Crystal Escape

by Doug J. Cooper

  “I’m ready to pull the line,” Sid said to Cheryl and Criss, who were monitoring him from Earth during his trip. He gestured, and his runner—a tiny personal spacecraft that had launched from the larger scout floating in the distance behind him—closed on the artificial satellite. His destination was the small black hole now visible in the center.

  As he approached the barge, Sisyphus became less like a floating mountain and more like an endless wall of gray rock. And the hole grew as well, revealing itself to be a tunnel bored deep into the fused stone, its mouth wide enough to accommodate a half-dozen small craft like Sid’s runner.

  Drilled lengthwise down the center of the rock mass, the tube’s smooth walls and perfect symmetry hinted at the precision used during construction. He knew Criss had supervised every aspect of the build and had already approved the borehole. But Sid felt ownership of the project—the cargo cannon had been his idea—and he wanted to participate as the venture progressed.

  Leaning forward and peering through the front viewport into the darkness, he waited for the signal that confirmed the line spool was ready. When the go-indicator flipped to green, he edged the runner into the tunnel, line filament trailing behind him. The filament he pulled today would be used to pull heavier cable, which in turn would be used to pull the launch tube down the length of the tunnel.

  His attention shifted to what appeared to be the faint shimmer of stars shining through from the far side of the shaft. Has to be construction lights, he thought, knowing the distance was too great for him to see that far.

  Pulsing his engine, his world became an eerie reflection of lights dancing on the inside of the cave-like shaft. A glint in the shadows drew his eyes to a construction marking painted on the curved tunnel wall—a sparkly orange arrow pointing at a small circle around a bracket. Moments later, he drifted past a similar marking on the opposite wall.

  “You really can get the launch tube installed in ten days?” he asked. “This is a long hole.”

  “It’s what we do,” said Cheryl.

  “Constructing a future together in space,” Criss deadpanned, repeating the corporate tagline used in the advertising pieces for SunRise, the huge space commercialization outfit he helped Cheryl run.

  “Be careful,” Cheryl called to him. Then Sid heard her say to Criss, “You got this?”

  Sid signaled the nav, and the runner accelerated. “Here I go.” He heard the excitement in his own voice and it made him laugh. Then he engaged the runner’s external boosters. The tiny craft shuddered and shot forward with a growl, racing into the darkness.

  His display tracked his speed as he went faster and faster, but his visceral pleasure didn’t come from numbers on a gauge. It came from the pressure of acceleration pinning his head against the support pads, the punch to his gut as that same force pushed his body deep into his seat, and from the blurring of the orange construction markings on the walls as his speed climbed, transitioning through fast and edging deep into reckless.

  “Woohoo!” he crowed, a grin stretching across his face as his speed increased. A moment later, he burst into open space from the far side of the rock mass, the almost invisible filament trailing behind.

  According to the construction schedule, it would take two weeks to install the launch tube inside the borehole, and another week after that to add the EM field sequencer. If everything stayed on schedule, they’d launch their first payload of cargo to Mars in three weeks.

  Sisyphus was Cheryl’s project. She’d worked with Criss for years as they led the team that designed, built, and commissioned the space barge. With it now in service, vacationers riding in small craft, manufacturers moving finished goods, miners shipping loads of ore, and everything in between all hooked to the long tether trailing behind the big rock for an escorted ride from one world to the other.

  It was Sid, though, who’d conceived of turning the orbiting mass into a huge cannon. And after some analysis, Criss had agreed it could be done in a way that wouldn’t impact the barge business.

  Instead of shooting ammunition, though, this cannon launched canisters filled with cargo. Each canister held a payload equal in size to a standard shipping container, and with remarkable accuracy, Sisyphus would pitch the canister across the solar system on a quiet journey to Mars.

  Like a game ball being tossed to a teammate running across the field, the cargo canister would arc through space, neither speeding up, slowing down, nor changing direction. When it reached the Red Planet several weeks later, a capture rig would catch the canister, secure it, and then guide it down to the colony.

