CHAPTER EIGHT
OUTPOST
Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films
Nov. 24, 2009
A Task Force was assembled by the various authorities concerned with the future of the US base on Mars, following the ‘public’ revelation about the meteor, Asteroid U2753b, now known by at least a few of the Mars-program regulars, as ‘Big Baby Bertha’ (for some reason). Again, the Mars program wasn’t directly concerned with the approaching asteroid, now thought to be even larger than early estimates. It just wasn’t their area. Instead, because the space-program circa 2075 included an Earth-Moon program, an Earth-orbit space-station program, deep-space docking platforms like Molinari, where Lila worked, a wide variety of ground-level bases, launch-sites, space-ports, and support industries, and also many deep-space and Solar-system probes and un-manned research vessels, and even early-stage attempts to mount a mission to Jupiter and its moons---with all this going on, the Mars-base program and the anticipated affect Big Baby Bertha would have on that facility, was just one part of an expanding whole, at a time when near-Earth space-exploration was finally satisfying its former era promise.
So the Task Force for this function had a very specific goal: if-and-when the Russian-Islamic space program masters decided to go ahead and ‘steal’ the Snikta-Ridge Volcanic Basin Mars Base, how would the US respond, and in particular, how would they defend the base, and prevent or turn back a take-over attempt? The rest was such a vast complexity of circumstances and situations, including the asteroid, that to be concerned elsewhere, or other than their own task, was a diversion of resources and man-power, that would delay success, or cause possible failure. And failure meant the loss of control of the Mars base to ‘hostile’ forces. This unthinkable idea might be compared to the loss of a major US property, like control of the Grand Canyon, or the Hoover Dam, or even a mid-sized US city, to a foreign power. This included the potential loss of US lives, and an incredible level of simple wealth, and the many years that had been devoted to creating the base on Mars. And not incidentally, the loss of the Mars base to ‘them’, also would preclude the future population of the base from Western control, and Western ideas and staff, in the event that Asteroid U2753b actually collided with the Earth. Or, in more simple, perhaps ethno-centric terms---Earth’s only viable survivors following the meteor strike, would be Eastern-Islamic-Ukrainian astronauts. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
The group was known as the Mars Base Defense Planning Team. Winton Berle, and Branson Porter were on the list, and Lynn Rodgers-Smith was a behind-the-scenes source. Dr Mehudi, the science-lead, was part of the team as well. But of course, the Mars-program really had no military component. So the ‘Mars regulars’ found themselves seated with other types of ‘big-shots’.
No one ever thought a military-division would be needed, and for as long as even 100 years, the concept of a space-war, or serious military applications of the space-program, was considered a very extreme error. There were many reasons for this position, mostly the presumption that any militarization of space, would defeat the ‘real’ purpose of space-exploration, and even make such exploration impossible. Space travel was hard enough anyway. With opposing sides trying to shoot down each other’s ships, or placing huge bombs in orbit, serious new discoveries and new science, would be lost, perhaps forever. War-in-space was thought to be a total disaster, as far as future-planners were concerned. An absolute waste of time, energy, and high-priced resources.
Yet, here they were. Heavy-hitters from other US powers were brought into the Mars Base Defense Planning Team. US military, and Federal, also so-called intelligence community. Typically, the Mars-base battle-plan was now of interest to the global community as well, and at least one security representative from the World Council, was either at the planning sessions, or closely informed of details, with complete access. There were also Space-Technology and Computer-Science experts, and weapons experts, as well as people who supposedly knew what the Russian-Islamic space-program planners were up to. Both male and female leaders were included. They all had a lot of experience, and for the most part were exhausted with the endless effort and data. It seemed to some of them a hopeless task, far too complicated to really predict, and far too dangerous for space-workers who were used to such levels of care that even their heart-beats and sweat were monitored for signs of stress while they worked. Safety first, in space, meant no one was trying to kill you, other than space itself. Or whatever was out there. But not anymore.
“They can’t take Snikta, without entering orbit, and putting people on the surface of Mars,” said US-Army General Price Fortuna, a large, even portly, Caucasian man, about age 60-years old, with a deeply lined face and tendency towards bombast. The General attended sessions ‘in uniform’, an impressive contrast with the science-types, who might wear short-sleeve shirts and khaki shorts. The meetings were held at this point at California’s Hunter-Liggett military base, not at Vandenberg. “So that means we either stop them in space, or in orbit, or outside the base on the surface,” he added. “Unless we stop them here on Earth.”
