I shifted uneasily. Was he assuming they were hostile?
“I’ll be frank,” the general went on. “This expedition might be more dangerous than you thought. Alien vessels. Babelites. The Minister of Defense has some misgivings about how some of your astralnauts might perform in a tough situation.”
I felt a surge of anger but held my tongue. It was painfully obvious the general was talking about me, and maybe Tobias too.
“I’m sorry if the Minister has misgivings about my crew,” said Captain Walken. “I myself have none.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the general said. “But if any extreme situation were to arise, I’d like Captain Shepherd to report directly to me.”
I felt the barometer in the room plunge. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening, but it seemed as if the general wanted Shepherd to have some special authority. Was he even suggesting that the test pilot should be captain? I looked at Shepherd, but his face betrayed nothing. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d had some inkling of this ahead of time. He certainly hadn’t seemed very surprised to see the general.
I’d never seen Mr. Lunardi look more grave. “I’m afraid that’s simply not acceptable, General,” he said. “As you yourself acknowledged, this is a civilian expedition. And I don’t think I need remind you that Mr. Shepherd has no military rank aboard the Starclimber. He reports only to Captain Walken.”
There was a brief, chilly silence, but then the general smiled agreeably.
“As you wish, Mr. Lunardi. I never meant to undermine the good captain’s authority. Very well. We’re only here to lend a hand and keep everything tickety-boo. Nonetheless, we need you to be our eyes up there, and the Prime Minister himself wants it to be the top priority of the expedition.”
The mention of the Prime Minister made it feel like a threat.
“Of course, General,” Mr. Lunardi said.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the general. “And good luck tomorrow.”
Shepherd stood and saluted as General Lancaster left the room.
“I’m sorry about that, everyone,” said Mr. Lunardi. “Sir John mentioned there might be some additional security, but I hadn’t realized it would be quite so vigorous.”
“They’ll take good care of us,” said Shepherd.
“I’ve no doubt,” said Mr. Lunardi dryly. “As for this business with the lights, I remain skeptical. But you’ll need to make sure you keep a special watch out.”
Tobias looked at me. “Did you think they were spaceships?”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t tell.”
“If they’re up there, we’ll find out soon enough,” said Shepherd.
“We will indeed,” said Captain Walken. “Now, I suggest we all get an early night. We launch at seven sharp.”
LIFTOFF
The hangar roof was already open to the luminous dawn sky. There were virtually no clouds, and the wind was light. Tobias, Shepherd, and I were overseeing the final cargo, double-checking our lists to make sure nothing had been left out—and nothing unidentified got on. General Lancaster’s men were out in full force, inspecting everything inside and outside the ship. I was glad of my uniform, for it made me look more confident than I felt. The uniform was armor.
Near the gangway, Chef Vlad was loudly complaining to a soldier about the way he was loading the food. Mr. Lunardi came over to soothe the volatile chef, while Captain Walken and Dr. Turgenev made their final inspection of the Starclimber’s exterior. Miss Karr was busily setting up her camera equipment near the gangway, Haiku leaping about excitedly on her shoulder. Kate and Sir Hugh were arguing about whether to bring a large specimen cage.
“We’re ready to board,” Captain Walken finally announced.
“This is a great moment,” said Mr. Lunardi. “To my brave astralnauts, and our illustrious passengers, I wish you a glorious and safe journey. Godspeed.”
As everyone filed up the gangway, Miss Karr’s camera flashed again and again, commemorating the occasion.
“History in the making!” she said, though I thought there was a hint of mischief in her voice. “It reminds me of those glorious images of people boarding the Titanica.”
“Come now, Miss Karr,” the captain said genially, “I won’t hear such superstitious stuff aboard my ship. I think we have enough photos now, don’t you? Let me help you with your tripod, and let’s get you settled on B-Deck.”
I was the last to board, for it was my duty to shut the main hatch. I heaved the great circular door closed on its vast hinges, and it locked snugly. All sounds of the outside disappeared abruptly: the noise of the ground crew in the hangar, the bird-song, the powerful crash of the surf through the open roof.
