Farlight (Updated 8/15)

[SpaceplaneAddict]

*Extreme Patience*

*Soul Fatigue Alarm*

Pls..... write.......... next....... chap.....terrrrrrrrrrrr........................................................

[SpaceplaneAddict]

m.......yy........la......s....t.......wr.....dzz.................ne............x.t.............ch.a......t........er........

[Ten Key]

Okay, I think this is finally in a state that I can at least live with. I remember someone saying recently that plot points left hanging early often wind up eating a lot more page time than they otherwise would when you finally get around to dealing with them. After slogging through this chapter, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly. 

It needs one final pass through, and then I should have it up sometime tomorrow. Many thanks to KSK for the read through and advice-- any lingering errors are entirely my own doing. 

And Spaceplane. . .you probably have the best profile picture on the forums. I laugh every time I see it. 

[CatastrophicFailure]

29 minutes ago, SpaceplaneAddict said:

m.......yy........la......s....t.......wr.....dzz.................ne............x.t.............ch.a......t........er........

What he said. 

 

19 minutes ago, Ten Key said:

And Spaceplane. . .you probably have the best profile picture on the forums. I laugh every time I see it. 

Also, what he said!

[Ten Key]

Tangents 

 

The gas roiled upwards, quickly separating into bubbles that twisted their way towards the wavering light overhead. Bob pulled in a breath through the regulator, shifted his grip on the guy line, exhaled another torrent of gas into the warm water.  He watched the bubbles swirl  away, a few of them clinging to the form fitting tile floating just out of reach.
 

The new cockpit sections were relatively sophisticated, and showed every sign of being manufactured one at a time, by hand. But their mysterious benefactors had neglected to include anything in the way of an operating manual, leaving Bob and Jeb to puzzle out the finer details of their inner workings. The integrated oxygen tanks, the canopy seals, the check valve on the fresh air intake, all of it hinted at a machine designed to support its pilot at the extreme altitudes the Mayfly could never hope to reach. But appearances could be deceiving, and Bob needed a way to confirm his suspicions before he would risk lives on them. 
 

Bob eased himself up along side the submerged cockpit, checked the vacuum jar that had been fixed over the air intake. The small container was a poor substitute for a full vacuum chamber, but it was enough to fool the mechanical valve into thinking it was at high altitude. With the valve shut and ten meters of seawater between it and any other source of air, the cockpit was in as much of a closed environment as he could provide. There was just one more thing left to do. Bob guided himself up so that he could see down through the canopy, steadied himself on the built in foot hold, brought the palm of his hand down on the reinforced glass with a muffled thump.
 

Jeb started awake, his head lolling to one side, slowly blinking his way towards awareness. He yawned, stretched, scratched at his scalp and looked around the cramped cockpit interior for a moment before finally settling on Bob's face. Jeb waved slowly, his eyes still heavy with sleep. Bob waved back. Jeb nodded, gestured vaguely. . .
 

. . .and grabbed for the canopy release lever.
 

Bob started to yell, nearly spat out the regulator, got a mouthful of water for his trouble. He gestured wildly, the water churning into a blinding froth. He lunged for the glass, his mask clunking against the canopy. And then could he hear it, the sound recognizable despite the distortion from the water. Bob ground his teeth into the rubber gasket on the regulator.
 

After a long minute, Jeb's laughter finally ebbed enough for him to look down at the console. Jeb tapped the pressure gauge, made a show of taking a  deep breath, and gave Bob a thumbs up through the canopy. 
 

Bob returned the gesture with an entirely different digit.  

 

________________________________

 

 

"Are you ready for this?"
 

Bill looked into his glass, tossed back the contents, said simply. "No."
 

The First Minister laughed, long and loud, the sound of it dispelling some of the gloom of the moment. 
 

"Good. That's good. No one ever is, and the ones who think they are usually don't make it."
 

The two stood in silence for a moment, looking out over the railing. Below them, a small army of volunteers organized bins of brightly colored banners, signs and other campaign paraphernalia. 
 

"This will be the strangest battle you've ever fought Bill, but you can do this. We need you. Your people need you. Our nation is ready to step out from behind the shadow of the Peninsula and embrace a bright and prosperous future!"
 

Bill glowered, raised an eyebrow. And the First Minister laughed. 
 

"You can't fake it Bill, people can always tell. For the next few months you're going to need to embrace the madness and believe the wild things you're saying. We can deal with the reality later, after we win the election."
 

He stepped back and extended a hand. Bill took it in a firm handshake.
 

"I've made some arrangements that should help our flag bearers get up on their feet. Go get your friends settled in, and then I need you out on the campaign trail." The First Minister turned and headed for the door. And then, over his shoulder.
 

"And don't forget to smile!"

 

________________________________

 

 

Jeb worked his jaw back and forth, grimaced through a fresh bolt of pain.
 

"The look on your face was almost worth it."
 

The barge had dropped them off dock side north of Capitol City, the longshoremen securing the cockpit in the back of Jeb's trundle. The old truck looked like it had been through a war, and they were never going to get all of the mud out of it, but it started right up when Jeb turned the key. 
 

"Ears still bothering you?" Bob frowned, had seen more than one diving career cut short by ear trouble. He fished around in his pockets, produced a stick of chewing gum. "Here, try this. It might help." The trundle bounced and rattled, the ride smoothing out as Jeb launched them out onto the freeway and settled into the flow of traffic. Anyone who tried to follow too closely was quickly driven off by the cloud of dried crud coming off the back of their vehicle. 
 

"So, where does this leave us?" Jeb worked the gum around in his mouth, blew out a bubble and popped it. 
 

"Well, the environmental system works." Bob shifted, tried to get comfortable in the old, battered seat. "As for the rest of the aircraft. . ."
 

"We'll figure it out. We always do." 
 

"This isn't the Mayfly anymore Jeb. We're not going to get away with white scarves and homemade parachutes this time."
 

Jeb checked his mirrors, blew out another bubble with the gum. "Still worried about the canopy?" 
 

"Among other things, yes."
 

"Anyone ever tell you you worry too much?" 
 

"Someone has to!" He laughed, reached back into his coat. "And on that note, here." Bob pulled out a small hinged box and opened it. Inside was a set of gold wings, with "X1" stamped in the center. "These are yours. I have another gold set for Bill, and then a silver pair for me." Jeb looked askance from the driver's seat.
 

"It was the First Minister's idea. Gold for an inaugural flight in an untried aircraft. Silver for everyone else. Works for me. Now whenever the three of us walk into a room, people will know right away who the brains of the operation is."
 

"Fair enough." Jeb grinned, checked his mirror, eased the trundle onto an exit ramp that led to the bypass.
 

"Don't feel like driving through the capital during election season?"
 

"Not for all the fish in West Lake."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Capitol City sprawled in the sun, the rising heat of the day wandering through its grand boulevards and soaking into the brick buildings that lined them. The city's ubiquitous palm trees provided little shade, and it was often said their only real purpose was to provide steady employment to the workers charged with clearing away the dead palm fronds. 
 

Election season was the only season this equatorial city ever saw, and its streets were choked with campaigners, constituents and a veritable circus of merchants hoping to cash in on them. And the press threaded through all of it, seemingly unaffected by the traffic. There was little actual news yet, and the reporters were doing their best to create it in any way they could. They swarmed at random, here interviewing a gardener whose plants were wilting in the heat, there a bewildered food vendor barely keeping up with his customers. "Excuse me sir, but what have you put in these potatoes? The public has a right to know!"
 

A lone kerbal maneuvered his way through the clamor, slowing only long enough to button up his cardigan and pull the sleeves a little farther down his wrists. He hummed to himself as he went along, a bright, cheery tune that had been popular nearly two decades ago. He loved the city, the shimmer of the dun colored bricks, the cool salt air, the gentle susurrus of the palms and beachgrass, the whole of it giving the city the appearance of an enormous sand castle. It was an unrequited love, the city ever unaware of his efforts on its behalf. But there were no hard feelings-- it made his job that much easier. 
 

Those that knew him called him 'Uncle', a few out of respect, the rest from something a bit more primal. He'd had a name once, complete with a government issued certificate and all of the trappings that went with it. But like so many other things it had proven to be an annoyance, an impediment to his work. So Uncle it was, and good riddance to the rest. 
 

The capital, like the great building that gave the city its name, had been built haphazardly over the course of almost a hundred years by a parade of different governments, each intent on bending the city to its own particular vision, most failing to do so. Its streets seemed to wander with a sort of lazy inertia, its buildings placed without any semblance of forethought or urban planning. It was a city that was beautiful in spite of itself.  
 

Uncle knew better. The extremely shallow water table meant that any subsurface structure had to be meticulously constructed at great expense-- where the city above was a living embodiment of inefficiency, the city below had been built with the greatest care. The sewers, subways and utility lines ran under the chaotic streets in a careful, deliberate grid and it was here, out of sight, where the real work got done.
 

The old, unmarked door yielded with a quick twist of a rusty steel key. Uncle stepped through and disappeared down a narrow stairwell. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

The rooms were brightly lit, carpeted, retained most of the features of the hotel suite they had once been. Thunder rattled at the glass, distant and angry, as though frustrated it could no longer reach them.
 

Bob pulled another text book out of the storage bin, turned it over in his hands. A History of the World, Volume I. This one didn't show any sign of use either, the yellowing price tag still firmly in place on the spine. He propped it up on the shelf, reached back into the box to find more of the same. Demographics compilations, treatises on ancient civilizations, biographies on various historical figures. And almost all of them could have been sold as new with the purchaser being none the wiser.
 

"You know Jeb, these things work a lot better if you open them once in a while." 
 

"Hmph," Bill hooked another photograph up on the wall, fussed with it until it was arranged to his liking. "I doubt he knows what the inside of a book actually looks like."
 

Jeb just smiled, continued digging through the old boxes and bins. And then the sudden cry of triumph, Jeb hefting one particular box out of the pile, depositing it on the drafting table with a soft thump. "Here Bill, let me show you what treasure really looks like."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

Contract summaries, investment prospectuses, R&D timelines. The documents were arranged in neat, well ordered rows, the life blood of the company laid bare in numbers and figures. The Probodobodyne rep sipped at his tea, read through another report, his finger carefully tracing over each line of numbers. It had been a good quarter, and all indications pointed to the next quarter being even better. He tapped the paper, brow furrowing, set the porcelain cup back on its saucer. 
 

It wouldn't last. It never did.
 

The government appropriations the opposition leader had warned about had started-- almost a third of the rooms on the upper floor of the adjacent hotel had been commandeered to serve as office space for Capitol City's latest publicity stunt. The opposition group had countered, quietly manuevering their way through the various halls of power and gathering the support they felt they would need during the coming campaign. Probodobodyne had played along, and had suddenly found itself on the receiving end of a number of beneficial subcontracts that promised a substantial reduction in their manufacturing costs right at the time demand for their products was spiking. It was too good to be true, too simple to say no, and it worried the company rep to no end. 
 

Control. It was a concept as important to business as it was to rocketry, and it was just as easy to lose as it was in the engineering world. Everything could be going perfectly, and then one morning you woke up with a pocket full of money and absolutely no control over your situation. While his bosses back in the capital dazzled their investors and counted their money, the rep had been carefully building a firewall between the company's facilities at the old pipeline complex and their new political benefactors. It was an ongoing struggle, but so far he had been able to make sure that every aspect of their manufacturing process was available on site, even if only at a hand built, prototyping level. It was perhaps not the most efficient arrangement, but it did mean that no disruption, accidental or otherwise, could bring their operations to a complete halt. 
 

A partial victory, but an acceptable one. For now. 

 

________________________________

 

 

"Jeb. . ." Bob nearly choked, his eyes moving from one end of the box to the other with a mix of wonderment and fear. Bill wasn't staring at the box. He was staring at Jeb. Hard. 
 

"Those are illegal."
 

"Are they?" Jeb lifted one of the books, almost cradled it. It was old, worn, the cover and spine held together with more than a little tape.  He traced over the title with a careful finger. Dynamics and Control Techniques for Transonic Aircraft.
 

"Yes!" Bill growled, arms akimbo, teeth chewing at a cigar that wasn't there. "Books like that were banned as part of the Armistice! You know that! Everyone knows that! What are you thinking, bringing those in here?!"
 

Jeb returned Bill's glare evenly, with just the barest hint of a smile. 
 

"Oh no you don't, don't you give me that look! This time you have finally gone too far! Those texts are restricted under the law, and the only people who are allowed to have them are high ranking curators and properly licensed. . ." He drew up short, the sudden realization, his eyes tracking over Jeb's shoulder and settling on the newly laden bookshelves. 
 

"Historians." Bob's quiet voice carried over the sound of the rain. 
 

Jeb's smile flashed into a grin, and he pulled a yellowing folder out of the box. "And strangely enough, I still have all of the paperwork. Everything in this box is perfectly legal."

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Uncle held court in an old subway terminal, long forgotten by everyone except those few who mattered. His team, his family, carried on with their vital work in secret, organizing reports and, when necessary, acting upon them. The Council could quibble and dither all it wanted-- down here there was no room for dissent or hesitation. The Council created problems. His family solved them.
 

They called themselves The Institute, and they had their hands in nearly everything. Politics, commerce, even the science academies danced to their tune. All for the greater good. Uncle had sought out the best minds, the most exceptional talents, and had mentored them and molded them into a team that could accomplish almost anything. 
 

Behind the main rooms were the Vaults, old maintenance areas that had been repurposed as a vast library, row after row after row of indexed filing cabinets, thousands of them and then some. Even he didn't know exactly how many there were. It looked impressive-- it was impressive. But you couldn't really appreciate the scale of it until you realized that everything in those filing cabinets was stored on microfiche. Information was the surest weapon, and he had gone to great lengths to make sure their swords were very, very sharp. 
 

Uncle smiled. The Institute was a well oiled machine and he was quite proud of it. Their alumni had spread far and wide, and though many had moved on to their own work, they remained a part of the family. Focused. Disciplined. Precise. 
 

And, if need be, completely expendable. 

 

________________________________

 

It was ironic, that a company that had gotten its start in a garbage pit, had literally made its name from it, could now boast the top floor of a luxury hotel as its home office. The Probodobodyne rep worked his way through the file, accomplishments and setbacks, available assets and liabilities, dossiers on the three kerbals sitting. . .at the top of the junk heap. 
 

A railroad tycoon who had lost nearly everything, only to somehow emerge near the top of the post-collapse pile. An engineer who had almost single handedly turned an academic exercise into a functioning industry. And a. . .what? The rep didn't quite know what to make of the long list of false starts and bizarre triumphs that littered the dossier of this "Jebediah" fellow. He reread one of the entries, a dubious account of an arrest for a minor crime that ended with "JT Kerman" spending six months as a deputy sheriff for the same department that had arrested him. There were dozens of entries just like it, one random misadventure after the next. He shook his head, closed the file, thought for a moment. Three business partners with little in common, except. . .
 

Survivors. All three of them.
 

And then there was Farlight. The rep frowned, tapped the closed file. They had provided the information, information that was almost frighteningly thorough, but he had been playing the game long enough to feel the gaps, the file sanitized in such a way as to make it seem like nothing was missing. So they were playing their own game too. Of course they were. And while the information they had provided was helpful, the needlessly detailed file was also a warning. Because surely, their file on him was just as complete. 
 

Farlight had the rockets, Jebediah had the engines. And Probodobodyne had the computer cores. The victims of the pipeline collapse watched from the shadows as the three companies circled each other, and this time when the music stopped there would be only two chairs. Probodobodyne had a healthy balance sheet and a back log of scanning contracts, but there were only so many mining concerns and soon they would stop looking and start digging, and then the scanning contracts would dry up. And then what? Farlight had the extruder, could likely out muscle any competitor on manufacturing costs alone. The Junkyard enjoyed the support of the government, support that was likely to continue if the latest poll numbers were any indication. 
 

The rep exhaled slowly, stared out at the dark through the rain soaked glass. Aleny's gravimetric scanner had been a tremendous advantage, but the more he thought about it, the more he came to believe that Probodobodyne held the weakest hand. He'd been on the look out for potential customers for weeks now, but so far the only interest had come from the science academies, a few contracts for one off experiments in Kerbin orbit. A few of them seemed interesting, and the academies seemed eager enough, but the unfortunate reality was that science didn't pay. 
 

