Nuts

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By Michael W. Clark

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         It was a far space station, although, considering its size, it was more an outpost than a station. It was medium to small depending upon how size was categorized. It was full of monitoring equipment, so no matter what its overall size might be, the interior was cramped. The small interior suddenly went dark. The outpost was so far out, dark meant a complete lack of any illumination but distant stars. They were just points of light.    They didn’t even twinkle.

        “Holy God damn!” Stanul was the head scientist at the outpost. He was its only scientist. He became part of the space monitoring system after he lost his legs in the accident. The secondary motto of the Space Corps, ‘It's not the weight, it's the space you fill.’ Height challenged in any way was desired. The joke name for the Space Corps was the Short Corps. “Spin! You overloaded the power circuits again!”

        Spin was very short and liked to rotate slowly in zero G. “You’re nuts.” He grunted.

        “You’ve done this before. I know what I know.” Stanul remained still. He held onto the outpost wall. It was already getting cold. “We will freeze solid.”

        “Ha! Preservation of science. Ha! Scientist. But it’s your nuts. You eat too many.”

        “Standard rations. Nuts without dust.”

        “Gives you gas. Gas blasts. You could knock us out of orbit.” Spin blew fast from his lips to propel himself to the power system panel. “You overload the air purifiers.”

        “You do this on purpose. The air system is robust.” Stanul was a research scientist not a maintenance tech, but he knew the station specifications. “Know your equipment!” His grad advisor would yell at the students whether there was a mistake or not. “I know the equipment. My life depends upon it.” Stanul muttered.

         “Mine too. Mine too.” Spin was born small and stayed small. ‘He was bred for the Short Corps’ his father would boast. It wasn’t true. No one else in the family was short. ‘Short just happened.’ Spin would joke. His father never planned anything, certainly not Spin’s future. His father never thought more than a few days ahead, but Spin always considered, plotted, and planned.

        His main opponent was gravity. Spin thought poorly toward gravity, particularly, Earth’s gravity, one G.  He was always awkward when he moved around in one G. He felt clumsy and looked it. When he first discovered microgravity on a school field trip, he knew the Short Corps was his destiny. Also, because of his size, Spin was destined to play stupid, act the fool, make people laugh, the ancient word was jester. Like most jesters, Spin was far from stupid. Spin thus, had obtained so much advantage through others underestimating him. It was annoying to be looked down upon, but life was annoying, in general. Living in a research outpost on the exterior side of the Kuiper belt certainly was. The Sun was so small. It was often eclipsed by medium sized Kuiper belt objects. That bothered Spin for reasons he couldn’t understand. The miniscule Sun annoyed Spin even more than Stanul did. Spin spun over to a panel and pushed on one section. The dark disappeared with the light. “I run experiments too. They require power.”

       Stanul sighed. “I am the scientist. You are the engineer.”

        “Engineers experiment all the time.” Spin remained stationary to make his point.

       “Priority and responsibility. We each have our responsibilities and priorities.” Stanul stared at his data screens. “It does seem to have caused data loss.” He groaned.

        “Data loss. Data loss.” Spin started to spin. “You repeat that in your sleep. It is your nightmare. Your thundering horses in the night. A data escape!”

         “It is always night out here.” Stanul felt hungry. “It is my worst nightmare. We are out here to collect data on KBOs, not misplace it.”

       “There are millions of them, those Kuiper belt objects, all sizes, you miss one or two, who’s to know.”

       “I for one. These KBOs are the remains of the formation of our solar system. Our origins.” Stanul pointed out the largest port hole. “The basis for life could be hanging out there.” Stanul rubbed his nose. It itched when he got overexcited. It was his indicator, his gage of improper emotions. The Short Corps emphasized that improper emotions cannot be tolerated. The improper was improper for a reason. It was dangerous to the outpost and its mission.

        Stanul rubbed his nose to distract and to relieve. And then there was a thump on the hull outside the ship.   “What was that?”

        “The wind.” Spin attempted a smile. “Those internal winds blowing.”

        “I did not crack wind. There was a sound. There.” He pointed near the airlock hatch. “Like something hit the outer hull there.”

       “Proximity sensors would have warned us of an approaching object, KBO or otherwise. May be a solar wind? A slight gust so far out, maybe. Ha!” Spin spun. “Solar gust. A gentle blow. A micro-ray? Are there hemi-photons?”

        “You cut the power. Something could have gotten close during the black out.” Stanul stared at the point he was pointing to. It was like he was attempting to see through the hull. “A KBO would be going too fast. The sound would be greater.”

