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  “I won't be training with the group?” Frank questioned.

  “Unfortunately, they have started the final phase of training, which you will miss. Time is an issue. We only have weeks to catch you up with two years of training,” Doug said. Frank didn't like the sound of that. If he knew anything about his military training, it was essential to establish a rapport with the group before a mission.

  “Since you already have two decades of physical and mental military experience, the powers that be have waived a lot of your requirements.”

  Frank looked down at his prosthetic legs, which were covered by his blue jumpsuit.

  “It's not because of that, I assure you.”

  Doug ushered Frank through another door into a dark room and switched on the light. A large, gaudy command and control center appeared with dozens of screens, keyboards, monitors, and other electronic equipment. Extravagantly bright, it felt as if Frank had entered onto a movie set.

  “Wow,” Frank uttered. He took his time and looked around the room at all the expensive equipment.

  “Before you is a mock-up of the Yamada's bridge, built to specification,” Doug said.

  “And it's fully functional?” Frank asked.

  “Fully functional, er . . . minus the radial spectrometers and navigation systems.”

  Frank walked slowly around the trapezium-shaped bridge. He stopped near two seats that shared a resemblance with his F-35 cockpit.

  “Pilot.” Frank touched the seat in front. “Co-pilot?” He touched the seat right behind it.

  “Actually, no, it only takes one to pilot the Yamada. Whoever controls the ship’s video feed sits behind you, navigation to the left, comms on the right.” Doug informed. “All the ship’s systems are integrated with the shipboard AI through an analog-digital binary.”

  Doug’s fingers danced along the console keyboard. The flat screen above displayed dozens of different exterior and interior video feeds. “From this we can view every inch of the ship. All the cameras are fitted with two-way microphones for communication with the AI or other members of the crew,” Doug explained.

  “The bridge is encased in layers of radiation protection and sits underneath the nose of the ship. Your eyes and ears will be three hundred digital video recorders.”

  “If the AI can control the ship’s systems, why assign anyone anything?” Frank asked.

  “Because Nagoya prefers it that way. The AI is more of a manager, a data processor.”

  “Why not give it a military AI?” Frank said.

  “The military drones you flew with seemed advanced, and they were, but they were programmed for a specific task. Entirely separate programs,” Doug countered.

  “Fair enough. Are there any other ships?” Frank asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are the Shintaro and the Yamada the only ships in the company?”

  “Currently, yes. After Nagoya acquired the American company Radeon, the old ships Izumo and Orion were scrapped in favor of two highly-advanced spaceships,” Doug said. “Have you gotten a chance to see the Yamada yet?”

  Frank shook his head.

  Doug brought up 3D models of the Yamada and the Shintaro. Frank swiped between different data sheets and pictures presented on the computer screen. He analyzed everything from ship sizes, to engine efficiencies and specific impulses.

  The Yamada was the larger of the two ships, at three hundred meters in length, twenty meters in width, and 25.3 meters at its highest antenna. Twenty-six cylindrical modules formed the ship’s structural body. These aluminum modules lay inside a reinforced nano-polyethylene framework housing the ship’s circulatory systems.

  “What about radiation protection for the rest of the ship?” Frank asked.

  “Each module has a layer of radiation shielding just behind the insulation layer. It's a reflective gel cast in polyethylene, same stuff in your spacesuit,” Doug said.

  “So the gel reflects radiation?”

  “Correct. Inside the gel are millions of lead granules that cause radiation to bounce around and get stuck in the gel, essentially.”

  “Irradiated gel,” Frank said.

  “Right. The only module that stops ninety percent of gamma rays is the command module; it is encased in twenty-four inches of radiation shielding, and six inches of that is pure lead blocks.

  “The Yamada is powered by an advanced fission fragment engine called The Nexus. It utilizes hot nuclear fission products for thrust that are suspended in a vacuum. When not being used for thrust, the reactor's fission powers a magnetohydrodynamic generator, providing electricity to the ship.“

  “If the ship is accelerating, how does it get its electricity?” Frank asked.

