This Little World

by Carl Frederick

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  Fictionwise

  www.Fictionwise.com

  Copyright ©2005 by Carl Frederick

  First published in Analog Magazine, June 2005

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  It was raining on Planet K. In a mere sixty seconds, hundreds of drops had poured down, washing away about a third of the indigenous population. Walter Anders, the planet's designated god, worried for his job.

  "The bounded waters should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, and make a sop of all this solid globe,” he said as he scooped up some freely-floating globules of water laced with ants. “Troilus & Cressida, Act 1, scene 3.” He deposited the soggy ants back onto the medicine-ball-sized planet, his hands tingling from the electrostatics that served in place of gravity on the small sphere.

  But it wasn't the rain that troubled him—at least not nearly as much as the lightning.

  Awkward in his magnetic boots, Walter clomped to the door connecting the studio to the control room. He shook his head. Even after a week, it was still hard to think of the two small adjoining cabins as a movie production site.

  As he unclipped the lightning generator's ground from the float handle under the lock panel, he noticed the lock's ‘Set Combination’ display was lit. He grimaced. Maybe using a ground so close to electronics had not been a great idea. “If K.V. wanted lightning,” he said, aloud, even though, except for the ants, he was the only living soul in the studio, “why couldn't he just add it in post production?"

  Startled by a pounding from without, Walter swiveled around and slapped the ‘Open’ button.

  The door swung away. Chief Engineer Robinson, scowling, stepped into the studio. “Didn't you hear the door-chime?"

  "No,” said Walter. “There was no chime."

  Robinson glanced at the lock panel. “My combination didn't work. Yeah. Something's wrong.” He tapped a finger on the lock display, but without effect. “Engineering reported a power surge down here.” He looked up at Walter and then at the meter-diameter sphere in the middle of the room. The ‘planet’ was at the center of an aluminum tetrahedron, some two meters high. At each vertex, an air jet sent a gentle flow on to the sphere, keeping it from drifting and providing a planetary wind that could possibly equate to weather. Robinson walked over and batted at a few of the tiny water globules that engulfed the sphere. “What the hell happened here?"

  "A rainstorm,” said Walter. “Rehearsing a shoot. And K.V. wanted a storm, replete with lightning."

  "Jeez.” Robinson gazed at the globe, alive with ants scurrying about on the surface. “They look half drowned."

  "The storm got a triffle out of control."

  "I'll say it got out of control.” Robinson spread his arms. “My gosh. Did you expect a Noah of the Ants to rise up and build an ark?” He spun around. “Lightning? What do you mean, lightning?"

  In haste, Walter considered his role; should he play ‘wounded innocence’ or ‘astonished observer'? He chose the former and then described what happened—ending with a theatrical sigh.

  Robinson nodded, then examined the lightning generator, rolling it over in his hands. “I can't believe they'd space-qualify a device like this.” He slapped the little generator back onto its Velcro bulkhead fastener. “That little gadget is probably the cause of the power surge—and our lock problem, too."

  "Regrettable,” said Walter, “but we need it for the shoot."

  Robinson leaned against the table jutting from the bulkhead—an action of ritual rather than comfort in the gravity-free environment. “Amazing, what we have to do for funding,” he said, more to himself than to Walter, “tourism, high-tech billionaires having a fling, and now a movie production company.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “21st Century Flix filming their next megahit, ‘The Planet of the Ants'."

  Walter laughed. “And with a director, my boss, who thinks he's master of the universe."

  "I sympathize,” said Robinson.

  "Oh, you've met him?"

  "God's gift to the space station?” Robinson chuckled. “K.V. is a hard person to miss."

  "I dote upon his very absence,” said Walter. “Merchant of Venice, Act 1, scene 2."

  Chuckling again, Robinson headed for the doorway. “I'll see what we can do about the lock,” he said. “And don't use the lightning generator again until I'm convinced it won't wreck the station.” He stepped through the door from the studio to the control room. Walter accompanied him.

