The Solar Sea

by David Lee Summers

Van der Wald stopped pacing and looked at his friend with sadness. “Two more years. That's all I ask, just two more years of oil, then we'll be up to the next election."

  "You've seen the same reports I have.” Diana sighed. “They don't even have enough to run their own cars."

  The president stepped over to the big window behind his desk. He looked out at the green grass and trees beyond. “What are our options?"

  Diana shifted in the seat again. “There just aren't that many. We're getting what we can from Alaska.” She fondled a necklace from her home state of New Mexico almost longingly—a small Native American dreamcatcher. “We're even drilling in the Otero Mesa back home."

  Oscar Van der Wald turned and looked at his friend. “You used to have family there, didn't you?"

  She nodded and looked up. “We have to look for new sources of energy elsewhere."

  The president looked back out the window and rubbed his balding head. “Where else can we go? We've drilled everywhere we can in the United States, the Middle East, Russia...."

  "There's always space.” She stood up. “New Mexico isn't just home to tumbleweeds and oil. We used to have a spaceport there. Two, as a matter of fact."

  The president heaved a deep sigh. “We've got to solve our problems right here. The American people have spoken and they don't want us to waste government money in space."

  "Quinn Corp doesn't seem to think it's a waste. They're spending a lot of money on their Aristarchus project. I think they know something's up there, something that would solve the energy crisis here on Earth."

  The president turned, then dropped heavily into his chair behind the desk that once belonged to Abraham Lincoln. “If only President Kane hadn't disbanded NASA.... “Van der Wald shook his head. “I'd sure like to know what this Aristarchus project is after."

  Diana Aguilar smiled. “It occurs to me there may be a way to find out what the Aristarchus project is after. We might have to reinstate NASA, but I have a cheap way to do it."

  * * * *

  The last man to set foot on the planet Mars was Lt. Colonel Jonathan Jefferson. He remembered the voyage vividly. Most people would have thought spending two years in a cramped space capsule with nine other astronauts would have been boring as everyone fell into the routine, or intolerable once everyone got on each other's nerves. However, the time passed surprisingly fast. Each of the team members had been handpicked for the mission and spent many years in careful training and preparation. By the time the rocket launched, Jefferson felt he was among his closest family.

  Six of the astronauts, including Jefferson, had made the descent to Mars. On the way down, he and his teammates drew straws to see who would be first to set foot on the planet. Only one other team of humans had been to the red planet before them. Jonathan drew the short straw. All things considered, he was still quite pleased. All that mattered was the opportunity to actually walk around on the Martian surface.

  It had been a brisk summer day on Mars, only sixteen degrees below freezing. He remembered looking out the airlock door. A breath of air lifted a small layer of red sand and carried it away. Jonathan descended the Martian Landing Module's ladder and placed his foot on the red sand.

  Ten years later, he sat in a cubicle at the headquarters of Earth's largest aerospace technology firm, Martin-Intelsoft. The walls of the cubicle were decorated with photographs of his last historic journey to Mars. Though he actually had more space in the cubicle than he did aboard the spaceship Ares II for two years, it felt much more crowded. Though highly paid as an engineer and consultant for Martin-Intelsoft, he knew he would give it all up in a heartbeat if he could step onto a rocket just one more time.

  The phone rang. Grudgingly, Jonathan picked it up. “Sorry, Bill, I forgot about the meeting,” he said to his boss. “I'll be down with the plans for the X-3 nanobots in just a few minutes.” Hanging up with one hand, he reached out to the computer with the other and printed the plans. Just as he was about to grab the sheets from the printer, the phone rang again. “What is it this time, Bill?"

  The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. “Sorry, this isn't Bill Pickett, your boss. My name's Thomas Alonzo and I work for the competition."

  "For Quinn Corp?” asked Jonathan, his brow furrowed.

  "That's right. You were the last man on Mars. How would you like to be the first man to return?"

  "This is a crank call, isn't it?"

  "Have you heard of the Aristarchus project?"

