Déjà Vu (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “Ah, Mission Control, we have a problem.”

  Do we?

  I turn and look at him with alarm, not sure what’s wrong. From where I am, I can see the lanky contraption that’s going to take me down to the lunar surface.

  The Lunar Excursion Module is cocooned within the upper stage of the replica Saturn V rocket. Dark shadows stretch across its irregular clunky shape. On Earth, aircraft have a distinct symmetry to exploit aerodynamics. In space, there’s no need for aesthetics or streamlined designs. The LEM looks like it’s been built by a child playing with LEGO. Odd-shaped polygons have been crafted out of sheet metal and stuck onto a set of lanky spider legs. At the moment, the legs are tucked uptight beneath the craft, making the LEM look like discarded space junk. Apollo defied all the expectations of scientists and artists. There’s no sleek, silver spacecraft, no beauty or allure to the LEM. This wouldn’t make the glistening workshop on Erebus.

  I’m confused. I try to lean over, but as we’re strapped in there’s no way I can see out his window.

  Adrian says, “One of the flaring panels on the upper stage has failed to separate. Holding at ten meters.”

  “Copy that, Romeo. Maintain hold.”

  Okay, a bunch of techs down on Earth are officially freaking out right about now. Like us, they’re trying to figure out the implications of a stuck panel. Adrian and I unbuckle and drift up to the windows, looking out at our crippled third stage. Three of the four flaring sections have blown clear. I look for them, but they’re long gone, having been propelled outward away from us. The fourth section of sheet metal has only partially moved. Adrian points.

  “Look at the way it’s crumpled.”

  “What happened?” I ask, only vaguely aware of this part of the mission. My focus has been on the lunar descent/ascent phases. We’re still on VOX so Mission Control can hear us.

  “Dunno. That panel started coming away but never flew clear.”

  “Romeo, Mission Control. The consensus here is a short circuit may have prevented the flaring from separating. Our advice is to conduct an EVA to better assess the damage.”

  Damage?

  We both look at each other. Neither of us gave our own craft a second thought. Our focus has been on Juliet, but they’re right—the rear of the Service Module was pressed up against that flaring. When we separated, we skewed slightly. We should have drifted straight ahead, but Adrian had to correct for some off-axis motion. Mission Control is concerned we may have damaged the aft portion of the Service Module, which includes the main engine bell and fuel lines. Damn.

  “Ah, copy that,” Adrian says, raising his eyebrows in alarm.

  “Recommendation is for LMP to conduct EVA. LMP objective is to identify any damage to the Service Module. LMP’s secondary objective is to help guide CMP to dock with Juliet.”

  I want to blurt out, ‘Are you mad?’

  LMP is me—the Lunar Module Pilot, while CMP is Adrian, the Command Module Pilot. That they’re using formal titles is disconcerting. Someone has rushed together an ad-hoc procedure. It’s being read to us as though it was prepared months ahead of time. As nervous as we are, they’re shitting themselves.

  “What are you expecting?” Adrian asks, talking to Mission Control. He looks worried.

  “We have no clear expectation. We want to verify there’s no leaks—no damage to fuel lines.”

  Adrian and I screw up our faces. Yeah, light this candle and it’ll go bang! Our silence speaks volumes to those on the ground.

  “Mission Control recommends caution.”

  No shit.

  In my experience, any time anyone refers to themselves in the third-person, things are really bad. We listen not just to what’s being said but how it’s being said. The voice on the other end of the radio might sound calm, but that’s a lie.

  “Our assessment is that a short-duration spacewalk will not impede the overall mission objectives.”

  “Wait,” I say. The realization of taking an unscheduled spacewalk with antiquated technology is hitting home. “We’re equipped with tethers and handholds, right?”

  “Limited external handholds,” is the cryptic reply, but it’s the next point that makes my heart stop. “You’ll need to craft a tether using cargo straps and belts from the storage area.”

  Craft a tether? What is this, Kindergarten? We’re doing arts and crafts now? Jesus. This is not how you get to the Moon.

  Mission Control continues.

