"I think her voice expresses all that one needs to know about her,"
I insist calmly, in an effort to moderate the increasingly heated discussion
regarding our elusive love interest. "It has a warmth that...envelopes
the ears in a sultry embrace, drawing you through the conversation in an
inevitably expectant course. She's in control of a simple chat by default."
"I agree that her voice is very attractive, I can't get it out from
under my skin, in fact, but I definitely need a face to picture with the
voice. I can't believe we haven't been able to meet with her in all these
months! I'll bet she's blonde...."
"I bet she's blonde with big 'uns," I mock my neanderthal shipmate.
What can I say? Moderated conversation is boring.
"The voice, the voice," he comically screeches back,
eyes twinkling in a mockery of glee, "Ohhhh...it pulls the ears together
in a twisty state of suspension!"
"Hey, stop slobbering all over the instruments! What if something shorts
out?! Haven't you read the latest technical reports on the explosive conductivity
of monkey spit? You could short out the entire NAV console and we'll be
stuck here until someone else takes over as the earth orbit garbage collectors!"
"Hey now, Janet! You watch it! I prefer the civilized moniker 'Earth
Orbit Resource Recovery Engineers.' Speaking of which, El Capitán,
I think that I'd better suit up and warm up old daddy longlegs, communication
satellite SATCOM-16 is approximately," his eyes dim as thousands of
microcircuits dilate. He checks his intraocular display for the navigational
information with excessive deliberation and scrutiny, scratching his head
with a dumb look on his face, "Hmmmm...could it be about fifteen minutes
out on this heading?"
"Yeah, I was going to suggest you suit up...to give the air recycler
a chance to recover from having to process all of the hot air coming out
of your blowhole! Do we need to correct at this time?"
"Duh," his eyes return to their normal brown hue and he looks
at me with severely crossed eyes, "Nah, I dunt tink so, Cap'n."
"Ooooo. Bad accent."
He chuckles, "It looks like we're okay until you have to start hitting
the brakes in a few minutes. I'll go get ready to rope it in."
"Okay, Suarez. By the way, those little nozzles out there, you know,
the silvery metal cone thingys?, those are retro-rockets. Can you say that?
Retro-rockets. Reh-Tro-Rah-kets. You don't sit on them. We sit in chairs,
Chuh-Airs."
"Geez," he scratches his head, "I'll try and remember that,
boss."
Suarez floats aft in the microgravity and disappears down the "chute"
to prepare for the pending recovery operation. I activate my intraocular
display, the visible cockpit dims as microcircuitry embedded on the surface
of my cornea activates. A three dimensional rendered image of the George
Marsh appears; the utilitarian vessel is pointed toward a red blinking
square superimposed over a white dot representing the target. I activate
a transparent wireframe grid oriented parallel to our direction of travel.
The grid plane slices through the uppermost extent of George Marsh's
open bay doors. The target is visible three feet "above" the wireframe
plane. It is almost time to begin the slowdown maneuvers. I begin to compute
and execute small and moderate velocity corrections, better several smaller
ones than one or two large ones, although the thought of an abrupt change
in velocity while ol' Suarez is trying to climb into a pressure suit does
have a certain appeal....
"SKKKKTTTT...are you receiving this...BANG...darn it!" the sound
of repeated banging, "What's wrong with this darn transmitter now?"
I wait silently.
TAP. CRASH. SLAP. "You reading me up there? Testing, one, two, three...."
I chuckle.
"Now that's not very funny!"
"Okay, space cowboy, are you ready?"
"All systems go."
"I have the target in view now. I'll bring us in a little closer...let
me know when the thing hits your visor."
I visualize him standing behind the remote manipulator arm control console...waiting.
"Uh, I can't see a thing. Shouldn't the cargo bay doors be open or
something?"
I ignore him and begin the next to last slowdown maneuver.
"Just kidding," he mutters, "coming into view now."
I make the last correction. The target is displayed unmoving one foot above
the center of the cargo bay. I deactivate my intraocular display.
"Bravo. I'll rope this baby in and we'll be on our way."
It will be at least fifteen minutes before ol' Suarez completes the recovery
event. What am I doing here anyway? The glorified "Captain" of,
essentially, a garbage scow. Sure, I went into this because any job in space
is better than a job Earthside. And the work is very important, what with
all of the old junk up here creating navigational hazards. But the job definitely
lacks the appeal of, say, being the captain of an orbital or interplanetary
liner, like Rebecca.
