Date: May 3rd 2074 Earth Time

Location: Approaching Nimh-Alpha Orbit

Mission Time: 57 Months, 2 Days, 13 Hours

Josh sat in the pod simulator, practising landing scenarios. Being the EVA specialist, he had the least duties, at least until they reached Nimh-Beta, leaving him plenty of leisure time. His muscular frame, extensively worked on over the past few weeks, was restored to the peak of physical perfection, but on the inside, Josh was growing restless.

So far, aside from several brief spacewalks to inspect the heat shield and antenna arrays, Commander Fitzgibbons had forbidden any EVAs, much to Josh's displeasure. So, whenever he wasn't busy assisting his colleagues in their duties, he'd while away the time in the simulator, wondering when the day would come when he'd finally be flying the real thing, currently sitting grounded in the ship's pod bay until further notice.

The ship's pods, called the SRVs (Scouting and Reconnaissance Vehicles), or Scouts for short, were beauties in their own way: shaped like the old Gemini modules, only with wings like the Shuttles, these atomic-powered, ion-drive-propelled spacecraft were the latest thing in manned EVA flights. With a titanium fuselage, lined with heat shielding, their one-man cockpit had a life support for up to 72 hours, a state-of the-art navigation and communications system, and a manoeuvrability rating of even the most risky of space acrobatics. Likewise, they were designed to perform just as well in atmospheric flight, by means of their in-built supersonic jets, installed for that purpose.

Tired of practising and having beaten every seemingly impossible scenario the simulator could throw at him, Josh shut down climbed out of the mock-up pod. The simulator was installed inside the ship's elaborate pod hanger, or 'space garage', where the pods sat in their airlock bays. A mock-up lookalike mounted on a rotating hydraulic platform simulated the G-forces and vibrations of space flight simulations, while holographic representations on the false canopy created the illusion of flying in outer space. Although realistic down to the last detail, it still couldn't make up for the real thing, at least not for Josh. With nothing else to do for the moment, he returned to his quarters for a siesta.

Each crewmember on the NIMH-One had his own private quarters, which were now being properly utilised, following the crew's awakening from stasis three months ago: a small but comfortable sphere-like room, with a zero-gravity bunk, zero-gravity shower cubicle, space latrine, and several airtight lockers – a safety measure against damage or injury in the event of decompression – for storing personal belongings.

In addition to their sleeping quarters, each crewmember had been issued an Astronaut's Accommodation Kit, which included his wardrobe, a space hygiene kit, a zero-gravity pen and stationary, a space watch, displaying duel time modes – Earth's Greenwich and the newly calculated time cycle of Nimh-Beta –, and, finally, a miniature ear-phone-and-mike com unit, for constant communication between members of the crew.

Like the rest of his colleagues, Josh had set up his little private corner so it reminded him of home. Strewn across the desk and walls of his quarters, which were lined with stick-patches for things to stay in place in the event of artificial gravity failure, were his personal possessions, which he'd brought from Earth: several worn-out copies of books, back from the old days of paper and print, including Watership Down, From the Earth to the Moon and A Space Odyssey, a Manchester United poster, a Union Jack, some personal photographs, and even his trusty multi-tool Swiss Army knife from his days in the British Boys Scouts, which he'd smuggled onboard against regulations. And of course, there was his private data bank.

Each crewmember had brought along his own stash of data dumps, such as movies, e-books, music, games and other private files stored in the ship's database, which could be accessed via any of the ship's numerous networked terminals, just like using SatNet back on Earth – a descendant of the Internet, which housed all its servers onboard hundreds of orbiting satellites around the globe, rather than on ground-based servers.

Turning to a home-cinema-sized computer screen above his desk, he punched in a password, accessing his database account, and put on a home movie taken on his uncle's farm many years ago. Making himself comfortable on his bunk, he watched as the 3-D video playback started, looking so rich in detail, it could be mistaken for the real thing. But Josh knew those green fields he'd known as a child, were now little more than a memory, quickly disappearing as a result of expending farmlands and pollution brought about by rapid overpopulation. Perhaps he might get the chance of seeing real grass again before he died of old age, if they managed to terraform Nimh-Beta into a new, pristine Earth... At that moment, he heard an announcement over the intercom.

