Project Sail (6 page)

Regulations required two certified launch programmers to review lift off data as well as multiple computer checks. Of course, reaching orbit was a matter of thrust not flying skill; if all went well Hawthorne would not touch the controls.

“Looks fine,” Carlson said and closed his screen.

“Tower, UVI 1-5 here, confirmation should be coming through now.”

“Copy that, Zipper. Sit tight, your window opens in ten minutes so we will have you in the chamber soon.”

A display started the countdown at nine minutes and forty-five seconds while the ship rumbled through the huge hangar. Two tiny windows sat above Hawthorne at the top or front of the capsule looking up at a featureless roof far overhead.

As he waited, a question came to mind.

“Reagan, if this mission is so important, why are we launching in a capsule? Shouldn’t we be riding in style on a UVI corporate space plane?”

“Capsules are the most common means of achieving orbit,” he answered. “We want to blend in.”

Kost mumbled, “I’d just appreciate artificial gravity in these things.”

Hawthorne explained, “They say using artificial gravity inside a strong natural gravity well increases the odds of an anomaly, but I think it’s about saving money; RDM is expensive.”

“She knows that,” Wren said despite closed eyes and music blasting in his ears. “She said she is a pilot.”

Hawthorne was not sure why Wren came to Kost’s defense, he figured to be the last person to stick up for anyone. She might have appreciated it, but was too shy to say anything.

After a few minutes of stop and go travel and as the clock ticked below four minutes, the controller spoke.

“Zipper 1-5, you are next in line. Stand by.”

While he could not see the cluster of vertical chambers that served as launching tubes, he knew they were close. Hawthorne heard the roar and rumble of another ship taking to the sky.

The capsule vibrated again as a hoist clamped on to the nose cone, and then their stomachs lurched as they lifted off the conveyor. Fisk let out an audible gasp.

A hydraulic strain added to the noise followed by a dull thud as the ship slipped into a launch tube like a bullet into a revolver. Through the windows, Hawthorne saw a brightly lit ceiling fifty feet overhead.

“Zipper 1-5, locked and loaded. One minute until launch. Have a good flight.”

“Roger that, tower.”

He undid a plastic safety shield covering a big red ABORT button and positioned his hand next to it, just in case. He had used that button once in his career, and hoped never to do so again.

Overhead the ceiling slid away revealing black. Drops of rain splashed on the capsule’s windows.

When the countdown hit zero, a thunderous roar and a terrifying vibration filled the cabin, and as the capsule took flight, Mother Earth grabbed the passengers in a smothering bear hug.

They took off into the night riding a brilliant red flare born from a rocket fuel that had not been invented twenty years ago, yet another fruit of man’s exploitation of the solar system. It seemed they found new uses for every gas and liquid nature had seeded in the heavens.

As violent as the ascent felt, the control panel displayed a string of green lights that promised perfect operation of the craft’s systems. If one turned red, it would mean—as Wren had said—either a soft return to the ground by parachute, or something far more spectacular.

With each passing second, Hawthorne felt Earth’s pull grow stronger; she was reluctant to give away her children. He thought about the space suit Fisk wore and how each pound of that equipment now felt like three.

Wren, with his eyes closed and his music blaring so loud that perhaps he did not hear the engines, shouted, “Fucking Awesome! Yeah! Yeah! Up we go, bitches!”

After nearly six minutes of fighting gravity, the engines silenced, Earth’s grip slipped, and the ship attained orbit. His hands, the panel, the entire cabin changed from a place filled with noise and vibration to calm and quiet. Hawthorne felt his body drift until the safety harness took hold. He heard what sounded like vomiting and avoided looking in Fisk’s direction.

The Commander’s panel displayed a digital recreation of his ship with lines and symbols detailing information on their course. Thrusters fired automatically to adjust their flight.

“We’ve reached orbit…on course…ETA
Angel
station five minutes.”

Fisk heaved again. It sounded rather dry. Hawthorne still refused to look but he did hope that their corporate host had managed to find an airsick bag; otherwise, something nasty might be floating around the cabin.

“UVI 1-5 this is
Angel,
we see you on our scopes.”

