“Sorry, but we are here on urgent business. My name is Reagan Fisk from Universal Vision’s Space Resource Exploitation Division and this is Captain Donavan Charles from the USNA navy.”
Charles sat on the couch and scowled; Fisk remained standing and smiling.
Hawthorne stood still, hoping the bathrobe and tray of drinks would convey a sense of urgency.
“To be honest, right now is not a convenient time.”
Charles said, “Make time; we have important business to discuss.”
The crescent-shaped bedroom door opened and a woman’s voice burst into the conversation, “Are you coming or—” she paused when she saw the visitors and her oriental eyes sharpened into daggers.
She was about thirty years old with blond hair hanging to her waist and wearing a powder blue robe smaller than Hawthorne’s. She did not speak as she walked over, took the sake from the tray, returned to the bedroom, and shut the door, leaving a scent of lilac drifting in her wake.
Fisk nearly fell over from fright or surprise.
“Given your history, you are not worried she could be a Chinese agent?”
Hawthorne stared at the empty spot on the serving tray.
“She is Asian-American and she also happens to be my navigator.”
Captain Charles did not approve.
“You are sleeping with your navigator?”
“Not yet, but I am trying, so if you gentlemen will just excuse me…” and he motioned toward the front door.
Charles grew a stiff lip and Fisk sat fast, as if the song had just stopped during a round of musical chairs.
Seeing no other choice, Jonathan plopped into a plush chair and balanced the tray—now with only one drink—on his lap.
“Obviously you are not leaving until I hear what you have to say, but let’s hurry this up: she will wait, but not forever.”
Captain Charles said, “Speaking of the Chinese, two weeks ago they hit the new shipyard in orbit around Ganymede, your old stomping ground.”
Fisk playfully cheered, “The hero of Ganymede!”
Hawthorne grabbed his scotch and put the empty tray on the floor.
“That was a long time ago.”
Charles took delight in their host’s discomfort as he brought up the reason Captain Hawthorne was remembered as Commander Hawthorne.
“Thirteen years ago at the Battle of Ganymede Commander Jonathan Hawthorne takes out the enemy’s flagship as well as a heavy cruiser with only a damaged frigate, turning defeat into victory.”
Fisk shouted, “Do it!”
This was a reference to bridge audio logs that had captured Hawthorne’s famous instructions to a helmsman who had questioned an order. A sturdy “do it,” that seemed crazy at the time turned out to be the order that won the battle. In the weeks following that historic victory, the phrase became a popular saying throughout the United States and its territories. Athletes, actors, and speechwriters found ways to work it into every performance; an entrepreneur had even printed tee shirts.
Of course, his popularity faded and nobody recognized him now unless reminded of that famous battle.
For his part, Hawthorne had no interest in digging up the past but the mention of that Jovian moon forced him to ask a follow-up question.
“Have they launched an offensive?”
Charles answered, “No, a suicide run against a heavy cruiser under construction: the Niobe. The Chinese still have not recovered from your little battle, at least not enough to retake lost territory. From what intelligence has pieced together, they feared we were building the Niobe with the intent of taking Europa from them. That is the only territory they hold around Jupiter, so they decided to launch a preemptive strike.”
Fisk jumped in, “The Niobe was built for a specific purpose, but nothing to do with Europa or the Chinese. That is why we are here; with the ship destroyed, we must find alternate arrangements. That is where you come in Commander, or I mean, Captain Hawthorne.”
“Well, gentlemen, you have come to the wrong place, this oversized company yacht is no warship. We sail from Earth to Mars and back every week, and the only weapons are in the galley. Trust me, stay away from the dinner buffet.”
Charles explained, “Captain, we are not here for the ship; we are here for you.”
“Now what exactly does that mean?”
“You are transferring to my command, part of the Project Sail initiative, a joint venture between the navy and Universal Visions. Apparently a computer program thinks Jonathan Hawthorne is the right pick for my second-in-command, I have no idea why.”
Fisk, tugging at his sleeves in what seemed a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder, added, “Tomorrow we leave for Oberon; that’s one of Uranus’ moons.”
Hawthorne smiled politely, waved a hand as if shooing away a fly, and told them, “Oh no, not me. Look, I am pushing fifty and I have served my time. Besides, only two things interest me these days, and one of them is staying alive.”
Fisk cocked his head and asked, “What is the other?”
“None of your business. Point is I am strictly an inner-planets guy. I travel further out than Mars and my life expectancy shrinks.”
The young businessman asked, “Why no further than Mars? Is it a health condition?”
Hawthorne looked first to Charles who shrugged off his companion’s ignorance, and then asked Fisk, “Excuse me, have you ever been in space?”
In a defensive tone, the young man answered, “I am a trained corporate astronaut but I do not see what that has to do with anything.”
Captain Charles explained, “Reagan, an unwritten rule exists among the major powers not to cause trouble around the inner planets. With diametric drives, gravity projectors, kinetic impactors, and nuclear weapons, a conflict would lay waste to Earth in minutes. Beyond the asteroid belt that changes into a wild west atmosphere, with warships acting as gunslingers.”
