"Is that a senior position?"
"Mid-tier to senior, yes."
"And he's an intelligent man?"
"All first generation crew have a superior intelligence quotient."
"What about up here?" Ben asked, tapping his head.
"Medical information is private, however I can confirm that there are no flags of abnormal psychological behaviour for any of the crew from the most recent—or any—quarterly health reports. The next course adjustment is needed in one minute, by the way."
Ben performed the adjustment while thinking about Wenzig. All that time on the station, wanting more, not getting it—you didn't have to be insane to pull a little prank on someone, right? And if that prank got out of hand … maybe Wenzig simply didn't realise the consequences of what he was doing …
"The truth has to be in the data," Ben said out loud as he released the controls.
"Then you would have seen it already," Tom replied.
"It could be something subtle."
"Like what?"
Like what, indeed. That was the bit Ben was clueless on. He could see individual facts and figures, but getting anything meaningful seemed like it would take a lifetime.
"Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong," Ben said. "Or maybe there's nothing there after all." He sighed. "I don't know."
"I commend you for trying," Tom said.
That didn't make Ben feel any better.
* * *
The constant, dull ache of hunger stemmed Ben's enthusiasm for poring over the reams of incomprehensible data that seemed to be leading him nowhere.
Instead, he sat in the pilot's seat, staring out at nothing, semi-dazed and wishing the minutes and hours by. Occasionally, Tom would try to talk to him, but it was like Ben's brain was stuck by a log jam, put on pause and unable to move forward.
Every time he tried to think about something, Wenzig senior's face would sidle in from the corner of his mind, grinning and glaring, blocking everything else. There was something he'd said that Ben couldn't let go of: "It's a good day for it after all. You’re in for a treat."
What did he mean by that? Like, really mean? What had he planned that Ben would see? Not the crash, surely. But maybe whatever it was that had accidentally caused the crash? Maybe Wenzig had wanted to make something break, if just for a moment, to give Ben's parents a scare. Make them doubt their competence. Make Helios doubt their competence.
He shut his eyes, seeking relief in the darkness. The darkness … a realisation made him sit bolt upright, eyes wide. He had seen that warning light before—not when the crash happened, but when the tug had shut down. He'd completely forgotten about that. Perhaps Tom had no recollection of the warning because he'd been shut down as well? Perhaps the station had, too?
Maybe that was Wenzig. Maybe the shutdown was to cover his tracks. All this time, Ben had been looking in the wrong place. The data he needed was not to be found around the time of the accident itself—but before.
"Tom, remember that joke you played on me, when we were on the tour and you turned off all the lights?"
"Yes, I remember."
"What time was that?"
"Nine minutes past one."
"And when I asked you to contact my parents, when did that happen?"
"Twelve minutes past one."
Three minutes. "How many lines of data are there stored for the those three minutes?"
"Eighteen thousand, four hundred and ninety-two."
That was a lot of data.
"Can you condense that into a single file for me please?"
"Of course."
With the information on screen, Ben settled in and started flicking through it with renewed vigour. He saw the log of the lights in the cabin going off, the voice transcript between him and Tom, the moment they positioned themselves to watch the barge dock …
His eyelids were heavy.
His head was heavy.
Sleep enveloped him.
The open sky above Ben billowed with cloud, but this time he wasn't flying. He was on the ground, knee deep in tall grass, listening to the wind hissing through it. But the hiss was more than just a hiss: it was a whisper. It whispered letters and numbers, seemingly at random, never repeated.
Ben looked up, and saw that the clouds had turned thick and grey. Something wet splashed upon his face. Was this rain? Another drop splashed, and then another, and soon the drops were streaming from the clouds in sheets. But the drops were not drops: they too were letters and numbers.
Running for cover, his clothes soaking through, he headed for a small building that had sprouted from the centre of the field. He swung the door open and dived in without a moment's thought, entering a room of black that extended to infinity.
Turning back to the door, he found that it was gone. His footsteps made no sound. What he could hear, however, was a high pitched wail, rising and falling, so far away. He strained to listen, trying to make out what it might be. It seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. Moving forward seemed to make no difference to the volume.
Then, a voice, from behind him.
"Ben!" it said.
Ben whipped around, but there was nobody there.
From behind him again, "Ben!"
Again he spun around.
"Ben!"
Who was this? The wail grew louder.
"Ben!"
"Ben!"
"BEN!"
Ben jolted awake. A siren blared in the cabin. "What's going on?" he slurred, still dopey from sleep.
"Ben, I've been trying to wake you," Tom said urgently. "We need a course adjustment, now!"
Chapter 19
Ben was now fully awake and alert. "What's going on?" he asked.
But it was already apparent. Two rocky masses, both enormous, were heading on a collision course right in front of them.
"I have been monitoring these asteroids for the past six hours," Tom explained. "The smaller of the two was recently course-adjusted by an impact, and now it is set to impact again."
"What do I need to do?"
"These two asteroids will collide in our path. We must adjust course to one that takes us up and over. The data I used to achieve this solution is minimal at best, however."
