I, Cunningham

By Benoit Goudreault-Emond

Gordon Cunningham, an ordinary citizen of 22nd century Earth, died in an unfortunate accident.

Except he didn't die. Not really.

Instead, he woke up stuck inside a robot. In the 29th century. Thirteen light-years from home. In a space station. Which is orbiting a planet that was meant to be a new home for the colonists. Unfortunately, everything went wrong.

He was brought back to life by accident, but the station denizens need him. Their colony is failing. Most colonists have lost hope. The AI in charge can't do much, which is somewhat moot, since it's out of ideas.

But Cunningham is a reluctant hero at best. He's disoriented by his new body. He doesn't know anything about his new environment. He doesn't trust the station's authorities. And yet, somehow, he must help them.

Or, in less than a century, no one human will remain.

Join him as he discovers his new home, his new body, and, perhaps, his new... mind?

I, Cunningham is a full-length standalone hard science-fiction novel. Those who like Isaac Asimov's or Arthur C. Clarke's work should enjoy this tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benoit Goudreault-Emond
• Release date: Jun 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777116002

Benoit Goudreault-Emond

Benoit Goudreault-Emond is a man (or at least, he was, last time he checked) living in Montreal, Québec, Canada. He hopes to write some decent novels eventually. Hopefully, you will be able to stand what he wrote in the meantime. Keep at it, it will build character. When not writing, he spends his time futzing around with mechanical keyboards, annoying his ever-patient wife with various rants, and attempting to be a reasonable approximation of a good father to their lively daughter. Oh, and he’s a programmer during the day, and does most novel writing at night. In the basement. With lights on, which should surprise you if you know anything about programmers and lights.

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I, CUNNINGHAM

E-book (epub) ISBN: 978-1-7771160-0-2

E-book (mobi) ISBN: 978-1-7771160-1-9

First edition: June 2020

Cover art by John Poh:

http://www.johnery.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2020 Benoit Goudreault-Emond.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Visit the author’s website at:

http://www.bge-author.ca

Dedication

Dedicated to my aunt Lucie. May she always walk in the light.

Author’s foreword

This text has annoying footnotes, mostly put there by the author to clarify some of the scientific basis behind the different parts of the story. Others are clarifications of obscure references to other works of science fiction much greater than this one, which the author loves to cite in the hope that it gives some more credibility to his work. Both types can safely be glossed over.

Despite the presence of footnotes, the author is not a physicist and does not claim the book to be free of mistakes. Rest assured any such mistakes are the author’s alone. The author wishes to apologize in advance for them, and can only say in his defence that his intentions were good, and that any hand-waving is in the interest of storytelling and not meant to spread misconceptions to gentle readers.

PART I: STATION

Chapter 1: Prologue

The shuttle, like all shuttles in the Demeter system, was a stub-nosed, rather ungainly affair, clearly not meant for atmospheric flight. Its design expressed all the practicality of its crew. The pits and scorch marks on its hull were either an indication of poor maintenance practices, or of too-long shifts due to a heavy workload. Given the professionalism of the crew, the explanation was clearly the latter.

Thankfully, the shuttle’s design was tolerant of such abuse. It had served the Demeter society for two centuries, without fail. Its VASIMR¹ propulsion unit was nearly foolproof and required little maintenance. The hull had several layers of ablative shielding, although they were well past their expected lifetime. But there was no time to fix it, with the shuttle in near constant flight.

There were only six such shuttles left. The automated factory that had produced it centuries before had long since fallen into disrepair. The interior of the shuttle belied its age, just like the outer hull. Interior bulkheads were stained with generations of old herbal coffee stains; an oily, musty smell, permeated the cabin. All due to centuries of pilots sweating profusely despite the cabin’s climate control system. There were always bizarre drafts and warmer spots in climate-controlled, enclosed areas. The necessity to cram as much equipment as possible in confined spaces made sure of that. Centuries of experience in space flight had not improved this situation.

