Chapter-18
OUTPOST
By Julian Phillips
For Tom Luong Film-Story Development
2010-02-20
“Yes, now I can remember. It was---great pain. Yes. Please don’t remind me, you know?”
--Charles Lindburg, pilot of the world’s first trans-Atlantic prop-aircraft flight, commenting on his fame, and the later kidnapping and slaying of his child
The US-Mars Space Program launched eight deep-space cruiser vessels, similar to the ‘Penelope’ (Guy Reisling’s transport), within three weeks of the closure of the World-Council sessions to decide on a course of action concerning the Russian-Islamic launches. Like the Easterners, the US launched their ships in ‘secret’, but the reality was that there was no real way to keep such things secret for long. The reason was that even at the amateur level, orbiting satellites and space-objects like meteors, were observed daily by a hundred different astronomers, meteorological societies, universities and students, news-media, governments, and so on. If large ships were hoisted into orbit, and then programmed for navigation and departure to the far-off red star, glowing brightly enough that even children could spot her (or, ‘him’, being thought as Aries, the Ram, or god of War, in mythology)---it was hardly something that Earth-dwellers could conceal in 2077.
Also, like the Russians, all eight ships from the US program were launched in a sequence, carefully planned and executed by then-familiar routine, over about two weeks, from several different launch-sites, some of them unknown to the public. The Mars-base Defense Task Force had done their jobs well, and following the Russian action, it was a no-brainer The US would respond. But it wasn’t popular, and it was a huge cost, and an extreme effort. In 20 years of active Earth-born travel to Mars, the program had only launched this many ships all at once, during construction periods, when large numbers of men, and large amounts of materials and gear, were needed over a relatively short time-period.
Each of the US space-ships was outfitted for the mission: to protect the Mars-base from the supposed Russian takeover attempt, still not confirmed or announced as an ‘act of war’. But it wasn’t doubted that this was what was ahead. So, the US ships were full of soldiers, of course, equipped for exactly what the planners felt would be needed to defend the Mars-base. The same was true for the Russians, but perhaps not exactly the case for either team, that these were ‘warriors’, something Earth-based space-travel had never seen in all of Earth-history, and thus ‘new’ or ‘different’. The planners didn’t quite know how to deal with the concept, as Winton Berle had tried to explain to the Task Force. Conditions in space or on Mars were so hostile, that the suits and mobility were simply not accommodating for men who might wish to make war, or bash each other’s heads in. It seemed more that things would happen like a slow-motion dance of astronauts or moon-walkers, with very determined intentions, who on either side might have to hurt each other to reach the goals of the powers involved. Certainly on the ground-level, or Mars-surface. It was true, and would probably never really be much otherwise, that the space-men were such an elite and highly trained group, that even as ‘enemies’, any of them were be loathe to kill another. But, true-to-form, each side had real weapons that would really kill, and were trained to use them---and would use them.
It wasn’t hard to calculate the number of men on the ships---the type of ships could only hold so many bodies. So, Winton Berle and other planners could realistically assume the Russian-Islamic forces to number about 100 ‘space-soldiers’, not all of them fighters, but many with very specific high-tech roles, because the job was so complex. With eight ships, and also the men at the Mars-base already, the US side could count on as many as 200 men. So, this advantage was fortunate. But on the other hand, the Russians might send more ships or more men, if the struggle dragged on for many months, and they might have some sort of ‘secret weapon’, or method---bombs, for instance, targeted at the Mars-base from orbit. Things could go either way in such a thing as a military assault on a Martian research outpost, in space-ships from Earth filled with very determined Russians, fearful of the End of the World, (Earth, that is).
There in the Abyss, Guy Reisling had taken more than one critical communication from Vandenberg, his link to home. Strategically, his ship’s position ahead of the others, could be an important edge. The journey to Mars would take a total of eight months, for most of the ships, varying somewhat as the planets moved in their orbits. It was now, as of mid-year 2077, almost an armada: eight ships from the US-side, five from Russia, and Guy’s ship, for a total of 14. And the Russians could launch more at any time they were able. So the Vandenberg mission commanders wanted Guy to be ready to handle whatever came up.
There on the Penelope, it was business-as-usual as far as the flight. She was only six weeks from Molinari, something that would mean a rest and refreshment, and time for Guy with Lila. They really did care for each other and it was a joyous thing for them both, sort of a romp, but also wistfully romantic. Now, with the hostilities, and the meteor, it all began to fray and heave for them all. Guy thought of it as a sort of deep-space version of an old World-War-2 film, like Humphrey Bogart in ‘Casablanca’.
“If that deep-space transport leaves space-dock, and you’re not on it, you’ll regret it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of your life,” he mused privately. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
For most radio-transmissions to Earth, or elsewhere, ship-to-shore as it were, Guy could use the basic radio set-up from the pilot’s deck on the Penelope. Radio-transmissions, or EMP (electro-magnetic pulse) deep-space near-Earth solar-system communication, was actually quite speedy. Under most circumstances, the radio-waves were delayed significantly enough to create a means of back-and-forth chatter, where one side would talk, and the other would wait as long as 15 minutes or so, to answer. It was reliable, and engineers had learned how to compress the signals and transmissions, so the time-lapse was smaller, and chatter was easier, more normal. Guy’s ship, like the others, had an array of antennas, and other gear, that were essential to the function of the ship. So for three weeks, transmissions from Earth to Guy’s ship, the Molinari space-dock, and the Mars-base, were flying fast-and-furious.
It’s just a load of tech-gear for their damn Mars-radio, Guy thought. I don’t have soldiers and I don’t have weapons. These guys figure I’m General Patton from now on with this.
So once again, the Captain of the Penelope found himself sending back-and-forth messages of shattering importance, to Vandenberg planners. His immediate superior, Commander Okman, the head of the transport division, handled many of these links, as they were his men and crews, and he knew them best. As the signal reached his ship, scooped from the emptiness by the Penelope’s antennas, an alert-sound notified himself, or Rob Cowan, his second, or other crew. With the time-delay for the transfer, they could often take their time to get ready to ‘chat’ with home-base. From his seat at the helm, the radio-desk looked like a fancy video-game. The sound-monitor was sometimes thick with static-noises, and at other times crystal-clear.
“Yes, Commander, I understand,” Guy was saying. “No contact whatever with the Russian ships. Radio-silence until further notice. That’s not hard, but of course you realize it’s easy for them to monitor our communications anyway.”
“That’s not the point, Guy,” said Okman. “I have very specific instructions from Berle, all the way up to Rodgers-Smith. They do NOT want you to chat things up with the Russians, or handle things on your own. It could create even worse problems. So anything we tell them must be cleared, or we say nothing at all, and if they pick up our chatter, big deal, they will anyway.”
“Some of our systems will encode messages. What about that?”
“I’ll find out. The lead ship on the Russian side is months behind you, some half-million miles or so. The military stuff will doubtless be encoded for radio-security, like any battle,” Okman.
This series of comments had been compressed so their language seemed to flow naturally. Now there was a pause, with static-noises, like a background cosmic hum-and-glow from space itself. After ten minutes or so, the alert-sound ‘beeped’ again, with a glaring red-light LCD on his control-dash.
“In-coming from Earth,” said Cowan, also on the flight-helm at that hour. He was curious as to the details where the Russian ships were concerned, too, and needed to know. “Second series. Vandenberg. Okman.”
