by Read, John
I was getting low on power, so I flew along the shoreline, catching the updraft as the sea breeze blew inland. The electro-glider was light and the mildest winds would push it higher in the sky. But I didn’t need altitude, just power, so I tilted downward into the airstream and let moist air flow up through the turbines, recharging the batteries.
I was soaring along the ridge back near Point Reyes when I was hit. Whack! I looked out to see a four-inch hole in the underside of the wing, halfway between the turbines and the wingtip. Shards of carbon fiber flew up in to the sky. Bam, another hit somewhere behind me. I pulled back on the stick and let the updraft carry me high into the sky. I hit the throttle, rocketing the Stingray to three hundred knots. Streaks of light whizzed past.
“Countermeasure failure,” said the computer in her usual pleasant tone. Oh boy. This wasn’t the first time it had happened. The Cartel was getting increasingly advanced. Like our drones, they had bullets that curved to hit their targets.
Avro had been right. I shouldn’t have come alone.
I hit the rudder and yawed the aircraft thirty degrees to port, skidding around like a fish turning upstream. I looked over my shoulder, trying to catch a glance at whoever was shooting at me. Two men were huddled in a bunker. They must have been guarding the shore, using the bunkers built during World War Two.
They took another shot, and a bullet ripped through the cockpit, missing my leg by a hair’s width. The bullet passed up though the floor and out through the canopy, making a coin-sized hole in the glass. For a moment I panicked, continuing to fly higher and higher at full power.
When the shock of the attack wore off, I was at twenty thousand feet and back over San Francisco. The computer inundated me with alerts: “Battery Low. Recharge. Recharge,” she said. “Oxygen required. Oxygen required. Battery Low. Battery Low.”
I addressed the oxygen alarm first. At this altitude, a person risked passing out.
Reaching down, I unlatched a small oxygen tank from its holster and put the mask on.
I tested the aircraft’s controls. They all worked. The bullets had missed the control lines and the battery. The holes in the cockpit made whistling noises as wind rushed passed the gaps. I had a roll of duct tape under my seat, and I placed a single strip of tape over each hole.
On a good day, an electro-glider with a dead battery has a glide ratio of thirty to one. The aircraft’s computer calculated my current range. At twenty thousand feet I could glide a hundred twenty miles. This did not, however, take into account the hole in my wing. I suppose I could have radioed for help, little good that would do, but pride kept my finger from the transmitter.
I was angry, but not angry enough to let myself die. “Work the problem,” I said, searching my GPS for a safe hillcrest that could provide enough updraft for battery regeneration. I considered Mount Tamalpais first, but that was only a few miles away. I needed to get further away from my attackers.
I considered Mount Diablo and the Altamont Pass to the east. Windmills covered these hills for a reason. I have a windmill on each wing, I thought, but I’d just be a target for Cartel in that area. I continued to study the map. Every hillside within two hundred miles was under Cartel control. There was nowhere to hide, and nowhere with enough updraft to recharge the batteries. If Avro were here, he’d just drop a line from the chopper and let me supercharge off the Stallion’s alternator.
I looked at the family photo I had taped to the canopy. You’re still alive, I told myself, concentrating on my son’s eyes. I realized there was a place that was not on the map, a place that had one hell of a hillside and would create the perfect updraft.
The impact crater.
I typed FRESNO into the GPS. The city, or what remained of the city, was one hundred fifty miles away.
According to the computer, I’d hit the ground thirty miles shy of the ruined city. But the impact crater was ten miles north of Fresno. That left a gap of twenty miles. The crater itself had to be huge, so I took off another five miles. That was close enough. I turned the aircraft southeast and began my glide towards Fresno.
After fifty miles, I realized that there was one thing I hadn’t considered: the sea breeze. Warm air in the valley rises during the day and pulls cool air in from the Pacific. This is why San Francisco is cool during the summer. It would be close, but the sea breeze would give me the range to make it to the crater.
