by Robert Kuntz
“All blocked systems must be re-established before resuming thruster operation. Furthermore, thrusters may not be operated when crew members are on a space walk.”
“Are they trying to make this more difficult?” The first requirement makes no sense to me. I tell SINDAS to make a note for Houston. The second requirement is obvious. I don’t want to be outside when the SPPT’s fire. Stand in the wrong place and the plasma will fry me.
I close the cover to the access panel. One by one, I take the bolts from the drawer and thread them in place. Then I ease the power wrench from its pocket, lock my feet on the ship, set the socket on the bolt, and press the button to tighten the bolt. The wrench’s light flashes three greens.
I’m drenched in sweat, thirsty, and tired, but I feel triumphant. Then I remember I have two more modules to replace. Dutifully, I suck on the food tube and swallow the granola paste. It doesn’t taste half bad. Then, I slurp down some water and feel life restored to my wrung-out body.
“Prepare for disengagement,” SINDAS says.
Following protocol, I check to see that all pockets and pouches are closed. I look on all sides of me to see that the tether is free and won’t catch on anything. Finally, I look up to see that it’s clear overhead.
“Ready to disengage.”
“Proceed.”
I rock on my heels, grab the pylon, and shove myself up into space. Instantly, I’m weightless again, rising upwards. My body tenses, and I shove the panic down. I don’t have time for it. I rotate slightly, and Howard’s voice reminds me not to thrash about. I rise above the gleaming surface of the Galileo. Gauging my spin, I reach out and grab a light pole to steady myself. I push up more gently and rise farther above the ship’s surface.
In the light from the Galileo, my suit sparkles like a mesh of diamonds. For a moment, I’m stunned by wonder. In the ruthless vacuum and cold of space, I’m alive because a team of people I’ll never know invented and perfected this suit. And not just this suit, but all the systems of the Galileo. It stuns me to think how many people imagined problems, planned for contingencies, and invented new systems and procedures. This is why we need to go to space. The challenge brings out the best in us. I’m alive in outer space because they dreamed of the stars.
“Prepare for firing guidance jet.”
Panic swirls over me. I shove it aside, looking around me to make sure I’m above the cranes, girders, and light poles. “Affirmative.”
A shove of the jets propels me around the curving sides of the ship. Deep breathing: five seconds in, five seconds out. Ahead I see a blinking orange light. I could crawl on my stomach faster than I’m moving now.
“Time until half gravity is one hour, forty-two minutes.”
When my magnetic boots latch onto the surface of the Galileo, I can feel the difference in gravity. I’m not as heavy. I think about the water sloshing out of the ocean, then shove those thoughts from my mind and turn toward replacing the ECM. The first bolt comes off smoothly. As I’m moving it toward the drawer, it slips from my fingers and tumbles in space. I grab it, breathe a sigh of relief, and put it carefully in the drawer. The second bolt comes off. It sticks stubbornly in the socket even when I shake the wrench vigorously. What do I do? Uncle Ralph would say, “Cussin’ never helps. Breathin’ clears the mind.” I take a deep breath, laugh at myself, twist the socket off the wrench and poke the bolt from the other side, freeing it. It goes in the drawer. The third bolt comes off smoothly and I place it in the drawer. I lift the access cover, grab the ECM, and replace it with the one in my pocket. I stow the old ECM, replace the cover and the bolts.
Soon I’m listening to SINDAS’s voice. “Module is connected. Data streaming in. Repair of second module successful and complete. Time until half gravity is fifty-three minutes.”
Quickly, I take a big drink from the water tube and suck in some granola bar mush. I can’t believe this is happening: that I’m here, in space, alive, breathing, eating, and ready to shove off from the ship’s surface again.
“Time until half gravity is fifty-one minutes. Prepare for disengagement.”
I do the safety check and then hoist myself from the deck of the ship. I breathe deeply as the Galileo sinks below me. I glance out to the vast emptiness of space. The stars don’t seem angry anymore, as if they’ve made their peace with me being a temporary interloper. On my slow journey to the next blinking orange light, I’m fretting. We’re running out of time.