Guy activated their side of the system, glancing at his co-pilot. Rob seemed edgy, even un-well, but he supposed it was only normal stress. They were now 78-days in space. Long haul.
“Vandenberg, US-Mars Radio-Comm, Okman speaking. For US-Mars transport Penelope, Captain Reisling. Please respond.”
“We have your signal, Okman. Go ahead.”
A long pause. “Three other directives for you to handle, Guy. This is from Command, so please document for later review, comply and implement. Number one: the Penelope will continue to Molinari, and onto Mars-base, as per previous flight-plan, with no variations because of hostilities. The reason is, your transport carries essential communications gear. This is your first priority. Number two: please make preparations for ship-to-ship interactions, should they arise. This basically means you need your ship navigators and life-support, and tech, to figure out how to lock you down for any disruptive encounters. They probably won’t try to shoot you down. But they might fuck with you, somehow, as the gap closes. So you need to make preparations to protect your ship. Number three: as of now, and upon arrival at Mars, the Penelope is under the command of Winton Berle, the lead for the eight US ships, also on their way. So, there will be codes and data to connect to his command. But by the time you reach Mars, and maybe before, you’ll be drafted into whatever happens, along with your crew. We need all hands. That’s a ways off, and transport protocol will handle your cargo mission as always. So, that’s the main commands from Vandenberg for the Penelope with this transmission.”
A long pause again. The information and recorded voice-signal was downloaded to storage. “Information received and logged, Commander Okman.”
“Acknowledged,” came back Okman’s voice, over half a million miles distant, in the comfort of the Vandenberg communications center.
“Commander Okman, this is co-pilot Rob Cowan. Questions, please?”
“Go ahead.”
“What does US-Mars Earth think will happen on Mars? How long are we expected to hold out? Our original mission would have us in orbit on Mars only for a month at most.”
A long pause-delay. Some of the voice-signal from Okman sounded like a fish in a jar full of jelly. “We don’t know, Cowan. You have the basic info. Berle’s armada is behind the Russians by two months, or more. The Penelope will be in orbit way ahead. You guys get to be the welcoming committee, along with Snikta-Ridge.”
“That’s not funny, Okman. We don’t even have a missile or a gun on this thing to shoot back with,” said Guy.
“You may be asked to delay, or negotiate, from what I hear. Same with Snikta-Ridge. Who knows? Maybe things will change. But, to your question, Rob---you won’t be coming home on-schedule. You should definitely get any supplies or fuel-resources, or re-charge, that you need from Molinari to hold out as long as possible, not to mention your ride back to Earth. Mars will also be able to re-supply the Penelope to an extent. It’s just a gamble. Try to be prepared for anything, is all I can say. Obviously we’re not going to let you waste away out there. We’ll get you home.”
Another long pause. The radio-comm system seemed to boil a bit with a strong static-energy for a moment. Both Guy and Rob tried to adjust for the error. After a few minutes, the time-compressed conversation continued.
“Mars-transport Penelope, signal to US-Command Vandenberg, Please respond. Reisling here, to Okman, re-connecting to you now. Okman? Hello?”
More static and a pause.
“Okman here. I’m logging off, Reisling. The guys are telling me the damn planet moved and our signal is screwed. Sorry. Next window for your signal is---wait a minute---next communications-window in three hours, I guess. It’s three in the morning here, Guy. Just hang tight. Okman out.”
Now the system shut down the link, with various alerts on their control-dash.
“Welcome to the world’s first space-war,” said Cowan. Guy took a deep breath, leaning back. They both quickly reviewed their flight-controls and ship’s systems. All was well, on-course to Molinari space-dock. Without extensive and time-consuming scanning, they really had no evidence the Russians were even out there, or the position of their ships. This was common---deep-space flight was a lot like a very long trip in an air-tight elevator-lift, or a windowless high-rise office complex. There wasn’t a lot to see.
“All right,” said Guy. “Log all that bullshit and we’ll inform the crew.”
“Sure,” said Cowan.
Somehow, the joy of space-flight had taken a hit in their hearts they might never recover from. It just wasn’t fun anymore.
-2,267 words
-Julian Phillips
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Chapter the 17th-International Fallout!!
CHAPTER-17
OUTPOST, for Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
Feb.18, 2010
"It is a joy to sin, sometimes, and a needful matter. Christ the Lord was familiar with wicked ways and means, the brutality and savagery of life, and the unexpected qualities of life’s long journey. Our sins are as holy as our good deeds and religion, and without an open door to errors and mistakes, the door also slams shut to visualize or realize a better tomorrow, for the absence of change and dynamic circumstance. I don’t believe in mistakes. To disallow for illness, broken legs, or broken minds, perhaps from a higher loving point-of-view, it does not follow we shall no longer have hospitals or doctors. The future will have many mistakes, and the Mars Space Program includes every variety of joys. Our astronauts are not robots. We are men, not machines. There are no sinless astronauts, Your Excellency. It is not a requirement for space-travel."
---US-Mars Space Program Director Lynn Rodgers-Smith, to His Excellency Imam Mohammed Petrarch-Jinn, Interpreter of Global Sharia-Law to the World Council of Nations, 2077
This man, Imam Mohammed Petrarch-Jinn, was part of the World Council of Nations, and was sent from Iran. In this era of 2075-77, and beyond, when the impending disaster of the approach of Big Baby Bertha, Asteroid-2756b, was now fairly common knowledge among world-leaders on Earth, and educated types, Iran was a much more powerful world power, by reason of religious philosophy common to billions of people. Global Sharia-Law, though not beholden to much more than one-third of Mankind, was a considerable impendence to the space program in the East, the so-called Russian-Islamic Space Alliance. By 2077, Iran had expanded its borders to swallow up many other regions, including Mesopotamia, the Tigris and Euphraties, Babylon, the Cradle of Civilization. They were part of the space-travel community. By the time Lynn Rodgers-Smith was addressing a closed-session of the Council, the Easterners had by then launched their five ship to Mars, now confirmed by most sources. It was a violation of International Law, as usual for times of crisis, and Big Baby Bertha certainly qualified as a crisis in everyone’s thoughts. His Excellency the Imam was busily accusing the US side, during the discussions, as a reply to defend the Easterner’s actions with the space-launches to Mars. As absurd as it was, under Global Sharia, the interpretation was that the sins of the West had produced the Wrath of God in the form of the meteor. Lynn, the busty Texas woman, Commander of Angels, could only shrug him off as irrelevant. But the World-Council had to hear all sides.
"They’re not quite sure if weightlessness is a sin or not, under Sharia," she confided privately to Ibrahim Mehudi, the Science-and-Technology guru for the Western program.
"Nothing they do can ever be wrong or cruel," said Ibrahim. "Global-Sharia means their astronauts are also Saints to Islam. We are all inferior in their minds, so taking the Mars-base is their right and duty, by any means."
"I could give a fig," Rodgers-Smith replied. "We have far more serious problems than pork products on the Mars-base dinner menu, for God’s sake."
The five deep-space cruisers were now two months out, at least, trailing Guy Reisling’s ship by eight or nine weeks, on the passage to the Red Planet. It was a bit of a race, but ship’s pilots could vary their engine speeds using the common hydrogen-thrusters, and also by changing course for shorter lines of travel, as the planets were moving. Because the Russian-Islamic launches were done in secret, and lacked the usual clearances and permissions, the World-Council was to be consulted. It was a drab affair, also conducted out of the public-eye, with many meetings in musty-stale rooms full of angry people alienated by culture and goals. And whatever their conclusions, nothing would change anyway. It was a done-deal, the ships were on their way. No amount of argument and legality was likely to produce a radio-transmission to the Russian ship-pilots with orders to turn around and head home, which was not even a navigational maneuver that was possible with any safety.
