by Ron Collins
He knew what he had to do.
CHAPTER 6
UGIS Everguard
Ship Local Date: May 7, 2204
Ship Local Time: 1200
The staff wore their workday blues this time.
“Fifteen seconds until launch,” the mission controller said.
Again the admiral stood at Torrance’s side, Security Officer Casey and Captain Romanov on the side opposite the admiral. The power coil moaned while switches clicked and firing systems armed.
The countdown clock read 00:10.
Twelve probes stood ready to forge the link that would give the human race the ability to explore millions of stars.
00:05.
Torrance clasped his hands behind him and took in a slow, deep breath.
He felt oddly proud.
He had done his best, and that was all that any God—or any commander, for that matter—had the right to ask of a man. Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough, but perhaps it would. And that was sometimes the most that any man could ask of himself.
00:02.
00:01.
“Launch sequence initiated,” the controller said.
The pods thrust against Everguard’s hull like strikes from twelve sledgehammers. A dozen flaming arrows sliced through black space in three formations of four birds apiece.
One group fell toward the star, then another.
Then the last.
A single pod of the final group, however, deviated from the original flight plan.
Adrenaline leapt through Torrance’s body. He stifled a proud smile.
His calculations had been rapidly done, the reprogramming equally hasty. But he knew this code like the back of his hand. If he got it right, the pod would land somewhere on the second planet. With luck, whoever was there would examine its circuitry and its propulsion system. With their new knowledge they might learn how to engineer space-faring vessels themselves.
And they might find a way to save themselves.
“What’s wrong with that one?” the admiral said.
“I’m not certain, sir,” Torrance replied before Captain Romanov could. “But I’ll run a full investigation. The good news is that we have eleven birds on course and heading for home. We need only nine to be successful.”
Of the remaining pods, one lost power and was pulled to a fiery death in Centauri A’s gravity well. The rest pierced the star’s surface. Thermal shielding held back the heat for the milliseconds each electronic package needed.
The wormhole actuators engaged.
Energy flowed, hydrogen fusing to helium.
Aboard Everguard, Torrance was surrounded by crewmates, all cheering, all wearing shit-eating grins, and all pounding him on the back.
Captain Romanov gave Torrance a guarded glance, but did not say anything.
Celebrations & Preparations
NEWS
SOURCE: INFOWAVE -- NEWS for the twenty-third century
RECEIVED: UGIS EVERGUARD TRANSMITTED VIA UGIS SUNCHASER
TRANS DATE: May 23, 2205, Earth Standard
HEADLINE: Mubadid Confirmed Supreme President
In an emergency session, the combined Earth country-states and Solar System sub-governments passed a bill today that provides Executive President Laney Mubadid formal governance of the home galaxy.
“This is an important day for all human beings,” Mubadid said as she accepted the additional responsibility. “Expansion and exploration has always been the way of humanity. From the days of our first ancestors in the Olduvai Gorge to the Roman Empire and Magellan’s travels, from the Louisiana Purchase to the earliest climbers of Everest, humanity has always striven to see the unseen and know the unknown. This is how we ensure our survival.
“Today we have a unified government that will ensure we proceed in a bold manner, and a manner that will preserve the dignity of our entire galaxy of star systems.”
CHAPTER 7
UGIS Everguard
Ship Local Date: May 16, 2204
Ship Local Time: 0750
Numbers glowed from the glass desktop in Alexandir Romanov’s office. A mug of green tea, half-empty, sat at the edge of the table. He rubbed his temple and moved 250,000,000 solar dollars from the budget line for refitting the fitness center, and split it in three directions—150,000,000 to optimize electromagnets in the collider system, 75,000,000 to repair Central Deck’s main corridor, and 25,000,000 to refurbish the core of the power grid that continued to show signs of deterioration.
Romanov looked at the numbers and couldn’t help but grimace. Creating a budget was just what he wanted to be doing the day after the admiral’s party.
What a waste of time.
Somewhere someone in the UG structure had gotten the idea that costs could be lowered if each ship had to vie for budget each year, that somehow their competitive natures would cause each commander to reduce expenditures in a quest to run the tightest ship. It would never work, of course. Whoever had that idea didn’t understand the territorial law of one-upmanship among the elite of the Admiralty, the best of which would simply prey upon the few who actually did reduce cost by grabbing the suddenly excess budget.
So, as each top admiral wrested larger and larger slices of the pie the administrators—in turn—would placate the rest by increasing the size of the pie. Costs would ratchet, and the bean-counters would scratch their heads and go back to the drawing board to try to figure out what went wrong.
To make matters even sillier, the time gap between interstellar flight and time dilation of sub-light-speed travel made the idea more outdated than an abacus. He would love to be an invisible spider on the wall at the budget briefings with the Commerce Commission’s chronal consultant—a position whose single duty was to synchronize budget calls to each space-faring ship and ensure their input was properly factored.
