180: ASCENT

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The shuttle has a weight limit. It’s designed to carry the five of use back to the ship, and not much else. We lied to Antarctica about how heavy we all were, and the removal of the docking clamps will give us a bit more weight to work with, but we want to get as many modern manufacturing machines up onto the ship as possible, so the logical thing to do would be to send up the pilot and copilot necessary to pilot the shuttle and leave the rest of the ground crew on the planet’s surface. That would give us more mass allowance for equipment, and be generally safe, in case we’ve somehow missed some form of sabotage, or something goes wrong with the shuttle.

We all know this. And yet, looking at the shuttle, we all know that it will take a really, really long time to build another one from supplies the ship and the colony have. We can’t even be certain that a second shuttle will get built. Even though it’s the least sensible decision, we all want to be on that shuttle. We all want each other to be on that shuttle.

We tell this to the Hylarans in charge of the launch, and they seem confused that it was ever up for debate. A couple of us need to go up to pilot the shuttle, so of course all of us are going. Why would splitting up a set for that long ever be an option?

The shuttle parts are stress and heat tested, one last time. The Hypati launcher is used to launch an equivalent mass, to make sure that the trajectory is correct. The fuel tanks are filled.

The five of us look at the shuttle, lying there on the launcher. Its tiny capsule, looking like nothing so much as a very small drop pod, is dwarfed by the massive tanks of hydrogen and oxygen bolted to it. An explosion waiting to happen; technically, the inside of the shuttle, shielded against the heat and stress of the launch, is safer than the outside, where a rupture in the wrong tanks could result in a fatal explosion. (This sort of thing is why fuelling was left to the last minute. Best not to tempt fate.)

We say our goodbyes. We put our space suits on. We climb aboard.

Hylaran tunics aren’t really designed to be worn under space suits, but I don’t take mine off. I want to take something of the planet with me. I’d prefer wool or cotton, but the planet has nothing organic to give us that we didn’t give it. Synthetics, sourced from Antarctica and then cut and stitched by Hylaran hands, will have to do.

The radio link between Captain Klees, Dandelion and myself is silent. The space suit radios are perfectly capable of transmitting to and from our implants, but we say nothing, we don’t send each other the nervous, fidgety energy that I can feel in myself and in the body language of my four companions, that knowledge that hey, once again, we’re doing something half-baked that could easily kill us all. We make sure that the cargo – autodocs, advanced synthetics extruders, materials recyclers – are all safely secure, and strap ourselves into our seats.

Captain Klees is in the pilot’s chair, with Dandelion his copilot. I’m an emergency backup for either role. The reason for this is simple: we’re about to undergo some very heavy g-forces, and DIVRs are the least likely people to pass out. There’s not any real reason to worry about piloting; the AI is supposed to handle almost everything, and the pilot will only really be called into action if something goes wrong that the AI can’t handle. The chances of that are negligible; shuttle AIs are very old technology. But I don’t think any of us can really trust an AI any more.

The procedure of the launch is fairly simple. The Hypati launcher will accelerate us constantly until we reach the end of the track. It’s angled somewhat upward, although not nearly as much as a settlement with a high level of mechanical industry would be able to manage. Once we leave the track, the engines will kick in, taking us into space and, if all goes well, setting us in an orbit at the same approximate height as the Courageous. The Courageous will then confirm our final position and bring the ship in close enough for their retrieval pod to come and get us. The whole process should take somewhere between twelve and sixteen hours.

Over the radio, Hive counts down the launch. The last handful of seconds where it’s possible to call an abort. Once this process starts, we have to see it through or die trying.

Musing over that, I almost miss when they reach zero. I press myself into the back of my seat just in time for the force of the acceleration to start pressing every soft and fluid part of my body back into the seat, no matter what my skeleton thinks of the matter.

There’s some risk of brain damage on this launch, particularly for Tinera and Tal, if the force restricts their brain from too much oxygen for too long. Not a high risk, but some. We all took blood pressure medication before this launch to decrease the chance of that happening. A great many other organs in the body are also at risk, but most other things we can repair aboard the Courageous. We can’t do anything about brain death. I try not to think about that as we glide down the launcher; and then we reach the end and, for a few seconds, all acceleration stops.

