Space Stations Part 8

The Voice-of-Pusher-Guidance grunted an acknowledgment. He had his six most powerful units hovering around the mouth of the perimeter grid, ready to pounce like a hunter's pack on a surfacing deep rover. It wasn't a bad a.n.a.logy for the situation.

The shadow sphere within the grid began to s.h.i.+mmer.

"The time is on us! Narisara. Full flow on the gate fields! Full flow! Haul her in!"

The stern of the cargo raft burst out of the event horizon, no longer tracking true but drifting off side and angling across the channel, its dead gyros and propulsor vents incapable of stabilization. Even if the straining function nets of River-'Tween-Worlds could withstand another modulation cycle, a few more fractions of drift would bring about a catastrophic collision between the raft and the grid structure. It had to be now!

Tarrischall held a diving breath as the curve of the raft's stern protruded a few lengths from the lip of the grid, hovering on the cusp of the cycle.

"Take her! Take her now!"

Marrun socked his Pushers in. Not even attempting a run at the bonding points, he rammed the robotic propulsor units into the raft, spearing it with expanding crash harpoons. Vents flared and raged as Marrun countered the drift and appliedextraction power in a wild paw dance across his tasking board.

Like two pups with a sc.r.a.p, the Pusher units and the magnetic pull warred... then, ponderously, the raft was floating back and out of the grid it had entered far too long before.

Joyous pandemonium raged in the two control rooms stars apart.

There was, of course, an aftermath.

Communications between the gate control centers had to be reestablished, the wormhole had to be closed, and the emergency power diversions rerouted. A protracted series of systems tests and repairs were initiated and a start had to be made on establis.h.i.+ng a new set of operational protocols that would ensure a like event could never happen again.

And finally there was the press conference.

At Marta's insistence it would be an audio interview only, conducted over the communications link from her quarters. She was not about to present herself to the video scrutiny of two entire civilizations after an all-nighter at crisis stations. At least not until she had enjoyed a three water-credit bath, a gluttonous Earth import meal, and at least ten hours of sleep.

Over the laser-link channel from Life-Waters, good old Furry Tarrischall, as ebullient as ever, was more than willing to carry the show for her. She had only to add the occasional word at the interviewer'sprompt.

"We have solution," he proclaimed dramatically.

"I know wise Friend-Marta must have same solution as well. But we must coordinate or all is lost. We must begin the cycling of magnetic fields at the same instant! Same instant! We must cycle at same interval and one or other must start cycle. But how is to do this when we cannot speak? Tchah! It must be done through things already said, from commonalities already available and recognized.

"My mind chases itself. Then I recall last words spoken with Friend-Marta and the music of the Artist-Called-Miller given to me. Here is our commonality!"

"Er, Artist-called-Miller, Director Lane?" The interviewer inquired cautiously.

"As in Glenn," Lane replied into her interphone deck. "Tarrischall and I share a mutual appreciation of Terrestrial pre-atomic age swing music."

Marta sat back in her chair and started to unseal her suit liner, thinking fondly of the gloriously wasteful bath to come. Maybe she would even let Estiban cover the gate survey while she ran over to L-5 for a few days to spoil her grandchildren. "The previous evening I'd beamed Director Tarrischall some new musical selections and we'd been talking about them over the director's channel just before we'd gone on duty. One of the songs was Glenn Miller's cla.s.sic 'Seven O Five.' ""This gave time of cycle initiation," Tarrischall added smugly. "Standard Human Earth song, standard Human Earth time, five minutes after seventh hour, Greenwich Meridian."

"Also the version of 'Seven O Five' I'd sent Tarrischall was exactly two minutes and fifty five seconds long. That gave us our cycling time."

"I see." The interviewer said slowly. "Ingenious.

But that still leaves one question, Director Tarrischall. I understand that it was critical that one gate or the other had to start this magnetic cycling to clear the wormhole. Your team was the one that led off. How was that decided? Did you risk the communications between our words on a hunch, a guess?"

