Losers in Space

by John Barnes

  CROSS SECTION OF A SUBMILLIMETER WAVE DETECTOR DIMPLE

  Actually, it’s only half a centimeter across. Detector spots form a web half a millimeter apart all over the inside; there are 628 detectors on the surface of the dimple, and one in the center. Signal from Source 1 comes into Detector Spot A, but since it didn’t also come through the center detector spot, the software ignores it, just like it does the signal from Source 2 coming into Detector Spot B. But signal from Source 3 (black dashed arrow)—which might be a spaceship, a space station, or a transmitter in orbit around one of the planets or the moon—comes in through the center spot and Detector Spot A, so the software reports the signal and its direction. To reply to it, a transmitter spot (not shown) next to Detector Spot A sends a signal back toward the center (smaller gray arrow), and the transmitter spot at the center reinforces it by sending the same signal exactly in phase, producing a very strong directional signal (large gray arrow) that goes straight back toward Source 3.

  Thus in this future, “antenna” is just the name still used for “the thing the signal goes out through,” in much the same way that the front instrument panel on a car is still called the “dashboard,” even though it no longer has the function of keeping mud from spraying up from the horses’ hooves. The antenna is now a detector array—a surface covered with detector dimples.

  It’s not something Glisters or Susan could just knock together out of a spool of wire.

  “—can’t knock one together out of a spool of wire,” Glisters finishes explaining to Derlock, his enthusiasm undiminished. I think about suggesting that Glisters should make sure he’s thorough about this, and show Derlock how to derive the frequency-energy relationship from the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, but Derlock glazed over a long time ago. Of course we could have had the same effect by telling him that just trailing a long wire off the tail would anger the antenna gods.

  Glisters rides on. “Physically the antenna looks like a 4-meter-long post about 25 centimeters in diameter. But its surface is glass, and under the glass it’s mottled with little half-centimeter dimples, and each dimple is lined with an array of receptor spots, connected to its own processor.”

  It’s fun to watch Derlock sit there in shock from the volume of explanation, and I really am interested in what Glisters is saying, but there are other things to get on with, so I say, “All right, I understand now. All those dimples and all those little computers working together are needed to keep a signal focused on one station in a tight beam?”

  “That’s it,” Glisters says. “The antenna can talk back and forth in tight beams to up to 10,000 different stations, or send one really loud-and-bright signal to just one station, but there are no general broadcast stations anymore, there haven’t been since before PermaPaxPerity. We have to find stations we can link to in tight beam, ring their bells, and be invited in. The antenna was built to do that—and it would take a lot of study, time, and effort for us to build anything that could do it one-tenth as well.”

  “And everything is tightbeam submillimeter nowadays?”

  “I don’t think anything still uses the old longwave radio. Some things still use microwaves, like radar, toys—”

  “And ovens,” Derlock says, sneering. “Microwave ovens.”

  “Ovens don’t listen,” I say. “They just transmit in their own little space, like some people we know. So Glisters, that antenna can’t be replaced, right?”

  “If I had to build one, I’d try. No promises, but I think I’d be able to learn fast enough to get one built inside a year.”

  “So if we lose the antenna we have, or break it, we’re ultra screwed, and there will be no rescue. This has to go right the first time.”

  He nods. “Exactly.”

  I look at Stack. “Still want to be the guy?”

  Stack smiles—not like anything is fun, but like he likes being where he is, right now. “Oh, yeah, that job is all mine.”

  9

  THE DARK SPACE SOMEWHERE BETWEEN GROUNDING AND FLOGGING

  April 26, 2129. On Virgo, upbound Earth to Mars. 149 million kilometers from the sun, 165 million kilometers from Mars, 4.0 million kilometers from Earth.

  FOR THE NEXT meal, Wychee takes command of the kitchen again, and F.B. and Marioschke absolutely insist on continuing to learn to cook. There’s only room for one more helper, so I tell Commander Emerald to grab a nap in the bunk room or I’ll mutiny, and put myself on kitchen duty. It’s embarrassing that I can’t make a sandwich without checking the directions.

