by Mark Anson
Clare could see Neale, the engineering chief, standing over one of the consoles, talking to one of his staff. Presently he looked up and saw them, and beckoned them over.
‘Morning to you both,’ he said, and then to Clare: ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine sir, but I’m getting a little tired now.’
‘Ah yes, well that’s to be expected. Take it from an old hand – don’t push it. Get some sleep this afternoon, and you’ll be fine for tomorrow. So, welcome to engineering. What can I show you?’
Clare glanced round, wondering what to say. ‘Can you show us where you control the engines?’
‘Sure.’ They followed him over to where a technician sat at a console showing the status of the engines and their nuclear reactors. He pointed out the displays. ‘Four engines, four separate reactors. Triplicated control systems, plus there’s a shielded maintenance duct for each engine if we ever need to control them manually. Each engine provides thrust to keep us flying, electrical power for all our systems, and compressed air for the refineries. Fuelled for ten years’ service, minimum. Enough power for a medium-sized town.’ He patted the console.
‘Incoming landing, sir,’ another technician shouted across the room.
‘Ah, you’ll want to see this.’ Neale walked to the rear of the room and faced the sweep of windows. He pointed out the bright stars of the landing lights on an incoming Frigate. Clare watched, fascinated, as it closed in on the Langley, growing larger with each moment, until it was so close that she could make out the flight crew behind the cockpit windows. It seemed to be heading directly for them, and she fought the urge to duck, then at the last moment the Frigate thundered overhead and slammed into the flight deck with a muffled boom.
‘Another one safely back on board,’ Neale commented. ‘I guess you’ll be trying that yourself tomorrow, Foster.’
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘Stay as long as you like. My team will be happy to answer any of your questions.’
‘Thank you sir, but I’m thinking of taking your advice about getting some more rest.’
‘Very sensible. Well, see you later, lieutenant.’
Clare and Coombes thanked Neale and took their leave. Outside the engineering room, Clare asked Coombes: ‘Is that where that pilot crashed into earlier this year? The ramp above that room?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it was.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘Yes. Well, we won’t know for sure until the official investigation report’s been published, but it looks like it was pilot error – she came in fine, but at the last moment, she dropped low, didn’t put on enough power, and smashed into the ramp. Her Frigate slid off the deck, and went straight down.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s about all we know. There’s loads of data, but the investigation team took all of that.’
Clare thought about it. Slid off the deck, and went straight down. Down into the atmosphere, with no chance of any rescue. Deeper and deeper, and every moment the pressure rose around you. Maybe there would be a few creaking, cracking noises, maybe a few moments of terror – then suddenly the hull would rupture and collapse, crushing you to pulp. Maybe she wasn’t alive when it happened. Maybe.
Always go around if you’re not established on final, Shaffer had said last night. She hoped she’d remember his words, and shivered involuntarily.
‘You okay?’
She smiled weakly. ‘You know, I wasn’t kidding back there. I feel done in.’
‘That’s a pity. I was going to show you the hydroponics farm – you were saying last night that you’d like to see it.’
‘And I would, but can it be another time?’
‘Sure. I’ve got one last surprise for you though, and it won’t take a minute. Are you okay with heights?’
‘Most of the time,’ Clare said cautiously. She followed him down some more stairs to a small deck below the engineering level. He opened a locker and handed her a facemask and a long insulated jacket with a fur-lined hood.
‘You’ll be needing these as well,’ he added, handing her some gloves, ‘we’re going outside.’ He indicated a red airlock door, and laughed at her look of astonishment. ‘It’s okay, it’s perfectly safe.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No. Really. We can go outside. We’re in the wake of the ship, there isn’t any danger.’ He shrugged into his jacket and pulled the facemask straps over his head.
Clare followed suit, and Coombes checked her air. ‘Can you hear me?’ His voice came from a speaker on the front of the facemask.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Follow me.’ He pressed a button to open the airlock door, and they stepped inside. The door closed behind them, and he pressed another button to cycle the airlock. The airlock display changed from green, to blinking green, blinking red, and finally the steady red of the outside atmosphere.
‘You okay?’
‘Sure am.’
Coombes opened the outer door, and a tremendous roar of air assaulted them. He stepped out onto a metal latticework deck that ran all the way across the end of the ship, across to an identical airlock on the port side.
Clare followed him out of the door, and froze. The expanse of air opened to infinity on her left, and below – there was nothing below her, and she could see sky through the open latticework. The rear edge of the deck was curved, following the shape of the engineering deck above their heads, and a guardrail running along the edge was all that separated her from the sky. The wind pummelled her body as it swirled and buffeted round the rear of the ship, and it was cold, well below freezing. She reached out and clung onto the metal guardrail with her gloved hands as the world swayed beneath her feet.
Coombes turned to her, grinning behind his facemask. ‘Now for my next trick,’ he said, and promptly pulled off the facemask, and breathed in. He stood there for a moment, before putting it back on again.
‘It’s okay for just a moment, it won’t kill you,’ he said.
