Author’s Note: I just finished reading the novel Babylon’s Ashes by James S.A. Corey. In the book, a comment was made that during an attack you were essentially cargo if you were not tasked with ship defense. During a battle you were as useful as a can of beans. That line inspired this sci-fi story that takes place on the battleship Lancaster. I hope you enjoy it.
Crash Couch
by Kyle Pollard
In combat I am cargo. I can barely move a muscle as my body is pressed deep into the gel of the acceleration couch that holds me like an angel of mercy as the tiny light which is my ship, my family, my home, darts across the inky blackness of space. We are small and insignificant. Space is immense, and our drive plume is but one flicker among many trillions of points of light.
I am now like my cousins the food packages, the stored potable water, and the soy-based pastes stowed in the galley. When we flip and burn we push our bodies to the limit of endurance. When we burn hard to reach an elliptical orbit, I am inert. I am a piece of luggage strapped to a couch. We are maneuvering to cross the orbital path of a fleet of enemy ships attacking a colony outpost. After we accomplish our objective, I will no longer be cargo as I am a member of the medical staff. For now, my life is in the hands of the commander, the weapons teams, and the pilot.
My neck stings from the injection of the juice that keeps my heart pumping blood to the brain. The couch cradles me, and the drugs keep me alive, and faith sustains us all. I could watch the attack on my wall screen if I wanted, but I normally don’t. Too stressful. This sustained burn is scheduled to last 4 hours, and it takes all my concentration not to pass out. I close my eyes, concentrate on my breathing, and use the downtime to rummage through my life. I like this better than traveling near light speed as we are all unconscious and sealed in cryo-pods, the ship AIs running the show.
When I joined the Navy, I left behind my wife and kids. Not at first mind you, but the long deployments and the effects of time dilation took its toll on the relationship. We were both nineteen when we tied the knot in a small ceremony on a beach at Port Aransas, Mustang Island in Texas down the gravity well on Earth. Had the Rift Wars not broke out I was scheduled to take shore leave in 1 or 2 years earth time. When I finally did make it back to home port, my wife was ninety-two years old, and our boy had died at the age of eight from an accident. I visited her at the elderly care facility, held her hand, and we talked into the night. It was impossible for her to look into my eyes without crying. In the morning she feebly pushed herself into a sitting position and slowly got off the bed. We hugged for what felt like hours before she kissed me, looked into my eyes, and told me not to return. I never did.
I can hear the ship’s fusion drives and feel the intense vibrations of the pulsing engines vibrating through everything. Nothing like the reassuring hum the fusion reactor makes when we are traveling at one Earth Gravity. I try to focus. Take my mind off the situation. Try to forget that the only thing between my fragile human shell and space is a hull composed of exotic metals and polycrystalline lattice components. Goldfish in a sealed bowl filled with air hurtling through an unforgiving void. That’s us. That’s my life now. After that first trip home the ship’s crew bonded like never before as we were all touched in one way or another by the experience. Some relationships did not crumble as did mine. Actually, it’s a moot point because regardless if you did the human thing and swore to your loved ones that you would be back. That you would hold them again in your arms. That age was irrelevant. That love would conquer all obstacles. We all knew that wasn’t true. The families left behind and the crewmembers on the Lancaster all knew it was the final goodbye. If we did make it back again everyone we knew would have long passed and life as we know it may no longer exist. My wife was practical. Let me leave with a clear conscious. She told me to forget her. To never think about her again. I think about her every day.
On this ship we are family. You would think that living in such close quarters; you would begin to loathe each other’s company. That never happened with us. Together we have fought many battles in the sky and on land. I have been wounded four times and have patched up just about every member of the crew from stab wounds, laser burns, venereal disease, to regenerating entire hands. So far I have only lost one member of the Lancaster. Her name was Valla. My second wife. She was killed four years to the day after our one and only shore leave on Earth. She died the day after we married. We were in close order battle, and a fragment from an enemy primary defense cannon (PDC) pierced the hull and her environment suit. I will never forget the look of fear in her white face, the ice crystals frozen to her eyelids, and the blueness of her lips. I have decided never to marry again.
We must be getting close. The gimbals on my crash couch swivel to keep my body in the correct position as our PDCs fire at incoming missiles. The ship rocks from the cannon fire as thrusters maintain course. I should open my eyes and look at the tactical map, but I do not. We are still two hours away from our objective so these must have been long range shots, easily deflected by our defenses. They were probably just hoping for a lucky hit as all it takes is a tiny fragment to make it to the fusion reactor to destroy the ship. I feel blood pooling in my leg and attempt to move it for some relief.
I breathe in through my mouth, and out through my nose. The breathing brings back a certain level of calmness to my thoughts. I am now sitting at a table with my first wife at a restaurant in Mexico. Our boy Jacob is three year’s old. It’s a fancy place and my wife, and I are a little nervous that Jacob will start making a fuss. People seated around us are from all parts of the universe. Many paid a hefty penny to vacation near the crystal blue waters of the Carribean. Jacob sees a good sized blue and a white luxury yacht moored near the dockside restaurant. He says “Big Boat. Big Boat.” Then, of course, he says this about thirty times getting progressively louder. I can see people shifting nervously in their chairs. Ties adjusted. Napkins repositioned in laps. The waiter hastily delivers a massive chocolate sundae and saves the day. Jacob’s attention shifted, the dinner peacefully continued for all. I remember the sunlight on my wife’s red hair and the blue sun dress she wore that day.
The duty bell chimes one hour left on the burn. Then warning claxons start blasting. The ship jerks violently as the nav-com adjusts to avoid incoming projectiles. I open my eyes now to look at the tactical screen above my head. It didn’t look good. We are all trained to understand the tactical display and the arcs didn’t look good at all. Just then I hear the unmistakable rumbling sound of the main railgun charging, and then the loud thundering boom the projectile makes as it leaves the nose of the ship. Again it fires. And again. We have slowed to 4 Gs. I never noticed that we were now in our braking burn. Must be close to the target. We will only be near the enemy formations orbital path for a fraction of a second. My guess is that we will maintain the 4 Gs and try to take out a few ships as we speed through the enemy formation. I see six enemy drive plumes identified on tactical. Hot burners on intercepting arcs.
I close my eyes again. The ship rocks from another round of PDC fire. My couch shakes from what my senses tell me was a powerful impact. My eyes open wide. No more walls. No tactical display mounted above my head. Nothing. I am now outside the ship, in the vacuum of space and spinning out of control. Jets begin firing from my environmental suit. It takes ten minutes plus change for the attitude adjusters to correct my spin and slow my speed. When my vision clears I look around and see nothing but stars. I can’t help but wonder if anyone else made it out, but I guess it doesn’t matter. No chance any ships will risk slowing down in this hot zone to pick us up. At least not now.
I am alone once again with my thoughts. Environmental says I have two hours of oxygen left and no juice left in my thrusters. My left leg hurts for a second, but the suit gives me a shot of pain killers and the hurt fades away. I want to close my eyes again, but a stunning far off nebulae catches my eye. No words can describe its beauty. No longer cargo I am now a star floating free in the Universe. I hold onto my memories as that is all I have left now. I use the holographic projector on my suit to project a life-size image of my son Jacob. He reaches out his hand, and I take it. Together we watch the oxygen indicator count down to zero. I take one last gulp of air before it runs out. Jacob grabs my head with his tiny hands and peers into my helmet and says “It’s ok dad. Mom’s waiting.”
“Crash Couch” copyright © 2017 by Kyle Pollard