So it was a stand-off. Following the Russian launches, the West gathered their intelligence and data-facts, more-or-less proving the matter to world space-travel authorities, as far as what the Russian-Islamic program had done, which was to send five deep-space vessels aloft and on their way to Mars. Inter-planet diplomacy was now a reality back on Earth. There was nowhere else for those ships to go, and much like the laws of the high-seas, Earth-powers had rules and laws about that sort of thing. The main reason was not philosophical, but instead was related to the success of orbital satellites and Earth-Moon commerce, a big business interest by this time in 2077. So they had broken laws, but everyone knew it was bullshit, a turd-in-transit, irreversible.
After they were called out on the deed, a predictably vague response from the East declared the Russian-Islamic powers were ignorant of the launches, or the accuracy of the Western intelligence. Official denial pretended they would "look into it", and tossed out the bone that there may have been some rocketry in the hinterlands, that was somehow less than authorized. By the time the World-Council took sessions on the matter, it was too late, and of course the Easterners knew this. At the same time, the World-Council continued to discuss the approaching meteor.
"The asteroid can destroy half the world. If it hits, the impact might wipe out entire continents, billions of people. An ice-age winter of darkness will descend for 1,000 years. Any survival at all would be almost unbearably bleak," Ibrahim Mehudi testified to the Council, as one who supposedly knew. "From this day-and-date today, here-and-now, we may be no less than four to six years away from such an event. That is the science and the truth as I know it."
And so did everyone else among them. Back at Vandenberg, as international diplomacy continued its useless and heated course (the meetings were held in Switzerland), there was a quick and inevitable decision to put into action the plans and preparations of the US-Mars Base Defense Task Force. And like dropping a hat, this meant the US side would also launch ships, as a defensive response---also in secret. Communications, decisions and choices, like waves of gloriously dubious destiny, were sent back and forth, continent-to-continent, coast to coast, and planet to planet. Older generation leaders recognized the signs---it was starting to look a lot like war. Indeed, as things were now in motion to secure the Mars-base, leaders as high up as the US Presidential Seated Council, were nervous as hell that war would also break out here on Earth over the whole thing.
"A rock," commented US Presidential Council-Seat Mark Renolds, a wiry and spry white-male of about age 65-years, known for his freckled face and background as a farmer. "This entire ape-shit world-fucking crisis has been caused by a rock."
By the year 2077, the American White House and the President’s Office, had been divided into a Presidential Seated Council of four individually-elected persons. So, in other words, America had finally made significant structural leadership changes and Constitutional adaptations, thought to be for the good of all, and having occupied previous leadership for many years to accomplish. Elected in a rotating four-year cycle, such that at no time was any member of the Presidential Seat without at least two years of on-the-job experience, the group now included Renolds, a Southerner named Boline Bouvier (a Black man and educator from the University of Texas faculty), a Caucasian woman named Martha Hazlett, who at age 45 was basically a widely popular athlete (swimmer), with a law-degree, and a youngish Hispanic man from a large farming family, also with a law-degree and business background, named Martinez Jeses-Garrido (age 38-years). Renolds and Bouvier were the more senior members, and more mature.
"A very, very big rock, Mark," replied his foil, Bouvier. They held a meeting one day in the traditional White House (still in use), during the heated fallout of the information about the Russian space-launches. "But just a rock, none-the-less." All four members of the Council-Seat were present.
"It’s not just Mars," added Martinez Jeses-Garrido, who had a fertile and active mind, very keen on the practical, ever the best of the utilitarian American character. "If they won’t back down, there may be retaliation or military response here on earth we’d have to respond to as well."
"I don’t see why," said Hazlett. It’s only a base, just---an outpost. If the East went into war-mode, what would be the motivation? They’d still have to deal with Mars. It wouldn’t solve a thing."
"It never does, does it?" responded Bouvier.
"With the meteor---decisions are likely to be irrational. A meaningless panic," said Renolds.
"Great," said Hazlett.
"Just tell Military to authorize Vandenberg’s response, and also I guess Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico, and any of the others. We already have plans in place. Obviously, we have to protect Mars, and avoid an East-West global war or crisis at the same time. They sent five ships, we’ll send ten," said Renolds, who tended to take the lead. "Agreed?"
"Ten, or eight, or nine," said Bouvier. "Yes, agreed."
"Agreed," said Hazlett and Jeses-Garrido, almost in unison.
It was morning, and the World Council meetings about the Russian-Islamic space launches, and efforts to deflect Big Baby Bertha, had now been underway for three or four days in Switzerland. The Presidential Seated Council at the US White House met together in a large rotunda, complete with all the traditional US-White House décor and flourish. Washington, D.C., was typically muggy and warm, but the lilt and clouds that met the new day and hot sunlit dawn, reminded even these four world-leaders, as close and dear as any family, in their office, that life goes on, no matter what happens.
"Make it official, send down a directive. Let’s get back to work on what’s being done about this fucking rock out there in space that’s going to kill us all in a few years," said Renolds.
Bouvier, the Black man, who was somewhat younger than Renolds at age 57-years, and had a very round, cherubic face, as dark-skinned as any Afrikaaner, leaned back in one of the deeply cushioned chairs they used. "Speak for yourself," he said.
And so it went on, in the halls of power and empire-Earth, that year in 2077, once again with an impending war and disaster. The lighted paths of hope for the future were dimming, closing like the iris of a camera-lens, or as the iris of the eye shrinks in light, or widens in the dark. None could predict the outcome. But if the meteor were a certainty to strike the Earth, be it the Wrath of God or no, the base on Mars, and other outposts on the Earth’s moon, and Molinari, and the ships-in-space themselves, and Earth-orbiting life-support stations, could be vastly important, perhaps even the only surviving advanced helps for whatever remained. If it took 100 years, following a devastating meteor strike like BBB, some sort of sustained extrinsic presence, with the technology and knowledge retained in their computer libraries, could potentially begin to rebuild a civilized Earth, the only home mankind had ever had. Thus, a somewhat passionate dilemma.
Likewise, and not easily dismissed, away in the Southern Ukraine, in the chilly crags and rocky woods of Spaceport KKF/Region Six, Rudolph Terchenko, the Russian Commander of the launch-site and secret facilities there, well knew and understood, that the fallout of their decision to launch the five Mars-bound ships, would pester and boil for a long while, as everything else was happening. The Region-Six ‘think tank’ was on full-power now, and Terchenko found himself oddly strengthened and even delighted at the chaos. His personal assistant, Milana, the gorgeously youthful and also quite educated young woman from Saint Petersberg, could not help but admire the older man’s vigorous thrill and rush of power, as he handled all the various difficulties. She was secretly in love with him, as a less-wealthy and lesser-stationed common Russian girl who had found her way into a cool job. Rudolph Terchenko was big and bold, but also at least somewhat kind-hearted, and wise.
"Are we really all going to die, Commander, if the meteor hits us?" she asked him.
