Paradox: The Alien Genome

By H. S. Rivney

Captain Thomas Jackson, a level headed adventurer with a dry sense of humor, commands the Science Ship Linus Pauling as his science crew searches for special DNA that could cure children on Earth who are the victims of genetic engineering gone horribly wrong. It's 2160, and they've been in space for nearly two years, twenty four light years from home when their ship breaks apart in orbit. Surviving with escape pods, they soon discover the backwards fourth planet of Beta Hydri might kill them with inedible food and vicious predators. Although the planet offers up the molecules they need, survival is far from certain.

Captain Thomas Jackson has to hold his shipwrecked crew together as they struggle with survival. He finally reaches out to a thriving humanoid population that gives them tools to survive, but also a whole new set of problems to contend with. Jackson falls hard for Rianya, the alien woman who helped them the most. Except for the ship's doctor, the crew find his affection for her nothing but positive, even when their love unexpectedly results in a baby. Her people, however, are far from enamored by their union and xenophobia erupts when a series of natural phenomenon begin to wreck their primitive village. A flood, an earthquake, and a triple lunar eclipse force the humans to retreat and abandon their friendships with the natives.

Geological and biological forces beyond Jackson's control threaten the crew of fifteen while they wait for a rescue that may never come. Captain Jackson, stricken with increasingly debilitating headaches, is diagnosed with brain tumor that threatens his life, and his doctor's jealousy of Rianya only gets worse with time. Most notably, their unusual, precocious daughter holds a secret in her genome that could cure millions of children on Earth, will challenge their core beliefs, and put lives in danger, including her very own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. S. Rivney
• Release date: May 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370168828

H. S. Rivney

H. S. Rivney has been a professional writer for more than twenty years primarily as a non-fiction technical writer, and fiction just for love of story telling and writing. After publishing a blog aimed at the average pet owner about important animal issues, it was time to transition to her love of science fiction. She makes her home in Las Vegas, Nevada, having gamed and won an estimated total of $37 over the last thirteen years. On a rare cherished acre, besides a husband and son, she shares her oasis with mostly domesticated creatures. She holds a state license as a veterinary technician and uses that knowledge daily caring for dozens of pets, many of which find their ways into novels and inspire original characters from diverse worlds.

Book preview

PARADOX

The Alien Genome

A Novel

BY

H. S. RIVNEY

PARADOX

By H.S. Rivney

Copyright © 2017 by Holly S. Rivney,

All Rights Reserved; No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author. Smashwords Edition 2017

Published by Smashwords

Visit the blog at www.hsrivney.com

From The Stratosphere

Cover Art from iStock, Getty images, modified

Stock photo ID:16452192 (Henrik5000);

European Southern Observatory

There are five rules of genetic engineering:

Take responsibility. We’re in charge. These are not random mutations… we engineered this. …you break it, you own it.

Recognize and celebrate diversity. The normal, natural state of this Earth is we have various versions of humans walking around at the same time.

Respect others’ choices. "Some people will choose to never alter, some people will choose to alter all. Some people will choose to alter plants, but not animals. Some people will choose to alter themselves…diversity is not a bad thing.

Set aside a quarter of the earth…let Darwin run the show… we should not run every evolutionary system on this planet… It’s important to have these things running in parallel, and to not overwhelm evolution.

Educate ourselves. This is the single most exciting adventure human beings have been on. This is the single greatest superpower humans have ever had. It would be a crime for you not to participate in this stuff because you are scared of it, because you’re hiding from it.

Juan Enriquez Cabot, B.A., M.B.A.

Founding Director of Life Sciences Project,

Harvard Business School

We’ve already broken rule One…

Infinite thanks to my wonderful family and loyal friends

for your support over the years in making dreams come true.

1

After nine years in command of the Science Ship Linus Pauling, Captain Jackson could have navigated the bridge blindfolded any time he set foot in the door. After eight months’ travel from the last planet, anticipation beckoned him to his command station despite a headache that under other circumstance would have kept him in his quarters. He leaned over the back of his chair as the spacecraft approached the quirky blue and green planet. Watching through the bow windows, which offered an unparalleled view of the stars, planets, nebulas, galaxies and all things cosmic, surface features came into focus one by one. The black mountains’ peaks with white caps, a wide ribbon of sapphire encircling the equator, and vivid green swaths of land taunted him from under a stippled cloud barrier.

