by Rob Dircks
“Burke.” He waves at the billion viewers. “Hiya folks. Oh, about the show. That’s why I called. The minute we figure out how you’re keeping that streaming link live, it’s going down. Permanently. Your whole operation is in violation of the Off-World Biocontamination Act.”
Larson smiles. He knows he’s got a good team. A completely decentralized team. The show isn’t going down any time soon. “Yes. About that. Why is what we’re doing illegal exactly?”
Burke reads from his phone. “Section two ex-nine: As a human mission, you are considered very likely to cause forward contamination via multicellular life on another celestial body, considered unnecessarily harmful by the United States Government. Thus, you are instructed to abort this mission, and return to Earth now.”
“Why didn’t the legislators simply ask to review our hardware and protocols? We’re cleaner than any manned mission in history.”
“I am not tasked with knowing the answer to that question. Abort now.”
“Why does the U.S. Government not want us to go to Mars, Agent Burke?”
“As a human mission, you are considered-”
“No. Really why?”
Silence.
Claire pushes her face into the camera. “Yeah, government man. Why are you picking on Zach? You’re a big fat meanie!”
Zach gently pushes her away. “Claire, thank you for your enthusiasm. Commendable. But I’ll take it from here.” He turns back to the camera. “Agent Burke, I know you can’t answer that question. And likely you have no idea. So, I’d like to switch this to a private channel in my quarters, and speak to someone who might know a bit more than you, no offense. To negotiate the release of the Mission Control personnel, and immunity for the crew of this ship. This is not their fight. They have done no wrong. Perhaps you can ring Senator Jameson for me?”
Agent Burke flinches. “No.”
“Pretty please?”
“No.”
“Let me remind you again. There are over a billion people watching you, Agent Burke. I have nothing to hide. Do you?”
Agent Burke reaches up and the monitors go blank.
57
On Live Television?!
“I have a senator to call. In the meantime, please,” Larson points around and smiles wide, “enjoy.”
With nothing for us unskilled-and-in-the-way contestants to do while we approach the refill tanker, we take our first real look at the interior of High Heaven's main cabin. It is enormous, larger than half a football field wrapped into a tube. And absolutely beautiful. Imagine entering a high-class arcade – I’m not sure if that’s an oxymoron, but that’s what it reminds me of – with wood paneling, intimate, warm lighting, seating areas, video games, dining areas, a small theater even. Yes, wood. In a space ship. I’m sure it’s not real wood, and we’re floating so I can’t tell what it would be like to walk on it as a floor, but the way it surrounds us, lining the cylindrical shape of the cabin, creates a surprisingly cozy feeling. Aside from the cockpit at the very front, there seems to be an intentional lack of buttons and controls, like Larson really wanted it to feel like a home away from home. It works.
On his way past us, he hands me a bag of small rubber balls. “First to a hundred wins.”
“What do I do with these?”
He points above us, and I have to remind myself that there is no up, or down, there are no floors or ceilings. It’s disorienting for a moment, then I float up to discover a game board set into one of the walls, with five concentric holes, each with a point value.
“It’s skee-ball without the gravity. Here, let me show you.” Larson plucks one of the balls from the bag, squints, and tosses it gently toward the board. It floats into the second ring, a little vacuum sucks it in, and a ding! indicates twenty points.
An unfamiliar, disembodied woman’s voice startles me. “Twenty points. Excellent, Zach. You’re getting better.”
Claire yelps and spins her head. “Who the hell is that?”
Zach chuckles. “Oh. Where are my manners? That’s Martha. I know, the name is a little over the top. She’s nothing like my mother. She’ll be our guide of sorts, an A.I. like the ones in the lifts back in Stage Two, but considerably more powerful. Don’t worry, though, she doesn’t have a personality per se, so there won’t be any computer uprisings on this trip. Isn’t that right, Martha?”
“That’s correct, Zach. Zero percent chance of me taking over the ship and killing you all.”
