Benjamin Nicholas

Mr. Hornberger

Fourth Quarter Rewrite

31 May 2010

The Unreachable Star

“Fifteen minutes to ejection range, sir.”

“Thank you, Adams,” said Captain Jackson, spinning slightly in his revolving chair to see

his radar analyst. Adams turned to leave the dark observation deck. “Not just yet, Mr. Adams,”

spoke the captain in his characteristically assertive tone. Adams stopped dead and turned.

“Yes, sir?”

Jackson smiled. “I’ve been saving a bottle of amontillado for this occasion. Won’t you

join me?” He rose to his full height of nearly two meters and drifted over to the wine cooler in

the observation deck’s eastern wall. “Consider it my treat for your recent graduation from the

academy.”

Of course it would be Spanish wine, thought Adams. Jackson was a full-blooded

Spaniard. Though born in the U.S. with an Americanized family name, Jackson was quite proud

of his heritage and often took pleasure in displaying it. A lot.

“This one’s from the early seventeenth century, as I understand” Jackson called over his

broad shoulder as he fished the bottle out of the deep wall cavity. “Difficult to obtain as well.

Had to bribe the owner of a high-end catering company to remove this relic from the menu at the

last G20 summit. They got diet Coke instead.”

Adams stifled his laughter. The crew members had learned to stop asking the captain

about the many shenanigans with which Jackson occupied himself during his time on Earth.
Most accepted the fact that he was a man who had done a great many things in his lifetime, as

confirmed by his occasional and very casual references to his extraordinary pastimes.

“Come on, Adams, have a taste,” beckoned Jackson. He was at the bar pouring a glass of

amontillado on rocks. The radar operator passed under the magnificent dome of the observation

deck located at the very apex of the transport ship. Stars pierced the indefinable blackness like

silent points of certainty amid nebulous doubt. They twinkled, as if they were all trying to say

something at once. Adams wondered if they were trying to tell him something important.

“Mmm, muy picoso.” Jackson set down his glass and poured another. “Now you try it,

Adams.” Adams received the stout glass and took a sip. The ancient wine burned his esophagus

more than any other spirit he’d had to date.

“I’m not taking you from your duties, am I?” asked the captain with concern.

“No, no, it’s fine,” coughed Adams. “My shift ended five minutes ago.”

“Ah, lovely. How was the amontillado?”

“A bit strong for me,” said Adams, clearing his throat.

“Yes, it certainly sizzles on the way down,” remarked Jackson, staring into his glass.

“You can almost taste the time period, smell the burning flesh of the Inquisition’s victims, feel

the searing rod of iron forced down your throat.”

Jackson’s reference to that dark corner of his nation’s history took Adams by surprise.

No one ever spoke of the Inquisition around the captain for rather obvious reasons.

Jackson’s good humor abruptly resurfaced. “But we’ve moved past that. We’ve moved

past quite a lot in the last hundred years, haven’t we?” He reached for a console on the bar table

which controlled the position of the spherical observation deck. In a moment, the platform had

rotated to bring both men face to face with the planet they departed thirty hours ago. “Beautiful,
isn’t it? Earth hasn’t looked this good in sixty years.”

Earth was indeed beautiful. The sapphire ocean was deep blue across the entire stunning

orb, even on the coast of New Jersey. Adams remembered the day they started pouring dye into

the waters to achieve that effect. He was six.

“Not to mention the world peace we’ve somehow attained,” added Jackson as the two

men gazed at the blue globe. Adams remembered that, too. The Middle Eastern Nuclear War

brought the call for peace to its loudest dynamic. Of course, peace was only possible then,

considering there were no more Palestinians, no more Israelis, and no more homeland to fight

over.

Adams noticed that the sounds of Louis Armstrong’s classic recording of “What a

Wonderful World” were floating about the deck. Jackson had turned on his favorite playlist.

“I still don’t understand how they got every country to agree to surrender their nuclear

materials,” said Adams. Saudi Arabia came into view. A green tumor on the back of Africa.

They had somehow managed to grow grass there after the war.

“I guess that last nuclear war knocked some sense into their heads, even Russia,”

answered the captain. “They collected it all. Nuclear waste, nuclear reactors, nuclear weapons,

everything. And that’s where we are now.”

“A transport ship carrying all the world’s nuclear materials for ejection into the Sun,”

recited Adams.

“Precisely.”

