The Resolute

by G. Weldon Tucker

  Then, they would subside to half power to save fuel and the four nuclear isotope engines would take over, applying their comparatively dainty, but persistent push. Before long, the big engines could relax, reload and be ready for any hurried action needed.

  She still held her breath. All of these had been tested to death, all without a hitch. It would work. It had to work. Over a quarter of a million lives depended on it, scattered through the four ships.

  There was no foghorn, no trumpet, nothing, Inside her space suit, Christine was in a cocoon, waiting for the signal to come into her earphones. She whispered, and Michael picked up, “They must stand fast. They have little choice…”

  There came a cry, “Launch!”

  Michael’s hands next to hers, both of them in space gloves to complete the suit, brought down the release lever cleanly. It was electrical, of course, for the tower was over a mile high. No sparks, no big clunky sounds, nothing to indicate it was anything but show.

  However, on cue, all four monster sized, majestic, slow moving behemoths lifted a few hundred feet, then backed quietly, carefully away from their derricks. And even more carefully away from each other.

  Small thrusters that were close enough to be seen along the length lifted the Resolute up farther from the well-wishers, still moving ever so slowly.

  The turn around of almost one hundred eighty degrees seemed to take forever, but in fact, the ship could have made the turn in minutes. But, then, they would have killed everyone on the surface below them.

  Now, for the first time, Christine, eyes flooding with tears, helpless in her weeping, saw her beautiful ships in full view. Long, impossibly long and fat. And yes, very beautiful indeed. Her eyes full of tears, no way to wipe them, she glanced at Michael.

  He, too, was weeping. It was the passing of the torch. Their lives would be a matter of reporting on the ships’ progress, eyeing Resolute’s receding shape for several years, maybe more with her ‘scope. And then, it would be over.

  Christine was not willing to carry on from the point she lost a purpose in life. If the telescope could not tie her to her grandchildren, what was the point? But she said nothing. The helpers got her and Michael into a shuttle and whisked them home.

  Yes, the baton was passed…

  CHAPTER 6

  In the first day, the crews carefully checked everything to the last detail. Of course, the ship had been in space, locked against it, and full of atmosphere, most of it for nearly ten years. But they had not moved. No matter the weightlessness, making several hundred million tons of mass work against itself creates huge stresses.

  The Captain, Charles DePaules, a fifty-five year old black man of high intelligence, a Ph.D. in electrical engineering, ran a tight ship. Most who were in line for such responsibility surely brooked no nonsense, allowed little levity, and skewered miscreants for mistakes. He rarely found fault with his crew or his equipment. He did not need to. They respected him and they were professional to their very toes.

  Sitting in a large odd shaped desk system behind the main bridge, surrounded by small window vid panels, he poured over the manifests. Everything from food to water, from animals to plants, and finally, he got to the most important cargo. People.

  Half the crew for each ship was single upon boarding, and only those with advanced degrees were included. The exception was military Officers with their Masters, and enlisted men with at least a four year degree. A very selective process, but necessary. There had been plenty of high level doctorates to provide university level education. And it was mandatory.

  Males outnumbered females by only a small percentage shift, 58-42. However, on both sides there were confirmed solos who would never need a partner. They said…

  Race or country did not matter, education and the willingness to face unfathomable death in deep space were the criteria. And even those were carefully screened for physical conditioning, mental stability, and psychological strength.

  Only those pairings where these things meshed could board. In fact, if a Masters in anything ‘useful’ was brought aboard, that person had a chance to finish school on the Resolute, obtaining a doctorate, or be assigned ‘helper’ duties under those that already held one.

  Though, truth be told, many a pairing had failed, as is the nature of restless human beings, the brighter, more educated of the pair electing for the voyage, rather than staying on the endangered moon. The less educated, and perhaps less trusting? No way.

  On the Resolute, no space could be wasted, and every brain cell would certainly be needed. Anyone’s brain could be trained for muscle. Not too many vice versa. Still, a hell of a lot of Ph.Ds had to learn how to herd cattle, sheep and pigs, while others became strong advocates of the hydroponics and proposed no meat diets. They, in turn, developed green thumbs… and genetic skills.

  DePaules stopped scouring the page, looking for surprises. Ahead of them, displayed on a large vid screen, well over twenty feet wide, nearly eighteen high, via cameras located in the nose, the stars did not look much different than they ever did. If there was motion from them, it was hard to see.

  “Speed, XO?”

  The XO, Carrie Isles, a tall, dark blonde, willowy Commander, only slightly elevated against the others of the Commander rank, spoke up, “Approaching six thousand knots and accelerating, Sir. Still on vector.” Her rank put her next in line when the Captain stepped down. As he would, someday. It was a given. Time goes on whether we like it or not.

  “Thank you. Carry on.” He thought about it. The paths for each vector were chosen to avoid any possible planetary or foreign object collisions. At least as far as had been determined using Earth bound scopes. Later, the space bound scopes found objects and these paths were either adjusted or negated. These things had been known long before the Cyborg problem.

  Of course, the wayward asteroid or occasional comet could change that, but hell, space out here should be the Big Empty. Chances were remote that they would come anywhere close to anything.

