The real Chapter 23:: too close for comfort!

OUTPOST-Chapter 23
For Tom Luong Films-Development
By Julian Phillips
2010-04-15



Thinking of rings, and worlds, and ways between them. One, Mankind’s eternal home, the other (Mars), virtually dead. And between, as they spin in distant, silent orbit, the small moons, asteroids in clusters or fields, like scattered stones, very small. After a million years of human evolution and progress, the Molinari space-dock was also there, a monument to technology and the space-program’s long-term success. All these, and more, in spherical paths, like grace, stately, slow, vast.

As the battle dance now moved forward, early in August of 2077, the space-ships were an added factor, including Guy’s Monsanto-Dunlop Condrum-21 Local-Planetary Cruiser (transport). And, just a few hundred thousand miles behind him, the Russian-Islamic ships, and the US-Mars teams in their ships, led by Winton Berle, the Old-School astronaut with a lot of hours in the Abyss, and other pertinent experience. Who was the Lord of this dance, this ‘war-in-heaven’, if any? Perhaps again, as usual, only human pride, ego and vanity.

The ‘Penelope’ was now in-transit, at her normal speed of about 10,000-kilometers per hour. Molinari was Guy’s next stop, for re-fuel and re-charge, rest, and easier communication with Earth. Lila Meetek, his one-and-only true love, (which was certainly disputable for either of them at this point), waited patiently, day-after-day, knowing her white-knight was on his way swiftly to her side. Sex with Tommy, the external repair space-worker, or space-walker at the space-dock, was---well, fun? Healthy? Sleazy? Or, for Lila, all of the above. But Tommy also had the unpleasant habit of sleeping with nearly every other sexually active female on the Molinari facility, and the gossip was terrible. Besides which, he ignored her when she needed more than mere orgasms, such as heart-to-heart knowingness or relatedness---talking about things, sharing. Which was why she really did love Guy Reisling. He gave her so much more.

Despite the brewing situation ahead on Mars, Lila managed to link with Guy’s radio-desk on-board his ship, at one point in the slow dance. He was still many thousands of miles away, even hundreds of thousands of miles, or kilometers. In her role as one of the Earth-Mars Corridor Environmental Conditions Monitors, she had all kinds of communications gear at-hand. So she could set up a radio-call to her boyfriend fairly easily, and also somewhat privately. For the two lovers, it was a naughty moment their superiors may have frowned on. After all, they were now ‘almost at war’, and the enemy could intercept the communications-link or signal. But all they would hear, if they did, was their mindless lover’s prattle, and both Lila and Guy knew this, too.

“Be clear with me, Guy,” Lila said. “Ambiguity right now is not working. You told me before, we’re not exclusive, we’re not---married. So if you intend to be angry about my sex-life, I suggest you go ahead and ‘let-her-rip’ right now. That way, when you dock, you’ll be finished with all that, and you can just enjoy the pleasure of my company. Know what I mean?”

Guy was again on the helm, or operations-deck, aboard the Penelope, halfway through his shift. Nothing unusual was happening, ship-side. Engines were trimmed clear-and-clean, perfect-running. Earth had no urgent instructions, commands, or information. The pilot’s cabin-deck looked to Guy much like a rather large flight-cabin on a traditional jet-liner back on Earth, or ‘jumbo-jet’. There were seats, numerous controls, view-screens and view-ports (sealed during deep-space travel). There were computers and radio-gear, and various hatches and levers. It was large enough for five men, or even six, to work at once. But, at the moment, he was alone. There was no video-link to Lila, at that time, which he regretted. But her voice was clear, through the radio-link. Guy was in his ship-board working ‘jump-suit’ or ‘flight-suit’, a single-piece, efficient pull-over, elastic and warm. Once again, at the ship’s controls, he was barefoot, which he preferred.

“Jane, you ignorant slut,” he replied to her comment. The signal carried his words. “Saturday Night Live, 1982, Jane Curtain and Dan Ackroyd. Remember?”

“No, not really. And it was Chevy Chase,” she said. “Those old-time TV shows are in the past. I don’t waste my time on that sort, I guess. But this is now. I am not ignorant. My slutiness is my bliss. You ought to know.”

