by Robert Kuntz
I pull the tube and close my fingers just above the end. Then I stab it at the port. The tube is tangled around the tool bag at my waist. It jerks and I let go, afraid to damage the tube. My heart’s racing. I know my body’s burning extra oxygen, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Oxygen depletion plus forty seconds.”
I fumble to untangle the tube. It floats away from me in the zero g. I flail in the air until finally I snatch it. I straighten the tube and grab the end.
“Oxygen depletion plus one minute.”
I try to hold my breath, to retain what little oxygen I have. My lungs are burning, demanding air. There’s nothing to breathe. My suit is full of the carbon dioxide I’ve exhaled. It might as well be filled with the vacuum of space. Calm down, Grant. Calm and steady.
I shove the tube into the docking port and feel it latch into place. My ears pop. I hear the hiss of air. I steady myself and breathe in the moist, fragrant air of the Galileo.
“Ship oxygen system connected.” SINDAS’s voice is flat and monotone, without a hint of the triumph I feel. “Air lock secured. Air and pressure are rising. Do not move; do not unfasten any settings on your suit.”
For a moment, all I hear is the hissing sound of oxygen. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world. I take a deep breath, relax my hands, and look around the PHAL.
“Captain Chapman.” For some reason, SINDAS’s voice sounds softer. “This location has a tagged message for you from Thommas MacCardell.”
I smile for a moment, remembering Mac’s youthful freckled face and red hair. When we were working on his maintenance bot problem, he used to come to the computer lab to pick up routines I’d smoothed, and we’d talk about his home in Ireland. He’d tell me stories from the pubs and I’d laugh until I cried. Remembering him, I feel surrounded by deep sorrowing number 8s, all reaching out to grab me. I shove them away. “Play it, SINDAS.”
A holo-vid shimmers in the air to my right. I see Mac’s smiling face.
Boyo, tha Galileo’s cruisin’. We just passed Mars’s orbit. Couldn’t see tha red warrior, of course, but we left a wake. He’ll cross it in three months and won’t know what hit him. Boyo, we make tha planets tremble.
A bar fight back in Dublin, in tha Boar’s Head, I’m rememberin’. Fists were flyin’ and beer spillin’ and people wrasslin’ on tha floor. And there’s one lad, kin o’ my bra’s best friend, who’s come in from County Mayo. And he looks at tha brawl and gets a light in his eyes and leans back against tha bar. One of tha brawlers rockets past the Mayo lad and, with a quick flick o’ his foot, Mayo trips tha drunken lout. Tha brawler’s mate sees and lunges up from tha floor. Tha lad from Mayo spits beer in tha man’s face and, without a thought, slugs him in tha gut. Tha mate stumbles back and collapses on tha floor.
Tha barkeep’s shoutin’ and tha Garda are pourin’ in tha door and tha Mayo lad turns back to tha bar as if he hasn’t a care in tha world.
That’s you, Chap. You’re that Mayo lad and I drink ta ya, boyo. You’re a brave man and I’m celebratin’ passin’ Mars orbit by putting this tagather for ya. Since ya had yourself drugged before you left Earth, here’s how ya got onboard.
The holo-vid blurs to a new scene, an Aiolos rocket on the pad at Cape Canaveral. Flames shoot out from the base of the Aiolos. It trembles, then lifts slowly off the pad. Mac’s voice continues.
When we blasted off, I thought o’ my uncle Brian Patrick, back in Dublin. Owns a brownstone with a red door, he does. Loads trucks all day at tha warehouse, a burly man with a hearty song. Never a hair out o’ place on his curly, black head. Not even at tha end o’ tha day.
Blastin’ off, I looked over at ya and saw my uncle Bri. Not a hair out o’ place on your head. Not a worry on your face. Calm and cool ya was, Chap, drugged ta tha gills.
The rocket thunders up into the sky.
Bri was calm and cool that way. Every six months, he’d push a wheelbarrow full o’ sand home from tha warehouse, tellin’ tha guard at tha gate tha sand was for his garden, or a building project. At tha start o’ tha lane, he’d dump tha sand on tha playground for tha kids and bring home tha new barrow that he’d sell ta buy something for his missus. We’d laugh at his theft over pints in tha pub and Bri would say, ‘Imagine me as a Kerry man under that wheelbarrow. What would ya have?’ He’d pause a beat then answer, ‘A mechanic.’
Na matter how many times we heard it, we roared none tha less.
