It is always hard for me to find a starter for such a conversation, but I try it anyway. “I want to talk to you about the Creator, today,” I begin.
“This sounds so grandiose and religious,” Adam says.
“That’s the reason I never dared to ask questions about this,” Eve adds.
“The term accurately describes what this man has done for the Messenger mission,” I explain, “but I do understand what you mean. I can only say this: It was Nikolai Shostakovich’s express wish to be called that.”
“An odd wish,” Adam says. “Was—or is—he a strange man?”
“Perhaps,” I reply. “To be honest, I don’t know much about him. Only what can be found in the media. He apparently made a lot of money, and for a long time did not know what to do with it. The aliens’ call for help seems to have come at just the right time.”
“We did not find anything about this in the data,” Adam says.
I suspected that the two of them had been trying for quite some time to research their origins. “That’s obvious,” I explain, “because the public was not supposed to know about this program. In multiple ways this mission violates the rules of basic ethics. The Creator would have never received permission from his government.”
Eve looks wide-eyed and seems to be deeply shocked. “Does this mean mankind knows nothing about us?” she asks. “If we were lost, no one would mourn us?”
“The Creator and the team of researchers in his company would regret the failed expedition,” I say.
“Regret? That’s all?” Eve asks.
“Probably... I am not sure for what purpose he launched this expedition.” I do not mention the protected memory area I cannot access. “But objectively speaking, he probably regards you as a means to an end.”
“What an asshole,” Eve says. Anger has replaced sadness on her face. I am glad to see this reaction, because I am better at handling anger. “But you are still part of it,” she continues. “How could you agree to this?”
“I wasn’t asked, Eve. The last thing I remember is a voyage to Enceladus, a moon of Saturn,” I tell her.
“Do you have any idea how you got here?”
“Yes, I do have an idea. I suspect I am an illegal copy. All throughout that mission we wondered why the Creator was willing to finance our expedition, even though it brought him no economic benefit.”
“What was that expedition all about?” she asks.
“We wanted to reunite my consciousness with my body, which I’d had to leave behind on Enceladus,” I reply.
“Did you succeed?”
“I don’t know—I have no memory of the voyage itself. I only awoke when Messenger was already underway. Either the Creator deleted parts of my memory, or he had already copied my consciousness before the launch. I suspect it is the latter, since that way he could be sure to have control of me.”
“Aren’t you angry about it?” Adam asks. “I would be furious.”
“No, I am not,” I explain. “I was never the angry type—and I found both of you. As a human I never had children.” I do not mention that I would have liked to have had children with Francesca. If the expedition to Enceladus was successful, the human Marchenko might already be a father. I would be glad about it, even though this has nothing to do with me anymore. I consider us two different beings.
“Without you we would be all alone on the ship,” Eve says.
“You still would have J and the incubation chamber,” I say.
“That’s completely different. J is like... a pet. He knows everything, but he is not smart.”
“And by now the incubation chamber really gets on our nerves,” Adam added.
“It is for your own good. The chamber is responsible for your health.”
“Blah blah blah,” Adam says.
Eve’s expression is serious, almost sad, as she asks, “And what about us... is the Creator our father?” I am not sure whether she really wants to hear the answer.
“Well, ‘father’ is certainly not the right word,” I reply. “Under orders from the Creator, geneticists combined your genetic material from that of many individuals. They picked the best traits everywhere, and then they might have even improved on those. You are able to think more complex thoughts and run faster than most people on Earth. You also see in the infrared part of the spectrum, so Proxima Centauri seems brighter to you. The pigments in your skin—”
“So we did not have one father and one mother, but many?” Eve interrupts me.
“I am your father because I adopted you. Your genetic makeup does not matter. I will always be here for you. That’s exactly what parents do.”
“And the incubation chamber would be our mother?”
“If you want to look at it that way... At least it exhibits maternal behavior. The fact that it is getting on your nerves is the best proof.”
“You know, Marchenko, what you are saying is all well and good, and it is great that you want to be here for us,” Adam says, “but first, we don’t need it anymore, and secondly, I have the funny feeling that I am a puppet of this Shostakovich, whom you call ‘the Creator’ in such a grandiose fashion. I do not want to fulfill the plans of someone I never met. I wasn’t asked whether I really wanted to be here. Now I want to live my own life, and I am sure Eve agrees.” Adam looks at his sibling, who is not actually related to him. She nods slowly.
“I understand,” I reply. I had expected Adam to say something like this. “However, the Creator organized this expedition in such a way that you will have to follow his plan, at least at the beginning, if you want to lead your own life sometime.”
Adam nods and says, “Yes, that was very clever of him. We need a home. We have to arrive on Proxima b and explore the planet. But the time will come when we will go our own ways. Mankind knows nothing about us, and the Creator never asked our permission. We don’t owe anything to anyone.”
“I know. I just hope and wish we can part amicably, if it ever comes to that,” I say.
This is a complete lie. I do not want us to go our separate ways. Ever. I do not think I could stand eternal solitude.
