The Beacon: Hard Science Fiction

by Brandon Q Morris

  He chose Los Ranchos Gun Shop. The store had the best reviews on the net. It was still a mistake, though, because they didn’t open until 11 a.m. Peter steered the rental car back onto the four-lane 4th Street. It was only 13 minutes to Old Town if he took the slightly longer route via Rio Grande Boulevard. When he saw a river drawn on the navigation screen, he made a small detour. He crossed the Rio Grande River, which carried lots of clay-tinted brown water. At the next available crossing, he turned around.

  The old town of Albuquerque was worth seeing. Small cafés and tourist stores invited you to visit. He let himself drift for an hour and a half, and by then he had seen everything. In the meantime, the Los Ranchos Gun Shop had also opened. The selection was huge. Everything was available, from pistols to rapid-fire rifles. On one wall hung an advertisement for ‘Henry.’ He knew the name from Karl May’s books.

  When it was his turn, the first thing the dealer asked him was for his driver’s license, probably standard procedure for anyone seeking to buy a gun.

  “Forgotten at home, sorry,” he said.

  Maybe the man wouldn’t take the law so seriously. But the dealer, who in his leather shirt resembled a cowboy, just laughed.

  “Happens to me all the time, too,” he said. “But I can’t sell you anything until you show it to me.”

  “Too bad. There’s nothing to be done at all? Um, price-wise, I mean?”

  Peter spoke quietly so that the other customers didn’t overhear.

  “Not a chance. I can’t afford to have my license revoked.”

  “I see. Thanks anyway.”

  “Sure. Thanks for thinking of the Los Ranchos Gun Shop.”

  Peter left the store. Just outside the door, another customer stopped him. He wore a holster with a shiny chrome gun on his belt.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Every other Saturday, there’s a gun show here. The private sellers there ask few questions.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It was Wednesday, and he flew on Friday. He couldn’t wait until Saturday.

  He had imagined buying guns in the States would be easier. Apparently gun laws in the States were tougher than he’d been led to believe. He’d found neighborhoods where shady characters lurked on street corners, but he couldn’t just go up to a guy like that and ask him if he had any weapons to offer. What if he was just waiting to take his wallet, or, an undercover police officer?

  The gun show would have been an alternative. He had been told the same thing by a dealer in another store where he had been the only customer. Despite the privacy, the salesman had not wanted to sell him anything. Peter imagined what it would be like in the space glider. No one would expect a hijacking. He wouldn’t dare to fire the gun in space, anyway. Wouldn’t it be enough to wave a plastic model around? If one of the passengers overpowered him, he had lost anyway.

  Peter headed for a large sporting goods store. The store was huge and had everything he could imagine, from fishing accessories to athletic shoes to sailing gear. Con you sail in the New Mexico desert? No matter.

  The martial arts section had what he was looking for: Rubber replicas of weapons meant for hazard-free training. He put a rubber gun in his shopping cart. It appeared almost genuine, was about as heavy as a real gun, and cost just under $5 plus tax.

  April 2, 2026 – Spaceport America

  This section of Interstate 25, through the dry semi-desert of New Mexico, was a truly boring stretch of road. After a good hour, Peter stopped for the first time since exiting the freeway. The town of Socorro, in the county of the same name, consisted mostly of shanties and one-story bungalows. He parked in front of a bakery, bought a six-pack of chocolate donuts, and devoured two. The sugar shock woke him up faster than the coffee he’d bought to go with them.

  The next stop was Truth or Consequences, where he had to turn off the interstate. He’d have added a stop here just because of the town’s curious name. In 1950, the little New Mexico town of Hot Springs officially changed its name when the popular radio program, ‘Truth or Consequences,’ offered to broadcast its 10th-anniversary show from the first town to rename itself to match the show’s title.

  The road became narrower now, and the desert even drier. Further to the east lay the U.S. Army’s White Sands Missile Range.

  Then the UFO appeared. It seemed to have landed in the middle of nowhere. Virgin Galactic must have found it and converted it into the reception building of its ‘Spaceport America.’ Perhaps the modern building made of glass and steel had been moved here from the future...

  Peter drove into a parking space. Despite daily launches, it was rare for more than 50 visitors to find their way here on any given day. No wonder it was so empty.

  The interior of the UFO was reminiscent of a modern airport. And, it was, except that the destination was beyond Earth’s atmosphere. At the reception desk, his data was already on record.

  “You still have an hour,” said the young man behind the counter. “Would you like me to organize someone to show you around a bit?”

  Peter shook his head. He preferred to have peace and quiet for a little while longer.

  The briefing took place in a classroom that could have been straight out of his high school. Nine other passengers had spread out on the benches. Among them he saw a group of three women who were using it to celebrate a bachelorette party, a retired couple in an infectiously good mood, two smartly dressed men in their 30s who behaved like a couple, and two other men, apparently traveling separately, whom he’d seen saying goodbye to their wives outside. Those two had sat down at a table for a moment, looking at him as they did so. It might have been meant as an invitation, but Peter was not interested.

