I'll get back to the Con in a bit. For now, this is... something else. I like it, lemmie know what you think.
Life aboard the Explain Star can be a bit trying sometimes. The difficulty lies in space issues. You have to remember that although she certainly *looks* impressive, she's not all that big. Sure, she towers over most fencraft, but most of those are converted automobiles and light trucks. In terms of size, she's actually not much bigger than a smallish airliner.
The Star's original design specs - the Soviet blueprints imported over without change from the American originals - had only the front of the ship pressurized and rigged for habitation. When we got our hands on her we scrapped most of the original crew compartment and extended it all the way back through the old cargo bay to the engine spaces. We had to practically fill the wings and lower deck spaces with handwavium to compensate for the larger pressure hull, but it gave us more room to work with.
Unfortunately, "more" doesn't equate to "unlimited." The Star is still only 40 meters long, and the available fuselage area is only four and a half meters wide. That sounds like a lot, and when you're standing in a stripped-bare fuselage it feels positively cavernous. Once you start adding in compartment bulkheads, flooring, a proper ceiling, plumbing, and all the rest that wide open space starts to shrink very quickly. Between the "cabins" (not much more than double-occupancy coffin hotel cubicles), the bathroom facilities, consumables storage, EVA lockers, some light cargo storage and a workshop for KJ... well.
For one person, it's spacious. For two or three, it's comfortable. For six, the euphemisim is "cozy." And when you're cooped up in it for weeks at a time orbiting some distant rock without a breathable atmosphere, it can change from cozy to confining very quickly. Frankly, a lot of our "first man on whatever" exploits come from our burning desire to just get the hell *outside* the Star for a little bit.
Sometimes, though, that option isn't available.
Like today.
We're halfway between Saturn and Mars, on our way to the Convention. Crossing Jupiter's orbit, but Jupiter's on the wrong side of the sun for us to see it. We're taking a leisurely approach route - the Con doesn't start for another day, so there's no point in hauling ass at full speed down into the inner system. We'll be there in 18 hours. Plenty of time to relax.
I can't relax. Ptichka's watching our course, keeping us on track. Elena's in the copilot's seat, watching Ptichka do her thing and getting a few piloting lessions in the bargan. I'm in the left seat trying to focus on the readouts, the Con notice and the book du jour (The Atrocity Archive by Charles Stross, for the curious) and failing to comprehend all three of them. Boredom and cabin fever are starting to set in.
I need to get out of here for a bit.
With that thought, I'm out of my seat and heading down towards the middeck. Elena yelps, startled, but that doesn't really register as I slide down the ladder and head aft to the EVA locker. I grab my softsuit off the rack and slip into the bathroom to put it on.
Softsuits are a marvel. Not quite the super-skintight stuff that a lot of inner system fen like to use, but not the big, bulky danetech suits either. The softsuits are old pressure suits (Russian of course, like so much of our gear) augmented with wavetech. Much more comfortable and independent than the original models, plus the retro-commie look is very fashionable.
I lock the helmet down and check the telltales. Everything's running green, full charge on life support and the emergency thruster pack. Thus armed, I head forward.
Half the crew are relaxing in the lounge, and none of them bat an eye when I come marching through in a full pressure suit. They all understand the urge, and most of them have done the same thing, so they don't mind as I make my way to the access hatch in the far forward bulkhead.
Did you know that the space shuttles were originally supposed to have an airlock and docking port in the nose, just below the forward windows? Unless you're an obsessive shuttle geek (like me) you probably didn't. But it's the truth; the original design had the main airlock and docking port in the nose. They eventually scrapped that design and went with the one we all know today, but when we got out hands on the Explain Star, we decided that the nose port was useful enough to retrofit into the airframe. We didn't know what it would be useful *for* mind you, just that it would be useful.
