34 The Loronzon Incident
The most notable, recent, First Contact failure in GSA history, occurring 30 turns ago. Publically considered a misidentification of a hostile species, in truth, the Alliance granted the Loronz Class S status, but a faction of the COS attacked the first contact proceedings making it look like the GSA attacked. The Loronz retaliated and swiftly destroyed 6 Mayad cruisers with weapons the GSA had underestimated in strength. With heavy losses on both sides and the chance of peace shattered, the GSA withdrew.
35 Endon
GSA standard unit of distance. The endon is 10^9 tradons, and equivalent to 3 million kilometers. The endon was originally derived from the mean radii of the orbital distance of Azoeleo, with an eccentricity of only .000007. The endon, like all GSA units of measure, is defined by fundamental constants of nature.
36 Anduuzian Cricket
Originating on Anduuz, the 6 legged, bright purple exoskeleton insect moves in swarms, usually herbivores, but likes the taste of Droteans, Baleen, Dragsan, and Osanii. Docile and situationally predatorial.
37 Species Assessment Command
A powerful division within the Department of First Contact that is in charge of evaluating Class-T planets.
38 Guardian
A ranking within the GSA for members of the Department Of First Contact. Guardians are a mid-tier rank.
39 Gobbletek
Created By the Rakila’s Felixa sud Rutanus, it was first developed to teach space war strategy. The objective of this 3-D strategy game is to conquer and control the larger amount of space than your opponent. Space is controlled by expanding to and connecting adjacent star systems.
Three
Project Pegasus
Moon and stars glinted beyond a clear dome ceiling. As if ready for battle, Control Room A greeted Bernard with its beautiful array of radar consoles and lit computer screens. A vibrant collection of people were here, his people. Engineers, cosmologists, astronomers, scientists, creators, young, old, and of course, all dreamers—they were united by a common goal, to prove humanity was not alone. The world’s disdain didn’t matter. In this moment, they shared a rare energy, the precious feeling of being on the threshold of monumental change.
“He’s here!”
All turned to Bernard. A hush fell; the silence summoned words he’d waited so long to speak.
“Four years ago, CERN was destroyed, many of our greatest minds lost. I was damaged beyond repair… or so I thought. Lisa Hubert, my wife and the world’s foremost leader in nanotechnology, knowing the stakes, not only helped seed the very ethos of what CORE1 is today, she helped me out of the darkness—helped us all find and lift each other, and something equally magical happened; you believed me. You believed IN me. You’ve left your blood and sweat on these keyboards, put in seventy-hour weeks, ran thousands of tests, sacrificed careers, credibility, relationships, marriages, because while the world called us fools, you knew the answers were there. I’d pick the people in this room over any other, any damn day. I am proud to call you my colleagues, prouder still to call you friends.”
The crowd erupted in a dragon-roar. A sweeping grin consumed Bernard’s bearded face. Absorbing their passion, he returned it, shouting over the cheers.
“And we’re not fools, are we? We’re the tip of the spear, not the crude spear our ancestors used for meat and murder; a spear of discovery, a belief that cannot abide the arrogant assumption that among forty billion worlds, only one can harbor a single intelligent species. We are not alone.”
Echoing him, they chanted. “WE ARE NOT ALONE!”
Bernard smiled.
“And tonight we stand ready to send our pride and joy, our Mayflower, to the edge of the solar system with a new hope, a new expectation of what lies beyond. No governmental organization, nor private company has flown this far or built this fast since the tragedy at CERN. This is our time to discover. She will show our world we are ready to step beyond the comfort of this rock to the next. She will carry the evidence of our intelligence to our neighboring species, the ones who must have caused the containment failure. The ones who must have done so by mistake, or we would have been overtaken by now. The ones who are waiting for us to rise above our differences and ineptitudes to meet them in the stars.”
