Into the Black Hole

Chapter 8: Tough Luck

I'm not a mechanical engineer. I'm not even an electrical engineer. My entire career has been defined by how well I could manipulate data, train robots, tune algorithms, and create pretty holographic monitors that sparkle in the light. My knowledge is nothing without electronics—computers, portals, even a little solar-powered calculator would be nice. My capacity to do mental math is fading along with my sanity.

I busy myself by plucking things out of the survival kit.

Most of the items are useless since we are not stranded in one of Earth's oceans, including shark repellant, a life raft, sunscreen, seawater desalting tablets, iodine, a radio that doesn't work, and signaling mirrors. The fold-out machete is pretty cool though.

I end up taking the wirecutter, pliers, gloves, thick rolls of wire, wire staples, zip ties, a screwdriver, a claw hammer, and a host of other random things that may come in handy. I work on the oxygen generator first, connecting wires that have been separated and replacing those too damaged for repair. The rest of the machine looks fine, but I can't be sure. Didn't Timour mention something about electronics fusing together?

I discarded my suit a while ago after the pure oxygen ran out, shoving it into a relatively empty compartment. The temperature is slowly decreasing—or is it increasing?—but I welcome the change. It keeps my mind sharp. I don't know what time it is. I don't know how long I have left to live.

Timour disappeared into the back room earlier, the very room he warned me not to go in, after announcing his plan to try to fix the battery or one of the backup generators. He's not a mechanical or electrical engineer either, but I'm accepting any help at this point. I'm grateful he hasn't reentered the melancholy state he was in earlier, where it seemed like his mind was several astronomical units away.

I'm staring at the battery of the carbon dioxide remover when Timour comes out of the back room. He's not wearing his spacesuit either, although there's newfound irritation in his expression. His thermals are steel gray, contrasting with my midnight black.

"Any luck?" I ask.

"Not with any of the batteries," he says. "There's an RTG"—Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator—"that might work."

"Which isotope?"

"Americium-241."

I scoff, "We're gonna die of radiation poisoning."

"I don't plan to open the encasing," Timour states. "Besides, you've been watching too many movies. I'd have to eat it to cause any long term damage."

"I'm not liking the sound of short term damage either, nor do I want to take any chances." I pause. "How do you plan to use it?"

"The RTG was mainly providing energy to our lights and temperature controls when the EMP hit. Now with nowhere to direct the americium's energy, the RTG is ejecting radiation into space. Our best chance is reviving wireless comms and calling Plato. If I can replace the thermocouples and wires, then..." he trails off. "It's a big 'if,' but if I somehow figure it out, I'll let you know our next steps." His gaze transitions from focused to tender. "How are you holding up?"

Conflicted on whether or not he's asking about me personally, I bring up a couple of my concerns, "I rewired the oxygen generator, and I think it's okay, but the carbon dioxide remover might be more of a problem. The whole thing is basically a battery made of electrochemical cells and counter electrodes."

Timour sighs, "This is the problem with having everything run electronically."

"So you've said." I can't keep a straight face as I continue, "I feel attacked."