Project Sail (26 page)

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?”

“No,” Hawthorne and Henderson answered in unison but then the Commander explained, “That was a chain reaction in the RDM. It does not happen often, but it does happen.”

He thought Reagan Fisk would never look at a gravity panel the same way.

Henderson said, “If you are worried about criminal prosecution, you now have cover. The revisions to the Geneva Conventions in 2085 state that you cannot be held accountable for actions ordered by a superior officer.”

Hawthorne said, “You found something on Gliese 581, something you and the navy want to keep from the Europeans.”

“I am sorry, Commander, but eventually you will understand why we are asking so much of you.”

“Whatever it is, I am certain it will be of great benefit to Universal Visions, Incorporated.”

“Not just UVI, Commander, but the future of the human race.”

29. Launch

Carlson carried a box in his hands and a bag slung over his shoulders as he arrived at the project rooms outside the bridge aboard
SE 185
. Without a free hand available, he stared at the door trying to figure out a way to open it.

Professor Coffman came to the rescue.

“Thanks, Professor. I didn’t think I would make it.”

“Are you settled in?”

“Everything is here; I just hope I can find places for it all,” Carlson answered as he set his packages on the floor.

“Yes, well, preparing for scientific studies is difficult when you don’t know what you will study.”

Inside the project room across the hall, two UVI technicians struggled with a heavy box of their own, this one lined with tiny spikes. The door was open allowing Carlson to see.

“Professor, is that a pincushion?”

“Oh, yes, well we brought along the QE connection box for Probe 581 and a new translation computer, in case we receive signals again. No sense leaving it behind.”

“Our ship has one of those as well, right?”

“Yes, we do. Einstein called quantum entanglement ‘spooky action.’ Here we are, hundreds of years later, with brain implants and engines that contort space. Yet we still do not understand this spooky action.”

Carlson considered today’s launch.

“We are traveling a long way, aren’t we?”

Coffman put a hand on Carlson’s shoulder and said, “Yes, but we are traveling together, Matthew. Consider the first men in space over a century ago who crammed into tiny capsules and flew alone. Even the original trips to the moon involved only three astronauts. Imagine how alone they must have felt. We have a crowded ship with a smart crew. We will be just fine. This is an adventure.”

Carlson said, “I have been in space before, sometimes months at a time, but I could always send a message home to my mother. But the company blocked transmissions since leaving Earth and, well, I am all she has.”

“And she will be proud when you come home and announce to the world that you were the first man to step foot on a planet beyond our solar system.”

“I just hope it is worth it.”

“Matthew, we are ushering in a new era of exploration. Mankind will no longer be confined to the worlds around our home sun. Imagine what great gifts the universe can offer us!”

Carlson considered everything he had seen and heard since his recruitment to this mission.

“I wonder, Professor, if we have anything to offer the universe in return.”

---

Another announcement echoed through the halls of the space station: “All personnel assigned to
SE 185
are to board immediately.”

Hawthorne and Kelly Thomas walked together, and while the burden of his role in this mission weighed heavily on his shoulders, she appeared unfazed by her part even after learning about Charles’ planned assassination.

He did not want her involved, but he had no choice. They resolved not to speak of it again until he needed her, but he did not doubt she would do as asked. Hawthorne wondered if he could say the same.

As they crossed the boarding lobby, he spotted Reagan Fisk sitting on a bench, his head in his hands and a bag at his feet.

“You go, I will catch you onboard.”

Kelly continued while Hawthorne studied Fisk from across the room. He knew the kid wanted nothing to do with this mission anymore. His fantasies about the excitement of space travel and the nobility of UVI had come crashing down, first with Chambers’ horrific end and then with revelations about spies, murder, and mutiny.

To Hawthorne, it seemed technology evolved but humanity remained Neanderthals just with fancier clubs and nicer caves.

Hawthorne walked over to Fisk. He felt an obligation to the young man. Not the obligation of an officer to his crew; the obligation of one generation to the next.

“I do not want to do this,” Fisk said. “I am not cut out for this. When I accepted the job recruiting the specialists, I told my fiancée I would be gone for two months. Now I will be gone for another ten weeks, at least, assuming I ever make it back.”

“Reagan, you saw something nasty, but the company taught you about micro meteors, gravitational anomalies, and suit breaches; you know shit happens.”

“That is not what is bothering me.”

“Look kid, I understand how you feel but you cannot let it change you.”

“How can I not let this change me? You know our orders. That opened my eyes to the behind the scenes bullshit.”

“And you hate it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Fisk said, “Because I believed we worked on something worthwhile and the future could be new and different.”

“It can.”

“Don’t bother, Commander. Since the day we met you have been saying that for all our progress it’s just the same old shit.”

“Yes, that is what I have been saying and that is how I feel. I have seen worse than what happened in the cargo bay, and I know what it is like to kill. I am too far gone and that is why you are so important to this mission.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re a believer Fisk, even if this has shaken your faith. For me, that died thirteen years ago and until you knocked on my cabin door, I never thought further ahead than a day or two. But you have a reason to do better than that. You have your girl; you have plans for restaurants and kids.”

Fisk said, “That sounds silly now.”

“You are wrong. The political backstabbing and cloak-and-dagger crap is the stuff that is silly. Oh, it can get you killed, but it is small and petty. You and that girl in the picture, that’s important.”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

“Not so long ago, a friend of mine talked about how each of us will face our moment of death, one day or another. Like Chambers when he realized he was stuck in the anomaly. My friend feels that at that moment, your life will be empty memories and the only thing you will have is fear.”

Fisk said, “Your friend sounds like he is fun at parties.”

“I wonder how it will feel the day I die, knowing I am not leaving anything behind. The life that flashes before my eyes will be one of space battles followed by copious amounts of alcohol.”

“You were a hero.”

“No, I was a killer. I lived because I killed better than the other guy did or, honestly, because I got luckier. When people call you a hero, they are saying they are glad it was you and not them. But you, Reagan Fisk, are the most important person on this mission.”

“I’m the most disposable person on this mission.”

“Look, we have people who can analyze rocks, sample the atmosphere, and measure orbits. This ship needs someone who can see what it means, and that has to be a person who has a stake in the future. You do.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Me? No, and you can be like me and not care, or you can be that optimistic pain-in-the-ass who picked me up two months ago, convinced we are on a noble mission.”

“Maybe I do not want to be that anymore.”

“You have no a choice, Reagan; you have too many dreams invested in that girl in Mexico. During this trip, think of her. You will find that giving up is not as easy as it sounds.”

---

Victor Henderson approached the big window that overlooked nearly half the space station, including the docking port
SE 185
had left a few minutes ago.

He held his hand in the air and sent a mental signal through his implant to the computer, activating a video link projected above the observation window. Using one finger, he jabbed toward the screen and his chip did the rest. The control room appeared, five men sitting in two rows monitoring
SE 185
.