Shock Diamonds

by E. R. Mason

“Oh, yeah. No, I haven’t. Tell me, if nobody’s been to Enuro, how do they come up with resident species profiling?”

  “It says some info comes from the Nasebians' reps and other stuff is from contacts with off-worlders who have been there. There’s a hair-raising warning in the preface that suggests one not bet one’s life on the information contained therein. But you are going to review this stuff, right?”

  “I have the feeling you’re going to impress upon me that I should.”

  “Are you kidding? There’s several dozen different species on Enuro. A few of them are pretty exotic. You could say the wrong thing quite easily, oh great master of the foot in mouth. There are other undesirable traps, as well.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s quite amazing. They color code the profiles of each species. If a species is passive and no threat, the description is in green. If the species is extremely dangerous, the entire profile is in red. Other intermediate colors denote varying degrees of danger. I went right through the red ones. Apparently there is a female-dominant species called the Busharee. There is a dire warning that these women are nearly irresistible, but if you make the mistake of mating with them, they suck the life out of you.”

  “I’ve known women like that.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It says that a single lovemaking session usually results in approximately twenty years of aging.”

  “Say that again?”

  “In terms you can understand, you screw one of these women, then look in the mirror the next day, and you are twenty years older, and you stay that way.”

  “Man, I’ve heard of marriage doing that to you, but not sex…”

  “Of all the red-print profiles, sex seems to be the most frequent problem area. There’s another species, the Sirenians, that turn your skin color blue if carnal knowledge is pursued.”

  “Brother, that would be hard to hide from the wife.”

  “At least that one fades away within 24 hours.”

  “Honey, I’m unexpectedly going to be on travel the rest of the day.”

  “Very funny. There’s another group that turns your eye color to match theirs. Two others believe they are automatically married to you after sex.”

  “Now I have been with a couple of those.”

  “Okay, okay, this is all a joke to you, of course, my leap-without-looking friend…”

  “What’s with all the metaphors this morning?”

  “The point is, there are some profiles which are a bit more, shall we say, mortally dangerous?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “For example, there is one warrior-class people, the Kantarians, who apparently have some primeval trait built into their brain and if you happen to make a particular group of phonetic sounds, it switches their brain into mortal combat mode and they kill you immediately.”

  “Wow! That could really spoil a party.”

  “It’s no joke, Adrian. The tablet gives you the audio sequence so you can learn it and thus be sure to never, ever use it.”

  “I can see it now, everyone’s singing Auld Lang Syne, and at the end, these guys finish up by wiping out all the guests.”

  “There’s also a group called Sentians, who it is said can see through and even pass through solid walls or any material that is lower on the periodic chart than lead.”

  “I can’t imagine the dressing rooms on that planet.”

  “You’re just not going to take this stuff serious, are you? Well, how about this one? The favorite drink of the Tagon race is blood. If you offer to shake their hand when you meet them, you are offering to let them sample your blood.”

  “Oh, now that’s just disgusting.”

  “I take it I have your attention.”

  “I will not be shaking any hands on Enuro.”

  “Then there are the women of Valturia. After lovemaking, they urinate on you to mark you so that other women will know you are taken. The smell is not easy to get rid of.”

  “How the hell many species are there on Enuro?”

  “An ever-changing number. It’s because Enuro is protected by the Nasebians. Other cultures feel safe doing business there, even some that don’t get along. So by providing services to the Nasebians, Enuro gets protection and subsequently a healthy and very diverse commerce.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more, R.J.”

  “You’ll read through the profiles?”

  “I’ll read through the profiles but not until after a hearty lunch.”

  “After inspection, a hearty lunch at Heidi’s, then?”

