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15

Knowing he was the newest crewman aboard, officer or not, did not make being cut from the mission any easier. Marshall’s fellow officers and the spacers under him were consumed with preparing for their ship’s first voyage beyond Earth’s influence and a first-of-its-kind rescue. It was analogous to the Coast Guard having only one cutter at sea, always within a day or two from shore, and suddenly sending it clear out to answer a mayday call in the middle of the North Atlantic with no resupply or refueling. Everything they needed to get there and back would have to be brought with them.

He understood it, yet the disappointment still stung. In addition to packing up his own gear to take with him, he’d been made responsible for offloading all the other nonessential gear. After only a couple of weeks aboard, he was working himself out of a job.

It was only temporary, he kept assuring himself. Probably. “Needs of the service” were constantly changing. In the end, they could send him wherever they needed and there were any number of officers who would jump at the chance to replace him.

He and the five others going Earthside with him would be assigned temporary duty probably doing something menial, as they wouldn’t be around long enough to become useful to anyone. Yet he’d be expected to do his best at whatever he was assigned. It would be a balancing act of doing just enough to not get noticed, either good or ill. Do too good of a job and whoever was in charge down there just might want to keep him around. Screw up and they’d keep him from coming back out of spite.

He wondered how long he’d been staring into space like a moron when the XO appeared in his doorway. “Away Team meeting in twenty minutes, P-1 module. Bring your latest manifest and mass estimates. We’ve still got to find three hundred kilos to trim.”

“Is that exact, sir?” he asked, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

“You’ve been here long enough to know that I don’t speak in round numbers unless they’re actual round numbers, Mister Hunter.”

“Aye, sir.” Marshall made a note on his tablet to find precisely three hundred kilos their shipmates could live without.

Wicklund remained hovering in Marshall’s doorway. “You’re pissed.”

“Sir?”

The XO had been unsparing in his critiques before, as he was in apparently every other regard. “No need to try and hide it. Skipper’s taking our ship out on its first trip into interplanetary space. Might as well be going to Mars if you ask me. You figured out how to get us there, and now you’re being kicked to the curb.”

Marshall lifted his chin. “I understood that as soon as I realized we needed to cut head count, sir. Captain Poole needs experienced crew.”

“Just doing your job, then?”

“Yes sir. That’s how I see it. Doesn’t mean I have to like the results.”

A grin crept across Wicklund’s face, ending at his eyes. “Sure you do. At least in front of the crew.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t follow.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Wicklund came inside and pulled the privacy curtain behind him. “You’ve been dog-faced ever since leaving that meeting. You feel like the universe has dealt you a bad hand and you’re the guy who shuffled the deck. The proverbial turd rolled downhill and landed on you. Whatever metaphor you prefer, I’m telling you to get over it.”

“I didn’t realize I’d said anything, sir.”

“Did I say you had?” Wicklund leaned in. “It’s all over your face, son. You look like somebody just ran over your favorite puppy with a dump truck. These spacers are smart people, Hunter. They pick up on body language and tics like you wouldn’t believe.”

He was right: Marshall didn’t believe it. How could people so constantly busy even want to take the time to read him? What did they even care if he was about to be sent back down the well anyway?

“You grabbed a fiercely competitive billet and now that you’re leaving, you think the knives are coming out for you.”

Marshall looked up to meet his eyes. “Someone is bound to try and take advantage of the situation, sir.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t forget, the skipper has a final say in who comes aboard his ship. How do you think you got here?”

At last, there it was. Finally. He felt his face flush with heat. “I listed this ship as my first preference for duty, sir, just like everyone else in my class. None of us thought we’d get it. I didn’t ask for any favors and I didn’t pull any strings.” He laughed at himself. “I don’t have any strings to pull. My family’s not military.”

Wicklund’s cold eyes pierced him. “Sure you do. Maybe not blood, but they might as well be. You don’t go through what your old man went through with the skipper without having ties that can’t be broken. Signing your name to that request was pulling a string whether you think so or not. And you’d already strong-armed our check pilot into passing you.”

