Scav
Mostly Harmless
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You liked it, you wanted more, so here is:
SEP-008, Chapter 3.
". . . and in national news, it looks like we're getting reports of a situation brewing at NASA's Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas, today. At the scene from our KHOU affiliate is our local correspondent, Jessica Hartley. Jessica?"
"Hi, Beverly. I'm standing here in front of the main entrance at Johnson Space Center's Mission Control Center. It's normally a busy day on the grounds outside the buildings here, but we're seeing a complete lack of activity outside the buildings. However, we do know that all of the activity is inside. The fact we have at this time is that NASA has apparently lost some control of Space Transportation Vehicle Constitution during an extremely high altitude orbital mission that is on-going. We're not sure yet if all of the details are even available at this time, and flight director Matt Payton has declined any comments as well."
"Jessica, what do you mean when they say they've lost control of that ship? Are they in any danger?"
"Well, there's still no word as to the severity of the situation, but I would have to guess that the situation seems to be serious if they're not communicating with us at this time. The vehicle is currently orbiting the Earth at five hundred -- excuse me. Five thousand miles above the surface, rendering any sort of emergency rescue mission nearly impossible."
"Do you have any idea when NASA might be making any sort of a statement in the near future?"
"I've spoken to their public affairs officer a few minutes ago, and while he didn't have anything useful to say, he assured me that I would know first. Now, at this point I'd like to mention that I've covered the last six years of this project, and I've seen first-hand the work that's gone into building Constitution from the ground-up. This is a space-going vessel that's been given every redundancy imaginable. We know that all of the people involved have been arriving from left and right in the last couple of hours to hash something out. We ought to know something important before long. Live, from Houston, this is Jessica Hartley."
"Well, there you have it," Beverly Adams shrugged into the bright lights behind the camera. "At this point, to reiterate, there is a situation at the Johnson Space Center in Texas. This doesn't mean that whatever situation this is is life-threatening, and it could just be a bug or glitch of some kind. We will, of course, report anything newsworthy that comes along, breaking into our normal programming if necessary. Now, onto National Weather, with your host . . ."
* * *
Edward Foulkes glowered, baring his teeth as he threw the television remote onto the top of his desk. The device clattered as it bounced off the hardwood surface, porpoised over the picture of his wife and daughter, and bounced onto the floor, shedding its battery cover in the process.
He slammed a finger onto his phone intercom.
"Yes, Mr. Foulkes?"
"Audrey, get Payton in here," He growled.
* * *
"Alright, Greg. All you should have left are the VGA and serial cables -- the red one to the red port, and the green one to the green one. Connect and screw 'em in, and then you should have the USB port next to the two serial ports you'll have to plug in."
"Roger that, Houston. Red to red, and green to green. USB next to the serial ports," Pilot Greg Williams replied coolly as he grabbed the free-floating black cables from inside the computer housing in front of him. This was the second time he'd been tempted to waste air time by inquiring about the order of the color-coded cables as if he had mixed them up. The identifying scheme was painfully simple, after all.
". . . and that's a good read-back, Greg."
The cables shinked neatly into their metal plugs at the base of the computer, and he grabbed the grey round-plugged cord and stuffed it neatly into its port.
"Okay, Houston. I've got the two serial cables connected into the back of the computer, and the keyboard cable is also connected. I'm ready to retire the unit into its holding saddle now."
"Roger that, Greg. Uhh . . . try to keep the cables from bunching up in the back; if you feel any resistance on the roll-out mechanism, you let up on that cradle immediately. Let us know when you're done with that."
"Houston, how exactly do I keep cables secure when I can't reach through the computer to get to them?"
There was a moment of silence on the radio. Mission Commander Brian Adkinson looked up from his procedures handbook at Williams, and a quizzical look played across his eyes. Greg Williams felt the scrutiny, looked up, and gave him a frustrated shrug with both hands palms-up.
"Just keep the cables coiled as far back in the space behind the cradle as you can, Greg."
"Roger that," Williams replied shortly. To the air in front of him, he breathed a quick abrasive epithet as he guided the computer into the extended cradle.
The locking mechanisms snapped shut, and he went to work guiding the cables back where they were supposed to go. Then with a slow movement, he guided the cradle back into the wall. The movement was fluid, unbinding, and ended with a reassuring snap!.
