The Zoo Team

by Allen M. Steele

We were somewhere over Australia, about a quarter of the way to Mars, when Miguel flipped out. Ron and I had a lot to do with his breakdown, and when it was all over we were quite proud of ourselves.

A good, full-blown mental collapse takes time and effort, of course, and we’d spent the last few weeks laying the groundwork. Ron-Jon had a tendency to snore, so we picked that as the starting point; he and I shifted our schedules so that he’d sack out at the same time as Miguel, giving him the full benefit of Ron’s nasal performances. Truth be told, Miguel could probably sleep through a train wreck, but he pretended restlessness, twisting around in his bag while Ron made like Branford Marsalis with a broken reed. After a couple of weeks, Miguel was appropriately twitchy; he griped and complained, and made such a show of being surly that it was hard to tell whether he meant it or not.

By then, I’d started up the paddleball. I smuggled one up to the Mess in my flight bag, not really intending it to be part of the act, but because fooling around with it always helped me relax. So I’d float around the station—pardon me, the Mars Expedition Simulator—bouncing that little red ball on its elastic string, making sure that I was always in the same compartment with Miguel when I was the most active. It got on his nerves, and after awhile he had something else to bitch about.

The most cunning bit, though, were the chess games. The fold-down table in the personnel module had a built-in chessboard, its surface and the bottom of the pieces fitted with Velcro to prevent anything from floating away. Miguel was a hell of a player—I knew that for a fact, because he’d outfoxed me time and again when we were training together in Alabama—but over the course of several weeks he deliberately threw games to both me and Ron, signaling us that he was about to make a bad move by prodding us beneath the table. So I’d take his queen or Ron-Jon would knock off a knight, and Miguel would snarl something obscene before pushing himself away from the table and through the module hatch. And every time he lost, Miguel would make sure that his anger was just a little worse; no full-blown tantrums, just indications that, day by day, he was losing his shit.

When any of these things happened—the snoring, the paddleball, the lost chess games, all the other scenes the three of us staged over the course of eight weeks—we’d have to restrain the occasional impulse to glance at one of the camera lenses not very well concealed in the bulkheads or ceilings. They wouldn’t have shown us anything, of course, but at times like those, we would’ve loved to know what the NASA and Skycorp shrinks were making of the little scenarios we were putting on for their benefit.

We played to those cameras right up to the end. The day before Miguel went bonzo, Ron and I slipped away to the Personal Hygiene Area—in non-technical parlance, the head—while Miguel remained on watch in the command module. To make it even more convincing, we muted our headsets, and even stuck a piece of tape over the ceiling camera. There was another lens concealed within the passageway, though, along with a hidden mic, so we played to that, making sure that we didn’t close the hatch while we had a private chat. It lasted only a minute or so, but it gave Dr. Heinemann and his people something else to write up. Like they didn’t have enough already.

So when Miguel flamed out, it wasn’t spontaneous human combustion; we’d spent a lot of time stoking the furnace. But he was the leading man in our little melodrama, so we let him pick the time and place.

Tuesday, June 8, 2023; 0915 GMT:

“Will you knock it off with that thing?”

“What thing?” I hung upside-down in the service module, feet anchored to a restraint bar, bouncing the red ball off my racket. Bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka… “This thing?”

“Yeah, that thing. Cut it out.” Miguel hovered above the atmosphere control console, e-book in hand, trying to take accurate readings from the various flatscreens. All of them displayed false data, of course, just as the plasma displays behind what would have been normal portholes showed us Mars as we would’ve seen it from twenty-four million miles away. Nice work, really; whatever Hollywood special-effects outfit Skycorp had subcontracted for this part of the Mess had definitely earned their money.

“Sorry. Didn’t know it was bugging you.” I caught the ball, tied it against the paddle, slipped it into the back pocket of my jumpsuit. Miguel glanced at me, and when he did, his right eyelid twitched a little as a very subtle wink. A signal: do something else.

“So… how’s your family?”

“They’re fine.” Terse, staring at the panel again. Little red numbers on little blue screens.

“Great. Glad to hear it.” I unhooked my feet from the bar. “How’s your sister?”

“Fine.” He touched his e-book screen again; I noticed some crude, hand-drawn circles in the margins. Doodles. Good. Shrinks love doodles. “Why’re you asking?”

