OUTPOST-Chapter 21
For Tom Luong Films-Development
By Julian Phillips
2010-03-25
“Damn these fuckers are stupid!”
--USMars-program transport vessel pilot Guy Reisling, in transit to Mars aboard the 'Penelope', referring to his counterparts in the Russian-Islamic space-program
If you can picture in your mind, three concentric circles, on a basically equal level with each other, or a plane: at the very center is the Sun, our solar-system’s star. Disregarding the other planets, you place the Earth, and out from that is Mars. Now put them in motion, as orbiting heavenly bodies, at about their respective positions—Sol is at the center, two steps out is Earth-orbit, and one step out from that is Mars-orbit. Each orbit is a circle or ring, and the planets travel on that track. At the time of the USMars-base takeover crisis in 2077, the planet Earth and planet Mars were of course in motion, and the speed of each was tracked by pre-launch navigators, so ships from Earth could transit to Mars with relative certainty. The distances are vast, not calculated in a straight-line, circle-to-circle, for obvious reasons.
Now try to conceive the space-ships that had launched to Mars, from Earth. Guy’s ship, the Penelope, was launched, or left Earth-orbit, at such-and-such a point in time-space; the five Russian-Islamic ships left at a second point, over ten days; a few weeks later, eight US ships, also in a series of launches, at a third point-in-time, even later. Think of these ships like a migration of large birds, or huge mechanical butterflies, a string of silver-wings and blasters, heading outward, or downwards and across, in an arch, separated by hundreds of thousands of miles, from group-to-group. Each team traveled in a regular formation, also at a distance of many miles at least, from ship-to-ship, not even within line-of-sight, for much of the travel.
Somewhere ahead, un-seen, was the planet Mars, always in their thoughts. The Molinari Space-Dock station was there in the Earth-Mars corridor, also in orbit. If there had not been a war, the Russian teams might typically have planned to stop and rest at Molinari. The Eastern space-program had certainly been to the Mars-base before, and Molinari, on numerous trips in the past. They were at peace then, and like most space exploration, the shared facilities used for essential functions, were considered ‘open research/free-access’, based on mutual agreements. Those same agreements were now what the Russian-Islamic program leaders pointed to, when confronted by Earth government and global interest, about their intentions with these launches in 2077.
With the sessions and meetings in Europe on the question, news of the approach of BBB, was now known. And each side ‘knew what they knew’. But over 100 years of international space-program development (1977 to 2077), the Russian-Islamic program leaders knew they had the ‘right’ to travel to Mars, under previous treaties and agreements. These established the basics of the programs as education and research, since no one really ‘owns’ Mars, space itself, or the Earth. The fact that so many ships, 14 in all, were headed for Mars at the same time, was very unusual. For those ‘in the know’, it was no real secret: they were headed for a war to control the Mars-base.
None of this was lost on the 260 or so people living on Mars at that time, feeling much like sitting ducks at a shooting gallery, without much else to do but prepare.
Perhaps 250,000 miles behind Guy’s ship, the lead vessel carrying the Russian teams, was also propelled through the abyss at high speeds by hydrogen-fuel engines. The Russian ships were very similar to the USMars ships, in design. Earth-science technology had reached a certain point of advancement, which was successful, practical and realistic. But they were not identical, and had different features. In general, the Eastern-block space program ships were even less comfortable than the US ships. They spent less money, cut corners by simplifying various functions, and trained the astronauts to cope. They were about the same size and equally fast, with similar cargo capacities, fuel-limits, sustainable life-systems, navigation-standards, and communications. By standardizing various functions and technology, any of the world’s space programs felt more assured that in an emergency, the other space-program ships and men, could help, or find them with scanners, or open their hatches and doors, or dock, etc. Thus, co-operation was a life-saving approach for both sides, even now while flying towards war.
The lead ship for the Russians was called the ‘Krenika’, from an old Russian folk-song about a doll. The pilot was a husky man named Zolotny, who liked to eat pickles while at work on the helm. The Krenika was on-track too now, and their routine was much like that on Guy’s ship. His navigator was with him, for an hour-long shift in which they reviewed communications from Earth (the Region-Six Ukrainian bases), with navigational instructions and up-dates.
“He is here, Zolotny,” said the navigator. “Look at this map, these projections. We can scan ahead from radio-telescopes back home. We have one ship ahead, about---uh, 300,000-kilometers. And behind us are eight more, the US ships.”
Zolotny fingered another green pickle from a plastic tin. At the helm, they had data-monitors, controls for all the ships gear and decks, etc. As usual, it was ‘steady-as-she-goes’, nothing happening. The cucumber snapped and crunched in his mouth.
“How far behind us are the other US ships?” he said.
The navigator had done his work ahead. “At the rate we are traveling, on a time-scale, without stopping or troubles, our formation would enter Mars-orbit 60-days ahead of theirs, roughly. Maybe, 58 days. The ship ahead of us is a single transport. He will be at Mars 40 days ahead of that. So, we will have two months to deal with him, and put the battle into action,” he said.
“What about his ship? What type is it? What is on-board? What do we know?”
The navigator brought up a data-bank on a second unit-screen, with all sorts of research data or information easily available, including ‘new’ or recent expedites from the Ukrainian bases. He found what he wanted within a few minutes. “It is this one---Dunlop. The Condrum-21. Very nice ship.”
Zolotny yawned and scratched his beard. “Those have an exercise room,” he said.
“Reports from our side indicate he is only a transport, launched prior to the conflict. A cargo ship---let me see.” He paused and read over the file. “Communications gear,” he added now. “Crew of eight men. Hopefully accurate information.”
Zolotny now would lean back in his pilot-seat, where he had strapped in with a tether they used for the null-gravity. The navigator speaking with him was actually floating by his shoulder, prone, there at the helm of the Krenika. On-board Zolotny’s ship was a very different cargo: about 40 men, armed and equipped for the anticipated attempt to win control of the Mars-base. Soldiers. They all had Mars walker-suits and life-sustain gear, and weapons. Each of the five Russian ships had similar passengers.
“He won’t get in our way. One cargo ship with no soldiers or weapons. He’s just ahead of us for the race. But we’ll also have to deal with the residents of the Mars-base itself. But that is not my problem. I am not a military planner. I am a flyer of airplanes and ships in space. I know nothing about battles,” Zoltny commented. Now the pickles again were at his lips, sweet-and-sour, dripping.
“We just kill them,” said the navigator. “That is how wars are fought, yes?”
“Eeehhh,” groaned Zolotny. “Too bad, I’d say. But you may be right, they all must die, what do I care?”
