Author : Evan Kayne

Right foot.

Tom Jenson remembered his uncle once told him “the hardest thing to do most days is to put one foot in front of the other.”

Left foot.

Of course, the topic was depression…and his uncle did kill himself, eventually. Tom shook his head and cleared away that last thought. He was starting to drift again. Time to lower the pain meds for a while.

Right foot.

The enviro-suit protested; but in this, he had some capacity to override its commands. He brought up the time remaining, just as the pain started tickling his feet. 3 days, 15 hours, 21 minutes 12 seconds. That’s how long until the AI controlling his ship The Far Reach calculated it could hold orbit and still have fuel for the trip home.

Left foot.

The pain leveled off at a tolerable level for a moment. Tom wondered what shape his feet were in. He understood now what his uncle meant – every fiber of his being screamed “lay down…let it stop…just stop”. He had been walking non-stop for 1 week. Or rather, the suit had been walking for 1 week. He gave up controlling his body 3 days into the march.

Right foot.

The trick was balance – not just the walking, but the time in the suit. He could have programmed the suit to run to the drop zone. It would have taken 5 days, but he’d be dead, beyond anything the suit could revive.

Every few hours he wished he was dead.

Left foot.

He had locked the commands into the suit itself after consulting with the on-board AI. He understood now why it recommended this action, when at least twice daily he screamed at the suit to let him lay down and rest. That’s usually when it pumped up the meds. Quite the achievement – in theory the suit could provide him with everything he needed from the existing resources on this planet.

Right foot.

Except he’d have wear the suit until the next time a survey ship is sent out this way – which could be months or years. Assuming he didn’t go mad from the loneliness, with only the primitive lichen on this rock to keep him company. I may go insane even before I reach the drop zone, Tom wondered. The repetitive movement was grinding away at bones, skin and muscles.

Left foot.

The suit kept his damage at a minimal level, only slowing to fix and repair flesh and bones. He’d reach the drop zone with about 23 hours to spare. That was better than the original estimate of a 3 hour window, but as every second dragged by, the hours ahead of him were like an endless ocean of time.

Right foot.

“The hardest thing for you to do most days is to put one foot in front of the other.” Tom Jenson remembered his uncle telling him when he was only 12 years old. His uncle thus described his depression, hoping to illustrate the depth of his sadness.

Left foot.

Tom didn’t understand at the time what his uncle said – how the everyday activities wore a depressed person down, how it took a colossal effort to perform these activities.

Right foot.

He understood now, but knew unlike his uncle, Tom had no avenue of escape. He felt the scream bubbling up in his mind and his body just as the suit increased the medications, and his consciousness washed away.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right foot.