Flight Engineer Shaun Harrison could feel many things. He could feel the faint breeze of air recirculating around his helmet. He could feel from his Portable Life Support System (PLSS) as it worked to keep him alive in the unforgiving vacuum of space. He could feel the sweat beading up on his face in zero gravity, and the beating of his heart in his chest.

But what he felt more than anything was the sensation of time slipping away.

“Commander Sheridan, I have a visual on the damaged segment and confirmation of the leak.”

In other circumstances it would have been beautiful. A mist of evaporating liquid and gas was drifting away from the side of the ship like the tail of a comet. It glittered and shined as it reflected the sunlight, creating a miniature and ever changing starfield before his eyes.

If only it weren't his ship's lifeblood leaking into the black.

“Received, Harrison. Fuel loss is continuing. We estimate 15 minutes before Bingo fuel.” The commander's voice was calm and collected. That special kind of calm and collected familiar to test pilots, astronauts, and NTSB agents who listened to the final moments of cockpit voice recorders.

Fifteen minutes. It had taken years to plan this mission. Three months to get to Mars. Six months on the red planet. They were one month into their return trip. And in fifteen minutes they would no longer have enough fuel to make their rendezvous with Earth.

Unless he could reach the manual shutoff valve in time.

Harrison forced his heart to slow down. Forced himself to move calmly and deliberately. Space was unforgiving of mistakes.

“Definite signs of a high pressure explosion between frame 41 and 43. The outer skin and access port are damaged. I'm going to have to pry the hatch off.”

The sound of heavy breathing echoed in his helmet as he put action to words. It was difficult work, using a crowbar in zero gravity, and he could feel each second tick by as he struggled to clear his path.

“Hatch is open. I have a visual on the damaged connections.” There was a pause as he examined the interior of the crawlspace. “The leak is downstream of the manual shutoff valve. I repeat, downstream.”

There was an audible sigh of relief over the radio.

“Roger that Harrison. Get in there and shut that valve. We're eight minutes to Bingo fuel.”

Harrison didn't bother replying as he carefully maneuvered himself to enter the narrow maintenance passage. Space was limited on spacecraft, but NASA had designed the maintenance spaces to (barely) fit an astronaut in a Z-7 series suit. They had planned for in-flight emergency repairs.

“Thunk”

Unfortunately, NASA had not planned for an explosion to warp the entire frame and hatch.

“Thunk.”

And no matter how Harrison reoriented, his PLSS was catching on the hatch's edge.

“Thunk.”

Leaving the shut off valve two feet beyond his reach.

“Command, the hatch is warped. My suit won't fit. I am undocking my PLSS to make entry.”

Harrison ignored his commanding officer's response. There was no time to wait. Only time to do.
The flexible (and fragile) umbilical hoses that connected his suit to the PLSS would give him a little more reach.

Of course, if one of those connections failed, he would be exposed to vacuum almost instantly. His body would swell. His blood pressure would drop. And in twelve to eighteen seconds he would black out.

Harrison undocked the system without hesitation. It took almost five minutes. But with the extra length of the delicate umbilical cords, Harrison could just touch the handle…

“Thunk.”

And that was as far as the lines would stretch.

Three minutes to Bingo fuel. Two months for the world to watch seven astronauts starve to death, lost in space. Twelve to eighteen seconds in vacuum.

Harrison closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He thought of Earth. Of home. Of friends and family playing under blue skies. Of friends and family on the other side of the hull.

“Good luck and godspeed home, my friends.” He whispered into his radio.

Then he grabbed a handhold, and pulled.

The delicate umbilical cords parted.

He could feel air rushing out of his suit, feel the pressure drop. Feel the sweat on his face and saliva in his mouth begin to boil away.

He could feel his hand wrap around the handle of the butterfly valve.



The world was growing dark.




The valve.







Turned.