Call of Courage: 7 Novels of the Galactic Frontier

by C. Gockel

  Either Parker wasn’t satisfied with Alvarez’s non-response, or he was stuck in engineering mode and was thinking out loud. “I’m certain we’ve got all the parts we need,” he said, “and the energy-transfer coupling might even be in good enough shape to continue using it. I suspect the problem is the combustion chamber. Replacing it is a real bear. We can’t do it from within the ship. We have to take it on a transport table outside the main cargo bay doors, space-walk it around the ship, open the service hatch, pull out the old chamber, and secure the new chamber from outside.”

  Alvarez heard him but said nothing. He was busy pulling up ship schematics, the combustion chamber specifically. “I can’t seem to find the service hatch, the service shaft, or half of what you’re talking about on the computer’s diagrams.”

  “Oh, that’s to be expected,” Parker said. “Much of this was an after-thought, something we changed late in the design process.”

  “A mistake?”

  “Mistake is too strong a word. This is par for the course. Initial designs only work on paper. Once metal meets rivet, there are going to be some disconnects between theory and practice. The only reason the schematics aren’t up to date is because we took the Constance out ahead of schedule.”

  Alvarez wondered what other surprises were waiting for him. “How long is this going to take?”

  “Several hours, at least. I’ll know more once I get a look at it.”

  “You better get to it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  BRENNEN REVIEWED HIS notes from the shuttle’s console. Despite the mission coming together so quickly, he was thoroughly prepared. The shuttle was crowded. It was a one room vessel, and Brennen had stacked the posterior section full of tools and materials including dozens of oxygen tanks.

  He turned from his console and faced forward in the cockpit. Out his window, the research probe now appeared larger than the Constance. A light and a ringer went off. “They must have communications back online,” he said. “John, when I have something to tell you, I’ll let you know.” Brennen shut off the ringer, dismissing the hail.

  “Just in case,” he said to himself, bringing up the transceiver protocol. He clicked the probe’s signature tab from the two signals available on his console. The screen flashed TRANSMITTING.

  “Research probe NC-108D, this is a rescue party from Novos, Dr. Michael Brennen speaking. Can anyone hear me?”

  There was no reply. “Didn’t think so. Proceeding as planned,” he said.

  The shuttle neared the probe. Brennen disengaged the autopilot and grabbed the holographic controls. They were an orange/red projection. Once he gripped the controls, they moved with his hands as long as he kept them the right distance apart. The holograph stretched and compressed like putty.

  He sat the controls in his lap and guided the shuttle to within docking range of the probe but stopped short. Something was wrong. Beside the main hatch was a small rectangular opening, its cover missing. Even from this distance, Brennen could see that the primary power control was disengaged. I can’t even get aboard without that plugged in, he thought.

  Brennen pulled his hands apart. The holographic controls snapped back into their original position above the console. He waved one hand, and the holograph disappeared.

  “Computer, execute application robotics initiation protocol,” he said. The computer chirped. Then he heard external machinery begin to grind.

  A picture appeared on his screen, nearly identical to his cockpit view. He saw part of the probe. The entrance shaft was highlighted with special graphics. Brennen clicked on the highlighted image and then felt a vibration in the floor.

  The robotic unit appeared in the bottom part of the screen. It disembarked from the shuttle and headed towards the probe, a short distance away. Before it reached the hatch, Brennen said, “Pause initiation protocol.”

  The unit stopped. “Robot, attempt to engage primary power control on the compartment next to the main hatch,” he said.

  There was a split-second pause. Then the cylindrical unit fired micro-thrusters, shifting its trajectory. Now in line with the power control, long arms extended like antennae to the exposed panel. Moments later, Brennen’s screen read, “Primary power restored.”

  “Good,” he said. “Unit, continue with initiation protocol.”

  After the unit realigned itself with the entrance shaft, the image on the screen flickered. It changed to the robotic unit’s camera. The entrance shaft grew larger until the screen turned black.

