SATELLITE

So you like stories. I could tell you one. What do you prefer, true stories or fiction? Can you tell the difference? I’ll tell you one about me. Or maybe it won’t be. Anyway, I’ll take you back in time to my youth. My name’s Santosh, by the way. That’ll do by way of introduction. If you want any more you’re welcome to decide for yourself.

It was early in 2047. My uncle Vinod got me a job as his assistant in the administration of the market. Three things about that job I really value, looking back. The first was the chance to earn the money to get me through college. That one stands alone. It was why I was there.

The second was the market itself. The administration offices on the upper floor looked out over the main hall. A series of shopfront units occupied the four sides, with their stocks of dry goods, bottles and boxes, packets piled high, shelves crowded with preserves, powders and pickles. Storefronts spilled into the walkways in a riot of colour and detail, of allure and desire. Between these walls, across the great expanse of the hall, row upon row of stalls displayed stacks of every kind of vegetable and fruit produced between the Himalayas and Cape Comorin, and much from beyond. Each stall aimed to outdo its neighbours in the ingenuity and attraction of display.

At busy times the scene was mesmerizing. I could have stared all day long at that constant churning of activity below, the shifting detail, its constant movement within an unchanging structure of rows and lines. With the office windows shut it was like a game screen with the sound off. It was a pure visual spectacle, the movement everywhere of tiny elements of human life. Features shifted across the lattice of stalls like the unending change of clouds, the apparent randomness of patterns too complex to grasp.

That brings me to the third thing that stands out about that job: Raj. The feel of the place and the memory of Raj have become tangled. How I think of the market has been shaped by meeting him, and the thought of him has the colour and particulate swirl of the market crowds. And the two memories are welded together by the story he told. That story now feels like a communication node fuelling an immersive virtual reality. From within, the memory feels factual, but step back, remove the headset, and reality shifts. Was it true? Who really was he?

I only knew him for a short time, but he wasn’t someone you’d forget. I certainly won’t. Even without that story of his, Raj would have made an impact. An unusual man. Or maybe I mean the place, the way we met was unlikely.

It took me a week or two to recognize each of the regular porters, but I noticed Raj at once. The others all looked like porters, in greasy vests, with sarongs tied between their scrawny legs. All of them Dalits, I assume. This was work they would usually do. Raj, though; you’d take him for a high-born man at once. Had an air about him, a poise like that of some big company boss. Or perhaps like an artist, a storyteller, or maybe even a confidence trickster. Then again, perhaps all of these share a kind of presence he had in abundance.

His appearance marked him out as much as his manner. He had these blotchy marks on his left cheek and the side of his neck, which I took to be birthmarks or moles, a face I would describe as haggard, with deep eyes. He wore a cloth tied around his bald head, bandana style, hanging loose at the back, not a turban like some of the others. That struck me as unusual for a man his age, though to be honest, I couldn’t tell how old he was. Anywhere between 45 and 60, I guess.

Work for the porters started early, but generally slowed by midday, before the afternoon rush of clearing away. At slower times the others chatted, joked about their daily lives, or argued about cricket. Raj would sit with his feet on a crate, absorbed in a book. I was intrigued by this man.

I didn’t feel I could disturb him, but I was curious to know what he was reading. My first attempts to see were clumsy. Without moving his head, Raj lifted his eyes. It took me a moment to realize he was now looking at me, not his book, and I felt a warmth run up from my neck and through my cheeks. I looked down at my hands, but couldn’t think of anything I might do to hide my inquisitiveness. I glanced back, and he had not moved. As I reached his gaze, his eyebrows rose a fraction, and he turned the book for me to read the title. The Philosophy of Nagarjuna. Not what I expected for a market porter.

I nodded, gave the best imitation I could of a smile, and said, ‘Okay. Interesting. I’m Santosh, by the way. I work upstairs?’

In answer, Raj, still looking directly at me, gave a slow inclination of his head, a partial nod, but his features remained impassive. I hurried off, feeling foolish.

Over the following days I tried various topics, the work of the market, news, jokes, to engage him in conversation. It wasn’t easy. His responses were short, always courteous but curt. One thing: he evidently read quickly, because I saw him with numerous other books. I remember The Songs of Kabir, and something like Quantum Foundations of Field Dynamics, that meant nothing to me. There were others too.

