The Sky Full of Stars

By Martyn Jones

The Sky Full of Stars is the first volume in the Stars Trilogy. Set in a mini ice age following a Middle Eastern nuclear war, a hostile theocratic European regime called the Gaians are determined to wipe Democracy from the Earth forever.

Only the development of a new Star Drive technology, and the actions of a small group of pilots can stem their thirst for dominance. But will the price be too great for even the once mighty States and Provinces of a United North America or even the world? When even the pilots themselves become the most precious resource?

Laced throughout with the authors characteristic dark humour, this volume is the genesis of a decade spanning and epic tale of war and personal redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781291433227

Book preview

The Sky Full of Stars

The Sky Full of Stars

A science fiction eBook

By

Martyn Jones

The Sky Full of Stars

eBook edition revised June 2013

ISBN: 978-1-291-43322-7

© Martyn Jones 2009,2011,2013

The copyright of this work formally belongs to Martyn Jones.  It may not be reproduced in part or whole upon any media without written and formal permission by the copyright holder, his heirs or successors.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction set in the late 21st and early 22nd Century.  No responsibility is accepted for any resemblance in the narrative to any person   institutionwhether living or dead.  Likewise, no resemblance is intended to any corporation, commercial body, or any other organisation whether extant, in abeyance, or not.

First released November 2009 in Hard and Paperback

eBook edition revised and released June 2013

Part 1.0

1.0.1

13th May 2075

Ready?  Breath smoked in the damp, unheated air.

All set.

Let’s do it.

Two well-groomed athletic men looked across the blank walled side passage at each other, hard eyes intent with a common purpose. 

Without another word, the first, an elegant dark skinned man in a heavy woollen charcoal pinstripe suit and Guards regiment tie, led the way out into careworn red carpeted corridors which deadened their footsteps.  His equally soberly dressed companion, a slightly shorter white man with flinty blue eyes, fell into step behind and to one side of him. 

Twenty metres down the long corridor, past scruffily repainted walls bearing discoloured patches where great works of art had once hung, a man in his late fifties wearing the brisk uniform and haughty sang-froid of a professional Butler, turned out of an open doorway carrying a linen covered silver tray.  He walked unchallenged past two heavily armed EuroPol guards wearing slab sided body armour and two side arms apiece.

As the two younger men approached, the heavily armoured EuroPols shifted on their feet slightly, carefully observing the visitors for any sign of hostility, alert cyber augmented gazes unflickering behind half silvered anti-laser visors, hands instinctively towards Shock stick holsters.  They had already been briefed on forthcoming events and were alert for the first hint of trouble.

Bonjour.  The taller of the two men said in an unsuccessful attempt at cordiality and handed over his pale gold ID card to the first EuroPol, who inserted it into a hand held reader.  Charles Fortnum-Obeki.  Legal aide to Michael Windsor.  He spoke in precisely modulated Oxbridge tones.  The guard grunted grudging approval as a green light flickered on his display.

Charles’ companion handed over his ID card to the second impassive EuroPol guard.  Terence Hornchurch, security consultant to Michael Windsor.  He announced in a voice with overtones of an advanced northern English education.  No one smiled, although they went through this procedure many times a day, often with the same guards.  Security theatre completed, the two men were waved through in a perfunctory, almost dismissive manner.  Forbidden by protocol to insult the defeated enemy, all the guards were allowed was mute contempt.

As they walked, Charles glanced at Hampton Court’s central courtyard to their right, its huge circular fountain visible through large but unwashed windows.  The empty green space speckled white with the first snows of September.  Today, he thought, the cold weather brings its own advantages.  The guards would all be indoors. 

Entering a threadbare second floor apartment overlooking Hampton Courts once magnificent privy gardens, Charles and Terence halted, then bowed slightly to a slender middle-aged man wearing a tailored dark blue business suit, his full head of light brown hair peppered with premature grey.  Behind them, the Butler closed the heavy double wood panelled doors with a barely audible double thump.

Gentlemen?  Crown Prince Michael addressed them formally in neutral tones.

I’m sorry your highness, the news isn’t good.  Charles said.

I see.  Michael examined the two men critically.  Then this is a matter for the whole family.  He turned to gaze down at the neglected formal gardens and thousand metres of the Long Water pointing away from the building.    I take it matters are in hand to assure my children will not suffer?

Terence and myself will pay particular attention to that detail sir.  They caught Michael’s flickered glance at the main internal security camera, left obvious almost in defiance rather than in deference to his family’s presence.  Excellent.  Michael said without enthusiasm and stayed with his back turned to the room.   He liked to do this so that neither they nor the many cameras in the once Royal Apartments could see the strain in his expression.  The condemned cell was just that, no matter how carefully the bars were padded with velvet.  My love.  He turned at the sound of footsteps.  An elegantly groomed brunette woman in her mid thirties stepped through the doorway, her hands folded, an apprehensive expression on her slender heart shaped face.  Michael nodded to her unspoken question.  Bring the children, they should hear this.  This new developments us all.  Michael gave his wife a tight little smile.  Katherine.  If you would be so kind.  He said.  She nodded and left. Michael turned back to face the garden view. Balmoral or Windsor?  He asked flatly.