“You have a big heart, but only a little brain, Zolotny,” said the navigator. They laughed. The ship hummed and purred around them, full of energy and dull background sounds. The other flight-crew were each doing their jobs elsewhere. The 40 soldiers were only doing time, for now, away in the cargo-area, converted to keep them comfortable during the travel. It was very boring, close-quarters.
“I want you to see something else. This came over, two days ago. It’s a request from KK-F/Region Six. A man there, named Sarcasian, one of the council, but the Islamic side, not ours.”
“What does he want? Why didn’t someone tell me?” said Zolotny.
The navigator opened this file from his computer-kiosk. It was a voice-recording. He worked a few buttons and keys, and the device re-played the sound of Sarcasian’s voice. He had a thick accent and a dull tongue, with a high-sounding tone, snooty-erudite: “Greetings, Commander Zolotny and your crew aboard the glorious ship Krenika. I am Doctor Martin-Sarcasian, with the Central Planning Committee, presently assigned to the KK-F/Region Six launch-control site under General Terchenko. If you are hearing my voice on this recording, you and the other ships may be half-way to Mars by now. How I wish I could be with you.”
“Wait! Stop to play-back! Turn it off!” said Zolotny. His co-worker complied and punched a button. Zolotny seemed up-set. Sarcasian’s voice vanished suddenly.
“What?” said the navigator. “You need to hear what he has to say. It is very---interesting.”
“Then why haven’t I been informed of this until now? Answer me that!”
“The message was low-priority on your communications-schedule, two days ago. You must have over-looked it. It is propaganda. Agenda. Visionary. Inspiration. Meaningless. However---”
Zolotny paused. He took a few moments to quickly review some of his normal-routine gauges and monitors, as far as the ship’s functions. During their conversation at that point, the Krenika had traveled 10,000 kilometers.
“So I have a small brain, eh?” Zolotny said to his friend. “Look, just tell me. I don’t want to listen to that right now.”
“You should listen. This was sent to recording from KK-F. It must have taken this idiot weeks just to arrange it. He’s an egg-head. His research team feel they have some sort of mystical messages from other-world aliens, extra-terrestrials, from many years. So he wants his point-of-view included when we take Mars. He feels if the meteor hits Earth, the aliens can still save mankind based on the survivors left on Mars. Our survivors, not theirs. But---oh, I can’t recall everything. The main idea is that he needs special consideration, like equipment and experts.” Now the navigator had pulled himself down into a chair, and strapped himself by a tether. Zolotny, the pilot, was also strapped down. He toyed with a half-wet pickle hanging in the null-gravity in front of his face, which he could spin around like a top---weightless.
“I hate that crap,” Zolotny said. “He’s crazy. No one believes that crap.”
The navigator laughed. “Yeah, very funny,” he said. “Anyway, it was on your communications log. I thought it was interesting. He says they know about the meteor-strike and want to help us, they have known for hundreds of years.”
“So what? If they did, why didn’t they tell us? Why didn’t they stop the thing?”
“They’re aliens, Zolotny, that’s why. They’re evil! To us, anyway.”
They laughed again. The Krenika cruised ahead. A red light began to blink on Zolotny’s control dash, and there was a beeping sound, not alarming, but needing attention.
“The engines need re-grading,” he said to himself. “You will excuse me, Penchka. This takes me an hour or so, with the engine man. Please be dismissed. We’ll talk more later. I just wanted your information on the other ships. That is all. Dismissed. Thank you.”
“As you wish,” Penchka said. He released the tether from his seat, retrieved his binder-files and minor gear, shut down his computer-monitor and closed his files, then pushed away down towards the rear of the helm, where he could slip through a door-way hatch. After a moment, Zolotny found a clever way for the floating green pickle he was spinning around in the null-gravity, to pop it into his mouth, by bouncing it off a pencil. He crunched it down.
“Kill them all,” he said to himself, with a bitter chuckle. “Seventeen years in the program and all the training. And this is all we know. Kill them all.”
He sighed heavily.
2010-words
Julian Phillips
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Chapter-20: 'A day in the life'-co-pilot on the Penelope
Chapter-20: OUTPOST
For Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
2010-03-18
On their flight in 2077, that year with the conflict over the Mars-base, Rob Cowan and Guy, in charge of the Penelope and her cargo, anticipated upon departure, no conflict, war, or hostile Russian astronauts. Both of them were experienced enough to realize that yet another passage to the Mars-planet, would hold various demanding duties, challenging, and dynamic challenges, and dynamic circumstances. It was always that way, and there was nothing new they felt might happen, although the politics back home regarding Asteroid 5726b, were present to their thoughts like a looming dread. And that was really nothing new by the year 2077, either. So when they launched, circumstances were mostly ‘normal’, like an infant-child setting forth into life itself, into the womb of the cosmic Mother---in this case a space-ship, just like in the movies. But the child is un-troubled, peaceful, not crying.
Life on board the ship, during the passage, was boring, and this was far preferred. Each crew member had a set of duties allotted in regular 24-hour periods. Each knew his function, and was highly motivated, trained and ready, if only for the survival of them all, in the most hostile of all possible environments, that of outer-space. The ship’s interior was Spartan and efficient. But they kept themselves emotionally happy and positive with games, jokes, decorations, exercise and minor recreations. The all male crew mostly refrained from sex, and the passage was almost a year in time, roughly nine or eleven months, again, variable according to the position of the planets, and their relative speed. None of the men on the Penelope engaged in homosexual activity, and they were all as fit as any athletes.
So the big attraction as far as enjoyment or pleasures, were meals, music and ‘magazines’, or other reading and recordings. Like an Earth-sea cargo ship, the crew was provided with the best of everything, in each category.
The Penelope was much like a large Earth ocean cargo ship, in both size and character. It was quite large, easily five or eight times the size of the 1990’s NASA space-shuttle, and never intended for atmospheric re-entry at all. It was almost like a super-size space-shuttle. So, it was easy to build these ships, or easier, being constructed in weightlessness. The Monsanto-Dupont Local Planetary Cruiser (the Condrum-21) was very massive and strong, and operated for its entire lifetime in null-gravity. Although space was airless and void of life, with extremes of cold and heat, it was a low-impact environment as far as weight-stress on the high-stress ‘new’ metals and alloys, and material surfaces. As the engineers had learned, it was just as easy to move 20-million tons, as to move half-a-thousand, in null-gravity. Throw-weights were essentially equally mass-heavy, though overall density, or total mass-weight, would effect the rocketry. With all the science and technology, under control of routine systems and established practices, life on-board the Penelope was simpler and more comfortable for the crew, than a non-astronaut may have imagined. But it was no picnic.
