabilizers are barely enough to keep us from drifting, but we lost too much fuel during the impact. If I can repair at least one of the maneuvering thrusters, we might still have a chance to make it back home. But first, you need to eat something.”

I inspect the label on the aluminium tube.

“Chicken korma. Indian today.”

Getting Amy down from her seat nearly made me black out again. I strapped her carefully into one of the medical beds beside the observation window. Mars washes the room in a dull red glow.

The ship repaired most of the critical damage, but some systems are still failing. A soft mechanical pulse hums beneath Amy’s bed.

“I’ll bring us home, Ames.”

I take her hand in mine. Her wedding band catches the light, scratched and worn from years of use, but still bright.

“Remember when you said no the first time I proposed? We were too young. You were right not to accept then…”

I force a smile.

“You’re always right.”

A warning screen flashes in the corridor outside the room.

PROJECTED RETURN TRAJECTORY FAILURE: 87%

UNCOUPLE STORAGE BAY IMMEDIATELY

NECESSARY MASS REDUCTION AFTER UNCOUPLING—

I look away before the message fully loads.

The asteroids tore through a large section of the hull. Five maneuvering thrusters are gone. If the automatic systems can’t repair at least one of them, I’ll have to try manually.

I hate going out there.

The orange EVA suit hangs in front of me, my reflection warped across the curved visor. Bloodshot eyes, dried blood beneath my nose.

I barely recognize the man staring back.

I suit up and enter the air lock. The hiss of decompressing air fills the small space until there’s nothing left but my heartbeat and fast breathing.

I tether myself to the ship and grip the release lever. For a second, I hesitate.

Then I pull.

The outer door slides open.

Mars spills light into the chamber, bathing everything in burnt orange. Beyond it, space stretches endlessly in every direction, silent and absolute.

I push myself out slowly, drifting away from the ship.

Away from Amy.

For a moment, I close my eyes and let myself float.

No warnings. No decisions.

Just silence.

Then the tether snaps tight against my waist and pulls me back.

I open my eyes.

I need to fix this.

***

I spent two days coming in and out of the ship. The vast emptiness always welcoming me with its cold, peaceful silence. I try to fix as much as possible, but the damage is too bad.

I managed to seal a tear along the fuel chamber, but most of it was already gone.

I fixed one of the thrusters, but we still don’t have enough power to make the burn home with the ship as it is. I need to make a decision within the next few orbits. Otherwise Mars’ gravity will pull us down.

“Things are okay,” I tell Amy.

Probably myself too.

“I brought you this. Thought seeing your tools again might cheer you up.”

I place her pistol-grip tool beside the bed, along with a torch and her EVA gloves. I quietly remove the untouched tube of food.

“We may need to uncouple the back of the ship, but we still have enough power to make one last burn home—”

An alarm tears through the ship.

The lights die instantly.

I get to my feet and run into the hallway.

“Shit… I’ll be right back.”

The ship is swallowed by darkness. Only the warning screens remain, flashing through the corridor.

My shadow stretches across the wall ahead of me, washed red by the light spilling from Amy’s room behind.

I turn back toward her.

And suddenly I understand what I’ve been building.

Amy lies peacefully inside the life support unit. Her face pale beneath the soft glow. Around her sit mementos from her life aboard the ship: tools, gifts, photographs, little pieces of home.

Mars paints the room in fading red light.

The screen continues flashing.

PROJECTED RETURN TRAJECTORY FAILURE: 92%

UNCOUPLE STORAGE BAY IMMEDIATELY

NECESSARY MASS REDUCTION AFTER UNCOUPLING: 114 KG

LIFE SUPPORT UNIT INOPERABLE

I made a funeral bier.

For my dead wife.

***

I freeze, staring at my wife inside the life support unit. Pale and peaceful.

A tear slips down my face.

“Malcolm, babe, let’s slow down and reassess the trajectory. We’re heading straight into a wall of space rocks.”

“We’ll make it through before the asteroids. We can still reach Mars, but we need to set the course now. I’ve done the calculations. I know you’re smarter than me, but trust me on this one.”

“I do trust you. But I also know you very well.” She smiled sadly. “You’re breathing too fast. You’re not sure about this.”

My chest tightens.

The ship shudders violently as we lose altitude.

UNCOUPLE STORAGE BAY IMMEDIATELY

I head for the cockpit. A diagram of the ship flashes across the screen, the rear storage section pulsing red. Beside it: UNCOUPLE

I press the button without thinking and a long beep echoes through the ship.

Somewhere behind me, metal groans against metal.

Thud

The alarms vanish and silence floods the ship.

