“I’m afraid I don’t, Captain.”
“Zwinger is German,” Hieronymus said. “It means ‘cage’. I’d rather not have the people on my ship spend their leisure time in a cage.”
“Of course, Captain,” Zwinger said, his obnoxious enthusiasm visibly curbed.
“They’re probably gonna do it anyway, because people are people. But we shouldn’t encourage them to do so.”
“Yes, Captain. I understand.”
“Besides, your Zwinger tube is really just a glorified O’Neill cylinder, isn't it?”
“A modified O’Neill cylinder,” Zwinger said. “The original O’Neill cylinder was designed as a space habitat orbiting the Earth. We had to make significant changes in order to meet the very special requirements for a generation ship that’s supposed to take a sizeable population out of the solar system and to the stars. Our design has …”
“All right, all right,” Hieronymus said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I get it.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Druid!” Helga van Zandt admonished her son who was hanging upside down from a nearby tree. “Get out of that tree! You’re gonna break something!”
“Honestly, mom,” sixteen-year-old Kayna said, “he’s had so many broken bones by now, I don’t think he cares anymore.”
“I don’t give a damn and a half about his bones,” Helga said. “I’m worried about the tree.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, Mrs. Captain,” Zwinger said. “We have …”
“Doctor,” she interrupted him.
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
“I’m Doctor van Zandt, Mr. Zwinger, not Mrs. Captain.”
Hieronymus scratched his thick, white beard and smirked. Never was his wife of twenty years sexier and more attractive than when she put rude and sexist men in their place—men other than himself, preferably.
“Of course, Doctor,” Zwinger said with a slight bow. “My apologies.”
Helga smiled magnanimously. “You were saying, Mr. Zwinger?”
“Ah yes,” Zwinger said. “The trees. You need not worry about your delightful little boy doing any damage. We picked only the most robust trees, and through genetic modification we’ve made them even more robust. After all, they’re not only supposed to look nice. They create vital oxygen for the entire ship.”
“Mr. Zwinger,” Kayna said, leaning into a magnolia tree to smell one of the blossoms, “how many trees does a person need? I mean, how many does it take to produce enough oxygen for one human?”
“What an excellent question, young lady!” Zwinger rejoiced. He turned to the captain. “It speaks of an inquisitive mind, which cannot be valued enough.”
Unimpressed by Zwinger’s clumsy attempt at a compliment, Hieronymus said, “Don’t suck up to me, Mr. Zwinger. Just answer the damn question.”
“Of course, Captain,” Zwinger said with a sheepish smile before he turned back to Kayna. “Unfortunately, young lady, the most excellent questions usually don’t come with easy answers.”
“Try me,” Kayna insisted.
“Very well then. The answer to your question depends on the size of the trees and the type of tree since different types of trees produce different amounts of oxygen. Generally speaking, I’d say it takes around seven or eight trees to provide enough oxygen for a single person.”
“So that’s sixteen thousand trees,” Kayna said, “to provide enough oxygen for the two thousand people on the Kronos.”
Zwinger nodded. “Yes. Except we also have pets and livestock that breathe oxygen, so the total number of trees required would probably be closer to thirty thousand.”
“And how many trees do we actually have up here?” Helga asked.
“Fifty thousand,” Zwinger said with a complacent smile.
“Wow,” Kayna said, raising her eyebrows. “That is a lot of trees.”
“It sure sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? But the truth is, those fifty thousand trees cover fifty acres, which is only a little over ten percent of the area we have at our disposal here.”
“That is quite impressive indeed,” Helga said. “Don’t you think, darling?” She looked at Hieronymus who was standing next to her, his hands locked on his back as he let his view graze the vast open space, the little hills and valleys, the green meadows and the artificial sky.
“Fifty thousand trees,” he finally said. “That is a lot of dead weight.”