“Well, I remember, yes,” said Guy sheepishly. “But the memory is fading fast. Need to re-boot that one.”

There was a pause. “I’m tracking you for about 10-days out, about 123,000-miles,” she told him. In his thoughts, he confirmed. Just about right.

“Right on track,” he said. “And into your loving arms. Or your pants. You know.” He chuckled.

“Don’t expect too much, hero,” she said. “Molinari is not exactly a love-nest hide-away for private space-romps with horny astronauts. There’s a lot of gossip, it’s a closed society, there are no secrets. And we still have all the daily work-tasks. The Life-Sustain recycle has been losing power-integrity and re-charge purity. Translation: stale air.”

“No smoking, right,” said Guy.

Another pause. “What about those bad-ass Russians following you to Mars by about a week’s worth of absolute nothingness? What are you going to do?”

Her voice over the radio was sweet and clear, unlike the signal from Earth, now much more distant. Maybe it was only because he liked her so much, wanted to be with her. Guy took a moment to answer. There was a minor energy-gauge measurement irregularity on one of the ship’s solar-panel arrays, almost like a shadow had passed over them. He looked again. The levels returned to normal. He assumed it was meaningless.

“Guy? Are you there?” the signal penetrated again through space and into his pilot’s deck.

“I have your signal, Molinari,” he responded. “To answer your question, I have command from US-Earth on that. I’m to proceed with the transport as-normal, as if nothing was unusual. The ship is loaded with communications tech-gear, for the Mars-base. A gal named---uh, Karen. Karen Tutturo, a communications-science analyst, and current resident of Mars, is waiting for my load. They had a communications problem. So, basically, I could give a crap about the Russians. My ship has no weapons. I’m defenseless. So it doesn’t matter anyway, much. There are minor preparations I can make in case of a conflict.”

“But---what if they attack?’ said Lila, legitimately concerned.

“Then I’ll be floating home, into the abyss with my crew, like a quick-freeze popsicle,” Guy smirked. “And all my lustful dreams of rolling around with you in your private null-gravity bunk at the dock will be over for us both.”

“Not necessarily. They might not kill you. Why don’t the Russians just turn around and wipe out the US ships anyway, before anyone even reaches Mars? It’s Winton Berle’s ships they have to be afraid of. Not you.” Lila was keeping track of the whole thing like everyone else.

“Totally impractical, not efficient at all. Deep-space dog-fight battles are just in the movies,” said Guy. “In reality, it’s essentially not even possible. The distances are too great. They have five ships, loaded with soldiers. Maybe 20 or 30 armed men on each ship. Plus bombs and missiles, and other weapons. So—if they attack the Penelope---what do you think they’ll do? Ask me directions to Jupiter? Very funny. No, dear. They could easily decide to blow me to hell. But personally, I doubt that’s their plan.”

Back on Molinari, in the work-area where Lila was assigned, also surrounded by the cold-sterile façade of technology and LCD’s, she winced a little privately, thinking about Guy as a frozen-solid corpse floating away from her forever, dead. “Just---drive carefully, Guy, okay? When we get home it will be different. We can start over, have a barbecue at your place near Santa Barbara. Travel around in a motor-home. Or take the bullet-train somewhere, just you and me.”

She now lowered her voice to a more personal tone. “What are we, Guy? What are we really? Just two star-crossed lovers floating around in circles? Is that all there is?”

“Standard-issue human beings, male-female, life span of 80 or 90 years if we’re lucky,” he answered quickly. “Personally, I enjoy floating around in circles. It’s---a lifestyle.”

There was a muted beeping-alarm in the inner-workings of the radio-link, telling them their time was up. It meant the system had other uses at that time, and they had to let go of their connection.

“Data-feed on the corridor for environmental,” Lila told him, so far away. “Have to let go of this link.’

“All right,” Guy said. “Not very satisfying anyway. Reisling out, Penelope transport-vessel, 1215-hours, day 61.”

“Confirmed. Molinari out,” Lila said in her official dispatcher-voice. “See you soon, Guy.”

Another series of alarm-beeps and a few control-buttons later, the link went dead.