From a distance outside the orbit of the planet’s moons, it was impossible to discern that the poles on the planet had once been just like the others in most all solar systems, magnetic north at the top and south on the bottom. With any luck at all their prize would be swimming around in the oceans or lakes or even walking on the land, but the only thing he could think of was how long it would take before the doctor’s pain killer would kick in. Always arriving like that one family member no one invites to weddings and holiday parties who shows up anyway, the pounding behind his eye couldn’t be ignored.

Ms. Bala, the captain said to his navigator at the console two meters in front of him.

Sir, good morning, and she swiveled around to face him. The look of surprise on her face, normally always composed and cordial, confirmed that he must look as badly as he felt. Normally he wouldn’t let these headaches get in the way of his professionalism but this time he held one hand over the side of his face and on the temple as if he might push the pain back where it came from. Captain, you don’t look well. Can I get you some coffee or something?

No, no thanks, Lieutenant, I’m still standing. How far are we from Beta Hydri Four?

Six hundred thousand five kilometers, one hundred one point seven away from the small moon’s orbit.

Here we go then. Deploy booster rocket brakes when you pass the moon orbits and then enter a standard geosynchronous equatorial orbit; thrusters at station keeping. Launch a Type Three satellite with the usual observation chronicles. Jackson rattled off the orders as he’d done dozens of times over the last decade. The navigator offered him an empathetic smile and he tried to return the gesture. When we’re in orbit and the T-Three’s made a full revolution, let me know. I’ll be in my quarters. Dr. Clarke gave me something for this headache so I’m going to try and sleep it off.

Aye, sir; feel better, she acknowledged, turning back 180 degrees to carry out the customary instructions at the helm. Jackson watched her black hair swing across her shoulders like a thick pennant and fall perfectly back into place while she touched a few colored, flashing buttons on the console. His male imagination digressed for a brief moment. Ms. Bala was wearing her customary diamond stud in one crease of her fine nose, but between her brows she wore a ruby bindi instead of an emerald one.

She adjusted their attitude as the navigation ball rotated to match magnetic changes coming from the approaching planet. Since leaving Earth, nineteen months had dragged on unexpectedly to twenty three, a long mission, unusually exhausting, and especially boring between the planets. He called the elevator to leave the bridge. The door promptly opened but he hesitated for a split second. Something felt wrong. He frowned and tilted his head as if to listen harder, unable to pinpoint it, but something definitely felt wrong. The deck vibrated beneath his boots.

From aft a blinding flash of silver white light and sparks filled the bridge! The ship lurched forward with a rumble and booming concussion that threw the captain halfway under the helm and the other two officers out of their chairs. The fire klaxon blared with a whooping shriek and the bridge fell black. Tom struggled to climb to his feet, deafened and all but blinded, not quite cognizant. A second explosion from the stern sent metal and plastic chunks of debris flying like hail and icicles in all directions. A shard cut his head like a laser and bright red blood spilled down his face. Artificial gravity failed abruptly and all equipment not fixed to part of the ship defiantly floated up like bizarre sized, shaped, shiny helium balloons.

Status! he shouted, clambering across the deck as he strained to stay anchored. He looked around the bridge but there were no answers in sight, only darkness before a fire erupted.

Vivid orange flames grew out of nowhere and reached the ceiling almost instantly. Acrid, burning, coal black smog filled the entire cabin. Flames seared the edges of the astern hole in the bulkhead. By red firelight the captain managed to upright himself, choking on the solid air, grabbed his navigator and helped her back to the helm.

Mr. Watson, a Chief Petty Officer, had been manning the communication post. Now he floated near the bow semi-conscious, the victim of flying debris or the pitching of the ship. He grabbed one of the young man’s arms and partly clawed, partly swam back toward the com station, pushing the boy into the chair. In ten seconds he’d wrapped a short tether over Watson’s lap and fastened the other end to its protruding handle on the other side. He pushed off from the center console to reach the captain’s chair.

No power, Captain, helm unresponsive! Bala shouted back. Back up power’s routed to life support.

Captain Thomas Jackson unconsciously changed gears. He climbed into his chair and hooked his feet under the arm rests. He seized a scorching round valve on the ceiling with both hands, palms sweating and blistering, and rotated it with as much strength that he could summon in the zero gravity. The orange flashing light next to it shut off, and everything floating sank to the deck, including him as he lost his grip, dropped feet first into his chair, and then painfully onto the deck.

