by E. N. Abel
''You think they are sincere?'' Reyd sounded doubtful.
''Absolutely.'' Mike nodded. ''Where do they want us?''
''The message contains a set of GPS coordinates; it looks like Cape Canaveral.''
''Naturally.'' Turning to the other side of the control board, he said: ''Navigation.''
''Captain?'' Marlene, still on duty from the supply run, had listened to the exchange. She gave her lover a quick smile.
''Plot a course to Cape Canaveral.'' Mike paused a moment, considering. ''Low energy route, please. No sense in wasting antimatter.''
''Yes, sir.'' This time there was no sting behind the Sir. ''Two minutes.''
''Helm?''
Acar was also still at his station: ''Sir?''
''How about visiting the National Space Administration?''
''Good idea, sir. Aborting old course ... swinging into orbit.''
Simone stared at him: ''Orbit? Are you serious? At this distance? We are half-way to the Moon!''
''Yes,'' Acar smiled. ''But the Moon is farther out and also in an orbit around Earth.''
''Never looked at it that way ...''
''Well,'' Acar replied, turning to her: ''Looks like we have to throw a few old concepts over board, as we are turning into homo universicus ...'' He laughed.
''Course plotted,'' Marlene suddenly announced.
''Grabbing it ... course set.'' Acar looked closer at the data: ''Wow, Leni, nice one.'' Then, to his Captain: ''Low energy trajectory as ordered. ETA four hours fifty minutes.''
Next Mike addressed his COM officer: ''Reyd, call NORAD and Voyska PVO; tell them where we are going. And inform NASA about the ETA.''
''Yes, sir.''
Simone giggled: ''That will keep them busy. I bet they never had a ship coming in from the Moon with such short notice.'' She looked at Mike: ''What are you planning next?''
''The Captain plans to take a nap.'' Looking at his pilot, he went on: ''Acar, the bridge is yours.''
''Helm has the bridge,'' echoed, as Michael stepped into the lift, pushing off upwards, hoping for two hours of sack time.
Chapter 89
Cape Canaveral
Friday, 25.11.2016
The landing zone at the GPS coordinates was marked clearly; a spot about a hundred meters in diameter had a huge white X painted on it. Marlene's flight data had been close to perfect: Acar only needed to apply the micro-adjustment of a few meters above the landing pad.
Now they were hovering a good ten meters above the place and slowly descending. The news of the approaching craft had obviously spread like wildfire: dozens of NASA personnel were visible on the bridge's main screen, standing at a respectful distance, smart-phones ready, waiting for the golden ball to come to a halt.
Acar finally announced: ''Landing procedure complete.''
''Deflector shield now down,'' Defence shouted from her place, sounding uneasy. Nasrinda Ghan, the ship's second Defence officer and Muller's watch replacement, had been reducing the force field carefully from its standard diameter of three miles in space to the decreasing altitude. This way the ship was protected against incomings on one hand, and did not endanger people and buildings at the landing site on the other. The deflector field was still coarse technology and inherently dangerous: at full force it could disintegrate anything - even grind massive steel constructions to molecular dust.
Defence completed her announcement: ''Combat computer is online.'' Meaning her computer would fire up the shielding in a few milliseconds if anything approached faster than a flying duck or she lifted her hand off the dead-man's switch.
''Nas,'' Mike laughed, ''Please don't pulverize some idiot just because he's coming over to us a bit too fast. Would be a gross waste of energy.''
''Not to worry boss,'' Ralf Snider, leader of their small security detachment, called up from the docking bay: ''We'll shoot him first.'' That caused some laughter on the bridge, but Marlene flinched slightly: the humour of the ex-soldiers was a bit too crude for her taste.
''Security detail ready,'' came from down below.
''Defence, prepare a grav trap of eight G's, radius two hundred meters. Just in case someone gets stupid ...''
''Yes, Captain.''
''Helm?''
''All set for emergency take-off, finger on the button,'' the pilot stated, referring to his own dead-man's switch. ''You be careful now, Lieutenant!''
