BY STEVE BATES

The following is an excerpt from “Castle of Sand,” my science-fiction novel, which will be published on July 10, 2023, by Sunstone Press.

         Even before the door hisses shut behind them with jarring finality, their senses are overwhelmed by a spectacle of motion. Standing amid a sea of aged blue metal desks, under an oppressive canopy of harsh yellow lights, men and women are gesturing and yelling at comm screens. Others are lugging bulky boxes that all but bend their backs into pretzels. Maria and Roberto nearly collide with several people as they are led through the dizzying crowd and into a tiny room with one chair, one table, and fierce lights. The door closes, but pandemonium seeps through the almost bare walls. Standing behind her son, arm on his shoulder, Maria attempts unsuccessfully to calm her breathing. She is so overwhelmed that the pain in her injured knee barely registers.

         With more gestures than words, an older man checks their temperatures, then propels them down a series of corridors beneath a low ceiling of stained tiles that reminds Maria of a police station from an old TV show. They approach a couple dozen other people bunched together, many in business suits or military uniforms. Some look as shell-shocked as Maria and Roberto. A door opens and all of them are hustled into a courtyard and then an unmarked white bus. During a mostly silent, ten-minute ride, the passengers’ attention is captured by a gargantuan, floodlit jumble of metal. Vapor plumes rise from its base like escaping snakes. Satellite images of the top-secret space plane launch pad captured by the Chinese government have been plastered across the webs for years. However, no pirated image or collection of rumors does the scene justice. So tall and thin as viewed from this distance, the rocket and its payload resemble a needle poised to pierce the atmosphere, or perhaps a Roman candle destined to light up the heavens.

         The vehicle atop the rocket is called “The Chaser” for two reasons, a bus passenger observes, attempting to quell the tension or perhaps just sound important. One, it evolved from a private space plane prototype named “Dream Chaser”, conceived as the successor to the original space shuttle. And two, it’s mounted atop a mammoth Titan booster nicknamed “The Shot”. Few riders on the left side of the bus, who enjoy the best view as they approach the pad, can help but gasp or mutter superlatives. Before the bus even comes to a full stop, people in hazmat suits are waving frantically for the riders to exit and run to the elevator at the base of the pad. Maria has to restrain Roberto from racing ahead of her. The pair wait until the first group has ascended, then join a packed, anxious, wide-eyed mass of people on the sluggish, jerky rise to the top.

         There’s a long, slow-moving line of people waiting to enter the space plane. As soon as Maria ducks in preparation for squeezing through the tiny oval door, it’s obvious that everything is wrong. Totally wrong. The space plane is tilted vertically, its eight seats facing straight up. Six men and two women in uniforms are strapped in to them. What would normally be considered the floor of the craft is currently a vertical wall. Grasping rails and hand holds, Maria, Roberto, and other riders slip and slide awkwardly down to what would be the back of the plane but is currently the bottom, a nearly rectangular space about twelve feet by fifteen feet typically devoted to nonhuman cargo. After some discussions, those strapped into the seats relinquish those spots. Two people can stand on the back rest of each seat, at least for now. Passengers continue to enter, struggling to avoid falling onto the now tightly packed cluster of people below them. “Like riding the subway in Tokyo,” observes one man. A few people laugh nervously. Forrester is near the front, gripping a rail with both arms and staring out a circular window. Too small to permit an escape, Maria thinks.   

          The door slams shut. Passengers whisper. Some point out of windows. After several tense minutes, they can feel the engines thrum. Soon the accelerating thunder rattles their bones. The brilliance of full fuel ignition, reflected through windows, joins the parade of extreme sensory stimulation. The craft starts to rise, slowly at first, then fast, then extremely fast. Riders hold on to each other for stability and a measure of comfort. Pheromones and droplets of sweat betray the few who attempt to maintain the illusion of calm as the rapidly multiplying forces of gravity take their toll. One older man, then two other passengers, lose their grip and plunge into the well of people at the back of the space plane. Screaming erupts, followed by cursing and moaning, as the riders attempt to disentangle. The misery only intensifies as the space plane starts to roll over—with much bumping, shouting, and disorientation—shifting the craft to within thirty-five degrees of horizontal. Passengers start to spread out on the traditional floor but are startled anew as the booster rocket separates with a definitive flash and boom, followed quickly by the intimidating roar of the space plane’s engines. Windows reveal furious gray clouds, then a knife-edge-thin, brilliant orange sunset hugging a spectacular curved horizon. Then blackness.