Cris Jolliff

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I made my way incautiously into the main control room. It was in the hub of the station, which was shaped overall somewhat like a starfish. Each of the five outer limbs housed various rooms for laboratory space, recycling, hydroponics, and assorted dwelling spaces. The hub was where the gravity well was strongest on the station, because of the micro-singularity. Because of this, the kitchen, exercise rooms, and the control rooms were all in the hub, where the gravity helped a great deal to perform such work.

The second in command was Jim Zagovich, a Czeck Commander. He was one of those guys who not only had many a pair of white gloves, but he actually used them during cleaning inspections, much to the annoyance of the crew, particularly Pavel and myself. The second I entered the command room he was in my face.

“You have the morning status, Mr. Brown, yes?” Zagovich slurred, his heavily accented English running the words together as he brazenly snatched the notebook from my hand, unasked for. For a guy who graduated from MIT, you’d think he would speak the language better. For a European, his manners were atypical, however. I personally think he does it on purpose to alienate himself from the rest of us. Captain Jackson is so open and personable that Zagovich must feel he has to play the role of “Hardass” or else we’ll all revert to weed-smoking coeds. He was already seated at the conference table thumbing through the daily checklists from my notebook before I noticed that his haircut was a mirror of my own. Had we popped out of a can head-first, our heads both might have been mistaken for brown-furred tennis balls. How peculiar, I though for the second time that day—thinking of tennis in a time and place like this. Was I getting homesick, at long last?

“Still no word on the repairs of our secondary re-entry vehicle, eh?” Zagovich raised an eyebrow as he quizzed me. Sometimes I’ll give him something to bleat about in his blustery, ram-like way. Other times, like this one, I could sense that there was already enough tension, and just meekly handed over the status checklist without a word. As he was reviewing it, I padded over to the coffee machine and fixed myself a proper cup of hot English tea, grateful for the partial gravity created by our power core here in the center of the station. As a new spacer, I still enjoyed freefall at times, awkwardness and all, but as an Englishman, I wasn’t about to give up my tea, and you can’t sip a cup of hot tea in freefall.

“Last report was that mission control would have it for another three weeks before sending it back. We have one remaining vehicle, and the next scheduled shuttle is about two weeks away.” I reported with my usual level of detail. He seemed satisfied.

Pavel and Dr. Richard Noell, the American Astrophysicist stepped into the tiny conference room, already apparently in discussion of some minutia regarding astrophysics. Pavel had his nose in everyone’s business, and could double as a lab technician in almost every field. He was my mentor and my idol, to some degree. Dr. Noell was not one of my favorites. When I had first arrived at the station, he had grilled me intensely, as though I was there to challenge his position. I’m just an Engineer, I had told him, but he continued to track me from the corner of his eye every time I had to enter one of his compartments for anything…which was a bit too often for my preference.

“So you believe quantum signature of star is blocking transmission to system?” Pavel’s grasp of English was no better than Zagovich’s but at least Pavel learned it the hard way, and had an excuse for forgetting the odd article here and there.

“Precisely,” said Dr. Noell, apparently agitated by this statement. “If you had more background on quantum physics I’d love to bounce more of this off of you—“

Pavel interrupted, “Have studied some, actually. Can we run over this later?”

“You mean, go over this later?” corrected Dr. Noell. “I’d like that, but I’ll be the only one doing any calculations, just…well…you know, because.” That American astrophysicist was always correcting Pavel’s English, and his isn’t much better, considering it’s his native language. Twitchy fellow, too…always looking over his shoulder. I didn’t ever catch him trying that “correction business” on the second in command, Zagovich, though. I heard once that he tried it and Zagovich assigned him to mess duty for a full week—a duty we normally share from meal to meal—and did a complete inspection of every one of Dr. Noell’s lab and personal spaces every day during the whole time. Every discrepancy had to be checked off by Zagovich before he let him off mess duty. Zagovich was a right bastard.

My musing was interrupted by the simultaneous entrance of the rest of the crew: my new sweetheart Dr. Juliette Bonhomme (O Canada!) and the commanding officer, Captain Audrey Jackson. Captain Jackson, as she preferred to be called, was an amazing woman. She had advanced through the American ranks like a dervish moving through a crowd of mongrels. Now she was in charge of one of the most prestigious space assignments to be had by any country. She was tall, and almost stately. Her dark skin was nearly ebony, and her hair, like the rest of us, was close cropped. Her features were somewhat severe, and even a bit exaggerated by her über-conservative use of makeup, but we all knew she was a gentrified lady. She was not smiling now, though, and held a lightly crumpled piece of paper in one hand. As she took her seat, sans coffee, the rest of us settled down and stopped whatever small talk was going on.

Without comment, which was highly unusual for the captain, she handed the missive to Zagovich. The commander began to read it aloud in his heavy accent:

“AP News: Dateline Atlanta, Georgia.

Research on a man-made virus designed to attack cancer cells went horribly wrong today. Researchers at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention announced that an airborne strain of the virus was accidentally released in the lab two days ago. Initial reactions were mild as the virus was not deemed toxic. Later discoveries indicated that the virus was mutating and had begun to attack the normal physiology of humans, rather than cancerous cells. This new variant has spread all throughout the southeastern United States and is considered pandemic at this time. Reports from abroad are starting to come in from cities that are along airline routes from Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, indicating that the virus is spreading out from there, as well.

All international travel has been halted indefinitely. The President has declared the entire nation a Disaster Area, and has initiated Martial Law to protect the health of uninfected citizens, but the virus continues to spread unchecked. Deaths are already approaching the millions. The CDC has announced that its scientists were the first and worst hit, and have assumed responsibility for the virus’ initial spread.

Symptoms of infection mirror Lepromatous Hansen’s Disease (Non-tuberculoid Leprosy) and include bruising and loss of sensation in the extremities. Onset is 24-36 hours, and is currently fatal in 100% of cases. Advanced cases are highly contagious, and considered untreatable. Death occurs painfully, when the victims’ internal organs fail.

End Transmission.”

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