“By the time we do that, it could be too late. Lives are at risk,” said Karic. He did not understand why Janzen had rejected his precautions. When it came to technical decisions, Janzen usually deferred to him.
Janzen ignored the comment. He slipped his odin back on, then reached back up to fractionally adjust the fit. “I see no reason for the crew to be revived at this juncture. I have cancelled the revival sequence.”
“You’ve what?”
Janzen gave Karic a disarming smile. “I can understand your concern on the radiation, but perhaps you are overreacting? We have limited resources out here. Bringing all thirty crew out of suspension at once would have a serious impact on food consumption. I am sure you appreciate that.”
“The crew has minimal shielding. Based on the trend—”
“As I understand it … the Shipcom did not issue any alert,” said Janzen, his voice smooth. “We are on track for Tau Ceti, with all systems functional.”
Had he really misjudged the situation so badly? No. The risk was real. “Janzen, you need to see the data.”
“The only data we need to assess is on the new system. I thought you of all people wanted to reach planetfall as soon as possible. Reviving us has wasted time and manpower, and taken us that much further from our goal.”
Karic paused. The safety of the crew, the safety of the ship — their only home for hundreds of years in space — was more important than reaching Tau Ceti.
“What about the revival sequence for the officers?” he asked.
“I have left that running. We need all our heads on this one. As for shutting down the fusion drive — that was ill advised.”
It was also impossible to stop. Once begun, Ryal would have to complete the turndown procedure. At least there would be no chance of a runaway reaction if the radiation peaked and destroyed the drive’s control systems.
“When you finish in the biodome, make your way to the control deck. Janzen out.”
Janzen had been an excellent commander so far, dealing with the crew well and displaying a good grasp of logistics. Both of them shared the same passion for success, yet at heart, his friend was an executive. Karic had noticed before that Janzen lacked the instinct of a good scientist or engineer.
The commander’s confidence in the face of this threat should have reassured him, but instead it filled Karic with a deep disquiet.
CHAPTER 2
When Karic returned to the main control room, Ibri and Mara had also awakened from suspension. They sat at the main console with Andrai, their faces all colored by the floating icons of the graphical display. Karic looked immediately at Mara. A strand of her dark hair had escaped her hurried coiffure and fallen across the pale skin of her neck. The astronomer was oblivious, her forehead creased with concentration as she manipulated the icons in the interface with precise, controlled movements of her slim fingers. No doubt she was assessing the astronomical data coming in through the sensors and attempting to make sense of what had happened over the past year. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, easing the tension in his chest. She was out of immediate danger.
“Morning, Commander,” said Karic.
Janzen acknowledged him with a nod and a tight smile. He was pacing up and down the deck dictating notes into his odin. Janzen seemed to dominate the room, looming over them from his two-meter height. He only had the left eye-screen of his odin down, but he had activated the noise barrier. Although he talked rapidly into the little portable AI in the odin’s frame, only the faint hum of dissonance could be heard, created by the fraction-of-a-second delay between his real voice and the broadcasted sound-dampening signal.
As usual, Janzen was dressed in a top-of-the-line version of the standard ExploreCorp uniform, tight-fitting blue-gray jacket and pants. The bright red stripes down the arms and legs and the gold diamond on his left shoulder denoted his rank as commander. The fabric gleamed in the cabin lights, looking soft and new, the colors sharp. Karic’s own uniform — and the rest of the crew’s — had long ago stiffened with age.
“Morning, Mara. Andrai. Ibri.”
Andrai, in charge of onboard systems, nodded cheerfully to Karic. The tech’s wide face was soft and pleasant, framed with an unruly mop of blond hair.
Ibri’s eyes barely flicked in Karic’s direction, the taciturn computer specialist no doubt annoyed at the interruption to his work. With his dark complexion, lean, lanky build, and short black hair, he could not be more different from Andrai.
“Good morning, Karic,” said Mara. She looked across at Andrai and they shared a conspiratorial grin.
