SpaceTruck: 1999.
Tim Augier
An emerald shape streaked across the inky void of space. Impressed against the black canvas, sporadically populated with far off twinkles of white, a boxy, unnatural object. It almost looked as if someone had fused a semi-truck to some kind of rocket. Which, in essence, they had. Inside the cab of the Spacetruck, his legs up on the dashboard, a magazine in one hand, a CB radio in the other, sat Shedd Lightman. A buzz and a crackle came through the radio set into the control panel beneath his boots, cutting into the thrum of the engines.
‘I’m reading yer loud ‘en clear Bigdog, I ain’t gonna hit another chicken-coop for a parsec. Over,’ came the voice from the radio. It crackled so much it sounded as if the signal was far off. Shedd put down his copy of Buggs Monthly and adjusted his position, sitting upright in his chair, shaking out the pins and needles. He grabbed his mug of space-coffee and pulled the transmitter up to his lips.
‘Ten-four Goldy, yer breaking up, I’m entering the Caltrop Nebula, I’ll catch yer back in dock. Bigdog out. over.’
Shedd put down the transmitter and took a sip of his brew.
Space trucking was a long, and lonely task. Delivering those shipments to far-off frontier colonies that weren’t quite as important to go with the larger space-container ships. One could go months without talking to someone, and up to a year without seeing anyone. He was completing a four month gig and was so far-out he rarely got the chance to speak to anyone but other space truckers. Now that ‘Goldy’ was out of range, chances were he wouldn’t be speaking to someone for a while. Such was the life of a space trucker, cold and lonely, much like their workplace.
Placing the transmitter back in its nook next to the radio, he turned it to recreational mode. A small warning flashed across the screen: RECREATIONAL RADIO IS DOCKED FROM PAY-. Shedd skipped the rest of the warning with the unparalleled urgency of an addict inserting more coins into a slot machine and flicked it to the Space-Country Station. The rough scraping of static played throughout the ship as the onboard receiver failed to pick up the distant signals of the SCS. His face contorting in mild frustration, he flicked through several stations, receiving more of the familiar popping and hissing. Finally, as he switched onto Outer Rim FM, he was rewarded with the dulcet singing of renowned space-country singer, Johnny Spacebucks.
Content in his consolation prize, he pulled on a long lever labelled: autopilot, which, with a whir, engaged the autopilot. He stood and walked to the back of his cab. It was a rather spartan affair, only two-by-three metres, and most of the visible walls were covered in pipes and wires, the complexity of which would’ve given Space-Marie Kondo a fit. The configuration was a dazzling variety of different shades of grey. Cement floors, Slate walls, and a daring Storm-cloud for the aforementioned pipes. The only piece which implied a human occupied the quarters, was a tattered calendar taped to the wall, featuring a rather compromising photograph of an insect.
The back of his cabin featured a bed sunken into the wall, and a kitchenette, though to call it that would be generous at best and at worst a crime against human rights, as it was little more than a SpaceCompany-Ltd 2-in-1-AutomatedMicrowaveVendor. He approached machine, and punched in a series of numbers into the blocky access panel that fronted it, each press delivering a satisfying clunk. A small LCD lit up, informing him that his selection would cost five spacebucks. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Company Credit card, inserting it into a card slot on the panel. A beep and a whirr were heard, and a door slid open, revealing a silvery vacuum-sealed-bag, a small white label identifying it as a SpaceComany-Ltd Standard Issue MeatBurger. Wafts of steam followed it out of the door, filling the cab with the sickly smell of freshly rehydrated meat. On Earth – a violation on the chemical weapons convention, to Shedd, it was a delicacy. As he picked it up, the song came to an end and a voice crackled through the speaker.
‘Ummm, that was Lunar City 7 by -uh- Johnny Spacebucks.’ said the host with a stammer. He delivered his lines dryly and with an inherent monotony. The hardships and isolation of interstellar living was not exclusive to space truckers it would seem.
‘It’s now time for your favourite -uh- segment, where you can call in to the programme and request a -um- song.’
A silence in the cabin ensued, punctuated only by that ever-present whirring of the ship, and the mechanical clunking of the vendor, as Shedd bought more coffee to accompany his MeatBurger. As he was considering the cost to his company credit of attempting to contact the station, the long pause was finally broken by the rhythmic, yet highly irritating trill, of a ringtone.
‘Oh a call- Hello, this is, -uh- you’re on air with me, Snart Melton-’ His obvious ineptitude, or at least ill-preparedness, was interrupted by the crackly, broken up audio of the caller.
‘Mayday mayday, this is the SS Esperanto’ came the voice of the caller. Erratic and afraid, Shedd could hear the sound of an onboard siren, drowned out by the occasional explosion.
‘We have encountered a spatial anomaly upon entering the Caltrop nebula. Our engine went down. Then our auxiliary. Our life support is down. We are adrift in space, requesting immediate inter-.’ The all too familiar white noise of the static took control.
‘Esperanto what is your position? Esperanto?’ Snart Melton’s voice, though quick in following up the disappearance, lacked the urgency that the distress signal had seemed to warrant.
‘Well that was the Esperanto, it appears they are lost in space, We’ll now play My Girl Left Me on Juno by Al Eggmen.’ The mournful tale of one spaceman’s lost space-love flooded the room.
