J Mauldin - Final Solution

Regrettably, however, for all my delusions, the Vindicator was my home, my protector, my prison. Dozens of ships traversed the solar system on a regular basis, conducting commerce and science, but this one was special. It was a robust but simple craft, a series of modules fashioned into a one hundred meter cylinder that rode upon the most advanced ion propulsion system in existence. Each of its fifteen meter modules were interchangeable, self-contained, devoted to tasks like power, crew quarters, bridge, and weapon’s control. We even had a small arboretum that bulged from our center of gravity. Near the forward end of the ship, a great wire ring encircled us. It was the most critical, yet fragile part of our craft, the nuclear battery ring that powered our rail guns. Aft the arboretum, jutting out from the power module, two origamic solar arrays spread out like wings to power our propulsion. Compared to our rival’s warship, the Razor , we were petite, their mass at least three times our own. But size didn’t matter in a fight like this. We could hit them with a super accelerated projectile just as easy as they could us. And let me tell you, fifty percent of the speed of light did tremendous kinetic damage with an eighteen kilogram ferro slug. Big or small, if one hit the wrong part of the ship you were finished.

“Sorry,” I said, hopping out of the way as César Enela, my engineering assistant, slid past at the 5-C hatch. Of all the space available in our nearly one hundred meter long Coke can, the designers hadn’t wasted an inch on hallways. Combined, our stark, ice grey passages were about as narrow as my pinky finger. So narrow, in fact, it made me sometimes feel like toothpaste being squeezed from an almost empty tube.

“Oh Dios mío ,” César spluttered, searching me up and down with wide eyes. “ Hijeuputa , how much weight you running, David? I mean, señor! Yeah… señor, sorry, no David, or em, Señor David.”

I raised a hand to dismiss his breach in protocol.

César was a good kid, about ten years my junior with a natural talent for engineering. His whip thin frame, large eyes, and mop of black brown curls only reinforced an overlying boyish demeanor, making him appear both innocent and naïve. But I knew the truth. The ladies had an eye for him like they might a close friend’s younger brother, and he took full advantage. He was dressed much like me, baggy white jumpsuit with red piping and red accents, black and white nametag over the left chest, Brethren insignia over the right. The jumpsuits were light and comfortable, made of a synthetic, breathable fabric that didn’t get dirty easy. On his collar he bore the rank of Private, Class 1.

I considered his question, glancing at the lead PT weights Velcroed onto my arms, legs and shoulders. “Hundred fifty pounds at 1G, I suppose. Half that here.”

“Nice goin’, señor. I’m only up to fifty, and man it’s rough, rougher than watching my sisters grow up to get the attention of those scummy dockers in Valles Rojo.”

“Don’t go soft on me, César. I need you at a hundred percent. Maybe even more.”

“I won’t, I swear.” He raised his hands. “I plan on adding twenty five more pounds tomorrow.”

“Very good. Now back to work. You’re on duty. Check the scrubbers first—they smell, unusually clean—then go to the solar array and look over the PV systems, and for God’s sake, fix that damn switch on the engine room check board. We can’t emergency burn without it working.”

“Aye aye, si, señor. By the way, you gonna watch Demonio Primario with us scrubs tonight? A new episode’s due off the Sol Net at seven. It’ll be a good one. Promise.”

“If I have the time. I’ve got a lot going on.”

“Mmhm. See you at seven, señor.” He bounded off to his work, humming to the choppy rhythms booming from his loose headphones. Bullshit music.

I returned my focus to the slightly bent hallway ahead. It was something you got used to, but only in the sense one got used to wearing glasses of the wrong prescription. My planet side instincts wanted everything to be straight lines and angles, but here it was all screwed up, like a drunken work of MC Escher.

Our ship was designed to compensate for micro gravity. In any given section you could have a conversation in which one person was on one side, the other person several feet opposite, yet the tops of your heads weren’t far apart, while at the same time, all feet were firmly placed on the floor. I think I remember a children’s story that came close to this sight, in which a collection of anthropomorphic woodland animals conducted a nonsensical tea party from the ceiling and walls instead of the floor. Up was a relative concept, here, up was inward, up was the core; the spine running down the center of our habitation cylinder.

155. “There we go,” I mumbled. “Keep it up, David. Keep it up, you can do it.”

Physical fitness was a vital part of living in low gravity. Even though my current post rotated at a decent clip, it only generated about half that of Earth normal. Still, it was higher than on the surface of any of Saturn’s moons. People who stayed too long in The Mirror City of Enceladus would lose considerable amounts of muscle density in spite of centrifuge PT every day. I wouldn’t let that happen to me here. It was easy to do when you’re restless.

Like I said, I’d grown up on Mars in Arsia Mons having arrived there at age five. All my life I wanted nothing more than to travel the deep reaches of space in search of adventure. But it’s cold, cramped, and lonely out here. I had had friends back on Mars, even quite a little flame for a while, though I’m pretty sure she was out of my league. There might have been other girls, sure, but I only thought of her, of all the trouble we used to get into and weasel out of. She’d been fun. When times were especially bleak, like they had been recently, thoughts of her were the only pristine memories I had on hand. Family was great and all, but they were like everyone else back home, dust-caked and made of mediocrity. They were complacent and mundane, living at the whims of Brethren rule, whereas she… She’d been passionate and full of life. A shot of adrenaline to jumpstart a dead heart.

“And I’d chickened out,” I hissed between breaths.

I passed Med 2, Crew 2, zipped through the arboretum and was hit by a wall of sweet aromas. I paused briefly and moved ahead to Weapons Storage and Control, then entered our overstuffed Cargo Bay. I turned, crossing the module laterally, down the only clear path between all the damn cargo, and pounded back up towards the front of the ship from the other side. I swear the halls were getting tighter every time I pushed through, crates and cylinders stacked to the core, having gotten together to spawn broods of inanimate cargo children.

As I blew past Crew 1, my quarters, I scowled. I’d forgotten those blasted headphones once again. But that’s ok, damn it, it was all a loop. I’d be back around in no time. That was a promise. Joy.

I ran twelve miles, five days a week, to keep up with PT, and at about three hundred eighty five feet per lap, well, that’s a lot of laps. One hundred sixty five to be exact. I could wear VR goggles like the rest of the crew, transporting me any place in the known universe while using a treadmill or elliptical to get it done, but even though my brain wouldn’t know the difference, my heart surely would. I was sick of artificial shit. I wanted ground and trees and dirt in quantity, the kind that stained your jeans and got stuck under your nails, not just a thin belt of leaves like what was clasped to the Vindicator’s belly.

Then there was the other issue. VR, direct brain impulse, or 10k curved displays, all gave me headaches. I tried getting over this once by taking a virtual holiday to Cancun, but ended up puking for a solid two hours just after I’d started. Got sick before I even had the chance to drink the virtual water and get virtual diarrhea. How’s that for fair?