Starfire (8 page)

“I can't start the spaceplane's lateral motion,” the passenger mumbled, the frustration evident in his voice. “I keep on hitting the switch, but nothing happens.”

“The correction you applied is in there—you just need to let it happen, sir,” Boomer said. His voice began to sound less military and more like a shaman or spiritual guide. “Nice, easy, gentle, smooth inputs. Remember: Even one little twitch of your thumb on the vernier controls generates hundreds of pounds of rocket thrust that alters the orbit of a spacecraft weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds, traveling at over twenty-five times the speed of sound hundreds of miles above Earth. Visualize the movement of the spacecraft, and visualize the corrective actions necessary to correct the flight path, then apply the necessary control inputs. Reacting without thinking is evil. Take command.”

The passenger took his hands off the controls, letting the controller float before him on its tether, and he closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. When he opened them, he found that all of the inputs he had entered were indeed starting to register. “How about that?” he murmured. “I'm not a complete moron.”

“You're doing great, sir,” Boomer said. “Remember there's no atmosphere or roadway to create friction, and gravity would take several dozen orbits to take effect, so whatever corrections you put in have to be taken out. These readouts here tell you how much correction you applied and in what direction, which is how much you need to take out. Also remember how long it took for your inputs to apply, so that will give you an accurate gauge about when to take them out.”

The passenger was definitely in the zone now. With the controller in his lap, oriented the same way as the spaceplane itself, he barely touched the knobs with his fingertips. As they closed in on the bull's-eye, the forward speed ever so slightly decreased, so by the time the crosshairs hit the bull's-eye, forward speed had almost reached zero inches per second.

“Contact,” Boomer announced. The passenger's shoulders visibly relaxed, and he let the controller float from his fingers. “Latches secure. The spaceplane is docked. Congratulations, sir.”

“Don't do that to me again, would you mind, Dr. Noble?” the passenger asked, looking up and taking several relieved breaths of air, then releasing the hand controller as if it was a piece of radioactive weaponry. “All I could think about was crashing and all of us being stranded in orbit.”

Boomer held up another controller, identical to the first. “I had your back, sir,” he said with a smile. “But you did excellent—I didn't touch anything. I didn't tell you this, but we normally need at least zero-point-three feet per second forward speed to get the docking mechanism to latch—they latched for you with less than that.”

“That's not going to relax my nerves any, Boomer.”

“Like I said, sir, you have the touch,” Boomer said. “Gonzo is going to get us ready to transfer to station. She'll get your companion ready first, and some crewmembers from station will transfer him first, and then we'll go. Normally we'd seal off the airlock from the cockpit while we get the transfer tunnel in place, in case there's a leak or damage, but everyone's in a space suit, so even if there's an accident or malfunction, we'll be all right.”

Boomer and the passenger turned and watched as Faulkner produced a checklist, attached it to a bulkhead with Velcro, and got to work. “The Midnight spaceplane has a small cargo bay, larger than the S-9 Black Stallion's but not anywhere near as large as the space shuttle, but it was never really designed for docking or carrying cargo or passengers—it really was just a technology demonstrator,” Boomer explained. “We turned it into a workhorse later on. In front of the passenger module is an airlock that allows us to dock with Armstrong or the International Space Station and to transfer personnel or cargo back and forth without having to go into space.”

“Go into space?” the passenger repeated. He pointed out the cockpit windows. “You mean, you had to
go
out there
to get on the station?”

“That was the only way to get to the space station in the S-9 Black Stallion and early S-19 Midnight,” Boomer said. “Sky Masters designed the airlock between the cockpit and cargo-bay with the pressurized transfer tunnel system, so now it's easier to get from the spaceplane to station. The S-9 is too small for an airlock, so transferring means a spacewalk. It's a short and sweet spacewalk. It wasn't far, but it was sure spectacular.”

“Cargo-bay doors coming open,” Gonzo reported. They could hear a gentle rumble on the spaceplane's hull. “Doors fully open.”

“Looks like your cargo-bay doors are fully open, Boomer,” a voice said on intercom. “Welcome to Armstrong.”

