Spacesuit Blues

by Clyde Andrews

This space suit stinks. I don’t mean in a non-working kind of way either, even though that was true, too — no, this thing stinks like someone pissed in it. Mind you, the way those dodgy bags attach half the time I’m bloody well not surprised. The previous worker that donned this suit has a lot to answer for, I can tell you. Not that ‘they’ care: ‘they’ being the corporation stuffed shirts of United Salvage that send us out here. They just sit behind their desks getting fat while we sweat.

Then again, that’s how we’re treated out here on the rim of the Solar System. We’re shoved in one size fits all space suits and told to salvage what we can from all the flotsam and jetsam that seems to accumulate by the tonne around here. Actually everywhere, but we’re usually posted out here in the great depths.

Just my dumb luck. Something to do with all those spaceships having to navigate around huge chunks of scrap every time they want to pass into the great beyond. Poor bloody Captains, all they have to do was utter a few words to a navigation officer, and then all he has to do is press a couple of extra buttons. You’d think it was the end of the world or something the way they carry on sometimes. So, that’s what I do for a living, remove the undesirables from the Solar System. Not very glamorous, but I suppose someone has to do it, as they say.

And speaking of space suits, besides the fact that this one was as old as my great-great-grandfather and just as useful, I have to be in it to do this annoying little job the steward ordered be done: right now, right away, no questions asked. What was the bloody hurry?

The steward, what a pompous red-faced git. No intelligence of any kind. He killed off all his brain cells with that home-made whiskey of his. It tastes like utter crap, if you ask me. I’d rather drink rocket fuel. Mind you, I think that could be its main ingredient. Actually, now that I think of it, I stand corrected: there is something that smells worse than this space suit. Him!

Anyway, the tosser wanted me to go outside, out of my shift rotation, and check out some sort of blip on some idiot’s screen on the bridge. Probably just a bent aerial, or loose wire somewhere, I’d wager. But, no, I have to go check it out on my time. Just when I thought I could sit back on my bunk, relax, kick off the ol’ work boots, and ‘read’ carefully this month’s edition of Space Illustrated. Not to be.

No-sir-ree. I had to be the one chosen for this little job. I mean Carson could have been picked, he’s done nothing all day but ogle all the female crew behind their backs. Then again, why doesn’t the Captain go strap on a dodgy suit and sort it out himself. Hands-on work too good for him or something? Bloody bureaucrats, bah, who needs ’em?

“Com’on, Rogers, get a leg over. We haven’t got all day,” the steward drones over my receiver. It crackles annoyingly loud in my ear. Another broken, useless piece of equipment that seems to make up the components of this suit.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on,” I drone back.

I’ve just cleared the air lock and now, using the tether, get set to walk along the outer hull of the Capricornicus. My God, space is impressive. Getting a chance at this view is the only salvation in this job. Looking out into the deep, mysterious nothing that was space, just wonderful: Charon hanging ghost-like in the distance. Pluto must be visible only from the other side of the ship. We seemed to be parked between the two; an old twenty-first century cruiser was reported lost out this way. More crap I will have to deal with later, no doubt.

“Are you out there smelling the roses?” The steward is talking again. This time feedback screeches in my left ear and makes my head spin for just a moment. I become disoriented, then curse out loud just as I get my bearings back. I hope he damn well heard that, too. That’ll teach the jerk.

“I’m coming up on the spot now,” adding, “jerk-off,” under my breath.

The hull of the Capricornicus is a sight. If it wasn’t for the fact that she still worked and there were people living in her, I’m sure there’d be a salvage team stripping her right down to her wires right at this very moment. The hull is a mess of wires, pipes, tubes of conduit, and scrap metal haphazardly fixed onto it, the result of an endless list of botched upgrades.

The other reason why I don’t want to be doing a space-walk to investigate a minor problem is that it’s so near the damn ship. A tether tangled in the mess of the hull is a recipe for disaster, guaranteed. More of my dumb luck if it happens to me. I close my eyes; the thought did not warrant any further attention. Guys can scare themselves to death out here. I should know, I’ve had some pretty damn close calls let me tell you. Maybe the guy who wore this suit before had one of those hair-raising experiences. That would account for the smell.

“Rogers, what the bloody hell are you doing out there? I’m getting rather sick and tired of asking you.” I ignore the prick.

“Rogers... answer me.” I still let him sweat. I don’t have time for idiots like him. Getting on my back all day, nagging about anything and everything. If I wanted that I’d have stayed on Earth with the wife.

“Rogers!”

