VOTE: February-March '09 Challenge

[kailhofer]

The following entries were received:




Happy Birthday Archana Ivanova: Super Spy




Aphelion One, Day 41


At 04:51, precisely—assuming you’re on Aphelion time—the computer woke her.

Limba noastră-i o comoară (A treasure is our language that surges)

În adîncuri înfundată (From deep shadows of the past,)

Un şirag de piatră rară (Chain of precious stones that scattered)

Pe moşie revărsată. (All over our ancient land.)

Limba noastră-i foc ce arde (A burning flame is our language)

Într-un neam, ce fără veste (Amidst a people waking)

S-a trezit din somn de moarte (From a deathly sleep, no warning,)

Although the Moldavian National Anthem went on for twelve more stanzas. . .plus the refrain, she hit the snooze button without opening her eyes and immediately began her morning exercises. Her breathing became deeper and more regular. To all outward appearances, she had dozed-off for the nine minutes until the alarm sounded, again.

Your name is Archana Ivanova. You are a Geologist. You were born in Balti and were accepted into the Institute of Geology and Seismology in Chişinău at the age of sixteen, specializing in exogeology and remote electronics. Your parents were killed in a bus accident when you were seventeen, leaving no close relatives. At eighteen you were selected to represent Moldavia in the Summer Olympics as a gymnast but had to withdraw due to a shoulder injury. The records of your year of gymnastic training will hold-up to the closest scrutiny. If questioned about it, never never never think about the real Archana Ivanova. Never think how much she looked like you, must have loved gymnastics as much as you, must have had dreams of her own, must have died accidentally before you entered the Olympic Facility using her name. It must have been an accident. It must have!

She realized that her breathing was no longer regular, her emotions were getting in the way of her training. Colonel Petrolescue would have seen it, immediately; and the punishment would have been severe.

With an audible snort she “woke-up” from her snooze. It wouldn’t have fooled the Colonel, but if another agency were recording her in her quarters, it would look like she’d begun a bad dream and awakened naturally. With the practiced flick of a key, she reset the alarm.

Before she disentangled herself from the sleeping net, she inhaled deeply. Along with the normal damp-sock scent of six people living in close proximity, someone was cooking rehydrated bacon. She assayed her choice in clothing, all carefully chosen by the Colonel for maximum sexual allure. One advantage to skimpy attire was that she probably had more outfits to choose from than anyone else on the mission. She decided on the white, form-fitting elastic body suit. She would have to wear the tight black shorts with it, though. She hadn’t shaved her pubic hair for a while and it would show through the fabric. That her dark nipples were faintly discernable, was the point of the garment.

“You must seem unaware of the effect your body has on your opponents,” the Colonel’s voice echoed in her thoughts. “Your desirability may make them pause—if only for a second—before they strike. Use every advantage that you have.”

She glanced at the improvised ‘Ship Calendar’ pasted to the wall.

Day 41, today, was highlighted in green. What was that for? she asked herself. She had only routine duties until the NASA download, tonight. Though she was expecting some encrypted instructions for her remote units piggybacked with the updates, she certainly wouldn’t have marked her calendar for that.

She looked at the date, again. She had a vague memory of having marked certain ship days as having special meaning for the corresponding date, back on Earth. Something about today had made her—and then she remembered—today was her birthday. Not Archana’s birthday, of course, but her real birthday.

“La multi ani, Mahai.” Her Grandmother’s voice was clear in her mind, though she’d been dead for a decade. She wondered if, in some sub-basement, Colonel Petrolescue was raising his glass to her. He was possibly the only other living person who knew she was alive. When she had replaced the real Archana Ivanova, her family had been told she too, was dead.

Would any of them think of her, today? Would they remember that today, their sister, daughter, niece, would have turned thirty-one?

Would Petru remember? Perhaps. He’d asked her to marry him on this date when she was fifteen, and dreaming only of leaving the stifling Russian-Ukrainian backwater town of Serata Mereseni.