  Next to the projection screen at the front of the classroom, a door opened. A young woman stepped through—shoulder-length black curly hair, taller than himself, and clearly well-trained.

  “I’m glad you’re all here,” she said. Her English came with an accent that could be Italian or Spanish. “I am Francesca Rossi, your pilot. We will share an adventure today and tomorrow. To make sure everything goes safely, I ask you to listen carefully today.”

  What a coincidence! Francesca. That sounds a lot like Franziska. The pilot cast a reproachful glance at the three bachelorettes, who immediately stopped whispering.

  “Briefly, about me: I trained as a fighter pilot in my native Italy. After that, I applied to the ESA to become an astronaut. But after my training, there was no mission for me for the foreseeable future. That’s why I applied to Virgin Galactic and will now launch into space with you and the beautiful VSS Astra. This will be my 99th flight, so I have developed a settled routine. That’s good for you, because then I can focus all the better on your needs.”

  Did that also apply to a detour into another orbit? Of course he didn’t vocalize the thought.

  “Are there any questions so far?”

  No one raised a hand.

  “Okay, let’s start with a little introduction to our spacecraft and the carrier aircraft. The VMS Eve, our mother ship, will take us to an altitude of 15 kilometers before we start our own engine. I’m sure you know, because you booked it, that the VSS Astra is the first member of the Virgin fleet powerful enough for a complete Earth orbit.”

  Peter’s hand shot up. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Please.”

  “How many orbits could the Astra perform?”

  “Quite a few. More than we can ever attempt, because after three days we would run out of oxygen. But, by then—at the latest—someone should have rescued us. I’ll be getting to the emergency procedures shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Peter said.

  “I recommend the Parasol Golden Ale today,” said the waiter, who looked like a member of a rock band, his knees bouncing to the beat of inaudible music as he awaited Peter’s order.

  “Sure. And the bratwurst.”

  “Wonderful,
sir. I’ll pass that along to the food-truck people.”

  This small-town brewery only did brewing, no cooking, but at the back of the building was a red truck that prepared and sold food you could order to go with your beer. Peter stretched, leaning back as best he could on the bar stool. He was not used to being a student anymore. Francesca—she’d put them on first-name basis—might be a good pilot, but she was less gifted as a teacher. He could tell she’d rather be in the cockpit than in the classroom.

  But he was now well-informed about all the risks and side effects. It had been made clear that Virgin envisioned purely passive roles for the passengers. They were allowed to look at the Earth from every angle, take selfies, and buckle up again when the seatbelt signs lit up.

  This time, however, it would be different. It had to be. But he alone knew how different!

  “A Parasol, please!”

  He recognized that accent. Peter turned around, and there was Francesca. The waiter greeted her with kisses on both cheeks, making it clear she was a regular here. She went to the bar to buy her drink, and only after she sat down did she look in Peter’s direction.

  Francesca hesitated briefly. She was apparently uncomfortable, and he could sympathize. After all, she was off work, but knew the German was likely to approach her. The bartender brought his beer and set it in front of him. Peter raised it in a silent toast to Francesca. She nodded in acknowledgement. He could imagine how she was feeling. After all, he was a customer, and even though she was off duty, it would be rude of her to ignore him.

  “A Parasol Golden Ale?” she asked.

  Peter nodded.

  “I drink that too, whenever they have it available.”

  “So you come here often?” asked Peter.

  “An Italian in a beer bar... does that surprise you? I was in Germany for a fairly long time during astronaut training, in Cologne, so I got used to drinking beer.”

  He took a sip, then another. Something was missing—not enough hops for his liking.

  “Pretty good,” he said.

  If it was Francesca’s favorite beer, he’d better stifle the criticism.

  “I like it because it’s not too hoppy,” she said. “You’re not going back to El Paso or Albuquerque?”

  Francesca didn’t strike the buddy-like tone she’d used at the Spaceport, so he responded in kind.

  “No, I found Truth or Consequences more interesting.”

  “Most of our passengers prefer to stay overnight in a bigger city.”

  “What about you? I would have thought you lived in the Spaceport.”

  “That would be terrible. No, I have a small bungalow here. I’m quite happy to have my peace and quiet after work.”

  “I see. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. How did you get on board with us in the first place? You don’t seem like the typical space tourist. I mean, you have to be able to afford it, first. Sorry—please don’t take this the wrong way.”

  “That’s alright. I sold my mother’s house to pay for it.”

  “She died? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s been a while. Don’t worry.”

  “And then why go to space of all places? For the money, you could have traveled around the world. Five times. In first class. Excuse me—for some odd reason, I have the financial questions in mind today. You don’t have to answer.”

  “No problem. I’m a teacher, math and physics, and an amateur astronomer.”

  “So that’s where the connection to space comes from. Then I don’t have to explain that this flight doesn’t bring us much closer to the stars and planets. There really are people who expect to see Mars as a sphere up there. Or even the stars.”