Fisk said, “Then wouldn’t it be safer to build a military shipyard in Earth’s orbit instead of around Ganymede?”
Charles answered, “A shipyard is a legitimate and tempting target. The last big war here was the Russians and the European Alliance in the Balkans back in 2093 and that killed two million in a week. For twenty years now, Earth has been free of that scale of war.”
Hawthorne tilted his head toward the bedroom door and put a fine point on it.
“If my navigator was a Chinese assassin sent to avenge their defeat at Ganymede, she would not touch me until we pass the asteroid belt. Then she would slit my throat and kick me out an airlock, which she might do anyway if we do not finish this meeting. As I said, I like my job and I like my safe, comfortable ship. So, have a nice day, gentlemen.”
Captain Charles said, “You have no choice, the original crew and specialists died on the Niobe. The computer picked you and the other replacements, so pack your bags.”
“I do not think so.”
“Well, um, actually, sir,” Fisk grew that apologetic smile again as he brushed his hand over his lapel as if trying to iron imaginary wrinkles. “If you read the terms of your contract, you will find that in an emergency we can reassign officer-grade employees as necessary.”
“My contract does not—”
“Yes it does,” Fisk insisted, still smiling. “You may want to review it.”
“Then I will resign.”
This time Captain Charles smiled.
“In that case, the USNA Navy will recall Jonathan Hawthorne to active duty with a multi-year commitment.”
Hawthorne jumped to his feet and paced while scratching his dark hair.
“Look, guys, you don’t want me, I’ve been on the bench a long time now. There has to be someone else out there who will be a better fit.”
Charles surprisingly replied, “I agree but I do not have a choice, either.”
Fisk said, “The computer picked you, that means you must go.”
“Well what the hell is out on Oberon anyway?”
Captain Charle
s answered, “Oberon is not the destination, but the starting point for a deep space mission. That is all the information we can share at this point.”
“I am no astronaut; I’m a cruise ship captain who takes rich clients on tours around Mars.”
Fisk answered, “The computer says otherwise, and I can promise it will be historic. Besides, when you learn the details of Project Sail, I know you will be glad you joined; we will restore the people’s faith in space exploration.”
“What does that mean?”
Charles said, “Space has become dull and routine. If you live on Earth, you care about the weather, what’s happening in orbit, and when the next convoy of helium three or refined dark matter is making planet fall so you can get back to work in one factory or another. If you live on Mars, the news is the riots, the latest terraforming promise, and dome repair. Everyone else is stuck in a warship picking fights or in a mining camp hoping to finish their tour in one piece and hop the first transport home. The public will start caring about exploration when we give them a reason to care.”
“Lump me in with the lot of them; I just want to live as long and as easily as possible. I am not the man for this job, whatever the mission.”
“No choice,” Charles said and took to his feet like a victorious general finally willing to leave the battlefield, now that he owned it. “Mr. Fisk will collect you at your home tomorrow morning, 0900 hours. You will accompany him as he gathers other members of the team on the way to Oberon.”
Fisk also stood, tugged at his sleeve again, and joined Charles at the front door.
“I took the liberty of booking you on a capsule headed down in three hours. Your XO will assume command of the Princess. By the way, your contract binds you to keep this conversation secret, as do various national security regulations.”
Charles asked, “Any questions?”
“Only an observation: this is a press gang, plain and simple, and I sure don’t like it.”
“To borrow your favorite phrase, Commander, you do not have to like it, you just have to do it,” Charles said and opened the front door.
Fisk smiled enthusiastically.
“See you in the morning, Commander Hawthorne!”
At the exact moment the front door closed behind them, the bedroom door slid open and out walked his navigator, fully dressed in the gray and blue uniform of the luxury yacht’s crew. She sneered, slapped an empty glass in his hand, and left, probably on her way to the XO’s quarters.
4. Earth
No place on Earth felt like home to Jonathan Hawthorne, at least not since the divorce ten years ago when he lost the cabin in Watkins Glen, a lot of cash, and a Norwegian Elkhound.
On those rare occasions he came to Earth, he stayed in a townhouse near Gettysburg National Park in Pennsylvania, one of thirty units each with a deck facing the old battlefield.
Despite so many townhouses, the complex felt empty because the majority of residents worked in space.
Orbital factories employed several of his neighbors. It seemed microgravity enhanced the production of protein crystals as well as the process of microencapsulation, resulting in a boom in space-based manufacturing mainly benefiting pharmaceuticals, energy management, and plastics.
Manufacturing jobs in the risky environment of space led to the rebirth of the labor movement a hundred years after it had all but disappeared. Hawthorne knew one neighbor was a representative in the Space Based Workers Union, although that group came across more like faculty members with tenure than blue-collar guys on an assembly line.
A young woman two doors over piloted a tug, spending weeks in orbit clearing space junk, repairing stations, and adjusting satellites.
The guy a floor below worked for the bureau of mines doing safety inspections at the helium three extraction facilities floating in Saturn’s atmosphere.
One apartment belonged to a man employed by a dark matter refinement facility on Deimos who often bragged about RDM being the key to artificial gravity and diametric drives.
