Fable Hill

by Christopher Uremovich

  “You know, I don't usually say this but—”

  “They are really, really cool, yes, I know. Every astronaut thinks as you do,” Tommy said, cutting Frank off mid-sentence.

  “They look so badass. Here I thought I was going to be walking around Mars looking like a cream puff,” Frank said.

  “This is the moment where I'm supposed to say something light-hearted and impetuous about my company, but to be frank, I don't care,” Tommy said to Frank's surprise.

  “At least you're honest, I guess,” Frank said.

  “Let's find you a suit, sir.”

  Tommy opened the outer casing of the glass container and revealed a black, sleek-looking one-piece. Frank fiddled with the shirt’s material and noticed how thick it was. It reminded him of a bulky, heavily padded wet suit.

  “This is your inner garment, or thermal micrometeoroid garment. It connects to the power source and life support pack and is controlled with this.” Tommy handed Frank a forearm-length gadget that connected to a wrist nodule on the inner garment. It had a touchscreen interface and controlled the suit’s power, temperature, and air supply. It also had an option to monitor radiation protection and exposure levels.

  “Pretty nifty,” Frank remarked.

  “Press hard on the shirt,” Tommy ordered.

  Frank pressed down on the suit's material and watched as it depressed and quickly rose back again.

  “The suit is filled with radiation absorbing gel. It's also insulating and ballistic. Hardens when struck at high speed. Imagine a baseball mitt.”

  Frank applied boots detached from the inner garment. They were very rugged and steel-toed. It reminded him of his combat boots except much bigger.

  “This part you won't try on right now, I'm only going to explain it. This is your outer layer, or shell. It is modular and won't cover you completely.” Tommy revealed the outer shell to Frank.

  “Jeez, it looks like a suit of armor. Why can't I try it on now?” Frank pried.

  “With all the inserts plus your life support pack and helmet, you're looking at about . . . oh, 170 pounds,” Tommy replied.

  Frank was taken aback. “How is that efficient?” he asked.

  “Well, for one, it's heavy on purpose to assist with the reduced gravity on Mars and two, the life support is overtly complicated, which means extra weight.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Tommy grabbed for a life support pack hanging on the wall and strained to lift it. He plugged it into the computer and ran start up software and diagnostic. Frank noticed a small fighter ace pin with a tiny South Korean flag on Tommy’s lapel.

  “This right here is your power and primary life support. It's called simply the Power Pack, but it does everything. It's run by two solid-state lithium-sulphur five kilowatt batteries.” Tommy pointed to the various outlets and display options.

  “The batteries will keep life support systems active for about twenty-four hours.” Tommy rubbed his finger across the smooth surface of a solar panel. “This solar panel extends the life of the batteries by another twenty-four hours before a recharge needs to be accomplished. So you can have more time for activities, like counting rocks.” Frank fiddled with the Power Pack program on the computer. He browsed the different applications and got acquainted with the software.

  “Last but not least, your helmet.” Tommy grabbed the matte black headgear from the glass shelf. “Since you flew fighter jets, this helmet will be very familiar,” Tommy said as he pointed to different important features. “Polarized visor, not unlike your HUD. You can switch between low, medium, or high tint filters. It can also adjust tint automatically. Your interior viewscreen is a liquid crystal display. Three different options are available: normal spectral, thermal, and active infrared. Everything you can think of is displayed through your viewscreen. Temperature, radiation levels of your suit, radiation levels in the local area, oxygen levels, suit pressure . . . everything.”

  “I’m assuming everything is controlled by the computer on my wrist?” Frank asked.

  “You can do that or just speak the commands.”

  “How does the helmet connect to the suit?” Frank asked.

  “A thread-locked girdle will connect your inner and outer garments to the helmet. A built-in transceiver will connect you to the suit, and allows communication between crew,” Tommy concluded.

  Frank tried on the suit and helmet. He immediately felt at home in his new skin. It felt similar to his flight suit in the Marine Corps. Putting on the outer garment was another story. The large modules were heavy and intrusive. Frank felt like he was trying on double ballistic vests with full combat loads.