Shedd stared at the radio for some time, unable to move. His arms were rigid, locked tight around his MeatBurger. Fear had gripped him. The one thing colder than the vacuum that surrounded the ship now worked its way deep into his heart. This was not out of compassion nor sympathy for his fellow space farers, theirs was a dangerous job, and everyone knew the risks. No, the SS Esperanto had gone down in the Caltrop nebula, which Shedd had just entered. As the realisation of the gravity of his situation started to set in, he realised the radio had stopped playing. Then he noticed something even more concerning. It was the unfamiliar, and terrifying sound, of nothing. Shedd’s paralysis relented, and his food dropped onto the floor, interrupting the smothering absence, with a dull slop. Light dawned in his eyes.
The engines were off.
It’s funny, the tranquillity that embeds itself in the mind when faced with certain doom. The calm feeling in the eye of the storm. It is funny too, how quickly that feeling is replaced by frenzied, abject terror.
Shedd’s mind raced frenziedly, his face contorted in abject terror, as the cabin lights shifted to a dull red. The autopilot lever snapped back into the off-position, and Shedd braced himself, eyes shut tight, in a panicked anticipation of the ship coming to a dead stop in space. After about thirty seconds had passed with no sudden lurching, he remembered Newton’s first law of motion and opened his eyes. Their gaze landed on the dashboard, which flashed manically with a blue error message. He raced towards the controls, arriving just in time to watch the image on the screen break up and fizzle into blackness. Experienced as he was in the intricate art of repairing spacecraft, he slapped the dashboard heavily with his open palm. This approach proving to be inefficient, he resorted to his only possible recourse, and slammed his fist against it.
‘Click.’ Clicked the dashboard, and a low murmuring whir was audible from deep within the bowels of the console. A small slot opened beneath the screen, and an archaic strand of tape slid out of it. Shedd ripped the tape out and held it up to the starlight beaming through the solar-windshield. It was a thin piece of plasticised paper with letters punched into it. He read aloud, quietly and to himself, as beads of sweat rolled down his face.
‘Critical Systems Error stop. Engines down stop. Life support down stop. Auxiliary power at 10% stop. Primary computer has stopped stop.’ Shedd stopped reading and slapped the dashboard again.
‘Darn’t computer I know that. I need answers, solutions, fix this.’ As if responding to his commands, another length of tape was printed off by the machine. With the sort of feverous anticipation of someone whose life depended on an outdated method of computing, he ripped it from the slot and read it aloud.
‘Seek Onboard Physical Ship Manual stop. Error code one-nine-five-nine stop. Tape supply running low stop. Please insert new ta-’ Reaching the end of message he stiffened, and scanned the room, looking for the emergency manual.
Desperately trying to recall the location of the emergency, his eyes finally fell upon his Buggs Calendar. He leapt forward and ripped it off the wall, revealing a bright red hatch, conveniently labelled: Emergency Use Only. With the erratic burst of energy granted by his discovery, he pulled hard on the handle, attempting to fling it open and reveal his salvation. His arm jarred as he was met with the single-minded willpower of a locked door. Looking down, he saw a silver lock with a small slot in the middle. An equally silvery, equally metal knob capped the lock, with a rotating arrow etched into it. He examined the sign. Underneath the label it continued: Insert $2 or $1 space-coin to operate lock.
‘Space-coins? In this economy?’ said Shedd, yelling out in a pained mixture of shock and contempt that his fate seemed to be sealed by an archaic, and nearly phased out method of monetary transaction.
‘There’s gotta be some somewhere, I passed a space-toll booth a lightyear back,’ said Shed, who now was searching every drawer for some lousy spacebucks. He tore through cabinets and a footlocker alike, the space-glovebox offered no reward, and neither did that inconveniently placed cup holder beneath the space-handbrake.
By now, the air of the room had become thin and hard to breathe, laden with moisture and carbon-dioxide. He was panting and sweating like a moon-hog. Down to his last straw and in a fit of incomparable fervour, he was throwing around his laundry. A pair of space-pants flew past and slapped the wall with a denimy thud and a metallic ring. It broke his focus, momentarily, unsure of where he had heard that ring before.
Then the penny dropped. His eyes opening wide as they alighted on the reward of a meagre $1 space-coin. His clammy hands gripped the coin, nearly dropping it in his rush towards the emergency kit. He inserted the coin, and with gleeful relief, turned the knob, which rewarded him with a satisfyingly clunky rotation. Opening the door, he reached in and grabbed a large paper manual, and shakily flipped through the error numbers, finally arriving on one-nine-five-nine.
Error one-nine-five-nine: Your ship has shut down due to exterior electrical interference, most likely as a result of a nebula or spatial anomaly. In the event of this occurrence, a recovery ship will arrive at next convenience. Life support will shut down and auxiliary power will reroute to preserve the property of SpaceCompany-Ltd. In lieu of insurance, family members will be compensated with one coupon eligible on selected Products at affiliated SpaceCompany-Ltd stores.
Shedd Dropped the manual. It was cold in the cabin he thought. Cold and hard to breath. He chuckled to himself.
‘I guess that’s space for you.’
Fin