Now there's a person with a great job! Captain of an orbital liner and chief
flirt of the ether. But her voice...that's the reason I've fallen for her.
Yet she toys with both of us, dropping hints about getting together for
a meal and good times on the Tsiolkovsky, when she knows darn well our schedules
may never allow it! Strange, how she just happens to be stationed Earthside,
with her schedule only placing her at our station when we are away on missions.
I'm sure the entire Earth Space Agency schedule has been arranged to thwart
my personal life. Ahhh...that voice.
I float back into the headrest and close my eyes to recall the dream...her
breath is warm on my neck. The taste of her soft lips and sweet scent saturate
my senses. Lips gently nibble my earlobe, soft caresses play down my neck,
preying on its sensitivity. My hands gently pull her closer, I become lost
in her warmth. A deep moan escapes her lips as I gently play my fingers
down her exposed back, tickling her spine, down to her narrow cleft...she
pushes gently away and unzips the front of my flightsuit. My body trembles
with her touch...her lips gently roam my stomach, descending to...a blinking
red dot on my intraocular display. Red digits flame across my vision
to warn of the impending launch of a passenger liner into orbit...at least
it's Rebecca's liner.
"Hey, Suarez, do you think that the Earth Space Agency mission schedule
has been arranged to thwart my personal life?" I inquire bitterly.
"Of course it has. Don't you remember signing that 'Personal Life Waiver
Form' when you signed up? Hey, its worse for us grunts, though. We have
to sign an 'Agreement To Not Substitute Food for Sex Form' when we sign
on, I guess the big wigs are afraid that we won't be able to perform our
duties if we can't squeeze our rotund forms into pressure suits."
"And I thought you guys were just required to check your gonads and
brains, as if there were a difference, at the security gate prior to boarding.
You're only necessary for your big muscles, after all. Seriously, what the
heck are we doing out here? We don't have lives to speak of...."
"I'm finishing hauling in a piece of junk and making the spaceways
safer for humanity."
"My hero!"
"And...I guess I just love being in space."
"Yeah, nice place to visit. Just don't live here."
"I'm nearly finished roping this baby in. Better rehydrate the coffee.
Isn't it almost that time?"
Yeah. It's about time to come into radio contact with her again.
Butterflies are flopping around in my stomach. "Yeah, I...yawn...guess
so. What's it matter anyway? I doubt that she'd be interested in a grunt
like you...."
"Hey, now! What makes you think she's your type? I think she'd prefer
a manly man such as myself...big muscles you know."
"Is that testosterone I smell? Or just the waste recycler backing up
again? I'm definitely her type! Look at the rapport we've developed over
this time..."
"Rapport? Is that what you call it? Hang on..." There is a dull
thud followed by the whine of an electric motor. "That's got it. What
were they thinking when they put this thing together? Is that aluminum foil
covering the thing? Oooo, how hi-tech!"
I reactivate my intraocular display in active panning mode at short range
and turn around. An external view of the open cargo bay frames Suarez behind
the manipulator arm control console. The manipulator is slowly pulling the
satellite into the bay.
"I'm glad to see that you haven't lost your youthful sense of wonder
regarding the accomplishments of our forefathers. Do you realize what it
took for them to put that junk in orbit? Why, it took billions of credits,
hundreds of people, and many years just to put that one thing in orbit,
whatever it is..." I deactivate the external view and begin the hunt
for coffee. My hands stumble at the thought of conversing with her again.
"So why is it going into the recycler?"
"Hmmm...I dunno. I guess all the museums are full or something. But
think of the freedom they had in those days. Just a few governments putting
junk in orbit. They were the trailblazers to a new frontier. Hey, where'd
you put the coffee stores? I can't find them."
"I think they're in that funny shaped compartment underneath the air
recycler. I'll be floating up your way in a second."
I open the compartment and plastic dehydrated coffee packets slowly float
out. I grab one, absentmindedly bat the others slowly back into the compartment
with my hand, and close the hatch. I grab a sipper, pour in the freeze-dried
contents, and float over to the rehydrator, pausing along the way to flip
on ship-to-ship communications tuned into the frequency of choice for our
orbital flirt. No action yet.
"Did you find the coffee?" Suarez asks as he bounces back into
the control area, sans pressure suit.