  If it worked as planned—and since Criss had performed the calculations and finalized the designs, there was little doubt that it would—it introduced a new era of low-cost freight transport from Earth to the inhabitants of Mars Colony.

  While revolutionary in its potential, practical issues limited its utility. Beyond size and weight, the cargo had to be able to withstand an acceleration similar to what a bullet experiences when fired from an old-style gun. Such g-forces would kill anything living and crush a long list of inanimate objects as well. But even with these limitations, the number of paying customers far exceeded launch capacity, ensuring plenty of business.

  “Hey, love,” said Sid as his deceleration sequence ended, “I’ll be at the lodge tomorrow. Can you make it?”

  “Of course I’ll be there,” Criss replied.

  Cheryl giggled. “So will I.”

  Sid worried that their time at the lodge might not be roses and sunshine. He’d decided to travel to Mars to tour the other half of his intergalactic pitch-and-catch device and he’d be gone for six weeks.

  Cheryl wouldn’t be happy, so he’d tell her in person. Criss would be apoplectic.

  * * *

  MacMac took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then tried to calm himself as he exhaled. It didn’t work. The Admin synbod had said, “Let me see if she’s available,” before disappearing through a door at the back of the handsome office where he now stood. That had been six minutes ago.

  She hurries me here and then makes me wait, he thought, shaking his head.

  Aubrey’s ego had always been a problem for him: her imperious style, her dismissive attitude toward his concerns, her treatment of him like a tool to be used rather than a colleague valued for his skill.

  Adding to his stress, of course, was the fact that he’d gone over the time limit on the integrity test. She’d made it clear that a successful trial was her top priority. He took his job seriously and wanted to follow her direction; that’s how the chain of command worked.

  But if she were also following that chain, she wouldn’t be skipping over him to give assignments to Hejmo. And by the same token, he wouldn’t be contemplating going over her head to talk to Vivo’s board of directors.

  But if those really were drive pods planned for the subdeck, he needed someone with authority and common sense to stop the madness. Putting all that capability—that raw energy—beneath a group of elite customers paying huge sums for a futuristic vacation screamed of lunacy.

  And for what purpose? Four drive pods could accelerate a literal mountain out of the solar system and into interstellar space at an impressive clip. But Vivo wasn’t in space. Quite the opposite, the artificial island sat firmly in the Pacific Ocean not far off the coast of Lima, Peru.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Aubrey as she swept through the door, her Admin synbod following close behind. The two had similar builds and features, and both were dressed in matching cream-white suits.

  Aubrey’s hair was different, though. She wore hers in a loose bun that shouted all business. Yet a wisp hung down in a studied fashion over a delicate cheekbone, softening her appearance and drawing attention to her piercing blue eyes.

  Aubrey motioned to the upholstered chair in front of MacMac, inviting him to sit. She moved to a matching chair across from his and lowered herself into the seat.

  “May I bring you something?” the Admin asked
with a lilt. “Perhaps coffee or water?”

  Aubrey caught MacMac’s eye. “Cookies?” She knew his weakness.

  He held up his hand. “All good here, thanks.”

  The Admin nodded as she turned, exiting the room through the same door they’d used for their grand entrance.

  “MacMac,” said Aubrey, folding her hands and leaning forward to show that the meeting had begun, “we have a problem.”

  “We do.” He nodded in agreement.

  She pulled her head back as if to gauge the meaning of his response, then continued. “Your résumé lists spaceship drive pods among your areas of expertise.”

  Her intonation made it a simple statement, but he felt the need to acknowledge her words in some fashion, so he nodded.

  “In a story too long to tell, I find we are in possession of four of them. I want you to add their installation and testing to your to-do list.”

  MacMac sat back in his chair, unprepared for the direction the conversation had taken. The notion she introduced was so outrageous that he didn’t know where to begin. He stalled by asking for more information. “Tell me the long version. I have time.”