How she had hated her hard-line, fanatical, old-school Communist family and their insistence that Pridnestrovskaia Moldavskaia Respublica was their true homeland. To them, Moldavia was just a West-loving, Romanian puppet country. How proud they would be of her, now, working to further the Communist resurgence. But at what cost? That they mourned the loss of a daughter was one thing. But if she died out here, she—like the real Archana—would not be mourned by anyone.

She didn’t know why this bothered her, but it did.

So how would she spend her realbirthday? Well, like any other day, of course. She would talk to her shipmates, listen to their drab, ordinary problems, and pretend that she gave a damn.

The only problem is, of course, that she really did give a damn. She really likes all of the people she works with. Whether it’s the too-perfect Ophelia Dunsirn or it’s the goofy, nerdy Sidney Barnes. She truly likes them all.

Now what?

Once you get to know a person, how can you betray them all. How can you betray any of them?

Must she?

Can she?

If—as the Americans say—‘push comes to shove’, will she be a GOOD spy, or will she choose to put both the people, and the mission, first.

To herself, she whispers: “Happy Birthday, Mahai Lucinschi. Even if you are the only one in the Universe who knows what today means.


[align=center]The End[/align]




Sword and Scalpel



Aphelion One, Day 100


“Curtis isn’t making this any easier... on any of us. Frankly, he’s been a real bear,” Dr. Harry Smith said. A narrow beam of light from his ophthalmoscope pierced the blackness of Mission Specialist Penny Jones’ pupil. Doc watched her iris contract.

“No facial edema,” he said as if dictating. He was uncomfortably close and Penny could feel his warm breath on her lips.

“He’s under a lot of stress. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to make it any worse,” Penny said after a moment’s reflection.

“You don’t like to hold anything against anyone,” he stated. “Lightheadedness, fatigue, could be signs of orthostatic intolerance. The Earth-side docs are watching your vitals for it. We might have to start you on Neomidodrine. Still managing the vertigo?”

She smiled, “Sure.” She lifted up a foot and poked a jury-rigged boot at him. “Magnets and Velcro… no medicating required.”

She paused again. “I like Captain Curtis. I think he feels responsible, even though it happened on the other ship,” she said.

Doc inhaled sharply filling his lungs full as he tried to reckon with that familiar conundrum, the double-edges of rank: power and responsibility. Feelings have nothing to do with it; as CO, Curtis IS responsible.

Doc ripped open a dose of sleeping pills for Penny, scanned the barcode on the back with his PDA, handed them to Penny and then searched the screen for the button he had to click to confirm they were dispensed to her. It was a long moment of searching. She was sitting on a table before him and she shifted. The sound of Velcro drew his attention back to her.

“Is it really necessary? The medicine?” she asked.

“Ah. Did you know that fifty percent of the astronauts on the early shuttle missions had to take sleeping pills?”

Doc looked at her. She had dark circles under her eyes; she was really shaken by Barnes’ death, and hadn’t probably slept soundly since they all found out. She always seemed so lighthearted and carefree, but he guessed she was probably prone to more lows than she let on. You fly higher than most, you fall further when you’re forced to land. Then again, she was a civilian, didn’t have the perspective on death he had being a doctor and a marine. Death is a pallid bedmate he was all too used to having around. Two wars gave him that.

Ophelia Dunsirn’s near-death experience and then Barnes’ death had shaken everyone, not just Penny and Curtis. Both accidents occurred on Aphelion 2 and it seemed like Aphelion 1 was due for some drama. But Doc didn’t put any stock in fate or karma, or whatever you wanted to call it. He was a marine: you make your own destiny. He was a doctor too: you prevent death when you can and deal with the aftermath when you can’t. It’s what they called bedside manner. And Harry had plenty of it. The health and sanity of the crew were his jurisdiction and his responsibility.

“Well, take two of these and call me in the morning,” he said with a wink. “I’m taking you off duty until you get some rest. I’ll notify Curtis.” She was a sweet kid, and the only bit of inviting femininity on this boat, the kind that was nice to be around. Of course there was Ivanova too, but when Doc thought about her he could only envision the female spider who’s not above a little cannibalism.

“As the only two Americans on this boat, we’ve got to stick together,” he said with a smile. The thought hadn’t occurred to him until just that instant. The other Americans on this mission, Dunsirn and Barnes, were both subject to “accidents.” The thought startled him.

