Hope (Nadyozhda)

by Wil C. Fry

  When he passed from the living area and entered the science section, he saw that his new watch said 10:45. The laboratories for planetary research were in the cargo bay, ready for insertion in the cargo sections of the larger shuttles, but any other research would take place in the mother ship's laboratories. Any information that could be gained from the search of the Banard's Star System would be entered in the M.C.C. and studied in the science labs, even if no settlement were left on any of the planets, with all of the results eventually sent back to Sol.

  Not understanding most of the processes that would take place there, Petr quickly passed the lab area, and entered the bow of the ship, the narrowest, smallest section, where the central passageway narrowed again. On his left were five meeting rooms, and on his right were large storage rooms for maintenance and cleaning supplies. Above and below him, he knew, were the vast memory banks of the M.C.C., which mysteriously controlled most of the ship's functions. Next, he passed the library on his left and his own office on the right. The Captain's office was just ahead of his own, with the M.C.C. office across the hall from that, and at the very end of the passageway was the control room. Forward of the Control Room were only the radar and other sighting devices, mostly inactive at the moment, since the bow was now pointed back at Sol, the massive rocket engines slowing the ship for entry into the Banard's Star System.

  He ducked into one of the library's viewing rooms, where he accessed some old books on the viewing computers, and began to read, clicking from screen to screen every thirty seconds or so, until 11:58.

  * * *

  When Crew #1's executive counsel was seated at the table in the meeting room, Captain Cochran spoke. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the first order of business is health. Dr. Massaan, I assume that everyone is successfully awake?"

  The Indian Medical Doctor smiled, his white teeth contrasting handsomely with his almost-black skin. "Yes, Captain, they are. And the longevity treatment?"

  "My next sub-order of business under health, good Doctor. I guess that we are aware of the general confusion regarding that subject, just before we left. The other crews may have read about it in their synopsis of Human History, but we need to have everyone treated as soon and as fairly as possible. Doctor, are you aware of how to administer the treatment?"

  Massaan smiled again, and Petr wondered if the doctor ever started a sentence with any other expression. "Yes, Captain, I followed the research very carefully, even during my practice on Terra, and in Astropolis I. Probably by the end of the week, everyone can be treated."

  "Good. And the last medical issue is this. I want you to give everyone their mandatory physicals at the same time as the treatment, so we all won't have to see you twice. No one is exempt from this physical, understand. I'll just have to find time."

  "On the contrary, good sir, you will be the first. I cannot allow the mission to proceed unless you visit me directly after this meeting. Our Captain must be certifiably fit for his duties."

  "Uh, okay. I guess you're right. Next order of business is work. As most of you know, we're on a kind of communist system here, where everyone works, and everyone eats and gets medical attention. If anyone refuses to work, or wants to shirk their fair share of duty, or tries to consume more than their fair share of necessities, you are authorized to speak to them for me, and if they still persist, to report them to me. Although we were selected very carefully for this mission, someone may try to take advantage of the situation, and assume that we won't do anything about it. But we will, won't we?"

  The others nodded their heads. "According to Policy, sir?" Petr asked.

  "First of all, Pastor, call me James, like you used to. Second of all, the Policy was written 150 years ago, and 36 trillion miles away. For you scientists, that's about 387,000 AUs. Many of our policies will have to be arbitrary, or whatever works to accomplish our mission. There may be changes to the way the Policy is carried out. Of course, we will have to agree on changes. If I say something in one of our meetings, and none of you vocally disagrees, I will assume you agree.

  "Now, as I was saying. Right now there's not much work to go around. But all of us can find things to do. And Guv'ner here will assign work duties to everyone, according to how he sees fit. Okay?"

  No one vocally disagreed, so he went on. "Okay, the M.C.C. has sent out the two probes that the Policy called for, and within a few weeks, we'll be receiving information from them, telling us more about the system we're entering. But from here, we can detect four planets, with a possibility of two more on the other side of Banard's Star." He paused while everyone celebrated. There were cheers, and a small applause, and a 'Slava na Boka' from Petr. "Yes, friends, we've hit the jackpot. Now we've just got to pray that one or more of these babies can support our type of life.

  "We're still not receiving any signals of any kind from the system, and it is not apparent that there is any kind of technological race extant here. We-"

  Petr, being on the linguistics team, interrupted, "Sir, uh, James, while it is true that there may be no space-faring race there, does that mean that there will be no intelligent life of any kind?"

  Cochran was about to answer when Marie cut in, "Reverend Doctor - or is it Doctor Reverend? - this star system is known to be millions of years older than our own. Don't you think that if life were to develop here, it would have done so long ago?" She appeared irritated by his question.

  Before Petr could defend his question, Cochran stated, "Please, Dr. Clark, it must be considered as a possibility.

  "Now, do any of you have anything you wish to brief the rest of us on?" He looked around the table, waiting.

  Dr. Marie Clark, the diminutive and exquisitely beautiful computer programmer, sitting to the Captain's left, shook her light brown curls lightly, and offered, "Well, in case anyone's curious, all systems are "go" as far as the M.C.C. is concerned. Our ship's brain couldn't be in finer shape if she were human."

