And Mom would say, “Shanti, you are not ready to pilot Karma Dancer on your own. You must spend approximately one hundred years doing your chores before you can move on from my boring drills. Now be a good boy and get to work back-filing data from last year’s runs.”
Okay, maybe she wouldn’t make me wait a hundred years, but it sure felt like it sometimes. Especially when we had students aboard, students who didn’t even appreciate the amazing things Karma Dancer could do when Mom had the pilot’s helmet on, and yet still, inexplicably, were allowed to learn to fly her unassisted while I was stuck in the corner clearing out old data from the ship’s computer.
But I was working on a little program that would speed up my chores. The sooner I got them done, the fewer excuses Mom would have to delay my turn at wearing the pilot’s helmet.
Mom pulled another evasive maneuver, a spin that sent the unprepared students sprawling to port in the low gravity of the bridge and filled the viewscreen with a bright image of planet Ipsi below us. From my station in the back where I worked on my own computer console (and didn’t take part in the class), I got a good view of the students tumbling around, the crisp lines of their uniforms glowing blue with light from the viewscreen.
I didn’t bother covering my breathy laugh. My paralyzed vocal cords had their advantages now and then.
“When you are approaching a planet in a transport ship,” Mom explained in an even tone while the students scrambled to right themselves, “you must work with the planet’s pull to perform your evasions. Also, I trust you all now understand the importance of warning your passengers to secure themselves in the case that evasive action may be taken.”
The students mumbled that they did, and Mom slipped Karma Dancer into an even orbit before pulling the pilot’s helmet off. Her hair, cropped short to make for better communication with the ship’s computer through the helmet, stood on end before she smoothed it with a single motion.
She set the pilot’s helmet on the front dash behind the outdated yoke and turned to face the jumble of students. “That will be all for today’s lesson. Shanti and I will serve dinner at nineteen-hundred. Dismissed.”
The students floated themselves out of the bridge. They kept to a decent formation, but I knew as soon as they were out of Mom’s sight, they’d dissolve into a messy glob as they stopped struggling with the low gravity. I sneered down at my computer screen.
“Shanti,” Mom said, floating over to me. “How is the back-filing coming? We’ll need the ship’s computer at full speed for the pickup next week.”
/It’s coming,/ I signed.
I didn’t look at her, kept my attention on the lines of code running across my screen. I’d almost finished my program. Maybe I could test it out tonight, after everyone went to bed.
“Good. Come make dinner with me. And I want you to sit with the students tonight. Talk to them, make some friends your own age.”
I didn’t need friends my own age, but I still signed /okay/ anyway. No reason to make Mom upset.
But as soon as the dinner hour ended, I was coming back here to finish my program and take one more step toward setting the pilot’s helmet on my head.
An awkward dinner hour filled with kids talking around you and throwing out references you don’t understand because you’ve never been to Academy lasts approximately three hundred hours instead of the standard one. Add in a mother casting commanding glances at you the longer you sit without touching your pocket texter, and it becomes just plain uncomfortable.
I got a lecture after dinner for that, one where Mom’s voice ran up and down the scale and her hands flung out like she might almost, maybe, accidentally start signing to me while she spoke. But she never really signed, and I was eventually sent to bed with captain’s orders to be sociable with the Academy kids tomorrow.
I floated down to the darkened bridge instead.
We left only a few necessary systems running overnight in order to save power, an essential practice for a transport ship that made regular jaunts across interplanetary space. We’d need all that conserved energy if we ran into an unexpected obstacle, or if one of those scavenger ships showed up. Sometimes they didn’t care if a ship wasn’t actually abandoned yet.
With the viewscreen turned off, the running lights gave a dim orange glow to the silent bridge. I filled my lungs with cold, super-sterile air. The filters would kick on in the morning, sucking all the previous day’s dust out and away from our sensitive electronics.
I grabbed my computer from the back seat where I’d left it. My seat was technically the navigator’s chair, but Mom never asked me to navigate for her. Nope, just mindless chores for Shanti.
