Out
A series about Mars
by Daniel
E. Machado
Chapter 21
Making his way as quickly as possible
into the maneuvering couch Fred straps himself in with as little comment
to Blade as possible. The compartment's separation specialist happens to
be one of September's close friends which spares Fred the usually whining
lecture reserved for last-man-down. The young woman smiles a wink down
at him instead.
Strapped anxiously into her couch
Blade sits there feeling quite confused with herself. She had helped September
arrange her little tryst, and was even selfishly pleased to have Fred conveniently
distracted while she and John said their good-byes, still every fiber of
her being wants so badly to be catty. No fangs, just the flick of a claw
or two. But then, that sounds just a bit too much like jealousy.
I guess I should cut poor Fredy
some slack. He's probably pretty shook-up right about now.
"Did you get a chance to say good-by
to John?" She asks as the separation specialist moves away to take up her
position.
"Little more than a hand-shake. We
were both kind of in a hurry." Silently pleading for Blade not ask him
anything else, Fred settles down into his couch and tries to relax. He's
every reason to believe she had been an accomplice in September's little
plot, and he finds the thought of what else his cabin-mate might know about
him even deeply disturbing. As if in prayer's answer the warning klaxon
sounds and a single face appears on every couch display.
"Good morning passengers. My name
is Lieutenant Mike Omura. Sailship Pod A294 is scheduled for separation
from the SS Flying Jib in about thirty minuets at approximately
09:45 Standard, at which time she will become commissioned as the SS
Terminus Finales III and differentiate orbit from the SS Flying
Jib from which the SS Terminus Finales III will enter the Martian
gravity well under the terms of the Orbital Maritime Treaty of 2022." The
remotely Asian looking man staring out from every ship display appears
to be in his early forties. A quick smile flashes at them all from the
many displays as the man's eyes soften, as if addressing old friends.
"Listen, this passenger manifest
shows that you're all corporate immigrants. That means this little recital
of mine is exponentially redundant. So if you folks will bear with me for
the sake of the publics and all the little lawyers listening back home,
I’ll try to make this quick." Lieutenant Omura refers to a handtablet
off to the side and then with perfunctory haste begins to read aloud.
"Upon separation from the SS
Flying Jib all ‘cargo exclusivity’ privileges will be suspended until
the pod is decommissioned upon reinsertion at Phobos Station. Pursuant:
the transference, disposition, or disposal of any and all cargo and/or
effects rests exclusively with TransOrbital Corporation and its duly authorized
ship’s representatives. Any conflict in authority will be addressed in
arbitration pending final destination. Any questions?" No one expects
one, and none are offered. "Good. Lieutenant Omura, out."
As each display returns to its previous
diversions Fred exhales a small sigh of relief. The short recital had been
nothing like the boring half-hour explanation of legal minutia he’d expected.
But the pilot has his point. This manifest is corporate lifetime
immigrates. Professionals. People who have worked and trained for years
for a place on this pod. Even little Roselene knows full well the meaning
behind the pilot's short jargon-thick statement.
"That means he can throw all our stuff
away if he wants to; doesn’t it, Mommy?" Roselene’s tiny high-pitched voice
sends a shockwave of shattered denial through several nearby couches. Grownups
know these things, but they really don’t like to think about them.
"Ssshhh." Blade hushes her daughter.
"Yes, dear. But, that hasn’t happened for a very long time."
"How come it happened before?" The
girl’s usual inquisitiveness persists.
"Well..." Blade looks over at Fred
wishing for once that he would suddenly turn into the Answer Man and get
her out of this, but his post-colital lobotomy has him mumbling down at
the bridge publics on his display. "Let's see. It was a long time ago,
when people first started using cargo pods to immigrate out to Mars. Sometimes
something would go wrong during the transfer, and sometimes in order to
save the people inside the pod the pilot would have to make some hard decisions.
If the pilot needed to dump part of the cargo overboard, or cut off the
power to someone's product maintenance equipment, then a lot of people
back on Earth lose a lot of money. So everyone had to decide
who
was going to be in charge of the cargo when the pod was out alone in space.