On the launchpad, visible from the control room’s cliffside perch, spotlights bathed their pillar of destiny. Every rivet gleamed, the subtle angles of the booster tips more than pleasing to the eye. Atop the Atlas X, nestled in its fairing, lay humanity’s two most advanced creations, the Mayflower probe and the first fusion drive, which would propel her to the Kuiper Belt faster than could previously be imagined, let alone engineered.
“Intelligence…most think they have it, few do.” Titters were quickly hushed. “My mother, Minerva Mary Hubert, once told me, ‘Without understanding why, you’ll never be able to understand how.’ We understand why. We feel it in our bones that something is out there. If all that stood in the way of becoming better humans, better stewards of this earth, was our failure to try hard enough, then what does it mean to be human?
Rest assured, if ever asked what you did for Earth, you can say, “I sailed past the horizon, because I understood why.” And at journey’s end, our brother or sister will stand on some distant rock orbiting a nameless star, gaze back upon Earth with a smile and say, “You’re welcome.”
The CORE team chanted again, louder than before, “WE ARE NOT ALONE!”
Bernard’s arms rose. “Initiate the countdown sequence!”
All moved with great purpose; commands given, codes punched, forty-seven subsystems monitored for the slightest anomaly. The countdown clock, set at 00:05:00 began ticking down. The team enrapt by their crucial work, Bernard quietly exited.
Ducking into a side office, he lifted the phone, pausing before dialing. How long had it been? Five, six years? Not that he’d ever forget the number. After one ring, a machine picked up.
“We need to meet. Call me back.”
Michael, his lead engineer called. “Bert! It’s happening!”
A sucker for history, especially when he was part of it, he hurried back. At T-Minus 2:00, flight controllers called out their status upon command:
“Booster”—“GO” “Payload”—“GO” “Telemetry”—“GO” “Control”—“GO”
“Guidance”—“GO” “Network”—“GO” “Navigation”—“GO” “Flight”—“GO”
At 00:30, all systems switched to onboard computer control as the loudspeaker was consumed by the automated voice command. “5…4…3…2…1… Ignition…”
The boosters flared, brightening the landscape, darkening the sky. Opaque exhaust plumes mixed with a cloud of steam from the sound-suppressing water system, briefly engulfing the rocket. The Atlas burst through, rising, accelerating to the heavens.
There were more cheers as the rocket passed max q without incident. Once it was out of visible range, they focused on the scopes to track it as it leveled towards orbital trajectory.
“First stage engine shutdown in 3…2…1…”
The fact that Bernard alone knew the full truth brought a moment of deep shame. But it passed, replaced with a sense of duty. He’d hoped to be completely honest with his team, but compartmentalizing was the only way to ensure success.
Another cheer went up, following a successful first stage separation. He used the excitement to slip out again, this time into the far quieter Control Room B. It was vacant save for a laptop and lone man, Simon McDonald, Senior—and highly trusted—flight operator.
Bernard spoke in a low, cool tone. “Ready to initiate Project Pegasus?”
“Yes, sir. Mayflower is now out of ground-tracking range. Trajectory is nominal and we’re thirty seconds out from fairing separation. Blindspot package ready to initialize.”
Bernard weighed giving the order carefully. Of course, his species had the capacity to create great things. But how often were they used responsibly?
“Do i
t.”
He heard the countdown to fairing release over the intercom: “3…2…1…” As the explosive bolts flashed, the video feed froze a moment, stuttered, then showed the fairings as they flipped back towards Earth.
During that brief blackout, a tiny spacecraft had separated, the momentary signal interruption giving it enough distance from the Mayflower to hide should anyone be looking. Its radar-defeating design was covered in spectrum shifting tiles capable of matching any background. With the flying engines dead, it was, for now, untraceable, save through a transponder aimed at a relay in western Peru. It, too, carried a fusion drive. More important, it was the real probe.
He called it the Sagan.
Fudging the fairings’ mass numbers and sensor feedback to mask its presence before and during launch, was, if Bernard did say so himself, a work of considerable genius.
“Mayflower Payload separation in one minute.”
Shouts came from next door. “Bernard, you’re missing it!” “Where is he?”
