Lonely in Space. 3.8k A deep spacer loses, finds, and loses his girl. (standard:romance, 3791 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1195/900	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
John is a deep-spacer about to begin a ten year journey. He meets and falls for a woman, having to leave her behind – or does he?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"Next three," the admittance clerk shouts and we shuffle up a few paces,
me crowding close to smell her perfume. 

"When I'm in town," I speak to her back, hands longing to stretch out
and cop a feel; an act I was notorious for as a kid -- as well as 
dodging under ballooning skirts –  "I have an apartment here in 
ChiTown."  Why not, I figure. "Maybe you'd like to come up sometime? I 
could tell you all about my work." After all, we do have quite a few 
groupies. 

"You look larger on the holoshows." she turns her head and leans down
forward, giving me a good view of a sculptured chin, small nostrils 
flaring above it. "Maybe I should," she says, reflectively. 

"Next two," the clerk calls out and we step into the lobby of the
supermarket, standing with arms raised as security guards sweep their 
detectors over us.  ChiTown is considered one of the safe cities. Even 
though safe, you still can't wander the aisles and shop for yourself. 

"Go on in, Mr. Adams, sir," the guard stutters. I have that effect on
people, being easily recognized and a celebrity. He moves to shove the 
woman aside. 

"No, the lady's ahead of me," I have to remind him, causing a little
embarrassment and seeming to amuse the girl. In these days of terrorist 
fears, even lowly security officers feel self-important, some taking 
that pistol on their hips as an extra phallus. 

"Mr. Adams, sir.  Glad to see you again." All three clerks scramble to
serve me as the lovely lady is ignored. It's my turn to be embarrassed. 
I humbly smile and hand my shopping list up to the clerk. 

"Right away, sir." A female clerk reaches down to grab the form and
disappears from sight, rushing back to fill my order. I can hear my 
name being bandied behind the counter, knowing the clerk will be 
running down the aisles with a shopping cart. Meanwhile, I'm gratified 
that the lady is also being served. 

After a spat of store bombings and poisonings, no business in the
country can afford the insurance payments needed to let customers walk 
the aisles themselves, possibly poisoning foods or hiding bombs among 
merchandise.  Instead, they hire extra clerks and security guards. Each 
customer has to check off items on a long shopping list before 
entering, which a clerk fills. You have a certain amount of time in 
front of the clerk, then outside into an enclosed area to wait for your 
order to be filled. 

At least in safe cities like ChiTown there are a few businesses, such as
restaurants, still open. Even they are restricted to a small number of 
tables, well-lighted and guarded inside and out. You have to be careful 
if you lower your hands under a table to scratch yourself while eating. 
The guards might fear a bomb and drop an anti-explosive barrier between 
your's and other tables.  And that's in the safe cities. I can imagine 
how it is in other places. 

Being a celebrity, I'm finished first, one of the guards even carrying
my bags out for me. Being horny and interested, I wait with my car and 
driver for the woman to finish. 

As I sit in the back of the armored vehicle, with every confidence the
armed driver and bodyguards will protect me, I survey nearly-empty 
streets. Hardly anyone walks anymore, even in a safe city, except for 
marching squads of soldiers and plain-clothed police officers. 

Eventually the woman comes out, carrying several large sacks of
groceries.  She starts for a bus stop. Even after seeing her leaving 
the store, she and her packages will be searched before being allowed 
to enter the bus. 

"Hey!" I open my door and call out, "you need a ride home? Those bags
must be heavy." 

I see her hesitate for a moment, obviously debating about accepting a
ride from a stranger, then smile and walk over. 

"Thanks," she says, letting a bodyguard help her put the bags in the
trunk. "My name's Janice Thomas, by the way. I guess you're safe." 

"I wouldn't count on it.  Some women say differently." 

She laughs, a lovely sound. 

"So I've heard. Just as long as you stay on your side of the seat and I
stay on mine." 

She gets in and we leave. I enjoy her profile as she leans over the seat
to give her address to the driver. 

