A Sword Into Darkness

13: “THE LIBERTY LETTERS”

SAT TRANSCRIPTION QUEUE: XXX SUPPRESSED XXX

DTG RECEIPT: 09 2219Z MAR 2045

DTG TRANSMITTAL: 09 2217Z MAR 2045

TIME-DISTANCE LAG: 000:00:02:1.3 D:H:M:S

FROM: Nathan Kelley, CDR, USAN

[KELLEY.NATHANIEL@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$

USAN.MIL;

CO@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL]

TO: Paul Kelley

[CLANKELLEY0819@WEBRUNNER.COM$PHILA.PA.GOV]

SUBJ: Guess where I am?

MSG: Hey, Pop.

As you’ve no doubt discovered from the 24-hour news coverage and such, I’ve gone on a little trip. It’s been a whirlwind couple of days (as you might imagine), but now that we’re all aboard, settled, and on our way, I managed to find a little free time, so I wanted to write and let you know the whole truth on everything—the truth that I wish I could have shared with you and Mom before this.

First, let me apologize for that. I know you’ve had to put up with my secrets in the past, like during the investigation following what happened on the RIVERO, but until recently, there was nothing officially classified about what our project. Yeah, there was a lot of it that was fairly UN-believable, but there wasn’t really anything I had to exclude you on. I guess, at first, it was simple embarrassment. I mean, I had this great job, working for one of the most fascinating innovators in the world, and what was I doing? Oh nothing insane … like building spaceships to go visit aliens, perhaps.

Sure, some of it was technical or industrially sensitive, so I really wasn’t inclined to say anything (nor would you have been that interested), but as for the Big Idea, as for what I was really doing and why, I never should have kept that from you two. And now, with the crazy way things have finally come together, you had to hear about what your son’s been doing from the TV and the web rather than from your own flesh and blood.

Well, no more. Now that we’re underway, further out and faster than anyone has ever gone before, and with so much longer a journey still ahead of us, there’s no reason to hold anything back. Here it is, the whole truth, some of which is already out there, some of which is covered by misinformation, and some of it yet to come out (sorry about the NDAs the Feds are making you sign, by the way):

The Deltans are real. We’ve visited them with one probe, and have another on the way, and they are just as real as Christmas. We don’t know why they’re coming here, but they’ll arrive in about 11 years. We’re going out to say, “Hi, whatcha doin’?” and, if we need to, swat them on the nose.

To do that, Gordon Lee and I (and a few others, I suppose) built this ship, the USS SWORD OF LIBERTY (DA 1), the flagship (OK, the ONLY ship) of the United States Aerospace Navy. I guess I didn’t learn my lesson from RIVERO. So, I’m back in the service, though, technically, it’s a brand new service.

You might hear a couple of different versions of how that came to be, or about crew swaps, about being press-ganged into re-taking the oath, or some crap about us hijacking the SWORD, but allow me play rumor control.

None of that happened.

The DOD, the administration, and Windward have all been in lockstep agreement throughout this process, and while we did take up a different shakedown crew at launch, they were just there for the trials and not the mission.

In fact, that crew was aboard only because they needed to see how things will be run on their ships, which will be laid down any day now. In the meantime, the SWORD OF LIBERTY, and our main crew, mine and Gordon’s crew, will be taking the long ride out to our future visitors, proudly flying the flag and representing the interests of Earth. Don’t let what passes for reporters these days tell you any different.

This ship, and the journey we’re all on are marvels in the truest sense of the word. The things it can do and the punishment it can withstand would simply boggle your mind. Case in point: rendezvous. Ever since this morning, we’ve been accelerating at a steady one-g, and we’re going to keep that up for the next 16 months, non-stop. Already, after just a day of acceleration, we’re so far out that it takes two minutes for my e-mail to reach you at the speed of light. We’re moving at over three million kilometers per hour—over 12 times faster than the fastest man-made object ever before—and only getting faster and faster as we continue along.