Finally I say, “Yeah.” With nothing added, like I only just heard him. Hope that gives him the shits.

“Because you are taking your sweet time, Smith has decided to come down from the bridge. Just great, Rogers, that’s all I need. Thanks a lot.”

That’ll put the wind up the old git. Mind you, I’d like to see Smith sort it out. What’s he gonna do: get in a space suit and come get me? I’d like to see him try. Besides the fact that he would never, ever get into one: the one size fits all suits certainly would not fit him: he’s nearly bloody two metres tall. He also doesn’t want to get his hands dirty under any circumstances. He’s obviously been caned by the Captain and is trying to save face by reluctantly investigating what all the fuss is about. I can feel the tension already.

“I’m nearly there,” I say.

“’Nearly there’ as in ‘I’m nearly there’ or ‘nearly there’ as in ‘get off my back I’m taking my sweet mother-loving time about it’?”

“Both.”

“Oh, great, here he comes.”

There’s a long silence from my receiver. I smile to myself. I’d like to be a fly on the wall while Smith gives the steward curry. Stuff like that keeps me amused for weeks.

Eventually Smith, not the steward, says, “Rogers, you had better hurry up quick smart. We don’t have much time until the next rotation begins, and the Captain wants this little gremlin problem sorted before that. Are we at the same speed, Rogers?”

“Yes, sir.” I keep my reply formal. “I understand, I’m on it.” I have just about as much time for Smith as I do for the steward, but I decide to give Smith a little leeway. After all, he is gracing us with his presence; getting him to do that is pure gold in my book. Usually he wouldn’t be caught dead on the lower decks.

The Captain must be pissed. I must have caused quite a ruckus up there on the command deck. Bloody marvellous, first the steward, then the Captain, then Smith: things are looking up.

The steward will be smarting for days now, I’ll wager. And it will give me some ammunition to use against him for just as long. I think I’m sitting pretty; you could even say I’m damn proud of myself right about now. Having all those idiots run around while I do a simple ‘go fetch’ job. That is, until I get to the spot they’re so concerned about.

I hope I saw it before it saw me. I duck back behind a satellite dish and check my tether for tangles. I do not want to be wrapped up tight to a piece of the ship’s equipment with an alien creature only five metres or so in front of me. If I need to get out quick, then that’s what I want to happen. Damn, what the hell is that thing doing attached to the hull?

“Um, sir,” I said shakily over the receiver.

“What is it, Rogers?” Smith says instantly. It’s like he was waiting for me to report. I can see him in my mind’s eye, tapping his feet impatiently while he waited for a report. I could even imagine him with his hands on his hips as a sign of contempt for this whole situation. Just like he always does, even on the bridge as he stands behind cadets and checks their work. Bloody faggot, what man stands there with his hands on his hips all day?

“There’s a bogey on the hull... sir.”

“A what? Repeat, Rogers, I didn’t catch that.”

“A bogey, sir... A nasty. You know: an alien life form.” I’m beginning to lose my patience. Does the guy want me to draw him a picture?

Another long silence. This time, however, it is not welcome. Those guys aren’t the ones outside, in space, alone, with an alien. I need help.

The two gits inside the ship are taking their sweet time making a decision. All I could do is stare at the alien and fiddle with my tool belt: an cable insulation peeler, some pliars and screwdrivers of all kinds. At least I’m not defenseless against an invasion by television sets from outer space.

I cling to the satellite dish, trying to look as unnoticeable as possible. I can’t help staring at that alien. It’s like looking at my grandparents kissing: it turns my stomach, but in the end I can’t look away. Is it ever ugly.

Finally Smith interrupts my thoughts. “Bring it in.”

Now it’s my turn to act dumb. “What did you say... sir?”

“I said: collect the A.L.F. and return to the air-lock. We’ll quarantine you and it when you arrive.”

Now — unusual for me — I’m stunned into silence. I can just see the steward snickering to himself behind Smith’s back. He’ll be loving it, the prick. Just when I thought I could give the guy grief for the next several days, too. The tables have really turned.

“Did you hear me, Rogers? Get to it.”

I’m about to turn and leave the relative safety of the satellite dish, when, from nowhere the alien life form pounces on me and attaches itself to my helmet’s visor. I almost double the smell of piss in the suit and scream like a little girl into the transmitter.

I can hear them all laughing.

“Are you all right, Rogers?” Smith has a decidedly more jovial voice than before. The jerk is enjoying this. In fact he’s bloody well laughing along with all the others. Any amount of respect I might have had for the guy is now dissipated, just like any bravery I may have had a few moments ago. He and the steward are laughing — no, they’re having a merry old time at my expense. It just isn’t fair: that’s my shtick!