I somersaulted, came down behind him, and grabbed a wall rung. “Just asking. Seems like a nice girl, that’s all.”

He didn’t look back at me. “So why do you want to know?”

“He’s just asking a question.” Ron was coming through the hatch from the personnel module, hair still wet from the sponge-bath he’d just taken. “What’s the big deal?”

“Yeah, that’s all.” Then I turned away from Miguel and muttered something nasty about what I’d like to do with his sister.

He caught it, as I knew he would; I’m sure the people in Huntsville did, too, because I said it just loud enough for the hidden mics. In the next instant, Miguel dropped the e-book and came at me, launching himself across the narrow compartment. I turned around just as he grabbed me by the collar and rammed me against a bulkhead.

“Say that again,” he snarled in my face, “and I’ll kill you!”

So I grinned and said it again.

As I said, we’d planned the whole thing in advance, before we’d even left the ground. In his pocket, Miguel had a stage knife: a six-inch switchblade, pearl handle and everything, just like the ones the L.A. street gangs carry, only this one had a phony blade that couldn’t cut cheese and, when pushed against a solid surface, retracted straight back into the handle. Skycorp wasn’t the only one to use Hollywood magic; Miguel had a friend who worked for a prop supply company.

Miguel yanked the knife out of his breast pocket, flicked it open. My eyes widened, and I yelled, “Whoa, man, waitamminit… !”

“What the hell are you doing?” Ron shouted. “Leggo of him!”

He pushed himself toward us, but Miguel kicked him out of the way. Ron flew across the compartment, flailing his arms helplessly. And then Miguel turned to me again and, muttering a Latino obscenity, shoved the blade into my chest.

Ron’s aim was perfect—at that instant, he landed next to the main communications panel. One swipe of his elbow across a pair of toggle switches, and the Ku-band transceiver was down. He quickly checked the radio, then looked back at Miguel and me.

“Okay, that’s a wrap,” he said. “We’re off the air.”

Miguel still had his knife thrust up to its hilt in my heart. Hearing Ron, he pulled the knife away. Sproing, the blade reappeared. “You okay?” he asked.

I looked down at myself. I wasn’t even nicked. “I’m good.”

“Didn’t mean to slam you so hard,” he added, genuinely concerned.

“Don’t worry about it.” In zero-gee, any action like that can be enough to hurt. Considering that I’d been lethally stabbed, though, I was feeling pretty good. “Does this mean I can have a date with your sister?”

“No.” He gave me a wry grin. “She’s married.”

“Nice job, gentlemen,” Ron-Jon said. “I think that’ll keep ’em busy for a while.”

“How long do you want to stay dark?” Pushing myself away from Miguel, I floated into the command module, and checked the simulator com panel. Although Ron had knocked off the real-time wireless link, the Mess’s time-delay communications system was still operational. No text messages from Huntsville, or at least not yet; we were still on fifteen-minute delay. The longer we played possum, though, the more likely the boys in Huntsville would believe that something had seriously gone bad up here. No doubt, Dr. Heiney was already on the phone with the flight director, telling him that Team Zulu had cracked.

“Let ’em stew a bit.” Miguel said as Ron-Jon disappeared through the hatch leading to the personnel module. “I’d like to have a drink first.”

Ron had gone to fetch the fifth of tequila we’d been saving for this moment. It was concealed in a locker, where it had been hidden ever since we’d arrived on the Mess two and half months ago. We’d have to use squeezebulbs, of course, but at this point none of us minded. If we were going to get booted from the Mars program, we’d might as well go out in proper Zoo Team style.

“Suits me.” I said, and was turning to go get my pack of Bicycles when we heard a loud bang! and felt a hard thump against the hull.

That’s when the joke ended.

The joke started about four months earlier, when NASA picked the crews for Skycorp’s Mars Exploration Simulator and it turned out that Miguel, Ron, and I would be on Zulu Team. But if you want to understand the punch line, you have to go a little farther back, to when NASA decided that they needed to do orbital flight simulations before they sent a second mission to Mars, and contracted Skycorp to handle the logistics.

