Cadet Tom and the Runaway Rocket

On his seventh day at Space Academy, Tom Corbett made a mistake that would either end his career before it began—or become the story he'd tell his grandchildren for the rest of his life.

It started the way most mistakes do: with curiosity and an unlocked door.

The training hangar was supposed to be closed at 0900 hours. But the cadet on duty had left the side hatch open, and Tom had simply wanted to see what a rocket cockpit felt like from the inside. He wasn't going to touch anything. He was just going to sit there for two minutes.

He sat in the pilot's seat. He looked at the control panel. He identified the main systems: thruster controls, navigation display, communications array. His hands stayed in his lap, exactly as intended.

Then the hangar's ventilation system kicked on, and the vibration knocked the launch safety switch to the armed position, and Tom's elbow—which had been resting perfectly innocently on the armrest—caught the ignition button.

The rocket went from zero to escape velocity in approximately four seconds.

Tom forced himself to breathe slowly. Panic uses oxygen. That was from the Academy manual, page twelve. He hadn't expected to need it quite this soon.

"Cadet Tom Corbett calling Space Academy," he said, keeping his voice level. "I appear to have achieved unscheduled launch. Requesting guidance."

Captain Strong's voice came back calm as a cloudless sky. "Current altitude?"

"Fourteen thousand metres and climbing, sir."

"Engine status?"

"Running at cruise. Fuel at ninety-two percent." Tom glanced at the navigation display—a glowing star map with the Academy's coordinates pulsing green. "Sir, I think I can navigate home. The North Star is at bearing zero-three-five from current heading. If I come about to that heading and reduce thrust by forty percent—"

"What makes you think that?"

"Yesterday's navigation class. Fixed-star reference for course correction. The manual says it's the simplest reliable method when other instruments aren't calibrated."

A pause. "Do it."

Tom did it. The turn was sloppy—he hadn't learned the fine controls yet—but the heading came around. The rocket began a long, gentle arc back toward the planet. He watched the Academy coordinates on the nav screen as they drifted, centred, locked.

The landing was rough. He came in a little fast and the landing legs absorbed the impact with a crunch that would need looking at. But the hull was intact, and when Tom climbed down to the launchpad, his legs only trembled a little.

Captain Strong was waiting. "Navigation assessment: passed. Authorisation procedures: failed. We'll discuss both tomorrow." He held out his hand. "Welcome to Space Academy, Cadet Corbett. You've just logged your first solo."

Tom shook his hand.

Above them, the stars were coming out—the same stars that had guided him home. He already understood what the Academy veterans seemed to know: out there, the stars didn't care about mistakes or unauthorised launches. They just burned steadily on, always in the same place, always ready to show the way back.

He looked up at them until Captain Strong cleared his throat.

Then he went inside to face the paperwork.