Fearless

by Allen Stroud

  ALLEN STROUD

  Fearless

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  Prologue

  1969

  Here follows a restricted memoir extract from an unnamed mission controller of the Apollo 10 mission during its journey around the Moon. This document remains classified, despite the maximum information embargo (one hundred years) being exceeded. Any inquiry I have made about the reason for this has been stonewalled. Even now, I am only able to forward you this partial transcription. The redacted elements have been restored with a little guesswork.

  All efforts to attribute the writing lead nowhere. None of the registered controllers on duty that day published stories of their experiences, and this document contradicts the official accounts of the astronauts and NASA at the time. The only thing that makes me consider that there’s some sort of truth to it is that it remains restricted and the identity of the author is still classified. If there was nothing to this, why would the authorities continue to keep it back? Why not publish and call it out as lies?

  * * *

  The transmission occurred one hundred and two hours, twelve minutes into the mission. At this point, Apollo 10 was out of communication range on the far side of the Moon.

  According to the debrief information, Commander Tom Stafford and lunar module pilot Gene Cernan were in the lunar module, callsign ‘Snoopy’, while command module pilot John Young was in the main spacecraft, ‘Charlie Brown’. At that point, the two spacecraft were separated in a simulation of lunar liftoff. Each craft had its own transmitter.

  Dialogue between the astronauts involved their operational tasks and a discussion about food. The communications were over a radio link between the two transmitters. On the recording, which was subsequently published, all three men complain of hearing a strange musical sound in the background of their radio comms. This matter was also raised when Apollo 10 returned to Earth and the team was debriefed.

  A detailed spectrum analysis of the recorded conversation does reveal the sound as being present. However, it appears to be much quieter than the astronauts claimed in their interviews. After forty-eight hours, Stafford, Cernan and Young were all told that the noise was due to feedback between the two transmitters. Astronaut Young had, in fact, guessed that this was the cause and the explanation confirmed his theory. However, the three were reminded that the information remained classified and they should not discuss it when they were allowed to leave the base.

  After they were gone, radio specialists continued to work on the recording. It had already been established that the frequency range for the signal did not match what would be expected for radio transmitter interference. Some speculative allowance was made for the lack of atmosphere and the effect of this on the ‘waves’, but simulations still did not match what had been recorded.

  After this, further simulations were attempted, looking at the possibility of the transmitters being misaligned before the mission left Earth. However, this answer was also discounted as the signal only occurred during a short period while the spacecraft were on the dark side.

  Six days later, copies of the recordings were requisitioned by several different military departments, and NASA’s analysis team was instructed to abandon any further work on the matter. The ‘interference’ explanation was confirmed as being the official answer on the matter, and the case file closed.

  I can’t help but think that—

  * * *

  The classified extract ends here. The transcript of the Apollo 10 conversation was released thirty-nine years later in 2008, but the audio recording did not resurface until 2016, when it was published as part of a retrospective documentary. Subsequent interviews with other surviving Apollo mission astronauts revealed there were other incidents of similar noises being heard at different times during lunar missions. However, journalists collating these incidents were dismissed as pedalling alien conspiracy theories. There was a popular mythology being bandied around at the time that the Moon landings were faked. Both stories found audiences among the same counterculture online communities.

  The retainer you put me on is now spent. If you want me to follow any of this up, you’ll need to get in touch.

  You have my number.

  Chapter One

  Shann

  I was born in 2080, with no legs.

  Perhaps that gives you an image of me? An image that defines who I am to you as a person? Maybe you get a sense of who someone is by their limitations? Do you think who we are is determined by what we look like? What we can’t do? Or what we don’t have?

  The world doesn’t work that way anymore.

  “Captain to the bridge.”

  “On my way.”

  I open my eyes and reach up, grasping the steel bar above my bed. The straps holding me to the mattress fall away, and I float across the room to the door, which slides back with a faint hydraulic hiss as I reach it.

  In the corridor, I’m gliding, pushing off with my hands and adjusting my momentum as and when I need to. Zero gravity is like flying, but it’s easy to forget there’s not a lot to slow you down before you crash into a wall or a person.

  I love it.

  My earliest memories as a child were being taken to a municipal swimming pool. I must have been four or five. For the first time, I could move freely, as fast or faster than anyone else. I can remember laughing and smiling constantly until my face hurt.

  “Captain Ellisa Shann to the bridge, priority one. Captain Ellisa Shann…”

  “I’m coming!”

  The wall speakers won’t quit repeating the call until I get there. There’s good reason. The ship’s crew will know I’m taking this route, that it’s urgent, and they’ll stay out of my way.

  I reach the far end, slowing myself by running my hand along the wall rails. There’s a ladder to the upper deck, and I propel myself that way, grabbing the rungs and pulling myself upward.

  Although in space, it isn’t really up; it’s just a change of direction.

  AD 2118. Humanity has colonised the Moon, Mars, Ceres and Europa. Asteroid mining is big business and the new joint venture of nations, corporations and entrepreneurs. No government can afford the investment alone, so private public partnerships are the route to the stars.