  “The Command Module is 11 feet long, while the Service Module is 13 feet long. The engine bell extends the craft by another 9 feet. Our estimate is you’ll only need a tether that’s 20 meters in length to survey any damage.”

  I’m alarmed at the mix of imperial and metric measurements. Our flight is being conducted using meters and kilometers, but here we are talking in feet. There was at least one spaceflight in the 20th century that missed Mars entirely because of mixed measurements. At a guess, they’re scrambling down there, trying to come up with a procedure on the fly. Adrian’s already linking belts and straps together. Wonderful. He cinches a knot, pulling it tight as he tests it, only it’s my life that’ll be on the end of that line, not his.

  “Once the damage assessment is complete, docking should be conducted as normal. Instead of pulling the LEM straight back, extraction should be conducted on the opposing angle. Our recommendation is to pull the LEM down and away from the flaring.”

  I can’t help myself. I feel overwhelmed. With sarcasm dripping from my words, I blurt out, “Well, that sounds easy!” I shake my head in disbelief, forgetting we’re on VOX. My comment just bounced around Mission Control. In my day, if something like this arose, we’d stand down and take a rest period while the boffins on the ground ran all kinds of scenarios.

  Adrian raises his hand, wanting me to give Mission Control some leeway.

  Mission Control says, “Remember, that flaring still has active pyrotechnics.”

  “So it’s a loaded gun,” I say, less than impressed, but I get it. We’re racing toward the Moon. We don’t have the luxury of leaving this for a few orbits as we would around Earth. We’ve got to dock with Juliet and get clear of the booster. Then it’s got to be fired into a solar orbit so it goes off into never-never-land. Given there’s a network of alien bases sprawled across the Moon, we can’t risk a discarded booster hitting the lunar surface. Even though it would probably miss the alien structures, it could be interpreted as hostile. Besides, we’ve still got to do a full check of Juliet’s systems and prepare for Lunar orbit insertion. Having a couple of days in-transit might sound like a luxury, but we have no idea what other issues may arise. Time is the enemy. The more time we can buy now, the more we have on approach to Lunar orbit.

  “Copy that,” Adrian says. “Prepping for EVA.”

  I love EVAs, but the extravehicular activities I’m used to were in modern suits. They had a helluva lot more flexibility and even some basic propulsion. Going out in one of these suits is going to be difficult, but it’s got to be done. My lunar surface suit has been stowed inside Juliet, so I’ll be going out in one of our launch suits. They’re water-cooled with thermal insulation, but they’re only intended for limited use.

  Adrian helps me suit up in weightlessness. I’ll be using a PLSS or Personal Life Support System instead of an umbilical. My consumables, like oxygen and electricity, are all within the suit backpack. A carbon dioxide scrubber will keep my air clean. All up, that’ll give me around 8 hours, but I know this is going to be hell. More than an hour or two out there fighting against a stiff, pressurized suit, and I’m going to be exhausted.

  Half an hour later, with our cabin stowed, Adrian announces to a nervous Mission Control that we’re depressurizing the cabin. He opens the side hatch. I let him do all the work. As his suit is running on an umbilical cord, he doesn’t have to struggle with a bulky backpack.

  “Mission elapsed time is four hours and fourteen minutes, and the hatch is open.”

  Darkness looms
beyond the thin skin of our spacecraft. The contrast is stark. Everything within the Command Module has a purpose. It’s designed to keep us safe from the bitter cold vacuum outside. The inside of the hatch is busy. It’s covered in ratchets, handles, and gears. There’s a vent valve and cabin purge port. Beyond the hatch, there’s nothing—nothing at all. Calling outer space darkness is a misnomer as this isn’t the dark of night on Earth. Instead, it’s the complete absence of any light source. It’s pitch black, stretching into eternity. I’m breathing heavily. I can hear myself. Slow things down, Jess.

  A small aluminum carabiner is all that connects me to the capsule. It’s got a length of rope wrapped around it, holding it in place. Although the rope is knotted, the material is thick, resisting the pretzel-like shape into which it’s been twisted. I give it one final cinch, wanting to ensure it won’t come loose. Yeah, good luck with that, Jess.

