To Earth and Back
The Mission
William Boardman
To Earth and Back
The Mission
William Boardman
Published by William Boardman
Copyright© 2016 William Boardman
All rights reserved.
Cover by William Boardman and Christine Leonardi
To Earth and Back is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Conventions
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgements
Cited Works
About the Author
For Nora—My Inspiration
Conventions
All languages are presented in English. Weights and measures are based on Earth standards. Alien institutions, scientific concepts, medical treatments, and plant and animal life are described in terms commonly understood on Earth. References to advanced technology and space travel are based on modern theory and ongoing scientific research. Representations of Earth’s geography are reasonably accurate, and historical references are closely aligned with real-world events.
Some narrative contains descriptions of visual display sequences. Each sequence starting point is indicated by (> > >) and its ending point by (# # #).
Prologue
One hundred billion stars populate our galaxy. Of their many planets and moons, our best minds and most sophisticated technology estimate 25,000 might support life. No doubt, many of these host only the simplest of life forms. Intelligent life is another matter. Then there is the consideration of time. Intelligent life may exist on a planet for 100,000 years without a hint of technological advancement. Indeed, even if such progress does occur, it may only span a few hundred years, as technology, while exciting in concept, brings with it the potential for self-destruction. Considering the variables and potential threats, the odds of two habitable worlds existing within traveling distance of each other are infinitesimally small. That two such worlds would produce technological civilizations at the same time goes beyond odds or coincidence.
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Tau Ceti is a star not unlike our Sun, located near the center of the constellation Cetus. It boasts five planets, one of which revolves around the star at a distance similar to our planet Venus. Because Tau Ceti’s mass is 80 percent that of our Sun, and its radiation and brightness are only 55 percent by comparison, this planet (Portho) is right in the middle of the habitable zone. At five times Earth’s size, it has two moons, Marcova and Delda. Though Portho and its outer moon Delda are completely barren, Marcova, the inner moon, is a lush world of great beauty, teeming with life. Its mass is 20 percent greater than Earth’s, with water covering two-thirds of its surface. Three large and seven lesser continents make up its land masses. The inhabitants are physically, mentally, and emotionally identical to those of Earth, except in stature, averaging six inches taller in their respective genders.
Human life existed on Marcova for tens of thousands of years before the first stirrings of progress. It started with the creation of simple tools. During the 5,000 years that followed, progress was slow but steady. This period gave way to rapid industrialization. Nations became increasingly adept at waging war and soon ushered in the nuclear age. Much like Earth, arsenals grew at a menacing pace. Nations edged perilously close to conflict, at one point narrowly avoiding mutual annihilation. Following this scare, cooler minds pressed for binding treaties, and before long, national conflicts were a thing of the past.
The next 800 years brought remarkable change, with noteworthy advances in transportation, manufacturing, communication, and digital integration. Space travel began.
Medical and social fields also advanced. Genetic research virtually transformed the human condition. With consent of the population, scientists altered genes to remove violent tendencies, extend life expectancy, and eliminate most cancers and disease.
The civilization established a one-world order: one nation, one language. With cultural diversity greater than that of Earth, converting everyone to a common dialect should have been a tall order. However, a neurotranslation device in the form of a miniature cranial implant already existed, enabling its host to understand and speak any known language. Adults without the device underwent the simple medical procedure and taught the language to the children. After one generation, the implants were no longer needed.
The language barrier was only a minor hurdle compared to what came later. With an increased life expectancy of 200 years, population growth eventually outpaced food production. The initial consensus of the Marcovan people was to limit the birth rate to one child per family. Later, when the population stabilized, this increased to two.
Soon, industrial byproducts began to degrade the air, land, and oceans. Breakthroughs came in water purification, biology, and power production. However, carbon dioxide continued to build in the atmosphere. Decades passed without a resolution, resulting in temperature extremes, violent weather, and vast devastation. The answer finally came in the form of a genetically engineered tree. The tree stood 12 feet high with a full canopy of bright green leaves. The leaf structure resembled a bellows, contracting at night to exchange carbon dioxide for oxygen at a normal rate (carbon cycle). However, in daylight, the leaves expanded to 10 times their normal surface area with a corresponding increase in the carbon cycle.
Having solved most threats to humanity, the civilization surged forward. Breakthroughs came in every area of human endeavor. The population became fascinated with aeronautics and space travel, investing great energy and resources.
