Act III: The Kraken’s Embrace
Chapter 8: The Storm and the Leak
A methane leak. I set down my mug, grab my helmet, and run toward Section Three. Outside, methane is inert—no free oxygen, no flame. But inside, enriched with breathable air, methane is a bomb waiting for a spark. My boots thud on the metal floor as I rush down the corridor, each step exaggerated by Titan’s one-seventh gravity. Over the intercom I shout, “Jack! We’ve got a methane leak in Hab Three. Commander Patel? Valentina? Respond!”
Static answers. Internal comms are glitching again, probably thanks to the power degradation we’ve been fighting since the storm began. My pulse spikes. Stay calm, Mira, I tell myself. The crew is counting on you. Just hours ago, we found microbial life in Kraken Mare. Now, we might not survive the night.
I reach a junction and yank the lever to seal off Hab Three’s bulkhead door. The panel flashes warnings: pressure drop, unsafe methane levels. I slam the override—nothing. The door is jammed half-open, and a thin white fog rolls through it into the corridor: vaporizing liquid methane. That pungent, faintly sweet smell hits my nose. I cough. Titan’s liquid gold is spilling into our home.
I tap the control on my wrist and drop my visor. Our internal air is already going toxic. With trembling fingers, I toggle to suit oxygen. A hiss, then silence in my helmet. I’m sealed off, breathing safely—for now. “Jack, come in!” I try again. “Valentina, Commander Patel?” A crackle, then Jack’s voice: “Mira… cough I’m here… trying to get to the main valves…” He sounds strained, but alive.
“Aegis, locate Jack,” I order. Silence. Right—Aegis is still knocked out. I’m on my own.
I edge through the gap in the door. Hab Three is a nightmare. The ceiling lights flicker as methane vapors dance in my headlamp beam. I spot the rupture: a fissure in the hull, near the storage bay. A steady jet of liquid methane sprays from a cracked pipe, pooling and evaporating on the floor. Our fuel line. The storm must have jostled the reclamation system—or debris struck the feed. Either way, methane is flooding the compartment.
My boots splash into a puddle of the stuff. Even through insulation, I feel the bite of its –179 °C cold. The droplets roll off like liquid mercury. Somewhere outside, oceans of this swirl under the storm, teeming with life. But no time for wonder.
Across the bay, I see Jack. He’s kneeling by the storage tank, wrenching at a valve labeled CH₄. Even in the gloom, I see the tension in his shoulders. “Valve’s stuck… can’t shut it off!” he rasps through the comm. No helmet—just a mask and goggles. No time to fully suit up.
Emergency protocols blur through my head. Eliminate ignition sources. Seal off area. Ventilate—not an option. The only way to stop the leak is to shut that valve.
I slosh toward him. “Let me!” I shout, grabbing a heavy wrench. He doesn’t argue. We brace together, twisting the wheel. For a moment, nothing. Then it creaks. A few more degrees. The jet weakens. “It’s working—keep going!” I yell. We crank harder. Finally, the valve gives. The spray slows, then stops.
Jack exhales hard, gives me a thumbs-up. I can’t celebrate. The room is full of methane and oxygen-rich air. One spark and we’re ash. I check my pad. Oxygen at 21%, methane 5%… 6%… approaching flammable mix.
Jack pulls down his mask briefly. “We have to seal this area, let the scrubbers do their job!” he shouts. His eyes are red from exposure. I nod. We turn to the door. I hit “Close” again and again. Nothing. Something is jamming the track.
He moves to help—and then the sky lights up. A blinding flash through the window. Lightning. Real, unmistakable lightning. For a second, I forget to breathe. A roar follows, deep enough to vibrate my bones.
Then the lights go out. My HUD flashes: CRITICAL POWER FAILURE.
I freeze. No air circulation. No scrubbers. No comms. Just emergency LEDs and my suit feed.
Jack’s hand finds my arm. “We need to seal it manually,” he says, lifting a hand-crank. A last resort. We jam it into the gear slot and start cranking. The door budges slowly. And then—a burst of sparks from the ceiling. I see them falling in slow motion. My gut turns to ice.
“Jack, get down!” I scream, shoving him to the floor.
A spark finds a pocket of gas.
WHOOOOMPH.
End of Chapter 8
