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DOM TESTA, of Denver, Colorado, has been a radio show host since 1977, and currently is a co-host of the popular “Dom and Jane Show” on Mix 100 in Denver. A strong advocate of literacy programs for children, he regularly visits Colorado schools. Dom began the Big Brain Club to encourage students to overcome the peer pressure that often prevents them from achieving their true potential.
1
There are few sights more beautiful. For all of the spectacular sunsets along a beach, or vivid rainbows arcing over a mist-covered forest, or high mountain pastures exploding with wildflowers, nothing could compare to this. This embraced every breath taking scene. Mother Earth, in all of her supreme glory, spinning in a showcase of wonder. No picture, no television image, no movie scene could ever do her justice. From two hundred miles up it’s spellbinding, hypnotic.
Which made saying good-bye even more difficult.
The ship sat still and silent in the cold, airless vacuum of space. It was a massive vessel, but against the backdrop of the planet below it appeared small, a child teetering at the feet of a parent, preparing to take its first steps. Soft, twinkling lights at the edges helped to define the shape which could not easily be described. Portions of it were boxy, others rectangular, with several curves and angles that seemed awkward. To an untrained eye it appeared as if it had simply been thrown together from leftover parts. In a way, that was true.
Its dark, grayish blue surface was speckled by hundreds of small windows. Two hundred fifty-one pairs of eyes peered out, eyes mostly wet with tears, getting a final glimpse of home. Two hundred fifty-one colonists sealed inside, and not one over the age of sixteen.
Their thoughts and feelings contained a single thread: each envisioned family members two hundred miles below, grouped together outside, staring up into the sky. Some would be shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun, unable to see the ship but knowing that it was up there, somewhere. Others, on the dark side of the planet, would be sifting through the maze of stars, hoping to pick out the quiet flicker of light, pointing, embracing, crying.
Many were too ill and unable to leave their beds, but were likely gazing out their own windows, not wanting to loosen the emotional grip on their son or daughter so far away.
The day filled with both hope and dread had arrived.
With a slight shudder, the ship came to life. It began to push away from the space station where it had been magnetically tethered for two years. Inside the giant steel shell there was no sensation of movement other than the image of the orbiting station gradually sliding past the windows. That was enough to impress upon the passengers that the voyage had begun.
Galahad had launched.
After a few moments Triana Martell turned away from one of the windows and, with a silent sigh, began to walk away. Unlike her fellow shipmates’ eyes, her eyes remained dry, unable, it seemed, to cry anymore.
"Hey, Tree," she heard a voice call out behind her. "Don’t you want to watch?"
"You won’t notice anything," she said over her shoulder. "It might be hours before you can tell any difference in the size. We won’t have enough speed for a while."
"Yeah," came another voice, "but you won’t ever see it again. Don’t you want to say good-bye?"
Triana slipped around a corner of the well-lit hallway, and when she answered it was mostly to herself. "I’ve already said my good-byes."
With the entire crew’s attention focused on the outside view, she had the corridor to herself, and appreciated it.
2
The discovery of a new comet usually didn’t cause much reaction. Astronomers, both professional and amateur, would make a fuss, but the general population was rather immune to the excitement. What was one more in a catalog of hundreds?
Yet this one was different. A rogue, named Comet Bhaktul after the amateur astronomer who had first spotted the fuzzy glow amid the backdrop of stars, was slicing its way towards the sun, and its path would cross just in front of Earth. Several early reports had sparked a brief panic when some astronomers wondered if the comet might actually be on a collision course, possibly impacting in the North Atlantic ocean. But soon it was confirmed that Earth would instead coast through the comet’s tail, an event that might cause some glorious nighttime light shows, but nothing more.
Dr. Wallace Zimmer would later recall that for two days the sunsets were indeed brilliant. The horizon appeared to be on fire, with dark shafts of red light streaking upward. Comet Bhaktul’s particles at least provided a romantic setting for couples in love.
The truth was that the particles were providing much more than that. They were delivering a death sentence to mankind. No one knew it at the time. Earth swung through the remains of Bhaktul and continued on its path around the sun, and life went on without missing a beat.
Seven months later Dr. Zimmer pulled up a news report on the vidscreen in his office in Northern California. Just a blurb, really, but as a scientist he was immediately interested.
