Suddenly Astronaut

by Andrew J. Morgan

  "Morning," Ben said, pulling his shirt back down and yawning. His stomach rumbled, and he turned to the net filled with supplies hanging from the back of the pilot's seat. It bulged with industrial-looking containers and packages, none of which he recognised. He lifted out a long, white tube, roughly the size of his forearm. It was heavy. The writing on the outside referred to it as Nutritional Base #C-372.

  "If you are hungry, that will satisfy your nutritional needs," Tom told him.

  Ben turned it over in his hands. On closer inspection it appeared to have a nozzle on one end and a plunger on the other. "Do these go in the food dispensers?"

  "That's correct. Combined with Raw Matter A-245, 286 and 291, and Flavour Base B-864 through 994, the food dispensers can replicate virtually any meal."

  Ben punctured the seal on the nozzle with his finger and sampled the paste that came out on it. It was smooth and flavourless. He wrinkled his nose. "Don't we have anything nicer?"

  "You will need to consume that to remain healthy," Tom said. "But we can attempt to make it more palatable if you would prefer?"

  Ben nodded, wiping the rest of the paste on his finger onto his shirt.

  "See if you have Raw Matter A-286 and Flavour Base B-821, 844 and 903."

  Rummaging through the net, Ben found similar tubes to the Nutritional Base for the Raw Matter, and a box of much smaller tubes for the Flavour Bases. Between that and water cartons, that seemed to make up the entire haul.

  "You'll need a makeshift pan and mixing utensil," Tom said.

  "A pan?"

  Tom made a noise that made him seem disgruntled. "An container designed to hold ingredients used in cooking," he said. "Surely you know that?"

  Ben shrugged. "Why would I know that?"

  Tom made the noise again. "Never mind. If you look under the instrument panel you'll see a lid on the left-hand side marked Fuses. You can unscrew that lid with your fingers."

  Ben looked under the panel and saw the lid. It protruded from the fuselage, metal and boxlike. He unscrewed it and it came away in one piece, revealing rows of fuses underneath. "Now what?"

  "Now, remove the Fuses sticker from the front, and that will be your pan. The tool set in the drawer to the left of the instrument panel will have a manual wrench in it. That can be your stirring utensil."

  Ben found the wrench where Tom told him it would be. It was thinner than he'd expected. He held both the wrench and the lid in each hand, and felt very confused.

  "Is this a joke?" he asked Tom.

  "No, this is serious," Tom said. "You want pleasant food, don't you?"

  "Yes, of course I do, calm down. I'm just asking."

  "I am calm."

  "Fine. What do I do next?"

  "Next," Tom said, "I need you to remove a floor panel by the hatch. It is unmarked and held in place by twist locks."

  Ben looked at the floor by the hatch. "This one?" he asked, crouching to point.

  "No, the one to the left."

  "This one?"

  "Yes. Please remove it."

  There were four twist locks. Ben put the lid and the wrench down and unfastened all four to remove the panel. Underneath was another panel, held down with twenty bolts and covered in warning messages and depictions of humans on fire. It had two rubberised handles, one on either side.

  "Are you sure this is the right one?" Ben asked nervously.

  "Correct. Please use the wrench to remove the bolts. When you remove the panel, make sure to use the handles and place it face up somewhere out of the way that won't ignite."

  Frowning, Ben looked around. "There?" he said, pointing in the back corner.

  "That will be fine."

  "Okay," Ben said, apprehensively picking up the wrench. "So long as you're sure this isn't a joke …"

  "Why do you keep asking that?"

  "Because this seems—never mind. It's fine. I'm sure it's all fine."

  As Ben made to loosen the first bolt, he felt warmth radiating from the panel. He held the back of his hand near it, and sure enough, it was warm.

  "This is warm," he said.

  "Exactly."

  "What am I supposed to be doing again?"

  "You're going to cook."

  "Do what now?"

  Tom made a noise that sounded distinctly like sighing. "You've not heard of cooking either?"

  "Should I have?"