Now the anger boiled up. “Just one minute, sir.” He practically spat the word. “You can’t tell me that was a normal check ride! Wylie was sent to evaluate me for duty here. I get it. But all I knew at the time was some IP I’d never met was about to bust me after setting me up for failure in the first place. I worked my ass off for that flight rating and he was in my way. I didn’t give a damn why.”

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”

“And you’ve been busting them since I arrived. Sir.” Should’ve kept that to myself, he thought.

Another cold smile from the XO. “That’s my job, Mister Hunter. If the captain played hard-ass every time it was needed, crew morale would be shot to hell. That’s what executive officers are for. Haven’t you watched any war movies?”

Marshall struggled with the question before finally spitting it out. “Why did you bring me aboard, sir?”

Wicklund studied him, considering his words. “You’re a guinea pig.”

Marshall cocked his head. “How?”

“Don’t be dense, son. You’re smarter than that. Right now the Orbit Guard fleet has exactly one ship and it’s treated like a career-pinnacle assignment,” he said. “Which it is. But as they build more, we have to start grooming junior officers for duty up here.” He tapped his chest. “That falls on us to make it happen. Skipper figured it’s better to take that chance with a known quantity than some kid fresh out of the training squadron.”

“I am a kid fresh out of the training squadron,” Marshall reminded him. “Sir.”

“Maybe to the rest of the crew, but not to the skipper. That’s why he had Wylie put you through the ringer. He told us you could hack it, but you had to prove yourself.”

Marshall did a silent double take. A part of him knew that, remembered it from the academy. But being in the middle of the barely controlled bedlam of adjusting to life in orbit, he’d never realized it.

Wicklund’s cool demeanor warmed, if only a little. “It’s my job to push the crew and make them worthy of being here. You did good, Hunter. But I’m telling you there’s always one more step you can take, one more mile to go. We are expected to always do the right thing, particularly when it’s not in our personal interest.”

“I thought that’s what I did, sir.”

A hoarse laugh. “I’m not talking about you, numbnuts. Have you looked at the manifest lately?”

He hadn’t. Marshall pulled up the cut roster and was shocked at the latest name atop the list. Master Chief Garver’s name had been removed, and replaced with: CDR WICKLUND, JONAH B.

“See you at the meeting. And don’t forget that manifest.”


Moving down the cut roster from its senior (and only) officer meant that a lot of responsibility had just been lifted from his shoulders. He’d convinced himself to embrace the chance to be in charge of a ship’s detachment, even if for temporary duty back on Earth.

The responsibility might be gone, but the work remained. With all the work just delegated to him by Wicklund, he was sure that none of the departure prep had simply been removed from the XO’s purview. Poole would use him to ride herd on the crew right up until the moment they undocked to make their way downhill.

Being the detachment’s junior officer, a twenty-minute warning from the XO meant he actually had ten minutes to make everything ready.

He sailed down the connecting corridor and pulled himself to a stop at the multi-mod hatch. When he floated inside, he found two crewmen sweating over the resistance machines. “Workout’s over, guys. Sorry but the XO needs the space in ten.”

One of the men, who hid an impressive physique beneath his usual coveralls, sent a glob of moisture flying from his shaved head when he looked up. “We know, sir. We’re on the roster.”

Marshall’s eyes widened and he checked the roster again. Powers and Jefferson—of course they were. “Sorry fellas. I’ve got too much stuff competing for space in my brain.”

“No need to keep apologizing, sir.”

“Sorry, didn’t know I—”

They both laughed. “There you go again, sir.” Each moved to dry themselves off and stow the workout machines. “No worries, we’ll help you set up. We were already down here when we got the notice.”

“Appreciate that, guys.” He tapped their names on his tablet to bring up a list of tasks they’d been assigned. “You two are already done with your inventory?” It felt like micromanaging, but the XO was certain to ask at some point and it would not pay for the new guy to come up short. The best way to avoid uncomfortable questions was to already have the answers at hand.

The other crewman, lanky and easygoing, folded an armature into the sidewall and locked it down. “Honestly, sir, it wasn’t hard. We probably have a better idea of what’s in the ship’s stores than our own personal lockers. Otherwise stuff gets lost up here in ways you wouldn’t dream of in gravity.”