Everyone has seen the pictures that Ares I sent back from Mars, of course: American and Japanese astronauts walking across the cold red landscape, raising their respective flags and making awestruck comments about the Arsia Mons volcano. But what most people didn’t know is that those were the mission’s best moments, carefully selected and edited for public consumption. Most haven’t seen the more tawdry incidents witnessed by flight controllers in Houston: the abusive remarks, loud arguments, sexual harassment, fist-fights, and so forth that had half the six-person crew no longer on a casual speaking basis with the other half—and all but two on anti-depressants—by the time the ship reached Mars.

But NASA and NASDA officials noticed, as did the committees of both Congress and the Diet that had oversight over the respective space agencies of their two countries. And since Ares I produced less scientific data than expected, the shortfall was blamed on low crew morale. So the government committees issued a mandate: before Ares II could be funded any further, mission planners would spend more time learning how to keep astronauts from going chimp during long-duration flights.

NASA turned to its major contractor, Skycorp, to carry out a new round of psychological testing. Skycorp had already learned a lot about space crew psychology from its powersat construction program, and one important thing they’d discovered was that the results that came from ground-based simulators were questionable at best. Sure, there had already been several studies in which groups of people had been sealed within small, spacecraft-like habitats for months at a time. But the results of those experiments weren’t totally reliable, mainly because the men and women in those simulators knew they weren’t really in space. The presence of gravity couldn’t be avoided, and there were other subtle hints that the millions of miles that supposedly separated them from Earth were only a fiction, and on the other side of the airlock hatch was a great big world full of pizza and beer and sex and all the elbowroom you could want.

The psychologist in charge of the Skycorp studies was one Joseph Heinemann, Ph.D., late of the Harvard medical school. It was Dr. Heinemann’s contention that the only way Skycorp could reliably test, train, and select the crews for Mars missions would be to build a small space station whose interior would resemble an Ares spacecraft as much as possible. Placed in low orbit above the Earth, the Mars Expedition Simulator—which, naturally, became nicknamed the Mess—would have fake portholes that were actually video screens, and all space-to-ground communications would be subject to delays that would become increasingly longer as the test went on.

Dr. Heinemann then devised a two-part program. In Phase 1, four teams of astronauts, with three persons in each team, would spend ninety days—that is, about half the time it’d take a ship to get to Mars—aboard the Mess, doing everything that an Ares crew would do during the outbound leg of their mission, while ground controllers studied their conduct through hidden cameras and mics. Once those four teams—designated Alpha, Gamma, Theta, and Zulu—completed their turns in the Mess, the results would be studied and the findings would be the basis for Phase 2, when the six astronauts who’d done best during the Phase 1 test would be the ones selected for Ares II, and would hence go into training for the mission itself.

To be sure, this was an expensive and rather time-consuming way of determining who’d be most likely to crack under pressure. On the other hand, no one ever again wanted to see footage of an astronaut threatening to gouge out another guy’s eyes with a plastic spork. So Dr. Heinemann’s proposal was approved, the Mess was built, and an announcement was made that the window was now open for applications to the Ares II training program.

I wanted to get on the next Mars mission, as did just about everyone else in the space business. It was like offering a climb up K2 to hardcore mountaineers: who can resist? But I knew my chances of being picked were somewhere between nil and zip. Sure, I’d spent a year working on Skycorp’s SPS-1 project, but my company record was… well, questionable, to put it mildly. “Disciplinary problems” is the expression most often used in my performance reports. Oh, I did my job well, and my safety record was unblemished. But I had a tendency to talk back to the boss, and bureaucrats give me a real pain in the neck. That sort of thing doesn’t fly well in NASA’s buttondown, no-nonsense culture, and even though I sent in my application, I figured that, a year or two later, I’d still be parked on a barstool at the Cape, waiting for my union rep to find me another low-orbit construction gig.

So I was surprised when Skycorp invited me in for interviews and physicals, and even more surprised when I made it to the short list. Face it: I was a space monkey, a grunt with some technical skills and the ability to bolt two pieces of metal together while floating upside down. And I had an attitude. I had little business being in the same room with NASA and NASDA astronauts who had doctorates like I have calluses and who’d been first in everything they’d done since childhood. Next to these purebred Best Of Show champs, I was some mutt who’d managed to sneak in through the dog door.

