Project Sail

by Anthony DeCosmo

  “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “There is another delivery shipping to a platform orbiting Titania but I diverted it to Oberon. The courier will give you his vehicle to finish the run. There are flight restrictions, but I timed everything so you can glimpse the site. That device will send images to me by hitchhiking on outgoing UVI comms. Snap a few shots, deliver the package, and return to Oberon.”

  Hawthorne emptied the snifter in one gulp.

  “So now I’m your errand boy?”

  “Something is happening and you are in the middle of it. Maybe together we can figure out what.”

  Hawthorne sighed. First pressed into service for Universal Visions and the navy, now by his old friend. It felt as if the universe conspired to keep him from living in peace.

  “I have to say, the entire solar system is screwed up.”

  “Yes, look at me.”

  Hawthorne considered and said, “Okay, you are screwed up but I’m thinking of the big picture. For years, the inner planets have been off-limits to military action and on Titan, the Russians and Americans fight over hydrocarbon harvesting but treat it more like a game. Here, on Pan, you have the solar system’s primary communications hub run by space hippies and an arrogant calculator.”

  “Now that just hurts.”

  “But hold on, this easy target is off-limits because the corporations do not want fighting children to break their shiny toy.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “They lack the balls to do it for real. Drones, rules of engagement, and political red lines. The soldiers on the front kill each other but nothing changes.”

  “I guess they don’t fight wars like they used to; not like Jupiter.”

  Hawthorne said, “At Jupiter people died wholesale, but China was knocked back to Europa and the war ended.”

  “Until the Niobe,” Lazarus said.

  “An isolated incident.”

  “That is why I am inside this computer.”

  Hawthorne said, “I do not understand.”

  “You never asked me why I did this. I didn’t have a terminal illness or a disability like the other candidates; in fact they accepted my application because it was my decision, not some last gasp.”

  “Okay,” Hawthorne asked, “why did you do it?”

  Several seconds of silence followed until Lazarus shared his story.

  “At Ganymede, I was below decks in engineering with no portals, no screens, just a bunch of guys keeping the engines running. We heard both the Guiyang and the Shanxi were looking for us because we were the last ship. With us destroyed, Ganymede goes Chinese.”

  “That about sums it up, yes,” Hawthorne agreed.

  “One frigate against a heavy cruiser and a battleship with the rest of our fleet in pieces floating around Europa and Io.”

  Hawthorne refilled his glass and drank, hoping the liquor would chase away a sudden tremble in his hands.

  “So we are down there with no idea what is happening and any second a missile might drill through the hull or a radiation bomb might toast us. I felt I had seconds to live, like a man who feels a heart attack in his chest thinks his time is up. I had an epiphany during those minutes, Hawk. I realized dying did not only happen to the other guy; I’m not the star of the show who can’t be killed.”

  “That is depressing, thanks for the pep talk.”

  “Seriously, Hawk, you are here in this moment, speaking with me in this room, living in the now. One day, now will be your last breath, darkness glazing over your eyes. You will only have that moment, just as you are speaking to me in this moment. It is coming, today, tomorrow, or in fifty years, but you will face that moment, the same way you are facing me right now, and there is nothing you can do to stop it from happening. I faced that moment around Ganymede and I never want to face it again. So I took this gamble and became what I am now. Theoretically, I could exist forever.”

  “Nothing is eternal. Your program will someday erode; the circuits will lose power and fail. Sorry, old friend, you traded one kind of death for another.”

  Lazarus countered, “That is why I am working on new approaches to quantum computing. I am in a form now that can physically adapt to new hardware. As technology advances, I can advance with it.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What I told you about something happening is real. Look for the delivery when you arrive at Oberon and find out what is on Titania.”

  “You do have your ear to the ground.”

  “I don’t have ears anymore, Hawk, but I got other things that work better, and everything tells me that you are in the middle of something big.”

  17. Junkie

  Commander Hawthorne walked toward the rear of the ship dressed in loose-fitting, casual clothes.

  His ordeal on Titan and then the strange meeting with Lazarus nearly caused him to curl into a fetal position and hide under his bunk, but then he remembered Lieutenant Thomas.

  So as he moved through the Virgil, he felt the urge to whistle but could not decide on a tune, resulting in a jumbled mix that would cause a songbird to cringe.

  The ship had departed Pan twelve hours ago and sped toward Oberon, which they would reach in seven days. For Hawthorne, Lieutenant Kelly Thomas’ addition meant the second week of the journey would be more enjoyable than the first.

  She was half his age, superbly proportioned, and awe-struck by his military exploits. Wren had suggested she was as dumb as a box of rocks, which explained her hero worship, but when she mentioned her father helped evacuate civilians from London during The Cut the Englishman backed off.

  Hawthorne walked through the humid air of engineering and into the aft compartment, but instead of a handball court in a cargo bay, Hawthorne aimed for the infirmary. He hoped their new doctor would provide a prescription preparing him for his rendezvous with the young and eager Thomas who had invited the war hero to her quarters.

