Sentry

By C F Williams

Travel to an ancient solar system containing the very first worlds to support life. Discover staggering achievements of two opposing races, when both are faced with the unique challenges of war and peace.

After experiencing the very worst of life’s ongoing struggle for supremacy, an embittered faction of Origin’s inhabitants makes a great leap into the unknown, embarking on an exploratory mission to their nearest celestial neighbour, Sentry. The planet is not what it seems though, initiating a conflict which threatens to encompass their entire planet.

Immerse yourself in Origin’s struggle for survival against enemies and friends, in a battle for total physical and mental dominance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C F Williams
• Release date: Aug 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781492193333

C F Williams

Chris Williams lives in Oxford, England, with his wife and three young children.He currently spends his time helping local families achieve their full potential at his Martial Arts Academy, preventing the children and chinchillas from wrecking the house, and writing...when time and energy allows.

Book preview

Part One

Insomnia

Leerah awoke screaming, scrabbling at her head to dispel the nightmare which came frequently. With tears streaming down her face, she frantically groped for a switch by the bed. Upon illuminating the room, she calmed enough to notice a huge tome lying face-down on the bed next to her – the one she had fallen asleep reading.

The Definitive Collection of Batchi Science said the title in elegant gold lettering. Leerah picked it up, more to distance the nightmare’s clutches than to learn. She wiped away her tears and attempted to absorb its text once more:

"In our solar system, maturing approximately five billion years after the universe’s energy-laden beginning, life is thriving, but only upon our own planet of Origin. Our closest planetary neighbour, Sentry, is far older than its siblings. It stumbled upon us by chance while floundering through the universe, and was captured by the gravitational pull of our sun, explaining its opposing orbit to the other bodies within our solar system.

Sentry was named many thousands of years ago by our race, The Batchii, who evolved nearly a billion years after Sentry arrived. Although Origin and Sentry orbit the sun at a reasonably similar distance, we only documented the planet ten thousand years ago, according to our earliest surviving records. Despite having very few intact artefacts from The Dark Years, they show we have yearned to understand the nature of what lies beyond the safety and certainty of our home planet for some time.

Leerah put the book down once more, exhausted. Gradually her eyes closed again, but she left the lights on for fear of the nightmare’s return.

The Briefing

Gen prepared meticulously for his day’s work. Waking only half an hour earlier, he had already washed and dressed in preparation for leaving his plush home gifted to him by the Batchi government. He was about to face all Origin, presenting his militarily-shaven face for transmission into every abode on the planet, endowing him with fame, recognition, and a lifelong quest for adoration.

Gen studied himself for a full minute in the mirror. He turned his healthy blue face this way and that, tracing his canine nose down to a black button snout, admiring his shiny dark-brown eyes and perfect canine teeth. He gently stroked the dense blue fur which remained unshaven across the rest of his body, except for four naturally bald hands, trying to discern the best angle and expression for the cameras. It was especially pleasing that not only would his own race finally find their hero, but so would the inferior Faw, who, from a calamity of evolution, had shed their use of the superior four-handed system of locomotion in exchange for a bipedal adaptation. Was it not sufficient they were a paler shade of silky blue than the race to which he belonged? Somehow, on their own continent of Limi, separated from the batchi continent of Hia by millions of years of tectonic meander, conditions must have become so desperate that two thumbs on each rear hand had fused together, forming a heel. Thus, it had been discovered in the five hundred years since The Batchii encountered The Faw, a delicate hand had became a blunt foot, setting them bolt-upright.

Gen shook off his hatred of The Faw once again, knowing this day would be a truly momentous one. No idiotic peace treaty between the old enemies would hide the fact that batchii were vastly superior, both biologically and technologically. He saw only perfection in the mirror before him, which reflected a two-metre tall, three-long, finely honed alpha-male. Batchii were a much larger version of the domesticated hounds which, millions of years ago, assisted them in The Hunt in exchange for leftover scraps, according to the evolutionary biologists.

