It was, as planned, a floating, mid-sized city, completely contained. And that was because it had no choice.
-----
On the relatively slow crawl of the tram, Angela thought over the philosophy of space travel. She knew that people would eventually ask how anyone can live this way. Psychologists know the answer. It was tough on the very first occupants, who knew Earth and the way things should be. The second generation heard about it in glowing terms, and perhaps missed some part not provided onboard the Resolute. The third generation forward to Angela’s time knew no better, having been born and raised in the encapsulated world.
To her, tales of the moon and even Earth were just that – tales of the old country. By now, they were naturalized into the big vessel, much as anyone constrained for years, and thought nothing of it.
Inside the tram car, just room enough for twenty people standing, she was alone. She relaxed. She wanted that spot soooo badly. She did not like The Lion, but she knew that few did. She was not fond of Dr. Gravisov, either. But both made sane decisions regarding the operation of the city. And when Captain Morgan put his foot down, oddly, they backed off.
On several occasions, Gravisov had made overtures to the young woman when Angela was a fresh Lieutenant, just ten years ago. But Angela was no feminine sulk, and so unlike Gravisov’s previous ‘wife’ that the older woman quickly sought elsewhere. There seemed to be a ready danger that the ‘control’ tables might turn and Angela would end up beating her to within an inch of her life!
But as Morgan had told her, repeatedly, you took orders in peacetime, from whoever was in charge. You gave orders in military action, and the Council had to keep their head down like the rest of the ship.
Her mind would not slow down. She went over every nuance of the oral examination. She had aced the written, coming out twenty points higher than her nearest competition, but that Commander was four years her junior.
He could probably do the job, and he was male, but she would not happily serve under him. Not enough depth of experience. None of them had that but her. But if she did not get the promotion, what the hell could she do?
Resign and become a mommy? Not likely.
-----
Retaining her calm exterior, saluting those that met her in the corridors, she made it to her own quarters. A Commander had a three hundred square foot room, complete with personal bathroom, but only with a shower. Bathtubs were considered a luxury. There were, also, a sitting room and a bedroom. Twice the size of a Lieutenant Commander’s, and they shared two to a room.
The Lieutenants and Ensigns were four to a room. And that same room shape and size served on down the ranks in some combination, all the way to the enlisted men, too, nine to a room, done in three stack bunks.
Everything below the top four decks was extremely uniform, just that residency or use changed. If a shop needed more space, walls were arched wide as open pass-through and units were connected in whatever shape the shop owner needed. It was a matter of money for added rent and available space.
In the top two decks, the Council kept their home quarters, two to three thousand square feet, even if there was just one occupant. Some things never changed, regardless of time and distance.
Administrative offices filled the next few decks, as well a great deal of the quarters surrounding the Council residences. All were connected with walkways as well as short elevators, long halls and doorways added to make government more efficient.
Angela’s was well appointed, even had a single, wall to wall fitting carpet, but after a hundred plus years of use, it was all getting a bit dated and drab. There was no free exchanging anything in each generation.
If you did not buy it with your own credits, you were assigned to it, you lived with it, you moved on. Besides, no one could afford to complain. There simply was not enough resources to redecorate unless you were a craft type person. Some were. Not Angela.
Shops earned money by selling their services or wares. That helped them pay the rent and make a profit. So, if Angela changed up anything, she bought it. But not often. She had not anticipated being in the smaller cabin long enough to care. And she never ‘entertained,’ so what did it matter? Her eyes were on the Captain’s luxury suite.
Morgan’s quarters, on the other hand, which she would inherit, eventually, if she got the promotion, were simply lush, compared to hers. In that top four layers, where larger, non-uniform layouts were allowed, the rooms fit the shrinking width and height of Resolute. Here, more creative designs could fit, changing as one moved down toward the back of the big ship.
Six hundred square feet, three rooms all his own, a bigger, queen size bed, sitting room, luxurious bath with bathtub, plush carpeting, and even faux draperies over nonexistent windows. When he retired, he would take up a civilian residence, farther back in the ship and out of the way. Still luxurious, but not military.
His furniture was leather, for even though the eating of meat was a controlled luxury, skins were always left over, and either the Council members or the Captain had his leather furnishing redone every five to six years. So, nearly new, then, compared to hers.
Luxurious bath was a misnomer, and she knew it. The fact that few quarters for any military individual had an enclosed shower and bathtub of any kind made Morgan’s utility bath set a luxury. The only difference in shower between hers and his was an additional five square feet. Utility.
It was that simple.
CHAPTER 5
Angela sat down at her simple workstation, a fold out desk, where a pair of screens were embedded. They went operational the moment the desk was lowered from the wall. One half of the desk tilted up to provide visibility, while leaving about twenty inches for desk space. These screens held the battle screen and the forward vid as duplicates, and every Commander and the Captain had the same access. Hers might be half the size of Morgan’s.
Again, something to look forward to. She had been in his quarters exactly once, immediately uncomfortable in his presence, all alone. Whether he meant something or not, she was not a trusting person. She was out in a hurry, and that was three years ago.