The image of a bureaucrat doing relativistic math while balancing a budget brought him a delicious sense of smugness. Romanov was a military man from a family of military men. He understood and appreciated the sense of comedic timing one needed to survive bureaucracy.
He moved the 250,000,000 solar dollars back to the fitness center.
What were they going to do—radio him four years ago to tell him he couldn’t fix the power grid?
His calendar today was back-to-back meetings, including a session with Lieutenant Commander Black in a few minutes, lunch with the admiral to discuss transfer of command, and a late session with Security Officer Casey that would be his opportunity to give his official update on intelligence progress related to the launch failure.
He didn’t like Casey.
The man hit every stereotype you could gin up about security officers. He was prissy and closed-minded. He dressed in his formals most of the time, and held himself like he’d been spun up a half-turn too far. He liked wine with his dinner, but never more than one glass and often even just half that. Romanov once had Casey as a teammate during a training exercise, and all the man did the entire session was question whether material that supported the program was being managed properly.
He sighed.
The idea of spending an hour answering Casey’s questions was as appealing as scrubbing himself down with a field of thistle, but once Romanov took command Casey was going to be his government anchor (as every captain of every UGIS ship in existence called them), and nothing was more dangerous to a career than having a disgruntled anchor aboard a long-haul ship. Best get used to it, and best get a feel for how to deal with him now.
He looked at his slate again.
Dinner with leadership command was scheduled for 1900.
Somewhere in there, he wanted to stop at Propulsion Command to see how his son was doing. He hadn’t talked to Andre in over a week.
He sipped his tepid tea, and ran his tongue around his mouth to get rid of the grainy aftertaste. The mug was decorated with green swirls that reminded Romanov of leaves.
He missed leaves.
They were, perhaps, the most perfec
t of all creations—fragile and beautiful, but resilient at the same time. Coarse and aromatic, dense and green. He thought of Lani with her brown eyes waiting for him in Oahu. He remembered the blue waves in her dress at the landing, her soft hands on his face as he kissed her good-bye. She had stayed behind to care for her mother and her father as they aged. It had been a very long time since he had seen her.
“Lieutenant Commander Black to see you, sir,” Abke said, breaking his reverie.
He drew his hand back from the mug.
“Let him in,” he said.
The door slid back.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Torrance said as he entered.
Romanov gestured toward an empty chair. Torrance settled into place.
“That was a gutsy move, Torrance.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve examined the preflight records. The last probe’s navigation software was altered.”
Torrance considered denying it, but could see the firmness in his CO’s eyes. “They deserved a chance, sir.”
The captain nodded. “Did you know I have a meeting with Security Officer Casey later this afternoon?”
“No, sir. I don’t have access to your calendar.”
“He wants to review the failed launch.”
“I see.”
“I am certain he will also want to speak with you, Lieutenant Commander. Standard protocol on such an event, I’m afraid.”
Torrance took a deep breath before he could control himself. Romanov was right. It made sense that the Government Security Officer would speak with him, but it hadn’t been something Torrance had considered until now. The idea put a knot in his stomach.
“I assume you are aware that deliberately altering a mission profile without authorization can get a man court-martialed.”
Silence reigned for several heartbeats, during which Torrance contemplated such appetizing things as lifelong exiles. Romanov’s gaze felt as heavy as a lead blanket in an X-ray chamber.
“We’re stealing their sun, sir,” Torrance finally said. “I figure they’ve got maybe ten thousand years before their planet gets too cold to support life. If they’re of advanced technology, maybe they’ll be able to study the pod and save themselves.”
“And if they’re not?”
Torrance stared into the wall scene of the Ural Mountains and waited for the captain to speak. He wondered if it would be court-martial, or merely some form of censure. Certainly he would lose at least one rank.
“You don’t have a family, do you?” Romanov said.
“My parents live in Wisconsin.”
“I mean children.”
Torrance furrowed his brow. “No, sir. No children.”
Romanov gave an indecipherable grunt and absentmindedly fingered his cup of cold tea. “I’m sorry you were passed over for promotion, Torrance. You are a good man, but we have only so many billets.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve done your part with Eden, now, isn’t that right, Lieutenant Commander?”
“Sir?”
“The official cause of the launch failure is logged as a particularly violent storm on Eden. The pod is wherever it is.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“That means you’ve done what you could. Assuming there is something to your idea, which there is almost certainly not, you’ve given them a lifeline.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So we can leave this here, correct?”
“What do you mean?”