Neither sir.  The Palais De Justice specified Sandringham.  Charles said, almost apologetically.

Nice and out of the way for a clean disposal, eh?

Yes sir.  Charles said stiffly, hating himself.

How soon?

Forty eight hours.  Charles said. 

Michael gave a long shuddering sigh and was silent for a while.  Charles.  Monarchy has had its day, but I would rather not suffer the fate of so many with my head on a spike.  God knows we only ever tried to work for the good of the country.  I can’t understand these people.  He said, obliquely referring to the Gaians' new code of laws that had condemned his whole family to death, even though such a sentence was supposedly illegal under old EU human rights legislation.

Sir.  Was all Charles could say.

We’ve been prisoners all our lives.  Sighed Michael fatalistically. First those bloody neo Nazis; then the civil war, now these hideous Theocrats.  I just wish they would spare the children.  It’s not as though we’re the bloody Romanovs for God’s sake.  For a moment Michael seemed to deflate.  He placed a steadying hand on one of the tall stone mullions of the window frame.  In a way it comes as something of a relief.  He straightened and glanced sideways at Charles’ impassive Anglo-Nigerian features.  No reaction.  Good.

Sir.

Charles?  Michael said after another pause.

Yes sir?

I’d like Terence and yourself to take care of our final disposition.  At least you two wouldn’t botch the job.  Michael said, then gave a slightly acid laugh.  His two most trusted men remained impassive.  Good, he could always count on that.  In such an uncertain world, that was a comfort.

Sir.  Terence spoke, his voice tight. 

Terence?

I’d like to say it’s been a privilege sir.

Your loyalty has always been privilege enough for me.  Ah.  Michael heard the soft footfalls of his three children’s feet on the carpet.  Entering the large room with Cobham the Butler in close attendance.  Michael turned and smiled warmly, trying not to think forty-eight hours ahead.  He could see at a glance that Katherine, his wife. had already guessed the worst, pale blue eyes brimming with tears.  She nodded softly, closed her eyes briefly and sniffed.  They had to at least look brave now, if only for themselves.  Richard, Victoria, Elizabeth.  Michael called out.  Victoria nine, and Elizabeth, the youngest at seven years old, affectionately called Tiggy by her older brother and sister, ran to their father and hugged his legs.  Blonde haired Richard, his heart shaped thirteen-year-old face solemn, waited his turn, but hung back.  I think we should go for a walk in the garden sir.  Charles suggested carefully.  EuroPol HQ are sending their usual team of Lawyers later on today to explain the situation.  They might listen to a last minute clemency plea.  We could discuss strategy as we walk.

To justify the impending murder of my family?  Michael could not help but sneer.  Katherine bit her lip and turned away.  Cobham, patiently waiting just inside the side door, caught his employer’s nod and left through a concealed side door, noiseless as a domestic ghost.  There was a long tense silence.

After a few minutes Cobham re-entered the room, several heavy dark navy blue overcoats hung over his arm.  He was stiff with anger, although his facial expression said nothing.  His employer, master, and above all, his friend, was going to be executed and there was nothing he could do about it.  Frustration almost visibly streamed from his eyes.

Thank you Cobham, at least we won’t freeze as we try to avoid our impending slaughter.  Michael said as he took his coat.  Cobham’s professionally neutral expression did not flicker.

Michael!  Katherine protested.

I know my love.  We should not say such things in front of the children, but political expediency is something they cannot hope to understand.  Not that I’m very happy about it myself.  Michael said dryly, cocking his head slightly on one side.  He gave an ironic snort.  Cobham briefly turned away so they could not see their Butler’s overt disgust at the judgement.  Some things were not done in front of your employer.

Our own lawyers are still fighting your case sir.  Charles spoke, but there was something stilted and formulaic about the way he spoke.

If all I’ve got from them is notice that I’ll be dead in two days time, I can’t say I’m overly impressed.  I hope they haven’t been paid yet.  Michael said acerbically, but there was an undercurrent here, something Katharine could not understand as she looked, eyes brimming, from her husband and then back to Charles.  Some deeper conversation which she was not privy to.

I’m sorry sir.

So am I Charles, so am I.  Come on everybody.  You too Richard.  Wrap up warm, we’re going for a walk in the gardens.  Cobham, face carefully blank lest he should do something terribly un-English like express emotion, nodded in response to Michael’s sidelong glance and stepped forward to help the children with their coats.

Daddy!  Protested Tiggy petulantly as only an eight year old can.  It’s too cold!

Then we must wrap up warmly.  Michael leaned down to his youngest child and softly patted her cheek.  She sulkily disengaged from his leg.  Her older sister was already pulling on a heavy woollen coat proffered by the ever-attentive Cobham.  Michael nodded a slight apology to his Butler as he took a pair of kid skin gloves from his overcoat pockets.  Richard.  Michael said, with an upward warning inflection at his son’s reluctance.

Yes Daddy.  Richard responded, the corners of his mouth turned down sullenly.  He reluctantly took the proffered coat from Cobham and dutifully slid his arms into the sleeves.