"Yeah. It's rehydrating now. Where's your sipper?"
"I dunno. Let me find it. Are we tuned-in to the frequency yet? Hey,
is that my sipper floating up there by that conduit?" He gently taps
the deck with both feet and slowly rises to intercept the drink container.
"To answer your first question, yes. To answer your second question,
open the sipper. If there's horrible brown space fungus growing inside,
its yours."
"I find that the brown fungus adds body to the coffee. The green stuff
makes the brew too acidic. Is our return course to the recycling plant ready
yet?"
"But of course. But the scheduled traffic on our planned vector requires
that we hold our present heading for a while longer," I reply in an
official tone.
"Oh...right. So what's her schedule? Is she running behind today or
something?"
"No. We should be hearing from her anytime now," I reply as I
grab my sipper and unplug the container of coffee from the rehydrator to
connect the two for coffee transfer. I press the button to fill the sipper,
I'm immediately greeted by a loud hissing sound and brown globules of coffee
dancing around me in the microgravity.
"Darned op;ring! Hey, Suarez, help me clean this stuff up!"
"I was hoping to be able to actually drink my coffee in a much more
civilized fashion. Oh well." Suarez pushes off a bulkhead to collect
globules of coffee, some he herds together into larger globules with his
hands, others he simply sucks into his mouth.
I briefly admire his technique and grab an air handler vacuum hose. I extend
the hose out to the fouled area of the cabin and collect hundreds of small
globules.
"Hey, you're cheating, and wasting good coffee at the same time...."
"'Efficiency is the key to successful project operations...'"
I begin to quote from the Earth Space Agency Operations Manual before
being interrupted.
"SkkkksKKKTTtttT...this is Orbital Liner Mansfield, Captain
Rebecca Portwood...transmitting orbital schedule variance for rendezvous
with Space Station Tsiolkovski...spacecraft in local orbit please
respond...." DONG.
I hear the tone of the autoresponder and wish I had coffee to drown the
hysterical butterflies. I flip the auto-mic switch to "ON" and
give the standard verbal confirmation response, "This is the Earth
Orbit Resource Recovery Craft George Marsh responding...I have you
at approximately fifteen minutes aft on a vector that will not cross our
present orbit...will hold present course for thirty minutes...."
I touch the mute button and whisper to Suarez, "Ahhhhh, the voice...."
"Why are you whispering when you have the mute button down?"
My face reddens as Rebecca responds, "Confirmed George Marsh...looks
like we're the only ones out here guys...how's the garbage hauling business?"
"Oh, great! We just roped in an old communications satellite bound
for the recycling station...."
"And now you're talking with the mute button down...." Suarez
notes with a coffee stained grin.
"Oh, jeez..." I lift my finger.
"Hey, guys? You still there?"
"Hi, Becca! How are you?"
"Is that you, Suarez? I get a vision of a very muscular, tanned body
and the scent of suntan oil whenever you come online...."
"That's not suntan oil, Rebecca, it's motor oil," I interrupt.
Time to regain some control of the conversation. Goofball Suarez must be
buried at all costs.
"But you should see my tan, Becca! I spend extra time in the sunning
unit without a flightsuit...."
"...Which explains your shriveled, greasy, and generally overcooked
appearance, Suarez. Rebecca, how long will you be staying on the Tsiolkovsky?
Can we meet for a few sippers of the good stuff...or perhaps dinner?"
"I'll be on station for a layover of about three hours, Janet. Can
you make it by then?"
Of course not! We'll be unloading a pile of junk. "Hmmmm. I don't think
we'll be able to make it, but...."
"PRRRRRDMMMMMMMMPA...what was that..." I hear Rebecca ask her
crew.
"...don't know. Checking systems now...."
"That didn't sound too good..." I nervously remark, reactivating
intraocular with passive sensors focused at intermediate range aft of the
George Marsh. A small white dot centered within a superimposed yellow
border comes into view. Recognizing the call letters next to the yellow
frame I select the Mansfield as the current target to keep it locked
at the center of my view. The frame changes to red and I start a slow magnification.
Mansfield grows to fill the range of my vision. The small liner appears
intact, except...a plume of gas condensate is visible, venting from an obscured
point along the midsection of the craft. I activate a sensor frame and set
the computer to perform spectral analysis of the gas. My heart sinks with
the result.