"Houston, I've got the computer back into the mount. I say again, GPC three is stowed correctly into the mount."
"That's great news, Greg. Go ahead and put that USB stick into the front of the computer, power it up and have the computer boot off the stick. And we'll have a data entry procedure for you in a moment."
"Roger that, Houston," Williams replied. He pulled the 2" long memory stick off a strip of velcro stuck to the ceiling, stuck it into the port, and pressed the button to power up the computer.
"Let's hope this damn thing didn't get corrupted too," He hissed under his breath as the fans inside the computer whirred to life.
A quick beep, and Williams smiled as he looked at the monitor. It displayed the same thing he saw since his childhood: the standard power on self-test display that played across every computer he'd ever been exposed to. He watched it blaze through each entry, stopping at a boot screen.
Tapping at the arrow keys, he selected the option at the bottom of the list: BOOT FROM USB MEDIA. The screen flickered, the computer rebooted, and he watched with avid interest as the display chronicled an elaborate imaging process at work.
"Constitution, Houston. We're getting updated telemetry; looks like your GPC is on-line and imaging the software right now. Good work, Greg!"
"Thank you, Houston," Williams replied. "What's the story on that procedure?"
"When you get to the main major mode menu, we'll need you to go into system config and do a diagnostic."
"Alright, Houston. It looks like the imaging is complete. I'm seeing . . . yup. I've got a main menu right now," Williams said excitedly. He tapped the keys and ran the diagnostic.
* * *
A quiet pshhhhhhh whispered from in front of Brian Adkinson's feet. His head cocked curiously as he heard it. It lasted barely half a second, and was no louder than a cat's purr over the noise of the electronics inside the compartment.
* * *
After a minute, the results blinked on the screen. Nodding firmly as he read the list, he cleared his throat.
"Houston, Constitution. Diagnostics are green. Computer systems are green. Spacecraft systems are green."
"Roger that, Constitution. You are 'go' for flight test of the RCS system."
"Roger, go for flight test," Williams replied as he vaulted himself into his seat. Sharing an ambivalent look with Adkinson, he reached for and twisted the knob controlling the RCS crossfeed system.
The chemistry hissed as the pumps droned on.
* * *
SEP-008, Chapter 3.
". . . and in national news, it looks like we're getting reports of a situation brewing at NASA's Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas, today. At the scene from our KHOU affiliate is our local correspondent, Jessica Hartley. Jessica?"
"Hi, Beverly. I'm standing here in front of the main entrance at Johnson Space Center's Mission Control Center. It's normally a busy day on the grounds outside the buildings here, but we're seeing a complete lack of activity outside the buildings. However, we do know that all of the activity is inside. The fact we have at this time is that NASA has apparently lost some control of Space Transportation Vehicle Constitution during an extremely high altitude orbital mission that is on-going. We're not sure yet if all of the details are even available at this time, and flight director Matt Payton has declined any comments as well."
"Jessica, what do you mean when they say they've lost control of that ship? Are they in any danger?"
"Well, there's still no word as to the severity of the situation, but I would have to guess that the situation seems to be serious if they're not communicating with us at this time. The vehicle is currently orbiting the Earth at five hundred -- excuse me. Five thousand miles above the surface, rendering any sort of emergency rescue mission nearly impossible."
"Do you have any idea when NASA might be making any sort of a statement in the near future?"
"I've spoken to their public affairs officer a few minutes ago, and while he didn't have anything useful to say, he assured me that I would know first. Now, at this point I'd like to mention that I've covered the last six years of this project, and I've seen first-hand the work that's gone into building Constitution from the ground-up. This is a space-going vessel that's been given every redundancy imaginable. We know that all of the people involved have been arriving from left and right in the last couple of hours to hash something out. We ought to know something important before long. Live, from Houston, this is Jessica Hartley."
"Well, there you have it," Beverly Adams shrugged into the bright lights behind the camera. "At this point, to reiterate, there is a situation at the Johnson Space Center in Texas. This doesn't mean that whatever situation this is is life-threatening, and it could just be a bug or glitch of some kind. We will, of course, report anything newsworthy that comes along, breaking into our normal programming if necessary. Now, onto National Weather, with your host . . ."
