by Steve Rzasa
I swipe the whole set into the “Send” queue for 601. The timer’s counting down steadily to 601’s tract shift. Nine minutes left.
Sure, why not? It isn’t as if I have any other conversation partners.
I fire up a return signal to Qin. Blue and Scarlett skitter through the open hatch. Blue stops at my foot, lights flashing up and down his spine.
The translation of received data glows on my wrist comm’s tiny screen: [Filters in ventilation section 45 replaced. Airflow restored to 100 percent normal.]
“Nice work,” I say. “You get a cookie.”
Scarlet hangs back by the hatch, her own set of lights flickering. [All updates of hydroponics tubing are complete.]
“Well, I’ll double check that. You two got sloppy last time. I had to pull three tubes.”
They sit there, oblivious to my commentary. Their processors aren’t that complex—we’re talking maybe cat or dog-level intellects. So I send the “Message Received” reply key, and they both disappear into the corridor.
Can’t get good help around here.
The Comms station’s ready to record. I rake a hand through my hair. Fortunately, I cut it two days ago, and it’s a field of neatly-trimmed black. “Station BC8, this is RMS Marconi, Captain Vincent Chen commanding.” Sounds impressive, when I say it that way, though the echo inside the spherical bridge mocks me. “Comms Ferry Six-Oh-One is due to make its tract shift in less than eight minutes. Readying your transmission. By the time you get this, Six-Oh-One will have made the shift. You should get the flash visually not long after this message. Thanks for the friendly welcome. Look forward to hearing from you again. Marconi out.”
Send. Nice. I smile.
Fifteen seconds left until the tract shift. I hold my breath.
Anything can go wrong. Every once in a rare while, a ferry will explode while trying to shift. Don’t ask me why. The black hole in the center of the thing just breaks down. Nothing you can do then but write up the loss.
More likely? If it fails, nothing will happen. That means a hardware failure I have to investigate.
I hate spacewalks.
Three, two, one.
There’s a blue-white flash, a shimmer of pearl, and the ferry’s gone. Black space and stars.
I exhale. Perfect.
A new timer starts. Six hours until the return.
“And, we’re off.” I reach for the main drive controls and ease them forward. The anti-matter engines accelerate, thrust forcing us onward at an acceleration rate of 25 gravities. Velocity spins upward.
My course is a purple thread reaching out into space, curving around Alcova’s star. On to the next touch tract. Eight million kilometers. About five hours and I’ll be in position.
With the main drives burning for the next hour, there’s a vibration underfoot that wasn’t there before. Everything shakes—my chair, the hatch, and the deck plates. Even my teeth, if I really pay attention.
I tend to the greenhouse plants. This work I never let the robots do. Sure, they measure out precise amounts of water and dole the proper nutrients. But the room is a haven. Green leaves everywhere. Tomatoes and kale. Carrots. Everything smells of dirt and wet and life.
Time passes effortlessly in here. I keep my wrist comm dark. Deep in space, there’s only so many ways to pass the hours and days between waypoints. This clears my head.
There’s a poinsettia in one corner, beside the window that looks in to my adjacent cabin. Dark crimson leaves are a beacon. I pluck a few dead ones off.
Suddenly the vibration dies out. After its constant presence, stillness is jarring. I touch base with the Nav computer—velocity at 880 kilometers per second, main drives shut down. Two hours for Marconi to get to the next touch tract, though about an hour from now I’ll have to do another burn with the ship facing the opposite way to arrest our momentum. Using the main drives would put stress on the exhaust nozzles, so I’ll stick to the ion engines when the time comes.
I focus on the poinsettias. Mother would have a half dozen of these around the house by now. Relatives from far flung Tiaozhanese provinces would be arriving. May even have a few friends coming from Levesque, a few star systems away.
Ten years ago, I and my parents and brother hid in our basement, a single palm beacon glowing, as Father read from the Gospel of Luke.
Listening with awe, about one little baby, and a legion of angels. Waiting in fear, for the Kesek secret police to break down our security latches.
