The kind of silence that swallows everything.
One second, the ship had been roaring, straining, fighting tooth and nail against Mars' gravity. The next, it was gone. The deafening tremors, the wailing alarms, the gut-wrenching vibrations—all replaced by absolute stillness.
For the first time since the crash, I wasn't being crushed, wasn't bracing against a force greater than myself.
The ship had stopped rattling.
I had stopped falling.
I let out a slow, shaking breath, watching as droplets of sweat detached from my forehead and into my mask and helmet. My fingers twitched against the harness, my body still expecting weight, expecting pressure—but there was nothing.
No ground beneath me. No force pushing me down. Just space.
And Earth—Earth was waiting.
I unclenched my fists, my knuckles stiff and aching from how hard I'd been gripping the console. My heart was still hammering, my body still burning with adrenaline, but I forced myself to focus. I wasn't safe yet.
The launch had been violent—too violent.
Something could have cracked, something could have failed. If I had a leak, I wouldn't hear it. If I was losing oxygen, I wouldn't feel it.
I tapped a few commands into the console, pulling up life support diagnostics.
✔ Oxygen Levels – Stable
✔ CO₂ Scrubbers – Functioning
✔ Cabin Pressure – Holding
I exhaled. Good. I wasn't suffocating. Yet.
The ship's structure had barely been holding together before takeoff. I had welded patches onto its wounds, strapped scavenged plating across its battered frame. But now, after enduring one final war against gravity?
I activated Database Scan, letting the system crawl through every inch of the hull. The screen flickered, feeding me the results.
✔ Structural Integrity – 85% Functional
✔ Left Booster – Stable
✔ Right Booster – Compromised, But Operational
⚠ Minor Hull Fractures Detected (Non-Critical)
I clenched my jaw. I'd take it.
Nothing catastrophic. No sudden explosions. No imminent deaths. The hull was bruised but breathing.
I had burned through a hell of a lot more than I should have. That chaotic launch, the misfiring right booster, the spin that nearly killed me—it all cost me.
I pulled up the readings, scanning my reserves.
✔ Fuel Remaining – Just Enough for Return
⚠ Margin of Error – Extremely Low
One bad calculation, one unexpected course deviation, and I wouldn't have enough to reach Earth.
I swallowed hard. No room for errors. No second chances.
I turned my attention to the navigation system, fingers flying across the console. Before takeoff, I had manually input my flight trajectory, lining up a direct return path to Earth. But the chaotic launch—the right booster's instability—had I been thrown off-course?
I ran the calculations.
The screen flickered. Numbers rolled past my vision, a stream of raw data processing faster than I could consciously absorb.
✔ Trajectory – Minor Deviation Detected
⚠ Course Correction Required – Controlled Burn Needed
I sucked in a breath.
Not catastrophic. Not yet.
I could fix this. I had to.
I flexed my fingers, already anticipating the next challenge. A controlled burn. A quick, precise burst from the thrusters to realign my course.
But that meant activating the right booster again.
And I didn't trust that thing to behave.
I set my hands on the controls, adjusting the power distribution. If I gave the right booster too much, it could spin me into another death spiral. Too little, and the correction wouldn't be enough.
Then, I fired the engines.
A deep rumble rolled through the ship, a pulse of energy surging through the frame. The right booster stuttered—coughed—then roared to life.
I clenched my jaw, watching the trajectory data flicker.
The ship wobbled. The power flickered—a moment of pure tension—
Then, the numbers snapped into place.
✔ Course Correction – Successful
✔ Return Path to Earth – Locked In
I let out a slow, relieved breath.
I leaned back, exhaustion pressing against me like a heavy fog. My body still felt wired, still tingling from the rush of survival, but I had done it.
I was no longer stranded.
For the first time since the crash, I wasn't fighting against the void.
I let myself float, arms resting weightlessly at my sides.
A single blue-green light hung in the far distance—small, but unmistakable.
I reached out, my gloved fingers just barely grazing the empty space between us.
A soft beep from the console pulled me back. The transponder.
I had sent Camille a message before launch.
I tapped the console, waiting as the encrypted transmission loaded.
A message appeared on-screen.
"Understood. Keep flying. We'll handle the ground."
No questions. No panic. No long-winded response.
Just quiet certainty.
I ran a tongue over my dry lips. Camille was handling something.
I shut my eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle over me.
I had been running on instinct for so long—survive, survive, survive. Every second had been a fight. Every breath had been another battle.
Now, I was between worlds.
Floating in the space between Mars and Earth.
Between death and salvation.
Between silence and the storm that was waiting for me on the other side.
The stars stretched endlessly in all directions. No gravity. No sound. Just the endless black, freckled with a billion distant lights.
But Earth was still waiting.
And I knew—the moment I arrived, everything would explode into motion.
I exhaled, my breath fogging against the visor of my helmet.
For now—just for a little while—