Rob Cowan’s main function was that of back-up commander. Standard for any such flying machine since the days of the jet-aircraft, it only meant that Rob would take over if Guy was disabled for any reason. They all could actually pilot the ship, any one of the crew, even the Life-Sustain Specialists, who worked only on life-support systems during the voyages (including the toilets). This only made sense. But for Robert Lavern Cowan, II, he was required to second for Guy Reisling during each 24-hour period, in-shifts, and was basically second-in-command, for the entire flight.
What were those duties? In planetary orbit, entering orbit, docking to passenger-shuttles and moving people from shuttle-to-ship, or at Molinari, the mid-way space-dock, and also when leaving orbit and tracking early navigation for long-haul passage, the tasks were very demanding and came in fast-paced sequence. Errors or flawed moments of decision, were critical, so these maneuvers could be intense, much like a large rocket ‘lift-off’ into orbit from the planet-surface, but not quite.
The two men, and other crew, operated like a precision-team, pushing buttons, monitoring engines, communications, handling momentary decisions based on current flight-data, adjustments and off-ship controls or instructions from Vandenberg. They were in charge of an astonishingly powerful machine, the first of its kind for human travel to another planet, local to the Earth’s solar system. Each step for each procedure was scheduled and well-mapped, so to accomplish orbital re-entry, for example, or to leave orbit on the proper track to Mars, with all the delicate navigations involved. It was like a sublime dance---man, mind and machine, and 5,000-years of science advances. Rob and Guy only did their jobs as well as possible, and would sigh with relief when each action was successful. Failure was not an option, but sudden death and great loss, were an ever-present factor. Such was space-travel in 2077, and probably would ever-be.
Rob’s first shift was from 0300 to1000-hours, or seven hours. Guy typically retired, after a brief conference. His first role was to check and re-check all the ship’s most essential functions, from the pilot’s deck, or helm, which had lines to all the data-flow monitors that kept track of each vital part of the entire machine. This took at least an hour. The ship had four main engines, using the hydrogen fuel for much of the flight. It had been established early in the space-program, that by tuning the engines to a consistent thrust-energy emission, the vessel would arrive on Mars at a certain date and hour. To keep this going, because the energy levels were intense, the engines had to be carefully maintained and cycled through cooling and cleaning, and then re-started. Working with the ship’s engineer, who coordinated his hours for that routine job, Rob, or Guy, would work through the needed ‘off’s and on’s’, the shut-down sequence, the re-start, and also the ‘rest’-period, when the engine up-keep was tended. This work could take almost the entire seven hours of Rob’s shift, and was somewhat tedious.
There were other mundane duties. Once in the inter-planet corridor, the flight-path was simple and rarely changed at all. So, there was no ‘steering’ involved, or loop-de-loops. On a good night, Rob, or Guy, on their respective shifts, could do the essential tasks, and kick-back while the machines did the work. Star-gazing was a favorite past-time. On a bad shift---well, you never knew what would happen, or how demanding it would needs-be to save their lives.
Rob could recall some of the flights he had made with Guy, and how things had happened. If there was any structural-integrity violation of the ship’s hull, such as they might encounter with a shower of tiny meteor stones the size of marbles, or smaller, it could mean many hours or even days of in-flight repairs or damage-control. Obviously they could lose life-sustain very quickly with an outer-breach. Or, with the data-antenna and communications, and also solar-energy collection panels, and other external apparatus, if there was a problem they recognized, it would call for a space-walk, and all the tools and know-how needed, to get the systems up again.
On one flight, three years past, such a thing happened that Rob would never forget. It was an antenna-array part that had somehow vibrated loose, but it was too important for them to ignore. Communications were compromised with Earth, Molinari and Mars, for a short time, meaning they could easily get in trouble, especially with tracking and Molinari’s up-dates on Earth-Mars corridor conditions, such as solar-flares, meteor-showers, other ships, planetary movements or the unknown and unforeseen. So a space-walk was needed to repair the part.
Given the relative speed of the Penelope, it was just as easy to conduct a space-walk with the ship in motion, as it would ever have been to drop-speed to a dead stop. But it was somewhat un-nerving. The ship was moving faster than a bullet from a gun, perhaps 1000-miles an hour, approximately, for reference.
Rob was the most experienced at that time, as far as space-walks. He and another man, the communications-expert on that flight, named Peter Frigalle, would do the work. After reviewing the procedures, they suited in their outer-void suits, the same type of heavy, cumbersome and uncomfortable life-suits the program had used for generations---‘old reliable’, never-failed, and also improved somewhat over many years.
“A pain in the ass,” Rob commented, working to prepare in the ‘ready-room’ for external pace-walks, and other purposes. They also had to get the tools they needed into the kits, with tether-lines for everything. Peter grinned beneath is mask, a light-reflective orb that hid his features. He was a fine-looking astronaut, now like a faceless droid intending some fantastic effort, that would involve shielding both their faces from the Sun in its raw-glory.
“Mine’s fine,” said Peter, linked by an inner-radio to both men and the helm of the ship, where Guy would monitor the excursion, along with another crew-member. At this point, on that particular journey, which Rob recalled was about 2073, they were between Molinari and the planet Mars, closer to Mars, but still two months out from Mars-orbit. The situation was not life-threatening. But the void is the void. For a space-walker, it was mind-blowing.
Into the air-lock, the door to the inner-ship closes. Hisses and whispers of air-pressure as the atmosphere was equalized, or created to vacuum. Within moments, Peter and Rob were in a totally airless space. Seals and locks were checked, then the outer-door opened.
“Watch your step,” said Peter. “It’s a doozy.”
As Buddhist philosophers have observed concerning the reality of being-ness in the space-time continuum, there is no real sense in looking for ‘up-or-down’ markers, in the depth of the void. Infinity below, infinity above, infinity in every direction, endless, meaningless. Like on the Martian surface, the Sun was now much more distant, at that position, but there is no ultra-ray atmosphere filtering you would have on Earth, or even on Mars, so it was alternately very hot, about 130-degrees, on the sunny side of the street, and rather cold, about 20-degrees below, on the shadow side. Indigo, the Mother Night, held its wonders as well---the stars, and among them the familiar planets, both home, and Mars, distant twinkles, Mars now closer, reddish. But the men could not enjoy the view at all. They had a job to do. Dreaming was their enemy, or the heady rush of emotions.
“You got it, you got it,” said Guy, from the helm. He could follow their actions with a simple external viewer-camera, rigged easily for the situation. “You’re drifting aft, towards the engines. Use the suit-thrusters, and tether to the fourth-tier array binding cells. Each cell has holder-hooks.”
The Penelope’s main-engines were turned off, but it didn’t mean they weren’t in motion. If the engines had been left burning, a fried astronaut or two could certainly happen by some accident.
For just a moment, maybe as in the life of any astronaut, Rob had a giddy sort of self-awareness, wondering, inwardly---what the heck am I doing here? Local boy makes good, he thought, but it’s a long way from Montana.
