Directed Energy: Leaving Earth, #1

By Kaal Alexander Rosser

When he is invited to work at a new antimatter facility for USSMC, Grum Hewson sees the opportunity to create a new source of energy. With his boss demanding ridiculous results, he works in secret with a small team to come up with alternatives.

If they succeed, they could change the future of energy supply. If they fail, they could lose their jobs and the lives they have built for themselves.

Are they willing to take the risk?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gadgets & Ghosts
• Release date: Sep 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386711032

Book preview

Directed Energy

(Book 2 of the Leaving Earth series)

by Kaal Alexander Rosser

Books by Kaal Alexander Rosser

Leaving Earth

1. Directed Energy

2. Power Base

3. Critical Error

4. Take Over (coming soon)

5. Side Effect (coming soon)

6. Off Planet (coming soon)

Cyborg

1. Survivor

2. Control (coming soon)

3. Arms Race (coming soon)

4. Lockdown (coming soon)

5. Traitor (coming soon)

Non-fiction (as Kaal Rosser)

1. Avoiding Advertising… Like a Ninja

2. How 2 Fact Check

Dedication

Dedicated to all those who have supported me in getting this far…

Praise for:

Directed Energy

The characters are believable and like-able, it has made me laugh out loud a few times on the train… Here’s looking forward to the TV adaptation… - Amazon Review

Characters seem so real that you feel like you are sharing in their experiences. Reading this I felt I was sat at the bar hearing their pub conversations, being part of their jokes… Bring on book two, which I shall enjoy, even on a Thursday. - Amazon Review

Thank you for reading this book. I hope you enjoy it. If you want to know when more arrive, please sign up to my mailing list.

Copyright © 2017 Kaal Alexander Rosser. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

‘PRODUCED. That’s the word, Stew. Produced. We are in production…’ Grum Hewson tapped his half-empty glass of ale on the table in emphasis, his muted BBC accent — much softened by time and distance from London — rang with declarative certitude.

‘Bollocks!’ Stewart Leslie’s own accent also marked him as an Englishman, though less-definably so. He took a deep swallow of the dark ale he favoured and returned his glass to the table without a sound.

The regulars of this Boston bar rarely took any notice of the expats’ voices these days. The pair’s explosive statements, however, did draw a raised eyebrow from one of the bartenders and Stewart waved an apology.

‘What do you mean? We have produced, stabilised and contained a significant quantity of anti-hydrogen! Thus we are in antimatter production!’

‘Being in production,’ said Stew, making finger-quotes in heavy sarcasm, ‘implies a certain continuity. We’ve got one run contained. We don’t even know for certain if the next run will work! It’s going to take a month to reset the assembly and then we’ll see if this process is repeatable. If it is…’ Stew started ticking off the points on his fingers. ‘We’ll have to see whether we can combine outputs of different runs. Then we have to find a way to increase the yield. And, maybe, in a couple of years, we’ll have the basis for what might be production! Don’t you think you might have jumped the gun just a tad?’

‘As convincing as your case is, it fails in one or two important aspects. The first of these is the matter of funding and the second stems from that. How is this project funded?’

‘The Funding Committee.’

‘Otherwise known as Beancounter Central, but no. Concentrate and answer again.’

‘Various companies providing money to the Funding Committee, primarily USSMC.’

‘Correct. Why have they done this?’ Grum knew he was being didactic, but over the last four years they had settled into a style of logical argument which suited them.

Stew sighed. ‘They expect to make profit from the technologies and processes resulting from this research.’

‘OK. Partly. They also want to look good so they can improve the share price and benefit now from an increased market cap,’ said Grum. ‘Thusly, whether the science allows such an epithet to be applied or not, we are in production as far as what the USSMC PR machine will be telling the press tomorrow morning before the primary technologies markets open.’

‘How on earth will they justify that? A production of antimatter which could make a cell with enough power for a home a year?’ Stewart spread his hands wide in incredulity. ‘Any serious production would have to make this one look like a car battery.’

‘That’s nice relatable imagery, may I quote you?’

Grum saw the slightly worried frown fall over Stew’s face and he twisted his torso to look at the man approaching their table. He recognised the man as one of the bodies which had been observing the run — scuttlebutt had him down as a USSMC spy. Just between the two of them, they had a five-spot on what his job actually was: Grum thought Media, Stewart had Legal.

Submitting to the inevitable, Grum turned back the right way again and indicated one of the other chairs at the table.

