Suddenly Astronaut

by Andrew J. Morgan

  "I know, I was just checking. Do you think they'll let me do it sooner?"

  "I think it's best for you to—"

  "But what if we go out in the tug in two weeks and I have to pilot it and I do a really good job, what then?"

  "That's not going to happen."

  Ben folded his arms. "Might."

  "Here come the other students. Do you have everything?"

  "Yes."

  "Then off you go."

  Ben joined the trail of kids, who mostly ignored him as they snaked by, except for Bruce, who glared menacingly. Ben looked at his shoes until Bruce had passed, then tagged on to the end of the line. Two weeks, that's all he had to wait. Two weeks until he got to fly.

  "Keep up, please, Benjamin," the teacher, Mrs Deacon, called out from the front of the line. In his daydream, Ben had let the gap eke out, and he jogged to catch up, but his shoe somehow caught on the floor and he tripped, sending him and his bag to the ground. There was shattering sound that made the students at the end of the line stop and look back, but it wasn't any part of Ben that had made the sound—it was his project. He knew then that it had been badly damaged, but he couldn't check it or he'd get in trouble. Dusting himself off and getting up quickly before Mrs Deacon, who was heading his way, reached him, he hauled the bag back onto his shoulder, feeling two distinct parts inside it instead of the one it was supposed to be.

  "Are you alright?" Mrs Deacon said.

  "Yes, ma'am." Ben said, trying to look nonchalant. He could feel the combined glare of the now stationary line of kids pointing at him.

  "No cuts or bruises?"

  Ben looked down at himself. His trousers were scuffed, but there was no blood. "No ma'am."

  Mrs Deacon, looking over him, frowned. "What did you trip on?"

  Ben shrugged. Mrs Deacon looked a moment longer until she seemed satisfied that nothing untoward had happened. "Try to be a bit more careful, okay?" she said kindly.

  Ben nodded.

  As Mrs Deacon returned to the head of the line and they moved on once more, Ben heard a rumble of snickering coming from further up.

  "Tripped over his own stick legs," he heard a voice say. Bruce's. Laughter followed.

  "Keep it down, please," Mrs Deacon called out behind her.

  Once they were in class and settled, Ben took a moment to inspect the damage. His heart sank when he saw that it was damaged in the worst possible way. He realised that he really shouldn’t have taken it home with him as delicate as it was, but there was no turning back the clock now.

  "Is it broken?" Tom whispered.

  Ben checked to see what Mrs Deacon was doing. She had her back to them as she was illustrating something onscreen at the front of the class. "Yeah," he whispered back. "The driveshaft has snapped in half."

  Ben's project, like the project every student was working on, was a practical exercise in designing and building a machine that could help make life on the station easier. Most students had chosen something straightforward and simple, like a storage box with adjustable compartments or an alarm clock that squirted the user with water, but not Ben. He'd thought big. Mrs Deacon had suggested perhaps too big. What Ben wanted to make was hovering grabber claw that could go and fetch anything you wanted. Well, anything so long as it was light enough. Ben still thought the idea was pretty cool.

  He had already been behind with it; now he'd dropped it, he may as well be starting again. There was a presentation to the parents by the students in less than a week, and it needed to be operational by then. What had already looked unlikely now seemed completely impossible.

  The idea was one that Ben was extremely proud of. The device hovered by means of four ion lifters at the top, directionally driven by a transfer box in the middle that also engaged the grabbing motion of the claw that hung below to save weight. Independently, the claw worked and the lifters worked; it was getting them to both work together at the same time that was causing him problems—and now they weren't even attached any more.

  "Hmmm," Tom said. "Do you think it's repairable?"

  "I hope so."

  At the front of the class, Mrs Deacon had turned to see who was talking and had spotted Ben. "Please focus, Ben. Don't make me tell you again."

  That evening, Ben started dinner on his own, but halfway through, his parents returned home. They seemed stressed. For as long as Ben could remember, they'd been planning the station refit, and now it was underway they seemed even busier than ever. He had a vague recollection of them celebrating their joint acceptance of directorship of the station; that festivity felt a lifetime ago by now. To him they were mum and dad; to everyone else on board they were Jane and Adam Forrest, station directors.