  "Thank you, Dr. Clark." The Captain, short and wiry with dark hair cut like a wire brush, let his dark brown eyes move on to the next member of the Counsel, the very dark and always-smiling- before-he-spoke Dr. Massaan.

  The highly respected and highly capable Indian doctor smiled again, as if he were sincerely smiling. "I have inspected our clinic and medi-labs, Captain - may I please call you Captain until we are more familiar? - and I find everything in order. I will have my computer send a message to every cabin, announcing each person's appointment, before the end of the day. So far, no one has suffered ill-effects from the long sleep."

  "Okay, Doctor, and I'll be down as soon as this meeting is adjourned. Right?"

  "Correct."

  The next person was Mr. Ortega, commonly called "Guv'ner" by his friends. He had been the first elected head of the Lunar Confederacy, and had stepped down after twenty years of reelections to join this enterprise. He smiled a little polite smile, and said, "Well, the work schedules that were printed before we left will suffice, with only a few adjustments. I think we should add more time for personal exercise and education, but besides that, I think we'll be fine. Once everyone's on schedule, my job should be fairly easy until we arrive. If anyone needs me, I'll be on the 'south 40'." He grinned at his left-hand neighbor, Mr. Davidson, who spoke next.

  "And it's prob'ly a good idear fer all y'all ta stop by the farm. Ya know, after we git all settled on our new planits, y'u'll need ta know how it's dun."

  Marie laughed out loud. "How in Nature's Great Universe did you graduate from college with speech like that?" She grinned her prettiest cheerleader-type smile at him.

  "Football scholarship, ma'am." He shrugged, his immense shoulders rippling as they moved, and grinned back at her. "But farmin' wuz always what I's good at."

  This time, it was Cochran's turn to chuckle. "I'm glad to hear that you're better at farming. My report says you were the only fullback to take the Heismann Trophy in 80 years. We'll be eating well, friends."

  Davidson grew red in the face, and then said as if he
had almost forgotten it, "Oh, they's som'thin' straynge about mah farm."

  "And that is...?"

  Petr noticed Marie look a little nervous for a second, before she recomposed herself.

  "Well, suh, part of it was already growed up when I first got there."

  Cochran's mouth moved slowly from side to side as if he had a toothache while he thought over this new information.

  Marie settled it for them. "I should have mentioned it sooner, Captain, but it didn't seem necessary. Once or twice during the trip, the M.C.C. woke me up to discuss certain things. Apparently she was lonely. So, I took the time to grow some food, so I wouldn't use up the supplies."

  Several whispers and other curious sounds began, and were cut off abruptly when the Captain smiled and replied, "Yes, young lady, you should have mentioned it, but I can understand how such an intelligent machine would have such feelings. Are you sure that's all you have left unsaid?"

  "Sir? I'm not sure what you mean..."

  "I'll speak to you a little later, Dr. Clark." He thought to himself for a moment, then sighed. "Well, it seems as if everyone needs to say something. Dr. Novgorod, anything unusual about our power plant?" Cochran glanced grimly at Marie.

  Elizabeth answered, "Not that I've noticed, James. Uh, actually, I haven't been there yet; I just woke up." She blushed beautifully.

  Cochran glanced at Petr hurriedly, then back to Elizabeth. "Doctor, I certainly understand your fatigue-" he looked at Petr again "-from such a long trip, but please, first thing after the meeting, go check everything. We must keep the human element involved here. Got it?"

  "Yes sir, James. I'm very sorry."

  "No need to be. Pastor?"

  Petr smiled at the memory that word brought upon him. Captain Cochran, all during his rise through the Terran Federation's space program, had attended the small church Petr pastored in the great space city of Armstrong. Only a struggling seminary student at the time, Petr had held together a curious congregation of all types of religions, mostly spacemen and their families, although occasionally tourists would drop in. Cochran had slipped in, usually late, every time he was docked at Armstrong.

  "Well, Jim, all I have to say is that services will begin in the dining area this Sunday at 10:00 hours, and on Friday nights, I will hold informal religious forums at 20:00 hours in the hall outside our cabin, unless too many people show up.

  "In my capacity as architect, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

  "Okay," Cochran said, "See you all in a few days. Get busy, and good spacing to you all." To Marie, he said, "I'll see you in my office after lunch, Dr. Clark."

  * * *

  Scott looked up as Marie entered his cabin, her lips pursed with frustration. "What is it, sweets?"

  She sat on his bunk beside him, and put her head on his shoulder. As he put an arm around her, she said tiredly, "Scotty, the Captain knows you're on board. He says for now he won't say anything to anyone, because he hasn't decided what to do about it. Oh, Scott!"

  He squeezed her shoulder gently. "Look, Marie, honey, the Captain and I are both reasonable men. We both know I'm a 'space pirate' by definition, and by the Treaty of 2075, I should be thrown out the airlock when apprehended. But we also know that on a mission like this, everyone can be of help. And besides, we have a bargaining chip; he needs Hope, doesn't he?"

