by James Wilks
“Don, you’d better check on our new recruits. This is their first time under thrust on a starship, didn’t you say? We’ll get under way at…” she looked at her watch, “noon.”
“Had that same thought myself, Captain,” Templeton replied as he undid his seatbelt and maneuvered himself towards the door at the back of the cockpit.
After making his way down to the crew deck, Templeton expertly pushed his way forward from handhold to handhold, allowing his fingers to drift over the walls from time to time. Finally he arrived at the last doors of the hallway, and he paused for a second to listen. Two male voices issued from within, both heated, and he heard more than one impolite word. He knocked on the door of the cabin. A moment later the door opened, and he was looking at Dean Parsells, one of his new hires.
“Hey there, Dean. I thought I’d come down and check on you two.” The man, though the smaller of two new crew members, was nonetheless large. He floated at close to two meters tall, and his weight was approaching one hundred kilograms, at least on Earth. He had short, dark hair, and his chin was too small and his eyes set too close together to be considered handsome. Templeton looked over Dean’s shoulder as a table drifted by. A second later there was a loud bang as the errant furniture ricocheted off the wall. Parsells regarded him and smiled.
“Yeah, come in. We’re having some trouble, I think.” His voice was heavy. He moved aside and Templeton pushed himself into the room. Instantly, he had to duck as a chair came drifting towards his head.
“Whoa,” he declared, and reached out a hand to catch another chair spinning in place on his right. The room was a mess. At least they hadn’t unfastened the beds. “So, I know you boys have been in space plenty. Wouldn’t’ve hired you if you hadn’t.” He looked over at Harrison Quinn. Templeton reasoned that he was well over one hundred kilos. He had the face of a boxer, of a man who had been in plenty of fights. That he had scars on his fists and not his face indicated that he had won most of them. “But this is different from mining ore in zero G on an asteroid. See, the floor is the floor when we’re planetside, but that,” he pointed at the wall to his right and the general aft of the ship, “is the floor when we’re under thrust, which will be most of the time.” The two men looked at the wall, at him, and at each other. The marauding table drifted quietly past them again, pinging off a chair and taking on a new trajectory.
“We use this time in zero G to reorient the ship. That’s what most of the crew is doing right now: rearranging their rooms. That’s why all of your furniture comes unclamped from the floor. You need to clamp it to that wall there. That’ll be your floor in,” he looked at his watch, “about two hours. And it’ll stay that way till we reach Mars, most like.” The larger man looked at him and shook his head, not in confusion but in exasperation. It was a look that said this is so freaking weird. “It takes a bit to get used to.”
“Wait,” Parsells said, considering. “So if that wall becomes the floor,” he pointed at the same wall that Templeton had indicated, “how do we get out of here?”
“See how the door is wide and located at the left side of the room? It’s designed to convert. And see this switch?” He pushed himself over to the wall and indicated a light switch covered with a hinged piece of plastic. “Watch this.” He lifted the plastic and flipped the switch. There was a distinct thunk as ten centimeter wide panels in the floor and ceiling retracted. Each was about a half a meter across. Suddenly there were ladders in the room, built into both the floor and ceiling. “There ya go. There’s another one in the hall; they’re all over the ship. You’d better get comfy with climbing around while we’re under thrust. If you need to go from aft to fore, well… the ship’s two hundred fifty-two meters long. Thrusting, that makes it over two hundred meters tall.”
Understanding was dawning on Parsells’ face, but Quinn still seemed to be struggling with the concept. “Look, think of it this way. When you got on board, the ship was on its belly, right? So this,” he pointed to what the men currently thought of as down, “was the ground. But when we’re thrusting, which we normally do at about point six Gs, it’s like the ship is sitting on earth, but on its butt, nose to the sky. Getting around means literally climbing the walls.” He grinned at his own joke.
“But what about the bridge, um, sir?” Quinn inquired, consternation still plaguing his face. “Do they have to climb up to their seats? And if they do, isn’t that like lying in a bed all the time?”