At the third pylon, the bolts on the access panel are so tight the power wrench warning light flashes red and the motor disengages. This must be one MacCardell didn’t replace. I try the wrench again. The red light flashes.
“Time until half gravity is twenty-seven minutes.”
Uncle Ralph used a lube gun when bolts were stuck. But in the vacuum of space, lubrication is useless. As Howard instructed me, I take the ultrasound surge gun from the tool belt, ratchet the head over the bolt, and press the first setting. The purple light twinkles on the handle as the surge gun alternates bursts of ultrasound and high voltage electricity. According to Howard, this expands the metals, shakes off grime, and frees what’s been stuck by the cold of space. When the green light flashes, I slip the surge gun off the bolt, stow it carefully in the tool belt, and try the power wrench again. The warning light flashes red. I remove the wrench, slide the surge gun in place, and trigger level two.
When level two is finished, I stow the surge gun, reengage the power wrench, and thumb the switch. The wrench flashes red.
“Time until half gravity is eighteen minutes.”
I want to tell her to shut up. Instead, I juggle the tools, slip the surge gun back in place and trigger the final level.
If this doesn’t work, what do I do? I’m ready to attack the control cover and beat it until it comes off. If I could only do that without damaging what’s inside…
The surge gun flashes green. I stow it back in the tool belt and try the power wrench again. Grudgingly, the bolt gives way.
“Time until half gravity is fourteen minutes.”
I slip the power wrench on the second bolt, expecting the worst, but the bolt comes loose. I thumb the power switch and the wrench spins the bolt free. I store it in the bolt drawer and slide the wrench over the third bolt.
It doesn’t move.
“Time until half gravity is eleven minutes.”
I want to scream. The power wrench flashes red. I swap it for the surge gun. Will this help, or am I just wasting time? I re-swap the gun and wrench and hit the power. The wrench flashes red again. On a space shuttle mission, back at the turn of the century, it took the nauts three hours to loosen a bolt on the Hubble telescope. I don’t have three hours. I can think of only one more thing to try.
I stow the power wrench in its leg pouch and take out the manual wrench. It doesn’t have a governor that limits the torque. But if I use too much force and break the bolt, it’s all over.
“Time until half gravity is eight minutes.”
I slide the wrench in place, take a deep breath, and turn it. Nothing. I ease off. Then I put more pressure on the wrench. Nothing. I’m dripping with sweat. My heart is racing like a mad horse. I remember Uncle Ralph struggling with a resistant bolt. He turned the bolt tighter. That loosened what was stuck. I exert pressure to tighten the bolt, then jerk the wrench to loosen it. It moves. I can almost hear the metal groan. I jam the manual wrench back in its pocket and put the power wrench to work. The third bolt unscrews. I want to fling it into space, but I carefully take it from the wrench and slip it into the drawer.
“Time until half gravity is four minutes.”
I open the panel, yank out the control module, and slip it into the chest pouch. Three modules, in order. If they’re all defective, we only have one more spare.
“Time until half gravity is two minutes.”
I don’t want to hear a countdown. “Go jump in radioactive slurry.”
“Null capacity. No radioactive slurry exists on the Galile
o. It would damage the fiber optic network and components of all data, computational, and monitoring systems on ship.”
“Shut up and leave me alone.”
Carefully, I open the belt pouch and pull out the third control module. Its tether is twisted and knotted. I tease the knots free and pull the tether to its full length. The module slips from my hand and wobbles in space. I pinch it carefully and, using both hands, I align it to push it into place.
“Time until half gravity is thirty seconds.”
My hands jerk at the sound of SINDAS’s voice. “You have the intelligence of tree bark. Go choke on electrons.”
“Null capacity.”
I steady myself and then slide the module forward. It catches on something. Don’t force it, Chapman. I pull the module back and examine it, then the circuit board. There’s a bend in the ECM guide rail. I slip the module in the open pouch, pull out the flathead screwdriver, and straighten the guide rail. Then the ECM slips smoothly into place. “Test module three replacement.”