The story called it an outbreak of a new flu strain. Not just a handful of cases, but dozens, and—this was what amazed Zimmer the most—not concentrated in one region. Most flu variations began in one part of the world and spread. Not this time. These reports were scattered across the globe, and yet the symptoms were all the same.
The lungs were being attacked, it seemed. The only difference was how rapidly the illness progressed. According to the news story, some people slowly fell into the clutches of this new disease, with breathing difficulties and intense bouts of coughing that might last weeks or months. Others were hit more quickly, with paralysis of the lungs that brought on death in a matter of days.
Dr. Zimmer looked at the clock and considered the time difference on the East Coast. Then he switched the vidscreen to phone mode and dialed up his friend at the Centers for Disease Control in Georgia.
"Not much else to tell you besides what you’ve read," Elise Metzer said to him. "Of course, hundreds of people have called claiming that it’s some form of germ warfare, and demanding an antidote. The conspiracy nuts are having a field day with this."
"What about other symptoms?" Zimmer said.
"Well, we know that it’s attacking the lungs. Most every case begins with coughing, and eventually coughing up blood. But there’s also been a few mentions of blotchy skin, some hair loss even. That’s probably just each individual body reacting differently."
Elise scowled and added, "I don’t think the immune systems have any idea what’s going on, and they might each be interpreting the attacking agent in a different way."
"Well," Zimmer said, "with only a few dozen cases I can see why there’s no real data yet."
"Uh . . ." came the reply from Elise. "That story is a little outdated now."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that this morning I heard there are already over a thousand cases, and growing."
Dr. Zimmer sat stunned. Before he could speak Elise ended the conversation by predicting that the next news report he heard would be front page and screaming.
3
I used to live in a box. Okay, maybe "live" is a poor choice. I existed in a box. And not a very big box, either. Just a small, metal container with patch bays, microchips and a mother of a motherboard. If you ask me about my first memory, I could tell you, but you’d start to nod of pretty quickly. It’s not an exciting tale: a string of ones and zeroes, a few equations, a bazillion lines of code, and a ridiculous sound that signaled when I was "online." The ridiculous sound would have to go. Roy was a genius, but he had no sense of hip at all. Just look at his clothes.
Roy Orzini put me together. He used to say that I was "his baby." If that’s true, then I’ve got a few hundred siblings because Roy put an awful lot of computers together. My oldest brother was born in a cluttered bedroom just after Roy’s tenth birthday, and the little genius has been popping them out ever since.
I’ll spare you the false modesty, however, and tell you right up front that I’m the masterpiece. The other kids were pretty good; a few of them have worked on the moon, Mars and a couple of research stations around Jupiter and Saturn. But I got the big assignment, the big est ever. Roy’s pretty proud, and that feels good. I’m proud of him, too.
These days I’m not in that cramped metal box anymore. I’m everywhere within the greatest sailing ship ever built, sailing to the stars.
I like the new digs. I like the crew I’m sailing with. I like the challenge.
Roy called me OC-3323. Remember, Roy is a geek. Everyone else calls me Roc.
Triana sat at the desk in her room and placed a glass of water next to the picture of her dad. She bit her lower lip as images of her home in Colorado flashed through her mind, images of both joy and sadness. Thoughts of her dad came as well, which brought a burst of pain.
She glanced at the few personal items that dotted the room. There was little that an outsider could have learned about the teenage girl from these clues. Essentials, really. One exception was the picture. Her dad, grinning that grin of his, the one that confessed to a bit of trouble making behind the outer shell of responsibility. In the picture Triana was still twelve, riding piggyback on him, her arms clutched around his muscular chest, the tip of her head peering out from behind. His broad shoulders concealed all but the top of her head and her eyes—those bright green, questioning eyes. Any grin of her own was concealed, but the eyes conveyed infinite happiness.
Picking up the picture, she ran her finger around the outline of her dad’s face, looking into his eyes. She wanted to talk with him. All of the fun times they had shared, all of the adventures . . . and yet it was simple conversation with him that she missed the most.
Triana finally tore her gaze away from the photo and returned her attention to the open journal on the desk. Most people had given up writing by hand in favor of punching a keyboard, but Triana felt more of a connection the old-fashioned way. There was something about watching the words flow from her hand that gave vent to personal feelings she could never imagine on a computer. With items such as notebooks rationed severely, she allowed herself only a few paragraphs a day. It was enough for her.
Excerpted from The Comet’s Curse by Dom Testa.
Copyright 2005 by Dom Testa.