  Hope spoke up, "Scott, I assume you joke when you infer that I might be useful as a bargaining chip. However, I was created to carry out the mission of this ship, and I intend to do so, even if the Captain is inclined to follow the procedures ambiguously outlined in the badly written Treaty of 2075."

  "But, Hope," Scott whined, "I thought we were friends?"

  "Remember, human, while I greatly enjoy your company, we agreed at the outset that your decision was dangerous. And I hope you don't intend to manipulate me as you would an emotionally disturbed human female."

  Marie looked up at the monitor where Hope's false image was. The almost gaudy curly locks of golden blond hair cascading over shapely bare shoulders were offset by a pair of crystal blue eyes set in prominent but softened cheekbones and sharpened by very dark eye shadowing. Marie wasn't sure where Scott and Hope had come up with the image, but she was sure it wasn't a respectable source. But it had a very convincing effect when Hope manipulated the screen to show movement, and it looked just as if they were using a vid-fone back home. The image was only a head and shoulders shot, but it gave the impression that the rest of the figure was nude. Marie wondered what Scott saw on the screen when she wasn't there.

  "Scott, Hope is right about her mission, and you're right about the Captain. I know he's a reasonable man, and I'm sure he'll find a way to utilize your talents... Maybe he'll let you help us set up the computer system for the colony or something."

  Hope's features on the screen took on a hurt expression. "But you'll always come back to me, right, Scotty?"

  Marie, very smug about the way she had just tricked Hope, said, "Now who's the emotionally disturbed female?"

  III Another Chapter

  Those sociologists and political scientists who had argued for the colonists to number in the many thousands had been blinded by a detrimental practice found in their own Terran and Martian societies: specialization. In most human societies, if a man is a plumber, that was all he knew. The same applied for engineers, doctors, cooks, soldiers, holovision broadcasters, mechanics, computer programmers, etc. The key to keeping the crews so small on the Nadyozhda was generalization. Almost everyone knew more than one field very well, and they were aware of the basics in all fields. And on board ship, they all rotated through many jobs. Examples: Harley Davidson, chief hydroponicist of Crew #1 was also the athletic director, in charge of formulating exercise routines for the crew, to restore fitness after the 150-year sleep. Petr Novgorod, chaplain of Crew #1, was also an accomplished general architect, sharing the responsibilities of designing and directing construction of the colony when the time arose. But they both shared kitchen and cleaning duties with the rest of their crew.

  Almost every member of the crew was "chief" or "head" of something and employed the help of other "chiefs" and "heads" to accomplish his task. But only seven from each crew had actual "offices" outside their living quarters. These were the Executive Counsel members, holding the responsibility with the Captain for the smooth running of the ship.

  * * *

  Day 3 (November 5, 2314 AD): (Petr)

  I rolled out of my bed groggily, gently removing Elizabeth's arm and placing it softly under the sheet beside her. Grunting, I stood up and switched off the alarm, stretching mightily at the same time. I touched my toes a few times, then picked up my dumbbells. As I began doing my curls, I tried to remember which books I had sacrificed in my personal weight allowance to bring the weights. Oh well, all those books are on file, and I need to be fit for the rigors of colonial life. I hurried through the rest of my fifteen-minute routine and stepped into the shower.

  Five minutes later, smelling clean and having shaved, I returned to our cabin and pulled on my jumpsuit. Leaning over my wife, I whispered into her ear, "Kraseevy, wake up." Her eyes - those beautiful eyes, even in the morning! - opened halfway, and I gently shook her. "They'll be needing you in a little while, dear.... I've got to go."

  After sliding on my non-slip boots, I left the cabin, quietly closing the door behind me. Soon my steps had taken me to the dining room and into the kitchen. There I saw what I assumed was the largest man on the ship.

  "Dobryeh Utrah, comrade. My name is Petr." I held out my right hand, my left pulling an apron from the rack.

  The huge, dark-haired man in front of me grasped my hand gently, and replied, "Forrest Harmon, glad ta know ya. What d'ya do?"

  "Chaplain, architect, cook, farmer, et cetera. And you?"

  Forrest smiled. "Now that's good question. I was 2nd alternate for some other guy who turned chickin' at the last minute; that 'u'd be centuries ago by now. The first alternate was deathly ill,
so I came. So far, I farm, and help Mr. Davidson with athletics, cook, and move heavy things. But when we get on the ground, I'll be chief mineralogist.

  "Well, let's get cookin'."

  Soon, we had the microwave ovens going full steam, thawing items from deep freeze while the grill warmed up. I turned on the drink dispensers, and Forrest began to brew some real coffee, just as the Captain walked in. The noise startled me when a heavy fan kicked on above my head, apparently taking the excess heat away to heat the running water and the farm.

  "Good waking, Pastor," Cochran said. - I had learned long ago that in space, you couldn't really say "Good Morning" anymore, since morning was only a phenomenon observed on a planet, when the star appears to rise above the horizon. Several different replacements had been tried, but "Good Waking" had stuck among the Terran Space Corps. - "And to you too, Forrest."

  "Yes, sir, Cap'n. It'll be about two 'n' a half minutes for breakfast." Forrest was drawing the Captain a mug of coffee while saying this, and then handed it to him. "What can we get ya?"