The Reclaimers

Chapter 2 , Fresh Breath

I managed to navigate to the stranded O2 tank and carefully grapple to the burnt heap it was attached to, avoiding the very pointy bits as I wrapped my gloved fingers gently around a smooth stanchion near the life-giving canister. The last thing I need to do is skewer myself.

The small tank was attached to the junk at the valve with a hose and was also strapped to part of the distressed bulk head near its base. I made sure the valve was closed and slowly disconnected the hose that connected it to the twisted engine housing. There was a small amount of pressure still in the line and as it released a puff of O2 crystalized as it escaped.

“OXYGEN CRITICAL” my suit exclaimed again.

“Blah, blah, blah” I muttered, not wanting to accept my current near-death experience.

I was down to just under 4% when I wrestled out the emergency O2 line from the utility belt on my waist, did a quick visual inspection of the hose to make sure there wasn’t anything making a home in there. I’ve always heard horror stories of people that have left shoes on the porch or outside only to find that some insanely large black widow or scorpion have made it their home for the night and defended their territory with a bite or sting when they see five hairy sausage-shaped-gangly attackers trying to invade their new found forever home. What a nightmare that would be right?! Those poor insects having their new home taken violently by five smelly thugs, what a world.

I was able to connect the hose to the valve on the tank even as it was still attached to the crispy jagged thruster bit. I didn’t think I would need to free the tank as the suit should just evacuate the contents and allow me to disconnect the hose, if this worked at all. I wasn’t sure if I would have enough air to find another potential refilling station, so with baited breath I slowly turned the valve hoping not to be disappointed, and dead.

With the valve fully opened I was expecting to hear the sweet rush of air fill my suit and blow on my face which would cause my hair to billow as if on a beach as I run through the shallow surf, sticky sweet salt air licking at my nostrils, feet slightly melting into the cool wet sand, (all while wearing an incredibly soft, incredibly snug, gold thong of course!), chasing the seagulls into the brilliant orange-pink sunset.

“I must be hypoxic” I mumbled as I tried to shake my head to clear the vision as it lingered in my mind.

The AI simply stated “Your CO2 blood levels are at 8% and increasing. You are experiencing early stages of hypercapnia and respiratory acidosis. You will lose consciousness in approximately 7 minutes”

“Cool” the word slowly escaped my dry mouth.

“Come ‘on, baby work!”

There was no sound (other than the small hiss from the puncture), no expected rush, no billowing.

Starting to panic a little with my life hanging in the balance of 7 or so minutes, I frantically rechecked the connection on the tank at the valve and verified the hose was still attached to my belt using the scientific method of tugging on it. Everything seemed to be correctly hooked up.

“DAMNIT! What the hell man!” I blurted out.

The soft-spoken AI’s communication was nearly overrun by my enthusiastic bitching. I caught it mid-sentence “….gency connection verified, opening emergency valve, standby” the AI stated, clearly not phased to my panicked outburst.

I was elated to see the 4% start to tick up rather quickly as the life-saving O2 from that booster forced its way into my onboard supply stores. The rollup started to slow, …27%, 28%, slower now, 29%, it hovered there for what seemed like forever then ticked up to 30%.

“Well, I guess that’s it, better than 4% that’s for sure” I said, a little disappointed that no part of my earlier vision actually happened.

The AI responded “O2 supply at 30%, Suit integrity compromised.”

“Damn, tank must not have been full, oh well it’s a start” I muttered.

I closed my eyes as I took a long, slow deep breath. I could almost feel the little O2 molecules permeate my oxygen starved cells, inflating the shriveled tiny ecosystems like a beachball and restoring my body and brain to their normal function, well normal-ish function.

When I was a kid, I would always imagine that there were little construction workers inside my body that would wear hard hats, gloves, and boots. With tools and equipment, these little workers would be responsible for all the major systems in my body, running the complex machinery that would squeeze my lungs like a bellows, swirl and stir the food in my stomach, and open the large gates to evacuate the nuclear waste generated by my heart shaped powerplant. I always felt sorry for those workers in particular, and hoped that they had a great benefits package including hazard pay and lots of time off.

I now envisioned lifesaving tiny O2 molecules replete with top notch medical gear they needed to resuscitate my half dying red blood cells as they speed through my arteries with jetpacks and goggles restoring everything in their path.

“Thanks, little guys” I thought.

I opened my eyes and looked at the tank I was attached to. At first glance it looked like it was part of the fuel for a maneuvering thruster that would have been used to help keep a station or satellite in an orbit or control small altitude adjustments for docking on a bigger platform. However, after examining the structure of the chunk of aluminum and titanium it was attached to more thoroughly it wasn’t used for a station or satellite, this was most definitely a backup maneuvering thruster off of the R-872 Light Interplanetary Shuttle from Shytow Industries used for interorbit cargo and crew transport.

How did I know that you ask? Well, I would like you to believe that my engineering prowess and vast knowledge of the many types of ships and hardware used in the solar system would allow me to deduce this information. Having poured over thousands of blueprints and schematics during my many hours of education would allow me to distinguish construction characteristics from a hundred manufacturers to pinpoint the exact make and model of a part as big as my torso that has been burnt and twisted in a myriad of directions from some outside force applied to it.

HA HA, nope.

There was a small slightly-blackened metal serial number tag on the base of the thruster near the tank that quite clearly read; “SHYTOW INDUSTRIES R-872 Reserve Thruster PN9742763”.

The suit had mentioned a target earlier before I almost died from asphyxiation, I doubt this shuttle would be any kind of target, and by the size of this debris field it would have taken about ten of these ships to account for that much space junk. But before I could start to figure out anything relating to my situation, I first had to figure out how to patch my suit and repair my recycler both of which probably required me to exit the suit to fix.

“I wonder if there were more shuttles on this before it deconstructed?” I used the AI description of the carnage I was parsing.

“Target was equipped with four such shuttles prior to deconstruction” the AI gave an unexpected response.

I navigated to the environment screen on the HUD and used an eye click to verify the tank had been emptied. Then closed the valve and disconnected my emergency line and gently pushed away from the wreckage.