Shortcut To Farside: Revisited

It's been almost two years since I started writing the Science Fiction story, "Shortcut To Farside." I finally wrapped it up today. Because the whole story has been tweaked with many rewrites, I decided to post it again in its entirety. It turned out to be over 7,000 words so I am breaking it into two parts. This is part one, part two will follow tomorrow evening. Hope you enjoy it!

I never was one to waste time. I would sit and think up ways to accomplish two or three things at once -- no matter how long it took -- just so that when I actually went into action, not a single move was wasted. Shortcuts were my favorite time saver. I often thought that if I spent enough time planning my shortcuts ahead of time, I could get to where I was going before I actually left. It's kind of like that moving-faster-than-light thing. If you go from point A to point B at light speed, turn around and come back at twice the speed of light, theoretically you should get back in time to see yourself leave.
Of course it doesn't work that way. It takes to long to turn around. But shortcuts do work, most of the time.

Normally, I would have given myself plenty of leeway for this trip. You're only late to Kelly's parties once or twice, and then you don't have to worry about it because you aren't invited to anymore after that. I was late for the last one. She said I would go to the bottom of her list if it happened again and that I would probably die of old age before I made it back to the top. To be included on her list at all was a remarkable accomplishment, but to be relegated to the bottom with the rest of the losers would be an unendurable insult. I had no intentions of breathing the same air as those guys and staring at Kelly through a pair of long distance goggles because I was so deep in the crowd I couldn't get any closer.

It used to be that the fastest route between two points in space was a straight line. That was before engineers learned how to fully exploit gravity wells and black holes. The faster you wanted to go, the more complicated and non direct your route could become. It was often more like the path an out of warranty auto-navigator might take, anything but straight.

While I was busy planning my flight to Kelly's place by utilizing every known anomaly between Earth and Farside for my shortcut, time was slipping away. I was late before I had even left, at least as far as previous routes I had taken were concerned. This called for drastic measures, something I had no qualms about taking advantage of.

The only option I had was to try to do something that no one had ever done before, something that no one in their right mind would do. Something so highly dangerous that it was against galactic law to even consider, unless of course you had a suicide permit. If you had one of those, you could do almost anything you wanted, unmolested by the Deep Space Patrol. That's the only reason anyone would willingly try what I was going to do.

Now I'm not suicidal -- at least not yet anyway -- but the last thing I wanted was for Kelly to have a reason to reject me with her unjust and uncompromising rules. I was currently at or near the top of her list after all, and I planned on staying there, forever if at all possible. It was well worth the risk.

My plan was to make the Edison wormhole run for initial acceleration, and then instead of the standard slingshot maneuver past the influence of the Barium black hole, I was going to fly straight into it. Yeah, I know it's been done, but what you probably don't know is that the Midway worm cluster is in near perfect alignment. With a little luck, I could perhaps, possibly, more than likely manage a hell ride through at least two of the three nearly aligned wormholes and exceed all recorded speed records for crossing the galaxy in the process. Some dumb ass that tried to suicide holds top honors now. Fact is the only ones who have ever broken the speed record are suicider's that were so sorry they couldn't even manage to kill themselves properly.

For you to think that I'm not in the least bit concerned about my inertia dampers ability to keep the skin from being physically ripped from my skeleton due to excessive acceleration would be trite. I'm also worried about stopping after I attain the tremendous velocity I expect to achieve, and the fact that lunatics and thrill seekers will probably follow my attempt whether I am successful or not. It will be the fashionable thing to do even if I only make it through the ordeal as a gleaming white skeleton destined to spend eternity hanging on display in a science room anatomy class, collecting dust and having my bony hand bent into obscene gestures.

Well, I can think of more spectacular ways to go out in style, but I suppose a footnote in history as the first non-suicidal maniac who tried this route will suffice. And if I get to Kelly's in time, maybe the notoriety of having broken the speed record crossing the galaxy just to see her will win her heart over and she'll dump everyone from her list except me. That would be nice. I could live with that, if I survive the Midway worm cluster.

I registered my flight plan with the authorities, minus a few important details that might tip them off as to what I was really going to attempt. They informed me there would be a half-hour delay before I could engage my drives for the trip. Wouldn't you know it; they were cleaning up a wreck at the mouth of the Edison wormhole. The laser crews were almost finished with disintegrating the debris and backed up space traffic would clear soon after.

I needed my shortcut more than ever now. I considered calling Kelly, but I knew I would be off her list before the toll charges were debited from my account. My normal route would get me there forty-five minutes late, and even that route was through the Edison.

While my flight plan was on standby awaiting release, I had plenty of time to reconsider what I was about to do. Thinking about the last time I saw Kelly, I realized that she didn't seem as happy to see me as I was to see her. Actually, she spent most of her time with the other men at the party. It's probably just my imagination. Like I said, I was late getting there last time.

Then I got to thinking that her communications link seemed to be busy quite a bit the past few weeks. I had to set my calling unit for unlimited connection attempts and sometimes it took several hours before I could get through. Twice she used the excuse that she had left the empty line open by mistake. It could happen I suppose.

