OUTPOST-Chapter 24
For Tom Luong Films-Development
By Julian Phillips
2010-04-22
To conduct an emergency situation or circumstance, from a command position, is difficult for anyone. Command, leadership, control, office or power, in emergency, or danger, is an urgency and trouble. Anyone who really enjoys it, or who seeks it, or thrives thereon, is probably un-reliable to begin with. With lives on-the-line, people who are depending on clear and successful decision-making, and with the dynamic and changing urgency of any dangerous emergency, a leader such as Guy Reisling is hard-pressed to win the day, even unto death. And yet his normal job was only to transport goods across the sky to Mars---easy and non-threatening, food, water, oxygen, supplies. If they all died, in a conflict now with the Russian-Islamic space-ships having approached un-seen, to a dangerously near place, as the ships were speeding along---that is, if Guy and his crew were all killed, for some reason, for it was a war, now---they would not even know, or realize, or understand, that Guy had failed them, and they had lost everything under his command, for the aspect of the ignorance of being dead. In a flash of fire and freeze, if the Russians for example fired missiles at the Penelope, destroying their ship, killing them all, a moment of intense pain and anguish---maybe, ten or 20 minutes of panic, in which all hands were to be lost---as they left the Universe of the living, for the Beyond, it might approach awareness, in a miniscule, tiny, group or individual nervous-system of human consciousness they shared as the crew of the Penelope, that the hour had been lost to failure and fate. Guy, as the commander, was driven in a passion of perfect decision, to save them, his men, and not let this happen. And deep inside, he knew, he would prevail, somehow.
Guy arrived on the flight-deck or command-control helm of his ship, within only 15-minutes of Rob’s alert. Their discovery of the very-near approach of the Russian lead-ships, was indeed quite alarming. A layman, or one who may know nothing at all of space-travel in the future year of 2077, might not understand. After 15 years or more of the establishment of the USMars base, called the Snikta Ridge Volcanic Basin Research Mars Facility, space-flight back and forth was almost entirely educational and research-oriented. Now, with the advent of an approaching meteor which may strike the Earth with overwhelming destruction, an act of God, if you will, Guy and his crew, and the teams of leadership and science-leaders managing the USMars program, now were suddenly at war. This alone was a shock. For Guy, Rob Cowan (with his anti-biotic issue concerning his testicular loss), and the eight other men working this particular flight aboard the beloved Penelope---a grand and noble ship they all loved more than life---now, they faced uncertainty, that was beyond doubt. The common procedure for Earth-Mars corridor travel, was well-established for any of the ships and launches, either USMars, Russian-Islamic, or even others, that ships never traveled the Abyss, so close or near, by miles or kilometers, as they presently knew and had confirmed, that these two Russian ships, were now ‘at their side’. So without a doubt, they were alarmed and in a trouble about it. Again, the reason was, that aside from docking procedures, because space-flight was dangerous and un-predictable, that distances of at least 10,000 or 20,000 kilometers—more than the distance on Earth from California to Australia, or the Horn of Africa---these safety zones of separation, were standard. It was only good practice. The ships flew at great speed, conditions were fatal if there were any failure, and also for purposes of navigation, variations might arise at any time. So with Rob’s call to Guy’s sleeping bunk, and the navigator’s confirmed data that the two lead ships for the Russian-Islamic voyagers, were now ten-miles off, or even three or four miles off, from their ship’s position, it was an urgent circumstance that Guy took very seriously. It could only mean they wanted something, or were ‘up-to-something’, and it was his problem. He wasn’t happy about it, to say the least.
The entire crew of the Penelope was now at all-hands alert. Guy and Rob, along with the flight-path navigator Tom McGee, and the Flight Specialist in charge of Vandenberg-to-ship communications, a thin, brown-skinned man from Indonesia named Raza Brahman, were on-deck. The goal, or orientation to the situation, was to gather accurate information, and respond, within the structure of the instructions and current-moment advise from Vandenberg. To over-react was an error. Each man took his work at his own level of performance-skill and duty, knowing it would effect the outcome, either way.
Brahman was on his radio-link to Vandenberg within half-an-hour. He needed to transmit their codes and connection, and establish the link, and also to contact the appropriate Vandenberg leadership, who might not be instantly available, or even asleep, or off-duty, rather than the 24/7 USMars Earth-base communication dispatch monitor underling, who would have no authority or information. This took time.
“We’ll have Okman within 20-minutes,” Brahman said. “That’s the best I can do, he’s the transport-cargo commander for this ship.”
“Okamn won’t know anything,” Guy said. “He’s still hurting from my competency trail last year. All he knows about is our cargo and general orders. I need to speak with command. We have a general order forbidding any contact with the enemy. I have a feeling it won’t be long before that becomes inevitable. I need to know what Rogers-Smith wants from me. Maybe we can get out of this.”
“Working on it,” said Brahman. He continued to ply his skill with the ship’s communication set-up, mostly waiting for Vandenberg to realize they had a situation, from their previous message. So, he simply watched the in-coming monitors for Vandenberg’s response, across half a million miles. He also repeated their signal-code emission, a ‘cry for help’, that would not be mistaken, by the Vandenberg 24/7 monitor for their flight. All the flights were in perpetual contact with ‘mission-control’, but it was usually entirely routine, even dull, boring.
Guy confronted Tom McGee, again. “Give me the current details,” he said. “Show me on a piece-of-paper if you have to. Who are they, which ships, and what are the relative positions from us to them.”
Of course, McGee was tracking the Russians moment-to-moment. The Penelope had scanners, mostly for far-distant objects like Earth, star-positions for navigation, Mars, Molinari space-dock, and the every-now-and-then meteor shower or heat-flare from the Sun. And also the Mars moons, and other celestial features.
“Hasn’t changed much,” McGee said. “Our ship is traveling at 10,000-kilometers per minute. They’re matching us perfectly. I have to say, their pilots must be skilled. We’re in formation, like it or not. One ship is roughly 4-kilometers below us and back. The other is ten kilometers, or I guess about nine kilometers, to the other side, above, like two o-clock star-board, left. These fuckers know what they’re doing. They know we know. It’s bull-shit, Guy.”
There was a pause. Rob was looking at their forward motion, to plot a variety of control-commands, that might be useful if they wanted to change position. Guy was looking at life-support, and preparations they had already made for any confrontation. For instance, he urgently needed the ship’s four engines to be adjusted for a longer-term burn, without clean-and-trim cycle, in case they could not rest the engines for restoral, as they usually would. So, the rocket-engine team was working with him to make sure they would not fail to have full thruster-power for all engines, for example, to increase the ship’s speed and escape trouble. Rob’s momentary task, was to look at how they might track the Penelope---down, up, across, loop-the-loop---even within the hour, to avoid the Russian ship’s advances, should they attack. None of them had any idea what the Russians might do next.
Three hours passed in this way. Each team-member did what they could, and Transport-Cargo Commander Okman was on-the-line to the Penelope after the first hour. But he didn’t have much to offer.
“You have your orders,” Okman told guy, once Brahman had set up the connection. “No contact. No hostile action. No negotiation.”
“Eat my shorts, Okman,” Guy told him. “For all I know, they’ll fire a bomb at us without warning. I need to ship-to-ship their pilot, find out their terms. They’re right on top of us. It’s totally abnormal. It’s not like they’re sleeping over there. The bastards are just waiting. It’s been ten hours. They moved on us at high-speed, probably three or four times our speed. It was intentional. That alone is a hostile act.”
“Don’t interpret the situation, Guy,” Okman told him. The radio-link was compressed and jerky. “Not your job. Hold your position, fly silent. We’ll wait for command. Rogers and the others are being alerted. Just sit tight, it won’t be long. I think that Jew, Ibrahim, the science-guy, was bar-hopping in Santa Barbara late last night. It’s only going to get more and more complicated. Winton Berle’s squad of ships is a month or two behind you. That has to be considered, too.”
