The Solar Sea

by David Lee Summers

  A shiver traveled down Myra's spine as she considered the translation. “What does that bit about ‘the cycle’ mean?"

  There was a brief pause as Myra's signal traveled to Earth and Joyce's answer returned. “We're not exactly sure. We think it might be something like ‘begin transmission’ or ‘end transmission.’ Of course, we could have details wrong. If they're speaking in idiom, the meaning may have little to do with the actual words."

  "It's not a lot of words to build a translation on,” said Myra, frowning.

  A moment later, Joyce's response came. “Twenty-eight words,” she said. “It's not a bad start and there are some good ones, like the verb ‘to be.’ You can input the words into the program I gave you. If you meet anyone who speaks this language, it'll be a good start to understanding them."

  Myra pushed the transmit button. “I certainly hope so. Thank you, Dr. Harmer."

  * * * *

  There was only one cook aboard Aristarchus, a man named Angus MacDonald. The kitchen was well equipped with a number of automated appliances, so MacDonald actually could cook meals all on his own. However, during the sixth week of the flight, several crewmembers, including Captain Freeman, Dr. Garcia, Lisa Henry, and Vanda Berko decided during a card game to volunteer their services in the kitchen. Not only did it provide MacDonald some relief, it also provided the crew with some relief from his cooking. It wasn't that MacDonald's fare was poor. It was actually quite good, but his repertoire was a bit limited.

  One day soon after, Neb O'Connell stepped into the galley and was greeted by the aroma of onions, garlic, and chiles. “It smells good,” he said.

  Dr. Garcia, who was on duty in the kitchen, looked up from behind the counter. “Thanks. It's an old recipe of my mother's—chilaquiles.” He handed Neb a plate covered with tortilla chips smothered in a red chile sauce topped with chicken, onions, and sour cream.

  "I thought you'd make us eat healthier food than this,” chided Neb, taking the plate.

  "It's not that bad.” The doctor shrugged.

  "Don't listen to him,” said Lisa Henry from a table in the corner. “The doc's the least healthy cook of the lot. I'd take the soup if I were you. That tortilla pie thing about seared my tonsils."

  "You don't have any tonsils, my dear,” said the doctor. “I know. I've looked down your throat myself."

  Lisa rolled her eyes. Neb took the plate and stepped over to her table. “May I join you?"

  "Sure.” She shrugged but wore a cautious smile.

  Neb sat down and took a tentative bite of the chilaquiles. After the first, he took several more. “That's really good."

  Lisa looked at him, wide eyed. “How can you stand that stuff?"

  "He obviously has good taste,” said the doctor.

  "I've been living in New Mexico for the last few years. Red and green chiles are a staple of the diet. You get addicted,” said Neb, by way of explanation. “This is actually a little mild for my taste, but I didn't even think we had any chile aboard the ship."

  "That's ‘cause MacDonald's scared to use it,” said Dr. Garcia.

  Lisa inclined her head. “Hey, maybe you should volunteer for the kitchen crew, then you and the doctor can take turns torturing the rest of us."

  "It would be torture,” said Neb. “I've been known to burn soup from a can.” He took several more bites of the chilaquiles, then washed it down with some iced tea. “But the thing is, I would like to find something to do in my off hours."

  Lisa smiled openly. “You could help me pick a movie to watch tonight."

  Neb sputtered for a moment, then came to his senses. “I'd like that."

  "No popcorn, though,” said the doctor. “You've used up your allotment of carbohydrates eating the chilaquiles."

  * * * *

  Captain Jefferson carefully observed the crew. He noticed how Neb O'Connell and Lisa Henry would steal glances at one another. More than once, she made a point of asking for advice or help. He would unclamp his chair from its restraints and roll it across to her station. Once there, it was normal to hear their conversation drift from the original topic into movies, books, or even food. The camaraderie between them felt natural and relaxed. They were two technicians who had been working behind the scenes and as they grew to know each other better, it was apparent they had other things in common, as well.

