Falco grunted and slowly got to his feet. He set his glass next to Hallsworth’s and moved a sore arm to a saluting position next to his forehead. “Lieutenant Falco reporting for duty. Sir!”
“Good, and you can work on that pathetic salute before you leave.” Vice Admiral Hallsworth stood and slowly reached into his pocket. He worked his hand free and held out a silver eagle insignia resting in his palm. “Captain Giacomo Francis Falcone, tomorrow, December 6, 2216 at 0600 hours, your status will be changed to Active Duty and your rank elevated to a captain in the United Nations Navy. Your ass better be at the Rome Air Base getting on a shuttle to Lunar Station.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Falco said.
“Questions, Captain?”
“Sir, as you know” – Falco shuffled uncomfortably – “in the Navy, captain is a term for the person in charge of the vessel, and this officer in charge is usually of a higher rank than captain but is still called, ‘The Captain’.”
“Don’t push it, son. You will be the lowest-ranking captain in the UNN fleet.” He smiled. “An actual captaining captain.”
“Yes, Vice Admiral.” Falco saw pride behind those eyes. “I still do not have a crew and have no idea where the Anam Cara is going.”
“Your officers volunteered.” Hallsworth took a deep breath and continued, “Old friends you have been avoiding, and crewmen for deep-space missions are assigned directly out of the academy.”
Falco had wanted to be part of the deep-space program from the beginning, but it was not a family-friendly career choice. Years spent on missions far from earth and loved ones – he blocked out the rest, knowing it led to a dark place. He was now farther away from his family than he ever thought possible. Death did that.
“However,” the Vice Admiral went on, holding up a finger, “the science officer retired, too old for a fifteen-year turn. You need to pick one from the approved list. They’re all stationed at the Rome Air Base.” Hallsworth again worked his hand into his pocket and handed over a folded piece of worn paper, and sat down again.
Falco raised an eyebrow, looking at a real piece of paper with lead-smeared writing and exhaled sharply. “Approved list?” He found his chair, leaned back into the old creaking frame, and studied the names and brief bios.
“Made it myself, Jack. At the top is Lieutenant Marks, forty, French and experienced, not to mention—”
“Ensign Holts?” Falco interrupted.
“I guess you could start at the bottom of the list and move up, that’s one method,” Hallsworth grumbled, and grabbed his empty glass, refilled it, leaned over and filled Falco’s glass a finger short of his own.
“She’s an ensign.” Falco looked up from the paper. “Lowest-ranking officer on the list, youngest by five years. Tough, driven I assume?”
“Scrapper out of Brazil’s worst barrio, shaved head and tats to prove it. Damn smart, though. Test scores highest of the bunch, though she’d never admit it.” Hallsworth raised the last liquid remnants to his lips, finished it off, and tapped the empty glass on Falco’s desk. “You are now the youngest captain in the United Nations Navy, though in your current state, you’d never know it.”
Falco threw back the last of his scotch, leaned across the desk, set the glass down, and slid the list back toward Vice Admiral Hallsworth. “Ensign Holts.”
“You’re the captain, and I’ll make the call to Rome.” Hallsworth stood, pointed to the photo with the headline above it. “Lion of Tibet should be arriving where you’re headed about now.” Without another word, Vice Admiral Hallsworth was up and heading to the front door, leaving Falco staring at the wall.
He stood and followed. “Vice Admiral? Pema Tenzin is already en route? To where?”
Hallsworth opened the door, turned. “Not anymore. Should be arriving, Captain. Seems Mr Tenzin had other skills besides grav-fighting. Became quite the engineer, I understand.”
“Vice Admiral, you still have not told me where I’m going for the next fifteen years of my life.”
“The Anam Cara is headed beyond Pluto, to the edge of our solar system. Project OORT133 is nearing completion and will be the United Nations’ greatest achievement. We need you to scout out the reported anomalies around Station Pluto, maybe look into an asteroid field or two that has mining promise.”
“A space station near Pluto’s orbit?” Falco repeated.
