Ocean of Storms

by Christopher Mari

  Benny laughed. “Black holes? Come on! They’re so dense that any matter even approaching one would be torn to bits.”

  “Not true,” said Yeoh. “It’s that very density that may hold the key.” Yeoh smiled at him, having heard it all before. “Look, from what we’ve learned, the inside of a black hole collapses the fabric of the universe into a point of infinite curvature—what’s called a space-time singularity.”

  Benny nodded. “In a singularity, the laws of physics don’t apply, right?”

  “Exactly! Imagine what that means: perhaps inside such singularities, access to whole other universes, other realities completely unlike our own. These singularities can have strong and weak elements, sections that aren’t as destructive as others. A ship passing through the right section could conceivably enter a wormhole and pass through to the other side of the galaxy.”

  “Maybe,” Benny said, “or maybe they’d be crushed into subatomic particles.”

  “Well, there’s the problem,” Yeoh said, laughing. “It’s a theory, but no one can get close enough to a black hole to try it.”

  “Not to mention that the closest black hole is about three thousand light-years away. I dunno about you, but I don’t exactly have that kinda time to spare to make the trip.”

  Yeoh nodded, flipping some overhead switches in preparation for the next simulation. “Well, I suspect you won’t have to wait that long before we learn all the answers.”

  May 25

  Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement Services Laboratory

  Louisiana State University

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  10:13 a.m.

  Since opening in 1980, the FACES lab, as it was commonly known, had grown from a center for the analysis and curating of skeletal remains to one of the foremost crime labs in the world. Using computer-assisted age progression, facial reconstruction, and photo enhancement, the laboratory was able to piece together detailed analyses of crime scenes using only the bones of a victim. Under the leadership of Mary “The Bone Lady” Manhein, the lab had handled over six hundred cases for the FBI, local law enforcement, and the Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

  Knowing there was a chance that the crew might come across the bodies of whoever planted the object there, Soong felt it would be a good idea to run through some of the basics in her line of work. She had put in a request with LSU to use its facility for a bit of training, and the university had graciously agreed. The crew, eager to get off the base, was thrilled at the chance to take a road trip. Soong, her face partially obscured by a surgical mask, pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap and looked down at the bones.

  “The first thing to do when trying to analyze human bones is to remove any putrefactive tissue that could obscure vital clues.”

  “Putrefactive?” asked Moose.

  “Rotten, Commander,” answered Soong. Moose nodded, his pallor turning slightly green.

  “After that, you want to assemble a profile. Look here,” she said as she pointed to the skeleton’s left leg. “See the fractures along the tibia and fibula? The bones were broken once at some point during her life.”

  “Her life?” asked Benny. “Call me crazy, but that seems like something you’d have a hard time telling just from a bunch of bones.”

  “On the contrary, Commander,” Soong answered. “The signs are everywhere. For one thing, look at this bone, right below the eyebrows. It’s called the supraorbital ridge and is much more prominent in males than females.” She gently put her fingers on the skeleton’s jaw. “The mandible,” she said. “Usually squared off in men, but rounded in women. And, the most obvious clue, the pelvis. Much wider in women.” Here Soong allowed herself an uncharacteristic smile. “Otherwise we’d all have had a tough time being born.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Soong,” Moose began, “but I frankly don’t understand why Dr. Yeoh, Benny, and I are here. I mean, we’re not going to be going down to the surface. We won’t be handling any bodies, if you should find any.”

  Soong fixed an impassive gaze on him. “If you are unable to stomach this lesson, Commander Mosensen, I suggest you leave. I have no time for questions which have already been answered.”

  “But you requested that we be here,” Benny answered. “You might as well explain.”

  “I did not request your presence,” Soong noted. “It was at the insistence of your government that you have come here.”