  He went back to reading the lists of people. The lists were divided by gender for several pages, including condo address and occupation. Then, repeated, but divided by occupation… and condo address. Most singles bunked four to each available quarters, male or female. One never knew when someone would be urgently needed. In-ship phones matched condo addresses. That made it much easier than trying to cross reference to find a number in a hurry.

  University level teachers, technical and flight trainers, medical personnel, geneticists, in fact, anything that might sustain and build a population was necessary and filled many pages, with descriptions for each. Twelve to a page.

  They all had decent resumes, which only included the moon service. They had been born there. Anything prior was thus immaterial and nonexistent.

  Everyone else of lesser skills was pretty much out of luck for being on board one of the arks. This was a do or die mission.

  He thought about the grave responsibility he had taken on. He knew that even if they found a habitable planet, no one would be able to get word to Earth, or, more likely, the moon, in time… though they would try.

  They certainly would not try to get back. Home, when it launched, was the Resolute. And when they reached full speed, close to the speed of light, the chances of sending and getting an answer in his lifetime were equally remote.

  For a moment, he considered the other ships. UE Seeker, UE Explorer and UE Hope. All heading off into the unknown. All grimly determined to save the species. Well, that was his job, too, for as long as it lasted. He had plenty of depth in his ranks to keep it going, successor after successor. The Navy has always had a strong chain of command. And he had gotten lucky.

  The two giants of this enterprise, Morgan and Washington had their DNA on his ship. Not a spiritual nor a superstitious man, he would make sure they pulled their own weight. But he was equally certain that very little would hold them back. It was, as they say, in the genes.

  And, with a start, he realized one of t
hem had come to stand in front of him. Lieutenant Bryce Washington, locked in a crisp salute. Newly minted, green behind the ears… mixed metaphors, but, hell… He saluted, then said, “Yes, Lieutenant? At ease.”

  “You asked for the reports regarding the weapons simulators, Sir. We, that is our Geek Club, have been working them hard since the day they were installed, eleven months ago. We can find no fault. They are, for the most part, like my grandmother’s video games… Sir.” Behind him, the XO, necessary to accompany all Lieutenant level meetings with the Captain, smiled behind her hand, and out of view from the young Lieutenant.

  “How the hell would you know anything about your grandmother’s video games, Lieutenant?” DePaules asked, gruffly.

  Bryce was afraid of no one. As long as he followed protocol, he was safe enough. “The landers had stand-alone computers when she brought them in, Sir. We adapted them ten years ago to play the discs she brought with her. She was not alone. We have forty games, from flight to ground battles. Mostly, however, child’s play. Predictable and thus, easily defeated. And, as you know, the Resolute is not a quick fighter, Sir. If you would permit us, my team, we can adapt a game to the ship’s weapons system… Sir?”

  DePaules was a bit taken aback. The kid had no fear of authority. But he was polite and he followed the format. And, if he was one of those brainiacs that had put the games together… “Can you do it without destroying the originals, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Sir. We all have copies. All of us. And we will safeguard the current simulator programs under backup, as they should be. That would be a problem on Earth, Sir, but the copyrights have somehow expired… Sir.”

  DePaules gave him a steady, thoughtful gaze, waiting to see if he would crumble, but he merely continued studying the Captain’s face. Eye to eye. Good stuff there. “Okay, do it, but keep me up to speed. You might just save our lives, Lieutenant!”

  Well, a break from the rigidity. The kid almost jumped for joy. But he held back, delivered the perfect salute and said, “Thank you, Sir. We will!” With that, he was gone.

  Huh! Kids… DePaules thought, shaking his head in admiration. Good stock.

  CHAPTER 7

  The attending four members of the computer game wizards held two of Bryce’s cousins, both Morgans, David and Lincoln, and the girlfriend of another of his onboard cousins, Lt. Commander Ben Washington. The only member of the Geek Club missing in the room at this moment was on duty, Jake Washington, in the radio room, up near the top of the ship.

  That left Lincoln Morgan, who spent his time apprenticing in radar.

  The last young Morgan, Michael, was partnered and had his family in their own quarters, lost somewhere in the depths of the ship. He was no longer commissioned, having stepped into civilian life, then taken a position on the Council, the governing board for the ship. Rumor had it he was probably headed for the governorship.

  They all chided Jake often, first for having nothing to do as a radio man, especially the long, late duty hours of midnight to eight, and every commute was an hour or more of walking and jogging.

  They, in the meantime, all four, were barely three decks below the main computer rooms and the flight simulators. Working four to midnight, so the watch read, was much easier.

  Right now, they looked anything other than the ranks they held, all Lieutenants, all fresh from the academy, and all not much over twenty years old.

  The old Ensign rank had been tossed, as the requirements for being in the Resolute were plain and rigid. So, the military stretched the rules a bit. But they wanted these overly bright youngsters on board. Seeding the future, DePaules had explained back on the moon.

  In their own quarters, a single cabin, which they had weaseled for themselves, they were dressed in a variety of near rags. Comfortable, intense, and very, very smart. A woman among them taught them to be gentlemen and respect her privacy, but then the Navy had been putting the females in the same quarters for two centuries.

