Spaceport West (11 page)

“Captain Watkins, are we clear for launch?”

“Affirmative Officer Beauchamp, the corridor is open and you are free to fly the nest. Take care of your special cargo, won’t you?”

“You know I will, Captain. When are you going to spill the beans?”

“I have a press conference scheduled in a couple of days to give an update on the ongoing industrial dispute, at which point you two should be safely in frigosleep and uncontactable. I will let slip that Susan has taken the decision to visit the colony for herself.”

“That will go down well. Good luck with the repercussions, I hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

“Don’t worry about me Tiggy, I can look after myself. Those namby-pamby Westminster types don’t scare me.”

“Susan, launch in thirty seconds. Are you comfortable?”

Susan was putting on a brave face. “I’m okay, although I am beginning to regret that special breakfast the Captain organised for us. I don’t ever want to see another Cornish chilli dog.”

“Well, if the dog does start barking, there’s a bag there, but I think you’ll be fine. Once we leave the atmosphere it’ll be plain sailing, and you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about.”

A computerised voice signalled the imminent launch. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1…”

The
Diadem
blasted off.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!” yelped Susan.

🚀

“The Leader of the Opposition, the Right Honourable Terrence Sherborne.”

“Am I to understand, Madam Speaker, that the Prime Minister was unaware that his Minister for Space was planning to leave Earth unannounced?”

“Actually I’ve been in discussion with the Minister for Space about this very issue. We thought perhaps, given the sensitive nature of the investigations she needs to undertake, we wouldn’t warn the world and his dog about her intentions.”

“Isn’t it true, Madam Speaker, that the Prime Minister is losing the confidence of his own Cabinet? Power is slipping through his fingers and he is shortly to be left stranded in Number 10 like a badly inflated dinghy confronting a tsunami of discontent, unease and rebellion!”

“If the Right Honourable Gentleman thinks he can intimidate me with his fine rhetoric, strong commanding voice and jet black floppy hair…” Ralph trailed off.

“Carry on, Prime Minister,” interjected the Speaker.

“Then he’s absolutely right!”

Ralph collapsed onto the bench with his head in his hands, sobbing. The Foreign Secretary put his arm around his shoulder and started cooing comforting words in his ear. The opposition benches erupted in great waves of cheering and applause.

🚀

“Tonight, on The World at Midnight, has the Prime Minister lost it completely? Why has the Minister for Space left the planet without telling anyone, and what will it mean for her millions of loyal Twitter followers? We also have a special report on
who
exactly
watches current affairs programmes in the middle of the night.”

Just then, Susan shuffled onto the flight deck of the
Diadem
and yawned. Tiggy reached out and was about to flick off the news.

“No, leave it on, I need to keep abreast of the reaction back home. Morning, by the way.”

“Good morning Susan, I trust your sleep was restful?”

“Yes, it was fine thank you. I’ve never slept for so long in my life.”

“I should think not,” said Tiggy with a grin. “The PM’s reaction was interesting, don’t you think?”

“It’s not that unexpected, to be completely honest,” said Susan, sipping coffee as they watched a replay of Ralph Hampton breaking down in the House of Commons.

“Can he survive this? He’s taking a right royal thrashing at the hands of the opposition,” Tiggy observed.

“He’ll be okay. I don’t buy his breakdown - I think it’s a sham. I don’t know what his game is though.”

“Do you think he’s playing for time, waiting to see what your next move is?”

“Maybe. He’ll need to keep a tight lid on Shotgun Sherborne though, that one’s a real live wire and doesn’t take any prisoners.”

Tiggy giggled, which made Susan smile. “Come on then, you said you were going to show me some Tai Chi moves.”

Several months later

“And this, Minister, is Hamish Blaster,” said Governor Flinders.

Hamish was looking distinctly sheepish. He was wearing a tracking tag on his ankle in case he went walkabout again. On his wrist was a medical device monitoring his vital signs.

“Ah, Hamish, lovely to meet you. I trust you are fully recovered from your ordeal?” asked Susan McKenzie.

Hamish wasn’t quite ready to make eye contact, but he managed to blurt out a speech he’d been rehearsing. “Yes, thank you Minister. I wish to apologise for any distress and expense my reckless actions may have caused.”

