THE BARTDON PAPERS - "Cancel all previous directives."

[UnusualAttitude]

YEAR 9, DAY 88. BARTDON.

It's over, dammit.

I never thought it would come to this, but the Trans Pacific Resources Company has withdrawn its financial support and frozen our assets. We are done for, thrice blasted and skint. Well, to be more precise, we are quite well-off, it's just that we can't spend any of our damned funds anymore.

I must confess that we've had this coming for quite a while and our space programme has crawled through the past year or so on a bucket full of borrowed time (or six). Two months after our last trip to the Moon failed to deliver any further insight into the origins or purpose of the Monuments we detected there, the Trans Atlantic Resources Company cut off its funding and reclaimed their assets in Kourou, denying us access to this crucial equatorial site that had made our spaceplanes so useful.

We kept going against all odds for a year after that, but a lack of any further transmissions other than the still enigmatic pictures of alien motherships and bacteria, as well as a failed second attempt by Froemone to deliver a useful quantity of water-ice mined from a Near Earth Asteroid (despite his best attempt and the most powerful nuclear reactor we could cram onto one of our Prayssac boosters), meant that our days were numbered. Our best attempt simply hadn't been good enough.

Crucially, we had failed to deliver the critical new technologies our sponsors had been fantasizing about (and it was our own silly fault for promising them in the first place to ensure their continued support), such as advanced fission reactors, nuclear fusion, and other such science-fiction nonsense that a spacefaring race of aliens from another star system must certainly have developed to get here in the first place. Technologies that would be infinitely useful in keeping our isolated Kerbal communitites alive, and even allowing us to expand into the Sol system. To the Moon, to Mars, the asteroid belt, and perhaps even beyond. The Great Dream of the Resources Alliance had failed before it ever came to pass.

But the most heartbreaking, gut-wrenching moment had been switching off Martel Two; the second probe we had sent to the gigantic, cold reaches of the outer solar system. Her sister ship, Martel One, had succumbed to the punishing radiation belts of Jupiter more than a year ago, but not before returning stunning images of the gas giant and its moons, and giving us confirmation that the alien artifacts were not confined to the inner solar system.

But Trans Pacific's new policy limited space flight to a couple of comsat launches per year using the remaining Carderie spaceplanes stationed at Omelek, so Martel Two had been terminated half-way through her six-year journey to Saturn. Without our remote instructions, the probe's engines would not fire to bring her into orbit around the beautiful, ringed jewel of a planet. She would sweep past her intended destination, a piece of cold, dead space debris, destined to wander on a wide solar orbit for all eternity, or as close as dammit.

Naturally, any further crewed flights were out of the question. And so, my days as a planetary scientist and Kerbonaut at the head of a programme that was no longer authorised to explore any planets or launch any Kerbals into space were numbered also.

The letter came this morning. I knew that I would be relieved from my position. I didn't bother opening it, but instead left the untouched envelope on my desk and stormed out of the office to find out when the next Air Service flight out of Omelek would be. Damn all of this to hell and back, and backwards to boot. I have a few calls to make, and then I'm going home to play some golf.

YEAR 9, DAY 89. BARTDON.

After much deliberation and haggling at the Air Service office, I worked out an itinerary that would get me home. It wasn't the quickest or simplest route, being a westbound journey that made use of just about every means of transportation that Kerbal civilisation had invented to date.

The first leg, mercifully, was the late-morning, westbound supersonic flight to Tanegashima. One of the reasons I'd been wanting to travel sooner rather than later was to avoid having my privileges as Principal Investigator revoked, and leave Omelek in style. Waving my badge at the steward worked, and soon I was sitting in my favourite spot on the back row of the cabin near the window.

The Air Service's punctuality was impeccable, as always. I will miss the kick of the Rapier engines flinging one hundred tonnes of composites, titanium and cryogenic methane fuel along the runway and pulling up just in time to avoid obliteration in the Pacific Ocean. Usually, this service would be taking me to oversee a launch from Kourou, or to meet the Board of Directors in Uchinoura. I never expected it to be taking me on what was beginning to look like a permanent vacation.

Soon we were climbing swiftly towards Livernon's cruising altitude of 25,000 metres, the slender ship flicking aside the sound barrier with contemptuous ease. I glanced across the aisle at a middle aged Kerbelle who was obviously flying supersonic for the first time. Clinging to her seat, she gazed out of the thick, laminated glass in terror as the orange glow of ionised plasma began to lick at the aircraft's airframe.

I, however, felt absolutely elated at the prospect of escaping the recent drudgery and tedium that surrounded the role of Principal Investigator. I leaned across the aisle and said to her with a wink, “Don't worry, old gal. This is nothing. You should see how hot it gets at Mach 25.”

The boys up front were obviously intent on reaching Tanegashima in time for lunch, and the westbound route – at just under 4,500 kilometres – was well within Livernon's capabilities, so they were pushing her to well over Mach 4.5: the glow surrounding the craft was beautiful.

Less than an hour after take-off, I felt the engines spool down as Livernon pitched forward to bleed off height and speed before hitting the lower atmosphere. This, I knew, was the most challenging part of the flight for the crew who had to avoid overshooting our destination without causing the aircraft to burn up or over-stress the airframe, although I refrained from sharing this information with my concerned traveling companion. In the end, the crew had to pull some pretty tight curves to line us up with the runway at a reasonable speed.

After disembarking and thanking the crew for such a swift and pleasant flight, I took a short walk across the tarmac to where my next ride was already waiting.

I had managed to negotiate the jump-seat of a large freighter flying from Tanegashima to Xichang, the shortest leg of my journey, in distance at least. Crepin was a big, ugly cargo hauler, one of the workhorses currently used to fly equipment and supplies around the planet. The crew was already busy going through the preflight checklist so I showed myself on board, climbing up the ramp into the cargo bay, through the rows of pallets and up a ladder to the pressurised door that lead to the cockpit.