It was like putting the space helmet over my head that very first time, and I felt a sudden flare of panic. I’d just been cut off from the world. I could see it through the porthole, could see Mr. Lunardi giving me the thumbs-up before walking off to the radio room. But the world was somehow no longer mine. I wouldn’t see it again, or breathe its air, until we returned to harbor in three weeks—if we returned at all. I thought of the mysterious lights; I thought of ticking crates in our cargo hold.
I took several deep breaths and looked across the rack that held our four space suits. Across the chest of each was stitched a name. WALKEN. SHEPHERD. BLANCHARD. CRUSE. I touched my suit. Had it not been for a split second of foolishness, it would have been Bronfman’s name on it.
“If you’re ready, Mr. Cruse, we’ve got a ship to take airborne.”
I turned to see Captain Walken waiting for me in the airlock doorway, smiling.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m delighted to have you on my crew again, Mr. Cruse,” he said, and his simple words reassured me greatly. For years I’d dreamed of serving under his command again, and here I was, a second officer on the first voyage to the stars.
Together we climbed the spiral staircase, past B-Deck and A-Deck to the glass-domed bridge atop the ship. Shepherd and Tobias were already buckled up in their seats, going through their checklists. I took my position.
“Check all hatches, please,” said the captain.
“All hatches closed,” I confirmed, looking at the indicator lights on my panel. “We are airtight.”
“Battery,” Captain Walken said.
I saw Tobias check his voltmeter. “We have full charge, sir.”
Though the Starclimber’s motors were constantly supplied with electricity from the ground, the ship also had a large backup battery, which held enough power for six hours.
“Thank you, Mr. Blanchard. Start the ventilation system, please, Mr. Shepherd.”
It was a pleasure to be under Captain Walken’s command once again. I’d never forgotten his calm authority at the helm, nor his unflagging politeness.
My ears popped as the air pumps pressurized the Starclimber’s interior. Even though we were rising to heights that might have no air at all, and virtually no pressure, we’d be kept comfortable inside. On Shepherd’s console to my right a sequence of green lights flared, telling us that the proper mix of oxygen and nitrogen was being fed through the air ducts. Dr. Turgenev’s team had devised an ingenious ventilation system using liquid oxygen. Stored in special tanks, it took up much less space than gas, and was enough to last us three weeks.
“We are fully pressurized, sir,” said Shepherd. If he secretly felt that he should’ve been captain, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.
“Air scrubbers?” asked Captain Walken.
We breathed in oxygen, but we exhaled carbon dioxide, and if there was too much of that, our air would be poisoned. They’d come up with a lithium hydroxide filter system that removed the carbon from the air and recirculated the oxygen.
“Filters are functioning, sir.”
“Engine temperature, Mr. Cruse?”
The numerous motors that controlled the ship’s rollers had already been activated and were warming up. I checked the row of gauges.
“All mot
ors are primed, sir.”
“Emergency descent system, please,” said the captain.
Built into the ship’s hull near the bow were two hydrium balloons that could be rapidly inflated in case our rollers failed on descent.
“Explosive bolts charged, and hydrium pressure is optimum,” reported Shepherd.
“Thank you. Mr. Blanchard, would you test the radio?”
As incredible as it sounded, we’d be able to communicate with Ground Station, even when we were twenty-five thousand miles away. The astral cable was our antenna.
“Transmitter and receiver working just fine,” said Tobias, a set of earphones over his head. “And we have radio contact with Ground Station.”
“Starclimber,” came Mr. Lunardi’s familiar voice over a speaker. “Do you read me?”
“We read you, Ground Station,” said Tobias.
“Please tell Mr. Lunardi we are airtight, pressurized, and fully charged,” said Captain Walken, and Tobias relayed the message.
“Excellent. You are cleared for liftoff, Starclimber,” said Mr. Lunardi.
“Mr. Cruse, engage the rollers, please,” said Captain Walken.
