Once Hawthorne passed this sniff test, Henderson extended his hand for a vigorous shake.
“Command Jonathan Hawthorne of Ganymede fame,” he turned to the skinny woman and told her, “a genuine hero, Judy!”
The dog showed greater interest in Ellen Kost. Henderson’s smile faded and he eyed her as if she might be hiding a bomb in her coveralls. After a moment, his welcoming attitude returned, but he no longer shook hands and put distance between himself and the newcomers as he led them along an outer corridor.
“While we are a remote station, our work here will reshape man’s exploration of the stars. The timing of your arrival is perfect.”
He stopped at a horizontal observation window. An object approached, growing from a flickering speck to filling the window in seconds.
Hawthorne’s first impression was that of a turtle, a big ship with a convex plate resembling a gray shell. A short stem extended from beneath the shell and held a square-shaped bridge, underneath which sat a pair of concave slots that might have been weapons or projectors.
The familiar bulging spheres of a diametric drive lined the hull and circular protrusions at each of the underbelly’s four corners pointed to capsule hatches.
The ship was twice the size of the Virgil, rivaling a frigate in mass. However, it projected an industrial aura, not a military one; the only obvious weapons were two vaguely threatening tubes on the bow.
“That’s a mining vessel,” Wren sneered but their host chose not to hear him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the most advanced space ship yet created by man. I give you SE 185. Where light requires a year to travel, this vessel will reach in a day.”
“That’s impossible,” Wren spat.
“Haven’t you heard?” Henderson’s eyes grew sharp. “At Universal Visions we do not believe in the impossible.”
21. Lecture
Two hours after docking, the new arrivals from the Virgil attended a gathering of the entire SE 185 crew. They met in a rectangular multi-purpose room that reminded Hawthorne of the cafeteria/gym/auditorium of his old elementary school in upstate New York.
Hawthorne sat in the last of ten mostly vacant rows of plastic chairs with Lieutenant Thomas, who fidgeted nervously as if expecting the results of the prom queen vote.
Including himself, Hawthorn counted fifteen souls wearing blue UVI Oberon coveralls. To his eyes, they might have been clones, a result more of his cynical nature than physical appearance. He wondered how long it would take to see them as anything more.
Three people in the room did not wear coveralls. One was the thin woman named Judy, another was Regan Fisk, who stood by the door eagerly awaiting the meeting’s start.
The third person not dressed in coveralls was Mr. Henderson, and he spoke first.
“For those who have just arrived, again I welcome you to Oberon and to Project Sail. You join a group of extraordinary astronauts and together you will make history. For the first time, human beings will venture beyond the heliosphere and travel to another star system.”
He paused and while the newcomers found the announcement shocking, the nine crewmen who had already flown aboard SE 185 appeared bored. Clearly, they had heard this grand speech before.
“It is tempting to compare this advance to the first flight of the Wright brothers, Neil Armstrong’s small step, or the flight of the Pyotr Anjou. I say there is no comparison. When your preparation is complete, the SE 185 will cross interstellar space by circumventing the primary rule that governs the physical world, the speed of light. Airplanes, moon rockets, and harnessing the power of gravity showcase mankind’s understanding of nature, but Project Sail represents our ability to manipulate the universe.”
He glanced around the room. Carlson, Thomas, and King sat with their eyes wide open in wonder, shocked by the revelation. Wren, however, drew the face of a skeptic while Kost watched her bunkmate as if waiting for a bomb to explode. Standing to the side, Fisk smiled ear-to-ear.
“You are here because you were chosen to undertake this important mission.”
Hawthorne wondered if someone had given the same speech to the crew of the Niobe. He considered pointing out that this room was full of second choices.
“On behalf of Universal Visions and the United States of North America, I congratulate you on your selection. Your work will change the course of human history. Now I present the man who will command this mission, Captain Donavan Charles.”
Captain Charles remained exactly as Hawthorne remembered from the Princess. He wore a scowl and a Navy dress uniform gave his threatening demeanor an official stamp.
“Project Sail is a joint undertaking between Universal Visions and the American military. We will follow military protocol and crew members will behave to the standards of naval discipline and conduct.”
He paused and traced his eyes across the rows of seats to make his point.
“Ship’s crew is divided into four groupings. First, the Command Staff: Myself, Medical Officer Dr. Ira King, Chief Engineer and Sciences Director Professor Frederick Coffman, Corporate Liaison Martin Chambers, and Executive Officer Jonathan Hawthorne.”
Whispers spread and eventually every pair of eyes found Hawthorne in the back row. Kelly—at his side—patted him on the shoulder as if he had won a prize.
“The flight crew consists of pilot William Stein, Navigator Tommy Starr, and Air Boss Leanne Warner. The third grouping is support: medical assistant Rafael Soto, security specialist Lieutenant Kelly Thomas, and engineering assistants Sheila Black and Andy Phipps. Finally, the ship’s complement includes three research specialists who arrived today: Professor Matthew Carlson, Dr. Leo Wren, and Dr. Ellen Kost.”
At the front of the room, beams of green light came together in a hologram, which Charles controlled through his thinker chip. Those lights first formed a grid, scattered, and then reformed in the image of a turtle-shaped blue print hovering alongside as he spoke.
