Project Sail Read online

  Wren’s spotter reported, “They dropped off our scopes somewhere just south of the university grounds.”

  Hawthorne realized they entered a residential district remodeled seventeen years ago by explosions and fire, but his imagination mended the wrecked pieces. He saw the ghosts of kids kicking footballs in the street surrounded by shade trees and homes made of brick and wood.

  Wren parked the buggy and said, “They are just around the corner.”

  “Listen Leo, if you’re planning on doing something stupid, count me out.”

  Nonetheless, Hawthorne followed Wren through a maze of ashes until stopping at an intersection. Around the corner in a field of brown rot sat the idling transport with its cargo ramp open and guarded by a man wearing a green military MOPP mask, a gray poncho, and work boots: patchwork hazmat gear. He also carried an older model assault rifle and paced nervously.

  A steady thumping came to Hawthorne’s ears and he worried the intruders had brought a big robot, but then realized the sound came from his chest. It had been a long while since Jonathan Hawthorne faced combat but the fear felt familiar.

  He told Wren, “The pilots stayed in the plane, which means they want to leave in a hurry. Probably a good idea to just let them go.”

  Wren ignored the suggestion.

  “The fucks must be after something valuable.”

  Hawthorne saw only destroyed houses and rusting cars, he could not imagine thieves finding anything of value in these ruins. Of course, he knew not to say as much to Wren who saw the British Isles as his sovereign realm that he must protect from outsiders.

  A second man exited a hole where a front door once stood. He too wore a mishmash of gear and carried an assault rifle, but also toted a sack full of plunder.

  Wren sprinted across the street and tackled the looter sending both men to the ground behind the melted remains of a sedan. The sack and the gun slid away from the surprised intruder.

  The guard at the plane jerked his trigger finger and then fought with his gun barrel for control, sending three rounds harmlessly into the air.

  Wren pinned the thief to the ground with his knees, and slid the gun toward Hawthorne while shouting, “Cover me!”

  Although Hawthorne felt no responsibility for Wren or attachment to this burned-out graveyard, his survival instincts activated when another burst of gunfire ricocheted nearby. He grabbed the rifle and joined the doctor and his dazed opponent behind the car.

  The guard at the plane froze, holding his weapon as if it weighed fifty pounds and not bothering to seek cover, dispelling any notion these might be soldiers or even capable mercenaries.

  Wren, meanwhile, grabbed the other fellow with both hands and shook.

  “You pukes think you can just fly in to my country and pick it clean?”

  But the looter matched the doctor’s passion.

  “Get stuffed you fucking American.”

  “I’m no stupid American you piece of filth. This is my country and I’ll protect it from the likes of you.”

  “This is my neighborhood and that’s my house, right there so don’t go telling me what is or isn’t around here. You can’t keep us out; I came back for what’s mine.”

  Wren did not understand what the man was saying. Perhaps his preconceptions overrode reality.

  “So you admit it, you’re a looter.”

  Wren worked the sack open and emptied the contents: A badly warped photo album, a shoebox full of antique metal soldiers, a tweed flat cap covered in soot.

  “I can’t steal what belongs to me.”

  Wren pulled the guy’s mask off and saw a young man with a shaved head.

  “30 Edgerton Park Drive, my home it is and I’m here for every piece of my family I can find, because all we got now is a shack in a French shantytown.”

  Hawthorne considered the plane, the risk, and the gear, and said, “You must have spent a fortune to hire a smuggler to fly you in for family mementos.”

  The kid on the ground answered, “My mum’s dying and she hasn’t had a home in almost twenty years now, so her kids chipped in to pay. No Yank would understand, only a Brit would get it.”

  After several seconds of silence, Wren removed his own protective hood, revealing a thirty-year-old man with a round face, a crooked nose, and small eyes. He seemed more a boxer than a scientist.

  “I get it,” Wren helped the young man to his feet. “Grab your stuff and go. Tell your pilot to fly out over Sandy Bay, that radar station is off-line.”

  The kid carefully returned every keepsake into his sack and then hurried for the plane.

  Hawthorne stood next to Wren and watched the ramp close and the propellers lift the aircraft up and then off to the south.

  “Are you ready to leave?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  6. Kost

  Dr. Ellen Kost pointed at the projected map, although the audience needed no direction to see the gigantic crater.

  “Hellas Basin remains the engine driving Martian dust storms because of the temperature variation between the surface and the bottom of the crater. The increasing frequency and duration of these storms was forecast and is vital to any hope of terraforming success because they help warm the atmosphere.”

  The audience of two-dozen researchers and workers listened attentively, but Ellen worried that either she had lost them with her dull delivery or they had already spotted flaws in her presentation. She could almost hear them wondering why UVI entrusted weather orientation to such an unqualified woman who also happened to be thirty pounds overweight.