Despite all that, Norman Sixth never felt more at home than in the tiny, cramped cabin. Which was odd, given how much he disliked his living quarters in Demeter Station. Then again, he had never felt at home in the drafty barracks underneath Demeter’s surface, either. The planet constantly tried to kill its inhabitants. When it wasn’t through prion-borne diseases, it was through radioactive dust which got everywhere. All things considered, maybe Norman Sixth was one of the few sane beings in the Demeter system, in light of the enthusiasm of his ilk for living on planet.

Hence, Norman volunteered for as many shuttle flights as possible. He never said as much, but it’s likely that he really regretted volunteering for that particular flight. Then again, given how pivotal his role was in securing his colony’s future, who knows? He may’ve judged the drawbacks had been worth it, after all was done.

Still, Norman and his ilk, an ever practical people, have always had a hard time drawing much satisfaction from such abstract rewards.

---

The flight was to be a routine trip from Demeter Station to Orbit One, the medium orbit station used for transfer to and from the planet. Norman entered the cabin, sealed squeezable of herbal coffee in hand, a slate running the preflight checklist program tucked under his elbow. The coffee was just the way he liked it—prepared with a dash of beet sugar and plenty of oat milk. Norman, like all Demeterians, was dimly aware that herbal coffee was not real coffee, but had no way to know how poor a substitute he was drinking. No coffee plant had ever been grown in the Demeter system.

He floated to the co-pilot’s seat, buckled up, velcro-ed the slate to the strip in one seat arm, and jammed his cup in the rather grungy cup holder built into the other. Then, somewhat unexpectedly, he swore, unbuckled, and started to make his way to the back.

Hey, Norm, greeted the pilot, Ruby Eighteenth, as she entered the compartment. Like Norman, she entered carrying a squeezable in hand and a slate under her elbow. Her squeezable was filled with plain water. Something wrong?

Hey, Ruby, said Norman. Just realized I haven’t visited the head yet, and with that big cup of coffee…

You should really try to curb your addiction, his pilot admonished as she grasped a strap to come to a stop. Her long red hair fanned all around her head, revealing her pointed ears, which complemented her graceful, subdued features.

Norman’s own ears and features were cast from the same mould, although his brown hair was worn short. Which, in his opinion, made a lot more sense than his boss’s hair style in a zero-g environment. However, he was just the co-pilot; he didn’t feel it was his place to ask the flight captain to tie down her darn hair. She’d either remember to do it herself, or not.

Been trying for years, Rub’, but I can’t stand plain water, Norman pointed out good-naturedly. Doesn’t taste anything, and it’s somebody’s recycled piss… Ugh!

"We do get some of it from comet ice, you know, the pilot replied, amused by her co-pilot’s banter. And how do you think that coffee is made? Water from Demeter’s oceans, all the way down the gravity well?"

At least it’s boiled before I drink it, Norman quipped as he went backwards towards the cockpit’s door. Your own beverage is straight from the recycler’s spigot!

Yeah, well, what do you think your ‘coffee’ plant grows in?

Hmm, maybe I don’t want to continue this conversation, Norman said.

Ruby laughed as she settled down in the pilot’s seat. Well, go feed the coffee plant, or fill my water, whichever you have to do, but don’t take too long, we have to be out in ten minutes, she called out. Left unmentioned was the fact that pre-flight took five minutes and had to be done by both pilot and co-pilot. But of course, Norman knew that, having been in pilot training for four years.

Sure thing, Norman replied, giving up on the rather unsavoury subject.

The actual business of his visiting the head can be glossed over. He was out within a couple of minutes, much relieved, and eager to be about it.

The checklist showed all green despite the shuttle’s age, until they got to the RCS array. The RCS array was a set of control thrusters powered through hypergolic propellant. Those were liquids that, when mixed, self-ignited through a strong chemical reaction that provided thrust. They were not used much in the course of normal flight. The Demeterian pilots, with a long tradition of routine spaceflight, were quite clever in their use of the main VASIMR engine, whose nozzle could be reoriented. This was a critical skill, given the limited availability of the hypergolics. They were hard to manufacture, and the industrial base was under strain just from providing basics to the colonists. However, it was sometimes necessary to use the RCS array to adjust the trajectory. It could be because of the odd swarm of micro-meteorites, or less frequently, because the flight path was too complex to run off the main thruster.