  Wilson cleared his throat. “Perhaps I can explain—”

  “Your government doesn’t trust us,” Yeoh said sheepishly. “They wanted you—”

  “No offense, Bruce,” Benny interjected, “but with all the crap your government’s been trying to pull with Taiwan? If it was up to me—”

  “Benevisto,” Wilson said sharply, then turned to the Chinese crew. “It was not our intention to seem distrustful. It just seemed a good idea to have everyone aware of what we might encounter on the Moon.”

  “What we might encounter,” Yuen said suddenly, “is a species quite unlike our own. But the basics of anthropology allow us to have a general understanding of every species on Earth. That knowledge, imparted by Dr. Soong, will allow us to complete this mission successfully. For the time being, I respectfully ask you, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson, to have your man allow us to proceed. We have little time to spare for unnecessary outbursts from persons who are frankly unnecessary to this phase of the mission.”

  “With all due respect, Commander Yuen,” Wilson said with an edge in his voice, “Benevisto has done no—”

  Zell appeared suddenly between them, a grin creeping out from his graying beard. “Gentlemen, I have a suggestion. Perhaps a moment of tension like this could be eased by a friendly drink among fellow travelers and comrades?”

  May 26

  Spinning Wheel Bar

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  12:17 a.m.

  Donovan thought Zell’s suggestion was a good one, even if it didn’t quite go off as he had planned. The crew hardly sat at the same table most of the night, with Wilson, Yuen, and Soong standing at the bar; Donovan and Zell at a corner table under a neon Samuel Adams sign; and Moose, Benny, and Yeoh pumping bills into the jukebox. As Zell got up from his chair to talk to Yeoh, Donovan watched Wilson excuse himself from Yuen and Soong and make a quiet exit. He wondered how successful this mission would be if its two commanders could barely socialize with each other.

  Donovan thought back to the last time they had all been out drinking like this. So much had changed in so short a time. His eyes darted off to the bar, not very different from the one where he and Syd had first begun to hit it off. The stools were appropriately empty. He looked at his scotch glass and took another swallow. The liquor burned his throat, but he enjoyed the sensation. Occasionally he liked to be reminded that he was still alive. The only problem was, Syd wasn’t. And Donovan knew it.

  He also knew full well that the mission could fail, just like Syd’s had.

  Donovan wandered over to Zell, who was standing behind Benny at his table. Benny was trying to crack a joke, but it was met with only faint smiles before the table lapsed back into silence. Donovan wondered if he should try to coax Yuen and Soong away from the bar, but they looked like they were getting ready to pack it in for the night.

  Suddenly, they heard an antagonistic voice call out, “Hey! Who brought the Chink?”

  Benny looked up to see that Yeoh, who had left to buy another round for the table, was being bullied by a six-foot oaf in a food-spattered T-shirt and dark jeans. “Please,” Yeoh was saying, “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Is that so? Well, trouble sure wants you,” said the oaf, punctuating his threat with a shove. “You’re part of that goddamn mission that killed all those Americans. You proud of the fact that good Americans died so you could go to the Moon on my tax dollars?”

  “I don’t feel proud of that,” Yeoh said, trying to defuse the confrontation. “I am proud to serve with an American crew.”


  “I bet you are!” With another shove, Yeoh fell back into a table, spilling its contents all over himself. Undaunted, he leapt back to his feet. Benny was up in a flash and shoved the man back a good two feet, this despite the fact that the man was a good half foot taller than Benny was and probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

  “If you’ve got a problem with my crewmate, you’ve got a problem with me, friend,” he said.

  “I ain’t your friend, peewee, and I’d sit down before you fall down.”

  Benny said nothing but did not back down.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the oaf said, drawing back his fist. Benny and Yeoh poised for a fight. Before he could strike, a shout cut through the room. Every head in the bar turned to Yuen, who was striding over to the site of the confrontation. He eyed the man evenly.

  “I do not believe you are looking for a fight,” Yuen said in measured tones. “Please, let me buy you a drink.”