So, it was this sort of event that made each voyage unique. They repaired the antenna, did the needed work, then found their way back into the ship’s safety, back inside. The systems were checked and re-checked, and the communications link was re-booted. The ship’s engines were successfully re-started, and they reached Mars with no other problems. Their cargo was mostly supplies. But the space-walks, and other sudden terrors, were not for sissies, there in space.
As his shift for that period ended, Rob was feeling good about himself, and the flight, and even the news about the Russians. Whatever happened with that, would happen on its own. Their part was small. It was only by a fluke that the Penelope was now the lead-ship, on approach to Mars, during the apparent Russian-Islamic-Eastern Ukrainian incursion. The meteor was a ‘what-if’ as far as he was concerned. They’d figure it out. They had a lot going on for that sort, in 2077. Big Baby Bertha was being tracked constantly, and was still maybe four years out---he hadn’t reviewed the current day-date-hour-minute of the End of the World. It could be diverted from a collision with Earth, maybe even fairly easily, or maybe it would miss. They had time.
Guy soon appeared to take over, and they exchanged formalities.
“Anything on the bad guys?” Guy inquired.
“The program is keeping track. There was an up-date at 0830-hours. Nothing new. We’re a month ahead of their lead ship. There are five ships. Eight US ships are two months behind them, roughly, maybe more. Winton Berle is commander of the lead US-ship and the US-group. We’re under orders to do nothing. Our mission hasn’t changed. I guess the only new item is that there was a big conference in Europe about the meteor and the space-program in general, three days ago, or about that,” reported Rob.
Guy took over the pilot’s helm, and Rob retired until his next duty.
--Julian Phillips
2,206-words
For Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
2010-03-18
On their flight in 2077, that year with the conflict over the Mars-base, Rob Cowan and Guy, in charge of the Penelope and her cargo, anticipated upon departure, no conflict, war, or hostile Russian astronauts. Both of them were experienced enough to realize that yet another passage to the Mars-planet, would hold various demanding duties, challenging, and dynamic challenges, and dynamic circumstances. It was always that way, and there was nothing new they felt might happen, although the politics back home regarding Asteroid 5726b, were present to their thoughts like a looming dread. And that was really nothing new by the year 2077, either. So when they launched, circumstances were mostly ‘normal’, like an infant-child setting forth into life itself, into the womb of the cosmic Mother---in this case a space-ship, just like in the movies. But the child is un-troubled, peaceful, not crying.
Life on board the ship, during the passage, was boring, and this was far preferred. Each crew member had a set of duties allotted in regular 24-hour periods. Each knew his function, and was highly motivated, trained and ready, if only for the survival of them all, in the most hostile of all possible environments, that of outer-space. The ship’s interior was Spartan and efficient. But they kept themselves emotionally happy and positive with games, jokes, decorations, exercise and minor recreations. The all male crew mostly refrained from sex, and the passage was almost a year in time, roughly nine or eleven months, again, variable according to the position of the planets, and their relative speed. None of the men on the Penelope engaged in homosexual activity, and they were all as fit as any athletes.
So the big attraction as far as enjoyment or pleasures, were meals, music and ‘magazines’, or other reading and recordings. Like an Earth-sea cargo ship, the crew was provided with the best of everything, in each category.
The Penelope was much like a large Earth ocean cargo ship, in both size and character. It was quite large, easily five or eight times the size of the 1990’s NASA space-shuttle, and never intended for atmospheric re-entry at all. It was almost like a super-size space-shuttle. So, it was easy to build these ships, or easier, being constructed in weightlessness. The Monsanto-Dupont Local Planetary Cruiser (the Condrum-21) was very massive and strong, and operated for its entire lifetime in null-gravity. Although space was airless and void of life, with extremes of cold and heat, it was a low-impact environment as far as weight-stress on the high-stress ‘new’ metals and alloys, and material surfaces. As the engineers had learned, it was just as easy to move 20-million tons, as to move half-a-thousand, in null-gravity. Throw-weights were essentially equally mass-heavy, though overall density, or total mass-weight, would effect the rocketry. With all the science and technology, under control of routine systems and established practices, life on-board the Penelope was simpler and more comfortable for the crew, than a non-astronaut may have imagined. But it was no picnic.
Rob Cowan’s main function was that of back-up commander. Standard for any such flying machine since the days of the jet-aircraft, it only meant that Rob would take over if Guy was disabled for any reason. They all could actually pilot the ship, any one of the crew, even the Life-Sustain Specialists, who worked only on life-support systems during the voyages (including the toilets). This only made sense. But for Robert Lavern Cowan, II, he was required to second for Guy Reisling during each 24-hour period, in-shifts, and was basically second-in-command, for the entire flight.
What were those duties? In planetary orbit, entering orbit, docking to passenger-shuttles and moving people from shuttle-to-ship, or at Molinari, the mid-way space-dock, and also when leaving orbit and tracking early navigation for long-haul passage, the tasks were very demanding and came in fast-paced sequence. Errors or flawed moments of decision, were critical, so these maneuvers could be intense, much like a large rocket ‘lift-off’ into orbit from the planet-surface, but not quite.
The two men, and other crew, operated like a precision-team, pushing buttons, monitoring engines, communications, handling momentary decisions based on current flight-data, adjustments and off-ship controls or instructions from Vandenberg. They were in charge of an astonishingly powerful machine, the first of its kind for human travel to another planet, local to the Earth’s solar system. Each step for each procedure was scheduled and well-mapped, so to accomplish orbital re-entry, for example, or to leave orbit on the proper track to Mars, with all the delicate navigations involved. It was like a sublime dance---man, mind and machine, and 5,000-years of science advances. Rob and Guy only did their jobs as well as possible, and would sigh with relief when each action was successful. Failure was not an option, but sudden death and great loss, were an ever-present factor. Such was space-travel in 2077, and probably would ever-be.
Rob’s first shift was from 0300 to1000-hours, or seven hours. Guy typically retired, after a brief conference. His first role was to check and re-check all the ship’s most essential functions, from the pilot’s deck, or helm, which had lines to all the data-flow monitors that kept track of each vital part of the entire machine. This took at least an hour. The ship had four main engines, using the hydrogen fuel for much of the flight. It had been established early in the space-program, that by tuning the engines to a consistent thrust-energy emission, the vessel would arrive on Mars at a certain date and hour. To keep this going, because the energy levels were intense, the engines had to be carefully maintained and cycled through cooling and cleaning, and then re-started. Working with the ship’s engineer, who coordinated his hours for that routine job, Rob, or Guy, would work through the needed ‘off’s and on’s’, the shut-down sequence, the re-start, and also the ‘rest’-period, when the engine up-keep was tended. This work could take almost the entire seven hours of Rob’s shift, and was somewhat tedious.