I was greeted by a friendly “Howdy!” from the three-Kerb crew of freight-dogs; Captain Donlin, First Officer Lizphie and Load Master Corbles. These Kerbs were not from the Air Service, but from one of the many subcontractors that flew for Trans Pacific, Trans Indian, and other companies.

They lived a hard and thankless life, most of it spent in the air and far away from home, if they even had one. In fact, as I watched them finish their checklist, grab a quick snack before take-off and taxi out whilst complaining about their salaries, the weather (or lack thereof) and just about anything they could think of, I realised that they were more like a family than a team. I therefore expected to feel like an intruder for the duration of the flight, and resigned myself to flicking through the data screen in front of me. However, Corbles made me feel instantly welcome with the news that Crepin's tiny galley was equipped with an excellent quality expresso machine.

“You ever flown into Xichang, boss?” asked Captain Donlin.

Sipping my coffee, I confessed that I hadn't.

“Well, you might want to buckle in tight then, sir. It's... uh, one of our more challenging destinations.”

The flight took just over three hours, and soon we had crossed the coast near the Quantang River estuary into mainland Asia, leaving the Pacific Ocean behind for good. Mountainous terrain lay ahead: the Himalayas, the scourge of all Kerbal aviators, as Corbles aptly put it. It could also be the scourge of Kerbonauts returning from orbit, I'd replied.

With peaks rising to well over 11,000 metres in places, this mountain range was no place to suffer an engine failure, or to perform an off-course re-entry, since some of the blasted summits were high enough to take out a jet at cruising altitude. Our ship was carrying a reasonable load (and I was soon to find out why), and a relatively small amount of fuel for our short trip, so Crepin had no trouble slaloming between some of the taller mountains.

But as we banked hard to commence our approach, I caught my first glimpse of Xichang and let loose an awed blast! as I realised where we were about to land. Xichang was nestled in the eastern end of the Himalayan range, surrounded by crests and ridges that reached at least four thousand metres; more, in places. A particularly high ridge lay slap bang in the way of final approach, but this was the only route in if we were to have any hope of performing a go-around, should anything go wrong during our descent.

Captain Dunlin announced, “She's mine; flaps two, please override thrust reverser lock-out,” and took full manual control of the big bird, pulling her into a steep bank to bring us across the slope to the centreline, whilst diving from nearly 6,000 metres to the deck. Just after nosing over, he applied full thrust which I thought was insane until I realised that it was full reverse thrust. I turned to Corbles, wondering if the aircraft was designed to use thrust-reversers in flight. His jaded look and gallic shrug said it all.

“Oh, this is our SOP for Xichang. Only way to put her down here safely.”

Donlin was working the controls as if the big freighter was merely an extension of his own body. Once on the centreline, he pulled the wings level and stamped on the rudder to line up Crepin's nose with the runway. Just short of the threshold, he heaved back on the yoke to arrest a terrifying rate of descent. Crepin hit hard, but didn't bounce and skidded to a halt just over half way down in a cloud of hot exhaust from the much-abused thrust reversers.

“There you go sir,” said Corbles cheerfully, “Sorry you didn't get a kiss landing, but we charge extra for those.”

“Kiss landings are for little Kerbelles,” snorted Captain Donlin contemptuously. I know several Kerbelle Air Service test pilots and Kerbonauts who would have a thing or two to say about that, I thought, but I didn't press the matter. Instead, I thanked them for a pleasant flight, grabbed my bag, and made my way over to the Air Service Office to await my next flight.

After a couple more hours in the cool, damp, mountain air, I boarded a Masseries Combi for what would be, by far, the longest route of this trip. The ubiquitous Masseries airframe had been around in many different configurations for as long as I could remember: passenger variants, freighters, and the combi that seated 16 passengers and could carry a few tonnes of cargo in the rear bay.

For a long time, the Masseries range had been powered by thirsty low-bypass jet engines, and had hopped from one runway to another around our planet. In the past couple of years, however, almost all of them had been re-engined with large, fuel-sipping propfans. The result was an aircraft that had opened up a host of new routes across the world, although the propfans could prove to be seriously underpowered in certain situations.

This particular Masseries Combi was the long-range variant fitted with an additional centre fuel tank between the passenger cabin and the cargo bay. If you could get her off the runway, Captain Corberry joked as I greeted the crew, the passengers would die of hunger before she had to land for fuel. What I wanted to know was how he intended to get his underpowered, fuel-heavy aircraft out of this damned hole in the Himalayas, without turning us into a scattering of debris across a mountainside.

“Oh,” he said casually, “We have RATO. It's our SOP for Xichang.”

I had never heard of RATO before, but I guessed that I would soon discover what it meant.

Indeed, as Masseries lumbered down the runway, I was beginning to wonder what miracle would get us up and over the damned ridge ahead of us when I felt a sudden kick in the behind as two rocket motors strapped to the under side of the wings ignited and hurled the aircraft forwards, accelerating it to take-off speed in a matter of seconds and blasting it into the sky as if the very Earth was rejecting it.

With this powerful boost to its speed, Masseries escaped from the deep hollow in which Xichang was hidden with relative ease.

The climb-out was still fairly sedate, though, as the crew set a course southwards. Our destination was Hammaguir, out in the deserts of the North African continent. The shorter, Great Circle route would have taken us straight into the heart of the massive mountain range, but unfortunately our ship simply wasn't capable of making it over the soaring peaks with its present load of fuel, so we would be taking the long way round into India, and along the southern marches of the Himalayas until we reached the Middle East and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. Our Captain estimated a flight time of fifteen hours at a cruising speed of just over 700 kilometres per hour.

