Suddenly Astronaut

by Andrew J. Morgan

  "I wanted to play a fair game with you, not have you roll over and let me walk all over you."

  "I'm sorry. I will optimise my competitiveness to induce more extensive play."

  "No!" Ben shouted. "You're not listening! I don't want you to optimise or induce or whatever! I don't want your pity!"

  In the quiet that followed his outburst, chest rising and falling, Ben realised something. It seemed so obvious now, and he had been aware of it all along in some way or another, but it was only in this moment that the pieces fell into place.

  If he managed to make it back to Earth, he wouldn't have a normal life. He wouldn't get to be a normal kid with normal parents, going to normal school just like normal everyone else. There'd be news reports about him. People would ogle him in the street. They'd stare and remark under their breath, they'd point and they'd laugh. But most of all, they'd pity him.

  Poor Benjamin Forrest, they'd say, how sad it is that he lost his parents. The pity would make it real. The whole while he was here in this tug, in this metal and composite purgatory, he was in a state between realities. The reality of the station was on one side of the journey, the reality of Earth on the other. While he was here, on the tug, neither could be real. As soon as he set foot on soil he would become grounded, and he would have to accept his reality.

  Chapter 16

  Ben pulled on the space suit and checked the seals. All seemed fine.

  "I'm ready to decompress," he said.

  Following the procedure for the manual decompression, Ben felt the familiar whoosh of air being sucked back into the tanks. Once again he was in a silent vacuum.

  "Radio check," he said.

  "Receiving," Tom said.

  Ben latched the small net with the week's insulation material and food packaging to his suit, then unfastened the hatch. He could follow the steps blindfolded now, he'd completed them so many times. Opening the hatch into the void, however, still gave him chills. That would never become normal.

  "I'm fastening myself onto the safety line," he told Tom.

  Feeding his way onto the outer shell of the craft, he shuffled along a hand and then foot at a time. He made sure to be deliberately cautious, hugging close to the shell to avoid any micrometeoroid impacts that could pierce his suit at this speed.

  At night, with the lights dimmed and his senses at their most heightened, before he climbed into the space suit to sleep, he was sure he could hear them gently pinging off the ship's hull. Out here there was no sound, but he knew they were there, silent, invisible and deadly.

  One had pierced a hydration pack a few weeks ago, gone clean through the tough packaging and out the other side. Globules of the gel had seeped out into space. Ben had imagined them as his own insides. That helped him to remember to hug close to the tug's hull.

  "You're making good progress," Tom told him.

  "Thanks," Ben acknowledged. "Just making the jump to the container now."

  It was the riskiest part of the exercise. Although Ben didn't have to let go of anything at any point, once he was free of the tug and holding on to just the flexible netting dragging the container, he was completely at the mercy of the hooks fixing it to the hull. It was important from this point on that he worked quickly but smoothly, and not make any mistakes.

  Ben found talking helped him keep his calm.

  "That game we played the other day," he said, turning the first of three fastenings that kept the container lid secure. "How did you do that?"

  Each fastening required unscrewing and then latching back. It was a slow, tricky process through the numbing gloves of the space suit.

  "Do you mean when we played I Spy?" Tom asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Are you referring to my ability to adjust how challenging I am to play against?"

  One latch done, two to go. "Uh-huh. Isn't it, like, lying or something? I didn't think you were allowed to lie?"

  "Yes—to mislead you by pretending to be less capable than I truly am is a form of deceit, but there is a part of my program that allows me to do so."

  Ben was surprised by that. "Really? Why?"

  "As part of my ability to interact with humans in a convincing way, I am permitted to distort the truth in the way humans do if it serves to benefit morale."

  Latch number two done. "So you can let me win just so I can feel better about myself?"

  "Exactly."

  "Well, here's a tip for you—humans don't like charity."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. I guess it makes us feel useless, like we can't look after ourselves."

  "But, in the context of the game we played, you couldn't."