“But I’m on mess duty tonight.” she said.

“I’ll cover you,” he said. “I’m sure the others won’t mind. I’ve got a hankering for split pea soup again.”

Penny took the pills and swallowed. Then she leaned forward and pecked Doc on the cheek.

“What’s that for? You know I’ll be billing your insurance later,” he added facetiously.

“I heard it was your birthday today,” she said.

“How’d you find that out?” he asked chuckling. “It was a closely guarded military secret.”

“Would it be a cliché to say a little bird told me?” she asked ripping herself free from the Velcro on the table.

“My money’s on Chang,” he said after a moment of rubbing his chin in mock contemplation.

“He does seem to know everything,” she conceded moving out through the hatch, her magnetized boots clacking as she went.

* * *

Doc stared at Penny’s medical file. He had finished typing his notes in and was preparing to batch it for sending Earth-side. Suddenly he realized he was just staring blankly at the screen; his mind had wandered. Forty-six. Not getting any younger.

He searched through the folders on his computer until he found one with some personal pictures. He brought one up on the screen and stared, a woman, thirty-ish, with light brown hair sitting before a photographer’s backdrop of some wooded meadow, a small blond boy nestled in her lap, smiling, his hair cut in sharp bangs.

He knew it was too much to ask. He didn’t expect a transmission, but maybe an email today, just a simple message, on his birthday. She could have managed that much. Memories raced through his mind, and anger nearly surfaced. But then he got it under control. The man of mission, the good-humored doctor, the efficient soldier took control again. He had to keep his mind on the mission, keep this crew healthy in body and mind. That required him to leave some things behind.

“Hello Doc,” Gode Zwelitini skirted the corner, his huge frame startling as he moved silently. He had something in his hand. The smell of freshly popped popcorn filled the compartment.

“A little bird told me it was your birthday.”


[align=center]The End[/align]




PHOENIX



Aphelion One, Day 150


He sat at the command console driving the BUS. That was the name Lt. Chang gave to APHELION ONE, this space craft, if only to himself. So far the Bus has been operating non-stop for 3600 hours that would make it, oh yes, his birthday. The idea of celebrating ones birthday was not an invitation to a party as some on his craft seemed to think. To him, it was one more duty to perform, “Just like driving this space bus on the way to Mars, the The Red Planet, the Western Roman War God’s planet.”

His official duty is first to his country, the Peoples Liberation Army, Space Command (PLA-SC) and then to family, in that order. As he thought to himself Lt. Chang spoke gently and quietly out loud so as to make conversation with himself and acknowledge what he assumed to be the obvious. “China may be modern and up to date. We still continue to revere our ancestors. My birthday is, thanks to them. To them I owe my gratitude even more so. We are still at one child per family in China. We are the only country on this small blue planet to recognize and do something about human resource allocation. I give thanks to my family and to my country. I am here, Today, Now, xian zai.”

Lt. Chang thought in English, the lingua franca within the crafts. This skill made him stand out in preflight training. That fact was instrumental in his selection. Working with different nationalities, communicating in English where misunderstandings could be at worst fatal, a high level of language skill is required. Speaking English among so many different nationalities also allowed for a certain level of misunderstanding, intended or otherwise. A smile came to his usually quiet face.

Lt. Chang was not shy. He spoke little unless directly addressed. Then talk was straight and to the point. He told himself, “Less talk means less room for political misunderstanding. Everything is political.” It was a lesson he had been taught once from someone else’s faux pas. And, once was enough. “Here,” he thought, “Out of the direct gaze of the PLA-SC, here and now was different. Here and now.” he said to himself and didn’t finish. He had time to think and philosophize since much of the flight was routine and programmed.

“Birth day,” he thought while staring at the monitors. “Birth day is a strange concept in timeless, dayless space. Time is for the planet bound where day and night represent the figment of time. Time out here falls away the more one lives here. Infinity, I can’t grasp that, but I do believe day and time are usless concepts . The universe is timeless except as required for our mundane life giving tasks.