"There is no death, girl," Rudolph replied. They were in his private office. Milana had somehow gathered reams of paper data-files showing every known radio, telephone, TV, Internet, and print communication or research, or email transmissions, radio-logs from satellites, and even collected recordings from ‘bugs’ placed in various embassies and certain hotel rooms in Switzerland. The two of them had now been hours at work going over each of them, to learn what was known, or supposed, as to how the ‘real’ actions of the Eastern space-program had filtered out into the un-real world of mass-communications, and governmental sources.
"Please, Commander Rudolph," Milana said. "People die almost every day."
"That is their choice. They are---or, we all are---30 billion suicides."
"30-billion suicides? 30-billion---people? 30-billion people who committed suicide? You are joking, Commander. The population of the whole world is only---"
"There is no death, girl," Terchenko re-affirmed. "Don’t be a pest. These radio logs are useless, I can’t even read them. What are you good for then, you tart? Just put those down on the table, and run out for my dinner if you would, please. I am not a philosopher who can comfort your fears of death. You’ll be fine. There is no death."
She did as she was told.
---Julian Phillips
2,294-words
OUTPOST, for Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
Feb.18, 2010
"It is a joy to sin, sometimes, and a needful matter. Christ the Lord was familiar with wicked ways and means, the brutality and savagery of life, and the unexpected qualities of life’s long journey. Our sins are as holy as our good deeds and religion, and without an open door to errors and mistakes, the door also slams shut to visualize or realize a better tomorrow, for the absence of change and dynamic circumstance. I don’t believe in mistakes. To disallow for illness, broken legs, or broken minds, perhaps from a higher loving point-of-view, it does not follow we shall no longer have hospitals or doctors. The future will have many mistakes, and the Mars Space Program includes every variety of joys. Our astronauts are not robots. We are men, not machines. There are no sinless astronauts, Your Excellency. It is not a requirement for space-travel."
---US-Mars Space Program Director Lynn Rodgers-Smith, to His Excellency Imam Mohammed Petrarch-Jinn, Interpreter of Global Sharia-Law to the World Council of Nations, 2077
This man, Imam Mohammed Petrarch-Jinn, was part of the World Council of Nations, and was sent from Iran. In this era of 2075-77, and beyond, when the impending disaster of the approach of Big Baby Bertha, Asteroid-2756b, was now fairly common knowledge among world-leaders on Earth, and educated types, Iran was a much more powerful world power, by reason of religious philosophy common to billions of people. Global Sharia-Law, though not beholden to much more than one-third of Mankind, was a considerable impendence to the space program in the East, the so-called Russian-Islamic Space Alliance. By 2077, Iran had expanded its borders to swallow up many other regions, including Mesopotamia, the Tigris and Euphraties, Babylon, the Cradle of Civilization. They were part of the space-travel community. By the time Lynn Rodgers-Smith was addressing a closed-session of the Council, the Easterners had by then launched their five ship to Mars, now confirmed by most sources. It was a violation of International Law, as usual for times of crisis, and Big Baby Bertha certainly qualified as a crisis in everyone’s thoughts. His Excellency the Imam was busily accusing the US side, during the discussions, as a reply to defend the Easterner’s actions with the space-launches to Mars. As absurd as it was, under Global Sharia, the interpretation was that the sins of the West had produced the Wrath of God in the form of the meteor. Lynn, the busty Texas woman, Commander of Angels, could only shrug him off as irrelevant. But the World-Council had to hear all sides.
"They’re not quite sure if weightlessness is a sin or not, under Sharia," she confided privately to Ibrahim Mehudi, the Science-and-Technology guru for the Western program.
"Nothing they do can ever be wrong or cruel," said Ibrahim. "Global-Sharia means their astronauts are also Saints to Islam. We are all inferior in their minds, so taking the Mars-base is their right and duty, by any means."
"I could give a fig," Rodgers-Smith replied. "We have far more serious problems than pork products on the Mars-base dinner menu, for God’s sake."
The five deep-space cruisers were now two months out, at least, trailing Guy Reisling’s ship by eight or nine weeks, on the passage to the Red Planet. It was a bit of a race, but ship’s pilots could vary their engine speeds using the common hydrogen-thrusters, and also by changing course for shorter lines of travel, as the planets were moving. Because the Russian-Islamic launches were done in secret, and lacked the usual clearances and permissions, the World-Council was to be consulted. It was a drab affair, also conducted out of the public-eye, with many meetings in musty-stale rooms full of angry people alienated by culture and goals. And whatever their conclusions, nothing would change anyway. It was a done-deal, the ships were on their way. No amount of argument and legality was likely to produce a radio-transmission to the Russian ship-pilots with orders to turn around and head home, which was not even a navigational maneuver that was possible with any safety.
So it was a stand-off. Following the Russian launches, the West gathered their intelligence and data-facts, more-or-less proving the matter to world space-travel authorities, as far as what the Russian-Islamic program had done, which was to send five deep-space vessels aloft and on their way to Mars. Inter-planet diplomacy was now a reality back on Earth. There was nowhere else for those ships to go, and much like the laws of the high-seas, Earth-powers had rules and laws about that sort of thing. The main reason was not philosophical, but instead was related to the success of orbital satellites and Earth-Moon commerce, a big business interest by this time in 2077. So they had broken laws, but everyone knew it was bullshit, a turd-in-transit, irreversible.
After they were called out on the deed, a predictably vague response from the East declared the Russian-Islamic powers were ignorant of the launches, or the accuracy of the Western intelligence. Official denial pretended they would "look into it", and tossed out the bone that there may have been some rocketry in the hinterlands, that was somehow less than authorized. By the time the World-Council took sessions on the matter, it was too late, and of course the Easterners knew this. At the same time, the World-Council continued to discuss the approaching meteor.
"The asteroid can destroy half the world. If it hits, the impact might wipe out entire continents, billions of people. An ice-age winter of darkness will descend for 1,000 years. Any survival at all would be almost unbearably bleak," Ibrahim Mehudi testified to the Council, as one who supposedly knew. "From this day-and-date today, here-and-now, we may be no less than four to six years away from such an event. That is the science and the truth as I know it."
And so did everyone else among them. Back at Vandenberg, as international diplomacy continued its useless and heated course (the meetings were held in Switzerland), there was a quick and inevitable decision to put into action the plans and preparations of the US-Mars Base Defense Task Force. And like dropping a hat, this meant the US side would also launch ships, as a defensive response---also in secret. Communications, decisions and choices, like waves of gloriously dubious destiny, were sent back and forth, continent-to-continent, coast to coast, and planet to planet. Older generation leaders recognized the signs---it was starting to look a lot like war. Indeed, as things were now in motion to secure the Mars-base, leaders as high up as the US Presidential Seated Council, were nervous as hell that war would also break out here on Earth over the whole thing.
"A rock," commented US Presidential Council-Seat Mark Renolds, a wiry and spry white-male of about age 65-years, known for his freckled face and background as a farmer. "This entire ape-shit world-fucking crisis has been caused by a rock."
By the year 2077, the American White House and the President’s Office, had been divided into a Presidential Seated Council of four individually-elected persons. So, in other words, America had finally made significant structural leadership changes and Constitutional adaptations, thought to be for the good of all, and having occupied previous leadership for many years to accomplish. Elected in a rotating four-year cycle, such that at no time was any member of the Presidential Seat without at least two years of on-the-job experience, the group now included Renolds, a Southerner named Boline Bouvier (a Black man and educator from the University of Texas faculty), a Caucasian woman named Martha Hazlett, who at age 45 was basically a widely popular athlete (swimmer), with a law-degree, and a youngish Hispanic man from a large farming family, also with a law-degree and business background, named Martinez Jeses-Garrido (age 38-years). Renolds and Bouvier were the more senior members, and more mature.