There were other mundane duties. Once in the inter-planet corridor, the flight-path was simple and rarely changed at all. So, there was no ‘steering’ involved, or loop-de-loops. On a good night, Rob, or Guy, on their respective shifts, could do the essential tasks, and kick-back while the machines did the work. Star-gazing was a favorite past-time. On a bad shift---well, you never knew what would happen, or how demanding it would needs-be to save their lives.
Rob could recall some of the flights he had made with Guy, and how things had happened. If there was any structural-integrity violation of the ship’s hull, such as they might encounter with a shower of tiny meteor stones the size of marbles, or smaller, it could mean many hours or even days of in-flight repairs or damage-control. Obviously they could lose life-sustain very quickly with an outer-breach. Or, with the data-antenna and communications, and also solar-energy collection panels, and other external apparatus, if there was a problem they recognized, it would call for a space-walk, and all the tools and know-how needed, to get the systems up again.
On one flight, three years past, such a thing happened that Rob would never forget. It was an antenna-array part that had somehow vibrated loose, but it was too important for them to ignore. Communications were compromised with Earth, Molinari and Mars, for a short time, meaning they could easily get in trouble, especially with tracking and Molinari’s up-dates on Earth-Mars corridor conditions, such as solar-flares, meteor-showers, other ships, planetary movements or the unknown and unforeseen. So a space-walk was needed to repair the part.
Given the relative speed of the Penelope, it was just as easy to conduct a space-walk with the ship in motion, as it would ever have been to drop-speed to a dead stop. But it was somewhat un-nerving. The ship was moving faster than a bullet from a gun, perhaps 1000-miles an hour, approximately, for reference.
Rob was the most experienced at that time, as far as space-walks. He and another man, the communications-expert on that flight, named Peter Frigalle, would do the work. After reviewing the procedures, they suited in their outer-void suits, the same type of heavy, cumbersome and uncomfortable life-suits the program had used for generations---‘old reliable’, never-failed, and also improved somewhat over many years.
“A pain in the ass,” Rob commented, working to prepare in the ‘ready-room’ for external pace-walks, and other purposes. They also had to get the tools they needed into the kits, with tether-lines for everything. Peter grinned beneath is mask, a light-reflective orb that hid his features. He was a fine-looking astronaut, now like a faceless droid intending some fantastic effort, that would involve shielding both their faces from the Sun in its raw-glory.
“Mine’s fine,” said Peter, linked by an inner-radio to both men and the helm of the ship, where Guy would monitor the excursion, along with another crew-member. At this point, on that particular journey, which Rob recalled was about 2073, they were between Molinari and the planet Mars, closer to Mars, but still two months out from Mars-orbit. The situation was not life-threatening. But the void is the void. For a space-walker, it was mind-blowing.
Into the air-lock, the door to the inner-ship closes. Hisses and whispers of air-pressure as the atmosphere was equalized, or created to vacuum. Within moments, Peter and Rob were in a totally airless space. Seals and locks were checked, then the outer-door opened.
“Watch your step,” said Peter. “It’s a doozy.”
As Buddhist philosophers have observed concerning the reality of being-ness in the space-time continuum, there is no real sense in looking for ‘up-or-down’ markers, in the depth of the void. Infinity below, infinity above, infinity in every direction, endless, meaningless. Like on the Martian surface, the Sun was now much more distant, at that position, but there is no ultra-ray atmosphere filtering you would have on Earth, or even on Mars, so it was alternately very hot, about 130-degrees, on the sunny side of the street, and rather cold, about 20-degrees below, on the shadow side. Indigo, the Mother Night, held its wonders as well---the stars, and among them the familiar planets, both home, and Mars, distant twinkles, Mars now closer, reddish. But the men could not enjoy the view at all. They had a job to do. Dreaming was their enemy, or the heady rush of emotions.
“You got it, you got it,” said Guy, from the helm. He could follow their actions with a simple external viewer-camera, rigged easily for the situation. “You’re drifting aft, towards the engines. Use the suit-thrusters, and tether to the fourth-tier array binding cells. Each cell has holder-hooks.”
The Penelope’s main-engines were turned off, but it didn’t mean they weren’t in motion. If the engines had been left burning, a fried astronaut or two could certainly happen by some accident.
For just a moment, maybe as in the life of any astronaut, Rob had a giddy sort of self-awareness, wondering, inwardly---what the heck am I doing here? Local boy makes good, he thought, but it’s a long way from Montana.
So, it was this sort of event that made each voyage unique. They repaired the antenna, did the needed work, then found their way back into the ship’s safety, back inside. The systems were checked and re-checked, and the communications link was re-booted. The ship’s engines were successfully re-started, and they reached Mars with no other problems. Their cargo was mostly supplies. But the space-walks, and other sudden terrors, were not for sissies, there in space.
As his shift for that period ended, Rob was feeling good about himself, and the flight, and even the news about the Russians. Whatever happened with that, would happen on its own. Their part was small. It was only by a fluke that the Penelope was now the lead-ship, on approach to Mars, during the apparent Russian-Islamic-Eastern Ukrainian incursion. The meteor was a ‘what-if’ as far as he was concerned. They’d figure it out. They had a lot going on for that sort, in 2077. Big Baby Bertha was being tracked constantly, and was still maybe four years out---he hadn’t reviewed the current day-date-hour-minute of the End of the World. It could be diverted from a collision with Earth, maybe even fairly easily, or maybe it would miss. They had time.
Guy soon appeared to take over, and they exchanged formalities.
“Anything on the bad guys?” Guy inquired.
“The program is keeping track. There was an up-date at 0830-hours. Nothing new. We’re a month ahead of their lead ship. There are five ships. Eight US ships are two months behind them, roughly, maybe more. Winton Berle is commander of the lead US-ship and the US-group. We’re under orders to do nothing. Our mission hasn’t changed. I guess the only new item is that there was a big conference in Europe about the meteor and the space-program in general, three days ago, or about that,” reported Rob.
Guy took over the pilot’s helm, and Rob retired until his next duty.