“Well …” Zwinger said, but Hieronymus wasn’t finished yet.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Zwinger. It’s quite a magnificent landscape you’ve created here, and to think that all this exists a thousand miles above the surface of the Earth really is quite impressive. However, it comes at a cost. This would be a great thing to have as a holiday retreat orbiting the planet for temporary space tourists or even as a permanent colony. But we have to move this thing twenty-two light-years across the galaxy, and it will take vast amounts of energy. Have you done the math, Mr. Zwinger? Every single one of your trees slows us down by approximately five hours. Now that may not sound like a lot in the grand scheme of things, but at fifty thousand trees it adds up to more than twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years, Mr. Zwinger. That’s a whole generation.”
“That may be true, Captain,” Zwinger said. “And yet, it’s only about ten percent of the entire time your journey to the Gliese 667 system will take. Also, I strongly object to the notion that this landscape is dead weight. Weight, yes, but it is by no means dead or useless. Let me put it this way: imagine you have to walk across the desert. It’s a long way to go and the climate is very hot. Of course you’d be reluctant to carry five gallons of water on your back under these conditions, because it’s heavy and it will slow you down quite considerably. But the important question is, how far are you going to get without the water?”
“He’s got a point, you know?” Helga said, putting her hand on her husband’s arm. “A place like this is invaluable, not only from a physiological point of view. It will greatly contribute to people’s psychological well-being and reduce the risk of anxiety, depression, and half a dozen other mental health issues that long-distance space travelers are particularly prone to.”
“Yes, Doctor, I know,” Hieronymus said and patted her hand. “We can’t change it now anyway, can we? The ship has been designed and built and will set sail tomorrow. I was just saying.”
“A lake!” Druid sounded from the top of his tree. “I can see a lake! Can I go for a swim?”
“Actually,” Zwinger whispered to Hieronymus and Helga, “what he’s looking at is a fish farm. We’re able to produce at least two portions of tasty, protein-rich fish per week for every passenger. We do have a proper lake, though, where swimming is indeed allowed, but we can’t see it from here. It’s in the other hemisphere.” He pointed skywards.
The van Zandts looked up at the artificial sky, a large tube, a hundred meters in diameter, running the entire length of the Zwinger tube.
“Druid,” Hieronymus said, “come on down. We want to move on. There are fifty thousand other trees for you to climb, monkey boy.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy replied and made his way back down.
“We have decided to put in an artificial sky,” Zwinger continued, “after initial tests have revealed that some thirty percent of our test subjects felt discomfort with the original design. It made them feel claustrophobic, despite the open space, and some of them experienced severe bouts of nausea. At first we thought it was motion sickness due to the rotation of the tube, but it turned out to be the inability of their brains to process the view of forests and grassy meadows overhead where they expected to see clouds or stars. Some even experienced the fear that despite the artificial gravity, objects from the opposite hemisphere might fall on their heads. Quite irrational, but that’s how the human brain works.” He laughed. “Anyway, these problems disappeared entirely as soon as we installed the artificial sky.”
Hieronymus looked at the clouds overhead that were moving sl
owly along the tube. “You have a light cycle in here?”
“We do indeed, Captain. The Zwinger tube rotates some thirty times per hour to maintain earthlike gravity, but just like on Earth we have a twenty-four-hour light cycle. It’s currently night time on the other side.”
“What about light pollution, though?” Hieronymus asked. “Don’t you have light diffusing from the day side to the night side?”
“No, Captain,” Zwinger said. “You see, the artificial sky uses a complex system of mirrors, holographic projections, and polarized light. We are in full control of the illumination inside the tube, and the terminator—the line between night and day—is only ten meters wide, unlike on Earth where it’s dozens or even hundreds of kilometers. But since our terminator moves very slowly, you can experience morning and evening twilight just like on Earth.”
“Very well then,” Hieronymus said as his son joined them back on the ground. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
“Dad,” Druid said, looking up at his father, “This place is amazing! I want to come here every day, can I? Can I?”
“Why, of course, son. You can come here every day—after school.”
The boy’s shoulders sank, and Kayna laughed.
“What are you laughing at, stupid cow?” Druid erupted. “Mom, tell her to stop laughing at me.”
“Kayna …” Helga said.
“Oh please.” The girl looked at Druid. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at your notion that this trip is like some sort of extended summer camp. Well, I got news for you, tiny tots: it is not. You will live your entire miserable little life on this ship and eventually die here.”
