Stranger Times

Reflections From On High

"Houston, she's dead in the water," I said as I struggled to look at the controls.

Space suits aren't made to look down. Serious design oversight.

I couldn't hear the sirens still screaming in the cockpit of the space shuttle Intrepid, and it wasn't because my suit was soundproof. The grape-sized hole in the cockpit had stopped whistling after I had managed to shut off the airflow and thrown on a suit.

No, not in that order, obviously. I'm not an idiot.

Not smart enough to save myself, though.

"Houston, the main fuel tank is ruptured cleanly. Plot me a course to avoid causing any damage on re-entry. Don't risk any lives on my account," I said, trying to keep the emotions out of my voice. I didn't want my last words to sound too weepy.

Weirdly enough, the suits don't have radios capable of communicating with mission control back on earth. I actually had to use an auxiliary cable to connect my suit's radio to the control panel.

Even my space shuttle has an auxiliary port. Take that, iPhone.

Weird where the mind goes, when you know you're going to die.

"Intrepid, hang tight. We're calculating some options for you," came mission control. They sounded surprisingly upbeat considering how screwed I was.

Very British of them. Stiff upper lip, and all that.

As the Intrepid spun lazily, it spun me over to face the Earth again, and I couldn't help but get a little choked up at the sight.

"God help me, that's beautiful. You never stop thinking that, up here," I said.

"It is," Mission Control agreed. "We promise your next trip won't be quite as eventful."

"Look, never mind me. Just try to get those morons in congress to stop complaining about climate change. Our little blue world is one of a kind," I told them.

It didn't take a supercomputer to realize my odds were worse than wining the lottery twice in the same day. I'm short on fuel, and the Intrepid is headed into deep space. A rescue effort would cost half a trillion dollars, and definitely wouldn't make it before my oxygen ran out.

"And Houston, would you tell that flight instructor, the one who looks like Thor, that I've wanted to ask him out for about half a year?" I added, surprised by my own chutzpah.

Is that the right word?

"And if someone makes a push to clean up all this space garbage, could they name the bill after me? I think that'd be a pretty awesome tribute. And make sure my statue has me in a cool pose."

"I'll pass all of that on, Intepid," Mission Control said, but there was a a weird tone in his voice. "But for now, boot the computers up and get ready to receive this flight plan. We're going to slingshot you around the moon, you should be home in six days."

And now I wish this ship had a self-destruct button.