“Now”, he laughed to himself at the word. “A missed second at launch, it could be a missed target and death. The smallest width of a business card off target on the shooting line was a miss by meters down range.” These thoughts ran through Lt. Chang’s head almost instantly. He dismissed them almost as quickly to concentrate on piloting the Bus.

His official job as part of the team was co-pilot. He had to drive the BUS and get it to Mars, unscathed, in one piece. He had other jobs; some implied by his superiors others for himself. “Working so closely with other nationalities, in the confines of this space craft brought the known and unknown out in each of us. Amusing, sad and terrifying, witness the unsolved murder in The Trailer,” as he called APHELION TWO, the following space craft.

_________________________

Lt. Chang had been trained form birth to become a member of the Peoples Liberation Army. Successful completion of ones duties here would at least allow for promotion with in the military as well as other business sectors. No one in the country who rose in Party rank was not directly a member of the PLA elite or did not have relatives with strong PLA connections that could pull strings. It simply did not happen. He knew it. It never had to be stated. It was a fact of political life. Then it became a fact of social life.

Good rank meant good family which in turn made for excellent marriage prospects. That thought made Lt. Chang hopeful of the prospects, and suddenly wary. “Suppose the shielding on the crafts were not up to the specs promised? Suppose they were all radiated beyond hope for the future, for children? What then? What of his family line? “What if we’re all just throw aways, expendable for others… ‘aggrandizement’?” he unconsciously said aloud.

“What grand prize?” someone asked in the back? Quickly recovering from his verbal slip, Lt. Chang said, “No you mistook me. Today is my birthday. I wondering about a prize. Foolish of me to say anything.”

“Another birthday? Ain’t this the party boat,” from yet another voice behind him. He did not turn around. He was in command. As they came closer to the planet more debris could be expected. He must maintain control and not be deflected from his duties.

Lt. Chang dreamed of space flight from youth and here he was, driving the BUS to Mars. A smile crossed his lips . “Party boat? Not yet,” he thought. “Dong Shi Hong”* and “Happy Birthday,” He sang to himself.


[align=center]The End[/align]

* The East is Red, a song from The Cultural Revolution days.




Paranoia



Aphelion One, Day 164


Botanist's Log, 15:48

Cabin fever is what happens when too few people are cooped up in close proximity for too long. It's characterised by irritability, anger, in some cases even paranoia.

I think I'm developing a bad case. I hope I'm developing a bad case, because I'm certainly feeling very paranoid.

It all started this morning; I had breakfast late, since I'd been on radar watch that morning. When Chang relieved me and I went off to look over the plants in the greenhouse, I came unexpectedly on the Captain, who stopped me to ask about the plants I was on my way to go see; but when I moved to go past him and show him their health, he stopped me to ask whether I'd spotted anything during my radar watch.

Quite surprising, since a no piece of rock had hit us and one that missed was hardly of much interest.

A few moments later, when I finally got to the greenhouse, there was Dr. Smith, looking as guilty as anything; that wide-eyed innocent look of his is like a flashing neon sign that says "I'm hiding something".

Of course, I immediately began to wonder what it was. Everything looked alright in the greenhouse; the plants were all doing well. (It is quite amazing how well spearmint grows in zero gravity, handled properly). I performed those tasks necessary to ensure that they would continue to do well, checking the nutrient solution in their root bulbs and so on.

Normally, this takes me some time; there are a lot of plants to check, after all. This time, I'd swear that I caught the smell of Smith's cologne in the greenhouse.

What was he doing there, and why had the Captain been acting spotter to make sure he got out before I arrived?

But that was just the first incident.

The second occurred when I arrived for lunch. There was a sudden, dead silence across the whole table. Everyone except Archana (radar duty) was there, and they were all completely and unnaturally silent until Chang asked me how my plants were doing.

Two little incidents. Two slight incidents. But... I'm not quite Dr. Smith, but strange things have happened when people have been shut alone together. Sidney's murder - no matter what Earth says, that was no accident - has been horrible for all of us. It's going to be a lot worse once we land, because we know the murderer is on the other ship. Whoever it is, he can't get to us until after we land. And when we do land...

Let's just say that there's a lot of horror stories that start like that.

