Time was ticking. “Fuck unfair, Hal, just get on with that ‘idea’ of yours. I’ll do what I can from here.” Which was, Paul knew, precisely nothing, except perhaps watch through the front windows of the Phoenix while the End of the World played itself out.
There was a sudden commotion behind him. The two robots which normally accompanied Phoenix on her journeys suddenly sprang into life. Machine parts began to flow from output ports at breakneck speed, and new robots were being assembled at an unprecedented rate. A glance at the status panel showed Hal’s processor use at 86% of maximum. Whatever he was doing, it was taking some serious thought.
There was little time, and Hal was direct. “Paul, get your suit on. Now.”
He grabbed the two-part exposure suit and dragged the torso section over his head. Behind him, two dozen robots were crowded into the rear cabin, and more were emerging. “Standby for depressurization.”
Hal moved quickly. As soon as Paul’s suit locks were confirmed, the computer blew the aft airlock and the cluster of robots shot out into space. Paul saw their tiny thrusters began firing, bringing the cluster into a neat group just in front of the Phoenix. And there, they began to build.
The airlock had resealed but there was no word from Hal on what Paul should do next. He hung weightless by the windows, an intense ball of stress in his stomach matching the swarm of confusion in his mind. I’ve finally met my match. And he’s here to play hardball. From the other window, Larssen was still visibly heading into the Vortex, which bustled with ever greater luminous ferocity. Paul knew he had only a minute before Julius was able to bring the Vortex to the right frequency for date-specific time travel to take place; only a supercomputer could handle such immense calculations with such precision. Paul pictured Julius, sitting in that creepy office where they had met, smoking his cigar and waiting for his chance to further shorten his list of Chrono-transgressors.
Suddenly, on the other side, came a burst of light so intense that Paul shielded his eyes with a gasp. Hal’s processor numbers were creeping higher than Paul had ever seen. Then came one last transmission from the supercomputer:
“Get to Earth-moon L1.”
The ship lurched as its engines fired up. Paul quickly struggled into the pilot’s seat and strapped in, watching with amazement as the intense lights up ahead became a… a Vortex? It was tiny compared to the light storm about to engulph the Larssen but Paul recognized the swirling of colors, the boundless volumes of energy… Hal, how did you do it?
The Phoenix lurched once more, the spiraling G-numbers pinning its pilot to the floor, and turned hard into the centre of the Vortex. As it passed 0.1C with a blistering surge of acceleration, the ship plunged into the light storm.
***
Brilliant, beautiful Earth-light shone through the window.
It was completely quiet, without even the voice of Hal or an alarm signal to break the silence. Paul glanced around for a second but could see no sign of Julius’ spacecraft, and there was certainly no storm of lights in space, let alone two of them. Phoenix was in a steady, circular orbit around the Earth. Paul took three slow, deep breaths.
OK. I think we dodged a bullet. He checked to make sure he wasn’t hurt. The G-forces had been intense and he suspected that he had momentarily blacked out. Then he realized that he had no idea what had happened to the Larssen.
The Phoenix looked serene and orderly, especially given the intensity of the journey through the Vortex. Desperate for information, Paul clicked the comms button on the wall of the cabin.
“Hal, you want to give me an update?”
There was silence. Did we fry our communication circuits?
“Hal, whenever you’re ready, I’d just love to talk to you.”
Instead, it was the voice of Phoenix, the ship’s computer. With Hal so readily able to transfer his abilities between locations, Paul hadn’t directly communicated with this comparatively quaint machine since arriving back from Takanli, some twenty years before. It sounded so much more like a robot.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Paul.” he waited for the machine to elucidate. Hal would never have left me hanging like this. Where are you, buddy?
“Phoenix, give me Hal’s current location.”
“Hal is in Wales.” Paul groaned. It was like talking to a toaster. At least the machine had the good sense to get the Phoenix rolling, to provide some gravity.
“And you’re telling me that Wales is presently incommunicado?” Supercomputers detested incompleteness, tardiness or incompetence. Paul felt like a Rolls Royce owner accepting a Hyundai courtesy car from the shop.
