In the green meant nothing in front of them, nothing bearing down on them, and nothing in the huge spaceship was in imminent danger of failing. Not that they knew about. Remember, everything in space is going somewhere. And the law still applied: No two objects can inhabit the same space at the same time. They’d had couple of nasty brushes over the last two centuries.
Like the other three spaceships, all exactly alike, but sent in separate directions, the ship was designed to run itself. Forever, even if the inhabitants literally died out.
Probably better, without the taxing presence of humanity, Angela tought. But, she never said that out loud. Shades of the Cyborgs!
Perhaps the designers hoped enough DNA would be left aboard to seed another Earth-like planet in a crash…
“Our target system is still four point six light years out, then. Good progress. Any news from Cramer in engineering?”
“No sir.” The Captain was asking first of all to test her intimate knowledge of the ship, and to catch up. Commander Cramer was running a team to try to coax a few more miles per hour, closer to light speed. It was a long, ongoing project with little results. Resolute was already at one hundred seventy thousand miles per second, just short of the one hundred eighty two thousand for one light speed.
Captain Morgan had been off duty for nine hours, supposed to be sleeping, but hidden motion detectors in his spacious room indicated movement around the cabin almost all of that time. Those monitors fed only her status screens, and when the occupant was out and about, she shut them off. She’d installed them herself, just for this purpose. Part of her job as Sr. Commander was like an XO. She had to watch out for her Captain as much as she had to watch out for the ship.
Captains run near to double shifts, on average, every twenty four, though they might not be on the bridge all of that time. Still, Morgan rarely slept, which contributed to his failing health. Angela did not remark on it. It was not her place. She wanted to earn her place, not have it land in her lap.
As the Captain settled into his big, comfortable bridge chair, he asked her for the engineer’s report. There was not much, but she dutifully gave it as required.
Angela was hoping beyond hope that they would find this planet in her lifetime. She wanted very much to be a founding leader in the new settlement. Well, the military defenses, anyway. Perhaps an Admiralty. One thing about determination and ambition, there are no limits in either.
However, so far, nothing was found that could push or pull a spaceship faster than light. It had been, and remained, the domain of the science fiction writers. There was no warp speed, and with a nine hundred million tons of mass, there was no stopping on the dime, either. If it was intersected by a rogue planet or any other body, they probably would not know about it until they had passed through it… as dust.
However, there should be no rogues, no black holes, no other galaxies. The biggest telescopes in the universe, to their knowledge, were in space and had eyeballed the corridor they were assigned to the four hundred light year limit, looking for anything in the way. Beyond that was nothing but fuzzy dots and conjecture. Truth be told, among the astronomers, even with the best telescopes, on or off planet, anything over one hundred light years was pretty fuzzy, too, but they could use their fabulous minds to extrapolate what should be out there… or not.
On the Resolute, however, they had aboard credible optics and equipment to help them avoid planets and those black holes, but still, down the corridor, perhaps ten thousand miles in radius, and about a million miles out. In space, where everything is bigger, more dramatic, a view of twenty thousand miles in diameter was almost tunnel vision.
Consider that when traveling almost at light speed, one hundred eighty -two thousand miles per second, a million miles gives you five seconds to do something, but the first third of that is reaction time…
CHAPTER 3
“The Council meets tomorrow, Angela. Are you ready for your boards?” Morgan asked, smiling. He liked the eager Commander. Even if she was a bit hard to get to know. But then, he was like that himself. Most Captains were the same. He was certain she would be taking his place.
“The written is submitted, Captain, and the oral is about as ready as I can get.. Sir.”
He smiled. He saw a determined, thirty year old career Navy Senior Commander seeking top command of the UE Resolute. A trim, toned, good looking, but private person, with regulation cut black hair to just below her ears, direct blue eyes and a potential for a wide smile, always held in check.
Of the three Commanders, she was the oldest, the fastest rising, the most mentally mature, and held, in his estimation, top spot for the promotion.
She had been a Commander for four years, a damned quick study, and had been his right hand command for the entire time. Bright, sure, determined, and she got things done. Her way. Which, fortunately, was his way, too. He just wished she could somehow … loosen up.
He’d heard the nickname, Ice Queen, probably put forth by those who tried and failed to claim the pretty woman. Probably true, too, he thought. She did remain utterly self-contained, and she needed almost nothing of outside support or emotions. Oh, she could get angry, but she kept it very controlled. Mostly. Any punishments she meted out were by the book, in spite of whatever insult she may have endured.
So, for the oral exam. Captain Morgan knew it was not going to be easy. Anything run by a committee was never predictable. Carried forward through the centuries from Earth, where a governing body made all the important decisions, Resolute had a political contingent that overruled the military in affairs of the ship, but anything requiring offense or defense was immediately out of the Council’s hands. Despite two hundred and thirty plus years of separation, some things refused to change.
Selection of the top Navy Command, the Captain on this ship, fell to the Council, as he or she would be point to carry out the Council wishes, whether military or police in nature. And, of course, they should rely heavily on Morgan’s recommendations. Should.
