Hamish pushed off against the bulkhead, the gentle pressure starting him along a leisurely trajectory down the length of the ships spinal corridor. Some 50 metres ahead of him was the hatch leading to the command module, open as he had left it. Judging the relative distances of the surrounding walls he surmised that the launch was a good one, straight and true. Reaching his arms out either side of him and tilting his chin ‘up’ he closed his eyes. Picturing himself flying along the corridor in a parody of an ascension into the Rapture made him smile. He felt like an Angel, drifting through the air in complete defiance of gravity. The harsh white strip lights that lit the way at regular intervals along the corridor played across his eye lids, the rhythmic flashing almost hypnotic. Counting down from 30 he took slow, deep breaths, keeping his body as still as he could. The slightest shift in his centre of mass could spoil his flight, knocking him out of the perfect equilibrium of zero gravity that ran along the ships axis of rotation and into the mild tug of the artificial gravity of the outer hull. If that happened then his perfect run of 17 days straight would be ruined and he was only two days off of his record. Fail to beat that and the bottle of 60 year-old Scotch would have to wait yet another 19 days to be uncorked. Reaching the five-count, he tucked his knees up into his body and brought his arms around in an arc, initiating a 180 degree spin which, if timed correctly, would complete just as his body aligned itself with the main acceleration couch.
“Three, two, one – nailed it,” he said aloud as he opened his eyes and reached out his hands at the same time to grasp the arms of the chair. “And the crowd goes wild!”, he shouted, letting out a whoop of triumph, “Yet ANOTHER perfect run for McBride! Just two more and the dram is his!”
Settling down into the gel-filled chair at the command console he let out a long sigh. The weak 0.5 G tugged lightly at his body, feeling strange but welcome after his victory flight down the corridor. Flicking a few switches to activate the forward facing observation screens he looked up and out into – nothing. The total black of space as seen from out of atmosphere was surprisingly different from what most people were used to. The inky blackness so deep that it was almost a tangible thing – not so much an absence of light than the antithesis of it, contrasting with the bright pinpricks of stars that looked almost fake without the twinkling of their meagre light refracting through the air.
The only thing that broke up the stochastic repetition of the stars against the veil of the space between was the ever-present lantern that was Jupiter, just off-centre of the forward display. Orbiting around it was his destination, Ganymede, the gas giant’s seventh satellite. Galilei IV was his final stop, the science station that orbited the large moon, and also where he would offload the 800 tonnes of assorted goods and equipment in his current haul. Once that was done, the Artemis Fowl would then be loaded back up with a near equal mass of precious metals mined from the surface of the moon for his return trip back to Earth. Total turnaround time was projected to be in the region of 16 days, but lacking anything even remotely approaching real-time communication at such distances, logistic updates were few and far between. From previous experience this was unlikely to be the case and even with precise arrival times whose calculations were far too complex for Hamish’s puny biological mind to even understand, it was probable that the folks of G-4 would not have the shipment ready on-time. Hamish didn’t mind, though, a bit of extended shore-leave would be very welcome. He’d heard that the hydroponic installations on the surface of the moon were now producing an interesting and exotic array of new plant phenotypes, which the burgeoning colonies inhabitants were turning into mouth-watering dishes and delicacies that made the best chefs back home salivate in envy. Mind you, right now camp-fire roasted road-kill would make Hamish trade a toe for over what was on offer on the Artemis Fowl.