“What do you think, sir? I’ve just had an alien slug thing attach itself to my helmet. How the bloody hell do you think I feel?”

“No need to get all shirty, Rogers. Half of the hard work has just been done for you. All you have to do now is return to the airlock. Nice and easy.”

Nice and easy? This guy is off his tree. How can I be nice and easy with an alien life form attached to my helmet? And in all probability it wants to get to know me more intimately. “Bloody prick,” I mumble.

“What was that, Rogers?”

“I said ‘Pretty quick’.”

“Good. Now get to it. We’re making way soon.”

“Yes, sir,” I add reluctantly and with a sigh. That was all they care about in the end: getting the ship going again. And at my expense, too. The anger is starting to rise again.

I inch closer to the airlock, double-checking my tether and triple-checking my new-found friend. Actually, now that the alien is attached to me, I can see its mouth quite clearly: it’s one nasty piece of equipment. If I’d ever laid eyes on anything like it before in my life, I’d be no less impressed. It is scary: all teeth and lips and skin slathering on my helmet.

It takes me forever to reach the airlock, seems like. Smith lets me in quickly. Inside, thought, things take a different turn.

“Under article 2127496-A, section 17B, paragraph C iii, I am declaring you and the alien life form with you property of United Salvage, pending investigation,” Smith begins, clearly reading from his trusty rule book. The jerk.

“I hereby now place you under strict quarantine, where you and the alien life form will be cryo-frozen for immediate return to Earth.”

“What?” is all I can manage. Smith’s verbal diarrhoea is making my head spin. I bet he gets off on it, too. Why doesn’t he just speak plain ol’ English. At least an easily understandable version of it anyway for a grunt like me.

“It means, Rogers, that you and your friend, under first contact protocols, are to be frozen and sent to Earth via shuttle. The dream is over for you, my friend,” Smith said.

“First contact? What does that mean?”

“I repeat, Rogers, so it can sink into that thick skull of yours. This is the first time we have encountered an alien. Therefore, under the articles I just quoted, you are now, how shall I put it, an accessory? To be used as United Salvage, in conjunction with Earth Control, see fit,” he smiled. “You have a rare and precious life-form ‘stuck’ to your helmet. And besides, orders are orders.”

That’s a turnaround, right there. How can they have a first contact protocol if they’ve never, ever seen an alien before? Mind you, United probably have protocols for wiping their arses.

“But I don’t want to be frozen in this spacesuit some guy peed in. It’ll mess me up for months. Why don’t you just take the thing off and freeze that. Let me get on with my job. Sir,” I said, sounding almost like I was pleading. I was losing face here, but I didn’t care. I did not want to go back to Earth with that thing clinging to me, all ready to chomp the first chance it got.

“It’s not that simple, Rogers. We don’t know what it has or has not done to you, for a start.”

“Yeah, well, it’s attached itself to my bloody helmet, that’s what.”

“How can we be sure?”

“I tell you what. I’ll rip the bloody thing off, right here. Then you can do whatever it is you want with it. In fact, if you don’t let me go, I’ll kill it.”

But everybody present knows that’s a shallow threat. I can see through the plexi-glass window Smith’s hand hovering over the cryo-freeze button. He’s just smiling. Smiling so wide I can see his pearly whites. I really hate that man, even more than usual.

“You have a choice, Rogers. Willingly or not, you decide.”

I make like I’m thinking it over. Bloody fantastic: stuck in a no-win situation with heartless pricks in control. A bad mixture in any language. But I don’t give them any satisfaction by showing it. The only outward sign as far as they could tell are my clenched fists.

I glimpse the steward; he’s laughing to himself. Just as I knew he would be. Then the realisation and impact of this whole situation hits me. United Salvage wants this creature — whether for research or not — I’m just an extra. An expendable extra. They’ve probably got guns pointed at me right now. I hate my life.

I sigh, “All right, get it over with.”

I can just hear them all back on Earth as I’m sprawled out on some examination table in some secret lab. They’ll be saying, “That one there, the one with the slug attached to his helmet. Never mind the toothy alien, watch out for him: he smells like he’s pissed his suit.”

As the quarantine room door slams shut and the vapours of the cryo-freezer begin to surround me, I grab my insulation stripper and carve the alien in two. I’d like to see the bloody shocked looks on all their fat faces when we’re both thawed out, let me tell you. They’ll see me smilin’ my arse off, and one dead, sliced-up, useless alien.