Project Sail

by Anthony DeCosmo

When out of his suit, Hawthorne headed for the exit at a fast walk. Reagan Fisk, entering from the observation deck, intercepted him.

  “Commander Hawthorne!”

  He did not stop, so Fisk hurried alongside matching him step for step.

  “I wanted to wish you the best of luck on your mission.”

  “Do not tell Captain Charles that,” Hawthorne warned, “he doesn’t believe in luck.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, Reagan. We don’t launch for a few days.”

  “I know, but I’m headed back to Earth. I imagine the next time I see you, your face will be on the news. The hero of Ganymede conquers interstellar space!”

  Martin Chambers swooped in, shouldering Fisk away and taking his spot next to Hawthorne who still crossed the hangar at a brisk pace. Fisk stopped and gaped, offended at such rudeness but lacking the backbone to protest.

  “Commander, it took too long to load SE 185.”

  “Extra help would have sped things along.”

  “Operational security is a priority,” Chambers explained, still walking. “Fewer people involved means fewer rumors spreading. What we need is more effort and focus. It’s crunch time, Commander; we launch in five days.”

  “Whatever you say,” Hawthorne did not hide the dismissive tone in his voice, but then he saw that Chambers had stopped walking with him.

  No, not stopped; he had become stuck.

  Chambers stood still with his chest and shoulders leaning forward because his upper body intended to continue with Hawthorne, but his legs did not move.

  That stone face rapidly grew pale; his icy eyes widened, and Martin Chambers let out the guttural moan of a trapped animal.

  Fisk stood ten feet away watching the statue-like Chambers with a confused grin, thinking he witnessed a practical joke.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Chambers managed to say, “Hawthorne…” and he grunted as if lifting a heavy weight as he reached one arm out in a plea for help.

  “Oh sweet Christ,” Hawthorne muttered. He was about to say more but when Fisk moved to help, Hawthorne tackled him.

  “What are you doing?” Fisk shouted as they tumbled to the deck.

  Hawthorne jumped to his feet and yelled across the hangar, “Gravity! Gravity!”

  Of the people loitering nearby, half froze and gawked and the other half ran for the nearest exit.

  A cracking sound came from Chambers’ feet…and then the bones there contracted like a crumpling piece of paper. Blood sprayed but the droplets could not escape the gravitational chain reaction and were pulled to the floor.

  Chambers screamed a horrible, bone-chilling cry that echoed through the cargo bay and filled every soul in earshot with dread.

  “Help me!”

  With both feet gone, the anomaly ate his lower legs, sucking them into the deck in a series of lurches, a predator eating prey in gulps.

  Fisk—his mouth open and his breath coming in huffs—reached toward the trapped man again but Hawthorne grabbed his arm.

  “You’ll get caught in the gravity well,” and then louder to anyone in earshot: “For Christ’s sake we have a gravity alert!”

  An alarm sounded in a rising and falling buzz that everyone who worked in space recognized as a gravitational anomaly alert. When heard, it usually meant someone had died. In this case, that was Martin Chambers; it was just a matter of seconds.

  Fisk was near tears as he cried, “They have to shut off the gravity!”

  As the last pieces of Chambers’ legs sunk into the now-warping deck panel, his upper body twisted in a series of twitches. His pelvis cracked and popping noises suggested joints torqueing out of sockets.

  “It doesn’t make a damn difference,” Hawthorne turned away and spoke in Fisk’s ear. “He is gone.”

  But of course he was not gone, not yet. His eyes remained open until his gut ruptured, and then those eyes rolled white before shutting permanently. A minute later, all traces of the man disappeared and the stained deck plate curled into a ball and collapsed into the panel below.

  Hawthorne waited to see if the anomaly would spread. As was normally the case, the chain reaction remained confined to one panel; a panel that had been one step to his right, the one Fisk would have crossed if Chambers had not bullied him out of the way.

  Within three minutes, the anomaly burned out. The refined dark matter inside the artificial gravity panel morphed from a tightly packed pile of black pellets resembling metal shavings into toxic goo smelling like tar.