The view remained interesting – and sometimes remarkably up-close and personal – for the first hour or so of our flight. Some of my fellow passengers, who had just got over the initial fright of our unorthodox take-off, gulped nervously at the rocky, snow-capped peaks that sometimes appeared to be within arm's reach.

Despite having an 8,000 horsepower propfan just a few metres from my right ear, I eventually fell asleep for a few hours and awoke above a blasted desert, punctuated here and there by hot, bleached peaks. This was what a significant proportion of our planet looked like today. It was hard to imagine that some time in the past, much of it had been a warm, fertile jungle.

Masseries pressed on doggedly into the afternoon, passing above the fertile crescent of the river valleys that had supposedly seen the birth of Kerbal civilisation, and finally out over the waves of the Mediterranean.

After many hours of chasing the sun at the slower pace of the propfan engines, we finally drew behind and our star started to sink towards the western horizon as we crossed the northern coast of Africa. We touched down in Hammaguir just before sunset and I made my way over to the traveler's hostel to give my ears a well-earned rest.

YEAR 9, DAY 90. BARTDON.

My eyes sprang open early this morning, partially from jet-lag (or prop-fan lag, as it will probably be known as in a few years time), partially from my eagerness to continue with the final part of my journey. I dressed and without taking so much as a cup of coffee, headed straight out to the runway to watch my connection come in to land.

The ship would be approaching from the West, and after a long flight across the Atlantic from North America, she was expected to arrive just after dawn. This last leg of my travels would be via the traditional means of transportation that my kind had used for nearly a hundred years, now. By far the slowest way of getting around available to us, it was nevertheless irreplaceable as a means of reaching even the most remote of our settlements, hundreds or even thousands of miles from the nearest runway. The most recent generation of ships could carry impressive payloads and accommodate dozens of passengers.

And then, as I waited in the chilly air of the desert dawn, I heard the tell-tale whine of the electrical engines approaching. Out of the fading darkness she appeared, powering slowly but purposefully forward towards the landing strip and gradually losing height as she drew close.

This was the traditional Kerbal way of getting around, and although I usually consider traditions to be such a blasted waste of time, for some reason I couldn't stop myself from feeling a rush of emotion sparked by the sight of this majestic machine coming in to land.

Villeneuve was one of the new generation of airships that used solar and fuel cell co-generation to fly on more or less forever without refueling. As long as you weren't in a hurry, she could carry many tonnes of cargo and three dozen passengers anywhere in the world except to some of the higher latitudes in winter. I have seen bigger airships than Villeneuve in my time - some of the older generation of oil burners would have dwarfed her in fact – but she was still an impressive sight, nearly a hundred metres long and towering over me as she settled on the runway.

The crew bustled out of the forward hatch to secure her to the ground. Some of the passengers disembarked, others were driven up from the Office to take their place on board. I remained to oversee the loading of the special cargo I had ordered the night before last. It had taken me three hours of long-distance phone calls to ensure it would be waiting for me here, but after lots of blasting! and more than a little threatening, I finally had got what I needed.

News of my redistribution had apparently not yet reached Hammaguir, and no-one asked any questions. I must confess that it monopolised most of the airship's generous cargo-bay, and some of the passengers did not take the relocation of their luggage too kindly. To hell with them, I need these wheels!

And so, by mid-morning we were off again, floating northwards above the scorching desert at a sedate 70 kilometres per hour. During hours of daylight, the solar cells that covered most of the ship's hull would provide the power necessary for the engines, and the excess was drained off to drive the electrolysing processes that created hydrogen and oxygen for the fuel cells that would keep the engines turning through the night, albeit at an even slower pace. In this manner, Villeneuve could cover as much as a thousand miles in a single day.

After making a short visit to the flight deck and gazing at the rather uninteresting landscape for a few minutes whilst chatting with the crew, I settled back in the common lounge to enjoy another long nap. But at that moment I was joined by a pretty young Kerbelle who apparently had been in her cabin since I'd boarded, and by chance, had chosen the to sit down next to me. And damn me if I didn't recognise her.

“What the blazes, gal!” I cried, “It's that Lisabeth.”

Despite being a little surprised by my sudden outburst, she replied timidly, “G'day, Sir.”

“Oh, no need to call me Sir anymore. I'm no more a Kerbonaut than you are. It's just Bartdon, now.”

A strange look flickered across her face for a fleeting moment. A look that spoke of pain and disillusion. It lasted for just an instant, and then she was smiling again. “G'day Bartdon, then.”

And then the memory of how I knew her hit me in the stomach. You fool, Bartdon. Just over a year ago, Lisabeth had been the very last Kerb to be recruited from the ranks of the Air Service and raised to the status of experimental test pilot, and therefore became a potential future Kerbonaut, just as her elder sister had before her. And if Catbeth was anything to go by, she certainly deserved it. Except that her skills had simply never been required. There had been no other crewed flights into space. That must have hurt.

“Sorry, old horse,” I said, looking abashed. “I'm feeling quite sore about the whole thing myself, too. But, if I may ask, what are you doing on a flight that is heading up North? You're not from here are you?”

“No, I'm just on my way to mainland Europe. I'll be getting off tomorrow. I... promised to do something... for a friend.”

Her evasiveness and hesitation told me that I should not press the matter further. Instead we talked about her new life as a supersonic transport pilot for Trans India, and I told her about my plans for a spot of vacation on my old Island. We chatted away together until lunch time, after which she disappeared in to her cabin again. Well, time for that nap.

YEAR 9, DAY 91. BARTDON.

Dawn broke as we were flying above the Pyrenees, and once again I made my way to the flight deck to witness the spectacle of the sun rising above the Mediterranean Sea away to the East. Some time mid-morning, as Villeneuve had left the mountains behind and was cruising above the bleak limestone plateaus of western Europe, the drone of the engines switched to a deeper note and I felt the airship begin to descend towards the surface. We were landing.