“Not just a space station, Captain. Once you get there, it’s your new home,” Hallsworth stated. “Five to get there, five scouting the area, and five back. Fifteen-year turn,” Hallsworth paused, “or so. Should have better tech by then to get your ass home a bit faster. How long you stay depends on what you find.”
“Or don’t find,” Falco added.
“True, but when most of us live to be a hundred-thirty these days, gotta do something, Captain. Either way, Station Pluto should be finished by the time you get there.”
“Anomalies?” Falco was still focused on the mission. He knew that in military jargon, ‘anomalies’ usually were not good for those looking into them.
“Your ears only.” Hallsworth waited.
Falco nodded.
“Couple of rocks keep hitting the station.”
Falco just stared. “You’re sending us out to the edge of our solar system, near the Kuiper Belt, a massive asteroid field, to try to determine where stray chucks of ice and rock hitting the station are coming from?”
“Point taken, Captain.”
Falco noted the emphasis on “Captain” and swallowed hard as Vice Admiral Hallsworth continued.
“You remember the brown dwarf they finally found a few years back? Some data-slug, noticed gravitational pull centuries ago, far beyond Pluto. Latest infrared telescope finally detected it. Named it after his ex-wife, I believe.”
“Yep, named it Nemesis but, sir, brown dwarfs are discovered often. Is there something special about this particular sub stellar object?” Falco shifted his weight.
“It’s thirteen times the mass of Jupiter,” Hallsworth fell silent for a moment, lowered his voice and continued, “and… it’s simply not there. Went towards the Oort Cloud on its normal orbital path and never came out again.”
“Well, then,” Falco said with a shrug, “guess we’ll have something to look for.”
“There’s a bit more to it, Jack. The dark matter or dark fields, seem to have expanded our way in that particular area.” The Vice Admiral raised an eyebrow. “At least that is what our space programs biggest and brightest tell me. I guess that is unusual. The point is, we still have no way of seeing into these areas.”
“Thus, the anomaly classification. Well, sir, I could act like I know why dark matter or fields, or whatever moves the way it moves or I can simply add it to my expanding list of things to read up on prior to scouting it.”
“That’s the spirit, Jack. Now, get your things together and get some shut-eye. Shuttle departs at 0600.” Vice Admiral Hallsworth moved through the front door.
Falco cleared his throat, swallowed the rising emotions. “Vice Admiral… Thank you, sir… I needed a change.”
Hallsworth stopped on the porch, turned around and looked down, dead center into Falco’s glossy eyes. “Beats a bullet to the fucking brainpan, Captain.” Hallsworth leaned in close. “You are special to me, Jack. You’re the best kind of family, the kind I can choose. Everyone falls down, son. Now get back up and get your shit together. Life is for the goddamn living.” Hallsworth closed the door behind him.
Captain Jack Falco started to pack.
3
10.01.2221
Near Kuiper Belt, Outer Solar system
Space Station Pluto
“Screen up. Magnetics. Increase to two point seven five.” Much better, Pema Tenzin thought as his lift-suit clicked hard against the composite panel beneath them. Only two millimeters thick, the MAG-lock strips on the bottom of his boots were lined with thousands of minuscule magnets.
Each was linked together by even smaller circuits that al
l found their way to a processor responsible for keeping him attached to the outer skin of Station Pluto. The new panels that fused together to create the protective skin had only a trace amount of iron in them. Enough iron for the boots to stick and give the panel strength, but not enough to inflate the cost.
‘Local Sherpa becomes GREATEST ENGINEER ever to graduate from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University,’ was the headline on every Chinese newspaper the day Pema received his PhD. Pema stood there, perpendicular to the massive structure with his glorified caulking gun in one hand and a tether attached to his gravity sled in the other.
One of thousands, he thought, pulling their goddamn sleds full of panels. We are nothing more than manual laborers with bigger titles and world-renowned educations. I am no different than my ancestors who slaved away in the Jintan Salt Mine of Jiangsu, or my father who worked himself to an early grave, for a country and people that looked down on him.
