NationStates Jolt Archive

Three men are standing near a large console in a very spacious warehouse. Various crew members in pullovers scurry about, around three massive hunks of highly complex machinery, simply dangling from the ceiling, partially supported by three support platforms.
"Takihashite, got those caps?"
"Aye. Already in place."
"Right... alright, let 'er rip. Watch your asses, boys."

The far left machine started to hum. It wasn't what one would expect to hear from any fusion system - It was rough. Not necessarily the whir and hiss of vaporcooling and hexaflouride pumps.

Rich Swearenger slipped on a pair of PPE's - earmuffs, for the non-acronym types - and did his switch-flipping on the seemingly generic console. Immediately, the rough noise cut out, replaced by that all-too-familiar, ever-so-audible roar of a typical fusion reactor. A bright red hue of light burst forth from six aft thrusters, shooting bright red streams of plasma straight into an EMF collector.

"Big Dog" (Doug) Aerenger watched from behind the safety of an electromagnetic field and safety glass. He closely monitored hydrogen tanks - they had just enough to make the basic endurance testing requirements for that month, and the next restock was scheduled for six weeks. Big Dog took his eyes off the repetitive readings to look out a nearby window, into a chilling white canvas. White sky, white ground, hell, even white buildings. That's all anyone sees looking out on Research Station Epsilon.

Eh, two more years.

Focusing his gaze back onto his many gauges, he winced as he heard the aftercoolers firing. Rich's voice echoed throughout the warehouse on the intercomm:

"Fusion engaged and sustained. Results duplicated and confirmed. Warming down."

The jets of plasma disappeared, as the red hue of the thrusters "died" and fell back to its cold blue state. Vapor spewed from four stacks atop the monsterous machine, as supercooled hexaflouride worked its way through the components, cooling them to ensure that no poor bastard barbequed his hands during a diagnostic.

"Vapor sequence completing. Tag 'em and bag 'em, this day's done."

One year later... Seven years, four months and twenty-four days since Project CrotchRocket burst forth from the gridpaper and blueprint planning stages.
Rich Swearenger watched over a crane as it gently hoisted the familiar hunk of complex machinery into the aft section of an unmarked corvette.

He turned his head slightly, seeing, out of the corner of his eye, Big Dog, grinning like an idiot.

Rich chuckled. "Got something to share with the rest of the class, Aerenger?"

"How long do you think we'll be able to sustain propulsion?" Big Dog would usually stare off into space when something really puzzled him...

"As long as we maintain an unending flow of deuterium and tritium, our only limits are patience and, of course, coolant."

Big Dog rebutted, "Well, yeah. But you and I both know how radioactive tritium is-"

"It's got one of the shortest half-lives of any fuel we've studied. And besides, the firing chamber is 99% radiation resistant. Hell, crews will get more radiation from the sun then they will from the reactor."

Big Dog lost his grin. "How soon will they bring the 'vette's systems back online?" Tapping away at a datapad, he ran checks on schematics and simulated reaction timing.

"Eh...," Rich interjected. "Not sure. Could be tomorrow or next week."

A screetching noise brought their eyes to the vessel, now bearing a large scratch down the side. Crewmen frantically scurried about, "looking for new ways to mess up," Rich liked to call it.

Big Dog rolled his eyes. One more year.

"Bank relative left, 47 degrees. Throttle reactors to seven-zero percent." Commandant Bittegen gripped the traditional brass handrailing aboard the bridge of the corvette as he barked commands on the first test-run of the new reactors.

"Aye, relative left four-seven degrees. Reactors to seven-zero."

The vessel immediately swerved to the left as there was a noticeable burst in acceleration. Nice acceleration... pretty jerky for a small vessel, though.

Bittegen saw the first obstacle of the proving grounds approaching rapidly. "Nav, relative right 63 degrees."

"Aye, relative right six-three degrees."

The testbed for the Crotchrocket - aptly named due to the kick in the pants during acceleration - was the HNS Throne, one of the newest corvettes in the entire armada. The modified aft thruster bay was fit with hydrogen tanks, and even a retractable hydrogen scoop. The sight was awe-striking. Four massive tubes running straight into four inlets, processing the hydrogen, forming hydrogen isotopes for the reaction. One could easily mistake it for a jet engine - but one so uneducated has no place in a reactor bay.

Bittegen barked new orders. "Nav, bring us to atmospheric operation. Reactors to nine-zero."

"Aye, sir. Setting coordinates. Reactors to nine-zero percent."

The somewhat massive (at least for a corvette) vessel lurched as the small manuevering thrusters brought her about to face the Earth. A reactor such as the CrotchRocket in a vessel the size of the Throne is the equivilent of a diesel engine in a model car - Overpowering. The CrotchRocket kicked in, bringing the corvette to a sudden and short-lived halt, before it sent it rocketing towards Earth.