“Thank you, sir,” Boomer replied. To the passenger he said, “That's Trevor Shale, the station manager. All of the personnel on Armstrong Space Station right now are contractors, although just about all are prior military, with lots of experience in space operations, and about half have worked on station in the past. We open the cargo-bay doors to vent excess heat from the spaceplane.” On intercom he said, “Pretty good docking approach, wouldn't you say, sir?”

“Don't get a cramp patting yourself on the back, Boomer,” Shale radioed.

“It wasn't me or Gonzo: it was our passenger.”

There was a long, rather uncomfortable pause; then, Shale responded with a wooden, “Roger that.”

“He didn't sound pleased,” the passenger observed.

“Trevor didn't like the idea of you docking Midnight, sir,” Boomer admitted. “The station director, General Kai Raydon, retired Air Force, approved the idea; they left it up to me.”

“I would think that overruling your station manager would not be a good thing, Boomer.”

“Sir, I think I know and understand the reason why you're doing all this,” Boomer said as he monitored the progress of attaching the transfer tunnel to the airlock. “You're here to prove an important point, and I am all for that. It's a tremendous risk, but a risk I think needs to be taken. If you're willing to do it, I'm willing to do as much as I can to water your eyes, and thereby water the eyes of the world. If I may say, sir, I just need you to have the courage to tell the world what you did on this trip and what you've seen, over and over and over again, in every possible venue, all around the world. Your words will ignite the world to the excitement of space travel far more than mine could ever do.” The passenger thought about that for a moment, then nodded.

“Transfer tunnel connected and secure,” Gonzo reported. “Sealing the airlock.”

“So Gonzo is in the airlock by herself, sealed off from the cockpit and the passenger module?” the passenger asked. “Why do you do that?”

“So we don't depressurize the entire spaceplane in case the tunnel fails or isn't sealed properly,” Boomer replied.

“But then Gonzo . . . ?”

“She's in a partial-pressure suit and could probably survive the loss of pressure,” Boomer said, “but she and Mr. Spellman would have to spacewalk to get to the station, which she's done many times in training, but of course Mr. Spellman would have to endure on his own. It's hazardous, but she's done it before. Mr. Spellman would probably survive it just fine—he's a pretty healthy dude . . .”

“Jesus,” the passenger said. “It boggles the mind to think of how many things can go wrong.”

“We work through it and make improvements all the time, and train, train, train, and then train some more,” Boomer said. “But you just have to accept the fact that it's a dangerous game we're playing.”

“Clear for station unseal,” Shale said.

“Roger. Armstrong, Midnight ready for station-side unseal,” Boomer said. He pointed at the instrument panel's multifunction display, which showed air pressure in the spaceplane, on the station's docking module, and now inside the transfer tunnel linking the two. The tunnel pressure read zero . . . and just then, the pressure inside the tunnel slowly began to rise. It took almost ten minutes for the tunnel to fully pressurize. Everyone watched for any sign of the pressure dropping, indicating a leak, but it held steady.

“Pressure's holding, Boomer,” Shale reported.

“I concur,” Boomer said. “Everyone ready to equalize?”

“I'm good, Boomer,” Gonzo replied. “The second passenger is too.”

“Clear to open her up, Gonzo.”

They felt a slight pressure in their ears as the spaceplane's higher cabin pressure equalized with the station's slightly lower pressure, but it wasn't painful and lasted just an instant. A moment later: “Transfer hatches open, second passenger on his way through.”

“Copy that, Gonzo,” Boomer said. He started to unstrap from his seat. “I'll unstrap first, sir,” he told his passenger, “and then I'll get into the airlock while you unstrap, and I'll steer you out and up.” The passenger nodded but said nothing; Boomer noticed a rather distant expression on the first passenger's face and wondered what he was thinking about so hard. The hard stuff was done—all he had to do now was float around the big station, look around, and be a space tourist until it was time to go home.

But after Boomer unfastened his lap and shoulder restraints and was about to float out of his seat, the passenger held his arm. “I want to do it, Boomer,” he said.