  Ignoring that comment, Tom said, "Cooking is the process of making a meal using ingredients and heat. It's what the dispenser does for you."

  "Oh, right," Ben said, looking at the lid, the wrench, and then the panel. "So I'm going to mix stuff from those tubes in the lid, heat them up and then eat them?"

  "Exactly."

  Now Ben's stomach was really growling. "Great!" he said. "Can I do bacon and eggs, please?"

  "The food dispenser is very complex—"

  "So I can't do bacon and eggs?" Ben asked, heart sinking.

  "You can make something that tastes like bacon and eggs, but you won't be able to replicate the texture or shape."

  "Oh."

  "I'm sorry."

  Continuing to loosen the bolts on the panel, Ben said, "That's okay."

  "Maybe we'll start with a simple porridge."

  "I hate—" Ben started, but then he stopped himself. "Porridge will be great, thank you."

  With the panel removed and to one side—which took some doing as it weighed a ton—Ben marvelled at the enormous heat radiating from the exposed pipe. The air rippled as it rose from around it, and Ben could feel sweat itching his pores as he leaned over it.

  "Be careful," Tom told him.

  "I know, I know," Ben said, leaning back out of the heat. He wiped his dampening forehead on his sleeve. "What the hell is that?"

  "That's the waste manifold from the reactor."

  "It's really hot."

  "I know," Tom said.

  "So what do I do now?"

  "Since we don't have any measuring apparatus, you'll have to divide your ingredients by eye. I'll try to help you. First, you need forty-two grams of the Nutritional Base."

  "How much—"

  "That's about the same size as your closed fist."

  Ben squidged out an amount that approximated that size into the lid.

  "Then?"

  "Twenty-five grams of Raw Matter. Roughly half of the Nutritional Base."

  "Yep," Ben said, adding the Raw Matter. First he added too little, then too much. He scooped some out again, but it was already getting mixed with the Nutritional Base. "How's that?"

  "I don't know," Tom said. "Next, add point zero five millilitres of Flavour Base 821, that's a drop the size of—"

  "Whoops," Ben said, squeezing in what was almost certainly more than point zero five millilitres of Flavour Base 821. He wrinkled his nose as a completely unrecognisable yet pungent smell hit him.

  "Ben, be more careful," Tom said.

  "Sorry. Wow, that really smells."

  "Now add point zero zero two millilitres of Flavour Base 844. That's a drop a pinhead in diameter."

  "Damn it," Ben said, again adding too much. He surveyed his work so far. It looked a long way from appetising. "I'm sure I'll get the hang of it. Now what?"

  "As you have added more than the recommended amount for Flavour Base 821 and 844, I do not suggest adding any additional flavouring."

  "But don't we need the other one—903—to make it taste right?"

  "The amounts you have added have prevented the correct flavour from being achieved."

  "So what's it going to taste like?" Ben asked, eyeing his creation.

  "I—don't know."

  "Hmm. Maybe I should get rid of it and start again."

  "I recommend keeping waste to a minimum," Tom said.

  Ben was silent for a moment. He was trying very hard to keep the reality of his situation at the back of his mind, but now it came through in waves.

  "I'm sure you understand," Tom added.

  Nodding, Ben said, "Yes, I unders
tand." He took a breath. "So do I mix it now?"

  "Yes."

  As Ben mixed the concoction with the wrench, the smell faded. He leaned in to get a whiff, and caught something sweet.

  "Now all it needs," Tom said, "is heat."

  "Do I put it on over the pipe?"

  "Yes, and keep stirring."

  "To keep the temperature even?"

  "Exactly."

  Ben heated and stirred the food. It occurred to him that he was actually enjoying the process of making his own meal rather than simply requesting it from a machine. As the heat soaked through it, that sweet smell grew and began to fill the cabin. It was all a welcome distraction.

  "Smells alright," Ben said. "Hopefully it tastes okay, too."

  Once the mixture was bubbling, Tom instructed Ben to take it off the heat and leave it to cool a little. Ben was so hungry his stomach was hurting by this point, but Tom warned him that he'd burn his mouth if he ate it too soon.

