//------------------------------// // Ad Astra – Sidestory // Story: If Wishes Were Ponies, Book II // by tkepner //------------------------------// October 28th, 1992, 4:19PM Administrator David Williams and Director General Arthur Pryor, both of the British National Space Centre; Yuri Koptev, the Director for the Russian Space Agency; Jean-Marie Luton, the French Director General of the European Space Agency; Retired Vice Admiral Richard H. Truly of NASA, Ambassador Blueblood of Equestria, Ambassador Ma Yuzhen of China, and a score of lesser dignitaries were enough of a crowd, thought Major Thomas. However, the number of reporters and press members at the Otterburn Army Training Estate, Britain’s largest live-fire military training estate, was simply ridiculous. They were all studying the modified Bristol Bloodhound Mark II missile — with Ad Astra II emblazoned on its nose — and its mount. The technicians were giving it one final check-over before launch in just half-an-hours, at four o’clock and thirty-nine minutes With the success of the Moon mission, the Queen had shifted from a lukewarm appreciation of exploring space to full gun-ho admiration. Especially when she heard how pleased Princess Luna was with her gift. Similarly, Parliament, controlled by the Conservative Party, had changed from quiet critiques about wasting money, to whole-hearted support. Their base had been energized and bragging about Britain being a major-player in a field in that, to-now, had been dominated by the yanks. Especially so since it had been so cheap compared to the yanks’ efforts. That had led to quick turnaround in opinion. Today’s Bloodhound looked exactly like the previous one that had stood on this very spot just seven months ago, a decommissioned unit. The ramjets that normally powered the anti-aircraft missile in flight had been discarded. The ramjets’ fuel tanks in the core missile had been replaced with a single, large kerosene and liquid-oxygen thruster, and its attendant fuel tanks. Its fresh coat of paint, with the BNSC logo proudly displayed on its side, however, tended to give the impression it had been purpose-built for this launch. The insides, too, had been heavily modified, not that those in attendance knew the specifics. Unlike the previous missile, the fuel tank wasn’t expansion-enlarged and holding thousands more pounds of fuel than it should. Instead, each small, sealed, fuel tank held only enough fuel for one second. A special duplication charm in a module at the top of the nozzle was copying the fuel from the tanks and injecting it into the combustion chamber. The magically-duplicated fuel only needed to last half-a-second, and was consumed in less than a fraction of that time. As soon as the spell timed-out, the remains returned to the magic that had made them. It was the ultimate in a non-polluting, recyclable, infinite fuel. All the Press knew, however, was that Equestrian Special Technology had provided a vastly more powerful fuel. It had taken a crew of five “Special Technicians” working together to create the module. It was as permanent a charm as it was possible to create. The specification was for it to last fifteen years. It would probably last forever — like the rest of the missile. Closest to the engines was the portkey, no, Thomas corrected himself, the “translocator” container. It had twenty timed-translocators for set distances — approximate, of course. The first four would be at the distances where the different gas giants orbited, the fifth would be at the “rim” of the solar system, the outside edge of the Kuiper Belt and at fifty times the distance the Earth is from the Sun. The sixth at one light-day. The seventh at one light-week, then one month, half-a year, one year, two years, three years, and so forth to ten years. The light-time distances were all estimates. The plan was to get it as close to seventy-percent lightspeed as possible. The Russian scientists insisted they had calculated things precisely to take in the effects of Lorentz time dilation. They also insisted the on-board computer could easily handle any in-flight adjustments and corrections to its flight-path, as necessary. It used gyroscopes to maintain its attitude. Major Thomas reserved judgement. The proof would be in the pudding, was his thought. To help verify the distance covered, each portkey was attached to a camera facing back to Earth, with time-marks. Well, there really was only one lens, set towards Earth. The cameras all sat safely with their portkeys and used Special Technology to use the same lens and record the last minute before the respective translocator engaged. The missile would decelerate to a stop at eleven years out, and attempt to translocate to the special Moon-orbital-target for retrieval. If everything went to plan, it would arrive back in twelve years for analysis and reuse. Or placement in a museum, whichever would be more appropriate. Next from the engine was the payload package. It was actually the top stage of the Ad Astra. It would separate from the Bloodhound at the two-light-year mark. Once it was a safe distance from the Bloodhound, it would begin decelerating. If everything went perfectly — ha! — it would come to a relative stop at edge of the Alpha-Beta Centauri System. It would spend several days taking hundreds of pictures, then return them with its own translocator. It would wait a week, then deploy a translocator target. The scientists in BNSC, NASA, ESA, and Roscosmos had been very upset about their inability to come up with a viable platform with more complex scientific instruments in the short time they were given. Actually, frothing with rage was probably more accurate. If the translocators