I shall inform the security detail sir.  Cobham spoke.

I’m sure they already know.  Michael eyed one of the more obvious cameras in the room for emphasis.  So long as we stay well away from the perimeter I’m sure all will be well.  He smiled tightly.  Nothing like a brisk September afternoon’s walk.  He said cheerfully and swept out of the room down the slightly threadbare but still plush corridor, his family and retainers following him like a comets tail, Cobham at the rear, the children in the middle almost running to keep up with their Fathers athletic stride.

Katherine caught a sly glance from Terence and abruptly decided not to make a fuss about the safety of the children.  It would be undignified, and she was not going to let her captors have that satisfaction, but she understood without being told that Charles and Terence had something up their sleeves.

Keep up everyone.  Called Michael in a cheerful tone, mouth smiling but eyes tight as he energetically led the way.  The Cyber armoured EuroPol guards in this section of the palace stood aside to let them out, obviously briefed by the surveillance team.  The perimeter was secure, and there was no way anyone could escape.   

Michael briskly led them down the stairs through to the lower hall, which brought his party out into the large privy garden.  Charles opened the weathered half oak door with the four cracked glass panes into the bright grey early afternoon chill.  Richard looked anxiously up at Charles’ face as he held the door for him; Charles gave him a broad wink as their little party almost trotted out through the big rear doors down the steps into the once palatial grounds.  Terence bringing up the rear of the party just behind Cobham.

Michael strode out down crumbling broad sandstone steps into the remains of the old privy garden.  Keep up, keep up.  He clapped gloved hands together loudly, energetic breath smoking in the cold September air as though nothing was wrong.  Urging his family on as they passed down the lightly snow crusted and overgrown Ornamental Avenue.  This was a marvellous place in Great great grandfather Charles’ day.  All the trees manicured, the lawns flat and well tended, not weed ridden and scruffy like nowadays.  Father used to love it.  Michael enthused.  It’s still one of the biggest non agricultural open spaces left in south east England.  He waved his little party on.  We used to have Koi Carp in the big fountain.  Open to the public, too.  Michael said casually, noting the way Charles surreptitiously checked his old fashioned Rolex wristwatch.  Gold coloured Fish long as your forearm.  Michael tried to keep the tension out of his voice lest the remote voice stress analysers betray him to their captors.  His back to the Palaces surveillance cameras, Charles spread three fingers once as a signal. 

Michael glanced at Katharine, who was having greater problems concealing her feelings.  He nodded over towards the end of the Long Water closest to the palace.  She caught his unspoken direction and steered the children past the oval pool towards the long straight pond, which still ran out towards the perimeter for over a thousand metres, a double row of bedraggled and frost laden ornamental trees still bordering either side.  Lagging behind them, Terence knelt and appeared to fuss with old fashioned shoelaces, secretively slipping the neutral coloured disc of an electro magnetic pulse mine under the path’s loose gravel before standing and striding after the group.  He dropped another by the fountain and surreptitiously kicked another of the five centimetre diameter buff coloured discs out of sight.  Another when they reached the far side of the pool and with his back turned to the surveillance cameras flicked one more out into the frost-crusted bushes next to the path.  It wasn’t much to delay the guards, but it would have to do.

Michael stopped as soon as they had passed the fountain and turned to face Charles.  There’s a dead spot in the surveillance here, and the fountain masks the rest of our voices, so tell me Charles, what is going to happen?  Michael clapped his hands as though to keep them warm; his face turned away from the high definition cameras on top of the palace roof to frustrate the EuroPol's lip reading software. 

As he did so, he noticed a trim female figure wearing a long dark coat and headscarf walking hurriedly towards them from the palace steps.  On second thoughts, don’t tell me.  He said darkly.  Ah, our lovely Helga.  Michael observed loudly from their position on the other side of the fountain from the Palace.  Kill her for me.  He said sotto voce as he turned his back on her hurrying figure. 

Of course sir.  Charles replied smoothly, as if this would be the easiest thing in the world.

Won’t be easy with all those bloody superhuman neural enhancements she has.  It’ll be like jumping barefoot into a tree shredder.  Michael reminded him. 

Charles smiled thinly.  Terence and I can deal with her sir. 

Terence nodded carefully in agreement, flashing a slightly wolfish thin-lipped smile.

It’ll take both of you.  Michael said quietly, no little menace in his voice, before turning back and waving cheerfully to the woman hurrying out to meet them, her boots hurriedly crunching through the thin crust of frozen snow.  Helga my dear!  How are you?  He called out loudly.

Mister Windsor, you should not be out.  Helga approached at a fast walk, her English heavily accented, and her syntax stilted.

What’s the fuss my dear?  Don’t want us to catch our death and cheat the executioners sword?  Michael mocked her openly as she arrived at the edge of the oval pond.  Helga’s finely shaped lips clamped into a tight line as she joined them a few moments later.  It was quite obvious that she held her captive in singular contempt. 

This is my chief aide, Charles, and his security adviser, Terence.  Michael made brief introductions.  Charles and Terence nodded formally, while Helga responded tightly, I know.  No one offered to shake hands.