  “Remember, Mars has only a third the gravity of Earth. That outer shell will compensate for that a little,” Tommy pointed out.

  “What's the point if it doesn't compensate for it entirely?” Frank asked.

  “Well, you can ask medical that question when you . . . oh never mind all that.” Tommy smiled menacingly.

  “Oh god . . . w-what happens at medical?” Frank asked with interest.

  “I think it’s time you met Michelle!” Tommy said, changing the subject.

  Frank pulled the release latch on his helmet to the sound of air-hissing depressurization. Tommy scolded him to keep his helmet on; he would need it for the tests.

  The centrifuge room was painted a bright white and was only big enough for the gravity machine within, as if the entire room was built around it with only an inch of diameter to spare.

  “This place is a nightmare for depth perception,” Frank stated as he entered a small cockpit. “Michelle” was plastered on the outside in red paint.

  “My own little coffin,” he groaned. The centrifuge machines he trained on in California were much more spacious.

  Frank struggled with the keypad on his wrist, adjusting the settings of his suit. He kept fat-fingering the touchscreen and getting frustrated with it. Loading screens and error messages kept appearing in his line of sight as he attempted to tell Tommy to wait.

  “Now, Mr. Frank, this machine can reach a top G-force of 20. Today, we will find out what American pilots are made of,” he said with sly undertone. Frank ignored Tommy as he frantically tried to adjust the temperature of his suit. He was sweating profusely as the primary life support system was not purging the humidity correctly.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Frank?” Tommy asked.

  “No, I am not ready!”

  “Yes, you are ready? Ok, go!” Tommy shouted maniacally.

  The gravity machine levitated off the ground with pneumatic suspension and pulsed. Swinging slowly at first, it crossed 3Gs in a single second. Frank ignored the weight pressing against his body as he busied himself with reading his suit’s service agreement.

  “Not bad, Mr. Frank,” Tommy called over comms. “Let's see if you can sustain 5Gs.”

  Frank voice-operated his suit, saying “yes” and “I do” to each of the terms and conditions prompts flashed before him.

  As Tommy raised the G-forces again, Frank's body began hugging the wall of the cockpit with extreme pressure.

  “Nine G!” Tommy yelled.

  Frank was used to the punishment of G-forces as he experienced them many times in aerial combat and maneuvers. Still to his surprise, he handled it quite well, sustaining forces that would otherwise cripple a new recruit.

  “Gotta do better than that, Mr. Tommy. The South Korean Air Force was always shit,” Frank said with mock contempt.

  Tommy’s rather large ego kicked in, like a crazed dictator with his finger on the nuclear strike button. He cranked the G-forces up once again, this time to 10G. He was confident Frank would grayout as he monitored heart rate and vitals. No one could sustain sixty seconds of this punishment. The centrifuge swung the fastest he had ever seen.

  Frank began his mental exercises and cleared his mind, focusing on the task at hand. His titanium legs clamped together like magnets. He thought that was interesting.

  Tommy spiraled
the dial to 12G as a flashing red light prompted an emergency shutdown of the system. The centrifuge came to an eventual standstill. Frank closed his eyes and waited to level out. He exited the cockpit slowly and walked towards Tommy, who was full of enthusiasm.

  “I have never seen someone go through that much punishment in my life. You were amazing!” he yelped with a pubescent crackle.

  Frank walked right up to Tommy, and with a swift swing delivered a right-handed haymaker to the face. It caught Tommy’s jaw, dislocating it and sending him to the floor.

  •••

  More days passed by at frigid Ohio Range. Frank completed more of his astronaut training. It took him three days to complete orbital operations and mechanical blocks, another three days for barometric evaluations in the first-ever Antarctic swimming pool.

  He learned about payload deployments, life support systems, conducted rudimentary science experiments, and analyzed soil samples. After all, he was a space miner now.

  During his pre-flight physical, Frank was subjected to a number of experimental augmentations. Nagoya's medical team used a gallium-indium-selenium serum with cytotherapy, adding density to organ cells. The procedure was highly controversial and Frank was “encouraged” to sign waivers before going under the knife.