Tarrischall snort growled a nontranslatable profanity "_____guess! We knew! Easiest part of all.

Friend-Marta and I have nice music, I am male, she female. We dance!"

"Dance?" The interviewer was totally bewildered now.

"Of course," Marta Lane smiled a tired smile no one would see. "Back in the good old days the gentleman always led."

Mikeys

by Robert J. Sawyer

Dubbed "the dean of Canadian science fiction" by Dubbed "the dean of Canadian science fiction" by Dubbed "the dean of Canadian science fiction" by Dubbed "the dean of Canadian science fiction" by The Ottawa Citizen, The Ottawa Citizen, The Ottawa Citizen, The Ottawa Citizen, Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists Starplex, Frames.h.i.+ft, Factoring Humanity, Starplex, Frames.h.i.+ft, Factoring Humanity, Starplex, Frames.h.i.+ft, Factoring Humanity, Starplex, Frames.h.i.+ft, Factoring Humanity, and and and and Calculating G.o.d, Calculating G.o.d, Calculating G.o.d, Calculating G.o.d, and the and the and the and theNebula Award winner Nebula Award winner Nebula Award winner Nebula Award winner The Terminal Experiment. The Terminal Experiment. The Terminal Experiment. The Terminal Experiment. His story from the DAW His story from the DAW His story from the DAW His story from the DAW anthology anthology anthology anthology Sherlock Holmes in Orbit Sherlock Holmes in Orbit Sherlock Holmes in Orbit Sherlock Holmes in Orbit won France's top SF award won France's top SF award won France's top SF award won France's top SF award, Le Grand , Le Grand , Le Grand , Le Grand Prix de l'Imaginaire, Prix de l'Imaginaire, Prix de l'Imaginaire, Prix de l'Imaginaire, and his story from the DAW anthology and his story from the DAW anthology and his story from the DAW anthology and his story from the DAW anthology Dinosaur Dinosaur Dinosaur Dinosaur Fantastic Fantastic Fantastic Fantastic won Canada's top SF award, the Aurora. Rob's latest novel is won Canada's top SF award, the Aurora. Rob's latest novel is won Canada's top SF award, the Aurora. Rob's latest novel is won Canada's top SF award, the Aurora. Rob's latest novel is Hybrids, Hybrids, Hybrids, Hybrids, third volume in his Hugo Award-winning "Neanderthal Parallax" third volume in his Hugo Award-winning "Neanderthal Parallax" third volume in his Hugo Award-winning "Neanderthal Parallax" third volume in his Hugo Award-winning "Neanderthal Parallax"

trilogy. His website at www.sfwriter.com has been called "the largest genre trilogy. His website at www.sfwriter.com has been called "the largest genre trilogy. His website at www.sfwriter.com has been called "the largest genre trilogy. His website at www.sfwriter.com has been called "the largest genre writer's home page in existence" by writer's home page in existence" by writer's home page in existence" by writer's home page in existence" by Interzone. Interzone. Interzone. Interzone.

d.a.m.n, but it stuck in Don Lawson's craw-largely because Chuck Zakarian was right. After all, Zakarian was slated for the big Mars surface mission to be launched from Earth next year. He never said it to Don's face, but Don knew that Zakarian and the rest of NASA viewed him and Sasim as Mikeys-the derisive term for those, like Apollo 11's command-module pilot Mike Collins, who got to go almost all the way to the target.

Yes, G.o.dd.a.m.ned Zakarian would be remembered along with Armstrong, whom every educated person in the world could still name even today, seventy years after his historic small step. But who the h.e.l.l remembered Collins, the guy who'd stayed in orbit around the Moon while Neil and Buzz had made history on the lunar surface?

Don realized the point couldn't have been driven home more directly than by the view he was now looking at. He was floating in the control room of the Asaph Hall, the s.h.i.+p that had brought him and Sasim Remtulla to Martian s.p.a.ce from Earth. If he looked left, Don saw Mars, giant, red, beckoning.

