by Peter Damon
“Huh! What Frankie doesn’t know about can’t hurt him now, can it?” she asked, holding out her empty glass for more of the wine.
“You are so right,” Vasyl agreed, smiling his best smile at the British woman.
July 17th.
Michael took his time walking to his meeting with the twins. He enjoyed his solitary walks through the ship. He particularly liked the power his subcutaneous chip gave him. The ash doors to suites that were still vacant opened when he stopped and faced them, and he could look around and admire the workmanship of the largely South Korean work force that had completed much of the work. The rooms were like those of a good class business hotel but larger, about 80 square metres, comfortable and relaxing and of good quality. Three TV screens allowed occupants to multitask while a small fridge, kettle and microwave allowed them to have snacks and drinks without having to go to the restaurant on the top floor. Refrigerated units out in the hallways held a stock of fruit, all regularly replaced by the restaurant staff so that perishables didn’t need to be kept inside individual suites. Bathrooms were spacious, and although they lacked a bath, the showers were good quality and pleasant to use.
He walked towards the bow of the ship and took the lift to the first floor, heading out of the residential area that occupied much of the amidships, to enter the area used by the college for tutorials and laboratory work.
The twins were in a large laboratory, alien looking equipment standing about the walls while flat tables in the centre provided plenty of working space.
“This looks good,” Michael nodded, looking about the room, impressed with the equipment and cleanliness of the place.
“That’s good. This is where HYPORT is made,” one of the twins told him, both grinning towards him as they waited for his reaction.
“You’ve named it!” he cried. “HYPORT; what is that, an acronym?”
“Might be,” the twins told him, the teasing note in their voices in absolute harmony with each other.
“Well, that’s great news. Glad you finally thought of something,” Michael grinned.
“You know we’ve been doing further tests on it, don’t you?” they asked, waiting for his nod before they continued.
“There’s been a lot of testing, mainly things we couldn’t have done down on earth. One series of tests in particular were to understand how it functions at greater velocities; speed of light type of speeds,” they explained.
“And?” Michael asked expectantly.
“Well, power requirements increase exponentially with speed,” they told him, their expressions fixed in disappointment. “It’s hardly measurable at low speeds. In fact, it’s only when you want to go faster than 100,000 kilometres an hour that we start to notice that the 40 kilowatt feed we’ve been using begins to tail off quite quickly.”
“That’s not a complete surprise,” the other Howard twin explained. “Einstein predicted that mass would increase as objects neared the speed of light,” he explained.”With added mass, you need more chemical, and with more chemical, more power.”
“So, how fast does it go?” Michael asked.
“We began testing with big 400 kilowatt generators, and have consistently gotten a speed of 10 million kilometres per hour. But we’ve determined that to go 10 times faster than that, say 100 million miles per hour, or just a tenth of the speed of light, we’d need 32 gigawatts of power, which is about a fifth of England’s entire consumption,” they told him.
“So we’re not leaving the solar system anytime soon?” Michael asked, feeling disappointed.
The twins smiled ruefully as they shook their heads. “Using our 400 kilowatt generators, it would take us about 2 years to reach the Kuiper Belt, the farthest reaches of our solar system,” they explained.
“I don’t think I ever fully appreciated just how vast our solar system is,” Michael reflected.
The twins nodded. “If we progressed with the technology as it stands, we would need a power source in the region of 5,200 gigawatts to get us to just below the speed of light,” they explained.
“But this problem is not about the inadequacies of our chemical, but about the nature of time,” they explained.
“Time?” Michael asked, looking from one twin to the other. “I thought we just wanted to get from A to B. I didn’t think we were playing with time travel,” he told them, shaking his head.
The twins smiled and licked their lips, their fingers moving as if to grasp something imaginary from the air as they tried to find words suitable for Michael’s understanding.
“The speed of light, mass, gravity and time are all inter-linked. We, earth science, know this. We know, and have proven, that as your speed increases, your time slows down. We also know, that as your speed increases, your mass also increases. And finally, we know that the application of gravity slows down time.”
“So how can you ever achieve speed of light?” Michael asked.
“By thinking differently,” the twins answered straight away, each smiling as they watched Michael’s expression.
“So, the problem is not with the chemical, or with the amount of electricity put to it,” Michael said, speaking slowly.
“Exactly,” they agreed.
“And that’s where you lose me,” Michael admitted.
“And us too,” the twins agreed. “That’s our point. The problem is not chemistry, it’s something else, possibly High Energy Physics, possibly the nature of gravity, possibly even the nature of mass,” they told him.
“Ah! You want to bring someone in, don’t you?” Michael asked, wagging a finger towards them and knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Three, actually,” they nodded.
“Russian, I bet!” Michael cried.
“One is. Professor Pavel Chaichenko,” they agreed. “He’s at the Budker Institute of Nuclear Physics in Siberia.”
“Why do I know that name?” Michael wondered to himself, frowning in an effort to remember.
