Wherever Seeds May Fall (First Contact)

by Peter Cawdron

  “And he’s still alive?” Nolan asks.

  “Just turned 97. Hell, he retired before I was born!”

  Nolan nods.

  “What about you?” Kath asks. “Why did you join the Air Force?”

  As tempting as it is to rattle off the obvious answers like, I’ve always wanted to fly, or my dad was in the Air Force, or to protect our way of life, they’re lies. Oh, sure, they were factors in his decision, but not reasons. What the hell? We’re probably about to die, he thinks. That’s the one thing no one has mentioned since they launched.

  Iris is the canary in the coal mine that is Earth. Sure, they’ve got a remote probe, but Nolan’s not stupid. He knows. The probe gives NASA some plausibility. On paper, it gives the crew a chance. In reality, An̆duru has been stubbornly unresponsive. It’s clearly alien. There’s life, but it’s conspicuously quiet. There had been hopes of establishing contact once the vessel rounded Venus. It’s passage back toward Earth could only be described as leisurely compared to the way it screamed into the solar system. Kath may be confident, but Nolan finds himself siding with Nikki. The silence bothers him.

  Back on Earth, President Aston has thrown the US economy into total war. If it doesn’t help in a fight, it ain’t important. Commercial flights have either been grounded or repurposed to help with establishing the defense of the United States. Food production is focused on stockpiling reserves. Manufacturing has been directed toward weapons production. Some industries have looked at innovative ways for the population to hunker down. The President’s determined to squeeze every last drop of preparation out of the days before First Contact. She fears conflict. The longer he’s in space, the more Nolan agrees with her approach. Whoever these aliens are, they’re not friendly. Friends make an effort.

  Iris is the wild card in the deck. It’s one last gambit in a vain hope for peace. Iris is an attempt at physical interaction with An̆duru—at arm’s length from Earth. Their job is to poke the bear.

  Kath reiterates her question. “Why did you go into the military?”

  Nolan has to be honest. “To hide.”

  Kath looks confused, but Nikki doesn’t. She smiles. She gets it.

  “We’re not transmitting, are we?” Nolan asks.

  “No,” Nikki replies. “Flight recorder’s running, but it remains local. It only holds 48 hours worth of data.”

  Kath is alarmed.

  Nolan explains.

  “Imposter Syndrome, right?” he says. Nikki nods. Kath doesn’t. Like most people he knows, she’s surprised, perhaps shocked by that admission. People judge on appearance. They don’t mean to, but they do. But unless he’s looking in a mirror, Nolan never sees himself as others do. He’s only ever seen someone trying to be better than themselves, which is circular and ultimately futile.

  “Oh, I love flying. My dad was an avionics engineer working on the F-18s. Nothing made him prouder than the day I got my wings, but for me, the Air Force was a way of hiding inside the machine. Following orders gave me the certainty I lacked. Eventually, it became second nature, but it’s always been second.”

  “You’re a thinker,” Nikki says deadpan.

  “So are you,” Nolan says, recognizing the same traits in her. That point gets a slight smile.

  “Okay,” Kath says. It’s the first time he’s seen her speechless.

  “It’s funny,” he says. “We make decisions in life, thinking we know where they’ll lead, but the truth is—we have no idea. I never thought going into the Air Force would lead me here.”

  “And you?” Kath asks, turning to Nikki.

  “The only way you get to be an astronaut is by being ultra-competitive. Regardless of what you do, nothing other than first place will ever suffice. There’s a long line of astonishingly accomplished people you need to leapfrog into space.”

  She pauses, breaking eye contact as she continues.

  “It’s easy to burn out. You’ve got to keep up the façade.”

  Nolan says, “Gotta stay hidden.”

  Nikki laughs. “Oh, yeah.”

  Nikki’s only offered two words in reply, but the depth behind them is clear. She’s compressed over a decade of her life into that passing remark.

  “You learn to say what people want to hear,” she says. “It’s about riding the wave. You’ve got to keep your balance on the board.”

  Nolan points at her. “I like that. That’s a good way to put it.”

  Kath says, “You two. Honestly, why do I feel like—”

  “Iris, Houston,” comes over the radio.

