spacebutnotfar

[spacebutnotfar]

In the meandering mundane days and nights of space, your ship, the Umbra, drifts through its orbit without much care.

The ship’s core systems enjoy a level of automation that means you must only focus on that which, by law and by ethics, is reserved for us humans: killing one another.

Sitting at the helm of your small LAV, Low acceleration vessel, you engage its targeting computer. Like a submarine in open waters, you light up your surroundings with an array of sensors with superhuman capacities and track as many targets as the machine can muster.

Distinguishing between those from foes and ones that bear no ill intent but nevertheless are ordained by the laws of physics to strike your ship. This is no easy task, one that, if left fully to the automaton programs in the circuit, would surely only lead to your demise sooner or later. After all, everyone seems content to have machines pull the trigger, except when they are in the projectile’s path.

As you do, the computer also informs you of the current Kessler score of the orbit you inhabit, a way of knowing whether or not you are in danger of cascading collisions. If it's too high, maneuvers may lead to a cascade. If it is too low, you will be an easy target. A shield is a bullet, and here bullets are just so damn big, big enough they are shields.

The captain from the prior watch passes on his report to you, six hours at the helm, no more no less. It is on you now to see to the safety and success of the Umbra for the following six.

Chatter from the crew comes on, fellow spacemen passing on information from their coffins of panels and switches. The low hum of the control systems keeps the vessel steady, forming a rhythmic tune that is near meditative. Your mind wanders off from the map of objects; it glances north to the small window, the only window you have here, where you can see the glow of the atmosphere down on Mars.

Before long, a blaring sound comes through your headphones - “ECLIPSE ECLIPSE”. A warning that the orbit's alignment with the planet's moons will cause a temporary minor eclipse. The danger is in what lurks in the shadow of Deimos and Phobos. A well-placed missile set to hunt when it sees the ship’s signature.Nearly invisible to us until too late.

As the eclipse passes, the stillness of the air becomes like water; the floatiness of microgravity gives way to a sense of ghostly embrace. Although not real, Deimos lunges at your body and pulls it towards itself, wishing nothing more than for you to turn and face the terrors that lie in its shadow. Though Deimos holds no grudges, it is a rock; the crew has; it must anthropomorphize this celestial body. Sometimes the cold indifference of space feels that much more threatening than to think this damn moon not only thinks but hates you, and you hate it back because there is no other way to rationalize hating a rock in space in the first place.

The flashing white and orange light warning of the eclipse passes, and systems slowly start back up, heating up the cold machine that surrounds you and for which you are just another organelle with a purpose. Once more, you will be broadcasting the electromagnetic signature of your ship for the world to see but wait to act on. The eclipse held no secrets for you; it didn’t even acknowledge you; you wish it would because doing so would justify your place here, among things that hate you.

[spacebutnotfar]

The most valuable part of any space vessel is its crew. According to every officer I’ve spoken to, this is the golden rule of space combat. No matter how critical the mission is, bringing back everyone alive is always the top priority of the vessels. The proliferation of unmanned vehicles has then allowed these dangerous fleet expeditions to the orbit of Mars to be carried out.

The space forces branch out into three bodies. The near planetary forces, the far planetary forces, and logistics because the mighty wooden pallet can still win wars even in space. Captain Aragos, at the helm of a Carter-class destroyer, explained the doctrine as a unicellular organism.

“The fleet acts as a cell; it maintains a strong cell wall at all times, which should never be pierced, lest the contents begin to pour out and be damaged.”

The PDC, Point Defense Constellation system is the latest doctrinal approach of the earth forces. It envisions a fleet of ships where its slower TWR, thrust-to-weight ratio, ships are equipped with external PDC modules.

Inside these modules, the inhabitants are small, though still big when compared to a person, drones. Tethered to the host ship, the drones, called Point Defense Agents (PDAs), extend to nearly a kilometer away from the ship. The tether allows for the transmission of information and energy, both critical components of the PDC.

Armed with LASERs, short and long-wave radiation weaponry, and a slew of sensors, their drones float in space, observing the universe around them and exchanging their findings between not just other PDAs in the constellation but PDAs in the Fleet-wide constellation.

Once a target is observed to be near, like a munition or a missile, the constellation quickly reacts and begins to disrupt the target. Burning its sensors and cameras, using radiation to damage its electronics, everything it can.

And if what it can do is not enough, each is equipped with small but powerful chemical boosters that allow it to attempt interception of targets. It won’t be just one either, but a line of drones that trace the path of the projectile and attempt to shield the larger ships.

I was present when they did a field test of this system on a high earth orbit with 3 Carter-Class Destroyers, 2 Taiwan-class Engineering vessels, 1 Azores-Class Carrier, and 1 Dallas-Class Troop transport. In total, the exercise produced 567 PDAs, all in harmony as I watched from the deck of one of the destroyers.