“Yeah, sure,“ Guy said. “And three other Russian ships between our position and Berle. Like he’s going to get me out of this. He’s too far back. 700,000-miles or something. They won’t help me.”
The link was silent for about five minutes. Guy and Rob, with Tom and Raza Brahman, chatted about it all.
“The signal to Earth is compressed,” Brahman said. “He’ll be back on-line in a few minutes.”
“Even Rogers-Smith or Earth-tracking can’t really give us anything,” Rob said dismally. “We’re on our own.”
“I say we run for it,” McGee offered. “Hit our maximum speed, maneuver away. Why not? The Penelope is probably superior to their ships for speed. We can hit 100,000 kilometers per minute. Why not? Run for it. Out-maneuver them, make it a race. All we have ahead is either Mars or Molinari. At least it would save us from a blind attack, like a missile.”
Guy was cold, thinking, structuring his options sub-consciously. A missile attack was maybe un-likely, but from a strategic point-of-view, it might be possible, or it might even be their goal. Ten hours had passed, at-speed, and the Russians had been silent. No attack, which they certainly could have accomplished at such close range, if that had been their idea. On the other hand, Guy didn’t really have any confirmation that the Russian ships were equipped with such ship-to-ship destructive armaments. After all, it had never happened before, in the history of space-travel or space-exploration. But this was---different.
Okman came back on-line with the link. He had nothing else to say of any value. What Guy really wanted, was permission or authority, from Vandenberg command. He was hand-cuffed by the standing orders. Okman couldn’t change that. Also, command-authority would have other information he could apply to their crisis. Or, even, as Guy might wish, some kind of plan, or back-up. The radio-hookup with Okman finally went dead, until Rogers-Smith and her people were advised and could respond intelligently. Estimated time for that was an hour or so. Meanwhile, the crew of the Penelope started to sweat. The prospect of death and disaster, floating away into the Abyss like corpses of stone, was not welcome to their minds. The Russians were laughing at them, behind the silence. The Penelope thrust forward on her course, and they along, with the other ships at-pace, only to vary their relative positions by a few hundred feet. Thousands of miles of nothingness went by, and yet, was like a stillness, or even seeming motionless.
Guy was seated in his command-chair, looking at ship’s systems. Oddly enough, he had on the normal foot-ware they all used, the magnetic slippers that held them down in the null-gravity, on his feet, instead of bare-footed. Raza, the tele-radio expert, floated upside down above, working on a hand-held computer that kept track of his radio-link, to assure the connection from Earth when ready. Rob Cowan worked on the engine status and other tasks, by inter-ship link to the engine crew. McGee, the path-plotter and star-guide, seemed to have fallen asleep, his head slumped over into his hands at his post. Then without warning, a radio-link monitor started to bleep loudly with an alarm. Raza lurched to his desk-top kiosk, part of the helm-deck work-area, to respond. They all knew what that alarm meant, from the sound and desk-of-origin, there on the helm-command: an in-coming signature-coded radio-communication signal, indicating and outside message or link to a responder. It could be Earth, Molinari, Mars, Winton Berle’s armada---or ‘them’.
“Go ahead with it,” Guy told Raza. “Proceed. I’ll take responsibility.”
Raza activated the link, with the standard salute. “This is US-Mars transport vessel Penelope, under command of Captain Guy Reisling and US Space Authority, in Vandenberg, California,” he said. “We have your signal. Go ahead, please.”
He pumped the volume onto the helm-command deck, so they could all hear. There was static for a tense moment.
“This is Colonel Robat Zolotny, of the Krenika, originating from Ukrainian space-port KK-F/Region Six, on Earth, commanded by Russian authority under General Rudolph Terchenko. Do you have my radio? Please respond?”
Static, dead-sir. “Handle it,” Guy told Raza Brahman tersely, who was at the radio-monitor.
“We have your signal, Krenika. Go ahead,” he said. The flight-deck on the Penelope was now all-ears. A moment.
We are apparently at war, Penelope. Who is your commander?” , came the voice on the other end of the radio-link. Tom McGee, the plotter-navigator, quickly attempted to track the radio-signal to figure out which of the two Russian ships was the Krenika, which was not clear.
Guy was steaming. “All right, dammit,” he told Brahman. “I’ll talk to him. Give me the phone.”
He moved over to Raza’s station, floating and pulling himself by chairs and hand-holds, then settling down. Another moment, static.
“This is Captain Reisling of the Penelope,” Guy said, using the radio-microphone. “The Krenika is too close to our ship. We are in danger of a potential collision at flight-speed, as per protocol. I’m aware of your position. I’m requesting the immediate withdrawal of your vessel to a safe distance of at least 5,000-kilometers. What the fuck are you idiots doing? This is non-standard, and you know it. Get the hell off my ass, Krenika.”
Now, from the other side, on-board the Krenika, they could hear laughter, over the radio. The crew on the Krenika flight deck found Guy’s request very humorous.
“We are at war now, Penelope,” came the reply, apparently the pilot, Zolotny. His voice had an Eastern-European accent and dialect. “Surely you realize this?”
“Please withdraw the Krenika to a safe distance,” Guy responded. “Surely you realize standard practices. I am requesting your vessel to comply for the safety of all concerned. Withdraw the Krenika to 10,000-kilometers immediately.”
A long pause. Static. “We shall see, Penelope. We shall see.” There was now more laughter and rude remarks from the other side on the radio.
2,515-words
Julian Phillips
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
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
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
Monday, April 5, 2010
Chpt.-22 'Sauce for the Goose'
OUTPOST-Chapter 22
For Tom Luong Films-Development
By Julian Phillips
2010-04-05
“How do you cook a goose? First you kill the damn thing. Once it’s dead, it’s much easier to cook, and you can be as creative as you want. They’re delicious, with stuffing and you baste them with the best butter you can buy.”
--Commander Rudolph Terchanko, leader of the Russian-Islamic space program, 2077, from the KK-F/Region-6 space-port in the Ukraine.
And so it went, with the race to Mars, where Tweedle-Dee (the US side), and Tweedle-Dum (the Eastern-block) had agreed to have a battle. Mars, the barren, virtually dead world and stuff of Earth-legend for ages, sat in the sky like a fat brown-red marshmallow, half-roasted. And there on it, somewhere (a planet, after all, of considerable size), was a life-support research station deemed far more valuable than the ‘marshmallow’ itself. The reason, re-stated: God or whoever, had sent a very large rock through space towards home, looking very much like a collision, down-the-road some four years or so. Deep-thinkers on Earth thus now felt the battle to take Mars-base was worth the effort, or, an intelligent ‘move’, like an epic struggle for survival for human species survival, into eternity, or, however long the human species might survive. Despite the fact that no one seemed to get along anyway, as far as the human family was concerned.
There in the deep woods and mountains of the Ukraine, where KK-F/Region-6 was actually a very similar facility to the sought-after prize on Mars, Commander Terchenko was sweating the details, there in the frosty cold. The whole thing was making him feel taller, he thought idly. To move his thoughts skyward towards Mars, a reddish star in Earth’s night sky, and to plan, rehearse, study and commission Mother Russia’s considerable resources ‘out there’, to do her will---it gave him a headache. Not to mention the whole idea of his Earth-home being hit by an asteroid the size of the British Isles, or larger, and what all that might mean. Standing tall might help. But maybe not that tall.
“I’m not God, Milana,” he told his young secretary-assistant. “Despite what you think. I wish I was. Personally, I can only do my best. We are all in the hands of fate together.”
