An alarm bell rang insistently.
“Wake up sleepyhead,” a distant female voice called.
Captain Mendoza’s eyes fluttered slowly as he tried to blink the sandman’s dust from his eyes. He looked around slowly, trying to make out the fuzzy world around him. Before his eyes could focus, his ears perked up at the call of some kind of songbird, drawing his gaze to the open window and the white, opaque curtains dancing in the warm Sunday morning breeze.
The alarm went off again. This time, it sounded a bit louder. Almost seemed annoyed at being ignored.
“Are you going to waste the whole morning?” That distant, almost ethereal voice called again.
He attempted to look around one more time but, no matter how hard he tried to focus, he could only see fuzzy silhouettes. He tried knocking the cobwebs out, vigorously shaking his head from side to side like a rattle drum. Nothing worked. Then, in a sudden flash of something not quite white light, he saw her. It was his wife, Jessica. She stood at the doorway in her silky blue nightgown looking down on him, the corner of her lip curled up in a teasing smile.
On the third RING, Commander Mendoza sat up in his bed.
What a shame. It was just getting to the good part, he thought. Still, what a pleasant memory to wake up to. This is going to be one excellent day. I can feel it.
He looked over to the 3D Holo of Jessica leaning in and giving him a peck on the cheek. She was wearing a spaghetti strapped, white summer dress with some purple flowers on it. He could never remember what they were called, but it didn’t matter. She wore it just for him. It was his favorite. That was the last time he’d see her in it.
He shifted to the edge of the bed, pausing to bow his head and gather himself before looking back at the holo. “I miss you baby,” he said softly with a small, sad smile. He jumped up and stood straight, as if he had just been called to attention by some old, curmudgeon drill sergeant. His chest lifted and fell with a large, deep breath. “Today’s the big day. You know I don’t believe in luck, but you did. So wish me luck, okay.” With that, he turned and headed out the door towards the mess hall.
On the way to the mess hall he decided it would be prudent to take a quick peek in a couple of the various “pods” that were along the way. As the first door hissed open, a tidal wave of heat slammed into his face, forcing Commander Mendoza to take a step back. His mind flashed to Jess in that summer dress--the heat from the bright summer sun looking down on them, the slightly strange, gooey, yet unexplainably pleasant sensation of the wet sand sticking in between his toes until the ocean rushed in to wash them clean again, albeit temporarily. He smiled at the memory, then passed through the doorway.
“Hello? Anyone here?” He called out.
“No one here but us plants. Are you here to feed us? Feed us Seymour, feed us!” An obviously strained high--pitched voice mockingly replied.
The commander’s head dropped and he shook his head slightly in disapproval, but the smile from ear to ear betrayed his true feelings.
“Morning Lucas. How are our plants doing today?” Commander Mendoza asked while walking down the aisle of greenery as if he were inspecting a line of troops, dressed and pressed.
“Morning? What a useless expression out here,” Lucas Fisher replied bemusedly.
The commander nodded with a short, emphatic grunt before saying, “Suppose that’s true.”
As the commander reached the end of the row, there was Lucas--standing at attention, throwing the crispest salute he could muster. He towered almost a full foot over Mendoza: six feet of lanky limbs and restless energy, his hair sticking out in every direction, as if he’d been wrestling with the ventilation fans again, catching the glow lights like a slow--burning ember. He stood there in his trademark faded green coveralls, trying--and failing--to suppress an impish grin. One could almost mistake him for a leprechaun, especially considering his Irish roots, if he wasn’t much too tall for the role.
“So…do we pass inspection, Commander?” Lucas asked.
“At ease, Mr. Fisher,” Commander Mendoza responded, returning a crisp salute of his own. “How are our little green men doing?”
“Doing well. They’ll be ready to serve when they’re needed,” Lucas said, standing a little bit taller.
“Excellent. Keep up the good work, Luke,” Commander Mendoza said, turning to head out.
“Going to get some chow, Commander?”