worked at that distance — Thomas not so unconsciously crossed his fingers — those scientists might be able to go there in person in seven years with a complete suite of instruments. That promise was about the only reason why most hadn’t quit and stormed off to sulk. If the translocators failed after a certain point in space before then, they would have to resort to their backup plan for interstellar exploration. It was a bit more inconvenient, but doable. They would have a backup Bloodhound prepped for immediate launch with the designated instrument package, in the meantime. It didn’t hurt to be prepared, and they had a few years to prepare a proper package for the Alpha-Beta Centauri system, regardless of which way things turned out. The visitors were giving the missile and its launch rig a critical eye. BNSC was using the original mount — no need, really, to change that. It made things much simpler. For the mount, the missile weighed just the right amount for a fully-fuelled missile. Koptev looked over to Pryor. “This will achieve near light-speed?” he said sceptically. The others mirrored his disbelief. The Director nodded. “Using the Special Technology the Equestrians have provided, it should hit seventy-percent the speed of light in twenty-eight days, without a problem.” He smiled. “We launched the first Bloodhound with their tech in April, and we just received confirmation it has already reached Jupiter’s orbit. Something no one would have believed was possible six months ago.” He nodded at the waiting missile. “We’ve improved on the technology since then, and Ad Astra Two will put the first to shame.” “And the Equestrians’ have this in their own world?” someone asked a bit incredulously. The Director shook his head wryly. “They are a . . . peculiar race. The whole concept of different worlds around different stars never even occurred to them. Instead, they explored portals and different dimensions. As a result, they never considered using rockets to explore space. They’ve only used them for fireworks and the like.” Thomas spoke up. “That’s changing, however.” Ambassador Blueblood came closer to the cluster of top officials. “Our solar system has no gas giants, and the other planets are all the size of your moon or smaller,” he explained. “The night sky, while beautiful, did not hold anything that we particularly wanted to see any closer.” He sighed. He smiled ruefully. “And Princess Luna is rather particular about who she would let step onto her moon.” The others nodded a bit uncertainly. Most still did not quite believe that the Royal Sisters actually controlled celestial bodies. “Yes,” said Truly, “The lack of anything interesting closer than the next star would put a damper on that sort of pursuit.” He glanced at the others. “Going from a shot at the moon to a shot at the stars with nothing in between?” He shook his head. “On the other hoof,” Blueblood said, “We have several ponies wanting to join your space agencies.” He gave the others a speculative look. The Director of the BNSC was looking gleeful at that news. The others merely looked thoughtful. Thomas could almost read their thoughts. Would having a pony in their program give them a leg-up on the competition for the Buran? Would they get priority access to the Special Technology for their own programs? The warning siren sounded and the group slowly moved over to the new, partially underground launch control building. Part of it was a garage in which the Bloodhound launch control vehicle was parked. The press was moved back to their prepared, concrete berms at a greater distance. The head technician looked up. “Everything is green. We couldn’t ask for better weather conditions, and the airspace is clear.” David and Arthur just nodded. The launch schedule wouldn’t be changed unless something went wrong. So far, nothing had. The four solid-propellant boosters were unchanged from the original. They would fire for only three seconds, but in those three seconds they would push the missile to Mach 2.5, or eight-hundred and fifty-seven meters per second. It was an acceleration that would pulp a human, nearly twenty-nine times the Earth’s gravity. The group moved into the bunker and jockeyed for good positions behind the reinforced glass to watch. Just like the first time, the launch was spectacular. One moment the missile was on its mount, the next it wasn’t. Even knowing where to look, Thomas lost sight of the missile almost instantly. The large video display on one wall displayed the missile rapidly disappearing in the distance. “One point two kilometres down-range, three-quarters of a kilometre altitude, climbing at eighty-eight degrees. Boosters off. Main engine in nominal range. Boosters have dropped,” a flight technician said. “Everything is green.” The new engine in the Bloodhound, and its design for operation in space, meant the two normal ramjets it should have had were gone. Only the control wings remained on the sleek missile. Thomas knew the missile would now proceed at a more sedate acceleration of eighty-seven metres per second, or 8.8 gravities. The guidance system would make sure the missile maintained its present attitude until the Bloodhound left the atmosphere. Then it would roll and change to more directly point at Alpha Centauri. Or, rather, where they expected the Centauri system to be in seven years. After all, what they saw in the night sky today was where they system had been four years and some months ago. At this time of the year, the Centauri system was only a month or so from being on the opposite side of the sun from Earth. Hence, the launch so late in the afternoon. It took advantage of the near-forty-five-degree angle of the