Then one day, some weeks on, he had a book about the Chinese Mars exploration program. That interested me, and I said so.

‘You know much about it?’ he asked.

‘A little. I like to read about space travel and cosmology. Stories, though, mostly.’

He nodded, and handed me the book to flip through. Nice pictures, some stunning holographic images of the planet’s surface. A lot of technical detail, though.

‘Thanks. Have you studied much about this?’ I was fishing. Wouldn’t ask any of the other porters if they’d studied.

‘I’m interested. I have a lot of interests.’

‘Yeah, like, I can understand.’

The next day, that slow time around noon, I found Raj on an upturned wooden crate in his usual corner, from where he had the widest view of the main hall.

‘So, Santosh, you like stories.’ Raj continued, as I went over. ’I could tell you one.’

This was a welcome surprise.

‘You know about the solar storm of 2032?’ he asked.

‘Of course. I was too young to remember, but everybody knows.’

‘You know what happened?’ He had a quiet, even voice, with an authority that demanded attention.

‘Some. We learned about it in school, and my dad told me. They say it was the biggest in centuries.’

‘Mm. And what happened?’

Was this a test before he decided to share his story? He raised his head without looking at me, and half closed his eyes, as if he looked into a distant light.

I said what I knew. ‘Blackouts and that, power failures all round the world. Communications knocked out, crashes, people killed. Huge economic losses. All of that, you mean?’

The late morning bustle had died away, and some of the stall holders were beginning to pack their goods away, an indication that Raj would soon be busy.

‘Uh-huh. Governments were warned. Scientists told them it was coming, it was the first time they’d had the data to predict a storm much in advance. Some tried to take precautions. Ours did. You know about the strings of satellites up there. The country couldn’t be without them. And you, what use would your metaverse helmet be?’

Good point. Those helmets, all my friends wanted one, and most of us had managed to get hold of one. There was this neat immersive back then called Andromeda. Me and my friends were all into it.

‘The most important satellites this country had at that time were the Ashoka series, and they all depended on Ashoka Hub, in geostationary orbit. You understand what that means?’

‘That orbit? Sure, like, it stays in the same spot above the ground because it’s going round at the same speed, right?’

‘More or less. There was a complex switching array installed there which controlled the sequence of transfers between each of the others in the series, a scrambling system for secure communication. Run from ground control in Bengaluru. That was the government’s nerve centre, you could say. The Hub was of vital interest, because all of their communications were directed through the Ashoka series, ever since they broke away from the big foreign-owned satellites.’

‘Oh yeah. There was a big spying scandal before that, yeah?’

‘Other countries could rely on land-based fibre optic systems, but not here. Now we have secure quantum computing, but back then Ashoka was all they had. If a large storm was on the way, well, it was a serious threat.’ He rose, and waved an arm towards the middle of the hall. ‘Look, I have to go. Come back tomorrow.’ And without waiting he strode off.

At the midday lull next day I made sure I had time. I found him then, seated on his crate, with a book in his hands as usual.

‘So, where did we get to yesterday?’

‘Your story. Communications satellites and the solar storm.’

He stowed the book in the crate. ‘That’s right. The Ashoka series. It had only been functioning for a couple of years, and there were still bugs in the system. Too big an investment to risk in a solar storm. But it wasn’t built to withstand anything as big as the scientists were warning about. An emergency Cabinet meeting was called to discuss the problem, and they brought in key scientific advisors.’

Raj gave me no more than an occasional glance as he talked. His eyes held steady on the huge open area of the main hall, its great complex rhythm of lines and colours. He seemed to be looking into empty space, to be talking not to me but to someone far away.

He continued in the same calm tone. ‘Something would have to be done. Someone suggested a shield could be installed that would protect the switching mechanism from the worst of the radiation anticipated. Without it, the country’s whole defence arrangement could be knocked out. You can see how risky that would be, can’t you?’ He paused, and sat unmoving.

From his tone he didn’t seem to expect an answer, and I remained quiet. It was his story to tell.

Raj shook his head. ‘What could they do? They would have to send someone. A crazy, risky operation, and hugely expensive, but the alternatives would be worse. The security arguments won the day, and the Defence Minister was put in charge, not the Space Ministry. Seniority, you could say. It would have to be a highly secretive operation, you see. There was no certainty it would work, and they couldn’t risk signalling to other countries that their whole defence arrangement might become inactive.

