Space Force: Building The Legacy

by Doug Irvin (Editor)

  ​“Just can’t get my head round all those complicated spacesuit repairs. Carter’s lectures are getting all mumbo-jumbo on me.”

  ​I had similar problems with his theory-of-orbits’ lectures. “Do you know why so few people get on the training course?”

  ​She blinks astonishment at me. “It’s because there’s so few missions.”

  ​“And?”

  ​She shakes her head, bewilderment covering her face.

  ​“They don’t want to waste the taxpayer’s money. They only pick those they know who’ll pass. That means you. You go back to your condo, dig out your course notes, and read and learn. If that doesn’t do the job, search the internet for the areas you’re stuck on. You’re bound to find the answer.”

  ​“But—”

  ​“Go, now.” I point to the door.

  ​She glances at our origami figures. “You’re right. You’re always right.” She stands.

  ​“Thanks for the pep talk.”

  ​“Just one question before you go. How’s Cressida doing?”

  ​“I … I don’t really know. You’d have to ask her.”

  ​Jasmine leaves, but her evasive reply makes me grab my laptop. Facebook is the first stop. A new photo of her with Abe Kenyon, who replaced me as the cohort’s lead astronaut, is front and centre. Their closeness is obvious. I throw the laptop at the wall and scream until a rushed-in sedative takes hold.

  ​Despond takes over. I mope and moan from one second to the next morning. Days of blackness merge into months of misery. I am passed from one counsellor to another psychiatrist. My need is beyond their skills. The hopelessness leaves me tired and too weak-willed to even think about committing suicide.

  ​I get dragged off to the counsellor of last resort, Brett Sanger. He asks questions. I ignore him. He asks more questions. I grunt. He goes off and brings back coffee for us. He takes one sip and then fires even more questions, bap, bap, bap. I answer one with a simple: “Yes.” He sits back.

  ​“We can go on like this if you want, but I’ll only get off your back if you tell me your story.”

  ​I look straight into the eyes, cold blue. A slight crinkling of his crow’s feet betrays he has sensed a breakthrough. The bastard is not going to give up. So I give in and blurt out my history. He sits in silence, taking it all in.

  ​I return to my hospital room, strangely relieved and sleep deep and long.

  ​The nurses do not need to cajole me to go the next session. I wheel into the consultation room five minutes early. Brett is playing with the in-vogue toy, a magneto. All its slivers are tucked in their box, except one, a red diamond. He is manipulating the plate’s magnetic field to try to keep it floating in one position. That sliver keeps on being thrown onto his desk.

  ​After the fifth fling, he holds it up. “This is you, Mike, the one who wants to be back at Houston, but has no support. It needs other slivers to prop it up. Like it, you need help.”

  ​“Go back into the Space Force? You crazy?”

  ​“It’s what you want. No, it’s more than that. You’re addicted to its dreams of exploration and adventure, and since your accident, you’ve been going cold turkey on them.”

  ​He must be nuts. Then it sinks in. He is right. I have pushed anything to do with space out of my life, even the one person who showed me some kindness, Jasmine.

  ​“What the hell can I do for them? They work at the edge of space and tech, both of which I have no qualifications for, damn it.” I thump my wheelchair’s armrest.

  ​“That’s what they let you think. You have to be self-sufficient up there. Down here, the reality’s not like that.”

  ​A frown scrunches up my face. “How can it be?”

  ​“The how doesn’t matter. It’s the what you need to concentrate on.”

  ​I wanted to punch him, but the table between us keeps him out of reach. “There’s nothing for me there.”

  ​“Isn’t there? Think again. I’ve e-mailed you a list of your options. Now, let’s see what we do with this toy.” He tips the other slivers onto the plate.

  ​“I didn’t know I had any. Aren’t we going to talk about them?”

  ​“No. If you’re interested, you’ll read the file. Any ideas how we can build the Eiffel Tower?”

  ​“How the heck should I know? I’m not an engineer.”

  ​Brett switches his screen to the tower’s image rising out of the forest. “Neither am I, but I can copy pictures.” His grin is worse than a Cheshire cat’s as he bulldozes the slivers to form a square. “Aren’t you going to help me? Divide your side into two corner piles.”