  “Unfortunately, static electricity inside these storms can lead to the splitting of carbon dioxide and water particles, which re-form into hydrogen peroxide which is toxic to organics. This contributes to the difficulty in growing organisms outside habitat domes.”

  They know this already, Ellen. You are just making yourself look stupid.

  “Nevertheless, importing hydrocarbons to Mars remains a promising method of increasing atmospheric pressure. Clearly, the lack of results is disheartening, but also a reminder of the complexities involved when dealing with weather on a planetary scale. However, the failure of the major colonizing powers to coordinate terraforming efforts adequately may be the single most important factor in the lack of progress.”

  She inhaled and then asked, “Any questions?”

  Ellen tried to smile and appear calm, but she worried they would ask a question she could not answer or judge her blouse as too casual for a presentation on the Martian climate.

  “No? Well then thank you for your time and have a good trip to Mars.”

  And then the audience faded away as the Virtual Meeting projector powered down. The four walls of her living room, synthetic plants, a fish tank, and a plush old sofa replaced the auditorium.

  Ellen let out a long exhale and trembled in relief.

  She drifted to the window, raised the heavy brown shade, and looked out on the suburbs. Her tiny house was one of several lined in a row outside Buffalo, New York. A bout of depression hit as she realized her taxi ride to the train station could arrive at any minute, and she would not see this view again for months.

  Her American Shorthair rubbed against her legs, providing a welcome distraction. Ellen pulled the shade again, picked up the cat, and sat on the couch.

  “Remember I said I was going away? Well that is today. But don’t worry, the service will stop by every day to take care of you and the boys,” she nodded toward the fish tank. “It is costing mommy a few bucks but it’s better than sending you off to one of those pet hotels.”

  The cat purred.

  “I don’t like it either, but I knew sooner or later I would get sent off-planet again.”

  When Dr. Ellen Kost chose her major in college, exo-meteorology was a discipline revolving around theory and telescope-based observation. That changed the year she graduated, when mankind settled the first Martian colonies. Suddenly exo-meteorology moved from theory and telescopes to space travel and
field study.

  Fortunately, the company honored her request to focus on projects that kept her on Earth, often times in her home. She reviewed reports, conducted training seminars, and worked with equipment suppliers.

  Still, she did occasionally travel to Mars but that kept her away from home for only a week or so, nothing like her assignment this time. According to the man who had contacted her—Reagan Fisk—she was on her way to Uranus for a deep space mission.

  While she had traveled out as far as Jupiter, this would qualify as her longest trip ever, in both distance traveled and time away.

  Ellen’s eyes drifted to a suitcase and two duffels packed for the trip, but it was a small imitation leather handbag on the kitchen counter, zipped and ready to go, that really grabbed her attention.

  How will you hide that, Ellen?

  She looked away and focused on scratching her cat between the ears.

  “I’ll be gone a while, but it will be an adventure. That’s right, this is an adventure I will remember for the rest of my life. I’m not going to cry about it or worry, I’m just going to see new things and meet new people. I will be all right.”

  She stroked the cat and repeated, “I will be all right.”

  7. Blast Off

  Commander Hawthorne and the others recruited by Reagan Fisk boarded a cone-shaped capsule, one of several waiting on a conveyor belt inside the Kerry Air and Spaceport in Boston. Ahead, Hawthorne saw a lime green vehicle with white script advertising Starbright Vacations and behind, a dark blue one with Utopian Endeavors, Ltd., in yellow lettering.

  Inside, six seats surrounded the pilot’s station that sat within a gyro. Fisk insisted Hawthorne fly the orbiter, therefore the Commander boarded first and climbed into the suspended chair.

  Next came Leo Wren wearing a Sex Pistols t-shirt. Noise—possibly music—came from two tiny plugs in his ears. Of course, he could listen to music privately through his thinker chip, but Hawthorne figured Wren enjoyed forcing others to hear his racket.

  Matthew Carlson followed, dressed in a gray flight jacket sporting a patch shaped like a volcano with the words “Tvashta Paterae 2103.”

  The third person was Dr. Ellen Kost, a middle-aged woman with a pear-shaped body. She sat tight in the seat, clutching a handbag that she refused to put in the cargo hold. The way her eyes darted around suggested a touch of claustrophobia.

  Hawthorne put on a communications headset and turned his attention to his console. Because he did not possess an implant, he would need to touch the controls, not merely point and think.

  He recognized the layout as North American Basic, an older design but one he preferred over North American Fundamental. At least it was not NA Simplified Transit which pilots had dubbed NA Shitty Trouble because of an excessively complicated scheme.

  The system booted to Viewport 1.3 software. Again, nothing elaborate but when it came to flying what was essentially a bullet he preferred simple.