He sighed. “Back to keeping up appearances. Simon, let me know when we’re one minute from Lunar blackout.”
With a nod from the senior operator, Bernard stepped back into the happy cacophony of Control Room A. “Payload separation in 10…9…
Launch Director Peralo jogged up to him. “There you are! Can you believe it?”
“Hardly.”
“Payload separation complete.” Yet another roar erupted.
Peralo tried to temper his jubilation with the gravity of the moment. “This is it, sir. Do we have a go to activate the Hubert Drive?2”
It may have been ostentatious to name it after himself, but having successfully kept the Sagan hidden, he really didn’t care. “You do. Initiate Mayflower fusion drive.”
“Yes, sir!”
Peralo shook as he returned to his station. Holding the activation key twixt thumb and forefinger, he turned it. A hologram, center focused, showed a scaled model of the Hubert Drive spinning up. No one breathed. Bernard waited. Following his mother’s footsteps at Cambridge, his father’s at MIT, all his education, all his work, had led here. Was he as brilliant as they? As ingenious as everyone once believed? As he continued to believe? Would it work?
Artfully rendered representations of the reaction projected colorful looping magnetic fields that grew and solidified. The plasma temperatures rose steadily, readouts showing the containment remained stable. A hot, compressed ball of star birth blazed to life.
Peralo punctured the silence: “Fusion Drive activation complete, reaction is sustaining. Ready to divert power to propulsion.” He looked expectantly at Bernard. “Sir? Go, no-go?”
“Go.” Bernard spoke as the room palpitated with excitement. This is where most would say the story began. On the video feed, the Mayflower’s thrusters flared; the Earth noticeably shrank.
“Bernard… sir!” Peralo was ecstatic. “We’re holding strong at 15gs! The drive works! This is the dawn of a new era!”
If only you knew how true that is.
The roars made the reaction to Bernard’s speech sound like a wake. The mayhem was glorious: papers tossed, people screaming… until it all screeched to a halt.
“Instability manifesting in cusps 6 through 34.”
Bernard snapped, “Analysis!”
They flew back to their posts, double checking data, sweating bullets.
“Instability increasing. Dial back?”
Everyone looked anxiously to the drive’s creator. “No. Continue the propulsion test; we have to know its full capabilities.”
“Containment failing, sir. If it continues, we’ll have a reactor breach.”
Bernard shrugged it off. “So be it. Make sure we’re recording everything.”
After a few agonizing seconds, the video feed died. The point of light representing the Mayflower vanished.
“Signal lost. Time: 17:39 ENAT.”
A depressing chill descended, but Bernard found it difficult to appear somber. How delighted they’d be to know that they succeeded after all. ...In due time they will.
His loud, emphatic claps echoed off the domed ceiling. “Everyone! Don’t you understand? We’ve just done what billions thought impossible, completed the first successful fusion propulsion test in space. Yes, there are issues, but we’re going to solve them, yes?”
The question provoked a collective. ‘’Yes!”
“Then, be proud! We held fire in our hands… all we need are better gloves.” Smiles formed. He heard chuckles.
“Core analysis, wind back the clock. I’m ordering the rest of you to take the next four days off. Relax, recuperate, reset, and we’ll all dive back in.”
Four days? The workaholics were stunned. They’d been at it one-hundred forty-two days straight. Rest was inconceivable. What would they do with the time? Luckily, a telemetry expert quickly figured out the answer and let loose a joyous howl. The mood more than broken, the room laughed.
As Bernard hugged and shook hands with those nearest, he spotted Simon peeking in from a sliver of open door. “Excuse me. I have to call a few news agencies, give them their pound of flesh.”
Returning to Control Room B, he looked at the laptop screen. The Sagan was moving towards an elliptical lunar orbit. Its Hubert Drive wouldn’t kick in until it reached the Moon’s dark side, hiding its powerful energy signature from Earth detection. Unlike the Mayflower, it didn’t have a built-in flaw. Sagan was to be the true test.
