Science Fiction by Scientists: An Anthology of Short Stories (Science and Fiction)

by Michael Brotherton

  So he pulled the bag out of the trash receptacle and gingerly shook it down, knowing he’d have to clean the whole galley area very thoroughly with alcohol wipes when he was done.

  Maki was about to close and seal the bag when something caught his eye: a bright fuchsia color in the waste.

  “Nande kuso?!” he exclaimed in surprise, then poked around in the garbage with gloved hands. Soon he brought out a container and a water syringe — the container had held pasta Alfredo, the sauce residue of which was now a bright pink, the color that had caught his eye. The syringe had been used to rehydrate the Alfredo sauce, but it, too, had a slight pinkish tinge to the remnants of the fluid inside. And the color was unmistakable, especially since he had been working with it so much for the last month.

  Phenolphthalein, he thought. Cosette didn’t spill it — she ATE it. She mixed her sauce with it instead of water. No wonder she was sick! Besides, that should have tasted of ethanol to the skies! Ieuch! But, he remembered, she has only just arrived and is probably still suffering from SAS, so her taste is likely off. Plus, she is from France, and was trying out the new wine containers from the French vintners, so that might have hidden the taste. But why in heaven’s name would she do that in the first place?! Then a possible answer came to him.

  Pelletier, several of them had noticed, had not dealt as well with life aboard the Station as most astronauts and cosmonauts did. She had grown up living on a vineyard, was used to open spaces, and the confined volume of a space station — especially when coupled with the initial disorientation of microgravity — had unexpectedly produced some level of claustrophobia in her, especially during her first sleep period. She had gotten essentially NO sleep for the first night or two. Maki knew that for a fact, because she was still on his shift for the first couple of days, and her berth was right above his; he had heard her panicked breathing most of the first night. Halfway through the sleep period, he’d asked her if everything was all right, and she admitted that the sleeping berth seemed far too small, and it made her uncomfortable. They had both tacitly known that she was grossly understating her reactions.

  Maybe, he considered, she couldn’t take it, and thought this was a way to get home fast, without it looking too badly on her curriculum vitae. He shook his head. That’s not good, on several levels. I wonder if I should tell Popov.

  Then something else occurred to him, of immense importance. The Soyuz. If I’m wrong, and Cosette really was sick, and this is just some food dye gone bad — in which case she possibly suffers from food poisoning, just as bad as an intestinal virus — then if the lot of us get sick, it would be good to make sure that the Soyuz is in a good way to get us all safely home with as little manual intervention as possible…

  Quickly Maki gathered up the bag of trash, setting it to one side to show Popov later, and headed for the Rassvet docking module, peeling off his gloves, mask, and goggles as he went.

  ***

  :::PLAYBACK COMMENCING:::

  International Space Station

  Increment 56

  MALTSI Mission Elapsed Time 1 year, 6 months, 24 days, 9 hours, 27 minutes

  Subject: MALTSI Test Subject Fitness

  Sheehy unstrapped from the platform and pushed out of the densitometer scanner, floating over to the monitor to look at the specialized x-rays of specific parts of her skeleton — lumbar and thoracic spine, right pelvic girdle, and left forearm. She tapped a couple of buttons on the computer console; this sent the imagery to the MALTSI science team on the ground, in the Science Operations Area of the Huntsville Operations Support Center. They would view the images at the same time she did.

  Abruptly the images popped up onscreen, and she gasped.

  “No, no, no,” she whispered, staring at the x-rays in horror. “No, it can’t be. I doubled the dosage!”

  “MALTSI Huntsville to ISS on Air-to-Ground 2. Sheehy, are you seeing this?”

  “Sheehy to MALTSI Huntsville! Affirm! What the—” she caught herself before she cursed on Air-to-Ground — a huge protocol violation — and amended, “what the heck is going on?! I’ve followed the protocol to the letter! I even doubled the hormone dosage like you recommended!”

  “Yes, I know. We had your electronic logs,” Chris Adams, the MALTSI Chief Scientist, replied. “Evidently there is something radically wrong with the protocols. I—”

  “Break-break. Flight on Air-to-Ground 2. POD, INCO, GC, take this conversation to the private loop for a medical conference. Surgeon, stand by for PMC.”

