I started this novel in December 2022. A year later, according to MS Word, I had 943 hours in it.
Jeez. And here I’ve been telling folks I didn’t retire just to go out looking for another job.
I took inventory last year at 138,000 words, and understood that Mason Fowlkes and Marie Jourdain were principals, not supporting cast. This discovery required moving their story arc from the middle of the book to the front.
Hence, a lot of material went to the ‘excised’ document, including this scene, discarded for more demerits in the writer’s craft column, including the one that says nobody reads 800 page books anymore.
A lack of faith on my part perhaps, so here it is -- an example of exclusive content for subscribers. Step right up, folks.
Chapter 6
AMV Anuraga, The Dust Cloud
It was 8:40 AM United States Eastern time, and Mason Fowlkes did not want to be late for his big day. First on the agenda, pre-meeting, collect his sister at a music studio on RD-19.
Erin’s piano teacher had a question for him. She asked, “Why isn’t air circulating on this deck?”
Mason replied, “I don’t know, but I’ll call it in.”
“It’s been that way all morning.”
“We’re short-handed. Half a dozen shipwrights are off on a mission.”
“Doing what?”
“Retrieving AMV Bharamin from storage near Saturn.” Mason made a sheepish expression. “I’d be there myself if I didn’t have an appointment today.”
“I thought Bharamin was lost.”
He shook his head. “Nope; just hidden.”
The lady made wide eyes. “I’ll bet there’s a story behind that!”
“There is, but I’ve already said more than I should.” Mason took his younger sister’s hand. “I promise, if we had a serious ventilation fault, I’d be on the job.”
On their way out the door, Erin asked, “Do you have your phone turned off?”
He nodded. “They’ll find me anyway.”
The finding took place at the elevator bank, doors opening to reveal a male shipwright, human, and furry female apprentice, Anye Iravat.
Mason said, “You guys look tired.”
The man replied, “We’ve been at it since midnight. Why’s your phone turned off?”
“I have a meeting with my counselor.”
“Yeah, well I have Chester the maroli stuck in a dead-end crawlspace between RD-18 and Cargo-3.” He raised eyebrows at Mason’s sister. “Hey, Erin.”
Erin raised eyebrows back. “Hello Mark. Sheila.” She peeled her phone off her wrist. “How long is this going to take?”
The elevator dropped. Sheila took control, opening doors while the lift was in motion. “Depends on your brother.”
Mark pushed a grav-lift tool box to one side. “Drone inspection called out a high-pressure ventilation duct with the spigot backed way out of the downstream slip-joint. Cafeteria on 18 is straight underneath, full to capacity.”
Sheila laid her perky ears out, then back. “We didn’t turn off the gravity. Chester tried to winch it back in, and it fell. We cleared out the cafeteria and turned off the gravity, but it didn’t help.”
Mason unfolded a pair of disposable coveralls. “I’m listening.”
“The duct’s jammed, won’t budge. One end is hung up on a backup power supply cabinet. No breach, yet, but it’s possible. Chester’s fuel port snapped off. Butane bled out, so he can’t run his propulsion system. And, he’s pinned on his side, can’t get leverage with his tentacles.”
“Crap!”
“Oh, yeah. It’s bad. I’ve been in there two hours trying to pry him loose. I’m worn out, and if you can’t do it, we’ll have to use a molecular cutter on the duct.”
The coveralls were too large. Mason had to roll up the legs. “What’s Chester say about that?”
“He’s scared, and he should be. The radiation could kill his processor.”
The car crept down, slowly passing Cargo-3, where a mechanical indicator set into an access hatch warned, ‘If piston is flush, other side is vacuum.’
The car stopped short of RD-18, revealing a dark, forbidding between-decks 1.5-meter-gross-clearance crawlspace.
A trio of drones lifted out of the tool crate, lamps blazing. Mason told them, “Lead me by five meters. Keep your lights out of my eyes.”
He paired his neural implant with the drones’ cameras, inviting an Ultra-Vision 3-D render into his brain’s optical center. Mason’s sight picture ballooned. He swayed, off-balance.
Sheila held on to his shoulders. “Whoa, tiger. Give it a second.”
He stuck out his tongue. “Uck.”
She staged a self-propelled tool tray on the crawlspace deck. “I wish I had spherical vision.”
“I wish I’d skipped breakfast.” Mason leaned into the crawlspace, allowing null-gravity to take weight off his torso so Sheila could push him in.
After that, it was a free-fall swim through a low-ceiling, claustrophobia-inducing obstacle course, terminated by a full-height section beam, making the compartment one-way-in, same-way-out.
Chester was quiet, incommunicative, tentacles limp. Mason patted him on the capsule. “Hey buddy. Wake up.”
A ready light winked on. Tentacles stirred. Chester spoke softly, as if telling a secret. “This one had a terrible dream.”
“I can imagine.” Mason tugged on a jackpost. It was cranked up tight enough to lift the duct, had one end not been hung on a waste pipe, and the other wedged against an emergency power cabinet, containing a toxin-laden petrogas-converting fuel cell.
Chester touched Mason’s hand with a lesser ungula. “Mason Fowlkes. This is a dangerous place for you to be.”
Mason eyeballed the power cabinet. The service panel was half-open, bent beyond any hope of closing it. Light bounced off the fuel cell within, a sturdy device, but it could be breached and that would be a non-trivial event.
He said, “Yep. It’s scary, all right.”
Chester replied, “You must bring waldoes, seal the compartment, cut the duct. There is no other way.”
“Nah. I’m not giving up on you; not yet.” Mason grasped a virtual joystick in augmented reality, guiding a drone toward the power cabinet.
He said, “Sixteen, calculate how many cans of shock foam it would take to fill up the empty volume in that cabinet.”
Mark the shipwright spoke in his ear. “This is why we like having smart guys in the department.”
While waiting for supplies, Mason coated Chester’s capsule with spray lube. A strap, fastened to a lift ring on the ceiling, gave the maroli something to pull on, making it possible for him to expose his filler port.
The port was easily replaced. Mason recharged Chester’s fuel cell with a Dollar Store butane cylinder, restoring propulsion.
Sheila filled the offending power supply cabinet with shock foam. The material turned into a stiff jelly within minutes.
Anuraga called General Quarters. Everyone on board went to emergency stations.
A strap was fastened around Chester’s capsule. Mason, Mark, and Sheila waited in the elevator, clad in spacesuits. A power winch wound up slack and pulled.
Chester came out of between-decks like his tentacles were on fire. He told Mason, “This one will always be grateful.”
He told Mark, “This one resigns from the maintenance department.”
John Dyer Writes 
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