And there's a lot that start with everyone except one person keeping some sort of secret.

Do they know? Did they find out who it was?

They can't think it was me. I mean, I was on this ship the whole time.

They can't have heard that story from Earth, could they? I mean, is mission control decided to investigate - I mean really investigate - all our backgrounds, and that came out, then could -

No. No-one's found that out yet. And no-one's going to.

--------------

Botanist's Log, 19:28

Now I feel really silly. I should have guessed, really I should have, but I'd lost track of time.

About an hour before supper, Archana managed to trap me in a conversation - and, now that I think about it, if I was ever near the door she was standing in it, but not obtrusively. Once we'd prepared supper, she took the first half and asked me to follow with the others; one of which had somehow managed to slip itself into the other end of the room. By the time I followed her, she'd had time to find her seat at the table - which had moved.

That was the first thing I noticed. Everyone's seats had shifted a few places around, so that I was looking at the large back of Gode, rather than Archana.

That was, of course, intentional on their part. Captain Curtis noticed my arrival, nodded; and everyone burst into a spontaneous rendition of "Happy Birthday".

Somehow, don't ask me how, Gode had even managed to conjure up a cake. Alright, a large cupcake, but still, when you're further from home than any other birthday girl has ever been, you'll take any cake that's offered.

Unless it's poisonous, of course.

Or vanilla (yuck).

Or a thin coating of icing on a grenade...

This one even had a candle (briefly - we don't have that much air to waste). And mint icing, which must have been what Smith had been harvesting a quiet leaf or two of this morning.

Chang had, amazingly, even gone as far as to find a gift that I hadn't seen in the almost two hundred days that we've been voyaging; and, I must say, his skill at origami is considerable.

Tonight I retire to bed a happy girl.


[align=center]The End[/align]




Rite of Passage



Aphelion One, Day 172


Godlumathakathi Zwelitini -- "Gode" to his crewmates on Aphelion One -- normally enjoyed the prospect of an EVA. His life under the limitless skies of South Africa had been poor preparation for six months inside a spacecraft whose interior seemed barely larger than a big bus, and being outside -- even swaddled in a bulky vacuum suit -- felt like emerging from a cramped cave into daylight. But this excursion was different -- there had been little time to prepare or plan, the task at hand was urgent, and he had less than an hour before the charged particle front from the predicted solar flare was due to arrive.

Just to make things perfect, today was his 41st birthday. Zulus didn't celebrate birthdays the way umlungu -- Europeans -- did, only taking special note when certain milestones were reached. But the crew had insisted on baking -- well, thawing -- a cake for him, or what passed for cake in the ship's stores, as they had for everyone else whose odometers had clicked off another year. He'd even had to share some of his precious store of popcorn!

"Clock's ticking, Gode," the Captain prompted. "If you can't unjam the protective shrouds, the solar panels and exposed comm gear will get toasted for sure." As usual, Alexander Curtis was standing by in the airlock in case something went wrong -- as it had for poor Ophelia over on Aphelion Two.

Gode raised his right hand to his helmet in acknowledgment and let go of the handhold closest to the airlock with his left. Swinging his left arm smoothly backward imparted enough momentum to pivot his body and his right hand back toward the hull so he could catch the next handhold.

Now floating parallel to the ship, he checked to ensure that his safety line was firmly clipped to the lanyard and began to "climb" toward the panels that concealed the umbrella-like shroud intended to "shade" the solar panels from the storm of radiation that would erupt from the surface of the sun in -- twenty minutes?

On Earth, haste makes waste -- in space, haste kills, he recited.

"Gode. Are you okay?"

"I'm -- I'm almost there," Gode replied. And then he was there, and he could see the dented panel that had prevented the shroud from opening on command.

"Looks like we took a hit from something," he said. "One of the breakaway panels is bent..."

"Can you fix it?"

"One second," Gode grunted. He reached into the toolkit velcroed to his chest and pulled out a long screwdriver. It was the closest thing to a pry bar he had -- so it would have to do.

He tightened his grip on the handhold and braced himself, then thrust the tip of the screwdriver into the gap between the dented panel and its neighbor. It took all his strength to keep his body stationary and still apply any leverage at all...