  "Do people really do this?" Ben asked after re-covering the hot pipe and fastening the floor panel back down again. He'd only used a few bolts finger tight so access was easier in the future. "It seems like a dangerous way of making food every day."

  "For many people on Earth, cooking is actually a hobby," Tom told him. "The skill required to make a meal from fresh ingredients is also considered very attractive."

  Ben's mind wandered to Persephone, and he caught himself wondering what would happen if he cooked her a meal. The thought was quickly derailed when he realised exactly what it was he was thinking, and he blinked it away as quickly as he could.

  "I'd love to try a meal made with fresh ingredients. What do they taste of? Are they as good as the meals made by the food dispensers?" Ben thought about it some more. "What exactly are fresh ingredients?" he added.

  "Many people who cook with fresh ingredients—such as plants and meat—claim the food tastes better. The flavours are reportedly more complex, more stimulating for the palette. This kind of complexity is not replicable by the food dispensers."

  "Meat?" Ben repeated in disbelief. "Do you mean, like, animals?"

  "Yes."

  "That's so weird."

  "Much of the food you eat has been replicated to look like meat products and is grown from fungal matter, which is more closely related to animal matter than plant matter."

  "Yeah, but … fungus doesn't—doesn’t have a face."

  Tom paused. "No, it doesn't, you're not wrong."

  "What animals do people eat? Cats?"

  "No, people don't eat cats. Mainly cows, sheep, pigs and chickens."

  Ben frowned. "Why not cats?"

  "People prefer to keep cats as pets."

  "What's a pet?"

  "A pet is a domesticated animal that lives with humans."

  Thoughts crowded Ben's head. "How do people decide which animals are pets and which are for eating? Taste? Do cats not taste nice?"

  "Centuries of tradition," Tom said. "By the way, your meal should be ready to eat. Please check it carefully before consuming."

  "I'm starving," Ben said, picking up the lid carefully. It was warm, but not hot anymore. He used the wrench as a spoon and scooped up some of the paste. It had browned all over and didn't look too bad. Touching it to his lip, he found that it was cool enough to eat. He licked a little bit of it and didn't taste much. Then he put the whole lot in his mouth.

  While his brain figured out what he was tasting, he didn't taste anything. Then, as a recognisable sensation began to come through, his mouth filled with flavour.

  "What's it like?" Tom asked.

  "It tastes like …" Ben started, looking into the lid. He smacked his lips a few times. "It tastes like … apple pie. But with something else in it, too. I'm not sure. But it's quite nice."

  He took another mouthful, sensing the flavour sooner this time.

  "Yeah, I like it."

  "I'm glad," Tom said. "Can you determine the other flavour?"

  Chewing, Ben thought. "I think it's … rhubarb," he decided.

  "Interesting," Tom said. "Did you know that the flavour rhubarb originally came from a plant?"

  "No? Weird."

  Ben ate quietly, enjoying the meal more than he thought he would. It was only as he was scraping the lid clean that he spoke again.

  "Can you sense taste?" he asked Tom.

  "I have a catalogue of descriptors for over a million variations of taste, but no, I do not have the ability to experience taste for myself. The closest I am able to come is determining molecular content from filter readings."

  "Smell, then?"

  "I suppose you're right."

  Ben had an idea. "Where's the nearest air filter?"

  "Above you and to the left," Tom said. "Why?"

  Standing, Ben held what was left in the lid up to the filter and wafted it in. "Can you smell that?"

  "Emodin," Tom said, "rhein, chrysophanic acid."

  "Huh?"

  "Rhubarb."

  Chapter 14

  "What are our chances of survival?"

  Ben regretted asking the question as soon as it left his lips.

  "Although the tug was not designed to undertake gravity-assisted acceleration, based on stress tests performed during the development phase at Helios Research Laboratories and the acceleration to two hundred and sixty-five thousand—"

  "I just want to know if it's good or bad."

