The Orthogonal Galaxy

by Michael L. Lewis

  “Well, gentlemen,” announced Ayman. “I will be leaving you here. I need to get that thing off the ground before the Sun sets.”

  “Thanks for the tour, Ayman.” Garrison was appreciative of the hospitality but also felt tentative of his departure. While Dmitri was certainly a capable host, talk had been intermittent, since he deferred much of the orientation to his American companion.

  “You’re welcome, O’Ryan. And good luck with your mission here.” Ayman saluted Garrison, since handshakes were not feasible in the spacesuits. He turned and saluted Dmitri as well. “Mr. Boronov, it has been a pleasure serving here with you for the last two years. I’ll look forward to seeing you at our joint press conference and debriefing in a couple of months.”

  Dmitri bowed and saluted. “It has been much pleasure of mine to work with you here on Mars.”

  With the farewell complete, Ayman turned on his heels and walked towards the shuttle. Garrison and Dmitri watched as their fellow astronaut climbed the ladder into the cockpit and heard over the common channel that Mission Control had cleared him for takeoff as soon as he was ready. Garrison could see the burn of the engine just before the sound reached his ear. And then, in a flash, the shuttle was down the runway, in the air, and soon out of sight.

  …

  “Looks like he’s gone,” Garrison turned to his companion. “What do we do now?”

  “Well, friend,” Dmitri began. “We have instructions to repair valve gauge on fuel tank number one. When we fueled the Nevada shuttle, we noticed a malfunction on gauge. NASA gave instruction for fixing it.”

  “Ok, then,” accepted Garrison. “Let’s go do it.”

  “Boronov to Mission Control. The Nevada has successfully taken off and we are heading to fuel tank number one for pressure gauge malfunction assessment and repair.”

  After this brief announcement, the pair walked back to the MTV where Dmitri took over the controls. As he began to back away from the solar field, he stopped abruptly. “Oh. I forget to grab toolbox. We will need to go back to bunker for tools.”

  Arriving back at the workshop garage, the two astronauts exited the MTV and stopped abruptly on either side. Turning quickly to his colleague, Garrison exclaimed, “What was that?! I just felt something odd.”

  Dmitri turned slowly to face his partner. “I do not know. Did it feel like… like…” Dmitri grasped for words in English to describe the sensation.

  “Almost like a breeze passing through my spacesuit from behind.” Garrison turned around, almost expecting to find the source of the mysterious sensation, but all he saw was the massive SAR building on the east end of the crater. No wind. Nothing out of place.

  “Yes,” panted Dmitri. “I feel same thing too, but it went as quick as it came.”

  Garrison had a bad feeling about what had just happened. He couldn’t explain why, but the concern gave him the sensation of goose bumps on his arms, and a tingling of hair on his neck. He knew that it wasn’t just his imagination, since Boronov also felt it. Worse still for O’Ryan was the fact that his companion didn’t seem to recollect ever observing the sensation before. Silence fell over the pair, as they grasped to make sense of the matter. A breeze? Inside their space suits? Impossible!

  Chapter

  5

  Walking confidently toward the jury, the District Attorney began wrapping up the case from his perspective. “Ladies and gentlemen, first let me thank you for the full attention that you’ve given this case over the last couple of weeks. I know that each of you have very busy lives, and I appreciate the devotion and service you have given to see that justice is served.

  “What we have before us is a classic case of a crime of passion… a very serious, violent crime of passion. It is a case where the defendant seated over there”—the attorney whirled around and pointed a long index finger at the suspect, who did not flinch at the attention, but who inwardly did despise the man standing before him, trying his best to wrongly ruin his life—“lost better judgment to greed. It is a case where money, in all of its ugliness, cost the lives of two hard-working individuals, murdered in cold blood. Oh, how vain and senseless is the almighty dollar at ruining the lives of people who should know better.