“It will be many years before equipment is developed to receive our transmission.”
With a sudden lurch in his gut, Paul knew at once exactly what the computer meant. He knew what Hal had done.
Paul’s world went purple. He lost his footing, gracelessly smacked head-first into the communications panel and knocked himself clean out.
***
He awoke minutes later, covered in blood, floating in zero-gravity in high orbit above an ancient Earth.
“Phoenix for Christ’s sake…” he croaked. “Return to 1-G right now.” Paul had enough problems, what with his racing pulse, bleeding head and total confusion, without also drifting around the cabin like a dust mote. He reached up to touch his bleeding scalp. “And can you do something about this?”
Hal was unavailable, but his medical knowledge had been uploaded in preparation for Paul’s 1967 journey from Takanli. Healing radiation emerged almost at once from transmitter banks on the cabin walls; coagulants stopped the bleeding, and they were followed by encouragements to the cellular repair already begun by Paul’s own system.
He cleaned up and began to take stock. The Earth looked incredible peaceful, rotating serenely. In this relatively high orbit, virtually the whole daylight side of the sphere was visible. As the pain eased, a variety of questions formed in Paul’s mind, but then he doubted whether the dullard computer would even understand them.
He began by repeating the most critical question. “Phoenix, where is Hal?”
There was a long pause, which was maddening in itself. He noticed that his head had just about stopped hurting, but then began to put two and two together, staring out of the window at the slowly rotating Earth. It looked … well… different. Then he remembered how the moron computer had tried to explain how the right technology was not yet available on Earth, or something similar. The sinking, spinning feeling returned.
“Hal is not onboard the Phoenix.”
Paul applauded sarcastically. “Thank you, Sherlock.”
But then, the computer said, “He has instructed you where to meet him. That is all the information I have available.”
Paul quickly thought back to those frantic, final moments before the ship entered the Vortex. Get to Earth-Moon L1. That was all Hal had said. It was cryptic but comprehensible, and it at least provided a place to start.
“Phoenix, could I please have today’s date?”
Another frustrating pause, even longer than before. “I am not able to calculate the date on the Julian calendar. Star positions indicate that we are at a point roughly four point six billion years after the main cohesion events which formed the solar system.”
Paul felt his blood pressure rise. “That’s a little rough, Phoenix,” he said, trying to hold his temper. “Any chance you could tighten that up a smidge?”
“How shall I express it?”
In fucking colored beads, on the floor, for all I care. “How about you tell me the chronological distance between the present moment,” he spelled out with growing exasperation, “and the moment when we went careering into Hal’s shiny, new Vortex?”
This answer came quickly. “Two thousand and seventy years.”
Paul nearly passed out again. “There must be some mistake, Phoenix,” he stuttered. “There’s no way Hal would strand me two thousand years,” the words caught almost biliously in his throat,
“in the past… with no way to get home.”
There was, Paul knew, absolutely no means of producing a new Chrono-Vortex. Two construction robots had remained onboard while their brethren were shot out into space to hurriedly create Hal’s time-traveling light storm. They would certainly be useful, but without Hal, the Vortex was an impossible dream. The onboard computer couldn’t hope to crunch the data, or even comprehend the schematics.
And, still, Paul reflected, adding to his list of problems, the Larssen’s whereabouts remained a mystery.
The computer was chewing on Paul’s last spoken thought. “I do not have sufficient data to answer that question.” Paul had the feeling this would become a repetitive refrain.
“OK, Phoenix.” He took a few more deep breaths. Let’s deal with what we have. “Set a course for Earth-Moon Lagrange Point One.”
The Replicator worked on lunch, Paul double-checked the transfer node for L1, and then he ate in a nervy silence.
***
Chapter 4: Super Courier
USS Paul Revere, North Atlantic
Sunday, January 22nd, 2034
When they really needed to, Tanner reflected wistfully as she gazed out over a sunlit ocean, the Navy really can move fast. Ordered away from its established station in the Atlantic, the huge, powerful hulk of the attack-carrier Paul Revere had turned swiftly eastward and proceeded at full speed to a new operational area some hundred miles south-west of Ireland. And there, Tanner knew, they would await a visitation from space.
