Dreaming of Atmosphere

by Jim C. Wilson

  “What have we got?” asked Max, turning her console into a multi-faceted sensor display.

  “One contact one point two million kilometres at red three zero, nine degrees north. Bearing indicates intercept in ninety three minutes twenty seven seconds.” What that meant was the contact was thirty degrees off our port bow, nine degrees above the solar plane. When trying to determine coordinates in a solar system, the easiest way is to reference the largest object in the system – the star. As most planet tended to orbit the star along a similar plane, space farers use this to determine if an object is above, or north, and below the solar plane, or south. Military vessels handled this differently, as they often needed to coordinate with multiple ships in a fleet, but independent ships like us only needed to coordinate everything with reference to ourselves.

  “Emissions?”

  “Only on S band, tracking data only.”

  “So he’s got weapons on us.”

  “He’ll have to brake soon if he’s going to expect to hit anything at that speed. We’ll know if he intends to shoot first rather than talk in about…seventeen minutes.”

  “When can he hit us? Fel?”

  “Analysing energy signature. One moment, Captain.”

  “Should I turn to face down the calak?” asked Crege. What he meant was that if he changed our profile with reference to the enemy, it will throw off any firing solutions their fire control system will have calculated. At the speeds star ships travelled, and the great distances this kind of combat took place at, actually hitting a ship is a nearly miraculous feat of mathematics, advanced computing and a battle of technology versus technology. Who has the better shields, the faster computer, the more agile manoeuvring thrusters, the better electronic warfare suite, the sharper sensors, the smarter munitions? There was very little input from the ship’s living crew, all we could offer was superior tactics, introduce a little chaotic evasion and our prayers.

  Combat in space is conducted in a few different ways, depending on the desired outcome for the attacking party. Piracy, the number one hazard for civilian space travellers, requires that the attacker only disable their prey. Using powerful space based weapons during a pirate attack will statistically yield a fast moving cloud of debris, rather than a disabled ship that can be ransacked and pillaged. Weapons, as a result, come in various classifications depending on how they can be used. Class 1 weapons, like what this suspected pirate had, don’t have enough power to outright destroy most space craft. They tend to be mounted on shuttles, fighters and atmospheric police forces. A good hit can strike a critical engine port or cooling and emissions vent, but you’re in no danger of exploding with one hit. These types of weapons can fire multiple times in rapid concession, though, and made disabling their targets a more likely outcome to an engagement. Class 2 weapons are deterrents to piracy and non-offensive military vessels. They can puncture a hull and rip out systems in single hits, but they require large amounts of energy to operate. Smaller craft can fire these weapons infrequently and allow time for them to charge, or sacrifice ship space to devote wholly to the reactors and power supplies needed to fire them regularly.

  Class 3 weapons are destructive weapons like missiles and rail gun batteries, designed to destroy their targets swiftly and with little care for the niceties of mercy. They usually require finite resources like shells or missiles to fire, and this takes up large amounts of volume on ships. As a result, only military ships tend to use them, which have the tonnage and the design capabilities to utilise them effectively. Class 4 weapons are the truly terrible results of literally thousands of years of research in how to kill as many people as possible with a single round. Asteroid busters, capital ship splitters and planet wreakers are the stuff of class 4 weapons.

  With baited breath, we watched our sensors and a count down until expected braking took place. The ship rotated about on its axis and began thrusting in our direction, but it had taken longer than calculated to perform the manoeuvre. A rookie mistake, one that gave us an advantage. By the time the ship was in range to shoot, it would be travelling too fast relative to us to gain an accurate shot.

  “Captain,” said Fel, “Energy signatures consistent with Shen – Don Systems Model 422 Pulse Weapon System. Class 1 energy weapon. Time til weapons range twenty one minutes thirteen seconds. Modulating shield frequency to match weapon emissions.”

  “Very good.”

  More waiting. When we were three minutes from weapons range, Zoe sent me a message on my overlay

  What’s going on? Is it pirates?

