Eugene tugged at his tie, trying to impose symmetry on chaos. After many years of trial and error, the tiny dimple in the fabric just below the Windsor knot still eluded him. Thin ties had come back into style recently, but he abhorred them. Against his thick neck and jowls, a skinny tie looked like a parasitic eel.
He was headed for a strategy meeting with the Advisory Board for Civilian Development of Space. Danielle Fenton would be there, as would Gladstone Rockwell. Doubtlessly to defend the interests of his most important campaign contributors, the fine people of Lockheed-Boeing-Raytheon. Eugene fully expected the whole affair to be a courteous bushwhacking. However, knowing an ambush awaits is the first step to preparing a successful counter-ambush.
Felix had also been invited, but Eugene conveniently neglected to inform him. An invitation was not the same thing as a subpoena, and while Felix had made great strides in the last few years dealing with his fellow scientists, politics was a different arena altogether. It would be like putting a chess champion in boxing gloves and shoving him into a ring.
Eugene keyed for his new aircar. The quiet solitude of the elevator gave him a few moments to reflect on their progress.
His team had learned two valuable lessons over the last few months: the anguish of repeated failure, and the elation of an unlimited budget with which to replace said failures.
The problem with hyperspace travel wasn’t that a three-dimensional object couldn’t exist within extra dimensions. After all, one- and two-dimensional objects exist in the three-dimensional universe. Even the fundamental laws of physics remained constant … ish.
Instead, the problem was giving brains evolved to operate in three dimensions several more layers of complexity to contend with. Like playing Pac-Man in an M. C. Escher print.
The first bunny to actually survive the trip, in prototype number twelve, returned only to spend the better part of a week trying to run across the ceiling. Later, an unfortunate test chimpanzee came back convinced it could get a better view of its surroundings by standing on top of its own shoulders.
The solution they hit upon were specially designed 3-D glasses. What made them unique was instead of adding a dimension to 2-D images, these glasses took one away.
A chime sounded from the elevator’s ceiling, and the doors parted, revealing Eugene’s new favorite toy. Hovering a few inches off the deck was a pristine classic; a 2307 Ford Pegasus, billed as the only pony car with wings, clad in grabber-orange paint that glowed like fresh lava.
Eugene bought it as a present for the teenager still lurking inside his psyche. Unlike the quiet refinement of his Jaguar, the Pegasus was America personified, meaning it was loud, obnoxious, wasteful, and had more power than anyone could use responsibly. He climbed in and awoke the single massive turbine at the rear of the car. With the sort of primordial roar that had once sent sauropod herds scattering for safety, the Pegasus shot into the air.
Several minutes and one citation for flying under a pedestrian bridge later, Eugene arrived at the Stack. By the time he reached the conference room, Chairwoman Fenton was already seated, as were her aide and several other members of the committee. Mr. Rockwell was conspicuously absent.
“Professor Graham,” Danielle’s voice carried through the room. “Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat. Will your head of research and development be joining us?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Fletcher had a previous engagement,” Eugene lied. “But I was thoroughly briefed for our meeting.”
“Very well,” she said. “We’re still missing a couple of people, but I think we should begin. I’ve asked Professor Graham to join us today to give a firsthand account of the ARTists’ progress. Professor, the floor is yours.”
Calculating eyes fell on Eugene as he stood to speak. “Thank you for the introduction, Mrs. Chairwoman. I’m pleased to report that over the last few months, out teams working here at the Stack, the beta site, and out at the Unicycle have made amazing progress in their research.”
Eugene drew himself to his full height. “In fact, they have exceeded all of the expectations I had for them. As of now, we have successfully—”
He was interrupted by the door being flung open. Gladstone Rockwell swept into the room, wrinkled and missing a few buttons. The least one could say was he looked distressed.
“Sorry I’m late.” Rockwell collapsed into the closest empty chair.
“What happened to you?” Fenton asked with feigned concern.
“Well, first of all, some idiot in an orange Pegasus cut off my flight lane so close I almost had a midair with a Greyhound airbus.”
Eugene smirked.
Rockwell continued, “Then security gave me the third degree on the way in, asking me all these crazy questions about explosives and recording devices.”
This may have had something to do with the anonymous tip Stack security received about a man matching Rockwell’s description acting suspicious in the parking hangar.
The rest of Rockwell’s story served as further confirmation that the question “Don’t you know who I am?” is always followed by “No.” Traditionally, this exchange leads to a roughly conducted strip search. Eugene’s inner teenager laughed maniacally, while his middle-aged self bit his tongue and soldiered on.
“Well, you’re here now, safe and sound, and that’s what matters. As I was saying, we have successfully fielded our first FTL demonstrator. After some trial and error—”
“Some?” Rockwell barely had time to settle into his seat before he was on his feet again, brandishing a data pad like a hatchet. “I have copies of your own test logs here.” He made a flicking motion with one hand to transfer the logs to the central holo-projector in the conference table.
“Let’s see…” Rockwell looked up at the display and started reading down the list. “Test one: prototype exploded, cause unknown. Test two: prototype exploded, cause unknown. Three: prototype disintegrated on contact with hyper window. Four: prototype entered hyper window, but failed to reappear. Five: prototype reappeared, but was reduced in mass by one-third.”
Eugene interrupted. “In our defense, we’re still exploring the potential for the weight-loss industry.”
The room snickered.
“If you’re finished, I’d like to continue,” Rockwell said humorlessly.
“By all means,” Eugene said.
“Six: prototype returned bright purple and smelling of limes. Seven: prototype returned covered in travel stickers. Eight: prototype—”
“I believe we get the gist of it, Gladstone,” Danielle said softly. “What is your point?”