"A very, very big rock, Mark," replied his foil, Bouvier. They held a meeting one day in the traditional White House (still in use), during the heated fallout of the information about the Russian space-launches. "But just a rock, none-the-less." All four members of the Council-Seat were present.
"It’s not just Mars," added Martinez Jeses-Garrido, who had a fertile and active mind, very keen on the practical, ever the best of the utilitarian American character. "If they won’t back down, there may be retaliation or military response here on earth we’d have to respond to as well."
"I don’t see why," said Hazlett. It’s only a base, just---an outpost. If the East went into war-mode, what would be the motivation? They’d still have to deal with Mars. It wouldn’t solve a thing."
"It never does, does it?" responded Bouvier.
"With the meteor---decisions are likely to be irrational. A meaningless panic," said Renolds.
"Great," said Hazlett.
"Just tell Military to authorize Vandenberg’s response, and also I guess Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico, and any of the others. We already have plans in place. Obviously, we have to protect Mars, and avoid an East-West global war or crisis at the same time. They sent five ships, we’ll send ten," said Renolds, who tended to take the lead. "Agreed?"
"Ten, or eight, or nine," said Bouvier. "Yes, agreed."
"Agreed," said Hazlett and Jeses-Garrido, almost in unison.
It was morning, and the World Council meetings about the Russian-Islamic space launches, and efforts to deflect Big Baby Bertha, had now been underway for three or four days in Switzerland. The Presidential Seated Council at the US White House met together in a large rotunda, complete with all the traditional US-White House décor and flourish. Washington, D.C., was typically muggy and warm, but the lilt and clouds that met the new day and hot sunlit dawn, reminded even these four world-leaders, as close and dear as any family, in their office, that life goes on, no matter what happens.
"Make it official, send down a directive. Let’s get back to work on what’s being done about this fucking rock out there in space that’s going to kill us all in a few years," said Renolds.
Bouvier, the Black man, who was somewhat younger than Renolds at age 57-years, and had a very round, cherubic face, as dark-skinned as any Afrikaaner, leaned back in one of the deeply cushioned chairs they used. "Speak for yourself," he said.
And so it went on, in the halls of power and empire-Earth, that year in 2077, once again with an impending war and disaster. The lighted paths of hope for the future were dimming, closing like the iris of a camera-lens, or as the iris of the eye shrinks in light, or widens in the dark. None could predict the outcome. But if the meteor were a certainty to strike the Earth, be it the Wrath of God or no, the base on Mars, and other outposts on the Earth’s moon, and Molinari, and the ships-in-space themselves, and Earth-orbiting life-support stations, could be vastly important, perhaps even the only surviving advanced helps for whatever remained. If it took 100 years, following a devastating meteor strike like BBB, some sort of sustained extrinsic presence, with the technology and knowledge retained in their computer libraries, could potentially begin to rebuild a civilized Earth, the only home mankind had ever had. Thus, a somewhat passionate dilemma.
Likewise, and not easily dismissed, away in the Southern Ukraine, in the chilly crags and rocky woods of Spaceport KKF/Region Six, Rudolph Terchenko, the Russian Commander of the launch-site and secret facilities there, well knew and understood, that the fallout of their decision to launch the five Mars-bound ships, would pester and boil for a long while, as everything else was happening. The Region-Six ‘think tank’ was on full-power now, and Terchenko found himself oddly strengthened and even delighted at the chaos. His personal assistant, Milana, the gorgeously youthful and also quite educated young woman from Saint Petersberg, could not help but admire the older man’s vigorous thrill and rush of power, as he handled all the various difficulties. She was secretly in love with him, as a less-wealthy and lesser-stationed common Russian girl who had found her way into a cool job. Rudolph Terchenko was big and bold, but also at least somewhat kind-hearted, and wise.
"Are we really all going to die, Commander, if the meteor hits us?" she asked him.
"There is no death, girl," Rudolph replied. They were in his private office. Milana had somehow gathered reams of paper data-files showing every known radio, telephone, TV, Internet, and print communication or research, or email transmissions, radio-logs from satellites, and even collected recordings from ‘bugs’ placed in various embassies and certain hotel rooms in Switzerland. The two of them had now been hours at work going over each of them, to learn what was known, or supposed, as to how the ‘real’ actions of the Eastern space-program had filtered out into the un-real world of mass-communications, and governmental sources.
"Please, Commander Rudolph," Milana said. "People die almost every day."
"That is their choice. They are---or, we all are---30 billion suicides."
"30-billion suicides? 30-billion---people? 30-billion people who committed suicide? You are joking, Commander. The population of the whole world is only---"
"There is no death, girl," Terchenko re-affirmed. "Don’t be a pest. These radio logs are useless, I can’t even read them. What are you good for then, you tart? Just put those down on the table, and run out for my dinner if you would, please. I am not a philosopher who can comfort your fears of death. You’ll be fine. There is no death."
She did as she was told.
---Julian Phillips
2,294-words
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Chapter-16--OUTPOST: 'The Russians Launch for Mars!'
CHAPTER-16
OUTPOST, for Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
Feb.3, 2010
Within four weeks of Lila’s conversation with her friend at the space-dock, Guy’s transport launch was bumped ahead to a much sooner departure, mostly due to the work communications-specialist Karen Tutturro was doing at the Mars-base. So his next flight would ferry hardware and gear she needed, and other common shipments for the Mars-base. By the fifth week, Guy and his crew were prepped for launch. So within 45 days of Lila’s expressed consternation that Eve and others knew about her affair with Tommy and how she would handle it, her one true love Guy Reisling was catapulted back into the abyss aboard the ‘Penelope’, on his way to her side again, into her loving arms. The Western Earth-US space-launches were actually rather rare, mostly Earth-orbit satellites. The inter-planet launches happened only once every few months. Everything depended on timing the launches with the position of the orbiting and moving planets. The Molinari space-dock was also in orbit, and thus in motion. So a launch-window was carefully calculated for each transport. A trained pilot like Guy was a valued resource, accounting for his re-instated pilot status as forgiven for the flight-path error, now more than a year behind him. The launch went well, and he left Earth orbit on track with his navigation plan. The journey to Molinari would take about five months, by this scenario, given the planetary-system positions when he left Earth, which was very favorable, somewhat faster than many trips.
Six weeks after he left Earth, the US Mars Program planners and decision-makers received startling and troubling news. Earth-scan tracking and monitoring of planetary-orbit pathways clearly indicated that the Russian-Islamic/Ukrainian-Hindu, or, Eastern-block Space Program, had launched a series of ships. Five inter-planet capable ships left Gaia-Earth from two launch-sites, one in the Ukraine, and one from China-Mongolia. All five were launched over a period of about ten days, then stabilized in orbit, and then escaped Earth-gravity, headed for Mars, by all appearances, much like Guy’s ship. The tracking-monitoring records and data were checked and checked again, and analyzed endlessly for days, until there was no doubt remaining. From the US-Mars Program bases at Vandenberg, and also in Florida, Texas, and Puerto Rico, their worst fears had now happened. Like a space-rocket on a chess-board (or, five of them), the Eastern-block Earthside space-explorers had made a bold move.
Imbrahim Mehudi, the Science-Lead at Vandenberg, spread his hands across a large, table-sized view screen that showed the local solar-system and planets. “This will lead us into conflict,” he said. “The world’s first war in space.”
