Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel

by Michael D. O'Brien

  Thus, obeying instructions from the administration, I flew at the appointed time from America to the great northern desert in Africa, and after the rather lengthy three-hour flight, we began our descent to the airstrip of what I presumed was the ship’s base station. We came in from the west, and because the station was nestled in the hollow of hills I was not afforded a view of the Kosmos itself, which I thought must be in the desert beyond. Viewed from the air, the administrative complex looked to be a small city of white, single-story structures spreading horizontally throughout the valley. It was not on any map that I knew of, despite its considerable population, more than ten thousand people, none of whom were visible at the moment, since they would be hiding in the shade to escape the blaze of the sun. The pilot cut the jets as he switched to hover power over the tarmac, and then descended vertically. When we touched down, he taxied the Tesla off the end of the strip and into an underground hangar. This proved to be a cavernous expanse of concrete, the largest man-made structure I had ever seen. It was filled with hundreds of parked jets, much like an autopark in more cosmopolitan settings.

  A disembarkation tube clamped itself onto the door, which opened in an instant, permitting me and my fellow passengers a graceful exit. At the end of the tube, each of us was welcomed by an official escort, one per person. Mine was an efficient young woman with digital identibadge embedded on the breast of her uniform, a smile on her face, and a script that she recited by rote, albeit employing my name, position, and honorifics with admirable ease, as if we were long acquainted. Then she led me along a hallway, the ceiling illuminated by an unknown source, the piped air refreshingly cool. My cowboy boots clomped arrhythmically on the floor of shining white marble, while her stiletto heels clicked rhythmically beside me as she made polite chat.

  Arriving at the main reception area, I was delivered to the initial security screening and passed through without too many problems. Eyebrows were raised over the compact survival kit clipped to my belt, containing my old fold-knife and other small items. I explained that it was a medical device for the pedicare of crippled feet. They hesitated, then waved me through the scanner. I was lucky. And my status helped, as well as the pathetically exaggerated limp I had produced for the occasion.

  My flight was not the only one that would arrive today, and I knew there would be hundreds of specialists on the Kosmos, not counting service personnel. The ship could accommodate a thousand, I guessed, judging by the dimensions outlined in the information package. However, to sustain such a large number of people for nineteen years without the aid of supplementary resources would make for certain restrictions.

  We Americans, along with a contingent of Koreans and Brits who had just arrived, were guided to a platform and into a rapid transit tube. We sat down on the plush seats, gazing out the windows at blank white walls, and when the doors hissed closed, we were propelled through the heart of the hills. Five minutes later, the machine stopped, and we stepped out onto a platform that appeared to be the lobby of a grand hotel. It was indeed a hotel, though one with a very selective guest list. Like all other buildings I had seen so far, it had only a single story above ground. I was to learn that there were eight more, below ground. A distinctive quality of this edifice was that one whole side was open to natural light, built on the slope of a hill facing north, away from the sun.

  My room was scented with a vaguely oriental perfume, the soft carpet was subtly colored, and the furniture lean in design but luxuriously upholstered. The bed looked like something you shouldn’t lie down on because you would never want to get up again. Framed artwork had cosmic themes: Hubble-8 galaxy photos, the new station on Mars, and an imaginative depiction of the planets of Alpha Centauri. The latter image appeared to be hand-painted, though I expect it was machine made. When I drew back the curtains to see what lay beyond, I had my first sight of the ship. There in the desert, about a mile away, she rested on her cradle. She was immense and very beautiful.

  At first I just looked, amazed, shaking my head. Stunned, actually. The photos and diagrams I had seen had not imparted her three-dimensionality—not even my home holoscreen had conveyed the impact of her substantiality. Neither had the media images captured the sweetness of her ovoid form, like one of those beautiful white stones one finds on beaches in diverse places of the world, the kind you hold in the hand, not wanting to let it go. You always take it home with you. Always. Beauty is radiant wholeness, balance, harmony. The ship was a perfect manifestation of these. It was also the apotheosis of latent power. A week from now, the power would be unleashed.