  "Why are you guys shooting your film up here, anyway?” said Robinson. “Wouldn't computer graphics have been cheaper?"

  "Much cheaper. But the publicity we get by shooting live on the space station is priceless” Walter snapped down with a magnetic boot, making more noise than was necessary. “K.V. lives and breathes publicity."

  "Hard to believe he'd come to the space station just for publicity."

  "Do believe it,” said Walter. “We're only shooting stock background shots. There's no reason for him to even be here.” He closed the studio door behind him and followed Robinson through the tiny makeshift control room and onward to the outer hatch which opened onto the space station's central corridor.

  Robinson glanced back around the cabin. “What is all that stuff?” He nodded toward two chairs with joysticks on their armrests. They had seatbelts and they faced twin computer monitors. “Looks like a big video arcade game."

  Walter waved an arm expansively, indicating the entirety of the tiny cabin. “This vast vestibule is our control room.” He walked to one of the chairs and waved Robinson over. “This is a game-controller of sorts. It controls a planetary exploration vehicle—a ‘rover'. Tiny little thing.” Pointing toward the doorway to the studio, he added, “It's on the surface of the globe in there—Planet K."

  "Cute,” said Robinson. “But why two?” He walked over to the second console.

  "The rovers have high-resolution motion picture cameras.” Walter threw a switch on the console, and an image appeared on his console display. “This is the terrain close up, at planet-level.” He slipped his hand over the controller and the image moved. “So yes, two rovers. One to film the actions of the other."

  Robinson leaned in and moved his hand casually over the buttons of the second rover's controller.

  "Careful,” Walter called out. “I wouldn't push that button. It fires one of the rover's guns."

  Robinson drew back his hand. “Guns?"

  "It is, after all,” said Walter, “an action-adventure movie we're filming.” He tried to strike a pose of ‘studied indifference', despite knowing that in zero-g, body language was a bit iffy.

  "Jeez.” Robinson stood upright. “Looks like fun.” He headed toward the open hatchway while Walter went to the door to the studio.

  "Oh dear!"

  "Problem?” said Robinson from behind.

  "Locked.” Walter keyed in the combination but the door still wouldn't open. “Yes. A problem."

  His magnetic boots clanking on the metal decking, Robinson hurried over and peered at the lock control panel. “I'm embarrassed to say that I don't know much about these things.” He shrugged. “We've never used them. In fact, you guys are the first who've ever asked them to be turned on."

  "K.V's a bit batty about security,” said Walter, looking over Robinson's shoulder. “The door. Can you open it?"

  "The lock panel on the other sid
e is probably stuck in ‘Set Combination’ mode.” He straightened up. “If we knew the numbers on the display, we could key them in here. I bet that would trigger the lock mechanism.” He pointed to a box mounted over the hatch to the central corridor. “I'll have Engineering switch on the emergency camera. Every cabin has one.” Robinson turned to the wall-mounted comlink and activated it.

  "Robinson to Engineering,” he said. “We've a problem in the Flix studio. Could you turn on the camera in their inner cabin and read me the numbers on the lock display?"

  "Yeah, okay. Standby,” came a voice from the comlink. “Wait. We can't. The camera's mounted directly over the door. There's no way it could see the door's lock display."

  "Jeez, you're right. My mind must be going. Robinson out."

  Robinson snapped off the comlink. “Well, this really sucks, doesn't it?” He slapped his hand against a bulkhead. “I'm glad I left the outer hatch open. If your lightning blew the lock electronics, it might have blown the outer lock as well.” He headed for the hatch. “Video arcade or not, being trapped in here wouldn't be much fun at all."

  "One moment,” said Walter, “maybe we could use the rovers. They have cameras.” He bounded to a console and strapped himself in. Then he looked over his shoulder at Robinson. “Want to have a go?"

  Robinson, his hand grasping a float handle, looked over at the video monitors. “Yeah,” he said after a few seconds. “Sure. I'll play."