A fog of smoke particles shrouded everything. Pressing his nose and mouth into his elbow to filter the air, Tom stumbled toward the farthest forward point of the bridge. Coughing through sparks, ashes and haze he watched in horror through the bow windows as the ship tumbled headlong towards the planet.

Mr. Watson, wake up! he shouted at the boy, thumping him on the back. You need to wake up! We have to go. The young man opened his eyes, squinting, gagging on the palpable air. The captain snapped the tether freeing the man. Bala, get Watson to sick bay; standby to ready escape pods, but wait for my orders."

Captain! she cried.

Go! That’s an order, he shouted over the klaxon’s shriek. I’ll be right behind you! He pushed them up the deck toward the stern until they could get their footing and eek past the flames still leaping among the bulkheads.

He opened a ship wide hail. Attention all hands! This is Captain Thomas Jackson. Tom took a split second to gather his thoughts and brush away the floating and falling sensation in his stomach. "Stand by to ‘abandon ship’ on my orders. Status Abandon Ready. All hands, status Abandon Ready."

Engine room! he called, slamming his singed hand on the intercom button, hoping against hope it still worked. At that moment batteries kicked on, dimly lighting the bridge; he could see the viscous haze swirling in thick streams toward the overhead.

We’re okay, Captain! Malfunction in the starboard rocket load appliance! Tom heard coughing and commotion behind the voice of his engineer.

Marie, we need power now or we’ll be frying up in the atmosphere! He refused to acknowledge this might be the end of the mission. He couldn’t seem to inhale enough air to exhale, and the smoke particles stabbed his eyes.

I’ll engage solid fuel thrusters and reroute, the woman shouted. Ready to surrogate on your command.

Do it! was all he could say as the planet raced up to meet his stare. The klaxon suddenly stopped its shrieking and normal white ceiling lights engaged on the bridge.

Captain, I need to get the reactor back online, and I could use some help down here!

"The reactor’s off line?! Tom’s chest crushed in on his heart. Where’s Quixote?"

Sick bay. Damn it! He looked around the bridge.

Do what you have to do to get the reactor online; I need thirty thousand KPH to hold orbit here. Call anybody you need for help!

He stumbled back to the helm and racked his brain for the procedure. He hadn’t personally put his ship into orbit even once in the last two years. So many variables needed precise calculations and some numbers he just didn’t know. Ms. Bala or Mr. Lee, the pilot, would have spent the next ten minutes calculating then double checking gravity, vector, approach, perhaps a landing or crash site, but she couldn’t be in two places at once, and he wanted her off the bridge.

He took a brief survey of the helm’s buttons, lights, and readouts bleeping in their aluminum dashboard; there was a remote hand control joystick in the center. He shoved some broken debris off the silver surface and set up the ship for an orbit at a five hundred kilometers and five thousand meters per second, hoping that would be enough velocity until he could get Bala or Lee at the helm. Either one of them was more experienced than he was with the ship, and they could maximize the time in orbit, allowing more time to make repairs and get the reactor back online.

The dynamic chaos of smoke and objects randomly strewn across the bridge and flying through the air might have overwhelmed most people’s minds, but not Thomas Jackson. Turmoil pinpointed his focus and sharpened his thinking. Sitting at the helm his feet tapped the floor. Experience overrode fear and instinct to flee: people, injuries, assessment, prioritize, repair, salvage, new plan. The bridge took on a life of its own, groaning and squealing as it endured the heat of flames twisting its steel bones, and smoke penetrating its titanium lungs. Sweat streamed across the cut on his head, burning across the gash before the salty lava trickled into one eye.

With thrusters working the orbit stabilized and the pitch leveled but the ship still struggled along skewed to port. He jumped up from the helm and pulled a fire extinguisher from the wall and sprayed the foaming chemicals at the flames’ roots. The black smoke transmuted to white and the inferno died. Twisted, nigrescent steel beams still held the roof up, but for how long was anyone’s guess. He coughed hard until he could feel the pressure lighten in his chest, dropped the extinguisher, and stumbled to the intercom.

Attention all hands, this is Jackson. Cancel status ‘Abandon Ready’ and return to stations, he said. Cancel ‘Abandon Ready’. All hands report to duty stations! The captain tried to sit in his chair but gave up when he kept sliding out to port. Damn stabilizers, why have them if they won’t work when you need them? he grumbled, and climbed up the deck to a higher point where he could lean on a console for support. He opened another intercom channel. Jackson to sick bay. Clarke? Mills? He wiped the sweat from his face and discovered a streak of black and red blood on his sleeve. Damn it.