Bernard leaned over Simon and pushed a key to begin the countdown. As the Sagan passed behind the Moon, they lost the signal. Once the fusion drive discreetly powered-up, it came back. Raw data flowed as the blip of the Sagan moved beyond Earth vicinity.
Simon’s eyes darted along the screen. “Containment fields stable, not a whisper, as expected.”
“Do you see that redshifting.”
“By Galileo’s beard,” Simon replied. Pencil in hand, he scribbled numbers frantically. Bernard admired Simon’s quick processing and admiration for numbers, a key reason for his recruitment of the man. “According to my calculations of this successful trial, the Hubert drive will take the probe to the outer limits of our system in less than 2.5 years. Voyager took 35.”
Bernard alone knew the truth: humanity had changed forever. He also understood the irony; the very moment that could have exonerated his legacy had to remain secret, at least for now. But it didn’t matter. Control of the breakthrough had to be maintained as long as possible.
“I wish you could see this, Darren.”
Bernard took the written calculations. With a lighter from his pocket, he lit the leaf then dropped its flaming mass into a metal waste bin. Simon shut down the laptop, pulled the drives, and snapped them in pieces.
They shook hands. Simon departed through a different door. Wanting to linger in the moment forever, Bernard took his time, watching the flames until the last paper ember faded into pale ash.
On his return, he realized he needn’t have worried about being conspicuous. The Core Analysis team, hyper-focused, barely noticed him. Deep in thought, Bernard strode gallantly to his office. It was an unusual space for a CEO, no flashy furniture, no gaudy flaunting power or wealth, just history. The chair was a worn-down cockpit seat, but it was Neil Armstrong’s, from Apollo 11. The wooden desk was Albert Einstein’s. All the books in the study belonged to Stephen Hawking.
They were geniuses the world once believed Bernard Hubert belonged with—until he was accused of sabotage. But it wasn’t him, and it wasn’t an accident; it was an attack. With the help of the Sagan, he’d prove it.
There was a knock. Amy put her head in. “Kepler Institute3 is calling. A William Hunt is insisting on speaking directly to you.”
He expected his friend to call about the failure, but not so quickly. “Put him through.”
Lifting the phone, he waited for the transfer click and managed one word before being cut-off. “William…”
“No time to catch-up. Can you make it here this week? W
e have to speak in person.”
His parental instincts kicked in. “Is Isaac okay? Did you try my parents or Lisa?”
Isaac Tyco Hubert, was a gifted mind whose proud father publicly boasted he was smarter than the fictive Tony Stark, even if he never managed to express that properly to Isaac.
“He’s fine, better than ever. It’s not about him, it’s... Bernie, we need to talk.”
William hadn’t called him Bernie in ages. “I’ll make my way there as soon as possible.”
The trip wouldn’t be easy. Kepler wasn’t particularly accessible for someone in Benard’s standing, but before he could say anything else, the line went dead. Strange. What didn’t he want to say on the phone?
A second interruption from Amy didn’t give him time to ponder further. “I’m sorry, sir… I don’t really… I think you should pick up line 3.”
The CID showed a secure number used only by a handful. Dreading who it might be, Bernard froze. If he was right, he expected this call, too, but anticipation didn’t diminish its intensity or importance.
Pulling himself together, he answered in a cool voice. “Hello?”
And there it was, that sultry voice, oozing calm power. “Bernard William Hubert, it’s been a long time.”
Only one person could say so little and mean so much.
“What I need to say to you has to be face to face. One week after the summit, Thursday, 1700 hours. Your place.” Bernard hung up the phone without waiting for a response.
As the moon dipped below the horizon, Bernard opened a bottle of Scotch and lit a cigar. There was a lot to be done, but for now on this clear summer eve, he stared into an ocean of stars captained by moonlight. With a gentle smile and a puff of smoke, Bernard sipped his scotch and dreamt of the day he longed for, the day he’d set sail on that ocean himself.
Beyond Kuiper: The Galactic Star Alliance Page 5
