Baby's First Steps

Read my new sci-fi eco thriller set on the ISS – a complete six-part serial on Vocal Exclusive.

My helmet clears the airlock and I emerge into the clarity of space. No dust, no smog, no particulates. The cleanest air on Earth doesn't come close to the purity of a vacuum.

I click my tether to a hull rail on the International Space Station and re-check my Primary Life-Support System.

Spacewalk makes it sound relaxing, like stretching your legs. But no matter how many I've done, it's never relaxing. The slightest misstep in my Extravehicular Mobility Unit could mean death, spinning off into darkness, the EMU become a coffin, and the life support giving me hours to contemplate my lonely and inevitable end.

Every astronaut thinks about this. Most of us decide we'd rather die by hypothermia than suffocation. A freezing body drowses into wakelessness.

"Secure," I report. "Baby, free to proceed."

A clutch of steel fingers grips the rim of the station's Quest airlock. A metal wrist and forearm flex and a humanoid body follows through the open hatch. The android's smoothly engineered curves catch the Earth's reflection as he turns weightlessly alongside the ISS, before planting his feet firmly next to mine.

"How you feeling, Baby?" I ask.

He turns his plastic alloy face to me, the reflective contours flexing into the simulation of an expression. The light of Earth bends over his cheeks. My own helmet is reflected as a white shape in his pearlescent irises.

"I'm feeling quite at home, Doctor Sayles," says the robot in calm tones.

This is our Bionic Being Generation 9 'BB-9' – or Baby as we call him. He's the first fully-autonomous android to operate in space. He's a little shorter than me, but his chassis is twice my weight, and a lot tougher. He can take environmental conditions far in excess of any human: +/- 350 degrees Celsius, and pressures from 5 ATM down to a vacuum.

The anthropomorphism that drove his design is uncanny. Seeing a humanoid who feels 'at home' without a spacesuit in the void is striking.

He gently puts a hand on my shoulder and points to a fixed camera. "Say cheese."

"Baby's first steps," I joke.

It's a line Baby and I agreed on earlier to mark this milestone occasion: the first Extravehicular Activity for an autonomous android.

EVAs are dangerous for humans. Not just the risk of falling into space, but also radiation, micrometeoroids and orbital debris. Not to mention the fact that manual work in weightlessness is exhausting. Our EMUs are clumsy and ungainly. The fat-fingered gloves mean that simple tasks which would take five minutes on Earth can take hours up here. I figure the sooner robots are doing this stuff, the better.

Recently we've been having issues with a comms dish. It's a chance for Baby to prove his utility by replacing the encoder board. I'm just here to monitor.

"Alright, Baby, let's see your smoothest moves."

"Copy," he replies in his neutral tones.

With a gentle push Baby glides towards the zenith comms tower. My stomach still lurches if I let myself comprehend the velocities, distances and physics ruling my situation. Every movement, every adjustment, carries a heightened sense of precariousness. But Baby doesn't stumble, doesn't even hesitate.

"Approaching tower," I report, my voice reverberating inside my helmet's polycarbonate faceplate.

"Copy, Dominic. Isolating relay," Flight Commander Luther Duval responds.

His audio comes with a blast of country music in the background. We're not supposed to play music on the station, because it risks copyright strikes on our livestream which broadcasts 24/7.

But when we're on a risk-rated mission like a space walk, the streams are cut, which counter-intuitively means we can play music.

"What's on today's playlist, partner?" I ask Luther.

"Robert Earl Keen. The master of Americana," he replies in his characteristic drawl.

Luther brings his mic closer to the music. The lyrics of Keen's song about an endless highway narrate our movements as Baby and I float across the span of the station.

I've worked with Luther Duval for years, on the ground and up here. He grew up in Houston, so for him NASA's a local business. He's our most senior astronaut now, with the cool demeanour of a guy who's been in some sticky situations and got out with a level head and a dose of Southern confidence.

Despite Luther's upbeat Texan tunes, I am still uneasy.

