Project Sail

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Charles stared at her with such intensity that he did not hear Wren release an exhale that could pass for a wind gust.

  “Come again, Doctor?”

  “I found nothing in his DNA, blood, or body tissue that I would deem abnormal.”

  Wren considered standing but worried his legs would not support him.

  “Are you certain, Dr. King?”

  “You can see the images yourself. Leo Wren is a crude, foul-mouthed bully and if I could find a reason to kick him off this project I would.”

  Charles replied, “Check those results again and if you find anything report it to me. Do you understand?”

  “With pleasure, sir. I would be happy to see this ill-tempered, immature ass removed from this team.”

  The Captain glared at King, and then Wren, and then Hawthorne, to whom he said, “I am holding you accountable for his behavior, XO,” and then stormed out.

  Hawthorne said, “I got here just in time.”

  Instead of a witty riposte, Wren mumbled, “Commander, can I talk to Dr. King?”

  Hawthorne answered by leaving the room.

  Ira returned to her computer, folding the e-paper into a small square along the way. Wren’s eyes focused on her back until he had regained his breath enough to speak.

  “What did you just do?”

  “I gave my captain a report on the status of your DNA, as he ordered.”

  “I was not evacuated until after my family had been exposed to one of the bacterial strains. We were lucky; it was a non-lethal mutation, the organism failed to transform any of our cells.”

  “Yes, you are correct,” and she opened the e-paper again and touched an image. “You can clearly see the scarring on this batch of cells and I showed this image to Captain Charles. Your medical evaluation when you were thirteen was accurate; your DNA suffered slight damage from the infection, but only damage. You are not a carrier, no dangerous bacteria lives in your body.”

  “He was not looking for bacteria; he was looking for that damage. You knew he could not understand the image and you lied to him.”

  “Lied? I am offended at the suggestion,” and she slipped the paper into a receptacle, returning the information to the system and wiping the sheet clean. “The Captain asked me to report any abnormalities. You were present in England during the plague and your family survived exposure to one strain of the bacteria, therefore I would expect to find its genetic marker.”

  “I have pissed you off a dozen times, but you held your tongue when one word would have sent me packing.”

  She smiled and a quick chuckle turned into an outright laugh.

  “Doctor Wren—Leo—your childish barbs at my religious beliefs only prove that you do not understand faith. It’s not just a belief that somewhere in the universe there is a greater moral authority; it is about faith in those whom He gave life, faith in my fellow man, even you. Faith that your life has value and meaning, that I am put in this universe to be there for you in your time of need. Today was a time of need for you.”

  “You lied to a commanding officer.”

  “No, I spoke the exact truth. The fact that he did not understand the information I presented is not my fault. While I have an obligation to serve my commanding officer, the compassion of the ‘flying spaghetti monster’ guides my actions, and I will not help someone hurt a friend.”

  “You think I am a friend? I mock your faith, slander your God, and we argue whenever we talk.”

  She shrugged and told him, “At least we talk.”

  Wren scratched the back of his head as he tried to solve this puzzle.

  “I suppose I owe you one. Don’t expect me to join your next congregation.”

  “My next what?”

  He said, “On Titan we found you with a crowd gathered around, listening to you preach the good word.”

  “You think that was a congregation?” She laughed again. “Leo, that was no congregation, that was a riot. They were about to go on a rampage over living conditions, just like you see on Mars. I was glad they listened, or the circumstances of our meeting might have been different. That is what faith is about.”

  After a moment of silence she added, “Nonetheless, you are making progress already.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wren asked.

  “You haven’t said ‘fuck’ in at least five minutes.”

  ---

  For two days, Hawthorne studied in Professor Coffman’s workshop. He took a three-dimensional tour of SE 185’s engines, flew a flight simulator, programmed courses on a navigation computer, and reviewed two-hundred pages detailing the onboard data banks, a task made monotonous by his lack of implants.

  On the third day, Coffman surprised him with a test on the subject matter, resulting in Hawthorne spending a fourth and fifth day touring, flying, programming, and reviewing all over again.

  When he finally emerged from this educational prison, he went to the mess hall for an early dinner and ordered the best imitation steak the processor could weave as well as a bottle of wine to wash it down.

  At first, he had the mess to himself but it did not take long for Lieutenant Thomas to find him.

  They compared training notes. Universal Visions Corporate Security focused her training on close quarters combat and automated defense systems, preparing her for a knife fight in an alleyway or to repel a planetary invasion, a strange combination.

  As they spoke, groups of UVI employees arrived. These were the people who worked maintenance, communications, and cargo handling. They wore various clothing, some more formal than others, a few in badly stained worker’s garb and others wearing hazmat suits. Hawthorne recognized one guy; whatever food he ate today, he bought with Hawthorne’s money.

  Regardless of their jobs at Oberon, they sat together at the tables closest to the serving line. He overheard gripes about working conditions, concerns over a long-overdue repair in the cargo bay, and a couple of dirty jokes.

  The first familiar face to join them belonged to Matthew Carlson. He held a tray carrying soup and a slice of bread that appeared more knitted than baked.

  “Good evening, Commander; Lieutenant.”

