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  The Unborn Galaxy

  Book Three

  ACROSS A SEA OF STARS

  Michael E. Gonzales

  Across a Sea of Stars

  Copyright© 2018 Michael E. Gonzales

  Cover Design Livia Reasoner

  Fire Star Press

  www.firestarpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The Unborn Galaxy:

  Book One: Dark Moon Rising

  Book Two: The Battle of Broken Moon

  To my long-suffering family,

  and those not at the table.

  Chapter 1

  From the Earth to the Moon

  Mars lay in the constellation of Aquarius, just a few degrees below the Ecliptic, and was easily identified from the surrounding stars because of its obvious red color.

  The planners calculated twenty-one days from departing lunar orbit to reach the red planet, using the recently perfected Cannae Drive electromagnetic wave engine. The Mars ship's design was perfect. It was already in orbit around the Moon and in final preparations. Requisitioned supply ships were already on station in orbit around Mars, and the Martian habitat was already deployed on the surface.

  All that remained was making the final selections for the crew. Thus, personnel throughout the International Interplanetary Exploration Agency, the IIEA, who had been training for this mission for years, were holding their breaths in anticipation.

  Among them was Cristóbal "Cris" Salazar, a career Air Force officer. He was not particularly enamored with military life, it was just one of a vast number of choices he had made to reach his goal: becoming an astronaut. Yes, there were other ways to become an astronaut, but they all involved decades of education in fields that held no interest for Cris. So the military became his avenue.

  After all these years, all the sacrifice, the deployments into combat, and the pain and horror that accompanied those deployments, he was at last on the fast track for the Mars Mission. He felt he had lived all his life for this one purpose, and indeed, he had. After being selected, final training would begin. He was so ready…hell, he told himself, I was born ready.

  "Hey, Cris," Captain Miller approached with an extra cup of coffee, offering it to him, "I hear that the final Mars training will take place at the Joint International Lunar Laboratory."

  "Yeah, that's right."

  "There's no chance of me making the cut for Mars, so I've applied for the Lunar Survey team. I guess I'll be seeing you up there, at least for a little while." Like everyone else, Captain Miller saw Cris's selection as a foregone conclusion.

  "Don't count yourself out, Jake."

  As Cris walked toward the morning briefing, his mind was not on today's routine training flights. No, today his mind was on Mars.

  Cris knew the selection roster would arrive at the squadron commander's office via secure email. It was expected at 09:00. Cris was sitting outside the colonel's office at 08:30.

  At 09:15 the colonel's secretary, Senior Airman Candice Littleton, called him in. "Captain Salazar, the colonel will see you now."

  Cris rose and said quietly as he passed her desk, "Thanks Candice."

  He knocked firmly three times on the door.

  "Come in."

  Cris entered, closed the door behind him, and stood at attention in front of the colonel's desk. "Captain Salazar reports," he said, saluting.

  The colonel returned the salute. "Sit down, Cris."

  Once he was seated, the colonel opened the safe behind his desk and removed a secure e-tablet. Without a word, he handed it to Cris.

  Cris scanned the document on the viewer. He just could not believe it. He read it again. His name was not on the roster for the Mars mission. He sat quietly, stunned. His usual military bearing and posture left him. He was slump-shouldered, and his mouth was agape.

  "I'm sorry, Cris. I know how much this meant to—"

  "I don't understand. I am the archetype of what they're looking for."

  "Cris, it's not going to be much conciliation to you, but I know a few of those names on the list. Major Kalner, for one. The man is married to the niece of the Secretary of the Air Force. And Lieutenant Colonel Washington, here, he was my wingman during my first tour in Oceania. His father was a senator back then. I guess his old man still has friends on the hill."

  "You're right sir, it's not much conciliation. Rather than become the best astronaut I could, I should have been a better politician, or married a—"

  "Cris, if you want it, I can get you transferred to the Moon. They're looking for hotshot pilots for the new Lunar Eagle, and I can guarantee you a slot. At least it's space flight, and I'm sure you are aware how few people will ever get as far as the Moon."

  "The Moon? Dammit, sir, I was—I'm sorry sir, I'm just a little—"

  "It's all right, Cris. You take some time, think on my offer, but just don't think too long. The next lunar classes start the Monday after next. The plane departs here on Sunday."

  "Thank you, sir."

  ○O○

  Cris responded in the affirmative later that afternoon. He then requested leave to go home and tell his folks and his fiancée.

  Cris caught a hop aboard a C-27J Spartan from Houston to Tinker AFB in Oklahoma, and from there, he bought a ticket on HARTS, the Homeland Area Rapid Transit System. He climbed aboard the monorail and took a seat among the other passengers. Across from him sat a young Native American boy with a very round face, perhaps ten or eleven years old. The boy studied his uniform closely.

  "Hey, Captain," the boy said, "are you really an astronaut?"

  His mother was quick to intervene, "Chander, don't be rude."

  "But Mom, those are astronaut's wings."

  "It's okay, ma'am, the boy's right. I am an astronaut," Cris said, smiling.

  "See, I knew it! Are you going to Mars?"