“No, I won’t! I’ll go into cryostasis and when I wake up again, I’ll be the first human ever to set foot on an exoplanet!”
Kayna snorted. “Why would they choose you to do it? You of all people?”
“Because I’m awesome, you silly goose!”
“Okay, that’s quite enough!” Hieronymus stepped between the two. “Young man, I don’t like your language.”
“Well, I don’t like your beard!” the boy replied and stuck out his tongue.
Hieronymus scoffed. “What’s wrong with my beard?”
“It’s ugly!”
“That is a matter of taste. Rude language is a matter of manners.”
“It scratches and there are animals living in it!”
“Dad!” said Kayna genuinely outraged. “You’re not gonna let him get away with that, are you?”
“What’s it to you, you stupid cow?”
“Enough!” Hieronymus shouted. “One more word from either of you and you can go and live in Eindhoven with your grandmother and her fourth husband!”
“Fifth,” Helga whispered.
“Fifth husband,” Hieronymus corrected himself. “Would you like that?”
“No, sir,” the children said, staring at their feet.
Helga looked at Zwinger. “Sorry about that.”
“No, no, not at all, Doctor. I understand. Kids can be quite a handful.”
“Do you have children, Mr. Zwinger?” Hieronymus asked.
“Yes, two of them. They’re …”
“Then speak for yourself. I run a tight ship, both at work and at home, and under my command mutineers can expect no mercy.”
“Of course, Captain.” Zwinger cleared his throat. “Shall we move on then? I would like to show you our bee farm. We can produce a jar of honey per year for every passenger.”
Helga raised her eyebrows. “You have a complete fauna in here, Mr. Zwinger?”
“I’m afraid not, Doctor. Most insects would multiply uncontrollably in the absence of natural predators.”
“You could have birds, though, couldn’t you, Mr. Zwinger?” Kayna asked.
“Yes, so we thought. Alas, in our tests it turned out that birds don’t handle the lack of gravity terribly well.”
“They have birds in LuCo, though,” Kayna said, referring to the lunar colony, the first permanent human settlement outside of the Earth.
“The moon doesn’t have zero G,” Druid said. “They have a sixth of the Earth’s gravity.”
Zwinger nodded. “That’s quite right. However, for the birds it doesn’t make much of a difference if it’s zero G or .16 G. Under normal circumstances birds would be able to adapt to any low gravity or microgravity environment, as long as the gravitation remains constant. But here in the Zwinger tube gravity gradually decreases with height. Here on the ground it’s one G like on Earth, but it decreases the closer you get to the center of the tube. Birds flap their wings to fly, as you know, but when they reach a certain height, they suddenly find themselves in almost zero G and lose control over their bodies. That’s when they panic and flap their wings even harder which in our tests, I’m sorry to say, caused many of them to crash into the walls and break their necks.”
Druid burst out laughing at the thought.
Kayna rolled her eyes. “You cruel little twerp!”
“Druid!” Helga said.
“What?” The boy raised his arms. “I’m not allowed laugh at funny shit anymore? What is this, a fascist funeral ship?”
“Anyway,” Zwinger continued, “we can’t have birds, and without birds we can’t control a full insect population, so we’ve decided not to have one. We only keep bees for pollination and earthworms to maintain soil structure and fertility.”
“Interesting,” Helga said.
“Excuse me.” Hieronymus tapped the receiver in his ear to accept an incoming message. “Yes, what is it?”
“Captain van Zandt,” the communications officer said, “the shuttle with the last batch of passengers will reach us in fifteen minutes, sir.”
“And our first officer, I hope?”
“I understand our first officer is on the shuttle, sir, yes.”
“Finally,” Hieronymus said. “All right then, as soon as he’s on board have him report to the bridge immediately. I’m on my way.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Mr. Zwinger,” Hieronymus said and grabbed Zwinger’s hand to shake it enthusiastically, “I’m terribly sorry, but urgent matters require my immediate attention. It’s been very nice meeting you. Very interesting too. I take it you will continue showing my family around this extraordinary place?”
“Of course, Captain. It’s my pleasure.”
Turning to his wife, Hieronymus said, “Darling, I’ll be on the bridge. Apparently UNSPAG command has finally decided to assign us a first officer.”
