Overstreet Novel Writing Month - Chapter One Sample

[Kris@WLP]

Since I'm always too busy to commit to National Novel Writing Month in November, I decided to attempt it in April- 2,000 words per day, April 1 to April 25 (when I'll have to knock off for ShiokazeCon), total 50,000 words.

The novel is not sexual in nature, nor does it feature any of WLP's existing characters. It's the story of an asteroid miner who inherits an entire star system... and wishes she hadn't.

Here's the first chapter of SAFEHARBOR; the rest stays private to prereaders until it's completed and sent to an agent to shop around the publishers.

* * * * * *
Chapter One

There are the authorities, and then there is the Authority.

The authorities are nothing to be afraid of. Behave yourself and act sensibly and they'll leave you alone. If you screw up, the worst they can do is lock you away for a few days, and then you're back out, free to fly again.

But everyone fears the Authority. The Authority can kill you. Worse than kill you, they can ground you, taking away every reason for living at all. And the worst thing is, they don't need any good reason to do it. The United Nations Space Authority has total and absolute jurisdiction over any and every human being off the surface of Earth… and they can bring that authority down on a spacer's head on a whim.

--- from the memoirs of Sally Hendrix

* * * * * *

Sally Hendrix sat at attention in the small, hard plastic chair in front of the Authority supervisor's desk. Her dress white spacesuit pinched uncomfortably in certain places- the damn thing was a century out of date, but regulations still specified it. She could feel a lock of her light brown hair trying to come out of its regulation style and assume a very non-regulation cowlick. Her nose itched. Regulations said that one had to remain still and at attention until and unless addressed when in the presence of a superior… and Sally heard stories of people who had scratched their nose, and how they were doing groundside on Earth's unemployment lines.

Regulations. A supervisor, or worse yet a Project Auditor, could ground a spacer on the most minor violation of the most antiquated regulation, and there were oh so many. Spacers were required to know Russian- even though, outside of Earth and active spacers, the language was effectively dead. Sally rehearsed as many phrases as she could in her head, silently, in case she was tested on that point… and that wasn't even the most stupid regulation.

The one she'd broken had been, in her mind, quite stupid indeed… but she'd broken it good and hard, and now the best she could hope was that she'd pass on all other points and be given a reprimand for doing the right thing.

"Hendrix, Sally," the supervisor muttered, finally picking up her file folder and examining it for the first time. She'd waited and suppressed the fidgets for fifteen minutes while he filled out some paperwork, which apparently wasn't hers. "Asteroid miner, second class; operator, mining pod 7457-A5, based Ceres Orbital Station; born December 29, 2244 in infirmary, Ceres Orbital Station… serial number…"

The recitation of statistic after statistic rolled on. Regulations forbade her to speak until and unless questioned; likewise, they forbade a spacer from ever viewing the dossiers kept by the Authority. Otherwise the minutes that dragged on as each and every datum got questioned and verified could have been eliminated with a swift approval. Sarah didn't allow herself to get bored, or her mind to wander; inattention and distraction were, again, regulations violations.

Finally the supervisor, having methodically verified her blood type, genotype, natural hair color and sexuality, got to the issue at hand. "On March 14, 2378, you violated United Nations Space Authority protocols by exceeding permitted acceleration and deceleration on approach to an orbital habitat, specifically Ceres Orbital Station. Further, postflight check of your craft revealed that your fuel reserves had been drained well below the minimum level mandated by United Nations Space Authority regulations. Shall I cite the specific regulations violated for you?"

"No, sir." Regulations required that spacers know all regulations inside and out, impossible as that was when said regulations ran into the six figures. An answer in the affirmative could have led to a test on regulations, a show of ignorance, and yet another pretext for punishment.

"Very well." The supervisor adjusted his glasses, laid the dossier down on his desk, and peered over at Sally. "Please describe for me the conditions of the violation."

"Spacer Malcolm Waite-Clyde, asteroid miner first class, was operating his mining pod on the opposite face of Asteroid 3158 from me," Sally said. "He reported a sudden change in density in the asteroid face. I then lost communications. When repeated attempts to restore communications failed, I ceased my own operations and went to investigate, as per U.N.S.A. Protocols on the Investi-"

"Yes, yes, continue." The supervisor waved off the quote. Sally seethed. Obviously, although regulations were applied equally to all regardless of rank, higher ranks were "more equal" than lower.