  “This man, Paol Joonter, a high-flying executive, flew from his home in Seattle, Washington to Atlanta, Georgia, in order to prevent further risk to a failed business deal. He arrived on March 27th of this year, in order to mitigate the loss of vast corporate wealth, which he, in part is responsible for losing. When he could not succeed in his task, we have shown the unfortunate sequence of events which ensued.

  “We have shown through documents and eyewitness that Mr. Joonter purchased a .38 caliber pistol at a local gun dealer on March 28th. We have shown surveillance video of his late-night entry into the office of Mr. Rawson Becker on the evening of the 28th. We have provided a chilling recorded audio of the exchange of words—and bullets—which experts have matched to the mouth and gun of the defendant. We have given forensic evidence of fingerprints matching those of Mr. Joonter so clearly that Detective Johnson of the FBI was quoted in the courtroom as saying, ‘Those prints leapt right off the gun.’ There is motive, there is clear, irrefutable evidence, and there is a man who must be punished for his crimes. Paol Joonter is clearly responsible for the cold-blooded murder of Mr. Becker and his assistant, Ms. Shannyl Cox. I’m confident that you will see justice done in this case. Thank you for your time.”

  As confidently as he approached the jury, he returned to his table convinced of victory in this case. His opponent exchanged some hushed words with his client before proceeding with his closing remarks. While he was one of the most renowned defense attorneys of his day, he couldn’t help feeling that the odds were stacked against him. What made him such an excellent lawyer was his ability to remain composed, and to observe and utilize any holes in prosecution's defense. As a result, he did not give the impression that he was on the losing side of the case.

  Chapter

  6

  On his second day of Zimmer’s class, Joram was working his Digital Note Tablet much harder than he did on the first day. He was soaking up every word, every thought, which the professor had for the class. Sitting at his left once again, Kath also found herself scribbling frantically, and enjoying the concepts placed before them.

  “Over the next several weeks,” started the professor, “we’ll be studying various examples of the different types of galaxies. We’ll discuss how and why they form their characteristic shapes, and compare and contrast these in vast details.

  “You should know,” attested Zimmer as he paced in front of the class with his wireless lapel microphone broadcasting his lesson clearly to the entire class, “that there are three major classifications of galaxies. These are spiral, elliptical, and irregular.

  “Spiral galaxies are perhaps the best known of these, and this is certainly because our own galaxy, the Milky Way, is indeed a spiral galaxy. However, the photos that you may have seen of spiral galaxies come from those which may be indicative to the Milky Way, but certainly do not mirror our own galaxy. For obvious reasons, it is rather difficult to acquire a detailed image of our own galaxy, since there are no spacecraft far enough away which might give us a portrait of our own system. Nevertheless, there are several superb computer renderings that depict our galaxy as shown on this slide.”

  The professor then gestured behind him, where a computer-generated image of the Milky Way was depicted for the class.

  “As you can notice from this image, there is a bar of stars which emanate from either side of the extremely bright galactic center of our galaxy. These bars eventually give way to several spiral arms. This type of galaxy is called, appropriately enough, a barred-spiral galaxy. There are others, as the one in this next image, which do not demonstrate this type of barring effect. In the Hubble Classification, we designate spiral galaxies with the letter ‘S’, and barred-spiral galaxies with the letters ‘SB.’”

  At this point, the pr
ofessor advanced through a series of slides demonstrating other types of galaxies. The class took fastidious notes as Professor Zimmer rattled off a quick and elementary overview of galaxies. This was a graduate class, so he would have to quickly launch into great details about the makeup and classification of galaxies, so he was brief in his introduction.

  “Now that I have described to you the various classifications of galaxies in the known universe,” Professor Zimmer gestured to a screen where a slide was being projected, “it is prudent for us to begin our study of each type. We will begin, appropriately enough, with our own galaxy, the Milky Way.”

  The professor was interrupted here by the opening of door to the back of the planetarium. He looked up to see Dean Scoville enter and assume a standing position in the same exact place as last time.

  Joram whispered to Kath, “That guy is making a habit out of disrupting the professor right at the end of class.”

  “That guy,” breathed Kath lowly, covering her mouth to be less conspicuous, “is Dean Scoville.”

