You find the multipurpose room, and the itching in you lungs only gets worse as you do, causing you to cough a couple times along the way.

In the room, you find two tables at the far end, both with white chairs and translucent surfaces on the tabletops. There're two doors to storage spaces for food-one cold, one dry, and there's a functioning faucet along one wall, which also includes an oven and enough counter space to prepare meals.

You also see in one corner a L-couch and two chairs around a coffee table with a cube sitting on it.

Also, you see another door, which leads to a single-toilet restroom with a shower/tub in one.

Then, you see your prize. It's a two-in-one laundry/dryer, and as you're examining it, you don't see anywhere to put in coins, detergent, or dryer sheets. According to the timer on the laundry machine, it will be thirty minutes before the load is finished, and the dryer cycle will take an additional hour, so you have 130 minutes to kill before the clothes you put inside are finished.

You're beginning to have trouble ignoring the now painful itching in your lungs. Your chest burns every time your lungs expand for air, and the smell of rotten eggs and brimstone is ever present.

   I wet a bandana and tie it over my nose and mouth to see if it provides any help.  I then look in the station book to see if there is an emergency drill to cover this situation.

You think the wet bandana helps a little bit, but at least the itching and pain with breathing isn't getting any worse.

Looking in the manual, you find that there are warnings about the air on Jupiter's surface being extremely toxic, and that if there's a leak to correct the problem immediately or evacuate the facility.

Correcting the problem may be an issue, though. While the manual is written in English, the sections on controls and maintenance are extremely detailed and written with scientific prose which is sometimes indiscernible. But it seems to be indicating that you need to be inside of that control room; everything looks like it relies on the buttons and gauges in that room for information and correction.

   I begin to make my way toward the control room, using the book as a guide.  Maybe there would be a big flashy red light to show me which button to push.  I wasn't expecting one, but I was hoping for one just the same.

You make your way to the control room, and once you open the door, you start hearing a "beep...beep...beep...beep..." sound coming from a console, which does have a red flashing light; however, it doesn't indicate any buttons that you need to press.

With the assistance of the manual you have and the gauges in front of you, though, you're able to work through some of the words you don't know and identify many based on context clues, and soon you start to identify what is causing the problem.

A gauge reads that the sulfur dioxide levels of the air are extremely high, while the oxygen levels are dwindling by comparison, and that the flashing red light is on a 30-meter section of pipe that all the base's air travels through outside. It indicates that there's a leak along the line, and that the only solution is repair outside the base.

The surface of the planet has temperature fluctuations and air toxicity which cannot sustain human life without one of the Jupiter-Class surface exploration suits.

WARNING: Due to the harsh environment outside of the base, extra-base repairs should be performed by base operators only in dire circumstances and never without constant communication from within the base. Proceed with extreme caution.

It also spells out that, while the suits can theoretically sustain life while oxygen lasts, the harsh environment will most likely deteriorate the suit quickly and that operations should be performed with haste.

   My first thought was a flashback to having glued my boot to the outside of a starship while corrosive engine coolant ate through my suit.  A chill ran down my back.  Fortunately, I was checked out in the use of EVA suits.  Sure, maybe not this model, but that was still an advantage over Joe the Plumber.

   By default, I was the base operator and I would have talked with the base folks, if there were any around here.  As to the caution part?  Ummm, sure, why not?  I took note of the pipe location in relation to the airlock and did a quick study of the appropriate repair procedures.  Once I was as ready as I had time to be, I set off to find the Jupiter-Class surface exploration suit in question and take this show on the road.

You locate a supply closet by the airlock to exit, and find the suits in there. The good news is that there are several suits and oxygen tanks available. The bad news is that the majority of the suits have been eaten away by some sort of corrosion. There are visible holes in several, and one that looks like it was cut down the entire leg by something.

Another thing you notice is that, as you pass the airlock to what should be the ship bay, you find no transport vessel like the manual stated should be present at all times.

   Back home, I once heard that the Southern way of expressing just how intensely messed up a situation was shaping up cold be expressed by the term, 'Isn't that special.'  Looking at those suits and the empty docking airlock, I now understood what that meant.

   Taking care to not touch any of the corroded areas, I'm going to try to piece together a functional suit.  I'm also going to put on my skintight superhero suit in the hope that it will provide some protection against the corrosive atmosphere.

The suits that look serviceable to a degree are as follows:

One has the huge gash down the outside of the left leg.
Another has corrosion that has eaten away at the back of the helmet and the chest, but the rest seems fine.
Finally, the last has bad corrosion in the right shoulder, left thigh, and in small spots down the back.

What are your methods to patch a single functional suit together out of this plastic material the suits are made from?

   This isn't good.  I was hoping for modular components to swap out to make a full suit, not this cheap stiff that looks like it was made out of a poncho from the dollar store.  If I can find some suit repair sealant, I'll use material from the suit with the bad helmet to cover the gash on the suit with the bad left leg.

   I'll first trim the corroded area from the left leg leg, so that there is only good fabric.  Then, I'll carefully use the adhesive to apply both an inner patch and an outer patch over the gash.  If I can get the suit fixed, I'll worry about the ride.  If I can't fix the suit, I won't need the ride.

You find a half-empty spray-on sealant for quick fixes, and you get to work on the suit. It takes a couple hours of extremely careful work, along with a fair amount of coughing, until you finally manage to craft a makeshift environmental suit to step outside in.

Once you're through in that closet, you step out into the main control room again. On one wall, the same controls as before, with the gas gauges and some others involving mining the air for a certain chemical rest. It says that the base's Helium-3 capacity is a little over half way full.