The screens told her that all was quiet, as it had been for almost her entire career. Even the closest foreign objects had been mere curiosities, hundreds of thousands of miles away… no threat.
She opened the small lid on her military owned and equipped, tough wrist book. It was titanium lined, shielded, the works, all slightly wider than a large wristwatch, but three inches long up her wrist. She took a long look at her screen notes. Using voice, which was faster than the stylus alternate, she added a few more based on the exam today, and read over it even more closely. She had followed everything to the letter.
Morgan had told her, more than once, to lighten up a bit, when leaning too heavily on crew and staff, and she had heard him, but she knew the rules, backwards and forwards, and if they did not, she was in a position to enlighten them.
If they showed wanton disregard, the bane of any military outfit, she was harsher. Still, inside regulations, but she got things done, and she got them done right.
However, she had learned that she could not do things for them, but through them… and they often went about it just slightly different than she might like. The trouble with doing it within the lines of constraint, but walking the edges, was that this invited disaster. So, she instituted training and exercises that brought them all in line with her expectations.
Problem solved. As said before, fortunately, her own and Captain Morgan’s requirements were a match.
She knew it was time for her workout. This important program was mandatory on the list for every resident above the age of two, in other words, able to walk. It involved a workout program with weights, running the squirrel cages and aerobics.
All designed to develop and retain earthlike bone and muscle structure so that they could actually function on any similar planet. The exercise program was mandatory, policed, and an everyday process. And it was her t
urn.
In two hundred years, without exercise, they were doomed to live forever within the Resolute, exchanging generations, dying when it was time, chosen or not. But the ship had its orders. Find another Earth home! Seed the planet and save humanity! But without exercise, people became basic meat bags with no bone structure.
She donned her workout clothing, modest shorts, a T-shirt over a sports bra, and her tennis type deck shoes, ones with magnets. These, of course, kept her on the deck, and not floating around helpless. Velcro was another type of tie down, used on beds and such, but too slow for a big ship where people might be in a hurry.
She picked up her runners and a thick towel, then headed for the nearby elevator. It was nearly fifteen decks down to the military assigned gym.
The Navy kept their own workout room and distinctly heavier duty machines, cages and weights and it was for the purpose of police action or battle. This took up the central forward quarter mile of one deck, with little access to any but military.
The civilians might get softer, the military dare not. Although the Council had made workouts mandatory, there were always those who shirked their time in the gym. That was still a civilian problem. Not her own.
She headed down the hallway from the elevators to the open area of the gym where it seemed loaded with equipment… and people. One thing about overcrowding, there was little privacy outside her quarters.
The first thing she had changed upon becoming Commander was that there was no time in here for play, no time for salutes, only working out.
In return, she expected well-toned Navy personnel at all levels. So, she ignored the few salutes the noobs tossed her, and went to her favorite machine, the squirrel cage.
This portion of the gymnasium took up the space of a good sized office complex, a hundred and sixty thousand square feet, and four hundred twenty feet high, which eliminated, at least in this cube shape, a couple of dozen decks, just for this room.
But the squirrel cages demanded space. Not so much floor space, but they reached to the ceiling and were set up on a radius of two hundred feet. Allowing for the motors and base, they reached almost to the ceiling. There were twenty-six machines, side by side.
The track was an almost precise quarter mile. Twenty-four trips added up to a full six miles, her usual target. The wheel turned faster than her run, thus putting a huge gravity force on every part of her body. It gave leg muscles a hell of a workout, along with lungs and heart. At two g’s, it was a run that had her nearly staggering by the time she quit.
The g’s were controlled by the computer so that even if you then chose to walk or run, you were keeping up with Earth toning.
Of course, in order to get at least the full 1 g, or Earth equivalent gravity, the wheel had to turn quickly. That meant that the individual went up and around in a weird spatial process, while running, and that made many folks dizzy.
To solve that, the engineers had put up a complete covering over the wheel, with a door set into that skin. Without the visual, and in an otherwise weightless environment, it worked perfectly. Since the lights were attached to what looked like retro street lamps along the edge of the treadmill part, and they went by the same as running down a street, the mind balanced out.
Angela changed shoes, discarded her towels, ignoring a few wolf whistles. Her shorts, in her mind, were modest enough, but men will be men. Those were nothing more than proof that if you gave the men an inch, they would take a mile.
She opened the door to the remaining free unit, and flipped the switches to full. This would be better than 2 g’s, in about a minute of warmup. And it also pushed her limits. Grasping a metal handle on the nearest light pole, she endured the rising spin, feeling heavier and heavier in short order.
She could run, and did, for an hour. And, of course the wheel was designed so the door was at the deck level when it stopped. That avoided the sometimes frightening experience of stepping into nothing. And since there was a three minute warning buzzer, one had time to get aligned with the door, gasp the handle on the light post, and avoid floating around above it.
Above the electronics for the timer were mounted two big klaxons. The cage was not quiet, and if there were emergencies and warnings, she needed to hear the calls.