While harvesting dark matter—mainly axion and neutralino particles—is safe, refining those particles involved massive energy release. Two years ago, an explosive chain reaction destroyed the Deimos plant, killed eight hundred workers, and disintegrated an orbiting tanker.
The landlords had not yet found a new tenant.
He wondered if that unoccupied townhouse felt as empty as his did. Yes, this was his home but it might as well belong to anyone considering the lack of personal touches. A bed, a kitchen counter, a fireplace that had not seen flames in a long time, and one room full of dust-covered boxes made up the furnishings of his earthly home.
Hawthorne pulled a trio of coronas from a tin can atop the refrigerator and put them in his travel case although he doubted he would have a chance to smoke them anytime soon.
A tone from the other room interrupted his packing. He left the kitchen, moved around a couple of dusty boxes, and stood in front of a video screen.
Hawthorne waved his hand and the video screen switched on, showing a woman with short blond hair sitting on a couch in a pastel living room.
“Hey big brother, I just got your message.”
“Jenna, glad you called. Look, I won’t be able to make it out this weekend; the company gave me new marching orders.”
Her mouth contorted into a genial sneer.
“You’re always coming up with excuses. The kids will grow up and move out before they see you again. So where are you off to?”
“Sorry, I can’t tell you.”
Her eyes widened and she grinned.
“Let me guess, a movie star booked the entire ship for a personal cruise. You’ll be up to your elbows in celebrity orgies again, just remember to keep the gravity on; you don’t want any broken bones or bruised egos.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you about that. Don’t worry, no zero-g orgies but look, I think I’m going to be gone for a couple of months.”
“Damn, Jonathan, get out of space and put your feet on the ground. My father-in-law could find you a job at the university teaching flight to wide-eyed students and beautiful coeds half your age.”
“The coeds sound interesting, but I’m lost if I spend longer than a day on Earth.”
“You’re lost no matter where you are.”
“So you called me back just to give me a hard time, is that it?”
She did not respond and that set off a big-brother alarm.
“Okay, what’s up? This weekend wasn’t just our annual get together, was it?”
She admitted, “We’re thinking about having another one.”
“Another kid, at your age?”
“Yep,” a smile returned to her face. “And who are you to talk about age? Besides, the corporations have upped their offers. They cover genetic screening and maternity care and offer discounts on food and clothing through high school plus they have doubled the number of scholarships and increased the range of eligible fields. You can nearly raise a kid and send him off to college without spending a dime.”
“It’s self-interest, sis, not altruism. Someone has to program the mining bots, fly the ships, and think up new ways to wring profit out of the planets. People just aren’t having families anymore.”
“Like you.”
“Don’t start.”
“Okay, but only because it sounds like the next time I see you, you might have another niece or nephew.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be gone that long,” he said, but he could not be sure he was even coming back. “Hey, you got your mother’s eyes and her mamma-bear instincts, you should have kids, but keep them on the ground; space sucks.”
“Except for you?”
“Let’s just say it’s all I know. Now I have to go.”
“Jonathan, be safe.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve already been a hero once and it is not what it’s cracked up to be.”
“Love you.”
He waved his hand to end the transmission, found
his bag, and exited out to a cool April morning. Temperature-activated fibers in his imitation leather jacket radiated warmth, helping to combat the chill. Overhead, a line of gray clouds threatened to bring drizzle but a little sunlight still peeked through.
An artificially sweet smell carried in the air, part of the environmental controls. Depending on the day, residents might smell floral scents or the aroma of fresh-cut grass, even though there were no flowers and the genetically engineered lawn did not need maintenance.
The parking lot was half-full, mainly with electric cars but also a few luxury trucks running on hybrid engines, but none of them belonged to Hawthorne.
Waiting for him fifty yards away on the housing complex’s VTOL pad sat a blue and white corporate jet sporting the Universal Visions, Incorporated logo. As he walked toward the plane, a semi-automated waste collection truck rolled across the lot. A sanitation worker moved with the vehicle, supervising a trio of short, wide robots rolling on big tires.
The man pointed at a garbage bin and one of the robots grabbed it with metal arms and dumped the contents in the truck.
The collector’s presence explained the strong aroma: the landlord had programmed the scent dispensers to cover the stench of garbage.
At the jet, Fisk waited for him wearing a smile and another business suit hanging from his thin shoulders. To Hawthorne, Fisk looked like a young boy playing dress up, especially the way he constantly tugged at his sleeves and brushed his lapels.
“Good morning, Commander Hawthorne! By the way, your rank has been officially changed for this mission to commander and your pay has increased one full grade.”
“Thanks, I hope the raise covers the cost of my funeral.”
Fisk’s smile wavered until his sarcasm detector made the catch.
“Please, Commander, follow me,” and the two men boarded the plane.
What the jet lacked in size it compensated for with luxury: high-back chairs lined a thin aisle providing seating for eight but there were only three passengers.
Fisk relieved Hawthorne of his bag and shuffled him forward where he came across a late-twenties man with light blond hair and a well-sculpted goatee wearing casual clothing.
Project Sail Page 2