Templeton pushed off from the wall and intercepted the floating table as it drifted back his way. “They can do that if they want, but the whole cockpit tilts. We call it the cockpit. It tilts ninety degrees. The whole nose of the ship does. The upside of that is that you get to sit normally when we’re thrusting. The downside is that, well, you gotta look up through the skylight to see where you’re going. Doesn’t matter much; we don’t steer by sight too often.” He expertly pushed off the far wall and grabbed a handbar on the aft wall, swinging the table into place with his other hand. “Here, one of you help me clamp this down. Parsells?” Parsells moved over to him somewhat awkwardly. Their resumes said that the men had a few years of zero G experience, but it also said that it had been a few years since they had been in space. It was evidently a bit more difficult for Parsells than hopping back on a bike. “Quinn, you grab that chair and bring it over here. Look,” he said to Parsells, “see that thumb latch on the table leg? Just press it against the wall and hit it like this.” He flipped the switch to demonstrate. “It doesn’t matter where. Once we’re thrusting, you can rearrange it wherever you want.”
Still yawning, Captain Staples walked into the mess hall in search of some light breakfast before the morning shift. The room was occupied by two burly men who sat next to each other, each with a plate of eggs and potatoes about half-eaten in front of them. They looked up at their new captain, and the smaller of the two smiled awkwardly.
After a moment, Parsells spoke up. “Good to be aboard, Captain.” Quinn nodded at her.
Staples smiled in welcome. “It’s good to have you both aboard. Do you have any questions that I can answer?” She began rummaging through a refrigeration unit.
Quinn looked at his friend, who faced her in turn. “Yeah, actually. We wanted to have a real beer with dinner last night, to celebrate our new jobs and all. Can’t drink a toast with lemonade.” He gestured towards his cup.
“I don’t allow alcohol on my ship, Mr. Parsells.” This news clearly did not sit well with the two men, who looked at each other as if the horse they had chosen to bet on had just broken a leg. She carried her yogurt and a spoon over to the table and sat down. “Travelling between planets is not dissimilar to how many describe war: long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of terror. In my experience, boredom and alcohol mix poorly, and terror and alcohol even worse. We have movie nights, poker nights, a plethora of board games, a small gymnasium, and somewhere between two and four billion stars to count in this galaxy. The day-to-day running of the ship will take some of your time as well.” She tried for a genuine smile and suspected that she had pulled it off.
If Parsells had further thoughts about the dry spaceship, he did not share them. Instead, he said, “If you’re here, who’s running the ship right now?”
“No one, actually.” Parsells’ eyes grew wide with concern.
“But someone’s steering, right?”
She took a bite and shook her head.
“What if we hit something? What if we go off course?” Quinn was beginning to look alarmed as well.
Her voice was reassuring. “There’s not much to hit. The average density of space is about one atom per cubic centimeter.” She held the thumb and forefinger of her right hand about a centimeter apart to demonstrate. “Most of space is just that: space. It’s aptly named,” Staples offered. “As for course corrections,” she continued, “we’re pointed at Mars. The computer can handle things for a bit while we eat and sleep. All it has to do is not turn. There’s almost always s
omeone in the cockpit to keep an eye on things. And if we did somehow get off course, well, we’ve got thirteen more days to Mars. What’s one hour one way or the other?”
Parsells grunted, clearly a bit embarrassed. He turned back to his food.
A minute later, a well-structured, slightly gaunt man with deep black skin and a bald head entered the mess hall. He wore a tight grey shirt buttoned down the front that left little of his well maintained physique to the imagination. Where the short sleeves, which looked close to bursting, ended at his biceps, muscular tattooed arms extended and ended in powerful hands. Staples read the situation and decided to let her security chief have his moment with his new recruits. She stood up and smiled at the men, taking the remains of her breakfast with her.