Of course you do.  Michael said with all the condescension he could muster.  Your two ex special forces bulldogs.  She remarked contemptuously. 

Gentlemen, our chief inquisitor and host, Helga Sommer.  Michael ignored her tetchiness, still treating her with overt mockery.

Hardly that.  She said archly.

Helga as you know is the head of the security detail here at Hampton Court.  The Gaian Republic is finally disposing of all the inconvenient last vestiges of the old order.  Sadly this means my family and I.  She makes sure we inconvenient few do not stray and inflame the last remnants of monarchist sentiment in the glorious Gaian European Federal Republic.  Michael mock bowed, as he did so catching the concealed two-finger signal from Charles.   Terence moved slightly to his left, glancing aside as if watching the children and Katherine who were currently playing a noisy game of tag around the trees and straggly bushes half way towards the edge of the long water.   Terence’s movement put him slightly over two metres directly behind Helga’s unprotected back.  Just close enough.  She was obviously so distracted by the soon-to-be-late Crown Prince of England’s mockery that she failed to notice Charles' slight arched eyebrow signal to his partner.  He made a downward finger signal with his left hand.

Charles cursed inwardly as Helga’s hand suddenly went up to her right ear and her voice became tight with urgency.  We must return inside.  She said.  At once.  The snap made it an order.  Michael gave a long stagey sigh and called out.  Cobham, get Katherine to collect the children.  Helga wants us cooped up again.

Immediately.  She snapped.  From by the rear entrance, two fully cyber armoured guards were already lumbering down the path.

Very well. Michael looked away as if there was no rush and lazily called out.  Katharine!

Charles and Terence struck almost simultaneously.  Charles attempted a short punch Helga’s larynx but she caught his hand easily, and with contempt shining from her face twisted his forearm, forcing him to his knees. Then the stiffened edge of Terence’s right hand smashed into her carotid arch hard enough to momentarily overload her sub-dermal neural implants.  Gasping in shock and surprise, she began to sag, letting go of Charles’ right arm.  Charles spun to his feet, striking up and under her nose with the heel of his left hand, driving her nasal  septum straight into her brain.  A look of surprise bloomed briefly in her eyes.

Already dead, Helga crumpled and dropped through the fountains thin rime of ice with a wet splashing crunch.  The two approaching guards saw her fall sideways, booted feet still twitching and kicking.  They stopped to draw side arms only to abruptly drop to their knees as the little EMP mine secreted by Terence in the path instantly shorted out their cyber enhancements, overloading their Cyber-implants, temporarily blinding them.  Towards the Long Water!  Run!  Charles roared the order as his partner ran back to disarm the two temporarily disabled guards.   Charles grimaced and sprinted, ignoring the pain from his broken right arm, leading the family as alarm sirens on top of the old palace blared outrage. 

From overhead there was the rough burring sound of an old-fashioned rotary aircraft engine throttling back hard.  A white T-shape covered with irregular black zigzags of anti detection coating roared down from over the perimeter, twin floats smashing ice, sending hundreds of gallons of muddy slush cascading out onto the gravel path on either side.  Run!  Get in the seaplane!  Terence roared at them as he dodged around straggling bushes towards them.  Michael turned and followed Charles as he ran ahead.

The children!  The children!  Shouted Katherine as he approached at a dead run.   Without hesitating, Charles scooped up Richard and Victoria as though they weighed nothing.  He jinked as he heard the snap-snap of gunfire and sprinted towards the end of the long water where the old fashioned Canadian Viking VH-2 float plane had pulled up and was already turning with the help of the co-pilot and a length of rope.  A sudden zip in the air made him involuntarily hunker down as he ran, pulling his two struggling charges in tight to afford them at least some protection from the EuroPol gunfire.  He heard a shriek and a shout as someone fell, and kept running, resisting the urge to turn and help.  From behind came the undeniable harmonics of a little girls terror Mummy! 

Get her away!  Get her away!  Michael’s voice snapped.  Give me that gun!  Now! Damn you!  He demanded as Terence ran up to him to render assistance.  Terence reached out just as Michael gasped hollowly.  A high velocity round punched through Michaels chest with a wet thud.  He stumbled, a surprised look on his face, then coughed blood once before another two bullet strikes dropped him across the already still form of his wife.  Tiggy screamed as Terence scooped her up, putting his head down as he ran.  A EuroPol arrived at the fountain and swung his Berretta semi-automatic up to fire, only to topple over slowly as the EMP mine less than two metres away instantly fried his implant enhanced nervous system.

Pulse hammering in his ears, agony in his arm, chest tight, breath spewing white clouds in front of him, Charles ducked under the high wing of their rescue aircraft and jumped onto the Seaplane’s float, literally throwing Richard and Victoria into the stripped down aircraft’s eight-seat cabin.  The black coveralled co-pilot reached out towards him, mouth moving, urgent words drowned by the revving engine as the eighteen metre wingspan Viking with its central vectored fan lined up for its take-off run.

