It was decidedly unnatural to watch Mars shrink to a bright point so quickly with no more acceleration than the 1/8g provided by the transport's thrusters. In the old days I'd be struggling to breathe as the launch rail's massively powerful magnetic flux pushed the ship out of Mars orbit. Today, I sat comfortably in my euphemistically named 'pilot's chair' as the ship rode the slopes of a manufactured space/time rift parked in a wide orbit around Mars. A similar rift, one of Earth's two, would provide most of the acceleration needed for capture into cis-lunar space at the end of my run.
With the gravity assist, a brand-new pair of heavy duty Boeing thrusters, and the current favorable Earth/Mars alignment, this trip would take less than 12 days. Far better than the 20 to 30 day transits of my youth. Certainly better than the miserable 3 month transits we'd made during the war. My body still bore the scars from nursing those old hulks back and forth.
My wife had not been so lucky. After the war, the Earthers had not felt particularly obliged to provide medical support for the Martian combatants that had fallen prey to their tailored diseases. Information had come out haphazardly after the Beijing disaster, but it was too late by then for most of the survivors.
After Helen's death, with the kids busy leading their own lives, I'd found myself at loose ends. Signing up as a pilot again seemed like the right thing to do, or at least something to do.
The required re-certification course was 71/2 wasted hours in a small stuffy room tucked behind the cargo section of Mars Company's spaceport offices. I endured because it was the only way to get back into a pilot's chair.
The young man, who had come all the way from Earth, was very enthusiastic about the computer and control system 'upgrades' added to the old bulk-haulers since Virgin Transport had acquired them, along with the entire interplanetary transport division, from Mars Company. I had been less than impressed by it all except for the new twin 50,000kN Boeing thrusters. 50% more power than the old Olympic engines on paper and I'd bet someone who knew what they were doing could get even more out of them.
I was already familiar with most of this, since I collected new ship specs the way some people collected commemorative plates, but I'd underestimated how many piloting features would be locked down and placed under exclusive computer control. The only way a pilot would get to do anything but dead-head would be if the ship somehow lost connection to the network and the internal navigation system agreed that the ship had deviated from the pre-planned flight path.
The worst came at the end of the session, when the instructor caught my attention with a diffident "Mr. Healy? Might I have a moment?" A very different tone from his borderline arrogance during the presentation.
"Yes Mr. Andrews" I'd returned. Removing myself from the rush for the exit, "What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to say it's been an honor teaching one of the Supply Corps. I recognized your name from the news. I'm so glad they've finally done something to recognize Martian men's contributions during the war."
I think (hope?) I mumbled something reasonably polite and bolted for the door.
The truth of the matter is that the entire thing had been a dog and pony show meant to underscore how much more 'open' the modern Martian military was for men, mainly to spur recruitment. I suppose if I hadn't still been so emotionally raw from Helen's death, I'd have been able to enjoy getting together with my old comrades. As it was, all I could see was another war looming on the horizon, this one even more senseless than the last.
6 days into the transit and I realized I'd made a mistake. The lack of any meaningful work coupled with the near obscene Earther opulence of the freighter's single cabin had left me far too much time to think.
The ship's library was not much help. It probably contained everything I'd ever want to watch or read. Unfortunately, I couldn't find most of the classics I'd wanted to watch and I got tired of the garbage I did find. What wasn't boring was offensive or downright disgusting. I'm pretty sure that some of the pornographic material I stumbled across wouldn't even have been legal on Mars, though I must admit my knowledge of decency laws was a few decades out of date.
I was completely disgusted by the pilot information system, or really, the lack of one. I hadn't expected to be able to control the ship manually, except in the most dire emergency, but I had at least thought I'd be able to see what was going on with the cargo pods, coolant, hull temps, particle counts, etc. Not to mention my core interest which was in getting up close and personal with the new Boeings. There did not appear to be any way to gain access to the D-5 data bus and the basic command interfaces I was used to from piloting the earlier D-3's, even in read-only mode. I'd assumed there would be a diagnostic port at least but I couldn't find anything resembling a connector. I'd even put all the D-5 command console and diagnostic tools on my handcomp (just in case) but it looked like that had been a waste of time.
Thankfully, even though there were no piloting controls to speak of, the sensor suite and navcomp visualization software were the best I'd ever seen. The data detail of the little portable ephemeris that Helen had ordered for me last Solstice had amazed me, but this navcomp's ephemeris was even better. It was also designed to update from the net in real time. If the mobile boudoir I was riding in actually had a pilot accessible airlock, I'd half expect anything I shoved out of it to show up on the ephemeris within minutes. I'd have liked to start with whoever designed this cabin.
The only thing still keeping me going was that while perusing the commercial shipping lists (yes, I know, and some people read obituaries), I'd noticed my course on the final approach vector to the capture rift was going to parallel the main Earth/Saturn route at just the right time to catch a glimpse of a new Malika class fast-transport ship, the MJ-7. By happy coincidence, we would be no more than 65,000km apart at closest approach. I'd never expected to get this close a look at such a beautiful ship. It came close to re-igniting my will to live.
I had an enjoyable few hours convincing the ship's visual sensors to associate themselves into an array. This would give me some extra magnification so I could get a good look at the fast-transport as we passed by each other just outside the Earth-Luna traffic control limit. I also linked the ship's sensor suite to my personal nav software on my handcomp to automate the process of finding the MJ, which would have been a real pain otherwise, given the limited functionality provided.
Something brought me out of one of the few sound sleeps I'd had on this trip. Unlatching myself from my bunk, I lurched over to land awkwardly by the console. I spent a few minutes staring at the displays, trying to see what might have triggered my inner pilot to full alarm, but the ship had recorded no change in accel or attitude. Coming completely awake, I drifted over to the galley and fixed myself a coffee, chuckling to myself. I was actually surprised I'd not had this happen earlier in the trip. For goodness sake, I've jumped out of bed more than once over the years, grounded on Mars, thinking that our house had just made an unexpected course change. Reassured, I latched myself back in bed for a couple more hours sleep before I'd be close enough to view the MJ.
My first sight of the MJ-7 made me break out in a cold sweat. Not that there was anything wrong with the ship. With its sweeping curves and clean lines it looked like something out of the science fiction stories of my youth. The problem was that it was at entirely the wrong bearing. If it was not for my auto-tracking software, and the relative proximity, I'd have missed it completely.
The ship's fancy navcomp was completely useless. It continued to insist I was on-course, based on its internal navigational data, but I could no longer access the ephemeris because the net connection was not responding. Without the net it couldn't get the latest data, so it, in its infinite wisdom, decided to show me nothing but a series of useless 'let me diagnose your connection fault' prompts. I spent the next few minutes trying to get the connection working, but the system wouldn't let me access enough tools to even figure out the cause of the problem.
Frustrated, I dropped the net access issue and set the ship's strobes to flash in the emergency pattern. This was probably an over-reaction but I wasn't piloting a personal flyer. This kind of tonnage could make a big mess if it wound up in the wrong place. Or at least cost someone a lot of money. The MJ's computers would see my strobes and put a report up on the net. The company techs would likely have an easier time diagnosing the problem externally.
(Continued...)