  *

  Days of briefing followed, lectures from department heads, giving us a sense of the complexity of the expedition as well as delineations of responsibility. There will be flight staff and scientific staff for the voyage itself, and another set of scientific staff for investigation of the planet. Also some tagalongs, such as myself and a few famous names. I haven’t yet met everyone.

  The hand-out sheets we received at one briefing tell us that the warm bodies are divided into the following categories:

  Ship’s flight crew (total 60): captain and subsidiary ranks, navigation people, communications, liaison staff for the following categories.

  Service staff (total 200): food, cleaning, laundry, mundane troubleshooting, all of which is grouped under the title “Maintenance” (our basic needs).

  Scientific staff for voyage (total 171): subcategories as follows: botanists (8); physicians (12); nurses and paramedics (18); pharmacists (8); astronomers of various kinds (10); atmosphere controllers and recyclers (16); atomic fusion engineers (12); technicians assisting the aforementioned (6); anti-matter gurus / overseers (8); computer fail-safe watchmen (8); odd and sundry experts in extremely obscure fields (17). Add to the above categories the following social sciences: psychologists / counselors (16); psychiatrists (4); sociologists (8); community facilitators, a.k.a. social engineers (20).

  Scientific staff for destination planet (total 238): There is some overlap with voyage scientists, because certain people will be working during the voyage and also working on the planet. I’ve subtracted these duplicates to arrive at the following figures for those who will work exclusively at on-ground exploration: botanists (20); zoologists (20); biologists (22); chemists (13); geologists (26); land transport staff (18); pilots for the four ship-to-ground shuttles (8); physicians (4); data analysts (12); astronomers (4); anthropologists (7); archaeologists (16); linguistic geniuses (10); assistants to the aforementioned (10); military support technologists, a.k.a. security and protection from aliens (48).

  Tagalong (total 8): Nobel prize scientists (5); aging trillionaires who contributed money to the project (2); nephew of the current Federation president (1). Stowaways (uncertain).

  And there we have it. The Kosmos will bear a known 677 people from our home planet to planet Alpha Centauri A-7, our closest neighbor in the galaxy, just next door, a mere 4.37 light-years away. (See attached list, names, and positions of all personnel.)

  *

  Well, here we are at last. Theory metamorphosed into solid fact. I recall the day I stood before a microphone in the concert hall in Stockholm, to deliver my acceptance speech of a Nobel Prize for Physics. It was, in fact, my second Nobel Prize, a distinction that has rarely occurred in the history of the Foundation. My previous award had been shared with another physicist, but this one was for me alone, specifically for my work in the dynamics of anti-matter enhancement and catalyzed fusion power. It was all on paper, but interstellar flight was now no longer unthinkable. The “mechanics” were within the range of human capacity, and I had mapped it out. I was forty-seven years old at the time.

  I remember clearing my throat, adjusting my eye glasses, and shuffling my papers as the audience waited. I paused, feeling the ache in my ankle, recalling for a moment my vulnerable humanity. Throughout most of my life, I had lived with it and not given it much thought, regretting only that I had cut too deep with the knife and severed things that sho
uld never be severed—tendons, nerve connections. Perhaps the wound had also saved my life. Then, for no reason whatsoever, none at least that I might have articulated for the attending king, the scientists, and other dignitaries, I saw myself as a small boy dancing in the desert, yearning upward, and ringing a bell.

  *

  The “hotel” contained a facsimile floor of the ship, with sample rooms, our new homes. We were encouraged to familiarize ourselves with all the amenities in them, but I refrained from doing so, since I wanted to be surprised. However, I learned at a briefing session that there would be one cabin per person. Claustrophobia in a sealed container, no matter how large the container, could wreak havoc on the mission. People need both public and private space, indoors and outdoors. I picked up through conversations in the hotel restaurant that the rooms are small but comfortable, like ocean-liner cabins for second-class passengers. I wondered if everyone would go second class.