Gen’s front and hind arms bulged with the muscles required to pass the most arduous of physical challenges set by the weaker scientists. It would be an incredibly demanding mission – a one-shot deal – and only the best would do, but in Gen’s opinion they had chosen well. His four arms, all with rear-facing elbows, flexed individually in preparation for the soon-to-arrive cameras. He checked his beige captain’s uniform was free of dust one last time, using each of his five-fingered and two-thumbed hands in turn to remove minute detritus. The three bright-blue diamond shapes displaying his rank were perfectly aligned against his spine, starting at the regulation ten centimetres from his thick, muscular neck and ending midway down his body. As was the case for the rest of his uniform, they were also meticulously ironed. Soon, thought Gen, he would have another diamond to add to his illustrious collection. The emblem of his master race (a gold-threaded roundel upon a background of blue) rested on each of his four shoulders. The roundel’s inner design contained at its centre a seated batchi holding the four Great Attributes: Knowledge signified by a book, Prowess by a rifle, Religion by a crowned batchi-shaped god-idol, and Unity by a globe of Origin with the batchi continent of Hia at the fore. The mirror told Gen he was smart, fit, handsome, driven and prepared. He trotted (almost glided) to the door, with his uniform emitting silky-smooth whispers as he went. He arrived at the front door in just a second or two and halted agilely and abruptly before it. Now more confident than ever, he paused and breathed deeply before strutting out into absolute bedlam.

Reporters from all corners of Hia greeted him, although greeted was probably too gracious a term. Each reporter hurled loud and urgent questions in his direction at a phenomenal rate. Those who had not managed to get a good front-row position bobbed up and down behind the clamouring throng like jack-in-the-boxes, taking pictures at the zenith of their leap before disappearing again behind the multitude. The act disgusted Gen; they looked like common Faw when they elevated themselves thus. He was glad his rather unambitious father had nonchalantly suggested over a meagre dinner that Gen make a career for himself in science, rather than follow in his own footsteps as a poorly paid fisherman. Gen often revelled in the fact that his was truly a rags-to-riches story, and why would the entire planet not love that? He was about to answer the most assertive of the reporters, when two sergeants with similarly shaven faces to his trotted up. The nearest of them (much smaller than the other) saluted with his front-right hand and spoke formally.

Sir, the General has requested your presence. The craft is ready and the rest of the team are assembling now.

The rest of the team. mused Gen.

The mission required other military personnel of varying specialisations. First there was Leerah, a female test-pilot, who had flown more dangerous unfinished contraptions than Gen had eaten live dinners. She was very attractive by his standards and, he knew from locker-room talk, by most males’ standards. She was also (most intriguingly of all) still unmarried, leading Gen to decide that hers was a classic case of career before happiness. He did not have that problem though, as his career was his happiness, but it would not have hurt to enjoy a little fun on the side with her. He was angry – no, he checked himself – confused why she wanted to spend more time with a rock-cruncher and biologist than the captain of the mission.

The biologist in question was Erow. Gen had investigated all possible competition in secret, so knew about her impressive but publicly unrecognised work on bio-weapon antidotes during the wars with The Faw. Despite her credentials, Gen could not fathom why a scientist of her obvious but unrelated talents was required. The Batchii had employed very advanced telescopes and remote-analysis techniques to discern Sentry’s nature from afar, but the planet had only reflected their signals back benignly.

Then there was the military scientist named Trav, who was a rather meek geologist. Gen thought that perhaps, despite his crippling lack of confidence, Trav was required. After all, Gen was about to visit a previously unexplored planet, so if someone could prevent him from tragically falling through a wafer-thin outcrop during his soon-to-be-famous flag-planting speech, that would be pretty useful. However, the problem with Trav was that he was rather boring, not to mention unassertive. He was more than happy to bury his head in a microscope when important decisions were being made, but ready to raise a smile and chat inanely (in his own subdued way) to the pretty pilot Leerah. Furthermore she, more often than not, would raise a hand back and engage Trav in conversation. Not-so with Gen though, leaving him to the reluctant conclusion (concerning the fate of those in command) that the riff-raff liked to keep their distance out of fear and respect.

Despite everything though, the only real downside to the mission was that it was based upon a lifeless rock. No cities, no mud huts, not even a basic bonfire. In their place were only silicon and other inanimate elements, meaning the forthcoming mission was merely a stepping-stone for Gen. There would be much finer intergalactic conquests for The Batchii in the future, and all would be led by Major Gen, The People’s Hero. Leerah would soon regret her choice, he decided, as his reputation was about to be indelibly marked in the planetary history books forever. He stirred from his grandiose predictions to address the arriving escorts.

