Foreword: I have been a Lost in Space fan since it originally aired in 1965. Over the decades my attraction to the show has evolved as I've grown older. When I was eight, I so wanted to be John and Maureen Robinson's fourth child; Will's little brother and the Robot's "real" best friend. By twelve, it was Penny, (who through the magic of syndication had waited for me to catch up in age), who caught my attention, for some reason, and I wanted to be anything but her brother. In my thirties, with a wife and kids of my own, I began to appreciate the show through John's eyes. Now in my fifties, I've outlived John and Maureen, at least in television-years, and I wonder what the experience must have been like for Major West.
I also wonder how the whole thing worked? What were the events, the back-stories and personalities that brought these people into that unique situation? Where do science and the laws of physics come into play? Many of the futuristic, whiz-bang technologies of 1965, such as robots, lasers and computers, have become commonplace toys today. The original LIS story was set about 35 years in the future. What if we rebooted the story from the start, setting it another 35 years, or so, hence? Will technology catch up to the potential of the Jupiter 2? What would life for the Robinsons of 2050 be like compared to the Robinsons of 1965?
One final note. If you are reading these words, then you too probably have a deep affection for the Lost in Space story. In this reboot, I will attempt to provide a historical background for the crew and Alpha Control, to modernize the societal roles and social beliefs of the people involved, and to implement real science and existing technology wherever possible. In doing so, I will veer away, from time to time, from the classic LIS canon. Be warned now that there are outright heresies ahead that may shock and dismay the traditionalists. My goal is not to remake the people so many of us have loved for so long, as much as it is to allow them to live again, and to grow and evolve with the times as we have.
Major West's very bad day
In the beginning there was darkness and nothing more. In time, the darkness gave way to light, which brought perceptible pain. Throbbing pain that came in short, stabbing pulses. Then the slow drift back down into merciful darkness where the pain could not follow. All too soon the light would return, and with it the searing pain, followed by ever-briefer respites in the cool darkness, until Major Don West was fully conscious. Conscious of the pain. Conscious of every heartbeat, of every ragged, raw breath, of every square inch of his skin that burned with a million white-hot needles. Conscious of a metallic rapping on glass that boomed in his ears like the very bells of Hell.
He could not yet open his eyes, but an opaque, grayish light filtered through the thin skin of his eyelids, bringing the pain. Major West's day was off to a very bad start, and although he did not yet realize it, the best part of this day was already behind him.
Rebirth
Whatever they tell you, no matter how many times you go through the process, it never, ever gets easier. If anything, it gets worse with the loss of blissful ignorance. The realities of suspended animation bore very little resemblance to the effortless depictions in the old sci-fi movies. Nothing about real space travel did. Perhaps that's why they called it science fiction?
None of the old-time video spacefarers ever had to endure the endless physical training, the days of pre-suspension fasting, the intravenous cocktail of sedatives and preservatives or the numbing effects of the electromagnetic field that disrupted the body's biological interactions at the very cellular level. This was an extremely intense process that affected every last cell in the body. There was nothing pleasant or simple about it. Nothing about it was easy. Pilgrims have always paid a high price for the passage.
Once the subject had entered the suspended state, and was deemed stable by the technicians, the process of preservation began. The hatch to the cryogenic tube was sealed and the oxygen pumped out and replaced with pure nitrogen. The temperature was brought down to a few degrees above freezing. The disruptor field engulfed the occupant, minimizing most chemical and electrical interactions on a cellular level but it did not suspend them entirely. This was as close to death as one could get. The very brink of life.
The only part worse than going to sleep was waking up.
"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?" Though barely functioning, the brain still performed some routine functions, albeit very slowly, including occasional dreams. As always, there were good dreams, scary dreams, bad dreams. Nightmares. Over the months or years of suspension those dreams would pile up in the subconscious, with no other outlet, and upon being revived the subject would remember jumbled bits and pieces of them, never quite sure if they were dreams or actual memories.
