Space Force: Building The Legacy
Page 10
“Sorry to have to do this. We can’t keep you on the main flight programmes. The press… well they’re taking up too much of our time. And the politicians have woken up to it. They’re our paymasters, so….”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know. You’re a damn good engineer and you made the right call, but we’re dealing with stupidity.”
My brain won’t function, won’t accept what he says. I need to thump something hard, but don’t have the energy. The pressure is too much. “What now?” I croak.
“Design department. There we can be seen to check your work, not that we need to.”
A final betrayal by the Space Force. My thoughts mush up into white noise. I could not take any more and took the rest of the week off. I play with my magneto, randomly, lacking interest and trying to work out what future I had, if any. If only I had my own strong force to counter….
Another light bulb moment. There is a super-strong short-distance force interacting with normal forces, acting like a kind of super-glue or friction-eradicator depending on configuration. This was the physics I had instinctively relied on during Abe’s unsuccessful rescue.
Myriads of possibilities open up, all with one aim. I want my legs’ harness more than ever and can now see a way of doing it.
The Space Force gives me such simple jobs that they leave me with thinking power for its development work. Three months on, when I have designed basic swarm commands to go from sliver to sliver, Brett visits my condo.
“You’re too quiet,” he opens my door. “What’re you up to?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and boring jobs don’t mix, and yet here you are, doing them without complaint. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve given up. The Space Force has brought me nothing but misery.” I nod to my legs.
He narrows his eyes on me. “I don’t believe you.”
I look away to my magneto. He follows my gaze to the jostling slivers. “How did you do that?”
Neither lies nor evasions will work on him, no choice but to tell him. He listens, and then plays with the magneto. After that he comes once a week to act as a sounding board for my ideas. By Christmas, I have my harness.
“What’re you going to do with your invention?” Brett asks after I have triumphantly walked the length of my condo.
I hesitate.
“You’re not going to keep it to yourself, are you?”
“Why not? The Space Force hates my guts and begrudgingly pays my wages to stay out of their hair.”
“What about other invalids?”
“Is that what you think of me? An invalid? Get out and stay out.”
After a few seconds of stillness, he leaves without a backward glance.
Not much left in my life. I stroke my spacesuit lovingly, dreaming of escape from Earth and all its misery. With nothing else to do and no friends to occupy my time, I sluggishly start designing and building my magnetic bridge to space, a long shot, in both senses.
I replace the slivers with magnetic gas. I swap the motor mechanism from thrusting efflux out back to a pair of caterpillar treads turning round a set of balls, much like a tank treads, which incidentally solved the problem of replenishing the gas. I beg, borrow and re-engineer routines to command the gas to counter the vagaries of the weather and solar flares.
Experiments in my condo are of necessity limited, no real flying space to talk of. Having kept the success of my legs’ braces a secret, I walk out of my condo with my hood down, carrying a holdall with what looked like my surfboard. I notice a reporter at the street corner. I walk right passed him. He keeps looking at window of my condo. I grin. My disguise works.
I slip into an abandoned warehouse and ready my surfboard. It floats three centimetres off the ground, gleaming in the moonlight flooding through the windows. I stand on it and order it to move slowly forward. It takes ten minutes to travel the whole length of the warehouse. I punch the air with a yelp of triumph. Successful faster experiments follow. I include swerves, turns and twists. In one crazy moment of ecstasy, I try for a vertical loop like stunt aircraft do at air shows.
I fall off and slide along the concrete floor until I stop. The pain of the bumps doesn’t bother me. I’m giddy with the success. I sit up to check my legs’ harness: thinner, but intact. For once, things are going my way. I laugh. It is late. Time to go.
More experiments and improvements, like locks to keep my feet attached to the surfboard, follow in other out of the way places.
Work-life plods on in Houston’s lab. Half-listening to the latest Space Station 2 chitchat, I pick out: “Houston, we have a problem.”
“What is it?” George replies.
“Cressida’s spacesuit thrusters triggered and sent her away from our space station. She hadn’t hooked up her safety line properly and Jasmine’s out of range to fetch her.”
“We’ll look at possible intercepts to catch her.”
I latch into the net to check her predicted trajectory; an accelerating fall to Earth making burn-up inevitable: no intercepts possible. She is a dead spacewoman floating. Good riddance.
But nobody deserves to die that way, no matter how badly they treated others. And my surfboard and spacesuit had been ready for months, waiting for me to get up my nerve to fly space-side. Now I have a good reason.
I scoot back to my flat, stash a load of cash in my back pocket, put on my legs’ harness and spacesuit, and take the lift up to the roof of my tower block with my surfboard. An internet check shows still no miracle rescue available.
I program in an intercept trajectory and hit the magnetic gas release. A white cloud, sparkling with silver, engulfs my feet to take on a surfboard shape. I rise into the clear blue sky with its noonday Sun and navigate using the geography below.
“We’ve got a UFO,” George says, “heading towards Cressida.”
“Get an ident on it,” the Chief Engineer orders.
