subside, and finally allow rational thoughts to re-emerge.
“It’s too early,â€
Chapter 1:
The Hidden
Dr. Marcus Donovan was looking through a rectangular porthole. A thick pane of clear polycarbonate separated him from the cold emptiness of space and the radiant blue, green and white-flecked Earth some 300 kilometers beyond. It was mid-morning down there in New Zealand, and he idly wondered what details escaped his sight from this distance.
“You ever get tired of staring out the windows, Marc?â€
Chapter 2:
First Response
Jack Hernandez was rechecking his equipment when the ride began to buck and shake. The metal cabin dipped and shuddered violently, but the U-shaped metal restraint over his shoulders kept him planted firmly in his seat. At this point in his career, trans-atmospheric flight was slightly more exciting than riding a commuter train.
“Man, hell of ride, ain’t it?â€
Chapter 3:
Snake Oil
The Global Aerospace Foundation’s main campus was a huge complex covering two square kilometers outside of Bangalore, India. The architecture married gothic and high-tech, with great swooping roofs that gave the impression of the buildings themselves reaching for the distant stars. To Marcus Donovan, it was a modern day revival of renaissance cathedrals, pure pomp and self-importance, evoking the immeasurable vastness of space and by comparison, man’s own insignificance. Other times, he just thought it was huge and ugly.
The main doors were on the eastern side, surrounded by a half-circle of stone columns arrayed as a sundial. They tracked the sun’s daily and yearly journeys through the sky, a simple reminder of Earth’s endless whirling journey through space.
Beyond that sat a sunken courtyard with a black memorial wall, inscribed with the name of every human being known to have perished in space exploration. The monument was inspired by the Vietnam Memorial still standing in old Washington DC, and oddly, both monuments were made of granite from the same Bangalore quarry less than ten kilometers away.
As usual, Marcus passed the wall without pausing, and promised himself he’d stop and read the names next time. It was always next time.
Leaning heavily on a metal cane, he limped past the wall, through the towering columns and headed straight for the automatic glass doors. He was thankful for that last detail. His tours in space were growing longer and more frequent, and that coupled with his natural aversion to exercise made every return to gravity more difficult—more painful—than the last. This time, he’d endured two weeks of physical therapy after touchdown, and his legs still felt like chewing gum in July. He wouldn’t be walking at all without the cane, and normal everyday doors were more trouble than he cared for.
As he limped up to doors, the GAF emblem loomed above. It was a circular seal with shape that could have been a great red bird soaring to the stars. He wasn’t sure, really. The design was terribly abstract, and the bird could as easily have been a spaceship, a boomerang, or man’s indomitable will to greatness. It was anyone’s guess.
The foundation’s motto was written in golden letters around the seal, reading “Ab terra, ad infinitum et ultrum.â€
Chapter 4:
228 Days
Marcus Donovan’s con worked. Less than a week later (3.3 picoseconds in bureaucratic time), the Budget Oversight Committee agreed to his plan and the Gypsies left on the first shuttle out.
They spent the next two months finishing and reconfiguring the 170 meter long Shackleton Explorer. The Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto probes were removed and placed in storage for some future Jupiter expedition, as was the bulky orbital scanning array, while seven modular cargo containers and a state-of-the-art extra-vehicular mission unit were installed in their place. The cargo holds were packed full of
“It’s too early,â€
Chapter 1:
The Hidden
Dr. Marcus Donovan was looking through a rectangular porthole. A thick pane of clear polycarbonate separated him from the cold emptiness of space and the radiant blue, green and white-flecked Earth some 300 kilometers beyond. It was mid-morning down there in New Zealand, and he idly wondered what details escaped his sight from this distance.
“You ever get tired of staring out the windows, Marc?â€
Chapter 2:
First Response
Jack Hernandez was rechecking his equipment when the ride began to buck and shake. The metal cabin dipped and shuddered violently, but the U-shaped metal restraint over his shoulders kept him planted firmly in his seat. At this point in his career, trans-atmospheric flight was slightly more exciting than riding a commuter train.
“Man, hell of ride, ain’t it?â€
Chapter 3:
Snake Oil
The Global Aerospace Foundation’s main campus was a huge complex covering two square kilometers outside of Bangalore, India. The architecture married gothic and high-tech, with great swooping roofs that gave the impression of the buildings themselves reaching for the distant stars. To Marcus Donovan, it was a modern day revival of renaissance cathedrals, pure pomp and self-importance, evoking the immeasurable vastness of space and by comparison, man’s own insignificance. Other times, he just thought it was huge and ugly.
The main doors were on the eastern side, surrounded by a half-circle of stone columns arrayed as a sundial. They tracked the sun’s daily and yearly journeys through the sky, a simple reminder of Earth’s endless whirling journey through space.
Beyond that sat a sunken courtyard with a black memorial wall, inscribed with the name of every human being known to have perished in space exploration. The monument was inspired by the Vietnam Memorial still standing in old Washington DC, and oddly, both monuments were made of granite from the same Bangalore quarry less than ten kilometers away.
As usual, Marcus passed the wall without pausing, and promised himself he’d stop and read the names next time. It was always next time.
Leaning heavily on a metal cane, he limped past the wall, through the towering columns and headed straight for the automatic glass doors. He was thankful for that last detail. His tours in space were growing longer and more frequent, and that coupled with his natural aversion to exercise made every return to gravity more difficult—more painful—than the last. This time, he’d endured two weeks of physical therapy after touchdown, and his legs still felt like chewing gum in July. He wouldn’t be walking at all without the cane, and normal everyday doors were more trouble than he cared for.
As he limped up to doors, the GAF emblem loomed above. It was a circular seal with shape that could have been a great red bird soaring to the stars. He wasn’t sure, really. The design was terribly abstract, and the bird could as easily have been a spaceship, a boomerang, or man’s indomitable will to greatness. It was anyone’s guess.
The foundation’s motto was written in golden letters around the seal, reading “Ab terra, ad infinitum et ultrum.â€
Chapter 4:
228 Days
Marcus Donovan’s con worked. Less than a week later (3.3 picoseconds in bureaucratic time), the Budget Oversight Committee agreed to his plan and the Gypsies left on the first shuttle out.
They spent the next two months finishing and reconfiguring the 170 meter long Shackleton Explorer. The Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto probes were removed and placed in storage for some future Jupiter expedition, as was the bulky orbital scanning array, while seven modular cargo containers and a state-of-the-art extra-vehicular mission unit were installed in their place. The cargo holds were packed full of
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