No one went near the impact zone, not even the Cartel. It was an area of total devastation. In every direction, boulders covered the scorched earth. Even if I wanted to land, I couldn’t without hitting the rocks.
Near the crater, the earth was different shades of gray and black. For the last few miles I could feel the thermals under my wings. Columns of rising air like smoke from a campfire buffeted the aircraft like a Land Rover rumbling over uneven terrain.
Without engine power, I wasn’t really flying, I was soaring. Soaring is what birds do when they cruise around without flapping their wings. With the turbines feathered and most of the electronics turned off to save energy, it was quiet in the cockpit. The sound of the wind rushing around the airframe was white noise after spending so many hours in the sky.
I had only a thousand feet of altitude when I reached the rim. I approached from the west, estimating my ground speed by banking perpendicular to the wind and watching my sideways movement over the ground. I estimated the wind speed at twenty knots.
Imagine the crater as a toilet flushed upside down. Ground level winds from the west poured down over the rim, following the curve of the crater until spiraling up into the sky. My goal was to get swept up into the sweet spot, the drain of my imaginary toilet.
I brought the aircraft over the rim. It felt as though I was being flushed as the winds hurled my aircraft toward the crater floor. I had to make it to the other side, where the winds climbed the crater walls on the eastern edge.
When I reached the floor, I was moving at over two hundred knots. When an aircraft flies low over the ground, drag is reduced substantially. Air rushing over the wingtips connects with the ground, preventing vortices that otherwise tug on the aircraft. I used this phenomenon to coast to the eastern edge of the crater.
Then I found it! I found the updraft of a glider pilot’s dreams! Whoosh! The updraft kicked me in the butt, sucking the aircraft skyward in a vacuum of current. In seconds, I leapt out of the crater, thrown higher and higher by the vertical airflow.
The updraft exceeded fifty knots! I steered into the draft and unfeathered the turbines, letting the wind press against the fans. I watched as they began spinning, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they disappeared completely into a semi-transparent blur.
I turned to my displays, watching the battery levels. For two minutes, the levels remained unchanged. “C’mon, C’mon,” I said to myself. I got the first bar when the battery’s charge reached one percent.
The next hour was tedious, holding my position within the updraft. On a good day, I’d need a sixty percent charge to make it back to Vegas. But with multiple holes in my aircraft, I figured I had better get a full charge.
After ninety minutes floating above the crater, I’d completely charged the battery. I hit the throttle, switching from re-gen mode to full power and headed east.
I landed at Henderson airfield, thinking I could patch the aircraft in Eddie’s hangar without him finding out. That didn’t happen. He was waiting for me when I landed.
“You son of a bitch! What the hell did you do to my aircraft!” he yelled as I taxied to the hangar. Eddie’s face was red and seething with rage. His fat jiggled as he cursed.
I thought he was going to punch me. “I was shot dammit!” Eddie didn’t touch me.
“Shoot yourself!” he said, following me to the hangar. “You damaged my aircraft, didn’t get any surveys, and you haven’t paid me in weeks.”
“Listen,” I said, stopping and turning to face him. I stood six inches taller than him, and as pissed as I was, I felt seven fe
et tall. “I flew over the crater today. I flew over all the areas I couldn’t when I was with SAR.” I looked over at Eddie’s survey equipment, still hanging from the wings.
Eddie and I just stared at each other for a moment. I was the first to break the silence. “We’re even.”
“Get the hell out of here,” he muttered.
I left the airfield and waved down a car.
After retrieving my bike from the air base, I slumped into my apartment and grabbed a beer, convinced I would drink myself unconscious and pass out for a day. Tomorrow, I’d ride east and leave it all behind.
A message flashed on my holovision. I hadn’t had a personal message in months.
What the hell. I thought. Holographic messages were personal and no one I knew anymore was that personal.
I played the message.
