January 20, 1
Three... two... one... CLICK! Two tiny levers, held only by the force of several atoms, flip backward. They launch my two brand-new ‘boats’—my new eyes to the universe—into space at port and starboard, parallel, relative to my direction of travel. It was important to launch them at the same instant—otherwise, Messenger would have started to tumble. The boats contain sensors and a small antenna. They slowly move sideways from my ship, but it does not matter. We have plenty of time.
Right now, my two boats—ISUs, short for Independent Sensor Units—mostly tell me how Messenger is doing, since I can observe the exterior of the ship through their eyes. With increasing distance, they will later provide me with data about the space around me. Once they are far enough away, I might even use them to sense the structure of space-time. The crests and troughs of the gravitational waves moving through space affect the ISUs differently than they do Messenger, though only slightly. This gives me clues about the basic properties of the universe. There are phenomena I cannot see, such as black holes, because they mostly do not radiate anything. There might be other—perhaps even more dangerous—obstacles that are too small or too dark to be detected optically. Nevertheless, these still betray themselves by their gravitation and the troughs created by them in space-time.
While Messenger gradually decelerates, the ISUs will continue to move at a fifth of the speed of light—their launch speed—in their predetermined destination. Therefore, while I will be traveling for much longer, they will only need seven years to cover the distance that remains ahead of us. The boats will inform us about what is waiting near Proxima, before they eventually speed on into the depths of space. During the next few months, I plan to sporadically eject more ISUs in different directions in order to place more sensors ahead, which can send us advance warnings of obstacles.
I get dizzy the first time I integrate the port-side ISU into my optical systems. It feels as though my left eye has been taken from my face and placed into the vacuum a few meters away, but I know I will quickly get used to this. Strangely enough, my consciousness always manages to integrate technology into my human body image. My mind assumes I use my eyes, not optical sensors. After just a few hours, it no longer seems strange that my ‘eyes’ are suddenly located a few meters away from my head.
I carefully test my new abilities. I can gaze in all directions, but currently I cannot see more than what Messenger’s own camera perceives. The spaceship itself appears to float calmly in space next to me, and I do not notice its enormous velocity. The stars do not shift, so there are no indications of how fast we are truly going.
Directly behind us is a yellow star. It is clearly visible—even though it is not the brightest star in the sky—just as the people living there are hopefully not the brightest creatures in the universe. The person who created Messenger lives there, on its third planet. I have to admit I am not really interested in him. We left him behind and he no longer influences our fate. I’d rather think of Francesca. There is a great advantage to being a silicon-based artificial intelligence: I will never lose the memories of my lover, unless I deliberately erase them. I hope retaining these cherished remembrances never become a disadvantage. Right now these thoughts warm my heart—the image of her face, the conversations we had and the feeling of her warm, soft fingers on my skin. These memories will not fade, because they have been stored digitally. The brown color of Francesca’s eyes is as deep as if I were looking into her pupils from 20 centimeters away, while she is resting on my chest.
I know. I should look forward, instead.
March 14, 1
At this point, Messenger is no longer a needle but rather a thread. During the past weeks, the ship collected all the elements needed for the next stage of construction. It grew from ten centimeters to a length of four meters. So far, Messenger cannot grow wider, because that would be too risky. Yet the third stage of the fabricator will need more space, and it will be located in the central part of the spaceship.
Messenger has slowed down a bit due to all this gathered mass. This has given the four sensor units the chance to fly ahead in the direction of their destination. I access their image feeds via radio. I see nothing far and wide—which is good—since any object could potentially be a destructive obstacle for the spaceship. From the position of the ISUs I cannot even detect Messenger, as its cross section is still too small.
The second-stage fabricator starts its task. It builds a machine that can produce parts of macroscopic size—things a human can see and touch. So far there are no humans here, but this will change, too. Nanoscopic transport units carry the necessary material from Messenger’s stern. The various raw materials are stored in such a way so as to allow for a very efficient construction process. The spaceship is now growing a belly, a barrel-shaped bulge that starts about 30 centimeters behind the tip of the vessel.
From now on we can no longer assume the danger of a collision is so low that we can avoid all obstacles. The risk of something hitting Messenger has abruptly risen by 1,000 percent. It is still below the mean probability of being hit by a meteorite on Earth. Actually, no inhabitant of Earth has ever died this way, at least as far as historical records are concerned.
March 29, 1
I feel clumsy and slow with the new fabricator in my center. If I were a woman, I would probably compare it to pregnancy. I was once a physician—back then—but of course, I don’t really know how a pregnancy would feel. I certainly have issues adjusting my self-image to this new body shape. I am not the ship. I have been trying desperately to avoid viewing the ship as my personal self.
However, my feelings fit the next step rather well: Messenger still has to give birth to the life it will transport to the far star Proxima Centauri. In the belly of the ship, a few hundred water bears of the species Milnesium tardigradum are waiting to be awakened from their cryogenic suspension. They look like tiny barrels and are not even a millimeter long. In this state of existence, they can be exposed to vacuum, hard radiation, and temperatures close to absolute zero, yet still survive. Their metabolism is completely suspended, and this means they will not age, no matter how long their journey lasts.
