Riddled Space Page 2

  “I'll bet you've been saving up. Well, I and mine have been real lonely, too, but we're going to have to postpone it until I get this damned UN business wrapped up, whatever it is.”

  “I understand,” said Shep.

  “Well, I don't,” said Lisa, her hand gripping her phone tightly. “All I asked for was one single night with my husband, and Subby couldn't give me that. How can you be so calm when I'm about ready to tell him to screw himself?”

  “Because you've got enough on your mind without worrying about me and the kids. We'll get by. Betcha the next time you're in town, it's going to be for at least two weeks. Say, dinner at Per Se in Manhattan?

  “Per Se?” said Lisa, her voice rising. “You can't get a reservation there with any less than three months’ notice!”

  “Leave the worrying to me, sweetie. You just knock 'em dead in the Monolith. Talk with you later, you've got to get to New York.”

  Lisa smiled sadly as she disconnected. The Monolith—their nickname for the iconic United Nations Building. It had been eighty-one years since 2001, and they still hadn’t seen any signs of aliens, particularly on the Moon. Trust Shep to know how to make her smile.

  Now, how to get to New York before midnight?

  ***

  “How was it?” asked Shep when he called the next evening. “Can you sit down?”

  “Shep...” she warned, twirling her index finger around. She had warned him their calls were almost certainly tapped whenever she was in United Nations buildings. They had agreed to keep their conversations bland and general. As a woman, Lisa knew her position as one of the most senior astronauts in the United Nations Space Operations Command, or UNSOC, was due mostly to merit, and partly by the political requirement to have women in high positions in the most visible agency of the UN.

  Shep nodded in her phone screen. “I take it the talks were productive?”

  “Somewhat, especially for a first day.” Lisa got up to pace in the temporary quarters allotted to UN operational personnel. “But you know I cannot discuss them.”

  “I know. Well, now that we have time, unlike last night...Susan has completed the entire set of language arts lessons in the school. Even though it's February, they want to start her on the seventh grade ones. Edward says they are going to dissect a frog in about a month and brought home a permission slip. He's pretty excited about it.”

  “Well, keep him out of the swamp come spring,” she said, referring to the muddy area in the single patch of trees in their neighborhood. “I don't want to have him 'practicing' on his own.”

  “Well ahead of you,” chuckled Shep. “I reread the Moses and Isaac story to him again.”

  “Subtle. How did he take it?”

  “He said he'd call Child Services if I suggested a trip to the mountains. But he also promised to leave the wildlife alone. Susan's eager to get started on the seventh grade stuff.”

  “For Susan, I respect your judgment,” said Lisa. “But I'm worried that we're just kicking the can down the road to the seventh grade teacher.”

  Shep agreed. Managing a child prodigy through the one-size-fits-all public school system was all about trade-offs. “Did they give you any extra time or are we still planning for one week with you?”

  Lisa smiled. Seeing her family again was far more important to her than the micromanagement of the UNSOC Space Budget Panel. “I told the boss nothing will keep me from taking a week with the man I love.” She smiled into the screen.

  “I worry about you,” said Shep. “Space is a hostile environment. And then there are the physical dangers.”

  “And I worry about you in the hostile environment of single mothers,” she replied. She knew asking him to stay celibate for the standard three-year tour was unrealistic, so they had carefully worked out an 'arrangement', as she called it. He assured her he had never so much as thought about using it.

  Shep smiled into the screen. “These little chaperones we call children keep ole' Shep plenty busy. Please stop worrying about it, since I’m not going to do a thing.” He explained his reasoning back when they had gotten married. He knew that officers and enlisted couldn't fraternize. He had said, “So, if you can't boff, neither can I.”

  Lisa relented. “I've got a whole bunch of stuff to study for tomorrow, Shep, and I have to get started before the mini-bar calls me.”

  “It's probably stocked with the finest Bhutan Single Malt.” Shep's image waved at her. She blew him a kiss as she hung up.

