The Sunlight Express

Sssssssss

What is that? Sounds like a pissed off snake hissing in my face.

Sssssssss

Open my eyes, everything’s blurry. Head’s full of cotton. No snakes though.

Sssssssss

Go away, I’m trying to sleep. Close my eyes. The floor’s as good a place for a nap as any.

Sssssssss

“Warning, oxygen levels are critical. User action required.”

Who the hell's that? So loud. Sounds like they’re talking right into my ears.

Sssssssss

“User death is imminent. Necessity for user action overrides concern for increased oxygen consumption: administering epinephrine.”

Sharp pain in my right leg. I swat at my thigh, trying to drive off whatever just bit or stabbed me.

Sssssssss

“User death is imminent. User action required.”

Open my eyes again, everything’s still a little out of focus. Hard to keep my head up. Heart’s starting to pound.

“What action? What’re you talking about?” My voice sounds like it’s been dragged over a mile of gravel.

“Breach detected in faceplate. Recommend immediate repair.”

Breach in the faceplate? I squint and look at the space in front of my face. Looks like the world’s divided into right and left, with a fair-sized crack separating the two. A little white cloud is venting out from the crack, away from me.

Sssssssss

Head’s clearing a little, but now my chest hurts. I think I’m hyperventilating. Plus I’m getting angry.

“Where am I?” Shouldn’t have shouted, throat’s raw enough as is.

“You are aboard the SMV Prometheus.”

Prometheus? That’s the dude who stole fire from the gods.

Fire from the gods.

Eyes are open wide now.

“No, where is the Prometheus right now?”

“Estimated distance from departure point: 15 million, 300 and 28 thousand, 2…”

“Stop!” 15 million? That’s just under halfway. That ain’t good.

Sssssssss

I look at the crack in the faceplate. It’s no hairline fracture. There’s a shard of something lodged in the hard plastic bubble protecting my face, and those clouds rushing out past it are what’s left of my air.

“Breach detected in faceplate. Recommend immediate repair.”

“Yeah, I got that!” I curl into a ball to bring my legs closer, and fumble around for a second at the pouches on my legs. Through the thick padding of the suit’s gloves I feel my fingers find the small hoop I’m looking for. I pull it out. Duct tape.

Smart guy me, I’d folded the end of the length over itself to make a tab. I pull a strip out from the reel and put it over where the largest of the clouds is venting out. My other hand fishes out a pocket knife from another pouch. I cut the end off the tape, smooth it down. It’s not great, I can still see mist rising from the other side. Cut a few more strips of tape off, plaster them onto the plastic.

“How’s that?”

Sss

“Breach detected in faceplate. Recommend immediate repair.”

Guess she’s a perfectionist. “Yeah, stop telling me that. How much air I got left?”

“At the current rate of consumption, one hour and twenty minutes of oxygen remain.”

“One hour and twenty minutes?! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“User death is imminent. User action required.”

“I got that! You can stop!” The voice goes silent. I’m too amped up on synthetic adrenaline to notice if it sounds sullen.

“Okay, okay, okay, how do I get more oxygen? Suit, are there any emergency oxygen tanks stored on this thing?”

“The SMV Prometheus does not carry any additional reserves of oxygen.”

Okay, that definitely sounded a little vindictive. “What? Why? We’re in space, everything’s got an extra can of O2 on it.”

“Vessels without crew are exempt from emergency oxygen requirements.”

Oh. Right. The Prometheus is supposed to be fully automated. The only thing the miners on Mercury have to do is load it up with ore. Once it’s full, they send it off down the track. After it’s out of Mercury’s gravity well, the Sun does the rest. As soon as we’re close enough, the walls around me will slide up to let the light in.

The train’s made out of something like Osmium. It’ll only start melting once it hits over 5000°. The iron ore’ll liquify before it even reaches 3000°. Any tanks of oxygen put on board for a crew that doesn’t exist would start exploding long before we reached the point where we’d need to put in a comma to show how hot things are gonna get. I figure that probably includes the almost empty tank I’ve got strapped to my back. It’s a cold comfort that my body won’t cremate until it’s close to 2000°.

“Heh, ‘cold’ comfort.”

