by Phil Geusz
Navigating was far easier with my eyes functional, and the improvised parasol worked very well indeed. Effortlessly I drifted from handhold to handhold up towards the center of what remained of the Henhouse, where the axis of rotation was located. We were spinning two ways, I determined as I drifted along. First, we were wheeling end over end rapidly enough to produce a noticeable acceleration at either end of the station. We were also pivoting slowly around our long axis, as well, though not quickly enough to really matter; I estimated that we were making perhaps three or four revolutions an hour. I was going to have to jump across open space to Aphrodite, and therefore it was essential that I move to the station's axis before making my leap. The pod was going to be a difficult enough target without adding any more vectors into the equation than was needful. All the while my eyes continually sought out the reassuring sight of my hot-pink vessel nearly motionless against the stars. She still wasn't too far away, I judged, maybe a klick or two.
Only four or five times as far as an experienced spaceman might reasonably attempt to jump under ideal conditions, with help standing by.
Well, at least Aphrodite was a big target.
Once I got to the axis, I took a moment to think things through one last time. Was there anything that I could do to maximize my chances? Had I ever learned anything about jumping other than aiming and taking my best shot? No, I decided reluctantly. All that I could do was take reasonable care, and trust to luck.
Very carefully, I sought the best, firmest footing I could find, making certain that one foot would have exactly as good a grip as the other. Then I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself in the suit, trying to determine where my center of gravity might be. There were the breasts to consider, as well as the toolbox and the length of chain; fortunately, I was already used to the tanks from training and would account for them naturally. Next I re-opened my eyes and fixed them not just on Aphrodite, but on the huge chicken logo painted onto her side. The hen wore lipstick, I noted; the painted lips became my bullseye. Slowly I closed my eyes again, picturing myself landing right up against those lips over and over again, smack, smack, smack. I bent my legs, then used the leverage of a convenient handhold to press myself firmly against the hull. Next I lined my parasol up against the target, exposing myself to the sun for a moment, but also lining the umbrella up with my center of gravity. I couldn't see my target through the immature solar cell, but that no longer mattered. I knew exactly where those lovely lips where.
Then I pressed my feet against the hull, hard, and launched myself into space.
VIII
For a very long time, I thought that I was actually going to make it. The Aphrodite grew steadily larger and larger, and squint though I might I could not detect any bearing shift. It looked as if I was dead on course. Then as I drew closer, I watched first one and then a second star eclipse itself behind my pod's hull. There was cross-drift, even though it was not enough to be readily detectable, and I was going to miss.
Unless I did something about it.
But what? There was very little that I could throw away. I was reluctant to part with my tools until I was safe inside the pod, and the same went for the whip and the rope. They had proven themselves extremely useful so far, and I had no reason whatsoever to believe that things were going to be any better on the outside of the pod. Nor could I spare the parasol, unless I wanted to roast once more and fog up my lenses again. In training I'd been taught that boots were always good for reaction mass in situations like this, but I was wearing none. That left exactly one option, an alternative I did not like at all.
The air tank.
In an ordinary suit, I could at any given moment check to see how much air I had remaining, down almost to a single lungful. Spacewalkers tend to be obsessive about this sort of thing, and for this reason the instruments are perhaps even more redundant and refined than is needful. A mere glance would inform me how much air I had remaining by almost any conceivable measure; time remaining, pressure, volume, you name it. In this cobbled-up nightmare I could only guess, however. I wasn't even carrying a chronometer; that was built into the helmet too!
The improvised suit had held up so well that I wasn't particularly worried about leaks any more, or more likely I had ceased to find such worrying to be productive. There were plenty of other dangers clamoring for my immediate attention, however, and air was first and foremost among them. In truth I had no idea how much breathing time I had left, and I wasn't particularly eager to waste any as propellant.
On the other hand, I didn't particularly care to drift away into free orbit, either. And I could probably maneuver with an air jet better than via throwing tools; I could place the air jet at something resembling my center of mass, whereas throwing things would naturally put me into a far more rapid spin than that which I was already experiencing.
For a long minute or two I thought things over, watching two more stars slide behind Aphrodite, and another emerge from the far side. My cross-drift was eyeball-apparent now, and I was perhaps half a click out.
I tried to think things through one last time. Unless I missed my guess, things would soon be happening very fast and this would be the last opportunity I had to really work things out. The further out I made my corrections, the less gas I would use in making them. On the other hand, the earlier I disconnected my tank, the longer I would have to survive on just what air was in the suit. There was a wild card in the deck as well. How much air exactly did I still have? In truth, I knew, any breath could be my last; I'd been through far too much already to even be able to pretend to know how much time had elapsed since the girls had sealed me into my slave hood-cum-helmet.
In the end, I decided that I simply had to have more information. There was a direct pressure gauge on the air bottle, I knew, though I had to dismount the thing totally in order to read it. Carefully I shrugged myself out of the standard harness and twisted myself around with a kick and spin. Sure enough, the bottle's gauge was working perfectly. In fact, I tapped it several times with my fingertip in order to make absolutely certain.
It read dead empty.
