Stepping Up

by Robert Culp

  “Wait, did you say this ship is two-hundred sixty years old? Those must have been some pretty radical overhauls. Just doing the math in my head and from what I see here, I’m guessing you get Transit three and maneuver at two gravities?”

  Starships have two separate and distinct engines. The maneuver drives, the ones on deck F, are for getting the ship from navigable space to orbit and vice versa. If the ship is capable of landing on a planet it will use the maneuver drives. Their speed is measured in the number of gravities, thirty-two feet per second squared, at which they can accelerate the vessel. The internal gravity generators will correct for all of the forward motion. So down continues to be towards the deck plates. At two gravities, or two gee written 2G, if the ship uses all of its fuel—which would take about an hour—it would reach a maximum velocity of just over seventy kilometers per second. At that speed it would take almost seventeen years to cross the distance from Earth to Goliath. And there would be no way to stop on the other end. It’s far from practical.

  Instead, Transit drives are used. I can’t articulate the physics and such, but I know how to apply the principles. The principles involved were worked out centuries ago. I know enough to read the texts, but that’s about where my knowledge ends. Transit drives are, like maneuver engines, measured by their abilities. The number used is the divisor for how many months it takes the vessel to travel a light year. A Transit One ship will travel one light year in one month. A Transit Two ship will make the same trip in half the time. To use the Earth-Goliath (about forty three light minutes) example, the time isn’t measured in years but minutes at Transit one. But within a solar system it’s not safe to move at full Transit speeds. There are too many gravity wells and too much debris. A meteorite the size of a softball could potentially destroy a ship moving that fast. The typical captain will only authorize Transit Zero point two until they clear a solar system. Once in the open space between solar systems, the throttle is twisted wide open.

  Older ships will use the aqua-francium reactors like I used to clean. Newer ones will use hydrogen reactors. Hydrogen is relatively plentiful in the universe. A streamlined ship—one that can enter an atmosphere—will often have equipment to break water down for the hydrogen and oxygen. Some planets, particularly gas giants, will have hydrogen in the upper reaches of their atmosphere. Ships meant to recover that will have scoops and other apparatus to collect hydrogen and process it into fuel. The little I’ve learned about Night Searcher has shown me that if she needs hydrogen, she has to buy it. She has no way of converting water or collecting gas for fuel.

  Mack continues the lesson, “Officially, she’ll do Transit Three and despite her size she’ll still maneuver at 3G. If we redline it we can get four of each, but not for long. And the Captain, Aria, as the Operations Officer, and I, as the Chief Engineer, must go on record authorizing it. It’s in the software somewhere. Primarily because the superstructure balks at that kind of abuse. All right, I’m heading to my office to go over your dossier and exams. You are released to your own recognizance until eleven hundred, and then meet me in the Lead Engineer’s Office on deck D, room 9, forward and starboard. Okay? I’ll see you then.”

  Before he can leave, I ask, “Should I go for lunch first, or will I get a break sometime after eleven?”

  “I don’t care. You eat on your timetable. But unless we are or have been in combat, don’t bring any plates into my engine rooms. As long as your task lists are caught up, I don’t care when or for how long you take meals. But the other side of that holds true as well: Do not make me have to micro manage you. And only the gods will help you if I have to come find you when my engines need attention. Neither of us will enjoy it. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise. You take direction from me and me alone. You’ll find me easy to work with, but if you work for me, life will be decidedly unpleasant. If you have any questions, check the task list board on the department casCom page. If anyone else tries to task you, tell him or her to come see me. See ya at eleven.” And he goes.

  I show myself around the Transit Drives. It’s quiet here now, but I know that won’t last. At Transit I doubt a person would be able to hear a cannon fire in here. I make a few notes on things I want to look up and then go back to my stateroom. There’s a copy of the Non-Disclosure Agreement in my holoCom inbox. Twenty-year duration—it really says twenty years. That’s substantial. Apparently these people have a very high opinion of my memory.

