Chapter Three – Where The Reader Gets a Glimpse Into the Inner-Workings of the Vessel, and the Seed of a Mysterious Plot Device is Planted

Captain Haigh did not expect to find Doctor Proctor in sickbay, which was just as well, because the good Doctor wasn’t there. He was hardly ever there, trusting his assistants to handle most of the routine spacer health care issues. It was actually for the better; Doc Proctor was much more comfortable on the research side of the medical profession, specifically the expansion of humanity’s pharmaceutical knowledge base. If anyone on the ship could create the kind of chemical-based encouragement the captain required, it would be him.

Proctor spent most of his time down near the Heisenburg Line1 with Papa Bantan. Since the two men shared many of the same interests, it was only natural that they would become fast friends. They were a strange duo, the Jamaica-descended engineer and the small, probably rodent-descended doctor born and raised on Station BG-457. Despite their disparate backgrounds, the two had a lot in common. Both men held jobs that required large quantities of intelligence and ingenuity. They both enjoyed ruining said intelligence with copious amounts of natural and designed chemical compounds. They both spoke too fast for most people to understand, wore white coats, and both labored under the delusion that their fascination with the finer points of neurochemistry was some kind of highly-guarded secret. Everyone on the ship knew who to talk to if they were looking for a chemical vacation, though most of the crew was content with the odd bottle of scotch or a box of rum-balls. But for those who wanted something with a little extra kick, there was really only one place they needed to look.

Captain Haigh paused at the hatch that led to the ships Core, which housed the engineering section, the majority of the spare parts, and the Heisenburg Drive. A legal disclaimer on a large plastic sign hung above the door, admonishing all who entered to BE ADVISED-YOU ARE NEARING THE HEISENBURG LINE-THE SECRETARY OF HEALTH HAS DETERMINED THAT CLOSE PROXIMITY WITH THE FIELDS GENERATED BY THE HEISENBURG DRIVE COULD HAVE UNPREDICTABLE EFFECTS ON THE HUMAN BRAIN. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Ordinarily, Captain Haigh would be perfectly amendable to heeding the sign and steering clear of the Core. At this particular moment, the task was unavoidable, so he steeled himself and placed his left hand on the identification pad located next to the thick, composite hatch.

“Good morning, Captain Haigh,” said the computer, in a soothing female voice. As the door whooshed open, the captain briefly contemplated the identity of the woman whose voice he heard whenever travelled through the ship. Regardless of where he was or which ship subsystem he was interacting with, the voice was always the same. He made a mental note to explore the feasibility of trading in that voice for a slew of others, with each voice representing a different ship function. For example, the doors might have a English accent, while the crew management system, which took care of wake-up and duty rosters, might be more reminiscent of a military officer. Although it had no basis in fact, the presence of different voices would create the happy illusion that the ships systems were a group of friendly companions, instead of one, consolidated brain that rain everything. They he might not constantly feel like the ship was looking disapprovingly over his shoulder and shaking her head.

None of this was the real reason the Captain disliked visiting the core. With the Heisenburg Drive offline, there was no danger of him seeing a perfect replica of himself merge with the bulkhead or split into two perfect replicas, each surprised to see the other, or any of the host of other impossible things one is likely to experience when standing too close to the engine. The real reason lay just ahead, on the other side of yet another thick hatch marked with a small, engraved metal plate that said, very simply, “Core Conveyor 1”.

He approached the hatch cautiously, relieved that there wasn’t a line. It was probably too early in the day, and too soon after a jump for the crowd to roll in. Perhaps, just perhaps, Captain Haigh would be able to cross this hurdle without any complications.

There were no buttons on the hatch or the adjacent bulkhead; scanners automatically detected the presence of a human being, and automatically summon the Conveyor to the appropriate deck. This particular stop was the final point before entering the core proper, and was one of two conveyors on the ship designed to take passengers past the point of gravitational equilibrium. Safety-wise, the Core Conveyor was one of the most dangerous places on the ship. If one wasn’t prepared, the sudden reversal of the deck and overhead could result in serious injury. However, for the experienced spacer, the brief period of weightlessness, coupled with a deft tap of the Emergency Stop button, provided a rare opportunity to spice up one’s physical relationship with a romantic partner without the inconvenience of a local vertical.

The door whooshed open. Steeling himself, the captain stepped inside, trying to ignore the pungent mixture of human exertion and antiseptic spray, a combination that could only be achieved outside a Core Conveyor by merging a dental examination room with the Express Booth of a coin-operated bordello.

