Mark Watney
Sol 529
Nobody told me to expect a message from Johanssen.
[19:22] JOHANSSEN: Hello, Mark.
It blinked on my screen and made a pinging noise, and it's lucky I was in the rover, because I've been spending most of my time mainlining Vicodin and trying to finish the ghetto MAV, pair to my ghetto rover.
It took a minute to hit me.
[19:23] MAV: Johanssen? Holy crap! They're finally letting you talk to me directly?
I was waiting less than a minute before I got my response.
[19:24] JOHANSSEN: Yes, NASA gave the OK for direct communication an hour ago. We're only 35 light-seconds apart, so we can talk in near-real time. I just set up the system and am testing it out.
That means they've been quite close for quite some time. I've been here 20 days, and we're just talking now?
[19:24] MAV: What took them so long to let us talk?
[19:25] JOHANSSEN: The psych team was worried about personality conflicts.
Fucking psych team and fucking NASA. They're the ones I'm about to have a personality conflict with.
"Mark, you're just bitter about Mars. Don't take it out of Venkat and NASA administration."
Because that's who I'm really mad at, here. Houston, JPL, they're the people that are fighting tooth and nail for me to get home. It's NASA administration who keeps doing the wacky shit that is annoying me way more than it should.
[19:25] MAV: Why? Just 'cause you guys abandoned me on a godforsaken planet with no chance of survival?
I thought the joke would be funny in how it's obviously not true.
[19:26] JOHANSSEN: Funny. Don't make that kind of joke with Lewis.
Yeah, you don't need to tell me.
[19:27] MAV: Roger. So uh…
It hits me. I'm really talking to Johanssen, right now. She's sitting at the console right now, waiting for my reply just a few hundred thousand miles away.
My eyes go watery again, because apparently a year and a half on Mars turned me into a weepy little girl.
…thanks for coming back to get me.
What a fucking inadequate set of words.
[19:27] JOHANSSEN: It's the least we could do. How is the MAV retrofit going?
No, it's not the least. You weren't obligated to come save me. You all chose to because you're crazy, reckless astronauts.
[19:28] MAV: So far, so good. NASA put a lot of thought into the procedures. They work. That's not to say they're easy. I spent the last 3 days removing Hull panel 19 and the front window. Even in Mars-g they're heavy motherfuckers.
[19:29] JOHANSSEN: When we pick you up I will make wild, passionate love to you. Prepare your body.
Martinez.
[19:29] JOHANSSEN: I didn't type that! That was Martinez! I stepped away from the console for like 10 seconds!
Knew it.
[19:29] MAV: I've really missed you guys.
—
Mark Watney
Sol 549
I'm leaving forty-one potatoes behind. That's how close I came to starvation.
The thought rattles me to the core, staring at my 41 potatoes. It feels like I narrowly avoided a speeding train. I ate a lot of half rations, even accidentally skipped meals. If I didn't do that, I would have ran out of food.
I would have eaten a few extra today (because I haven't felt full since Sol 6), but I don't want any food in my stomach while I'm pulling 12gs. I've just been eating 3/4 rations since I got to the MAV.
I'm sentimental. I'm leaving rock samples here for whoever is here next (Ares IV, probably, in like a decade) to come pick up. I'm going to build another shed out of rocks, so that sandstorms don't cause the great potato migration. I'm keenly aware of how botanists will consider those potatoes invaluable science, so I want to make sure they're at least here to be poked and prodded by whoever cares.
—
Mark Watney
Sol 549
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't shitting myself.
It's not really death that I'm afraid of. Actually, it's not at all death that I'm afraid of, as you know, person in my head that I talk to. I'm an astronaut. No, what's more intimidating is the idea of floating around in space until I run out of air. In a competition to think of the worst ways anyone could die, that one is top-shelf.
But fuck, I don't want to die on this wasteland more.
I face the very real possibility I'll die today. Can't say that I like it.
I don't. You know what? I spent 549 god-forsaken Sols on a planet that is continuously doing everything it can to make sure that I die. I don't want to die, I want to escape just to fucking do it. I've worked so hard for this goal, and I hate the fact that whether or not it will be seen through is now wholly and totally out of my control.
