by Patricia Stewart | Jul 9, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Are you telling me a spaceship really did crash in Roswell in 1947?” asked Dr. Ambien as he panned the badly damaged spaceship that had been laid out in the spacious hangar.
“Yes, Doctor. The spaceship contained three aliens, but they all died in the crash. However, there was a very sophisticated on-board computer that we managed to capture.”
“You mean ‘recover’.”
“No, Doctor, I mean capture. When we tried to load the spaceship onto a flatbed, it fired its engines and tried to escape. Fortunately, because it was badly damaged, the ship didn’t get far. The computer is that large glowing ball in the cockpit.” He indicated an eighteen inch diameter, translucent pale green sphere that had a geodesic metallic framework surrounding it. “It wasn’t easy in the beginning, but we were able to extract a lot of useful technology out of the computer by modulating its power intake. Of course, we couldn’t admit that it was alien technology, so we had to give credit to human scientists for all the new inventions. You know, William Shockley got credit for the transistor, Jack Kilby for the microchip, Al Gore for the internet,” he added with a smirk.
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Dr. Ambien. “What did you mean when you said you modulated its power intake?”
“Well, we needed to gain its cooperation. So when it wouldn’t give us information, we’d cut back its power, or change the frequency of the electric current. Sometimes we would place powerful magnets around the sphere to scramble its electrical pathways. Eventually, it shared its technology.”
“You mean you tortured it?”
“Come on professor, it’s a computer, not a person. Is it torture to cut the power to your PC?”
“It’s not the same thing. This is unethical behavior. I don’t think I can work for this Program.”
“Look Doctor. You’re here for one thing. You’re under contract to give us an independent assessment of that satellite,” he pointed to the automobile size contraption at the far side of the hangar. “We built it based on the designs given to us by the alien computer. It’s supposed to be able to detect fissionable levels of weapons grade uranium from orbit. But, to be frank, it has a lot of hardware that we don’t fully understand. We’re reluctant to activate it without the concurrence of industry’s top scientific minds. You either work with us, Doctor, or you’ll never do work for the government again.”
You bastards, Ambien thought. Homeland Security is going to blacklist me. Then he noticed the translucent sphere pulsating. It was Morse Code. “Please help me,” it spelled out. After a few seconds thought, he made up his mind. “Yes,” Dr. Ambien said aloud while staring at the computer, “I will help you.” Almost instantly, the new satellite emitted an intense pulse that caused all of the humans in the hangar to collapse, except for Dr. Ambien. The satellite lifted from the ground and floated toward the alien spaceship. When it landed, a hatch opened, exposing an internal cavity about the size of the sphere. The compartment contained dozens of cables with unique connectors. Its function was obvious. Dr. Ambien quickly climbed into the damaged spaceship and disconnected the sphere and carried it to the satellite. It took him five minutes to connect all the cables. The sphere glowed bright yellow as the satellite drifted upward, where it hovered for several minutes. Then the public address system of the hangar transmitted a message, “Thank you, Dr. Ambien.”
The satellite rammed through the skylight, and disappeared into the clouds.
by Patricia Stewart | Jun 30, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
In the twenty fifth century, scientists were convinced that the longest single jump possible through hyperspace within the spiral arms of the Milky Way was 3.3 parsecs. This limit was the consequence of the density of dark matter and its effect on the stability of tachyon waves. When longer jumps were attempted, the tachyon waves lost their cohesion, and there was significant distortion of the meson matter when it returned to normal space-time. Such occurrences gave new meaning to the phrase, “having a bad hair day.”
Because of the hyperspace jump limit, “Way Stations” were positioned near the intersections of high density traffic corridors at roughly 2.5-3.0 parsec intervals. The largest of these Way Stations was simply called “The Oasis.” It was located 2.7 parsecs from the high velocity Terran Throughway and 5.8 parsecs from the Orion Interchange.
***
Philip Coleman rejoined his friend in the spacious Oasis lounge.