  Nikki is a consummate professional. She pushes the transmit button and casually replies, “Go ahead, Houston.”

  And just like that, the moment is gone.

  “Transmitting the latest update on An̆duru. Trajectory remains constant. We estimate it coming to rest at L1 in four days.”

  Nikki replies, “Copy that, Houston. Do you have an intercept burn for us?”

  Everything has changed. Nikki’s demeanor, the tone of her voice, the pitch and volume, even the color in her cheeks. Time to be an astronaut again.

  Over the radio they hear, “We have you firing at L4 tomorrow morning and cruising into place at L1 approximately 30 hours after An̆duru. It’ll be a slow drift, designed to have you come to rest within L1 without the need for a burn.”

  “Okay,” Nikki replies.

  Kath is floating in a body-neutral position beside the exercise cycle. NASA periodically releases audio, video, and still images of the crew taken while they’re conversing with Mission Control. It’s part of the campaign to hose down the fear of war—as if that were possible. When they left, the hysteria on Earth was going ballistic.

  Nolan notices the telltale red LED recording light come on. Kath doesn’t. Nothing says relax like an astronaut in a jumpsuit drifting in space. Maybe it will work for some. Kath looks as though she’s floating in an invisible spa. Her arms are up almost at shoulder height, while her hands are drifting in front of her.

  Houston says, “Recommend you rehearse probe deployment this afternoon.”

  “Will do,” Nikki replies.

  “Copy that. Houston, out.”

  And with that, the transmission ends.

  “All right, this is genuinely exciting,” Kath says.

  “Finally,” Nolan says. He feels spent. Right now, he’s ready to walk in the front door of his house in Colorado Springs. It might be an aging three-bedroom, single-story weatherboard house with asphalt tiles on the roof, but damn it, it’s home. He can’t help wonder if he’ll ever see it again.

  Nikki displays the topographical map Houston sent up. A swarm of elongated circles and ellipses depict the invisible gravitational tides that surround the Earth and Moon.

  “Okay, we’re here. We were about to swing around L4 on our way to L2 on the far side of the Moon. Instead, we’ll conduct a short burn and change course, bringing us in toward L1 in front of the Moon.”

  “And An̆duru?” Nolan asks.

  “An̆duru is skirting Earth, coming in between L3 and L5. It’s avoiding the planet’s pull, following this curved line toward L1.”

  “She’s cruising,” Kath says.

  “We’re yet to see her under power,” Nikki says. “Imaging from Earth shows minor course corrections. There’s some kind of cold-gas propulsion at play but no rockets.”

  “Interesting,” Nolan says.

  Nikki continues. “From L1, a slight nudge will take An̆duru toward Earth. It seems she’s happy to sit off at a distance on arrival. Hopefully for a while.”

  “I can’t wait to see her up close,” Kath says.

  “Well, that makes one of us,” Nolan says. It’s supposed to be a joke. No one laughs.

  “What contingency do we have?” Nikki asks, looking at Nolan.

  “Contingency?” Kath says, confused by the question, but Nolan knows what Nikki’s asking.

  “Joint Command has two X-37Bs out there.”

  “Really?” Kath says, but sh
e’s faking surprise. She had to know there would be some kind of military option, even if it were to prove futile.

  “Armament?” Nikki asks.

  Damn, Nolan loves a straight shooter. He respects that. Rather than being glib, he gives her an accurate, technical answer. Their lives are held in the balance. It’s only fair they know all the options.

  “X1 has twenty-four tungsten-tipped depleted uranium shells. They’re fired using an electromagnetic pulse, accelerating them to forty kilometers per second. The idea is, at that speed, any misses will fly out of the solar system.”

  “Oh, nice. So you’ve got a rail gun?” Nikki says, nodding her approval.

  “Bunker busters. Good to a depth of two hundred meters on Earth.”

  Kath is quiet.

  “And?” Nikki asks.

  “The X2 holds a firecracker. She launched from Vandenberg Air Force Base around the same time we took off from the Cape. The team at Los Alamos cobbled together a B83 thermonuclear bomb from spare parts and melted cores. The minimum yield is 1.2 megatons. They’ve packed in a couple of tritium chambers. If the design holds, the yield could be upwards of 18 megatons.”