“I have some work to do. I’m sure I’ll see more of you in the coming weeks.”
As the captain exited, the new entrant crossed to the food that the ship’s cook had left in warmers on the counter. He quickly and efficiently spooned the eggs and potatoes onto a plate, plucked a container of orange juice, and finally sat across from the two men with his breakfast.
Fork in hand, he looked at them and said, “This is probably as good a time as any to introduce myself. I am Kojo Jang, and you work for me.” His voice was deep, and though his English was impeccable, it carried traces of a Swahili accent.
“I thought we worked for the captain,” the normally laconic Quinn responded. His friend looked at him in surprise and tapped him with his elbow. Parsells smiled in apology for his friend.
Jang did not smile back. “No. I work for the captain. You work for me, though you should always listen to her. I must apologize for not meeting you earlier, but I returned to the ship only shortly before takeoff, and there was much to do.” He took a bite of potatoes, perhaps to give them a chance to reply. Neither said anything, so Jang swallowed and continued. “I will need to show you around the ship. You must study the blueprints until you can find your way in the dark. This may seem excessive. It is not. If the ship ever loses power, you will be grateful for the knowledge. We will need to go over firearms procedures; I was told you both have firearms training. Is this correct?”
Parsells answered quickly, perhaps before his friend could. “Yeah. We were both security guards at a prison; we carried pistols, trained with them, all that.”
“Good.” It was clear from Jang’s quick response that Parsells had offered more of an answer than he wanted. The two men ate and listened silently as Jang spoke. “We will continue to train. We will need to go over ship procedures. You must learn what to do when we both arrive at and depart a planet or moon so that your first mate does not have to move your furniture for you.” The men had the decency to look sheepish. “We must train in hand-to-hand combat.”
Parsells laughed. “On a spaceship? I mean, I know Templeton told me that we’d have to know how to fight, and we do, but really, what are we gonna do, throw a knife out a window at another ship?”
Jang regarded him silently, and his smile died. Finally, he responded. “No. We will not be throwing knives at other ships. Not all operations that this crew performs happen aboard this ship. If the captain needs to meet a contact in a disreputable bar, you may need to provide security for her. If Mr. Burbank and Mrs. Trujillo, two of the work crew, are loading valuable and desperately needed medical supplies into the cargo bay destined for Phobos and they are attacked by criminals hoping to sell said supplies on the black market, you will need to provide security for them.” The new hires looked suspiciously like teenagers being given a lecture. Jang was clearly not finished. “And if pirates attack and board this ship in an attempt to take our fuel, our food, our cargo, and our personnel, you most certainly will fight to defend this ship.”
At this, Parsells spoke up. “Pirates, really? I mean, we’ve heard stories, but does that really happen?”
Jang drew himself up and looked down at the two men as much as was possible while they were sitting. “There is not a scenario I have described that I have not experienced.” He paused for dramatic effect. “You must be prepared for these and many other possibilities. Everyone on this ship does their part and helps where they can. If that means helping Mr. Park to work on the reactor, then that is what you will do. There are no responsibilities outside your job description, only those you have not yet learned. The men who previously held your positions found me a harsh task master. I don’t doubt that is part of why they chose to leave this ship, but I do not take chances with the lives of my crew. Security,” he added as if speaking some great aphorism, “is like insurance. One pays for it and, if everything goes well, one never needs it, but one would never wish to be caught without it when things do not go well.” With that, he stood and headed back to the buffet for more food. Parsells rolled his eyes at his friend, and they both went back to finishing their breakfasts.
Chapter 3
The ship had been at six-tenths of a G of thrust for just over a day when Yegor Durin spoke up. “Captain, I’m getting some noise.” He tilted his head to the side and pressed the earpiece into his right ear. Staples, regarding the back of his head, his short ponytail, and his tanned profile, waited patiently for his report. The two of them and Charis MacDonnell were the only people in the cockpit. It was the beginning of first shift, and most of them were still waking up. A long minute passed, then two more while the coms officer listened and ran numbers on his console. Possible identifications flashed up on his screen, and he sorted and dismissed them almost as quickly. Finally, he turned to her.