"Lunch in the mess hall in five minutes."

Although attending meals was not compulsory, Commander Fitzgibbons always liked to go by the book, to make sure their food rations lasted until the return voyage, in the event that the hydroponics didn't survive. Therefore, with the exception of water and any snacks anyone kept from his meal tray, delayed meals or in-between snacks were not permitted. And if something didn't bode well with any astronaut on a deep-space mission was an empty stomach.

Striding along the circular promenade deck, Josh made his way towards the galley. The NIMH-One's decks were all lined with padded walls, to prevent injury in the event of artificial gravity failure, as well as airtight doors, in the event of decompression, which separated the ten major compartments: the flight deck and avionics, the hibernation bay, Engineering, the Observation Room, living quarters, bio-lab, hydroponics bay, the Med-bay, the pod hanger, and finally the REMO.

He paused outside the entrance to the space lab. The spacious compartment was cluttered with state-of-the-art scientific equipment, strapped onto stainless-steel worktables, which were bolted to the floor. Illuminated monitors and computers lined just about every inch of the padded bulkhead walls, displaying data, while the science team went about their business.

Drs Schultz and Stetson, in contrast to Josh, had been very busy over the past few weeks. Sitting in a number of Plexiglas cages were the fruits of their recent labours: a dozen rodent kits, genetically engineered from the embryonics they carried onboard. Schultz had reported that the payload had come through the light-speed journey intact, so Fitzgibbons had ordered a number of small specimens cloned, to use as livestock or guinea-pigs for the lab. More, larger species would be cloned later, for selective breeding on the new world.

Next door was the beautiful hydroponics garden, flourishing with seedlings and vegetables growing in their compost-filled trays, as well as several tanks of ammonia-enriched water filled with green-blue algae, which was bubbling with oxygen emissions. Attached hoses collected all that precious oxygen and stored it in the ship's reserve tanks, topping up the air supply. This thriving, artificially-created ecosystem, made possible by some simple technological means, was capable of supplying the crew of the NIMH-One with oxygen and food for years to come.

The algae, Josh knew, would eventually be placed in sterile payload containers and loaded onto the unmanned probes, which would then go in to land, seeding the oxygen-producing algae across the surface of the new world, delivering the first seeds of life to the alien planet...theoretically. These unmanned probes, called the TEMs (Terraforming and Exploration Modules), were spider-shaped, resembling the old Lunar Modules back from the days of the Apollo missions, each carrying a sizable payload container for an automated algae farm. According to Dr Schultz, if the process was successful, within one generation – half the time it had taken for mankind's industry to finish poisoning the Earth –, Nimh-Beta would become a virgin Earth, with a breathable atmosphere, ready to be colonised and developed.

Technology and science, which led us to the brink of extinction in the first place, will now give us a new planet to start over, thought Josh, smirking at the irony of it all, but hearing his stomach growling, he turned and hurried down to the mess hall for lunch.

Like all onboard facilities, the ship's galley was designed to be as automated as possible, omitting the posts of mess stewards or cooks, and ensuring more mission time for the rest of the crew. Sharing one long table with rotating leather chairs, which, like all of the ship's furnishings, were bolted to the floor as a precaution against artificial gravity failure, the crew of the NIMH-One got their meals in self-service fashion.

Space food processing had taken astronomical steps since man had first flown into space. By punching in your choice of food on the digital touch-screen menu, an automatic food-synthesizer would present each crewmember with a ready full-meal tray: starting off as raw, powdered nutrient compounds wrapped in plastic and tinfoil packages, these special space rations were then passed through a rehydrator, which, with a bit of water, heat and chemical processing, were turned back into edible foodstuffs. The final outcome was a highly nutritious, gel-like substance, which looked nothing like, but at least tasted like, food: bacon and eggs, fish and chips, chicken and mash, looking as if they had just come out of a blender. Likewise, drinks were brewed from different flavoured tablets mixed with water. An awkward diet, having to live off these baby foods for ten years straight, but sustainable.