Many members of the team, but not all, were present for this session, now a few weeks into their effort, after initial organization. There was a large table, or series of tables, in a stark, rather bleak-looking room. A secretary took notes. They had computers and other communications, and common items like food and drink. An air-conditioner bled cold into the room, with a sound.
“Of course, General,” was the response from ‘Kick’ Berle, the Mars-fleet Commander. “I’ve thought about how I would handle it, if it happened on Mars. Let’s say they reach Mars, with ships and men. Let’s say they reach the surface near the base. What then?”
There was a brief pause.
“And now a word from our sponsor,” joked a dark-haired woman named Melissa Envitra, one of the Computer-Specialists. “This extra-terrestrial gang-fight is brought to you by DuPont, makers of high-quality hydrogen rocket-fuel!”
Some laughed. Some didn’t.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Berle answered her. “Repeat after me: not a movie. Not a TV-show. Real life. Say it often.”
“So what’s your idea about it, Berle?” General Fortuna asked, getting them back on track.
Berle rubbed his chin. “It will take time for the Eastern program to gear up their assault, launch, travel the corridor, and reach Mars, ready to do whatever nasty thing they have planned,” Berle said. “If the people we have on Mars now can prepare defensive positions, outside the walls of the facility, in the non-air environment---if they start now, and create small kiosks or fox-holes, where men in oxygen suits and Mars surface survival suits can set up weapons, and survive on their own---we’d be able to hold our own, if they land on Mars, with soldiers to take the base. See what I mean?”
Dr. Mehudi now perked up, offering his take. “Winton, please, if I may?” He gathered his thoughts. “General—there are only eight main entry-portals to the Mars base, from the outer surface. They have different functions. Some are just for people. Others are for cargo or large items. Other gates are only for things like waste-matter, or intake from the Martian air---useful airborne-chemicals. The air is thin, or even none. But there is some, packed with carbon-dioxide. At the base, they use everything. Nothing is wasted. But anyway, eight main doorways. Some are even for excursion vehicles they use, more like hangars.”
“Right, Mehudi,” Berle replied. Everyone listened to their back-and-forth. “And each entry-port is sealed, just like an air-lock in space, or at the space-stations. Somewhat different, for the gravity, but basically an air-lock system.”
“So they’d blow off the gates,” the General said tersely. “Just blow them open. Enter in suits while everyone inside dies for lack of air.”
“If they get that far, they might. It’s very destructive, and they’d have to rebuild the air-locks to survive themselves, later. Which is not easy. If they plan to destroy the base, that’s one thing. Drop a bomb, it’s done, over. But as we know, they want to live there. So yeah, they could enter by force, such as blowing off the air-locks, then enter in suits, with weapons. Pretty much the only way it could be done.”
“But our people inside the base could put air-suits on, too, prior to the attack, and fight on equal terms, if they enter,” offered Branson Porter, the Mars-Mission security chief. “Right?”
“Well, it has to be part of any defense plan, yes,” said Berle. “That aspect.”
“Agreed,” said General Fortuna. “Secretary, please make a note. Okay, fine then. Plan ahead for an attack, and create external oxygen-sustainable fox-hole positions to fight from. Good idea. And if the Russians try to make entry, our men inside get into their suits first. Fine. I want us to look at the Mars defense from three main fronts, people. One is the ground-level, such as we’re discussing now. The other is Mars-orbit and re-entry. The other is the planetary-corridor. And then I guess also the plans for an Earth-side defense, but that is much more a matter of diplomacy.”
There was a pause again.
“More on the ground-level, on surface-level Mars,” said Berle. “I thought about this, too. What if they make their takeover attempt into a long-term deal? I mean, instead of taking Snikta in a day, or a few days, or a few hours---what if they plan to take the Mars-base in the course of several months? Or a year? What if they’re equipped to survive on the surface, maybe in temporary life-sustaining units, like oxygen-igloos? And then shuttle back up to their ships to re-supply, or for materials? They’d use surface launch rockets, or like personnel pod-boosters, like the early Apollo moon-missions. Blast off from surface-to-orbit.”
“That’s certainly possible,” said Mehudi. “That’s what our people did when we built the Mars base 15 years ago. We had to. There was nothing on Mars. So we survived in temporary units, while they worked on building the facility. And just like you said, we had ships in orbit, and the men would go back up to re-supply, or rest, and so on.”