The intention is to approach just over 3/4 the speed of light for the first half of the journey, then flip around and match speeds with the Deltans on the second half. As we get further and further out, you’re going to see the lags between messages get longer as well. Don’t worry about it—it’s just the way things are because of the distance the messages have to travel. There shouldn’t be any really bad Einstein-ish relativity effects at that speed.

At rendezvous, and pretty much our furthest distance from Earth, we’ll be almost half a light-year from Earth. We could do it a bit faster than 16 months, but we’re approaching from an oblique angle like the probes, so we don’t accidentally threaten the Deltans with our exhaust radiance or overly highlight our approach.

Of course, that’s just getting out there. Coming back will take longer, even though it’s a shorter trip. This ship is pretty swift, but it’s not magical. When we rendezvous, we’ll have expended over half of our reactor power and available delta-v, so we’ll have to come back on a slower, but more direct route. Can’t have it all, I guess.

Well, it’s late, ship-time here, I’ve probably overloaded your heads, and I need some rest. Still lots to do tomorrow. Now that we’re officially military, I’ve got to take a look at the crew to streamline and formalize the chain of command a bit, and divide people up into department heads, division officers, and enlisted. Some of these folks were never military before, so it’s going to be quite an adjustment for them. Then we have to plan the rendezvous and drill, drill, drill. The ship may be different, but shipboard routine stays pretty much the same.

I’ll write again soon, Pop. Give Mom a hug for me and, please, don’t worry! This whole thing may beyond your wildest dreams, but it’s not beyond my biggest plans. We’re ready for this. First contact is in the bag.

I love you both.

— Nathan

PS: Almost forgot! I’ve met someone. You’d like her. More later!! (Ha! Mom is soooo going to throttle me.)

XXX EOM XXX

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DTG RECEIPT: 17 1156Z MAR 2045

DTG TRANSMITTAL: 17 1016Z MAR 2045

TIME-DISTANCE LAG: 000:01:40:22.2 D:H:M:S

FROM: David Edwards, MCPO, USAN

[EDWARDS.DAVID@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL;

COB@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL]

TO: Collette Markey

[BUNNIETOES4CM@ALLITEK.COM$SDGO.CA.GOV]

SUBJ: Same Shit, Different Service

MSG: I miss you, Bunny-girl.

Sorry I didn’t write yesterday, but our first full-fledged General Quarters battle drill turned into a complete clusterfuck. It took hours to get the computer to release us from a training environment, and then even longer to reset the simulated damage and get the engines and other systems back online. I’m definitely impressed with the simulation fidelity the Windward engineers managed to coax out of the ship’s network in the short time they had, but there’s something to be said for a longer test and evaluation period. If it wasn’t for them damned aliens and their not-to-be-delayed schedule, I’d have opted for at least a few months in orbit before we got underway.

Our beloved Skipper Nathan took it all in stride (after a little ribbing from me, anyway), but the XO was some kind of pissed. It seems that when good LCDR Christopher Wright was in this man’s Army, they didn’t put up with any wonky computer B.S. Yeah, right. You ain’t in the Army now, buddy, but even when you were, you still got saddled with some buggy shit. I’ll guarantee it, especially in the Armored Cav Army. Hell, I remember the Centurion II. This isn’t any different—just a new uniform and a new setting.

That setting can be a little disconcerting, though, when the air shuts down and the engines go off and they both refuse to turn back on. We are a long, long way away from home, and there ain’t no way back but on this ship. I mean, right now I’m a hundred light-minutes from you, babe. That’s 1,790,000,000 kilometers—beyond the orbit of Saturn—and we’re moving further away at nearly two percent the speed of light.

If Kris Muñoz’s little contraption ever realizes exactly how many laws of physics it’s breaking, we are completely screwed.

Some of the crew, particularly the ones who didn’t have any time in the service before coming under Gordon Lee’s wing, didn’t take the brief “unplanned interruption of systems” that well. A few of them pretty much lost their shit when it dawned on them that this stuff was real and not just theoretical any more (it’s amazingly easy to forget that, when we’re all walking around in a continuous one g, even though we’re in deep space).