launch mount and currently-southern aim to decrease the manoeuvring necessary. Unlike the previous Bloodhound, this one made use of the same “Special Technology” that allowed the Knight Bus to avoid obstacles. It would be quite inconvenient if the missile ploughed into an undiscovered moon or asteroid in the Kuiper Belt or Oort Cloud. Of course, hitting even a grain of sand at the speeds the missile was expected to achieve would make an explosion that bordered on nuclear in size. Which was why it also had an impressive array of detection spells deployed in front of it, and linked to shields to “nudge” smaller particles out of the way. That last also eliminated any chance of interacting with any of the junk put in Earth-orbit in the last fifty years. The space might technically be nearly empty, but that nearly was still very crowded compared to the space between planets. When the payload separated, its tech would begin sweeping the rear as the missile decelerated. The now-shorter Bloodhound would engage its version of the tech to use for the rest of its flight, and also switch to the rear when it dropped its last translocator and began decelerating itself. As expected, the modified Bloodhound quickly out-ran their on-site radar installation and they switched to a feed from the UK Air Surveillance and Control System in Fylingdales. Then came the steady chant of altitude readings as the missile climbed. Ten kilometres, twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy, a hundred. “Time mark, coming on sixty seconds . . . mark! Altitude, one hundred and fifty-seven kilometres. Velocity, 5.2 kilometres per second. Course within one percent of projected.” Soon, Thomas knew, the missile would outrun their radar capabilities. Fylingdales, after all, was oriented more towards watching known launches of hostile aircraft and missiles from over the horizon, not staring straight up into space. “Switching to SPACECOM for continued tracking . . . established.” A new system that was integrated into the yanks’ SPACECOM was being installed, but it wouldn’t be operational for several more months. This was only the second time Britain had launched a potential ballistic missile from the island. Thomas knew that every foreign agency that could, would be closely watching this launch. The BBC crew that was broadcasting this live, and recording it for posterity, were giving a running commentary in the background. The video and audio from the control bunker were being fed directly to dozens of broadcast networks, both radio and television. Much of the press had started with their own equipment, but after the launch had had to switch to the “official” feed. “All systems green, engine nominal,” called out one of the technicians. “Coming on two-minute mark . . . mark! Altitude 626 kilometres. Velocity, ten-point-four-kilometres per second. Course on track.” Everyone there knew that what they had just seen should have been impossible. The missile simply wasn’t big enough to carry the fuel it needed to achieve even near-Earth orbit. The BNSC just parroted “Equestrian Special Technology.” There was a stunned quiet as they watched the radar-feed from the yanks and saw the missile climbing and accelerating, straight as an arrow now. “Coming on ten-minute mark . . . mark! Altitude fifteen thousand six-hundred kilometres. Velocity, fifty-two kilometres per second. Course on track.” “. . .” “Beginning to lose as lock as Ad Astra Two leaves effective radar range on the United Kingdom’s, and mankind’s, first attempt at interstellar exploration. All instruments register green for a perfect flight to the Alpha-Beta Centauri System.” Pryor cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t think we need to stand around here! We have a chartered plane waiting to take us back to London. As I mentioned in the briefing on the way here, explaining Ad Astra One, we have a small folder of papers for each of you detailing Two’s mission and what we hope to accomplish with this launch. How successful it will be, I really don’t know. “If the Translocators continue to work as expected, in less than seven years we will be able to go directly from Earth to the Alpha Centauri system. In a worst-case scenario, we might have to put space stations in place as stepping stones.” He stopped and grinned at them. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t care if I had to take a thousand such steps! That’s still less than how far I normally walk when I visit Downing Street!” The others smiled. “The lunar Planet-Explorer Telescope Complex, PETCo, has already confirmed that there are two planets orbiting Proxima Centauri. “One has an estimated mass of about twenty-percent more than Earth, an orbital period of about eleven-point-two days, and a distance of about seven and a half million kilometres — five percent of what the Earth is from our sun.