"Mansfield, this is George Marsh...magnified examination
of your hull and spectral analysis confirm hydrogen gas being vented from
an unidentified location on the midsection of your craft."
There is silence for a few moments. Cold sweat forms on my palms.
"Checking George Marsh...hold a moment."
I touch the mute button again, "I don't think they're going to have
power for very long, Suarez...."
"George Marsh, this is Mansfield. Venting of H2 confirmed.
There's O2 out there as well. An explosion has damaged propellant containment
and flight control systems. We have lost propulsion but not internal power.
The explosion has altered our attitude, placing us in a rapidly decaying
orbit. It looks like we've had it. I'm going to contact Ground Control to
warn of the imminent danger our reentry poses."
"Rebecca, how will you adjust your attitude for a successful reentry?"
I ask, knowing the miserable answer.
"Our current vector places our impact...hold...."
"Captain, the passengers are in a state of panic..." an unknown
voice informs Rebecca.
"...somewhere in the caribbean, in less than an hour. The impact of
our debris, I guess, since the reentry vector is too steep. Tell the passengers
its going to get hot real soon if they don't calm down. Didn't they pay
attention to the preflight safety instructions? Any suggestions, George
Marsh?"
"Hold, Mansfield."
I touch the mute button again and confer with Suarez, "I think we should
attempt a rescue. How feasible do you think it is?"
"The whole ship? That has a very low chance..."
"No, I was thinking about docking with the liner to evacuate the passengers
and crew. The Mansfield is far too massive for us to be able to correct
the orbit in time using the George Marsh's retros."
"I think that's got a better chance of success. We'd have to complete
the transfer operation before the Mansfield begins to enter the upper
atmosphere. I suppose the jarring and bumping would have a seriously bad
effect on our own health. There wouldn't be much of a point to us all going
down in a ball of flames."
"How insightful of you, Suarez...I thought we'd just collect the people
and plunge headlong into the atmosphere!" I scold him, regreting it
instantly. He is visibly hurt and as nervous as I am. "Anyway, time
to put the sarcastic banter aside. The Mansfield has a standard docking
port to each side and above the vicinity of the cockpit. My only flash of
inspiration is this: we reduce our velocity and adjust our orbit to rendezvous
with the Mansfield, you go EVA in a pressure suit to connect us to
the Mansfield using our flexible docking tunnel, we herd the passengers
and crew through to the cargo bay, which we'll need to pressurize, and I'll
set the navigational controls to automatically correct our escape orbit
prior to the Mansfield entering the atmosphere. We'd better make
sure everyone is transferred before those retros kick in...."
"That sounds good, but I'd recommend that we take one additional safety
precaution, we should set the computer to automatically close our docking
port airlock and release the clamps securing the pressurized tunnel. We
don't want to risk getting pulled down into the atmosphere by the connecting
umbilicals."
"Good point. Those umbilicals might or might not snap if they aren't
released. But why not do the release manually?"
"I think our highest priority should be evacuation of the passengers
and crew, not worrying about releasing the docking clamps."
"You're right. Go close the cargo bay doors and get the area pressurized.
I'll contact Rebecca and fill her in on our plan and plot the course correction."
I try to put other safety considerations out of mind, such as the combustible
gases floating freely around the Mansfield, the possibility of additional
explosion on the damaged ship, and the impossibly limited time to pull it
off. Suarez surely know these as well...but we have to recover her or die
trying. I sicken with guilt as I realize we probably would not attempt the
rescue for another ship.
I release the mute button, "Mansfield, this is George Marsh.
We have a plan."
"I hope it's a good one, because we're quickly running out of time..."
I quickly fill her in on the plan and she instructs her crew to collect
the passengers and prepare for the transfer.
Switching to intraocular, I display the navigational view with rendered
representations of both craft and incandescent lines for the projected orbits.
I activate a projection of the George Marsh's current orbit and stretch
it into several potential paths before deciding on a correction that will
allow us to rendezvous with the Mansfield in the least possible time,
while expending the greatest possible amount of fuel for the maneuver, a
small additional cost to save her.
I activate a blue wireframe grid representing the calculated limit of the
uppermost extent of the Earth's atmosphere. The revised orbital projection
now converges to within seven meters of the Mansfield and follows
its orbital vector down into the atmosphere and spectacular caribbean impact.
I twist the George Marsh's vector gently upward into a stable orbit
just before is intersects with the blue grid.
