Major Ramirez isn't really so bad, regardless of his preferred chess strategies.
He's forty-four, has a wife and two daughters. He's been a satellite station operator for the GDF for the past six years. His youngest has a violin recital coming up at the end of the month, he'll be back on the ground for it, and he's looking forward to it like nothing else. Off rotation, his hobbies include cooking, gardening, and coaching his elder daughter's soccer team. He'll be forty-five before he starts his next rotation. It's been a long few months. Ramirez is a bit stressed, a little worn out by the situation in the Gulf of Mexico, but he's got two alternates backing him up, and the spread of the work is fairly equal. He's even playing a brisk game of chess with Thunderbird 5's operator as they work. It helps keep him grounded, adds a necessary distraction from the tension.
Then the entire sphere of low earth orbit explodes with a screaming distress signal, and the tension rockets upward again.
The sheer magnitude of the signal is only achievable by a handful of stations in orbit. It'll have superseded the transmission status of every emergency broadcast vessel in orbit. Thousands of satellites are being blasted with a call for help, and if the void of space weren't devoid of sound, the noise would be incredible, ringing through the hulls of every satellite it reaches.
Ramirez' entire vessel is reverberating with it, all channels have been overridden by a high, feminine voice, piping the standard distress call. Every display screen flashes the same data, the same distress call that keeps blasting over the comm.
MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY VESSEL THUNDERBIRD 5, SPACE OPERATIONS LICENSE NUMBER AR7756-486C LOCATION: 31.19° North 147.56° West TRANSMISSION MARK: 23:13:42 UTC ORBITAL VELOCITY 4.767 miles / s || 17162 mph ALTITUDE: 257 miles MEDICAL EMERGENCY: OPERATOR NON-RESPONSIVE: VITALS CRITICAL (CSV TRANSMISSION FOLLOWS), REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE AMBULANCE/EVAC REQUESTED SINGLE OPERATOR: JOHNATHAN GLENN TRACY MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY
One of the other pilots aboard slams an override and shuts off the blaring alarm, even as Ramirez scrambles to the main comm unit. There's chatter exploding over every communication line he can see, as other stations scramble over themselves trying to regain their data streams. For the GDF satellites trying to coordinate ops via TB5, all transmissions through the International Rescue Station have dropped in priority. Ramirez has to do a hard reset of his comms array into safe mode, and bring up the raw transmission data for Thunderbird 5. Even this readout flashes deep, urgent red, and Ramirez punches in the necessary codes to respond.
"Thunderbird 5, this is GDF Satellite Charlie-Whiskey-Delta-651. Clear all channels, repeat, clear all channels. We are sending aid, repeat, a medical crew is en route."
The emergency transmission stops. Behind him, Ramirez' colleagues are trying to manage status requests from their ground crews, handling panic and disorder after the drop off in communications. And Ramirez is looking at the medical data that's been sent to his screen and wondering what in the hell's happened. He'd been on the line with Thunderbird 5 not more than a minute ago, and in the intervening time John's fallen into acute cardiac and respiratory distress, temperature spiking and blood pressure dropping.
"Medical vessel comm link and projected ETA requested. Docking protocols requested."
This is that piping, high voice again. Whoever it is sounds young, childish-maybe a trainee? International Rescue are notoriously cagey about allowing anyone aboard their vessels, and certainly Ramirez hadn't heard anything about it. Although-there'd been a call from a Colonel Casey, a few weeks ago, asking after John and his status, whether or not there had been any anomalies in his dispatch. Ramirez had told the Colonel that no, International Rescue's Space Operator did a stellar job. Flawless. Above and beyond. Off the record, he'd even admitted that he wasn't sure what they'd do without the IR satellite. International Rescue has always been their safety net and Major Ramirez is happy to put in a good word for John Tracy. He's a pleasant, diligent kid, who does good work and plays a hell of a chess game.
Regardless, the Colonel had asked that he keep her informed of any major developments in his interactions with International Rescue, and particularly with regard to John Tracy. She hadn't mentioned anything about a second operator. Surely that would have been relevant.