  "How was school?" Jane asked him as she carried two bowls over from the food dispenser, as Adam hung their jackets.

  "It was okay, Mum. How was work?"

  The mere mention of work made Jane blink quickly.

  "Fine, thank you."

  "When do you think you'll be finished?"

  "Not for a long time yet. Adam, would you like sauce?"

  "Yes, please," Adam said, taking a seat.

  They ate in silence for a while, until Ben could no longer take it. He'd held back until now, knowing how busy his parents had been, but he couldn't any longer. "Mum, Dad—you know it's my birthday soon?"

  "Yes?"

  "Well, I'd really like to go for a ride on one of the tugs for my birthday." He held his breath, waiting in anticipation. "Can I?"

  Adam looked up at him from the tablet he was reading. "You're too young to fly a tug. Why would you want to go out in one of those horrible things, anyway? You get a great view of Jupiter from the observation deck."

  "Not to fly one, just to go for a ride in one. I really, really want to. I'll be thirteen, you can go for a ride when you're thirteen. I checked."

  His parents shared a look. "Tom, is that right?" Adam asked.

  "That's right. Rule two hundred and thirty-four of sub-section gamma gamma four, paragraph eight says: 'Any member of the crew of the Helios Jove orbital research platform of the age of thirteen years and above is permitted to travel on board a Helios short-range—'"

  "Thank you, Tom, I get it," Adam said, holding up a hand for silence. "Aren't those things single-seaters though? Who's flying?"

  "I'll be piloting the craft," Tom said.

  Adam gave Jane a glance. "I'm not sure about that."

  Ben had known something like this was going to happen. "Please!" he begged. "It's safe, I promise!"

  "The flight will be short," Tom added.

  Jane smiled sweetly. "I don't see any harm in it, really," she said.

  Adam looked like he wanted to protest, but didn't. "Well, kid, I guess it looks like you can."

  Ben almost exploded with delight.

  "On one condition," his dad added, pointing at Ben. "You get an A in your class this year."

  Not for the first time that day, Ben's heart sank. The practical project was a big part of his overall grade, and his constant daydreaming meant he needed to do well to make up for a lapse in his other classwork. But it wasn't over yet. He still had time. His project was still in his bag, in his room, and he could still make it work. "Deal," he said.

  After rushing the rest of his dinner, Ben shot into his room to take a better look at the damage to his flying claw. It was crudely built—he was still only twelve after all—but the work he'd done wasn't half bad, he knew that much. He was simply lacking that last little bit of knowledge to tie it all together.

  "Tom, what am I doing wrong?" he said, holding the two bits, one in each hand.

  "I'm not allowed to give you the answers, you know that—but I can suggest some research material that may help you further," Tom replied.

  "Like what? I've looked through all the class textbooks and couldn't find anything."

  "Well," said Tom, "there's Advanced Mechanisms, Fourth Edition by—"

  "How long is that?"

  "Three thousand tw
o hundred and forty eight pages."

  Ben physically recoiled. He hadn't even realised books that long existed. "How long is the bit I need?"

  "Five hundred and sixty pages."

  "Any thing else?"

  Tom hummed. "How about The Inner Workings of the Machine—"

  "And is that one any shorter?"

  "No, it's ninety-four percent longer."

  Ben looked at the broken pieces in his hands and held them together as they should have been. "It's useless," he said. "I'll never figure this out in time."

  "Did Ed Smylie give up when the carbon dioxide levels on Apollo 13 rose to toxic levels?" Tom asked.

  Ben shook his head.

  "And did Zachery Dance give up when he lost a major investor in the pioneering Helios missions mere months before launch?"

  "No …"

  "So do you think you should give up?"

  Ben sighed. He knew what the answer was, but he also knew how futile his efforts would be. "I guess not."

  "You guess not?"