‘Steve Branch,’ the interloper said by way of introduction. ‘I’m with USSMC’s Media Department. I know who you both are, of course.

Stew shrugged and slipped five dollars across the table to Grum as he replied to Steve’s original question: ‘You could quote it, yes. It’s fairly accurate. So long as we’re talking about average households around here, not in the middle of a desert or anything.’

Grum was watching Steve as the money changed hands and caught the slight flicker of annoyance before the next question came: ‘And how much antimatter did we have to produce in order to do this?’

‘A little under four hundred micrograms.’

‘That doesn’t seem much…’ Steve was clearly taken aback.

‘No, no, not much at all. Just better than the global production ever.’ Grum twitched his shoulders in irritation.

‘And how big would the cell have to be in order to be stable?’ asked Steve, apparently unfazed by Grum’s attitude.

‘Hypothetically, it’d be about the size of two big refrigerators and will weigh a literal tonne.’

‘Wonderful imagery! Ever thought of going into marketing?’ asked Steve, lifting a small glass of what looked like a wheat-beer to his lips.

‘Only in my worst nightmares. You did hear the timescale I mentioned? Assuming the next run works?’  Stewart shook his head, which Grum echoed.

Steve, gave a vague rolling gesture with one hand as he swallowed his mouthful. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll give them the imagery! Then we, self-deprecatingly, tell the media that due to the immense scientific and technical difficulties involved it won’t be commercially viable for, say, thirty-five to fifty years from now. In a few years time we say it’ll be between twenty-five and thirty which we’ll stick to until we come in with the commercial product in thirty years from now, a couple of years ahead of the public road-map! During which time our new AM production facility will have been building us a stockpile.’ Steve’s eyes were shining with anticipated success.

‘If it works,’ Grum repeated, deliberately, in a talking-to-the-hard-of-thinking voice.

‘USSMC has every reason to believe in the abilities of the team here,’ said Steve, standing to leave. ‘Catch you again!’

‘Utter crap! A steaming pile of marketing,’ said Stewart, when Steve was out of earshot.

‘Quite.’

‘Does he have every reason to believe that the abilities of the team extend to changing reality if it turns out the yields don’t scale?’

‘No. If the whole thing turns out to be a dud, they’ll blame the scientists for being too optimistic without due cause.’ Grum shrugged.

‘Even though we’re the one’s advocating caution.’

‘I think I need another beer,’ Grum said, turning to the bar.

Stewart sighed and looked at this watch. ‘Or we could swing by Kelso’s and pick up a brace of flagons?’

‘That, old son, is a damned fine plan.’

Grum fired up the app for his preferred driverless taxi firm and placed an order. It arrived a couple of minutes later, so they drained their drinks and headed out.

On the way, Grum called the owner of their favoured microbrewery.

Justin Kelso created a fine range of ales, catering to the palette of the discerning ale drinker. Grum was sure that other palettes were well-served as well, but he did not care about those. He had introduced Stewart to Kelso’s brews a little over four years ago, when Stew had joined the project, and had been delighted to find another proper drinker.

Picking up something from Kelso’s had become a common way to close out a hard day, and the owner was well pleased with their custom.

‘Hi, Graham,’ said Justin, answering the call. Grum had his private number, rather than the business’s sales line.

‘Hi, Justin. We’re on our way over to pick up something for this evening. What have you got for us?’

‘Most recently ready are a six percent porter and a five-point-five amber. The amber is a touch on the hoppy side, no flowers though.’

‘The porter?’

‘Touch of chocolate, touch of vanilla.’

Grum repeated the description to Stew who gave a thumbs-up. ‘Perfect. We’ll be about ten minutes. Could you draw off a couple of carry outs?’

‘Sure. Pints or flagons?’

‘What do you think?’

Justin chuckled and hung up.

During the round trip Grum thought some more about those timescales. It was not as if he would be around to see the research become an actual product. When the project ended he would move on to something else in a related field. A new piece of research.

The trouble with that was that he was getting tired of the constant battles for funding and never being absolutely sure whether there would be something else to go to at the end of any given project. Research positions which did not come attached to a certain amount of lectureship were few and far between. Narrow that down by area of specialism and seniority and it was an exceedingly small pool.

He could go into lectureship. That was stable, but dull. It expanded the pool considerably but, well, it meant lecturing. On the upside, he could probably get a