Trajectory Book 1 (New Providence)

TRAJECTORY

book 1

Robert M. Campbell
 

All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

TRAJECTORY

BOOK 1

first published, November 2015

All rights reserved. Copyright © 2015 by Robert Campbell.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express permission from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-9949460-0-3

v1.4
 

For Deb
 

preface

… or, a digression on timekeeping. Feel free to skip this – it won’t make a big difference to the story, but it does highlight the complexities of understanding and implementing an interplanetary clock.

This book takes place on Mars and in the Mars-Jupiter asteroid belt. One Martian rotation on its axis, or “Sol”, is roughly 24 hours, 39 minutes and 35 seconds. The term “Day” is used fairly interchangeably with Sol on Mars and the station that orbits around it. The extra 39 and-a-half minutes per “day” is considered “bonus time”.

Historically, there have been attempts to force Mars into a 24-hour day for the sake of convenience. One of the more ridiculous efforts suggested stretching the duration of a second (to 1.0275) to make them fit into one Sol with an even 24 hours. This has fairly dire ramifications for all kinds of equations based on the exact length of a second defined by the 9.1 billion or so vibrations of a cesium 133 atom. Anything involving distances relating to the speed of light, the metric system and all sorts of other calculations would require conversion. At best, having two types of second to contend with would be a ridiculous burden to maintain.

… or you could just change the speed of… No.

Clocks on Mars use Coordinated Mars Time, but set to Ascraeus Mons Local time, MTC-7, or AMT. They do not have daylight savings time because it was deemed too stupid to implement despite the varying hours of sunlight reaching the planet’s surface at different times of the year.

A Martian year is 668 and-a-half Sols, or 96 Martian weeks. Days are sequentially numbered 1 through 668, with leap years of 669 days on every odd-numbered year. The zero year of every Martian decade is a drop year with 667 days to make up for the overrun. The residents have eschewed the creation of a more complicated calendar in favor of this much simpler Julian system.

Historians and Earth aficionados still cling to the old calendar though, keeping track of Earth time. Many of the older generations still refer to their ages in Earth years (roughly half as long as a Martian year), though it is falling out of fashion.

This book takes place in the 21st week of the 69th Martian Year since Earth Year 2053. Mars is in the middle of the Spring season, its surface warming up to almost habitable temperatures, despite the lack of atmospheric pressure.

By the old reckoning, it is 2183-05-18. It’s a Sunday.
 

“Microfusion was surprisingly easy to achieve once we had the combination of rapid-cycle super capacitors, strong magnetic forces and the materials science to hold everything together. The real-time computer controls needed to drive it had essentially been around since the 1980s.”

– Dr. Roland Jarmusch, Nobel Prize for Physics Winner, 2032.

001

Jerem Wheeler adjusted his position in his suit’s thruster harness to keep the feeder aligned against the slowly spinning rock. The feeder connected Jerem to the ship’s bulbous cargo module by a twisted umbilical pulsing with liquid metal extracted from the asteroid. Exhaust vents near the feeder’s mouth sprayed rapidly-cooling rock and waste material into space, forming a cloud of debris like a halo around the tiny mining operation.

The ship, Making Time, squatted behind him, thrusters firing in all directions to keep station. Their claim was Alexhelios, a tiny satellite barely five kilometers across orbiting its parent 200 kilometers below, the bone-shaped, M-type asteroid, 216 Kleopatra. They spun slowly about their local gravity source in a complex, spiralling loop. Somewhere between their orbits, little Cleoselene pirouetted past, another shard flung off from her glittering parent body millions of years ago in some violent collision. Their next nearest neighbor was nearly two million kilometers away and invisible without optics.

Two weeks he and his father had been out here on this rock. Crammed into their uncomfortable space suits working the feeder for the max-spec, six-hour duty cycles. Two shifts on, two shifts off, alternating through each Martian day. At the end of a haul, all sense of time was blurred into a slurry of mining and sleep. The food didn’t rate remembering.

The work was monotonous and automatic. Keep the feeder running. Keep the mouth in position. Watch for blockages and keep the umbilical from getting too twisted up. You had a lot of time to think while running one of these machines. Jerem’s music helped. A constant soundtrack against the dull repetition kept him from getting too lost in his own thoughts.

He was currently thinking about Em as he often did out here when he was by himself. Remembering her last visit with him before he shipped up on the morning shuttle. How she’d bribed his sister to leave them alone for the night in his family’s apartment. Coming home after the evening briefing to find the living room lit with candles and Emma waiting there wearing his flight jacket and little else.

That was a good night.

A voice crackled over Joy Division’s “Dead Souls” on his headset, “we better pack up. Window’s closing.”

Jerem returned to the present. “Roger that.” He shut down the feeder with a hard snap conveyed up through his harness and control lines as the arc lost its power and the last of the molten metal shot down the conduit to the cargo module below.

