Project Sail

by Anthony DeCosmo

  “Looks like we are locked on,” Stein said.

  Hawthorne tapped an outer pocket on his suit to check for the camera Lazarus had given him. He was not sure how to explain it to Bill Stein and so decided to capture the pictures as covertly as possible.

  The moon Titania—the largest of Uranus’ satellites—started out as a black dot disrupting the bland appearance of its parent planet. After several bursts and course corrections, that dot became a big circle and then a bigger ball of ice and rock. While similar in composition to Oberon, it appeared brighter to Hawthorne’s eye, although that might have been an optical illusion.

  As they neared, he saw hundreds of impact craters as well as scarps and canyons stretching across the surface like mementos from a knife fight. Still, by the time the moon filled their window, he found it no more interesting than any other rock.

  “Here we go again, but in reverse. You might want to switch.”

  The wings rotated so the baffles faced front. The two men inside did the same, swiveling away from the window so their chair backs could provide support.

  Stein fired the rockets for braking power, slowing the vessel. After thirty seconds, their speed stabilized as they flew across the face of the scarred moon. As they crested the horizon and moved behind Titania, the navigation screen focused on a waypoint marked UVI T4.

  Stein pointed forward at a disc-like speck barely visible in the starlight as it hovered over the pitch-black surface of Titania’s dark side.

  “What is this place, anyway? The only description in the navigation computer is ‘civilian orbital platform.’”

  Hawthorne answered, “Not sure. According to the Riptide logistics computer it has received twenty replacement gravity panels, twelve engine mounts with O-ring dividers, two pallets of rubber conduits, fifty gallons of Sweet Farms Real Beef Paste, and a case of Ace Handballs, in the last two weeks.”

  “The balls and the food could be anything, but the rest sounds like supplies for a shipyard.”

  Hawthorne replied as the platform came into better view, “I don’t see any construction docks, so…” his voice trailed off.

  Far below, artificial lights arranged in circular patterns illuminated the black terrain of Titania. He knew this was what Lazarus had sent him to see.

  “It is a shipyard, but on the surface.”

  Stein said, “I thought they only built ships in orbit these days.”

  “Maybe there are security or secrecy advantages on the surface.”

  Ahead of them, the platform neared to the point that they could see details such as windows and antennae.

  Stein fired bursts from the braking rockets but as he did, something caught his attention.

  “Doesn’t look so lonely to me,” the pilot said as he tapped an overhead screen and transferred a radar image to the HUD.

  Hawthorne recognized the radar profiles before he saw the running lights, the gun ports, the missile tubes.

  “Two light cruisers and one heavy. Christ, I didn’t think they had that many gunboats out this far. What the hell are they protecting?”

  Hawthorne remembered the camera Lazarus had given him. He was not sure how it worked but he started with a dial on the side. When the device lit, he figured he got it right.

  The radar image projected on the heads-up display pinged again, this time revealing a mammoth signature, like a whale swimming among guppies.

  “That’s a battleship. Chief, what the fuck did you get me into?”

  Jonathan Hawthorne had faced battleships before, even ones trying to kill him, so the man-o-war bearing down on their shuttle did not scare him.

  “Calm down, Bill, everything is okay.”

  Still, he worried less about the consequences of their delivery run and more about what this security meant, especially any connection to Project Sail.

  He faced the device toward the patch of lights on the moon’s surface.

  “Hey, what is that?” Stein asked.

  Hawthorne stuttered and then explained, “This, oh just a mini wrist computer—”

  “No, I mean that,” and Stein nodded toward the base on the surface.

  Light from the face of Uranus reflected off the orbiting platform providing just enough illumination to see what was hidden on the surface of Titania: three massive hulls belonging to a class of spaceship Hawthorne had never seen. They appeared to be of identical design and larger than any warship he ever encountered, nearly as large a Hercules-class hauling barge, meaning over a mile long and half that wide.

  Cranes, hovering platforms, and swarms of robotic drones surrounded the ships.

