by Peter Damon
The president looked pointedly towards her Chief of Staff.
“Ma’am,” Joanna told her. “If they wanted to send us back to the Bronze Age, then the previous four would have done it. There’s absolutely no reason to send this, other than a big thank you to their friends. The revenue from 20 billion tonnes of ore, Ma’am, is going to be astronomical.”
The president gazed about the room, then nodded with a curt move of her head. “Advise the United Nations; we’re not going to send them any warheads. Then get me General Mears on the line, and have that man from NASA stand by, David Brookes, for further orders.”
+++++++++++++
“It’s vile, is what it is,” Don Graves was saying as Michael and Heather stepped into the large laboratory below the control-room of the spaceship.
The three research professors were there, standing about the large work table with Thomas and David, all five of them looking morose as they considered the death of James McMillan and Dean Stu’ Hardy.
“I didn’t know you knew them,” Heather murmured, bouncing young Wendy-Claire on her arm while the baby looked about her with large and curious eyes.
“I didn’t, but I knew enough to know we’ve lost a brave and brilliant man,” Don told her.
“I met Stu Hardy some years back, at a university challenge program,” Chas told them. “That was before he went on to become Dean of the Honours College, of course,” he explained.
Heather and Michael nodded.
“Robert sent me a message from the boy,” Don told them, putting a print of the email onto the table for all to see.
“He understood,” Pavel remarked, reading it. The others nodded leaving Michael and Heather to look about them.
“Understood?” Michael asked.
Chas looked towards the other four before answering. “He understood what we have been looking for,” he said.
“We all know gravity affects space-time. Black holes show us that, with enough gravity, you can push out, beyond space-time. Our own experiments verify this; we can move from one location in space-time to another, unspecified point, by using gravity alone to transfer us from one point to another.
“But our ‘map’ of space is a space-time map. All our points of reference use time. If we are to be successful in travelling, not through space-time, but through gravity-wells, then we need a set of coordinates that are appropriate to that type of travel.”
“A fourth dimension,” Heather mulled.
Don winced and the twins looked wary. “Chas was being very careful not to use the word ‘dimension’. True, it is a different dimension, but he didn’t want to use a term that had been so liberally used that it has lost any precise conveyance of a single meaning.
“The point is; we’re missing a means of referencing where, and when, we wish to re-enter space-time.”
“That implies that you know how to start the engine of your vehicle, but just don’t know how to steer it,” Michael murmured, his mind suddenly numb with the enormity of it.
All five nodded. “You’re quite correct, Mr Bennett,” Don murmured. “We have the technical specifications for our vehicle, and we could build it, here, tomorrow for you. However, we do not know how to steer it. Indeed, our steering is so totally unknown and uncontrolled, that we very much doubt we could ever get back to our starting point.”
“And that sums it up in a nutshell,” Chas said, stabbing the piece of paper with James’s email on it.
August 15th.
Robert grinned. His latest article was a killer. It had quotes from senior people within the United Nations, as well as comments from all the senior space-faring nations. Russia argued that the United Nations Space Authority was negligent, allowing commercially sensitive information to be leaked. Japan and India both agreed with the Russian assessment, while China continued its stoic silence. The USA claimed their work was purely scientific and exploratory, and as such outside of the UNSA remit. The European Union called the outer-Space Treaty worthless. All quotes were from senior men within their own countries, and all were finally voicing what many had thought.
In contrast, the United Nations reiterated the major point; that all space-going nations had signed the agreement, and their subsequent activities suggested that their motives had been far from sincere.
The very same nations that had cried so loudly the need for a single body to coordinate and supervise the rush into space, now contravened its principles with an apparent indifference. The USA had a new space-station and a reusable transport system that implied further growth. They could deny none of it, not after Robert had obtained proof of what they had secreted behind the tall fence of the Edwards Air Force Base. Russia had a full order book and was launching satellites every fortnight, refusing to say how large their back order book was, or who their clients were, or what was the purpose of the large satellites. That silence was more telling than any spurious tale they might have tried selling to the media.
The speed with which the two large countries had dropped their concerns about asteroids falling from the heavens, to move instead towards a presence in space implied that the nations had been developing their programs all along.
So what was to come? Robert drew attention to the rise of manufacturing costs, many of which had quadrupled in the last few months due to the closure of the Bamboo Curtain. Similarly, raw material costs had soared as a result of the collapse of so many mining companies. How could nations invest so heavily in a space industry that had yet to be formulated, and whose profits were still a pipe-dream, a decade away at least. Since when had governments ever been able to compete with private industry?
Countries in the European Union had already felt the political and financial upheaval from the Banking Crisis of 2008. Now it was the turn of the USA, Russia, India and the rest of the Far East to feel the pain of mismanagement and financial ruin.
His invitation to appear on the Today program was still on his screen, visible to anyone who came round to chat, while each new visitor to his blog set off a low-key chime. The result sounded like a jovial Christmas tune gone mad.
