USER

"Oxygen levels critical: ten minutes of oxygen remaining."

The shock from this sudden statement jolts me out of my stupor. I violently turn and contort my neck and body trying to locate who could have said that.

Turning my head to the left yields a full-on view of the inside of a helmet, and so does looking right. Looking straight ahead I can only see the condensation building up on the thin layer of lexan glass that separates me from everything else.

"User heartbeat elevated to unsafe levels, please lower."

I disobey the orders of the voice and instead focus my attention away from my heartbeat, and onto my body. I feel cold, I feel short of breath. My arms are white, legs too. It makes sense, until it doesn't. Skin is not this shade of white, I think. It doesn't feel like skin, either. It feels like nothing, but there's nothing else to compare it to either. I try to accept my skin as it is.

"Help," I mutter.

"Inquiry opened, how can I help?" the voice kicks in.

I deduce that it must be coming from within the helmet, otherwise it'd have to be coming from my head. I decide that I'm not that far gone yet.

"Wh-" I try to speak.

"Inquiry timed out," the voice has a sense of humor. A familiar sense of annoyance washes over me, as though this was a routine I'd gone through before.

"Help," I reiterate.

"Inquiry opened, how can I help?"

"Who are you?"

"I am Codec, your built-in helper for all your extravehicular activity suit needs!" Codec responds with an unusual pep, almost like it was trying to sell me on something. "Who are you?"

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. A question so simple that I didn't need to think about a response. And yet, zilch. Who am I? I think to myself. Who am I?

I keep pushing myself, heaving, hoping an answer will come out through sheer force of will alone.

"Oxygen levels critical: nine minutes of oxygen remaining."

What's a person to do when they have nothing to reflect on in their final minutes? I wonder, though only for a brief second.

"Codec."

"Inquiry opened; how can I help?"

"What does that mean?"

"I mean that I do not know who is currently inhabiting this extravehicular activity suit." Codec remarks.

"No, I mean what does nine minutes of oxygen mean?"

"It means that the equipped oxygen canister is running dangerously low on oxygen, a component essential to human life, and should be refilled at your earliest convenience."

"Helpful advice, Codec. I might just do that."

"Any time! User inquiry closed." Okay, great. Now I know, I know that I'm definitely going to die. I thought. And then it was silent for a while.

"Oxygen levels critical: eight minutes of oxygen remaining. Suggested action: lower oxygen usage." 7 minutes 59 seconds, 7 minutes 58 seconds, 7 minutes 57 seconds.

Maybe Codec has a point. Lower my oxygen usage, live a little longer. A nagging voice in my skull, distinct from Codec's voice, questions the point of living longer.

"What's that, Codec?" I ask.

"please specify parameter: 'That.'"

I point to a deep red orb expanding in the distance, bright like a lightbulb, but too far away to grasp with my mylar hands.

"That... bright light."

"The sight of bright lights can mean a multitude of things. People dying often report seeing bright lights moments before the death of the brain."

We wait a few moments.

"It could also be the light of a star reflecting off of a planet," Codec concluded.

"Codec?"

"Inquiry opened, how can I help you?" its tone is almost that of a whisper.

"What happens to me when I run out of air?"

"Oxygen levels critical: seven minutes of oxygen remain-"

"Shut up! Just answer my question."

"Oxygen deprivation can lead to cerebral hypoxia," Codec responded as if reading off a Wikipedia article.

"What's cerebral hypoxia?"

"Cerebral hypoxia occurs when your brain doesn't have enough oxygen," Codec continued to mock me.

"What are the symptoms of cerebral hypoxia?" I raise my hand to rub the bridge of my nose, only to collide with the visor of my helmet.

"Cerebral hypoxia can be diagnosed by a draining of color from the skin, shallow or rapid breathing, memory loss, and slurred speech." Codec speaks, but I don't listen. I continue to observe my gloved hand.

"Convulsions, seizures, and hallucinations are associated with advanced cerebral hypoxia. Long-term effects can include personality changes." The hand doesn't look like any hand I've ever seen before.

"Speech difficulties." The shape is all wrong, too bulky.

"And permanent brain damage." I still can't get over that color, that unsettling pure white.

"Fun fact: It takes ten minutes of complete oxygen deprivation for cerebral hypoxia to result in brain death of the afflicted." I want the mylar glove to go away. A latch connects the glove to the suit.