  "I've heard of it.” Jonathan hesitated. “The whole thing seems like a long shot to me. It's a very different approach to manned space flight."

  "I assure you it will work, but we need help. The ship's design is sound, but we need more mechanical engineers on the project and someone who can fly a shuttle through the atmosphere of a planet."

  "I don't know.” Jonathan put the papers down and looked at his watch. He might be a famous astronaut, but his boss would kill him for being late to the meeting.

  "I want to meet with you soon,” said Alonzo. “It could be well worth your while. Not only are we going to Mars but onward to Jupiter and Saturn. As shuttle pilot, you'd be the first man to fly through Jupiter's atmosphere and the first man to set foot on Saturn's moon Titan."

  "Tell me where to meet you."

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  Chapter 4

  Whale Song

  The mystery of the whales’ changed songs gnawed at Dr. Myra Lee until she could stand it no longer. She sent a proposal to the director of the Alaskan Oceanographic Institute. A few days later, he called her to his office. The director—a thin man with curly hair—spoke softly, almost as though he were a mystic providing answers to the very mysteries of the universe. “I have a form on my desk requesting permission to take the R/V Eleana out again, to make more recordings of whale song.” He paused and looked at Myra over the top of his glasses. “You've only been back two weeks."

  A knot formed in Myra's stomach. “Yes, sir. I have reason to believe that something very important has happened with the whales. They're all learning a new song."

  "Whales change their songs all the time.” The director sat back in the cozy leather chair and folded his hands.

  "But not all at once.” Myra wrung her hands nervously. “It's like they're all trying to learn this particular song as fast as they can and pass it on to as many other whales as they can."

  "Why would they do that?"

  "I have no idea. That's why I want to go back out. I want to find out if anything has changed, or if the whales have returned to their old routine."

  The director reached over and closed the folder on his desk. “I'll call Captain Naftel this afternoon. If he's willing to take the ship out again, you may go."

  "Thank you!” She gave a little jump in spite of herself. Feeling the director's gaze on her, she regained her composure. “Thank you,” she said again, more calmly. Then she left to go home and pack.

  * * * *

  Two days later, Myra Lee stood in the bow of the Eleana as the wind whipped through her hair and salt stung her face. The air was pleasantly warm for Alaska as spring turned into summer and she enjoyed being out on deck, watching for the spouts that would indicate humpbacks were near. This time, she had Eleana all to herself for a week. She felt confident she would be able to discover what the whales had decided to sing about.

  She caught herself as the boat listed to the side. Angrily, she looked back toward the windows of the ship's bridge. There, she saw Captain Naftel and the helmsman both pointing out the window. Following their fingers, she saw a spout off in the distance. A broad smile crossed her face in anticipation of seeing the whales.

  She made her way to the ship's stern where she found the technician Lisa Henry wearing a sweat suit, lounging on a deck chair. “Up and at ‘em!” called Myra, cheerfully. “There be whales off the bow!"

  Lisa opened one eye laconically. “The mikes are checked out and wired. I've got the recorders loaded with fresh
disks. All I have to do is run out the booms when we reach anchor.” Lisa brushed an errant hair from her face and closed her eye.

  Myra stepped over to the edge of the boat, leaning on the polished, wooden rail. She wished Lisa would show a little more enthusiasm for the job. However, no one else knew hydrophonic equipment better.

  Myra felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and she jumped in spite of herself. Turning, she saw the weathered face of Lance Naftel. “Sorry to intrude on your thoughts, but we're about to drop anchor."

  "I saw. We're ready to go as soon as you give the word.” Myra looked up to see the sail crew at work. The boat slowed to a crawl. Shortly after, a squawk came from a radio hanging at the captain's belt.

  He thumbed the transmitter. “Naftel. Go ahead."

  "We're anchored, sir,” said the voice at the other end.

  "Time to start recording.” Naftel grinned.

  Myra looked up. Lisa was already running out the portside boom. Nodding to herself, Myra made her way into the cabin and checked that the equipment was all as it should be.

