The Solar Sea Page 5

  O'Connell shook his head. “From what people say, he rarely leaves his estate in California."

  "You'd think he'd take an interest in his highest profile project.” Jefferson inclined his head.

  "They say the old man has never been to the Moon. Maybe he gets space sick."

  "Maybe.... “Jefferson looked out the window. “He must trust this Alonzo quite a bit."

  The shuttle settled onto its landing pad with a gentle thud. The rockets shut off suddenly and the cabin became eerily quiet.

  * * * *

  Myra Lee found herself back at the Oceanographic Institute. Lisa had already read the whale song data into the computer. It was such a jumble that there did not appear to be any way to make sense out of the information. Even so, they hoped the computer's voice recognition software would be able to distinguish each whale's tones and print a plot of the individual songs.

  Staring at the plots displayed on the computer screen, Myra realized she was seeing virtually the same pattern over and over again. With just a little relief, she realized some of the individual variations each whale normally added to its songs did appear in the graphs. Still, those changes were not quite as apparent as they should have been and there were places in the songs where the whales seemed not to allow any variation at all. Myra kept being haunted by Lisa's words about the songs looking like binary encoded messages.

  She folded her hands while looking at the plots and wondered if the phenomenon she observed was limited to whales in the Frederick Sound area or if it were happening worldwide. Opening a new window on her computer, Myra fired off three email messages. One went to her graduate advisor, Dr. Stirling Cristof, who studied humpback whales out of San Francisco. Another went to a cetacean biologist in Hawaii who studied Right Whales. The final message went to a Wood's Hole biologist who worked with Spermaceti Whales.

  Within minutes, Stirling Cristof's face appeared on the computer screen. He was requesting a video chat. “Hi, Myra, got a moment?"

  With a keystroke, she was in touch with the wiry, sharp-eyed man. “I always have time. Did you get my message?"

  "I did. I have to say, I've been thinking about calling or sending a note for some time now."

  "Oh? Why so?” Myra leaned toward the computer monitor.

  "Having to do with the subject of your email. The whales down here have changed their songs as well, and just as radically. It's downright bizarre. Unfortunately, I wasn't out to sea when it happened, but I just received a disk from one of my students who got in last night.” Stirling rubbed the bridge of his hawk-like nose.

  Myra twirled the end of her hair in her fingers. “Do you have any idea what it means?"

  "None at all. Your guess is as good as mine."

  "There's got to be a good explanation,” said Myra. “But I can't get over how much the songs look like binary code.” She blushed a bit, embarrassed about the observation. “You probably think I'm over-interpreting the data."

  Cristof was silent for a time, as though thinking. “You may be onto something."

  Myra snorted a laugh. “Get real, Stir! I called you so I could find an alternative explanation, not have you reinforce my delusions!"

  "No, really. What if whales have figured out a way to talk to humans? Binary encoded messages travel through the atmosphere—and through the water—all the time. There are radio signals to submarines, wireless computer communications, all kinds of signals the whales could, in theory, hear or feel in some way."

  "Okay, let's say I'm not delusional.” Myra sat back and folded her arms. “Why now? Why after all these years? Why speak in code at all? It's not like whales haven't heard English or other languages."

  "True, but maybe it's the language that makes sense to them. Or maybe the message isn't meant for humans."

  Myra laughed, incredulous. “If it's not meant for humans, who is it meant for?"

  "Ask the whales,” said Cristof with a wry grin.

  "Thanks a lot."

  "Seriously, I have a friend who's a philologist at Oxford University. I'll put you in touch with her. Now that you have identified some definite patterns in the whale song, maybe she can help you interpret what you're hearing."

  "If it's binary code, wouldn't I need a computer expert rather than an expert in languages?” Myra inclined her head.

  "Binary's a language.... It's just a mathematical one. In many ways, that makes it easier to sort out.” Cristof shrugged.

  "Stir, this feels like a wild goose chase to me.” Myra leaned forward and peered into the screen.

  "Are there any other geese to chase?"

