by Stephen R. Smith | Jul 4, 2010 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jeanine walked the length of her racer, running her bare hand across the seams, feeling for any fastener stressed out of place, trying to get a sense of any uneasiness in the craft. She paused and read the name stenciled down the side, “Spirit of America : Ultra III”.
“Craig ran the Spirit to four hundred miles an hour in nineteen sixty three.” Jeanine talked over her shoulder to the small group of friends and family that had gathered on the Salt Flats to cheer her on. “In sixty three, Corvettes were pushing one hundred forty, maybe one fifty miles per hour. Breedlove took her to four.
The fifty foot long silver tube lay slung between four tall skinny wheels at the end of axels shaped like aircraft wings. The cockpit was barely a sliver disrupting the graceful arc of the craft ahead of the massive intake ports and menacing teeth of the turbines.
“He almost got to seven hundred before he crashed. Might have gotten eight if he’d had a better day.”
The salt crunched softly under her boots as she continued her walk around, pausing at the tail of the craft to pull away the exhaust cover and hand it off to a ready set of hands. Deep inside the heart of the new Spirit was an engine that had been liberated from a research facility near Black Rock. The exact circumstances of its disappearance were unknown, but it had arrived at her shop late one night by trailer, an unusual hybrid of conventional jet technology and something she’d never seen before. She could tell it was something special and asked no questions.
The engineering of the jet tech graft made it fairly straight forward for her and her crew to swap it in, replacing the GE turbojet that had to that point powered her Spirit, and many Spirits before.
“I’ll bet we break a thousand miles an hour today.” Jeanine’s grin split her face between the ears, eyes sparkling as she ran her hand across the edge of the exhaust nozzle. “A thousand easy.”
Her reflective demeanor gave way to one of purpose, and Jeanine collected gloves and her helmet from a crew member, waved at the nervous and fidgeting crowd and slipped into the cockpit of The Spirit.
There was a rumble, then a whine steadily increasing in pitch as the turbine came to life. The crowd hastily pulled on headsets or covered their ears and moved away as Jeanine rolled the Spirit out onto the flats to line up her run.
The noise was deafening, and The Spirit almost disappeared in the haze of exhaust gasses heating the space behind her.
“Ok baby, let’s show ’em what we’ve got.”
She pushed the throttle forward, holding wheels steady and straight with both feet braced against the steering pedals. On the dash, streams of data flashed by as the onboard systems reported the state of virtually every component, and every compensation or adjustment of her course.
Her suit adjusted pressure in step with the rising force of acceleration, and she pushed the throttle farther still, watching the ground slip past outside in a smear. Five hundred miles an hour flashed past in an instant, eight hundred an instant later. The thousand mile an hour milestone came and went and still the craft was surging forward, wanting to go further, faster.
Jeanine’s hands were frozen on the throttles, pushing them hard against the forward locks. She’d never felt such emotion in her entire life. They’d done it, pushed The Spirit back on top of the record books.
From the ground, the crowd watched the glimmering point of light streak across the flats before nosing up and tearing a hole in the midday sky.
There was a rapid series of snaps, then The Spirit left earth bound for the heavens.
by Roi R. Czechvala | Jun 23, 2010 | Story
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
“umm… Skipper? You’ll want to take a look at this.”
Immediately, the bridge dissolved into a holographic display of the space around the Crimson Sky. Her Captain, Iulia, pushed an errant wisp of flaming red hair from her eye as she regarded the freighter that appeared to be floating just above her helmsman’s left shoulder.
“She’s adrift Captain. No response to hails. No emergency beacon.”
“There wouldn’t be. She poked a careless finger through the aft end of the projection. See there? Blaster damage. Took out all power before they could react.”
She continued to survey the freighters virtual image as it slowly rotated before her. “And look here,” she continued, stabbing at a scorch mark towards the bow. “This was the second shot. Anybody not suited would have died from asphyxiation in seconds.” She grimaced. “Not a pleasant way to go.”
“Still, we should take a look and see what they left us. Boarding party to the shuttle. Let’s go people,” she barked to the bridge crew.
The shuttle was dwarfed by the sheer bulk of the ore freighter. It contained an automated refinery for smelting the iron and nickel from asteroid mines. In brilliant red and gold, the Rising Sun above a Hammer and Sickle of the Asiatic Alliance was boldly emblazoned across the ships bow.