I still can't quite believe that this is really it. I'm really leaving.
There are no good things on Mars. I know that there's a possibility I'll get saved, and yesterday, I was fucking excited about it. But today I just feel empty, like it's not salvation I'm headed to. Like there's going to be some other disaster, there always is, and my life will be cut short. Like one big, interplanetary, cosmic, fuck you.
Sol 6 pops into my mind, unbidden. Cresting the hill, seeing the empty MAV.
Considering kneeling into the dirt and just dying.
That's what all this has been about all along. I didn't want sink into the fucking dust and just… die.
It's easier to say this after it's happened, I know, but I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad I drug myself into the Hab. I'm glad at every chance, I convinced myself to Live Another Sol. I'm glad I've fought as hard as I can to survive. Even if I die today, that means something. I'll die proud of myself, knowing I did everything that I could. And at the end of the day, that's all anyone can do.
This realization gives me peace.
I have no more jobs to do, and no more nature to defeat. I've had my last Martian potato. I slept in the rover for the last time. I've left my last footprints in the dusty red sand.
I've spent most of this trip contemplating the futile nature of human life. But now that I've tried my hardest and stand before the end, I know that it's worth it just on the face of it. Not for the rewards, or the glory, but the knowledge that you came into life and lived it the very best that you could. When it's finally time to greet death, there is nothing except your accounting of the choices you've made. And the choices I made were the best.
For a fourth (or fifth or sixth) time, I find myself greeting death. But this time, it isn't me grasping at straws,desperately trying to just end my suffering. There's no choking depression gripping my throat, no doom descending upon me.
Like a curtain lifted, my mind is finally clear. No matter what happens today, I'm going home. For the first time since Sol 6, I'm happy.
I raise my head to consider the billowing martian sand dunes, the tornadoes in the distance. It's beautiful and alien again, the way it was on Sol 6 when the morphine was pressed against my leg. This time, I'm not suffocating from my abject despair. I think this is what life, what death, is supposed to be like. You live life to the fullest every second you can, but when it's time to go, you're ready.
For my part, I just sit back and drink in the vast horizons. I should have appreciated it more. 549 sols I'm here, and every single memory of Mars is tinted red with anger, a personal cock fight against the planet. It completely tarnishes the beauty. But in this moment, I'm not fighting anymore, and this planet isn't fighting me, and I can finally see the majesty in it's towering mountains.
Cliche as it sounds, maybe the planet was never fighting me. My struggle was the struggle of every human, fighting a losing fight against the clock, against a curtain that is destined to fall, against eyes that are doomed to close forever.
I'm dimly aware that if I survive, this peace won't last. The clarity of the truth is giving me a brief respite, but should I walk onto the Hermes ever again, nothing will ever be the same. The struggle against Mars is over, but there are more fights for me that lay ahead, not the least of which will be a fight against my failing sanity. Am I ready to keep fighting?
As I search my soul, I find (to my utter fucking disbelief) that I am. Because it isn't a desperate fight, not anymore. There is no fight. I know the future is going to be hard, but it won't be a fight. I won't have to suffer anymore.
Time doesn't march against us, it marches with us, carrying us through the journey. Life doesn't work against us, it works with us, giving us the tools we need. Mars was a constant race against the clock (or I would starve), but all this time it was also carrying me towards my rescue. Mars was a constant fight against death, but all lives come to an end.
My story is going to mean a lot to the world, for varying reasons. It represents humanity banding together, it's everyone on the planet preserving life, it's honoring the spirit of the explorer, e.t.c. But all of those are missing the point. The point is that life's not about avoiding death, or beating back time. It's about making your life what it's meant to be. This story is about how life is fundamentally about not giving up.
And this is how this story ends. Turns out my story wasn't about beating starvation, or racing the clock, or just letting it all fucking end. The story of Mark Watney is the story of a man who was stranded on Mars, and instead of giving up he did everything he could to make it back to Earth, because that's the point. You do everything you can.