Twelve hours passed. Guy’s shift at the controls lapsed, Rob Cowan took the deck, things were stable. Other crew members kept their posts---the navigation, communications, engines, life-support, ship-systems. Right about the time Rob was ready to pass off his station-post back to Guy, who was getting some sleep, one of the two navigators, whose name was Tom McGee, had an urgent matter for the attention of Rob, or Guy. Tom was a mature space-man skilled in highly-technical ship-tracking and star-positions, such that he could get them home, or to Mars, or to Molinari, by studying the relative position of the ship and her destination-points. Without his work, if anything went even slightly amiss, they could literally be ‘lost in space’. And since the Penelope could only sustain them for so long, getting to their destination-points safely was a life-or-death matter. Since Rob was the ship commander at the moment, Tom brought it to him, and appeared on the flight-deck or pilot’s helm through the entry-way, floating by hand-pulls like they all did, then settling down into a seat with the magnetic strips.

“Rob, uh, you need to look at something right away,” he said. “Is Guy on deck?”

Rob soured. “No,” he said. “Guy’s not on for another hour. What do you have?”

McGee had a small data-computer in his hands, the sort that could move complex information from one place to another quickly and easily, like a portable drive or hand-held unit for data-transfer. He booted up a page-file, which came to life on a small screen. Rob took the unit and studied the screen.

“I was running my usual plotting scans, in this case, pointed backwards towards home. You can see, the other ships behind us are still tracking. We already know this much. But look what happens when I magnify on the Russians, and then compare to our position,” McGee said. Rob handed him back the data-unit, and he worked some controls for a moment.

“See?” he said. “Two of the Russian lead ships are now close enough to the Penelope to spit at us and not miss by much. I mean, they snuck up on us, over the past 24-hours, I guess. They must have increased their speed, and a lot, not a little. The fuckers could hit us with a rock. I mean---well, from this, at this hour---one is about three kilometers away---the other is maybe ten. See? That’s not good, Rob. They want something. We need an all-hands alert, right now.”

Rob scowled and viewed the data-unit. “How old is this file?” he said.

“Less than an hour,” McGee answered.

“Mother-fucker,” Rob said. He knew, as they all did, that any ship-to-ship contact was forbidden by US-Earth command, and also that ships in transit rarely if ever got that close, in terms of material proximity of the actual ships. Anything closer than about 5,000-kilometers was considered dangerous, considering the speeds at which they traveled, especially for ships from different launch-sources.

“All right,” Rob said. “Good work, thank you, Tom. I’ll alert the captain. Tell the men to expect a general alarm within 15-minutes. Use the ship’s inter-comm. Then I want you to track every move they make to a gnat’s ass, back at your plotter-scanner.”

McGee sighed heavily. “What do you think they’re up to, Rob?” he asked.

Rob was working to punch-up his voice-alert to Guy’s sleeping berth. “Not sure. It’s a fucking war, Tom. US-Mars command warned us. But, you know---we should have been notified by Earth-tracking that they were moving in. It’s bull-shit---“

“I’ll get on the ship’s inter-comm to the crew, from my station,” McGee said. “Then I’ll just track their ships.” He quickly released the tether that held him down to the seat where they were working on the flight-helm deck, then pulled himself out of the room, down the hatch and into one of the level-to-level tunnels.

Now Rob had his alert-system connected to where Guy was sleeping. There was a loud beeping.

“This is the captain. What the hell—Rob? What’s going on?” Guy said. He was already awake and getting ready for his shift at the command deck. But he was resting and hoping to enjoy a few moments of peace and a hot coffee in a plastic tube.

Rob was terse. “We have a problem, Houston,” he said.

“Like what?” Guy answered.

“Uh---Klingons off the starboard bow, captain. No shit. Tom McGee just confirmed two of the Russian ships have snuck up fast behind us and are less then ten miles off from our position each. One of them is only three miles out. Right on top of us. He just figured it out an hour ago.”

He could hear Guy huffing and puffing on the other end, in his sleep-cabin, living-quarters, like he was dressing quickly.

“God-dammit,” Guy said. “All right. I’ll be on-deck in 10-minutes. Alert the crew and dispatch an emergency-alert to Earth-base, Molinari, and Mars, with the essential information.”

“Yes, sir,” Rob said.

They were not smiling.

2,320-words
-Julian Phillips