Lisabeth appeared, passing through the lounge with a light carpet bag in one hand, and a small paper-wrapped package in the other. She was on her way to the hatch and had very thoughtfully stopped by to say goodbye to me. But then, as she turned to leave, I remembered the brief and enigmatic explanation she had given for her voyage, and I realised the significance of where we had just landed, and finally put two and two together. Dammit Bartdon, you're getting slower these days.

“Lisabeth, pardon me for asking, but are you going to see Camwise's family by any chance?”

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned slowly. The smile had gone again. “Um, yeah. They left more than two and a half years ago. If there was ever any chance of them making it home by the next transfer window, they would be back by now. So I guess that's that.”

I was stunned at the mere idea of anyone being hopeful enough to believe that the crew of Cernin might have survived, although I did know that some of the details of the ship's final moments still remained classified. This was awful... I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was, “I'm very sorry, Lisabeth. I did not know you two were close.”

“Well, sort of,” she mumbled, looking a little uncomfortable. Then I noticed that when she had turned the wrapper had dropped away from the package she was carrying, revealing a small plant pot containing an indoor ficus tree that had clearly seen better days. Most of the leaves were a sickly yellow colour or had shriveled away completely. A single green shoot clung stubbornly to one of the small branches.

Lisabeth noticed my curious gaze. “He asked me to look after this for him, but I guess it's time for me to move on so I'm just going to plant it around here somewhere.”

She held my gaze for a moment longer. Then, “I gotta go. Fly safe, Bartdon.”

“Blue skies, Lisabeth.”

And then she was gone.

Late that afternoon, Villeneuve crossed the small stretch of water that separated the Island where I had been born from mainland Europe and continued northwards along its coast for a few hours. I spent most of this time on the flight deck, waiting for the moment when it would be time for me to guide the ship's Captain down to where I intended to disembark. Not that pinpoint precision really mattered, as I had plenty of cross range available down in the cargo bay.

Shortly before dusk, Villeneuve touched down lightly on the grassy moors not far from the North Sea coast, and the ship's Chief Engineer assisted me in unloading the vehicle I had requested be waiting for me in Africa before I had left Omelek. It was a bit of a squeeze getting it out of the bay, but some crafty work on the steering wheel and a couple of generous bursts on the throttle eventually got me down the ramp, and I was at last free to roam.

I drove up the nearest hillside and parked the rover, popping the hatch and sliding down the ladder to salute Villeneuve as she continued on her endless journey around our lonely planet. Then, turning away from the setting sun, I rummaged in the trunk for my sand-wedge and strode away across the moors in search of the ideal sandy hollow to practice my bunker shots from.

But in the rapidly fading light, it quickly became apparent that I wouldn't be able to play for long. No matter, I now had all the time in the world, and tomorrow I would be able to drive, chip and putt for as long as I damn well liked.

I climbed back into the rover and made the short drive back out to the head land. These wheels were great, and like Villeneuve the vehicle used solar and fuel cells to basically keep going for ever, or at least until I started to get hungry, at which point I would just have to go and bother my family up at the Scar Cave. But not for a while...

I parked for the night at the top of the cliffs that looked out over the sea and, sitting on the roof of the rover, exchanged my golf club for something a little more fortifying. That is when I began to think about what I should do with the rest of my life. Prospects didn't look too good in that department.

Being a Kerbonaut didn't look like a very promising line of work, at least for the foreseeable future. As a scientist, well, I was best remembered as the rather over-confident astrophysicist who had asserted that, judging by the apparent lack of evidence in our immediate galactic neighbourhood, alien life might be rare and spacefaring alien life even more so, only to be proven wrong a few years later by the discovery of a blasted flying saucer on the Moon. Not good credentials for finding research grants, to be sure.

It really was getting quite dark now, and cold. Although I was getting to the point where I could no longer feel it. “Damn you, Angun.” I said, raising the bottle to the sky to salute in his general direction. “Damn you to hell, even if you are already dead. You ruined everything.”

And, as if in reply, a brilliant shooting star cut across the sky. I didn't spot it at first, as it appeared in the North-West, coming from behind me, but then it had swept almost straight overhead, before finally drifting out to disappear over the Sea.

Strange. It had appeared to move with a slow, almost dream-like quality. Not at all like a high-velocity meteorite hitting the Earth's upper atmosphere at tens of kilometres per second. More like a satellite shooting out fireworks, or a capsule re-entering. But that was impossible. There were no capsules re-entering any more...

Blast it all, it's clearly time for me to go to bed now.

Edited July 8, 2016 by UnusualAttitude

[Just Jim]

Awww man, I just ran out of likes for the day again! 

Oh well, I owe ya one for that last chapter... wow!

[TotallyNotHuman]

Holy crap. Is that, by any chance, Cam's ship?

Stuff just got creepy.

[Geschosskopf]

Wow, quite a trip!  Those are some very interesting flying machines!  And airports

 

2 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

The letter came this morning. I knew that I would be relieved from my position. I didn't bother opening it, but instead left the untouched envelope on my desk and stormed out of the office

So, did he ever read it? 

 

2 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

More like a satellite shooting out fireworks, or a capsule re-entering. But that was impossible. There were no capsules re-entering any more...

Hahah, I knew it   Camwise ain't that easy to get rid of

 

[Mister Dilsby]

What an amazing bunch of craft for Our Hero's round-the-world journey! Really loving seeing good old familiar Earth through the eyes of my favorite game. 

[DMSP]

What a chapter! If the Cernin makes it through reentry, I'll be excited to see who is on it. I don't remember the mothership having Parachutes, though...

Maybe this is just an Aerobrake.

[UnusualAttitude]

First up, thanks for all these kind words. That last episode did take me a while to throw together...