Sick bay, Mills, was the reply.

What’s your status?

No fatalities, two casualties. Dr. Clarke wants to keep Watson a few hours, likely a concussion but not serious. Quixote broke a leg. Clarke’s setting it now.

I’ll be down soon, the captain said and then opened a new channel.

Engine Room. Marie’s voice seemed particularly calm for the situation.

It’s Jackson. Status?

The starboard brake rocket didn’t load up correctly. I don’t know why but when it was engaged it just caught on fire and exploded. There’s a hole where a rocket launcher used to be. Strangely enough, the heat melted the tube shut, if you can imagine that, so we didn’t breach. We got a lot of damaged conduit down here. That’s how the fire spread to the reactor housing. Quixote was thrown five meters when the bulkhead exploded. If that old dinosaur hadn’t shut it down, we wouldn’t be talking about it right now.

Jackson mulled the facts with difficulty; he assumed a lack of oxygen was paralyzing his brain because he couldn’t wrap his head around her explanation.

Um…I’ve got us in a high geo orbit, he stopped talking to encourage his new, morbid and compulsive cough, but I can’t stabilize our roll. If the starboard breached that explains our port list. Shift some equipment and cargo to stern and starboard. A few kilotons might do the job.

Yes, sir, two kilotons where the torpedo bay used to be ought to help. I’ll get right on it.

Wait! Get someone else to do that. You need to get power back online.

Aye, sir, she sighed.

Ms. Bala returned to the bridge with Mr. Lee. He stumbled on broken junk when he walked in, stopping at the sight before him. Bala took her station and used a tether across her lap for security.

Captain, what in hell? Pitch and roll attitude aren’t aligned! the pilot said, standing on the slant holding a grip bar for balance.

Thank you Mr. Lee, I hadn’t noticed. Engineering is moving cargo and equipment to starboard so stay on it and steady her out as it goes. I’ll be in sick bay. Walking out on the slant, he left Bala and Lee on the bridge. Tom thought of a place on Earth: a Mystery Spot where gravity seemed to defy its own laws but in fact was mostly cleverly built angled floors and optical illusions. Unfortunately this was no illusion.

He stopped and looked around, surprised that sick bay appeared almost normal, except for the port slant and an appearance of crooked walls. The air was clear, no exploded monitors or bulkheads, and only two patients. He took a deep breath of scrubbed air and founded another fierce coughing fit. He was compensated with a couple gobs of black goo to spit out.

Captain, Doctor Clarke greeted him as soon he came in. She easily switch-back stepped across the floor the way a goat on the side of a hill seemed to defy gravity. She stood before him and handed him a small, damp towel. This is a new experience, she chuckled, like hiking Kilimanjaro after an eruption. Come here, you’ve got a wicked gash there.

Never mind me, how are your patients? She took his arm and led him to her first aid station, and proceeded to clean his head wound with some kind of antiseptic. He winced and pulled back a little bit. Ow, Doc, geeze!

Well, I don’t recommend they go on any long adventures. Quixote has a non-displaced fracture of da fibula but can walk. Mr. Watson will be fine. I just want him to rest if you don’t need him. So explain da big boom and all da abandon ship and why are we still all cockeyed? She squirted some clear goo on a square of gauze and applied it to his forehead.

A rocket blew up. We’re in orbit, but the reactor’s down and if it isn’t up in a couple hours there’ll be no fuel to keep us there. I’m planning for an unplanned emergency. I want you and Mills to equip an escape pod as a hospital in the next ninety minutes. Put in everything you can that’s not nailed down. You’ll have to prioritize the equipment for the available pod space.

Aye, Captain. Understood. She held a bandage of gauze on the gash and lifted it. Bleeding’s stopped. I really should glue that, she said, scowling at the cut on Tom’s forehead. Headache gone now?

Karabou, you’re a riot. I’ll be in Engineering. Actually, the headache behind his eye was gone but the new one above his eye still smarted. He descended two levels by stair. As he arrived the ship began to list slightly to starboard; the cargo shift was working to ballast out their roll. He saw that Marie had moved some rockets out of the port and into the starboard locker with an antigravity set a few minutes before Tom arrived.

