The Gravity of the Moment
by C. H. Russellson
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Table of Contents, parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 |
part 5
The first few days of post-somnolence were usually spent in a haze, sipping warm broth from a squeeze bulb. At about the fifth day, a modicum of normalcy returned to my shipboard experience. That left me about nine days before starting the whole thing over again.
After the second go-around of extended sleep, well past the halfway point to Uranus, Saturn was a bright misshapen star, and Grayson hadn’t yet turned Vagabond to start the deceleration phase. I repeated my water bulb test while Grayson was occupied and verified the pulse unit was still firing. He had some charts up on the screens showing Vagabond’s curved trajectory toward Uranus and notes about velocities and how much extra fuel it would take to slow the ship into Uranus’ orbit by using the main engines at various junctures along the path.
“You don’t need to worry about that!” Grayson said from behind me. “You’re a nosey little cretin, aren’t you?” He locked the display and went about his business. That wasn’t the first time Grayson had gotten snappy; his earlier accommodating tone had vanished.
A few minutes later, he ordered something from the chefbot. I remained in the co-pilot’s seat and heard him fold down the table and chairs behind me. I could tell he had a message to share. I wasn’t expecting an apology, and Grayson rarely disappointed me.
“Hey, I thought you’d be happy I was trying to shave off a few days so you can get back to, what was her name? Klaudia? No, she’s gone. Lourdes? No, afraid not,” he said, the last bit spoken around a mouthful of food. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you back to your humdrum life ASAP.”
So, I guess it was all my fault for being impatient and wanting to end this nightmare kidnap insanity. Classic Grayson.
A couple days later, I felt a bump from the maneuvering jets. I lay awake in my sleep webbing and could see Grayson at the controls. He had turned Vagabond around, placing the pulse unit to the front, aiming for deceleration. I could barely make out the screen where he had set the unit to DIAGNOSTIC. Hmm, A prudent yet surprising move coming from Grayson. My guess was that he wanted to coast at peak velocity, all the while thinking he was fooling me into believing we were slowing down. You know, since I was a cretin and all that.
When I finally dredged up enough motivation to start moving around the cabin, I found Grayson in the observation blister “above” the control area. He wasn’t looking toward Uranus as I expected but out across the Elliptic into the heart of the Solar System. His recent agitation had returned as he cast some images onto the main control screen. Sensing my presence, he erased them and quickly turned the optics toward the seventh planet. “I can see Oberon,” he said casually.
* * *
Sometime during my third extended sleep session Grayson must have decided to activate the pulse unit. I hoped we had enough fuel to obtain some sort of capture around Uranus and orbit of Oberon by using the main engines and still have enough fuel for the return to Saturn. Just getting to the vicinity of home and hoping for a rescue might be all we could wish for. That would mean more charges from the SEA for the reckless Grayson, which was okay with me.
I spent the first couple of days dry-heaving and feeling a lot worse than after the first two sessions. “We probably need to dial back the dosage next time. I’m surprised the bots didn’t catch that,” Grayson said, almost sounding like he cared. “It might be because we terminated early since I need you recovered and ready to go soon.” So, we were coming in hot and early. How early I didn’t know, but this could get interesting!
When I finally felt halfway mobile, I pushed off toward the front windows to find Uranus as a small bluish green crescent. From the blister the scope revealed the crazily canted world with its entourage of moons in detail. I picked out Titania on my own but, when I switched on the tags, I found I had gotten the rest of the names wrong. Oberon seemed so small, otherwise nondescript.
Grayson had grown haggard, mostly by avoiding both sleep and food. He either sat at the console reviewing countless trajectory and burn scenarios or stared at who-knew-what through Vagabond’s telescope. When it all got to be too much, he would crash hard only to resume the same routine a few hours later. The crashes had been preceded a couple of times by yelling and tossing objects that banged around the cabin. They settled after a time, losing momentum after collisions with the walls and other obstacles.
During one such episode, I snatched a data pad out of the air as it whizzed by end-over-end. Grayson didn’t notice my interception and after he had fallen asleep, I looked at the pad to find an interesting direct route to Oberon that would save a huge chunk of time by not having to orbit Uranus before changing paths to the target. But it always came down to fuel consumption, and the direct insertion would require a lot.
Grayson broke the routine long enough to don a pressure suit and go through the airlock. I presumed it was to check on Cronus; the lander hadn’t been powered up since Rhea and had been in very cold conditions since. He totally disregarded protocol, but I was convinced protocol or anything related to it had been left in Saturn space. I should’ve been suited up, as well, in case there was an issue with his equipment. Instead, he just went about the checkout without even telling me. He returned to the cabin and went about his routine.
The next day he found me at the galley and said, “Ian, you will need to strap in soon. I’m going to do a burn in two hours to slow us up some.” Grayson would never admit it, but I suspected the coast phase might’ve been a mistake. I’m no expert, but it seems a pulse drive would work best away from big gravity wells. Uranus is nothing compared to Jupiter or even Saturn, but its bulk is substantial, enough to negate the effect of the pulse drive at this proximity. He should’ve started using it at the midpoint turnaround, but somehow it had become an issue of getting there sooner, and I knew it wasn’t for my benefit.
I finished my meal leisurely and put away loose items while Grayson went about shutting down the pulse drive. Before he turned Vagabond around for the burn, I looked out the window to see Uranus looming surprisingly large. We needed to slow down or we would blow right past or get flung out in a crazy trajectory away from everything.
The firing of Vagabond’s main engines lasted several minutes. Grayson seemed satisfied with the result but went back to his agitated and fidgety state after a while. I tried hard to stay out of his way and made the most of opportunities in the observation blister to take in the spectacular view. It seemed to balance the terror I fought to keep at bay, the terror of hurtling toward such uncertainty with a madman at the helm.
It was hard to believe we were the first to visit this world in all these many decades. I realized those aboard that first mission must have experienced their own terror of not knowing if they would be able to return home alive or not. What was it about this place? Uranus owned such wonders to behold yet it seemed to cast a haunting and almost palpable curse toward its wary visitors as if to say: No traveler welcome.
We were closing in, and it was becoming obvious to me we were heading for Oberon directly, regardless of the cost. Grayson’s frantic manipulation of scenarios had reached a fever pitch until he yelled to me from the pilot’s couch, “Ian! Get suited up!” I complied, having no real option other than rebellion that would have forced him to handle the lander on his own. But why should he have all the fun?
Grayson remained at the console unsuited and had me strap in while he set up the final insertion burn. This one was lengthy, more than the previous, and it left us captured by the tiny moon. But was it a workable orbit? Grayson at once started taking radar readings every few minutes in hopes that minimum altitude was at least fifty kilometers above the surface.
Seemingly happy with the numbers, Grayson went back to the lockers and put on his suit, not bothering to complete an orbit. He was in a frenzy, turning on the hold’s floodlights and opening the bay doors. Again, I asked myself, What’s the rush?
We put on our helmets and did all the pre-vacuum checks before Grayson floated back to the console to take note of our altitude. “Alright, Ian. This is it,” he said flatly with a note of finality as he activated the airlock leading to the hold.
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by C. H. Russellson