  “Flight, GC copies.”

  “Flight, INCO copies. Stand by one…”

  “Flight, Surgeon, standing by.”

  “Flight, POD copies. DMC, attend Flight loop.”

  “DMC copies.”

  Sheehy wanted to fling something while she waited for the go-ahead.

  “Surgeon, ISS, MALTSI, this is INCO. Comm switched to AG-3; recording off, loop locked. You are go for private medical conference.”

  “Thank you,” Adams’ voice answered. “Clare, we are honestly unsure of what has happened. The increased dosage appears to have ACCELERATED bone loss, rather than slowing it, as we expected.”

  “I NOTICED THAT!” Sheehy practically screamed into the mic. “Did you happen to notice the microfractures in my forearm?”

  “We did,” came the answer. “By any chance is that the arm you use for pushing off and deflecting, as you move about the cabin?”

  “It is,” she whispered in dismay, comprehending. “Stress fractures. My bones are brittle.” She opened her mouth to say more, but what came out was more nearly a whimper, so she stopped, struggling against tears of fear.

  “Break-break, Flight Surgeon on AG-3 for Sheehy.”

  “Go, Surgeon.”

  “Dr. Sheehy, this is Pete Caldwell. We have a serious situation here. I don’t think any of us expected a bass-ackwards response to the protocols, but that seems to be what has happened. I’ve been following the experiment very closely, and I am exercising my authority as chief flight surgeon for the increment to call a halt to it, effective immediately. It is my considered opinion that continuing it any further puts your life at risk…if it hasn’t done so already.”

  “Surgeon, Sheehy. What do you mean, ‘If it hasn’t done so already’?”

  “Clare,” said Cardwell, and Sheehy knew by the soft tone of his voice and the personal mode of address that what was coming wasn’t good. She was right. “Clare, right now, I don’t think your skeletal structure could handle your own weight on the ground. I’m really not sure you could handle the g-forces involved in a re-entry. It could very well kill you.”

  “Damn,” Sheehy breathed, careful not to key the mic on her comm headset. A cold hand seemed to reach into her gut and grab a handful of entrails; she shivered. Several tears spilled over and bubbled around her eyes, leaving her unable to see. She dragged her sleeve across her face, absorbing the liquid and clearing her vision. Finally she keyed the mic, since she heard nothing but silence on the other end. “What should I do, then?”

  “You stay put and keep your chin up,” Cardwell answered. “We’ll figure something out. And Clare, Dr. Adams…this stays between us. Not even the other crew, Clare. You know how paranoid some of the Russians can be about medical matters. It’s a cultural thing, but it would be bad for morale. Besides, it’s your personal medical information, which is nobody’s business but yours and the medical personnel treating you. Do you understand?”

  “Affirm,” Sheehy mumbled into the mic, deeply troubled.

  “…Affirmative,” Adams murmured. “Dr. Sheehy, our deepest apologies…I…we…we have no idea how this backfired so badly.”

  “Surgeon, Sheehy. What protocols do you want me to follow in the meanwhile?”

  “Increase calcium and phosphorus intake, boost vitamin D, try to exercise if you can without causing stress fractures. I’ll work on it from this end. Once we can figure out how to boost your bone density a sufficient amount, we’ll start you on THAT p
rotocol, and get you home when it’s built you up enough.”

  “So I’m stuck here in orbit until then,” she declared, disbelieving.

  “…Yes. For now. We’ll come up with something, Clare, I swear.”

  ***

  :::LIVE DOWNLINK COMMENCING:::

  International Space Station

  Increment 58

  Mission Elapsed Time 8 days, 12 hours, 02 minutes

  Subject: Galley Waste

  Popov and Sheehy arrived in the galley at the same time. Sheehy was looking for something to drink after thoroughly cleaning the toilet facility in the Tranquility module, and went straight for the water. Popov was looking for Maki. Finding the trash stowage only partly completed — barely begun, in fact — he frowned in annoyance.

  “Govno,” he grumbled. “Vhere is Maki?”

  “Dunno,” a curt, out of sorts Sheehy replied, sucking in a deep pull of the water. “I been up to my elbows in ‘govno,’ so I haven’t seen him. You check the materials lab?”