Clare looked back at him from where she held on to the guardrail. She could barely stand. She wasn’t going to give in and dash back inside, though. She straightened up and, keeping one hand firmly on the rail, reached for the straps securing the facemask to her head, and slid it upwards.
There was a brief sucking noise as the air in her mask rushed out. The scream of the wind whistled in her ears. Coombes lifted his hand, palm upwards, miming breathing in. She opened her mouth and breathed in once, exhaled, and took a deep breath, properly. The air was icy cold. She felt … nothing.
She put the mask back over her face and breathed deeply to flush the Venusian air from her lungs. She felt a faint sensation of breathlessness for a few moments, but it passed quickly. Somehow, the experience had calmed her nerves, and she summoned the courage to move along the rail and look down – down through the kilometres of empty air to where the cloud deck rolled past. She watched the scene for several moments.
‘You okay?’ Coombes sounded worried.
‘I’m fine,’ she grinned, looking back at him. She felt wonderfully, incredibly alive, and one thought kept on going round in her brain.
She had breathed the air of another world.
PART II
Endless Sky
CHAPTER SIX
‘Come in.’
Clare opened the door into the Langley’s small but well-equipped sick bay and found the medical officer, Captain Donahue, seated at a desk, typing up some notes on her console. It was the morning of the next day, and Clare felt refreshed after another solid night’s sleep.
‘Ah, Lieutenant Foster. I was wondering when you’d be along. How are you feeling today?’ Donahue pushed away the keyboard and motioned for Clare to sit down.
‘Morning, ma’am. I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Yes …’ Donahue ripped open a blood pressure cuff. ‘Roll up your sleeve please. Well, I’ve yet to meet a pilot who presented themselves for a fitness test without claiming to be in a perfect physical st
ate.’ She fastened the cuff and adjusted Clare’s arm to the correct height, and set the machine going. ‘Any dizziness?’ She looked Clare directly in the eye.
‘I had some when we first landed, but none since then.’
‘And how long were you in space?’
‘Eighty-five days.’
‘From Earth?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long had you been on Earth before that? More than three months?’
‘No – about ten weeks. Just short orbital flights during that time.’
‘And before that?’
‘Two weeks on the Moon.’
‘Ever been to Mars?’
‘No. Not yet. Hoping to go.’
The blood pressure cuff deflated and Donahue glanced at the readings.
‘You’re slightly elevated, but that’s normal for your length of time in space. What about hibernation? Were you in stasis on the way here?’
‘No, it was only a short flight, and the advice was not to do it.’
‘Yes, I’d agree with that. The risks of going into stasis are greater than any bone loss problems below three months. Have you ever spent any time in stasis?
‘Only during training on Earth – a few days.’
‘Any ill effects?’ Again, Donahue stared at her directly as she answered.
‘I felt pretty nauseous when I came to, but it passed.’
Donahue nodded, and pulled her keyboard back. She typed for a few moments. ‘I’ll need a urine sample. Can you give me one now?’
‘Sure.’
‘Over there, please.’ Donahue indicated a toilet behind a curtain, and proffered a sample bottle. ‘Mid flow please.’ She continued talking as Clare went behind the curtain and unfastened her overalls. ‘At least you’re honest. Anyone who says they’re not dizzy after landing, or doesn’t feel sick coming round from hibernation is a liar in my opinion. Um, how about radiation? You ever been on an EVA?’
‘Yes, in low Earth orbit,’ Clare replied from behind the curtain.
‘I’ll need to see your dosimeter.’
Clare flushed the toilet and unhooked her dosimeter from round her neck as she stood up. The small device kept an accurate record of her radiation exposure, and had to be kept below a ‘lifetime limit’. Many promising careers had been cut short due to an unexpected solar radiation flare, or to inadvertent exposure to spent nuclear fuel cans. For women, of course, it was even more important, and any plans for pregnancy had to be declared in advance so that the subject could be reassigned to Earth. Becoming pregnant – or causing a pregnancy – in space was considered so dangerous, both to the child and to the mother, that it was a serious disciplinary offence.
Clare pushed the curtain aside and handed over the sample and the dosimeter. Donahue dropped two test sticks into the urine and left them while she plugged the dosimeter into her console.
‘You’re fine there – well below the curve.’ She handed it back. ‘Just review it each year at your annual medical, and after every deep space flight.’ She turned her attention to the test sticks, holding them up to the light. ‘Calcium loss is on the high side of normal. Did you keep up the exercise during the flight?’
‘Yes – well mostly. I tried to get in two hours a day, but it was a full flight and some days it was difficult.’
‘Well I’m afraid it isn’t enough. Next time I’d recommend two and a half hours for every day you’re in space. I want you to drink plenty of milk for the next six weeks – at least half a litre a day – and ramp up the exercise gradually over the next ten days until you’re on an hour and a half. I’ll see how you’re doing after that time.’
Clare groaned inwardly. The endless, repetitive exercises that they had to do to control bone loss and muscle wastage were universally loathed, but there was no substitute; not even twenty-second century medical science had found any safe and effective alternative. At least the gravity here on Venus was sufficiently high that the process was reversed just by standing up and walking about.