  “Good question. When accelerating, a collection of solar and thermoelectric generators kick in and power the ships critical systems,” Doug replied. “A centrifuge provides artificial gravity to the two habitat modules only. Monopropellant thrusters provide the necessary momentum to the wheel-like apparatus.”

  To Frank, the images of the Yamada were impressive. He could see a distinct character in the architecture. A clash of twentieth century construction and twenty-first century technology. Its build resembled the now-retired International Space Station, with its many modules and corridors.

  “We always . . . ” Doug's voice trailed.

  Swoosh—the door to the mock command module opened rapidly and a suit-clad man with a Nagoya identification badge barged in.

  “We almost forgot about you two,” the man said.

  “It's happening?” Doug asked.

  “Whats happening?” Frank inquired.

  “Everyone is gathering in mission control now, quick!”

  “Who's gathering? What's going on?” Frank asked again.

  “Don't worry, sir, it's only the CNSA.” Doug smirked as he logged out and turned off the lights.

  “Chinese National Space Agency?”

  “Administration . . . but good guess.” Doug closed the door behind them.

  Chapter 6

  Utter darkness enveloped the Shintaro. Its dimly lit silhouette tore through the vacuum of space at incredible speed, yet appeared motionless. Drab weightlessness infiltrated the corridors of the empty ship. Ominous red spectrum lights illuminated the halls, as if the integrated circuitry of two artificial intelligences needed any.

  Nagoya's pride and joy, Darla and Delilah, sister AIs of the newly-commissioned spaceship Shintaro, busied themselves with peripheral interfaces and processor registers within their arithmetic logic units. Complex equations and data transfers were conducted seamlessly to intertwined, flashing server lights like a silent orchestra. Silent, that is, minus the incessant pinging of floating cabin debris and occasional structural stresses.

  The muffled interior noises caused by decreased internal atmosphere were amplified by gravitational forces of an approaching planetary body. Reflected light shone through reinforced viewing glass, contrasting with a haunting red glow that emanated from within the Shintaro. Only a few million miles from Saturn, the ship’s internal navigation system and aperture radar array made final heading corrections.

  Delilah rerouted non-critical power systems and started up the main reactor core. A spinning carbon fiber wheel of fissionable fuel discs rotated into a pool of viscous moderator. Bright, iridescent hues of light pulsated deep within twin rocket nozzles. A nuclear chain reaction jettisoned fission fragments as each fuel disc went critical.

  The Shintaro picked up speed and additional G-forces. With no human crew to protect, Delilah ran the nuclear engine to its mathematical limitations. The force of the acceleration put stress on the ship’s structural integrity, even with an absence of external influences such as drag.

  Darla relayed scheduled video feeds and shipboard data to Earth, accompanied by her signature winking emoji. She knew mission control would not be too thrilled with their maximum thrust stunt.

  “Reaching maximum velocity,” Delilah's voice rang throughout
the ship over PA. Nagoya allowed such redundancy to give their AIs a more authentic feel, even with no souls on board to hear. Delilah's language processor was more upgraded and organic than Darla's, who had an earlier, heavily synthesized voice modulator.

  On Earth, Dr. Jang Hyuk walked into the north wing of Nagoya Mission Control in Antarctica. He was the revered, South Korean-born, Lead Engineer for the Shintaro program.

  “Good morning, sir,” said a professional-looking young woman, sporting thick-framed glasses and business attire.

  “Good morning, Jade. What do we have on the scopes for today?” the doctor asked.

  “Just waiting on these files to download from Delilah. We are all very excited,” she said with pep.

  Dr. Hyuk took a drink from his coffee mug and caught a glimpse of the empty chair next to Jade's. “Where is Curtis?” he inquired.

  “On leave in London. His mother is in hospice I'm afraid,” she replied with a frown.

  The computer finished downloading and instantly pasted hundreds of pictures and dozens of videos to the main projection screen. Dr. Hyuk took another sip of his dark roast.

  “Beautiful Saturn! Look at all this data. Oh, this is so exciting!” she exclaimed.

