CHAPTER SIX
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong /Tom Luong Films
Oct. 23, 2009
“ A philosopher said, Once a body in motion, it tends to stay in motion. Once a body at rest, it tends to remain at rest. What the kid meant was, use it or lose it! “
--Comedian and burlesque performer George Burns (‘Living It Up, or, They Still Love Me in Altoona’, Berkeley Publishing, 1976) That weekend at Vandenberg would change the US-Mars Space program forever. No one was to blame if the cosmos had finally pooted out a huge meteor from the Eternal Abyss that was likely to strike the Planet Earth, or even with inevitable certainty, would strike the Earth, with no real recourse to avoid disaster. An act of God? This was not the way they liked to think about anything much at all in the space-program, given the science-based nature of the work, the extreme dangers of space-travel, and a tendency for the deeply religious to have certain emotional problems associated with the work involved, in particular actual space-travel.
The rule they used was often spoken as, ‘The Universe is actively hostile to intelligent life. Deal with it.” This didn’t mean the space-planners were heartless men devoid of any true feelings. In fact, as far back as the old Apollo program, when men first walked on the moon, there was a ‘space-man’s prayer’ that was entered into the communication-record on flights, or prior to the many challenging launches and recoveries, such as the nearly-doomed Apollo-13 flight, in 1969, when the whole world watched a group of men very nearly die, struggling with a wounded ship and low-oxygen, to somehow navigate a safe return to Terra-Firma, from a voyage to the moon.
“Give us the knowledge, that we may pray with understanding hearts, to set forth the coming of the day of Universal peace. Amen,” was the space-man’s prayer in those days. And it hadn’t changed much in 100 years since the Apollo program, and many felt it was a transit of souls, into Infinity, that was being answered every day, and not just for astronauts, but for all men. Or maybe the troubling specter of the heat-death of the Universe itself, called ‘entropy’, figured at many billion years into future-time. In contrast to all the high-tech science and lab-coat feelings, or space-suit stuff, this prayer once would resonate on the radio-link that reached the men headed to the moon, or while on the moon, or prior to launch. Maybe it was because every single one of the astronauts were risking their lives from the moment of lift-off---yet something mysterious in their hearts drove them onward with the greatest courage. Others merely tolerated this sort, and it was a bit of a tradition, in any case.
Guy Reisling finally heard about his denouncement and loss-of-privileges as a pilot, about two weeks following the Spring US-Mars Program Update Conference. Enjoying some time off at home, a Certified Transmission arrived via Internet-computer, still in use for private citizen communication, and in 2075, now far more secure for major life-path business transactions, legal, government, banking, political-votes, and many other, it’s promise having finally risen beyond the early abuses, porn, terrorism, fraud, crime, etc. By 2075, the Internet was a solid rock of modern lifestyles, as dependable as legal-paper and business-title, standard paper-mail or government-taxation, and even money-types. So, a Certified Transmission meant it was something important, and of course Guy knew right away what it was.
It was just within the twilight hours, there where Guy had his home, North of Santa Barbara, close enough to the Space-Port to keep him busy. His next-door neighbor, an 85 year-old Chinese woman, thin and tough and brown as a small tree, who enjoyed being outdoors with half an acre of organic asparagus, was working with a wheel-barrow to move a load of fertilizer into a compost area, just a few yards from the side of Guy’s house, by a large window. The evening dusk-light touched the area between the two homes with shadows.
“Hoooooooooo-Yah! Wooo! Got it!!”, she could then hear from within Guy’s home. “I’m back! Wooo!”
The old woman paused, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she worked, casting a hard look toward Guy’s home. “Stupid space-boy,” she said to herself, again hoisting the wheel-barrow, huffing.
Guy was elated, inside his home, that he had been re-instated. The Certified Transmission was from Okman’s office, and the Flight-Protocol Review Board. The Board now held that Guy had made errors on his last flight, but they were willing to mitigate their decision because he had been able to correct himself, and return with his crew safely to Earth, despite the difficulty. So, he was re-instated, and this was in the best-interests of the program, given Guy’s experience, training and loyalty. This meant that he was once again fit-for-duty, and he and his crew would be back into service with the next probable passage date for a transport. To have lost his standing and pilot-qualifications, would have been a disaster, and a disgrace.
Following the Conference, there was a great deal of ‘scuttlebutt’ about the findings, especially among those who would be involved in what came next. Guy and Rob, his Co-Pilot, got together later at the base to talk things over and also look at flight-logs.
“I guess we’ll be running weapons-cargo or bombs over to the Martian Snikta-base for the next couple of runs,” Guy said to his Second, Rob Cowan. Rob was an un-extraordinary type, a hard worker, well-trained, mature and responsible. If Guy failed as Captain of the Penelope, Rob would take over, and for many tasks during the voyages they made, there were shared duties of all kinds. Rob was thin and tall, sometimes a bit pale, or seeming less-than-perfectly-healthy. But he was quite strong, and always ready at his work, which was a matter of personal pride to him, like them all.
“They shouldn’t turn the Mars-base into a military facility, just because of the meteor,” Rob answered him. “It’s for research. If the Russians take control, it won’t help if they’re heavily armed. The staff at Snikta-base is not military. They’d hardly know how to launch a bomb or missile. All they do is soil tests and mapping.”
“Maybe they’ll have to learn” Guy answered. “Maybe we will, too.”
“I’m not a soldier. All we do is haul the mail. Food, water, goods. If they send our crew on the Penelope up, and we have some kind of battle, I can only assume the Russians would be far better prepared. After all, they planned it that way. But we didn’t,” Rob added.
“Well, unless that changes,” Guy replied.
Karen Tutturo, the Communications-Specialist assigned to travel to Mars, was now only two days away from her departure. The news from the Conference gave her chills. Not only did she now need to deal with space-travel, and all her fears and the hardship involved, in addition to repairs to the Mars-base communications-gear---now she also had to worry about some vague kind of Russian-Islamic intrigue, or even an attack. And even, eventually, to consider whether or not the Earth would survive a meteor hit, and her world and all she ever knew, would vanish.
Two days prior to a people-shuttle flight departing for Mars, Karen’s life was all about preparation. There were medical exams, gear and life-support suits (which she had to learn to operate properly), and also her personal items, the plans and schematics she needed to work on the Mars-base radio-link for repairs. She would report to the base Launch-Control early in the middle of the week, to be ready for the flight: a flight-suit, waste or body-fluids elimination ‘diapers’ to be fitted (for launch-and-orbit sequence only), and then to get familiar with the ship, ship’s crew, her berth, and also terms and conditions of the actual passage.
“Why don’t they just give me a pill and knock me unconscious, and pack me into a bed or something, for the whole flight?” Karen said to her best friend, a biology-student, currently studying at Bakersfield State University.
“You’re too much fun for the pilots and crew to chat up or flirt with,” her friend said. “No good if you’re unconscious.”
“Not necessarily,” Karen replied. “Not with this bunch.”
They chuckled as only girlfriends can. “You can do it, Karen,” her student-friend said. They hugged. “You’re Number One.”
“Well, you know. Save the world.”
Another meeting, behind closed doors at the Vandenberg base, included Lynn Rodgers-Smith, Dr. Mehudi, the program specialist for sciences, and Winton Berle, the overall Fleet Commander. The Vandenberg Space-Port, now some 100 years-old itself, and having a new life since the year 2006, when funds were set in motion to create a high-end West-Coast US space-port, mostly for launches, but also some recovery or vehicle re-entry, and there were many other space-related functions, such as tracking, plotting flight-paths, prepping the astronauts, etc. By 2075, it was one of the world’s major facilities, at that time only among about 40 or 50 such ‘ports’ on the Planet Earth, many of them far inferior to Vandenberg. The three ‘Mars-Bars’, as the lower-level type workers called them, gathered in secret, or at least with significant privacy, in a pleasant ante-room, at the back of a long hallway of cubicle-offices, where in the past, US Presidents and Dignitaries interested in the space program, would stop by for drinks, or to smoke their cigars, or to get away from the media, or hide-out a troubling blonde-bombshell affair or two. The room looked rather like an Old West bar-room.
Lynn, ever the Texan at heart, had a coffee-and-brandy, and was walking back-and-forth at one end of a longish-green pool table with claw-feet. Dr. Mehudi had a plate with a pastry set on the green felt. No one was playing pool, but ‘Kick’, the only one of the three of them to have actually traveled to Mars, was working with a length of rope, tying knots he learned in the Maritime Academy, something he did when nervous for relaxation. His command-equals called him Winton.
“I’m sorry to point this out, Lynn. Maybe Dr. Mehudi can understand my point. It may not be clear, if you’ve never actually been to Mars, or the Mars-base, as I have,” Winton said, seated by the pool-table, in a recliner, his back straight. “I mean, you both have a lot of knowledge, of course. But on the ground-level, on Mars, conditions are way different. If there is any attack, of a military sort, conducting a defense, would be an opportunity for things to go from bad-to-worse very quickly. There’s really no air that anyone could breath without a suit, okay? So, beyond the walls of the base-facility, to stop the Russians---even a handful of men---it wouldn’t even make much sense from a military point-of-view. The air-suits, or Mars-gear for movement on the surface, are not intended for any kind of conflict. They’re fragile, really. Even a small tear in the fabric of the suit, which is an aluminum-mesh cloth-wire type---the slightest air-oxygen breach in the suit---your soldier dies for lack of air. Not from a gunshot wound. So a bunch of guys out there fighting---ha! They even fall down by accident, or a hard shove, or the other grabs him by the arm the wrong way---it’s over. So it makes no sense. It’s like sending a guy---a guy---a guy in a fire-proof suit, to a swim meet competition, at the Olympics. It’s not going to work that way---trust me.”
“What about the Russians? Is there any way to fight them outside the facility itself, or stop them---just, hold them off? How will they reach the surface anyway? Aren’t there suits like ours?” Lynn asked.
Winton now had successfully done a square-knots three or four times, while talking. “Their ships will have to enter orbit. Then they descend to surface-level in re-entry, you know the drill. Could be pods, parachutes, gliders, something new. All the Earth-technology for suits is basically the same, but we have a lot more experience on Mars and have made some advances. But, you never really know what they might come up with. If we stop them on the way, or while in orbit---much better. Outside the entry airlocks on Mars, into the base---without a suit---you’re dead. It’s like the Mojave desert in the summertime---only double--or the dead-winter of Iceland---minus-ten---but still in the Mojave desert---but with no air---and a certain amount of ambient radiation. And no way home, except back into the base, through the airlock. Or a shuttle-launch up into orbit onto a ship.”
A pause. Dr. Mehudi nibbled his pastry. “Those are nice knots you’re making,” he said to Winton.
Winton laughed again. “I do a good hangman’s noose, too,” he said. They all grinned slyly, understanding.
---Julian Phillips
Oct. 28, 2009
2,169-words
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
OUTPOST--Chapter FIVE has arrived!!!
OUTPOST-Chapter Five
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong/Tom Luong Films
Oct, 20, 2009
“Mars is the subject of much speculation as to whether or not it is inhabited, because it’s behavior is similar to that of the Earth. Mars is 141-million, 500-thousand miles from the Sun, and has a diameter of 4, 230 miles. The diameter of the Earth is 7,918 miles, so gravity on Mars is somewhat less.”
--The Story of the Globe, Replogle Globes, Chicago, Illinois, 1933 (‘Replogle Globes Are Better Globes’)
It was true what Cargo-Transport Commander Okman had said about disgraced pilot Guy Reisling’s relationship with the woman who worked at the Molinari Deep-Space Dock. Her name was Lila Meetek. The Molinari Space-Dock was created years in advance of the Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin Mars Outpost. Molinari was placed in permanent deep-space orbit as a mid-point rest-stop for ships making regular voyages back-and-forth to Mars. It was like a small city in space, floating in orbit, in the vast gap between the two planets, a rather lonely form, shaped like a buoy one would find bobbing in the waters of an ocean-harbor back on some sunny beach or rocky coastline on Earth. Molinari was the size of a very large sky-scraper building in New York, or even a small airport. And of course it was sustained and operated just like any space-ship or space-vessel, with life-support and breathable air and food, a large array of high-tech computer and communication stuff, and thruster-powered maneuverability. But it did not fly or travel, and remained at a constant distance from the Earth, in orbit forever, or until it died, or decayed, or was somehow destroyed, perhaps in 1,000-years or so.
Which was about how long Guy supposed he would stay in love with Lila. Who would not delight in a beautiful space-girl, the portrait of ideal health and vigor, as well as sexy intelligence, and a certain knack for grilling outstanding hamburgers? She was about age 38 years-old, and it was Lila’s job at Molinari to monitor and track activity in the abyss corridor on the Mars-Earth flight path. Lila had either blonde, henna-reddish, blue-green, or brown-gray hair, long and feathery. Thin, athletic, and privately slutty, with an outstanding set of boobs and other body-parts that Guy often dreamed of, 1,000 years of her wouldn’t have been enough for Guy.
“Molinari! Ha! Your girlfriend!” Okman had said when Guy was decommissioned from his ship’s command. “The data on the solar heat-flares was no better than your hot sex-chat and perverted pic-trading with Lila on official communications-links! No wonder you screwed up!”
So, as the US Mars Command Mission Up-Date Conference for Spring, 2075 at California’s Vandenberg Space-Port, continued into its third hour, Guy had to speculate about what would be going on at Molinari, where Lila was currently stationed, and how the news about Asteroid U2357b would affect her, and the others. The Mars-base was not the only off-world sustainable human habitat. At least one other was Molinari. But it hardly seemed to matter, with the Asteroid’s near approach to planet Earth still six years away. Unless there was now to be some sort of international conflict for control of these same off-world resources. Which was the topic of the last part of the conference-meeting, with Dr. Willy Atta-Bowman, Ph.D., as the Explainer-in-Chief, that chilly gray California day. Guy envisioned his beloved Lila taken prisoner by Russian or Chinese space-forces of a more military sort. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, he thought to himself.
The conference meeting had melted like grilled cheese on a beef-patty into a long sequence of science-proofs for the claims about the asteroid. Photos, plotted orbits and intersecting paths, distance, speed-and-acceleration, trajectory, mass-density, impact results, timeline, and anticipated response or planned attempts to divert the meteor, were all quickly reviewed. The Mars program staff and various worker-bees were used to this kind of sharing. Dry and boring, technical and mathematic, all science and facts-and-figures---and yet at the same time, critically important for the lives and well-being of millions. There were many yawns and aching backs as the experts went on-and-on.
“Let me introduce now our Mars program Security Specialist, Captain Branson Porter,” Bowman told the audience, as the topic now shifted. Porter, the tough-looking Texan in charge of Program Security, came forward like an altar-call at a Baptist revival, and took the speaker’s podium. There was a pause, as everyone waited for his report. Many people in the program felt Porter was too harsh and military for what was essentially a long-term scientific research mission. But it was inevitable that the space-program would have its hawks. Porter even had a large, ugly-looking blue-black steel high-caliber handgun strapped to his belt in plain view of everyone, there at the front of the large conference room. There was no mistaking his job-description and grim intention to defend the program and its people and components---something many felt should never be necessary at all.
“Hi everyone,” Porter started. He coughed and cleared his throat. His voice was deep and sandy, like grit. “As you know, I’m Captain Porter, Security and Military Police Commander for the Mars Program. Right now I’m going to share with you about what we feel we know concerning the Mars-base, and why the news on the asteroid could cause us problems with our international Earth neighbors.”
Now the image projector operator programmed a series of photos showing the actual Mars base, to roll past on the large screens behind Porter. Everyone could see the base, much like a small city, with many buildings, structures, gates, towers, holding tanks, ports, etc., set against the stark, dusty Martian landscape. Sort of like a family memory-album for the program, and they had all seen the same images many times before.
