by B. C. CHASE
“That’s too bad,” I say.
“It’s a damned nightmare,” Commander Sykes says, shaking his head. “If anything, you’d think NASA could have sent us up with some carbon dioxide scrubbers that actually work.”
“It would have been a nice touch,” I say. The CDRAs or Carbon Dioxide Removal Assemblies have been malfunctioning almost weekly since we left Earth. They have been such a drain on our time, that everyone, including me, has been pressed into service to repair them.
“I’m sorry to be so negative,” Commander Sykes says. “It’s just one of the things I harped on the most after the yearlong mission. I told them we couldn’t think of a mission to Mars without a functional CO2 system. But here we are, on the way to Pluto, and we can’t even breathe.”
“You’d think that would have been priority numero uno,” I agree.
“The horticulture was supposed to help, but it wasn’t enough to replace them, apparently. I don’t think there’s enough air circulation.” Glancing at the SPHERES that are floating nearby, watching us, Commander Sykes says, “I guess that’s one good thing we can say about Commander Tomlinson. He stays on top of the CDRAs.”
“Yes, he does,” I say. “He doesn’t want any headaches either.”
To my surprise, Commander Sykes then moves over to the SPHERES and, grasping each of them by the sides, switches them off. He then sets them adrift away from us. Lowering his voice, he says, “Commander Tomlinson put your life in jeopardy for petty insubordination. He has been making unacceptably risky decisions and put the lives of the crew in danger. He is unfit and must be removed from command. Do you agree?”
I am shocked at his abrupt declaration. But not shocked enough to fail to respond. “Yes,” I confirm. “Wholeheartedly.”
“We can’t afford any distractions until after we pass Jupiter, so I will wait until then. I will need to confer with the rest of the crew to gain consensus. Shelby will have an issue with it, I am sure. Katia is furious about what he did to you, so she won’t be an obstacle. Tim is distracted with whatever is going on between he and Nari. I sense that Shiro will be on our side, but Nari is squarely in Commander Tomlinson’s court. Shelby can disqualify him for a medical reason, of course, but the simple fact of the matter is that if the majority of the crew refuse his orders, he will no longer be commander. I am the only other commander onboard, so I will be his replacement.”
“You have my vote, that’s for dang sure,” I say. “What is the plan if things don’t go smoothly?”
“If we don’t have the support, it won’t happen. It’s as simple as that.”
“Aren’t you concerned about what Commander Tomlinson will do even if we are successful?”
Bluntly, Commander Sykes says, “I think he tried to kill me before. He’ll probably try again. I have my eyes wide open.”
Twenty-eight
It’s Thanksgiving. We are gathered around a meal of freeze-dried turkey, fresh mashed potatoes (a little tasteless without butter, but we did get some milk powder to add), beans, corn, honey, and a salad of leafy greens with fresh peppers and tomatoes. Oh, there are radishes, too, but everyone except me tends to think of them as medicine.
On the whole, not too bad for a Thanksgiving celebration in deep space. Of our crew, only half are Americans, but it’s nice to celebrate any holiday when life becomes as monotonous as it does in this station.
I have much to be thankful for, that’s the truth. Shelby has given me permission to remove my cast. My arm is healed, but she’s telling me to be careful because she doesn’t know if it will ever be as strong as it should be. Space is tough on bones—especially healing bones.
I had forgotten how handy it is to have two arms and two hands. I’m so excited, I think I’ll start a space juggling club. No? A space synchronized floating club?
For the first time since the mission began, we all seem to have hit our stride. We no longer wish for home as we used to. It is like a distant memory now. Our place is among the planets and the stars. We are conquerors of the great unknown, sure of ourselves and our home, the International Space Station. We have no necessity to communicate with Earth. We don’t need them. We have done it all ourselves, and we journey on towards Jupiter with pride and confidence.
Jupiter is bright and beckoning, about the size of a pea held at arm’s length. The bright dots of its many moons surround it like a flock of worshipers. Above it, just to the right, is the orange dot of Saturn, an evil eye watching from the distance.
