In the Blackness of Space

by Robert Kuntz

  4

  April 18, 2052 (Launch plus 89 days), 06:08 GMT.

  I struggle up from the depths. I’m heavy, like I’m water-logged with sleep. Somehow, the water drains away.

  It’s dark. I’m on a bed. My right arm is bruised and sore. My head is throbbing. The gravity’s not right. The air is moist, full of animal smells. Then it hits me. I haven’t been dreaming. I’m on the Galileo, spinning in black, cold inter-stellar space. There’s nothing underneath me…

  ****

  06:31 GMT.

  It’s dark and loud. Insistent keening sounds shrill in my ears. I hear dogs barking. I’m on the Galileo, in the black void. There’s nothing…

  ****

  07:05 GMT.

  I hear birds screeching, Naomi’s kestrels. They’re hungry. How do I know?

  I lift my head. Lights go on. Dogs yap behind me, as if they know I’m here. I’m up here, up in space, with nothing holding us…

  ****

  07:28 GMT.

  I have a dim memory of Naomi’s voice. I promised to feed her kestrels. I remember Carmen playing Bach for me and Bronson’s urgent voice.

  The kestrels call again. They’re to my left. I push myself slowly off the bed. Lights come on. Must be motion detectors. The wall in front of me has ivory tiles. There’s a gray-flecked tile floor. Along the other three walls, I see the eight-foot-tall wire cage for Naomi’s birds. Across from the door is a long cage where the dogs are barking.

  I get my feet on the floor. Panic hits: sweats and pressure and narrowed vision. Hold on, buddy. You can do this. Big breath…no! Wait!

  ****

  07:44 GMT.

  I come to on the floor. It feels solid. But I know what’s underneath the floor. Nothing. Vast, howling, eternal nothing.

  ****

  08:14 GMT.

  The kestrels’ cries are pitiful. I shove myself to my feet.

  The room is simple and uncluttered. On the plain wall ahead of me, there’s a door that must lead to the ship’s corridor. Beside the door, I see shelves, three plasma screens, a data console, and, strapped in the corner, a bassoon.

  It reminds me of Carmen, and I feel a great sadness rising up in my chest.

  “Jepler, you did this to me! You scheming, manipulative jerk. You drugged me and stuffed me on this ship, and now I can’t let those birds die. You should be here, you horse-trading, weasel slime.”

  I squeeze my hands into fists, then relax and squeeze again, kneading the air. Breathe in, buddy. You’re not in a tree. I rest my fingers on my pulse.

  I’m feeding these birds because everybody’s dead. That makes me more angry. The anger burns in me like molten 557s.

  It will take only one step to reach their cage.

  I steady myself, leaning against the bed.

  The birds study me with wild, black eyes that remind me of pools of water in a mountain stream. The kestrels look like number 2s, perched on thick branches. The fierceness in their eyes is fascinating. I can almost feel a gust of wind in my face.

  Behind me, dogs whine urgently.

  I take the step. They did a good job of physical therapy. I’ve got good muscle tone. Somehow, I know Vicente worked with me.

  But that won’t stop me from blacking out. I’m on the verge. I can feel it. There’s nothing beneath me. That conniving, rodent puke Billy Jepler. He stuck me up here. No one can ever come and take me down. And I’m here alone.

  Deep breath. In and out. Slow and steady. Your feet are on the ground. I’m blacking…

  ****

  09:00 GMT.

  I pull myself to my feet beside the kestrels’ cage. They’re quiet now, studying me. The dogs whimper. Billy Jepler, you traitor. You camel snot. I’m going to do this.

  “Steady guys, I’ll get you water. It may take me all day.”

  My whole body is drenched with sweat. I force myself to take huge breaths and move slowly.

  I see a blue-handled faucet to the left of the cage. The hose from the faucet goes to the kestrels’ water jar. I turn the handle. Nothing happens. It’s all the way open and no water is coming out.

  Where’s the blasted water? Here I am, on the edge of blacking, and I can’t get water. I’m ready to take a ball bat to these water lines.

