Orb (2 page)

Then again, there was the sound-canceling technology designed to eliminate the persistent hum emanating from the various life-support systems. Unfortunately, the technology worked too well. On those occasions when canned music was not playing, the ship was haunted by a deathly quiet, as attested to by every member of the crew, save one—the ship’s physicist. For the rest of us, the eerie silence heightened a pervasive feeling that lurking just beyond the ship’s thin protective bulkhead was a kindred eternal silence—a troublesome reminder that we had become the most isolated humans in the history of humankind.

The sense of isolation we experienced and other psychological problems of prolonged space travel had been studied for years. So had the methods to counteract them. Still, what I did not anticipate were the sheer number of design elements that were planned to specifically address this problem. Early in the training regimen, when
Desio
was being outfitted, we were instructed to complete questionnaires regarding personal preferences in the arts—music, painting, sculpture, and the like. Assuming this was yet another psychological test, and to find out if anybody was truly paying attention, I volunteered Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
as my favorite painting. Two days later, Thompson, vouchsafing for my sanity, had to patiently explain the joke to a concerned CSA psychologist. I thanked the mission commander for lying on my behalf, at the same time reminding him of the statement he made about lowering the psych profile standards for writers.

Later on I discovered that the questionnaire was actually used to help appoint the ship: Monet reproductions adorning the bulkheads; Mozart symphonies wafting over the sound system; mocha-colored paint gracing the cabin walls. All were attempts to keep the crew happy and well adjusted.

A word about compartment layout. There were six sleeping quarters, or cabins—one for each member of the crew. Space being at a premium, each was just large enough for a bed, a workstation, and a small enclosed area for toilet and personal hygiene. For privacy, since there was precious little elsewhere on the ship, the cabins were soundproofed. Each had a coded door lock, with Thompson having override capability.

Two of the crew, Paul Bertrand and Diana Gilmore, elected to share one of the six cabins. Never finding a reason to marry, their relationship had flourished during two decades of successful cohabitation—an enviable model for couples trying to beat the long odds. This fact didn’t deter mission engineers from happily forging ahead, designing separate quarters for each of them “in case they elected to dissolve their arrangement.” This did not sit well with Diana, who relentlessly chided the engineers for their inspirational vote of confidence.

Early in the outbound voyage, the ship’s physician, with Thompson’s permission, converted the extra cabin to a treatment room.

The common areas of the ship consisted mainly of four compartments, the largest being the mission room, forty meters square, used for meetings, meals, and socializing. Its two most notable features were a large composite worktable that occupied the center of the floor space and an oval viewport that dominated one wall. An adjoining compartment served as the science lab. Here lay the domain of the scientists, which I had little cause to invade. It housed built-in stations for conducting experiments, an equipment storage area, and a secured zone for quarantine and retention of specimens. Centered above these compartments was a smaller level divided roughly in half by a command and control room, complete with seating and viewports, and
Desio’s
navigation, communication, and nerve center.

Above all was an enclosure housing a rotating turret equipped with a guided laser weapon system of modest capacity. There was an unconfirmed rumor that privateer ships were circling Earth, but the official justification for the system was the obliteration of space junk, a real and ever-present threat to ships in, or leaving, orbit.

The doors to all compartments and the laser turret were installed with high-tech security locks that could be activated at Thompson’s discretion.

Outbound.

Three long months have elapsed.
Desio
and crew, quite uneventfully, have nearly completed the journey to 231-P5. I was not alone in my cabin. Angie was quietly sleeping in my bed, she being the notable exception, the one permanent attachment I previously alluded to. Her presence warrants an explanation.

Flash back four months. I was standing in front of the Crew Selection Committee with an unusual petition: Allow Angie to become the expedition’s seventh. I had belatedly come to the realization that abandoning her on Earth was not an acceptable option. If need be, I would relinquish my seat on the
Desio
and a trained alternate would eagerly take my place.

And so I emphasized my companion’s extraordinary attributes. There was no need for hyperbole. She was, after all, exceptionally bright, disciplined, well-trained, healthy and personable.

