The Gods We Make

by Eric Johannsen

“I didn’t do…” Chad said. What was different? Why did it move now? Was it the urgency? “Thought. It responded to my thought. The thing is, I tried to get it to move that way earlier, and nothing happened.”

  “Thought, huh? Would work for me?”

  “I don’t see why not. Give it a shot. Try to move us further out from Jupiter.”

  Ian closed his eyes. At first, he was relaxed, then his facial muscles tightened.

  Stay put. Don’t move now. Not for him.

  “It’s not working,” Ian said, disappointed.

  “I guess you need to concentrate in a certain way. People can train their brains to generate desired wave patterns with bio-feedback. I’ve been doing that for years. Maybe you can learn to think the way the ship needs you to with training.”

  “Maybe,” Ian said. “Or maybe there’s something special about your brain. Well, besides the obvious genius stuff. You suppose you can get this thing over to Europa?”

  “Let’s find out.” Chad closed his eyes and relaxed. We need to go to Europa, to help our friends. He pictured Europa relative to Jupiter and its other moons. The ship moved at high speed. Within a matter of minutes, it orbited Europa, a few kilometers above the battered Jupiter Express. He switched to the mother ship’s com frequency. “Dylan, Musa. Are you two still alive over there?”

  “We’re here. What’s your status?” Dylan asked.

  “We are in orbit right above you.” Chad sounded almost matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of glee in his voice.

  “I told you not to surrender the Quadriga.” Dylan sounded disappointed.

  “Who said anything about abandoning it?”

  “You have it?” Dylan sounded skeptical.

  “We have it!” Chad abandoned his straight-face act. He was exuberant. “You want a lift?”

  “Well, the Express isn’t going anywhere. How do we come aboard?” Dylan asked.

  “I’ll bring the Quadriga in close. You two use your get-arounds to EVA over here. Head for the middle of the ship. When you get to the hull, keep on going.”

  “Keep on going? What do you mean?” Musa asked.

  “You’ll see,” Chad said. “Just keep going.” He moved the ship within a dozen meters of the mangled Jupiter Express. “We’re in position, head on over.” He saw Dylan and Musa drift out through a massive hole.

  They turned back toward their ship and gave it a final salute then glided the short distance and continued right on through the hull. Ian met the pair and led them to the bridge where Chad was gazing at the stars.

  “We passed through like swimming in water!” Musa said. “How?”

  Chad turned to them and gave his best mysterious smile. “Well, let’s just say, for now, I let the ship know you were coming.” He turned back to the stars, looking at the faint sun. “This thing’s been up here for a long time, but we have no idea how much power it uses for propulsion. For all we know, it may have been abandoned here because they ran out of gas. Let’s bring over all the rations we can find, pull any data logs that are still intact, and see if we can salvage parts to build a carbon dioxide scrubber. Just in case.”

  The team spent the next two hours ferrying cargo from the ravished Express to the alien vessel. With everything useful extracted, Chad asked, “Ready to go home?”

  “We have what we came for,” Dylan said. “How long do you suppose it will take to get back to Earth?”

  “It only took a few minutes to get here from low Jupiter orbit,” Ian said. “At that rate, we could get back to Earth in about thirty hours.”

  Musa whistled.

  Chad said, “I think she’ll do better than that.” He closed his eyes and formed a detailed picture of Earth in his mind. Europa vanished instantly.

  Thirty-two seconds later, they were home.

  The Quadriga came to a stop in a high Earth orbit. They had traveled more than sixty times the speed of light.

  Homeward

  Somewhere in the cosmos, two voices continued a conversation.

  “One of their tribes has retrieved the contingency,” Anael said.

  “Yes, though there was violence in a bid to control it.” Sariel’s voice was heavy with sorrow.

  “Most unfortunate,” Anael said, “though the victorious tribe did not fight back. They retreated instead.”

  There was a long silence.

  “The malignants are approaching. It is confirmed,” Anael said.

  “Do you think the humans are ready? Will the contingency be sufficient help for them?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hope?”