It was both awe-inspiring and utterly terrifying. As a war correspondent, I’ve spent more time in space than most humans. This latest stint has lasted four years. The officers in this ship with me will spend at most 270 days in space, station work included, before being ordered back to earth for 90 days.

In all my years, I had never truly grasped the concept of space as three-dimensional and the freedom of movement it afforded. It always seemed as if I could reach out and grab a star, no matter how far. Always In isolation. Even when surrounded by big ships, it always felt like these were detached from me, never in danger of touching one another.

But here, this net of drones, the overwhelming sense of them being all around me, of seeing the tethers surround the whole fleet and even cast shadows over them, the fact that they were so stationary, even as ships drifted around and interceptors from the Azores began to pour out and weave their way through the web of cables that now surrounded all of us. I felt we had all become one.

It was not until the captain showed me a video feed from one of their satellites a bit further out that I finally understood the cell analogy. we looked like bacteria under a microscope.

In three weeks' time, this fleet will depart for Mars, where the Liberation forces had begun to amass a dangerous number of small unmanned suicide crafts meant to crash into Earth’s forces, destroying them. Most of these were previously service vehicles for the two stations that orbit the red planet. But they also started to produce their own missiles and, in some rare cases, interceptors.

This will be the real test of the PDC. The coalition has promised to bring peace to Mars within 5 years; it has now been 15. As space combat doctrine continues to evolve and advance, becoming more efficient and safer, my mind wonders if the cost of war will be outpaced by weaponized human ingenuity and make peace all the harder to achieve.

[spacebutnotfar]

Pilgrimage

Over the years, I've started a pilgrimage. Throughout the months and years, I collect... things, trinkets, souvenirs, letters, photos, foods, leaves, a collection of things so lacking in common features that it might as well be called trash, though often trash can be categorized as the things people what to get rid of.

I guess, in a way, it is trash. I too, want to eventually get rid of it; it is just that instead of being so indifferent to its location, I am highly interested in where it will be.

Once I have enough, and let me tell you, the definition of enough has never been subject to so many revisions, I pack my things, call my time off the colony, and depart.

My wife was stranged at first by this ritual of mine. She was really suspicious when her boyfriend of 2 years one day knocked on her door and said he would be going on a trip out to the Redlands and near the peak of Olympus Mons.

Over time, she mellowed to it, even made the trip a few times with me, but ultimately, she and I realized that for whatever reason, it was my trip, my time to be alone with my thoughts and with my trash.

It's a long trip, about 4 weeks worth, and once I am off the Redland's solar farms, there are no more humans until I get back.

I took a photo of one of my trinkets, a seashell from Earth, though it had lost all its color and nearly looked pearl white. I found it one day in a playground; Though there it was surrounded by green grass and kids playing. I asked one of the kids if they knew whose it was, and after playing detective with one of them in the hunt for its owner, we came to the conclusion that the teddy bear on Miss Alewinth's desk was to blame. I don't think it would've held in court though; the deposition of Carlos, the wise tree snail, was made under duress because we threatened him with salt if he didn't spill the beans.

Nevertheless, the victim, Shelly, needed a place to rest for the rest of time, so it was only fitting I would take them with me on this trip.

Out here is where I only really appreciate the expanse of the world before me. I grew up in one of the largest cities on earth and was told that I would meet civilization no matter where I walked or how far I walked. It was supposed to be a great human achievement. For me, it was an overwhelming feeling of compression.

Here on Mars, I would need to go around the whole planet before meeting another human, and I don't think I have enough life support to get even a tenth of the way there.

People ask me if I thought this desolate, deserted, uninhabitable, radioactive, thin-atmosphere planet is worth living in. Every time I tell them of the last pilgrimage I did. Congratulations, you caught this one.

Time to reflect is rare, and Mars is unique in that there is nothing but reflections outside the colony. You are just in a suit, walking through sand and rock. You look up, and maybe you can spot a satellite, but that's it.

Want introspection? Come to Mars. Catchy slogan for the tourism board, eh? They rejected it three times so far, but they are good sports about it; it became a bit of an inside joke among the staff there since I always come by their office before going to Olympus Mons, they are the ones setting up my equipment. I bet next time, they will run with it.

Today's item of color for you is a double A battery. No longer in production anywhere. This one fell off an old flashlight someone was carrying on their caravan flight to here. The poor fella died on the way to Mars, and so his funeral was here; the family asked for his belongings to be spread among the colony; they did not want to pay the cost of sending them back. Say "Cheese!" Howard.