  *

  This evening, all the voyageurs were instructed to attend a “special” briefing session held in the conference hall. Gathered together as one body, we were first informed of something we already knew and had been reminded of during the previous year: Unmanned probes had been sent out to the mystery planet, which is usual with space exploration. They had been launched eight years ago, at the time when the Kosmos was well along in its construction. However, we were now told, almost as an afterthought, that they and subsequent unmanned probes would not arrive at the planet ahead of us. They had not been powered by the advanced propulsion system that would drive the Kosmos. They were, in a word, slow.

  There was a good deal of rumbling in the audience when we heard this, because we had presumed (with blind trust) that the authorities had done things properly. We had assumed they already knew a great deal about the planet. As it turns out, they know nothing much at all, only that it is situated in the HZ—the habitable zone “likely to be hospitable to life”. Earth’s best instruments confirmed that it was certainly there, orbiting around AC-A, and gave a general idea of its size and behavior as a satellite to its sun, but little more than that. Readings of the light coming from the planet give early indications of a significant spectrum “edge”, which theorists believe may be a biosignature in its atmosphere (if there is an atmosphere). Of course, theorists abound and are not infrequently proven wrong, scientists though they be.

  We now understood that the images we had thought were high-resolution telescope photos, which we had pored over so thirstily, were computer-enhanced pixel clots and artists’ renditions. The facts, in fact, were conjectures. The announcement was hastily followed by a torrent of highly technical data, stirring speeches, psychological manipulation, and no real explanation. There was much emphasis on the delights of being surprised. As I listened, I fumed quietly to myself and thought that nineteen years of one’s life was a lot to invest in a surprise that might turn out to be a dead rock or, alternatively, a fulfillment of the worst fantasies produced by the entertainment industry. I realized, as well, that my own excitement over the cosmic quest had dulled my scientific instincts, my healthy skepticism, my habitual need to know more before making a big leap. I too had relished the element of surprise.

  With only a few days remaining until the launch, people can still back out, but I doubt that anyone will do so. Our anger smolders into vague disgruntlement, fading out under the lure of adventure, the feeling that regardless of our blindness we are still pioneers of a kind unprecedented in the history of mankind. I must admit that this is also the case with me. What do I have to lose?

  Nevertheless, my suspicious nature has analyzed the situation downward and backward through the layers of propaganda. I may never know the truth of the matter, but I think what happened is this: The political situation on Earth is getting darker and messier than it has been for the past century of relative calm. Controlled, imposed serenity will take you only so far, considering the volatile nature of human beings. Global authorities need this expedition, since it is just the kind of marvel that will pull the eyes of mankind away from our troubles. The length of the round-trip journey is ideally suited, politically and socially, to give our rulers enough time—nineteen years onboard relativity time, longer by Earth measure—in which to tighten the lid on the steaming pressure cooker.

  I would add to this another factor. Apparently, the two trillionaires are in their eighties. And that means they will probably not live long enough, or remain in sufficient control of their mental faculties, to derive any pleasure from the project. My guess is that they threatened to withdraw their funding if the voyage was delayed beyond their lifetimes.

  After giving the situation some thought, I feel sure that if the authorities had been forthright from the beginning I still would have agreed to be part of the expedition. It’s the manipulation that really irritates me.

  I should also mention that little bags of psyche candy were tossed into the audience. Skeptical at first, then masterfully flattered, then hooked, most of us extended our sweaty palms toward our global caregivers. Among the treats they offered was the announcement that there will be no internal surveillance during the expedition. It took some moments for this to register in the hundreds of brains present in the audience. Then for the faces to change from blank to puzzled. Lack of surveillance was unthinkable.

  Here is a sample of the flattering explanation: “You are the most intelligent and responsible scientists in the world, and thus from the moment of departure until your return to planet Earth, there will be no need for social infrastructure security measures.”