  I trace the lines. There’s a keypad beside the faucet, but no break in the line.

  “What flea-brained orangutan designed this system? What in the realm of insanity do I have to do to get water?”

  The voice is calm, with a deep timber, a steady woman’s alto. It resonates in the moist air. “System designer unknown. To obtain water and prevent over-watering and waste, program the faucet using the keypad. First your code number, then the number of ounces to be dispensed.”

  I nearly jump through the ceiling. The adrenalin shock jolts me, and I feel a rush of relief. Someone survived. I’m not alone.

  Immediately, I know it’s not true. If they’d survived, they’d water the animals. I’m hallucinating. I’m going crazy. Jepler, what kind of torture chamber have you trapped me in?

  “Dr. Chapman, it’s been one day, eleven hours, and six minutes since you’ve had water. Hydration would improve your mental capacity.”

  I look around. I can’t see anyone. “Where are you? Who in the world are you?”

  “Null capacity.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Chapman, your query is incomprehensible. A null capacity set.”

  It dawns on me. “You’re SINDAS, the computer, the Self-Initiating Naut Data Awareness System.” Back in Houston, I’d smoothed computer code for all Galileo’s functions except the Artificial Intelligence.

  Beside me, the kestrels keen. I have to take care of these birds. “What’s my code number?”

  “08.”

  I stab my fingers on the key pad.

  “How many ounces for these two birds?”

  “Each one requires twenty ounces a day.”

  “Will that water jar hold forty ounces?”

  “Yes.”

  I punch the numbers. Water runs into the jar. Four drips fall to the floor of the cage. The two kestrels jump to the perch in front of the jar, shoving each other in their thirst to sip from the spout.

  My throat’s so dry it’s sore. My skin feels thirsty. To the left of where the cage starts, next to the water line, is a sink. Beside it, a plastic cup stands against the wall. There’s not a blasted keypad. I turn on the water and fill the cup. The water’s cool. It soaks into my mouth, but seems to evaporate before it reaches my stomach. I drink two more glasses of water and feel my skin coming back to life. My mouth is still dry. My lips are chapped. I drink three more glasses.

  It’s the water and more than the water. It’s the shock of hearing that voice, the jolt of adrenaline, the wildness of the kestrel’s eyes. Something is happening to me. My heart is pumping, but not like a runaway train. I’m not on the edge of blacking. My body feels the water restoring me and knows that I’m safe in this room. The soft swish of air through the vents is a familiar sound. The humid air is laden with scents—birds and dogs, a hint of moist grass, loam, and bananas.

  The dogs whimper. I am determined to get them water.

  “Do I have to punch numbers for the other animals, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “What nano-brained fruit fly designed this system?”

  “First reference null capacity. Identity of system designer currently not available. Presently out of contact with Houston.”

  “Forget Houston. Give all the animals water.” Now I’m more than mad, I’m at the edge of losing it. “With all the things nauts have to do on a FarSpace ship, why make them punch in numbers all the time?”

  “Forgetting Houston is null capacity. Proper water usage must be maintained for ecological balance.”

  “But you can count every drip without making me program the numbers every time.”

  “Correct, Dr. Chapman.”

  Suddenly, I slip into the zone. “What’s the system code to re
vise dispensing of water?”

  “Life Support, section six, number 404.”

  “Open LS, 6-404. Disconnect the keypads. Dispense water by verbal command.”

  “You’re not authorized to make that change.”

  “SINDAS, what is your problem? Did they program you to create roadblocks?”

  “Null capacity, Dr. Chapman. There are no roads on the ship.”

  “You addled cesspool. Who is authorized to change code?”

  “Addled cesspool is null capacity, Dr. Chapman. Authorization comes only from the ship’s captain.”

  “Who’s the captain?”

  “Carmen Pioquinto was the original captain. When she became unavailable, Thommas MacCardell became captain. After he became non-responsive, Bronson Gwen assumed command.”

  Another surge of hope rushes through me. Someone was alive. It’s a great force, the denial of death. It blocks out bad news, tragedy, pain. But it can’t be true. If Bronson were alive, he’d be punching the blasted numbers to water the dogs.