The time has come to return them to life. For this purpose, I simply have to add warm water to their cramped container. The first-stage fabricator has already produced sufficient H2O. It flows through narrow channels into the tardigrades’ enclosures, which are simply millimeter-size holes in the center of the ship. The eight-legged creatures breathe oxygen through the surface of their skin and feed on organic molecules—that is all they need. Therefore, they are not bothered at all by not seeing their environment, just as long as the supply of oxygen and food keeps coming.
The fact that we have several hundred tardigrades on board is a safety measure that does not cost much, because these creatures are so small. Basically, we only need a single one. Biologists on Earth expanded the creatures’ DNA so that the complete genomes of Adam and Eve fit in there. Trials proved that the natural repair mechanisms of cells could preserve crucial information better than an electronic database ever could. Silicon memory cells could lose data through the effect of cosmic radiation. Nature, though, has learned in the course of millions of years to handle such negative influences. In the case of tardigrades, Mother Nature has developed very efficient strategies against this. Why shouldn’t we use those?
Five hours later I observe a milling mass in the tardigrades’ cell. These creatures slowly move across the walls of their home on their eight legs. Chemical sensors tell them where to find food. I zoom in to see their mouths more clearly, and they are covered with rectangular structures, making it look like their lips are notched. When one of the creatures looks down, where I can observe it via a camera module, I see the sharp stiletto blades reaching like small knives into the oral cavity. A tardigrade can move these stilettos back and forth at amazing speeds in order to cut up food. The foodstuff is designed to be almost completely digested. Whatever remains will
be excreted through an opening at the lower area of the belly, in front of the last pair of legs.
Watching these creatures graze is very calming for me. Things move quite slowly for Milnesium tardigradum. Even as a child I was fascinated by aquariums, and this community of creatures in a glass cell very much reminds me of one. This species has probably existed for many millions of years, and will survive mankind by millions more because of its hardiness and the fact that it has spread equally through oceans and lakes, and on land.
These specimens here are going to die, though, after the incubation chamber extracts Adam and Eve’s DNA from them and checks its structure for completeness. It would not be efficient to continue providing food and oxygen for them on board. Yet their deaths will not be meaningless, because all the organic matter of which they consist will be needed for Adam and Eve.
April 4, 1
The alarm clock is ringing. I awake, startled. A warning algorithm brought my consciousness out of its standby mode. It takes me a few milliseconds to get oriented. I am not lying in bed, as my dream told me. I am the AI on board Messenger, and something is trying to eliminate me. An attack? Out here, in the middle of nowhere? Mitya, calm down—what do the sensors indicate? At the exact moment of the alarm sounding, the first two ISUs I launched into space detected an obstacle. This means it has to be right in the middle between the two sensor drones—squarely on the axis of our movement.
How much time is left? Messenger is still traveling at 50,000 kilometers per second. It could cover the distance from the earth to the moon in seven seconds. I have to hurry. The ISUs report that the certain death approaching us weighs less than a kilogram. Messenger could never survive such a collision. While the object is moving in the same direction, it is much, much slower. We will rear-end it with enormous force. The impact is going to atomize Messenger, and I will die with the ship.
I feel a chill. Did I fly all this way to be extinguished by a small meteorite that strayed into interstellar space? I hope it is actually a meteorite, because then the solution would be relatively simple: The spaceship only has to alter its course by a few centimeters. However, the ISUs might have just as well recorded a loose cloud of fragments which is itself the result of a collision. A quick estimate tells me Messenger has no chance in that case. Therefore I do not waste any time on more precise calculations.
How can I save us? My processors work at full speed, since evasive maneuvers will be complicated at 50,000 kilometers per second—particularly because Messenger does not even have an engine! The measurements taken by the ISUs give me 15 seconds, a quarter of a minute. I have to correct Messenger’s course. Where would I find a cosmic finger to flick against the end of the ship in order to avoid a collision? Or will the conservation of momentum offer a solution? Maybe the ISU launch mechanism can clear my path. I calculate the precise values. The obstacle does not seem to be 100 percent directly ahead. Therefore it is safer to deviate to the left than to the right.
Fourteen seconds. If I shoot material into space on the right side, Messenger will receive an impulse toward the left. How much matter can I eject in such a short time? Electrons carrying my commands are racing through Messenger. Only 87 centimeters of clearance. That is all the fabricators can give me. I hope this will be enough.
The transport mechanism is already moving the material to the spring apparatus. I have it loaded into the launcher. 13 seconds. I give the order and a small ball of carbon flies into space from the starboard side. The gyroscopic mechanism confirms a tiny change in direction. I keep my fingers crossed—although I don’t have fingers, as you know—that it will be enough.
The last 12 seconds seem to stretch to an unbearable length. On the one hand, I want to close my eyes, but on the other, I do not want to zoom blindly toward my death. Messenger deviates from its course centimeter by centimeter. I pray for every second. Wasn’t there a bit of measurement uncertainty left?
