The Exile generation ship is a study in layers, a rigid, ring shaped space station spinning around an artificial sun. All this is inside a balloon of Skin 200 Km in diameter. The partially pressurized region outside the ring is used for recreation and zero gee agriculture, but also serves as a convenient buffer zone against junk that might collide with the craft.
Don't ask me about how they make the Reference Drive move the damn thing, sun and all. I never understood that loophole in Einstein's theories.
Skin is a nanotube mat, grown in vats rather than manufactured. Only 120 microns thick but with a tensile strength several hundred times greater than anything humanity ever developed. Embedded intelligent nodes dynamically change Skin's elasticity to deform in response to strain within milliseconds, a neural net with enough spare computing power to be a leasable commodity.
If there's stress on the Skin envelope, either from a micrometeor impact outside or an atmospheric gust inside, the strain is distributed over dozens of square kilometers. If there's a breach, Skin won't tear. Instead, it puckers until a repair crew responds to an automatic alarm.
This takes a lot of energy, hence the photoelectric properties Thomas mentioned. During most of the Exiles' three century journey, their artificial sun provided the power. With the habitat in Earth orbit, however, the light from Sol bathing the exterior generates several orders of magnitude more power than the Exiles need.
Which leads us back to the business section again.
The economists and pundits in the press speculated this was the real reason the Exiles had agreed to the 7z7 partnership. They'd announced a long term power project, beaming energy down to Earth. The 7z7 agreements would raise enough capital to build the dirtside receiver stations without human investors or partners, giving them an end to end power monopoly.
The fate of a company might have hinged on humans like Marco and me, but economic independence for all the Exiles rested on Thomas's and his cohorts' shoulders.
Figuratively, of course, because, you know . . . Four arms. No shoulders.
This (less the economic and anatomical speculation) was the essence of the lecture Thomas gave two weeks after my promotion. Thomas and his assistant, a female named Marjorie Currie (yes, that Currie. This was before she went into Exile politics, though), led the meeting.
On the human side, the room was packed. There were only three permanent team members: myself, Marco, and Eleanor Compton, an underappreciated genius I'd poached from the landing gear group. During the eighteen month schedule, though, we'd be loaned aeronautical engineers, power distribution gurus, and other specialists for specific technical milestones. Forty people over the course of the entire program. At "Skin 101" they all showed up.
That's what happens when you spring for donuts.
"You can change the color, though, right?" asked Finn Radke, one of the aeronautic engineers, gesturing to a jar Thomas had passed around containing a sample of Skin. A ribbon of gossamer black as wide as an elastic bandage floated in clear fluid, ends spliced in a moebius strip. It threaded through the eyes of two sewing needles before flaring out again to full width. Thomas had programmed it to "swim", edges rippling as it zipped through the fluid, a hyperactive eel devouring its own tail. A watch battery attached to the needles provided power.
"I mean," Finn continued, "it isn't all black, right?"
Thomas nodded. "When we grow Skin, we can introduce impurities to change specific properties. There are three thousand known variants. We'll grow Skin with the livery of each airline already imprinted."
"So you can't paint it in the field?" That was Jay Tsai, one of the manufacturing guys.
"No."
"That's a big problem. Carriers change color schemes all the time, some to match holiday themes. And the leasing market, they move equipment between carriers like chess pieces. You have to be able to change livery in the field."
I nodded and walked to the whiteboard. Right next to the big "10.0 – Skin, 1.0 – Carbon" scoreboard I'd made, I wrote "Issues: Paint."
"So, this stuff uses power? That's gonna impact weight." This was Joyce Miller, from Systems Engineering.
"How so?" asked Marjorie's translator.
"Well, you're gonna burn fuel to get onboard power, which means more weight overall. I think 'effective weight' is a better term. Then there's wear and tear on the generators, but that's another issue."
And so "effective weight" appeared on the whiteboard.