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Which places it at about the distance where water is liquid on the surface! Whether it is inhabitable is unknown, unfortunately. But we have high hopes!” He sighed dramatically. “The other is a super-Earth, about seven times more massive than Earth. It is, unfortunately, one-and-a-half times as far from Proxima as the Earth is from our sun, with an orbit of one thousand, nine hundred, and twenty-eight days. “Also, they postulate Alpha Centauri may have a Neptune-sized habitable-zone planet, at about ten percent further out from the star than Earth is from our sun, with a period estimated at a year. They hope to confirm that within the next year. “Details on all this are in the folder.” They slowly exited the building and headed for the coach to carry them to the nearby airport. The press behind them were recapping the launch and waxing poetic about wonderful days ahead in the space program. Plus speculating on which nearby stars had habitable planets and where the United Kingdom’s space program was going to go, next. The BBC was again applauding the Conservative government’s foresight in backing the research that was making the United Kingdom a leader a space and industry. Not to mention the cleaner air, more efficient lorries and cars, and unprecedented recycling efforts that were all rejuvenating the economy. The various space agency members were discussing what they had seen, and wanting to take a good look at the papers in the folders Pryor had promised them. Would it be better to meld their space programs with the United Kingdom’s? Or not? | ----(_)---- December 3rd, 8:13PM Ad Astra II had hit its marks like clockwork, Thomas, and everyone else in the BNSC, were pleased to see. The Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune translocators had come in right on time at thirty-eight, fifty-one, seventy-three, and eighty-eight hours. The fifth, the Kuiper Belt, at fifty times the Sun-to-Earth distance, came in at about one-hundred-fifty-five hours and twenty minutes. They were good-to-go for translocating to any place they could reach by rocket in the entire solar system. The probe had been hauling arse at 36,124 kilometres per second, at that last moment, and accelerating constantly. The yanks had been incredulous, at first, but when their Hubble telescope picked up the flame of the missile’s engines as it passed Jupiter’s orbit, they became believers. Thomas was sure that if they hadn’t layered impervius charms on the missile’s nozzle, it would have eroded away and been vaporized long before it made it that far. The sixth translocator, scheduled for one light-day came in almost nine days after launch. The seventh, at one light-week distant, appeared at twenty-three and a half days. Less than half-an-hour shy of twenty-eight days, the engines shut off. They had reached the target of seventy-percent the speed of light, at a distance of nine-point-seven-seven light days. They would reach the one light-month marker in three weeks — fifty-seven days after launch. BNSC had also learned that translocators operated on a geometric scale for distance versus time in transit. That is, take the distance and divide by two hundred thousand. Then find what power of two you need to hit that number. Multiple that power by two and add nine. Thus, jumping two-hundred-thousand kilometres takes nine seconds. The moon is four hundred thousand kilometres away (2^1, 2+9) and eleven seconds. Mars is fifty-six million kilometres at its closest (2^8.15, 2*8.15+9), which gives a time of twenty-five-point-three seconds. At its farthest, it’s four hundred and two million kilometres (2^10.97, 2*10.97+9), and takes thirty-point-nine seconds. The distance to Alpha Centauri varies according to the source, but the average works out to just over a minute in translocator transit time. No one was sure why there was a nine-second offset. Nor why the time was a geometric factor of distance. One theory was that the translocator was actually speeding up to punch through to a different dimension where there was no limit to your speed. Once there, the translocator sort of . . . shifted into warp speed . . . and off you went. Shorter distances than two hundred thousand kilometres apparently didn’t give the portkeys time to rev up to full speed. With an Earthly range that never exceeded thirteen thousand kilometres, one-fifteenth the two-hundred-thousand minimum distance, the portkey was active for just a fraction over half-a-second. Which matched what most people claimed a portkey took to get them where they wanted. The Buran was being refurbished — again. It now had the unlimited fuel possibilities that the Ad Astra II had pioneered. The BNSC was waiting for the yanks to finish their “Mars-base” modules before sending it on a Mars mission. Which required more modifications to the Buran, they had realized. Which was why it was still in its hanger and not being run as a tow-truck service. The Russians had refused to sell the Ptichka after they saw the moon-shot. Instead, they had immediately started working on finishing its construction. They offered a fifty-one-to-forty-nine partnership to the British. They planned, according to the Director General of the BNSC, to turn the spaceplane into an Earth-to-high orbit taxi-service retrieving “old” satellites and placing new ones at a fraction of the current cost to do so. Not to mention acting as the workhorse for the space-station. It was much cheaper to pay twenty million quid for a satellite placement than the current fifty-million that the cheapest traditional launch cost. Especially because there wasn’t the risk of the whole thing going up in smoke with a failed launch. The cost to the Russians, and Brits, would be less than million quid. The flight itself shouldn’t last longer than a standard eight-hour shift, from loading the cargo, to take-off, to landing, and returning to its hanger! Renting a 747 to fly around the world would cost more and take longer. They expected the Brits to kick in a quarter of the funding, and access to the Special Technology in exchange. It was, according to Administrator David Williams, far cheaper than building a spaceplane from scratch. The return on their investment would take less than a year, even if they only placed one satellite a week. The average for the last ten years was one hundred and twenty launches per year, better than two per week. If they could manage two satellites per flight, their profit trebled after expenses. There