  "Splendid.” Walter indicated the adjacent console. “Have a seat.” He flipped on the two monitors, then bit his lip. “I hope we can do this,” he said. “The rovers’ cameras have very minimal pointing capability."

  "Still,” said Robinson as he belted himself into his seat, “we'll be on the surface of a sphere. There's got to be a position where the rovers can aim at the lock panel. Oh, wait.” He unbuckled himself and floated to the comlink.

  "Robinson to Engineering,” he said after pushing the call-button. “Could you activate the camera in the Flix control room—I mean their outer cabin?"

  "Yeah,” said a voice from the comlink. “Okay. It's on."

  "Do you have a clear view of the video monitors?"

  "Yeah. Why?

  Robinson explained the situation, then added. “And downlink the signal to Langley. Ask them to record everything."

  "Will do, but they'll want to know why."

  "They've got image processing software,” said Robinson. “If we only get a fleeting shot of the lock panel, maybe they'll be able to deblur the image."

  "Understood. Engineering out."

  Robinson push-floated back to the console, strapped himself in, then grasped the joystick. “Okay, show me how to drive one of these things."

  "Quite elementary.” Walter gave a quick tutorial and then, their eyes on the overhead monitors, they maneuvered their little vehicles out over Planet K's terrain.

  "I'll take the lead,” said Walter.

  "Lead on, MacDuff,” said Robinson.

  Walter gave a tight-lipped smile. That's ‘Lay on, MacDuff'.

  They drove in silence. Walter, engrossed in the landscape, was in no hurry. He drove his rover as if he were on a pleasure drive in the countryside. On the video monitor, he watched the progression of desert browns and the green of vegetation—mainly lichen and moss, but through the rover's eye, it looked like a primitive dense jungle.

  "Needs music,” he said.

  "What?"

  "Oh, just thinking. If we had a good director, ‘The Planet of the Ants’ might not be half bad."

  * * * *

  "How did you get into this business?” said Robinson after a few minutes of exploring. “If I may say so, you don't seem the action-adventure type."

  Walter laughed. “No, I'm not, really. In fact, I'm a recent graduate of the Royal Shakespeare Academy. I probably could have gotten a trifle better job, but this was the only way I could go into space.” He looked from the monitor to the cabin's porthole where he could just see the gentle limb of the crescent Earth, luscious and blue-green against the starry black of space. “And there just didn't seem to be all that much demand for Shakespearean actors in the space program."

  Robinson gave a soft laugh. “And what precisely is your job, then?"

  "Second Unit Director. But actually, I'm the entire second unit.” Walter struggled to keep his hand steady on the joystick. “A more accurate title might be, ‘K.V.'s personal slave'.” His finger hovered over the ‘Fire’ button. “I wouldn't mind it if the man had any talent,” he said under his breath.

  "Yeah, I know,” said Robinson. “K.V. Bushnell's sole qualification seems to be his father's money."

  "The wealthy curled darlings of our nation.” Walter pounded a fist against the seat's armrest. “Othello. Act 1, scene 2."

  "You quote Shakespeare a lot."

  "Only when under stress."

  * * * *

  As they drove, the geography became less desert-like and the ground more clumpy.

  "This looks like mud,” said Robinson. “Probably the after-effects of your rainstorm. You know, if we get stuck, we can't just call triple-A."

  "True.” Walter moved his rover diagonally away. “Let's try a more arid route."

  They headed toward drier land, and had just driven their rovers over a rise when they saw a circular valley before them. They halted their vehicles; the steep descent seemed impossible and the environment looked inhospitable.

  Along the floor and up the sides of the little caldera, wisps of sand roiled, the fine mist of the grains making the scene look as if it were shot though gauze. Even though at rest, the rovers shuddered in what could only be a wind.

  "Will you look at this,” said Robinson. “We must be under one of the air nozzles. I'll bet the air jets locking on the calderas keep the planet from rotating."

  "I don't like it here,” said Walter, turning his rover away from the caldera. “If our rovers roll over, we're dead meat.” He smiled. “Virtual dead meat, that is."

