2953-08-13 – Tales from the Service: The Fear of Rookies 

Isha Nagarkar spent a few pleasurable minutes reminiscing about EVA jaunts with her father and his employees. She’d helped him pull valuable parts off hulls on the scrap-line from the age of eight until the day she’d departed for the Naval Academy. Her mother had kept an eye on them and the other employees from inside a utility runabout, ready to swoop in to grab an escaping component or a tumbling salvage worker in an instant. They were probably still at it, breaking up superannuated hulks for the few worthwhile components they contained, then sending the rest off to the smelters. 

Her suit’s HUD began winking an alert – her homing beacon had woken up and begun to broadcast, receiving a broadcast from one of Trafalgar’s recovery launches. It seemed too early still to be picked up, but perhaps the carrier’s officers had sensed disaster and launched the rescue units early in the action, so they’d be on scene sooner than normal. 

A few moments later, a flat-text message appeared on her HUD: “PICKUP ETA 01:05:15:00.” This, when she compared it to the chronometer on the other side of the display, turned out to be about ten minutes in the future. Isha sighed. Break time was almost over. Next time, she didn’t intend on having her ride shot out from under her so easily. Incarnation Coronachs were more nimble than she’d expected, but next time, she’d be ready. 

Isha turned back up her radio volume, only to find her gunners already talking. “... going to get us soon, Blackwood.” Rios was saying, frustration mixed with worry in his voice. “Calm down, take a deep breath.” 

“I’ll make it. I’ll make it.” Blackwood’s voice had gone up an octave. “Just a few minutes.” 

Isha turned on her microphone. “It’s just a bit of agoraphobia, Blackwood. You’ll be fine. The suit has a sedative dispenser, if you just-” 

Blackwood wasn’t listening, though. He started to ramble off, apparently to himself, about the various safety interlocks of his pressure-sealed flight suit, as if reminding himself that he was not dying.  

Isha, checking his suit’s status panel, assured herself that Blackwood wasn’t actually trying to meddle with the seals or the air system as he rambled on, then paid him no mind. He’d be out of commission for days after this, and it would be a miracle if he passed the psych eval to be re-certified for flight duty. The squadron would have to promote one of the reserve crew into his place, at least temporarily. 

“That recovery ship can’t get here soon enough.” Rios, evidently having muted Blackwood on his end, grumbled. 

“We’re all alive and nobody’s bleeding into his suit.” Isha reminded her colleague. “As rig losses go, it could be far worse.” 

“Aye.” Rios nearly snarled the word. “But I’d prefer to have lost a leg over Blackwood losing his mind.” 

Isha winced, and switched her radio to transmit only to Rios. “He’ll be fine after the medicos are done with him. But they’ll probably send him home.” 

Rios only grunted. Most likely he’d come to the same conclusion. 

The recovery launch arrived on scene almost a full minute ahead of schedule. Because of its angle of approach, Isha was the first to receive notice of her imminent pickup. That was far from ideal, but she didn’t complain. She could help Blackwood calm down – he was still babbling to nobody on an open channel – when he was picked up a minute or so later. 

A moving star grew in Isha’s view into a slate-gray box ablaze on all sides with light. At first, it approached worryingly fast, but it slowed down until it was about to pass her at only a few meters per second. A  web of hooked cables swung outward  on both sides of its rectangular hull. Isha used most of her suit thrusters’ remaining reaction mass to orient herself for the most comfortable pickup possible, then exhaled just as she’d been trained as the net caught her. 

Already, the launch was accelerating; Isha pulled herself along the net until she reached the airlock alcove, but waited there. “Rios, Blackwood, I’ve been picked up. See you both in a few.” 

Blackwood, fortunately, got his turn next. The gunner’s voice had petered out into a wordless, high pitched whining by this point, and he made no attempt to cooperate with his own recovery. The net caught him almost head-on, and as the launch accelerated, he twisted in it until he was hopelessly stuck. Only then did he begin to flail and thrash against it. Isha, with a groan, attached herself to one of the lifelines next to the airlock, then clambered out along the net to reach her. The recovery crew would probably prefer to leave him there until they’d made all their pickups, and she simply couldn’t allow that. 

“Blackwood. Calm down.” Isha tried to sound soothing as she approached him. “We’re in the recovery net. You’re safe.” 

His thrashing slowed somewhat. “It’s a bad dream, Nagarkar.” He whimpered. "Tell me it’s a bad dream.” 

“It isn’t.” Isha inched closer to him, trying to get within his helmet’s line of sight. “But it’s almost over. Let me help you get to the airlock.” 

Blackwood twisted feebly as if to comply, but by this time he was so tangled in the lines and so disoriented that he could hardly move. Isha hesitantly got within arm’s reach and started to uncoil him. 

While it is uncommon among lifelong spacers, agoraphobia is a real threat to the safety of Navy personnel of all stations, especially those assigned to strike operations. Normally, extensive testing to detect this tendency in all enlistees prevents any serious incidents, but in rare cases, combat stress can trigger the reaction that would not be present.  

Most likely, throwing rookies into deadly combat was an extreme stress for the individual in this account, and my quick research indicates that he was withdrawn from launch duties and reassigned to shipboard duties after recovering from this episode.