“There are no cooling elements aboard the SMV Prometheus.”

Okay, now you’re just being snarky.

“So, I’m almost out of air. There’s no more O2 on board. And even assuming I could get enough for the round trip, as soon as the sides open, I’m cooked. Also, why’s it feel like the hand of God’s trying to push me down onto the floor?”

“The SMV Prometheus’s primary method of locomotion is drawn from the Sun’s gravity well. As the train approaches, gravity increases, leading to a proportional increase in perceived acceleration.”

Morbid curiosity, “Will the G’s get bad enough that my body gets turned to paste?”

Self preservation: “Wait. Don’t answer that.”

Crisis mode: “Is there any way to call Mercury and tell them I’m onboard? Get them to turn the train around?”

“The SMV Prometheus does not carry any communications capability.”

Yeah, that makes sense. No crew, no need to communicate. But what if something technical went wrong on the way out?

“Can the Prometheus itself receive commands from Mercury to stop and come back once the train’s on its way?”

“The SMV Prometheus does not carry any communications capability.”

“Seriously? They could’ve heat-shielded it or something.”

“All electronics aboard the SMV Prometheus are heat-shielded. Commands to relevant systems aboard the SMV Prometheus are pre-programmed and function automatically without the need for external input.”

Guess that also makes sense. The Prometheus is basically just a bunch of ore carts strung together and put on a metal loop. No need for anything fancy. Even if anything did go wrong, the whole roundtrip only takes a few hours to slingshot around the Sun.

“Hold on a second. There’s heat shielding on this thing?”

“All electronics aboard the SMV Prometheus are heat-shielded.”

You’re a big help.

I look around. It’s dark in here, until the blinds come up the only light is what’s coming from my suit’s external floods. Sure enough though, there’s what looks like a pipe running along the ceiling corner. Inside it is probably the wiring that provides the power to the motors that open the walls.

“Are the electronics themselves heat-shielded, or are they just surrounded with a layer of whatever this train’s made out of?”

“The SMV Prometheus’s electronics are protected by redundant heat-shielding: osmium piping provides the first layer of heat shielding. Individual wires are further insulated by..”

“I don’t care what they’re made from, would it keep me cool enough to survive the trip?”

“Insufficient data.”

“Okay…is there enough of that internal insulation to cover me up with?”

“Specify source.”

Ah, you know I’m onto something, don’t you? “Is there enough insulation around the wires, within this cart, to cover my entire body?”

“No.”

Damn. “Alright. Is there enough insulation around the wires, within the Prometheus, to cover my entire body?”

“Yes.”

Well that’s a start. One problem at a time. I get up from where I’m still crouched on the floor. It’s not easy, the G’s are making it feel like I’m about twice as heavy. I amble over to the nearest wall and give that piping a good look. Solid, smooth lengths of metal, but every few feet there are screws. Someone must’ve had the foresight to figure that these things would need an electrician every now and again. I raise my hand with the pocketknife to one of the screws. The blade’s just small enough that it can fit into the grooves of the screw.

“Righty tighty, lefty loosey.”

Keeping my arm raised in the increasing gravity plays hell on my shoulders so it takes me a good five minutes to unscrew this one section of piping, but when it finally comes free, I’m face to face with a bundle of wires coated in that golden space foil they like to put on probes. With a fair amount of cutting and yanking, I separate one end of the wires with my knife.

“So far, so good.”

I repeat the process on the far side of the pipe, again taking up another 5 minutes of my remaining air, and then cut the exposed wiring there as well. Freed from the rest of the electronic lines they were just attached to, I give the bundle a yank and begin pulling it out of its protective pipe.

Once I’ve got the whole shebang in my hands, I’ve got about 60 feet of wiring piled up around me. Sounds like a lot, but the wires are small, and there isn’t much of that foil around them. Good thing there’s another pipe on the left side of the train.

20 minutes later, my pile’s grown to 120 feet. Carefully, I make little cuts across the golden foil and remove all of it from the wires. Once that’s done, I cut off strips of duct tape and wind them around themselves so that they’re sticky on both sides. One side I layer with the golden strips, and once there’s no more tape showing, I stick the other side onto my suit. Homemade scale-mail. My history teachers would be so proud.