  “Those are really big,” Stein stated the obvious. “Big enough to be tankers but you don’t build tankers at a secret base.”

  “They could be a new class of battleship.”

  A transmission from the platform interrupted their conversation: “Riptide 327, we have you on approach, sending docking coordinates.”

  Stein replied, “Roger that, just a quick drop off, we will be in and out in a hurry.”

  “We appreciate that Riptide 327,” and the USNA battleship flew over the courier as if underlining the point. Hawthorne saw maneuvering thruster ports and airlock doors on the undercarriage as the giant sword-shaped monster went by.

  A beep from the camera gave Hawthorne the impression it had performed its task.

  “So what now?” Stein asked.

  “We dock, I drop off the package, and back we go.”

  Three heavily armed drones buzzed the cockpit.

  “Was this friend of yours trying to get you killed?”

  Hawthorne considered Lazarus’ warnings and the secret base building massive ships.

  “Actually, he might be trying to keep me alive.”

  27. Crunch Time

  For the sixth time since training began, Commander Hawthorne stood on the surface of Oberon listening to Captain Charles and Martin Chambers vie for the prize of “most annoying” transmission.

  “This is an emergency lift off drill,” Charles radioed from SE 185 in orbit to the three astronauts who bounced across the interior of Hamlet, a crater two hundred and six kilometers in diameter. “You must be off the ground in sixty seconds.”

  “With the samples,” Chambers also radioed from SE 185.

  One could not talk without the other commenting, like a married couple competing to see who could discipline junior the most.

  Wren switched to his proximity transmitter so only Hawthorne and Carlson could hear his sentiment of, “Tell those two to shut the fuck up!”

  “Just grab the samples,” Hawthorne replied.

  Those samples were inside a robotic auger that had penetrated the crater’s volcanic black rock.

  The three men wore cumbersome, heavy-duty space suits that provided maximum protection but made it difficult to work with equipment. Fortunately, Oberon’s gravity was a tiny fraction of Earth’s, so moving was not a problem.

  Hawthorne ordered, “Carlson, start the pre-flight checks.”

  Carlson acknowledged the command with a wave and moved toward the white and black cone-shaped capsule like a man hopping across a trampoline.

  “Forty-five seconds, Hawthorne,” Charles said and, as expected, Chambers added, “Secure those samples!”

  Wren reached the auger, accessed the collection bin, and said, “Got them!”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  Hawthorne and Wren hurried to join Carlson in the ship.

  “You should have launched by now!”

  Wren entered the capsule first, but needed help from Hawthorne as their bulky backpacks presented a challenge.

  As he waited his turn, movement caught Hawthorne’s eye. Overhead, the distant twinkle of faraway stars painted on a black canvas dominated half the sky while the other half belonged to Uranus. For a moment, he felt as if that huge planet was falling down at him, like a giant collapsing on Jack and his beans.

  A meteor flew overhead. With no atmosphere, the chunk of rock, i
ce, or iron did not burn, therefore no fiery tail, just a jagged ball flying toward the horizon.

  Hawthorne followed Wren inside and then floated to the suspended pilot’s chair at the center of the pod.

  Carlson spoke as he strapped into a chair, “The course is plotted and on your screen.”

  Wren closed the hatch, stowed the sample box in a storage bin, and moved to a seat. Hawthorne reached the pilot’s chair, swung into it like a gymnast doing the vault in slow motion, and reached for his safety harness.

  “Fifteen seconds!”

  “They are never going to make it.”

  Hawthorne told his crewmates, “Shout when you are buckled,” while working the computerized dashboard with his clumsy gloves.

  “I’m strapped in,” Carlson said and Wren echoed, “Me, too.”

  Over the radio came, “Ten seconds, Hawthorne,” followed immediately by Chambers complaining, “Why do we have a first officer who does not have implants? They would be off the ground by now.”