Shelby suggests it would be a good idea for each of us to share something we’re thankful for before we eat. Just as we’re about to start, a persistent, though not loud, beep sounds.
Commander Sykes says, “I’ll go see what that is.” He doesn’t seem concerned as he kicks off for the exit of the habitation module.
I say, “I’m thankful for food. Now let us eat some lettuce.”
Shelby says, “You’re right, though. I’m thankful for fresh fruits and vegetables. These are nice, but being 851 million kilometers from Earth makes you appreciate everything we’ve got on Earth.” She nods to Tim, “Your turn.”
Tim says, “I’m thankful for—” but stops as he appears to be overcome by emotion that he tries to fight. He tries to meet Nari’s eyes, but she avoids his gaze. Regaining his composure, he says, “I’m thankful for family. I mean where would you be without your family, right?”
Needless to say, Tim’s behavior leaves me (and probably everyone else) a bit uneasy. He and Nari are keeping something from us, that much is obvious. I can tell by the look on his face that his secret is really, really bad. But what in the world—I mean what in the universe—could cause him to be that shaken up? Nari doesn’t seem worried about it at all. In fact, her eyes are aloof with a kind of superiority—and a distinct indifference to his distress.
“So, Jim,” says Commander Tomlinson, stuffing his mouth with greens and looking squarely at me. “Why did you and Eric switch off the SPHERES?”
I stare at him like a bull stares at a matador as I say, “We weren’t making a suicide pact, if that’s what you’re wondering. That’s why you said you wanted the SPHERES turned on, isn’t it? To make sure nobody was killing themselves?”
Suddenly, Commander Sykes floats into the module and announces, “It’s a CMG.”
∆v∆v∆v∆v∆
There’s nothing much worse for a man than to have his gyroscopes quit on him. Unfortunately, that’s what’s happened to our space station. The Control Moment Gyroscopes are nifty gadgets that spin at 6,600 rpm to maintain our attitude. (Oddly, spinning disks are resistant to changing the direction they’re pointing, and that’s how they keep our station pointed in the direction we want to point.) One of them, number four to be exact, has failed. We can do okay with only three, but if another one were to go out on us, we’re beat.
We all hover over a laptop where three graphs are displayed:
Commander Sykes explains, “You can see the accelerometer spike up to over .4 g’s. That’s what caused the automatic shutoff. But look,” he points to the top chart, “The accelerometer registered over .2 g’s twenty-two days ago. The problem has been brewing for at least that long.” He pulls up another set of charts, “This is gyro number three. Look at the accelerometer.”
“Today, it jumped to .2 g’s and the temperature popped up to 27.12 degrees just like number one did before. We’ve already lost number one and the failure of number three is probably imminent. We have to replace them both ASAP.”
Commander Tomlinson says, “Agreed, but I don’t want any of my people out there when we’re anywhere within five million kilometers of Jupiter. The risk is too high. And the accelerometer and temperature spikes on number three could very well be caused by the failure of number one. We can’t take it as an absolute indicator of future failure. Let’s replace them after we’re well past Jupiter.”
Commander Sykes counters, “If number three goes out, we won’t be able to align properly for the Oberth maneuve
r. The main engine could shoot us straight into Jupiter’s atmosphere.”
“According to this timeline, we have twenty-two days before number three fails,” says Commander Tomlinson. He turns to Tim, “How far away would we be from Jupiter by then?”
Tim asks, “Assuming everything goes according to plan at Jupiter?”
“Yes, assuming that.”
“Let’s see,” Tim says, and performs some mental math that I’m sure I’d have trouble doing with a calculator. As he thinks, his eyes grow distant as if his body has devoted all of its resources to his brain. After a moment, his conscious face returns and he says, “We’d be thirteen days out from Jupiter and our distance would be about 4,972,916 kilometers.”
“About,” smiles Katia.
Tim sheepishly grins back.
