The Tethered Man Read online

  THE TETHERED MAN

  JOHN MICHAEL MCNAMARA

  THE TETHERED MAN

  THE TETHERED MAN

  * * *

  © Copyright 2017

  by John Michael McNamara

  All rights reserved

  * * *

  ISBN 978-1-9997711-1-9

  * * *

  1st edition

  published in 2017 by

  Strangesmith Press Ltd

  20-22 Wenlock Road

  London

  N1 7GU

  * * *

  www.strangesmithpress.com

  DEDICATION

  In memory of

  Kathleen Bernadette McNamara

  (1932-2017)

  * * *

  i gcónaí im chroí

  The Tethered Man

  The word is life; the sentence, death.

  The paradox is taking breath.

  COURIER J

  SECTION ONE

  * * *

  Courier J.

  Ship’s voice, at once deep and soft, neither male nor female, intrudes upon my poetic reverie. I’m stretched out in a Space hammock. A book of poems is open in my hands.

  Courier J?

  I blink, and look at the cabin ceiling.

  ‘What is it, Ship?’

  Courier J, I apologise for disturbing you. There is an emergency.

  ‘What is it, Ship?’

  To read poetry you must be in a special, poetic kind of mood. It’s a mood that takes time to settle into.

  Ship has wrecked my poetic mood.

  There is a problem with my Quantum Field Coil Phase Alignment Grid.

  ‘Oh, is there now…’

  I snap my poetry book shut. I swing my legs over the side of the Space hammock and wriggle forward until my feet touch the cabin floor.

  I invoke Safety Protocol Alpha-seven. You and the other Couriers are obliged to carry out an external inspection and repair. As you can see, we have dropped out of hypertravel.

  I glance at the cabin porthole. Space looks the same as it ever does. Night-black and empty. I nod as if I’m an old Space dog who knows things.

  ‘Safety Protocol Alpha-seven. Of course. Have the other Couriers been notified? And remind me again. What do you want us to do? What exactly do you want me to do?’

  Taking your first question first, I am currently engaged in parallel conversations with each of your fellow Couriers. They are all suiting up in preparation for their EVAs.

  ‘Suiting up for their what?’

  For an Extra-Vehicular Activity.

  ‘Is this some kind of drill? I’ve heard about drills.’

  This is not a drill. You were all trained with this eventuality in mind.

  ‘I know. I do kind of remember.’

  That is fortunate, Courier J. Three of your fellow Couriers claim to have zero recollection of their EVA training. I am currently instructing them on precisely how to fasten their Spacesuits. Which does not bode well. This is an emergency situation.

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  Courier J, are you aware of the function fulfilled on a Ship by the Quantum Field Coil Phase Alignment Grid?

  ‘Vaguely,’ I say. ‘But go on, please remind me.’

  To facilitate safe hypertravel, a Ship’s Quantum Field Coils must be precisely al-

  ‘Never mind, Ship,’ I say. I toss my poetry book onto a chair for later. ‘I was being rhetorical. I’m totally ready for action. Where’s my Spacesuit?’

  A door-sized section of the cabin wall slides back without a sound. The closet contains a pale grey Spacesuit hanging limp on a plain wire coathanger. Beside it on a shelf is the giant glass bubble of a Spacehelmet.

  Right here.

  Sooner than expected, I’m fully Spacesuited and heading for the maintenance bay with my bubble Spacehelmet tucked beneath one arm.

  Imagine me walking along Ship’s corridors in slow motion, with stirring music playing in the background.

  Imagine I’m not scared.

  ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ I say aloud without meaning to.

  I beg your pardon, Courier J?

  Ship hears everything.

  Ships are the same wherever you go. A Ship is just a giant sensor array that can carry passengers. Nothing happens inside a Ship that goes unnoticed.

  ‘I’m a bit nervous, Ship,’ I say. ‘This’ll be my very first EVA. As far as I can remember.’

  Indeed, Courier J. For all you know, this might be your hundredth EVA.

  I enter the maintenance bay, grinning for the public.

  My five fellow Couriers got here first. Five stiff Spacesuited bodies, all rotating in an eerie, synchronised manner, turn to look at me.

  Other people. The self-declared centre of the Universe.

  I keep my grin fixed in place, and manage not to shudder.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  I’m the last arrival. I’m the least prepared. I haven’t even got my bubble Spacehelmet on yet. They’ve all got their bubble Spacehelmets on. They’re all prepared.

  I beam my grin at each Courier in turn. People appreciate a grin, particularly the mischievous sort of grin I’m doing here. I would like to get along with them. We’re going to be cooped up together on Ship for a few weeks.

  I get a few muffled Hellos in return. Then, in a peculiar collective silence, they watch me lower my bubble Spacehelmet over my head – which takes more time than it should.

  I don’t want the bottom rim of the Spacehelmet to touch the sides of my head on its way down. It’s a little game I can play with myself. I take my time playing it.

  Not because I’m scared. I wouldn’t say I’m scared of going outside Ship. Or out into Space.