''Will do, my friend. Now, is everybody wearing a quantum communicator?'' Mike waved a headset like the one Ellie had used. ''Good, then the bridge can hear us. OK people, let's go see what they want.'' Mike turned to the lift, shouted downwards: ''Ralf, have a look. Guns on safe, please. This is not dune country, so let's not scare the natives ...''
''Yes, sir. Guns on safe,'' Snider replied at once. ''Air lock open, ready to disembark.'' Then, after a few seconds, the command: 'Landing party: go' followed. His men jumped out first, drifted down the grav lift, immediately followed by Snider. The landing party touched ground, then quickly formed a circle around the zero-G zone, faces turned outward. Watchful, but the assault rifles behind their back. A moment later their Captain drifted down, joining them.
NASA obviously had expected that their guests would not be willing to leave the landing site and rather opt for a short stay. As soon as Mike and his detail were standing on the pad, two plain, elderly men and an attractive mid-aged woman, apparently all three higher admin personnel, broke away from the group of watchers and approached the party.
''Gentlemen, welcome,'' one of the suits proclaimed, waiving his arms. ''I am Fred Dearing, head of the planning department. This,'' he turned to the woman, ''is Dr Nora Coleman, project manager of Mars-One. You know: the first manned Mars mission in 2030. And the gentleman here is Dr Matthew Carter, our chief engineer of Mars-One.''
A short murmur and nodding followed, acknowledging the introduction, then Mike came to the point: ''Madam, Gentlemen, currently we prefer not to stay too long in one place on Earth. I'm sure you understand. So what do you want from us?''
That was a bit abrupt for the three, and the first to catch his breath was the chief engineer: ''We do understand, sir. Nobody likes ICBMs shot at them. Now, we would like to ask whether you would be willing to transport our brand-new transmitter to the Moon. It's a prototype for long distance remote control systems via maser beams. And before we pack it into our next Mars probe, we would definitely like to run a field test - the Moon would be perfect for that.''
''Where on the Moon?''
''Anywhere on our side would be sufficient. As you surely know: with maser technology we need line-of-sight.''
''How do I know you won't ...''
''Slip you a bomb? Or a device attacking your computers?'' Carter laughed. ''Of course you have no reason to trust us, especially after that unfortunate incident at Spangdahlem. But maybe you can trust someone else.'' He looked at his watch: ''Due to the short notice the gentleman couldn't meet us on time, but he'll join us any minute now.''
Mike didn't like this, neither the man nor the delay. The unfortunate incident, caused by an American soldier suffering from Suicide-Bomber-Syndrome and having been put into the assault team by people like this desk jockey, had claimed Ellie's life and cost him his beloved wife.
Nora Coleman, sensing that something was wrong, quickly stepped in and addressed Mike. ''If I may ask: what are your next plans? I mean your plans towards space flights.''
''Well,'' Mike replied, conceding, ''the Moon is dead, and we have no intention of lingering there for long, so the next logical stop is Mars.''
''Do you want to establish a permanent base there?''
Mike laughed. ''Madam, we are twenty people. How could we set up a permanent base anywhere?''
''You could always come back and bring more people ... how long would you need for such a journey?''
''To Mars?'' Mike scratched his forehead. ''It's a bit over two hundred twenty million kilometers away now. So, through normal space, a little over a day, one way.''
<
br /> That made the three NASA experts gasp: ''One day?''
''More or less. The sub-light drive assembly, if wanted, can push the ship to the speed of light. Just a question of antimatter waste.''
''My God,'' Fred Dearing exclaimed. ''So when are you going?''
''You mean to Mars? I don't know. Our Super-light drive doesn't work yet, and we haven't come to a decision on whether to do it now with the sub-light or wait till the super-light is available.''
''But one day ...''
''The super-light just needs one second.''
''Seriously?'' Dr Matthew Carter asked disparagingly.
''Yes.'' Mike looked into his eyes. ''seriously. Travelling through a worm hole takes no time in real space.''
''I can't imagine ...'' Carter sputtered, only to be slapped down by his counterpart.