  “Oooooh—a Roman Candle,” Nikki says, joking with him.

  “It won’t even scratch the surface,” Kath says. “Such a blast is trivial compared to what An̆duru has already withstood passing through the gas giants.”

  All Nolan can say to that is, “We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t try.”

  Kath nods, conceding that point.

  “So where are they?” Nikki asks.

  “Trailing us,” Nolan replies. “Somewhere out there.”

  “Huh,” Kath says. She’s not impressed.

  Nikki drops the discussion. She busies herself, checking god-knows-what metric on the command console. It’s a bluff. There’s nothing demanding her attention. She must realize these devices are a backstop. They’re being held in reserve if the Iris mission fails. Failing, in this context, means they’re dead. Not a pleasant thought. As much as Nolan would love to return to their previous, open conversation, it’s over.

  An̆duru

  “Approaching to within 100 km,” Nikki says.

  It’s been a long week with their capsule drifting into the unknown. An alien spacecraft waits for them in the darkness. The tension has been unbearable, dragging on for days.

  “Copy that,” is the reply over the radio.

  The crew of the Iris has suited up for the encounter with An̆duru. They’re strapped into their couches even though they aren’t under thrust. This is the first time they’ve worn their bright orange ‘pumpkin’ suits since the launch.

  The inside of Nolan’s helmet stinks. Thankfully, their visors are up and they’re breathing cabin air. The suits are a precaution, but against what? Nolan picked away some of the dried, crusted vomit but gave up after a few minutes. The idea of tiny flecks of dehydrated sick floating through the air didn’t seem like an actual solution.

  Trying to do anything meaningful while wearing a liquid-cooled pressure suit is akin to the Michelin Man changing a tire. It can be done, but with difficulty. At the moment, the crew are connected via umbilical cords to the Orion’s life-support system. The valves are closed as they’re breathing cabin air with their visors up. There’s no point inflating their suits and ballooning unless they need to. Should the capsule depressurize, they can drop their visors, done their gloves, and flood their suits with pure O2 in seconds.

  Even though he’s wearing a pair of flight diapers, Nolan has no desire to urinate. It feels wrong to pee within a spacesuit. He’s an adult, not a toddler. He emptied his bladder before suiting up and is determined to hold out as long as he can. He certainly doesn’t want to shit himself during the encounter—physically or metaphorically.

  Nikki strips the suits of their survival gear. She removes the flare guns, whistles, inflatable vests, mittens, and signaling mirrors. No need for excess baggage. Removing the waist harness makes the suits much more comfortable. The likelihood of being winched into a helicopter this far from Earth is remote, to say the least.

  Nikki has her gloves on, but she’s told Nolan and Kath they don’t need to wear theirs.

  Both Nolan and Kath prefer the dexterity of actual fingers on their tablets over their glorified ski gloves with stubby rubber fingertips. As the locking rings for their gloves are located halfway along their forearms, that gives them quite a bit of freedom. Nolan stowed his gloves in the now-empty pouches on his lower legs where they’re within easy reach.

  Their portable life-support packs are mounted on the inside of the cabin. Nolan isn’t fooled. They’ll only be needed if the Orion suffers a catastrophic failure. By that point, the crew will be dead. Pleasant thought.

  Two of the screens in front of them display images of An̆duru. One is in infrared, the other in visible light. The alien craft is pitch black. Only the leading edge catches the sunlight.

  “This is your show,” Nikki says, turning to Kath. “Talk to me. What are we looking at?”

  Nolan grins. Poor Kath. No one knows what to expect, but answers are demanded of her. Their capsule is live streaming audio and low-quality video, along with a host of other metrics. The primary communications dish is on the probe. All transmissions appear to come from there, not the capsule. They have a second, backup dish if needed, but the Orion appears dark.

  The President is in Mission Control along with representatives from the UN Security Council. The televised broadcast is delayed by 30 seconds. Presumably, someone will cut the feed if aliens start bursting out of their chests or whatever. The weight of an entire planet bears down on them. Billions of people watch their every move, scrutinizing each word.

