Mr. Life and Death

"Mom, mom, look! That orange blob has teeth. Is it going to eat Buffy?" Trent's blue eyes look dark and his forehead too young for his age. He poked the orange blob before I could stop him.

Before I could answer, Trent screamed. "OW, ow, oww! Mom, it's burning."

Jarred to the bone, I dug in my spacesuit pocket and dug out the Decontam Out spray and repaired his hand and suit and put my arm around him while a tear dropped on his cheek. I shared every second of that sting, that knowledge spearing through him, double agony of injury and guilt like lead in my stomach.

"Come," I said, hoping no trace of censure escaped to make him feel worse. Only, it was too late. Events took a worse turn. Trent's favorite pet he took everywhere on the space trip preferred the creamy yellow fresh waters from the spring at our feet. But Buffy, the clear blob with the pinwheel arms inside vaguely similar to a jellyfish had stopped moving.

"Okay." My voice rose in pitch. "We have trouble. Get out your sample kit, bottle up a sample of the water, grab Buffy in his jar while I call the others. We may need to quarantine." I tapped lightly on my spacesuit controls, opening full channels, alarm jangling through all my nerves. "Trent touched a local life species, spacesuit breech. One death so far. Bringing a sample in for testing. Got our coordinates, Dave?" This man was my mate, Trent's father and the bedrock support of my life.

"How many times do I have to tell that boy ... never mind. We'll bring a habitat and set it up. Be there in five."

I clicked off the connection, then turned on my helmet camera to click away a second by second state of affairs. Then placing my arm around Trent's shoulders, I hustled him toward our lander. And I prayed silently, please, please don't let me lose another this way.

Inside the round lander bay with the four cushioned lounges, we removed our spacesuits. I took up the samples Trent collected and went straight to the laboratory. I guess inside I was already detaching myself. I turned my mind to my job, searching for the cell, the one cell that was odd, that killed Buffy, that turned the orange blob back and shriveled it, turned the stream bluish, the mossy sort of flower stream side black, wilting the flowers.

When the groan sounded behind me, I tried to ignore it but then Trent called me mom and ...

"I just wanted to save Buffy's life." So pitiful. He coughed.

I had to go to him. "Come on. Into the life support unit." I picked him up from where he slumped on the floor and hooked him up into the machine that would wash his blood, breath for him, feed him, keep his heart beating. I resisted my desire to kiss his cheek, rushing every step.

"I don't want to be alone!"

I shook my head. "We're all alone in life and we're all connected. I'll do my best. But our first priority is to repair that ecosystem." I turned away.

"Oh. I forgot. Survival of the fittest. I'm so sorry Mom."

I walked away, wondering when he'd get to the second part, responsibility, and whether he'd get to it, before he died.

The End

* This short story was written for National Novel Writing Month