  Ben laughed. "I didn't say you couldn't do it. You just have to make it look like you're not doing it. Understand?"

  Tom made a bemused noise. "Humans follow a strange logic that doesn't make sense to me."

  "I guess so, but that's the fun of it I suppose. There, that's all three latches unfastened. I'm opening the lid."

  Ben heaved the sturdy container open carefully, making sure nothing drifted out. Most of what was inside was further fastened down, but he liked to be sure. Once he was certain nothing errant was going to escape, he floated into the container itself. It was, with the remaining supplies in there, not quite big enough for him to fit completely inside. Empty it probably would be.

  "Okay," he said, swapping out the insulation material first, "what do I need?"

  Tom listed the matters and bases Ben needed, and Ben sifted through what was there, finding the right ones and adding them to his net. There were some he was familiar with and some he wasn't. A few more hydration packs added and he was done. It was a fairly straightforward procedure.

  Back in the tug, suit off, Ben hung the net up and had a wash. No matter how calm he thought he was, he worked up quite the sweat in that suit. He wiped it down, wrinkling his nose at the smell. It should have subdued by the time he went to bed.

  For dinner, he made a casserole. It tasted pretty good. Ben was getting the hang of what base did what, and what matters gave which texture. He was certainly able to make a consistently chewy and vaguely meat-flavoured paste at least. Experimenting with cooking had actually become one of his favourite parts of the day.

  "I think I'll have strawberries and cream for desert," he said out loud to himself.

  "May I make a suggestion?" Tom asked.

  "Sure."

  "I'd like you to make something. A surprise."

  "A surprise?"

  "Yes."

  Uncertain, Ben said. "Sure, okay. A surprise."

  Tom made a happy sound. "Please secure Nutritional Base C-366, Raw Matter A-272 and 246, and Flavour Base B-888, 914, 951 and 990."

  Ben fetched the ingredients, weighing up Nutritional Base C-366 in his hand. He'd not used this one before; it was smaller than the one he'd used up until now.

  "What does this one do?" he asked.

  "That's part of the surprise."

  The recipe was the most complex one yet. Typically, Ben had put everything into one container and heated it up, making a single-textured dish with whatever flavour he wanted, with the rare occasion where he'd made two individual textures with independent flavours and cooked them separately.

  This, on the other hand, had all sorts of different mixes and textures and sizes and shapes. Some parts were small and round, others large and gloopy—and everything else in between. He was thoroughly confused, but did what he was asked.

  "This better be worth it," he said, grunting as he stirred a particularly thick mixture. "Can I try it?"

  "Absolutely not."

  Ben stirred and grunted and grunted and stirred. "I bet you're enjoying seeing someone working for you rather than the other way around for a change."

  "I am built to serve. It is the very purpose of my existence."

  "Yeah, but come on—it must get annoying having gomers like Bruce Wenzig and his gomer friends telling you what to do all the time."

  "I suppose you coul
d say so. Some people are easier to relate to than others."

  Ben laughed. "You're not wrong. You are not wrong. I do not miss him one bit." He sighed. "Persephone, though."

  "Can I tell you something?" Tom asked. "By the way, that mix is stirred enough. Please add everything else you've made to the pan and mix thoroughly."

  "Sure." Gathering up the mysterious pile of shapes and adding them to the gloopy mix, Ben said, "What did you want to tell me?"

  "I will caveat what I'm about to say by confirming that you understand that it is not fact. It is merely gut instinct."

  Smiling, Ben said, "Okay, I understand."

  "Whenever you spoke to Persephone, I detected a increase in heart rate, pupil dilation and body temperature. Basically, all the ingredients of attraction."

  "Tell me something I don't know."

  "I'm not talking about you …"

  Ben stopped. He could feel his heart racing even now. "You mean … her? Are you sure?"

