by Robert Kuntz
****
22:17 GMT.
I’m in the lab, repairing the pulse comm. Soldering isn’t going badly. I burned out a few components, but now I’ve got the hang of it. This means I’m no longer fuming at Dremenev for being so anal that he refused 3D printers for circuit assembly, insisting that he run the wires instead of trusting nano-circuit boards built by additive manufacturing.
Ginger and Mouser are sitting on the floor by the gray doorway. They look at me with eager faces as if they want to go out for a walk in the park on some distant planet.
“Here’s what you don’t get.” I plug in the last laser relay circuit board and stretch a new wire. “I can’t run this ship alone. I believe in the mission. I’m committed to it, but I have to go back. I can’t keep up with the planting, harvesting, and animal care.
“I don’t want to give the president the satisfaction of shutting down FarSpace. But the mission was designed for eight people. I can’t manage it all. I’m not qualified. I can’t live twenty-five years without other people.
“Don’t talk to me about Ángela. Jepler has the morals of slug slime. He played me like a mark at a carnival. But he’ll wrangle something for her. He’s a genius at cons and deals and backstabbing.”
When I burn my finger for the third time with the soldering gun, I realize I’m too tired to see straight, much less solder tiny wires. The repairs on the pulse comm are half finished, but it’s time to go to bed.
****
May 8, 2052 (Launch plus 109 days), 03:29 GMT.
It’s two months after my sixth birthday. My father shoves me up in an apple tree. A branch rips against my arm and I feel the blood welling in the cut. I turn and hide it from him so he doesn’t blame me for bleeding. A few dried apples cling to the bare branches. I cling to the branches too, so the wind doesn’t rip me from the tree. The gusts tear at me, threatening in a rasping voice that I’ll be here so long I’ll wither like the apples.
Night comes. Branches scratch in the wind. I can’t see the moon or any stars. The heavens are empty, as if pieces have been ripped away. I’m alone. It’s like my mind stretches far outside of me, extending out into the vastness. There’s no one there. Being alone is an ache in my chest, a grinding series of sharp 7,777s.
Morning comes. There’s no sun. The sky has a glaring void. The moon, stars, and sun have deserted me. I shout, “Come back! You have to come back!”
I’m clinging to the tree, taking great breaths so I don’t black. The empty heavens rage. The tree shakes in the wind. Gusts lash it, bending the tree to one side and then the next. I hang on, afraid of being blown into the void of heaven. Roots tear free.
The emptiness in the heavens swallows the wind. The paved street beside me slips away. The neighborhood houses disappear, snatched by the void. In the dream, I black.
9
05:04 GMT.
SINDAS’s voice shocks me awake. “Captain Chapman, level-one emergency. SPPT-B and SPPT-C offline, suspected ECM malfunction.”
I stumble out of my hammock. The goats bleat from their shed. Mouser and Ginger scamper over, ready for an adventure. I rub the sleep out of my eyes.
Problems with the gravitational thrusters again? SINDAS thinks it’s the electronic control modules, the ECMs. I ask, “Is there another option to system block for both thrusters?”
SINDAS doesn’t hesitate. “No. Once system block is in place, ECM must be physically reinstalled before SPPT can be brought back online.”
“You told me that before. Activate block.”
“Activated and confirmed.”
Again, I feel like I’m missing something. There’s something I should understand about this. But what? Mouser and Ginger nudge insistently at my knees. I reach down to pet them.
SINDAS calls out, “Level-one emergency. Eleven hours twenty-two minutes until half gravity.”
“What?”
For a moment, SINDAS says nothing. The only sounds I hear are birds chattering in the trees. Nothing changes in the ag biome. But it seems like the ship suddenly grows lighter. I know it’s foolish, but I can’t shake the feeling that gravity is failing and I’m lighter, getting ready to float.
SINDAS’s calm voice sounds in my ear. “SPPT-D insufficient to maintain gravity. Pre-launch computer simulations show irreversible ecosystem damage occurs at half-gravity.”
Mouser barks as if he doesn’t understand the problem.
