time growing up, but he wondered if this whole expedition was unfolding more like a novel, and would be blamed on one person, one character, the guy in charge: him. Maybe you got a happy childhood and then an unhappy adulthood, and that’s how novels worked.
His mother had made it happy. His father was away at one war or another while he grew up, and when he was home seemed absorbed by sports and alcohol. But that didn’t include playing catch with Redwing or coming to his football games. His mother had given him a birthday gift of a telescope and microscope, and a big chemistry set. He bought chemical supplies by selling gunpowder and other pyrotechnics to the local kids. So science had been in his bones from the time he could read. But there were other currents in the mix. He bought a bicycle and a better telescope with gambling cash. His mother, who was a bridge Grand Master, always played penny-ante poker with Redwing while they waited in the car for his music lessons to start. He then applied what she had taught him to the neighborhood kids. They didn’t know how to count cards or compute probabilities from that. They also paid to see him blow something up or dissect some poor animal as a bio experiment. He was without principle but soon had enough principal to advance. A university career and PhD led to space, where he really wanted to go. But this far ?…
Maybe, considering a “fault tree” analysis of his life, having a father who never gave him much time, Redwing figured he was socially unhappy enough to satisfy Hemingway. But finding fault wasn’t like solving a problem, was it?
He had been gaining belly weight in these long months skimming along the Bowl structure. Onboard physio analysis said cortisol was the culprit, a steroid hormone prompted by the body’s “fight or flight” response to stress. It had bloated him, listening to the plight of his teams fleeing aliens, and damn near nothing he could do to help.
He paused outside the bridge, straightened his uniform, and went in with his shoulders straight.
“Cap’n on bridge,” Ayaan Ali said crisply. Unnecessary, but it set the tone. Going into battle, if that’s what this was, had a way of quickening the heart.
“We’re skimming as close as we can to the Bowl rim,” Ayaan Ali said. “Having thruster problems.”
Redwing made a show of staying on his feet, taking in the screens, not pacing. “Seems like cutting it pretty near.”
Karl Lebanon, neatly turned out with his general technology officer uniform cleaned and creases stiff, said, “That magneto grip problem is back, big-time. Sir.”
Redwing gave him a nod. “Hand-manage it. Stay with the scoop Artilect all the time, ride it.”
“Yes, sir. It knows what’s up, is running full complement.”
“Stations,” Redwing said quietly. Old trick: speak softly, make them stay sharp to hear.
He didn’t want to call out of the cold sleep enough people to crew this any better, much less to populate some kind of a big landing expedition. Defrosting and training them would burn time and labor. Even after the reawakened came up to speed, at Glory system in some far future, the whole crew would all have to triple up on a hot hammock schedule, skimpy rations, and shower once a week. Under such stress, how could they perform? He didn’t want to find out. Not yet, anyway.
SunSeeker had five crew defrosted, including Captain Redwing. Beth’s remaining four would make nine. If he had the chance to rescue Cliff’s team, they’d be fourteen aboard. A bit crowded, but they could do it.
“Coming up, sir.” Ayaan Ali stared intently at the screens. “Rim looks the same, but that big cannon thing is swiveling to track us.”
“We’re in that slot?”
“See those walls?” Below he saw where the atmosphere screen was tied down. There was a rim zone with big constructions dotted across it, out in the vacuum. Ayaan had found a slot between two of them that kept below the cannon
His mother had made it happy. His father was away at one war or another while he grew up, and when he was home seemed absorbed by sports and alcohol. But that didn’t include playing catch with Redwing or coming to his football games. His mother had given him a birthday gift of a telescope and microscope, and a big chemistry set. He bought chemical supplies by selling gunpowder and other pyrotechnics to the local kids. So science had been in his bones from the time he could read. But there were other currents in the mix. He bought a bicycle and a better telescope with gambling cash. His mother, who was a bridge Grand Master, always played penny-ante poker with Redwing while they waited in the car for his music lessons to start. He then applied what she had taught him to the neighborhood kids. They didn’t know how to count cards or compute probabilities from that. They also paid to see him blow something up or dissect some poor animal as a bio experiment. He was without principle but soon had enough principal to advance. A university career and PhD led to space, where he really wanted to go. But this far ?…
Maybe, considering a “fault tree” analysis of his life, having a father who never gave him much time, Redwing figured he was socially unhappy enough to satisfy Hemingway. But finding fault wasn’t like solving a problem, was it?
He had been gaining belly weight in these long months skimming along the Bowl structure. Onboard physio analysis said cortisol was the culprit, a steroid hormone prompted by the body’s “fight or flight” response to stress. It had bloated him, listening to the plight of his teams fleeing aliens, and damn near nothing he could do to help.
He paused outside the bridge, straightened his uniform, and went in with his shoulders straight.
“Cap’n on bridge,” Ayaan Ali said crisply. Unnecessary, but it set the tone. Going into battle, if that’s what this was, had a way of quickening the heart.
“We’re skimming as close as we can to the Bowl rim,” Ayaan Ali said. “Having thruster problems.”
Redwing made a show of staying on his feet, taking in the screens, not pacing. “Seems like cutting it pretty near.”
Karl Lebanon, neatly turned out with his general technology officer uniform cleaned and creases stiff, said, “That magneto grip problem is back, big-time. Sir.”
Redwing gave him a nod. “Hand-manage it. Stay with the scoop Artilect all the time, ride it.”
“Yes, sir. It knows what’s up, is running full complement.”
“Stations,” Redwing said quietly. Old trick: speak softly, make them stay sharp to hear.
He didn’t want to call out of the cold sleep enough people to crew this any better, much less to populate some kind of a big landing expedition. Defrosting and training them would burn time and labor. Even after the reawakened came up to speed, at Glory system in some far future, the whole crew would all have to triple up on a hot hammock schedule, skimpy rations, and shower once a week. Under such stress, how could they perform? He didn’t want to find out. Not yet, anyway.
SunSeeker had five crew defrosted, including Captain Redwing. Beth’s remaining four would make nine. If he had the chance to rescue Cliff’s team, they’d be fourteen aboard. A bit crowded, but they could do it.
“Coming up, sir.” Ayaan Ali stared intently at the screens. “Rim looks the same, but that big cannon thing is swiveling to track us.”
“We’re in that slot?”
“See those walls?” Below he saw where the atmosphere screen was tied down. There was a rim zone with big constructions dotted across it, out in the vacuum. Ayaan had found a slot between two of them that kept below the cannon
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