Tonight's livewriting: yet more CSP (Patreon)

“Horseton, this is Mission Twenty-One,” Dragonfly reported. “Two crew safe aboard, two to go. Let’s talk about that.”

“Good job, Dragonfly,” Cherry replied. “We’re working on the burn for the next rescue, and we’ll have that up to you in a bit.”

“Yeah, about that, bossmare.”

“I keep telling you not to call me that.”

“It took three orbits for me to catch up to Fauntleroy,” Dragonfly pressed on, as she reached over to the trajectory plotter and began hitting keys. “And I was only a little behind him. Now Gordon is way, way behind me in orbit. It took me five hours to rescue Fauntleroy- how long is it going to take to get to Gordo?”

“We’re working the problem-”

“What I’m saying, Control,” Dragonfly continued, “is that I’ve got a computer and an interface up here, too. And all I need to do is make a long burn to get a bigger orbit, right? Bigger orbit is slower orbit, right? So I’ll just do that now, and we can fine-tune it for the final intercept later.”

“If you’ll be patient, we can tell you exactly how long that burn needs to be,” Twilight said. 

“Eh, whatever,” Dragonfly said. “We’ll make it work. Stand by for prograde burn… targeting Gordon’s wreckage… ship oriented for prograde burn… five, four, three, two, one!”

Dragonfly’s hooves worked the magic born partly of long practice with the simulators and partly because she had designed several of the controls herself, including the trajectory computer interface. She’d learned a lot in the past year, and especially in the past few months, from the bulls and Goddard and even that loony Pinkie Pie. It was amazing how easy it all was, once you had a not-quite-lack of hunger and people patiently willing to explain anything you asked about(324).

From what Dragonfly half-remembered from some lesson or other about geometry, the circumference of a circle was three and a bit times the diameter. If you wanted to enlarge the circumference by a certain amount, you enlarged the diameter by slightly less than one-third that amount, or something like that. She could do the math if she sat down and took a long time, but so long as she had plenty of fuel, she could fudge things and make corrections and do it fast and sloppy. 

And, as she’d had drilled into her head the past three days, fast was the important thing.

So she watched the trajectory plot creep up in a higher arc above the low orbit of the space wrecks, noting the difference between apoapsis and periapsis growing… and noticing the fuel levels in that fat fuel tank barely dropping at all. The Terrier was the weakest of the current generation of rocket engines, but it also provided the most bang for the buck… and, after all, once you were in orbit, ninety percent of the job was done anyway, wasn’t it?

There. That seemed like about the right number. 

“Shutdown,” Dragonfly called out. “Successful burn. Now let’s see what that gets us…”

“Dra… Twenty-one,” Cherry said, the exasperation beginning to show in her professional tone, “we show your first close intercept with Griffonstone Five… excuse me, Griffon ship Nickel… in three orbits. That’s assuming you conduct two correction burns which we’re putting together now.”

“Three orbits??” Dragonfly shouted. “That can’t be right!” She tapped out commands on the vector plotter… and, sure enough, there was no intercept market on the plot where she’d expected it to be, coming back around to her planned intercept point.

“It’s good enough,” Cherry said. “Gordon and Fireball still have food through tomorrow. We have the time for a careful intercept. Sit back and let us go through it step by step, all right?”

“But it should have been… I mean, I had it…”

“Dr. von Brawn says he’ll explain it to you once everyone’s on the ground, Twenty-one. Stand by for instructions on the first correction burn to line up the intercept point. That will be in thirty-seven minutes… mark.”

“Standing by for detailed instructions,” Dragonfly said grumpily. 

Darnit, it should have worked...

Footnote:

(324) The example of Dragonfly demonstrates the possibility that changeling foolishness is not an inborn condition, but rather a result of poverty, cultural stasis, and extremely limited educational horizons. For the counterargument that even educated changelings can be prize idiots, see Occupant.

Dragonfly had to admit, though the slow and careful way was slow, it got the job done.

“Griffon ship Nickel, this is CSP Mission Twenty-One,” she called out. “Holding station at one point one kilometers and preparing for final approach. How’s it going, Gordo?”

“Hey, great to see ya, Dragonfly!” a cheerful, brash cry came over the comms. “Well, you know what I mean. I don’t have visual yet.”

“No problem,” Dragonfly said. “I’m tracking you just fine. Are you ready for some larger accommodations?”

“Well, I do rather like it here,” Gordo chuckled. “It’s private. Would you believe you’re the first person to come up and pester me since I got here?”

“Well, if you don’t want a ride home,” Dragonfly said teasingly, “I can go get Fireball, and you can wait for the next door-to-door rocket salesling to come by.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind having a look at your wares,” Gordo said. “Looking forward to the trip.”

“Twenty-One, Nickel, this is Mission Control, Horseton,” Cherry Berry broke in. “Before you two drift apart again, how about we get this rendezvous finished?”

“Well, hello there, Cherry Berry,” Gordo said. “And how’s Equestria’s second-best pilot doing today?”