  Letting the two fragile pieces come away from each other, Ben turned his thoughts back to the stories of Ed Smylie and Zachery Dance. They had been engineers like him … or like he wanted to be. They had fought against the odds to change the course of history under immense pressure, Ed using sticky tape and plastic bags, and Zachery the financial equivalent when he sold everything he owned—including his house, he had officially become homeless—to keep his company going until he could secure new investment.

  Turning the pieces over, Ben opened his mouth to speak. Then he shut it again, a brimming excitement in his belly.

  "Ben?" Tom said.

  "I've got it!" Ben said, scrambling to his feet and throwing his project back in the bag and the bag over his shoulder. He tore out of the room, past his parents, who looked up in confusion as he made for the door.

  "Ben?" his mother called out after him. "Where are you going?"

  "Stores. For classwork."

  Before either parent had any chance to retort, Ben was gone. His shoes click-clacked on the floor as he sprinted down the corridor, dashing and darting around people getting to where they were going.

  "Sorry Mrs Figgs!" he shouted as he narrowly avoided sending the lady flying as she exited her cabin.

  "You slow down, Benjamin Forrest!" she called out after him. "I'll tell your parents!"

  The store room was two-thirds along the station and one deck down, and as Ben reached the elevator, chest heaving, Tom took a chance to question his sudden departure.

  "What are you doing?" he said. "You didn't have your parents permission to leave the cabin."

  "It's two minutes to eight," Ben replied. "Curfew isn't until eight."

  "I will have to report you at eight, you know that, right?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I know," Ben said as the elevator arrived. "You've got to do what you've got to do, and I've got to do what I've got to do. You said it yourself—I shouldn't give up."

  Before Tom could respond, Ben had already jumped into the elevator, door sliding shut behind him.

  Chapter 3

  The next day, Ben joined the train of students with a bounce in his step. There, in his bag, was a working prototype of the "Hoverclaw", as he'd decided to call it. He was so excited that he'd actually awoken before his alarm, and even a deathly stare from Bruce Wenzig couldn't keep him from grinning to himself.

  "Morning!" he said to Bruce as he passed. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

  Bruce's scowl deepened.

  On the walk to school and during most of the day—clutching his precious cargo to his chest the whole time—Ben relived the elation of the moment when he'd realised the answer. It was so simple it was almost stupid, but thanks to some inspiration from Ed Smylie, he'd finally seen what had been in front of him the whole time.

  The problem was within the transfer box: where the lifters and claw needed to be driven by the same motor, he'd designed and built a transfer box from a lightweight polymer that allowed him to distribute the power between the two functions as he wanted. But the problem was always weight; to make the transfer box light enough, it was too flexible, too fragile. Gears buckled and snapped under the torque. If he used a stronger material or made the gears thicker, the weight became too much and the vehicle wouldn't fly with a payload.

  "I need some Shelltape," Ben had asked at the stores kiosk, which he was only just tall enough to see over.

  The man behind the kiosk, a gruff man named Carlton Serge, said, "I wondered how long it would be before I saw you again. Shelltape is it this time? What do you want with that?"

  "I need to make my transfer box stronger without making it too heavy. I got the idea from Ed Smylie."

  "Of course you did," Carlton said, a half-grin flashing through his stern demeanour. "I'll go get some for you."

  "Thanks."

  Shelltape, or Helios Curable Silicon-based Shell Adhesive Material to give it its full name, is a hard-wearing temporary sealant and protectant that comes in sticky rolls. When cut to size and applied to the area that needs repairing, it is flexible and durable; when the peelable backing is removed, it cures rigid in minutes. The final result is a hard, tough material that's very thin, and importantly for Ben, very lightweight.

  "Here you go, Ben. Don't go using it on any of your classmates, you understand?" Carlton had told him.

  Ben then spent the rest of the night painstakingly cutting circles out of the tape by hand, affixing them to each gear and trimming out the teeth, before then peeling off the backing and letting the tape cure. He worked by lamplight under his blanket so his parents thought he was asleep, cutting and trimming and peeling until he could no longer keep his eyes open. He woke early and reassembled the box before school, but he'd not had time to try it. His bedroom was too small to risk losing control of the Hoverclaw, so he planned to ask Mrs Deacon if he could use the empty classroom after school.