“So you’re thinking they could draw it out, like a stand-off, making demands, or taking hostages, or making assaults, is that it?” the General asked.
“Well, yeah, it’s one scenario,” answered Berle. “As far as what might happen on Mars. It’s more efficient. A direct assault, a big, violent frontal conflict that would only last a few hours, or a day or so, would be very destructive to both sides. You have to remember how delicate the space-suits are. If they take their time, or if they can figure out a way to go slower, and survive---taking control of Snikta wouldn’t be that hard. They’d surround the base itself, set up their men and weapons. One side or the other would eventually prevail.”
“Remember the Alamo,” joked Envitra, the Tech-Specialist. “Uh, I mean---not the old car-rental company.”
Short laughter from the others.
“Are they still in business?” said Porter (a Texan). “Alamo is a nice town, if you never been there.”
“Still in business. Just hydrogen fuel-cell cars, now, that’s all,” she said, still the joker.
“Let’s take a break,” said General Fortuna. “Please, the meeting secretary will keep track of ideas and concepts to later review. Take an hour for lunch, folks. The base cafeteria has sea-food today, I think. It’s across the Flag-Plaza---that way.” He points with a pink bony finger as the group starts to break up, rising from their chairs and seats, folding their laptops, or stowing notebooks.
The same sorts of meetings would continue for months. The Mars-Base Defense Planning Team needed to present the entire space-program hierarchy with a working plan---and one that would ‘win’ the cause. And they had to do it in short order. Needed was a way to defend the Mars base, even though the people on the Mars base now, were not soldiers, and had few if any weapons. Of course, the US would send her own space-soldiers, in ships, in equal or greater number than the Russian-Islamic space-soldiers. And of course, if there were to be any planetary flight-corridor space-ship ‘dog-fights’, or ship-to-ship battles, in an attempt to stop the enemy ships while still on their way---those would be planned for as well. But few if any of the space-ships used for these purposes were intended for shooting at things, or firing missiles, bombs, or lazer-beams. They weren’t fighter-craft. They were research vessels. The Mars-orbit and re-entry ‘battle lines’ were also drawn. They also had to defend the Molinari space-dock. Like any military campaign, they planned for the worst-case.
Somewhere out in the abyss of space, moving towards planet Earth, a rock the size of Texas---perhaps in the shape of every modern, college-educated person’s worst nightmare---tumbled through the emptiness, like a granite Buddha, silent, eternal, and dead on course. Like a rolling stone. An Ozymandias of space, from Percy Shelley’s poem.
“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!!”
---Julian Phillips
Nov. 24, 2009
For Tom Luong Films
2232-words
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
OUTPOST--Chapter SEVEN---HERE NOW AND ELSEWHERE!
CHAPTER SEVEN
OUTPOST
Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films
Nov. 6, 2009
“And when he had opened the Seventh-Seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.”
---Saint John’s Divine Revelation, 8:1
“They used to call it Heaven, the skies and stars and planets, the infinite. I call it a pain-in-the-ass.”
---Guy Reisling, Mars-base space transport pilot, 2075
Lila Meetek felt herself something of a Galaxy Baby, one to whom working in space, near-Earth (but not near enough), was more-or-less a normal career, or a normal environment, something her generation took as granted, though of course dangerous. Guy, on the other hand, had simplified the term, and thought her in every way, a ‘Galaxy Babe’. And true, she was. She was just 40 years-old, athletic and slim, real hard-body material. All the space-workers were in top-condition as an absolute conditional aspect of the rigorous work involved. It was by no means easy. Lila was among the best, although her job was somewhat sedentary, at least once she arrived at the Molinari Space-Dock, via a transport-ship much like Guy’s. Her official job-title was ‘Deep-Space Traffic Corridor Environment Monitor’, which meant that she sat at computer-tracking, and satellite-analysis data feeds, with various inputs back on Earth, and on Mars, and in-between, looking for trouble. There were more than ten people at Molinari who performed this function, without respect to gender. But it also meant that Lila was spared some of the more difficult tasks of space-travel, like space-walks, or re-entry, or suspended-animation sleep-periods, or planet-level oxygen-suit journeys and excursions. And this suited her just fine.
