Orbital

Fifty Target

The hatch on the module has an inner and an outer ring. The inner section is designed to open outwards and the outer ring opens inwards.

I spin the wheel that disengages the inner hatch and pull my body away as the handle is ripped out of my grasp by the explosion of air pressure as the entire chamber vents into space.

Along with the outflow of air is a good portion of all the junk I’d set free from the boxes.

I have to shield myself from an onslaught of flying debris as it flies into space.

It only takes a few seconds and the compartment is completely empty of air. This also means there’s nothing left for me to breathe except for the hissing air blowing into my mouth.

My cheeks start to explode outwards and my lungs feel like they’re going to explode.

At first I think I’m about to suffocate in the vacuum, then I realize that I did too good of a job of sealing my head. The air coming from the tank has no place to go — except into my body. I shut off the valve before I damage my lungs.

Now I have to make it to the Sagan on the last breath I took. Good thing I spent a week underwater working on my diving skills as I fought a giant catfish.

I pull myself through the hatch and panic as soon as I realize the Sagan is no longer visible.

There’s spare parts for as far as the eye can see, colliding and floating away like a meteor storm, but there’s no space station.

Well, this could be a problem.

I can’t have drifted that far away — I didn’t take that long make the suit.

Wait, venting the module probably turned me around a little.

I pull myself over the edge and see the station directly overhead. But man, does it look far away.

You know what? It’ll get a lot further away if I don’t do something.

I twist the knob on the air tank attached to my arm and I’m jerked forward like I’m holding onto Thor’s hammer, which I can never pronounce.

My arm keeps wanting to fly off in some random direction, so I have to use all my effort to keep it pointed at the Sagan.

I have no idea how fast I’m going — and for an eternity that was probably only two seconds — I would have sworn I wasn’t moving.

Quickly I learn how to not overcompensate for the force of the air tank and stay relatively on course for the station. It begins to grow larger, but still seems impossibly far away.

As I soar through space I take inventory of how my body feels.

Parts of me are really hot. Parts feel cold. While I can’t tell if any of my extremities are experiencing swelling, I keep touching my tongue against the roof of my mouth, waiting to see if I get the evaporating saliva sensation Leblanc described when he depressurized.

So far, so good.

Of course, I’m not actually getting any oxygen into my lungs. I’ve got another few minutes before my brain starts to shut down. I’m not even going to think about the radiation right now.

When I begin to feel a little woozy, I’ll go ahead and turn the air tank on my chest back on, for what it’s worth.

The tank on my arm stop spewing white vapor as it gives out its last breath.

Meanwhile, the Sagan is getting closer, but still too far away.

Stopping at the right point and not over shooting the station is going to be another trick onto itself.

To attempt to course correct, I have another oxygen tank strapped to my right arm with the nozzle pointed towards my wrist.

It’s not meant so much to decelerate me, as allow me steer myself close enough that I don’t overshoot the station.

The inside of my visor is starting to get foggy and the Sagan is just one glowing star.

Not good. I won’t be able to make out the airlock from the rest of the station if this gets any worse.

If I can’t hit that directly, I’m screwed.

There’s an emergency switch that would let me in and quickly pressurize the airlock if I can get to it. Right now that’s not looking so hot.

The glow of the station has just turned into three separate bright spots through the fog of my visor.

Which one is the Sagan? What the hell are the others?

Screw it, aim for the middle — only I can’t aim. My only option it to open my wrist valve and try to steer myself towards there.

Is this too soon?

Suddenly my mouth starts to go dry.

Fuck, my helmet is venting!

I turn the valve on my chest wide open and feel a rush of air enter my lungs.

I’m still conscious, so that’s good.

Time to do the wrist valve.

I twist the nozzle and try to keep the bright light in view. The glow is so intense on my visor that all I see is one giant light.

BAM!!! My body just slammed into something.

My arm starts to jerk around from the escaping air. I have to fight with it for a few seconds to get the valve closed.

Finally it stops and I can feel the hull of the Sagan through my numb fingers.

Well, damn. I’m here. But where? I can’t see shit through my visor.

Think of the layout of the station, David. Grab a railing.

Okay. I think I hit somewhere below the airlock module. Time to move your ass.

Hand over hand, I pull myself along a railing until I reach the rectangular hatch for the airlock.

My fingers, which I can barely feel, probe around for the panel with the release lever.

They slide along the metal and dip into a crevice.

That’s got to be it. My muscles ache and my body feels so weak, I’m not even sure if I can pull it down. My vision is already going dark as I start to pass out.

Worst. Idea. Ever.