Chpt-21: quite a pickle for the Russian-Islamic space-men!

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