  I also look up the technical manuals for the engines and see what history of Night Searcher there is in the ship library. I find the commissioning document. Like Mack said, it’s dated 264 years ago. The name Aria is mentioned just about everywhere in the history of the ship. Never a surname, just Aria. Odd. I’ll have to ask Mack about that. I mean, she can’t be the same person. The woman I saw can’t be over forty. Is she a clone perhaps? I must admit it does lend a sense of continuity.

  I knock on the LEO door at 1059.

  “Come in Sonia. Sit down.” After I step into the office, the door slides closed behind me and I sit in the chair Mack indicated. I see on the holoCom on the Chief Engineer’s desk he’s been reading my file. There can’t be much more to it than my test scores. “Would you like some tea? You’re more skilled than I thought...no offense.” How can he think that? The test was a breeze. And if he thinks it’s so good, why did Aria use the word “lackluster?”

  “Thank you for the tea and the compliment. None taken.”

  “I’m going to put you in charge of the Transit drives. You’ll also help out with the power plants. Spend the next two days looking over the documentation and getting to know where the access panels and inspection instruments are. Gorb knows it all. Ask him to show you anything you can’t find. I’ll be down to sign off on your assignment for your first Transit. I’m guessing it will be more of a formality than an actual evaluation. Have you any questions for me now?”

  “I’d like to say thanks again for the opportunity. I look forward to learning your engines. Just what I read earlier makes your granddad pretty smart to have done what he did with them. I do have two questions, when do we go into Transit?”

  “We are waiting on a frickin' exit window. Tammuz, believe it or not, is a busy place these days. It should be in about two hours though. Anytime we’re preparing for Transit, Aria will call you—after I sign off on your proficiency—on your perCom at Execute minus one hour then announce it on the ship-wide intercom at Execute minus ten minutes. Both you and Gorb need to be in the drive areas for any issues that may arise. I’m planning to hire another engineer at Saxon if the goddess wills it. Oh, by the way, Aria will call you about weapons training while we’re in Transit. It will be two hours per day for a week. So attend it, learn it. I’ll cover for you while you do that.”

  I sip my tea to build my courage a bit, “Speaking of Aria, I was looking at the ship’s history and…”

  He grins at me, “She looks good for a gal over three hundred years old, doesn’t she? Aria is an android. I have no idea how old she really is. She implies she knew Mike, actually I think he was my great grandpop, and his dad, Peter. But whenever Lord Collins gets mentioned, her expression gets sour. Come to think of it, I don’t recall her ever mentioning him by name or title. He’s always ‘that colorful historic figure.’ Apparently, she has some unpleasant memories where he’s concerned.”

  I did not see that coming. I’m not a racist, but I always thought I’d able to tell when confronted with an android. I suppose not. “I brought a 9mm pistol, do I take that for weapons training?”

  He smirks. “You wish. You will be assigned a shipboard weapon, which along with ammunition will be provided you. Your dossier says you are skilled with shotguns and rifles. You will most likely train on the SP-10.”

  Yeah, okay whatever. ‘Trained’ yes, ‘like’ no. I understand that shotguns are valuable and useful on spacecraft. I just don’t like them. To my mind there’s not enough kill certainty there. I like a bullet with a name on it, not a bunc
h of pellets labeled “occupant.” But, when in Tema… “‘Familiar with’ is probably a better term than ‘skilled.’ SP-10, got it. And just so I fit in, some people I see carrying sidearms, others aren’t. What’s the rule?”

  “The Troopers are always strapped. It’s part of their lifestyle. Most of the crew is not. For the moment, keep it in your stateroom, or your day bag. Once we’ve established your proficiency, I’ll reconsider the restriction. The rule is: the decision is up to the individual. But even after that, I’d really rather you not for a variety of reasons. Chief among them, i2t isn’t necessary. The reality is that you will be bringing your APE suit and shotgun with you when you come to duty anyway. And besides, what value is it down in the engine room? You may be good with a pistol, but can you repair a plasma leak with small arms fire? Methinks not.”

  He makes a valid argument.

  5 UNDER WAY

  “Hey Gorb! The manual says the triredirial conduit access panel-securing stud should be right here. But I can’t find it, where is it?” Aria called me almost an hour ago to alert me we had the Transit window. I decided to kill the intervening time learning the engines as Mack still has all the authority anyway.