Jackson turned down the observation deck’s sunshade effect. As he did so, light spilled

onto the platform’s floor and warmed both men’s backs. Adams could see his silhouette next to

Jackson’s on the floor. His made it to the center of the deck’s circular floor. Jackson’s shadow
stretched beyond the floor and into the vast lack of light beyond the window.

Both men turned to face the burning orb opposite the Earth. Frank Sinatra’s recording of

“Fly Me to the Moon” came on.

“Well, we’re certainly close,” said Adams, shielding his eyes.

“Your powers of observation are muy asombrosos,” said Jackson flatly. He stared into

the Sun, as if he could make sense of the flames and random brute energy produced by the

collision of particles and the combustion of gas which has somehow sustained itself for

millennia.

“Captain, five minutes to ejection range,” sounded a nearby intercom. It was barely

heard over the screaming trumpets of Sinatra’s recording. Captain Jackson turned down the

music.

“On my way.”

Both men boarded the elevator which Adams had stepped off ten minutes ago. It was the

transport’s central lift. The observation deck was its highest point; the bridge wasn’t that far

down.

During the ride, Adams noticed that his captain looked older since they had left. His eyes

looked sunken in, his cheeks sagging. Adams knew that Jackson was nearly at retirement, but he

looked beyond aged. Captain Jackson looked tired.

The elevator doors opened and the two men stepped out onto the bridge. Jackson took

his seat on the captain’s chair and Adams took his post behind the radar terminal. The sunshades

on the enormous window which separated the men from the vacuum of space were turned up to

maximum, hiding the fact that the transport was now face to face with a Hell over one million

times the size of Earth.

 Adams looked back to his terminal. Nothing unusual on the radar. In another three

minutes, the nuclear waste would be gone and he’d be back on his way to see his family.

There was a gunshot.

Alarms went off. People were shouting, others were pointing to the bridge’s view

window. A single spear of sunlight shot through a hole in the otherwise sunshaded glass.

A bullet hole.

Technicians were scrambling amid the whooshing sound of air gushing out into space.

Only Captain Jackson was calm. Wisps of smoke still rose from his revolver.

The aging captain picked up his master intercom. “Attention crew of the USS Rocinante.

The view window on the bridge has been breached. Under these conditions, the air and pressure

levels here will become lethal in about ten minutes.” Adams saw cracks start to shoot away from

the hole in the window. He felt ice breaking under his feet.

“Without access to the bridge, we cannot stop the ship from falling into the Sun. I advise

all crew members to evacuate via escape pod before we enter the pull of the Sun’s orbit. The

transport is locked in a collision course with the Sun. God willing, the mission will still be

successful without us. I’ll see you planetside.”

Order vaporized like water on a hot stove. All officers and bridge technicians scrambled

for the elevators, hardly noticing the captain or the mad look in his eyes. He had sounded

rational enough in his announcement. Everything would turn out fine.

Only Adams saw the flaw in his reason. With a sinking stomach, the radar operator

approached the silent captain. “Sir,” spoke Adams with caution, “this transport has no autopilot

function.”

“You are correct,” replied Jackson. He spoke slowly without turning his head. Sheets of
sunlight were slicing through the window like the illuminating light of reality. Or the blinding

light of madness.

“Someone would have to manually direct the Rocinante into the Sun,” observed Adams,

pulling at his collar. “Otherwise, entering the Sun’s orbit would pull it off its course.”

“Again, correct.”

Adams looked around quickly at the last men running for their escape pods, then back to

Jackson. “And you intend to do this?”

The captain closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Captain, I can’t let you do that. Even if you command me.”

“Then I’ll force you.” Jackson raised his revolver in Adams’ direction and pulled back

the hammer. “Leave this to me or die.”

“Why?!” shouted Adams. He was starting to lose his patience with his captain’s strange

calm. “What’s so wrong with dumping everything into the Sun and leaving?”

Jackson finally turned to look at his radar technician. “The atmosphere above the Sun is

highly volatile, highly chaotic. Plumes of flame launch themselves thousands of feet above the

fiery surface at random intervals.” He was speaking quickly. “Now imagine what would happen

if we allowed hundreds upon thousands of nuclear waste containers to drift lazily through this

warzone.”

“What? Nuclear destruction?”

“Yes. Worse than Hiroshima. Worse than the Middle Eastern Nuclear War. The series

of explosions resulting from this error would be close enough to Earth to threaten its very

existence. El Armagedón.”

The expanding cracks on the window seemed to be drawing a map of some country
hastily carved into separate states by a mindless cartographer.