Their coats were the same color red as the poinsettias.
It isn’t fair. Kesek is gone, our celebrations can be public as we like, and I’m stuck out here lacking another soul with whom I can celebrate.
My wrist comm flashes red the same instant a klaxon blares throughout the greenhouse. The sound’s instantly recognizable, and I sprint for the bridge, not even needing to read my screen’s alert message.
Collision imminent.
I strap in to my seat. The Nav display tells me everything I need to know about the approaching object: comet, its icy sheath all but evaporated. What’s left for me is a cluster of rocks, each one 40 meters across, with a halo of tiny debris preceding it.
Marconi’s computer is perfectly capable of handling most evasions. But the rocks are less than 300,000 kilometers out, and moving at nearly 2,000 kilometers per second. Those numbers mean the comp wants me at the wheel, so to speak.
We’ve got two minutes to get out of their way.
Problem: the comet refuse is spread across a thousand kilometers, and it’s so albedo poor the sensors can barely pick it up. Really, the Nav computer’s giving me its best guess.
Smaller stuff is no big deal. I up the amperage for the electrostatic shields. An oval bubble appears around the hologram of Marconi. Any little bits that get in range will take on a charge, and a surge from capacitors inside Marconi will traverse to the grid laid on the outer hull before completing the circuit, vaporizing the rock.
It’s the big suckers that make me reach for my crucifix.
Ion engines flare, boosting us into an arc that should take us clear of the largest chunks.
One minute.
I glance at the red panel bordered with yellow and black caution stripes. The laser’s linked directly to the reactor. A couple well-placed shots from the single ventral turret could make this easier.
Unless the aim’s off, and my shots create an entirely new swarm.
Forty seconds.
I flip up the switch. Targeting lines bracket the biggest chunk. Unfortunately, it’s veered off the course Nav predicted, bringing it nearer to our position. When both me and the rocks are zipping along this fast, a split-second move in the wrong direction means destruction.
Laser’s locked on. I press the button.
External hull cams let me keep an eye on the action. The turret is a gray dome with a bulging lens on one side. It gleams and flashes, the glare tamped down. Marconi’s hologram shoots red lines at the approaching rock.
The first one bursts apart, largest chunks gone, the little ones spraying away.
I target another, this one coming dead on to us, hidden by the first rock. Same firing pattern.
Different result. The shots are off by a hair, and the rock breaks into four smaller pieces, but each one’s still 5 meters wide.
Ten seconds away.
I throttle the main drives. Alerts badger me. You’re not supposed so use the drives this soon after a full burn. Runs the risk of fissures rendering the drive nozzles inoperable. But I need every ounce of thrust I can get.
To that end, I add not just the ion drives, but the cluster of chemical rockets sandwiched into the aft end of Marconi.
It’s enough of a boost the compensators strain to keep up. Air’s pressed from my lungs, and my body’s shoved deep into the seat.
Flashes of light surround Marconi where the el-stat shield vaporizes incoming rocks. There’s a bump, and another, and a third even bigger.
But the largest chunks go
hurtling by.
The alarms die out. I shut down the acceleration, and use the ions to nudge Marconi back on course. Everything seems good. No hull breaches. No air leaking. No fuel, either.
Blue leads a team of hamsters out onto the hull. His imagery streams back to the bridge, providing me with video and stills of the impacts. They’re all minor. Even as I admit that the hamsters set about patching them, plasma welders flashing pink.
Fear subsides, and anger bubbles up in its place. What’s the point? Risking my neck, alone, without a soul to comfort me or watch my back when things dump over the event horizon. All so MarkTel can spin a profit. All so some biologists can transmit reports about weird creatures.
I slap the console and push free of my straps. “Seriously? This is what I have to do?” My words bounce around the sphere of the bridge, echoing off the stars. “There isn’t even anyone to yell at!”