There was another folder on his desk, and he'd been circling it all evening, finally pulled it over in front of him. It was larger than the others, ornate, with gold leaf worked into the cover. The writing was highly stylized, the wording stilted and formal. Inside was an offer that would make sure Probodobodyne was not left standing when the music finally stopped. And it worried him to no end. 
 

The rep regarded the empty tea cup for a long moment, then reached over and poured out more of the hot amber liquid from a small kettle. It was going to be a long night. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

"Oh, that is dreadful!"
 

"Indeed! Dreadfully dreadful!"
 

"Why, it tastes just like. . ." the kerbal took another sip, smiled, nodded vigorously, and then spat the hot liquid across the room. "Just like. . ." 
 

His cohort grinned, and they both snapped their fingers, said simultaneously, "Dishwater!"
 

Bob leaned back on the wall, stifled a grin, content that some things never changed. The sun was hot, water was wet. And chemical engineers were weird. 
 

"The Peninsulites call it 'tea'."
 

"Dreadful. Dreadfully foul." They both snapped their fingers again. "Dreadfully tea!"
 

The smile threatened again, and Bob shook his head. "Gentlemen, the engine?"
 

"Yes, the engine!" The Kerbodyne engineers turned back to the drawings. "Or the engines! There are two, you see! Here, and. . ." two index fingers moved from one side of the blueprint to the other, "here!" Both engineers looked up, smiled, nodded vigorously. 
 

Now Bob did smile. "I know. I drew that." 
 

"Of course, of course! But you should know, there are two. And good things always come in pairs!" The two chuckled, nodded again. The silence stretched, the two engineers blinking in unison as they stared at him. Bob felt his patience starting to slip, said finally, "And. . ?"
 

"And not enough power!" The two grinned, looked down at the blueprint. "Ethyl alcohol burns too hot, have to use water to keep the combustion temperature down. Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. Liquid oxygen is good, but the fuel. . .". They trailed off, spent a long minute mumbling and blinking. And finally, the two snapped their fingers, said in unison, "Ammonia!"
 

"Ammonia?"
 

The two grinned, heads bobbing. "Anhydrous ammonia!"
 

"Isn't that toxic?"
 

"A little bit." One of the engineers held his thumb and index finger a few inches apart. The other held his hands about two feet apart. Both grinned and nodded.
 

Bob sighed. It was going to be a long day. 

 

________________________________

 

 

Zinc disc. Clack! Copper disc. Clang! Electrolyte mat. Whup!
 

Gusmin leaned over the table, hefted another of the silvery metal discs. Clack! And now another of the coppery ones. Clang! The work was hard, boring, but Gusmin didn't mind. He hummed along as he worked, happy enough to be working at all. 
 

Clack! Clang! Whup! The foreman standing behind him made some notes on her clipboard, seemed happy enough with her new employee to nod and walk away. Gusmin fell into a rhythm, made a game of it, kept pace with the other workers despite the burning in his arms and back.
 

Clack! Clang! Whup! 
 

Zaltonic Electronics had set up shop at the complex a month or so after the pipeline collapse, had in fact occupied the old assembly area where Gusmin used to work. The company made batteries for everything from electric trundles to the new fangled wireless sets that were flying off shelves from Capitol City to South Bay. The small number of batteries they provided for Probodobodyne's sounding rockets and the X-1 Mayfly hadn't even warranted a separate line on the company's ledger. But the rise of the Exosphere Series Three orbiter had necessitated a dedicated production line, and now Zaltonic had finally added another shift on that line. And that had finally given Gusmin the chance to kick the sand out of his boots and get back on his feet. 
 

Clack! Clang! Whup!
 

An electric bell rang somewhere on the wall overhead and the line sighed to a halt, the workers leaning back and stretching, some pacing tight circles in the limited space. The rattle of machinery was replaced with the clank and clatter of the food carts. Gusmin still had to finish this shift before the job would be official, but that shouldn't be a problem. He flexed his legs, worked the muscles in his back, his mind now focused solely on the wonderful smell of hot food. 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

The sound of a heavy door closing echoed through the large room. Bob hit the switch for the main lights, squinted as the arc lamps overhead buzzed their way towards full brightness.
 

"To hear Jeb tell it, you were practically flying circles around his Dart during the flight trials." 
 

They were in one of the VAB's auxiliary bays, the "Junkyard" now important enough to warrant workspace near the vaunted extruder. The X-2 prototype hung from the ceiling, suspended in a large steel cradle. 
 

"We were riding a thermal at one point, so yes, that did actually happen."
 

Corfel Kerman had been a test pilot for the Kestes Corporation for the past five years, and his work with the A-1 Dragonfly had earned him something of a reputation among the more serious minded kerbals at the old pipeline complex. He had stared his career as an engineer, which as far as Bob was concerned made him the best kind of test pilot. Stoic, confident, and without any trace of the glee that had a way of creeping into Jeb's eyes whenever something "interesting" happened during a test. Flight test was not an adventure, it was a job, and if someone cracked a joke around him Corfel was liable to smile affably, but that would be the end of it. 
 

He had done his Kermanship in biophysics. When asked why a toy company kept a test pilot on staff, he had answered "rocket sleds". Bob had chuckled. Corfel had smiled affably. And that had been the end of it. 
 

The two of them walked around the bay, neither speaking, necks craning to take in the aircraft from every angle. And it had a lot of angles. The X-2 was an ugly baby, a squat mash of tanks and tubes that was nearly as wide as it was long. The new cockpit section had but a single hardpoint-- Jeb had mounted a small peroxide tank to it, and had mounted one of the spherical probe cores on the back of the tank. And that was it for the hardpoints. Everything else on the vehicle was wrapped around the probe core's casing. The wings appeared largely vestigial, had been included mostly to allow the X-2 to launch from a tail sitting position. But the new ammonia based system had necessitated longer engine bells, and now the wings and tail were too short to reach past the nozzles to the ground. And that, quite literally, left the X-2 hanging. 
 

It got worse. Careful analysis of the cockpit had uncovered a serious flaw in the glass canopy-- the rectangular panes created intense stress concentrations at the corners, making the whole thing prone to explosive rupture at high pressure differentials. Bob had run the numbers, and had worked out a service ceiling of about 50,000 meters. The X-2 would not reach space. 
 

Not that there was any risk of that happening as things stood. Bob knew their vehicle was underpowered, even with the upgraded fuel system. Jeb had taken the news about the canopy limitations in stride, and had set about positioning the X-2 as a high altitude research aircraft. He had already started boasting about all the altitude and speed records the machine would break. Bob felt confident that the X-2 would do well in the thin air-- he just had no idea how to get it up there in the first place. 
 

Corfel had been involved in the design and testing of a set of solid fuel rocket collars for the Farlight launcher and old Vern, ever the salesman, had sent him in Bob's direction. Now the test pilot was going over the Junkyard's prototype with a critical eye, and Bob couldn't help but feel a little self conscious.
 

"The tail is going to be a problem, but I think we can help you. Let me think on it a bit, and I'll have something to you by the end of the day." He turned towards the door.
 

"You know, we're looking for some pilots to fly her."
 

And Corfel smiled affably. "I know. Let's see what Vern has to say about that." 

 

 
________________________________

 

 

 

"Alright team, we just got the new technical specs in over the wire from Probodobodyne. Their engineers seem assured that our tried and true POT-1 batteries will suffice for their planned overhaul. They're just going to use more of them on each of these "orbiters" of theirs."
 

A wave of relief rolled around the table, the Zaltonic engineers hoping for a quick end to what could otherwise turn into a long and tedious meeting.
 

"But the rumor is that the general overhaul isn't going well, and that Probodobodyne may soon abandon the design completely in favor of something new. And if that happens, I think we all know that the POT-1 is not going to cut it anymore."
 

The relief was replaced with groans. 
 

"But the POT-2 won't be ready for at least a month! Can we wait that long?"
 

"Ladies and gentlemen." The kerbal at the head of the table took off his glasses, looked around at those assembled. "I do not believe the POT-2 is going to cut it either."
 

The room filled with a riot of noise as the engineers voiced their opinion on that assessment. After a quick glance through the thick glass window to make sure the outburst hadn't been heard out on the factory floor, the manager motioned for quiet. 
 

"Now, we all know that those batteries evolve hydrogen gas as part of the reaction process. Weight issues aside ladies and gentlemen, putting enough of those batteries in one place for any length of time is inviting a disaster."
 

"But it's in space Lou. There's no oxygen up there for it to react with!"
 

"That's right! And we don't run the batteries on the orbiter until we're in space!"
 

 And so on and so forth. The Zaltonic manager let them run for a bit, and then. . .
 

"First, if the battery rings cut in accidentally while the rocket is still on the pad, there could be an explosion. Second, the evolution of that much hydrogen gas while in orbit puts an unnecessary burden on the orbiter's attitude control system. No, I'm sorry, but this state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue. And we need to think of something before Probodobodyne does. Otherwise, all of this. . ." he waved out the window at the assembly area below ". . .will be gone. Again."
 

The room was silent a long moment. 
 

"The hydrogen gas is the problem?"
 

The manager looked over the rim of his glasses at the young engineer. "The critical one, yes."
 

And then the engineer looked up and said simply, "Is it?"

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Celebrity Night at Wurlitzer's Tavern had started as a joke, another bit of gallows humor that had helped keep people sane in the wake of the pipeline disaster. Freshly "staged" workers would occasionally be treated to a brief private gathering for friends and family, only to then be thrown to the masses in a wild party that went on into the wee hours of the morning. Initially little more than stress relief, Celebrity Night evolved into a networking opportunity between recently displaced individuals and prominent members of the community. And at some point, after the factories started turning again and people began to get back on their feet, actual celebrities had started showing up.
 

It was early yet, the patrons at the Tavern still "invite only". Jeb rated as an actual celebrity now, and was off working the crowd and flashing his gold wings at anyone even halfway interested. And while Jeb was out signing autographs and making small talk, Bob had settled down in their usual booth near the back of the main room to go over the plans Corfel had sent along. 
 

Farlight had been fishing around for a cheap way to add a bit of kick to their rocket and had run into a basic problem-- the addon motors could only be mounted radially, while the only available decoupler could only be mounted inline. And since the small Kestes augmenters would burn out much faster than the core stage of the rocket, they would be extra drag and dead weight for most of the trip. Corfel had side stepped that problem by welding a series of flat plates along the outside of the decoupler ring, effectively using the decoupler itself as a radial attachment point, and then mounting the decoupler on a shroud inline with the rocket engine. The shroud would prevent the liquid engine from firing, but the arrangement allowed the augmenters to kick the Farlight rocket up off the pad and then fall away once depleted, exposing the engines underneath.
 

The proposal for the X-2 was similar, with the added complication of the aircraft's tail. Kestes would attach nine of their augmenter motors to a ring decoupler, then mount the decoupler to a metal spacer that would in turn be mounted to another decoupler, which would attach to a shroud covering the engine bell. With a boost collar on each engine, the solid fuel motors would provide almost 1400 kN of thrust for about 25 seconds, after which the X-2 could slough them off and continue on its way. That should be more than enough to heft the aircraft to its cruising altitude. 
 

At the bottom of the schematic was a hand written note that read simply, "Vern says yes."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

It was at once ridiculous and elegant, insane and yet perfectly sensible. The hydrogen was the problem. Could it also be the answer? The drawing was crude, real back of the envelope stuff, but it did the job. The copper cathode had been swapped for one made from nickel. The zinc anode was gone entirely, replaced with hydrogen gas contained inside a reinforced pressure vessel. The chemical equations seemed sound, even promising. There would be no need for voltage meters or any other delicate sensors for determining charge level-- a simple pressure gauge would do. At first blush it appeared tolerant of both overcharging and deep cycling and, while it was certain to be heavier than the old POT-1 model, it also appeared to offer a significantly greater energy density. The Zaltonic manager looked over the rim of his glasses, his grin almost feral.
 

The engineer grinned back. "You can even reverse the polarity Lou. It won't hurt a thing."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

It was almost time. 
 

Bill Kerman sat in his rail car, organized the note cards on the desk one last time, looked out at the leaden sky through the high windows. He could hear the crowd gathered outside, the muffled shouts and general ruckus. Some of those shouts were happy, but some. . .were not. 
 

The election campaign was in full swing, and Bill had been swept up in it just as sure as Bob and Jeb had been consumed by the design of their latest toy. The party of the First Minister, his party now, had gotten off to a strong start with their domination of the telegraph network. And so far they were winning the war on the wireless, though the opposition was now making strides there as well. But the presence of a telegraph station meant commerce, and commerce meant money. And if you had access to a wireless set, well, you were probably doing all right. And that left everyone else who wasn't doing all right. 
 

Bill had never felt comfortable with the telegraph system, and he was even less inclined to trust this new wireless nonsense. But he knew the railroads, knew that the tracks had often been laid down where labor was cheap and hope threadbare at best. And so while the campaign office took care of the press releases on the telegraph and the First Minister talked the good talk on the wireless, Bill had hitched up his rail car and was out "stumping" in the hinterlands, fishing for votes among those most likely to swing the election. 
 

And probably least likely to benefit from it. 
 

Bill inhaled slowly, fidgeted with the cards. He'd been over the whole thing with his speechwriter only twenty minutes ago, knew the man was still close at hand if he should have any last minute questions. Close at hand? Ha! Why, he was right over there. In Richvan's old car. 
 

He'd made a few discrete inquiries after. . .well, after. So far, the only thing he'd been able to determine is that she hadn't ended up on the beach. But from there. . .Dash it! He stared hard at the door to the other car, felt like anything but the up and coming leader he was supposed to be. 
 

And then, it was time. Bill stuffed the cards into his coat pocket, plastered on the sympathetic smile he'd been practicing, and stepped out of the railcar into the rain. 

 

________________________________

 

 

"Alright then, now that we've got the battery problem in hand, there is one more item on the agenda."
 

More groans, more fidgeting. The Zaltonic manager held up his hands and made a show of checking his notes. 
 

"Aw come on Lou, I got a table at Wurli's lined up!"
 

"As some of you have no doubt heard, Capitol City has been gathering pilots and thrill seekers for their kerbaled flight program." He took off his glasses, looked around at the fidgeting group. "The politicians have decided that since Zaltonic stands to play a substantial role as an equipment supplier to that program, we should have one of our own on the flight roster. And it seems corporate agrees with them."
 

"Furthermore, since we are located "on site", corporate feels this poor, unfortunate individual should come from this office."
 

A fresh wave of groans rolled around the table. Someone laughed. And while every one at the table was seated, you could tell from the body language that each of them was mentally taking a long step backwards. 
 

"Our insurance company isn't going to like this. No, not one little bit!"
 

"And what about the employee union? What do they have to say about this?"
 

The union rep leaned forward. "We'll need to discuss it, but I promise you, the union doesn't like it. No sir, not one little bit!"
 

"What about the new guy?"
 

All heads turned to the factory foreman, who had thus far been silent. She pointed out the large window, and all of the managers and engineers turned and looked out across the factory floor at the poor, unfortunate soul, who was currently munching on a sandwich in blissful ignorance.
 

"Has he signed his employment contract yet?" The foreman shook her head. "I see. Well, perhaps some arrangements can be made. I'll get with HR and work something out. That's it then, we're adjourned for the. . ."
 

The rest of his sentence was lost in the sound of a room full of engineers vacating the premises with all possible speed.

 

 

________________________________

 

 

Bob made a show of eyeing the bottom of the glass. "Wurli what did you put in this? It's fantastic!" Several nearby patrons voiced their agreement, some more loudly and less coherently than others. Wurli looked perplexed, took a sip himself. Bob thought his bushy eyebrows might crawl all the way up off his head. 
 

The party was in full swing, the tavern filled with noise and merriment. While Jeb had certainly done well with the crowd, the real stars of the show had turned out to be the stunt team from South Bay. They had arrived an hour ago unannounced, fresh from a sky dive competition on the outskirts of Capitol City. The sisters had taken first place, of course. Their fans had certainly expected no less of them.
 

The booth in the back of the room had become a small oasis of calm, and by turns the various celebrities signing autographs seemed to pick up on this. And so it was that Bob found himself having a conversation with a professional stunt parachutist. 
 

