I looked at him with surprise. “That’s it?”
He chuckled. “The readings only take a minute or two. Now they must be collated, which will take much longer—usually about four hours. Meanwhile, we’ll talk.” He gestured to his office door.
Four hours. That’s all it takes to encapsulate a person’s life. And hidden somewhere in that careful encapsulation, I knew, a dark unknown waited.
With growing trepidation, I followed as he led the way out of the examining room.
O O O
“Please have a seat,” Dr. Wells said, gesturing to an empty chair. He moved with practiced ease in Station Nineteen’s spin-induced gravity, the mark of a veteran stationer. Still, I’d never heard of him. A fair bet that he wasn’t from around here.
His office, with its wood grain and plush carpeting, was considerably friendlier than his examining room. Earth landscape stills—lush rain forests, rolling oceans, distant mountain ranges—adorned his walls. Small flowering plants, faintly fragrant, topped twin cabinets that flanked a small desk, also wood grain, its surface clean and polished. His chairs had tall backs and reclined slightly.
I thought he would sit behind his desk and bring up my file, but instead he took the seat next to mine. “So,” he said with a grin, “how did you like being zapped?”
His offhand use of the pejorative surprised a chuckle out of me. “It wasn’t quite what I expected,” I said.
His grin widened. “Everyone seems to expect shock treatments or some similar horror. Sometimes people are almost disappointed.”
His attempts to put me at ease, though seemingly sincere, fell a little short. The flight from the orbital launch site to Station Nineteen had been a brief one, but just long enough for me to mull over the implications of what had happened. I had seen it in the eyes of the review board when they’d made their recommendations to me: the launch would not be delayed, No Matter What. If this doctor couldn’t help me, I was screwed. And the launch was now less than two weeks away.
Eclipse I, the ship was called. Docked in Martian orbit, over fifty meters long, driven by twin q-thrusters. Trumpeted by the International Space Council as the next great step in stellar exploration. With quantum vacuum fluctuations as a fuel source, it had no need to carry propellant. The techs projected max speed at around .4C—nearly one-half light speed, easily the fastest ship ever built.
Eclipse I. Scheduled to launch on her maiden voyage—the first at relativistic speeds—in less than two weeks, with me as captain. But after what had happened at the test firing …
I shook myself from such musings and sized up the small man in the chair next to mine. I said, “So when do you start telling me my life story?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You know.” I gestured to the examining room door. “The readings.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. A mnemonogram, or memory print, is very similar to an EEG. The untrained eye would only see a jumble of peaks and valleys. I am trained to look for patterns—groups of signals—which, when combined with therapy, may help a patient to overcome internal blocks he may not be aware of. That’s really all there is to it. Hardly the same as telling you your life story.”
“Oh.” I still had no idea what he was talking about. “It sounds so easy.”
“It isn’t. But I’m hoping it isn’t necessary.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Captain Schaeffer, I’m a fully-trained psychologist. Mnemonology is merely a field in which I specialize. I want to work this out between the two of us, if possible. If not—”
“—then you’ll plug into my brain and fix me, right?”
He sagged. “Actually, I won’t ‘plug into’ your brain at all. You will. But let’s worry about that later. For now, why don’t we just talk?”
I sighed, slightly ashamed. It wasn’t really fair of me to poke at him like that. “What do you want to talk about?”
“It’s your time.”
I snorted. “So you live here on Nineteen, doc?”
“Actually, no. I normally work out of Station Seventeen.”
A smile crept onto my face. “Another Mars station. Funny. I figured you for an Earth station.”
He laughed. “Why? Do I seem foreign to you?”
“I just … thought I would have seen you around. And given the décor—”
“I have a small practice. As for the office”—he opened his hands, glanced around—”belongs to a colleague of mine. She’s on sabbatical in Peru. You’ve been away from Earth too long, I think. It’s not that bad there. Not so foreign.”
“If you say so.”
He leaned forward. “How long has it been since you’ve been to Earth?”
I had to think about that one. “Oh, I’d say about ten years. And that was for my mother’s funeral.”
“I see. No ties back there, then?”
“None.”
“And you’ve spent the last two years working on the Eclipse project, right?”
“Just about. I took a break after the Titan flight.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about the Titan flight.”
Then of course I saw where he was going. “I get it. You think the Titan flight has screwed me up somehow. Or is that just what the ISC board told you?”
“No one has told me anything. Nor have I drawn any conclusions about the effects of the Titan mission. But I’d like to hear the story.”
“Why?”
“Humor me.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re the doctor. But do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Stop calling me Captain.”
His eyes widened at that. Before he could ask why, I launched into the story I had told a thousand times.
O O O
The Jupiter flights had come first, of course. The success of the Mars colonization program had allowed the ISC to send us out to explore the moons of Saturn while still evaluating the Jupiter data. Titan was a natural candidate for the first manned Saturn shot.
By that time, I had already served on four missions, all forays into the asteroid belt, the most famous of which was an exploration of Ceres. I had standby status for the third and fourth Jupiter missions, but missed out on both of them. I got back into space as second in command on the Titan flight, with a crew of five.