“Do what, sir?”

The passenger looked at Boomer, then motioned out the right side of the cockpit with a nod of his head. “Out. That way.”

The passenger could see Boomer's eyes flash through his helmet in disbelief, even alarm, but soon a pleased smile spread across his face. “You really want to do it, sir?” he asked incredulously.

“Boomer, I'm doing several incredibly amazing things today,” the passenger said, “but I know that I'll be mad at myself if I return to Earth having passed it up. We've done enough of that oxygen prebreathing, haven't we? There's no danger of getting the ‘bends,' is there?”

“Sir, a case of decompression sickness might be the
least
hazardous aspect of a spacewalk,” Boomer said, his mind racing through the checklist in his head to see what might prohibit this. “But to answer your question: yes, we've been prebreathing pure oxygen for over four hours, so we should be good.” He clicked open the ship-to-station intercom. “General Raydon? He wants to do it. Right now. Out the cockpit and through the station's airlock, not the tunnel.”

“Stand by, Boomer,” replied a different voice.

“That's the second guy on station that seems exasperated talking with you, Boomer,” the passenger observed once again with a smile.

“Believe it or not, sir, we talked about this too,” Boomer said. “We truly wanted you to have the full experience. That's why we put you in a full ACES advanced crew escape system space suit instead of a more comfortable partial-pressure suit—it's rated for short EVAs, or extra-vehicular activities. You sure your folks back at home base will like what you're about to do?”

“They may not like it at all, Boomer,” the passenger said, “but they're down there, and I'm up here. Let's do it.” As if signaling concurrence, a moment later a mechanical arm extended from a hatch on another side of the docking module, carrying a device resembling a ski-lift chair and two cables in a mechanical claw.

Boomer flipped a few switches, then checked his passenger's space-suit fittings and readouts before giving him a pat on the shoulder and a confident, approving nod. “I like the cut of your jib, sir,” he said. “Here we go.” Boomer hit the final switch, and with several loud, heavy
SNAP
s and a loud whir of motors, the canopies on both sides of the cockpit of the S-19 Midnight spaceplane opened wide.

Before the passenger could realize it, Boomer was up and out of his seat, floating completely free of the spaceplane with only one thin strap securing him to anything, looking like some kind of unearthly Peter Pan in his skintight space suit and oxygen helmet. He grasped one of the cables on the remote-controlled arm and plugged it into his suit. “I'm back up,” he said. “Ready to come down.” The robot arm lowered Boomer level with the outside of the passenger's side of the cockpit. “I'm going to disconnect you from the ship, connect you to me and to the hoist, and plug you into this umbilical, sir,” Boomer said. In a flash it was done. “All set. How do you hear?”

“Loud and clear, Boomer,” the passenger replied.

“Good.” Boomer helped the passenger up and out of his seat, which was much easier than getting in because it was now completely open. “We can't stay out long because we're not very well protected from micrometeorites, cosmic radiation, temperature extremes, and all that happy space stuff, but it'll be a fun ride while it lasts. Umbilicals are clear, Armstrong. Ready to hoist.” The robot arm began to slowly pull them up and away from the spaceplane, and then the passenger found himself floating free in space over and above the docking module . . .

. . . and within moments, the entire structure of Armstrong Space Station was spread out before them, gleaming in reflected sunlight. They could see the entire length of the structure, see the large laboratory, living, mechanical, and storage modules both above and below the truss, and the endless expanses of solar cells at both ends of the truss that seemed to spread out to infinity—he could even see persons looking at them through large observation windows on some of the modules. “Oh . . . my . . . God,” the passenger breathed. “It's beautiful!”

“It is, but that ain't nothing,” Boomer said. He grasped the back of the passenger's space suit and pulled him so he pivoted down . . .

. . . and the passenger got his newest glimpse of planet Earth below them. They could all hear him gasp in utter wonderment. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “It's incredible! It's magnificent! I can see almost the entire continent of South America down there! My God! It looks totally different than through the cockpit windows—I can really sense the altitude now.”