9 hours ago, Kuzzter said:

Really loving seeing good old familiar Earth through the eyes of my favorite game. 

That's what I love about flight simulators in general. If you want to see someplace you've never been before you can load up your favourite craft, fly there, and still be back home in time for tea. A little more detail on the surface of Kerbin/Earth would be welcome, though. Oh, and I'd sell a granny for stock clouds that don't kill framerates.

9 hours ago, TotallyNotHuman_ said:

Holy crap. Is that, by any chance, Cam's ship?

Stuff just got creepy.

 

9 hours ago, Geschosskopf said:

Hahah, I knew it   Camwise ain't that easy to get rid of

 

6 hours ago, DMSP said:

If the Cernin makes it through reentry, I'll be excited to see who is on it. I don't remember the mothership having Parachutes, though...

Maybe this is just an Aerobrake.

Yes, that's Cernin alright. And I'm sure there is a perfectly rational explanation for how she came to be tanking through the Earth's upper atmosphere, desperately trying to aerocapture rather slip back off unnoticed into interplanetary space. The next episode will take us back in time to see how this came to be...

Glad to see you guys haven't forgotten about that poor Camwise dude...

9 hours ago, Geschosskopf said:

So, did he ever read it? 

No need. Bartdon is smart enough to guess correctly when the writing is on the wall for his job. However, if Cernin has really made it back, then that changes everything...

[Geschosskopf]

1 hour ago, UnusualAttitude said:

Glad to see you guys haven't forgotten about that poor Camwise dude...

Well, title characters do tend to be immortal

Ever since we last heard from him, and then Bartdon's post-mortem, I've been imagining various scenarios that might fit the facts.  These all involve various desperate deeds completely outside the design parameters of the ships involved followed by some violence amongst the crew.  All this results in some damage and casualties but does succeed in getting the survivors headed back in the right direction.

 

1 hour ago, UnusualAttitude said:

No need. Bartdon is smart enough to guess correctly when the writing is on the wall for his job. However, if Cernin has really made it back, then that changes everything...

Hmm, I was wondering if it instead was telling him that Cernin had been detected coming home.  If not, then Cernin is taking everybody by surprise, and given that the Kerbals know there are spacefaring aliens with doomsday weapons, they might be planning to shoot Cernin down instead of rescue her

 

[UnusualAttitude]

2 hours ago, Geschosskopf said:

Ever since we last heard from him, and then Bartdon's post-mortem, I've been imagining various scenarios that might fit the facts.  These all involve various desperate deeds completely outside the design parameters of the ships involved followed by some violence amongst the crew.  All this results in some damage and casualties but does succeed in getting the survivors headed back in the right direction.

I rather think you've been using your shamanistic powers again to look through the eyes of my pet cats as they watch me capture screenshots and scribble my notes. Say no more, Geschosskopf! I will now put them out for the night before I start playing.

2 hours ago, Geschosskopf said:

Hmm, I was wondering if it instead was telling him that Cernin had been detected coming home.  If not, then Cernin is taking everybody by surprise, and given that the Kerbals know there are spacefaring aliens with doomsday weapons, they might be planning to shoot Cernin down instead of rescue her

Cernin's return is indeed a complete surprise. And yes, they will almost certainly be quarantined when they return to Earth, although I don't think anyone at mission control will be scared enough to want to destroy the ship. Remember, no-one on Earth really knows what happened during the final moments before contact with Cernin was lost, and they have no idea why any one might have attempted to sabotage the mission. Unless Bartdon does, and he's just not telling. We'll see.

In any case, it's high time all these inferior minds start listening to the only real clear-thinker at Omelek Space Centre. They ignore her 'cause she's a bit strange, but that is a grave mistake on their behalf...

[Geschosskopf]

2 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

I rather think you've been using your shamanistic powers again to look through the eyes of my pet cats

There is no such thing as a "pet" cat.  Cats are definitely the masters.  Just ask mine 

 

2 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

Cernin's return is indeed a complete surprise. And yes, they will almost certainly be quarantined when they return to Earth, although I don't think anyone at mission control will be scared enough to want to destroy the ship. Remember, no-one on Earth really knows what happened during the final moments before contact with Cernin was lost, and they have no idea why any one might have attempted to sabotage the mission. Unless Bartdon does, and he's just not telling. We'll see.

I was thinking that folks on Kerbin would assume they were the aliens coming back to destroy all life again.  How many Kerbals know that story?  Anyway, definitely quarantine to make sure they're not infected with some Martian/alien doomsday virus, although if they've survived all this time after exposure, they're probably safe.

[NotAgain]

CERNIN! CERNIN! CERNIN!

[Creature]

I bet that aerobrake maneuver isn't mentioned in the standard operating manual. Happy to see the Cernin return

 

[UnusualAttitude]

YEAR 7, DAY 65. CAMWISE.

Angun and I floated side-by-side in Céré's tiny living quarters, transfixed by the sight of our mothership on the verge of abandoning her children to the terrifying vacuity of space. From the corner of my eye, I had seen his expression go soaring from the heights of fear, through the dark depths of defeat, and resurface as a look of pure hatred. He was staring at Cernin as if he believed he could hold the ship back by the sheer strength of his anger.

...find something Camwise, and fast.

And then, in the short moment during which Cernin's RCS thrusters sputtered to provide ullage for her main engines, it came to me. An idea that was as desperate and insane as the situation we were in, but one that left us with a slim hope of not slowly suffocating in the lonely depths of space when our air scrubbers finally packed in.

I had no time to explain myself in detail: just a split second to convey the idea, to speak three words, and hope it would be enough.

“Jonnie. The harpoons.”

Our Chief Test Pilot may not be the most subtle of characters, but being subtle is not what he gets payed for. He is payed to perform complex multi-tasks with pin-point accuracy and almost supernaturally swift reflexes even in extremely stressful situations; and our present situation certainly ticked that last box.