RCS array’s reading a bit loose, Norman pointed out. Looks like the pressure sensor’s not reliable.

Ruby keyed Station Control on, frowning.

Control, we’re showing suboptimal pressure in RCS A, she declaimed, all business. Might be a stuck sensor. Can you confirm?

"Negative, Hermes, Control replied. We’re reading normal pressures from here. Advise sending HUP signal to SENSOR process."

Roger that, Control, stand by, Ruby replied, nodding to Norman. The latter keyed in a restart command to the SENSOR process. But despite that, the sensor insisted that the RCS was under-pressured.

Uh, Control, HUP signal to SENSOR confirmed, began Norman. Still negative on sensor reading. Any idea what’s going on?

"Stand by, Hermes, replied Control. We’ll ask the eggheads and get back to you. Please complete the checklist in meantime."

Roger that, Control, completing checklist, confirmed Ruby, keying off the comm. Figures, first RCS failure in thirty years, had to be us. What’s the main thruster showing?

All green, Ruby, and RCS quad B is green across the board as well, Norman pointed out helpfully.

Yeah, I bet they’ll tell us to take off anyways, the pilot grumbled. "Not their ass on the line, and all the passengers need to be to Orbit One today, or the whole schedule gets messed up."

That’s harsh, Norman protested. The passengers are at risk, too.

They’re all Alts, like us, and we’re not having trouble breeding. If we were Stocks, they’d be a lot more thorough, Ruby insisted.

Station would never allow— Norman began, before getting cut off by Control.

"Hermes, Control: eggheads think it’s a software glitch, solar activity is up this tenday.² Probably part of the flash memory got corrupted. Shut down the quad’s valve manually once in flight and proceed with mission. Good luck."

Roger, Control, replied the pilot with misleading calm. She then angrily slammed her finger on the cut-off button. You were saying?

Wait, this is nuts! Norman complained. "Only way to shut the valve down manually is from outside, so one of us will have to go EVA!³ Why are we not doing this while docked?"

Because the RCS arrays are currently under the mooring clamps, that’s why, said Ruby with a sour expression. And obviously, fixing this while we’re boosting is out of the question. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.

Absolutely not, protested her co-pilot. You barely made the minimum EVA training requirements. I have more than three hundred hours of mission time under my belt. I was in Station Maintenance, remember? I’ll go.

My ship, my problem. I’ll—

No. I’ll go. You’re the better pilot, anyways. If somehow I can’t close the valve and the quad goes nuts, you’re better qualified to salvage the trajectory. I’ll be fine.

Ruby hesitated for an awkwardly long time, clearly conflicted. Still, Norman’s reasoning was sound. "Fine. I do have more flight hours than you do. You just better be careful out there! All sorts of things can go wrong in the black…"

The rest of preflight and the initial boost passed without incident, though the tension in the air was palpable. EVAs weren’t especially rare around Demeter Station. Yet, accidents happened. Close to the station’s facilities, there were lots of ways a situation could be salvaged. In flight, odds of an irrecoverable disaster were much higher. The heightened solar activity did not worry the pair; their kind was abnormally resistant to hard radiation. However, the Demeter system had lots of dust and random bits of ancient man-made satellites flying around. The various pits and scorch marks on the Hermes‘ hull and ablative shield could attest to that. A suit puncture, while not necessarily catastrophic, was nevertheless quite high on the list of potentially deadly accidents. Norman was well-trained in field repairs, but a shattered helmet or an arm broken by a strike would still kill him.