“Hit it?” asked Andrai, in a low tone.
Mara nodded.
Andrai reached up and flicked an icon. It tumbled forward, then disappeared. A moment later, one of the screens changed to a moving countdown in huge red numbers. The active countdown to Tau Ceti.
00c 00y 09m 22d 12h 43m 11s
00c 00y 09m 22d 12h 43m 10s …
On their current inbound trajectory, they were less than ten months out of the Tau Ceti system and closing fast.
Andrai gave a whoop and he and Mara laughed as they clapped. Even Ibri paused in his work and joined them with his own subdued version of applause — hands coming together, but in such a desultory manner that they produced no noise. Checking the countdown was a ritual, something they always did when they were on shift together.
Janzen, focused on his dictation, flashed them a smile, then turned his back.
“That’s a hell of a thing,” said Andrai, looking at the countdown. “Although it would have been nicer to have woken up in orbit, boss.” ExploreCorp had insisted on a military style command structure for the mission, citing a need for a clear chain of command. Yet despite the differences in rank, they were all indispensable specialists, and did not stand on ceremony.
“That would have been too easy, Andrai,” said Karic.
“We all know Karic likes to do things the hard way,” said Mara.
“Oh, yeah,” said Andrai.
Karic grinned at Mara’s reference to the commissioning of the Starburst. Karic had earned something of a reputation for rechecking every system, and reworking every analysis. He sobered as his eyes shifted to the live radiation display and he joined them at the main console.
Having been lead engineer for the design and construction of the ship, Karic knew the Starburst’s systems intimately. From the beginning, it was he who ran the ship on a day-to-day level, making all the technical decisions. Janzen had never concerned himself with operations. The fact had never bothered Karic before. Yet now — with an emergency staring them in the face — he could not forget that Janzen had been absent from almost all the exhaustive training sessions that led up to their departure.
“Andrai, start reviewing all the systems on backup. I want to see which ones can be brought back to primary. And I want to know exactly how much damage the electronics has taken,” said Karic.
“OK, boss,” said Andrai, who began to methodically drill down through the interface icons. He was the best tech Karic had ever worked with. He was not big on conversation, but would happily follow a conduit for hours tracing a break in transmission, or spend a day problem-solving equipment breakdowns without a single complaint.
“Mara, any clues on the X-ray source?”
Mara leant toward him, the three silver bars on her uniform — indicating a rank of third lieutenant — glittering in the cabin lights atop the gentle swell of her breasts. Her forehead creased with the intensity of her concentration. “I am running two prognostic programs. They might help to identify some of the more probable sources, but it’s sheer guesswork at this stage. You know how long a proper study would take.”
“How long until your program gives us some preliminary results?” asked Karic, his voice tight with strain.
“At least an hour,” said Mara, chewing her bottom lip. A sign she felt the same pressure as Karic to understand their situation. “I have diverted as much computing power as I can.”
“Yes,” said Mara, her eyes drifting to the radiation display.
Karic brought up a report on the forward deflector and began scanning the data. Satisfied, he turned his attention to monitoring the suspension equipment. So far the radiation counts were not causing any problems.
The computer specialist, Ibri, was busy at his station, running thorough checks of the external sensors and the myriad smaller computer modules that were networked to the Shipcom — controlling everything from the fusion drive to the waste recycling units. With his long, lanky frame, he seemed to loom over his console.
Janzen gave a silent command and his data-glasses retracted to a thick yellow band, the faint dissonance disappearing as the odin’s noise dampening field cut.
“Karic,” said Janzen striding toward him. They shook hands. The commander gripped his upper arm with his free hand in an affectionate gesture. “Nice to see you.”
The commander’s smile was infectious. It was hard not be swayed by the charismatic man, with his classic good looks, or brought up short by his penetrating blue eyes. Karic could not even resent the fact they were the product of illegal genetic tampering by Janzen’s hyper rich family.
