The Void

CHAPTER 1

Commander Mitch Granger looked at the mission clock — 36.03 more hours to go, just a day and a half more. Piece of cake. They’d been up for a week now, and he was starting to feel the drag of home pulling him back harder than ever.

Homesick, he thought. Hey, the homesick astronaut — not a bad title for a book. He had always wanted to write one; after all, everyone was doing it these days and making a fortune.

Mitch leaned back in his seat and peered out the shuttle cockpit window. The glass was magnificently clear, even though the orbiter’s portal windows were triple-paned, super-hardened optical-quality glass. He knew if he wasn’t wearing the bulky suit gloves and pressed a hand against it, it would still feel numbingly cold and fragile. There were thirty-seven windowpanes in eleven different sizes and shapes on the shuttle, and all of them acknowledged as a point of possible engineering failure.

Just a few sheets of glass between me, a vacuum, and certain death, he sighed.

He reached up to tap the glass — safe as a bank. The shuttle orbiter technology was considered rock solid these days. On the Space Hazard Risk Identification Scale, where a low score equaled low risk, it rated 6.5 out of ten. Now human beings, they were a whole different kettle of onions. We poor shaved apes rate up at 7.2 — there’s your higher risk factors right there.

He inhaled a deep breath and then let it out slowly. They were a risk, the glass was a risk; up here every goddamn thing was a risk. Like it or not, they were in a metal shell, orbiting 333 miles above earth and hurtling along in orbit at 17,500 miles per hour.

He smiled dreamily; space was so vast, and everything looked frozen in place. There was nothing but pinpricks of light showing through to a blanket of black velvet.

At least with the windows they got to see out, which was some compensation. But still, everything was primarily run on autopilot or from NASA HQ, and in space nothing ever seemed to change, so really, their biggest challenge was fighting boredom.

Flight engineer Gerry Fifield floated back to his seat, pulling himself in and throwing a belt over his shoulder to stay in place. He started to press buttons, reading data from a screen. He spoke without turning.

“Beth is nearly finished back there, skipper.”

“Thank god for that,” said Mitch. “Wearing this suit is a bitch.” He stretched, trying to get comfortable in the bright orange MACES suit, or Modified Advanced Crew Escape Suit. They were the new design and nothing like the silver or white Michelin Man suits of old. But the vacuum of space was a killer, and it needed to be kept out at all costs, and that meant wearing the modern equivalent of a suit of armor.

Mission specialist Beth Power was back in the bay area running some experiments that required the payload delivery doors to be open — and the bay doors being open meant spacesuits on everywhere in the ship.

Mitch turned. “How’s Noah’s Ark?”

Gerry smiled back. “Larry and Moe are running miles, Curly Joe is taking a nap, and Mustang Sally is just hangin’ out as always. Plus, our creepy crawlies are doing their creepin’ and crawlin’ thing.” Gerry raised his eyebrows. “All creatures great and small are all present and accounted for.”

“Never work with animals or children — who was it said that?” Mitch grinned.

“Either WC Fields or Miley Cyrus — one of the greats, anyway,” returned Gerry.

Noah’s Ark was right. They had three mice, Larry, Moe and Curly Joe; a teenage sloth named Mustang Sally that may one day hold the key to long-term hibernation; and a panoply of ants, cockroaches, mantes, other bugs as well as giant earthworms in glass cases. Plus, thrown in for good measure, some plant and fungi stock.

Bottom line was the government’s interest in space travel was waning, and to get a bird financially airborne these days, NASA needed to be a flying circus.

That and other more covert fund-raising activities. Mitch eyed one of his screens that held a small number count still increasing. Their biggest sponsor of this mission was the US military, and the screen count was of the images taken as they passed over Russia and Eastern Europe. Mitch looked away — he hadn’t asked, and didn’t want to know. It was well above his pay grade anyway.

Among the sea of lights on the console, a single one started to blink, demanding attention.

“Whoa there, Ripley just picked up something on the long-range scanner.” Gerry straightened in his seat.

“Satellite or debris?” Mitch only partially listened; there was always something on the scanners. After all, space was a veritable junkyard these days.

“Ripley’s checking now.” Gerry listened to the computerized babble via a headset until a smooth feminine voice cut through.

The Orlando had five on-board computers that handled data processing and control critical flight systems. They talked to each other and even voted to settle arguments with RIPLE — the Relational Intelligent Processor and Logic Entity — known as Ripley, who was the head processor and mother hen, having the deciding vote.

Gerry held up a finger as he listened. “Ripley’s got it now.”