“The Budker Institute helped CERN set up their collider,” the twins told him. “They were the first to produce a particle accelerator,” they explained.
Michael shook his head. “Chaichenko! He wrote one of those articles Matt was referring to. He thinks we’re playing with dynamite!”
“We saw the article,” they nodded. “Given that the professor knows next to nothing about what HYPORT is, or how it operates, his observations were quite valid. To be honest, the only way we’re going to prove to him that we’re not about to destroy ourselves is to bring him on board,” the twins argued.
Michael sighed. “And the second?”
“An American; Professor Charles Brewer.”
“And I guess he’s in America?” Michael asked.
The twins grinned. “He’s in the UK in the Department of Physics, Cavendish Laboratory, Cambridge, currently working on Quantum Matter,” they explained.
“What is Quantum Matter?” Michael asked.
The twins stopped to look at each other, and then at Michael. “You certainly know how to ask the right question, don’t you?” they accused. “Which answer would you like; the short answer that explains next to nothing, or the lengthy and complicated answer that will only confuse?”
“What is its relevance to HYPORT?” Michael tried asking instead.
“Well, Quantum Physics explores how subatomic particles perform, or not perform. Are they particles, or are they waves?”
“The historic research has largely been mathematical, in an effort to understand the differing results of some fundamental tests on subatomic matter.”
“But more recently, since about 2000 and with new technology, we’re able to see much, much more. In some, the actual results have borne out the mathematics, in others, it hasn’t.”
“Professor Brewer has spent the last eight years reducing the movement of subatomic particles within substances by reducing their temperature, and then applying an electrical field to the ultra-cold substance in order to observe t
he reaction.”
“You want him to analyse HYPORT at a subatomic level,” Michael asked
“Analyse, measure, and classify,” the agreed. “We know HYPORT is undergoing some form of Cold Fusion when subjected to an electrical field. He can take our testing to a new level and release us to investigate the Asteroid Belt,” they grinned.
“And we’re not risking HYPORT‘s secret in doing this?” Michael asked.
They shook their heads. “The professor is extremely interested, and not bothered about commercial gain,” the twins told him. “You have no idea the opportunities our chemical represent to a man like Professor Brewer.”
“And the third person?” Michael asked, making a note on his tablet.
“Professor of Mathematics at Harvard University, Don Graves,” they told him.
Michael sighed. “The wrong Cambridge. That one is in Massachusetts.”
“We know. And we’re sorry Michael, but he’s the best there is. He’s written various papers on the nature of gravity, gravitational forces, new solutions to Einstein’s theories on gravity. He’s required reading on several university courses.”
“OK, I’ll go away and see what I can do to get these men. But what about this idea of going out to the Asteroid Belt?” Michael asked. “We can really do this?”
The twins grinned and nodded. “Oh, yes!” they told him. “It would take us about a day at full speed with a 400 kilowatt generator to get to their orbit using HYPORT as it stands at the moment.”
“But we’re not going to be able to do it in the vehicles Frankie is looking at. We’d want something larger, more comfortable, with enough space for a few large generators,” they told him.
“But what about the mass of the craft?” Michael asked. “Surely that has a bearing too,” but the twins were already shaking their heads.
“Mass is a function of quantity, not power. So the larger the vehicle, the more HYPORT is applied to a suitable surface.”
“Yes,” Michael nodded. The twins had mentioned that earlier.
“If it’s only a day or two,” Michael started, but stopped as the twins began to shake their heads.
“A day to get into the right orbit. The Asteroid Belt is an incredibly large area, and wide too, with individual orbits that range between three and five times longer than that of earth. Our chances of pointing a vehicle towards the Asteroid Belt, and actually hitting something, are somewhere in the region of a billion-to-one.
“So you could spend days, even weeks, having to chase round for the right bit of rock,” Michael nodded. He understood.
+++++++++++++
Heather took the stairs from the Doctor’s Surgery on the sixth floor, to the restaurant and lounge areas on the first floor, with only a slight detour in her route to the suite she shared with Michael. The doctor had just inserted the RFID Chip and she was sure she could feel it, moving under her skin as she walked. He had told her it was her imagination, but she took the steps to check.
The restaurant was virtually empty but for a group of women sitting at a large table, discussing something with heated voices and gestures. A little closer, and Heather could see four South Korean ladies sitting with four of the gypsy women, and poor Juliet Rogers sitting between them looking haggard and worn out.
Heather smiled at the ease with which she could tell the women apart. The gypsies were for the most part large ladies, with varied hair colouring that seemed at odds with their ethnic origins, colourful and loose clothing. In contrast, the Korean women were lithe and short, their hair uniformly dark and long.
“Can I help?” Heather asked after having got herself a cup of tea from the dispenser.
“I wish you would, but I doubt you’ll have any more joy than I,” Juliet sighed.
“There’s no need for that tone,” Martha Jones told her. Martha, although quite short, was every bit as broad, if not broader, than her husband. Sitting amongst the other women, she was a formidable presence and her tone brought a momentary stillness to the group.