Rodfrey Kerman was not the brazen daredevil the news-sheets made her out to be. The nominal leader of the group, she had put herself in charge of the scheduling and administration side of the business. She was also the stunt coordinator, and Bob found to his delight that the two of them spoke the same basic language-- mathematics. The pair soon became engrossed in the nuances of formation sky diving, and before Bob knew it the better part of an hour had passed.
 

"Aren't your fans going to miss you?" Bob inclined his head out towards the crowd.
 

Rodfrey pulled a sheet of paper from her notebook and signed her name. And then she signed both her sister's names, as naturally and swiftly as she'd signed her own. 
 

"We look exactly alike." She shrugged, and went back to her notes.
 

And it was true, each of the sisters was a mirror image of the other two, but from there the similarities ended. Ansted was not quite the daredevil either, but she certainly enjoyed playing the role. It was Ansted who did most of the charming and handshaking, and if a patron was fortunate enough to walk away with autographs from all three sisters, it was probably Ansted who had done all of the signing. 
 

And Wehrbree, well. . .Wehrbree was just there. She fetched the drinks from the bar, ran interference as necessary. And when it wasn't necessary she just seemed to disappear. Shy would have been the wrong word, but next to Wehrbree Bob seemed positively chatty.
 

Bob caught the distinct sounds of the skip-ball machine firing up over the din of the crowd. He groaned inwardly, knew Jeb's antics could get them all in trouble in a crowd like this. He was trying to think of a way to head Jeb off when Rodfrey looked up, seemed to hear the machine as well.
 

"Oh no, she's at it again." 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Uncle thumbed through the reports, seemed satisfied, moved on to the next set. His eyes ran over the documents and he frowned, yanked a photograph out of the stack, held it up to one of the lights.
 

"The color on this film is wrong." It was not a question, and the attendant knew better than to stammer. "Find out who made this and put a class C sanction on their file." 
 

The reports coming in were mostly reassuring, with no signs of the swift and violent response from the Peninsula that he'd feared. The clandestine "Seventh Committee" seemed content to remain in the background, and other than a trickle of cockpits nothing much had been heard from them recently. The hot rhetoric surrounding Grand Peninsula had cooled somewhat, the result of a few well placed elbows. And one well placed club.
 

So far, the Peninsula's response had been slow, even confused. But that response was starting to gather momentum now, a steadily increasing wave of goods and services that just undercut the local businesses. He'd seen this before, the familiar pattern, the Peninsula using their superior technology to knock the legs out from under recovering economies with surgical precision. And they were very, very good at it too.
 

Uncle leaned back on the stool, folded his hands behind his head, stared up at the dark ceiling. In all of their records, there were only two known instances where the Peninsula had gone to war with another nation. The first was very old, a few fleeting references to an event that had occurred at least a century before the advent of gunpowder. That civilization was simply gone, even its name lost to the annals of history, and there was just enough left in the records to infer that it had happened. The second was more recent, a spasm during the last years of the Great War that had seen one of the larger nation states lash out at the Peninsula. That nation had likewise disappeared, virtually overnight-- survey teams from nearby areas hoping to scavenge something from the wreckage reported that there was nothing left but shattered roads and ash. And then, a few months later, those survey teams had fallen ill and perished. All of them.
 

He focused on the ceiling, let his mind wander, humming to himself as his brain sifted through all the reports. He ignored those working around him and they pretended to ignore him, most of them used to this game by now. And suddenly the humming cut off, something in the back of Uncle's mind clicking into place. And everyone in the room froze.
 

He looked down, found the attendant with his eyes. He answered his own question even as he was forming the words, but he asked it anyways, the query becoming a test.
 

"That photo I handed you earlier, what do they use to fix the dye on the color film?" 
 

The attendant blinked, opened his mouth, hesitated, and Uncle answered for him. "Potato starch. Send that photo down to the lab and have it analyzed. And find out where that starch came from." The attendant nodded, made a note, started to turn away.
 

"Hesitation kills." Uncle stared the attendant down, and the whole room got a little bit quieter. "Make sure you remember that."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

It was late now, the crowds gone, the Tavern all but empty. The five of them lingered in the booth at the back of the room, in that odd twilight where the conversation trails off but no one seems ready to call it an evening. The skip-ball machine stood dark and silent, its HIGH SCORE flag hanging from the contraption at an uncomfortable angle. Jeb and Ansted had emptied the Lost and Found box, both of them looking like they'd been attacked by a charity shop. Wurli had finally put the poor machine out of its misery-- the epitaph read simply, "Out of Service".
 

Jeb stretched, eyeballed his half empty glass. "Wurli, you have any of the good stuff left? This tastes like rocket fuel."
 

Wurli ambled up to the table, mustache twitching. "I do not, I think, but perhaps you would be good enough to assist in an experiment?" He produced a plate with five small wedges of uncooked potato. 
 

"Sure, why not?" Jeb leaned forward, stuffed one of the slices in his mouth, made a face. "Tastes like raw potato Wurli."
 

And now Ansted leaned forward. "Don't talk with your mouth full hun, it's disgusting." 
 

The laughter started with Bob, swept over the table. Only Wurli seemed immune, as he focused intently on the plate and the people around it. Rodfrey shrugged, tried one of the slices, the look of distaste plain enough on her face. One by one they tried the potato wedges, and one by one they made their displeasure known. All save Wehrbree. Her look of surprise was the most emotion she'd shown all night, and now, finally, Wurli did smile.
 

"Thank you. That is most helpful."
 

The rumble was low, sudden, the glasses on the table and the glass in the windows rattling from the force of it. Jeb looked over his shoulder out the window. "Farlight rocket, right on schedule." He looked far away for a moment. "Engines sound wrong though."
 

"No, that's right. It's the new booster rings." Bob fished out Corfel's drawings and passed them to Jeb. He looked them over, smiled, passed them back. The exhaustion was gone, his look intense, with just a hint of that familiar glee in his eyes. 
 

"Game on."
 

Bob started to fold the plans up, but Ansted snatched them out of his hands. "What's this, a stunt flyer?"
 

And Bob said, "Actually, it's a high altitude research aircraft."
 

And Jeb said, "It's a stunt flyer."
 

And suddenly, there were two people at the table with glee in their eyes. 
 

Rodfrey flipped open her notebook. "No, I'm sorry gentlemen, but we have a show out at West Lake in two weeks and we can't possibly. . ." and Ansted's hand flashed out, dumping the notebook and everything in it right off the table. She graced her sister with her best smile. 
 

"Oops."
 

Rodfrey glowered, Bob affected a carefully neutral expression. Ansted assumed a look of studied innocence, and Wehrbree bent down and started picking up the papers without so much as a word. 
 

And Jeb, Jeb laughed, and he grinned, and he called out, "Wurli, another round! Bring on the rocket fuel!"
 

And that was the end of that. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

The rocket climbed away from the swamp, swung northward along the coast, passed just west of Capitol City. It had been known to the engineers that a polar orbit would be more challenging, that the rocket would not benefit from the added velocity of the planet rotating underneath it. So they wrote that velocity out of their equations entirely, and that proved to be a mistake. For while that velocity was no longer helpful, it did not simply go away. And so the rocket burned due north, and the ascent stage fired, and the insertion stage after it, and then finally the orbiter itself came to life. The primitive star tracker mounted in the cockpit began searching, reaching out in a straight line from the orbital track to the horizon. But the stars were not right, the markers not there, and the automatic system shut down. Someone in the control room saw what was happening and gave the vehicle a hasty burn command before it passed out of the transmitter's range, but the damage was done. The Exosphere orbiter slipped into an inclined track of 85 degrees, a trajectory that would eventually take it over the whole of Kerbin. 
 

With the exception of the one place they were being paid to be. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

________________________________

 

The wholesaler huffed his frustration, ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. "Wurli, you're the fifth person this morning to ask me that question."
 

"And you told them nothing, hmm? But surely, you'll share your secret with old Wurlitzer. Where did you get those magnificent potatoes?"
 

The wholesaler paused, considered his words carefully. Though outwardly cheerful, he knew Wurlitzer could be a fierce competitor who was not above making life difficult for people he felt had crossed him. "It's not that simple Wurli. I've had inquiries from a brewery, two restaurants, a paper mill and even a company that makes color film plates. All of them, and now you, are singing the same song. And I just don't see any patterns."
 

"Come, there must be a reason. You can tell old Wurli." The mustache twitched. "I can make it worth your while."
 

"I tell you what, if I figure it out, you'll be the first to know."

 

________________________________

 

 

"No, we're not interested."
 

The call that had come in over the interline was not the one he'd feared, but the Probodobodyne rep knew it would come sooner or later. And he needed to make sure he had his excuses in order before that happened. His relief at the identity of the caller was rapidly curdling into annoyance.
 

"I appreciate that you're trying to get representatives of the major contractors, but our company provides computers, not pilots. No, we don't. No. . .we are absolutely not interested. Look, if some other company feels the need to waste the lives of their employees on this frivolous stunt. . .no, you listen! I will not countenance this ridiculous. . ."
 

The door to the rep's office blew open, hard enough to rebound off the wall and send a pair of photographs crashing to the floor. 
 

"Ho! A fine morning, fine indeed!"
 

"Hudbert, I'm on a. . ."
 

"And a glorious hello to you as well! Such a launch! Such a show! The light, the noise! Oh, magnificent, truly magnificent!"
 

"Hudbert just leave those papers on my. . ."
 

"This is the start, truly! The start of a wondrous adventure! Why, I can see it, truly! Of all the wonderful. . ."
 

"HUDBERT!!"
 

"And here are your papers! A fine stack of them, if I do say so myself! I have organized them with the greatest of care, each report in its place, as you know. I am most certain that. . ."
 

"Hudbert. I. . .am . . .on. . .a. . .call."
 

"A call you say? Why yes, I can see! The next chapter in the saga, a great portent perhaps? Oh, glorious day!"
 

"Hudbert." The rep fought to control his temper, had a sudden flash of inspiration. "Hudbert, I think I heard the technicians asking after you. . ."
 

"Of course, of course! Fair day to you, sirrah, I am off at once to their aid! Oh, what an opportunity! What a morning!" And suddenly, the office was quiet again.
 

The rep stared out the open door for a long moment, then brought the handset back up. "What's that? No. . .yes I'm still here. No, as I said, I cannot. . ."
 

There was a loud, rattling crash from down the hallway, a freshly dented probe core rolling past the door. "Worry not, for I know just the thing for this very problem! I do sir!"
 

"You know what?" The rep made a note on his calendar. "I'll have my people call you."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

Inhale. Hold, and stretch. . .
 

Rodfrey grabbed her hands, one inside the other, raised them high above her head, stretched her legs taut as though reaching for something on a high shelf. Which of course she wasn't. She lifted her feet of the ground, balanced on the exercise ball, held her body as straight as a rod.
 

Hold. . .hold. . .and release.
 

Her muscles burned from the effort, but the pain kept her mind from wandering along darker paths. Hold. . .hold. . .stretch. . .release. Ansted had taken it upon herself to "volunteer" their services for the flight program. She'd gotten hold of a set of binding contracts from one Jebediah Kerman. And without asking permission or providing any sort of warning, she'd signed all three of their names. 
 

Rodfrey was going to kill her. Just as soon as she found the time. They'd all been subjected to a psychological evaluation soon after their arrival, before the ink had even had a chance to dry. Had Rodfrey been thinking clearly, she might have botched it on purpose. Instead, she'd wound up with the highest score. Gusmin, the former Zaltonic employee, had managed a close second. Corfel and that Hudbert clown had broken the test entirely.  They'd had three Mayflies available for flight training, and with Gusmin completely lacking in any sort of flight experience he'd gotten the milk run in the X-1. She and Hudbert had drawn assignments in the X-1a, and they both had been given a simple mission. Come back with pictures. 
 

Hold. Release.
 

She'd been given a large, bulky camera, had been told it could take color photos. The camera had come with a pair of polished silver wings with "X-1a" stamped in the middle. She pulled her muscles taut, stared hard at the small padded case. Stretch. . .and hold. . . She couldn't wear them until after her flight. Silver wings. . .the brains of the group. Rodfrey allowed herself a small smile.
 

Hold. . .hold. . .
 

But she was still going to kill Ansted.
 

And release.

 

________________________________

 

 

The tower was old, and it struggled skyward against thick mats of vines and rust. It had been a fire watch tower, back before the Great War, a lone sentinel protecting the old growth forest cradled in the valley below. And then the War had come, and the loggers with it, and the tower had been repurposed as an airway beacon, its strobing lights part of a network that guided transport aircraft over the wilderness at night. When the war ended the beacons were turned off for good and the tower was abandoned to the weather, a silent monument to what had once been. 
 

It had taken the farmer nearly an hour to climb to the top, each careful step causing the rotting metal staircase to shriek in protest. Now the valley stretched out bellow him, the gently rolling fields covered as far as the eye could see with the deep green of potato plants. His potato plants.
 

The talk at the local watering hole had been boisterous, one tall tale on top of another. But underneath it all were the quiet rumors, the small supply of "super potatoes" that no one seemed able to explain or even verify. Word was there were a bunch of rich folk in Capitol City willing to pay good money for more of them. And they had laughed it off, and spun more of their yarns, but you could see the gears turning behind more than a few eyes. 
 

The farmer had gone back to his fields, had vowed not to pay attention to the rumors. But then he had remembered that day on the ridge, the strange contraption that had won him a week's worth of drinking money. And those odd bands in the fields beyond the railroad tracks. He had written them off as a trick of the light, a visual artifact caused by thermals or clouds. But standing atop the tower the farmer could make out more of the bands, if only just. Only when the light was just right. 
 

The tower's old alidade table was still intact, the detailed topographic map of the surrounding area fixed with a pair of adjustable sights designed to pin point wildfires. He'd used the mechanism to trace the bands onto the map with a grease pencil. They were thin, probably no more than ten meters wide, were spaced about twelve kilometers apart and ran north to south from one horizon to the other. And they were not quite straight. 
 

Now the farmer was going over his records, the specific bins that had been filled by specific runs of his aging steam powered harvester. He took a straight edge, lined it up on the tracks the harvester had taken for those particular bins that had produced his share of the "super potatoes". The pencil rasped along the map, one line after the other.
 

"Well I'll be. . ."
 

Each line crossed along the edge of one of the bands. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

One of his contacts had spotted it at a consignment shop in the capital, an ornate, mechanical phonograph with a sad and recent history. He had an appreciation for irony, would occasionally indulge himself on that point for the important projects, and his contact had gifted it to him as a way of restoring favor. Uncle smiled-- he would need to remove the sanction from that particular file.
 

"Did Probodobodyne complete the polar scan?" 
 

The sudden question caught the approaching attendant off guard, the reply slow in coming. "No, their probe missed the pole by some margin. I. . .they should try again soon. The academy will stay after them."
 

"See to it." The nod came too quickly, too much relief in the body language. Uncle's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
 

"What do you want then?"
 

"Ah, the lab is going over the photo now, they should have results day after tomorrow. I've sent a telegraph to the company asking about their starch supplier and removed the sanction from the file." 
 

Uncle shifted slowly on the stool, gave the attendant his full and undivided attention.
 

"I didn't tell you to remove the sanction." 
 

And now the attendant did stammer. "Of course, but I assumed. . .I'll add it back right away." Uncle nodded once, the careful poker face, and the attendant backed away, turned and hurried from the room.
 

Uncle stared after him for a long moment and then glanced to one side, made a quick slashing motion across his throat. One of the shadows along the edge of the room detached itself from the wall and followed the attendant into the corridor. Independent thinking and action were all well and good, but there was no room for hesitation here.
 

He studied the table, each stack of documents representing one of the major players in this little game. The government, the Peninsula, this "Committee Seven", and all the others. Uncle smiled, reached out a hand and laid the phonograph's armature down on the edge of the spinning brass disk. 
 

The old subway terminal filled with the gentle sounds of a piano. 
 

________________________________

Edited March 19, 2016 by Ten Key

[Shania_L]

Curiouser and curiouser, a story about spaceflight and you have managed to make a plot about potatoes ....