Once again, Terchanko’s work at Region-6 meant many hours of labor, holding together the many-numbered threads that would give Russia and the Islamic-coalition the ‘win’. This meant, in effect, that he had stepped into the role in direct opposition to that of the US-Mars program leader, Lynn Rogers-Smith, the Commander of Angels. Had they spent any time together in-person, such as over a Lone-Starr longneck back home in her native Texas, it’s true, the two would have likely been good friends, or ‘muy sympatico’, in any case. Smith could certainly be as tough as nails, like he, and was hella-smart. To kill a goose was not beyond her means and ways, at all. Or a space-ship full of men, sad-but-true. Not her venue anyway, military.
Terchenko, on the other hand, had very similar responsibilities. Launches, ships, men, women, fuel, navigation, orbit-paths, science-tech, politics. Both had power, and also during a critical juncture in history, supposedly. Each sensed their own mortality, and just how small they really were in the grand scheme of things. But a job’s a job. So, they laughed. It was all they could do.
Yet, they would never meet at all, ever, these two. Terchenko was Tweedle-Dee, and Smith his complimentary Tweedle-Dum? It hardly mattered. Earth’s political and global space ambitions now meant that two people, a man and a woman, in such roles, would indeed stand like giants on either continent, squaring off to reach for a star. Smith was but five-foot, seven-inches tall. Terchenko was six-feet, two inches.
Milana, Terchenko’s deeply-devoted assistant, had worked with him for more than five years. Gruff, hard, cold at times, yet, he loved her. Who wouldn’t? She was very healthy, quite young and fresh about herself. Her devotion to him was near absolute. Rich, powerful, mysterious, Terchenko was her father-figure. She was always busy, his needs were demanding. Meals, drink, and also books, data-files, research, many phone-calls, urgent contacts with distant lands and hard-to-reach men or women who held one or three or ten-thousand of the many-numbered threads he needed to control his complex task and command.
Milana and the Region-6 Commander were now working with three space-path navigators, and others, to plot the course ahead for the ships on both sides, projected right into Mars orbit, and how the military-battle planners and Generals would intend for the take-over to go ahead. Because this was now a ‘war in heaven’, the navigations for the ships was as critical as any other aspect. Terchenko knew enough about the methods to keep up. They all worked in one of the ‘mission-control’ centers, with many computers and monitors, and telemetry devices, and data-streams from various points around the world, pointed skyward.
“Now, here, Commander, you see?” said one of the navigators, a small man with a red face, very tech-savvy with his endless math and projections. “The one transport vessel, which is ahead of the rest. Our ships will over-take his position by less than 10,000-kilometers. That will take place in about two weeks, at the current speeds and paths. This may be an advantage for us.”
“How so?” Terchenko asked.
“Well, it has to do with the launch-dates and the curvature of the telemetry. The transport is ahead, yes. But prior to the mid-point, ours start to reduce the distance because of the orbital movement. It’s not much. But it will place them closer. Even, close enough for some kind of---inter-activity.”
The Commander frowned. A certain Colonel for the program, a military man they called ‘Bowder’ (for some reason), now offered an opinion, hearing this talk.
“Ship-to-ship,” Bowder said, his voice was like a clarinet with a broken reed. “Destroy them!”
“At 10,000-kilometers, colonel?” said Terchenko.
“It can be done. There is a way. Our team’s ships were re-invented for this with weapons. Bombs. Missiles. Of course we can. They could target the transport and---“
So, with this, they spent more time on the idea, with more experts and math-scientists working the space-telemetry, there in the Ukraine. Guy Reisling, of course, knew nothing about whatever they might decide, now some half-million miles away, sleeping comfortably in his bunk, dreaming of Lila Meetek, with a very nice erection to deal with, too. But it wasn’t lost on the US Mars-team at Vandenberg, that at some point the transport would be vulnerable. And this was why Okman, the transport program leader for the US, was placing long-distance calls to Guy, with the specific instructions for him to have no contact whatsoever with the Russian ships, of his own initiative.
The sunset over the woods in Russia that night was hidden beneath gray clouds without rain. The trees and woods were still, and if one had taken the time, perhaps half-an-hour, it was possible to view the floating drifts of moisture-clouds, moving en-masse, like a huge gray pancake, just above the tops of the hills and mountains, and the green trees that seemed to shiver in the wind. Then it grew dark and you could not see the clouds at all, or the stars. As the world turns, within a few hours, the sunshine of the morning on the California coast revealed the far-away Vandenberg space-port, inland a few miles off the sea. Sparks of blinding white reflection bounced off the many windows and shiny metals from the cranes and fuel tanks and hangars.
Rogers-Smith and some of the tech-planners, along with Branson Porter, Ibramim Mehudi, and members of the Mars-Base Defense Task Force, took an early breakfast conference-briefing, complete with all the tools they needed for their work. Muffins, hot coffee, eggs, orange-juice, vitamins. It was a working-day, they wasted no time, so to eat together while they talked and reviewed the reports was just more efficient. They used one of the smaller VIP dining halls.
“Go ahead with what they’ve been working on at Mars, Mehudi, would you? Some of the task-force haven’t been up-dated,” said Rogers-Smith to Ibrahim Mehudi, the loyal and highly intelligent Middle-Eastern scientist.
“Shitting bricks, I’d say,” Porter joked, with a few chuckles. Branson, also a Texan, was the security man, now recruited to plan various war-efforts and measures proposed for the battle ahead on Mars.
“Wouldn’t that be convenient, Branson?” Smith replied. “Easier to dispose of. Conserve water.”
Mehudi replaced his cup of hot-coffee, following a swallow. He had a lap-top connected to other computers within the facility, and tapped the keyboard for a moment. “The base on Mars has not been idle since all this started,” he said. “They’ve gone ahead with many of the task-force plans, but maybe not all, and some have not been completed. By the time the ships enter orbit—the Russians ahead of us by 50-days or so---the Mars-base will have considerable means to defend itself. All the men at the base on Mars are now being prepared with whatever weapons they had on-hand. They didn’t have many weapons, but of course they had some.”
“What kind of weapons?” asked Porter.
“I’m not quite sure, Branson. It’s in the data-base for their permanent inventory. But, you can pretty well guess. Standard modern fire-arms, for one thing. They work fine, the Mars-atmosphere has no effect. So, the large-bore shot-guns, the military style multi-shot rifles like our Earth soldiers have. They were included only---well, I guess only for something like this. But there are not enough for every man. There are other---“
“All right,” said Rogers-Smith, impatient. “Yes, yes. Guns, they have guns, and that sort. We knew that. I want to know about the external defenses. The air-lock gates, and the---what did you call them? The Oxygen-Igloos on the perimeter, outside? And what about any way they might have to shoot down the damn Russians when they are in orbit?”
“None,” Mehudi replied instantly. “None at all. Why would they? No one would plan to build a research base anticipating to shoot down our own ships as they arrive with goods or people? So, there are no missiles they can launch or target at the Russian ships once they are in orbit.”
“Too bad,” said one of the task-force men.
“Anyway, the plan on the external perimeter fox-holes has gone ahead. They’ve created about 50 of them, at various points in a circle around the air-tight facility. They aren’t quite ready, yet, from the reports we’ve gotten. But they will be. They used cargo containers, and other supplies. Men from inside can survive in one of these for about two days, on the outside. They can also re-charge the walker-suits they use, for oxygen. Each igloo has electricity, and some of them have communications back to the base. They’re air-tight once they enter. They used the plans and designs from before the base was built.”
“That’s what we wanted,” said the same man, from the Mars-base Defense Task Force, who was a military planner. He was finishing his small meal. None of the military men worked at Vandenberg in-uniform. “When they arrive, if things get into an attack situation---and that is what we expect---the men inside the base take stations in the igloos, and defend the base, moving in and out, onto the surface, or into the fox-holes, if you will, and back into the well-guarded air-locks. So, any progress there beforehand is excellent.”