         “Depends on the size.” Spin grinned. “Always about the size of things.”

         “I’m the expert!” Stanul’s nose itched more. “On Kuiper Belt Objects.”

          “Maybe its not a KBO. Could be a craft. A small craft. Maybe there is a Shorter Corps?” Spin giggled. “Maybe we are being boarded by shorters?”

          Stanul frowned. “We are too far out.”

         “For what? Anyone to care.” Spin stopped spinning with another thump.

          Stanul pointed. “In the same place.”

          “Near the hatch. Attach to the hatch. A boarding technique.” Spin typed on the wall halo-keyboard. He shook his head. “May be the much Shorter Corps? The Micro corps. May be a micro-craft riding on a micro-ray?”

           “An automated vessel?” Stanul moved over to the screen. “Increase the magnification.”

           Spin typed. “Maybe it is cloaked to standard sensors? Nothing.”

           Stanul rubbed his nose violently. “We have nothing of value. Just observations. Movement and composition of KBOs.” He rubbed more. “Just data. Just data.”

           “Maybe we observed something that was to remain secret?” Spin spun.

          “Secret from whom?” Stanul typed more. “Aliens?”

           “They don’t exist. Fermi was right. Where are they? Not here. Space trolls. Well, that I might believe.”

          There was another thump. Then quiet. No one even breathed.

           “Maybe a hull malfunction.” Spin could never contain himself. “Is plural of breach, breaches. We could be wearing big breaches. Ha! If the pants fit.”

           “Any abrupt pressure change will kill us just as abruptly.” Stanul put his hand on the hull. “Maybe I can feel it?”

           “So, we can hold our breath?” Spin didn’t. He just hung there.

           “Want to make a wager?” Stanul rubbed his nose.

           “We will both be losers.” Spin whined.

           “Hadn’t noticed a pattern, any regularity. Randomness?”

           “Or being harassed. I never believed the Treaty with the Algorithmics was worth anything. You cannot trust a self-aware computation. A nonfungible being. It is worse than a ghost. A ghost has been alive.”

            “Most mathematicians say the Algorithmics are predictable. Predictable is almost like trust.”

             “I don’t trust mathematicians either.” Spin started a slow spin.

            “That’s just crazy. Math is the one universal in the Universe.” Stanul cleared his throat. He looked at the clock. He set the timer.

            “You don’t know that. We haven’t gotten to the nearest star. We don’t know nothing about what’s out there.”

            “No aliens, though.” Stanul rolled his eyes. He just lost the bet he made with himself.

            “Never said that. No aliens here, I said.”

             There was a thump. It made Stanul flinch. “Maybe they just arrived?” Stanul attempted a smile, simply for his own benefit. He reset the timer.

            Spin didn’t smile. Spin pulled his appendages close to his body to spin faster. He had his eyes closed. He started to hum too.

           “There is plenty of power.” Stanul turned on the main lights. “Maybe it is the vitamin D levels?”

Spin kept spinning. “You think the light will scare them away?”

           “Maybe annoy it.” Stanul switched on the main data scanners. “Increasing the gain on the monitors might.” There was a bigger thump.

            “Antagonize it or them?” Spin spun faster.

            “Vitamin D, low levels make you nuts. Enough UV light excites two enzymes in our skin to make it from cholesterol.” Stanul’s voice was getting into a higher range.

            “I thought it caused your teeth to fall out.” Spin had his eyes closed.

           “No, that’s vitamin C. Low levels of vitamin C.”

            “Well, it is right next to D isn’t it?” Spin slowly extended his appendages. The spin slowed ever so slowly.

           “What does that mean?” Stanul rubbed his face. “Maybe just a hallucination?”

           “Being with you has been a bad dream for me. Maybe if I slapped myself, I would wake up?”

           “Go ahead. I want to see that.” Stanul looked at Spin. “I could add a few slaps.”

           “Now you ruined it.” Spin stopped. A loud thump followed. Spin screamed. Which made Stanul scream.

          “Algorithmics, they try to make you scream.” Spin whispered.

            “That is just a popular song. It is not real. The Algorithmics I have worked with are condescending and rude but are not like Greek Gods. Using mortals for amusement.”

           “This isn’t funny anymore.” Spin put his thumb in his mouth.

           “It wasn’t funny ever.”

           Another sound but not a thump. It was a clicking.

           Spin laughed. “Morse code? Is this a time travel event?”

