by Andrew Mayne
The old ones were basically a bladder that squeezed you like an arm pressure cuff – but all over your body. The modern ones are made from skintight material that's essentially a full-body corset. The exception is the hands and the head.
My helmet is a pressurized fish bowl and my gloves are still the old-style bladder that squeezes the hands and has a habit of causing your fingernails to fall off.
This is fine for light work and maneuvering, but for more physically challenging jobs like building the US/iCosmos, spaceworkers use mechanical extensions where their hands sit inside cozy little pockets controlling mechanical fingers. This works well enough, but the long arms make you look like a chimpanzee – which is why we call them "chimp gloves."
I'd kill for a pair right now. Pulling myself along on the rails is fine for a few meters, but I can really feel it in my hands.
I'm tempted to just yank really hard and let myself soar over the module, but there's the very real chance I might sail past the last hand grip and keep going into space.
On the US/iC they have robot lifeguards that will retrieve you if that happens. There's nothing like that on the K1.
I move down the EVA spire and start crawling out along the storage module, hoping there's nobody inside who can hear me.
I could take a shortcut and move through the gap between the solar panels and the station, but I'm terrified of clipping a panel or getting caught as they make their orbital adjustment.
Even up here in free fall, there are tiny bits of atmosphere that drag on the massive surfaces. Every 45 minutes the panels change their pitch slightly as the K1 goes into and comes out of the part of its elliptical orbit that brings it closer to the earth. I'd prefer not to get stuck like a fly on a window wiper blade.
"How you doing, Dave?" Laney asks over the comm.
"Awesome. All that time I spent on the monkey bars at recess is really paying off. If Amy Schweiger could see me now."
"Was she your first crush?"
"No. My first bully. She tried to pull anyone off the bars when they crossed them. Never got me, best she ever managed was pantsing me."
"So you were that clueless about women even back then?"
"I reckon."
"How do your fingers feel?"
"I think the nails are still attached, if that's what you mean."
"I heard some astronauts used to have them removed for long space walks."
"About the most I'll consider doing is shaving my...So, how is Earth?"
"Fine, I guess. Can't wait to get off it. Markov still hasn't heard anything. There's lots of chatter on the Russian side. The US is getting a little antsy."
"What happens when intelligence agencies start intercepting the words 'nuclear' and 'space'?"
"Do you have all your porn backed up to an EMP-proof medium?"
"I think the magazines under my mattress are safe."
"What's a magazine?"
"Hilarious."
I swing over the outer pylon so I'm "under" the station and start pulling myself back towards the center. I spot the two Russian ships berthed on the docking module below me.
I try to take my mind off the fact that I'm 200 miles over the planet. "So, you made any progress on the Russian manuals?"
"Yep. You know Russian, right?"
"Mostly just a working knowledge of what switches do what. But I wouldn't trust myself to take something apart without instructions."
"The Russian Army used to have their equipment designed so an illiterate kid from the middle of the Ukraine could repair them."
"Guess what? A functionally illiterate kid from California is going to have a try at that."
"I've marked down what tools you brought that you'll need to get inside."
"Excellent. Because I am now descending the lower pylon towards the docking module and I can already see Ivanka."
"Ivanka?"
"My sweet, sweet Russian ride. I realize that I've stolen...hold on...I forgot about the ambulance...eight vehicles so far. Nine if you count the rental car I'm probably not going to return. Ivanka will be ten. Although technically I'm not stealing her."
"Just violating her."
"She's asking for it – all shiny and metal like that."
"Well, you're going to need some help so you don't blow it. Literally. There's a safe way to get that hatch open without setting off the charges or causing it to explode from the internal air pressure. And then there's the bad way."
"I vote the safe way. I'm working my way down now."
My handrails have sadly come to an end. In order to work on the hatch I have to position myself in such a way that I don't drift away.
Laney is way ahead of me as she explains where to find the hooks to clip my belt tether. "There are four on the nose section and another above and below the hatch."
"You're a lifesaver."
Zero-g mountain climber-style, I attach myself to one and push myself to the other and stick a finger through the opening and refasten the tether.
"Boom. I'm over the hatch."
"Great. Now stop saying "boom" and look for a small circle with the words 'Vozdushnyy klapan vykhlopnykh.' You read Cyrillic, right?"
"Like a glove."
"You're not inspiring confidence down here."
"Not so much up here either. Found it. Now what?"
"Take your hex tool and insert it into the slot and turn to the right."
"Okay. Ready to proceed."
I give it a twist and my hand gets pushed back from the pressure of the escaping air. If I hadn't been expecting it, I might have let go of the tool, which would have been bad.
"Give it about two minutes, then see if you can feel any air coming out."
I count backwards to zero and check with the palm of my glove. "Nothing."
"Great. Captain Baylor just gave me a thumbs up. Which I think means we didn't set off any alarms. You ready to dismantle the hatch so you can put it back together again?"
"You got it."