As it turned out, though, I wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t long before I realized that two other Phase 1 candidates weren’t Boy Scouts either. Miguel LaCosta was another former Skycorp contract worker, and before that he’d worked for one of the space tourism companies. He was a USAF-trained left-seater who knew his way around the cockpit of anything that had wings and a hydrazine engine, but a rep for practical jokes had made him persona non grata with most of the privates. NASA had no more room for him than they did for one of their own: Ronald Johnson, a former Navy flyboy who’d been something of a star in the astronaut corps before he’d gotten caught in a Texas whorehouse with a girl in his lap—yes, I said that right—and a whiskey bottle on his knee. Bye-bye Ron-Jon… or at least until he had the temerity to apply for the Mars program and, like Miguel and me, was astonished to find himself on the short list.

So here was the Justice League International, and here was the Legion of Super Pets. And guess which one was assigned to Zulu Team, the first group to spend three months aboard the Mess?

At first, Miguel, Ron-Jon, and I could hardly believe our luck. As the first group to go up, we’d also be the first to come back down; that meant we’d have time to goof-off until the final crew selection was made and Phase 2 would begin. That, along with the fact that none of us really belonged there in the first place, made each of us wonder what we’d done deserve our great fortune.

We weren’t lucky. The exact opposite, in fact. But it took awhile for us to find that out.

When Skycorp built the Mars Expedition Simulator, they used inflatable modules that could be easily lifted into orbit aboard an expendable launch vehicle. The Mess had three modules, each about the size of a bus, connected together in tandem; they were made of some industrial-grade polymer that could take sea-level pressurization, and had various solar arrays, radiator panels, tanks, and antennas sticking out in all directions. At the aft end of the station was a hard-hull airlock module, and attached to it was a three-man re-entry vehicle that Miguel, Ron-Jon, and I were supposed to pretend didn’t exist until the last day of our mission, when we’d be allowed to climb aboard for the ride back to Earth.

I was familiar with inflatable modules from my time on the powersat construction project. Beamjacks called them “hot dogs” and although the company kept insisting that they were safe, none of us trusted them very much. They were a cheap, lightweight substitute for metal spacecraft hulls, and even though they’d been proven to be resistant to cosmic radiation and micrometeorites, everyone who used them was aware that they were vulnerable to one particular kind of orbital threat.

And, damn it, that’s exactly what happened to the Mess. It got hit by a piece of space junk.

Sure, USAF Space Command constantly tracks the location of all known orbital debris, and periodically the ground controllers in Houston would gently maneuver our little station so that it was out of the way of a fuselage panel, screwdriver, or third-stage fairing that would come barreling toward us at 3,600 miles an hour. But the boys at Cheyenne Mountain can’t locate and track everything. Now and then, some object gets lost or jettisoned that isn’t reported for one reason or another—usually stupidity—and it orbits Earth until it either finally falls into the atmosphere and burns up, or hits something else up there and thus causes someone to have a really lousy day.

I had no idea what struck the Mess other than it was bigger than a washer and smaller than a pen, and it made our lives really interesting. Within seconds of the thump-and-bang of it hitting the simulator, a very non-simulated master alarm went off in the command module. Miguel and I were still staring at each other when Ron-Jon came back through the hatch.

“Blowout,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Miguel calmly put the fake knife back in his pocket. “Emergency stations, gentlemen.”

In science fiction movies and novels, you often see astronauts going into a blind panic when there’s a catastrophic accident. Who knows, that sort of reaction may happen from time to time. But it didn’t happen to us. Miguel, Ron, and I were well-trained and experienced, and since we’d already rehearsed emergency procedures for the Mess, each of us knew what to do. As team leader, Miguel went straight to the command module, where he entered the six-digit code into the main computer that disengaged the simulation routines and returned the Mess to normal operation. While he did this, Ron-Jon went about trying to locate the source of the blowout and, if possible, making temporary repairs. My job was to go to the airlock, suit up, and prepare to either go EVA and fix the problem from outside the Mess or, if all else failed, get the re-entry vehicle ready to serve as a lifeboat in case we had to abandon the station.

I was still blessing some Skycorp engineering team for having developed zero-prebreathe spacesuits that could be donned and cycled through an airlock in minutes instead of hours when I heard Miguel’s voice through the earpiece of my bunny cap. “Huntsville, this is Zulu Team,” he said, as casually as it this was a routine radio check. “We’re reporting an in-flight emergency. Suspected collision with a foreign object and possible cabin depressurization. Do you copy?”