I'd tell everyone that I'm at peace, but I'm already suited up and waiting for launch. I can't type, and they're too busy to talk. It's a shame, because now if I explode in orbit they're going to think it's a tragic story when it's not.
I just shrug. That's how it works, isn't it? On your deathbed you finally realize what the point of life is, only to die before you can let anyone know. Would be kind of rude of me to spoil the secret.
—
Mark Watney
Sol 549
Suddenly, the voices of my crew are in my ears, talking mission instructions. It centers me on the here and now, the mission proceedings going on around me. I feel like a visitor from another world, listening in on their hustle and bustle. They're all frantic, but I'm at peace, just waiting for the train home.
"Fuel Pressure green," Johanssen's voice says. "Engine alignment perfect. Communications 5 by 5. We are ready for preflight checklist, Commander."
My eyes water. Her voice is the most beautiful thing I've heard in a thousand lifetimes, and I think to myself that this must be what the Christians mean when they say God loves everyone.
Hearing her talk changed something fundamental in me. In that instant, I wasn't a ghost on Mars anymore. Suddenly I realized that I'm alive, and alone, and they came back for me.
"Copy," came Lewis's voice. "CAPCOM."
It takes all I have not to sob into my helmet. I've done that multiple times now, and it's a negative experience every time. There's tears, and snot, and you can't wipe your face, and the tears pool at the neck…
"Go," Johanssen responded.
It doesn't work. I'm crying in my helmet, but it's all right. I'm alive.
"Guidance."
"Go," Johanssen said again.
It's all going to be okay.
"Remote Command."
"Go," said Martinez.
"Pilot."
It takes a split second for me to register that someone is talking to me. To me!
"Go," I say, voice cracking and wobbling.
"Telemetry," Lewis's voice said over the speakers.
"Go," Johanssen responded.
"Recovery," she continued.
"Go," said Beck from the airlock.
"Secondary Recovery."
"Go," said Vogel from beside Beck.
This is an excellent closing to Mars; I get to hear everyone's voices one more time. I'm memorizing every tone, every note, as if I'm about to get stranded on Mars again. As if I'll never hear it again.
"Mission control, this is Hermes Actual," Lewis reported. "We are go for launch and will proceed on schedule. We are T minus four minutes, 10 seconds to launch... mark."
Only four fucking minutes until I get off of Mars. I look out at the vast horizons again, I don't peel my eyes away. This is the last of Mars I'll ever see, and just like with the Hab, I'm getting sentimental, both horrified by the brutal emptiness of this planet and attached to it because it's where I went through everything.
It's not trying to kill me anymore, I'm not trying to kill it anymore. I won. I'm at peace.
"About four minutes, Mark," Lewis said into her mic. "How you doing down there?"
"Eager to get up there, Commander," I respond, in the most controlled voice I can manage.
"We're going to make that happen," Lewis said. "Remember, you'l be puling some pretty heavy G's. It's ok to pass out. You're in Martinez's hands."
Oh my god, it's so good to hear the voices of my friends. I can finally be Mark Watney again. "Tell that asshole no barrel-rolls."
"Copy that, MAV," Lewis said.
I swear, I can detect laughter in her tone.
A couple minutes later, I hear Lewis's voice again.
"About 5 seconds, Watney," Lewis said to her headset. "Hang on."
"See you in a few, Commander," I find the strength to answer, my voice audibly wobbling.
The engine is rumbling, but nothing is happening.
"Hmm," I say to myself. "I wonder how much longer -"
When the engines start, my heart leaps into my throat as the entire weight of 12.0g crushes me. I tear into the atmosphere, and leave Mars behind forever.
—
Mark Watney
Sol 549
Blissful unconsciousness became foggy awareness which transitioned into painful reality.
Well, if I can feel my ribs trying to tear me a new one from the inside out, then I guess I'm still alive. Funny, that time I didn't have my split-second of frozen time. Probably was too confused to take note of it. 12gs would do that to someone.
I see Mars out of the corner of my vision, and I appreciate the fact that I'm one of only eighteen people to see this view. And I can think of only one appropriate way to send it off.
"Fuck you," I direct at the dusty read planet. Perhaps the god of war will hear me, and then it won't feel like I'm cursing out an inanimate object.
