Space-Borne

by R Fanthorpe, Lionel Fanthorpe, Patricia Fanthorpe

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

It was a proud moment in the earth's history, when twenty-four dedicated volunteers set off, on that bright summer morning in 1993, to conquer the vastnesses of inter-stellar space. They did not hope to accomplish their Herculean task in the meagre span of human life. It was their descendants who would walk out onto the as yet undiscovered, planets of the alien stars... or so they dreamed.
There were dire perils ahead of them. Damage to their engines, radio-activity the invisible killer, space madness and the failure of the life giving hydroponic tanks which supplied their oxygen. Yet the worst enemy of all was the enemy within themselves. The human failure of men and women, locked in the close confines of the Star Ship.
Then there was the Alien Ship... Friend or foe?... Saviour or destroyer?

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

The crowd had to be seen to be believed. There are crowds and crowds, but this was the crowd to end all crowds. Never, perhaps, ever before in the whole of human history had there been such a massive congregation. Such a teeming of humanity, as there was gathered round a wide expanse of concrete and there in the centre, like some strange, steel deity, the object of their semi-idolatrous adulation, stood the ship. It centred their thoughts, as the small sphere of wind and leather, centres the thoughts of the teeming masses at Wembley Cup Finals. As far as the eye could see in every direction, were men, women and children. Their faces eager, upturned. Full of hope, expectancy.

The sun above, gleaming with full yellow and orange fervour, seemed to smile down upon them benevolently. The azure dome, through which Apollo’s winged steeds drew their gleaming chariot, was as innocent of cloud as a babe is innocent of guile.

It had been calculated by statisticians, that the whole population of the world could be packed quite comfortably into a box half a mile square, and that this box could be balanced on the brink of the Grand Canyon, and with one small push from the paw of a lap dog, the entire human race could disappear into oblivion. In a few years nothing but a mound of lush vegetation would mark the place where humanity was laid to rest …

It seemed as if that whole cubic half-mile of homo sapiens was now packing this small corner of their vast globe. And those who could not be there in person, at this stupendous, and historic moment, were glued to the screens of their three-dimensional televiewers, in a world-wide hook-up. The huge sound and vision cameras, accurately recorded and, relayed the scene across hundreds of thousands of miles. In a score of languages, television commentators rattled out the news as the huge mechanical eyes of the apparatus, conveyed to the viewers pictures more poignant than words.

It was a moment of truth; the climax of history, past, present and future seemed gathered and focussed in this one sublime spot. All that was, and all that is, and all that may yet be, seemed of its own volition to have translated itself, and condensed into that gleaming silver ship. Here was hope, here was fear. Here was a mood—a mood that only a great crowd could create. A mood that neither tongue nor pen can recapture. Those watching at home and those standing looking, shared in that mood. Sometimes we drift through life, with a strange ethereal sense of the unreality of things. A sense of unreality which is swept away by the really great, the really stupendous, moments of life.

This transcendental moment had succeeded in destroying the lethargy and the apathy of a civilisation grown soft with good living. It fired the hearts and imaginations of all men and all races, colours and creeds. For the devastating wars of the mid-twentieth century were forgotten, and there was peace between East and West. There was truce between black and white. There was mutual respect, and toleration, between creed and creed, between dogma and dogma. As the immortal Tennyson said, in his vision of “Locksley Hall–, this was the moment when the “war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled, in the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world”: This was a secure people, at peace. This was the united earth, and the year was 1993. The day, June 20th, and the place, a glorious expanse of open field, in the unsoiled beauty of rural France. A field unsoiled, save for the concrete; a countryside broken only by the new arterial roadway that had brought the teeming throngs here for the launching. The European Television Network, switched from its live broadcast of the crowd, and threw its lenses over the unbelievably dauntless heroes, who now lay patiently waiting the moment of take-off in their huge ship. The questing spirit of man was reaching out into the unbelievable immenseness of space. Not the inter-planetary space that had already yielded to his questing fingers, but the undreamed of possibilities of inter-stellar exploration. Man was going to the stars There was no magic and enchantment about the voyage, except the magic and enchantment of human thought, and human mind, and human endeavour. There had been no fantastic and unbelievable discovery. The ship couldn’t approach the speed of light, even remotely; it was going on ordinary atomic-rocket propellant. It was going armed only with the same fuel and the same power as those ships which sped on the now regular voyages of exploration, between the familiar worlds of the friendly solar system. The crew were proving that for the sake of their race, for the sake of that indefinable something they call the Spirit of Man, they were prepared to sacrifice more than life. It has been said, that in a moment of heroic ecstasy, it is not really a hard thing for a man to lay down his life, and though, without or with heroic ecstasy, it is a great and glorious thing; how much harder is it for a man to give, not his life in one swift flash, but sentence himself to imprisonment forever. An imprisonment of his own choosing, an imprisonment from which there can be no possible reprieve. For space is a merciless jailor. There was no turning back for the crew, those carefully selected men and women, who had volunteered for this voyage to eternity, knew that they and their sons, their daughters, their grandchildren, yea and even their great-grandchildren, would spend their lives in that ship …