So as far as Ramirez was aware, John's alone on Thunderbird 5. His fingers are skittering over his keyboard, inputting the order to the nearest orbital station with a medic aboard, trying to decide if he should be worried that he doesn't know who he's talking to.
"Broadcast operator, identify please."
"ID: Thunderbird 5. Medical vessel comm link and projected ETA requested. Docking protocols requested."
Must be an intern. Must be a panicky intern who isn't quite aware of emergency procedures, and who is watching her mentor in a state of severe medical distress. Ramirez is prepared to talk her through it. "...Uh. Copy, Thunderbird 5. They should be transmitting their status to you know. What happened to John?"
"There is a medical emergency."
"...do you need first aid instruction? I can route your call to a GDF medic for directions, if you can hold the line-"
"Negative. Closing channel."
And the call cuts off.
The next one he makes is to Colonel Casey.
When John's transmissions all drop into standby, Gordon's still on the line with Scott. He's being thoroughly chewed out for insubordination, and he's not about to let the moment pass, when it's obvious to him that John's pitching a fit of his own.
Gordon's temper flares, and he seizes onto just how stupid and irresponsible John's being. John and his stupid killer space station. "Now it's John throwing a temper tantrum, Scott, you gonna go cram yourself up his ass instead? I've got a job to do. I don't want his crazy murder computer on my damn 'bird ever again, end of-"
The standby signal flickers from gold into red, and the words "Medical Override" begin to flash across the holocomm. Scott's call drops immediately and Gordon freezes as a transmission from TB5 appears on the screen-John's vitals. Gordon's got basic EMT training, they all do. And these readouts are bad.
His eyes flicker over the various channels. Scott and Alan are both hailing 'Five to no apparent response, Virgil's opened a line to Brains on Tracy Island. Gordon butts his way into this call.
"Virge, what the hell-" he starts, but Brains cuts him off, talking over him in response to something Virgil's already asked.
"I d-don't know, Thunderbird 2, I j-just got the s-same transmission. Full vital readouts, on a recurring update. A-as near as I can tell he's having some sort of seizure. I'm trying to-"
"He's what?" Gordon interrupts, startled. "He was fine, maybe kind of pissed off with me, but-"
"Thunderbird 4, clear the line," Virgil snaps. "Brains, Thunderbird 1's trying to hail him, but we're still running ops. Get Scott a line to GDF command, they're gonna need to step up. We've gotta assume John's out of the picture, and if we're all flying blind out here, we need to break off. We can't coordinate and we're gonna do more harm than good. I've got Alan in a pod that needs recovery, and Gordon's still in the middle of-I don't even know, but he'll have to abort..."
Like hell. Not on Gordon's watch. "I've got it, I've got it, I can manage. Get Alan."
"Status?" Virgil's gotten clipped, brusque, taking on Scott's command. Gordon can still see Scott's radio line trying to flash through to TB5's systems.
"I've gotta rig a new comm module onto this cutter, but it won't take long. What's wrong with Thunderbird 5?"
"No w-way of knowing, he's unresponsive. Whatever it is, it's serious. If I can get a line to EOS, I can-"
Gordon's hands clench on the controls involuntarily, and he curses."EOS. I knew there was something wrong, I knew it wasn't John! EOS-"
Virgil mutes him. Virgil's always been a lot freer with comm overrides than Scott has. Scott runs IR like a democracy. When Virgil takes command, it's a dictatorship. "Gordon, you've got no idea what's happened, so shut up. If you're not going to abort then get in there and do your goddamn job. Get it done and be ready for recovery in t-minus ten."
There's no arguing with Virgil. Virgil knows exactly how Gordon gets when he's spooked, when he can't tell what's going on and needs to lash out at something. Scotty would be trying to talk him down. Virgil just kicks his ass back on track. It's super effective.
"...FAB, Virgil. Keep me posted. Thanks."