By the time I’m done, I’ve got my arms and legs covered, as well as most of my chest. Running low on tape, but we’ll deal with that later.

“Okie dokie, looks like we’ve done about as much damage in here as we can. There’s more of this insulating stuff in the other cars?”

“The SMV Prometheus’s electronics are protected by redundant heat-shielding..”

“Gotcha. So. How do we get from this cart into the next one? I don’t see any doors.”

“There are no doors leading into or out of any of the SMV Prometheus’s ore carts.”

Oh duh. This is a solar smelter, not a passenger train. The ore’s loaded in from the sides, the train takes off on the loop, the doors open to let in the sunlight and smelt the ore, then when the train’s back at Mercury, the smelted ore’s offloaded from the sides again.

And I just removed the wiring that provides the electricity to open and close the sides.

“Jesus Christ, if it’s not one thing, it’s another with you.”

Alright, this is just a little problem. All I’ve gotta do is figure out how to apply an electric current into the motors to raise the blinds.

“There any power sources I can access from inside the cart?”

“There are no power sources located within the SMV Prometheus’s ore carts.”

“How about outlets?”

“There are no power outlets located within the SMV Prometheus’s ore carts.”

“Was worth a shot. Any ideas?”

“Insufficient data.”

Huh. Sounds like you’re hiding something. “Insufficient data on what?”

“Insufficient data pertaining to voltage required to activate SMV Prometheus’s exterior shielding.”

Exasperated sigh. The hell do I care what voltage the doors take? I’m asking about…oh.

“Suit, you got a buncha volts, amps, and watts running through you right now, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And do you have an outlet that I can access?”

“All SODs come equipped with a universal outlet for in-mission power resupplies.”

“Love it.”

No idea if the suit and the train use AC or DC, if the wattage or amperage or whatever will line up right, but it’s the only shot I’ve got. I rummage through the pile of discarded wiring until I find a length of, I’m guessing copper, and then make my way back to where I removed the protective piping along the wall. I press the floodlights right up against the now-empty space, and sure enough, there’s a hole drilled in there that probably leads to the mechanism that’s supposed to raise the blinds. With as much dexterity as I can manage, I stick the copper wire into the hole down as far as it’ll go, then I open up the chest panel on my suit. Nestled right into the center of the thing is what looks like, I shit you not, an outlet like what you’d find in your kitchen.

“Well, so much for not sticking things in sockets.”

I’m just about to stick the copper into the outlet, it’s so close I bet little arcs of electricity are dancing between them, when I stop.

“Holy shit. You trying to get us both killed?.”

I woke up on the right side of the train. The piping on the right side of the train was where I started. Meaning I’m on the left side now.

The side of the train that’s facing the Sun.

I pull my hand away slowly, as if by moving it too fast I might somehow cause an errant spark to fly between the wire and the outlet. We might still be a good few million miles away, but if those blinds open, I’m cooked.

So, rinse and repeat, but this time on the right side of the train. One end of the wire goes into the hole, the other end goes into the suit’s socket.

Nothing happens. I try again. Nothing happens again.

“Suit, you providing power to the outlet?”

“Power is being provided to this SOD’s outlet.”

“Alright. Then…can you change the volts or whatever to match up with what this door needs?”

“Insufficient data pertaining to voltage required to activate..”

“Don’t be obstinate. Can you cycle through your available power settings so that we can try and open this door? Please?”

“Cycling through available power settings.”

A second later the door shudders upwards. If we were in atmo, I imagine it would’ve creaked and groaned. But, y’know, no sounds in space and all.

Looking out, I see space. Endless black with more points of far off light than you can see from anywhere back on Earth. From where I’m standing, they all look like they’re standing still. I know it’s an illusion. Space is a lot emptier than you might think. There aren’t clouds and dust and little gray men flying all about. It’s just void. Thing is, we of the human variety kinda rely on visual cues to let us know how fast things are moving. Without those, our brains just go ‘huh, all’s good here’.

So, morbid curiosity once again: “Suit, how fast are we going?”

“Velocity of the SMV Prometheus while between 15 million and 10 million miles away from Sol averages between 4,000 and 7,000 miles per hour. Based on departure time, our current estimated velocity is 5,000 miles per hour.”