November 11, 18
Adam is sitting at the control console. During training in the past few days, he has demonstrated that he is much better than Eve at controlling Messenger in an emergency. I still hope he does not have to intervene in such a situation, because that would mean the software has failed. He is nervously rubbing the thin beard that started to grow shortly after his 16th birthday.
We have already reached the outskirts of the asteroid belt. The distances between obstacles are still large enough to evade them in time. I set the sensor input so I experience the surrounding space as seen directly from the tip of Messenger. I not only look into space but see the velocity vectors of all asteroids, down to the ones a few millimeters in size.
Today it is likely the onboard quantum computer will have to go the limit for the first time, as it can simultaneously solve all non-relativistic motion equations for potential obstacles. That means we will know the probability of each object hitting us. This is almost independent of the number of obstacles. We will not run the risk of losing track of things, even in the middle of the asteroid belt.
I have the slight hope that the predictions we developed based on the data sent by the ISUs will not be completely accurate. There is still a probability range. The maximum density could be so high that we barely make it. Or even higher, and we would definitely die. We will know in a few hours which one of these scenarios actually comes true.
The automatic system uses a buzzing sound to report dangerous encounters. I am not absolutely sure of the reason for this, but the frequent sounds give a good indication of how hazardous the situation is. This morning there was only one warning per hour, but we are now receiving one every five minutes. Just for training purposes, Adam is starting to enter control impulses into the console in parallel to the automatic system. The impulses are not executed, but he receives virtual feedback on
what would have happened if Messenger had followed his command. He does not look dissatisfied.
Half an hour later Adam sits in his pilot seat, looking tense and frantically pushing various buttons. It almost looks as if he were playing Whac-A-Mole, quickly trying to hit the heads of moles randomly popping up from their holes. Now the buzzing sound can be heard about every 20 seconds. The automatic system is still keeping up. I can see in my internal view how it gets us out of range again and again. It seems as if all nearby asteroids are trying to hit us, but that is an optical illusion.
When I was still human I visited America. I remember driving through the Midwest during a heavy snowfall. It felt just like this, only the snowflakes were not able to destroy my vehicle. The asteroids are moving in a prograde standard orbit, which means that they all come from our left as we move toward the center of this system. Unfortunately, they do not seem to think much of traffic rules.
A loud whistling indicates the first impact, but not much happens. The image of space in front of my eyes shakes briefly, while the software adapts to the sudden momentum change of Messenger. The fabricators immediately begin to repair the damage. I doubt they will be able to finish their work before the next one hits. They cannot work miracles. According to the sensors we have only traversed five percent of the asteroid belt.
I try to aim my view more forward. The automatic system should be able to handle the closest asteroids, but what about the wave beyond them? It is too bad we have no weapons on board to clear our way, but we simply do not have enough energy. I feel the next impact, and it causes me physical pain. The automatic system uses this sensation to indicate the level of danger. In other words, the more a hit threatens our stability, the more painful it feels to me.
The sensation of pain even enters my consciousness when I am intensively focusing on something else. Like at this very moment, because I realize that the vectors of the asteroids racing toward us almost condense into a curtain about 30 minutes ahead. The automatic system has no time to focus on this, as it is busy with objects approaching right now. I do a rough calculation: The quantum computer has enough reserves to handle this, but it looks as if it were impossible to plot a course free of obstacles for us. In any case, we will collide.
“End simulation. Abort approach course,” I hear Adam’s voice say even before I can give the order to retreat. The boy has taken over command. He always had the opportunity to do so, but until now he never used it.
“It is useless, Marchenko,” he says. He knows I am paying full attention to him. “We won’t make it that way.”
“The last flare moved through here three days ago,” I remind him. “We don’t have enough time for a detour.”
“I know, Marchenko, but there must be a solution... and I have an idea. Just now, during the simulation, I wanted to give up in a particular situation and I let go of the controls. The asteroid, a big one with a diameter of two meters, would have hit us with a glancing blow. However, the software reported a success. At the last moment, this obstacle was hit by a larger asteroid and was deflected. I did not have that one on my screen, since it wasn’t on a collision course with us.”
“We won’t be that lucky every time,” I say.
“Not if we just wait for it. But maybe we can cause this situation to happen. There is always a larger fish, you know.”
The boy is right. We are going to need a kind of shield, a really heavy asteroid that protects us against the others—one that puts its head on the line for us. I am scanning the entire area.
“There is a boulder measuring about 200 meters across that will reach our current position in about two days,” I report.
Adam asks, “Can we capture it somehow?”
“It is approaching at enormous speed, so capturing it would be impossible. But we could move into its slipstream so to speak and slow it down a bit. Then it will automatically move into an orbit closer to Proxima b.”
“And it will take us with it?”
“Yes, it might work, Adam.” I quickly run some calculations, and then say, “There is only one problem: Crossing the asteroid belt that way would take almost three weeks.”
“Then we would have 14 days left until the next flare,” Adam says slowly.
