By Tim Augier
An emerald shape streaked across the inky void of space. Impressed against the black canvas sporadically populated with far-off twinkles of white, a boxy, unnatural, object. It almost looked as if someone had fused a semi-truck with some kind of rocket. Which, in essence, they had.
Inside the cab of the SpaceTruck™, his legs up on the dashboard, a magazine in one hand, a CB radio in the other, sat Shedd Lightman. A buzz and crackle came through a radio beneath his boots, cutting into the thrum of the engines.
‘I’m reading yer loud ‘en clear Bigdog,’ came a voice from the radio. ‘I ain’t gonna hit another chicken coop for a parsec. Over.’ The speaker crackled so much that it sounded as if the signal was far off.
Shedd put down his copy of Buggs Monthly and adjusted his position. Sitting upright, he shook out the pins and needles in his feet. He grabbed his mug of space-coffee and pulled the transmitter to his lips.
‘Ten-four Goldy, yer breaking up, I’m entering the Caltrop Nebula, I’ll catch yer back in dock. Bigdog out. over.’ Shedd put down the transmitter and took a sip of his brew.
Space trucking was a long and lonely task, delivering shipments to far-off frontier colonies that weren’t quite important enough to be transported with the larger space-container ships. One could go months without talking to someone and up to a year without seeing anyone.
Shedd was completing a four-month gig and was so far out he rarely got the chance to speak to anyone but other space truckers. Now that Goldy was out of range, chances were he wouldn’t be speaking to anyone for a while. Such was the life of a space trucker. Cold and lonely, much like their workplace.
He placed the transmitter back in its nook next to the radio and turned the dial to recreational mode. A small warning flashed across the screen:
RECREATIONAL RADIO IS DOCKED FROM PAY—.
Shedd skipped the rest of the warning with the unparalleled urgency of an addict inserting more coins into a slot machine and flicked it to the Space-Country Station. The rough scraping of static played throughout the ship whilst the onboard receiver failed to pick up the distant signals of the station. His face contorted in mild frustration, he flicked through several stations, only to receive more of the familiar popping and hissing. Finally, he switched onto Outer Rim FM. Shedd was rewarded with the dulcet singing of renowned space-country singer Johnny Spacebucks.
Content in his consolation prize, Shedd pulled on a long lever labelled autopilot, which, with a whir, engaged the autopilot. He stood and walked to the back of his cab. It was a rather spartan affair, only two by three metres wide. The walls were covered in pipes and wires, the chaos of which would’ve given Space-Marie Kondo a fit. The configuration as a whole was a dazzling variety of different shades of grey. Cement floors, slate walls, and a daring storm cloud for the aforementioned pipes. The only feature which implied a human occupied the quarters, was a tattered calendar taped to the wall depicting a rather compromising photograph of an insect.
The back of his cabin featured a bed sunken into the wall, and a kitchenette. Though, to call it that would be generous at best and, at worst, a crime against human rights, as it was little more than a SpaceCompany–Ltd 2-in-1 AutomatedMicrowaveVendor.
He approached the machine and punched a series of numbers into the blocky access panel that fronted it, each press delivering a satisfying clunk. A small LCD lit up, informing him that his selection would cost five spacebucks. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small company credit card, inserting it into a card slot on the panel. A beep and a whirr sounded suddenly, and a door slid open, revealing a silvery vacuum-sealed bag, a small white label identifying it as a SpaceCompany-Ltd Standard Issue MeatBurger. Wafts of steam followed the victual out of the door, filling the cab with the sickly smell of freshly rehydrated meat. On Earth — a violation of the chemical weapons convention; to Shedd, it was a delicacy. As he picked it up, the song came to an end, and a voice crackled through the speaker.
‘Ummm…that was Lunar City Seven by…uh…Johnny Spacebucks,’ said the host with a stammer. He delivered his lines dryly and with an inherent monotony. The hardships and isolation of interstellar living were not exclusive to space truckers, it would seem.
‘It’s now time for your favourite…uh…segment. Where you can call into the programme and request a…um…song.’
A silence in the cabin ensued, punctuated only by that ever-present whirring of the ship and the mechanical clunking of the vendor, as Shedd bought more coffee to accompany his MeatBurger. He was considering the cost that attempting to contact the station would have on his company card, when he was interrupted by the rhythmic, yet highly irritating trill of a ringtone.
‘Oh, a cal—Hello, this is…uh…you’re on air with me, Snart Melton.’ The space-disk jockey’s obvious ineptitude, or at least ill-preparedness, was interrupted by the crackly, broken-up audio of the caller.
‘Mayday, mayday! This is the SS Esperanto,’ said the voice of the caller.
It was erratic and afraid, and Shedd could hear the klaxon of an onboard siren, drowned out by the occasional explosion.
‘We’ve encountered a spatial anomaly upon entering the Caltrop Nebula. Our engine went down. Then our auxiliary. Our life support is down. We are adrift in space. Requesting immediate inter—.’ The all-too-familiar white noise of the static took control.
‘Esperanto what is your position?’ said Snart. ‘Esperanto?’ Though fast in following up on the disappearance, he lacked the urgency the distress signal had seemed to warrant.
‘Well, that was the Esperanto,’ said Snart. ‘It appears they are lost in space. We’ll now play My Girl Left Me on Juno by Al Eggmen.’
