by A. G. Riddle
“If the Helios fleet is so small, I believe Dr. Fowler said it was only three drones, how were you able to discover the cells near the Sun? As you just said, space is vast.”
“That’s a good question. As I mentioned earlier, I, along with the crew of the Pax, developed several theories about the solar cells and what’s happening in our solar system. One theory was that the solar cells are responsible for the Long Winter. As such, we isolated the area of the Sun where they would need to assemble in order to block solar radiation bound for Earth. In short, we simply sent the drones to that location. And that’s exactly where we found the assembled solar cells.”
The chancellor nods, his expression grim. “Thank you, Dr. Sinclair. That’s very helpful.”
“You’re welcome.” Focusing on the larger group, I step forward, away from the podium, like a prosecutor making his closing argument to a jury.
“The evidence strongly implies that the solar cells and their creators have come to our solar system to harvest the energy of our Sun. The real question is why. I believe the answer is clear. Resource constraints.
“Wherever the solar cells and their makers came from, their home system only has so much solar energy. They can generate more energy in a variety of ways. In particular, they can convert mass to energy—as posited by Einstein, mass and energy are actually interchangeable—but they have limited mass as well. Thus when they reach the resource limits of their home system, they have to go elsewhere for mass and energy. They have come here.”
I turn my back to the audience, letting the words sink in. It’s dead quiet in the gym, not even the sound of paper rustling.
“It’s obvious,” I continue, “that they are aware of our existence, and that they see us as a threat to their efforts to harvest our Sun. They have moved to counter that threat. Not only have they reduced the solar output reaching Earth in hopes of killing us, they have taken direct action.
“I will remind this group that when the first solar cell was spotted, our probe was disabled and likely destroyed. When the information was sent back to the ISS, the station was destroyed—as well as every satellite, telescope, and manmade object in orbit. We can conclude from these actions that the first solar cell and its makers sought to hide the scale of their presence in our solar system. When we communicated with one of these solar cells, attempting to established a dialogue, it once again attacked—the moment it learned that we were alien. And finally, when we counterattacked the solar cell, it chose to destroy itself rather than let us study it. Perhaps most importantly, the climate change on Earth accelerated rapidly after that confrontation. I believe that was a response to us fighting back. I believe all the pieces make sense now. The solar cells won’t stop until we’re wiped out.”
The prime minister of Canada raises a hand, and I acknowledge him.
“Dr. Fowler said that you had severed a piece of the artifact. Or solar cell, as you now call it. Can you apprise us as to what has become of that piece? And what the study of it has revealed?”
“That’s another good question. We did succeed in cleaving a part of the solar cell off. Unfortunately, while that piece was being ferried back to Pax by one of our drones, the solar cell reacted to our nuclear strike. The bomb detonated far outside of the radius we expected. I was separated from the Pax at that time, so I don’t know whether the drone with the sample escaped the blast. All I can say is that the sample hasn’t reached Earth yet, and frankly I’m not optimistic that it will. I’m also doubtful that its study would reveal anything that might alter the course of action I intend to propose today.”
“Thank you,” the prime minister says quietly.
I click the pointer, and my second-to-last slide appears. It’s a chart of the global average temperature. In a single image, it shows the fate of our planet and our species.
“The world is getting colder. The rate of global temperature decrease is accelerating. The solar cells are causing this. They are aware that we have moved to intervene in their plan. I believe we can expect the rate of temperature decline to increase further. I also suspect that it is within the realm of possibility that the solar cells and their makers will engage us more directly.”
The room erupts with questions, but Fowler is once again there beside me to force order. When the din recedes, I continue.
“The conclusion is this: our enemy wants our Sun’s output. They are willing to kill us to get it. They will freeze us, and if need be, they will come here to finish us.”
I let the words hang in the air. Every eye is on me.
I click the pointer one last time, and my final slide appears. It shows once again all the solar cells we’ve found.
“There is hope, however.” My words boom in the gymnasium, like a drum beating. “If our enemy is after energy, it would stand to reason that they are greatly concerned with the efficiency of gathering that energy. Energy is the currency that governs them, and its collection and conservation is their industry. As such, it wouldn’t make sense to send a fleet of these artifacts—these solar cells—across the vast expanse of space. They may not even be capable of travel outside of our solar system.”
I can tell the implication hits many people in the audience. Some of those assembled here are scientists.
“What are you saying?” It’s the president of the United States who speaks, his voice gruff, annoyed. Scared, probably.
“I’m saying that I believe the solar cells didn’t travel from outside of our solar system. I believe they were manufactured here. And that we can stop them.”
Chapter 39
Emma
At my routine appointment at the hospital, they run a battery of tests.
I sit in the consult room, waiting, Oscar by my side. He refused to stay home. Truth be told, I’m glad he’s here.