"How are you doing back there Suarez?"
"SkkktttTTTT...I've pressurized the cargo bay and I'm preparing the
docking tunnel for deployment. Too bad we're gonna lose this thing. The
newer model isn't as durably constructed."
"Good. Prepare for the ride of your life in one minute on my mark."
I recheck the planned vector adjustments and make a minor correction to
allow for the elapsed time of the conversation. I set the computer to automatically
burn the retros to achieve the desired orbit and configure a timer to close
the airlock, disengage the docking clamps, and recover from the disintegrating
orbit prior to the point at which the potentially fatal jarring and bumping
should begin.
"Get ready...mark!" I activate the start sequence and strap myself
in while watching the intraoptical digital readout count down the sixty
seconds. The timer reaches zero, the retros activate, and I black out.
"...hey, Janet, you back yet?" Suarez swims into my recovering
brain.
"Yeah, I'm back." I check the statistics for the correction. "Wow.
Thirteen Gs...what a haul! Are you okay?"
"Fine. How long do I have to prepare and connect the tunnel?"
I briefly recheck the current orbital status. "We'll be reaching our
rendezvous point in about two minutes, at which time the retros will briefly
kick in to match our velocities. After that we have less than twenty minutes
to connect, pressurize the tunnel, and evacuate the Mansfield. We'll
connect the tunnel from our port airlock to the Mansfield's starboard
to avoid the venting gasses as much as possible."
"That's cutting it very close. I'm on it...just queue me to go EVA
at the appropriate time. It shouldn't take me more than ten minutes to complete
the connection, including pressurization."
"You got it. Mansfield, this is George Marsh. We'll be
approaching your port docking bay in less than one minute. At that time,
Suarez will go EVA to make the connection, which should take about ten minutes.
Suarez will instruct you further. Be aware that the airlock on our end has
been set to automatically close and release the docking clamps less than
ten minutes thereafter."
"This is Mansfield. Understood. We're ready to go on our end,
and...thanks. I guess this means we'll finally...."
"Don't worry about it." I cannot bear to think of the possibility.
"We'll have you out of there in a few minutes. Did you contact Ground
Control?"
"Yeah. They calculate a water impact near Jamaica, but are worried
that uncontrolled atmospheric braking effects will alter the vector unpredictably.
They'll have interceptor missiles ready just in case."
"Hmmm...there's an awful lot of ocean down there. We'll see what happens.
See you soon."
I see that the George Marsh has nearly reached the rendezvous point.
Correction other than the final slowdown maneuver will not be necessary.
I confirm the proper sequencing of the escape burn and the timing on the
automatic airlock controls.
I shift intraocular to the active panning external view mode. The navigational
display is replaced by a forward view framing our approach to the Mansfield.
Closer scrutiny of the spacecraft reveals a grapefruit sized impact point,
apparently in the vicinity of a propellant containment subsystem. No signs
of the released gas.
"Looks like the Mansfield is another victim of renegade orbital
debris, Suarez. I guess we're not working fast enough. Prepare for one last
burn and then you're clear for EVA. Vaya con dios, friend..."
"Gotcha."
I reactivate the NAV display. The timer shows zeros and I am thrust abruptly
forward against my harness.
"I'm entering the airlock now," Suarez comments. "Cycling
the airlock...opening the outer airlock door...I'm out."
Unbuckling my harness, I turn to observe Suarez via intraocular as he exits
the airlock with the yellow flexible tunnel in tow, dwarfing him even in
its current constricted state. Small wisps of propellant from small nozzles
on his pressure suit spin him to face the George Marsh. He carefully
aligns the six connectors of the tunnel docking ring with corresponding
receptacles circling the port airlock on the outer bulkhead. The airlock
retracts the connectors and inflates the two and a half meter diameter docking
ring to create a substantially airtight seal. He unfastens the clips constricting
the tunnel and it begins to slowly extend.
"SkkkkKKTttTTttT...I'm going to approach the Mansfield now."
His maneuvering jets spin him about once more and then propel him toward
the Mansfield. Still no sign of the fugitive gases. A small reel
in his right hand feeds out thin steel line attached to a small eyelet on
the docking ring destined for the Mansfield's starboard airlock.