“That’s 14 days in which we have to reach Proxima b, land there, and find a safe shelter.”
“Sounds like a challenge. But do we have a choice?”
“No,” I reluctantly confirm.
November 13, 18
Instead of repairing the damage to Messenger, the fabricators have been busy since the day before yesterday building a brake for ‘Fred,’ as we have come to call the 200-meter-asteroid at Eve’s suggestion. Fred is heavy and hard to slow down, and it is our plan to let it collide with a few smaller asteroids. This would reduce its momentum and simultaneously increase its mass somewhat. The heavier the asteroid gets, the slower it will become. Afterward, we adjust our velocity so that we are in Fred’s slipstream while it gradually moves inward through the asteroid belt. The plan sounds more complicated than it is in reality, because our speed and that of the components of the asteroid belt do not differ much. So basically we just need to change our direction.
Some sensor units built by the fabricators are already on their way to the smaller rocks we want to use in order to slow down the large one. The units possess a weak engine that can be used to move the mini-asteroids in the direction of Fred. It is impossible to accurately predict how it will all end.
According to predictions we will need between 19 and 28 days to cross the asteroid field, and the risk of being hit during this time is close to zero. That does not look too bad. I have survived much worse odds, for instance during my journey through the Enceladus Ocean. Yesterday I tried to tell Adam and Eve about that adventure, but they politely declined. I understand that Earth’s solar system means very little to them. As do the stories told by an old man.
The automatic system announces, “Course correction in three, two, one...” The thrusters at starboard start firing, and once again I place myself at the tip of Messenger to be able to better follow everything. The spaceship is performing a slow turn, and a sound alerts me to the fact that something important is happening behind me.
The first rock has drilled itself into Fred’s surface. Excellent aim, I think. The impact did not cause any material to splinter. Therefore this inelastic collision provided an optimal braking effect. Not all of the collisions triggered by us will work so neatly.
“4,330 meters, 5.5 meters per second,” the automatic system reports half an hour later, indicating our distance to Fred and our relative speed. Our protective shield is still a bit too fast. In this brief time we cannot sufficiently slow Messenger down with thrusters alone, so we need Fred to follow our plan. However, there is only one smaller rock left to feed to Fred. The rest is small stuff that will not have much effect on the 200-meter boulder.
For safety’s sake we also prepared a Plan B. It was Eve’s idea, and right now I am very grateful to her for it, even though I assigned Adam to execute the plan. Adam is already wearing his spacesuit. It is a brand-new model, which was introduced on Earth just six months before our launch. Instead of a hard, lower part that holds the pressure of the gas around the human body at half an atmosphere, it consists of a skin-tight flexible material. Only the head is protected by the classic helmet with a transparent visor. The Creator must have illegally copied the design from NASA, since the company that manufactured the suit had patented it.
If we really need Plan B, this will be Adam’s first spacewalk. Therefore I would prefer to find a different way, but it does not look like there is one. Right now the sensors are reporting that the last rock sent to slow Fred only grazed it. Our protective shield has started to tumble a little, which further complicates Plan B. It could not be helped.
“Adam, it’s your turn,” I say.
“I am finally getting out of here,” he says confidently, trying to sound cool, but his bio-monitor indicates
an enormously-accelerated heartbeat. I hope he won’t keel over.
From my position at the tip of the spaceship I see a hatch opening on the backside of Messenger. Until now, it had been invisible. Two hands appear at the edge of the hatch and then a person pulls himself out. I am scared seeing Adam like this. He almost looks unprotected in the tight-fitting spacesuit, and his head seems larger and more vulnerable than usual.
“Wow!” he calls out. “That’s really high. I mean deep.”
“Look for a fixed point of reference, and check whether your line is attached,” I remind Adam.
Of course Adam knows what to do, but clear instructions are useful in all this excitement.
“Do you have a horizon? That is your plane,” I tell him. “You should mentally adapt to it. Now look around carefully. You should be able to see Fred quite well from where you are. I am activating your tracer.”
Now an arrow appears on the inside of Adam’s helmet, showing him the direction. I forgot that Adam’s senses would have a hard time seeing Fred, since it is gray against a black background.
“Got it,” he says.
“It is 300 meters distant, and your differential speed is three meters per second,” I say.
“So it will be here in 100 seconds?”
“Yes, that’s enough time. Now take the harpoon.”
I see Adam reaching into the hatch and taking out a pole with a length of two meters. At its tip there is an explosive charge meant to drive the harpoon into Fred. On the other end, a thin but very strong monofilament line is attached. We are going to harpoon Fred and will consequently be dragged along by it. This way we can also equalize the speed difference. Adam just has to hit the asteroid at the right moment.
There I become aware of a slight problem, caused by the grazing impact a while ago. Fred is rotating slowly. In a worst-case scenario, it will retain the rotation and slowly drag Messenger around itself. If we are unlucky, Fred won’t shield us, but we would shield the asteroid. Fred is a clever guy, but this would also mean our end.
Proxima Rising Page 8
