by featured writer | Apr 30, 2013 | Story
Author : Bob Newbell, Featured Writer
“Welcome to our asteroid belt,” said the Congolese captain of the AFS Seretse Khama.
Your asteroid belt, thought Dragoslav Ibrahimovi?. Yet the captain of the BAS Peter the Liberator had to admit that his African Federation counterpart had a point. A legal point, to be precise. Sensor sweeps showed that every asteroid of any appreciable size in the area had its own unique transponder signal. Being the first to land a vessel, even a small automated radio transmitter, on an asteroid gave the government in question a legal claim to the property. The African Federation produced, launched, and landed transponder drones by the hundreds of thousands annually. Legally, nearly the entire asteroid belt was their property.
“Just passing through, Captain,” Ibrahimovi? replied over the comlink. The Peter the Liberator moved on across the belt into the outer solar system. Balkan Alliance territory.
One month later, while performing a gravity-assist maneuver around Jupiter, the commander of the Sasselov Station on Callisto contacted Ibrahimovi?.
“We've downloaded your manifest. It says your ship is full of supplies and heading for Neptune. But our sensors say your hold is almost totally empty. And you're the sixth empty supply ship to come through here in the last four months. Looks more like you're bringing something back, not hauling supplies out. What's out there?” asked the commander.
“Just helium-3 processing stations,” Ibrahimovi? replied.
“Did you find something that will put us out in front of the African Federation? Something better than a bunch of rocks floating in space? No more of that being a distant second to the world's only superpower stuff?”
“I'll inform Bucharest your station sensors are malfunctioning,” said Ibrahimovi?. “I suggest you have a good explanation for why you didn't report the problem four months ago.”
Ibrahimovi? cut the comlink.
The Peter the Liberator sailed out into space for many more months, performed an aerobraking and course correction around Neptune, and finally after a long, slow powered deceleration, settled into orbit around Charon, the largest Moon of Pluto. Twelve hours later a shuttle carrying Dr. Aris Kosionidis rose from the surface of Charon and docked with the Peter the Liberator.
“We've got it mostly unburied now,” said Kosionidis to Ibrahimovi?. “We know it was a ship, not a robotic probe. We were able to get inside and we found the remains of the crew.”
“Do you know where it came from?” asked Ibrahimovi?.
“We have no idea. We do know it crashed into Charon around 16 million years ago.”
Ibrahimovi? let that sink in.
“We also know,” Kosionidis continued, “that we can't even guess yet about what half the technology on that ship is for. And the half we can identify is as far in advance of 2299 as we are from the time of the pharaohs.
“We could study it for a hundred years and still not figure it out,” said Ibrahimovi?.
“That might not be necessary. The ship has been trying to talk to us,” said Kosionidis.
“What?!”
“Verbally. Whatever powers it is still functioning at a very low level. Apparently it's been listening to us talk inside the pressure dome we erected around it. At first it just repeated back what we said but in the last four days it's been trying to converse. We're hopeful eventually it can tell us about its origins and explain its technology.”
“Better than a bunch of rocks floating in space,” Ibrahimovi? muttered with a smile.
“Captain?” said Kosionidis.
But Ibrahimovi? didn't answer. His mind was elsewhere. Keep your asteroid belt, he thought. Welcome to our galaxy.
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by featured writer | Apr 25, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell, Featured Writer
“Surrender your cargo and you can leave unharmed.”
The message comes over the radio the moment I come out of a space fold maneuver inside the Gliese 832 system. It’s a fairly old trick. There are a finite number of space fold nexuses and of that finite number only a small subset located close to settled star systems. From a pirate’s point of view, it’s a logical place for an ambush.
I reply to the bandits’ demand with an anatomically impossible suggestion.
“Surrender your cargo or we will open fire!”
I scan their ship. Railgun. It could punch holes in my ship if I gave them the chance. I examine their propulsion system. Fusion rockets only. No space fold system. And their vessel has heavy radiation shielding. Locals. They might even be completely unmodified human beings. I’m heavily cyborged. The unmodified human body isn’t designed for space travel, let alone space folding. The nanomachines in my cells are already repairing the damage from the Bremsstrahlung radiation I was hit with upon defolding back into normal space. I decide to give them a break.
“Boys, my cargo isn’t that valuable. But I have a legal and professional obligation to deliver it. Clear out of here and we’ll pretend this never happened. Or stand your ground and I’ll kill you. You won’t get another warning.”
I switch off the radio. Suddenly, my ship lurches violently. The ship’s computer isn’t designed to inform the pilot of a threat and then wait for a response. Too slow and inefficient. And potentially lethal. The moment the sensors detect the pirates have fired their railgun, the ship itself reacts like a man reflexively swerving out of the way of an opponent’s punch. Dozens of rounds streak by the ship. None make contact.
Another jarring course correction. My ship heads directly for the pirate vessel. The horizontal axis g-force on my body is over 30 times the acceleration of Earth’s gravity. The enemy doesn’t even try to lock their railgun back on my ship. What would be the point? My vessel has more than 100 times the mass of theirs. A few holes in something that massive striking their ship wouldn’t change anything. Their rather pathetic attempt at evasive action indicates the crew, not their ship’s computer, is manually trying to move the spacecraft out of the way. I imagine there’s quite a lot of screaming going on over there right now.
