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With
a tap on his arm control pad, Donovich switched his primary comm channel to
standby and then opened the squad-band. "Patterson," he called, as he
pushed off toward the ramp at the side of the platform; grabbing the handrails
with both hands he redirected his momentum down the ramp.
"Patterson
here, go'head, Chief," replied a voice with a slight southern drawl.
Donovich
passed quickly over the life-boat deck and was now holding on to the top of the
handrail loops for the ladder well. "What's your status?" he asked as
he looked down through the two stories of wire mesh tubing that surrounded the
access ladder.
"Everythin's
green Chief; we're good to go."
"Understood,"
replied Donovich while still debating his next course of action. "Go strap
in; I'll give the All-Go as soon as I hit my station and get some coffee."
With that he pulled himself head-first down the ladder-well; an experience that
is visually not unlike diving into a cheese grater.
"Yes'ir,"
then there was a pause, "Um, did ya'll say coffee?" asked Patterson.
Donovich
waited until he had cleared the ladder before answering; free-falling down a
ladder-well was just something no sane Starman should do, so getting stuck and
having to explain himself as someone came to fished him out, was defiantly on
the top of his "things-no-to-do" list. Now over the main deck, he
maneuvered to his station. "Do you remember that guy Tony from the Vandenberg?"
"Yeah,
I think so; but there were a lot of techs floatin' around tryin' to glue us
back together for the jump home," he remarked.
Grabbing
the handhold next to his station's jump-seat, Donovich pulled himself into
place below the rack holding his MAC's pressure helmet and its adjoined
environmental chest pack. With a snap, he locked his heels into the boot-docks,
and reached for the five-point harness handles. "Well, while we were
talking, I had mentioned that fluid-loading didn't really work to keep down the
nausea during Transition."
The
feeling of the seat's restraining straps snuggling up, and then locking down,
was always comforting, and in its own way sort of creepy. "So he
recommended a hot cup of strong coffee instead of that citrus-flavored
electrolyte stuff," he continued as he reached for the self-heating
pressure-mug. "I love a ship with cup holders," he added as he pulled
the mug free from its mount below the console. Depressing the top, he took a
long, hard draw from the mug's mouth piece; a satisfying warmth spread through
his chest.
"I
take it ya'll still got your bag with 'n arms reach?" asked Patterson.
Locking
the mug back down, Donovich opened the top pocket of his suit's utility jumper
and pulled up the open end of a red biohazard bag. "Aye," he
confirmed. "Okay, Patterson, I'm about to give the flight deck the All-Go,
you set?"
"Yes'ir."
"Understood,
Donovich out," A beep signaled that the channel was now on standby.
Looking up he could see the underside of his suit's pressure helmet. "Regs
state that I have to wear it…" he said doubtfully, "…but after last
time…. Nope," he concluded and turned his attention to his station's
console. All status lights were green, except for the few that were blacked out
from the missile strike. He depressed the "All-Go" button and waited
for the flight crew to do their part; on this trip that would be just Major
Ware and the XO, Lieutenant Koenig.
The
two-minute warning klaxon sounded. "Attention all personnel, prepare for Transition,"
announce the Ship's Computer over the intercom. It was obvious the CO was just
waiting for his signal.
Hyperspace
Transition Syndrome, or hypes, was comparable to the space-sickness many
astronauts suffered as they adapted to living in zero-g. The professionals didn't
really know what caused Hypes, or who was likely to be susceptible to it--let
alone how to cure or even minimize the effects; all Chief Donovich knew was it
specifically didn't like him.
Eyeing
his console, he wasn't so much monitoring the systems read outs, as watching
for flashing yellow or red icons: once the trans-light drive sequence was
engaged only a full-blown "Blow the main power couplings and pop the compositors,"
abort could stop it from firing. Even at that, it could only be interrupted up
until the drive field started to form; after that, you were going for a ride.
Suddenly,
the sound of crackling static seemed to come from everywhere, and he could feel
the hairs on his body trying to stand up under the constrictive force of his
MAC suit. On his console the guard covering the lighted red "Abort"
button popped open with an accompanying alert tone. As the saying went,
"His ass snapped shut," at the very thought of ever being in a
situation where hitting that button was his only option. The pretty candy-like
button was just part of the “pilot factor,” in that the guy in charge (or in
this case, the Chief engineer) must retain some ability to override the computer
in the event of an emergency…
Donovich's
thoughts were cut short as the drive field formed.
It
was said that how one perceives the sensation of entering hyperspace was directly
proportional to how often, and how severely, one suffered from hypes. Some say
it's like standing on a commuter rail platform in winter as a train speeds by.
Personally, Donovich pictured it as falling down a long-forgotten mine shaft
somewhere in the frozen hell of Siberia, this after having been drunk for the weekend and dealing badly
with a massive hangover.
The
actual Transition to hyperspace wasn't the problem; that happened faster than
the human mind could ever hope to perceive. All of the vertigo-inducing special
effects were actually caused by the ship's own TLD systems. It was only after
the ship had passed through the point of Transition that the field compensators
could finally even out the power flow and balance the drive's harmonics against
the resident frequency of the ship's spaceframe.
"Enough
technobabble…." he said to himself through clenched teeth, "…knowing
doesn't help. Believe me!" The nausea was there and starting to push at
him; he reached for the bag's grab tab at his pocket. A heavy thump sounded
from somewhere overhead, quickly followed by a sharp metallic ping from
somewhere nearby. Donovich looked up. His eyes were tearing; he attempted to
wipe them with the back of his glove. "No good," he murmured, and then
looked over at his console; no flashing red indicators to greet him. Turning
back, he listened for the sounds of escaping gas or grinding metal; there was nothing.
As
his vision cleared he could see that the mission clock had started: it read 482
hours and 56 minutes as the seconds counted down. "That’s almost three
weeks under driver," he said, now realizing that it was over and that for
the first time he hadn't lost it all over himself from the Hypes.
"Attention
all personnel, secure from Transition," sang out over the intercom in the lovely
neutral female voice that was the SC; it was accompanied by the usual low-gravity
warning.
Uncoupling
his harness, Donovich stepped out onto the deck; now under pseudo .3-g—one of
the unforeseen side effects of the TLD was that it creates something akin to
its own gravity well—he felt heavy again, with that all too familiar draining
feeling as fluids started to once again moved toward their lowest points.
After
a few deep breaths and a bit of stretching against the elastic action of his
MAC suit, Donovich turned and reached past his console for his pressure mug. He
heard the warning tone from the console as his hand touched the mug's handle;
in that instant the very reality around him rapidly compressed and expanded
like an image in a carnival mirror.
* * *
Click here to read the original opening.
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