Commander Tomlinson states, “That gives us time to swing past Jupiter and then perform the maintenance when the danger is good and gone.”
“Yes, but what if it fails before we get to Jupiter? I’m with Eric on this one,” says Tim. “We need to replace them now.”
“Absolutely not. We’re only three million kilometers from Jupiter. The risk from the belts is real.”
Tim protests, “But if number three goes out while we’re passing Jupiter, we couldn’t possibly send someone for an EVA in that!”
Commander Tomlinson says, “I’m not sending anyone out now. End of discussion.”
After everyone starts to go their own ways, I ask Commander Sykes, “What risk are they talking about? Why doesn’t anyone what to do a spacewalk at Jupiter?”
Commander Sykes gives me an odd look, pensive and kind of sad before he says, “Jupiter is extremely dangerous for spaceships and people alike. Commander Tomlinson is making a mistake. We should replace the gyros now before we get too close.”
I’m still wondering what it is that makes Jupiter so dangerous, but Commander Sykes doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to entertain more questions from ill-informed astronauts like myself, so I keep my ignorance close to my chest. I feel like a lot of my time here has been spent following the good old proverb, “Better to stay silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”
∆v∆v∆v∆v∆
It is December 4th. Tomorrow we will pass Jupiter. At closest approach, we will be about 350,000 kilometers away from Jupiter (by comparison, the average distance from Earth to the moon is about 380,000 kilometers. Jupiter is forty times wider than the moon, though, so it will be kind of “in your face” from that distance.) Right now, though, it is about the size of a grape held at arm’s length. We can see the orange and white cloud bands across its surface in greater detail than anyone ever has. We are all staring out the windows in awe. Even at this distance, Jupiter’s impressive size is apparent.
“Alright,” Commander Tomlinson says, disrupting our reverie. “Time to get back to work.”
Nobody moves. “Back to work,” Commander Tomlinson insists.
With her jaw clenched, Shelby says, “I haven’t come 864 million kilometers to Jupiter so I can do chores. I’m going to look out the window for one damn minute.” He’s finally pushed even Shelby’s patience over the limit, I think.
Before Commander Tomlinson can respond, an alarm sounds. Commander Sykes says, “I’ll find out what it is.”
It takes only a moment before he returns and says matter-of-factly, “The number three gyro has gone out. I have to do an EVA to replace it.”
There is a pause as they stare at him as if they have just been punched in their guts. I’m not sure why they’re looking at him like that. But I know that if they are, it’s not good. Finally, Katia expresses what they are all feeling, “But you can’t! The radiation belts! It will kill you!”
“If the engine fires and we’re pointed the wrong way, we’ll all die,” says Commander Sykes. “It has to be done. If I start now I’ll have just enough time for a campout.”
“Certain death if we don’t and almost certain death if you do,” says Shiro. “Good odds.”
“Shiro!” chastises Shelby.
Shiro shrugs, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Isn’t a CMG replacement a two-person job?” asks Tim.
Commander Sykes says, “It’s possible to do it solo.”
“I can do it,” volunteers Shiro.
Commander Sykes shakes his head, “I’ve dealt with these on the station before. I’m the most qualified person for this job.”
“But you have a family,” protests Shiro. “I don’t.” I find this surprising, coming from Shiro. I didn’t realize that he, well, had a heart.
Commander Sykes looks up and stares Shiro right in the eyes, “My family has done pretty well without me on all my other missions. They’ll do okay without me this time, too. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to be on this mission in the first place. I am the only logical choice.”
“I agree,” says Commander Tomlinson. “You are the only logical choice.”
Before Commander Sykes goes into the airlock for a campout, he takes me aside, “Everyone on this team trusts you. You know what we have discussed with regard to Commander Tomlinson?”
“Yes, I know.”
“I am planning to get the ball rolling when I’m out there. I’ll count on you to keep it rolling in here.”
I nod, “It will be my pleasure.”
“If I don’t make it, Tim will be our new commander.”
“Gotcha. Do you think your chances are really that bad?”
