Mars Express

I am sending this in plain text and in the clear in the hope it will explain what happened on Mars Express 2. My name is Walter Bilsen and I am the navigator for the mission. Of the six men and women I am the only one still alive at this point, although I do not know how much longer I have. Perhaps as little as thirty minutes. Perhaps a little more.

This message is being sent as I plummet towards the surface of the red planet on a course I have little hope of controlling. All automated systems have gone, most of the manual backups are down as well and I've only the most rudimentary thrusters available to help me correct my course. For the past nine days I have had little sleep and little else to do but try and keep this massive ship on as straight a course as possible and prepare myself for what will be my demise, but may be Mars Express 1's salvation.

On 23rd March at 07:23 ship time we were struck without warning by a small collection of asteroids. Our sensors did not detect these objects until the very last minute due to both their extremely small size and the fact they appear to have been on a course directly towards us from the stern. Normally the ship can correct to avoid these collisions, or our shielding can deflect and knock them away, only these rocks came straight at us with tremendous speed. Combined with our own forward velocity the energy they struck the ship with was enough not only to puncture the shielding, but also to travel deep into the ship.

When the strike happened Captain Tseng was on watch in the bridge. He was killed when much of the control centre was wiped out, taking it with it our primary means of controlling our course. There was also damage to the secondary airlock, which meant we were leaking atmosphere into space, although we didn't discover this for some hours.

In spite of the loss of our skipper the crew pulled together and, led by First Officer Dawson, we quickly halted further damage to our life support systems and made a plan for repairs for the rest of the ship. It was at this point that I identified we were drifting from our course. We had already started our deceleration procedures and were twenty-two days from entering Mars orbit. Periodic bursts from our engines with the reverse shells in place was slowing us, only the damage we'd taken was knocking us very slightly out. Without the navigational computer working I had to make my calculations manually, but I predicted we would miss Mars completely and head out into the Asteroid belt.

This was not the only damage we had suffered. Once inside the ship the rocks had splintered, spraying shrapnel throughout the inner hull. We didn't realise it at the time, but there was such extensive damage that we were leaking like a sieve. Water and O2 was being lost, although with our damage control systems still down we didn't know the extent of the damage at that point. We had also lost all of our communications systems, cutting us off from both mission control on Earth and our colleagues on Mars. It was only by rerouting the low gain radio in the shuttle that I have been able to send this text.

Dawson tasked me with recovering control of the ship and getting us back on course. Having decided the bridge was lost I spent several hours patching the ship's flight control systems into the shuttle. It was never designed to deal with much more than a couple of orbits, a descent, landing, ascent and docking, so its systems were rudimentary at best. I was, however, able to regain control of some of our attitude thrusters and the main engines. Navigation would remain manual, with course corrections becoming little more than trial and error.

About seven hours after the strike we thought we were in good shape and Dawson called a meeting. Samuels cooked noodles and we sat silently and ate at first. Dawson then raised the question of what we had to do next.

As you may know, Mars Express 1 has been on the surface of the red planet for a little over five months and will be there for another seven or eight before the window opens for the return flight. Ours is a resupply mission, bringing new supplies and the components required to complete the second phase of the permanent structure. Without us ME1 is touch and go as to whether the crew can return to Earth safely.

Put simply, if we did not reach the surface then not only would we die, but so too would the eight people on Mars. Therefore, Dawson told us, everything we did had to be directed to getting our payload, or as much as we could, down to the surface.

With this in mind I was tasked with ensuring the ship did not stray from her course again. It would mean constantly monitoring our course and making manual adjustments - the shuttle's computers weren't up to the task. Hollande, the engineer, had also set about working out how to deliver tonnes of cargo to the surface.

About twenty-four hours after the strike Samuels finally restored the systems that monitored our life support systems and immediately called us all together. If I could have lived another thousand years I don't think I would have forgotten how we gathered around the table in the mess with Samuels, her face grey and solemn, already seated and holding a crumpled sheet of paper she'd scrawled over in red pen.

When she spoke her voice was calm and flat. There was no emotion in it, no hint of the horror to come. It was a pure recital of facts. Perhaps it was this monotone delivery that gave her words that much more power.

She told us, calmly, that the ship had been leaking atmosphere into space for the past twenty-four hours and that the reason we were all starting to feel tired was because O2 levels were dropping quickly. Within 18 hours there would not be enough oxygen for us to make effective decisions and in about 24 we would start to pass out. We were also losing pressure, which would compound the problem. In short, we were dead in a day, perhaps a day and a half at most.

I felt sick to my stomach. All the effort that had gone into repairing the ship had been for nothing. Our exertions had accelerated our journey to asphyxiation.

It was Hollande who broke first. He demanded action, demanded we scoured the ship in search of the leaks and filled them. It was, of course, pointless. There were too many for us to find them all. When he realised that he slumped into his chair as if resigned to his fate.

There was the shuttle, Fishguard pointed out. We could take shelter in there and use its internal life support to keep us alive. I pointed out it could seat three, was designed to spend no more than 36 hours in flight and had only the most rudimentary life support system. At most three people could last 2 days.

"Or one person could last for six," Dawson said.

When he said those words the entire mess fell silent. We were - are - rational beings, selected for our ability to discard convention and find different solutions to the problems we face. We'd faced three other emergencies on the mission and through a mix of well rehearsed drills and unconventional thinking had worked our way through each.

"We're still twenty days away, though," Fishguard said. "6 days was not enough."

