Project Sail (28 page)

“He has a point,” Carlson chimed in although Hawthorne thought it less about supporting Fisk and more about kicking Wren when he appeared vulnerable. “Our school received millions in research grants from UVI to finance a survey of volcanoes across the solar system. Best field study of my career.”

As the XO of the ship, crew moral fell on Hawthorne’s lap so he jumped in.

“What about you, Leo? If Dr. King is our devoted New Christian and Fisk worships capitalism, what does that make you?”

“I believe in England, and that we will rise again someday, which is where I would much rather be than helping UVI dig up more profits off some barren rock.”

Ellen Kost said, “Who knows, we might find answers out here that will help us back home, possibly even help England recover.”

“Don’t be retarded. Nothing is out here besides rocks to mine.”

“What did you call me?”

And for the second time, a crewmate’s decision to confront instead of cower knocked Wren off-balance.

“I said nothing is out here.”

“You called me retarded.”

For the first time, the crew saw Dr. Ellen Kost angry. No, not angry, furious. Hawthorne thought she might storm out, or even slap Wren.

“I put up with a lot of crap from you, but I will not put up with that. Say you are sorry and that you didn’t mean it.”

Wren’s eyes widened and he stammered, “What is your problem? I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I want an apology.”

She stared at him and Wren stared back, his mouth agape. The others watched, shocked at Kost turning the tables on the man she had followed around like a puppy dog for weeks and surprised that instead of exploding, Wren appeared ready to retreat.

“Fuck, fine, whatever, I am sorry you’re upset.”

Hawthorne did not know which was more surprising: Kost’s anger, or Wren apologizing.

“Exactly the weasel apology I would expect,” King prodded and then turned to Kost and said, “Just ignore him, dear, it works for me.”

“I guess I will have to give that at try,” she huffed.

The diners picked at their plates, drank from their glasses, and looked around the room in a tense two minutes of silence.

Finally, King asked Carlson, “Tell me, Matthew, what do you think we will find?”

“Well, I hope the planet is geologically active. I am fascinated by volcanoes.”

Wren did not care about Carlson’s interests; he tried to pick a fight.

“Ira is hoping to find God among the stars.”

She took the bait saying, “And why not? When I look at a star or a comet, I see the hand of the Creator. The universe is the canvas on which He painted. If we go far enough, we might find Him.”

Wren tapped Coffman’s arm and said, “She worships the great spaghetti monster.”

“The great what?”

Carlson rolled his eyes and explained, “They want you to choose religion or science.”

“Oh, I see,” Coffman scratched his chin with his thumb. “Yes, well, that is a question, isn’t it?”

Wren said, “Science deals with measurable facts, not judgments and bull shit morality. Through observation and analysis we learn about the universe and we know there was no Garden of Eden and the sun does not orbit the Earth.”

King countered, “Science merely measures what God created and often gets it wrong. You will never truly understand this universe until you embrace the teachings of New Christianity; otherwise your observations are empty and devoid of meaning.”

Coffman, who was literally in the middle, held his arms up as if warding off two fighting children.

“Well, I consider myself a rationale human being and a scientist, therefore I try to understand the universe with dispassionate study and experimentation.”

Wren eased in his chair, sensing his first victory of the night.

Coffman went on, “As Mr. Wren would no doubt agree, the universe is a system; one we can, yes, observe and measure. However, we study this system from within and you cannot fully understand any system from inside. Therefore, there must be more to existence than we can see.”

Captain Charles said, “You are waffling, Professor.”

Hawthorne sarcastically pounced, “Yes, you
must
choose.”

“Well, from where I sit both views are arrogant. The religious zealot twists faith into a sense of moral superiority, the scientific crusader develops an abrasive sense of self-importance.”

Kost’s anger had not entirely faded, but she controlled her voice enough to ask, “But what about you, Professor?”

“I am a scientist, but when I look at the stars I am filled with wonder. Do I believe in God? I am honestly not sure. I do not believe in a man with a white beard sitting on a throne and I am skeptical of organized religion because faith has often been manipulated for power.”