Topping up his tray with a water-pouch filled with orange juice alongside a hot gel-burrito, Josh joined his companions at the lunch table. With the exception of Commander Fitzgibbons, who always ate in silence like a robot, meal hours were times and pleasant socialising and the crew of the NIMH-One always had stories to trade.

"…I'm telling you, lads, Dr Valentine did a too-good-a-job on those hybrid embryos he had us bring up here," said Dr Schultz, referring to the bio-payload, "I've been observing some extraordinary behaviour in the animals over the past few days, particularly the rats. It is almost as they're developing an intelligence of their own…" If Josh hadn't been so preoccupied with his meal – or rather the lack of real food –, he might have thought the scientist was losing his marbles from space fatigue.

"Well, they are gene-spliced, chromosome-enhanced genetic hybrids," said Dr Boniface as-a-matter-of-factly, calmly sipping his coffee, "That payload is literally a clone of our biosphere in a bottle, genetically enhanced to flourish in the most hostile of environments. Genetic perversion of this kind is bound to yield some unforeseen results soon or later. You know the old saying, 'never screw with Mother Nature…'"

"Spare us your morals lectures, doc!" interrupted Flight Engineer Strauss, "I'm already close to crashing as it is with this wretched baby-crap diet. Frankly, I can't wait for the hydroponics and animals to mature so we can have some real vegetables and meat for a change. Scheisse, what wouldn't I give to be sitting in a Munich beer-house, sipping a tankard of frothing Budweiser..."

"Hear, hear," said Dr Stetson, complimenting the German, "Or a bourbon on the rocks..." One of the things the crew of the NIMH-One missed the most was alcohol, which was strictly forbidden on these long hauls by NIMH's Aerospace Agency. Dr Schultz had managed to nick some freeze-dried potatoes from the ship's larder and attempted to make vodka using a makeshift still he had set up in his lab, only to be caught by Lt Stacy, who had ordered the still dismantled and confiscated the booze, but luckily had kept quiet about it to Fitzgibbons.

"You know the good Commander's orders, Mr Strauss," said the blonde Lieutenant, shooting the engineer a knowing look, "A sober astronaut is a responsible astronaut. No alcohol, period." Although a somewhat stern woman, Penny Stacy was still everyone's favourite crewmember, acting as something of a surrogate mother to the men. At that moment, the pleasant conversation was cut short by Commander Fitzgibbons.

"All right, gentlemen…and lady," he added hastily, referring to Lt Stacy, who cleared her throat incredulously at not being acknowledged, "As you all know, we successfully entered Nimh-Alpha's orbit yesterday and are ready to enter our free-return trajectory towards Nimh-Beta. Unfortunately, it seems we have a little unforeseen problem. Behold."

Using a small remote-control, he activated a large 3-D screen on the bulkhead wall. From the command menu options, he selected a navigation unit feedback, bringing up a model of the Nimh planetary system, as seen from the ship's scope, in false colour. Visible against the nebulous atmosphere of Nimh-Alpha, in the foreground, they could see Nimh-Beta, its pinkish-cyan colour visible against the reddish-yellow atmosphere of the gas giant. But there was something else there too – something that hadn't been there when they'd first sighted the sister planets three months ago.

Situated between Alpha and Beta, right in the path of their trajectory, was a strange, cloud-like storm, partially obscuring the smaller planet on the other side. This storm, electric-blue and with numerous cyclone-like vortexes, seemed to be somehow attached to the planet, its orbit around Nimh-Beta completely static, as it followed the former on its eternal circle around Alpha.

According to Dr Stetson, they had stumbled across a rare electromagnetic storm, which seemed to have some sort of yearly cycle, appearing briefly only once a year, when the Nimh system was in its closest proximity to Centauri-A. On his part, the astrophysicist was ecstatic as a kid on Christmas morning at being the first scientist to witness such a rare and unusual phenomenon up close; Fitzgibbons, on the other hand, was more concerned about whether this would affect their flight plan or not. Did they dare go through it?