  The man laughed derisively. “Get this guy!” he bellowed. “You’re going to be sucking egg-drop soup through a straw unless you step away right now.”

  Yuen did not respond but simply met his gaze with perfect reticence. This seemed to anger the oaf even more, and his fist came sailing at Yuen’s face. Before anyone even knew what happened, Yuen had grabbed the oaf’s hand and turned it toward him, the palm facing away. With his thumb and index finger, he rolled the knuckles up, contracting all the muscles in the man’s forearm. The man went down to his knees, screeching in pain.

  All of this happened in under twenty seconds.

  “Please,” said Yuen, his voice never losing its calm tone, “I do not want to hurt you any further.”

  As he was holding the oaf in his grip, one of the man’s buddies crept up from behind, brandishing a pool cue. He swung it at Yuen’s head. Without turning around, Yuen ducked, still keeping his hold on Yeoh’s would-be assailant. The pool cue missed its intended target and instead collided with the man’s head. He hit the floor like a sack of cement, out cold. Yuen spun around to face his attacker, who vainly tried to swing the splintered end of the pool cue at him. The commander deftly dodged the blow and subdued his assailant with one swift kick to the head.

  The entire bar fell silent, an electric tension in the air. The crew looked around, realizing that they were on the verge of being in real trouble. Not wishing to complicate their evening any further, they simply ducked out the door. Once in the parking lot, they began walking briskly back to the hotel.

  Yeoh looked at his companions. “Is this a common night out in America these days?”

  Moose laughed. “If what just happened is any indication of how the populace feels about this mission, I’d get used to it.”

  Benny, meanwhile, had jogged over to Yuen, who was walking somewhat faster than the others. “Hey! Wait up!”

  Yuen stopped.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” Benny said. “You know, for getting my back in there.”

  Benny extended his hand. Yuen eyed it, then took it firmly.

  “If you had been injured, you could not perform your duties,” Yuen said placidly. “The mission would have been compromised. Good night.”

  Yuen turned from Benny and walked away.

  Benny stood for a moment in the cool late-night air, wondering if tonight’s incident had brought the crew together or just served to remind everyone how far apart they actually were.

  June 3

  Inn at Little Washington

  Northern Virginia

  10:17 p.m.

  Cal Walker was entertaining some senators at his usual table, dazzling them with stories of NASA’s bold return to the stars. Just as his story was reaching its apex, his smartphone chirped urgently in his coat pocket. He pulled it out, reading the number on the touch screen. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me,” he said, pushing away from the table. He strolled over to a quiet corner of the restaurant and tapped the screen.

  “Yes?” he said tersely.

  “The Chinese-American mission launches in twenty days,” said the voice on the other end.

  “I’m well aware of the launch window.”

  “It was never supposed to get to this point.”

  “It seems our commander in chief is more idealistic than I gave her credit for,” said Walker. “She believes the Chinese to be trustworthy. Pity.”

  “The accident in Florida was supposed to put an end to this mission once and for all. Now things have gotten far more complicated.”

  “A contingency plan is in place,” Walker replied. “The mission will fail, and your work will continue unabated. And our country will have a few more heroes to put in the ground.”

  PART 2: OCEANUS PROCELLARUM

  Chapter 9

  June 23

  John F. Kennedy Space Center

  Cape Canaveral, Florida

  7:15 a.m. (6:15 a.m., Houston Time)

  Shortly after sunrise the sky above Cape Canaveral in Florida was a bright blue, high and seemingly endless, almost indistinguishable from the gleaming Atlantic Ocean below. The sea was calm and few whitecaps dotted the horizon. The relentless Florida humidity shimmered the air. Peering out toward the launchpad, tens of thousands of people squinted through crinkled eyes or binoculars at the giant white space vehicle, more than a hundred feet taller than any of the old Saturn V rockets that had launched mankind on its first exploration of its closest neighbor. In many ways the crowd appeared like so many others who had gathered at the Cape for a launch: they brought blankets and lawn chairs, drank coffee, and pressed ears to radios. On the surface, the scene was very much like a park filled with people enjoying a summer’s day. But in fact the mood was much more somber. Many were obviously praying. Many more seemed to be searching for the faith to do so.