A few seconds went by, during which I thrust my head through the suit’s neck ring and reached back with both hands to seal the back-hatch. I was reaching for my gloves when Skycorp Control came over the comlink. We were no longer in time-delay, so we heard Capcom at once.

“Ah, affirmative, Zulu, we copy. Is this Mission Commander LaCosta?”

Miguel must not have yet turned the cameras back on, and was relying on voice-only communications. “Affirmative, Huntsville,” he said.

“Commander LaCosta, weren’t you experiencing another in-flight emergency just a few minutes ago?”

“Negative, Huntsville.”

“Please explain.”

Oh, hell. I’d almost totally forgotten the little skit we’d performed for Skycorp Control’s benefit.

“Huntsville, we apologize,” Miguel said. “That was a practical joke on our part. I assure you that this is not another joke.”

Before Capcom could reply, Ron-Jon’s voice came on. “Huntsville, this is Lieutenant Commander Ronald Johnson. I have not been harmed. Commander LaCosta did not really stab anyone. And, no, this is not another joke. Over.”

I quickly activated my suit radio, switched over to the channel for the Mess’s long-range communications system. “Huntsville, this is Lieutenant Commander…”

“We copy, Zulu.” Capcom apparently didn’t want my side of the story; the fact that I was alive and well was enough for them. “We’ll discuss the earlier incident later. Please describe your current situation. Do you copy?”

“Roger that, Huntsville.” There was a hint of relief in Miguel’s voice; Skycorp Control no longer believed that he’d just planted a six-inch stiletto in my chest. “We’ve gotten a cabin leak message and are showing a DP/DT of .125 psi. We’re currently searching for the source, and we’re preparing the REV for Orbit Mal Proc.”

“We copy, Zulu.”A long pause, during which I imagined the scene in Skycorp Control: Capcom, Flight, and the rest of the ground team, hunched over their consoles as they muttered into one another’s headsets, trying to decide whether they should take the Zoo Team at their word. Because let’s face it: we hadn’t exactly been anyone’s ideal astronauts, and this wasn’t the first stunt we’d pulled. Which is why Zulu Team was called the Zoo Team more often than not.

I was reaching for the rack holding my gloves and helmet when my gaze fell upon the one porthole in the Mess that didn’t have a fake image of Mars on the other side of the glass. From here, I could see Earth, 260 nautical miles below… and it didn’t look right. What should have been a steady view of a gently curved horizon was instead a starless black void. A couple of seconds later, the limb of the Earth appeared, the South Pacific a bright blue expanse shaded by misty white clouds. But then it turned upside-down and tumbled away, replaced once more by nothingness.

I hissed under my breath, then touched my mic wand. “Hate to say it, gentlemen, but our problems just got worse.”

The Mess had been placed in equatorial low orbit and Zulu Team was about three weeks away from being sent up to it when we learned the true nature of our mission.

By then, we were nicknamed the Zoo Team, and with good reason. Miguel, Ron, and I tried hard to be proper Space Cadets, but our mischievous ways kept coming back to us. Every morning for two months, the three of us arrived at the Skycorp training complex in Huntsville for ten to twelve hours of intensive exercises overseen by “technical associates” who’d never been in space themselves. So we’d find ourselves being lectured on orbital rendezvous techniques by a kid who’d never been in a cockpit—not a real one, at least—or receiving instructions on how to don a spacesuit from some dweeb who wore Velcro-strap sneakers because shoelaces were too much of a hassle.

Making matters worse were our colleagues. A finer group of stiffs, there never has been. Six men, three women, each looking as if they’d just marched off the Liberty University campus: eager, well-scrubbed—I swear, I think some of them brushed their teeth four times a day—and utterly lacking any individuality. One guy insisted on opening our morning briefing with a prayer, another was proud of the fact that, at age 29, he was still a virgin, and one of the women blushed whenever toilet paper was mentioned. They didn’t drink, smoke, or say anything more harsh than “gosh darn”… and it goes without saying that none had a decent sense of humor.