           “It is not Morse code. And if it is time travel, they can’t be that smart. Landing way out here.” Stanul typed at the keyboard. “The sensor readings are not changing. They are giving the same numbers continually. Oh, restart did nothing. I am going to do a little time travel myself. Going old school and turning the computers off and then on again. See what happens.” Stanul wiggled his index finger in his ear. “Off. Count to fifteen.”

           “No, I don’t do those sorts of things. It is not part of my duties.”

          “Ok. Back on.” There was silence followed by a series of alarms, beeps, and whines. “Shit. All the sensors were disabled when you turned the power completely off. They didn’t come back on. The external skin heaters aren’t functioning either. The outer hull temperature is below recommended levels.”

           “That is part of my duties.” Spin jumped to his station. “Don’t turn on the heaters. The hull is buckling. I learned a trick. Slowly increase an electrical current. It will raise the temperature without further deformation.”

          “Shock those little alien invaders out there.” Stanul tried to smile. There was a groan from around the hatch. “I take that as a formal complaint.” Stanul quivered. “No more screwing around. You might have killed us.”

          Spin waved his hand at Stanul. “Let me work. It will work.”

          “My confidence in your skills is not high at this juncture.”

          Spin hissed. “It will come back.” Another yet deeper groan answered. Spin reached out to the hull by the hatch. “It’s cold.”

          “But not cold enough?’

          Spin grumbled, “You mean to cause terminal failure?”

          Stanul nodded slowly, “That is exactly what I meant.”

           The answer came in a thunk and squeal. It was not a human squeal. Both of the occupants of the station stopped breathing. They were reserving what air was in their lungs. When the squeal stopped their breathing resumed.

          “More current?”

          “Increasing current. It might blow either way.” Spin typed gently.

          “Might as well die doing something.”

          “But no try try again. This is not a video game.”

           “Not a very good one, if it was.” Stanul was breathing shallowly. The thunk was deeper this time. No squeal followed. “Is that progress?”

          “I have no idea.” Spin typed even more gently. “Sensors are functioning. Still above specs but heading in the right direction.” Spin rubbed his face. “Not my fault. It was an equipment malfunction.”

And then everything went dark and silent. Just two heart beats without breaths. Spin inhaled, “I didn’t do anything.”

         “It might be the last thing you never did.” Stanul knew he would die in space. He was never going back to Earth or even its Moon. Gravity was just such a burden. He thought he would have a longer time in space though. Freezing solid was one of the more common causes of death in the Short Corps. No one ever died of the dark. “It is so dark.”

         “Not my fault.” Spin whined.

         “You screwing around. You did that.” Stanul wiggled his fingers in front of his eyes. He saw movement as his eyes adapted to the dark. “Not dead yet. Some comfort. No decompression.”

           “I didn’t do this.”

          And then the lighting blinked twice and then remained on. The cabin fans started. The computers beeped on. And the toilet did its startup flush. The outpost bumped slightly.

          “That’s just the toilet’s pressure change.” Spin giggled.

          “That is a good sign.” Stanul went to the monitors. “If we can believe these monitors, the heaters are working, conditions are returning to normal. But for how long?”

          “For how long? We have diagnostics for that.” Spin jumped to the main monitors. “It will take some time.”

          “Happy to have time of any kind.” Stanul pushed himself to his sleeping area. His sleeping bag was attached to the bulkhead. He velcroed himself into it. “I think I will take a little nap.” He muttered.

          “I might never sleep again.” Spin muttered.

         “Just stop screwing around.” Stanul actually agreed with Spin. Sleep might never be achieved.

The End

 

         Michael W. Clark is a former research biologist, a college professor turned writer with sixty-two short stories published. With short stories in outlets such as Black Heart Magazine, Altered Reality, Infernal Ink, Piker Press, Frontier Tales, Schlock!, CommuterLit.com, BarBar, Pulp Literary Magazine, Halfhour to Kill.com and Mystery Tribune. His work also appears in anthologies including Fat Zombies, Creature Stew, Gumshoe Mysteries, Future Visions Vol. 3, Nightmares, Delusions and Waking Dreams, Devils We Know, and “What Really Happened”. His sci-fi adventure novella, The Last Dung Beetle appeared in Serial Magazine, 2019. It was rated 4.5 on Goodreads. He is the editor and content provider for the web site www.ahickshope.wordpress.com.

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        John Sowder is a freelance illustrator best known for his work in Drew Edward's long running comic book series HALLOWEEN MAN.  He also contributES to Daniel Blanchard's COMIC NASTIES series on globalcomix and creates art for the rock group ZOMBINA AND THE SKELETONES.