  Out here, people are commodities, just like water, hydrogen fuel, oxygen and everything else that isn’t vacuum. Humans in space are expensive. Everyone who gets up here has to earn their keep. In Fleet, we’re all specialists, exceptionally skilled and committed to the work. There’s plenty of downsides to this life, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

  Another panel slides back, and I’ve reached my destination.

  “Captain on the bridge!”

  This is my office. A wide room, with a wall of DuraGlas that slopes away to reveal the cold, dark vacuum outside. The ship’s command crew are all here, at their posts, strapped into their chairs.

  You never get used to that view. It’s not like the old films, with a vista of stars and cloudlike nebulas. Those twinkling pinpricks of light disappear under the glare of the sun. Instead, you’re looking at a deep, endless empty, unless something gets in the way of our star’s dictatorial scrutiny.

  In those moments, the stars come out to play and looking out the window is a real treat. The ribbon-like quality of the Milky Way, like a churning line of clouds in the night sky, is something you can only see from space. One for the tourists.

  But not for us.

  I’ve learned to love the emptiness. There’s something serene and permanent about it. Occasionally, when we’re at the farthest end of our run, the two views mix, and you might catch glim
pses of silver powder, a little like seeing the moon on a cold winter’s morning.

  Jacobson is looking at me; he’s turned his chair and he’s half out of the straps, his hand raised in salute. He’s big-boned, Swedish, in his midtwenties and on his first run. According to his Astro-Mathematics score, we lucked out in getting him, but he’s still wet behind the ears.

  “At ease, Ensign; just tell me what we’ve got.”

  “Automated distress signal from a freighter just outside our navigation plot. It’s the Hercules. She’s three days out of Phobos Station.”

  “Any details?”

  “Not at the moment, but we’re the nearest ship equipped to assist.”

  “Okay, have you calculated a course correction?”

  “Looking at it now.”

  “Good. When you’re done, signal them that we’re on our way.”

  This is how we work. Most of our time is spent moving between spaces, operating computer systems, making decisions. Each time we choose, we’re balancing the limited resources we have against a new need. In this case, a course alteration means a burn, using up fuel. A delay in making port at Ceres means breathing more oxygen, consuming more water and food.

  But that’s part of the job, part of the reason there’s a solar system transit service.

  The whole reason we’re out here – to help.

  In the maritime age, there were wars on the high seas. Merchant ships would struggle across the Atlantic with their wares, evading pirates, storms and all manner of hazards. Traders would invest in their cargo, gambling everything on the chance of making a fortune.

  Out here, it’s the same, but different. The dangers have changed, our technology has improved to cope, but we’re no less vulnerable.

  “Computation is done, Captain.”

  “Send the message.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Our ship, the Khidr, was commissioned by the United Fleet Consortium of Earth – or Fleet to everyone who didn’t design the plaque. There’re six vessels like ours, patrolling the trade lanes, too few to make space safe, but enough to make a difference. On board, we have twenty-five skilled crew, including the command team. We can operate the ship in two shifts, with some redundancy in personnel and capacity. If we need to help someone, we may have to leave people on their ship, or rescue a stranded crew onto ours. Our job means we carry extra, just in case.

  We’re also armed. Personal firearms are kept in two arms lockers, while guided rockets and gas-powered projectile weapons are available for our use if necessary. There’s even a close-range six-gigawatt laser. All the ship’s weapons are the responsibility of Keiyho, our master-at-arms, who is currently sitting on the far side of the bridge.

  Duggins and Le Garre make up the rest of the team on shift in here. Four manned consoles for navigation/communication, weapons/sensors, pilot and engineering.

  The fifth seat is empty; that’s mine. I push myself off from the doorframe and glide toward it.

  “What else you got for me?” I ask. “You wouldn’t have called me up just for a distress call and course correction.”

  Le Garre turns around in her chair. Her smile is a challenge. She’s French, old-school Eurospace and a major in her country’s air force – Major Angel Le Garre. Technically, that’s a higher rank than mine, but she doesn’t have the same time out of Earth’s atmosphere. Could be she’s after my job, but for now, she’s our pilot. “Captain, we’ve requested the Hercules’s cargo. Her registered inventory has just come through.”

  “What’s the issue?”

  “I think you should take a look for yourself.”

  “Send it to my console with flags.”

  I pull myself into the vacant chair. I pluck the comms bead from my ear and tuck it into a pocket. The command screen on the tray table activates and strapping snakes out, enveloping me as I lower myself into the seat.

  Every workstation is constructed to hold people in place, to protect our bodies against acceleration and deceleration, but we aren’t solid objects; we’re fleshy bags of liquid that rushes and slops around. The forces need to be absorbed. That’s why there’s give in the straps, pressure-sensitive cushioning on the seats and more. There are trays for limbs and torso that lock down when we’re pulling high g’s.

  The only difference with me is that I have fewer limbs than some other people.