  Fisk sat on the hangar floor, sobbing. Hawthorne stared at the empty space.

  28. New Assignment

  Judy--Henderson’s assistant--opened the door for Hawthorne and he walked into the director’s office. Both the white-haired old man and the younger Reagan Fisk waited inside, the former standing in front of his desk, the latter seated in a chair with his head in his hands.

  “Commander, please come in and take a seat. That will be all for now, Judy.”

  Both Hawthorne and Judy did as directed. The outer door closed with a soft thump. Henderson’s sniffer-dog raised its head and then returned to its nap in a corner, although the dog’s musty scent drifted through the office, driving off the stale stench of recycled air.

  “I have been chatting with Reagan, here,” and Henderson motioned to Fisk. “Recent events warrant adjustments to the mission.”

  Hawthorne noticed Fisk was not his usual bouncy self. Clearly, his enthusiasm was crushed with Martin Chambers. Not only did that accident serve as a brutal reminder of the dangers of working in space, but the man’s death had also been gruesome. Reality hit Fisk hard.

  Of course, Hawthorne was not immune. A shiver still curled around his spine and the image of Chambers’ body snapping and twisting as he compressed into the floor played every time he shut his eyes. So when Henderson pulled a bottle of brandy and a glass from a liquor cabinet and offered, Hawthorne gladly accepted.

  As he took his first sip, he learned another reason Fisk sat in the chair with his head down.

  “I have promoted Reagan to Corporate Liaison for Project Sail,” Henderson pat Fisk on the shoulder and then moved behind his desk but remained standing. “I am confident he will do a splendid job.”

  Henderson pumped his fist, as if an enthusiastic show of support would pull the young man from the proverbial ledge.

  Had it not been for the accident in the cargo bay, Hawthorne might laugh. After weeks of hearing Fisk extol space exploration, the young man would now be a part of the mission. His despondent reaction reminded Hawthorne of the armchair generals rooting for military conquest until they carried a rifle. The thrill of battle--or in this case the thrill of pioneering new frontiers--faded when one was personally at risk.

  Nonetheless, instead of adding to the kid’s misery, Hawthorne said, “He will do just fine.”

  “See that Reagan, another vote of confidence.”

  Fisk raised his head as if to speak, but what might have been a bout of nausea caused him to droop again.

  “Commander Hawthorne, while we have confidence in Reagan, some tasks are better suited to your experience.”

  This stirred Hawthorne’s curiosity and concern; the old man danced around something.

  “Let’s review the mission profile,” Henderson went on, maintaining a half-grin as if they discussed a list of party favors for a celebration. “SE 185 will spend roughly three weeks in transit to Gliese 581g, with one stop along the way for recharging the A-H drive.”

  Hawthorne took a drink, leaving little in the glass, which he tipped in his host’s direction. Henderson understood and returned to the liquor cabinet as he spoke.

  “Within thirty minutes of arriving at the planet, Captain Charles must send a code over the QE link to Oberon UVI.”

  “Thirty minutes does not seem like enough time to provide detailed survey results.”

  “The initial report is to confirm arrival and to confirm that the probe’s findings we
re, at least in general, correct: that Gliese 581g is a lifeless ball of rock.”

  Hawthorne guessed, “But one rich in mineral and chemical resources.”

  “What’s that? Oh yes, of course.”

  Henderson filled Hawthorne’s glass nearly to the top.

  “Easy, Mr. Henderson, I am on duty.”

  The director chuckled, placed the bottle in front of Hawthorne, and then sat in his comfortable chair behind his big desk.

  “After Captain Charles sends his report, you are to kill him and take command.”

  Hawthorne spat a mouthful of brandy.

  “A pistol should be sufficient, but I leave the method to your judgment.”

  “Wait, now, wait a second,” Hawthorne placed his glass on the desk while wiping splashes of alcohol from his blue coveralls. “Did you just tell me to kill Captain Charles?”