  "Positive. I first noticed the changes in your interactions around five months ago, when you shared more than just a sentence with each other. You tripped over and she helped you up, remember—"

  "Yes, thank you, I remember," Ben snapped.

  "From then I noticed increasing signs of physical attraction every time you interacted with her."

  "Wow," Ben said. All that time wondering and Tom had known all along. Even so, he still couldn't quite believe it. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "I am not permitted to interfere with the relationships of crewmembers. Now—the parameters are different."

  Ben nodded. They certainly were. He sighed. Even knowing that Persephone had shared an affection with him was a dose of happiness he sorely needed. Imagine what could have been …

  "You can put the pan on the heat now. Twenty five minutes should be enough."

  "Hmm? Oh, okay."

  With the mix bubbling away, Ben laid down, staring up at the ceiling, wires exposed where the missing burpee panel had been.

  "What do you think she liked about me?" he wondered out loud after a while.

  "For a start, you aren't a dirty great gomer," Tom said.

  Ben guffawed. "Really I mean. Why would she like me? I'm not tall or strong or anything."

  "You're caring," Tom said. "That's very important."

  "Am I?"

  "You care about me, and I'm just a computer."

  Ben frowned. "You're my friend, of course I care about you."

  "But you're my friend even though I'm different and the others ridicule you for it."

  "Who cares what other people think?" Ben said, turning onto his side and huddling into a ball. "We're all different. Doesn't mean anyone should be treated worse than anyone else."

  "And that's why Persephone liked you. You look out for those you care about, and she looked out for you. That's what friends do."

  "I guess …" Ben said.

  A sweet smell was now filling the air, something familiar. Ben sat up.

  "Is that—is that cake?"

  "If it's been mixed correctly, yes. Go and check it."

  Ben scrambled to his feet to examine the source of the delicious smell. He was delighted to find that the mixture had risen into a soft-looking cake. Even if it was a bit pale, it smelled amazing.

  "Poke the wrench handle in and see if it comes out clean," Tom said.

  It did. "Is it ready?" Ben asked.

  "It is. Take it off the heat."

  As soon as Ben had laid the tray out onto the floor, the cabin lights dimmed. Ben whirled around, startled. Then, the instrument lights in the cockpit began to flash one after the other, rows of colours blinking in the darkness.

  "Happy birthday to you …" Tom sang. He sounded ridiculous.

  "What—what is this?" Ben said, still a little startled and now also a little confused, too.

  "Happy birthday to you …"

  A smile broke out on Ben's face. He was still just as confused, but seeing the lights twinkling in the dark and hearing Tom's efforts at singing made a sudden rush of happiness well up in him.

  "Happy birthday dear Be—en …" Tom sang, drawing out Ben's name. "Happy birthday to yooooooooou."

  "What's that for?" Ben asked, laughing.

  "It occurred to me that you never got to celebrate your birthday properly, so I thought we could give it another try. I've been waiting until your cooking abilities were good enough to produce the cake."

  Ben could feel himself tearing up.

  "Are you okay?" Tom asked. "Would you like me to turn off the control panel diagnostic test?"

  "No," Ben said thickly. "I like it. Leave it on."

  When the cake was cool enough, Ben ate from the tray while sitting in the pilot's chair. The cake tasted surprisingly good, if a little stodgy. He was very quiet as he ate, unsure how he felt. There was the happiness from the surprise of the belated birthday celebration and yet there was an emptiness beneath it that felt fragile. It had been there since the day they'd left Jupiter behind, and it was getting stronger, slowly but surely. He didn't know if he'd ever feel normal again.

  As he put down his tray to recline in the seat and stare out into space, he noticed something that felt familiar. He stayed still until the memory came to him. Only on the next diagnostic cycle of the cockpit lights did he understand what it was.

  "That light there," he said, pointing to a square, orange warning light marked AP, "what's that for?"

  "That's the autopilot data link warning light," Tom said. "If the tug disconnects from the IGS and I cannot operate the controls, this light illuminates."