“Mouser, we have to have gravity. If it falls below half g, half of Earth gravity, the wave machine will slosh water out of the ocean and lower the water level beyond life-sustaining limits. If we turn off the wave machine, the coral will die. The problem’s not just the ocean. Water is the basis of life. Without the flow of water from the freshwater marsh to the salt swamps to the ocean, everything will die.
“Can’t you just hear the president: ‘Further proof that FarSpace was a heedless rush to catastrophe, a foolish waste of money.’”
Mouser barks in disgust.
“You’re right. He’s a gutless coward.”
Ginger prances up to me and licks my bare foot, as if to say she trusts me to take care of things. She’s like a jolt of light, warm and quivering with life. Determination soaks into my soul.
“I’ll take care of it, Ginger. Not just to prove the president wrong. But so I can get back home and tell that slimy weasel Jepler what I think of him.” I feel the heat of my anger and think about Dr. H. It feels good to be angry; I feel strong. Did my father feel like this? But how can you feel good when you’re shoving your five-year-old son up a tree?
“Eleven hours, seven minutes until half gravity.” SINDAS’s voice jars my thoughts. “Space walk required ASAP.”
“Space walk! What are you talking about?”
“ECMs must be physically replaced. They’re located at the base of the thruster pylons.”
“Why in the world are they outside the ship!” Ginger and Mouser back away, as though I’m yelling at them.
SINDAS yammers on. “That data is not available in the present system. Should it be requested from Houston?”
“Stuff yourself in a trash compactor.”
“Null capacity, Dr. Chapman. Should data be requested from Houston?”
“Don’t ask Houston. A space walk? I can’t do that!” A moment ago, I felt determination. I remember feeling it. It’s disappeared like a vapor.
Ginger and Mouser look at me with sympathy. They approach slowly, not their usual frisky selves, and lick my hand. Then they sit, cock their heads and study me as if they’re wondering what I’ll decide. They don’t look frightened. Do they know their lives are at stake? Are they so confident in me that they’re not afraid?
I can’t take it. “Look, you two. If you believe I can do this, you have the brains of dust mites. I can’t go on a space walk.”
“Noted. Attempting to contact other members of the crew.”
“There’s no one else to contact!”
“Confirming that I should not contact other crew members.”
Mouser barks and jumps up to lick at my hand. I crouch and ruffle their furry heads. They are totally unconcerned about this emergency. It’s life or death, but they don’t get it. They’re warm and trusting, and they enjoy me. Just as I marvel at seeds, they enjoy Grant Chapman. Somehow, that settles me and I slip into the zone.
“SINDAS, what do I need for this space walk?”
“Three training sequences are required: First is TS 47915, space suit requirements and training, a one-hour-and-ten-minute sequence. Second is TS 22801, virtual space walk and safety procedures, a one-hour sequence. Third is TS 77386, a virtual experience replacing ECM, complete with biofeedback for muscular movements to identify proper force and torque. This is a fifty-minute sequence.
“The recommended training program is five repetitions of suiting up, ten of space walk, and three of module replacement. Proper training will require eighteen hours and thirty-five minutes, not counting time for eating, sleep, and rest.”
“Null capacity, excluding the deadline which is currently eleven hours and five minutes.”
Mouser barks, encouraging me.
“Where are the space suits?”
“In the Ring Two air lock, outside the crew quarters. Dr. Chapman, it is against regulations to put on a space suit without proper training.”
“You can puke on the regulations.”
“Null capacity.”
I’m sweating. My heart is thrashing in my chest. Blast you, Jepler. You shove me up here in space, and now I have to go outside. You ton of camel mucus, what were you thinking? Adrenalin floods my system. At least I’m too angry to black.
“SINDAS, fry the regulations. You are going to guide me through suiting up. The suit helmet will serve as my virtual reality mask. In the suit, I will go through one virtual space walk and two virtual repair sessions. Then you will guide me through the actual space walk. Get that?”
“Null capacity concerning regulations. Your plan of preparation breaks—”
“Shut up, you regulation-fixated windbag. Open Regulation Sequence 1414. Accept addition: When the captain decrees Survival Emergency, all regulations can be suspended after informing the captain of them once. Close. Adopt. Confirm.”