All so that I, Pema Tenzin, could get the best education Earth had to offer and become the first in my family to live as a free Tibetan, outside of The People’s influence. He gave his best attempt at a magnanimous gesture with his hands, the caulking gun stealing a little of his thunder.
Pema shuffled a few more steps in his colossal Lift Suit. Size was relative out here in the black. Pluto was the biggest object in view for the moment, but even she grew tired of this bleak part of the outer solar system and moved on as fast as her elliptical orbit would allow. Station Pluto sprawled over four square kilometers and without the Lift Suits, engineers would be hard pressed to cover 100 square meters a day, 125 if they were being paid time and a half.
Lift Suits were twice as tall as a human and twice as wide. “Like being permanently strapped into a clunky human fork lift,” Pema mumbled as his AI screen kicked on with a ‘REPEAT ORDER, DO NOT UNDERSTAND…’
Not being able to utter a word without that ridiculous screen popping up all the time was irritating. He could shut it down, but the AI was another voice in the loneliest of surroundings. Annoying or not, its company was usually welcome and when exhausted, overworked humans made life threatening mistakes… the AI did not. On more than one occasion that voice had overridden Pema’s pending actions and saved his ass.
With all of the ‘brilliant’ engineers housed on this station, you would think one of us could come up with an AI design to replace ourselves. I am a professional caulker, but the robotics in addition to the AI would cost more than a human dragging a grav-sled and everything comes down to the almighty Chinese Yuan.
Africa, Europe and South America spent and borrowed trillions developing clean energy producing technologies. The United Nations searched for the common link between them all and focused their vast resources on one thing, storage.
Their answer came in the form of Lithium Ion Nano-Batteries. The new industry raised the United Nations from the eighth largest economy in the year 2175 to the largest economy by 2195. Batteries were just the product, the nano-technologies and industry behind it were the gold mine.
The power grid as humanity had known it was gone. A small concrete one-room building could now store enough power for a small country, and that was just the beginning. Li-ion Nano-Technology was the new oil boom and the United Nations had all the reserves… for now. Pema refocused on his mundane task.
He reached down, held his glorified caulking gun steady and ran a bead of epoxy around the framework. He grabbed another panel off of the gravity sled and snapped it in place. The edges glowed red and sizzled as the panel fused to the framework, creating a monolithic structure and the most advanced space station in history.
No bolts, moving parts or air gaps. Each piece melted into the others, creating a seamless structure of unsurpassed strength and durability, even in the harshest of environments. And this was the final of the five separate layers.
Pema knew that without his breakthrough in poly-epoxies this station would not exist. He looked up as the glow from Pluto caught his attention. One of Pluto’s moons, Charon, was playing her usual role, trying to steal all of the attention away from her mother with her beautiful silver streaks, but Pluto remained as striking as ever.
The sun’s dim rays seemed to die on her surface, creating a dull silvery glow; a glow that without the face shield enhancers would remain dark shades of gray.
Tibetans had an intimate relationship with Pluto. A bond forged out of shared experience of having your identity stolen and spending lifetimes trying to get it back. Pluto was still a planet to Pema, not a dwarf planet or simply asteroid number 134340.
Again, a smile spread across his face and a peaceful feeling filled his robotic crypt as Pema thought about his friend, Jack Falco, the man who loved Pluto as much as he did.
Station Pluto’s Arrival Log listed the revamped Anam Cara, Captain Falco’s Cyclone Class Scouting Vessel, as ‘refueling and inspections’ before scouting beyond Pluto. That would give Falco at least forty-eight hours of R&R and plenty of time to find the grav-gym and lace up the gloves.
Nothing like sailing through the solar system for five years in and out of hibersleep on an old iron boat to show a person what they were made of. Pema shuddered at the memory of his own five-year voyage not long ago. Station Pluto was a five-star hotel compared to the dilapidated shack near Mars. If only the COMS satellite was fully operational, I would make sure and send a proper welcome, he thought. It will be good to see you again, Falco. It’s been far too long my friend.
The AI came to life, “YOUR SHIFT IS COMPLETE, DOCTOR TENZIN.”
