Free Space Station Crisis: Star Challengers Book 2 by Kevin J. Anderson, Rebecca Moesta, June Scobee Rodgers

again, covered it with a cough, then said, “The impact point is no larger than a centimeter in diameter. We can patch it easily. What’s the air pressure in Hab 1?”
    Pi checked. “Seven point three pounds per square inch—we’re down by about a third. We’d save a lot of air if you two could put that patch in place pronto.”
    “Going as fast as we can, Central,” said Kontis, then took several audible gulps of air. “I’d like to get back inside as soon as possible. We’re both encountering a bit of distress.”
    “What sort of distress?” Ansari asked. “We’re checking your suit readings. All systems seem nominal.”
    “Intestinal distress. Remind me never to choose the mushroom curry lunch package again.”
    “I had the stroganoff, but I don’t seem to be doing any better,” Kimbrell added.
    “Mine was just spaghetti and meatballs,” Lifchez said, clutching his stomach as a cramp hit him. He drifted toward the control module wall, where he hung weakly onto a handle.
    “This is a whole different level of emergency, Stationmaster,” Dr. Romero said.
    “Do you think it’s food poisoning?” Song-Ye shuddered, remembering when she had endured a bout of Salmonella, the first and only time she’d ordered a buffalo burger medium-rare. It had tasted delicious, but within hours she suffered from cramps and then spent the next twelve hours in the bathroom with unending bouts of vomiting and diarrhea. Her mother had brought her some sport drinks to keep her electrolytes balanced. It had been one of the most miserable days of Song-Ye’s life, and there was nothing for it but to stay hydrated and wait it out.
    “No time to get sick until the job is finished,” Kontis said. “Come on, Kimbrell, you know the drill.”
    The two figures moved painstakingly forward with their repair kit. They had several thick adhesive plates of various sizes. “A small one should do well enough here,” Kontis said. “Four centimeters by four centimeters.” Atmosphere continued to squirt out of the hole in silence, because space, like the Moon, had no atmosphere to carry sound.
    The two astronauts’ suit cameras showed the operations as the workers applied rapid-setting sealant from a tube, and pressed down hard on the metal patch to cover the small hole. “Seal is in place. That should stop the leak,” Kontis reported.
    Kimbrell added, “I’m applying a secondary layer of sealant around the edges. It’ll be good as new. We can start testing the integrity and pump atmosphere back into Hab 1, then add a reinforcement patch on the interior wall.”
    “That part’s not our job. We’re finished out here,” Kontis radioed back. Her voice sounded breathless and weak. “We need to end this EVA as quickly as we can.”
    “Return to the Equipment Module, both of you,” Ansari said. “That’s an order. Dr. Romero will see you as soon as you’re back in.”
    “Vomiting in zero-gravity could make quite a mess,” King pointed out.
    Tony grimaced. “I did not need that mental picture.”
    “Gross. Let’s hope we don’t have to verify King’s theory from experience,” Dyl said.
    “Ick!” JJ said. “I mean that as an acronym.”
    “Insanely cruel knowledge,” Song-Ye said.
    On the intercom, the two astronauts fell ominously silent as they concentrated on pulling their way along the tethers back to the airlock hatch. “Entering the bay now,” Kontis finally said. “Seal the hatch behind us! Pressurize.”
    “Vomiting in a spacesuit can actually be quite dangerous,” Ansari explained to the teens.
    In the Equipment Module, the astronauts seemed to be scrambling, shouting to each other, breathing hard. “Get the helmet off, quick!”
    Song-Ye looked with alarm at the nearest intercom speaker as they heard loud retching sounds.
    Ansari barked, “Lieutenant Kontis, Kimbrell, report. What is your status?”
    Kontis finally reported, sounding weak, her voice rough. “We got the helmets off just in time,