“Move the image to show me the estimated position of Big Baby Bertha,” said Lynn Rodgers-Smith, the program director. The two of them were studying the situation, from a secondary navigation-and-pathway work-room, at one of Vandenberg’s Launch-Command. The tool they used was a flat computer-screen linked to a model of the solar-system, that approximated the daily or weekly position of the planets and other cosmic objects---an astrologer’s dream. Mehudi could fairly easily manipulate the view from various points in the circle of solar objects, the Mars-Jupiter asteroid field, planets, moons, the Earth, and also any ships, large satellites, etc. Within a few minutes, they could roughly estimate the relative locale of Asteroid-2752b, viewed as a small spec or dot on the screen, also with a computer-text data-line, indicating its ‘cosmic ID’.
“It’s here, apparently, from this,” said Mehudi. “2752b is moving much like a comet would, in an oblique orbit, not parallel to any planets, or not circular, you might say. So it’s cross-wise to other solar-pathways, cutting across the planet orbits from the side. So, from this view, it’s on the other side of the Sun, probably 10 or 12-million miles away from Earth. But, of course, as Fate would have it, our science-prophets have plotted the two paths of both Earth and Bertha, to a collision point---now I guess roughly five years from now. Supposedly. I mean, a collision is a one-in-a-million chance. But this is the science about it.”
Rodgers-Smith, the so-called Commander of Angels, glanced over the table-screen with a scowl. “Five years,” she said.
“Give or take,” said Mehudi.
“And we have only the one transport-ship in space-track corridor to Mars now, and Molinari, and then the Mars-base with their ships, in terms of any immediate response or defense to the Russian ships that we feel were launched to Mars-track pathways last week,” she asked. “Is that about right?”
“Well, if you include all of our space-able ships out there right now, that would be about right,” said Mehudi. “Keep in mind, the Mars-base has three ships of their own, but they are not used for regular transport. They can enter Mars-orbit, and they can reach Earth with preparations, mostly for emergency evacuation, if ever it was needed. And then Molinari has similar lifeboat type evacuation ships, two or three. And then the currently in-transit transport, from Vandenberg. We launched that about two months ago. But that’s it, as far as ships-in-space right now.”
“PlanetView-2 has ships,” Rodgers-Smith said.
“True, but those would never reach Mars. Local only, Earth to moon,” said Mehudi. “You know, we have ships that can launch to Mars. Realistically, our side can launch maybe---oh, I guess, as many as eight---eight space-ships that we could get on path to Mars. It would take time to set it up, for launch-window, navigation, preparations, crews.”
“Eight? I thought we had more than that, almost a total of fifteen?”
“I don’t know, Lynn. Just a guess. I mean ships that are in good enough condition and ready. We have repairs and lost function on a few of the others.”
They paused. The two of them withdrew from the high-tech Planet-Plotter, then settled across the large rectangular work-room, by a window where they could look out on the base from above, more than four stories over the view. It was very early in the day. They had been summoned-to-task past midnight, still in the dark of night, when the reports reached the base-system data-review hierarchy. The morning-light from the West beyond the Pacific as the Sun rose in the East created an orange-red-pink-gray spectacular against the distant and hazy-blue sky. Beneath, the towers and buildings, high-cranes and machinery, communications-dishes and antenna, power-transformers and huge fuel-tanks, and ship hangars---it all lay before them, a shared kingdom, powerful, dormant, resting. Low-laying green-brown hills, small roads, fences, mossy oak trees and pines, and the occasional beef-cow munching on his grassy breakfast in far-off solitude---at the edges of the vista.
“Is it really a war, Mehudi? So what if they launched to Mars? They have before. It’s a free world---or, a free solar-system. Surely we could work together, both sides helping each other. We’re scientists, researchers, explorers---not military,” said Lynn Rodgers-Smith.
“Ask the Russians, that’s all I can say,” Mehudi replied. “I totally agree with you. I’m a dove. But the hawks always take the lead. It’s inevitable, especially from the previous intelligence on the Russian plans for Mars. They didn’t even announce or report the launches of the five ships. No flight-plan. No pre-launch air-space precautions. No global aero-space community safety review. Nothing. Essentially, the launches from Ukraine and China were done in secret. What does that tell you?”
They paused. “All right, “ said Rodgers-Smith. “What a shit. I want a high-level meeting with all department heads by this afternoon. We have to do---something. Not sure what, I’ll admit.”
“The Mars-base has to be informed, and Molinari,” said Mehudi.
“And the transport pilot already on his way.”
“I know that pilot. Reisling,” said Mehudi. “Good man, fairly young, a bit wild. He was the one that Okman brought to the review-board for a flight-error, last year. But he was cleared. He should be about halfway to Molinari by now.”
“Six weeks ahead of the Russians,” said Lynn. “A single transport ship. I think I know him. Reisling---they had a shipment of communications tech-gear for the Mars-base.”
“Yes. The Snikta-base has had a significant communications problem for quite some time. We sent a specialist, Karen Tutturro. She’s been on Mars for six months or more. Her first trip. It’s a mess. Power-supply failure obliterated data-transfer.”
“I know.” She sighed heavily, holding her hand against the window. She was a large, busty woman, but very healthy and even quite attractive for her age. A Texas-gal is sexy all her life, in her ways. The two friends just waited, side-by-side, a knowingness between them, a fateful dread, and yet a call to honor and critical duty.
Somewhere beyond---and beyond-beyond, there in the depths of the infinitely peaceful abyss, a deep-indigo blanket of nothingness enveloped the space-transport Penelope, Guy’s ship. One never looked back, after a launch, or, one never kept his thoughts on Earth, where home-and-hearth waited, comfy-cozy, with food and drink and friends. Of course the ship was in contact with Earth. But in his heart, Guy, and his crew, and any space-worker, were always aware that any such voyage could be their last, ending perhaps by accident in sudden death. So the view was ever-outward, into eternity, as if Earth never-was, and only the unknown ahead. It’s just a job, Guy was thinking. Same as always. And I’m damn good at it.
The Penelope hummed like a top. During his board-review furlough period, she had been re-fitted and fully up-graded for the usual maintenance and repairs. Like any flying machine, only absolute mechanical perfection was adequate for launch and the rigors of space-travel. The so-called Condrum-21 Monsanto-DuPont Inter-Planet Space-Cruiser was a mighty piece of work. They weren’t short-term vessels for only one or two voyages, or in any way disposable. Many previous former-era space-craft were designed with numerous discarded parts, even life-support pods and engine-parts, that would be jettisoned into space, for efficiency during the trip, such as re-entry. By the time the astronauts arrived back on Earth, there really was no ship remaining. It had all been dismantled on the way, with each part falling away into the nothingness, until all that was left for re-entry was a single life-support pod that could somehow land the men back on Earth. But those types of ships were no longer is use. The Penelope was one solid block of materials, made-to-last, intended to function for many years, rather like a much more old-fashioned idea of any vessel, be it a car, a jet-airliner, or a large ship at sea. She is One, Guy thought. She is mother.He was in good spirits, and so was his crew. Rob Cowan, his co-pilot, relieved Guy from his watch every nine hours. The other crew were all the same men, except for one ‘new’ navigator, who was of course experienced and trained, and had been on several successful voyages on other transports. Everyone was glad to be back on-duty, back in space, back on-the-job.