For the most part, the mission went according to plan. We sent down our probes through the orange atmospheric haze to the dismal surface, to see the methane rains over huge equatorial mountain ranges and barren rock-ice. Dismal, but those images have haunted me through the years.
As we began preparations for the burn that would break us out of Titan’s orbit and send us back home, the shipboard sensors warned of a fault in the propellant system. Further diagnostics confirmed that a weld at one of the fuel tank joints had weakened appreciably—whether from the stress of the flight or due to a manufacturing fault, no one could say for sure. But it was no longer within ISC tolerances. If the weld failed during a burn, the entire tank would explode, taking the ship with it.
The crew considered the problem, even dithered a little, but no amount of wishful thinking could change the fact that none of us were willing to risk our lives on a dodgy weld.
The good news was that we had the equipment and training to patch it. The bad news was that someone would have to go EVA to get the job done. The worse news was that if we didn’t get it fixed in time to meet our launch window—which would close in about thirty hours—we risked not getting home at all.
“So I volunteered,” I told Dr. Wells.
He kept his hands folded serenely in front of him, but his posture had gone rigid, and his eyes lit. “Why?”
“Well … to be honest, I was pretty bored up until that point.” This was something I never mentioned in interviews; I usually spouted some nonsense about doing what I could for the good of the space program, et cetera, ad nauseam.
I realized as soon as I said it, though, how flip it sound
ed. I couldn’t have Dr. Wells calling me uncooperative when he reported back to the ISC. “I mean, I guess I felt I hadn’t earned my keep on board. So much of the mission had been preplanned and had gone off without a hitch. I had gone all the way out to Saturn—farther than man has ever been—yet I felt unneeded. The fact is, human crews really aren’t necessary unless something goes wrong.”
He remained silent for a while, until I became uncomfortably conscious of the humming of an unseen ventilation fan, the sort of noise you learned to ignore on board a space station. Finally he said, “And the clock was ticking. Thirty hours, you say?”
“Less than that, really. I had to allow time for new diagnostics on the patch. If it didn’t meet specs, I would have to do it again.”
“Not much room for error, then.”
“No.”
And it had been damned hard work. Even in temperatures so low that Kelvin was the preferred scale, I sweated profusely. It was a pity I was so preoccupied with the fuel tank; I had a spectacular view. The bulk of Titan, with its omnipresent cloud haze, spread below me, while great Saturn itself hung against the eternal night of space, a waxing crescent filling a third of the sky, the angle of sunlight throwing its atmospheric bands and rings into sharp relief.
As I worked, a strange calm slipped over me, a detachment from the urgency of the work at hand. Maybe I just felt at one with the universe, I don’t know. Whatever it was, it enabled me to finish the job. When I finally clambered back aboard, exhausted and aching, the captain clapped me on the back and said, “They’ll make you a hero for this.”
“And they did,” I said. “It was a real circus scene when I got back; everyone wanted me for interviews and endorsements. It reached the point where I couldn’t check the comms without hearing my name or seeing my face.”
Dr. Wells nodded, spoke softly: “And you were never afraid, that whole time?”
“Of course I was!” I said it more strongly than I intended. “If the patch didn’t work, we were dead. We all knew it. You’d be a fool not to be afraid in a situation like that.”
“True. Capt—Mr. Schaeffer, what do you think happened during the test firing?”
I dropped my gaze. “I froze.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I don’t know. Honest to God, I don’t.”
“Has anything like that ever happened before?”
“No. Not that I can remember.” I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not, but it was the truth. My cheeks burned. An uneasy mixture of shame, helplessness, and rage churned inside me, souring my stomach. I had to be careful not to let it show. Emotional displays would not behoove me at this point.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s stop there for the day.”
“Fine with me.”
He spread his hands. “It’s your choice, Mr. Schaeffer: we can continue having sessions like this, or we can go to the mnemonogram, whichever you prefer. My recommendation is that we proceed with the sessions.”
“Sessions will take too long. The launch is in less than two weeks.”
He shrugged. “It can be postponed, if necessary.”
“You don’t know the ISC. This launch is too important to them. If I can’t make it, they’ll send up my standby.”
“You don’t seem very comfortable with the machine.”
I raised my gaze, made certain to look him straight in the face. “To hell with comfort. I want to be aboard that ship.”
O O O
“So how does this thing work?”
I sat in the gray examining room for the second time in as many days, waiting for him to finish fiddling with his device. For all my misgivings, I was curious: mnemonology is a relatively young science, and certainly among the least popular. Even now, some fifty years after its development, its detractors decry it as “invasion of privacy” and “the first step toward mind control.” The original pioneers of the field—nicknamed zappers by an uninformed media—had faced countless lawsuits and court injunctions. I had often wondered why anyone would be interested in pursuing such a high-risk career.
As if my own career wasn’t high-risk.