The physical process of revival was hellish enough, but Don West hated the dreams most of all. While the body would eventually unthaw, reestablishing the old biological patterns of respiration and all of the other functions of living, with time, the adrenaline-pumping fear of the nightmares and the aching longing of the love dreams would always linger on for months afterward.
West was well into the second stage of reanimation, having been warmed through to body temperature again and the energy level of the disruptor field greatly diminished. Long-unused biological pathways, from neurons to capillaries, had reestablished their original patterns. Oxygen had been reintroduced into the cryo-tube and a series of low level electrical pulses had stimulated the heart and lungs into motion until his body could do so for itself again.
The excruciating burning sensation that West endured was from life returning to every individual cell in his body; much akin to the sensation of having one's arm or leg "falling asleep" and the pins and needles that accompany its revival. Regaining consciousness was a promising sign as it indicated that the brain was back on the job and regulating the autonomic functions that living creatures never have to think about.
Under the supervision of a highly trained Reanimation team, Don West could expect to be back on his feet in about a week. The problem was that there weren't any Re-An teams on outward bound missions, and unlike his previous deep sleep experiences, which had ranged from several weeks to several months in length, West and the passengers of the Jupiter 2 had been out for over seven years; a new record. It was one of the main reasons that the Robinson family had been chosen for the mission. Dr. Robinson had pioneered the suspended animation process and had volunteered to be on hand to study the effects of long-term disruption firsthand.
But where was Robinson?
According to the flight plan, Dr. Robinson would reanimate first and then assist the others through the process at the end of the flight, starting with the ship's pilot. If West was the first one up there was a good chance something had gone wrong. Don certainly hadn't heard from anyone else since regaining consciousness, except for that infernal rapping.
Are we there yet?
With great effort, West managed to move his right thumb enough to activate the second stage recovery systems built into his cryo-suit. Warm moist air hissed softly into his helmet, slowly dissolving the natural accretions that had sealed his eyes and mouth shut over the many months in flight. Eventually West was able to work one eyelid open, though he could see very little beyond a vaguely bright blob on the heads-up display in his helmet visor, a few inches in front of his face. West knew from his earlier flights that his vision would eventually clear and there really wasn't much he could do in the meantime, regardless of what was going on around the ship.
The efforts of moving his thumb and opening one bleary eye had taxed Don West's energies to the limit. A feeling of great exhaustion washed over him and he allowed himself to drift back into the darkness from whence he had come. This time, though, he was slipping into real sleep, the kind of healing, regenerative sleep the space jocks called "the golden slumbers." He'd still feel like crap when he next awoke, but it would be a definite improvement over this first round.
Sensors in the cryo-suit monitored West's brain activity and other respiratory functions. As the Major slept his physical situation continued to improve until it reached the point where the computer decided it was time to introduce some nourishment into his system. Electrolytes and glorified sugar water were piped into his intravenous drip, breaking the long, long fast.
Hours later, or it could have been weeks for all that West knew, he awoke once more, feeling somewhat improved, as though he had only been hit by a two-ton truck instead of the four-ton model. His headache had simmered down to a dull throbbing and his breathing was easier, no doubt in response to the moist air that had been introduced earlier. He reopened his good eye, and with a little bit of a struggle he got the other eyelid up as well.
The bright-ish blob he had seen earlier had semi-resolved itself into a square-ish panel containing several smaller bright blobs, some of which were flashing rhythmically. Some of them might even have been red, meaning that West's sense of color was returning. Pretty.
Once again, the slumbers beckoned and, once again, the Major obeyed them.
The next time Don West opened his eyes he was feeling much better. Sleep really was the greatest healer and he felt stronger after every nap. West forced his eyes to focus on the images on the heads-up display in his helmet, with only partial success. By closing his blurry left eye he could just make out the flashing letters and symbols with his right.
It took the Major a several moments to comprehend that power levels from the ship's reactor core were far below where they should have been upon entering the Alpha Centauri system. If the Jupiter 2 had been West's old beater of a Corvette back on Earth, the fuel needle should have been hovering just around two-thirds of a tank. Instead, the Jupiter 2 was running on empty and its version of an atomic idiot light had been flashing for a very long time. Something was drastically wrong.