Let me help, he said to his engineer. The room was dark but emergency lights and the customary dials and gauges offered enough light to see the damage. A grey haze filled the entire bay. The unpleasant smell of extinguished electrical fires hung in the air and assaulted his senses.

Captain. Marie nodded in the direction of the former starboard rocket bay that was misshapen and blackened, yet sealed from space. Providence, Captain. You should change her name to Providence. Tom smiled briefly, and sighed.

Not yet. What about getting the reactor up? Solid fuel is not a preferred--

One disaster at a time, please, sir. She pushed a lock of honey blonde hair out of her face and back behind one ear. I’ve been thinking. If the housing is sound, we do have enough time to start the reactor and salvage the orbit before we run out of solid fuel. But if it needs repairs, I can’t give you any clue on how long it could take. Shutting it down saved us, but maybe it only put off the inevitable. I haven’t had time to check it yet. I would have Quixote do it but--

Yes, I know. Without words they each clamped an anti-gravity lift to one side of a two meter torpedo. As they approached the starboard locker, the deck gently leveled, so they set the explosive down, softly, where they stood. That looks like it did the job, he said.

Let’s leave well enough alone, Marie said, unhitching the handles and turning the power off, but leaving both nearby.

Ok, we’re level, so now what about the reactor? he asked quietly, raising his brows sympathetically, hoping she had something to tell him.

Captain… she hesitated. He waited, nodding his head slowly to lure out her words. She sighed. Sir, if there’s any breach this mission is over, repairs or not.

Regardless we’re going back to Earth as soon as we’re done here, molecules or no molecules. The scarred, blackened bulkhead where the maneuvering rocket exploded exacted his attention like a siren. The two officers stood in silence. Tom regarded his engineer as one of the finest nuclear operators he’d ever met, hence her position on his ship. He’d convinced her to take a commission and leave her municipal job with a small energy producer to take his offer when the S. S. Linus Pauling was chosen for this mission. Her face presented as serious as he’d ever seen it without a hint of amusement or a smile. No doubt the only thing worse would be if it had actually melted down.

I’ll go get an EV suit, Marie said. Well-designed to withstand heavy radiation in space, the protection would be sufficient in the reactor room.

I’ll come with you.

2

Swiftly suited up in the cumbersome protection coveralls and helmets made for accessing the exterior of the ship, the captain and engineer stood before the reactor room door. Beyond the airlock the panel readouts were dark and dead. Tom took the primary responsibility to lead them inside. He tapped a few numbered buttons on the door pad and then stepped in quickly as if the ceiling might come down at any moment. His engineer followed. The fat EV suit fingers didn’t allow for much dexterity but he closed the airlock, of course, despite the difficulty.

He hesitated before entering the reactor room. His heart pounded hard and fast. On the wall a modern Geiger counter needle wavered at the edge of the green and yellow indicator zones. He tapped a button positioned high on the wall, intentionally difficult to access to prevent accidents, and the inner door unlocked automatically. Glancing at each other, Tom again took the lead and entered; Marie followed.

The cavernous chamber at the very stern of the entire ship usually throbbed with activity. Dozens of monitors, hundreds of blinking lights, and assorted readouts of red or green digits remained lifeless. An eeriness of devastation and finality gripped him. In the dim illumination from emergency lights, the reactor, encased in a five kiloton dome of steel, graphite, and lead threatened certain mortality. He tapped a button on his helmet so he and Marie could communicate.

Captain, I’ll take the starboard steps. That’s the more likely point of damage. You take port. He nodded. In her engine room she gave the orders. She parted quickly and then began her climb. Tom hurried over a narrow catwalk to the opposite side and also climbed an inspection flight. Lights on the EV helmets bathed the sides of the dome, reflecting a polished metallic surface back in his face. Nothing seemed unusual; his handheld Geiger registered normal readings at the site of the reactor. He double checked at the rivet points turning the sensitivity to maximum: normal. He sighed with relief at the integrity of the structure. Clean here. Anything on starboard? he asked over the suit com.

Yes. Tom’s heart instantly turned into a lead bowling ball and fell into his stomach.

Describe it?

Microscopic crack at the base. Geiger says red zone. I capped a photo. I’m coming down before I start to glow.

Thomas Jackson felt ice cubes inside his EV suit and a terrified sweat erupted on his skin inside the heavy coverall. His thoughts raced. The looming catastrophe would strand them twenty five light years away from Earth with no way to go home, no way to even stay in orbit of this planet, much less bring home the cure for a fatal epidemic of gene therapy gone horribly wrong. Starting the reactor was an invitation to die by radiation poisoning, and not starting the reactor was an invitation to incinerate in the planet’s atmosphere.

