Shall stand revealed
        In all its radiant glory.
        Those secrets held
        Shall be unveiled
   And thereby hangs this story...

5:25 PM, June 12th

   "Tom-Tom, is that your girlfriend?"
    "Yes Samantha, that's Miranda. Dr. Fanshaw."
    "She looks just like-"
    "They're cousins. Distant cousins."
    "Yeah, her cousin's got bigger hooters. Not that Miranda ain't half got some nice ones, herself. Not very big strings on that string bikini, there. Hell, the tags have got more material in 'em than the suit does. Not that she needs covering up, I say. I always knew Doctor Miranda was built, but she's popping out all over, here.Yum..."
    "Abby! Stop drooling over Tom-Tom's photos. I swear, you'd jump anything in a dress."
    "You complaining, Sam? What say we get you one of those swimsuits? I'll show you how fast I can jump."
    "Not to interrupt the entertainment, but why don't you two go get a room somewhere? I'd like to finish this message to Miranda- without distractions."
    "Samantha, he called us distractions."
    "Abigail, you are a distraction. You have the manners of a truck driver-"
    "I am a truck driver-"
    "Don't interrupt-"
    "Yes dear-"
    "Now get your hand off my butt and let's go get some dinner. I'm starving, and Tom-Tom wants to write a love letter. Let's give him some time alone."
    "Sam-"
    "Can it, Abby. I know you're bored. We all are. Everybody is. We can bother Tom-Tom later. Give the man a break. He's in love and his sweet-thing's a long, long way from here. Let's go eat something and give him time to write to his sweetie. We can come back after dinner and Tom-Tom can play Doctor with you. And I'll hand out warm towels afterward..."
    "Sam!"
    "Sorry Tom-Tom, but I'm bored too. You won't blame a girl for daydreaming up a few harmless amusements, will you?"
    "You two are the most exasperating women that I've never had- Er... ever known."
    "Oh-ho! Guess who needs a conjugal visit? Or are you still getting the heebie-jeebies from being inside all these cramped spaces?"
    "Abby! You are the rudest, crudest, meanest-"
    "Sam, Tom knows I'm only joking. Out here, we're almost equals... I'm fighting off my panic attacks and Tom's fighting off his claustrophobia. We need to joke about it, just to blow off steam! Sheesh!You are getting cranky."
    "Take her off, feed her, soak her in a Hot Tub, and give her a back rub. Then give her desert. That's what I prescribe. Trust me, I'm a doctor, I know what I'm doing. Now go! Lemme alone so I can write this letter!"
    "OK, we're gone! Bye!"
    "Good evening..."
    "What are you going to do, e-mail her and ask permission?" Tom thought he heard as the two women walked off down the hallway towards the commissary and their voices gradually faded.
    "Watch me, babe," Sam said playfully. "You just don't know... Damn. My arms are sore from yanking that boat around all day."
    “And that’s all you’ve been yanking, right?” Abby joked back.  "Seriously, sounds like you need to have the hydraulics in the steering yoke checked out. That stuff ain't all fly-by-wire, you know. Maybe you've got a leak. Or maybe the mechanics haven't topped off the fluid tank."
    "I'll get it checked into, Abby."
    "You do that, Sam. Can't be too careful out here. Better to get all the bugs worked out while we're still doing simulations. Once we reach the comet it'll be too late to yell for repairs. Might be the pump, too... Damn, your butt looks fine in those coveralls."
    "Abby, sometimes you make me feel like a Chinese take-out dinner tray."
    "Oh? How so, Samantha-mine?
    Samantha grinned and shook her head.  "You're horny again- You heifer! You are positively worse than any man!"
    "I'll work on it, Babe. I'll work on it."  The two of them started around a corner.
    "You ever noticed how air at this pressure feels squishy?" Samantha asked as she smacked her lips.  Abby looked at her hard, and Sam reached over and pushed her into the wall.  "I heard you think that, you letch!"
    They turned the corner, and their voices faded into silence. Tom looked around at the light blue walls of his stateroom, glanced at the big Miles Davis poster and the few photos of Miranda that he'd thumbtacked to the walls, and then sighed as if in relief at the peace and quiet that he knew in his heart to be only temporary. After cuing up some quiet jazz music on the room's sound system, he sighed again and finally began his letter.



    "Tom-Tom," came Samantha's voice from the doorway. "We brought you a tray from the mess hall. I hope you like roast beef, potatoes, and gravy..."
    "Sam, thank you. But you shouldn't have. I could go to the mess hall-"
    "Shush Doc," Abigail said. "I promised Dr. Fanshaw that I'd make sure you ate right. Did you get your little love letter finished and sent off?"
    "Yes, I got my message off to Miranda. I was in time for the evening beamcast to Earth. And Abby, you three are ganging up on me. That isn't fair."
    "That's right, Doc. Sit back and enjoy the ride."
    Tom sniffed at the scent wafting from underneath the tray's cover, and his eyes suddenly widened. "Do I smell Brussels Sprouts? In wine vinegar?"
    "Well, several steamed vegetables actually. But yes, Miri said you loved Brussels Sprouts in a vinegarette dressing, so we looked for them especially."
    "Ladies," Tom said as he rubbed at his eyes, "I don't know how I'd get by out here without your mothering."
    "Hey! No call to talk dirty, Doc!" Abby giggled. "We're just doing you up right for a friend. That's all."
    "Sure thing, Abby. Thank you for the food. You too, Sam. I'm sure you both argued over every spoonful," Tom laughed. "So she wants me back twenty pounds overweight... I think that's a good sign."
    Abby nudged Samantha in the ribs, and they winked at each other conspiratorially as Tom opened the various covers on the meal tray and began to dig in.





