Orbital

Forty-Eight Ejecta

Last time I thought I was going to die in space I’d kind of tricked myself into thinking I was okay with the whole thing. After all, I’d basically saved the world. Everything else is downhill from there.

If I’d known I’d be trying to pay rent by acting as an underwater rent-a-cop trying to stop delinquent catfish, I might have reconsidered a bright and fiery death burning up in the atmosphere.

Right now, facing asphyxiation and freezing, that doesn’t sound all that bad.

Asphyxiation…

I climb through all the crap I set free and find the box with the small oxygen cylinders. Each one has about a half hour of air in them, but if I stick a hose into them and let them slowly release their high oxygen mix, I’ll last a little longer.

Okay. One problem solved. I’ve got a couple more hours of freezing to death.

Back to the question of how I get the hell off this thing?

I’d discarded the idea of trying to throw something out the hatch because this module doesn’t have an airlock. What if it did?

I look around at some of the large crates. I might be able to push two of them against the hatch and improvise something that doesn’t leak as much air as outright leaving the door wide open.

But how would I operate the handle?

I swat through a cluster of tape and try to find a long metal rod or something else I could use to open and close the hatch while I’m on the other side of a wall of containers.

Sealing them up wouldn’t be all that difficult; I’ve got all the repair tape in the world I could possibly hope for. Unfortunately, I can’t find a way to open or close the hatch that wouldn’t suck me into the vacuum of space.

Back to square zero.

I peer through the window at the Sagan station. It’s noticeably smaller now. The bright lights glitter through the frost on the glass from my breath. It’s a pretty thing from here, but so so far away.

With all this tape though, I could make a rope bridge from here to there and just climb across — If I wouldn’t suffocate and die from depressurization.

But it’s a beautiful thought.

All this tape. I could write “Help me!” on the hull if I had a way to go out there.

I find a small tool kit with a sharp blade and some tools for picking away at 3D printed models.

I could use one of them to puncture a hole in the module that would act as mini jet when the atmosphere rushes out.

While that could send me back towards the Sagan, it’s just as likely to cause me to spin uncontrollably or sail right past it.

I’ll save that as plan Z, in the event of there being no other option and I decide to just “do something,” instead of passively dying.

Hell, there’s a good chance I could ram the Sagan. That’ll serve them right for abandoning me.

I search through the supplies, hoping something jumps out at me, but come up empty.

To conserve heat, I crawl into one of the smaller crates and crouch inside like a cat in a cardboard box. It’s not elegant or a proud way to die, but I’m not shivering as much.

My brain has been over every solution I can consider and still hasn’t had a master stroke of genius.

I allow myself a moment of motivational daydreaming to imagine what I’d do if I got out of this.

I’d have thought I’d be focused on seeking revenge on whoever did this to me, but all I can think about is what it would be like to kiss Laney. Not the brother-sister fraternal pecks we give each other, but a long tongue-twisting kiss where I run my fingers through her hair and feel her in my arms. That kind of kiss.

I’ve kissed a lot of girls, but I’ve never desired one particular kiss as much as this one.

Damn it, David. Do something.

Other than puncturing the hull and turning this into the Last Resort Express, all my other options involve opening the hatch to do something. And opening the hatch would be suicide because I don’t have a spacesuit.

A spacesuit. You knew it would be cold down here, but you decided not to wear your suit. Now look at you, freezing to death and trapped in a giant coffin because of a fashion choice.

There’s dozens of space suits on the station. Each person has the one they brought up with them and the reserves that belong to the station.

You have two spacesuits at your disposal, David. You brought none.

All you have is a module filled with small parts and a bunch of rolls of tape.

Too bad you can’t make a spacesuit out of all that repair tape.

Because that would be…

No, your brain is just shutting down and you’ve had too much CO2. You can’t use a bunch of repair tape to actually make a spacesuit.

This stuff is basically duct tape. Sure, it’s super-strong, is carbon-reinforced and uses a special polymer sealant — but it’s not spacesuit material.

Alright, but what is a spacesuit?

Primarily it’s a sealed environment designed to keep your body at one atmosphere of pressure.

What if I taped my limbs and turned one of these boxes into a helmet with a small plastic visor?

The suit would leak and I’d run out of air.

Sure, but it only has to last a few minutes, just long enough to get from here to the station.

I could certainly increase my odds by puncturing a hole and using the oxygen cylinders as propellant…

This is a horrible plan.

Seriously, you can’t make a spacesuit out of this stuff.

Wrong, David. You can make a shitty spacesuit out of spacesuit repair material. It might be so shitty that you’ll only last a few seconds, or just shitty enough to make it to the airlock on the Sagan.

The question is this: Do you want to wait here and die all alone, but proud of the fact that you never risked your life using a shitty spacesuit?

Or do you want to go out like a man who fucking at least tried to survive by using his damn tool-maker monkey brain in one last ditch effort to save himself?

Yes, I’m realistically going to die either way. But do I want them to find me cowering in a box inside the module? Or floating in space in my own home-made shitty spacesuit where years later people will be speculating how it almost could have worked?

Fuck it.

They can laugh all they want.

I’m making a god damn shitty duct tape spacesuit.