One
43 Seconds
James Hayden smiles as his dream dies. It’s the polished, charismatic smile that glossed the feeds of Frontier and Momentum. In the silence, Hayden-Pratt’s logo pulses from the wall behind him. He grips the podium. A room full of tuxedos and gowns stares back.
“It’s gone, James,” a voice in his earbud says. “We lost telemetry forty-three seconds after wave initiation. They’re reviewing imaging now, but the debris field and trajectory are consistent with a cascade implosion. Distance traveled was twelve million kilometers.”
The A speech indexes in his vision. Twelve Minutes to Mars. The timing of it, here at the Industry Innovators awards, would have been perfect. He blinks, changes to the B speech, and considers the first sentence. The audience watches, waiting. He clears his throat.
“A great man once said, ‘Rules are made for people who aren’t willing to make up their own.’ He was one of the nineteen pilots who flew the one hundred and fifty-seven test flights of the Bell X-1 aircraft. The fiftieth flight, in October nineteen forty-seven, is the one everyone remembers.” A murmur of recognition sweeps across the room. “The X-1 had no ejector seat. Each of its pilots was committed, in a single-seat rocket designed to look like a fifty-caliber bullet with wings.”
The voice in James’s ear says, “Okay, Skyway3 just picked up the story, and it’s starting to go viral.”
He can see the Skyway3 news filtering across his audience as haptics signal notifications. Eyes dart to wearables and look back to him.
“As a pilot, Chuck Yeager is a personal hero of mine,” James says. “He represents an age and spirit of unbridled exploration and courage. The Bell X-1 flights paved the way for supersonic flight design, forever changing the way we travel.” He grips the award and the cold bevels of the etched letters bite his fingers. “I’m honored to receive the Aerospace Innovators award on behalf of my team for the development of the Riggs drive. Like the X-1, the test flights for the Riggs vehicle are pioneering a new frontier in travel, and I am humbled to be a part of the team pushing the envelope.” He pauses, seeming to want to say more, but simply smiles and raises the award. “Thank you.”
A short round of applause and the host wraps up the ceremonies. James strides casually back to his table, setting the award behind his plate with a solid thunk.
William Pratt sips a scotch, the ice clinking as he swirls the glass. “That was not the B speech.”
James shrugs. “When in doubt, quote Yeager. Besides, I think better off the cuff.” He sends a private message to William: I’ve just been getting verbal updates from Hitoshi. What’s the latest on the crash?
William’s expecting this. “Let’s get some air.” He sets his napkin on the table as he stands, picks up his drink, and smiles at everyone. “Excuse us.”
The two walk past the bar through a frosted glass door onto the balcony. The distant, rhythmic white noise of the Pacific’s crashing waves greets them. Crimson light fades into an ultramarine skyline with the first stars brightening. A few people sit at tables with flickering oil lamps, chatting and watching the night’s arrival. James and William find a quiet corner and lean against the railing.
“Manifold irregularities at thirty-one seconds, then resonance.” William gestures a tired spiral with his free hand. “Cascade failure, implosion. Same as last time, although the upgraded compensators did keep everything together three more seconds. This is the problem with space. For something that’s filled with nothing, it’s not very uniform.”
James nods. “Hitoshi thinks we need an AI to manage the flux changes. The interferometers aren’t cutting it. We need to go predictive, not reactive.” William quirks his head, but James continues. “Plus, the mass dynamics of the Riggs vehicle are part of the problem. Hitoshi’s working on a Comet for the next run.”
William leans forward and lowers his voice. “We’re fortunate these have all been unmanned flights. You put an AI or pilot in there, and they’ll be a glowing field of wreckage before they know they’re dead.”
James thinks about that for a minute, but says nothing.
William pauses to take a swig of his drink. “All right, consider this. When the US shuttle program collapsed, astronauts went to Soyuz launchers. It was forty-year-old technology, but it was still the most reliable rocket in the world.”
“Your point?”
“Tried and true technology doesn’t kill you. RF and Mach-Lorentz drives can achieve similar speeds without all of the drama.”
“That’s true, except you skipped the part where a one gee acceleration takes a year to get near light speed. The Riggs engine takes nine seconds.”
William points his finger, clinking the ice again in his drink. “Sure, but no one needs to spend a year taking an RF drive near light speed. You can literally fly to the end of the solar system in fifteen days. Riggs could change that from days to minutes, which, sure, is amazing, but really, is it necessary?” He gestures towards twin contrails glowing brilliant rose against the navy sky. “Your supersonic flight story is the perfect example. Commercial supersonic was available since the nineteen seventies. I mean, we’re talking disco-era technology, here. It was pricy, and it folded.” He shrugs. “Daily life worked fine at subsonic speeds. Unless you’re talking military, that is.”
James sighs. “Yeah, well, I think we’ve beat that horse to death.”
“Yup. There you have it.”
James laces his fingers and leans his elbows against the railing. “You know, this is all about getting people interstellar. Everyone’s imagination is fired up from those Proxima images. Timing’s right.”
“How many interstellar drives do you think we’re really going to sell, considering the premium? It doesn’t even get you that much. Six years to Proxima with RF, four years with Riggs. Everything crashes into the light-speed limit.”
James’s expression brightens. “But time dilation tips that scale. The RF crew experiences four years, but only eight months for Riggs. And that’s with current design. Tack on more nines after the decimal point, and months become days.”
William considers the point. “I’ll give you that one. But for now, forty-three seconds is the best we can do. The power costs alone are prohibitive.” He clasps James on the shoulder. “Look, the award is great recognition, and I won’t complain about the PR, but there’s a lot more baking to do. We can’t endlessly implode ten-billion-dollar test vehicles.”
James glances at William’s hand, and William withdraws it, shifting back to his scotch. James knew the inevitable conclusion of this debate before it started. Still, he pauses a long second and sends a private message: You’re not going to side with me on Monday’s board vote, are you? You’re going to mothball the Riggs drive.
William tilts his watch and responds: Sorry, James. I’m sure you knew this was the last swing at the ball. On to brighter projects.
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