  John Hodges

  UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, January 11 2080, 2315 hrs

  John Hodges floated quietly, held in place with two bungee cords clipped onto a terrycloth belt velcroed around his waist. As the Deputy Chief Engineer on board the Roger Chaffee, he had an entire berth to himself, but he seldom used it for more than sleep. Tonight, however, sleep eluded him.

  The death of Angus Turley was a hard blow. Moonbase Collins was dangerous, sure, but the number of casualties was surprisingly low for such a hazardous environment. Most operations were underground, or at least under some kind of cover. There had been micrometeor impacts before; the two casualties during construction of The Works were the result of centimeter-sized bits of rock slamming near astronauts and the ricochets breaching their suits.

  This was the first time there had been a concentrated spray of them. Other than the famous case of The Old Man of the Chaffee, Roque Zacarías, it was the first time space junk had directly hit someone. It was just pure bad luck that Angus was on the surface of the Moon at the wrong place and time, and had been killed by them.

  John shuddered involuntarily. At least in the Collins, they had a lot of places where they could shelter. Above ground, there were the sheds at The Works and one large cave. Underground was far safer, with any number of pressurized compartments. On the Chaffee, any compartment, even the one he was trying to sleep in, could be holed by a piece of space junk, killing anyone inside in a matter of minutes or less.

  He tried to roll over, but only succeeded in twisting the bungee cords. He stopped his oscillations and tried relaxation breathing. Rolling over was pointless when you were in freefall anyway.

  At five-ten and forty-five years old, John Albert Hodges was the highest ranking African-American on the station as well, although that was not nearly as important in 2082 as it might have been in 1982. He was at the top of his professional years, with an engineer's love of solving physical problems. The Engineering crew consisted of four engineers plus himself, all rotating on watch duty.

  Engineering problems were one thing, personal problems were something else.

  As usual, it was his latest call groundside to his wife Tyra that filled his brain with disquiet.

  Nineteen years they’d been married. His family, his mother especially, had mocked him for getting married at twenty-three. Too young, she had said, and gleefully laid out all the ways in which the upcoming marriage would fail.

  His father was more reserved. “Just make sure this is what you want,” he had said. “Marriage, no matter how long it lasts, is a life changing event. Be certain of her, but more importantly, be certain of yourself.”

  John sighed. He missed his father, dead now for eight years. Dad couldn't really do anything to sway Mom, and the abuse from her continued long after John and Tyra's marriage was consummated.

  “That's just the way she is, John. I wish I could change her. I know, I know—you're going to tell me to get her some kind of mental help. But how to you turn to your wife of thirty years and tell her she needs to see a shrink? No, this must be endured.”

  John took those words to heart. When he and Tyra had been struggling early in their marriage, all he had to do was imagine how happy a divorce would make his mother and he buckled down to solve whatever problem they had. He knew it made him look weak to Tyra, and even invited more abuse from her, but whatever she could come up with was nothing compared to whatever his mother would inflict on him were he to walk away from the marriage.

&n
bsp; John grimaced at the memory of those days. Gradually, he and Tyra's relationship evolved to a somewhat happy medium. Having children helped. Now, Tyra and the kids were in a solid house in an upper middle-class neighborhood near good schools. He was still working like a dog, though, climbing the UNSOC Engineering track. He had spent several six-month stretches working on the ground and launch facilities, mostly in the United States, for the past fifteen years. Now, he was working at the highest level—six months on the Chaffee followed by two weeks of vacation at home. It was a three-year stint, and it was the pinnacle of his career.

  Tyra hated it. Oh, she liked the money, no doubt. But she railed against his continued absence, demanding more than a “two weeks out of twenty-six husband.” He tried to tell her taking a ground job would effectively end his career, plus, the flight pay was the only thing that kept the kids in private school.

  John took off his class ring and left it hanging in midair. He was in space! John tried to console himself with the delicious feeling of floating. That was something no Hodges had ever gotten close to doing. In fact, of all the children he knew, growing up, everyone he had ever gone to school with, he was the only one to have made it into the great, floating dark.