Miniature lights flash slowly on the circuit boards.
“Control module three correctly inserted and connected. Data streaming in. Repair of third module successful and complete. Time until half gravity is four seconds.”
“SINDAS, start the thrusters now.”
“Safety regulations…”
“You already told me. Captain is declaring Survival Emergency. I’m standing in front of the SPPT. I’m safe from the plasma.”
“Affirmative.”
The lights on the control module blink and shine. A searing burst of light sparks from the thruster. Then another. The pulses increase in intensity, flashing three or four times a second like a deranged lightning storm.
“All four SPPT’s functioning properly.” SINDAS’s voice is calm. “Time until full gravity is two hours, thirty-five minutes.”
I sigh in relief.
“Oxygen depletion in one hour, fifteen minutes.”
“SINDAS, you’re as helpful as elephant puke.”
“Null capacity.”
I’m wringing wet with sweat, tired, and frustrated, ready to beat the thruster pylon with the power wrench. I think about leaving the access panel open and the bolts in their drawer. But Uncle Ralph would never have done that. He was always careful. So I close the cover and begin threading on the bolts. I sip at the water tube, slurp some granola paste, and then wrestle the socket in place and torque on the bolts.
When I’m finished, I check my pockets, equipment, and tether. SINDAS has me turn around, grab a light pole, and slowly hoist myself into space. Then I shove myself forward, over a storage shed to another light pole, this one far enough from the SPPT that I can propel myself up into space. I feel spent. All the juice has drained out of me and I’m a husk. I’ve nothing left.
As I’m rising above the ship, I look up at the stars. The endless void seizes me. Fear slams into my gut like a kick from a mule. What if I’m hit with cold radiation? What if the jets in the suit run out of fuel? What if the tether breaks and I sail off into space?
My heart races. I can’t reach my wrist to feel my pulse. I’m going to be left up here forever.
“Respiration and body temperature have increased.” SINDAS’s voice echoes in my ears.
Blast you, Billy Jepler, scorn of scorpions, spawn of slugs, vomit of penguins. The white-hot anger burns away the fear. I look up at the vast expanse of stars overhead as I fight the blacking out. The endless void seems to pulse, as if filled with the energy of unseen suns. Blazing multi-colored pinpricks of stars shine into the darkness, burning specks from the pen of God.
As the ship spins, the stars seem to move overhead. The void goes on forever. It’s vast and empty, except for the frosted light of stars. Something infinite tugs at me. A shiver runs up my spine. The stars call for my attention, as that peach seed did in Uncle Ralph’s hand when I was a child. Only now, in the blackness of space, they’re no longer angry stars. They shine with the fire of the Almighty, with light from God. A trembling warmth touches me. It’s a warmth that doesn’t come from my suit. It’s tinged with a presence more vast than the endless space, a presence that is greater and somehow near.
On my walk from Charleston, I’d felt the vague sense of a presence, a faint blessing from something infinite. This is more than that. When I was on Uncle Ralph’s farm, I would slip into the darkened barn. Before my eyes adjusted, before I heard any sound, I would sense the presence of Uncle Ralph and the mules. I’d know if they were there or if the barn was empty.
The universe isn’t empty.
A sense of expectation comes to me, a trembling urgency that something is going to happen, that God Himself is drawing near. How can that be? How can Someone more endless than space, infinite beyond all boundaries, draw near? The thought comes to me, Like pi. He’s infinite and unknowable, but here.
The sense of God’s growing nearness is stronger. I feel Him aware of me, seeing me. I shudder. The warmth increases, as if God’s put me in a spotlight of heat.
Suddenly, I feel afraid. What does God want with me? Why is He looking at me, choosing me? Is He malicious? Does He mean me harm?
Another thought comes to me, that the maker of the peach seed would never mean me harm. It’s not logical, and I don’t even wonder where that thought came from because I know that it’s true. I sigh, and the warmth of stars glows in me.
Why is this happening? Why is God with me now?
Then, like a power surge, the warmth of God fills me. I’m alert, everything in me focused and expectant. In the midst of the vast universe, God is here.