“Okay,” Porter said. “Well, we may be military-police, in my department, and we may be environmental-scientists, too, but we’re not stupid, and neither are whatever enemies we really have, right here on earth. What I’m telling you now is classified, so try not to head out and do interviews with your local TV news-shows. The info we have here is from good old-fashioned spies and informants. That’s right, the FBI never really died, it just rotted to a new shade of green. And obviously, it’s the type of thing where you just don’t know, and it’s also incendiary, and by that I mean, a cause for conflict, battle, war, call it whatever you want. Hostile, or war-like. Which is not for me to decide.”
“Get on with it, Branson!” someone shouted from the assembly, probably one of the pilots, known for their antics. Others in the audience laughed. Branson stiffed, a little embarrassed, not used to public speeches.
“Right. You’re grounded for that one, pilot,” Branson said. More weak laughter. “Well, the report is simple enough. Bottom line---intelligence feels that an alliance of Mid-East Islamic and Russian-Ukranian Space-Program forces are planning to take control of the Mars-base, sometime prior to the arrival of the asteroid, as a way to assure their survival and control of future programs, if any. The logic isn’t hard to understand. If the meteor wipes us out, whoever controls the Mars base would survive, even though in small numbers. The same is true for Molinari, and the ships, and various systems.”
A long pause. Many in the crowd had not heard of this. “So, you might be asking yourself how we know this, or exactly what the Russians have planned, or how they feel they can get away with it, right?” Branson continued. “The intelligence community never really changes. No one knows anything. But we have various convincing indicators. The Eastern space-programs are just as advanced as ours here in the US, and in some ways more-so. They have ships like ours, launch-and re-entry programs, highly trained crews and pilots, tracking and satellite control. But, Russia, and the Islamic space-programs, and also space-flight out of India, have had too many internal conflicts, wars, and financial shortfalls, to really compete. The US-Mars program was initiated as a global partnership, at one time, maybe 30 years ago. But that fell apart. There were agreements and treaties, however. The US went ahead, while the others fell away.”
Now Branson paused again, clearing his throat. He took a sip of hot coffee he had with him at the speaker’s podium, and idly rested his hand on the blue-steel handgun on his belt, as if not even thinking about it.
“In reality, the Russians and the others, are putting out signals. That’s how the game is played. There have been recent high-level meetings in Khazikistan, in the Ukraine region, where Russian space-ports are based, as well as their nuclear bombs and rockets. Russian space-scientists have gathered information on our Mars-base systems, flight-paths and orbits, our ships and really our entire program. None of this is actually secret, but much of the Mars-base technology is highly classified. Even more convincing----the smoking gun, if you will---was the recent acquisition of a secret document-file, stolen from Russian think-tank planners, in exchange for $50-million in gold held somewhere in the Netherlands by a private individual. Hey, it’s spy-stuff, what can I say? This file, or document, however, represents a 200-page detailed proposal and specific plan, for Russian space-forces to attack and take control of the Mars-base, and Molinari as well. It’s all there. This is only a proposal, only a paper, or electronic file. But they put a lot of work into it. It’s all there. I’ve personally reviewed it, and made notes. Russian ships and crews would make the run to Mars, take control of the base by force, take hostages or kill anyone who resists them, and then squat out whatever else happens, at the Snikta-Ridge US Mars base. And of course in typical Russian style, any explanation or apology to the world community would come later, if ever.”
Atta-Bowman tapped the microphone at his seat at the long panel-discussion table. “Captain Branson, if I may?” he said.
“Sure, Doctor Bowman.”
“How do we know this supposed attack-plan to take over the Mars-base is real, or authentic to the Russian space-command? Could it be a fake, or planted by someone else, or other enemies of theirs?”
Branson took a breath. “It’s intelligence-community stuff, Doctor. So, it’s true, we really can’t know. From reviews and expert analysis, however, the file I looked at was very well-researched and very well-planned. It included details on the Russian space-fleet and resources that would be hard to obtain outside their own staffers. The source of the document was connected directly to high-level insiders on the Russian side, so that’s also a point. The science was also very accurate, something a novice or terrorist group probably couldn’t master in a short time. The report was also attributed to known Russian or Islamic scientists and Ph.D. astro-physicists. Real people, we know their names. Additionally, other reports show Russian hardware, real equipment and gear, or actual ships, taking baby-steps towards this type of effort, like minor-level preparation. I agree, it’s a sort of Cuban Missile Crisis deal, or a WMD-type report. Maybe no need to panic, that’s for sure. So, to answer your question---how do we know their plans are real? Well, we don’t. We don’t know for sure, and we may never know for sure, until they go ahead, if they ever do.”
“What about their timeline?” Bowman said. “From the plan you looked at, when would they be thinking of doing this?”
“The possible meteor-hit is at least six years out. They want control of the Mars-base well in advance. The stolen attack-plans were not specific. But any time in the next three years, or even one year, the entire might of the Russian-Islamic Space Program alliance could potentially launch a group of ships armed with various weapons and ground-level soldiers with oxygen suits and weapons, to take control of Snikta,” Branson said.
“Would they just kill everyone? Could they actually destroy the base, maybe by accident during a battle? What would happen here on Earth? Would they try to excuse their actions at the United Nations, for instance? Or would they go to war with the West? Anything there?”
“It’s all speculation. Anything could happen. As sneaky as the East can be, they might simply stonewall, and claim they have rights to the base, as participants 20 years ago, or as educational research. They could stall, drag it out. Or hold hostages. After all, if the meteor is headed our way, all they really care about is the survival of chosen leaders and persons on Mars---when we’re all the rest of mankind dead and gone back here, or living in caves under a black cloud of ice-cold meteor dust, eating bugs for dinner.”
A long stillness hovered in the air throughout the conference-hall. Now even the courageous pilots and space-jockeys were nervous. It all seemed unreal.
“All right,” Bowman responded to Branson’s remarks, into his microphone. “What about our plans for a defense, or to protect the base on Mars, or to fight back an attack?”
“That’s another hour’s worth, Doctor Bowman,” Branson said. “For ten years, my department has only had to deal with protesters at the gates here at Vandenberg, drunk cafeteria workers, stolen toolboxes, and night-watch duties to protect expensive high-tech items stored outdoors. I’m not necessarily prepared to figure out a five year space-war. However, if you give me another 15-minute break here so I can take a piss, I’ll be glad to tell you all about it.”
Weak laughter again from the audience. “Space-men piss in their flight-suits into catheter tubes, Branson. Everyone knows that,” Bowman joked, More laughter. Now Bowman stood up and stretched. “Let’s break again for 15-minute folks. This is all too much. Rest-easy, back in 15.”
Now the room full of Mars-workers began to break up again, as the audience stood, or separated into groups, or grabbed coffee-and-snacks. Everyone seemed relieved for a moment. They had a lot to talk about.
---Julian Philips
OUTPOST/Tom Luong Films
Oct. 20, 2009
2358
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong/Tom Luong Films
Oct, 20, 2009
“Mars is the subject of much speculation as to whether or not it is inhabited, because it’s behavior is similar to that of the Earth. Mars is 141-million, 500-thousand miles from the Sun, and has a diameter of 4, 230 miles. The diameter of the Earth is 7,918 miles, so gravity on Mars is somewhat less.”
--The Story of the Globe, Replogle Globes, Chicago, Illinois, 1933 (‘Replogle Globes Are Better Globes’)
It was true what Cargo-Transport Commander Okman had said about disgraced pilot Guy Reisling’s relationship with the woman who worked at the Molinari Deep-Space Dock. Her name was Lila Meetek. The Molinari Space-Dock was created years in advance of the Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin Mars Outpost. Molinari was placed in permanent deep-space orbit as a mid-point rest-stop for ships making regular voyages back-and-forth to Mars. It was like a small city in space, floating in orbit, in the vast gap between the two planets, a rather lonely form, shaped like a buoy one would find bobbing in the waters of an ocean-harbor back on some sunny beach or rocky coastline on Earth. Molinari was the size of a very large sky-scraper building in New York, or even a small airport. And of course it was sustained and operated just like any space-ship or space-vessel, with life-support and breathable air and food, a large array of high-tech computer and communication stuff, and thruster-powered maneuverability. But it did not fly or travel, and remained at a constant distance from the Earth, in orbit forever, or until it died, or decayed, or was somehow destroyed, perhaps in 1,000-years or so.
Which was about how long Guy supposed he would stay in love with Lila. Who would not delight in a beautiful space-girl, the portrait of ideal health and vigor, as well as sexy intelligence, and a certain knack for grilling outstanding hamburgers? She was about age 38 years-old, and it was Lila’s job at Molinari to monitor and track activity in the abyss corridor on the Mars-Earth flight path. Lila had either blonde, henna-reddish, blue-green, or brown-gray hair, long and feathery. Thin, athletic, and privately slutty, with an outstanding set of boobs and other body-parts that Guy often dreamed of, 1,000 years of her wouldn’t have been enough for Guy.
“Molinari! Ha! Your girlfriend!” Okman had said when Guy was decommissioned from his ship’s command. “The data on the solar heat-flares was no better than your hot sex-chat and perverted pic-trading with Lila on official communications-links! No wonder you screwed up!”
So, as the US Mars Command Mission Up-Date Conference for Spring, 2075 at California’s Vandenberg Space-Port, continued into its third hour, Guy had to speculate about what would be going on at Molinari, where Lila was currently stationed, and how the news about Asteroid U2357b would affect her, and the others. The Mars-base was not the only off-world sustainable human habitat. At least one other was Molinari. But it hardly seemed to matter, with the Asteroid’s near approach to planet Earth still six years away. Unless there was now to be some sort of international conflict for control of these same off-world resources. Which was the topic of the last part of the conference-meeting, with Dr. Willy Atta-Bowman, Ph.D., as the Explainer-in-Chief, that chilly gray California day. Guy envisioned his beloved Lila taken prisoner by Russian or Chinese space-forces of a more military sort. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, he thought to himself.
The conference meeting had melted like grilled cheese on a beef-patty into a long sequence of science-proofs for the claims about the asteroid. Photos, plotted orbits and intersecting paths, distance, speed-and-acceleration, trajectory, mass-density, impact results, timeline, and anticipated response or planned attempts to divert the meteor, were all quickly reviewed. The Mars program staff and various worker-bees were used to this kind of sharing. Dry and boring, technical and mathematic, all science and facts-and-figures---and yet at the same time, critically important for the lives and well-being of millions. There were many yawns and aching backs as the experts went on-and-on.
“Let me introduce now our Mars program Security Specialist, Captain Branson Porter,” Bowman told the audience, as the topic now shifted. Porter, the tough-looking Texan in charge of Program Security, came forward like an altar-call at a Baptist revival, and took the speaker’s podium. There was a pause, as everyone waited for his report. Many people in the program felt Porter was too harsh and military for what was essentially a long-term scientific research mission. But it was inevitable that the space-program would have its hawks. Porter even had a large, ugly-looking blue-black steel high-caliber handgun strapped to his belt in plain view of everyone, there at the front of the large conference room. There was no mistaking his job-description and grim intention to defend the program and its people and components---something many felt should never be necessary at all.
“Hi everyone,” Porter started. He coughed and cleared his throat. His voice was deep and sandy, like grit. “As you know, I’m Captain Porter, Security and Military Police Commander for the Mars Program. Right now I’m going to share with you about what we feel we know concerning the Mars-base, and why the news on the asteroid could cause us problems with our international Earth neighbors.”
Now the image projector operator programmed a series of photos showing the actual Mars base, to roll past on the large screens behind Porter. Everyone could see the base, much like a small city, with many buildings, structures, gates, towers, holding tanks, ports, etc., set against the stark, dusty Martian landscape. Sort of like a family memory-album for the program, and they had all seen the same images many times before.
“Okay,” Porter said. “Well, we may be military-police, in my department, and we may be environmental-scientists, too, but we’re not stupid, and neither are whatever enemies we really have, right here on earth. What I’m telling you now is classified, so try not to head out and do interviews with your local TV news-shows. The info we have here is from good old-fashioned spies and informants. That’s right, the FBI never really died, it just rotted to a new shade of green. And obviously, it’s the type of thing where you just don’t know, and it’s also incendiary, and by that I mean, a cause for conflict, battle, war, call it whatever you want. Hostile, or war-like. Which is not for me to decide.”
“Get on with it, Branson!” someone shouted from the assembly, probably one of the pilots, known for their antics. Others in the audience laughed. Branson stiffed, a little embarrassed, not used to public speeches.
“Right. You’re grounded for that one, pilot,” Branson said. More weak laughter. “Well, the report is simple enough. Bottom line---intelligence feels that an alliance of Mid-East Islamic and Russian-Ukranian Space-Program forces are planning to take control of the Mars-base, sometime prior to the arrival of the asteroid, as a way to assure their survival and control of future programs, if any. The logic isn’t hard to understand. If the meteor wipes us out, whoever controls the Mars base would survive, even though in small numbers. The same is true for Molinari, and the ships, and various systems.”
A long pause. Many in the crowd had not heard of this. “So, you might be asking yourself how we know this, or exactly what the Russians have planned, or how they feel they can get away with it, right?” Branson continued. “The intelligence community never really changes. No one knows anything. But we have various convincing indicators. The Eastern space-programs are just as advanced as ours here in the US, and in some ways more-so. They have ships like ours, launch-and re-entry programs, highly trained crews and pilots, tracking and satellite control. But, Russia, and the Islamic space-programs, and also space-flight out of India, have had too many internal conflicts, wars, and financial shortfalls, to really compete. The US-Mars program was initiated as a global partnership, at one time, maybe 30 years ago. But that fell apart. There were agreements and treaties, however. The US went ahead, while the others fell away.”
Now Branson paused again, clearing his throat. He took a sip of hot coffee he had with him at the speaker’s podium, and idly rested his hand on the blue-steel handgun on his belt, as if not even thinking about it.
“In reality, the Russians and the others, are putting out signals. That’s how the game is played. There have been recent high-level meetings in Khazikistan, in the Ukraine region, where Russian space-ports are based, as well as their nuclear bombs and rockets. Russian space-scientists have gathered information on our Mars-base systems, flight-paths and orbits, our ships and really our entire program. None of this is actually secret, but much of the Mars-base technology is highly classified. Even more convincing----the smoking gun, if you will---was the recent acquisition of a secret document-file, stolen from Russian think-tank planners, in exchange for $50-million in gold held somewhere in the Netherlands by a private individual. Hey, it’s spy-stuff, what can I say? This file, or document, however, represents a 200-page detailed proposal and specific plan, for Russian space-forces to attack and take control of the Mars-base, and Molinari as well. It’s all there. This is only a proposal, only a paper, or electronic file. But they put a lot of work into it. It’s all there. I’ve personally reviewed it, and made notes. Russian ships and crews would make the run to Mars, take control of the base by force, take hostages or kill anyone who resists them, and then squat out whatever else happens, at the Snikta-Ridge US Mars base. And of course in typical Russian style, any explanation or apology to the world community would come later, if ever.”
Atta-Bowman tapped the microphone at his seat at the long panel-discussion table. “Captain Branson, if I may?” he said.
“Sure, Doctor Bowman.”
“How do we know this supposed attack-plan to take over the Mars-base is real, or authentic to the Russian space-command? Could it be a fake, or planted by someone else, or other enemies of theirs?”
