by A. K. DuBoff
Stifling a string of curses, Paul drifted toward the cockpit. The young scientist’s lilting laughter chased him. When he got to the airtight hatch that leads into the cockpit, he paused.
Holding his breath, Paul turned the wheel, and the door slid silently open. He took in the sleek lines of his terminal. This was a far cry from the ugly, yet functional, aesthetic of the Z-480’s exterior. Most of the terminals surrounded the pilot in a u-shape, lined with buttons, gauges and numerous toggle switches. The navigator’s station was similarly situated. Computer terminals in a u-shape pattern surrounded it. The electronics were hardened for durability and looked deliciously modern.
Every available space in the rest of the tight cockpit was lined with dashboards, buttons, toggles, and switches. Numerous lights were sprinkled around, making the compartment resemble a schizophrenic Christmas tree.
Half of those buttons and switches are probably just for visual effect, he thought.
Floating deeper into the cockpit, Paul sat in the cushioned seat, strapped himself in, and pulled out the checklist so he could begin the pre-flight inspection. It went smoothly; every system checked out and passed the multi-step validation process. This was vastly different than anything he’d ever done, and the Marine Corps Test Pilot Program had put him into the cockpit of dozens of hanky fliers.
This is one complicated shuttle. Will the three-week build-up give me enough time to learn the system? he wondered.
Crushing his doubts, Paul focused on his success. He’d spent time in every other space-worthy craft in the United States’ arsenal. When you absolutely had to have the best pilot in the world to test your new craft, you called him. That wasn’t just his pride talking, his reflexes and flight knowledge routinely tested well above the norms for pilots half his age.
This bird was the exception, though, so classified that no information was released before he accepted the assignment. Only his desire to complete the circuit of available experimental craft made him risk the Z-480. He wanted closure before a promotion forced him to take a desk job in DC. Were it not for that, he’d never have given this project the green light.
While he was finishing his pre-flight checks, Horovitz drifted in and strapped himself into the navigator’s seat. Paul turned and frowned. “Tell me again how this works?”
“Well, sir, the Mixon Drive works off the principles of the Alcubierre mathematical equation. It states that—”
“No, no, no… give it to me, Barney style. Try again; tell me how it works?” Paul asked.
“Basically, sir, Doctor Mixon solved the energy issues that had relegated the Alcubierre Warp Drive to the realm of science fiction. We started with the assumption that—”
“Stop! Break it down for me simply! Use the KISS Method,” Paul demanded.
“I’d forgotten that you were a Marine,” Horovitz quipped.
“And that Athena International has this project so classified that I couldn’t study the bird before I got here!”
“Right, sorry about that. Once you clear the orbital station’s air space, you and your crew will accelerate toward the outer solar system. When you reach the appropriate coordinates, push the red button. It engages the warp coils, which builds up the energy needed for the jumps,” Horovitz said.
“Remind me,” Paul asked abruptly. “How do I tell it where to go?” If he is going to treat me like an idiot, let him explain it all!
“Enter the preset coordinates we’ve given you. It should stop you from crashing into some rogue planet’s gravity well,” Horovitz said confidently.
“How do I know I won’t smash into something like a micrometeorite that’s waiting for me at this preset location?” Paul asked.
“Cross your fingers?” came the sheepish reply.
“In that case, maybe you should go with me, in case anything goes wrong,” Paul replied, halfway serious.
“Do I look like some crazed maniac?” Horovitz asked incredulously. “I’m not an idiot. I won’t risk my life on some untested scientific contraption! That’s why God gave us idiots… I mean Marine test pilots!”
Paul ignored the scrawny scientist, poring over his flight plan before the launch window later that day.
“I’m signing off on the Z-480, are you?”
“Roger, all systems are green,” Horovitz replied.
“And the Mixon Drive?” Paul asked.
“Affirmative. And no… I won’t let you see for yourself,” Horovitz replied.
“Will one of my crew have the security clearance for it, then?”
