The Final Frontier (Sci-Fi Prompt 01: Space)
Title: The Final Frontier Author: slutbamwalla Rating: PG-13 Warnings: none Word Count: 623 Prompt: 01 - Space (Sci-Fi) Summary: It's funny the things you think about in the black.
It's funny the things you think about in the black.
And not just the profound things like whether or not you're actually significant in the grand scheme of the universe. (Because on the one hand, the universe is just so vast and mindbogglingly huge that it's hard to accept that anything as small as you could really matter. But on the other hand, ninety nine percent of the universe is just empty space, and so the fact that you aren't has to make you at least marginally more important.) It's the inane things, too, like wondering if you'd gotten further with that cute xenobotanist back home if you had worn a different color shirt. Or how you wish the meat loaf ration meal came with more ketchup because it's just a little too dry otherwise.
They don't prepare you for that part in training. They show you how the EV suit works, which buttons work the little thruster pack, how to read the oxygen gauge. They drill into you the procedure to flush the lines before sealing the helmet and the necessity of a slow repressurization when you return to the airlock. A dozen different emergencies get jammed in on top of that -- how they happen, how to avoid them, what to do if you can't avoid them, and the consequences if you can't get them under control.
But they never tell you the way your mind takes off when you're actually drifting out there among the stars. They don't warn you that the song your mother used to sing you to sleep with will suddenly and for no reason get stuck in your head even though you haven't heard it for thirty years. They never mention the sudden desire that pops into your head to look up friends from school just to see what they're up to. And they certainly leave out how your suit is just a touch too tight to accomodate the erection you get from instantly recalling all your former sexual exploits all at once.
Truth be told, though, the reason they never tell you about that is because they'd never in their worst nightmares pictured this particular contingency, and wouldn't have known how to prepare you for it even if they had. And who could blame them? What are the odds that you'd be on a spacewalk to replace some damaged part of some fifteen year old satellite when some kind of catastrophic malfunction on the orbiter would turn the sleek, white craft into a giant, orange fireball? Who could have predicted that you'd be far enough away to not be consumed in the blast, but instead be pushed clear by the concussion wave? And even if it could have been anticipated, what emergency procedure could possibly have been devised to save you when you're floating away from the rapidly expanding chunks of scrap metal that used to be your only way home?
The worst part, ironically enough, is that your suit is completely undamaged. There are no leaks in the oxygen lines, no ruptures in the suit, or cracks in the faceplate. You've got three hours of oxygen left, and nothing to do but wait. And think about how at least now you won't have to pay the payload specialist that ten bucks he won off you in the poker game last night. Or wonder if they still make the brand of fabric softener that you used in college to get the smell of pot and booze and sex out of your sheets.
And consider whether or not it wouldn't just be better to use the broken shard of mirror still in your hand to cut the air line and put an end to it quickly.