  Wychee speed-cooks a roast from a crate of raw Argentina beef, shakes up raw vegetables in vinaigrette, and makes a casserole from a couple kinds of fish and vegetables. I feel like a tolerated spy in the kitchen; I suspect they’d all enjoy their gossip and their grumbling more without me.

  When dinner is over, Emerald says, “All right, the regulations say we have to hold a meeting—”

  Marioschke says, “Oh, that’s good. We need to get everybody’s feelings out. Can we talk about how I ended up floating around by myself and crying? Because everyone thought what Glisters and Emerald were doing was so important?”

  Emerald says, quietly, “Marioschke, it’s supposed to be a business meeting. The Spacefarer’s Code says we have to ratify articles, and officially elect a commander, pilot, engineer, and steward.”

  “Do we have to have a commander? Isn’t that like saying one person is better than another?”

  The room is really, really quiet.

  F.B. says, “Commander, I guess this is where I bring in the stuff you asked me to look up. I found a set of model ship’s articles, suggested by the Space Patrol for ships where the officers are dead. Should—”

  Fleeta asks, “So those are like, articles about building model ships?”

  “It’s a list of things that the survivors in a ship’s company agree to, until the company or the UN gets them a proper set of officers,” F.B. says. “Should I just read them off?”

  “We need to discuss,” Marioschke says.

  “That’s what we’re going to do,” I say. “F.B. will read the suggested articles, and then we’ll discuss whether we—”

  “I mean a discussion,” Marioschke says. “About our feelings. About my feelings. We need to get those out.”

  “Read the articles, F.B.,” I say.

  F.B. starts off with “‘Article I, all conscious survivors now on board shall be organized into a crew under a commander, whose authority shall be governed by the General Spacefaring Code. Article II, The surviving ship’s company shall also elect a pilot who shall be second in command and command in the commander’s absence or incapacity; an engineer who shall be third in command with primary responsibility for mechanical and informational operation of the ship; a steward who shall be fourth in command with primary responsibility for maintenance and dispensation of the ship’s provisions, including air, water, heat, light, and food. These four officers shall serve at the pleasure of the general meeting.’”

  “That means it matters how we feel about them,” Marioschke says, “and everyone is making this big deal about all this space-law stuff and not considering my feelings.”

  F.B. looks at Emerald and me; we nod, he shrugs and reads on. “‘Article III, All other officers shall be appointed and serve at the pleasure of the commander.’” It doesn’t take F.B. much time to read through all eighteen of them; the most interesting is Article XVI, under which we’re giving Emerald the power to execute us for mutiny if two other elected officers concur. With Derlock around, that’s probably just prudent.

  The election is fast: We ratify the articles, unmodified. We elect Emerald as commander with 7 votes, with Marioschke not voting on account of staring at the floor and wiping her eyes, and Derlock voting for himself. Then we quickly elect me pilot, Glisters engineer, and Wychee—who seems startled—steward. Each time there’s one vote for Derlock and one abstention on grounds of sulking.

  “Now,” Emerald says, “we need to set watches, an
d then since everyone looks pretty tired I think we—”

  Not looking up from the floor she’s been staring at, Marioschke starts keening and sobbing. This chickie can wail.

  Feeling stupid, I ask, “Marioschke, what is the matter?”

  “This isn’t a meeting at all,” she says. “This is people talking business and doing deals and having their little elections—” She’s working into a rhythm where each and is real deep gulp-snort of a sob. The sound of it is so much more interesting than what she’s saying that I blur out for some sentences as the ands get louder and more gaspy. “—and setting up one person to be better than another one and all kinds of, and, and, and, sheeyeffinit, and it’s all bullshit!” She screams the word. “I wanted a meeting. A meeting is where we talk about our feelings. Because people have feelings, you know, and I’m very empathetic and I need to be there to help people with their spiritual growth about their feelings and instead you all started deciding all this stuff, and there were not any feelings at all.”