The panel popped open suddenly, and the screwdriver sprang from his hand and tumbled away into the blackness.

"Got it!" Gode exclaimed. "Send the command again and let's see if we're in business."

A moment later, a ring of panels extending around the circumference of the ship bent back on themselves, and something that looked like a fine silver mist -- actually metal mesh -- bloomed outward on a complex scaffolding of hair-thin tubes. Hard to believe that can make any difference, Gode thought. Of course, once it's charged up, I guess the magnetic field does the rest.

"Time's up, Gode! We have about five minutes to get our asses into the storm cellar. Let go of the handhold -- I'll belay you in with the safety line!"

Startled, Gode did as he was directed, and felt a sharp tug start him floating back toward the airlock. Curtis had emerged from the airlock and clipped himself to the hatch, and was pulling Gode's line in, hand over hand.

"Oh, this is going to leave a mark," Curtis said, just before Gode collided with him like a slow-moving freight train. But the Captain had obviously executed similar emergency retrievals in the past -- he absorbed much of the momentum with his bent legs, pivoting so that both men tumbled into the airlock. Curtis slapped the emergency pressurization button as he caromed off the wall and back into Gode again, and the outer hatch closed. The interior of the airlock filled with fog as the moisture in the stored air condensed in the chill surrounding their suits.

Curtis shed his own helmet and left it floating in mid-air. "Leave your helmet here and move -- we'll have to shed the suits just outside the storm cellar!" Then he dived headfirst through the inner hatch and ricocheted his way through the ship toward the service module.

Muttering a prayer, Gode did likewise. He crashed and rebounded from hatch frame after hatch frame until he reached the entrance to the radiation shelter at the center of the service module, bruised but mostly intact. He clambered out of his suit and dived through the storm cellar hatch just as the radiation alarm began to wail, and someone slammed the hatch behind him.

"The shroud deployed," Gode gasped. "Did it power up okay?"

Chang Wei nodded, consulting a flatscreen inset into the far -- all of two-point-five meters away -- wall. "So far, so good -- no major spikes in any of the systems." Then he frowned. "What is that smell? Gode -- is that you?"

Gode grinned apologetically. "I was very nervous," he said. "I sweat when I am nervous."

Penny Jones sighed. "I would have brought some aromatic herbs if I had known."

"On the bright side," Curtis said, "We'll only be stuck in here for -- a couple of days."

I suppose this qualifies as a milestone in my life, Gode thought. My most embarrassing moment. Ilanga elimndandi kuwe --Happy Birthday, old man.


[align=center]The End[/align]




Always



Aphelion Two, Day 175


The bulb on the battery-powered lamp faded out.

I've always hated being in the dark.

Their ragged breath carried across the blackness, blackness that pressed in on them all, choking out their voices. Gone now were the radiation alarms, replaced by oppressive, silent fears that gripped them in a vice of emotions that forced out all hope.

There was a crack, and an eerie, green glow oozed from between Takuya's fingers. He shook the light stick, spreading the chemical illumination to the length of the tube. He tossed it on the stack of CO2 scrubber canisters and adult diapers in the empty spot.

Ophelia swallowed. "Have any more of those?"

Tak held up one finger.

There were tears on Helga's cheek. "It's ridiculous. Three days of this!" Unconsciously, she reached out and held her husband's hand.

Why does she love Mac? He doesn't deserve it.

Chandra quoted, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear."

Mac frowned. "Honestly, what the heck does that even mean, eh?"

Chandra smiled. "Maybe it is the universe's way of making us slow down and take stock of ourselves before it will reveal it's wonders to us on Mars. Perhaps when we are ready to purge the negativity of our frustrations or actions, we can move past them to enlightenment."

I've always wondered why, with all the combat training everyone had, no one beat the crap out of him for all those frustrating platitudes. I know other people from India, and none of them is a quarter as philosophical as he is.

"Look, I'm sorry." Mac looked at the floor. "I was in a hurry, you know. I wanted to make everyone safe. The alarms--"

Tak's eyes were like daggers. "Everyone knows you have to retract the pins on the hatch before you shut it. One bent when you slammed it so hard. It took all of us to get it to close."