  “No, I — vhat is zhis?” Popov gingerly pulled open the top of the stowage bag and peered in. “It is…pink. It is food, but it is…pink.”

  “What?” Sheehy wondered, pushing off and floating over. “Pink? You or Alexi been eating borscht?” She smirked.

  “No,” Popov replied, brusque, “and is not right shade pink, anyvay. Is…is bright pink. Look.”

  Sheehy peered over Popov’s shoulder.

  “Damn. It really IS pink, isn’t it…?”

  “It is indeed…” Popov murmured, staring into the bin. “Very pink.”

  Sheehy eyed Popov with a distrustful gaze.

  ***

  :::PLAYBACK COMMENCING:::

  International Space Station

  Increment 57

  MALTSI Mission Elapsed Time 1 year, 8 months, 15 days, 4 hours, 12 minutes

  Subject: Public Affairs Office/ISS Video Opportunity

  The ISS Increment 57 crew — Commander Popov, Flight Engineer Peter Murphy, and Mission Specialist Riichi Maki, along with the Increment 56 crew of Science Officer Sheehy and Mission Specialists Alan Cocoran and Maksim Vasileyev — had gathered during shift handover for an awards show ceremony, which was to be filmed and downlinked to Los Angeles.

  All went well until the very end. Since the award was for a science fiction category, the awards people wanted something special from the astronauts. So Popov had decided that they should all turn backflips in the microgravity environment. Sheehy had argued the matter, suspecting that so many in such a tight volume would produce problems she didn’t want to deal with.

  “Kazimir, it isn’t safe, not with all of us. We have racks on either side, the stowage below, cabling…it’s an accident waiting to happen.”

  “It vill be fine,” the commander pressed, stubborn.

  “What if someone kicks — er, one of the control panels? It could reset entire experiments! The ground will be twelve kinds of pissed. Or somebody could get their feet tangled in the cables!” Sheehy was careful to avoid mentioning the idea of someone hitting another person — that came perilously close to her secret, and she had express orders not to discuss THAT.

  “Ve vill simply tie down zhe cables before zhe downlink,” Popov shrugged. “Ve are cosmonauts and astronauts, Doctor. Ve know vhat ve are doing.”

  “But—”

  “Zhat is enough, Doctor,” Popov cut her off, frowning. “Zhe event will go forward as ve haff planned it.”

  “Because?” She put her hands on her hips in defiance.

  “Because I say so. And I am zhe increment commander.” And that was the end of the argument. Mission Control Moscow had already shown a tendency to support a strong chain-of-command structure, and Houston was unlikely to override it. The synchronized backflips were a go.

  Unfortunately, as they twisted in midair during the broadcast, exactly what she had feared came to pass: Cocoran kicked Sheehy in the head.

  ***

  In the alcove of the Columbus module reserved for medical treatment, a dizzy, wobbly Sheehy stared at the computer screen. On it was an x-ray that depicted a hairline fracture of the left parietal bone of an adult human female skull. She ran a trembling finger over the line denoting the fracture.

  Then she gingerly palpated the left side of her head, where Cocoran had kicked her, and winced.

  ***

  :::LIVE DOWNLINK COMMENCING:::

  International Space Station

  Increment 58

  Mission Elapsed Time 8 days, 11 hours, 56 minutes

  Subject: Soyuz Space-worthiness

  Inside the Soyuz, Maki checked the settings as carefully as he could. He’d had the standard Station emergency egress training, but had chosen to go beyond that, and study what he could coax out of his cosmonaut colleagues, learning what he could about actually flying the Soyuz. He had also been working on the same matter with the Dragon craft, but was not as far along.

  So it was the matter of a few glances to realize that the settings were not what they ought to have been for a docked craft in standby mode. In fact, he thought, this looks like prep for an imminent deorbit burn. But the docking clamps are locked in place. I didn’t even think you could SET a burn with the clamps locked. I thought you had to be free-floating.

  He opened an access panel nearby to see if there was a problem with the engine connections and was shocked to find several wires had been cleanly snipped. Well, that explains it, he thought, grim. That’s…that was…deliberate. He pushed back, being careful not to fling himself across the cramped cabin into the far bulkhead, and considered. That means…someone on board, one of my crewmates, is trying to sabotage…

  And suddenly the phenolphthalein stain in Cosette’s meal made sense.

