The Things that Always Get You...
26 Jan 2018Terra Sheer
Odd how much easier it can be to get around a dead ship than a live one. My uncle hated the inconvenience of all the built-in safety and security systems on his ship so much that he permanently disabled most of them. And, to be fair, he was probably on to something. It's far easier to flip open a panel and turn a hand crank than it is to argue with a voice-recognition system when you're slurring drunk. Doubly so when that voice recognition system is smart enough to tell when you're drunk and apt to think it knows better than you.We found an airlock easily enough, and leave it to a band of pirates to keep their EVA and boarding equipment ready-stocked. It might have been nice had they kept weapons in the airlock, too ... but, then, being pirates, I suppose they knew that sword could cut both ways.
I haven't done a lot of EVA in my life. That's what telepresence is for. It doesn't seem like it ought to be that big a deal in principle. You grow up weightless, you learn how to move in it fine, and the addition of an ill-fitting pressure suit shouldn't hang you up any worse than your hand-me-down trousers or one of those godawful "special occasion" dresses. But realizing there's no longer any margin for error out there -- that one misstep could send you tumbling away into inky blackness forever -- adds a certain psychological heft to your situation. I used to have this nightmare where I'd end up somehow stranded in the perfect center of a big room, with the nearest tether or handhold just barely out of reach. One of those physically impossible situations on a ship, to be sure. But out here, barring the utmost care, it was fate.
The silence tugs at you, too. Just you, alone with the sounds of your suit and your own body. You hear your heartbeat more. You become acutely aware of the pace of your own breathing. In my case, it's becoming impossible to ignore just how hungry I'm getting. I haven't eaten in ages. And every time my stomach grumbles, I startle, thinking it's somehow one of those turrets coming to life.
Just breathe, Terra. The old standby doesn't work out here. I hear the panic in my breathing, and it's freaking me out.
For his part, Tiny doesn't seem to be having any trouble. He's working his way hand-over-hand along a rail toward the maintenance hatch by one of the lateral thrusters. He moves with a certainty of purpose I envy. This is his domain. It's hard to express how aggravating it is for me to cede control over any situation -- how much I hate the idea of following some idiot who's probably just as apt to get me killed as I am. At least, if I screw up, I have only myself to blame. But there he goes, being all can-do and take-charge. Son of a bitch. Hand over hand.
He glances back at me. For a second, his hand lingers on the rail to touch mine as I slide over. He smiles, only his eyes and teeth really visible through the glare on his helmet visor. I roll my eyes back at him and shove on.
"Not much farther," he says. He shifts his arm to swing around a multitool he'd had slung over his shoulder. He uses it to brace against the rail as he moves on, hooking himself to the ship in what seems to me an unacceptably precarious manner. Both hands are hardly enough for me. My knuckles are already aching.
"Once we get there, we'll have to pry open the hatch. There's a notch on the bottom-right corner. But be careful to keep clear when it first opens up. They can end up pressurized if the dock technicians don't bleed them properly after closing them. And you don't want them to knock you loose--"
"Yeah, thanks."
I start to wonder about the frequency of micrometeorite impacts. What are the odds ... but then what are the odds of any of this?
"Right here."
Tiny shifts again. The edge of the panel stands out as a deep seam between hull plates. Tiny inserts the wedge-end of his multitool into the aforementioned notch. He holds up a hand to me -- but I've already given up propriety. I hook my arms around the rail, well away from the edge of the hatch, and take the opportunity to cower shamelessly.
"Piece of cake," he says, and pries the hatch loose.
You expect to hear big things when they happen. Part of the paradoxical claustrophoboia of space is that it feels sometimes as though something is pressing into your ears, keeping out the sounds that simply aren't there to begin with. I feel the vibration of the blowing hatch through my arms. I see the flash, and in some part of my mind I realize that decompressions don't usually flash. But the collision of expectation with reality leaves me dumbfounded for that critical split second.
I probably couldn't have done anything anyway -- anything but screw myself just as deeply and thoroughly as Tiny was in that moment. But maybe I could have tried, had events just had the basic decency to make sense.
As it is, the trap springs, and fate comes crashing down on us.
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