My ship’s space fold system comes online. The vessel is still close enough to the fold nexus to form a jump point. The craft veers slightly to avoid a collision with the pirates. As I streak alongside the raiders’ spacecraft, my ship’s computer abruptly shuts off the fold drive.
My ship cuts acceleration. My vessel is sailing toward the colony at a good clip. I’m even still on schedule for delivery. My aft sensors show the pirate vessel’s contorted hull, the fold drive’s spacetime distortion and sudden cut-off having twisted and warped enemy ship into a piece of surrealist art. The bodies of the crew, I imagine, are in much the same state.
My vessel’s computer uploads the entire sensor log of the battle to the colony. I’m still six weeks of travel through normal space away. Plenty of time for the authorities to review what happened. It’s extremely unlikely any charges will be pressed. I’ll get asked a few questions and that will be that. Gliese 832 is not known for coddling criminals.
by submission | Apr 24, 2013 | Story |
Author : J. R. Hargenrader
When Mission Specialist David Branson joined the Solarian Defense Force, his romantic ideal of “see the universe, learn advanced skills, and encounter alien civilizations” never meant hiding on the far side of an asteroid, cleaning regolith-covered optics, and spying on Gliesians he never met.
“Do you ever wonder if we should be doing this?” Branson asked. He lifted the zero-gravity cup to his lips and glanced at the senior officer seated next to him.
Commander Culligan stared at the satellite feed centered on the alien launch pad. The imposing man was all military—square jaw, short cropped hair, low body fat.
“No.”
And efficient sentence construction.
Branson also didn’t envision being stuck at the far end of the galaxy in a pioneer outpost with a guy less companionable than the station’s railgun. At least today would deviate from their regular routine of scanning satellite images flagged by the computer or unclogging the Waste Collection System again. The Gliesians were preparing another rocket launch and, if their last few attempts were any indication, there was a good chance they’d get something into orbit this time. A part of him secretly hoped for their success.
“This violates SDF’s non-interference policy,” Branson said.
“Don’t you think?”
“Non-interference is secondary to the safety and perpetuation of humanity,” Culligan said, quoting SDF doctrine. His face remained cold and hard. “Besides, 581 won’t be the first system where we’ve done this. Or the last.”
The primary display flashed an alert and the image zoomed on the rocket. Branson straightened in his chair.
“Get ready,” Culligan said. He swiped his hand across the console and the display panned down the slender vehicle.
Branson admired the elaborate patterns of colored dots that decorated the ship and appeared on structures throughout the city. Everything they crafted was functional and beautiful. The Gliesian rocket was a vehicle to the stars and a work of art.
White hot light erupted from the engines. The support trusses swiveled away from the airframe and the rocket lifted above the launch pad. Branson’s breath caught in his throat.
“Perfect,” Culligan said. “The trajectory couldn’t be more perfect.”
The rocket arced over the sky as blue melted into black. The first stage disengaged; then the second. The hurtling nose cone soared along the curvature of the planet into a stable orbit. The Gliesians had done it.
The display flashed “IN RANGE.” The walls rattled as the outpost’s railgun tracked its target. “LOCK” flashed in red.
The cone unfurled to reveal a silver sphere at its core. This sphere rocketed away as its crystalline extrusions caught the red sunlight and created rainbows over the blue world. Branson opened his mouth to speak but no words came to him.
Sensors detected a new transmission. A beeping noise.
“Fire,” Culligan said.
“Wait,” Branson said. “There’s a signal.”
“Fire!”
A suppressed flash of plasma lit up the barren asteroid landscape and the outpost shuddered.
The sphere burst into a shimmering spray of silver and crystal. The beeping stopped. Branson thought he watched his own heart as the satellite tumbled forward into a silent death spin.
“That will keep them planet-bound a while longer,” Culligan said.
Branson imagined the explosion as the Gliesians would see it from the surface. Beauty and catastrophe as one. Did they feel shock, confusion, defeat, or sadness? Or were those emotions exclusive to humans? A burning sensation rose in his throat.
“What have we done?” Branson asked.
Culligan sniffed. “Completed our mission.”
Mission? To preserve the ‘safety and perpetuation’ of—
Humanity?
Oh, God. What have I done?
by submission | Apr 23, 2013 | Story |
Author : Dave Rigby
Steve sat in the beige waiting room idly flipping through channels on the tv, not stopping on any for more than the few seconds of allotted free viewing so as to not incur an automatic charge. At home he had a pretty decent entertainment package with no overrun fees but he couldn’t afford the roaming package so any entertainment here would cost him. He went to run his fingers through his hair but stopped when the stump of his right elbow came in to view. Phantom limb syndrome had been tough when he first lost the arm, it was ten times worse when the prosthetic was removed, but he knew at least that meant that it was still transmitting from wherever it was.
At last his name was called. Entering the room he knew straight away that he wouldn’t be leaving with his arm today. The cardboard box waiting on the table was all too familiar.