  Wren kept to the local channel when he suggestion that Hawthorne, “tell those guys to go fuck themselves.”

  The rockets fired, propelling the ship off Oberon atop a stream of yellow and black plasma.

  Wren shouted over the local line, “Yes! They can eat shit!”

  As they achieved orbit, the engines cut and the capsule banked toward the mother ship.

  Leanne Warner’s voice broadcast to the pod, “Capsule One, you are cleared for docking portside aft; we will put the lights on for you.”

  “Roger that Boss, throw a couple of cold ones on ice for us.”

  One of the circular hatches positioned at each corner of SE 185’s underbelly opened. Hawthorne fired thrusters and steered beneath it, bathing the capsule in the glow of a floodlight that they followed inside.

  ---

  Dr. Ira King stared out the window from the space station’s medical center, hypnotized by the stars as the universe stretched before her with both clarity and mystery.

  Clarity in scope. She gained a sense for the enormity of the universe, perhaps the same way Vikings regarded the vastness of the North Sea before setting off to explore. She would soon leave behind the known world of the solar system for uncharted territory. The scope of the coming adventure was clear.

  But it was the mystery of what lay ahead that stoked her heart. The others spoke of natural resources, scientific knowledge, and political spoils. For Ira King, she dared hope this journey would be one of spiritual discovery. Could our Creator be out there, waiting to applaud our ingenuity and bravery?

  Perhaps that was too much to ask. Yet, the mysteries of the universe were His doing, and in unraveling those mysteries, she might unearth more of his work, of his word.

  She sighed and stepped away from the view.

  The medical center on the Oberon station was a long room with a dozen beds and nearly that same number of orderlies and doctors. Adjoining rooms held isolation chambers and body scanners.

  Ira came to calibrate a box of handheld scanners that would travel with her to Gliese 581g. She had not intended on seeing patients while there, but when Ellen Kost walked in Ira went straight to her.

  “Ellen, what brings you to the medical center?”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were onboard the ship.”

  “No, they are loading cargo so I stopped in to take care of supplies, but I would be happy to help you with anything.”

  “I thought you were only the doctor on the ship.”

  “I am authorized to provide services at any Universal Visions health care facility.”

  Kost grew tense; her shoulders straightened, she fidgeted, and her head swiveled side-to-side surveying the room.

  Seeing this, Ira volunteered, “I can get another doctor to speak with you, if you would like.”

  “No, of course not,” a nervous chuckle followed by, “I need a prescription.”

  Ira considered Kost’s relationship with Leo Wren and joked, “Let me guess, coactione-oxetine.”

  “What’s that? No, that’s not what I need. Why would you think I would need that?”

  Ira felt bad that her joke had flustered Kost. She placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Ellen, calm down dear, I was kidding.”

  That did not work so Ira moved the conversation forward.

  “I can write a prescription and you can take it to the pharmacy down the hall.”

  “Okay, I need, that is, I would like Sumatriptan.”

  Ira paused for a second, not recognizing the name, and Kost grew so agitated that King worried the woman might run from the room.

  However, she remembered information about Sumatriptan and said, “Migraines, my dear? Possibly caused by an implant? Sumatriptan is an old treatment and not nearly as effective as a nerve stimulator. Do you have a headache right now?”

  Kost shook her head and said, “No, but I get them, and I will want a supply for our trip. I don’t have an implant, either.”

  “I will have a nerve stimulator onboard.”

  “I do not like those; I want the drug.”

  King explained, “The stimulator is painless and quick.”

  “I want the drug,” Kost repeated.

  Ira conceded and accessed the medical system from a screen mounted next to that big long window through which she could see the stars.

  “I will enter a prescription and you can pick it up right away.”

  “Thank you,” Kost paused two seconds and then added, “I am sorry if I, well, I did not mean to be rude.”

  “Nonsense, you are the patient and you know what you need.”

  King finished inputting the information and told her, “You are set.”

  Kost asked, “What is coactione-oxetine?”