‘This country had no craft capable of the journey, but there were options, private and commercial spacecraft.’

I had been drawn into the story now, and broke in. ‘But they’d have to find a crew.’

‘They would, wouldn’t they? Not a large one. It could be kept to three people, if they had the right skills. But those wouldn’t be easy to find.’

‘They did it, though, right? That’s the story?’

Raj chuckled, a private sound. ‘What do you think? Risk the country’s security, or take a chance on an unproven, inadequately trained crew? What would you do?’

‘Me? I’d pick the best people out there. I mean, the best they could find.’

‘Then we can assume that’s what they did. One would be an experienced astronaut, a Naval commander. Another could be a skilled test pilot, fully trained on the astronaut program, though he’d never flown a space mission. The third would be an engineer who’d worked on the Ashoka series. Would that be enough, do you think, or should we include someone else in our rescue story?’

‘Seems okay, I suppose. But you’re telling it. You decide.’

‘Then that’s what we’ll do. Nobody would plan to send such a ragged crew on an important mission, but there was no more time to prepare, and these were the people they could call together at such short notice. They were told it was for their country. Oh, all three knew it would be dangerous, more than usual, given the lack of preparation. But the country expected it. Could you refuse? Alright, perhaps you would, but these three didn’t.

‘The whole operation was to be a military secret, the highest classification. All three had high level security clearance already of course. They were contacted immediately after the Cabinet meeting and flown to Military Intelligence headquarters, where briefings began at once.

‘Any spaceflight is risky, but the special challenges of this mission could only be guessed at. Nobody had attempted an operation quite like it, not beyond low Earth orbit. The team would have to locate a single satellite way out in the Clarke Belt, and then hold their vehicle in close proximity. There would be no mechanism for grabbing the thing; there’d have to be a space walk. Remember, this crew had never worked together, only one of them had space experience, and none of them had seen the vehicle they were to fly.

‘The shield itself was a relatively simple arrangement, but opening the satellite casing and adapting the shell to instal it would be a delicate task. The team spent many hours being briefed and planning the operation. The preparation was intensive, and there was little time to sleep. It was decided that the engineer and the astronaut – no, wait, we’d better given them some names. How about Ella for the engineer, and Amal for the astronaut. Then the test pilot could be Tariq. So. Ella and Amal would have to make a dual spacewalk, while Tariq remained in control of the vessel. Always go out in twos.

‘The scientific data on solar activity gave them only a few days notice. Everything happened fast. When they got to the launch site they were given only a matter of hours to familiarize themelves with the craft. Perhaps the two men had trained with something similar. Perhaps the basic configuration was like the Russian ships they trained for. Even so, the vehicle was unfamiliar.

‘Work was underway. All the vessel’s systems had to be checked and double checked, tools and materials stowed. Suits for the flight and for the spacewalk had to be tested and adjusted for Amal and for Ella’s slender build.

‘I don’t know where the launch site would have been. Somewhere in central Asia, perhaps Turkmenistan. The launch went smoothly enough. We can skip all that. The twelve hour journey was uneventful.

‘Satellites orbit at around ten times the distance of the International Space Station, did you know that? The approach can’t have been easy for them. Ashoka Hub was larger than regular communication satellites, but still not much bigger than those crates of fruit out there.’ He gestured across the hall. ‘Just a tiny speck in the vastness, even with a signal to navigate by. Imagine diving for a coin in mid ocean.

‘Once they were within range they had to stabilize the craft quickly, within a distance of a few hundred metres, and do it as quickly as possible. They did it, of course, or I’d have no more story to tell. An exceptional piece of flying skill in the circumstances.

‘The one immediate problem was that Ella became sick. The others had been screened and had trained for space sickness, but not Ella. It’s not so much the movement, you see, as you might get in a car or on a boat. It’s more the way weightlessness in orbit messes with your sense of balance and position. Poor Ella had it badly. As they reached the rendezvous point in the Clarke Belt, they were able to remove their launch suits and move around inside the capsule. Ella remained, doubled over, clutching her stomach.