Again, I feel like I'm pinching scissors inside my body when I reach for my arm radio. But a little pain hasn't stopped me before and it won't stop me now. "MAV to Hermes."
"Watney!?" Lewis's voice was slightly unsteady, which is more emotional then I've ever heard her.
Oh my God, it's a human voice. Tears threaten to fall from my eyes again, so I try and blink them away.
"Affirmative. That you, Commander?" is my far more unsteady reply.
"Affirmative. What's your status?" All business, no crying until I'm on the Hermes. Pull it together.
"I'm on a ship with no control panel. That's as much as I can tell you."
"How do you feel?"
Keep it business. "My chest hurts. I think I broke a rib. How are you?"
"We're working on getting you," Lewis said. "There was a complication in the launch."
"Yeah," I look up at the hole in my ship. A complication. "The canvas didn't hold. I think it ripped early in the ascent."
"That's consistent with what we saw during the launch."
Keep it business. "How bad is it, Commander?"
"We were able to correct the intercept range with Hermes's attitude thrusters. But there's a problem with the intercept velocity."
"How big a problem."
"42 meters a second," Lewis's voice says.
There's no fucking way they can intercept that.
I fight to get a noise out of my mouth that isn't just me screaming. "Well shit."
I'm not fighting screaming because I have to die, I'm fighting screaming because I'm so fucking close to them. I'm close enough to have real-time conversation, and yet it isn't close enough for them to save me. It's the most indignant death I've faced so far, like having a treat waved in my face but just out of my reach. It's all the more indignant because there's nothing I can fucking do.
I moan in pain, and bang my head against the back of the chair in frustration.
No, Watney, work the problem, you're not dead yet.
You can always die… I can't say tomorrow, so let's just say later.
I'm going to die floating through space either way, might as well give it my all.
"Hey," My mouth is dry. I'm definitely going to die from this stunt. "I've got an idea."
"Of course you do," Lewis said. "What do you got?"
"I could find something sharp in here and poke a hole in the glove of my EVA suit. I could use the escaping air as a thruster and fly my way to you. The source of thrust would be on my arm, so I'd be able to direct it pretty easily."
"How does he come up with this shit?" Martinez interjected. I've been asking myself that for a while now, but I think the answer is something like 'the survival instinct' or 'it really doesn't matter if I die, because I'm gonna die anyways.'
"Hmm," Lewis said. "Could you get 42 meters per second that way?"
"No idea," I said. Because it doesn't really matter. It's the only plan we have.
"I can't see you having any control if you did that," Lewis said. "You'd be eyeballing the intercept and using a thrust vector you can barely control."
"I admit, it's fatally dangerous. But consider this: I'd get to fly around like Iron Man."
And if I don't, it's just fatal.
"We'll keep working on ideas," Lewis said instead.
"Iron Man, Commander. Iron Man."
The radio falls dead, presumably so they can work on something else. My mouth is dry, my insides are searing, and I'm beginning to pant against my spacesuit, mostly from the suffocation my crushed chest is causing. The EVA suit is bigger than a flight suit, and 50kgs in 12gs was not fun. NASA got a little antsy about a flight suit in a ragtop, and made me wear the EVA suit.
The minutes are dragging on, with no reply from them. Presumably because they realize we're fucked. If they come back and don't have a plan, I am going to Iron Man my way to them, and I don't give a fuck what they think. At least I'll die Iron Man.
I picture that dusty hill, gazing at the MAV, already feeling my legs weaken to kneel into the sand. At least I won't die there.
It's taking everything in me not to radio them just to make sure they're still there. I want to talk to them as much as I can before I suffocate in space. I haven't talked to anyone in over a year, I at least want to talk to them before the end. But they're trying their hardest to save me, just like Houston, so I wait.
My wait is finally over when Lewis says "Watney, how you doing?"
"Fine so far, Commander," I lie through my teeth. "You mentioned a plan?"
"Affirmative," she said. "We're going to vent atmosphere to get thrust."
That also sounded fatally dangerous. "How?"
"We're going to blow a hole in the VAL."