He nods grimly.
While Commander Sykes is camping in the airlock, Shelby, Shiro, Katia, Tim, and I gather to discuss the nasty predicament we’re in. Nari and Commander Tomlinson are sleeping.
“If he goes out there, Jupiter’s radiation will kill him,” Shelby says. “It will only be a matter of time. The radiation rate is about 30 Sieverts a day. His chances of death within seven days are 100% at that level of exposure.”
“But he won’t be exposed for a whole day,” says Tim.
“No, but radiation exposure is dangerous at any level and for any amount of time. He’ll be subjected to it long enough.”
Shiro asks, “Is it possible to shield his EMU?”
“The EMUs are already shielded for deep space EVAs. But not for the radiation from Jupiter. So aside from putting him in a titanium box,” Shelby responds, “not any way of which I am aware.”
Shiro proposes, “Could we use ice?”
“Sure,” says Shelby. “If it is four meters thick.”
Katia asks, “What about a magnetic field?”
They puzzle over this question for a few moments before concluding that they simply don’t have what they would need to make an effective field.
Shiro suggests, “Is it possible to alter the flightpath to avoid the radiation belts?”
Tim says, “Only if we flew by the north or south poles. But we can’t do that. We’d shoot off in the wrong direction and we’d miss our chance for acceleration.”
“Could I,” I ask, “take his place? I’m an old man. I’ve lived my life and I have no family left. It should be me.”
“You don’t have the training or experience,” says Tim. “Sending you out there would jeopardize the lives of all the crew and the success of the mission. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“This EVA must succeed,” observes Shiro. “If it doesn’t, the mission fails.”
Tim acknowledges, “Thank you, Shiro. I think we’re all painfully aware of that fact.” His eyes shift from astronaut to astronaut, reading their faces. He asks Shelby, “What are the chances that Commander Sykes won’t complete the task?”
“He’ll probably be feeling sick within two hours. At what point he becomes incapacitated, I don’t know. Hours.”
Tim says, “So it is a significant risk?”
“Yes. If he is unable to make it back in before closest approach, it will be a guarantee. Listen, he very well might make it back in. The problem is what happens afterwards. Once he has been
exposed to the radiation, the long-term damage is done. It can take weeks to take its toll, but I see very little possibility that he won’t suffer the consequences of this exposure.”
“The consequences being?” says Tim.
“Death, Tim. Death. I don’t know how much plainer I can be. If you send him out there to fix the gyros, you send him out there to die.”
As they continue their discussion and the hopelessness of the situation becomes increasingly apparent, I feel myself drawn to isolation, and I drift away unnoticed.
I pass the Quest airlock where Commander Sykes should be putting on his mask to breathe oxygen. But I can see he hasn’t even picked up the mask, yet. Between both hands he is holding a picture of his two daughters, his eyes fixed upon them with a gaze so intense that it could shatter glass.
Since I met Commander Sykes I haven’t seen him show anything that looked a whole lot like emotion. But now little tear bubbles are forming in the corners of each of his eyes. I’m some distance away from the hatch, but I’m not concealed, and he catches me watching him. He isn’t embarrassed. Instead, he shifts his body around to proudly plaster the picture against the glass, and he slowly nods. In his reddened eyes is the loss of the thousands of hours that he wasn’t there with them, the sacrifices that had to be made so that he could do the best and be the best, and the countless hours he had spent in training or out of the country or off of the Earth. He will probably never see them again. He is not the confident, competent commander I have grown to know and admire. He is broken, and it breaks my heart to see him that way. I wish there was something I could say, but even if I had the words, he wouldn’t be able to hear me through the hatch.
Within the next few hours, we will very likely lose Commander Sykes. I can hardly believe it because, no matter how horrible things got or how rotten Commander Tomlinson became, I could always count on the fact that Commander Sykes would be there and, I assumed, right the ship, so to speak. When it comes time for him to leave, that reassurance will go with him out into the void of space. I wonder how we can possibly survive this mission without him.