  I could have legs. There are cybernetic units on board the ship for me to use when I need to be in a gravity environment. Medical technology on Earth can even grow matched DNA transplant limbs and organs should anyone need them. But there’s a catch; the instability threshold that they discovered back in the twentieth century hasn’t been conquered. Legs for five years that slowly degrade and create a whole new set of disease risks?

  No thanks.

  I mean, I can see why other people might want that, but up here there’s no practical need. Going through all the surgical stress and post-op stuff for something that has no ambulatory benefit in my day-to-day life up here isn’t something that appeals to me.

  The file is in front of me now on the portable screen, as I settle into the seat. Le Garre has highlighted the relevant sections. I scroll through them, making a mental note of each anomaly.

  “Why is so much of this blanked out?”

  “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you,” Le Garre says in her soft accented voice. Her face appears on my screen alongside the report. Dark hair, dark eyes, a little half smile and a microphone bead just under her lip. I clip in my headphones and hear her words live and over the feed. “It’s unusual.”

  “Yes, very unusual.”

  Freighters like the Hercules are run by corporate government partnerships. Many stations and colonies rely on water and oxygen restock, with the freighters shipping raw materials back the other way. That’s normal business. Cargoes have to be registered, approved and made public, but certain items can get clearance above our grade. When that happens, the itinerary fills up with ‘Consortium Sanction Granted’ labels, which generally make our life difficult.

  “Jacobson, notify Phobos Station that we’ll need a full manifest, not this piece of shit. If anything on that ship is a possible hazard, I need to know about it.”

  “That’ll take more than an hour, Captain,” Jacobson says. “Should we hold off making the course correction?”

  “No, we signal the crew and make the maneuver. We’ll do the job either way, but any more information we can get will help.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Jacobson’s calculated course is streaming onto my console. The auto-navigation system has verified his numbers, so we’re ready for the burn. Le Garre will initiate the maneuver, firing our thrusters in sequence. “What’s the damage on our reserves?” I ask.

  “Eight per cent of total fuel,” Duggins replies. His first name is Ethan, and he’s a gruff Texan, a fifth-generation driller, born in oil field country after the oil ran out. Eighty years of dry wells and no jobs broke the United States back in the 2080s. Now, there’s three countries, one of them based in his home state. “We’ll add four days to our journey, provided we’re still making for port at Ceres.”

  “We are,” I reply. That’s what Jacobson’s calculation states. “We’re stocked for the extra time?”

  “Yes, we’ll cope,” Duggins says. “According to the schematic, the Hercules has eight crew. We can accommodate them, too, if we have to.”

  “I hope it won’t come to that.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Jacobson activates the ship-wide comms. “Attention, all hands. Prepare for course correction burn in three minutes. Calculated force is five gravities. Strap yourselves in.”

  The automated voice takes up the message, repeating Jacobson’s request. I pull up the desk cameras and sweep through the different rooms. Keiyho and Duggins will be doing the same while Le Garre a
nd Jacobson concentrate on the maneuver. We have to make sure everyone is secure before we initiate the burn.

  “Bring down the shutters.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jacobson replies.

  The blackness disappears behind metallic plates. I can feel the engines spinning up, ready to initiate the maneuver. I tense instinctively and have to consciously relax, taking a breath or two before placing my arms in the runners. More force-sensitive straps and magnets deploy, fixing me in place.

  “All decks clear, Captain.” Keiyho’s Japanese voice has a singsong quality to it that contrasts with the building hum of the ship. “All crew checked in.”

  “Initiate burn,” I order.

  “Aye, aye.”

  There’s a rumble and I’m pressed into my seat. We’re on the move.

  * * *

  The Khidr has been in service six years. I’ve been in command of her for three.

  Our run is a repeated patrol. Repair and refit at Earth’s ageing International Space Station, then push out to Apollo, the Luna orbital platform. A couple of days resupply, then on to Mars and Phobos, before heading out to Ceres and the belt. Our belt course varies, as the mining stations are mobile, so we plot a different route every time.

  Every run takes just over six months.

  Each time we visit an outpost, things have changed. It’s great to see the progress people make. Out here, there’s a unified sense of purpose to make things work, to tame the harsh environments we’ve chosen to live in. The investment to set all this up has been enormous, but necessary. All Earthers should see what being up here is like. Maybe that’d stop them squabbling.

  There’s a price to pay for living in space. Your body changes. You have to take care of what you can and manage what you can’t. Muscle mass quickly goes if you don’t exercise, and your eyesight degrades with protracted time in zero gravity.

  The Khidr has a rotational section that’s locked down when we’re accelerating. It’s a vertical torus that surrounds the middle of the ship. Access is through a central shaft elevator in which you gradually start to feel the weight of your body. For me, that’s a gathering sense of disappointment. Once you’re out of the elevator, the torus is divided into four spaces – gym, lounge, meeting room and science/medical. The generated gravity in there is about point seven of Earth’s. We all spend time in there. I don’t like it, but the others do; it’s a regular social space, the nearest many of them have to a home away from home.