And if he looked right, he saw- They called it the Spud. The Spud, for Christ'ssake!

Looking right, he saw Deimos, the outer of Mars'

two tiny moons, a misshapen hunk of dark, dark rock. How Don wanted to go to Mars, to stand on its sandy surface, to see up close its great valleys and volcanoes! But no. As Don's c.o.c.kney granddad used to say whenever they pa.s.sed a fancy house or an expensive car, "Not for the likes of us."

Mars was for Chuck Zakarian and company. The A-team.

Don and Sasim were the B-team, the also-rans. Oh, sure, they had now arrived at the vicinity of Mars long before anyone else. And Don supposed there would be some cachet in being the first person since Apollo 17 left the Moon in 1972 to set foot on another world-even if that world was just a 15-kilometer-long hunk of rock.

Why build a s.p.a.ce station from scratch to orbit Mars, the NASA mission planners had said? Why not simply plant the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p you had used to get there on Deimos? For one thing, you'd have the advantage of a little gravity-granted, only 0.0004 of Earth's, but still sufficient to keep things from floating away on their own.

And for another, you could mine Deimos for supplies. Like Mars' other moon Phobos, Deimos was a captured asteroid-specifically, a carbonaceous chondrite, meaning its stony ma.s.s contained claylike hydrous silicates from whichwater could be extracted. More than that, though, Deimos' density was so low that it had long been known that it couldn't be solid rock; much water ice was mixed into its structure.

Deimos and Phobos were both tidally locked, like Earth's moon, with the same side always facing the planet they orbited. But Phobos was just too d.a.m.n close-a scant 2.8 planetary radii from Mars' center, meaning it was really only good for looking down on the planet's equatorial regions. Deimos, on the other hand, orbited at seven planetary radii, affording an excellent view of most of Mars' surface. In Deimos, Mother Nature had provided a perfect infrastructure for a s.p.a.ce station to study Mars. The two Mikeys would use it to determine the exact landing spot and the itinerary of surface features Zakarian's crew would eventually visit.

"Ready?" said Don, taking his gaze away from the control-room window, from glorious Mars and drab Deimos.

Sasim gave him the traditional thumbs-up.

"Ready."

"All right," said Don. "It's time to crash."

Deimos' mean orbital velocity was a languorous 1.36 kilometers per second. Don and Sasim matched the Asaph Hall's speed with that of the tiny moon and nudged their s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p against it. A cloud of dust went up. Phobos had a reasonably dust-free surface, since ejecta thrown up from it was normallycaptured by Mars. But more distant Deimos still had lots of dust filling in its craters; whatever was blown off by impacts remained near it, eventually sifting down to blanket the surface. Indeed, although Deimos probably had a similar number of craters to Phobos, which sported dozens, only two on the outer moon were large and distinct enough to merit official International Astronomical Union names: Voltaire and Swift.

The Asaph Hall settled without so much as a bang-but it wasn't a landing, not according to the mission planners. No, the s.h.i.+p had docked with Deimos: the artificial part of the s.p.a.ce station rendezvousing with the natural part.

Apollo flights had been famous for discarding three stages before the tiny CSM/LM combo reached the Moon. But Asaph Hall, like the Percival Lowell that would follow with Zakarian's crew, had retained one of its empty fuel tanks. Each mission would convert its spent cylinder into a habitat module: the Hall docked with Deimos in orbit about Mars; the Lowell down where the action was, on the Martian surface. There was good precedent, after all. The first s.p.a.ce station to orbit Earth, Skylab, had been made out of an empty Saturn S-IVb booster. And, of course, Skylab had been crewed by the Mikeys of their day, Apollo pa.s.s-overs who were not quite good enough to go to the Moon.

"Mission Control," said Don, "we have completed docking with Deimos."When Armstrong had said, "Tranquillity Base here, the Eagle has landed," Houston had immediately replied, "Roger, Tranquillity, we copy you on the ground. We've got a bunch of guys here about to turn blue-we're breathing again. Thanks a lot."