I’m nervous about the news the doctor is going to give me. A part of me wishes James was here. And a part of me is glad he’s not. He has seen me at my most vulnerable. He saved me when I was most vulnerable. And for better or worse, no matter what the reality of my health is… I want him to know it. Because if things between us grow into something more, I want him to know what he’s getting into. But I need time to process it for myself. Then I’ll tell him in my own words, when I’m ready.
The door swings open, and a redheaded British physician with a kind smile strides in. Her name is Natasha Richards, and she followed my treatment at the hospital. I like her. I trust her.
“Hello again, Emma.”
“Hi.”
She pulls the rolling stool from the wall and sits down across from me, eyes on the same level as mine, hands folded in her lap.
“So, I reviewed your chart, and I must say, I’m really impressed with your progress.”
“Great. What do the tests show?”
She taps her tablet and pulls up the lab results. Her voice is less enthusiastic when she speaks.
“Well… your muscle mass looks better. Some of the markers we were following have drastically improved.”
I sense a but coming on. I decide to spare her the awkwardness of delivering the blow.
“And the bad news?” I ask.
“The bad news,” she says carefully, “is that your bone density hasn’t recovered as much as we were hoping.”
“I see.”
“Osteoporosis is extraordinarily hard to reverse. Once the bones lose density, it’s just not that easy to make them grow back.”
“What are you telling me?”
“My goal today is to manage your expectations, Emma. You’ve been through an extraordinary experience. One very, very few would have survived at all. And I know you and Oscar have worked very hard to rehabilitate your body.”
“What should my expectations be?”
“Frankly, I suspect you’ll need to use a walker for the rest of your life. Your energy levels may never really recover. The fatigue that you experience, the aches and pains, the cramps, I don’t think these things will go away. Perhaps in time
they’ll improve marginally.”
The words are like hammer blows to my chest, like a judge’s sentence handed down to an innocent person, summarily, unfairly. I want to walk again and be free. I’ve worked so hard. This can’t be my reality for the rest of my life.
Dr. Richards seems to sense my disappointment. She leans in and grabs my hand. “It sounds worse than it is, Emma, I assure you. It may seem awful now, but you will adapt to the limits of your body. We all have to. But I know it must be tough for you. I reviewed your charts from before you left for the ISS. You were the picture of health. And I know you worked very hard to get there. I suspect you will work just as hard to regain your health. Just keep in mind that there is only so far that road can take you. You mustn’t push yourself too hard, and more importantly, you mustn’t be too hard on yourself when your performance falls short of your own expectations. Indeed, managing your own expectations is perhaps the most important job you have now.”
Oscar and I walk home in silence. For some reason, my mind drifts to Harry, Grigory, Min, Lina, Charlotte, and Izumi. They’re the only reason I even got back to Earth. Their sacrifice is why I’m alive. I miss them. I can’t help thinking of them from time to time. I should be thankful I’m alive, thankful my situation isn’t worse than it is. I owe them. I wish I could repay them somehow. And I owe James. Probably more than I can ever repay.
We pass the barracks he took me to, where his brother and his family live. That gives me an idea. I need something good to happen. And I’m going to make it happen.
When James arrives home, he is exhausted. More exhausted than I’ve ever seen him. More exhausted than he ever was on the Pax, during the mission, during the height of the stress and the endless hours.
“What happened?”
He plops down on the couch and shakes his head.
“Endless questions. Endless debate. Me standing up there, talking, trying to explain a lifetime of science and a situation that’s more complex than I can even grasp. It was agony.”
“I’m sure they’re just trying to understand so they can make the best decision they can for the people they care about.”
“Or for themselves.”
“And for themselves.”
“I honestly don’t know how this is going to go.”
“How do you think it will go?”
“I see two possibilities. First, they could authorize the mission, and we have a real chance of survival—with more than a few thousand humans left. Or, they could decide that it’s hopeless. And they could turn inward.”
“Which means?”
“As of right now, the Atlantic Union is the only one of the three superpowers that knows the full truth of what we’re facing. There are only so many resources and so much habitable land left. They could act first.”
“Act first to do what?”
“Finish the war that’s really just on pause. My guess is they would attack the Caspian Treaty first. Make peace with the Pac Alliance until they consolidate the Caspian territories, then move on. That’s assuming the Pac Alliance doesn’t see the writing on the wall and declare war.”
I exhale. As usual, James has grasped the intricacies of the situation sooner than I have, probably sooner than everyone.
“What can we do about it?”
“Now? Nothing. We have to wait.”
There may be nothing else we can do.
But there’s still something I need to do.
After dinner, I retreat to my room and don a thick coat, pull on tall boots, and slip into my leather gloves. I’m at the door, putting on my earflap hat and scarf when James catches me.
“Where are you going?”
“To visit Madison,” I lie, trying to sound nonchalant.
He squints. “Now?”
“Sure.”
“It’s freezing out there.”
