Project Sail

  Project Sail

  Anthony DeCosmo

  Copyright 2014 Anthony DeCosmo

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  1. Preemptive Strike

  The orbital shipyard resembled a crab in that two, kilometer-long construction scaffolds reached out like pincers from a semi-spherical main body.

  This crustacean made of metal and light occupied nearly a hundred square kilometers, making it one of the largest man-made structures in space. Yet it was tiny in comparison to the cratered, grooved surface of Ganymede, the largest moon in the solar system. Ganymede, in turn, was barely a speck in the face of Jupiter and its eye-like red storm.

  The intruder traveled fast in an orbit lower than the station’s. Nonetheless, sensors detected its approach and the crab-shaped floating shipyard went on full alert. Space-walking workers hurried for the nearest airlock, internal bulkheads lowered, and defensive systems activated.

  A pair of USNA corvettes abandoned their patrol routes and moved to intercept, approaching from both below and above the fast-flying attacker.

  A trio of missiles launched from the station, moving at Mach 23. The small attacking ship responded with a network of lasers fired from octagonal ports just below its almost duck-billed bow. The tiny red beams did not have the power to destroy, but they could befuddle guidance controls and shove the incoming weapons off course.

  Two of the three fell away, first pushed by the lasers and then pulled by Ganymede’s gravity. The third exploded in a white flash that on Earth would have birthed a mushroom cloud. In this case, the warhead detonated too far from the target for the electromagnetic pulse or the shock wave to cause serious harm.

  The USNA Niobe sat docked to the station’s pincer-like scaffolds. A heavy cruiser nearly four hundred meters from bow to stern, the Niobe bristled with weaponry both obvious (tubes and guns) and not so obvious (radiation generators and gravity distortion fields).

  Like the attacker as well as any ship reliant on a diametric drive, several large spheres bulged from the Niobe’s hull. Between those spheres stretched patches of unfinished plating, but those patches had shrunk in recent weeks: the Niobe would soon sail.

  With the docked heavy cruiser in its sights, the intruder closed for the kill. Shells burst in its path, creating clouds of charged shrapnel that caused damage but not enough to stop the enemy ship.

  Two twenty-meter tungsten rods dropped from launchers in the duck-billed attacker’s belly.

  A split second later, the base deployed a last line of defense. A wall of electromagnetic energy expanded out from the shipyard, enveloping the intruder in a deluge overwhelming every circuit in the vessel.

  Robbed of power, an anti-ship shell hit the attacker broadside, nudging the intruder off course and it tumbled beneath the crab-shaped station.

  However, with no reliance on power or electronics, the twin tungsten rods remained on target. They pierced the docked USNA cruiser at high speed in parallel lines, passing through the warship and into the scaffold behind like a bullet twisting in a body.

  The Niobe fell apart, first splitting in two and then splintering into smaller chunks. Yellow sparks marked flash fires ignited in oxygen pockets before the vacuum snuffed them out. Metal skin peeled off; pipes, bulkheads, and bodies blew away.

  Behind and around the disintegrating warship, the giant crab’s arms suffered a similar fate. The truss broke into a mess of poles and pieces, some doing even more damage as they crashed into the station’s main body.

  A missile from a corvette finished off the powerless intruder, but the damage was done.

  2. Flash Fire

  Uranus claims twenty-seven natural satellites, among them Oberon, a reddish, pot-marked ball of frozen rock tidally locked to its ice giant parent.

  Humanity came to Oberon not for its natural properties, but for bounty delivered to the moon by meteorite impacts: the craters dotting the surface were treasure map x’s for iron-nickel ore, platinum, and other precious metals.

  Every month, massive barges filled with minerals left orbit propelled by ion drives and following the Interplanetary Transport Network, a natural path through the solar system making use of Lagrange points for energy efficiency.

  Those craters, those resources, and those barges belonged mainly to Universal Visions, Incorporated.

  Some of UVI’s facilities orbiting Oberon organized and protected the flow of raw materials, but one wheel-shaped space station served a much different purpose.

  This wheel had eight spokes, each ending in a rectangular section displacing several hundred cubic meters. A cone twice that size occupied the wheel’s center, sporting an array of sensors and parabolic antenna. At the top sat the office of Victor Henderson, Director of the Space Resource Exploitation Division for Universal Visions, Incorporated.

  The office presented a series of aesthetic contradictions starting with walls constructed from super-strong metal foam but decorated with centuries-old watercolors of the American countryside. A holographic computer display hung in the air, projected from a base unit sitting atop an antique oak desk. Lines of liquid light glowed from the low ceiling, illuminating a shaggy Afghan carpet.

  Henderson wore a navy blue suit and vest that might have been at home one hundred and thirty years ago during the 1980s. Either by choice or style, his hair had gone white, and he did not fight the onset of wrinkles or age spots.

  His office trimmings and clothing drew from the past but his job focused on the future. Henderson was responsible for what might be the most advanced project in human history, yet he approached every discussion as if he were trying to appease his grandchildren.