“Open. Amended. Closed. Adopted. Confirmed.”
“Captain decrees Survival Emergency.”
“Noted. All appropriate procedures will be instituted.”
“Where are the replacement ECMs?”
“The tech lab outside the Ring One crew quarters.”
I hurry out of the ag biome, Ginger and Mouser scampering at my feet. I jog down the gray-tiled corridor to the tech lab. For some reason, the lab has pale-green-tiled walls and a stark white floor.
“Left wall, third bench, fourth drawer from top, brown compartment,” SINDAS says.
Ginger and Mouser sniff around the room, checking the lab smells. Does Dremenev’s odor linger here? Do they miss him?
I open the brown compartment and find four replacement modules. They’re silver-edged, black metallic wafers the size of tea bags.
“Only four? Aren’t there more back-ups?”
“Thommas MacCardell installed two replacement modules during the flight.”
“This already happened twice? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“MacCardell discovered an irregularity in the ECMs the day before being exposed to cold radiation. In a spacewalk lasting three hours and forty-nine minutes, he and Bronson Gwen replaced two control modules.”
“What if they fixed the symptoms, but not the cause? SINDAS, make a note for Houston to check the prototypes and specs to make sure this isn’t a design flaw.”
“Noted and stored for transmission. What is the estimated time for complete repair and replacement of the pulse comm system?”
“How in the blasted world do I know? I’m getting ready for a spacewalk for crying out loud.”
“Null capacity.”
“Ask me later, SINDAS. Day after tomorrow.”
I grab the four modules and leave the tech lab. I head down the corridor, reenter Ring Two, and find the air lock. I take a deep breath and enter.
I’m standing in a wide room. Across from me are two stark white doors. They open into space. Eight lockers line the side walls, four on each wall, standing at attention like number 9s in blue uniforms. My name is on the last locker, a little off-center, as if it was slapped on at the last minute.
Ginger and Mouser scamper in the room and sit at my feet. “You two can’t stay here. We’re going to empty the oxygen. Mouser, take her back to the ag biome. Go pester the goats. Keep Ginger and the pups safe.”
“Ten hours and twenty-three minutes to half gravity,” SINDAS says.
I shoo the poodles out, pull the gray door closed, and engage the locks. I open my locker. Hanging on pegs are the two layers of a space suit. I put the control modules on the little ledge inside and take out the first layer, the sky-blue Liquid Cooling and Venting Garment.
The bright suit brings Mac’s voice to my mind. Two years ago, I’d had to hunt him down to ask about some improvements he’d proposed for maintenance bots. I’d found him in the locker room by the low-grav space walk simulator. He was holding his LCVG in his hand, talking to Bronson. “Ma’d be shudderin’ at this yoke. Could tha ha’ made it a wee bit brighter, do ya think?”
Bronson laughed.
Mac turned and greeted me, “It’s tha deadly Dr. Chapman, come ta save me from the eejit bots.” He lifted the LCVG and said, “Can ya save me from wearing this hidjeous thing, now?”
Mac discoursed for ten minutes on the biological and mechanical frustrations of wearing space suits. The outer suit keeps the vacuum of space at bay. But wearing it is like being wrapped in plastic. “It heats tha body ta a savage fever, so within it ya have ta wear tha fierce blue rags ta keep from broilin’. Full of nano-tubes, it is, Chap.”
Now, I’m holding the suit made of genetically-strengthened silk, with miles of hydrocarbon nanotubes woven into the fabric. As I learned from Mac, hydrocarbon nanotubes are the most efficient heat conductors known. They circulate water that picks up body heat. The water runs through a condenser on the back of the outer suit layer, cooling the water and preparing it to pick up more heat.
“SINDAS, how do I put this on?”
“First, remove all outer clothing, jewelry, and sharp objects from your person. All care must be taken not to puncture the suit.”
