Lagrange

Phil Geusz LAGRANGE A Novella

I

“We live in an age of true space exploitation,” Commodore Tottson said, winding up his formal speech. “An age where ordinary people can and do live out their entire lives in habitats such as this magnificent Lagrange station without ever stopping to think about the fact that they are immersed in the most hostile environment ever colonized by Mankind.” The distinguished explorer smiled, displaying a perfect set of teeth that contrasted nicely with his midnight-black coveralls and coffee-colored features. The Commodore was a very handsome man, with graying hair. His uniform looked as if it had just come from the tailor shop, and his shoes were so perfectly polished that they could have been used as shaving mirrors. “It is said that even the most impressive of technological miracles becomes commonplace over time,” he continued, “and perhaps the truest measure of our triumph is the very normalcy of Lagrange’s lifestyle. Merchants can spend their days thinking about buying and selling, not about where their next breath of air is going to come from. We attend our temples and churches and mosques on holy days, free to contemplate sacred texts instead of worrying about orbital decay. Children may go about the terribly serious business of growing up without fear of sudden power failures. Most of our citizenry has never put on a vacuum suit in their lives, and probably will never have a need to. Indeed, Lagrange’s accidental mortality rate is far lower than that of Oslo, Nairobi, or Chicago.

“Yet despite our seeming triumph, very real dangers remain. There is only hard vacuum to be found beyond our hulls, and our very existences depend upon highly sophisticated and complex life support mechanisms. As certified Command Navigators, the very highest responsibility of each and every one of you will be to ensure the safety of those in your care. Because things have become so easy, you will be the seasoned space hand; there will likely be no one else around able to help you. You must be prepared to improvise and to find creative ways to keep vital gear running. You must be skilled in EVA work, and you must know how to lead. There are very few of us left, we true spacemen, and our duties grow in importance every day.” He smiled again; clearly this was the end of Tottson’s routine speech. There were fourteen of us in the class, and all of us applauded heartily.

“Thank you!” Commander Mayberry said from the side of the room as she too applauded our guest speaker. “Thank you, sir, for a most welcome visit!”

“It’s quite all right,” Tottson said modestly. “I’m certain that these young men and women will someday soon be paying courtesy calls on me in my cockpit. And I them, of course.” He paused and smiled again. “In fact, I understand that I have a working Brother already in the room, fully rated for intra-orbital pod work. Is that correct?”

Suddenly the room went dead silent, and I blushed under my feathers.

“Yes,” Mrs. Mayberry replied after a hesitation that was only a fraction of second too long. “Yes, Marvin Mackleschmidt is a working pod pilot.”

“Indeed!” the Commodore replied heartily, looking out over the classroom. “That’s a terrific responsibility for one so young, and the qualifications are not all that much less than for a Command Navigator.”

“Yes,” my instructor replied. Gamely, she tried to change the subject. “Tell me, Commodore. On your last trip out to the Kuiper belt you found some most interesting-”

Tottson, however, was having none of it. Imperiously, he raised his hand and cut off Mayberry. “Who is this pod pilot?” he asked. “I’d like to pay a courtesy call, so to speak.”

Suddenly I had a headache. Technically, as a Pod pilot I was indeed entitled to recognition as a brother Navigator, albeit barely. However, I’d much rather have crawled under a rock.

There was a second long silence. Then, finally I raised my hand.

“Ah!” the Commodore replied, his smile barely flickering as I stood and smoothed out my plumage. His self-control was most impressive; it wasn’t every day that you found yourself confronted by a six-foot-tall chicken man. Tottson was politeness personified; if I chose to present myself to the world as a chicken, his manner clearly stated, it was no business whatsoever of his. “So you’re the over-achiever!” He stepped across the room and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, ah… Brother. What ship?”

I gulped. The Commodore had been my hero since long before my voice had changed. I’d read every single one of his logs, and watched every docu-drama ever made about his adventures. There was no way out, not after he’d gone so far out of his way to be nice to me. I had to answer no matter how badly I wanted to deny the terrible truth. “Aphrodite, sir” I replied.

Tottson’s face froze, and I looked down at the ground. “PT-69!” a classmate offered helpfully.

“The Pussy Pod!” another chimed in. There was a muffled snicker.

There was another long, awkward silence. It stretched out until Tottson realized that he was standing stock-still, gripping my unmoving hand. “Well!” he answered, releasing me. “Well…”

“Marvin has a perfect safety record after three months,” my teacher interjected, attempting to defend my honor. Mrs. Mayberry had been my Pod certification instructor as well. I liked her a lot; she was allowing me to take her very expensive courses on credit. “He’s doing well.”

“It’s a tremendous honor to meet you, sir,” I mumbled, still looking down at the floor.

The Commodore nodded curtly, then returned to the front of the room. “Three months of perfect safety,” he began again, though clearly his heart was no longer in it. “Three months without a single hard docking, without a downcheck of any kind. Now, three months isn’t exactly a world’s record; I’ve met a very few remarkable men with thirty years and more of such exemplary service. But three months is a solid beginning that each and every one of you should take note of…”

No one was paying attention, however. Instead, everyone was staring at the single white feather that had somehow found its way from my head onto the left shoulder of the Commodore’s otherwise immaculate space-black uniform.

II

Twenty minutes later, I was boarding a taxi. Aphrodite was located clear at opposite end of Lagrange from where my classes were held. There was no way that I could walk such a distance, even though I was trying to keep expenses under control. My pod made its run at twelve-hour intervals, and right at the moment there was no relief pilot available. I had a schedule to keep.

“One credit, please” the taxi’s mechanical voice intoned as I climbed in. I tossed a coin in the hopper. “Thank you, Sir or Ma’am” the voice replied. The simple machine was baffled by my plumage, I knew. It happened every time. “Destination?”

“Sixty-Series dock bay,” I enunciated carefully. Aphrodite was docked at lock number sixty-nine, of course. My employer had paid extra to get that specific number.

“Yes, sir!” the cab answered me, sounding more confident now that it had established my gender from the sound of my voice. For a brief moment I was pressed against the seat as we accelerated, and then I was on my way. “There are many fun places to go and entertaining things to do at Lagrange Station,” the cab said. “Especially for adults.”

“Do tell,” I replied wearily. The only way to shut off the cab’s ad track was to insert another credit, which I had no intention whatsoever of doing.

“Truly!” the cab replied, interpreting my remark as genuine interest. “In fact, there are several attractions to be found in the immediate vicinity of the Sixty-Series Docks. The most famous of these is the Henhouse Gentlemen’s Club.”