"I don't recommend you do that, User." I take a firm grip of the glove with my opposite hand.

"All oxygen will vent from your suit if the current action is completed." I rotate the glove to release the latch.

"Oxygen levels critical: six minutes of oxygen remaining." Inhaling through my nose, focusing on my hand, I prepare myself to disengage the glove from the rest of the suit. Small jets of oxygen are already escaping from the seams between the latch.

"User," Codec says.

"Yes?" I stop.

Codec pauses, almost as if for dramatic effect. "A class K planet has been detected rapidly approaching your position. Population: 734. Designation: Mendacium."

The red glow of Mendacium replaces my glove as the irises of my eyes. The light growing ever larger, my mind begins to wander; I think of the life I could have there, the kind of people that were there; I think of what their voices might sound like; I think of how good the oxygen would feel when it flooded my lungs; I think of myself, too. I mostly think of who I will be. Just imagining it distracts me from the enormous weight I have to lift off my chest every time I gasp for the sliver of air remaining in my tank.

"Oxygen levels critical: five minutes of oxygen remaining. Suggested action: re-latch glove." And I do.

"Codec, how long until I hit the orbit of Mendacium?" I race to speak, my heart beating out of my adrenaline filled chest.

"One cannot cause physical harm to the orbit of a plan-"

"No! No, no, NO!" I shout, "Can you just do one fu-fu-fucking thing right for once in your m-miserable existence, Codec!" A silence hangs in the air for a few seconds, only filled by my guttural cough. I hack and heave trying to regain the lost oxygen from my outburst.

But still, the silence hangs.

Suddenly, a static busts through the speakers that Codec's voice usually rings through. I panic and try to decipher Codec's voice in the interference, until I realize that there are many voices, all becoming clearer by the second. All talking amongst themselves.

"This is Mendacium Mining Outpost, can you read me, stranger?" A woman's voice rang out above all the other voices in the background.

"Y-yes I-I can." I'm not sure if my stutters are from my joy or hypoxia.

"Haha, we read ya loud n' clear! Alrighty miss, looks like you've got yourself into quite a pickle there. Reckon you need us to come pick you up?"

"Oxygen levels critical: four minutes of oxygen remaining." It seems almost as if Codec answered the woman on the other side for me.

"Whoa there, sounds like you got one of them rust bucket AI's on board. Well don't worry friend, we're scattering ships as we speak. I'll tell them to save an extra bottle of oxygen just for you! Hey, how'd you end up travelling at such a high velocity anyways?"

I open my mouth to say something, anything, express my gratitude or somehow explain my situation, but nothing came out.

"You're probably in too much of a stitch right now to answer, huh? We'll see you soon, friend! Mendacium Mining Outpost out." I heard a click as the woman ended the call.

She called me "miss." Tears well in my eyes as I begin to imagine life on the planet once more. These ships, they can travel fast enough to reach me in just a few minutes? And the woman on the other end, her accent, is that how they talk down there?

Images of space cowboys riding horses made of metal and mylar flash into my head and make me laugh. I think it's the first time I ever laughed.

Mendacium broaches ever closer, and I can start to make out its brilliance more and more. The planet looks like it's coated in deep red sand, the warmest I have ever seen in my life. And the atmosphere was purple somehow, inexplicably wonderful. Auras illuminate the dark side of the planet to illustrate its epic crevices and mountains, its oceans of deep blue water, its forests of magenta trees. A majestic sight for blind eyes.

"Oxygen levels critical: three minutes of oxygen remaining. Suggested action: enjoy the views." Codec says. I watch three light trails beam over the horizon of Mendacium in a forked formation, all of them coming to save me.

"C-codec" I force out.

"Please don't try to speak, User."

"Th-th-thank you."

"You're welcome, User."

I watch as the light trails of the ships draw closer, their speed exceeding the rate at which I was approaching the planet, but not by much. Codec tells me I have two minutes left.

"I-I'm... sorry, Codec."

"Sorry for what, User?"

"Y-yelling." I heave out one last word. Breathing now is more than a struggle, it's more than a workout, it's more than even a necessity: it's a chore. Inhalations were more akin to soft yells, and exhaling sounds like the dying breaths of a dog.

"I forgive you, User."

My consciousness fades.

"Don't worry, User. I'll be here when you wake up."