“You betcha. I want to get some real food while it’s still an option,” Mendoza replied.
“Hey now, we have real food. It’s not just leafy greens. I have tomatoes, chilli peppers, radishes and even some strawberries. If the experiments go well, we may even have some apples and pears someday.” Lucas insisted, arms crossed in front of his chest, clearly a bit defensive of his plants.
The commander gave a small chuckle. “Gotcha, Luke.”
With that, he walked out, leaving Lucas with his jaw on the floor.
Commander Mendoza drifted a few steps down the passageway, then paused, letting the cooler, drier, almost sterile air settle around him. The thought of Jess still lingered in the back of his mind like the scent of freshly cut grass, but the mission clock was ticking, leaving little time for reminiscing. He pushed the thought aside and continued down to the next pod that wasn’t a habitation pod: the medical pod. The door hissed open after he reached the threshold.
“You in, Doc?” Commander Mendoza queried from outside the door. He knew better than to enter Dr. Alvi’s medical pod without permission--what the doctor always called ‘his medical bay.’ The only reply was the usual hum of the ship. He waited three more heartbeats before shrugging and heading out.
As the door hissed shut behind him, Mendoza took in the sights, or lack thereof, of the pod they lovingly called “the mess hall.” Rows of brushed-steel cabinets lined the walls, their edges dulled by months of hands and routine cleanings. In the center, a table and its ring of anchored stools looked ready for another rotation of sharing stories, laughs, and thoughts on the upcoming mission. He knew they had given it the name for him-as a nod to his prior military service-but he couldn’t help but smile at the irony of associating a room so sterile and clean with the word “mess.” After a low grumble from his midsection pulled him from his thoughts, Mendoza headed to the cabinets and made himself a bite to eat.
After eating, Commander Mendoza made his way to the nearest ladder and climbed toward the Command Deck. The new layout design that the guys at “ice” (ISE) had come up with impressed him every time he saw it in action.
Around him, the bulkhead seemed to vanish, replaced by a projection so vivid it felt like he was staring through a window into open space. The computer stitched the view together from streams of sensor data, forming a single, living panorama. Even after months aboard, the sight left him momentarily breathless.
Hearing the clank-clank of boots hitting the deck, former Captain Jonathan Cross looked up from the navigation center and snapped to attention, delivering a sharp salute.
“Captain on the bridge!” he announced, voice ringing across the deck.
“Crossman, knock that shit off of I’ll ‘Lister’ your ass,” Commander Mendoza shot back with a wry grin “except I’ll make you paint the ship with a hand brush.
“As you wish T.P.,” Crossman replied with a smile of his own.
Before the commander could berate him for using his old callsign, Dr. Krzysztof Abramowicz’s head popped up from the other ladder well, like something out of a whack-a-mole game. Hearing the banter of the two former military men, he
paused, tilting his head in curiosity.
“I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” Dr. Kriss asked.
Mendoza couldn’t help but stare. From his vantage point, with the man’s torso still below the deck, the sight looked like a disembodied head floating in space.
“What?” Dr. Kriss asked, clearly confused.
“Can you say ‘I am the Great and Powerful Oz’ for me?” Mendoza asked.
Crossman glanced at Mendoza with a baffled expression, then shifted over to Dr. Kriss. After a beat that stretched just a little too long, the room exploded with laughter.
Dr. Kriss finished ascending and stood for a moment looking between the two of them, trying to recover from their guffaws.
“I will never understand you two,” Dr. Kriss muttered.
“The Commander’s just in a good mood Dr. Kriss,” Crossman said, returning to his seat at navigation. “Today is the big day, after all.”
“Indeed it is,” Dr. Kriss replied, taking his place at Science Operations. “On that note, shall we get started? Commander?”
Mendoza’s countenance lifted slightly, a new sharpness entering his eyes. “Agreed.
“Nav, give me a sit-rep,” Mendoza ordered calmly. “Sci-Ops, let’s make sure the parallax is ready for Mr. Cross. I want no sudden surprises.”