I was right; that's extremely fatally dangerous. "What!? How!?"
"Vogel's making a bomb."
I'm really containing the urge to yell. "I knew that guy was a mad scientist! I think we should just go with my Iron Man idea." Mostly because the only person who will die with my idea is me, but setting off a bomb in the Hermes will not only kill me, but everyone else too. We all knew I was gonna die, but there is absolutely no fucking reason they need to die too.
"That's too risky and you know it," she replied. What a load of shit, my plan being too risky.
"Thing is," I say. I can't just out-and-out tell my commander she's full of shit, she's the commander. "I'm selfish. I want the memorials back home to be just for me. I don't want the rest of you losers in them. I can't let you guys blow the VAL."
"Oh," Lewis said. "Well if you won't let us then- wait... wait a minute... I'm looking at my shoulder patch and it turns out I'm the Commander. Sit tight. We're coming to get you."
I fight the urge to groan. "Smart-ass," I bite instead. But she's right; there is nothing I can do to stop them. They are already moving on this plan of theirs, so it would be best for me to just stay here and wait for this disaster to play itself out.
I'm having a new kind of anxiety, one I haven't felt in a long time; true fear. I consigned myself to my fate, but I never accepted their death. Fuck, I don't want them to die. I get it, my story is about not giving up and I've done all I could and whatever, I'm fine with that. But my crew dying? That was never a part of this fucking deal.
Please, please be careful. Don't die with me.
It's twenty heart-wrenching minutes they leave me alone, waiting to find out whether or not they died. Did they die? They would hardly be able to respond if they did. I suppose if it goes another ten minutes without a response, I'll unhook myself from the chair and try and get a look at the Hermes.
But in a hot minute, I hear Lewis. "Watney, it worked. Beck's on his way."
"Score!" I respond. I thump my head back in the chair, panting. They're not all dead, they haven't died with me.
We're all alive. They're coming to get me.
I'm not going to cry until Beck is actually here.
I will not cry until Beck is here.
I will not cry until Beck is here.
It's another few minutes I am repeating that to myself.
I will not cry until Beck is here.
I will not cry until Beck is here.
"I have visual!" Beck's voice rang in the comm. "I can see the MAV! Jesus, Mark, what did you do to that thing?"
"You should see what I did to the rover," I radio back, pretending the shaking in my voice is laughter.
"Copy. 5.2 meters per second," came Johanssen's voice. That must be Beck's relative velocity.
"Hey Beck," I say, leaning over my seat. "The front's wide open. I'll get up there and be ready to grab at you."
"Negative," interrupted Lewis. "No untethered movement. Stay strapped to your chair until you're latched to Beck."
"Copy," I say, leaning back in the chair. I think that's stupid, but I am not going to fuck this up.
Beck's not here yet.
I will not cry until Beck is here.
"3.1 meters per second," Johanssen reported.
"Going to coast for a bit," Beck said in my helmet. "Gotta catch up before I slow it down." Oh my God, Beck is so close I could probably see him. But I try to turn my head to look out the windows, and find that I can't. Where is he?
I will not cry until Beck is here.
"11 meters to target," Johanssen said. Rescue is 11 fucking meters away.
"Copy," Beck says.
"6 meters," Johanssen said.
6 fucking meters to rescue.
It's actually fucking happening.
I will not cry until Beck is here.
"Aaaaand, counter-thrusting. Velocity?" He asked.
"1.1 meters per second," Johanssen said.
"Good enough. I'm drifting toward it. I think I can get my hand on some of the torn canvas... Contact! Firm contact!"
I make sure the radio is off as a sob tears it's way out of me. I can see the pressure his hand is creating on the torn tether; he is right around the corner. It's actually fucking happening.
"Dr. Beck," Vogel said. "We have past closest approach point and you are now getting further away. You have 169 meters of tether left. Enough for 14 seconds."
"Copy," Beck said.
Beck's head comes around the corner, and his bright eyes are far more beautiful than any of Mars' vast horizons.
I sob again, and then I wince as the bending motion causes my probably-broken ribs to tear into my sides.
"Visual on Watney!" He says, making a beeline for me.