And he happens to be very good as his job.

Without even acknowledging that he had heard or understood me, he gave a deft nudge on Céré's controls that expelled the lander's last breath of fuel to line up the small reticule at the bottom of the cockpit window with Cernin's midships. Just before Cernin's engines flared into life, he flicked open the safety catch and fired one of Céré's harpoons straight at his target from a range of about ten metres.

Up in the crew quarters, all I knew of the situation was a dull thunk as the harpoon was released and a muted rumbling as the cable payed out. This noise continued for a few seconds and then stopped suddenly, but only Jonnie, down in the cockpit, could see if the harpoon had struck its target, or had missed, bounced off, or failed to save us from an slow, drawn-out death in some other way.

There was a long, agonizing moment during which Angun and I stared at each other aghast, waiting for Jonnie to speak. Waiting for something, anything, to happen. We were delivered from our torment by our pilot's emotionless, dead-pan drawl; announcing that all hell was about to break loose as if he were remarking on the weather.

“Brace, buddies.”

The world exploded into chaotic movement; first of all sideways, as the hull of our capsule swung out to meet us, smacking us across to the opposite wall; then downwards as the brake on Céré's winch ran out of slack and Cernin began hauling us along at one gee. We were instantly torn from the wall and thrown to the floor, before being pitched from one side of the capsule to the other several times more as the lander bounced against Cernin's main fuel tank.

Somehow, almost instinctively, and despite being tossed around like a sock inside a spin-drier, I began to count inside my head.

One...two...three...four...

The cable that attached Céré's harpoon to her winch was fully taut now under the pull of Cernin's engines. The capsule stabilised for a moment, pinned against the larger ship's fuel tank. Miraculously, neither the hull of our lander, nor the tank itself had ruptured. But as I looked up through the capsule window I realised that there was another, rather pressing issue. The white-hot glow from Cernin's exhaust illuminated the cabin like broad daylight on Earth. Our mothership's plume was no more than a couple of metres from our hull and the fragile view-port. It would burn through in just seconds and sear the flesh from our bones in a couple more.

“Jonnie!” I yelled in a strange, high-pitched voice that I barely recognized. “Retract the cable, get us away from that plume!”

Again Jonnie was fast, and I hadn't even stopped yelling when I heard the ominous sound of metal scraping on metal as the winch began to reel in the tether, pulling us upwards along the side of the tank towards the laboratory, out of the blazing heat of the rocket's exhaust.

...five...six...seven...eight...

I tugged at Angun's arm.

“Find your helmet!” I shouted, despite his face being only inches from my own. “The hull may fail at any moment!” What I didn't mention was that any impact violent enough to breach our hull was also likely to cause Cernin's lightweight tank to rupture, with the risk of spilling many tonnes of highly corrosive hypergolic fuel and oxidiser. If the two came into contact... Well, we would no longer have anything to worry about at all: it would be over, quite literally, in a flash.

I looked around and spotted my suit's helmet jammed under my seat. I began to crawl across the capsule's floor on all fours, not daring to stand for fear of being thrown off my feet yet again.

...nine...ten...eleven...twelve...

I reached it and managed to pull it over my head and lock it before another jolt sent me sprawling onto my back. Jonnie, always the true pro, had kept his helmet close at hand and was already wearing it, and I was blasted back to my senses by his voice bawling in my headphones. Even Jonnie had lost his cool.

“You OK up there!?”

...thirteen...fourteen...fifteen...sixteen...

“Swimmingly, Jonnie. What the hell is going on? Which way is she taking us?”

“You're not going to like this, buddy. Our weight must've pulled her off course. We're heading straight into Stickney!”

...seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...twenty.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the acceleration stopped. Cernin's engines had cut off and we were once again weightless. My furious mental calculations told me that twenty seconds at one gee meant about two hundred metres per second. We had started our dive from about twenty-five kilometres above the surface with an initial orbital velocity that, in the tiny gravity well of Phobos, was negligible.

Which meant a time to impact of two minutes, give or take a few seconds.

I couldn't believe what was happening. None of it made sense, so I kicked off the floor to the capsule window and looked down at the Martian moon below. It was drifting visibly closer by the second, and Margaret apparently had no intention whatsoever of changing course. Whether this had been her original plan or whether she had realised that we had managed to hitch a ride and had therefore resolved to ensure none of us ever left Phobos, I will never know. All I knew was that in just under two minutes, the unplanned, hastily assembled Cernin-Céré composite ship would go crater-making.

“We have to get out of here...” I breathed at no-one in particular. There was no response. I turned towards Angun. He was floating in the centre of the capsule, his helmet hanging limply from one hand. He was staring into space with a look of complete and utter dejection, paralysed by the knowledge of what his lack of foresight had brought upon us.

I knew he would do nothing. That's when I started shouting.

“Angun! Get that helmet on now! We're going over to Cernin. Jonnie, vent the cabin in ten seconds, helmet or no helmet. I'll lead the way: we go across one-by-one in case she starts thrusting again. CTP, bring up the rear!”

My words brought Angun out of his stupor and he pulled on his helmet, fumbling with the latch. I pushed off towards him to check it was properly sealed and then hollered at Jonnie to pull the plug. I was at the hatch and spinning it open before the last of the air had even been vented. Without taking a single moment to think, for fear of recoiling from what I was about to do, I threw myself into space and activated my KMU.

I went into a wild spin for a few seconds before the old reflexes returned and I jabbed on the button that stabilised my rotation. I looked around and took stock: the retraction of the winch had dragged Céré up Cernin's hull as far as the laboratory, and as a result, the lander was partially obstructing the hatch that allowed access to the lab's airlock. OK, the forward crew module's airlock it is, then. But that meant traversing more than twenty metres of space, and going around the still spinning centrifuge.