  Unfortunately, not everyone was getting along as well as Neb and Lisa. One day, Jefferson went to the kitchen for lunch. As he sat down to eat, he heard Angus MacDonald ask Daryl LaRue about his day.

  "Just great,” said LaRue. “I had to track down a dodgy relay that was causing the port aft thruster to act up and you know somethin', I had to do it all myself. Unlike some people who have people lining up to help them out."

  On Earth, at Martin-Intelsoft, Jefferson would have dismissed the incident entirely, assuming LaRue was just having a bad day.

  "Is everything okay?” asked Jefferson, sitting next to LaRue.

  "I've had better days,” said the Tech System's Manager, a little irritably.

  "We're a long way from home,” said Jefferson.

  "And getting further every minute."

  "Any reason to take it out on Mr. MacDonald?"

  LaRue waved dismissively. “He's been working in the Quinn Corp cafeteria on the Moon for years. I'm sure he's used to people griping and complaining."

  "Maybe.... “Jefferson ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe in a factory complex with hundreds of people and lots of space, it's easier to turn a deaf ear to complaints. We're stuck together in this little can for the next four years or so. Who knows? Maybe getting a card game together every now and then would help break the ice. Maybe MacDonald would volunteer to help you once and a while?"

  "The cook help with a technical problem?” He snorted.

  Jefferson glared at him and he held up his hands in mock surrender as he stood and left. As he finished his own meal, Jefferson thought back to the Ares mission. There had been disagreements and even arguments, but rarely did people resort to sarcasm and they all saw each other as equals.

  Jefferson's worries about morale were slight compared to his concerns about training and experience. One day as he, Pilot, and Natalie were gathered around the worktable on the bridge discussing the ship's trajectory, she pointed to the chart. “How bad will the passage through the asteroid belt be?"

  Pilot sat back and scratched the wiry hair on his head. “I don't understand."

  Again, Jefferson noted something just a little pedantic and condescending in Pilot's tone, but he filed it away as he listened to Freeman's question.

  "The ship's over ten miles wide,” she said. “It's been a long time since I studied astronomy. Just how close together are the asteroids? I'm picturing us trying to steer this ship through a field of rocks."

  "Ah,” said Pilot, comprehension dawning. “You've been watching too many bad science fiction films. Our solar system's asteroid belt is pretty sparsely populated, only about one large rock every two million miles or so. I think a ten-mile-wide spaceship might just squeak through."

  Natalie scowled at him.

  "Of course, we will want to keep extra careful watch on the sensors,” said Pilot. “The large rocks are well-plotted, even from Earth. It's some of the smaller debris we'll have to watch out for. Still, we've been sending unmanned probes this way for years. We shouldn't have any problem."

  Jefferson nodded. He realized Pilot was correct in his assessment and Natalie was right to bring up a concern. However, he couldn't help but think that in the days when he was an astronaut, this was a point that would have been raised while they were in training, months before leaving Earth, not weeks into the mission.

  * * * *

  Two months into the voyage, Natalie Freeman sat at the command console. She discovered that shipboard computers had access to Quinn Corp's internal network. Even though transmission time was making the network sluggish, a brief search led Natalie to some general information files about Tho
mas Alonzo.

  There was nothing confidential and nothing there she didn't already know. The files mentioned he was twenty-four years old, he'd interned with Quinn Corp for two years before graduation from MIT. Upon graduation, he went to work for Quinn Corp full time. There was a brief notation he was taking graduate classes. That had led President Van der Wald to speculate that Alonzo may be working on a thesis. There was even a recent photo. Also in the files was a listing of the Quinn facilities where Alonzo had worked. Again, this was information that she had seen. However, what was different was that the listings were linked to the sites for those facilities. She clicked the link to Alonzo's last work site: Quinn Corp's San Antonio facility.

  Once there, she followed a link to a personnel listing. There was a chance Alonzo would already be deleted from the list. The list had not been updated, though, and she quickly found another link that sent her to the facility's file for Thomas Alonzo. When she clicked that, she gasped. There was a photo, but it was not what she expected.