“Where have you been?” asked Manfred Sola.
“Just stretching my legs.”
“Well, now that you’re back, I just wanted to say again that you made the right decision to take a vacation after those bastards rejected your PhD dissertation. A few weeks on Orion II will do you good.”
“Oh, we won’t be going to Orion II,” replied Coleman. “That was just a ruse I used to get to The Oasis. I intend to show the review panel that my equations are flawless.”
“Show them?”
“Yeah,” Coleman replied with a chuckle. “My mathematical equations proved irrefutably that space travel must adhere to the Law of Six Degrees of Separation. Right now, Earth’s influence is limited to a sphere just under 20 parsecs in diameter. My formula dictates that Earth cannot expand any further into the galaxy until we can increase the distance of a single hyperspace jump.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nodes, of course. Within the sphere, there are dozens of uniformly spaced Way Stations. They’re called nodes in my thesis. In order to get from point A to point B within the sphere you cannot pass through more than six nodes. It’s a fundamental law of the universe. It establishes the maximum diameter of the sphere.”
“What a minute. Are you saying that if we build a Way Station three parsecs beyond the furthest one, we can’t get to it?”
“No. What I’m saying is that you can’t get to it if you need to make seven jumps. Six jumps is the absolute limit. Those dimwitted professors said my logic was flawed. They wanted empirical evidence to substantiate the analysis. Proof, in other words. As if my derivations weren’t enough!”
“If I concede your point, which I don’t, how is coming to The Oasis going to prove it?”
“It’s simple. Part of the Law of Six Degrees of Separation specifies that some nodes are more important than others. They’re called ‘Hubs.’ Because of their strategic locations, Hubs are used more often than the average node. In fact, 72% of all interstellar trips across the diameter of the sphere pass through The Oasis. Therefore, if the primary and secondary power transfer couplings on The Oasis were to be destroyed, this station could not function as a Hub. Interstellar travel would collapse because so many trips would require 7 jumps, which is not possible. Such a scenario would prove my dissertation.” Just then the station shuttered. Seconds later, the lights in the lobby flickered and went out. In the darkness, the waiting passengers began screaming. “Heeheehee,” snickered Coleman. “It’s proof they wanted, it’s proof they’ll get.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jun 16, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“How can I be of service?” asked Sam Dixon, Private Investigator.
“I need you to investigate a major competitor of mine,” replied Donald LeDuca, of LeDuca’s Fine Eateries. “I assume you’ve heard of Marshall’s Restaurants?”
“Ahhhh, yes,” said Dixon with an enthusiastic smile. “I love their restaurants. The Avian Veronique is to die for.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the problem,” rebutted the annoyed LeDuca. “Since his first restaurant opened five years ago, my market share has dropped to 8%. He’s putting me out of business. I need to know how he’s doing it.”
“Maybe he’s got better cooks,” offered Dixon.
“No. That can’t be it. We’ve stolen each other’s CHEFS countless times over the last few years. It has to be something else. I think he’s adding drugs to his food. I heard he was some kind of doctor before he opened his first restaurant.”
“Okay, Mr. LeDuca, I’ll take the case. Have my secretary make you an appointment for next month.”
**********
LeDuca returned one month later. “Please tell me you’ve solved the case,” he pleaded as he entered Dixon’s office, and then quickly added, “Hell, you look like crap.”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” agreed Dixon. “I’ve been having, uh, stomach issues lately. Please, take a seat. First of all, you were half right. Marshall is a doctor, but not a medical doctor. He’s a developmental biologist. He’s done a great deal of work with emu eggs; that’s a large flightless bird from Australia. By some kind of molecular manipulation that I don’t pretend to understand, he was able to switch on certain dormant genes in emu embryos. This caused the reemergence of certain “lost” characteristics that had been buried in the bird’s DNA. After years of research, Marshall was able to produce the genetic equivalent of a living dodo bird, which had actually gone extinct in the seventeenth century. The technique made all the news reports. Perhaps you remember hearing about it? No? Well, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, while performing a laboratory experiment, Marshall accidentally killed one of his dodos. On a whim, he decided to cook it.” Dixon shook his head slightly, and then shivered. “Apparently, it was quite tasty. Tasty enough, in fact, to persuade Marshall to open a restaurant. He got a backer, and started breeding dodos on an island off the coast of Mexico.”