Always a good read, thanks for keeping up with this, at what point will the story catch up with your screenshots from the save game? I think I have grasped your design of the decoupler rings for Farlights launcher, but I'd love to see how the X2 fits together.

[KSK]

On 19 March 2016 at 5:22 AM, Ten Key said:

Okay, I think this is finally in a state that I can at least live with. I remember someone saying recently that plot points left hanging early often wind up eating a lot more page time than they otherwise would when you finally get around to dealing with them. After slogging through this chapter, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly. 

It needs one final pass through, and then I should have it up sometime tomorrow. Many thanks to KSK for the read through and advice-- any lingering errors are entirely my own doing. 

And Spaceplane. . .you probably have the best profile picture on the forums. I laugh every time I see it. 

You're more than welcome - and your chemists still make me laugh.

[Ten Key]

16 hours ago, Shania_L said:

Curiouser and curiouser, a story about spaceflight and you have managed to make a plot about potatoes ....

Could there be any finer subject for a tale of high adventure? Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew! Plenty of places to go here! 

There's also a bit of humor on the BTSM tech tree about potato powered batteries.

16 hours ago, Shania_L said:

Always a good read, thanks for keeping up with this, at what point will the story catch up with your screenshots from the save game? I think I have grasped your design of the decoupler rings for Farlights launcher, but I'd love to see how the X2 fits together.

I'm almost there, though my early screenshots were very heavily biased to payloads and I had to go digging through the bowels of my VAB to get a few shots of my early rockets. And those rockets are down right embarrassing.

But, it looks like I've been given an excuse to talk a little about the hardware, and since that comes up in the next chapter anyways, I see no reason not to take it.

Spoiler

My X-2 is a very crude analog to the old X-15 rocket plane. It can be viewed as two separate vehicles, with the detachable rocket collars taking the place of the B-52. If it seems a bizarre solution to a simple problem, it's because I built the aircraft first, and then set about trying to figure out a way to get it to altitude without altering the base design.

 

 

The two liquid fuel tanks and the six solid rocket motors are all radially attached to the stayputink probe core. It's a direct evolution from the X-1, and it was my weird solution for combining a probe core and a crew module on the same vehicle. There's a small inline monopropellant tank between the cockpit and the probe core (for all intents and purposes, BTSM does not have reaction wheels), and this creates a small hollow area around the "neck" of the probe core for batteries and scientific experiments. That was something of a happy accident. 

The other overriding concern here is that I wasn't kidding about the canopy. That cockpit will explode if the ambient pressure drops too low. To get the science I need, the X-2 needs to fly higher than 30,000 meters, but stay below about 50,000 meters.

BTSM isn't a realism mod (It plays like a very well balanced board game. . .instead of increasing the size of the solar system, it nerfs the tar out of the stock parts.) and it uses the stock liquid fuel/oxidizer. Any references to different propellants and engines are just things I've added to the story for flavor. 

 

And this is the Farlight (1) rocket, with an Exosphere Series Three ADCAP orbiter attached. The LV-T15 liquid engines don't have alternators, so there's no power generation. Note the battery visible on the left side of the insertion (3rd) stage. The main battery rings start in a locked state, and if I forget to push the right button before I separate the orbiter, it's game over. 

 

 

 

[KSK]

56 minutes ago, Ten Key said:

Could there be any finer subject for a tale of high adventure? Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew! Plenty of places to go here! 

And they're all fully baked. Nothing half-baked here!

[CatastrophicFailure]

9 hours ago, Ten Key said:

On 3/17/2016 at 1:42 PM, Ten Key said:
Grinning like an idiot over here.  

 

Well now I know why it took so long, this chapter was a veritable novella! Exquisite! All 10,000 (ish) words of it! I'm really digging the growing sense of kinda-sorta-but-not-really remembered history. And is that a trio of love interests I forsee? 

 

 

Now if you'll excuse me, I have the oddest craving for potatoes...

[Ten Key]

11 hours ago, CatastrophicFailure said:

Well now I know why it took so long, this chapter was a veritable novella! Exquisite! All 10,000 (ish) words of it! I'm really digging the growing sense of kinda-sorta-but-not-really remembered history.

The word processor I'm using doesn't have word count capability (or spell check) so I really have no idea how long these chapters are. I just add and cut and add and cut until it seems like it works. Tangents went through two major rewrites, and I am very glad to be rid of it.

11 hours ago, CatastrophicFailure said:

 And is that a trio of love interests I forsee?

Characters can certainly have minds of their own at times, but no, that is not the intention here. The flight crew came out of the astronaut complex sight (and gender) unseen. Rodfrey, Ansted and Wehrbree are triplets because the texture replacer mod decided it should be so. The resulting characters are based very loosely on the Dietrich twins, and it's been a bit of a challenge developing a set of barnstorming sisters in a world without airplanes.

[CatastrophicFailure]

1 hour ago, Ten Key said:

The word processor I'm using doesn't have word count capability (or spell check) so I really have no idea how long these chapters are. I just add and cut and add and cut until it seems like it works. Tangents went through two major rewrites, and I am very glad to be rid of it.

 what are you writing on, an Apple IIc?? Also, https://wordcounter.net real numbers to measure the obsession. 

[SpaceplaneAddict]

Oh! Good Jeb! My soul! This entry! Huzzah! Huzzah! My soul is restored by this magnificent chapter!

[Ten Key]

On 3/21/2016 at 11:52 AM, CatastrophicFailure said:

what are you writing on, an Apple IIc??

Wordpad.

 

 

Is it really July already? Sorry folks, the next chapter got away from me a little bit. . .and then it got away from me a lot.

And then Stellaris happened. 

I think I'm almost done with it. . .just need to wrap it up and apply some polish. I hope to have it up by the end of the week. 

[CatastrophicFailure]

22 minutes ago, Ten Key said:

Wordpad.

 

 

Is it really July already? Sorry folks, the next chapter got away from me a little bit. . .and then it got away from me a lot.

And then Stellaris happened. 

I think I'm almost done with it. . .just need to wrap it up and apply some polish. I hope to have it up by the end of the week. 

You don't have nearly enough seismometers on there. 

Patiently waiting intensifies.

[0111narwhalz]

Wow. I haven't seen that cockpit in a while.

[Ten Key]

Azimuth

 

 

"Track looks good Flight. Telemetry solid."

The director drew the launch key from the console, automatically safing the few remaining active systems. The rocket was long gone, the other controllers in the room mostly shutting down and packing up. A few lingered at their consoles, jotting notes or just staring out the large reinforced windows and reflecting. 

They had pitched the rocket over along a NNW heading of 345 degrees, had gradually brought the heading around towards true north as the orbital vector crept in from the other direction, the two eventually meeting in the middle at exactly zero degrees. Probodobodyne had tried again for the polar cap, and this time the rocket sailed true, their uprated Exosphere orbiter now on track to pass directly over both poles. It would be a while yet before the orbiter was settled in, but for now Farlight's job was over. The director settled the launch key around her neck, stretched, the predawn gloom along the eastern horizon heralding another day and with it a fresh set of problems. 

But "problem" was just another word for "opportunity".

 

 

________________________________

 

 

"Your trundle needs a bath hun."

A brief flash of Mun light on metal was the only warning Jeb got. He snatched his keys out of the air in an act of self defense and nodded to each of the new arrivals in turn. "Easy now, that's our brand identity you're talking about there."

Bob scanned the sky again, make another adjustment to the telescope. "Dirt's probably the only thing keeping it in one piece."

They had arrived on the roof of the extruder one or two at a time, a gambit to fend off the reporters who always seemed to find them whenever they gathered in one place. It had almost worked, the lone reporter catching them in the parking lot despite the circuitous route Ansted had taken with the last of the team. Ever the quick thinker, she'd offered up Hudbert for an "exclusive interview" before spiriting the rest of them off into the night. By the time the poor woman realized her mistake, they were long gone. 

Besides Hudbert, only Bill was absent, the business of campaigning taking up more and more of his time as the election drew closer. But they were starting to pull away according to the polls, they were winning, and with each passing day the pressure grew to start delivering those promised "firsts". The X-2 prototype was ready, the new booster collars finished and mated to the vehicle, and with that, it was time for the next critical step.

It was time to give it a name. 

The eastern sky was lightening, all but the brightest stars chased westward towards the mountains. The sounds of the swamp rose up from far below, a symphony of insects that stretched to the horizon in three directions. And as always, the heat and humidity of the previous day lingered, damp and sticky and sodden.

"We could call it Spark?" 

Ansted elbowed Gusmin in the ribs, cried out "Ha! Company man, I knew it!" There was enough light to see faces, if only just, and Gusmin's smile was half-hearted and more than a little confused. Rodfrey chided her sister, but that only seemed to egg her on.  

"We should call it Lightning." Jeb got between the three of them, clapped former Zaltonic employee on the back. 

Bob glanced up from the telescope. "Why not Greased Lightning?" 

Jeb started to say something, stopped, his expression growing thoughtful, a slow grin. Bob rolled his eyes, turned back to his measurements. "No, nevermind."

More laughter, another elbow from Ansted. She and Rodfrey and Jeb pitched suggestions back and forth, some serious and some otherwise, Gusmin occasionally chiming in. Skylark. Damselfly. Albatross! Another elbow. Corfel demurred, the name of the vehicle simply not important to him. He seemed impatient, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and occasionally swatting at the insects that were starting to find them. Bob likewise kept his thoughts to himself, other than to make it clear that no one was to jostle the telescope. Wehrbree perched on the guard rail, the ocean at her back, looking upwards at the stars spread over the western mountains. Other than a brief hello she hadn't said a word all evening, and even the bugs seemed inclined to leave her alone. 

"Oh come on now!" Ansted's voice, low, conspiratorial, and then a guffaw from Jeb, a quick huff from Rodfrey. "Screamin Armadillo! I dare you!" 

"The look on Bill's face would almost be worth it." More laughter, even Rodfrey cracking a smile, but then Bob cut them all off, stood suddenly, pointed over the telescope. 

"And there it is."

A single bright star slid away from the southern horizon and eased its way skywards. The conversation stilled, the seven of them lapsing into silence as they followed the point of light upwards. Far too slow to be a meteor, and much faster than any planet they had ever seen, it simply did not look natural. Which was fitting, since it wasn't.

The Exosphere orbiter cruised overhead at nearly 100 kilometers altitude, twice as high as the X-2's anticipated service ceiling and well beyond even the wildest guesses at its top speed. They stared after it, private thoughts accompanied only by the fading sounds of the night and the distant sigh of the ocean. Jeb exhaled as the orbiter passed beyond the northern horizon, was for once at a loss for words. Try as he might, he couldn't help the feeling that they had already been bested. 

"Starchaser."

The word came out slowly, softly, each syllable edged with a hint of revelation and wonder. Six heads turned to find Wehrbree gazing skyward, still perched on the guard rail and now framed in the light of the rising sun. After a moment she looked down at Jeb, ignored the others, repeated herself in a sure and steady voice. "Starchaser."

And Jeb smiled, a quick nod of acknowledgement, looked around at each of the others and found agreement in their faces.

"Starchaser."

 

________________________________

 

 

"Is my nine o'clock here yet?"

The Probodobodyne rep drew up to the reception desk, fished his keys out of his pocket as the secretary checked the log.

"No sir, the nine o'clock hasn't checked in yet." The rep nodded thanks, pushed himself away from the desk and started down the hallway. It was not quite half past eight, but you could never be too careful with. . .with those people. 

The aftermath of the launch had occupied him longer than he'd thought it would. The meeting with the scientists had gone well, the orbiter was healthy and the ground station would probably have all the data off of it by midday. But the academy representatives were already pressing for the next mission, as though they didn't really care about the polar data at all. It was more than a little bizarre, but it was also a puzzle for another time. 

The rep hurried to his office, grateful to have some time to prepare before his next meeting arrived. The lock on the door was as stubborn as always, and he had to rock the mechanism back and forth three times before it would open. Need to get maintenance on that. He followed the opening door into the office and stopped dead in his tracks. 

There were two of them, ornate maroon robes with gold patterns and trim. The gold thread looked like it might be actual gold. They had pushed the two chairs that were normally in front of the  desk aside, and the rep had the sudden impression that they had been standing there forever, that the office had been built up around them years ago. There was no way these two had walked in unnoticed, and the door had been locked. . .

"Is your machine ready?"

Fifteen years of negotiating high stakes contacts kept the rep from stammering, but only just. "Good morning gentlemen, I have the final engineering schematics right here if you'd care to. . ."

"We do not care for your drawings. There is no time. Is your machine ready?"

"Gentlemen, please. . ." He turned, closed the door behind him, the motion giving him a brief moment to think. It dawned on him that they were asking if the actual flight hardware was ready right now. But that was absurd! It had only been two days since they'd finalized the performance requirements! But the rep remembered then the pipeline, the extruder, the sense of having to beat a problem to death instead of truly solving it. Of course they wouldn't wait for proper development. To them, it wasn't important. 

"Your machine is not ready. We will reduce your compensation accordingly."

That got his attention. The rep turned, consigned himself to having this meeting pinned back up against the door to his office. He smiled, nodded acknowledgement, knew instinctively that excuses, justified or otherwise, would only make things worse. 

"The machine will be ready in one Munar cycle." A slight inclination of the head hinted that it might be a question. The rep's mind spun-- the new orbiter's computer was the same, 50% increase in peroxide bunkerage, same engine, twice as much bipropellant. Need to calibrate the gravimetric array, but the batteries were the key. Could he trust Zaltonic? No choice, but the rocket! By the stars, Kinsey was going to kill him. . .

"Yes, one month. We'll be ready."

There was no nod, no acknowledgement, just a general straightening of posture and a start towards the door. The rep opened the door for them out of reflex, and then the two Peninsulites were past him and out into the hallway. The rep let the door close behind him, leaned his head back on the cool wood, closed his eyes. He stayed that way a long moment, just breathing, and then finally pushed himself away from the door and reached for the handset on the desk.  

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"Okay people, listen up!"

Kinsey took a deep breath, hit the disconnect key, laid the handset for the interline back in its cradle. She should be furious. At some point she would be. But something in the Probodobodyne rep's voice had brought her up short, the casual arrogance replaced with genuine need. His mistake, her mess, but at the end of the day if his money was good, what did it matter?

"Probodobodyne has a new time table, and we have to come through on this, or the whole program is a wash. As of this moment, the Farlight rocket no longer exists."

Murmurs, confused glances. Kinsey pressed on. 

"That. . ." she gestured to the rocket dominating the bay floor. ". . .is now officially the Farlight Mark 1."

 

 

 

 

 

"The Exosphere Series Three ADCAP orbiter clocks in at just under eight tons. We know we can get it into a low polar orbit with the rocket we have, so figure twelve, maybe fifteen tons tops for a low equatorial orbit." Kinsey made eye contact with each of the team leads in turn.

"Preliminary estimates put the Exosphere Series Four at around thirty five tons." There was some fidgeting, the soft shuffling of feet. Someone whistled, low and long. 

"Probodobodyne wants to spare their propellant for on orbit maneuvers, so almost all of the orbital velocity is going to need to come from the rocket itself." The whistler snorted loudly. People were looking at each other, some shaking their heads. 

Kinsey dropped the hammer. "They want the rocket ready in three weeks."

They erupted in disbelief and anger, but Kinsey cut them right off. "That's enough!" She had learned long ago that you could be someone's boss or someone's friend, but never both at the same time. Kinsey let the pilot light behind her eyes pop open, rounded on the loudest of them, let there be no doubt that in that moment, she was not anyone's friend. "No one said this job was going to be easy, and anyone who wants to slink off to Capitol City and push palm fronds around all day is welcome to leave!" She gestured out the open VAB door. 

"The truth of the matter is, we've been lazy. We knew this was coming, and we got a good look at how much room for improvement there was when we missed the polar cap. And what did we do? We sat on our hands, and we patted ourselves on the back and reassured ourselves that finally, at last, we had something that worked."

"Well, it doesn't work anymore. We have three weeks. You." Kinsey skewered the technician that had been working with the Kestes people. "Can Kestes triple their output? Find out. Yes, now!" He scampered away. She rounded on someone else. "You were supposed to get with Zaltonic on the load limits for their new batteries. Go park yourself in their office until you get an answer!"