“SE 185 was envisioned as a second-wave interstellar ship designed for resource exploitation. That mission has changed and SE 185 is now a first-wave exploration and research vessel.”
Hawthorne translated the Captain’s words: This ship was intended to follow the Niobe, but now would have to lead the way.
Charles touched various parts of the display as he offered details about their new home.
“SE 185 consists of three levels starting with the command deck that occupies the front third of the ship’s upper level. This area includes the bridge and four project rooms as well as additional facilities. The aft two-thirds of the upper level are part of a cargo bay with space access that is also home to a heavy-lifter shuttle.
“The next level down is the crew deck with cabins, a hub room that serves as mess hall and recreation center, and sick bay. The final deck, the lower level, is home to engineering, two multipurpose rooms, and four oversized drop capsules, each with their own docking port.”
Hawthorne saw nothing unusual in the ship’s layout but it resembled an industrial vessel. He figured UVI had started upgrading and modifying the ship before identifying the Niobe’s dead. He guessed that 185’s original purpose was to strip away resources after the Niobe had secured the target planet.
“Standard propulsion comes from a Class IV diametric engine with triple-redundancy RDM storage and feed as well as enhanced field projectors. Of course, this is not the only source of propulsion aboard SE 185. Professor Frederick Coffman will provide a brief overview of how we plan to circumvent the laws of physics.”
Coffman rose from his chair and made his way to the front of the room. He was an older man, perhaps late-fifties, with thin, graying sideburns and a bald spot in the center of disappearing brown hair.
He spoke in a voice that was friendly but not annoyingly cheerful and used his hands to complement his words with raised fingers, fists, or open hands seemingly molding something out of thin air.
“Hello!” And he cast his eyes over the group with special atte
ntion to those who had recently arrived on the Virgil. “I look forward to getting to know you during the weeks ahead. A marvelous adventure awaits!”
“Professor…” Charles pushed him forward.
“Ah, yes, well, let’s see here. As we know, light is the universe’s terminal speed. No one has yet found a way to move faster. That said, SE 185 can go from one point in space to another, arriving in less time than it would take light to travel between those points.”
Hawthorne noted that Coffman had carefully parsed his words.
“It begins with our mastery of gravity.” Coffman paused, tapped his chin with a finger, and corrected himself. “That is not exactly right. We have not mastered gravity, but we can channel it; Refined Dark Matter combined with electricity has given us the power to do so. Gravity panels hold our feet in place right now and projected gravitational fields are used in our diametric drives.”
Charles cleared his throat.
“About one hundred years ago, a physicist named Miguel Alcubierre theorized that a vessel could travel from one point to another in less time than it takes light to travel between those same points by contracting space in front of the ship and expanding it behind. Of course, this theory was far beyond the technology of the time. Simply put, he imagined creating a wave in space-time that a vessel could ride while shielded from normal space. His theory, by the way, was inspired by popular science fiction.”
Coffman chuckled, enjoying the thought of fiction driving science.
“Twenty three years ago in 2090, a Japanese-American researcher named Haruto moved this idea from theory to mathematical possibility, leaving only the issue of massive power requirements. This final obstacle was solved by development of the Rotating Field Power Generator. In short, this engine is primed by the diametric drive and then creates alternating gravitational fields to produce power.”
Mr. Henderson called from the sideline in as friendly a voice as he could muster, “Professor Coffman, there are certain proprietary concerns.”
“What’s that? Oh, yes I see. Well,” Coffman rubbed his hands together as if it had suddenly grown cold in the room. “Point is, SE 185 is equipped with what we call an A-H drive that manipulates space-time. The ship does not move, but instead sits behind protective shielding and contorts space, shrinking it in front of the vessel and expanding it behind. No time dilation and none of Einstein’s rules are broken.”
Henderson again interrupted, “The A-H drive began as a UVI project in coordination with the United States military.” His lips curled into a sneer. “However, other powers now possess this technology.”
Coffman smiled in a fatherly fashion, perhaps sensing confusion in the crowd.
“A difficult concept to grasp, I admit.”
He produced a rope about three feet long and let it hang straight down.
“See here, the distance between point A at the top and point B at the bottom.”
He then flicked his wrist, causing a ripple to move through the rope from his hand to the end.
“See that? Our ship causes that wave and the result is arriving at point B in shorter time than if the rope remained straight.”
Hawthorne heard Wren mutter an obscenity.
The Professor went on, “I should point out that when it comes to navigation, the A-H drive has more in common with the rocket ships of old than our modern engines. The journey must be planned meticulously. Once the drive is engaged, SE 185 will contort space in one direction. No turns, no acceleration, no deceleration, except for a complete stop. In short, no joyrides.”
Captain Charles grew tired of Coffman’s drawn out presentation. He stood, put a hand on the professor’s shoulder, and finished for him.
“There is no room for error.”
Wren raised his hand. When he was not immediately noticed, he stood and called out. Hawthorne wondered what a quantitative biologist would have to say about starship propulsion, but then he found Wren had plenty to say about everything.