There was much to know about the work at the Molinari Space-Dock. Lila had been there almost five years, making her a true program veteran. It made a lot of sense for extra-planetary exploration Earth-sciences, as far as the establishment of the space-dock. Despite the public view seen in film and TV, any planetary travel was laborious, and very slow. Depending on the relative position of the two worlds, it could take as long as a year for a ship to travel from Earth to Mars. So, one of the first choices the planners made, was to create a mid-point rest-stop, even before the first ships arrived on Mars, and began to build the base, now 15 years in-the-making. The same system would be used for Jupiter-missions (or, to the moons of Jupiter), almost like a ladder of platforms, or series of extended positions for the sustainability of life, always in danger in deep-space. With Molinari in place, ships headed to Mars had the edge, for the unexpected. Pilots could dock, re-fuel, rest, board-and-offload, get information or corridor-conditions updates, and more. For emergency situations, it was a lifeboat. And this made Lila a very popular woman indeed with all the space-crews.
“God---there we are! I’m home!” Lila exclaimed. She was gazing out one of the view-ports on a people-mover transport, that was about ready for re-entry into Earth orbit, and then her shuttle down to Terra-Firma. The Big Blue Marble, Earth, was like the Divine Mother---green with promise, fresh air, beaches and oceans, cities, people walking upright with regular gravity, trees and birds and animals---kids. The view-port windows were few on the transports, and much coveted for star-gazing and dreaming. Lila was on leave from her regular work-shift at Molinari, and looking forward to seeing Guy again. But from where she now was, just entering orbit, he may as well have been an ant. Yet there was a connection between their two hearts, beating passion.
The transport ship seemed to glide above the planet like a sleek stone, or elegant knife, looking to be slow, but in reality moving quite fast, even thousands of miles-per-hour (which of course was not how the ship’s speed was calculated). These ships were about 1,000-feet long or longer, perhaps the size of an old-fashioned deep-ocean cargo-ship, circa late 20th-century, like the Exxon Valdeze, or a big oil-tanker, in space. But not so in appearance at all.
Mars-Labor Unions and also space program management, only permitted Molinari workers to spend six-months on duty at a time, for obvious reasons. Exhaustion, fatigue, and so on, took their toll, and efficiency suffered, which could cause mistakes. Six months on, six-months off was the rule, which was sometimes skirted just a bit, given the rarity of needed skilled labor. Prior to departure from Molinari, Lila had been in touch with Guy, via space-phone, a sort of video-audio-link, which could be set-up for one-on-one communications at certain kiosks.
“Geez, you look like crap, Lila,” Guy said. “What the heck are they feeding you? I mean that in a good way, of course. You’re beautiful to me, I mean.”
Guy was at the Vandenberg base, where the same type of comm-link was available. No one had them in private at all. It was then months before, with Lila at a similar station on Molinari, floating somewhere in space.
“Kiss my grits, Guy,” Lila responded. “I look great and you know it.”
“All I see is this vid-screen in front of my eyes like a piece of plastic and glass and you on the other end of it, and you got your hair all messed up and your eyes look droopy. You all right?”
Lila brushed back her longish, thin hair, currently colored red-and-green. She sneered. Guy had a way with her, and he knew it. “Yes, Guy,” she spit back at him. The radio-waves traveled through space with a certain spin at that point. “I’m fine. I even had sex with two of the environmental men last week, just to piss you off, and it was great!”
“Two of them? Grow up, Lila,” Guy responded. It was daylight at Vandenberg, but Molinari seemed always somewhat in darkness, even inside, where electric lights were always running. “You did not. That’s a code-violation and you know it”
“We call it the Three-million Mile High Club,” she said, and laughed. They both smiled and paused. There was something they shared, maybe knowing who they were, that was endearing to all their friends. Space-opera romance. Star-crossed lovers.
So, they shared the details of her voyage. Even though routine, it was still dangerous, as it always was. Her arrival time-and-date, shuttle-to-Earth landing, then her de-bugging and de-briefing, and finally her freedom. By the time the comm-link went dead, and their conversation ended, it was once again confirmed to them both, that ‘love’ could somehow survive, even in space.
Lila’s transport performed flawlessly back into orbit, months later, and the shuttle back to planet-side was also seamless. Her de-briefing and medical review, and so on, took three days. Within another two days, she was staying at Guy’s place North of Santa Barbara, back in his arms and in deep embrace within hours. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but there is truly no distance between hearts-of-fire in love, Guy thought. Even a million miles.
A day and a night of love-making, food and drink, walks, hot-showers, current film releases, restaurants, gazing into each other eyes, sharing those moments that the written word cannot intrude. The clouds above the cliffs of Santa Barbara blushed red with embarrassment. You know, sex-like-athletes. The Right Stuff. Made it all worthwhile. Some things never change.
