by Doug Hoffman
“You have fought your first battle along side the human Marines, against alien monsters whose blood was colder than the coldest midwinter night,” added Tornassuk, between slurps of brandy. Bears had a habit of waxing poetic about combat.
“I guess when you put it that way, Tornassuk. Maybe I'll finally get some respect from my father.”
“I wouldn't worry about that, Pihoqahiak may not even be alive.”
“My Mom thinks he still is,” Umky said, sucking on the straw from his brandy jug, “him and the human, Captain Jack.”
“Pihoqahiak seems like a hard bear to kill,” Aurora observed, “and that Captain Jack is a piece of work himself.”
“What do you mean?” the young bear asked.
“Well, the way I hear it Captain Jack snuck up on Pihoqahiak while he was shooting up a bunch of Inuit hunters with that big white rifle he used to carry. Supposedly, the Captain was unarmed.”
“Pretty brave for a primate,” Tornassuk belched loudly, “or pretty stupid.”
“I'd say he was pretty lucky,” Aurora retorted, “and remember, that primate talked all of us into joining him. So if he's stupid what does that make us?”
“Right now, it makes me thirsty,” Tornassuk growled, as he reached for another jug of brandy.
“I just hope our luck holds,” said Aurora softly.
Chapter 5
Administrator's Office, Farside Base
Ludmilla was at her desk, trying to concentrate on work while dealing with the lingering effects of her hangover. She and Elena had sat at Jesse's bar for more than an hour, sipping soda water and bitters, waiting for the room-spinning dizziness of three large Fantasies to dissipate. Finally feeling steady enough to stumble back to their respective quarters, they called it a night sometime after midnight.
The rumors that there is more than alcohol in Jesse's signature concoction must be true, Ludmilla thought ruefully. I have always been able to hold my liquor and Elena is no tea-teetotaler herself. I have never gotten that drunk off of just three drinks!
Despite a handful of analgesics and a half liter of re-hydration fluids her head still throbbed. Knifing through her pain came the sound of her assistant calling her.
“Da? Slushayu vas.”
“Colonel? Miss Scott Hamilton is here to see you.”
“Yes, yes. Send her in.”
Ludmilla attempted to sit up straight and look less disheveled than she felt as the food production expert entered. Melissa Scot Hamilton had been the horticulturalist on board the Peggy Sue during its first two voyages and was among the original people on the project to build the starship. A native of Mississippi, she had been pursuing a PhD in horticulture at Auburn University's school of Agriculture in neighboring Alabama. A falling out with her dissertation adviser led to her joining TK Parker's team.
“Morning, Dr. Tropsha,” the always sunny young scientist said as she crossed the room and took a seat in front of the administrator's desk. “You're lookin' a bit peaked this morning.”
“Indeed I am, Melissa. Too many of Jesse's evil concoctions last night.”
“Yes Ma'am, I've been there myself. Felt low enough to walk under a snake the next morning.”
“That is about how I feel, but enough about my foolish behavior. What can I do for you today?”
“Well, as you know I have been trying to set up a sustainable system that can raise enough food to feed our growing population,” the soft spoken horticulturist began. “We've got a bunch of hydroponic vegetable gardens and such goin' and the aquaculture tanks are coming along nicely. But there are some plants that just don't do good without soil.”
Ludmilla nodded encouragingly.
“Without soil as a buffer, any interruption of the hydroponic system can lead to rapid plant death. Plus the high moisture levels associated with hydroponics can lead to pathogen attacks and over watering. Verticillium wilt alone can attack over 300 species of useful plants: tomatoes, potatoes, eggplants, peppers and a bunch of others. Besides, wheat and other grain crops just do better in soil.
“Our alternative is planting Triticum aestivem in manufactured soil. We can control the temperature, humidity, and other factors to boost yields and speed things up: 23°C, 65% humidity, 1000 ppm of CO2, a drip nutrient delivery system and continuous artificial sunlight. Still, we'll be lucky to get three crops a year per field, though we can stagger plantings so the harvests are more frequent. We also get runoff from the fields that needs to be filtered. Fortunately, we've gotten some good oyster beds established.”