"With that thing in our way, we have no visual of the planet's surface and therefore can't plot our re-entry corridor for landing," he said, gesturing at the storm on the screen like a referee in a bad mood announcing a losing score, "Fortunately, I've got it all worked out. So, if you could all please finish up and follow me to the Observation Room."

Hastily shoving down the last of his burrito, Josh followed his colleagues up to the Observation Room. Since their first meeting, the crew of the NIMH-One had continued using the 3-D holographic projection dome regularly, mostly for Dr Stetson's astronomical observations. But, this time, it was for something totally different. Fitzgibbons was going to consult with his ship's ninth and only non-human crewmember.

As part of the ship's groundbreaking technology, NIMH had installed an artificial intelligence inside the ship's systems: OWL. Like his telltale name, OWL was a holographic, A.I. owl, modelled after Dr Valentine's pet bird, which was also used as the logo of his corporation. With multiple visual and verbal linkup capabilities, OWL had uplinks to all of the ship's onboard systems, capable of monitoring every aspect of the mission at any time, as well as the ability to interact with the rest of the crew. So far, they had found little reason to arise him from his slumber; but Fitzgibbons, who placed more faith into his precious machines than his crew, figured OWL was the perfect problem-solver he ought to turn to for advice.

Walking over to the control panel that controlled the hologram projectors of the dome, he punched in a series of complex commands. The dome flashed to life, its beams of colourful light revealing the hologram of a gigantic owl, standing on a gold perch in a centre of the compartment. Its luminous yellow eyes stared back at them all, the creature's resolution so rich in detail that some of the crew cringed slightly, constantly reminding themselves that it was just a harmless hologram.

"Greetings, Commander Fitzgibbons," said OWL, in a deep booming voice, which sounded remarkably like Dr Valentine's, nodding respectfully to the Commander, "How may I be of assistance?"

"Good afternoon OWL," replied Fitzgibbons, courteously returning the greeting, "Please update us on our revised flight plan." OWL stretched his wings out wide like a magician doing tricks on stage; another planetarium model of the Nimh system appeared on the domed screen around them, with a red vector line marking the plotted trajectory of the NIMH-One towards Nimh-Beta in time-enhanced mode, with OWL providing details on the simulation he had worked out in voiceover.

"For the minimum fuel consumption, rather than adjust the trajectory and bypass the storm, the ship goes into static orbit around Nimh-Beta, keeping a calculated safe distance of 20,000 miles from the edge of the storm; a pod is then sent ahead to do a reconnaissance and collect an SAR data package of the planet's terrain on the other side; this data is then run through the main flight computer, to determine favourable landing coordinates…" A red dot, marking the position of the ship, followed the designated trajectory line towards the planet, stopping on the edge of the storm.

Josh couldn't suppress a smile; a reconnaissance mission meant sending a pilot out, to attempt to penetrate the storm. Ever since Fitzgibbons had briefed them on their destination, there had been many bets as to who among them would be the first to set foot on the new world. Now it seemed he would be getting that honour after all! Neil Armstrong had been the first man on the Moon; and now he was going to be the first man on Nimh-Beta! He rolled his eyes at the thought of the ticket tape parade when he rotated home; there would be so many fans wanting a piece of him, so much publicity to cope with, that his life would no longer be his own... He continued to watch as the simulation zoomed in onto a 3-D model of the ship itself, showing the unmanned pod being launched.

"Once the re-entry corridor is charted and the approach trajectory properly adjusted, the first stage of Operation Aphrodite can commence: first, the TEMs are launched and diverted towards their designated landing sites, to deliver their bio-payloads; the REMO will remain in stationary orbit, on standby, until a favourable location for the research outpost can be determined..." Operation Aphrodite, named after the ancient Greek goddess of agriculture, was the code name of their upcoming panspermia operations on Nimh-Beta, which would continue automatically even after the NIMH-One had lifted off to return to Earth.