Very well, Sergeant. he said distractedly, forgetting to make eye-contact as he spoke.

He instantly realised his rudeness, but would never see these low-ranking individuals again. They were subordinates, so there was nothing to be gained from an apology, especially in front of the cameras. It was time to focus on the mission, so he ignored the reporters, secretly revelling in the reaction it caused within their chaotic ranks. Gen and the disproportionately-sized duo walked at a stiff military pace towards the briefing room, placed only a short distance from his living quarters. The beautiful green sky of Origin’s cloudless but blustery day lit the way to immortality, with the press clamouring all the way. Presently they reached a set of doors which parted automatically to allow Gen and his entourage of sergeants through. Behind them disappointed reporters, barred from entering by military security guards, quickly evaporated in search of their next target.

Gen took stock of the briefing room. At the end of a short, amply-wide corridor of green-tinted metal and sparse decoration was a larger hexagonal area containing a well-lit circular table. On its surface were empty glasses waiting to be filled by adjacent bottles of liquid, and it was surrounded by several beige seats. Two exits were positioned either side of the main area, but Gen’s attention was drawn to two individuals seated around the table. They were the mission’s female crewmembers, Leerah and Erow, who appeared to be breaking off a friendly conversation on sight of him. Both turned to face him politely but silently as he approached.

Very well. thought Gen, curious as to the nature of discussion they obviously were not prepared to share with him. If it’s all business from this point, that’s fine by me.

There were also two standing personnel: Trav the geologist and General Deej, Commander In Chief of Batchi military forces. Gen reflected without further interest that Trav looked distracted, in thought perhaps, as he could be found in practically any situation. There was room for only one decision-maker on the mission anyway, so Gen’s life was made easier by the lack of competition in this respect. His arrival stirred Trav from his reverie, forcing an unemotional nod in Gen’s direction, head slightly bowed, as the rock-cruncher employed his own form of nervous greeting. General Deej, on the other hand, seemed glad at Gen’s arrival, despite his superior rank. Deej was a military man first and foremost, having earned the title of the most highly decorated man in history. He had been a high-ranking commander during The Great Wars against The Faw, so Gen presumed he would not have much time or inclination for idle chatter with the masses. That put him, Gen calculated briefly, at a minimum of six hundred years old.

Batchii and Faw were incredibly long-lived races, probably due to scarce planetary resources in terms of heat and sunlight, not to mention the appalling weather conditions and foul beasts which could easily claim an exposed individual. Life was hard on Origin if you were not intelligent enough to avoid its frequent gales, downpours and top-predators, so any species requiring time to mature from birth needed to be very strong indeed. More recently, their lifespan had been increased further by advances in medical science and a collective surge against those species most threatening to batchii. Despite his age, Deej could not compete with the world record holders of one-thousand-years-plus, whose wizened furry faces were occasionally transmitted across local and international news channels. To Gen they seemed either invariably serene or obliviously optimistic, and when inevitably asked by a young reporter in search of an easy sound-bite concerning their secret, they often attributed their longevity to drinking a single glass of harsh-tasting wine each day and not indulging in political or spousal arguments. In any case, the general was a rare sight indeed, being interminably submerged in political mire, as was a privilege of rank. Gen resolved to dispose of such tiresome distractions when he achieved his ultimate recognition and status, but for now, as he had planned from the beginning, he would play the game. He had only seen the general a few times during the mission’s entire training programme: once to welcome them, a few times in press conferences to transmit relentlessly optimistic mission updates to both Batchii and Faw, and now, to shake hands with the select-few about to make history, outshining even his glorious achievements. Gen, for his part, was also pleased to see the general, but the feeling was not from any genuine appreciation of the man, as he barely knew him. He had a natural wariness of anyone wielding more power than he, but Deej’s presence was confirmation of his own, now elevated, status.

Good morning, Captain Gen. said the general with a well-practiced, professional and calm smile, combined with the military leader’s natural propensity for speaking slightly too loudly.

Perhaps it was the result of one too many inspirational speeches, thought Gen, or maybe it was just that the old man’s hearing was finally failing him.