"Look, Janice. You're a lovely girl." I get to the point, one of my less
noble graces. "I'd like to see more of you.  Is that possible or do you 
have a husband or boyfriend?" 

"I suppose so. What do you have in mind, kind sir?" 

"Well, I don't like restaurants. Too many people watching my every move;
not to mention the cameras.  It's hard to eat under those 
circumstances. How about coming over to my place tonight? I'll send my 
car? Or even your place if you like? Maybe you have a restaurant in 
your building? Somewhere that doesn't know me?" 

"I don't think that's possible, John. I assume I can call you John?
Everyone knows you by sight. Like it or not, you're on the news almost 
every night." 

"Not, as in ‘I don't like it' but it comes with the territory. What you
say?" 

"Why not? It's not every day that I get to dine with a celebrity. What
time?" 

"How about I send the car about eight?" 

"Suits me." 

We make small talk before pulling into the guard post at the entrance to
her high-rise apartment house.  A guard stops the limo to run our 
identification cards through their scanner before admitting us. 

"You want help getting upstairs?" I offer. 

"I can make it," she says, grasping my hand. "See you tonight." 

That was how I met Janice. The evening went well.  Like fattening a
calve before slaughter, the government gives me a good life between 
trips. I'm a large investment. If something happens to me the entire 
ship will have to be scrapped, maybe the next mission, so they want to 
keep me happy. 

*** 

“I told you about myself, Janice,” I ask, “but you never said what you
do for a living?” 

We're sitting on my lanai, idly watching the moon silhouetting security
guards walking their patrols on the neighborhood wall.  It isn't 
unusual for gangs of unemployed to break into such enclaves to raid 
homes.  Security has to be tight for the wealthy.  Of course, the 
government gives my home special consideration. 

“You won't believe this, John, but I work on your artificial
intelligence system ‘Donna'. The control program companion on your next 
trip will be partially my coding.”  She grins, a lovely sight, and 
continues, “Not the voice part, but in controlling temperatures 
throughout the ship.  I even visit the ship often to inspect 
thermostats and check a few instruments.  That coding is delicate.” 

“You're raising my temperature right now.”  I clasp her tighter, leaning
over to kiss her cheek. 

“Why don't we go inside and see about correcting that bit of external
coding?” she says, getting to her feet. 

*** 

Our SupComps say your best launch date will be next Thursday,”  George,
the mission chief, tells me. “Better wind down your commitments here.  
It'll take a projected eight to ten years before you're back from 
Callisto.  The milk in your fridge is bound to go bad.” 

“I'll be there on time, boss.”  Talk about commitments.  With the ship
formed as a second skin for me alone, billions of dollars would be lost 
if I didn't make it. Then there're hundreds of highly-trained people in 
the Control Section here on Earth that would be out of work.  Although 
I'd rather quit to stay here with Janice, it isn't really an option. 

At least I won't have to tell her I'm about to leave.  As a small cog in
the process, she'll know soon enough.  That was on a Wednesday.  She 
takes off work on Friday and we spend the weekend together, me taking 
every moment as though it's the last.  Thanks to excessive recording of 
my actions, much of my time with her is on RecButton for me to go over 
during the long trip.  I recall her last words were something to the 
effect that she might have a surprise for me.  That never happens, as 
we both oversleep on Monday morning. 

*** 

The last few days are hectic, with no time for myself.  We still manage
to talk often by phone until George absolutely forbids such 
distractions. As it is, I need thirty hours a day for final processing. 


Much of the time is spent in small adjustments between the ship and
myself.  Even the control chair needs a new part, the old one a few 
millimeters too thick and too heavy for specs.  The only real sleep I 
get is under sedation, that deliberately ending three hours before 
final flight ceremonies. 

Bands play and cameras flash at my final interview and to watch me climb
in and shut the door.  By that time I'm exhausted by the hectic 
activity, about ready to collapse in the entryway, having to force 
myself into my bunk to strap in.  The silence inside is deafening. 

