by Robert Kuntz
The next thing I know, the suit is as rigid as an ancient suit of armor. I’m coughing and choking and smell ammonia. “What happened?”
“First aid sequence 34-019. ‘When the victim is non-responsive, first attempt hailing, then shaking, then puff a burst of ammonia to the nostrils.’ You did not respond to hailing. Shaking is null capacity. The puff of ammonia achieved results.”
“You’ve got ammonia in this suit?”
“Dr. Chapman, you’re connected to the ring air supply. It can deliver ammonia.”
“I forgot.”
I can’t do this. It was virtual, for crying out loud. It wasn’t even real, and I blacked. What will happen when I really look into outer space?
“Time until half gravity is eight hours and thirty-six minutes.”
“Open TS 22801 and 77386. In virtual reality controls, replace black color of space with green grass below and blue sky above. No blackness, no stars. Keep the ship and all other details unchanged. Close and confirm.”
“Opened, adapted, closed, and confirmed.”
Suddenly, I’m no longer hearing SINDAS, but a male voice. “This is Dr. Howard Knolly, NASA, Department of Zero-Gravity Studies. TS 22801 was prepared in February, 2040, and has been used to train nauts for twelve years. In this virtual reality simulation, the space suit will be powered to interpret your movements as if you were in zero gravity. It will respond accordingly. When you lift your arm, the suit will keep lifting it, as would happen in zero g, until your muscles stop the movement. When you jump, the suit will power you in a brief approximation of weightlessness.”
OK, Howard, let’s get on with it. We’re losing gravity…
“The most important thing to remember about zero-g work is this: Don’t thrash about. In zero gravity, you’ll spin out of control. If this happens in the simulation, you can shout ‘halt’ and the suit will bring you back to your previous position. Obviously, in zero-g, this is not possible.
“Let’s begin with a simple arm movement. Take a wrench from your belt kit.”
I reach with my right hand, with too much movement and torque, and the suit spins me around. My arms swing wildly and the spin gets worse. Howard’s calm, reassuring voice repeats, “Don’t thrash around.”
I shout, “Halt.”
The suit rights me. Immediately, Howard continues. The simulation doesn’t give me a chance to catch my breath. Probably a reflection of good old Howard. He seems like a no-nonsense guy who’s had pilot training, one of those adrenaline males who likes to push the envelope.
I stumble, as awkward as a camel on skis. In five minutes, I have never fallen so much in all my life. I’m going hoarse from shouting halt. If he says it once, Howard says it a hundred times, “Don’t thrash about. In zero gravity, you’ll spin out of control.” The worst part isn’t when I fall. It isn’t when I knock every tool out of the blasted tool kit. The worst moment comes when I take a control module from my belt pouch and inadvertently fling it into space. I watch it on the virtual screen sailing up into the virtual blue heaven knowing that I can’t shout ‘halt.’ The virtual module disappears from sight. Do we have extras? Can I put those modules on tethers? I keep interrupting Howard to shout questions for SINDAS to log and answer when I’m done.
The second time through the training sequence, the modules have tethers and I realize I’m going to be black and blue from being dumped on the floor. This is why I never took Marsha dancing. I lack body awareness and physiological self-adjustment mechanism.
There’s no time for another space walk simulation, but I have to repeat the repair module sequence, even though it takes fifty minutes.
When I finish, SINDAS says, “Time until half gravity is four hours and fifty-three minutes. Dr. Chapman, you need hydration and nourishment.”
“I suppose you want me to take off this suit, mosey down to the ag biome, milk the goats, and whip up a banana frappe.”
“Null capacity. You access nutrition through the green tube and water through the blue tube.”
For a moment, I imagine hundreds of tubes slithering around the inside the helmet. Maybe I do need to stop and eat. “So, is there a menu? Do I have a choice?”
I don’t know what I’m expecting. It’s going to be pureed and I’m going to suck it from a tube. It’s not as if it’s going to be a burger and fries or my favorite lime-chicken pizza with onions.
I take a long pull on the blue tube because I am thirsty. Then I think about the crazy way I have to pee in this suit. At least I was able to do that without peeing on myself.