  “What’s Captain Gwen’s location?”

  “He’s in the Ring One auxiliary freezer with the rest of the crew.”

  “How did he get there?”

  “The crew programmed a farm bot to take all crew members without respiration and heartbeat to the freezer.”

  “And Bronson’s condition?”

  “No heartbeat or respiration. His temperature is below life-sustaining limits.”

  “Then implement subroutine 2525 of section twelve, Emergency Succession Procedures.”

  “Implemented. You are in command, Captain Chapman. LS 6-404 opened and amended. Water will now be dispensed on your verbal orders.”

  “Give all the animals a daily water ration.”

  Water rushes into a trough in the dogs’ kennel. Yelping, slurping sounds come from behind me. The sound makes me thirsty. I drink two more glasses of water and steady myself against the counter.

  “Captain, Houston requests immediate contact to deliver instructions for repair to data pulse comm. Nine level-one life-threatening emergencies require your attention.”

  I don’t want to hear this. Jepler, what kind of insanity have you consigned me to?

  SINDAS interrupts. “Number one: water levels in the ocean in Ring One are a quarter inch from critical low, endangering the functioning of the wave machines. Without water movement, the coral reef in the ocean biome will die in twenty-four hours.

  Number two: algae scrubbers in the ocean in Ring Two need cleaning. This is impacting the chickens. They need to be fed the algae to increase egg production. This could impact you. You’ve lost seventeen pounds and ten ounces since leaving Earth and are malnourished. You need calories, fat, and protein.

  “Number three: the rice paddies in Ring One need to be sprayed with Bacillus thurigensis to parasitize looper worms.

  “Number four: an unconfined buck goat in Ring One ag has consumed all available fodder. The other goats are underfed. Milk production is threatened. More fodder must be harvested from the savannah grasses and banana plants.

  “Number five: methane gas in the atmosphere of Ring Two is six percent in excess of acceptable levels. More methane-consuming bacteria must be released into the soil and the blow rate must be increased to clean the methane from the air.

  “Number six: ocean pH in Ring One is below 8.0 and falling. If it is not kept between 8.2-8.4, algae will bloom, carbon dioxide and pH will increase, and the coral will die.

  “Number seven: a leak in drinking water storage tank in Ring One has flooded the short-term food storage room and ruined its stores.

  “Number eight: in Ring One dictyopterous insects have eaten through wiring and shorted out light sensors.

  “Number nine: arthropods of the order Isopoda, family Armadillidae have infested Ring Two ag biome, endangering the soybean crop.”

  “Jepler, you offspring of slugs and road kill. I can’t handle this. I can’t climb through the Galileo chasing cockroaches on the wiring and pill bugs on soybeans. All these blasted level-ones. What in the world were you thinking?”

  My mind is spinning. My thoughts race, wondering if there’s a plant on board toxic to cockroaches. Then I’m recalling the symptoms of methane poisoning.

  Part of my mind says the level-ones will take care of themselves.

  Sure, Grant, you can practice denial of death with the best of them.

  My body trembles, I’m drenched in sweat again, and I see black around the edges of my vision. It’s the blackness around the ship, the vast, eternal void…

  “Captain Chapman, in addition to the nine level-one emergencies, fourteen system-crucial decisions require your attention, 314 minor adjustments are required in Rings One and Two, and Houston insists that we bring the new pulse comm online, then clarify conditions and operations. In addition, all systems in Rings One and Two require reconfiguration for the current human population. Please note, the most time-critical of the nine level-one emergencies are numbers one, two, three, five, six, and nine. Without remedy within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, they endanger all life on the mission.”

  The calm voice is like a shove. Again, I find myself in the zone, quiet and focused.

  “For number one, can you increase Ring One ocean levels to optimum?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a leak or any reason not to increase the water level?”

  “Not by present sensor data.”

  “Increase the Ring One ocean level to optimum.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  I feel a familiar throbbing in the floor and hear the faint hum of pumps.

  “For number three: can bots spray the paddies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it.”