He had seen that Angela had never bowed an inch to his offers of friendship or off-time meals, not even the occasional, fun, fanny pat. In fact he was pretty sure he might have drawn back a stub. Tempting, but not that tempting.
Frankly, she knew that it was lonely at the top, and he was a fading old man, but she was not about to be drawn into something what would cost her the promotion, maybe even her career.
Morgan realized she was watching him, with eyes that gave away nothing. How long have I been ruminating… damn.
“You are relieved, Commander. Fine job, as always. Study, but be sure you get some sleep. Roscoe’s late, but on momentarily, Davis at six, you are back at two am. Is that right?”
“Yes, Sir!” She saluted and left the bridge to the Captain, not mentioning that she had filled out the duty roster herself just this morning. In space, the time meant nothing. To help the occupants, Resolute dimmed all lighting from seven at ‘night’ to seven in the ‘morning.’ This did not affect the bridge. The pretend wee hours of two am to ten am fit her personality just fine. She was in charge, no one looking over her shoulder until after the fact. She liked this shift.
Of course, morning, night, midnight really meant little. Human beings, ingrained to time, carry it all with them in wrist watches, wall clocks and bells. The ship ran as sharp as a military battleship in the early twenty first century… a hell of a long time ago. To travel two hundred light years, at almost one light year per annum, was to put Earth aging two hundred years, and for all they knew, it was no more. In any case, this battleship had a hell of a lot more capability.
Hopefully, one they would never have to show off.
-----
In the late afternoon, the following day, Leo ‘The Lion’ Torville glared down from his seat on high through thick lensed, horn rimmed glasses. He was eighty-two, long past the resource limits, but who in their right mind would try to unseat him?
So nicknamed because whoever did attempt to confront him s
eemed to disappear. There was a real possibility that he might be having them spaced through a discharge tube, but the underlying thought was he ate them. He even wore a thick, ferocious mane of hair to his shoulders, proud of the fact he could still support hair, even if it was white.
Angela had little to do with politics. She worked her butt off doing exactly what she was supposed to do in order to achieve rank, doing so at a stellar pace. She might not see the political people, but it was certain that they had been watching her.
Now, she stood below the raised dais of the Council, a panel of six members, all older, but none other than the High Councilman over sixty five. They were nearly six feet above her, looking down, and she was twenty feet out from the dais. Armed guards kept a careful watch on supplicants, whoever they were. No one was to touch the dais.
She was in dress whites, her ribbons and her uniform perfect. Though she had heard that The Lion had little respect for women, she could not do much about that. She was built the way she was built. The Navy uniform was never designed to hide anything. And it was only the last two hundred and fifty years that the Navy did away with the skirts. Still, as most women are aware, trousers often revealed more than they wanted.
Beside her, at the provided desk, Captain Morgan sat, looking thoughtful. Everyone hated The Lion. And the feeling was mutual. But who else could replace him in rank? The others were too young, too inexperienced. Too afraid, perhaps.
The question, put bluntly to the potential leader of the military contingent was a complex one. “How much weight would you give this Council in a military action?”
She did not prevaricate in any way. Calmly, but immediately, she replied, “I would listen to what anyone has to offer in a timely manner. However, in a space type action, there is no time to seek input. Most encounters, as you are probably aware, are over in a few minutes. And, according to Article Seven, sub section C, I will make the decision in relation to the threat or the possibilities, on the fly… Sir.”
“But you have no battle experience, Commander,” grumped the old man.
Captain Morgan chimed in, surprising her, “Neither did I, nor the last six Captains before me, Sir. We learn on the advanced simulators, and she is top of the class, hands down, across the board. I would not put her forward if I did not recognize that… Sir.”
That final word was sour in his mouth, but he had learned about politics. He did not like it, but he had needed it to survive. Hopefully, Angela would learn it, too.
He wanted to say Commander Washington had more battle experience than this old fossil at the high chair on the Council, despite his fifty years behind that stupid counter, but wisely kept that opinion to himself.
The old man paused, staring down under bushy white brows, not expecting this extra input, and trying to decide if he should stomp on Morgan for speaking out of turn. The danger, then, of course, was that Morgan could have any one of ten thousand of his men make his own life a living hell.
Katrina Gravisov, Ph.D, a Russian scientist of the first order, and, of course, now a genetic mix after all these years, took advantage of the lull and spoke up. Not a face that nature had been kind to, too many hours under artificial sunlight, and weathered, but she attempted a prim, grim smile.
“I understand that women are… plentiful in the military. Why you would choose that… men’s playing field is beyond me. Why did you elect to not build the next generation?”
Now, there was a sexist question, one that had not been seen for probably a hundred years, but Angela was ready for it. Gravisov had a reputation for misogyny, probably from her own failed same sex marriage. The obvious retort would be, “Why didn’t you?” but Angela wisely kept that one quiet. She was indeed, quick.
Those same sex pairings were frowned on, though a guaranteed right brought over from Earth. She still held a Council seat, and those were for life. No one challenged her. But she was free to flail who she would.