  We think so, but can you leave this channel clear? We need to focus.

  Sorry, of course.

  “Charging beamer.” I reported, indicating I’d started to shift power from the engines to the Dreaming’s Class 2 weapon system.

  “Very good. Crege, start evasive manoeuvres and head straight down their pipe.”

  “Aye aye, kitrak!”

  The ship started to juke and weave, throwing our heads about in our seats. We’d long since strapped ourselves down, so we had no danger of bouncing out of our seats, but Crege has a tendency to increase his soft zone for combat.

  “One minute!” reported Fel.

  “Tracking. Acquired. Firing solution valid.” I was reading from my console as the beamer used the sensor data of the ship to find its target.

  “Very good. All hands, brace for impact!” called Max over the PA.

  Seconds trickled by, all eyes on our consoles.

  “Firing!” I called. Suddenly the steady drone of the ship’s engines was eclipsed by an ear piercing wail that lasted nearly two seconds. I could feel and hear the ship shudder as if someone had dumped a bucket of rocks onto the roof of the command module.

  “Recording multiple impacts on our hull.” reported Fel.

  “Status!”

  “Shields recharging, no hull breaches detected. Impacts were scattered across decks 2 and 3 port side.”

  “Denno, Hergo, roving damage control checks. Decks 2 and 3 port side.” called Max over the PA. Max knew that the ship’s internal sensors can be wrong and even a micro breach can cause problems down the line if ignored. We had time, turning about at this speed for a second pass will take a long time.

  “What’s the condition of the enemy?”

  “It was a hit, not sure how effective. Fel, can you get a trace on any particulates?” I called over my shoulder.

  “I’m reading several parts per million of titanium and three Sieverts of radiation.”

  “Wasn’t a fatal shot, but they did take damage. Possibly an engine housing.”

  “Crege, reacquire our course and keep her on steady acceleration. Let’s see what our friend does.”

  We knew that at the speed we were travelling, it would take at least an hour before the other ship could turn about and get within range of us again, assuming they had enough acceleration to catch up with us. If they’d take our shot on one of their engine housings, though, acceleration could be a risky action for them. Hopefully, they’d had enough and would limp back to their base and pick a different target.

  As we waited to see what the pirate would do, Denno reported in, saying they found no breaches. Meanwhile, Fel found that one of our sensor mounts was not responding to commands. It must have taken some damage, he explained, but nothing on the electronics just the mechanical parts. We’d have to send someone out when it was safe to assess and repair it.

  “They’re turning about!” called Fel, “Time to intercept; eighty nine minutes four seconds.”

  “Let’s shorten that a little shall we, Crege?” suggested Max.

  “Adjusting course.”

  The Dreaming started a long turning arc towards the pirate, traversing thousands of kilometres each minute. Eventually Max told Crege to hold our course, angled towards the enemy.

  “Contact now at green four three, time to intercept twenty nine minutes, forty three seconds.”

  “Charging beamer!”

  “Shiel
ds are still down. We’ll need a full half hour to get them back up.”

  “Turn them off; they’re only good for a few shots anyway. Shift the excess power to the weapon system. Let’s see if we can get our shot off before they get in range for theirs. Crege, drop acceleration to 0.2 G.” Max called Eric in the engine room, “Eric, you’ll be getting a boatload of power back in a moment, I want you to couple it directly into the beamer.”

  “Aye aye, Captain!” came the reply.

  “Seth, calculate time until they’re in range with that extra power.”

  I ran the numbers.

  “Twenty four minutes, eight seconds.”

  All our eyes were on our instruments, waiting for our two ships to approach once more. We’d done all we could to stack the odds in our favour. Now we played the waiting game. Minutes trickled by. Max updated the crew via PA, and appeared to be calmly organising next week’s supply run when we arrive at the Jump Gate.

  “One minute!” called Fel. Max filed her spreadsheet and brought up the sensors information on her screen once more.