Another twenty seconds, at least. And if Margaret happened to light the fireworks again while I was out there, then...

Just stop thinking and do it, Camwise.

I mashed the trigger of my KMU, propelling me forward and round Cernin's structure, trying not to look at Phobos looming ever closer, which was rather difficult as the small moon now filled half of the sky. I called out to Angun to start moving: there would simply be no time for us to make the trip one at a time if we were to have any chance of turning the situation around before impact. I realised with a glimmer of hope that we were on a grazing trajectory that would certainly take us into the wall of Stickney crater, but that might also allow us a reprieve of a minute or so more than my initial estimation.

And as I squeezed the controls of my jetpack with a death grip, willing it to carry me faster across the few metres that separated me from the forward hatch, I heard Jonnie's voice cut through the static of my headphones. For a moment, I wondered who he was talking to, and then I understood that he had opened Céré's high-gain antenna, and was transmitting. Incredibly, he was trying to send one last message back to Earth. It was futile, as the capsule was spinning, and most of what he said would be lost into the void. But the simple fact that our cool-headed test pilot had chosen to waste precious seconds in an attempt to inform mission control of the situation was spine-chilling, despite the fact that his voice was as calm and as matter-of-fact as ever. Even Jonnie thought that we had no chance of making it out of this alive.

“Mission Control, this is CTP Jonnie on board the lander Céré. For reasons unclear, PLI Margaret in Cernin has gone renegade and intended to abandon us in space. We managed to attach to Cernin with our harpoons but both vessels are currently out of control and heading towards Phobos at high speed. Impact is expected to occur within a few seconds... So long, buddies.”

I approached the hatch, waiting with baited breath for the ship's engines to fire at any moment and leave me behind. But they did not, and in my haste, I hit Cernin's hull so hard that I almost bounced back off into space. Flailing wildly, I managed to grab the ladder, and hold on. I busied myself immediately with the outer hatch and turned to look for Angun following me. He was no where to be seen.

“Angun, what are you doing? You do know we have just seconds, right?”

His reply came through the static, “Céré has moved and the rear hatch is clear. I'm entering the lab's airlock now.”

I cursed loudly in patois at this new turn of events, “OK, but get yourself up front quickly. I may need your help. Jonnie?”

“Abandoning ship now, buddy.”

In normal circumstances, cycling one of Cernin's tiny airlocks takes several minutes, but there are ways to speed the process up considerably if you are an experienced engineer equipped with the trusty power tool that never leaves your side. In less than twenty seconds I had overridden the safety regulator as well as the catch on the inner door, kicked it open, and was inside Cernin's command module.

The lights had been dimmed and there was no-one there. My first glance was at the hatch that lead to the bridge: it was open. I looked around to see if -

- the fire extinguisher connected with the side of my helmet violently, cracking the corner of my faceplate and sending vibrations through my skull. It had appeared from out of the shadows behind the open airlock door followed by the figure of my unsuited assailant.

Margaret attempted to follow up her initial attack with further blows to my head, but brawling in micro-gravity is like playing the violin: you simply can't, unless you know exactly what you are doing. In moments, Newton's Third Law had cast its baleful gaze upon this on this desperate attempt at combat and said, “Nope, ain't happening.” Margaret had sent herself spinning towards the back of the command module, and with my head still ringing I seized my chance and flung myself towards the cockpit.

I managed to slam the hatch on her and spun the release-wheel to seal it. There were no locks on Cernin, however, and the entire ship was purposely designed so that no-one could lock themselves in anywhere. I could've held onto the release-wheel, but that would've been pointless, as I had rather pressing matters to attend to and I needed to get into the pilot's seat fast.

“Angun, Jonnie! I need you up front now!” I shouted into my headset.

No reply.

I turned and looked over my shoulder, through the forward windshield of the bridge. And there was Phobos reaching up to meet us, to dash us to pieces, to make us part of the moon itself forever, horrifyingly close. I pushed off from the hatch to Jonnie's seat, forgetting everything else. Come for me, if you will, Margaret. I am going to turn this ship around.

I floated over to the left-hand seat of Cernin's bridge and buckled up the lapstrap. Grasping the sidestick, I twisted it sharply to begin the agonizingly slow process of rotating the massive interplanetary ship. Cernin's numerous thruster ports began spitting fuel out into the vacuum. Behind me the release-wheel began to turn. Margaret was about to enter the bridge.

Phobos began to rotate in front of my eyes and slowly drifted away to the left as the ship swung round. I began to speak once more into the headset.

“Angun, are you on board?”

“I'm in the lab. On my way.”

“Jonnie, are you on board?”

No reply. Just static.

I felt the presence of Margaret behind me, and heard her speak as she drew close, raising the fire extinguisher above her head. Through my shattered helmet, I heard her breathing loudly and her voice, a grating rasp of despair.

“I can not let you go home, Camwise.”

I placed my right hand on the throttle of Cernin's main engines and pushed it open half-way for about half a second. Centrifugal force due to her slow rotation ensured that the fuel settled to the bottom of the tanks and the engines fired. The thrust sent Margaret spinning towards the back of the bridge and threw her against the rear bulkhead with a thump. She cried out in pain, or perhaps in frustration.

“And I can not let you kill my ship, Margaret. Jonnie, are you on board?”

No reply. Just static.

Phobos had now disappeared from my view as Cernin began to slowly point upwards, and away from the grim, dusty surface beckoning to her. Margaret surged forward again and raised her weapon to bring it down in a crushing blow on my skull once more.

“Jonnie!?”

“...on the ladder (...) hit it, buddy!”

