Riddled Space

by Bill Patterson

  “Yes, John, I know that's what they call me on the station. It stopped bothering me long ago.”

  He shook his head. “You keep eluding my question. What are you going to do when you get down?”

  She laughed. “John, you've been too busy to notice it, but back there,” she jerked her thumb to indicate the main cabin, “about half of the folks are barfing their guts out from radiation sickness. We're all going to spend a long time in the hospital, getting treated. I'll figure out what I'm doing as soon as I know that I'm going to be alive to do it.”

  “Ugh. Yeah, I forgot about that.” John grew pensive. “Well, at least you can keep Garth out of the place if you want.”

  “I intend to. Coming up on two minutes now. Time to get our act together.” She made the call to the captain.

  ***

  Fred's image came on over the network intercom. “How are you doing, Gus?”

  “I've alerted all the major ports from Miami to Norfolk. State Police have been brought in the picture, and every major Coast Guard station is online.”

  “Good. I was able to speak to the Secretary of the Navy, and he's working the chain of command from the other direction. Everything from Baltimore to Maine is tied in. Now all we have to do is wait.” The speaker gave out a crackle of low-grade static.

  “Fred, I got a call from UN PAO. Some infonet got a hold of Channel 24 and leaked Subby's order to Daniels. It'll take about fifteen minutes at the latest before the crap hits the fan.”

  Fred thought for a second, then said, “I'm going back in the Control Room, see if Gayatri needs any help. When you get a chance, come join me. I'm guessing Subby's due for another appearance, and I don't want Gayatri to face him all alone. Solidarity, you know.” Fred's image winked out of Gus's monitor.

  Fred thought briefly at the complete unreality of it all. Twenty-four hours ago, he was grinding along, another boring stretch at CAPCOM, and one more day until he could rotate into another space assignment. Now, well, he didn't know what to think. Spaceflight, as far as he could tell, was probably doomed for the foreseeable future. Certainly, for the rest of his life. Now he was ready to burn every bridge at UNSOC just to get his friends safely back on Earth before they got obliterated by Lunar debris. He had no idea what he was going to do once they were back. Shaking his head, he headed into the Control Room.

  Gayatri looked up as he entered. When his eyes flicked to the door to Subramanyan's office, her head shook a bare negative. He went over to his console and logged in. He accessed the Tom data to see what Subby had been up to the past few hours. Typical. Frantic calls to his brokers. More calls to prospective clients. And, oddly, calls to some unknown number. Wonder what those are all about, thought Fred.

  “Fred, can you take this?” asked Gayatri over the intercom. “I'm kinda swamped.”

  “Sure, Gay.” Fred zoomed up the window, then groaned inwardly. Roger Smithson and Mike Standish. The Mars mission.

  “CAPCOM A to BurAye and RayBee. Good afternoon, gentlemen. I bet you're wondering what's going on.” He paused, then remembered the timelag. Looking at the status, he saw it at 82 seconds. He kept broadcasting.

  “There was some kind of energetic event on the Moon. Collins dropped off the air twelve minutes later, no telemetry. We tracked a shock wave sweeping through their position. Chaffee got hit with a burst of radiation; you might or might not have gotten that. No word yet from parts of the Earth that was under that blast.” He stopped, since the men started talking.

  “All we saw was the Earth lighting up, then nothing. No radiation alarms, so we must have missed that part of it. We can't raise the Collins or the Chaffee, oh.” The men stopped, listened to the rest of Fred's message, then continued. “There's nothing we can do, of course. How is the Chaffee?”

  Fred continued his status report. “The Chaffee is fine now, but the Commander is concerned about the plume of Lunar debris blown into space by whatever happened.” Fred paused, and weighed his words carefully. “She feels that if the lives of all aboard the Chaffee are in danger from the debris then the station should be evacuated. There is a difference of opinion as to the danger posed by the debris, and we are trying to get enough data to make an informed decision.” He lifted his finger from the transmit button, and the famous beep, unchanged for the last century and a quarter, sounded in his ears.

  Fred hated lying to these men, both of whom he knew personally, but he also knew that Lisa needed UNSOC online as long as possible.