Lynn looked dour. In her thoughts, the idea of ruining the costly space-suits and Mars-base resources they had worked so hard to build, over many years, not to mention the loss of lives---it was hard to see the point of it all. Asteroid 5726-b was just a dream, distant, un-real to them. Almost not a worry anyway, and she well-knew of the plans to stop or divert the asteroid, as it grew closer, from other Earth-global resources. Shot-guns? God! My Mars surface suits are worth more than a million credit-units each!! She cast an eye across the faces at the long table.
“All right, thank you,” she said tersely.
They paused. People were going over paper-work and reports, or gazing at their computers. Rogers-Smith also had hers. Two or three minutes.
“Who the hell is Rudolph Terchenko?” said Rogers-Smith, after another moment. “Commander Rudolph Terchenko, at one of the Russian launch-sites. Does anyone know?”
Dull stares and ignorance. No one seemed to know off-hand. Some shook their heads.
“No one knows him? That figures. They’re very secretive. Well, just FYI, everyone. According to my desk-top, this commander or whoever he is, is the responsible party on their side for a series of intercepted radio-communications and instructions in the past week to the Russian ships. Translations say they want their ship that is closest to the single transport we have---the ‘Penelope’, under Captain Guy Reisling, I believe---they are moving to encounter him. I guess because they are in range at some point in the near future. Did we know about this?”
Okman, Guy’s immediate superior, was not at this breakfast work-session, or he could have told her. But the Mars-base Defense Task Force man, named John Williams, was privy to that aspect.
“Yes, we know,” he said. “We can probably get something on this Terchenko.”
“What the hell do we tell the transport pilot? He’s defenseless, less than halfway to Mars,” said Lynn.
“Not sure,” said Williams. “We’re working on it. Depends what the Russians have planned for him.”
She breathed a deep sigh, heavy with the entirety of the effort, the emptiness of it all. For Lynn Rogers-Smith, a career space-program leader with a ton of experience, the ships and technology, the gear, the science applications---these were things of great beauty to her, near-perfection in their advanced functionality, very rare birds indeed, valued for the causes of research and exploration. Each ship took years to build and prepare, and even ages of learning and discoveries, from the past, for them to even be possible. And they were expensive to society, if that meant anything. And the cargo, and the people working at mission-control, and the planners---and the men on the ships. Human beings, real people, they wanted to come back alive.
“Well, whoever the son-of-a-bitch is, I think I hate him,” she said, half-joking, still reading more of her reports and data. Some laughed, some didn’t. “If they shoot him down, his goose is cooked, know-what-I-mean? Helluva’ way to die, floating away in space. Have somebody find out about this rat, this Rudolph the Red-Nosed Russian mother-ducker. And connect directly to the sources here that are picking up their radios to their ships. I want every detail every hour, to keep ahead of them, and maybe save this transport.”
“You got it, Lynn,” answered Branson Porter, a bit stunned, even for a Texan.
2,480-words
Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Films-Development
By Julian Phillips
2010-04-05
“How do you cook a goose? First you kill the damn thing. Once it’s dead, it’s much easier to cook, and you can be as creative as you want. They’re delicious, with stuffing and you baste them with the best butter you can buy.”
--Commander Rudolph Terchanko, leader of the Russian-Islamic space program, 2077, from the KK-F/Region-6 space-port in the Ukraine.
And so it went, with the race to Mars, where Tweedle-Dee (the US side), and Tweedle-Dum (the Eastern-block) had agreed to have a battle. Mars, the barren, virtually dead world and stuff of Earth-legend for ages, sat in the sky like a fat brown-red marshmallow, half-roasted. And there on it, somewhere (a planet, after all, of considerable size), was a life-support research station deemed far more valuable than the ‘marshmallow’ itself. The reason, re-stated: God or whoever, had sent a very large rock through space towards home, looking very much like a collision, down-the-road some four years or so. Deep-thinkers on Earth thus now felt the battle to take Mars-base was worth the effort, or, an intelligent ‘move’, like an epic struggle for survival for human species survival, into eternity, or, however long the human species might survive. Despite the fact that no one seemed to get along anyway, as far as the human family was concerned.
There in the deep woods and mountains of the Ukraine, where KK-F/Region-6 was actually a very similar facility to the sought-after prize on Mars, Commander Terchenko was sweating the details, there in the frosty cold. The whole thing was making him feel taller, he thought idly. To move his thoughts skyward towards Mars, a reddish star in Earth’s night sky, and to plan, rehearse, study and commission Mother Russia’s considerable resources ‘out there’, to do her will---it gave him a headache. Not to mention the whole idea of his Earth-home being hit by an asteroid the size of the British Isles, or larger, and what all that might mean. Standing tall might help. But maybe not that tall.
“I’m not God, Milana,” he told his young secretary-assistant. “Despite what you think. I wish I was. Personally, I can only do my best. We are all in the hands of fate together.”
Once again, Terchanko’s work at Region-6 meant many hours of labor, holding together the many-numbered threads that would give Russia and the Islamic-coalition the ‘win’. This meant, in effect, that he had stepped into the role in direct opposition to that of the US-Mars program leader, Lynn Rogers-Smith, the Commander of Angels. Had they spent any time together in-person, such as over a Lone-Starr longneck back home in her native Texas, it’s true, the two would have likely been good friends, or ‘muy sympatico’, in any case. Smith could certainly be as tough as nails, like he, and was hella-smart. To kill a goose was not beyond her means and ways, at all. Or a space-ship full of men, sad-but-true. Not her venue anyway, military.
Terchenko, on the other hand, had very similar responsibilities. Launches, ships, men, women, fuel, navigation, orbit-paths, science-tech, politics. Both had power, and also during a critical juncture in history, supposedly. Each sensed their own mortality, and just how small they really were in the grand scheme of things. But a job’s a job. So, they laughed. It was all they could do.
Yet, they would never meet at all, ever, these two. Terchenko was Tweedle-Dee, and Smith his complimentary Tweedle-Dum? It hardly mattered. Earth’s political and global space ambitions now meant that two people, a man and a woman, in such roles, would indeed stand like giants on either continent, squaring off to reach for a star. Smith was but five-foot, seven-inches tall. Terchenko was six-feet, two inches.
Milana, Terchenko’s deeply-devoted assistant, had worked with him for more than five years. Gruff, hard, cold at times, yet, he loved her. Who wouldn’t? She was very healthy, quite young and fresh about herself. Her devotion to him was near absolute. Rich, powerful, mysterious, Terchenko was her father-figure. She was always busy, his needs were demanding. Meals, drink, and also books, data-files, research, many phone-calls, urgent contacts with distant lands and hard-to-reach men or women who held one or three or ten-thousand of the many-numbered threads he needed to control his complex task and command.
Milana and the Region-6 Commander were now working with three space-path navigators, and others, to plot the course ahead for the ships on both sides, projected right into Mars orbit, and how the military-battle planners and Generals would intend for the take-over to go ahead. Because this was now a ‘war in heaven’, the navigations for the ships was as critical as any other aspect. Terchenko knew enough about the methods to keep up. They all worked in one of the ‘mission-control’ centers, with many computers and monitors, and telemetry devices, and data-streams from various points around the world, pointed skyward.
“Now, here, Commander, you see?” said one of the navigators, a small man with a red face, very tech-savvy with his endless math and projections. “The one transport vessel, which is ahead of the rest. Our ships will over-take his position by less than 10,000-kilometers. That will take place in about two weeks, at the current speeds and paths. This may be an advantage for us.”
“How so?” Terchenko asked.