--Julian Phillips
2,206-words
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Chpt-19: the dangers of your space pre-flight medical exam
Chapter-19
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Film-Story Development
2010-03-03
On a small ranch in Montana, about year 2030, a banker-accountant and his wife, who worked the property with small crops and farm animals, had a boy-child they named Robert, after his grandfather, Robert Laverne Cowan. So Guy Reisling’s co-pilot (Rob), was actually named Robert Laverne Cowan, II. The eternal Earth never really changes much, and Montana was yet by the time Rob was birthed, a mountainous wilderness-type area, fit for cowboys and folks with horses or who enjoyed fishing, or tractors, wood-splitting and ‘critters’. Rob had three other siblings, two girls and another boy (younger than himself). They were quite a bunch there, secluded and safe from the ways of the world, just as their parents wanted, for life on Earth in 2030 was ever-the-same as now---a wild and half-mad scramble of humanity for wealth-power, survival, treasures of lust and pleasure, and yes, love-compassion. The privileges of natural-living and simple work, and the bliss of beatific-vision childhood, wandering around having fun, or facing coyotes and raccoons, gave Rob a strength and intelligence that stayed with him all his life, his strongest-best self. And this while many co-passengers on Spaceship Earth were grown under far inferior circumstances, even grinding poverty, starvation, war and terrorism, Rob learned all he could at the best schools, and with athletics, and at university. A background like this gave him and all the space-program workers and astronauts an excellence that was much-needed, and even a long-term hope for mankind, that space-research could eventually improve things for all. Yet, no one was ever really that strong, and the moon is a harsh mistress.
As a grown man, Rob Cowan was tallish, lanky, and a bit hairy, with a sort of sunken-chest full of hair, bony, but strong. He had an under-chin, or an ‘under-bite’ that made him seem humorous or somehow chummy and funny, and he loved to laugh, and joke, at almost anything. The arts and music, poetry, literature, and so on, were not lost on him, but after his youthful years he abandoned the intellectual-side, in favor of the call to service in military, air-force, and then the space-program. But deep inside, Rob had a Bohemian animal-nature, that made him both tough, smart, and a dreamer. He had a thatch of dark hair, and sometimes a fast-growing beard. His arms were like tight wires of fleshy-muscle, and he could swing a large hammer to knock down a wall, for many hours at a time. As he entered service to military and air-force, this side was ‘cleaned up’, and Rob was re-invented as the ‘ideal astronaut’, because there were no fucked-up astronauts in the program, with personal issues serious enough to endanger others by virtue of the dangers and responsibilities of space-travel.
Within the US-Mars space-program, Rob was enough of a veteran to co-pilot for Guy Reisling (‘Oh, Captain! My Captain!), and he did a good job, very detailed, cautious, and skilled. They were friends, and enjoyed a lot of rowdy time together off-duty, such as at bars near Santa Barbara, south of Vandenberg, and then at times for barbecues at Guy’s home nearby. Rob kept his home on the Montana ranch, so it was not such as a daily closeness. They kept private jokes and views, vaguely rebellious as all good astronauts are, more-or-less at odds with the government, and figuring philosophical about the world and life, into the small hours of the night over a brandy or bud of marijuana, which by 2070 was legal for personal use in California, with limitations. But the program frowned on any drug use, especially for the enlightenments of recreation, and they were mostly very limited adventures for any workers in the program, and if not, they were quickly found out and dismissed, for the good of all concerned. Laddish ways, as the British say, the astronauts needed those joys and romps, to keep their souls from withering and dry-death in the monotony of their jobs.
By the time the Penelope had launched with her cargo for transport to Mars, in 2076, it was a given that Rob would co-pilot, along with the rest of Guy’s regular crew, and a few changes. Guy’s Condrum-21 Deep-Space Local Planetary Cruiser from Monsanto-Dupont, was like a temporary home for all of them, and they knew her well. Similar to even small aircraft, the ship needed to be more or less mechanically perfect---and not less. Failures in deep space would kill them all quickly, sad-but-true, it was no joy-ride or cruise-ship, no walk-in-the-park, not a picnic. And they knew it and accepted the risk. The pre-launch also included a work-up on each crew-member, by now routine with each ship, but still a requirement. So for a week or more prior to launch, aside from flight-plans and cargo, the men were examined for health. This took place at the Vandenberg base, where Penelope would launch from.
Rob’s turn came, like the others. He was feeling fine, in general, and anxious to get ‘back-to-work’. But there was a problem, which he had been working through with various doctors. It seemed minor: Rob was suffering from the loss of a testicle due to athletic-stress. It wasn’t cancerous, but urologists told him there was a blood-flow problem, leading to swelling, leading to the loss of the organ, which was easily removed by simple surgery, and then healed for cosmetic and sexual function, with on-going therapy and prosthetics. It had been two years since these procedures, and Rob was quite fit overall, even in the strength of his groin-muscles. (Rob was married at this time to his second wife and they enjoyed normal, vigorous sex, with two children).
The physician attending the examination looked over Rob’s file, as the pre-launch prep-period went ahead. The examination room was typically cold and somewhat sterile, with white walls, green curtains, a few monitors and tools, an examination-bed. There were much more sophisticated medical diagnostic-gear nearby, and Vandenberg had a very complete hospital. Rob was in dress-down half-robed, having been probed a bit. The nurses found him delightful.
On the topic of the testicle loss, the doctor wanted to be clear. “There seems to be no real problem at this time, Rob,” he said. “I know you feel good, and strong, too---and you are. With your right testicle, it’s basically healed from the surgery to remove it. But you are taking the on-going pills for anti-septic, or anti-biotic, is that right?”
“Yes,” Rob said. “There was some pain, and then a minor infection. Not the testicle---I mean, there is no testicle, but the sack and remaining vesicles. It had moved up into the lower bowel somehow, and was sensitive and soft, like a hernia. But it was very small, and then reduced. So the urologist is using the anti-septic bacterial pills, to avoid any further problem. For right now, it’s fine.”
“How long ago did that appear?”
“Uh---this was, now, I guess---nine months. Back---last year. There was the swelling, pain, not that bad. The doctor refrained from more surgery, said it was normal. The anti-biotics since---four months ago.”
“Yeah, that’s fairly normal. The same anti-biotic series we use now also prevent a wide variety of other problems---flu, cold, diabetes, inflammation, angina. They are very advanced. But I’m not sure the anti-biotics will function in total harmlessness in deep-space, you know? Do you have any other symptoms?”
“No,” he lied. “Not really.”
The physician waited a moment, pondering. “You have a few days before the launch. I am going to spend some time and look at the medications, and your blood-work, and other tests, and compare with previous space-flight records of other astronauts on anti-biotics. It will take a day or so. Okay?”
“Sure,” Rob said. “I think it will be fine. I mean---what could happen?”
“Just let me look into it,” the doctor said. “I know you love to fly. It could---it might mess you up. The stress and null-gravity, the food, the radiation, and the other chemicals we use to help you on the space-flight---it’s a mess, if the anti-biotics conflict. It might not be wise.”
“Sure, all right,” Rob answered. “When will I know?”
“Within a day. Before launch, with a window to schedule a replacement co-pilot, if needed. I’ll also inform the launch-command, as per protocol.”