"...The NIMH-One will finally be brought in for landing. Ground EVAs and FAOs can then commence…" The simulation showed the ship jettisoning her spine, with the ion boosters and the REMO still attached, which would remain in orbit, until the surface operations were complete; the ship's command module then plunged into the atmosphere, heat shield first, her secondary rocket boosters providing the necessary counterthrust, and guiding her through a smooth descent onto the surface of the new world.

The simulation complete, the crew of the NIMH-One rejoiced; their moment of glory would soon be at hand. All their years of training, effort and preparation for this mission would finally yield its rewards – and in Josh's case, finally fulfil his lifelong dream. But Commander Fitzgibbons, as it often happens with toffee-nosed, iron-fisted COs, found the perfect moment to crash the party by spoiling things for Josh.

"Since we have no way of knowing the full nature of that mysterious storm – our instruments are unable to probe it because of too much magnetic interference –, I've decided to take certain precautions." Josh knew what that bastard was going to say before he even said it, "Rather than sending out a Scout, we will send one of the TEMs instead..." Josh felt his jaw tighten; did Fitzgibbons enjoy making his life miserable on purpose?

"I've already consulted with flight engineer Strauss and he's confirmed that the TEM's guidance computer can be programmed to be recalled from the surface automatically, bringing back all the data we need to chart our re-entry corridor with…" Josh had heard enough and interrupted Fitzgibbons' monologue.

"Excuse me, sir, but, if you don't mind me saying so, you're making a big mistake…" Fitzgibbons frowned in annoyance at the interruption, much less happy with Josh questioning his judgement, as he coolly replied, without even looking at him, "Son, we have standard protocols to follow. Safety is our first and foremost priority in the book…"

More like you being a stubborn pain-in-the-arse actually, Josh thought angrily, but refrained from saying it out loud, knowing it would only give old Iron-Fist the excuse he needed to take away his wings before he even had a chance to get started, "I'm well aware what the regulations say, sir, but surely, sometimes, only with some direct initiative can anything hope to be gained…" Fitzgibbons however, would hear none of it.

"No manned flights, period," he snapped, "We start by sending out an unmanned probe. We can afford to sacrifice one probe – but not a pilot's life. That's how it's going to be." Josh felt thoroughly annoyed by now.

"You need someone out there who can think, sir, not some dumb sample-return probe!" he retorted irritably, "Why don't you just allow me to do my damn job…?"

"Your job, Captain Anderson, is to carry out my orders, when and how I give them!" barked Fitzgibbons, glaring at Josh's impudence, his expression spelling something along the lines of 'If you don't shut up and do as you're told, you're on report!' Josh held his tongue, letting his Commander cool off.

"Now then," Fitzgibbons continued, ignoring the reproachful looks from the rest of his crew for berating Josh, "I want everybody at their stations. Captain Anderson, you and Strauss get the TEM-1 ready for launch. The rest of you I want up on the bridge, setting up Mission Control. Launch at 16:00 hours. Dismissed!"

Half an hour later, Josh and flight engineer Strauss had prepared the first of their small fleet of unmanned probes for launch. Although just an expendable payload transport module, the unmanned probe was a remarkable feat of engineering in its own way: designed to run unattended for years, using mounted solar panels to recharge the lander's batteries, it was fitted with soil and atmospheric analysers, a small rover, and digging tools mounted on hydraulic robotic arms, allowing it to carry out the whole panspermia project on its own; its sample return vehicle was fitted with an ion drive, designed to bring a payload of rock and soil samples all the way back to Earth for further analysis, long after the NIMH-One had departed.

While Strauss programmed the guidance system from a console, Josh loaded the payload container onboard. Inside that box were 200 pounds of highly volatile, oxygen-producing algae and ammonia-synthesizing bacteria, waiting to be seeded. A portable SAR unit was also mounted onto the small six-wheel Rover, alongside the camera, to do radar sweeps of the planet's surface after landing, transmitting its data back to home base by means of its high-gain antenna.