  I reach for the edge of the hatch, grabbing it with my gloved hands. A soft push with my boots and I ease myself through the opening. Adrian guides my backpack, making sure it doesn’t catch on the edge of the hatch.

  From within, our capsule felt roomy, being designed for three people. Adrian’s taller than me, but neither of us ever felt cramped. On rising above the hatch, though, the first thing that strikes me is how small our spacecraft actually is. The conical shape of the capsule is covered in silver foil, reflecting the sunlight. This helps regulate the internal temperature.

  The hull curves away from me, revealing a vast, empty universe. With sunlight bouncing off the insulation, it’s impossible to see any stars. I feel very much alone in the darkness.

  For a moment, I get a sense of déjà vu. I’ve definitely been here before. I’ve looped over and over again through countless spacewalks outside the Intrepid. Rather than a distant memory, it seems all too real. A foreboding sense of danger looms over me. I have to make a deliberate effort to push beyond the fear seizing my mind.

  Handholds extend from the smooth surface of the Command Module. They’re designed to give us something to grab onto as we climb out of the capsule after returning to Earth. I pull on one and then another, dragging myself out of the spacecraft.

  “I’m clear of the hatch.”

  My legs drift up behind me. I try to grab at the seams near the heat shield, wanting to gain some grip, but the fingers in my gloves are too bulky. The surface might as well be coated in Teflon. Just when I think I’ve got some traction from the rubberized fingertips, I apply a little force and my gloves slip. I might as well be grabbing a greased bearing. All I can rely on are the egress handles, but they were only ever mounted to allow easy access to an inflatable life-raft. They’re clustered around the hatch. Beyond them, the mirrored surface of the Command Module is as smooth as ice.

  “As you face the Service Module,” Mission Control says, “you’ll find a handhold leading to the SIM on your left. That’s sector one—the scientific instrument module. It’s the only part of the Service Module without a panel covering its contents. You should be able to work hand over hand through to the rear of the craft from there.”

  “I’m not seeing it,” I say, switching hands and grabbing the left handhold with my right glove so I can extend my reach. Behind me, my legs swing out into space. Momentum is difficult to control without a proper anchor point. I flex my stomach muscles to slow the motion of my lower torso.

  Mission Control says, “It’s just beyond the lip of the Command Module.”

  “Beyond it?” I say, realizing I won’t be able to see this handhold until I’m right on top of it. I search with my thick gloved fingers, feeling beyond the rim of the heat shield. “Nothing. I’m not feeling anything.”

  I’m doing my best not to flail around, reaching out and grabbing for a handhold. My helmet bumps into the hull of the spacecraft. I can’t see anything beyond the garbled, blurred image of my own face reflecting off the silver insulation lining the capsule.

  “Okay,” I say. “I can feel a thin machined edge just beyond the lip of the Service Module.”

  Mission Control says, “That’s it. The upper portion of the Service Module is used as a radiator for the electrical power system. Between those sections, there are access ports. They’re inset by design. We think you can use one of these as a handhold.”

  Think? That’s not reassuring. I reach around the smooth surface.

  “Okay. Yeah. I can feel the radiators flush with the module… There’s a gap.”

  “About four feet beyond that port, you’ll find a proper handhold.”

  Four feet might as well be four miles. Who the hell designed this torture device? Oh, yeah, a bunch of extremely talented engineers and scientists hundreds of thousands of years ago. They thought of every contingency except one that would happen a quarter of a million years later. I think they can be forgiven for that.

  “You know this is like climbing a wall of ice in space,” I say, barely able to get a few fingertips into the thin gap. “Four feet, you say?”

  There’s no reply.

  The thing about being weightless in space is nothing weighs anything. Not me. Not the Apollo spacecraft I’m clinging to. Not the Moon or even Earth itself. Weightless means weightless, but it doesn’t mean massless. Inertia is the resistance of mass to a change in motion. There’s a helluva lot of mass making up Earth and the Moon, but they’re technically as weightless as I am.