  "Not this trip, son." Cris changed the subject. "Interesting name, Chander. I've never encountered that before."

  "It's Cherokee," his mother said. "It means Moon." Then, behind the boy's back, she indicated his round face and smiled.

  "Well, Chander, that's where I'm headed, to the Moon."

  "Cool. When do you go to Mars?"

  Thankfully, the trip to Tulsa, about a hundred miles, was completed in twenty minutes.

  Cris's parents lived in an older home built back in the 2020s in the fashion of a nineteenth century French villa. The neighborhood was now a historic preservation district. They greeted him with open arms and were soon all seated at the kitchen table.

  "Cristóbal," his mother said, taking his hand, "do not despair my son. Men of your caliber will always be needed. Space exploration is a major international objective."

  Cris's father arrived with a tray of coffee and small cakes. "Cris, your email said they were sending you to that base on the Moon. It's not Mars, but it's important, nonetheless."

  "Dad, they are just placating me, is all."

  "But you are going, is that not right?"

  "Yes, Dad, I'm going. I'll be there a year."

  "At least no one will be shooting at you this time," his mother said, squeezing his hand.

  "Mom, no one shoots at astronauts. Say—where's Galinda? She sent me a voice tab saying she'd be here."

  "Oh, she tabbed us too, dear—she's running a bit late."

  After coffee, Cris and his father retired to his dad's den. They sat in t
he simulated leather chairs in silence for a few minutes. Cris's dad was first to speak. "Well?"

  "When I first got the news, I was angry," Cris all but whispered. "I wanted to quit the program. It was politics Dad, pure and simple. Not the most qualified, but the most connected. I would have quit had my commander not offered me the Moon spot."

  "Son," his father responded, "I understand your reaction, but you know your mother is right. They are not about to completely overlook their best astronaut trainee, their best pilot. Look, they guaranteed you a place on the Moon without you having to compete, think about that a second. Yeah, you're right, they are placating you, but only because they don't want to lose you."

  An hour-and-a-half later, Cris saw a car pull up in front of the house. It was not Galinda's car, but she climbed out of it still talking on her implant. Cris opened the front door before she reached it; he stood ready to embrace her. As she approached, she held a finger up and continued to talk. "Well, no. He's a brute, and she can do better, yes! Listen, I'm here, so I have to let you go, yes, okay, see ya." She turned to face Cris. "Hi ya, hon."

  "Hi, Galinda, I've missed you."

  "And I've missed you, too. Are your folks inside?" She brushed past him, into the house.

  ○O○

  As Cris watched Galinda disappear into the house, his mind flashed back. Galinda always reminded him of their days together in high school. He had been in school most of his life it seemed. Middle school, high school, the academy. Then he received his commission and the Air Force sent him to a great many schools. Volunteering for combat was almost a relief…almost.

  Cris found little time to socialize in school, and that included the academy; his studies were paramount in his life. His education and commission were two of the many goals he would have to attain in order to reach Mars. Once graduated and commissioned, he concentrated on being selected a fighter pilot—again, no social life. Being a fighter pilot, he needed to be where the action was, so he volunteered for combat duty in the Oceania theatre of operations. It was all part of getting his ticket punched.

  When he got home after that first tour, he found he had little in common with civilians; these people went on with their lives like nothing else in the world mattered, and it didn't—not to them. His mother and father threw parties in his honor and introduced him to nice girls, from the right families.

  As quickly as possible, he volunteered for another tour. He had to pull a few strings to be sent back so quickly, but he managed it.

  Cris had concluded that he was not a social animal, and that a family was just not in his future. Besides, you couldn't bring your wife and kids with you to Mars or the Moon.

  After that second tour, his parents threw him a huge party, the event of the social season. It seemed everyone would be there, including the senator and his daughter. Cris objected, but his mother insisted. He could never deny her.

  There were a large number of lovely, eligible young women present. Cris found their company boorish. They were all egocentric and cliqueish.

  Cris sat alone in a corner nursing a drink. He was none too happy when Mrs. Colder walked up and sat next to him. She was a psychologist. He knew what was coming.

  "Hello, Cris, enjoying your party?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "That's a lie, Cris, and you know it."

  "Mrs. Colder, I've never been much of a partying kind of guy."

  "I see," she said in that knowing sort of way. She glanced down at the glass in his hand. "Drink much, do you, Cris?"

  "It's a cream soda, ma'am."

  "Your mother tells me she hears you screaming out, late at night. Nightmares, Cris?"

  "TV, ma'am, I like to watch the late, late show with Count Gregore. I love those old horror movies."

  "Cris, if you're suffering with PTSD, I can help."

  "Mrs. Colder, I'm fine, thank you very much. I do not drink, I sleep great, and am not suffering from any collection of letters. Good day." He slammed his drink down on the end table and sprang to his feet.

  "Can I assume, Cris," she persisted, "that you've no problem controlling your temper, either?"

  "Mrs. Colder, really, I'm fine."

  She rose and led him to a secluded spot on the back porch. "Cris, listen to me. I've spoken to your parents; I know what you're going through. You are a classic case. Cris, I can help you."