It seems to take an eternity as he slowly floats the insubstantial seven
meters to the liner. As he nears the airlock, I imagine panicked passengers
attentively peeping out of the small illuminated viewports along the flanks
of the vessel. Where is Rebecca among them? Silly. In reality, the
passengers are surely cramped into the tunnels that connect the ventral
and dorsal airlocks to staging and storage compartments.
"Just a few more minutes Mansfield..." I alert Rebecca.
Just hang on.
"Understood. We're ready to go."
Suarez reaches the Mansfield and grabs a recessed handhold next to
the airlock. He clips the reel to the handhold, briefly checks that he is
clear, and activates the reel. The flexible tunnel begins to snake out and
after a few moments reaches the Mansfield. Suarez fastens and activates
the docking ring and briefly checks the tunnel.
"SkkkTTrRRRRrRTTT...okay Mansfield. The six umbilicals are connected
and active. Cycle the pressure in your outer airlock and the tunnel to 100
kilopascals," Suarez instructs.
With almost no pause, the tunnel begins to writhe with the pressurization.
"SkkkttttTTTKKkk...Mansfield, once the pressure in the tunnel
reaches 100 kilopascals, the airlocks on both ships will open. At that time,
get through while the gettin's good...I'll see you on the other side."
"Mansfield, you have less than nine minutes to evacuate,"
I warn.
"Understood."
Checking the navigational display, I see that there should be more than
ten minutes remaining. Always build in a little bit of a fudge factor, just
in case. In less then ten minutes, I'll see her for the first time.
"Suarez, I'm going to leave the control center to assist the passengers
through to the cargo bay. Are you going to come in through the starboard
airlock?"
"sssskkKkttt...yeah. I shouldn't be more than another two minutes.
Don't leave without me...."
Thousands of microdisplay circuits constrict as I disengage intraocular.
I tap my feet against the bulkhead overhanging my command chair and float
out of the control center, through the chute, and down the accessway to
the inner door of the port airlock. Glowing displays indicate the pressure
has reached 98 kilopascals. I check the guide line Suarez thoughtfully installed
leading from the airlock to the cargo bay. Behind me, I hear an electronic
whistle followed by the sharp pneumatic hiss and clunk of the inner airlock
exploding open.
"Come on over quickly...we don't have much time," I shout through
the cold, dim tunnel. As an afterthought, I activate the airlock floodlights,
the small lights cast a diminishing glow down the tunnel. I cannot see through
to the other side. I hear someone huffing and pulling their way through.
"Hello, Ma'am. The Captain sent me over to help transfer the passengers.
My name is Weiss, Eric Weiss," a pale young man in a flight attendant
uniform nervously explains.
"Good. I'm Captain Janet Holiday. Are the passengers behind you?"
"Uh, yes...here they come now. There are thirty four passengers and
six more crew."
"That line leads the way. To save time, I'll grab the passengers as
they exit the tunnel and throw them to you. Grab on to that handhold near
the turn into the cargo bay and slide them through. Tell them to find a
flat surface and hold tight."
The first passenger floats through, a dark haired little girl, shivering
and silent. Anchoring myself, I grab her by the collar and throw her down
the passage. She sails the three meter distance to Weiss, who quickly deflects
her into the cargo bay. He shouts instructions after her. He's young, but
at least he pays attention.
More passengers are pulling their way through. I continue to toss them to
Weiss, counting silently.
"Thank you for our lives, youngster," a well dressed elderly gentleman
tearfully gushes. I keep tossing and counting, not considering the limit
to our time. And I worriedly wonder where Rebecca is.
The passengers keep coming. They are young, old, male, female. Many have
a hopeful expression. Most are terrified and shivering from the frozen passage.
Thirty, thirty-one, thirty two, thirty-three...where is she? The
second crew member arrives, another dark haired young man.
"Where is passenger number thirty-four?" I quickly inquire.
"Passenger thirty-four is a rude, claustrophobic woman that flatly
refuses to enter the tunnel. The Captain is trying to get her to cross,
but the woman's stubborn. So she ordered the crew through while she tries
to calm 'er down...."
"What is a claustrophobe doing out in space? Doesn't she know how little
time we have?"
"She's very stubborn and she does know. She insists on staying behind."
"I can't believe this! Hey, get your carcass over here..." I shout
through the tunnel angrily as the remaining crew pass by. The digital timer
on the airlock reads 123 seconds. The digits reach 122 and the muffled sound
of an explosion reaches me through the tunnel. I taste bile at the sight
of the tunnel contorting and constricting toward the George Marsh.