“I think it’s a satellite, Captain. I make it a Yoo-lin mark VII. It’s still got enough power to transmit; the signal is pretty strong. General distress. It’s damaged-“
“I’ll say,” Charis interjected.
“-and it knows it,” he finished.
“We’re way past the green line out here, Captain,” Charis offered. “Could be good salvage?”
“Maybe,” Staples assented. “How far?”
Charis and her compatriot both turned to their consoles, firing numbers back and forth and exchanging data verbally. After a minute of this, Charis reported: “If we turn and slow down at…” she winced as she said it, “two-point-seven Gs for three hours, we can stop in time to salvage it. It will cost us the better part of a day, depending on how hard we thrust back up to speed. We would still have time to make our appointment on Mars if we stopped.”
“Three hours. That’s going to be uncomfortable. Yegor, I’m going to call the staff to the cockpit. Be ready to give us a rundown of that satellite in five minutes.”
“Da, Kapitan.” The man muttered, unconsciously reverting to his native language as he concentrated on the signal and pulled up data from the ship’s computer.
Four-and-a-half minutes later, the chairs in the cockpit were filled just as they were during the ship’s departure from Oregon the day before. One of the four guest chairs lining the back wall was also occupied by a swarthy man with a strong nose, dark eyes, short-cropped hair, and an excellent profile.
“Decided to join us, Doctor?” Staples asked as she spun around in her seat. Though medical was a fifty-meter climb down the ship, the man wasn’t winded in the least. He was in his mid-thirties and in excellent physical shape.
Jabir Iqbal smiled charmingly. “You know I love to watch you work, Captain.” The smile broadened. Perhaps coming from Templeton or Durin, the comment would have seemed inappropriate, but the doctor seemed to pull it off, and Staples found herself close to blushing. She gave a curt nod and spun her chair back round to face the rest of the staff, as much to hide the spots of color in her cheeks as to do her job.
“Dinah, are you patched in?” Staples addressed the air.
From down in the ReC, Dinah’s bold voice issued from the speakers. “I’m here, sir.”
“Yegor?” she said, indicating that he should start.
“Captain,” he nodded back at her, and then looked around at his fellow shipmates. “The satellite is a Yoo-lin mark VII
. It’s a communications satellite. I repaired one once in high orbit. Best guess is, given how far out it is, that it collided with a meteor or another satellite and spun off out here. Lucky us.
“The Mark VII is nuclear powered, and judging by the strength of the distress signal, the reactor is still online. That means uranium, which we can adapt to our reactor. The Mark VII reactors were rated for at least a hundred years before replacement, and they were put up mostly around 2105. It should still be about eighty percent fueled, which will be more than enough to cover what we’ll burn slowing down. Circuit boards and electronics will be resalable, but not for too much. The wiring should be worth something. The Yoo-lins were designed to provide military and spacewatch eyes as a way for the company to make money from government contracts, and that means the lenses are valuable. Some of the mechanisms use soft metals, including gold. Most valuable, though, is the communications suite itself. It may be twenty-five years old, but I should be able to adapt it to our systems and provide some versatility and horsepower to our coms. Summary:” he glanced down at his surface, then back up at the captain, “about one hundred thousand dollars worth of materials, fuel, and an upgrade to the ship.”
Templeton whistled through his teeth. “That’s a nice little bonus for the crew. I assume we’ll have to slow down in a hurry?”
Staples replied. “Yes. Charis says three hours at close to three Gs, and every minute we spend deciding makes that thrust more uncomfortable, so we need to make the call now. I’m inclined to stop and pick it up, unless there are any objections.” A moment of silence passed. “Dinah, are you ready for a turn and burn? Charis will send down the exact data.”