Branson took a breath. “It’s intelligence-community stuff, Doctor. So, it’s true, we really can’t know. From reviews and expert analysis, however, the file I looked at was very well-researched and very well-planned. It included details on the Russian space-fleet and resources that would be hard to obtain outside their own staffers. The source of the document was connected directly to high-level insiders on the Russian side, so that’s also a point. The science was also very accurate, something a novice or terrorist group probably couldn’t master in a short time. The report was also attributed to known Russian or Islamic scientists and Ph.D. astro-physicists. Real people, we know their names. Additionally, other reports show Russian hardware, real equipment and gear, or actual ships, taking baby-steps towards this type of effort, like minor-level preparation. I agree, it’s a sort of Cuban Missile Crisis deal, or a WMD-type report. Maybe no need to panic, that’s for sure. So, to answer your question---how do we know their plans are real? Well, we don’t. We don’t know for sure, and we may never know for sure, until they go ahead, if they ever do.”
“What about their timeline?” Bowman said. “From the plan you looked at, when would they be thinking of doing this?”
“The possible meteor-hit is at least six years out. They want control of the Mars-base well in advance. The stolen attack-plans were not specific. But any time in the next three years, or even one year, the entire might of the Russian-Islamic Space Program alliance could potentially launch a group of ships armed with various weapons and ground-level soldiers with oxygen suits and weapons, to take control of Snikta,” Branson said.
“Would they just kill everyone? Could they actually destroy the base, maybe by accident during a battle? What would happen here on Earth? Would they try to excuse their actions at the United Nations, for instance? Or would they go to war with the West? Anything there?”
“It’s all speculation. Anything could happen. As sneaky as the East can be, they might simply stonewall, and claim they have rights to the base, as participants 20 years ago, or as educational research. They could stall, drag it out. Or hold hostages. After all, if the meteor is headed our way, all they really care about is the survival of chosen leaders and persons on Mars---when we’re all the rest of mankind dead and gone back here, or living in caves under a black cloud of ice-cold meteor dust, eating bugs for dinner.”
A long stillness hovered in the air throughout the conference-hall. Now even the courageous pilots and space-jockeys were nervous. It all seemed unreal.
“All right,” Bowman responded to Branson’s remarks, into his microphone. “What about our plans for a defense, or to protect the base on Mars, or to fight back an attack?”
“That’s another hour’s worth, Doctor Bowman,” Branson said. “For ten years, my department has only had to deal with protesters at the gates here at Vandenberg, drunk cafeteria workers, stolen toolboxes, and night-watch duties to protect expensive high-tech items stored outdoors. I’m not necessarily prepared to figure out a five year space-war. However, if you give me another 15-minute break here so I can take a piss, I’ll be glad to tell you all about it.”
Weak laughter again from the audience. “Space-men piss in their flight-suits into catheter tubes, Branson. Everyone knows that,” Bowman joked, More laughter. Now Bowman stood up and stretched. “Let’s break again for 15-minute folks. This is all too much. Rest-easy, back in 15.”
Now the room full of Mars-workers began to break up again, as the audience stood, or separated into groups, or grabbed coffee-and-snacks. Everyone seemed relieved for a moment. They had a lot to talk about.
---Julian Philips
OUTPOST/Tom Luong Films
Oct. 20, 2009
2358
Monday, October 19, 2009
OUTPOST--now Chapter Four!!!
OUTPOST, Chapter 4
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong/Tom Luong Films
Oct. 19, 2009
“A trip to Mars was a fantasy, a mere dream, a muse or complete fiction, for thousands of years, or even much longer, here on Earth. Nothing or next-to-nothing was known, and the idea would be such as credited to the mad or lunatics, or sinister wizards. And of course, it’s still much the same, with the only exception being that now we are actually doing it.”
--Lynn Rodgers-Smith, 2075, US Space-Program Mars Mission Commander, overheard at a luncheon speech
The Japanese rocket-fuel merchants included a posse of about ten Asian men and women, whose services were essential to the Mars program for the US. These were mature science-industry business-people, really not very involved in the global space program, as far as any personal flights or adventures in orbit or beyond. Their education and background made them invaluable participants, however, and as a result they were always invited to the conferences, meetings, seminars, speeches, and governance-boards, for the US program, over many years. They had industrial sources and connections for ready supplies of numerous types of fuel, in particular refined hydrogen, hard to acquire in the amounts, volume, type and purity needed. Launch fuel was different than deep-space fuel, and so on. Their work was under-appreciated and controversial among environmentalist, because of the toxicity of some of the fuels, but it made them very wealthy anyway, and their visits to places like the Vandenberg Space-Port were well-financed, as well as their US lobbyists.
All ten Japanese men and women wandered across the Vandenberg base, about a week after Rodgers-Smith had met with Willy Atta-Bowman, concerning the conference-meeting about the Mars program. They all had badges and passes, and were not noticed as being unusual or out-of-place, mostly between the ages of 30 and 60 years-old, dressed variously in modern or somewhat geeky outfits. The Conference-Hall was a large auditorium, on the South side base, surrounded by grassy lawns, walkways, minor security, electronic displays with information and deluxe-pixelated 3D images, and people entering, or hanging about talking. It was about 3 p.m. in the afternoon, somewhat overcast with watery gray clouds, and a bit of a chill.
Kick Berle, the Fleet Commander, found himself waiting just outside the hall entrance, with his Secretary, as the Asian fuel-supply delegation passed by, chatting amongst themselves in Japanese. One man recognized him, and stopped briefly to greet him with only a smile, bowing slightly as was the Japanese custom even to that day in 2075. Berle smiled back at him broadly and shook his hand, American-style. They laughed, then the man moved off with his group into the building.
“I was just joking about the hot-dogs,” Berle said to his secretary, a bright young woman who had all his notes and books for the conference in a bag. “They eat much better than that, let me assure you. US hot-dogs are not very healthy. They like fish, and raw vegetables.”
“I kinda’ figured, Commander Berle,” his assistant said.
“But they do go for the Mars rocks. They really do,” he added. She smiled, and they also went inside to find their seats for the meeting.
The conference-meeting was organized to efficiently inform about 300 people about details and information, related to the topic, which was posted overhead on a large banner, in the front, and elsewhere around the large room, and on stationary and press-releases, reading: MARS-MISSION UPDATE CONFERENCE, SPRING 2075-‘THE CHALLENGE OF ASTEROID-U2753b’.
At the front of the hall, there was a panel-discussion style set of two long tables, and a podium-table in the center. On either side were an array of computers and projection-gear, and behind were two very large image-screens, and a sound-system. In all, about eight ‘experts’ were seated at the tables, or just settling into their seats as the room quieted down. Each had name-plaques, their own laptops, assistants, and so on. Before them, the hall was filled with chairs, like any large assembly, numbering about 300, and now filling up with guests. Doorways in the back were still allowing people to enter and find their seats. The room was lighted, and other tables had documentation-material, and food-snacks, coffee, tea. The 300 guests included anyone the program leadership felt needed to be informed about Asteroid-U2753b. Pilots, commanders, crew, support tech-staff, engineers, Earth navigation plotters and also in-flight navigators, life-support crews, and also staff and crew from the Molinari Deep-space Dock. Every other sort who was directly involved in the program was in attendance, which was mandatory.
Despite Cargo-Crew Commander Okman’s slow pace at settling the final decision on transport-pilot Guy Reisling’s ‘grounding’ or flight-ready status, Guy and his entire crew were at the meeting, with a row of seats just for themselves. Each crew for each of about 20 other active Mars space-ships also had a row of seats. Karen Tutturro, Branson Porter, Ibrahim Mehudi, and many other un-named and unknown heroes of the program, were seated here and there, with their own guests and assistants or helpers and crews or seconds. Within about twenty minutes of chatter and blustering around, all 300 people quieted down. The program and topics were introduced by a Moderator, and each panel-expert was introduced as well, which took another half-hour.
“Pretty boring so far,” Guy whispered to Rob Cowan, his Second Pilot, seated next to him.
“Boring is good,” Cowan said. “If it’s anything really dramatic, we’re all sure to suffer.”
The so-called Queen of the Galaxy, Commander Rodgers-Smith, took the speaker’s podium, after everyone was introduced. Light applause greeted her for a short moment, and a few good-natured hoots.
“Thank you, people, thank you,” she said. Her voice echoed into the hall over the sound-system. “I think we’re ready for the meat-and-bones of this meeting, and I know many of you are very curious about what’s going on. As we get started, be advised that this meeting is rather serious, and no simple matter at all. With Asteroid U2753b, the Mars Program is facing an unprecedented challenge, with vast consequences. It’s not just our program. It’s not just us. This is truly a global issue, although still ten years away from any real harm. But I’ll leave that to the experts to explain. Nevertheless, as your program head-honcho and Mars program bureaucratic guru, please be alert. This is a very serious matter.”
Now the room was quiet, a hush.
“Let me introduce Doctor Willy Atta-Bowman, Ph.D., from the University of Berkeley,” she said. Bowman, who had already been introduced once, now rose from his seat at the long panel-discussion tables, and took the speaker’s podium. Rodgers-Smith shook his hand and sat down quickly.
Bowman waved his hand at the operator of a computer-projection system. The large screens behind him came to life, with a huge image showing a navigation map of the Earth’s Sun (Sol), it’s relation to the Earth, and aspects in between (Mercury, Venus, and other). Distances and planetary orbit paths were also indicated.
“Hello, Mars program,” Bowman started. “I’m Doctor Bowman, and I think my background has already been sufficiently presented. I’m a planetary-science specialist at UC Berkeley, for the past 15 years, basically. For tonight, I’m the Explainer-in-Chief. So, hope you like my style, I guess.”
He paused, a bit nervous. “Okay. So, it’s really no mystery, is it? U2753b has been tracked now for many moons---even years. Who knows where these large rocks come from, I guess the Big Bang. Earth hasn’t been hit by a very large meteor in thousands if not millions of years. Hollywood gets a lot of mileage out of this kind of thing, and we’ve all seen those old movies and read those books. Great stories, right? As we know, the space-program has been tracking large meteors and asteroids for more than 20 years, for obvious reasons. And we do get them, ranging in size from a few feet long, to much larger, maybe the size of a Chevy truck, or a school-bus. The chances of Earth being hit by one of these is, pardon the expression, astronomical. But if they’re headed our way, the space-program wants to know, so they are tracked from the first day they’re identified, usually by private hobby-astronomers around the world who do their star-gazing for fun, many of them quite advanced in their skills and science.”
He paused again, taking a sip from a water-glass and clearing his throat. “So, okay, you get the idea,” he started again, speaking into the sound system. The audience was molting before his eyes, like a mist of hopeful faces and eyes, trying to understand. But many already knew, and the prospects caused them to lower their gaze or look away. “The research is not bull-shit. Many of you are very advanced in the sciences. Feel free to go over the documentation and proofs, which are available, and have just been released as complete reports. Bottom line, this asteroid is too large to ignore, and the projected paths of both the planet and the meteor, are indeed sobering.”
Now an image flashed onto the second screen behind him at the front of the hall---an actual Hubble telescope-type image of the asteroid they were discussing. Dark, gray, potted with craggy peaks and valleys---a rock.
“It’s one of those scary science-fiction type deals, I guess,” Bowman told the audience. “U2753b is about the size of the state of Virginia, or larger. A hit anywhere on planet Earth would almost without a doubt have devastating, Extinction-Level results. But---it could miss, or it could be diverted, and really it’s not a problem for the Mars program, in terms of avoiding a collision. That is not our mission, and not our arena, and we probably wouldn’t be involved. Other international space-forces will try to stop the hit, and this could be done in different ways---blah-blah-blah, just like the movies, I guess. Also, don’t start making plans for your own funeral. The asteroid won’t even be near our world for at least another six years. I think Commander Rodgers-Smith said ten years, a moment ago. It’s a long ways off, and it’s slow, and somewhat unpredictable. For a local-space region meteor, this one is a monster. It’s huge. So, what we’re talking about today, is how the Mars Program, and the base on Mars, will be affected, and how our program will respond, and other difficulties and challenges.”
The room was still, with only the combined breathing of 300 space-program staffers to be heard. Someone dropped a laptop PC on the floor with a clatter. Bowman paused. “Can I answer just a couple of quick questions at this point?” he said. “We’ve only got three hours for this meeting today, and then I guess another science-data conference tomorrow, so I want to move along quickly if I may.”
A moment. “So we’re all gonna’ die, right?” one of the space-pilots shouted into the room, somewhat out-of-turn, a bit rowdy.
Bowman smiled broadly. “That’s about it, space cowboy,” he said with at least some good humor. “But you knew that already, didn’t you? You’re a brave bunch and so am I, so take heart. We have six years to avoid that. But for the Mars Program, our base on Mars now starts to look like---dare I say it---our only hope for survival, or off-world human species survival, even in small numbers, if the Earth takes that kind of hit, and all those millions die in their pain and fears, I guess, and all the environmental stuff. Again, this would be like, at the level of sucking away Earth’s breathable atmosphere for about 1,000 years. Stuff like that. With the Mars-base now fully functional and life-support working to maintain 200 or so people as a sustainable facility, even on its own---control and ownership of the base, is now a very hot item among international Earth military and space-program forces. So, that’s our next topic. Let’s break now for 15-minutes, please.”
The conference-room lights flickered on again, and the group began to chatter. But now the melody of the voices, and the overall vibration, had turned to a different tune, at a lower key, as if a giant had struck a bell, indicating danger ahead.
Bowman nodded at Lynn Rodgers-Smith, and she looked down and away, somewhat grim, without a smile.
Cowan, Guy Reisling’s Second, stood from his seat and stretched. “So, uh---not boring, then, right?” he said.
“I guess not,” Guy answered .
--Julian Phillips
Oct. 19, 2009
OUTPOST
Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
From the story by Tom Luong/Tom Luong Films
Oct. 19, 2009
“A trip to Mars was a fantasy, a mere dream, a muse or complete fiction, for thousands of years, or even much longer, here on Earth. Nothing or next-to-nothing was known, and the idea would be such as credited to the mad or lunatics, or sinister wizards. And of course, it’s still much the same, with the only exception being that now we are actually doing it.”
--Lynn Rodgers-Smith, 2075, US Space-Program Mars Mission Commander, overheard at a luncheon speech
The Japanese rocket-fuel merchants included a posse of about ten Asian men and women, whose services were essential to the Mars program for the US. These were mature science-industry business-people, really not very involved in the global space program, as far as any personal flights or adventures in orbit or beyond. Their education and background made them invaluable participants, however, and as a result they were always invited to the conferences, meetings, seminars, speeches, and governance-boards, for the US program, over many years. They had industrial sources and connections for ready supplies of numerous types of fuel, in particular refined hydrogen, hard to acquire in the amounts, volume, type and purity needed. Launch fuel was different than deep-space fuel, and so on. Their work was under-appreciated and controversial among environmentalist, because of the toxicity of some of the fuels, but it made them very wealthy anyway, and their visits to places like the Vandenberg Space-Port were well-financed, as well as their US lobbyists.
All ten Japanese men and women wandered across the Vandenberg base, about a week after Rodgers-Smith had met with Willy Atta-Bowman, concerning the conference-meeting about the Mars program. They all had badges and passes, and were not noticed as being unusual or out-of-place, mostly between the ages of 30 and 60 years-old, dressed variously in modern or somewhat geeky outfits. The Conference-Hall was a large auditorium, on the South side base, surrounded by grassy lawns, walkways, minor security, electronic displays with information and deluxe-pixelated 3D images, and people entering, or hanging about talking. It was about 3 p.m. in the afternoon, somewhat overcast with watery gray clouds, and a bit of a chill.
Kick Berle, the Fleet Commander, found himself waiting just outside the hall entrance, with his Secretary, as the Asian fuel-supply delegation passed by, chatting amongst themselves in Japanese. One man recognized him, and stopped briefly to greet him with only a smile, bowing slightly as was the Japanese custom even to that day in 2075. Berle smiled back at him broadly and shook his hand, American-style. They laughed, then the man moved off with his group into the building.