was already one billionaire making noises about building a “space hotel.” On paper, fitting the Ptichka cargo bay with a special “passenger” section would provide seating for one-hundred and sixty-eight people, assuming a pitch of seventy-eight centimetres, and a width per seat of fifty centimetres. In a few years, you should be able to fly to a space-station for less per ticket than you could fly from London to Paris. The Russians had, of course, already modified their “Little Bird” spaceplane to take the new “Special Technology” engines. Thomas had to snicker. Unlike the airlines, they didn’t have to pay for thousands of kilograms of fuel for the flight. However, Thomas knew they’d charge a premium for the tickets. They had to recoup the cost of the spaceplanes, which cost significantly more than a regular jetliner. But even at ten times the price of a normal First-Class ticket from Tokyo to London, people would queue up for a chance to see home from space! They wouldn’t make as much profit as they did with the satellites, unfortunately. But then, more flights per week meant the cost to maintain the ground facilities and personnel would be less per flight. As their part of the deal, Britain had dispatched ten Special Technology officers to Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan. They were carefully examining the exterior of the spaceplane, tile-by-tile, using their Special Technology instruments to look for defective or suspicious tiles. A follow-up on that would an interior examination. They didn’t tell the Russians they would be reinforcing the structural members and all the potential weak spots they had identified previously in the Buran. They were also installing the Special Technology cameras that were on the Buran, and a few other safety measures they deemed necessary that would be impossible to detect if you weren’t well-versed in Special Technology. The British weren’t giving away any secrets, but neither did they want a crashed-spaceplane on their consciences. Besides, it saved the Buran from grunt-work duty. As a result, the Brits could capture the world’s eyes with sexier space spectaculars. Like the first landing on Mars, televised in gorgeous full colour and broadcast by the BBC. Then the exploration of the Asteroid Belt — with, perhaps, the retrieval of few tons of material for the scientists. Just how similar are Ceres, Vesta, and Pallas? How difficult would it be to emplace a space-engine on the surface of an asteroid and bring to down to Earth orbit? Not mentioned would be the Special Technology experiments: Can you use the Technology to find particular mineral-rich asteroids? Would the switching-spell work in mining? If they were small enough, could you use a translocator on an asteroid? The yanks, secure in the superiority of their NASA, had already pulled both their Atlantis and Endeavour spaceplanes from service — the Endeavour not even having flown, yet. They were quickly refurbishing them in preparation for the Special Technologies being offered by Britain. Again, in exchange for a partnership. A much smaller partnership for the Brits, considering they were “only” contributing the Technology and not any cash. The U.K. government didn’t really care about the percentages. It was all about prestige, at this point. In the future, every picture of every spaceplane would feature the flag of the United Kingdom, right beside the flags of the United States or Russia. Once again, they could say the sun never sets on the British Empire! Although, this time, it was a bit more tongue-in-cheek than in the past. And it didn’t require thousands of soldiers posted around the world with restless natives objecting to the “foreigners.” Mars was about at its closest, now, and had just gone into retrograde motion. Which meant, Earth, being in a closer orbit than Mars, had just passed it. With time for turnover, that made a leisurely forty-two-hour trip to Mars at a steady one gravity acceleration. Or thirty hours if they pushed it to two gravities. The selected Astronauts were already training in plywood mock-ups of the cargo bay and spaceplane with loading and unloading the equipment for building their Mars-base. The cargo-crane had already been beefed up to handle the heavier equipment loads expected on Mars. The crew wasn’t being told that the crane was as robust on Earth as it would be on Mars. Ah, the wonderful advantages and beauty of Special Technology! Speaking of which, one genius had managed to create a “Replicator” — Star-Trek-style. Like the original series on the telly, it appeared as if it was simply a vacant cube built into the wall with a control panel below it. In truth, the bottom of the “box”, the part with the blinky lights, hid an expanded space with several dozen prepared items, in stasis and shrunken size. The control knobs merely selected the item, and pressing the “GO” button duplicated it. He promised that he would have a much slicker version in a few more months, designed for the same form factor for simple replacement. Ha! No more wasted space storing food on long trips. Considering that the Buran would now be running its engines for many hours at a time, the flight decks of the spaceplane had to be redesigned. While lying on your back with your legs elevated wasn’t much of an issue during take-off, doing so for hours on end, was. Plus, the rear wall of the cabin became the floor, necessitating a few changes for such long flights. Such as the toilet facilities, which would be on their side, the ladder to the lower deck, and the airlock to the cargo bay being on the floor. Fortunately, no longer needing to carry as much support materials freed up a lot of space. No need for