Good morning sir. Gen replied briskly, eager to show his readiness for the day.

He halted just before the table and saluted. The general returned the salute absently, an action he was no doubt bored of reciprocating.

If you’d like to take a seat, everyone, we’ll begin the final brief.

Good, thought Gen, No need for uncomfortable and pointless fraternisation such as ‘how was your day’ and other drab conversation-starters.

He sat down, as did Deej and Trav. The V-shaped chairs they rested upon had angled hind-rests half their bodies’ length. The contraptions were slanted at forty-five degrees from vertical, with the rear brace at a tangent to the main body, to prevent the user sliding off. At the front of the chairs were cushioned U-shaped additions running parallel to the floor, so Gen and the others could rest their chins should they wish. The afterthought was essential for long dull meetings, as they were effectively laid belly-down upon the chairs. Batchi seats were slightly higher than tables, to allow all users to see the four hands of those beside them. Typically the front hands were used to aid study of endless sheets of statistics and mission profiles, freeing-up rear the hands for gesticulating during discussions. When the chairs lay in a domestic setting the front hands were used for eating, while rear hands were employed in addressing essential itches and augmenting lively conversation. By comparison, Faw chairs were L-shaped, allowing the willowy beings to rest two feet upon the floor as they ate. God only knows what faw feet were made for, was common table-talk of the upper classes when referring to the aforementioned biological cousins’ physical differences. Probably just cataloguing dust.

As Gen sat, he made a final assessment of his crew. Leerah (easily the most striking of the two females) filled her uniform nicely, he thought. Her figure curved in all the right places, and her sheen of blue fur was ever-so-slightly more luxurious than everyone else’s. Also she was intelligent, as the scientists required experience not to be found in any simple girl. Erow was slightly less pleasing to Gen’s eye. Although not ugly, her body did not complement the uniform as alluringly as Leerah’s did. She was slightly smaller and decidedly more outgoing in personality than Leerah, making her attitude border on unprofessional. Her intelligent but bawdy nature disposed her to eloquent rebukes from time to time, with Gen feeling the sharp end of them more than once. To his great annoyance, he only realised afterwards when replaying conversations through his mind before he slept. When studying Trav, Gen found him even less impressive. Significantly smaller in stature than most other males, Trav’s body was semi-effeminate in terms of the male batchi physique. Any arguments this so-called man ever brought forth were always contained in written dissertations, never spoken aloud.

Good job his brain is bigger than his muscles. thought Gen, as a sneer twitched at the corner of his mouth, allowing one of his sharp white teeth to see a brief glimpse of light.

The general scanned the notes in front of him briefly before beginning.

An update on the hull: our engineers finally decided to replace the outer plating with the fruits of the Bulwark project. The good news, apart from the fact you’ll be much better protected during your journey, is that we’ve come in slightly under weight for the mission profile. That means there’ll be more of an error-margin for fuel consumption, so you can relax a bit.

Deej spoke the last words to Leerah, who was to pilot their vessel. The news struck Gen’s crew amicably, and all exchanged satisfied sideways glances. In Gen’s opinion the material known only to those of sufficient security clearance as Bulwark was in the top-ten list of recent technological advances. He and the other crewmembers had only recently been told about the potentially noteworthy venture. Bulwark was an advanced, lightweight metallic compound consisting of a few choice elements. Recent developments had enabled the creation of Carbon-60, a molecule whose powerful atomic bonds made it twice as hard as a diamond. Individual Carbon-60 molecules were randomly impregnated into microscopic slivers of metal, gradually producing a shape via an advanced 3-D printing process. The resulting alloy was almost impenetrable to conventional weapons, but incredibly expensive to manufacture, as it employed technology still in its infancy. If batchii had perfected Bulwark before the peace treaty, there might never have been a need for it. Despite its late arrival, thought Gen, it could still be a deciding factor in the ongoing race for supremacy between the former enemies.

Secondly, the general continued, bringing Gen’s focus sharply back to bear, Final calculations predict a lull in solar activity.