“Ask Rainbow Dash that,” Cherry said. “Or who do you think is the best pilot?”

“You’re talking to him,” the griffon said smugly. “Who else could have got out a stable orbit out of a rocket that was falling to pieces all the way up?”

“The way I understand… never mind,” Cherry Berry said, and Dragonfly could hear the ripping sound of the earth pony tearing herself away from badinage to be professional again. “Twenty-one, you are go for close approach.”

“Roger, Horseton,” Dragonfly said. “Going to ten meters per second towards target.”

Three minutes later, it was done, with CSP-21 floating a mere ten meters away from the can-shaped wreck of Griffonstone Rocket Project Ship Nickel. “There. Relative velocity at zero,” Dragonfly said. “Gordo, remember to make sure your ship is fully depressurized before you open the hatch. It’s important.”

“No worries, Twenty-one,” Gordon the Griffon said over the comms. “Depressurizing now.” 

A short period of time passed. 

“Okay, that seems to be it,” Gordon said. “I’m leaving the hatch now.”

“Wait a minute, Gordon,” Dragonfly said, anxiety rising in her barrel. “That’s not even as long as Faunt-”

“WHOO-HA!”

Dragonfly blinked. She looked up through the tiny windows of the capsule, seeing only blackness in both. “Gordon? Nickel, this is Twenty-one, what-”

WHANG.

Something hit the rescue ship hard enough to shake the interior. Dragonfly immediately used her magic to grab her helmet, which was floating loose in the capsule, and jam it over her head. A quick shove of the locking collar, a flip of the switch to activate the suit life support, and she was safe. “Fauntleroy, you okay back there?” she asked. 

“I’m well,” the yak in the passenger compartment said over the comms. “And the pressure in this compartment appears to be holding steady, assuming the instruments here are correct.”

“Good.” Seems like some smart pony put the kind of gauges in the Hitchhiker compartment that ought to have been in the tourist pods. But then, the Hitchhiker had an exterior hatch, didn’t it? You had to have pressure sensors so the chamber could be cycled for astronauts going in and out. “Gordon? You all right out there? Talk to us!”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” the griffon said. “I took one heck of a tumble, though. I guess the air wasn’t gone as far as I thought.”

“Something hit us right after you opened your hatch,” Dragonfly said. “Any idea what it was?”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that,” Gordon said. “Equal and opposite reaction thing. When I went flying, my ship went flying back the other direction. It kind of glanced off the side of your ship just above the engine. Doesn’t seem to be any external damage. At least, you still have an engine.”

“While you’re out there, could you take a closer look?” Dragonfly said. 

“Will do,” Gordon said. “I’m looking at the impact point now, and I don’t even see a dent. Well, maybe a little one. I don’t think it struck at much more than two, maybe three meters per second. And it was only a glancing hit, really.”

“Gordon,” Dragonfly hissed, feeling quite justified in her anxiety, “this ship has to get the three of us down, plus Fireball if at all possible. Give it to me straight- is it broken or not?”

“Dragonfly, honey, I’m giving you the facts,” Gordon said. “No visible exterior damage to speak of. A little paint scraped, a dent about the size of my talons about two hooves above the weld joining the engine to this weird fuel tank you have.”

“Is the dent on the angled part?”

“Yeah, like I said, a couple hooves above the seam with the engine assembly.”

Dragonfly let out a long sigh of relief. The conical adapter made to mount the Terrier engine on the massive fuel tank was empty except for the fuel and oxidizer lines at its very center. So long as the seams held firm on both ends, a dent there damaged nothing. “Okay, thanks, Gordo. Come on inside and take a load off. Wait until Fauntleroy depressurizes the passenger compartment, though.”

“Don’t worry, Gordon,” Fauntleroy said. “I made the same mistake you did, and I won’t make it twice.”

“Sounds good to me,” Gordon said. “I’m drifting over to the ladder now. Just say when.”

Relaxing on the flight couch, Dragonfly reached up to remove her helmet. “Horseton, this is Twenty-one,” she said. “We had a little drama up here, but it’s all sorted out.”

Silence.

“Horseton, Twenty-one, comms check,” Dragonfly said.

More silence.

“Mission Control Horseton, this is CSP Mission Twenty-one,” Dragonfly said, her little black heart sinking as she spoke. “Communications check, please respond.”

Nothing.

Dragonfly hit the release on her straps, pushed herself out of her flight seat, and reached over to the small tool box mounted on the capsule wall next to the hatch. She dug out a ratchet, fitted the socket for the standard bolt used to hold together the consoles, and began working at the bolts holding down the access panel beneath the main control panel. Among other things, that was where the crystal that held the telepresence enchantment was kept. That crystal linked all the suits nearby to itself, and from there to Twilight Sparkle’s comm-sats and to the tracking stations at Horseton and Baltimare and at each of the other space programs’ home bases.