Nathan proved himself. He has this steady, companionable style, like he knew this was coming all along, and that calmed most of them. I joked a few others out of their death spiral (Note to Self: reminding folks that our ship’s initials could also stand for

Shit Outta Luck

may not soothe as much as intended). But a couple of our newly “enlisted” spacers just could not get it together. I was thinking about some alternative counseling techniques, old-school Chief-style, Nathan was wondering about sedating them, but neither method turned out to be necessary.

The XO waded in and yelled them into submission. Started going on and on about how they weren’t civilians anymore, that they were technicians in the US Aerospace Navy and that they had a tradition of duty to uphold. Tradition? Our service is just over one week old and it has a manpower of only thirty people. Still, he sold it. Said they might well be at war and if they didn’t shape up, he’d shove them out an airlock, friends or not. That was a bit much, but I’ll be damned if the guy didn’t almost have me scared to attention as well.

I guess there’s something to be said for strait-laced, humorless Army-types after all. I may give him a ration of shit (it’s my oath-given right), but he’ll make a good XO, certainly better than me or Kris Muñoz, Nathan’s other two candidates. Kris is too egghead flaky, and I’m a Master Chief, damn it—don’t go screwing with my self-image at this point. As XO, I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on!

Ba-dum, chiii!!! Thank you, thank you, I’m here all week, folks!

Well, enough of this Navy crap. Let me wax philosophic about those lovely feet of yours. Oh—

XXX SUPPRESSED FOR OFFICIAL RECORD - NO MISSION CONTENT XXX

XXX EOM XXX

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DTG RECEIPT: 11 2217Z APR 2045

DTG TRANSMITTAL: 10 1341Z APR 2045

TIME-DISTANCE LAG: 001:08:36:18.8 D:H:M:S

FROM: Kristene Muñoz, LT, USAN

[MUNOZ.KRISTENE@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL;

CHENG@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL]

TO: Maria Muñoz-Turner

[MMTURNER2037@Q-MAIL.COM$HSTN.TX.GOV]

SUBJ: Pass this to that son-of-a-bitch

MSG: Mamma,

I’m so, so sorry that you have to go through this by yourself. I know, Ron is there for you, and I’m thankful you have him, but I also know he doesn’t like crossing the orbit of you, me, and Dad, so he’s probably going hands off. But I’m too far away to send the bastard packing, so your husband really needs to get over his “respect for family boundaries” and punch that father of mine in the dang nose.

I can’t believe the sheer temerity (I’d prefer to say balls or gall, but I know how you are about strong language) he has to start claiming credit on the news for me being up here. He doesn’t give a damn about me and he hasn’t since he walked out on us when I was in GRADE SCHOOL! Ugh!! He makes me so mad! I’m just a paycheck to him, his chance at 15 minutes. You should call those same shows and let him know just how involved he was in my upbringing. I’m here in SPITE of him, NOT because of him.

Sorry. I don’t want to waste my ration of bandwidth on that jerk. How are you otherwise? Did your showing go all right? Things here are … boring. I never would have believed that a voyage through outer space would become tedious, but, yep, that’s what it is. The first day blew our minds. The first week was really, really cool and different and exciting, the second week was the same thing over again, the third week—same. Fourth—ditto.

I mean, all we do is cruise, and drill, and study up on culture and fine art and literature (that’s the XO’s doing—who knew such a dour hard-ass would have a bachelor’s in Art History) and watch gauges that don’t move. I guess I’m happy that my stuff works so well, but the last bit of excitement we had was that power and propulsion failure a few weeks ago, and that was only a software glitch.

It would have been a nice change of pace to do a flyby on a planet and see one for the first time up-close, but our course took us down out of the ecliptic, and no worlds were on our line of bearing anyway. Anyways, we’re too far out now regardless: 35 BILLION km out at .088c—pretty much past the Kuiper Belt and the scattered disk, right at the heliopause, where the interstellar “wind” stops the solar “wind” (not that we felt anything different. Particle densities got way higher, but nothing our shielding couldn’t stop.). Ah, astronomical gobbledygook. Ask Ron to go over it with you.