  “Understood, CAPCOM. Wish we could help. Any idea if the debris will clear by the time we get back?”

  Wow, that's something I never thought of. I guess there's a reason for UNSOC after all. We'll have to get the Marsmen home.

  “Not at this time, guys. But we have a long time to figure it out. I'd love to keep chatting, but things are due to get busy here in a minute. CAPCOM, listening, out.”

  He opened a window, sent a message to Gus. “Mars called. Will rocks keep them from return? No idea.” That will keep Gus from stewing about Subramanyan for a while.

  “BurAye and RayBee, message received. Good luck, out,” sounded their final message. Fred gratefully closed the window. One more shoal successfully avoided.

  “Good work, Mr. Palowitz,” sounded the voice of Subramanyan from the doorway to his office. “No need for panic. And the news media, which seem to have been listening in on our network, will have nothing to run with. Well done.” He glanced around the room. “Where's Controller Blukofski? I don't see him anywhere around.”

  “Sir, you told us that overtime was not authorized. His shift ended hours ago. Gayatri, have you seen him in here?” he asked, pointing to the floor.

  “Come to think of it, no, Fred, not since Mr. Venderchanergee was here last.”

  “So there you are, sir. Do you want me to recall him?”

  “No, there's no need, for there is no emergency. How is that radar data on the so-called debris of Commander Daniels' fertile imagination?”

  “Sir,” replied Gayatri, “we have some radar data indicating a debris field coming from the Moon. The debris that we can image is not moving as fast as Commander Daniels said, and so does not pose as immediate a danger. However. . .”

  Subramanyan overrode her. “Just as I suspected. She's a coward. Get her on the radio for me, immediately.”

  “But sir,” began Gayatri.

  “Do it!” insisted Subramanyan.

  “Yes sir,” she said, defeated.

  “Mr. Venderchanergee,” said Fred.

  “Yes?”

  “You have to remember, the best radar we could access is less than one-hundredth the resolution of the one carried on the Chaffee. In orbit, the Chaffee has to be able to scan for incoming space debris all the time, so they have a superior instrument. The debris we can pick up from the Earth's surface will both be larger and slower, by definition.”

  Subramanyan waved Fred to silence.

  “No, no, no, my dear man. It's clear that we should never have put a woman in charge of the Chaffee. Command is a man's job. See what happens at the first sign of danger? She wants to run away. Ms. Vedya, what appears to be the problem?”

  “I have Roque Zacarías, who is running the communications board for the time being.”

  “Let me talk to him. Ah, Mr. Zacarías, where is Commander Daniels? I wish to speak with her.”

  “Mr. Venderchanergee, how are you? It's been so long since you were up here. Six years? Or was it seven? I hope you can come up again, I hardly had a chance to chat with you. Commander Daniels is taking a shower, I believe. Her locator shows her in her room, but she is not answering the com. So I am guessing shower.”

  “Maybe just crying on her bunk. Could you go and knock on her door for me, just to make sure? I have some questions for her.”

  “Well, Subramanyan, I have to confess, when I heard you wanted her, I abandoned the board for a minute and went down there myself. I definitely heard water running, so, yes, she's in the shower.”
<
br />   “Were you on the board when the Mars Expedition called? They ended up calling here, interrupting my men.”

  “Oh, I must apologize for that, sir. I saw some light blinking and didn't quite know how to answer it. Running this board is not something I do all that often.”

  “Wait, why are you on the board at all? Where is, what's her name, that blonde woman who's so angry all the time?”

  “Celine Greenfield?”

  “Yes, that's the one. Isn't manning the board her job? I swear, the place seems like it's falling apart up there.”

  Roque winced slightly and muttered, “Not yet, but soon.”

  “What's that? Your transmission was garbled.”

  “Her people were drafted into helping out at the aid station. We had some radiation cases, as you know.”

  “Yes. I suspect that will be the new excuse for malingering. Radiation.”

  “Well, sir, you know how it is. Say, did I ever tell you what happened up here since your last visit?”