Still, as the pair concentrated on their immediate tasks, they pushed their concerns to the back of their minds. Once they had reached the medium orbit and were in the shadow of the planet, however, they started to worry once more. It was especially intense in Ruby’s case, as she could not shake the feeling that something horrible was about to happen. As if on cue, a loud thunk resounded throughout the hull, and the shuttle started spinning slowly.

Shit, swore Ruby, immediately hitting the RCS shutdown switch. The slight acceleration died down, but the shuttle was already spinning along its Y axis.

Not software, Norman said, fingers flying over the touchscreen. How bad is the spin?

One degree per second, Ruby replied. And, no, I can’t correct that kind of spin with the main engine. I’ll try to light the other one up, maybe it has enough force to cancel the spin even with A venting.

"Hermes, we read a drift in your trajectory, and the gyros are reporting a slight spin. Please confirm the manoeuvre," Station Control cut in.

Norman hurried to be the first one to reply. That’s a negative, Control; it was not a controlled manoeuvre. He wanted to forego his pilot’s response, which he expected to be very colourful, if not quite polite. Quad A had an uncontrolled ignition. I shut down the whole array, we’ll light it back up with Quad B at full to see if we can cancel the spin out.

"Hermes, this is Station."

That was a new voice, one which sounded like the ideal news anchorwoman. Its lack of inflection would’ve identified its owner even if she hadn’t done so directly. Station (when the initial capital letter was implied) was the designation of the Artificial Intelligence program that had built Demeter Station. She only got involved in day-to-day affairs when things went bad.

Despite her reassuring tone, the implications of her getting involved shot the shuttle crew’s stress level through the roof.

Ruby exchanged a meaningful glance with her co-pilot. "Station, this is Hermes, go ahead," she said.

"A tug has been dispatched to assist, but is not able to rendez-vous before the orbit of shuttle Hermes decays. Recommend attempting to buy some time."

How much?

At least twenty minutes, ideally thirty. The computer seemed to hesitate. Even that amount is not a certain thing. If the malfunction is due to some external damage, the orbit will decay beyond recovery. The tug will still attempt rendez-vous, but it’s highly unlikely to be able to boost out.

Copy that, the pilot said, her calm tone at odds with her strained expression. She thumbed the comm out. This is bad. I don’t think we can risk using Quad B without physically sealing Quad A’s port. What’s the pressure reading in A?

Norman glanced down before answering. It’s a tad higher than spec. I concur. I’ll prep for EVA. Do we have a short procedure?

Basically skip the first half of sections one and two. I hope the seals are properly maintained…

… unlike Quad A. Yeah. I hope so, too, said Norman, deadpan.

---

The suit was made of flexible fabric with a rigid corset housing survival gear. The tough, elastic material that covered the wearer’s limbs kept them intact through counterpressure. This meant no full-body pressurization, and no need for accordion joints that limited mobility. The corset and helmet assemblies were both pressurized and temperature controlled. The design had been optimized for wearer mobility. However, the elastic fabric took some effort to slip into. So much so, in fact, that many original stock humans needed help to put on such a suit.

A good thing Norman was not original stock, but rather, a modified human. And like all Alternates in the Demeter system, he could count on a more efficient musculoskeletal system. He could therefore manage putting on the suit on his own.

Which did not mean it was a walk in the park for him. The sweat beading on his brow and threatening to drip down into his eyes could attest to that. The stress from having to rush the suiting up procedure wasn’t helping, either.

But he had to move on. Every second counted.

"Hermes, this is Six, starting EVA."

Copy that, Six, be careful out there. The pilot couldn’t quite mask a slight quavering in her voice.

Roger, confirm being careful. Outer airlock cycling.

The air pumped out of the airlock; all exterior sound—the various pumps, creaks and buzzes from the ship systems—faded away. Checking his tether for the fifth time, Norman stepped out on magnetic boots. He carefully made his way towards the back of the shuttle. Helmet lights let him orient himself with some difficulty; there was little ambient light in the planetary shadow. The view should’ve been spectacular. Unfortunately, it was quite boring: a crescent of light from the edge of the planet, showing the reddish glow of the primary, Wolf 1061.