“Thank you. Please run diagnostics then shut down until 0530,” Pema stated with great relief and began the long march towards the entry hatch and a meeting with the decontamination bay. Time for a glass of Chang. After every shift Pema found his Chang the center of attention with the other Tibetan ‘engineers’ on board. But this was not every other shift and tomorrow at 0530 he would begin his new job as Chief Engineer Tenzin and some other caulking jockey would take over his Lift Suit.
While traditional Tibetan Chang was brewed for low alcohol content, Tenzin-Chang, as it was notoriously known throughout the station, was potent. His latest batch had weighed in at over twelve percent. Normally Chang was thick, white and pasty in consistency with an ongoing battle being waged between becoming slightly sweet, sour or downright pungent to the senses.
Twelve percent alcohol made Tenzin-Chang the Tibetan brew of champions and a sought-after commodity, though ‘technically,’ an illegal one. It was smooth, opaque with a dryness that made it drinkable in large quantities, though Pema never poured anyone more than a glass a day. “One can only smuggle in so much millet,” was Pema’s reply when pressured to pour a second glass.
Muted laughter sounded as he stood at the hatch to his quarters. They’ve started without me again. He punched the release. The hatch hissed open and Tibetan Happy Hour commenced.
Finishing the pour, Pema passed the final mug to a happy hand. He squeezed between the well-muscled workers of both sexes, leaned against the bulkhead and gazed through the small porthole of his cramped quarters. “My best batch,” he stated as a simple fact.
Animated conversations lit the room as was the norm when more than one Tibetan was present. Clinking mugs, laughter and heated accounts of the latest news turned into white noise while Pema continued to stare out the small window that was barely larger than his head.
The room slowly quieted, conversations falling to hushed tones and then silence with each face looking towards the porthole.
“They arrived early today,” said Yeshe.
Pema turned towards the familiar voice. He found her the most attractive of all the women on the station. Her long braids and tireless smile were invigorating. But like many Tibetan women, she had chosen enough husbands to fill multiple quarters, including mine, Pema thought wryly. But still he wished she would add him to the group.
“They always arrive cloaked in silence,” stated another voice from the small group.
Pema turn
ed back to the porthole. “The People’s Liberation Navy’s 10th Fleet, they comprise most of the UN’s space navy,” Pema continued, “but whom have they ever liberated?” He continued to blankly stare out the port, as each vessel seemed to bob on their gravity-moorings.
“We are now free. Are we not?” came a voice from behind.
“Are we?” Pema responded. “We sit here, working for the United Nations, which is simply the Chinese-American Union, but we are here because China is here and the Tibetan Nation is afraid to say no to its tyrant neighbor. Tibet gives its best and brightest scholars, scientists and creators, for what? While our country steeps in poverty and chaos.” He tipped the mug back, mumbled at the porthole and turned back to his companions.
“Too much Chang,” came another voice.
“Too much indeed.” Pema sat down between two stout men with similar features to his own. “My cousins, it is good to have family close when we are all so far from home.”
Nods and toothy grins answered, but Pema’s thoughts were still on the floating force of destruction that rested outside his quarters.
“White Tara, mother of Tibet who is closer than my heartbeat, we need your compassion, we need your peaceful ways,” he whispered and returned his gaze to his friends, only to find them reciting the Tibetan mantra of peace, each slowly rocking back and forth as worn malas gently moved through rough hands, one bone or wooden bead at a time. He quietly placed his empty mug on the floor and joined his countrymen in meditation.
4
Approaching Station Pluto
Scouting Vessel, Anam Cara
Captain Jack Falco
“Sheets are in, sir.” Lieutenant Ian Wallace was the lone pilot seated in the nose of the Cyclone Class Patrol Boat.
My favorite four words, Captain Jack Falco thought. The vibration rumbled through his captain’s chair while the solar sail compartment locked a few meters under his feet. “Begin retro-burn, Lieutenant.” He turned toward Commander Azim Shar’ran, “Have the med crew begin to bring the crew out of hibersleep. It takes a few hours to shake it off.”
Darkness: Book One of the Oortian Wars Page 3