  Hawthorne thought it interesting that people in space kept their sense of morning, afternoon, and evening despite the same constant ambient light. Once man had moved beyond the range of Sol’s sunrises and sunsets, their biological clocks attuned to counting hours on clocks as opposed to shadows cast by sunlight.

  Ten minutes later, Dr. King also arrived. She went to the serving line and then joined them with a sandwich so geometrically perfect it could only have been made by a machine.

  Hawthorne did not know what happened a few days ago when Charles had insisted on Wren’s DNA tests, but he sensed that King had covered for the angry Englishman, which made less sense than Charles demanding the tests.

  From his seat, Hawthorne had a clear view of the door and watched as people arrived for dinner in small groups.

  First came Leanne Warner—the ship’s Air Boss—with engineer’s assistant Sheila Black, the two laughing as they walked into the mess hall.

  He found himself staring at Warner’s prosthetic. When she used it to grab, touch, pull, or push, the joints moved with just a slight hesitation, barely noticeable. But when she was not using the arm it just hung by her side like a stiff piece of plastic.

  Still, if not for advances in neurobiology and robotics over the last century, her disability would have limited her career and her life.

  Warner and Black found a table on the far side of the mess hall and continued to giggle about something funny.

  Next entered Rafael Soto, King’s assistant. He sat with Warner and Black and joined the laughter.

  Ellen Kost stepped into the mess hall, followed by Tommy Starr, the Martian with the tall, slender physique who carried an oxygen tank and mask to combat his chronic respiratory problems.

  Ellen joined Hawthorne’s group; Tommy Star went straight to the other table of people wearing
blue coveralls.

  “Hey, Ellen!” Thomas welcomed her roommate.

  Before Kost could respond, Dr. King stood and told the group, “Everyone, come with me.”

  “What’s wrong?” Carlson asked.

  “This is like a junior high school dance, with the girls on one side and the boys on the other.”

  “Wait,” Thomas said, “I’m a girl.”

  “There exists a divide between those of us who came on the Virgil, and those who were here longer. The time has come for a little team building.”

  Ira King took the lead and they followed, although Kelly still appeared confused.

  “May we join you?” King asked.

  Hawthorne wondered why he had not thought of this. As the Executive Officer, crew morale was his job.

  After a minute of awkward silence, the first words of conversation came like sprinkles before a rainstorm, which grew into a downpour.

  Thomas told them of the fighting on Titan, King had news about breakthroughs in Phage Therapy, Tommy shared stories of strife on Mars, and Hawthorne dared to tell them of the celebrity space orgy aboard the Princess.

  Long after finishing their dinners, the group talked. The only interruption came when Tommy—also known as Marvin the Martian—noticed a young man in a blue and white uniform standing at the door holding a package and scanning the hall in search of someone.

  “Hey buddy,” he called, “you lost?”

  “I am looking for Jonathan Hawthorne.”

  Hawthorne raised his hand and called, “Yo!”

  As the young man neared, Hawthorne saw that he wore a Riptide Express Service uniform and carried a small package.

  “Mr. Hawthorne? I am supposed to transfer delivery responsibilities for this package to you, and to give you the use of my shuttle.”

  “What?”

  He suddenly remembered his conversation with Lazarus.

  “Excuse me,” he said to his fellow crewmen, “I think there has been a mistake.”

  He stood, threw an arm around the young deliveryman, and led him from the cafeteria.

  “This is unusual, Mr. Hawthorne,” the kid said and handed over the package. “We’ve got drones that fly around out here for the small stuff and 3D construction stations that can build just about anything with the blueprints.”

  “Yes, well, this is an unusual case.”

  “I am supposed to wait until you get back. The instructions say you must leave the station within thirty minutes to complete the delivery on time.”

  Hawthorne’s mind raced as he tried to remember Lazarus’ instructions.

  The kid went on, “It goes to a platform in orbit around Titania. The course is programmed into the shuttle which is parked on the main docking ring. You will need this,” and he gave Hawthorne a clearance card that would provide boarding access to the shuttle as well as launch permissions. “The controls are NA Simplified Transit with a Viewport 2.2 interface.”

  Hawthorne huffed and said, “Great, shitty trouble and the latest software that is probably still sorting out the bugs.”

  He told the kid to meet him in the mess hall later. Round trip to the orbital station at Titania would take three hours. Fortunately, Captain Charles had not scheduled any training missions for this evening. Or perhaps Lazarus had influenced that, too.

  Back at his quarters, he found the package that had earned Captain Horus ten thousand dollars to deliver, most likely at the expense of some corporate executive who would barely notice the misappropriated funds. The box still contained a security card, a blue and white Riptide Express Service uniform, and an electronic device that reminded him of his father’s old style wristwatch.

  Lazarus had spoken of a mysterious construction project on Titania. He had asked Hawk to capture an image that, through computer wizardry, would hitch a ride on outgoing transmissions and find its way to Pan.

  The credentials were for him---Jonathan Hawthorne--and when he checked on the computer in his quarters, he saw he was listed as a sub-contractor for Riptide, not a phony employee. He felt better; no identify fraud here.

