The Dark Spring: Hard Science Fiction

by Brandon Q Morris

  “I’m always getting strange phone calls. Someone must have given out my local direct dial number. It only happens to me here in Hawthorne.”

  “It wasn’t that kind of call.”

  Suddenly he heard a child laughing. It was coming from under the tabletop.

  “Yes, I’ll be down there in a minute,” said Chatterjee.

  That was obviously not meant for him.

  “This is like pulling teeth, Neguun. What kind of call was it? I promised Ilan I’d play with him.”

  “Sorry, boss. It was a German. They’ve found something quite unusual on Comet 67P, and they’re asking for our help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “They want a probe from the statite project to take a look.”

  “Then we’ll do it, won’t we? Otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered me with this.”

  “Don’t you want to know what it’s about, Ihab?”

  “You obviously find it interesting enough. That’s all I need to know. I can’t oversee everything. I’m supposed to be knocking the spaceship production into shape. And playing with my son. Those two things alone are mutually exclusive. Please keep everything else off my plate.”

  “Understood. Then I’ll say yes to the German.”

  “Wait. Did you promise him something?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. And you know everything you need to know about the target?”

  “I think so.”

  “Even better. Then you don’t need to say yes to him, at least not yet. We’ll observe it from the first available position, and if there’s anything to report, we’ll decide then. That way, we hold all the cards.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Ihab Chatterjee pushed his chair back and slid forward onto his knees. His head disappeared under the desk.

  “Here I am, Ilan. What are we playing?”

  “Angie?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  The blonde woman at the central office thought he was her darling, just because he’d dined with her a few times. Whatever.

  “If a German man calls, a Karl Stoll, I’m not here.”

  “Understood, Neguun.”

  “Please pass that on to the whole team.”

  “I will. Shall we—”

  “Thanks, Angie. I’ve got something urgent to take care of.”

  August 22, 2026 – DosRios 19 Probe

  The probe was dreaming. Only small parts of her consciousness were active. The star tracker was monitoring her position, and the attitude control turned and redirected the solar sail when necessary. In this situation she only had one task, holding her position in orbit. She wasn’t aware of any other responsibilities.

  She’d slept since she arrived here, like all her siblings, and she’d continue to sleep until the relentless solar wind finally destroyed her electronics. She was hardened, but there was no such thing as complete protection. At some point she’d fail. She’d drift, and when someone on Earth noticed she was missing, she’d be replaced. She was replaceable, and she only had one function.

  “Attention: DR19.”

  “Attention: DR19.”

  “Attention: DR19.”

  The DosRios 19 probe had received the same transmission three times—the signal to awaken from her slumber. She checked her battery status and found the solar cells were working at 85 percent efficiency. Her position was exactly as prescribed.

  “Affirmative,” she replied. “Dynamic Orbital Slingshot for Rendezvous with Interstellar Objects, unit 19, awake.”

  The probe didn’t register the fact that several minutes passed between question and answer. She possessed no sense of time, although she could measure time precisely.

  “Preparing new target coordinates,” Earth commanded.

  “Ready.”

  DosRios 19 switched to receiving. A short data pulse reached her out of the darkness. DosRios19 didn’t know it was from Earth. She didn’t know Earth. But she knew that the pulse was correctly coded and that it contained a target.

  “Confirm coordinates.”

  A new command. She recoded the coordinates and packaged them into a reply.

  “Transmission correct,” came the confirmation.

  If she were capable of being proud, she would be now.

  “Prepare daughters.”

  It was getting exciting. The probe knew she had daughters, but she’d never had contact with them. The daughters, two cylindrical probes with chemical thrusters, were slumbering under her solar panels. DosRios 19 transferred some of her energy into the first daughter, who woke up and extended a few instruments, which touched her outer hull. It was a strange feeling, like being tickled in the armpits.

  “Status eighty-nine percent,” reported the daughter.

  Oh. If DosRios 19 were capable of being sad, she would be now. Her daughter wasn’t ready. She didn’t know why she wasn’t at 100 percent, but it didn’t matter. She gave the signal to power down. It had been a short acquaintance. DosRios 19 wasn’t sad. At 89 percent, it meant this daughter would stay with her until they faded out together in a distant star.

  She activated daughter 2.

  “Status one-hundred percent,” reported the daughter.

  “Daughter ready,” DosRios 19 relayed to Earth.

  “Transfer target.”

  DosRios 19 saved the target in the daughter probe. Then she extended her telescope camera. The objective was orbiting closer to the sun than she was. So her daughter would have to brake. She calculated a course. Flying time 27 hours. That wasn’t far. She’d already been circling up here for 9,967 hours.

  “Target programmed,” DosRios 19 reported to Earth.

  “Launch daughter,” came the reply.

  DosRios 19 knew that daughter 2 would never come back to her—it was technically impossible. DosRios 19 activated the spring mechanism that would jettison daughter 2.

  The umbilical cord ripped as the mechanical connection was separated. Daughter 2 now had to source her own energy. DosRios 19 could still communicate with her via radio for a few minutes. Then she’d go back into sleep mode.

  “Assuming course,” reported daughter 2.