Kinsey wheeled away from them, stopped in the shadow thrown by the rocket, looked up at the Series Three orbiter mounted on top of it. Already obsolete. "We're going to have to be faster, tighter, meaner than ever before if we're going to pull this off. The issues with the high test peroxide still haven't been sorted, the decouplers are still a mess and our attitude control is still all over the place. And you!" Kinsey rounded on the janitor. "Were you waiting for a hand written invitation to sweep out Bay Three?"

Richvan crossed her arms. "Someone made off with my broom."

There was a quick guffaw from someone in the crowd, a little too enthusiastic, someone trying too hard. "Hey ya'll lookee here, we're gonna have a contest to see who gets to be the head witch!"

It got quiet.

Two pairs of eyes swiveled in the direction of the snickering. The crowd parted, Curtis suddenly standing by himself, too busy laughing at his own joke to notice. 

"Aw now Kinsey, I didn't mean nothing by it. Hee!" He wiped a tear from his eye, fought another wave of laughter. "Don't turn me into anything unnatural."

It got quieter. Kinsey's face split into a smile that could curdle sheet metal. 

"No. No I have a better use for you."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"Here are the rest of the reports."

Uncle ignored the new attendant, turned the rusty steel key over in his hands. He allowed himself the indulgence of the memory, could still see the face of the key's previous owner. And the drainage shaft that had been the end of him. Why? That face had asked, as it dropped away into the dark. Because knowledge is power, and power draws flies. You made yourself a target old friend, and if not me then someone else. Someone less. . .dedicated.

He blinked once, let the key drop to the table, shifted through the new papers. Design schematics for Probodobodyne's new orbiter. . .and his contact had been very thorough. 

"Five gravimetric scanners?" The orbiter looked like it was completely clad in batteries, would have more than enough power to drive all five scanners at once. But why? What possible use would that. . .he looked down at the key and answered his own question.

He asked it anyways. "Why would the Peninsulites be interested in mineral scans?"

There was no hesitation. "They wouldn't be." 

Uncle was quiet a moment, then he passed the reports back to the attendant. This one might make it. "Run copies of these and send them along to the engineers. I think Tyler's team owes us a favor." 

 He palmed the key, felt the weight of it, the corroded metal no longer capable of reflecting the dim light of the tunnels. He saw another face now, another old memory, a face that had never asked why, had only been interested in how. They had been bolder back then, the wild scramble to establish themselves in the wake of the government's purge of its own intelligence apparatus. It had been a trying time, but Uncle had made sure the nascent Institute had ridden the chaos all the way to the top of the pile. Aside from a few small hiccups over the years, things had been fairly stable ever since. 

And now this. It didn't make sense. . .it did not fit the pattern. Grand Peninsula was nothing if not predictable, but they purchased labor from outsiders, not expertise. Their contract with Probodobodyne hinted at either desperation, or anger, and both prospects were terrifying.

What are they looking for?

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"Give it back!"

Polik laughed as he ran, held the little launch key up in triumph, crashed through the foliage with wild abandon. The ground was soft under his feet, the air around him filled with swamp sounds and the shrieking voices of kerblets temporarily freed from the fetters of adult supervision. The shouting behind him stopped, and he slowed, twisted back to launch another taunt and had just enough time to realize his mistake. Valentina's body followed her shoulder and the two of them went down hard.

The launch key sailed onward into the undergrowth. 

It was quiet for a long moment. And then the wailing started, built quickly, that distinctive, moaning shriek of a child in pain. The rest of them scattered, and now there was noise in the foliage, angry adult voices drawing closer. Polik rolled to his feet and ran toward the voices, and very shortly thereafter. . .

"Young lady, you get over here right this instant!"

Valentina hesitated, set her face, knew she only had a few moments. She started in the direction the key had gone, fought her way deeper into the undergrowth, gritted her teeth against the thorns and the mud and. . .there! A bit of light on the ground, nestled in a tangle of vine. 

"Valentina! You come here right now!"

She reached for the chain, a soft, sharp gasp, drew her hand back as the vine moved, coiled itself tightly around the little key. But there was no time. She grabbed, and she tugged, the vine tugging back, only to suddenly let go. Valentina fell backwards, sat down hard in the mud with the plastic and metal launch key firmly gripped in her hands. The air filled with the quiet rustle of dried leaves. 

She stared, mesmerized, as the vine shuddered, and coiled, and then reached out for her. And then she was violently snatched up from behind.

"There you are! You are in such trouble young lady. Why did you do that to poor Polik's face?"

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

The day was bright and clear, the sun not too hot, the air not too damp. And the sidewalks not too crowded. Bob chatted as they went along, a laundry list of his usual worries and what if's. Jeb nodded and smiled at the right moments, mostly let the words wash past him. This would be the first test flight of the X-2, a remotely piloted shake down of the major systems and procedures. Bob was worried. . .Bob was always worried. But it would be fine. . Starchaser.  Jeb rolled the word around in his head, still liked the ring of it. 

The three training flights had gone well. Gusmin had handled himself well enough, though with the X-1 being what it was he had never been in any real danger, and he'd known it. Jeb shrugged mentally. . .time would tell there. Like Bill, Rodfrey had passed out near the apex of her X-1a flight. She had managed some photographs, two of them very good, and in the end had done no better or worse than Bill had. But the flight had been more about guts than talent, and the experience seemed to have taken a bit of wind out of her sails. That would bear watching. 

Hudbert had not passed out, had ridden his X-1a all the way up and then down again with no trouble at all, as if he had been too busy talking to worry much about breathing. He'd managed to use up all the film they'd given him, though none of the shots were particularly inspiring. 

And that was it for the Mayflies. It would be a few weeks at least before they could cobble together any more, and most of those would wind up being charter flights for sightseers of one stripe or another. The others were clamoring for flights of their own, but for now they'd have to wait. 

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

"Nope." Jeb grinned, clapped Bob on the back, took a deep lungful of the morning air. "Look at all that beautiful sky!" 

Bob frowned. Jeb's grin developed a bit of an edge. "It'll be fine. Or it won't." Jeb shrugged. Bob gave up.

"We missed you at Wurli's last night." 

"Working late." Jeb scuffed an errant stone off the sidewalk and back into the adjacent rock bed. "Did you know we can order room service from the hotel front desk with those paycards Bill gave us?"

"Yes. And I've seen the recent expense reports. That restaurant is very expensive Jeb."

"That restaurant is fantastic! It. . .look, this is how these things work. Whatever you don't spend gets taken away from you. Might as well take advantage. . .while. . .uh. . ."

Jeb and Bob drew up short. And stared.

"Mornin' fellas." 

"Curtis?"

"Yea Jeb?"

Bob and Jeb exchanged looks. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, uh, nothin. That is to say, Kinsey wanted some wind speed numbers before your test flight, so. . .uh. Yep. I'm measurin'."

Curtis hung upside down from the very top of the flagpole, the halyard wrapped tightly around both feet. He had a small anemometer in one hand, a pencil in the other, and someone had duct taped a pad of paper to his right thigh. 

"Huh." 

"Not our problem Jeb."

"Nope." The two pilots resumed walking. Jeb's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "But someday, it might be."

"Hey fellas? Uh, you make sure to let Kinsey know I've finished!"

. . .

"Fellas?"

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"It's a byproduct of the extruder's power plant. Dreadful stuff. Absolutely dreadful." 

"But also useful!"

"Wonderfully useful! But, also, dreadful."

The Probodobodyne rep trailed after the two Kerbodyne engineers, only half listening as they prattled on. The sun felt good on his skin, served to burn away some of the stress from his earlier encounter with the Peninsulites. He'd asked around afterwards. . .no one in the office had seen them leave the building. That wasn't possible, but. . .

". . .reacts violently with its environment. . ."

The rep's stride wavered. "Excuse me? How reactive is it?" 

"Some!"

"What?"

The two engineers snapped their fingers in unison. "Somewhat!" There was an awkward high five between the two of them that nearly sent both stumbling to the ground. The rep narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. These two had definitely been too close to some of their distillates.

There was one final contract on the books for the Exosphere Series Three, an open ended mission that would complete the survey of Kerbin's outer atmosphere, where the "air" was so thin it was reduced to a few stray molecules that, while gravitationally bound to Kerbin, rarely interacted with each other. Scientific reputations were being staked on this flight, or so he had been told, and the various academies had focused all of their attention on it before the polar overflight had even concluded. They had deemed this mission very important.

More importantly to Probodobodyne, this mission would also serve as a test flight for Farlight's new rocket. The Series Three ADCAP ("added capability") had an extra ring of batteries and a more efficient thruster arrangement,  and the removal of the gravimetric scanner for this mission would give the orbiter plenty of endurance. This, combined with the extra throw weight of the new rocket, had sent Probodobodyne looking for additional payloads for the mission. And now Kerbodyne had, eagerly, obliged. 

They came at last to an open area near the cluster of labs and research facilities on the far side of the complex. A large glass tank had been set up on a stand, and inside the tank was a thick, soppy mess of greenish. . .something. Goo was the word the rep's brain kept reaching for. It certainly looked dreadful. But not terribly useful.

"All right gentlemen, what am I looking at?"

Kerbodyne had been working with Farlight to puzzle out the inner workings of the extruder's power source. So far they'd gotten no where, but they had discovered this mysterious substance that seemed to defy all attempts at classification. Other than being gross (dreadfully gross), the goo had a habit of reacting violently if suddenly placed in a new environment. It could be stored safely and indefinitely in an environment of pure argon, but take that environment away. . .

One of the Kerbodyne engineers hit a toggle and the glass case popped open. There was a sudden, shrill wail, somewhere between high pitched steam whistle and terrified animal. The goo shriveled into a small twist of grayish black crystal, and then was silent.

The rep had the irrational feeling that he'd just watched something die. 

"The crystal is inert, you see! Tough as diamond, highly resistant to heat, radiation. . .anything! It picks up characteristics of the surrounding environment at the moment of its creation, and thereafter is almost impossible to destroy!"

"And those characteristics can be read, if you have the right scanner!" The two engineers bobbed their heads, blinked in unison. The pair lapsed into silence, and the rep could feel his patience thinning with each perfectly synchronized blink. 

"How much power does it. . ."

"And first we tried a longwave scanner, but the results were dreadful!"

"Dreadfully dreadful!"

"Then we tried a shortwave scanner, which was only mostly dreadful."

"Which is better than completely dreadful!" 

The rep rubbed at the knot that was trying to form between his eyes.

"And then, we tried a scanner with a wavelength of 80 mm. . ."

"Wait, let me guess." The rep stared straight up at the sky, screwed his eyes shut against a rising headache. "It was only somewhat dreadful?"

"No, it was perfect!"

"Perfectly perfect!"

The two Kerbodyne engineers pointed to a series of interconnected structures, and at length the Probodobodyne rep realized that the buildings were the scanner. There was no way this thing was ever going to fly.

"80 millimeters. . .80 millimeters. . ." The two chemists blinked, and mumbled, and then snapped their fingers in triumph. 

"It's a handwave scanner!"

 

 

________________________________

 

 

Kinsey and her team had ensconced themselves in the extruder's drafting room, schematics and sketches scattered among plates of warm potato bread and steaming platters of waterfowl. Probodobodyne had fronted a substantial sum of money to expedite the development of the new rocket, and the Farlight director had in turn pulled out all the stops. Catering from the hotel's five-star restaurant kept their brains humming along at peak efficiency, and they had been given permission to access the extruder's systems directly in order to speed up the design process. They'd skipped the planning stage entirely, and were instead cutting metal and designing the rocket as they were assembling it. It was wasteful in the extreme, but it was faster.

Assuming the end result didn't blow them all to pieces the first time they tried to light it.

 

 

 

 

 

There was no time for finesse or even basic iteration-- the Farlight Two was simply more. The original Kestes add-on motors had metastasized into a convoluted first stage made up of both solid and liquid engines. In addition to the radially attached augmenters, each of the five decoupler rings now had one of the larger Kestes-1 SRMs attached inline underneath it. Each of those motors had an additional ring of augmenters attached radially, and added to this were eight outboard LV-T15 liquid engines. The solid motors were stagger fired, and the LV-T15's were throttled so that everything burned out after about fifty seconds. They'd added eight parachutes in the hopes of keeping the discarded stage from doing any damage on the ground. 

None of the engines provided any sort of directional control, and the attached fins were more for cooling than steering. The second stage of the rocket was equipped with four independent peroxide tanks and 32 RCS thruster blocks, in the hopes that overkill would be enough to lever the thing into orbit.

The third stage had had its zinc-copper batteries replaced with four of Zaltonic's new nickel-hydrogen canisters, more to flight test them than anything else. 

The rocket wasn't the only machine out on the bay floor. Kinsey could see Jeb and his crew fussing with their X-2 prototype on the far end of the cavernous room. A few more connections and they'd have the aircraft hooked up to its carrier, and from there out to the firing pad and out of her way. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kinsey crossed her arms and frowned. So far the relationship between Farlight and Jeb's project had been mostly professional, occasionally cordial. But Kinsey knew there was building resentment within the company over Jeb's "priority status" when it came to Farlight's resources and infrastructure. And what would happen if one of the daredevils got themselves killed? Would Farlight wind up taking the blame? Kinsey was expecting pressure from the director to hasten development of a replacement engine for Jeb's LV-T series any time now, but for the moment she had enough on her plate.

Well, maybe there was room on her plate for a little more of that bread. . .

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

The Kerbodyne lab was bright, airy, the doodles on the whiteboards and the plastic furniture making it look more like a daycare center than a serious enterprise. The two chemists stood at one end of a table, mumbling and fussing with an electric tea kettle. Two Peninsulites stood silently at the other. The table top between them was covered in unsigned contracts printed on gilded paper. They would need to be reviewed, of course, but that was certainly just a formality.

The Peninsulites were a picture of disdainful grace, stoic, stone faced, their demeanor commanding attention while giving away nothing in return. But if one knew where to look, how to listen, one could feel the fatigue. The two had spent days now in the company of barbarians, and the wonderful smell of brewing tea was a welcome relief. It was rare to see such as these exhibit even a modicum of civilized behavior. The two Peninsulites almost smiled as the Kerobdyne chemists nodded and lifted the kettle off the table. . .

. . .and then gasped in horror as they poured the contents into a pitcher full of ice.

The chemists blinked in surprise. And then nodded in realization. "Oh my, but that was terribly uncivilized!"

"Dreadfully uncivilized!"

One of the chemists smashed a large wedge of lemon onto the rim of the pitcher and pushed it across the table with a great big smile.

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"You all set Bob?" There was a silent thumbs up from the forward bank of consoles. Jeb glanced back up and out of the narrow slat in the blockhouse. The X-2 looked small on the firing pad from this distance, despite being more than twice the size of the X-1. It was a sobering reminder that the Starchaser's "explosives-to-airframe" ratio was significantly higher than the Mayfly's. The opposition campaign had picked up on that, and their new wireless advertisements were calling it a "bomb with a seat". It was not an altogether inaccurate description.

Jeb could not wait to ride it.

"Corfel, you all set?" The Kestes pilot nodded once, eyes firmly on the panel in front of him. The initial ascent would be handled by a mechanical sequencer, but once the boost collars were jettisoned Corfel would fly the X-2 from the blockhouse. The flight profile called for a splashdown somewhere east of the complex, and they were reasonably sure they could have the Starchaser on its parachutes before it went over the horizon. 

"Okay, here we go!" Jeb drew a plunger out from the console, twisted it clockwise and drove it back down into its housing. 

The deep rasp of the solid fuel augmenters was the same as the Mayfly, but more, the sound of it pounding against the blockhouse with a physical force. The X-2 seemed to undulate a bit coming off the pad. . .

. . .and then tore itself neatly in half. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

The lab was still bright, still airy, but the Peninsulites were gone, and they had taken the carefree spirit of the place with them. The two chemists sat in their bright plastic chairs, shuffled the papers, and knew that this was the end of them.

"Oh, this is dreadful! Simply dreadful!"

"Yes, most dreadful." One of the chemists picked up a gilded sheet, turned it just so, the gold leaf scattering the overhead lighting across the whiteboard in a brilliant kaleidoscope of bronze and silver. He smiled, nodded vigorously, turned to his companion. . .who simply frowned and shook his head. The sheet fell back to the table, and the two folded in on themselves, defeated.

