“Yes, Lieutenant Daniels?” he answered. “Something about Reinhart?”
“No sir, well, actually, yes sir,” she was momentarily flustered as she tried to spin her answer.
The Commander grasped a nearby stanchion. “Think for a moment, then continue.” He looked at his commpad, allowing his subordinate to compose herself.
“Sir, it's not directly related to Spacehand Reinhart, but it is definitely related. He's dying, sir, and there's nothing we can do about it.”
“I know. Third death under my watch. All three accidents. I'm going to get hammered come budget time.”
“I think there's a way we can equip the Chaffee with an autonomous reentry capsule that could, in the future, deliver the next Reinhart safely back to Earth.”
“Thought so,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I saw you and McCrary yakking it up, and I've been waiting for the shoe to drop. Rescue capsule, eh? Well, I'm not sure how often we'd have to wait for the next Reinhart. Serious injury during a solar flare. That's a rare combination, unlikely to recur. UNSOC would never go for the expense.”
“That's why we're not going to tell them,” she replied. “We're not ready to lay out the whole plan, but if McCrary says he can do it, I believe him.”
“Then this is premature,” said the Commander. “When you're ready, I'll make time to hear your proposal.”
Lisa broke out in a sudden smile, just as the Commander raised a warning finger.
“One thing, though. After the flare's over, we're going to be busting hump running diagnostic programs on all of the systems here. I'll not have my junior officers spinning blue-sky dreams when they should be making sure the airlocks won't fly open one evening. Work on this only on your spare time.”
“Yes, sir!” Lisa said with enthusiasm. Again, the Commander raised a finger.
“Keep it off the station's systems. The systems are already near capacity.” He leaned in close and dropped his voice. “Keep the number of designers at a bare minimum. I recommend two only.”
Lisa nodded her acquiescence. “Spare time, off-line, complete security.”
Commander Parlitt gave her a thumbs up. “Don't you have something official to do? Dismissed.”
***
It took somewhat longer than two weeks, since the flare died around the time that Spacehand Reinhart did. He slipped away quietly one night shift, about thirty hours after the doctor dismantled the pressurized IV line.
Lisa was present when he passed away. Ted was surrounded by other spacehands, and Lisa remained in the background as his breathing slowed and stopped. The spacehands lined up to pay their last respects. Some ruffled his hair, others gave him a soft fistbump on the shoulder. Lisa was the last in line. When she got to his bedside, she drew herself up to full attention, looked around to the other hands filling the compartment, and said softly “Align on me.”
The spacehands, who were in the usual three dimensional jumble, sorted themselves out to be in the same local vertical.
“Present arms!” Lisa raised a precise salute, held it for a moment, then called out, “Spacehand Mikaya, front and center.” The junior spacehand, who was still clumsy in zero gravity, jinked carefully to the other side of the gurney.
“Do what I do,” Lisa said softly, putting one hand on the sheet floating above the body. She pulled it slowly over Ted's face, Mikaya following her lead. One of the spacehands produced a harmonica and quietly blew 'Taps' on it. Lisa and Mikaya tucked the sheet in tightly all the way down the bed, until it was tightly bound.
Lisa said “Strap.” Mikaya found it and passed it across the gurney, where Lisa snugged it down. Three more straps held Ted down. All the while, his mates held their salute while the harmonica sobbed out the mournful tones.
“Rejoin them,” she ordered. When Mikaya returned to the ranks, Lisa pushed back slowly from the gurney, holding her salute until she was at the approximate center of the formation. She snapped her arm down, and heard the patter behind her as the rest of the hands did the same. She spun on her vertical axis to face them.
“Spacehand Theodore Reinhart served with distinction, and his remains will receive the same honor. Select among yourselves a two man team to assist the doctor in preparing Ted for his final journey. Spacehand Reinhart will be dressed in his skintights and helmet, and wait in the cargo airlock until the present emergency passes and the next transport arrives. Dismissed.”
There was a brief ceremony when the transport did arrive, four weeks later. By then, Ted had been moved outside, where ambient space radiation sterilized his remains.
***
Lisa Daniels keyed up the messaging subsystem and sent a simple note: “Ready”.
Fifteen minutes later, the reply appeared on her screen. “Report to The Factory in thirty minutes to assist Engineer McCrary.”
She floated down to Engineering, found McCrary, and followed him up to the major manufacturing area, also known as The Factory. There was always some spare cubic around where three people could hold a private conversation.
After their presentation, Commander Parlitt frowned. “That's a long time frame, McCrary.”
“Yes. There are ways to shorten it, but not by much. It's like building a house. You have to have the clay to make the bricks to make the forge to make the iron to make the ax to cut down the trees to make the boards to build the house.”