“Roger that
Angel
, this is 1-5.”

“Jonathan, is that you?”

“Yep, is this Stosh?”

“What the hell are you doing flying a tin can? I thought you were up here on the
Princess.
”

“Long story, Stosh, but I’m not allowed to tell it. Is my boat still in dock?”

“Ships out in twelve hours for the Mars run. I’m guessing you won’t be onboard?”

Fisk cleared his throat, less a function of sickness and more a reminder about security.

“Stosh, the company wouldn’t want me yacking about it. Someday we’ll sit down and bull shit over a beer but for now I just need to hitch up.”

“Got it 1-5, you are cleared to land on pad Delta, topside.”

Hawthorne was accustomed to parking his big luxury yacht at a docking clamp, not the retractable landing pads reserved for smaller ships and capsules. Yet another change he would have to accept.

Despite the dangerous trip to England and a corporate handler who was hiding something, the enormity of this life change did not hit Jonathan Hawthorne until he saw the space station through the front windows.

Of course, the big tube-shaped station itself was nothing new, but when he saw the
Princess
sitting at a docking strut without him he understood how much he had lost and how uncertain the future had become.

The
Princess
resembled an oceangoing yacht in its design, with spherical bulges along her hull that belonged to the diametric drive. At one hundred and thirteen meters long, she was not a big ship compared to a military vessel, but she could still carry a hundred passengers and crew in style.

And now it belongs to my XO. As does my navigator.

Hawthorne fired thrusters as the capsule closed on the thousand-meter long space station, flying between and then above docking struts until it hovered over a landing pad that opened to accept them. From that vantage point, Hawthorne saw another ship docked at
Angel,
one he feared would be his ride out to Uranus, and it was no
Princess.

Like his old yacht, this new vessel borrowed its styling cues from oceangoing craft, in this case a submarine. Big boxcar-like cargo compartments circled the aft end, spheres stuck out from the hull, and a small bridge sat atop the main body.

Hawthorne realized this new ship would be nothing like his old one, with wide halls and comfortable rooms replaced by cramped corridors and closet-sized quarters.

“Are we there yet?” Fisk asked.

Hawthorne lamented. “I think we’ve got a long, long way to go.”

8. The Virgil

His guess about the
Virgil
proved correct; tight passages and not a bar in sight, metallic grated walkways that
clanged
with every step, and a rusty smell conjuring images of basement boiler rooms. This was no sophisticated star cruiser; UVI had booked their VIPs on the equivalent of a tramp steamer.

With a ceiling only six feet high and a width barely twice that, the bridge felt more like a cockpit, although a big round window offered a panoramic view over the ship’s bow.

An old Caucasian man sat in the pilot’s chair facing that window, cycling through preflight checks. Two other workstations—one staffed by an olive-skinned scrawny kid and the other empty—sat to either side.

The
Virgil
belonged to Captain Horus, a man with dark black skin and a scruffy beard hinting at a pirate-like disposition. However, it took only five minutes of following Horus through the ship for Hawthorne to understand this was a professional spacefaring man.

“I prefer carrying freight because I strap it down and don’t worry about it again until reaching port. I do not care how much the company paid, anyone who becomes a problem will be strapped down with the cargo. I have a small crew and we pull double duty, so I do not have time for distractions.”

“We will behave ourselves, Captain,” Hawthorne said although he wondered if he could speak for Wren. “Just wake me up when we reach Oberon.”

Horus corrected, “When we reach Titan, you mean.”

Hawthorne glared at Fisk who responded, “I told you, we have one stop on the way. Captain, I understand it will take a week to reach Titan?”

“Yes, once we are underway so get your people settled.”

Fisk left the bridge and Hawthorne tried to follow but Horus grabbed his arm.

“That one hasn’t spent much time in space, has he?”

“Don’t worry; he is a trained corporate astronaut.”

“I know who you are, Commander, and I hear you were pretty good.”

“Just lucky.”

“I am not talking about the Battle of Ganymede. One of our cargo bays has full gravity and we keep the back open for three-wall.”

Hawthorne understood.

“So you play handball?”

“My whole crew does.”