  Pop always says if you need to look like you mean it, take a deep breath and let it out with your face relaxed, and it looks like you have thought everything through. I keep my face expressionless, wait for Marioschke to draw a long breath, and keep thinking at everyone, Nobody else say a word.

  Finally Marioschke sighs and looks up.

  I ask, “Marioschke, where are we? What’s going on?”

  “See, you don’t even know or care—”

  “I am trying to find out whether you know, because I’m starting to doubt it.”

  That stops her, for a second. She glares at me. Being treated like you’re crazy really screws up acting crazy for attention.

  Then I see the little wheels turn behind her eyes and think Brace yourself! Poetry alert!

  She says, “We’re right in the dark heart of secrets where authority crushes our spirits, and authority says our lives depend on this and that, but it doesn’t matter if we live, if we can only live with crushed spirits—”

  “Is your spirit crushed?” Derlock asks her.

  “Everyone here’s spirit is crushed, I’m just the only one who sees—”

  “And because your spirit is crushed, you don’t care if you live?”

  She styles a real big-eyed teary expression. “That’s exactly what I feel—”

  He kicks against the bulkhead, flinging himself across the room like a missile, hands outstretched to pin her neck against the wall, and starts to squeeze her throat in one hand, using the other to knock her ineffectual, fluttering hands out of his way, driving his hip into her pelvis so she can’t push him away with her legs. He slips into a cross grip on her collar and tightens it; she struggles frantically.

  We all pile in, slapping and punching Derlock, pulling his hands away from her. Then I get a thumb-and-pinky combination on him, locking him up tight with an arm behind his back, and slip my free hand around to threaten his eyes with my fingers. “Limp now or blind forever,” I murmur into his ear.

  He says nothing, but he goes limp. Wychee helps me bind him in a hog-tie-noose combination. I mentally thank Sensei Kronstadt again.

  Emerald is cradling Marioschke, who is gasping for air and sobbing, rubbing her throat.

  Derlock’s voice is calm and level, as if machine-generated. “See, Marioschke, for one second there you felt afraid of being killed. That’s what we’re all worried about. Because whether there’s something Glisters doesn’t know about or something just breaks, something could happen and we might all be dying any second, like you were afraid of dying right then. And if you won’t accept that we’re afraid of being killed and we don’t have time for your philosophochickie sheeyeffinit—fuck you. Because no one, not even me, has time for you and your pwecious special wittle feewings.” It creeps me out that his voice is not harsh or sarcastic, even when he puts on the baby talk; it is perfectly level and calm, despite the way his twitching legs threaten to tighten the line around his neck.

  I see he’s got a major case of tented pants. He sees me seeing that, and grins and winks at me. “Now, didn’t that make the point so much more clearly than all that arguing?” Derlock says.

  Marioschke is sobbing, still terrified, hanging on like Emerald is her teddy bear.

  Wychee says, “I think I’d better take her to the bunk room for a while. If you need an officer’s vote on anything about Derlock, count me yes to indict, yes to convict, max on the penalty.” When she leads Marioschke out, the fear in the girl’s face is unbearable just to see.

  Derlock turns his chin quietly, trying to loosen his noose; I reach over and reposition his jaw with the knife edge of my hand, keeping him where he belongs.

  “Well,” I say, “good thing we voted in Article VI, we already need it. F.B., what does the General Spacefaring Code say about assault?”

  “Extra fun for the kiddies,” Derlock says, “playing policeman.”

  “We’re not the ones who jumped a crewmate,” Emerald reminds him. “And skip the part about how you had to do it. Eventually she’d’ve shut up and gone along—”

  Derlock screams, “Stack!”

  “No,” Stack says. “I think these guys want to get home alive. I don’t believe you do. I’m with them.”

  Article VI of the General Spacefaring Code gives many options, none of which actually looks like it’ll work. There is a list of suggested electric shocks with volts and amps for each offense, and a force-of-impact, number, and location as an alternative if we want to flog him. It would be satisfying, but if we just inflict pain and then turn him loose he’ll be a million times as dangerous.