Suddenly Terence was shoving Elizabeth into Charles’ arms and he passed her up into the cabin, waving the door shut.  More shots zipped past them, one chipping the port wing as Terence shoved one of the stolen 5mm Semi—automatic Berettas into Charles' hand.  A hundred yards away by the oval fountain, Cobham the Butler, shirt and old fashioned frock coat spattered and streaked with his employers blood, struggled to lift the dying Prince’s head to help him breathe.  Katherine was down and unmoving, her elegant mustard overcoat stained with several splodges of black where three high velocity rounds had ripped her life away. 

Now dark figures in cyber armour were literally pouring out into the privy gardens from all directions.  The pilot frantically gestured at Charles, who simply waved him to take off before casually stepping off the float onto the path as though alighting from a train.

The Viking’s ageing gasoline Rotax engine revved hard then began to move away from the waters edge towards the perimeter, rudders flicking minor corrections, still mostly out of range of all but few of the rifle-carrying guards.  At full throttle it accelerated away from the Palace, leaving twin foaming furrows in its wake for a hundred metres before lifting into the air.  After a few seconds the small aircraft was airborne, hedgehopping at a top speed of two hundred and thirty kilometres an hour to avoid Radar and EuroPol Helivane patrols.  Fast enough to dodge the numerous Patrol Drone Blimps. 

Ah!  Terence staggered as he was hit but remained standing.  He coughed, bright red staining his lips.  God Save the King.  He grinned at Charles and spat blood.  The children are okay.  He ducked down and the automatic in his hand cracked twice, the sound of the heavy EuroPol weapon echoing across the Privy Garden.

God save the King.  Charles smiled back, and felt two hammer blows strike his chest simultaneously as high velocity rounds spun him around and drove the breath from his body.  He fell heavily onto his back with a crunch of gravel, a look of mild irritation on his face.  Funny how that didn’t seem to hurt.  He thought as he pushed himself over into a prone position and took careful aim at a running guards head.  He squeezed the trigger, hearing Terence calmly loosing off shots as though on the firing range, and watched the man he had aimed at drop onto the path backwards as though punched in the jaw. 

Rounds scuffed the path and icy turf all around them before he heard rather than saw the kneeling Terence hit simultaneously and drop backwards, hand still struggling to take aim as he lay on his back.  Terence coughed, struggling to move before his gun hand fell back.  Charles.  The inflection in his voice begged mercy from his old friend.  EuroPol Guards were approaching at a more leisurely pace now with weapons ready.  All the EMP mines were gone; Charles had less than four rounds of ammunition left.

No problem.  Charles said, tasting the blood on his own lips.

Thanks.

It was my honour to serve.  Charles said calmly.

Charles?

Yes?

Thank you.

God speed.  Charles said simply, and carefully shot his colleague underneath the chin.  Blood and brains spat out from the top of Terence’s head out onto the frozen path, and the fierce light in his eyes went out forever.  Charles looked up and smiled with relief as he saw the seaplane wheel overhead, doubling back to confuse any pursuit.  Still smiling, he jammed the Beretta’s hot muzzle under his own chin before pulling the trigger.

Back by the fountain, Cobham, overcoat and suit bloodstained but otherwise unharmed, knelt by his employers’ corpse and composed the body with all the care of a father for a beloved son.  He glanced aside at Katharine’s sightless stare before moving over to her body, arranging it just so to the background theme of the Seaplane clearing the perimeter.  Performing this final task oblivious to the guards approach and the shooting from his would-be liberators.  His final duty, as he saw it, was to at least try to give his master some dignity in death.  The children were away, that was good.  The future at least had a future.

He was ensuring Katharine’s coat was arranged decently as the roar of an approaching radial engine overhead almost masked the crunch of booted footsteps.  Without prompting, he stood slowly and carefully raised his hands before a EuroPol guard raised his Beretta and deliberately shot the butler between the eyes.  Cobham toppled to the ground as if in slow motion, a faint look of irritation creasing his face as if his summary death were only a minor inconvenience.

***

1.0.2

As the Seaplane passed low overhead, Richard Windsor’s disbelieving thirteen-year-old eyes saw the older man drop untidily over his mother and father’s bodies.  He gasped.  Cobham dead?  Why Cobham?  He was a kind man, a good man who never did harm to anyone.  He didn’t have a gun.  Why did the guards shoot him?  Richard felt tears running freely down his cheeks and tasted salt.  Inside he felt hopelessly numb.  His sisters were crying loudly in the background.

The pilot turned low above the Thames, and headed west towards the rendezvous point he’d been given, some seventy kilometres outside London’s western sprawl.  He pushed the aircraft’s nose forward and down before the engine suddenly spluttered.  Oil pressure’s dropping.  Engine must have taken a hit.  He said loudly, throttling back slightly.

The children are okay.  They’re upset, but okay.  Reported the co-pilot.

I’ll get us as far West as I can, but it’s going to be a bumpy landing.  The pilot shouted over the erratic engine noise.  We won’t make the rendezvous at Studland bay.

Twenty minutes later, the pilot made a nervous forced landing forty-five miles on near a little place called Benham Lock on the disused Kennet & Avon Canal. 