Romanov stood up, stepped slowly around his desk, and came to sit on its corner, his arms crossed and a disappointed expression on his lined face. “Torrance,” he finally said. “You understand the value of the command structure, correct? You understand that each member of the crew has a function?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you understand that if this ship is to operate smoothly, each function needs to do what it is supposed to do, when it is supposed to do it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that the design of this structure has been specifically created with the idea that setting the goals of what is acceptable activity and what is not acceptable activity lies entirely in my leadership team?”
The question hung in the air like an empty noose.
“I understand, sir.”
“That’s good,” Romanov said. He uncrossed his arms and rubbed his palms over his thighs, finishing with a sigh. “You’ve always worked hard, Torrance. It is a long flight back home. A lot of good things can happen to a man who works hard for seven years.”
Torrance stared at his CO, as the man returned to his seat.
Romanov regarded him openly.
The depth of his brown gaze told Torrance everything he needed to know.
The captain had made a snap decision about the mission, but he had understood its importance. And he had looked in the mirror since that moment, knowing that the extinction of a species might go against him in the end, and that now the future of that unknown species might rest in a wormhole pod that had sped off into space.
“I am thinking,” Romanov said, “that the report I give to Security Officer Casey should describe a technical problem with the guidance software of the twelfth pod. Given his reputation I expect the security officer will not like that answer, but I can ensure you he will accept it—assuming, that is, that he never hears other ideas that might set him to questioning things more deeply.”
Torrance’s stomach turned. “I understand, sir.”
“Do you?” Romanov said, waiting. His eyebrows rose with the question.
Yes, Torrance thought. He understood with total clarity. His career wasn’t over, but it was being held hostage. Play the game my way, Romanov was saying, and we both come out ahead. Play it yours and your ass will be drop-kicked into an open air lock as quickly as Security Officer Casey can whisper court-martial into his UG comm phone.
It was okay, he thought.
Romanov was right.
Torrance had done everything he could, more than most would have. The tailfin of that twelfth wormhole pod had enough room for them both to hang their consciences on, and it was time for both of them to wade onward. All he had to do was to formalize the report.
“That could be done, sir,” he finally said.
“Then I suggest you make it happen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Torrance left the captain’s office and walked briskly to the lift tubes.
He had a lot to think about. He had a report to prepare, and he needed to consider what to do with the data files he had filled with signals from the planet. He should also probably consider what to tell Security Officer Casey when he eventually came calling. Romanov may say that he could protect Torrance, but he knew the game better than to think a government security officer would settle for a captain’s word when there was more muck to stir.
But mostly, he needed to think about his life. He needed to plan.
He had seven and a half years left aboard Everguard. If any man could get back on the promotion path, it was going to be him.
CHAPTER 8
UGIS Everguard
Ship Local Date: May 16, 2204
Ship Local Time: 0955
The report took Torrance nearly two hours to create. No, he thought as he submitted it into Romanov’s queue, it took nearly two hours to fabricate.
He couldn’t help but think about the wormhole pod.
What had happened to it? Where was it?
He imagined the twelfth pod, crumpled and derelict on a desolate red planet. He hoped it survived entry, but wasn’t sure whether he actually hoped there was anything down there to retrieve it or not. Giving an alien species such a gift was oddly exciting, but doing it under the umbrella of genocide slammed a gigantic door on his enthusiasm.
If it were true, though, if an alien species did live on Eden, and if they found the pod, what then? Would they understand it? Could they work with it? How long would it take t
hem to re-engineer the technology? And, if they did, how long before they did anything about it?
The universe is big, and time is long.
Would he ever learn the truth?
He sat back and rubbed his eyes, knowing Malloy was due any minute. The idea of another meeting right now was about as appealing as an extra round of leadership training.
He glanced again at the screen to his right to see the image of Sunchaser there, and couldn’t help but choke up a little.
He was tired, and his brain was mush from days of stress, but he would have to be dead to keep his heart from racing at the thought that a mere six hours ago, Sunchaser, an Excelsior class cruiser, had been stationed outside the Solar System’s asteroid belt, and that now it was in the Alpha Centauri system and running on trim boosters as it edged closer to Everguard.
They were far enough from Alpha Centauri A that the admiral had opened the observation hall’s shades. A view of Sunchaser was high on everyone’s list, and in this case “everyone” most certainly included one Lieutenant Commander Torrance Black.
Malloy stepped into his office and gave an appreciative whistle.
“Can you believe it, LC?” Malloy said as he took a seat.
“Incredible, eh?” Torrance replied.
Torrance sat back and thought about what he was going to say.
This was supposed to be a goal-setting session where the two of them focused on preparing for the return flight, but the image of Sunchaser made it impossible to concentrate. The air in his office was so stale he struggled to breathe. The idea of digging into electronic system reports, or discussing automatic backups, or doing anything else it took to run the everyday crap that made the ship operational gave him a case of the screaming willies. The thought of discussing routine assignments with Lieutenant Malloy made his brain go floppy.