Despite the thousands of scientists across hundreds of fields that worked on the Ares Missions, the one thing that they didn't consider was the effect that such long-term space travel would have on a person. Ares I, a complete and utter bust in all the areas it was intended to study, turned out to be a treasure trove of information on the effects of long term space travel on the human psyche. As it turns out, there's this delusion that astronauts suffer from- being able to open a door and go for a walk is so ingrained into our brains that, after significant periods of time, some astronauts start to believe that they can go outside. As it turns out, this effect is only heightened by longer periods of time in space.
Which is why, about ten months into the thirteen-month mission, astronaut Karl Tucker was tackled outside of a VAL when his delusions became too much for the astronaut to handle.
Nowadays, NASA has collected enough data on social isolation over long periods of time that they can predict which astronaut candidates are ideal. Long story short, the calmer you stay when locked in a room for ten days straight, the better candidate you are. NASA instituted this particular training exercise for Ares II, and the end result was six astronauts that did not go crazy. Likewise, the Ares III crew participated in the exercise and, again, the five astronauts that returned to Earth did not go crazy. The sixth astronaut, Mark Watney, died in a sandstorm shortly after landing on Mars. The Ares III crew had it harder than Ares II; for starters, one member of the crew was not a native English speaker thus creating tiny pockets of isolation amongst them. Secondly, Mark Watney died. Despite the obvious implications this would have on the crew, it was worsened by the role that Watney played in the crew dynamics. As the most social and friendliest of the group, Watney was comparable the glue that kept the team interconnected. His loss was debilitating.
Watney's loss lead to the darkest period of time space travel has seen since the manned Horus I failed back in 2019. In stark contrast to the Horus missions and cancellations, the Ares missions have been able to continue. Given that there was already a prepared mission site, it would be stupid not to continue.
Which is why my mission, the Ares IV, was able to launch in 2039. With optimal alignments, the journey from Earth to Mars takes about four months, which is exactly how NASA designed it to be, for the obvious reasons. Four months there, one month on Mars, and five months back, give or take a little. Ares I collected information on the movement of liquids in the decreased gravity; Ares II collected information on the volcanic activity on Mars; Ares III collected information on Martian soil and the possibility of cultivation; Ares IV will collect information on the impact that meteorites has on geology and the weather of the planet. Thus, members of my crew are trained in atmospheric physics/chemistry and geology. Of course, with only six crew members you can't have everyone with training in only one area. Rather, most of us have at least two areas of study, and we combine engineering, meteorology, chemistry, geology, physics, and the general required stuff for being in a spaceship: EVAs, piloting, systems operator, reactor technician, etc. Some of these jobs go together: Commander Sebastian Blair is meteorology (both atmospheric chemistry and atmospheric physics), Rebecca Reed is geology and physics, Esther Holland is chemistry and the EVA specialist, Nathanael Carter is systems operator and reactor technician, I'm the doctor, and finally Isaac Spencers is our pilot and engineer. I'm also the unfortunate astronaut that's in charge of our PR.
After launching on June 30, the four month trip had us arriving on Mars on November 8, today. Sol 1.
Upon arrival to the Schiaparelli Crater in the MDV, we immediately began to set up the Hab, our ninety square foot home base for the next 31 Sols. There's a lot to do in the first few days before we can get onto the real science: set up solar panels, bury the RTG, ensure that all equipment is functioning within normal parameters, take inventory. The single minor problem with our site is the MAV. Despite being landed by one of the best pilots NASA has ever had, it's located a kilometer from the rest of the site, about a fifteen minute walk and a few minutes in one of the Rovers; it's important that it begins to produce oxygen now so that it's prepared for an emergency evacuation at any point, so I have the unfortunate duty of wandering out there with my good friend Spencers.
Spencers stands at a solid 182 centimetres, exactly six feet tall, landing him at a solid fifteen centimetres taller than me. Were I to look over, I wouldn't be able to see his face through the mask but I know that he has dark hair and eyes, and that he's wearing his permanent frown. I'm not sure I've ever seen the man smile.