  “Is everything okay, Commander?”

  Fisk boarded last and was the only one wearing a space suit; a silver one and he kept checking the hoses and seals again and again and again.

  “Fine, Mr. Fisk. Pressurizing the cabin.”

  Wren took note of Fisk’s suit.

  “Say, why the fuck are you all dressed up?”

  Fisk fidgeted.

  “Regulations recommend wearing a full environmental suit during launch and reentry.”

  Wren said, “There are two things that can go wrong. One, minor engine failure and we gently float back to Earth on parachutes. Two, catastrophic engine failure and we float back to Earth in little pieces. In either case, that suit is useless.”

  “It is regulation,” Fisk insisted.

  The capsule’s systems linked with the spaceport’s control tower and automatically downloaded the launch program.

  As he waited for the progress bar to fill, Hawthorne said, “Look, Reagan, we are all here now, what is this mission about?”

  Wren pulled out his earplugs and joined in, “Yeah man, how about some fuckin’ info?”

  “You have been briefed,” Fisk said and tugged at his safety strap.

  “Briefed? You dragged us in by our corporate contracts,” said Hawthorne.

  “Until Oberon we have mission secrecy to consider.”

  Once the download completed, a prompt requested his pilot license number, which Hawthorne entered.

  “Project Sail, is that what Charles said?” Hawthorne pushed the discussion forward.

  Carlson looked up from his computer.

  “Yes, that was mentioned on my transfer memo.”

  Hawthorne’s pilot profile displayed on his screen including a list of control systems he could legally operate and a notice regarding an overdue physical. At the bottom of the display scrolled announcements, such as a space junk update and a state department warning on civil unrest at three Martian habitat domes.

  Fisk huffed and said, “I can tell you we are rendezvousing with a ship that will take us to Oberon, although we have a stop along the way.”

  A voice came over Hawthorne’s headset: “Zipper 1-5, tower control, how you doing this evening?”

  ‘Zipper’ was controller slang for Universal Visions ships because of the corporate logo: it included the letters UVI across an image of Earth, with the V positioned in such a way that it seemed the planet had left its fly open.

  “Tower this is 1-5, just waiting to lock and load.”

  “Stand by 15, let me check your flight plan.”

  As Hawthorne waited for the controller, he heard Carlson say, “I do not understand this secrecy; deep space missions are nothing new.”

  Fisk snapped, “Competition between the corporations and their host countries has intensified lately.”

  Wren grunted, “Bull shit, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Tell that to the crew of the Niobe,” Fisk slipped.

  Hawthorne covered his mic to say, “You said the Chinese hit the Niobe because they thought it threatened Europa.”

  Fisk tried not to answer, but Wren stared at him menacingly until he spoke.

  “That’s the thinking, yes.”

  “But?”

  “But it’s a big coincidence the Chinese got nervous about that particular ship.”

  Hawthorne said, “That’s right, you told me the attack on the Niobe had something to do with why you needed me. So wait, you’re worried that if someone hears about us getting together they might try to blow us up?”

  Fisk said nothing.

  The controller broadcast, “Zipper 1-5, I see you have an optimal launch window in fifteen minutes, so we are going to bump you to the front of the line. Check your flight plan and give us the okay but remember, we require another launch certified pilot.”

  “Hold on,” and he covered the mic again. “Any of you guys launch certified?”

  Carlson raised his hand and then so did Kost, although only halfway.

  “Tower, we’re good. Send the flight plan and we’ll check it out.”

  “Stand by 1-5 and watch your screen.”

  Wren said to everyone, “We have to sneak out to Uranus because someone might blow us up? Fucking beautiful.” Then Leo returned the plugs to his ears and filled his head with that strange, raucous noise.

  “So what is Project Sail, Mr. Fisk?” Hawthorne asked while he waited.

  “I told you, you are part of a deep space research mission. The rest will have to wait.”

  Hawthorne said, “I’ll bet this trip is about an asteroid floating a couple hundred million miles beyond Neptune that might have a lifetime supply of platinum or something.”

  Kost meekly asked, “You think we are going that far?”

  The flight plan appeared on his primary monitor. He saw a chart detailing their path into orbit and an advisory on weather conditions: light rain with wind gusts up to ten miles per hour coming from the northwest. A column of equations dealt with projected fuel use and their destination was listed as spa
ce station Angel.

  Hawthorne looked at Carlson.

  “Your turn, Matthew. The chart looks good to me and the computer check is complete but give it a quick once over, we have a launch window coming up.”

  As if on cue, the capsule vibrated and a low rumble marked the start of the conveyor belt.

  Carlson flipped open a screen on the arm of his chair, logged in using a personal access code transmitted by his implanted chip, and the flight plan displayed for his review.

  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.