Published in 2008 by Published by Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
The New copy of this book will include any supplemental materials advertised. Please check the title of the book to determine if it should include any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.
The Used, Rental and eBook copies of this book are not guaranteed to include any supplemental materials. Typically, only the book itself is included. This is true even if the title states it includes any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.
1
There are few sights more beautiful. For all of the spectacular sunsets along a beach, or vivid rainbows arcing over a mist-covered forest, or high mountain pastures exploding with wildflowers, nothing could compare to this. This embraced every breath taking scene. Mother Earth, in all of her supreme glory, spinning in a showcase of wonder. No picture, no television image, no movie scene could ever do her justice. From two hundred miles up it’s spellbinding, hypnotic.
Which made saying good-bye even more difficult.
The ship sat still and silent in the cold, airless vacuum of space. It was a massive vessel, but against the backdrop of the planet below it appeared small, a child teetering at the feet of a parent, preparing to take its first steps. Soft, twinkling lights at the edges helped to define the shape which could not easily be described. Portions of it were boxy, others rectangular, with several curves and angles that seemed awkward. To an untrained eye it appeared as if it had simply been thrown together from leftover parts. In a way, that was true.
Its dark, grayish blue surface was speckled by hundreds of small windows. Two hundred fifty-one pairs of eyes peered out, eyes mostly wet with tears, getting a final glimpse of home. Two hundred fifty-one colonists sealed inside, and not one over the age of sixteen.
Their thoughts and feelings contained a single thread: each envisioned family members two hundred miles below, grouped together outside, staring up into the sky. Some would be shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun, unable to see the ship but knowing that it was up there, somewhere. Others, on the dark side of the planet, would be sifting through the maze of stars, hoping to pick out the quiet flicker of light, pointing, embracing, crying.
Many were too ill and unable to leave their beds, but were likely gazing out their own windows, not wanting to loosen the emotional grip on their son or daughter so far away.
The day filled with both hope and dread had arrived.
With a slight shudder, the ship came to life. It began to push away from the space station where it had been magnetically tethered for two years. Inside the giant steel shell there was no sensation of movement other than the image of the orbiting station gradually sliding past the windows. That was enough to impress upon the passengers that the voyage had begun.
Galahad had launched.
After a few moments Triana Martell turned away from one of the windows and, with a silent sigh, began to walk away. Unlike her fellow shipmates’ eyes, her eyes remained dry, unable, it seemed, to cry anymore.
"Hey, Tree," she heard a voice call out behind her. "Don’t you want to watch?"
"You won’t notice anything," she said over her shoulder. "It might be hours before you can tell any difference in the size. We won’t have enough speed for a while."
"Yeah," came another voice, "but you won’t ever see it again. Don’t you want to say good-bye?"
Triana slipped around a corner of the well-lit hallway, and when she answered it was mostly to herself. "I’ve already said my good-byes."
With the entire crew’s attention focused on the outside view, she had the corridor to herself, and appreciated it.
2
The discovery of a new comet usually didn’t cause much reaction. Astronomers, both professional and amateur, would make a fuss, but the general population was rather immune to the excitement. What was one more in a catalog of hundreds?
Yet this one was different. A rogue, named Comet Bhaktul after the amateur astronomer who had first spotted the fuzzy glow amid the backdrop of stars, was slicing its way towards the sun, and its path would cross just in front of Earth. Several early reports had sparked a brief panic when some astronomers wondered if the comet might actually be on a collision course, possibly impacting in the North Atlantic ocean. But soon it was confirmed that Earth would instead coast through the comet’s tail, an event that might cause some glorious nighttime light shows, but nothing more.
Dr. Wallace Zimmer would later recall that for two days the sunsets were indeed brilliant. The horizon appeared to be on fire, with dark shafts of red light streaking upward. Comet Bhaktul’s particles at least provided a romantic setting for couples in love.
The truth was that the particles were providing much more than that. They were delivering a death sentence to mankind. No one knew it at the time. Earth swung through the remains of Bhaktul and continued on its path around the sun, and life went on without missing a beat.
Seven months later Dr. Zimmer pulled up a news report on the vidscreen in his office in Northern California. Just a blurb, really, but as a scientist he was immediately interested.
The story called it an outbreak of a new flu strain. Not just a handful of cases, but dozens, and—this was what amazed Zimmer the most—not concentrated in one region. Most flu variations began in one part of the world and spread. Not this time. These reports were scattered across the globe, and yet the symptoms were all the same.