I get into the airlock, crouching because the damned thing is tiny, seal it up and let the air cycle out. Telltales on my suit are still green, everything's fine. I grab a tether - can't be too careful - and clip one end to my belt, the other to the outside of the lock. The outer hatch opens up and I uncurl a little, letting my head and shoulders emerge.
The hull slopes down around me to the rounded point of the nose. The sun is to my left, a burning penny casting sharp shadows. The automatic glare compensators in my helmet switch on, blanking out the worst of the light. I glance backwards, seeing the flight deck from this angle for the first time in months. Elena spots me, gives me a cheery little wave and goes back to whatever she's doing.
This next part is tricky. I climb most of the way out of the airlock and carefully orient myself into a crawling position on the hull. I have to be careful not to damage anything. The hull's been treated with handwavium varnish, so it's tougher than the average space shuttle. I'm not in any danger of breaking anything vitally important off or anything like that, but there aren't any good handholds for this part and Ptichka *and* KJ would kill me if I so much as scuffed the paint.
Inching my way forward, careful to keep one hand on the hull, I make may way for the nosecap. I reach the cap and give it a careful nudge. A section swings open, revealing an empty compartment. A kick of my emergency thrusters sends me up over the hatch, another kick stops my relative velocity with my feet hanging inches over the bare metal. I touch a control on my belt, and the magnets in the boots activate, gluing my feet to the frame.
The Explain Star is "beneath" me now, a swiftly-moving mountain of glass and metal. Above and around me are the stars. I'm looking away from the Sun, and the flat black of the Star's belly absorbs much of the reflected light. I can see the stars all round me, clear and bright.
All the worries and fatigue of the last day drain away as I stand on top of the Explain Star, arms outstretched, soaking up the starlight. I'll spend the next hour or so standing out here in freefall, watching the cosmos go by. When I go back inside all the problems and pitfalls of living in space will still be there, as will this mystery Convention and all the problems inherent in *that.*
But for the moment, that doesn't matter.
I have the stars.
I am content.---
Mr. Fnord
http://fnord.sandwich.net/
http://www.jihad.net/
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"
Life aboard the Explain Star can be a bit trying sometimes. The difficulty lies in space issues. You have to remember that although she certainly *looks* impressive, she's not all that big. Sure, she towers over most fencraft, but most of those are converted automobiles and light trucks. In terms of size, she's actually not much bigger than a smallish airliner.
The Star's original design specs - the Soviet blueprints imported over without change from the American originals - had only the front of the ship pressurized and rigged for habitation. When we got our hands on her we scrapped most of the original crew compartment and extended it all the way back through the old cargo bay to the engine spaces. We had to practically fill the wings and lower deck spaces with handwavium to compensate for the larger pressure hull, but it gave us more room to work with.
Unfortunately, "more" doesn't equate to "unlimited." The Star is still only 40 meters long, and the available fuselage area is only four and a half meters wide. That sounds like a lot, and when you're standing in a stripped-bare fuselage it feels positively cavernous. Once you start adding in compartment bulkheads, flooring, a proper ceiling, plumbing, and all the rest that wide open space starts to shrink very quickly. Between the "cabins" (not much more than double-occupancy coffin hotel cubicles), the bathroom facilities, consumables storage, EVA lockers, some light cargo storage and a workshop for KJ... well.
For one person, it's spacious. For two or three, it's comfortable. For six, the euphemisim is "cozy." And when you're cooped up in it for weeks at a time orbiting some distant rock without a breathable atmosphere, it can change from cozy to confining very quickly. Frankly, a lot of our "first man on whatever" exploits come from our burning desire to just get the hell *outside* the Star for a little bit.
Sometimes, though, that option isn't available.
Like today.
We're halfway between Saturn and Mars, on our way to the Convention. Crossing Jupiter's orbit, but Jupiter's on the wrong side of the sun for us to see it. We're taking a leisurely approach route - the Con doesn't start for another day, so there's no point in hauling ass at full speed down into the inner system. We'll be there in 18 hours. Plenty of time to relax.