She suppressed her anger and continued in the same calm and clear voice as before. "When I arrived my pod detected evidence of an organics pocket leak and explosion originating in the asteroid face. Diffuse gas clouds were radiating from the origin of the explosion, as were small fragments of rock. Spacer Waite-Clyde's pod was adrift over a hundred yards from the asteroid surface. A large fragment had impacted its engine compartment, disabling engines and depriving the pod of power."

"Your last statement is speculation," the supervisor said. "The engineer's evaluation of damage has not yet been submitted for review." Again he waved dismissively for Sally to continue.

"Observations through the canopy of Spacer Waite-Clyde's pod revealed that he was conscious but in extreme pain. It appeared at the time," she stressed these words slightly, "that the explosion had breached the work cabin's hull integrity, pinning his leg between a collapsed bulkhead and the underside of the control panel.

"In my personal evaluation the situation represented a direct threat to Spacer Waite-Clyde. His leg was pinned, presumably injured. His pod was without power or life support. Waite-Clyde's survival depended on evacuation back to base in the minimum possible timeframe. I therefore grappled his vessel to mine, calculated fuel consumption for acceleration and deceleration, and made a direct approach for Ceres."

This last was a bit of a fib. Calculated fuel consumption made it sound like she'd used the computer; in fact Sally had made an educated guess without wasting time doing the math. She'd aimed her ship in the right direction, opened throttle to full, and burned until she reckoned she had just enough fuel to match velocity with Ceres Orbital. After she docked, she discovered that she'd arrived with little more than fumes in the tank- a good calculation for saving a life, but not a happy one for a spacer who had to justify going under the one-quarter tank Authority limit.

"Once I matched orbits with Ceres Orbital, I signaled Search and Rescue for extraction of Spacer Waite-Clyde. Once a rescue tug was launched, I released the grapple on Spacer Waite-Clyde's tug and proceeded to docking, where I reported to Lieutenant Johannes, officer of the deck."

"Is that the whole of your statement?"

"Those are the facts as I perceive them."

"I see. Then I hope you will not mind my asking questions," the supervisor said, removing and wiping his glasses idly. "We do want perfect clarity of the facts of this case, don't we?"

Sally waited until she was certain the question wasn't rhetorical before saying, "Yes, sir."

"First, let us check fuel efficiency analysis," the supervisor said. "According to your ship recorder, travel time from your acceleration burn to rendezvous with Ceres Orbital Station was four hours fifty-one minutes. Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"What would the travel time have been using a burn calculation which would have retained the mandatory one-quarter fuel reserve?"

Sally blinked. "Is that relevant?"

"Sir." The supervisor put his glasses back on. "In point of fact I find that a savings of only two hours five minutes in travel time is quite relevant. Of course," he added, "this presumes both flights were on perfect trajectory. In fact your flight required five course corrections, consuming excess fuel, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Sally didn't forget the honorific this time, "but I had made allowance for course corrections in my calculation."

"As you say. Nonetheless two hours five minutes savings on a trip is not sufficient justification for violating a sound and longstanding regulation, of which you were of course fully aware."

"Sir, a man's life was at stake."

"Spacer Hendrix," the supervisor said, "have you any medical training?"

"I am trained in basic first aid and self-medicine in space," Sally said, "as are all asteroid miners. It is a requirement of-"

"In other words, no," the supervisor said. "You are not qualified to diagnose illness or injury or to make treatment of same, correct?"

"Under non-emergency conditions, sir," Sally said, "no. But this was, in my opinion, an emergency situation."

"Emergency situations may only be declared by command officers," the supervisor said. "Neither yourself nor Spacer Waite-Clyde hold any commission. Thus, according to regulations, no emergency existed. Had an emergency existed, the proper course of action was to await confirmation and orders from a command officer."

Damn. The regulations did not admit of any latitude for a noncom or contractor in the field. She'd hoped common sense, hell even compassion for a fellow human being, would have been sufficient for the supervisor to overlook that. Without that, she had no defense whatever. "Yes, sir."