  Myra sighed and shook her head. “That's the problem. I can't think of any."

  "Well, keep thinking,” said Stir. “Philologists and language experts have looked at whale songs before and come back with nothing. It'll probably happen again. I just think it's worth asking again in light of the new data."

  Myra sat back and closed her eyes for a moment. She had sent the email to her former advisor because she trusted him implicitly. “It's worth a shot, I suppose.” She sighed and opened her eyes. “Send me the info."

  * * * *

  John O'Connell led Jonathan Jefferson from the shuttle through a series of corridors. Jefferson couldn't help but be impressed by the decor. Martin-Intelsoft's facility was very sterile with white corridors connecting large manufacturing chambers and small, utilitarian sleeping quarters. Quinn Corp clearly put more effort into making their facility a comfortable living space. Liquid crystals had been set into the walls creating the effect of living, moving murals.

  In some places, there were scenes of forests back on Earth. In other places, the murals were more imaginative, scenes from classic movies or even fantasy scenes with dragons flying high over dramatic mountain ranges. Once again, an uneasy feeling washed over the one-time astronaut. Even though he had caught just a mere glimpse of the Aristarchus, he was nearly ready to give up his cubicle on Earth to work for the competition.

  O'Connell led Jefferson to a door and sounded the buzzer.

  "Come in,” called a voice from within.

  The two entered the small office together. A thin, lanky man sat behind a desk, typing at a computer. He was much younger than Jefferson expected and he suddenly felt self-conscious about his own gray hair and stomach that stuck further over his belt than he'd like. The lanky young man looked up with a broad smile. “Ah, Colonel Jefferson, pleased to meet you face to face, at last.” He stood slowly, then stepped around the desk. “I'm Alonzo, Pilot Manager of the Aristarchus.” He reached out and shook Jefferson's hand, then indicated a seat.

  "Pilot, if you don't need me anymore, I need to continue checking that solar flux data from last week,” said O'Connell as Jefferson took a seat in a surprisingly comfortable metal chair.

  "Go right ahead, Neb,” said Alonzo. “Sorry to pull you from that.” He looked to Jefferson. “Though this is a big facility, the Aristarchus project itself is rather short handed. We're trying to fix that as quickly as we can, though."

  "Neb?” Jefferson eyed John O'Connell.

  "Oh...” he said as though caught off-guard. “It's my old college nickname. I'm from Nebraska. They used to call me Nebraska John...."

  "You mean like Kansas Jim in those movies from the ‘50s?” Jefferson's lip curled upwards. “Those were great! Do you have a fedora?"

  "I used to.” O'Connell grinned sheepishly. “Anyway, Neb's short for Nebraska.” With that, he waved and left Jefferson and the pilot alone to talk.

  Jefferson turned to face his host. “They call you Pilot?"

  "Sorry, like I said, we're a bit short handed on the project. There are only fifteen of us so far. We get familiar with each other rather quickly,” explained Alonzo. “Pilot's kind of a nickname, but I like it. I've never been all that comfortable with my given name."

  "I hope I'm not being rude, but you look awfully young to be in charge of this project.” Jefferson leaned forward. “Over at Martin, we know a lot of Quinn engi
neers, but your name only started appearing regularly with this project. Is there a senior engineer in charge?"

  Pilot looked down at the desk for a moment, then looked up with an amused smirk. “I'm older than I look and—if you're worried—those senior engineers have been checking my work. I've even been checking in daily with Old Man Quinn himself."

  "Rumor has it that the plans for the ship were originally drawn up by Quinn's son Thomas. Some people say this project is being done to indulge the boy."

  Alonzo's face fell just a bit at the suggestion, then quickly brightened again. “Does it matter what the motivation for the mission is as long as the design is sound?"

  "It matters if I'm putting my life on the line."

  "Biochemicals,” said Alonzo. “Saturn's moon Titan is teeming with organic compounds. Harvesting them will be a gold mine for our pharmaceutical division."

  "You'll need a good biology team,” said Jefferson. “Anyone I know?"

