Anti Life

by Allen Kuzara

  Parker turned from the observation window and approached the systems operator. “Run another diagnostic test,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said the operator. She—already engaged with holographic projections—seamlessly switched controls and initiated the test. The computer chirped. “Everything checks out,” she said. “Oh, and thruster efficiency is above expected norms.”

  Parker bit his lip. He was the nervous type, tall, slender, and with a habit of standing arms-crossed. The Constance was his crowning achievement. It was the most dynamic ship he had ever built. Novos intended to use it both as a show-piece to taunt other corporate settlements with and as a marketing ploy to attract migrant settlers.

  Despite its versatility, Novos commissioned the construction of the Constance for a specific goal: interstellar exploration. It had to be both fast and highly capable. Every space saving feature was included, and all of its sensory technology was state-of-the-art.

  The lynchpin of the design was Parker’s new engine. It wasn’t really an engine in the traditional sense of the word. Every design had thrusters, the stereotypical rockets responsible for propelling ships at sub-light speeds. Parker’s engine innovation was a more efficient warp-field generator, the key element that had turned occasional moonwalkers into interstellar life-forms.

  Though large stations and orbiters depended on solar arrays for primary power, ships capable of IST relied on an isotopic reactor core. No amount of solar efficiency could satisfy the energy demands of a fully spun warp-field generator.

  It took Parker over two years just to get the formulas for the warp field right. Only then could he design the rest of the craft. This was simply the nature of spacecraft modeling.

  Architects were known as control-freaks for the same reason they were so highly paid; these hard-to-find personalities had to be able to hold and consider each design element with the next phase of production in mind. Perhaps scarcer than the requisite math and physics knowledge was the ability and willingness to push forward toward a single goal, in isolation and without external validation, for years-on-end until completing the job. The kicker was that many of the projects were flops or, at the last minute, corporate sponsors would pull funding. Successful architects had to be able to endure the long commitments and fickle, uncontrollable rejections as just another part of their job.

  Although Parker’s warp field generator design was unique, the basic technology had been utilized for over fifty years. The generator harnessed a natural phenomenon that had been observed but misunderstood since the dawn of air travel during the first half of the twentieth-century.

  Early witnesses to the phenomenon were called frauds. Some skeptics tried to rationalize them away, but the most common response was to ignore them, denying their existence altogether. When passengers experienced missing time, impossibly shortened travel times, or disappeared around the Bermuda Triangle region, they were unwittingly coming in contact with warp fields, i.e. tears in the fabric of space-time created by a coalescence of electromagnetic fields. The frequent super storms in the North Atlantic created perfect conditions for naturally occurring warp fields.

  Travelers to the Bermuda Triangle who disappeared were often in the wrong place at the wrong time and were destroyed in the tear. On occasion when they weren’t killed instantly, they were transported; people usually ended up in an inhospitable location, e.g. miles beneath the earth’s crust, in the far upper layer of the atmosphere, or in the outer edge of the solar system.

  A small minority of travelers caught in the warp-field vortex were propelled forward in their original trajectory, arriving at their destination impossibly ahead of schedule. Documented accounts began to build, and they all repeated similar themes. People flew into channels formed by clouds, fog, or highly charged storms, and the tunnels would collapse behind them. Ejected out of the vortex after a handful of minutes, they found themselves one-hundred or more miles ahead of schedule.

  Like many revolutionary breakthroughs, warp-fields were just waiting to be found and harnessed. Their discovery represented a paradigm shift for scientists who had been trying to solve the IST problem, but were looking in the wrong place. The answer wasn’t to travel faster; it was to shorten the distance. And warp-fields did just that.

  Unlike thrusters, generators didn’t propel ships forward. Instead, they created special conditions that tore the fabric of space-time itself. Once a warp field was created, IST was more than a possibility; it was an irrevocable consequence. The precise parameters of the warp field’s formation started a chain reaction determining how far, how fast, and in what direction travel would occur. Once the field formed around the ship’s epicenter, there was no turning back and no further requirements of energy. Warp-field generators theoretically allowed vessels to travel anywhere in the known universe, provided they were properly calibrated and had enough power.

  The generator operated in two polarities. Primary polarity allowed for the rip in space-time. Reverse polarity permitted an underappreciated but vital function: inertial dampening. Without it, humans couldn’t survive the intergalactic splat they would experience exiting IST. Physicists agreed that ships coming out of IST with an inertial dampener failure would crunch in less time than it took for nerves to relay pain signals to the brain, a meager consolation.

  Dampeners were also employed during hard landings. With both applications, the math and timing had to be near-perfect. Hence, only a computer could execute the sequence correctly.

  The Constance possessed research capabilities equal to what was normally only equipped on the heaviest Atlas ships, but it was fast and had the external appearance like a mid-ranged Falcon ship. Besides improvements in IST efficiency, there weren’t many other innovations onboard. Rather, the Constance was a collection of the best available technologies, bundled into a sleek, potent design. Parker’s new ship, if it proved to be successful, was a game-changer.