We laugh, it was funny, but Martha didn’t mean it to be. Did she? The five of us look at each other, thinking the same thing: you hear a human voice, so you instinctively project onto it human qualities, like a sense of humor, or a veiled threat. It’s hard not to. So every time you interact with an A.I., you have to consciously remind yourself that it’s just a machine, just a really long line of code, an algorithm housed in a box somewhere. Isn’t it?
“Thank you Martha. Now, will you give our guests, the five contestants, a tour of the rest of the ship? I have a bit of negotiating to do.”
“Certainly, Zach. Paper, Benji, Claire, Aurora, and Albert, please follow the lighted path.”
So while Larson debates with the authorities just how many lawyers he’ll need when we get back, Martha introduces us to the MedBay, and the “kitchen,” in quotes, and the gym, and finally, our cabins. There are, incredibly, forty cabins on this ship, each capable of housing two crew, for a total of eighty people on board. Larson is clearly thinking ahead – decades ahead. For this voyage, though, there are so few of us we’ll each get a tiny, double-bunk cabin to ourselves – twice as much room as we’d gotten back in the studio, though it’ll still feel just like a crowded elevator. In place of gravity, the rooms have vacuums, to hold us onto the bed, for example, or to hold toiletries while we bathe.
As we return floating via the second hallway, we pass Larson’s captain’s quarters. I half expect full paneling, a few bottles of rum, perhaps a peg leg leaning up against the wall, or a parrot perched on a post next to his writing desk. He’s the captain of a pirate ship now, after all. But no, it’s exactly like ours, albeit slightly larger, with a few more gizmos at his disposal. And no cameras.
He’s yelling. “…and you’re going to let them blow us up on LIVE TELEVISION?!” He slams his fist down on the panel, ending the call.
Then he turns, noticing us. Forces an exhalation, smooths his silver hair. After a moment, smiles.
“Ah. Perfect timing. Won’t you come in?”
It takes a few minutes for Larson’s hands to stop shaking from rage, and for him to tell us what he knows. Despite the best efforts of his two senator friends, this is all he was able to negotiate: if, within a week, anyone aborts the mission, they will not be prosecuted, including Larson himself.
“We are, as you know, on a highly elliptical orbit, with an apogee of nearly fifteen thousand miles from Earth. The perigee, or nearest point of orbit, is just under a thousand miles, which we will reach in seven days. Just within range of the government’s satellite anti-missile systems.”
Claire stutters, “They would k- k- kill us?”
“They’re bluffing. Of course they wouldn’t kill us.” He taps his chin. “I don’t think.”
“You don’t think?!”
“Sorry. Bad joke. No, I’m absolutely certain they wouldn’t kill us. They know murdering innocent citizens on live TV isn’t a possibility. And they’re already stretching the poor Constitution to its ripping point. No, they don’t want us to go, however they definitely don’t want a revolution. It’s an idle threat. But…”
“Oh my God, there’s a but. We’re all going to die.”
Larson laughs. “We’re not all going to die, Claire. Just you.”
“That’s not funny!”
“Sorry. In any case, just to be on the safe side, I’ve decided, instead of one and a half orbits, taking three weeks, we will break free and head to Mars after the first half orbit, in seven days, coming close enough to release the lifeboats f
or our departing heroes – yes, you’ll be included in the final installation of the Wall of Heroes – and we’ll use Earth’s gravity to give us a nice push as we engage our own engines for the voyage to Mars.”
Benji says what we’re all thinking: “So at some point we’re still going to be close enough for them to shoot us out of the sky.”
“Well, we wouldn’t come out of the sky. We would explode, atomized into teeny little pieces, floating outward forever.”
“Nice.”
“Listen, all. It’s not going to happen. I’ll bet you a billion credits. Trust me.”
Claire covers her face with her hands. “Great. He just said ‘trust me.’”
Albert shakes his head. “I don’t get it. The sabotage attempt in Stage Two. Now this. Why?”