“I was just joking about the hot-dogs,” Berle said to his secretary, a bright young woman who had all his notes and books for the conference in a bag. “They eat much better than that, let me assure you. US hot-dogs are not very healthy. They like fish, and raw vegetables.”
“I kinda’ figured, Commander Berle,” his assistant said.
“But they do go for the Mars rocks. They really do,” he added. She smiled, and they also went inside to find their seats for the meeting.
The conference-meeting was organized to efficiently inform about 300 people about details and information, related to the topic, which was posted overhead on a large banner, in the front, and elsewhere around the large room, and on stationary and press-releases, reading: MARS-MISSION UPDATE CONFERENCE, SPRING 2075-‘THE CHALLENGE OF ASTEROID-U2753b’.
At the front of the hall, there was a panel-discussion style set of two long tables, and a podium-table in the center. On either side were an array of computers and projection-gear, and behind were two very large image-screens, and a sound-system. In all, about eight ‘experts’ were seated at the tables, or just settling into their seats as the room quieted down. Each had name-plaques, their own laptops, assistants, and so on. Before them, the hall was filled with chairs, like any large assembly, numbering about 300, and now filling up with guests. Doorways in the back were still allowing people to enter and find their seats. The room was lighted, and other tables had documentation-material, and food-snacks, coffee, tea. The 300 guests included anyone the program leadership felt needed to be informed about Asteroid-U2753b. Pilots, commanders, crew, support tech-staff, engineers, Earth navigation plotters and also in-flight navigators, life-support crews, and also staff and crew from the Molinari Deep-space Dock. Every other sort who was directly involved in the program was in attendance, which was mandatory.
Despite Cargo-Crew Commander Okman’s slow pace at settling the final decision on transport-pilot Guy Reisling’s ‘grounding’ or flight-ready status, Guy and his entire crew were at the meeting, with a row of seats just for themselves. Each crew for each of about 20 other active Mars space-ships also had a row of seats. Karen Tutturro, Branson Porter, Ibrahim Mehudi, and many other un-named and unknown heroes of the program, were seated here and there, with their own guests and assistants or helpers and crews or seconds. Within about twenty minutes of chatter and blustering around, all 300 people quieted down. The program and topics were introduced by a Moderator, and each panel-expert was introduced as well, which took another half-hour.
“Pretty boring so far,” Guy whispered to Rob Cowan, his Second Pilot, seated next to him.
“Boring is good,” Cowan said. “If it’s anything really dramatic, we’re all sure to suffer.”
The so-called Queen of the Galaxy, Commander Rodgers-Smith, took the speaker’s podium, after everyone was introduced. Light applause greeted her for a short moment, and a few good-natured hoots.
“Thank you, people, thank you,” she said. Her voice echoed into the hall over the sound-system. “I think we’re ready for the meat-and-bones of this meeting, and I know many of you are very curious about what’s going on. As we get started, be advised that this meeting is rather serious, and no simple matter at all. With Asteroid U2753b, the Mars Program is facing an unprecedented challenge, with vast consequences. It’s not just our program. It’s not just us. This is truly a global issue, although still ten years away from any real harm. But I’ll leave that to the experts to explain. Nevertheless, as your program head-honcho and Mars program bureaucratic guru, please be alert. This is a very serious matter.”
Now the room was quiet, a hush.
“Let me introduce Doctor Willy Atta-Bowman, Ph.D., from the University of Berkeley,” she said. Bowman, who had already been introduced once, now rose from his seat at the long panel-discussion tables, and took the speaker’s podium. Rodgers-Smith shook his hand and sat down quickly.
Bowman waved his hand at the operator of a computer-projection system. The large screens behind him came to life, with a huge image showing a navigation map of the Earth’s Sun (Sol), it’s relation to the Earth, and aspects in between (Mercury, Venus, and other). Distances and planetary orbit paths were also indicated.
“Hello, Mars program,” Bowman started. “I’m Doctor Bowman, and I think my background has already been sufficiently presented. I’m a planetary-science specialist at UC Berkeley, for the past 15 years, basically. For tonight, I’m the Explainer-in-Chief. So, hope you like my style, I guess.”
He paused, a bit nervous. “Okay. So, it’s really no mystery, is it? U2753b has been tracked now for many moons---even years. Who knows where these large rocks come from, I guess the Big Bang. Earth hasn’t been hit by a very large meteor in thousands if not millions of years. Hollywood gets a lot of mileage out of this kind of thing, and we’ve all seen those old movies and read those books. Great stories, right? As we know, the space-program has been tracking large meteors and asteroids for more than 20 years, for obvious reasons. And we do get them, ranging in size from a few feet long, to much larger, maybe the size of a Chevy truck, or a school-bus. The chances of Earth being hit by one of these is, pardon the expression, astronomical. But if they’re headed our way, the space-program wants to know, so they are tracked from the first day they’re identified, usually by private hobby-astronomers around the world who do their star-gazing for fun, many of them quite advanced in their skills and science.”
He paused again, taking a sip from a water-glass and clearing his throat. “So, okay, you get the idea,” he started again, speaking into the sound system. The audience was molting before his eyes, like a mist of hopeful faces and eyes, trying to understand. But many already knew, and the prospects caused them to lower their gaze or look away. “The research is not bull-shit. Many of you are very advanced in the sciences. Feel free to go over the documentation and proofs, which are available, and have just been released as complete reports. Bottom line, this asteroid is too large to ignore, and the projected paths of both the planet and the meteor, are indeed sobering.”
Now an image flashed onto the second screen behind him at the front of the hall---an actual Hubble telescope-type image of the asteroid they were discussing. Dark, gray, potted with craggy peaks and valleys---a rock.
“It’s one of those scary science-fiction type deals, I guess,” Bowman told the audience. “U2753b is about the size of the state of Virginia, or larger. A hit anywhere on planet Earth would almost without a doubt have devastating, Extinction-Level results. But---it could miss, or it could be diverted, and really it’s not a problem for the Mars program, in terms of avoiding a collision. That is not our mission, and not our arena, and we probably wouldn’t be involved. Other international space-forces will try to stop the hit, and this could be done in different ways---blah-blah-blah, just like the movies, I guess. Also, don’t start making plans for your own funeral. The asteroid won’t even be near our world for at least another six years. I think Commander Rodgers-Smith said ten years, a moment ago. It’s a long ways off, and it’s slow, and somewhat unpredictable. For a local-space region meteor, this one is a monster. It’s huge. So, what we’re talking about today, is how the Mars Program, and the base on Mars, will be affected, and how our program will respond, and other difficulties and challenges.”
The room was still, with only the combined breathing of 300 space-program staffers to be heard. Someone dropped a laptop PC on the floor with a clatter. Bowman paused. “Can I answer just a couple of quick questions at this point?” he said. “We’ve only got three hours for this meeting today, and then I guess another science-data conference tomorrow, so I want to move along quickly if I may.”
A moment. “So we’re all gonna’ die, right?” one of the space-pilots shouted into the room, somewhat out-of-turn, a bit rowdy.
Bowman smiled broadly. “That’s about it, space cowboy,” he said with at least some good humor. “But you knew that already, didn’t you? You’re a brave bunch and so am I, so take heart. We have six years to avoid that. But for the Mars Program, our base on Mars now starts to look like---dare I say it---our only hope for survival, or off-world human species survival, even in small numbers, if the Earth takes that kind of hit, and all those millions die in their pain and fears, I guess, and all the environmental stuff. Again, this would be like, at the level of sucking away Earth’s breathable atmosphere for about 1,000 years. Stuff like that. With the Mars-base now fully functional and life-support working to maintain 200 or so people as a sustainable facility, even on its own---control and ownership of the base, is now a very hot item among international Earth military and space-program forces. So, that’s our next topic. Let’s break now for 15-minutes, please.”
The conference-room lights flickered on again, and the group began to chatter. But now the melody of the voices, and the overall vibration, had turned to a different tune, at a lower key, as if a giant had struck a bell, indicating danger ahead.
Bowman nodded at Lynn Rodgers-Smith, and she looked down and away, somewhat grim, without a smile.
Cowan, Guy Reisling’s Second, stood from his seat and stretched. “So, uh---not boring, then, right?” he said.
“I guess not,” Guy answered .
--Julian Phillips
Oct. 19, 2009
OUTPOST
Tom Luong Films
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
CHAPTER THREE--'Outpost' from Tom Luong Films
OUTPOST
Chapter Three
“Mars, the ancient Roman deity of war, a god in olden times. Why not then to tread it underfoot, and end all wars forever?”
--Imbrahim Mehudi, Ph.D., US-Earth Mars Command Second-Director of Sciences, Vandenberg, CA Space-port, 2075
ROLL CALL: these are the men and women of the US-Earth Mars-Mission Space Command. Skilled, trained, brave, fearless, unwavering, and sick to death of crappy ‘McAbyss Happy Spaceman Meals’, among other discomforts.
Talk on the Earth-side US continental West-coast center for space-flight stuff had turned to an announced and scheduled all-hands conference and meeting, even for weeks prior to Guy Reisling’s ill-fated grounding and return to planet-side, from his last Mars-run. The space-program was considered both important and even vital, and a total waste of time, even among its long-term workers and students. The cost was outlandish, but given that by 2075, old-style money or wealth had become virtually meaningless, it was thought wise to remove the blockage of typical funding approaches, and ‘just do it’. Damn the financial torpedoes, we’re going to Mars, they all said. Much as kings in the ancient world could build the Great Pyramids of Egypt without regard to mathematical money, the intellectual community had revealed over many years, to the powers and authorities, that common Earth-technicians really could do almost anything, within our grasp of science and technology, with or without actual money. And this was a liberation, to be sure. But the goals, the ‘value’, the payback, the harvest or wealth, or return-on-investment, for the citizenry---this had always been a huge public relations stumbling block for the space-program, even in the old days. Without the discovery of mountains of solid gold or oceans of high-quality petro-fuel on Mars, that would enrich the Earth somehow---other goals, such as long-term species survival, seemed rather empty. Many other issues occupied the various crews and staff at the Vandenberg base from time to time, like an unusual ant-hill of uniquely-endowed ants, always busy. But the current alarm, regarding this up-coming ‘big-deal’ meeting, was much a mystery.
The Mars-Mission Fleet Commander at this juncture was a man named Winton ‘Kick’ Berle. Winton was a large-faced man, about age 52-years, with a huge jaw and ruddy complexion, seeming always to smile, but a harder smile than most. His role was to oversee all the US space-ships and vessels, related to the Mars missions and travel. All flight-travel, all traffic and coordinated navigations and plans, all equipment, gear, readiness, all the pilots and crews, and much more. It was a lot to handle, but really not unlimited. Winton was nick-named ‘Kick’ by the pilots, for a story about one of his own space-flights, as a pilot, early in the Mars program, when a small inner-ship doorway hatch was stuck, mid-way in their deep-space run, blocking the crew’s use of important life-sustaining gear, and he had to kick in the door with his foot to save their lives. He still enjoyed complaining about the consequences of a tiny metatarsal bone fracture deep within his right foot, and occasional pain, when chatting up the newbies. Winton was no longer a pilot, and was very much beloved and respected by all.
“Every damn meeting like this in the last ten years, I end up selling Mars rocks and free hot-dogs to the Japanese rocket fuel-merchants. They love the hot dogs, and re-sell the rocks for paper-weights. Go figure,” Winton complained to his secretary, two weeks prior to the event. His secretary chuckled as she always did at his colorful asides, which were never quite true.
Ibrahim Mehudi was the Israeli-born Ph.D., Second-Director of Sciences, for the entire Mars program. Male, about age 45-years, thin and dark-skinned, muscular and lanky. He had a heavy-looking brow-forehead and deep eyes, but watery and Buddha-like within. Obviously, the vast arena of sciences related to space-travel encompassed enormous knowledge and technique, from metallurgy and rocketry, to astro-physics, and including the hyper-critical area of life-support and human biology. Within the hierarchy of the program, a few select men needed to pull it all together into a cohesive, standardized whole, that all the various teams could understand and relate to in a common language focused on the task at hand. Ibrahim’s feet never left the ground, and he had never even travelled in space at all. But his mind and thoughts soared infinitely. The actual science they used was not really ‘new’. Ibrahim’s job was to channel all that info-data and technique, to the widely different critical moments that made up even a single space-flight---the launch, the trajectory, the deep-space movement, re-entry, crew-safety and well-being, and also much of the work on the actual Snikta-base on Mars itself. Ibrahim’s knowledge was truly awesome, god-like, and very valuable to every person working on the Mars program. He was also a great tennis-player.
“There is no God in space-travel. No Jesus, no Spirit. No Space-Ghost. You understand this? It’s a no-no,” Ibrahim said to his wife, at their beach-front California home one afternoon. He was also making preparations for the meeting planned for the base. Ibrahim was one of those who actually knew what the meeting was really about, and the important announcement they were releasing for the entire Mars program staff and crews. His wife was not ignorant of all this as well.
“But Ibrahim, my husband,” she said over their wine at dinner, in complete privacy. “The destruction of the planet, the end of life on Earth, a huge meteor that will wipe us all out. Surely the Supreme Being should at least be consulted? A thing like that!”
“Not for many years, Golda. Not for many years.”
Branson Porter had a pretzel-logic job or role among the higher-up’s in the Mars-mission Space-Command. Porter was male, age 45, a Texan. Not much to look at, tough-as-hell. The program really had no military aspect. Space-travel was considered to be research-oriented and pure science, and the militarization of the space-program had been a hot debate many years past. If the program went to military purposes, it would be exploited for typical Earth wars, deaths, powers, wealth, conquest and control, with potentially gigantic damage, because of the advantages. Bombs on orbiting platforms, or weapons launched from the moon, would be a ruin, and a waste. On the other hand, the program included very high-tech, controversial, costly, and safety-specific bases, gear, equipment, satellites, communications, ships, and people---very similar to any modern military effort. And all that had to be protected. This was Branson’s main gig: Mars Mission Security Command. And any attacking alien armadas of trans-light speed space-ships who wanted to swipe a Mars transport ship for study or to melt down for cheap fuel, would have to go through Branson and his security crews first. And Earth-types, too.
“I hope they’re going to war with China from the Molinari Space-Dock so I can try out my ship-side EMP emitter-arrays. 50-million watts of radio-energy at a high enough frequency to toast every PC in Hong Kong from orbit in about an hour. And I never even get to play with ‘em!” Porter was bragging that same night, at a beer-bar in Santa Barbara, near Vandenberg, concerning the up-coming meeting at the base Conference Center. “Not that I have anything against the Chinese, of course.” He and his Security-type buddies kicked back a few Millers, with sports-shows on TV at the bar, speculating about the Mars program and the meeting. But no one really knew anything.
Karen Tutturo was on her way to Mars within only two weeks, on a completely different job-assignment, that had very little to do with any big-deal announcements or meetings. Or so she thought. A science-type, or high-tech worker-bee, Karen was about age 42, female, very attractive and intelligent, with a somewhat big build physically, or slightly ‘butch’, appropriate for space-travel in a woman. Karen was a Communications Systems-Specialist, and a citizen of the UK. The base on Mars was designed with a very sophisticated deep-space radio-communications system that could link voice-chatter, and tech-commands or tech-instructions, Earth-to-Mars and Mars-to-Earth, far faster than any ship. Unfortunately, now ten years into the Mars-base success story, there were problems with the links and system. So Karen was on her way to the Mars base, supposedly to do the needed ‘fixes’. She had of course studied the system and knew all about it, how it worked and what it was made of. But it was her first trip into the Abyss, and she was pretty nervous about it all. The up-coming meeting at Vandenberg everyone was talking about meant very little to her.
