Scav
Mostly Harmless
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Operating in tandem, now, which means I will try to keep everything more or less logical and readable. Here is:
SEP-011, Prologue.
Astronaut Charlie Davis rolled up his sleeves as the compressor turbines spooled down, and he took a moment to regard the awesomely hellish heat he felt soaking through the clear canopy above him, permeating straight through his visored helmet and flight suit. He set the parking brake as he blew out an irritated sigh, triggered the canopy release, and winced as a moving brick wall of hot, dry air immediately flooded the cabin.
It was a hot one today, and Davis' flight had started early in the morning at Ellington Field, spent most of the day in direct sunlight, with a quick stopover at White Sands for fuel -- and an impromptu pit stop culminating with a gallon of ice cold water between his wing-person and himself. The rest of the time had been spent flying over the dry, parched Southwest United States (with only the occasional ridge, arroyo and mountain range to break up the monotony between New Mexico and Arizona) as he headed west.
He scanned the horizon, noting the dirty brown flat of dirt the airfield was centered around. A few artificially planted palm trees dotted the landscape around the large terminal buildings at the side of the tarmac, and in the distance he could see the green hills in the distance to the south clashing oddly with the desert at his feet. Looking left, he noted that a ladder had already been set for him. Snorting quietly at the irony of the situation, he hauled himself out of the seat and climbed down the ladder, noting the sandpapery feel of his socks in his already overly hot flight boots.
"Christ, it's hot out here," He heard his back-seater, Tamara Ciotti, remark as she took her helmet off. The action inspired a head-shake as her long, curly black hair liberated itself, dancing in the wind above her mirrored sunglasses, and she pointed her face at the sun and smiled.
Davis decided he didn't know how she could do it: Fly for four hours in debilitating heat, land at an airfield in the middle of a scorching desert, and convincingly act like she enjoyed the blistering sun. Something in the back of his brain whispered 'cardiac arrythmia' and 'acute hyperthermia' to him as she looked at him and grinned.
"Welcome to California! Beautiful day, huh?" He heard a man's voice cheerfully croon over the tearing-linen sound of the other aircraft on the tarmac. Davis had to double-take: the voice came from a line attendant wearing a hawaiian t-shirt, khaki slacks and aviator glasses underneath a ridiculous-looking baseball cap. He nodded to the man, still trying to get over the fact he was expecting an Air Force uniform to greet him.
"Hot as hell," Davis replied. "When does it start cooling down?"
The attendant laughed. "Not for several more hours. You're Charlie Davis, right?"
"That's right. Tamara Ciotti here, too."
"Welcome to California!" The man said to Tamara. "Listen, they want you two in the office right away, okay?" The man said as he pointed towards the bigger of the two buildings.
Davis looked, and immediately thanked his lucky stars -- the building at least looked like it might have stood a chance at having some decent air conditioning.
"I'll take care of this bird for you," The man continued. "Fill it up with one hundred low-lead, right?"
Davis snickered as he glanced at the T-38, then back at the attendant who grinned widely at him. The man had just immediately endeared himself, in Davis' book. With his roots in general aviation firmly in his history, Charlie Davis was known as one of the 'natural fliers' in the astronaut corps . . . but that label still hadn't rid him of his compulsive need to at least keep half an eye on whatever line attendant happened to be handling whatever aircraft he happened to be flying.
And the fueling joke was one of the oldest jokes in the hobby; after numerous attempts and measures over the decades to keep inept (or otherwise clueless) new line personnel from fueling up the wrong type of aircraft with the wrong type of fuel, everyone knew that it still had a stunning way of actually happening. Regardless, of course, of the fact you couldn't fit a rectangular gas nozzle into a circular hole without breaking something important.
"Sure, whatever you say. Knock yourself out," He said as he walked towards the building, and the man laughed again as he tended to the aircraft.
"Let's go," He said to Tamara. "I'm about to friggin' melt out here," He said.
"I know; can you believe that guy?" She replied excitedly. "I mean, we must be in California, huh!"
"Jesus!" Davis hissed, and for the fifth (or sixth) time that day, he found himself completely blind-sided by yet another Classic Ciotti non-sequitur.
* * *
SEP-010, Chapter 13.
Flight Director Matthew Payton closed the door to the conference room, and at Edward Foulkes' hand gesture, he took a seat.
"Alright," Foulkes said to the black triangular device in the middle of the table, "I'm ready to call this meeting to order. We've got myself and Elliott Briggs over here. Our flight director for SEP-010, Matt Payton just joined us. We've also got Kyle Burrows, our ground controller in the room. Without any further ado, I'm going to have Mr. Payton explain our current situation. Matt?"