I took hold of a large lever, pulled it hard toward me, and locked it. Above the dome I saw the flexed spider legs quiver slightly as they tightened their grip on the cable. And I knew that all the rollers within the ship had also taken hold. I felt a small but eager vibration pass through the Starclimber’s frame—and my body too, for I was straining for the takeoff. My pulse raced.
Captain Walken looked overhead to confirm that the hangar roof was fully open, and then with a simple nod of his head said, “All ahead dead slow, Mr. Shepherd.”
I glanced over at Shepherd enviously. He was first officer, and he had the privilege of guiding the world’s first spaceship out of harbor on her maiden voyage.
“All ahead dead slow, sir,” Shepherd said, easing the throttle forward.
Behind me, within the cable shaft, the ship’s rollers hummed as they began to turn.
With scarcely a shudder, the Starclimber moved.
We were rising!
Until this moment there had always been some small part of me that didn’t quite believe it would work. How could it? You couldn’t dangle a thread from outer space and just climb it! There was nothing holding it up! No steel trusses, no bolts! It simply wasn’t possible.
Yet it was possible—and we lifted.
We rose up through the hangar and into the sky. Out of the panoramic windows I saw the tops of the tallest palms drop away. There was the coast, and the water ablaze with the rising sun. The Pacificus stretched to all horizons.
“We’re aloft!” Tobias cried into the radio. “Ground Station, we are aloft!”
“We see that, Starclimber!” returned Mr. Lunardi, and even over the speaker I could hear his voice was hoarse with emotion. “We see you, and you are a beautiful sight to be sure!”
I watched the altimeter and saw the needle climbing. One hundred feet, one ten, one twenty. The noise of the rollers filled the bridge like the reassuring thrum of airship engines, yet it only emphasized the strangeness of this utterly new form of flight.
“It feels so odd,” I said. “To be moving up without moving forward.”
“It is uncanny,” Captain Walken said.
“I keep waiting to slide back down,” said Tobias.
But the rollers’ grip was true, for there was absolutely no sensation of slippage. There was virtually no sway to the ship, either. All its movement was vertical. Up was its only direction and desire.
Two hundred feet…two fifty…three hundred…
A pair of Aeroforce ornithopters circled us from a distance, and beyond them I saw the general’s airship hovering, keeping watch. We were still rising no faster than an elevator, but I smiled and smiled. It was an amazing feeling.
“Five hundred feet, sir,” I said, checking the altimeter.
The captain nodded. “Throttle back, Mr. Shepherd, please.”
He gradually brought the Starclimber to a full stop, and we hung there on our astral cable. I must say it made me feel strange all over, because I’d never been utterly motionless in the sky like this. It seemed to defy every natural law. I couldn’t help peering out the windows to make sure we weren’t falling.
“Ground Station, this is Starclimber,” Tobias said into the radio. “We’re stationary at five hundred feet and awaiting further orders.”
“Starclimber, you look grand from here,” said Lunardi. “Run another complete check and report back, please.”
Once more the four of us went methodically through all the ship’s systems, to make sure they were working properly.
“Everything’s fine up here, Ground Station,” Tobias radioed.
“Excellent. You’re clear to continue your climb, Starclimber. Report back when you’ve reached ten miles, please.”
“Full ahead one third, please, Mr. Shepherd,” Captain Walken said.
Shepherd set the ship in motion once more. The pitch of the engines increased. We’d taken her out of harbor dead slow, but now I felt a slight weight in my stomach as we picked up speed.
“We’re at forty aeroknots, sir,” I reported.
“Make turns for eighty, Mr. Shepherd,” the captain said.
I marveled that Shepherd could look so composed as he pushed the throttle forward and we shot upward. The heaviness in my stomach intensified. Outside the windows, the ornithopters fell out of sight as though they’d been yanked down with strings. We were now going as fast as an airship, only straight up.
The captain grinned. “Let’s give her a workout, Mr. Shepherd. Take her to full speed.”
“Full ahead, sir.”
As Shepherd pushed the throttle almost to its farthest point, I felt my body pushed down hard against my seat.