“Don’t bother,” I intervene.
“Who is this?”
They have truly forgotten me. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it hurts. “Does it matter?”
“What’re your intentions?”
“Guess. Now if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”
The day’s blueness darkens as I rise through the jet stream. Brighter stars emerge, then dimmer ones. Ahead, a white speck grows into a patch.
“Cressida, I need you pull yourself into a ball,” I transmit.
“Who’re you?” The quake in her voice can’t be hidden.“Why?”
“Speed matching.”
“Cripes. That could make things worse.” She knows she will fall faster. Nevertheless, she curls up.
I kneel on my surfboard to gain extra stability as I hold out my hand. I don’t want to miss. I search her spacesuit for a handhold, but it has been designed to avoid being snagged.
“Let out your safety line to trail behind you,” I order.
A white thread snakes its way towards me. I snatch at it too early, but grab it the second time.
“Stay as a ball.” I haul her towards me and place her on an extended front end of my surfboard.
We start our descent, slower, but not slow enough.
“Where’re we going?” she asks.
“Down.”
“What about re-entry heating?” her voice trembles.
“You’ll see.”
Down we go, in silence, even the Space Force keeps off our comms. On the first hint of warmth in my suit, I flick the surfboard to form a cloud to envelop us. It reddens, protecting us from the heat while some of its gas sloughs off.
Cressida yelps.
“Keep steady,” I say. “It’s going to be alright.”
We return into the pea-soup atmosphere. There isn’t enough magnetic gas to land us both. We’re falling fast.
I get her to sit up, switch the surfboard’s pack from my suit to hers and program it to land on the beach in Los Angeles.
“Sit like that until you land.”
“What do you mean me?”
“I won’t be with you.”
She turns her head. “You…”
I jump off the surfboard high above the Pacific Ocean.
“No…” she screams.
“Keep going.” I doubt whether she hears me.
I drop, spread-eagled to increase my air-drag. The water comes up fast.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rosie Oliver has been in love with science fiction ever since she discovered a whole bookcase of yellow-covered Gollancz science fiction books in Chesterfield library. She was very disappointed when she read the last of those novels. Her only option then was to write science fiction. Which is what she did after gaining two Masters degrees in mathematics, and a career in aeronautical turned systems engineering. To help her along the way, she gained an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University. She has had nearly thirty science fiction stories published in magazines, anthologies and as standalone e-publications.
EDITOR’S NOTE
The personal cost of military service is often high, but there are privileges few others get to enjoy, sights no one else can comprehend. Is it enough? Most who serve would say, yes, it is.
ONE TIME, ONE NIGHT ON ALDRIN STATION
Brennen Hankins
“Morning, Sarge!”
Space Stargeant “Wild Bill” Grantham lifted his aching head from the side of his coffee mug and looked up at the young Spaceman First Class that had offered the greeting. It was way too damn early in the morning for that kind of enthusiasm.
“Morning, Padilla,” he said as he rested his head back against the steel of his mug, kept warm by the liquid nirvana inside. Stargeant Grantham didn’t know if it was actually helping his hangover or if he was just experiencing a placebo effect, but it seemed to make him feel better.
“What are we working on today?” Padilla asked. The kid had just come to Aldrin Station from technical training school, and in the three weeks he had been assigned to the 497th Space Engineering Squadron’s Electric Shop, his enthusiasm and cheeriness had not dampened once. At all. And he seemed to take a special liking to his crew lead.
By way of contrast, Stargeant Grantham had been stationed at Aldrin for the better part of eight years, the bulk of his military career. There had been a few deployments, to bases farther within the Milky Way, but other than that, he had remained within the confines on a base built on Titan. His grandfather had transferred to the then-new United States Space Force from the Air Force, also working as an electrician, and, some 80 years later, young William had followed.
There had been a time when he had shared Padilla’s enthusiasm for the job, but that joy and pride had worn down over the years, just like his body had. There had also been a time where he could spend a weekend drinking with the boys, and still manage to wake up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for work the following Monday.
Now, he was learning that may no longer be possible.
“We’ll find out during the morning meeting,” Stargeant Grantham said quietly, without looking up or taking his head off of the mug. God, his head hurt.
The rest of the shop personnel had filed into the break room. A few of them greeted Stargeant Grantham, who merely waved. Shortly after everyone had got themselves settled, the NCOIC walked in.
“Morning, everybody,” Technical Stargeant Watson said. “Hope everybody had a good weekend, but unfortunately, we’re going to be a little busy today. Intel says that the Kalanuskanites are on the move, and that the Fleet is ramping up activity. We got a Task Force coming in within a few days, along with a few battalions of Space Marines, and we’re going to have to make sure the spot the Star Marshall wants to stick them is ready to go.” He rifled through a large stack of work orders and passed them out to the various crew leaders.
“Delgadillo, take Schmaltz and Bohling, and head over to dorm 27. Make sure the outlets and lights are all working. Rush, take Poujade and Jancewicz, and do the same. Deconinck, Bay Three of Hanger 10 has a bunch of lights out. Take Ironhart, Gershon, and the grav lift, and get them all fixed. I think Base Supply just got a new shipment of light ballasts in.”
