The Naked Spacewalk

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. That’s because without atmospheric pressure you have about 10 seconds before you begin to ebullism. The water in your blood and soft tissues begin to vaporize, the surfaces of your tongue and eyelids begin to boil and at 30 seconds you’re a human bloater. Your organs have all swollen to twice their normal size and begun to burst but your skin is just elastic enough to hold everything together nicely. In fact, screaming may be about the best thing you could do assuming your final breath hadn’t already ruptured your lungs on the way out from desperately holding it in.

At least, that’s how it had just gone down for Palmer, the crew technician, as I watched the final bit of life drain from his bulging eyes just a few seconds ago. What remains of him is lulling lazily against the exterior of the airlock wall – typical Palmer. The only activity going on inside that suit now is the banquet of a trillion microbes and enzymes devouring what’s left of his husk. Poor guy – never did like him. I guess that just leaves me then now.

182 solar days had passed since this shit show began - An ambitious new frontier fuelled by the egomania and endless pockets of earths finest cooperate elite entrepreneur. A dynamic crew of 3,000 of earths best and brightest expendable fodder to launch at red pinhole in the sky on the phallic representation that was the ‘STS Genesis’.

“A new hope for mankind’s future.”

“A new technological leap in interstellar transportation.”

A wet dream sold to billions on the backs of cheap cooperate labour more like. Apparently, we learned nothing in 1912. But at least I find some comfort that ice is the least of my worries right now as I see one of the starboard thrusters skip merrily over the cargo bay, leaving a small happy trail of debris in its wake - the way they drift along the aft and cast their shadow against the back drop of the red planet as the thruster peels against the hull almost makes the scene terrifyingly picturesque. It’s almost a shame I had left my phone in my cabin. Maybe Palmer had one?

The melody of sirens and dancing red glow of lights let me know that this section of the ship will detach and decompress in the next 3 minutes and that Palmer’s fate lays with the 2998 other idiots as a floating popsicle ballerining against the titanium hull for the foreseeable future. Like a slow, endless game of human pinball. I allow myself to indulge in a wry smirk before continuing down into the emergency cargo hatch and through the lower airducts of the ship running my hand along the smooth metallic surface as I go.

Still cold, no surrounding fires.

Emerging two hatches down and 2 minutes and 27 seconds later brings me out just where I need to be – portside connecting corridor 2A. The doorway has a welcoming halo surrounding it as I step through the low hum of lights and reach for the release switch. One satisfying hiss from the hydraulic release and I give a slow wave to Portside, Engine 3 and Palmer, poetically drifting on their endless dance through the void. Beautiful.

The structure before me is well lit and vibrant with a white glow. No emergency here – for now. I muse my way through the corridors whilst trying to think of something witty relating to Palmer and “one giant leap” but nothing will come to me over the adrenaline still coursing through my body. The T junction signage ahead marked “Lower Aft” greets me welcomingly with my next destination. The generator.