Well, not tonight. Tonight it was mindless chores for the ship’s computer, while Shanti sat in the pilot’s chair and wished he was flying.
I flicked on my computer screen and smiled down at my program displayed there. I’d called it Upon_A_Starship.pgm, since my greatest wish depended on the program working tonight.
Mom had shut down the ship’s computer for the night, but turning it back on was easy enough. With my own computer connected, I could give it simple commands, though I couldn’t direct the ship itself in any way without the use of the pilot’s helmet.
I took my computer over to the connection port on the starboard side of the viewscreen, let our useless copy of the ship’s manual drift toward the floor, and hooked the computer up. I would transfer my little file-sorting program into the ship’s computer, and if it worked, I’d be able to kick back while the ship did my work way faster than I could manage it.
I keyed in a directive for the computer to run my program and sat back. A faint hum now drifted through the bridge from the ship’s computer. I felt the tiny vibrations through my shoes where my toes just barely touched the floor.
My computer beeped, and the lines of code from my program crawled across the screen. The hum of the ship’s computer hitched once, twice, then evened out again as it loaded my program and ran it.
I held my breath and watched my screen. This had to work. I was so sick of back-filing. I realized my hands were moving, signing /please please please/ over and over again.
And then a second window popped up, and the filing system displayed. Files moved around as the ship’s computer plucked them from “current data” and dropped them into “back-files” of the appropriate date.
I was a super-genius! My code was perfect, and I’d never have to slog through the logs again. I spun myself around in a victory dance, letting the low gravity carry me through five full turns before I slowed. When I came to a stop, I was facing the viewscreen. The pilot’s helmet rested on the dash not two feet in front of me.
I smiled.
I grabbed the helmet and let myself fall slowly into the pilot’s chair. The stiff leather felt so right against my back and legs, as it had the other times I’d had the opportunity to sit here. I was so ready to take the controls and zip Karma Dancer through space the way Mom did.
As I had those previous times, I slipped the pilot’s helmet over my own head. It fit perfectly snug, the menta-sensor pads resting against my skull to pick up my mental commands like it had been made specifically for my use. I liked that thought.
Of course, I had no access code to enter, so I simply closed my eyes, balanced my feet on the dash on either side of the old yoke, and let my thoughts wander, enjoying the feel of the pilot’s helmet and the pilot’s seat.
If I were flying Karma Dancer right now, I’d tell the computer to release the orbital traction. Then I’d ease her around until her belly faced the planet and I had her in position to pull out of Ipsi’s gravity well. I’d direct power to the rear thrusters and the elevators. A skilled transport pilot strove for gravity exits smooth enough to make their passengers wonder if they’d even moved at all. The pull of Ipsi’s gravity would fade, and I’d drop the power to the thrusters accordingly as Karma Dancer glided on her inertia. Then I’d tell the computer to set a course for, oh, Chiarro, the sec
ond moon of planet Hosch. Might as well go somewhere fun while I was pretending, and—
“Insufficient memory to complete requested task.”
I jumped at the helmet’s chirp in my ears. I’d been so in the zone I must have fallen asleep. Something flashed on my computer screen, and the helmet repeated its statement of insufficient memory.
/What the hell does that mean?/
I leapt out of the pilot’s seat, bashing my left shin against the dash as I dove for my computer. Upon_A_Starship.pgm’s code still scrolled across the screen, showing how the ship’s computer was sorting the back files.
I blinked. It was sorting files that had already been sorted. A deeper look showed me that it had already sorted everything before. Twice.
I tilted my head back in my version of a groan. My program must have a loop in it somewhere that was making the ship’s computer run it ad infinitum.
How could I have made such an idiotic mistake? I’d hunt for the inadvertent loop later on, but for now I simply typed in an “end” command to stop the program and free up the ship’s memory for whatever task it was trying to do.
“Insufficient memory to complete requested task.”