  The cadre brought Frank back to the Yamada bridge simulator for his final evaluations. His last day of training consisted of real world scenarios and operating the ship in less than ideal conditions. Frank was a star performer, a quiet, mild-mannered overachiever. These qualities allowed him to rise fast in the military. These qualities, however, also became his weaknesses, as his failed marriage and relationship with his children, now adults, could attest.

  What had taken the other crew members two years to achieve, took Frank little over a month. His previous military training and experience as a pilot were valid waivers for the Nagoya instructors. The assistance of a well-known admiral in the United States Navy also helped.

  Astronaut training and global security concerns had pushed the launch window back to Friday, March 10th. Nagoya had to work quickly as they had to contend with many external factors.

  •••

  Dr. Hyuk and Mr. Tajika sat in a large conference room in a skyscraper high above the crowded Tokyo streets. They deliberated over morning coffee and a disappointing second fiscal quarter.

  “Mars will enter its summer season on the eighth of April,” Dr. Hyuk presented. “I’ve also gotten word that the Chinese left Vostok Station sometime last week.”

  Nao looked intently at his best engineer. He got up from his chair and walked towards the window. The glass was so clean it appeared as if one could walk right over the ledge. Nao crossed his arms and contemplated his response.

  “Do we know which of their ships it is?” Nao spoke softly.

  “An American military satellite provided us images. It appears to be a mid-sized thermonuclear spacecraft,” Dr. Hyuk splayed out a series of photographs on the table. “These ballast-like tanks are filled with propellant, most likely. This is the reactor right here.” He pointed to different grainy photographs of the Chinese craft. “They’re calling it the Chen Xi.”

  “Will it beat us to Mars?” Nao replied.

  “Not likely, sir. We estimate it will take them ninety days at least. Their technology is an older propulsion design, akin to nuclear propulsion systems of the 1960s.”

  “I got off the phone with the Japanese-American Expeditionary Commander. They are going to be providing security for us on the tenth. The whole world will be watching us, Jang,” Nao cautioned.

  “Yes, sir.” Dr. Hyuk stood with pride.

  Nao Tajika took in the view of Tokyo Bay. Cold winds blew across the waters and crashed against the arcology’s cement base.

  “Give the order to Roland. They make for Hachijo-jima,” Nao commanded a nearby assistant.

  “HAI!” The assistant bowed and about-faced.

  Chapter 8

  “Welcome to beautiful tropical island Hachijo-jima. We will be landing in Mitsune shortly. It is a windy 15°C,” the Filipina stewardess said.

  The Radeon SpaceLiner descended from fifty kilometers above the Earth, the farthest reaches of the stratosphere. The Nagoya passengers returned to their seats as the craft went nose-down towards ground.

  Cheers erupted as a curtain of fire enveloped the craft’s heat shield during re-entry. Roland and Frank were in deep conversation together, discussing the mission. Renee watched with amusement as Alexei began a human wave with other employees, some with their heads in barf bags.

  Mia and Keiko were not on the suborbital flight to Hachijo-jima. Mia had taken extra time with her family in South Africa, agreeing to meet up with the crew at the island and pay the extra expense out of pocket. Keiko, who had enormous power within her father's company, had already been in Tokyo well in advance of the launch date.

  The oblate-shaped SpaceLiner leveled out as astrodynamics gave way to aerodynamics. The craft deployed a set of swing wings from its fuselage. Flaps and slats on the body and wings produced drag for a steady air brake, conserving fuel.

  Frank looked out the window to fast-approaching trees and waves crashing against sea pylons. The SpaceLiner blew its bottom thrusters at 6,000 feet, jerking people forward in their harnesses.

  “Fuck’s sake,” Roland said as the suborbital plane deployed landing gears and touched ground.

  Stewardesses gave instructions over intercom as the rear doors opened to an overcast sky. The Yamada's crew and support personnel disembarked towards a small terminal. Winds blew hard against green palm trees and quaint aloe vera gardens.