11:25 AM, June 20th

    "I'm glad to see that you're less irate than your last visit, Litchfield," Ian Callow said smoothly as Simon was ushered into Callow's office by a seemingly petrified Caroline Summerset, Callow's long-suffering secretary. Simon essayed a smile at her, but she bolted from the room as if she'd been confronted with Jack the Ripper- knife in hand.
    "You sent for me?" Simon's voice could put a extra layer of frost on an iceberg.
    "Yes, please sit," Callow requested in a reasonable tone. "This could take some time."
    "If this is about this last mission," Simon began as he slid into the proffered chair. "Stephanie and I have finally got a good handle on it. If events pan out, we should have everything wrapped up within a week- week and a half, at the most."
    "I've been reading the updates," Callow replied smoothly. "I know where you are. For what it's worth, I'm impressed."
    Simon stonily gazed at Callow in much the same manner a scientist would look through a microscope at some disease virus. Moments later, he spoke quietly, but without a trace of friendliness. "This isn't about our current mission," Simon said- speculating, but without a doubt in the world.
    "You're growing more perceptive as you age, Doctor. No, this isn't about your current mission." Callow sighed deeply, pinched the bridge of his nose, and continued on in a tired voice. "Nineteen and a half hours ago... I got a report from the expedition. One of the carrier ships had another blowout yesterday. Explosive decompression. Nine more deaths."
    "Tom?" Simon said painfully.
    "I don't know," Callow answered. "The report I got had most of the details security blacked, and was very brief as well. I asked for the pertinent details as soon as I read the report, but there's a minimum of a twelve hour turn-around time on news to and from the fleet. In this case... Six hours to me with the original news, six back with my questions, and six more hours to wait out the reply from the fleet again. I expect further details at any moment. I knew that you'd want to be here when the message came. So I sent for you at the earliest time the reply could come back. If you can keep from trashing my office, I think I could even get my secretary to bring us a pot of coffee while we wait."
    "I do need to apologize to her. I've felt like a heel for frightening her."
    "As well you should," Callow said firmly. "I can excuse your shouting at myself, and even a bit of breakage about the office. I don't give a tinker's damn what you think about me, or how you feel. But if you wind up costing me the best secretary I've been able to find in thirty-plus years of Washington politics-"
    "Yes?" Simon asked cautiously.
    "I will, personally, neuter you with a dull knife, without benefit of anesthetics. Do you understand?" Callow's voice was cold, calm, and somehow lacking in his usual sarcasm.
    "Ian," Simon almost grinned. "Be careful. A stranger would think that you actually cared about Ms. Summerset's welfare and mental health. Is it because of her age? Reminds you of someone, perhaps?"
    "I care about the fact that she is the best secretary on the East coast," Callow quietly hissed through clenched teeth- as if he were in pain. "I'm asking you- politely -to keep any vendetta that you may, justifiably or not, have with me- out of earshot of my secretary!"
    Simon sat back and blinked at least three times while his mind attempted to fit this new data into what he already knew about Callow. Or thought he knew. Within five seconds, his attention was fully occupied by Callow and looking for signs that he'd been replaced by a pod-person. It took all of Simon's willpower not to blurt out "who are you, what have you done with Ian Callow, and how can I make sure you never bring him back?"
    "You really care what she thinks?" Simon finally asked.
    "I care that it would take me years to find anyone else as good at her job as she is. She's good at what she does..."
    "Stop right there, Callow. If you've picked today to become a human being, I want out before I gag."
    "Shut up, Litchfield," Callow said tiredly. "I told you why I wanted you here. Your friend may be dead. I wanted you to hear the news as soon as I did. Perverse as it seems, I owe you that."
    "I'm stunned, Callow. Why should you feel you owe me that? Why should you owe me anything?"
    Any answer Callow might have wanted to make was interrupted by a buzz from his desk intercom.
    "Yes?" Callow answered.
    "Mr Callow, there is a messenger here to see you."
    "Send them in."
    "Yes, sir." There was a loud click as Ms. Summerset shut off her end of the intercom. Seconds later, there was a quiet double-tap at the door. The messenger entered without waiting to be asked, strode militarily up to Callow's desk, shoved a clipboard under his nose, and demanded "signature..."
    As soon as Callow signed the form, the messenger handed over a manila envelope, spun on his heels, and left the room as if anything inside it was already a fading memory. Callow wasted no time, slitting the envelope open with an ivory-hilted switchblade knife that he habitually kept in a desk drawer. Wordlessly, he shook the papers out of the envelope and scanned the first few pages intently. Within seconds, he sighed as if in relief, and passed the papers to Simon. "He's alright," Callow said.
    Simon quickly read the report, skimming over the blacked-over text that security had decreed.
    "One of the docking areas," he summarized aloud, "near the outside of the carrier Marduk suffered explosive decompression- the entire maintenance crew for one tug was killed. It says here that 'slight' damage caused by a bad docking by the tug pilot the day before 'might' have weakened the hatch seals on that chamber. Nine dead. This is the second explosive decompression on the Marduk. And that this makes thirty two deaths for the expedition so far. Tom never mentioned any deaths in his letters."
    "Two from the carrier Yorimasa, and four from the Saint George- from accidents on spacewalks, and the rest on the Marduk from the two blowouts. Weldon is on the George. The first report of this new accident didn't name the ships or any other details. I had to assume the worst," Callow said. "I'm sorry I got you excited. At least now you know that he's all right."
    "Callow?"
    "Yes, Litchfield?
    "I'm not buying it. You're up to something."
    "Am I?"
    "I'm certain of it," Simon replied.
    "You're wrong," Callow replied evenly. "Please offer your apologies to Ms. Summerset on your way out."
    "I'm dismissed?" Simon asked, beginning to get angry again.
    "You have work to do," Callow said flatly. "I know I don't have to remind you."
    "Callow-"
    "Save it. You have your good news. Go tell Stephanie."
    "Callow?"
    "No. Just go. Now."
    Without another word, Simon rose from his chair and left Callow's inner office. He took nearly fifteen minutes to apologize to Ms. Summerset for his rabid actions the last time he had visited Callow's office. Finally, his conscience sporting a brand new band-aid, he left to carry the mixed news to Stephanie Keel. Tom was alive, but people he had been working with had died. Suddenly, tragically, senselessly. But the work went on, as it had to keep going on. The sky must not be allowed to fall.




9:25 AM, August 11th

    The next few weeks passed by in a blur of mind-numbing drills and endless work.