  "There is a seventy-two percent chance of survival—"

  "That's not too bad—"

  "—if executed correctly."

  "Oh. And what are the chances of me executing it correctly?"

  "Unknown."

  Ben slumped back in the pilot's seat. "This is why you recommend waiting, isn't it? It's not because you know we're not going to survive … it's because you don't know that we are."

  "That's correct," Tom said quietly.

  "Do you really think that's what we should do? Wait?"

  "It's the outcome with the most variables to calculate from. Therefore, it is the outcome with the most probable chance of survival."

  They had the supplies, they had a safe environment; waiting really was the safest option. Ben didn't need to be a superhuman mathematical genius to know that. But the thought of five and half months coming … and then going, and no one showing up—it gave him the shivers.

  "We can't just sit here and do nothing," he said, picking at a piece of console trim that was lifting away. "It seems so … stupid."

  "Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing."

  "Do you really think that though? Math and numbers aside, do you really think that? What does your gut say?"

  "My gut? I do not have a digestive tract—"

  "No, your instinct. What does your instinct tell you?"

  "Ben, my instinct is formulated around numbers and probabilities and data. That's how I've been designed."

  Ben stared out at Jupiter, at the beautiful, gentle swirls on its surface. It seemed so peaceful from here, but he knew how much the storms raged deep down below.

  "How about this: how would you describe what Jupiter looks like?"

  "Jupiter is a gaseous planet orbiting—"

  "No," Ben interrupted, "not what is Jupiter, what does it look like?"

  A pause. "It is a massive spheroid with brown-red swirls formed in gentle patterns—"

  "There! That's it! Gentle."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow."

  Ben sat forward pointing at the planet. "You said Jupiter looked gentle, right? But it's not, is it?"

  "No, it is not."

  Ben said, "So there you have it! Your gut tells you that Jupiter is a gentle planet."

  Tom didn't respond.

  "Tom?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "I am unsure."

  Ben rolled his eyes. "Tell me what you think I'm saying."

  Tom made an uncertain noise. It sounded like a hum. "That the human gut instinct is to judge weather systems
incorrectly?"

  "Try again."

  Another uncertain noise. "That human gut instinct is to ignore all data input besides sensory?"

  Ben clapped his hand together. "That's it! Well, close enough. So, based on that, what does your gut tell you about whether we should stay … or go?"

  "Please wait a moment while I reroute my logic perimeters."

  "Sure."

  Ben waited while Tom thought with his gut. In a weird way, he was a little excited about the journey. He was devastated about the accident and missed his parents immensely, of course, but the idea of going to Earth gave him hope. Besides his parents, there had been nothing for him on the Jove station. He felt strongly that Earth was where he belonged.

  "I have analysed the data based on sensory input only. Allow me to disseminate my conclusion."

  "Be my guest."

  "Our intention is to return to Earth, either by means of rescue transport or by our own means."

  "Uh, huh," Ben said, wondering where this newfound logic would take Tom.

  "From this vantage point, I can detect Earth using the optical sensory array. I cannot detect the rescue transport. Therefore—"

  For some reason, Ben anxiously awaited Tom's conclusion.

  "—I believe in my gut that we should go."

  "Yes!" Ben shouted, punching the air. "There you go!"

  "Was my analysis accurate?" Tom asked.

  "Yes, Tom," Ben said, chuckling to himself, "yes it was."

  Ben's humour faded as he and Tom spent the next hour planning the route home. Tom told him that they needed to approach Jupiter along an elliptical orbit that aligned with Jupiter's own, cutting close to the planet's upper atmosphere to gain the assist. The route home was not direct, as it swung out from Jupiter and curved back towards Earth, but it was fastest. As the Hohmann transfer window came to a close, they would be arriving at Earth. In theory.

  "What's the margin of error for getting the gravity assist correct?" Ben asked.

  "Based on estimated calculations from the final IGS position update—one point three miles."

  "That's not bad," Ben said.

  "It is an equivalent of throwing a ball bearing with a diameter of a millimetre through a hole with a diameter of a metre and a half—"