“Go on then, my Admiral,” Helga said and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“And you two,” he said, looking at his children, “behave! Let me hear any complaints and you’re on the next shuttle to Eindhoven.”
“Yes, sir!”
Hieronymus hurried back to the elevator and made his way down to the bridge. He couldn’t wait to put a distance between himself and that pretentious snob Zwinger, and he wanted that distance to be light-years rather than meters. Two weeks of pompous ceremonies and celebrations, of meeting and greeting passengers, ambassadors, presidents, and kings had made him tired and restless. He was not a diplomat. He had cut enough ribbons, drunk enough champagne, and shaken enough hands of random dignitaries to last him a lifetime, and he was only forty-six. There were things to be done, important things, a mission to accomplish. It was time to cut short the mawkishness, to turn off the cameras and microphones, to throw the voyeurism tourists over board and finally get to work.
Of course, in order to get to work the ship needed a proper crew. In the six weeks since Hieronymus had taken command of the Kronos, he had become increasingly annoyed with the way UNSPAG was running those final stages of Project Exodus. Not that he had been all that thrilled with their business practices throughout the previous two years since he had joined the organization. UNSPAG was a stolid, bureaucratic behemoth, cumbersome and slow moving, too eager to please every single one if its members and to accommodate the needs and demands of
too many people who, in Hieronymus’s view, shouldn’t be in a position to make any demands at all, because they really had no stake in this mission. UNSPAG was a dinosaur, and the thought that it actually was literally about to go the way of the dinosaurs when that asteroid hit the Earth almost would have made Hieronymus chuckle if it hadn’t been such a terrible tragedy.
As far as her captain was concerned, the ark-ship Kronos had been ready to set sail for five weeks now. All they were lacking was a first officer, and Hieronymus was irritated by the way UNSPAG kept slowing things down despite the fact that they were two months behind schedule already. Off the top of his head he could have named half a dozen suitable candidates that he would have eagerly accepted as first officers—people who were capable, trustworthy, and willing to commit themselves to the mission unreservedly, people he had known and worked with for years. But unfortunately, UNSPAG was rather peculiar and idiosyncratic in its way to appoint officers. The people in charge scrupulously stuck to a painfully long-winded, cumbersome vetting process that slowed everything down. It was a process that Hieronymus had experienced firsthand: after he had applied for the job it had taken UNSPAG eighteen months to offer him a contract. In these eighteen months they had submitted him to an endless series of tests and evaluations. The vast majority of these tests had been of a psychological nature. Hieronymus appreciated that they needed to be sure not to put someone with a history of erratic or reckless behavior or someone who was somehow prone to mental illness at the helm of an ark-ship filled with two thousand people on their way into the unknown. However, Hieronymus was doubtful as to whether it really had to take such a long time to make that evaluation, given the somewhat simplistic and transparent nature of these tests, and he wondered whether they would have offered him the captainship at all, had he answered all the questions posed to him truthfully. Either way, as much as due diligence was in order when it came to vetting captains, Hieronymus was rather miffed that he had no influence whatsoever over the selection of his crew. He felt extremely uncomfortable about going on a twenty-odd-light-year journey with a crew he hadn’t picked himself and a first officer he had never met before. He didn’t even know the man’s name. In fact, he couldn’t even be sure if it was a man at all. Not that there was anything wrong with female officers—many of the best people he had ever worked with were women—but it would have been nice to know in advance. Hieronymus couldn’t help but feel that there was something suspicious and unsettling about the way UNSPAG had been conducting the acquisition and assignment process of their officers. They may have had every right to take the utmost care in selecting the crews for the greatest and undoubtedly most dangerous endeavor in history and to be as anal about it as they wished, fair enough. But he didn’t like the way some people were trying to micromanage a mission they had no stake in, like overbearing parents who were not simply meddling with their children’s lives but actually trying to pick their spouses for them. It reminded him of his own mother who had disapproved of Helga from the start and who had done everything she could to torpedo their love, all the while being busy divorcing her own third husband and marrying the fourth, which clearly made her an expert in picking partners—just not the right ones.
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