  “More than hope,” Anael said. “I have faith in them.”

  #

  Sara’s phone rang like a klaxon in church. What? Who? Ring… ring… ring… Huh? She sat up abruptly in bed. The room was dark, save for a modded ficus plant softly luminescing on the balcony, casting a pale yellow-green light into her bedroom. Cyan letters against the phone’s black background read Abel. “Answer,” she said into the darkness. Her voice croaked. “Hello? Abel?”

  “I apologize for disturbing you at this late hour,” Abel’s voice said in a calm, soothing tone, “but you better plug yourself into VIRCOM. There has been a development.”

  Two minutes later, Sara was in a virtual conference room with Abel, Elena Teplova, Nancy Kido, and Roy Evans. “I apologize for waking you all,” Roy said. “Our crew just returned from Jupiter. They’re aboard the Quadriga, which turned out to be a spacecraft, in high Earth orbit.”

  “What? That’s… that’s amazing!” Sara said. Her mouth was agape.

  “Impossible is the word I would have used,” Ms. Kido said. “We received an update from the crew of the Jupiter Express five minutes ago claiming the astronauts were preparing to abandon ship. This supposed transmission from Earth orbit came in eight minutes ago. That doesn’t add up. Have we ruled out the possibility of a ruse? Perhaps their broadcast was simulated.”

  “Impossible,” Able said, lingering on the word. “That’s a label that has been used in err many times in human history. ‘It’s impossible to circumnavigate the Earth,’ or ‘it’s impossible to break the sound barrier.’ What I believe happened, Ms. Kido, is that they traveled faster than the speed of light. They outran their radio transmission, beat it back to Earth.”

  “Doesn’t relativity say it’s impossible to travel faster than light?” Sara asked.

  “Well, that’s not strictly the case. Special relativity says that an object with mass would need infinite energy to accelerate to the speed of light. However, there are theoretical loopholes. One of the most popular is the notion of reshaping space to effectively travel faster.” Dr. Okoye projected a large cube into the virtual space, with three-dimensional grid lines every centimeter. He added a virtual Earth and Jupiter, with a small spacecraft near Jupiter. “Space travel as we know it requires us to accelerate in order to change our velocity through space. We see space as being entirely uniform. The further we want to travel in a given amount of time, the faster we have to go. Imagine, though, that we could change the shape of space itself, twisting it so that Earth and Jupiter are closer together, at least if you travel along the spaceship’s path.” He created a small tunnel in the grid where the grid lines were far closer together. “This is what we call a wormhole.”

  “The ship created a wormhole to get back here?” Sara asked.

  “No. Well, I don’t know, but that’s not my current theory,” Abel said. “I couldn’t even begin to imagine a mechanism by which it might be possible to create the exit aperture of a wormhole at a great distance. I suspect instead that the ship compresses space in front of it. That way, it could move slower, possibly far slower, than light in its local reference frame and still outrun light traveling through normal space. The ship would then let space expand behind it. It’s a mechanism first proposed by a physicist named Miguel Alcubierre around forty years ago. The ship would never violate special relativity yet would effectively travel faster than light. Potentially, mu
ch faster.”

  President Tom Billmore’s image appeared in the virtual space. “Ladies. Gentlemen. Is it true?”

  “We believe so, Mr. President,” Abel said.

  “The alien ship’s still in orbit?” President Billmore asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Roy Evans said. “The Quadriga is in orbit.”

  “Can it land?” the president asked.

  “Dr. Tanner believes it can,” Roy said.

  “Well, let’s get it down here then. Every moment it’s in orbit is an opportunity for the Chinese. Get it down to New Mexico. Dr. Okoye, would you put together names of people we need to study the thing?”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Abel said.

  “Ms. Wells, you’re in charge of intelligence implications. I trust you’ll coordinate with other intelligence agencies?”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  “It goes without saying, we’re far past top secret here. Everyone selected to work on this project needs to be a technology superstar and rock solid from a security perspective. Am I clear?”