As the pilot, he's the one that boots up Rover I, and drives us out there. It's hardly a smooth drive, but nothing in comparison to the harsh, uneven roads of rural my home British Columbia. It takes us about five minutes to arrive there, but by the time I can see the MAV in the distance, I know that something isn't right. I nudge Spencers; "Do you see the base?" We're speaking over the coms, and I can hear the quiet background chatter silence. Spencers responds:
"It looks like there's something around the base. Commander, have there been any reports of rockslides in the area? Anything that could have affected the MAV?" It should be impossible, but humankind has been redefining impossible for thousands of years so the possibility exists: based on all knowledge of Schiaparelli that NASA has, the MAV is far enough away from the crater walls that any slides wouldn't affect it at all. However, NASA's knowledge is limited and it has been known to be incorrect in the past. Most obvious is the classification of storms on Mars, most notable of all being the storm that stole Mark Watney's life.
Sebastian Blair's calm voice comes over the comms: "Nothing of the sort. Keep us updated." His order is as firm as ever, but after over two years of knowing the man, I know that he's masking fear. It's illogical; we have the recent satellite images of the area, and thus we know that there hasn't been a landslide. But a small part of me still says, "What if there has? What if we're stranded? What if we're going to die?" I push my frayed nerves down as we get closer to the MAV.
Holland mutters something about aliens.
Closer up, I know that there hasn't been a landslide. "Not a landslide," I say aloud. "But there's definitely something there." I squint at the object and it becomes clear: two separate shapes, both identical and held together in some way. "Commander, is Rover II still at the Hab?"
"What?" Blair's voice has morphed from calm to confused. "Yes. What's going on out there Morgan?"
Before I can speak, Spencers beats me to it: "Sir, there appears to be two Rovers parked outside of the MAV." He brings Rover I to a halt and we clamber out, immediately drifting to the Rovers. From this close, I can see that they're covered in Martian dust, untouched over a significant period of time. Reaching one hand upwards, I brush off a patch of the dust to reveal the letters underneath: Ares III. My eyes flicker towards Spencers, and I meet his gaze for a mere few seconds before he speaks. "It's from Ares III."
The confusion on the other end is palpable. The surviving members of the Ares III crew all returned to Earth safe, and it's impossible for the Rover to have traveled 3200 kilometers from Acidalia Planitia on it's own. That traitorous part of my brain starts to whisper: Mark Watney. Mark Watney. Mark Watney. But I dismiss it. His bio monitor showed no pulse or brain activity, and his suit breeched. Mark Watney couldn't have survived more than a minute of decompression. Unless the hole was patched. Impossible, of course; Watney would have almost certainly been unconscious. But my brain continues down that path: if blood had seeped into the gap, the liquid would have immediately evaporated in the atmosphere leaving behind only residue. Depending on the size of the wound, it was possible for the decompression to have been stopped: but that didn't change the bio monitor. It pronounced, clear as day, that Mark Watney was dead, an indisputable read on his vitals.
I made my way over to the MAV's entrance, and on my command the VAL (Vehicular Airlock) opened. "Entering the MAV," I reported, beginning to haul myself into the MAV. Behind me, Spencers followed. We made out silent way up the ladder, and upon emerging on the other side of the airlock, my suit beeped at me. Glancing down to the display on my wrist revealed the problem. Or to be more accurate, the lack thereof. Seventy-eight percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent oxygen, one percent other. "Commander we're reading a breathable atmosphere here."
Blair responded immediately; "Morgan, Spencers, describe to me exactly what you're seeing."
We did. The sleek interior of the MAV, smooth metal glistening in the synthetic light, and when I mentioned that the lights were on Carter, in charge of all systems, spluttered over the comms, panic creeping into his voice. The MAV is powered by fuel created through a reaction with the Martian atmosphere, and everything the MAV does uses that fuel. Now the MAV has way more fuel than it actually needs for this very reason, but the question remains: how long have the lights been on? In all likelihood it's a minor glitch, something that happened recently. A recent report comes to mind, one that showed that there had been a minor glitch in the MAV a few weeks ago. Nothing serious, and a full system reboot had fixed the problem. Or so we thought.