"Now to your acceleration and deceleration," the supervisor said. "Vessels approaching an orbital platform are not supposed to hold a delta velocity of greater than one hundred ten percent of the orbital velocity of the platform within two orbital diameters of the platform. Correct?"

Only in an age with contragravity was that regulation even possible, much less applicable. "Yes, sir."

"At the point you began your deceleration for rendezvous, your delta velocity was greatly in excess of the limit, correct? And also remained above that limit almost to within fifty kilometers of Ceres Orbital Station, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"At time elapsed three hours fifteen minutes after the beginning of your acceleration burn you made your fourth course correction. What was the nature of this course correction?"

"A fractional-second burn to adjust trajectory," Sally said.

"Because your ship's alarms predicted a collision course with Ceres Orbital Station, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let us presume that your pod suffers a malfunction at this point," the supervisor said. "Quite a reasonable assumption, considering you had an uneven load grappled and under tow at excessive velocity."

Bullshit. Mining pods towed masses much, much larger than themselves on a routine basis.

"Instead of the fraction-second of precious fuel required to adjust your course," the supervisor continued, "your engine is silent. It is nonfunctional. At the velocity you had attained, it is questionable that your attitude thrusters would have sufficed to adjust your trajectory away from a collision course with the platform. Even had you succeeded, the heavy traffic around Ceres presents the high probability of a secondary collision, which in turn might lead to debris striking and damaging the platform.

"Were you aware of this possibility arising at the time you decided to exceed the delta velocity limits?"

A spacer was supposed to be aware of all possible disasters at all
times. A response of No was as good as asking to be grounded. "Yes, sir."

"And yet you decided to exceed regulation limits anyway?"

"Sir," Sally said, "I have stated already that I believed the emergency justified the act." Ohshit. Sally wanted the words back as soon as they left her lips. Justified was not a word a non-commissioned spacer was ever allowed to use; neither was any sort of angry, exasperated, frustrated, or disrespectful tone to any superior officer permitted.

"I see," the supervisor said. "So what you are saying is, you took it upon your own authority, of which you have NONE," he leaned over the desk to stare at her, his glasses reflecting the light into her eyes, "to declare emergency, jeopardize all lives on this station and surrounding craft by turning your pod into a potentially uncontrolled ballistic missile, waste precious fuel supplies which might make the difference between your life and death, and disrupt the activities of this station… merely to shave two hours off the return trip time of a man who might or might not have ever been in danger at all?"

"Sir," Sally didn't even bother to screen out the anger now, "he lost his leg and several pints of blood. I got him home alive. Two hours later he would have been a corpse." She'd spent hours in the infirmary watching and waiting. Granted, she'd hated Old Clyde's guts- he was a claim-jumper who pulled rank routinely to get the better share of jointly-mined rocks- but he was still a fellow spacer, a human being, a life out where nothing could live… just like her.

And this little worm, who had never sat at the controls of any ship, whose presence on the station was justified only by the regulations he dealt out, shrugged off her statement. "I suspect he will have a long and pleasant life… on Earth," he said. "But he will be replaced. Spacers can always be replaced.

"You see, Miss Hendrix, there are eight billion people on Earth, virtually all of whom are more qualified for your job than you are. You hold your position for the sole reason that it costs less to employ those born in space than to ship them up from Earth. But there are men and women who would sell their souls and pay any lesser price asked to be where you are now.

"Ships are valuable. Fuel is valuable." The dossier closed with a snap in the supervisor's hand. "Spacers are expendable. Please bear that in mind while I consider your next assignment… if any.

"You have twenty minutes to clear any personal affects from your vessel. It is being repossessed by the United Nations Space Authority for violation of flight protocols. You will board the next transport to Luna to await further action on your case and eventual reassignment."

And with those words the little ship, paid for with Sally's pay and commissions from mining, the only possession of any value she had, was taken from her with not so much as a fiver for washing the windows.

The supervisor stood and raised his hand in the half-arm wave of the Authority salute. "Dismissed."

Sally returned the salute, wishing that the damned antiquated spacesuit gloves she wore would allow her to fold three fingers without folding the fourth.