The Orthogonal Galaxy (31 page)

Looking at his watch, he
concluded, “0450 hours, Team. Let’s get this last paddle going. If
we can inject it stably into the flow, then we’ll be able to get
some rest while we let the fresh morning recruits track its
progress.”

Least resistance appeared
to be just the secret sauce that was needed for this one last
paddle. Particle impact was a bit lighter than with any of the
first eleven. But most importantly, as mission control nudged it
farther into the beam, they saw it penetrate to depths of 50, 60,
70 miles. Particle impact was growing, but there was reserved
optimism among many as this paddle had set a record among all
twelve for depth of penetration. There was a growing concern,
however, on the part of GUIDANCE.

“
We’re experiencing
acceleration on the paddle, inducing a velocity greater than
desired. 750 km/hr… 925 km/hr.”

“
GUIDO,” Zimmer blurted
quickly, “please put full reverse thrust possible to slow
deceleration. We need to maintain constant velocity in order to
maximize our depth and data collection.”

“
Roger that, FLIGHT, full
reverse thrusters engaged, but please note that reverse thrust will
only provide one tenth of the acceleration force capable with the
forward direction. Acceleration continuing. 1260 km/hr. We’re
losing ground, FLIGHT. Please advise.”

“
GUIDANCE, we need to turn
the paddle around, face it upstream and then apply full forward
thrust to counter the force of acceleration. We need to rotate such
that the plane of the paddle is parallel to the flow.”

“
FLIGHT, we’re starting to
notice a new vector of direction. It looks like the paddle is
starting to take on a corkscrew trajectory. It will be difficult to
coordinate a full parallel rotation.”

“
Negative, GUIDANCE. I
also see the corkscrew rotation, but this is accompanied by a
paddle roll that is coordinated with the rotation. Look. The face
of the paddle is constantly facing the center. Apparently, the
corkscrew is because particle impact has started to roll the paddle
counter-clockwise. We absolutely must rotate now… as parallel as
possible please.”

“
Working on it, FLIGHT.
Discontinuing reverse thrust and commencing rotation.”

After a grueling period of
waiting and watching the trajectory continue to accelerate, the
communication signal to reverse the direction of the paddle
upstream was received. “1850 km/hr at commence of rotation. 35
degree rotation, 2300 km/hr. 55 degrees, 3200 km/hr. FLIGHT,
without any thrust, we’re accelerating more rapidly now. 4800
km/hr, 78 degrees. FLIGHT, we are corkscrewing at a rate of one
spiral per 17 minutes with downrange velocity of 7500 km/hr,
engaging full forward thrust. It appears as if full forward thrust
is doing little to decrease the rate of acceleration. Velocity
still increasing to 9800 km/hr. 11,650 km.”

In nearly perfect
synchrony, the voice of the GUIDANCE officer ceased with the
communication of paddle twelve as the image and data on the wall
monitor went perfectly black.

…

The clock in the
conference room ticked loudly against the quiet and dejected mood
present. The time showed that it was 0610 hours. Three heads hung
low with as much disappointment as fatigue when the door opened
slowly to allow the entrance of the quickly-aging Carlton Zimmer.
He took a seat at the table, and his team of pale-faced research
students awaited his instruction.

“
In less than twelve
hours, Team, we’ve managed to burn through twelve paddles, and are
we any closer to solving this mystery than before?”

Heads shook in
defeat.

“
Do you mean to tell me
that all three of you missed the most important discovery of the
century—perhaps the millennium?” A smile grew on his face while he
studied his students. Reyd leaned forward with opened mouth. Kath
brushed her long hair aside and cocked her head as if to hear
better. Then, the smile grew more serious, as he looked towards
Joram, who blushed slightly and tried to avoid eye contact with all
of his team members.

“
I’m not exactly sure
what’s troubling you, Joram, but if it is nearly as difficult as
what is troubling me about this, then I sympathize with your
situation deeply.”