  There was a tap at the door and Lisa poked her head around the corner. “We're all set to go,” she said brightly. “I'll be on deck if you need anything.” She disappeared with a swish of long blondish-brown hair.

  Myra nodded as she turned on the recording equipment. While waiting for enough information to come in, she pulled out charts of the whale songs from her last voyage. As she looked at them, she thought she had never seen a whale song that looked quite so agitated. The sequence of rumbles and chirps was far more rapid than anything she had ever seen from a whale. Not only that, the rumbles formed smoother peaks than she had seen.

  Running her fingers over the page, she thought aloud. “Rumble, rumble, squeal, rumble, squeal, rumble, squeal, squeal.” She stopped cold and shook her head. “Dot, dot, dash, dot, dash, dot, dash, dash?"

  Myra rubbed her chin, trying to tell herself she was over-interpreting the data. To clear her head, she stepped out of the cabin and walked back to the tiny galley. There, she absent-mindedly retrieved a mug of coffee and ambled back to the recording equipment. After taking a sip of the strong coffee, she noticed the first recorder had ejected its disk and the second had started recording.

  She put the first disk in the playback deck, adjusted the headphones, and listened to the new recording. It was a jumble of whale song. With a sigh, she wondered how she would sort it out. However, as she listened, she caught herself thinking, Dot, dash, dot, dot.

  Shaking her head again, she removed and labeled the CD. With that, she decided it was time to get the crazy notion cleared out of her head once and for all. She took another sip of coffee, then stepped out onto the deck. “Lisa, could you come to the cabin for a second?"

  "Anything the matter?” asked the technician, suddenly concerned that some piece of her well-functioning equipment might be in trouble.

  "No problems.” Myra shook her head, her brow furrowed. “I just want your opinion on something."

  Lisa stood, removed her sunglasses, and hooked them over the collar of the black sweatshirt. She followed Myra into the cabin. The oceanographer put the charts in front of the technician. “What do you make of these?"

  Lisa shrugged. “They look like whale song charts."

  "Well ... yes, that's what they are, but I'm talking about patterns. Do you see any patterns on these charts?” Myra tried to keep the strain from her voice.

  Lisa pursed her lips. “The chirps and clicks are coming a little faster than I've seen them before.” She shook her head. “But I thought that was why we were out here."

  Myra let out a sigh of relief. However, to be sure she was imagining patterns that weren't there, she pushed on. “Do they look like Morse code to you?"

  "A little, maybe,” said Lisa. Looking closer, she shook her head. “No, there're too many dots and dashes and no pauses.” She inclined her head. “But you know, it almost looks like a binary encoded sequence."

  "Binary?” Myra sat down. “You mean like computer code?"

  "Or old fashioned radio before spread spectrum signals, or any number of other types of electronic communication.” Looking at it again, Lisa nodded. “Yeah, it definitely looks like binary code of some kind.” Shrugging, Lisa looked back to her boss. “Need anything else?"

  "No.” Myra sighed. “That's all. Thanks.” The oceanographer put on her most confident smile. As Lisa left, Myra tried to pick up her coffee mug. Her hand was shaking so badly, she had to put it down immediately.

  * * * *

  Back aboard the U.S.S. Sherman, Captain Natalie Freeman made the best possible speed for the United States. As she expected, she had failed her diplomatic mission to Iraq. Without oil to sell to the United States, she wasn't sure how she could have succeeded. What she didn't expect was the president to order her back home. Instead, she expected to have been ordered to some distant port to await further orders. Standing on the bridge of her beloved ship, she looked out at the miles and miles of ocean. In the distance, she thought she saw some black against the blue of the water. She smiled at herself, thinking it must be a whale. She had followed orders. There was nothing the president could do to reprimand her. However, he could always transfer her to a new assignment. She sighed, thinking about the water and the whale. As long as they don't take all this open space from me.