“Oh piffle, don’t worry about all that. That’s what the androids are for, what?”

“And
this
Minister, is our local hero, Hank.”

Hank was standing to attention in a UK Space Corps uniform, specially tailored in honour of his heroism. He saluted and shook Susan’s hand.

“It’s an honour to meet you at last, Minister.”

“The honour, I can assure you, is all mine. I understand you spent nearly 24 hours on a solo search and rescue mission looking for Mr Blaster?”

“That’s right ma’am. A few of us were sent out looking for Hamish, but the others had to return after a couple of hours, as their hydraulics were seizing up.”

“How come you were able to continue?”

“I’ve been fortunate enough to have been treated with a special coating that protects me from the extremes of the Martian surface, ma’am.”

“Just one of the technical innovations we’ve introduced at the colony,” interjected the Governor.

“Very impressive, and where did you eventually find Hamish?”

“He had dragged himself to one of the launch pads, about four kilometres from base. He was evidently hoping to pilot a transporter off the planet but collapsed before entering the vehicle, ma’am.”

Hank glanced at Hamish with a sympathetic smile. Hamish was once again overcome with remorse and stared at his boots.

“Well, it’s quite a story Hank. I can see you’re going to make quite a name for yourself here.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

🚀

Over the next few days, Susan McKenzie, the Minister for Space, proceeded to inspect every last inch of base camp, the mining operations and the biome, paying particular attention to the life support systems and crop experiments, looking for any signs of foul play.

As she didn’t want to reveal the true nature of her visit, she was accompanied on her tour only by Tiggy, whom she trusted above all, and Aster, who knew her way around as well as anyone.

“What exactly are you looking for, Minister?” asked Aster as they strolled round the biome.

Tiggy glanced at Susan, wondering how much she was going to give away.

“It’s okay Tiggy, I think we can trust our friend here. I’m trying to ascertain if there’s any possibility that someone is sabotaging your efforts here, Miss Madly.”

Aster looked shocked and turning to Tiggy asked, “Do you think that’s really possible?”

“We don’t know. In a way, it would be good news,” replied Tiggy.

“…because it would mean, given a chance, all this could actually work?” said Aster, completing her sentence for her.

“Precisely. Have you seen anything suspicious?” asked Susan.

“No, I don’t think so. Who would do it though? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe the Russians,” said Susan in a hushed voice.

Tiggy went on to explain the theory that the Russians wanted to scare the British off, so they can take over Mars unimpeded, and at a bargain price. Aster continued looking incredulous, and not a little appalled.

“So if you do see anything, or remember anything that’s happened whilst you’ve been here, please let Tiggy or me know about it,” said Susan, smiling. “Right, we’re off to have a word with the cosmonauts. Thank you for your assistance Aster.”

“No problem.”

“Aster, let’s meet up for a coffee later, okay?” added Tiggy.

“I’d love that! See you later Tiggy,” said Aster delightedly.

DESYNCHRONOSIS

Desynchronosis
, more commonly known as jet lag, is bad enough when experienced on a temporary basis, such as when returning from holiday on the other side of the world. When the human body, however, is permanently forced to adopt a daily cycle even slightly different from 24 hours, the effects can be catastrophic.

This is, of course, what happens when you go to live on an alien world. There are the extreme examples, such as Venus, where one day lasts 243 Earth days, or Jupiter, whose day last less than 10 hours. Were you to live on either of these planets, not that you would want to, you would have to forget about what time the planet
thinks
it is, and stick to your own routine.

Mars, on the other hand, presents a more subtle problem, as the situation is so very nearly the same as Earth. It is tempting to compensate for the slightly longer days with excessive caffeine consumption. Bad idea.

An interesting solution being actively developed at the Western Academy of Sleep Technology Evaluation Department (WASTED) is a battery operated device discreetly attached to the skin beneath your clothing, which provides a brief but, difficult to ignore, electric shock if it detects you dozing off during daylight hours.

Initial trials are promising, in as much as participants are certainly kept awake all day. However, UK Space Command is unlikely to approve the device as it was found to need charging as often as four times a day, which is rather inconvenient. The same could also be said of your pants catching fire or being electrocuted in the shower.