I take a pull on the green tube. It tastes like lime-chicken pizza with onions. It hits me. Blast you, Jepler. You’re the only one who could have told them about this, you conniving son of a jock strap. Don’t think this will change how I feel about you, you pool of rancid weasel sweat.
When I’m done eating, SINDAS says, “Food and water need replenished.”
“Show me how to do the water. I’ll skip the food.”
“That is against regulation 37-9989 and is contrary to basic human physiology.” SINDAS’s voice hints at disapproval. “The spacewalk requires sustained aerobic activity. Caloric requirements are at a premium. For your body mass, you will need at least 175 calories every hour. You would perform at optimum alertness and efficiency if, each hour, you consume 200-225 calories in fruit-enhanced, vitamin-rich, whole grain packs.”
“Pureed granola bars? I’m going on a spacewalk and you’re feeding me granola bar soup?”
“Null capacity.”
At SINDAS’s direction, I open the blue panel inside my locker, attach the tubes to the suit, replenish water and nourishment and empty the pee bladder. The last thing I need in space is a suit with a full pee bladder.
“Time until half gravity is four hours and twenty-nine minutes.”
I open the equipment chest in my locker and pull out four mini tethers. With fumbling fingers, I hook one end of each to D-rings on my chest. Then I slip the ECMs from the belt pouch, hook the other end of each tether to a module, and secure them back in the pouch.
“Time to disconnect from ring air supply.” SINDAS’s voice rings in my ear. She guides me through disconnecting the ring air hose and energy connection, and connecting the air pack hose and power. Suddenly I’m breathing in dry, bland air. There’s no smell of plants and growing things; no whiff of goat, chicken, and dog. The air’s mechanical, foreign, with a faint chemical odor.
“Prepare to attach tether.”
“Affirmative.”
An orange light blinks to my left, immediately below the exit door. The neon-green tether is hooked to the floor beneath the light. I lumber over, bend down slowly, feeling the weight of the condenser, oxygen, and power pack on my back. I unhook the tether, pull it from the floor and click it onto the tether rigging at my waist. Then I click the rigging lock to the tether so it’s doubly secured.
“SINDAS, can you retrieve the tether?”
“Affirmative.”
I have a nagging, troubled feeling. There’s no way I can guarantee I won’t black. We have to prepare.
“SINDAS, is there ammonia available in the space suit?”
“Space suit air supply is limited to Earth mixture enriched for high-adrenalin activities.”
“How can we add a small ammonia supply for emergencies?”
“Attach an extra air bladder with ammonia-air mixture. Extra air bladders are in the compartment at the base of the locker. Attach that to the purple tube and press the star button twice.”
I follow her instructions and see the bladder fill with the ammonia-air mix. Then I play contortionist, trying to attach the bladder to my back and the hose to my auxiliary air supply.
Now I have to tell SINDAS what to do. “Open First Aid Instructions 301. Add, ‘If respiration is below that of consciousness, if the subject does not respond to being hailed, increase oxygen by 1 percent and administer one-second burst of ammonia. If no response after three repetitions, retrieve tether, return
subject to air lock, and re-establish atmosphere in air lock.’ Close. Confirm.”
“Open. Adopted. Closed. Confirmed.”
These precautions are next to useless. If SINDAS pulls me back into the air lock, even if she cycles the room and fills it with oxygen, there’s no one to open the suit. If I black out and my suit’s oxygen runs out, I could suffocate in the space suit in a room full of air.
“Time until half gravity is four hours, fifteen minutes. To begin exit procedure, step onto the doormat.”
On the floor, right below the exit door, is the two-desk-sized metal grating. I step onto it and feel the click as the magnetic boots grab the metal floor.
“In position.”
“Tether hooked?”
“Affirmative.” I’m beginning to sweat.
“Tether recheck!”
I look down at the tether and jiggle the connections. “Affirmative, tether hooked.”
“Prepare to begin air exit cycle.”
“Affirmative.”
I can’t hear the hiss of escaping air, but it seems like I can see it draining from the room. The shape of things changes; the colors become more intense, as if the air no longer obscures them.