Calmly, Eris responded, “There are two choices, Doctor Gravisov. Those that procreate, and those that protect.” She did not mention Gravisov’s third choice, intentionally. “I chose to protect because it is in my blood. I come from thirty two generations of Navy Officers, from far back on our home, Earth. It was expected of me, despite my gender, and I was thrilled to be accepted. I still am, ma’am.”
Gravisov could not come up with a rejoinder and subsided. She had caught the barb.
Each of the six members had all had a turn at trying to shred that tough veneer, but had no success. The Lion rattled his papers, closed his personal communication device and said, “Decision in twenty-four hours. Congratulations on your written exam, Senior Commander. One hundred percent across the board. You are dismissed. Captain? Please escort Commander Washington out.”
Well, that did not sound good, but Morgan smiled at her, secretly, as he walked beside her in perfect step, and whispered, “You did fine.”
Angela was not one to break confidence, and her feelings were her own. “Thank you, Sir!” At the door, she saluted and they parted ways.
To tell the truth, Commander Washington was a bit of an enigma. She kept her contacts, her assignments, her life in perfect order, never bending one rule that he could find. But, as he watched that taut little body walking away from him, he thought, not for the first time, that she was missing so much more. Females were levelling out about five feet, males about five two. Morgan was five six. Still, a taut little body. His mind was not that old, anyway.
He knew that somewhere, there had to be a balance. Most military officers intermingled, even had affairs, and from such came great alliances, and, true, great enemies. She had neither. Kind of a waste, he thought shaking his head, as he turned to head to his own quarters.
The leading mile of the Resolute was pure military. Barracks, Officers Quarters, galley, the works. Not exactly closed off from the civilian population, as there was tram access, well guarded.
This many years on a vessel bred dissent, and like any military post, access was carefully governed.
His own quarters were just under the bridge on the third deck down, one of nearly seven hundred decks at the bow, along with all other officers. Enlisted were beneath them, unless assigned to military police duties, throughout the ship.
Every enlisted man and woman was still required to get their bachelor’s. To fail to do so merely provided muscles and bodies to muck cattle pens, chicken or turkey sheds, and so on… The incentive to prove smarter was high.
Twenty-six thousand enlisted personnel filled the front half of the Resolute, nearest the forward post, and thus, easier access to the equipment to do battle on and well above ground, in any part of space. And, a third of those were assigned MP duties.
Put nearly a half million people in a big tin can for a couple of centuries and people get out of hand, pretty easily. Drinking home-made booze, or making and taking drugs, improved over the millennia, it was all like any other huge city.
Only the military kept the peace.
CHAPTER 4
Angela kept an emotionally clear face down the corridor to her tram station. The Resolute was lined on both inner hulls, fore to aft on the sides and down the exact middle, every fourth deck from top to bottom, with two car electric trams. These were recent additions, at least the last fifty years or so, replacing, for the most part, the moving walkways.
The joke was that a fit sailor could run the three mile an hour walkways at six additional miles the length of the ship faster than the five mile an hour trams. There were still a number of those walkways on lesser decks for the ambitious.
The only areas where the system changed was the central hospital, now six floors high and almost five hundred feet square, dead center.
Most people lived and worked in or around their own quarters and few had to travel very far at all. Those that did travel used the trams, or bicycles, or even walked, and almost all lived within a mile of their central hub. If someone transferred to another hub, they and their family were mov
ed. It was not up to the individual family to make the decisions.
Everyone was expected to learn, to grow, to become highly useful, and in this floating Utopia, the Council called the shots. The only god they recognized, now after two plus centuries AL was the system, still oddly named, Spook. This, perhaps, because Spook was everywhere, unseen, all knowing, and it was thus an easy transfer. But it was far from religious.
It is often hard to express the details of such a gigantic ship hurtling through space, nose first, at just short of the speed of light. In the center, slightly wider and deeper than the rest of the sleek ship, there were seven hundred and fifty decks, top to bottom, covering fifteen thousand feet.
Front to back between the military bow, back to the huge open structures for husbandry, hydroponics and engine room, all at the aft end of the Resolute, were quartered all the families, workers, science labs and such. It was, indeed, nearly a perfect city environment, complete with artificial sunlight in assigned places, and a sense of day and night with controlled lighting in every cabin and corridor on the ship. Darkness fell, essentially, from ten at night to six in the morning.
But Resolute’s length translates to better than fifty-seven thousand feet, and though the number of decks decreased at the slightly smaller ends, the total square footage available exceeded thirty-seven million. That was quite large, in living space, and more compact than the mid- sized cities of three hundred thousand population on earth.
The bottom two decks, complete, were for manufacturing, while the last ten percent of the length, top to bottom held the engine room. This area contained the huge nuclear engines, with controls for the assorted steering rockets, though these were simply a much smaller thruster than the main engines.
At the outer end of the large stanchions, the main engines, overpowered, underused, yet ready for instant action, stayed cold and quiet, along for the ride. So far.
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