“It’s always the end of the world somewhere,” Karen told one of her girl-friends, as a joke, driving up the coast highway in the heat and sunshine, on another day. Karen’s voyage to Mars was scheduled far in advance, and of course she was preparing. Her road-car purred with hydrogen-fuel efficiency, a blur of motion in the wind and fresh air. But her heart was full of butterflies about the whole space-travel experience. Nevertheless, as part of the Mars program, if her skills could restore the Mars-base communications to full working order, she had to do it, she had to go, she had to be strong, she had to face her fears. And she knew she would.
Transport space-ship pilot Guy Reisling’s Second-Pilot was Rob Cowan, an experienced space-flight veteran, age 45, lean, lanky, athletic, Caucasian. The Penelope’s Fuel-and-Propulsion Technician was Herbie French, age 35, an Egyptian-born US citizen and student of rocketry, very skilled with that tech. Of course on Guy’s runs, their lives depended on their knowledge and hard work and attention. It wasn’t just ‘one mistake’ that would kill them, out there. It was attitude, focus, alertness---and errors, too, if any were made. Errors to space-men on these flights in 2075 were like tiny sparks of static-electricity in a dry forest or in the grassy brown California hillsides in the hot summers, when wild-fires still destroyed homes valued at multi-millions of dollars, and took lives as well. Errors add up, and then---shit happens. Guy trusted both these men and they trusted him. They all knew the up-coming meeting would probably affect them somehow.
“Cut-backs,” Herbie chimed in, back at the base, in a locker-room area, where they had run into each other, now ‘out-of-service’ as a working transport crew, given Guy’s punishment and flight-ready demotion by Commander Okman. They hadn’t forgotten. But like Guy, it wasn’t half-bad at all, and his crew was enjoying the break. They had months between voyages anyway, on their return. Like the rest, they just figured the Mars Program was going through some changes, and the leadership wanted everyone to be informed. The transport guys were not all that important or glamorous.
The US Mars Mission Commander, known to the lower-level types, and other higher-up’s, as ‘The Queen of the Galaxy’, or alternately, ‘Commander of Angels’, was a formidable woman named Lynn Rodgers-Smith, Ph.D, about age 60 years. Lynn was a Texan, like Branson Porter, and of course Texas had a long history with the US space-program. If there was a single person who had the final word on choices and decision for the Mars program, it was Lynn Rodgers-Smith. But there really was no single individual pulling all the strings, no Commander-in-Chief approach. Much of a bureaucrat, Lynn was also very experience and knew all the ins-and-outs of the program, having worked with the crews, even on some flights, and deep into the science-tech side as well, in the past, prior to recruitment as a ‘desk-jockey’, and then to the very top. She was a short woman, busty and brassy, and she could command a room full of astronauts with a hard whisper, much-respected as ‘knowing’. She loved to cook and also made home-brewed wine and beer. For the Big Meeting they were all anticipating, now only a week away, Lynn was reflective as they all were, intending only to rise-to-the-occasion once again, mother-to-millions in her way, but humble and careful on all points.
“We need to be very clear about the data and info on the meteor,” Lynn said to her immediate peer, a man named Willy Atta-Bowman. Bowman was a specialist, brought in for only this meeting, rather as the Explainer-in-Chief, who would bring down-to-Earth for the three-day conference, what they needed to share. The two of them were in the office complex where Lynn held court, private and removed from other chores at the base. Bowman was 52 years-old, an educated science-and-space University teacher, who was in charge of the meeting, and would make the presentations to an assembly of about 300 people at the Conference Center, next Wednesday (including the Japanese rocket-fuel merchants, who were invited out of habit more than need). Of course Bowman also had a staff and assistants for the work involved.
“It’s not hard to visualize, just hard to prove to a room full of Ph.D. astro-scientists,” Bowman said. “They tend to be picky about fact vs. fiction where giant meteors are concerned. But---we know what we know. That’s the thing. Given another six years, there will be no doubt whatsoever. Now is the time to bring this out with your Mars program people, so needed changes and decisions can go forward immediately.”
“And your researchers still feel the Ukrainian space-program is hostile to our interests?”
“Well---researchers, or, you might say, good old-fashioned spies. But yes, in a way. We’ll get into all that. Bottom line though, if the Russian Space-Program really does want the Mars base, in the next year or so, and if they have plans to take action, the new data on the meteor will set things in place for some kind of showdown, either formally or informally. And we feel they do want the Mars base, as a safe-haven if the meteor hits. We also feel they have the same data we have, and have been making these kinds of plans,” Bowman said, with a heavy sound in his voice.
The so-called Queen of the Galaxy, Lynn Rodgers-Smith, present Commander of the US-Mars Space Program, for the year 2075, leaned over in the chair at her large oak desk, spitting out her chewing gum unceremoniously into a trash-can, with a tiny ‘plink’ sound. Her thick pink fingers ran across her face nervously, looking back at Bowman.
“So ten years into the success of the Mars base, we’re now talking about some kind of a conflict for control or occupation of the Mars facility, with Russian or Ukrainian Space-forces, or even military, because of a meteor approaching the Earth, which is not scheduled to even come close to the planet for about another ten years,” she said. “Is that correct?”
“That’s about it,” Bowman responded. “Yeah.”
Lynn paused. “Well, we need to be very clear about the data and info on the meteor, that’s all,” she said. “One damn thing at a time.”
---Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films
Oct. 13, 2009
Chapter Three
“Mars, the ancient Roman deity of war, a god in olden times. Why not then to tread it underfoot, and end all wars forever?”
--Imbrahim Mehudi, Ph.D., US-Earth Mars Command Second-Director of Sciences, Vandenberg, CA Space-port, 2075
ROLL CALL: these are the men and women of the US-Earth Mars-Mission Space Command. Skilled, trained, brave, fearless, unwavering, and sick to death of crappy ‘McAbyss Happy Spaceman Meals’, among other discomforts.
Talk on the Earth-side US continental West-coast center for space-flight stuff had turned to an announced and scheduled all-hands conference and meeting, even for weeks prior to Guy Reisling’s ill-fated grounding and return to planet-side, from his last Mars-run. The space-program was considered both important and even vital, and a total waste of time, even among its long-term workers and students. The cost was outlandish, but given that by 2075, old-style money or wealth had become virtually meaningless, it was thought wise to remove the blockage of typical funding approaches, and ‘just do it’. Damn the financial torpedoes, we’re going to Mars, they all said. Much as kings in the ancient world could build the Great Pyramids of Egypt without regard to mathematical money, the intellectual community had revealed over many years, to the powers and authorities, that common Earth-technicians really could do almost anything, within our grasp of science and technology, with or without actual money. And this was a liberation, to be sure. But the goals, the ‘value’, the payback, the harvest or wealth, or return-on-investment, for the citizenry---this had always been a huge public relations stumbling block for the space-program, even in the old days. Without the discovery of mountains of solid gold or oceans of high-quality petro-fuel on Mars, that would enrich the Earth somehow---other goals, such as long-term species survival, seemed rather empty. Many other issues occupied the various crews and staff at the Vandenberg base from time to time, like an unusual ant-hill of uniquely-endowed ants, always busy. But the current alarm, regarding this up-coming ‘big-deal’ meeting, was much a mystery.
The Mars-Mission Fleet Commander at this juncture was a man named Winton ‘Kick’ Berle. Winton was a large-faced man, about age 52-years, with a huge jaw and ruddy complexion, seeming always to smile, but a harder smile than most. His role was to oversee all the US space-ships and vessels, related to the Mars missions and travel. All flight-travel, all traffic and coordinated navigations and plans, all equipment, gear, readiness, all the pilots and crews, and much more. It was a lot to handle, but really not unlimited. Winton was nick-named ‘Kick’ by the pilots, for a story about one of his own space-flights, as a pilot, early in the Mars program, when a small inner-ship doorway hatch was stuck, mid-way in their deep-space run, blocking the crew’s use of important life-sustaining gear, and he had to kick in the door with his foot to save their lives. He still enjoyed complaining about the consequences of a tiny metatarsal bone fracture deep within his right foot, and occasional pain, when chatting up the newbies. Winton was no longer a pilot, and was very much beloved and respected by all.
“Every damn meeting like this in the last ten years, I end up selling Mars rocks and free hot-dogs to the Japanese rocket fuel-merchants. They love the hot dogs, and re-sell the rocks for paper-weights. Go figure,” Winton complained to his secretary, two weeks prior to the event. His secretary chuckled as she always did at his colorful asides, which were never quite true.
Ibrahim Mehudi was the Israeli-born Ph.D., Second-Director of Sciences, for the entire Mars program. Male, about age 45-years, thin and dark-skinned, muscular and lanky. He had a heavy-looking brow-forehead and deep eyes, but watery and Buddha-like within. Obviously, the vast arena of sciences related to space-travel encompassed enormous knowledge and technique, from metallurgy and rocketry, to astro-physics, and including the hyper-critical area of life-support and human biology. Within the hierarchy of the program, a few select men needed to pull it all together into a cohesive, standardized whole, that all the various teams could understand and relate to in a common language focused on the task at hand. Ibrahim’s feet never left the ground, and he had never even travelled in space at all. But his mind and thoughts soared infinitely. The actual science they used was not really ‘new’. Ibrahim’s job was to channel all that info-data and technique, to the widely different critical moments that made up even a single space-flight---the launch, the trajectory, the deep-space movement, re-entry, crew-safety and well-being, and also much of the work on the actual Snikta-base on Mars itself. Ibrahim’s knowledge was truly awesome, god-like, and very valuable to every person working on the Mars program. He was also a great tennis-player.
“There is no God in space-travel. No Jesus, no Spirit. No Space-Ghost. You understand this? It’s a no-no,” Ibrahim said to his wife, at their beach-front California home one afternoon. He was also making preparations for the meeting planned for the base. Ibrahim was one of those who actually knew what the meeting was really about, and the important announcement they were releasing for the entire Mars program staff and crews. His wife was not ignorant of all this as well.
“But Ibrahim, my husband,” she said over their wine at dinner, in complete privacy. “The destruction of the planet, the end of life on Earth, a huge meteor that will wipe us all out. Surely the Supreme Being should at least be consulted? A thing like that!”
“Not for many years, Golda. Not for many years.”
Branson Porter had a pretzel-logic job or role among the higher-up’s in the Mars-mission Space-Command. Porter was male, age 45, a Texan. Not much to look at, tough-as-hell. The program really had no military aspect. Space-travel was considered to be research-oriented and pure science, and the militarization of the space-program had been a hot debate many years past. If the program went to military purposes, it would be exploited for typical Earth wars, deaths, powers, wealth, conquest and control, with potentially gigantic damage, because of the advantages. Bombs on orbiting platforms, or weapons launched from the moon, would be a ruin, and a waste. On the other hand, the program included very high-tech, controversial, costly, and safety-specific bases, gear, equipment, satellites, communications, ships, and people---very similar to any modern military effort. And all that had to be protected. This was Branson’s main gig: Mars Mission Security Command. And any attacking alien armadas of trans-light speed space-ships who wanted to swipe a Mars transport ship for study or to melt down for cheap fuel, would have to go through Branson and his security crews first. And Earth-types, too.
“I hope they’re going to war with China from the Molinari Space-Dock so I can try out my ship-side EMP emitter-arrays. 50-million watts of radio-energy at a high enough frequency to toast every PC in Hong Kong from orbit in about an hour. And I never even get to play with ‘em!” Porter was bragging that same night, at a beer-bar in Santa Barbara, near Vandenberg, concerning the up-coming meeting at the base Conference Center. “Not that I have anything against the Chinese, of course.” He and his Security-type buddies kicked back a few Millers, with sports-shows on TV at the bar, speculating about the Mars program and the meeting. But no one really knew anything.
Karen Tutturo was on her way to Mars within only two weeks, on a completely different job-assignment, that had very little to do with any big-deal announcements or meetings. Or so she thought. A science-type, or high-tech worker-bee, Karen was about age 42, female, very attractive and intelligent, with a somewhat big build physically, or slightly ‘butch’, appropriate for space-travel in a woman. Karen was a Communications Systems-Specialist, and a citizen of the UK. The base on Mars was designed with a very sophisticated deep-space radio-communications system that could link voice-chatter, and tech-commands or tech-instructions, Earth-to-Mars and Mars-to-Earth, far faster than any ship. Unfortunately, now ten years into the Mars-base success story, there were problems with the links and system. So Karen was on her way to the Mars base, supposedly to do the needed ‘fixes’. She had of course studied the system and knew all about it, how it worked and what it was made of. But it was her first trip into the Abyss, and she was pretty nervous about it all. The up-coming meeting at Vandenberg everyone was talking about meant very little to her.
“It’s always the end of the world somewhere,” Karen told one of her girl-friends, as a joke, driving up the coast highway in the heat and sunshine, on another day. Karen’s voyage to Mars was scheduled far in advance, and of course she was preparing. Her road-car purred with hydrogen-fuel efficiency, a blur of motion in the wind and fresh air. But her heart was full of butterflies about the whole space-travel experience. Nevertheless, as part of the Mars program, if her skills could restore the Mars-base communications to full working order, she had to do it, she had to go, she had to be strong, she had to face her fears. And she knew she would.
Transport space-ship pilot Guy Reisling’s Second-Pilot was Rob Cowan, an experienced space-flight veteran, age 45, lean, lanky, athletic, Caucasian. The Penelope’s Fuel-and-Propulsion Technician was Herbie French, age 35, an Egyptian-born US citizen and student of rocketry, very skilled with that tech. Of course on Guy’s runs, their lives depended on their knowledge and hard work and attention. It wasn’t just ‘one mistake’ that would kill them, out there. It was attitude, focus, alertness---and errors, too, if any were made. Errors to space-men on these flights in 2075 were like tiny sparks of static-electricity in a dry forest or in the grassy brown California hillsides in the hot summers, when wild-fires still destroyed homes valued at multi-millions of dollars, and took lives as well. Errors add up, and then---shit happens. Guy trusted both these men and they trusted him. They all knew the up-coming meeting would probably affect them somehow.
“Cut-backs,” Herbie chimed in, back at the base, in a locker-room area, where they had run into each other, now ‘out-of-service’ as a working transport crew, given Guy’s punishment and flight-ready demotion by Commander Okman. They hadn’t forgotten. But like Guy, it wasn’t half-bad at all, and his crew was enjoying the break. They had months between voyages anyway, on their return. Like the rest, they just figured the Mars Program was going through some changes, and the leadership wanted everyone to be informed. The transport guys were not all that important or glamorous.
The US Mars Mission Commander, known to the lower-level types, and other higher-up’s, as ‘The Queen of the Galaxy’, or alternately, ‘Commander of Angels’, was a formidable woman named Lynn Rodgers-Smith, Ph.D, about age 60 years. Lynn was a Texan, like Branson Porter, and of course Texas had a long history with the US space-program. If there was a single person who had the final word on choices and decision for the Mars program, it was Lynn Rodgers-Smith. But there really was no single individual pulling all the strings, no Commander-in-Chief approach. Much of a bureaucrat, Lynn was also very experience and knew all the ins-and-outs of the program, having worked with the crews, even on some flights, and deep into the science-tech side as well, in the past, prior to recruitment as a ‘desk-jockey’, and then to the very top. She was a short woman, busty and brassy, and she could command a room full of astronauts with a hard whisper, much-respected as ‘knowing’. She loved to cook and also made home-brewed wine and beer. For the Big Meeting they were all anticipating, now only a week away, Lynn was reflective as they all were, intending only to rise-to-the-occasion once again, mother-to-millions in her way, but humble and careful on all points.
“We need to be very clear about the data and info on the meteor,” Lynn said to her immediate peer, a man named Willy Atta-Bowman. Bowman was a specialist, brought in for only this meeting, rather as the Explainer-in-Chief, who would bring down-to-Earth for the three-day conference, what they needed to share. The two of them were in the office complex where Lynn held court, private and removed from other chores at the base. Bowman was 52 years-old, an educated science-and-space University teacher, who was in charge of the meeting, and would make the presentations to an assembly of about 300 people at the Conference Center, next Wednesday (including the Japanese rocket-fuel merchants, who were invited out of habit more than need). Of course Bowman also had a staff and assistants for the work involved.