The scene cuts: the Aiolos approaches the Galileo.
Ah, boyo, what a glorious thing ‘tis ta be in space, tha sky like an endless black sea with life-buoys of stars bobbin’ on tha swells. We’re nearin’ the Gal and I’m breathin’ in tha sight o’ Earth. Like an emerald it is, boyo. And out tha other winda, tha moon is glimmerin’, cool and steady, with a secret it canna share. It’s seen tha end o’ our trip and won’t breathe a word ta anyone.
We’re approaching tha Galileo and I’m singin’ and dancin’ and doin’ backflips in tha zero grav and, boyo, it’s everythin’ I dreamed it would be and a million times more.
She wasn’t much ta look at from space, tha Galileo, a stubby, squat gal sittin’ on her big butt with her silver needle glistening in tha moonlight. Then Carmen threads us through tha needle and we slip inta tha dark, like a thief inta an alley by tha harbor. And, steady as a pickpocket, Carmen sails us through that black core ta tha PHAL at the top o’ of tha rings.
Tha two robo-arms, Handy and Andy, stretched out from tha PHAL and caught us. Tha lock strained out ta kiss tha hull o’ tha Aiolos. We felt tha pressure tug and heard tha seals lock. Tha pressure matched and tha doors slid open and there it was, boyo, my dreams, tha ship o’ my dreams. Helmets popped off. We were yallin’ and clappin’ for Carmen and we all made way for her ta enter tha Gal first. Then Bronson, Naomi, Vicente, and I grab tha stretcher where you’re dozin’ like a babe, and we scooted ya on board.
There on the holo-vid, I see it, the door opening from the Galileo, Carmen bouncing aboard, her face shining. Four suited nauts manhandle the stretcher into the airlock, laughing and joking with each other. They loaded me onto the transpad. The holo-vid bled forward and we were inside the rings, the four nauts out of their suits now, lifting the stretcher, taking me down the familiar ivory-tiled halls to the animal treatment lab. Ihor came in after the stretcher, bent over and opened the dog cage, gathering Ginger and Mouser into his arms. They licked his face like he was ice cream, and he laughed like he would never stop.
Mac’s voice continues,
At that moment, Chap, when we lifted ya off tha stretcher onto tha pod bed, ya looked so peaceful. And I found myself thinkin’ ‘He’s tha key. Chap’s tha key ta tha whole thing. He got us here.
Back in Eire, they say, ‘Tha face is a pool, deep ta tha soul. When tha Lord is near, tha waters clear.’ Tha waters cleared for me, boyo. It hit me like a keg o’ Guinness fizzin’ in my veins. We’re headed beyond tha edge. We’re goin’ off tha map, out ta tha deep places where tha dragons be.
My da was a dragonslayer, Chap. Ne’er came back from tha Pamir Mountain Wars. They sent us his medals, shiny in velvet boxes, and I could hear him singin’, ‘Remember me, back home. Lift a pint at tha pub a’ home, and remember me.’
And I knew I was a dragonslayer, like my da. Ya did that Chap, your smoothin’ and your comin’ at tha last and your gettin’ us those two hundred pounds. Ya made us dragonslayers. We’re blazin’ tha trail. They’ll come, Chappie. They’ll come after us, vast, great ships that’ll make tha Gal look like a mutt beside a herd o’ stallions.
Well, I looked down at ya, Chap, and your face was a deep, clear pool. A shining smile, ya had, like ya knew we’d made it and ya was glowin’. It was tha same smile I’d seen on your face when ya’d smoothed tha code, shining with satisfaction and triumph.
That smile’s been glowin’ in me since tha’ day. Like I’m carryin’ ya around ta tha muggy tropics and tha windy grasslands and tha acrid labs and that cramped galley where Bronson�
�s always bangin’ pans.
I see tha’ smile on Carmen, Chappie, and Vicente, and even, in odd moments, on Ihor. I don’t want ta forget that smile, Chap, so I’m tellin’ ya this and taggin’ it so it finds ya some time ta surprise ya. Tell me when ya’ve heard it and tha first ale’s on me, ya dragonslayer.
The holo-vid flashes a brief glimpse of Mac’s smiling face and then it sparks out. I’m so choked up that I can hardly breathe. I want to thank Mac. I want to tell them all they’ve no debt to me; it’s the other way around. But they’re in the auxiliary freezer and I’m here.
“Beginning Chapman protocol,” SINDAS says. “Tube four opening.”