“Vacuum complete. Prepare to open air lock.”
I want to scream that I can’t go up this tree. Blast you, Billy Jepler, you maggot in swamp muck, you back-stabbing intestinal slurry of squids. I take a deep breath. “Affirmative.”
“Lock opening.”
10
The wide, white doors wrench apart and slide into the walls of the ship. The doormat slides out from the air lock, taking me into space. I feel it jolt as it stops beneath me.
Space is empty and endless. But it’s not pure black. It’s frosted with stars, the immense Milky Way so full of stars the universe can’t possibly hold them all. The expanse stretches out forever, more vast than the heavens above Earth. It’s unsettling in its immensity, too open, too far-reaching; it will pull me apart. I feel like I’m dwindling to nothing. The void is expanding relentlessly, and I’m shrinking to a speck with the air leaking out of me.
The stars are piercingly brilliant, angry number 51s, silver, orange, red, bluish white, grumbling and snorting as if they want to shove me out of their domain. The void of space takes on a tangible quality, becoming a thick black wall forbidding me to pass. I shudder and shrink back. A knot forms in my stomach. Suddenly, I sense motion, the Galileo’s slow rotation, and I’m engulfed in panic. My heart races. My vision narrows. If I don’t do something, I’m going to black. “Jepler, you road kill slime.” I shout. I focus on that overweight glob of aardvark snot and let my anger burn until it shivers white-hot in my chest. My panic fades and I stop screaming.
As the Galileo rotates, stars slip from sight and new ones appear. They are angrier, as if shouting, “Haven’t you gone back inside, yet?” Their brilliance is cold and threatening. “If you come into our domain, we’ll trap you in the endless cold of space.”
It hits me: what about cold radiation? What if it’s waiting for me out here? What if I go back inside to die?
There’s no choice. If I don’t restore gravity, we’ll all die.
At least, I’ll know by icy-cold pricking that I’ve been exposed to it.
“Prepare for outer lights.” SINDAS’s calm voice shakes the thoughts from my head.
I struggle to croak out a word. “Affirmative.”
Brilliance erupts around me. Galileo’s hull is dotted with light towers. They’re tall number 4s, ruler-straight with cranes thrust to the side at sharp angles. In the light, the Galileo doesn’t look at all like one of Jepler’s donuts. It’s metallic, shining sheer white, stretching into the frosted blackness of space. Rows of structural rigging, girders, ladders, sheds—more orderly, precise number 4s—glisten in the light. A distance toward the stern, I see a wide, neon-orange band painted around the hull and assume that marks the beginning of the Beta Ring.
I realize I’ve been all through Rings One and Two, the mechanical passages, biomes, storerooms, workshops, labs. It’s a sobering thought, how immense and small the Galileo is, how complex and fragile, both at once.
“Time until half gravity is four hours, three minutes. Prepare to step off doormat.”
My throat is nearly too dry to speak. “Affirmative.”
“Step off.”
I can’t do this. It’s too empty out there. It will be worse than being stuck in a tree. I’ll never get down. I’ll be the module floating off into space.
I’m drenched in sweat. SINDAS is going to report that my heart is going berserk. I take a deep breath, five seconds in, five seconds out. In my mind, I hear Dr. H’s voice, “Of course you can do this. You walked from Charleston to Houston.”
OK. I can do this. My heart slows. I feel steady, connected to the Galileo as if I were standing barefoot, skin to titanium.
Before I can think about it, I jump, just like I practiced in the simulation. Instantly, I’m weightless, floating. Nothing pulls me down. I feel free and strong, like I could fly. An immense joy bubbles and bursts inside me. I’m floating in the star-frosted ocean of space.
I feel a tug and see the tether stretched out behind me, anchoring me to the slowly spinning ship. I’m a kite on a string, a spider on a long silk strand connected to a sturdy oak. I’m soaring on joy.
“Prepare for firing guidance jet.” SINDAS’s calm voice sounds in my ears.
“Affirmative.”
“Firing guidance jet.”
