We have again made good progress last month and things start to take more and more shape. With two more chapters to be translated and 14 left to be rewritten we are indeed seeing light at the end of the tunnel!
Proof-reading has made good progress, too, thanks Merc & Pixel! We have got
1 Proof: 12 chapters
2 Proofs: 10 chapters
3 Proofs: 7 chapters
... getting there!!
Alright, enough statistics. Here now chapter five of Helge's story, re-written by Steve Miller.
Chapter 5
Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.
Les Brown
Only a sporadic screech, like fracturing glass, broke the deafening silence and his mind was filled with --- nothing. There was no thought, just a vague awareness of the shifting patterns of light falling on his closed eyelids and the merciless, stabbing cold that froze out all other pain and all thought until a swelling wave of nausea, pulsing from deep in the core of his spinal column, swept Kyle William Brennan to consciousness. He fought the urge to vomit, aware that he was still in his helmeted space suit and could choke to death. He succeeded, just. The remaining air in his suit tasted stale and redolent with a stink like that of mud and rotting vegetation. Slowly, his senses began to focus. Everything; his head, his neck, each limb, hurt in a dozen different places.
Brennan squinted and carefully opened his eyes. The pulsing patterns on his retina faded, yet a black background remained. With the return of an ability to move came some sense of surroundings. He must have removed the seat restraint at some point because the accident had left him sprawled in the pilot seat, his head on the nearest control panel, his upper torso awkwardly twisted. Gingerly Brennan attempted to sit up. Encouraged by the success he cautiously turned his head. His neck hurt and the bones in his spine grated but nothing seemed broken.
All the controls, screens and indicators were dead. Only the faint glimmer of the emergency lights fractured the darkness of the cockpit and then there was that sound again, like ice cracking in a thaw. Close this time. He fought through the pain and refocused his eyes on his helmet visor. An ugly rugged white crack ran across half of his field of vision. As he looked the crack expanded again, a few deadly millimeters.
"Damn..." he whispered hoarsely. His lips felt bloated and dry; the metallic taste of blood was on his tongue. Part of his brain refused to accept what his eyes could see but the well-trained analytical part kept working. The crack came from the impact of his helmet on the console during the accident. If it was still growing it meant there was vacuum in the cockpit and the internal pressure of his space suit was forcing the transparent polymer of the visor to fracture further. As this was only a light suit, not one of the heavy construction spacesuits with transparent alloy visors, the crack would soon reach the edge of the visor and then all the air would escape from the suit. It’d be goodbye Captain Brennan. That’s if he didn’t freeze to death first. This suit variant did not feature a proper life support system either.
All the X-Shuttle systems were dead, including ships’ internal life support. If there was no air left in the cockpit, it was a wonder that he was still alive! The last thing he remembered was the singularity engine drifting straight towards the cockpit, threatening to destroy him and the shuttle. Something must have happened to alter it or his trajectory because the blow could only have been a glancing one. He would have been dead by now otherwise. Might still be if he couldn’t contain the hull breaches.
Brennan was not a man to give up without a fight, he and Elena had survived more than one hair-raising brush with death and he’d never believed in the no-win scenario. Unless Murphy showed up to enforce his Law, wearing a big grin as he pointed out all the mistakes made, Brennan wasn’t going to start now. He looked around the cockpit. Although with the invention of micro-deflectors spacecraft were now deemed puncture proof, every ship still contained an emergency repair kit and astronauts were trained in its use.
Now, if only the ship computer was working it could tell him where the leaks were. If only. Like the rest of the ship systems it was dead and even if he managed to seal the cockpit and fill it with a breathable atmosphere he’d still freeze to death without life-support. Brennan ignored the pain in his body and tried to lever himself from the pilot seat. The Podkletnov Aggregates had failed too, leaving the ship without gravity. Through a pounding headache Brennan realized that somewhere onboard there must still be operational systems. The fact he was still alive showed the magnetic sheaths of the anti-matter fuel containers were still active, otherwise he and the X-Shuttle would be a new sun by now. The M/AM propulsion system was self-contained, designed to remain operational under all circumstances, so there must be some power.
The rupture on his visor spread again with a sharp snap that drew a frightened exclamation from Brennan as he began searching for the leak. Brennan made his way through the cockpit to the air lock that led to the cargo bay. Apart from a few controls and secondary adjuncts of the singularity drive, the cargo hold should be empty. He manually closed the air lock door with the unfeasibly small wheel behind him and opened the one leading to the cargo bay. His fractured helmet relaxed with an audible sigh, there was air pressure here! He cautiously cracked the helmet; the cold hit him like a fist of ice and his breath condensed to crystals right in front of his face. It was cold, he guessed it was below –20 degrees Celsius.. ‘God, how long was I unconscious?’ he wondered, taking the helmet off and letting it drift in the zero gravity.