I spend the next twenty minutes taking apart the release mechanism so I can open the door from the outside. It'd be a two-minute job on Earth, but I don't have a convenient place to set my tools down or any of the small parts I remove. If I lose something up here, it becomes a satellite.
At last I'm able to unlock the door and swing it open. I then tediously replace all the parts so I can seal it. If I don't do that, I'll depressurize the K1...again.
"Hatch shut. I'm inside."
"Okay. You know how to work the manual airlock from here and equalize pressure?"
"Yes, ma'am. Starting now."
The PFFFFFTTTTT sound of air entering Ivanka is inaudible at first but soon grows louder before equalizing.
"Capsule air pressure equalized with the K1. Ready to equalize suit pressure."
I feel a cold rush of air as my suit fills with the atmosphere of the K1. My nostrils are immediately greeted by the scent of melting plastic.
I think that's normal. But I can't really remember.
"Okay Dark Ops, ready to cross the threshold and commit an act of piracy."
"Proceed, David...carefully."
70
INVADER
I RELUCTANTLY SLIDE out of my spacesuit. I have to take it off to get to the gas mask I strapped to my chest and the other tools I didn't want to expose to hard vacuum and freezing cold.
For a brief moment I consider leaving it on for the added safety factor it provides as lightweight armor, but ultimately decide it'll cut down on my mobility. Also, although the backpack has a slim profile, the last time I flew through the K1, I didn't exactly do it gracefully.
I shove the suit into a cargo net on Ivanka's bulkhead then put the tools into my thermal suit pockets. Afraid I'll electrocute myself, I shove the stun glove into a pocket by my ankle.
I take one more moment to adjust the radio over my ear and send a final message back to Earth.
"About to enter the K1. I'll be silent for a while."
"Go ahead
and leave your channel open so we can hear you, David," says Baylor. Now that the technical part is over, she's taking point on the commando part of the mission.
Right now there's a room full of people listening in down there, silently passing notes.
I've been there. In stressful situations, like this, you choose one person at a time to help the astronaut through. This can either be a friendly voice or someone with technical know-how.
Back at iCosmos we have a couple of NASA veterans who'll get on the comm with people during extended spacewalks and tell you stories and jokes to keep you company.
It's incredibly reassuring to listen to someone who made it to space in a different era talk you through a complicated situation.
Right now I think I'd like Prescott to tell me some Navy SEAL tales that don't involve throat slitting or mission failure. Instead, I have to settle for radio silence and the constant hiss of the K1.
A space station is filled with hundreds of noises. The best description I've encountered is that it's like living inside an old motel air conditioner.
Besides the hissing sounds of the air vents, there's the variety of hums and knocking sounds coming from everywhere. Because a space station is free-floating, vibrations really don't have anywhere to go.
One of the virtual reality simulations we do is called "Knock Knock." The point of it is to see how quickly you can find a mysterious rattle inside the space station. More than a game, this could come in handy if someone's scientific spinny-thingy is going to vibrate loose an entire module.
I push Ivanka's hatch all the way open and slide into the docking module. Directly in front of me there's bright yellow tape across the hatch where the Unicorn was docked. I guess they don't want to take the chance that someone will try to use the damaged docking collar.
The hatch to the upper pylon is closed. I put my ear to the metal and listen to the hum of the station. Reasonably confident there's not a troop of Russian space marines on the other side, I spin the wheel and open the entrance to the next section.
Last time I was here, I was in a bit of a rush. Now I'm taking my sweet time. Nuke or no nuke, I don't want to run into the commanders or anyone else unprepared.
I reach the end of the lower pylon and stop myself before gliding into the junction that leads to the four different modules and the upper spire.
Everything is quiet. The emergency lights aren't flashing like last time, so there's that. But I don't hear people talking.
The secure section is at the end of the module to my left. At least one of the commanders must be inside there with the nuke.
The main crew section is directly ahead of me. This is where the kitchen and the sleeping quarters are located. Behind me are the laboratories. The other side is the storage section.
Which way?
If I want to get into the secure section I'll need one of the commanders to use as a puppet. I take the stun glove out, slide it over my left hand, then shove the combat syringe into that sleeve so I can get to it quickly.
Okay, all I need to do now is to just slip past all the other crew and paralyze a Russian combat-veteran.
Perfect.
Maybe it would have been a better idea if Prescott was here instead.
71
REC ROOM
I FLIP a mental coin and pull myself down the module leading to the secure section. If I encounter a commander I need to get him alone, and not in the middle of a bunch of cosmonauts who might not be too happy to see my smiling face again.
The section is a long tunnel of connected modules extending over a hundred feet. The part with the bomb is supposed to be close to the very end. From the look of things, half that section is closed off.
I glide along the passageway, keeping an eye on the small cubby holes lining the sides that occasionally lead to add-on modules. I don't want to get brained by someone hiding in the shadows with a monkey wrench.