  DosRios 19 relayed the status report to Earth via her high-gain antenna. Then she checked her daughter’s course with her instruments. It was easier from outside.

  “Confirming course,” she radioed.

  Daughter 2 didn’t reply—they understood each other without words. DosRios 19 extended her solar sail a little farther. She had to compensate for the momentum caused by jettisoning her daughter. Then she initiated the sleep process. She wouldn’t sleep as deeply as before, because she would have to fulfill one more important task. DosRios 19 had to relay the daughter probe’s radio transmissions to Earth. Her daughter was leaving her forever, but she remained in her thoughts.

  August 23, 2026 – SpaceShip SS1

  No one had told him it would be painful watching the Earth shrink. If you just looked once, you couldn’t tell—the ship was flying too slowly. But when he marked the diameter of the Earth’s sphere on the porthole and then checked again two hours later, the difference was clear. Back there—because it didn’t seem like it was below them anymore—was everything he held dear.

  He couldn’t have proper conversations with Jenna anymore. The lag was continually increasing, already at least one second each way, and the quality of the transmission was also worsening. They’d agreed to send a video message twice a day. In between, Brandon enjoyed talking to Sophie. The pattern of the conversation was often similar.

  “This new lipstick is a quantum leap,” she said, for example.

  “Did you know that a quantum leap is, in fact, a very, very small distance?” he countered. “So it’s only a tiny difference.”

  “That’s interesting. No, I didn’t know that. Then it’s total nonsense as an analogy for my lipstick.”

  “Lots of people misuse it.”

  “And what happens in a quantum leap?”

&nbs
p; “That’s a long story, Sophie.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  So he told her. Quantum physics, relativity, fluid dynamics, chaos theory, the standard model of the universe—it was astonishing the things Sophie was interested in. Usually Emily would float over to them after a while. She took off her headphones, Indian music issuing from them, and she performed her yoga and stretching exercises to the rhythm of his words.

  Vyacheslav, Yunus, and KK never joined them. Vyacheslav liked to play piano endlessly, using software on his tablet. Brandon didn’t know how the other two men occupied themselves.

  He drifted to the porthole. Another millimeter smaller. He wiped away the previous mark and made a new one. The pen Jenna had given him worked in zero gravity, as promised.

  The advertising melody of the world-renowned burger chain rang out through the cabin, played by Vyacheslav. One of the two automatic cameras was aimed at the Belarusian’s fingers. The other hung in front of the oven.

  KK had briefed them all beforehand. The commercial was going to be broadcast live, but it wasn’t time yet. The cameras were now recording for the half-hour ‘making of’ which would later be shown on all networks. The soccer season final was currently being broadcast on Earth. The company that built the oven had invested millions. They weren’t just testing it here on board SS1, it was also supposed to supply the astronauts on the new space station in lunar orbit, the Lunar Gateway, with American fast food.

  “Two more minutes,” KK announced.

  As passengers, they didn’t get a share of KK’s advertising revenue from the burger company. But their tickets had been paid for, and they had to play along with everything. Brandon had read the fine print. If he wrote a novel about this trip, KK would automatically receive 20 percent of his profits. But he had no intention of writing about himself. His editor always insisted she could recognize him in his books, but that was bullshit. He was just a stencil, like every other person he knew. He took the head from A, the legs from B, and the belly from C, and constructed a new character out of them.

  “Are you coming?” asked KK. “Only one minute to go.”

  Brandon took one last look in the mirror that was floating above Sophie’s seat. Jenna had reminded him to do so.

  Sophie stroked his shoulder. “A crease,” she said.

  Jenna hadn’t said anything about creases. Were creases distracting, too? Sophie would know. He barely recognized her. She looked like she was straight out of Hollywood. Her makeup had transformed her into a kind of vamp. Brandon was glad he wasn’t a painter. The market expected them not only to paint well but to look good, too.

  It was less important for writers. But this would be an opportunity for Sophie. Of the millions of people who were currently watching the soccer final, only a fraction of them would have seen her paintings. The film based on Brandon’s book, on the other hand, had been seen by at least half of the cinema-going public. Very good for his publisher.

  “So. Thirty seconds. You know what you have to do.”

  He’d never seen KK so on edge. The deal must have brought him a ton of money. Was the amount based on ratings?

  “Ten seconds.”

  The automatic cameras repositioned themselves. One was aimed at the oven, and the other floated above KK’s shoulder. Brandon watched the countdown. Four, three, two, one. It was time. The oven beeped, and KK pressed a button. The door opened. A plate was rotating inside, spinning the half-dozen burgers that had been grilled with infrared and microwave radiation. Then they flew out in a precisely choreographed formation, three from the front row and three from the back.

  The close shot must look impressive, especially flashing across the giant advertising screen of a soccer stadium. Brandon reached out. They’d practiced several times, and the left rear burger was his. It wasn’t easy catching the bun in a way that didn’t hinder the others. And he mustn’t grip it too firmly or the sauce might squirt out, and that looked unappetizing.

