Nothing happened, so he smacked the side of the control desk that held the main processing unit. “Engage, you piece of shit!”
The computer beeped and finally confirmed his area assessment as it displayed a chart of the current mapping results. He grumbled under his breath, cursing the outdated equipment. “This pod is way past due a systems upgrade. I requested that upgrade three missions ago.”
A tall, thin feline rubbed against his leg and purred. At her touch, Jared immediately calmed. He reached down and scratched her head. “I’ll be another few minutes, Savannah.”
She swished her tail and padded across the pod’s control room. With a slight sway of her butt and a low meow, she strolled out into the corridor.
Savannah. If not for the Hybrid Project, his time up here would have been unbearable. The Hybrid Project -- a scientific experiment involving accelerated evolution to create a new species of quasi-humans -- had turned out to be one of mankind’s greatest successes.
The second-generation Hybrids in particular were exceptionally intelligent. Accepted by society as a new shape-shifting form of life, they enjoyed all the privileges of civilized living. Savannah was a second generation and his companion.
“Pod S132-N48 switching to a new area orbit.”
“New orbit approved,” a ground controller answered back, his voice crackling over the speaker system. “Auto-tracking authorized upon stabilization.”
“Copy.” Jared was one of many scientists stationed on pods orbiting Earth. Outsourcing work off-planet had become common practice in the last few decades. Pod stations monitored space chatter, surveyed asteroid movements and coordinated satellite repairs. A variety of assignments existed. His job wasn’t quite as glamorous as most.
“Engaging sector probes.” He was a particle sweeper, basically a galactic garbage man, which sounded less important than the job actually was, but it described his responsibilities well.
Garbage left over from launches and other space activities throughout the years flew through space at high speeds, just looking for something to hit. The particles, even when miniscule in size, were dangerous to ships and especially dangerous for astronauts who worked outside on repair or collection missions. At the rate of speed the particles traveled, even one sliver could disable a ship or kill a man. Particle sweepers found and destroyed all such dangers in their assigned sector.
“Pod sensors are transmitting data,” the ground controller informed him.
“Copy, Control.”
All was working as programmed. Time to let the PS-G3 software take over. When particles were detected in the area, lasers and filtration devices would auto-engage to break up and absorb the debris. The absorbed debris was converted into energy and utilized to operate the pod.
Years ago, he would have had to manually engage the systems, so he was grateful for the still relatively new software. He wished the pod’s hardware could have been equally new.
Even with the advanced software programs though, ground control couldn’t handle these missions solely by remote. Someone needed to monitor the equipment and navigation changes on-site because pod damage occurred often on sweepers. Repairs needed to be taken care of quickly to avoid total malfunction of an orbiter.
“Pod S132-N48 out.” He flipped off the communication channel and relaxed in the chair, listening for any abnormalities. The only sound remaining since the booster burn died was the low, soothing thump, thump, thump of the pod’s engines. With one last check of the controls, he felt satisfied. All looked secure. The end of another busy day.
A cat’s cry drew his attention. He smiled, pushed out his chair and rose to his feet. “On my way.” With a groan, he stretched his back, which cracked in response. Now in his thirties, he was getting too old for such long assignments. Soon, he’d have to find work on-planet and forgo these
The computer beeped and finally confirmed his area assessment as it displayed a chart of the current mapping results. He grumbled under his breath, cursing the outdated equipment. “This pod is way past due a systems upgrade. I requested that upgrade three missions ago.”
A tall, thin feline rubbed against his leg and purred. At her touch, Jared immediately calmed. He reached down and scratched her head. “I’ll be another few minutes, Savannah.”
She swished her tail and padded across the pod’s control room. With a slight sway of her butt and a low meow, she strolled out into the corridor.
Savannah. If not for the Hybrid Project, his time up here would have been unbearable. The Hybrid Project -- a scientific experiment involving accelerated evolution to create a new species of quasi-humans -- had turned out to be one of mankind’s greatest successes.
The second-generation Hybrids in particular were exceptionally intelligent. Accepted by society as a new shape-shifting form of life, they enjoyed all the privileges of civilized living. Savannah was a second generation and his companion.
“Pod S132-N48 switching to a new area orbit.”
“New orbit approved,” a ground controller answered back, his voice crackling over the speaker system. “Auto-tracking authorized upon stabilization.”
“Copy.” Jared was one of many scientists stationed on pods orbiting Earth. Outsourcing work off-planet had become common practice in the last few decades. Pod stations monitored space chatter, surveyed asteroid movements and coordinated satellite repairs. A variety of assignments existed. His job wasn’t quite as glamorous as most.
“Engaging sector probes.” He was a particle sweeper, basically a galactic garbage man, which sounded less important than the job actually was, but it described his responsibilities well.
Garbage left over from launches and other space activities throughout the years flew through space at high speeds, just looking for something to hit. The particles, even when miniscule in size, were dangerous to ships and especially dangerous for astronauts who worked outside on repair or collection missions. At the rate of speed the particles traveled, even one sliver could disable a ship or kill a man. Particle sweepers found and destroyed all such dangers in their assigned sector.
“Pod sensors are transmitting data,” the ground controller informed him.
“Copy, Control.”
All was working as programmed. Time to let the PS-G3 software take over. When particles were detected in the area, lasers and filtration devices would auto-engage to break up and absorb the debris. The absorbed debris was converted into energy and utilized to operate the pod.
Years ago, he would have had to manually engage the systems, so he was grateful for the still relatively new software. He wished the pod’s hardware could have been equally new.
Even with the advanced software programs though, ground control couldn’t handle these missions solely by remote. Someone needed to monitor the equipment and navigation changes on-site because pod damage occurred often on sweepers. Repairs needed to be taken care of quickly to avoid total malfunction of an orbiter.
“Pod S132-N48 out.” He flipped off the communication channel and relaxed in the chair, listening for any abnormalities. The only sound remaining since the booster burn died was the low, soothing thump, thump, thump of the pod’s engines. With one last check of the controls, he felt satisfied. All looked secure. The end of another busy day.
A cat’s cry drew his attention. He smiled, pushed out his chair and rose to his feet. “On my way.” With a groan, he stretched his back, which cracked in response. Now in his thirties, he was getting too old for such long assignments. Soon, he’d have to find work on-planet and forgo these
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