  She considered his request for a moment, seemingly suspicious. "Okay," she said. "But not a moment longer than you need."

  The day dragged like time itself was broken. Ben didn't know for sure if the box would be light enough, even if it felt like it was, so he was itching to try it out. When lunchtime finally came, he spent the whole hour tweaking and fiddling, tightening up a screw here, a screw there, loosening the first again because he'd panicked about it shearing the thread. He wished the room would empty out there and then so he could flick the switch and find out if he'd beaten it once and for all. He was poking at the Shelltape that held the once sheared drive shaft to make sure it felt secure, when a voice made him jump.

  "What's that?"

  It was Persephone Blake. She was a girl, so naturally Ben panicked. "Nothing. It's nothing."

  Persephone laughed, but it was not unfriendly. "Well, it's got to be something!"

  Ben swallowed. His throat was dry. He looked around the room to see who else was watching, waiting to laugh at him as he made a fool of himself. Persephone's friends had already passed, carrying their lunch trays back to the canteen. Persephone must have stopped to see what Ben was doing. He realised he had no idea how long she'd been watching him probing his invention.

  In light of his silence, Persephone sat down next to him. She held out her hands. "May I?" she asked.

  Ben looked at the Hoverclaw, then looked at Persephone, then back at the Hoverclaw. It felt like his arms had locked solid; he didn't want to tell Persephone no, but he didn't want to give the Hoverclaw to her either. It was his baby, his masterpiece, and he'd spent far too long working on it to let anyone else touch it.

  "Here," he said, watching himself in disbelief as he passed it to her. If his throat was dry before, it was like sandpaper now. He watched with quivering synapses as she turned the Hoverclaw over gingerly, ready to snatch out and catch it if she dropped it. But she didn't drop it. If anything, she was very careful with it. From her eyes, Ben could see she was genuinely interested, and soon she gently passed it back.

  "What does it do?"


  "Well, it's a Hoverclaw, so it flies to something you want and picks it up with its claw and brings it back to you." Ben squeaked.

  "Wow, that's really impressive. How do you fly it? From a tablet?"

  Ben snorted, then realised he'd snorted, then felt himself go red. "No, it links to Tom's data centre. It uses his object recognition and camera network to guide itself to its target."

  "Can I see it working?"

  Ben hugged the Hoverclaw to his chest. "It's not quite ready yet, so—"

  "Hey, Persephone," a voice that could have only been Bruce's said. He was with his two equally thickset friends, Clay Bolton and Matthew Pine. "Why are you hanging around with this gomer?"

  Before Persephone could answer, Bruce spotted the Hoverclaw. Ben had tried to return it to his bag, but he hadn't been quick enough.

  "What's that? Have you built yourself a friend?"

  "That'll be a first," Clay said, sniggering.

  "I have friends," Ben retorted, feeling himself reddening even further.

  "Oh yeah, who?" Bruce said leaning in. "And your mummy and your daddy don't count, even though they probably don't like you anyway."

  Ben had nothing to say. He didn't have any friends, he knew that. Why he'd said he did, he didn't know.

  "The little gomer's only friend is that stupid computer, Tom," Matthew sneered. "Imagine that—your only friend is something that has to like you because it's programed to."

  "Tom's not stupid," Ben said quietly.

  "What's that?" Bruce said, daring Ben to speak again. Ben realised that a silence had fallen over the room. All eyes were on him.

  "I'm going to go …" Persephone said. "Thanks for showing me your project, Ben." As she got up to leave, she whispered to Bruce, "Leave him alone, okay? If anyone's the gomer, it's you for picking on him."

  "Shut up, Persephone," Bruce said.

  Persephone crossed her arms and stormed away.

  "So, you were saying, Ben?" Bruce asked, waiting.

  Ben looked at the floor. The familiar heat behind his eyes, the trembling in his arms, grew out of his control. He knew that if he spoke, his voice would sound thick and tearful.