He, too, was deemed trash, and so I took him with me on a past pilgrimage. Don't worry, it's not his actual body there, just his ashes. He had a bible so I figured this burial was apt.

Not a lot of people can say their final resting place is on a different planet from the one they were born. Not a lot of people can say where they are buried, actually.

Howards was coming to Mars after the war to find work as a journalist. A lot of educated folks were; they figured if Mars was free, then surely there would be a need for white-collar work.

Among his things were a pair of books. "The Forever Question: Why?" and "For Who Do You Write". Nitra, the librarian, ended up with these excellent books, which really impacted him and how he looked at his work; as such, they were not trash.

Well, here we are. My little spot. It ain't much, but it's far and quiet. Now it's time to dig in.

It takes a while, and the hole goes deeper every time, or so I think, but I take a moment to look at my trash and start working through the list.

Hello Battery, sorry I could not find you a remote to fit into; this is your home now.

Hello Shelly, sorry I could not find your killer; I mean, owner, this is your home now.

Hello 10-dollar bill, I am sorry you are not legal tender here; this is your home now.

Hello Jane's necklace, I am sorry I couldn't find you a new owner; this is your home now.

Hello, screw from the teacher's lounge; sorry I didn't find where you screwed in; this is your home now.

Hello, suspicious USB stick; sorry I was not brave enough to figure out your contents; this is your home now.

Hello Self,

I am sorry I failed you, I am sorry we still struggle, I am sorry you have to keep doing this. But this. Is. Not. Your. Home. Your home is with Alice, with Martin, with Annie, and with the others.

I cherish these items and my time with them because I've made my time with them limited. They and this pilgrimage remind me that I am not here forever and that one day, I too, will need to be disposed of like trash. But if that is to be my fate, then I want those around me to treat me like I treat my own trash.

[spacebutnotfar]

What About The Ones on The Nice?

The news came quick. It began with voices mumbling in the background as I worked and quickly turned into a rumble. By the time I was considering turning away from my monitor to see what all the noise was about, someone had gone past my desk and bumped it, throwing me off my workflow just long enough to realize people were gathering near the TV at the center of the office floor. As I did, I saw the big red lower third graphics, breaking news. Someone was fiddling with the controls on the back to get the volume up, and a woman turned away from the screen. As soon as I reached the gathering of people, a man walked past me, phone in hand and desperately messaging someone they held dear.

"The Nice Is Rapidly Depresurazing"

On-screen, a live feed from inside The Guangzhou showed the Mars Colonial Ship Nice drifting out in space, a big stream of air coming out of the other side of the vessel.

A voice comes through the feed, that of a senior engineer in The Nice explaining the emergency. As he does, one of the spherical hydrogen tanks on the feed collapses unto itself as it quickly loses pressure. The thud echoes a few moments later on the call.

The news anchor asks if the rescue ships have been dispatched yet; the engineer waits a moment before simply stating they have not.

There are 6540 people on board; are they safe? Ask the anchor slowly, as if fully taking in the sheer loss of life that we could be witnessing.

The news broadcast continued for an hour or so. The once dozens of people watching at the office have now been reduced to a handful, who mostly discuss the events more so than watching the feed.

I sit back at my desk, from where I can peek at the screen occasionally.

As explained, areas of the ship have been sealed off, and the crew is slowly returning sections to operability over the course of the next few weeks.

We won't know the final death toll until they complete the field repairs and then run through the ship's manifest. Several people have already left Nice for Guangzhou, though that is only temporary since the old ship can't house all of them for the remaining duration of the trip to Mars.

Chairman Dasky, Ranking Member Alture, and all members of this special committee thank you for inviting me to speak in front of you and the American public today. I was an orbital engineer for Hokunda Fairspace two weeks ago on the day of the Nice Tragedy. Today, I sit before you to explain how this happened and to ask you and your peers to sign the Solar Space Faring Safety Standards, which every other major Space Faring country has done.

[spacebutnotfar]

Today, I am visiting the Galavant, the latest ASTOC (Active Service Transport Orbiting Craft) to join the 2060 Mars Caravan, before it leaves Low Earth Orbit and meets at the caravan's rendezvous point somewhere past the Moon.

The fine folk at the ECSA, the European Commercial Space Agency, offered me to come on board and look at what the first generation of solar fairing crafts in a post-Martian Liberation War can look like. A craft that has been constructed not with potential conflict in mind but with passenger amenities and comfort.

Hi, future Elly here, I just want to add that, yes, talking about space travel soon post-Martian Liberation is... complicated, and it deserves a video all on its own, and one that neither I nor my team is qualified to make. What I do want to highlight here is the engineering and philosophy that went into the project. Ok, back to past Elly and Dr. Agustin.