  My motion causes me to pivot around my center of mass. In a spacesuit with a bulky backpack, that’s an imaginary point somewhere near my lower back. Right now, I’ve got to align that center of mass so I can move down the length of the Service Module. The problem is, I’m holding onto the conical, funnel-shaped Command Module. The Service Module opens out as a cylinder beyond the CM. It’s a nice, easy, predictable geometric shape if only I can get there. I’ve got to climb uphill from my perspective. I’ve got to get off the sloping side of the Command Module. The only handhold I can rely on is the thin edge of a port that’s out of sight. The more I try to get a grip on that, the more my gloved fingers slip. I’ve got a great hold on the egress handle, but I need to let go of that if I’m going to make it to the Service Module.

  “And the tether is anchored, right?” I say, looking down past the collar of my suit at Adrian standing in the open hatch. He’s got his sunshade visor down. His gloved hand is gripping a section of the belt. He’s feeding it out behind me as I move. My heart is beating out of my chest. Damn, that tether had better hold.

  “You are good to go,” he says.

  “Okay, nice and easy,” I say, looking up, straining to see past the rim of my helmet.

  I push out with my right hand, letting go of the egress handle. My left hand is barely touching the port on the Service Module. My legs drift up. The length of the Service Module slowly comes into view as I rise up level with the edge of the Command Module. My fingers drift near the port. If I stretch, I can reach the thin lip. With just two fingers, I pull. My gloves are barely touching the rim, but I get enough contact to propel myself on at a rate of a few inches per second.

  “I see it,” I say.

  Sunlight glistens off the slick metal surface as I drift freely through space. There it is, just as they promised, a nice, long, thick aluminum bar forming a handle beside the instrument bay. I grab it and flex the muscles throughout my body, going rigid to help bring myself to a halt. My boots glance off the Reaction Control System. The RCS is a small metal box with four tiny rocket nozzles pointing in different directions. It’s used for changing the orientation of the spacecraft and making minor course corrections.

  “Got it,” I say, gripping the handle as hard as I can. It’s unnerving being outside the Command Module.

  Mission Control says, “Okay, as you work your way down the side of the Service Module, look for any leaks. Can you see anything venting into space? Take your time. Take a real good look.”

  “Copy that.”

  I can see the Moon off to one side. It looks as though we’re going to miss it
, but in a couple of days, it’ll have moved on and our orbits will intersect.

  I clamber down the instrument bay, marveling at the evenly spaced handholds. I make a mental note to get the techs on Earth to add one up near the rim.

  “Not seeing any damage,” I say, floating at the end of the scientific instrument bay. I peer over at the gigantic engine bell. There’s an anchor point about four feet away from me, further around the rim at the rear of the craft. It’s orange and looks like it was used during construction. I can reach it. I shimmy around, trying to work over toward the high gain antenna on the far side of the Service Module.

  My makeshift tether gets caught on the RCS box. I wriggle it, shaking it off one of the nozzles, wanting to get a knot between two sections of the tether to drift free of the RCS. I’ve got to get it over the top of the RCS to continue around the engine.

  “Everything okay?” Adrian asks from out of sight. My motion must be propagating all the way back to him through the movement of the tether.

  “All good,” I say as the belt drifts away from the craft. “Okay, I can see the point of contact with the Service Module. There’s damage to the radiators. I’m running my hand over the surface. It’s dented. Scratched.”

  “No leaks?” is the question over the radio.

  “None.”

  “Look for any fuel residue. Signs of condensation or evaporation. Anything that might indicate a leak that’s had time to freeze.”

  “Some of the insulation has come away,” I say, “but no leaks.”

  I can almost hear the sense of relief on the other end, but for me, this spacewalk has only hit halfway. Now that I’ve confirmed the scope of the damage, I need to get back inside.

  “I’m returning to the hatch.”

  As I work my way back to the instrument bay and along the rails, I get a good look at Juliet still sitting nestled in the upper stage of the Saturn. She looks ungainly—clunky. She doesn’t belong there. She belongs here with us.