And now that the storm passed, it won't open. Everyone will suffocate here in this closet-sized space between the propellant tanks. It's just a matter of time. And it might not have been an accident. I know that better than anyone.

Helga snarled, "He was trying to protect you all!"

Ophelia cleared her throat. "Getting mad won't help. Is there any other way to get out of here? Any at all?"

"Sure," Tak said with sarcasm. "If someone could squeeze between one of these six tanks, claw through the shielding there, and somehow force apart the ship's skin, we could all decompress into space. How's that?"

Ophelia glared at him. "I've tried that. I wouldn't recommend it."

I've always wished I could have learned to be more useful, more dynamic. I know I'd sure love to kick this door in now, and show everyone I wasn't useless.

Ophelia wouldn't give in. "Does anyone have any tools at all?"

Tak held up a deluxe, Leatherman multi-tool. "This will not open those bolts on the housing. This hatch is built like a bank vault door, strong enough to keep out vacuum, fire, explosions... whatever could cause us to hide in it. A last refuge."

Mac sputtered, "Apollo 13 astronauts used old socks, the cover of a flight manual, and duct tape to connect their wrong-shaped CO2 cartridges and we can't even open a damned hatch!"

"Oh!" Ophelia eyed the CO2 canisters. "Could you cut a nut-shaped hole in the nylon-composite casings of those and use it to turn these bolts?"

"I do not know if it's strong enough."

Chandra said, "Trying would be better than doing nothing."

"Yes," Helga insisted. "Let's do something!"

Tak's first try snapped the canister apart, but they used the shard broken from the back and cut a hole to fit. Finally, it took three of them together on the makeshift wrench handle to turn the nut. By the time they could get all the bolts loose, the first light stick was dark.

Tak cracked his last light and pulled loose the housing. It looked complicated inside. He pointed. "This is the jammed pin. We cannot get at it. Only this little bit is exposed."

Mac asked, "Could you cut it with that saw or the file on your Leatherman?"

"The metal is an inch thick."

Ophelia brightened. "How about scoring it as far around as you can, cutting it until your blade is dull, then we pound on it to make it break on the scored line."

God, she's always beautiful when she's like this--all mission, completely focused. I'd love to kiss her right now.

Tak shrugged. "I do not have a better idea."


[align=center]***[/align]


Watching Mac hammer in the dying light, Ophelia mused, "You know, it's Sid's birthday today."

Mac paused and swallowed. "If we don't get this open, we'll all join him soon. C'mon, everybody together. Helga, you keep pounding. The rest of us will try to turn the latch."

Dammit! I'm tired of being helpless. Always a looser, always a joke. Ophelia deserves more. I should be helping. That's what a real crewman--a real man--would do.

Mac, Tak, Chandra, and Ophelia strained as hard as they could on the latch. Veins stood out on their faces and arms. Sweat stained their clothes. Helga held the leatherman against the pin and hammered on it with the burned out lamp.

He timed his blow. Now!

With a 'crack', the pin broke. The handle turned and the door swung open. Light spilled in from the outer room.

"Thank God!" Helga shouted.


[align=center]***[/align]


The cupcake floated in front of the window, slowly rotating in the weightlessness. A single, unlit candle stuck out of the improvised frosting.

A smudge of flour stuck to Ophelia's cheek. She stared out the window at the spacesuit tied to the hull with a wistful look. "Happy birthday, Sid."

I think she loved me.

His invisible spirit smiled beside her.

And I'll be here for her.

Always.


[align=center]The End[/align]

[kailhofer]

I have to say how good I think these stories are. Regardless of how the vote turns out, I think you all did a great job. It makes me proud.

And really, for having six different authors who couldn't see what anyone else was working on, it's remarkable how well they fit together as a cohesive piece. Penny takes Ophelia's accident hard, then after Sid's death, it affects her personality in a believable way -- and that's in two different stories. Likewise, the Doc picks up on subtle clues from Archana's secret agenda & it turns him off on her in another story. Gode parts with popcorn reluctantly in different stories. Chang is always part yet apart, quietly knowing everything in different pieces. Everybody did research into their character's past and their native language, and it showed.