* * *
Edward Foulkes glowered, baring his teeth as he threw the television remote onto the top of his desk. The device clattered as it bounced off the hardwood surface, porpoised over the picture of his wife and daughter, and bounced onto the floor, shedding its battery cover in the process.
He slammed a finger onto his phone intercom.
"Yes, Mr. Foulkes?"
"Audrey, get Payton in here," He growled.
* * *
"Alright, Greg. All you should have left are the VGA and serial cables -- the red one to the red port, and the green one to the green one. Connect and screw 'em in, and then you should have the USB port next to the two serial ports you'll have to plug in."
"Roger that, Houston. Red to red, and green to green. USB next to the serial ports," Pilot Greg Williams replied coolly as he grabbed the free-floating black cables from inside the computer housing in front of him. This was the second time he'd been tempted to waste air time by inquiring about the order of the color-coded cables as if he had mixed them up. The identifying scheme was painfully simple, after all.
". . . and that's a good read-back, Greg."
The cables shinked neatly into their metal plugs at the base of the computer, and he grabbed the grey round-plugged cord and stuffed it neatly into its port.
"Okay, Houston. I've got the two serial cables connected into the back of the computer, and the keyboard cable is also connected. I'm ready to retire the unit into its holding saddle now."
"Roger that, Greg. Uhh . . . try to keep the cables from bunching up in the back; if you feel any resistance on the roll-out mechanism, you let up on that cradle immediately. Let us know when you're done with that."
"Houston, how exactly do I keep cables secure when I can't reach through the computer to get to them?"
There was a moment of silence on the radio. Mission Commander Brian Adkinson looked up from his procedures handbook at Williams, and a quizzical look played across his eyes. Greg Williams felt the scrutiny, looked up, and gave him a frustrated shrug with both hands palms-up.
"Just keep the cables coiled as far back in the space behind the cradle as you can, Greg."
"Roger that," Williams replied shortly. To the air in front of him, he breathed a quick abrasive epithet as he guided the computer into the extended cradle.
The locking mechanisms snapped shut, and he went to work guiding the cables back where they were supposed to go. Then with a slow movement, he guided the cradle back into the wall. The movement was fluid, unbinding, and ended with a reassuring snap!.
"Houston, I've got the computer back into the mount. I say again, GPC three is stowed correctly into the mount."
"That's great news, Greg. Go ahead and put that USB stick into the front of the computer, power it up and have the computer boot off the stick. And we'll have a data entry procedure for you in a moment."
"Roger that, Houston," Williams replied. He pulled the 2" long memory stick off a strip of velcro stuck to the ceiling, stuck it into the port, and pressed the button to power up the computer.
"Let's hope this damn thing didn't get corrupted too," He hissed under his breath as the fans inside the computer whirred to life.
A quick beep, and Williams smiled as he looked at the monitor. It displayed the same thing he saw since his childhood: the standard power on self-test display that played across every computer he'd ever been exposed to. He watched it blaze through each entry, stopping at a boot screen.
Tapping at the arrow keys, he selected the option at the bottom of the list: BOOT FROM USB MEDIA. The screen flickered, the computer rebooted, and he watched with avid interest as the display chronicled an elaborate imaging process at work.
"Constitution, Houston. We're getting updated telemetry; looks like your GPC is on-line and imaging the software right now. Good work, Greg!"
"Thank you, Houston," Williams replied. "What's the story on that procedure?"
"When you get to the main major mode menu, we'll need you to go into system config and do a diagnostic."
"Alright, Houston. It looks like the imaging is complete. I'm seeing . . . yup. I've got a main menu right now," Williams said excitedly. He tapped the keys and ran the diagnostic.
* * *
A quiet pshhhhhhh whispered from in front of Brian Adkinson's feet. His head cocked curiously as he heard it. It lasted barely half a second, and was no louder than a cat's purr over the noise of the electronics inside the compartment.
* * *
After a minute, the results blinked on the screen. Nodding firmly as he read the list, he cleared his throat.
"Houston, Constitution. Diagnostics are green. Computer systems are green. Spacecraft systems are green."
"Roger that, Constitution. You are 'go' for flight test of the RCS system."
"Roger, go for flight test," Williams replied as he vaulted himself into his seat. Sharing an ambivalent look with Adkinson, he reached for and twisted the knob controlling the RCS crossfeed system.
The chemistry hissed as the pumps droned on.
* * *