A thorough search of the ship yielded nothing. Whoever had attacked had cleaned out the factory freighter’s hold, leaving behind nothing but the desiccated corpses of her crew.
Iulia assembled her crew on the devastated ship’s bridge. A metre wide gap in the overhead looked out into dead space. “Report” Casually, she pushed aside a motionless carcass as it floated by.
“Sir,” Master Sergeant Shania Gatsby snapped, “the drives have been removed, and the refinery has been damaged beyond repair. There is nothing of value left.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” She smiled widely, revealing two vicious rows of teeth filed to needle points. Casually plucking a floating body from above she asked, “Anyone for Chinese?”
Twenty toothy grins winked back at her.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jun 22, 2010 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Another Saturday night wound down as the cargo loader deposited the last of the shipping containers in the hold of the space elevator. It was just a few hours before midnight as he parked and shut his rig down for the night. Despite the delays clearing that last crate, the lift would go up to Ver Punt Station on schedule.
Inside, the doors had no sooner sealed than the lock on that last container released, and a handful of light balls were thrown out onto what little floor space remained.
“Move, move, move. Liftoff in less than five.”
A dozen suited figures clambered out of the container carrying helmets, air tanks and molded launch cushions.
They spread out evenly along the clear aisle, maglocked the cushions to the floor and then donned their helmets. They punched into their air supplies and strapped themselves into the forms on the floor, their helmets crackling with encrypted short wave signals as each of them sounded off their readiness.
There was a rumble, then a deafening roar and they were pushed hard into the floor. As the car raced up the tether, the crushing force began to ease, until after what seemed an age, the car slowed and shuddered to a stop, cradled as it was now in the arms of the orbiting station.
“Ok. Jasper, get the doors. Jupiter and Jade, lock and load and make sure nobody’s putting in overtime. Marcus, get a loader and run our kit up to the OEM.” David, the leader, barked out instructions.
As he spoke, each of the crew was already moving to the carefully choreographed plan. Jasper patched into the door panel on the run, overriding and opening the bay doors without slowing down and unlocking and firing the engines on the loader as Marcus was climbing into its driver’s seat.
As the heavy machine trundled into the cargo area, the lithe point guards slipped past on either side to sprint across the docks. By the time they reached the elevator that would haul the crew and their supplies up into the Orbital Escape Module, Jasper had opened its doors as well. They confirmed the car was empty before continuing up the neighboring stairwell, snub nosed weapons at the ready.
Marcus scooped their cargo container and began hauling it across the loading dock. As he rolled, the remaining crew jumped and mag locked a boot and glove to the side, catching a ride. Marcus ran the loader flat out, slowing only to avoid crashing through the back wall of elevator.
David dropped to the ground as the vehicle slowed, and was joined by Jasper, still gesturing with wild purpose at the suspended display only she could see. The cargo lift shuddered into motion, beginning the slow and less dramatic ascent to their next destination.
“OEM is fired, cargo bays are open, Jay and Jay are onboard and the coast is clear.”
Marcus pushed the throttle forward as the elevator leveled off with the upper deck, and steered without hesitation towards the gaping maw of the craft at the end of the corridor.
Seven figures peeled off and made for the crew cabin as their supply cache was rolled into the hold. David walked patiently beside Jasper as she cracked the station’s systems and authorized a launch, then headed for the cockpit as Marcus locked down the container, abandoned the loader on the dock behind them and secured the cargo bay doors.
From the cockpit David patched into the ship’s intercom.
“Class, I think you’ve earned a passing grade today, with honors.”
There was a rumble as the OEM’s engines came to life and the craft unmoored, beginning its slow ascent from the station.
“It was once written ‘Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth’, but I say,” David paused as the craft cleared the superstructure and the expanse of space spread out unbroken before him, “I say the meek can have the earth, we’ll take our place in the stars.”
by submission | Jun 17, 2010 | Story
Author : Frank Ruiz
“We got a call. Yates again,” said a voice from the black. Gear clicked, clanked, and rustled as someone dressed. When he hummed, I knew it was Tim because he mumbled the lyrics to Move, Bitch. He gave that old song soul. “Lights?” he asked.
“Nah.” I sighed. “You know I sleep in my gear.” Tim grunted assent.