“All is well, Captain,” said Cowan, entering the pilot-deck, a large control-room at the front of the ship, set high above the front or prow. Almost any control anywhere on the ship could be accessed from here (although many functions were never manipulated from the pilot-deck at all).
Much like Molinari, the environment was weightless, or null-gravity. Thus, Guy was seated and held down by magnetic-strips and a small strap, and Cowan pulled himself into the chamber by hand-rails, then could settle onto the magnetic floor-strips with a tiny ‘click’ from his metallic shoe-soles.
“Thanks, Rob,” Guy responded. “Entering pilot-deck command transfer to you at 1800-hours, Day-52. She’s all yours.”
“All systems are at ideal status,” Rob said. “Engine three will rest-and-restore in ten hours, then cycle through engine four and back to engines one and two, in sequence. Vandenberg-command has some kind of pow-wow going on. Earth-link telecomm ticker says you need to be set-up for a voice-to-voice at 2200-hours. Your second systems-man is working on the hook-up, should be fine.”
“Thanks,” Guy said. As Rob was providing his brief report, Guy was busy re-fixing the magnetic shoes on his feet.
“For god’s sake, Guy,” Rob said. “You’re the only pilot in the entire Mars fleet who prefers to fly barefoot. For as long as I’ve known you, you jockey your ship with nothing on your damn feet! Is that even sanitary, much less protocol?”
Guy finished with the magnetic boot-straps. The boots were somewhat heavier than the slippers they woe on Molinari, like thick, mechanical-looking tennis-shoes. On the bottoms they were metallic or magnet-sensitive. The men could move this way through the ship fairly easily---click-clack-click-clack. More commonly, they pulled themselves through the passways or tube-tunnels by handrails, floating-weightless.
“It’s my ship, and my command, dude,” said Guy. “My feet get hot and sweaty. The life-support workers on below deck work in their fucking underpants. Don’t worry about it. Was there anything else from Earth? What do they want? There’s nothing new on this pass. Steady-as-she-goes. No news is good news.”
Rob was settling into the command-chair (he used a second chair for the co-pilot, not Guy’s). He checked several of the gauges and monitors and standard-tracking views. Typically on a command-deck shift, he wouldn’t touch a single control or change a thing. But they had to be watched by an experienced pilot ready for anything, which he was, just as well as Guy.
“Not sure. The Earth-link ticker doesn’t tell you much. They want to talk to you. That’s all she wrote,” said Rob.
Guy chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “So does my mom.”
They both smiled. “You’re relieved, Captain,” said Rob. “No problem. Get some sleep. You got four hours.”
---Julian Phillips
2,286-words
OUTPOST, for Tom Luong Films
By Julian Phillips
Feb.3, 2010
Within four weeks of Lila’s conversation with her friend at the space-dock, Guy’s transport launch was bumped ahead to a much sooner departure, mostly due to the work communications-specialist Karen Tutturro was doing at the Mars-base. So his next flight would ferry hardware and gear she needed, and other common shipments for the Mars-base. By the fifth week, Guy and his crew were prepped for launch. So within 45 days of Lila’s expressed consternation that Eve and others knew about her affair with Tommy and how she would handle it, her one true love Guy Reisling was catapulted back into the abyss aboard the ‘Penelope’, on his way to her side again, into her loving arms. The Western Earth-US space-launches were actually rather rare, mostly Earth-orbit satellites. The inter-planet launches happened only once every few months. Everything depended on timing the launches with the position of the orbiting and moving planets. The Molinari space-dock was also in orbit, and thus in motion. So a launch-window was carefully calculated for each transport. A trained pilot like Guy was a valued resource, accounting for his re-instated pilot status as forgiven for the flight-path error, now more than a year behind him. The launch went well, and he left Earth orbit on track with his navigation plan. The journey to Molinari would take about five months, by this scenario, given the planetary-system positions when he left Earth, which was very favorable, somewhat faster than many trips.
Six weeks after he left Earth, the US Mars Program planners and decision-makers received startling and troubling news. Earth-scan tracking and monitoring of planetary-orbit pathways clearly indicated that the Russian-Islamic/Ukrainian-Hindu, or, Eastern-block Space Program, had launched a series of ships. Five inter-planet capable ships left Gaia-Earth from two launch-sites, one in the Ukraine, and one from China-Mongolia. All five were launched over a period of about ten days, then stabilized in orbit, and then escaped Earth-gravity, headed for Mars, by all appearances, much like Guy’s ship. The tracking-monitoring records and data were checked and checked again, and analyzed endlessly for days, until there was no doubt remaining. From the US-Mars Program bases at Vandenberg, and also in Florida, Texas, and Puerto Rico, their worst fears had now happened. Like a space-rocket on a chess-board (or, five of them), the Eastern-block Earthside space-explorers had made a bold move.
Imbrahim Mehudi, the Science-Lead at Vandenberg, spread his hands across a large, table-sized view screen that showed the local solar-system and planets. “This will lead us into conflict,” he said. “The world’s first war in space.”
“Move the image to show me the estimated position of Big Baby Bertha,” said Lynn Rodgers-Smith, the program director. The two of them were studying the situation, from a secondary navigation-and-pathway work-room, at one of Vandenberg’s Launch-Command. The tool they used was a flat computer-screen linked to a model of the solar-system, that approximated the daily or weekly position of the planets and other cosmic objects---an astrologer’s dream. Mehudi could fairly easily manipulate the view from various points in the circle of solar objects, the Mars-Jupiter asteroid field, planets, moons, the Earth, and also any ships, large satellites, etc. Within a few minutes, they could roughly estimate the relative locale of Asteroid-2752b, viewed as a small spec or dot on the screen, also with a computer-text data-line, indicating its ‘cosmic ID’.
“It’s here, apparently, from this,” said Mehudi. “2752b is moving much like a comet would, in an oblique orbit, not parallel to any planets, or not circular, you might say. So it’s cross-wise to other solar-pathways, cutting across the planet orbits from the side. So, from this view, it’s on the other side of the Sun, probably 10 or 12-million miles away from Earth. But, of course, as Fate would have it, our science-prophets have plotted the two paths of both Earth and Bertha, to a collision point---now I guess roughly five years from now. Supposedly. I mean, a collision is a one-in-a-million chance. But this is the science about it.”
Rodgers-Smith, the so-called Commander of Angels, glanced over the table-screen with a scowl. “Five years,” she said.
“Give or take,” said Mehudi.
“And we have only the one transport-ship in space-track corridor to Mars now, and Molinari, and then the Mars-base with their ships, in terms of any immediate response or defense to the Russian ships that we feel were launched to Mars-track pathways last week,” she asked. “Is that about right?”
“Well, if you include all of our space-able ships out there right now, that would be about right,” said Mehudi. “Keep in mind, the Mars-base has three ships of their own, but they are not used for regular transport. They can enter Mars-orbit, and they can reach Earth with preparations, mostly for emergency evacuation, if ever it was needed. And then Molinari has similar lifeboat type evacuation ships, two or three. And then the currently in-transit transport, from Vandenberg. We launched that about two months ago. But that’s it, as far as ships-in-space right now.”
“PlanetView-2 has ships,” Rodgers-Smith said.
“True, but those would never reach Mars. Local only, Earth to moon,” said Mehudi. “You know, we have ships that can launch to Mars. Realistically, our side can launch maybe---oh, I guess, as many as eight---eight space-ships that we could get on path to Mars. It would take time to set it up, for launch-window, navigation, preparations, crews.”