  She nodded as if she knew he’d ask, then adjusted her posture to match MacMac’s. “I was pitching our vacation escapes to Riley Adventures—did you know they’re the second largest holiday agency now? Anyway, if all this is going to turn a profit,” she moved a hand in a vague fashion to communicate that “all this” was Vivo, “we need the big agencies pushing our packages to their clients.”

  She paused, using the time to adjust a pleat in her slacks. “These agencies are mostly family businesses, and too often their deals take complicated twists and turns. One agency owner has an aunt who sells a line of specialty fruit beverages, and guess what, we’ll now be serving them to our guests. Another has an interest in a shipping company that he expects us to use.” She shrugged. “If we want them to sell vacations, we need to offer them more than commission. It’s how the world works.”

  She stopped again and MacMac prodded her. “Did you actually take possession of these pods?”

  “Four Corsia SuperDrives,” she said, nodding. “It seemed like the right decision.”

  Her dismissive attitude unsettled him and he let it show in his tone. “Your story is that you were walking along, minding your own business, when all of a sudden you found yourself holding something as powerful and expensive as a midsized Fleet military base?”

  She met his gaze but didn’t speak.

  “Pardon my French, but bullshit.”

  She still didn’t speak.

  “The expense…the danger…what were you thinking?”

  “They’re not fueled, so there is no danger,” she said with an edge. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

  Her rebuke caused MacMac to break eye contact. He looked back when she resumed her story.

  “Old Man Riley kept pushing back about safety at Vivo. He claims he needs to tell his clients they’re safer here than in their own beds. I gave him the rundown—our redundant power generators, our ability to operate fully contained—your transfer test went over the time limit, by the way. That can’t happen again.”

  She was so matter-of-fact that it added a new dimension to his daze. “It won’t.”

  “So, Riley goes on about his concern for natural disasters. I tell him about our earthquake defenses and storm protection. He says, ‘What about volcanos? Or meteors?’ He wants to know if the island can lift into the air and move out of danger in case of something that will never happen.”

  MacMac was so lost he didn’t know how to respond.

  “So, I tell him he’s talking nonsense. He tells me about his nephew who’s a bigshot at Corsia. Turns out the first SuperDrives off the production line have a defect that’s too costly to repair. The CEO of Corsia blames the nephew for the screw-up.”

  MacMac’s look of confusion must have been complete because she added, “I told you I didn’t want to go into it. Anyway, Riley’s terms were that we install the drives below Vivo, rig them so they seem live, and then get some top execs from a short list of space-tech companies to attend our opening. If we can get an exec to tour the subdeck and see the drives poised for action, ready to save the day in case of disaster, then he’ll reimburse all our expenses for staging the drives, and Riley Adventures will promote the hell out of Vivo for one year.”

  “He wants us to advertise drive pods for him?” None of this made sense to MacMac, and the creases on his forehead reflected his bafflement. “Does he think a company exec will take a tour, then go home and buy a few space drives?” He shook his head. “That’s not how it works. Does that make sense to you?”

  “He thinks it will help save his nephew’s job.” She shrugged. “I’m not convinced. But I asked for a commission on each sale and took the deal when he offered ten percent.”

  “So you really want me to rig four SuperDrives into the subdeck?”

  “Take all the Attendants you need. Mondo will help.”

  “But we open in three weeks!”

  “I know,” she said, nodding. “You have a lot to do.”

  Chapter 3

  Criss sipped iced tea with Cheryl in the kitchen of the leadership lodge, an enormous but cozy log cabin home nestled in a wooded valley in the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York. Sitting in wooden chairs on either side of a small kitchen table, the two chatted with Sid while he cooked his award-winning chili.

  “Everyone puts beer in their chili,” said Sid as he poured a generous portion into a bubbling pot on a chef-quality stove. “The secret, though, is to use dark beer. You don’t want to put in so much that you can taste it, but the right amount gives that extra-special deliciousness.”