"Thank you," Payton said quietly. "Yesterday, we were able to confirm that our orbiter returning from the moon struck debris of an unknown nature. The crew are unharmed, but we have determined that the vehicle will not survive an interface with the atmosphere. We have already had the vehicle adjust its orbit so that she'll run out her fuel to near exhaustion to--"
"--What Mr. Payton is saying," Foulkes interrupted, "is that we've got a flustercuff of a situation up there, but we've managed to temporarily salvage it. What does your company have in mind?"
* * *
"So I was thinking about our little problem the last time we were up," Jamie Cunningham said absently as she swam into her seat, pausing a moment to look at the large blue sphere above her head. Her altitude was quickly decreasing, and they were falling through ten thousand miles to the surface of the Earth. It wouldn't be long before they'd have to turn Constitution around to apply the thruster burn that would keep them from hauling off into deep space once more.
The last day had been spent quietly. It took hours for Brian Adkinson to calm down into some semblance of order; it took even longer than that for Jamie Cunningham to start talking again. Anthony Downs spent the time busily talking with ground control regarding the damage to the spacecraft. Sienna Morrison spent the most amount of time in Jamie's company, trying to wheedle any sort of response out of her, and Svetlana Zaytseva . . . perhaps was the most silent of the group. It was hard to categorize her silence; it wasn't arrogance . . . it wasn't apathy . . . and it wasn't stoicism. It just was.
Now that the Earth was looming so largely in the overhead windows, it seemed as if a light switch had been thrown inside the ship. The change in scenery had improved the mood overall; instead of the crushing realization that they were flying a deathtrap, the strange idea that maybe they were going to make it after all had permeated the ship.
"Hmm?" Brian Adkinson said absently.
"I was thinking about that data glitch that caused that RCS anomaly two years ago," Jamie repeated. She looked at Adkinson curiously when he didn't respond. He looked pale, he had a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he seemed very distracted.
"Oh no . . ." She breathed as her insides spontaneously lit on fire and her heart sank into the pit of her stomach as she stared him in the eye.
"What?" He mumbled.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Headache. Some nausea. Speaking of, how's Downs doing?" Adkinson replied.
"He's fine," Jamie replied slowly as she continued to hold his eyes. That sinking feeling continued straight through her feet, and she swallowed hard before continuing. "He seems to have finally beaten the space sickness syndrome. What about you?"
"All I know," He replied crossly, "is that we're running really low on dramamine, and I'm not helping things any. I feel like I'm going to throw up right now."
Jamie nodded hard, and she found herself fighting a sudden wave of nausea herself. "Svetlana!" She cried out, then she turned her attention back to Adkinson.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" She pressed. "When did you start getting this way?"
"Shortly after we were on the moon," He mumbled.
"Constitution, Houston," Jamie heard in her ear. Adkinson nodded to her, and swatting her hand up to her earset, she activated the feed.
"Go ahead, Houston."
"Jamie, we're looking to raise Brian on the channel. Is he alright?"
"Let's get your ass out of that seat," She snarled as she undid Adkinson's harness restraints. She took a moment to help him out of his seat, through the compartment hatch into the aft-deck and into the toilet, and she sighed.
"He's a little busy at the moment, Houston."
She heard him retch loudly -- painfully -- through the door, and she flinched.
"Oh hell no," She whispered to herself, and she felt her brain come dangerously close to completely deflating on her.
"Jamie, this is from the surgeon. We're getting some anomalous readings from Adkinson's medical feed. Can you verify that?"
"I'd . . ." Jamie frowned as she tried to remember to breathe, stop shaking, and keep her voice under control. "I'd give him a point five Garn . . . maybe higher, Houston."
"Jamie, what is the matter?" Svetlana Zaytseva said as she floated through the transfer tunnel into the cabin.
"Brian's sick," Jamie sputtered. "Started complaining about a headache; I don't know how bad he is, yet, but it sounds bad in there. You're supposed to be our resident medical expert; could you take a look at him?"
Svetlana's eyes probed carefully, and her mouth set into a frown. "I'll take a look at him."
"Thank you, Svetlana," Jamie said as she turned herself around to swim back to the cockpit.
"It's Sveta," She heard through the hatch. She paused as she took this in. Svetlana's voice was pitched loud enough for her to hear, though she didn't know if she was talking to her, or Adkinson. Shrugging it off, she scanned the cockpit as she forced herself to task as she tried to deal with the stunned silence in her head. The mission commander falling ill was no situation to ignore . . . but this . . . was doubly disturbing considering she already dreamt about it happening.
She balled a fist, gritted her teeth, and thumped herself in the forehead. The impact smarted, which only served to cause the caustic lava in her psyche to flow over.
Damnit! She thought angrily, desperately. We were so close. Why? Why do I have to be right about this sort of thing?!
She snapped her eyes open, looking out the window.
The stars didn't answer her.
* * *
SEP-011, Prologue.