‘She pressed back into her seat, trying to keep herself stable. Tariq leant over her, his hands on her shoulders. “How are you feeling? How bad is it?”

‘She ground out an answer. “Bad, but I’ll survive. Just give me a little time.”

‘Tariq turned to Amal. “We have to wait. She can’t go outside like this.”

‘Amal was firm. “We can’t afford to wait. She has to go. I don’t know the mechanism, nor do you, and she isn’t trained to fly this vessel.”

‘Ella agreed. “You know he’s right. I must go.” Her eyes closed in a grimace and she lowered her head as a spasm passed through her.

‘Time was not on their side. The mission was a race against circumstance. Ella waited as the others made a close visual inspection of the EVA suits, the ones for the spacewalk, looking for any tiny nicks or abrasions. Amal went through the standard checks for air and water loops, thermostatic regulators, pressure monitors and communications. All this was done before take-off, of course, but you don’t take chances in space.

‘Getting into those suits isn’t easy. You need help. Once the two were suited up, Ella remained for a time without the helmet, moving slowly. You know, Santosh, that they breathe pure oxygen in those suits? It takes the body time to adjust to that, so they usually stay in them for an hour or two before they leave the vehicle. Not this time.

‘Together, they ran through the procedures once more.

‘Ella showed engineering plans of the satellite’s construction, and explained what she would be doing. “The satellite casing isn’t designed to be opened, but we can do it if we disconnect one arm of the solar panels. Then we can uncouple the gyroscopic stabilizers, here.” And she added, “You know, none of this should have happened. The system design called for the strongest radiation protection, but we were overruled. The government claimed it was unnecessary, and they could do it more cheaply.”

‘Amal gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ah, what a surprise.”

‘Tariq said, “We need to work quickly if we’re going to get back to Earth before the storm hits.”

‘Ella turned to him, her eyes wide, and spoke quietly. “No, didn’t they tell you? It’ll probably hit any time within at most the next 8 hours, we can’t get back in time.”

‘The two men exchanged glances. “In my briefing they suggested we’d make it,” Tariq said.

‘”Same here,” Amal agreed. “A mistake, by any chance?”

‘Ella said, “Of course they knew. I’m sorry. I would’ve told you. I assumed your briefings would say.” ‘”How bad can we expect it to be?”

‘“The radiation dose we receive will be huge,” Ella explained. “We might survive the initial exposure but then there’s acute radiation sickness, which could kill us over a month or two. If we get through that there’s a high risk of cancer, with a probable life expectancy, I would guess, of no more than 12 years, maybe 15 if we’re really lucky. Oh, and likely blindness if we’re looking that way when it hits.”

‘Amal punched a bulkhead, the force pushing him backwards across the small cabin space.”This is madness, this whole awful mess. What are we doing? What chance do we have?”

‘While Amal helped Ella to the airlock chamber Tariq took control of the vessel. He would need to maneuvre it to face away from the sun, away from the direction of the storm. Amal and Ella secured their helmets and waited while the chamber slowly de-pressurized. Ella remained for a time acclimatizing to her oxygen, when Amal cut short his time and moved out of the craft.

‘Remaining tethered to the vehicle, Amal worked his way back along the vessel, hand over hand. He moved to the rear storage bay, where he unpacked two Personal Propulsion Units, to be strapped on over their backpacks. The tools and materials they would need he loaded into a pack, before returning to the airlock to help Ella.

‘You know, Santosh, space is extreme.’ Raj turned in my direction, but I felt he didn’t see me. ‘Nothing on Earth prepares you for it. Out there you face an endless emptiness, the background of it more black than you’ve known, and yet anything there, the capsule, satellites, astronauts on a spacewalk, is flooded with light of the sharpest clarity. Temperatures, if you could feel them, are equally extreme. An object facing the sun is impossibly hot, while the shadow side of the same object would freeze instantly. In a vessel or in a suit you don’t feel it, or anything else. Nor is there anything to hear. It’s an immensity in which no other senses than the eyes are engaged, but they are overwhelmed. From the vessel Tariq had a view of the Earth half lit, with starry chains of lights strung across the dark half. Astronauts will tell you it’s a sight whose impact never lessens.