  Brennen said, “Computer, open shaft and employ mobile voyeur.” The screen went fuzzy as the unit opened the hatch and switched to the voyeur’s camera.

  “Electromagnetic interference,” he muttered.

  New holographic controls appeared above the console, this time with a joy-stick configuration. Brennen grabbed them and moved the voyeur forward inside the probe. The screen was still black.

  He breathed, “So you didn’t get the lights back on after all.”

  With his left hand, he toggled the commands until LUMINOSO appeared.

  “Spanish? The last guy…” he said.

  The voyeur sprayed white light into the primary airlock, the first of the probe’s two main compartments. The other compartment was the main living space. The airlock was the smaller of the two, replete with tools and decontamination equipment. Adjoining the two sections was a small, redundant airlock where the final sequence of decontamination protocols was administered.

  Brennen maneuvered the robot further into the primary airlock. The voyeur was perfect for these situations. It had treads like a dozer for normal gravity environs, but it was equally mobile sans gravity via its thruster array.

  As Brennen tilted the stick forward in a smooth motion, the voyeur propelled itself through an intricate series of tiny thruster bursts each with different angles and durations. The voyeur’s computer constantly adjusted to maintain a safe speed and trajectory. But for the operator, it was a smooth, effortless experience.

  The voyeur was the ideal tool for this job. Novos had many unmanned probes in space, and voyeurs carried out many of the chores, in and outside of the vessels. They were great cost savers for corps, especially with the rising price of unskilled labor. Most vessels, specifically their doors, were designed to be operated by voyeurs.

  He turned the unit to face the hatch. “Close hatch door,” he said. Nothing happened. Apparently, none of the automated systems were working. That meant artificial gravity couldn’t be restored from within the airlock. I’ll have to do things manually, he thought.

  He needed to find the right command. He toggled through his tools list. He selected ENTRADA. Nothing happened. “That should have done it,” he said.

  He toggled through more commands. “Let’s try one more. I hope I’m remembering my Spanish.” He selected CIERRA. Immediately, the voyeur extended three arms toward the perimeter of the hatch. They locked in place, hand-in-glove in the three circular slots.

  After making contact, there was a loud distorted sound over the comm. Without atmosphere, the reverberations inside the probe were inaudible, but the arms, in direct contact with the vessel, resonated sound to the comms. As the arms spun, the grinding, squeaking sounds overpowered its microphone.

  Brennen watched as three curved, scissor blades coalesced, closing the hatch. The sound subsided, and the voyeur arms detached from the entrance.

  Brennen scanned the airlock one last time. He couldn’t afford to miss anything that could point to the probe tech’s condition and whereabouts. He saw nothing but tools attached to white walls and some floating plastic. He figured the technician must have thrown some of his trash into the airlock.

  Brennen turned the unit to face the redundant airlock that led to the main living quarters. Inside the narrow passageway, he toggled from CIERRA to ENTRADA. He said, “Let’s see if anybody’s home.” The voyeur again reached its arms to the slots around the hatch producing the same unpleasant discord as the scissor hatch opene
d.

  He held his breath, glimpsing the living quarters for the first time. The lights were still out. This larger compartment was difficult to illuminate with the voyeur’s onboard lights.

  Brennen was methodical. He directed the voyeur to follow the wall on the right, attempting to outline the room’s perimeter. Nothing was as it should be. Above a tacky green couch floated an acoustic guitar with a sunburst finish. Its black hard-case was near the ceiling. The couch below was apparently attached to the floor, probably to secure it during pre-launch transport.

  Brennen assumed the chaotic conditions resulted after life support and artificial gravity were lost. For numerous reasons, the airlock compartment commonly lost AG, but the main living quarters was designed to have its atmosphere and gravity maintained.

  The voyeur maneuvered around the floating debris and came to the kitchenette. Above the sink were dozens of silverware utensils and a pot of noodles strung out like frozen lightning bolts. “Filthy slob,” he said.