Rumors had of course reached both Molinari, and the base on Mars, regarding the Mission Program Spring Update Conference, and the ‘news’ about the Russians, and the approaching meteor. Lila also wanted to know all about Guy’s re-commission to certified-pilot status, and what had gone wrong on his last flight back to Earth. They had a lot to talk about, there again in his backyard, where he seemed much-at-ease. Lila was making grilled burgers. The smoke winnowed into the air like souls.
“Local organic beef only,” Lila said. “Less than a week off-the-hoof. Thick patties, but larger-around, flops over the buns.”
“I like that,” Guy said. “Flops over the buns. Got it. Let’s try that later.”
She smiled. Right. What a lover-boy. “You season prior to grilling, and I only use a special steak-blend from a steak-house I just adore up the coast. I have no idea what’s in it. Pepper-and-onion, cloves, garlic-salt, chilli-powder, like that. So you season both sides. As you grill, the fire is not too hot, you go slow.”
“Go slow,” Guy mocked her. “Right. Not---uh—premature?”
“You’re funny,” Lila said. “I know about you and the gal from the base, Guy. Don’t pretend.”
“Which one?”
She huffed. “Anyway. So you grill until cooked well inside, all the way. Then on the bread, you use the sour-dough from San Francisco, the big ones, but sliced thin. I always want fresh-raw red onions, fresh iceberg lettuce, and decent sliced tomatoes. Pickles if you like, and mustard, or ketchup. Only organic. But you can make it up any way you like. I’m easy.”
“Damn fine burger, girl,” Guy said.
If a meteor was approaching Earth and the world’s second or third remaining so-called Super-Power space program was planning to forcefully take over and control the Mars-base where they both were involved as workers, you wouldn’t have known it. Their talk turned to those topics. Guy had been to the conference, but Lila knew most of the details, too. It was more a matter of opinions that would enable them to go on, or, how they would view such things, as worker-bees, the scuttle-butt, that seemed intense. The science was boring as hell. The real-life work and people---that was different.
“Maybe the meteor will be deflected, or maybe not do as much damage as they thought, if it hits,” Lila mused. “I can’t quite grasp it. It’s like going to work, and you come home later, and your whole town is gone. Or your whole state.”
“Every returning is a new beginning,” Guy said. They had finished their meal, with beer, and also ice-cream. It was for all purposes just another pleasant California day, or afternoon.
“What do you really think about it, Guy?”
“Uh---oh---end-of-the-world, I guess. You know. No more planet Earth. Or, a ruined Earth, like a dead-world, Ice-Age, thousand-year frozen dust-cloud, billions dead, ocean tidal waves washing away cities like children’s toys, people floating away like ants. Or, vast regions of impact-zone, ground-zero, like a thousand nuclear bombs. Not good.”
They paused in somber silence. Birds flew past, twittering.
“I hate when that happens,” Lila said. A meek chuckle escaped between them.
“What can we do?” Guy offered. “We’re not in command. We just play our parts. They’ll find a way to deflect it, I bet. It can be done. The meteor is still five years off. What are they calling it now? Big Bertha, or something?”
“I heard other names for it,” Lila said softly. “Bad names. People are likely to panic.”
“Not my problem,” Guy responded. “I don’t care what they call it.”
“It will be your problem if there’s no place to come home to, five years out when you’re on your run, if you still are. What do you think about the Russian Islamic space program take-over on Mars? Is it real?”
Guy’s mouth was stuffed with a big bite from his hamburger. “Mmmmppp---mmmm---just a sec,” he said, chewing and swallowing. Earth food was way-better than the stuff they ate in space, for sure.
Lila reached tenderly towards him and wiped away a bit of ketchup from his bottom lip.
“Thanks,” he said. “Well, look, I just don’t know. About that. The Russian-Islamic space-program thing. They said it was real, but you just don’t have any real way of knowing. They had documents and files and so-called evidence of a plan to attack. But so what? They always do. It could happen. Sure it could. It makes a certain kind of sense. They want their people to survive, and the Mars-base looks good. People like you and me will never know until something starts to happen, and we’re needed to respond. All we can do until then is prepare. And don’t worry, we’ll be preparing, it’s already in motion, as far as what will be needed. But I transport goods, and you monitor the planet-corridor for heat-flares and comets. You won’t have a gun in your hand, or be killing any Russians. Neither will I. And I don’t want to. Some of my friends are Russian. They’re good people.”