    "All Hands, prepare for scheduled deceleration. Repeat, all hands are to prepare for the scheduled deceleration for Cthulu Rendezvous..." the message blared out of the PA speakers on every ship in the fleet.
    "Is Sister Ray locked down?" Tom asked- thinking of the stubby, four-winged arrowhead that he'd come to know intimately from his training.
    "I inspected her twice- yesterday and today," Abby replied after a moment's pause as they jogged down the corridors of the Saint George. "Capt'n Darlene by my side the whole time. Everything is tied down and secured. For any stress short of getting hit by a stray asteroid, anyway. Relax, Doctor Tom. Nobody's gonna fuck up. We've been practicing too damn hard for that. The whole damn fleet's been doing drills for the last motherfuckin' month. Working my fat ass to the bone, I tell ya..."
    "Baby, please don't cuss."
    "Sam, I grew up on a fishing boat. With real, live sailors, you know?"  Abby rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.  "All that time in the Air Force didn't help me towards sainthood any, either. And now I drive trucks... Well, before we left, anyways."
    "Abby- Baby... I'm just saying you've been cussing a lot more since this trip started. I wish you'd go back to being you."
    "Sorry," Abby said as the vibrations in the ship increased.  "I'll try to keep a lid on it, for you."
    "How do you feel Abby?" Tom asked as he scanned the welds in the passageway module.  "We're going to have to take our ship out on a mapping mission tomorrow. Sam and I are going to be depending on you."
    "I know, Doc. My guts feel like month-old spaghetti-"
    "Ooo, very poetic," Sam whispered.  The three of them had to hold on to the walls as the Saint George shuttered. 
    "Pipe down, Sam."
    "Yes, Tom-Tom."  Sam looked around with barely disguised concern.  "This old girl...young girl...doesn't like these maneuvers, does she."  Tom looked at Abby with a mixture of professionalism and compassion.
    "It's all right to be scared, Abby. But you know that you can do this."
    "Damn straight, Doc," Abby said with as much conviction as she could muster.  "I can do it. I was born to fly, and this will be the best friggin' flyin' that there's ever been!"
    "I'm looking forward to it myself," Samantha said. "I'll be flying Captain Best's Sweet Jane in a different formation, but I'll be able to see your ship. And we'll all be on the Com. Tom-Tom will be right behind you, and Captain Simmons knows he's your doctor."
    "Yes," Tom added. "Darlene's damn glad to have you as pilot, Abby. And for what its worth, I trust you."
    "Coming from you Doc," Abby said. "I'll take that as a compliment."
    "Come on you two," Samantha said. "We've only got a few minutes to get to our stations and strap in."

    The Flight Crew's acceleration stations on each carrier consisted of a long chamber near the outer rim of the ship's rotating section- where that section was spun on the ship's long axis in order to imitate gravity for the crew . There were six of these chambers, placed equally distant about the rim of the huge drum that was each carrier ship's Spin Section. It was the same as on both of the other carrier ships -a long room with rows of gimbaled cots lining the two longest walls. Hundreds of flight teams were either already strapped in, or getting into their assigned cots- all over the fleet. Getting into the acceleration couches on the flight team deck was just about like getting into a tiny sports car. One pretty much has to squat next to the thing, put one's butt in the seat, pull one's knees up to one's chin, and swivel sideways on one's butt cheeks to assume the right position to stretch back out and strap in against the inertial forces. That was the way they were taught, and that was the way they did it as the three ran up to their assigned stations at the last possible moment.
    "All ships, all ships-" once again came Admiral Herndon's voice over the PA. "Deceleration for Cthulu Rendezvous in progress. All crew spin sections will reduce speed to one sixteenth gravity.  All sections stand by for inertial effects.  Fire retros on schedule. Repeat, all ships fire retros on schedule."
    "It's a little late to think of this now," Tom said as he braced himself, "but did we pack up everything in this section? 
    "Earth-Shield Fleet is go for orbital matching. Final deceleration thrust in five, four, three, two, one, fire retros!" No sooner than had Tom, Abby, and Samantha gotten themselves strapped tightly into their assigned cots- did the alarm go off and the big ship's first lurch of deceleration came.  Almost immediately, bits of accumulated refuse slammed from one side of the room to another, making a sound like popcorn on the bulkhead. The Saint George was slowing his charge, preparing to meet the great dragon, Cthulu.
    The Marduk, and the Yorimasa were slowing as well, as the whole fleet swung into a carefully plotted set of co-orbits with the Cthulu Object. Trailing close behind, the six great weapons also decelerated into their intended individual orbits near the comet. The Excalibur, Orcrist, Kusanagi, Mjölnir, Sakti, and the Wardenclife floated into position moments later. A celestial ballet of immense, barely practiced complexity had just been flawlessly performed by nine highly skilled pilots, and more than one pilot marveled at the miracle of it all.
    The easy part was over.  The real work was just beginning.

6:42 AM, August 29th

    As Simon paused to buy a morning paper at a news stand he'd passed on an earlier walk that week, a small-town paper in the same rack boasted a headline that caught his attention. As soon as he had scanned down the first section, he stopped reading as if he'd been hit by a brick.
    "Damn," he said. "It's just as Callow predicted."
    "Sir?"
    "Oh, sorry,” Simon said quickly as he reached for his wallet.  “Got distracted. These two, please."
    "Sure thing. That'll be two seventy eight."
    "Thank you. Keep the change."
    "From a fiver? Thanks, Pal. Have a good one."
    Simon nodded politely, but absent-mindedly, and left with his two newspapers. Later on at home, he read the article in the small-town paper several times through.

    "The two policemen and the fireman, who were injured while attempting to restrain Mr. Darby from entering the burning building, will be released from the ICU with a clean bill of health later today." At 77, he took down two cops and a fireman, then kicked down a door? And managed to save the child, too? Old Man, at least you went out with style. Or did you? Was Callow right? Simon thought. Is this just a change of identity, or is Darby really dead?