  Unbidden, the memory of his mother spoiled it.

  “So, while you're working yourself to death out there, I bet she will be screwing you over down here.” The two women hated each other with a passion, and refused to ever be in the same room. The worst of the whole mess, though, was his mother just might have been right. Tyra was definitely cooling towards him.

  John gave up resisting the flood of memories. He let them roll over him once again. Maybe this time, they would sting a little less, though he doubted they would.

  ***

  Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. “Another space hitch? When will it end? You promised me you'd stay on the ground until the kids graduated!”

  John spread his hands from where he sat at the kitchen table. “I put in my preferences! But when UNSOC assigns you, that's where you go.”

  “Bullshit! In the past, you've had choices! Didn't you change spots with what's-his-name, that freak who chatters to the sewage pumps? Why can't you do it again?”

  “Who, Panjar?” John thought briefly of one of the engineers. The man anthropomorphized every piece of gear he worked on.

  “Whatever the hell his name is. Swap with him again.” Tyra stomped across the kitchen, yanked open the door of the dishcycler, and jammed her coffee mug and plate onto the cleaning tines.

  “He's already up on the Chaffee.”

  Tyra banged her fist on the counter. “You always have an excuse!”

  John counted slowly to five. The stress relief exercise seemed to work. “The position I've been assigned is Deputy Chief of Engineering on the Chaffee. It's not something you 'swap' for.”

  Tyra whirled on him. “Deputy Chief Janitor, you mean. And before you tell me it's a promotion and you get a raise, and that means more stuff for me and the kids, yeah, I already know it. Money doesn't keep me warm at night when you're hurtling overhead.”

  John shrugged minutely. “It's what I signed up for. You knew it when you married me. Look, the kids will be out of high school in three years, I'll be eligible for retirement in five. I rotate down for two weeks every six months so my body doesn't forget the Earth. Lots of couples manage, why can't we?”

  Tyra exploded. “That was twenty years ago! Back then it was fun! No kids, we travelled all over the world. Now when you're down, it's like a two-week whirl of chores, for both of us. When was the last time we had a real vacation, just the family?”

  “Three years ago. We got in El Diablo and drove all around the US. Kids loved it. They want to do it again.” John got up and walked over to Tyra. She folded her arms in front of her. He put his arms around her anyway. “I love you, babe. I'd do anything for you and the kids.

  Tyra looked up at him, eyes still furious. “Prove it. Stay on the ground.”

  John looked around. “Ready to give this all up? Because we're not going to be able to keep the house and keep the kids in Jindane Academy. It's going to have to be one or the other.”

  “Money, money, money,” growled Tyra. “It's always money. What about us? You. Me. You know. Us?”

  “I love you. You told me you love me too. I'd live in a shack, if that's what it would take to make you happy. I didn't pick this house, or private school for the kids. 'Us' is fine. The bank account isn't. I'll stay on the ground, if that's what you want, but we can't live here anymore. That's the deal, hun. It's cold, hard numbers. I didn't set it up this way, but this is the hand we've been dealt.”

  Tyra pushed her way out of his arms, dropping into a chair. She suddenly slammed both fists on the table, making the remaining dishes jump and rattle. “I hate it! Why can't I have this house? And the kids in Jindane? And you on the ground? How does that old boomer song go? Two out of three ain't bad. What a load of shit!”

  John leaned back against the sink and spread his hands. “It's what we've got. You've got to give me some direction, though. Do I take the job? Retire now and try to find something else? You gotta tell me what you want.”

  Tyra bounced up, grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him. “I want you! And the house and Jindane. All three.”

  John, warmed by her reaction, tried to kiss her. The left side of his face exploded in pain. He looked at her in surprise. She was shaking her right hand. “What was that for?”