"Forget power," grumbled Tom Hammond, flicking a piece of imaginary dirt from his Harley-Davison T-shirt (it was Casual Friday). "Lightning is your showstopper. You're changing the skin of an aircraft from a passive substance to an active device. The FAA DER will want proof it won't spasm and rip itself to pieces when it's zapped."
I nodded. Tom is not subtle. As a Designated Engineering Representative, the one who'd probably sign off on Skin for the FAA, he didn't have to be.
"Your DER," Tom continued, still using the third person, "will want a computer model of Skin's electrical as well as aeronautical characteristics. Be sure to simulate antennas, windows, and any other exterior features."
I gritted my teeth, sensing a cramp in my schedule.
And so it went, more and more issues: acid rain, bird strikes, manufacturing quality, combustibility, vibration. It was a close call, but they ran out of questions before I ran out of whiteboard.
"Sorry we're bringing up all these problems," said Jay.
"Don't apologize," answered Marjorie, who still had the stage from the manufacturing question. "After all, that's why you're here." Then, she touched her left hands together in a gesture I'd learned was an Exile grin. "Well, that and the donuts."
Chuckles all around, then a ragged chorus of "Thank you, Ford." Several balled up pieces of paper rained down on me. I returned the favor.
"Hey, Ford," chortled Jay, "maybe you can put this stuff on your hang glider!"
The price of fame. When you're the only black guy in the Soaring Club, the employee newsletter always uses your picture.
"If no one has any more questions, then . . ."
"I have one," said Tom. "Can you bring bagels next time?"
****
Score: 6.5
I'd love to say we fixed every problem handily, but I'm a lousy liar. With Joyce's fuel consumption numbers, I recalculated the "score," a weighting of manufactured cost, maintenance cost, and actual weight of Skin against carbon, from 10.0 to 6.5. Upper management gave us a pass on the initial development cost, but if that score ever went below the magic 1.0 mark the 7z7 would ditch Skin and I'd be out on the street.
Our first lightning analysis required beefing up the underlying conductor layer for better grounding (As Thomas said, "How much voltage? In an atmosphere!"). Then, a wind tunnel simulation showed more drag than expected, forcing Eleanor to develop a fiendishly costly polishing process. Acid rain showed a tendency to make Skin brittle and ready to flake under vibration, a bad thing for an aircraft to do. We added protective polymer coating, eliminating Eleanor's polishing process. She was glad to see it go, but the score dropped to 4.8.
It was death by a thousand cuts. Even if a problem didn't directly impact the effectiveness of Skin on the airplane, our solutions made manufacturing and maintenance ever more complex. The few things that didn't, such as the bird strike analysis (at least, for birds flying slower than meteors), still ate up time and budget. It wasn't enough that there was no problem: we had to prove there was no problem.
So, by the time we reached our first major milestone at Labor Day (on time and on budget, may I proudly say), I decided we needed a break.
I got everyone together and we jumped off a cliff.
****
"Everyone" is perhaps an overstatement. Thirty people showed for the picnic at Hunter's Point, but only half took up the Soaring Club's offer of a free tandem flight. That was still enough to keep three gliders busy all afternoon.
"I'm ready," declared Thomas, marching up beside me. Th
e other club members looked at the Exile, their expressions ranging from confusion to amusement to fear. Since I'd seen Thomas on the signup list earlier that week, though, I was ready.
"Okay," I answered, waving towards the scale. "Let's get started."
The relief of the other pilots that I was the one taking Thomas up was apparent. Several followed us to my rig, each trying to show how curious they weren't.
"The altitude won't be a problem for you, will it?" I asked as we walked. "I mean, with the pressure difference and all."
"I made a point of scheduling my booster shot for yesterday," Thomas replied. This was before the Exiles had developed treatments to allow their metabolisms to permanently adapt to Earth normal atmosphere. "The physician told me I should be able to handle anything a human can."
"Great." I nodded. Then, looking around, "Hey, where's Marjorie? I would have thought she'd want to see this."
"She went up to the Habitat late last night. Her mother had an emergency."
"Oh, no. Hope she's okay."
"It appears to be a false alarm, overwork and fatigue instead of heart trouble. Marjorie should be back next week."