Well, Norman wasn’t there for sightseeing anyway. There was work to be done.

The RCS quad was amidship, but Quad A was on the other side of the hull. Norman had to negotiate the hull’s curve while juggling an additional tether. It was a matter of clipping the second tether to a new hardpoint, remotely unclipping the other one through a button on his belt, reeling it in, then clipping that tether to another hardpoint. The tether was long enough to go around the shuttle’s hull a couple of times, but it was better to avoid that. Sudden manoeuvres would have tangled the astronaut up. Norman had to force himself to be very deliberate in his movements, despite the urge to go faster.

When he finally made it to the RCS quad, he looked at it carefully, but failed to detect anything untoward.

"Hermes, Six."

Go ahead, Six.

I don’t see anything obviously wrong with the quad. What’s the pressure reading?

Stand by, Six. A short pause. "Stars! It’s twenty atmospheres over! Norman, get out of—"

Norman lost the rest of the sentence as pressure forced the relief valve open. Highly corrosive hypergolics vented out and sprayed all over the suit and tether. The suit was safe, as it was specifically designed to resist that kind of chemical mishap.

Unfortunately, the second tether Norman had taken was not. This was a known problem with the secondary tether material. Protocol dictated that EVA operators anchor themselves with both tethers during repairs. Unfortunately, Norman had been in a rush and hadn’t clipped the primary. No doubt because he hadn’t actually started repairing anything yet. The secondary wasn’t exactly made out of weak material, but the overpressure was strong enough to push the astronaut away from the hull with quite a bit of force. The tether held for a time, snapping taut and converting the momentum to an arc around the hull. Unfortunately, it chafed against the sharp protrusions of one of the heat radiators that was right next to the RCS array. The combination of being weakened by the hypergols and the friction against the sharp cooling fin made it snap, sending Norman tumbling away from the shuttle towards the planet.

Then, by some incredible fluke, his torso got caught in a different tether. Reflexively, he grabbed it, as the object at the other end arced towards him. He barely had time to glimpse at another suit—similar to his own, but painted matte black, and near impossible to see despite his helmet lights—before getting all tangled up. The figure revolved around him and finally came to a rest by tumbling into him rather painfully.

"Wait, what the hell?" he swore.

The other suited figure was smaller than him; from the size of its suit, he guessed he out-massed it by some twenty kilos when both were out of EVA gear. The other’s suit was surprisingly bare, with no insignia nor any kind of markings that would identify its origin. Its wearer seemed agitated, waving a utility knife towards the tether; the threat was clear, but the intentions were not. The figure signed in ASL⁴: TURN OFF RADIO.

Norman wasn’t sure what to do about this. Turning off the radio meant he couldn’t ask for assistance; but realistically, nobody would be able to get to him in time anyway. If the stranger cut their tether, they’d both drift and likely end up lost forever. Finding a single suit in orbit before said orbit decayed was near impossible.

On the other hand, if the other person cut the tether, they would end up in the same situation as himself. So… what kind of maniac would be willing to kill both of them, just to get him to shut off his radio?

Likely that person didn’t really want to die, but wanted to talk without the conversation being eavesdropped. This tickled Norman’s curiosity. He complied, and an indicator on his chest plate turned off as Ruby’s frantic calls were cut off. He needlessly gave a thumbs up sign.

The figure pressed its helmet to his.

"Now, listen up, you must not tell anyone you’ve seen me! Pretend your second tether was set up properly—" the voice was a clear soprano, obviously a woman’s. She sounded frantic.

"Whoa, hold on! Who are you? How can you be a stowaway of all things—"

Shut up, she snapped. "The less you know, the better it is. And yes, I don’t care if I die with you in reentry. But I’d rather not. This can work out well for both of us, but please listen to me."

Her tone was dangerously close to pleading, which further intrigued Norman. While listening to her, though, he was thinking of various explanations for this. The most plausible was that she was a rebel: one of those stock humans dead set on settling Demeter’s surface, despite being unsuited for it.

