magnetically before they could encounter any normal matter. The antiparticles, protons and positrons, were mated, and the resulting antihydrogen super-cooled for storage as a BEC.
But storage was merely prelude to use. The antimatter atoms had to be transferred from production line to shipping containers to fuel tanks, without ever touching normal matter. Onboard ship, the antimatter had to be metered out, with near-infinite precision, into the engines. And absent a space drive to exploit the enormous energies stored in antimatter, the only use for antimatter was really big bombs.
All these were challenges the K’vithians had evidently overcome. “If not BECs, Keffah, how does Victorious store its antimatter?” Art asked.
Blink blink. “Safely.”
“As Keffah indicated earlier, we have surveyed your infosphere for relevant topics,” Lothwer said hurriedly. “Our technology applies scientific theory not in evidence there. The Foremost suggests it is premature to discuss specifics.”
Art stood and stretched. It didn’t take being an ICU exec to break the code: trade secret.
That even made sense. The UP antimatter program was highly classified, but its cost was surely huge. Himalia base was a whole small town, its population numbering hundreds of scientists, engineers, and technicians. Its sole support for decades had been the antimatter program. Then there was the steady succession of scoopships bringing fusion fuel for the antimatter factory. It looked like the Foremost planned to swap technology for antimatter.
“And how, without specifics, do you expect us to provide refueling assistance?” Eva’s sniff of frustration was no doubt translated by Pashwah Two for the Snakes. The shrug-equivalent in response made her grind her teeth.
Lothwer broke a long silence. “Keffah, could you adapt BEC techniques to our systems?”
“Some sort of interface mechanism, you mean? Something to convert from the BEC form? Not easily, but yes. I don’t see the point. That would still expose … the technology.”
“Not a problem,” Art said. System engineers think a lot about interfaces. “Take it in stages. The BEC-to-whatever conversion mechanism never leaves Victorious . All the UP engineers would require is a BEC canister that mates with your onboard converter. We fill the BEC container, you take it aboard Victorious and transfer the fuel. Give us back the empty canister, and we repeat the process.”
“A moment please,” Lothwer said.
The cruiser’s instruments reported sudden spikes in radio traffic, all encrypted. At very low power: Lothwer and Keffah infolinking. At slightly higher power: exchanges between them and the Snake aux ship floating alongside, at the end of a flexible docking tube. At higher power still: messages to and from Victorious . Consultations? Request for approval? Amid total silence, Art and Joe tried to read meaning into the scarcest hints of movement by their guests. Was that a twitch? A nervous tic? Or were they just shifting positions on the stools?
Lothwer’s eyes unglazed. “Our engineers agree in principle, but BECs worry them. This is technology we had abandoned as too dangerous.”
“It’s a technology we have used without incident for years,” Eva snapped. “We would never have scaled it up to mass production otherwise.”
“And that expertise,” said Keffah, “is crucial. Before we dare bring a BEC container near Victorious , you must convince me it is safe.”
The Vestal Non-Virgin came, as always, in a tall, naked, and anatomically improbable ceramic mug. All that went into it were cherry juice and eighty-proof ouzo. Mostly ouzo. It was a Belter favorite, in no way associated with sacramental solemnity.
Helmut didn’t care.
He sipped slowly, his thoughts not on the beverage, nor the hangover certain to follow. Kwasi’s libation of choice was the Non-Virgin, and today was Kwasi’s birthday. Would have been. The least he could do was drink to an old
But storage was merely prelude to use. The antimatter atoms had to be transferred from production line to shipping containers to fuel tanks, without ever touching normal matter. Onboard ship, the antimatter had to be metered out, with near-infinite precision, into the engines. And absent a space drive to exploit the enormous energies stored in antimatter, the only use for antimatter was really big bombs.
All these were challenges the K’vithians had evidently overcome. “If not BECs, Keffah, how does Victorious store its antimatter?” Art asked.
Blink blink. “Safely.”
“As Keffah indicated earlier, we have surveyed your infosphere for relevant topics,” Lothwer said hurriedly. “Our technology applies scientific theory not in evidence there. The Foremost suggests it is premature to discuss specifics.”
Art stood and stretched. It didn’t take being an ICU exec to break the code: trade secret.
That even made sense. The UP antimatter program was highly classified, but its cost was surely huge. Himalia base was a whole small town, its population numbering hundreds of scientists, engineers, and technicians. Its sole support for decades had been the antimatter program. Then there was the steady succession of scoopships bringing fusion fuel for the antimatter factory. It looked like the Foremost planned to swap technology for antimatter.
“And how, without specifics, do you expect us to provide refueling assistance?” Eva’s sniff of frustration was no doubt translated by Pashwah Two for the Snakes. The shrug-equivalent in response made her grind her teeth.
Lothwer broke a long silence. “Keffah, could you adapt BEC techniques to our systems?”
“Some sort of interface mechanism, you mean? Something to convert from the BEC form? Not easily, but yes. I don’t see the point. That would still expose … the technology.”
“Not a problem,” Art said. System engineers think a lot about interfaces. “Take it in stages. The BEC-to-whatever conversion mechanism never leaves Victorious . All the UP engineers would require is a BEC canister that mates with your onboard converter. We fill the BEC container, you take it aboard Victorious and transfer the fuel. Give us back the empty canister, and we repeat the process.”
“A moment please,” Lothwer said.
The cruiser’s instruments reported sudden spikes in radio traffic, all encrypted. At very low power: Lothwer and Keffah infolinking. At slightly higher power: exchanges between them and the Snake aux ship floating alongside, at the end of a flexible docking tube. At higher power still: messages to and from Victorious . Consultations? Request for approval? Amid total silence, Art and Joe tried to read meaning into the scarcest hints of movement by their guests. Was that a twitch? A nervous tic? Or were they just shifting positions on the stools?
Lothwer’s eyes unglazed. “Our engineers agree in principle, but BECs worry them. This is technology we had abandoned as too dangerous.”
“It’s a technology we have used without incident for years,” Eva snapped. “We would never have scaled it up to mass production otherwise.”
“And that expertise,” said Keffah, “is crucial. Before we dare bring a BEC container near Victorious , you must convince me it is safe.”
The Vestal Non-Virgin came, as always, in a tall, naked, and anatomically improbable ceramic mug. All that went into it were cherry juice and eighty-proof ouzo. Mostly ouzo. It was a Belter favorite, in no way associated with sacramental solemnity.
Helmut didn’t care.
He sipped slowly, his thoughts not on the beverage, nor the hangover certain to follow. Kwasi’s libation of choice was the Non-Virgin, and today was Kwasi’s birthday. Would have been. The least he could do was drink to an old
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