Suddenly I was breathing hard again, and it took a major act of will to calm myself down. There was still air in the bottle, I told myself, there had to be. I'd just been breathing out of it a moment before, after all. It might be very low, but there was still pressure.
The tank's nozzle was bent ninety-degrees away from the device's long axis in order to make the thing easier to hook up to standard suit hardware. Most of the time this was a welcome engineering feature, but just now it was major headache. It would not be possible to simply aim and point the tank like a reaction pistol; instead I would once more have to guesstimate my center of mass and try to line things up on it.
My first attempt was a terrible hash; the air jet was plenty powerful, but I had it aligned wrong and the thrust mostly served to whip me into a spin. I was just barely able to retain control of the tank, and if I'd not tied the parasol to my leg I'd have lost it entirely. There wasn't anything to do but waste a second spurt of gas in an effort to cancel out the damage of the first, and finally I did just exactly that. When I was finished, I was stable, all right.
And the Aphrodite was sliding off to one side faster than ever!
Finally I lined things up one last time- I didn't think that the bottle would give me more than one final spurt, judging by how quickly it was fading away. Carefully I cradled the bottle in my arms and lined up the spout just below and to the right of my breastbone, and waited, waited, waited until I spun into just the right position.
Then I cracked the valve, and left it open until the air was utterly spent.
Naturally I could not see where I was going, since I had to face away in order to point the jet in the right direction. When I spun around again, however, my pod loomed huge in front of me…
…and was clearly going to slide past just out of reach!
Reflexively I shoved the empty tank away from me just as hard as I
possibly could, and then sent the parasol after; I would run out of air now long before I had time to cook. It was still not enough, however, and the ship was almost by! It was by in fact; I was passing the nose now, just out of reach of the tangled wreckage that had once been the Henhouse's docking station! I was gone, gone, gone…
…until I felt hard eyes glaring at me from behind a black leather hood not unlike the one I was now wearing. "You insignificant little worm!" a cold voice screamed in rage. "You've failed us all. You've failed at everything you've ever touched, and betrayed everything you've ever hoped to be. You deserve to float around forever in a pink sexsuit, you piece of filth! You deserve it!"
"No!" I screamed aloud. "No! I can't fail!"
Then suddenly I was grasping the Dragon's whip in my right hand, spinning it bolo-fashion. I had one chance, maybe, as my ship floated away. One chance, if I moved quickly and didn't bother too much about aiming. At the very last second I released the whip-handle…
…and then felt the most welcome tug in the world as it lodged firmly in the wreckage and caught, jerking me to a sudden halt.
For just one second I luxuriated in my victory, breathing in and out, in and out. Then, moving slowly so as not to dislodge my precarious toehold despite the fact that my air was beginning to grow noticeably stale, I made my way hand-over-hand down to the wrecked docking area and looked around to see what was wrong. I'd originally planned to enter Aphrodite through the EVA airlock, but I'd never have time to travel that far now. My lenses were rapidly fogging over again on top of everything else; soon I'd be blind once more. I'd either find a way in through the docking ring, or I'd die trying. It seemed to be the day for that sort of thing.
Everything was an absolute wreck, everything! At first I couldn't even recognize much of what I was looking at, but then once I realized that not everything that I was seeing was part of the Henhouse things began to make sense. Part of Lagrange itself had hit and lodged here, I could see, including a taxi and its most unfortunate occupants. There was a severed human arm floating free in front of the airlock proper; I snatched it out of the way and tossed it unceremoniously over my shoulder. There simply wasn't time for delicacy! The main docking dogs had separated themselves, I could see, but the ring itself was still holding everything together. There was a hand wheel for that, and I fell upon it desperately. Carefully I anchored myself against a shock-warped support beam and tugged on it with all of my might.
It would not budge. Not a millimeter!
Angrily, desperately, I tried again until I saw spots before my eyes. Still it would not give, and now there was another hissing noise in my ears; I'd sprung another leak! It didn't matter I decided; the air in my suit wasn't much good for anything anyway.
A third time I wrenched at the wheel, and still it would not give. My hands ached, and this time the little spots simply would not go away. I had one last chance, I decided, one last good effort in me, and then that would be that.
Without thinking I slid my hand into my toolbox, hoping for inspiration. Inside, I felt the pair of locking pliers and something long, hard and heavy. Whatever it was, I decided, it would make a great hammer! I pulled it out and, working by feel now with my lenses fully fogged up, beat a few times on the wheel's spokes.
Nothing.
Damnit, this was getting serious! I couldn't see at all now, and I was running out of options! Angrily I reached into the toolbox one last time and retrieved the pliers, then clamped its jaws onto the wheel, offering me a place to hammer where I could get a clear swing. Then I reached back and swung with all of my might, slamming my improvised hammer with considerable force onto the innocent, inoffensive pliers.
And the wheel spun a little; I could feel it give!
Panting hard now, I swung my hammer again and again, missing sometimes but often driving the wheel around just a little more. After several such impacts, the wheel finally spun free. I dropped my tool and gripped the wheel firmly with both hands, moving the heavy gears faster than they'd ever intended to be driven. Finally the wheel quit resisting altogether, and, hooking my toes under the docking hatch itself, I pushed just as hard as I could against the twisted remains of the Henhouse and ejected them slowly off into space. Aphrodite was free, free, free! And I could now enter my pod, where, if there was any justice in the universe, there would be real air for me to breathe instead of the used-up vacuumy stuff that I was now existing on.