UK Guide to Space, 2025 Edition

Aster couldn’t sleep. She knew that triple fluffachino with dark chocolate sauce was a mistake, but Tiggy was paying and she couldn’t resist it. They’d had a lovely chat though - she really liked Tiggy. As a fully trained Space Officer of some repute, she could have been a bit snooty about fraternising with the civilians, but Tiggy wasn’t like that. She’d always been very friendly to Aster, and to Aster it felt like she’d been taken under her wing. She also loved hearing about some of Tiggy’s crazy adventures in the Space Corps, although, the nonsense involving the Russians on the ISS did make her wonder if Susan may have had a point.

The fact remained however, that Aster couldn’t sleep. She crept out of the female dorm and went down to the mess hall where she made herself a hot milky drink. Milky in the broadest sense of the word as she doubted the white powder it was made from had ever been anywhere near an animal.

Absent-mindedly she opened the fridge to see if there was anything worth nibbling on. Basically, the rule was, anything left in the fridge without being clearly labelled with someone’s name was fair game. She was hoping for a nice bit of pseudo-brie or perhaps a half-eaten Earth Bar. Even some frozen celery sticks would be better than nothing, just to relieve the boredom of insomnia.

What she wasn’t expecting, however, was a pair of white mice. Fortunately, she’d put her drink down on the surface or she would have dropped it. The mice had clearly had the same thought as Aster, and were merrily tucking into some crumbs of Wensleyfail they’d found lurking near the back.

Aster was just about to slam the door in disgust when one of the mice turned to look at her. She could have sworn it winked and grinned, before turning back to its cheese. Aster did a double take, slammed the door and bolted out of the mess hall as fast as she could whilst carrying a scalding hot mug.

On her way back to the dorm, Aster heard faint footsteps. They seemed to be coming from the corridor leading to the machine room. Carefully, she peered round the corner, trying not to give herself away.

“Miaow!”

Aster looked down at her feet. A sleek black cat was rubbing herself on Aster’s leg.

“Hello kitty! What are you doing here?”

Aster crouched down and stroked the cat. She was wearing a military style name tag bearing the name Alice.

Alice seemed to be enjoying the attention, and the scratching behind the ears that Aster was giving her, when her ears pricked up and she started sniffing the air. Without so much as a by-your-leave, she darted off towards the mess hall. Those mice had better watch their backs, Aster thought to herself.

Aster was about to continue on her way back to bed when she heard the footsteps again, and voices. Russian voices. They were coming from the machine room, which housed the oxygen processing plant.

“Video Log, number 342. Hamish Blaster, civilian.”

Hamish stared at the camera. He knew the drill. For nearly a year now he’d been doing the daily logs. To begin with, it was to satisfy the requirements of the
Mars Colony One
contract. The producers were free to use any, all, or none of it for the show. That was galling. Now, though, as things were falling apart, it was more a coping mechanism. A way to let off steam without hurting anyone’s feelings. Getting things off one’s chest. Releasing the inner pressure. Cathartic self-therapy. Arghh! Why is this so frustrating? That sort of thing.

“So why did I come?” Hamish began at last. He looked over his shoulder just to check he was alone. He was.

“I came with grand ideals. To explore, to discover, honestly I did. I wanted to make a name for myself - we all did. Idiots. We thought we’d suddenly become heroes. Celebrities. Historically Significant Personalities. Utter rot. The name Neil Armstrong was bandied about
all the time
. Except, there will only ever be one Neil Armstrong. A few people remember Buzz Aldrin. But who can name all twelve men who walked on the Moon back in the twentieth century?”

Hamish paused the recording and breathed deeply, eyes shut. He felt light-headed. After a couple of minutes, he flicked the camera back on.

“Now of course, everything’s changed,” Hamish continued, “especially for me, since my little stunt. I’m a joke. The laughing stock of the
Mars
show. But it’s not just me. I’m sure everyone watching this - if anyone bothers - feels sorry for all of us. The whole thing has clearly been an enormous, embarrassing failure. The sooner the plug is pulled and we all limp home, humiliated, the better. Hamish Blaster signing off.”