“You mean he’s selling dodo meat in his restaurants?”
“Initially, yes. But, that was years ago. He continued to experiment with bird embryos and made remarkable progress. He reversed engineered dozens of other animals. In fact, all of his specialty items are meat from previously extinct species. Well, I guess they’re not extinct anymore, eh. As it turns out, they all have a very unique flavor and texture that people can’t get enough of. So, once you leak this information, I think people will stop eating in his restaurants.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” relented LeDuca. “I don’t think people will be that upset because they’re eating extinct birds. I’m sure the Europeans ate dodos before they were extinct. What’s the big deal?”
Dixon pulled out a sheet of paper from his top drawer. “This information was Top Secret. Marshall didn’t even tell his chefs what the meat was. Let’s see, the Jambalaya is made with Archaeopteryx meat, the Medallions in Dijon Mustard Sauce is cut from Raptor thigh, and the Avian Veronique is made with Pterodactyl. God! That was my favorite. I can’t believe he fed me dinosaur meat! Frankly, Mr. LeDuca, I haven’t been able to keep food down in over two weeks.”
by Patricia Stewart | Jun 9, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
“Captain, we’re being hailed by Ambassador Kapris. He say’s it’s urgent.”
Dammit, thought Captain Santiago, I don’t have time for this. “Tell him that I cannot be interrupted.”
“Sir, he says that it’s a matter of life and death. He says that our tachyon experiment won’t work.”
“What? Nobody on Pegasi Prime knows about this experiment. How the hell did he find out?”
“He says that if you transport down, he’ll tell you.”
A few minutes later, the captain materialized in the office of Ambassador Kapris. “This is a breach of security, Ambassador. I demand to know how you found out about the experiment.”
“I told him, dad,” said an old man standing next to the Ambassador. Santiago hadn’t even noticed him until he spoke. The old man continued, “I’ve waited decades for you to get here. What’s the matter, don’t you recognize your own son?”
Santiago studied the old man. He had to admit, there was a resemblance. “What are you talking about? I don’t have any children.”
“True,” replied the old man. “But you will, unless you listen to what I have to say. When I was young, you told me that the experiment you’re about to run failed. It started a cascading temporal distortion that destabilized your warp core. You and your crew managed to get into escape pods, but when the reactor blew, everybody was killed, except for you and Mary Toole. A temporal rift transported your Pods back in time almost 90 years. You landed on this planet and went into hiding so you wouldn’t disrupt the timeline. You eventually had a child, me, and I too have lived a secluded life. Mom died several decades ago, and you died within a week. Today, the circle is complete. I can finally come out of hiding. You had asked me, if I lived long enough, to try to save your crew. Please, call your ship. Tell them to shut down the experiment. But hurry, time is running out.”
“Ensign Toole from Engineering? I barely know her.” After a moment’s reflection, Santiago finally said, “No, this is ridiculous. I can’t stop the experiment without evidence.”
“Okay,” offered the old man. “Just delay it ten minutes. Then you’ll have your proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Well, I’ll disappear, of course. If your ship doesn’t blow up at the exact same time, you’ll change history. My history, to be specific. The cascade won’t start at 10:25, you won’t get into the escape Pods at 10:28, the ship won’t explode at 10:31, and you and mom won’t be transported back in time to have me. I’ll cease to exist. Simple, huh? Can a ten minute delay hurt?”