The cargo bay was small, barely seven metres by three, and the twilight gloom of the emergency illumination strips was enough for Brennan to safely move through it and towards the control panel at the far end. After years of neglect his old zero-G training reflexes kicked back in. Initially Brennan was relieved to discover that the panel was functioning. The information the displays revealed, in the low red light, was anything but pleasing. The virtually indestructible, triple-redundant shuttle power systems were dead. All power conduits leading into the cockpit had been severed.
Brennan closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to recall the shuttle blueprints. Concentrating against the pain he pictured the auxiliary lines snaking through the X-Shuttle. He’d have to repair one of those and the only one he could actually reach, running the length of the ship, lay in a duct beneath the cladding of the outer hull. Brennan groaned, he would have to leave the shuttle – in a space suit that did not have heated life support, and a helmet that could burst any second. Tentatively Brennan flicked the main illumination switch and blinked in surprise when bright white light flooded the cargo bay. It seemed that only the front section of the ship lacked power.
He found the repair kit firmly wedged in the locker above the emergency exit. Cursing, he attempted to free the large metal box but without gravity he found it difficult to get leverage. Finally he managed to hook his feet inside the locker and pulled. The box came suddenly free, sending him tumbling back. Swearing quietly he tried to manoeuvre the box back through the cargo bay, hampered by the heavy mass of the hydrogen fuel cell it contained. In the old days, prior to the invention of Podkletnov Aggregates, ships used to be equipped with straps for hands and feet. In the era of artificial gravity, however, these had become obsolete so he could not use the safety rope he found in the repair kit.
Brennan retrieved his helmet and looked hard at the crack. It had spread further and he doubted the thing would last for much longer but there was absolutely no alternative. Space walks were not in the mission protocol so there was no EVA equipment. He reduced the internal pressure of the suit to 75% and donned the helmet. This might possibly slow the damage rate without suffocating him but he could do nothing against the cold. He hoped the heaters that stopped the oxygen freezing his lungs would provide enough residual heat to prevent him freezing to death for at least the few minutes he had to spend in space.
Kyle estimated he had five maybe seven minutes before the cold would paralyse him, that’s if his helmet didn’t shatter first. He had no choice but to take the risk. Brennan placed his hand on the switch that opened the outer cargo bay doors and started to count down: “3, 2, 1...” Hidden pumps sucked the air from the hold and the helmet creaked alarmingly as the pressure reduced. When the cargo bays doors swung slowly open Brennan swam into the true, absolute cold of space. Glancing only briefly at the cold, emotionless stars he carefully manoeuvred the repair kit along the outer hull, aware that without EVA jets or even a safety line, one false step could send him twisting into the void without hope of rescue. Even losing the repair kit would be a catastrophe.
After nearly three heart-straining minutes Brennan reached the spot at the bow where the auxiliary power line joined with the main cable duct leading to the back of the ship. He didn’t have to remove any ceramics hull tiles to see the problem. Just to the right, about one and a half metres below the cockpit window was a rip of a wound. Over a 50 cm diameter area heat protection tiles, strutting and cables were either destroyed or partially ripped out, where the singularity engine had hit the X at high speed probably. Brennan had no time to be scared or swear, the crack in the visor of his helmet extended another centimetre with a terrifying crack and for a second, he thought that this was the end but the white ragged line stopped before it reached the edge of the visor. Opening the toolbox he found a safety line. Riding the adrenaline surge Brennan snapped the safety line on to a bent strut that reached out of the hole. Working fast against a cold so strong he could already barely feel his feet he examined the arm thick bundle of green power transfer cables, each barely the thickness of a finger.
The damage was too extensive to deal with in the few minutes he had remaining so he ripped a length of half severed green cabling from the conduit. Working against time he fashioned a crude circuit connecting the ship to the emergency energy cell he hoped would at least power the cockpit and computer systems. It was a job of hours to do safely; he did it in minutes, miraculously not frying himself in the process. With minimum power restored to critical systems and barely able to feel his feet he clutched the safety line and launched himself into space, allowing his momentum to swing him on a elliptical arc into the cargo bay once the cord played out.
He hit the cargo bay floor at speed and detached himself from the safety line. The moment he pushed the button to close the doors it began: with the sound of chalk on a chalkboard, the crack in his visor began to expand. This time, however it did not stop after a couple of seconds but progressed inexorably to the margin. When the cargo bay doors had closed but there was still vacuum in the room, Brennan heard that the final, dooming snap. The helmet did not burst, but the painful cracking in his ears and the loud whistle of escaping air told him he had just a few seconds more of consciousness while the pumps raced to re-pressurise the bay.
After a few seconds the pressure equalised and Brennan groggily removed the helmet to prod his aching ears, while gasping in the thin air. After about half a minute later there was sufficient oxygen in the room to breath normally. Brennan held his nose and swallowed a few times to complete the pressurisation. Then he noticed his feet started aching, like being penetrated by a thousand needles. The air appeared to be hot, compared to the outside temperatures but he just laughed. “Johann!” he shouted while removing his space suit to massage his aching feet.