  Project Manager Paul Fenner found that demeanor frustrating.

  “You do not understand what I am saying, Mr. Henderson. I have an obligation to report the probe’s findings.”

  Henderson sat casually on the edge of his desk with a white and black dog bred to resemble a small German shepherd curled below his dangling feet. While friendly, the dog’s purpose was to detect illness, not companionship. On Earth, cancer-sniffing canines had become a fad, but they were rarely seen off-planet.

  “Paul, I do understand, and we have released all relevant information.”

  Fenner stood at the center of the room and fidgeted as he spoke.

  “We have released no information to the public and our communiques to the Space Division only reviewed the planet’s lack of habitability.”

  “And the mineral deposit forecast,” Henderson interjected. “We will regret sharing that information if word gets out to the other corporations.”

  Fenner shook his head as his frustration boiled over.

  “I have to remind you, Mr. Henderson, Project Sail is a joint undertaking between your company and the United States. I work for the North American government, not UVI, and I have a duty to report the complete findings to my superiors.”

  Henderson clasped his hands together and replied in a fatherly tone, “That is what I have been trying to tell you, my boy. Your superiors received a full report.”

  “Only select individuals received a briefing, and I am certain the general public would have great interest in these results.”

  Henderson’s eyes cast down and his face drew long as he recalled better times.

  “I remember when space exploration fascinated the world. Unfortunately, times have changed. We have lost our passion for bi
gger, better endeavors. But then, you know that,” and he pointed his finger at Fenner and smiled like a coach pep talking his star player. “That is why you have been so valuable to this project.”

  “Yes, well, thank you, sir but if we had publicized the probe’s launch it would have generated excitement.”

  “Unfortunately, the greater concern was security; our competitors are not above sabotage, even for such a historic event.”

  “Okay, fine, but if you do not officially release the last information we received from the probe, I will feel obligated to do so. You should also know that I suspect the loss of communication with Probe 581 is the result of intentional action to cut the USNA team out of the loop.”

  Henderson stood, retreated behind his big desk, and sat in the leather chair.

  “My goodness, Paul, what makes you think this?”

  Fenner walked to the observation window and gazed outside. The stars reminded him that he worked at the rim of civilization. He had hoped that joining this project would have made life simpler but in reality, things had grown far more complicated.

  “At first, we continued to receive data from the probe but we could not send flight instructions, as if someone intercepted the probe’s signal and overrode our commands.”

  “My dear boy, that is impossible with QE connections; there is no signal to intercept.”

  “That may be true, but from what we can tell, the probe veered from the flight plan. The last deciphered message from 581 indicated activation of the landing cycle, which was not a part of the program. After that, we lost contact.”

  “Quantum mechanics cannot be hacked, meaning the QE box here on this station is the only place in the universe that can receive and send code to Probe 581,” Henderson explained.

  Fenner’s eyes widened and he spoke in a tone that suggested a revelation.

  “The code must come here. Just because we can’t see it does not mean it’s not here.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  Fenner carefully stepped around the dog and approached the desk.

  “We have one box, the probe another, and that forms the QE connection. The probe manipulates the entangled particles on its end which changes the ones here, and that gives us a code. We use a computer to analyze the particles and decipher what the probe is trying to tell us. The computer is the weak link.”

  “I do not understand, Paul. Perhaps you should sit down and have a drink of water.”

  “Hacking a QE connection is impossible, but you can hack the computer deciphering the codes. What if the probe is still sending code, but it is being rerouted inside the computer?”

  Henderson pulled a tube of anti-bacterial lotion from his desk and wiped his hands, but did not reply.

  Fenner marched for the door.

  “I’m going to check the computer again because I’m not sure I trust it,” and the look he threw at Henderson suggested the computer was not the only thing Paul Fenner no longer trusted.

  The technician left the room, leaving the door open. A thin woman with curly dark hair stuck her head into the office.

  “Is there anything you need from me, Mr. Henderson?”

  The executive found his smile.

  “Judy, could you take Galen here for a walk in the cargo bay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Henderson,” and she clapped her hands at the dog which rose to its feet and trotted toward the exit.

  When the door closed, Henderson waved his finger at the computer screen and, with his intention broadcast by a computer chip implanted in his brain, activated the communications module.

  “Urgent message to home office, access priority channel through Laser Communications Relay, authorization Henderson, Director SRED Oberon. Message follows: technician Fenner suspects probe QE codes compromised in the computer interface, investigation commencing.”

  ---

  Fenner worked his way along the crowded corridors, down two levels, across a long tunnel, through another airlock, and into the control center.

  Three rows of workstations and consoles faced a wall of screens in this small room. On the busiest days, the center hosted a dozen technicians, but since losing contact with the probe, that number dwindled. Today there was only one other at work, a man named Norton whom Paul had known since graduate school.