Point is, while interesting from a numbers standpoint, in a social sense it’s duller than dirt. All we do is sit around and watch the same movies and have the same conversations and wonder about the same things, over and over again (Deltan stuff mostly). Oh, my Captain, my Captain is still an entertaining toy (can you see me blushing down to my bright chartreuse roots all the way from Earth?), but Nathan is being affected by the boredom same as everyone else. Problem is, he’s the responsible, serious type, and he and the XO use their massive spare time to one-up each other on contact scenarios and engagement options—which only underscores how utterly alone we are on this mission. Chief of the Boat Edwards and I try to keep them from getting too lost in all the infinite dire possibilities, but it’s tough.

So, bored is me. And now I’m worried about you and what that ass is up to. You know what I think you and Ron should do. I’ll leave it at that, but for one last thing, which you should absolutely pass on to my dear father:

Dad, your little girl, the one who has nothing but antipathy for you, is the inventor of both the most powerful engine in the world, and the most awesomely destructive weapon known to mankind. I did this in response to a POTENTIAL threat to those I love. Should you become an ACTUAL threat, or should you ruin mine or my mother’s names, what do you think I’ll come up with in retribution for that? I may be a universe away, but I’m still close enough to squash you like the bug you are.

There, I’m off to mess with one of my division officers’ heads (can you believe Nathan actually put ME in charge of PEOPLE?) down in Engineering.

Your loving, ever faithful daughter,

Krissy.

XXX EOM XXX

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DTG RECEIPT: 23 0818Z JAN 2046

DTG TRANSMITTAL: 11 1434Z NOV 2045

TIME-DISTANCE LAG: 072:17:44:28.7 D:H:M:S

FROM: Nathan Kelley, CDR, USAN

[KELLEY.NATHANIEL@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$

USAN.MIL;

CO@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL]

TO: Lydia Russ, CEO, Windward Technologies Inc.

[RUSS.LYDIA@CORP.WINDWARD.NET$NWYK.NY.GOV;

CEO@CORP.WINDWARD.NET$NWYK.NY.GOV]

SUBJ: Broken Promises

MSG: Lydia,

I’m more than a little concerned by the fact that you’ve yet to receive contact telemetry from PROMISE II. I can only hope that sometime during the next two plus months it takes this message to reach you, you’ll get it and send it winging our way, but I’m not holding out a whole lot of hope. By our figures, even accounting for the growing time lag between our positions, we should have gotten the probe data over three weeks ago.

I appreciate your assurances and I know all about the myriad normal things that could have gone wrong with the probe, but, frankly, that’s a NASA holdover and not something we anticipated at Windward—especially when the first probe was such a success. What I have to worry about out here, what we have to plan for, is the worst case scenario—that the Deltans were on the lookout this time and destroyed PROMISE II before it got into transmission range. And while the destruction of the first probe could have been deemed an accidental or curious act, destroying the second probe before it could make a close approach seems unambiguously hostile.

As mission commander, I have to allow for the fact that I could be wrong, that despite the evidence, the Deltans are indeed friendly. So, while I’m certain that I know how this is going to go, I can’t just go in guns blazing. We have to try to make first contact work. We have to convince the Deltans that we are thinking, rational beings—that we are deserving of joining whatever galactic civilization they come from. But I already have it in my mind that things are going to go south.

We’re prepped for either eventuality, though. One good thing: Chris Knight has really stepped up to the plate. Originally, he was going to be our liaison with the diplomatic element, but now, with the “reorganization,” not only has he proved himself as our XO, cracking the whip as necessary, he’s also been a very able teacher. It may go against standard thinking, but with his background in languages, diplomacy, and cultural history, I’m going to have him take the lead in contacting the aliens, vice doing it myself as captain.

Of course, if Chris can’t make the Deltans understand, if they attack or make their intentions to do so clear beyond a shadow of a doubt, well, we’ll be ready for that too. Drills and simulations have allowed us to develop some fairly strong tactical options, but I was really counting on that additional probe data. I don’t like going in without seeing how they act a second time.

Of course, this may point to exactly how they’re intending to act.