“My point, Mrs. Chairwoman, is it’s high time to let qualified professionals take the reins of the ARTists project.”
The other members stirred in their chairs. Eugene’s stomach tightened into a coiled spring. He’d suspected the hit was coming, but anticipation did little to soften the blow.
“Please don’t misunderstand me,” Gladstone resumed. “Professor Graham is to be admired for assembling the team he did on such short notice. Further, the contributions of his team are commendable. I doubt any other ragtag bunch could have accomplished what they did, but we’re reaching a critical juncture, and now is no time for amateurs.
“I move that the ARTists group turn over their research and equipment to an established, experienced R&D team, preferably one already cleared to accept government black budget contracts.”
No one had any doubt which company’s R&D department Rockwell had in mind. Half the room was looking uncomfortably at Eugene, unsure of what to say or do. Eugene loomed over the table menacingly.
“Have you finished?” Eugene asked, his voice warm as arctic midnight.
Rockwell stared back at him, but said nothing.
“I assume by your silence you have,” Eugene said. “With respect, I think you’ve forgotten a few important points. First, the term crash program was coined for a reason. When people are working under a deadline in uncharted technological territory, unscheduled explosions are the norm. Second, while we have lost prototypes, we have not lost human lives. Something, it should be added, that cannot be said for the program that developed the first gravity drive system.”
Air was sucked through teeth, and at least one person in the room chuckled. Everyone knew which company had built the AEUS Manchester, posthumously nicknamed the Mancrusher.
Rockwell boiled over. “Now just a damned minute. That was a totally different situation.”
“You are right, of course. My team had the added challenge of leaving the known universe.”
“That’s preposter—” Rockwell started, but a gently cleared throat arrested his budding diatribe.
“Please continue, Professor,” Danielle said.
“Third,” Eugene put his palms on the table. “You propose turning things over to an ‘experienced’ R&D team. Who would that be, exactly? Because as far as I know, my team possesses the sum total of all human experience in the hyperspace field.”
“True.” Rockwell keyed up a file on his data pad. “But there are other areas of experience where your team falls short of the mark.” He transferred the file, and page after page of ARTist memos, technical papers, and schematics cascaded down the central holo.
Eugene frowned. “What’s all this?”
“This”—Rockwell pointed at the parade of classified files—“is a live feed from Loose Lips Ezine. Two hours ago, they posted over a terabyte of your team’s internal communications. The Web is buzzing with it. You have a leak, Professor.”
Eugene slumped. “We can fix this. We’ve been doing it for three years.”
“No, what you had before was rumor and innuendo, not proof. Nobody can fix this.”
Eugene looked at Danielle. “You knew?”
“Yes, Professor. I was told half an hour after the documents went up.”
“And I suppose you agree with Mr. Rockwell.”
She looked at him with apologetic eyes, but nodded. “This one is too big. You can’t contain it.”
“Well, then, what’s left? Go public?”
“Yes, but not immediately. There is still the matter of our courier ship.”
“The warship?” Eugene said. “That will take months.”
“It may not take as long as you think,” Danielle said.
Eugene’s suspicion rose. “I was under the impression development of the president’s toy had been suspended until our hyperspace generator was ready.”
“That’s what you and everyone else were supposed to think.” Rockwell flashed a smile as toothy and sincere as a saltwater crocodile’s.
Danielle shot him a cold look. “What Mr. Rockwell was trying to say, Professor,” she said delicately, “was that the president decided it would be prudent to run the two programs in parallel. Construction on the Bucephalus, as it has been named, restarted the week after your team opened their first hyperspace window. The ship is basically complete and has already undergone stationary trials. All that’s left is the integration of your hyperspace generator.”
Eugene’s head spun. It was all coming apart. His lads were going to be thanked for their hard work and then pushed to the sidelines. “You’ve got this all stitched up nice and neat, hmm, Mrs. Chairwoman?”
“Don’t make this into something personal, Professor,” Danielle said. “We all had jobs to do, and your team did theirs amazingly well, but you knew from the beginning that this was bigger than you, or them, or any of us.”
Danielle put her elbows on the table and folded her hands. “Maybe it’s time to pass the baton. Why don’t you instruct your team to set up a plan to help the Bucephalus crew transition to the new equipment?”
“Yes,” Rockwell interjected. “Our techs and engineers will need to get brought up to speed before launch.”
Eugene realized he was staring at his hands. They’ve never built anything, he thought. I’ve spent my whole life impressing people by being clever, but before this, my only contributions to the world were smarmy grad students. One of whom is trying to take away the miracle my boys and girls have built with their hands.
It was no decision at all.
“No,” Eugene announced to the room at large.
“What do you mean, ‘No’?” demanded Rockwell.
“I would think my meaning was quite clear. No is a simple enough word, Mr. Rockwell. It’s been in common usage for many centuries now. This has, from the very beginning, been an American/European Space Administration project. An AESA ship found and recovered the buoy, an AESA team translated the message, and an AESA team reverse engineered the tech. Now, in the eleventh hour, and after doing all the work, AESA is asked to graciously hand our research over to military-industrial complex thugs. To that, I say, ‘No.’”
Rockwell was about to go supercritical, but the chairwoman put up her hand, interrupting the process. “I assume you have an alternate proposal, Professor?”
Eugene looked at the ceiling and theatrically cracked his knuckles. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Compromise, it has been said, is the fine art of solving problems in such a way that no one gets what they want. It is for this reason Eugene didn’t bother with it.