Whooosh! The magnetic sensors go haywire as the meteorite shoots past, eight centimeters from Messenger’s outer skin. I feel as if I am sweating and freezing all at the same time. It must have been a rock with high iron and nickel content. It is almost too bad we did not capture it, because later we are going to need a lot of metal. ‘Well, Mitya, don’t get too cocky,’ I tell myself. We will not be able to capture a meteorite without Messenger being destroyed until we are almost at our destination, because only then will the ship be sturdy enough for such a task.
May 13, 1
I observe Messenger with the help of the two ISUs I ejected yesterday. The spaceship’s belly expands toward the rear, and it now resembles a barrel with two thin antennas, one in front and the other in back. The incubation chamber is located toward the slightly-tapered rear of the barrel, and it will change its function several times in the future. Currently, it is responsible for extracting the human DNA from the modified genetic information of the tardigrades. Once again I am impressed by how methodically nature seems to proceed. All genetic information of plants and animals on Earth, no matter how different they look, ultimately derives from four different nucleobases. It is as if all life programs were written in the same programming language consisting of the four letters AGCT, or as if all inhabitants of Earth used the same script with only four symbols.
This is very practical for the steps the incubation chamber has to take at this juncture. The biologists marked the beginning and the end of Adam and Eve’s DNA with special codes. Scissor molecules can find these and cut off the relevant strands. Then chemical anchors attach to the genetic information like magnets and retrieve it from inside the tardigrades’ cells. The DNA strands are then carefully cleaned, duplicated, and separated afterward. The incubation chamber has already generated primal cells, complete except for the decisive programming code. If everything works out, these will turn into fertilized ova. No one can distinguish them from cells generated through biological sex.
I admire the two cells waiting in separate chambers for the starting signal. They will turn into my passengers. Right now, Adam and Eve look identical and can only be distinguished by examining their genomes. Once the incubation chamber triggers a special messenger substance, the cells will start dividing. As they grow, their descendant cells are going to take on different functions—and finally two human beings will come into existence, just like I used to be.
Technically, they will have many ‘mothers and fathers’—all of the individuals whose best genetic traits contributed to their genomes, before they were optimized for hitherto unknown capabilities. In reality, though, they will grow up without a mother. I will try to at least be a good father. I will always be there for them, even if I cannot take them into my arms. They will have to give each other the physical contact a child needs, and there are going to be moments when loneliness will fill their souls. All this is subordinated to the grand goal: They are going to conquer a new world. I hope this will help them deal with the disadvantages of their existence.
The need for physical and emotional contact is not yet relevant. Until the optimal reproduction process has been determined, these two cells and their descendants will be used by the incubation chamber for experiments. It is a painful but necessary measure. The machine is designed to vary the conditions under which it multiplies the cells step by step until it finds the best way to create a fetus. I am going to support it in this task.
July 25, 1
During the past few days, Messenger grew a kind of dish at its stern, which will serve as both an ear and a mouth for me. It is an antenna made of a fine metal mesh, and this shape ensures its stability. The focus of its curvature is ahead of us, meaning I can use it to listen to the songs of the distant star that is our eventual destination. And Proxima Centauri is indeed singing, as I perceive the changing activities of the red dwarf. Normally, Proxima’s song is full of harmonies, but every few weeks shrill screams can be heard. Those are its flares, eruptions of stellar radiation. Due to them, scientists had long doubted there could be habitable worlds
orbiting this already very old star.
But then the ALMA radio telescope received the message that entered history books as ‘The Signal.’ Mankind had only just accepted the revolutionary fact that an alien intelligence—an intelligence that was much older than humanity—inhabited Saturn’s icy moon Enceladus. Hardly 20 years after the first contact with extraterrestrial life, The Signal set off a new hype, something never seen before. The astronomers had managed to decrypt the content very quickly. Worldwide media published the alien drawings, which seemed strangely clumsy but easy to recognize: They showed humanoid creatures walking on two legs, using two arms, and possessing a torso and a head. Most of all, The Signal seemed to convey a message: “Please help. A great danger is threatening us!”
The call for help came from Proxima b. This rocky planet—whose existence had been known for a long time—orbits the star Proxima Centauri. The message seemed to hit a nerve with most people on Earth. While astronomers could not be certain whether The Signal was specifically directed at us or if it had been broadcast at random into space, many people nevertheless felt it spoke to them. While annual catastrophic floods in Bangladesh barely made the news anymore, the unknown extraterrestrials took center stage. An international organization was founded and given an enormous budget. Its task was to explore the possibility of a rescue mission.
Experts had realized from the very start that a manned flight to a star four light years distant was completely beyond mankind’s technical capabilities, no matter how much money was invested. However, at least a part of the budget which had so surprisingly appeared could be invested in sensible space research within the solar system. For research purposes, spaceships flew all the way to Neptune, and for a while the scientific community was happy.
Proxima Rising Page 2
