We Have a Problem

We Have a Problem

An airy, sunny day in NASA's Houston spaceport. Technicians and engineers scurried across the complex. Preparations, calculations, precipitation- it was raining. I finished my lunch and began my long walk toward the shuttle. I was an astronaut, and this was to be my first time in space. A simple orbit around the Earth to everyone else, but to me, it was the biggest day of my life. Er... sorry, son.

I reached the shuttle and climbed into the cockpit. My job was to monitor internal systems, fuel, oxygen, that sort of thing. My partner, Alan Richards, would be handling everything else. I thought he was a lucky sod, but I wasn't experienced enough to do anything he would, so I let it go. Alan had been with NASA going on thirty years. He was a living legend, infallible, practically Jesus in a space suit. Alan climbed into the cockpit not long after me. He turned to me and spoke.

“First time?” he asked, a sly smile playing on his face. The Al Rich smolder. the women in engineering called it.

“Yeah,” I said. “Have to admit, I'm nervous as hell. Is it always like this?”

“Heh, yeah,” he sighed. “I remember my first time,” he looked distant, nostalgic. At first I though he had fallen asleep, but then he spoke up again. “You can keep a secret?”

“Er... sure... yeah. Definitely,” his question had more an air of a statement, but I still felt compelled to answer. A secret from Alan Richards? I felt like a teenage girl meeting... whoever's famous these days.

Alan smiled, then turned that smile into a chuckle. “I like you,” he looked away, still smiling. “I crapped my pants my first time in space.”

What. What? “What?” Before I could pursue this weird as hell topic further, the countdown began. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

“Well, here we go,” Alan said. Six. Five. “Might want to hold your breath, I always piss myself right as we take off.”

“WHAT?” I could not be hearing this, this was not happening. Two. Sure enough, I began to smell asparagus. One. Jesus Christ... liftoff.

Space. The final frontier. It really is as amazing as I had imagined it would be. The light of the stars played against the slightly reflective glass of the windows creating a beautiful effect. But before I could enjoy it too much, the smell of Alan Richards' urine assaulted my nostrils again.

“How old are you, Alan?” I looked up from the gauge I was monitoring.

“Fifty-six,” he looked nostalgic again. I couldn't tell if he was peeing.

“That's not really the age I would expect a man to need an adult diaper.”

“Nah, I don't wear those. But the suit's got filters, see. Clears the waste right out. Like a giant... diaper...” Alan quickly looked away from me as he finished. I couldn't believe this. The top astronaut of our time peed himself. Or did all astronauts do this? I shuddered at the thought. “You should try it,” he was speaking again. “It feels surprisingly free.”

“No thanks, I was potty trained, besides, I don't need to go- wait.” The oxygen gauge was blinking red. This either meant a leak, or tomato soup had been spilled on it. “Oh crap, look at this, Alan.”

“Leak? How could that happen?”

“Well, I know how it happened with you at least,” I laughed at my own joke.

Alan backhanded me. “This is no time for jokes, kid,” Alan's expression was surprisingly severe. He finally looked how I'd always imagined him.

“All right,” I said, surprised at his sudden change. “Uh... I'll check the tanks,” just as I said that, I heard a loud creaking,t hen a crash. Murphy's Law: Anything that can go wrong, will. I could feel sweat begin to form on my brow, then trickle down the side of my face. No oxygen. In space. Where no one can hear you scream. “I'll... call mission control.” I pressed a few buttons. “Houston, Houston! We have a problem! A big god damn problem!” I finally managed to put the call through, but got nothing but static.

“Son of a bitch,” Alan groaned. “How much left?”

I checked the gauge. “Five, six hours maybe?”

Alan yelled out in anger “Son of a god damn bitch!” This was definitely how I imagined him A “real badass.”

“Stop, you'll use up the oxygen faster by yelling like that,” I said, in spite of myself.

Alan sighed. “This is all your god damned fault,” I didn't question him, as much as I wanted to, not wanting to use oxygen arguing.

A few hours passed. We had been breathing as little as possible, and were both beginning to feel light-headed as the oxygen thinned.

“How much longer?” Alan said, his voice whispy.

“One or two hours, maybe,” I said.

“Ugh,” Alan groaned. We sat there for a few more hours. Then, my eyes lit up.

“Oxygen tanks! Don't we have oxygen tanks for our suits?”

“They were with the air, and that's gone,” Alan crushed my dreams.

“We probably have spares, we have too,” determined to not give up, I went around, checking behind every crevice and corner, sure enough, I found one tank. But a small one. Definitely not enough for both of us. I told Alan as much. His expression lit up a bit, but then became solemn again. “Sorry kid,” he stood up. “You know, you really were a hero.” I heard a neck crack, then fell into blackness.