Sam, unmoved by the apparent greatness of any of his journalists, came out of his office to make sure Robert would be preparing a follow up to the article, and also something for their Sunday magazine, should advertising let them down and leave a small space between Women in Power, and the Recipe of the Week.
August 20th.
Frankie watched the world around him through his monitors while Lenny, beside him in the SUV, managed the job of piloting them to the large asteroid that was their next job.
Jupiter was a huge ball on their port side, vividly coloured in shades of brown, oranges and reds, the swirling patterns a suggestion of the turbulence on its surface.
The asteroid they wanted was directly in front of them, the only one for some distance. He could feel it in his scalp, a heavy object, the only one near enough or large enough to give his scalp a tinge of feeling.
“Engaging the landing app,” Lenny told him, fingers working on his main monitor.
Frankie nodded, waiting in silence while it took feeds from cameras and radar, considered the information, and finally delivered them to the safest point on the grey rock. The ten minute wait allowed him to admire Jupiter, pretending he’d not already seen enough of it to begin to ache for the blues, greens, brown and whites of earth.
“We’re green,” Lenny confirmed.
Frankie grunted, knowing Lenny was sticking to the rule book because he was there. Had it been anyone else he wouldn’t have bothered with the comment on their status, and possibly wouldn’t have used the app to land either.
He reached for his helmet and slid it on with the ease of several hundred of hours practice while the SUV made a cautious landing on the asteroid, an application of gravity ensuring it would remain there until needed. Lenny was only a moment or so behind him, and pushed the button to void the air in the cabin, allowing them to step out onto the large rock.
Fr
ankie stayed close up against the side of the SUV, preferring the limited feel of its gravity to the lack of it were he to step away from the vehicle. It made it easier to lift the drilling equipment out of the back of the SUV. Then, if you did it right, you could twist and turn, arm muscles directing the gear towards where you wanted it. Propelled out of the SUV’s gravity, you could gently jump after the equipment and sail serenely to where it was meant to go. Do it wrong, and it was more than likely to head out, into space, with you following it, one hand on the equipment while the other tried grabbing your HYPORT gun at your waist. You wouldn’t be the first to have done it, or have your antics played back in the lounge afterwards.
Frankie’s aim was true, and he followed the equipment to a relatively flat area of the asteroid, his legs absorbing some of the impact while his arms guided the tripod onto the ground.
A switch awoke HYPORT and provided the tripod with weight, and it pushed down, onto the ground beneath it, just as it would have done back on earth.
Lenny landed nearby with some of the other equipment, but it took another two trips by both men before they had everything they required.
Neither the drill, nor the drilling, was all that complicated, now that the gypsies had obtained enough experience to modify the original earth equipment to suit their needs. A cradle supported the drill-rods, while a Dark Matter motor provided the force to push and turn the rods, cutting into the rock without sound. The two men had the equipment set-up in minutes, and the first rod was already cutting into the floor of the asteroids within 30 minutes of their landing.
The drilling itself was monotonous. The drilling apparatus sensed when a two metre section had been completed, and automatically retracted the rods far enough for the outer-most rod to be unscrewed and removed by hand. It was then a question of repeating the process until the first rod in the sequence could be lifted off, and the rock sample extracted and put into its tray. Then the whole process was repeated in reverse, a new rod added to the rear to drill another two metres deeper.
There was little to do during the intervening spaces of time. Frankie admired Jupiter while Lenny busied himself with rearranging the tools in the tool box, or carrying the filled sample trays back to the SUV.
The trouble with machinery in a vacuum is that they can’t tell you when they are ailing. On earth, they tell you through noise. Almost any engineer or mechanic worth their salt can tell you a machine is faulty either through undue vibration, or, most commonly, through the sound it makes.
In the vacuum of space there is no sound, and therefore an important indicator that warns of mechanical collapse is lost. Had it been there, it may have been enough for Frankie to turn it off for a closer examination. At worst, it would have been enough for him to have stepped away, out of harm’s way. As it was, the minute weakness in the rod wasn’t seen, felt or heard, and when it broke, it skewed off to one side and drove downwards. The fractured end of piping pierced Frankie’s groin just to the left of his testicles, splintering the pubis and ischium at the base of his pelvis before driving out under his left buttock. In doing so, it severed the common femoral artery where it ran downwards along his inner thigh.
Lenny watched in horror as the thick drilling rod became a spear, driving through Frankie and pushing him back, against the rock behind him. Blood, deep and red, was left in a line from where he had been struck, momentarily still before it began to rapidly boil away.
“Sweet Mother of God!” Lenny cried, abandoning the tray samples he had been carrying to rush to Frankie’s side.
“Allan, I need help!” he cried, watching Frankie blink behind his face plate, his expression strangely calm. For a moment, Frankie looked up into Lenny’s eyes, as if about to say something, then his eyes glazed over and the rhythmic flowing of his blood from the wound in his groin stopped.
+++++++++++++
Gail stared at the alarm, aghast. It was repeated on every single monitor in the surgery, blinking urgently while a siren-like noise issued from all the speakers.
Paul turned it off with a savage stab of his finger, the act of stopping it bringing up details of the RFID whose vital signs had caused the alarm.