“You want me to head over there, too?” Grantham asked.
“No, I got a special job for you,” Stargeant Watson replied. “They’re finally getting around to installing a permanent power run on the plasma cannon in Zone Two. You have both a restricted area badge and you’re the only other non-commissioned officer in the shop. I’m letting you take point on this one.” Passing Grantham the work order, he said, “Spaceman Padilla’s clearance paperwork finally dropped. Head over to the Security Manager’s office, have him pick up his badge, and then take him over there with you.”
“Cool!” Padilla said. Stargeant Grantham just groaned.
“Well, if nobody has any questions, let’s get to work,” Stargeant Watson said.
****
“You alright, Sarge?”
Stargeant Grantham didn’t bother looking up from the conduit he was screwing to the wall. They were running three-phase power from a mech room on the back of the plasma cannon’s control tower, underground to the massive turret on which the cannon sat. Fortunately, the heavy equipment operators had already trenched through the rock under the loose, dingy soil, so they didn’t have to. All they had to do was lay the conduit that the power conductors would rest in, then fish the wires through. He was having to straddle the end of the trench so he could screw the tubing that would bring the circuit out of the ground in place, and it wasn’t doing his hip any favors.
“I’m fine,” Grantham said, getting the final metal clamp screwed to the wall, securing the riser to the wall. “That’s got it. Help me up.”
Working on the surface of Titan was always an experience. The moon of Saturn was dark, always dark, as the heavy atmosphere blocked out over ninety percent of the sun’s rays. This made conditions at Aldrin Station incredibly frigid. On top of that, the atmosphere was a mostly nitrogen-methane mix, compared to the nitrogen/oxygen-mix of Earth, so the atmosphere was completely unbreathable, without a mask. Within the confines of the American space fort, a conversion plant simultaneously burned the methane for energy and heat, and converted the remaining waste into breathable air.
So far, though, that atmosphere only existed inside the massive dome, which was made up of sandwiched layers of pyroceram and Lexan glass, that covered the bulk of the station. Numerous sections were compartmentalized within the dome for redundancy. Outside of that dome, though, existence was only possible with the aid of a conversion mask and a form-fitting heated power suit. Zone Two was a prime example of this.
Working in 92 degrees Kelvin sucked.
On the other hand, it was possible to see the icy dunes and the massive Kalanuskan ice volcano beyond the station once one was outside of the dome, as well as the colorful auroras created by radiation from the sun reacting with Titan’s atmosphere. The heaviness of the clouds, combined with the light output of the base within the dome, prevented its residents from seeing any farther than a quarter of a mile outside of it. Consequently, none of the scenery beyond was visible. To Stargeant Grantham, the view reminded him heavily of the area around the little town in central Alaska he had grown up in, and thus, getting to see it was worth the hassle. It was one of the few perks of his job he still appreciated.
Spaceman Padilla helped Grantham to his feet, and the NCO let out a grunt as he stood up. He leaned against the control tower, favoring his leg.
“You alright, Sarge?” Padilla asked again.
“Yeah,” Grantham groaned, rubbing his hip. “Old war injury. Give me a minute.” After a few moments, he puffed out a breath, then stood up straight. “I’m good. Round that stuff up for me,
would you?”
“Sure thing, Sarge,” Padilla said, putting the tool kit back together. Picking it up, he asked, “What do you mean, ‘old war injury?’”
“The Kalanuskan War,” Grantham replied, nonchalantly.
“You were here for that?” Padilla’s eyes went wide.
“Happened a year after I got here,” Grantham said. “Back then, this base was just a tiny outpost. Still is, compared to Armstrong Station, or any of the Space Ports back home, but back then, we didn’t even have the dome built. We had to stay in suits, virtually 24/7.”
“What happened? During the war, I mean,” Padilla asked.
Grantham let out a sigh. “Kalanuskanites didn’t like us here,” he began. “At the time, we had no idea there was life on this little rock; just that it was the closest thing to Earth, other than Mars, that was remotely close to habitable. We set about to build a base of operations for people looking to settle out here, and the folks trying to push out to points further in the solar system. The Kalanuskanites let us know we were invading their territory—the hard way.”
“And that was when you hurt yourself?”
Grantham looked down at his right leg. “We sped off in a hovercraft to repair a breach in the security wall around the original camp.” He raised his head, and Padilla watched him continue with a far-away look in his eyes. “The Kalanuskanites had a grav gun. They fired it off, and when that round struck sand, it tripled the gravity in a 50 foot radius, right in front of us.” His eyes focused, and settled back on Padilla. “We’d just thought they missed. But then the nose of the hovercraft hit that gravity well, we hit dirt and flipped ass over tea kettle. Killed the driver and two passengers, and I was left pretty messed up afterward. I was on crutches for about five months after the fact. Lost some good people in that battle.”