8:12 AM, August 29th

    Simon answered the knock at his front door to find a small, slender man in thick-lensed horn-rimed glasses, holding an ornate wooden box under one arm. The man was a complete nebbish- so totally unmemorable that he could pass for invisible.
   "Doctor Simon Litchfield?" the man asked. "Hello, my name is Maxwell. I’m a partner in the law firm of Grey, Maxwell, and Thornby. I'm here on a matter of a bequest to you from Tom Darby's estate. He left you a little something in his will."
    "Do come in,” Simon said as he let the man into his Georgetown townhouse.  “I just read his obituary this morning. I gather that the funeral is tomorrow?"
    "Yes,” Maxwell said as he looked around the place, “his family stipulated that there be no guests at the funeral proper. All mourners outside the immediate family are to be directed to the memorial service in the town where he died, instead.  You, however, are a special case. Because of your…rather unique circumstances of meeting Mr. Darby, he felt it necessary to place a clause in his will forbidding us from contacting you until this moment."
     "I see," Simon said. "I think... Please, do sit down."
    "Thank you. Most kind," Maxwell said as he sat on Simon's couch. The springs creaked alarmingly for a moment, then became quiet just as suddenly. "Yes-" the small, dapperly dressed man continued. "He wished to protect your own- hobbies, those that coincided with his. And he wrote that he fully understands if you are unable to attend the memorial service. But as a token of his respect, he left you this." Maxwell handed the small box to Simon. It was about the same size as a box of cigars, but the ornate carving on the deeply polished red wood promised contents far more valuable than mere tobacco.
    "One of those insanely accurate target pistols he carried?" Simon asked after he'd opened up the hand-carved red oak presentation box. The contents gleamed up at Simon with the patina of beauty that all well-crafted machines share. Memories of Tom Darby came flooding back to Simon in that instant.
    "Indeed. A Colt .45 1991-A1, fine-tuned as far as the best pistol smiths can make it. We believe that the other one, the 1911-A1 that he normally carried, was lost in the fire that claimed his life. Among his effects was listed an empty holster and ammunition for a .45 auto. He wanted you to have this one, to remember him by. He wrote that we were to tell you that this is the very same one that he handed to you on the island. Rather cryptic, but I assume you understand his reference. He had the presentation box specially made for you.  And there is one other thing..."
    "Yes? What? Excuse me, I was lost in thought. You were saying?"
    "In a private garage," Maxwell said as he leaned closer to Simon across the coffee table, pulled a plastic card out of his jacket pocket, and lowered his voice. "At the address on this key-card, you will find an exotic sports car- of a type with which I think you are already familiar -that will be stored for your future use. Simply call the number on that card and leave a message that you will be needing the car. Within an hour, it will be ready for you to pick up."
    "Unusual arrangements," Simon said as he took the plastic card from the lawyer. "I assume that the car has only three wheels... Some sort of leasing contract? Will I have to pay a membership fee?"
    "No, not at all," Maxwell replied in the same secretive voice. "The car will be titled, registered, and insured to the garage. Its an old fire station that he and some friends of his bought together. They converted it into an auto shop as a sort of hobby. Mr. Darby instructed us to sell off some tracts of land from his estate and establish a trust fund for the staff of that garage. He had inherited the land from his grandfather, and held on to it for many years as an investment. All the bills and the staff will be paid out of the trust fund. There's enough to keep them comfortable from now through their retirement years. Your occasional use of the car will give them something to do. They helped him build the car, you see. And they helped to keep it in repair after some of his- business trips in it."
    "I'm beginning to understand," Simon said slowly. "These are people he trusted, is that what you're telling me?"
    "Exactly, Doctor. People he worked with. People he could count on in any sort of- emergency, so to speak. Oh, one last thing, Doctor. Whenever you find yourself inside the garage, remember your Bluebeard and don't try to open any locked doors."
    "I see,” Simon spoke, slowly moving into the tone of voice normally reserved for Callow.  “Everything has become-- most clear, Mr. Maxwell."
    "Then I thank you for your time, Dr. Litchfield," Maxwell said, rising from the couch. "Please don't get up. I'll let myself out. Oh, if you ever find yourself in need of legal representation, please don't hesitate to call our offices. We specialize in the unique needs of people in- Mr. Darby's line of work, for instance. Good day."

     Good Lord, Darby! What have you gotten me into? If that little bugger was a lawyer, I'll eat my hat. Thank you for the gifts- but what the hell else have you gifted me with? Contacts into the organization that you really worked for?A bolt-hole to run to if some Nightwatch caper goes awry? Five will get you twenty that these "mechanics" are a lot more than just a bunch of good ol' boys that Darby grew up with. And that offer of legal aid- What are they going to do? Come bail me out of some Turkish prison? No- No... I've just been contacted by Darby's real employers. And they think he told me enough about them... What? To be dangerous to them? Surely not. To become an ally of some kind? Is it possible that they're trying to recruit me? Simon laughed aloud. Or is this about Nightbird Five? Darby warned me not to trust the people who built it for him. Of course, he'd lost a lot of blood by then... Damnation! Darby, this is a pretty puzzle you've presented me with. I wonder if the car is real, or if calling to pick up the car is just the password? Password to what? Tom, what have you done? Who were you, really? Simon sat back down, placed the target pistol on his coffee table, next to the red velvet-lined box, and stared at the key-card, remembering the time he spent with Tom Darby. The afternoon sunlight slowly faded to evening gloom as Simon sat, lost in thought.
   

