The Journal of Ingeborg P. Hoffman

May 1st, 2106

I barely slept last night, frantic with worry about the fate of the crew. If our calculations are correct, the Outernauts should have arrived at The Crossing two nights ago at 23:07. If the Outernauts have followed our instructions, their individual video diaries - our first word from them in six years - could reach us at any time. 

Once linked to a Sambat mechanism at that intergalactic space-station, the TRENA system aboard The Majestic will be able to relay their messages in rapid time back to the array on top of Mt. Calliope, and then to the black matte box in my office. Then the light will turn green, and I can stop worrying. But for now, the red light in my office winks incessantly.

While I’m not a scientist, I’ve learned the broad outlines of what was new with The Majestic’s technology. Using tremendous amounts of energy from the fusion reactor, The Majestic arranges the structure of space–time in the form of a soliton, or a robust singular energy wave. This soliton acts like a “warp bubble,” contracting space in front of it and expanding space behind. Since, unlike objects within space–time, space–time itself can bend, expand, or warp at any speed, therefore, The Majestic contained in a warp bubble arrives at its destination faster than light would in normal space without breaking any physical laws, even Albert Einstein’s cosmic speed limit. (The technology for the crew’s transmissions shifts the fabric of space-time in a similar way. It was explained to me that, theoretically, one could even send messages back to the past.)

We tested this theory with an unmanned space-craft. However, as I said, The Majestic is the first time we’ve tested this with actual human beings aboard. This is what keeps me up at night.

Today we sunk deeper in the esteem of the world. Following the others, Dr. Prince Fielder, President of the University of Pennsylvania (Dr. Jonathan Carver’s contact), has also confirmed that the story is true. We have yet to hear from Auerbach Romero, the famous speed-racer and a friend of Moss’, or anyone associated with The Captain (I know nothing of their background; Wiles personally took charge of their recruitment), but undoubtedly their disclosures are imminent.

Protests against Calliope Group and Outersky (and the U.N. because of our close association) are underway across the globe, though particularly in the lands of the old superpowers. The official delegations from the Autonomous Zones of old China, Russia, and North America have been curiously silent. Though, I believe that is a tactic. 

After I heard Dr. Fielder’s statement, I went to find Wiles. I couldn’t find him in his office, so Homer skimmed me over to his villa. He wasn’t home either. There was only one other place he’d likely go, so instead of hanging around with Homer, who has been acting mopey, I took a chair from Wiles’ deck, and installed it at the end of the nearby path into the jungle and waited. 

About 45 minutes later, Wiles emerged. I confronted him, saying that, “message or no message, let me attack. Let me do my job.” But Wiles said, “not this time.” He said I alone among the senior staff will be made available to the press. But he did not authorize me to say anything specific; I can neither confirm nor deny whether the Outernauts are alive. He seemed to imply it was better for me to say nothing at all, which goes against all of my instincts. He’s obstinate.

Homer brought me back to the office by the launch yard, where I found Milosz, laughing and joking with a few technicians next to his fusion jet. I asked him, with what I suppose was a fair amount of pent-up aggression, “Where do you think you’re going?” He replied that the mood on the island was miserable and that he needed some fresh air. “In New-Macau,” he grinned, “I think I might bring along the boys here.” I told him that he cannot leave, at least, not until the story settles. 

“I don’t believe you are entitled to give me orders, Ms. Hoffman,” he replied. 

“I can’t believe you are being so utterly irresponsible,” I levied back. “Have you not noticed that Outersky stock is plunging? With it goes all of these men’s retirement!”

He said that Ronny had left the island, which was news to me. I looked over at Homer, who stared guiltily at the tarmac and shrugged his shoulders. He confirmed, “She flew Manila zone this morning.” And then he said, “Ma ‘Yinga, there’s another inquisition. Ester Matrix is by the water dock. She wants to verbiate at you.”

I had been expecting a visit from the pirate “queen.” (She insists that I call her this, though in reality she’s little more than a gang-leader). In my restlessness last night, I couldn’t fail to notice that the waters surrounding Calliope Island are being filled by a legion of small ships; the world’s media inching their way closer. (Helicopters have torn the air all morning.) 

I found Matrix with a beat up blaster in her hand. But, she wasn’t aiming at me. Rather, she had the makeshift flotilla in her sights. When she heard me clip-clopping down the dock, the “queen” cackled (she didn’t stop throughout our meeting). Spinning the gun in her tattooed fingers, Matrix demanded an exorbitant fee to make sure the press doesn’t make any unauthorized landings on the island, as she phrased it, “for your security and to feel good.” 

But this is not for us, mind you. It’s to protect the poor journalists bold enough to try and sail in her waters. There was nothing else to do. I couldn’t have her attacking some stupid press flack and have that be a whole new story. So I paid her what she wanted. I’ll deal with her later, properly.

I made sure to watch Matrix and her men leave the dock. Then I turned on Homer. He’s been my jack-of-all-trades (assistant, bodyguard, occasional therapist) for the past decade; he even lives with me at Trena’s old villa. Thus, the current frosty state of affairs between us could not continue. I told him so. 

“Can you please tell me what I have done that is so bad that I have offended you so deeply?” Though I am by no means short, he is at least a full head taller than I am. If anyone had been watching, it must have been rather funny. 

“Ma ‘Yinga, you want no discourse on me. I see this clear.”

“No, I do. Please, you can always speak freely to me.”

“You errant against all people, I think, verily.”

“Homer, I’m going to tell you something right now that no one else in the world knows. Because I need you by my side. Because I rely on you, and I trust you.”

And so I told him the full truth (a short version of it, that is). He seemed to take the news well; I had to squirm away from his bear hug! I spent most of the rest of the day ignoring requests for comment. If Wiles doesn’t want me to speak then I won’t. It’s not like I have anything to say, anyway. I also flashed out a station-wide memo saying that, under no circumstances is any employee of Calliope or Outersky to speak with the media.

The transmissions from the crew can’t come fast enough. Plus, the old stories about the unexplained disappearance of one of the basic launch technicians from the yard the day of the flight have resurfaced with a fury. The people want to know: what happened to Tommy Albrightely?