  "We're looking for people with just the right qualifications.” Pilot sat back. “Colonel Jefferson, you came here to learn more about the Aristarchus. I think I should give you a tour."

  "I'd like that.” Jefferson brimmed with questions, but assumed he'd have the opportunity to ask more, later.

  Without saying anything further, Pilot stood and led Jefferson back down the corridor. At a junction, they turned left and Pilot stepped into a small glassed-in room that looked out over a vast enclosed space. “I present the heart of the Aristarchus.” Pilot held his hand out toward the window and beamed like a proud parent.

  Sitting on the floor, surrounded by scaffoldings was a great silver spheroid. Jefferson was reminded of photos he'd seen of the very first machine humans had launched into Earth's orbit—the Sputnik. This spheroid was much bigger than the old Soviet satellite and somewhat elongated—similar to a pill shape. Where Sputnik was the size of a basketball, the silver spheroid that Jefferson saw seemed to be about the diameter of a football field, about ten times the size of the craft he'd traveled to Mars aboard. “Would you like to see inside?” asked Pilot.

  "I would love to,” said Jefferson.

  Pilot stepped back into the corridor and around to a gangplank that led into the silver spheroid.

  * * * *

  Captain Natalie Freeman was led into the oval office. Her one-time ally Oscar Van der Wald sat behind the desk, looking stern. Sitting in one of the high-backed chairs flanking the desk was a Latino woman the captain did not recognize. “Captain Freeman, reporting as ordered, sir.” She snapped a salute as the doors closed behind her.

  The president waved at a chair. “There's no need for that,” he said dismissively. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the other woman in the room. “Captain Freeman, I'd like you to meet Secretary Aguilar, Department of Energy."

  Natalie reached over and shook Diana's hand, then took a seat in the other high-backed chair. Seeing Diana Aguilar's discomfort in the chair, Natalie was glad women's dress uniforms had been changed so they included pants rather than skirts. Her only real challenge was sitting such that the hilt of her dress-uniform sword didn't tear the expensive fabric of the chair.

  "Captain Freeman,” began the president, “we have a proposition for you. Have you heard of the Aristarchus project?"

  Natalie nodded slowly.

  "We're concerned about the mission proceeding without an observer from NASA aboard.” Aguilar leaned forward.

  "NASA was disbanded eight years ago,” said Natalie, warily.

  "It's just been reinstated,” said the president. He pointed to a paper on his desk. “The film crews just left."

  Diana Aguilar stood and offered Natalie Freeman her hand. “Congratulations, Captain Freeman, we've decided to appoint you as first administrator of the new NASA."

  Natalie's mouth dropped open as she stood and first took Diana's hand followed by the president's. “So what exactly does this entail?” asked Natalie, still afraid she was being punished for failing in her negotiations with the Iraqi Prime Minister.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 6

  A New Age

  Pilot led Jonathan Jefferson down a sloping gangway into the great spheroid—the fuselage of the Aristarchus. They entered through an open airlock door near the middle of the craft. Even though gravity on the Moon was only one-sixth that of the Earth, the ship's floor seemed to slope away at a dangerous angle both up and away from the airlock and down toward the ground. Pilot indicated a set of handholds.

  "Of course, the ship will be rotating in flight, so down will be toward the outer walls once we're underway,” explained Pilot. “The ship is designed with that in mind."

  "What if gravity fails?” asked Jefferson.

  "That's like asking ‘what if the sun turns off?'” Pilot gave a self-satisfied smile. “Even so, our engineers have built in safety contingencies.” He tugged on the handhold for emphasis, then made his way downslope to the next room.

  Passing through the door, they found a motor that stood about as tall as Pilot, clamped to a set of rails on the floor. Tool kits were mounted to the room's walls. “This is one of the steerage rooms,” explained Pilot. “There are ten of these rooms. The motors will adjust the trim of the sails giving us the ability to maximize speed and adjust course."

  "What happens if one of the motors breaks down?” Jefferson looked for a way to bring in a backup motor.