  "Huh," Ben said, staring at it, trying to remember why it felt significant. He stared for a while, head empty, and had almost given up when something hit him. "I've seen this light before," he said, sitting forward.

  "I think that would have been after the barge impacted with the station," Tom said. "The IGS went down almost immediately along with the other major systems."

  A nagging doubt in Ben's mind told him otherwise. "No," he said slowly. "That's not right."

  "My records don't show any other instances of IGS failure prior to the accident," Tom said.

  Ben stared at the light as it blinked once on every cycle of the diagnostic. Every time it did, a synapse in his brain fired.

  "That light was definitely on before the accident happened," he said. "The IGS system must have failed and caused the barge to crash into the station."

  Tom cancelled the diagnostic and brought the main lights back up again. Ben blinked at the brightness.

  "Like I told you, my records do not show an IGS error before the accident," Tom said.

  Ben blinked. Had he imagined the whole thing? He looked at the autopilot data link warning light, now extinguished and blended in with the grey of the instrument panel. The memory was too clear, the feeling too strong—he couldn't have made it up. Whatever had happened must have critically affected Tom if his records showed nothing.

  "Hypothetically, is it possible for the IGS be shut down accidentally?" Ben asked.

  "The IGS requires the highest level of authorisation to access."

  "Could it have shut down by itself?"

  "With the failsafes, it's virtually impossible."

  Ben's brain was a frenzy. Nothing made sense.

  "Would you like some more cake?" Tom asked.

  Ben looked at the half-empty tray. He didn't feel like eating anything.

  Chapter 17

  For a day or so, Ben was able to push the niggling feeling that something was wrong to the back of his mind. He ate his meals, did his exercise, studied with Tom. But the niggle became more than a niggle, a rodent chewing at his synapses, the grinding sound of teeth reverberating around his brain whenever silence took over. And that was often.

  Within a week he had given into the gnawing frustration and allowed himself to take a passing glance at the tug's log to see if he could spot anything obvious. But it became apparent immediately that the raw data required proces
sing as it was stored in a computer language he did not understand.

  Ben hoped that roadblock would be enough to quench his thirst for answers, and for a few days, it was. Then he asked Tom to teach him that language, despite Tom's warnings of the scale of this undertaking. Day by day, week by week, Ben learned the code, learned to decipher the digits and symbols. At the end of each day he would look at the data again, and more of it stood proud and clear—but in isolation, sense still eluded him.

  The journey had come halfway.

  "This will be the last supply trip you can make before we enter the asteroid belt," Tom said.

  "I know, you've told me a thousand times," Ben said. He was feeling tired and cranky. He hadn't slept properly for days. When he shut his eyes, all he saw were numbers and symbols cascading one after the other.

  "Are you sure you're feeling up to this?" Tom asked quietly.

  "You said it was the last chance, right?"

  "Your immediate safety is more important."

  Ben didn't answer. There was no solid or logical reason why, but since he had started his journey into deciphering the tug's logs, his trust in Tom had wavered. Did Tom know something he wasn't sharing? Did something happen on the station that he was covering up? Where did Tom's ultimate loyalties lie? The answer had to be with his creators, Helios, of course. He would be programmed to protect them over anything else. But at what cost?

  "You will need to undertake three supply trips," Tom continued, unfazed by Ben's silence, "to cover the three weeks it will take us to traverse the asteroid belt."

  Ben cycled through his suit checks, putting it on and decompressing the cabin by rote. He still got the same jump of adrenalin as ever as he opened the hatch to the outside, and he bustled through it, securing himself to the hull of the tug and shuffling his way along it.

  The first supply drop was over quickly and without a fuss. He secured the food tubes safely in the tug so they wouldn’t drift out as he exited again, and made his way back for the second round. The container was beginning to look noticeably empty, just over halfway, and as Ben loaded up the second lot of supplies he worked out in his head just how many more meals that equated to.