  “I don’t believe so. It may behoove us to avoid running into Jeannie. There would be awkward questions about Wilson.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  We drove past the Headquarters building and turned down VAB Lane. Not far from the Kennedy Space Center Vehicle Assembly Building lies the OPF, Orbiter Processing Facility. That’s the real name. After the original shuttle was retired, the official name changed to On-orbit Processing Facility, intended to reference spacecraft capable of attaining Earth orbit or destinations beyond. By that same uncanny luck that delivered the Griffin to me, I was also endowed with custom hangar space within the OPF.

  I parked the Vette on the north side, and R.J. and I headed for the Griffin, electronic badges in hand. There is strong sentiment attached to each Griffin visit. It is so strong it feels one step away from choirs of angels singing. There is a flush of adrenaline and pride, so much so that it must be concealed. It peaks when I first step in the hangar and see the light reflecting off her white, baked-on, heat-resistant coating, and the frosty windshields waiting to be cleared. On this occasion, the big bay lights were already on, the pristine hangar glowing from the beams.

  She is stored with the wings swept back, just as they are in space, although they are exercised during routine maintenance cycles. Except for the pointy nose and high tail, she is a cigar-shaped UFO sitting on short stubby landing gears. To date, I have never needed to deploy those wings for atmospheric flight, her gravity-repulse drives providing all the lift ever called for. She was designed for a crew of eight, but the scrubbers could deliver O2 for up to sixteen. There would only be four of us on this easy cruise. We would have a spacious spacecraft, occupied by the best of friends. I found myself more than anxious to light up that flight deck.

  As R.J. and I stood inside the hangar door soaking in the beauty of the Griffin, movement from behind the port landing gear strut suddenly caught my eye. A moment later, a familiar form sidestepped into view. She did not see us. She was bent over with her head tilted up, staring up into the gear well. Danica Donoro, the only person possibly as enamored with the Griffin as I, was dressed in gray sweat pants and a half unzipped matching sweat jacket with hood. The glimmering, rich brown hair was longer than last seen, a bit past the shoulder. The tiny, delicate nose had a spot of red from too much sun. The green eyes and intent stare still had that entrancing quality that usually induces a swell of lust in most men. Too many experience lines for a thirty-two year old face.

  Danica actually has two faces. One is soft, warm, and bordering on glamorous. But when she slips into a pilot seat, suddenly the aura of warmth evaporates, replaced by cold steel, exactly what every passenger wants to see in their pilot. And it is no act. The woman has embarrassed many a male pilot, and done a fair amount of damage to my own man-card on occasion. There is not a soul on Earth I would trust more with a spacecraft than Danica Donoro.

  I called to her. “Have you kicked the tires?”

  She snapped around to look at us, nearly bumped her head on a linkage, and broke into a big grin. “Well, shiver me timbers, if it isn’t the Thunderbirds, Jeff Tracy and Brains. Here to rescue some damsel in distress?”

  R.J. blurted out a laugh. “Hey, watch it. That makes you Lady Penelope. God, I love her.”

  We met beneath the glimmering nose of the Griffin. R.J. made an awkward bow and kissed the back of her hand, after which she put a bear hug on me that almost forced the wi
nd out of my lungs.

  “When’d you get here?” I asked.

  “Couple hours ago. Exterior pre-flight complete, Commander. You gonna unlock her?”

  I looked over the Griffin. Ground power cables were hooked up, feeding the freezer units and other accessories to preserve battery power. “They were supposed to stock her for six months yesterday. Looks like they’ve been here. When’d you arrive in Brevard, Danica?”

  “Late last night. Couldn’t wait.”

  “You should have called us. Where you staying?”

  “Nowhere. Why check in when you’re getting ready to check out?”

  “You got a rental? How'd you get to the Center?”

  “I took a cab to the gate. Security was happy to give me a ride the rest of the way. I just couldn’t wait.”

  “Well, you come back with me and R.J. and stay at my place tonight. We’ll come in early tomorrow for the preflight.”

  “I’d justa’ soon load up and stay on the Griffin tonight, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “But where’s your stuff?”