In a modern shuttle orbiter, pilots like Mitch and Gerry essentially flew the computers, which in turn flew the ship for them. In front of each man was a Multifunctional Electronic Display Subsystem, or MEDS, which was a full color, eleven-panel visual system the pilots called the ‘glass cockpit’. Ripley was an upgraded AI, and probably the most advanced technology in the old shuttle design. She was the new brain in an old body, and her major task was to keep her eyes and ears on the ship and the universe, and then translate it back to the astronauts for any fine-tuning.

“What is it, and where’s it from?” Mitch asked.

Gerry shook his head, frowning. “Not from anywhere.” He turned to Mitch. “She says it’s coming out of the void.”

Mitch half turned — the void. It was a description for any area of space that was well outside of the solar system. It was deep space, uncharted and with nothing there for countless billions of miles.

“Not on any orbit?” He sat forward. “What size?”

“Not big, less than a dozen feet long.” Gerry bobbed his head. “She says it’ll pass close by us. Here, listen.” He flicked the input to audio.

Mitch stared out through the thick glass of the cockpit window. “Talk to me, Ripley: what can you tell us?”

The calm feminine voice began. “Hello, Commander Granger. The unidentified object is in a non-elliptical orbit, traveling in a straight-line trajectory, and coming out of deep space quadrant ninety-five. It is traveling at 224.22 miles per second.”

“Pretty slow.” Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “Size?”

Ripley didn’t hesitate. “124.32 inches by 47.1 inches.”

“Thanks, Ripley. Keep watching.”

“Always, Commander.”

Mitch exhaled. “So much for our guys on the ground always having our back — I’d better check with Russ; see what else he can tell us.”

Mitch placed the headset on and switched to external. The computer would use NASA’s DSN — Deep Space Network — to send signals back and forth between the Orlando and NASA. Luckily, they were close to home at 333 miles up, and would endure no time lag. He opened a channel.

“This is Commander Mitch Granger onboard the Space Shuttle Orbiter Orlando. Russ, are you there, over?”

Mitch only had to wait a few seconds. As he expected, Russell Burrows seemed to be there night and day, every day. When they were in space, Russ being on-deck was as dependable and regular as clockwork.

“Howdy Mitch, great looking morning. How’s it look from up there?”

Mitch smiled, hearing his friend, engineer, and top dog at NASA Control. “Another beautiful day over the US of A, buddy, and not a cloud in the sky.” He looked briefly over at Gerry’s screen. “It’d probably look even better if we didn’t have something in our front yard. What’s going on, Russ? We got a small bogey in quadrant ninety-five, coming out of the void at about 224 miles per second.”

“Hi, Mitch.”

Her voice made Mitch smile. “Hi, back at you.”

Anne’s voice made him feel homesick all over again. Doctor Anne Peterson was one of the NASA ground technicians for the space program. She was also a trained biologist and medical doctor. She and Mitch had been dating for a year, and Russ had let her stay on-deck while Mitch was in orbit.

“Miss you,” Anne said softly, and suddenly Mitch wanted to be home more than anything in the world.

“And me you, beautiful.” He wanted to tell her he loved her, but knew the team would give him hell for weeks if he did. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“You two love birds finished?” Russ had a smile in his voice.

“For now.” Mitch grinned back.

“We can see your bogey, Mitch. Been tracking it since last night when it swung out from behind the moon. We originally expected it to pass you by with over 1,000 miles to spare, and no need to even mention it,” Russ said. “Small, but heavy in trace metals and other composites that are unknown — could be meteorite, but doesn’t seem on any sort of minor or major elliptical orbit. Maybe bumped out of the Kuiper Belt by an asteroid.”

“Originally expected?” Mitch waited.

“Yeah, we received updated information just a few minutes back.” Russ mumbled to someone in the background and then he whistled. “Looks like it’ll come a little closer to you guys than we first estimated.”

“How close? Ripley confirmed it’d miss us.” Mitch stared out the cockpit windows to the quadrant from where he knew the object was approaching.

“Close, real close.” There was a muffled conversation again before Russ came back. “Has Beth finished her work in the bay? Might be a good idea for her to pack it up and lock it down; just until this little guy has said goodbye to you.”

There was a clicking sound and more muffled conversation, and Mitch could imagine Russ Burrows snapping his fingers and calling for more data, before he came back on the line.

“Our calculations are that it’s still gonna pass by, but now within 120 miles of your position — give you guys a bit of a skinny.” Russ turned serious. “Better strap in, just in case we have any more deviation and you need to give Orlando a little bit of a kick. Be skimming by your orbit in thirty-six minutes. Roger that, Mitch?”

“Roger that, Russ, over.” Mitch shifted in his seat. He could read his friend like a book. The man came across as laid-back as you like, but underneath it Mitch could sense a little tension. Russ was worried about something — maybe the proximity, or maybe something else. And if Russ was worried, then he sure should be. Any more deviation, he had said. Since when do astral objects keep deviating?