7:12 AM, September 9th

    "Man, that thing is big!" Mission Specialist Charlie Helden exclaimed.
    "Cut the chatter, Red Two," replied Captain Simmons absently as she read through a checklist.
    "Huh?" Charlie said as he tore his attention away from his workstation's view screen.
    "Sorry, Charlie. Mark it down to pre-launch jitters."
    "OK Cap."
    "This is Fleet Control, Scouts One through Five are go for launch. Scouts Six through Ten are directed to stand by at Pre-launch Alert. Scouts Eleven through Fifteen are directed to finalize launch preparations..."
    "Holy shit. We're actually going to do this!" Paul Chung said, excitement plain in his voice.     "She handles better without the net module," Abby said aloud after a few minutes of silent flying. "The mapping module is way lighter. She's a lot more maneuverable without the extra weight. Way faster, too. Handles more like a speedboat than a tugboat, now..."
    Tom nodded as if in agreement, then glanced around the flight deck of the small ship. I ought to be feeling more cramped than I do in here. But the elbow room is more than ample. I think having the control stations mounted radially and taking advantage of the zero-g environment really adds to the illusion of extra headroom and legroom. Even the Safety Yellow paint job on the outside makes sense. Now, if I could just get used to seeing people hanging upside-down, and sideways... Tom shook his head, breathed three quick breaths, and  took his attention back to his own instrument console.  All of the details he was noting proved to him that the distraction techniques he was practicing were still working. Back to work before I start thinking about what’s on the other side of these walls...
    "That was the idea behind making these things modular," Captain Darlene said. "So we can use this sports car version as Recon fliers, like now. Abby, take us down a little further."
    "Some sports car,” Abby laughed.  “Yes Ma'am, taking us down."
    "Then just hook up the other service modules," Darlene continued as Abby snaked the winged wedge shape of the little ship closer to the comet's surface. "And use 'em for workhorses when we start cleaning up our mess."  Simmons laughed quietly as she thought of just how recently she'd seen the plan for what was supposed to be the vacuum chamber test article for the prototype for this whole class of ship.  "Altitude? Dust count?"
    "Eleven kilometers from the comet's surface," Mickey said.
    "Dust at one part per five CCs," Tom answered smoothly. The extra hours he had spent training on his duty station were now paying off.
    "Take us down to six kilometers, Abby."
    "Yes, Ma'am."


    "Damn, you can see the notch where Tesla chopped the Tunguska fragment off."
    "Follow the curve of the surface there," Simmons said.  "Let's get a good look at Tesla's marksmanship."
    "I'm on it, Capt'n Darlene."
    "Ho-ly shit," Paul slowly intoned as the little yellow ship rounded the comet's surface. "He nailed it! Look at the way that's been melted."
    "Tell me that that Mother couldn't shoot," Charlie said reverently. "Just try. I'll call you a liar to your face. From the ground, he damn near cut the thing in half. And that was with a tower the size of a lighthouse?"
    "Only a mad-man would dream he had a chance of stopping this bugger with a single weapon," Darlene said, thinking out loud. "God bless 'im. The fool saved our lives once already. Now his Zap-gun is going to save us again. That settles it. When we get back I'm writing the Pope and submitting Tesla for sainthood."
    "Agreed," Tom said. "Though I don't know if Tesla was Catholic."
    "Doesn't matter," Angelina contributed absently as she ran her duty station console through another diagnostic check. "Neither was Jesus..."
    "What she said," Abby added, grinning.
    "All right," Darlene said. "We've obviously found the best spot for the big gun to start digging first. Now, let's see where the other target areas ought to be. Weldon, what's the dust count, this close in?"
    "Two per CC," Tom replied after a moment's study of the readouts on his duty console. "A little thicker than normal," Hah!, whatever normal is, "but we are orbiting a comet. From what I've studied, this isn't anything to endanger the ship. But bigger rocks have to be expected to be out there. If we hit something the size of a baseball at this speed, we'll all be grateful for those endless hours of spacesuit drill."
    "Good," Darlene said. "Abby, take us closer. I want to get down to two kilometers. But be prepared to pull up if Weldon's dust count climbs into the danger zone. Charlie, Angelina- Now is your time to shine, kids. Gimme some good numbers from your scans. Start scanning as soon as we get below three kilometers. We need fault lines and fractures, people. This bugger has to be split like a diamond. Paul, back-up Mickey on the radar. You're behind on your cross-training hours. I'm not going to stand for that, Mister. I will not have slackers in my crew."
    "Yes Ma'am!"
    "I'll see you in my office after we dock back on the George, Mister Chung. For now, we've got a job to do. Did I say something funny, Abby?"
    "No Ma'am, Cap. You just sounded like my Daddy there for a second. Made me sort of homesick."
    "I see. Your Dad was a good Captain?"
    "He didn't take any shit off anyone, and he didn't tolerate laziness, Ma'am. And he always brought everyone home. You two are alike in that. In my book, that's a good Captain."
    "Thank you, Abby."
    "Of course, you don't have that nasty beard like Daddy did-"
    "Thank you, Abby."
    "And you-"
    "Large rock," Paul interrupted. "Dead ahead, three hundred meters!"
    "I'm on it," Abby said. "Diverting two degrees below the rock... I've driven trucks smaller than that thing. How'd we miss it on visual?"
    "Dust count at four per CC," Tom added.
    "Good work on the radar, Paul."
    "Thanks, Cap."
    "Got a natural fault line," Angelina sang out with glee, only moments later.
    "I've got a huge vent..." Charlie answered. "Looks like the perfect place to plant some charges. Or to start carving... There are small fractures running out from it everywhere..."
    "Got it marked Charlie," said Mickey. "Yours too, Angelina. Looks like there's a good place to land nearby if they want to use thermite there instead of the cutter."
   

**********
Year Two, October:
The Events of:

8:02 PM, October 2nd

    "We've spent a month drilling out holes for thermite charges and rocket mountings, Charlie. Not to mention all those damn anchor rods for the sails... Its about time we showed some progress. When do we attach the sails and start firing up the lasers?"
    "Day after tomorrow," Captain Charlie Gibson replied- a brief smile creasing his tired, care-worn features. "If everything goes well. I hear the Admiral is planning a fancy party to celebrate, come Saturday night."
    "Oh yeah? Celebrate what? The work just getting started?" Former granite-mining engineer Greg Lazar tiredly looked up from his dinner tray at his friend Charlie, while brushing his raven-black hair out of his face. For an instant, Greg's warm brown eyes peeked out unimpeded, until at last, his unruly hair fell back over his forehead as if it had a mind of it's own. "We've still got to hook up all two hundred fifty of those Solar and Mag-Lev sails and ships to all those bloody-damned anchor rods. And we've still got over seven hundred rockets left to mount, not to mention five thousand thermite pots to seat... The work's not even half started... Then there's those damn targets for the Hephaestus laser platforms to do their blasting and fine navigation corrections... ""
    "Yeah," Charlie said, "but we've been working our butts off. We've got a hell of a lot done. Old Man Herndon thinks we need to blow off a little steam.Celebrate getting the first rockets mounted, and the first sails anchored."
    "Well, here's to the Admiral then," Greg replied as he raised his glass in a toast, then downed the wine in a few brief gulps. The rest of the crews at the nearby tables in the mess hall of the Saint George followed suit as the word got passed along. The Mess Hall's Wait-Staff was going to be busy for the next half hour, at least.
    "Yeeehaw! Its party time!" one said excitedly.
    "As you were, Smithers. Don't get carried away," Charlie snapped at his youngest crewman. Tom grinned at Abby and Sam at the young recruit's embarrassment.
    "Yes sir."
    "Just remember, Country Line Dancing doesn't work in zero-g."
    "But sir? What if we wear Velcro shoes?"
    "Smithers!"
    "Shutting up, sir..." said the young man with the ginger hair and glasses as he shyly returned his attention to his dinner tray. Even from two tables up, Tom Weldon could feel the heat from the young man's embarrassed blush. Too many military and ex-military types around here, he thought. They're so damned tight-assed it's hilarious!