“I think the government was happy with their little monopoly on Mars, however lazy they were about it. This private mission threatens to open up economic opportunities that they won’t be able to control. So now they’re getting desperate. Which means the rewards of our trip must be greater than we’d thought. Mining, terraforming, colonization, tourism even. Imagine it. We’re talking about multiple trillion-dollar industries.”
Aurora pulls herself over to the window, looking out into the black. “You’re already a trillionaire.”
Larson shrugs and smiles. “It’s not really about the money. It’s about risk and reward.”
I float over to his ear and whisper, “Maybe this element thing…?”
He pushes me away. “For the last time, it is NOT some imaginary, undiscovered element, Paper!”
I gasp. He’s never spoken to me like that.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Paper. But the evidence simply doesn’t support the theory. I did quite a bit of research after we last spoke about it. There is nothing. Nothing. I would know. Face it. Your mother is-” and he clenches his teeth.
He doesn’t have to say it.
Crazy. Delusional. Total nut job. It’s true, but my ears get hot with anger anyway. “Oh, yeah, Zach? Well at least I have a mother.”
He steels his gaze on me, a glare I haven’t yet seen either. “I’ll give you a moment to think that one over.”
“Oh, God. Zach, I’m sorry.”
Benji raises his hand. “Uh, what the hell are you two talking about?”
Larson smiles, waves his hands in the air. “Nothing, nothing. Just the rant of an old man. Listen, tensions are running a bit high, and I completely understand. Why don’t we all retreat to the main cabin? We have a week to complete what would normally take three.”
As we float out of his cabin, he tugs my ankle, holding me back, and whispers ominously into my ear, “Strike four.”
“Strike four? There are only three strikes. You know, if you’re still using the baseball metaphor.”
“Oh. I was never much of a baseball fan. Regardless, I’m trying to be ominous.”
“You’re not doing a very good job.”
“You’re right. Let me try a different tack: in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been quite the cheerleader for you. The viewers love you. I believe you’ve got the right stuff. To win. I don’t want you to ruin it by becoming… ah…”
“Like my mother?”
I flick his fingers away from my suit and float away.
58
A Rip In Your Suit
I don’t have time to stay angry at Larson. We’ve got just six days before we reach the perigee, or nearest point to Earth, where we jettison the losing contestants and then slingshot out to Mars. We’ll barely have time to complete flight dynamics, emergency measures, and our current challenge: spacewalks (or as Captain Daniels insists on calling it, extravehicular activity). We’ve been docked with the tanker for about twenty-four hours, the refueling is going fine, but Daniels is simulating a coupling problem that can only be fixed by actually going outside on a tether with a toolbox, and while we’re out there we’ll be performing maintenance and replacing one of the thermal covers.
“Oooh. This is scary. I don’t know…”
“Get out of the way, Claire.” Aurora pushes her aside in the narrow airlock and jumps out the hatch like she’s skydiving, letting the tether out with no tension, floating away from us into space. “Wheee!”
I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s taken to the weightless thing, ever since our first flight aboard Martha, like a natural. She turns and waves. “Come on, scaredy-cat.”
Albert gives Claire a little push, and Claire tumbles head over feet, screaming into our coms, “Help! I’m lost in space!” Aurora catches her in a bear hug, her helmet facing straight at Claire’s ass. “Thank God I can’t smell right now. Come on Claire, you’re on a tether. Turn yourself around and let’s go fix some shit, girl.”
Eventually we all make our way out the hatch, the five of us and Daniels.
And it takes my breath away.
Outside the confines of the ship, it’s just us and… nothing. Space. The Earth floats fifteen thousand miles away, indescribably stunning, and the Sun even farther, simple and beautiful, and off in the distance, innumerable points of light, twinkling. I had expected this to feel like falling or speeding, as we’re traveling thousands of miles per hour, but it’s more like, I don’t know, just being. I know that’s a strange word, but it’s the only way to describe it. There are no forces acting on me, no gravity, no propulsion, and nothing confining me, other than the spacesuit. It feels completely… free.
“It’s wonderful.”