  The answer came in unison. “Yes, sir!”

  #

  Chad edged their vessel out of orbit. It descended in a gradual, controlled arc. Whatever technology this ship used, it didn’t rely on friction to slow its approach. The contour of California’s coastline became visible a hundred kilometers below. The air was crystal clear, like after the passage of a cold front. Even at this hour, the city lights from San Diego to San Francisco burned brightly. They crossed high over Los Angeles. The Mojave Desert glowed far below, its light sand illuminated by a half-moon.

  They were able to communicate with a VHF radio salvaged from a space suit. Chad managed to run a makeshift antenna through the ship’s hull. Thanks to the gentle reentry, the antenna stayed put.

  Dylan grasped the radio. “SOCAL approach, this is, er…” He stopped transmitting and said more to himself than to his crew, “We don’t have a call sign.” He pressed the transmit button again. “This is Longhorn One requesting flight level six zero zero and a vector for Homey Airport.” The flight level he requested corresponded to sixty thousand feet, the top of controlled airspace.

  An air traffic controller answered, “Longhorn One, state your current position and altitude.”

  “SOCAL, I reckon we’re about fifteen miles west of Victorville. Our altitude’s, er, well above flight level six zero zero.”

  “Longhorn One, you’re saying you want to descend to flight level six zero zero?”

  “Roger.”

  “You should have contacted Los Angeles Center for that request.”

  “Well sir, I didn’t have their frequency memorized.”

  “You’re practically in orbit without aeronautical charts?”

  “Well sir, I left them in my other aircraft.” Except it was a spacecraft.

  “Longhorn One… squawk one four two four and ident.”

  “Unable SOCAL.”

  “Unable?”

  “Roger. We’re, er, our transponder is malfunctioning.”

  “Understand your transponder is malfunctioning. Negative radar contact. I don’t suppose you’ll bump into anyone at flight level six zero zero. Cleared direct Las Vegas. Contact Las Vegas approach on 125.025 before entering their airspace.”

  “Roger. 125.025.”

  The Quadriga sailed high over the California desert and into Nevada.

  “Las Vegas approach, this is Longhorn One, flight level six zero zero. Requesting a descent into Homey Airport.”

  “Longhorn One, Homey’s in restricted airspace. Do you have prior permission?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re expecting us.”

  The radio was quiet. “Longhorn One, we still have negative radar contact. You’re cleared to descend to flight level four zero zero. Once across the I-95, descend at your discretion. That airspace has been cleared for your approach. Contact Homey tower on 242.5.”

  “242.5, thanks for your help tonight,” Dylan said. He switched radio frequencies. “Homey tower, this is Longhorn One, inbound for landing. Negative weather information.”

  “Longhorn One, winds three knots at one two one, visibility ten plus miles. You’re cleared to land, Runway One Four Left.”

  “Tower, we don’t need a runway to set down. Where do you want us to put the thing?”

  Static crackled over the radio. “Longhorn One, you can park at the large hangar at the intersection of Taxiways Alpha and Bravo.”

  “I didn’t bring any airport diagrams with me,” Dylan said.

  “It’s at the west edge of the airport. Hell, follow the flashing lights. It looks like every emergency vehicle we have is headed over there.”

  “Roger, clear to land, follow the flashing lights.”

  Chad kept the ship at forty thousand feet until they were ten miles out then made a slow, steep descent that would have been impossible for most aircraft. They flew low over a three-mile patch of desert that brilliantly reflected the moonlight. A dry lake. He brought them in a hundred feet over the runways and eased the craft onto a concrete pad in front of a large hangar. A dozen vehicles - fire, ambulance, military police - surrounded the perimeter. The ship was too long and tall for the hangar. They would only be able to get the front third inside. Chad visualized the Quadriga’s bridge gliding into the open hangar and the ship mimicked his thoughts.

  “Commander Lockwood, I presume?” A new, crisp voice called over the radio. “This is Colonel Snell, base commander. I have orders for you and your crew to remain aboard for now. NASA is sending out experts to evaluate your situation.”