  He ditched the uniform because he wanted this as above-board as possible. Being caught in it would suggest he had something to hide.

  Only the spy camera made him uneasy, but he reminded himself that he would take photos while flying around a moon, not an incursion into restricted airspace.

  He convinced himself this was merely a favor for a friend. Only the control layout and interface caused him concern.

  And then Bill Stein stood in the doorway rubbing his shoulder.

  “You’d think I would be used to these damn radiation shots by now but my body just doesn’t like them one bit.”

  Hawthorne remembered that Bill Stein endured the misery of so many shots and their side effects on his body because he loved space, and he had flown just about every type of ship built.

  “Say Bill, how would you like to go for a ride?”

  26. Titania

  The courier’s ship resembled a tadpole with a head-like sphere and a metal tail stretching behind. That tail served as a hook holding a cargo container, like a Peterbilt cab pulling a trailer. Engine baffles hung at the end of short, thick wings reaching out to either side.

  The cockpit included two seats and not much else as computers, scanners, and screens lined the cabin. Regulations required Hawthorne and Stein to wear space suits but at least they found ‘activity’ models. These suits were flexible and lighter than typical gear and would keep them protected during an atmosphere leak, but were not suitable for EVA or surface use.

  The cockpit was a round globe with the front half made of transparent alumina, meaning the two men sat in what felt like a plastic bubble.

  Stein warned from the pilot’s seat, “Strap in nice and tight.”

  With no artificial gravity aboard Riptide Jumper 327, any g-force would transfer to the occupants.

  Lazarus had worked computer magic to list Hawthorne as a temporary Riptide employee authorized to fly the courier shuttle. After some effort, they tricked the facial recognition software into allowing Stein behind the controls.

  Like Hawthorne, Stein’s lack of implants meant interacting with the dashboard and its screens by touch. He tapped buttons, swiped his thumb, and pressed displays as if he had driven that courier ship every day for years.

  A voice broadcast, “Riptide 3-2-7, your flight plan is approved and you are cleared for launch. Opening the bay doors and we have switched off the gravity.”

  The small ship rested on retractable landing skids inside a hangar shared with various similarly sized craft. Lights flashed, warning horns sounded over proximity radios, and then ahead of them a bulkhead rolled open, revealing a view of Oberon, far below the station.

  Stein worked the sticks and fired maneuvering thrusters, pushing the ship up and out where it drifted between UVI’s station and Uranus’ second largest moon. As they coasted along, Stein accessed course information from an overhead screen and then studied two columns of equations that projected on the cockpit glass.

  “Give me a second to check the numbers; I do not want to mess up and plant us on that big rock down there.”

  “Take your time,” Hawthorne said although he remembered time was important; Lazarus said this errand would give him a quick glimpse at something curious on the moon’s surface.

  “Commander, I like going on rides, especially in something like this little number that can give you a kick. But Chief, I’m not going to catch any slack for this, am I?”

  “Like I said, a friend of mine higher up in the ranks than you, me, or Captain Charles said something is happening on Titania, and if I deliver this package I could see it. He said it might be related to our mission but don’t worry, we are not breaking any laws.”

  Of course, he was not certain about the legality of this side trip. It would have been easier to skip this delivery and find a poker game, but so far everything Lazarus told him about Project Sail turned out to be true. That m
eant Russian battleships, dead technicians, and the Niobe’s destruction might share a common connection.

  “But do not mention this to anyone?”

  “Spill your guts if asked and throw the blame at me. Now are we ready?”

  “Rockets configured for burst.”

  “Hit it.”

  The heads-up display counted down for both to see as Stein spoke aloud, “Three, two, one…”

  The ship trembled and then lunged forward as if kicked by a giant foot. The instant g-force sucked both men into their seats with strength greater than blasting off Earth. To the right, the starboard side, the surface of Oberon spun by and then disappeared as they rounded the moon.

  “Burst…almost…done…okay,” and the thrust stopped although their momentum continued forward, their speed masked by a lack of reference points.

  “That was fun,” Hawthorne spat. “Give me a diametric drive any day.”

  “No, sir, this is flying. I love that kick in the ass.”

  “How old did you say you are? It sounds like you have logged more flying time than me, but you are just a kid.”

  Stein grunted a laugh and said, “Thirty-three, Chief. I started flying at twelve years old in airplanes but I was not happy until I took the controls of an orbital skimmer at seventeen. After that, I never wanted to go back to Earth.”

  As they left Oberon behind, the forward view filled with the blue-green ball of methane and hydrogen sulfide named Uranus.

  “That place is next, you know,” Stein nodded at the huge planet. “Low escape velocity makes it ideal for helium-3 mining. In two or three decades there will be so many cities floating in the atmosphere it will look like urban sprawl.”

  We will get to it, Hawthorne thought. That is what we do.

  “Making an adjustment here,” Stein warned and then fired a starboard thruster, a small push in comparison to the main rockets.

  “You look like you are having the time of your life.”

  “Well, Commander, traveling a light-year in a day on SE 185 is boring compared with thirty seconds of pure thrust firing out of space dock.”

  A ping came from a screen, calling attention to a directional beacon.