Though Baby's capabilities are impressive, he's still a rookie in this environment. I've handled him through months of training, seen him fall and fail on many occasions. But his operating paradigm is 'fail better'. He has learned how to learn. The line between human intuition and AI is a fine one, but in Baby the line is almost gone.

"Flight, we're at the tower," I affirm.

"Proceed," says Luther, turning the music back down

My gloved hands fumble with the I/O hatch. Eventually I get my chest computer patched in. I pull up the encoder log, searching for packet mismatches. Oddly, the data shows no signs of corruption.

"Can't see any errors. Must be post-encoder. Maybe TDRS."

TDRS – pronounced tee-drus – is the network of satellites which relays our communications to the ground, no matter where the station is located above Earth.

"Swap it anyway," Luther acknowledges. "Eliminates doubt."

"Copy." I step back and hold my palm out for Baby to proceed.

He detaches the circuit board, deftly stowing each screw on a magnetic abdomen plate, then slides it out. He scans it microscopically and I see the imaging appear on my display. Before I can even review it, he's stowed the old board, fitted a new one and rebooted the tower. What would have taken me half an hour, with much fumbling and complaining, Baby has completed in minutes.

"You spot anything unusual in the hardware?" I inquire.

Baby pauses, as if some unexpected event has stalled his processing.

"The dance of electrons is unpredictable, Dr Sayles," he says. "Sometimes the symphony of data contains discordant notes."

His response gives me pause. Not the usual flat literalness I expect from him.

"Is that a 'no'?"

His plastic alloy face forms a smile. "A music metaphor. I thought you'd like it. I know you enjoy music."

"OK. Let's just check the replacement."

Baby runs a series of diagnostic tests on the new board. I watch the test results logging on my display. After a minute, it's complete. Everything checks out.

"Task complete," I report. "What was that? 15 mins?"

"Smashed the record, boys," Luther replies. "Get inside. We'll throw y'all a hoedown."

"Copy."

Even I can hear the relief in my voice. Yet Baby's peculiar words linger. The dance of electrons? I can't ignore his odd tone.

"Baby, once we're in, can you run full self-diags? It's your first EVA so let's get everything logged."

"Full diagnostics, as you request, Dr Sayles." He floats back to the airlock. As I follow him, thoughts dance in my mind, like Baby's cryptic electrons.

He performed perfectly, well within any assessment parameters a human would face. I wonder if my reservations about him are more fundamental. That I'm watching my replacement, that he'll be doing my space walks from now on. I won't get this magnificent view again, other than from inside the habitat.

But another part of me thinks humans aren't fit for space anyway. I don't want to be irradiated or frozen or roasted or suffocated. Let the ones who can withstand all that do these jobs.

I watch him lower himself into the Quest lock.

Then, through my feet, I feel a clang.

I'm several paces behind, slowed by the bulk of my EMU. But I already know what that sound was: the outer door of the airlock being swung closed.

"Baby, what are you doing?"

No response.

I try again. "Baby, I'm not in yet. We need to repressurise together."

When I reach the outer lock, the entry light is still green. He hasn't pressurised the vestibule yet.

I look through the airlock's small viewing window. I can see Baby inside, his back towards me. But I can make out enough to see that he has patched himself into the controller boards of the inner hatch.

"Apologies, Dominic. Please remain outside," responds Baby, his voice unemphatic.

Before I can comprehend what is happening, an impact slams the module. An immense thud shakes the entire exostructure. I see gantries flex and ripple as the explosion travels along the station.

My feet are knocked from under me.

My fingers snatch at nothing.

Once, twice. No contact. I'm drifting.

The distance between me and the module is increasing. There is nothing I can do to prevent myself spinning off into space.

Panic floods my metabolic pathways. My nightmare has become real.

Thanks for reading!

What is Baby's plan? Can Dr Sayles stop him? These are Baby's first steps towards changing the course of humanity. A sci-fi eco-thriller which questions mankind's place among the stars.

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