“What about a ground war, here on Earth? Like a regular Earth-war?” Lila now was in political science-mode. Not very sexy.
“What about it?” Guy said. “If everyone panics, it’s certainly possible. The base on Mars means survival, even if only a few hundred people. Who the heck knows? Regular war was outlawed by the Planet Authority-Federation, 30 years ago or more. Big deal. They break the rules when things look bad, they always have. If they want the Mars-base, and try to take it by force, even if the meteor is deflected, the US side will almost certainly respond at the Earth-level, or international. It can’t be helped. More war, more death, more killing. I don’t even care. It’s bull-shit.”
They paused again in their meal, relaxing a moment with the same heavy thoughts.
“I always saw the whole thing, my work, and the program, as just science-and-research,” Lila said soberly.
Guy burped. “I saw it as an opportunity to have sex with you in a weightless-environment, personally,” he joked.
“A multi-national, multi-trillions-of-dollars program based on thousands of years of advanced space science-and-evolution, so you personally could orgasm in a weightless environment. Great. You really are a philosopher, Guy. You really are.”
He laughed. “Lighten up, Galaxy Baby,” he said.
---Julian Phillips
Nov. 6, 2009
For Tom Luong Films
2, 290-words
OUTPOST
Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films
Nov. 6, 2009
“And when he had opened the Seventh-Seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.”
---Saint John’s Divine Revelation, 8:1
“They used to call it Heaven, the skies and stars and planets, the infinite. I call it a pain-in-the-ass.”
---Guy Reisling, Mars-base space transport pilot, 2075
Lila Meetek felt herself something of a Galaxy Baby, one to whom working in space, near-Earth (but not near enough), was more-or-less a normal career, or a normal environment, something her generation took as granted, though of course dangerous. Guy, on the other hand, had simplified the term, and thought her in every way, a ‘Galaxy Babe’. And true, she was. She was just 40 years-old, athletic and slim, real hard-body material. All the space-workers were in top-condition as an absolute conditional aspect of the rigorous work involved. It was by no means easy. Lila was among the best, although her job was somewhat sedentary, at least once she arrived at the Molinari Space-Dock, via a transport-ship much like Guy’s. Her official job-title was ‘Deep-Space Traffic Corridor Environment Monitor’, which meant that she sat at computer-tracking, and satellite-analysis data feeds, with various inputs back on Earth, and on Mars, and in-between, looking for trouble. There were more than ten people at Molinari who performed this function, without respect to gender. But it also meant that Lila was spared some of the more difficult tasks of space-travel, like space-walks, or re-entry, or suspended-animation sleep-periods, or planet-level oxygen-suit journeys and excursions. And this suited her just fine.
There was much to know about the work at the Molinari Space-Dock. Lila had been there almost five years, making her a true program veteran. It made a lot of sense for extra-planetary exploration Earth-sciences, as far as the establishment of the space-dock. Despite the public view seen in film and TV, any planetary travel was laborious, and very slow. Depending on the relative position of the two worlds, it could take as long as a year for a ship to travel from Earth to Mars. So, one of the first choices the planners made, was to create a mid-point rest-stop, even before the first ships arrived on Mars, and began to build the base, now 15 years in-the-making. The same system would be used for Jupiter-missions (or, to the moons of Jupiter), almost like a ladder of platforms, or series of extended positions for the sustainability of life, always in danger in deep-space. With Molinari in place, ships headed to Mars had the edge, for the unexpected. Pilots could dock, re-fuel, rest, board-and-offload, get information or corridor-conditions updates, and more. For emergency situations, it was a lifeboat. And this made Lila a very popular woman indeed with all the space-crews.
“God---there we are! I’m home!” Lila exclaimed. She was gazing out one of the view-ports on a people-mover transport, that was about ready for re-entry into Earth orbit, and then her shuttle down to Terra-Firma. The Big Blue Marble, Earth, was like the Divine Mother---green with promise, fresh air, beaches and oceans, cities, people walking upright with regular gravity, trees and birds and animals---kids. The view-port windows were few on the transports, and much coveted for star-gazing and dreaming. Lila was on leave from her regular work-shift at Molinari, and looking forward to seeing Guy again. But from where she now was, just entering orbit, he may as well have been an ant. Yet there was a connection between their two hearts, beating passion.
