Lunar Logbook – Day 9: Critical Entry

By “Max Skylink” – Critical Entry

The countdown shows 33 minutes of oxygen left. I sigh. I came here for this—deliverance.

My body feels heavy. Vision swimming. Everything blurs.

Suddenly, Mira’s voice echoes through the ship: “Signal: vessel approaching.”

I push myself up, fighting lunar vertigo. Through the viewport, about twenty points of light— it reminds me of last July 21st, the sound and light show with fireworks and drones in the festive sky.

They draw closer. My sight clears: mini-satellites, each carrying oxygen tanks.

I rise with effort and nod at Mira. She stands calm beside me.

“Come on, Mira. Let’s grab those tanks.”

She looks at me steadily. “My name isn’t Mira… it’s Cary.”

No time to wonder. We sprint toward the scattered bottles. Here, every step launches us into a bounce— slowed by the lunar dust, but driven by urgency.

My watch beeps.

3 minutes of oxygen left.

Of course I forgot to check my oxygen—again. I freeze, breathing hard, surrounded by nothingness. One small step for man, one giant leap for forgetfulness.

Cary grabs my arm. “Go back inside. I’ve got this.”

I watch her bounding away— metal limbs aloft, dusty clouds at each leap.

I dash back, clamber in, seal the hatch, and kneel. I remove my helmet. Silence, then a single exhale.

Minutes later, the hatch opens. Cary returns, arms full of tanks. She drops them, then leaves—again and again.

She never speaks. She just acts. But I see her slow—steps falter, leaps shrink.

Then… she collapses to her side. Without a word.

Before stepping out, I charged my oxygen tank to 5%—should be enough, right? I rush out, lift her—she weighs a ton. Drag her inside to the pilot’s seat. She’s motionless; systems offline.

I place her helmet back on—just like when she put herself in sleep mode a few days ago. Maybe this will reboot her. Maybe she’ll come back.

I sit beside her. Lunar silence surrounds us— but the counter reads: 21 days of oxygen.