I fight the urge not to throw up at the sudden cessation of pressure, then I’m pressed back into my seat again with significantly less force as the rockets kick in. There are no windows in the shuttle, obviously, and for that I’m grateful; I don’t want to even think about how fast we must be going right now. As I fight valiantly to keep from spitting stomach acid all over the inside of my space suit visor, Dandelion, sounding as nauseous as I feel, comes over the radio.

“Check off,” she says. “Known condition. Adin Klees.”

“Alert,” Captain Klees says, sounding in pain. “Pain in my chest and back. Rib or spine damage maybe?”

“Noted. Your vitals are clear. Aspen Greaves.”

“Alert,” I report. “I did something to my neck.”

“How’s your range of motion?”

“Full range. It just hurts a lot.”

“Be careful with it until we can get an X-ray. Tinera Li Null.”

Silence.

“Check in, Tinera Li Null.”

Silence again.

“Is she okay?” Captain Klees asks.

“Vitals are steady. Probably unconscious. Tal Smithson.”

Yet more silence.

“Tal Smithson.”

“Thanks once again to those DIVR genes,” I say. “We could’ve been a room full of unconscious people here.”

“Indeed. Tal’s vitals are also steady. If ther take more than a couple of minutes to come back, that might be cause for conce – ”

“Fuck!” Tinera yells over the radio. “Wait. Where are…? Oh, we’re going slower now.”

“We’re accelerating slower,” Captain Klees corrects her. “We’re moving faster. The engines have engaged. Are you alright?”

Dandelion runs a quick cognitive test for her over the radio, and does the same for Tal when ke wakes up thirty seconds or so later. A full assessment will need to wait until we’re aboard the Courageous, but there doesn’t seem to be any immediate cause for concern. The shuttle trembles and shakes around us, a gentle reminder of the violent amount of energy being expended by the engines on the other side of our shielding.

“We should’ve brought cards,” Tal comments after a few minutes of calm silence.

“It wouldn’t be safe to pull them out right now,” Captain Klees says.

“Maybe not, but once we’re hanging out in orbit with nothing to do but wait for someone to come and pick us up, you’ll all wish we had them.”

Captain Klees sends Dandelion and I a mental radio signal to denote resignation, only for Tal to protest, “Hey, I heard that!”

“What do you mean you heard that?” I ask. “Are you intercepting our channel and playing it as audio?”

Yeah.”

“And you’ve memorised all the codes as audio output?”

“Of course!”

“That must sound horrible,” Dandelion says.

“Nah, I can work with it. I’ve been thinking of turning it into a music genre. Telepathic Sparklecore.”

“There’s no way that whatever you’re hearing can possibly count as a genre of sparklecore,” I say. “The basic rhythm alone can’t possibly fit the – ”

“If we’re going to spend the next half a day in this can arguing over what is and isn’t sparklecore, let me know right now so I can jump out of this shuttle and right into the fucking engine flames,” Tinera cuts in. Causing Dandelion to mentally signal amusement. Causing Tal to protest again.

The journey back up into space is significantly less nerve-wracking than the trip down, despite the fact that it is, technically, a lot more dangerous. The fact that all of this equipment was built by people invested in actually getting us into orbit alive probably helps. And dangerous space travel is almost an old, familiar danger; nostalgic, in a way.

Wow, that’s a depressing thought.

“Courageous to ascent pod,” Sam calls over the radio eventually. “We see you falling into orbit. Heading out to meet you right now. Status? Over.”

“Ascent pod to Courageous,” Captain Klees replies. “Everyone’s alive and doing surprisingly well. No obvious evidence of critical injury, but our ability to assess in here is limited. Computer shows no major damage to the ascend pod, except for the alarm about missing docking clamps. Over.”

“That’s great news. Hold tight, ascent pod; we’re prepping a crew to bring you home.”

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