“Yes, we’re training the navigator as we speak. They’ll be ready to go in three weeks, fully up to speed. Now, let’s report back to the hangar boss and upload the AIs. Then we should be ready for your launch sims,” Horovitz said.
“Good, let’s exit this bird and get some food. Don’t want to train on an empty stomach.”
A siren alert blared from every speaker on the orbital station. Whatever Horovitz might’ve said in reply was lost under the oppressive weight of the sound. Wait, that can’t be right, he thought. That’s a combat alert. We’re not even at war! Reaching over, he muted the siren and pulled up the ship’s sensors. They were tied into the base’s computer network, letting him see everything that the orbital base ops knew.
“Z-480, this is Control Tower 1. Do you copy?” the strained voice of the flight control operator asked.
“Roger, what’s going on here?” Paul demanded.
“We’re under attack!” the flight control operator said.
“Who’s attacking?” Paul asked.
“China. They surprised us—bombed our embassies!”
“Calm down. Now, repeat it slowly,” Paul said, trying to soothe the distraught tower control operator.
“We’re under attack! Four embassies are gone! They even hit the Canadian embassy! Who the hell bombs the Canucks?” asked the hysterical operator.
“Are we sure it’s even the ChiComs and not some terrorist group?” Paul asked.
“Ye… yeah, I triple checked the incoming feed. This was a combined arms attack; the Chinese Communists planted the flag and everything,” said the operator.
“Okay, relax. Just give me an update,” ordered Paul.
“They’ve launched multiple sorties at our location. At Phoenix Station. There are nine flights of HuoLong’s inbound!” the flight control operator said, almost hyperventilating.
“Say again, HuoLongs? Those are the Space Dragons; they’re just unarmed merchant shuttles,” Paul said calmly. “You’re overreacting.”
“Those shuttles have opened fire on some of our satellites. Confirmation enough?”
“Okay, think this one through. The Chinese wouldn’t violate our non-aggression pact,” Paul said.
“By firing on the satellites as they advance, they’ve already violated the 2024 Space Disarmament Treaty! Orders have come in Colonel. They want you to launch now before it’s too late!” the flight control operator screamed, finally giving way to hysteria.
“I don’t have a crew. I also don’t have the navigator or engineer AI uploaded yet,” Paul replied steadily, hoping to calm the civilian operator. “I can’t launch blind.”
“Cooley, this is Colonel Geller. Launch with Doctor Horovitz. The Chinese don’t want us to get the first FTL engine; they’re actively trying to sabotage the launch. Go!” the base commander ordered.
“We can’t. We don’t have the AIs on board,” Horovitz interrupted.
“Launch or die. Your call, Doctor. Colonel Cooley, you have your orders,” Colonel Geller said.
“Roger,” Paul said.
“Godspeed,” Colonel Geller replied.
Turning to look at the frightened young scientist, Paul spoke quietly. “We’ll be okay. We’re going to be gone before the ChiComs, get here.”
Ignoring the frightened response from Doctor Horovitz, Paul began initializing the Z-480. In record time, the shuttle disengaged its clamps and freed itself from the metallic arm. As he rota
ted the shuttle’s orientation, the hangar bay doors of the base began to open slowly. The well-lit bay darkened, exposing the inky voids beyond.
“The good thing about Phoenix Station being in the Lagrange Point past the moon… quicker launches,” Paul said.
“Entering the coordinates now,” Horovitz said, ignoring the pilot’s random musing. “Initiate thrust and head toward the preset jump coordinates.”
A quick flick of the toggle engaged the modified Fusion Torch Drive, gently pushing the shuttle toward the outer galaxy. He watched his orb of origin get progressively smaller in his scanner window, trying to ignore the fleet of Chinese shuttles headed in their direction.
“They’re getting closer,” Paul warned Horovitz. “Preparing to initiate evasive maneuvering. You better adjust on the fly!”
“Just hold it steady,” Horovitz said.