  “Understood,” Dylan said.

  “We may as well get comfortable,” Ian said. “It’ll be hours before they make any decisions.”

  “I suggest we get some rest,” Dylan said. “We have a whole mess of debriefs waiting for us.”

  Nobody rested. They traded stories, explored the ship, speculated about the next few days would hold and about the impact the astounding discovery would have on humanity. An hour into their wait, a construction crew arrived and rigged a tent over the exposed portion of the ship. By daybreak, another crew set to work building permanent walls.

  “Longhorn One, this is Colonel Snell. Where the heck is the ship’s exit?”

  Chad replied. “Where would you like it to be?”

  “What?” Colonel Snell processed the question. “Well, if you can control it, how about right behind the glass dome at ground level on the starboard side, just outside the hangar. Give us ten minutes or so. I’ll let you know when we’re ready for you to come out.”

  On the colonel’s command, Chad created an appropriate opening in the Quadriga’s hull, and the crew left the ship.

  Engineers from NASA parked a hazmat decontamination trailer next to the vessel and rigged a connecting passage with plastic sheets, PVC pipe, and duct tape. Four squad tents were welded together and set up as a temporary cover for the trailer. It was long enough and wide enough but too short, so the arrangement was propped up on sand-filled water barrels and draped with camouflage nets. The construction team worked on the permanent wall outside the hodgepodge tent.

  Swabs, probes, and hypodermic needles awaited them in the trailer. A cheerful voice sounded over an intercom. “Good morning! I’m Dr. Tribane, chief flight surgeon at Edwards Air Force Base. We want to get you out as quickly as we can, but first I need your help to run a few tests. He directed them through a bizarre mélange of bodily sampling procedures. Each specimen was passed out an airlock to a team donning biohazard suits. “Next, I need you to unwrap the long probes in the light blue plastic.”

  Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You mean these things that look like turkey basters?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose they do. You insert-”

  A woman dressed in stylish business attire stepped up behind the flight surgeon and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Doctor, I’ll need a few minutes.” Her tone was friendly but left no room for discussion. Dr. Tribane ducked out of the makeshift room.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she said. “My name is Sara Wells. We need to talk.”

  #

  Colonel Long glowered through the forward viewport, steady eyes scanning the star-riddled space two hundred and fifty thousand kilometers above Jupiter. Space that, moments before, was occupied by the alien ship. Space that Colonel Long had nuked. “Where did it go?” he asked.

  The crew eyed each other, expressions tense with concern.

  “We must have destroyed it,” the Executive Officer said. Years of military training almost suppressed the quivering in her voice. Almost.

  The colonel broke his gaze away from space and faced her. “Wong An,” he said, mustering his patience. “The target disappeared before the explosion.”

  “Can you be certain, sir?” She pulled her head toward her shoulders and lowered her chin. “I did not-”

  “Play back video of the target.”

  The navigator snapped to attention. “Sir, the image playback system is not responding. It may have been damaged by the electro-magnetic pulse.”

  “Did you decouple the external imaging sensors prior to missile launch?” His patience was wearing thin.

  “Yes, sir. The EMP must have penetrated the shielding.”

  “Hmm. Is lidar online?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Scan the blast area for debris. I will update Beijing.”

  “Sir.” The navigator swallowed hard. “The long-range antenna is offline. It was properly decoupled. When we reconnected it, the self-diagnostic routine failed. I presume the antenna or the connecting wire was melted.”

  “Send an engineer to affect repairs.”

  “Sir, the radiation…” The navigator’s eyes were wide.

  “No excuses. It is paramount that we report home.”

  The Executive Officer lowered her voice and averted her eyes. Her words carried urgency. “Long Jianyu…”

  The commander cleared his throat. “Very well. Focus efforts on the imaging system and lidar scan. Chart a course through the explosion area then out to a safe distance to begin repair of the antenna.”

  “Yes, sir.” The navigator took in a quick, deep breath then let the air flow out between thin, pale lips.