That crew included the two on the bridge plus a pair of engineers who doubled as loadmasters.

“At least we’ll have a way to pass the time.”

---

Ellen Kost boarded the
Virgil
from the port side airlock into the ship’s canteen or central hub, followed by Leo Wren who carried his suitcase as well as hers, an offer that had taken her by surprise.

“They said I’m to aft, I guess that’s to the right.”

He responded, “Yes, you were listed in portside cabin four.”

In the three hours since meeting him, Ellen found Wren to be rude, foul-mouthed, and degrading, like an elementary school bully. Yet he had stuck up for her on the capsule and now acted as her porter.

They crossed the canteen and followed the primary corridor until finding a cabin marked Port 4. She opened the door revealing a cot with a skimpy mattress, a washbasin with a mirror and shelves, and rows of cabinets. Light came from a dim panel in the ceiling that flickered every few seconds.

He smiled and said, “The company put us up first-class.”

Wren’s friendliness felt feigned, like a student flattering a teacher before admitting to lost homework.

“Thank you for carrying my suitcase.”

She set her two duffels on the floor and then carefully placed her handbag on the cot.

“Say, Ellen…”

But he was cut off as Carlson appeared in the hallway outside the open door, clearly lost.

“Wait a second; they said starboard side, forward.”

Wren’s smile disappeared and he pointed up the hall.

“First time traveling without mommy?”

Carlson turned red and walked off.

Wren’s smile returned but wavered, as if tempered by embarrassment.

“Ellen, I was just thinking, it’s a long two weeks to Oberon and, well, maybe we should, you know, share the ride?”

It took her a moment to understand what he meant because she never expected to be asked, despite knowing that finding a bunk buddy for long trips was common with space travel.

Don’t be too flattered; you are the only woman on the ship.

“You don’t have to answer right away,” he said but her lack of response flipped a switch inside Leo Wren; his false smile disappeared and his eyes drew taut.

As Ellen considered his proposition, her gaze drifted to her imitation leather handbag.

It will be tough to hide that with a bunk buddy but if I’m sleeping with him, he is not as likely to think I’m stupid; he will probably even be nice to me. Besides, you wanted this to be an adventure and to meet new people, so here is your chance.

“Sure, that would be great.”

“Awesome! I’ll move my cot over and we can put them together.”

Wren disappeared, hurrying to bring back his bedding before she received a better offer.

Ellen closed the cabin door, unzipped her handbag, and pulled out a silver device the size of a pencil with a tip resembling a microphone. She held it to the side of her head and flicked a tab at the bottom.

Her eyes closed as the mechanism did its work and while it did not cause any pain, a tear ran down her cheek.

9. Games in Outer Space

When the
Virgil
pulled away from
Angel
station, the passengers felt the jolt of maneuvering thrusters. However, no one noticed when the diametric drive kicked in; not even a vibration.

Powered by fusion reactors, this drive propelled the
Virgil
at speeds over five million miles per hour by projecting gravitational fields. These same fields deflected potential hazards and shielded passengers from the effects of acceleration and deceleration.

Of course, the system required tremendous power and there were dangers. A fault might spaghettify the ship or spawn an anomaly, crushing the vessel.

Nonetheless, diametric drives were the propulsion of choice for manned ships traveling between planets. The robotic barges controlled by the mining and gas companies ran on ion drives, which were slower but cost-effective.

Hawthorne’s
Princess
also used a diametric drive, the only similarity he found between the two vessels although after three days aboard the
Virgil,
he found dozens of differences including spotty artificial gravity such as one nausea-inducing spot down the hall from his closet-sized room. On the
Princess,
his quarters included a personal bathroom with a shower and privacy, as opposed to the freighter’s shared lavatory.

Hawthorne walked the main corridor that ran like a spine from the
Virgil’s
bow to stern. He wore blue gym shorts and a white t-shirt promoting the “Palace at Hebes Chasma,” an exclusive Martian resort.

The canteen or hub at the center of the freighter highlighted another difference between cruise and cargo ships. On the
Princess,
chefs pulled from well-stocked pantries; on the
Virgil,
meals came from a 3D food printer and vending machines.