The ‘Io’ Incident

By Christopher Thompson

FOUR HUNDRED MILLION MILES FROM EARTH,
Richard Delaney is in trouble. Disaster and chaos have befallen
his first voyage, and now it is a fight just to survive. In the
shadow of Io, he discovers that something else is going on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468505139

Christopher Thompson

Christopher Thompson is a retired IT Support Technician and a disabled veteran. He is the author of a poetry anthology titled "Breakfast Anytime" and his current works in progress are the romantic comedy duology "Saving Throw" and "Saving Throw: Critical Hit", the supernatural horror "Gardener of Eden" trilogy, a second poetry anthology titled "Dancing with Angels and Demons", and a compilations of anecdotes of telemarketer calls gone funny. He has won National Novel Writing Month in 2010, 2011, 2012, and 2013 as well as Script Frenzy 2011 and 2012. His poetry has won several awards and accolades. He is the loving and devoted single father of three wonderful children and their pets - mostly bunnies and has a wonderful girlfriend who puts up with his muse.

Book preview

Contents

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

PART 4

PART 5

PART 6

PART 7

PART 8

PART 9

PART 10

PART 11

PART 12

PART 13

PART 14

PART 15

PART 16

PART 17

PART 18

PART 19

PART 20

PART 21

PART 22

PART 23

PART 24

PART 25

PART 26

PART 27

PART 28

PART 29

1

Richard Delaney sat outside the door of interview room four. The palms of his hands were sweating and his mouth was dry. Nervously he fiddled with his blonde wavy hair and checked his wristwatch for the third time in as many minutes. The second hand pointer seemed to pause between each passing moment as if some kind of divine intervention was stretching his discomfort for some reason unknown to him.

He was sitting in a large black leather chair, which was very comfortable, although he felt anything but. Why did interviews affect him so? He wondered to himself, suspecting that it was the same for everyone but that somehow he should be able to cope. He shuffled in the chair and the leather squeaked beneath him. Reading his orders for the umpteenth time despite the fact that he knew them word perfect he still could hardly believe that he was to report to Captain Peterson. He had only been waiting for about ten minutes and was still early for his appointment but it seemed to him as though he’d been sitting in that chair for hours. He gazed idly around at his surroundings, trying to find something of interest to relieve his apprehension.

Coffee?

Uh, what?

Would you like some coffee sir?

He turned and focused on a young and rather attractive woman standing next to him. She was in her early twenties, about five feet, six inches tall. She had large eyes and a friendly smile. Her chocolate brown skin contrasted beautifully with the lemon yellow blouse that she was wearing. He snapped back to reality with an almost palpable jolt, Erm . . . no, thank you. He said, sitting bolt upright and clutching the arms of the chair with his hands, whilst trying to think of something sensible to say and completely failing in the attempt.

She smiled again and then turned and walked down the corridor, leaving behind a subtle and flowery aroma from her perfume.

Idiot! he thought to himself, If you’d said yes, she would have had to come back.

After the brief but pleasant interruption, he remembered why he was here and his nerves returned.

In these dull and sterile surroundings it was easy to forget that you were in a space station, high in Earth orbit. The outer rings of the station rotated around the core so that the centrifugal force they generated matched Earth’s gravity. The long corridors were without windows to avoid the constantly changing view of the Earth, moon and stars becoming disorienting to pedestrians merely moving from one place to another without wishing to feel as though they were on a fairground ride. Looking strait down the corridor he could make out the curve of the ring section that circled the station. It was possible to walk the full circumference of the space station and return at your starting point over a mile later.

Only eight months before, he had sat outside this very office waiting to see Commander Singh. He may even have sat in this very chair . . . he couldn’t remember. So much had happened in the last eight months that it seemed like a lifetime ago. His mind drifted back to the last time he had waited anxiously outside this door and he recalled the occasion with remarkable clarity . . .

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. . . He had been nineteen years old and fresh from the academy, it was the start of a great adventure. His first voyage was aboard the "Columbus". An American ship with an American crew . . . but this was a joint Anglo–American scientific mission and he, along with a few scientists and of course Commander Singh, were British.

The door of the interview room had opened and Commander Singh had stood before him. Richard had never met him before, but a quick deduction had revealed his identity. After all, how many Asian men wearing a British Commanders uniform could there be aboard this space station? he reasoned to himself. The Commander was not as tall as Richard, but broader across the shoulders. His hair was jet black and cut very short without a trace of grey, Richard wondered if he dyed it to keep a more youthful appearance. He seemed to have an aura about him that conveyed experience and knowledge. It made you feel instantly as though you were in safe hands whilst at the same time nervous that you may not be up to the high expectations he would undoubtedly expect. His jaw was very square and he had one of those faces that made you wonder how old he was . . . forty . . . fifty . . . it was hard to tell.