I can't relax. Ptichka's watching our course, keeping us on track. Elena's in the copilot's seat, watching Ptichka do her thing and getting a few piloting lessions in the bargan. I'm in the left seat trying to focus on the readouts, the Con notice and the book du jour (The Atrocity Archive by Charles Stross, for the curious) and failing to comprehend all three of them. Boredom and cabin fever are starting to set in.
I need to get out of here for a bit.
With that thought, I'm out of my seat and heading down towards the middeck. Elena yelps, startled, but that doesn't really register as I slide down the ladder and head aft to the EVA locker. I grab my softsuit off the rack and slip into the bathroom to put it on.
Softsuits are a marvel. Not quite the super-skintight stuff that a lot of inner system fen like to use, but not the big, bulky danetech suits either. The softsuits are old pressure suits (Russian of course, like so much of our gear) augmented with wavetech. Much more comfortable and independent than the original models, plus the retro-commie look is very fashionable.
I lock the helmet down and check the telltales. Everything's running green, full charge on life support and the emergency thruster pack. Thus armed, I head forward.
Half the crew are relaxing in the lounge, and none of them bat an eye when I come marching through in a full pressure suit. They all understand the urge, and most of them have done the same thing, so they don't mind as I make my way to the access hatch in the far forward bulkhead.
Did you know that the space shuttles were originally supposed to have an airlock and docking port in the nose, just below the forward windows? Unless you're an obsessive shuttle geek (like me) you probably didn't. But it's the truth; the original design had the main airlock and docking port in the nose. They eventually scrapped that design and went with the one we all know today, but when we got out hands on the Explain Star, we decided that the nose port was useful enough to retrofit into the airframe. We didn't know what it would be useful *for* mind you, just that it would be useful.
I get into the airlock, crouching because the damned thing is tiny, seal it up and let the air cycle out. Telltales on my suit are still green, everything's fine. I grab a tether - can't be too careful - and clip one end to my belt, the other to the outside of the lock. The outer hatch opens up and I uncurl a little, letting my head and shoulders emerge.
The hull slopes down around me to the rounded point of the nose. The sun is to my left, a burning penny casting sharp shadows. The automatic glare compensators in my helmet switch on, blanking out the worst of the light. I glance backwards, seeing the flight deck from this angle for the first time in months. Elena spots me, gives me a cheery little wave and goes back to whatever she's doing.
This next part is tricky. I climb most of the way out of the airlock and carefully orient myself into a crawling position on the hull. I have to be careful not to damage anything. The hull's been treated with handwavium varnish, so it's tougher than the average space shuttle. I'm not in any danger of breaking anything vitally important off or anything like that, but there aren't any good handholds for this part and Ptichka *and* KJ would kill me if I so much as scuffed the paint.
Inching my way forward, careful to keep one hand on the hull, I make may way for the nosecap. I reach the cap and give it a careful nudge. A section swings open, revealing an empty compartment. A kick of my emergency thrusters sends me up over the hatch, another kick stops my relative velocity with my feet hanging inches over the bare metal. I touch a control on my belt, and the magnets in the boots activate, gluing my feet to the frame.
The Explain Star is "beneath" me now, a swiftly-moving mountain of glass and metal. Above and around me are the stars. I'm looking away from the Sun, and the flat black of the Star's belly absorbs much of the reflected light. I can see the stars all round me, clear and bright.
All the worries and fatigue of the last day drain away as I stand on top of the Explain Star, arms outstretched, soaking up the starlight. I'll spend the next hour or so standing out here in freefall, watching the cosmos go by. When I go back inside all the problems and pitfalls of living in space will still be there, as will this mystery Convention and all the problems inherent in *that.*
But for the moment, that doesn't matter.
I have the stars.
I am content.---
Mr. Fnord
http://fnord.sandwich.net/
http://www.jihad.net/
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"