  “I am NOT in the mood, you horny bastard. I'm pissed off. I don't see why I have to be the one to choose. Why are you putting this all on me? I can see it now. The kids will complain about moving and you'll stick the blame on me. Kids will be upset when they have to go to public school—it's all Mom's fault. Uh-uh—it's not my fault at all!”

  John touched his left cheek. Just a slap—but he never saw it coming. “Well, if I stayed on the ground, and you found something...”

  “Work? Is that what you're saying? Nobody in this neighborhood works!” She got right up into his face. “You know what they'll say when the only one who works here is the black woman, right? Think about that for a minute.” She spun away to the table, where she picked up her commpad, scanning it for any messages. “Damned ofays still think they're better than us.”

  John stayed where he was, running through the possibilities in his head. Tyra was plenty pissed, he knew. When she was like this, the slightest wrong step would be remembered and rehashed for the next several years. He needed to be right the first time.

  “Tyra,” he began, and her head shot up.

  “Oh, I suppose you have some utterly brilliant solution.”

  John walked over to the table and sat down. He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip of the cold, acidic brew. “No, I don't. But I do want to solve this.”

  “By making me accept you disappearing, right?” Tyra was wadding a napkin in her hands, compressing it to be as small and dense as possible.

  “You know what the budget is like. We can't have more than one month of reduced pay before bills go delinquent. How about we compromise: I go up for a year. During that time, I push out my resume to some folks I know. When I come down for R&R, I do the interviews. If they don't come through, I do it again at the next rotation down. I'll get a job offer, I just know it. Then I'll retire from UNSOC, and with the pension coming in on top of the money from the new job, we'll do more than just survive.”

  “I work and slave and do without,” she replied.

  “So do I,” countered John. “But I want all of us to have it all. Give me a year, and I'll prove it can work.”

  Tyra considered. “No. Once you're up there, you're with all your astronaut buddies, and you'll never get around to it. 'Oh, I was in comm shadow,' you'll say, or 'they raised the price of internet connections', or some other lame excuse. Three years will go by, and the kids won't even remember they've got a father. No. You either stay here or I find someone else who can be a dad to your kids.”
>
  John tried every trick in the book, but there was no stemming the tide of anger he felt. He did the only thing he could do. Carefully, quietly, he put his dishes in the sink, then walked out of the kitchen. All those years of danger, death lurking behind every bulkhead, just so she can live in a five-bedroom house in the gated community.

  The alarm went off with a slowly rising series of tones. Another day. I wake up to the smell of old socks. He tore open the restraining waistband that tethered him in his cubby. I wonder what she smells when she wakes up. Or who.

  Eddie Zanger

  7500 meters above Canaveral Air Station, Florida, January 25, 2080

  Eddie Zanger was twenty-eight years old and living the dream. He was one of those natural pilots who all pilots claim to be but so few really are. He was cruising in an UNSOC jet trainer, keeping his piloting skills fresh, but this flight was so boring he could do it in his sleep. So he daydreamed, which was not as dangerous as one would think. Eddie's subconscious would alert him if one of his instruments read danger or if the view outside the cockpit looked wrong.

  He thought briefly about Angus Turley and his untimely death. A hell of a way to go, but then again, was there any good way to die? At least it was quick and painless, said the rumor mill. Eddie shook himself. He didn't want to spend time on negative thoughts. How about the early days?

  Eddie had soloed in an ancient Cessna 172 when he was fourteen years old. A highly illegal flight, but out in the sparsely populated plains of South Dakota, folks generally minded their own business. Besides, the common thought was, if his parents thought him old enough to do it, who was anyone else to say otherwise?

  Eddie chuckled at the memory. His father, a rancher and small-scale farmer, was never one to be overly concerned with the law, but highly concerned with his neighbors. Eddie's fingers twitched, thinking of all those flights where he had snuck up into the clouds, firing paintball rounds filled with dry ice pellets into thick heavy cumulus. The sudden rainstorms on the farmland were sometimes the only thing that would save the crops, and with them, the farms of his father and those nearby.