A deep rumble vibrates through the hull as the storage bay drifts away into space. Mars loosens its grip slightly.

Not enough to save us.

But enough to buy time.

We’re still in near darkness. Apart from the red light spilling through the observation window, the ship is little more than shadows and dim emergency screens. My footsteps echo as I move through the corridor, trying to gather my thoughts.

“This will make a great office.”

Amy stood in the middle of the empty room, arms spread wide.

“You already fixed the heating. Turns out you’re actually good with tools.” She winked. “We should paint this room bright yellow.”

“Wouldn’t that be… too much?”

“This house needs colour. It’s all grey.” She smiled. “That’s not us.”

Of course she was right.

She brought colour everywhere she went.

She loved our home. She made it feel alive. She deserves to go back to it.

“Oh, and babe?” She looked back over her shoulder. “Please don’t forget — for the fifth time — to throw out the junk in the attic.”

The warning screen flashes again, illuminating the corridor in pulses of red.

MASS REDUCTION CRITICAL

NECESSARY MASS REDUCTION: 114 KG

We don’t have many orbits left. Only one chance to make it home.

I stare at the warning screen then back toward Amy’s room.

I need to do something.

***

I start with the scattered hardware that I can live without. Bowls, bed sheets, chairs, laptops. Then the heavier things. Gas spectrometers, manuals, storage cabinets.

Basically everything that isn’t bolted to the floor.

One by one, I drag them into the air lock, pull the lever, and watch our lives drift soundlessly into the void.

The ship is stripped bare now. A silent, dark, hollow shell.

However, it’s not enough.

NECESSARY MASS REDUCTION: 74 KG

I return to Amy’s room.

We’re passing over the dark side of Mars now. The warm red glow is gone, leaving the room buried in shadow.

“We got it!”

Amy burst into my office, the door slamming against the bright yellow wall.

For a moment, I didn’t understand.

Then it hit me.

“They accepted us?”

“I told you they would.” She grinned, hands on her hips. “You really need to start listening to me, Malcolm Francis Allen.”

“We’re going to Mars, Amy.”

I stood up and pulled her into my arms.

“I’m never doubting you again.”

“You better not, sir.” She kissed me softly. “Come on, let’s take a picture. Today we made history.”

She lifted the Polaroid camera, aimed it back toward us—

Flash

The photograph shows Amy smiling brightly beside me, my eyes closed mid-laugh.

I pick the picture up from beside her bed. The edges are faded and worn soft from years of handling.

I’m dizzy. My chest hurts.

Around her lie all the little things I brought over the past days. The fragments of a life.

Slowly, I gather them in my arms.

And carry them toward the air lock.

***

I place her tools on the floor of the air lock first.

She was a brilliant engineer. She designed this ship and maintained it.

Our home for the past ten months.

Then her EVA suit. Her clothes. Every piece some shade of pale blue — her favourite colour.

Lastly, her Polaroid camera and the photographs she took.

All except one.

The picture from the day we found out we were going to Mars.

I hold it tightly in my hand as I pull the release lever.

The chamber door slides open. Her clothes and photographs drift soundlessly into the dark.

The ship shudders again.

NECESSARY MASS REDUCTION: 66 KG

I stare at the air lock.

For a moment, I consider stepping inside and letting myself drift away too.

No more pain or solitude. The thought feels almost comforting.

But then this ship dies with me. The mission dies. Everything Amy worked for — everything she gave her life for — becomes meaningless.

I need to get home.

“What if I turned into a slug? Would you still love me?”

“Yep.” Amy barely looked up from her burger.

“What if I became one of those red-pill podcast idiots? I’d make millions talking shit online.”

“I draw the line at dumb asshole.” She leaned back in her chair. “I’d rather kiss a slug.”

I laughed.

“The reason I’m with you,” she continued, “is because you’re kind. And smart. You always have a plan.”

She pointed at me with a chip.

“You know what’s best for us. And… you’re not too bad to look at either.”

I smiled awkwardly. I never liked compliments.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” she said. “You’re still only one layer above a slug.”

Her laugh filled the kitchen.

I miss her.

I return to Amy’s room and touch her face. Only then do I realize how exhausted I am.

Carefully, I slide one arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her legs and carry her through the hollow ship.

The warning screens pulse through the darkness, washing red light across her face as I pass.

Outside, Mars is beginning to catch the edge of the sun again. Burnt orange light slowly crawls across the walls, painting them pale yellow.

I lay Amy gently inside the air lock and kiss her forehead.

For the first time since the crash, my breathing slows.

“I love you,” I whisper.

My hand hovers over the orange release lever.

Beyond the small window, Mars hangs enormous against the endless black.

“I’m sorry.”