Free Vessel by Andrew J. Morgan Page B

conversation.
    'Uh, Progress, please confirm range.'
    Gardner stretched out again to get a glimpse at the optical viewfinder.
    'Range about two zero zero. Adjusting pitch, one degree.'
    With a gentle nudge, he thumbed the left-hand joystick. Sally watched, dumbfounded by fright, afraid even to speak in case it made a bad situation worse. She wanted to shut her eyes until it was all over, but they stayed wide open, locked in place.
    Range one hundred metres, one zero zero. Pitch, one degree.'
    'Copy. We're still receiving telemetry. We concur adjustment of pitch, one degree.'
    ' Range eighty metres. Visual on docking target.'
    'Copy.'
    'Seventy metres.'
    Sally's temperature -controlled suit was feeling stuffy, her breath fogging in fast-shrinking patches on the inside of her bulbous glass visor. She looked at the ambience controls on her side of the console, but she dared not move to adjust them. Her skin itched with trepidation and sweat.
    ' Fifty metres. Roll, one degree,' Gardner said.
    'Negative, negative — do not roll one degree. Telemetry suggests to hold.'
    'The telemetry is wrong. Rolling one degree.'
    A sideways nudge of the right joystick confirmed Gardner's intentions.
    'Forty metres, pitch one degree.'
    He gave a joystick a nudge, quite a big one.
    'Shit … pitch two degrees.'
    'Take your time, Gardner. '
    Gardner nudged the stick again, this time without radio confirmation.
    'Come on …' he whispered, just loud enough to be picked up by his mic. 'Twenty metres. Docking target off by four degrees. Pitch one degree, roll two degrees. Reverse thrust, one second.'
    'Do you have alignment on the docking target?'
    Gardner prodded the left joystick again.
    'Gardner, do you have alignment?'
    'Almost … ten metres … five … come on …'
    A convulsion of screaming metal jerked Sally's head forward, throwing her into her harness. The capsule lights flickered, dimmed, then reignited, while a brace of flashing red buttons on the console blared for attention. A whoosh of fast-moving air built to a deafening roar of gale-force extremes, billowing up the loose sheets of paper tucked away in the footwell compartment.
    'We've got to ge t out of here!' screamed Gardner, already clawing at his harness. Sally felt for her own, remembering what she'd been told: twist and pull. Time seemed to slow and the rushing wind became distant, the lone pulsing of her heart the only thing that stayed clear. With a shaking hand, she managed to grasp the locking mechanism. Her fingers seemed numb through her glove. As she rotated the buckle, she felt a click. She pulled. The straps fell, taken by the rushing air and slapped across her chest.
    ' Progress M Eighteen M, we're detecting depressurisation. What's going on?' Aleks' said, just audible above the rushing wind.
    Neither Sally nor Gardner responded as both fought their way past bulging payload bags to the sealed egress hatch at the front of the tiny module. Gardner got there first. He grabbed the slender locking bars and heaved them anti-clockwise, turning them to their stop and swinging the hatch open. He pushed his way through, gliding along in an awkward ball; Sally followed.
    'Gardner, Fisher — do you copy?'
    As Sally left the descent module and entered the front most orbital module — the last between them and the ISS — the thunderous wind increased in tenacity, and she could feel the powerful suction pull at her as she negotiated the narrow hatch.
    'Seal's blown on the descent module hatch,' she heard Gardner shout as he tumbled into the far side of the spherical orbital module. Unable to stop her own momentum, Sally crashed into Gardner’s back, sending him bouncing away. He grappled for a handhold, drawing himself along to the open hatch.
    'Come and give me a hand — we need to seal this thing!' he bellowed and Sally did as she was told, pulling herself hand over hand to help Gardner heave the hatch shut.
    'Just a bit more!' Gardner shouted. As they strained, the rushing