“And only you are aware of this flaw in the plan?” asked Adams. The pointlessness of

this debate was reaching hilarity. Soon the bridge would be scorched a thousand times over.

“Apparently. The only way this waste can be destroyed safely is if it is all directed

straight into the Sun, as far from Earth as possible. This transport’s shields should be enough to

make it through the solar flares.”

Adams had enough. “Sir, you’re coming with me.”

“Only if you really want a bullet from his gun. Or to be burned alive. Otherwise, go to

your escape pod.”

Adams couldn’t believe he had been pushed this far. There was only one alternative left.

“Sir, I find you incapable of carrying out your duties as captain. On these grounds I hereby

invoke legal mutiny. Come with me.”

“You’re free to take me to the brig, Adams. If it still exists.”

“You’ve gone too far, sir!” Adams hurled himself at Jackson, who fired another shot. A

searing pain shot up Adams’ leg. He fell and looked up to find the captain’s revolver in his face.

“The next one will be lethal. Now get out of here before the Sun’s gravity makes it

impossible for any more pods to escape.” Like a wounded animal, Adams submissively limped

to the closest elevator and slammed the control panel with a bloody fist. The doors opened and

he boarded.

The unattended radar console showed hundreds of white dots departing the ship. Almost

every escape pod had fired.

“Es el tiempo para poner fin a ésta,” grunted Jackson to an empty bridge. He rerouted

the navigator’s controls to his own console and began the process of repeatedly correcting the
ship’s roll, pitch, and yaw for the Sun’s gravitational forces. At his side was a smaller, personal

terminal for which the captain used his other hand to select one of his favorite show tunes. The

dulcet tones of Richard Kiley’s voice drifted from the ship’s sound system.

“To dream the impossible dream…”

Captain Jackson seated himself as the pace of his calculations increased.

“To fight the unbeatable foe…”

Adams was still scuttling to find an unfired escape pod when he heard the music. He

turned around panting and looked at the trail of blood his wounded leg had left. Jackson truly

was mad.

“To run where the brave dare not go…”

The temperature of the bridge had grown exponentially. Beads of sweat poured off the

captain’s brow as he struggled to keep his ship’s course directly headed for the blazing sphere.

The light from the window’s cracks filled the bridge with a strange warm light, as if dawn were

breaking on the other side. A strange calm seemed to fill the lonely room despite the imminent

inferno outside.

“To reach the unreachable star!”

A pane of glass broke away from the dark view window, allowing more blinding to shoot

into Jackson’s eyes. He wiped the sweat from his face and continued working.

“This is my quest! To follow that star! No matter how hopeless, no matter how far!”

The radar display showed the Rocinante’s approach to the Sun and the rapidly reducing

distance between hull and horror in meters. The transport was headed directly for the Sun’s

center.

“To be willing to march into Hell with a heavenly cause!”

 Jackson reached for his personal oxygen mask. Almost all breathable air had left the

bridge in a vain attempt to fill all space with its life-giving presence. Soon any atmosphere

resembling Earth’s would be gone, too. “The end of nuclear devastation on Earth. If only I

could see it myself,” the captain breathed through his mask.

“And the world will be better for this…”

Every screen flashed red screaming “IMPACT IMMINENT.” It was too late for the

wizened captain. But not for Earth. Earth’s time had just begun.

“That one man, scorned and covered with scars…”

From his escape pod porthole, Adams could barely make out the small black spot of the

Rocinante descending into the Sun.

“Still strove with his last ounce of courage…”

Jackson leapt up on his seat to feel this moment, this victory over war and destruction.

Lights were flickering. The audio system shut off, but he could still hear the music. He would

always hear it.

“To reach the unreachable star!”

Adams watched as the black spot vanished from view. For a long moment, nothing

seemed to happen.

Then the Sun went supernova.

There was a bright light, a huge, godly, all-consuming, dominating light which could

have only existed upon the creation of the Earth. Then it was gone. Before Adams’ eyes

readjusted, he noticed that he could no longer feel the inertia of the escape pod’s journey through

space. It had slowed to a near halt.

When the shock had left his eyes, Adams could see that the Sun had imploded into a mass
of black which blotted out even the stars. “Jackson was wrong,” he breathed. “They were all

wrong.” What was once the Sun now loomed like a gaping maw, titanically devouring space and

time.

Adams’ escape pod reversed direction. He was headed for the black hole.

He looked back at Earth.

It seemed to give a lurch.