Green light, tube’s empty, retract the feeder’s mouth into the blocky engine pod strapped to his chest, barely stowed before Jerem started to boost around, reorienting towards his ship. Thrusters fired from his harness, pushing him forward, away from Alexhelios for the last time, back to the grey white collection of machinery and electronics that carried them out here.

He boosted up, floating towards the cargo module, hanging ahead of him on the underside of the hab. He fell into the shadow of the starboard fuel pod blocking out the Sun and felt his suit’s cooling system shut down to compensate. Two meters per second… three, closing-in from twenty meters out, Making Time keeping station at minimum safe distance from the little metal rock. No need to rush it. He’d have to slow down before he hit. Five meters, then he carefully reversed his thrust direction and slowed. The thick matter conduit trailing behind caught up, piling into his back and pushing him forward into the skin of the cargo module.

Jerem was a pro at these maneuvers, having logged nearly six thousand hours in the suit. Sometimes he felt like he was the suit. If only it weren’t so damned uncomfortable.

Touchdown. Jerem stowed the feeder in its dock on the cargo pod, locking it down and fitting the attachments into their places, closing them behind the module’s panels. He wound the umbilical into storage beside the feeder, cables retracting it into a lumpy cubic meter of coiled tubing.

“C’mon, Jer,” the voice in his helmet urged as he disconnected from the feeder’s control lines and started hauling himself along the handholds toward the airlock, boosting with thrusters to speed himself up.

Jerem was looking forward to the trip home. Two weeks under full gravity was always tough at first but he’d have free time to read, catch up on his feeds, play games. “Teenage Riot” by Sonic Youth played him into to the airlock.

Jerem floated inside and hit the button to close the outer door. Air cycled in and his suit’s environmental controls started spinning as it compensated for the new pressure differentials.

“You got a pretty good haul today. Hold’s at nearly sixty percent.”

“Yep.”

Hal Wheeler looked through the tiny window into the airlock, cutting the glare on the scratchy window with a gloved hand. He couldn’t see inside Jerem’s helmet with his visor still down, but he got the sense his head was bopping to some old tunes. He almost regretted showing him the late twentieth century stuff in the archives, but it could be worse. At least it’s better than what Tamra listened to. Jerem gave him a gloved thumbs up.

Hal had been working on the plot for their return trip while Jerem was outside. Pretty easy burn, straight fall into Mars orbit, two weeks away. Nothing dangerous. Hal’s approach to navigation was practical. He didn’t like risks out here in the belt. He was wearing a suit in case Jerem needed him outside if anything happened. He was glad to be able to get out of it now that they were both inside.

Pressure chimed and the lights came up in the airlock. The green light on the inner door indicating matched pressures with the cabin. Hal flipped the door open and Jerem floated through into the equipment room, snapping the seals on his helmet and gloves, helmet floating off his head with a hiss and pop. He directed it over to his locker and it bounced off the wall with a thunk, bumping into the spare suit at the end of the row of five lockers, the rest of them empty. The tinny sound of music leaked out of Jerem’s headset, earphones like black bugs nestled in his ears, wires looped behind his head.

“Your suit’s starting to look a little banged-up.”

Jerem pulled out his earbuds and looked at his arms, as he continued disassembling the bulky suit. The arms had dirty brown stains on them from the feeder’s ejector. Hard not to produce a lot of dirt and dust when you were chewing through an asteroid. He brushed some dirt off his right arm. “Little bit. No leaks though.”

“Just the same, you should get that checked when we get home. Probably time to send it in for a refit. You should use the spare.”

“Guess so, but this one’s broken-in nice.” He looked at the dust floating around him in the equipment room. “I’ll clean it up in the airlock when we’re underway. Should have sprayed down before coming in here.” The airlock had a couple of air hoses for cleaning materials and personnel before entering the ship. They usually didn’t bother.

Hal shut down his suit, backed into his locker and undid his belt connection. The locker lifted the torso and allowed him to kick out of his pants to freedom. Jerem was doing the same as Hal grabbed his flight suit from the hooks and pulled it on over his sweat-stained liner.

“Get started on the checks, Jer. I’ll meet you in the cockpit. Burn in thirty.”

“Aye, skip.” Jerem lifted his suit up over his head into the rack in his locker. He pushed up and floated up out of the suit’s legs into the equipment room, leaving his suit to recharge. He gathered up his gloves and helmet, stowing them in their bags in his locker. One last look over his suit making sure everything was secured and properly connected. He looked over at the spare suit and snorted. No way he was breaking in a new suit this late in the trip. He nodded and grabbed his flight suit off the hook, climbing into it and zippering up before kicking his way up through the decks to the cockpit.
 

002

New Providence: Nicola Tesla University, Room 315.