“Do you want to show me this radiation trend you were concerned about?” prompted Janzen, releasing his grip.
“Right.” Karic quickly navigated his way through the system to his analysis of the radiation data.
Andrai and Mara had both stopped work, eyes fixed on Karic and Janzen. Mara’s face was tight with worry, Andrai’s congenial smile strained. Both knew there was still time to revive the crew.
“Here you can see the prior radiation peaks. These give you some idea of the risks. Look at the variance. It’s significant. If we got that same variance at the current intensity, we could end up well into lethal territory. That’s why reviving the crew is so important. We need to be able to evacuate everyone into the central hold if the levels spike.” Karic looked at Janzen expectantly.
Janzen nodded appreciatively. “I can see your reasoning. Yet we have no reason to predict a future trend based on a past one — not without more data.” He leaned down toward Karic and lowered his voice. “I simply can’t approve a revival of the crew with the presets disabled. Not based on this. It’s against protocol.”
“But the data …”
Janzen raised his hands to stop Karic. “Look. I am happy to revisit the decision — but only when you have completed a full analysis of the ship and we have something more substantial to go on.”
“Goddamn it, Janzen! The crew have hardly any shielding!” snapped Karic.
Janzen was silent for a moment.
“I would prefer it if you referred to me as Commander from now on, Karic,” said Janzen, his voice low and smooth.
Karic swallowed. A pounding began at his temples. “Very well … Commander.” He forced himself to unclench his hands, which had curled into tight fists.
Karic looked up at Janzen, searching for the friend who had opened the door to his future with ExploreCorp.
“You have done good work, Karic. I support your decision to revive the officers — I told you that,” said Janzen in a reassuring tone. “Complete the analysis. Meanwhile, I need to review our resources given the unexpected live time.”
Maybe he just needed to trust Janzen’s call.
Janzen sank into the commander’s chair in the center of the room and activated the full-immersion mode of his odin. Both data-screens had now descended over his eyes, plunging him into a virtual environment. The telltale distortion of the noise-dampening field followed a moment later.
He felt Mara’s cool hand on his. She never could get the heat to her extremities. “It’s probably for the best, Karic. We really don’t know if the radiation will trend up.”
Karic could not articulate the urgency he felt. It was like he knew there was something coming.
Two eyes …
He shook himself, wary of provoking a fugue state by trying to recall his prior experience in the biodome.
Karic turned to Mara and nodded. She swiftly withdrew her hand. The absence of contact nudged the emptiness inside him. He grimaced, unhappy to be reminded of his unresolved feelings.
“Ibri, how do the computer systems look?” he asked.
Ibri looked up at Karic, his dark brows drawing together in irritation. He watched him with dark, assessing eyes for a moment before replying. “Lost some external nodes. Seven sensors down. Lot of gear on redundancies.” He spoke softly, almost at the limit of hearing.
So much damage. All over the ship, it was the same. Janzen had made the call, but the crew would be the ones to pay for it if he was wrong. With their lives. If the surge did come, it would leave them in a crippled ship — with a dead crew. Their mission would be over, and he and the other officers would be left drifting in a metal tomb lightyears from home, waiting to join the others in their final sleep.
“Andrai, what is the status of the fusion drive?” asked Karic.
“Ryal has almost completed the transition to standby.” In the absence of the acceleration provided by the drive, Starburst would continue to coast toward Tau Ceti at the same velocity it had achieved when the thrust was cut.
“Good. Would it be possible to reconfigure the forward deflectors to give the rear of the ship more protection from the radiation? Could you extend the field past the laser?”
Andrai nodded. “Yes, we could, but we would need more power from the fission plant to compensate. It would also lower the deflection efficiency of the shield. And we would take a little more wear on the forward superstructure from particles.” The Starburst had a closed-cycle fission reactor located forward of the fusion drive. It provided the colossal amount of energy required to create plasma in the fusion drive, and electrical energy for the ship’s shields and systems, including the containment in the fusion reactor. The full output of the fusion plant was directed into thrust.