You have to give Zulu Team some credit: we actually made it through the first four days of Phase 1 without cracking a joke or pulling some sort of gag. But there was no way we could’ve continued our training without screwing around one way or another; otherwise, we would’ve lost our minds. So first came the muttered wisecracks, which were met with cold glares and whispered shushes that only encouraged us, and then came the straight-faced innuendos and disguised insults, which usually went over the heads of their intended targets, and finally the practical jokes, like rigging the eight-ball of the cockpit simulator so that it was always upside-down, or slipping a couple of drops of lubricant to the front zippers of the women’s jumpsuits so that they’d constantly slide down when we went out for our morning jog.

A few weeks of this, though, and we began to wonder whether we were pushing our luck. The Zoo Team was having fun, sure, but while it seemed peculiar that no one ever gave us a serious reprimand or threatened to bounce us from the program, we knew it was all too possible that we’d go too far and end up being left behind when the final crew selection for Ares II was made. So Ron, Miguel, and I talked it over during a Saturday night beer run, and decided to cool it for a while.

Yet it didn’t matter. We eventually found out that the Zoo Team was never meant to go any farther than Earth orbit.

Our information didn’t come from a memo or a conference room, but from a pillow. Ron-Jon never lacked for girlfriends, and his latest was a young lady who worked as an assistant to one of our specialist associates. One evening, while she and Ron-Jon were in bed, she told him something that he promised to keep to himself, and then revealed to Miguel and me the very next morning.

“We’ve been set up,” Ron said quietly, once he was sure that there was no one else in the training facility locker room. “Our team, I mean… there’s no way any of us are going to Mars.”

Miguel stared at him. “Want to run that again?”

“The other nine are the final candidates for the mission,” Ron said. “Six will be on Ares II, and the other three will be back-ups. But once Zulu Team comes back from the Mess, our job will be done… because our job is to screw up. That’s why they picked us in the first place.”

What Ron learned from his cute little fink was that the three of us were on Zulu Team specifically because we were bad apples. Dr. Heinemann—a.k.a. Dr. Heiney, as Miguel had dubbed him because of his rather large posterior—privately believed that it was unlikely that Skycorp would ever be able to select a final crew which would not to have psychological problems of one sort or another. But since NASA and NASDA had invested a considerable amount of money in the Mess program, he didn’t want to admit that to them, nor did he want to be held responsible if the Ares II crew had the same problems as Ares I. So he’d figured out a way to shave the odds just a little bit.

“Zulu Team is expected to screw up,” Ron-Jon said. “In fact, they want us to screw up. That’s our mission… to botch our flight so badly that we’ll make the other three teams look good. So if Ares II fails because there’s another crew crack-up, Skycorp can always point to the results of all the Mess missions and say, ‘Well, see, we always knew there was a chance things would go wrong…’ ”

“So they’re grading on a curve.” Miguel nodded. “That’s why they’re sending us up there first. They’re figuring that our flight will fail and the next three missions will succeed, and once they lump all the results together…”

“They’ll have a set of statistics showing an increased probability of crew failure simply because one of the four test teams was a bunch of goofballs,” I said.

“You got it.” Ron-Jon’s expression was unusually dour; he didn’t mind being a jester, but he didn’t like being played as a fool. “So we’re not going to Mars, no matter how well we do up there. In fact, my guess is that, even if we do a perfect job, they’ll throw some sort of no-win scenario at us.”

“And use the results of that as the info they need.” I slowly nodded. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. Once we’re in the Mess, they can manipulate the scenario however they want. Solar flare. Meteor collision. Reactor meltdown. Any sort of catastrophe you can think of…”

“Unless we come up with our own scenario first,” Miguel murmured.

I looked at him, saw a crafty glimmer in his eyes. “Come again?”

“We’re not going to Mars,” he went on. “We know that now. But that doesn’t mean we have to be puppets, either.” A smile crept across his face. “They want us to fail? Okay, fine… but maybe we can fail on our terms.”

That’s when we started coming up with our little practical joke. Four months later, though, I didn’t feel much like laughing. Not as I looked out the airlock porthole to see Earth spinning around and around like a towel in a laundry dryer.