  Hundreds of Japanese protesters met the crew at the terminal entrance, holding signs that read “No Nukes” and “Save Our Island”. Frank walked past a small girl. She had a shirt with “Nagoya” printed in large letters with a circle and slash.

  Security escorted the lot to idling company vehicles. Four blacked-out Mitsubishi four-by-fours departed the terminal through the not-so-sleepy streets of Mitsune. Frank sat silently in the back seat with his hand on the entry assist handle. Roland went over itineraries with the others. Japanese military trucks ferried soldiers through the city streets. Sporadic bands of anti-war protesters waved Japanese flags and staged signs at military checkpoints.

  “They know we're just astronauts, right?” Frank asked.

  “They protested like this before the war. It's the mass driver complex, they believe it's destroying the island’s ecosystem,” Roland explained.

  “Hachijo-jima used to be a national forest,” Alexei said. “You know, little furry animals and waterfalls.” Alexei used his hands to visualize how small the animals were.

  “I think I got it the first time, Alexei,” Frank said.

  “Poor small Japanese animals,” Alexei replied.

  Frank couldn't be sure if Alexei was serious or not. He had a hard time reading his bizarre personality.

  “Can you believe he has an IQ of 160?” Renee whispered, arcing her thumb in Alexei's direction.

  “Coulda fooled me,” Frank said.

  “I'm sorry, I really am. Just bored really,” Alexei professed.

  The vehicles continued their journey through the city center and up a winding hill towards the countryside. Above the hill, the Nagoya Mass Driver Complex came into view. Built onto the side of Mount Nishiyama, a series of buildings, terminals, and parking garages hugged the ocean. Running the length of the mountainside, a two kilometer long tube ended at the precipice of Mount Nishiyama’s caldera.

  Frank could see helicopter gunships flying towards the complex through the Mitsubishi's sunroof. More military helicopters and civilian gyrocopters circled the larger area over Mitsune as traffic on the road came to a standstill.

  “Everyone is trying to view the launch today,” Renee piped.

  “That, and the entire U.S-Japanese Expeditionary Fleet will be passing the island any moment now.” Roland put his hand on the passenger window.

  �
�Maybe we will see some of your pilot friends, Frank,” Alexei said.

  The lead vehicle turned off the road and the others followed in stride. They zoomed off the smooth asphalt, through brush and dirt, bypassing the congestion. A trail of dirt and debris was left behind as every rider held on to something.

  “Reminds me of the roads in Siberia,” Alexei remarked.

  “What were you doing in Siberia?” Roland asked.

  “You know, the most beautiful women are in Siberia. That is a fact, my friend,” Alexei replied, as a large bump sent them all lurching up, forward then back again. Roland glanced back at Frank and gave a cringe face of disgust.

  The four Mitsubishi four-by-fours took a sharp right turn and peeled back onto clean blacktop. All four drivers slammed on the gas pedals. Rubber burned.

  They reached the first entry control point. It was heavily guarded by Nagoya security, armed with submachine guns. Chain-link fence and sharp razor wire encircled the sprawling facility. A bomb dog searched each vehicle with earnest, hungry for his treat reward.

  “Hai, domo!” the guard shouted, waving through each Nagoya vehicle.

  Waiting outside the main entrance were Mr. Tajika and an entourage of suit-clad representatives and journalists. Nao met the crew and escorted them to an employees-only lounge. Journalists and reporters clamored to get in, but were pushed back by a wall of aggressive security.

  “It's a circus, isn't it?” Nao stated as they entered an elevator together.

  Keiko met them at the top floor lounge and bar. Bay windows provided a terrific view of the island and Mount Nishiyama. Nao embraced his daughter tightly and whispered in her ear. Frank tried not to watch because it gave him memories of his own daughter. He grabbed a beer from the bar and sat next to the others. Alexei ordered shots for everyone as Nao ran over to protest.

  “Don't drink too much, you are leaving for Mars today,” he said. Eventually giving in, he raised his own highball of Japanese whiskey to the crew as a toast.