This was how the brainstorming began and how, eventually, we settled on our plan. Our priority was to get the cargo to the surface, even at the cost of our own lives. Had the autopilot been active we would have simply set it and let the computers do the work, only without them it would require at least one person to stay at the helm and make the constant corrections required. A person sat in a spacesuit and breathing through a helmet would use air more efficiently than a person sat undressed in the cockpit of the shuttle. It also meant that additional tanks could be used, further extending the potential survival window. Our rough calculations suggested a single person wearing a spacesuit for 90% of the time would reach the point where they started to make poor decisions in about two hundred and five hours. About eight and a half days.

Still too short.

So if we had eight and a half days to work with we had to find a way to get Mars Express 2 into Mars obit within that time frame. The solution was deceptively simple. We would accelerate a little and coast towards the planet at a higher velocity. At the correct point we would fire the engines with the reverse shells in place on a continuous burn, bringing the ship into orbit. It wouldn't matter if most, if not all, fuel was expended as this was now a one way mission. All that mattered was getting the ship into orbit. Once there it could be decided whether to attempt a full re-entry and take the entire ship down, or leave it in orbit for the ME1 crew to come up and shuttle supplies down.

It was a plan we could all agree to. It was a logical plan. A rational plan. But one that left us with a horrible decision to make. Of the five crewmembers that survived which would don their spacesuit, sit in the shuttle and carry out the mission while their crewmates slowly suffocated?

Straws, we decided. We would make the choice based on who picked the shortest straw. It would leave the entire choice down to chance. Only was that the best way to select the best candidate for this mission? Samuels was reluctant that she, as a medical officer and responsible for nothing more than life support systems, should be in charge of keeping a ship on a straight and true course.

Which led us to the decision we made. Like the rest of the plan it was logical and it resulted in the navigator, the one person who had the skill and technical knowledge, being dressed in their pressure suit, standing at the entry hatch to the shuttle and knowing that once they stepped inside they would not see their friends again. It was a terrible burden, and one that I had to carry.

Hollande argued it should be he to survive as he would know how to get the cargo to the surface. I sat in stony silence, listening as my crewmates argued that his talent was pointless if the Mars Express 2 never reached the planet. And in any event the key was to get the ship into orbit so those already on the surface could salvage what they needed. Like a wounded dog retreating from battle he fell silent and never said a word to anyone again.

My mind is now full of the image of those three brave friends who chose to remain behind as I climbed through the airlock into the shuttle's cockpit. They looked at me with expressions of hope and jealousy and that mortal dread that comes when a person knows their fate. Within hours their air supply would have faded to nothing and they would die the slow death of asphyxia. It would become harder to make decisions as their oxygen starved brains misfired. Headaches would develop into debilitating migraines. Memories would fade. At the end they would be in a world of pain that they would be unable to respond to and would slip into death. This was the fate that waited for them.

We wished each other luck: Dawson; Samuels; Fishguard. There were hugs and handshakes, last words and muttered prayers. We held onto each other for too long. Finally, somehow, Dawson found the strength to push me away and I stumbled back against the shuttle's hull. That was the signal for me to leave them.

I climbed into the cockpit with a heavy heart, knowing that I would not see my friends again; that I would probably not see another human again. I placed my helmet over my head and connected it to the airtight ring that sealed it against my suit. With the hose plugged into the emergency supply connector beside my seat I was now being fed freshly blended air from the tanks and scrubbers that kept the shuttle alive. Every last canister of air that could be found had been placed in the shuttle's hold. Each one would give me a precious extra few minutes with which to complete my mission.

Nothing changed. I continued to do the job I had done when there had been no emergency. I checked the crude display I'd rigged to the single telescope that had survived the impact. It was trained on Mars, crosshairs drawn on the screen to remind me where the planet should sit. A slight drift to four o'clock prompted me to use the shuttle's joystick to fire the thrusters and try to correct the error.

When I'd been in the shuttle barely ten minutes I heard Dawson's voice come into my helmet. The intercom that connected me to the ship was still alive.

"Walter, we don't want it to end this way," he told me. I remember his voice so clearly. The rich bass of his southern USA accent was lyrical, yet told a song of fatalism.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked him.

"Complete the mission. We're in the airlock now. We've decided we don't want to end it slowly. Not that. Not the pain. This way will be faster."

The horror grew inside me as I understood what they had elected to do. They were crowded in an airlock somewhere, perhaps saying prayers or reflecting on their lives. They may have written letters to loved ones, I don't know as I've not dared venture into the ship since they did it. What I do know is I heard them all say goodbyes and good lucks and then my helmet was filled with the rushing of air as they were sucked out of the airlock.

I was alone. Truly alone. More alone than any man had been before, or, I hoped, ever would be. There was only me, the mission and a puny supply of air, water and food. Enough to survive. Enough to get the ship to Mars.

The eight days it has taken me have been hell. Every two hours I am awoken to make adjustments and calculations. There are no computers to do this for me, at least none of any note. I have only a personal computer and models that I put together myself some months ago when I'd grown bored with the long transit to the red planet. There is no entertainment, nothing to distract me. Only the routine of correcting the flight and ensuring I eat, drink and move around a little.

When I eat and drink I have to remove my helmet and each time I can feel the oxygen content falling in the cockpit. So close to entering orbit now I can feel my head starting to hurt if I spend too long without my helmet on. I know my air supply is running out. I'm down to the last reserve tank, which I'm half way through. Once this is gone I shall suffer asphyxiation, albeit much faster than my crewmates would have given the confined space I am in. I wonder if I will summon the courage to open the airlock as they did.

The reverse burn is now almost over. If this has worked, and I hope it has, then I will be in orbit within minutes. If not I may shoot off into space, or plummet to the ground. Either way I no longer have control.

This is the final account of what happened to Mars Express 2. I hope my final mission is successful.

Walter Bilsen.