Within a century, they made multiple visits to Marcova’s sister moon, bringing back a wide variety of geological samples. One rather unremarkable clay-like specimen passed from lab to lab without a significant finding until an overworked electrical engineer finally unlocked its secret. Half-asleep and leaning against her test bench, she applied a small positive charge to assess the sample’s conductivity. The result was immediate and startling. As she applied the charge, the sample’s mass increased exponentially, causing the heavy metal workbench to buckle and collapse.
Further tests showed the specimen’s mass varied directly with the positive charge. This discovery created great excitement, but nothing compared with the furor that erupted when the charge was reversed. As the negative charge increased, the sample’s mass dropped to zero and quickly headed into the mysterious realm of negative mass, causing the sample to shoot straight up off the bench and become lodged in the ceiling.
Word of this new element (Gravium) spread like wildfire. Mining expeditions to Delda increased, and within a few decades, large amounts of the substance were in use on Marcova.
Gravium was a world-changer. Wherever employed: manufacturing, warehousing, transportation, or any other endeavor, it was a marvel to behold. Sandwiched between two rigid metal plates with the appropriate charge applied, gravium easily levitated heavy loads. The substance offered a two-fold benefit for space travel: Aeronautical engineers employed it as spacecraft underplating, applying a negative charge combined with engine thrust to achieve orbit, and then, once in orbit, they reversed the charge to increase mass, thus providing artificial gravity for the crew.
Marcova’s sister moon provided one other element of note: Cyclonium. In early tests employing particle beam radiation, scientists found they could alter the atomic structure of the silvery metal to mimic several other elements. Eventually, this list of elements grew to include every element on their Periodic Table. Experts across the scientific community worked to exploit cyclonium’s unique capabilities, ultimately resulting in the creation of the Cyclic.
In its simplest form, the cyclic was a multi-stage replication device, capable of converting cyclonium into any known element or combination of elements. Incorporating 3D modeling, researchers created simple objects: metal tools, machine parts, and construction materials. Over time, cyclic capabilities continued to expand, and eventually anything from a glass of water to sophisticated technical components were replicated. The only limiting factors were the size of the object to be copied, the amount of cyclonium on hand, and the size of the cyclic’s output chamber.
To the Marcovan’s great disappointment, the cyclic was unable to reproduce even the simplest of life-forms.
Gravium lifting platforms allowed for large-scale mining of both gravium and cyclonium, producing massive supplies of both elements and transforming the entire manufacturing process. Further enhancements included a recycling capability, making cyclonium the perfect renewable resource. The quality of life on Marcova took a marked leap forward as cyclic technology became an essential part of every household.
Six thousand years had passed since the creation of the first rudimentary tools, and although ventures into space were commonplace and space-based research stations plentiful, conventional propulsion methods confined space travel to Marcova, Delda, and the mother planet, Portho.
One of many extraterrestrial pursuits involved the construction of a mammoth space telescope, built for a single purpose: the discovery of life beyond their solar system. Confining their search to the twenty-five nearest stars, astronomers had worked their way through two-thirds of the candidates when they pointed the massive mirrored array at our Sun, twelve light-years away. Following the initial assessment, all interest soon focused on one planet, which exhibited spectral characteristics similar to Marcova and orbited well within the habitable zone.
Upon completion of this project, a report was forwarded to the Marcovan Space Council. And while the report generated great excitement among the leadership, its findings also underscored one obvious deficiency—the inability to achieve the enormous speed necessary for interstellar travel.
Challenged but undaunted, the council tasked their best propulsion scientists to find an answer. The effort began with the reworking of old concepts. One spacecraft after another was assembled and tested above Marcova. Among the first, the solar sail concept consisted of a spacecraft tethered to a giant sail made of ultra-thin mirrors. The hope was that solar radiation pressure from Tau Ceti and other stars would eventually propel the craft forward with sufficient velocity to meet their needs. But, this was not to be. After several tests, mathematicians estimated the trip to Earth would take nine-thousand years.
Theories concerning black holes and other space-time bridges sparked some debate, but were abandoned when an extensive search of the solar system revealed no viable entities.
The most plausible theory called for enclosing the spacecraft in a distortion (energy) envelope. Negative mass combined with antimatter would create the envelope, causing the space in front of the ship to contract and the space behind to expand. The result: a very quick acceleration to light speed and beyond. A source for negative mass already existed in the form of gravium. In addition, scientists had created small quantities of antimatter plasma in the laboratory. The problem involved creating enough plasma to initiate the desired reaction. This lead to the construction of a specialized nuclear test facility.