Marshall gave him a you got that right nod as he opened up the wardroom table. He tried not to think about what he’d lost himself just after a couple of weeks. “Has anybody figured out where everything ends up?” he asked, not hiding his frustration.

“It’s space,” Powers shrugged. “A black hole.”

“There you go again,” Jefferson said. “Gotta be black, don’t it?”

Powers rolled his eyes. “Really, dude? Does everything have to go that way with you?”

“Only if it gets you riled up.” He turned to Marshall. “My shipmate’s decidedly unscientific opinion notwithstanding, sir, it’s a dilemma as old as spaceflight. Stuff floating loose finds its way into every unreachable nook and cranny. You’d think everything would just gravitate toward the air returns, but I’ve found missing gear in places you wouldn’t believe.”

That was the part that troubled him. How much mass was left aboard that they couldn’t account for? He’d just have to make doubly certain they had every single piece of gear on their manifest. On the ground it would’ve been straightforward, up here it felt like herding cats. Cats that could fly.

The other two crewmen, Mikey Malone and Hector Navarro from Marshall’s own section, soon floated into the compartment and watched as the four traded the kinds of fist bumps, high fives, and trash talking of people who’d spent a lot of time working in close quarters together.

“Ready to go downhill, Hector?”

His already dark face turned dour. “Hell, no. Think I want to miss this?” He waved his thumb between himself and Malone. “How is it that Mikey and I hit our dosage limits when you two are the ones working in the reactor spaces all the time?”

“There’s more shielding in those compartments than anywhere but the storm shelter,” Powers said. “You’re the ones hanging your asses overboard every chance you get.”

“It’s what spacers do,” Malone said, patting Hector’s shoulder. “Being Earthside for a couple weeks won’t be that bad, brother. Maybe do us some good.”

“That’s because you’ve got a wife and kids down there,” Hector said. “Don’t get all magnanimous on me. We’ve known each other too long.”

“Then you can come over and grill some burgers with us. Maybe have a couple beers.”

The four of them nodded approvingly. A little time on the beach wouldn’t be so bad. “Now that’s a plan,” Hector said, turning back to Marshall. “That is, if Mister Hunter doesn’t have our activities already planned full.”

Marshall shook his head. “Not up to me,” he said, just as the XO glided into the compartment and stopped at the head of the table.

“Gentlemen. You don’t have time to listen to me drone on and I don’t have time to listen to you bellyache,” Wicklund said. “But here we are nonetheless.”

So had he intended to have Marshall here early to get a feel for the NCOs’ morale? Having to constantly think four-dimensionally was becoming exhausting.

The XO continued. “Based on our mass budget and available delta-v, our departure window closes in less than twenty-four hours. The skipper wants to get underway yesterday. If you’re not feeling a sense of extreme urgency at this moment, you’re wrong.” He turned to Marshall. “Mister Hunter. What’s the detachment’s status?”

Marshall swiped at his tablet, glad that he’d had the time to question the others. “Ahead of schedule, sir. First two blocks on the list have been cleared and the third is underway. Inventory shows us under mass budget by one hundred eighty-four kilos,” he said, remembering the XO liked precise numbers.

“And personal gear?”

Marshall hadn’t expected that. He eyed the four NCOs, looking for any clues from them. A couple nodded their heads that they were okay. “Still being packed and catalogued for return, sir.” It was all he could offer, and he hoped it was right.

“That won’t be necessary,” Wicklund said, eyeing Marshall, “if your inventory is correct. So let’s all applaud Mr. Hunter for preventing us from having to completely remove our presence. Bring any personal gear you want to have Earthside, but it won’t be necessary to bring everything.”

Marshall sensed a wave of relief from the others, something he felt himself. It seemed like a small thing, but it would be a lot harder for HQ to reassign them back on the beach if their gear was still in orbit. Was that another angle the XO was working, by chance?

“Good thing you’re ahead of schedule,” Wicklund continued, “because we’ve just had a task added and our little group will have to pick up the slack.”

