Riddled Space Read online

  John was extremely conscious of the woman perched above him. Celine Greenfield was thirty-two, lithe, blonde, and happily divorced from Garth, her control freak of a husband. That much was common knowledge. But Lisa had told him some things she really shouldn't have.

  Celine's ex, Garth, wouldn't let her go. He hid GPS trackers in her car to see where she went during the day. She even found one sewn into the lining of her wallet. After the divorce, and despite court orders and even a few stints in the local jail, he kept harassing her. She had moved half a dozen times, but he would reappear within a few months, usually seated in her recliner in her apartment. She never dated after Garth nearly killed a coworker for merely talking with her.

  John shook his head. The world was full of screwed up people. Space, too, but most of the really whacked-out people never made it through the screening process.

  ***

  John would be shocked if he knew that Celine was also thinking of Garth and her temporary escape from his control.

  After the incident with the teddy bear, Celine thought hard about moving again. Only this time, it would be completely random. Different state, different career, different everything. Change her name, figure out how to live off the grid, see how long she could maintain it. She even considered contacting the US Marshalls Service to get some tips on how to disappear, like they did for the folks in Witness Protection.

  One evening, as she passed a bus stop, she saw an advertisement for the UN Space Corps. They were looking for people who could be trained to work in space, both in orbit and on the Moon. She thought about it and remembered Garth's seasickness the one time they took a cruise. Maybe he would have a hard time following her into space. She signed up the next day, and received an invitation to UNSOC Ground School a month later.

  Squatting on her perch reminded her of the day in UNSOC Ground School when Garth showed up in class. Garth had somehow gotten himself assigned to her cohort. He wasted no time in warning off all other men. She grimaced at the memory, just as John popped out from under her station to get another tool. He looked away and returned to his task. Celine, caught up in her reverie, didn't notice.

  The class that day was pass-fail: the three-axis simulator. Candidates were strapped into a gimbal-mounted chair that spun on all three axes. It simulated a tumbling craft with the candidate at the controls. Candidates who failed had two retries, then were kicked out of UNSOC Ground School.

  The candidate was required to manipulate the control panel set in front of them, flipping toggles, closing contacts, and popping circuit breakers, all while following instructions from an overhead speaker. As they worked, the chair was spun about all three axes. The greatest reason for failure was disorientation and nausea. The horror stories about this part of the boot camp were legendary.

  ***

  “Celine, how's John doing under there?” asked Lisa Daniels, sticking her head out of her Ready Room. “We've got a MoonCan rendezvous in two hours.”

  John stuck his head out from under the station, calling out, “Got the old part out, shouldn't be more than a half hour now.”

  Celine shook her head slowly as John looked back in her direction.

  “What?” he inquired.

  “She asked me,” Celine replied crisply. “Men,” she muttered underneath her breath.

  John let the comment slide off of him. “Sorry,” he apologized. He retrieved the new valve and drifted back under the console.

  Women, he thought. I'll never figure them out.

  ***

  This was Celine's favorite part of this trip down memory lane. She went first on the three-axis simulator. She was nervous, but determined. The commands were simple-turn this, toggle that. The simulator flipped her onto her back, but she continued performing the commands. Upside down. Still doing fine. She felt a little queasy, but forced it from her mind as she continued working the board. She focused so intently that she suddenly found herself at rest, facing the instructor. He smiled at her.

  “85 of 100. You are a 'go' at this station,” he said. “You may take your kit to Room 182. Next!”

  Garth climbed into the chair.

  “Betcha I get 90,” he snarled, staring at her. His sequence started.

  She wasn't sure, but it seemed that the chair went through an identical sequence of turns and spins, at least at the beginning. She nudged the person next to her.

  “Does it move the same way each time?”

  “They say it does. How did you pass?”

  “It's like they said, just concentrate on the board and the commands. Don't worry about the movements.”

  “I dunno, I think I'm gonna barf.”

  Celine shook her head. “You have to get that out of your head or you will for certain.”