  Cut. The camera angle changed. This was essential. The burgers from the oven were inedible. They were prepared with coloring and chemicals that made them look delicious even in the bluish-white cabin lighting, but you couldn’t eat them. One of the cameras had filmed them catching the burgers. KK was the first. He had time to swap the enhanced burger for an edible one. The other camera zoomed in to a close-up of his face—he took a bite and assumed an enthusiastic look. Then it was the others’ turns. Fortunately the commercial was over before Brandon’s face was filmed eating. Only KK, Sophie, and Emily were seen on live television biting into a ‘flame-grilled’ burger in space.

  End, out.

  “Bon appetite,” said KK, who seemed to be enjoying his burger.

  Brandon disposed of his in the refuse container after only three bites. He had nothing against burgers, but nothing in this sandwich tasted anything like fresh.

  August 23, 2026 – DosRios 19 Probe

  The target was larger than specified. DosRios 19/2 analyzed her telescope camera images. The outline was indistinct, but no matter the projection level, the objective was too big.

  The probe collated the data and sent it on.

  “Confirmation?”

  It was a simple security mechanism. If the target didn’t match expectations, the daughter probe had to verify it.

  “Confirmation.”

  DosRios 19 had passed on the command to her. She was part of her, even when separated by space. Mother and daughter had been designed together.

  DosRios 19/2—daughter—activated the instruments. What radiation was emanating from the target, and at what intensity? How fast was it moving? How warm was it? She was a flying eye. The probe measured and measured, emitting a continuous but invisible stream of data.

  An external signal. DosRios 19/2 wasn’t alone, but she recognized neither the encryption nor the sender. She could only discern one thing—that the sender belonged to the ESA. The probe didn’t know what that was, but she knew contact was only possible in an emergency, and this wasn’t an emergency signal. She analyzed its envelope curve. The random value was low, which meant the message was packed with data. The source of the external signal had a similar role to hers—it was collecting information.

  DosRios 19/2 calculated the redshift. She knew her own speed, so she could calculate how fast the other probe was moving. The result was identical to the target within the acceptable margin of error. DosRios 19/2 drew a comparison. No, her destination and the sender of the signal were separate. Her target was also transmitting, just like any conductive body moving in a magnetic field, but it was only sending information about its state of motion. And random waste.

  She was speeding up. That didn’t correspond to the requirements. She needed to brake to reach her target’s lower orbit. DosRios 19/2 increased the power of her thruster, which fired against her direction of movement. She sent out a status update—she wasn’t approaching the target as planned. DosRios 19/2 wasn’t afraid, since her thruster had reserves. But the rendezvous course she’d been instructed to take was becoming less and less likely. Although the target object was increasing in mass, it still had too little attractive force. She had to brake, not accelerate.

  DosRios 19/2 calculated several course variants. Most of them were hyperbolic and would fling her out of the solar system. Yet the curve always ended at the same point, i.e., the nucleus of the target. The impact would destroy her, so she had to try to avoid it. DosRios 19/2 sent another status update to Earth. Whoever had programmed her might still have time to intercede. If DosRios 19/2 were able to understand herself, she wouldn’t have this hope. No power could stop her flight.

  But she continued to fulfill her task. The target was blurred. It looked like a bird had landed in a pile of dog shit and then skidded forever. That was how Adam Smith would later describe it to his superior. DosRios 19/2 wasn’t aware of this—she only saw the data that described this picture perceived by a human consciousness.

  The matter that was being flung out from her t
arget appeared to be viscous. It stuck like honey to the target’s path, and it exerted a force that DosRios 19/2 wasn’t aware of because she had no gravimeter on board. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that they might need a gravimeter to explore an interstellar visitor, because gravity, the attractive force of mass, hardly seemed likely to reveal any surprises.

  DosRios 19/2 had to make do with radar and various spectrometers. The radar showed that her target still existed. It was in the exact position the other probe was transmitting from. Maybe she’d meet it at the end of her journey. It would mean death for both of them, but DosRios 19/2 wasn’t alarmed. It was a simple fact—every existence was limited.

  Her velocity continued to increase. The first temperature measurements were now coming in, but they didn’t make it past the input monitor. Some programmer had coded in plausibility checks. Whatever was too low or too high was discarded. At first, only every tenth value was discarded, then every third, then every second.

  DosRios 19/2 ran out of values. She decided it must be an error. She always had this option. A very talented programmer had installed something like a superego in her to monitor the function of all components. It couldn’t manipulate them. But it could intercept and pass on the unprocessed data. It was better if Earth received raw data than none at all.

  She sped up. The thruster was now useless because her course was a hyperbola. In her path lay something that was like herself. DosRios 19/2 defined two imperatives: first, collect data for as long as possible; and second, increase the likelihood of the continued existence of the transmitting object. DosRios 19/2 didn’t know exactly why she reached this decision, which her superego was responsible for. It possessed an efficiency algorithm from the Alpha Omega assembly kit for autonomous vehicles, adapted for robotic probes.

  DosRios 19/2 sent out a distress call, but she wasn’t calling for help. It was too late for that. Instead, it was a warning. A short time later, her own call came back. The other object must have captured and relayed it. DosRios 19/2 didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign. She didn’t have an evaluation unit because she was never intended to interact with humans.