When I finally received permission to engage my drives, I was appalled by the realization that I had forgotten to recalculate my departure point to take into account my new position in orbit due to the extra time I had spent waiting for traffic to clear. I was now on the opposite side of earth and had to either travel back to my original position that I had plotted my flight plan from at the posted planetary orbital speed limit of 17.5k mph, or recalculate my point of origin. Either option would set me back another half-hour. I opted for repositioning to my original plotted departure point and shaved five minutes off the time by speeding. Just my luck, a roving local patrol caught me. They fined me and made sure I sat idle for ten minutes as an additional required punishment.

Intuitively, I should have recognized the delays as something more than just an odd coincidence. On top of the feelings of uncertainty I was already confronted with about Kelly, it would have been easy to simply wash my hands of the crazy plan I had. Still, there was something to be said about the allure of a beautiful woman, and what a man would put himself through in order to win her favors. I was just such a man and threw all caution to the wind as I engaged the gravity-drives.

My ship was called 'The Flighty One'. It had a tendency towards being excessively sensitive. In other words, if it had wheels like a land vehicle, I wouldn't chance kicking the tires to test their worthiness for fear of them exploding and more than likely causing me serious bodily injury.

I handled The Flighty One with kid gloves. I lived with the comforting thought that tender loving care was never more than a space repair bay away. As long as I didn't stray too far off the beaten path, I felt reasonably safe crossing the galaxy. There was always a polite and enterprising tug pilot at the ready to rake me across the coals with inflated charges for towing me to his brother-in-laws -- who just happens to be an expert on repairing my antiquated ship -- five point service bay. The five-point service often seemed to consist of only checking to see: if you need fuel, what kind of fuel you need, how much fuel your ship will hold, if you want a fill up or partial load and if your credit is good.

On my way at last, I ran a full systems check to ensure my chances of survivability. Things were looking pretty good; three yellow warning lights glowed dimly on the systems ready panel, and only one red light. The harsh red glare indicated that the deceleration module was offline. I tapped the offending light with my knuckle and then slammed it with the palm of my hand. It went out, obviously a faulty indicator. It wasn't the first time it had acted up.

The yellow lights didn't concern me. I already knew I had an atmosphere leak, which was no big deal. I had plenty of air to breath for the short trip, and I could always jump in my suit if I had to. The other two lights indicated high engine temperature and an overfilled waste bin. The overheating engine would return to normal once the effects of the wormhole accelerated The Flighty One past the capabilities of its engines. And the bulging waste bin? I hate taking out the garbage, doesn't everyone?

The Edison wormhole loomed ahead in my view screen. Traffic had returned to normal with the three marked lanes showing only a light variety of personal pleasure crafts. A modern, ultra sleek speedster that looked oddly familiar pulled up behind me, followed for a minute and then swerved along side me signaling for a com link. All ships monitored a standard frequency where their com units could then negotiate for an unoccupied, private channel. My unit only operated in the lower bands.

"You've got to be kidding me," the voice from the speedster said.

"What?" I asked.

"This frequency is older than I am! You know you can update your hardware, don't you?"

"Of course, my Beckon Twelve unit is in the repair shop," I lied. "I'm using my backup."

"Sure, sure. Look, you're leaking something all over the place, there's a vapor trail clouding all three lanes behind you."

"Oh, don't worry about me, it's nothing serious," I said.

"I'm not worried about you pal, I just had my hull polished and you're getting crap all over it!"

"So? Quit tail-tagging me! "You can pull around front if you want."

"I know I can. And I plan to just as soon as I get your registration numbers so I can file a complaint and report you as a navigation hazard."

At least they'll be able to follow my vapor trail if I break down, I thought.

"It's only an oxygen leak," I assured him, "with a little human excrement mixed in perhaps, nothing dangerous."

"Shit!" he yelled.

"Yes, I said human excrement didn't I?"

"I can't read your registration, there's so much crud built up over it!"

"I missed my last appointment at the polishing shop, sorry."

"You're lucky I'm pressed for time pal. I'll be waiting for you at Farside, if you even make it."

With that last taunting jab, he raced past me with a flourish and into the mouth of the Edison. I wondered what he meant when he said he'd be waiting for me at Farside. I thought about it for a while -- two seconds at least -- when it dawned on me where I had seen his ship before. It was parked right out in front of Kelly's at the last party.
***

Wormholes are nice in that they not only transport you across vast distances almost instantaneously, but in doing so they boost your speed to otherwise unobtainable levels. The Edison was short as far as wormholes are concerned. It's a good thing too because they are a bit disorienting to navigate. Dope heads love to get all doped up on their favorite drug and fly through wormholes as slow as they can. You can often pick up their captivating chatter on subspace channels. You'd hear things like 'pretty colors' and 'did you see that one' and 'groovy'. You would think they were straight out of the nineteen sixties psychedelic age or something.

