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The filtering systems are slowly degrading, and soon we'll be breathing carbon dioxide, at which point it's over for us. Somewhere out there there's a leak. It's a small one. But we're losing air. We have two weeks before we start hitting problems. Each day it becomes a little more difficult to breathe, but the CO2 will get to us first.
An air leak. Our worst nightmare. We can't go forward. The radiation from the ship's reactor can kill anything. And there's no going back. Nothing there between us and the vacuum, except for the emergency bulkhead. There's no insulation to speak of. On the far side of our orbit, we freeze, and as soon as the light hits us, we slowly boil.
Somewhere in what's left of this mile long ship wreck, there has to be a way out. But we're trapped. We sent people with the last of the hardened suits to look for exits, but the radiation interfered with the handsets we had, and we've lost contact. They haven't come back. I hope they made it. I'm looking for something sharp.
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