I wonder if that makes me the fastest man alive.

“Well, we got the door open. Now, is it possible to get from this cart to another one?”

“Volume between the SMV Prometheus’s ore carts exceeds user’s maximum possible reach. Volume between the SMV Prometheus’s ore carts exceeds user’s maximum possible thrust.”

“I take it there’s no railing?”

“The SMV Prometheus is not equipped with railings between ore carts.”

“Can I sort of, let myself fall onto the cart behind us? There’s nothing out there to slow me down, so if I step out of this cart, I’ll continue moving at about the same velocity relative to the train, right? Then, because the train’s constantly accelerating, the cart behind us will overtake me, and I can grab onto it then. Right?”

“Suggested course of action is in breach of multiple health and safety ordinan..”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

So, I can maybe exit this cart, ‘free fall’ at 5,000 mph until the next cart catches up to me, then possibly grab hold of that one, get inside, rip out its electronics shielding, and cover myself with that. Still leaves us with the oxygen issue, but more importantly, how the hell do we open up the next cart?

“Any bright ideas on how we can get inside another cart now that we’re moving?”

“Error.”

“Error? The hell does that mean?”

“Recommended course of action violates the Intraplanetary Piracy Act.”

Well that sounds fun. “Without recommending, what course of action would enable access to one of Prometheus's ore carts after the train has departed Mercury?”

“User is operating a SODs Mark III.”

“So?”

“The SODs Mark III is distinguished from previous iterations by featuring an outboard welding array which can be utilized to superheat the osmium casing of an ore cart belonging to the SMV Prometheus.”

Hmm. That does sound familiar, but as I look at my arms, I can see that I’m not hooked up to any welding apparatus. “Hey uh, where is this suit’s outboard welding array?”

“Outboard welding array is within 15 feet of user’s proximity. Would you like an auditory ping to assist in locating this suit’s outboard welding array?”

“We’re in space. Can’t hear nothing, remember?”

“Auditory pings are relayed through SODs internal speaker system.”

“Sure then, what the hell.”

Chirps like a submarine’s sonar begin pinging next to my ears. I rotate until the chirps get louder and then head in the direction where they begin coming in more frequently. The suit leads me to a spot right next to the Prometheus’s hull.

“It’s not outside, is it?”

“This SOD’s outboard welding array is within 1 to 3 feet of user’s current position.”

That’s gonna suck if my tools are somehow riding on the outside of this thing. Before I resign myself to figuring out a way to climb out onto the left side of the train without crisping myself, I look down. Nothing but clumps of iron ore ready to take a sunbath.

Well, the thing’s within 1 to 3 feet of me. The worst that happens is I don’t find it. So I dig. I pick up chunks of rocky iron and toss them away until I’ve got a neat little circle around me. One foot down, and I’ve got nothing.

“Warning, oxygen levels are critical. User..”

“Didn’t I tell you to can it?” It’s right though, I’m burning through what little O2 I’ve got left. The rocks aren’t that heavy normally, but in the increased gravity, they’re about twice as heavy, and there are a shit ton of them. No choice though: use up what air I have so I can have a chance at getting out of here, or sit back and drift off to sleep as I run through my O2 a little slower.

Two feet down and still nothing. Starting to get light headed again. I keep at it.

Three feet down, I’m so out of sorts that I almost miss it. Instead of the rocky surfaces I’m picking up and throwing away, my fingers brush against something smooth. I shake my head, focus my digging on whatever that thing is. A few seconds later I can see it: a cylinder. I clear one end of it, enough to get my hands on, and then I haul at it. It’s tough, but I manage to free the thing from the pile of iron rock.

“This what we’re looking for?”

The pinging stops.

“Okay, so what’ve we got here?” My head’s heavy, sight’s starting to dim around the edges.

“The SODs Mark III outboard welding array utilizes an acetylene/oxygen fuel mixture to produce a flame capable of exceeding 5000° fahrenheit. It is most commonly..”

“Jesus, shut up will you? You said acetylene and oxygen?”

“The SODs Mark III outboard welding array utilizes an acetylene/oxygen fuel mixture to produce a flame capable of exceeding 5000° fahrenheit. It is..”