“It’s always freezing.”
He studies me.
I shrug. “I just need some fresh air. I need to get out for a little while.”
“What did the doctor say today?
“That I’m progressing well.” That much is actually true. Not technically a lie.
I can tell he’s conflicted, and I can see the moment he gives in.
“Okay.” He turns to the kitchen where Oscar is washing dishes in the sink. “Oscar, go with her.”
“Yes, sir,” Oscar says mildly.
“No. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
“James—”
“No. Emma, your bones are still brittle, and thin, and weak. If a gust of wind catches you and throws you over, you could break half a dozen bones and be out there in the dark, all night. It’s not worth the risk.”
I can’t argue with that. And I don’t.
Oscar doesn’t ask where we’re going. He also doesn’t seem to mind the cold. Or my lumbering pace.
The camp is pretty at night. The domed white habitats glow white in the dark expanse, like luminescent caterpillars buried in the sand. Along the walking path, LED streetlights glow, illuminating the snow flurries that seem to come and go every few hours, without warning, never enough to pile up, just a constant reminder that the Long Winter is still here, unending, waiting to engulf us.
At Fowler’s habitat, I brush the last snow flurries off my coat and knock. He answers quickly. He looks as haggard as James.
“Emma,” he says, surprised. “Come in, come in.”
Oscar follows me inside. He silently takes my coat and scarf and hangs them up while Fowler escorts me deeper into the habitat, which is only slightly larger than ours. A woman about his age rises from the dinner table where she’s sitting with two boys, both of whom look to be about college age.
“Lawrence, you didn’t tell me we were having company.”
Fowler opens his mouth, but I save him.
“No, ma’am, this is sort of a surprise visit.”
“A good surprise,” Fowler says. “Emma, this is my wife, Marianne.”
“Nice to meet you, Marianne.”
“Have you eaten?”
“We have. Actually, I’ve just come to ask Lawrence something. It will only take a moment.”
He looks at me curiously and holds a hand toward an office off the shared living area. It’s as crowded as James’s office but much more neat. Oscar joins us, and I can’t think of a reason to have him wait outside. I’ll just have to swear him to secrecy along with Fowler.
“What’s on your mind, Emma?” Fowler says as he sits in the chair beside me.
“James. His family. They’re here, living in one of the barracks.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Their safety was James’s only request when he was recruited for the first contact mission. Similar to you, he asked that his only sibling be transported to any safe haven that was established.”
“What do you know of their relationship? James and his brother.”
“Not much. James went to visit him before he left on the Pax. His brother wasn’t home. And I got the impression that his sister-in-law didn’t want to see him. She wouldn’t let him in the house.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“Anything. If I can do it I will.”
“I know that James wants to have contact with his brother. I’m going to try to make that happen. I’ve noticed that movers toured the habitat next to us today.”
Fowler studies me a moment. “Yes, the general who was living there was reassigned after our presentation, just in case… a certain decision was made. Anyway, the habitat will come available soon.”
“Can you arrange for James’s brother and his family to move there?”
Fowler thinks for a moment. “Yes. I believe so.”
“How long would it take?”
“To get an answer? Not long. I’ll know first thing in the morning.”
I’m halfway finished with my morning exercises
when the messenger arrives. The note from Fowler is to the point, and I’m relieved when I read it.
Housing transfer approved.
On the way home from Fowler’s habitat, I made Oscar swear not to disclose what he heard. He agreed and asked no questions. I feel on some level that I’m betraying James by not telling him what I’m doing. But I also believe that I have to—for his own good. My rehabilitation here in Camp Seven has been physical. His great injury is the relationship with his brother. James saved my life. And brought me back to health—or probably as close as I’m going to get. I have to do this for him. And I need it to be a secret.
There’s one last piece I need to put in place.
When I first logged on to the AtlanticNet in the hospital, I assumed it was simply the start of a growing web of information, that the government would expand the breadth of data available as they had time. I was wrong. It remains a very rudimentary tool used mostly to direct life in the camp. It contains work schedules, job responsibilities, and news the government deems important. And of course mandatory notices. Thankfully, it also includes a resident directory, which is essential for helping relocated families find each other.
There are four men with the last name Sinclair, and only one living in the barracks James showed me: Alex Sinclair. Wife, Abigail. Son, Jack. Daughter, Sarah. They live in Room 54.
I shower quickly and dress, and when I emerge into the living room, Oscar is sitting on the couch, reading a tablet.
“Oscar, I need to run another errand.”
“Of course.”
“And I need you to keep it secret. Just like the meeting with Fowler.”
“Very well.”
I’ve never been inside one of the barracks. It’s not what I expected.
The overall vibe is similar to a nursing home. There’s a long corridor down the middle, with people sitting outside their rooms, mostly those too young or too old to work. The children play, talk, or stare at tablets, watching the few videos freely available on AtlanticNet.