  Joram’s head whipped back again to see a rather urgent look on Scoville’s face. “He looks—” Trailing off, he recalled the awkward episode that occurred on Monday, and snapped a worried glance up to Zimmer. Fortunately, the professor did not notice the two friends’ discussion, but instead looked intently at the dean. The two seemed to exchange knowing glances for a moment before the professor turned back to his class.

  “But that discussion,” began the professor, “will begin on Friday. Also, please take a look at the course website for the first set of selected readings. We will begin discussion on those readings next week. Class dismissed.”

  Rather than wait at the back of the class this time, Dean Scoville swept down the stairs and onto the stage to meet up quickly with Zimmer. Joram watched the pair intently, while the rest of the class turned off their note tablets, and fumbled for their backpacks. There was no exchange of words as the two met up. Instead, Scoville gave a slight nod and gestured towards the door in the back of the room where the two swiftly disappeared from sight.

  “What do you think that was all about?” Joram asked Kath.

  “Huh?” Kath asked looking up at Joram as she zipped her pack. “Oh, you mean Scoville and Zimmer? Don’t know… it looked pretty important though.” Then, shrugging off the incident, she continued, “Hey, I’m thirsty. Let’s go get something to drink.”

  As they left the planetarium, Joram looked back towards the closed door as if expecting to see it reopen or otherwise gain some knowledge as to the urgent departure of the two professors. Realizing that he would gain no further insight, he shrugged his shoulders and bounded up the stairs to rejoin Kath.

  …

  At Johnson Space Center, two engineers sat quietly in a control room where panels of computer screens monitored activity on Camp Mars. The main screen contained an image of the camp as captured from a digital camera mounted on a satellite orbiting the planet. Other screens contained various waveforms and pulses which monitored environmental and meteorological activity. Side-by-side screens titled Boronov and O’Ryan contained the vital signs of the two astronauts. Another charted the progress of the Shuttle Nevada recently departed from the crater and heading on a direct bearing for the Moon.

  Staneck Rodgers and Physon Edwards had worked this station together for years. They were intimately familiar with the operations and mission of the astronauts on Camp Mars.

  “Hey, now that Ayman’s up in space, it looks like everything is stable here,” announced Rodgers. “I’m going to go use the rest room. Be back in a few minutes.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Edwards agreed. “I’ll stand watch. It should be pretty boring for a couple of days, while Boronov shows O’Ryan the ropes.”

  As the door shut behind Staneck, Physon received a communication from Mars: “Boronov to Mission Control. The Nevada has successfully taken off and we are heading to fuel tank number one for pressure gauge malfunction assessment and repair.”

  Physon leaned back in his chair and cradled his hands behind his head. “Yep... it’s gonna get boring around here until mission operations resume next week.”

  After a few minutes of idle daydreaming and casual monitoring of the data, Physon’s life got less boring very quickly, as he heard a pulsing beep coincide with an alarm light on control panel in front of him. He leaned forward to examine the alarm.

  “Odd,” he said to himself. “I’ve never seen that alarm malfunction before.”

  The alarm read “Satellite Two Communication Failure.”

  Within moments, another pulsating sound: “Satellite Three Communication Failure.” With this alarm the main screen showing the video image of the Camp Mars crater went blank.

  With the blackness of the screen ahead of him, Physon leaned forward in his seat, his mind reeling at this puzzling chain of events. He considered the events. “That’s not good… what could cause two satellite link failures within moments…”

  Physon was trained to not panic in these situations. False alarms were part of the business of inter-galactic communications. Solar events, asteroid eclipses, even the Earth’s own magnetic field would occasionally interrupt the otherwise weak signals emanating from the Mars satellites.

  Quickly, however, Physon was required to enter a state of panic, because a litany of alarms went off simultaneously, and all of the monitors on the wall went dark. “Satellite One Communication Failure,” “Astronaut One Vitals,” “Astronaut Two Vitals,” “Satellite Array Failure,” “Audio Comm Failure,” “Shuttle Comm Failure.”