Zimmer walked slowly to
the other side of the table, hands clasped behind his back, and
head lowered slightly. Pacing the length of the table two or three
times, he weighed the exact words that he should use to explain his
theory.

“
You see—” he started
slowly, still pacing, still looking down, “I’m just not sure how
I’m going to be able to convince the world—” A deep, raspy sigh
emerged as he stopped, leaned towards the three concerned graduate
students, and placed his hands on the table.

“—
that we have just
discovered the tail of the first superluminal comet—the only
celestial body ever observed in the history of man to travel faster
than the speed of light.”

17

The prison bars echoed
throughout the hall as they slammed shut behind the newest inmate
at the U.S. Penitentiary in Atlanta. Paol Joonter shuddered at the
noise, which resounded with finality, as if they couldn’t be more
sealed had they been welded in place. It was fitting for someone
who truly believed that the judicial system had let him down
harshly, had ruined his life. He had no reason to believe anymore
that it would see justice through in the end. In the last few
weeks, he had become calloused and bitter at having been thrown on
death row as a first time criminal, convicted of a crime he did not
commit! And what about his family? They were suffering even more
than he. Their sobs for justice were callously denied by a flawed
judicial system which has locked up an innocent man, and ceased
investigating the real perpetrator of the crime.

Paol turned to look out of
the cell. It would be his only view for most of the day.
Nonetheless, he needed to see it now, as the prison guards
retreated down the long corridor, leaving him alone to his new
surroundings.

“
Well, I say,” a voice
said behind him. “You ‘da most odd character I ever seen in this
cell, and I seen some doozies, let me tell ya’.”

Paol didn’t know how to
respond, or who to respond to for that matter. Gazing around, he
finally spotted an inmate similarly attired as himself in a very
unfashionable orange and green jumpsuit sitting in a back corner of
the cell with a rather large book in his lap. He was a thin black
man with a very long face, and very short spiky hair. Paol would’ve
guessed his age at around 35, but that was because he would have
failed to factor in the decade of aging that occurred to his new
acquaintance on “the streets.”

“
Fo’ ‘xample,” the voice
continued to reminisce, “there was Hans Van Kemp, the Strangla’. He
never did like it when I suggested that his first name shoulda been
Hands instead of Hans.” He made himself laugh heartily, baring a
full set of yellow teeth, which contrasted vastly against his skin.
The joke was lost on Paol, who was certainly in the least humorous
attitude of his life. “Then, there’s Luke ‘Skeleton’ Stilton. Tall
and skinny, but when he stared at you with those gray eyes, why
you’da thought they’d start to burn a hole right through
you.”

“
But that Rall McHerd
character…” At this, Paol’s cellmate shivered. “Just thinkin’ of
that dude is frightful. He was 6-5, weighed 350 pounds in the
least. And hairy? Why he looked more gorilla than man with all that
long, mangy hair runnin’ down his face and body. He sent couple
inmates to the hospital with who knows how many broken bones each.
I’s glad that it wasn’t me, and that they moved him off to solitary
real quick like after the second attack. They should’a done it
sooner, ‘xcept there was no room in the schoo’.”

At the pause, Paol asked,
“Schoo?”

“
Schoo’, or S-C-U, Special
Confinement Unit,” offered his chatty companion. “That’s the joint
where they have them padded 6- by 9-foot boxes they use to keep the
really nutso jobs from hurtin’ others and themselves.”

With a low whisper, as if
he were divulging a secret that Paol should never reveal, he leaned
towards Paol and continued describing the SCU. “I hear that when
ya’ go to one of them boxes, ya’ never come out the same. And fo’
the good of society, ya’ done better not be let loose ever
‘gain.

“
Of course, I never knew
nobody to be released that ever spent any time in solitary,” stated
the inmate as he returned to his previous posture and
demeanor.

At this point, the man
placed his book on the cot he was seated next to and stood to
reveal a tall and lanky frame. At six feet, three inches tall, he
weighed no more that 190 pounds. It’s no wonder he was afraid of
McHerd. Judging by the description offered, the violent character
could’ve snapped this jail bird in half.