The HNS Throne gracefully listed as she manuevered in and out of pre-placed obstacles, ripping through the skies of the Hammerian Earth Territories, two-hundred feet in the air, at speeds close to Mach 10. Massive hills crumbled to bits following the belated sonic booms. No one was at risk, however - with the exception of the crew itself. This was a truely massive (400sq.mi.) testing ground for Foe Hammer's latest and greatest military technology.

The crewmen aboard the Throne need not worry about airspeed - artificial gravity kept their feet firmly on the metal floors.

Aboard the bridge, Admiral Bittegen sat comfortably in the familiar standard-issue "Hot seat", the command chair placed in every medium and large vessel in the Hammerian Space Navy. "Nav," Bittegen began, "Bring us into orbit. Begin docking sequence with the Arbiter. Run post-AEST diagnostics, forward reports to our friends back at Epsilon."

"Aye, sir."

Takihashite Yoshitama sat relaxed in a console chair. Datapad in hand, he tapped through the results of the recent AEST's (Atmosphere/Exosphere Stress Test). Schematics, graphs and big fancy numbers flashed across three massive blue screens in front of him with each tap.

One readout caught his eye.

Init. MSMH Firing Heat: 7.2MK
Q: ~43
Est. TW OutPut: 7.3804

"Bah, dame desu. Obviously flawed." He keyed his commsystem. "Rich, are you at a console?"

The reply was mostly audible, with some static - "Yeah. Need something?"

Takihashite looked back at his datapad. "Pull up the readouts from the AEST. Specifically page four, around the middle of the page."

"Real specific. What am I looking for?"

"Breakeven. Heat readings and output."

Rich's response didn't come. Takihashite keyed his comm again. "Copy?"

"Aye. Holy hell... Eh, no sense in getting worked up now. I'm approving an additional AEST. Probably just a bug."

Takihashite looked through his office window at RSEpsilon. The Throne sat quietly in the hangar.

Just a bug.

Rich, Big Dig and Takihashite stood overlooking the Crotchrocket. This was the final firing test - the final endurance test. These results would make or break nearly seven years of planning, design and concept testing.

Big Dog broke the silence. "At least we know the concept is functionally and economically feasible."

Rich spoke up. "I don't care about feasibility at this point - we know it is because it works. If we don't reproduce and confirm those results, all our previous tests are negated. Out the window. Gone."

Takihashite had more on his mind. "I don't see how the readouts could be flawed. We've been showing linear increases at each stage of the firing tests. Might not sound like much but those results are confirmed every damn time we fire the thing-"

Rich interrupted. "Try telling that to OPNet and Div4. That's not what they want to hear. They want technical, not practical."

Big Dog, zipping up his parka, was more concerned about frostbite than he was about Div4 and diagnostics. "I don't give a damn what we say to whoever. Let's just get this done and start packing." It was easy for one to lose his- or her- temper at Research Station Epsilon. Sure, personnel housing had all the comforts of home, but on your shift, you're stuck in a warehouse with a half-busted heating system and below-zero winds- on a good day.

Freezing winds or not, the artic tundra was, quite honestly, the only designated location for reactor research. A few dozen feet of permafrost and blankets of snow provided the most efficient location for lighting what was literally a nuclear reaction. One would say it works wonders for cooling. You'd even get a nice warm fuzzy feeling, firing such a behemoth- literally. The roaring of the whirring machinery was enough to raise the hairs on your neck, and the exhaust from the overpriced Bunsen burner instantly warmed the air in the camp.

Rich gave the go-ahead for the firing. A lone crewman, working a massive console, brought the firing laser online. Upon completion of the charging sequence, an immensely powerful beam of light inside the Crotchrocket struck a pellet of MetaStable Metallic Hydrogen (MSMH) in the firing chamber. The heat from this reaction not only powered up the magnetic containment coils, but also heated the gas in the firing chamber, causing a phase-change.

The heat from the plasma was enough to break chemical bonds and cause the same fusion taking place in the core of Sol. Without magnetic containment, the plasma would make contact with the inner torus of the firing chamber, instantly melting or vaporizing it. Without a vacuum, the heat would radiate and do the same.

A typical reaction produces a small amount of Helium-4 and a stray neutron... the former being very useful for an office party.

Takihashite brought out his datapad. Tapping away, he pulled up the current readouts of the reaction. He scrolled until he found the readouts they were anticipating:

Init. MSMH Firing Heat: 7.1833MK
Q: ~43
Est. TW OutPut: 7.644 TW

Takihashite adopted Big Dog's idiot-grin. "Rich... tag 'em and bag 'em."