  Garth was looking distinctly green as the chair flipped him upside down. He got another couple of commands done, then suddenly vomited all over himself. The test did not stop, but Garth did. The chair continued to whirl him around, he continued heaving, and the commands kept coming. Eventually, the sequence ended.

  They unstrapped him, his coveralls spattered.

  “26 of 100. You have received a 'no-go' at this station,” intoned the instructor. “Hose it down, candidate. We will use the other simulator until you clean this one up.”

  Celine had seen all she needed to see. She picked up her kit and left the simulator room without a backwards glance.

  “I'll get up there somehow!” shouted Garth to her retreating back. He kept shouting at her until the door clicked shut behind her.

  Garth fared even worse at his two retests, she had heard. He kept trying to requalify for space until UNSOC permanently barred him from its facilities. She smiled at her freedom from the man.

  ***

  John slid out from under the console to retrieve a tool, and stopped, stunned. He had seen Celine before, but never like this. She was smiling blissfully, her blonde hair drifting about her head like a halo. She was...happy. He had never seen her that way before. And he had never seen her from this perspective, either. He was looking up from the base of her perch to her face. It seemed like she was on her back, knees drawn up and ready for her lover.

  She suddenly noticed John staring slack-jawed at her. “Problem?” she grated at him harshly. She hated being stared at. As only one of twenty theoretically available women in a crew of two hundred, she wearied of the constant stares and commentary wherever she went.

  “I've never seen you so happy, Celine,” he said. “I meant no offense.”

  Celine hesitated. She knew that the Chief Engineer wouldn't dare risk any kind of harassment complaint, not at his position.

  “Sorry, Hodges.”

  He raised his hand, forestalling her.

  “I know. Handful of women, lots of guys, everyone trying to make a play. Well, here's one you don't have to worry about. I've got a wife and kids groundside.” He nodded at her, picked up the tool he needed, and returned to the task. For now, he thought.

  Celine subsided. The fact that he broke off conversation boded well. Most men would trail her like puppy dogs until she was forced to cut them off. John seemed different. He was a tough man in an environment that required toughness. Yet there was a vulnerability there that called to her. She waffled between apologizing more to him and keeping her silence.

  Try as he might, John just could not get that image of a happy Celine out of his mind. He felt her pull, even if she had no intention of attracting anyone. He was in trouble. Bad trouble.

  He fitted the vulnerable tubing onto the valve flanges with exquisite care. He inspected the seals from all angles before he flipped over on his stomach and wrapped his legs around her perch to tighten the sealing bolts back onto the valve.

  ***

  Celine looked down on John's tensed buttocks with appreciation. From a completely artistic point of view, he was quite a specimen. She could easily imagine clenching her hands on them as she pulled herself onto him. A shadow fell over her. She looked up to see
the Commander gliding over to her perch. Lisa looked down at the object of her gaze and smiled.

  “Quite a view, eh,” Lisa murmured to Celine. “Bet you'd love to take some of that to one of the sleds and shut the hatch.”

  Celine stared at Lisa in shock. She had never heard her Commander make such an explicit comment before. Before she quite thought of the correct reply, Lisa gave her a gentle punch and shushed her with a finger to her lips.

  “That reminds me, John, I'm hitting the galley to get some lunch. How are the buns?” she asked, winking at Celine.

  “Very funny,” growled John. “You are scandalizing our Astrogator.” He didn't move, since he was still trying to get the valve in place.

  “I don't think so,” said Celine, smiling. “I was thinking of having some cinnamon buns, myself,” she replied.

  “You're gonna have to wait until tomorrow,” said John. “They're on the menu Thursdays. Today's Wednesday.”

  “He got us there,” said Lisa. “But there is cheesecake for dessert tonight.”

  “Not going to work,” said John. “No HR downcheck is finding its way into my record.” He pulled himself into view as he reached for the panel. “Although space is by nature a hostile work environment, I refuse to add to it.” He secured the panel, gathered his tools, and bobbed out from under the console.

