Like something I wrote?All is blackness save for the endless backdrop of stars as I make my way across the hull of the ship, more by feel than by sight. The head-mounted flashlight offers precious little assistance on my trek. Who'd have thought that The SS Mary--the first ever manned mission to Jupiter--would be so prone to power outages? Three within five years is rather alarming.
Having done this a handful of times now, I'm certain I can make short work of finding the power box. Another design flaw; it is incredibly difficult to flip whilst suited up. It would require muscle as is, and so having your hands thickly padded is no help at all. Nonetheless, with a great deal of effort and re-positioning, I manage to get the lever moving. To my dismay, when I manage to achieve my goal, there is no apparent change to the ship's status. I switch on my emergency communications radio which gives me a direct line back to the control room on Earth, and I transmit a message detailing the problem and requesting assistance.
Unfortunately this is nothing like making a phone call; the message has to make its way there, be handled by a control room officer, and then their response needs time to come back. With little else to do I tie a secondary lifeline rope of approximately ten metres to the hull where I'm standing, then allow myself to drift freely into space. As I float I empty my mind, taking in nothing but the stars.
Despite my serenity, I remember the first time I did this. It was by accident, in fact: I unthinkingly bunny hopped whilst traversing the hull in emulation of Neil Armstrong's moon walk footage. I had my emergency line connected, but it had a great deal of slack. And in my panic I thrashed around and set myself spinning as I drifted further and further away from the ship, primal fear taking control of me as I became certain to my core of an alien death inconceivable to our anscestors. Sometimes I remember those moments of pure fear, and for a short time I become overwhelmed with unease towards my day-to-day life here in outer space. There is a startlingly fine line between these two states of mind.
After nearly an hour I receive a response. It comes with detailed instructions on what problem has been detected and exactly how I should approach fixing it. I'm required to open the primary maintenance switchboard, located next to the main switch, and do some complex re-routing. I set to work right away. After unbolting the switchboard's eight massive bolts with a wrench from my toolbox, I begin. It takes over half an hour, but I think I manage it. Bolting everything back in securely, I catch my breath and place my hands back on the main switch, and begin once again pulling it with sore arms.
Within moments I receive radio communications from my crew. I hear rounds of applause accompanied by congratulations from my friends for a job well done.
"Technician Peters, power is restored. You are clear for re-boarding. Return to the hatch immediately." My Captain's all-too familiar voice over that radio you'd swear is better fit for a poorly maintained McDonalds drive-through back on Earth.
"By the way . . . I have some troubling news. Will fill you in upon your return." Now that is alarming. It's unlike Captain to leave me in suspense; normally he's more than happy to have me multi-tasking. I allow myself to take in the stars for just a moment longer before I begin guiding myself back across the hull in the direction of the hatch. The task is much easier with all the bright runway lights on. After a short time I'm standing in front of the hatch, which I enter and promptly begin the process of moving through the airlocks. Unexpectedly, I receive my next communication from him before I've even exited the airlock as once again the radio chimes in.
"Five hours ago Control lost contact with Vessel 621 and all passengers on board. Furthermore, the instruments are making some strange indications. I know I'm not supposed to ask this of you, with your personal involvements and all, but you're my best maintenance tech. I'm confident you can confirm if it's merely instrument failure."
This man. 'Personal involvements' is right. I ponder angrily at what a crass way that is to say my best friend and the majority of my family members are on board, but my time for that is cut short as the final airlock opens, bringing what was supposed to be a routine maintenance spacewalk to a close.
Once I'm back inside he's already waiting for me in the hallway, looking dour. "What are you saying?" I practically spit, once my helmet is off. "Peters, I'm sorry. Just . . . look." and he rotates a tablet in his hands into my view. Although I know exactly what instrument's reading I'm being shown at first glance, what I see makes absolutely no sense. To the point that I'm positive this is a joke. But my Captain's countenance tells me otherwise, and besides, there hasn't been a joke aboard this ship in years. Partly due to the extreme regulations on our professionalism on mission, partly due to us all having fallen into robotic lock step over time's course.
Continue to Chapter Two →