Forty-five minutes later, she dismounted from the squirrel cage, dragging ass. She had a sweat limned body, her breasts to her navel, her backside, her ribcage, and probably her socks. No wolf whistles.
Another hour on weights and stretch machines, and she was practically floating in a good sweat. Of course her late mother assured her that women perspired, they did not sweat. That old saw. Angela knew better.
Her two hours in workout complete, she wrapped in a thick terry towel over her soaked workout clothing and headed back to her quarters. She felt extra light, the benefit of stressing her body. On magnetic shoes, on steel floors, she was held from floating away, but it was not the same as gravity.
She stripped out, preparing for the so needed shower. She did so while avoiding looking at herself in the mirror. She knew what she looked like, and as long as it met military standards, it was unimportant. Her mama’s genes.
Considered a beauty, her mother had opted for family and love, leaving the military life to her brothers and uncles. She was, in fact, the first in a long line of Naval men and women, the only one who turned away from the Navy. Sometimes, in a moment of odd humor, Angela wondered how lucky she was to even be here.
Her mother and father were both gone, early, succumbing to a dietary disease from a failed experiment to stretch the larder, fourteen years ago. They had seen her almost to her last year of high school, and left her seventeen and adrift.
The Navy had adopted her, perhaps out of duty, perhaps out of honor, as Captain Washington had been an outstanding Navy man for twenty-six years. One of the few to remain in uniform and raise a child. Well, perhaps his wife did so. No one pushed.
With flying colors, she finished school, entered the Academy and came out, five years later a changed woman. Top of the class. An Ensign everybody wanted on their team. A driven over achiever, she wanted the bridge from day one. Every bit of it, all hers, her command. And she was about to achieve it.
-----
Angela ordered up a light dinner, for it was nearing six thirty. Mess Ensigns brought food to any officer Lieutenant Commander or above. The Ensign rank had been reinstated once Resolute was underway. The original boarding requirement was to select the most likely to succeed level, bachelor, Lieutenant or above. Subsequently, the naval standards were back in place.
She had duty at two am. She thanked the Ensign, took her food to her desk, and worked through dinner. As she ate, she continued to pour over her notes, and added ideas to many sections, as always, trying to improve… herself or the ship.
Space food was not bad, they had much of what Earth had, all farm grown, including her delicious catfish, one of her favorites.
Cleaning up was simply a matter of depositing all plates, utensils, glasses and materials in a plastic bag, sealing the zip top and putting it in the dispenser at one side of her room. It was whisked away to be cleaned, washed, sorted and even salvaged.
She paused to have the system, Spook, make a quick mechanical assessment of the Resolute and report it only to herself. It was the duty Officer’s job, but she trusted few to do the job her way. Yes, hard, tough, whatever, but she was almost in charge of over a third of a million souls. It paid to be diligent.
Finally, headed for the bridge in just six more hours, she hung her recently delivered uniform, crisply cleaned and pressed, on the door, her well shined mag shoes to one side. Then she turned out the desk lamp, closed up her wristbook and shed her thin robe.
In her long T-shirt and surprisingly immodest panties, she crawled into the comfortable double bed. She took a moment to fasten the lightweight sleep straps over her waist and thighs, and put her face in the pillow.
Asleep in minutes…
CHAPTER 6
&n
bsp; And found herself waking up on the floor, uncovered, her head hurting from a bounce! She groaned, one hand to the back of her head, the other assessing her limbs, with her thighs still entangled in the security web. She twisted this way and that, even wiggling her toes. She got the clasps free and sat on the floor. But even that would be impossible, as the laws of equal opposing forces would not allow it. She simply tucked her lower legs under her bed frame and held herself still enough to her wits. Emergency battle lights were on, so she could see. She quickly stabilized.
The first question was what she hit first. A bounce hard enough to put a knot on her head did not come from gravity. She had been thrown against something and then ricocheted to the floor. Probably the rail of the bed. Without the webbing, she might be dead right now. Partly under the bed, she had stayed put, apparently wedged in and entangled.
Alarms were going off all over the board, her duplicate of the main bridge alarm board.
The ship seemed to be traveling smoothly, but the myriad red lights spoke of a breach, somewhere. Hastily, shaking off the stunned feeling, she slipped on her mag slippers and stood up. She then hastily donned her uniform, ran her fingers through her raven hair and hurried upstairs to the bridge.
The alarms never stopped. Something dreadful is happening, she thought.
She strode in, hurried but controlled, to find bedlam in the spacious compartment. Her quarters were just behind and three decks down from the bridge, and she knew she would probably be first in. No one else could hit the ground running as fast as she could. But then, she practiced.
Like a ship’s bridge of old, it was a nerve center, and it brought all reports, good and bad, right to the Captain or the Commander in charge. But, to her surprise, no Commander was on the bridge, and two of the desks were empty! It was only fifteen minutes past midnight.
“Commander on deck!” cried a young Lieutenant, J.G., six months out of the onboard Academy, and hence, on ‘night duty’. Seven bodies jumped to attention, but Angela barked, immediately, “As you were! What the hell is going on?”
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