"Brace yourselves!" I bellow, my own knuckles turning white around
the handhold. My perception of time slows as the adrenaline floods my body.
Where is she?
I peer anxiously down the compressing tunnel. The darkness slowly fades
and I see in the dimness...the Mansfield's airlock approaching! But
where are...wait, there's someone...the stubborn woman! She's holding
on to a handrail within the airlock and screaming. Her screams get louder
as the Mansfield approaches, her face contorted with terror.
I prepare for the worst as the airlock draws impossibly near.
DmmmpppppSCREEEEEEEE...the impact. The woman loses her grip and is sent
cartwheeling into the George Marsh's airlock. Her forehead hits the
bulkhead on her way toward the cargo bay and she is silenced.
"Rebecca! Where are you?" The Mansfield is drifting away.
"Here!" she screams from somewhere in the darkness. Fear wells
within me at the thought of crossing through the tunnel to find her. The
flexible tunnel will surely be pulled apart once the gap widens beyond its
length. The airlock automatic warning signal begins its rhythmic blaring.
Less than sixty seconds. I loosen my grip on the handhold and prepare to
propel myself through the tunnel.
Suddenly, a figure steps into the floodlight. The glare shines off her ebony
features, glistening with sweat. She launches herself into the tunnel and
begins to methodically pull her way through. The tunnel continues its expansion,
but she is crossing faster.
"You're going to make it! Keep going!" I shout out encouragement.
Looking up at me for the first time, she smiles. She is beautiful. Furious
in her desire to survive. The pitch of the warning signal increases.
Thirty seconds.
The tunnel begins to shake and contort violently. She loses her grip and
is tossed back and forth within the frigid passageway. There! Grab on
and pull! She is on her way again. Less than a meter to go. I extend
my hand into the tunnel. The alarm begins to rhythmically blare a tone for
each of the remaining ten seconds....
"Unnggghhh..." she is slowly propelled upward by a sudden contortion
of the tunnel, floating freely...without a handhold to pull herself further!
She wildly swims in the microgravity to cross the remaining inches to my
outstretched hand. Her hair, blackness, is tightly woven into countless
short braids. Beautiful braids. Five seconds. Just a few more
centimeters. Four. Three.
Our fingers connect. I forcefully pull her toward me. Her eyes, they are
the deepest, darkest blue I have ever seen, and manically wide. A look of
relief washes over her chiseled features...the last alarm tone sounds out.
The outer and inner airlock doors close explosively and I am plunged into
darkness. I hear the docking clamps release the umbilical connectors. I
will not lose my grip on Rebecca. The thrusters engage and I am forcefully
wrenched from the handhold, gripping Rebecca's hand, falling into blackness.
I open my eyes with difficulty; something is stiff on my face. Dried blood? From where? The floodlights reactivate. The back of Rebecca's hand floats in front of my face. Crescent shaped, carefully manicured cuticles brighten the tips of her dark fingers. Is she conscious? I observe her thin wrist and continue up her forearm, to a bloody stump....
"...anet. Janet, wake up!"
It's Suarez again. He's shaking me by the shoulders.
"Are you okay? Speak to me!"
I open my eyes. The inner airlock door is open. Suarez regards me with concern.
I see many faces behind him. One is simply curious. Another is concerned.
Another has a bruised forehead and is scowling at me. It is all your
fault....
"Hey, looks like we pulled through, eh? I was almost killed coming
back in through the starboard airlock. There was combustible gas floating
around out there! Are you going to be okay?"
Fine. Who cares. What is that floating...no, it's not that....
"Listen, the Tsiolkovsky is sending a ferry over to tow us back...I
figured you wouldn't be in a condition, uh...wouldn't wan't to take us back,
Captain. Do you want some coffee? Water?" He motions a sipper toward
me.
Nothing will wash down the bitter taste...I want to go home...but I have
no home....
"By the way, one of the passengers, some old guy, is the father of
a member of the Earth Space Agency Council...he said that we'd likely get
some kind of award or medal for our heroism! Wouldn't you like that? Wouldn't
that be great?"
Just great. Tell him to shove it up his ass. Did she go down with her
ship? Or become an orbiting navigational hazard? Either way, she cannot
be recovered. I close my eyes to tears and emptiness....