  They went on like this for twenty minutes. Roque would carefully deflect all of Subramanyan's questions with grace, a smile, or a glib response. In return, he told stories, remembered common acquaintances, and generally chatted up Subramanyan.

  Five minutes in, Fred got where Roque was going with this, and slipped into the ready room. Tom had the Chaffee data ready. He called Gus on his mobile phone.

  “Gus, listen close, I don't have much time. Roque's giving Subby the old soft soap right now. It is a thing of beauty. Lisa kicked the sleds free of the station ten minutes ago, and should be lighting up the engines right about now. Entry Interface is in another forty minutes, and landing is slated for 1640, somewhere on the East Coast, preferably New York/New Jersey. Get on the horn to your contacts, fire up the US Space Alliance folks, too, get them online and sucking the data out of our computers. I'm betting Subby shuts us down. If you could, please slip over to my auditorium and get them cracking too. Subby's got me stuck in here, but doesn't know you're still around, much less all the teams. Copy?”

  “Got it, Fred. Roque's not coming back?”

  “Doesn't look like it. I don't blame him either. There's nothing for him here.”

  “Still, seems a damned shame.”

  “We'll hoist a glass of port to him later. Gotta run. Out.” Fred slapped his phone off, eased out of the back door of the ready room, crossed over to the main doors of the Control Room, and reentered. Subramanyan glanced his way, his concentration still on Roque.

  “And that's how I came into possession of the real live mission patch for Apollo 1.”

  “An amazing story, Roque. Commander Daniels must be out of the shower by now, please page her.”

  Roque was seen squinting at the screen, trying to see where the paging function was. “Nope, that's not it. No, I don't want to call the Collins...” he poked around for a few minutes, then looked up, exasperated.

  “Sir, I can't figure this darned thing out. It will be faster if I float down to her quarters myself. Be right back.” He zipped out of frame before Subramanyan could countermand him.

  Fred looked at his watch. Retrofire should be over soon, then they would be committed. In fact, they should be getting a call from Commander Daniels any moment now. He slid behind the left side console to scan the board without attracting Subramanyan's attention.

  “Where can she be?” muttered Subramanyan as he paced the raised platform behind the CAPCOMs. “This is so like a woman, never around when you need one.” At Gayatri's glare, he smiled at her, “And you know I don't mean you, dear.”

  “UNSOC Control, this is Commander Daniels on the ERV Reinhart, requesting terminal guidance control.” Fred felt like cheering. On the floor of the Control Room, controllers swiveled to face Subramanyan, grins lighting their faces.

  Subramanyan glared at them, then, speaking slowly as if to a petulant child, responded, “Commander Daniels, this is Subramanyan Venderchanergee. What is the meaning of this?”

  “The Emergency Reentry Vehicles Ted Reinhart and Jim Pruett have completed retrofire and are inbound to Earth.” A loud bang sounded over the speakers. “That was another piece of the Moon hitting our shields, Subramanyan, in case you didn't recognize that sound. Entry Interface will occur forty-five minutes from now. All of the crew are aboard, except for Roque Zacarías, who requested that he remain. We can't go back, and, frankly, won't go back, Subramanyan. All we ask for now is terminal guidance to Earth.”

  “NO!” shouted Subramanyan in a rare loss of control. “You will proceed back to the Chaffee and return to your station.”

  “I told you before,” said Commander Daniels, crackling now and then with static, “We don't have the delta V—” wham “—to make it back to the Chaffee, even if we wanted to.” bam” “Given the number of impacts we're already getting, I think going back is pure suicide anyway. We will need your assistance once we break out of communications blackout.”

  “Well, you won't get it,” Subramanyan stated, striding over to the wall behind the CAPCOMs. “You insist on disobeying the direct orders of your superior. If you refuse my orders, you can't ask for my help. I refuse to abet your criminal actions, and will not allow my staff to help you, either.” Flipping up the covers over the large red Emergency Power Off buttons found in every data center ever built, Subramanyan paused.

  “Will you return to your post aboard the Chaffee?” he asked for what seemed the last time.

  “We cannot,” came the calm but determined reply.