Again, more smiles and glances, as exact forecasts concerning the number and intensity of solar flares could not be made accurately until practically the last minute. The fact they were heading towards the sun meant solar activity played a crucial role in communications with Hia Control while in outer space. The worst-case scenario was a massive eruption from the sun’s surface directly towards their spaceship, with high-energy radiation either killing them outright or frying the ship’s systems. The latter would condemn them to slowly freeze, die of dehydration or suffocate. Despite years of study, the sun’s cycles were still largely a mystery, though a decidedly less frustrating one to the general public than Hia's inaccurate weather predictions. To the team assembled in the room, however, they were a critical factor in determining their confidence level. Bulwark was strong, durable and coated in other materials able to negate all but the strongest emissions, however a concentrated volley of near-light-speed invisible detritus would obliterate them in minutes if they were unable to take remedial action.

In light of these two pieces of good news, we’ll be using mission sub-profile three. Takeoff is scheduled for approximately two hours from now. Any questions?

A loose but content No, sir. came from all assembled, prompting a closing nod from the general.

In that case I wish you every success, and to know that the hopes of all batchii go with you.

The crewmembers offered a rousing Thank you, sir, stood and saluted. The general made his exit through the left door, with Gen’s former escort in tow, leaving the mission team to gather their belongings and file off to the right.

The Mission

Gen’s quartet arrived at the launch area, exchanging indoor comfort for the harsh reality of Origin’s environment. Wind whistled around Gen’s suit, buffeting him despite the cloudless day, as its muffled song rang through his helmet with low whines and occasional shrill crescendos. The team were shadowed by four essential personnel, responsible for seating them safely within the spacecraft. They were about to travel in the largest flying machine ever constructed, but its magnificence belied its purpose. Science-fiction books, which had inspired Gen to apply for the mission, described distant planets supporting far-superior races. These aliens usually made contact with Origin to reveal amazing secrets, sometimes in peace, sometimes in war. To grab the reader's attention and earn the author a descent living, there were always other species to fight or ally with, as collecting dusty samples and analysing endless streams of data were not exactly the ingredients of a riveting read. Sadly for the writers (and the more hopeful non-religious public), such contact had not been made, so all were now settling for the next-best thing: the first nervous step of a great journey.

The mission to Sentry was exciting in its own right (at least to the scientific community), as it was a leap into the unknown, potentially full of answers or, even better for the scientists’ titillation, more questions. According to a vocal band of sociologists, a Golden Age was approaching, and its first day would begin with the mission. As he walked, Gen admired The Batchi People’s spacecraft Historic, or BP Historic for short. He and his crew had witnessed several stages of the construction process, from skeletal frame to final coats of blue and green, representing The People and Origin’s sky respectively. At all times they had viewed the craft from a glass-enclosed gallery reserved for visiting dignitaries, making it hard to judge BP Historic’s true dimensions. Beholding it now, with its blue and green fuselage atop black wings, it was a behemoth. Approximately three hundred metres long and weighing nearly two thousand tonnes, BP Historic was four individual craft masquerading as one. Its wide cylindrical fuselage ran the entire length of the craft, from the rear engines (with their eight equally-spaced shared inlet ducts protruding slightly from the fuselage) to its stubby nose. Two long, wide, ungainly rectangular wings slung under the main fuselage sagged slightly under their own weight, forming a crude cross-shaped profile when viewed from above. The undercarriage consisted of eight clusters of huge wheels. Drawing near to BP Historic’s unprecedented grandeur, Gen mentally reviewed the particulars of its flight profile.

