enough enemies on Earth. Hell, maybe we’ve been invaded by superbeings from the Andromeda Galaxy and they plan to fry him and eat him for lunch, regarding the bubbles as convenient deep freezes for meat.
Anything might be awaiting him. What would you do? If you had any sense, you’d be on full alert. For Travis Broussard, that meant fully armed.
The bubble went away, and Travis landed on his feet, in a crouch … and looked out at several hundred people, all of them with their hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot, Travis!” we all yelled. And sure enough, though he didn’t have his pistol in his hand, the holster cover was unsnapped and his hand was on it, ready for a fast draw. He straightened from his semicrouch and shook his head, with a wry grin.
“Very funny, y’all,” he deadpanned. He snapped the cover on his sidearm.
My “Uncle Travis” is not really my uncle. Neither is Uncle Jubal. They are of the large and cantankerous Broussard clan, but our families have been entwined for about half a century now. Jubal’s invention had made the first trip to Mars possible, Travis had made it feasible and led it, but Manny and his friend Dak had had the idea to go in the first place. Travis and Jubal and the next generation, my father and mother, had fought and won the Martian War with Jubal’s new invention, the black bubbles, his old one, the squeezer bubbles, and the biggest bluff in the history of warfare.
It had all been too much for Jubal. Though his inventions had provided the power to send humans to the stars and free Earth from its reliance on dwindling energy reserves, and then saved countless lives by suspending time, they had also been responsible for the Big Wave, and the Martian War had been fought over the right to control all the power Jubal had unleashed.
Actually, of course, it was human greed and madness and fanaticism that had caused those disasters, but Jubal didn’t see it that way … and I suppose he had a point. Some of the men who built the first nuclear weapons suffered the same doubts and regrets afterward.
So just about the time I was being conceived, Jubal allowed himself to be enclosed in a black bubble, the second time he’d been in one, the second time anyone had been in one. He’d gone in the first time to escape from his plush prison on Earth, then had mailed himself to Dad and Mom on Phobos, which was what started the Martian War. That’s right, mailed himself.
But that’s all history. Read Dad’s book for all the details. Uncle Jubal was still in cold storage. If he ever came out, he’d be exactly the same age, which was late fifties.
Later, Uncle Travis had become the first “skipper.” There aren’t many of them and probably never will be. It’s an odd way to live.
There’s nothing medically wrong with Travis. He is a very rich man. He and Jubal had given humanity the gift of unlimited power, which made it cheap, but it wasn’t free. Taking even a tiny royalty for every kilowatt that sated humanity’s vast appetite for energy made them rich beyond the dreams of Arabian princes of the twentieth century.
But Travis made a lot of enemies in his life, both by his decision to turn the squeezer technology over to the International Power Agency, and later, when he threatened to squeeze Planet Earth down to the size of a neutron if certain powerful people and corporations weren’t brought to heel right now. A lot of applecarts were overturned, a lot of boats swamped, a lot of rice bowls broken. These were people who never forgave and never forgot. Mighty oaths were sworn, contracts were taken out. Assassination attempts began. So he invented the practice of skipping.
Jubal’s bubble was to be opened in only two circumstances.
One, if it was finally safe for him to go home to his beloved bayou country in Louisiana. Given that he was the only person alive—the only one who had ever lived—who could made the squeezer machines, that didn’t seem likely. Until
Anything might be awaiting him. What would you do? If you had any sense, you’d be on full alert. For Travis Broussard, that meant fully armed.
The bubble went away, and Travis landed on his feet, in a crouch … and looked out at several hundred people, all of them with their hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot, Travis!” we all yelled. And sure enough, though he didn’t have his pistol in his hand, the holster cover was unsnapped and his hand was on it, ready for a fast draw. He straightened from his semicrouch and shook his head, with a wry grin.
“Very funny, y’all,” he deadpanned. He snapped the cover on his sidearm.
My “Uncle Travis” is not really my uncle. Neither is Uncle Jubal. They are of the large and cantankerous Broussard clan, but our families have been entwined for about half a century now. Jubal’s invention had made the first trip to Mars possible, Travis had made it feasible and led it, but Manny and his friend Dak had had the idea to go in the first place. Travis and Jubal and the next generation, my father and mother, had fought and won the Martian War with Jubal’s new invention, the black bubbles, his old one, the squeezer bubbles, and the biggest bluff in the history of warfare.
It had all been too much for Jubal. Though his inventions had provided the power to send humans to the stars and free Earth from its reliance on dwindling energy reserves, and then saved countless lives by suspending time, they had also been responsible for the Big Wave, and the Martian War had been fought over the right to control all the power Jubal had unleashed.
Actually, of course, it was human greed and madness and fanaticism that had caused those disasters, but Jubal didn’t see it that way … and I suppose he had a point. Some of the men who built the first nuclear weapons suffered the same doubts and regrets afterward.
So just about the time I was being conceived, Jubal allowed himself to be enclosed in a black bubble, the second time he’d been in one, the second time anyone had been in one. He’d gone in the first time to escape from his plush prison on Earth, then had mailed himself to Dad and Mom on Phobos, which was what started the Martian War. That’s right, mailed himself.
But that’s all history. Read Dad’s book for all the details. Uncle Jubal was still in cold storage. If he ever came out, he’d be exactly the same age, which was late fifties.
Later, Uncle Travis had become the first “skipper.” There aren’t many of them and probably never will be. It’s an odd way to live.
There’s nothing medically wrong with Travis. He is a very rich man. He and Jubal had given humanity the gift of unlimited power, which made it cheap, but it wasn’t free. Taking even a tiny royalty for every kilowatt that sated humanity’s vast appetite for energy made them rich beyond the dreams of Arabian princes of the twentieth century.
But Travis made a lot of enemies in his life, both by his decision to turn the squeezer technology over to the International Power Agency, and later, when he threatened to squeeze Planet Earth down to the size of a neutron if certain powerful people and corporations weren’t brought to heel right now. A lot of applecarts were overturned, a lot of boats swamped, a lot of rice bowls broken. These were people who never forgave and never forgot. Mighty oaths were sworn, contracts were taken out. Assassination attempts began. So he invented the practice of skipping.
Jubal’s bubble was to be opened in only two circumstances.
One, if it was finally safe for him to go home to his beloved bayou country in Louisiana. Given that he was the only person alive—the only one who had ever lived—who could made the squeezer machines, that didn’t seem likely. Until
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