“Oysters? As in shellfish?”
“Yes, Ma'am. Oyster beds are terrific filters for organic runoff, each adult oyster can filter and clean up to 50 gallons of water a day. We mix the runoff and other organic waste with the water flowing into the oyster tanks and then send the outflow on to the shrimp, crab and lobster tanks. Our goal is to generate the maximum amount of edible protein in the shortest amount of time—and that's where I'm running into a problem.”
“A problem? What kind of problem?”
“Push-back from some of my colleagues. You see, I want to raise flies.”
“Flies?” blurted an incredulous Ludmilla. “Why in heavens name do you want to raise flies? Not having insects around is one of the truly good things about living on the Moon.”
“Not so much flies, really, as their larvae. Fly larvae can be bred, raised, harvested and ground into a meal that provides the same amount of edible protein by weight as fish meal.”
“That may be, but I think you will encounter strong resistance from the public if you try to feed them fly protein. How would you serve it? Fly burgers? Fly stew? That would give new meaning to 'waiter, there is a fly in my soup'!”
“No Ma'am, that's not what I mean. I want to feed the fly meal to the fish, chickens and other food animals. Flies can live on food humans waste, and the larvae on slaughterhouse or distillery waste. Each fly produces about 1,000 eggs. The eggs hatch into larvae and are harvested within a couple of weeks, before they turn into flies. Then they're dried and turned into protein meal.”
As Melissa warmed to her subject her enthusiasm grew. “In trials on Earth they raised a million flies in a space of 100 cubic meters. A setup like that can produce 100 tons of wet larvae yielding 25 tons of feed a month. The scheme is environmentally sound, the flies don't compete for human food sources or feed for higher animals. It's the most efficient way to produce a lot of edible protein from biological waste.”
“And we have usable flies on hand?”
“Yes, some of the biology labs use them for experiments. There are several suitable species available.”
“You are sure this is the best thing to do?”
“Doctor, do you know how much food 10,000 people can consume? More than 18 tons a day, 560 tons a month, 6800 tons a year. An average human from a developed country eats nearly eight times their body weight a year. Right now we have no way to produce that much food in the closed environment of Farside Base. We are barely producing enough raw algal protein to feed the aquaculture tanks and people are already complaining about being fed too much seafood. If we raise twenty million flies we can have enough protein to raise pigs, chickens and cattle.”
“I see, and you are convinced that this is the best way to solve our impending food crisis?”
“Yes, Ma'am. If you want bacon and eggs with a glass of milk for breakfast, this is how to get it. It's what I did my dissertation on in grad school,” Melissa said, adding meekly, “my adviser didn't like it either.”
“You say some of your colleagues are resiting the plan? Would these be academic types with PhDs?” Ludmilla asked with a smile.
“Yeah, they all think they have better answers.”
“How many of them have successfully managed a closed ecological system like, say, a starship, on two interstellar voyages?” Ludmilla asked rhetorically. “I will tell you how many—none! Because you are the only horticulturalist to do so.”
“I think it'
s partly because I didn't finish my doctorate; they treat me like a grad student, not an equal,” Melissa added in a subdued voice.
Ludmilla sat silently for a few moments, tapping her fingers on her desk. She had been patronized and discriminated against many times in her career. Such behavior angered her, making her sympathize with the younger woman in front of her. Still, she was responsible for the common good of everyone on the moon base. Clearing her throat she asked a question: “Do you keep a copy of your dissertation?”
“Why, yes. I have been carrying it around on a flash drive since I joined the Peggy Sue. I always thought that I would defend it one day.”
“Here is what you do. I want you to document the numbers for this fly larvae scheme—including all the links and feedbacks in such a system.”