With the probe set and ready for launch, the men sealed the airlock hatch. Signalling their okay up to the bridge, the airlock was depressurised and the little pod ejected out into space, automatically correcting its attitude by means of its attitude-control thrusters, as it followed its charted trajectory towards the storm.

Meanwhile, Josh and Strauss had joined the rest of their colleagues at their stations up on the bridge. The flight deck of the NIMH-One was a spacious, dome-shaped compartment, like the Observation Room, only smaller and accessible only via a fingerprint-identification security door. With the exception of the floor, every other inch of space was taken up by banks of complicated instruments and control panels for every onboard system. Six heavily padded pilot's g-chairs, each marked with the name of the crewmember assigned to it, stood in a half-circle around the flight deck, facing each of their occupants' designated stations. This was the heart of Commander Fitzgibbons' domain – the place where he and he alone controlled every aspect of their mission.

Fitzgibbons and Lt Stacy sat separately from the rest of the crew, facing the massive flight console in the very front. A large retractable screen hanging above the pilots' chairs permitted a horizontal view through cameras mounted onto the heat shield. On the right-hand side were the navigator and engineer's stations, whilst the communications and EVA monitoring stations, including Josh's, were situated on the left. The only ones who didn't have stations on the bridge were Drs Boniface and Schultz, whose posts were down in Medical and the lab respectively.

Josh's nav screen, tracking the TEM-1's navigation beacon, showed the pod leaving the ship on its charted trajectory. Grasping a pair of simulator-like control sticks on the armrests, from where he piloted the unmanned pod by remote, Josh punching in the ignition sequence. On Fitzgibbons' command, the pod's boosters fired and it shot off towards the storm. At the communications station, data feedbacks on Major Wilson's screen confirmed the SAR was online and activated. Everything was green across the board.

At first, everything seemed to be going like clockwork, as the probe approached the storm, preparing to penetrate; then suddenly, a red warning light blinked on Josh's screen. The dot, tracking the pod along the plotted trajectory line, had gone off-vector. The pod was swaying off-course. Something was wrong.

"We're getting interference here, sir," Wilson called from his station, struggling to make heads or tails out of the pod's data feedbacks, which had suddenly become scrambled and distorted, apparently from electromagnetic interference caused by its close proximity to the storm, the tracking signal fading fast, "I can't get a lock on her!"

"Bring it up on the scope and enhance!" barked Fitzgibbons. Wilson furiously punched in some commands on his keyboard, bringing up a distorted view transmitted by the pod's onboard camera onto the big scope screen, as it entered the storm. They could see massive electrical discharges amidst those spectacular electric-blue clouds, as the craft penetrated that super-powerful energy field floating in the heavens, before the camera went dark and the data feed was lost.

"Captain Anderson, take her off auto-guidance and attempt manual abort!" ordered Fitzgibbons, cursing under his breath. Josh obeyed but found his controls inoperative.

"She's not responding, sir," he muttered, trying to fire the counter-thrusters, but his commands not getting across, "We're losing her!" Sure enough, a telltale warning popped up onto the screen:

WARNING!

TEM-1 TRAJECTORY TERMINATED:

LOSS OF SIGNAL

Josh couldn't suppress a smirk; as he always said, Fitzgibbons put too much faith in his precious machines. He watched his Commander out of the corner of his eye, his lip quivering in silent anger, looking ready to drive his fist through the pilot's console in frustration. However, his managed to maintain his composure, as he turned to his crew.

"For now, we just sit tight and wait," he said, "The pod is programmed to return to the ship automatically; if it made it through that storm intact, she might still complete her mission…" Josh rolled his eyes. His Commander was, without a doubt, the world's biggest blithering idiot.

That damn probe is history, Fitzgibbons, he thought, I told you, you need a pilot for this job… Suddenly, a wild idea hit him; it was beyond crazy to even think about it, but this might be his only chance of proving his worth to old Iron-Fist once and for all. Making sure nobody was watching him, he turned back to his panel, preparing a new flight plan.