  “Thank you, Ms. Greenfield, for letting me in here to work on the valve. Let me know if you notice anything unusual.”

  Lisa reached out to snag his coverall. “Not so fast, Scotty.”

  “Scotty?” asked Celine.

  “Star Trek, Celine,” said John. “Our commander's secret obsession. She's been calling me Scotty ever since I started working in the engineering spaces, about ten years ago.” He smiled. “If she starts calling you Sulu, you know you're doomed.”

  “Who is Sulu?” she asked

  Lisa waved them both together. “Now you have something to talk about. John, tell her about Star Trek. Celine, let him. I need my department heads to be able to relate.” She drifted back to her Ready Room with a push off Celine's perch.

  “I guess that's an order,” said John.

  Celine shrugged. “It's okay. I'm sorry I was snapping at you earlier.”

  “No biggie. Now, about Star Trek...”

  A half hour later, John and Celine were not quite friends, but they definitely weren't enemies.

  ***

  Lisa had read Celine's personnel file several times. She knew why Celine was in space, and privately approved of it. However, the woman's almost pathological hostility towards the rest of the crew was beginning to wear on morale. Lisa had seized upon John's maintenance visit as a harmless way to open up Celine. It seemed to have gone well so far.

  As time wore on, Celine would defrost almost to room temperature when John was near. Lisa, who had many sources amongst the crew, kept tabs on the scuttlebutt that mentioned either of them. John, in self-protection, ensured that everyone knew he was a happily married man. Still, he had to continuously answer questions from men about Celine.

  “Guys, seriously. We're friends, sure. I don't know how to get in her pants any more than you do, even if I wanted to, which I don't. Frankly, I don't think anyone up here stands a shot.”

  “Come on, Chief, you gotta have some kinda secret!”

  “Only this: the commander semi-ordered us to be friendly to each other. I don't ask about her love life, at all. As far as I know, she ain't doin' women, she ain't doin' guys, I don't even know if she does herself. She's alone and likes it that way. That's all I know.”

  ZG Promenade

  UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, June 1 2081, 1920 hrs

  “Come one, SuperGirl, it's Friday night!” Olaf 'Meatball' Skjornsen called into the female dormitory. “That gal is never on time.”

  “I don't know why you put up with her,” said Kiki Mfume.

  “Aw, she's a handful,” said Meatball. “But life is never dull around here.”

  Kiki drifted away from one handhold towards another. “How long have you two been together?”

  “Together? I wouldn't exactly say that,” said Meatball. “More like following the same orbit for the time being. Women have it great up here—ten to one ratio, female commander, bunch of men standing around just itching to pound someone who gets out of line. Lois could look at me right now, say 'get lost', and pick up with you, and there's not a damned thing I could do about it.”

  “No chance of that,” said Lois “SuperGirl” McClain, as she floated out of the dormitory hatch. “I like you, Kiki, but I'm in a Norwegian sort of mood this season.”

  “Hello, Lois,” said Kiki solemnly. “You are looking good tonight.”

  Lois was dressed in all black tights, with a ruffled top that seemed glued on. She was 160cm tall and weighed 45 kilos, and that was dripping wet with a brick in each hand. Like dynamite, she packed a lot of power in her small frame. Growing up with four brothers, she had to fight to make sure she got her fair share. Her feisty nature never left her.

  “That's what I like about you, Lois,” said Meatball. “You know what you want, and you go after it. I'm just glad that it's me you want. What's your pleasure?”

  “Not the Commons. I am so tired of that. Nothing but fights over the what's on the cube, overwhelming noise, and fighting off men every time you have to take a leak. Let's hit The Factory. Who's DJing tonight?”

  “You're not going to believe this. Panjar,” said Kiki.

  Lois did an impromptu somersault in freefall. She tucked and came out of it just in time to grab a flange on the corridor's ceiling. “No! Really? This I've got to see.”

  Meatball shrugged. “Let's,” he said.