We all held a referendum, and everyone in the system decided that even
though it was a cargo-pod, that the people going along for the ride were
more important than the cargo itself. So we made it a law that while the
pod is orbiting under its own control that the pod was a ship, and
that its pilot was its captain. That means that if the pilot has to do
something to save the people inside, something that might costs other people
back on Earth a whole lot of money, then those people back on Earth would
have to take it up in a special court after the pod docks, and not with
some poor pod pilot trying to dock a broken ship with injured passengers
and crew."
"Mama, will he have to throw away
my ant farm?" Roselene whispers, as if the pilot might hear.
"No, Sweety." Blade pats her daughter’s
tiny hand looking so small and fragile wrapped around the adult-sized arm-rest.
"I don't think he plans on throwing anything overboard this time. Here,
I’ll show you." The shaped re-enforced point on Blade’s index fingernail
wiggles across her couch's arm display as it clicks out an occasional tap.
Soon the pod pilot's public resume rolls up onto both couch's displays.
"Let’s see now, Michael Henry Omura.
Zero-g and orbital pilot for over twenty-three Es, fifteen with TransOrbital.
Seems like a nice enough man, doesn’t he?" Blade watches her daughter’s
head slowly nod as the child stares at the pilot's image on her display.
"Now, let’s take a look down here." Zipping her finger-tip down Blade taps
out a highlighted section of text near the file's bottom. The selected
text pops up into a frame just below the lieutenant’s ID holo.
"See this part right here, his insurance
record. This says that in the fifteen Es that Lieutenant Omura has piloted
pods for TransOrbital he has only jettisoned point-two metric tons of non-critical
cargo. And it also says down here that he's never once cut power on the
product section. Do you know what that means?" Blade looks down into Roselene’s
blank blue eyes as her head twists back and forth. "It means that Lieutenant
Omura is one of his company’s very best pilots, and that he almost never
ever has to throw anything overboard. So, I’m pretty sure your ant farm
will be safe." Again Blades squeezes her daughter's hand. "As long as your
cousin Fredy remembered to secure it."
Oops! An slightly embarrassed
smile escapes Blade’s lips. I wasn’t supposed to do that.
Oh shit! Fred’s stomach knots,
Blade's words shattering his total absorption on the bridge publics. Did
I secure it? I don’t remember. September secured it before we left. I'm
sure she did. Didn't she?
Without preamble the cabin quakes
through a low roar as three monstrous pylons buried deep within the ship
slowly retract from their year-long hold on the cargo-pod. On his display
Fred watches the separation sequence, mercifully diverted from the invading
thoughts of Blade and September. And, that stupid damned ant farm!
Fred prefers smaller ships. In fact,
the smaller the better. Watching the busy abbreviation of the cargo-pod's
bridge seems definite progress over the Jib's massive multi-teired
command-and-control center. Yet even as Fred ponders the complexities of
bridge control and astro-navigation, it is women both tall and small that
crowd in at him from the corners of his mind.
"How much longer?" Blade asks.
Tapping his way through several bridge
publics Fred replies without looking up. "Oh-four point three mikes on
negative count."
"How long did he say, Mommy?" Roselene
understands just enough about grownups to know that when Cousin Fred starts
talking his spacer talk that it’s usually a whole lot easier just to ask
her mommy what it was he said than it is to make him define his terms.
"About Four minuets." Blade replies.
Consumed by a sudden fidgetiness Roselene tries to force herself back into
the smooth warm pads of the billowy maneuvering couch. For a diversion
the child switches her display to one of the external archive-bots floating
out away from the ship.
Around the Flying Jib’s zero-g
cargo-pod several large building-size mounting brackets extend out and
away from the ship at an odd angle. Hidden within the center structure's
broad contours Roselene has never really noticed the huge pylons before,
but once she sees the first three extended from the pod she finds the ones
still locked in place seem obvious. How could she ever have missed them
in the first place. Roselene’s display reveals another set of building-size
pylons slowly separating away from the ship just as another jolting quake
rumbles up through the cabin floor to send them all grasping for a hold.
Then a sharp thud snaps through the cabin as the Roselene watches another
set of pylons swing out lock into place. As the pylons clunk to halt Lieutenant
Omura’s face once again fills every displays.