Ignoring the scientist’s hissed reply, Paul focused on the sensors in front of him. The Z-480 lacked weapons sensors, but he could see the flashes of light from the rail guns being fired by the HuoLong directly behind his shuttle. Twitching his hand gently, he adjusted course.
“Hold steady, damnit,” Horovitz snapped, not looking up from his console.
“Trying not to die is priority one. They’re shooting at us,” an exasperated Paul said in reply.
“Hold this course. I’ll recalculate,” said Horovitz.
Cursing, Paul held the stick and tried to resist the urge to nudge the Z-480 off course again. I’d kill for some missiles. Who thought a one-sided disarmament treaty was a good idea, anyway?
“Hold it for a few moments longer,” Horovitz begged.
Paul stared at the sensor array, willing the enemy fighters to give up. He missed Horovitz’s request, only registering his words when the young man screamed.
“Engage Mixon Drive now!” Horovitz said.
Paul flipped open the cover and hit the red button.
At first, nothing happened. HuoLong shuttles were firing at them again as they adjusted to the Z-480’s new trajectory—then he was slammed back into his seat.
Staring out the forward window, he saw streaks of light speeding past faster than his eyes could process the data. Their location folded in on itself. Everything was slightly out of sync. He couldn’t focus. Looking over at his navigator, he tried to determine which one of them was Horovitz.
Nausea hit first, then dizziness. Paul couldn’t feel his fingers and electrical currents tingled along every synapse. It was worse than his last bout with vodka. That night of degeneracy, when he’d celebrated the promotion of his Annapolis roommate, didn’t compare to what he was experiencing at the moment. All of the illness without the drunken debauchery.
“Please be real. Please be real,” Horovitz chanted.
Huh, I can hear him clearly. Slightly hollow tonality, but the vocal distortion is minimal. “It’s real,” Paul said. “Now what?”
“The AI will coordinate with the engine, and it’ll drop us off at the programmed coordinates. Now, we wait,” Horovitz said excitedly, his fear forgotten.
The lights flashing across the cockpit window were nauseating. Paul closed his eyes, trying not to puke. Time seemed to slow as they waited, though the internal chronometer said mere minutes had passed.
“Get ready for it!” Horovitz shouted, breaking the pregnant pause.
Nothing seemed to happen—until he looked out the window and realized he was in another star system.
Retch.
“Grab the vomit—” Horovitz started.
Blargh.
“That slipping through space was no joke,” Paul said, wiping the drool from his lips. Glad I had my helmet off.
“It’s a warp bubble,” Horovitz replied as he tried to avoid the floating blobs of vomit. “Now clean this puke up!”
Cleaning fluids from a zero-g environment was tedious, but ultimately Paul was able to scoop it all up while the shuttle analyzed their surroundings.
“Before we jump home, let’s do another maintenance check,” Paul said as he stowed the bag of puke globules in the refuse container.
“First, we need to figure out where we are,” Horovitz said, almost giggling.
“We’re in Alpha Centauri, quit joking around.”
“That’s where we were supposed to be going,” Horovitz said, “but look around you. Does anything you’re seeing match the star charts we studied?”
“Oh…,” Paul said, his voice trailing off.
Turning back toward the cockpit window, Paul looked at the bright orb that was the system’s star. Except there was only one, not the expected binary stars of Alpha Centauri. Wherever they were, it was a system with a red dwarf star and several planets. Not that that narrowed down the possibilities much; the universe was full of red dwarves.
“Okay, while you figure this out, I’ll go check the engines,” Paul said.
Unbuckling, Paul drifted up from the seat and twisted his body, so he was facing the rear of the shuttle. He pushed off the back of the chair with his boot, hands outstretched to grab the sealed hatch. Twisting the spin-wheel handle, he opened the door and shoved off the wall toward the engine compartment. Along the way, he checked every system to verify the Z-480 was still flight-worthy.