  “Well,” she says, tapping the screen. “It’s definitely alien.”

  Nolan hides a smile. Brilliant answer. That’s one for the history books. Right up there with one small step.

  An̆duru is ten kilometers long and roughly five kilometers in width, but it’s barely a kilometer thick. From a distance, the craft looks as smooth as a river stone. It would be ideal for skimming over a lake—or a gas giant, for that matter. Zoom in and the leading edge is scarred. Deep gouges stretch up over the body of the massive spacecraft. They’re grooves. It’s as though a carpenter has taken a chisel and carved an intricate series of channels along the vessel.

  “An̆duru is rotating,” Kath says, looking at text messages streaming in from her science team back on Earth. “You can see it catching the sunlight, turning about its longest axis, but it’s at a leisurely pace. JPL has confirmed its rotation matches a sidereal day. So this is really interesting. An̆duru is matching Earth’s rotation and orientation. That’s a deliberate strategy.”

  Nolan wants to ask why, but it feels like a dumb question. He’s pretty sure everyone on Earth is wondering the same thing. He’d love for Kath to elaborate, but she’s busy checking text messages on her tablet.

  Nikki says, “That’s going to make station-keeping interesting. We’ll be able to sit above the craft, but if we want to lower the probe anywhere along the length of An̆duru, we’re going to have to be under power.”

  “Copy that,” Houston replies.

  Iris drifts above An̆duru, approaching from the north as viewed from Earth. Sunlight glistens off the frozen surface, catching a smattering of ice crystals on the dark hull.

  Nolan’s not sure what everyone back on Earth is expecting, but First Contact is laboriously slow. The Orion is floating like a cork on the ocean, being carried along by the ebbs and flows of a gravitational tide. NASA wants to ensure there’s no possibility of the Iris mission being interpreted as hostile. The goal is to drift into place unpowered, following the natural orbital path of objects within the Lagrange point. Patience is important. Nothing is going to happen quickly. At first, Nolan found the tension maddening, but now he’s resigned himself to the dull monotony of waiting. The Orion has been in this configuration for eight hours now. It’s another six hours before they make th
eir closest approach. Perhaps this is what the people of Earth need—to be bored by aliens.

  Slowly, more detail comes into focus.

  “The grooves you can see are caused by ablation,” Kath says. “Each time An̆duru passed through the atmosphere of a planet, its outer shielding gets stripped away. This is similar to the heat shields on our capsules.”

  Kath’s found her An̆duru rhythm. To Nolan, it’s a bit like island time in Hawaii. She’ll go several minutes without saying anything and then drop a gem on the audience. Although it’s subconscious on her part, Nolan thinks it’s perfect. Humanity is manic. Social media has fanned the flames. TV and movies play to our evolutionary twitches. The constantly shifting viewpoint keeps our primate brain hooked. An̆duru has its own pace.

  After what seems like an eternity, Nolan asks a question that’s bugging him.

  “Why aren’t we seeing equipment? Engine bells? Hatches? Windows? Antennas?”

  Kath doesn’t answer. At first, he’s not sure she’s heard him as she doesn’t even acknowledge him. Instead, she continues flicking through messages on her tablet.

  Finally, she says, “I suspect what we’re seeing is their shielding. The craft itself is beneath all that.”

  Nolan doesn’t say anything, but he’s surprised by her comment. He turns, wanting to face her but not being able to. The rim of his helmet and his seatbelt prevent him from shifting around.

  “An̆duru has been in space for hundreds, if not thousands of years,” Kath says. “That’s a long time to be exposed to harsh cosmic radiation. ESA has been analyzing the spectrum coming off An̆duru. They suspect the outer layer is an advanced ceramic resin. It acts like a cocoon, protecting the interior of the vessel.”

  “So no engines?” Nolan asks.

  “No need,” Kath says. “If you can calculate your orbital path with this kind of precision, you only need the initial shove. When we send probes to Mars, it’s akin to a golfer hitting a ball in Los Angeles and sinking a hole-in-one in Scotland. An̆duru takes that further, minimizing its fuel/energy expenditure to maximize its payload. Very clever.”