The mournful tale of a spaceman’s lost space-love flooded the room.
Shedd stared at the radio for some time, unable to move. His hands were moon white and rigid, locked tight around his MeatBurger. Fear had gripped him. The one thing colder than the vacuum surrounding the ship now worked its way deep into his heart.
His fear was not out of compassion nor sympathy for his fellow space farers. Theirs was a dangerous job, and everyone knew the risks. No, the SS Esperanto had gone down in the Caltrop Nebula, which Shedd had just entered.
As the gravity of his situation started to set in, he suddenly realised the radio had stopped playing. Then he heard something even more concerning. It was the unfamiliar and terrifying sound of nothing.
Shedd’s paralysis relented, and his food dropped onto the floor with a dull slop.
Light dawned in his eyes.
The engines were off.
It’s funny, there’s a certain tranquillity that embeds itself in the mind when faced with certain doom. The calm feeling in the eye of the storm. It’s funny too, how quickly that feeling is replaced by frenzied, abject terror.
Shedd’s mind raced frenziedly, and his face contorted in abject terror as the cabin lights shifted to a dull red. The autopilot lever snapped back into the off position. He braced himself, eyes shut tight, in a panicked anticipation of the ship coming to a dead stop in space.
After about thirty seconds with no sudden lurching, he remembered Newton’s first law of motion and opened his eyes. His gaze landed on the dashboard, which flashed manically with a blue error message. He raced towards the controls, arriving just in time to watch the image on the screen break up and fizzle into blackness.
Experienced as he was in the intricate art of repairing spacecraft, he slapped the dashboard heavily with his open palm. This approach proved to be inefficient. He resorted to his only possible recourse and slammed his fist against it.
Click, clicked the dashboard.
A low murmured whir came from deep within the bowels of the console. A small slot opened beneath the screen, and an archaic strand of tape slid out.
Shedd ripped the tape out and held it up to the starlight beaming through the solar-windshield. The tape was a thin piece of plasticised paper with letters punched into it. He read aloud, quietly and to himself, as beads of sweat rolled down his face.
‘Critical Systems Error, stop. Engines down, stop. Life support down, stop. Auxiliary power at ten percent, stop. Primary computer has stopped, stop.’
Shedd stopped reading and slapped the dashboard again.
‘Darn’t computer! I know that. I need answers…solutions. Fix this!’
As if responding to his commands, another length of tape was printed off by the machine. With the sort of fevered anticipation of someone whose life depended on an outdated method of computing, he ripped the from the slot and read it aloud.
‘Seek Onboard Physical Ship Manual, stop. Error code one-nine-five-nine, stop. Tape supply running low, stop. Please insert new ta-.’ Reaching the end of the message, he stiffened and scanned the room, looking for the emergency manual.
Desperately trying to recall the location of the manual, his eyes fell upon his Buggs calendar. He leapt forward and ripped it off the wall, revealing a bright red hatch conveniently labelled Emergency Use Only.
Deciding that the present situation seemed to fit the parameters, and with the erratic burst of energy granted by his discovery, he pulled hard on the handle, attempting to fling the door open and reveal his salvation. His arm jarred when he was met with the single-minded willpower of a locked door. Looking down, he saw a silver lock with a small slot in the middle. An equally silvery, equally metal knob capped the lock with a rotating arrow etched into it. He examined the sign underneath the label.
Insert a $2 or $1 space-coin to operate the lock.
‘Space-coins?’ said Shedd. ‘In this economy?’
He yelled out in a pained mixture of shock and contempt. His fate seemed to be sealed by an archaic and nearly phased-out method of monetary transaction.
‘There’s gotta be some coins somewhere,’ Shedd said as he searched every drawer for some lousy spacebucks. ‘I passed a space-toll booth a lightyear back’ .
He tore through cabinets and a footlocker alike. The space-glovebox offered no reward, and neither did that inconveniently placed cup holder beneath the space-handbrake.
By now, the air in the room had become thin and hard to breathe, laden with moisture and carbon dioxide. He was panting and sweating like a moon-hog. Down to his last straw and in a fit of incomparable fervour, he threw around his laundry. A pair of space-pants flew past and slapped the wall with a denimy thud and a metallic ring. The sound broke his focus momentarily. He was unsure of where he had heard that ring before.
Then the penny dropped. His eyes opened wide as they lit upon the reward of a meagre one-dollar space-coin still spinning on the floor. His clammy hands gripped the coin, nearly dropping it in his rush towards the emergency locker.
Shedd inserted the coin and, with gleeful relief turned the knob, which rewarded him with a satisfyingly clunky rotation. He opened the door, grabbed a large paper manual, and shakily flipped through the error numbers. Finally, he arrived on one-nine-five-nine.
Error one-nine-five-nine: Your ship has shut down due to exterior electrical interference, most likely as a result of a nebula or spatial anomaly. In the event of this occurrence, a recovery ship will arrive at the next convenience. Life support will shut down, and auxiliary power will reroute to preserve the property of SpaceCompany Ltd. In lieu of insurance payouts, family members will be compensated with one coupon eligible on selected products at affiliated SpaceCompany Ltd stores.
Shedd dropped the manual. It was cold in the cabin he thought. Cold and hard to breathe. He chuckled to himself.
‘I guess that’s space for you.’
Fin