  Dr. King’s corner of the ship was slightly larger than a walk-in closet, even with the patient beds folded away. Cabinets lined the walls and bins hung from the low ceiling, causing sick bay to feel like a storage room.

  Clearly, this did not sit well with the doctor judging by the scowl on her face as she sat in a chair tracing her finger over a sheet of e-paper.

  King had gone right to work in studying medical records and taking stock of the Virgil’s supplies. Like the others Fisk gathered, her assignment waited at Oberon, but she was also the only trained doctor on the cargo ship (Horus had satisfied the legal requirement for an onboard physician by exaggerating his first aid training).

  Dr. Ira King was a black woman wearing straight hair with gray frosting around the sides, likely the result of age and something she chose not to hide. She carried extra weight just above her waist, so he took note not to let her preach to him on nutrition.

  At first, he assumed she traced the paper as part of a game or read an interactive novel, but he saw she was writing cursive letters on the e-paper.

  “A glitch in the writing software?” He asked because he rarely saw anyone physically write; thinker chips, voice recognition, or lip-reading software normally did the trick.

  She answered as she tapped a period at the end of a sentence, “I prefer an old-fashioned pencil and real paper when I write to my children, but I forgot to pack my tablet when I flew to Titan from the Anna Ali.”

  “The Anna Ali?”

  “A mercy ship sponsored by the church. We were on our way to Saturn orbit when I received the transfer. I guess I still owe Universal Visions two years of my life for paying my tuition. Do you know how long ago I graduated?”

  Referring to the letter she wrote, he said, “You probably won’t be able to send any mail from the Virgil.”

  She waved a hand and slid the paper aside.

  “I write the letters for my sake: my children are grown up and on their own. The biggest heartache for a parent is the day you realize you are not the most important person in their lives, and you
become that old lady they feel obliged to visit once a year. Any children, Commander?”

  “No,” he decided the pleasantries had gone on long enough. “I could use a little something from your medicine cabinet.”

  Any musings about children and family dancing through her head disappeared and her scowl returned.

  “I assumed as much. A blue ‘go and grow’ pill?”

  He was far too consumed with what lay ahead to suffer any embarrassment but to his surprise, she reached for a jet injector then pulled a vial from an overhead cabinet.

  “I prefer the pill,” he said, despite realizing why she aimed to give him an injection.

  “According to your records, you are due for another radiation shot.”

  “Ah, the joys of space travel.”

  Hawthorne leaned against the counter and rolled up his left sleeve. Dr. King froze when she saw dozens of tiny scars covering his skin between the wrist and shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, doctor, I’m not a junkie.”

  “You served around Jupiter,” she deduced. “Normal doses do not leave marks.”

  “Three injections every twenty-four hours and at probably twice the normal amount.”

  She placed the injector against his arm and sent anti-radiation medicine swimming through his veins, shoring up his body against cosmic rays. He guessed she upped the normal dosage considering the Virgil’s age: its shielding was probably not reliable.

  She said, “People were not meant to live inside Jupiter’s radiation belts. I have heard the injections are not working and that radiation poisoning and cancer rates are higher than the authorities report. If people knew the truth they would not go anywhere near that planet.”

  He tugged his sleeve straight again.

  “Oh, now c’mon doctor, with those rare gases and compounds we will be at Jupiter as long as the profit margin holds”

  “Your records also show you are due for a microbiome tune-up.”

  “Are you trying to ruin my day?”

  “Commander Hawthorne, trillions of tiny organisms live inside our bodies traveling through space with us, going from zero gravity to artificial gravity, suffering cosmic rays—”

  “Yes, doctor, I’ve heard the speech a hundred times but let’s talk about that tomorrow. Now, about that pill?”

  She sighed, put away the injector, and turned her attention to a cabinet full of plastic bottles. “I assume you are meeting Lieutenant Thomas?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  She told him, “According to her files, she used coactione-oxetine regularly on Titan.”

  “Half the people in space take pharmaceuticals and the other half should.”

  “Coactione-oxetine is better known as ‘Push’ and is designed—”

  Hawthorne interrupted, “Yes, a lot of miners and factory workers take it so they have motivation to work. Giving Push to a person without consent is illegal but doctor, isn’t it unethical to discuss a crewman’s medical files?”

  She narrowed her eyes and explained, “Push is difficult to administer to an individual without their knowledge. Finding the right chemical mix requires a battery of genetic tests. And Commander, the medical officer is required to report the use of coactione-oxetine to an employer or crewman’s superior officer. Would you like to guess why Lieutenant Thomas used Push?”

  Given how the men saw her on Titan, Hawthorne understood but King spoke the reason aloud.

  “Sex drive, Commander. She was the hot commodity and to preserve her popularity…to keep her friends…she needed a little Push so she would want to do what they wanted her to do. I expect she will need her prescription refilled.”

  Hawthorne swallowed and tried to ignite his enthusiasm again.

  “She is a grown woman and can make decisions for herself.”

  “Commander, I understand she told you that her father fought in the Jupiter wars, just like you. She told Leo Wren that her father helped in England with evacuations when the bacteria started to spread.”