"Visual on Beck!" I pant.
"How ya doin', man?" Beck says as he maneuvers towards me.
"I... I just..." I'm ten seconds away from real sobbing, like I-can't-talk-sobbing. My throat feels like it's tearing, tearing about as bad as my ribs are inside of me. "Give me a minute. You're the first person I've seen in 18 months."
"We don't have a minute," Beck said, kicking off the wall. "We've got 11 seconds before we run out of tether."
I turn off the radio so I can sob my eyes out like a baby. It turns out to be a good thing, too, because Beck bounces into me and instead the impact jarrs my shattered ribs, tearing a scream out of my already searing throat. I'm sure a sobbing, screaming man is what he signed up for.
"Contact with Watney!" Beck said, either oblivious or ignoring me.
"8 seconds, Dr. Beck," Vogel radioed.
"Copy," Beck says, hastily latching himself to me with a clip. "Connected," he said.
I lean over and release the restraints on my chair, ignoring the protest of my ribs. I hit the radio button just to say "Restraints off."
"We're outa' here," Beck said, kicking off the chair toward the opening.
Oh Christ, my ribs hurt, but the pressure is distributed evenly across my entire space suit so it doesn't hurt too badly as Beck pulls me towards the Hermes. I'm also crying like a baby because the door of the Hermes is right there, Beck is right next to me and I can see Vogel standing in the airlock, german flag on his pristine flight suit.
I'm crying-screaming, actually, because seeing my friends all waiting for me is just too fucking much.
Seeing the Hermes reminds me of life on the ship, life outside of Mars. Suddenly, I realize how fucked everything is.
I'm starving half to death in a body so frail my hips jut out at my sides and my ribs are broken, and I'm so desperately lonely that the sight of my friends is causing me to scream and cry at quite the decibel. My body is covered in bruises because it can't recover, and I need Vicodin just to get through the day anymore. I talk to myself, can't think straight enough to do math, and hear things that aren't there. It's all on display, too, right where everyone can tell.
Our helmets are reflective, so there's a chance they haven't really seen my state. But they're not completely reflective, and all eyes are on me, so I wouldn't bet on it.
"We're out," Beck reported.
"5 seconds," Vogel said.
"Relative velocity to Hermes: 12 meters per second," Johanssen said.
"Thrusting… That's it for the fuel," Beck said. "Velocity?"
"5 meters per second," Johanssen replied.
"Standby," Vogel said.
There are a few tense empty seconds, punctuated only by my own crying. My heart feels like it's exploding in my chest, and it's uncomfortable but I don't care because the door for the Hermes is right there, right in front of me.
"Velocity 0!" Johanssen reported excitedly.
"Reel 'em in, Vogel," Lewis said.
"Copy," Vogel said
Vogel slowed our entry into the airlock, and I grasp around for a bar. I make contact with it to slow myself, and as I close my hands around the bar I think I'm touching the Hermes. I'm saved.
My crying changes, the sobs being torn from my throat now joyous, my face hurting from the exertion. Turns out talking to yourself doesn't really preserve the strength of your facial muscles against several minutes of continuous screaming.
"Aboard!" Beck said.
"Airlock 2 outer door closed," Vogel said.
"Yes!" Martinez's voice is loud in my ear, too loud, but I don't care, it's beautiful too.
"Copy," Lewis said.
I double over, now ignoring my screaming ribs, because I'm yelling, cheering into my own suit. Vogel and Beck are staring at me I think, but I just don't give a single shit. "I escaped! I can't believe it! I lived! Fuck you Mars! I'm not dying on that shitty planet! I escaped! Fuck you!"
All they see is me holding a bar, bending over, probably wondering what the hell is going on inside that suit.
Lewis's voice echoed in my head like a dream. "Houston, this is Hermes Actual. Six crew safely aboard."
My yelling stops, for just a moment, and I feel the hot tears on my face.
We did it. Everyone at Houston, at JPL, at NASA, all my friends and family, my crew, we did it. This isn't just my victory, this is everyone's victory.
I turn my radio back on. "Guys. We did it."
Their cheering in my helmet is all I need.