Coffman paused to sip his wine. The others around the table waited for more, as if the Professor might cast the deciding vote in a tight election.

“To look at the universe and ignore science is to be ignorant, but to gaze on the stars and not sense something greater is to be blind.”

Captain Charles noted, “You satisfy neither side.”

“Yes, well, I have no intention of satisfying anyone. I do not know the answers, but I find the questions fascinating,” and he popped a chocolate in his mouth.

Charles said, “A philosopher scientist makes a nice addition to my crew. So far we have a pissed off Englishman, a devout believer, a capitalist and, well Commander Hawthorne, I suppose you are the hero of the group. Why don’t you tell us your story?”

Kost encouraged, “Yes, I think we would love to hear it.”

“Yes, sure,” Wren said sarcastically, drawing a glare from Kost.

Hawthorne studied his half-empty glass wondering how best to tackle a subject he did not like to discuss. Should he spin it the way he did for the ladies: a dramatic battle won by insight and courage? Should he brush it off and change the subject?

“As Captain Charles can tell you, battle in space comes in two flavors. The first is about speed. With diametric drives, gravity fields, and lasers, weapons fired from a distance are easy to spot and easy to dodge. Ships charge one another like jousting knights, hoping to get close enough to penetrate the enemy’s defenses.”

He finished his glass of wine in one gulp and then slid it over to Carlson. It took a second, but Matthew realized he was expected to fill it.

“So you zoom in, launch a missile or a bunch of suicide drones, fly by, and hope you kill the other guy. If you are both still standing, you go again until someone is knocked off their horse.”

Fisk asked, “And the second flavor?”

“Surprise at close range and hitting the enemy before he can react.”

“And what happened at Ganymede, Commander?” Charles asked, although Hawthorne suspected his Captain already knew.

Carlson handed over a full glass.

“All around Jupiter, the Chinese and American fleets went back and forth, knocking one another off horses. I was on a frigate held in reserve and watched from a distance at Io where we shredded a dozen enemy warships in three hours. But the brass got greedy and went straight for the main Chinese bases on Europa. The tables turned. We barely made it out alive.”

“So you ran at Europa,” Charles said.

“The military term is
withdraw.
Of course they followed us to Ganymede and after a pitched battle my ship, the
John Riley
, was the last American standing with two enemy warships, including a Chinese battleship, searching for us.”

“You should not have been a match for that,” Coffman said.

“You are right,” Hawthorne agreed. “But this ended up as the second type of fight. We took one by surprise, and then the other, partly because of the Chinese being overconfident and sloppy, partly good fortune.”

Captain Charles grinned and said, “So you caught the enemy with his pants down? Not exactly the tale of heroism I expected.”

Hawthorne suppressed the urge to grab Charles by the collar and out him as a traitor.

“Yes, we took them by surprise, just like the Chinese did with the
Niobe
. You know, we are a crew of second-choices.”

Charles’ face grew flush.

“Fortunate for us you made it out alive, Captain. Tell us
your
heroic tale.”

Captain Charles answered, “I happened to pick that day to visit a friend. I suppose that, like you, I just got lucky.”

“Funny, Captain, didn’t you tell me that we make our own luck?”

31. Halfway Point

Pilot Bill Stein announced to a full bridge, “The Alcubierre—Haruto drive is now off-line, we are at full stop.”

Captain Charles asked the second most important question of the day to navigator Tommy Star: “What is our position?”

“Captain, computer analysis of our star charts confirms that we are thirteen light-years from Earth and roughly nine light-years from the Gliese system.”

“Captain Charles,” Leanne Warner spoke from her station, “I am measuring a powerful mass of charged particles dead ahead, moving away from our location.”

He answered, “Remember your briefing, Ms. Warner. As we manipulated space, particles collected on the gravity envelope protecting the ship. Space straightened again when we stopped, throwing those particles forward. Fortunately there is nothing out here.”

The Captain then activated an overhead screen with the jab of a finger and asked Professor Coffman in engineering a question more important than the one he had asked Starr.