Alan's on top of a low rise of earth, a hastily constructed dike outside the edge of some nameless coastal city. Alan hates to be terrestrial, earthbound. Pods are slow and unwieldy, and if he's not flying then he feels useless. He's been working too long to remember where the hell he is or how long they've been at it, it's just one endless patch job after another. The pod's interior is hot and sweaty, the humidity in the region fogs up the windshield and brings his visibility down to next to nothing. But he's not looking outside, his gaze is fixed on the pod's stripped down communications module, no holocomm, audio only. Just this side of useless, just like him.
He feels especially useless as another call fails to connect to TB5 and he slams his fists against the pod's stupid, clunky controls. Alan drops off the line just long enough to acknowledge Virgil, en route to pick him up, but he wishes more than anything he'd been held back. Alan has hated every single time he's been left on standby, left in reserve with Thunderbird 3. But he'd have endured every last wasted hour and a thousand more all over again, if he could just have stayed home this one time. He's been counting the minutes as they tick by, since John's faltering heart and lungs had been quantified on his screen. One minute, suited up. Two, clear of the launch track. Three, loaded into the cockpit. Four, initiating his launch sequence. Five-
Five.
Alan tries again. And-
"Alan Tracy."
It's not the voice he wants to hear, but he'll take it. "*EOS! What happened? Where's John? Is he... is... you have to help him. Help him, EOS, please."
"A medical shuttle has been deployed. ETA is two minutes. I've done my best."
The way she says it sounds so dire. The way an updated readout of John's vitals flashes across his screen makes it look even worse. Alan feels tears prickling in his eyes, his throat feels like it's swelling closed as he swallows. "What...what happened? He was fine. Johnny? EOS, make it so he can hear me. C-can he hear me? John?"
"He's not conscious. Readouts indicate-"
"Please."
EOS doesn't respond. But the primary comm channel goes green and Alan chokes on a sob over the soft, staticky sound of the radio line. He lifts his face up, heavenward, and prays to his brother. "Johnny, stay with me. Okay? It's me, it's Alan. Just hang on, John, they're coming, they'll get you and it'll be okay. It's gonna be okay, it'll be okay. Listen, Johnny, you said you were coming home, right? It's just, it's early-that's all. Couldn't even make it 'til the end of the week. Just couldn't wait, could you? Heh. They're gonna bring you home, and you'll be safe. So…so don't die, John, please don't die. EOS is here, a-and I'm here, and we're both with you, so you can't go. You've just gotta hang on a little longer, and you can do it, John. Please. Please. Don't go."
The line remains open, and Alan's going to stay on it. Some fragile part of his big brother is still hanging on, and as long as it is, Alan's going to be damn sure his big brother knows that he isn't alone.
And neither is Alan. Another voice, soft and small and questionably inhuman, joins his. "Please, John. Don't go."
That was sure a cliffhanger to leave things on. Probably it's fortunate that the story continues elsewhere.
has a limited selection of my work, and will only contain the first part of this story. This concludes part 1 of Heavenward; it continues in "the_iterated_prisoners_dilemma". You should check the links in my profile for more. Here is the prologue:
The iterated prisoner's dilemma is a concept proposed in the study of game theory. Two parties, separated from one another, are believed to be guilty of wrongdoing. They are given the choice to betray their partner in exchange for a lighter sentence, or, to keep their silence. Neither knows what their cohort will do.
If both parties maintain their secrecy, neither can be charged. If both betray one another, then their sentence will be split. However, if one party stays silent while the other lays blame, then the latter will have sentenced their partner to death, in exchange for their freedom.
Iterated, this dilemma repeats, and both parties proceed with the knowledge of what their partner chose, when betrayal was an option.
Perfectly logical actors will always choose betrayal. From the standpoint of the pure, self-serving rationality of the individual, betraying one's partner is the only sure chance of survival. Silence risks death.
John and EOS have already played this game. In an abstract sense, they play it every day. But they've only ever played it with each other.
And it's only meant to be a thought experiment.
Thank you for reading.