  It provides for locking him up for two months, but then he’ll have escaped from work by being an asshole, not something we want him crowing about in front of everyone else.

  We end up putting him on house arrest for a month—he can only work, eat, stay in his bunk, or sit where an officer can watch him—with a suspended-if-he-behaves sentence of a dozen shocks on the buttocks and confinement in a storage locker for a month. Obviously having inherited his father’s lawyering genes, he argues that “like that” isn’t a precise enough definition. I give him a more precise definition of “shut up or else” and we clip a monitor on his ankle and send him to his bunk.

  Afterward, in the cockpit, we have a little officers’ meeting. Emerald says, “I feel like a twentieth-century mommy in an old meed, telling him he’s grounded, but it’s better than letting him get away with it.”

  I say, “I still think we might have made a mistake in not flogging him.”

  She shrugs. “Hey, everything we do is a best guess based on imperfect knowledge.”

  Glisters makes a small uncomfortable inarticulate noise.

  “Exactly,” Emerald says. “Till today I had no idea why any human being might want to know astronomy, cooking, or jiu-jutsu. If I catch you all reading up on flogging, I promise I won’t think you’re a pervert.”

  Since neither Glisters nor I really wants to sleep, we’re the first watch. “As a favor to me,” Emerald says, “I want you to take Marioschke on your watch. She can just hang out or do tutorials or something, but she skipped half the work today, playing crazy-scared, and she even admits that’s what she was doing, and then she pulled that sheeyeffinit at the meeting.”

  “She did okay shoveling mud,” I point out. “And she looked pretty messed up after what Derlock did. He tried to kill her, you know.”

  Emerald shakes her head. “She likes dirt and plants. And we all almost got killed. I agree, she’s not Derlock, we can get her to do her share, but not if we let her think that working is doing us a favor. So she has to stand a watch, right from the start. I’m taking Derlock, and that’s enough problem; Wychee and F.B. will have their hands full just learning what they need to know. So guys, it’s a favor but she has to be on someone’s watch, and you two are the most likely ones to start her off right.”

  “Won’t she be mad at me about the things I said?”

  Glisters does a balancer with his o
utspread hand. “I think you win on comparison, Susan. You didn’t pin her to the wall by the neck. Sure, Commander, we’ll take her on. Make sure everyone fastens the acceleration nets on their bunks; we’ll do the last accelerations and then fire off the course correction on this watch.”

  To our surprise, after the others have gone off to bed, and Marioschke joins us, she’s almost contrite, sitting and working on tutorials about milligrav cooking and first aid.

  Glisters runs two more thruster bursts, killing the last tumbling components in the pod’s motion, with us hanging on in the cockpit. “At least now everything will be more or less pointed the way it was designed to be, milligrav outward along the hull, and near weightlessness in the coretube,” he says. “That just leaves the course correction.”

  “How soon, and how long will it take?” I ask.

  “The sooner we do it the more effect it has, and I’m all set up. We’ll be done in two hours.”

  “And that just means one-tenth of a g toward the tail, right?”

  “Less than that. That’s what’s normal for eleven engines running for ten hours, and they eat up three and three-quarters out of four iceballs. We only have two engines and one iceball, and we still need to save a quarter of it for maneuvering and to replace leakage. The calculation here is showing two hours of 4% g, and then we’re done.”

  “Hunh, well, then I guess, what are we waiting for?”

  “Well, the officer of the watch should give the order.”

  “The—oh, me. Sure. Do it.”

  It’s one of the moments when I’m least like Pop in an old meed.

  We don’t really have to stay in our chairs in the cockpit. We were scrambling around in much higher and more irregular gravity earlier. Still, it’s a good time for Glisters to walk me through all the things he’s found out about Virgo, where all the tutorials are, and how to run the ship and find information in general. I’m tired, and Susan the Celeb-to-Be Bitch is shocked at how easily I relate to a big-headed pink pervo boy, but Crazy Science Girl has found a new best friend. I miss Fleeta yet again.