  Fenner approached the QE station: an iron box protruding from the wall. The front panel was two feet high, two feet wide, and lined with thin protrusions earning the device the nickname “pincushion.”

  “Hey man, what are you doing?” Norton asked between bites from a chocolate protein bar.

  “I want to take a look at the QE computer link again.”

  The young man with the shaved head and lazy right eye hurried to his co-worker’s side and asked, “What’s up?”

  Fenner opened a panel next to the cube and examined the circuitry. He saw a combination of old-school chips as well as modern ones made from living organisms such as bacteria and even DNA-encoded memory modules. Protective covers and insulation surrounded the jumbled mass, but Fenner saw nothing out of place.

  Satisfied, he moved to a computer station where he accessed the system using hand motions as well as impulses from the chip implanted in his head.

  As he worked, Fenner answered Norton, “We assumed something happened to the QE connection resulting in no codes coming in, but what if we are still receiving codes only the computer is not telling us?”

  “Paul, we ran a full diagnostic. The deciphering protocols are working fine, there just hasn’t been anything to decipher.”

  “I’m going to reroute the pincushion to a portable unit to check for activity.”

  Norton chomped off another bite and said, “A portable unit cannot translate codes, it will just come across as gibberish.”

  Fenner turned and tapped Norton’s chest.

  “If it receives anything, even gibberish, then we know the QE link with the probe still works and that points to a computer problem. If so, I will rip this console apart until I find whatever software hijacked the damn thing.”

  He logged in and drilled down into the operating system. Norton leaned over Fenner’s shoulder for a good look, but lost his balance and bumped into his friend.

  “Hey, watch out,” Fenner said, but as he spoke a bout of dizziness hit, followed by a ringing in his ears.

  Norton stumbled toward the exit where a panel on the wall next to the closed bulkhead provided environmental control information.

  “Jesus, oxygen levels are up.”

  “Call maintenance,” Fenner said as his disorientation grew.

  Norton pushed the OPEN button but nothing happened.

  “The door is jammed.”

  “Shit, I do not need this right now,” was all Fenner managed to say before a massive power surge hit every workstation.

  Monitors popped like glass balloons, sparks flew from control panels, bolts of electricity crisscrossed the air, and a sharp alarm rang out. The volume of oxygen inside the room overcame the safety features designed to prevent fire, feeding fast-spreading flames.

  In the blink of an eye, the cramped chamber became a broiler as heat and fire fed off chair cushions, paper, clothing, and flesh causing a fog of charcoal-black soot. High-tech computerized suppression systems should have snuffed out the sudden inferno, but they did not activate.

  Any answers Paul Fenner hoped to find died with him.

  3. Commander Hawthorne

  Commander Jonathan Hawthorne wore only a bathrobe as he hurried across his quarters aiming for the bar, pausing along the way to peer out the oversized port side portal. That big blue marble of Earth nearly filled the window. He thought he saw the Arabian Peninsula below, although clouds obscured the details.

  Nearby, a cylinder-shaped ship unfurled solar sails, a trio of boxy heavy-lifters struggled to achieve escape velocity, and, on the horizon, China’s sea-based space elevator reached into orbit.

  Twenty years ago such sights would glue him to the glass, b
ut he had spent most his forty-seven years working in space and lost any sense of awe for the place.

  As he left the window, he felt one side of his body briefly become weightless while the other half remained firmly planted to the artificial gravity panels beneath his feet. He had found this small gap five years ago, yet it never failed to amuse him.

  The bar’s black marble top contrasted with the walls, carpet, and furniture of his quarters, all dressed in a painfully bright white to impress the passengers, which as a cruise ship captain was Hawthorne’s primary job.

  However, at that moment his interests were personal. He poured a Scotch whisky for himself and sake for his visitor who waited behind the closed bedroom door. The scotch looked inviting but the intercom buzzed before the glass touched his lips.

  “XO to Commander Hawthorne.”

  His title was Captain Jonathan Hawthorne, but people knew him as the war hero Commander Hawthorne, more a brand name than rank.

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Visitors to see you, one from the company, the other military.”

  “How come every time we dock at the space station someone pesters me?”

  “They are on their way down.”

  Like a frustrated child, he insisted, “Tell them I am in conference and give them free access to holographic tennis or the direct feed games.”

  He placed the drinks on a tray, rounded the bar, and retraced his steps across the luxuriously appointed cabin but as he passed the main door a chime sounded.

  Hawthorne stopped, sighed, then opened the door. On the other side stood a young black man dressed in a business suit alongside a mid-fifties Caucasian in Captain’s dress with a double chin and a glare that suggested pissed off was his natural state.

  “Captain Hawthorne?” The black man smiled although his grin faltered as he noticed the bathrobe.

  “Yes, I am busy now but my second-in-command is arranging for you to enjoy the leisure facilities onboard until I can break free.”

  The visiting captain grunted and pushed inside, the company man smiled apologetically and followed.