I seethe for a spell, hands clasped behind my head, pulling at my hair. Eventually my heart slows, and my breathing calms. Cool your rockets. You’re not dead. You’ve got your ship. Nothing’s badly damaged.
Should be easy to remember the promises. His hand never lets you go, and all that. Out here, though, with no one to remind you, it becomes apparent why Christians historically stick together. We need reinforcement of the tangible sort.
The comms light flashes again. I punch the panel.
“Marconi, this is BC8. Thanks for the receipt of transmission. We were all glad to see the ferry shift out. I’m looking forward to getting whatever the latest upgrades are for my console. This unit’s about two steps behind obsolete.”
Melinda Qin. I lean against the bulkhead, and close my eyes. This message is audio only, so I summon up the image of her speaking from the prior video.
“One of the guys down here says your ship’s Declaration-class. Do they really put you out there all by yourself? That seems terribly quiet. I’m always surrounded by noise. Between the comms earpiece and the cramped labs here, you get used to it.”
A deck panel creaked, far down the corridor. Blue and Scarlet, rolling next to each other. Lights flicker as they exchange information. I can hear every soft click.
“I have a favor to ask. If you could send me the specs for a DGB Encryption Module, I’d appreciate it. Mine’s showing signs of degradation, and if I had the newest specs I think I could bypass the problem areas. Hope all’s well! BC8 out.”
DGB Encryption Module? They update those every few weeks. I flip through my last signals from MarkTel. There’s the one. Simple enough to attach it and send it along. The message, I notice, was sent directly to me, not just the ship’s ID. And there’s a text commnote along with the audio.
Instructions for Unit 2 LK-11.
Odd. There’s no other attachments. What instructions can she…?
Ah. This is how Father and his friends used to communicate, when Kesek was watching. My Bible, complete with red paper cover, is tucked behind the Comms console. Gold letter on the spine bears the title and the “Haczyk Inc.” logo of the printers. Silver patching tape holds together a transverse rip. The chapter and verse are easy enough to find: “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”
Well. She’s a Christian, too. No one celebrates Christmas, otherwise. Okay, people do mark the occasion, but just with loud parties and lots of food. The religious aspects have been long stripped from it.
Once again I’m in the basement. This time, we’re singing softly, “O come O come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel…”
I had no idea what the words meant, but even before Father taught me, the melody haunted my dreams. It filled the tiny room.
Today it rings in my head.
Qin—Melinda, now—must have sent it as a test. To see whether I was a Christian or not. She understood, then, what it was like. Did Kesek come for her relatives? Did she have to see them dragged from their homes, their bodies limp from the effect of a scrambler weapon on their voluntary nervous system?
I start a response. She might not have wanted any of her colleagues to know she’s Christian. Somehow, that seems more solitary than if no one else were around. “Marconi to BC8. This is Captain Chen. I’ve attached your specs. Waiting now on Six-Oh-One’s return. I had a run in with some cometary fragments—nothing major. Oh, and those LK unit instructions? Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy: I found them easy to read. So thanks for the sentiment. Enjoy Ping An Ye. Chen out.”
It sends. I smile. Ping An Ye. The silent night.
Speaking the words makes it a little less quiet.
The rest of the journey to the second touch tract is a breeze. Deployment of 602 proceeds exactly as 601’s. I watch the timer as I swipe through my delver, reading about the news from the Starkweather region. Christians blamed for suicide bombings. Churches searched and pastors interrogated. At least no one’s been spirited away, in true Kesek homage. Not yet.
Alcova star stays quiet. All the data gathered prior to my arrival and sent to me by BC8 says it has been unusually dormant—minor flares.
Five seconds until 602 makes its shift.
I lean back in the chair. I should put on music. But I prefer it quiet right before the shift. Helps me concentrate.
Three, two, one.
Nothing.
Could be the timer’s off. It happens. I wait.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
Blast it all. If there’d been a minor delay 602’s software would have repaired it by now. So what’s the problem? I query the link between Marconi and 602. Nothing registers.