Daniels squawks over the com. “No chit-chat. We’ve got jobs to do, people, out and back in. Extra time is extra danger. And what is the number one danger?”
We all respond, he’s drilled it into our heads for hours, “Rips.”
“That’s right. A rip in your suit and it’s game over. There are sharp edges out here everywhere. Be extremely careful.”
And so, with Daniels’ buzz kill, we begin our slow caravan across the surface of the ship, toward the refill tanker couplings.
About halfway there, I get an itch on my nose. The kind of itch that doesn’t ask to be scratched, it demands. “Captain Daniels, sir?”
“What, Smith? Farris?”
“My nose, it’s-”
“Itchy? Yeah, that happens. Forgot to tell you. Suck it up.”
Jeez. Someone needs to tell DanDan he doesn’t need to be such a dick all the time.
The couplings aren’t hard to work, really, but the suits, with their internal oxygen pressure, make every pinch and grab and turn a little harder than I expected. My fingertips and forearms are going to be crazy sore later. “Benji, can you hand me that fifteen millimeter wrench?”
He unclips the wrench from his belt ring and clips it to mine. But he doesn’t test the clip, and lets go, and it wasn’t set, so the wrench slips through both of our fingers. “Oops.” It clinks off my helmet and shoots into the beyond.
Immediately, like some kind of space grasshopper, Daniels pushes off from the side of the ship, letting his tether extend out completely. He snatches the wrench from its trajectory with the very tips of his fingers. “You idiots!” He reels himself in. “Do you have any idea what a piece of floating debris that large could do to this ship? Or the tanker? The tanker full of fuel? Do you?”
Benji and I both reply, “Sorry.”
“Sorry will get you killed.”
I don’t know, what do you say to that? Sorry again? We say nothing.
He clips the wrench onto my belt ring. Whacks it into my palm. “Ten points off for both of you. Consider yourselves lucky.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Excuse me, Goldberg? Look at what you two just-”
“No. I mean the whole time. The whole show. Like always angry. And it’s Greenberg.”
“What is this, a therapy session? Gee doc, it all started back in the womb… get back to work, Goldberg. And shut your pie hole.”
The thermal cover and the other maintenance tasks proceed without incident, and four hours later
, we’re on our way back into the ship. Daniels pushes himself past me to get the hatch open. “Stay.” So the five of us wait there for him, in a line toward the opening, me taking up the rear. “Okay, one by one, inside.”
Albert floats in first, followed by Benji and Claire, and Aurora, and when it’s my turn – I can’t move. I try to turn, but I can’t see what I’m stuck on, it’s at my lower back, must be right where the tether is connected. Something is snagged. I give it a little tug – the slightest little pull, barely any force, and I hear it: “PPPSSSHHHHHHHHHH!”
Oh my God. The oxygen is rushing out of my suit.
A rip.
I flail my arms and legs, I don’t know why, my panic reflex is working just fine but that’s not what I need right now, and I realize my situation is even worse: my tether isn’t connected. It must’ve been torn free. I look into the airlock as I float away, with what I’m sure must be a comical look of surprise and terror on my face, this totally isn’t how I would have predicted I was going to die.
Oh, well. I made it this far. Goodbye, guys.
And then there she is.
Like a rocket, Aurora is shooting out at me, arms out. Her tether reaches its limit, and we’re both waving our arms like a couple of school kids slap-fighting each other, desperate, and finally she gets a hold of my helmet handle, and pulls me into her arms. With her free hand, she rips a piece off the roll of PPMM tape we each have on our belts, like a mini, self-contained version of the dome substance that fixes rips. The leaks slows, but doesn’t stop.
“Don’t worry, Paper. I’ve got you.”
I answer with a whimper, trying desperately to hold my breath and not die.
She understands. “You’re welcome. And thanks for the extra points.”
We finally get into the air lock and seal and pressurize the space. I’m heaving, soaking wet with sweat, helmet off, looking around at five concerned faces, scratching my nose.