  “Sounds like a heck of a guy.”

  “Probably about your age, too. By the way, when she came in for her radiation and sterilization shots, she told me her father had been a doctor.”

  Hawthorne did not want to think about Thomas’ father or Jupiter; there were too many parts of the good Lieutenant that he did want to think about. So he just stared at her, waiting for his pharmaceuticals, which she slapped into his hand.

  “Thank you, doctor,” and he turned to leave, but she had more to share.

  “I downloaded the crew’s medical histories while at Pan, that is part of my job and Mr. Fisk gave me the access codes.”

  King picked up a data pad, tapped the screen, and said, “Thing is, Lieutenant Kelly Thomas never knew her father, or her mother. She went from the maternity ward to an orphanage where she was raised in the custody of the state until thirteen, and then sent to the advanced training school at Culver Academy.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “She was abandoned at birth, raised in a kiddie camp, and then military school.”

  “Kiddie camp?”

  King said, “The Atlantic tsunami created a couple hundred thousand orphans.”

  “Over sixty years ago.”

  “Yes, but a few camps remain because many parents get killed working in space. Perhaps that is what happened to her mother and father, or maybe two kids forgot their birth control injections and were not ready to raise a child. Whatever the case, her records show that she never knew this father she keeps talking about.”

  Jonathan Hawthorne did not know how to respond because the image that burst into his head was Kelly Thomas tricked into wearing a skin-tight outfit while serving with the men on Titan.

  He mumbled, “The most requested soldier around Saturn.”

  “Yes, her popularity with the men. I wonder who is better programmed, those three robots she works with, or the Lieutenant herself.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Commander, the real question is what does your new bunk mate want from you?”

  ---

  Lieutenant Thomas’ cabin matched the others: cramped and uncomfortable with a cot, a video player, a sink, and a footlocker. Compounding the clutter of her compartment was “Larry,” her dog-shaped robot, sitting on its artificial haunches in one corner.

  He entered her quarters with a smile, a bottle of wine, and a container of something that resembled cheese, or at least that was what the 3D food printer promised.

  “Good evening Lieutenant,” he greeted as she held the door open dressed in her new BDU pants and a gray top. “Settled in?”

  “As best as I can be.”

  He motioned to her metallic companion and its featureless round head.

  “I didn’t expect we would have company.”

  “Oh, Larry, he’s just hanging around. Moe and Curly are staying in a cargo container. I visit every couple of hours so they don’t feel lonely.”

  He almost reminded her that the drones should be switched off when not involved in combat operations, but he worried that would take the conversation on an unwanted tangent. Still, his conscience pointed out that her best friends were three robots.

  Because they are the only things she ever met that were not trying to get into her pants.

  He said, “They did a hell of a job back on Titan. Say, I brought wine.”

  “The boys always come through! Honestly, they are probably the only thing I’m good at. Benjamin—that was my sergeant back at basic training—used to say I couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a bazooka! Not sure what a barn is, but I bet it is a pretty easy target. He meant I wasn’t a good shot. But with Larry, Curly, and Moe I can usually get the job done.”

  “You have a neural net link to them?”

  “You would be surprised how close you can come to someone when you are hooked up like that.” She stepped to Larry and patted his round, metallic head. The drone did not react.

 
“Yes, well, how about that wine?”

  She bounced over to the cabinet above the sink and pulled out two paper cups.

  “Do you know how I named them?”

  “No. How did you come up with those names?”

  She smiled and placed the cups on the sink as he unscrewed the cap off the bottle.

  “There is this old net show called The Three Stooges that goes way back, like, at least fifty years.”

  “Really?”

  Hawthorne poured wine into the cups.

  “You can only find it on data downloads and chips, no direct feed or holograph. They aren’t even in color! Anyway, my dad and me used to sit around and watch them and that’s where I got the names. The stooges are Larry, Curly, and Moe.”

  Hawthorne stopped pouring but kept his eyes on the cups; one was only half-full.

  “They are so funny, always messing things up and hitting each other over the head. Seriously, I have watched each episode at least five or six times.”

  “You watched them with your dad,” he said in what sounded like a question but was really not.

  “We would just sit together and watch the show for hours, laughing. Sometimes we would make popcorn. That was when I was growing up. It was the best.”

  Kelly grabbed the full cup and drank it empty, washing away both her smile and her bubbly disposition. She then undid the snaps on her pants with no more enthusiasm than starting a car in preparation for a drive around the block.

  Hawthorne watched her begin the routine and in that moment he did not see a gorgeous woman, he saw a little girl trying to meet expectations.

  She said, “Hey, after we have sex, could you stick around and watch the stooges with me? The guys on Titan always had to get back on duty or had plans with their friends.”

  He grabbed her hands to halt her undressing as a voice in his head said you are a fucking idiot.

  “Say, why don’t we sit and watch them now?”

  Her eyes lit up and the smile returned.

  “Oh my god! That would be great!”

  Hawthorne sighed, rubbed his forehead, and then offered, “I’ll even make some popcorn.”