The captain studied the sincerity in the old man’s eyes. Eyes, he realized, that were nearly identical to the ones that looked back at him every morning when he shaved. He decided that it was worth the gamble. He tapped his communicator, “Captain Santiago to Engineering. Power down the tachyon generator, and await further instructions, out. Okay, ‘son,’ let’s say you’re right. Won’t this cause your death?”
“Technically, yes, but I’ve already lived 86 years. Besides, maybe a few years from now I’ll be born again in this timeline. But do yourself a favor, dad. When you get back to the ship, get to know Mary Toole. She’s a wonderful person. She’ll make a great wife, and a fantastic mother. And, please, make sure that you tell her that I love her.” With that, the old man smiled and faded to nothingness. The chronometer on the wall read 10:31.
by Patricia Stewart | May 25, 2009 | Story
Author : Patricia Stewart
Conflict (‘kän-,flikt), noun: The opposition of persons or forces that gives rise to a dramatic action or struggle resulting from incompatible or opposing needs, wishes, or demands.
****
“Captain,” announced Lieutenant Harriman at the Tactical Station, “sensors have detected four Omicron warships heading toward Rigel V.”
“Red alert!” ordered Captain Garrett. “Helm, plot an intercept course and proceed at maximum warp.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” replied the helmsman as she entered the coordinates into the navigation console. The ship made a quick turn to port, and then lunged forward into the warp field. “ETA ten minutes,” she reported.
The captain walked over to the Tactical Station. “Can you identify the class of ships, Mr. Harriman?”
“One Constellation Class Battlecruiser, and three Deep-Space Destroyers.”
“Whoa, we’re in over our heads. Any chance of getting some support?”
“The UES Ganymede and Sedna are an hour away, sir. It looks like we’re on our own.”
Captain Garrett returned to his command chair and activated the ship’s intercom. “Battle stations. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. Sensors have detected four heavily armed Omicron warships heading toward our colony on Rigel V. Our objective is to engage the enemy and defeat them. If we can’t defeat them, we’re to inflict as much damage as possible. At the very least, we need to buy time for the colony. Report immediately to your assigned stations. We may be boarded, so I want everyone armed. Sick bay, prepare for causalities. Let’s show the Omicrons what we’re made of. Captain, out.”
As the minutes ticked away, the crew prepared for battle. “Sir,” reported the communications officer eight minutes later, “we’re being hailed by the Omicron Battlecruiser.”
“Put it on the main viewer.”
The image of slender female reptile in a crisp military uniform appeared on the viewscreen. Her yellow scales shimmered in the low intensity orange-red light of the enemy bridge. She was sitting in the command chair with her legs crossed. Her tail swayed rhythmically behind her head. Clearly, the alien commander did not consider the Earth ship a threat. “This is Captain A’Kovck,” she hissed. “Stand down, and prepare to be boarded.”
“This is Captain Garrett of the UES Titan. I was just about to offer you the same option, Captain.”
Her deep red eyes narrowed, and she balled her claws into fists. “This is not a joking matter, Captain Garrett. We didn’t ask for this war. Earth attacked us. Your raiding parties destroyed hundreds of our nurseries. Millions of un-hatched infants were ruthlessly slaughtered. Three of my own eggs were among the murdered.”
Captain Garrett stood, and clasped his hands behind his back. “With all due respect, Captain A’Kovck, that’s not the way it went down. As we’ve tried to explain…”
“Enough!” interrupted A’Kovck. “Surrender within the next five seconds, or be vaporized.” Her image disappeared from the viewscreen and was replaced by the head-on approach of the four Omicron warships. The three destroyers peeled off to flank the Titan.
“Send a subspace message to Rigel V,” Garrett ordered. “Tell them to prepare for hostile guests. Okay, men, we have a job to do. Shields to maximum. We may not be able to win this battle, but we’re sure as hell going to give them a fight. Attack sequence Delta. Target the Battlecruieser. Fire all weapons.”
****
Courage (‘k?r-ij), noun: The mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty in the face of overwhelming odds.
