Project Destiny Mars
Peering through his spacesuit visor, dark, curly-haired Rashan stared in shock at his spaceship screen. Destiny Three—their companion vessel—gone in a bright but disastrous conflagration. He squinted, then shook his head as the screen went dark. Would his ship, Destiny Four, survive the balance of the forty-day journey? His eyes grew wide, then blinked several times. Swallowing hard, he stretched his spindly arms and hands, burying his fears, then retook the controls. The survival of Destiny Four’s crew now rested on his shoulders. All eyes were glued to him and his screen, ready to help with the crisis.
He had lived and dreamed about Mars since he first sighted the red planet in the night sky at age five. Books, movies, websites, mythologies, images, and magazines all fed into his voracious appetite for more knowledge about Earth’s cold neighbor. Recognizing his eight-year-old son’s obsession with the god of war, his father began taking him on monthly trips to the nearby planetarium.
“Someday, you’ll make it there, son,” he had whispered in Rashan’s ear during one such excursion, warming the child’s soul and filling his heart with such ecstasy that he couldn’t pull Rashan away from the observatory until late into the evening. From that moment forward, his fascination with Mars was an inseparable part of his psyche.
“Navtika, looks like our ship is alone on this mission,” Rashan warned, his skin feeling dry and itchy.
The seasoned captain from Croatia stared gravely at her navigation officer through the screen, her hypnotic eyes unblinking.
“Captain Navtika here. We’ve lost Destiny Three. Chief engineer Dubois, make a thorough inspection of our core engines. Ours cannot malfunction. Destiny One and Two crews have been waiting for us for twenty-six long months. They’re at wit’s end and at each other’s throats. Prepare for navigating through D3’s wreckage. It will be dangerous!”
Rashan tightened his concentration. As he did so, his mother’s voice trickled into his consciousness. Fighting to maintain concentration, he blocked it out, only to have another memory from his distant past barge into the forefront of his thoughts.
“Man was never meant to travel far from Earth. Technology may take us out of orbit, but man is forced to take along Earth-like conditions—food, water, breathable air, other people—just to survive out there. Establishing a colony in space would be a logistical nightmare. Each and every glitch will spiral toward disaster.” The thought distracted him, carrying him away to memories of other dinner conversations.
Resenting the ghost of his mother’s opinions, Rashan swatted at the air as if he could shoo his mother’s words away like a pestering fly. He steeled his resolve and returned his attention to the navigation controls before him. This undertaking will succeed, he reassured himself, determined to disprove her predictions.
“On full alert, officer Rashan,” Navtika ordered in her digital voice, almost shouting. Other crew members heard the stress in the commander’s voice, her anger, her fear. Rashan breathed heavily, anticipating the drama about to unfold. “Watch for debris from Destiny Three. Readjust our trajectory, and monitor those scanners like a hawk! Our lives depend on it.” Rashan, the experienced navigation officer, was ready for anything.
He sealed the cockpit visor shields and switched on the cameras. Destiny Four had been outfitted with ten, each on different points of the spaceship. Camera One instantly displayed the view everyone had just seen through the cockpit windows. Scanners were already detecting large chunks of metal, most away from their path, but some looming ahead.
Destiny Four jolted as an object slammed into its hull, creating a loud crashing sound. The startled shrieks of other crew members thundered in Rashan’s ears. Camera One went blank. Switching to Camera Two, Rashan received nothing but static. Camera Three, void. How many cameras were out? His temples quivered as beads of sweat rolled down his face. Camera Four displayed the path before them, the red planet lurking in the distance. Another crash—and the screen went dead. More jerking and bouncing around. Dread. Muffled cries. Camera Five and Camera Six, nothing.
“How can I navigate with no cameras?” Rashan screamed at the monitors, waving his fists.
Emergency alarms echoed, boring into his skull with their desperate warnings. Chatter around him was making it difficult to concentrate. He blocked out the voices. Camera Seven brought up the view of space once again. A huge chunk of metal was racing straight toward them. Rashan slammed his hand onto emergency side rocket controls—designed for use if small asteroids or space junk threatened their ship.
Collision barely avoided.
Hands of solidarity and reassurance found his shoulder, though nothing could ease the fears he felt so strongly.
“Buckle up!” he shouted angrily at his comrades as hands and fingers flew over buttons, levers, and screens in a desperate attempt to save Destiny Four.
Astronauts lurched to the right, some slamming into each other. Cries escaped the mouths of his teammates. The projectile swept past them. Shutting his eyes in a moment of relief, Rashan entered a course-modifying command, and the ship’s computers adjusted their flight path.
Another large object loomed on the screen. Three more times, Rashan had to use the emergency side rockets. Each time, his communicom earsets blasted static, making him cringe in pain. His mind worked overtime to filter out the distorted noise. Full concentration was crucial. Fading in and out of his consciousness, his mother’s voice haunted him, threatened him, implored him. Finally, it broke through his mental barriers.
“Rashan, if I have to call you one more time, you’re going to go without dinner.”
Eleven-year-old Rashan sighed in frustration, placed the game console controls down in front of his flat-screen television, and with shoulders dropped, headed toward the dinner table with his younger siblings, each step a silent protest.