Can you repair it, even theoretically? the captain asked his engineer. They met at the door and began the airlock decontamination process. With helmets off, he could see the perspiration on her face and a varnish of fear in her pale blue eyes.

Everything is theoretically possible, Captain. If we can do it in time, if we have the materials, tools, volunteers…that is the real question.

We’re going to do it. Get whoever you need down here and get started. Let me know directly, immediately if you need something, I’ll get it for you. He looked her square in the face; the corners of her eyes threatened to overflow. Tom put his hands on her shoulders. Marie? She didn’t blink. We’re hundreds of kilometers up; you have plenty of time and all the brains to do it.

Captain… she faltered, wiping the stress and sweat from her forehead.

Yes, you can. He shook her by the arms just a little until she looked up at him. You can do it; you just have to hold it together and focus, he said quietly. Don’t forget to breathe. She chuckled softly and exhaled. He hugged her, quickly, and then pushed her back, dropping the rest of his EV suit to the ground and unbuckling something on the back of her suit so she could do the same. Now go.

Fueled by adrenaline the captain jogged up three flights of steps to what was left of the bridge and the two people doing their best to hold the ship in orbit.

Is anything working up here?

Helm is responding but without primary power there’s nothing to do but keep adjusting the attitude, Bala told the captain. I’m on it; we’ve only lost a little altitude. Once the roll stabilized it got easier. He could see her hands shaking.

Good work, Bala. Lee, do you have an estimate for me on orbit decay?

Yes, sir, we’ll be into the lower troposphere in about three hours.

"Three hours?" he asked.

At least, Captain. If we offload some weight, I could coax more time out of the reserves, maybe another hour. Solid fuel alone won’t give us thirty thousand KPH for very long. Gravity down there is one point twelve. Mr. Lee’s voice was low, calm, and quiet.

That’s barely two trips, Jackson muttered, and sank into his chair, covering his face with both hands. Taking a deep breath, he ran his fingers through his hair, turning grey by the minute, and gripped short shocks as if he might pull it all out. Three damn hours. Mr. Lee, pull up the geography on that planet and put on screen.

On the starboard side of the bridge a one meter monitor mounted on the wall lit up with a photographic image of the planet below. In 3-D color the topography appeared in relief with mountains, deserts, plains, forests, and an ocean that encircled the equator effectively dividing the planet into a northern and southern hemisphere, each with a polar ice cap. Tom looked at the image carefully, then stood closer to it to see the finer details. Can you show me weather patterns? he asked. Mr. Lee obliged the request and limited data appeared.

We and our satellite haven’t been orbiting long enough to have a complete picture, sir. This is based on land mass and ocean, poles and average temperature of fourteen Celsius at sea level equator. Twenty percent oxygen, seventy nine percent nitrogen, trace gases, one percent water vapor.

Beta Hydri Four is upside down; at 176 degree tilt, there’s no seasons. Tom often spoke out loud even when he hadn’t intended for anyone to actually listen.

Mr. Lee, I want you to prepare for a crash landing if engineering can’t repair the reactor. Keep us up on the northern hemisphere, as close to the ocean as you can, he instructed his pilot. Ms. Bala, watch your vector in this atmosphere, he indicated touching the helm monitor with his index finger. Scan the surface and get all the data possible and have the file ready to go portable on my command.

Captain? Bala asked, begging for an alternative with her dark eyes.

This bird wasn’t made to land. If the reactor doesn’t come back online in 3 hours an emergency landing is option one. If it goes badly there’s always the transport shuttle and our escape pods when she reaches the troposphere.

What about the ship? she whispered.

Get to work and don’t waste time, he said. He punched a button on his intercom panel.

Galley here, what’s going on, bridge? Everything’s a wreck here!

Bailey, start packing the food and rations, water, every-thing that isn’t nailed down and get it all into an escape pod in the next sixty minutes.

Captain?

That’s an order, get help if you need it and get started. He shut that channel and opened another to operations.

Mr. Balser, round up Mr. Kubo and Mr. Dias. Start packing an escape pod with all the science equipment you can. Don’t forget blankets, EV suits, portable energy cells, whatever else you can think of we might need if we end up on the planet.