/What?/ I signed. Insufficient memory to stop Upon_A_Starship.pgm? I tried the “end” command again and again. The helmet parroted its message twice more.
Sweat gathered on my palms, and I shivered in the cold air of the empty bridge. I suddenly felt very alone in a place I’d always regarded as my rightful domain. Mom would skin me alive if she found out I’d broken the ship’s computer.
“Warning. Approaching large object. Change course to avoid collision.”
Was some idiot pilot flying their ship toward us? I whirled to the dash and flipped on the viewscreen. The large white-gray disc of Ipsi’s moon blinded me with its sudden and completely unexpected luminescence.
/Oh, nebula dust./ At least Mom wasn’t here to lecture me about my bad signs.
The menta-sensor pads tingled against my scalp as I stared at the looming moon.
Uh, abort, I thought. Power up reverse thrusters!
“Insufficient memory to complete requested task. Warning. Change course to avoid collision.”
/No! Abort, abort!/
All warmth drained from my body. I bent over my computer and typed in every variation of the “end” command I could think of. A mental command to the helmet accompanied each key stroke.
“Insufficient memory—”
/I know already!/
The moon grew brighter as I watched out of the corner of my eye.
I returned to the window displaying Upon_A_Starship.pgm. If I couldn’t stop it with the “end” command, I’d break the program itself.
I wielded my semi-colons like a butcher’s knife on my rogue program, hacking the lines of code to pieces until its carcass lay before me, unrecognizable.
My computer beeped, and the hum of the ship’s computer lowered in pitch.
I was panting. My breaths wheezed voicelessly over my paralyzed vocal cords.
After a couple of gulps, I directed a command into the menta-sensors. Abort trajectory, computer. Return to orbit around planet Ipsi.
The computer sent no response through the helmet. Relief washed over me in the ringing silence. I hadn’t realized my fingers had gone numb until the feeling returned in sharp, tingling stabs. I slumped into the pilot’s chair, head heavy with the weight of the pilot’s helmet, and waited for the reverse thrusters to push us backwards. Nothing had ever drained me like this. I didn’t have the energy to finesse the motion, so I fully expected Mom to come thundering down the hall once the thrusters jolted her awake.
Long seconds passed before I realized the thrusters weren’t engaging and the computer’s hum was growing higher and louder. Ipsi’s moon still filled the viewscreen, so large now that its circumference almost scraped the edges of the screen.
Computer, reverse thrusters! I thought at it.
“Insufficient memory to complete requested task.”
/But I stopped the program,/ I signed, and thought. /List all running programs./
“Currently running multiple programs: Upon_A_Starship.pgm. Upon_A_Starship.pgm. Upon_A_Starship.pgm. Upon_A_Starship.pgm. Warning_System.pgm. Upon_A_Starship.pgm.”
The helmet continued listing my program over and over, but I stopped listening. I lurched for my computer and yanked at the cord connecting it to the ship’s computer, not caring if it broke. It didn’t break, but disconnecting the two computers didn’t stop the helmet from naming off my program like a broken music file.
And then it said “memory overload” and went dead silent. The hum dropped away, and the entire bridge shuddered. I felt it rattle through each bone.
/Nebula dust!/
I couldn’t fly Karma Dancer without a computer, and as long as I’d lived aboard her, the computer had never crashed. I had no idea how to get it back on line. The helmet gave no response to any of my frantic thoughts. The menta-sensor pads felt like simple sheets of metal pressed against my skull. Completely useless. Completely dead.
Dead like me, my mom, and all those stupid Academy students were going to be if I couldn’t pull us away from Ipsi’s moon.
As if I were some sort of foretelling psychic, Karma Dancer sped up as it came into the influence of the moon’s gravity.
I signed more words, worse ones than /nebula dust,/ and dropped to the floor to search for the manual I’d shoved aside earlier. It had to have the computer’s restart procedure in it. My fingers groped through the cold blackness under the dash, reaching, stretching.