"Wow. I'm surprised your company flew her back. I thought they only paid for one round trip per Earthside assignment."
"They didn't pay. Marjorie's parents have done quite well for themselves lately." He hesitated. "They're really good people, though. I went to school with her father."
For a moment, I could have sworn he was being defensive. A glitch in the translator's inflection or was he embarrassed about his friend's wealth? Before I could ask anything, though, Thomas produced a grubby nylon bag.
"I brought this." He dug out what looked like an oversized bicyclist's helmet, far too oval for a human skull. The frame was rigid white plastic while the front and top was a waxy, amber substance, presumably translucent to Exile sonar.
"We normally use these for zero gravity sports. Very sturdy. I've had this one for years."
Tammy Chen, the head of our safety committee, examined a nasty gouge along the helmet's edge before returning it. "I guess it's okay. As long as the fit's snug. You, um, did sign the waiver, right?"
"Of course," Thomas answered, placing the thing on his head and tying the complex triple strap with his left hands. With his right hands he attached knee and elbow pads and then strapped a thick monocular goggle over his eyespot. When he stepped on the scale in that bizarre helmet with the four armed T-shirt and baggy shorts, I nearly choked laughing, remembering a photo of my six year old self in oversized skateboarding gear.
Of course, I broke my arm about a half hour after that particular picture was taken.
"Let me get that, Mister Patch," my daughter said, helping Thomas step into the strap harness. Like every twelve-year-old, Gina has a mothering streak when it comes to adults out of their element. Several club members pitched in, each with their own theory of how to best secure a six limbed passenger in a harness designed for humans.
I checked my own bag harness where the rigging attached to the glider's keel. In tandem hang glider flight, the pilot and passenger are side by side, unlike in sky diving where the passenger hangs downwards in front. Thomas was half the weight, so he'd also be providing half the muscle power for takeoff.
I began my preflight lecture. "All right. First, we're going to sprint down this hill." I pointed to the slope before us to eliminate any confusion that I meant some other hill. "Once at speed, I'll shout and we jump into the harnesses. At the bottom we'll have maybe twenty feet altitude. I'll tilt towards the parking lot to catch its thermal. Let me do all the flying, okay? If you get nervous, just holler and I'll land as soon as possible. Questions?"
"Only one. My translator has never heard 'thermal' in that context."
"Pilot jargon. A rising mass of hot air, used for lift."
"Hmmm. 'A rising mass of hot air.'" Thomas pondered. "And just who bestowed the nickname 'Thermal' on the 7z7 vice president of engineering?"
There was a pause as I regained my bearings. "You do know that your life is in my hands."
"Of course," the translator replied.
I made a mental note that the Exile 'two left hands' gesture turns from a grin to a smirk when the fingers are intertwined.
After a last, somewhat dubious, check by Tammy we were off, hurtling down the gentle slope. Thomas's four legged gait surprised me with its strange rhythm. After a few steps, though, we caught each other's stride. I felt lift take the weight of the glider off the bar and I knew we were good. By the time I shouted "Now!" Thomas was upright on two legs, checking his pace so as not to out step me.
To me, that first instant of flight is always magical. Not in the spiritual sense, but instead in that I'm pulling some conjurer's trick by defying gravity. It's that "look Ma, no hands!" moment I love, whether I'm two feet from the ground or two thousand.
One glance at Thomas, however, confirmed that he was having a spiritual moment. His body was rigid, limbs tucked inwards and streamlined, rapt intensity. Thomas stretched his serpentine neck forward, crest ruffling as he washed his faceless head in the wind. All I could think of was how this scurrying, six limbed critter I'd worked beside for half a year had been transformed for an instant into something of noble posture, something straight out of a sculpture gallery. A grand creature.
And we were only twelve feet off the ground at the time.
As we began our upward spiral over the asphalt, I glanced again at my passenger. Thomas peered with his monocle as the gawking pedestrians below us receded and the contours of the terrain began to appear, no trace of panic or agoraphobia. I sighed relief into the rumbling silence. I'd been unsure how an alien raised inside a spaceship would react to this vista.