Ben stared at the looming objects, drifting calmly towards one another.
"Gut instinct?" he asked.
"Gut instinct."
Ben gripped the controls. "That's good enough for me."
"Correct latitude ten degrees up. Do it gently. This tug is not designed for sudden course changes at high velocity."
Ben eased the controls back. "It's not designed for high velocity at all."
"Well, yes," Tom said.
"Three degrees," Ben said.
He could see that the nose wasn't lifting fast enough to avoid the asteroids. Pulling back a fraction harder on the controls, he watched the numbers spin faster as the tug climbed. A vibration buzzed through the seat.
"Five degrees."
It still wasn't enough. The asteroids were closing in fast, and they weren't going to clear them. He pulled back harder still, the vibration turning into a shudder. An alarm sounded.
"The operational limits of the tug have been reached," Tom told him.
"It's still not enough," Ben said, sweat trickling down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away.
Another alarm joined the first as he pulled the controls towards him further still, the shuddering becoming violent and loud.
"Come on …" Ben whispered to himself. He watched as the asteroids dipped slowly down. Nine degrees. "Come on …"
"That's ten degrees latitude," Tom said, and as he did, the asteroids slipped from view in front of them.
Ben released the controls and the shuddering stopped immediately, as did the alarms. Dropping back into his seat, panting, he wiped the sweat from his brow.
"I didn't think were going to make—"
A colossal thud shook the tug. Ben grabbed hold of the controls, the instrumen
t panel lighting up with warnings. The tug had been knocked well off course, and Ben fought to correct it. Sirens blared and lights flashed.
"Ben, there's a fire at the rear!" Tom yelled as Ben steadied the craft.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the flames. The fire was only small, but it was emanating from inside one of the covered panels, licking out from between the gaps.
Leaping from the seat, Ben grabbed the first fire extinguisher he saw and darted to the back.
"Can you remove the panel?" Tom asked hurriedly.
Ben touched the released catches. They were hot, but not too hot.
"I think so," he said, anxious that the flames were growing in size.
The first catch he released okay. The second took a few attempts, and he could feel the tips of his fingers blistering up. Once that was released the panel sagged forward, and Ben used the extinguisher to bend it out of the way.
A wave of heat washed from within, and Ben covered his face. Then he aimed the nozzle into the centre of the fire and squeezed the extinguisher's handle. White powder sprayed out, expanding into a blocky foam that smothered the fire. Ben covered the whole inside of the panel with the powder until its volume was filled with foam. One by one, the sirens extinguished alongside the flames, until all was quiet again.
The air was smoky and acrid, and Ben coughed. As the foam began to deflate and slip down into the bottom of the panel, he saw the extent of the damage. Wires, cables, tubes—all toasted. A black scorch mark darkened the rear bulkhead. It looked devastating.
"What's the damage?" Ben asked.
As the foam trickled to the bottom, it hissed gently, dissolving into nothing.
"Tom?"
Tom didn't respond.
"Tom? Are you there?"
After a moment, Tom spoke. He sounded different. "Hi Ben," he said, a slight flatness to his voice.
"What’s going on with you?" Ben said, feeling panic rise in his throat. "Are you okay?"
"It seems," Tom said slowly. "That the bank of data cores that serve my logic board have been damaged."
Ben winced. "How badly?" he asked. He almost didn't want to hear the answer.
"Eighty percent are non-functional. Thirteen percent are severely damaged. Five percent are lightly damaged. Three percent are operational."
"That's one hundred and one percent," Ben whispered, the panic numbing him.
"Oh, is it? So it is. My mistake."
Heat rose behind Ben's eyes. "Tom, what's happened to you?"
"I'm fine," Tom said, almost jovially. "Just a little … slower than normal."
Ben could feel tears running down his cheeks. His knees went weak and he lowered himself to the floor. The reality of the situation was too much for him. Tom, his only friend, had got hurt—seriously hurt.
"It's okay," Tom said quietly. "Don't be sad."
Wiping his eyes, Ben sat back against the wall of panels still intact. "What other damage is there?" he asked, trying hard to sound normal.
"Well, we've got a fuel leak at a rate of point one percent per minute from the starboard lines—"
"What?" Ben said, sitting forward suddenly. "Can we repair it?"
"Not until we clear the asteroid field. That would be too dangerous for you."
"How long until we're clear?"
Tom hummed. "Let's see now … about twelve hours."
Twelve hours… "How long until all the fuel is gone?"
"Fourteen hours."
"Can we make it back to Earth with that?"
Tom was silent.
"Tom?"
"I'm just thinking …"
Tom thought for a while.
"We will have enough fuel left for one or two course corrections."
That didn't sound like enough.
"So as long as we only make one or two course corrections, we'll be okay?"
"Yes."
"And I can't go out now because of the micrometeoroids?"
"That's right. The probability of being hit by one is … is …"
"Don't worry, that's okay," Ben said. "Is there any other damage?"
"The container out back was hit, but I don't know what the damage is. It looks like we lost some supplies."