  “Sir, we’re nearing Novos space dock,” said the navigator. “Should we initiate docking protocols?”

  Parker said nothing. The crew looked around nervously, waiting for a response. The navigator prodded, “Sir?”

  The Constance was close enough to Novos for Parker to see inside some of the windows of already docked vessels. At the last possible moment, Parker said, “Veer off. Take us out for another go-around.”

  The navigator with his hands on the holographic controls rolled the craft sharply up and to the left. The anti-gravity and inertial dampeners worked flawlessly.

  The Constance climbed vertically along the dark side of Novos until it reached the rim of the station. Then it changed trajectory, righting itself on a new axis towards the nearby star. The starlight pierced through the helm’s observation window. Although the windows were automatic—the computer’s radiation filter adjusted light to optimal frequencies and intensity levels—they weren’t fast enough to keep the crew from squinting.

  A blinking red light appeared on the systems operator’s console. She said, “Sir, we’re receiving a comm transmission.”

  Parker nodded, silently giving her the go-ahead. A voice came over the comm. “NC Constance, this is Novos aviation control tower. You have altered your flight plan. Are you in distress?”

  Parker replied to the aviation technician, “No trouble here, Novos. We just need to run a few more tests.”

  “Confirmed,” said the aviation tech. “Please file a new flight plan immediately.”

  “Affirmative. Parker, out.”

  Parker walked to the navigator’s console and looked over his shoulder. “Are we repeating our original itinerary?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. We’re approaching the second way-point.”

  “Set in a new course for these coordinates.” Parker walked to his command console and forwarded a set of prerecorded way-points. Parker smirked. “Let’s take a look at some unfamiliar real-estate.”

  A sensory technician turned in his seat. “Which tests were you wanting to run, sir?”


  “Tests?”

  “You told the aviation tech that you wanted to run additional tests.”

  “Oh,” said Parker. He looked a little embarrassed. “There aren’t any tests. I wanted to play for a little while longer.”

  The rest of the crew smiled knowingly. Space-architects had a reputation for being arrogant, cert-mongers. They often named their ships after themselves and possessed god-complexes. Parker wasn’t like that, despite being one of the most sought-after designers. He loved his work. He did it for the joy of creation. This test flight was his only chance to see his creation in action.

  “We’re nearing your waypoint, sir,” said the navigator.

  “Time?” asked Parker.

  “Just under two minutes.”

  Parker’s eyes lit up like a child’s. “For a ship this size only using thrusters—I think that’s a record.”

  “I’m getting a great view of Deterran Seven,” said a sensory tech.

  “That’s not the view I came out here for,” Parker said grinning. This side of him surfaced on brief occasions when his self-conscious, anxiety-riddled mind was overtaken by the awe of the moment. “The starboard side’s view should be even better,” he said.

  The same sensory tech brought it up on the primary viewer. The skeleton crew sat silently with reverent awe. They were close enough to the frozen dust ball to observe the rocky details enveloped by its tail. “This is the last time any of us will see this rogue comet,” Parker said. “It’s scheduled to collide with an asteroid belt on the far side of the system early next week.”

  The comet was massive relative to the Constance. Deterran Seven’s sun had caused its nucleus to heat up and outgas the intense blue and white plume. The system’s operator said, “It’s so beautiful, and so huge. It’s hard to believe it could ever die.”

  After a few moments, Parker turned to the navigator. “Let’s bring her home.”

  Chapter 4

  Cynthia Black was a workaholic, like most of the senior scientists at Novos. She looked at the clock. Her lab shift had ended an hour ago. This is my life, she thought. She was free to go home, but she wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway. There was no one to go home to. And if she left her work unfinished, she would be up obsessing over it all night.

  Her dysfunctional behavior had functioned quite well for her. It was why she was there. As senior chemist at the Novos Laboratory, she was given extreme latitude to do her research. Novos knew she would produce. She didn’t really care about the certs, notoriety, or power. What she wanted was freedom to do her work. If she was a prisoner, as her friends had told her, she was within a prison she had worked very hard to build. Long ago, she had learned the power of delegating responsibility to her subordinates. They received the mundane assignments: log entries, performance reports, data continuity statements, etc. As long as Black kept them in line, she was free to explore. Her current focus was improving adhesive compounds so they would be less brittle in cold, vacuous space conditions—space glue as she liked to call it.

  The door rang. Without looking up from her console she said, “James, could you get that?” There was no answer. She looked up where her assistant was usually stationed. She had forgotten; she sent him home an hour ago.

  Unlike other parts of Novos station, the science lab didn’t have a second or third shift. People with Black’s credentials were hard to come by, and it was determined that dividing science teams into separate shifts was counter-productive. There was too much of a disconnect bringing the next shift up to speed. Plus, these men and women tended to be introverts. Putting them into even more segmented conditions broke down the already tenuous lines of communication.