“Well, it has to do with the launch-dates and the curvature of the telemetry. The transport is ahead, yes. But prior to the mid-point, ours start to reduce the distance because of the orbital movement. It’s not much. But it will place them closer. Even, close enough for some kind of---inter-activity.”
The Commander frowned. A certain Colonel for the program, a military man they called ‘Bowder’ (for some reason), now offered an opinion, hearing this talk.
“Ship-to-ship,” Bowder said, his voice was like a clarinet with a broken reed. “Destroy them!”
“At 10,000-kilometers, colonel?” said Terchenko.
“It can be done. There is a way. Our team’s ships were re-invented for this with weapons. Bombs. Missiles. Of course we can. They could target the transport and---“
So, with this, they spent more time on the idea, with more experts and math-scientists working the space-telemetry, there in the Ukraine. Guy Reisling, of course, knew nothing about whatever they might decide, now some half-million miles away, sleeping comfortably in his bunk, dreaming of Lila Meetek, with a very nice erection to deal with, too. But it wasn’t lost on the US Mars-team at Vandenberg, that at some point the transport would be vulnerable. And this was why Okman, the transport program leader for the US, was placing long-distance calls to Guy, with the specific instructions for him to have no contact whatsoever with the Russian ships, of his own initiative.
The sunset over the woods in Russia that night was hidden beneath gray clouds without rain. The trees and woods were still, and if one had taken the time, perhaps half-an-hour, it was possible to view the floating drifts of moisture-clouds, moving en-masse, like a huge gray pancake, just above the tops of the hills and mountains, and the green trees that seemed to shiver in the wind. Then it grew dark and you could not see the clouds at all, or the stars. As the world turns, within a few hours, the sunshine of the morning on the California coast revealed the far-away Vandenberg space-port, inland a few miles off the sea. Sparks of blinding white reflection bounced off the many windows and shiny metals from the cranes and fuel tanks and hangars.
Rogers-Smith and some of the tech-planners, along with Branson Porter, Ibramim Mehudi, and members of the Mars-Base Defense Task Force, took an early breakfast conference-briefing, complete with all the tools they needed for their work. Muffins, hot coffee, eggs, orange-juice, vitamins. It was a working-day, they wasted no time, so to eat together while they talked and reviewed the reports was just more efficient. They used one of the smaller VIP dining halls.
“Go ahead with what they’ve been working on at Mars, Mehudi, would you? Some of the task-force haven’t been up-dated,” said Rogers-Smith to Ibrahim Mehudi, the loyal and highly intelligent Middle-Eastern scientist.
“Shitting bricks, I’d say,” Porter joked, with a few chuckles. Branson, also a Texan, was the security man, now recruited to plan various war-efforts and measures proposed for the battle ahead on Mars.
“Wouldn’t that be convenient, Branson?” Smith replied. “Easier to dispose of. Conserve water.”
Mehudi replaced his cup of hot-coffee, following a swallow. He had a lap-top connected to other computers within the facility, and tapped the keyboard for a moment. “The base on Mars has not been idle since all this started,” he said. “They’ve gone ahead with many of the task-force plans, but maybe not all, and some have not been completed. By the time the ships enter orbit—the Russians ahead of us by 50-days or so---the Mars-base will have considerable means to defend itself. All the men at the base on Mars are now being prepared with whatever weapons they had on-hand. They didn’t have many weapons, but of course they had some.”
“What kind of weapons?” asked Porter.
“I’m not quite sure, Branson. It’s in the data-base for their permanent inventory. But, you can pretty well guess. Standard modern fire-arms, for one thing. They work fine, the Mars-atmosphere has no effect. So, the large-bore shot-guns, the military style multi-shot rifles like our Earth soldiers have. They were included only---well, I guess only for something like this. But there are not enough for every man. There are other---“
“All right,” said Rogers-Smith, impatient. “Yes, yes. Guns, they have guns, and that sort. We knew that. I want to know about the external defenses. The air-lock gates, and the---what did you call them? The Oxygen-Igloos on the perimeter, outside? And what about any way they might have to shoot down the damn Russians when they are in orbit?”
“None,” Mehudi replied instantly. “None at all. Why would they? No one would plan to build a research base anticipating to shoot down our own ships as they arrive with goods or people? So, there are no missiles they can launch or target at the Russian ships once they are in orbit.”
“Too bad,” said one of the task-force men.
“Anyway, the plan on the external perimeter fox-holes has gone ahead. They’ve created about 50 of them, at various points in a circle around the air-tight facility. They aren’t quite ready, yet, from the reports we’ve gotten. But they will be. They used cargo containers, and other supplies. Men from inside can survive in one of these for about two days, on the outside. They can also re-charge the walker-suits they use, for oxygen. Each igloo has electricity, and some of them have communications back to the base. They’re air-tight once they enter. They used the plans and designs from before the base was built.”
“That’s what we wanted,” said the same man, from the Mars-base Defense Task Force, who was a military planner. He was finishing his small meal. None of the military men worked at Vandenberg in-uniform. “When they arrive, if things get into an attack situation---and that is what we expect---the men inside the base take stations in the igloos, and defend the base, moving in and out, onto the surface, or into the fox-holes, if you will, and back into the well-guarded air-locks. So, any progress there beforehand is excellent.”
Lynn looked dour. In her thoughts, the idea of ruining the costly space-suits and Mars-base resources they had worked so hard to build, over many years, not to mention the loss of lives---it was hard to see the point of it all. Asteroid 5726-b was just a dream, distant, un-real to them. Almost not a worry anyway, and she well-knew of the plans to stop or divert the asteroid, as it grew closer, from other Earth-global resources. Shot-guns? God! My Mars surface suits are worth more than a million credit-units each!! She cast an eye across the faces at the long table.
“All right, thank you,” she said tersely.
They paused. People were going over paper-work and reports, or gazing at their computers. Rogers-Smith also had hers. Two or three minutes.
“Who the hell is Rudolph Terchenko?” said Rogers-Smith, after another moment. “Commander Rudolph Terchenko, at one of the Russian launch-sites. Does anyone know?”
Dull stares and ignorance. No one seemed to know off-hand. Some shook their heads.
“No one knows him? That figures. They’re very secretive. Well, just FYI, everyone. According to my desk-top, this commander or whoever he is, is the responsible party on their side for a series of intercepted radio-communications and instructions in the past week to the Russian ships. Translations say they want their ship that is closest to the single transport we have---the ‘Penelope’, under Captain Guy Reisling, I believe---they are moving to encounter him. I guess because they are in range at some point in the near future. Did we know about this?”
Okman, Guy’s immediate superior, was not at this breakfast work-session, or he could have told her. But the Mars-base Defense Task Force man, named John Williams, was privy to that aspect.
“Yes, we know,” he said. “We can probably get something on this Terchenko.”
“What the hell do we tell the transport pilot? He’s defenseless, less than halfway to Mars,” said Lynn.
“Not sure,” said Williams. “We’re working on it. Depends what the Russians have planned for him.”
She breathed a deep sigh, heavy with the entirety of the effort, the emptiness of it all. For Lynn Rogers-Smith, a career space-program leader with a ton of experience, the ships and technology, the gear, the science applications---these were things of great beauty to her, near-perfection in their advanced functionality, very rare birds indeed, valued for the causes of research and exploration. Each ship took years to build and prepare, and even ages of learning and discoveries, from the past, for them to even be possible. And they were expensive to society, if that meant anything. And the cargo, and the people working at mission-control, and the planners---and the men on the ships. Human beings, real people, they wanted to come back alive.
“Well, whoever the son-of-a-bitch is, I think I hate him,” she said, half-joking, still reading more of her reports and data. Some laughed, some didn’t. “If they shoot him down, his goose is cooked, know-what-I-mean? Helluva’ way to die, floating away in space. Have somebody find out about this rat, this Rudolph the Red-Nosed Russian mother-ducker. And connect directly to the sources here that are picking up their radios to their ships. I want every detail every hour, to keep ahead of them, and maybe save this transport.”