And that was that. By this time in the year 2076-77, anti-biotics had advanced significantly beyond the old days of penicillin or other types. For some, anti-biotics were in-use for years at a time as a daily health-matter, and they prevented more than just colds and flu. Other doctors used these more sparingly, feeling they altered the body’s natural-immune systems. AIDS (Acquired Immune-Deficiency Syndrome), the scourge of the late 20th-Century, and the many millions of deaths attributed to that disease, had been conquered, and was quite treatable and survivable, even in Africa. The completion of the Human Genome-Project, and developments and advances in medical applications based on the complete detailed mapping of the human DNA-map, meant that a healthy person like Rob, could anticipate a very high-quality of life as far as longevity and overall health. In Rob’s case, with a potential infection and inflamed or painful testicular removal, and the swelling or minor surgery, the new anti-biotics were par-for-the-course. But, in the deep-space environment, his doctor simply wanted to review any known or foreseeable effects that might come up. These could include dizziness, disorientation, and even psychosis, which sometimes happened to some workers in space.
For Rob Cowan, it was a cautionary note that he well-knew he needed to be attentive to personally. That haunting dread a person sometimes feels, when the edge of sanity or the depths of organic failure start to loom large, planted its seed---but he also knew how to quickly up-root his worst fears. In space-travel, the mental forms were peculiar, to say the least, and a dreamer, or religious person, could begin to experience euphoria, or fugue-states. Rob’s doctor also was aware, and behind the mask, Rob simply didn’t want to lose his job, or be denied the position he had worked so hard to attain, as an astronaut, a pioneer and even a ‘hero’.
By the time they launched for Mars, Rob’s health and his medical use of the anti-biotics were cleared by the Vandenberg-base doctors. Other astronauts were using the same chemicals in space without any trouble, and the various parameters were reviewed, along with any other concerns about his testicle-loss. “Just forget about it, “Guy told him in private. “If you have a problem, don’t keep it a secret. I’ll watch your back. You’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, boss,” Rob told him. They really were close friends, but work was work, and space is no place to screw around with those kind of problems for a person in a position of responsibility and stress.
In a dream, Rob was back in Montana, in a heavy downpour of rain, there on the family ranch. He was a child, in the dream, and the rain was so heavy his parents and family, and the other kids, were scared. The horses had to be led to their stalls and barns, and other creatures, and the windows of the house rattled with wet, and the sound on the roof above them was like a freight-train. Then somehow, walking down a hall, it grew dark, and 11-year old Rob, just a boy, entered the realm of his worst fears, like a miasma of vortex-powers, swirling around, no longer simply another room in his parent’s large ranch-house, no longer simply another storm in the mountains, no longer the simple fears of mother-nature and broken tree-limbs that crushed cars, or animals swept away in flash-flooded gullies, or sheds that fell apart, or muddy drives that had to be cleaned again for regular use in the sunshine. Those fears would have been comfort, natural fears, for they were strong and well-prepared. In their place---a personal nightmare of un-reality, for which he also needed to be strong. Only a dream, one night, but with a message from his sub-conscious. “Beware of thoughts that linger,” the dream told him.
-2,045 words
-Julian Phillips
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Film-Story Development
2010-03-03
On a small ranch in Montana, about year 2030, a banker-accountant and his wife, who worked the property with small crops and farm animals, had a boy-child they named Robert, after his grandfather, Robert Laverne Cowan. So Guy Reisling’s co-pilot (Rob), was actually named Robert Laverne Cowan, II. The eternal Earth never really changes much, and Montana was yet by the time Rob was birthed, a mountainous wilderness-type area, fit for cowboys and folks with horses or who enjoyed fishing, or tractors, wood-splitting and ‘critters’. Rob had three other siblings, two girls and another boy (younger than himself). They were quite a bunch there, secluded and safe from the ways of the world, just as their parents wanted, for life on Earth in 2030 was ever-the-same as now---a wild and half-mad scramble of humanity for wealth-power, survival, treasures of lust and pleasure, and yes, love-compassion. The privileges of natural-living and simple work, and the bliss of beatific-vision childhood, wandering around having fun, or facing coyotes and raccoons, gave Rob a strength and intelligence that stayed with him all his life, his strongest-best self. And this while many co-passengers on Spaceship Earth were grown under far inferior circumstances, even grinding poverty, starvation, war and terrorism, Rob learned all he could at the best schools, and with athletics, and at university. A background like this gave him and all the space-program workers and astronauts an excellence that was much-needed, and even a long-term hope for mankind, that space-research could eventually improve things for all. Yet, no one was ever really that strong, and the moon is a harsh mistress.
As a grown man, Rob Cowan was tallish, lanky, and a bit hairy, with a sort of sunken-chest full of hair, bony, but strong. He had an under-chin, or an ‘under-bite’ that made him seem humorous or somehow chummy and funny, and he loved to laugh, and joke, at almost anything. The arts and music, poetry, literature, and so on, were not lost on him, but after his youthful years he abandoned the intellectual-side, in favor of the call to service in military, air-force, and then the space-program. But deep inside, Rob had a Bohemian animal-nature, that made him both tough, smart, and a dreamer. He had a thatch of dark hair, and sometimes a fast-growing beard. His arms were like tight wires of fleshy-muscle, and he could swing a large hammer to knock down a wall, for many hours at a time. As he entered service to military and air-force, this side was ‘cleaned up’, and Rob was re-invented as the ‘ideal astronaut’, because there were no fucked-up astronauts in the program, with personal issues serious enough to endanger others by virtue of the dangers and responsibilities of space-travel.
Within the US-Mars space-program, Rob was enough of a veteran to co-pilot for Guy Reisling (‘Oh, Captain! My Captain!), and he did a good job, very detailed, cautious, and skilled. They were friends, and enjoyed a lot of rowdy time together off-duty, such as at bars near Santa Barbara, south of Vandenberg, and then at times for barbecues at Guy’s home nearby. Rob kept his home on the Montana ranch, so it was not such as a daily closeness. They kept private jokes and views, vaguely rebellious as all good astronauts are, more-or-less at odds with the government, and figuring philosophical about the world and life, into the small hours of the night over a brandy or bud of marijuana, which by 2070 was legal for personal use in California, with limitations. But the program frowned on any drug use, especially for the enlightenments of recreation, and they were mostly very limited adventures for any workers in the program, and if not, they were quickly found out and dismissed, for the good of all concerned. Laddish ways, as the British say, the astronauts needed those joys and romps, to keep their souls from withering and dry-death in the monotony of their jobs.
