This is a Test

Ch. 3 - Part II - Day Two

An obnoxious klaxon bellowed synthesized moans and hollers at one in the morning, howling on a repeating two-second cycle. Cashe woke to find the monitors in his room pulsating red and yellow. The sounds and lights irritated, which he assumed was intentional. He left his bed and walked naked to his computer. An emergency message filled the screen with a dialogue box demanding for an authorization code. Cashe typed in his newly-assigned twelve-digit number and the noisy lightshow desisted, though he heard squelching continuing outside his door. The message said:

***THIS IS A TEST***

WARNING! Due to potential flaws in the habitat structure, there is the possibility of a catastrophic atmospheric imbalance. All colonists are required to keep reserve oxygen on their persons at all times.

Cashe collected and slipped on his pants before venturing into the raucous hallway where the alarms still bellowed. Miranda stepped outside her door in her bathrobe, her palms pressed to her ears.

"What's going on?" she yelled over the clamor.

"There's an alarm going on," he shouted back as he passed her. He thought that would have been obvious.

His barefooted walk allowed him to notice the ground's chill. The construction involved some heating through the floor, but it was not enough to disguise the fact that their facility was built within a glacier.

Cashe reached the storage area, sat on the bench, and raised his feet to abate the burning in his soles. He could grab the containment suit from his locker without touching the floor, and he pulled out the bottom half, dropping it to the ground and standing on it to access his belongings better.

The pulsating alarm roused him further, something he did not wish. Inspiration came and he collected his helmet. Placing it on his head muffled the noise to a quarter of its volume. He pulled the tinted visor down, and now everything was shaded and more manageable.

In a true decompressive event, everyone exposed to the Martian atmosphere would suffocate in a noxious environment while incurring immediate frostbite from eighty below temperatures. In a real emergency, the oxygen would most likely be futile, but it might give someone extra time in the case of an actual breach. He grabbed the portable air canister, and after some consideration, he retrieved the dual-tank rig and pulled it on his back. Without knowing what circumstances they might face, he wanted to show his willingness to go the extra mile.

Cashe retraced his path back to his room, and as he approached the dormitory hall, the alarms stopped. He wasn't going back to return the helmet; he'd do it later. His feet were freezing, and he was still fatigued enough to settle back into sleep. He rounded the corner to find everyone in the hallway conversing with frazzled and shell-shocked looks on their mugs. Their chatter ceased as he appeared. It was understandable. He was walking about wearing only pants, barefooted and bare-chested with oxygen tanks strapped to his back and a tinted helmet snug on his head. His reasons may have been logical, but he could tell the rationale would be beyond the comprehension of his blurry-eyed cohabitants.

Dante seemed to be speaking, but the man-boy's voice was wonderfully muffled as Cashe tried to pass them by. Lia stepped in front of him, waving to gain Cashe's attention as she pointed back to Dante. Cashe sighed and turned to the chemist, lifting the helmet off his head, but kept it held above. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?" Dante asked.

"They told us to get oxygen reserves. I retrieved oxygen reserves, and now I'm going back to bed."

"Why are you wearing a helmet?"

"To help me sleep," he responded, which had been true, though not so much anymore.

"You're going to bed wearing that?"

What an idiot question. Of course not. "Of course," Cashe said. "Safety first."

It was the answer they deserved and he pulled the helmet back on his head before they caught his smile. He walked back to his room, shut the door, sat on his bed, and tried not to laugh. He didn't want the numbnuts to know that he was screwing with them, so he suppressed his mirth to the level of quiet giggling, muffled more by the helmet. After a time, he removed it and placed it on the desk. The air tanks were given a home next to his bed and the pants were placed on his chair. Cashe pulled himself under his sheets, smiled, and fell easily into a blissful sleep.

His clock alarm sounded, and Cashe blinked himself awake. He rocked his head back and forth to remove the kinks and rotated his shoulders to do so further. He had chosen five-thirty as a wake-up time to beat the others to the showers. He put on his pants again and picked up the air canister, but he paused to look at it. He did not know what circumstances, if any, that he may be facing. The air tanks were heavy, but taking them could show his bosses a willingness to go above and beyond expectations, which could possibly result in a bigger payday at the end. Plus, there was the added incentive of imagining the looks of the others with whom he was trapped. He grabbed the rig and carried it with him out of the room.

After using the toilet, he went to the showers and managed to soap himself down and rinse off in under five minutes. They hadn't gone over how water would be utilized, and there would probably be time limits established to conserve. He dried off with a towel, dressed again, and departed with his air rig in his right hand. Walking back to the dormitory hall, Karina appeared heading to the showers, and she jumped at the sight of him.

"Morning," he said with a nod. She was wearing her bathrobe and carrying the portable air canister. At least she was putting forth some effort.

Her eyes were drawn to the air rig. "You're carrying that?"

"Obviously," and walked back to his room. He could hear her footfalls cease, and he knew she had stopped to stare, so he made sure not to smile until he was out of sight.

Cashe readied himself for the morning meeting, planning on what he wanted to start accomplishing and what he thought the others would prioritize. He examined his selection of orange polo shirts and tees, all emblazoned with Anoptica over the heart, and decided on one of the t-shirts. He owned no sentimental apparel with band names or appealing patterns in his every-day life and saw no reason to not wear outfits that endorsed the company that paid for this excursion. As he structured his morning, he stared at the air rig again and smiled.