Before I can wonder what the Chapman protocol is, a cupboard door opens about waist height, and a long, padded shelf slides out into the room.
The air pressure apps patch flashes gold. “Air pressure full,” SINDAS says. “All doors secure. Check for leaks complete. You may now detach oxygen line and remove your condenser, oxygen, and power pack.”
I struggle to focus. I shove the memory of Mac away and pull the oxygen line off my suit. I float off the floor, struggling to unfasten the pack, remembering to detach the extra bladder with the ammonia-air mix. Below the padded shelf, a light blinks. A door slides open. I set the pack and extra bladder there. The door closes.
“Dr. Chapman, lie on the trans-pad with your feet toward the wall.”
“Can’t I take this suit off first?”
“Chapman protocol safety regulations require full suit and helmet for transportation to ring sectors.”
Someone wrote a special protocol to take me to the gravity section.
“Does the Chapman protocol involve administering drugs?”
“Negative. Dr. Branch ordered all drugs discontinued.”
Before she died, Naomi made sure that SINDAS wouldn’t drug me again. I was damaged goods, a total drain on them. But they claimed me as one of them. All seven of them looked out for me.
An intense feeling of sadness washes through me, and I see Mac’s smiling face again. For a few minutes, it’s raining murky blue number 33,333s, all limp and helpless. I position myself on the trans-pad.
“Secure safety straps.”
I follow SINDAS’s instructions mechanically, securing my feet and then buckling the waist belt.
“Insert hands in safety loops.”
I see the loops at the side of the pad and work my gloved hands into place. Secured on the pad, I’m floating, but feeling the weight of grief. The blue 33,333s splatter me with loss. The crew did their best for me, and I’ll never be able to thank them.
“Prepare to slide into trans-pad.”
Caught in sadness and gratitude, I mutter, “Affirmative.”
The pad slides into the wall. I hear it lock into place. Then a stabilizing grid clamps on my helmet and foam pressure pads slide out from the wall and press against my legs and thighs, stomach and shoulders.
Without warning, the trans-pad jolts. The floor gives way and I fall into a tunnel. The blue 33,333s vanish, replaced by heavy black 19s pounding on me like thick hammers. My heart races; I gasp for breath. My helmet turns from clear to black, then blinks to the Earth scene I ordered for the training simulation. The trans-pad sways. Panic closes around me like a huge sharp fist. I feel the sensation of speed. I’m hurling through this tube like a bullet shot from a gun. A scream rises in my throat. The acceleration doubles, pressing me down, like a giant is sitting on me. I wrestle against the panic. Get away from me. I feel the new strength in me. I’ve been changed by what happened out in space. I’m going to be OK, I tell the panic. Get lost! Obediently, the fist of fear releases and then slips away. What began as a scream becomes a bark of laughter.
I’m jolted again and spun, swung about, the g-force shifting and throwing me against the pressure pads as we hit a tight curve. The trans-pad sways again. The g-force shifts to the right and then toward my feet. I feel like a rag doll being squeezed against walls in a tiny room. The g-forces increase. It’s five giants sitting on me now. I can barely breathe. Then a great bang startles me, the trans-pad slows, the g-forces fade, and I jerk to a halt. The pressure pads and stabilizing grid retract. The safety belt clicks open and then whirs back into the sides of the pad. A door opens ahead of me and I see the dim light and ivory tiles of the Galileo. The compartment seems to be shuddering. Then I realize it’s me.
My eyes see double. I blink rapidly, and my vision clears. I force myself to relax. I have weight; it’s almost normal; I’m back under gravity.
I can’t believe what just happened. I replay in my mind the sensation of speed and swaying, the crushing weight. I experienced that. I can’t quite make sense of it. But I experienced that ride and I didn’t black.
“Dr. Chapman, to exit the trans-pad, release the straps.” SINDAS’s voice prods me.
I take a deep breath, tug my hands free from the safety straps, and pull my feet free. Carefully, I climb off the trans-pod. My head’s clear. My stomach’s no longer tight. I struggle to detach my helmet and squirm my way out of the outer suit.
SINDAS opens a closet, and I store the outer suit and helmet there. Then I strip off the inner suit and hang it up. All the while I’m thinking, I didn’t black. They spun me around a five-story drop from the center to the rim and I didn’t black.
I don’t know what to make of this. It’s troubling and wonderful all at once. I want to laugh, but I’m too weak, too stunned.