  Pilot pointed to the rails. “The motor can be unclamped and rolled away, allowing the crew to turn the sail by hand.” He knelt down next to the motor and pointed out marks on the floor. “We can measure the angle of the sails with these marks. As such, the Aristarchus may be the first space vessel in human history that does not require computers for in-flight operations."

  "A spaceship that can be flown manually?” Jefferson's eyes went wide. “That's almost completely unheard of.” He knelt down next to Pilot and looked at the markings on the floor. The markings were inlaid brass like one might find on an old-fashioned sailing ship.

  "The humans aboard this ship will have more control than even the Mercury astronauts who'd asked for joysticks, so they could fly their ship like an airplane."

  "That motor looks heavy.” Jefferson stood, then carefully grabbed handholds and fell-stepped around the unit. “How many people would it take to disconnect and move it in the event of an emergency?"

  "One.” Pilot grinned as Jefferson narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out how one person could move the motor. “In flight with full gravity, the motor will weigh about 500 pounds. However, it's so carefully balanced that one person can unclamp the motor and move it back. The sails will also have weight because of the rotation, but there's a gearing system that allows one person to unlock the sail and move it by hand."

  "I presume that's a worst case scenario.” Jefferson tried to imagine coordinating ten people turning sails by hand.

  "Indeed it is.” Pilot stood and moved over to the wall and grabbed a capped pipe. He dropped the hinged lid and blew in. “But we even have an old fashioned comm system in the event that electronic communications break down.” With that, he moved downslope and grabbed onto a ladder mounted on the wall and climbed toward the center of the sphere. Opening a hatch in the ceiling of the steerage room, he disappeared. Jefferson grabbed onto the ladder and followed him up through a tube.

  Jefferson emerged from the tube at one end of a brightly lit, octagonal room. Plastic consoles faced five of the eight walls. A supply cabinet took up the back wall. In front of it was a small worktable. There were doors in the other two walls as well as two ladders, one leading up and the other down. At the center of the room was a semi-circular console with a chair in the middle.

  "This is the command and control room or C-and-C for short.” Pilot pointed to the chair in the center. “That's where the captain sits. He can monitor all ship's operations from there."

  "In other words, that's your station,” said Jefferson, knowingly.

  "Hardly,” said Pilot,
seemingly taken aback. He pointed to one of the five consoles lining the walls of the room. “When I'm here, I'll sit there, at the pilot's station.” He pointed out each of the other stations in turn. “Communications and biosciences, life support, external sensors, and astrosciences—that's Neb O'Connell's station—and sail and thruster control."

  "When you're here?” The colonel inclined his head. “This would seem to be the nerve center of the ship. Wouldn't you be on duty here most of the time?"

  "The central hub of the ship—the null gravity core—has windows that look out each side. There are telescopes, sextants, and other navigational aides installed in the hub. If the navigational computer goes down, we'll still be able to steer the ship from there."

  "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a Luddite, Mr. Alonzo,” declared Jefferson. “It sounds like you don't trust computers at all."

  Pilot grinned. “I think most technicians and engineers are Luddites at heart. Computers are just tools and like all tools, they can fail. Even so, there is one computer that's all-but vital.” He pointed to the station he'd called ‘life support.’ “We have numerous backup systems to power the lights, the food service units, and air supply, but if we lost the life support computer, we'd have to abandon the mission and return to Earth as fast as we could. Well as this ship is designed, we frail humans just couldn't sit out in space in a round metal can and keep ourselves alive for an extended time without the computer."

  The colonel looked around at the command and control room, impressed. “Okay, if you're not going to occupy the command chair, who will?"

  "You, of course,” said Pilot. “You're one of the planet's most experienced astronauts. I want you to make sure we make it to Saturn in one piece and get back home."

  Jefferson caught his breath. “Why me? Why not one of the other astronauts that was aboard Ares II?" Even as he asked the question, he carefully stepped to the command console in the center of the room and looked it over, already getting acquainted with it as though he knew for a fact he would be sitting there for the next few years.