The Beacon: Hard Science Fiction by Brandon Morris (heaven official's blessing novel english .txt) 📗

The gun show would have been an alternative. He had been told the same thing by a dealer in another store where he had been the only customer. Despite the privacy, the salesman had not wanted to sell him anything. Peter imagined what it would be like in the space glider. No one would expect a hijacking. He wouldn’t dare to fire the gun in space, anyway. Wouldn’t it be enough to wave a plastic model around? If one of the passengers overpowered him, he had lost anyway.

Peter headed for a large sporting goods store. The store was huge and had everything he could imagine, from fishing accessories to athletic shoes to sailing gear. Con you sail in the New Mexico desert? No matter.

The martial arts section had what he was looking for: Rubber replicas of weapons meant for hazard-free training. He put a rubber gun in his shopping cart. It appeared almost genuine, was about as heavy as a real gun, and cost just under $5 plus tax.

April 2, 2026 – Spaceport America

This section of Interstate 25, through the dry semi-desert of New Mexico, was a truly boring stretch of road. After a good hour, Peter stopped for the first time since exiting the freeway. The town of Socorro, in the county of the same name, consisted mostly of shanties and one-story bungalows. He parked in front of a bakery, bought a six-pack of chocolate donuts, and devoured two. The sugar shock woke him up faster than the coffee he’d bought to go with them.

The next stop was Truth or Consequences, where he had to turn off the interstate. He’d have added a stop here just because of the town’s curious name. In 1950, the little New Mexico town of Hot Springs officially changed its name when the popular radio program, ‘Truth or Consequences,’ offered to broadcast its 10th-anniversary show from the first town to rename itself to match the show’s title.

The road became narrower now, and the desert even drier. Further to the east lay the U.S. Army’s White Sands Missile Range.

Then the UFO appeared. It seemed to have landed in the middle of nowhere. Virgin Galactic must have found it and converted it into the reception building of its ‘Spaceport America.’ Perhaps the modern building made of glass and steel had been moved here from the future...

Peter drove into a parking space. Despite daily launches, it was rare for more than 50 visitors to find their way here on any given day. No wonder it was so empty.

The interior of the UFO was reminiscent of a modern airport. And, it was, except that the destination was beyond Earth’s atmosphere. At the reception desk, his data was already on record.

“You still have an hour,” said the young man behind the counter. “Would you like me to organize someone to show you around a bit?”

Peter shook his head. He preferred to have peace and quiet for a little while longer.

The briefing took place in a classroom that could have been straight out of his high school. Nine other passengers had spread out on the benches. Among them he saw a group of three women who were using it to celebrate a bachelorette party, a retired couple in an infectiously good mood, two smartly dressed men in their 30s who behaved like a couple, and two other men, apparently traveling separately, whom he’d seen saying goodbye to their wives outside. Those two had sat down at a table for a moment, looking at him as they did so. It might have been meant as an invitation, but Peter was not interested.

Next to the projection screen at the front of the classroom, a door opened. A young woman stepped through—shoulder-length black curly hair, taller than himself, and clearly well-trained.

“I’m glad you’re all here,” she said. Her English came with an accent that could be Italian or Spanish. “I am Francesca Rossi, your pilot. We will share an adventure today and tomorrow. To make sure everything goes safely, I ask you to listen carefully today.”

What a coincidence! Francesca. That sounds a lot like Franziska. The pilot cast a reproachful glance at the three bachelorettes, who immediately stopped whispering.

“Briefly, about me: I trained as a fighter pilot in my native Italy. After that, I applied to the ESA to become an astronaut. But after my training, there was no mission for me for the foreseeable future. That’s why I applied to Virgin Galactic and will now launch into space with you and the beautiful VSS Astra. This will be my 99th flight, so I have developed a settled routine. That’s good for you, because then I can focus all the better on your needs.”

Did that also apply to a detour into another orbit? Of course he didn’t vocalize the thought.

“Are there any questions so far?”

No one raised a hand.

“Okay, let’s start with a little introduction to our spacecraft and the carrier aircraft. The VMS Eve, our mother ship, will take us to an altitude of 15 kilometers before we start our own engine. I’m sure you know, because you booked it, that the VSS Astra is the first member of the Virgin fleet powerful enough for a complete Earth orbit.”

Peter’s hand shot up. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Please.”

“How many orbits could the Astra perform?”

“Quite a few. More than we can ever attempt, because after three days we would run out of oxygen. But, by then—at the latest—someone should have rescued us. I’ll be getting to the emergency procedures shortly.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

“I recommend the Parasol Golden Ale today,” said the waiter, who looked like a member of a rock band, his knees bouncing to the beat of inaudible music as he awaited Peter’s order.

“Sure. And the bratwurst.”

“Wonderful, sir. I’ll pass that along to the food-truck people.”

This small-town brewery only did brewing, no cooking, but at the back of the building was a red truck that prepared and sold food