  Fisk—sitting alongside Hawthorne—groaned something that sounded like a prelude to vomiting.

  “You will then command SE 185 for the duration of the mission.”

  “You want me to mutiny and murder my commanding officer? Did I hear that right?”

  Henderson held a hand aloft.

  “Relax, Jonathan, the navy is aware of the situation; there will be no court-martial.”

  Hawthorne stood and stepped away from the desk, running his hand through his hair. Fisk muttered something about feeling ill.

  “You are joking, right? Did Wren put you up to this?”

  “Commander, we have known for some time that Captain Charles is on the European Alliance’s payroll. To put it bluntly, he is a spy.”

  While Hawthorne did not think highly of Charles, he found that accusation difficult to believe.

  “He’s a career officer! How the hell could he be a spy?”

  “Yes, well, that is a story.”

  “I think before we start talking about killing a man, I would like to hear that story.”

  Hawthorne paced around the room as Henderson explained.

  “The navy assigned Charles to the Niobe because of his background in overseeing the construction and launch of new ships. He is a logistics expert, you see. However, UVI urged the navy to replace him once the Niobe set sail. We felt he lacked a certain, well, creativity to serve as mission commander. When he learned this, he became angry with our company as well as the navy and listened to overtures from Alliance intelligence.”

  “Okay,” Hawthorne said, “he’s got a score to settle with you.”

  “Not just us, Commander, but you, too.”

  “Me?”

  “When the Niobe was destroyed, we knew we could continue the mission by converting the survey ship—SE 185—to handle general exploration. However, there were not enough members of the back-up crew here on Oberon to fill the ship’s roster, so we needed replacements fast. In the confusion, we believed Charles died and we turned to a computer program to fill the holes. The program first selected you to captain SE 185. Then we found out that Charles was visiting a friend when the ship was destroyed.”

  Hawthorne said, “Why are you letting him captain this ship if you know he is a spy?”

  “Charles’ European Alliance contacts have a keen interest in our mission to Gliese 581g. If we control what Charles knows, we control what the Europeans know.”

  “You want him to reach Gliese and file the initial report because you think they are tapping your communications.”

  “We are convinced our translation computer for the QE codes has been compromised. Once he reports on conditions, the European Alliance will not bother with an expedition and then we will purge the infected computer. They have developed an Alcubierre—Haruto drive but like us, their resources are limited. They will not waste the effort on a barren rock.”

  Henderson reached into a desk drawer for a tube of antiseptic gel.

  Hawthorne cocked his head and said, “Wait a second. The probe found something on Gliese. You want Charles to sail out there and see a big ball of nothing so the Europeans leave it alone.”

  “We planned for the Niobe to make the journey,” Henderson rubbed gel on his hands as he spoke, killing any nasty germs nesting there. “It was a warship capable of protecting our interests. Then the Chinese destroyed it in a pointless suicide mission. What a waste.”

  Hawthorne realized the ‘waste’ Henderson spoke of was the ship, not the crew. The smile, the hokey business suit, and the grandfatherly disposition hid a cold heart.

  The director went on, “SE 185’s military capabilities are limited to a pair of launch tubes designed to deliver nuclear missiles more for demolition than battle. If the Alliance wants what we find on Gliese, they can send a ship and take it.”

  Hawthorne followed Henderson’s thinking: “But they won’t, because Charles will confirm the report of a lifeless rock, which the alliance will intercept.”

  “Yes, and then you kill him and take command. Reagan here, acting on the company’s behalf, will support your move and we have proof of his guilt that you will share with the crew.”

  Henderson pulled a cube of e-paper from his top drawer and flicked it toward Hawthorne. The paper automatically unfolded on the desktop, displaying several blocks of information.

  One of those blocks played a looping video of two men at a corner table in a bar or restaurant. Tags superimposed on the image identified one as Captain Charles, the other as the Assistant Director, E.A. intelligence, Mars Bureau.

  Another block scrolled through columns of numbers under a sub-head explaining the information as ‘account deposits—Donavan Charles’. Red outlines highlighted bank deposits from illicit sources.