“ETA is three hours at current 1 g deceleration, Commander,” Crossman responded, shifting his tone to match the professionalism of his commander. “Systems are reporting nominal across the board.”
Dr. Kriss’s hands moved across the touchpad with expert precision. A virtual screen materialized in the air in front of him. His eyes darted left and right as he took in all the data.
“There was a minor anomaly in the latest parallax telemetry, Commander, probably a comet, but it is well clear of our shear path,” Dr. Kriss said. “Let me know if you need anything else from me, Crossman.
Dr. Kriss looked at Mendoza and said, “I’d also like to run a diagnostic on the ship’s telescopes, sir.”
“How long?” Mendoza replied, more out of courtesy than necessity. He knew Dr. Kriss wouldn’t have asked if it wouldn’t be ready on time. Everyone on this ship was a top professional - not only in their primary field, but in a secondary field as well. Dr. Kriss and Mr. Fisher, Dr. Alves and Tanaka - each had cross-trained with the other for the sake of redundancy.
Dr. Kriss looked up and away, clearly running the calculations in his head.
“An estimate will suffice, Doctor,” Mendoza interjected.
Dr. Kriss locked eyes with Mendoza again. “Two hours at the most,” he said confidently.
Mendoza gave him a curt nod. “Proceed.”
Dr. Kriss brought the screen back up, stretched his arms before his chest until his knuckles cracked, and went to work.
“Crossman, double-check the shear vector and verify our jump point,” Commander Mendoza said. “And run the gravitational gradient while you’re at it”
“I’m on it, Commander,” Crossman responded, bringing up his own virtual screen.
Mendoza tapped a few commands on his own console, confirming that ship systems, telemetry, and crew health were all green. Satisfied, he stood and took another look at the serene starfield projected around them.
He let out a soft, barely audible “hmm”. You would have loved this view, he thought.
He gave his two crewmates another look. Dr. Kriss now had three virtual screens floating in front of him, his head shifting between the two side displays with bar graphs and readings and the central one crowded with commands and interfaces. He’ll have that done in an hour I bet. He always gives himself plenty of wiggle room.
Knowing things were well in hand, Mendoza headed to the lift.
“I’ll be in Engineering,” he informed them, earning a thumbs up from Crossman before engaging the elevator down.
The lift came to a smooth stop a few moments later. Mendoza stepped off the maglev platform into the heart of the ship.
There was no roar of engines, no clanging machinery - only a deep, steady hum that vibrated throughout the deck. As an experienced captain, the unnatural quiet of the engineering section was a bit unsettling. He had to remind himself that the ship was running normally and not in some state of catastrophic failure.
He glanced to the right as he made his way deeper in the bay. On a nearby maglev cart, a diagnostic pad along with several tools lay perfectly aligned, like instruments on a surgeon’s tray. An apt comparison, considering the “surgery” that “Doctor” Tanaka performs on the ship. It was no surprise that his engineer and medic had crossed trained each other and spent a lot of their time together. They were mirror images of each other.
As Mendoza approached the central control station, he was not surprised to find Tanaka engaged in a very lively discussion with Dr. Alvi.
“I’m telling you, it would work, Steve!” Dr. Alvi insisted.
“And I’m telling you…” Before Tanaka could finish, Dr. Alvi gave him a backhanded slap in the chest, pointing to the incoming commander with his chin.
Tanaka and Dr. Alvi turned to face him. The three of them got along well enough, but it was clear their relationship was built more on professionalism rather than friendship.
“Commander, what can we do for you?” Tanaka inquired.
“Just wanted a sit-rep,” Mendoza said, glancing around the impeccably maintained bay with quiet admiration. “ Sounds like she’s humming like a dream.”
Tanaka knew Mendoza well enough to anticipate where the conversation was headed, so he decided to speed things along.