tanks of water, oxygen, and nitrogen, nor locking cupboards for food. The Special Technology that removed waste from the sink and toilet didn’t really save much room — space-craft typically just shot waste into space — but it did remove all the plumbing and safety equipment those required. The pilot and co-pilot seats kept their positions relative to the instruments, but the seat-section folded down so their legs were in line with their bodies. Naturally, the flooring had the swing down, too, to accommodate the extra length. Those two seats, being on a raised platform, had the room for such expansion with only minor adjustments and adding handholds for moving around in space-flight. The three seats behind them, for the Flight Engineer and Mission Specialists, in the original design, were a big step lower, and would have intruded into the lower deck if they did the same as the other two. Instead, those seats moved up. There was plenty of headroom for that, fortunately. The Flight Engineer’s and Flight Mission Specialist’s instruments were remounted into sliding panels that the two could adjust to suit their needs. The seats on the lower deck were similarly altered. The next generation of spaceplanes would, undoubtedly, feature a rotating Flight Cabin. After all, once you were in space, everything was instrument flying anyway. If submarines could operate safely in the oceans without seeing exactly where they were going, then so could spaceplanes, albeit at higher velocities and much less chance of hitting anything. The first trip to Mars would be an international crew, it had been decided. Like the first flight in August, the Flight Commander was Oscar Baker, Pilot-Cosmonaut Vicktor Afanasyev was co-pilot, the Mission Specialist was Cosmonaut Yelena Kondakova, and he was the Flight Engineer. Having done it once, it only made sense for them to do the next. They were the most familiar with the Buran, after all. In addition, they had five Mission Specialists on the deck below: Hans Schlegel, a German; Leroy Chiao, an American; Takao Doi, a Japanese; Umberto Guidoni, an Italian, and Claudie Haigneré, a Frenchwoman. Takao and Claudie would be responsible for setting up the scientific instrument packages on the surface. Those were a suite of instruments like the ones Thomas had helped set up on the moon, with the inclusion of a battery of atmospheric monitors. Hans, Leroy, and Umberto would be setting up the Martian “base,” with occasional assistance from the other Mission Specialists. The base would be basically a two large, inflatable, rubber domes. They were more to protect the equipment than anything else. One would be empty and act as a translocator target. The other was more of a meeting and storage-room. However, both would have to be very securely attached to the ground to survive Mars’ famous world-girding dust storms. Unfortunately, what with the training, waiting for equipment, and the modifications to the Buran, there wouldn’t be any flight to Mars for some months. Or anywhere else. Those missions to retrieve “dead” satellites would have to wait a bit longer, it seemed. As would the missions to the MIR Space Station. The Proton system would have to be used for a bit longer. | ----(_)---- May 1st, 10:38AM In the previous two weeks, the Buran had completed four flights. The first was a simple orbital test under autopilot control. The second was with a crew of three as a “shake-down” cruise. The third was a quick trip to the moon, one lazy orbit around it, and then back, with the full crew of nine for the Mars expedition. The fourth had been with a full mock-up of the cargo intended for Mars. All the modifications had worked perfectly, and the plane had performed flawlessly. All systems were go! Today was the real-deal. The cargo-bay was loaded with delicate equipment, and vital essentials for establishing a base on the Mars. All of it carefully secured to not shift no matter which way was down, nor how high the acceleration went. Even with a full cargo-bay, the plane massed just over seventy-five tons, and the cargo almost out-weighed the plane! Removing the thirty-three tons of fuel the Buran used to carry, and the removal of crew-maintenance supplies, had decreased its lift-off weight by over eighty-percent. According to Oscar, the difference in handling the empty plane was like night and day. “It no longer flies like brick with stubby wings and an effing big engine,” he had said. Still, that didn’t matter as much once they left the atmosphere behind. Their seats were in the normal position for ground manoeuvring and air-flight. Or, as the airlines might say, “the seatbacks were in their upright position, and the tray tables secured.” Once they hit a speed of four miles per second, about a hundred miles up, they would transition to their seats to the “recliner” settings for a more comfortable flight. Thomas had to chuckle at the thought. They now had the most expensive recliners in the world! Plus, with the addition of a little hidden Special Technology, they were the most comfortable recliners in the world. The manned test flights had been conducted as close to normal operation of the airport as possible. Delays had been limited to five minutes, and those were only the planes taking off or landing, depending on which runway the Buran was planning to use. The plane had been wheeled out, taxied to the runway, and took off with as little fanfare as possible. The landings had been a little bit more complicated, clearing the landing lane for what was essentially a glider approach — flying brick, right? — but had been just as quiet. Not today, though. Heathrow was shutdown, again, both runways. Not to accommodate the