“What is the status of the generator and the drive?”

Coffman appeared on-screen with Sheila Black working at a console behind him.

“Ah, Captain, the drive and the generator performed as expected and both systems remain functional. Yes, we will be able to continue our journey, but we require nine hours to recharge.”

Although no one said it, everyone on the bridge felt a weight lift from his or her shoulders. They had traveled for thirteen days and thirteen light-years. Should the A-H drive malfunction, they would never reach Gliese 581 or home.

Captain Charles activated the ship-wide intercom.

“Attention, we have arrived at the designated halfway point. The Alcubierre—Haruto drive worked as expected and remains in operational condition. We have a nine-hour layover before we sail again, Charles out.”

He then said to Stein, “Open the bulkhead; I want to see what is out there.”

The cover over the front window retracted, revealing a tapestry of black with tiny specks of light stingily sprinkled across the view.

“We have come a long way,” Stein said, his voice seasoned by the slightest hint of awe.

Hawthorne appreciated the historic nature of their journey, but he knew murder and mutiny waited at their next stop.

---

Jonathan Hawthorne stood alone in the common room, turning a coffee into an Irish coffee with a splash of whisky.

He had come from engineering, where he had seen Coffman, Black, and Phipps supervising the RFPG power up. It would be hours before it reached the energy threshold required to jolt the A-H drive into operation. The three members of the engineering team appeared intent on watching every minute of the process.

Meanwhile, Wren, Carlson, and Kost occupied three separate research rooms on the command deck. They observed and measured the void of empty space serving as
SE 185’s
temporary parking spot. The remaining crew divided between the bridge and off-duty. Hawthorne fell into the latter category.

With the alcohol and coffee thoroughly blended, he stepped to the observation window and opened the protective bulkhead. Just like the view from the bridge, he saw a slab of black with scattered clusters of dim pinpricks.

One of those distant stars was Sol, their home, and now thirteen light-years away. Hawthorne counted back thirteen years. The light he saw right now, flickering cross the universe from man’s sun, was the same light he had fought under at Ganymede.

He raised a hand to the glass and touched it, fascinated by the thought that he looked backwards through time. If he could speak to that handball player who had inherited command that day, what would he say?

Hawthorne nearly jumped when Lieutenant Thomas came up from behind with a cheerful, “Hi!”

He nodded to her and then sipped from his mug. She moved next to him at the window.

“I hear Earth is one of those stars, or I mean one of those stars is Earth’s star; you know the sun. Carlson says we are looking at the stars from behind, like we have walked around to the other side of a painting.”

“We are looking back through time.”

She asked, “What is that?”

“The light from Earth’s sun is thirteen years old, given how far away we are.”

Kelly enthusiastically said, “Oh my God, you would be fighting at Jupiter now! You never really told me about it.”

Hawthorne said, “I have told you dozens of war stories.”

“Dozens of stories about handball games and bar fights. You never told me about the battle at Ganymede, at least, nothing I didn’t already know. So come on, what was the battle like?”

“It’s not as glamorous as you might think, Kelly. You would be disappointed. History tends to embellish. For example, according to the story, our Captain died in battle and I inherited a burning bridge and a battle-damaged ship. In truth, the Captain died the day before in an airlock accident and our engines suffered a mechanical fault, not battle damage. See, boring.”

She snuggled close to him, her head against his shoulder.

“You are forgetting that I am a soldier, too. I know half the time it’s boring stuff that no one else would find interesting, but not me. I want to know about you.”

“Kelly…”

“You were a hero, and I want the details. I know you took the battleship by surprise because you gave that order to change course but the rest I’m foggy on, just that you kicked their ass.”

He recalled dinner at the Captain’s table over a week ago when he admitted to Charles’ delight that his victory at Ganymede had been the result of catching the enemy by surprise. Even that had been an exaggeration.

But standing there gazing out at the stars and seeing the same light he had fought under thirteen years ago caused an emotional tide to roll in, one of guilt, regret, and fear.