Pointing to the hovering sphere Mike acidly said: ''Could you imagine that? On your landing pad - today? And while we are speaking of it: why is it floating? ... don't know?'' He paused shortly. ''Maybe you can at least tell me the seven determining properties of a sub-space threshold?'' He waited for a moment, and when no answer came, went on in a very sarcastic tone.
''Oh - you don't know what a sub-space threshold is? Or a sub-space at all? Then we should ask your Professor Harold G. White, you know, the physicist from your Advanced Propulsion Physics Laboratory. Hasn't he been trying to build a super-light drive based on a space-time distortion? Since ... 2010? If he's even close to establishing a stable warp field, he will know the answers to my questions.''
That was below the belt; everybody in the Science community knew that NASA had burned a billion on that project, but was still light-years away from any success.
''He doesn't know either? How sad. But we do. So you better quit acting as if you're talking to an idiot.'' After a moment of embarrassed silence, Mike went on: ''But frankly, what would we want on Mars? It's an uninhabitable heap of rubble and rusty sand with only forty percent Earth gravity. It will take a few thousand years of terra forming until you are able to breathe without an air mask. And for what? That planet is just good enough as a stop-over to make some emergency repairs. Maybe stash some of the hidden water supplies your guys suspect there, or squeeze some oxygen out of its thin atmosphere.''
Again the NASA managers had no answer. Finally Nora Coleman spoke up, switching tracks: ''OK, I understand that Mars is not of any real interest to you, but it is to us. So would you be willing to transport material and staff to Mars for the United States?''
That was the move Mike had anticipated. He laughed: ''Why? In four to six weeks CERN will publish our work. The US government, and a few, selected others, will get a prior release with a data set containing far more than the public version. I guess Kaiser will release that as soon as he's confident we didn't slip him a dud. And with your resources you can easily build your own gravic space ships within a year. Far better and bigger ones than ours.''
''Yes, we heard that from CERN. But see, if everybody gets the data at the same time ...''
Mike needed a moment, then got it: ''Oh, now I understand: you fear other nations will reach Mars before you do - and then claim it for their government.''
''I wouldn't put it exactly that way,'' Dr Coleman replied in a reserved tone, ''but yes, that's a major concern. See, up to now we have been ahead ...''
''Ahead of what?'' Mike interrupted roughly. ''Of putting five poor souls on a hostile world with an unbreathable atmosphere and horrific sand storms - after a five hundred day travel through micro-meteorites and solar outbreaks?''
''Well, that's the latest tech ...''
''As of today, Ma'am,'' Mike said lightly, ''that latest technology is obsolete. History. Let me give you a quick example of what I mean: how much does your featured Mars mission cost?''
The answer came proudly: ''Around forty billion dollars.''
''Now turn around, please. What do you see?''
Nora Coleman turned, visibly angered about being patronised. ''Your ... ship.''
''That, Dr Coleman, is a not a ship, that's a balloon. A blown up weather balloon, converted into a hollow sphere with the help of a few hundred layers of varnish, a few gallons of fibre-glass fabric and a few hundred gold plated aluminium rescue-blankets. With cameras glued on the surface and a cheap tourist-boat type radar, also glued on.'' Mike made movements as if sticking something into his open hand.
''Built in an old aircraft shelter by forty brave souls, and none of them had done anything like this before. The most experienced specialist was our model airplane builder. Total cost, complete with computers, antimatter reactor, converter bank, several antigrav units, one intra-solar and one interstellar space drive - exactly as it's hovering there: one-point-three million Euros.'' He bent forward to her. ''And if we push that little ball, it can reach the speed of light within a day - in normal space.'' He sounded a bit agitated now. ''So for the price of one of your Mars missions we could put 30769 interstellar exploration missions on their way. How about you?''
That statement caused a longer pause in the discussion and there was silence for a minute. Then Dearing tried a different approach, pulling the patriot card.
''Sir, you are an American citizen. You have obligations towards your nation! Is it really that difficult for you to stand up for your country? To help the US reach Mars first?''