  She sent an email to the personnel office in San Antonio.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 11

  Thomas Alonzo

  Pilot spent more and more of his duty shifts in the ship's hub. He enjoyed floating in null gravity and watching the stars through the big windows on either side of the ship. Looking forward, Mars was plainly visible. Aristarchus was still far enough away that it looked like a bright star, but to Pilot it was like a beacon.

  The master pilot's console in C-and-C was duplicated in the hub. As Pilot had explained to Captain Jefferson, there was very little need for him to actually spend time in the ship's nerve center. Pilot even spent many nights asleep in the null gravity hub, just floating in the middle of the room illuminated by the soft glow of a thousand stars and one planet.

  One of Pilot's duties was to stand watch in command and control when neither Captain Freeman nor Captain Jefferson was able to be on duty. However, both captains were so used to their military regimens, that they simply traded out watches, eight hours on duty, eight hours off, for several days in a row without complaint.

  Jefferson arrived at C-and-C to relieve Freeman the day she had perused the Quinn Corp files. “I've discovered something about Thomas Alonzo,” she said. “It's something I think you need to know."

  Jefferson looked around the deck. “I think it would be better if we find a time when we're both off duty to discuss this."

  "When?"

  "Next time Pilot comes down, whichever of us is on duty will have him take over for a while. We could use the break."

  Natalie frowned.

  "Is it an emergency?” The captain's brow furrowed as he grew concerned about her silence.

  Natalie thought some more and then shook her head. “No, just a puzzle."

  Four hours after Natalie's next duty shift began, Daryl LaRue asked Pilot to come down to check something on his console. “I'm having some problems with some of the indicators,” explained the Technical System's Manager. “It's probably something stupid and simple, but I can't quite figure it out. I'd like you to take a look and see what you think."

  Reluctantly, Pilot agreed and about ten minutes later, he crawled down the ladder from the ship's core and stepped over to the thruster control station. Pilot looked it over, retrieved a pair of tweezers from his coveralls and removed a couple of buttons from the console, then replaced the miniature light bulbs behind them and returned the buttons to the console. Just as Pilot was about to ascend the ladder again, Freeman called him over.

  "Would you mind taking over for about half an hour while I go get a cup of coffee and stretch my legs?” she asked.

  He looked down at the deck, as though trying to find an excuse for not staying. After a moment, he looked up, blushing. “I guess I have been spending quite a bit of time off deck. Take as long as you need."

  Freeman stood, patted Pilot on the shoulder, then went to Jefferson's quarters and knocked on the door. “Come in,” he said.

  Inside, she found him sitting in a chair, his feet propped up, watching a movie. He slid a bowl of popcorn across the table toward her. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  She took the wireless keyboard and set it on her lap. “I wanted to show you what I learned about Thomas Alonzo. It'll only take a moment.” She paused the movie, then accessed her files on the ship's computer. She pulled up a copy of the photo she'd found a few hours earlier. It showed a man who looked nothing like Pilot. Underneath was the caption “Thomas Alonzo."

  Jefferson pursed his lips while reaching out for a handful of popcorn. “That's not our Pilot,” he said at last.

  "No, it's not. What do you think it means?"

  He shrugged. “Maybe the San Antonio facility posted the wrong photo. That kind of mistake does happen."

  Freeman shook her head. “I thought of that. I wrote to the personnel office in San Antonio. The manager there was a recent transfer and didn't remember Alonzo, but she confirmed that the electronic file matched their hard copy. If it's a mistake, it was propagated through the system."

  "Well, if it's not the wrong photo, how do you explain it?"

  Freeman stood up and paced. “One explanation is that our Thomas Alonzo is not the same man who worked at Quinn Corp for the past five years. Somehow he's been substituted for the real Alonzo."

