Spacesuits
Space is so cold.
This is always the first thing I tell people when they ask me, “what is space like?” Usually, my answer surprises them. I think they expect me to tell them how great it is to be able to look down upon the earth — to see the big picture. In all honesty, space is exactly what you think it would be. A void of nothingness. When you are standing on the solid ground; aimlessly gazing into a vast sea of stars, it’s wonderful to dream of exploring the galaxy and collecting mysterious particles. But once you get up here — into this abyss — your dreams change, and suddenly, all you can think about is coming back down.
I’ve been up here over two-dozen times. Usually, we come up for a day or so for routine walkthroughs of the four space stations. Once every month or two, we take an extended trip — usually a week — where we visit the furthest station; or go on secret missions. We are sworn to secrecy — never to tell the details of our missions to another soul. But let me be perfectly clear — nothing ever happens up here. Space is a blanket of darkness, smothering you from every direction. Everything — and I mean everything — can kill you. A small rip in the arm of your suit? Dead. Helmet not fastened correctly? Also dead. It’s funny how something that seems so majestic from the ground can be so spiteful in reality.
Until today, I was never really sure why I was here. I mean, the “Spacesuits” — that’s what they call us — are an elite team of galaxy protectors, or at least that’s what the pamphlet said. I applied for the program on a dare — and here I am, on my 25th mission. I’ve been up here 25 times — and nothing has changed. Absolutely nothing. There is a restaurant near my home on Earth called Herman’s. They have the best food in the country. They win awards every year. Despite their success, they are always changing things. Sometimes, the menus are wrapped in deep-brown leather bound portfolios — and other times, they are stitched together with red and gold thread. Once I went in to find that all of their tablecloths had been replaced with a beautiful Egyptian cotton — far more luxurious than the sheets I sleep on every night.
But not in space. In space; everything is always the same.
There are only six of us — the Spacesuits. Usually, we rotate coming up here. Because of this, we always have at least a few weeks at home where we can catch up with family and friends. For some reason though, it seems like I’m up here more than the rest of the team. I’ve always found it really strange, as I’m nowhere near as qualified as the rest of my colleagues. Benjamin is a neurosurgeon, and was in the top of his class in the Air Force. Abigail is a world famous astrophysicist, who has made dozens of life changing discoveries. I wish I could tell you what those discoveries are — but I can’t remember. And even if I could remember, I wouldn’t be able to explain them. I was just a delivery guy before I started in this program after all.
Anyhow, today, we had a disaster in one of the stations. Oxygen chamber 3 failed and exploded; exposing one entire side of the ship to the icy vacuum surrounding it. Before my radio left the ship’s range, I spoke with the commander, who said that his team had predicted this disaster, but that the cost of repair was “too great for this old station.” So, instead of doing the right thing, they decided to let the issue run its course; with no regard for the people inside. Apparently, the galactic committee has been trying to get approval to build a new state-of-the-art facility — this old station was the squeaky wheel blocking the proposal.
Now that I have time to think, I understand exactly why I have been stationed here so much. As I float through this frozen hell in the sky, I clearly see the purpose of me — a lowly delivery guy — being selected as a member of this elite team. As I drift away from the ruins of a once great hub for technology and exploration — and into the depths of space — I finally know the truth.
It had to be one of us.