Discreetly transferring the probe's charted trajectory data into the flight computer of one of the Scouts in the hanger, he turned to Wilson, "Keep trying to regain contact. I'm going to run some sequences in the simulator, to see what went wrong…" Without bothering to ask for permission from Fitzgibbons, he rose from his chair and hurried down to the launch bay.

The EVA suits were kept just outside the airlock entrance to the hanger. Stored upright in arched alcoves in the bulkhead wall, the eight space suits stood side by side like medieval suits of armour on display. Although he didn't really need a suit onboard the pod, Josh wasn't taking any chances; what he was about to do was dangerous enough as it was and the prospect of getting himself killed from a pressure breach caused by storm turbulence hardly appealed to him.

Space suit technology had advanced a great deal over the past one hundred years of spaceflight; completely vacuum-ballooning proof and light enough to be worn comfortably even on the ground, in an Earth-gravity environment, the suits were equipped with numerous systems and gadgets.

The full-body suit, made of soft, non-elastic fabrics, was divided into airtight, thermal, and radiation-shielding layers, and painted a bright red, rather than the customary white, for better visibility during EVA. The stress-prone joints, including kneecaps, elbows, shoulders, boots, neck collar and visor, were made of harder components, like a suit of armour. The suit's life-support pack and instrumentation unit were mounted on the HUT (Hard Upper Torso) vest assembly; a tiny touch-screen on the right sleeve monitored the suit's systems and instruments.

Equipped with a taccom radio unit, inferred beacon, LED spotlights, camera, bio-med sensors, the suit had a life support of up to 12 hours, including emergency backup, a threshold of up to 200 degrees Celsius and down to the absolute zero of space, by means of its in-built, auto-adjusting environment control system. Additional gadgets included a 1-litre water reservoir in the pack, a space diaper, and a portable tool pouch containing a small pickaxe, tether, space wrench, drill and a laser-cutter for the geological surveys and minor equipment repairs. Finally, there was the HHC (Hand Held Computer), which each astronaut carried in his suit. This unique portable computer was the suit's ground instrument package, including the environment analyser, medical scanner, navigation aids, and even a portable data bank.

As he hurryingly donned the suit, he heard Fitzgibbons utter the stinging words over his intercom, "No, I'm not wasting another pod. Shut down launch operations; we're going to adjust our trajectory and slingshot around the storm instead…"

Old Iron-Fist wants to push ahead into a blind alley only because he's too damn proud to be proven wrong, thought Josh angrily. Well, we shall soon see about that…

Donning the suit over his overalls and zipping it up, he grabbed his visor and gloves and hurried to the pod bay. How much time did he have before Fitzgibbons realised what he was up to? Two minutes? They couldn't stop him once he was out in space, but they could lock down the launch bay from the bridge before he got there. If he was going to go ahead with his little escapade, he'd better hurry.

He had almost made it to the airlock, when he ran into Dr Boniface, who was on his way to vaccinate Dr Schultz's hybrid rodents down in the lab. No sooner had he gathered up the ampoules Josh has knocked out of his hands, than he noticed his colleague was all suited up for an unauthorised EVA.

"Josh, what's all this about? Where do you think you're going?"

Without any time to argue, Josh grabbed his friend by the shoulders, "Gordon, if you're a true friend, then you didn't see me. This is something I have to do." Although shocked to the core by Josh's reckless and potentially suicidal intentions, Dr Boniface's mutual dislike of Fitzgibbons won out and he reluctantly nodded.

"You watch yourself out there, lad; I don't need a casualty on my plate so early on in the mission." As Josh shot him a grateful smile and hurried away, he muttered, "Good luck, Joshua, you crazy son of a bitch…" That was the last time either man ever saw each other.

Hurrying to the launch bay, Josh climbed aboard the first manned pod, Alpha Scout, strapped himself in and hurryingly punched in the pre-launch sequence. Fuel cells and auxiliary power online; engines and thrusters engaged and hot; life support and emergency backup 100% and running; navigation and communications checked and online. All systems were green across the board. He was good to go.