  The room was awash with flashing lights and beeps and buzzes of various volumes. Physon quickly muted all of the alarm sounds and reached for his two-way radio.

  “Stan, do you copy?” Physon voiced eagerly into the radio.

  “Yeah, Physon. What’s up?”

  “Where are you at? I need you to come quickly.”

  “I’m on my way back right now. I just stopped at the break room for a cup of coffee. What’s wrong, buddy?”

  “We have a massive communication failure with Camp Mars right now. I’ve never seen a comm interruption of this caliber.”

  “Be right there.” Physon’s voice and sprinting footsteps echoed with anticipation, as he returned his radio to his holster and raced back to the control room. Within moments, he threw open the door and found Staneck quickly pacing the length of the control panel to assess the situation.

  “What have we got, Stan?” Physon asked eagerly for a briefing of the situation.

  “Three satellite failure alarms, and a complete link loss to the surface array.”

  “So, we are still receiving signals from one of the satellites?” queried Physon as he rubbed his forehead with his hand.

  “Yeah. Sat Four is still online, but we’re only receiving heartbeats, since it’s not in range of the camp.”

  “What’s its orbital ETA to line of sight?”

  Physon raced to the other end of the panel, assessed the current orbit of Satellite Four, looked at his watch for the current time, punched a few numbers into the computer, and returned the results. “Sixteen hours, thirty-three minutes.” Physon looked up at his colleague with concern.

  Stan sighed deeply and shook his head yet maintained a calm voice. “You mean the only satellite we got yapping right now is on the opposite side of the planet?”

  “Pretty much,” confessed Physon bleakly.

  Stan ran to the control panel, quickly scanned the situation and immediately picked up a phone and dialed a four-digit extension.

  “Vurim, Edwards here. We have a serious communication failure. You better get in here ASAP.”

  Staneck hung up the phone and looked up at Physon, who appeared sullen. With eyes wide open and perspiration forming around his temples, he raised his eyebrows at his colleague questioningly.

  “I know, buddy,” Physon’s voice trailed off with a hint of concern. “You know, these things rarely implicate something catastrophic, but darn
it all, if it doesn’t get your heart racing, and turn your hair gray…”

  Physon was distracted as his eyes scanned the control room panels. “Stan, come take a look at this.”

  Stan started when he turned his head and saw Physon grow pale, a horror-stricken stare flaring from his wide-open eyes. Stan was at Physon’s side in just a couple of steps and looked at the panel that Physon had motioned towards—the panel labeled O’Ryan.

  “Had you noticed O’Ryan’s vitals just before the comm failure?” Physon asked his partner.

  “No, I… I hadn’t,” he confessed. “It shows that his heart and breathing rates increased rather abruptly about… oh… 30 seconds before the comm failure. But there’s nothing unusual about Boronov’s vitals.”

  “Look closely,” Physon rebutted, pointing to the ECG waveforms. “Right here, it looks like Boronov skipped a beat. No racing like O’Ryan, but it looks like there is a synchronized event… perhaps something that startled the pair.”

  “What do you make of it?” asked the junior engineer.

  Physon could do little more than shake his head slowly and shrug his shoulders in dismay.

  After a brief pause, Stan asked his more experienced partner, “Weren’t you in the control room when mission 79 had to be aborted?”

  “Yeah,” said Physon breaking into a forced smile. “That was a grueling three-day event that taught me to keep a level head and a stock of Tums on hand.”

  “But those guys were only a hundred thousand miles from Earth?” pointed out Stan. Our boys are millions of miles away right now, cut off from all communication, perhaps for quite a few hours.”

  “Indeed.” Physon pointed out and reached inside a drawer. Then with a slight smile, he gave one last word to his younger partner. “Tums?” he reached his hand out to his companion with a tube of the antacid in a subdued, yet calming voice, hoping to alleviate some of the tension. He didn’t like the symptoms he was seeing at all, but he also knew that it was premature to jump to any conclusions, and also that there was nothing he could do about it at present.