  What they might have been praying for was not as obvious. Of course some were praying for the success of the mission—memories of the Phoenix 5 accident were still so fresh in everyone’s minds. But people’s prayers were about more than Phoenix 5 or the hope that Phoenix 6 would not meet a similar tragic end. The pulse had rattled the already-nervous generation who had come into the twenty-first century with so many hopes and dreams.

  The twentieth century had been the most murderous century in the history of human civilization. Those who lived through the millennium celebration had all been eager to leave the old century behind, perhaps just as eager as the Victorians had been to leave their century to history. But two world wars, dozens upon dozens of regional wars, a cold war, disease, and famine had quickly wiped out the hopes of the Victorian era that the twentieth century would be a century of peace and prosperity. It had taken all of fourteen years. In the twenty-first century, it had taken less than a year. Since September 11, 2001, there had been a never-ending worldwide battle against terrorism, regional flare-ups in places like the Middle East and on the Korean peninsula, an AIDS epidemic that had killed millions in Africa alone. And the panic that had spread across the planet over the past six months had killed an estimated two million people worldwide. And now there was the imminent threat of war between the United States and China, just as representatives of these two nations were joining forces to discover the source of the pulse.

  The crowd gathered at Cape Canaveral that bright June day was praying not just for these astronauts or even their miserable century, but also for themselves and their world.

  “How do you read us, Phoenix?”

  “Loud and clear,” Yuen Bai replied into his mike. “Everything’s five by five, Mission Control. Over.”

  “Copy that, Phoenix. Sorry for the delay, people. We’re reading a slight flux in cabin pressure. Can you confirm?”

  “Roger that,” Yuen answered. “Negative, Houston. Cabin pressure reads nominal here.”

  Yuen couldn’t help but feel annoyed by all the delays. More than two hours had passed since they had been strapped into their couches and the hatch sealed. He was normally a very patient man and understood t
he necessity of rechecking all systems before a launch, but something about all this waiting and staring out the window into an inviting bright-blue sky was getting to him. All told, this was his fourth spaceflight. Two hours’ wait on a launchpad was not altogether unexpected. Before his first spaceflight he had waited almost three and a half hours for what ultimately became a letter-perfect mission.

  To distract himself Yuen thought of home. There were his sons chasing each other through the house with the models of the Tai-Ping he had given them. And there was his wife chiding the boys softly and telling them not to disturb their father. Yuen saw himself reaching out for his wife’s hand, smiling at her flawlessly beautiful face and telling her to let them be.

  I wish I were home.

  Yuen shook himself from his reverie and checked the cabin pressure again.

  No, I don’t. I wish I were on an aircraft carrier, waiting for the go call. I am never tense before a go call. My country needs me in that capacity at this moment in history. Not here. Not now.

  Four days ago the primary Taiwanese separatist leader had been assassinated. The killers had shot him as he was emerging from a motorcade, and had escaped. A massive manhunt had caught no one and revealed no motives. The Chinese navy had responded to the assassination by blockading the island in an effort to prevent the killers from fleeing. The United States had protested this move as a violation of international law. Yesterday the US Pacific Fleet began sailing toward Taiwan in order to prevent a possible invasion by the Chinese.

  So it begins, Yuen mused. By nightfall my government may be at war with the very people with whom I am flying to the Moon.

  “Hey, Frank, you copy that?”

  “Barely, Mission Control. I’ve got static on this channel. Can you clear it up? Over.”

  Franklin Wilson couldn’t understand why his palms were sweating. He could feel the dampness through his insulated gloves, a thin layer of perspiration between his pressurized suit and his skin.