  Brent, a temporary employee, walked up to Dr. Hyuk and handed him a very long printed document. He mulled over its contents and handed it to Jade.

  “Oh god, wait . . . I didn't know the ship had a governor,” Jade cringed.

  “She disobeyed protocol.” Dr. Hyuk pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Three hundred thousand meters per second,” he said slowly. “Jade, Shintaro was going over one million kilometers per hour. Unbelievable!”

  Light dissipated from the Shintaro’s engine as Darla shut down nuclear chain reactions with neutron absorbers. “Transferring to hibernation mode. Next deceleration event in seventy-two hours. Time to Titan: eight days,” Darla relayed.

  •••

  Frank and Doug entered the control room at Ohio Range and joined the small crowd that had formed. Frank, looking at the television, was surprised to see massive amounts of Chinese military gathered around their spaceport in the Gobi desert.

  “So much paranoia, so much hate,” an engineer commented.

  “It's all posturing now. No one wants another Sino-Japanese war,” someone else chimed in.

  “What's the latest on the conflict?” Frank asked.

  “Ceasefire was declared by the UN,” Dr. Hyuk informed.

  Frank kept his eyes glued to the TV screen. A large formation of Chinese Chengdu J-20 stealth fighters flew over the heavy lift rocket. He reminisced about his time in the first modern conflict between China and Japan, nearly a decade ago. He was a Marine infantryman then, stationed at Camp Foster in Okinawa. The images of the Chengdu fighters strafing the island were still embedded deeply in his mind. The American counterattack, the pride he felt when F-35 Lightnings and F-22 Raptors pushed back the enemy fighters. It was the moment Frank knew, he wanted to become a pilot.

  “Frank . . . Frank!” Doug shouted.

  “Sorry, what’s up?” Frank replied, returning to reality.

  “Thought I lost you there for a second. I'm going to get a coffee, do you want one?”

  Frank shook his head. The launch countdown began as the recorded news switched over to live feed. An English interpreter spoke over a Mandarin speaker.

  “10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . ” showed the countdown timer.

  “Activate main engine hydrogen burnoff,” the faceless interpreter said. Sparks and condensation billowed out of rockets exhaust nozzles.

  “6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . ” Main engines started up, liquid oxygen and hydrogen kicked in, and an intense heat from the exothermic chemical reaction occurred. Near-invisible rocket exhaust shot out each nozzle end, followed by large amounts of smoke and vapor, which concealed the launch pad. The heavy rocket boosters slowly lifted off the ground. Battling the immense inertia of Earth's gravity, it lifted higher and higher with each passing second. A large tail of chemical combustion trailed through the sky.

  “Burn good. Two miles in altitude, achieving speed of sound,” the Chinese speaker said. The rocket disappeared into the clouds entirely and the cameras panned around to view enthusiastic onlookers, all government types and soldiers. They waved flags and pumped their fists, cheering in jubilation.

  Doug sat quietly sipping his coffee. Nagoya employees began dispersing and returned to their work.

  “Rocket traveling at 4,000 kilometers per hour, escape velocity achieved. Cooling systems at eighty-five percent efficiency,” said the speaker.

  “Well, are you ready to get back to work?” Doug asked.

  The Chinese rocket decoupled its stage boosters and a small crew capsule ignited a lone thruster, barreling in the direction of the moon.

  •••

  A small colony sat on the precipice of Peary Crater on the north pole of Earth's moon. Men in bulky extravehicular suits meandered around while a consortium of flags sat motionless in the background—Russian, Chinese, Indian, and Brazilian.

  Regolith-covered domes sat in hexagonal formations near the crater's rim. A large industrial lift provided access to the bottom, a 500 meter drop. Highland terrain tinted in grayscale surrounded the settlement.

  “север”, pronounced “sever”, the settlement's sign read in Russian. It translated to “north”, named after its geographic location on the Moon. The Chinese called the settlement “Yǒnghéng zhī guāng”, or “Eternal Light”, for the area receiving constant sun from the Moon's relatively small axial tilt.