The wings were to lift the craft into the air from a three kilometre runway, assisted by sixteen of the finest jet engines an entire civilisation could buy. At takeoff the undercarriage would jettison, to release surplus weight. When at sufficient altitude, with the atmosphere thinning rapidly, BP Historic would then perform the first of its metamorphoses, detonating pyrotechnic bolts to eject the conventional jet engine section. Then SCRAM jets would splay from the fuselage, capturing the airstream and compressing it far more than conventional jets could, before injecting fuel for increased thrust. At this point, BP Historic would no longer require its huge wings, as it would be at supersonic speed. The associated drag would rip them off and destroy the vessel, so large triangular sections of their leading edges would be jettisoned to create a new, sleeker, lighter, delta-wing. After the climb to the outer-reaches of Origin’s atmosphere, where gases for use by the SCRAMS were absent, these would also be jettisoned along with the delta-wing, as without an atmosphere to fly in, BP Historic would have no further use for aerodynamic flight surfaces. With all air-breathing components expelled, the craft would bring its big-guns to bear. Four huge rockets, complete with their own fuel and air supply, hogged the vast majority of the space and weight allowance of BP Historic. They would accelerate the crew out of the gravitational influence of Origin, through The Belt and on towards Sentry. The journey would be assisted by the target planet, which was hurtling towards them in an opposing orbit to Origin. After a deceleration manoeuvre, Sentry’s gravity would capture in orbit what remained of BP Historic, so the crew could take measurements and transmit the first close-up images of its surface. With the rocket fuel burned, the foremost section (consisting of the command module) would be separated, leaving the gutted shell of the main section to drift away until its eventual impact somewhere on Sentry’s surface. The command module (containing the crewmembers) would then descend through Sentry’s thin atmosphere, land on the planet and, after a series of planned observations, sample collections and the essential flag-planting ceremony, would return to Origin via a much less powerful or bulky rocket propulsion system. Sentry, being smaller than Origin and travelling faster around the sun due to its closer proximity, would essentially fling them back through The Belt to their home world, thus completing the mission. At least that was the plan, thought Gen, as he approached the lift underneath the spacecraft’s nose.

Gen knew the mission’s success was not guaranteed, as it was untested in reality. In private moments of weakness he had therefore envisaged fates other than the successful completion of the mission. The most desirable, should the end come prematurely, was for the craft to simply explode, preferably during the return phase of the mission. Then, at least, he would be recorded in every batchi and faw history book as a valiant hero, but most importantly, a completely oblivious one to his impending death. Other scenarios were less favourable: They could be trapped on Sentry due to a systems malfunction, which this was the stuff of nightmares...literally. He had experienced only two horrific dreams of this nature, but had woken from them shaken and in serious doubt as to whether he should continue training. In his dreams they had made it to Sentry, but faced two choices: either wait for their air supply to exhaust (over a month in the knowledge they were doomed to death), or go out into the great unknown and remove their protective clothing, ensuring a quick and relatively painless demise, if you did not count the thrashing and almost-silent bug-eyed screams. Should he have to die, thought Gen after much reflection, he would endeavour to make an inspirational speech which all batchii would relate for generations to come. It would be something like I go forth and explore one final time for the people of Hia, then he would exit the command module, walk as far as his air supply would allow, and remove his helmet. With any luck, a future generation would eventually return him to Origin perfectly preserved, and display his mummified remains for all to see in his heroic finery. Perhaps they would even dedicate an entire museum to his life, an archetype of achievement and indomitable spirit. Best not think about it, he eventually concluded, as it was not a great thought to dwell upon. Fortunately, in waking hours, his confidence was constantly bolstered by rousing speeches from his superiors, with the possibility of death never having been discussed in any training session.

Therefore the success of the mission relied to a great extent on optimism, or the crew might freeze under pressure. With this in mind, the scientists had selected their candidates based not only upon physical aptitude, but with equal emphasis upon the individual’s general outlook toward life and their ability to focus under extreme pressure. To be even considered for the mission, Gen had very carefully hidden his plans for historic immortality from the scientists’ psychological tests, as he knew they would never accept an ego such as his for their important task. He had trained for this moment all his life; not for the mission specifically, but for a way into the history books. Years of bullying in his early days had taught him the best way to escape the bullies' clutches was to out-perform them, shaming them into submission. After much hard work he had been elevated by his tutors to more advanced classes, drifting out of their physical and psychological reach. Thus, he became very skilled at shielding thoughts and emotions from others’ gazes. Recently, in more intelligent company, it was an aspect of his personality which the rest of the crew (by their close proximity to him during long hours of training) had begun to discover, making them slightly guarded in his presence. At least they were not bullying him though, as he had seen to that by asserting his rank from the outset. Soon his comrades would realise the true leader in their midst, and even if they had voiced a preference for another captain, choices had been made. Money – vast amounts of money – had been spent, so no-one was prepared to rock the boat, even if a rumour reached anyone with significant authority.

Historic, this is Hia Control. Final checks, please.

