Fingers of dawn crept across the walls, casting wild shadows as they fondled the outlines of the sparse furniture. That he had the space for furniture was a testament to his status aboard the station.
He woke with a start, screaming and covered in sweat. He fought the urge to vomit, and lost.
It was the same dream again. He still had it now and then, so many years later. But it wasn't really a dream - it was a memory. It wasn't something he ever thought about in his waking hours, save for the few minutes of fog after waking from one of these involuntary replays, or when he felt the need to tell his story as a cautionary tale. It had been the single most terrifying experience of his life, and he was glad to share it to save others from living it.
He had been asked to ferry a dignitary back and forth between the highly controlled U.S. "special research" compartment and the living compartments on USRDSTA, the U.S. Research and Development Station. The special research compartment was physically attached to the rest of the station, but could not be accessed save for one external airlock. There was only smooth bulkhead where a door would have been on a regular floor plan in the travel hub. This was to prevent any possibility of unauthorized access as well as making it harder to carry materials out of the compartment. Everyone had their own ideas what went on in there. It was actually fairly obvious to most of the station techs who'd had to deal with the new power systems required. The only things that drew that kind of energy was weapons systems.
Naturally he was eager to take the detail. Not only did it look good on his record, but it also gave him a chance to pilot the D.V. (distinguished visitor) ferry, a prime piece of machinery to be sure. It was the hottest boat under sixty meters in orbit, brand new and not even available to the private market yet. He was the envy of his peers, who would have been less green if they had known that his time behind the stick would amount to less than half an hour a day on two very short hops between airlocks. Even pre- and post-flight checklists would outweigh actual flight time, but he was hoping to entice the dignitary into taking an outside tour of the station.
Two days before his first scheduled pickup, he was on his one hour familiarization flight. As he was already proficient in the particular class of vessel involved, he needed only to qual on this specific frame. He went aboard the boat for the first time and whistled softly under his breath. Carpet, "wood" trim, this baby had the works. He assured himself that the equipment and bailout gear was where it was supposed to be and ran through his preflight ops. The pilot and copilots seats were upholstered in rich brown leather, an incredible luxury compared to the purely functional grey heavyweight vinyl in every other ship he had ever seen. After checking off greens, he received authorization to depart.
Exactly seventeen minutes into the one hour plan, both midships airlocks blew off without warning. The first thing he heard was the deafening sound of fifty four explosive bolts cutting the frames that held the hatches. His blown eardrums prevented him from hearing the second roar of explosive decompression. Every window in the cabin instantly frosted over from residual humidity, transforming the view to the same as you'd get from a car buried in a snowbank. Exactly seventeen minutes and one second into the one hour plan, Ortega found himself breathing vacuum.
The decompression had pulled the air out of his lungs. It was this moment that he relived in his dreams:
He is looking up at the forward window, the glare of the reflected sun shimmering through frost. There are tiny droplets of red and blue blood floating around him, leaking from his ears. The only description he has for the feeling in his chest is that it is like holding your breath for too long underwater, the burn that you know means you're about to drown maddening as you kick to the surface. The difference here is that there is no surface to kick to. And there is no air.
Instantly, he is scrambling with his right hand to grab his helmet while his left keys the EMERGENCY switch on the console. As the red lights blink on in the cabin, his gloved hands scrabble along the carpeted floor, not finding his helmet. He turns to look, and sees nothing between the seats but maroon shag trimmed with expensive faux wood. He knows there is another helmet in the aft of the cabin and turns the buckle on his five point harness.
It has been one second since decompression.
Before he can scramble to the extra helmet, he sees his floating near one of the red, blinking halos. He cannot reach it from between the seats and he kicks himself off of the copilot's seat back, reaching for it with both hands. His vision is beginning to contract, the field dialing down. The panic starts now, and just as his fingertips grasp the lip of his helmet he realizes with certainty that he is going to die. He is watching the expensive interior of the ship through a cheap hotel door's peephole.
It has been two seconds since decompression.
This is the place where he always wakes up, still sure of his impending death, bitter that the last thing he sees is the sweat-stained fabric neck seal of his battered helmet. When he wakes up, though, he remembers the rest of it:
If the tricky fitting of his helmet hadn't been committed to muscle memory, he would have died then. Slap the top of the helmet, push the faceplate to seat the rings, grab the ear lugs and twist, all in one fluid motion. If you've never done it before, it will take you ten or fifteen tries to get a proper seal. It normally took Ortega two or three.
The hiss of oxygen was the last thing he heard before he woke up in the infirmary.
They cleared him of all wrongdoing, they said. Officially he was not at fault for the situation beyond his control. Unofficially, they told him that if he hadn't insisted on taking his familiarization flight, the assassination attempt on the treaty conformity inspectors would have been successful. The passengers would have been blown into vacuum and died.
They asked him for any official comments about the incident, and his only suggestion was a tether between the helmet and suit. Nowadays, those are called "blowout tethers". The small loops that the tethers are tied to are called "Ortega rings". | 