It began with a video of the electro-glider taking off. The video had been shot from the end of a runway at Nellis. It showed me on my bike, taken from a security camera. This must be some sort of sick joke, I thought.
The Red Planet Mining Corporation logo flashed in front of me, and a corporate jingle rang out though my speakers.
I wanted to think someone was screwing with me, but pulling footage from a security camera on a military base argued against that.
“Hello John,” said the message. A man appeared in front me. I stood up with my beer in hand to see that he was about my height. The holovision gave the impression that a person was standing right in front of you, and the effect was convincing.
“As you can tell, we’ve been watching you,” he said.
“No kidding.”
“Red Planet is recruiting and we need pilot-engineers. Because of our mission to cut costs, we need folks willing to relocate, people who have no immediate family, so they can concentrate on their work, without distractions. That makes impact survivors like you perfect candidates.”
“Convince me.”
“Work for us for fifteen years. On top of your salary, you’ll be given a full retirement package including the home of your choice in one of the Red Planet executive resort communities.”
Images of the resorts flashed up on the screen as well as a description of the amenities: indoor ski hills, beaches, and so on.
“Just board the next transport to Mars, and everything will be taken care of. You won’t even need a ticket.” The video paused, leaving an awkward silence.
In a negotiation, silence is a winning tactic. It causes the other person to talk, filling the dead air. I looked at the beer in my hand, wondering if there was beer on Mars.
“Well?” I said to the holovision. The image had paused.
I took the last sip of my beer and tossed the can across the room into the recycle sorter. For a moment, I stood there wondering what would happen if I jumped into it, wondering how it would sort me. Was I garbage? Or could I be recycled into something new?
Sure, Red Planet mined the minerals that had crashed into Northern California. But it wasn’t their fault the CTS-Bradbury crashed. It wasn’t their idea to build a Destiny Colony just to boost the economy, giving engineers like me something to do.
“Screw it. I’ll do it,” I said just above a whisper.
“Thanks, and we’ll see you on Mars! Your contract will arrive momentarily.”
My phone dinged.
“When’s the next transport to Mars?” I asked my watch.
“The next Martian transport shuttle departs from Sky Harbor International Airport at eleven a.m. tomorrow.”
Located in Phoenix, Arizona, Sky Harbor was America’s newest gateway to space. It also housed several military units, including the Air National Guard. The long runways and southern latitude made it an ideal launch site for the Western United States.
Prime launch windows to Mars occur every two years. The fact that there was a transport the next day was more than a coincidence. Mars-based organizations schedule as many missions as possible during each launch window. The timing of the recruitment message was strategic, no doubt given at the last minute so that applicants had limited time to think it over.
Everything I needed fit in two motorcycle saddlebags. I loaded a chip with a month’s rent and left it on the counter with a note: Gone off planet. This is my 30-day notice.
I sent Avro a text: Going to Mars. It’s been a pleasure. He didn’t text back. I guessed he was busy.
Phoenix was a five-hour drive. I suppose I could have flown or taken a hyperloop, but I wanted to experience Earth one last time, and there’s no better way to do that then on a motorcycle.
So at seven o’clock that evening, I left Las Vegas and drove south on Highway 95, passing the crumbled remains of the Hoover Dam on my left. The last sunset I would see from Earth was a rainbow of colors over the rugged terrain. I hit the accelerator and felt the adrenaline as the bike raced between rocky hills and I crossed the border into Arizona.
Sometimes when a person dies people say they are “leaving Earth.” I didn’t know if I would be back, and for now, it felt like dying. I was okay with that. For the first time, I allowed myself to think, My family is gone. They’ve left Earth.
Soon, it was dark and a gibbous moon rose into the sky from the east, lighting the landscape in a strange and alien way.
Then, for the first time in a long time, I felt alive. Screaming through the night at ninety miles per hour, through an alien landscape, I felt like I was already on Mars. Tomorrow would be a new day, where I would meet new friends, learn new things, and head toward a new world.