  ​Too stunned at his idiocy, I comply. We play like kids. I leave, feeling happy enough to go home to read Brett’s file. My options boil down to years of training in a specialism, or being farmed around from one dross-job to another charity-job. I cry long into the night.

  ​At our fourth play session, while building the lower parts of the tower’s legs, I announce: “I’ve put in for a control theory degree at MIT.”

  ​“I know. I’ve already written the reference and recommendation for the Space Force to sponsor you.”

  ​“How could you have known?”

  ​“Trojaned the file I sent.”

  ​“That’s illegal.”

  ​“Yep. But it got results. You going to tell?” His laser-blue eyes drill into me. His face tells me I am a deadbeat. I hate him for babysitting me.

  ​“Damn it, no. I’m taking that course.” A smile of quiet pride crosses his face. Then he eyes the embryonic Eiffel Tower. “How’re we going to stretch a platform across those legs?”

  ​We finish the tower in our last session before I go to MIT. As I leave, I catch a glint of the red diamond sliver doing a rhythmic victory dance just above its topmost point. His deviousness has been one step ahead of me all this time. I am too content to deny him his moment of self-glory. I smile.

  ​When I reach my student dorm, a new magneto sits on my desk. The message label reads: ‘Any idea how to build the leaning tower of Pisa?’

  ​“You got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

  ​“Where do you want me to put this, sir?” The porter wheels in the case containing my old spacesuit.

  ​Being 3-D printed for my physique the Space Force had no use for it. I kept it, hoping the doctors would eventually cure my paralysis. When that hope faded, I hadn’t got round to disposing of it. I brought it along to practise my nascent engineering skills on. “My workroom, please.”

  ​My mind is back to getting the angle of the leaning tower right. While the porter brings in the rest of my luggage, I throw ideas round, tinker and experiment on the magneto. Late into the night I video the results to Brett and slump into bed, leaving my cases unpacked.

  ​A message from Brett awaits me in the morning. “I’m allowing you only one hour Skype time a month for discussing your magneto models. You’re there to learn.”

  ​Older and slower to pick up things than other students, I have to concentrate really hard. There is never enough time. I struggle, working long hours, ending up with sore eyes and aching hands from too much typing. But learn I did.

  ​Six months into the course, Jayne and Marla sidle up to me to ask for answers to some tutorial questions. Flattered, I help out. They invite me to parties my wheelchair can cope with. My contribution increases each week, until I’m preparing drafts for their whole assignments. At one disco they decide to whoop it up around town, leaving me at the bottom of some steps I can’t climb.

  ​I’d been taken for a sucker: they have fun while I brain-sweat their coursework. Dazed by how stupid I’d been, I place my head in my hands, wondering what I could have done differently and how to get revenge on those bitches. I always come back to same answer: I don’t have time for revenge, not if I want to complete my course. I stay there, stupefied, until the cold makes me shiver so much that I have to take notice.

  ​I return to my dorm and twiddle with the current
project on the magneto, the Golden Gate Bridge. Stabilising its middle span over the plate is proving very difficult. I try sensible things, silly ideas and one-off what-ifs. The result is always a messy sprawl.

  ​Light creeps past the blinds to announce dawn. Exasperated, I throw the slivers over the plate. They spin, jostle and tumble to form a surfboard. The shape holds; only it doesn’t. The slivers dance with a restless energy confined to the board’s shape.

  ​Its long stretch is what I need for the bridge’s span. The shape and tilt angle are wrong, so I drop my fingers onto the magnetic field controls. And freeze.

  ​I don’t know where to start, what to do or anything. One wrong move, I will destroy the surfboard without knowing how to rebuild it. I record a video and magnetic field measurements from every angle I can.

  ​“When are you going to eat?” Brett says over Skype.

  I let him see my magneto.

  ​“When did you learn to break into other viewers?”

  ​“You going to tell on me?” His eyes focus on the surfboard. “How?”

  ​“I don’t know.”

  ​“Tell me ALL about it.”