When their floats hit the overgrown surface of the polluted icy water, the seaplane float rudders dragged them to a skewed halt pulling huge mats of foetid vegetation along in their twin wakes.  An overhanging branch of a frost killed willow tree smashed the eight-metre long Port wing in two, slewing the light aircraft awkwardly into the overgrown tow path where it began to sink, hidden from above by a canopy of thickly matted branches.

Inside the useless cockpit, the pilot unsnapped his seat harness.  Everybody out! he shouted above the racket of cracking composite.  The door was kicked open and all five scrambled one after another onto the muddy bank.

Where are we?  The co-pilot stripped off his helmet to reveal a shaven scalp and café-au-lait tinted skin.

Benham lock, on what was the Kennet and Avon canal.  I think.  The Pilot dropped his helmet on the ground and unzipped the front of his overalls.

Mike, how the hell are we going to make that rendezvous now?  The co-pilot shepherded the three tearful children onto a drier patch of ground while they took stock of their situation.

We aren’t.  The Pilot looked around for an access to more secure footing. Don’t worry Sebastian, I have friends near here, they’ll help.  He set his lips in a thin but determined smile.

***

Part 2.0

2.0.1

16th April 2080;

A large screen displayed the speckled blackness of space above a brilliant sunlit arc of Earth’s atmosphere.  From orbit the view of the enlarged Arctic icecap and associated weather systems were terrifyingly obvious. Through narrow gaps in the extensive cloud cover all the visible high latitudes of Earth glittered.  Under those clouds, from the pole to Nome and thence to the Aleutian Islands was a mass of solid pack ice.  During the Northern winter, the ice pack often linked Norway to Iceland and thence to Greenland and all points north.  Alaska and most of Northern Canada were near uninhabitable; the same for Northern Russia, which had lost all of its Northern ports over thirty years before.  The Southern hemisphere had it just as bad.  Another few years of lowered solar output, it was said, and there would be ice all the way from the Cape of Good Hope to Cape Horn.

What we do today may mean a better future than we have right now, thought Corwen Blount, Mission Commander, barely glancing at the global spectacular on screen.  Or maybe not.   His stomach was knotted with tension as his crew waited, poised for the go.   Visors down and locked.   Environmental suits active and in independent mode.  Just in case.

Not that we’d survive if it all went seriously wrong.  He mused to himself.  This was the last gasp of the North American Space programme.  It was common knowledge throughout mission control that funding was to be cut for the space programme if the experimental faster than light Omega drive did not work this time round.  All the funds released would be diverted into the ever more bloated Social budget. 

Corwen briefly wondered about trying to join the space programmes of other nations if Omega failed, but could not think of a single workable option.  China, India, and Russia only funded weather and surveillance satellites now, the global economy too weak to sustain any manned off world presence in the wake of that god-damned stupid internecine Middle Eastern nuclear war.  Europe might be doing something, but the Gaian Republic were overtly hostile to North America nowadays, and more of a threat than a career opportunity. 

Omega ground control to Omega, we have you go for launch.  The knot disappeared as everyone smoothly switched into their allotted tasks.

A crew of five occupied a windowless cabin not much larger than the interior of a delivery van.  Five seats were rotated into a forward facing pattern with two at the front, two at the rear, and one to the left hand side in the centre.  In the roof of the instrument lined cabin was the main access hatch leading to the airlock and docking hatch, directly below was another which led into the crews ‘rest’ section.  Above and upon every side above waist level, screens, keyboards and switches dominated the windowless view.  At the front were two seats facing a dual set of controls reminiscent of an aircraft cockpit.  Five figures, anonymous in near identical dark red Environment suits and near opaque helmets sat attentive to their tasks.

Roger that, Omega control.  Disengaging.  Ready for manoeuvring burn.  The interior shook briefly, like a dog lightly flicking it’s ears.  There was a far off hissing noise.  The co-pilot raised a barely seen eyebrow at the pilot who quietly shook his almost opaquely helmeted head to indicate there was nothing untoward.

We have slight rotation anticlockwise, correcting.  A twist of a control, four short spikes of light from the attitude jets, and the slowly rotating star field steadied.

Looking good Omega.  You have control.  Relative outward drift five metres a second.  Another minute and they would be clear to initiate the new sub space drive, only previously successful in laboratory tests.

Starting reactors.  Field wings deploying.  Outside, four eight metre long pods began to cantilever out from the white coated cylindrical fuselage.

Inside the metre diameter fusion reactor behind their heavily shielded compartment, eight toroids of plasma helices formed within radial mounted doughnut shaped chambers by powerful superconducting magnets.  Injectors pulsed fuel into plasma rings which were magnetically spun, charged, superheated, then merged into a single central core and ignited with a megawatt pulse of laser light.  In the centre of the reactor, a sudden burst of high energy neutrons spat into radial magnetic traps as a tiny star hot fusion reaction soundlessly crackled into life.  Magnetohydrodynamic grids lit up with the sudden glut of energy from superheated hot plasma, feeding into hungry batteries and uncharged coils, power greedy drives sucking at the immediate abundance of raw power, ready to push the forty metre long spacecraft into a higher orbit.