Unfortunately, there were more practical concerns which made Angie’s inclusion a virtual impossibility. She represented excess mission weight. Oxygen and waste-processing requirements would have to be recalculated. There was the matter of her special dietary needs. And, as one committee member stated with a fair attempt at humor, “the ship already has, in Dr. Bertrand, a French crew member.”

The committee was resolute, but for some reason agreed to defer their final decision. I remember one crewmate, Diana Gilmore, advising me not to give up hope.

She was prescient. Two days later, the committee relented. How could they not? Angie is a damn cute pooch, miniature poodle by breed, seven kilograms, black coat, a medium shaggy kennel clip, bright, clear eyes, and a sweet disposition. The crew, almost without exception, was delighted, welcoming her with open arms. In no time at all she became our little mascot.

If there was an onboard routine that Thompson enforced it was for the crew to convene the same exact time every morning. Considering herself an essential part of the crew, Angie rose, stretched, and leaped off my bed to follow me into the mission compartment. As she and I entered, Thompson greeted me with his usual friendly sarcasm.

“That dog follows you pretty much everywhere.”

“Can you blame her?”

“Her ears are slightly asymmetrical; her tail was docked too long.”

“Perhaps she wouldn’t win best in show.”

“Coincidentally, Kyle, neither would you.”

“You and she have something in common,” I said, “You both don’t shed.”

I was trying to redirect the spotlight onto Thompson’s shiny shaved head. Like housepaint, the sheen could vary from matte to satin to gloss, depending on lighting and the closeness of shave. Today it was semigloss. Highlighting that feature had become my sworn duty, but it was by choice that Thompson kept his head shaved: He couldn’t be bothered having a head of hair. A smooth head was simpler. Washing, combing, vanity, all neatly dispensed with. After three months, though, I was running out of bald jokes. Thompson’s other features were relatively immune to criticism. As on most occasions, he got in the last word.

“Sit! Stay!” he barked, commanding me to an empty chair. “We’re about to begin.”

While I obeyed, Angie went sniffing about the floor searching for breakfast crumbs.

Seated at the conference table, consuming what passed for breakfast, were Commander Bruce Thompson, Ph.D., Geology, Engineering; Kelly Takara, M.D.; Diana Gilmore, Ph.D., Marine Biology, M.S., Astrobiology; and Paul Bertrand, Ph.D., Climatology.

The final member of the crew, Larry Melhaus, Ph.D., Physics, Mathematics, M.S., Chemistry, was, as usual, in his cabin, almost certainly in the throes of solving an advanced problem in mathematics or particle physics. A moment later he strode in, grabbed some coffee, and without uttering a word, sat at the far end of the long table.

Thompson couldn’t let it pass. “Good of you to join us.”

“Yes,” Melhaus said without a trace of sarcasm. During the last three months we had all learned he was several orders of magnitude more proficient at solving equations then he was at interrelating with people.

“With your permission, Bruce, I’ll start,” said Paul.

Thompson nodded.

“We approach one million kilometers of P5, enabling partial verification of meteorological data collected during the abbreviated first expedition. The planet’s elliptical orbit produces winter and summer seasons of nine-month duration. Transitional seasons, within close approximation, are six months each. I can reconfirm that the prior expedition had the bad luck to emerge from the wormhole and discover the planet at the most inopportune time, midwinter, thereby preempting a complete survey. Average surface temperatures were hovering—bad word—at minus thirty degrees Celsius. You might say conditions have improved. Long-range scans indicate midsummer temperatures are averaging a balmy
plus
thirty degrees. After we enter orbit I’ll be better equipped to assess localized weather conditions. Within a few days of landing I’ll have a detailed picture of extended climatology.”

“Nothing further? You’re only able to verify what the first mission previously surmised?”

Thompson was being blunt, not rude. We expected as much. It was his way of keeping us focused. The crew, all in their early forties, except Dr. Takara, who was thirty-five, were far too self-assured to be offended or put-off.