  ​At the end of my spiel, he orders me to leave the magneto alone, eat and get some sleep. No telling me off for being stupid, no making plans to sort my life out, just some common sense.

  ​Class next day starts with an announcement: Jayne and Marla had been expelled for plagiarism. Everyone eyes me. I keep my face stone-like, but wish I could crawl out of that room. If only I can make an invisible harness to move my legs. Instead, I stroke the wheelchair’s controls, wanting to hide away and work on that Golden Gate magneto surfboard.

  ​Light bulb moment, a gloriously detailed one. I scribble notes capturing every nuance of the whole mad concept. Except the more I write, the less crazy it becomes.

  ​“Why all the writing?” I hadn’t noticed the other students leave or the lecturer, Isabel Mortimer walk up.

  ​I stare at my scrawls. “Hope over experience.”

  ​“That’s deep. What you’re trying to do?”

  ​“Um… Trying to modify the design of a magneto to produce a harness, so I can walk.”

  ​“Right.” She frowns. “It needs loads of precision control and a deep knowledge of electromagnetism, not to mention miniaturisation tech. Where are you going to start?”

  ​I show her the video of the surfboard. “Finding out why this is stable.”

  ​She replays it several times. “There’s more than just closed-loop dynamics keeping it stable. A kind of dynamic equivalent to carbon’s super-stable nano-tube forms. I don’t know what you’ve got here, but I want to help.”

  ​I work even harder. The three of us have great fun learning how to build quasi-stable magneto structures, but we never discover how to control the change from one to another. We come to a dead-end. My hopes of walking again are dashed against the shores of inexplicability.

  ​At the end of my course I’m still stuck in my wheelchair, although I have upgraded it with ‘a few engineering features’ such as being able to turn tighter corners. Deep disappointment is pushed away by other concerns. Obtaining a first class degree means the Space Force takes me back at Houston like a shot, this time to maintain electromagnetic controls on spacecraft.

  ​I am on tech-watch for the Strider Ten shuttle to Space Station Three when Captain Abe Kenyon calls.

  ​“Houston, we have a problem.”

  ​I scan and double-check readouts: a lot are flat-lining.

  ​“What’s the issue, Abe?” Vicky replies.

  ​“Get more sensors and telescopes on Strider Ten,” the Chief Engineer orders.

  ​“We’re getting into our spacesuits,” Abe says. “Lost main power and oxygen. We’re looking at a half dead control board.”

  ​Pictures come through from La Palma of their capsule among a bubble of debris. The cause will be for a later enquiry. I concentrate on working out what they can do.

  ​“We’re looking at options, Abe,” Vicky adds.

  ​A message flicked onto our screens. ‘No rescue option available from Space Force. British Spaceways Skylon 27 being prepared to fly. ETA –five hours from now.’

  ​“What controls do you still have?” I intervene.

  ​“Lights keep going off, so not sure,” Abe replies. The screen shows his head snap up to stare out of the window. “We’re in real trouble. Part of our wing’s floating forward.”

  ​“We need to get you clear of the debris. The Skylon won’t come near you otherwise.”

  ​“Nice to know there’s a rescue party on the way. Our last thruster control light just died.”

  ​Climbing out of their capsule and pushing their way to freedom is not an option; my readout shows their door is jammed shut. The wing glints in the sunlight.

  ​Light bulb moment.

  ​“Someone get a holograph up of that debris.” I nod towards the holo-plate sitting in the room’s centre. “Get me all the magnetic measurements you can.”

  ​The Chief Engineer glances at me then round the other engineering consoles, as if mentally ticking them through his mind. “Might just be crazy enough to work,” as if he has read my mind. “Those not directly involved, keep looking for other options.” Then quietly to me: “Let me know what you need.”

  ​Pieces are added and when the info becomes available, coloured to show their polarity and magnetic strength. Too slowly, the holograph grows more like a magneto, except the pieces are more varied and scattered. My instinctive pattern recognition kicks in. I see the chance to tunnel their way out of the carnage by switching the capsule’s magnetic field on and off to repel or attract other magnetisable bits floating around up there. But the timings have to be right.

  ​“Abe, no time for explanations, just do what I say.”