  “This better be good,” Black said as she got up from her console. She walked to the door and unlocked it by waiving her hand over the bio-scanner. She turned and stepped back to her console as the door opened behind her. “Yes?” she said sternly with her back turned.

  Bob Richards stared at her, unable to find his words. Black was young with startling good looks, the stereotypical knock-out blonde. Her lab coat and dark-rimmed glasses did little to hide her attractiveness. She was used to this kind of thing. “What is it?” she asked again.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Black,” Richards said clumsily. “I was looking for Dr. Brennen.”

  “You’re in the wrong place. He’s in the other wing of this lab,” Black said, still looking down.

  “Yes, I know that. I tried his door, and I couldn’t get anyone to answer. I tried to reach him several times today, but he won’t return his messages.”

  “Are you sure he’s here?” Black asked.

  “The computer says he’s on Novos station, but I don’t have clearance to get more information,” he said.

  Cynthia Black’s brow furrowed. “Why do I get to clean up all his messes?” She checked the time again. “If I know Michael, he’s still in his lab.” She stood and walked to the door. “Come with me.”

  The two traversed the corridor that connected the chemistry and biology wings. Unlike the cubicles Richards managed one floor below them, here was where the real science was done. His floor was kept busy with processing and archiving data, a mindless, soul crushing job if ever there was one.

  Richards nervously tried to continue the conversation. “I would have entered Brennen’s lab, but my bio-markers won’t get me in.”

  “You would have broken into a senior scientist’s lab without permission?” she said.

  “No, I mean…” Richards trailed off, his foot in his mouth.

  After letting him squirm for a moment, she said, “Bio-markers won’t be a problem now. I can access every lab on Novos.”

  They reached Brennen’s lab. On the door was a message: WORK IN PROGRESS. DO NOT DISTURB.

  “Was this here earlier?” asked Black. Richards nodded yes.

  Without ringing the door, Black scanned her hand, and the door whooshed open. Michael Brennen sat at the far end of the lab with his back facing the door. His jet black hair contrasted against the collar of his white lab coat, part of which dragged the floor beneath his chair.

  “What do you want?” Brennen said without turning around.

  “You’re such a child,” Black said.

  “Cynthia, didn’t you see the sign?” he said coolly.

  “Those signs only work if you answer the numerous communications people send you,” she said. “At the very least, your assistant could handle some of the messages. Where is he?”

  “Fired him last week,” Brennen said, still engrossed in his work.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t quit first.”

  “I guess I really should turn that door-ringer back on,” Brennen said as he turned and stood to face his accusers. Michael Brennen was the senior biologist at Novos. His primary research was in entropic systems, the transfer of energy between living organisms. He and Cynthia Black had a volatile working relationship, which was common for two high ranking persons in parallel fields. Black could usually find a way to work with people. But Brennen was an exception. His arrogance was insufferable. He treated people like doormats. The problem was he was that good, irreplaceable. And he knew it too.

  Despite his slow, almost robotic movements Brennen had a powerful presence. It was his lack of emotions, his calloused attitude towards everyone and everything, that was so unnerving.

  Black looked at Richards. “It’s your turn,” she said.

  Richards stepped forward. “Michael…”

  “It’s Dr. Brennen to you,” Brennen interrupted.

  “Yes. Um…Dr. Brennen, I need to show you something. We received a data-burst from one of our research probes, but it was mostly corrupted.

  “You barged in here because you’re having computer problems?”

  “No. There’s nothing wrong with the computer. It’s the data itself. It’s either incomplete, or it was corrupted before it was sent.”

  “So, just have the probe technician do another report. Look I really don’t have
time for this kind of thing, and neither does Dr. Black. I know I’m your immediate supervisor, but if you can’t handle these kinds of bumps in the road by yourself, then we’re going to have to reconsider your position here as manager,” Brennen said.

  Richards came unglued. He blurted out, “Just watch the video!”

  Brennen exhaled impatiently and gestured palm-up toward the console. “Be my guest,” he said. Before Richards had gotten to the workstation, Brennen was already looking at other work, lab results laying on the counter beside him.

  Richards accessed the workstation and initiated his account. “I’m going to start it right where things get interesting,” he said.

  Brennen continued to act disinterested, but something he heard caught his attention. He placed his work down hastily, his eyes locked onto the vid.

  “Gospod’ Iisus Khristos Syn Bozhiy, pomiluy menya greshnogo.”

  Chapter 5

  Alvarez exited the PTU and stepped into the transfer corridor. It was quitting time, and he was glad. Unlike the old days, he was through when the whistle blew. There was no more staying late or taking work home with him.

  He looked at the faces of people arriving for the next shift. Their eyes were dull and hollow the way his were eight hours ago. But it was different now. The drudgery was behind him, at least until tomorrow. He caught himself. There is no tomorrow, he thought.

  There in the docking bay, the ticker showed the relay would arrive in less than thirty seconds. He sat on the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone at an adjacent bench acting peculiar. The man wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Alvarez knew the best course of action was to ignore him, not to make eye contact. Novos security would probably pick him up before long, he thought.