“One hundred twenty aeroknots, sir!” I said.
“Fast enough for you, Shepherd?” asked Tobias.
“I’ve been faster,” he said, nodding out the window at the two ornithopters that had caught up with us and were swooping around the cable. But Shepherd had a smile on his lips, and I could tell he was actually enjoying himself.
“Those fellows won’t be able to keep up for long,” said the captain with a chuckle, for sky sailors tended to think ornithopters an inferior form of flying. “We’re climbing at over ten thousand feet a minute.”
Sure enough, the ornithopters, after one last flapping surge, sank swiftly below us. Shepherd watched them go.
“Come on, Shepherd, admit it,” Tobias said, “you’re impressed.”
“It’s an impressive machine,” he said. “Just isn’t my idea of flying. My granny could fly this thing.”
“Maybe we should’ve brought her, then,” said Tobias.
I bit back my laughter. I didn’t want to appear unprofessional, right now of all times.
“Well done, gentlemen,” said the captain. “A smoother first launch I couldn’t imagine. We’re on our way to the stars. At our current speed, we should reach cable’s end in eight days.”
It was amazing how quickly the sensation of speed disappeared. Apart from a slight heaviness in the stomach, you could almost forget you were hurtling through the sky at great speed. The captain turned to me.
“Mr. Cruse, why don’t you go below and see how our passengers are faring?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now that the Starclimber was under way, it needed a crew of only two on the bridge, and we’d be beginning our shifts soon. I started down the spiral staircase.
The ship was remarkably steady. There was hardly any of the rocking or pitching of an airship. My footsteps felt a bit leaden with gravity’s drag, but my spirits were lighter than air. Nothing could match the delicious feeling of setting sail on a long voyage.
I passed A-Deck, which was entirely taken up with our sleeping quarters and a single lavatory. I’d be sharing a cabin with Tobias. It was certainly small, but no more cramped than crew quarters aboard the
Aurora. There were two bunks, each fitted with restraining straps (for when gravity failed us) and a chest of drawers for our belongings, and that was it. The porthole was large, mercifully.
As I continued down to B-Deck, I could hear the sounds of Chef Vlad already at work in his kitchen. Pots clanged, a knife whacked against a cutting board, a whisk scratched against a metal mixing bowl—and Chef Vlad was muttering ominously to himself in Transylvanian. It was just like old times aboard the Aurora. The Starclimber was properly coming to life.
B-Deck was the largest of the ship’s levels, for the Starclimber was widest amidships. Apart from the kitchen, adjoining pantry, and lavatory, which had all been built in a semicircle around the central shaft, B-Deck was a wide-open area: lounge, dining room, and observation deck combined. Floor-to-ceiling windows were generously spaced along the curving hull, letting in dazzling sunlight and a sweeping view of the Pacificus. Kate was already on her feet, field glasses around her neck and nose pressed to the reinforced glass, gazing out in wonder.
Miss Karr was examining the numerous cameras that had been mounted on tripods all around the deck, so she could take pictures of virtually anything outside the ship. Haiku leapt about excitedly, chittering advice. Dr. Turgenev was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed he must already be below on C-Deck in the laboratory, using his complicated machinery to test the atmosphere as we climbed. Sir Hugh was the only one sitting, turned away from the windows and writing busily.
Mr. Lunardi certainly hadn’t spared any expense on the ship’s furnishings. There were leather armchairs and ornate tables and velvet sofas and shaded reading lamps. A hand-painted mural of the solar system adorned the walls between windows. At first glance the room didn’t look very different from the first-class lounges on his luxury airships. But every stick of furniture was bolted to the metal floor, and all the chairs and sofas were fitted with restraining belts. Spaced all across the deck, walls, and ceiling were hand-and footholds so we’d be able to move about more easily when we were weightless.
“How’s everyone feeling?” I asked.
“It’s incredible!” said Kate. “I was a bit woozy just at the very beginning, but I’m fine now. How fast are we going, Mr. Cruse?”