  But why? And who? And why Cosette? There are only two other crew members on the Station, so I have a 50/50 chance of being right, whichever one I pick. He pushed down into one of the seats and pondered. With the increasing usage of the Dragon capsule, the Russians no longer have a monopoly on travel to and from the Station. That could mean a political reason to do something. And Leonov wanted to take the Soyuz, not the Dragon. He ran a distracted hand through his hair, standing it on end, where it waved gently in the slight air currents. I need more data to figure this out. But in the meantime, I need to do something here.

  He pushed out of the seat and floated slowly over to the controls. Reaching inside the access panel, he matched wires, then opened one of the cargo pockets on his uniform and fished out a multi-tool. He stripped insulation off the cut ends, then spliced the wires back together. Closing the panel, he flipped the switches back into standby mode.

  Then he peeped outside the hatch, into the docking module, to see if anyone was watching. No one was, so he exited the Soyuz with a hard push, heading for the nearest communications console to call a mayday on the air-to-ground loop as fast as he could.

  He didn’t see the wire cutters that drifted out from under the command console behind him, nor the countdown timer slung underneath it.

  ***

  :::PLAYBACK COMMENCING:::

  International Space Station

  Increment 57

  MALTSI Mission Elapsed Time 1 year, 10 months, 2 days, 6 hours, 38 minutes

  Subject: MALTSI Test Subject

  Sheehy crouched at her desk in the medical alcove of the Columbus module, her feet hooked securely into the anchor loops, so she wouldn’t drift away. She studied the latest densitometer x-ray of her femur, and scowled at the hairline fracture near the knee. Unconsciously she rubbed that joint, which had begun to ache a month earlier, when she had first discovered the break. It did not appear to be healing properly. She shook her head, chewing her lower lip in thought.

  At least the skull fracture has healed. She pulled up the latest image of her skull, which showed only a faint shadow in the parietal bone where the crack had been: the new bone was less dense than the old. But, she thought, that’s to be expected; it’s the way the bone grows back after extende
d weightless conditions. It isn’t going to get any better until they come up with a proper treatment that WORKS.

  Just then, her headset beeped, and CapCom announced, “ISS, Houston for Sheehy.” She keyed her mic.

  “Houston, this is Sheehy. Go.”

  “Please switch to AG-3 for a private medical conference.”

  “Copy; switching to AG-3.” She hit a couple of buttons on the comm console sitting beside her laptop. “Houston Surgeon, this is ISS Sheehy for requested PMC.”

  “ISS Sheehy, this is Surgeon. How are you doing, Clare?” It was Dr. Cardwell’s voice.

  “About as well as can be expected. I guess you see the stress fracture just above my knee.”

  “We do. And the healed skull fracture. What happened there, and why didn’t we know about this sooner?”

  “Uhm,” Sheehy began, “I…didn’t think it was necessary. I didn’t show any signs of concussion, though I told the others I did, so I could bandage it and pad everything.” She paused, then added with some bitterness, “It isn’t like you could do anything if you DID know.”

  “So…you’ve seen no after-effects? No long-term or permanent damage?”

  “Negative. Hurt like hell at the time, and I had a headache for a week, but it healed up fine.”

  There was silence on the private air-to-ground for several seconds before Cardwell continued.

  “…How did it happen, Clare?”

  “We had to do that public affairs crap for the awards show on TV, few weeks back,” she snarled. “They wanted something suitably ‘spacy,’ and Popov got the bright idea we should all turn backflips in the cabin, all at once. ‘Synchro- uh, synchronized flipping,’ the damn TV moron called it. I TOLD Popov there wasn’t enough room, that something would happen, but he wouldn’t listen — he pulled rank on me, the offi- uh, the stuck-up moron — and sure enough, it did. Cocoran kicked me in the head. Blame them. I sure as hell do.”

  “I’m sure it was an accident, Clare,” Cardwell soothed, apparently ignoring the cursing, not that she cared; it was, after all, a private communique. “Cocoran didn’t mean to hit you. And neither he nor Popov could have known your…condition. Unless you told them.”