“Yes, Ma'am”
“I also want you to update your dissertation to reflect what you learned while on the Peggy Sue. Cite your observations on both voyages and include your proposed food production system for Farside Base.”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“I will have some qualified scientists read your dissertation, and if they feel it ready you will do your defense in front of them and the public. After all, a university faculty is nothing more than a collection of scholars, some more qualified than others. With the world in ruin, we probably constitute the only center of scholarship and learning left. That makes us the University of the Moon, and you will be our first doctoral candidate. Then we will put your plan into action and let those who dare try to dispute your claims.”
“Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am.”
“And one more thing, Melissa. We have known each other for two voyages, I would appreciate it if you would call me Ludmilla in private, as my other friends do.” The chief administrator smiled kindly.
“Yes, Ma'am, I mean, Ludmilla,” Melissa stammered in her soft southern accent, smiling back at the imposing woman in front of her. My momma always said be careful what you ask for, she thought, but I know that I can do this, I know that I'm right.
* * * * *
Melissa left the base administrative offices and headed back for her own world of hydroponic growing rooms, artificial wheat fields, and fish tanks. She needed to check on the expansion of the hog, chicken and cattle facilities—at least no one was arguing with her over their design. Trouble was, without the fly larvae there would be nothing to feed them on. She sighed.
She decided to check in on NatHanGon on her rounds. She and the Triad ambassador had become friends since it fell to her to keep the alien plant's environment comfortable. First on board the Peggy Sue and now here at Farside, they conversed daily when she checked on the conditions in its room. What did it say about her that her best friend was a triple brained alien plant more than 100,000 years older than she was? No matter, she had always felt more at home among plants and wild things than with people.
Lost in her thoughts, Melissa took no notice of the unremarkable looking man tending a stand of decorative plants in a nearby bed. Dressed in a plain gray jumpsuit, like other maintenance personnel, the man watched her as she headed back to her domain. As she disappeared around a corner he quickly packed up his tools and followed her into the maze of tunnels and chambers that housed the base's supporting infrastructure.
Bridge, M'tak Ka'fek
Lt. Bear was sitting in front of the ship's main control station with his eyes closed listening to music. A pair of white headphones were held on by a flexible connecting band that ran beneath his neck—wearing them over his head pinched his ears and human earbuds wouldn't stay in. Bear had the watch and was actually monitoring the ship and surrounding space using imagery the ship projected directly into his brain. Spooky and disconcerting at first, the entire crew had gotten used to the high-tech telepathic interface during the last two months of their voyage. Also on the bridge were JT, who was doing something at the navigation console, and Joey Sanchez, one of the Marines.
“What ya listening to, LT?” Joey called from the weapon station he was manning. During the first battle back in the Sirius system, trying to run the ship's weapons made most of the crew sick and disoriented. Practice drills had taught the Earthlings to handle the battle cruiser's formidable weaponry, and the accompanying telepathic projections, without blowing chunks.
“Snow Patrol,” Bear replied, his eyes unopened.
“Let me guess, Songs for Polar Bears?”
“Wrong, Sanchez. Too much hip hop and drone crap on that album. I like their later stuff better.”
“Like?”
“A Hundred Million Suns. Has some touches of minimalism, and I'm a big Phillip Glass fan.”
“Who? What?” the confused Marine replied.
“Phillip Glass, Joey,” JT added from the Nav Console. “Kundun? Einstein on the Beach? Icarus at the Edge of Time? Don't tell me you've never heard of Glass—he's one of the most influential composers of the 20th century.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Joey, you ain't got no culture.”
“He doesn't have any taste either, JT. You should hear some of the crap he listens to. Ruin your hearing, and a deaf hunter ends up as something else's dinner.”
“You officers are too highbrow for me,” Joey retorted. “I'm just a poor grunt tryin' to get back home. By the way, Lt. Taylor, sir, with us bouncing from system to system, how do we know where Earth is?”
“The ship has instruments that can compare the relative arrival times of X-ray flashes from pulsars.”
“Pulsars?”
“Massive objects scattered about the galaxy that act like God's own navigation beacons. They're thought to be rapidly rotating neutron stars that send out short pulses of radiation with a beat so steady they rival an atomic clock. With enough known sources and some math you can figure out where you are, sort of like GPS for spaceships.”