“You got it, Lynn,” answered Branson Porter, a bit stunned, even for a Texan.
2,480-words
Julian Phillips
Saturday, March 27, 2010
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
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
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
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Chpt-18: OUTPOST-what to do when your ship is drafted into a space-war??
Chapter-18
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Film-Story Development
2010-02-20
“Yes, now I can remember. It was---great pain. Yes. Please don’t remind me, you know?”
--Charles Lindburg, pilot of the world’s first trans-Atlantic prop-aircraft flight, commenting on his fame, and the later kidnapping and slaying of his child
The US-Mars Space Program launched eight deep-space cruiser vessels, similar to the ‘Penelope’ (Guy Reisling’s transport), within three weeks of the closure of the World-Council sessions to decide on a course of action concerning the Russian-Islamic launches. Like the Easterners, the US launched their ships in ‘secret’, but the reality was that there was no real way to keep such things secret for long. The reason was that even at the amateur level, orbiting satellites and space-objects like meteors, were observed daily by a hundred different astronomers, meteorological societies, universities and students, news-media, governments, and so on. If large ships were hoisted into orbit, and then programmed for navigation and departure to the far-off red star, glowing brightly enough that even children could spot her (or, ‘him’, being thought as Aries, the Ram, or god of War, in mythology)---it was hardly something that Earth-dwellers could conceal in 2077.
Also, like the Russians, all eight ships from the US program were launched in a sequence, carefully planned and executed by then-familiar routine, over about two weeks, from several different launch-sites, some of them unknown to the public. The Mars-base Defense Task Force had done their jobs well, and following the Russian action, it was a no-brainer The US would respond. But it wasn’t popular, and it was a huge cost, and an extreme effort. In 20 years of active Earth-born travel to Mars, the program had only launched this many ships all at once, during construction periods, when large numbers of men, and large amounts of materials and gear, were needed over a relatively short time-period.
Each of the US space-ships was outfitted for the mission: to protect the Mars-base from the supposed Russian takeover attempt, still not confirmed or announced as an ‘act of war’. But it wasn’t doubted that this was what was ahead. So, the US ships were full of soldiers, of course, equipped for exactly what the planners felt would be needed to defend the Mars-base. The same was true for the Russians, but perhaps not exactly the case for either team, that these were ‘warriors’, something Earth-based space-travel had never seen in all of Earth-history, and thus ‘new’ or ‘different’. The planners didn’t quite know how to deal with the concept, as Winton Berle had tried to explain to the Task Force. Conditions in space or on Mars were so hostile, that the suits and mobility were simply not accommodating for men who might wish to make war, or bash each other’s heads in. It seemed more that things would happen like a slow-motion dance of astronauts or moon-walkers, with very determined intentions, who on either side might have to hurt each other to reach the goals of the powers involved. Certainly on the ground-level, or Mars-surface. It was true, and would probably never really be much otherwise, that the space-men were such an elite and highly trained group, that even as ‘enemies’, any of them were be loathe to kill another. But, true-to-form, each side had real weapons that would really kill, and were trained to use them---and would use them.
It wasn’t hard to calculate the number of men on the ships---the type of ships could only hold so many bodies. So, Winton Berle and other planners could realistically assume the Russian-Islamic forces to number about 100 ‘space-soldiers’, not all of them fighters, but many with very specific high-tech roles, because the job was so complex. With eight ships, and also the men at the Mars-base already, the US side could count on as many as 200 men. So, this advantage was fortunate. But on the other hand, the Russians might send more ships or more men, if the struggle dragged on for many months, and they might have some sort of ‘secret weapon’, or method---bombs, for instance, targeted at the Mars-base from orbit. Things could go either way in such a thing as a military assault on a Martian research outpost, in space-ships from Earth filled with very determined Russians, fearful of the End of the World, (Earth, that is).
There in the Abyss, Guy Reisling had taken more than one critical communication from Vandenberg, his link to home. Strategically, his ship’s position ahead of the others, could be an important edge. The journey to Mars would take a total of eight months, for most of the ships, varying somewhat as the planets moved in their orbits. It was now, as of mid-year 2077, almost an armada: eight ships from the US-side, five from Russia, and Guy’s ship, for a total of 14. And the Russians could launch more at any time they were able. So the Vandenberg mission commanders wanted Guy to be ready to handle whatever came up.
There on the Penelope, it was business-as-usual as far as the flight. She was only six weeks from Molinari, something that would mean a rest and refreshment, and time for Guy with Lila. They really did care for each other and it was a joyous thing for them both, sort of a romp, but also wistfully romantic. Now, with the hostilities, and the meteor, it all began to fray and heave for them all. Guy thought of it as a sort of deep-space version of an old World-War-2 film, like Humphrey Bogart in ‘Casablanca’.
“If that deep-space transport leaves space-dock, and you’re not on it, you’ll regret it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of your life,” he mused privately. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
For most radio-transmissions to Earth, or elsewhere, ship-to-shore as it were, Guy could use the basic radio set-up from the pilot’s deck on the Penelope. Radio-transmissions, or EMP (electro-magnetic pulse) deep-space near-Earth solar-system communication, was actually quite speedy. Under most circumstances, the radio-waves were delayed significantly enough to create a means of back-and-forth chatter, where one side would talk, and the other would wait as long as 15 minutes or so, to answer. It was reliable, and engineers had learned how to compress the signals and transmissions, so the time-lapse was smaller, and chatter was easier, more normal. Guy’s ship, like the others, had an array of antennas, and other gear, that were essential to the function of the ship. So for three weeks, transmissions from Earth to Guy’s ship, the Molinari space-dock, and the Mars-base, were flying fast-and-furious.
It’s just a load of tech-gear for their damn Mars-radio, Guy thought. I don’t have soldiers and I don’t have weapons. These guys figure I’m General Patton from now on with this.
So once again, the Captain of the Penelope found himself sending back-and-forth messages of shattering importance, to Vandenberg planners. His immediate superior, Commander Okman, the head of the transport division, handled many of these links, as they were his men and crews, and he knew them best. As the signal reached his ship, scooped from the emptiness by the Penelope’s antennas, an alert-sound notified himself, or Rob Cowan, his second, or other crew. With the time-delay for the transfer, they could often take their time to get ready to ‘chat’ with home-base. From his seat at the helm, the radio-desk looked like a fancy video-game. The sound-monitor was sometimes thick with static-noises, and at other times crystal-clear.
“Yes, Commander, I understand,” Guy was saying. “No contact whatever with the Russian ships. Radio-silence until further notice. That’s not hard, but of course you realize it’s easy for them to monitor our communications anyway.”
“That’s not the point, Guy,” said Okman. “I have very specific instructions from Berle, all the way up to Rodgers-Smith. They do NOT want you to chat things up with the Russians, or handle things on your own. It could create even worse problems. So anything we tell them must be cleared, or we say nothing at all, and if they pick up our chatter, big deal, they will anyway.”
“Some of our systems will encode messages. What about that?”
“I’ll find out. The lead ship on the Russian side is months behind you, some half-million miles or so. The military stuff will doubtless be encoded for radio-security, like any battle,” Okman.
This series of comments had been compressed so their language seemed to flow naturally. Now there was a pause, with static-noises, like a background cosmic hum-and-glow from space itself. After ten minutes or so, the alert-sound ‘beeped’ again, with a glaring red-light LCD on his control-dash.
“In-coming from Earth,” said Cowan, also on the flight-helm at that hour. He was curious as to the details where the Russian ships were concerned, too, and needed to know. “Second series. Vandenberg. Okman.”