Norman Sixth had nothing against the rebels; he was, in fact, sympathetic to their cause, though he did think they were suicidal idiots. But it was the first time he’d met one. He decided to listen to what she had to say.

Go on, I’ll hear you out.

The woman sighed with relief. "Glad some of you station dwellers are sane. Look, I’m not doing anything bad here; I’m hitching a ride to Orbit One. Once there, I’ll ride the Eurale, just like your other passengers. I have a valid ticket to board; only thing is, I can’t get a ticket to this shuttle. You know why, right?"

Because you’re a stock human.

Yeah, she replied bitterly. "We’re not allowed, for our safety. Like we’re kids or something. Look. I don’t want that shuttle to burn up either. I’ll even help you fix it, but I suggest you pretend the shock from the blow out messed up your comm."

It’s not really a very likely story, Norman pointed out. That stuff is solid state. You’ll have to damage the radio with that nasty pointed thing of yours. Or maybe squeeze the assembly with the tether; it’s plausible I got tangled in it.

Pause. "Wait, you want me to break it?"

Well, let’s fix the darn RCS first; if anything goes really bad, I’ll need the radio again. But if you help me get some plausible deniability, it’s no skin off my back. I’m Norman, by the way.

Clarissa. Wait, forget I told you that.

Norman laughed. You’re not exactly a very good rebel, are you?

Clarissa couldn’t help laughing as well. Even distorted by the helmet-to-helmet contact, her giggles were pleasant. I’m really not. Okay, Norman. I don’t know why you’re willing to risk getting in trouble for me, but…

Way I figure it, I might get in moderate trouble, but you would be in way, way worse trouble… And I’d hate to see any rebel imprisoned… or spaced for high treason. There’re so few stock humans left…

Ah. It wasn’t much a stretch for Norman to imagine a tumbler falling into a lock in the woman’s head. She’d figured out that he was an Alt.

Which was fortunate, since Alts had a reputation for tending to value practicality over allegiance. This varied with the individual, of course. But given the relatively comfortable situation of Alts in terms of overall demography, his ilk were much less fanatical about… well, everything, compared to the Stocks. That made his whole stance believable. And the rebel more likely to trust him and forget about that whole tether-cutting business.

Can you help me untangle that thing? the Alt asked. I’m likely to have a hard time, I don’t see how it’s tangled in the back.

Okay, Norman. I’ll clip you first, though.

Through complicated, careful manoeuvres that looked like a strange ballet, they managed to undo the many loops of cable. Nothing was tangled per se; it was just tricky work. Thankfully, Clarissa’s suit featured an MMU⁵ thruster pack, which allowed her to perform the complex spins required to complete the manoeuvre. Norman wondered how she’d gotten her hands on that.

Once untangled and attached to the same tether, both made their way to the thruster assembly. Using the battery-powered percussive driver strapped to his belt, Norman unlocked the access panel. As soon as it came off, the relief valve popped again; this time, he’d made sure to stay out of the way of the venting gases. The shuttle’s roll was now at roughly 10 degrees per second thanks to the two outgassings. Norman reeled in the tether and signalled urgently for Clarissa to do the same.

Not a moment too soon; expecting that Norman was lost, Ruby had elected to attempt using the main truster in a desperate to cancel the spin. Quick bursts with the right timing might let her do that, but the manoeuvre was tricky. Norman held on, hoping she’d stop soon; he couldn’t effect any kind of repair while this was going on. If she kept at it, he’d have to break radio silence. That would have sunk any kind of reasonable explanation of why he had cut his radio off in the first place.

Thankfully, Ruby gave up after a few tens of seconds of quick bursts. Norman sighed in relief. Working quickly, he reached in the RCS assembly and shut down the external valve to the propellant tanks. Then, he unbolted both tanks and threw them away from the ship. He placed his helmet against Clarissa’s.

Okay, now, break my radio. Take those pliers, and pull the antenna off, he instructed. "I’ll tell them it got