I was never one to pay that much attention to regular maintenance or consider expensive upgrade options for The Flighty One. As long as it got me to where I was going, I was happy. One thing I did upgrade on her though was the inertia damper. I couldn't afford to do anything with the engines, and with the common use of wormholes for optimizing travel time, the inertia dampers seemed like the obvious choice for modifications.

All the inertia dampers really did is create a personal, bubble like force field around your body to protect you from the tremendous g-forces you are subjected to during abnormal acceleration. My engines weren't capable of abnormal acceleration of course, but extensive use of the wormholes for my shortcuts routinely subjected the ship to those acceleration forces never the less.

As The Flighty One entered the Edison, the automatics on the inertia dampers kicked in and the normal blurring spatial distortion began filling the view screens. I never ate before going into a wormhole, the corkscrewing coaster ride made it difficult to keep your stomachs contents where they belonged, for me at least. One thing you didn't want to do is lose your lunch while inside the inertia damper force field. It's like trying to dodge raindrops in a torrential downpour; it can't be done.

I could just make out the guy in the speedster on my long-range scanners as I exited the Edison. He was heading straight for the Midway Worm Cluster. I was headed in the opposite direction towards the Barium Black Hole. He must have spotted me too because he buzzed me on the com unit again.

"Hey, dumb ass! You're going the wrong way," he laughed. "Kelly and I will be missing you at the party, but we'll find something to keep us occupied while we're waiting!"

"In case you haven't noticed, at the rate you're going, you'll be a half hour late," I shot back. "Kelly and I will have a new list made up when you get there, and you're not going to be on it."

"You idiot, you're not going to try to fly through the Barium are you? Did you fill out the suicide permit?" He asked.

"Permit? I don't need no stinking Permit!"

Those old twentieth century westerns I watched sure came in handy when you needed something snappy to taunt an opponent with. Pretty boy was getting on my nerves.

"Well I guess Kelly and I won't be seeing you after all, will we?" He asked. "And by the way, Kelly doesn't have a list anymore."

We flew in opposite directions and out of communication range before I could taunt him further. I couldn't help but wonder about Kelly's list though. Could it be true? Was my suicidal act of devoted perseverance to make it to Kelly's a waste of time? It didn't matter. Pretty boy might just be jerking my chain. He was the one who was going to be late. I would be waiting for him, even if Kelly is through with me.

The Barium Black Hole loomed menacingly ahead. Even though it was a favorite checkout lane for the permit carrying suicide cases, it was also a little-known fact that it could be successfully navigated. Not that normal travelers with undamaged minds would attempt such a foolhardy thing. But desperation leads one to become more creative and to push the envelope beyond the point where the lure of fame, fortune, or the possibility of a hot date overrides concern for ones safety. Or more simply put, love makes you stupid.

Much to my surprise, whatever bravado it was that set me upon this insane path to win Kelly's heart over suddenly fled with its tail between its legs. Unfortunately my second thoughts came a few seconds to late. The Barium had me in its greedy grasp and was not about to be denied its prize.

The Flighty One seemed about to split at her seams as the speed gauge blurred beyond readability and shorted out. Cautionary signs flashed by requiring pilots to transmit their suicide permit registration number, last will and testaments. Violators will be prosecuted. The fact that no one was expected to survive served to point out the glaring absurdity with which us humans are governed in our daily lives.

While my inertia damper was totally oblivious to its own inadequacies, I on the other hand was experiencing first hand what it felt like to be crushed mercilessly by a mutant grape press from hell. I had to grab an oxygen facemask, doubling the output of air into my lungs in order to force my chest to expand because I was unable to breathe on my own. What ever made me think I could do this? I looked down at my normally bulging belly only to find it looked as though I had lost thirty pounds, but I had expanded side to side by about a foot!

As my tortured mind struggled to make sense of the idiocy of my decision to make the Barium run, I attempted to command my disobeying limbs to move so that I could at least be assured I was still alive. With a Herculean effort, I tried to move my hand up in front of my eyes. Just as I did, I blasted through the tail end of the Barium Black Hole, the crushing acceleration leveled off and my hand flew up into my face and hit me right in the nose. The indignity of it all. I survived the black hole unscathed only to hit myself in the face, giving myself a bloody nose. The untold risks of space travel never cease to amaze me.

Now that I was once again in full control of my facilities, I had to give serious though as to whether to continue on in my quest to put a sparkle in Kelly's eye at the risk of loosing the sparkle in mine. Did I really want to show her how much I adore her with such conviction that I would recklessly abandon any concern for my own safety just to be by her side. Or was it because I simply wanted to punch pretty boy in the face?

While mulling all this over, I reached for a spill cloth to wipe my bloodied nose and some unconscious force made my hand inexplicably and quite accidentally brush up against the destination override switch. A klaxon should have immediately sounded. Red lights and bells and flashing strobes should have been activated. A message should have appeared on my monitor, "Abort destination, pilot? Are you sure?"
To be continued...