Энди Вейр - Project Hail Mary

The robot arms make a play for me, but I flatten myself against the wall again.

I’m pretty sure I was in a coma. Yeah. The more I think of it, I was definitely in a coma.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but if I was put here at the same time as my roommates it’s been a while. I rub my half-shaved face. Those arms are designed to manage long-term unconsciousness. More evidence I was in a coma.

Maybe I can get to that hatch?

I take a step. Then another. Then I sink to the floor. It’s just too much for me. I have to rest.

Why am I so weak when I have these well-toned muscles? And if I was in a coma, why do I even have muscles? I should be a withered, spindly mess right now, not beach-bod buff.

I have no idea what my endgame is. What should I do? Am I really sick? I mean, I feel like crud of course, but I don’t feel “sick.” I’m not nauseated. I don’t have a headache. I don’t think I have a fever. If I don’t have a disease, why was I in a coma? Physical injury?

I feel around my head. No lumps or scars or bandages. The rest of my body seems pretty solid too. Better than solid. I’m ripped.

I want to nod off but I resist it.

Time to take another stab at this. I push myself back up. It’s like weightlifting. But it’s a little easier this time. I’m recovering more and more (I hope).

I shuffle along the wall, using my back for support as much as my feet. The arms constantly reach for me but I stay out of range.

I pant and wheeze. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. Maybe I have a lung infection? Maybe I’m in isolation for my own protection?

I finally make it to the ladder. I stumble forward and grab one of the rungs. I’m just so weak. How am I going to climb a 10-foot ladder?

Ten-foot ladder.

I think in imperial units. That’s a clue. I’m probably an American. Or English. Or maybe Canadian. Canadians use feet and inches for short distances.

I ask myself: How far is it from L.A. to New York? My gut answer: 3,000 miles. A Canadian would have used kilometers. So I’m English or American. Or I’m from Liberia.

I know Liberia uses imperial units but I don’t know my own name. That’s irritating.

I take a deep breath. I hang on to the ladder with both hands and put my foot on the bottom rung. I pull myself up. It’s a shaky process, but I get it done. Both feet are on the lower rung now. I reach up and grab the next rung. Okay, making progress. I feel like my whole body is made of lead—everything is so much effort. I try to pull myself up, but my hand just isn’t strong enough.

I fall backward off the ladder. This is going to hurt.

It doesn’t hurt. The robot arms catch me before I hit the ground because I fell into grabbing range. They don’t miss a beat. They return me to bed and settle me in like a mother putting her child to sleep.

You know what? This is fine. I’m really tired at this point and lying down kind of works for me. The gentle rocking of the bed is comforting. Something bugs me about how I fell off the ladder. I replay it in my head. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s just a…“wrongness” to it.

Hmm.

I drift off.

“Eat.”

There’s a toothpaste tube on my chest.

“Huh?”

“Eat,” the computer says again.

I lift the tube. It’s white with black text that reads DAY 1—MEAL 1.

“The heck is this?” I say.

“Eat.”

I unscrew the cap and smell something savory. My mouth waters at the prospect. Only now do I realize how hungry I am. I squeeze the tube and disgusting-looking brown sludge comes out.

“Eat.”

Who am I to question a creepy robot-armed computer overlord? I cautiously lick the substance.

Oh my God it’s good! It’s so good! It’s like thick gravy but not too rich. I squeeze more straight into my mouth and savor it. I swear it’s better than sex.

I know what’s going on here. They say hunger is the greatest seasoning. When you’re starving, your brain rewards you handsomely for finally eating. Good job, it says, we get to not die for a while!

The pieces fall into place. If I was in a coma for a long time, I must have been getting fed. I didn’t have an abdominal tube when I woke up, so it was probably feeding me with an NG tube running down my esophagus. It’s the least-intrusive way to feed a patient who can’t eat but has no digestion issues. Plus, it keeps the digestive system active and healthy. And it explains why the tube wasn’t around when I woke up. If possible, you should remove an NG tube while the patient is still unconscious.

Why do I know that? Am I a doctor?

I squeeze another shot of gravy-goo into my mouth. Still delicious. I gobble it down. Soon the tube is empty. I hold it up. “More of this!”

“Meal complete.”

“I’m still hungry! Give me another tube!”

“Food allotment for this meal has been met.”

It makes sense. My digestive system is getting used to semi-solid food right now. Best to take it easy. If I eat as much as I want I’ll probably get sick. The computer is doing the right thing.

“Give me more food!” No one cares about the right thing when they’re hungry.

“Food allotment for this meal has been met.”

“Bah.”

Still, I feel a ton better than I did before. The food energized me on the spot, plus I’ve had more rest.

I roll out of bed, ready to make a break for the wall, but the arms don’t chase me. I guess I’m allowed out of bed now that I’ve proven I can eat.

I look down at my naked body. This just doesn’t feel right. I know the only other people around are dead, but still.

“Can I have some clothes?”

The computer says nothing.

“Fine. Be that way.”

I pull the sheet off the bed and wrap it around my torso a couple of times. I pull one corner over my shoulder from behind my back and tie it to another from the front. Instant toga.

“Self-ambulation detected,” says the computer. “What’s your name?”

“I am Emperor Comatose. Kneel before me.”

“Incorrect.”

Time to see what’s up that ladder.

I’m a little unsteady, but I start walking across the room. This is a victory in itself—I don’t need wobbly beds or walls to cling to. I’m on my own two feet.

I make it to the ladder and grab hold. I don’t need something to hang on to, but it sure makes life easier. The hatch above looks pretty darn solid. I assume it’s airtight. And there’s every chance it’s locked. But I have to at least try.

I climb up one rung. Tough, but doable. Another rung. Okay, I have the hang of this. Slow and steady.

I make it to the hatch. I hang on to the ladder with one hand and turn the hatch’s circular crank with the other. It actually turns!

“Holy moly!” I say.

“Holy moly”? Is that my go-to expression of surprise? I mean, it’s okay, I guess. I would have expected something a little less 1950s. What kind of weirdo am I?

I turn the crank three full rotations and hear a click. The hatch tilts downward and I get out of the way. It falls open, suspended by its hefty hinge. I’m free!

Sort of.

Beyond the hatch, there’s just darkness. A little intimidating, but at least it’s progress.

I reach into the new room and pull myself up to the floor. Lights click on as soon as I enter. Presumably the computer’s doing.

The room looks to be the same size and shape as the one I left—another round room.

One large table—a lab table from the look of it—is mounted to the floor. Three lab stools are mounted nearby. All around the walls are pieces of lab equipment. All of it mounted to tables or benches that are bolted to the floor. It’s like the room is ready for a catastrophic earthquake.