“I think you are forgetting something. Anyone onboard the ship would be subjected to lethal, blueshifted particles.”
“Yes, well,” Coffman appreciated Wren’s observation, “that is handled by the gravitational fields projected around SE 185; the vessel is protected by multiple layers of shielding.”
Charles did not like interruptions.
“No more questions.”
Wren ignored the Captain’s instructions.
“When this thing stops moving, it will destroy anything in front of it. Extreme blueshifts will send gamma rays and super fucking high-energy particles out like a damn death beam.”
Again, Coffman’s expression suggested delight however, Charles’ did not and that was evident in his tone.
“Many brilliant minds have gone into creating the A-H drive. Why don’t you hold the questions until later,” the Captain suggested.
Wren volleyed, “Because you are not talking to a bunch of first-year physics majors. You are showing a magic trick to a bunch of people who have a fucking clue. We want to see where the strings are attached.”
Charles glared at Hawthorne this time, holding his new XO responsible for the outburst.
Coffman, however, was happy to answer.
“Yes, of course, doctor. The answer is that we cannot mitigate the effect. As SE 185 contorts space, particles will build up outside the protective envelope. When the A-H drive stops, those particles will release in the direction the vessel was traveling. Navigation must be plotted so that upon arrival this discharge is pointed in a harmless direction.”
“Harmless direction? You are talking about a release of energy that could wipe out a planet.”
Thomas leaned over to Hawthorne and said, “Wow, that would be a heck of a weapon.”
“Okay, that is enough for now,” Charles tried to end the discussion but Coffman raised a finger to his lips and whispered, “Power requirements.”
Charles reluctantly explained, “The Rotating Field Power Generator is not like a normal power plant. It takes time to build the energy to run the A-H drive, and that depends on how far we intend to travel. The longer the distance, the more power is needed, the longer it takes to charge the RFPG. There is also a maximum time of operation to maintain a safety margin. The RFPG creates gravitational fields inside its housing at a rate and strength far beyond what our diametric drives use. If the generator runs for too long, the odds of causing a gravitational anomaly, such as a RDM cascade, increase.”
Everyone in the room cringed. If you worked in space long enough, you eventually witnessed a RDM cascade, one of the more horrific dangers of modern space travel.
Charles held a hand aloft to calm their nerves.
“Longer journeys must be taken in stages, between which the unit must power down and then recharge.”
Coffman assured, “Our ship has made a dozen test runs without a problem and that is in addition to thousands of hours of testing and simulations. Fascinating stuff! I think you are in for the trip of a lifetime!”
“Thank you, Professor,” Charles seemed averse to pep talks. “Training begins at 0800 tomorrow onboard SE 185. That is all for now, you are dismissed, except for Commander Hawthorne. Please join me in my office.”
---
Charles’ office sat tucked between an electrical closet and a water recycling tank. With only twenty-five square feet of space and a grade-school size desk, the Captain’s corner of UVI Oberon failed to impress, but not from a lack of trying.
Half-a-dozen framed knickknacks decorated the walls. Hawthorne saw a picture of Charles with the Naval Commandant and another of Charles in a space suit floating with a crowd celebrating the launch of a small patrol ship.
One framed certificate displayed a ribbon for a space junk removal program around Mars, another recognizing Excellence in Logistics Administration.
Captain Charles sat behind his desk and while there was an empty chair, he did not invite Hawthorne to use it.
“I want to clear the air. T
his is my command. When I say ‘do it’, I expect you to follow orders. I do not need a so-called war hero looking over my shoulder or questioning orders. I am surprised you were even considered for this assignment.”
“I said from the beginning that I do not want to be here. I would be happy to board the next transport back to my cruise ship.”
Probably too late to get the navigator back, though.
“You’re here, like it or not.”
“Captain, I don’t understand. Look, you do not want me here, and I don’t want to be here. So why must I be a part of this?”
Charles did not answer but Hawthorne realized there was a weird dynamic at work. His new Captain did not like him and came across as insulted that he was assigned as the ship’s XO. Yet at the same time, Charles would enjoy having Hawthorne under his boot.
“You have six weeks to learn how to handle this ship and its crew. I doubt you are up to the task.”
“Me neither, Captain but who knows, maybe we will get lucky.”
The Captain’s eyes narrowed to slits and he pointed a finger at his subordinate.
“I do not believe in luck, Commander. There is only hard work and preparation. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Captain, I hear you.”
“Who was that man speaking out of turn during the presentation?”
“Dr. Leo Wren, a Project Director on your ship, sir.”
“I don’t like wise-asses, and I don’t like back talk.”
Hawthorne told him, “Then you are going to love Leo.”
“You keep your people under control.”
“My people, sir?” Hawthorne tilted his head wondering if he had heard that right, but then it hit him that Captain Charles had divided the crew into those who had arrived on the Virgil and those already on Oberon.
“You are going to do your job, Commander, but you are going to do it my way. I do not want any problems. Do you understand?”
Hawthorne understood, and he knew already that there would be plenty of problems.
22. SE 185
Hawthorne stood at the end of a fifteen-person-long line stretching across a boarding lobby waiting for an airlock to open.
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