  “It’s the name for Push. I was making a joke at Leo’s expense, as if you required Push to be close to him. I apologize, but if you tell him I said that he will likely get a laugh out of it.”

  Finally, Ellen’s shoulders relaxed and she stopped fidgeting.

  King asked, “You are close to him, aren’t you?”

  “We, you know, shared a bunk on the Virgil. Since then, well, we spend time together.”

  “Then maybe you can tame that temper of his. It tends to get him into trouble.”

  Kost asked, “You don’t like him, do you?”

  King leaned against an empty bed.

  “Leo Wren can be infuriating, his language belongs in a schoolyard, and he thinks he knows everything.”

  Kost replied, “That can be a pain in the ass, yes. But I do not think he knows any other way. If you listen to him, or listen to his music, if you do that you can hear someone else inside, trying to find his way out.”

  “He has a lot of anger.”

  “Imagine if you had to leave everything behind when you were thirteen years old. Imagine if half your childhood friends died and your old neighborhood was firebombed. What if you found yourself a refugee in a place that worried you might be carrying a disease so they stuck you in camps for six months. I think you would be angry, too.”

  “You are probably right. And believe it or not, I do like Leo, and I would like to help him, too. That is what you are trying to do, isn’t it? You are hoping that person inside can climb out from under the anger. That will take great effort and patience on your part. Is it worth it?”

  “I hope so,” she answered. “Because I understand how he feels.”

  King did not know what to make of that and before she could ask, Ellen Kost thanked her for the prescription and walked away.

  ---

  SE 185 parked just outside and below the open doors to Oberon UVI’s main cargo bay. Like a line of ants raiding a picnic, astronauts moved from the station to the space ship transferring boxes, crates, pallets, and shipping containers. Aided by portable thrusters as well as hand-operated cargo carriers resembling flying forklifts, the work party moved tons of equipment and supplies to the interstellar vessel.

  Captain Charles had ex
plained to Hawthorne that he expected his XO to oversee the loading. When pressed, Charles further explained, “shit flows downhill from me to you.”

  To make matters worse, Corporate Liaison Martin Chambers decided to be a part of the process, which meant barking orders and finding fault with everyone. After nearly six weeks of training with the man, Hawthorne wondered if Chambers wanted to alienate every person on Oberon, or if he equated leadership with acting like a loud-mouthed asshole.

  Anyway, after hours of work, SE 185’s cargo bay was three-quarters full but Oberon’s supply stash had run dry.

  Hawthorne floated at the top of the outer door until he counted every one inside the hangar. He then radioed the control room, “Eighteen souls inside; seal her up.”

  Hawthorne fired his maneuvering thrusters and drifted across the hangar, just below the crossbeams supporting the ceiling. A pair of one-man maintenance pods sat parked on the floor below as well as a heavy lifter cargo shuttle.

  A spinning red light warned of the main door closing and a voice from the control room broadcast that warning to anyone with a radio. Hawthorne fired his jet pack to spin around and watch Oberon disappear behind the bulkhead.

  Once the vacuum of space was shut out, rows of flashing blue lights on the ceiling and walls announced the return of oxygen and heat, blinking faster in step with the increasing pressure. When they remained solid blue, the chamber had filled with atmosphere.

  Commander Hawthorne opened his faceplate and inhaled air that was slightly less stale tasting than the stuff inside his suit.

  With the return of atmosphere, sound traveled inside the chamber. The klaxon announcing the pending return of gravity reached his ears without radio assistance. Still, he hovered above and let the slow increase in artificial gravity pull him to the floor as gently as a leaf floating to the ground.

  He then joined the rest of the work party at a row of lockers to one side of the hangar where everyone removed their space suits. Hawthorne wore blue coveralls underneath, as did Chambers, Stein, Warner, Tommy Starr, and Andy Phipps, the diminutive engineer’s assistant. A dozen others dressed in the gray and black coveralls assigned to the station’s payload and supply specialists.