  Robinson steered his rover away as well. But no sooner had he done so, than he released his controller and cried out. “What the hell!” He stared open-mouthed at the monitor. “Is that an ant?"

  The display screen filled with a big, jet-black head—antennae quivering and mandibles grinding.

  "Just an ant.” Walter chuckled. “I do hope the people who pay money to see the film will have the same reaction."

  As they watched, a few more ants came over.

  "I think we'd better retreat,” said Walter. “If they call over any more of their friends, it could get a bit dicey."

  "Yeah."

  Slowly, they drove the rovers in reverse, then U-turned and raced away.

  When they'd made their escape and slowed their vehicles, Walter noticed a red glow in the sky. “Looks like a sunset."

  Robinson focused his rover's camera out to infinity and the glow resolved into the red LED integers on the lock-panel. He gave a two fingered victory sign. “Now, if we could only push the ‘Set’ button."

  "Like one that stands upon a promontory and spies a far off shore where he would tread,” said Walter, “wishing his foot were square with his eye. Henry VI, part III."

  Robinson stretched back in his seat.

  There came the sound of magnetic boots clanking against metal. “Who the hell left this door open?” The shrill cry came from the outer hatchway. “This is supposed to be a secure area."

  Robinson jerked his head around. “Wait! Don't close the"—SLAM—” hatch."

  "Hello, K.V.,” said Walter. By reflex, he tried to stand as his boss came in, but his seat harness held him fast. Straining against the webbing, he pointed to the adjacent seat. “This is Mr. Robinson. He's—"

  "I know. I know.” K.V. crossed his arms over his chest. “A station technician."

  Robinson grimaced. Then, without a word, he unharnessed himself and push-floated to the outer hatch.

  "He's Chief Engineer, actually,” said Walter.

  "Whatever.” K.
V. waved dismissively at Robinson. “Look,” he said, staring at Walter, “they said there was a problem here. I don't like problems. You're supposed to protect me from problems."

  "Damn,” said Robinson from the door. “Locked.” He stabbed at the ‘Open’ button a few times. “Locked and jammed."

  K.V. pivoted around. “Hey! Can't you see we're having a conversation over here?"

  Walter, taking advantage of the diversion, stole a glance at his rover's video display. The warm red glow had vanished—as had the numbers. “Robinson. Look,” he said, pointing.

  Robinson peered at the display. “Double damn. The ‘Set’ indicator is lit. Looks like the inner door lock has control."

  K.V. shouted, “Will someone tell me what the hell is going on here?” He clomped to the center of the cabin.

  "I'd say, K.V.,"—Walter struggled to keep his voice pleasant—"that we're stuck in this cabin. The door won't open."

  "What?” K.V. tromped to the outer hatch. He pushed at it, pounded on the lock controls, then swiveled his head to glare at Walter before turning back to Robinson. “What kind of a grade-B space station is this?"

  Robinson, still contemplating the video monitor, ignored him. “I think,” said Robinson, softly as if to himself, “that the only way we can release the locks is by pushing that ‘Set’ button."

  "Mister,” said K.V. in a loud voice, “I'm talking to you."

  "Sorry."—Robinson kept his eyes on the monitor—"but I'm rather busy at the moment.” He sprang for the comlink. “I don't like this,” he said softly as he punched the ‘activate’ button. “I really don't like this."

  After informing Engineering of their plight, Robinson took a heavy breath and faced K.V. “All right, Mr. Bushnell,” he said, evenly, “What can I do for you?"

  Walter, meanwhile, had unstrapped himself from his console and leaped over to the inner door. It was still locked.

  K.V. glowered at Robinson. “I demand you get me out of here."

  Robinson shrugged; the gesture seemed to enrage K.V.

  "You can sit on your damn haunches waiting for doomsday, for all I care,” said K.V., “but I'm a pretty important item around here. Flix Films is supporting this station now.” He nodded toward Walter. “I pay his salary, and when it comes right down to it, yours too.” He pointed to the comlink. “So I advise you to tell them to get me out of here right now."