  The Criss who sat at the table appeared there as a projected image. Through a sophisticated trick of light, Sid and Cheryl saw a fit man in his mid-forties. Almost as tall as Sid, he had sun-bleached hair and the pleasantly weathered face of an outdoorsman. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and khaki slacks.

  But the artificial intelligence projecting that image—a sentient four-gen AI crystal with the cognitive ability of a thousand humans—lived in a secure bunker buried deep in the side of a mountain located near the lodge. And there he felt a growing anxiety, one he decided to address head-on.

  He did so by starting a spat. Looking at Cheryl, he said, “Sid wants to go to Mars.”

  Sid stopped stirring his pot and turned toward them, his white chef’s hat sliding off his head and landing in a droop over his shoulder. “Hey, I never said that.” He rescued his hat, shook it so it puffed open, and returned it to the top of his head. “But Criss is right. It’s important that I review the status of the cargo catcher. It’s the other half of what I’m trying to accomplish.”

  Criss laughed. “You just want to be there when the first cargo canister arrives.”

  He rarely challenged his leadership—Sid, Cheryl, and Juice—the three humans he was hardwired to serve. But his highest priority was to ensure their health and safety. The distance from Earth to Mars was so great that he couldn’t be effective in both places. If Sid were on Mars while Cheryl and Juice remained on Earth, he would have to choose whom to protect.

  The solution is for Sid to stay here, he thought, anxious to keep everyone together. He could cause that to happen in any number of ways, from fabricating a phony emergency that would draw Sid’s attention to events on Earth, to creating a never-ending series of glitches and failures so Sid never got off the ground.

  But he’d forecast a far simpler scenario, one with a near certain outcome. He’d pit the two lovers against each other. It would be uncomfortable for a few minutes, but he was confident in Cheryl’s ability to guide events to a proper resolution.

  “I admit it.” Sid took a long drink from the bottle of dark beer, then poured another splash into the pot. “I want to be there when it arrives. My plan is to load it with everything we need for a huge party to celebrate the grand opening of Colo
ny Cargo. That’s what I’m calling the company, by the way. Not bad, huh?”

  “I think I don’t want to go to Mars,” said Cheryl, shaking her head. “And I’m pretty certain Juice doesn’t either.” When Sid started to speak, Cheryl spoke over him. “And don’t say you’ll go by yourself, because you know that doesn’t work.”

  Sid glared, and Criss tried to relieve the tension by sticking an index finger in his collar and pulling it out as if to give himself more air. “Is it getting hot in here?”

  “And now you’ve ruined my surprise,” said Cheryl. “I’ve made arrangements for a special vacation getaway for the two of us to celebrate the success of your venture. It’s at this high-tech domed resort they’ve built on an island in the Pacific.”

  She is a maestro, Criss thought with sincere admiration. Cheryl had received an invitation to attend an all-expenses-paid vacation for her and a guest, and she’d already pitched the idea to Juice. Now, shooting from the hip, she offered Sid the same slot she’d promised Juice, confident that she risked nothing. Sid loved spending time with her, but he would have zero interest in a vacation resort, domed or not.

  “Aw, honey. I’m sorry,” said Sid. “But even if I don’t go to Mars, it will be a busy time on the project.” He gave her a winning smile. “It sounds fun and it’s a thoughtful gesture. But I just don’t think I could commit to that right now.”

  Cheryl became all business. “I’ll offer your ticket to Juice if you agree not to go to Mars.”

  “Done,” said Sid.

  “Done,” Cheryl hit the table with her hand like an auctioneer completing a sale.

  Done, Criss thought to himself.

  Sid turned off the stove. “Dinner is served.” Tall, broad shouldered, in his early forties, and with the quiet assuredness of someone trained by the Union of Nations to confront mortal danger, he ladled steaming-hot chili into two bowls. Showing a rare domestic side, he set them on trays that held servings of cornbread and tossed salad, and handed one of the trays to Cheryl.