I come to a stop a few feet below the window on the access hatch for the secure module. Using the handle as a support, I slowly raise my head up to play peekaboo through the window.
I'm sure there's some stealthy SEAL way to do this using a mirror or spit and bubblegum. I just steal a quick look then duck back down like a two-year-old playing hide and seek.
The next section appears empty. The hatch at the far end is shut, so that means at least one of the commanders is probably behind there.
Ever so gently, I give the wheel on the hatch a twist to see if I can get it to open....except it doesn't budge. I try the other way and still have no luck.
Just to be doubly certain, I read the Russian instructions on the hatch to make sure I'm doing it right.
Yep. This sucker is locked from the inside.
So that's going to complicate my whole Weekend at Bernie's routine with the lifeless body of a commander if I get the chance to make him lifeless – there's nobody in this section to put on a show for. They're secured by two sealed doors.
Wonderful.
I push back towards the junction and try to think of another option.
I could try taking the door apart. I just have to make sure that I do it quietly. I'll also need more substantial tools than the one I used to penetrate Ivanka.
Surely, somewhere on this station I can find them. But before I go on a scavenger hunt I need to get my captive. It'd be awkward digging through a tool chest only to have one of them find me first.
At the intersection I veer left and push myself into the crew module. There's a hatch slightly ajar at the far end.
I pass canvas pouches lining the walls holding belongings. There are workstations with laptops and loops on the hull to slide your feet into so you don't drift away.
Past this area, there's a kitchen section across from a small table where the crew can take communal meals as their condiments float in front of them.
Interspersed among the space hardware and quick fixes of patch cords and handwritten signs telling you what not to touch, there are photos and cartoons stuck to the walls like you'd find in any other workplace.
200 miles up, in the most inhospitable environment you can imagine, people are still people. I notice a number of XKCD comics, popular among the smartest of nerds, with little yellow Post-It notes attached saying things like, "Sergey, this is a Star Trek reference," or "Sergey, -sudo is a command that gives you ultimate control over a computer."
Poor Sergey, it's not enough he doesn't get nerd humor, he has to be reminded of it by his co-workers.
I pass the closet that holds the toilet. For a decade the Russians were beating us in the arms race for the best way to use the john in space. The one on the ISS used to break down occasionally, forcing astronauts to use "Apollo bags" – which was an invention that never really caught on like Tang or Velcro. Although none of those were actually invented by NASA. They probably consider heat shielding a much better invention to lay claim to than doing number two in a plastic bag that seals with a pre-attached sticky strip.
There's a very dark period of my astronaut guinea pig experience I prefer not to think about that involved sitting in a chair that could rotate in any direction up or down and having bodily functions as technicians watched.
I repress that memory as I float through the last hatch and enter a section of small closets holding sleeping bags. Each little cubicle has photos and decorations belonging to individual astronauts.
Early concepts for living on space stations involved communal sleeping bunks that astronauts could use in shifts. While this is fine for a 19-year-old sailor on a submarine, it's not a viable solution for professionals used to having their own homes. Even a tiny section to call your own and retreat to is better than nothing.
I'm a little worried that I haven't seen any astronauts; not even someone catching a nap.
I reach the end of the module, do a flip and make my way back towards the junction.
The section directly ahead is the labs. To my right is the storage section. I decide to head towards there.
>
There's a sealed door midway down the module. The crew might be hanging out on the other side, doing who knows what.
There's no window, so I put my ear to the hatch and listen.
The only sound is the hundreds of vibrations and hums of the station.
I float back and take a look at the wheel to the hatch and realize there's a crowbar wedged into the spokes, preventing it from being opened from the other side.
Well, that's kind of weird.
I quietly slide it free and stow it in a fabric pouch so it doesn't drift into my skull later on.
I turn the wheel as slowly as possible. When it makes a "click" I push it open and peer inside.
The next section is dark except for the blinking of dozens of tiny lights.
I pull myself a little further inside and suddenly feel an arm go around my neck and squeeze tightly until the little blinking lights fade.
72
CAPTIVE AUDIENCE
I'M PRETTY sure I'm not dead. For one, I'm still thinking, which is a good sign. For another, although I can't see, I'm pretty sure that the afterlife isn't just the sound of a bunch of Russians arguing.
They're going too fast for me to pick up. All I can gather is they've been trapped in here until I opened the door.
From what else I can surmise, I'm not exactly being heralded as their rescuer – my hands and feet are bound.
I'm not sure how many times someone has been tied up like this in space, but I can tell you that not only is it uncomfortable, I keep banging into the wall.
"Prostite! Prostite!" I say in Russian, begging their pardon.
Someone whips off the hood. A man with a head shaped like an orange points a finger at me and shouts in Russian, "It's him!"
There are four others in the module. I recognize the red-haired woman, Sonin, from the first time I was up here. There's another woman, a little older with blond hair and two men. Neither of them was the one that stared me down in the Unicorn.