    Tom laughed as he returned his attention to the steak and salad on the plastic tray in front of him- the nearby conversations in the mess hall returning to their normal muted volume. The mess hall's bland, neutral gray walls contrasted sharply with the smells of the foods. Smell better if we weren't in space, he thought. Physiologists still haven't figured that effect out.  There were a few large pictures and paintings adorning the walls, and several large intercom view-screens offered the diners the option of watching various entertainment programming picked up from Earth's communications networks- with a six or seven hour long light-speed delay because of the distance back to Earth. No such thing as an Instant Message out here, Tom thought to himself as he ate. Abby seemed glued to one nearby screen that was showing re-runs of the BBC's latest incarnation of their Doctor Who program. Samantha seemed to take this as normal. Conversation between the two women didn't seemed strained or forced, Tom noticed. So he concluded that there wasn't an argument going on- but that Abby's zombie-like fandom of the TV show was something that Sam had long ago learned to cope with, even if she didn't seem to share it. Samantha was watching another screen which seemed to be showing the new revival of Dark Shadows. That Elijah Wood kid makes a damn good Willy Loomis, Tom had to admit to himself as he carved another bite of his dinner. The warm-blood scent of lightly broiled beef tantalized his nose as the smell finally came close enough to register and as the light-weight ceramic knife from the mess hall's flatware cut through Tom's porterhouse steak- as if the knife were a laser-scalpel. The delicately cooked meat seemed to melt in his mouth- even as at the next bite, the riot of tastes from his salad also finally flooded his senses. The Blue Cheese is aged to perfection,  he thought to himself as he listened to his table mates talking among themselves. And the steak is perfect. Maybe you get that sense of taste back after being out here long enough. But- how the hell are we keeping these veggies fresh for our salads? We're months away from Earth... These greens don't taste frozen... This broccoli just has to be fresh. Are we growing lettuce and tomatoes, and bell peppers and whatnot, in some kinda hydroponics section? Here on the ship? That would be really neat to see. I'll have to ask around, next time I'm off duty. Hmmm, mushrooms! These can't be more than two days old... I don't care where this stuff is coming from, this is the best food I've had in years. There are restaurants who are gonna pale by comparison, when I get back home. I'm going to have to start a file on these cooks and keep track of them after we go home. This is wonderful... Um mm... Great steak... Umm... Tom enjoyed his meal as he made small talk with his friends and glanced from screen to screen at the different TV shows. Who'd of thought that Adam Ant- of all people -would totally nail the part of Barnabas Collins so damn well? It's like he was made for this one role. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Hmm? What's that on the NASCAR channel over there? Hayden Dale just blew by Nick Sampson in that last lap- He took the win! Abby owes me a fiver- She hates Hayden Dale... I wonder if there is some of that blueberry cheesecake left from last night's dessert?

    "Frag One, Mag-Sail Two- Fully deployed."
    "Frag One, Lasersats One through Ten report anchored and all tethers test in the green."
    "Frag One, Boosters One through Fourteen report embedded and ready. Boosters Fifteen through Thirty report work proceeding on schedule."
    "Mission control confirms Frag One report. Frag Two Teams, report now..."
    And the work went on...


   Quote from official United Nations Press Release #5529-37125:


    "The view here, from the 0-G command deck of the UNSS Yorimasa, through the ship's huge main view port, is incredible. The open wire loops and connecting lines of the Mag-Sails have been painted a reflective white to aid other craft to avoid them. They look like huge cowboy lassos, but with six ropes attached instead of just one. The electro-magnetic fields that these seemingly empty wire loops use instead of Earthly winds, are made of charged particles, ions, sprayed out from our Sun as what is normally called the 'solar wind.' The Mag-Sails will use this ionic breeze from the sun to apply braking thrust to Comet Cthulu. And later, to fly the comet's shattered fragments into new and useful orbits. Or off on long exploration flights to distant parts of our solar system.
    The butterfly wing-thin material of the other type of sail-craft that the expedition will use; the hexagonal, Fresnel lens-shape of the Light-Sails designed by the late Robert Forward, are casting spotlight beams of reflected sunlight back into the night and on to the "Popeyes". Those "Popeyes" are the antique space capsules of Earth's Golden Age of Spaceflight. They make up the bulk of the control and lifesystems for the fleet of sail-craft for the expedition. Each has been fitted with a special docking collar that mates to a generic sail-control module. Whether Mag sail or Light sail, these refitted antique ships will once again be serving new duties in the void that they were designed for, so long ago.
    Formations of these smaller-sailed ships have already anchored themselves to Comet Cthulu. Fastened to hastily assembled docking frameworks- attached to long mooring lines anchored deeply into the comet. These are set far between the much larger sails that are attached directly to special anchors set extra-deeply into the comet's surface. These much larger sails, of both kinds, are controlled directly from locations dug into the rock, itself. After the comet is split into more manageable chunks, these former space capsules and jet planes will become an independent fleet of service vessels for the different fragments. The fragments themselves will be flown by pilots in the 'dug-in' control rooms. But for now, the smaller, independent sail-ships have a more important job.  Every part of this training mission fits together like puzzle pieces.
    Every moment that these different sails reflect sunlight and ionized solar wind particles back the way they come, increases the chances of Earth's safety. As each sail takes up it's assigned position, the path of the comet is subtly changed more and more. The mission's imaginary danger is not over, but it is now somewhat less urgent than before. There aren't enough sails to do the job entirely, however. No. That's what the rockets and thermite are for.
    Long days and nights of testing the critical linkages will follow, sail after sail, rocket motor, Lasersat, or thermite pot- Everything has to be installed, finalized, confirmed, tested, re-confirmed, and all filed away in the huge mission log-file. Everything has to work the first time, and every time. No screw-ups, no excuses. It is a very Nicola Tesla-like philosophy that has seemed to permeate the entire project from it's first inception: 'Every machine I design must work correctly the first time, or there is no point in building one'. Tesla has become sort of the patron saint of the expedition crew. Along with Murphy, Finagle, Popeye, and one un-named young woman in a skimpy swim suit- whose photographs have been circulating among the crew faster than NASCAR champions on a race track.
    I first saw a print-out of one photograph of her, taped to a single locker door in a Sweeper Ship's team locker room, several weeks ago. Soon after, copies of that photo, and other photos began appearing everywhere. Several of the Earth-Shield crew have had small uniform patches made- even attaching them to their space suits. Her fans seem to regard her as a minor goddess. Admiral Herndon, when asked about possible impropriety, stated for the record; 'I remember many a crew on Navy or Air Force craft adopting a particular Pin-Up girl as a mascot. There's no harm intended to the Lady's reputation. Indeed, there is a lot of respect for her expressed from the crews. But the fact that not one soul in all the fleet will divulge her name, or even assist in network searches for her identity, speaks volumes to me about the esteem this young lady is held in. She's become a modern-day Betty Page for us. An Icon, representing home and everything we're out here trying to learn how to save. She's become sort of our image of Mother Earth's historical Nature Goddess.' The Admiral's own space suit sports one of the near ubiquitous 'Mother Earth Is One Hot Momma' patches with a small spray-print illustration of the nameless young lady's swimsuit photo on it's left sleeve. Needless to say, all attempts to discover the identity of this woman have been met with failure. It's as if she worked for some sort of James Bond - secret spy agency or was merely a graphic artwork by some heretofore undiscovered Da Vinci of the computer age. But whatever, she fills a need and that is important for the moral of the crews.
    Irregardless of the lighter tone the expedition members display during their off hours, when on duty, they are all business. Endlessly, the work crews toil on in the eternal darkness. Thankfully, there have been only a few minor accidents. Most of these that did occur can be traced to over-worked personnel tiredly keeping to an Earth-determined schedule. Adaptations will have to be made. Slowly, the grand design is taking shape. The great work proceeds on schedule. This simulated emergency proceeds as if it were real. Each crew member does their part with dogged determination. Everyone involved seems almost obsessed with making this training exercise seem as realistic as possible. If this were an actual emergency, Earth's survival would be in the best of hands.
    This is Frank Gasperik, Aphelion Webzine's roving reporter with the UN's Cthulu Expedition Training Exercise, out somewhere on the far side of the orbit of Mars, signing off the live WebCast for tonight..."

    He didn't need to be hit over the head to know much of what he'd said had been a lie, and he resented being used in this manner.  At the same time, Gasperik knew that if he was being allowed to broadcast home, things on Earth must be getting dicey, and if he could do anything to stop widespread panic, he would swallow his pride and do so. No matter how infuriating it was to be used like this. He knew the other newsmen with the mission felt the same way. The trouble is, he thought, there's always somebody who won't keep their mouth shut. There'll be a leak. I just know it...
    And everyone filed the necessary paperwork at the end of each work shift.

7:00 AM, November 13th

    Eventually, someone had to call a meeting. Paperwork had to be generated. No bureaucracy can long survive without the illusion of control that endless staff meetings affords it's otherwise unimportant and totally unnecessary leach-like personnel. It seems to be a rather unfortunate and regrettable law of nature.
    "Well Gentlemen and Ladies," the Admiral interrupted the staff report in mid-flow only a few moments into the rush of self-important burro-cratic triple-talk. He hated staff meetings, anyway. Despite the wonderful scent of all that freshly-brewed coffee that wafted through the air in the conference room. "Do the other Fragment divisions report similar successes?"
    "Yes sir," one of the near-mindless, procedure-worshiping, UN paper pushers--types that Admiral Herndon sincerely wanted to personally shove, naked, out the nearest airlock, one each- reluctantly answered.
    "Good, then submit your numbers in writing and give me percentages and deadlines here in the meeting instead. Is anyone running into any problems?"
    "Just everyone working too hard, for too many hours," answered Dr. Chandra as everyone else paused. His dignified, middle-aged movie-star good-looks giving weight to his carefully considered words. The CMO for the expedition, and former Chief of Staff for the biggest hospital in New Delhi, he was always concerned with the work crews and flight teams getting enough rest- but still meeting their schedules. "But thankfully there have been no recent deaths. The incidence of minor first-aid cases, and also minor muscle-strain injuries, is showing a slow increase. Same as normal. But to be taken into account, nonetheless."
    "Your recommendations, Doctor?"
    "Admiral, I think we need to switch from twelve hour shifts to eight hour shifts. It will mean some jiggling of the schedules, but giving the teams sixteen hours off each workday instead of just twelve, will give them more time to rest and to sleep."  He looked around carefully to make sure no reporters were present.  "This ships are held together by duct-tape and baling wire as it is.  We're already on a razor's edge.  What safety margin we still have will soon begin to suffer, if everyone continues to be pushed so hard."
    "Noted, Doctor. I'll include it in my report. Now, Stenson, have you got all the numbers from everyone's reports? Good. How much have we got left to do?"
    The Admiral's Executive officer, Jeff Stenson, looked down at his ever-present PDA for a fraction of a second before answering in his crisp, precise voice. "We're half to two thirds done on every fragment, sir. No matter what equipment you're talking about. Barring major accidents, we'll meet our deadline- Or possibly beat it by three or four days at best."
    "Good. Work out an eight hour rotation cycle as per the Doctor's recommendation. If it will reduce the possibility of injuries, I want it done.  No good rushing if we push all this X-equipment right into the dumper.  Now, what do we hear from our Scouts? Is there another big rock getting close to us?"
    "No sir," Stenson replied. He reached up with his right hand and absently brushed his graying, sandy-brown bangs out of his eyes as he read from the PDA in his left hand. "Everyone reports clear throughout the whole area of operations. Not even small rocks, other than those close to the comet. The fleet is still radar scanning for unexpected incoming, but they report clear as well. Nothing uncharted within range, and everything on the charts behaving normally." He sat further back in his chair, but the casual observer would get the feeling that this was a man who could never truly relax.
    "Still can't tell the large rocks from the sand in the close-in scans of the comet's debris field?"
    "No sir," Stenson spoke, "close-in scans of the comet are still ratty. Still losing too much signal into the background clutter. We're working on getting a better signal return, and enhancing the signal we are getting, but it's an up-hill battle. On the plus side, our charts now include over seven hundred nearby rocks that are too small to be found from Earth. None of them have anything to do with the comet; they're just in the neighborhood..."
    "Keep them on it. We've been lucky so far. Luck doesn't last. Alright, is there anyone who hasn't submitted an electronic report to Stenson? Good. Anything else? Any pressing questions? No. Good. I have to go over to the Yorimasa to do some bloody damn interview show for the UN public relations people in half an hour. Look people," the Admiral added in a raised voice. "I don't like the damn UN's Dog and Pony show any more than anyone else. But we have to keep people back home from getting into a panic. If that means that we have to mislead them, or even lie to them, then that's what we have to do. We let the UN camera crews film anything they want. We say whatever is in the script that they hand us. We smile for the cameras, look heroic, and remember that we're out here to save lives- not cause some kind of uproar that'll wind up costing innocent people their lives. We've got the best equipment out here to do the job. We've got the best people Earth can muster out here to do the job. We've got a plan drawn up by the best minds Planet Earth has ever produced- And as if that wasn't enough- We've got the biggest, baddest Ray-Gun that any Mad Scientist in the universe could ever dream up. What could go wrong? Well- that's your job to figure out. You tell me. What can go wrong? Because you can bet your sweet ass that something damn sure will go wrong! I want you to figure out what, and how to head it off before it happens! Now, let's go earn some of that hazard pay. All right, people? Dismissed."