"Attention all passengers, Captain
Movlinka has given us final clearance for separation. As I'm sure you’re
all aware, until we secure our new orbit in approximately two-point-seven
hours we will be making three major delta-v adjustments and several minor
course corrections. This will result in frequent and reasonably strong
inertial variances within the pod. Because of the inherent dangers during
this process all passengers are reminded to never, and I repeat never,
unsecure yourselves at any time during this procedure. If at any point
there is an emergency, please call it to the attention your cabin's separation-specialist.
I will remind you that any failure to remain completely secured at all
times during this process can and will result in your immediate forced
securement.
"After final separation and initial
inertial deceleration I do not anticipate any course corrections of over
point-three-gs, during which time we will have two opportunities for alleviation;
one approximately forty minuets into separation and another at approximately
plus ninety-five minuets. If during those windows you require alleviation,
I again remind you to first notify your cabin specialist. Thank you in
advance for your cooperation. Lieutenant Omura, out."
Before the lieutenant’s words even
fade from her thoughts Roselene's stomach quivers with a change of direction.
A strange vibrating wiggle shoves its way up through the couch to shake
hard the girl's small frame. Tapping a tiny finger-tip at her seat's arm
pad Roselene widens her view to take in the entire ship. The Flying
Jib’s spinning gravity-wheel fills much of her display, its domed forward
aero-break a bright gibbous arc along the ship's outer edge, this being
one of the few times that the ship's aero-break ever faces Sol. Then a
shutter fills the cabin accompanied by an odd mechanical roll, like some
sort of old bumpity roller-coaster.
"Prepare for separation. Prepare
for separation."
Warning klaxon and pilot's voice echo
together through the cabin's length as a squeezing pressure propels both
Roselene and the cargo-pod faster and faster away from the Flying Jib.
John had explained it to her once, how in the old days they use to say
that rockets were like a man standing in a boat throwing rock off the back
to make it go. It sounds silly, but John said that was how rockets really
sort of work. And then Fred said so too. John said that the ship and pod
both use launch catapults to pull really hard against each other until
they both fly apart. He said this pushes the sail-ship way out past
Mars and pushes the pod back down into a slower orbit around Mars. Roselene's
not really sure how it all is supposed to work, but if both John and Fred
say it's so, then she believes it. The child also believes the growing
pressure forcing its way up through her crash-couch as the display shows
the pod accelerating back out of the ship. She's set her display target
the Flying Jib, so the girl lifts her tiny fingers against the growing
pressure to change the tracking. Her display's view shifts to follow the
pod as a final mechanical shutter resonates up through the couch leaving
a stomach fluttering smoothness to consume the cabin. A small sporadic
hissing of the steering engines quickly replaces the deafening mechanical
roar.
"Attention all passengers. This
is Lieutenant John Omura, captain of the SS Terminus Finales III.
May God bless her and all who sail in her. We hope to accomplish the more
radical portions of our decent correction within the next thirty minuets,
so please do not unsecure any personal tablets until we declare the first
alleviation. We’re hoping to have you all out of your couches and into
quarters by at least fourteen-hundred this afternoon. Until then, I have
opened the ship's net access to your couch tablets. This will not allow
for any monetary transactions, but it should give everyone reasonable access
to personal data accounts. Captain out."
"Mommy, can Jamil and I play Trokix?"
Roselene asks, the sensation of gliding bumps replacing the rattled jar
of separation.
"Is he one of the kids here on the
pod?" Despite the pilot's offer, Blade feels certain TransOrbital will
levy extra charges for outside access.
"Uh huh." The child nods. "He’s over
with his mommy and daddy in cabin three."
"Okay, dear."
With a giggled smile Roselene quickly
launches into the novelty of playing a familiar game of Trokix on the couch's
unfamiliar holo display. Still mumbling to himself, Fred consumes several
tracks of the course correction process with the studied intensity of an
adolescent. Then, suddenly, after all the motion and madness and romantic
side plots subside, after all the day's intent and intensity, the finality
hits Blade.
We’re really on our way down to
Mars!