  She motioned behind me. Against the hangar wall, three travel bags were stacked on the floor.

  “That’s everything I need. You assign me a sleeper cell and I’ll be in seventh heaven staying on the Griffin again.”

  “You just love spacecraft that much?” mused R.J.

  Danica smiled. “You know it.”

  We pushed the air stairs over to the Griffin’s front airlock door. I whipped out my cell, linked to the ship, screwed up the password the first two times, then finally the door popped inward and slid open to the side. The inside courtesy lights cascaded on. As we climbed aboard, I could feel the flush of excitement in the other two. I struggled to conceal it in myself. In the forward airlock, the flight deck was cold and dark except for a single monitor at each pilot position and each engineering station displaying battery, ground power, and environmental status. My rush of excitement was quickly overtaken by pure love.

  They had left the air conditioning on. The air smelled sterile, almost like a hospital waiting room. The forward airlock where we entered was cool silver metallic. Four ghostly-looking Bell Standard spacesuits were embedded in the walls in their docking stations. I passed through into the main habitat area. The lounge tables and chairs were retracted into the floors and walls, leaving a wide open, white cushioned chamber dotted with circular, closed viewing ports. The white photosynthetic carpet lining the floor, walls, and ceiling brought back an assortment of memories from the last trip, most good, a few not so. Being able to have the interior of a spacecraft project imagery can be a tremendous boost during long spaceflight, but if things happen to get out of control, it can also sometimes conjure up hell.

  The twin kitchens at the rear of the habitat compartment were shiny chrome, clean as a whistle. Beyond them, the first four sleeper cells were closed, waiting for occupancy. It was fortunate the designers had made these horizontal cells. Now that gravity was to be installed, they would still serve us well.

  I passed the two bathrooms, then the aft four sleeper cells, and emerged into the exercise area. It would probably be just as important, even with gravity. Beyond the gym, the science lab looked clean and well stowed. The three of us met in the aft airlock.

  R.J. was fiddling with a space suit glove not quite tucked in. “It looks very ready, Adrian.”

  “What do you think, Danica?” I asked.

  “Let’s go right now.”

  I laughed. “Weather is projected to be perfect in the morning. OTC will probably turn us loose right on schedule. You sure you don’t want to stay at my place tonight?”

  “I’m going to stow my gear and enjoy the solitude before spending a few weeks locked up with you two. Okay?”

  “I think I see her point, R.J.”

  “Yeah, but Danica, when we leave here, we’re heading for The Italian Fisherman. It’s making my mouth water just thinking about it. Why don’t you come along and then if you…”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got jet lag. You guys go on. I need some rest.”

  So we left her to her spacecraft solitude, but in the Vette, the gears in R.J.’s head were spinning, which can be a scary thing. “You see what’s going on here, don’t you?”

  “Oh god, your famous catch-phrase. Every time I hear that I know I’m in for trouble I was not expecting.”

  “As if you don’t find enough of your own.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, do you want to know, or not?”

  “Shields up. Go ahead.”

  “She’s got something going.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Doesn’t tell anyone she’s here. No rental car. Taxi to the gate. Gets security to ride her in.”

  “So?”

  “What if security wouldn’t give her a ride?”

  “Are you kidding? Danica Donoro? Hottest woman pilot in the world? Beautiful to boot? If she stuck her thumb out, she could stop a parade.”

  “Okay, okay, but doesn’t want to come off the base with us?”

  “We are sometimes questionable company. If you had a daughter, would you trust her with us?”

  “Point taken. But that’s not why she’s hanging back. With her martial arts skills she could probably whip us both. Me for sure. You just might take a little longer.”

  “So what do you think she’s up to?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is she’s got a secret, and she’s using the Space Center to hide out from it.”

  “You could be wrong about this. It could be things are just as they appear, Sherlock.”

  “I am seldom wrong about these things, dear Watson. You know that.”

  “Damn straight.”