Her preparations had begun just moments after the first call from Beasley. While he labored behind the scenes, Tanner boarded a US Navy flight to Iceland, and then all but hijacked an ancient transport plane to get her to the Paul Revere. Not even the slightest delay was permitted; rather than touching down at Shannon airport to refuel, the C-2 Greyhound was met in mid-flight by an automated drone aircraft which topped up the Greyhound’s tanks. That memorable flight, her first aboard a propeller-driven aircraft in her fourteen years in the Air Force, had ended with the firm but reassuring bump of an arrester hook snagging the thick wires which spanned the carrier’s flight deck.
She had spent much of the night in communication with Beasley, her superiors at the Pentagon, Marine Corps higher-ups in California and members of four governments. Exhausted but utterly exhilarated, Tanner leaned contentedly on the rail of an observation platform which towered high above the busy maintenance crews on the deck below. She found she was still astounded by the scale of the ship, even after her trip to Dvalin. Paul Revere was so huge that a month-long, major war could be launched from her decks. Below lurked three dozen of the Navy’s newest tactical fighter-bombers, sleek black jets designed for all-weather penetration and target destruction. They had seen little action, Tanner reminded herself, since the recent outbreak of peace. There was scant need to fight for resources when much of the world finally had all that it needed to flourish.
And besides, Tanner smiled to herself, today’s mission was not one of war. It was, the historians might note, a ‘logistics’ mission, but one with many unique features. One which was likely to cement her name in the annals of Naval history. The 32-year old major grunted slightly. Don’t get carried away, Navy. We’re just borrowing a couple of your planes. This, make no mistake, is an United States Air Force operation.
Ah, no, she reminded herself. ‘Air and Space Forces’. It was a cumbersome new title but there was no escaping the core influence of space operations on modern battle planning. Ever since the 1991 Gulf War, satellite and unmanned technologies had threatened to overshadow, and then ultimately replace, old-fashioned, boots-on-the-ground military might. First was the Predator drone, then Global Hawk, and then a fleet of successors with ever-increasing abilities. She had written a paper, just after completing her Masters at Georgetown, warning against the trend towards autonomous, unmanned planes with the authority to attack without first consulting the centralized command structure. Although she deliberately (for reasons of career preservation) kept the word ‘Terminator’ out of her conclusions, there was the unshakeable sense that the machines would, inevitably, generate self-interest and objective priorities. She simply posed the question: What do we do when they begin to think for themselves?
In 2034, though, the very question seemed anachronistic. The drone which had refueled their lumbering prop-plane over Ireland had done so entirely on its own authority; it had recognized the need for fuel, headed in their direction, organized the hook-up and helped them on their way. And now, as she waited, another automated craft was aloft, shedding speed as it approached for what would surely be another perfect carrier landing. This one, though, had come much further to join the ship, and it promised to kick-start this vital mission.
Klaxons sounded and a flight-deck quickly cleared. From the west, a small, black shape emerged out of the middle-distance, losing altitude as it oriented itself carefully on the carrier’s central line. Thin landing gear struts poked abruptly from its underside. To Tanner, they seemed far too flimsy to support such a powerful aircraft. She watched as the machine banked slightly, then pitched up, its nose raising steeply to shed the final few knots of speed. Then it thumped down on the deck, momentarily hidden by a cloud of steam and brake smoke.
Tanner took in the sight. It was hard to say, on first encountering the F-51 Seadart, whether it was a flying machine, designed for slicing aerodynamically through the atmosphere, or some new kind of torpedo. She was reminded of her first glance at an old SR-71 Blackbird at the Smithsonian; this craft, sixty years its junior in design, seemed able to persuade the atmosphere simply to ignore its existence. When it reached its cruise speed, air flowed over its super-sleek, black surfaces, offering only the tiniest resistance to its flight. The F-51’s wings, no more than stubby protrusions from either side of its fuselage, were remarkably flexible. As the craft cooled on the deck and flight crews in protective suits carefully approached its steaming fuselage, the two winglets bent into a supple, curled shape, then relaxed back to their swept-back, straight-edged configuration. A moment later, they folded seamlessly into the fuselage.