“What’s the problem?” Heather asked, carefully keeping her voice neutral.
“Su thinks I’m not capable of putting a menu together,” Martha said, her voice dripping venom.
Su was Su Park, the spokesperson for the Korean ladies who had chosen to work in the kitchen, preparing and serving food to the rest of the crew. Heather immediately saw a clash of cultural cuisine and nodded her head appreciatively.
“While, in fact, both Su and Martha need to learn some aspects of nourishment and diet,” Juliet said, her words causing both large and slender woman to look at her with some degree of hostility.
“I see. Well, I suspect you all have contributions to make to our overall diet, and I’m certainly not qualified to determine what is good or bad, so why don’t I see if we can get a nutritional expect on board, so they can tell us what we should be doing?” Heather asked.
“I don’t think I need telling what’s good for my man!” Martha told her sharply.
Heather shrugged off the remark. “But would you know what’s best for my man, or Su’s? Frankie, for example, looks too thin for his own good, while I know Bert’s been battling his weight for years. Wouldn’t you like to know some of the secrets about food and how bodies use it, so you can improve what you’re already doing?” she asked.
Martha sniffed and pulled her mouth down in grudging agreement.
“And Su, while I love East Asian foods on occasion, I really can’t eat it all the time,” Heather admitted. “Wouldn’t you like to broaden yours skills? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Su nodded. “Of course,” she agreed.
“I’ll have the university send someone up straight away,” Heather told them, wondering if a Psychology degree came with nutritional courses.
+++++++++++++++
“What’s wrong?” Heather asked, glancing at her partner as she got into bed beside him that evening.
Michael sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “All my life I’ve been brought up with the excitement of space travel; the next frontier, the dangers, the exhilaration. I watched Star-Trek time and time again while they battled groups of aliens, making friends with others. And here we are, right up against it, on the very edge of existence, and it’s so mundane!” he complained. “Today I dealt with staffing requirements, finalisation of the shift pattern, security and water requirements!” he explained as Heather settled down beside him.
“Think yourself lucky. I had to discuss diets and nutrition with a bunch of women,” Heather chuckled, and she explained about the meeting when Michael looked at her quizzically.
“You see; that’s exactly what I mean!” he complained with a sigh.
“I’m sure it won’t be like this for long, and when you do get excitement, don’t you dare come complaining to me!” she told him.
“And talking of excitement,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.
July 18th.
Frankie stood on a container, but it was only for appearance. Weightless, his feet put no pressure on the container at all, and if he were to flex his feet against its surface, then he’d shoot off in one direction and leave the container gently turning in another.
He and the container were off to the starboard side of the ARC, about a kilometre away from it. There was another container in front of him, about 100 metres away, spinning, turning and rotating. That’s to say, moving on all three planes.
Frankie watched their latest test vehicle approach, strong halogen lights above the cab bathing the container in a cold light.
It had once been an American Sports Utility Vehicle, one with a four-door cabin and 4 cubic metres of open space to the rear. Now, it was double the size, the cabin and flat-bed to the back having both been stretched outwards on a longer chassis, the height having been stretched to maintain its overall proportions.
Its large four wheel drive transmission and rugged wheels had gone, replaced by skids, while the 5 litre engine had also been removed, leaving room for t
he large battery that provided power to the HYPORT as well as the technology and life-support within the cabin. All the windows had been replaced with sheet metal, all finely worked to give the appearance of tinted windows, while, inside the now spacious interior, flat TV screens provided visuals, telemetry, and any other information the team required.
The bodywork had been painted a gleaming black, while three large white characters had been painted across the body, beginning at the front wheel-arch and crossing diagonally to the cabin roof. ‘ARC’, it read. At various points about the body were hooks and eyes while a small communication dish sat on the roof between a series of strong halogen lights.
Frankie watched as the vehicle turned to present its skids to the awkwardly moving container, and then move sedately towards it.
The moving container struck the SUV, but the SUV didn’t react. The container reversed its movement on that plane, and as the SUV moved ever forward, it met the container with greater regularity, until, in just minutes, it had the container squarely beneath its skids, all adverse movement cancelled by its steady progress.
A suited figure climbed from the back door, clear female proportions telling Frankie that it was Maddy. The woman ran straps around the container, fastening it to the SUV. She then waved towards him before returning into the vehicle which then moved away, the container stowed beneath it. The SUV, twice its original size, dwarfed the container slung beneath it.
++++++++++++++++
Brad Hawker, the President’s Chief of Staff, cleared his mind of the twenty other things that needed doing before he could call it a day, and brought his attention to the subject of the Cambridge University ARC.
He was in the lift, on his way to the White House Command Centre for a meeting with Colin Witt of the CIA. There were other pressing matters on his mind, and yet he knew with the same instincts that had got him into the White House, that to ignore the British was to allow what was currently just a niggle to become a major problem.