By the time the Penelope had launched with her cargo for transport to Mars, in 2076, it was a given that Rob would co-pilot, along with the rest of Guy’s regular crew, and a few changes. Guy’s Condrum-21 Deep-Space Local Planetary Cruiser from Monsanto-Dupont, was like a temporary home for all of them, and they knew her well. Similar to even small aircraft, the ship needed to be more or less mechanically perfect---and not less. Failures in deep space would kill them all quickly, sad-but-true, it was no joy-ride or cruise-ship, no walk-in-the-park, not a picnic. And they knew it and accepted the risk. The pre-launch also included a work-up on each crew-member, by now routine with each ship, but still a requirement. So for a week or more prior to launch, aside from flight-plans and cargo, the men were examined for health. This took place at the Vandenberg base, where Penelope would launch from.
Rob’s turn came, like the others. He was feeling fine, in general, and anxious to get ‘back-to-work’. But there was a problem, which he had been working through with various doctors. It seemed minor: Rob was suffering from the loss of a testicle due to athletic-stress. It wasn’t cancerous, but urologists told him there was a blood-flow problem, leading to swelling, leading to the loss of the organ, which was easily removed by simple surgery, and then healed for cosmetic and sexual function, with on-going therapy and prosthetics. It had been two years since these procedures, and Rob was quite fit overall, even in the strength of his groin-muscles. (Rob was married at this time to his second wife and they enjoyed normal, vigorous sex, with two children).
The physician attending the examination looked over Rob’s file, as the pre-launch prep-period went ahead. The examination room was typically cold and somewhat sterile, with white walls, green curtains, a few monitors and tools, an examination-bed. There were much more sophisticated medical diagnostic-gear nearby, and Vandenberg had a very complete hospital. Rob was in dress-down half-robed, having been probed a bit. The nurses found him delightful.
On the topic of the testicle loss, the doctor wanted to be clear. “There seems to be no real problem at this time, Rob,” he said. “I know you feel good, and strong, too---and you are. With your right testicle, it’s basically healed from the surgery to remove it. But you are taking the on-going pills for anti-septic, or anti-biotic, is that right?”
“Yes,” Rob said. “There was some pain, and then a minor infection. Not the testicle---I mean, there is no testicle, but the sack and remaining vesicles. It had moved up into the lower bowel somehow, and was sensitive and soft, like a hernia. But it was very small, and then reduced. So the urologist is using the anti-septic bacterial pills, to avoid any further problem. For right now, it’s fine.”
“How long ago did that appear?”
“Uh---this was, now, I guess---nine months. Back---last year. There was the swelling, pain, not that bad. The doctor refrained from more surgery, said it was normal. The anti-biotics since---four months ago.”
“Yeah, that’s fairly normal. The same anti-biotic series we use now also prevent a wide variety of other problems---flu, cold, diabetes, inflammation, angina. They are very advanced. But I’m not sure the anti-biotics will function in total harmlessness in deep-space, you know? Do you have any other symptoms?”
“No,” he lied. “Not really.”
The physician waited a moment, pondering. “You have a few days before the launch. I am going to spend some time and look at the medications, and your blood-work, and other tests, and compare with previous space-flight records of other astronauts on anti-biotics. It will take a day or so. Okay?”
“Sure,” Rob said. “I think it will be fine. I mean---what could happen?”
“Just let me look into it,” the doctor said. “I know you love to fly. It could---it might mess you up. The stress and null-gravity, the food, the radiation, and the other chemicals we use to help you on the space-flight---it’s a mess, if the anti-biotics conflict. It might not be wise.”
“Sure, all right,” Rob answered. “When will I know?”
“Within a day. Before launch, with a window to schedule a replacement co-pilot, if needed. I’ll also inform the launch-command, as per protocol.”
And that was that. By this time in the year 2076-77, anti-biotics had advanced significantly beyond the old days of penicillin or other types. For some, anti-biotics were in-use for years at a time as a daily health-matter, and they prevented more than just colds and flu. Other doctors used these more sparingly, feeling they altered the body’s natural-immune systems. AIDS (Acquired Immune-Deficiency Syndrome), the scourge of the late 20th-Century, and the many millions of deaths attributed to that disease, had been conquered, and was quite treatable and survivable, even in Africa. The completion of the Human Genome-Project, and developments and advances in medical applications based on the complete detailed mapping of the human DNA-map, meant that a healthy person like Rob, could anticipate a very high-quality of life as far as longevity and overall health. In Rob’s case, with a potential infection and inflamed or painful testicular removal, and the swelling or minor surgery, the new anti-biotics were par-for-the-course. But, in the deep-space environment, his doctor simply wanted to review any known or foreseeable effects that might come up. These could include dizziness, disorientation, and even psychosis, which sometimes happened to some workers in space.
For Rob Cowan, it was a cautionary note that he well-knew he needed to be attentive to personally. That haunting dread a person sometimes feels, when the edge of sanity or the depths of organic failure start to loom large, planted its seed---but he also knew how to quickly up-root his worst fears. In space-travel, the mental forms were peculiar, to say the least, and a dreamer, or religious person, could begin to experience euphoria, or fugue-states. Rob’s doctor also was aware, and behind the mask, Rob simply didn’t want to lose his job, or be denied the position he had worked so hard to attain, as an astronaut, a pioneer and even a ‘hero’.
By the time they launched for Mars, Rob’s health and his medical use of the anti-biotics were cleared by the Vandenberg-base doctors. Other astronauts were using the same chemicals in space without any trouble, and the various parameters were reviewed, along with any other concerns about his testicle-loss. “Just forget about it, “Guy told him in private. “If you have a problem, don’t keep it a secret. I’ll watch your back. You’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, boss,” Rob told him. They really were close friends, but work was work, and space is no place to screw around with those kind of problems for a person in a position of responsibility and stress.
In a dream, Rob was back in Montana, in a heavy downpour of rain, there on the family ranch. He was a child, in the dream, and the rain was so heavy his parents and family, and the other kids, were scared. The horses had to be led to their stalls and barns, and other creatures, and the windows of the house rattled with wet, and the sound on the roof above them was like a freight-train. Then somehow, walking down a hall, it grew dark, and 11-year old Rob, just a boy, entered the realm of his worst fears, like a miasma of vortex-powers, swirling around, no longer simply another room in his parent’s large ranch-house, no longer simply another storm in the mountains, no longer the simple fears of mother-nature and broken tree-limbs that crushed cars, or animals swept away in flash-flooded gullies, or sheds that fell apart, or muddy drives that had to be cleaned again for regular use in the sunshine. Those fears would have been comfort, natural fears, for they were strong and well-prepared. In their place---a personal nightmare of un-reality, for which he also needed to be strong. Only a dream, one night, but with a message from his sub-conscious. “Beware of thoughts that linger,” the dream told him.
-2,045 words
-Julian Phillips
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