Ralf Snider, positioned behind Mike and seeing his comrade turn pale, immediately knew a vicious retort would follow. He stepped in.
''Sir,'' he said grimly, leaning towards Dearing, ''do you have any idea who you are talking to? Or what we have given for this country - our country?'' Dearing seemed to be clueless, so Snider went on: ''Didn't anybody brief you on our history beforehand? Because if no one did you better step back now, sir, and quickly. And if someone did brief you: fuck you, sir - you and the rest of your gang.''
As if corresponding to a secret command, the hands of the guard detail moved towards their backs, to the guns. In the sphere, Defence sat upright, moved her finger closer to the 'trigger' of the grav trap and felt her left hand on the dead man's switch. Acar's was steady on his.
Fred Dearing looked like he had been slapped, gasping for words, turning to his fellows for help. Nora Coleman, having registered the reaction of the sphere's guards and feeling the situation spinning out of control, rushed to her colleague's rescue. She leaned forward. ''What is your concern, gentlemen? All we ask is to put a few people up there first. Our people. Your people. Americans. Like you are.''
''To claim Mars for the US?'' was the acid retort.
''No, actually we think that's impossible,'' Coleman replied, smartly. ''At least in the long run. Especially now, after you have thrown your research at the Europeans, into their CERN's lap. In the hope they distribute it to everyone - which they'll probably do. So in ten or so years there will be a multitude of spaceships rushing through the Solar System. Exclusive ownership of a whole world in such a context will neither be enforceable nor defendable.'' She waited a moment to emphasise her statement. ''But on Mars we want to be first, claim some of the more interesting pieces for us.''
This brought what Mike had anticipated all this time into the open and he had his answer ready. Pointing back over his shoulder, he replied: ''Madam, in that ball behind me twenty-one people are working closely together as a team - and they are from fourteen different nations and have eight religions. There are over twenty nationalities within our complete workforce - about forty individuals.
''They only have three attributes in common: they are human, highly educated and dedicated to our little cause. And only our joint effort and the collective intellect of these people have made this ship possible.'' He paused shortly, then went on.
''Our super-light drive is not working yet, there seems to be a flaw in the theoretical underpinning. We don't believe it to be something fundamental, just a minor glitch, but our best theoretician couldn't find it. A woman is sitting in that sphere at this moment, brooding over massive equations an
d trying to find that glitch for us. We forced her from her government, as a hostage, a price for their ICBM attack. The girl is a Chinese national, a convinced communist and a Chinese Army officer, sworn to protect her country. You may have heard of her case.''
Dr Coleman nodded silently.
''Besides that she's also a brilliant computer scientist with the highest IQ we've ever encountered,'' Mike went on, ''and a very decent human, one of the better inhabitants of this world. After we explained our plans and goals to her and told her about her options, she decided to stay on board and work for us, with us.
''With us, a tiny multinational band of dreamers who wants nothing less than to reach another star and on the way develop a technology that opens interstellar travel to all mankind; make colonization of other inhabitable worlds feasible and affordable. She recognised our endeavour as a worthy objective and volunteered to contribute her genius mind.
''That is the secret behind our past successes and that's why we will succeed in the future. My suggestion: set up a joint mission, with all the bigger powers participating. Select a multinational team and I, Captain of that ship behind me, will order these people to be ferried over to Mars, and my crew will comply. But if you want Americans only, I'll ask my crew first, let them vote on it.''
''Is that your last offer?'' Dr Coleman asked in a stinging voice.
''No, I have an even bigger one. See, that data material CERN possesses now involves two main technologies: antigravitation and antimatter production - and design patterns describing how to use them safely. These enable you to build interplanetary spacecrafts that can reach the speed of light, LS1. But the data does not contain any information on the star drive itself - that wasn't part of the deal.
''So here is my offer, the offer of our whole group to all mankind: form an international body for space exploration, controlled by all interested countries. Fund it generously, start exploring the Solar System and in the end we will share our secret and open a way to the stars for you all.