**********
Year Two, December:

**********
Year Two, December:

       Miranda,
  So much has happened since my last letter. We've suffered a horrible tragedy:
Abby's girlfriend Samantha was killed in an accident yesterday evening.
There was nothing anyone could do, it happened too quickly. This stuff we're
flying in was built so fast...as near as they can tell from the debriefing, several
systems crapped out at once.  They're getting ready to do a quick check of the
wreck. 
Her co-pilot, Major Mike Smith, is still in the infirmary suffering from a concussion.
His prognosis is good, however. Her Captain, Tony Best, suffered a broken arm.
Nasty break. The bone went through into the insulation. Good thing that held, or he
would have died when the air left.
Poor Samantha was killed instantly. Thank God. 
I've been told what happens when the human body hits a vacuum. This was much
more... humane.
Mike and Tony were injured when their seats ripped loose from their mountings
from the shock of the impact.
 Abby is grief-stricken and has vanished into the George's  uncharted depths. An
in-board IM from her I got less than an hour ago indicates that she is considering
joining one of the Fragment Relocation missions as a scout pilot. I feel like I
ought to be able to offer her more consolation or comfort than I have been. I feel
as if I've failed... She is inconsolable, as would anyone in their right mind be at a
time like this. I don't want her to make a bad decision, blinded by grief, as it were...
But I have to agree with her on at least one point- There is nothing left for her back
on Earth. As much as I hate to admit it, staying in space may be the best thing for
her. The constant work will help keep her focused until she can cope with the grief. 
Or the constant strive for survival.  They are truly going where no one has gone before,
where none of us have any business being now, not until we've perfected these
gadgets that keep us alive...
 Miri, I've never felt so damned helpless in my whole life. I know that there
is more that I should be able to say or to do, but all I can think of is Samantha laid
out in her coffin. I can't think straight. I shouldn't be trying to send a message out
to you right now. I shouldn't even be trying to think of what a good doctor should say
to his patient. I should be grieving for Samantha... A good friend is gone, forever,
and I feel so numb... I am so confused, I don't know what to think... But I do know
that I miss you, and need you so much, right this minute... I need you to anchor me.
One of my Patients needs me and I cannot help her! I can't possibly feel more
helpless- or useless, than I do at this moment...
Wishing I were in your arms right now-
       Love you,
             Tom
      

   On Earth, all was as well as could be expected when the final truth was revealed, that the mission to Cthulu had indeed been a matter of life and death.  Few, if any, had been left who still believed the cover story, but full-scale panic had been narrowly averted.  Questions remained, however, questions about the cost the secrecy of the cover-up, questions about how much anyone would believe the next pronouncement that a dangerous space rock would miss the planet.  There was rejoicing, there was celebration, there was worry...
  

       Miranda,
 The mission is finally over. No matter what the cost to us, Earth
is now safe. Somehow, that feels hollow now that Sam is dead. I
can't help thinking about "what ifs" and "if onlys" like some demented
fool who believes that wishing can change reality. Sam is dead. My
friend is gone forever. I should accept it, adjust, and move on, but
that damned formula seems as stilted and fake as any cheesy
variety show stage magician- trying to pull escaped rabbits out of
his prop hat and grinning madly at the audience while he sweats out
the end of the act.
 I'm only human after all. When my friends die, I hurt. This is going to
hurt for a damn long time, Baby. I wish I could be with you right now.
I need your centering. And I need your arms around me right now. I've
lost friends before, but losing Sam has hurt the worst of anyone so far
in my whole life. Thank all the gods that the voyage home will soon
begin.
 The stars out here are cold and bright, and sharp as a razor. Even
their beauty seems tainted and deadly now. I can't wait to get back
to you. I hate this place.
       My love!,
             Tom

      Cthulu Expedition

10:17 AM, May 16th