It all leads back to the original, central question. Why, Lydia? Why are they coming here like this? It doesn’t make any sense at all unless they want something physical from us, something they can only get from a populated planet. If it was just information they wanted, they could just call and ask us for it, with a lot less danger and energy expenditure. If it was resources, they could presumably mine them from a much closer system or belt. And we doubt it’s food. Doc Smith figures that it’s highly unlikely they could ever efficiently metabolize our proteins, given the lack of a common ancestor and environment, so “space carnivores” are probably right out.

That means they want something from US, mankind, for good or ill. If it’s for good, they sure have a funny way of allaying our fears. And if it’s not, if they’re coming all the way here to kill us up close and personal (or enslave us, or convert us, or absorb us, etc.) it still seems like a horrible waste of resources.

What could possibly be of that much value to an alien race? What do we have that they cannot get from anywhere closer than twenty damned light-years? What makes us special? What about our transmissions and broadcasts attracted them to us in the first place?

And why come here so slowly? Kris poised that question the other day, and it doesn’t seem like a logical query at first, but she does have a point. Think about it.

They’re only accelerating at a hundredth of a gravity, well below what we primitives can do with technology we developed from watching them. It has to be because of all those different ships they’re bringing and that overly massive drive “star” of theirs. Why bother bringing so much mass with them that it takes eighty freaking years to make the journey? Does the size of their convoy have anything to do with why they’re coming here? Why are all the vessels of their convoy so different from one another?

I just can’t wrap my monkey brain around our lizard overlords’ intentions and it’s pissing me off.

I’m sorry, Lydia. I didn’t mean to lay so many angst-driven questions on you. It’s just that we’re nearing turnaround, and we’re so far from home, that the loss of PROMISE II makes me worried all over again. Forget it. We’ll figure it all out when we get there.

Switching tracks, I saw that they laid down our next three destroyer hulls. Outstanding! But what about the allied technology transfers? We’re going to need a lot more than three other destroyers to stop these guys should it come to a battle. When are the other NATO countries going to be starting their own hulls? What about the other defense systems?

That’s my bandwidth limit for today. Hope this finds you and yours well. Take care, Boss.

V/R,

NATHANIEL KELLEY

CDR USAN

XXX EOM XXX

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DTG RECEIPT: 20 2307Z FEB 2046

DTG TRANSMITTAL: 03 0746Z DEC 2045

TIME-DISTANCE LAG: 079:15:21:18.6 D:H:M:S

FROM: Kristene Muñoz, LT, USAN

[MUNOZ.KRISTENE@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL;

CHENG@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL]

TO: Leo Buchanan, Associate Researcher, Sandia National Laboratory

[LEO.BUCHANAN@SANDIA.GOV$ALBQ.NM.GOV]

SUBJ: Suck eggs, Gravity-Boy!

MSG: Oh, hey there, Leo.

Yeah, I just wanted to drop you a line, let you know where my stupid little experiment’s taken me. Well, we just did a turnaround on our least-time transit, constant acceleration brachistocrone trajectory. Seems we got all the way up to 70.6% the speed of light on our little journey, and we gotta slow down to say hi to the space aliens that surely don’t exist.

Yep, I’m about a quarter of a light-year away from you, so you won’t get this message for quite some time, but I hope that when you get it, I’ll still be able to hear you cussing a blue-streak all the way out here. Ooooooo, feel the burn, lab-mate! Work yourself up into a good, righteously indignant lather.

Hey, how’s your gravity wave propulsion experiment going, by the way? That badly? Really? Awwww. And you looked so very promising and full of yourself back in our university days.

Have fun scratching on chalkboards, Leo, I gots me a date with destiny!

Toodles,

Kris Muñoz

XXX EOM XXX

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DTG RECEIPT: 28 0616Z JAN 2047

DTG TRANSMITTAL: 14 1822Z JUL 2046

TIME-DISTANCE LAG: 197:11:54:10.4 D:H:M:S

FROM: David Edwards, MCPO, USAN

[EDWARDS.DAVID@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL;

COB@SOL.WINDWARD.NET$USAN.MIL]

TO: Collette Markey

[BUNNIETOES4CM@ALLITEK.COM$SDGO.CA.GOV]

SUBJ: A Final, Dismal First for the LIBERTY Crew

MSG: Hey, Darlin’.