Ten seconds at full burn.  Now.  Five rear reaction stern like pale violet searchlights as the high-energy VASIMIR plasma drive went to full. A tooth shuddering vibration built up and steadied.  Particles of dust drifted backwards to the flat walled rear of the control cabin.  The rearwards pressure rose sharply with every passing second until it felt like a large man was standing on everyone’s chests, pushing their face muscles backwards into gargoyle like grimaces like some kind of crude practical joke.

Reactor output ten Gigawatts and climbing.  Edith Paget, mission technical specialist reported, her voice shaking with the drives vibration.

Let me know when we get fifty.  Corwen Blount, lead pilot and mission commander called over the loud roaring hum, watching his screen intently.

Three point five gee acceleration.  Paul Stovek, their ever-cautious co-pilot flicked light hazel eyes across the forward screens, alert for any problems.

Forty now.

There was a slight muffled thump that transmitted itself through the hull.  Field wings deployed and locked.  Paul reported.

Forty nine.

Twenty five Gigawatts. Love that Nuclear fusion.  Corwen grinned, enjoying what he considered the greatest funfair ride of all time.

Fifty five.

Primary burn end.  The VASIMIR drive flickered off and the vibration vanished; drifting motes glittered briefly in the beams of internal spotlights. 

Hold it steady there.  Everyone ready?  A sensation of weightlessness returned as their acceleration ceased.   Corwen checked the onboard scanners.  Only the telemetry from Ed Mulholland, the second mission specialist was looking anything like sickly, everyone else seemed to have handled the acceleration changes well.  He smiled again.

Telemetry; green board.  Liam O’Reilly, Navigator, looked up and nodded within his closed visor.  Guidance; ready for course lay in.

Life support; Pressure point eight bar.  All readings nominal.  Ed reported through gritted teeth.

Field Generators are at seventy five percent.  Paul spoke with a quick sideways glance and nod of confirmation at Corwen.

This is Omega to Omega ground control.  Ready when you are.  Corwen reported.

Omega from Omega ground control.  Secondary burn and sixty second countdown beginning on my mark.  Mark.  The pseudo gravity of acceleration returned at a steady one gravity.

Omega orbital launch station.  Have you on radar at forty-seven kilometres and increasing nine fifty metres per second relative.  Velocity stable, reduced to one point zero four G acceleration.

Course lay in forty five degrees axial, eighty right.  Liam said.

Course confirmed.  The star field shifted slowly as the heavily shielded nose of the spacecraft eased round.  Targeting sensors on their display flashed green twice and steadied.

Fifty five seconds.  Paul read off the countdown display for the internal record.

Charging field wings.  Five percent and climbing.  Corwen responded. 

Fifty seconds.  Paul said, eyes intent for the first hint of a problem on screen.

Reactors at sixty five.  Corwen watched the digital displays scrolling up through the levels.  Bring the field strength up to sixty percent.  He added.

Inertial magnetic shielding ten percent.  Edith reported.

Reactors at seventy three.  Paul’s helmeted head seemed to glance sideways at Corwen. Fuel flow looking good.

Forty seconds.  Paul returned his attention to the countdown.

Field strength thirty percent.  Reactors at eighty one.  Plasma stable.  Field wings fifty eight percent charged.  Liam O’Reilly confirmed from his console.  Bearings confirmed and stable.

Omega ground control, we are go for test.  Corwen announced.

Confirm, Omega.  Thirty seconds and you’re looking better than good.  Ground control chimed in via the audio only link.

Glad to hear it.  Corwen couldn’t resist the informality.

Field strength sixty one percent, stabilising.  Liam reported.

Engaging phase one of drive.  Corwen thumbed a switch on his console.

The pull of acceleration suddenly shifted a nausea creating ninety degrees from straight backwards to directly under their seats and the rearward pull ceased.  Life support; we have point six three cabin gravity.  Edith read off her display.  Mission control could see all these readings on their siamesed displays back on Earth, but on a proving mission everything had to be confirmed and re confirmed verbally.  For the logs.  Just in case.

Thank you life support.  Guidance?  Said the calm voice of ground control.

Guidance shows ready.  Liam reported simply.

Burn ending, now.  Paul made two fine adjustments to the internal gyroscopes, then nodded as the compensation met with his approval.

Twenty seconds Omega.  We’re all praying for you down here.

So are we ground control.  So are we.  No more damp squibs this time, eh?  Corwen glanced at the crew displays and nodded with satisfaction. Here goes nothing.  The drive might work, or leave them sitting looking slightly foolish on a slow climb out of the ecliptic as it had to three previous crews.  He sat for a few moments listening to the verbal reports from around the cabin.

Field strength sixty four percent.  Liam read out.

Field wings charged.  One hundred percent.  Make ready.  Corwen said, a quick glance at his status displays.

Point seven five cabin gravity.  Edith said, her voice cracking slightly.

Reactors at ninety seven Gigawatts.  Liam said, a little too sharply.

Hold power at that.  Corwen glanced at his virtual repeater display, a knot of excitement in his belly.

Ten seconds, on my mark.  Mark.  Paul began their internal countdown.

All ready.  Liam reported.

Nine.  Everyone kept their eyes on their individual display screens.