Guy activated their side of the system, glancing at his co-pilot. Rob seemed edgy, even un-well, but he supposed it was only normal stress. They were now 78-days in space. Long haul.
“Vandenberg, US-Mars Radio-Comm, Okman speaking. For US-Mars transport Penelope, Captain Reisling. Please respond.”
“We have your signal, Okman. Go ahead.”
A long pause. “Three other directives for you to handle, Guy. This is from Command, so please document for later review, comply and implement. Number one: the Penelope will continue to Molinari, and onto Mars-base, as per previous flight-plan, with no variations because of hostilities. The reason is, your transport carries essential communications gear. This is your first priority. Number two: please make preparations for ship-to-ship interactions, should they arise. This basically means you need your ship navigators and life-support, and tech, to figure out how to lock you down for any disruptive encounters. They probably won’t try to shoot you down. But they might fuck with you, somehow, as the gap closes. So you need to make preparations to protect your ship. Number three: as of now, and upon arrival at Mars, the Penelope is under the command of Winton Berle, the lead for the eight US ships, also on their way. So, there will be codes and data to connect to his command. But by the time you reach Mars, and maybe before, you’ll be drafted into whatever happens, along with your crew. We need all hands. That’s a ways off, and transport protocol will handle your cargo mission as always. So, that’s the main commands from Vandenberg for the Penelope with this transmission.”
A long pause again. The information and recorded voice-signal was downloaded to storage. “Information received and logged, Commander Okman.”
“Acknowledged,” came back Okman’s voice, over half a million miles distant, in the comfort of the Vandenberg communications center.
“Commander Okman, this is co-pilot Rob Cowan. Questions, please?”
“Go ahead.”
“What does US-Mars Earth think will happen on Mars? How long are we expected to hold out? Our original mission would have us in orbit on Mars only for a month at most.”
A long pause-delay. Some of the voice-signal from Okman sounded like a fish in a jar full of jelly. “We don’t know, Cowan. You have the basic info. Berle’s armada is behind the Russians by two months, or more. The Penelope will be in orbit way ahead. You guys get to be the welcoming committee, along with Snikta-Ridge.”
“That’s not funny, Okman. We don’t even have a missile or a gun on this thing to shoot back with,” said Guy.
“You may be asked to delay, or negotiate, from what I hear. Same with Snikta-Ridge. Who knows? Maybe things will change. But, to your question, Rob---you won’t be coming home on-schedule. You should definitely get any supplies or fuel-resources, or re-charge, that you need from Molinari to hold out as long as possible, not to mention your ride back to Earth. Mars will also be able to re-supply the Penelope to an extent. It’s just a gamble. Try to be prepared for anything, is all I can say. Obviously we’re not going to let you waste away out there. We’ll get you home.”
Another long pause. The radio-comm system seemed to boil a bit with a strong static-energy for a moment. Both Guy and Rob tried to adjust for the error. After a few minutes, the time-compressed conversation continued.
“Mars-transport Penelope, signal to US-Command Vandenberg, Please respond. Reisling here, to Okman, re-connecting to you now. Okman? Hello?”
More static and a pause.
“Okman here. I’m logging off, Reisling. The guys are telling me the damn planet moved and our signal is screwed. Sorry. Next window for your signal is---wait a minute---next communications-window in three hours, I guess. It’s three in the morning here, Guy. Just hang tight. Okman out.”
Now the system shut down the link, with various alerts on their control-dash.
“Welcome to the world’s first space-war,” said Cowan. Guy took a deep breath, leaning back. They both quickly reviewed their flight-controls and ship’s systems. All was well, on-course to Molinari space-dock. Without extensive and time-consuming scanning, they really had no evidence the Russians were even out there, or the position of their ships. This was common---deep-space flight was a lot like a very long trip in an air-tight elevator-lift, or a windowless high-rise office complex. There wasn’t a lot to see.
“All right,” said Guy. “Log all that bullshit and we’ll inform the crew.”
“Sure,” said Cowan.
Somehow, the joy of space-flight had taken a hit in their hearts they might never recover from. It just wasn’t fun anymore.
-2,267 words
-Julian Phillips
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Film-Story Development
2010-02-20
“Yes, now I can remember. It was---great pain. Yes. Please don’t remind me, you know?”
--Charles Lindburg, pilot of the world’s first trans-Atlantic prop-aircraft flight, commenting on his fame, and the later kidnapping and slaying of his child
The US-Mars Space Program launched eight deep-space cruiser vessels, similar to the ‘Penelope’ (Guy Reisling’s transport), within three weeks of the closure of the World-Council sessions to decide on a course of action concerning the Russian-Islamic launches. Like the Easterners, the US launched their ships in ‘secret’, but the reality was that there was no real way to keep such things secret for long. The reason was that even at the amateur level, orbiting satellites and space-objects like meteors, were observed daily by a hundred different astronomers, meteorological societies, universities and students, news-media, governments, and so on. If large ships were hoisted into orbit, and then programmed for navigation and departure to the far-off red star, glowing brightly enough that even children could spot her (or, ‘him’, being thought as Aries, the Ram, or god of War, in mythology)---it was hardly something that Earth-dwellers could conceal in 2077.
Also, like the Russians, all eight ships from the US program were launched in a sequence, carefully planned and executed by then-familiar routine, over about two weeks, from several different launch-sites, some of them unknown to the public. The Mars-base Defense Task Force had done their jobs well, and following the Russian action, it was a no-brainer The US would respond. But it wasn’t popular, and it was a huge cost, and an extreme effort. In 20 years of active Earth-born travel to Mars, the program had only launched this many ships all at once, during construction periods, when large numbers of men, and large amounts of materials and gear, were needed over a relatively short time-period.
Each of the US space-ships was outfitted for the mission: to protect the Mars-base from the supposed Russian takeover attempt, still not confirmed or announced as an ‘act of war’. But it wasn’t doubted that this was what was ahead. So, the US ships were full of soldiers, of course, equipped for exactly what the planners felt would be needed to defend the Mars-base. The same was true for the Russians, but perhaps not exactly the case for either team, that these were ‘warriors’, something Earth-based space-travel had never seen in all of Earth-history, and thus ‘new’ or ‘different’. The planners didn’t quite know how to deal with the concept, as Winton Berle had tried to explain to the Task Force. Conditions in space or on Mars were so hostile, that the suits and mobility were simply not accommodating for men who might wish to make war, or bash each other’s heads in. It seemed more that things would happen like a slow-motion dance of astronauts or moon-walkers, with very determined intentions, who on either side might have to hurt each other to reach the goals of the powers involved. Certainly on the ground-level, or Mars-surface. It was true, and would probably never really be much otherwise, that the space-men were such an elite and highly trained group, that even as ‘enemies’, any of them were be loathe to kill another. But, true-to-form, each side had real weapons that would really kill, and were trained to use them---and would use them.
It wasn’t hard to calculate the number of men on the ships---the type of ships could only hold so many bodies. So, Winton Berle and other planners could realistically assume the Russian-Islamic forces to number about 100 ‘space-soldiers’, not all of them fighters, but many with very specific high-tech roles, because the job was so complex. With eight ships, and also the men at the Mars-base already, the US side could count on as many as 200 men. So, this advantage was fortunate. But on the other hand, the Russians might send more ships or more men, if the struggle dragged on for many months, and they might have some sort of ‘secret weapon’, or method---bombs, for instance, targeted at the Mars-base from orbit. Things could go either way in such a thing as a military assault on a Martian research outpost, in space-ships from Earth filled with very determined Russians, fearful of the End of the World, (Earth, that is).