“It’s not hard to visualize, just hard to prove to a room full of Ph.D. astro-scientists,” Bowman said. “They tend to be picky about fact vs. fiction where giant meteors are concerned. But---we know what we know. That’s the thing. Given another six years, there will be no doubt whatsoever. Now is the time to bring this out with your Mars program people, so needed changes and decisions can go forward immediately.”
“And your researchers still feel the Ukrainian space-program is hostile to our interests?”
“Well---researchers, or, you might say, good old-fashioned spies. But yes, in a way. We’ll get into all that. Bottom line though, if the Russian Space-Program really does want the Mars base, in the next year or so, and if they have plans to take action, the new data on the meteor will set things in place for some kind of showdown, either formally or informally. And we feel they do want the Mars base, as a safe-haven if the meteor hits. We also feel they have the same data we have, and have been making these kinds of plans,” Bowman said, with a heavy sound in his voice.
The so-called Queen of the Galaxy, Lynn Rodgers-Smith, present Commander of the US-Mars Space Program, for the year 2075, leaned over in the chair at her large oak desk, spitting out her chewing gum unceremoniously into a trash-can, with a tiny ‘plink’ sound. Her thick pink fingers ran across her face nervously, looking back at Bowman.
“So ten years into the success of the Mars base, we’re now talking about some kind of a conflict for control or occupation of the Mars facility, with Russian or Ukrainian Space-forces, or even military, because of a meteor approaching the Earth, which is not scheduled to even come close to the planet for about another ten years,” she said. “Is that correct?”
“That’s about it,” Bowman responded. “Yeah.”
Lynn paused. “Well, we need to be very clear about the data and info on the meteor, that’s all,” she said. “One damn thing at a time.”
---Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films
Oct. 13, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
CHAPTER the SECOND: OUTPOST--
OUTPOST
Chapter Two
“Yet still the lacy spires of Truth sing beauties madrigal. And she herself will ever dwell along the grand-canal.”
From ‘Along the Grand-Canal’ by Robert Heinlein
Reisling, the transport space-pilot, had a place when in Vandenberg, where he could stay. Guy wasn’t married, but knew a few women who were ‘more than friends’. After months in space, therefore, and on recommendation of numerous Space Program doctors, it was for his own health and enjoyment, and psychological well-being, when he returned, to get ‘down to business’ and have a good time for a bit. His home in the Vandenberg-area was very nice, but perhaps not extravagant by many standards, and on the lazy California afternoons in the heat beneath those high clouds, among the tender green leaves on the bushes in his very own backyard, where birds would play, and grass underfoot, short-cut by the handyman who watched the place---fresh air, quality gravity, food and friends---it was always good to be back, every single time. Earth is home forever, as any space-pilot knows.
The women he knew were mostly of the same variety who were impressed by race-car drivers, jet-pilots, bull-rider rodeo boys, surfers, heavy-equipment operators, and police or emergency workers. Space-travel was not yet truly a ‘normal job’, in 2075. But there were many runs these days, far more than in the past, and the Earth’s Space-Program back-and-forth to Mars, in particular, was now almost like any other very expensive and high-tech industry. So for Guy, it was a ‘cool gig’, and the ladies loved it. Guy was attractive and healthy, athletic, and he loved them right back. So any returning was a celebration, and barbecues in his backyard were a favorite mode of enjoyment---easy, private, outdoors, with music and friends.
Guy’s fast-grill wood barbecue lofted pale-blue wood-smoke into the air and sunlight. He was making hamburgers. Margie, one of the cafeteria-girls at the base, who had a wonderfully pronounced and appealing body for a woman of about age 35-years, had joined him, and for today it was just the two of them, rather than a ‘big deal’ party or anything. The better to eat you with, my dear, Guy thought to himself. He was cooking hamburgers, and other food, and they had beer and snacks. The radio was playing popular current tunes. It’s good to be back, Guy thought. I wonder if Margie is up for a hot shower with a cold space-man??
“Why did all the early science-fiction writers 100 years ago think that Mars had big canals, Guy? Have you ever wondered? You know---Arthur C. Clarke and Robert Heinlein, or Edgar Rice Burroughs and Ray Bradbury? They all invented stories where Mars was covered with these big giant ancient canals, like deep canyons. Why was that? Do you know?” Even for a cafeteria-worker, Margie was well-read, probably because it was a space-port, and all that. Everyone at the base got into the fun and glory of space-travel, the excitement and legend.
“Guy, your hamburgers are burning!”
Guy replaced his beer on top of a picnic table, and grabbed his spatula. He started flipping hamburger-patties as quickly as he could---the bluish smoke was getting thick. “Mars never had canals, Margie,” he answered her as he worked. “The idea was because the planet might have had plenty of water, in the past, which had created the canals, like deep rivers. There were early photos, and also early art-work, that perpetuated the myth, and caught on as a popular delusion. So, it was only a romantic notion. The whole canal thing had something or other to do with the Western or US common lack of world-travel experience, and the American’s desire to travel to places like Venice, Italy, where they had the famous gondolas, another popular cartoonish image.”
“Maybe a root canal,” Margie said. “Like at the dentist’s.”
Margie’s pronounced and very appealing 35 year-old female body had at this point cleverly maneuvered close by Guy’s shoulder, and she skillfully leaned her slightly rounded arm on his shoulder, and another on his hip. She sipped her beer. Guy finished flipping his seven hamburger patties---the fire was a bit too hot, but they were fine. He loved the way the smoke curled into the air. And he also loved the nearby local heavenly bodies, such as Margie’s.
In that year, 2075, the Mars program was now at least 20 years-old. Much progress had been made. The most significant was the establishment of a functioning base, on Mars. The Snikta-Ridge Volcanic-Basin Mars Base was a wonder. It had been built in about 10 years, for the first part, and really was always expanding with new parts or new sections. The US Space-Program was the lead agency, but other nations had participated---Japanese, Chinese, UK, Brazilian, Russian, Israeli. Guy was very proud to be a part of it all, and of course his job was merely to move equipment, gear and supplies, and sometimes people, from Earth to Mars, for the base and its various needs. The ships, the base-machinery, the staff and crews, the propulsion-systems, the navigation, and the things learned, were all a stunning victory for the program, at least to an extent.
So, of course, driving a transport back-and-forth, sometimes made beautiful women like Margie desirous of Guy’s company, he guessed as a status-thing for the gals on the base, who probably bragged later in their girly-talk about which space-pilot was the best lover. Margie was no favorite, or any long-term relationship or significant-other status for Guy. In terms of simple lust, he was a lot more interested in the hamburgers, at the moment. The in-flight food they ate on the ‘Penelope’, his Cundrum-21 Deep-Space Local Planetary Cruiser (by DuPont-Monsanto), was really pretty awful. No outdoor barbecues, cold beers, gently lofting smoke from a greasy grill, toasted bread-buns, mustard, ketchup and onions. So he always craved ‘that sort of thing’ when he was on his own, and back home. The doctors didn’t approve of much ‘junk food’ for his nutritional routine, but he and Margie had other plans.
He told Margie more about why he had been grounded. The story was now common-knowledge at the base, as far as his peers. They lay in bed in their afternoon-delight, later, full of beer, burgers and each other, between the cotton sheets, made from cotton-puff fiber clouds only Mother-Earth could yield, like her white-clouds above. For Margie it was a gossip-plumb she could cherish and savor for later---the inside scoop.
It was their fifth run of the season, for Guy and the crew of the Penelope. Because of the relatedness of each planet’s position as they would orbit the Sun, transports could only make so many runs to Mars with any real success. The two planets were only near enough during a short window of months. After that, the journey was almost insanely difficult. The so-called Mars Effect, back on Earth, was even calculated as far as gravitational-pull on Earth oceans, and other effects, of course seemingly minor, but others speculated the nearness of the planets could create emotional and psychological upsets among the common populace of Earth, during those seasons. Wars, market crashes, domestic violence, disease---it might just be Mars, or the Mars Effect, though of course it was impossible to really know. But during those seasons, when Mars and Earth were near enough, that was when Guy went to work, and voyaged in his ship, with goods for the Mars base. I guess everyone needs a scapegoat, Guy thought. In the case of Earth, we need an entire other planet!
“Just rub my back,” Margie moaned. “You have such strong hands.” Otherwise known as the Margie-Effect, as far as guy was concerned. He complied happily.
“Ohhhhh. Thanks, Guy. So go ahead. It was your fifth-run on your way back. They had the solar flares. Why didn’t you just---you know----just solve the problem like a good astronaut? You’re supposed to know how and everything, right? How else could you survive?”
Guy’s thoughts drifted back in his memories of the flight. How could he explain so a cafeteria-worker would understand? It was now three months in the past. They had performed their duties flawlessly, another great run. The chores as far as space-men and pilots were concerned, were now fairly routine. But, like any work of this sort, even a small irregularity, or unforeseen event, could literally create sudden terror, and death, for Guy and his crew. The Penelope had been required to ferry over a more-than-usual cargo of Condensed Water----things get dry on the Red Planet. Every transport run was essential, and there was no turning back after the Halfway-Point Docking at Molinari, the long-term orbiting deep-space rest-stop.
Memories of the abyss are only darkness, except aboard the ship, where they all lived every moment, the mother, the womb. Great place for Buddhists---emptiness it’s only feature, with the stars so distant, as to appear as non-real. So, he and his team did their thing, the ship was fine. But the solar flares, or what they call heated emissions---any movement there on the local solar tracking and monitoring, and Guy, as the pilot, had to take care. If he didn’t handle it properly, based on the ship’s position, the movement and speed of the hot gases, and the heat-levels of the hot gases---they could fry. Not a happy outcome. And in this case, apparently, even though they had a successful return to Earth, Guy had not handled it properly. Flight-path error. It means, ‘we don’t do things that way’. Space-flight is like running a huge stock-market fund. If you screw up, it can be like a very long row of very carefully stacked dominoes, which happen to be very expensive as well. One error leads to another and another. So the pilots are always on the spot. If he and his crew fry, that’s one thing. If he makes an in-flight decision, it’s more about flight-training and procedural methods. As anyone would guess, when making the choice that had landed him in bed with Margie that peaceful afternoon, incineration was the first-up motivating-factor, compared with being grounded.
Now Margie’s pink-white butt was in his hands, which he was kneading like bread-dough. “It’s obvious, Guy,” she was commenting. “You were just sick of space-travel and being out there so long in the dark. You wanted to come home, and be with me. So you sub-consciously chose to mess up the flight-plan, when maybe you could have done it another way.”
“Sure Margie,” Guy said. “But I also didn’t want to be burned to death along with my crew. Besides, you and I are NSA, you know? No-strings-attached. “
She smirked back at his talk. And here Margie thought it was all about her. What a heart-breaker!! “So you used the hydrogen-fuel instead of the regular fuel. Big deal. Or you changed course when maybe it wasn’t planned out. You still got home. You still saved their lives. Isn’t that enough?”
“Yeah, for me,” Guy said. He now had also had enough, and gave up on Margie’s massage. Later, as the afternoon rolled by in a bliss of warmth and welcome, they kissed and said good-bye. Great gal, Guy thought. Smart, too.
Burn, or----take a vacation back home. Not a difficult set of options. Maybe it was true, Guy thought. Maybe Mars wasn’t worth it after all. There was nothing there of much value. Someone at the base was talking about a Big Meeting that was ahead for Earth’s Space-Program leadership---something about the Snikta-base on Mars. There had been a lot of rumors, as usual. Whether Guy would still be flying any transports, whatever future was ahead, was ‘up-in-the-air’ for now. But he still wanted to be a part of it all. He still wanted the thrill of his job, the daring-do kind of tough-guy self-confidence, and the beauty and wonder. This was why being grounded meant so much. Because it’s not just a job. Oh no. Not just a driver’s spot on a transit bus. So much more. Maybe even---too much.
“There are no hamburgers in space,” Guy said to himself, watching the sun set over the Pacific after Margie was safely on her way home.
---Julian Philips
Oct. 10, 2009/OUTPOST
Tom Luong Films
Chapter Two
“Yet still the lacy spires of Truth sing beauties madrigal. And she herself will ever dwell along the grand-canal.”
From ‘Along the Grand-Canal’ by Robert Heinlein
Reisling, the transport space-pilot, had a place when in Vandenberg, where he could stay. Guy wasn’t married, but knew a few women who were ‘more than friends’. After months in space, therefore, and on recommendation of numerous Space Program doctors, it was for his own health and enjoyment, and psychological well-being, when he returned, to get ‘down to business’ and have a good time for a bit. His home in the Vandenberg-area was very nice, but perhaps not extravagant by many standards, and on the lazy California afternoons in the heat beneath those high clouds, among the tender green leaves on the bushes in his very own backyard, where birds would play, and grass underfoot, short-cut by the handyman who watched the place---fresh air, quality gravity, food and friends---it was always good to be back, every single time. Earth is home forever, as any space-pilot knows.
The women he knew were mostly of the same variety who were impressed by race-car drivers, jet-pilots, bull-rider rodeo boys, surfers, heavy-equipment operators, and police or emergency workers. Space-travel was not yet truly a ‘normal job’, in 2075. But there were many runs these days, far more than in the past, and the Earth’s Space-Program back-and-forth to Mars, in particular, was now almost like any other very expensive and high-tech industry. So for Guy, it was a ‘cool gig’, and the ladies loved it. Guy was attractive and healthy, athletic, and he loved them right back. So any returning was a celebration, and barbecues in his backyard were a favorite mode of enjoyment---easy, private, outdoors, with music and friends.
Guy’s fast-grill wood barbecue lofted pale-blue wood-smoke into the air and sunlight. He was making hamburgers. Margie, one of the cafeteria-girls at the base, who had a wonderfully pronounced and appealing body for a woman of about age 35-years, had joined him, and for today it was just the two of them, rather than a ‘big deal’ party or anything. The better to eat you with, my dear, Guy thought to himself. He was cooking hamburgers, and other food, and they had beer and snacks. The radio was playing popular current tunes. It’s good to be back, Guy thought. I wonder if Margie is up for a hot shower with a cold space-man??
“Why did all the early science-fiction writers 100 years ago think that Mars had big canals, Guy? Have you ever wondered? You know---Arthur C. Clarke and Robert Heinlein, or Edgar Rice Burroughs and Ray Bradbury? They all invented stories where Mars was covered with these big giant ancient canals, like deep canyons. Why was that? Do you know?” Even for a cafeteria-worker, Margie was well-read, probably because it was a space-port, and all that. Everyone at the base got into the fun and glory of space-travel, the excitement and legend.
“Guy, your hamburgers are burning!”
Guy replaced his beer on top of a picnic table, and grabbed his spatula. He started flipping hamburger-patties as quickly as he could---the bluish smoke was getting thick. “Mars never had canals, Margie,” he answered her as he worked. “The idea was because the planet might have had plenty of water, in the past, which had created the canals, like deep rivers. There were early photos, and also early art-work, that perpetuated the myth, and caught on as a popular delusion. So, it was only a romantic notion. The whole canal thing had something or other to do with the Western or US common lack of world-travel experience, and the American’s desire to travel to places like Venice, Italy, where they had the famous gondolas, another popular cartoonish image.”
“Maybe a root canal,” Margie said. “Like at the dentist’s.”
Margie’s pronounced and very appealing 35 year-old female body had at this point cleverly maneuvered close by Guy’s shoulder, and she skillfully leaned her slightly rounded arm on his shoulder, and another on his hip. She sipped her beer. Guy finished flipping his seven hamburger patties---the fire was a bit too hot, but they were fine. He loved the way the smoke curled into the air. And he also loved the nearby local heavenly bodies, such as Margie’s.