But currently, Mars was 77,000,000 kilometers from Earth. That meant it would take four minutes and twenty seconds for Don's words to reach Mission Control, and another four minutes and twenty seconds for whatever reply they might send to start arriving here. He doubted Houston would say anything as emotional as the words beamed back to Tranquillity Base; Don would be happy if they just didn't make a crack about Mikeys.

Tranquillity Base. That had been such a cool name.

This place needed a good name, too.

Sasim had evidently been thinking the same thing.

"I'm not a fan of 'Mars Landing Precursor Observation Station,'" he said, turning to Don, quoting the official t.i.tle.

"Maybe we should call it Deimos Station," said Don.

But Sas shook his head. "Mir is Russian for 'peace'- that was a good name for a s.p.a.ce station.

But Deimos is Greek for 'terror.' Not quite correct in these difficult times."

"We'll come up with something," Don said.

After the mandatory sleep period, Don and Sasimwere ready to venture out onto the surface of Deimos. Although n.o.body would likely ever quote them back, Don had thought long and hard about what his first words would be when he stepped onto the Martian moon. "We come to the vicinity of the G.o.d of War," he said, "in G.o.dly peace and friends.h.i.+p."

Sasim followed him out, but evidently felt no one would care what the second person on Deimos had to say for posterity. He simply launched into his report.

"The surface, as expected, is covered with dust and regolith..."

Once Sasim was finished, Don looked at him through their polarized faceplates. A big grin broke out on Don's face. He used his chin to tap the control that cut the broadcast back to Earth, while leaving the channel to Sasim open. "All right," he said.

"Enough of the formalities. Here's one thing we can do that Zakarian will never be able to."

Don flexed his knees, crouched down, then pushed off the surface, straightening his legs as he did so, and- Clark Kent had nothing on him!

Up, up, and away!

Higher and higher.

Further and farther.

Closer and closer to Mars itself.

Don looked down. Sasim had dwindled to the size of the proverbial ant, his olive-green s.p.a.ce suit just amote against the dark gray surface of Deimos.

Don continued to rise for a while longer, but at last he felt gentle fingers tugging at him. It took several minutes, but slowly, gradually, sensually, he settled to the ground. He'd tried to just go up, but there'd been a slight angle to his flight, and he'd found himself coming down a hundred-odd meters from where he'd started.

"A true giant leap," said Sasim, over the radio.

"Beats all heck out of a small step."

Don smiled, although he knew he was too far away for Sasim to see him do that. The jump had been exhilarating. "Maybe this station isn't going to be so bad after all."

"I've got an idea," said Sasim, as they continued to work converting the fuel tank into a habitat. "We could call this place Asaph Hall."

"That's the name of our s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p," said Don, perplexed.

"Well, yes and no. Our s.h.i.+p is called Asaph Hall, after the guy who discovered the moons of Mars.

And when you refer to a s.h.i.+p, you write the name in italics. But this whole station could be Asaph Hall-'hall,' like in a building, get it?-all in roman type."

"That's a pretty picayune distinction," said Don, unfolding an articulated section divider that had been stored for the out-ward journey. "It'll get confusing."Sas frowned. "Maybe you're right."

"Don't worry. We'll think of something."

It took several days to finish the conversion of the empty fuel tank into the habitat, even though all the fixtures were designed for easy a.s.sembly. During the process, Don and Sasim had slept in their s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p's command module, but at last the habitat was ready for them to move in. And although it was roomy-bigger than Skylab or Mir-Don was finally beginning to appreciate the wisdom of making an entire moonlet into a s.p.a.ce station. He could see how being confined to just the habitat would have gotten claustrophobic after a while, if he and Sas didn't have the rest of Deimos to roam over.

And roam over it they did. It only took a dozen leaps to circ.u.mnavigate their little-well, it wasn't a globe; the technical name for Deimos' shape was a triaxial ellipsoid. It was a lot of fun leaping around Deimos-and, despite the low gravity, it was actually excellent exercise, too. Up, up, up, that brief magical moment during which you felt suspended, at one with the cosmos, and then gently, oh so gently, sliding down out of the sky.