“Got it, oxygen and acetylene. But I’ve only got one tank in front of me. Which is it?”

“Insufficient data.”

Phenomenal. One’s a lifeline to getting me off this train, the other will kill me dead about as fast as it would take to hop out the left side of the train. “Any way to hook this tank up to my own air supply?”

“Error.”

This again? “How?”

“Recommended course of action would void this SOD's warranty.”

Right, gotta appease the stickler. “Without recommending, how do we connect this tank to my suit’s air supply?”

“To apply maintenance to the SOD Mark III’s outboard welding array, first find the welding aperture.”

The torch? I hope it’s talking about the torch. I flip the tank over, find the attached torch handle, grip it in one hand, and then begin unscrewing it from the assembly with the other. “Done.”

“To refill the SOD Mark III’s oxygen supply, remove any oxygen tanks currently in use, and then simply slide a new, SOD approved oxygen tank into the receptacle.”

You want me, a guy dying of oxygen deprivation, to ditch my current tank of oxygen, in the thin hope that what's in front of me isn’t acetylene, and was designed with enough modularity to just slip right into my suit’s air supply?

Fuck it. “Suit, uh, release current oxygen tank.”

“Attention: current environmental surroundings necessitate uninterrupted oxygen supply. Please verify command.”

“What?”

“Invalid confirmation. Command not accepted.”

“You stupid goddamned thing! Release current oxygen tank!”

“Attention: current environmental surroundings necessitate uninterrupted oxygen supply. Please verify command.”

“YES. VERIFIED. RELEASE CURRENT OXYGEN TANK!”

“Command verified.”

I feel something click next to my back. I’m about to really have no air. Deep breath.

My O2 cuts out right before I can get a good lungful. It’ll have to do. I immediately put my hands on my released oxygen tank and lift. The thing slides right out. I shove it to the side without a second look, grab onto the tank of welding oxygen, flip it end over, and then try to maneuver it as best I can into the receptacle on the back of my suit. It falls right down into the slot without any trouble.

Red lights are blinking from my cracked faceplate. I bet the suit’s trying to tell me my current environmental surroundings necessitate an uninterrupted oxygen supply. I wait a moment, maybe the thing’s trying to figure out what to do with this weird container I've just shoved inside it.

Lungs are starting to hurt. Red lights are still blinking. Air’s not flowing. Oh shit.

I lift the welding oxygen back out of my suit to try and figure out if I can fix whatever’s wrong. The top of the thing is threaded like a weird screw. Of course it is. I had to unscrew the torch, didn’t I? Fuck me oxygen deprivation’s a bitch.

I lift it up again, slide it back down into my suit’s receptacle, then begin turning it. It’s awkward work, since it’s behind me, and by now my lungs are screaming. Hard to see anything. Lips are starting to move on their own, trying to take in oxygen that’s not there. I do my best to keep them clamped shut.

At last I can’t screw the tank on my back in any further.

Still no air.

Well, it was a good run. I kneel down, faceplate against the floor, and run my hands over my head as if they could still pass through my hair. They get caught on something. It feels like a spigot.

If I had any air, I would’ve gasped. It’s an acetylene welding kit! You’ve gotta turn the tap to let the O2 in! That’s how you control how much mixes with the acetylene! I fumble at the thing; lack of air and increased gravity’s got my limbs feeling like lead. Darkness closing in. Can’t feel my fingers.

Keep turning. Keep. Turn. Ing.

Sssssssss

Snakes again.

Air or acetylene? Only one way to find out. I pull in the deepest breath of my life. If this shit’s poison, I want it all over with before I know what killed me.

“Attention, user has voided this SOD’s warranty.”

“I love you too.”

The air’s cold, but breathable. Judging by the weight of the tank it’s probably some super-condensed liquid shit, and now the suit’s having a tough time cycling it through and raising it to a temp my lungs can tolerate. Whatever, I can deal with an over-excited AC unit. Plus, it means I might have a while longer with it than I would have with just the normal pressurized air that was in my old tank.

So, where were we? Ah right, about to hop out of a train moving at several times the speed of sound so I can hitch a ride right back onto it. Not that there is any sound out here.