Mitch started to open all the sensors, and spoke without turning. “Gerry, can you go help get Beth all squared away and back in her chair.”

“You got it.” Gerry unbuckled and floated backwards, pulling himself around on the chair edge, hitting the door-open button on the wall that separated the cockpit from the rear bulkhead door of the cockpit, and then torpedoing down the center of the cargo bay area to where Beth was working.

Mitch turned back to his screens. “Ripley, give me a constant data feed on our bogey.”

“Presenting now, commander.” Ripley sent the data directly to his MEDS screens and it scrolled up before his eyes. “Commander, I have detected an interesting anomaly.”

“Huh?” Mitch’s brows came together. “What is it?”

“There seems to be a rhythmic recurring emission from the object.” Ripley’s voice was objective as always.

“Feed it.” Mitch listened as Ripley pushed and then boosted the sound to his headset. He closed his eyes and concentrated — there was a faint heartbeat-like pulse, and something else that could have been a low hum or buzz, like the sound a swarm of bees bedding down for the night.

He opened his eyes. “What do you make of it?”

“Unknown, Commander.” Ripley paused.

“Hypothesize,” he urged.

She complied. “High probability of background interference.”

“Other probabilities?” He waited.

“Solar signal distortion, radio wave bounce, acceleration flow, other signal, type unknown,” she intoned.

“Okay.” He listened for a few more moments, feeling a small twist of unease in his gut. “Cut transmission.”

Immediately the sound was shut off, and he breathed out. “High probability of background interference, huh?”

Curiosity got the better of him. “Let me hear it again, and amplify.”

Ripley restarted the sound, and Mitch tilted his head, listening — clicks, weird scratching, and a dull, liquid throb, like a heartbeat. It gave him the freaking creeps.

“Hey.”

“Jesus.” Mitch jumped in his seat.

“Easy there.” Gerry grinned and floated back into his seat. “Beth will be done in five.” He buckled in. “So what is it?”

“What it is, is just plain weird.” Mitch switched the external sounds over to Gerry.

Gerry placed a hand to his earpiece and concentrated. “Holy hell. Interference maybe?” He frowned. “Or some sort of acceleration flow?”

“That’s what Ripley suggested. But like I said, weird.” Mitch sat back. “The good news is it’s small enough to totally burn up if it punches into the atmosphere.”

“Commander Granger, come back.”

Mitch touched his ear mic. “Go ahead, Russ.”

“Look, ah, this might sound a little weird, but…”

“Weird, huh?” Mitch turned to roll his eyes at Gerry.

“Yeah, this little guy seems to have altered its trajectory.” Russ responded, still cheery. “It’s still just tumbling around up there, but now seems to be course correcting. Trajectory risk programs say it’s now on collision course with you.”

“Magnetic?” Mitch sat straighter.

“That’s what we’re thinking, iron-based composition and all. So we’re gonna back you guys up a few hundred miles,” Russ said. “Better get Beth in right now, and then we’ll give you a little bump.”

“Roger that.” Mitch turned. “Go get her in, Gerry, pronto. And don’t let her argue with you.”

“You got it, boss.” Gerry was already shooting back to the hatch door again.

Mitch looked out of the window, and for the first time he could make out a small dot of light that had appeared on his horizon. “Okay, Russ, I have visual now.”

He watched it for several moments, and then looked down at his screen. Ripley couldn’t tell him anything more than he already knew, other than to inform him that the object’s internal pulse had elevated.

Getting excited, are we?

The thought made the hair on his neck prickle for some reason. He glanced at the countdown timer on one of the screens — time was vanishing way too fast. He touched his ear mic.

“Hurry up back there, you two. Bogey’s gonna be on us in twenty-four minutes.”

Almost immediately, Gerry came back into the cockpit with Beth now in tow. Both floated into their seats then buckled in.

“Sorry Mitch, but if we’re gonna move the bus, I wanted to make sure there was nothing that’s going to end up in our laps.” She looked up and out through the window. “What have we got: debris?”

“Something like that,” Mitch responded. “But its trajectory has altered — coming right at us now.”

“Altered?” Beth turned back to him.

Mitch nodded. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, let’s run a skin check, and then prepare for a short and sharp controlled burn.”

The skin check was a term for when they ran a fast diagnostic over the Orlando’s surface integrity. The onboard computers managed the hull’s external health automatically, and even a pinprick would have had Ripley screaming at them. But protocol demanded a manual once-over prior to engaging thrusters. Besides, no one minded ensuring there weren’t any swinging back doors or loose tiles when they were about to fire up a few thousand pounds of thrust.

“Okay, hull integrity is good and solid.” Gerry ran eyes over a screen full of tiny green lights.