Midshipman Delaney I presume. Said the commander, with an ill–fitting accent.

Y, Yes sir. He stuttered as he stood up quickly, not quite sure whether he should salute or not, as the etiquette of military procedure momentarily escaped him.

Pleased to meet you Mr Delaney. Please come in. The commander stood aside, shrugging off a twinge of pain from his right knee, a remnant of an old rugby injury he had sustained nearly twenty years before. Leaving enough room for Richard to enter he made a casual gesture with his right hand indicating that Richard should enter first.

Richard had been startled somewhat and he ticked himself off for his reaction. He had known that Commander Singh was from Glasgow, but he was still taken aback by an Asian man with a Scottish accent. Over the coming months he would get used to this strange combination and even learn to like it, as he became friends with the Commander.

The interview room was just as functional and austere as the rest of the space station. The walls and ceiling were plain white. Lighting panels that were built–in overhead emitted a carefully diffused light that produced no shadows. Only the occasional picture of a starship or constellation on the otherwise featureless walls broke up the seemingly never–ending sea of white. In the centre of the room was a large wooden table surrounded by four leather chairs. Richard mused at the stark contrast between the sumptuous furniture and the otherwise bland and sterile surroundings. The two men instinctively sat at opposing ends of the table, as though using the wooden expanse as a neutral ground between them. I see from your report that you graduated the academy at the top of your class. Remarked Commander Singh, glancing at him over the top of the paperwork.

Yes sir. He replied, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Your tutors speak very highly of you Mr Delaney, and that is partly the reason for your assignment to this mission.

Partly? Richard enquired through a surprised expression.

Commander Singh paused and looked up at him over the top of his gold–rimmed reading glasses, as though slightly annoyed at the interruption.

I mean, partly Sir? continued Richard, embarrassed again at his inappropriate etiquette.

Relax Mr Delaney. The Commanders voice was reassuring but had an air of authority. However Richard was still struggling to come to terms with his faint but noticeable Scottish accent. This is by no means the first joint space mission between the UK and the US, but it is the first time that a British officer has commanded an American crew aboard an American ship on such a long voyage. As Captain I have the luxury of selecting at least some of my bridge crew. You have shown outstanding natural ability to learn new scientific research Mr Delaney. The admiralty wants to show off our new blood to our transatlantic allies. This is a great responsibility, and one that you should not take lightly.

I assure you sir that I take my responsibilities very seriously. Replied Richard, making a mental note to try and look more confident and less like a frightened rabbit caught in a spot lamp.

Excellent! exclaimed the commander. He stood and offered his right hand towards Richard. "Good to have you aboard Mr Delaney. Report to the Columbus at 0600 tomorrow morning."

Richard drew himself to his full six feet and shook the commander’s hand. Commander Singh was pleased to note to himself that this young man had a firm grip . . . not too tight . . . but not a ‘wet fish’ either. He also took a few moments to size the boy up a bit . . . he was tall and clear skinned. Clean shaven with a shock of yellow–blonde hair . . . good teeth, good manners . . . yes maybe he’d be okay. One couldn’t always tell by first appearances, but this was a good start. Richard on the other hand was amazed when he left the room, at how impossibly brief the interview had been, and whether in fact there had been any necessity for it at all. Captain’s prerogative perhaps he thought to himself? Or maybe the commander hadn’t really any say in his appointment at all . . . but wished to give him the once–over, just to be sure that his superiors hadn’t lumbered him with a useless college–boy, just to fill some kind of quota or target, or as some part of a yet unrealized new project. Whatever the reason, Richard hoped that he had not disappointed his new CO. It was a long way to Jupiter after all.

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The Columbus was a large vessel by the standards that Richard was used to. A huge outer cylinder surrounded the central core. A large tailfin dominated the rear of the fuselage and an exact replica was hidden in the shadow on the other side as he looked at it through the observation window onto the main hangar. Useless in outer space but essential when entering any kind of atmosphere, even a thin one like the wispy air on Mars, but they weren’t going to Mars . . . not this trip . . . they were going much further than that. During interstellar flight the outer cylinder rotated around the centre section, as it did on the space station, and for the same reason . . . gravity.

The crew’s quarters, bridge etc . . . were all in the outer cylinder, arranged radially so that the floor (from the perspective of the occupants) was touching the outer hull and the ceiling was facing the central hub. If it were not arranged in such a fashion, the centrifugal gravity would be acting in the wrong direction when the cylinder was rotating. The centre section contained the engines, fuel and equipment required for the mission. It was an impressive sight, but Richard knew that the days of this type of vessel were numbered. When the new ‘Hyper–drive’ engines went into service in a few years time they would incorporate inertial stabilisers, which included artificial gravity. Richard had learned the theory in the academy, and he eagerly awaited the arrival of these new ships. Everyone in his class at the academy had poured over the technical specifications of the single working prototype ‘Belvedere’ which had yet to prove her ability.