  Yet another section of the paper played an audio recording with subtitles: “Review the Project Sail information and you tell me what it is worth.”

  After allowing Hawthorne to examine the evidence, Henderson said, “We will brief Lieutenant Thomas. As the security officer, her support will ensure you have no difficulties with the crew.”

  As much as he loved Kelly, Hawthorne knew her soldiering skills were not impressive.

  “Lieutenant Thomas is not enough to handle any serious security issues.”

  Henderson assured, “We have loaded an A.D.S on board without Captain Charles’ knowledge.”

  “You are sending an army-in-a-box?”

  These revelations explained Kelly’s training: close quarters combat for any problems with the crew and an automated defense system—A.D.S.—for defending the surface, in case the European Alliance or anyone else sends a survey team.

  Nonetheless, he remained unconvinced. Besides, Jonathan Hawthorne was not a killer. At least not like this.

  “If you think I am going to murder Charles and lead a mutiny based on scraps of e-paper and your word, you are insane. Pull me off the mission.”

  “I understand your reluctance,” Henderson grabbed the monitor on his desk and swiveled it to face his guest. “Check your electronic signature, Commander.”

  He referred to Hawthorne’s personal data account, a combination of mail, financial records, diet tracking, vital signs, and lifestyle preferences that existed in cyberspace. The accounts had evolved from the old-world mishmash of online banking, email, phones, social media, and government records.

  A person’s entire life stored on the network and constantly updated by whatever device channeled their electronic signature. Normally that meant a thinker chip. For Hawthorne it was a microcomputer in a plastic card.

  “Normally there is terrible lag, but I have secured a channel through the Laser Communications Relay.”

  Reluctantly, Hawthorne accessed his account. Once connected, the network first uploaded information from the microcomputer in his identification card. Because he had not connected since leaving Earth, this took time; there was a backlog of nearly eight weeks’ worth of data.

  After receiving a dietary warning about alcohol and carbohydrate consumption, he viewed his messages. An official communique from the United States of North America’s Office of Space
Affairs informed Hawthorne that he had been temporarily returned to active naval duty with his posting listed as ‘auxiliary.’ He took that to mean he was now a sanctioned killer. Putting a bullet in Charles’ head would no longer be murder; it would be terminating an enemy asset.

  He next found a video message from Admiral Duncan. Hawthorne considered disconnecting before watching, but figured there was nowhere to run.

  He tapped the screen and a video box opened, showing a woman in her early forties who wore dark hair in a tight bun.

  “Hello, Jonathan, I imagine this is as strange for you as it is for me. When you left the service, I assumed that would be the last I would hear of you, then I found out you were selected for Project Sail after the Niobe disaster. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do; we are stuck with you. As you know too well, we don’t get to choose when we are a part of history.”

  Hawthorne eased in his chair. The sight of Admiral Duncan caused a flood of memories. She had served with him aboard the John Riley at Ganymede and proved herself a capable sailor and tactician. Her actions there and her family’s naval legacy led to a meteoric rise up the ranks in a service spread thin across the solar system.

  “You are seeing this message because of Martin Chambers’ death. Victor can give you the details on Martin, but with his death, his responsibilities will fall to you. This is a secure line but these days that doesn’t mean much, so I will leave the specifics to Victor, who speaks for the navy.”

  Hawthorne sighed and placed a hand over his eyes.

  Admiral Duncan’s message closed, “I know you well, Commander, and you know me. Trust me when I say, you must successfully complete this assignment. This is more important than a lucky shot at Ganymede.”

  The image froze and then went dark. Hawthorne deleted it and disconnected from his account.

  Victor Henderson said, “Now you understand this directive comes from the highest authority. Martin Chambers was an employee of Universal Visions, but years ago he worked with Naval Intelligence. We inserted him into the crew to deal with Charles.”

  Fisk—still on the verge of vomiting—asked, “Was he murdered? Did someone cause the gravitational anomaly?”