  ‘Apprehensive’ is more like it. ‘Apprehensive’ would be the right word.

  I get the feeling that the other Couriers (they’re all still watching me in that weird group silence) are feeling apprehensive too. They must be. They have to be. They’ve all got to be feeling somewhat queasy of stomach and somewhat light in the head. Just like me.

  We wouldn’t be human if we weren’t feeling this way.

  People are all exactly the same, when you get right down to it.

  I lower the bubble Spacehelmet down past my jaw and firmly onto the neck of the Spacesuit. I rotate it three times and there’s a satisfying hiss followed by a just-as-satisfying mechanical thunk.

  It now seems natural to give the other Couriers a jaunty double thumbs-up. So I do that. I’m ready. I’m Courier J and I’m ready for anything.

  ‘We’re all yours, Ship!’ I shout at the ceiling, and give the people another one of my characterful grins.

  One by one we pass through Ship’s airlock and float out into Space. Out into the unplumbed, inky depths of-

  No. You’re not getting Space. Not from me. Not this time.

  So if you’re expecting me to gaze around in awe and describe the wonders of Eternity through the lens of the endless infinity of Space, and that sort of thing – you’re going to be disappointed.

  I’m in deepest, darkest Space. There’s nothing to see in Space. There’s nothing to think about in Space.

  When you’ve seen and thought about Space once, you’ve seen and thought about Space forever.

  I’m the last one to emerge, bringing up the rear behind the other Couriers. I watch and copy their movements. Each seems oddly competent at this whole Spacesuit-wearing, extra-vehicular business.

  ‘Ship,’ I say privately.

  Yes, Courier J?

  ‘Are you assisting the other Couriers in any way?’

  In what way do you mean, Courier J?

  ‘Are you giving them verbal instructions as we go? Are you guiding them step-by-step?’
/>   No, Courier J. No.

  Outside the airlock, I grab my Tether from the anchor rail that runs along Ship’s hull. The other Couriers have already seized their Tethers and set off along their separate branches of the anchor rail.

  In Space Training School, the first thing they teach you is always to Tether oneself. Outside the confines of a Ship, you must be Tethered. Always. There is never any reason not be Tethered. If you’re out in Space and you’re not Tethered to Ship, you’re as good as dead. If nothing’s tying you to anything, you might as well be dead. So get yourself Tethered.

  They drill it right into you in Space Training School, until it sticks.

  Tethered to my strip of anchor rail, I pull myself hand over hand along Ship’s rotund belly.

  ‘Ready,’ says a voice on the open channel.

  ‘Me too,’ says another voice.

  ‘With you all in a tick,’ I tell them between pauses for breath.

  I am disgruntled. Not only was I the last Courier to emerge from the airlock. I’ve also been assigned to Quantum Field Coil Phase Alignment Grid A. Quantum Field Coil Phase Alignment Grid A is on the farthest side of Ship from the airlock. I’ve got the longest journey to my destination.

  ‘Get a move on, J, will you?’ says a voice over the open channel.

  ‘Patience,’ I reply. ‘I’m getting there now.’

  Nobody has any patience.

  My fellow Couriers have reached their Alignment Grids and they are waiting for me.

  We have to do this Alignment Grid maintenance thing in unison.

  All together, all at the same time, or it won’t work.

  There are solid, quantum reasons why this is so.

  You have arrived, Courier J.

  ‘Thank you, Ship. I had noticed.’

  I look down. Alignment Grid A is behind a transparent panel. Inside are two old-school mechanical levers, placed side-by-side. They have to be pulled at the same time. They’re designed to be pulled by human hands. This is one of the many features that makes Ships reliant upon humans and unlikely to get any crazy ideas into their figurative heads.

  ‘Courier N, ready,’ says a voice.

  ‘Courier Y, reporting ready,’ says a woman’s voice.

  ‘Courier A, ready…’

  ‘Um, Courier H, ready,’ says a voice.

  ‘Courier D,’ says Courier D. Marks for brevity.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. I’m happy it’s my turn. ‘Courier J speaking, and I’m finally in position.’

  Curious detail. In speaking, we have automatically followed the same order in which we emerged from Ship. We’ve instinctively paralleled that arbitrary hierarchy.

  It gives me an idea for a poem.

  I’m not saying that a poem about an arbitrary hierarchy would be a great poem. Not many poems are great. Perhaps less than a fraction of one percent of poems are great. Most people would prefer not to read a poem at all, great or otherwise. And if they must read a poem, they want it to be about a flower. Or an old woman’s hands. Or a poignantly abandoned cottage. Things like that.

  A poem about people’s instinctual hierarchical behaviours would have to be really great just to be a good poem. And probably nobody would want to read it anyway.

  I’ll have to think about it later.

  I flip open the panel. The Alignment Grid levers feel cold even through my Spacegloves. Twin orange status lights blink up at me. I’m going to make the lights green again.

  I glance over my shoulder. The Spacesuit’s neck moves with supple ease, like the organic, fleshy neck it mimics.