  ​“Ready when you are,” his hoarse voice sounds calm.

  ​“On my mark, switch all the electrics off on your capsule’s port side. Three, two, one, now.”

  ​His cabin briefly darkens while our screens adjust to the new lighting. More importantly, it induces a magnetic field in metal and carbon debris, which sets small bits tumbling. They coalesce into a roiling clump, trapping some non-magnetic material.

  ​I gawp at the real time holograph. Something clicks in my brain about how to control the dynamics. A miracle.

  ​“Mike?” the Chief Engineer asks quietly.

  ​I glance at the wall clock. “Another fifty-three seconds.”

  ​He nods.

  ​I turn back to Abe. “On my mark switch the left side electrics back on. Three, two, one, now.”

  ​The clump shivers as its bits adjusted relative positions. It accelerates away from the capsule.

  ​“It’s working. Keep your nerves,” the Chief Engineer says.

  ​“What is?” Abe asks.

  ​“Clearing a path through debris. The Skylon’ll be able to pull you through the tunnel we’re making in the debris.”

  ​I watch for an eternity, praying, as the tunnel extends. The elegant shape of the Skylon pokes its way onto the holograph. The tunnel is not wide enough.

  ​“We need another one of those switches and you’re in the clear,” I say.

  ​A memory of Brett saying make it two when working on surfboard flashes through my mind. I check my analysis. Damn it, I had nearly missed it.

  ​“Grappling hooks ready to throw on your say so,” the Skylon’s Captain says.

  ​“All electrics bar comms off. Three, two, one, now.”

  ​The screens go dark except for an eerie green glow. I check the holograph. The debris starts falling away from the tunnel’s edges.

  ​“Looks like we’re clear,” Abe said.

  ​“Not quite,” I reply. “Switch all your electrics back on. Three, two, one, now.”

  ​It is enough. The interactions between the big bits had weakened so much that they would not close back into the tunnel.

  ​“You’ll be cl
ear in ten minutes. You’ve got about an hour to get out of there.” I nod to the Chief Engineer, sit back and close my eyes.

  ​“Houston, I’m going to do another switch to make sure we have some leeway.”

  ​“No.” I shout.

  ​The cabin darkens. A panel floating behind the capsule is in the wrong part of its spin. It attracts some shards towards the capsule’s tail-plane segment to cut into some wiring. The cabin still has enough oxygen for the electrics to send out a shower of sparks. Too many find materials to ignite, which fuels an out-of-control fire. The Chief Engineer cuts the comms when there is clearly no hope.

  ​The Chief Engineer squeezes my shoulder. “You did all you could.”

  ​We glumly emerge from the control room, where members from my astronaut cohort console Abe’s wife, Cressida.

  ​“You bastard. You let him die.” She frees herself from Richard’s grip to punch me viciously.

  ​Three people have to pull her off me and hold her down. News cameras catch it all, including that damning accusation.

  ​Nightmare days follow. So does the accident investigation. Idiot newshounds pester me, asking how much truth was in Cressida’s accusations. Those events repeat over and over in my mind.

  ​Brett visits my condo more often, trying to pull me out of my deep pool of guilt. “Every innocent feels guilty when faced with a disaster like this. It’s not your fault. You came up with something when there were no options left.” Comforting words, whose effect lasts all of a second, maybe two on good days, before I’m back in misery land.

  ​Journalists have questions, questions, questions. I can’t answer them. The one that really gnaws at me is: “How had I got the clearing mechanism so right?”

  ​Hiding from the ghastly demanding public, I sink myself into learning more about magnetic effects and experiment with my magneto. This is the only way I get any peace.

  ​The Accident Board exonerates me, pointing out that Abe had done that last switch off his own bat. Relief is short-lived: Cressida brings a civil suit against me for murder. I can’t believe it. The press yowls for my blood. I end up back on sedatives.

  ​The Judge takes one look at the evidence and throws the case out. The press won’t let go. They keep on searching for so-called evidence to get me back into court. Their questions, repeats of what they asked before, never stop. I must answer them politely and patiently: the Space Force insists on this, to stop any bad publicity. I get tired and, silently, very angry. My boss calls me into his office.