Don and Sas were approaching the line that separated Deimos' nearside-the part of the moon that always faced toward Mars-from its farside.

Like the blooded horn of some great beast, the now-crescent Mars stretched from Deimos' smooth surface up toward the zenith. One more leap, and-Yup, there it went: the Red Planet disappearing behind the horizon. With its glare gone from the sky, Don tried to find Earth. He oriented himself with Ursa Major, found the zodiac, scanned along, and there it was, a brilliant blue point of light, right in the heart of Scorpius, not far from red Antares, the rival of Mars.

Sas, Don had noticed, had a funny habit of bending his knees when he contacted the surface. It wasn't as if there was any real impact to absorb-it was just a bit of theater - and it made Don smile.

Don's s.p.a.ce suit was a sort of mustard color, a nice contrast with Sas'. The dark ground loomed closer and closer to him, and- There wasn't enough speed with contact to make any sort of sound that might be conducted through Don's boots. And yet, still, as his soles touched Deimos, something felt strange this time, just different enough from every other landing Don had made so far to pique his curiosity.

He'd raised up a fair bit of dust, and it took him a few seconds to realize exactly what had happened.

His foot hadn't hit crumbly regolith. It had hit something unyielding. Something smooth.

Don did a gentle backflip, landing upside down on his gloved hands. He used his right one to brush away dust.

"Sas!" Don called into his helmet mike. "Come here!"Sasim did a long jump, bringing him close to where Don was. Another small hop brought him right up to Don. "What's up?" asked Sas-perhaps a joking reference to Don's current odd posture.

Don used his fingertips to gently flip himself back into a normal orientation. "Have a look."

Sas tipped over until he was more or less hovering just above the surface. "What the heck is that?" he said.

"I'm not sure," said Don. "But it looks like polished metal."

Don and Sas brushed dust away for more than an hour, and were still exposing new metal. It was indeed manufactured- it looked to be anodized aluminum. "Maybe it's part of the Viking orbiter, or one of those Mars missions like Mars Polar Lander that went astray," said Don, sounding dubious even to himself.

"Maybe," said Sas. "But it's awfully big..." "Still no sign of an edge," said Don. "Maybe we should try another approach. Let's each go ten meters away, dig down, and see if the sheet is there under the surface. If it is, go on another ten meters, and try again. Keep going until we come to the edge. You go leading; I'll go trailing." On any tidally locked satellite, "leading" was toward the leading hemisphere, the one that faced forward into the direction of orbital motion; trailing was the opposite way.Sas agreed, and they each set out. Don easily hopped ten meters, and it didn't take more than digging with his boot's toe to uncover more of the metal. He hopped another ten and again easily found metal, although it seemed a little deeper down this time. Ten more; metal again. A further ten and, although he had to dig through about a meter of dust to get to it, he found metal once more. Of course, because of the puny gravity, there was no danger of sinking into the dust, but the stuff that had been disturbed was now hanging in charcoallike clouds above the surface.

Although it had been Don's plan to go by ten-meter increments, he was starting to think that such trifling hops might result in a lot of wasted time. He gave a more vigorous kick off the ground this time and sailed forward fifty-odd meters. And yet again he found smooth metal, although it was buried even deeper out here, and- "Don!" Sas' voice, shouting into his speaker. "I've found the edge!"

Don turned around and quickly flew across the 150 or so meters to where Sas was standing. The edge he'd uncovered was perfectly smooth. They both dug down around it with their gloved hands. It turned out the aluminum sheet was quite thin-no more than a centimeter. Don started working along one direction, and Sas along the other. They had to expose several meters of it before they noticed that the edge wasn't straight. Rather, it was gentlycurved. After a few more minutes, it was apparent that they were working their way along the rim of a disk that was perhaps a kilometer in diameter.