"The Galavant was first proposed in 2046, just a few months after the cease-fire. The idea was to produce a craft that could eventually support a large number of diplomats, engineers, doctors, and many other professionals to travel to and from Mars and perform most of their duties within the ship as well." - Dr. Agustin, 43 years-old, Head of the Galavant Project at ECSA since 2048.

This is the Galavant's Solar forum. A room that could connect to the United Nations back on earth, to diplomats here on the ship, and to the recently established Martian Federation millions of kilometers each way.

Because of that need to communicate effectively with the outside and at large distances, there is no large shield generator, armored plating, or even a vacuum chamber on the top side of this room. There is just Space. By all means, and especially at the time of its design, this craft could have been destroyed by anything either side decided to throw at it. It was a gamble on peace. When it began construction in 2052 that still seemed like wishful thinking.

"When we started the process of welding and vacuum sealing the interiors, we actually quite the scare because we were orbiting close to the UN-MF Diplomatic Station and had recently been bombed. So we had to shut down operations for a few months as we waited for our orbit to get us away from the facility."

Now, the only way a Galavant's passenger might realize this was at one point a ship when the war was ongoing is by looking at this. The Peace Plaques are all throughout the halls of the ships. From the dinners to the coffee shops, they all have these commemorative plaques honoring the 57 thousand European citizens who lost their lives in the conflict.

For the first time in 30 years, there will be a craft in the caravan that is not meant for war, or even prepared for it, and it was designed like that on purpose. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I like Agustin's take more.

"I think the economic, social, and cultural impact of such a ship traveling between the two planets is far more powerful than any railgun ever made because this weapon brings people closer, not destruction."

[spacebutnotfar]

While in your cabin, waiting for the weekly pressure testing to finish, you began pulling on all the small drawers beneath and above your bed. Accommodations are tight in the Guangzhou, but at least they are orderly.

After going through a couple, one of them won't come open; it seems locked or at the very least stuck. The tiny slit that you manage to create is not enough to get a clear picture of what it holds.

You Stand up, your eyes darting over the room, trying to find a thin, card-like object that you can slip through it and open it. Where that to fail, then your raw brawn ought to be enough to gain access.

You eventually open the small electronics self-service panel. Amidst the phone battery replacements and USB-Fe adapters, you find what you were looking for. A pair of tiny tweezers, they might just be enough.

Coming back to the lock beneath your bed, you start fiddling with the space between. To aid in your concentration, you look out of your window into the deepness of space, fixating on a star and imagining you are twisting, flicking, and shoving it around.

Moments later, you hear a click, and the drawer opens up without much friction. In it, a picture of a young lady in a dress over a green pasture. You figure this is a polaroid, analog photography; you've never seen one in person before.

In the lower third, it reads, "For when you feel lonely, Antoine" with an arrow indicating it should be turned over.

On the other side, there is a small pocket made out of paper, fitting a flash card almost perfectly, though now it lies empty. The handwritten letter continues:

Your love made me happy in a world that otherwise deeply saddened and hurt me. I have since left said pastures, I hope that we will meet again... I'll be waiting for you in Hellas Your, hopefully someday, fiance, Anny

You flip the polaroid back and forth as if a new message would appear, closure to this love story. But nothing. Putting the picture up to the light of your room makes a faint date appear. 2034-10-02, over thirty years ago, on the maiden voyage of the Guangzhou.

You place the picture in your journal, close the drawer, and make a note of the names Antonie and Anny. They must've been some of the first settlers of the Hellas Colony.

[spacebutnotfar]

As you are traveling in the Mars caravan, a six month long trip, you make aquitances of all sorts. A mother, whose child fought in the MLA, Martian Liberation Army, tells you stories of her son's bravery and how she will finally see him after decades. As she lightly caressed his physical picture, you could not muster the courage to ask if she knew whether his was was still alive or not. Another, Mike, a tall man. you meet at the food stalls in the Micro-G halls. He was feeling sick, having just finished his adjustment period inside the Gavalant, the capital ship of the caravan. Skiny as a radio anttena the man was hunched over a corner, puking directly into the vaccum waste bin. Once the contents of his breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, you really couln't tell, were all slurp up by the machine, he turned to you.

You hand him a wet wipe and with him the best, but before you could be on your way he stops you, asks if he could offer to buy you a snack from the stalls.

The two of you hang around for some time. It's not until Mike tells you that he his shift is starting soon that you inquire what he is doing in the caravan.

"Well, all ships need a engineer no? i handle the 6-axis trusting platforms across the ship. Basically the docking systems"

Resting inside the Guangzhou you ponder what will be of your life in Mars. You've traveled to the planet before, but with restrictions now lifted after the MLA and the U.N. broker a more permanent peace, the mass migration to the frontier of humanity has truly begun.