Finally, the tip of my index finger brushed the plastic coils of its binding, and I dragged it out to look at it in the light of Ipsi’s moon. I flipped through the laminated pages, speed-reading like space-wolves were tracking my eyeballs. By the time I’d gotten through three quarters of the manual, my dinner was working its way up my throat.
I swallowed against the bitter taste of failure and flung the manual away. The thing was so old it didn’t even mention the computer system, just the outdated yoke style of flying. Mom had never used the yoke that I could remember. I wasn’t even certain if it would still work.
But with Ipsi’s moon now so close I could make out three individual dome colonies, I had no choice but to give it a try.
/Please work,/ I begged before jerking the yoke out of its inactive position. It stuck a little, but a second tug clicked it into place.
Gripping the handles with slick palms, I jammed the yoke forward like the manual said would result in a dive. I braced myself for a jittery response.
The motion was shaky, but I could tell it came from the inefficient way I was making Karma Dancer work against the moon’s gravity. The aileron thrusters fired as I turned the yoke, sending us into a helix. Karma Dancer skimmed along, the surface of the moon racing in the viewscreen overhead.
A sliver of the blackness of space appeared on the bottom of the viewscreen, and it grew thicker, inch by painful inch, as I held the yoke as steady as I could. Karma Dancer skipped along the outer layer of the moon’s atmosphere, and my hands threatened to slip more than once.
So I wasn’t going to turn us into a little crater on Ipsi’s moon, which was a relief, but I wasn’t feeling so comfortable about the likely alternative of the atmosphere tearing us to bits. The yoke wrestled against me, and no matter how I tried to turn it, Karma Dancer couldn’t peel away from the moon.
My throat burned as I dragged cold air in and out of my lungs. I tasted my own sweat. Mom always made this look so easy.
She was right, I was nowhere near ready. Maybe I’d never be ready.
Then her hand was on my shoulder, and though I hadn’t heard her enter the bridge, I didn’t jump at her sudden presence. “Stop fighting the gravity. Relax into it and let the moon help you along to your trajectory.”
I did as she said, easing up on the yoke. My fingers loosened on the handles.
“Good. Now turn her on her belly, nice and sl
ow.”
I turned the yoke, felt the aileron thrusters engage again. This time Karma Dancer flipped in a smooth arc until the blackness of space overtook the viewscreen. Only a sliver of the moon’s brightness remained at the bottom. As we curved around the horizon, Ipsi itself came into view.
“Up and out now, Shanti.”
I drew the yoke toward my chest, and my heart clenched as Karma Dancer responded.
I was flying.
Somehow, I was both present and not for the rest of Mom’s instructions. But all things, good and bad, come to an end, and soon we returned to Ipsi’s orbit, safe and sound once more.
I stood from the pilot’s chair and removed the silent pilot’s helmet from my sweaty head. The frigid air swept through my messy hair, but I tried not to shiver. Looking her in the eyes, I handed the helmet back to her.
She accepted it wordlessly.
/I’m so sorry,/ I signed. /I broke the computer, and I don’t know how to fix it./
Mom still said nothing, but pulled a lever on the underside of the dash. The hum of the ship’s computer returned, and it let out a string of beeps and clicks as the system restarted. She placed the helmet on her own head.
Then she floated to the back of the bridge and picked up the manual I’d tossed aside.
She pressed it against my chest. “Read this. Thoroughly. If you have any questions, you’ll ask the Academy students. We have them for another four days. You ask me before they leave, I won’t answer.”
I tucked the manual under one arm. /I will. I’m sorry./
“Dismissed.”
I floated for the open bridge door, my insides all a jumbled mess of adrenaline and endorphins. I’d nearly killed us all, but I’d flown Karma Dancer. I was probably grounded for approximately five hundred years, but Mom wanted me to read the manual. My body couldn’t figure out whether it wanted to laugh or cry. Going to sleep sounded like the best option.
As I crossed into the hall, I heard Mom address the computer.
“Create new pilot’s access code.”
Fiction River Page 5