“Indeed Commander,” he replied. “ I’ve already run full diagnostics on all four drives and their supporting systems. There was a 0.05 variance in the main conduit to engine two, but it’s been reduced to one-thousandth. We are ready to go.”
“Excellent work, Tanaka,” Commander Mendoza said, deliberately avoiding the title “Doctor.” It still amused him that Steve Tanaka - holder of doctorates in physics, quantum field theory, and plasma physics - insisted on not being addressed with that title.
Mendoza’s mind drifted back to the first time they had met.
He had glanced up from the personnel pad to the man sitting across his desk: straight-backed, confident, with charcoal hair, a slender face, and sharp blue eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. The features didn’t quite match the stocky, solidly built frame beneath them.
“Well, Dr. Tanaka,” Mendoza said, setting the pad down, “this is certainly an impressive list of accomplishments. However, what it’s lacking is field work. What I need to know is, when push comes to shove, will you be able to handle the pressure? Will you be able to keep your head and access this,” he gently tapped the pad, “clearly impressive knowledge you’ve gathered.”
“Steve,” Tanaka replied.
“I beg your pardon?
“Call me Steve,” Tanaka said.
Mendoza blinked, a quizzical expression crossing his face. “I’m not sure I can do that, Doctor.”
“How about Tanaka, then? The stocky engineer said with a shrug. “‘Doctor’ is just too stuffy.”
Mendoza studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Alright. Tanaka it is.”
Mendoza allowed himself a small smile at the memory. The young man had certainly made an impression.
“Would you mind walking me through one last check?” he inquired.
Tanaka nodded and gestured with his head toward the maglev cart. Commander Mendoza thought he caught a mild roll of the eyes from Dr. Alvi, but paid it no mind.
An hour and a half and many technical details later, the three men stood before the lift.
“Alright gentlemen,” Mendoza said, stepping onto the lift. “You’ve gotten us as ready as we’re going to be. Well done. I’ll head back up and we can get this show on the road.”
“Aye aye, Commander,” Tanaka replied, brimming with pride. He glanced at his cohort, who gave him a quick nod, then turned back. “We’re ready.”
When Mendoza stepped back onto the Command Deck, the atmosphere buzzed with nervous energy. He saw that Luke had joined the group, and the three men were huddled around a large virtual screen, gesturing animatedly at the various data points as they discussed the rapidly approaching launch window.
“Mr. Fisher,” Mendoza said, interrupting the vibrant discussion as he made his way to his station. “Would you kindly let ice know that we are approaching the launch point and that everything is good to go for a launch without delay.”
Luke began the short walk to his secondary Sci-Ops station. “Aye, Commander,” he responded.
After a brief pause to listen for any further orders, Crossman and Dr. Kriss continued their conversation in more hushed tones.
The next hour slipped by in focused silence, broken only by an occasional communique from engineering.
A sharp ding-ding-ding sounded, accompanied by a pulsing yellow glow from the interior lights, signaling the reduction to below 1 g.
“Time to strap in,” Mendoza said.
The crew moved without hesitation, quickly taking their stations. Fingers worked swiftly over straps and buckles as the familiar 1 g weight against their bodies began to lighten.
“Engineering,” Mendoza said, opening the comm line, “are you two ready to go?”
“We’ve nearly got our Z-suits on,” Tanaka replied, “we’ll be suited up in time, don’t worry.”
Those last thirty minutes passed in tense, focused checks and responses. The faux gravity continued to lighten as the ship throttled down. Crossman kept a close eye on their relative velocity and position, while Dr. Kriss monitored the final telescope alignments with Luke assisting and keeping the ISE apprised.
Mendoza felt a tightness in his throat, a warm, steady current of satisfaction mirroring the ship’s own thrum as he watched his crew work. Crossman’s hands were anchors, steady and precise, while Dr. Kriss wove through the virtual displays as though they were an extension of his mind. Lucas moved with equal fluidity, handling the torrent of tasks Dr. Kriss sent his way. A comfortable silence stretched between them, as profound and deep as the space beyond the hull.