“Why hasn’t the USC salvage ship rescued me yet?”
“Unknown”, a female voice answered. Brennan felt a stab of alarm and then relaxed again. Of course! Valerie!
“Val, you’ve no idea how glad I am to hear your voice!” “Thank you, Captain Brennan” the onboard computer replied. “I am very glad too that you did not take any damage while my systems were off-line!” Brennan smiled sceptically and nodded. Sure! AI research had come a long way but computers still could not comprehend pleasure. Still it was nice to hear it anyway.
“Status – but make it brief”, he ordered. Valerie, whose voice he heard last counting down just before the accident reacted promptly, but Brennan interrupted the computer instantly. “Some gravity in the cargo bay please!”
He felt his organs sink and the floor began to feel like the floor again. Various small floating items fell to the deck with a clatter. Yes, gravity felt good.
“Status”, Brennan ordered again, sitting on the floor massaging his feet. “Outer hull damaged, power supply to shields and lasers disrupted. Redundancy systems 1 and 2 non-operational. Singularity engine ejected, cockpit integrity compromised, navigation array failed. Life support systems nominal, Podkletnov Aggregates and M/AM propulsion functional. Computer undamaged, internal systems ok, Damage estimate - minor. Repair requirements - low.”
“Minor!” Brennan spluttered, enraged. “You call this minor? What would you call heavy damage?” Valerie did not respond. “Alright, let me think ....” Brennan muttered after a while. He had bought himself some time, nothing more. The cockpit leak was still there and his helmet useless, trapping him in the cargo bay. On the other hand, the USC tracking station must still have him and Valerie would soon announce the arrival of the Eldridge to salvage his ship. “Damn”, Brennan muttered again, he did not like to sit down and do nothing.
He looked around; the cargo bay was barren and empty. The emergency control panel showed the mission telemetry was still broadcasting out into the depths of space but a tiny flashing red light warned the receiving station was off-line. It was odd that they had lost contact to Mission Control in Milano? It must mean the ship had taken more damage than Valerie had reported but he had asked for the concise version. Perhaps? Brennan frowned and scratched his chin.
“Valerie, I need some info on the cockpit leak. What size is it? Where is it? Am I able to patch it?” “The leak is beneath the third floor tile left, seventh from the back. The position matches that of the damaged area in the outer hull. Cockpit integrity is compromised over a 0.5 cm area. Repairs not critical.”
“Hmm...Val, my space suit is damaged. Can you raise and maintain the pressure in the cockpit for a few minutes so I can patch the leak?”
“Positive.”
“Great, I’ll open the inner and outer air lock door between cockpit and cargo bay. The pressure between the two rooms should equalize instantly. It’ll crack my ears a bit but there should be enough pressure to work. Maintain this state for as long as it takes to locate and patch the leak.”
“Understood”, Valerie responded.
*
It took Kyle less than five minutes to remove the floor tile, move squashed layers of cables to the side and locate the leak. It was tiny and exactly where he had seen the big hole in the outer hull and he found it hard to believe that, with the force involved, no greater damage had resulted from the impact. He took another two minutes to place the semi-elastic vacuum-proof polymer patch and sealing foam on the leak. The glue and foam hardened in a matter of minutes with the internal pressure of the cockpit keeping the patch in place. When Brennan replaced the floor tile cabin pressure was normal and the temperature ‘foot-pleasingly’ pleasant.
“Time for a beer mate,” he said to himself, slumping into the pilot seat. Valerie's translation sub-routines were trained to recognize and not respond to rhetorical utterings and she refrained from reminding him of the unavailability of alcoholic drinks on experimental spacecraft. It was not in Kyle William Brennan's nature to remain idle and with the immediate danger past there were still things to be done. He had to determine his position, activate the automatic emergency beacon, contact Mission Control, and maybe even locate a salvage ship. Possibly, using the powerful M/AM engine he could even make it back to base by himself.
After approximately four frustrating hours in which he was unable to even determine his position, Valerie announced an approaching ship. “About time!” Brennan exclaimed enthusiastically. The ship was 23,000 km away but closing fast and he used the Zoom Scopes to get a closer look. He spent another 20 minutes trying to identify the silhouette of the ship but failed. It obviously was not the Eldridge, which meant it must be the Dutchman. That ship had only been in service for a few weeks and he wasn’t familiar with the specs of the new ship class but as it came closer and more details became clearer his unease grew. At less than 300 km distance suspicion hardened into certainty, this was neither the Dutchman nor the Eldridge. In fact, it was none of the known salvage and servicing ships. This ship had not even been built in the solar system. It was then that the comm. system indicated an incoming transmission.
to Helge and the translation crew. I cant wait for more 
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