  "Is this conversation off the record, ma'am?"

  "One hundred percent."

  "I appreciate what you are trying to do, but if the Air Force finds out I'm being treated for a—"

  "Cris, they need never find out."

  "I could lose my wings, ma'am. Besides, my leave is almost over."

  Cris left her without another word.

  Two days later, he was at the mall coming out of the theater. He had gone to see a movie just to escape home.

  "Cris Salazar?" Cris turned to see Galinda, a classmate from the posh, expensive, private high school they had both attended.

  "Well, hello, Galinda," he said softly.

  "It is you! I had heard you were back. When did you get out of the Army?"

  "Air Force. I'm not out, just home on leave."

  "I heard you were in the war."

  "Yes."

  "How awful for you. You won't have to go back, will you?"

  "No, I'm training to become an astronaut."

  "Really? How very exciting!"

  "Thank you, I think so."

  "Cris, you must let me buy you dinner and you can tell me all about outer space."

  Over the course of the next week-and-a-half, Galinda paid him a considerable amount of attention, and showed him a kindness not present in military life. She applied vitamin E to the burn scars on his arm; she washed his hair, and made him a simple bowl of soup that, though he never mentioned it, touched him deeply.

  Most important, she never asked him about the war. None of the usual stupid questions civilians asked: "Did you kill anyone? How many planes did you shoot down? Did you see many bodies? Were you shot?" Her discretion meant a lot to him.

  Galinda was a very attractive woman with ample breasts, a tiny waist, and round hips. Though they were all sculpted, the overall appearance was greatly appreciated by every man she encountered.

  Their relationship became quite steamy very quickly. Cris had discovered the many pleasures that female companionship could provide, and he was now an altered man.

  Cris was painfully aware that his leave was coming to an end. He would have to return to Houston. He was torn. On one hand, he did not want to be that far from Galinda; on the other, was the object of his life's pursuit, the astronaut program, and the Mars mission.

  Before he left, he bought an engagement ring and asked her to marry him. She had agreed and suggested that they wait until his training was complete. He reminded her that would be months. She kissed him and said she could wait if he could. The months had become two years—and still, she would not agree on a wedding date.

  ○O○

  Cris shook his head, snapping himself back into the here and now. "Where's your car?" he asked, following Galinda into the house.

  "Oh, I forgot to plug it in last night, so I borrowed Stan's."

  "Stan?"

  "Cris, my electric bill is killing me. I've got to stop driving so much!"

  In his father's den, he sat down alone with Galinda.

  "So—you're not going to Mars?" she asked, smiling.

  "No."

  "Well, that's a good thing, right? I mean, now you won't be gone for five years. The thought of waiting—being without you for five years—honey, it was daunting, simply daunting."

  "You got my T-mail, right? You know I'm going to the Moon."

  "Sure, but how long can you stay there? There's nothing up there, for God's sake."

  "I'll be there a year."

  "A year! Well—you can get out of it, right?"

  "Galinda, I asked to be stationed there, I'm an astronaut. I explained all this in my tag."
/>   "What about me? What am I supposed to do for a year while you're playing golf on the Moon?"

  "Golf?"

  "Oh, I've seen the vids on the net—you guys all go up there and play golf!"

  "Honey, that was done once by Alan Shepard in 1971."

  "Whatever! You're being selfish; you're not even considering how this will affect me."

  "Wasn't my being an astronaut what attracted you to me in the first place?"

  "Sure, but I thought you'd just go up in the shuttle, visit the space station, and come back. You never said anything about five years on Mars or a year on the Moon!"

  "It's what I do."

  "Well it's not what I—Cris, I have to think about this, it's just too much for me right now."

  She got up and stormed out of the house. She had no more cleared the front door than she was back on her implant again calling someone. Cris watched this and said to himself, Good luck, Stan.

  The car pulled away from the curb with a hum, and as it did, a pain as he had never known pierced his heart. He was quick to realize the source. It was the rejection of love; it was betrayal. She didn’t even have the courtesy to send him a Dear John letter.

  Few things in the world could kill a man's sprit as the betrayal of the woman he loves. He didn't know love at all, he concluded. He vowed to avoid that four-letter word from that moment on. It was something he now knew he'd never have.

  "Fine, who gives a damn?"

  He chalked her up to mission drift and decided to refocus on the established parameters of his new mission: the exploration of the Moon. Besides, there was always the next Mars mission. A woman would just be another unwelcome distraction, he concluded. If I had avoided Galinda, I might be preparing for Mars right now.

  Turning to re-enter the house, he found dejection, sadness, and a sudden feeling of loneliness weighing on him like a leaden anchor.

  As he reached for the door handle, he heard a deep, rather gruff voice behind him. "Cris Salazar?" He looked slowly over his shoulder, only to be shocked at what he saw. There stood a rather tall, elderly man in an old- fashioned tuxedo, sporting a top hat over extraordinarily long, gray hair. He also possessed a long beard and a Fu Manchu mustache. He carried in his hand an old leather briefcase.