Uncle Ralph once said, “Boy, He knows the hairs on your head.” That didn’t make sense. Was God a number-crunching barber who tallied everyone’s hair count? Now, with the warmth of God soaking into me, I know what he meant. God is enjoying me like I enjoy smoothing code. Every cell in me knows His delight. I’m caught in a warmth so pure that only God could love like this.
In this warmth, I see Uncle Ralph differently. He wasn’t frustrated with me. He was frustrated with life. He was a steady man. The thought comes to me that when he took me into his home, he was claiming me as his, pledging his faithfulness to me.
But I was a kid. I didn’t see that.
I’m in this blasted space suit and I can’t wipe the tears from my eyes. Things in me are changing. Old hurts are withering and fading to dust.
In front of me, space shimmers, as if the void blinked. For the briefest moment, it was gone, and then here again. I’m drawn toward it, though everything is still around me and I know I’m not moving.
The void blinks again, slowly enough that for a moment I’m caught in complete emptiness. I panic and cry out, and the familiar feeling of blacking begins. Then the immensity around me blinks out and I’m not sure if I’ve blacked or the universe has disappeared. I feel like I’m suspended between heartbeats of the vast frosted void. There, in the soundless emptiness, the sense of Presence returns and suddenly He’s standing before me.
He seems familiar, someone I’ve heard about. I’m not sure, if I reached out, whether I would make contact with Him, but I dare not move. I’m trembling inside and yearning to hear His voice, and I don’t want Him to speak—all at once. He’s a man, but He’s more than a man. His shoulders are broad, strong, a workingman’s shoulders. He’s tall, resplendent with light, alive with a life that space cannot consume.
On His head is a thin, twisted crown. There’s something wrong with it. It’s pointed and barbed and has gouged His forehead. He bleeds.
His face is bruised, a great bleeding gash rents His side. Then I know Who this is, and it shocks me. This is the Son of God.
When Uncle Ralph and Aunt Clara talked about Him, He made no sense to me. And, now, standing in His presence, He still makes no sense. Why is He here? Why is this happening?
It seems more real than a dream or illusion. It’s as if all my life I’ve seen through a fog and now, for the first time, I’m seeing clearly.
&
nbsp; This One, bleeding from His painful crown, is the Son of God who was tortured and killed. I’m shuddering before His gaze, and I understand why the people and leaders were afraid of Him. He sees right through me. He wouldn’t be fooled with a lie. He’d never be conned. Jepler would hate Him.
I’m uneasy, uncomfortable. I want the universe to blink back into place. I want to be back above the Gal looking down on her gleaming hull. But there’s nothing before me except His presence. I don’t like Him looking at me, but I can’t turn away. There’s something compelling about Him, something deep inside me that’s drawn to Him. A rivulet of blood from His crown-scourged forehead shudders down His face.
He smiles and reaches out His hand. I know He can’t touch me through the suit, but I feel His touch, a surge of living warmth. I have never felt anything like this, the weight and warmth of His hand steadies and reassures me. Again, I remember that peach seed in Uncle Ralph’s hand, and how it promised to become a tree that would bear more peaches, and those peaches, an orchard, and that orchard an eternity. His touch is like that.
I sense a coldness gathering within me. Childhood memories and nightmares, the panic and fear I had toward my father, have all crowded in a corner of my soul, shrinking from His warmth.
“I could take those.” His voice is gentle and calm.
I know He means the coldness, the ragged memories and childhood terror. “No. They’re mine. I need them!”
He smiles patiently and says nothing.
“I can’t give them to You. What would I be without them?”
Again, He smiles and says nothing.
I’m frustrated now. “Aren’t You going to argue with me, try to convince me?”
“No, I won’t ever do that with you. You’re safe, Grant.”
“But how can You say I’m safe when You want to take everything from me?”
Again, He smiles and says nothing.
And it infuriates me. Why doesn’t He argue? Why doesn’t He correct me and scold me and demand that I agree with what He wants? I’m on the verge of shouting to Him that He’s worse than that back-stabbing, pus-laden Jepler.