Astronaut Charlie Davis rolled up his sleeves as the compressor turbines spooled down, and he took a moment to regard the awesomely hellish heat he felt soaking through the clear canopy above him, permeating straight through his visored helmet and flight suit. He set the parking brake as he blew out an irritated sigh, triggered the canopy release, and winced as a moving brick wall of hot, dry air immediately flooded the cabin.
It was a hot one today, and Davis' flight had started early in the morning at Ellington Field, spent most of the day in direct sunlight, with a quick stopover at White Sands for fuel -- and an impromptu pit stop culminating with a gallon of ice cold water between his wing-person and himself. The rest of the time had been spent flying over the dry, parched Southwest United States (with only the occasional ridge, arroyo and mountain range to break up the monotony between New Mexico and Arizona) as he headed west.
He scanned the horizon, noting the dirty brown flat of dirt the airfield was centered around. A few artificially planted palm trees dotted the landscape around the large terminal buildings at the side of the tarmac, and in the distance he could see the green hills in the distance to the south clashing oddly with the desert at his feet. Looking left, he noted that a ladder had already been set for him. Snorting quietly at the irony of the situation, he hauled himself out of the seat and climbed down the ladder, noting the sandpapery feel of his socks in his already overly hot flight boots.
"Christ, it's hot out here," He heard his back-seater, Tamara Ciotti, remark as she took her helmet off. The action inspired a head-shake as her long, curly black hair liberated itself, dancing in the wind above her mirrored sunglasses, and she pointed her face at the sun and smiled.
Davis decided he didn't know how she could do it: Fly for four hours in debilitating heat, land at an airfield in the middle of a scorching desert, and convincingly act like she enjoyed the blistering sun. Something in the back of his brain whispered 'cardiac arrythmia' and 'acute hyperthermia' to him as she looked at him and grinned.
"Welcome to California! Beautiful day, huh?" He heard a man's voice cheerfully croon over the tearing-linen sound of the other aircraft on the tarmac. Davis had to double-take: the voice came from a line attendant wearing a hawaiian t-shirt, khaki slacks and aviator glasses underneath a ridiculous-looking baseball cap. He nodded to the man, still trying to get over the fact he was expecting an Air Force uniform to greet him.
"Hot as hell," Davis replied. "When does it start cooling down?"
The attendant laughed. "Not for several more hours. You're Charlie Davis, right?"
"That's right. Tamara Ciotti here, too."
"Welcome to California!" The man said to Tamara. "Listen, they want you two in the office right away, okay?" The man said as he pointed towards the bigger of the two buildings.
Davis looked, and immediately thanked his lucky stars -- the building at least looked like it might have stood a chance at having some decent air conditioning.
"I'll take care of this bird for you," The man continued. "Fill it up with one hundred low-lead, right?"
Davis snickered as he glanced at the T-38, then back at the attendant who grinned widely at him. The man had just immediately endeared himself, in Davis' book. With his roots in general aviation firmly in his history, Charlie Davis was known as one of the 'natural fliers' in the astronaut corps . . . but that label still hadn't rid him of his compulsive need to at least keep half an eye on whatever line attendant happened to be handling whatever aircraft he happened to be flying.
And the fueling joke was one of the oldest jokes in the hobby; after numerous attempts and measures over the decades to keep inept (or otherwise clueless) new line personnel from fueling up the wrong type of aircraft with the wrong type of fuel, everyone knew that it still had a stunning way of actually happening. Regardless, of course, of the fact you couldn't fit a rectangular gas nozzle into a circular hole without breaking something important.
"Sure, whatever you say. Knock yourself out," He said as he walked towards the building, and the man laughed again as he tended to the aircraft.
"Let's go," He said to Tamara. "I'm about to friggin' melt out here," He said.
"I know; can you believe that guy?" She replied excitedly. "I mean, we must be in California, huh!"
"Jesus!" Davis hissed, and for the fifth (or sixth) time that day, he found himself completely blind-sided by yet another Classic Ciotti non-sequitur.
* * *
SEP-010, Chapter 13.
Flight Director Matthew Payton closed the door to the conference room, and at Edward Foulkes' hand gesture, he took a seat.
"Alright," Foulkes said to the black triangular device in the middle of the table, "I'm ready to call this meeting to order. We've got myself and Elliott Briggs over here. Our flight director for SEP-010, Matt Payton just joined us. We've also got Kyle Burrows, our ground controller in the room. Without any further ado, I'm going to have Mr. Payton explain our current situation. Matt?"
"Thank you," Payton said quietly. "Yesterday, we were able to confirm that our orbiter returning from the moon struck debris of an unknown nature. The crew are unharmed, but we have determined that the vehicle will not survive an interface with the atmosphere. We have already had the vehicle adjust its orbit so that she'll run out her fuel to near exhaustion to--"
"--What Mr. Payton is saying," Foulkes interrupted, "is that we've got a flustercuff of a situation up there, but we've managed to temporarily salvage it. What does your company have in mind?"