Still daydreaming, he walked through the connecting tube and into the Columbus, a means of access that was only possible when the outer cylinder of the spacecraft was stationary. This meant that the vessel relied on the gravity generated by the space station whilst it was docked. A bald man of about forty–five was sitting behind a console. He had noticed Richard walk in, but ignored him and carried on with whatever it was he was doing. Just fiddling with a few controls it looked like. Richard decided to treat him with the same casual contempt, and walked passed him into the main corridor. The ship seemed to be alive. Even here in space–dock with the engines off–line there were all sorts of noises. People busy about their work. The final touches being completed before a long voyage. He was going to like it here, he knew it.

It seemed to him that the ship’s interior was far more charismatic than that of the space station. Panels in the walls illuminated the corridors, and the floor was covered with what appeared to be pine or teak. Richard was certain that it wouldn’t be real wood, but the effect was pleasing nevertheless. The rooms that branched off at various intervals often had a myriad of white and coloured lamps in the ceiling panel. The subtle blend of colour somehow washed the harshness out of the bright light.

He made his way to the bridge; which was thriving with organised activity. There were people all around. Technicians’ doing whatever it was that those technical types did. The bridge was large and circular. A raised section circled the perimeter in a horseshoe shape. The open end of the horseshoe made way for the large viewing screen. All the way around the wall were computer terminals and workstations. Richard recognised some of the controls instantly, life support, solar shields, thruster control etc . . . but the function of other consoles escaped him for now. The centre of the bridge was lower, but only by two steps. A large chair was positioned in the middle of the floor space. A chair that could revolve and face any member of the bridge crew . . . everyone knew who sat in that chair. A young woman was sitting on the handrail separating the raised section from the floor. She had her back to Richard and he could not make out her features. She wore a red insignia on her uniform denoting her role in some form of engineering position. Her long blonde hair wafted across her back as she concentrated on the palm computer she held in her hand. She didn’t notice Richard at all, and he felt momentarily disappointed at that. The air was warm and still and clean, yet filled with sound. Countless minor noises from the systems on the ship contributed to a background sound that filled the atmosphere with life. In front of the viewing screen was the helm control. Two seats were fixed behind the terminal. The left seat for the helmsman, the right seat for the navigator . . . both under the scrutiny of the Captain. This thought brought Richard’s attention back to the centre seat. A young man was sitting in the Captains chair. He had thick black hair combed back; it was shiny and reflected the overhead lights, separating the blue and red tones of the defused spot lamps. He wore an American uniform . . . a Lieutenant ‘JG’ (Junior Grade). He swivelled round and faced Richard.

Midshipman Delaney reporting for duty sir. Said Richard, feeling much more confident now, than he had the day before in the interview room.

Well you must be that English chap we’ve heard so much about. Said the Lieutenant, with a strong Texan drawl. Using both hands on the arms of the chair, he stood up. Richard was quite sure that he would have been able to stand without assistance but gave the matter no further thought. He was not quite as tall as Richard, but was slightly heavier in build. He looked a little older too . . . but not much. Pleased to meet you son. He said, putting his hand on Richard’s shoulder. Welcome aboard.

Thank you sir. Richard relaxed a little, but wondered as to the accuracy of being called ‘son’ by someone barely older than he. Not important for now he decided.

I’ll show you to your quarters if you like. I’ve got to stretch my legs anyway. The top brass don’t get here for a couple of hours yet. Say, do you fancy some coffee or do you English types always drink tea?

Coffee will be just fine.

Good. My name’s Hank . . . Hank Allman, well Harold really, but everyone calls me Hank.

A pleasure to meet you Lieutenant Allman. Gestured Richard, in an unsuccessful attempt at creating an air of authority of his own, something that he was working hard to perfect, but clearly needed far more practice. He pronounced the rank in the English fashion (Lef–tenant . . . not Lew–tenant, as the Americans always did . . . much to Richard’s irritation.)

Hell boy, save the Lieutenant stuff for when the brass are here. Said Hank, exaggerating lew in his American pronunciation, while patting him on the back, as though they had been friends for years. Call me Hank. Say, what the hell is a Midshipman anyway?

It’s equivalent to an Ensign in the United States ranking system. Richard explained with an unamused scowl.

Well why didn’t you say so? English eccentricity eh?

"Midshipman was a rank in the British Royal Navy before America had even been