Instead of taking the flat route through the desert, I detoured east towards Flagstaff, through the national forest. From Flagstaff, I took Highway 89 south, a road filled with hairpin turns and a lot of up and down. Fifty miles past Flagstaff, I detoured to the top of a canyon. I sat down on the cold earth. The moon was higher in the sky now, and I could see for miles. I closed my eyes and let the cold wind whip around me. I looked up at the stars and moon, and then I searched for Mars.
If you love astronomy, you know there are only a few bright red stars in the night sky, one of which is Antares, which literally means anti-Mars. There’s also Beetlejuice in Orion, and Arcturus, so by simple process of elimination, I was able to find my new home.
I set a timer for five hours and did something I hadn’t done since I was a kid. I lay down on the ground and fell asleep under the stars.
Five hours later, my watch woke me with a beep. I climbed back on my bike and raced down to the canyon floor. Soon after, the first light of the new day shot up from the east. The sky turned from deep purple to a bright pink and I saw my last sunrise from Earth.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I pulled into Phoenix at eight and pawned my bike for a fraction of its worth. The Martian colony used U.S. dollars and I could probably use the cash.
Checking in at the spaceport wasn’t much different than catching a flight. Behind the counter, a logo read “Commercial Orbital Transportation System.” I went through security and followed the signs to the Strato-Launch terminal, which looked just like an airport terminal, but with only one gate. About a hundred people sat around, waiting. I tried to look at each face, seeing if I knew anybody. I didn’t.
Walking over to the window, I came face to face with the nose of the shuttle. It hung from the Strato-Launch System, a carrier aircraft with two fuselages, each the size of a 747. A winged booster behind the shuttle held the rocket engines that would propel us into orbit. The shuttle would deliver us to the Mayflower, a third-generation Martian transport.
Boarding time arrived and we lined up at the gate. A female COTS agent in a blue vest made several general announcements and handed out anti-nausea patches. She then opened the gate, ushering us down the jetway and into the shuttle. I took a seat near the front.
Inside, the automated spacecraft looked like a Boeing 787. Instead of a cockpit, a large screen displayed our speed and altitude. It read: “Altitude: 0.34KM” and “0.00KPH.”
/> When the last passenger took his seat, the agent stepped aboard. She gave a brief safety message, and instructed us on how to use our five-point harnesses. This included the “crotch strap.” A term that made most everyone chuckle. When the agent finished, she stepped outside and sealed the hatch.
We pushed back from the gate right on schedule. I could feel the Strato-Launch aircraft’s six turbofan engines spooling up. Deep rumbles reverberated through the piggybacking vehicles. For the most part, it felt like any normal flight.
The flying launchpad lumbered onto the runway. It inched forward with a low groan as the engines spun up to full throttle. The acceleration of takeoff pressed me into the seat, and soon we were airborne, becoming the largest flying machine on the planet.
At forty thousand feet a notification came over the PA: “Booster ignition in ten seconds.” My hands gripped the armrests so hard my knuckles turned a pale white. The spacecraft made pulsing electronic noises, like an electric car hitting the accelerator.
“Eight, seven, six, five,” my stomach shot into my throat as the shuttle dropped from its airborne launchpad. I watched in awe as the carrier aircraft pulled up and away.
“Four, three, two, one, booster ignition.” The spacecraft shook as it came to life and the luggage in the overhead bins rattled. G-force pressed me deep into my chair as the shuttle went supersonic.
Holy shit! I thought, as the altitude and velocity readings increased at an impossible rate. I turned my eyes slightly to glance out the window, my head glued to the seat from the acceleration. The sky darkened as we approached the edge of the atmosphere.
Almost there, I thought, staring back at the Earth. Out my window I could see both Texas and Florida. These states represented the heart of the American space program. I imagined all the NASA buildings in Houston and at the Cape empty. With NASA disbanded, the dust would finally settle on over one hundred years of brave exploration.