The radio transmission buzzed inside Gen’s helmet like a benign wasp. The scientists left after strapping and plugging the crew into the ship, and sealing the hatches as their final duty. The occupants of the command module were now completely alone as a group for the first time in five years. They worked with well-drilled efficiency to corroborate onboard readings with those of the control centre’s telemetry. Having four usable hands was an advantage now more than ever, as each crewmember made four simultaneous requests of the onboard computer while laid face-down in their seats. They did not even have to check the screens for most answers, as they could input a request and rest the enquiring hand upon the instrument while performing other functions, waiting for the screen under the palm to vibrate a response. A pleasing purr for yes, or a more insistent buzz for no allowed for multi-tasking, directing the individual’s attention to anything out of the ordinary. Sixteen hands with one hundred and twelve fingers quickly completed the job.

Mission control, final checks confirmed. Gen said calmly, after receiving a nod from each crewmember. Historic ready for takeoff.

Confirmed, Historic. On your ‘go’.

Executing. said Leerah, equally calmly.

BP Historic was huge compared to the craft she normally flew, but she did not sound fazed. She had, after all, flown Historic countless times in simulations. Gen turned his head just enough to study her, and noticed her eyes darted from readout to readout as she began the power-up sequence. Once satisfied, she brought all sixteen jets to full thrust. Gen was half-expecting to experience a huge kick, followed by yelps of delight from his crewmates, but it was not to be. Instead, the huge metallic bird merely vibrated and began a long, slow, barely palpable acceleration. It was reasonably quiet in the cockpit, as the engines were positioned almost three hundred metres behind them, so the vast majority of noise and vibration was lost by the time it reached the craft’s nose. Slowly – ever so slowly – their speed increased, as did an almost imperceptible additional vibration from the undercarriage.

No wonder the runway’s so bloody long. thought Gen, while nervously scanning his own readouts. He silently thanked whatever god the religious idiots believed in that his concerned look was mostly shielded by his helmet. It had only a small front-facing window surrounding the eyes, allowing for very little peripheral vision. Checking his instruments once more, Gen found they had already travelled a kilometre...and BP Historic was not even at half the speed required for takeoff.

This is Historic, all systems normal...speed increasing. came the radio-chatter from Leerah.

Gen was reassured by her relaxed tone, so kept quiet. This was her phase of the mission, and once she had got them safely to Sentry, he could do all the talking he liked. At two kilometres down the runway, BP Historic began to feel lighter. Gen thought he detected a little bounce and a sideways motion, caused by the forty kilometre per hour crosswind.

A nice day on Origin, he thought, Good job we’re not taking off in a storm.

After a few more seconds Gen definitely felt a bounce. He looked to Leerah once more, and saw her eyes fixed firmly on the horizon as-viewed through the Head-Up Display (HUD) in front of her face, giving her a semi-holographic information feed representing the flight instruments. Then he glanced briefly behind to observe Erow and Trav. Erow looked calm, almost serene. She and Leerah had become good friends during the five years of training, and it was obvious she trusted Leerah’s judgement implicitly. Erow caught Gen’s eye briefly, before immediately returning her gaze to a relaxed soft-focus somewhere in front of her. Trav, on the other hand, looked distinctly un-serene, with all four hands tightly clasped together. Gen swore he saw every one of Trav’s teeth clenched and bared inside his helmet, despite the small window only allowing for a view of his eyes. The spacecraft bounced one more time before Gen felt the unnerving feeling of the nose rising. Then he was pushed into his seat as BP Historic took to the skies.

Initially a bumpy ride, the undulations quickly smoothed out, aided by the vessel’s enormity and over a kilometre in rapidly gained altitude. BP Historic broke into the less-turbulent atmosphere unaffected by Hia’s surface, and gradually climbed through recently-developed thin clouds. These were of little concern to the mission scientists or the virgin spacecraft, and BP Historic basked in unbroken morning sunshine. Hia Control broke the tranquillity.

Historic, prepare for first-stage separation in one minute.

Roger. said Leerah briefly, and all re-checked their share of the instruments.

They confirmed their readings in turn, starting with Leerah. Upon completion, the separation event was left solely to her, so she calmly started the sequence with a brief transmission.

Separation in three...two...one...mark.

Gen felt a very slight double-ting rattle through the craft, as pyrotechnic bolts fired in sync. BP Historic discarded the conventional