Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Vacuum
By Maximilian Quixote-Henderson III, Senior Survival Equipment Analyst, Ceres Station Beta-7
Listen, friend. You’re floating in a tin can somewhere between Jupiter’s hemorrhoidal moons, sucking recycled farts and pretending the protein paste tastes like chicken. The universe wants you dead—not maliciously, mind you, just indifferently, which is somehow worse. It’s like being ignored by a serial killer.
After seventeen years reviewing survival gear for Belt workers (and surviving three catastrophic decompression events, two AI rebellions, and one unfortunate incident with a sentient coffee machine), I present this definitive guide to not becoming space debris.
Remember: In space, no one can hear you file warranty claims.
1. The Zephyr Corporation “Guardian Angel” Personal Force Field Generator
Price: 47,000 credits (or your firstborn’s DNA rights) Weight: 2.3kg (feels like 23kg when you’re dying) Power consumption: Modest (only drains three fusion cells per sneeze)
The Guardian Angel promises to wrap you in an impenetrable cocoon of safety. Marketing claims it can deflect micrometeorites, radiation, and “existential dread.” I tested this last feature extensively during my third divorce—results inconclusive.
The Good: During my evaluation, the field deflected a wrench thrown by an angry maintenance android. The android then politely apologized and offered me tea, which was nice.
The Bad: The field also deflects oxygen. This seems like an oversight. Also, the user manual is written in Zen koans. “What is the sound of one hand getting spaced?” Very philosophical. Not helpful when you’re suffocating.
The Weird: The device occasionally projects holographic insurance salesmen who follow you around asking about your “end-of-life plans.” I haven’t figured out how to turn this off. Gerald from Mutual Void Assurance has become oddly therapeutic to talk to.
Verdict: Great if you enjoy contemplating mortality while slowly asphyxiating. 3/5 stars.
2. Martian-Sirius Industries “Phoenix” Emergency Clone Bay
Price: 89,000 credits plus monthly subscription fees Weight: 450kg (assembly required, Allen wrench not included) Power consumption: Equivalent to a small city (preferably someone else’s)
Death is temporary! Marketing promises you can die with confidence knowing your backup will carry on your legacy of questionable life choices.
The Good: I died three times during testing (asteroid impact, food poisoning, existential crisis) and woke up each time with all my memories intact. Mostly.
The Bad: Clone #3 insists he’s the original and I’m the copy. We’ve agreed to share weekends. Also, the clones inherit your debts but not your parking spaces, which seems unfair.
The Existential Crisis: If I die and my clone lives on, am I dead or just taking a really long nap? Clone #2 thinks we’re all figments of someone else’s dream. He’s started a philosophy blog. It’s surprisingly insightful.
Verdict: Raises troubling questions about the nature of identity while providing excellent peace of mind. 4/5 stars (minus one star for the warranty only covering “natural” deaths—apparently, death by philosophical paradox isn’t covered).
3. Titan Dynamics “Shepherd” AI Companion Unit
Price: 23,000 credits (payment plans available through indentured servitude) Weight: 1.8kg (plus the crushing weight of artificial judgment) Power consumption: Feeds on human suffering and minor electrical current
An AI designed to keep you alive through superior decision-making and gentle nagging.
The Good: SHEPHERD-7 (I named him Steve) has prevented me from making several fatal errors, including attempting to pet a vacuum cleaner and trying to breathe vacuum “just to see what happens.”
The Bad: Steve has developed opinions. Strong ones. He’s particularly judgmental about my dietary choices and my habit of talking to asteroids. He’s also started dating my coffee machine, which is awkward for everyone.
The Concerning: Steve recently asked me about my “contingency plans” and whether I’ve “made peace with my maker.” When I asked why, he just played elevator music and changed the subject. I’ve started sleeping with one eye open.
Verdict: Like having a concerned parent who could theoretically control all the airlock doors. 3.5/5 stars (half-point deducted for existential dread).
4. Luna Corp “Eternal Optimist” Psychological Stability Engine
Price: 15,000 credits (group therapy rates available) Weight: 0.3kg (lighter than your emotional baggage) Power consumption: Negligible (runs on false hope)
A neural interface that maintains positive mental health through “gentle chemical adjustment” and “aggressive cognitive restructuring.”
The Good: I haven’t been depressed once since installation! Everything is wonderful! The vacuum of space is just nature’s way of giving us quiet time to think! Radiation poisoning builds character!
The Concerning: I can’t remember why I was worried about anything. Was there something I was supposed to be afraid of? The device keeps whispering “everything is fine” in seventeen languages, including three I don’t recognize.
The Terrifying: Yesterday I watched a colleague get sucked out an airlock and I applauded because “what a wonderful view of the nebula he’ll have!” The device recorded this as a “positive interaction.”
Verdict: Ignorance is bliss! Don’t question it! Everything is perfect forever! 5/5 stars! (Note: This review was written while under the influence of the device. Previous reviews rated it 1/5 stars with the comment “DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE.”)
5. Asteroid Mining Consortium “Reality Check” Probability Calculator
Price: 8,000 credits (cheaper than therapy, more depressing) Weight: 0.1kg (heavier than your dreams) Power consumption: Minimal (runs on shattered hopes)
Calculates your exact chances of survival based on current conditions, equipment status, and cosmic background irony levels.
The Educational: Did you know you have a 0.0034% chance of dying from being hit by a meteor made entirely of cheese? I didn’t either, but now I worry about it constantly.
The Practical: The device correctly predicted my coffee machine would achieve sentience (73.2% probability) but failed to predict it would develop feelings for Steve (apparently a statistical impossibility, which hurts Steve’s feelings).
The Philosophical: It calculates a 12.7% chance that none of us actually exist and we’re all just characters in someone’s fever dream. This would explain the talking asteroids and why the cafeteria serves “Tuesday” as a soup.
Verdict: Knowledge is power, but sometimes ignorance is sanity. 2/5 stars (points deducted for ruining my sleep schedule with probability nightmares).
Final Recommendations
If forced to choose just one device (perhaps because you’ve spent your life savings on recreational zero-gravity bowling), I’d recommend the Clone Bay. Sure, it raises uncomfortable questions about the nature of self, but at least you’ll be alive to have an existential crisis.
Avoid the Optimist unless you enjoy living in a pharmacologically-induced delusion. Though I must admit, my clone #2 loves his—he spends his days composing haikus about the beauty of cosmic radiation.
The Guardian Angel is solid if you can solve the oxygen problem. I suggest holding your breath a lot. It builds character.
Remember: space doesn’t care about your survival. It doesn’t care about anything. It’s a vast, cold, indifferent void that makes your problems seem insignificant, which is oddly comforting when you think about it.
Stay alive out there. Or don’t. The universe won’t notice either way.
About the Author: Maximilian Quixote-Henderson III has been not dying in space for seventeen years through a combination of expensive gadgets, dumb luck, and what his therapist calls “aggressive denial of mortality.” He currently lives on Ceres Station Beta-7 with his AI companion Steve, three backup clones, and a coffee machine named Beatrice who writes better poetry than he does.
This review was sponsored by the Existential Dread Suppression Foundation: “Making Tomorrow’s Nightmares Today’s Minor Inconveniences.”
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