“Poly-graphite alloy.” It was a male voice behind her, one which was full of admiration. “Strong as a tank, flexible as a soft-screen.” He whistled quietly, stepping forward to join Tanner at the rail and gaze down at the Seadart. “Is this your first time?”
Tanner quizzically looked over this unshaven, middle-aged arrival. His old-school flight suit, patched up during years of service, and his unkempt appearance, answered many of Tanner’s initial queries. Old school Navy aviator, straight from Central Casting. “First time for what?”
His eyes met hers. “First moment with the F-51?” he clarified. And then, seeing the insignia of rank on her shoulders, “Erm… I mean to say, is this your first eyes-on with the Seadart, major?”
She straightened her back slightly at the reminder of her rank. “Yes, as matter of fact. It’s quite a machine.”
“Sure is.” They observed in silence for a while as the flight crews, finally able to actually touch the craft as it continued to cool, erected a mobile housing which canopied the spaceplane’s mid-section.
“It’s too big to take below,” he explained. “But notice how the decks have been cleared. Essential personnel only.”
Tanner nodded. “So, you’re essential, right?”
He smiled. “Rob Mackie,” he said, extending a hand. “I believe we share a mutual acquaintance. Perhaps more than one?”
“Major Evelyn Tanner,” she began. “Actually, if we’re both here, and both allowed to see that thing, Evelyn’s probably just fine.” They shook hands cordially. “Nice to work with you, Rob. I wonder which acquaintances you mean?”
Rob pulled out a pack of cigarettes from a deep pocket in the leg of his flight suit. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Wow. Enough already with the grizzled, maverick dinosaur act. I get it. “Not at all.”
Rob lit up, exhaled with that intense gratification k
nown only to a smoker who has, for reasons of flight regulations, been deprived for sixteen hours, and tapped ash into the oncoming breeze. “Well I suspect that Senator Beasley is a friend of yours,” he asked rather redundantly; most of the world’s school children could name members of the team which had so historically joined Paul on the Dvalin asteroid. But no one could explain quite why Paul had left so suddenly, and only his closest friends knew of his whereabouts.
“The senator is a good friend,” she confirmed with a smile. “And I’d bet my pension that you know all about our visitor here. Including what she’s carrying,” she said, motioning down to the spaceplane.
“Oh, we’ve met a number of times. In fact, I was one of the first to fly her, back in ’28,” he confided with a certain glimmer of pride. “I can’t wait to take her for another spin. Really see what she can do.”
As he spoke, technicians worked quickly on the Seadart. Under the white canopy, her twin payload bay doors were opened, allowing the crew to begin unloading procedures. “You know I’m a historian,” she began – Mackie nodded, having read her file on the flight over from Patuxent River, Maryland – “so I like to take the long view.” Mackie smoked in a contended quiet, watching and listening. “Two hundred years ago, it took months to get a letter across the Atlantic, from door to door. Then, a century ago, you could make the flight in three days, if you didn’t mind the noise. And now, this.”
Mackie saw her point, and never failed to be impressed. The F-51 had originated, only an hour earlier, at Camp Pendleton, California. Its cargo had been undergoing integration testing with the Marines, who were slated to buy dozens of the high-tech, classified machines, but this prototype, one of six, was hastily pulled out of testing and flown to the Camp’s airbase. Within moments of the prototype’s arrival at Pendleton, the F-51 itself arrived, and the cargo was speedily loaded on board while the spaceplane was refueled. Once readied, the unlikely pairing headed for the end of the runway, where the spaceplane’s big air-breathing engines lit once more to carry it straight into space.
Clarion: The Sequel to Voyage (Paul's Travels) Page 6