Chapter 9: Fire in the Habitat
An orange fireball roars through the compartment. I feel a blast of heat as the ignited gas whooshes past me, seeking oxygen. The half-closed bulkhead door channels the explosion’s force into the hallway beyond. I’m thrown off my feet, tumbling against the wall. Pain flares through my shoulder. For a few seconds, all sound vanishes, replaced by a high-pitched ring in my ears. Dazed, I try to orient myself. Waving flames lick along the ceiling where wiring and insulation are burning. The air stinks of burnt plastic and chemicals.
My visor display flashes multiple alerts: Temperature spike detected. Suit integrity holding. Oxygen 18% – warning. I force myself onto my hands and knees. “Jack!” I cough out, forgetting I’m on comms. I toggle my external speakers and shout again into the smoky room: “Jack!”
There—a few meters away, by the door. Jack lies sprawled, the crank lever beside him. He isn’t moving. My chest constricts. I scramble to his side, ignoring the ache radiating through my limbs. His jumpsuit sleeve is on fire. I smother the flames with my gloves and a flap of fabric torn from loose insulation. His oxygen mask is hanging around his neck.
Jack’s eyes are closed, his face streaked with soot. I pull the mask over his mouth and press it down. “Jack, can you hear me?” I check the readout on his O₂ gauge—zero. His canister is empty. No air. Without thinking, I unclamp my own helmet. It’s a gamble, but he needs oxygen more than I need filtration. I hold my breath, shove my emergency breather onto his face, and trigger a flood of O₂.
He spasms and coughs, sucking in the gas. I finally exhale and take a shallow breath. Smoke burns my throat. Dizziness sets in fast—too much CO₂. I grab my second mini-bottle, clamp it over my own mouth, and steady myself as O₂ hisses in.
The flames are dying already. No fuel left. Charred walls. Guttering debris. Ember-glow underfoot. It’s hell.
Jack is breathing but barely. His eyes flutter. He whispers, “…hurt…leg…”
I aim my headlamp down and my stomach twists. A metal panel has fallen across his left leg. Blood. An ugly bend.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” I tell him, touching his forehead gently. He looks so small, crumpled there. I can’t lose him.
“Aegis, come online!” I shout. Nothing. Of course. Still offline. Still powerless.
Coughing, I try to shift the debris off him. Too heavy. Again, harder this time. I brace, use the moon’s low gravity to my advantage, and heave. The plate groans and slides aside. Jack moans as pressure releases from his leg, but I see the blood. I don’t have the tools. I just have to move him.
I hook my arms under his and pull. He cries out once, then goes slack. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, dragging him through the narrow bulkhead gap. My eyes burn. Tears blur the red light blinking above the door. Inch by inch, I get us clear.
I crank the lever more. The bulkhead groans shut. A hiss. A click. Hab Three sealed. A tomb behind us.
I collapse against the wall, sobbing for just a moment. We’ve come to Titan for discovery. We found life. And then the moon fights back.
Jack stirs. I wipe my eyes, crawling back to him. His breathing is steady. The O₂ mask is still working, but won’t last long. Cold creeps in. No heat. No power. If I don’t fix this, we’re both dead.
I tap my comm. “Aegis…” Static.
There’s one way to reboot her. The command module battery. If it has any charge left.
I stand. The corridor is scorched and dark, but the emergency lights give me enough. I pull Jack farther down, out of danger from another fire. Prop him against the wall. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper. He blinks. His lips move. I squeeze his hand. “Hold on.”
I stumble to Command. Everything aches. The door is sealed. I spin the manual wheel, arm shaking, and shove it open. Inside, dead screens. Silence.
I find the breaker by feel. Throw it.
A heartbeat. Then a hum. A flicker. Lights.
“Aegis mainframe initializing,” a voice crackles.
My knees give out. I drop into the chair, half-laughing, half-crying. “Aegis, systems check.”
“Running diagnostics,” she replies, warmth creeping into her voice. “Primary power offline. Life support on emergency backup. Multiple hull breaches.” She pauses. “Mira, I detect elevated methane and CO₂ levels. Crew vitals…”
“Jack’s hurt,” I interrupt. “He needs medical support. I need you.”
A pause. Then: “Understood. Switching to medical mode. Mira, move Jack to the infirmary. Do you require guidance?”
“I can do it.”
Aegis activates soft lights in the hall. A path. A trail of glow to the medical nook.
I stagger back to Jack, slide my arms under him again. “Come on,” I whisper. “You don’t get to die today.”
The lights show me the way.
Aegis says solemnly, “Mira… I am no longer detecting life signs from Commander Patel or Valentina. I believe… we’ve lost them.”
End of chapter 9