  “Target acquired. Tracking. Firing!” I yelled.

  As our two ships approached, our weapon system locked onto our target and unleash a torrent of energy. Previously, our ship had fired when it was within range to do so, during a brief window as we passed within range. During the pass, the enemy ship would have calculated our maximum range and calibrated their own weapons to get as close as possible to deliver their payloads. Since our last pass, we had diverted extra power to our beamer, extending the range by several thousand kilometres. What Max counted on was the hesitation of the other ship before firing, allowing us to get off a shot before they even got into range. The tactic wasn’t always viable, but they’d proven their lack of experience in their last pass when they’d failed to calculate the optimal time to begin braking in order to fire accurately.

  Once more, the ear-splitting wail of our beamer reverberated through the ship.

  “Brace for impact!” ordered Max.

  “Negative enemy weapons release detected!” reported Fel, “I’m picking up a radiation burst. Particle content consistent with reactor detonation.”

  “We got him!” I whooped. Max turned to smile at me.

  “Let’s make sure. Crege, turn us about. Fel how long until we have confirmation?”

  “Won’t be long, should be able to get a visual on our port scanners shortly.”

  Sure enough, when the scanners were aligned we were able to use our telescope to pick up the debris field moving away from us at high speed. Max had Crege recalculate our trajectory to meet up with the Jump Gate, and soon we were relaxing from our combat stations.

  9.

  It was several hours later, and I was suiting up in my light duties space suit in the starboard airlock off Deck 1, the command deck. Max had tasked Mal and me to go inspect the Number 2 sensor array that had suffered some damage during the skirmish with the pirate. Mal because he was our best mechanical engineer, and me because I had them most time logged doing extra-vehicular activity, or EVA. Naked space is an extremely hostile environment for humans, and most other life forms, and even the slightest problem can become life threatening if it isn’t acted up swiftly and with the correct procedure. I’d received basic training in mechanical repair, as had most of the crew, so could hand Mal the right tools and assist in most of the tasks, and I can call safety concerns faster than most.

  Zoe and Eric were in the airlock with us, assisting us into our suits. Although they were comfortable to wear, and easy to move around in once suited, they were difficult to put on by yourself. It always pays to use the buddy system as well, checking each other over for mistakes or other issues. Zoe was assisting me, and Eric was tugging on Mal’s last glove. I was still only half dressed.

  “I’d like it better if Eric was helping me. At least he knows one end of a plasma cutter from the other. And he’d be dressed already.” Complained Mal.

  “He’s got Zoe helping him, Cuts.” Defended Eric.

  “Wow, thanks Eric. Nice to know you got my back.” quipped Zoe, showing mock affront.

  “A student is only as good as the teacher.”

  “Mal, why don’t you put your helmet on and shut up. I’m not rushing Zoe, it’s my life she’s got in her hands and I don’t want her to screw it up.” I replied calmly.

  “No pressure?” smiled Zoe.

  With careful guidance and a second check by Eric, and then a third by Mal, we were ready to go.

  “Gee, didn’t know you cared about my wellbeing, Mal.”

  “I’d rather not get chewed out by the Captain for letting her golden boy get spaced.”

  We stepped to the outer airlock and waited for the others to leave. We checked and double-checked out pockets and attachments, ensuring all our tools were secured. I connected my interface overlay to the suit’s wireless port, and a heads up display appeared over my vision. The display listed important data such as O2 levels, suit integrity, radiation dosage, temperature both inside and outside the suit, and propellant levels for the suit’s small propulsion unit mounted nearby backside. Once a power-on self-test was completed by the suit, a GO indicator was highlighted on my HUD. I gave a thumbs up to Eric, waiting patiently on the other side of the internal airlock watching us through a small view portal. Mal did the same.