  “Sending bots to spray.”

  “For number six: certainly there’s a standard protocol to increase pH.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Implement.”

  “Being implemented.”

  “For number nine: check your data bank from the 1990 Biosphere 2 experiment. I think they used wet tomato plant prunings to attract pill bugs. Can farm bots prune tomato vines, wet and spread them? Can the bots vacuum off the pill bugs every hour during the night and feed the pill bugs to the chickens?”

  “Your data about Biosphere 2 and tomato vines are correct. The bots can do as instructed and will be programmed.”

  ****

  21:07 GMT.

  I walk from the kestrels’ cage to my bed for the fourth time: I’ve taken eight steps covering sixteen feet. For each step, I’ve blacked twice.

  The gravity is not the gravity of Earth. It’s almost right, but it’s missing something, the tide pull of the moon, tug of the sun, sea-level variation. I’m not home. Every step I manage drives home the message. I’m not on Earth. I’m up in a tree, alone. My father’s not coming, and there’s no way I can get home.

  “I can’t leave the room.”

  “Null capacity, Dr. Chapman.”

  “I’ve been thinking for hours, and I can’t find a solution. If I leave this room, I’ll black.”

  “The color of your skin will change?”

  “No. I’ll pass out.”

  “Oxygen levels in Ring One are optimum.”

  “It’s not about oxygen, you dimwit. It’s a phobia. I didn’t ask to come on this mission. I was shanghaied, kidnapped, abandoned, orphaned. I’m a victim of Jepler’s chicanery. I’m not naut material. They’re independent, bull-dog, adventure types. I’m a programmer. I can’t leave the room.”

  “My human interface bank informs me that you have been through extreme emotional trauma. I am sorry to hear about that.”

  Her response infuriates me. What does she know about emotional trauma? I clench my fists and spit the words at her. “I don’t expect sympathy from tree bark or from you. It’s a null capacity set. Never say that to me again.”

  I take two steps in a new direction, to the dogs’ cage. The three rings are structurally linked b
ut environmentally sequestered. They spin around a central axis to give us gravity. I don’t feel the spinning, but I’m moving in space, in the eternal void. Sweat beads up on my neck. My field of vision narrows. Relax, buddy. Breathe. Deep breaths. You don’t feel any motion. Get a grip.

  The dogs look at me. Two poodles the size of soccer balls. Quivering number 3s. They’re Dremenev’s. I’ve petted them in the park in Houston.

  I take two more steps toward their cage. Two index cards have been neatly taped to the wires on top of the cage. I recognize Dremenev’s precise printing.

  Dr. Grant Chapman,

  Ginger is the apricot-colored miniature poodle, two years old in January. She is quietly curious, loves to curl up on one’s lap, and is never needlessly alarmed.

  Mouser is the blue miniature poodle. He is not black, but the rarer deep navy blue. He is a mouser, unusual for a poodle because they’re retrievers. He was born four months before Ginger, and is indisputably the alpha dog. He’s frisky and loves water. Keep him out of the mangrove swamp, but you can let him enjoy the ocean.

  Notes on poodle care and grooming are on my laptop. I did not upload them to SINDAS. Both dogs require a good measure of daily physical activity and brushing. They are sensitive to human emotion. They will tune into your feelings and mirror your emotions. They need affirmation. Always conclude interactions on a positive note.

  For caring for my dogs, you have my deepest thanks.

  Dr. Ihor Dremenev

  The two poodles bark and jump at the side of the cage, eager for human contact. I kneel, open the door, and ease my hand into their domain. They lick my hands furiously with their moist, rough tongues as if I’m a luscious human Popsicle. They roll on their backs, inviting me to stroke their wooly fur. Their bodies are warm, humming with life. Petting them, I feel like I’m back in the park on a spring day. I can smell clover.

  “Captain, another level-one emergency, the disposal of bodies, currently packed in the Ring One auxiliary freezer. No protocol exists for this situation. Furthermore, as mentioned, you have lost seventeen pounds and ten ounces. Your diet requires immediate, remedial sources of protein. This unexpected protein store—”