  The room was designed for eight bunks. They took out three, added a long table that held several laptops and a pair of box computers. Some in disarray in the process of repair, but some as fast, if not faster than the computer that ran the Resolute. Whiz kids.

  All were watching the young woman, Dynastol ‘Dyna’ Listerov. Of the hot IQs in the room, she was seven points higher, and had, in fact, come out number one in the Officers’ Academy. And she knew computers. She could build them from scavenged parts and improve on them in her sleep.

  She wrote and read nine languages of computer programming, and she could parse, meaning take apart, just about anyone else’s programming. Just as easily, she could dice and splice as the others put it. But, put her in a game and… well, frankly, she sucked. Too much thinking, not enough performance.

  But, as a team, they were magic. Essentially, they complemented each other in areas where one or two were stronger, the others weaker. A great team.

  Most of the team were the players, high scoring, dissing the too simple games. All of them were the dreamers. Three could see what they wanted a game to do, and even articulate it, but they were not programmers. In short, a surprise to, say, Captain DePaules, they were a team made in heaven.

  All of them understood the weaponry of the Resolute very well. That was all but hardwired into them in the Academy.

  It was platform based, camera focused for in close and radar for unseen. But seriously limited in range. Designed for Earth bound combat, where five hundred miles was a very good distance for set up and attack, or defend, it could not hope to cope with space. Atmosphere defeated almost anything of long range, either in draining off kinetic energy or in removing heat. Space had no such limitations.

  Yet, on those training boards, they all had done very well. But the platforms aboard Resolute were most often manned by Commander level, as the ship seemed to have more than a few too many of them. Apprenticeships to that lofty state were few and far between.

  “That will change!” was practically a battle cry, certainly the consensus of the team. “If we build something we can master completely, the current Commanders will relinquish their seats, count on it,” Bryce had told them. “Those that cannot do it will supervise us. I don’t care, long as we get to play!”

  Of course, sitting weapons stations is about as boring as watching grass grow. But they not only had to keep watch for aliens, they had to worry about the wayward rock, now and then. Asteroids traveling twenty to fifty thousand miles an hour would liven up a weapons board, all right. If it had time. Right now, it was far too slow. The announcement of incoming would be well after the fact.

  Now, with old fashioned dry erase pens on a white board, they began to draw out what they wanted to do. The basic structure of the particular game they were remodeling was not that far off, but it was an atmospheric fighter with aiming reticules and joysticks to zero in on a target. But the target they needed could be several thousand miles away. So, that was the big problem, for, like a fighter, it was frightfully slow and with limited side to side or up and down range. A few yards in any direction error at a hundred miles could be fifty miles at a thousand.

  The weapons platform had no joysticks, just four way arrows like their old computer keyboards. To the Geek Club, the joystick was the most important part. And the least that Commanders would get the hang of, Bryce was certain. No one lived and breathed the games like these younger ones.

  The workup became a lot like a movie setup with various notes and positions changing around. They liked the reticule, but it was a little slow in response. So, that had to be about twice as sensitive. The best way to do that was to make it either much smaller, or the lines very much thinner. Mass in programming is made of bytes. The more that had to move, the slower the unit moved.

  Also, the range of the joystick was like off the nose of a plane. You could not move it far enough to attack something below, above or beside you more than a hundred yards out a hundred miles. Certain death in a ship the size of a small continent.
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  True, the weapons platforms were set up all over the ship, and they could handle a threat at any other position through the linkage, with laser cannon at a dozen critical points. Still, you needed speed and range. More repositioning of the notes and now pictures of the reticule.

  David Morgan suggested, “Make it bigger, outside, open area to provide an inside, and a small, but bright crosshairs. Something you can see even if you are not looking at it. That is the trick. All you want is a general guide for inside the reticule, then you work with the crosshairs.” This from the ace who had mastered every one of the old fashioned games.

  Dyna did something with the computer so that lines and lines of code scrolled up. She stopped them with the pause button, several times.

  After ten minutes of this exciting show, Bryce got impatient, asking, finally, “How can you make sense of that mess?” It was all hexadecimal, or base 16, using letters A to H and numerals 0 to 9. And it looked like a screen full of them.

  “I’m looking for repetitive calls to a subroutine… ah, like here.” She tapped the screen over some gibberish. “See, once the fighting starts, the call is repeated to something, literally in milliseconds. That is either a weapon or the reticule… Hang on.”

  She jotted down something on a piece of paper, then did a search of the page. The screen danced to a new area. Then another. Patiently, she went through each call, all with the same subroutine. Finally, she tapped the screen. “Ah, here is the subroutine we need. Fifty lines. I bet it is the reticule. Hold on a second.

  She typed some things into that block of code, checked it carefully, then saved it. “The original is renamed with an X preceding it. We are experimenting. “If I am wrong, I can put it back,” she explained.

  The game came up. She hit three keys and brought the initial practice mode up. Voila, a double reticule, one about a half inch wider and taller than the other! “Good?”