“Change of plans, we can’t use the oxygen tank from the outboard welding array. Any other ideas? And keep in mind, the warranty’s voided, so whatever you got, lemme hear it. Without recommending it.”

“Without a proper ratio of oxygen to acetylene, the SOD’s torch cannot exceed the melting point of osmium.”

“What about an improper ratio? Can we use that to, I dunno, blow up the acetylene or something?”

“Suggested course of action violates the Intraplanetary Piracy Act. User has been flagged for suspicious behavior.”

“I’m not hearing a ‘no’.”

I go over to where I found the oxygen tank, rummage through the ore pile a bit more, and in a minute I find the secondary welding tank, the one that’s full of acetylene. I haul it out, thread some of the discarded copper wiring into the mouth of it as far as it’ll go, then wrap as much of the rest of the wiring around my arms as I can. One last look at the cart I’ve been trapped in, and then I step right out the side.

Without any atmospheric drag, my 5,000 mph freefall doesn’t feel like much of anything. Slamming into the next train car, however, feels a lot like I imagine getting hit by a bus going 70 feels like. Thankfully, there was enough shade between the two cars that I wasn’t vitrified by the Sun as I waited for my ride. Leaving the acetylene tank right where I landed, I begin unspooling the wiring and edging my way back away from it.

When I’m right at the edge between the front of the train cart and its side, I lay down as flat as I can, cut the rest of the cabling free, sigh, and then insert the now exposed copper wire into my suit’s electrical socket.

The thing lights up like a miniature sun as the gas inside explodes. Someone must be pretty amused by my antics, because none of the hypersonic shrapnel shreds into me. A moment later and I’m crawling over to inspect my handiwork. Sure enough, a hole, roughly me-sized, has been ripped into the front of the train car.

Careful not to tear my suit on any jagged edges, I lower myself inside, and immediately set to work stripping the insulating foil from the car’s wires.

By the time I’m done, I’ve run out of duct tape, but I’ve managed to wrap myself head to toe in golden foil.

“Well, that’s about all I can think to do.” I can’t see anything because I’ve covered my suit’s faceplate with foil. “The walls won’t open since we removed their wiring, so with any luck, it won’t get hot enough in here for the iron to melt. And with a good bit more luck, this stuff should keep me from frying as well. And if God and all his angels are really just in a great mood today, after all’s said and done, I’ll have just enough oxygen to make it around the Sun and back home to Mercury, where we can tell everyone what a wonderful day this has been.”

I’m feeling, if not good, then at least more optimistic than I probably have any right to.

“Error.”

“Error? You’re not still mad about the warranty, are you?”

“Communications with Mercury are not possible.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘Prometheus doesn’t have any comms equipment’, got it.”

“Error does not stem from SMV Prometheus.”

That’s new. “Do you know where the error does stem from?”

“Communications with Mercury are not possible.”

“Yes, I got that. Why are communications with Mercury impossible?”

“Uplink with Mercury satellite arrays: failed. Uplink with Mercury surface relays: failed.”

“Wait, you could’ve phoned home this entire time?”

“Communications with Mercury are not possible.”

“I’m gonna ask you one more time: why can’t you talk to anyone on Mercury?”

“Timestamp archived immediately prior to departure indicates the SMV Prometheus attained escape velocity forty three seconds prior to surface arrival of coronal mass ejection. Based upon size, magnitude, and geopositioning, estimates of human survival range below the 1% threshold required for rescue operations.”

“You’re telling me…we left right before a solar flare blew up homebase? Can you verify any of that?”

“Communications with Mercury are not possible.”

I slump. Not because I finally have an answer for what I’m doing in this situation in the first place. Not even because almost everyone I know is probably ash blowing across the surface of Mercury right about now. No, I slump because of what this is going to mean for me and my suit.

Because once this train slingshots around the sun, there’s not going to be anything left to slow it down. No velocity-dumps, no track diversions, no craft idling for just such a chance to stop a runaway train.

If I don’t figure out how to slow us down, or exit the train before we make it back home, Mercury’s gonna have one helluva new crater with me at its center.

“Okay then, we’ve got about 10 hours. Any ideas?”