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  Chapter 5

  The Aristarchus Project

  Some said privatization was the best thing that ever happened to the American space program. In 2074, even before NASA's Ares II mission returned from Mars, Martin-Intelsoft launched its first rocket to the Moon. Within five years, three companies—Martin-Intelsoft, Quinn Corp, and General Nanotech—had operating factories on the Moon. From 1969 to 2074, less than two-dozen humans had set foot on the Moon. By 2078, over two thousand people lived on the Moon full time. Shuttle flights were routine. Each of the companies sent at least one shuttle per week.

  Not everyone was happy about the privatization of space flight. When NASA was disbanded, exploration of Mars stopped completely. Environmentalists complained that the factories were destroying the lunar surface. The changes were apparent even from Earth without a telescope. The man on the Moon had developed dark pockmarks and long, thin scars where buildings had been erected and trenches dug. During the dark of the Moon, pinpricks of light stood out on the lunar surface.

  Jonathan Jefferson had been to the Moon several times both as a NASA astronaut and aboard Martin-Intelsoft shuttles. Though he knew that corporate loyalty was a thing of the distant past, he felt strangely like a traitor sitting in the cockpit of a Quinn Corp shuttle as they approached the Moon. He'd decided to take some annual leave from his job at Martin-Intelsoft to see what the Aristarchus project was all about.

  As the shuttle swung around to the dark side of the Moon, Jefferson caught his breath. On the surface, near the Quinn Corp factory were ten enormous scaffolds. Within each were long, white blades that looked like plastic, though he knew the material was in fact a far lighter and stronger material—quinitite.

  "Those quinitite blades,” began the colonel, “how big are they? They must be what ... three miles long?” He leaned over the shuttle's command console, peering out the window at the craters and other features on the Moon, trying to get a sense of scale.

  The shuttle's pilot grinned. “Try five miles."

  "So Jerome Quinn and this ... this Thomas Alonzo ... are really building a solar sail to go to the outer planets?” Jefferson shook his head, amazed. “Where's the main fuselage being built?"

  The shuttle pilot pointed to a large building at one end of the factory complex. “It's in there. They're expecting it'll be finished next week."

  "Next week?” The colonel's eyes went wide. “They must be devoting a lot of the factory's resources to this project."

  "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to return to your seat in the crew cabin. We're getting ready to land."

  Jefferson no
dded and then turned, his stomach doing flip-flops. His last trip to the Moon had been over a year before and he was no longer used to the tricks gravity played aboard a spacecraft approaching a body such as a moon or planet. They were close enough to the Moon, he could feel a small amount of gravity beneath his feet. At the same time, the shuttle was decelerating, making it feel like he was being pushed from behind as he fell-stepped-drifted back to his seat in the passenger cabin of the shuttle. He sat down next to John O'Connell, the man who'd met him at Quinn Corp's spaceport. O'Connell's chin had fallen onto his chest and a light snore escaped. Jefferson buckled his harness. Out of habit, he double-checked O'Connell's harness was also secure.

  O'Connell awoke with a start as the shuttle fired its rockets, preparing to descend. “Are we there?"

  "Almost,” said Jefferson. “So, tell me, who exactly is this Thomas Alonzo that I'm going to meet?"

  "They say he's a hotshot engineer. He's been working his way through the ranks of the company for about five years.” O'Connell stifled a yawn. “The funny part is that no one seems to have met him before the ship started being built.” Jefferson lifted an eyebrow and O'Connell continued. “Oh, people knew him from teleconferences, but so far, I haven't met anyone who actually worked alongside him."

  "Well, Quinn Corp is a big company—lots of divisions.” Jefferson narrowed his eyes, suspiciously, belying his offhand tone. “He said something about being the pilot manager?"

  "He's going to pilot the ship.” O'Connell shrugged as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Jefferson took a deep breath. “I guess since it's a corporate ship, he wants to avoid giving people ranks like in the military.” He shook his head. “Could make discipline aboard ship difficult."

  O'Connell pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don't know.... It's not like there aren't chains of command in the civilian world."

  Jefferson pursed his lips, thinking about his civilian bosses. He wondered if someone like Bill Pickett would have actually been promoted above him in the military. “What about Jerome Quinn? Have you met him? Has he been up for an inspection?"