  Depressurising airlock, standby. Came a text message from Eric. I could hear the air in the airlock hissing as it was sucked in through vent grills at the base of the compartment. Eventually, as the air left, so did the media that sound travels through and the hissing died away to nothing. All I could hear was my own breathing and steady pulse of the heart beating.

  Depressurising complete. Opening outer airlock.

  The outer hatch spun open and the deep black of space loomed ahead of us. The difference between the well-lit airlock and abyss was stark and unnerving to those unused to space walks. The first step is always the hardest, when you take your first EVA, it’s akin to stepping off a ledge into a bottomless pit, only a pit has walls. It’s even more unsettling when the airlock contains artificial gravity, as the brain tells you that you’re about to fall, but instead you float out into open space. To me, though, it was one of the greatest perks of living the life we lead.

  I virtually sprang out of the airlock like a high diver, putting a slight twist into my leap as I did. I twirled through space briefly and halted my turn with a tiny burst from my backpack. Arms out by my sides I drifted apart from the ship and had turned to face her. The Dreaming of Atmosphere stretched before me in all her majesty.

  My great grandfather, Sirus Donovan the Third, had commissioned her when he was almost my age. He’d outfitted her with a passenger module instead of a cargo hold and used her to ferry tourists about the Eridani System for five decades before he passed it on to his son, Sirus the Fourth. Eridanian’s are fond of naming their children after themselves, placing great importance on lineage. Sirus IV only had her for twelve years before he was killed in an accident while on shore leave. The Dreaming then passed onto my grandfather, and younger brother of Sirus IV, Hieron Donovan. He had her for seventy two glorious years, making a name for himself as a great trader and bounty hunter. He had her reconfigured with a cargo hold, upgrade the weapons and pretty much drafted the business model we use today. When my father made Captain, old Hieron retired and lives to this day with his seventh wife (not my grandmother) on Oceania in far off Votus II System.

  My father, Caster Donovan, was born on this ship, as was I. That makes us frontiersmen. My family hasn’t been Eridanian for two generations now. If I also have children on this ship that take to the stars like my father and I, they’ll officially be declared Nomads by interstellar consensus. All that means is that the social standing of our family name falls to somewhere slightly above ‘vagabond’ and below ‘homeless’. We frontiersmen don’t care much for social standing anyway, and it merely means to me that they’re three generations removed without a home planet. I wa
s born in space. I live in space, and I thrive here.

  The Dreaming for Atmosphere is a hundred and twelve metres long, and fifty four metres at its widest, shaped into a Y formation with the command module at the tip and the two engine nacelles spread apart to make the fork of the Y. It has three decks, and is twenty eight metres high. A central, circular section of the ship forms the basis of the main deck areas and the cargo hold takes up the most room at the bottom of the ship. When it was first constructed it was an Olympus Star Yards Meridian Class Transport, but years of modifications and additions to its design make in nearly indistinguishable to the original blueprint.

  Both of the two Sirus Donovan’s who owned her kept the original configuration, but old man Hieron changed her role every few years, especially in the latter two decades of his captaincy. My father only made upgrades to the beamer’s efficiency and several internal modifications, such as a makeshift armoury in the forward cargo spaces. Max had the med lab converted from an extra berthing space for crew during her first year of ownership, and with Eric and Crege made dozens of tweaks and upgrades to the propulsion.

  I loved this ship, it’s the only thing I’ve ever considered home. One day, when I’m ready, I might even own her.

  “Quit screwing around, Seth, we have work to do.” grumbled Mal.

  “Coming about.”

  “The Number Two Array should be just aft of the access hatch, about 2 metres down.”

  “I see it.”

  We’re ready for the repair, I texted Fel, who was sitting in the command module, open the array shielding, please.

  A circular port about a metre in diameter opened like an iris near where Mal had indicated. Inside was the array itself, which would normally telescope out when needed. All around the hatch were dark spots, where the pirate’s weapon had scattered shots over. I quickly scanned them for radiation and was satisfied that the dosages given off by the spots weren’t harmful over short time spans.