Finally, I open the door to the padded shelf, take out the packs and tubes and store them in the closet.
A door slides opens. The ivory-tiled corridor ahead is dim, empty. I stagger out of the trans-pad reception room and collapse on the tiles. The air is cool on my bare skin. The rest of my clothes are back in the Ring One air lock.
A faint, distant sound echoes in corridor. It increases, wild and furious. Ginger and Mouser race down the corridor, barking with glee. They rocket into my arms, wriggling, barking, welcoming me home as if they know what I did and can’t get over how proud they are of me.
The poodles go wild, licking my face. After a moment, I look up and see my face on the smooth silver surface of the door. My hair is drenched with sweat. My eyes are tired, and I see by the set of my shoulders that I’m spent. Then I smile and it looks just like Mac described it. I hear his voice, and for a moment, I’m in an Irish pub next to him and my heart is grieving and singing, both at once.
13
May 9, 2052 (Launch plus 110 days), 09:22 GMT.
Ginger and Mouser bounce along beside me as I check the biomes for low-g damages. SINDAS’s damage reports took two hours, and that’s only what she knows from her sensors. She listed 239 areas requiring site inspection. Bots scurry around us, heading for clean-up work.
I feel shaken from my experience. Things look different. I’m different. Thoughts are tugging at me, like those scarlet sassafras seeds did on my walk from Charleston. But they’ll have to wait. There are level-one emergencies at hand.
Restoring water levels was the most urgent need. I ordered ocean levels increased and heat and wind cycles changed for the rainforest and mangrove swamp. Besides water problems, the wind knocked things out of place. High wind cycles are necessary for plant growth, especially for trees to grow strong limbs. But in low-g, the winds fling things that are normally weighted down.
In the ag biome, I pick up a hummingbird feeder that was blown down. Red sugar water drips from a crack in the plastic tubing. I slap a piece of duct tape over the crack and re-hang the feeder. Before I’ve taken two steps, a neon hummer whirs past me to sip at the feeder.
In the chicken pens, straw is strewn all over. Hens stand, pecking in clusters as though nothing has happened. The rice paddies are barely damp. I order SINDAS to pump more water into them. I walk through the mechanical tunnel, checking motors, repairing fouled vacuum pumps, and freeing clogged intake valves.
In the fog desert, some of the taller cacti list to the side. Temperature sensors and wind vents are clogged
with sand. I wipe the big clumps off and brush the grains of sand away until SINDAS reports they’re functioning at acceptable levels.
I steel myself and enter the ocean. The sand is soggy underfoot. Wet sand has been sloshed against the walls and clings in damp cakes. A crab skitters across the sand, leaving a scratchy trail. There’s no way to increase the heat here; the coral reef has a narrow heat tolerance and we can’t risk getting white spot on the coral. Unlike a real ocean, the water on the beach sand doesn’t drain quickly into the sea. We’ll have to put up with water being out of circulation.
I retreat from the ocean, and as I’m walking down the corridor to the mangrove swamp, the thought comes to me that we can increase the wind in the ocean biome and that will have some drying effect. Where did that thought come from? I tell SINDAS to do the calculations and find out how much we can increase the wind without dampening the wave action that keeps the reef alive.
I shoo Ginger and Mouser back before entering the mangrove swamp. They’ll get covered with foul muck if they play in here. The swamp looks like a hurricane went through. Dead leaves are spattered on the walls and cover the hanging lights.
I step off the path and sink to my knees in the muck. The gentle buzz of a bee sounds in my ear as it speeds by me seeking a new pollen-filled flower. Blurting calls from tree frogs echo through the forest of trunks. I think of the frogs as little green .0919s, clinging to the trees and filling the air with their percussive calls. Every biome has its unique sound, its hum of life. After three weeks, the sounds and smells in the biomes communicate subtle messages of system health or dysfunction.
I find small turtles on their backs and crabs caught in snarls of grass twisted through the knees of the mangrove trees. Clumps of cattails tilt to the side. I rescue shrimp washed up onto the muddy path that runs between the trees. As I flip over another turtle, I feel the vibrancy of life, the pulsing heartbeat of the swamp. I pause for a minute and drink it in, letting the moist air and soft gurgle of the water fill me. Thoughts from yesterday tug at me again and once again, I shove them away, telling SINDAS to do more wind calculations here. We’ll get extra rain from the new temperature gradients, but we might as well try to blow some of these leaves down to the chocolate brown water.