The transport ship seemed to glide above the planet like a sleek stone, or elegant knife, looking to be slow, but in reality moving quite fast, even thousands of miles-per-hour (which of course was not how the ship’s speed was calculated). These ships were about 1,000-feet long or longer, perhaps the size of an old-fashioned deep-ocean cargo-ship, circa late 20th-century, like the Exxon Valdeze, or a big oil-tanker, in space. But not so in appearance at all.
Mars-Labor Unions and also space program management, only permitted Molinari workers to spend six-months on duty at a time, for obvious reasons. Exhaustion, fatigue, and so on, took their toll, and efficiency suffered, which could cause mistakes. Six months on, six-months off was the rule, which was sometimes skirted just a bit, given the rarity of needed skilled labor. Prior to departure from Molinari, Lila had been in touch with Guy, via space-phone, a sort of video-audio-link, which could be set-up for one-on-one communications at certain kiosks.
“Geez, you look like crap, Lila,” Guy said. “What the heck are they feeding you? I mean that in a good way, of course. You’re beautiful to me, I mean.”
Guy was at the Vandenberg base, where the same type of comm-link was available. No one had them in private at all. It was then months before, with Lila at a similar station on Molinari, floating somewhere in space.
“Kiss my grits, Guy,” Lila responded. “I look great and you know it.”
“All I see is this vid-screen in front of my eyes like a piece of plastic and glass and you on the other end of it, and you got your hair all messed up and your eyes look droopy. You all right?”
Lila brushed back her longish, thin hair, currently colored red-and-green. She sneered. Guy had a way with her, and he knew it. “Yes, Guy,” she spit back at him. The radio-waves traveled through space with a certain spin at that point. “I’m fine. I even had sex with two of the environmental men last week, just to piss you off, and it was great!”
“Two of them? Grow up, Lila,” Guy responded. It was daylight at Vandenberg, but Molinari seemed always somewhat in darkness, even inside, where electric lights were always running. “You did not. That’s a code-violation and you know it”
“We call it the Three-million Mile High Club,” she said, and laughed. They both smiled and paused. There was something they shared, maybe knowing who they were, that was endearing to all their friends. Space-opera romance. Star-crossed lovers.
So, they shared the details of her voyage. Even though routine, it was still dangerous, as it always was. Her arrival time-and-date, shuttle-to-Earth landing, then her de-bugging and de-briefing, and finally her freedom. By the time the comm-link went dead, and their conversation ended, it was once again confirmed to them both, that ‘love’ could somehow survive, even in space.
Lila’s transport performed flawlessly back into orbit, months later, and the shuttle back to planet-side was also seamless. Her de-briefing and medical review, and so on, took three days. Within another two days, she was staying at Guy’s place North of Santa Barbara, back in his arms and in deep embrace within hours. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but there is truly no distance between hearts-of-fire in love, Guy thought. Even a million miles.
A day and a night of love-making, food and drink, walks, hot-showers, current film releases, restaurants, gazing into each other eyes, sharing those moments that the written word cannot intrude. The clouds above the cliffs of Santa Barbara blushed red with embarrassment. You know, sex-like-athletes. The Right Stuff. Made it all worthwhile. Some things never change.
Rumors had of course reached both Molinari, and the base on Mars, regarding the Mission Program Spring Update Conference, and the ‘news’ about the Russians, and the approaching meteor. Lila also wanted to know all about Guy’s re-commission to certified-pilot status, and what had gone wrong on his last flight back to Earth. They had a lot to talk about, there again in his backyard, where he seemed much-at-ease. Lila was making grilled burgers. The smoke winnowed into the air like souls.
“Local organic beef only,” Lila said. “Less than a week off-the-hoof. Thick patties, but larger-around, flops over the buns.”
“I like that,” Guy said. “Flops over the buns. Got it. Let’s try that later.”
She smiled. Right. What a lover-boy. “You season prior to grilling, and I only use a special steak-blend from a steak-house I just adore up the coast. I have no idea what’s in it. Pepper-and-onion, cloves, garlic-salt, chilli-powder, like that. So you season both sides. As you grill, the fire is not too hot, you go slow.”
“Go slow,” Guy mocked her. “Right. Not---uh—premature?”
“You’re funny,” Lila said. “I know about you and the gal from the base, Guy. Don’t pretend.”
“Which one?”