I know that SINDAS is just a disembodied female voice. But I feel embarrassed stripping to my underwear in front of her. With SINDAS reciting directions, I struggle into the LCVG. It has spacers to keep it three-sixteenths of an inch from the outer suit so air can circulate around the body. The air pressure is kept at 4.3 psi.
Then I pick up the outer suit, the one everyone recognizes from vids. The limp silver spacesuit is heavier than it looks; titanium-silk is the densest fabric on earth. As long as it’s under air pressure, nothing gets through the weave. Under pressure, the suit is hard like metal, yet supple like cloth. I know by holding it that I couldn’t tear it. But what if something else does?
I try my best to shrug the thought away.
Her voice strangely mechanical, SINDAS tells me how to hold the suit. Soon I’m slipping into the outer suit and sealing the front closure. Then comes the condenser, power, and oxygen pack. When I slip it on, I remember hefting my pack on the walk from Charleston to Houston, and I can smell the Southern morning air.
The pack fits me like a glove. I wonder if Naomi or Bronson adjusted it on my body once we were in space. Then it hits me. They did it before that. I wore this when they brought me from Earth to the Galileo.
Following SINDAS’s instructions, I connect to the ring’s power and air supply so I’m not wasting the suit’s resources. Without pause, she has me hook on the tool belt and slip the replacement modules in the belt pouch. The pouch has foam walls to protect fragile contents.
SINDAS’s stiff voice goes through the pedantic procedure for checking the boots: power on, boots empty. Boots on, seal and reseal. Boots on, jump in place. Boots on, magnetic power on, shuffle in place forward, backwards, right, and left; then rock forward, breaking the magnetic grip that holds me to the deck. Then rock forward, jump backwards. It’s more of a workout than I expected.
Finally, we’re done with the boots. SINDAS begins the helmet subroutine. It’s a conformal helmet, one that moves as my head moves. I wrestle it in place and then fumble with helmet drinking tubes and with awkward chin movements needed to hit the touch screen switches. Then come the gloves. That routine is twice as long as the boots: flexing fingers, lifting weights, testing power, pressing buttons, fastening on the tool belt, removing tools, returning tools, dropping tools and picking them up. Part of my mind is saying, Hurry up. Let’s get on with the real thing. And part of my mind is fixing on every detail because it’s my life out there. I notice m
y hands are trembling and then shove that awareness to the side.
Finally, I’m completely sealed in the suit.
SINDAS’s voice is still mechanical, as if she’s tense and tired. “Step onto the blue tiles and face the inner door.”
I step and face.
“Suit security check. Dr. Chapman, a burst of liquid oxygen will envelope the space suit for three seconds. If you feel any cold whatsoever, report it immediately.”
“Affirmative.”
The liquid oxygen mists around the suit like a cloud of pi, endless in the decimal digits. I’m as warm as toast inside the cloud. Maybe this whole thing is going to work…
“Report.”
I pay attention to my body. “No cold sensation whatsoever.”
“Suiting sequence complete. Time until half gravity is nine hours, fifteen minutes.”
I take a deep breath. SINDAS continues. “Training sequence 22801 simulates the space walk and safety procedures. It’s been linked with TS 77386, drive module replacement. Total checklist for all three sequences is one thousand four-hundred ninety-two items. Press chin switch five for virtual reality helmet function.”
I stab at the switch with my chin and make contact. The helmet turns completely black. I’m blind. I panic.
“Dr. Chapman, your respiration and pulse are increasing.”
I know that, you fiber optic rat’s nest.
The virtual reality flashes onto the inside of the helmet. I see the air lock, with the outer door in front of me. The helmet controls are neon greens, reds, oranges, and blues, as if someone has written in the air with a magic paint brush.
“Step onto the doormat.” SINDAS’s tense voice says.
In the virtual reality, I see a metal grating at my feet. It’s about the size of two desks side by side. “Affirmative,” I reply, and step on it.
“Prepare for air evacuation.”
“Affirmative.”
Instructions come rapidly: testing the magnetic power in the boots and gloves, attaching and detaching tethers, more jumping, stepping, and shuffling. Finally, the simulated outer door opens and I look out into the simulated black of outer space.