“I’m not finished,” Paul said. “I have some preliminary readings on the ocean, which covers ninety-six percent of the planet’s surface. The previous expedition encountered ocean ice three meters thick at the equator. That ice, except for the extreme poles, has completely melted. Given the planet’s elliptical orbit, the melt was anticipated, but never considered a sure thing.”

Paul’s pronouncement elicited a buzz of excitement from the crew. The abundance of available water was an exciting development, dramatically increasing the probability of finding complex life-forms. Even Angie, having sensed the rapid change in mood, responded with a couple of delighted yips.

We were familiar with the reports compiled by the first expedition’s scientists. Their typically sterile technical language could not hide disappointment that life went undetected on the small islands dotting the planet’s surface. Nevertheless, core samples of ocean ice were found to contain abundant numbers of frozen plankton-like organisms. This was the third time a life form had been discovered beyond our home world, and the most complex yet. Far more intriguing than the primitive microorganisms discovered on Mars and 106-P3.

“Larry, your comments?” Thompson asked.

The physicist, choosing to avoid eye contact, answered while staring into the 3-D images floating within the AI Device (AID) unrolled on the table in front of him.

“I’ve extrapolated existing data concerning the quantity of dead phytoplankton found per unit volume of ice. By estimating the organism’s theoretical ability to produce oxygen during the planet’s cyclical warm season, I have calculated that they are responsible for producing and, more important,
maintaining
P5’s breathable oxygen atmosphere. As for Doctor Bertrand’s report pointing out that the ocean ice has melted? That eventuality was predicted by the separate set of calculations I performed using orbit projections, availability of solar energy, atmosphere composition, and other factors.”

Melhaus’s certitude, his unflinching, self-assured phrasing, had me wondering: If he had not dutifully performed his calculations, would the ice have actually dared to melt?

“Let me know if your conclusions change,” Thompson remarked.

“It is unlikely.”

“Humor me. Presumably we’ll soon have sufficient quantity of living phytoplankton to precisely measure their rate of oxygen production. And how about you, Diana? Anything to add to this discussion? Anything
new
, that is?”

“When’s the last time any of you have had a wet dream?”

That
was
new, I thought. At least nobody volunteered an answer. Thompson, a bemused look on his face, waited her out.

“That long?” she said. “Pity. Well I’m having one now.”

“Care to share with us?” Thompson said.

“OK. Just this once. Ninety days getting here. One day till we enter orbit. Awaiting us is the potential of discovering specialized life forms on an Earth-sized planet that is
covered
in water. Can you possibly imagine anything more apropos of a marine biologist’s wet dream?”

“Do you always blurt out whatever pops into your head?” Thompson asked, amused.

“Why? Diana responded, “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Has this verbal ejaculation reached a climax?”

“I’m sure it has.”

Thompson had to laugh. Diana’s outburst and other like-spirited remarks she made from time to time was somehow made even more diverting when you considered how out of place they were emanating from a person who had garnered a closet full of prestigious awards in the fields of marine and astrobiology. Yeah, she could sometimes be a bit of wiseass, but she certainly gave the word a fuller meaning.

The crew had need of her irreverent comments. Anything that could elevate our individual and collective moods was welcome. Months ago we were counseled to expect exploration this remote from Earth to be a tough business. At the time, we thought we were properly prepared. We were not. Not by a long shot. The extended period living in deep space had brought about mild bouts of depression and increasing feelings of isolation. This despite six people and my pooch sharing quarters not much bigger than a small-sized house.

As I was mulling this over, I looked across the table at Angie. Paws in the air, she was laying stretched out on her back across Kelly’s lap, happily getting her belly stroked. It’s quite possible Angie did more than any one person or thing to keep us entertained. She had become a favorite of the crew. I had the additional benefit of receiving from her unconditional affection. Glancing up from her to Kelly’s smiling face, I found myself wishing that human interaction was as simple and easy to understand. Kelly and I occasionally shared a cabin. Our relationship, starting as friendship during mission training, had developed into something more. How much more was a question I was finding difficult to answer.