Buran, but for the vast array of on-lookers and press clogging streets for miles in every direction — not to mention the terminal buildings. Attempting normal operations would have been frustratingly futile for the Airport Authority. Still, Thomas was kept occupied as the Buran was pushed out of its hanger and onto the taxi-way. Everything was green, as it should have been, when he felt the engines ramp-up and press him tightly into his chair. He glanced over at the outside monitor for his side of the plane, and froze, staring. Three pegasi were lazily flying less than a few dozen metres away as it first began rolling forward, faster and faster. Rather quickly, they began pumping their wings like mad, pacing the plane it thundered down the runway. They were grinning like maniacs, clearly having the time of their lives. How they managed to keep up after the plane hit one-hundred-sixty kilometres an hour he didn’t know. They weren’t exactly what you would call aerodynamic, like a bird, now were they? The Buran’s front wheels left the ground. It was moving at two-hundred and seventy kilometres per hour, with the rear wheels lifting off at close to three hundred. Like the previous flights, the Buran took to the air and his stomach felt like he had just entered a high-speed elevator. The ground dropped away astonishingly fast as the engines hurled the space plane on a steep climb into the sky. Announcing “Wheels up” and “Doors locked” were almost after-thoughts. First one pegasus, then the second, and finally the third dropped behind, arcing away gracefully as the instruments showed them approaching three thousand metres altitude and six hundred kilometres per hour. He could only shake his head in disbelief. He had heard that Pegasi were fast, but that was simply ridiculous. No wonder the Equestrians had never considered building airplanes! When a third of their population was as fast as your average prop plane, and non-pegasi could hire a ride from them, why bother? When the sky changed from blue to black, the crew pushed the levers that transformed their seats into recliners and made themselves more comfortable for the upcoming trip. Adding the Knight Bus avoidance system had been a “doh” moment for everyone in the BNSC who knew about them. Adding the Special Technology detection equipment and shields like the Ad Astra II had was also a no-brainer. Anyone who saw either system in actual operation would be watching through either a telescope or a camera. As a result, they would write-off what they had seen as either a glitch in their equipment or think they were simply mistaken at what they thought they had seen. After all, it was impossible for things like that to happen, right? Thomas kept an eye on his instruments, and Yelena made sure the cameras and other instruments were recording everything the way they should. He glanced, occasionally, at the crew-camera the BBC had begged them to add. No doubt they were on the telly right now. He resisted the sudden urge to pick his nose or stick his tongue out. Like the previous flight, they didn’t bother with an orbit around the Earth, the Buran simply pointed its nose at Mars, and off they went. Mars, unfortunately, was no longer in retrograde, and the distance they had to travel was a few tens of millions of miles farther away. That didn’t really make that big a difference however. It changed the trip to Mars to forty-eight hours instead of the forty-four hours he had figured in December. Two days. After switching from one screen to another, for several hours, reviewing the data recorded on take-off, and filling out reports on it, he spent a bit of time just staring at the viewscreens. Finally, he looked over at Yelena and Takao. “So,” he said, “who’s up for a game of poker? The computer can be the dealer.” | ----(_)---- Turnover was easy and simple, and fully automated. Oscar groused a bit about being a passenger on the plane he was supposed to be piloting. Vicktor just laughed at him. “Given the Buran’s record, I think the automatic pilot is just fine!” Slipping into orbit was just as easy. BNSC, in conjunction with NASA, ESA, and Roscosmos, had selected Ares Vallis at the mouth of an apparent ancient outflow channel. Eons ago, it was speculated, back when water flowed on Mars, great floods inundated the proposed landing site, located on that rocky plain. The site is 850 kilometres southeast of the location of Viking Lander 1, which in 1976 became the first spacecraft to land on Mars. The final moments of the landing, as on the Moon, were supervised closely by Oscar. The spaceplane entered Mars’ thin atmosphere with minimal heating, having come to an almost complete stop relative to Mars earlier. Once the plane reached terminal velocity in the atmosphere, the RCS engines were lit and the Buran transited mostly to a hover. When their velocity dropped below a metre per second, the autopilot deployed the landing gear. They came to a gradual halt only metres above the surface. They had timed their approach for mid-morning to give them more than sufficient daylight to see any potential obstacles. Fortunately, unlike Commander Neil Armstrong and lunar module pilot Buzz Aldrin, during the Apollo Eleven mission, the field chosen for their landing didn’t feature large boulders that might compromise their stability, and ability to take back off later. Not receiving any signals from the crew that anything was amiss, the computer then brought the plane to a soft landing. Honestly, Thomas had had far rougher landing in commercial airliners! Their landing zone was . . . chaotic. There were rounded pebbles and rocks of all sizes, with abundant sand and dust-sized particles coating the areas between