I hardly notice the rumbling of mighty engines engaging far below.  I
lie in relative silence as Control takes me up and away, as Superman 
would say it.  Until I reach our destination, I'm more or less 
supercargo, there in case something needs personal attention.  
Hopefully, that will never happen. 

My first days, weeks, months, and close to a year are spent in idleness.
 The only contact is in daily conversations with Control.  That is 
really only to make certain the communication channels are still 
working and that I haven't gone crazy since the last one. 

At first, they refuse to let me talk to Janice.  I finally have to
threaten Control.  “Look,” I tell George, “I've had it.  Either you put 
her on tomorrow or I'm cutting communication from this end.  It's been 
a year, so don't tell me you still can't find her.” 

“Brace yourself, John.  I was hoping you'd forget that woman.  She quit
work the day before you launched.  We honestly can't find her.” 

“Well ... keep looking.”  I don't know what to say.  Wiping my eyes, I
click the radio off before my voice breaks.  I sit in silence for 
hours, though time has little meaning at this job. 

For another year, I settle into a routine.  I read, watch movies, sleep,
eat, and think about Janice. 

The routine is broken when, during one of our daily conversations,
George has more bad news for me. 

".... So you see, John, there's no way we can help you. It was a
computer glitch, one we had no way to foresee." For a change, his voice 
comes through clearly, unmodified by the normal static this far from 
Earth. It has just pronounced my death sentence. No way we can help 
you?  I'm a member of the walking dead, was what he meant. 

I have two real choices. The first to continue into outer space,
relinquishing any return to our solar system in my lifetime, my tomb 
going on a one-way journey to infinity. Or, I can put the ship into a 
long curve, billions of miles long, eventually returning to the 
vicinity of the Earth, probably long after mankind has gone the way of 
the dinosaurs. 

A recent computer check has shown that one of my steering rockets would
fail to fire, at least not anywhere as long as I need it. The fuel is 
defective. The others can be controlled. 

"John. John, do you read me?" I make no reply.  Why should I? What would
it matter.  The old double whammy in action. Emotionless, holding it 
in, I simply click the switch to “off”, cutting his voice in 
mid-question. I'll think about it later, think later or not think at 
all. I take a powerful sleeping pill, debating while holding the bottle 
up in front of my face, wondering about taking them all? Feeling the 
effects, I stagger to my bunk. No hurry, those pills will still be here 
tomorrow. 

It's the second, but not the only bad news I've been given in the past
month. The first being about Janice. My mind struggles to stay awake, 
hearing beeping sounds indicating Earth calling back, incessantly, even 
as I pass into blessed oblivion, alone, so very alone in space. 

*** 

Such are the medications that I dream, and am aware I'm dreaming. I
dream of Janice, not in death, but in the prime of life. It's almost 
like standing outside my body, disassociated but intimate, both at the 
same time.  I remember that last night.... 

“Please, honey.  Give me a break.  A man can only do soooo, much.” 

“I'll help.  We have two more hours.  Time enough for another one, dear.
Do it for the camera, to take with you.” 

“I can't.  I simply can't.  How about making faces for it?  OH. That
feels good.  More of that. It feels good and gooder.” 

“See? I told you I'd help.” 

“It'll fall off. One more time and that thing'll fall off.” 

“So?  You can pee sitting down for the next ten years.” 

As we left in separate taxis, we hugged and she whispered something in
my ear about seeing me soon.... 

*** 

“Damn.  Damn.  Double Damn,” I scream into an echoing metal coffin. 
I've been going over some of our recorded antics, Janice still fresh in 
my mind.  Looking to the side, at a polished aluminum panel, I see a 
shrimp of a guy gone fat from inactivity with a beard.  No reason for 
personal hygiene here.  I can't smell myself. 

I'm out of dependable radio contact with Earth.   When I feel the urge,
I send sporadic messages back.  There's been nothing important in them, 
so far.  They do the same and still haven't located Janice.  Damn, but 
I wish she was here in person.  We could look out at the stars, our sun 
being only one of billions, no brighter than the rest. 