I feel a gentle push and then nothing. It doesn’t seem like I’m moving. There’s no sensation of motion, no wind in my face, no feeling of travel. For a moment, I feel relaxed, buoyed by the sheer joy of weightlessness. Then I see the white, flood-lit Galileo falling away below me. The joy disappears. My heart races. My body trembles in the spacesuit. I grit my teeth, steady my breathing, and fight down the panic.
“Prepare for firing guidance jet.”
“Affirmative.”
I feel another push and find myself heading slowly along the stark white hull of the Galileo toward the needle at the tip. My stomach is clenched like a fist. Deep breaths, I tell myself. Five seconds in; five seconds out. After three or four breaths, I can clamp down on the panic and shove it aside. The ship rotates slowly. About half way from me to the needle, I see a blinking orange light. All around is vast, frosted-black emptiness.
“What’s that orange light?”
“Orange signifies destination, pylon A.”
I’m inching toward the orange light. It takes forever until I can make out the thick, slanted pylon. Somewhere at the base is the access panel for the electronic controls. I know from the simulation it’s the size of a garbage can lid.
“Prepare for firing braking jet.”
“Affirmative.”
The jets fire soundlessly. I feel another gentle tug. Then I slow and change direction. Before I can gasp, my magnetic boots click onto Galileo’s surface. Back in contact with the ship, I have weight again. There’s no sensation of movement, only familiar, reassuring weight. My body sags in relief. I flex my hands and realize they’ve been clenched. Relax, Chapman. Let your body relax. You’re on the ground now. The lunacy of the words hits me and I laugh hysterically. Panic lunges at me like a monster ready to devour. “Blast you, Jepler.” The anger worked before, so I focus on it again. “You betrayed me, abandoned me, abused me. I thought we were friends, and you did this to me.”
Like a white-hot sword, the anger drives away my panic. Focus on the task, Chapman. I look down at the access panel and take the long power wrench out of my right leg tool pocket. It’s like a curving, unbreakable number 6. Moving slowly, I slide the socket head over the first bolt at the top of the panel. It slips in place, jarring my arms. I imagine a clanging sound. I rock my feet back, shifting my weight, and turn the wrench. Suddenly, I’m spun into the air, weightless, the wrench flying away from me, the roar of the panic monster in my ears. I hear Howard’s voice. “Don’t thrash about.”
My vision’s narrowing. I’m going to black. Desperately, I stab my foot down toward the Galileo and throw out one arm to slow my spin. The magnetic boot connects and I pull myself back onto the ship. I’m breathing furiously, as if I’ve run a mile. Slow it down, Chapman. Deep breaths…I focus on nothing but breathing until I feel my body relax.
I shove myself toward the zone. What went wrong? It comes to me: I rocked my feet and broke magnetic contact. Smooth move, Grant. You only practiced that twenty times.
I look for the wrench. There’s an unpowered back-up in the tool pocket on my other leg, but I’d rather have the power. I see the wrench, a silver, slowly twirling number 6, hit a girder and spin back toward me. Carefully, I reach out my hand and grab the spinning wrench.
SINDAS’s voice startles me. “Time until half gravity is three hours, twenty-three minutes.”
I slip the wrench back on the bolt, check to make sure my feet are locked on the ship, and tug on the bolt. It loosens. I press the button, the wrench motor engages, turning the socket until the bolt is free. I slip the bolt into the bolt drawer next to the access panel.
Two bolts later, I shove the wrench back in its leg pocket and open the panel. In the center, an island of electronics waits for me. A thick yellow line frames the control module. As I practiced on the ship, I pull the module gently from its socket and slip it into chest pouch number one. Then I open my belt pouch, take out a control module and extend it to the end of its tether, untangling it from the rest. The module floats in space, bobbling before me as I close the belt pouch. Then I grasp the module carefully, press it into the socket, and disengage the tether.
“SINDAS, test module replacement.”
Tiny lights glow and flash on the circuit boards. “Control module one correctly inserted and connected. Data streaming in. Repair of first module successful and complete. Time until half gravity is two hours, thirty-eight minutes.”
“SINDAS, can we turn the pulse thruster on now?”