Today is not a good day. Things have been tough for a while now. This trip has been long, too long. People are getting on each other’s last nerves.

The food, most of which has been “processed” on board, tastes pretty much like the recycled shit it is. All the movies have been watched, all the variations of relationships have been tried (and don’t worry, I’ve been a good boy, as have most of the other married folks, with a few notable exceptions), and the fact that we are both at our furthest point from Earth and about one month out from rendezvous … well, the pressure is pretty intense.

Too intense for one.

I don’t know if you remember Diane Rutherford or not. You probably know her better from her official crew biography than you do from personal experience, but I know you met her at least once—maybe at that last Windward Christmas party.

She was pretty but plain. Diane had hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be blonde or brown, but she didn’t care. She was smart as a whip—an electrical engineer with a Master’s from Stanford, and she knew reactor control systems like nobody’s business. Of course, with a crew as high-powered as this one, that only translated to her being one of our support personnel: an enlisted Electronics Technician First Class. Diane didn’t mind being designated enlisted like some of our crew did. She didn’t want to be an officer, and she thought being forced into the military before we left was funny as hell. She was from somewhere in the mid-west, Kansas City I think, and she was divorced with no kids, but she was really close to her dad.

I’m talking about her in past tense because she’s dead. When we reached our furthest point from Earth, at rest relative to the solar system, more than half a light-year away from home, she purposefully stuck her hands into a reactor power main bus box and electrocuted herself. We know it was on purpose because she left a note.

Diane had been depressed for months. She’d gotten more and more pessimistic about the mission’s chances, especially when we missed the second probe’s telemetry. She worried about dying out here, with her dad never knowing for certain what happened to her. She was just so damn homesick.

And she wondered if her soul would be able to find its way to heaven so far away from Earth.

We all talked to her, tried to cheer her up, but the problem is, when you’ve been around the same thirty people for so long, your patience for everybody’s annoying little quirks wears pretty thin. Folks just began rolling their eyes when she would start to lose it. I even snapped at her, told her to stop freaking out and get refocused on the mission.

I know, babe. I don’t really blame myself for her committing suicide, but damn it all, I could’ve been more supportive. I’m the COB. It’s my job to know the crew’s minds so I can keep everything running smooth. I’m supposed to listen to ‘em, especially when they’re having problems. Of course, I’m supposed to kick ‘em in the ass when they need it too. Shit.

So, we’ve had our first death. In accordance to her wishes, as specified in her suicide note, we committed her body to space. Yeah, I can guess what you’re thinking—it doesn’t seem too damn consistent with the particular worries she was having over her soul and all, but I don’t think rationality was her strong suit in those last few days. It may not make sense to any of us, but it’s apparently what she’d been waiting for weeks for.

Nathan said a few words, we said a prayer, and we all jumped back into work. Things are quieter now, more polite, more introspective, I guess. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, though.

Diane’s death is like a slap in the face. It woke us up, but it also put us on the defensive. Folks aren’t talking to each other like they should be. This is when we need to be finalizing things, polishing off our diplomatic and tactical plans. It’s almost game-time and we should be looking for ways to come together, not drift further apart. On top of everything, her death was the last thing we needed.

Everybody is taking it hard. Nathan is beating himself up. Kris too. The XO isn’t beating himself up—he’s pissed at her instead, but I’m not sure that’s in any way a better thing.

I’ll give ‘em all another day to play the self-blame game (myself included) and then I’ll commence to kicking everybody’s ass. We have got to get our heads straight—Nathan most of all. These Deltans aren’t going to give a shit if we’re tired of each other, or depressed, or worried, or whatever. They know what they’re about, they have their own agenda, and they’re going to follow it, whether we’re ready or not. We have to be ready.

That’s it, babe. I realize that by the time you get this note, we’ll have already made first contact, so it’ll all be over, one way or another, but pray for me anyway. We’re going to need all the help you and the man upstairs can provide, belated or not.

I love you.

— Dave

XXX EOM XXX