The MAV only has two rooms: the VAL and the Control Room, where we would all strap ourselves in for the return to the Hermes in 30 Sols. It's near bare, with a control panel and six chairs. I turn in a slow circle, observing the CR when a flash of movement catches my eye. Like any good predator would, my eyes latch onto the motion even as it disappears, my instincts screaming at me. Half tell me to hide, and the other half tell me to hunt. I shove them away as my fight or flight response is triggered, heartrate rising as adrenaline begins to circle through my veins. I hiss at Spencers, "Did you see that," keeping my voice low in the silent chamber. He nods back to me.
On the other end of the comms, Blair is losing his cool. I can almost hear him hyperventilating over the comms, and if that wasn't enough, he's repeating, "See what?" Except with a vast row of question marks and exclamation points at the end. Spencers hushes him as we circle towards the movement on slow feet. As we're about to see what's in the chair, it makes a noise, a low groan that echoes through the enclosed space. It's a pathetic noise, like the mewling of a tiny kitten except this is a spaceship on an uninhabitable planet. There are no kittens. I come around the chair and am faced with the form of a person, emancipated, and curled around himself in the remainders of an EVA suit. He looked downright pathetic, with pale wisps of hair curling around his face, chunks missing, and an untamed beard that had been growing for some time. But that wasn't what was astonishing- oh no, that was the faded lettering on his EVA suit, the once bright colours of the American flag on his shoulder, and most of all the dulled name: Watney.
"Mark Watney?!" My tone is as incredulous as Holland was when she found out that Americans don't use their vacuums on walls. Which, yes, is something that actually happened. Apparently in Germany they use vacuums for everything.
On the other end all I can hear is spluttering. Carter shouts, "What the fuck?!" While Reed says, "Watney!?" with her own fair share of incredulity. It's Blair who shushes them, cutting through the chatter with a few sharp words before ordering us to explain; we ignore him in favour of staring at the dilapidated man before us. At the sound of his name, Watney blinks at us, eyes clouded over with a thick haze as he considers us. Rather than moving or talking or doing anything whatsoever, Spencers and I gaze at the man before us. Against my will, my brain has already begun the process of assessing his physical state. It's hard when he's wearing his EVA suit, but some quick math reveals that he should have starved three years ago, and thus it's a safe bet that he's starving. But I have no idea what he's been doing for the past 1500 Sols, so it's impossible for me to know what he's suffering from. The one thing I do know that's happened is extreme isolation. Like four years of extreme isolation. My brain runs over the consequences without my permission: hallucinations, insanity, unexplained death. And after that, if a person did survive, they would likely never be able to reintegrate with society.
Sure to broadcast my movements, I pull my helmet off and rest a hand on Watney's shoulder. He starts, shaking as he blinks at me. His confusion is palpable, and panic is clear in his eyes as his gaze shoots his gaze back and forth between me and my hand. When his eyes paused to gaze into mine, as if trying to find an undiscernible secret there, his emotions became clear to me. His wide eyes and furrowed brow could have been read as astonishment, but my degree in psychology suggested something else- confusion, and no small measure of fear. "Hey there," I say to him in an even voice, forcing all the tremors from them. "My names Daniella Morgan. I'm with the Ares IV. Are you Mark Watney?" Beneath my fingers, Watney began to tremble. The shivers wrack his body, and for a split second I can see the whites of his eyes all around. Grudging, I bring my hand back and the shivers slow before picking up again. He's still trembling as he nods, jerking motions.
Behind me, Spencers is speaking into the comms, a long stream that couldn't have only been to soothe the others, but also to soothe himself. It boils down to a single, simple truth: Mark Watney is alive, and in our MAV. I take vague note of the initial disbelief before the understanding settles upon them. In the distance, I hear Blair mutter something about how writing the report for NASA is going to be a disaster. I ignore them in favour of considering Watney.
"Do you have a helmet around, Mark?" I ask when the trembling begins to slow. "I'd like to get you back to my crew. I'm a doctor, like your Dr. Beck." When his face remains blank, I prompt him further. "Do you remember Dr. Beck, Mark? Christopher Beck?"