  “No, I don’t expect anything like that.”

  He paused. Peter wondered if he could talk to her about his true motives. Francesca was the pilot, and tomorrow he would see her for the last time in his life. It didn’t matter if she thought he was a lunatic. And he’d acted normal enough today that she wouldn’t report him yet for his weird ideas.

  “Strictly speaking, I booked the flight because of a pretty serious problem that I hope to solve while we’re up there.”

  “Interesting. What’s it about?”

  “It’s a long story. Do you really want to hear it?”

  “You have as much time as it takes for me to drink two beers. After that, I have to go to bed. You’ll need a well-rested pilot tomorrow.”

  Francesca had just ordered her third beer when he finished his saga about the satellite alignment problems.

  “So since yesterday, the beacon has been losing altitude?” asked Francesca.

  “Yes. You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “You’re not exactly normal, that’s for sure. You have to be crazy to put all your eggs in one basket like you did. I’m just wondering how you’re expecting to solve the problem...?”

  I’m sure she already suspects it, even though she hasn’t said it.

  “I want to try to hijack the space glider.”

  Francesca laughed heartily. “With that rubber gun in your luggage? I was in the military long enough to recognize such an obvious fake.”

  “How do you know what’s in my luggage?”

  “The bags are all x-rayed, along with the vehicles as they drive onto the Spaceport site. At the guard house as well! The guard probably thought you were training with it.”

  “That probably wouldn’t have worked then,” he said.

  “And you would have gone to jail for a few years, Peter, even with a fake. Everything that happens in that cabin is recorded. I would have knocked you out and strapped you down in your seat.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we talked about it.”

  “But the solar system is going to be destroyed—”

  “—if I’m right. Unfortunately, my evidence is pretty thin. The main problem is that there is no physical process whatsoever that could just ‘blow out’ a star without leaving a trace.”

  “That which cannot be, must not be.”

  “Well...”

  “I could help you.”

  “What? That would be great. You believe me?”

  “I didn’t say that. I don’t know if your theory is correct. But if it is correct, no matter how small the odds, the consequences would be deadly. So I’m inclined to take the low .”

  “Low risk?”

  “I am the pilot. I don’t have to hijack the VSS Astra to change its orbit. Suppose the radar were to report an obstacle... some possible space debris. Then, of course I would have to take evasive action.”

  “But it’s all being recorded.”

  “Well, there are sometimes radar echoes that are not quite attributable. It’s the pilot’s responsibility to react to them. If I judge whatever is causing those echoes to be a danger, that applies. Course corrections take time, so I have to be able to work with incomplete data sometimes. Better safe than sorry—that applies here a hundred and ten percent.”

  “One hundred percent. Please don’t say one hundred and ten. I can’t take that. I’m a math teacher.”

  Francesca laughed. “You really are crazy. Here I am offering to save the world, and you’re holding on to ten percentage points.”

  “Sorry. Will you help me anyway?”

  “Of course. I like your craziness. It’s worth the risk to me. You don’t have to get out of the VSS Astra on the way to fix your beacon, do you?”

  “No. It’s enough for me to get close enough to it to reset the deorbiting device.”

  “This is done by radio?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How close do we have to get?”

  “As close as we can. I will compress the commands so that a few seconds will be enough.”

  “Good. Then we need a separate radio. The on-board radio records everything, and that could fall into the hands of someone who has no business knowing about this.”

  “Crap. Where am I going to get a radio by tomorrow
morning?”

  “You let me worry about that. I need two things from you: the target’s orbit, and the signals to be sent.”

  Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out the USB stick onto which he’d recorded the data while he was on the plane. “Here,” he said.

  “Oh, so quickly—you’re prepared.” Francesca took the stick from him. “What’s all on here?”

  “A command sequence to disable the DEO, and a new signal to broadcast the beacon.”

  “A new signal?”

  “I told you that the transmissions coming from the other stars could be translated as poems.”

  “I didn’t fully understand that.”

  “Okay—not important. But, considering that, I don’t think our solar system should give out a boring signal. That’s why I encoded a poem into the data structures.”

  “How romantic.”

  Hmm... No one ever, in all his life, had called him romantic. But in this case, Francesca was right.

  April 3, 2026 – VSS Astra

  When Peter looked out the right window, he saw an airplane a few meters away. If he leaned to the other side, he noticed a white fuselage with portholes like those of the VSS Astra there, too. What he saw was the double hull of the mother ship, the VMS Eve. It was a catamaran of the skies, and where a marine catamaran’s sail would rise into the air, the space glider in which they would fly into space hung from an ingenious structure.

  Virgin Galactic had been using this principle to turn tourists into astronauts for some time now. At first, they’d only surpassed the 100-kilometer line, where space officially began. But the market had changed. Today’s customers wanted to circumnavigate the Earth at least once. That required more time and a more powerful spacecraft. The VSS Astra was the first of its kind, but the operator was already having two sister ships built.

  “Sorry, it’s time for me to get on with launch preparations,” Francesca said.