There in the Abyss, Guy Reisling had taken more than one critical communication from Vandenberg, his link to home. Strategically, his ship’s position ahead of the others, could be an important edge. The journey to Mars would take a total of eight months, for most of the ships, varying somewhat as the planets moved in their orbits. It was now, as of mid-year 2077, almost an armada: eight ships from the US-side, five from Russia, and Guy’s ship, for a total of 14. And the Russians could launch more at any time they were able. So the Vandenberg mission commanders wanted Guy to be ready to handle whatever came up.
There on the Penelope, it was business-as-usual as far as the flight. She was only six weeks from Molinari, something that would mean a rest and refreshment, and time for Guy with Lila. They really did care for each other and it was a joyous thing for them both, sort of a romp, but also wistfully romantic. Now, with the hostilities, and the meteor, it all began to fray and heave for them all. Guy thought of it as a sort of deep-space version of an old World-War-2 film, like Humphrey Bogart in ‘Casablanca’.
“If that deep-space transport leaves space-dock, and you’re not on it, you’ll regret it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of your life,” he mused privately. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
For most radio-transmissions to Earth, or elsewhere, ship-to-shore as it were, Guy could use the basic radio set-up from the pilot’s deck on the Penelope. Radio-transmissions, or EMP (electro-magnetic pulse) deep-space near-Earth solar-system communication, was actually quite speedy. Under most circumstances, the radio-waves were delayed significantly enough to create a means of back-and-forth chatter, where one side would talk, and the other would wait as long as 15 minutes or so, to answer. It was reliable, and engineers had learned how to compress the signals and transmissions, so the time-lapse was smaller, and chatter was easier, more normal. Guy’s ship, like the others, had an array of antennas, and other gear, that were essential to the function of the ship. So for three weeks, transmissions from Earth to Guy’s ship, the Molinari space-dock, and the Mars-base, were flying fast-and-furious.
It’s just a load of tech-gear for their damn Mars-radio, Guy thought. I don’t have soldiers and I don’t have weapons. These guys figure I’m General Patton from now on with this.
So once again, the Captain of the Penelope found himself sending back-and-forth messages of shattering importance, to Vandenberg planners. His immediate superior, Commander Okman, the head of the transport division, handled many of these links, as they were his men and crews, and he knew them best. As the signal reached his ship, scooped from the emptiness by the Penelope’s antennas, an alert-sound notified himself, or Rob Cowan, his second, or other crew. With the time-delay for the transfer, they could often take their time to get ready to ‘chat’ with home-base. From his seat at the helm, the radio-desk looked like a fancy video-game. The sound-monitor was sometimes thick with static-noises, and at other times crystal-clear.
“Yes, Commander, I understand,” Guy was saying. “No contact whatever with the Russian ships. Radio-silence until further notice. That’s not hard, but of course you realize it’s easy for them to monitor our communications anyway.”
“That’s not the point, Guy,” said Okman. “I have very specific instructions from Berle, all the way up to Rodgers-Smith. They do NOT want you to chat things up with the Russians, or handle things on your own. It could create even worse problems. So anything we tell them must be cleared, or we say nothing at all, and if they pick up our chatter, big deal, they will anyway.”
“Some of our systems will encode messages. What about that?”
“I’ll find out. The lead ship on the Russian side is months behind you, some half-million miles or so. The military stuff will doubtless be encoded for radio-security, like any battle,” Okman.
This series of comments had been compressed so their language seemed to flow naturally. Now there was a pause, with static-noises, like a background cosmic hum-and-glow from space itself. After ten minutes or so, the alert-sound ‘beeped’ again, with a glaring red-light LCD on his control-dash.
“In-coming from Earth,” said Cowan, also on the flight-helm at that hour. He was curious as to the details where the Russian ships were concerned, too, and needed to know. “Second series. Vandenberg. Okman.”
Guy activated their side of the system, glancing at his co-pilot. Rob seemed edgy, even un-well, but he supposed it was only normal stress. They were now 78-days in space. Long haul.
“Vandenberg, US-Mars Radio-Comm, Okman speaking. For US-Mars transport Penelope, Captain Reisling. Please respond.”
“We have your signal, Okman. Go ahead.”
A long pause. “Three other directives for you to handle, Guy. This is from Command, so please document for later review, comply and implement. Number one: the Penelope will continue to Molinari, and onto Mars-base, as per previous flight-plan, with no variations because of hostilities. The reason is, your transport carries essential communications gear. This is your first priority. Number two: please make preparations for ship-to-ship interactions, should they arise. This basically means you need your ship navigators and life-support, and tech, to figure out how to lock you down for any disruptive encounters. They probably won’t try to shoot you down. But they might fuck with you, somehow, as the gap closes. So you need to make preparations to protect your ship. Number three: as of now, and upon arrival at Mars, the Penelope is under the command of Winton Berle, the lead for the eight US ships, also on their way. So, there will be codes and data to connect to his command. But by the time you reach Mars, and maybe before, you’ll be drafted into whatever happens, along with your crew. We need all hands. That’s a ways off, and transport protocol will handle your cargo mission as always. So, that’s the main commands from Vandenberg for the Penelope with this transmission.”
A long pause again. The information and recorded voice-signal was downloaded to storage. “Information received and logged, Commander Okman.”
“Acknowledged,” came back Okman’s voice, over half a million miles distant, in the comfort of the Vandenberg communications center.
“Commander Okman, this is co-pilot Rob Cowan. Questions, please?”
“Go ahead.”
“What does US-Mars Earth think will happen on Mars? How long are we expected to hold out? Our original mission would have us in orbit on Mars only for a month at most.”
A long pause-delay. Some of the voice-signal from Okman sounded like a fish in a jar full of jelly. “We don’t know, Cowan. You have the basic info. Berle’s armada is behind the Russians by two months, or more. The Penelope will be in orbit way ahead. You guys get to be the welcoming committee, along with Snikta-Ridge.”
“That’s not funny, Okman. We don’t even have a missile or a gun on this thing to shoot back with,” said Guy.
“You may be asked to delay, or negotiate, from what I hear. Same with Snikta-Ridge. Who knows? Maybe things will change. But, to your question, Rob---you won’t be coming home on-schedule. You should definitely get any supplies or fuel-resources, or re-charge, that you need from Molinari to hold out as long as possible, not to mention your ride back to Earth. Mars will also be able to re-supply the Penelope to an extent. It’s just a gamble. Try to be prepared for anything, is all I can say. Obviously we’re not going to let you waste away out there. We’ll get you home.”
Another long pause. The radio-comm system seemed to boil a bit with a strong static-energy for a moment. Both Guy and Rob tried to adjust for the error. After a few minutes, the time-compressed conversation continued.
“Mars-transport Penelope, signal to US-Command Vandenberg, Please respond. Reisling here, to Okman, re-connecting to you now. Okman? Hello?”
More static and a pause.
“Okman here. I’m logging off, Reisling. The guys are telling me the damn planet moved and our signal is screwed. Sorry. Next window for your signal is---wait a minute---next communications-window in three hours, I guess. It’s three in the morning here, Guy. Just hang tight. Okman out.”
Now the system shut down the link, with various alerts on their control-dash.
“Welcome to the world’s first space-war,” said Cowan. Guy took a deep breath, leaning back. They both quickly reviewed their flight-controls and ship’s systems. All was well, on-course to Molinari space-dock. Without extensive and time-consuming scanning, they really had no evidence the Russians were even out there, or the position of their ships. This was common---deep-space flight was a lot like a very long trip in an air-tight elevator-lift, or a windowless high-rise office complex. There wasn’t a lot to see.
“All right,” said Guy. “Log all that bullshit and we’ll inform the crew.”
“Sure,” said Cowan.
Somehow, the joy of space-flight had taken a hit in their hearts they might never recover from. It just wasn’t fun anymore.
-2,267 words
-Julian Phillips
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