“Sorry Steve” Andy the technician emerged from an adjoining room “We won’t be able to get it fixed today. The knuckles are shot and we don’t have enough spares for your model”
“When?” asked Steve glumly.
“Tuesday at the earliest. You can manage without for a few days or you can take the loaner. Your choice”
It wasn’t a choice really.
“I’ll take the loaner”
“Ok cool. You know the drill, take a seat, prep your ports and get ready to sync.” The technician picked up the box and slid out the loaner. It was at least 3 generations older than Steve’s current arm. It hadn’t looked realistic when it was new but now the imitation skin had taken on a yellow colour in-between the assortment of stains and scratches it had acquired through years of service. It was a basic arm, no networking, no display, not even realistic fingernails. On the hand the rubbery skin was stretched and thin so you could almost see through to the aging gears and servos below. Steve had brought gloves just in case “Have you given any more thought to upgrading? I can keep repairing your arm but it’s not going to last forever”
“Can’t afford to upgrade” said Steve as he slid his stylus out of a slot on his arm and ran it around his stump. Tiny latches released and the port caps opened all the way around. He moved the stylus behind his left earlobe in preparation for the re-synch.
Andy moved the arm in to place then slid back a panel on the back of the wrist to reveal the sync and power controls.
“Ok here we go, powering on, ready to sync. Hit it”
Steve braced himself and hit the button behind his ear. His phantom arm disappeared as his mind severed its connection. A moment of almost pleasant release and lightness came and went then was replaced by sickening feelings of pain and loss from his shocked nerves and memories of the accident. He almost cried out, and then it was over. The new arm felt heavy and cumbersome but it would do.
“A quick check and then you can go. Make a fist for me” After a moment of concentration Steve did it. “Good. Now move each finger one at a time” Steve did that too, much faster this time. “OK great, now finally play me some Rachmaninoff” Steve showed Andy his middle finger instead. Andy chuckled. “I guess that will do. You’re good to go. Call if you have any problems and I’ll see you Tuesday”
“See you Tuesday” Steve said as he pulled his gloves on.
by featured writer | Apr 22, 2013 | Story |
Author : Bob Newbell, Featured Writer
“Ensign, report!” yelled the captain over the ring of klaxons and the groans of metal fatigue that filled the bridge of his starship.
The young officer didn’t respond. His eyestalks were fixed on the kaleidoscope of stars streaking past on the forward viewscreen.
“ENSIGN!”
The slug-like being seated in front of the ship’s navigation panel jumped as if he’d been physically struck. “Sorry, sir!” The ensign tapped on a control with one of his tentacles. “We’re down to 1773c, Captain. Engineering reports we can’t decelerate any quicker or the ship will come apart.”
We’re still traveling five times faster than the ship was designed to go, thought the captain as the creaking of the vessel’s shuddering superstructure went up in pitch.
“Hull breach on deck five, section two!” said a crewman seated at a console starboard aft. “Venting atmosphere. Emergency bulkheads have sealed off the section. That area was empty at the time of the breach.”
“Acknowledged,” replied the captain. He thought of the four crew members whose lives were lost in the explosion in the engine room. In the unlikely event his ship actually made it back home, what would he tell their families?
“Down to 600c,” said the ensign.
“Captain to engineering, how long until we can re-enter normal space?”
The haggard image of the chief engineer appeared on a small screen next to the captain’s left tentacle. The damaged quantum impulsion drive was flooding the engine room with radiation. Even if the ship survived, the remaining engineering crew almost certainly wouldn’t.
“Captain,” said the chief engineer in a tired voice, “we’ll need to come out of quantum impulse near a moderately sized gravity well. A small to medium planet, ideally.” The engineer paused and took two wheezing breaths. “The structural reinforcement grid is barely holding the ship together as it is. There’s less turbulence re-entering normal space near something with a bit of mass.”
“Alright, I’ll wait for your word,” said the captain.
“Sir,” said the chief engineer, “would you be so kind as to tell my wife and children–”
“You’re going to tell them you’re a hero because you saved this ship!” the captain interjected.
The chief engineer knew the captain had said that for the benefit of the bridge crew. He knew he was done for and knew that the captain knew it, too. “Yes, sir,” he said and his image faded from the screen.
The captain sat and waited. He heard someone muttering from port aft. He turned one eyestalk in that direction and saw his communication officer fumbling with a small, crystal solicitation dodecahedron with the digits of his left tentacle as he whispered a prayer for deliverance.
“We’re at 25c and dropping!” said the ensign with an inflection of optimism. The squeal of structural fatigue was getting quieter.
“Engineering to bridge. Uploading real space re-entry coordinates to the conn. Going to try to come out close to a planet in a nearby solar system. Hang on. It’s gonna be rough ride.”
The ensign at the conn positioned his tentacle over a flashing blue button.
“We’re going to make it,” said the captain as the strange but beautiful blue and white planet rapidly filled the viewscreen. “We’re going to make it.”
The ship emerged into real space a moment too soon and slammed into the planet at relativistic speed. It hit with the force of an asteroid. The ship’s impact crater wouldn’t be discovered by the planet’s inhabitants for 65 million years.