When he reached the engine compartment, Paul entered and checked all the terminals for any anomalous readings. Then, he began running the diagnostics sweep of all the computer systems several times before he was satisfied. He checked each diagnostic panel, searching for any red LED warning lights. When he found none, he ran another check of the computer’s software.
After the computer told him that everything was good, Paul then physically checked each system he had access to. He couldn’t enter the compartment that held the modified Fusion Torch Drive, the radiation would’ve killed him, but he verified everything else in the engine compartment before he was satisfied.
“Either get me into the compartment with the Mixon Drive or check it for yourself,” Paul yelled to Horovitz.
There was no answer, so Paul repeated himself.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I’m coming.”
The young scientist headed straight toward the sealed hatch that housed the Mixon Drive. “Get back. This is still classified,” he snapped.
Not bothering to restrain himself, Paul let loose a string of vulgarities that caused the young scientist to blanche a new shade of pale.
“The answer is still no,” Horovitz said grimly.
Paul glided back to the cockpit, leaving a string of obscenities in his wake. When he reached the pilot’s console, he strapped back in and began checking every system. As he was initiating the third sweep through the computerized maintenance interface, Horovitz drifted into the cockpit.
“It’s broke… the lower coolant pump’s completely fused, and magnetic guides eight through to ten have buckled. It’s a mess. A damn mess. God, we’re screwed.” Horovitz said dully.
“So… fix it,” Paul said, his voice calm despite the sinking feeling in his gut.
“Without the right spares, we’re trapped here.” Horovitz answered, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Okay?”
“We didn’t bring any spares,” replied Horovitz.
“Then jerry-rig something! You’re a damned—”
Wah-wah-wah!
The blaring siren cut Paul off. He was unable to focus through the screeching sound, leaving whatever thought he’d had to drift away.
“Turn that siren off. Wait… what was that siren for?” Paul asked.
“Let me check,” Horovitz said slowly as he silenced the alarm.
While the young scientist scrolled through several menu screens, Paul stared into the abyss of space. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glimmer of something. Cocking his head, he tried to see it again, to no avail.
“There’s something weird out there,” Paul said, warily pointing toward where he’d seen the strange flickering of light.
“I know,” Horovitz whispe
red, slumping back in his chair.
“How?” Paul asked, his voice harsher than he’d intended.
“That’s what the alarm was. NASA added a contingency alert for any molecules that didn’t occur naturally,” Horovitz said, his voice strained.
“What did they want us to do about it?” Paul demanded.
“Scan it for later review. Last night, we upgraded the sensor suite on the Z-480. Those sensors should give us a better idea of what this is, but what good is that information without a working Mixon Drive?” said Horovitz.
“I’ll move us closer,” Paul replied. “We can decide what to do after we start a full sensor sweep of whatever caused the alert. We need to assess the situation, prioritize our next move.”
“This isn’t some wargame. No amount of planning will fix this,” Horovitz said.
“We’re not dead yet, so we keep trying.”
Nudging the throttle, Paul ignored his defeated navigator and adjusted the shuttle’s angle to get better readings from the strange shiny object that had set off their alarm.
“It’s probably just a metallic asteroid,” Horovitz said. “A high enough metal count would screw with our sensors.”
Grunting, Paul accelerated toward the object. The closer they got, the more he was convinced that this wasn’t a simple asteroid. An odd structure came into view. It was a massive metal ring with an unusual grayish black finish that couldn’t have occurred naturally. A quick interface with his terminal magnified the structure and showed strange symbols carved along the ring at regular intervals.
“Horovitz, run those symbols through our known language database!” Paul said, forgetting their dire situation in his excitement.
“It won’t be in the database,” Horovitz said dismissively.
“Snap out of it! Do you have a better solution? No? Then do it!” Paul raged at the scientist’s apathy.
The harsh tone broke Horovitz out of his stupor. He began tapping away at his terminal, pulling up various sensor reports hidden under a layer of redundant programs.
“We should have more details soon,” Horovitz said.