There was one last wheel to turn before the airlock door opened, and I had to find my hammer one last time and beat on it as well before it freed itself up enough to let me in. I dragged myself inside with the very last of my strength, and hit the cycle button after not too terribly much fumbling around. Then I heard the air rushing in, and knew that I would live after all.
Something was very wrong, however. The air was rushing in, yes. But I still could not breathe! Good Lord, what could be wrong now?
It was the suit, I realized in my darkening mind, the suit! I was still trapped in my little bubble of bad air, even though I was now surrounded by sweet, sweet oxygen. And the lenses were still fogged over too; I could not see a thing! Here I was, surrounded by good air and fully-functional equipment, and I was still about to die!
Blindly I fumbled around for my tool kit; there had been a utility knife in there, I knew that there had been! But where? I'd lost it, and now I was going to die for it! Finally my groping hands encountered the hammer that I'd used to batter my way inside, and without really thinking-I was long past that-I used it to smash open the lenses over my eyes. Wondrous clean air flowed over my face, and for a long, long time I simply floated in the airlock and breathed, breathed, breathed. The hammer had saved my life three times, I thought to myself as I rested and recovered for a little while, three times in perhaps three minutes. I'd keep it forever, I swore, and hang it up in my cockpit as a lucky charm that would protect me from harm forevermore. It might not be logical, but whenever it was with me, I knew, I'd somehow feel safe.
Finally the nausea faded from my stomach, and I began to feel a little better. My eyes opened, and I was able to see clearly. There were no dark spots, and no foggy lenses to block my view of the world. Aphrodite seemed to be in perfectly ordinary condition; her blowers were humming smoothly and the "inner lock door open" was the only red light in sight. I'd forgotten what it was like, not to be confronted by seas of blinking red lights, or so it seemed.
Then my fingers sought out the hammer that I'd used to save myself, so I could put it away in a safe place before rescuing the others aboard the Henhouse and then adding Aphrodite's considerable capacity to the efforts at Lagrange. My digits encountered its reassuring smoothness almost immediately and, still a bit dopey, I raised it up to my eyes to gaze upon it for the very first time.
My hammer, the lucky tool that had saved my life, was a dildo. The most obscenely swollen chrome-plated dildo that I'd ever encountered in my life, in fact, complete with a now-ruined heavy-duty vibrator motor.
IX
EIGHT MONTHS LATER…
"…some people may call it a miracle," Commodore Tottson's deep voice was saying, "but we spacemen know better. Saving Lagrange Station didn't take a miracle; it just took the coordinated work of dozens of skilled and courageous spacers, all working together towards a common goal with ingenuity and inspiration."
I nodded silently from my seat. Not just one Sector had remained habitable at the height of the Emergency, despite the gloomiest of projections, but two. The evacuation had been called off during my first refugee run, just after I'd dropped off the Henhouse contingent at an emergency shack. Keeping two sectors habitable after such a catastrophe had not only been an incredible feat of improvisation, but had also saved thousands of lives. The death toll had proven to be unexpectedly low, though hundreds instead of thousands dead was still bad enough.
"Their efforts," Commodore Tottson continued, "were most laudable, and should be remembered with respect forever. However, there is one story of improvisation,
leadership, and courage that outshines them all."
Suddenly I felt hundreds of eyes and not a few video cameras focusing on me, and I blushed under my feathers. The missing ones had still not completely grown back in, and I was therefore a bit ragged looking. No one seemed to care, however.
"We've all heard the story of Marvin Mackleschmidt. We've heard of how he managed to restore critical systems utilizing the unlikeliest of materials, how he quelled a riot and then, most of all, how he crossed open space under conditions that make me shudder just to think about them. Not a single fatality occurred aboard the Henhouse during the Emergency, due more to Brother Mackleschmidt's skill and professionalism than any other single factor. He not only saved the lives of the men and women entrusted to his professional care after they had been written off by far more experienced spacehands, but managed to actively aid in the rescue of others before all was said and done.
"At first, the Brotherhood of Command Navigators refused to accept Brother Marvin's report, because it seemed so wildly unlikely. I was there, however, and my own life was one of those that Marvin saved. I took a personal interest in learning what had gone wrong, in detail. And, to my astonishment, I was able to determine that Marvin's incredible report was factual in every detail. Subsequently, a formal Brotherhood inquiry was forced rather against their will to the same conclusion. Brother Mackleschmidt was not and is not a liar. Instead, he is a true hero."
I shifted nervously in my seat. The Brotherhood's first official reaction to my report had been to pull my license for blatant falsifications; only Tottson's personal investigation had saved me. That, and the fact that I'd not taken the time to remove more than the head of my improvised pressure suit while piloting the refugees. People will tend to talk, when their rescue pilot is seen wearing a taped-over pink plastic sex suit with nipples proudly erect and clutching a chrome-plated dildo.