  Jefferson shook his head and folded his arms. “I don't buy that. ‘Our’ Alonzo knows too much about this craft. He's brash and arrogant, inexperienced at some things, but he's not stupid. Why would there be a substitution anyway?"

  She stopped pacing and shook her head. “I keep wanting to say ‘corporate spy’ or ‘saboteur.’ That's why I came to you with this even though I know both of those sound completely whacky. I know the safety of the ship is your first priority and this is just something that doesn't add up.” She dropped back into the chair, defeated.

  "I'll keep my eyes open.” Jefferson looked over at Freeman. “I'm guessing it's just a mistake, though. San Antonio got the wrong photo and propagated it through their system. I've poked through the Quinn Corp files, too. I've seen photos that are clearly our Pilot."

  She ran her tongue over her teeth and studied the photo on the screen for a moment. “You're probably right."

  Jefferson looked at his watch. “I suspect your break's about over. You should get back to C-and-C."

  She nodded and took another handful of popcorn before she left.

  * * * *

  Neb O'Connell sat in his quarters, keyboard in his lap, looking at a schematic of a spaceship. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said.

  Lisa Henry peered around the corner. “Whatcha’ doin'?"

  "Playing ‘Starship Creator.’ Wanna give it a try?"

  "Sure.” She sat on the edge of the bed while Neb cleared the display. He handed her the keyboard and then explained the rules.

  "Basically, the objective of the game is to create a ship that will make it to Alpha Centauri and back,” he said.

  "And this is what you do in your off time?” She winked at him. Neb shrugged and she turned her attention to the game. She chose a deck layout, attached the most powerful engine she could, and chose an aluminum skin for the ship—same as the shell of the Apollo capsules. “Okay, I think I'm ready to try the ship,” she said.

  Neb smirked. “Are you absolutely sure?"

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What? Don't you think my ship will do the trick? It's lightweight, and it's got a big engine. It should make the round trip in about twenty years."

  "Let's give it a try.” Neb took the keyboard back and typed in some commands. On the screen, they watched as Lisa's ship moved toward Alpha Centauri. Everything went well until the ship was five years from Earth. At that point, Lisa's crew started dropping dead from cancer.

  "That doesn't make sense.” Lisa studied the stats on the screen, trying to understand what happened.

  "You didn't provide any cosmic ray shielding,” explained N
eb. “In five years, your crew got the equivalent of eighty chest X-rays worth of radiation."

  Lisa looked around at the walls of the ship. “Isn't Aristarchus made of aluminum?” She poked her finger into Neb's chest. “There's something you're not telling me."

  Neb held up his hands in surrender. “The game's got it right, honest!” He brought up Lisa's ship design. “Look what happens if we line the ship's hull with polyethylene and restart the simulation."

  "Isn't polyethylene the plastic they make garbage bags out of?” she asked as her simulated ship made its way to Alpha Centauri.

  Neb nodded. This time, the crew survived for fifteen years. “They would have been fine,” he said. “The problem now is the increased radiation from Alpha Centauri's sun. The plastic didn't quite absorb enough of the radiation."

  "You mean all I needed to do to keep my crew alive was line the ship with garbage bags?” Lisa inclined her head. “Would a thicker layer do the trick?"

  "That's about the size of it.” Neb beamed at her. “That's how they kept Captain Jefferson alive on the trip to Mars—only it was polyethylene tiles, not garbage bags."

  Lisa's gaze roved to the walls again. “What about us?"

  Neb stood and patted the wall. “Quinitite,” he said. “The same stuff that the sails are made out of. It actually deflects cosmic rays, just like it disperses electric charge."

  "You really should get out more.” Lisa cracked a grin.

  "And go where?"

  * * * *

  On Earth, Henry Quinn stepped tentatively into his father's office. “Dad, something strange is going on."

  Jerome was working on his computer. Without looking up, he grunted acknowledgement and motioned for Henry to take a seat in front of the desk. Henry sat down and picked up a paperweight. It was a plastic cube with four coins embedded inside. After a moment, Jerome looked up. “Well?"