“That’s rather complicated,” he said, his attention focused on the handheld. “Basically, it works in two phases. The first phase you’ve already experienced. The device, via the headset, probes the brain for memory patterns, which it then collates and records.
“The second phase treats those patterns as a kind of memory map, giving them theoretical spatial ‘locations,’ which I can then use as reference points to reroute neural impulses. In this way, the patient is ‘plugged into’ a selected memory, to use your words. The brain’s like a disorganized closet: we may know what’s in there, but we often have no idea where we put it or how to get to it.”
“Which memory am I plugging into?”
“We’ll start with the test firing.”
Unease darted through me. “What do you mean, start?”
He straightened, smoothing the lines of his shirt. “I’m hoping we can resolve this by revisiting the experience. But if not, we may have to go deeper.” He gestured to his handheld. “I’ve been poring over your readout since last night. First I had to locate the print of your experience on board Eclipse I. Then I had to find similar patterns, which in your case was no easy task.”
“I’ll bet. I told you nothing like that had ever happened to me.”
“Perhaps not. But the reason it happened is inside you, and that reason is buried somewhere in your memory. The patterns are there, if you know what to look for.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You will. But listen carefully.” His voice dropped a notch. “I could only find one other pattern that met my search criteria. That means we only have two chances at this. So don’t let anything slip by you.”
“You won’t see it at all?”
He shook his head. “It’s up to you to interpret the memory. I’m only your guide.”
“Will I feel anything?”
“Everything you remember. It will seem completely real, but your conscious mind will know the difference. Try not to let that distract you. Are you ready?” He held the headset out to me.
I was silent for a moment. I didn’t relish the idea of revisiting that strange day of the test firing. In fact, the thought terrified me. But I couldn’t back down now; I was the big space hero, after all. I took the headset from him and donned it carefully. “Plug me in,” I said.
He began pushing buttons on his console. “Remember, watch everything carefully.…”
O O O
“Four minutes, Schaeffer.”
“Roger, control.” He leaned over and thumbed the com switch. “You catch that, Mel?”
Her voice came back sounding tired. “Yeah. Be right there.”
The readouts and displays glowed out at him in the low light of the cockpit. He leaned back in the pilot’s seat and closed his eyes, resting them. Ghost images of symbols and numbers danced in the moment’s darkness.
A strange disorientation clouded his thoughts, as if he’d just joined a conversation in progress. Stranger still, he became aware of another presence, another self. This other was nowhere to be seen, causing him a moment of panic. Where was he? Who—
Understanding came. The other was him, too. It was his memory-self, the one who experienced. He was the watcher-self, the one who observed. He remembered a warning about distractions, and his panic receded.
The hatch behind him hissed open, and Commander Melanie Morsi floated into the cockpit. Her features were flushed. Sweat beaded on her crew cut. “Goddamn system diagnostics,” she said under her breath, taking her seat next to him. “They’d be a lot easier to run if we had more space on this ship.”
He grinned. “I think the engineers designed them that way, sweetheart. Just to piss you off.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Her voice was grim.
“Why bother running those diagnostics anyway? We’ve got a test firing going on here, in case
you hadn’t noticed.”
She ignored him. She usually did when she was in one of those moods. “Control, give me a reading on the primaries.”
Control, in the voice of an operator named Benny, could not keep his amusement from showing. “Primaries are holding steady, Mel. And Schaeffer’s right, you know. We don’t need to worry about the reactor for another two weeks yet.”
Schaeffer tried to hide his smile, without much success.
“Listen, Benny,” Mel said, “I don’t see you in here flying this can. Don’t you tell me what not to worry about.”
“Uh … roger, Eclipse I. Three minutes.”
“Gotcha.” She swung around to face me. “You going to help me out here, or do I have to fire this thing myself?”
Schaeffer bent to his console and began punching in commands. “Yeah. Starting pressurization sequence.” His instruments told him that the primary coolant was pressurizing nicely. “Mel, lock us down.”
“Check.” Mel pressed a row of buttons, and the hatchway behind them slid closed. A short, loud buzz confirmed it was sealed. “All stations secured, boss.”
Benny’s voice came over the com again. “Two minutes, Eclipse I.”
“Roger, control.” Schaeffer flicked the generator switches above his head. “I’m starting her up.”
“Roger, Eclipse I.”
That’s when it started. The deck beneath his feet began vibrating as the generators whirred into life. Nothing unusual about that. But Schaeffer froze, his hand hanging out in front of him as if he had been turned off.
Mel glanced over her own readouts. “Pressurization complete,” she said without looking up.
Schaeffer remained frozen. He couldn’t even respond; it seemed his brain had forgotten how to operate his mouth.
Mel looked up at him. “Primaries are pressurized, Schaeffer. We can switch over any time now.”
He barely heard her. That rumbling beneath his feet commanded his full attention. Something about it … everything was normal, except something was wrong, all wrong.
“Mike? You okay?”
With an effort, he turned to her. A frown was set in her features. “Mike?”
Schaeffer’s throat locked. “I …”
Launch Pad Page 27