  T-0 day was clear blue sky, a salty, gentle offshore breeze, but no Wilson Mirtos. Ground crews towed the Griffin out to Launch Apron Blue where we left the forward airlock open and the air stairs in place while Danica and I ran through the long power-up sequence. Before I could find a delicate way of declaring myself pilot-in-command, she had pleaded for the left seat, and like most men I could not refuse her. It put me in the right seat and gave me the challenge portion of the checklist, and her the response portion. I had to keep overriding the impulse to fold my arms in body-language discontent.

  In a spacecraft, there really are no pilot and copilot. There are only pilots. But years of sitting in an aircraft’s left seat, where the level of responsibility is at its highest, leaves an indelible imprint on the mind, and an ethereal completeness to the soul. It’s like taking the training wheels off your bike, or learning to water-ski slalom. You can never go back. Once you have experienced and come to terms with pilot-in-command, it is a disappointment to sit in any other seat.

  There was a pause in the checks while Danica adjusted her headset and aligned her flight controls. The flight deck windows had already been powered up and switched to transparent. A flurry of activity by the hangar fence suddenly caught my eye. A second later, Wilson’s hulky form came lumbering into view, dragging bags and briefcases along with him, more than most men could handle. Danica looked up, saw him, and broke out laughing. On closer inspection, he was wearing only a bathrobe and flip-flops, his bare, hairy, white legs escaping the terry cloth with each step. He hobbled along until the garbled sound of irritated cursing could be heard at the base of the air stairs as R.J. struggled to help him aboard. I turned in my seat and looked back in time to see Wilson appear in the airlock, casting a momentary look of annoyance in my direction before wrestling an overstuffed flight bag through the door to the habitat module.

  “Auxiliary APUs are in standby,” said Danica.

  “What?”

  “Auxiliary APUs are in standby,” repeated Danica.

  “Oh, sorry. Okay, departure sequencer initialized?”

  “Sequencer initialized and online.”

  “L02 pressures in green?”

  “L02 in green.”

  “Aerodynamic control surfaces in neutral?”
/>   “Aerodynamics neutral.”

  “Execute Flight Management Computer programming.”

  “Did you upload it?”

  “Transmitted it last night from home. And by the way, I reprogrammed my bio-keys to give you full administrator’s privileges.”

  Danica tapped a few keys on the center console and our primary display screens came to life. “Execute complete. Flight plan accepted.”

  “Activate Flight Director.”

  “Flight Director activated and… it likes it.”

  R.J. popped his head in between us. I looked back at him. “You got Wilson safely aboard?”

  “Yes, and I’m not sure, but he may have brought everything he owns along with him.”

  “Would you signal the ground guys we're ready for the stairs to be taken away, then close up?”

  “Aye, aye, sir, or should I say ma’am?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Mister.”

  R.J. disappeared. A moment later the air stairs went by toward the hangar. There was the clunking sound of the airlock door being shut.

  “Green light on the door,” said Danica. “Pressurization coming on.”

  “So, you’re in the left seat. That means you get Orbital Traffic Control.”

  “I’ll use my womanly wiles on them.”

  “We’re number one. There’s nobody else on the schedule.”

  Danica readjusted her boom mike. “OTC, Griffin.”

  A male controller’s cheery voice came back. “Go ahead, Griffin.”

  “OTC, Griffin ready for departure instructions,” said Danica.

  “Griffin, departure approved as filed. Contact departure control on 486.9 delta bravo.”

  “Switching to 486.9 delta bravo. Thank-you, sir. Departure control, this is the starship Griffin with you on LA Blue.”

  As we waited, R.J. returned, sat down at the engineering station behind me, and began strapping in.

  “He’s gonna get his butt up here, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s coming. Apparently Jeannie held him up.”

  “He’s not going to strap in wearing that robe, is he?”

  “I hope to god not. The front of that robe doesn’t close up all the way.”