  I inspect my Tether visually, as you’re supposed to do, and give it a firm tug, as you’re supposed to do. I am tightly Tethered. I am not going anywhere.

  I don’t look up. I don’t look out into Space. There’s nothing to see there.

  Thank you, Couriers, for your prompt response. This has been a smooth deployment carried out well within operational parameters. I will ensure that a note to that effect is placed in each of your service records.

  Hmmm.

  I think back to how this started.

  I was laying in my Space hammock.

  I was reading a poetry book.

  I will count backwards from five. On my mark, pull the levers. You must all perform the action within point-two-five seconds of each other, or the operation will fail. Do you all understand?

  Nobody answers. It’s like one of those moments in school when the teacher asks a question that everybody knows the answer to, but nobody wants to be seen to be the one who speaks.

  ‘I understand,’ I say.

  One by one, the other Couriers all say they understand as well.

  And we’re ready to perform the operation.

  Ship begins the countdown.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three…

  My Spacegloved hands grip the levers. And now I do look up.

  From here, over the curve of Ship’s hull, I can see one of my fellow Couriers. Courier Y, I think it is.

  Two…

  You can always spot a woman in a Spacesuit. It’s the narrow shoulders. Always a giveaway.

  I give Courier Y a wave. I don’t know why. She won’t wave back. She’s not even looking in my direction. Why would she be?

  One…

  I get both hands back in place, ready for Ship’s final MARK.

  It doesn’t come. Ship doesn’t say it.

  Instead, my Spacehelmet is covered by a rapid web of fine cracks. Each crack sprouts another crack, which sprouts another crack in turn. It takes one second for the Spacehelmet glass to become an opaque, frosted bubble. There’s a pause, long enough for me to think that nothing else will happen now and I’m fine. Then my Spacehelmet explodes.

  The tiny, needle-splintered shards of my Spacehelmet drift off into Space.

  I stare after them in a strange kind of peaceful stupefaction.

  At this point I’m not really wondering why what just happened, happened. At this point I don’t care why my Spacehelmet just exploded.

  I’m exposed to vacuum.

  My head is naked to Space.

  This and this alone is my concern.

  What happens next?

  You think you know what happens next.

  Everybody knows what happens to somebody exposed to the vacuum of Space. Everybody knows what happens to our wet, fleshy, human bodies – delicate, flabby vessels of mucus and blood – when we’re exposed to the vacuum of Space.

  I must soon explode and die – spectacularly.

  The exploding and the dying will happen at more or less the same instant.

  Any moment now, the Universe will be sprayed with miscellaneous bits and pieces of goo that used to be me.

  There’s just one thing wrong with that whole exploding-in-Space outcome. It’s not true.

  In certain circumstances, yes, granted, a human exposed naked to vacuum might explode.

  But it depends upon a range of factors. It depends upon your body type, your medical history, what you’ve eaten that day, all kinds of things.

  And it would take a while. The physical processes that cause the exploding would take some time to do the job. In most cases, they would take long enough for the human in question to die of something else: suffocation.

  Suffocation usually kills a human being exposed to the airless vacuum of Space.

  Before I ever get the chance to explode, I am going to die from simple lack of air.

  The first thing I do is to hold my breath. I can’t take credit for quick thinking. Instinct precedes thought.

  I hold my breath, and look around in wild panic. My face feels a bit chilly, the tip of my nose in particular, and there’s a blurriness at the edge of vision. My heart thuds against my chest. There’s a rushing sensation in my ears.

  In the distance, above Ship’s near horizon, a narrow shape floats free of the hull. Courier Y again. Her Tether is tangled around her torso. Her arms are windmilling, her legs kicking. She convulses once, twi
ce, and becomes still.

  I turn my head. Something appears over Ship’s other horizon. Rising up, Tether drifting beneath it, comes another limp, Spacesuited body.

  There’s an expanding, clawing feeling within me. I’ve held my breath as long as I can. I need to get to an open airlock, right now, this instant, or I’m dead.

  I’m a long way from any airlock.

  The smooth whiteness of Ship’s fat hull extends in every direction.

  Now that I’m about to die, I can see the ultimate truth. Life isn’t about anything else, or for the sake of anything else. Life is an end in itself. I should have seen the ultimate truth all along.

  For an instant I marvel at the elegant simplicity of the ultimate truth.

  I wish I hadn’t seen the ultimate truth when it’s far too late to do anything about it.

  I will hold my breath until the very end.

  I wait for my life to flash before my eyes. At the end of your life, the neat, complete story of your life is meant to flash before your eyes.

  In my case, there’s a problem. The problem being that I don’t have a life. Not in the same way you do.

  I am a Realms Courier. A Realms Courier does not have a life. There is no time to explain what I mean by this, but trust me. It is the truth.

  I’m also a poet. Really.

  Being a poet might be the most humorous occupation in the Universe. The idea of somebody being a poet usually makes people laugh. That’s people for you.

  I am a poet. And thus, the composition of a few lines of verse to mark the occasion of my death would seem appropriate.