In fact, just about all the authors hinted that this was one of the most difficult bits of writing they've ever done. One compared it to passing a kidney stone. Thank you for your efforts. Thank you. Thank you.

Somebody asked, so I have to admit the storm at the end had a little coordination. After finding out I was going to have two "storm cellar" stories, I didn't want one to conflict with the other in how and where the cellar worked and was. Luckily, "Rite's" author agreed to put his story just before "Always" so they wouldn't clash or be repetitive, but neither saw the other's piece until afterward. That way, when the whole thing is published in the zine later, it makes for a better, more believable story.

One thing I was surprised at was that all of the stories except "Always" were set on Aphelion One. Not bad, not wrong, just curious.

All in all, just a tremendous job. Well done!

[kailhofer]

A lot of credit is probably due to Nate for "The Aphelion Project" which gave the participants an excellent framework to work within. (Of course Nate's story built on the work of others, so they deserve credit too. ) Anyone reading these stories here should really make sure they go back and read Nate's story in the challenge post first.

Hero

Well, thanks. Thanks indeed to fellow creators Bill Wolfe & Casey Callaghan.

You know, they were my idea, but I still think it's kind of surprising how these challenges work, how well competition yields creation.

In it's original form last year, Bill, Casey, and I each wrote competing stories to create a universe of people on ships journeying to Mars. That creative act spawned another fierce competition to complete that story. That in turn spawned the creation of the example story for this one so that we could all compete again, along with three more esteemed and very talented authors.

In trying to prove we could do it, and beat the other fellow out, I think we all made something special.

Who knew it would work this well? (Not me.)

Nate

[kailhofer]

Who knew it would work this well? (Not me.)

Nate

I gotta say that these stories are all pretty good. And I echo Dan's words when I say that what we are doing is building something cool and scarily solid out of nothing but electrons, floating around the Web. We are fleshing-out characters with every stroke of the keyboard.

The only thing hard about this challenge is that we are trying to do it in Flash. Flash Fiction takes a different skill level. Of course, we could submit these as shorts (Novellas?) if we needed to say more about the character, but once the Flash was in the can, would anyone still be interested?

Would anyone out there want to read an expanded version of the Flash submitted? The reason I ask is that I have a bunch of text sitting in my computer that I just couldn't fit into the format I was writing for.

With a little work I could submit it under a different aegis, but it wouldn't necessarily make sense unless you knew the Flash stories. It simply relies too heavily on the fact that the reader already knows the basis and background of the situation. Wouldn’t surprise me, too much, if there were others in the same boat.

Whattaya think, folks?

Bill Wolfe

There may be interest in it. Obviously, such a posting ought to wait for the vote to conclude. (Has anyone except us and perhaps significant others read this?? Man, view counts and votes are low for this many entries.)

On the other hand, how much of the additional was genuinely needed, since it wasn't important enough to make the cut here? It may be argued that it would lessen the import of the piece. (Of course, sometimes it really does take more words than this to tell a great story.)

Perhaps your expanded version will be used in the published tale. I couldn't say. How exactly they'll appear or whether it will use the example story or not, will they be separate or together, etc. hasn't been established as far as I know.

[kailhofer]

Voting has now closed.

This literary battle for the skies ends in a tie!

The Red Baron will have to retire to his Aerodrome and wait for another day.

Congratulations to Richard Tornello for some fancy flying in his story "PHOENIX." He matched my story, "Always," to become co-winner of the "Spaceman's Birthday" Challenge. Nicely done.


For the record, these were the authors of the stories this month:

Happy Birthday Archana Ivanova: Super Spy by Bill Wolfe
Sword and Scalpel by J. Davidson Hero
PHOENIX by Richard Tornello
Paranoia by Casey Callaghan
Rite of Passage by Robert Moriyama
Always by N.J. Kailhofer


Thanks for picking up the gauntlet, guys. This was a hard one, and you all came through. I can hardy wait to see them all appear in the zine.

Look for the kinder, simpler "My Pet Monster" Challenge April 10th!