Eight.  Corwen flipped open the plastic ‘initiate’ panel cover.

Seven.  Chorused Paul and the Orbital Launch Commander.

Six.  Ed nervously checked the position of his seat harness quick release.

Five and God speed guys.  Came the voice of the Orbital Launch Commander.

Four.  Paul did not blink.

Three.  Everyone seemed to tense.

Two.  Paul flipped the direct drive power feed on.

One.  A slight hum began to thrill through Omega as the power levels reached crescendo.

Initiate.  Corwen said and stabbed down at the switch.

Ini………… Paul’s voice began to confirm.  The word was truncated by silence and a sudden sensation of lightness.  In high earth orbit, where Omega had been there was nothing but empty space.

***

2.0.2

Down on Earth, in the three tiered seating of Omega Mission control, the reports flooded in from external feeds.  Omega control, this is Omega Launch tracking.

Go ahead tracking.

No debris, residual anomalies.  Looks like a launch positive.

Omega orbital, we have confirmation.  Downloading remote visuals.

Omega control to all stations; we have a clean launch.  Time for coffee.  A collective sigh of relief rather than cries of jubilation ran through the ten person launch monitoring team.

Roger that.  We won’t know anything until the signal reaches us from way point one.

Got two hours forty five minutes then.  What’s for lunch?  There was a collective exhalation from the ten strong ground control room.  Piotr Weissman, Mission Director, his shoulder length hair tied back in a severe ponytail, looked around and let his shoulders sag.  He glanced at the telemetry screen again, no power surges, no implosions, nothing to indicate that anything had gone wrong.  He glanced down at his team.  All of them seemed satisfied but they wouldn’t know for certain for almost three hours.  Time for lunch.  He checked his watch.  Two pm exactly Pacific Standard time.  Ten pm UCT.  Right on time.

***

2.0.3

Discontinuity; then after a few moments of disorientation Omega’s fuselage appeared back in visible space.  For a moment, an outside observer would have noticed a slight shimmer, a luminous vibration before Omega’s image became solid.  Inside, there was a collective exhalation for a moment before the mood of trepidation ceased.  Faceplates were opened, and mutual looks of relief exchanged.

Star fix confirm.  Waypoint one coming up.  Liam broke the silence.

Decelerated to sub light.  Relative velocity one percent light speed.  Normal space confirmed.  Paul nervously checked and re checked the displays.

Recording.  Star fix confirming location.

This is Omega to Omega ground control at waypoint one reached in seven point six seconds subjective.  Telemetry downloads attached to signal.  Proceeding waypoint two.  Out on the hull, a dish like array folded out, pointing directly behind them at a spot near the local G-type star known as Sol. 

Antenna deployed.  Telemetry package sent.

Ready for the next hop?  Corwen asked.

Wish Garrett Lisi was alive to see this.  Edith shook her head as she saw the raw data flooding in.

Antenna retracted.  Comms ready for transition.  Paul looked upwards at the overhead screen display.  No debris on close radar, no approaching vectors.

Reactors to half power.  Corwen ordered.

Two hundred Gigawatts confirmed.  Ed watched the fuel flow and reserve intently.

Engaging.

This time the discontinuity was almost invisible.  One moment there was no spacecraft, the next, Omega’s octagonal cylinder was spitting along like a greased bullet above a planetary systems plane of its ecliptic.

Waypoint two.  Eighty billion kilometres from waypoint one.  Decelerated to sub light.  One percent of light speed.

Star fix confirms approximate position.

Cabin gravity point nine.  Atmosphere point nine bar.  Oxygen nineteen.

Ready telemetry package.

Digitised and ready for transmission.

Deploy antenna and send.

Ten seconds.

Right.  That’s the easy bit.  Where do the rest of you want to go today?  Corwen Blount flipped his visor wide open to reveal homely chunky features with light hazel eyes and a disarming white smile. There was a bout of relieved laughter from the other four crew members.

Gliese 876?  Liam queried.

Port camera.  Paul said, opening his helmet to reveal a pale oval face, thin nose, and high Slavic cheekbones.  He frowned and watched the local telemetry.

Will you look at that? 

I have a flight time if anyone is interested.  Corwen rechecked the readings.

How long?  Asked Ed Mulholland from his seat at the back.

Eighteen minutes Omega onboard subjective.  Reported Corwen.

How far?  Mulholland asked.

Just over fifteen light years, according to the telemetry and star fixes.  Liam replied after a short pause.

Wow.  Mulholland breathed.

Oh my.  Said Edith.

Better than we’d hoped.  Remarked Paul.  Better than the simulations.

Ladies and Gentlemen.  We are officially a long, long, way from home.  Corwen grinned.

I think we’d better gather some proof, or the conspiracy theorists are going to have a field day.  Paul said archly.

Don’t they always?  Grinned Corwen.

Cameras recording and active.  Reported Edith.

Hey!  Mulholland watched the data as it flowed in.

What’s up?

"Computers just found us a planet of one point three Earth masses at an approximate solar orbit of seventy million miles radius.  Right in the middle of the Goldilocks zone for this star.  Apart from the super Jupiter close in to