Sealing the hatch and pressurising the cockpit, he sealed up the airlock door and depressurised, preparing for launch. Hooking up his suit to the pod's life support to conserve his air supply, he initiated the procedures he had practiced so many times in the simulator. Alpha Scout's undercarriage detached from its mooring clamps on the floor and, floating free in the zero gravity (the pod bay was in a non-rotating area of the spacecraft, without artificial gravity), slipped out of the open airlock and into space.

The Scout's cockpit was not unlike that of the supersonic fighter jets Josh used to fly in the RAF, only more technologically advanced: a touch-screen flight console, displaying multiple instrument readings and system statuses in digital mode; two mismatched control sticks on either armrest of his seat for translation and rotation control, and a number of smaller consoles with multiple blinking lights and switches, which controlled the sub-systems and emergency overrides. For an amateur, all these complicated controls would seem impossible to handle; but for a professional flyboy like Josh, this was little more than riding a bicycle.

His checklist complete, Josh hit the primary ignition switch; the magnetoplasmadynamic boosters fired, expelling a tail of electric-blue plasma created from ionised ammonia particles, causing the pod to accelerate to enormous speed, following the plotted trajectory in the guidance system towards the storm. Then, he heard the furious voice of Commander Fitzgibbons over the radio…

Meanwhile, back on the bridge, the crew of the NIMH-One sat in silent disappointment; the TEM-1 was lost, indicating that the storm was indeed impassable. As it stood, they had no choice but to alter their trajectory and go around it, which could means days of delay. The prospect of finally getting out of this hamster cage they had been cooped up in all these months was shattered by Commander Fitzgibbons' firm, unwavering determination to always go by the book. So it came as a big surprise to them all when Wilson noticed a new tracking signal suddenly pop up on his screen.

"Sir, Alpha Scout has launched!"

Fitzgibbons, who was sitting as if in a trance, lost deep in thoughts, was instantly on his feet. Noticing Josh's unoccupied station, he cursed, realising what was going on. Sure enough, gazing through his scope, he saw the pod move away from the ship, heading straight towards the storm.

Swearing, he put on his headset and ordered Wilson to put Alpha Scout on the box, "Alpha Scout, what the hell are you doing? Your flight is not authorized!" They all listened as Josh's smirking voice responded.

"Well, no shit Sherlock! But, at least, now I'm doing my proper job!" Fitzgibbons looked like he had swallowed a road grader. Ignoring his crew, who were all cheering behind his back at Josh for standing up to their tyrant Commander, he growled angrily back across the line.

"I swear you'll never fly again! You bring that thing back here at once, you insubordinate lunatic…!"

"I will, sir, just as soon as I've done what NIMH sent me up here to do," came Josh's defiant voice, "Like I said, Commander Fitzgibbons, never trust a machine to do a man's job." Fitzgibbons' expression resembled someone's who had just found himself stranded in a public loo without toilet paper, his mind set on making sure that loose cannon of a flyboy out there would be stripped off his wings for good once they returned to Earth if it was the last thing he ever did.

With no way to stop Josh now, the crew turned back to their stations, monitoring the flight path of the manned pod, silently praying that Josh's famed flying skills would win against the hazards of that strange storm that had already swallowed up the unmanned pod.

It wasn't long before they saw the same interference disrupt Alpha-Scout's signal; the pod started swaying off-course and then back, which they figured was Josh experiencing problems and attempting to correct his trajectory manually. They all froze, realising he was in trouble.

Utterly horrified, Fitzgibbons grabbed his headset again. Although he hated that pilot's guts with a vengeance for his outrageous display of insubordination, the last thing he needed was to lose a man under his command.

"Captain Anderson, abort! I repeat, abort immediately…! Captain Anderson, acknowledge!" But his words only travelled out into the empty vastness of the universe, where Josh had vanished forever.

Author's note: Coming up next, Josh's adventures on Nimh-Beta begin in earnest. Also, there will be the introduction of the first NIMH canon characters. ENJOY AND PLEASE REVIEW!