It was probably a good thing, though, he grudgingly could see some sense in the Spongiform Fungal Archetype Twelve (S-FAT for short) that had found its way into being the main-stay of long-haul interplanetary travel. Not needing any form of sunlight, being able to be grown in complete darkness and engineered to filter and absorb nutrients from ships waste and air, it was the perfect accompaniment to space travel. Pretty much everything that was produced by humans in the deep of space, S-FAT ate it up. It was ideal for long trips such as the Earth-Jupiter run and excelled when scaled up to the larger-crewed colony frigates and science vessels bound for the outer planets. It wasn’t just the general ship-board utility of the fungus that made sense, though, it could be completely dehydrated and compressed into one-tenth volume, meaning that vast amounts of excess product could be packaged up and stored, providing a pretty much limitless supply of food, a ready-to-eat all-in-one nutritional package – all that was required was the addition of a small amount of water. Or piss. It’s utility was so great that even when harvested and dehydrated, the introduction of any water-based fluid would rehydrate it into all it’s sponge-like glory and the newly re-activated bacteria would break down the waste and re-purpose it into all manner of salts and minerals. This, however, was a bit of a hard-swallow (literally). It still tasted like solid piss. Despite it’s flavour-challenged nature, though, there was a budding community of entrepreneurs who made it their mission to create an entire cuisine around S-FAT and it’s cousins. A not insignificant portion of Hamish’s personal mass-allowance was taken up by a wide variety of spices and freeze-dried vegetables, but despite his best efforts everything he tried had only muted the blandness of the thing. Only the addition of some of his prized Scotch in place of water (he saved the piss for purely cultivation, not re-hydration) had some semblance of success in increasing the palatability of the thing. However, that liquid gold was more precious to him than clean air and the feel of solid ground beneath his feet. He shuddered at the idea of a return trip sans-Whisky, space-craziness was a very real thing, especially when travelling such vast distances alone, as he was prone to.
He wondered what space-travel would actually be like if you could eat like ‘normal’. He’d never gone on one of the cruises for the ultra-rich – and never would, on his pay. On those, they ate like kings – steak, potatoes, fresh fruit and vegetables, exotic fish – ice cream! Everything you could ask for, they had. Not grunts like him, though, no, he had to make do with piss-cultivated, lab-grown mushroom-wannabe cubes that looked like brains and tasted of vacuum-sealant. He’d kill for a steak. He knew men that had. Still, ‘least he didn’t have to worry about getting fat. Proper exercise was difficult without full gravity – especially the weak-assed stuff that was generated by the measly rotation of the Artemis Fowl’s outer ring. Bare minimum, that’s all that he was afforded. Some bloody accountant back on Earth had crunched the numbers and maximised profit margins by minimising expenditure on operating costs. Just enough G to mitigate muscle and bone atrophy for long-haul flights. Of course, they didn’t understand that a lot of the time in transit would be spent away from the pathetic tug of the outer ring, so even that wouldn’t be enough. The period of re-acclimatisation to standard G back on Earth was always a killer, he had to spend most of his down-time hitting the gym to build his strength back up before being shipped out on the next supply run. Was damn hard to keep the weight off when back planet-side, and all too easy to blow much of his pay on fancy meals. Some of the guys didn’t bother, though, instead they kept up the S-FAT diet. The way they saw it, the temptation wasn’t worth it. You didn’t miss it if you didn’t ever have it. Not Hamish, though. He did kind of enjoy these long stints away, time to be with himself, reflect on life, get away from the massive overpopulation that was the cities of Earth. Didn’t mean he didn’t grab life by the balls with both hands the first opportunity he got when back down the well, though.
Looking back down at the communications console, he made a few final edits to the update log he’d compiled while down in engineering, corrected a few transposition errors, confirmed course projections were still accurate and fired off the daily report back the main office in Paris. Confirming the communique was on it’s way, he once again flicked the forward displays to ‘off’ and pushed away from the acceleration couch, floating back up in the null-G. Kicking out with his legs he drifted towards the access hatch leading back into the main ship, the faint rumble of his stomach shockingly loud in the near-dead silence of the cabin. Time to visit the galley for another serving of fungal joy. Maybe he should break open the Scotch, to hell with his stupid rules – a couple of measures to re-hydrate and the last of his sea salt and paprika? Why not? A life without treats is a life without joy, and if there was one thing that Hamish prized above all else, it was those moments of joy. And whisky. Oh yes.
Shout From The Void 