Floyd has a space adventure
“Computer, status. Why have we dropped out to real space?”
“Sir, my name is Gorilla Jesus” The sarcasm dripped from the speakers in a way that Floyd hadn’t realized was possible until now. He rubbed his eyebrows, the furrows spilling across his forehead deepening.
“And I deeply regret naming you that. What’s the status of the ship?”
“Fucked, sir. Anti-matter blow-by in three of the six jump drive pumps. I see you’ve cleverly compensated for that by not buying any anti-matter. We’re almost out. I dropped out to real space to preserve what remains. It’s not enough to get us to a space port. It’s been detonating in the overflow manifolds, which is why we’re short.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the cabin temperature settled on Floyd’s skin. Trapped in this rust can in the black oblivion of space. Maybe….
“Only if you want to plow through the spaceport like a turd through wet toilet paper.”
How eloquent. A short bark of laughter welled up from inside Floyd’s chest.
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“We have enough anti-matter to jump into a major trade lane. You could activate that emergency beacon you’re using as a desk ornament. Estimated time to pick up is about one week. But there’s a problem.”
Floyd’s heart rollercoastered down from hope to despair. He reached for a grime streaked mug of tea and took a swig. Cold, like his corpse would be.
“You’ve only got 4 days worth of air left.”
“Oh. So what you’re saying is I’ll probably die before rescue”
“You are the most perceptive owner I’ve had thus far sir”
“Fuck off” He looked around the cabin and closed his eyes. The control deck was covered in coffee stained papers, mostly debt collection notices. For the first time since he started flying at 16, Floyd felt trapped. The walls of the cabin looked closer and closer every time he glanced up. A tin can closing in on a tin man.
Floyd let the impending sense of doom flood over him. His head fell back into the chair.
An eternity of despair and recriminations passed across his mind, before he opened his eyes.
“Huh.” Floyd had never really taken a good look at the flight deck’s ceiling before. Scrawled right above him in white pen:
“I feel fine. How about you?” - Yuri Gagarin
“Hey, uh Gorilla Jesus? Do we still have that drum of industrial bleach in the hold?”
“What, the one you forgot to unload? It’s still there.”
“That’s made of oxygen right?”
“It’s about twenty minutes worth. You could use the ten kilos of potatoes in the pantry to react it out, if you cut them up really finely. It’ll turn the cargo hold into a warzone though.”
“Jump us to the trade lane. I’ll get chopping.” And praying. A staccato pounding of anti-matter blowing past the pumping pistons echoed softly through the ship. Floyd’s stomach turned inside out as the ship’s jump drives pushed it beyond the speed of light. Moving slowly so as to not breath, he slid out of his chair and headed out of the cabin.
Some notes on this glowing example of excellence in writing
27% concentration of H2O2 = about 12.9% oxygen. A 56.8 liter drum holds ~7.1 liters of oxygen. You consume about 5% of the oxygen you inhale. Of course, you won’t live if the concentration inhaled drops below 6% for more than a few minutes. Also my math is probably wrong somewhere (like the fact that the reaction produces H2O and O2, not just O2).
You can actually get oxygen from H2O2 using potatoes, and also blood, liver, and manganese dioxide (the electrode in zinc-carbon and alkaline batteries). So maybe Floyd throws the ship’s cat in after the potatoes. I’m kidding, he doesn’t have a cat. He has Gorilla Jesus.
Any errors in spelling, grammar, plotting, characterization, something about a priest and a llama here, are entirely due to the fact that I ran this right off the typewriter into tumblr. I’m not sorry. #fuckdrafts #oneshot #godtierexcellence
If you have been offended by anything in this post, pretend you’re Woody Harrelson and I’m Matthew McConaughey in the clip below. Feel better now?