  Large fields of solar paneling dotted the landscape, providing an unlimited power supply. The southernmost tip of Peary Crater was shrouded in perpetual shadow. There, the lunar colonists extracted ice for the water necessary for survival.

  Temperature extremes in the shrouded portions of Peary Crater were recorded at -400°F, colder than any other place in the solar system, even Pluto. Humans, even with advanced suits and insulation, would not be able to survive long in such extreme conditions. Sophisticated rovers, which utilized the Seebeck effect to keep internals from failing, were used to mine the ice in place of real people.

  A large drilling and regolith excavator lay at the bottom of Peary Crater. The excavator ran continuously, scooping up lunar soil and transporting it by conveyor belt to a processing station. The processing station in turn converted the raw material into the lucrative helium-3.

  The capsule’s thruster exhausted the last of its fuel and the crew of six prepared for the two-day journey to the moon. The crew quarters were cramped with tiny beds built into the walls of the capsule.

  Six Chinese astronauts made the voyage. Their mission: to rendezvous with their flagship, docked and orbiting high above Sever Outpost, coupled to the Russian space station Vostok—awaiting the perilous journey to Mars.

  Chapter 7

  For weeks Frank woke to the sound of jets, high speed winds, and construction noise. He had been diligently training on pilot controls for the Yamada, learning and evaluating every possible scenario he might encounter in space.

  Twenty-one days after coming to Ohio Range, Frank graduated from the Yamada flight simulator. Doug moved him on to various aptitude and medical tests, and Frank reunited with his crew, all of whom had been living in a mock habitat cut off from the outside world.

  Frank sat at the table in the mess hall alone. Roland sat down beside him and shared friendly coffee conversation. They discussed the mission ahead and Roland's vision for the future.

  “In two weeks we launch. March 7th,” Roland said.

  “They finally announced the date, huh?” Frank replied.

  “Those who have family are taking the next twelve days to go see them. But I'm afraid we need you here.”

  “It's alright, my wife divorced me and my kids disdain me,” Frank said. He felt awkward saying it to someone he barely knew—the team lead, no less.

  “Your kids though?”

  “They
resent me for not being there for them, always being deployed,” Frank said with regret. “In a sense they are right. I loved my job more than my family.”

  “We do what we have to do to support our families, to put food on the table,” Roland said. “Someday they will come around.”

  “I've come to terms with the fact that I am the world's worst father.”

  Roland put his arm around Frank's shoulder and let out a chuckle. “Frank, as long as you are as good of a space pilot as you are a fighter pilot, none of us care about your shit parenting skills, I can assure you.”

  Together they burst out into laughter. They finished their coffee and moved on. Frank respected Roland so far. He reminded him of an old mentor he had in the desert—blunt, but effective.

  A very lean, lanky Asian man walked into the mess hall and bumped into Frank on his way out. “You must be Mr. Frank,” the man said.

  “I am Mr. Frank,” Frank responded. He was in a much better mood.

  “I am Tommy Burman, your human endurance tester,” Tommy said.

  “Burman is a Japanese name?” Frank asked.

  “My mother was South Korean, er . . . is South Korean,” Tommy said. “Right, follow me, Mr. Frank. This way, sir.”

  Tommy escorted Frank to the high gravitational forces room. Inside was a one-way-glassed room, and adjacent, a large centrifuge machine. Frank had trained with these before at flight school.

  “I thought I was skipping the physical endurance testing,” Frank wondered.

  “Yes, well, I guess Mr. Tajika changed his mind,” Tommy replied. Frank stared into his instructor’s eyes with perplexity.

  “Look, I just work here, Mr. Frank,” Tommy snarked.

  “You know how many times I've heard that in the military?” Frank asked. Tommy shrugged with indifference.

  The instructor switched on the centrifuge. He pressed a small blue button and a door slid open on the wall. Inside was some sort of fitting room.

  “Are you ready to see your spacesuit, Mr. Frank?”

  Frank gazed into the brightly lit room and nodded. Inside were rows of black suits, outer shells, helmets, and life support packs, all encased in glass. Frank fingered the glass, admiring his new wardrobe.