His face changes, expression shifting as a frown graces his gaunt features once more. I grimace at the sight, watching the skin stretch over his bones in a disgusting pull. There's a long pause before he speaks, and when he does his voice is cracked and dry, as though he hasn't spoken in weeks. When he does speak, it's with a stutter. "C-Chris?" I make an effort to smile at him, and despite the fact that it's forced it doesn't seem to make a difference to him. He looks at me and for a split second he's almost childlike, happy and smiling without a care in the world. But then it all drains away, and I'm left with a husk of a man.
I force another smile. "That's right. I'm like Chris. I can help you." Once again, I rest a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches but settles within seconds, and I take it for a win. "But Mark? I need to know where the helmet of your EVA suit is." It's enough to get the starved man moving, and he gestures, a wide, sweeping motion that is weak all the same, into the depths of the Control Room. The light catches on the helmet for a split second, but it's enough to tell me where it is and I take it, plucking it from beneath the controls and returning. By broadcasting my movements, I avoid making Watney flinch when I secure his helmet onto his EVA suit, but through the glass I can see his fear. "Are you ready to go for a walk?"
At my prompting, Watney makes his hesitant way to his feet. I can see his legs tremble with the effort, but he stays standing as Spencers and I guide him through the VAL. His grasp on the ladder is weak, so Spencers and I climb down before him, and I'm halfway astonished when his grip doesn't loosen. The thirty seconds that it would take Spencers and I to return to Rover I takes Watney three minutes, his steps tiny and low as though walking on thin ice. When we do make it, he almost collapses into the chair. He doesn't say a word during the drive back to the Hab, just stares, listless, into the distance. I start marking off symptoms in my head: apathy, listlessness, exhaustion. For more detailed information, I'd need to do a thorough exam, but for the time being it's textbook starvation. It takes a second for my brain to remind myself of what starvation victims die from most often: the varying ailments their weakened immune systems can't deal with.
Watney came to Mars with a unique blend of bacterial life. Once on the Hermes, that unique blend came to be mixed with five other unique blends, though they were already somewhat similar due to the time the six Ares III members spent together. By the time they arrived at Mars, the bacteria had begun to adapt to space travel. Upon being stranded on Mars, Watney's bacteria would have begun to change once more, creating a very specific set of bacteria that existed only on Watney.
Under the same circumstances, my crew came to Mars with our own bacteria, which evolved, separate, from Watney's bacteria and thus, it was quite likely that Watney would catch something from us that could be dangerous, given how immuno-compromised he is.
We arrive at the Hab, and are greeted upon arrival by a stony-faced Sebastian Blair, the man looking as intimidating as possible when he stands at five feet, six inches and is encased in a bright green EVA suit. Spencers hops out first, greeting our commander with a cheery, "Commander!" and as much of a grin as the man can manage. Blair gives him a look like, "Oh my God you were supposed to control Morgan, what are we going to do with her now." As soon as I hop out of Rover I, he starts berating me with all of the, "How dare you pull a prank of such bad taste," and, "Did you really think we'd fall for that."
Watney stumbles out of the Rover after me, and Blair's facial expression crumbles as his speech dies. Instead, all the man can croak out is a, "What the hell?!"
I nod. "Commander Blair, I'd like to introduce you to Dr. Mark Watney of Ares III. Mark, this is the Ares IV commander, Sebastian Blair." It takes effort to keep my voice even, a formal voice that attempts to remain soothing. Watney waves at Blair, a wide and sweeping motion, and I continue. "I need to get him inside for a more in depth exam. He's in the final stages of starvation, so we need to be careful about potential exposure to pathogens."
Blair steps aside, and we pass into the Hab. When I finally draw Watney from his battered EVA suit, the dark blue NASA-issued clothes are revealed, as threadbare as I would expect after four years of heavy wear and tear. Careful coaxing convinces Watney to let me investigate his chest, and despite the fact that he's quite a ways on the skinny side, almost dangerously underweight, he's not as skinny as I'd expect him to be, given that the man's been living with limited resources on Mars for the past four years. I don't query him on it, and rather ask how he's feeling. Watney replies with a distant hum, a single note that goes on for a few seconds before tapering off. But he's frowning, having understood my question and considering his answer. A long minute later he answers, with a single word. Tired. I pat his shoulder, and leave him to rest.