  The Factory was merely the wide corridor that ran down the center of the second cylinder of the Chaffee. The width was necessary for a few reasons: raw materials carriers, manufacturing machinery, and the transport cans for finished product were all as wide as possible. The corridor was about ten meters across.

  “Tell me that story again, Olaf,” said Lois. “When the UNSOC boss came up.” Of all the spacehands, she was the only one who never called him 'Meatball'.

  Olaf was proud of his Norwegian heritage, which just gave the grunts something to use against him. Almost as soon as he introduced himself, he was labelled “The Swedish Meatball”, which got shortened to “Meatball”. It irked him, but after a couple of times when he complained, only to see people razz him more, he kept quiet about it. Some wags kept it up, but the rest started calling him Olaf. Lois knew how much it bothered him, so she always called him Olaf.

  “Subby? It was classic. It must have been back around the beginning of Holt's command. Yeah, that was it. Suddenly, word came down that the Director-General himself wanted to come inspect the station. Why? Beats the crap out of me. But Holt was new as a commander, so he put out the word—the whole station had to be cleaned top to bottom. Forget how impossible that is, we did what we could.

  “Guy gets up here, and he's a little squirt...”

  “Hey!” said Lois. “I represent that remark!”

  “Sorry,” Olaf said, arm-hugging her. “Anyway, he was...unimpressive. Apart from being un-tall, he was sick as a dog.”

  Kiki interrupted. “Didn't he take his meds before coming up?”

  “The man was a walking, talking case of insecurity. I bet he thought taking meds was unmanly, or that the ground crew was trying to prank him.”

  “Stupid,” said Lois. “Everyone takes the meds, even the veterans. Especially the veterans—they've had to clean up after the manly ones.”

  “So, yeah, the guy just plain looks weird. You know how everyone looks all sick and pasty when you first come up? Then you get used to the color of the lighting and everyone looks normal again? Subby had that kind of sick pastiness. Given his distinct green shade, people just started moving out of the way in a hurry.

  “Holt's a brave soul, though, and he's towing Subby through the station towards The Factory, because Subby wanted
to see the manufacturing area in particular. As soon as they get into the space, Subby looks all around, like he's in an airplane hangar or something. He starts ranting about all the wasted space. He's really working himself up to a real fit...and lets go of his handhold while waving his arms around. Of course he drifts away from everyone, but nobody wants to go after him.”

  “Oh, no,” said Kiki, who had never heard the story before.

  “Oh, yes. I was there.” Olaf's face was grim. “The guy started spinning on all three axes, and everything he did only served to speed up his rotations. One of the tenants came out of their cubic with a magnetic dolly full of product. Unfortunately, they were almost upside down in relation to Subby, and started jinking around him, setting up a rotation of their own. They were old hands, so they were fine, but Subby was not.

  “He stopped waving his arms around and just quietly spun. I happened to see his face full on as he spun by. His eyes were huge, and long ropes of saliva started drifting out of his mouth. When he tried to swallow, of course that didn't work, and his whole digestive system went into reverse.”

  Lois was laughing hard now, slapping the bulkhead.

  Olaf looked at her sourly. “Lois has never had the Space Whoops. She has to be a runaway from the circus or something—nothing makes her motion sick. She floats upside down to us, eats cold pepperoni pizza with the oil oozing out of it, tosses back shots of cinnamon whiskey, and laughs at the dying.”

  Lois is speechless by now, knees drawn up and slowly rotating.

  “All I know is that everyone left, and I was the last spacehand standing, so Holt detailed me to clean everything up. I don't know what it was, but the guy must have been eating swamp rat curried in skunk sauce. I almost lost it myself! And she thinks it's hilarious.”

  Long tear worms were streaming out of Lois' eyes as she laughed uncontrollably. “Skunk sauce!” she gasped. “Olaf never says the same thing twice.” She whooped another couple of times. “That's why I ask him to tell the story, just to see what Subby ate this time.”