This close to the ship’s hub, the spin gravity was only.21 G; you had to watch your footing and your inertia when you were moving, and the Coriolis effect was particularly unpleasant. This level had some berthing spaces, but most was reserved for offices, crew’s quarters, and a common room that doubled as a mess deck and galley.
It was also the only space in the hab that provided a view of the outside. A two-meter wall screen mounted on the forward bulkhead was set to display various views from cameras mounted on the Roosevelt’s hull.
The view now was forward from the transport’s prow. Jupiter was centered squarely in the screen, a slightly flattened orange disk, its banding easily visible to the naked eye. Although it was hard to tell from an image on a vid monitor, it looked a little larger than the full Moon did from Earth. All four of the Galilean satellites were visible, three on one side of the disk, one on the other. He didn’t know which of those bright-shining points of light was Europa, their destination, but one of them was.
The Roosevelt was 11 million kilometers out from the planet, and well within the orbits of the huge world’s outer moons. They’d just passed the orbit of Leda, a tiny chunk of rock and ice lost in all that night.
Sergeant Major Kaminski was standing by the screen, a squeeze bottle of coffee in his hand. “Major, sir,” he said, nodding. “How went the meeting?”
“As expected, Sergeant Major,” he replied. “We’re to be squared away by sixteen-thirty hours, with inspection at seventeen hundred. Spin-down, turnover, and deceleration are scheduled to begin at twenty-twenty hours. We’ll want to make sure everyone’s had chow and the mess gear’s cleared and stowed before then.”
“Aye, aye, sir. We’ll be four-oh, never fear.”
“Good.” He stared a moment at the vid screen. “Which one’s Europa? You know?”
Kaminski indicated the middle star of the three on the right. “That brightest one, sir.” His finger moved to the moon nearest Jupiter. “This little red one’s Io. You can almost smell the sulfur volcanoes from here.” He indicated the lone moon to the left. “That’s Ganymede. Biggest moon in the Solar System, bigger even than Mercury, and the next out from Europa.” His finger slid back to the right. “And Callisto. Outermost of the Galilean satellites, and enough like our Moon back home to make us all nostalgic for cold beer and a hot date.”
“I didn’t ask for a travelogue, Sergeant Major.”
“No, sir. Of course not. Sir.”
Oh, stop being a prick, he told himself savagely. “Sorry, Kaminski. I guess I’m a little on edge.”
“Goes with the territory, sir.”
Damn. Kaminski was always so diplomatic. Always knew exactly what to say. Well, that went with the territory too. Frank Kaminski had been in a long time…almost thirty years. He’d been in during the UN War, a veteran of Garroway’s March, of Tsiolkovsky, of half a dozen nasty little actions fought as the old UN broke up and the new CWS began to take shape. He was supremely competent at everything he did, the quintessential Marine’s Marine. His little spiel on the Galilean satellites was typical. The man always researched the next duty station or deployment, and seemed to command an inexhaustible armory of facts about the place—facts always tempered by long, personal experience.
Jeff touched one of the keys on the vid display, and a computer-generated image of the Roosevelt appeared center-screen, showing the transport’s current attitude. She was an impressive vessel, 200 meters long from the blunt, water-tank prow ahead of the stately pirouette of her hab modules to the massive ugliness of her A-M plasma drives safely far astern. Still, at that resolution she looked damned small adrift in so much emptiness.
The single most revolutionary advance in spacecraft propulsion during the mid-twenty-first century was the steady-thrust antimatter engine, or A-M drive. Developed in parallel during the UN War by both the U.S.-Japanese Alliance and by the European Space Agency, A-M drives transformed space travel within the Solar System from long, lazy, energy-saving Holmann transfer orbits to relatively simple, straight-line, point-and-shoot affairs. Antimatter enthusiastically converted itself plus the equivalent of its own mass in ordinary matter into raw energy and plasma with a very high specific impulse…meaning high efficiency. By mixing matter and antimatter in a one-to-one ratio, a few tons of fuel was enough to take a ship, boosting steadily at one G for half the distance, then flipping over and decelerating for the second half, all the way to Jupiter in a matter of days.
Unfortunately, antimatter was tremendously expensive to produce. Enormous solar-power facilities at L-3 and on the Moon were used to transform sunlight into energy, which in turn was used to create and accumulate antimatter in microgram amounts, using techniques unchanged in principle since the late twentieth century. Because of the expense, most A-M spacecraft employed either conventional fuels “heated” by the insertion of very small amounts of antimatter to increase their Isp, or plasma thrust engines that used a little antimatter to turn a lot of reaction mass—usually water—into plasma, but at much lower thrust-to-weight efficiencies. Spacecraft like the Franklin Delano Roosevelt and the other big A-M cruisers could employ steady-thrust acceleration at one G and reach Jupiter space in a week, but since doing so would consume the entire antimatter output of the U.S. A-M facility at L-3 for the past thirty months, simple economics required a more conservative approach.