Ben held his head in his hands and shut his eyes. Right now, he just wanted to go home, back to the station. Back to his parents. But all that was gone. No amount of wishing it back was going to make it happen. When he opened his eyes again, everything was still there, the tug, the scorch marks, the pilot's seat. It was all still there.
Hours later, once they were clear of the asteroid belt, Ben went straight out to inspect the damage. Tom had showed him how to repair the pipe, and he made his way across the tug to find the leak. It was obvious when he found it—the panel covering them on the low edge of the tug had been completely ripped off, forming part of a metre-long scar up the bottom side of the tug.
Inside, the fuel line didn't look too bad, but Ben could see the sparkling crystals where the leak was. He repaired it to Tom's instructions.
"How's that now?" he asked.
"Let's see …" Tom said. "The leak rate has been reduced to point zero zero zero one percent per minute. That's as good a repair as we'll be able to do I expect."
"So we're okay now?"
"I'll shut down some non-critical systems to conserve energy. That will help."
Only partially reassured, Ben made his way to the back of the tug to inspect the crate. As soon as he saw it, his heart sunk. The netting mostly trailed out behind them, held by only a few strands, and the container was cracked open, hatch flapping free.
At first glance it appeared empty, but to Ben's relief he found there were still some supplies inside.
"I'm going to get what's left here and bring it into the tug," he said.
Slowly, over the course of a few hours, he filled the tug with the remaining supplies. An inventory revealed that he only had a month and a half's worth of food, with just over two and a half left to travel. He was exhausted.
"You'll need to ration," Tom told him.
"I know," Ben replied.
* * *
The next forty-two days passed painfully slowly. Ben noticed he was getting thinner, and the constant pang of hunger was becoming normal to him. The cabin was cold, and he often found himself wearing the space suit just to keep himself warm.
Although Tom had been able to reroute some of his neural pathways to regain some intelligence, he didn't talk as much as he used to in an effort to conserve energy, and so Ben kept himself occupied by looking through lines of code. Day by day he sifted through it, churning line by line to see if he could find anything. So far, the results were fruitless.
The fuel line repair had not held very well, and Ben had been out twice more to repair it. It seemed that the damage was preventing a clean fix, and so they were still leaking fuel into space. Tom had needed to turn the heating down to preserve energy.
It was on the third repair that Ben shared more than a few sentences with Tom again.
"Ben," Tom said to him in his earpiece, "when you're done with the repair, come and look at this. I think I've found something."
"What? What is it?" Ben asked urgently.
"Focus on your repair, I'll tell you when you come back inside."
Tom was right. Ben needed to focus. The line could only withstand so many repairs, and they needed to last as long as possible. He was getting pretty handy at it by now, and the repairs were getting neater and lasting longer. If only they'd last indefinitely.
Ben twisted the seals tight and secured his equipment before heading back inside the tug. With the air pressure back up and his helmet off, he sat himself down in the pilot's seat and readied himself.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I don't know," Tom replied.
"What?"
"I detected a signal, but I don't know what it is."
Of all things, Ben hadn't expected this. "A signal?"
"Yes."
"From
what?"
"I don't know."
Blinking, confused, Ben asked, "What do we do?"
"I don't know."
"Should we investigate?"
Tom hummed. "We could, but we've only got one more opportunity to course correct. If it turns out to be nothing, then … well."
"What does the signal say?"
"It doesn't say anything. I think it's a location marker or something."
"So it's manmade?"
"Oh yes, definitely."
Ben paused to think. "Can we send a signal back?"
"Not at this range."
"So what can we do? Either investigate or ignore it?"
"That's right."
It was a horrible decision. What if it was a ship, or a satellite, or something they could use to communicate a message back to Earth? But then—and Ben's stomach churned to think of it—what if it was nothing, just a piece of space junk kicking out noise? They'd be lost forever, drifting aimlessly until … he didn't want to think.
"I don't know what to do," Ben said.
"Me neither," Tom replied.
Chapter 20
It was horrible to feel so close to home, yet so far away.
"What more can you tell me about the signal?" Ben asked.
"Well, it's moving quickly, I know that much," Tom replied.
"How quickly? Like, spaceship quickly?"
"Could be. I just don't know."
"Can I hear the signal?"
"Sure."
Tom played the signal. It was a muffled hiss punctuated with the occasional shiver of static. The static seemed to be coming in pulses, two quick bursts, then a pause, then three quick bursts, then a pause, then repeated. It certainly sounded artificial.
"What could it be?" Ben asked, drawn in to the mesmerising noise. Somehow it gave him hope, however faint, to hear signs of life beaming through the ship's intercom.
"I really don't know," Tom said. "I don't want to say it's a manned spacecraft if it's not."
"Yeah, I know," Ben said, looking at his lap. He sighed. It occurred to him that the answer, although hard to accept, was obvious. "We can't go after it, can we?"
"It's probably best not to."
"Gut instinct?"
"Gut instinct."
They sat and listened to the signal as it became feint and finally disappeared, until all they were left with was static.
Suddenly Astronaut Page 15
