Station Breaker

71 Rec Room

I flip a mental coin and pull myself down the module leading to the secure section. If I encounter a commander I need to get him alone, and not in the middle of a bunch of cosmonauts who might not be too happy to see my smiling face again.

The section is a long tunnel of connected modules extending over a hundred feet. The part with the bomb is supposed to be close to the very end. From the look of things, half that section is closed off.

I glide along the passageway, keeping an eye on the small cubby holes lining the sides that occasionally lead to add-on modules. I don't want to get brained by someone hiding in the shadows with a monkey wrench.

I come to a stop a few feet below the window on the access hatch for the secure module. Using the handle as a support, I slowly raise my head up to play peekaboo through the window.

I'm sure there's some stealthy SEAL way to do this using a mirror or spit and bubblegum. I just steal a quick look then duck back down like a two-year-old playing hide and seek.

The next section appears empty. The hatch at the far end is shut, so that means at least one of the commanders is probably behind there.

Ever so gently, I give the wheel on the hatch a twist to see if I can get it to open….except it doesn't budge. I try the other way and still have no luck.

Just to be doubly certain, I read the Russian instructions on the hatch to make sure I'm doing it right.

Yep. This sucker is locked from the inside.

So that's going to complicate my whole Weekend at Bernie's routine with the lifeless body of a commander if I get the chance to make him lifeless — there's nobody in this section to put on a show for. They're secured by two sealed doors.

Wonderful.

I push back towards the junction and try to think of another option.

I could try taking the door apart. I just have to make sure that I do it quietly. I'll also need more substantial tools than the one I used to penetrate Ivanka.

Surely, somewhere on this station I can find them. But before I go on a scavenger hunt I need to get my captive. It'd be awkward digging through a tool chest only to have one of them find me first.

At the intersection I veer left and push myself into the crew module. There's a hatch slightly ajar at the far end.

I pass canvas pouches lining the walls holding belongings. There are workstations with laptops and loops on the hull to slide your feet into so you don't drift away.

Past this area, there's a kitchen section across from a small table where the crew can take communal meals as their condiments float in front of them.

Interspersed among the space hardware and quick fixes of patch cords and handwritten signs telling you what not to touch, there are photos and cartoons stuck to the walls like you'd find in any other workplace.

200 miles up, in the most inhospitable environment you can imagine, people are still people. I notice a number of XKCD comics, popular among the smartest of nerds, with little yellow Post-It notes attached saying things like, "Sergey, this is a Star Trek reference," or "Sergey, — sudo is a command that gives you ultimate control over a computer."

Poor Sergey, it's not enough he doesn't get nerd humor, he has to be reminded of it by his co-workers.

I pass the closet that holds the toilet. For a decade the Russians were beating us in the arms race for the best way to use the john in space. The one on the ISS used to break down occasionally, forcing astronauts to use "Apollo bags" — which was an invention that never really caught on like Tang or Velcro. Although none of those were actually invented by NASA. They probably consider heat shielding a much better invention to lay claim to than doing number two in a plastic bag that seals with a pre-attached sticky strip.

There's a very dark period of my astronaut guinea pig experience I prefer not to think about that involved sitting in a chair that could rotate in any direction up or down and having bodily functions as technicians watched.

I repress that memory as I float through the last hatch and enter a section of small closets holding sleeping bags. Each little cubicle has photos and decorations belonging to individual astronauts.

Early concepts for living on space stations involved communal sleeping bunks that astronauts could use in shifts. While this is fine for a 19-year-old sailor on a submarine, it's not a viable solution for professionals used to having their own homes. Even a tiny section to call your own and retreat to is better than nothing.

I'm a little worried that I haven't seen any astronauts; not even someone catching a nap.

I reach the end of the module, do a flip and make my way back towards the junction.

The section directly ahead is the labs. To my right is the storage section. I decide to head towards there.

There's a sealed door midway down the module. The crew might be hanging out on the other side, doing who knows what.

There's no window, so I put my ear to the hatch and listen.

The only sound is the hundreds of vibrations and hums of the station.

I float back and take a look at the wheel to the hatch and realize there's a crowbar wedged into the spokes, preventing it from being opened from the other side.

Well, that's kind of weird.

I quietly slide it free and stow it in a fabric pouch so it doesn't drift into my skull later on.

I turn the wheel as slowly as possible. When it makes a "click" I push it open and peer inside.

The next section is dark except for the blinking of dozens of tiny lights.

I pull myself a little further inside and suddenly feel an arm go around my neck and squeeze tightly until the little blinking lights fade.