The lungs were being attacked, it seemed. The only difference was how rapidly the illness progressed. According to the news story, some people slowly fell into the clutches of this new disease, with breathing difficulties and intense bouts of coughing that might last weeks or months. Others were hit more quickly, with paralysis of the lungs that brought on death in a matter of days.
Dr. Zimmer looked at the clock and considered the time difference on the East Coast. Then he switched the vidscreen to phone mode and dialed up his friend at the Centers for Disease Control in Georgia.
"Not much else to tell you besides what you’ve read," Elise Metzer said to him. "Of course, hundreds of people have called claiming that it’s some form of germ warfare, and demanding an antidote. The conspiracy nuts are having a field day with this."
"What about other symptoms?" Zimmer said.
"Well, we know that it’s attacking the lungs. Most every case begins with coughing, and eventually coughing up blood. But there’s also been a few mentions of blotchy skin, some hair loss even. That’s probably just each individual body reacting differently."
Elise scowled and added, "I don’t think the immune systems have any idea what’s going on, and they might each be interpreting the attacking agent in a different way."
"Well," Zimmer said, "with only a few dozen cases I can see why there’s no real data yet."
"Uh . . ." came the reply from Elise. "That story is a little outdated now."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that this morning I heard there are already over a thousand cases, and growing."
Dr. Zimmer sat stunned. Before he could speak Elise ended the conversation by predicting that the next news report he heard would be front page and screaming.
3
I used to live in a box. Okay, maybe "live" is a poor choice. I existed in a box. And not a very big box, either. Just a small, metal container with patch bays, microchips and a mother of a motherboard. If you ask me about my first memory, I could tell you, but you’d start to nod of pretty quickly. It’s not an exciting tale: a string of ones and zeroes, a few equations, a bazillion lines of code, and a ridiculous sound that signaled when I was "online." The ridiculous sound would have to go. Roy was a genius, but he had no sense of hip at all. Just look at his clothes.
Roy Orzini put me together. He used to say that I was "his baby." If that’s true, then I’ve got a few hundred siblings because Roy put an awful lot of computers together. My oldest brother was born in a cluttered bedroom just after Roy’s tenth birthday, and the little genius has been popping them out ever since.
I’ll spare you the false modesty, however, and tell you right up front that I’m the masterpiece. The other kids were pretty good; a few of them have worked on the moon, Mars and a couple of research stations around Jupiter and Saturn. But I got the big assignment, the big est ever. Roy’s pretty proud, and that feels good. I’m proud of him, too.
These days I’m not in that cramped metal box anymore. I’m everywhere within the greatest sailing ship ever built, sailing to the stars.
I like the new digs. I like the crew I’m sailing with. I like the challenge.
Roy called me OC-3323. Remember, Roy is a geek. Everyone else calls me Roc.
Triana sat at the desk in her room and placed a glass of water next to the picture of her dad. She bit her lower lip as images of her home in Colorado flashed through her mind, images of both joy and sadness. Thoughts of her dad came as well, which brought a burst of pain.
She glanced at the few personal items that dotted the room. There was little that an outsider could have learned about the teenage girl from these clues. Essentials, really. One exception was the picture. Her dad, grinning that grin of his, the one that confessed to a bit of trouble making behind the outer shell of responsibility. In the picture Triana was still twelve, riding piggyback on him, her arms clutched around his muscular chest, the tip of her head peering out from behind. His broad shoulders concealed all but the top of her head and her eyes—those bright green, questioning eyes. Any grin of her own was concealed, but the eyes conveyed infinite happiness.
Picking up the picture, she ran her finger around the outline of her dad’s face, looking into his eyes. She wanted to talk with him. All of the fun times they had shared, all of the adventures . . . and yet it was simple conversation with him that she missed the most.
Triana finally tore her gaze away from the photo and returned her attention to the open journal on the desk. Most people had given up writing by hand in favor of punching a keyboard, but Triana felt more of a connection the old-fashioned way. There was something about watching the words flow from her hand that gave vent to personal feelings she could never imagine on a computer. With items such as notebooks rationed severely, she allowed herself only a few paragraphs a day. It was enough for her.
Excerpted from The Comet’s Curse by Dom Testa.
Copyright 2005 by Dom Testa.
Published in 2008 by Published by Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
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