‘Amal and Ella had no time to marvel. Untethered now from the vessel, they moved to the satellite. Ella was finding it hard to maintain position or trajectory, losing her orientation. She worked slowly, as Amal handled the tools. He watched Ella struggle, until it became clear she was so ill she couldn’t complete the task. She was, she said, finding it difficult to see straight, so Amal took over and she talked him through the work. Disassembly was tricky. The solar array was large, and there were no tethers for it.

‘With the casing open, Ella unfolded the shielding sheet that would protect the central transponder coupling unit. Amal wrapped the mechanism as she instructed, and he was securing the solar panel to the satellite arm when he and Tariq both heard through the intercom a litle moan, then a short cough, followed by a thick gurgling sound.

‘Without a clear line of sight from the vessel, Tariq yelled “What’s happening? What is it?”

‘Amal turned to see that Ella, finally unable to contain the sickness, had thrown up. Vomit swirled and fogged her helmet. She lost her grip on the satellite and began to drift. Amal clamped the tools and lunged for her, grabbed her, and swung her back towards the satellite. Unable to see through the mess in her helmet, she collided heavily with the body of the craft, and the collision engaged the removal latch of her propulsion unit, which detached itself and drifted off. Tariq heard Amal yell “Hang on, hang on!” as he maneuvred himself back. Ella clung to an access bar on the outer casing.

‘And then they were engulfed in a blinding flash which continued for an immeasurable time. They were suspended in a burst of energy streaming past them and tearing through their bodies. It was as though they were held within a sheet of lightning, the energy pulsing so strongly it seemed to be a fire burning from within them.

‘Ella was clutching the satellite when the wave of solar particles struck. Amal had been propelled away by the counterforce of propelling Ella towards the craft. He was in the shadow of the vessel as the wave hit, but was still temporarily blinded. Tariq in the vessel felt a shock like high voltage electricity jarring him to the bone. As the worst of the rush began to wane, Amal moved to the satellite. Ella’s gloved hands were locked around the access bar but she was unresponsive. Whether from the vomit cutting off her breathing or because she took the full force of the wave of particles, Ella was dead. For some time he struggled to bring her body back to the vessel, but was in no condition to manage it.

‘It was a nightmare journey back. Both men were severely nauseous, with diarrhoea and crushing headaches, and almost too weak for what they had to do. After re-entry most of the control of the craft could be managed from the ground, and the vessel was pitched into the sea, from where they were rescued.’

He lapsed into silence for a short while, and a hand went up to his neck, fingering the blotched patches as if they were tender.

‘The two remained under intensive medical treatment for months after their return. They were later told they would receive a government pension, but both knew they would never fly again. Details of the mission were to remain secret, and no mention could be made of the death of Ella. The two men argued vehemently against this last condition, but were not successful.’

At this point in his narration Raj stood up abruptly, and saying ‘It’s late, I must go,’ strode out of the hall without another word or a backward glance. I had listened spellbound. My mind was teeming with images and questions, like the market on a busy day, but I had no chance to say anything.

It might surprise you that it was only after I got home that night it struck me it could be a true story. I had taken it all as fiction, distilled from his reading. I felt foolish not to have seen that he might have been telling his own story. But think about it: to hear all this from a market porter I hardly knew – well, it seemed more ridiculous to imagine it could be true. But the detail? Raj had to have been one of the crew, surely. However unlikely, that would be a better fit with his character than being a market porter. Which of the two could he have been? I assumed the test pilot, the one he called Tariq. He said the mission was a military secret, so there would be no way to check whether there ever had been such an operation. What was it he’d said, 12 to 15 years to live? It was 15 years since the storm.

I was determined next day to pin him down.

I didn’t find him at work the next day, though I looked. When I asked around no one knew where he was. I asked Vinod Uncle about Raj’s full name, but he had no idea. The firm had no records because porters, like cleaners, were all hired through a contractor. And the contractor, I discovered later, had no records either. Porters were casual labourers, hired by the day, and the contractor only knew him as ‘Raj’. Was that even his name?

I thought back to the last thing he said before he left, that Ella should be remembered. She had given her life, he said, in full knowledge of the dangers. A sacrifice the country should honour. Was that what he was doing, trying to honour her memory, or was it all invention?

I never saw him again. Now, some years on, I sometimes doubt my own memory. A man like Raj, working as a market porter? It still makes little sense to me.

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