  “Then you are on your own.” Subramanyan rammed the EPO buttons home. Thunder sounded from the compartments around the sides of the room. Instantly, every console, every computer, every communications circuit went dead. The sound of case fans whirring to a stop was suddenly very loud in the enormous room.

  “And I order you all: do not attempt to turn on the power until after this charade has finished.” With that, Subramanyan whirled and stalked back to his office.

  Orbital Decay

  ERV Ted Reinhart, June 17 2082, 1500 hrs

  UNSOC Control Room, New York City, June 17 2082, 1500 hrs

  Up in their decaying orbit, the sudden loss of signal startled Commander Daniels. “UNSOC, UNSOC, this is Commander Daniels, calling UNSOC.” She listened intently, but not even a carrier wave broke the static in her earphones.

  “Celine, we're cut off. I think Subby finally snapped. UNSOC is not answering, and we're on our own.” Impacts continued to sound on the aluminum shields still attached to the ERVs.

  “Roger, Commander. I'll contact the Pruett, advise them of our situation.”

  What the hell do I do now? wondered Lisa, her hands suddenly damp with perspiration.

  ***

  Back in UNSOC, the scene was stunned silence. Fred looked at Gayatri, shook his head, and motioned for silence. Moving quietly, he stole from his console to the ready room, where, as he feared, the computer running the Tom program was dead. Now they were without any check on Subramanyan.

  “Gus, this is Fred,” he whispered in his mobile phone. “Subby's hit the EPO buttons. The Data Center is down and will take hours to get back online. Looks like you're our only ace in the hole. Tell those old vets that they are all we have. Maybe they can save this. Out.”

  Fred slipped back into the room. Standing behind his CAPCOM console, he stretched elaborately and called over to Gayatri, even though she was just ten meters away. “Well, Gay, I've been here way past my shift time. Doesn't look like you need me around here anymore. Think I'll go home and catch some shut-eye.” He winked at her, straightened his desk, and strode to the doors and out. Taking an elevator to the auditorium floor, he jogged to the room which held his team, still lining up marine support for the splashdowns.

  “Listen up, guys. Subramanyan's blown a fuse. He hit the EPO buttons, and there's no more Control Room for the duration. The C team is lining up some old NASA vets to baby these sleds back home. The only thing we can do is to try to patch around the Control Room. Who knows
how to get on the horn to our secondary TDRS Ground Stations?”

  With that, the race was on. Fred ran over to the C Team room and brought Gus up to speed. Between the two of them, and the expertise of the combined teams, they were able to patch into one of the installations that kept track of the UNSOC satellites. The Tracking and Data Relay Satellites were another leftover from the US Space Program. Orbiting at geostationary orbit, 35,800 kilometers up, they were the backbone of all UNSOC communications.

  Even though Subramanyan blacked out the Control Room, he did not disable the TDRS network. They found a way to connect into the system through one of the Ground Stations.

  ***

  Throughout the South, old NASA veterans waiting for hours in the external parking lots streamed into the former Johnson Space Center in Houston. Even though their control room was long ago converted into a museum exhibit, these men and women represented the last memories of Space Shuttle flight outside the confines of UNSOC. Some carried old laptops, others game consoles, ribbon cables, and the latest in desktop computers.

  The security guard was unwilling to believe their explanation. “I heard something about the Moon exploding, but I dunno.”

  “Look, buddy, I'm eighty years old. Do I look like a terrorist to you?”

  Eventually, though, it took a call from the Pentagon to open up the gates. It wasn’t often the Secretary of the Navy called up the gate guard. Once inside, the veterans took over the cafeteria and set up their equipment. Ship-borne radar had brief glimpses of the ERVs as they circled the far side of the Earth. Rheumy eyes glared at the screens as gnarled fingers punched the fragmentary data into programs that had not run in thirty years.

  In one corner of the room, a cheer went up as a virtual reality game from the 2050s was brought up and running. Called Shuttle Lander, its purpose was to simulate the landing glide of the last series of Space Shuttles while dodging assaults from the ground and air.

  “But I had my grandson hack this one,” cackled the proud owner. “He gave me the codes for God Mode, where I can turn off the assaults and start from any given set of coordinates.”