The NCOs traded unmistakable we’re about to get screwed looks.

“Nobody’s about to get screwed,” the XO said. So he was a mind reader, too. “But the skipper wasn’t happy with some tests we ran on the outboard tank couplers. We’re going to have to send another team out there to inspect the links and fittings.”

Mikey Malone spoke up. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Hector and I are already off the EVA roster until we finish our course of treatment.”

“Exactly,” Wicklund said. “Which reminds me—don’t spend too much time outside, gents, and load up on sunblock.” His stony face gave no hint as to whether he might be joking. “Chief Riley and Rosado will go outside, Mr. Hunter here will back them up. So our detachment is down one man while Malone and Navarro do whatever Rosie and Riley were supposed to be doing.” He checked his watch. “Report to the command deck in thirty minutes.”


Simon Poole hovered above a diagram of Borman’s tanks and plumbing, while Rosado and Riley floated on either side of the plotting table. Marshall tried to follow along as best he could, needing to see what Poole described but not wanting to get in the way of the two people who’d be doing the work.

“We ran an end-to-end control simulation, jettisoning each outboard tank after running them dry,” Poole explained. “The engine cutoff sensors didn’t play along.”

Chief Riley swiped at a spot on the diagram and zoomed in on it. “The sensors are upstream of the intake manifolds,” he said. “Aren’t they just feeding data to the flight computers?”

“Yes, but they’re based on the same principle of the old space shuttle tanks,” Poole said. “So they also have direct input to the manifolds. They’ll command an engine shutdown if they think the tanks are dry.”

“Which they will be,” Riley frowned. “And we can’t just rewrite the control logic, can we sir?”

“It’ll take less time to send you and Rosie out there to disable them.” Poole moved the diagram downstream of the sensors. “The ECO umbilicals are here, alongside the propellant crossfeeds. They’re meant to keep us from over-speeding the engine turbopumps if the tanks run dry before we think they should. Each one can be disconnected separately.”

Marshall raised his hand. “The flight data computers also use the cutoff sensors to update mass totals when we’re burning, sir. Won’t that create interference with the rest of the system?”

“Not if we do it right,” Poole said. “If it’s a hard disconnect, the FDCs will see the sensors are offline and ask us if we want to continue. In which case the answer is yes. It’ll rely on the propellant quantity sensors and our ability to shut down the pumps once we reach dry tanks.”

“Which we’re not really doing,” Marshall said, warming to the idea. “They’ll still be drawing hydrogen from the center tank.”

“Exactly,” Poole said. “The ECO sensors are just doing their job, but that creates a failure mode that the control logic doesn’t recognize.”

Rosado understood now as well. “And we never simmed jettisoning the tanks before because they’re too expensive to replace. We always burn evenly from each tank, not one at a time, don’t we?”

“Easier to keep the ship trimmed that way,” Poole acknowledged, “plus we’re too busy getting actual work done to putz around with the what ifs.” He turned to Riley. “Right, Chief?”

Riley smiled. “Kind of staring us in the face now, isn’t it, sir?”

“That it is, Chief.” Poole slapped him on the shoulder; it would’ve sent them both spinning away if they hadn’t braced themselves. Marshall noted how they’d both picked up on the signals from each other’s body language. Poole turned to him. “So how soon can you three get out there?”

“I’m going to defer to the chief on that one, sir. It’s his show right now.”

Riley nodded. “We’ll need you as our safety spotter, sir. There’s a lot that can go sideways on an excursion like this. If we get hung up on a task, we may need you to help us muscle through it. Those crossfeeds have been out there a long time and they’re not going to give up too easily.”

Marshall laughed to himself. “Got it. I’m your hired muscle. So how long to prep?”

“Four hours,” Riley said. “We’ll target another four for the EVA but it could easily go to eight. We can start pre-breathing while we’re inspecting our suits. If you can do that with Rosie, I’ll put the tool kits together.”

Poole tapped his watch and started a countdown timer. “That’s twelve hours from start to finish. That leaves you less than twelve to stow your gear and get ready for the ride home. Get cracking, people.”


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