As he created images of
McHerd and the damage he could have done to himself, Paol inquired,
“So, this McHerd character was your cellmate, and he never touched
you?”

“
No, sir.”

“
How long did you two
spend together?”

“
I reckoned ‘bout sixteen
days.”

“
And in those sixteen
days, he thrashed two different inmates?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
But not you?”

“
No, sir.”

“
Even though he had more
access to you, I trust, then he did to anybody else—what being your
cellmate and all?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Well, then, educate me.”
Paol got to the point. “What do you do around here to preserve
your—um—health?”

“
Well, sir…” the inmate
started, but was interrupted by Paol.

“
By the way, the name’s
Paol, Paol Joonter—not sir. Judging by the way you and I are
dressed, I suspect we’re pretty much equal around here, so I think
formal titles can be dismissed.”

“
Blade Slater,” Blade
introduced himself by extending his hand.

Paol received his hand and
was surprised at the strength of the grip for such a scrawny frame.
“Well, Blade, I’m glad to meet you. I think if you can avoid the
McHerd treatment, you can certainly teach me a thing or two about
self-preservation here.”

“
Well, ya’ just have to
find the right balance of avoidin’ confrontation without
demonstratin’ weakness. Fo’ ‘xample, don’t get in no ones’ way, and
definitely, don’t get in their faces, meanin’ don’t yell at ‘em,
don’t call ‘em names, don’t be goin’ insultin’ ‘em or
nothin’.”

“
But, what if somebody
tries to start something with me?”

“
Happens all the time,
especially to new guys.”

“
Like me,” Paol’s voice
quavered as he looked towards the ground.

“
No!” exclaimed Blade,
calling Paol back to attention with a start. “Mistake number one:
weak voice. Mistake number two, lookin’ down. What ya’ just done,
man, is exactly what ya’ need to not do. Yer response should’nt’a
been, ‘like me.’ It shoulda been ‘LIKE ME!’”

Paol turned around to see
if Blade was starting to draw undesired attention to the
conversation with his strong voice, but since their cell was at the
corner of a hallway, all he could see was the long hall leading to
the exit of the ward and the bars of cells lining that hallway.
This gave him comfort as he realized that he wouldn’t have to
confront other inmates in conversation of any form while he was in
his cell.

“
I follow you,” nodded
Paol approvingly of his new education.

With the pause, Blade
accepted an opportunity to change the conversation. “By the way,”
Paol
asked
. “I
trust that ‘Blade’ is your nickname?”

“
True ‘nough.” Blade
chuckled. “The real name’s Thomas—you know, like from the Bible.
Seems like nobody gets Bible names these days, but Momma liked ‘em
better than the names we hear now ‘days.”

“
I don’t suppose Blade has
reference to the reason you’re in here, does it?”

Slater chuckled heartily.
“Not at all. My Momma caught me playin’ with a knife when I’s three
years young. She says I’s pretty good wieldin’ the blade, and
didn’t even nick myself. She started callin’ me Blade, and—well—it
just stuck I s’ppose.”

For the first time, Paul
lifted the corner of his lip into a smile. There was something
heart-warming and genuine about his cellmate that some of the
anxiety and tension were starting the melt away.

“
Whatcha in fo’, Paol?” he
inquired with an inspectful gaze. “Ya’ don’t look like ya’ belong
here.”

Looking down again, Paol
was brought back to the remembrance of his situation. Lowly and
bitterly, he spat, “I was convicted of a crime I did not
commit.”

“
No!”

Paol’s head snapped, and
he looked deeply into Blade’s eyes to correct his mistake. “I
mean,” he scowled, “I was convicted of a crime I did not
commit.”

“
That’s better,” Blade
encouraged. “What crime d’ya not commit?”

“
Murder.”

Blade took a step back and
furrowed his brow. “Murder? You don’t look like no murderer to
me.”