“That's clear. Are all of these steps necessary? I mean, a linear induction motor on the Moon? Can't we just fly the aluminum sheets up from the Moon with an Orbital Transfer Vehicle?”
“Sir, with respect, if you do that, the radar returns from Earth are going to change drastically, alerting UNSOC that something unusual is going on. Better to fire off ingots and have them rolled here. That way, we can more easily divert material for shelter construction. Plus, the Director-General gets something—a way to increase manufacturing space up here.”
Parlitt frowned. “But that makes the sheltering problem worse, doesn't it? More space means more tenants which means more people to shelter.”
“True, sir, but we need the ingot processing machinery to be shipped up here from Earth. The only way to get them to do it is to convince UNSOC that we can add cubic on our own.”
They wrangled over points of the plan for another half an hour before Parlitt called a halt. “I am going to have to talk with my counterpart on the Moon. I want you both in on that call.”
***
“You are looking stressed, my friend,” said Jeng Wo Lee as he carefully maneuvered a lump of Textured Vegetable Protein, Low Residue, Process F-32 into his mouth. “They almost have the chicken flavor right,” he commented.
“Are you going to tell me to emulate calm again?” she answered.
“Can you?” he asked. “I know the death of Spacehand Reinhart has marked your soul. You must realize it is not your fault.”
“I know that,” she snapped, then put her hand on his forearm. “I'm sorry, Lee. Yes, I am stressed, and no, I don't want to talk about it. Can we just hang a bit without questions? I always feel better when I leave you.”
“No problem, Lisa. Enjoy your dinner.”
Twenty minutes passed quietly. Lisa finished her dinner and closed her eyes in meditation. She was surprised to find her mind quiet. Has to be Lee. Only he can affect me this way.
Lisa opened her eyes after five minutes of meditation to find Lee just opening his. He exhaled quietly and smiles slightly.
“May the rest of your day pass in peace, Lisa.”
“Thank you, Lee,” she said as she pushed off the table top. “I owe you one.” She floated out the hatch, peace in her soul.
***
“Since most of this scheme has to be done here, I'd like to have the author of this insanity right where I can see him,” said Commander Hoskins of Moonbase Collins.
“I can't give up one of my engineers,” said Commander Parlitt. “What about an exchange?”
Hoskins looked off camera, probably to his Chie
f Engineer. “OK.”
“And don't send me some thumb-fingered idiot, either.”
“Oh, no, you'll love me,” said Hoskins. “Fellow by the name of Panjar.”
McCrary twitched. Parlitt noticed. “Know him?”
“Just by reputation, sir. He's a great engineer and mechanic, but he's a bit, uh, unorthodox, but in a good way. Take him.”
“OK, Hoskins, it's a deal. But keep this totally under your hat.”
“Absolutely. I never told you this when you relieved me, because I knew you'd never believe me. Just like I never believed Boskia when he transferred command to me. My greatest fear when I commanded Chaffee was some situation where we had to evacuate, and I would have to figure out who got in the shuttle and who died with me and the Chaffee.”
“Yeah,” said Parlitt. “Kept me up for weeks. Lifeboats would let me sleep better.”
“Then let's make you some, even if it does take twenty years. Anything else?”
Parlitt glanced at Lieutenant Daniels, then back at the camera. “We must require all commanders who come after us to carry this secret to the grave. One more thing. One of the lifeboats must be named after Ted Reinhart.”
“Done. It's the least we could do for him. What a unnecessary death,” said Commander Hoskins.
Lisa cleared her throat. “No sir. It wasn't that at all. If we ever need those lifeboats, the death of Reinhart will be remembered as the necessary trigger to this conference, and the beginning of solving this problem.”
Hoskins looked at her. “Lieutenant, these boats won't be done until you're in command. I pray that you never need them.”
“So do I, sir. So do I.”
Thank you for reading A NECESSARY TRIGGER.
* * *
Dear Reader,
This is a free prequel, and as you are a savvy member of the ebook reader community, you know the next logical step would be to download and read RIDDLED SPACE, Book 1. Here’s the link: http://SmartURL.it/RidSpace1-Amazon.
When I wrote Riddled Space, I always wanted to write the back story of Ted Reinhart. When you think about it, something as complex as the ‘sleds’ would require something symbolic to keep commander after commander doing two things: moving the sled construction project forward, and keeping the true nature of the ‘solar shelters’ a secret from the UNSOC brass. That effort spanned twenty years, so it had to be some kind of potent symbol.
The best kind of symbol, psychologically, was a “this must never happen again” event. Remember 9/11. Remember Pearl Harbor. Remember the Maine. All of these events involve death, sudden, unexpected, large-scale death.