The paperwork consisted of sales contracts, and once you cut through the thick, unwieldy language they boiled down to an offer to provide any chemical compound. . .any compound. . .in nearly any quantity and with only a two day turn around. And the Peninsulites would perform that service for exactly half the price of the Kerbodyne chemical plant.   

How long would it take for their company to go from producer to distributor? Not long, not long at all.

Oh, but this was dreadful.

Two decades of research and education, of collaborating with the top minds in the region on some of the most challenging chemistry of their time, and here they both were, reduced to filling out requisition forms while someone else had all the fun. And at half the price to boot. 

"I suppose, we should get started. Well."

The first item on the list was straight forward enough. The new Farlight rocket was almost entirely reliant on hydrogen peroxide thrusters for attitude control, and they were going to need a lot of it. The requisition form was straight forward enough too. What did they need?

A pencil scratched across the paper. Hydrogen Peroxide.

How much did they need?

The chemist bowed his head, the light in his eyes flickering, the levity draining out of him. This wasn't just dreadful, it was degrading. This was work for an intern. Would this be how their careers would end? Would they never again be called upon to do something wild, like that time when. . .

The chemist stopped. And he blinked. And then, very slowly, he turned the pencil around and rubbed away the word Hydrogen. What if. . .the light popped back on, seared away the gloom. His partner caught on, snapped his fingers, nodded vigorously.

"Oh, but that is dreadful!"

"Deliciously dreadful!" The pencil scratched across the paper.

Fluorine Peroxide.

How much did they need? The grin was wicked now, the chemist scratching "10 kilograms" in the appropriate field.

The two glanced at each other, glanced back to the paper, and then scribbled in a few more zeros. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

The drafting room in the extruder was emptying out slowly, the Farlight team going home for a brief rest after a solid day's work. Kinsey stood off to one side, shaking hands and offering thanks. There would be no more rebukes today. . .the team had done well. 

Jeb, Bob and Corfel were set up in front of one of the projectors watching film of their latest disaster. Kinsey nodded her way free of the last of her team, watched the screen from across the room as the X-2 came apart in slow motion. She pulled a last bit of meat loose from one of the bird carcasses, popped it into her mouth, picked up something else from the platter and headed for the door. 

Bob rewound the film, set it playing back again at the lowest possible setting. The boost collars ignited evenly-- at this speed it was possible to see the small puffs of the ignition coils a fraction of a second before they were consumed in flame. The X-2 shuddered slightly as it came off the pad, as though someone had grabbed the nose in one hand and the tail in the other and twisted in opposite directions. The RCS motors fired wildly trying to correct, slow motion tendrils of hot steam that seemed only to make it worse. And then the bouncing started, a violent motion that looked like an invisible giant was using the aircraft's long axis as a pogo stick. One, twice, three times and then CRACK-- the left half of the Starchaser went one way, and the right half the other. The cockpit stayed stubbornly attached to the left section, the wings on that side still fighting a hopeless battle for control, while the right seized up completely. Bob stopped the projector with a soft click of the switch. 

"Don't forget to turn the lights out when you're finished." Kinsey flipped something onto the projector table on her way past, and then she was gone. 

The three of them stared at it. Bob picked up the small object, held it up in front of the screen.

It was a wishbone. 

Bob applied a little bit of pressure to the bottom, and then a little more, and then CRACK-- the wishbone split neatly in half, one side slightly longer than the other.

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Two weeks. 

Two weeks of sleepless nights, back breaking labor, worry and doubt. But there had been steady progress. The Probodobodyne rep put the finishing touches on his report, leaned back in his chair, watched the sun set over the mountains. And for the first time in two weeks he let himself relax, if only a little.

Zaltonic had come through, had rushed their new battery design into production at a speed the rep had thought impossible. But, perhaps old Lou had anticipated the problem and had jumped out in front of them all. The rep allowed himself a small smile, watched the clouds fade from orange to red. Yes, that would be just like him. 

Kinsey had surprised as well, had hammered out the new rocket in only two weeks instead of three. There had been no clairvoyance there, just sheer, stubborn willpower. Still, he had been left with the impression that Farlight had only scratched the surface of the extruder's capabilities-- perhaps, in the future, such miracles would become routine. 

Unfortunately, the Kerbodyne experiment package was a complete bust. The module itself was reasonable enough at around 300 kilograms, but the scanner needed to make sense of the data was an absolute no go. It worked, but the size, weight and power requirements were well beyond any spacecraft they could dream of, let alone build. These "mystery goo" modules would need to be returned to a groundside lab for analysis if they were going to be useful, and that was not going to happen.

In lieu of the goo canisters, the pending Exosphere Series Three mission would carry a prototype automatic camera, as well as equipment for developing the film and converting the images to a wireless signal that could be transmitted back to the ground. The rep had no idea why such a thing was even necessary, but the Peninsulites had insisted the new Series Four orbiter carry one. So there was no harm in taking a page from Lou's book and getting ahead of the game. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Two weeks.

Bob rubbed at this face, let his eyes slide across the data again without really reading it. They had tried twice more, had tried stagger firing the augmenters, and then tried a different pattern of welds. Neither had worked, both attempts resulting in terrible crashes that made the Mayfly's earlier failures seem downright charming. Bill would be here soon, and he would expect a report on their progress.

And that report was going to be very bad.

The shock from the booster collars at ignition was severe, and that shock transferred up through the engine attachments into the propellant tanks and from there into the probe core. The reinforced steel casing on the probe core should have been able to resist the resulting torque-- or at least, it would have been able to according to the original design. But Kestes had added a metal spacer to hold the augmenters clear of the tail, and that in turn had resulted in a longer lever arm. . .and a subsequent increase in torque. Follow up calculations put the load right at the edge of the probe core's theoretical limits, and the additional forces incurred by the launch were obviously enough to push things over that edge. 

"So, where does this leave us?" Jeb shoved another handful of fried potato wedges into his mouth. Bob sighed, and he glowered. . .and then his stomach betrayed him with a loud gurgle. Jeb didn't miss a beat, held the paper container out in Bob's direction. Bob stared at it briefly and then shrugged. What did it matter? He took a handful of his own,chewed thoughtfully, a bit of life coming back to his expression.

"Those are good."

"Aren't they though? Courtesy of the fine taxpayers of Capitol City."

"Jeb." Bob leaned back in his chair, rubbed at his eyes. "You'd better enjoy those. Once word gets out that the X-2 really is a bomb with a seat, we may be back to water and crackers for a while."

Something flickered over Jeb's face and then was quickly gone, the mask dropping back into place. "Is it that bad?"

Bob huffed his frustration. "Where have you been for the last two weeks? Oh, that's right! You've been busy stuffing your face while the rest of. . ." He caught himself, embarassed at the rare show of emotion. "Nevermind."

Jeb popped another wedge into his mouth, chewed slowly, was far away for a moment. "What about the RCS?"

Bob closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face. "What about the RCS Jeb?"

"Do we need it?"

"Yes."

"Why? Let's try it with the RCS turned off and see what happens."

"I. . ." Well, what did it matter? What did it matter if they crashed another one? The X-2 wasn't aerodynamically stable with the boosters attached, and without the RCS. . .but what did it matter?

"Sure, why not."

Jeb smiled around the wad of potato in his mouth. Bob made a mental note to start polishing his resume.  

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"T minus 30 seconds and counting."

The Probodobodyne rep sat at his console, looked out the reinforced windows at the rocket sitting on the firing pad. It was a little taller, a little wider at the base, had perhaps a little more bristle to it from the extra fins and thruster quads. From this distance the most notable difference was the launch clamps, the extra structure hiding the enlarged first stage from view. 

"T minus 20 seconds."

The rep scanned over his gauges again, no signs of trouble. The Exosphere Three's probe core had control of the rocket now, but most of the rest of the orbiter's systems were locked down and would stay that way until the rocket was finished. For the moment, he was little more than a spectator. 

"T minus 15, ignition coils armed."

Probodobodyne had no real interest in the mission itself, but the rocket. . .if the rocket didn't work. . .

"T minus 10. . ."

"Nine. . ."

"Eight. . .sound suppression active. . ."

"Five. . ."

"Outboard ignition. . ."

There was a flash at the base of the rocket, the eight liquid fuel engines snapping to life within the steel cage of the launch clamps. The sound was the deep rumble of a bathtub filling with water, overlaid with the higher, snap whip of a flag flying in a strong wind. 

"Three. . ."

"Two. . ."

"One. . .commit launch!"

The rep jumped in his seat as the rocket's forty five solid fuel motors lit off. For a long moment it looked as though the clamps and gantry had simply exploded, but as the Farlight 2 wobbled away from the pad the twisted remains of the clamps could be seen through the smoke. 

"We're real shaky here Flight."

"Copy. Guidance?"

"Standby Flight."

The room seemed to hunch in on itself, as though the controllers feared the rocket was going to fall through the ceiling at any moment. But the great machine seemed to catch itself, the speed coming up, the rocket now wreathed in exhaust from the RCS thrusters. One by one, the controllers started breathing again.

"Standby booster SEP in three. . .two. . .one. . ."

Console lights dimmed and flashed, gauges fluttered and spiked. And someone swore quietly.

"Flight, tracking has four. . .now six separate returns."

"Booster?"

"Negative, second stage looks good on all five engines. We're still go."

"Guidance?"

"Hanging in there Flight."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

The blockhouse was damp, cold, smelled strongly of black powder and char. The sun had not yet risen along the eastern horizon, and the X-2 squatted in the glare of a single flood light.

The first stage of the Farlight 2 had come apart immediately after separation, pieces of it raining down all around the firing pad. Jeb and his team had waited through the afternoon and then all night while the Farlight ground crew cleaned up the mess. But the Exosphere orbiter had reached orbit, was well on its way to completing its mission.

Now they would have their turn.

Bob and Corfel sat at their consoles, terse words, low voices, shrugs and pointed glances. The two exuded a sense of futility as they went over their checklists. 

"Would you two lighten up? This is going to work, trust me." 

Bob seemed to crumple a bit further into his seat. Jeb was having none of it, started to say something, but Corfel beat him to it.

"If you're so sure this is going to work, then would you mind waiting outside until we're done with the test?"

Jeb's smile developed an edge, but Corfel held his gaze and his ground, and finally Jeb backed off, lapsed into silence as the two finished their prep work. He watched the two from the shadows, the smile genuine now, saw the makings of a great team.

"Ignition coils to ARM. Throttle forward to 25% and locked."

"RCS to pressurize, control loop disabled."

"Stability Assist to ACTIVE. RCS. . .verified, RCS unresponsive."

It was quiet a moment. Bob glanced at Corfel, got a brief nod in answer, and then pulled, twisted, and drove the plunger home. The Starchaser heaved skyward, was visible in the darkness as two distinct clusters of light.

"Redlining." Bob was focused entirely on the readout for the strain gauges, the probe core already at or beyond its design limits. He shook his head once, the low growl inaudible over the thunder of the engines.

Corfel meanwhile was focused on the attitude displays. The readings were all over the place, the machine bouncing and twisting seemingly at random. But after several seconds he began to see a pattern and then, as if on impulse, he reached out and flipped the switch that would reenable the RCS.

"What. . .?" Bob watched the strain levels spike higher, but they stabilized and then, after several seconds, began to recede.

"I told you it would work." 

"We're still over the limits Jeb."

"But it didn't blow up."

Corfel ignored them both. "Trajectory stable. Four degrees off vertical, heading about 80 degrees." That was not ideal, but they'd take it.

The Starchaser disappeared in the darkness, the sound of it fading, the augmenters now approaching burnout. 

"Standby separation."

"Vehicle is transonic." Jeb could hear the frown in Bob's voice. Was he ever happy about anything? It hadn't blown up!

"Sep one." A brief pause. "Sep two. All green."

The boost collars on the X-2 had a two stage separation process. The lower decouplers fired first, detaching the booster rings while leaving the spacers and shrouds in place to protect the engine bells. The six solid rockets attached to the body of the aircraft also ignited at this point. After a second or so delay, the two upper decouplers fired, releasing the nozzle covers and igniting the liquid rockets underneath at around 25% of their maximum rated thrust.

"Vehicle is transonic again." They were wasting a lot of energy on drag losses, but that was okay. It hadn't blown up!

 "Altitude twelve thousand meters, SRM burnout." The Starchaser was crossing over into the stratosphere, was now running solely on its remaining liquid engines. The acceleration dropped off, the velocity now more or less stable. Corfel's eyes moved back and forth between the fuel gauges, the vertical speed and the altimeter. They couldn't let the X-2 climb too high.

Sixty seconds passed, and then. . ."Thirty thousand meters, we are officially mesospheric." Jeb grinned to himself in the darkness. At least they knew they could make the altitude record. That would probably be enough to satisfy Bill.

"Thirty five thousand, engine cut off. Beginning pitch over." 

Jeb pushed away from the wall, walked over behind the two engineers. "How are we on fuel?"

"Fuel and oxidizer about 50%, still over 90% left in the peroxide tanks." 

Far overhead, the X-2 coasted upwards, its nose now level with the horizon. 

"Forty thousand meters. Beginning engine test." Corfel reignited the liquid engines, this time pushing them to their design limits. The remaining propellant burned quickly, the tanks coughing empty with a slight flutter on the attitude display. Jeb leaned over Corfel's shoulder, noted the reading on the speed gauge. "Well, it's a start."

Corfel grunted assent, switched the Starchaser over to manual control, brought the nose down ten degrees. The vertical speed indicator was now very much negative, the vehicle driving back down into the thickening atmosphere with considerable speed. It was surprisingly stable, the rear mounted tri-wing giving plenty of drag right where they needed it. 

 

 

 

 

"Temperature's starting to go up on the forward hull."

"That's not surprising." Corfel checked the velocity indicator. "We're still picking up speed too."

Bob and Corfel seemed to reach the same conclusion at the same moment, both of them sitting up in their seats and focusing that much harder. 

"We may have a problem here Jeb."

Jeb kept his mouth shut, knew better than to interrupt. 

"Overheat warnings on both parachute canisters. Bring the nose up."

"I can't." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Corfel fought the controls to no avail, the nose staying stubbornly low, the parachutes baking in the heat. The Starchaser slowed as it dropped into the thicker air, the last of the peroxide bleeding out through the thrusters and yet still Corfel could not bring the nose up. He worked the aircraft into a bank, brought the heading back around towards the block house, but they were losing altitude, the wireless connection getting weaker as the Starchaser dropped towards the horizon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Try the parachutes."

Bob hit the switch. Nothing happened. 

"Again." 

This time the attitude display went wild, and the strain gauges, and every other readout on the console. After a second, the aircraft's nose snapped back down, a slight wobble on the attitude indicator hinting at structural damage.

"Partial deployment of the starboard parachute." Bob shook his head. The telemetry faded and died, the Starchaser now below the horizon. Far out to sea, the aircraft continued straight and level until it hit the ocean.

And blew up.

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"There it is again."

The Probodobodyne team was set up in the ground station, the building's large dish antenna tracking a thin wireless signal across the sky. Their orbiter had achieved a highly eccentric orbit, allowing it to make repeated passes through the ephemeral layers of Kerbin's outer atmosphere. But the launch had been sloppy, the resulting orbit inclined nearly five degrees off the equator. This had no effect on the science, but it was causing the orbital track to wander farther away from the ground station with each pass. 

"See, the gap here in the data? Could it be a mechanical defect in the tape drive?"

The orbiter had a magnetic tape recorder that held on to the data it received while it was over the horizon. The ground team was scrambling to get as much as they could off the satellite before the inclined orbit caused it to slip out of their range entirely. But there were problems. The automatic camera had failed after managing only a single photo, and now there were gaps in the data stream, the instruments periodically returning null values or just garbage numbers. The regularity of the gaps suggested a mechanical fault, and yet. . .

"How much propellant do we have left? Really? Okay, let's try changing the orbit a bit on the next pass and see if that has any effect on the timing of the gaps."

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Bill Kerman leaned back in the stuffed chair, took the cigar out of his mouth, regarded it for a long moment. 

"You crashed it how many times?"