When she removed the cover, two bits of crystal floated up along with it. More fragments of crystal clung to the mounting point, which apparently had been just a little too close to the cover. Dragonfly reached out with a hoof, plucked the mount, and noted the unacceptably large range of play in what ought to have been a rigid, solid bracket.

“Horseton,” she said, knowing nobody could hear her, “we have a problem.”

“Twenty-one, Horseton, comms check,” Cherry Berry said, as all eyes in Mission Control looked her way. 

“Cherry,” Occupant said from the flight director station, “you’ve tried for five minutes straight. We lost comms at the same time we lost telemetry.” The changeling pointed to the projector screen, which showed nothing except the orbital diagram showing the relative positions of the rescue ship, the three derelicts, and the satellites orbiting Equus. “We can’t hear them, and they probably can’t hear us.”

Cherry sighed. “Right, I know,” she said. “Do we know what happened?”

“Based on tracking data,” von Brawn said from the bullpen at the front of the control room, “it appears that the same problem occurred as with Fauntleroy’s craft. The loss of air propelled the ship into the rescue ship, where it impacted in some fashion. The two ships are now drifting apart at about one and a half meters per second.” 

“The good news,” George Bull said, standing beside von Brawn, “is that tracking indicates Gordon stablized his own drift, maneuvered to the rescue ship, and boarded. That suggests our ship is still functional.”

“Won’t know for sure until it makes some sort of maneuver,” Goddard the Griffon added. “Worst comes to worst, the Hitchhiker has food for four people for seven days each. If we don’t see the ship move, we know to put together a second rescue mission. Or possibly a resupply run.”

“And where does that leave Fireball?” Cherry asked. She turned around and looked up at the VIP observation booth, where Dragonlord Ember sat next to Grampa Gruff, Prince Rutherford, and Princess Twilight Sparkle. All of them wore expressions ranging from dread to barely-checked rage. 

“Fireball’s in Dragonfly’s hooves now,” Occupant said quietly. “Without comms, we’re out of it now.”

“Do we still have comms with Dragon XL-3?” Cherry asked. 

“Affirmative.”

“Then let’s… no, let’s wait a little longer,” Cherry said. “If the ship can move, Dragonfly won’t wait around. She’ll try to rescue Fireball herself… as soon as possible.”

“Okay, I’m inside,” Gordon said over the comms. “What now?”

Dragonfly had spent a few minutes thinking that exact point over. Under the flight protocols laid down from practically the first flight, if a ship lost communications, it came down at once- as soon as it could land safely. She hadn’t tested the engines yet, but the reaction wheels worked fine, and the solar panels were recharging the batteries, and the parachutes showed as functional. 

But if they came down now, Fireball was as good as gone. Not that she knew Fireball all that well- she’d only seen him at astronaut events and the EVA training, and he was always at the fringes of things, staying as far away as he could from everyone else, saying practically nothing. But in his place, she wouldn’t want her rescue ship to give up. 

And more to the point, she didn’t want to give up. This was her mission. This was the last flight she’d begged Cherry for, the one she’d risked Chrysalis’s future wrath to get. And she wasn’t going to end it at only two-thirds successful. 

“Now,” she said, “we go get Fireball. Strap in and prepare for acceleration.”

Losing the telepresence spell would make the job tough, but not impossible. Suit-to-suit comms worked for about two and a half kilometers even without a proper telepresence crystal linking them. Horseton could probably still talk to Fireball and keep him informed. And, as she’d pointed out to Cherry five hours and loose change before, the trajectory plotting system could be used by an astromare in the capsule- by Dragonfly, in other words- to plot her own course without referring to the ground.

And the first step, of course, was simple: repeat what she had done to make a rendezvous with Gordon. That meant a long acceleration burn to get a high orbit and allow Fireball’s capsule to catch up. 

“How’s it coming back there?” she asked. 

“Stand by, commander,” Fauntleroy’s voice said. “Gordon is strapping in now.”

“Excuse me?” Dragonfly asked. “What did you call me?”

“I said commander,” Fauntleroy answered, matter-of-factly. “This is your ship, after all. We are merely supernumeraries, under your authority. That makes you commander of the vessel and of the mission, does it not?”

Huh.

Dragonfly rolled the phrase Commander Dragonfly around her mind to see how it felt.

One third of her liked the sound of it.

The other two thirds cringed and said, My queen is going to go berserk. 

“Okay, I’m in,” Gordo said. “Straps nice and tight. Ready for acceleration.”

“Okay, here we go.”

With a pressure much lighter than the sudden weight of responsibility bearing down on her mind, Dragonfly’s hoof pushed the throttle forwards, and the Terrier engine reignited and began boosting Mission Twenty-One higher once more.

Next time:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Skxg6E0Y7XkDiHs3rdAzQeXlJHVmyExGLnSLcZmLWi4/edit

There may, or may not, be livewriting Thursday night, depending on schedules. 

This weekend I'm selling at Anime Dallas at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, so livewriting will likely be announced not more than an hour before it happens, IF it happens.