As the extinguisher came down I slammed Cernin's throttle through to the firewall with both hands and a cry of rage, and one full gee kicked in. The cold, hard metal glanced off my helmet just as Margaret was sent flying through the hatch at the back of the bridge and into the command module beyond. Despite the sea of stars that danced in front of my eyes, I began counting again; one...two...three... knowing that if I reached twenty before my ship, my companions and myself were snuffed out of existence in the blink of an eye, then we would live.

And, as I counted, the sea of stars disappeared, my eyes came back into focus and my gaze happened to fall upon a tiny blue point of light beyond the windshield, barely visible in the harsh glare of Sol. In that instant, I just wanted to make it home.

...seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...

I could see the surface of Phobos and make out the individual rocks and grooves in the surface through the bridge's side windows, just metres below.

...twenty.

We would live. Cernin was now drifting forwards again at a few metres per second, slowly but surely escaping the clutch of the Martian moon. I cut off the engine, and unbuckled from the seat. Weightless again, I floated to the back of the bridge, expecting to have to defend my position once more from the suicidal wrath of my crewmate.

Instead, I was greeted by the sight of Margaret's body, floating inside of the command module, her neck twisted at an impossible angle, and her open eyes staring at nothing.

Not everyone would be going home, and in trying to save my crew I had killed a Kerbal.

That is when the hatch at the back of the command module burst open, and Angun and Jonnie found us.

Edited July 16, 2016 by UnusualAttitude

[DMSP]

Yes! Everyone is alive! Congrats on that plot twist.

[UnusualAttitude]

6 hours ago, DMSP said:

Yes! Everyone is alive!

Well, nearly. 

8 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

Instead, I was greeted by the sight of Margaret's body, floating inside of the command module, her neck twisted at an impossible angle, and her open eyes staring at nothing.

Was this not explicit enough? She's dead, Jim. 

6 hours ago, DMSP said:

Congrats on that plot twist.

Thanks! As you can imagine, I have been looking forward to writing this for a while... 

[Mjp1050]

Woah... I was genuinely not expecting the story to get that dark.

[UnusualAttitude]

8 minutes ago, Mjp1050 said:

Woah... I was genuinely not expecting the story to get that dark.

Sorry if this is a bit of a shock to some of you. 

We're getting there very slowly, but as the story unfolds, we will understand what is at stake. I will not kill off my characters without meaning or for cheap plot devices, but The Camwise Logs will ultimately be a tale of survival, sometimes impossible choices, and with a little bit of tragedy mixed in. I will keep the tone light-hearted though in general; all the better to surprise you folks when things go south.

There's a reason I've chosen to write in more than one narrator. No-one is completely safe here... 

 

[Mjp1050]

12 minutes ago, UnusualAttitude said:

Sorry if this is a bit of a shock to some of you. 

More of a Holy cow, this story is extremely well written in ways I did not anticipate shock than anything, if that's what you're worried about. 

 

[Andem]

Margaret... Holy mulch. Holy [snippity snip] mulch..

[UnusualAttitude]

29 minutes ago, Mjp1050 said:

More of a Holy cow, this story is extremely well written in ways I did not anticipate shock than anything, if that's what you're worried about. 

Aww, thanks. I must be doing something right, then.

[Geschosskopf]

 

9 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

“Jonnie. The harpoons.”

I knew it!

 

9 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

Whether this had been her original plan or whether she had realised that we had managed to hitch a ride and had therefore resolved to ensure none of us ever left Phobos, I will never know. All I knew was that in just under two minutes, the unplanned, hastily assembled Cernin-Céré composite ship would go crater-making.

Desperate times do indeed....

 

10 hours ago, UnusualAttitude said:

Not everyone would be going home, and in trying to save my crew I had killed a Kerbal.

....call for desperate measures.  Unintended consequences sometimes happen as a result.  But that's the way of the world.  Margaret chose her own destiny there I think.  She wasn't going down without a fight.

 

1 hour ago, UnusualAttitude said:

I will not kill off my characters without meaning or for cheap plot devices,

I guess I'm guilty there.  Even though cryopod malfunctions are rather expected.....?  

[UnusualAttitude]

18 hours ago, Geschosskopf said:

I knew it!

Next time, I promise that I'll think of an even crazier idea so that even you, sir, shall not guess the outcome.

18 hours ago, Geschosskopf said:

Desperate times do indeed...call for desperate measures.

Indeed, but Camwise is an idealist. He will never settle for anything less than getting everyone home, whether they want to go home or not.

Had Margaret survived Cernin's near-disastrous plunge, Camwise would have done anything to keep her on board, despite her presence being a very real danger to the ship and the rest of her crew for the eighteen month trip back. Bartdon, on the other hand, would have no such qualms and she would have been kicked out of the nearest airlock on very short notice.

The interesting part will be to see how the psychology of these characters will evolve during the adventures to come... 

18 hours ago, Geschosskopf said:

I guess I'm guilty there.  Even though cryopod malfunctions are rather expected.....?  

Don't be too hard on yourself. The OPTC was anything but conventional. 

Edited July 17, 2016 by UnusualAttitude

[Mad Rocket Scientist]

This might be the best chapter yet.  Thanks for writing this!

On 7/16/2016 at 2:37 PM, UnusualAttitude said:

She's dead, Jim. 

And have some rep for this.

[UnusualAttitude]

50 minutes ago, Mad Rocket Scientist said:

And have some rep for this.

Awesome, thanks! But if people keep repping me each time I kill off a character, Camwise will soon be pretty lonely... 

Edited July 19, 2016 by UnusualAttitude

[Creature]

Amazing chapter, one of the best ones! I feel sorry for Camwise, so far he has been able to fix pretty much anything that's gone wrong but this time something broke for real even though he managed to save the ship and everyone else It's definitely going to be interesting so see how all of this affects him.

Also I have to say your text has a very good pacing to accommodate the action and chaos and keep everything rolling forward with a good momentum.