All the wounds I have observed are superficial, nothing more than little cuts and bruises. They're likely healing at a less than optimal rate due to the starvation, but they're healing none the less. No infections, nothing concerning. In the void left by the lack of physical injuries, my mind turns to the psychological ones. To be clear, I am not a psychologist. I took the minimal number of psychology courses required to pass, and all of the refresher courses required by NASA. This means that I have a basic understanding of the human psyche and enough knowledge to diagnose the likely issues my crew will face: anxiety and depression. We have an assigned psychiatrist back on Earth who is designated to take care of all our psychological issues. While I'm technically qualified to diagnose psychological disorders, it's best left to Dr. Alvarez, the psychologist for Ares IV.
The minute I step away from Watney, the man slipping into a deep sleep, Blair has me write an assessment of Watney's condition, and I give him this: Mark Watney is beneath optimal weight, and is listless and apathetic. Given the symptoms, it is likely that Watney is in the final stages of starvation. Further, Watney has a variety of small cuts and minor bruises on his arms, legs, chest, and back. All are superficial and uninfected. No psychological analysis has been made as of yet, though Watney is most likely experiencing the effects of long term isolation.
Blair shrugs and takes it, then writes a stiff, formal letter to NASA, that reads as, "Crewmen Morgan and Spencers investigated the MAV, and found an abandoned Rover at the base of the MAV that was mistaken for rocks or other hazardous obstacles. Upon further investigation, Morgan and Spencers found that the MAV was in use, with the oxygen reclaimer functioning and the MAV connected to solar energy. The MAV was turned on by Mark Watney, who Morgan and Spencers found in the CR of the MAV. Watney is in the final stages of starvation and has superficial cuts and bruises, none of which are life threatening. Dr. Morgan reports that Watney is in stable conditions, and has not yet received a chance to complete a psychological assessment. We await further instruction on the matter." More accurately, it says: Hi NASA. Remember the astronaut you killed four years ago? Turns out you actually left him behind and he's alive and not dying any time soon. We include a picture of Watney for proof. Then the report continues onto other topics, summing up what Blair would have sent along later now. The less time the message spent shooting through space, the better.
My exhaustion takes hold, and I drift off to sleep. It's late, now. And we've had a long day.
I'm awoken earlier than I would like by the quiet patter of feet against the Hab's floor, and when I blink my eyes open Watney is wandering around the confined space, arms hanging limp at his sides and head bowed to the ground. If he were still, I'd guess he were praying, but as is he's muttering to himself. When I strain my ears, I catch a few words: potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. This is as good of a clue to Watney's mental state as any, so I stay still and observe. He keeps pacing, shuffling across the floor and one of his feet drags more than the other, and at an odd angle. I make note of it for later. He keepers, muttering and as he does so I catch more and more of what he says, and I finally piece together that he's discussing plants, and calories, and rations, like he's explaining the exact math and science of not starving to death to another person. My memory wanders back to the video logs we keep, and it occurs to me that Watney must have kept thousands of these. Somehow, Watney's inane chatter is soothing against the quiet of the Hab, and I drift back to sleep.
NASA's answer to our, "Yay, Mark Watney's alive!" email is this: Hermes, be advised of the following conditions that Watney is likely suffering from: malnutrition, PTSD, anxiety, depression, disassociation disorders. Complete daily reports on Watney until informed otherwise. Will arrange discussion with Dr. Shields for Watney. Currently advising that Ares IV stay the complete 31 days. It's cold and uncaring, but it is what it is and I make sure to brief the crew on how to act around Watney. On the third day after finding him, he starts talking to us, first little pieces like names and places until he finally spills to Reed that he collected almost a thousand samples (labelled with Sol numbers and approximate locations) from the Acidalia Planitia Hab to the Olympus Mons Hab from Ares II, from there to the Valles Marineris, and finally to the Schiaparelli Crater. Reed practically squeals, and retrieves the samples from Watney's Rover, which he refers to as the FrankenRover on more than one occasion. After his bout of talking, he's back to silent, watching as we work. It's unnerving, but his eyes are clear and focused, so it's an improvement.