  “Push the blue wire out of the way Miss Shownya. The charge induction filter quantifies all the pulses at that junction. That stud is behind it, offset to the left about an inch and half. Seewhutuhmean?”

  Mack was right, when Gorb speaks technical talk, he doesn’t slur or speak like he normally does. Interesting. “Thank you, Gorb.”

  “You vewy welcome, Miss Shownya.” He walks away muttering, “Gorb always helps...Helped Miss Shownya...Hee hee. She’s smart but Gorb smarter. Gorb not as pwetty though.”

  I can’t help but smile. He’s like a bipedal puppy. The girls in the chow hall were right. Anybody starting something with Gorb will have a bunch of people to go through to get to him.

  I hear Aria’s soft voice over the ShipCom at 0700 “Engineering, Bridge. Transit status report.”

  Mack is standing at the status boards, he looks at me. “What do you see?” he asks.

  I check the status boards twice, all read “green” for ready. I signal Gorb to don his helmet. He already has, so has Mack. I put mine on and switch on the internal communicator. “I see a green board.”

  “I concur. Submit your report.”

  I toggle to the bridge communication circuit. “Bridge, Engineering. You are green to Transit.”

  “All stations prepare for Transit in ten minutes,” Aria intones over the shipCom.

  We’re ready but we use up the next ten minutes preparing for potential catastrophes. Mack and I watch the status boards, Gorb moves around the engines, his head on a swivel. The indicators show we have reached our maximum acceleration. Of course we don’t feel it, but pressures are beginning to build inside the Transit drives.

  Eventually, Aria begins the countdown. “Transit in three…two…one…Execute.”

  I imagine it is like standing on the nose of a dragon when it roars. Or sneezes. Transit engines are very powerful. They are also very loud. Were it not for our helmets, the roar of the engines would certainly have deafened all of us. And the concussive wave would have likely severely damaged our ears, eyes and other soft tissue. As it is, I feel the concussion against me like a physical assault, making my coveralls snap. I’m not sure why that is. The drives don’t emit air. There’s no matter that travels from them. It must be the noise wave. Night Searcher is now on a twenty-four day trip to Saxon.

  “And now?” Mack is on the private channel.

  “Gorb, post Transit checks?” I call.

  “I see no leaks, flares or fires. I see no dangling or swinging cables. I see no light I cannot account for.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mack asks, “What do you see?”

  My eyes dance over the status displays. Uronium reactor outputs are within tolerance; engine temperature and pressures are nominal. “Sir, my board is good. Engines are operating within standards.”

  “Who needs to know that?”

  I check the boards again then report to the bridge: “Bridge, Engineering. Transit engines operating within normal parameters. No evident problems.”

  Aria replies. “Roger, Engineering.”

  Now is when the boredom starts. Unless something breaks, there’s not a whole lot for an engineer to do in the engine room once the ship Transits. Which is—I’m sure—why I soon hear Aria say “Sonia, report to the simulation room, deck E, at zero eight three zero. Mack will cover you in Engineering.”

  “Roger, Aria.” It must be weapons training time. Just because there’s not much to do doesn’t mean there is nothing to do. We do have some in-Transit checks we need to accomplish.

  I’m preparing to plead that case when Mack tells me, “We have this. Go to class.”

  So I shut my mouth and leave.

  The other two newbies, Twelia and Ricky, are here as well as a man I don’t know who has a pushcart loaded down with weapons and other equipment. We all say hi and chew the fat for a few minutes, mostly first day horror stories. The equipment man silently checks the weapons on his cart. Aria comes in and issues a short series of commands. It turns out the equipment man is the ship’s armorer.

  “Sonia gets the shotgun and forty SIM rounds. Twelia gets the submachine gun, Richard gets the laser pistol with SIM pack.” He pushes the anti-grav cart, handing us our assigned weapons and ammunition.

  The SP-10 is a monster. It’s built around a 10 gauge shotgun chassis. This one has a ten round magazine that mounts under the barrel. Installed, the magazine is as long as the barrel. It will fire either semi-automatic or in bursts of three rounds. There’s a fifty round drum magazine available as well. I will need a shoulder strap to support its weight when the drum is in use. But I don’t have to worry about that today. What did I do to deserve this? This beast is surely to knock me flat on my backside.