“Eight? I thought we had more than that, almost a total of fifteen?”
“I don’t know, Lynn. Just a guess. I mean ships that are in good enough condition and ready. We have repairs and lost function on a few of the others.”
They paused. The two of them withdrew from the high-tech Planet-Plotter, then settled across the large rectangular work-room, by a window where they could look out on the base from above, more than four stories over the view. It was very early in the day. They had been summoned-to-task past midnight, still in the dark of night, when the reports reached the base-system data-review hierarchy. The morning-light from the West beyond the Pacific as the Sun rose in the East created an orange-red-pink-gray spectacular against the distant and hazy-blue sky. Beneath, the towers and buildings, high-cranes and machinery, communications-dishes and antenna, power-transformers and huge fuel-tanks, and ship hangars---it all lay before them, a shared kingdom, powerful, dormant, resting. Low-laying green-brown hills, small roads, fences, mossy oak trees and pines, and the occasional beef-cow munching on his grassy breakfast in far-off solitude---at the edges of the vista.
“Is it really a war, Mehudi? So what if they launched to Mars? They have before. It’s a free world---or, a free solar-system. Surely we could work together, both sides helping each other. We’re scientists, researchers, explorers---not military,” said Lynn Rodgers-Smith.
“Ask the Russians, that’s all I can say,” Mehudi replied. “I totally agree with you. I’m a dove. But the hawks always take the lead. It’s inevitable, especially from the previous intelligence on the Russian plans for Mars. They didn’t even announce or report the launches of the five ships. No flight-plan. No pre-launch air-space precautions. No global aero-space community safety review. Nothing. Essentially, the launches from Ukraine and China were done in secret. What does that tell you?”
They paused. “All right, “ said Rodgers-Smith. “What a shit. I want a high-level meeting with all department heads by this afternoon. We have to do---something. Not sure what, I’ll admit.”
“The Mars-base has to be informed, and Molinari,” said Mehudi.
“And the transport pilot already on his way.”
“I know that pilot. Reisling,” said Mehudi. “Good man, fairly young, a bit wild. He was the one that Okman brought to the review-board for a flight-error, last year. But he was cleared. He should be about halfway to Molinari by now.”
“Six weeks ahead of the Russians,” said Lynn. “A single transport ship. I think I know him. Reisling---they had a shipment of communications tech-gear for the Mars-base.”
“Yes. The Snikta-base has had a significant communications problem for quite some time. We sent a specialist, Karen Tutturro. She’s been on Mars for six months or more. Her first trip. It’s a mess. Power-supply failure obliterated data-transfer.”
“I know.” She sighed heavily, holding her hand against the window. She was a large, busty woman, but very healthy and even quite attractive for her age. A Texas-gal is sexy all her life, in her ways. The two friends just waited, side-by-side, a knowingness between them, a fateful dread, and yet a call to honor and critical duty.
Somewhere beyond---and beyond-beyond, there in the depths of the infinitely peaceful abyss, a deep-indigo blanket of nothingness enveloped the space-transport Penelope, Guy’s ship. One never looked back, after a launch, or, one never kept his thoughts on Earth, where home-and-hearth waited, comfy-cozy, with food and drink and friends. Of course the ship was in contact with Earth. But in his heart, Guy, and his crew, and any space-worker, were always aware that any such voyage could be their last, ending perhaps by accident in sudden death. So the view was ever-outward, into eternity, as if Earth never-was, and only the unknown ahead. It’s just a job, Guy was thinking. Same as always. And I’m damn good at it.
The Penelope hummed like a top. During his board-review furlough period, she had been re-fitted and fully up-graded for the usual maintenance and repairs. Like any flying machine, only absolute mechanical perfection was adequate for launch and the rigors of space-travel. The so-called Condrum-21 Monsanto-DuPont Inter-Planet Space-Cruiser was a mighty piece of work. They weren’t short-term vessels for only one or two voyages, or in any way disposable. Many previous former-era space-craft were designed with numerous discarded parts, even life-support pods and engine-parts, that would be jettisoned into space, for efficiency during the trip, such as re-entry. By the time the astronauts arrived back on Earth, there really was no ship remaining. It had all been dismantled on the way, with each part falling away into the nothingness, until all that was left for re-entry was a single life-support pod that could somehow land the men back on Earth. But those types of ships were no longer is use. The Penelope was one solid block of materials, made-to-last, intended to function for many years, rather like a much more old-fashioned idea of any vessel, be it a car, a jet-airliner, or a large ship at sea. She is One, Guy thought. She is mother.He was in good spirits, and so was his crew. Rob Cowan, his co-pilot, relieved Guy from his watch every nine hours. The other crew were all the same men, except for one ‘new’ navigator, who was of course experienced and trained, and had been on several successful voyages on other transports. Everyone was glad to be back on-duty, back in space, back on-the-job.
“All is well, Captain,” said Cowan, entering the pilot-deck, a large control-room at the front of the ship, set high above the front or prow. Almost any control anywhere on the ship could be accessed from here (although many functions were never manipulated from the pilot-deck at all).
Much like Molinari, the environment was weightless, or null-gravity. Thus, Guy was seated and held down by magnetic-strips and a small strap, and Cowan pulled himself into the chamber by hand-rails, then could settle onto the magnetic floor-strips with a tiny ‘click’ from his metallic shoe-soles.
“Thanks, Rob,” Guy responded. “Entering pilot-deck command transfer to you at 1800-hours, Day-52. She’s all yours.”
“All systems are at ideal status,” Rob said. “Engine three will rest-and-restore in ten hours, then cycle through engine four and back to engines one and two, in sequence. Vandenberg-command has some kind of pow-wow going on. Earth-link telecomm ticker says you need to be set-up for a voice-to-voice at 2200-hours. Your second systems-man is working on the hook-up, should be fine.”
“Thanks,” Guy said. As Rob was providing his brief report, Guy was busy re-fixing the magnetic shoes on his feet.
“For god’s sake, Guy,” Rob said. “You’re the only pilot in the entire Mars fleet who prefers to fly barefoot. For as long as I’ve known you, you jockey your ship with nothing on your damn feet! Is that even sanitary, much less protocol?”
Guy finished with the magnetic boot-straps. The boots were somewhat heavier than the slippers they woe on Molinari, like thick, mechanical-looking tennis-shoes. On the bottoms they were metallic or magnet-sensitive. The men could move this way through the ship fairly easily---click-clack-click-clack. More commonly, they pulled themselves through the passways or tube-tunnels by handrails, floating-weightless.
“It’s my ship, and my command, dude,” said Guy. “My feet get hot and sweaty. The life-support workers on below deck work in their fucking underpants. Don’t worry about it. Was there anything else from Earth? What do they want? There’s nothing new on this pass. Steady-as-she-goes. No news is good news.”
Rob was settling into the command-chair (he used a second chair for the co-pilot, not Guy’s). He checked several of the gauges and monitors and standard-tracking views. Typically on a command-deck shift, he wouldn’t touch a single control or change a thing. But they had to be watched by an experienced pilot ready for anything, which he was, just as well as Guy.
“Not sure. The Earth-link ticker doesn’t tell you much. They want to talk to you. That’s all she wrote,” said Rob.
Guy chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “So does my mom.”
They both smiled. “You’re relieved, Captain,” said Rob. “No problem. Get some sleep. You got four hours.”
---Julian Phillips
2,286-words
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