The captain found, to his dismay, that the Conveyor was occupied. What was worse, it was only occupied by one person, fully clothed who was just in the process of removing the bulkhead stays from his waist, chest and legs. As the captain entered, the crewman looked up, and his formerly stoic expression twisted into an embarrassed grin.

“I was just heading to my quarters,” the crewman said, heading off any illicit conclusions that the Captain might have reached. His careful explanation wasn’t needed, however, as the Captain had no intention of coming to those kinds of conclusions, because he’d be riding that car shortly, and really didn’t want conclusions, or anything else for that matter, floating around his head.

Captain Haigh nodded. “Of course.” Noting the probing stare of the crewman, who had now taken the more inquisitive role in their little social dance, the captain added, “I’m looking for the Doctor. Have you seen him?”

The crewman seemed visibly relieved by the captain’s explanation. “Oh. Yes Sir. He’s in Mix Control with Papa Bantan. I just saw them there a few minutes ago. They were going over the ratios in the converter array.”

“Ah,” said the captain.

The crewman finished unstrapping himself from the conveyor bulkhead, and now waited uncomfortably for the captain to move out of the hatchway. A silence ensued. The Captain, finding the awkward stillness unbearable, said the first thing that came to mind, which was, “So, How are things down there?”, only realizing the absolute wrongness of his choice of words as they echoed back off the conveyor’s bulkhead and into his ears.

The crewman, visibly shaken, looked furtively this way and that, trying to calculate which answer would extricate him from the conversation with the least possibility of embarrassment.

“Oh, you know,” the crewman replied, after a few uncomfortable seconds of silence. He nodded, his voice trailing off into a nervous chuckle.

“Well, keep it up. The good work, I mean,” said the captain. He stepped out of the way, providing the crewman with the opportunity to escape.

“I will, sir,” said the crewman, leaving the small compartment as quickly as he could.

The door whooshed shut, much to the captain’s relief.

“To prevent injury, please secure yourself to the bulkhead with the available stays,” counseled the ship’s computer. The captain complied, careful to use a separate berth; lying in a crewman’s warm spot, in the Core Conveyor of all places, wasn’t something the captain was willing to do. He chose the berth directly opposite of the one the crewman was using, and strapped himself in, hoping that enough time had elapsed since lunch that he wouldn’t have to see it again when the conveyor passed through equilibrium.

“Thank you,” said the computer. “Please leave bulkhead stays in place until the car comes to a complete stop and the cabin is made safe. This is for your safety.”

Seconds later, the car whirred to life. With no windows, only the gentle pull of simulated gravity told the captain that he was moving. Gradually, the tension in the straps slackened, and his internal organs began the null-g minuet, first drifting up toward his throat, hovering dramatically for a few labored breaths, and then pirouetting back toward his feet as the car rotated one hundred eighty degrees to compensate for the shift in gravity. His vision blurred, and his head felt as if someone had opened his skull and poured mineral oil inside. Through this murky haze, Captain Haigh stared at the opposite bulkhead, wishing that there were some better, less uncomfortable way to travel.

Finally, his organs settled more or less back into their normal positions, and the nausea and blurred vision passed.

“Thank you for your patience. The cabin is now safe. Feel free to remove the bulkhead stays and exit the car.”

Captain Haigh didn’t need more encouragement. He tore the straps from his legs and chest, and stepped away from the bulkhead. His legs weren’t quite ready, however, and he sank down to all fours, staring at himself in the polished metal surface of the conveyor deck. He wondered why anyone would take that trip for fun, let alone prolong it.

Something caught his eye. He blinked, thinking for a moment that it was just a reflection of an overhead light, but it wasn’t bright enough, nor the right color. Tossing a bulkhead stay aside, he found a silver disk, not much bigger than the pad of this thumb. A data storage device of some sort, he was sure, though he hadn’t seen anything that resembled it, a thin, translucent metal etched with a dense honeycomb of black markings, covering its surface. His attempts to pick it up with his fingers met with little success; he found it impossible to get underneath it, yet he could slide it easily across the deck. Finally, he licked his thumb and pressed it against disk’s face. It adhered momentarily, just long enough for him to trap it in the palm of his hand.

For its size and thickness, the object was surprisingly heavy. He slipped the strange object into his trouser pocket. On second thought, he had no idea if the thing was radioactive, or otherwise harmful, and he’d just as soon keep it away from the parts of his body he wasn’t keen on parting with, and so he stuffed it down into his left sock instead.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four