She huffed. “Anyway. So you grill until cooked well inside, all the way. Then on the bread, you use the sour-dough from San Francisco, the big ones, but sliced thin. I always want fresh-raw red onions, fresh iceberg lettuce, and decent sliced tomatoes. Pickles if you like, and mustard, or ketchup. Only organic. But you can make it up any way you like. I’m easy.”
“Damn fine burger, girl,” Guy said.
If a meteor was approaching Earth and the world’s second or third remaining so-called Super-Power space program was planning to forcefully take over and control the Mars-base where they both were involved as workers, you wouldn’t have known it. Their talk turned to those topics. Guy had been to the conference, but Lila knew most of the details, too. It was more a matter of opinions that would enable them to go on, or, how they would view such things, as worker-bees, the scuttle-butt, that seemed intense. The science was boring as hell. The real-life work and people---that was different.
“Maybe the meteor will be deflected, or maybe not do as much damage as they thought, if it hits,” Lila mused. “I can’t quite grasp it. It’s like going to work, and you come home later, and your whole town is gone. Or your whole state.”
“Every returning is a new beginning,” Guy said. They had finished their meal, with beer, and also ice-cream. It was for all purposes just another pleasant California day, or afternoon.
“What do you really think about it, Guy?”
“Uh---oh---end-of-the-world, I guess. You know. No more planet Earth. Or, a ruined Earth, like a dead-world, Ice-Age, thousand-year frozen dust-cloud, billions dead, ocean tidal waves washing away cities like children’s toys, people floating away like ants. Or, vast regions of impact-zone, ground-zero, like a thousand nuclear bombs. Not good.”
They paused in somber silence. Birds flew past, twittering.
“I hate when that happens,” Lila said. A meek chuckle escaped between them.
“What can we do?” Guy offered. “We’re not in command. We just play our parts. They’ll find a way to deflect it, I bet. It can be done. The meteor is still five years off. What are they calling it now? Big Bertha, or something?”
“I heard other names for it,” Lila said softly. “Bad names. People are likely to panic.”
“Not my problem,” Guy responded. “I don’t care what they call it.”
“It will be your problem if there’s no place to come home to, five years out when you’re on your run, if you still are. What do you think about the Russian Islamic space program take-over on Mars? Is it real?”
Guy’s mouth was stuffed with a big bite from his hamburger. “Mmmmppp---mmmm---just a sec,” he said, chewing and swallowing. Earth food was way-better than the stuff they ate in space, for sure.
Lila reached tenderly towards him and wiped away a bit of ketchup from his bottom lip.
“Thanks,” he said. “Well, look, I just don’t know. About that. The Russian-Islamic space-program thing. They said it was real, but you just don’t have any real way of knowing. They had documents and files and so-called evidence of a plan to attack. But so what? They always do. It could happen. Sure it could. It makes a certain kind of sense. They want their people to survive, and the Mars-base looks good. People like you and me will never know until something starts to happen, and we’re needed to respond. All we can do until then is prepare. And don’t worry, we’ll be preparing, it’s already in motion, as far as what will be needed. But I transport goods, and you monitor the planet-corridor for heat-flares and comets. You won’t have a gun in your hand, or be killing any Russians. Neither will I. And I don’t want to. Some of my friends are Russian. They’re good people.”
“What about a ground war, here on Earth? Like a regular Earth-war?” Lila now was in political science-mode. Not very sexy.
“What about it?” Guy said. “If everyone panics, it’s certainly possible. The base on Mars means survival, even if only a few hundred people. Who the heck knows? Regular war was outlawed by the Planet Authority-Federation, 30 years ago or more. Big deal. They break the rules when things look bad, they always have. If they want the Mars-base, and try to take it by force, even if the meteor is deflected, the US side will almost certainly respond at the Earth-level, or international. It can’t be helped. More war, more death, more killing. I don’t even care. It’s bull-shit.”
They paused again in their meal, relaxing a moment with the same heavy thoughts.
“I always saw the whole thing, my work, and the program, as just science-and-research,” Lila said soberly.
Guy burped. “I saw it as an opportunity to have sex with you in a weightless-environment, personally,” he joked.
“A multi-national, multi-trillions-of-dollars program based on thousands of years of advanced space science-and-evolution, so you personally could orgasm in a weightless environment. Great. You really are a philosopher, Guy. You really are.”
He laughed. “Lighten up, Galaxy Baby,” he said.
---Julian Phillips
Nov. 6, 2009
For Tom Luong Films
2, 290-words
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