Peering through his spacesuit visor, dark, curly-haired Rashan stared in shock at his spaceship screen. Destiny Three—their companion vessel—gone in a bright but disastrous conflagration. He squinted, then shook his head as the screen went dark. Would his ship, Destiny Four, survive the balance of the forty-day journey? His eyes grew wide, then blinked several times. Swallowing hard, he stretched his spindly arms and hands, burying his fears, then retook the controls. The survival of Destiny Four’s crew now rested on his shoulders. All eyes were glued to him and his screen, ready to help with the crisis.
He had lived and dreamed about Mars since he first sighted the red planet in the night sky at age five. Books, movies, websites, mythologies, images, and magazines all fed into his voracious appetite for more knowledge about Earth’s cold neighbor. Recognizing his eight-year-old son’s obsession with the god of war, his father began taking him on monthly trips to the nearby planetarium.
“Someday, you’ll make it there, son,” he had whispered in Rashan’s ear during one such excursion, warming the child’s soul and filling his heart with such ecstasy that he couldn’t pull Rashan away from the observatory until late into the evening. From that moment forward, his fascination with Mars was an inseparable part of his psyche.
“Navtika, looks like our ship is alone on this mission,” Rashan warned, his skin feeling dry and itchy.
The seasoned captain from Croatia stared gravely at her navigation officer through the screen, her hypnotic eyes unblinking.
“Captain Navtika here. We’ve lost Destiny Three. Chief engineer Dubois, make a thorough inspection of our core engines. Ours cannot malfunction. Destiny One and Two crews have been waiting for us for twenty-six long months. They’re at wit’s end and at each other’s throats. Prepare for navigating through D3’s wreckage. It will be dangerous!”
Rashan tightened his concentration. As he did so, his mother’s voice trickled into his consciousness. Fighting to maintain concentration, he blocked it out, only to have another memory from his distant past barge into the forefront of his thoughts.
“Man was never meant to travel far from Earth. Technology may take us out of orbit, but man is forced to take along Earth-like conditions—food, water, breathable air, other people—just to survive out there. Establishing a colony in space would be a logistical nightmare. Each and every glitch will spiral toward disaster.” The thought distracted him, carrying him away to memories of other dinner conversations.
Resenting the ghost of his mother’s opinions, Rashan swatted at the air as if he could shoo his mother’s words away like a pestering fly. He steeled his resolve and returned his attention to the navigation controls before him. This undertaking will succeed, he reassured himself, determined to disprove her predictions.
“On full alert, officer Rashan,” Navtika ordered in her digital voice, almost shouting. Other crew members heard the stress in the commander’s voice, her anger, her fear. Rashan breathed heavily, anticipating the drama about to unfold. “Watch for debris from Destiny Three. Readjust our trajectory, and monitor those scanners like a hawk! Our lives depend on it.” Rashan, the experienced navigation officer, was ready for anything.
He sealed the cockpit visor shields and switched on the cameras. Destiny Four had been outfitted with ten, each on different points of the spaceship. Camera One instantly displayed the view everyone had just seen through the cockpit windows. Scanners were already detecting large chunks of metal, most away from their path, but some looming ahead.
Destiny Four jolted as an object slammed into its hull, creating a loud crashing sound. The startled shrieks of other crew members thundered in Rashan’s ears. Camera One went blank. Switching to Camera Two, Rashan received nothing but static. Camera Three, void. How many cameras were out? His temples quivered as beads of sweat rolled down his face. Camera Four displayed the path before them, the red planet lurking in the distance. Another crash—and the screen went dead. More jerking and bouncing around. Dread. Muffled cries. Camera Five and Camera Six, nothing.
“How can I navigate with no cameras?” Rashan screamed at the monitors, waving his fists.
Emergency alarms echoed, boring into his skull with their desperate warnings. Chatter around him was making it difficult to concentrate. He blocked out the voices. Camera Seven brought up the view of space once again. A huge chunk of metal was racing straight toward them. Rashan slammed his hand onto emergency side rocket controls—designed for use if small asteroids or space junk threatened their ship.
Collision barely avoided.
Hands of solidarity and reassurance found his shoulder, though nothing could ease the fears he felt so strongly.
“Buckle up!” he shouted angrily at his comrades as hands and fingers flew over buttons, levers, and screens in a desperate attempt to save Destiny Four.
Astronauts lurched to the right, some slamming into each other. Cries escaped the mouths of his teammates. The projectile swept past them. Shutting his eyes in a moment of relief, Rashan entered a course-modifying command, and the ship’s computers adjusted their flight path.
Another large object loomed on the screen. Three more times, Rashan had to use the emergency side rockets. Each time, his communicom earsets blasted static, making him cringe in pain. His mind worked overtime to filter out the distorted noise. Full concentration was crucial. Fading in and out of his consciousness, his mother’s voice haunted him, threatened him, implored him. Finally, it broke through his mental barriers.
“Rashan, if I have to call you one more time, you’re going to go without dinner.”
Eleven-year-old Rashan sighed in frustration, placed the game console controls down in front of his flat-screen television, and with shoulders dropped, headed toward the dinner table with his younger siblings, each step a silent protest.