Captain, what happened up there? Did you say ‘end up on the planet’?

I did. You’re the quartermaster, so go ‘master’. You have sixty minutes. Captain out. He banged the button off with his fist. Lee why is it our coms work when the reactor is offline? Are we using solid fuel for that? I’ve never had this happen before.

Power cell backups, sir, reserved for life support and other critical systems. And I took the liberty of extending the solar sail as soon as I realized... you know.

Good job. You and Bala carry on up here, he said, appreciative of his pilot’s proactive thinking. Take turns at the helm so you can get your quarters packed within the hour. He opened ship wide intercom channels. Attention, all hands, this is the captain. I’m declaring an emergency situation that requires all hands’ attention. I’m sorry, but this is not a drill. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "While attempting to enter orbit around Beta Hydri Four, a rocket malfunction has damaged our hull, reactor, and ultimately our primary energy source as well as the integrity of the ship. Engineering is working to repair the reactor; however, I want to remind you of the likelihood that we may attempt an emergency landing, or be taking escape pods to the surface.

We have less than three hours of fuel to sustain orbit and prepare for the worst. I need all of you to remain calm and rational. Pack additional uniforms and personal belongings in your assigned pods, one duffle per person limit. Each pod leader will be responsible for the science or survival equipment as assigned during our last emergency evacuation drill. Stay alert. Captain out. He opened the com directly to the engine room. Engineering, offload all unnecessary missiles, shells, and torpedoes, everything with any weight. The less we weigh the longer we stay in orbit.

Tom then hurried to his quarters to pack for an indefinitely long camping trip and to compose a rescue message if three hours was, as likely, not enough time to repair their reactor, and get it online, which took an hour just in itself. In his officer’s cabin, a deck below crew quarters, he had time to listen to his own thoughts without interruptions. He’d made a plan, a backup plan, and set them in motion, but the iron gyroscope in his stomach wouldn’t stop spinning.

He held the precious lives of fifteen humans and Quixote in his hands, not to mention the millions on Earth, holding their breath, while the science ships Linus Pauling and Enrico Fermi searched the Orion Spur of the Milky Way, hoping of finding the key to avoiding extinction.

He put a straightforward, plain as day distress message together along with the logs, planet potential and conditions, and current data, then routed it to the bridge com station. Tom looked around and realized this might be the last time he sat in his quarters, ever, his little home for the last nine years, on and off; the last two without a single visit to Earth.

Calm on the surface, he was nevertheless churning underneath. A little wave of nausea threatened to disable him with a headache but a few deep breaths and he fought it off long enough to think. If they could land the ship, the pods would just be more protection for the things and equipment they now held. It wasn’t a likely scenario.

Things in and of themselves had never been something Tom cared to collect. He took holograms of friends, his family, his crew; all the paper books he could pack into the duffle bag; his electronic log documents; all the socks and shorts in his wardrobe. The last cubic centimeters claimed the rest of his civilian clothes, shoes, a deck of playing cards, several data chips, and a small touch screen computer.

He had no sooner zipped the canvas bag that encompassed his life when WHAAM! The ship shook as if it’d been hit by a nuclear freight train at full speed. Tom was hurled off his bed to the floor, trying to hang on to anything he could grab as he slid across the deck plates. The fire klaxon shrieked an urgent cadence above his head; he couldn’t hear or even think for a few moments. It felt as if the ship was tumbling stern over bow in a cartwheel and he found himself on the ceiling covered in bedding.

Jackson clamored to his feet, left his quarters, took the stairs two at a time and ran through darkened corridors to the bridge before he catapulted to the floor again.

Reactor breached! Bala shouted at the captain before he’d stepped one meter on deck. It’s gone! Chills raced down his spine and every hair on his body stood up on end. He looked around at his bridge. Debris and dust covered the floors and table tops, counters, gauges, displays, monitors, the windows…his chair.

Lee, he shouted, transmit the distress file. LP 307 2160, he shouted over the klaxon’s whoop, and then get the hell off the bridge. You have ten minutes to get anything out of your quarters and down to the escape pods. But wait for my order to abandon ship. Bala, is a crash course laid in?

Absolutely sir!

Go! he said, pushing her out of her chair and toward the stair case. Stay off the elevator! None wasted a moment. With the back half of the ship gone, crash landing would actually be out of the question, as would be evacuating from the troposphere, so instead he would keep what was left of the ship in its decaying orbit as long