MEB - Being There

Real Name: Scott E. Turnbull

Background:

I'm a computer systems engineer by training, with a PhD in advanced control theory. The "E" in the name designates my status as "Enhanced". I picked that up following my rescue from the Odyssey Lunar Mining Incident. My status as a class 4 quad amp makes me uniquely suited for the implanted universal control interface. There's no competition between the implants and the parts I left behind. Using my engineering training, and the universal interface, I can control systems ranging from the nano to the mega scale. I'm mission rated for orbital and deep space maneuvers, as well as atmospheric navigation.

Volunteering:

As soon as I heard of the MEB Project, I submitted my application. All of those years of Trek reruns had wetwired me to crave that final frontier. With space experience and advanced control theory, my credentials were impeccable. My small core mass of 21kilos gave me an edge among the other "E" applicants. There was some initial doubt from the psydocs. They were obsessed with the details of the Odyssey incident. As the sole survivor they figured I would have some survivor guilt or post-trauma-syndrome. They finally had to agree that I am never more at ease than when I'm system integrated and cruising space.

Mission Assignment:

My role in the MEB Project is that of System Integrationist (SI). As mission SI, I am not just responsible for the ship. When jacked into the ship, I am the central control core. I also serve as the central core for the Descent Module when we reach Mars. I'm a two for one blue light special.

Be All That You Can Be:

Nothing quite feels like the instant of a control insertion. All SIs feel it to some extent, depending on what they have when they're not inserted. I don't have much to work with on my own. Imagine being in a box and unable to move. Unable to even wiggle your toes. Now imagine you've been in that box for a month, or a year. You've been there so long you can't remember what legs feel like. You can't feel anything but the beat of your heart. The only thing you can hear is the rush of blood in your own ears. Now imagine that in a blink of an eye that box falls away and that you can feel every fiber of your being. Your arms are there. Your legs are there. You can feel the heat of the sun on your skin. You can hear the roar of the wind. You feel more alive than you've ever felt before.

When my box disappears, I'm 200 meters tall. Instead of feet I have twin ion drives. My arms are reactive thrusters. My eyes put that cranky old Hubble to shame. I can hear the songs of the cosmos in my ears. There's no doubt about it. I love a good insertion.

On a Roll

It's not all fun and games, though. When I had legs I never experienced a cramp that compares to a seized surface actuator. A fried sensor can feel like a hot needle stuck in my eye. The integrationist engineers figured out early on that it helps keep an SI focused if things don't get too comfortable. Everybody benefits from a certain sense of urgency when a critical system starts to fail.

That's why I took notice during Mars Orbital Insertion. After six months in transit, everybody was looking forward to making orbit around Mars. The whole crew was watching the planet loom large when I felt a thruster go offline. Something like that usually isn't a problem, because there are redundant systems and backup protocols. I just did what came natural. I split the needed vector between neighboring thrusters. The rest of the crew didn't even realize we lost a nozzle. That's when we lost two more thrusters.

Things got a little dicey then. With three thrusters out, control was compromised. We went from fail safe, to fail functional, to hard fail in a matter of seconds. Our entry vector was off the mark and getting worse. I take a thing like that personal. Any good SI would. It's at such times that a crew wants an SI on board. They don't have time for radio lag to Mission Control. They can't afford to waste time gauge gazing and switch flipping. It's one of those mission critical windows that can slam shut and put you straight into the history books under "L" for "Lost in Space". I smashed through one those windows with Odyssey. I have no interest in a repeat performance.

When I'm jacked in I can react to something like dead thrusters the way you'd react to slipping on an icy sidewalk. You do a little dance, you shift your weight, and you find your center. I needed to do the same thing on a much bigger scale. I put the ship in a crisp longitudinal spin, found my balance, and pulsed the working thrusters as they swung through the needed vectors. It messed up the IMAX camera footage, but that's about the worst of it.

The whole episode took all of about 90 seconds. Just long enough to spook those civi geologists. Everybody joked about it later, and I picked up the nickname of "Spin Doctor". It was generally agreed that a little impromptu spin beats ablative reentry every time.

It turns out there was some crystallization in the thruster feed lines due to uneven thermal cycles. The crystals choked off the feed. Somebody skimped a little too much on the thermal blankets. You can bet it won't happen again on my shift.

The Descent:

After a few days lounging in Mars orbit, we were ready to get dusty. I engaged the station keeping and said goodbye to my pumped up physique. The ship's good on orbit with the standard control, and I had another job to do. An SI won't tell you out straight, but it's never fun losing parts of yourself at the disconnect. To the crew's credit, they had me wriggling the flaps of the Descent Module before I really missed the ship's bulk. Talk about your crash diets. I went from interplanetary cruiser, to two-ton drop ship in less than an hour.

There's an old saying about a man having wings if he was meant to fly. I have to say, if you haven't done an orbital drop with nothing between you and the ground but your own wings, you haven't flown. Don't get me wrong. I'm no hotdog. The psydocs and integrationists weed those out before they get certified. On the other hand, there's no sense in dawdling around up there where you might as well have stayed on orbit. I never exceed my tolerances, but I do like to dance along the edge. It's not like there were going to be any birds I had to look out for during the approach.

Truth be told, I'd flown the sims so many times that it was as if I'd been soaring over Mars for half my life. That's both a blessing and a curse of being an SI. A simulator really is just like being there when your whole world comes to you through sensors.

Still and all, it was fun, and the crew was happy to be down in the dirt at last. I made four runs over three days to bring down all the crew and their gear. The habitat modules had been dropped months before, and everybody was busy setting up shop and getting their experiments online.

Making Tracks

With flight ops complete I'd been moved to station control. That part of the job is actually boring as hell when you'd rather be out and about. I had access to all the near and long range sensors, but there really wasn't anything to do. Cycling airlocks isn't exactly my idea of a full day's work.

We'd been onsite for 20 Mars days when my birthday rolled around. Normally I don't make much note of it. I don't have any family, so it's not like I expect to receive any e-cards from home. That's why I was nearly knocked offline when the crew wheeled out this big crate with a bow on it made from leftover packing film. In comes this big box on a dolly, and they wheel it up to the motor pool manipulators and tell me to open it.

So I do. I use the hydraulic arms to crack that crate like a kid tearing open a box on Christmas morning. That's when I saw it. The sneaky buggers had built me a rover. They cobbled it up from some of the excavation gear. It had these two big tracks and a set of four manipulators. In the middle was a cradle with a universal interface port and a tag that read "Happy Birthday, Spin Doctor. Why don't you take this for a spin."

The next day, I went out and got dirty for the first time since Odyssey. It wasn't quite like squishing sand between your toes, but there's no doubt I was there. With eight more months on site, I'm going to make me some tracks.