“Really? And we know where Earth is from here?”
“Yeah, we have pretty decent charts of our local neighborhood, even out this far. We know where Earth is, it's getting back there in a reasonable amount of time that's the problem.”
“Right,” Bear rumbled. “That's why we're stalking that alien probe ship. The Captain expects it to eventually lead us to a refueling station.”
“So we're gona' steal some antimatter when we find a refueling station?”
“That is not beyond the realm of possibility, Joey.”
“Aw, crap,” Bear exclaimed, opening his eyes. “The alien probe just jumped into alter-space. Better maneuver to follow it—match course and velocity vector for alter-space entry. M'tak, please wake the Captain.”
“Certainly, Lt. Bear,” the ship replied. “I have already set the parameters to follow the target vessel.”
“Great,” griped Joey, “what does this make, four alter-space transits? And each time we make a jump the Captain makes us drill our asses off.”
“That's in case something is waiting at the other end,” Bear growled, as he switched his music player to the score from Mishima. “I hope this time there is, because I could use a little action.”
Task Force Alpha, Headed Back to Earth
The Peggy Sue headed back toward the Sun with the corvettes tucked in like goslings behind a mother goose. Returning from a distance of almost 40 AU, the ships of Task Force Alpha accelerated for twenty one and a quarter hours at 20Gs, bringing their velocity relative to Earth to five percent of the speed of light. Then they stopped accelerating and coasted, across the outer reaches of the solar system headed for Sol's habitable zone and Earth. The corvettes were happy to let the larger ship's more powerful shields sweep the path in front of them clean of dust and debris—at such velocities even striking a small pebble could be disastrous.
“Tell me again why we are not accelerating to the half way point and then decelerating, Mr. Vincent?” asked one of the new crewmembers. Compared with the excitement of a space battle and the subsequent boarding operation, standing watch seemed more than a little boring.
T
edium not withstanding, watches must be stood, even Mid Watch from midnight to 0400 hours. Billy Ray was Officer of the Deck, sitting in the Captain's chair above the helm and other bridge stations. At least on this voyage there were a sufficient number of officers to stand watch without wearing them all to a frazzle.
“One of the reasons is that there's a lot of junk floating about in space. It may not seem like it, but traveling as fast as we are the ship covers a lot of territory in a short amount of time. Even dust can be dangerous, so we need to have the shields up all the time. That takes a lot of energy, as do accelerating and decelerating.”
“So how long will it take to get home?”
“We accelerated for just over 21 hours, now we coast for another 87 hours or so and then start decelerating,” Billy Ray answered. “In all it will take us about five and a half days to make port at Farside.”
“I guess that's not so long, it took the better part of a month to get out here. How fast are we going again?”
Billy Ray sighed, all this information was available from the ship's computer if you knew how to ask. They were coming to the end of the watch and the crew were undoubtedly as anxious to be relieved as he was. “We are currently traveling 15,000 km/sec, about five percent of c. That's another reason to not accelerate constantly the whole way—if we get going too fast, relativistic effects start to become noticeable.”
“Like what, Sir?” asked a Marine, seated at the port side weapon station.
“Like time dilation. Time for us on board slows down relative to those back home. Not that you'll notice, but we will all be a bit under eight minutes younger than those who stayed at the base when we get back.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just ol' Al Einstein's way of messing with us,” the Texan lieutenant drawled. “OK, Q&A time is over. We need a systems check before the watch ends, look alive...”
Chapter 6
Balcony Bar, Farside Atrium
Following the announcement of Task Force Alpha's victory the celebration lasted until the wee hours of the next morning, but it was nothing compared to the blowout party that erupted when the task force finally made port. Martial fervor gripped the populace. Anyone who had been on the mission was unable to buy their own drinks in any establishment on the base. Those who hadn't could not hear enough about the attack by the Navy and subsequent boarding by the Marines.