In that year, 2075, the Mars program was now at least 20 years-old. Much progress had been made. The most significant was the establishment of a functioning base, on Mars. The Snikta-Ridge Volcanic-Basin Mars Base was a wonder. It had been built in about 10 years, for the first part, and really was always expanding with new parts or new sections. The US Space-Program was the lead agency, but other nations had participated---Japanese, Chinese, UK, Brazilian, Russian, Israeli. Guy was very proud to be a part of it all, and of course his job was merely to move equipment, gear and supplies, and sometimes people, from Earth to Mars, for the base and its various needs. The ships, the base-machinery, the staff and crews, the propulsion-systems, the navigation, and the things learned, were all a stunning victory for the program, at least to an extent.
So, of course, driving a transport back-and-forth, sometimes made beautiful women like Margie desirous of Guy’s company, he guessed as a status-thing for the gals on the base, who probably bragged later in their girly-talk about which space-pilot was the best lover. Margie was no favorite, or any long-term relationship or significant-other status for Guy. In terms of simple lust, he was a lot more interested in the hamburgers, at the moment. The in-flight food they ate on the ‘Penelope’, his Cundrum-21 Deep-Space Local Planetary Cruiser (by DuPont-Monsanto), was really pretty awful. No outdoor barbecues, cold beers, gently lofting smoke from a greasy grill, toasted bread-buns, mustard, ketchup and onions. So he always craved ‘that sort of thing’ when he was on his own, and back home. The doctors didn’t approve of much ‘junk food’ for his nutritional routine, but he and Margie had other plans.
He told Margie more about why he had been grounded. The story was now common-knowledge at the base, as far as his peers. They lay in bed in their afternoon-delight, later, full of beer, burgers and each other, between the cotton sheets, made from cotton-puff fiber clouds only Mother-Earth could yield, like her white-clouds above. For Margie it was a gossip-plumb she could cherish and savor for later---the inside scoop.
It was their fifth run of the season, for Guy and the crew of the Penelope. Because of the relatedness of each planet’s position as they would orbit the Sun, transports could only make so many runs to Mars with any real success. The two planets were only near enough during a short window of months. After that, the journey was almost insanely difficult. The so-called Mars Effect, back on Earth, was even calculated as far as gravitational-pull on Earth oceans, and other effects, of course seemingly minor, but others speculated the nearness of the planets could create emotional and psychological upsets among the common populace of Earth, during those seasons. Wars, market crashes, domestic violence, disease---it might just be Mars, or the Mars Effect, though of course it was impossible to really know. But during those seasons, when Mars and Earth were near enough, that was when Guy went to work, and voyaged in his ship, with goods for the Mars base. I guess everyone needs a scapegoat, Guy thought. In the case of Earth, we need an entire other planet!
“Just rub my back,” Margie moaned. “You have such strong hands.” Otherwise known as the Margie-Effect, as far as guy was concerned. He complied happily.
“Ohhhhh. Thanks, Guy. So go ahead. It was your fifth-run on your way back. They had the solar flares. Why didn’t you just---you know----just solve the problem like a good astronaut? You’re supposed to know how and everything, right? How else could you survive?”
Guy’s thoughts drifted back in his memories of the flight. How could he explain so a cafeteria-worker would understand? It was now three months in the past. They had performed their duties flawlessly, another great run. The chores as far as space-men and pilots were concerned, were now fairly routine. But, like any work of this sort, even a small irregularity, or unforeseen event, could literally create sudden terror, and death, for Guy and his crew. The Penelope had been required to ferry over a more-than-usual cargo of Condensed Water----things get dry on the Red Planet. Every transport run was essential, and there was no turning back after the Halfway-Point Docking at Molinari, the long-term orbiting deep-space rest-stop.
Memories of the abyss are only darkness, except aboard the ship, where they all lived every moment, the mother, the womb. Great place for Buddhists---emptiness it’s only feature, with the stars so distant, as to appear as non-real. So, he and his team did their thing, the ship was fine. But the solar flares, or what they call heated emissions---any movement there on the local solar tracking and monitoring, and Guy, as the pilot, had to take care. If he didn’t handle it properly, based on the ship’s position, the movement and speed of the hot gases, and the heat-levels of the hot gases---they could fry. Not a happy outcome. And in this case, apparently, even though they had a successful return to Earth, Guy had not handled it properly. Flight-path error. It means, ‘we don’t do things that way’. Space-flight is like running a huge stock-market fund. If you screw up, it can be like a very long row of very carefully stacked dominoes, which happen to be very expensive as well. One error leads to another and another. So the pilots are always on the spot. If he and his crew fry, that’s one thing. If he makes an in-flight decision, it’s more about flight-training and procedural methods. As anyone would guess, when making the choice that had landed him in bed with Margie that peaceful afternoon, incineration was the first-up motivating-factor, compared with being grounded.
Now Margie’s pink-white butt was in his hands, which he was kneading like bread-dough. “It’s obvious, Guy,” she was commenting. “You were just sick of space-travel and being out there so long in the dark. You wanted to come home, and be with me. So you sub-consciously chose to mess up the flight-plan, when maybe you could have done it another way.”
“Sure Margie,” Guy said. “But I also didn’t want to be burned to death along with my crew. Besides, you and I are NSA, you know? No-strings-attached. “
She smirked back at his talk. And here Margie thought it was all about her. What a heart-breaker!! “So you used the hydrogen-fuel instead of the regular fuel. Big deal. Or you changed course when maybe it wasn’t planned out. You still got home. You still saved their lives. Isn’t that enough?”
“Yeah, for me,” Guy said. He now had also had enough, and gave up on Margie’s massage. Later, as the afternoon rolled by in a bliss of warmth and welcome, they kissed and said good-bye. Great gal, Guy thought. Smart, too.
Burn, or----take a vacation back home. Not a difficult set of options. Maybe it was true, Guy thought. Maybe Mars wasn’t worth it after all. There was nothing there of much value. Someone at the base was talking about a Big Meeting that was ahead for Earth’s Space-Program leadership---something about the Snikta-base on Mars. There had been a lot of rumors, as usual. Whether Guy would still be flying any transports, whatever future was ahead, was ‘up-in-the-air’ for now. But he still wanted to be a part of it all. He still wanted the thrill of his job, the daring-do kind of tough-guy self-confidence, and the beauty and wonder. This was why being grounded meant so much. Because it’s not just a job. Oh no. Not just a driver’s spot on a transit bus. So much more. Maybe even---too much.
“There are no hamburgers in space,” Guy said to himself, watching the sun set over the Pacific after Margie was safely on her way home.
---Julian Philips
Oct. 10, 2009/OUTPOST
Tom Luong Films
Sunday, October 4, 2009
OUTPOST, Chapter One
OUTPOST
Chapter One
“Space---the final frontier? Kiss my ass, Captain Kirk---get me the hell out of here!”
---Guy Reisling, US space-program transport pilot, 2075
Nothing like a good shake-down and brutal emotional drubbing by your commanding officer, Guy was thinking. Makes me feel so important. The man now under the threat of career-ruin and complete professional and personal humiliation was Guy Askilav Reisling, a standard-issue muscle boy airman for duty in the abyss. Not un-important, but far from leadership or super-star status among his peers, which included astronauts, off-world walkers, Nobel-Prize scientists, space-pilots, and folks who knew how to get safely from Point-A to Point-B, when either spot was a few million miles apart, separated by vast regions of nothingness, and hard to find in the dark. His type were known as ‘vacuum-cleaners’, maybe because it’s hard to draw a breath in the deep-deep-deep, without a few preparations, at least, and about three million years of human evolution and science to help out. Not to mention progress in anti-gravity toilets (“To boldly go where no man has gone before---“).
Guy was seated now for his punishment, back on Earth, in a briefing room at the Vandenberg, California Space-Port Center. He was generally a joyful type of human being, as men go. But not at the moment. Solid and strong, only about 40 years-old, with a wide jaw, big shoulders and overall big-build. He had more-than-just-curly, slightly reddish hair, and tended to sport an unruly beard. Take it like a man, Guy, he told himself. It wasn’t your fault. If Guy had any actual freckles, on his face or shoulders, few would mock him for it. He was, after all, a space-ship pilot. The ‘right stuff’ for that, in the year 2075, definitely included kicking ass if he felt like it, maybe on leave, at a bar, or at the race-track, where the ground-level types seemed to get a thrill pretending that what he did for a living was a mere fly-boy luxury, or vanity for over-educated college-types who signed up only so they could brag about their true understanding of Elton John’s 1970’s-era pop-song, ‘Rocket Man’---ancient history, true, but the romance never really fades, when you’ve earned the privilege to work in space. But for the vast populace of humanity, work in space had no redeeming value.
The briefing room where Guy was reaping what he had sowed, now months behind him, but oh-so present, was like any such office or conference room the Earth had known for any time-period after 1975 or so. The Vandenberg Space-Port included many facilities that were that old, often a source of complaint from workers. Chairs, fluorescent-tube lights, walls, tables, plants, windows with thick bars or screens, a computer, a wall-map or two, chalk-board, plenty of good old-fashioned gravity---and Commander Okman, the Transport Crew head-honcho for the Western-region space-program. Although Okman had actually done ‘real’ space-flight work in the past, these days he only told program sub-ordinates the way it is, will be, and was, and should be, and cannot-be-otherwise, without instant death as a consequence. Okman was about 60 years-old, but presented a formidable form and content of opinion, standing on the other side of the conference table, across from Guy, pretty much raging. Both men were dressed in street-clothes, with name-tags and base-passes, and had known each other about five years.
“What were you thinking, Guy?” Okman spouted in his high-sounding vocal pattern. “What were you thinking? Every flight plan we provide for you to navigate from Earth to Mars on your run, is the product of about ten years of work, you know this, right? Did you forget or something? What were you going to do if you missed you re-entry corridor and ended up floating around in empty space for a year waiting for planet Earth to circle the Sun and come back up to meet your lifeless ship, if you even survived that long? Is that even possible? Have you done the math on that?? C’mon! You blew it!”
“I told you what happened, Commander,” Guy replied. “I was forced to make a flight-plan adjustment and I may have miscalculated in the rush. But I was able to correct the mistake later. It all worked out. It will never happen again, okay?”
Okman flexed his shoulders like his body was an old coat he had dragged from the closet that morning, wrinkled, dusty and unkempt. The look on his face could only be called disgust---something he probably practiced in private, for just such an occasion.
“No course-correction was necessary in the first place, Guy. You never needed to change course the first time. Those solar gas-cloud flares pass through the corridor all the time. They’re harmless, unless you take them at more than 100K caloric. You were less than 5K. That’s nothing. The energy-levels were acceptable, there was no danger.”
“My information at the time was otherwise, sir.”
“Do you have the luxury of being wrong, less than halfway home from Mars, in a ship worth more than entire nations, with a crew of seven highly skilled workers, transporting life-or-death supplies, in a deep-space environment? Give me a break, Guy. You were drinking or something. And why did you make alterations in your fuel consumption? Why did you switch to reserve-engines on hydrogen-only? What was the purpose of that?” Okman fumed.
Guy heaved a bitter sigh. “I’ve made this run more than 20 times, both ways, Commander,” he said. “We had the report from Molinari on the solar gas-flare---“
Okman huffed at mention of the deep-space Earth-Mars corridor mid-point dock-station. “Ha! Yeah! Molinari! Your girl-friend!”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Yeah, Lila works there, sure. But it didn’t come from her anyway. So my corridor had the solar-heat---the caloric wasn’t specific. If I get the heat, I either have to divert, slow-and-wait, shield, or just fucking go around it. So that’s what I did. Afterwards I went to hydrogen to make up for lost time, and match the previous flight-plan. The hydrogen is faster in deep-space than the peroxide. So that’s it. It all worked out. No one was hurt. No big loss.”
“Not really,” Okman said. “I had to bring in a team of five astro-navigators on triple-time for two weeks to figure out how to land you and coordinate docking. If they hadn’t been able to do it, you and your crew would be dead. I’m serious. You could have survived another six weeks, but planet Earth would have left you so far behind you’d never get back. Because we would have been about 100,000 miles ahead in orbit around the Sun, while you went spinning off the other way. I don’t care about the ship, Guy, and I don’t care about the cargo. I don’t even care you went to hydrogen engines without authorization. But I sure as hell care about my people. Including you.”
“Yes, sir,” Guy said, muffling resentment in the tone of his voice. Okman walked twice across the room, as Guy squirmed.
“So, okay. That’s it. You’re grounded, space-man. Your last flight is up for committee review for illegal operations and maneuvers. If the review finds you significantly at fault, your career is over. You’ll never go up again. And that’s okay, it’s for the best. We all make mistakes. We all get tired. But I can’t have any of my pilots making those kinds of errors, because lives are on the line, every single time.”
“Yes , sir. I realize that, sir. I care about my people, too.”
“Of course you do, Guy. I’m not---I’m not saying it was you---it’s not your fault, of course. And I know you give a damn. You were just tired. Burnt-out. Shit happens. You’re dismissed. Get out of here. I’ll message you on the next step and orders. But you’re grounded and so is your ship and your entire crew. At least for now. Now get out.”
Guy rose from his chair, looking sheepish. He waited long enough for Okman to look him in the eye.
“Go on, fly-boy,” Okman said tersely.
As he left the room, Guy knew Okman was basically right. The truth on the solar-heat flare needed to be confirmed prior to his course-correction, with more science to back up his decisions. At 5K caloric-energy, the heat was really minimal. At 100K caloric, his transport ship could fry. But at the same time, a flight-path alteration mid-way between worlds could easily have resulted in exactly the deadly situation Okman had described. And that’s a heck of a way to die, comparable to an Earthside nuclear submarine that sinks to the bottom of the North Sea with all hands, losing power, and no way back, the crew left inside, only to count the hours until they suffocate. Plenty of time for the ship’s captain to apologize to the dying men, something no one should ever have to do. And their only job, as transport-crew, was to haul needed items to the base on Mars, and then other items back to Earth. Not very exciting. Unless something went wrong.
It was because of the base on Mars that guy’s Condrum-21 Deep-Space Local Planetary Cruiser (his ship, known affectionately as ‘Penelope’) had been commissioned for service at all. The Penelope was designed only for the journey she had been intended for, the deep-space run between the two planets. She had a standard crew of nine highly-skilled persons. The pilot (Guy), his Second, two staff on nothing but life-support systems and ship-integrity, two tech-science staff with variable roles, also inter-changeable, two on navigation and astro-physics, and one to control and maintain propulsion-fuel and high-energy thruster mechanisms. Okman had said seven---true enough, one of the crew on life-support, and one of the navigators, had been dismissed at that time, which was fairly common, and not an alarm.
Guy made his way across the Vandenberg Space-Port campus, exiting from the hallways of the building where he was brought under orders for his meeting with Commander Okman. California, as always, even for hundreds of years, was the best the Earth had to offer, in many ways. The brisk winter air and high clouds, beneath the partridge blue hen’s egg sky, it was home forever, Paradise, so different than his ‘workplace’ as to bring to mind an entirely different realm of being---another planet, you might say. And one he certainly favored. Like a military installation, the Vandenberg facilities were filled with men and women in uniform, large concrete structures of imposing nature, huge equipment and machinery, various weapons. As he walked, he met a few people who recognized him, but not many. No super-star. A transport-pilot was minor-league around here. But that was okay with Guy. A smile and a wave, and any friends or co-workers were on their way. His big screw-up was maybe only painful to himself, and not really any kind of big news that would embarrass him forever.