But it wasn’t the planet that was tumbling end over end; it was the Mess. The blowout had been sufficiently violent to cause the station’s escaping air to act like a jet, causing the entire station to pitch forward in an axial roll. And although we hadn’t yet felt any physiological effects of the spin—our fake portholes and instrument read-outs, in fact, had ensured that we wouldn’t know what was going on—I knew that it was only a matter of time before the g-force increased to the point that we’d lose consciousness and black out.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. My suspicions were confirmed a few seconds later, when Capcom’s voice came online again. “Zulu, this is Huntsville. Samoa Tracking indicates that your orbit appears to be deteriorating. Can you confirm?”

“Roger that, Huntsville,” Miguel said. “My instruments show that the accident has caused a change in our attitude and altitude.”

“Affirmative,” I said. “I confirm through visual sighting.”

From elsewhere in the Mess, Ron-Jon chimed in. “Huntsville, I’ve found the location of the decompression. It’s a small hole, approximately half a centimeter in diameter, located on the upper port side of the personnel compartment. I’ve plugged the hole with a T-shirt and I’m about to use the seal kit to make emergency repairs.”

This was good news, at least. Now that Ron-Jon put a stopper in the hole, the Mess no longer had a pressure leak and we could concentrate on our larger problem: namely, stopping the station from cartwheeling into Earth’s upper atmosphere.

A long pause. “We copy, Zulu,” Capcom said at last. “Please be advised that you’re coming within range of Monterey Tracking, and we’re prepared to hand you off to an associate who’s standing by to assume emergency flight control.”

Oh, how wonderful. Skycorp was going put our fate in the hands of someone who’d probably learned how to fly a spacecraft from playing a desktop flight simulator video games. “Um… negatory on that, Huntsville,” Miguel said. “We’re going to execute Code Whiskey Tango Foxtrot instead.”

Another pause. “Please repeat, Zulu. We don’t…”

“Copy that,” I said. I knew what Miguel meant even if Capcom didn’t; Code Whisky Tango Foxtrot was Zoo Team talk for I’m about to do something crazy; go to a private frequency so I can tell you what it is. So I switched to another freq and said, “What do you have in mind, Miguel?”

“I think we can take care of this ourselves. Can you enter the REV and commence ERO?”

“No sweat. Be ready in a minute.”

ERO stood for Emergency Re-Orbit, a maneuver we’d practiced during training exercises in Huntsville. The Mess had four reaction-control rocket clusters, with each RCR mounted on one of the service module’s four sides. They could be manually fired to re-adjust the station’s attitude, all right, but they lacked sufficient thrust to stop its spin or return the Mess to proper altitude. For that, they’d need a little help: namely, the REV’s big engine.

For this to work, though, the thrusters and the REV would have to be fired at exactly the same time, in exactly the right pattern. If we got it wrong, we’d actually increase the station’s spin, and make our problems worse. So it was a risky maneuver, yes… but better this than trusting some dude on the ground.

Discarding my gloves and helmet, I opened the docking hatch and pulled myself into the REV’s tiny cockpit, squeezing myself into the left-hand seat. Once I was strapped in, I switched on the instrument panel and warmed up the engine. As I did all this, I could hear Capcom nagging Miguel, demanding that we tell them what we intended to do up here.

“Ready when you are, Miguel,” I said, still using the private channel.

“Roger that,” he said, then muted the ground link so that Huntsville wouldn’t distract us. “I’ve got my eye on the screen. On my mark, fire the main engine at full thrust for two seconds. Copy?”

“Copy.” I rested my hand on the throttle bar. “On your mark.”

Through the narrow cockpit windows, I saw only darkness. Then Earth’s curved horizon came up from below, the South Pacific a couple of hundred miles below. Hawaii had just become visible when Miguel said, “Three… two… one… mark!”

I pushed up the throttle bar, heard the dull rumble of the REV’s engine behind me, felt a tremor pass through the Mess. I silently said One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, then hastily jerked the bar back down, cutting the thrust. “How was that?”

“Okay,” Miguel said, “but we’re still tumbling.”

“Hey, warn a fella next time, awright?” Ron-Jon squalled. “I’m about to puke back here.”

That was the first time any of us had cracked wise since the crisis began; we needed the laugh. “Let’s try again,” Miguel said. Once more, Earth had vanished through my windows. “Mark on three, three-quarters thrust this time.”

“Copy.”

“All right, get ready… three, two, one… mark.”