Man was going out to the stars by the only means he knew. Here was the same courage that had sent Columbus speeding across the wild mysteries of the broad Atlantic swell. The words of a poet resounded from one romantically inclined commentator.

“We are those fools who would not rest in the dull earth we left behind, but longed with passion for the West …” But now it wasn’t the west, for which men longed with passion, it was the stars. They were going further north and south, further east, and further west, than the confines of friendly mother earth. They were going out into God’s own country. They were going out into infinitudes of silence. To voyage for ever between the cold bright stars, which their unborn descendants would one day reach. They were saying good-buy to the earth for ever. The watching millions looked long and earnestly at those faces which would never be seen, in the flesh, on earth again. The drama of that moment was strong, sharp. It was a good-bye, so emotional, that it left no room for tears. It was a farewell, so final and irrevocable, that there was no word in human language to describe it. These adventurers would not leave their bones beneath the cool green seas. Their dust would not moulder beneath green banks of flowers. They would leave not even their basic elements, to be refashioned and refurnished into other life forms, through the ceaseless change of Nature. They were severing all links with the earth, and the people, and the race, that had given them birth. The watching millions sat in silent wonder, and looked at the faces of those who were going for ever. It was a severance far more final than the severance of death. On, and on, and on. Out, and out, and out. Forward for ever, and for ever. And when at last they were old and dying, and their sons took their places, their bodies would be cast into the cold and inhospitable void, to travel at infinite speed for ever. Through the cold, unfriendly everlastingness of space. There were tears close to the surface of many eyes. The throats of millions, who had never known them personally, but had only felt that kinship of common humanity, were dry with foreboding … An unspoken whisper seemed to hover about the crowd. Is it really worth it? That these fine sons and daughters of our race should die, should be sacrificed, in the cause of knowledge and science? Even though they go as willing sacrifices, should it be allowed? But man is man, and progress follows progress, as night follows day. “These things shall be, a loftier race than ere the world has known shall rise, with light of knowledge in their souls, and flame of freedom in their eyes.” If they wished to go, they had the right to go. But had man the right to place within their hands the means of their own destruction. Their own imprisonment. Their own living death in that great silver coffin, which should carry them away for ever, and for ever. Huge clock dials mounted on towers around that tarmac square, ticked away the last seconds of the voyagers stay on earth. A brass band—surely the greatest brass band that had ever congregated, the finest musicians of a dozen nations, met together on a huge rostrum, playing stirring national airs, marches, and powerful historical ballads, and with the sadness of farewell, mixed the emotion of pride. Great pride. The pride of those who went, and the pride of those who remained behind. A recorded voice began a slow, accurate count-down.

“Zero minus ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two … one.” That last second was the longest that any man on earth had ever experienced It was as long as the last long second of the condemned man standing upon the trap door. It was as long, and as terrifying and as time-defying, as the last painful breath on the lips of one who dies …

And then it was over, the electric silence, the dynamic tension ended, in a cataclysmic eruption of power, which seemed all the greater for its majestic and solitary loneliness; the huge silver dart leapt up, probing with its rapier tip; against the blue vaulted curtain of the heavens, and then it was up. Like Wordsworth’s “Skylark” it rose and rose, till it became an invisible sound, receding above the heads of watching humanity. The send-off was over. The adventurers were on their way. The Argosy had sailed: Ulysses and his band were setting off from Troy. There was no turning back. It was a moment of no return. The decision had been made. The button had been pressed. The gun had been fired. The arrow had left the bow, it could not be recalled. It was further from man’s power to bring it back than it was possible to l. . .