Why Vandenberg? Why California? Why Mars? Relieved after his meeting with Okman, Guy suddenly remembered that he was ‘grounded’ from space-travel for a while. After about 20 round-trips in deep-space---this was also a relief. He wondered how he would spend his time until the big-shots decided if he was fit for service or not. His training had cost billions of dollars and more than 15 years of his life, and years of many other lives. All so the folks at the Mars-base could have a steady supply of toilet paper. And a few other essentials---like fresh O2 they could breathe. Or fresh H20 they could drink. Or methods to fabricate both. Or food they could eat.
Guy paused on one of the walkways, beneath a US flag, blustering high aloft in the winter air. He took a deep breath, just for himself. Then another, then counting, four-counts in, two-counts out, one-count hold. He glanced at a nearby trash-receptacle. “We recycle everything, but we’ve never developed a system that’s totally free of any kind of trash at all, or any wrappers or any packaging whatsoever,” he said to himself. “Look at this.”
He picked up a few bits of trash that had fallen near the receptacle. This is 2075, he thought to himself. We can do better.
“Plastic, cellophane, super-light metals, wood-fiber, plant-fiber, coal-and-oil by-products. What a waste! We could easily buy and sell, or share the same consumer-goods, with complete convenience, using no packaging whatsoever! This is insane!”
The space-transport pilot dropped the loose trash-items into the receptacle and pressed them down, alone in his thoughts. Somewhere, far away, yet nearer-than-near, Mars loomed and glared back at him, a distant star now, as he would see with his own eyes when night fell again. He didn’t miss the place. He didn’t miss the vast ‘space’ in-between, cold, empty, indigo, deadly. Being grounded for a while never looked so good.
(Chapter One, ‘OUTPOST’, to be continued---)
-Julian Phillips
Chapter One
“Space---the final frontier? Kiss my ass, Captain Kirk---get me the hell out of here!”
---Guy Reisling, US space-program transport pilot, 2075
Nothing like a good shake-down and brutal emotional drubbing by your commanding officer, Guy was thinking. Makes me feel so important. The man now under the threat of career-ruin and complete professional and personal humiliation was Guy Askilav Reisling, a standard-issue muscle boy airman for duty in the abyss. Not un-important, but far from leadership or super-star status among his peers, which included astronauts, off-world walkers, Nobel-Prize scientists, space-pilots, and folks who knew how to get safely from Point-A to Point-B, when either spot was a few million miles apart, separated by vast regions of nothingness, and hard to find in the dark. His type were known as ‘vacuum-cleaners’, maybe because it’s hard to draw a breath in the deep-deep-deep, without a few preparations, at least, and about three million years of human evolution and science to help out. Not to mention progress in anti-gravity toilets (“To boldly go where no man has gone before---“).
Guy was seated now for his punishment, back on Earth, in a briefing room at the Vandenberg, California Space-Port Center. He was generally a joyful type of human being, as men go. But not at the moment. Solid and strong, only about 40 years-old, with a wide jaw, big shoulders and overall big-build. He had more-than-just-curly, slightly reddish hair, and tended to sport an unruly beard. Take it like a man, Guy, he told himself. It wasn’t your fault. If Guy had any actual freckles, on his face or shoulders, few would mock him for it. He was, after all, a space-ship pilot. The ‘right stuff’ for that, in the year 2075, definitely included kicking ass if he felt like it, maybe on leave, at a bar, or at the race-track, where the ground-level types seemed to get a thrill pretending that what he did for a living was a mere fly-boy luxury, or vanity for over-educated college-types who signed up only so they could brag about their true understanding of Elton John’s 1970’s-era pop-song, ‘Rocket Man’---ancient history, true, but the romance never really fades, when you’ve earned the privilege to work in space. But for the vast populace of humanity, work in space had no redeeming value.
The briefing room where Guy was reaping what he had sowed, now months behind him, but oh-so present, was like any such office or conference room the Earth had known for any time-period after 1975 or so. The Vandenberg Space-Port included many facilities that were that old, often a source of complaint from workers. Chairs, fluorescent-tube lights, walls, tables, plants, windows with thick bars or screens, a computer, a wall-map or two, chalk-board, plenty of good old-fashioned gravity---and Commander Okman, the Transport Crew head-honcho for the Western-region space-program. Although Okman had actually done ‘real’ space-flight work in the past, these days he only told program sub-ordinates the way it is, will be, and was, and should be, and cannot-be-otherwise, without instant death as a consequence. Okman was about 60 years-old, but presented a formidable form and content of opinion, standing on the other side of the conference table, across from Guy, pretty much raging. Both men were dressed in street-clothes, with name-tags and base-passes, and had known each other about five years.
“What were you thinking, Guy?” Okman spouted in his high-sounding vocal pattern. “What were you thinking? Every flight plan we provide for you to navigate from Earth to Mars on your run, is the product of about ten years of work, you know this, right? Did you forget or something? What were you going to do if you missed you re-entry corridor and ended up floating around in empty space for a year waiting for planet Earth to circle the Sun and come back up to meet your lifeless ship, if you even survived that long? Is that even possible? Have you done the math on that?? C’mon! You blew it!”
“I told you what happened, Commander,” Guy replied. “I was forced to make a flight-plan adjustment and I may have miscalculated in the rush. But I was able to correct the mistake later. It all worked out. It will never happen again, okay?”
Okman flexed his shoulders like his body was an old coat he had dragged from the closet that morning, wrinkled, dusty and unkempt. The look on his face could only be called disgust---something he probably practiced in private, for just such an occasion.
“No course-correction was necessary in the first place, Guy. You never needed to change course the first time. Those solar gas-cloud flares pass through the corridor all the time. They’re harmless, unless you take them at more than 100K caloric. You were less than 5K. That’s nothing. The energy-levels were acceptable, there was no danger.”
“My information at the time was otherwise, sir.”
“Do you have the luxury of being wrong, less than halfway home from Mars, in a ship worth more than entire nations, with a crew of seven highly skilled workers, transporting life-or-death supplies, in a deep-space environment? Give me a break, Guy. You were drinking or something. And why did you make alterations in your fuel consumption? Why did you switch to reserve-engines on hydrogen-only? What was the purpose of that?” Okman fumed.
Guy heaved a bitter sigh. “I’ve made this run more than 20 times, both ways, Commander,” he said. “We had the report from Molinari on the solar gas-flare---“
Okman huffed at mention of the deep-space Earth-Mars corridor mid-point dock-station. “Ha! Yeah! Molinari! Your girl-friend!”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Yeah, Lila works there, sure. But it didn’t come from her anyway. So my corridor had the solar-heat---the caloric wasn’t specific. If I get the heat, I either have to divert, slow-and-wait, shield, or just fucking go around it. So that’s what I did. Afterwards I went to hydrogen to make up for lost time, and match the previous flight-plan. The hydrogen is faster in deep-space than the peroxide. So that’s it. It all worked out. No one was hurt. No big loss.”
“Not really,” Okman said. “I had to bring in a team of five astro-navigators on triple-time for two weeks to figure out how to land you and coordinate docking. If they hadn’t been able to do it, you and your crew would be dead. I’m serious. You could have survived another six weeks, but planet Earth would have left you so far behind you’d never get back. Because we would have been about 100,000 miles ahead in orbit around the Sun, while you went spinning off the other way. I don’t care about the ship, Guy, and I don’t care about the cargo. I don’t even care you went to hydrogen engines without authorization. But I sure as hell care about my people. Including you.”
“Yes, sir,” Guy said, muffling resentment in the tone of his voice. Okman walked twice across the room, as Guy squirmed.
“So, okay. That’s it. You’re grounded, space-man. Your last flight is up for committee review for illegal operations and maneuvers. If the review finds you significantly at fault, your career is over. You’ll never go up again. And that’s okay, it’s for the best. We all make mistakes. We all get tired. But I can’t have any of my pilots making those kinds of errors, because lives are on the line, every single time.”
“Yes , sir. I realize that, sir. I care about my people, too.”
“Of course you do, Guy. I’m not---I’m not saying it was you---it’s not your fault, of course. And I know you give a damn. You were just tired. Burnt-out. Shit happens. You’re dismissed. Get out of here. I’ll message you on the next step and orders. But you’re grounded and so is your ship and your entire crew. At least for now. Now get out.”
Guy rose from his chair, looking sheepish. He waited long enough for Okman to look him in the eye.
“Go on, fly-boy,” Okman said tersely.
As he left the room, Guy knew Okman was basically right. The truth on the solar-heat flare needed to be confirmed prior to his course-correction, with more science to back up his decisions. At 5K caloric-energy, the heat was really minimal. At 100K caloric, his transport ship could fry. But at the same time, a flight-path alteration mid-way between worlds could easily have resulted in exactly the deadly situation Okman had described. And that’s a heck of a way to die, comparable to an Earthside nuclear submarine that sinks to the bottom of the North Sea with all hands, losing power, and no way back, the crew left inside, only to count the hours until they suffocate. Plenty of time for the ship’s captain to apologize to the dying men, something no one should ever have to do. And their only job, as transport-crew, was to haul needed items to the base on Mars, and then other items back to Earth. Not very exciting. Unless something went wrong.
It was because of the base on Mars that guy’s Condrum-21 Deep-Space Local Planetary Cruiser (his ship, known affectionately as ‘Penelope’) had been commissioned for service at all. The Penelope was designed only for the journey she had been intended for, the deep-space run between the two planets. She had a standard crew of nine highly-skilled persons. The pilot (Guy), his Second, two staff on nothing but life-support systems and ship-integrity, two tech-science staff with variable roles, also inter-changeable, two on navigation and astro-physics, and one to control and maintain propulsion-fuel and high-energy thruster mechanisms. Okman had said seven---true enough, one of the crew on life-support, and one of the navigators, had been dismissed at that time, which was fairly common, and not an alarm.
Guy made his way across the Vandenberg Space-Port campus, exiting from the hallways of the building where he was brought under orders for his meeting with Commander Okman. California, as always, even for hundreds of years, was the best the Earth had to offer, in many ways. The brisk winter air and high clouds, beneath the partridge blue hen’s egg sky, it was home forever, Paradise, so different than his ‘workplace’ as to bring to mind an entirely different realm of being---another planet, you might say. And one he certainly favored. Like a military installation, the Vandenberg facilities were filled with men and women in uniform, large concrete structures of imposing nature, huge equipment and machinery, various weapons. As he walked, he met a few people who recognized him, but not many. No super-star. A transport-pilot was minor-league around here. But that was okay with Guy. A smile and a wave, and any friends or co-workers were on their way. His big screw-up was maybe only painful to himself, and not really any kind of big news that would embarrass him forever.
Why Vandenberg? Why California? Why Mars? Relieved after his meeting with Okman, Guy suddenly remembered that he was ‘grounded’ from space-travel for a while. After about 20 round-trips in deep-space---this was also a relief. He wondered how he would spend his time until the big-shots decided if he was fit for service or not. His training had cost billions of dollars and more than 15 years of his life, and years of many other lives. All so the folks at the Mars-base could have a steady supply of toilet paper. And a few other essentials---like fresh O2 they could breathe. Or fresh H20 they could drink. Or methods to fabricate both. Or food they could eat.
Guy paused on one of the walkways, beneath a US flag, blustering high aloft in the winter air. He took a deep breath, just for himself. Then another, then counting, four-counts in, two-counts out, one-count hold. He glanced at a nearby trash-receptacle. “We recycle everything, but we’ve never developed a system that’s totally free of any kind of trash at all, or any wrappers or any packaging whatsoever,” he said to himself. “Look at this.”
He picked up a few bits of trash that had fallen near the receptacle. This is 2075, he thought to himself. We can do better.
“Plastic, cellophane, super-light metals, wood-fiber, plant-fiber, coal-and-oil by-products. What a waste! We could easily buy and sell, or share the same consumer-goods, with complete convenience, using no packaging whatsoever! This is insane!”
The space-transport pilot dropped the loose trash-items into the receptacle and pressed them down, alone in his thoughts. Somewhere, far away, yet nearer-than-near, Mars loomed and glared back at him, a distant star now, as he would see with his own eyes when night fell again. He didn’t miss the place. He didn’t miss the vast ‘space’ in-between, cold, empty, indigo, deadly. Being grounded for a while never looked so good.
(Chapter One, ‘OUTPOST’, to be continued---)
-Julian Phillips
Friday, October 2, 2009
Now departing for MARS---OUTPOST ready for blast-off!!
Yes, it's true. Given my 25 year career writing for newspapers, film and video, stage, kid's books, web-and-Internet, magazines, and various laundry-lists, it can more-or-less be demonstrated that I will write darn near anything for a paycheck---even a small one. I used to tell my wife, "I can write 1,000-words about a bag of macaroni in 20-minutes." Now with Tom Luong's story, OUTPOST, I'll have the chance to write 100,000 words about a far more mysterious and thrilling topic (and maybe more than 20-minutes to do it). Starting up the Blog today on Oct. 2, 2009---but the OUTPOST story is far in the future, another 80 years ahead in the long story of humanity and Earth's struggle to survive and flourish. Film-maker Tom Luong has a great sense of what makes a compelling modern tale. Tom is an aeronautics-engineer, and also a pilot. Perhaps in some way, an appropriate living metaphor for the hero of OUTPOST---space transport pilot Guy Reisling, in the year 2075, whose job it is to ferry supplies and goods from Earth to the world's first successful Mars base, there across the abyss. If and when Earth space efforts can place a real base on Mars---one that people can live and work in, and that would sustain itself as an on-going human habitat for many years at a time---it might be predictable that more mundane and traditional Earth powers, such as states and nations, would see it as quite a valued resource, or even a tool for the survival of the species. When has it not been true that nation-states on Earth did not persue conquest and control of resources, cities, lands and peoples, ships-at-sea, or amazing new weapons? Thus the fate of the 2075 Mars-base, may not be as simple as building a new shopping mall, with a title-search downtown from the Manhattan Title Company. Complicating matters---Earth astronomers in 2075, and even some astronomers today, are predicting the confirmed arrival of a meteor-object---a giant rock from deep space---that could actually hit the Earth, causing vast devastation, some ten years ahead. Once the news is clear, the race is on for control of the Mars-base, with the obvious notion that survival for any remaining human populations, may be more likely on a functional and fully-operating base on Mars, then back on Earth in the path of a huge meteor. This is what we writer-types call the 'set-up' for Tom's story. And I have to say, Tom really is great at these kinds of ideas and concepts--I guess he hires me to write them because we are 'muy-sympatico' on the genres and styles he likes. There's much more to OUTPOST---by the end of the novel, about 25 chapters from now, I'm hoping to visualize and explore a future deep-space or near solar-system traffic corridor between Earth and Mars, and a system of space-travel between the two planets, as well the people who run these systems, operate the ships, command the launches, and run the bases and computers. Could our current level of knowledge create such a future? And if we did---would war be one of Earth's exports to our dead neighbor-world of Mars? In a way, OUTPOST is the story of Earth's first 'war in space'---and not against giant insects. A 'real' Mars base---a real approaching meteor---and 'real' space-flight traffic systems and conditions making it possible for more-or-less regular interplay between the two planets: the reality of a second or third Earthside space-force or space-industrial state, that would take action against the base for control and ownership, even despite international treaties and agreements---yeah, that sounds like 'us'-the modern, fearful, greedy, high-tech and militaristic humanity we all know and love. The 'us' of tomorrow. Future-we. OUTPOST will be a great project, and I'm looking forward to it. Please enjoy following the story along with others on these Blog-pages, and let me know your thoughts or comments.
And if you have $10-million to acquire the project for a major feature film---Tom or I would be glad to talk with you, so don't be shy!
Peace-Ahimsa
And if you have $10-million to acquire the project for a major feature film---Tom or I would be glad to talk with you, so don't be shy!
Peace-Ahimsa
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