Thirty years and a multitude of failures later, a young prodigy, fresh out of school, proposed a theory—build a fusion reactor to create antimatter, then force the resulting plasma through an intricate tubular network in the ship’s hull, thus producing the field of antimatter needed to create the distortion envelope.
The reactor took four years to construct and three more years of exhaustive tests before the research team was ready for a field trial.
Design and construction of the prototype spacecraft took another 15 years, thus allowing additional time for engineering refinements on the reactor.
The ship was almond-shaped, with the aft wider than the front: 250 feet long, 125 feet wide, and 50 feet from top to bottom. The entire aft portion of the ship was dedicated to large conventional ion thrusters, intended for sub-light speed. A number of smaller radial thrusters, installed in key locations on the hull, provided maneuvering capability.
Sandwiched between the inner and outer hull was a complex matrix of glass-like tubing. Plasma from the fusion reactor flowing through this tubing would produce the antimatter needed for the negative mass/antimatter reaction. The ship’s gravium-lined underplating and outer edges were on separate circuits. The idea was to use the underplating for artificial gravity and the outer edges of the ship for the small amount of negative mass needed to initiate, shape, and control the distortion envelope around the hull.
The plan called for a ship’s complement of 55 crewmembers, which senior staff reduced to 15 for the trial run.
When the big day finally arrived, a shuttle ferried the crew up to the ship. Within an hour, the two reactors were online, and the test crew energized the remainder of the ship’s systems. There was excitement. There was nervousness. There was fear. There was hope of a new reality. With everyone strapped in, the captain gave the order to engage the sub-light thrusters.
A large multi-image display extended across the front of the ship’s bridge, providing a variety of external views for the crew. But for now, all eyes were on instrumentation.
The ship’s initial movement was barely noticeable. One of the engineers began to call out changes in velocity—“We’re away—50 knots—100, 200—acceleration rate now 1 g and holding—400, 700, 1,000 knots.”
At 15 minutes into the mission and traveling at nearly 10,000 knots, the captain inquired about the status of the plasma field.
The nuclear engineer answered, “The field is at 100 percent.”
“Gentlemen, if you can, I want you to watch Marcova on the main display,” the captain said as he turned back to the helmsman. “Let’s bring the negative mass up to 10 percent and see what she’ll do. Take it slow.”
With the first movement of the light-speed throttle, the conventional thrusters disengaged.
Every person on board understood distortion envelope theory—how things were “supposed” to work. Even so, doubts and concerns remained. The possibility of crushing g-forces occupied most minds. However, to everyone’s amazement, all they noticed was the 1 g acceleration from the conventional thrusters had ceased, and Marcova was be
coming noticeably smaller on the main display. The ship was moving at incredible speed, yet they felt no sensation whatsoever.
The propulsion engineer struggled to keep pace with the ship’s velocity. “Accelerating!” he called out. “Point one light speed—point three—point five.” The crew was dumbfounded. “Point eight—point eight-five...holding steady at point eight-seven.”
“That’s 10 percent,” added the helmsman.
Marcova receded quickly into the distance.
“Very well,” the captain said. “Hold it there.”
An exuberant discussion ensued. All systems were functioning properly. With no adverse physiological effects, they were moving at over three quarters the speed of light and only using 10 percent throttle.
Two hours passed as the crew reviewed data and checked their systems. After some dialogue, they decided to push the speed a little further before slowing to a stop and ending the outbound leg.
At the captain’s direction, the helmsman eased the throttle forward to 20 percent. The ship pushed right through the light barrier and kept going, finally settling at 1.7 light-speed. The crew took time to consolidate data.
“Okay gentlemen,” the captain said. “Let’s strap in.” He allowed them a moment, then gave the order to initiate auto-braking.
The helmsman slowly reduced the throttle to zero and fired maneuvering thrusters to point the ship in the opposite direction. Once reoriented, the ship was still traveling at the same speed, but in reverse. The helmsman touched an icon on his console, and the light-speed throttle slowly moved forward to 5 percent. A smooth reduction in speed registered on his display, and the throttle once again began to decrease. Within minutes, their speed had reduced by half. The throttle continued its decrease until the ship slowed enough for conventional thrusters to take over. Fifteen minutes later, the ship came to a stop.
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Upon their return home, the crew received a hero’s welcome. Space exploration had just taken on an exciting new dimension.
Tests of the prototype “starship” continued for three years. During that time, engineers made several improvements, and the ship reached a number of performance limits; key among these being a maximum velocity of 10.2 light-speed.
Space travel expanded as test crews made visits to every planet in the solar system. Eventually the testing reached a point of diminishing returns. It was time for planning and dreaming.