We went through the routine again, and three more times after that. And after each time I fired the main engine and he fired the RCRs, I could see that Earth was coming up a little more slowly and that it was a little farther away until, just as the Mess was passing over the coast of Ecuador, the station stopped spinning entirely and Capcom informed us that, according to Monterey Tracking, our altitude had returned to normal.

That was also when Huntsville informed us that a shuttle was on its way up from New Mexico to take us back down. I’d already figured that retrieval would be necessary; I’d used up nearly one-third of the REV’s fuel reserves in our ERO. Nonetheless, I was surprised to hear that Flight had decided to cut the rest of our mission short.

Ron-Jon wasn’t. “Better update your resumes, boys,” he said as soon as the three of us met up again in the personnel module. “I think we’re going to be looking for work again.”

He was right, of course. Perhaps Team Zulu had displayed grace under pressure, not to mention no small amount of ingenuity, by saving both the Mess and ourselves from certain destruction, but we were hardly forgiven for the stunt we’d pulled just before that. And while it would be nice to say Dr. Heinemann was so impressed by our astronautical skills that he recommended that Zulu Team be assigned to Ares II, the sad fact is that exactly the opposite happened. Miguel, Ron, and I barely walked down the ladder from the Skycorp shuttle that had rendezvoused with the Mess two days after the accident when we were bundled into a waiting jet and flown to Huntsville, where we spent the next three days being grilled, together and separately, by so many different people that we must have been interviewed by half of Skycorp’s management by the time we were done.

Dr. Heinemann was among them, and while he wasn’t the worst of our interviewers, he made up for it with a persistent belief that there hadn’t really been a collision, but that we’d concocted the accident ourselves. Fortunately, on-site inspection of the Mess backed up our story; the hole in the station had been made from the outside, not the inside. But Dr. Heiney had it in for us. We’d screwed up his experiment—never mind that we were supposed to screw it up, just not the way we did—and, in the end, he got his revenge.

Six days after the accident, the three of us were marched into a conference room on the top floor of the company’s offices, where a half-dozen or so suits and Dr. Heiney sat on either side of a long, black table, at the other end of which was seated Skycorp’s CEO and president. After spending the next ten minutes ripping us apart, he told us what we’d expected to hear anyway: we weren’t going to Mars, and we could collect our severance checks on the way out the door.

And that was it. Our space careers were over.

Or so we thought.

I still had friends in the company and at NASA, and over the next eighteen months or so, I heard about what happened to the Alpha, Gamma, and Theta teams. As it turned out, Team Zulu’s performance turned out to be the high-water mark. At least Miguel, Ron-Jon, and I got along together; the other teams were so high-strung, their members were at each other’s throats before the first four weeks of their respective missions were over. And when Team Gamma had an accident of their own—an oxygen tank exploded—they panicked so badly that Huntsville had to order them into the REV, which was then piloted to the ground by remote control. Only three of the nine guys on those teams ended up going to Mars; NASA had to pull together the rest of the Ares II crew from other sources, and those people were not put aboard the Mess first. The station was deorbited shortly after that, and the last I heard of Dr. Heiney, the old quack was teaching Psych 101 at a community college somewhere in Louisiana.

Ares II got safely to Mars and back again, though, and so did Ares III. But after that, Skycorp took over the Mars exploration effort. Together with a Japanese company, Uchu-Hiko, they announced their intent to establish a permanent settlement near Arsia Mons. I guess someone must have rethought the criteria by which they picked the people who’d colonize Mars, because about six months after that I got a call from Skycorp’s HR office, asking if I’d be interested in coming in for an interview.

I wasn’t. By then, I’d married and found a new career as a freelance writer. And to tell the truth, I was also still burned about the way we’d been treated. So I turned them down, albeit more politely than they deserved, and went on my way.

But Miguel and Ron-Jon didn’t. And that’s why today I received an e-card from them: a picture of the two guys, their hands around the other guy’s throat, their tongues hanging out of their mouths as they mug for the camera. The inscription is a cliché—Having a wonderful time, wish you were here—but it’s what is in the background that got my attention: a big window, and on the other side of it, a desert of red and rocky sand.

In the end, the Zoo Team managed to get to Mars, in spite of itself. Maybe that’s the way it was supposed to be.

Content

The Zoo Team
by Allen M. Steele