The Jupiter Theft

For hydrogen fusion, a mere 200 million degrees Fahrenheit had been sufficient. For boron fission, a temperature in the billions of degrees was needed. Fusion was only the trigger. The raging nuclear fury in that tortured speck of matter stripped hot protons from surrounding hydrogen atoms and drove them with incredible energy into the now-collapsing nuclei of boron-11 atoms. The extra proton was too much for the boron nucleus to hold. Each atom split into three helium nuclei. The energy released was tremendous—far more than the controlled fusion energy that mankind had unlocked a half century before. A stream of electrically charged helium nuclei sought their mad escape rearward through the ship’s nozzles.

The ship trembled and moved.

Another pellet dropped. Another chamber turned into hell. Then, three seconds later, another. And another.

The ship, shuddering, picked up speed. It was accelerating rapidly now, at one percent of a g. On Earth, an estimated seven billion people watched the ship dwindle on their screens.

They watched it until it was small and indistinct, a ghostly target pierced by a glittering arrow. A silver phi sketched against the void. A needle encircled by a wedding ring, pointing itself toward a star.

When Jameson staggered into his quarters after his first twelve-hour watch, Maggie had a mug of steaming coffee and a hot beanie waiting for him. He wolfed the crisp, paste-filled cone down gratefully. “Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t have a chance to eat. It was wild on the bridge. The skipper’s still up there. Have you had anything?”

She gestured at a half-eaten beanie, its fragile rice-flour wrapping spilling out a congealing green sludge. “I was too excited. Are we really on our way?”

He nodded. “Everything got straightened out a couple of hours ago, when you felt us put the spin back on. The engine’s working beautifully. We won’t have any more trajectory corrections till tomorrow. By that time the computer should have accumulated enough data to tell us how much longer those damn bomb blisters are going to make us keep the boost on.”

“Want another beanie?”

“No, that’ll hold me till mealtime.”

“Let’s not go down to the mess for dinner. I’ll fix us something here.”

He ruffled her red hair. “That’s fine with me. Let’s put on some music and have a drink.”

She pecked him on the cheek and got up to put a music card in the slot. It was “Giles Farnaby’s Dreame” again. Jameson was getting a little tired of it, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her. They had been careful with each other since making up their quarrel on the shuttle trip, and Maggie had moved in with him. Sue had taken it well. She’d been a little hurt, but she recovered quickly, and her behavior toward Maggie had been warm and friendly.

Maggie returned with some chilled gin and one of the adulterated joints that were all anyone could get from Stores. She lit the joint and passed it to Jameson. She seemed unusually quiet.

“Something’s bothering you,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Come on, What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s just that Klein.”

“What did he do?”

“Wanted to come by my quarters tonight. Got very insistent about it. Threw rank at me. I told him I was bunking here. He started quoting regulations about pair-bonding during a mission. Said I ought to be spreading myself around. That’s how he put it. Nasty man! Anyway, I’ve only been here about week.”

“And you’re going to stay here,” Jameson said. “I’ll have a talk with Klein.”

“He’s already made trouble for Liz Becque and Omar. They’re reporting for counseling sessions with Janet.”

“I’ll speak to the skipper,” Jameson said. “Nobody’s complained about your work. Or mine. Klein can mind his own damned business.”

She snuggled against his chest. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

The “Dreame” came to an end on a translucent D-major chord, to be replaced by the jolly tones of “Tower Hill.” Maggie pried the drink from Jameson’s hand and pressed herself against him. There was a rapping at the door.

“Damn!” Jameson said, sitting up. Maggie picked up her drink again, and Jameson went to the door.

Mike Berry was standing there, looking tousled and exhausted. “Could I talk to you?” he said.

“Mike! I thought you’d locked up and sacked out.”

Berry glanced over at Maggie and nodded apologetically at her. Maggie looked away and gathered her robe more closely around her. Berry turned back to Jameson.

“Yeah, I did. I left Quentin in charge, and Caffrey put a guard on the door, and Tu Jue-chen put one of her Struggle Brigade mugs on guard outside their door, and … look, could you come back to the engine room with me? I haven’t said anything to Boyle yet. I don’t want to make a big thing of it.”

“What’s the matter?”