This, of course, is relayed to NASA like it's the most important thing in the world, but what catches NASA's eye is not the improvement in Watney's attitude and rather the samples that Watney brought. It's typical NASA: care more about science than the well-being of the person that got left on Mars. The bright side is that they've arranged for Watney to be able to talk to the Ares III crew on Sol 5. There'll be a long lag time, of course, but Dr. Alvarez and Dr. Shields (who was psychologist for Ares III) insist that it will be good for him, so Carter sets it up.
We hear Watney laugh for the first time when he's speaking to his crew. He smiles and grins at the computer, leaning in closer so that his shoulders hunch around the screen, as though shielding his conversation from prying eyes. It is, after all, a private conversation so we don't interrupt. Later that night, Watney acts better. He talks when we eat dinner together, and smiles a cheeky grin at Spencers that makes Spencers grin back, showing his rare, toothy smile. I don't anticipate the change to last for long.
The Ares I landing site was Valles Marineris, a canyon referred to by many as the Grand Canyon of Mars, but I can't even begin to describe how inaccurate that is: for starters, the Grand Canyon is nothing in comparison to Valles Marineris, a mere 447 kilometres long in comparison to the 4000 of Valles Marineris. The Martian canyon is almost ten times as long and almost seven times as deep, and as long as the United States. It's a treasure trove of knowledge on how liquid flows in the 0.4 G gravity, because of the way carbon dioxide or water once flowed through the canyon. Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain on any planet in the solar system, is two and a half times the size of Everest. In total, it's almost as big as France from above. And likes Valles Marineris, Olympus Mons is a treasure trove of information. NASA figured that there's got to be a reason why Olympus Mons is so tall, and Ares II figured out why. To make a long story very short, tectonic plates don't move on Mars. They're stationary, and thus so are the hotspots. So whatever sits on top of that keeps getting bigger. All of this is irrelevant to the current situation. Yay! Big Martian canyon! Big Martian volcano! But what does this have to do with Mark Watney?
NASA likes to be redundant. The Hermes has at least four copies of every piece they could have copies of, which is just about everything. Even the atmosphere could refill itself a few times over if need be. Every Ares Mission is sent off with 56 Sols of food, rather than 31. It's NASA's insurance: astronauts are less likely to die if they have a greater ability to repair whatever has gone wrong. These 56 Sols of food have proven to be vital to Mark Watney's survival. Ares III left behind 50 Sols of food for six people, while Ares I and II left behind 35 Sols of food each. Combined this is 120 Sols of food for six people, making 720 Sols of food for a single person. On a 2/3 ration diet, this makes for 1200 Sols of food on the dot. Which misses the requirement of 1387 Sols of food required to have made it to us, Ares IV. Another thing that NASA likes to send with their astronauts is vitamins. Lots and lots of vitamins, which means that Watney didn't actually have to scrounge up any nutritious food, just food that would provide calories. Lots of calories. I haven't figured out how he did it yet, but I sure do intend to.
So I learned that NASA psychologists insisted on having actual food (not the freeze dried stuff we normally have) sent with Ares III so that the crew would be able to cook a Thanksgiving meal, something about how it would be beneficial for them from a psychological point of view. So NASA sent up 24 potatoes, four per crew member, sucked into an airtight plastic seal so that they wouldn't spoil before Thanksgiving. The turkey was frozen solid, and the plan was to actually have the beans that Watney would have grown on Mars. But that's irrelevant, because beans don't provide anywhere near the caloric intake that Watney would have needed. The potatoes, however, would have been a viable source of food if Watney were able to get plants out of them. And given that he's a botanist, I have no question on whether or not he would have been able to. With the addition of the rations from Ares I and II, Watney would have been able to grow those extra 187 Sols of food (with some left over, based on the several hundred potatoes we found in FrankenRover).
On Earth, it takes about 90 days to grow full size potatoes. An easy first assumption would be that it would take just as long on Mars, except that here there are no parasites or competing plants, and Watney would have been able to give every plant individual attention. This would increase the yield over the course of the 90 days, but I don't know by how much. I'm not a botanist, and if I want the answers I'm going to have to ask Watney.