I began to enjoy myself, inhaling the crisp, frigid wind. I took a moment to gaze around, amazed again to see the Cascades in the distance, low hills and city spread nearby. A whole world laid before us, yet every detail visible.
Thomas wasn't the only one having a spiritual moment.
After fifteen minutes I shouted, "We're going to descend!"
Thomas's reply was lost in the wind. Then his interpreter increased its volume and he tried again.
"One moment," Thomas blared, the machine overcompensating. Then, in a timid tone at odds with the interpreter's blast, he finished, "May I try something?"
I felt him shift against my side, the slightest bit of drag yawing us gently to the left. I was about to compensate when I realized what was happening. I looked down to see his tail dipping downwards into the wind.
Thomas was trying to steer with his tail!
I let him continue, but his efforts had minimal effect. Three feet of skinny Exile tail isn't much against a hundred and fifty square feet of hang glider. Still, his experiment worked, if only in principle.
Back on the ground, Thomas was ecstatic. "Ford-that-was-incredible-I-have-never-felt-anything-like-that-we-must-take-anotherflightassoon—"
Then his translator locked up, emitting a screech that scattered a nearby flock of crows. When it reset, he'd regained a little composure. "Ford, you have to take me up again!"
"Well, it's supposed to be one ride a customer, but next week we're coming out . . ."
"Please! Can't I go again today? If you lend me your glider, I'm sure I could top our altitude!"
"Solo? After one flight?" I shook my head. I'd seen enthusiasm from a first timer before, but this was absurd.
Could an Exile have a death wish?
"Look, I'm glad you liked it, Thomas, but what's the big deal? Why the excitement?"
Thomas paused, fidgeting with his midlimbs.
"What do you know of my species' origin, Ford?"
"Er, you evolved from shoreline omnivores, right? Your ancestors swam in kelp forests past the surfline. Like Earth sea otters."
"Yes, our sonar and underwater vision are adapted for hunting in the oceans of Homebound. Only later did evolution bring us to shore to walk upright and use tools."
; "What does that have to do with hang gliding?"
"My body is adapted to swim face down. Does the posture sound familiar?"
"Ah! When you were up there, you were belly down."
"Exactly. On Homebound, my people were accustomed to swimming freely over the ocean bottom. I never have, though. We have a whole body of poetic sagas that translate roughly as 'to fly in the sea.' All my life I have lived in a confined environment, never even knowing a horizon. Now, though . . ." He paused, four hands clenching and unclenching, as if trying to grasp the words from the air. "Even with this confining goggle to correct my distance vision, the experience was . . . heavenly."
I nodded and put a hand on my friend's back. For once, we didn't need the translator to understand each other.
****
The Labor Day outing worked, at least for morale. Productivity picked up and grumbling (including mine) about overtime died down. We were still fighting the tyranny of that score on my white board, which now read a disturbing 2.7, but at least the troops were enthusiastic about charging into the fray.
Three months later, Thermal called an emergency meeting.
"It can't be good," Thomas brooded, pouring a cup of coffee. The break room was empty, overcast sky gray against the windows. "Emergency meetings are never good."
"Thermal is probably just gloating about leaving for the powersat project," I said.
"It's about our jobs," he whispered, his free hands fidgeting nervously. "You know that the Exile Council rescinded the lifetime employment guarantees."
"Yes, I heard." I sighed and took the offered coffee pot. I winced as Thomas's upper arms scooped tablespoons of sugar into the mug in his lower hand. "You told me, Thomas. About five times since yesterday."
"Of course. Still, Thermal's leaving makes me nervous. What's the English phrase? 'Rats leaving a leaking ship.'"
" 'Sinking ship.' Sinking is worse than leaking."
"Hmmmph," he mumbled, sticking his snout into his mug. I cringed as he slurped the contaminated brew and we exited the break room and started down the hall. "Obviously, whoever invented English never lived in a space habitat."
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