Additionally, you see a modest desk with paper maps of the base strewn about it, but now you also notice a very small (8 in by 5 in) laptop device beneath them.

Finally, a set of equipment that you don't immediately see a function for sets beside the airlock, facing outside. It has three monitor screens, all of which are off, and it looks like an ear bud connected to a thin metal wire sticking straight out of the device and up, toward where the chair might rest at the desk.

All of this you'd already seen, but I had failed to mention in detail upon you entering the control room.

   I check the charges of air in the suit helmets.  If there is a partial charge and a full charge, I'll put the full charged one aside until I'm ready to leave the station.  I'll wear the partially charged helmet now because I like breathing.

  Once I can breath, I'll go check out the little handheld computer thing to see if I can get it to work.  I'll also check to see if it is a scriff enhanced device before I turn it on.  If it is, there might be a way for the kid to get off of this rock after all.

The oxygen tanks aren't light, but you bear a half-full one easily enough and connect it to your helmet to give you a steady flow of air. Soon, your lungs stop burning quite as much, but they're still sore.

You find no scriff-enhanced devices, but you do access the small computer. Opening it seems to activate it, and the screen turns on. It has two options on the opening screen:

Charlie, which has the picture of a man who looks to be in his twenties.

Lucy, which has the picture of a woman who looks to be in her twenties.

   I'm thinking there are so many ways this could go wrong... RFID chips... fingerprint scanners... passwords... retinal scans...  But this is a middle of nowhere mining station, so what kind of security do they really need on their comps?  There was only one way to find out the answer.  I tapped the Lucy icon.

When you touch your finger to the Lucy icon, the ring around it starts flashing, and then suddenly stops. Everything is still for fifteen seconds after, but then there's a friendly four-note tune as the desktop pops up. The background is a multi-faceted, yellow, translucent rock on a metal table.

There are a few folders accessible. One looks like a pictures folder but is titled "Home" instead. Another looks like it contains audio files, and after browsing the start menu you find several single and two-player games on the device.

You also find a folder full of small word files with various titles: "Another Average Day", "Finally on the Ground", "Our Little Secret", "Charlie's a moron..." and so on.

What else are you hoping to find on the device?

   I want to read the last entry time stamped in this diary, hoping for a clue as to what is happening.  Then, I'll go check out the screens by the airlock.  If I can bring them up, maybe I'll be able to learn more of how to fix this problem.

When you scroll down to find the most recent entry, you see that it is flagged as an important document. It is the only one flagged this way, and you open it.

Titled: Unhinged

I know he's fine. It's only been twenty minutes and he has plenty of air in his tank, even with the heavy lifting. The same pipe as the last twenty times there's been a leak out there. Good thing it isn't one of the Helium-3 pipes or they might actually come down here to fix it.

I hate the faux comm equipment, but he'll be fine. No point calling out there to him yet. It'll just waste more air than he needs to so he can shout back to me that he's fine. Five more minutes, and I'll call.

I hate the poor camera angles. Can't even see through the gas, let alone the dust it always kicks up. I wonder if we can get some new lenses delivered next time we send a shipment up...

It's only been two minutes... going to be a long ten minutes. I might suit up, just in case. I'll call early. He's probably fine, but... Just in case...

Charlie. Please, please, please come back soon.


You go over to the monitors by the airlock, and find that they're cameras when you turn them on. There are six cameras. One is of the airlock, two with different angles into the empty hangar. Finally, there are three cameras pointing at different places outside. One is of a large device that looks like a high-tech AC unit visibly sucking in air to take underground. It has three pipes exiting it, heading toward the station. The other two are too busy with gas and dust to see. But in one of them, you see something that looks like a thin, white log on the ground at the edge of the camera screen. You can barely make it out through the thick gas in the camera.

Separately, you see the microphone has its own small monitor, a set of dials, and a keyboard. The monitor comes up when you mess with the dials, and you realize it's a communications area, with options to communicate locally or orbitally.

   I first check the date/time stamp on the file and compare it to the current date time on the tablet to see how long ago the file was created.  Next, I'll try to establish communication with whoever is local.  I'm really not expecting an answer, but I'm still going to try.

The date and time indicate that it was posted four days ago.

The local communication attempt results in only silence. The terminal indicates that there are no active devices close enough to be picked up on the local-range communication network.

   I'm switching to the orbital settings and giving it another try.

With the orbital comm open, you see that the machine has an option to search for available stations in the area by typing in some specific receiver information or to broadcast a message to anyone listening out there. There is one comm channel that you see is pre-programmed into the terminal, though, titled Gemini.

   I'll select the Gemini frequency and try to contact someone.

You dial up the Gemini frequency for your transmission easily. It gauges the connection as extremely strong.

What would you like to transmit as a message?

   "Hello?  I'm not sure where I am, but this is a helium mining station.  This station has a major problem with the air system.  There's a break in an outside pipe and the air in here is getting very caustic. We need help."

A voice replies to you from the speakers. It's male, in his late teens or twenties by your guess. He interrupts you after you say "Hello".

With a drone voice, he comments calmly, "Lucy, Jupiter 4's comm hours don't begin for another thirty minutes. Unless this is an emergency, disconnect to keep the frequency open for other stations." Then, when you state the situation, his voice gets more serious, and slightly condescending. "Damage to the station's air purification and filtration system? Have you taken measures to repair the damage using local tools and completed an accident report on the network for how you damaged the system?"