“Zero relative velocity achieved,” Crossman announced, his words cutting through. “We are at station-keeping. Ready for final shear prep.”
Commander Mendoza could barely keep the excitement out of his voice. “Alright, “ he said. “Let’s do this.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the ship’s constant hum seemed to fade, as if the vessel itself was holding its breath, waiting for his next words.
“Tanaka…warm her up. Sci-Ops, prep the launch vector. Crossman, monitor the shear bubble.”
Tanaka’s expert eyes tracked the autoloader as the containment bottles were smoothly extracted from the aft storage unit and locked into each of the four Λ-shear drives. The steady hum of the system deepened, rising in pitch as the flux ramped up, feeding power into the massive external coils.
On the Command Deck, the crew kept stealing quick glances at the exterior view as they worked. A faint blue glow was beginning to form around the hull, slowly enveloping the ship.
As the minutes ticked by, the roar of the ship continued to gradually deepen, while the glow grew steadily brighter and more intense. At the halfway point, Crossman announced, “Everything…” his voice cracked, drawing a light chuckle from the crew. He met their smiles with one of his own, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Everything is proceeding nominally, Commander.”
Mendoza could feel his own pulse throbbing in his throat, his heartbeat was deafening. If he didn’t know it was absurd, he could swear the others could hear it coming out of his ears. Just a few minutes more and it would be time. Time to make history.
Time turned into molasses. After long, dragging minutes, Crossman finally spoke up, clearly making an effort to keep his voice steady. “The shear bubble is complete and harmonized. We are ready to rock n’ roll.”
He was met with smiles, whoops, and other celebratory cheers. After a moment of soaking it in with the others, Crossman finally noticed the slightly disapproving look on Mendoza’s face, he quickly added, “Sir.”
Mendoza answered with a smile, enjoying the chance to make his longtime friend squirm just a little. Crossman smiled back in understanding, in that unspoken way shared by those who have served together for years. But this was not a military vessel. The protocols were different - far more lax.
Mendoza tapped a few inputs on his pad. A moment later, two virtual screens flickered to life, showing Tanaka and Dr. Alvi in engineering.
“Gentlemen, Mendoza said, looking each of them in the eye. “In a few seconds, we will travel farther than anyone before us. We will be the first of humanity to leave our solar system - our home.” He let the words sink in. “This is truly an auspicious day. Worthy,” he added a nod toward Crossman,“ of much celebration.”
To his surprise, the usually mild-mannered Dr. Alvi exclaimed, “Let’s make some history, boys!” The deck erupted in cheers and laughter.
When the noise died down, Mendoza continued, “I know we are all anxious to go, so I won’t delay it any further. We’ll launch after a final go or no-go.”
He turned to the first screen. “Steve,” he said with a wry grin. Considering the circumstances, it felt appropriate. “Start us off.”
Tanaka’s smile grew from ear to ear. “Go.” he replied with his uniquely youthful exuberance.
Mendoza looked to his engineering companion.
“Go,” Dr. Alvi echoed.
One by one, they gave their approval.
“Mr. Cross…” he allowed himself a bit of a dramatic pause for effect. “Engage the shear drive. Take us to Alpha Centauri.”
Crossman, never one to miss a moment in the spotlight, gave his best pirate impression. “Ayyeee, Cap’n,” he said, earning a shake of the head from Dr. Kriss. He tapped a few keys on his virtual keypad, and his chair shifted into a vertical position. “Telemetry from parallax aberration inputted and set. Here we go”
With that, Jonathan Cross pressed the large, green blinking button marked “Engage.”
Time seemed to stop.
Reality folded.
They were no longer in the Milky Way.
The faux viewscreens flickered and died, retreating into the bulkheads as if they refused to show what surrounded them. For a long, breathless heartbeat, the crew stared at blank metal, completely blind.
Then the silence exploded into screaming alarms.