Donahue made some more notes, and smiled.
‘Right. Just the fitness test now.’
Clare ran round the corridors of the Langley, her footfalls echoing off the bare metal walls. Donahue had given her precise instructions on the route to follow: once round the upper deck living quarters, then out and round the side corridors, up and down the stairs in turn over four circuits, then back to the sick bay.
Donahue had said that it was about a kilometre, but to Clare, it felt more like ten. Her head ached, and her heart had started pounding before she had even gone a hundred metres. How could she be so unfit?
She started down the stairs on the port side, then when she reached the bottom, ran along to the next stairs, and up again. Along to the end, and down again. Her calf muscles were tight with pain. She reversed direction and ran back to the second stairs. Up, along, and down again, and now she just had to repeat the circuit three more times before she could head back to the sick bay …
‘Good effort, you’re only just over time,’ Donahue said cheerily as she stood at the door, checking her watch. ‘Now, hold still, I’m just going to take your pulse. How do you feel?’
‘Breathless,’ Clare blurted out, leaning against the wall. ‘No strength.’
‘That’ll pass.’ Donahue checked the reading and handed Clare a fat tube with a mouthpiece. ‘Blow into this as hard as you can.’ Clare did so, and blew until she saw specks in her vision.
‘How did I do?’ Clare gasped as she followed Donahue back into the sick bay. Donahue was reading the results off the breath analyser, and indicated that Clare should sit down.
‘You’re passed for flying. No manoeuvres over two gees for a week, and you’re to tell your instructor immediately if you feel any dizziness, nausea or any visual disturbances like tunnel vision. Report to me again in two days, and again in ten.’
‘Thanks ma’am.’ Clare started to get up to go, but Donahue motioned for her to sit down again. Her breathing was still coming in gasps.
‘It’s okay, you can rest here for a few minutes. Your body’s not used to pumping the volume of blood against this gravity, that’s why it feels so strange, but we’ve got to check that you won’t faint under exertion. Do you know who’s taking you out for training?’
‘Uh – Captain Shaffer.’
‘You must have made a good impression; he’s our most experienced instructor.’
Clare’s heart sank. The last thing she needed at the start of training was their best pilot watching her. She managed what she hoped was a convincing smile while Donahue made some more notes on her file. Her breathing was coming back under control, and she was starting to feel better.
‘Okay, if you can breathe normally, you can leave.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Clare got up to go. Just as she was opening the door, Donahue cleared her throat and said, quietly but clearly:
‘Watch yourself with Coombes.’
Clare turned back to Donahue. ‘Sorry Ma’am?’
Donahue didn’t look up from her typing. ‘You heard.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Colonel Donaldson leaned back in his chair in his day cabin. As captain of the Langley, he had three adjoining rooms: the large dining room, which was only used for full staff meetings and occasions like the night before last; his personal stateroom, which was a larger version of the standard cabins on board; and this smaller day cabin, which was where he spent most of his working time. As well as the main door to the corridor outside, there were two other connecting doors: one led to his stateroom, and the other opened directly into the main control room at the front of the ship.
On a console next to him, he could see at a glance the situation displays for any part of the ship. At the moment, he had it set on the flight operations display, and he could see the aircraft in the traffic pattern, with the carrier at the centre. He glanced at the display occasionally as he read the report that was open in front of him.
A knock came from the
door to the corridor.
‘Come in.’ Donaldson looked up, saw that it was Shaffer, and put the report down. He gestured for him to take a seat, and glanced at the coffee machine in the corner. ‘I’d offer you coffee, but I’ve just had the last mug.’
‘I’m flying shortly anyway, sir.’ Shaffer sat down, facing the captain across the office table.
‘Instructing?’
‘Yes. Our new Lieutenant Foster’s first flight in the circuit.’
‘Hmm. Well, given her record, she should be okay. Is she acclimatised yet?’
‘Donahue signed her off earlier.’
Donaldson nodded. There was a pause, then he flung the report down on the desk. ‘I’ve been reading this again.’
Shaffer turned the report slightly to read the title: Fatal Accident on USSV Langley, June 14, 2141 – Interim Factual Report. He looked back at the captain, spread his hands expectantly.
‘And …?’
‘The initial findings report is due out next week. And I’m not convinced we’re in the clear.’
Shaffer got up, walked over to the long window set in one side of the room. From this vantage point, he could see a Frigate in the circuit, heading downwind. ‘We’ve been through this before.’
‘Yes. But I’ve been looking at it again. This report is too – accepting. It’s like they’re not questioning anything that we’ve told them.’
‘It’s an interim factual report. You wouldn’t see anything like that in it, and if they’ve got no questions, it just means there’s nothing to question. Everything points to pilot error. Regrettable, but it happens. Even on the best-run ships.’
Donaldson drummed his fingers on the top of the desk as he considered Shaffer’s last words. He swivelled his chair to face Shaffer at the window. ‘Have you considered the possibility that that’s what we’re meant to think?’