“Frankie?” Gail gasped. “No, it can’t be!” she cried, rushing to her desk to verify Frank Hill’s signal. As she read the flat lines, she collapsed into her chair, her mouth working and her head tossing, unable to accept what she was reading.
“Paul, Gail, We’ve got a problem,” Allan called across the very same speakers.
“We know, Allan. Is anyone with him?” Paul asked, hiding his feelings behind his core medical training.
“Lenny,” Allan told him.
“Leave it with us,” Paul told him, keying Lenny’s vital signs before opening a communications channel with the spaceman.
“You still with him, Lenny?” Paul asked.
“He’s in my arms. I don’t know what to do,” Lenny answered, clearly distraught.
“Alright. Stay calm Lenny. What happened?” Paul asked, trying to find a visual and, at best, getting a camera on top of the SUV, a good 20 metres away from where Lenny was kneeling beside Frank’s body.
“The drilling-pipe, it just snapped and drove right through him,” Lenny told him, his voice breaking.
Juliet burst into the surgery, her face ashen as she stared at the two doctors. “No, no!” she cried, seeing the sorrow on Gail’s face.
Gail rushed forward to catch the swaying woman as she raised her arms to her face and wailed. Paul, meanwhile, continued to talk to Lenny. “Put him in the back of the SUV and bring him back here. Can you do that?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” Lenny told him.
Paul closed one channel and opened another to have Allan bring Freedom One closer to the asteroid. He then turned to helping Gail put Juliet into one of the cots, mildly sedating her with an injection before checking his watch.
“You stay here and man the fort. I’ll go and see to Frankie,” he said. “Also, get a hold of Heather and warn her,” he told her.
Gail steadied herself and keyed a channel to Heather.
“We know,” was all Heather said before she closed the link.
+++++++++++++
Michael’s immediate response was anger; anger that it should have been something as stupid as a broken drilling-pipe, that it should happen to Frankie, and that the man should have gone out to do the task when there were plenty of others quite capable.
But anger dissipated quickly, leaving him having to sit, his shaking making it impossible for him to hold a cup of tea.
“Michael; it’s all right,” Heather told him, kneeling beside him, her face suffused with concern.
He shook his head. It wasn’t all right.
He took a deep breath and concentrated on the feel of it filling his lungs. The small circle of calmness made him want anger again, and it took another slow breath to regain that core of calmness.
Heather placed Wendy-Claire on his lap and he had no choice but to reach out and support her, his shaking hands obeying him at least that far.
“Are you all right?” Heather asked gently.
He nodded, though he doubted he’d ever be the same again. One more name to the tally that was Michael Bennett. Never him; always someone else.
“Breathe,” a deeper, male voice, told him, and he knew without having to look away from his daughter that it was Samuel, probably come around to check on him.
He did as he was told, filling his lungs.
“Frankie?” he called, not caring if the others looked at him strangely.
Frankie was there, with him, scratching at the stubble on his long and thin chin, watching him with shrewd but questioning eyes from the other side of the room. “Spacemen,” Frankie said, and Michael recalled overhearing the speech he’d given the gypsies after moon dust had appeared on eBay. That was Frankie’s vision; not following Michael, not there because of Michael, but because he saw a future for the gypsies, something far beyond what either of them could ach
ieve individually.
Michael took another breath, easier this time as the bands about his chest eased. He looked about him and saw that the room had filled. He found the twins, both looking ill at ease in the highly charged atmosphere of the room.
“Thomas, David? Can you make your new space-time ship?” he asked. “We have someone, a spaceman, ready to make the trip,” he explained.
August 22nd.
It was a lovely day in East London. The trees were heavy with rich green foliage as summer turned to late-summer, and a warm breeze stirred the water in the old docks where Robert sat, ill at ease with his most recent success.
His article had been syndicated to most of the large media groups, while the on-line version on the Telegraph’s web site was breaking all previous records for the most viewed. The web-pages specific to Frank Hill had crashed twice due to the volume of people accessing them, and the TV and satellites companies were clamouring for him to attend their studios to give live and recorded interviews. Not only was he a top journalist, but he’d worked with Frank, had spent time with him, knew him personally.
Had it been any other story, Robert would have been celebrating, buying the drinks and commiserating with the other top journalists that he had topped them once again. But not for this story; not for Frank Hill’s obituary.
Now he truly wished he’d not agreed to step down and work on earth. Perhaps if he’d been there, Frankie wouldn’t have felt the need to go out. ‘Perhaps’ rated very close to ‘if’ in this world of endless probabilities.
He felt someone beside him and looked up from a duck moving through the water to see that Sam had found him.
“Don’t tell me; you want to make sure I’m doing a follow up,” he said, straightening from his reverie. “Let’s see, Michael Bennett’s obituary, or Allan Blake’s. What about Matt Park’s or Leanne Adler’s?” he asked. “They’re all friends. I could do them, dead easy, if you don’t mind the pun.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of why a gypsy would want to go into space in the first place,” Sam told him, lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply while looking about him.