“Bay doors secure, seams are tight, and equipment locked down. All good here, boss,” Beth added.

“Okay NASA, I’m waking up Ripley’s engine security.” He placed a hand on a screen that circled his fingertips, reading his prints, and giving him clearance. “And we are good to go.” Mitch placed a hand on the joystick. “Initiating forward thrusters in, three, two, one… burn.” He pressed down with his thumb.

There was a sensation of added weight, a backward motion, and then a hint of blurring out of the cockpit window as if there was an oily dispersion from the nose cone of the shuttle as the thrusters burned fuel.

“First burn complete.” Mitch shut the nose thrusters off as the Orlando slid backwards in space. His eyes were on the computer screen as he watched the seconds and distance count down. In a vacuum, even a tiny push one way would continue your progress in that direction until you hit something, or…

“Ready on reverse thrust on, three, two, one… burn.”

… you got a little shove in the opposite direction.

Mitch engaged the rear thrusters for a minor burst to return the Orlando to the same orbital attitude. Almost immediately, Ripley gave him validation of his work.

“Back in new designated structural orbit and we have good spatial and attitude control. How do you read us, NASA?” Mitch sat back.

Russ came back immediately. “Roger that, Orlando, you are looking good. Checking your proximity relationship now.”

Mitch waited, his eyes going from the MEDS screen to the view of space from the cockpit windows. He always enjoyed the interaction with the controls. Most of their missions were either so automated or controlled by a battalion of ground technicians that he felt sometimes he was only along for the ride.

“Ah, Orlando…”

Mitch didn’t like the tone in Russ’ voice.

“…do you still have visual on our bogey?”

Mitch frowned, and then leaned forward. The small speck of light was still there. But so what? He expected it to be.

“Affirmative, Russ, we see it. What’s our new proximity relationship?” Mitch continued to stare at the speck.

Mitch heard Russ click his tongue against his cheek. “Damndest thing, Mitch, when you course corrected, it did too. It, ah, kinda stayed with you.”

Shit. Mitch felt his breath catch. “Say again, NASA. Confirm, bogey is still on intercept vector?” He felt both Gerry and Beth turn to look at him. There were several seconds of silence, and then…

“That is affirmative, Orlando.” Russ’ demeanor had suddenly gone all business.

“How?” Mitch gritted his teeth.

Ripley responded smoothly. “The object seemed to project something akin to an electric charge that focused the direction and magnitude of the vector field. In effect, it created a magnetic field projection.”

“Like a tractor beam.” Mitch felt a prickle of perspiration under one of his arms as he tried to make sense of what that meant. “It projected it… at us?”

“Unable to verify intent, Commander.”

Fuck. He licked his lips. He’d seen what micrometeorites could do to the skin of a shuttle. Even a glancing impact could crack a single tile. Worst-case scenario was the computer didn’t detect it until you were reentering the atmosphere. By that time, it would be too late to compensate, and the only option would be to toast marshmallows as you kissed your ass goodbye. He glanced at the timer; eighteen minutes, and it’d be on top of them.

“Okay, NASA, I’m going to burn again.” Mitch turned to his crew who simply nodded. He felt his jaws tighten as he gripped the stick. “Engaging all pitch nozzles, in three, two, one… burn.”

This time Orlando pushed back, hard. Mitch heard Gerry grunt beside him, as the craft vented the burning fuel, pushing them backwards in its orbit. He watched the computer read down the numbers, and waited, waited, seconds seeming like an eternity.

He shut it down, relaxing his hand for a few seconds, before resetting their orbital attitude again. “Compensating burn on three, two, one… burn.”

Their orbital slide slowed and then stopped. Mitch looked up; the dot of light was still there, bigger if anything. It was like they had it on a piece of string.

“What the hell is that thing?” He suddenly felt cold fingers dancing up his spine, and swallowed down a lump of frustration rising in his gut.

“Control, Russ, this damn thing is still with us. Any ideas? Over.”

“Yep, we see it, Mitch.” Russ had a brief whispered conversation in the background before coming back on.

“Ripley says it’s over ten feet, nose to tip; so if it sticks to us, we’re never going to be able to compensate for its drag coming in,” said Gerry.

Mitch nodded to his friend. “Russ, if the magnetic field on that thing is strong enough to track us, then it’s damn well strong enough to stick to us; it’ll fry our instruments.”

“I hear you, Mitch. We’re not going to let that happen — leave it with us guys, we’re working on it.”

Mitch exhaled through pressed lips. “We’ll be here, over.” He signed out.

Gerry turned in his seat, staring for a moment. “Mitch, we can’t let that thing even kiss us.”

“No, no, Gerry, we can’t.” Mitch stared at the proximity countdown. He felt like he had a lead ball in his gut.