Jeb lounged in a chair on the wrong side of the desk, was reminded a bit of their first meeting on Bill's train. The challenge of the campaign trail had been good for Bill, and he could see some of the old swagger coming back. Jeb's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

And that was not necessarily a good thing.

Bob started to answer but Bill cut him right off, stabbed the cigar in his direction. "Stop. I can read, dash it! I should have known better than to leave the two of you alone that long. The election is right around the corner and here you two are with absolutely nothing to show for all the tax money that's been thrown at you!"

Jeb smiled daggers. "You're starting to sound like a real politician Bill."

The two stared each other down across the desk. "Did you even have one successful test flight? Even one?

Bob started to answer, but Jeb cut him right off. "Yes, we did."

It got quiet.

Bill knocked the smoldering end of the cigar off into the ashtray, stared at Jeb for a long moment. "Can you give me any reason, any reason at all, why I shouldn't recommend to the First Minister that we shut this program down?"

"Why would you do that? One more flight and we're in the record books."

Bob kept quiet, couldn't help staring at Jeb, knew that Bill was reading the look on his face, his own opinion made known even if he'd rather it wasn't. 

"The record doesn't count if you die."

"Who said anything about dying?"

"Jeb. . ." Bill ground out the cigar, put his head in his hands, grumbled, "I hate it when you do this."

Jeb turned to look at Bob. "The parachutes are the weak link, and we don't have enough attitude control to protect them." Bob nodded. "Or do we? Let's flip the whole thing around right after burn out, come down tail first."

He looked back over at Bill. "We protect the parachute canisters from air friction and position the aircraft so it doesn't whip around when the chutes deploy." 

Bill didn't look up. "Will that work?"

"Maybe." Bob's mind turned, Jeb looking hard at him now. "The X-2 isn't stable tail first, but I think. . .I think we have enough control authority to keep it from snapping around. But whoever's flying it will have to be very careful not to let it wander too far away from retrograde."

"Don't worry." Jeb's grin was oddly halfhearted. "I will be."

"Absolutely not." Now Bill did look up. "As much as I'm loathe to admit it, you're too much of a public face for this program. If you get yourself killed, that will be the end."

The fire returned to Jeb's grin. "And you need a scapegoat in case something goes wrong."

Bill put both hands down flat on the desk. "Yes."

"Well, I think I can help you boys with that." Ansted came through the door suddenly, Jeb's lack of reaction signaling to Bob and Bill that they'd both been had. She helped herself to one of Bill's cigars, plopped down in a free chair, parked both feet up on the desk. 

"Rodfrey's been crowing about her shiny tin wings all week, but me. . ." she held the cigar out and Jeb obliged, Ansted now smiling sweetly at Bill through a rising pall of smoke. 

"I think gold is more my color."

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

It was warm inside the cockpit despite the conditioned air coming through the vents. Ansted worked her feet back and forth on the rudder pedals, felt the sweat pooling along her back as she shifted. The headset squawked, and she keyed her microphone, turned up the charm.

"Everything's shipshape hun, doin' great in here!" She cut the mic, checked to make sure it was off, then dropped the act, tried to work the cramps out of her legs. The pack of chewing gum Bob had given her was nearly empty-- Ansted didn't give a lick about pressure changes, but she didn't think she was ever going to get the awful taste of cigar out of her mouth.

It had taken them nearly an hour to stuff, strap, and then bolt her into the Starchaser. She'd been lying on her back now for hours, in a cockpit not designed for that position. Farlight was being very careful this time, had insisted on running the flight themselves. They'd already had to purge the cyrogen tanks twice due to delays, and with dawn less than an hour away it was starting to look like they were going to have to do it again. She was beginning to have trouble maintaining her composure, the careful facade of the casually fearless pilot. Skydiving was easy. . .you eased up to the hatch, waited for the signal, and then all you had to do was overcome that one sharp moment of terror. After that, it was all downhill. 

Ansted could hear the animal circling, could feel it stalking closer. The count would start, and after a time boredom would give way to fear, the tension in the controller's voice building with each passing second. The Starchaser would hiss and shudder as pressure built within it, and the animal would appear suddenly, barred teeth and bristled fur, advancing on the helpless pilot strapped into the seat. And you did the only thing you could. . .you stared the beast down and you growled back. 15. . .14 . . .13. . .you growled, and you snarled, and you steeled yourself for that zero count, the moment when the beast would lunge. But then the count stopped, reset to some absurdly high number, and the beast blinked and wandered away like nothing had happened. But you knew it would be back, and my goodness, the waiting. . .

The Starchaser had been billed as a research aircraft, or a stunt flyer, depending on who you asked. But Ansted was starting to realize that it was in fact the world's most exquisite torture chamber.

"Countdown hold. Countdown hold. Reset the clock to. . ."

Ansted balled her hand into a fist to stop it from shaking, closed her eyes. No, this was no good at all. . .

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

John Kerman adjusted his glasses, scanned back over the tell tales on the console. The pressure in the propellant tanks was within tolerance, but it was trending high, and with their already razor thin margins it was looking like they were going to have to do another purge.

He caught motion out of the corner of his eye, looked over at the video feed from the X-2's forward camera. Mounted inside the cockpit, the camera gave them a "pilot's eye view" through the front of the canopy and. . .no, it hadn't been his imagination. The view on the monitor shuddered again, seemed to lurch a bit to one side. . .

"Range, are we getting wind gusts or. . ."

. . .and then the camera heaved around 90 degrees, Ansted's smiling face now looming large on the screen.

"This is boooooring!"

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"T minus 60 seconds and counting."

Ansted could hear the beast stalking closer, could hear it huffing, could feel the growl of it in her chest as the turbopump spun through a test sequence . She kept her composure in an iron grip, aware of the gaze of the camera, forced a little bit of swagger into her smile. It was time to put on a good show for her fans.

"T minus 45 seconds. Starchaser on internal power."

Jeb had taken over the countdown, his voice now pacing out the steps of the beast. It rounded the corner, locked eyes with her and barred its teeth. She could hear the glee in Jeb's voice, the rising excitement goading the beast forward, and she knew that this time it would not stop, that it would lunge for her and she would lunge back, and only one of them would walk away.

"T minus 30 seconds, stability assist to active."

The first five seconds of the flight were the most dangerous. There were no abort options-- if the casing on the probe core failed, or if the Starchaser's control surfaces couldn't keep the machine reasonably straight, she would have just enough time to regret her decision before the end. But Ansted had heard and seen enough to know that the gold wings would be rare and coveted, and with no other new vehicles in the pipeline this was likely her one shot. 

"T minus 15, ignition coils armed."

This should have been Corfel's flight, but he hadn't been fast enough. Now all she had to do was survive it. The beast shrieked and slavered, broke into a run. 

"T minus 10. . ."

"Nine. . ."

"Eight. . ."

"Seven. . ."

Ansted pushed her fear down through her legs, her feet digging hard at the deck where the camera couldn't see it. She dialed up the grin, one last look along the console. . .

"Five. . ."

"Four. . ."

"Three. . ."

. . .and took her eyes off the beast just long enough to give the camera her best wink. 

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Valentina lay on the thin mattress, listened to the wood of the tenement pop and creak in the cooler night air. She was supposed to be sleeping, but if her body was still and her breathing low and steady, her eyes were free to wander about the darkened room without fear of detection. 

The punishment had been swift, seemed terribly cruel to young eyes that had yet to see the world as it really was. Grounded. She imagined the rough hewn walls and mosquito netting as a prison, the tenement itself as a tower from which she must eventually escape in some exciting and heroic manner. She felt the weight of the Kestes launch key around her neck, the chain cool against her skin. Polik had wanted the key for himself, but he hadn't been fast enough. Now all she had to do was. . .

A flash of light through the window caught her eye and she lifted up from the straw and stared in wonder. No, there were two lights, and they seemed to dance and flutter, two bright fireflies playing against the dark sky. The sound arrived a few moments later, the strange, deep rasp of it damped by distance and the thick, humid air. Valentina watched as it went up, and up. . .and up. . .

There was a pop, more imagined than heard, and the fireflies seemed to fade, only to then coalesce and flare anew as a single point of light. Valentina eased back down on the mattress, eyes riveted on the object, watched as it burned higher and faster still. She watched as it climbed up into a sunrise she could not yet see, briefly becoming the brightest object in a gradually lightening sky. Her eyes caught the light and Valentina smiled, the punishment forgotten, her imagination soaring skyward long after the point of light was gone.

Two other eyes watched unseen from the dark hallway, the scowl softening, the eyes fading quietly away from the door. She was supposed to be asleep, but the woman would not, could not, take this moment away from her daughter. There was so little hope these days, and if it could only be found as a distant, fleeting light in the darkness, then so be it. She had read enough of the news-sheets to know what the light was, and Valentina's mother sent a silent prayer after the pilot as she slipped away into the dark.

Good luck, and thank you. 

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Thirty thousand meters and everything looks good. You're officially in the record books."

"Roger that, standing by for engine cut off." Ansted flashed a thumbs up at the camera, settled back in the seat, tried to ease the tension in her shoulders without being too obvious about it.

The first few seconds of the flight had been as bad as advertised, the significant torquing motion made worse by the violent pogo effect as the boosters tried to scissor the vehicle in half. But the X-2 had stabilized and now, with the boosters gone and the augmenters empty the ride was deceptively smooth. There was no sensation of motion, the thin exhaust of the Starchaser's liquid engines just enough to counter the downward pull of gravity. The view out the canopy was pitch black-- no stars, no clouds, no horizon. Ansted had the disorienting sensation that her X-2 was sitting on its tail in a very dark room. 

"Standby engine off. . .in three. . .two. . .one. . .MARK."

"Engine cut off, turbo switch in the standby position."

"Copy cut off. Initiate pitch over."

"Roger, Stability Assist to standby, initiating pitch over."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The twin gouts of steam from the thrusters were silent in the razor thin air, the Starchaser pitching forward slowly. The light level in the cockpit increased as the nose came down, the inky dark outside now suffused with a dull orange glow. But the sun itself remained below the canopy, leaving three bright stars as the only things to be seen. 

"Thirty eight thousand meters. Verify attitude and switch Stability Assist to active."

It was a strange feeling, knowing that those on the ground were looking up at the same three lights.

"Verified, Stability Assist to active."

But Ansted could feel the heat of the sun through the glass, knew that her aircraft was caught in the glare. She grinned-- for those looking up at the sky this morning, there would be four lights. 

"Thirty nine thousand. Trajectory looks good."

"Roger that. Oh, and by the way Jeb. . ." Ansted flashed a smile at the camera.

". . .the cabin's sealed."

There was a quick guffaw on the other side of the line-- in the excitement of the launch and ascent, everyone seemed to have forgotten that the X-2's life support system actually mattered on this flight. But the check valve had closed, and the rest of the system seemed to be working just fine. And if it failed now, well, there was nothing anyone could do about it. 

"Four zero thousand, proceed with ignition check list."

"Better clear out some more room in that record book hun." Ansted reached over towards the side panel, watched as a small washer rose out from a gap between the seat and the bulkhead. It drifted upwards until it clattered against the canopy. And it was not alone. . .a small cloud of dust, bits of wiring and at least two rather nasty looking screws were now clacking around on the inside of the glass. 

Ansted managed to keep most of the horror off her face as a half-eaten sandwich came out of a side compartment and pancaked against the glass in slow motion. She scowled into the camera. 

It was quiet a long moment.

"Huh, that's weird." Jeb's tone suggested it was anything but. 

Ansted kept a wary eye on the swarm of garbage as she went through her checklist. The slope of the canopy was gradually forcing the larger bits up and over her head, but if she lit off the engines before it cleared, she was going to get a face full. 

"Checklist complete, turbo back to automatic. Standing by." She eyed the screws. And the sandwich.

"Forty one thousand, telemetry looks good. You are go for throttle up."

The screws danced along the canopy. Wait for it. . .wait. . .for. . .NOW

She shoved the throttle forward against its stops. The screws and the sandwich shot past on her left side and made a mess of the aft bulkhead.

 

 

 

 

"Mach one."

Ansted eyeballed the vertical speed indicator, then the altimeter, the two gauges side-by-side on the console. Numbers were not her strong suit, but it looked like she was going to stay comfortably below the Starchaser's service ceiling. 

"Mach two."

The acceleration was building now, Ansted sinking back into the seat. She did her best to look unconcerned, was mostly successful in keeping the strain off her face. The attitude indicator was straight down the middle, the peroxide thrusters smoothing out any slight thrust variance between the two engines. 

"Anticipated burn out in three. . .two. . ."

The propellant tanks coughed empty a little early, Ansted suddenly thrown forward into the harness. She recovered quickly, played to the camera while pretending to ignore it. 

"Mach two point seven, top speed. Peak acceleration just under 4 gs."

The burn had lasted about 20 seconds, and now Ansted watched the vertical speed indicator roll past zero. It was all downhill from here. 

"Stability Assist back to standby, switching to retrograde attitude." 

Ansted pulled back on the control stick just a bit and then let go again, the thrusters pitching the X-2 slowly nose over tail. The three bright stars dropped below her view, and Ansted was back in the dark room. 

The aircraft pitched past vertical and started back down. 

Highest kerbal ever. Fastest kerbal ever. And best of all, a rookie flight on an untried aircraft. Others might travel higher and faster, but no one could take those wings away from. . .

. . .the horizon rolled into view, the featureless black replaced suddenly with brilliant blue sky and white clouds that caught the light and cast perfect shadows of themselves down along the water. It was so far away, and yet so clear. She could see white caps on the waves, could make out the firing pad and even the clamps that had held her X-2 to the ground. . .

For a short while, Ansted forgot all about broken records and golden wings. The video camera that should have captured this incredible vista was instead treated to a view of Ansted's face in profile. It would seem a poor trade, but those few moments of unbridled awe would eventually be shown in theaters and arcades up and down the coast, and would do more to bolster the space program than any grainy photograph or canned speech ever could. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

Ansted padded along the concrete, pumped one fist in the air, the wide grin only a little forced. She was still in her sweaty flight suit, her hair a tangled mess, small bits of equipment still dangling from loosened straps. A pair of aviator's glasses completed the look of the triumphant pilot. The exhaustion would just have to wait-- there was partying to be done. 

Jeb's ploy had worked, the Starchaser descending tail first to a successful splashdown in the Inner Sea. The recovery ship had caught up to her half an hour later, and it was shortly thereafter that she'd discovered one of the Navy's more charming rituals. By tradition, the mission was not officially over until her feet were back on dry land, but the sailors were in no hurry to let that happen. After her Starchaser had been unloaded and secured, the longshoremen had secured her, lifting her off the gangway and depositing her in a waiting trundle. She'd spent the next few hours being carted from one impromptu speech to another, handshakes and cheers, a grand parade with little organization and no official route. The journey finally ended nearly 20 kilometers from where the ship was moored, and Ansted had enjoyed every moment of it. 

She didn't know it yet, but Bob and Jeb had secured a pair of Kerbodyne's "mystery goo" canisters in the hollow space just behind her X-2's cockpit. In addition to "highest" and "fastest", Ansted would also set a record for the number of scientific papers published off of any one flight. 

"Nicely done." Corfel extended his hand and Ansted took it, a brief moment of formality that quickly dissolved into wild cheering and backslapping. Bill was gone again, but the rest of them reveled in the moment.

"To Wurli's!"

They piled onto Jeb's battered trundle, Bob and Ansted hesitating near the cab when they realized Jeb was hanging back. He gave the two of them that grin of his, pitched the keys at Ansted. "You all go on ahead, I'll catch up later for the debriefing."

Ansted looked at the keys, then back at Jeb, was quiet a long moment. And then the grin flashed back to life. 

"Oh good, more for me!" She piled into the cab, had the motor running before she was all the way in the seat.

Bob crossed his arms. "What do you want me to tell people when they ask after you?"

Jeb shrugged. "Paperwork. Make something up." The trundle's horn sounded, Ansted leaning out the window.

"C'mon Bob, let's go run some red lights!"

Bob shook his head, turned, climbed into the passenger side. Jeb watched them pull away, stared after them until they were gone, and then turned himself and headed back in the direction of their office in the hotel. 

It was just about time for the restaurant to start serving dinner.  