  Past the kitchen, Brennen moved the voyeur around a doorless partition. Suspended above the floor were various pieces of exercise equipment. “Keep moving,” Brennen told himself.

  The next partition had a series of bunks. Why would a probe with only one technician have more than one bed? he wondered. He moved the voyeur closer. The bottom bunk was empty except for blankets and a pillow. He twisted a knob causing the voyeur to rise. Its camera peered over the mattress of the top bunk. Floating below the ceiling was something covered with blankets. It was a body. Its back was turned toward the voyeur.

  “Why would you go to bed if you were losing life-support?” Brennen said.

  He jostled the holograph. New controls emerged on each side, like wings from a fuselage. He moved two of the voyeur’s arms forward, clasping the olive-drab blanket. Brennen held his breath. The arms peeled the blanket off the body, which was wearing a standard Novos active-wear suit. One of the arms bumped the body causing it to drift. It smashed against the wall and spun back toward the voyeur.

  Brennen tried to avoid impact by repositioning the unit. But it took too long. A tan, featureless face smacked into the voyeur’s camera spinning it and the body out of position.

  Brennen yelled. He lost his grip, and the holograph snapped back to its original position above the console. He exhaled slowly, then reached for the controls. He hit a command key, and the voyeur stabilized its position. The camera was aimed toward the ceiling. He repositioned the unit and spotted the body in the corner resting between the bunks and partition. He moved the voyeur closer.

  “Pathetic,” he said.

  A companion doll’s foam-for-face stared back at him. They were more commonly called space-buddies, the source of a million jokes. It was too unsophisticated to be an android. It was barely even robotic, its movements limited to walking, sitting and grossly inauthentic head gestures. It had no mouth or eyes, and its hands were pointed nubs. It was designed to resemble a human, not replace one.

  The lack of features was intentional. It allowed people to imprint their own images onto the space-buddy. Psychologists found that more realism made SBs too impersonal. People have a knack, almost a need, for filling in gaps. If machines have too many details, people ultimately reject the artificial construct.

  The early years of deep space exploration proved that people as social creatures had real limits in handling isolation. SBs were a crude, but effective way to extend the duration of solo missions. They told stories, read books, and carried out basic conversations with soloists. It wasn’t a stretch for people who talk to their pets or house plants to begin conversing with a human shaped computer chip.

  Back at Novos, Brennen had repeatedly expressed doubt in the efficacy of SBs, despite case studies to the contrary. The very idea of needing a human, faux or real, was repulsive.

  Brennen moved the voyeur out of the bunk area and to what appeared to be the work station. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. He approached the systems control console.

  “It’s a long shot,” he muttered. “Voyeur, interface with the console. Attempt to restore systems computer.”

  The voyeur attached one arm to an exposed socket. Even with main power offline, the voyeur could jump start some of the systems.

  A moment passed. Brennen studied the blank console screen. A green blinking dash appeared.

  “Computer, restore life-support systems, and artificial gravity.” The voyeur, more self-aware than a space-buddy, placed itself on the floor, using its extended arm to brace itself against the console.

  The interior lights came on, first flickering and then a constant, sterile-white. Brennen, still squinting from the brightness, turned the voyeur’s camera. He panned across the rest of the room.

  “Where is he?” he said.

  There was a cacophonous crash. Startled, Brennen again lost his grip of the holographic controls.

  “I should have anticipated that,” he said.

  The artificial gravity was online. All the floating objects—boxes, pots and pans, a guitar—had fallen to the floor simultaneously.

  Brennen continued his search. Lights made it easier, but the AG created new hurdles. The voyeur, now on treads, had to clear desks, chairs, and other debris.

  A loud metallic thump rang out.

  “What now?” he said.

  He checked the voyeur’s levels. The sound hadn’t come from the probe. It had to be from outside the shuttle itself.