them. Their random pattern was unlike the ejecta normally seen around craters; Thomas could see. Those always had distinct lines or cross-patterns from different impact events. The fact that the entire Ares Vallis plain appeared to be an outflow channel, implied that the rocks and pebbles probably had been swept down and deposited by floods from the Ares and Tiu regions nearby. Those floods had been far in Martian the past, when water in abundant quantities had existed on the surface, or just below it. They would have to be very careful in setting up the inflatable domes. The last thing they wanted to happen was to pull a leg muscle or sprain a tendon with a careless step. Oscar had finished his prepared “Welcome to Mars Base” speech while Thomas was double checking his instruments. Every nail-biting second of their descent had been recorded, and was now being uploaded to the millions waiting to hear if they had been successful. According to the ESA feed, this was the largest audience ever for a live event. Commerce had come to a complete stop as everyone hovered over their telly’s or radios. Minutes later, the nine of them were standing on Mars. Oscar and Viktor immediately began a visual check of the spaceplane. Thomas pulled out his “Special Technology” probe and began his own check of the charms and spells on the ship. The others began examining the surrounding area. Hans, Leroy, and Umberto were searching for a likely location for the habitats. Takao and Claudie were checking for good locations for their instrument packages. In both cases, they wanted their locations to be far enough from the Buran so their eventual take-off wouldn’t cause any damage. The rest of their day was spent in pursuing their various tasks. Thomas completed the first experiment, a verification of the translocator. He grabbed a random rock, about the size of his fist, dropped it into a box not much bigger, sealed it, then tapped the translocator control. It vanished. Eight nail-biting, fingers-crossed minutes later, the ESA message arrived that the box had made the journey intact. The Mission Specialists decided to locate the habitats a kilometre to the north of the Buran, while the scientific instruments were a kilometre to the south. They didn’t want the activities at Mars Base to disturb the readings taken at the other. Both habitat domes were raised platform on pillars drilled into a metre into the Martian ground before mid-afternoon. A fabric skirt was fastened to the pillars, and staked at regular intervals, to prevent any wind from going underneath the domes and building up enough lift to flip them. The translocator dome wasn’t merely inflatable, it had a metal strapping grid in it, much like some mountain climbing tents, that held its shape regardless of pressure. This allowed the airlock doors to be locked open for moving large pieces of equipment outside — such as the large outdoor target that they were planning on sending through from Earth, later. The plan was that a much larger dome would be placed over that one to protect it from dust build-up during the Martian storms. Too much dust covering the target would prevent the distant translocator from getting a fix on it. For Thomas and Yelena, the important experiments were with the live animals they had brought. The first cage was a common hamster. Activating its translocator first placed the small rodent into stasis, then sent it back to Earth. The spell on the second translocator transfigured its hamster into stone, then sent it to Earth. The next three cages did the same but used different materials: steel, wood, and glass. They shouldn’t make a difference, but with “Special Technology” it was always better to check. The target dome for the translocators was tested as soon as they filled it with an atmosphere, and finished an hour-long check of its integrity, that afternoon. A flag and pole assembly came through from Earth — the UN flag. That would settle any disputes about who claimed what. Soon after, all five cages returned to Mars, with their respective passengers apparently in fine shape. They ran the necessary Special Technology tests to ensure the animals were in excellent shape, then returned them to Earth with the tests’ “no change” conclusions. They didn’t finish their tasks until the end of the next day, though. The surprise was, however, that the ESA told them to expect the arrival of two astronaut-scientists just after lunch. By the time it came for them to head home at the end of that day, it was only with a crew of four. The other five were taking translocators after assisting the new crew of five that had arrived. Take-off and return was as simple as the landing had been, with the exception that they dropped off four high-orbit satellites to maintain a constant watch over the new Base and a constant day/night communication network. The four spent their first day in space writing up reports on what they had seen and done, as well providing feedback on the plane’s operation. Thomas had never thought he’d say it, but the last day as they decelerated towards Earth was kind of boring. Not that he would ever admit that. Milking it for all the publicity they could, the government made their landing in Heathrow into another media event. The two million pounds the BNSC paid them for the “disruption” made the Airport Authority a tiny bit less disgruntled at the delays created. The next flight would be an extend exploration of the asteroid ring between Mars and Jupiter, with a brief stop in the trojan positions for both planets. Major Thomas had already decided he wasn’t that interested in that flight. Besides, it was about time to let others in on the fun. | ----(_)----