 

 

________________________________

 

 

Valentina leaned against the window sill, watched as another day in the tenements came to a close. She couldn't see the setting sun from her vantage point, but she could see the shadows getting longer, people in the streets hurrying home from wherever they had spent their daytime hours. She could see the thin plume from the generator in Wurlitzer's Tavern, lights now starting to come on in some of the larger buildings. 

Someone in the street below called out, and people turned, pointed. The trundle bounced past on the wooden wagonway, and people cheered as it went by. Valentina joined them, adding her small voice to the chorus. Many of those in the street began to change their direction, converging instead on the cobbled together tavern. Valentina sighed, could visualize the crowds, the lights, the promise of a new trinket to add to her collection. But she was still grounded.

There was a long, rolling boom from out over the ocean, and now the first few drops of rain. She smiled, knew the punishment had been superseded by something more important. Valentina grabbed her bucket, started for the hallway, could hear the rain against the wooden walls now. 

The dim corridors filled with the happy voices of children, and she joined them, raised her own bucket high over her head. 

"Ooooogah! Damage control party reporting for duty!" There was more laughter, and the children scattered, chasing leaks with their wooden buckets.  

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

"We're gonna make a fortune with this!"

The two farmers sat at a long wooden table, empty mugs and half cleared plates spread between them. One of them held his brand new pocketwatch up to the light and stared at it in wonder.

It was plated in gold.

They had unlocked the secret of the super potatoes, at least as far as it mattered to them. If the why of it was still a great mystery, at least the where of it had been solved. The rich folk in Capitol City had made good on their promise, and now both of them had new harvesters, new houses, and enough money left over to buy more land and hire the hands needed to work it. And thanks to that old fire watch tower, they had known exactly which land to buy.

"To my best friend, who's inability to carry a wager led us to this amazing bounty!"

"Aw, shucks, t'weren't nuth. . .wait, now you see here just a minute!"

"Fine, fine then. . .I bet you you'll take the next wager you hear without a second thought."

"You're on! I'll. . .uh. . .that is. . .aw dang it!"

He laughed, and then they both laughed. A storm was building outside, but neither cared. They had gotten in on the ground floor of the greatest agricultural breakthrough in modern memory, and were now poised to ride that wave all the way to the top of the pile.

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"Truly, I say truly, a grand adventure! Oh what a day, what an experience!"

"And that was just plunging the toilet folks!"

The crowd roared, the main room of Wurlitzer's Tavern filling with noise and merriment. Bob sat in his booth in the back, watched Ansted work the audience with a skill not even Jeb could match. She'd been bouncing jokes off poor Hudbert for nearly twenty minutes now, and if the potato farmer turned adventurer noticed that he'd been made an unwilling partner in an impromptu comedy act, he didn't seem to mind. Bob shook his head as the crowd erupted again, had to admit the two of them made an oddly effective team. 

A large shadow suddenly loomed over the table.

"And where is Jeb-ah-die-ah, hmm?"

"Oh, uh, he's. . ." Bob blinked, knew it was too late, tried anyway. "Paperwork." 

Wurli seemed truly offended, huffed as he cleared the empty glasses off the table. "Four stars, five stars, bah! This place has plenty of stars, hmm? Jeb is one of them. You remind the good pilot who it was who kept him running when he was living out in the mud."

Bob sighed as Wurlitzer stormed off, noted the barkeep had neglected to leave a fresh mug on the table. Making excuses for Jeb was certainly not how he had intended to spend the evening, though in truth there really hadn't been that many people asking after him.

And that was not necessarily a good thing.

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

Roasted parsnips, golden yuca fritters, mounds of steaming waterfowl and baskets of fresh potato bread. Jeb moved between the service carts, filled the plate slowly, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. He inhaled deeply, smiled, started towards the room's small table.

"Now that smells delicious."

"If you say so. Haven't been able to smell much of anything since that time you blew up my kitchen!"

"There, see, your memory is just fine." Jeb eased the wheel chair up to the table and set the brakes. "Were you able to catch your programs all right?"

"No. That cheap wireless set you probably stole is broken again."

"Well, I'll see if I can't fix it."

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

The storm had rolled past, the night sky now clear, a full Mun low on the horizon. The farmer stood on the porch, watched the stars twinkle in the thick, humid air, waved as his friend headed off into the fields surrounding the small house. It had been a good night, and tomorrow would be even better, the promise of another magnificent harvest. He listened to the night sounds, to the crickets and the frogs and the occasional bird call. He felt like pumping his fists in the air, wanted to join the insects and the birds and yell his joy to the sky. But some things just weren't proper, so he held it in, turned back towards the door.

Good night friend, and thank you.

His hand closed around the door knob, and the night sounds ceased, as though someone had suddenly switched off a phonograph. The farmer could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he turned slowly, looked back out over the darkened fields. 

His friend's silhouette was gone. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

"With this latest record setting achievement, the First Minister and his party seem poised to make good on at least one of their campaign promises on the eve of the general election. Analysts expect a corresponding jump in their poll numbers, widening an already commanding lead over the opposition party. With more on this story, we turn. . ."

Jeb switched off the wireless set and leaned back on the couch. One more deadline met, one more promise kept. He set the solder wand back on its stand, ran a hand over what was left of his hair. Ansted's mesospheric flight should keep the money flowing until the election, but after that. . .he could hear his mother in the adjacent room, a fitful sleep in the big, soft bed. He exhaled slowly, stood, set about cleaning up the plates as quietly as he could manage.

Jeb could see his mother fading, her health just a little worse with each passing week. He looked around the hotel suite, at the thick carpets and the drapes and the food carts, couldn't help but contrast it with the rickety care home up in the mountains. Or the muddy junkyard where he'd spent so many nights.

Please, just a little while longer. . .

 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

"Cletus?" 

The farmer held the lantern out in front of him like a shield, eased farther away from the house, the sense of dread building with each step. It was painfully quiet, no insects or night birds or even wind to rustle the crops. 

"Cletus, dang it this ain't funny!"

There was something on the ground just ahead, a bit of metal half buried in the tilled soil. The farmer held the lantern up, bent over the object. 

It was a gold plated pocketwatch. 

He froze, listened hard, had heard something just beyond the light of the lantern. It sounded like a small animal perhaps, or maybe. . .

. . .like a boot brushing against dried leaves. He relaxed, let out the breath he'd been holding, shook his head. . .

. . .and was violently snatched from behind. 

 

 

________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

"This was the only image Probodobodyne got off their orbiter?"

Uncle stood in front of the hanging photograph, the image nearly as tall as he was. 

"Yes. There were four other downlinks from the orbiter that were large enough to be scanned photographs. The data was good, but the images themselves were unusable. Our best guess is that the problem was with the camera, not the transmitter."

It was not a good photo, but Uncle could clearly make out the lights of Capitol City and other major populated areas. Even the coast lines were visible, if one looked hard enough. With the right enhancements, this could be very useful.

It was, by all accounts, an historic image, the first photograph of Kerbin as a globe. But there was no indication Probodobodyne had shared it with the press, or even the science academies. . .

. . .which meant the academies hadn't known there was camera on board. . .

Uncle's mind clicked. "It's not a mineral scanner, it's a spy satellite. Make copies of all of this, see that everything gets filed in the Vaults. . ." He frowned, something else clicking into place. The gravimetric scanners were designed to detect mass concentrations, but it made sense that they would also be able to detect mass voids. Caves, sinkholes. . .or underground tunnels. Uncle's eyes narrowed.

"Put a class A sanction on Probodobodyne's file."

It got quiet. 

Uncle's soft voice cut through the silence. "You are all replaceable. I've done it before." That was enough to get them moving, would keep most of them moving until the job was done. As for the rest, well, there would be fresh talent looking for a new home very soon. 

Uncle clasped his hands behind his back, studied the photograph. He could feel the noose now, knew that if things remained as they were. . .it would come suddenly one night, and there would be no warning. And all of this would be gone. Again.

And that could not be allowed to happen.
 

________________________________

[KSK]

It's back! Big time.

An awful lot to digest there but one thing in particular caught my eye...

4 hours ago, Ten Key said:

The chemist stopped. And he blinked. And then, very slowly, he turned the pencil around and rubbed away the word Hydrogen. What if. . .the light popped back on, seared away the gloom. His partner caught on, snapped his fingers, nodded vigorously.

"Oh, but that is dreadful!"

"Deliciously dreadful!" The pencil scratched across the paper.

Fluorine Peroxide.

How much did they need? The grin was wicked now, the chemist scratching "10 kilograms" in the appropriate field.

The two glanced at each other, glanced back to the paper, and then scribbled in a few more zeros. 

In the words of the great John D. Clarke - I recommend a good pair of running shoes.

Or possibly a trundle. Or a train ticket. 

For everyone.

On the off-chance that anyone is unfamiliar with the chemistry concerned, try a quick internet search for FOOF... For once, the Urban Dictionary definition, whilst completely unconnected (and definitely not Forum Friendly) also seems fairly relevant.

Edited August 15, 2016 by KSK

[CatastrophicFailure]

Ahhhhhh, yes. Always worth the wait, what's lacked in frequency is made up for in quantity. 

14 hours ago, Ten Key said:

A large glass tank had been set up on a stand, and inside the tank was a thick, soppy mess of greenish. . .something. Goo was the word the rep's brain kept reaching for. It certainly looked dreadful. But not terribly useful.

Yay, Goo! 

14 hours ago, Ten Key said:

The goo shriveled into a small twist of grayish black crystal, and then was silent.

aaaaand you killed it. 

10 hours ago, KSK said:

try a quick internet search for FOOF

Didn't quite get the reference till you mentioned it. Fluorine Peroxide sounds so much better. Multiple tonnes of the stuff... now that could only be entertaining. From a distance.

[Commander Zoom]

Love the engineers.  Fantastically fantastic!

The rocketry stuff is great, but there's so much more going on here, all the various parties moving their pieces on the board, or trying to hide that they even have pieces in the game...

The suspense is terrible!  I hope it'll last. 

[Ten Key]

On 8/15/2016 at 4:15 AM, KSK said:

On the off-chance that anyone is unfamiliar with the chemistry concerned, try a quick internet search for FOOF... For once, the Urban Dictionary definition, whilst completely unconnected (and definitely not Forum Friendly) also seems fairly relevant.

And here I thought I was going to be able to sneak in the obligatory FOOF joke without anybody noticing.

On 8/15/2016 at 3:07 PM, CatastrophicFailure said:

Didn't quite get the reference till you mentioned it. Fluorine Peroxide sounds so much better. Multiple tonnes of the stuff... now that could only be entertaining. From a distance.

Looking at the chemistry, I was a little surprised to find that the basic structure of FOOF and H₂O₂ are very close to each other. . .

                                 

 

. . .but I can't take credit for the rest of the joke.

On 8/15/2016 at 3:07 PM, CatastrophicFailure said:

Yay, Goo! 

aaaaand you killed it. 

That's how it works in BTSM. I remember reading somewhere that the mod developer considered it a more palatable alternative to some of the animal experiments done during the early days of the space program. In any case, the goo canisters have to be recovered on the ground to get any science out of them, which is a pretty big shift from the stock game. And at this point I don't have any heat shields or radial mount parachutes, so. . .it was a bit of a head scratcher. 

On 8/15/2016 at 4:15 AM, KSK said:

It's back! Big time.

On 8/15/2016 at 3:07 PM, CatastrophicFailure said:

Ahhhhhh, yes. Always worth the wait, what's lacked in frequency is made up for in quantity. 

On 8/15/2016 at 3:28 PM, Commander Zoom said:

The suspense is terrible!  I hope it'll last. 

 Thanks all.

There are parts of it that are rough, and probably 80% of the effort revolved around 10% of the text. There were a few scenes in there I had been thinking about for a long time, but they didn't seem to want to work when I went to write them, and my planned ending wound up not working at all. I'm roughly 1/3rd of the way through Part I, and my goal is to have Part I finished before the end of the year. I'm going to need to pick up the pace if I'm going to get that done, but I won't make any promises.

My original goal of kicking out a chapter a week seems incredibly naive at this point. It took me two hours just to copy the last chapter into the forum.  

On top of that, I've been having a ton of trouble with my internet over the last month. Something somewhere in the line is overheating, and our internet goes down like clockwork every morning and stays down until well after sunset. That, combined with my schedule, means I may only get 15-30 minutes of unfettered internet access a day. I can poke around on the forums with my phone, but I can't really post anything longer than a few sentences and I have to stay away from picture heavy threads (including this one). It's slowing me up quite a bit. . .if I seem quiet, that's why. 

In fact, the internet died while I was typing this. . .we'll see if this post is still here in twelve hours when it comes back up. 

[CatastrophicFailure]

37 minutes ago, Ten Key said:

Looking at the chemistry, I was a little surprised to find that the basic structure of FOOF and H₂O₂ are very close to each other. . .

Hm. FOOF & HOOH. Methinks one sound is typically followed rapidly by the other... 

39 minutes ago, Ten Key said:

I remember reading somewhere that the mod developer considered it a more palatable alternative to some of the animal experiments done during the early days of the space program.

Yes, I suppose that is more palatable than "due to the rapid pressure change, the monkey's insides exited through its mouth at a high rate of speed."

40 minutes ago, Ten Key said:

two hours (!)

 Did you have to copy by hand??

41 minutes ago, Ten Key said:

I can poke around on the forums with my phone,

Things you've probably already tried and have a perfectly valid reason for not working but I'm going to mention anyway:

Using your phone as a wifi hotspot to bypass the temperamental landline.

Changing providers.

Finding someone at your current provider and beating them soundly for charging you for something you're not receiving as agreed.

[KSK]

Yes - some cackling may have been evidence when I got that joke.

Incidentally folks, recommend following that link, especially for fans of understated dry humour. Here's a snippet:

 "The great majority of Streng’s reactions have surely never been run again. The paper goes on to react FOOF with everything else you wouldn’t react it with: ammonia (“vigorous”, this at 100K), water ice (explosion, natch), chlorine (“violent explosion”, so he added it more slowly the second time), red phosphorus (not good), bromine fluoride, chlorine trifluoride (say what?), perchloryl fluoride (!), tetrafluorohydrazine (how on Earth. . .), and on, and on. If the paper weren’t laid out in complete grammatical sentences and published in JACS, you’d swear it was the work of a violent lunatic. I ran out of vulgar expletives after the second page. A. G. Streng, folks, absolutely takes the corrosive exploding cake, and I have to tip my asbestos-lined titanium hat to him."

Personally I'm thinking that 'asbestos-lined titanium' is probably also a fair description of certain important parts of A.G Streng. Truly a man that would have Jeb backing away slowly, mumbling excuses about washing his hair that night.

[KSK]

Sorry for the slight threadjack but I'm loving the comments section for that blog post!

Apparently quoted from one of Streng's papers:  "Audible “pings” and pressure excursions occurred when liquid O2F2 dripped onto uncooled portions of the apparatus."

 

....any pressure excursion that leaves you with intact apparatus is a good pressure excursion.

[Ten Key]

On 8/17/2016 at 11:41 PM, CatastrophicFailure said:

Did you have to copy by hand??

Between the pictures, my penchant for italics, fiddling around with the font, and the fact that the spell checker won't engage unless I manually click on each and every paragraph in the editing window. . .it can take a while. This forum was very much not designed for huge wads of text. I need to figure something out here-- this is getting ridiculous. 

And while I'm on the subject, the spell checker that's integrated into Chrome stinks. I can forgive it for not knowing space jargon, but words like hewn? 

On 8/17/2016 at 11:41 PM, CatastrophicFailure said:

Things you've probably already tried. . .

The problem is, we rent, and internet access is not part of the lease agreement. We've had problems since we moved in, but this is the first time it's been down enough for me to start to think the problem isn't the wiring in the walls. 

I was hoping to not have to open this particular hornet's nest. Complaining about it is so much easier. 

---

The next chapter is starting to coalesce in my head. . .I think I'm getting to a place in the story where I can start tying off some of these subplots, so hopefully that will help a bit. 

Feedback is welcome, as always. I'm particularly interested in any formatting issues that might be cropping up-- it looks fine to me on my android device, but at 1900x1200 it doesn't really feel like there's enough space between paragraphs.