  *

  Tempting as it is, I will refrain from sarcasm. To be perpetually observed is as basic to the natural order as breathing without thinking about it, or in more alert moments, to feeling the wind on one’s cheek. It is simply background. One strains to imagine that there was a time in mankind’s history when the worst sort of surveillance you might suffer from was a bad-tempered neighbor peeking through the curtains of his house in order to keep tabs on your comings and goings, as fuel for gossip. But we of a later age have been born into the culture of omnipresent inspection by invisible authority. All lives are examined lives.

  I think it unlikely that during the voyage we will be entirely without the presence of the pests I like to call “botflies” and “tapeworms”. Mankind is not supposed to know about these instruments of the State. The former, like the botfly larva, burrows deep into walls and lives on the flesh of one’s privacy, so to speak. I regularly repaint the interior walls of my home with a latex magnetic mixture that confuses signals. The tapeworms are another matter. They look like semitransparent insects, about one inch long. They fly around your home. They fly around everywhere as a matter of fact. Several years ago, when I first noticed them and learned that they are impossible to catch by hand or by manual fly-swatter, I quietly—very quietly—invented a little solar-generated gismo that I keep on my back porch, exposed to the elements. It looks exactly like a twirly weather vane. It is not a weather vane. It’s a killer of bio-electronic parasites. Some mornings I find the porch littered with their corpses.

  They have dwindled in number recently, sometimes disappearing for a week at a time, but always followed by an infestation. I once examined a sample under a microscope. The thing is simplicity at its most brilliant: nanotechnology, of course, with strands of larger carbon fiber. It’s a flexible semi-opaque tube, looking disturbingly like a tapeworm, but with bulbous head, eyes, and gossamer wings. Its organs are microcircuits powered by photosynthesis; its head is a vidcam nodule; the thorax is the transmitter. There’s no inkling about where the transmissions go or who monitors them. How on earth anyone could keep track of the millions (perhaps billions) of images sent in to their home base, I can’t begin to guess. Maybe they have a computer-filtering system to catch troublesome behavior profiles and flag audio words.

  I suppose there must be countless tapeworm casualties on any given day throughout the world, as they are swallowed by birds or smashed during t
hunderstorms, etc. On the other hand, maybe there aren’t many of them after all, and only a few are sent out to keep an eye on problematic individuals. So far, no human beings have paid me a surprise visit in order to find out why there are so many casualties around my place. I designed my little swat machine with—how shall I put it?—with astute integration of engineering and visual aesthetics. I am very, very clever. I should say, rather, that I try to learn from my mistakes.

  *

  The night before we were to board the ship, there was a farewell banquet in the hotel’s grand ballroom. I was placed at the head table with thirty other dignitaries, including a number of heads of state, nabobs, and potentates. My reputation was but one of numerous entities exhaustively displayed, filmed, and photographed. I declined to give an interview. Thankfully, I had not been asked to deliver a speech for this historic moment. Others did this quite ably. There were many speeches. Wine flowed, tears flowed. Later, a band swelled with its overtures, and a dance began. At that point, I went back to my hotel room for a well-earned rest.

  The next morning a rapid transit train—a soundless floater—took us all out into the desert. On the way there, I discovered that the ship was five miles away, which confirmed that the Kosmos was larger than the biggest ocean liner ever built. According to specs, she is 1.0 kilometer long, 0.25 kilometer wide at midriff, and 60 meters high. As we approached her, I saw that there were no windows, no angles, no external protuberances; she was as smooth as an ivory egg. The hull’s metal was not, strictly speaking, a metal. It was a new alloy of some kind. The ship sat snugly in its nest, the latter a monumental gridwork of spars composed of another kind of super-hard alloy, extending a few meters beyond both ends of the Kosmos. It was hard to tell which was the bow and which was the stern because the craft was perfectly symmetrical, without defining features.