“Do it.”
Andrai’s eyes flicked back to Janzen and he hesitated. The commander’s mouth was moving soundlessly, and he was oblivious to everything beyond his odin.
Karic followed Andrai’s gaze. “Let me worry about Janzen. Right now we are heading toward an unidentified source of intense radiation. We need every edge we can get,” said Karic.
“OK, boss. I’ll start on the reconfiguration now.”
The others continued to check the systems, slowly bringing the ship back to life.
“Karic,” said Mara. “Karic!”
His head snapped up from his workstation. He looked across to Mara and saw her eyes fixed on the radiation count. It was climbing rapidly, the digital figures blurring into each other.
Mara’s hand found his and gripped hard.
“Oh no,” said Andrai. They were all watching the display, motionless. Karic had a sense of unreality as he watched it climb. I didn’t want to be right. Mother of God …
Karic flinched as the count of the radiation levels changed from black to red.
“My God. They’re above threshold!” said Mara.
The voice of the Shipcom blared above them.
“Radiation levels exceed safety limits for personnel in the control room. Emergency revival of the crew and evacuation to the shielded areas of the ship is recommended.”
Janzen jerked in the command chair. He exited full immersion mode and ran to their console. Like the others, he stared in shock at the rising radiation count. He activated his left data-screen, linking directly with the AI. His face grew pale.
“This … is not right. This cannot be right,” said Janzen. “This is not the scenario.”
“We have to revive the crew,” said Mara.
Karic’s guts twisted with a sickening realization.
“It’s too late. The radiation levels will interfere with the suspension recovery process.”
“But the Shipcom …”
“Only recommended that action because I
disabled the presets.”
Janzen was stunned. His jaw was slack as he watched the display. “This cannot be right.”
Karic shook off the shock. Every second counted. “Back to the suspension room. Everyone!” he ordered. The additional shielding that surrounded the officer’s suspension chamber would be enough — for now.
“Gemma and Evelle. The crew,” said Mara, stunned.
Evelle!
Karic activated a link. “Ryal. We’re evacuating to the suspension room. Is the standby sequence complete?”
“Almost. I need ten minutes,” came Ryal’s voice across the link.
Karic swore. “Get there as soon as you can.”
“Roger that. Ryal out.”
“Shipcom, we need to lock down the command deck,” said Karic.
“Commander. Order confirmation?” queried the Shipcom.
“Yes. Complete lockdown,” said Janzen. His voice shook, his blue eyes glassy.
The field of glowing icons vanished and the big screens deactivated.
“Everyone, follow as quick as you can,” said Karic, running for the narrow hatch that opened onto the vertical accessway between habitat levels. The hatch slid into its recess and he slipped inside. As he gripped the chrome rungs of the ladder, they stung his fingers with a mortuary chill. He looked up the cylindrical shaft to orient himself, blinking in the harsh white light.
“We’ll be right behind you,” called Mara, before the hatch snapped shut.
The walls of the shaft up to the ship’s axis passed in a blur of conduits and cables. His speed increased as the induced gravity fell away. At the top of the tube were two hatches. One, above his head, gave access to the ship’s axis and main dock; the other, on his left, to the lowest level of the habitat. He extended one arm above his head to brace himself for impact while his left hand reached for the hatch release. Karic timed it perfectly — the benefit of long practice. He hit with a thud and the hatch to the habitat’s lowest level shot open. He sprang through. Outside the tube, he pushed off the walls of the habitat corridor, half-running, half-flying as he raced to the suspension room. Inside, a chorus of alarms jangled in unison, warning lights casting hues of amber and red over the darkened interior. The room, at the lowest level of the rotating habitat, was close to the axis of the ship, and the floor showed a noticeable curve. The gravity here was one-third of Earth-normal.
The Tau Ceti Diversion Page 3