  “Space debris?”

  He disengaged the voyeur’s controls.

  “Computer, switch to cockpit view,” he said.

  On his main viewer was a long white rope. It draped across the shuttle’s camera obstructing his view.

  Clang!

  Brennen jolted. The rope looked like it was moving, unraveling from some unknown source.

  There was another thud, just as loud but duller and less metallic than before.

  His view-screen totally obstructed, he visually scoured the fuzzy, white mess. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

  Slowly, the camera came into focus as the object drifted away. Entangled by rope was the boot of a Novos-issued spacesuit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  PARKER GAVE ALVAREZ a thumbs up. There was a clear box hinged to the wall above them. Alvarez lifted it and mashed the yellow button inside it. A buzzer sounded, and lights blinked red. They were in the cargo bay, the Constance’s de facto airlock.

  Alvarez heard the whoosh of gas escaping. Then the alarm fell silent. His helmet fogged up momentarily. He heard Parker breathing.

  Despite hundreds of spacewalks, Alvarez never got used to them. There was a surreal loneliness about them. He heard his respiration, and between breaths, he heard his heartbeat. He was completely dependent on his spacesuit. Life was too fragile.

  “Parker, let’s get this over with,” he said.

  The two men hooked the tethering rope first to each other’s belts and then to the transport table they used to carry parts and tools. Their space suits had integrated propulsion systems. Tethering was just a precaution.

  After the airlock opened, they lifted from the floor as AG disengaged. Alvarez always ate lightly on days he expected to do a spacewalk. But today’s walk was a surprise, and he was suffering the consequences of a full stomach.

  “Are you okay, John?”

  “Yeah, I’ll make it,” he said gripping the transport table between them. The table was a commonplace but indispensable tool. It held the new combustion chamber which was bulky, a bit too large for the table. It was pinned with tie-downs, which were only necessary sans gravity.

  “These wheels aren’t doing us any good,” Alvarez said. He punched buttons on the table’s control screen. Tiny jets burned blue from various ports until it balanced itself. Both men held to handles on each end.

  “Are you over there, Parker?”

  “I’m here.”

  Although they faced each other, the massive combustion chamber blocked their view.


  “Hang on. I’m taking us out,” Alvarez said.

  They exited the bay and turned a corner, rounding the belly of the ship. Alvarez looked for the probe but couldn’t locate it. He wondered what Brennen had found.

  He pushed the table’s propulsion speed to the maximum, but the built-in governor kept them at a snail’s pace.

  Parker said, “Here it comes.”

  Alvarez peeked around the combustion chamber. He watched as they came to a small hatch at the base of what looked like rockets. These structures were an ironic reality of interstellar travel; their behemoth size belied their importance. They were thrusters used for traveling short distances at sub-IST speeds.

  The much smaller warp field generator was responsible for IST. It was powered by electricity and responded logarithmically by the square of the power delivered to it. At slow speeds and short distances, the warp field generator was an inefficient means of transport. But with a large power source, a fusion reactor, the stars were within mankind’s reach.

  Parker released the transport table and grabbed the rail on the hull’s exterior. He connected their tether to the rail. After disengaging safety locks, Parker spun the massive wheel, opening the service hatch.

  Alvarez pulled himself down the rail, hand over hand, until he could see over Parker’s shoulder. Inside the hatch was the reactor core, combustion chamber, and the disengaged energy-transfer coupling.

  “Remind me why we can’t do this from within the ship,” Alvarez said.

  “It was an after-thought. Novos demanded such stringent parameters for the Constance, there was little room for service shafts. I painted myself into a corner. The only solution I could come up with, other than scrapping the entire design and starting over, was to make this part of the ship accessible from the exterior.”

  “But York disengaged the power coupling from inside,” Alvarez said.

  “Right. That’s a vestigial design element. Originally, I intended to have the whole compartment serviceable from within. Now that I think of it, we’re pretty lucky I left it this way.”