72 hours

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The 72-Hour Man (Orbital Edition)

The first thing that registered was the silence. Not the empty silence of vacuum, but the low, electric hum of the life support system, cycling air that no one else was breathing. For the next seventy-two hours, the station was his.

“They’ve gone,” he announced to the empty command module. The words evaporated into the sterile air. He turned to Dave, the station cat, who was contorted in a zero-g ball, diligently licking his own back. “Shuttle to Europa Outpost. Gone to your mother’s.”

The message light blinked. His wife’s transmission unspooled in the quiet room.

“Right. We’re off. Don’t forget: 1. Refill the oxygen scrubber tank. The one with the GREEN nozzle. Not the blue one. The blue one’s for the algae vat and you know what happened last time. 2. Do NOT “have a look” at the leaking coolant pipe. Just put the containment tray under it like a normal person. 3. Dave’s new protein paste is the one marked “sensitive.” Not “senior.” He’s not a pensioner, he’s intolerant. 4. Be good. Love you. Back Sunday orbital evening.”

A long breath escaped Tom’s lips, ruffling a stray data-pad on the console. Seventy-two hours. His fingers found the remote control for the holoscreen; it felt cool and weighty in his palm, a sceptre of infinite possibility. Documentaries without interruption. Films where the dialogue crackled with words he’d have to explain later.

His reign began with a synth-brew. He filled the kettle with a flourish, his movements expansive. His hand hovered over the “Best Dad in the Quadrant” mug, then drifted past it. A grin tugged at his mouth. He selected Cheryl’s favourite instead, the white ceramic one with a single, spiky cactus and the word Nope.

Day One: The Golden Hours

The first day melted into a blissful haze of indulgence. Lunch was freeze-dried fish fingers, eaten from the packet, using a second fish finger as a utensil. A single, crumb-covered ration tray sat on the primary control console like a badge of honour. The holoscreen flickered with three back-to-back episodes of Galaxy’s Strongest Cargo Haulers.

Dave paused his grooming to fix Tom with a look of pure, unadulterated contempt before pushing off a wall and floating toward the sleep pod.

By evening, Tom drifted in a state of zero-g euphoria, a hidden stash of Jaffa Cakes discovered behind Cheryl’s nutrient wafers. The sweet, orangey discs disappeared one by one as a documentary on the Victorian sewer system of New New London droned on. Crumbs orbited his head like a tiny, delicious asteroid belt.

Day Two: The Descent

By Saturday, a dangerous sense of invincibility had set in. He’d started commenting on the holoscreen’s programming.

“Oh, come on, Clive,” he muttered, a cloud of Rich Tea crumbs puffing from his lips and drifting through the cabin. “You’ll never deadlift that crate in lunar gravity, you daft sod.”

Around noon, a glimmer of responsibility surfaced. The oxygen scrubber. He found the tank with the green nozzle (not the blue one, he noted with pride) and filled it. The system chirped a polite, affirming beep.

Then his eyes landed on the coolant pipe. Drip… drip… drip… A slow, metallic sigh.

“Just a look,” he told the silent airlock. “A man can look.”

An hour later, the engineering bay was a nebula of drifting tools. Tom was upside down, wedged between conduits, a spanner in each hand. He’d found the problem—a perished seal—and triumphantly replaced it. His triumph curdled into cold dread as he stared at three disconnected hoses, their identical connectors offering no clues.

The drip was gone. In its place, a fine, persistent spray fanned out, coating everything in a faint, shimmering mist.

“Right,” he said, emerging with hair damp and stuck to his forehead. “Tactical retreat.”

He found the massive containment tray from the hydroponics bay and shoved it under the leak. The sound changed from a meek drip to a defiant drip-SPRITZ. Drip-SPRITZ.

Day Three: The Reckoning

Sunday. The chronometer’s digits glowed, counting down. A low thrum of panic started in his chest. He’d just jettisoned the last of the snack wrappers when his blood ran cold.

Dave. The “sensitive” protein paste.

He launched himself toward the galley. Dave was perched on a console, washing a paw. The cat looked… rounder. Satisfied.

“You alright, mate?” Tom’s voice was tight. “Everything… settling okay?”

In response, Dave’s body went rigid. With the precise, devastating force of a thruster burn, he projected a perfect arc of vomit across the polished surface of the docking bay hatch.

The station was a warzone. Coolant mist hung in the air. The cat was a biological weapon. He was almost certain the shiny, absorbent cloth he’d used to mop the vomit was the good antimatter-polishing rag.

The next ninety minutes were a blur of frantic motion. Scrubbers whirred, vents hissed. He sprayed so much “Meadow Fresh” purifier the air tasted like a chemical field. The coolant pipes were wrestled into submission and bound in a thick, white cast of sealant tape. The leak was now a resigned ooze, caught neatly in the tray. A stalemate.

He collapsed into the command chair, trying to mould his face into an expression of bored serenity, just as the docking clamps shuddered through the station’s frame.

“We’re back!” Cheryl’s voice echoed through the hatch. “The traffic around the asteroid belt was a nightmare—” She stopped. Her nose wrinkled. “What is that smell?”

She floated in, the kids trailing behind, already complaining about Gran’s recycled cabbage. Cheryl’s eyes, sharp as a sensor sweep, took inventory: the slightly smeared floor panels, Dave (now licking the bulkhead with a frantic energy), the “Nope” mug drifting near Tom’s elbow.

She pushed off gently toward the coolant pipe. Tom’s breath caught in his throat. She leaned in, examining the mummified seal, then the hydroponic tray beneath it. She was silent. She drifted to her prized fuchsia in the hydroponics bay and ran a finger over a leaf.

“You watered it,” she said, a note of genuine surprise colouring her voice.

“Two glugs.” His voice was a dry rasp. “From the green one.”

Cheryl turned. Her gaze swept over him—his damp flight suit, his hair still stuck to his forehead, the desperate hope in his eyes warring with the exhaustion in his slouch. The corner of her mouth twitched. Then a slow, knowing smile spread across her face.

“Right,” she said, grabbing the kettle. “Cuppa. You can tell me all about your very quiet, very boring weekend.”

She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked toward the galley.

“And then you can explain why there are fish finger crumbs in the butter dish. And why Dave looks like he’s been training for the feline heavyweight championship.”

Tom sank back into the chair. The king was dead. Long live the king.

It was good to be home.