Even worse. It means whatever the problem is, it’s wiring or circuitry or even mechanical, on the ferry itself.
Great.
Less than five minutes later, I’m fully suited for extravehicular work—bright orange suit with white ceramic armor plates, and a pair of beacons on each shoulder. The pack affixed to the back has my reserve air supply, temperature regulation, and thruster pack.
Blue and Scarlet wait by the inner airlock door on Marconi’s lower deck. Lights flash between them. [Orders?]
I slide a finger over the option for “Standard Protocols.” Sounds boring, but it answers Blue’s concern, and makes sure they won’t do anything dangerous. I sure don’t want them locking me outside—not that I’ve ever had it happen, but I’ve heard rumors.
Helmet seals lock into place. Air hisses around me as the suit pressurizes. My breath is exaggerated, the sound filling my ears. Everything’s soaked in red. I punch the controls to cycle the airlock. The red snaps over to white-blue: vacuum.
The hatch opens, soundless, with only a tremor underfoot. My steps are clumsy, so much so it takes a concerted effort to not stumble over the threshold, where gravity dies and space takes over.
I drift free of the airlock. There’s a moment of stomach-churning, but I just stare ahead and recite the first Psalm. Nausea passes quickly. Much better. I can enjoy the view of thousands upon thousands of stars.
Speak of the star, Alcova’s sun blazes all around Marconi. She’s drifting parallel to 602, acting as a radiation shield in case any flares crop up. Still, sweat beads across my brow, and dampens my shirt. Cooling systems in my suit work their power cells hard.
Three green lights flash on my heads-up display. Each circle is one of my three drones. The robots scoot out of their launcher under Marconi’s bow. I spin myself around, suit jets puffing white mist. Each drone’s a meter long, shimmering white cylinders with dumbbell ends full of thruster banks. Solar panels and spindly manipulators cover their middles.
“Alright, boys, let’s make this swift.” I jet toward 602, firing off the main thruster at the center of my pack. There’s four more, one at each corner. Bursts periodically correct my aim. The drones take up position around me, a triangle with me at the center.
The comms ferry hangs in space like a Christmas ornament. Mother’s glass spheres come to mind. I alwa
ys put one up in our home, hidden among the other winter decorations she placed. Inside each one was a crystal. When you turned the ball, or shifted your perspective, an etching on the crystal’s surface flashed a cross. Only for a second, just enough that you thought you’d imagined it.
Nothing visual tells me why 602 didn’t make the tract shift. Drone One feeds me sensor results. Nothing amiss externally. Receivers are still open to data; the masts of ExForm material are extended like a hedgehog’s quills.
It’s as I figured. I’ll have to crack open 602 and dig in the guts for the malfunction.
The ferry is 30 meters away. I tip myself so I’m feet first toward it, and use the two lower jets on the pack to slow my ride. Let me think. Maybe there’s something internal that 602’s CPU monitored. I signal Drone One to query the CPU, something its systems can handle far more quickly and efficiently than my wrist comm. Drone Two and Three get stabilization duty, speeding ahead to latch on to 602 and hold it steady.
My wrist comm flashes. I have the communications with the drones synced to the HUD in my helmet, so Drone One’s results start spilling across my visor. Operating systems are within accepted parameters. Don’t see any more than a couple percent deviation in—
Wait a microsec. The text turns red, starts filling with gibberish.
Oh blazes.
I sever all the comm links, praying I reacted fast enough. Suddenly Drone Two veers off course, just meters from 602, and arrows toward Drone Three. Their collision crumples Drone Three’s midsection, snapping vanes and spraying shattered solar panels. Drone Two’s forward thruster bank cracks off, spinning away on its own wild trajectory. Within seconds their maneuvering fuel empties and they’re twisting in a grotesque dance that’ll only stop when the sun’s gravity drags them in.
Drone One speeds off firing all its aft thrusters. Full throttle. I stare, unable to do anything, knowing what’s next. A vibration builds, shaking the drone along its center axis.