Imagine being crammed into a space between some water tanks on board a space station, hoping the water shields you from the raging solar flare outside, while in a small alcove, a young, previously healthy young man is dying by inches. If he was magically transported back to Earth, he’d have a chance to live. But because UNSOC are a bunch of corrupt, graft-snatching sleazeballs, they’ve squashed every request for reentry-capable lifeboats. So Ted dies an entirely preventable death, and that death is the necessary trigger for the astronauts to decide that they will build the lifeboats themselves, no matter how long it takes. Remember Ted Reinhart.
Bill Patterson
Central NJ
May 2018
* * *
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From RIDDLED SPACE
by Bill Patterson
Angus Turley looked out at the barren surface of the Moon to The Works and smiled. Years of arguing, cajoling, and design changes resulted in ten precious cargo flights. Months of dangerous structural assembly in the hostile vacuum of space. No deaths, but two medical evacuations back to Earth for limb reconstruction. Angus watched the robotic haulers dump another load of regolith into the intake hoppers. Two years in operation and The Works was still running like a top.
He raised a hand to acknowledge one of the Moondogs on a buggy. Single red stripe on the suit, yellow helmet—that would be Devore, the head of instrumentation.
“Hey, Chief,” called Devore. “Whatcha doing out here? Need something?”
“Just wanted to eyeball The Works,” Angus said, his Scottish burr unmistakable on the radio. “Been two years now, I thought I'd come out and see the old girl again.”
Devore chuckled. “You're out here at least twice a month!”
“I know. Still, I thought I'd mark the occasion. What brings you out here?”
“Had to change out an oxygen sensor. Enough cosmic ray bombardment and these babies go south. Gotta bring them inside, take them apart, anneal the platinum grids, then put them back together, good as new.”
Turley raised both hands, palms out, to his shoulders, the suited Moondog equivalent of a shrug. “This job takes the Head of Instrumentation?”
“I like to keep my hand in, sir. Besides, the men need to know their boss can do the same jobs they can.” Devore pointed towards the buggy garage. “Need a lift back in?”
Turley waved his hands in front of him like a football referee ruling a pass incomplete. “No need, Devore. I just got out here. I was going to look at those rollers in the rock crushers. They've been running a little warm and I'm worried about GUHhhhhh.”
Turley took a half-step sideways, as if he had taken a punch in the shoulder. As Devore looked on in horror, the shards of Turley's helmet glittered in the sunlight as they emerged from the sudden cloud of pink condensation where his head used to be. Another blink in the sunlight and the Chief was suddenly standing on one leg, the other bounding away behind him, arterial blood jetting into the soil of the Moon he had loved so much.
Devore keyed the radio for Turley when a sudden spray of regolith one meter to his left changed his mind. He hammered at the buggy controls, racing for the relative safety of the base garage and the airlock beyond.
He changed channels for the Lunar Operations Center without thinking.
“LOC, LOC, LOC, this is Devore, leaving The Works for the garage. We've got trouble. Turley is down and out, I've got meteors blasting all around me. Get everyone under cover.”
“Devore, this is LOC. You out at The Works? There's alarms going off all over the place. Say again about the Chief.”
“Sudden meteor swarm, LOC. We've lost the Chief. Maybe even The Works, too.”
* * *
For news about the RIDDLED SPACE Series, please visit my dedicated microsite.
DEDICATIONS
This book is dedicated, first and foremost, to The Wonderful Wife™, Barbara, who put up with countless hours of writer widowhood, in order that this book should see the light of the day.
To my late brother, John, whose unstinting support for my writing efforts, including the cans of Beanie Weenie, kept my going in the face of constant rejection.
To the English Department of the United States Military Academy, and it’s then head, BG(ret) Jack Capps. He was the first person ever to encourage me to write a book, and led a department whose drive for excellence gave me the tools I needed to become a good writer.
/> ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book would not exist if it were not for the support of The Wonderful Wife™, Barbara, who put up with a rather distracted husband, odd sounds coming from the Cave of Horrors, where the computer sits, and countless evenings of non-standard dinners.
To Samuel Peralta, who graciously accepted me into the Paradisi Chronicles
To M. Louisa Locke and Cheri Lasota, who graciously opened up the Paradisi Universe to other authors
To Felix R. Savage, who first accepted me into the larger indie author community
To Craig Martelle and Michael Anderle, who challenged me to finally put all the puzzle pieces together and produce the Riddled Space series.
About the Author
Bill Patterson is the author of a computer-aided design software book, and a former magazine columnist. His fiction has been published 90 Minutes to Live (JournalStone, 2011), and his nonfiction in Rocket Science (Mutation Press, 2012), where his piece "A Ray of Sunshine" was nominated for the British Science Fiction Association's Award for Non-Fiction.
He is also one of two Municipal Liaisons for the Central NJ Region of the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) challenge. Bill also serves as an Event Host for the Princeton Writing Group.
He and his wife of 35 years, Barbara, live in Central New Jersey.
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