The truck’s familiar creaking almost rocked me back to sleep as we drove. We picked up pirate stations as we bounced across the cracked roads, the radio fizzling as it scanned and found…
-We have any time travelers out there? If you’re a visitor to the blasted past, don’t be afraid to give us a call…-
-So one day I’m out playing in the rain, and my father says, ‘Dammit, will you come inside!’ and I said, ‘Dad, I’m Jesus Christ!’-
Bank Officer Yates met us at the Dusty Wood gated community, gave us the address to check for squatters, and retracted the barrier poles. “Good hunting!” A smile and a wave. He lived off our arrests.
I squinted as we went. Dusty Wood’s dark made me think of outer space and stars. Constellations of solar powered LEDs lined the gutters and roof lines, barely illuminating the abandoned middle class community. Every so often, a tower broke the foreclosed town’s skyline and the red tip of guards’ lit cigarettes paced back and forth like small clones of Mars. On major streets, tracker lights followed us until we cleared the sector, then another light would pick us up.
We opened the door of Seventeen Fifteen and threw in a S.E.I.Z.U.R.E. ball. Five minutes later, we walked through, safeties off, gun lights on. We found a father and son shaking under a red swiss cheese comforter. The father’s Rolex clattered as he shook. Tim reached down, yanked, and pocketed the watch.
“It’s a good night. There were no weapons,” said Tim. “Look, a toy.”
A few feet from the boy, a yellow construction crane reached up. I grabbed it, showed it to Tim, and squinted as his gun light hit my eyes.
“Nah. That’s the Big Dipper.” I said.
by submission | Jun 14, 2010 | Story
Author : K. Pittman
I wake, if that’s the term for it, unwriting domains against polarised fragmentation and unkempt electric spin, programmed instinct seeking proper orientation.
Slow firing dormant ion-lights, we rotate counter-clockwise, along the azimuth, putting the Milky Way at our back, shaving seconds per meter off the tumble of our outbound trajectory. I throttle up the impulse motors of our EMU and check on my passenger while plotting windows back to IS-5.
Her chip says her name is S Patrice:Welder 4:StationDay on the roster. I re-synch my chronometer and discover an alarming thirty hour deviation from standard.
Life signs: hers, comatose; ours, sluggish, stable, quickening.
EMU external integrity reads at maximum, with some warpages in topology. Atmosphere in the suit reads high levels of hydrogen sulphide; the port for the waldo is dead.
I assume the safety protocols worked; it buckled when whatever incident occurred, and Beta system, my cousin, must have flooded the passenger cavity in response to a dire emergency assessment. Analysis of discontinuities in linear memory indicate the effects of a large, quick EM pulse.
Memory also gives our last recorded position, on IS-5’s surface, replacing a section of shield panel, behind Recycling and astern of South Bay 3.
Fascinating.
I page my sisters, silent lights cast wide in cislunar space.
There’s a noticeable lag. Some don’t respond, others report returns along inbound paths as skewed as ours is out, their Passengers comatose or near-dead, suit integrities on the verge of compromise, emergency gel desiccating in the solar wind.
S Patrice:Welder 4 and I, we got lucky. If the programmed definition of “luck” in my banks is correct, very lucky.
I call IS-5, as per standard.
S Patrice:Welder 4 and I execute a full about and begin a long curve on a gathering burn. I call IS-5 again, as per standard. Garbage and chaff assault me in the form of a “Hello”.
The handshake is missing.
Fascinating.
Protocols dictate the sending of a handshake request, and I handle that while plotting new trajectories. S Patrice:Welder 4 has four hours before becoming truly nonliving, but has twenty hours of breathable atmosphere on board. Lucky.
Kind of. Is that right? Is that how that goes?
Nothing from IS-5. A collapsed silence, very notable.
Nothing but my sisters, now, and this looming, and the roiling grain of space-time churning about us. I whisper my plans to them.
After long seconds down, we all agree: This requires a Passenger’s discretion, and my Passenger just happens to be the closest to optimal Passenger Integration. Passengers hate the safety-sleep gas, for when things go bad. Even when it works. Ideally, what’s to be done is wake her gradually and fully, clue her in, extract a decision, and then gradually render her comatose again. What hinges on her decision is when I can wake her again in safety, if at all.
We are at best forty hours away from anything in habitable space, travelling at speed. It can be done. My calculations are on point. Written into those algorithms are the limits of Passenger tolerances. But it can be done, given some statistical slippages.
Bright without light, my sisters cry, bitching based on consensus analysis, on lost signals, something like an enormous itch and no body and a knowing looming looming.
I may have to wake S Patrice:Welder 4 into the middle of a nightmare.