On a whim and because I happen to be sitting at the computer console, I
bring up schematics of my screwed up fuel system.  They consist of both 
straight and squiggly lines interspersed by numbers and symbols.  It's 
been a long time since I passed a course on reading blueprints and 
schematics, but I can still make my way around if I go slow. 

The fuel tanks are located at the rear of the ship, four of them between
some sort of partitions.  I suppose that's to contain leaks.  Bringing 
up an overlay of the electrical system for that area, I can see I'm 
correct.  Each section has two sump pumps to pass leaks thorough 
filters before going back into the tanks.  No doubt because of the 
danger of settling, they're also equipped with stirring mechanisms. 

I study the diagrams for hours, looking for some way to pump fuel
between tanks, but can't find any.  Figures beside the tanks show only 
one has a different -- deadly to me -- composition.  They're also 
inflatable near the top and that one is almost overflowing, at a 
critical level, in fact.  One of the pressure readings is in yellow. 

Remembering that Janice has been involved in heating various
installations and rooms throughout the ship, I superimpose a greenish 
layer showing temperatures in the fuel storage area. 

It doesn't take me long to notice another yellow figure.  There's a
heater out in that one partition.  The one containing defective fuel. 

My brain kicks into overdrive.  I key in a request for explanations on
my fuel.  Hell, I don't even know what it's called.  A mixture of some 
type, all components comprised of long Latin names. 

Getting the list, I check it for effects of freezing.  Most of the fuel
components freeze at sub-spacial temperatures ... and expand as they 
freeze.  It occurs to me that frozen fuel might be my problem.  Without 
the heater, that compartment is cold ... very cold.  A little heat must 
be seeping in from other sources, including the other heater in there, 
but it could still be below freezing for some fuel components. 

*** 

Suited up for deep space for safety reasons, I can barely make it to the
aft-end of the ship.  At two points, it takes me hours to get out of 
the suit, push it ahead of me through narrow maintenance passages and 
put it on again. 

My heart threatens to fail when I find stashes of food crates thrown
around in supposedly empty maintenance corridors, some broken open.  
Then come plastic drums of drinking water and other human supplies.  I 
hope I won't find what I expect to find.  I sincerely hope and pray I 
won't. 

As I come closer to the fuel tanks, I find broken crates of women's
clothing and necessities. 

“No!”  I cry into the metal echo chamber.  I can't go on.  I can't. 
Please God, I can't.  But it's the  only way I can possibly save 
myself. 

At the door to the faulty fuel section I stop, one hand on the latch, to
wipe tearing eyes and blink several times.  I don't want to open that 
door.  I CAN'T open that door. But I must.  As bad as it will be, it 
will be far worse to go back, leaving it closed and never certain. 

Steeling myself, I twist the handle, at least glad that no evil smell
greets me in my suit. 

Yes.  I find her ... and she's dead.   Probably since takeoff.  The
takeoff in one of these ships is abrupt, from zero to ten “G”s in only 
a few seconds.  I find Janice in a spare spacesuit, one I noticed 
missing when I took stock but didn't think anything of at the time.  I 
also noticed a much higher supply of re-breathing supplies. Figuring 
Control cataloged that stuff, I had no reason to be suspicious of a 
stowaway. 

Her body lies sprawled across that errant heater, keeping it from
working.  The temperature is far below freezing in here. 

She must have been  standing at takeoff, thrown onto the heater with “G”
forces killing her.  It would have seemed like being hit with multiple 
sledgehammers. That was what she meant by those cryptic comments about 
having a surprise and seeing me later. 

Before taking her body to my living quarters, I manage to restart the
heater.  Within a week, the fuel is unfrozen and mixed to normal 
consistency.  I only wish I could do the same with Janice. 

I could eject her, but can't bring myself to do it.  For the rest of the
trip, she can keep me company, both of us going over our taped mementos 
while sitting side by side, her frozen in a spacesuit and me in my 
undies. 

The End.


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