( Read the previous episodes of Journey to Centauri.) |
Journey to Centauri : Episode 29 "Commander Zakharov." Doctor Yang waited as the scientist studied his console, the muscles of his back a study in disinterest. "Commander Zakharov, please. We need your knowledge here." He turned, and despite the stillness of his posture annoyance flared in his eyes. "Yes, Commander. What do you require of me?" "We need an update on the Unity’s status." "You are not the Captain." "I am the Executive Officer. While the Captain is in quarters, I ask that you register your status report so that we all know whether to cash in our 777-Cs." Zakharov smiled. "Our retirement funds are ashes, along with the rest of Earth." "We don’t know that," said a quiet voice. Yang looked over to see Miriam, hovering at the perimeter of the command center. "We don’t know it for sure." "I believe we all can guess the fate of Earth," said Zakharov. Pravin Lal, working a medical console, turned to stare at him thoughtfully. "Guess, perhaps," said Miriam. "But I thought you respected proof." "I have little time for status reports or for these debates." "True, I am sure, " said Yang, "but perhaps if you give us the status report we will understand just how little time you have." Zakharov nodded tersely. "Very well. I will give you both." His fingers flashed on his touchpanel, and three screens flickered and reconfigured themselves into a schematic configuration. A simple diagram of a ship appeared. With a couple of taps, Zakharov made the wireframe lines as thick as crayon marks. "As we know, the Unity was designed to make it to Planet…barely." "Explain," said Miriam in a high clear voice. Yang turned to give her a disapproving look, but Miriam stayed focused on Zakharov. Lal, too, seemed mesmerized by the scientist’s words. Zakharov continued. "The amount of fuel it took to get us here, is astronomical. Literally!" He slammed one long bony finger into the surface of his touchpanel. "Here and here…in the huge bins on either side of the cryobays is the fuel that got us here. It is carried through delivery mechanisms into this chamber, here, where the fusion reactions take place that power the ship forward. The power from the reactions…" "I believe we know all this," murmured Yang, but Zakharov did not stop. "The power from the reactions is carried down this shaft through these containment rings, right through the center of the eight cryobays, and impacts here, on this plate, which absorbs the shock and propels us forward. This happens many times each second!" He paused for effect, his eyes gleaming with thoughts of force and precision. "Over and over again a burst of energy that rivals an atomic weapon travels through the containment rings, only meters from the edge of the cryobays, and propels us forward. This went on for over six years, accelerating us in the near frictionless environment of space to a coasting speed, and then, halfway through the journey, a carefully placed retro rocket fired, and the entire Unity turned, so that its thrusters faced forward." Miriam watched him intently. Lal and Yang looked annoyed. "Then the fusion drive fired again, again bursts like the sun, and so slowed us down for another 20 years, stopping us precisely here, at Chiron. At least that was the theory. And to pull that off! It is…" "Amazing. Impressive," said Yang. "It is…virtually…impossible. Do you see?" "What do you mean?" asked Deirdre Skye, who had walked in from the observation room and now listened from a chair beneath a small round ceiling lamp. Zakharov looked at her, caught up in the momentum of his own thoughts. "To freeze us all, leave us in these crypts, send us into space across light years, powered by our own manufactured sun...." He began pacing, cursing in Russian. "I see," said Deirdre, and she ran one hand through her dark hair. "It is impossible. The odds that we could make it…" "What are you saying here?" asked Miriam, eyes narrowed, reading them all carefully. "Skye, please, share your thoughts." "You remember Earth, "Deirdre said. "The wars. The chaos. The…destruction." "I remember holding the children of my enemies, watching the hollows that used to be eyes," said Lal quietly. "Yes…the chaos." "Governments rising and falling. Every piece of this ship was built by a new regime, practically. The launch…" "Rushed." said Pravin suddenly. "They didn’t think…" "They didn’t think we’d make it!" finished Deirdre. "It was a blind hope, a flare shot against the darkness of a night at sea. Why?" "They started building it, why not finish?" said Yang. "Perhaps it is that simple." "No," said Miriam. "It’s more. It’s hope." Zakharov shook his head. "Yes," persisted Deirdre. "The Earth was dying. All of us knew it. But if they…if the people of Earth could live long enough…at least long enough to see the flash of light as we shot out of orbit. Hope." "Or the political gain of another twisted regime," said Zakharov. "What does that matter?" asked Lal. "To the people of that regime…to see the Unity catapult itself into the night sky…and to think, in the pain, the poverty, the death and sickness all around, that perhaps, in forty years time...hope. For humanity." "They are all dead now, for certain," cut in Zakharov. "Don’t make this too maudlin." "Most are dead one way or the other, by age or violence," said Miriam. "Humanity still survives. God certainly does." "So they fired us off, a wild firecracker into the sky, and they hoped," said Deirdre. "Where does that leave us?" "If we do not fix the ship, they were right," said Zakharov. "We are not making it." "But we might," said Deirdre. "We still have the hope. We are the last. Agreed?" "Yes," said Miriam. "Most likely, we are the last."
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