  Once we all have our gear, the armorer takes his cart and leaves the room.

  Aria speaks: “Clearly, none of you are foot soldiers,” I guess I read Ricky wrong; he’s not even a backup infantryman, “so you won’t be leading any assaults. But if the ship is boarded, every able hand is expected to be holding a weapon. Sonia, you are first. Give me a nod when you are ready.”

  I lock and load the first ten-round magazine. I have two more on the deck beside me. Rapid reload, ejecting the empty magazine, and seating a full one, will be part of the exercise. I cut my eyes to Aria but before I can nod, a holographic enemy rushes towards me. I give my best Trooper yell and shoot from the hip. The recoil isn’t close to what I expected, thanks be to Isis, but it’s still a wallop. I continue to fire the weapon on semi-automatic. I count the shots. When the last round is chambered, I thumb the magazine release. The spent magazine falls away. I jam the new one into the well and I shoot at the next target. At the end of the exercise I’ve killed five of the nine that rushed me.

  Aria nods. “Not bad. Richard?”

  Ricky takes his place on the firing line and, his pistol at the ready, nods. He’s done this before. He coolly and methodically puts three rounds in each target he engages, one in the gut, one in the chest and one in the head. He drops all nine, granted the last was within slapping distance, but he did drop him.

  “Excellent.” Aria says, “Twelia?”

  Twelia toes the line. I can tell she’d rather be getting a root canal without an anesthetic while wearing a barbed wire bikini in a pool filled with magnetic, rusty razor blades. Gods bless her. The M8 looks massive in her delicate hands. The only thing she does right is to set the weapon on burst. Three of nine. Firing bursts, the magazine doesn’t last long. The weapon clicks on the empty chamber. Magazine changes are her downfall. She looks at the weapon and fumbles removing the empty magazine. As she’s trying to get the new one seated, holographic foes streak past her. She raises the weapon to fire but has to charge it first.

  Aria calls, “Cease Fire on the line. Firers clear and safe all w
eapons. Richard that was excellent. Sonia, you did well. Twelia, stop moping. We call this ‘training’ for a reason. Now we will go over some basics. Richard, if you would help Sonia with her shooting stance? Thank you. Twelia, step over here. Stop pouting sweetie, I will teach you what you need to know.”

  Ricky helps me with foot placement. He directs me to scoot my heel back and rotate my front foot outward. My toes only moved three quarters of an inch, if that. He gives me some pointers on hand positioning, how much my elbows should bend. Now I feel rock solid. “You shoot very good,” he tells me.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you fired this weapon before?”

  I try a weak smile. “Not this one, a shotgun from time to time. But I really prefer rifles and pistols. And the way I see it, I was raped and murdered four times instead of nine.”

  “Unlikely. On the street when you fire the first round most mobs will scatter. Your grip is good, let’s look at your execution.” He leads me through some dry fire drills. He picks up on my hesitance. “Sonia, I have a question for you: Are you afraid of this weapon?”

  “Afraid? No…well, a little. I like to think of it as a healthy respect.” He’s not buying it. “Yes,” I confess quietly, “this thing scares me.”

  “Okay, look at it like this then: One of you will be the master, the other the slave. To be crass about it, is the gun going to be your bitch or will it be the other way around?” Nobody had ever explained it to me like that before. I’m nobody’s bitch! Especially not an inanimate object’s!

  After a half hour of tutorials and practice, Aria calls us all back to the line. “Round two, and we dial it up to ‘hazardous.’ Don your APE suits for added reality.”

  With our APE suits on, we also have to adjust the trigger guards to allow for our APE gloves. The gloves are not thick, but they are present. Ricky goes first. Eleven for twelve. Then it’s my turn. Nine for twelve. Statistically, that’s a bit of an increase. Not excellent, but better and I did feel more solid, which makes me feel more confident. But if it’s time to start shooting I’m going to find something to hide behind and be very, very quiet. But my firing was more controlled; this time the weapon didn’t jump like it did before. Ricky gives me a thumbs up. I smile at him then look at the shotgun. Who’s the bitch now?