* * *
"So I was thinking about our little problem the last time we were up," Jamie Cunningham said absently as she swam into her seat, pausing a moment to look at the large blue sphere above her head. Her altitude was quickly decreasing, and they were falling through ten thousand miles to the surface of the Earth. It wouldn't be long before they'd have to turn Constitution around to apply the thruster burn that would keep them from hauling off into deep space once more.
The last day had been spent quietly. It took hours for Brian Adkinson to calm down into some semblance of order; it took even longer than that for Jamie Cunningham to start talking again. Anthony Downs spent the time busily talking with ground control regarding the damage to the spacecraft. Sienna Morrison spent the most amount of time in Jamie's company, trying to wheedle any sort of response out of her, and Svetlana Zaytseva . . . perhaps was the most silent of the group. It was hard to categorize her silence; it wasn't arrogance . . . it wasn't apathy . . . and it wasn't stoicism. It just was.
Now that the Earth was looming so largely in the overhead windows, it seemed as if a light switch had been thrown inside the ship. The change in scenery had improved the mood overall; instead of the crushing realization that they were flying a deathtrap, the strange idea that maybe they were going to make it after all had permeated the ship.
"Hmm?" Brian Adkinson said absently.
"I was thinking about that data glitch that caused that RCS anomaly two years ago," Jamie repeated. She looked at Adkinson curiously when he didn't respond. He looked pale, he had a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he seemed very distracted.
"Oh no . . ." She breathed as her insides spontaneously lit on fire and her heart sank into the pit of her stomach as she stared him in the eye.
"What?" He mumbled.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Headache. Some nausea. Speaking of, how's Downs doing?" Adkinson replied.
"He's fine," Jamie replied slowly as she continued to hold his eyes. That sinking feeling continued straight through her feet, and she swallowed hard before continuing. "He seems to have finally beaten the space sickness syndrome. What about you?"
"All I know," He replied crossly, "is that we're running really low on dramamine, and I'm not helping things any. I feel like I'm going to throw up right now."
Jamie nodded hard, and she found herself fighting a sudden wave of nausea herself. "Svetlana!" She cried out, then she turned her attention back to Adkinson.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" She pressed. "When did you start getting this way?"
"Shortly after we were on the moon," He mumbled.
"Constitution, Houston," Jamie heard in her ear. Adkinson nodded to her, and swatting her hand up to her earset, she activated the feed.
"Go ahead, Houston."
"Jamie, we're looking to raise Brian on the channel. Is he alright?"
"Let's get your ass out of that seat," She snarled as she undid Adkinson's harness restraints. She took a moment to help him out of his seat, through the compartment hatch into the aft-deck and into the toilet, and she sighed.
"He's a little busy at the moment, Houston."
She heard him retch loudly -- painfully -- through the door, and she flinched.
"Oh hell no," She whispered to herself, and she felt her brain come dangerously close to completely deflating on her.
"Jamie, this is from the surgeon. We're getting some anomalous readings from Adkinson's medical feed. Can you verify that?"
"I'd . . ." Jamie frowned as she tried to remember to breathe, stop shaking, and keep her voice under control. "I'd give him a point five Garn . . . maybe higher, Houston."
"Jamie, what is the matter?" Svetlana Zaytseva said as she floated through the transfer tunnel into the cabin.
"Brian's sick," Jamie sputtered. "Started complaining about a headache; I don't know how bad he is, yet, but it sounds bad in there. You're supposed to be our resident medical expert; could you take a look at him?"
Svetlana's eyes probed carefully, and her mouth set into a frown. "I'll take a look at him."
"Thank you, Svetlana," Jamie said as she turned herself around to swim back to the cockpit.
"It's Sveta," She heard through the hatch. She paused as she took this in. Svetlana's voice was pitched loud enough for her to hear, though she didn't know if she was talking to her, or Adkinson. Shrugging it off, she scanned the cockpit as she forced herself to task as she tried to deal with the stunned silence in her head. The mission commander falling ill was no situation to ignore . . . but this . . . was doubly disturbing considering she already dreamt about it happening.
She balled a fist, gritted her teeth, and thumped herself in the forehead. The impact smarted, which only served to cause the caustic lava in her psyche to flow over.
Damnit! She thought angrily, desperately. We were so close. Why? Why do I have to be right about this sort of thing?!
She snapped her eyes open, looking out the window.
The stars didn't answer her.
* * *
There's still a lot I'm working on with this whole thing, but I think what we have here is the most 'natural' stuff I could have put down. In response to your earlier comment . . . I think I'm done with the whole flashback thing for right now. It was fun, but . . . I've got more exciting things brewing right now. (Sheesh. I sound like our space program in 1985. 