The record for the longest consecutive days in space is 437, held by a Russian man named Valeri Polyakov who set it from 1994-1995. Polyakov completed some 7000 orbits of Earth, and was the sole subject on how long term zero gravity effects the human body. He is, quite literally, the reason that the Ares Program is possible, because it was determined that Polyakov experienced very few ill effects from his time in space. The sole notable note was that Polyakov's mood dropped after going to space, and after returning to Earth. In both cases, his mood stabilized within a few weeks. Polyakov proved that astronauts could spend significant periods of time in space and experience minimal side effects. When Ares I launched, the public believed that the crew would break that record, but the truth is that an Ares Mission clocks in at about 400 days, and some of that time was spent on a planet. But the Ares I crew did set a similar record: longest consecutive time spent outside of Earth orbit.
To be clear, I don't know this because I'm a nerd or because I'm interested in the history of space travel, or any such willing endeavour like that. I know this because Mark fucking Watney woke up at one in the morning and started scribbling on some extra pieces of paper, and then woke me up to inform me that he had broken the record for longest time outside of Earth orbit by almost 1000 days, which is super awesome except for the bit where it's one in the fucking morning and all I want to be doing is sleeping. I thought that all of his bad jokes were created for his role as PR for Ares III, but no it seems that he has an annoying sense of humour and a taste for jokes. This is irrelevant, because I threatened to shoot him full of sedatives unless he went back to bed.
We get the full story out of Watney on Sol 27. Blair sits him down in the kitchen, and says, "Mark, we need to know what happened." Watney looks on the verge of panic, but shoves back his emotions and begins to tell a story. He's seated at the table, and if his reverence of coffee is anything to go by, the only reason he has yet to flee is that he's being bribed with the stuff. The hot cup is cradled between his hands, fingers wrapped loosely around the sides. Blair walks him into it: "On Sol 6, you received news that a dust storm had escalated to severe, and Commander Lewis made the decision to evacuate. On the way to the MAV, you were struck with debris."
Watney nods. "The com array, yeah. It went straight through my suit and bio monitor and into me. The blood and com array managed to form a week seal and I woke up about," here he pauses and considers, "eleven hours later, based on my oxygen usage. I got back to the Hab and patched myself up. I didn't realize that the others were gone until a little later, when I saw the landing struts." He becomes very quiet, unspeaking and rather considering, face painted with a half-there expression. Normally, when he's quiet like this there's a flicker of a smile, but now he's silent and blank, remembering. I reach out and nudge him, and Watney flickers back to continue talking. "I wasn't ready to die, and Mars wasn't ready to let me live. I counted out all of the ration packs, and I had enough food for three hundred Sols, four hundred on rationing which, obviously, wasn't enough." His expression, though remaining distant, changes to longing. "NASA sent us up with some potatoes for Thanksgiving, so I planted them in a mixture of sand, soil and crap, and they grew. On Earth, it takes 90 days for the potatoes to be ready to harvest but I was able to make them grow faster by giving each plant individual attention. In forty Sols, I could grow fifty Sols of food, so I kept growing potatoes. Over four hundred Sols, I grew five hundred Sols of food, which was enough to last me until you guys arrived if I collected the rations from Ares I and Ares II. So I set out around Sol 420, drove to Olympus Mons and grabbed those rations, then went to Valles Marineris and collected those rations, and then I drove here." He becomes silent, waiting for us to continue a conversation we wanted to stop.
Holland was the first to break. The fiery brunette broke away from the table to storm off to her bunk, shaking her head. For all of her claims about how being German affected her emotions, she was no more heartless than any of the rest of us. Almost immediately, Spencers stood, calling, "Hey Holland, come on," after her as he followed. By the end only Blair and I remained with the trembling astronaut. Watney's shoulders hook in increments, shivers that wracked his body for minutes at a time before stopping, and then starting again. As I watched Watney shiver, I couldn't help but think that the man would never be cleared to own a weapon again, let alone go into space. His journey had been strangely ideal, with little going wrong. And yet here he was, panicking and trembling his way through a panic attack. I sighed, and went to comfort Watney.
