by Wil McCarthy
Miguel(3):V/T 3310.5 m/s2 337 ge
ever seen or heard of. Insane, crushing acceleration.
“Work with me,” he called out to Lahler. “Plot the trajectory. This maneuver serves a purpose of some kind. Find it!”
The image of the thing-captain appeared on the holie before him. “Mr. Barta, I trust you are monitoring this phenomenon?”
Miguel(1):Object 34 has begun to accelerate.
Miguel(2):Object 39 has begun to accelerate.
Miguel(*):Stop. Let me know if any member of the primary group doesn't accelerate.
“On it, ma'am,” he said to the holie.
“Good.”
The thing-captain's image vanished again.
Lahler:Thrust vector, though variant, remains between 170 and 180 degrees from hyperbolic departure asymptote. The maneuver will slow the objects down.
“Acknowledged,” Miguel said aloud. “So they won't fire off into empty space. They have business here, still.”
“Business with us?”
“Hmm.” Miguel scratched his chin. “I doubt it.
Miguel(1): = 12 = 0.662 (nondimensional)
Miguel(2):Tel = ToTnow *T = 1209.4 s
time dilation is down to sixty percent and dropping rapidly, but from their point of view we only discovered them about twenty minutes ago. I don't know if they've detected us or not, but whatever they plan to do, I think they planned it long before we came around.”
“I hope we don't get in their way!”
He nodded. “Me too.”
Miguel(1):Angle between thrust vectors and departure asymptotes continues to drop.
Miguel(*):Lahler?
Lahler:Integrating. It looks to me like a circularization burn.
Miguel(*):Time to completion? Radius and velocity of final orbit?
Miguel(1):Tcirc = 43826.1 s
Miguel(2):Rcirc = 2.7335E+07 m
Miguel(3):Vcirc = 6.9869E+06 m/s = .0233 C
Lahler:In that orbit, time dilation will have dropped to 0.14%. They will have returned to normal spacetime.
“Acknowledged,” Miguel said. Then, “Huh. Still very close to the hypermass. Why don't they come all the way out? They spend extra energy in order to not come all the way out.”
“Could it have something to do with the other group?” Lahler asked.
Miguel nodded sharply. “Yeah. Yeah, probably.”
Behind and beneath the fourteen emerging ellipsiods, there rose a second group; slower objects, and smaller, still egg-shaped but longer and thinner than the ones ahead of them. Eight of the smaller objects. Eight. They would emerge into normal spacetime in another day or so, and at hyperbolic velocity.
Unless they maneuvered, too.
“Look at the two groups,” he said. “Trace out the trajectories. It looks almost like a dance.”
“Yes, kind of,” Beth Lahler agreed.
Miguel signaled for the captain. Almost without delay, her thing-face appeared once again on the holie.
“Chelsea.”
“Captain.” Miguel returned her blank, inhuman gaze. “The outer object group has initiated a circularization burn which we estimate will finish in approximately 12 hours. The resulting orbit lies fairly close to Malsato, well within the gas halo, though out of the major spacetime distortions.
“The, uh, inner object group continues along its original hyperbola.”
Some mechanical thing twitched on the thing-captain's face. “I see. I see. You've spent a lot of time inventing threats in your mind, Mr. Barta. Invent one for me now: what do you make of this?”
He shook his head. “Not a direct threat to us, Captain, at least if we stay out of their way. Even if the objects have detected us, they haven't had time to do much about it. Right now, I think they're running through some program of their own.”
Offering calm words to the captain. So their roles had reversed, at least temporarily.
But Chelsea said, “Staying out of the way is precisely what I do not intend. We have found active artifacts of an alien intelligence, and that hardly seems like a time to hide ourselves away, yes? What would our superiors say? How would history judge us, if we let this moment just... slip us by?”
Miguel's innards went cold. “What exactly do you intend?”
“Why, to bring us in closer,” Chelsea said, her thing-face still ticking mechanistically. “To beam a prime number signal at them over as much of the spectrum as we can manage. To make contact, Mr. Barta, as detailed in Operations Manual Five, Appendix C.”
Make contact? Down there, in the maelstrom of white dwarf matter spiraling into the hypermass like water running down a drain? Oh, Lordy, Miguel had not signed on for this. An archaeological mission, a fucking passenger mission, that was what his contract had said, and neither that document nor Chelsea's precious OPM5/AC, nor any other piece of Solar Commercial literature known to Miguel, had mentioned anything about flying deliberately into the fires of Hell.
“Feed your trajectory data through to the helm, and keep me apprised of any changes.”
Miguel said nothing. Tech Aid Lahler, frozen in the chair beside him, said nothing. The sounds of the ship, the humming of air vents and fluid transfer pipes, seemed awfully loud.
“Courage, crewmates,” the captain said gently. “We have to do this. I'll inform the rest of the crew.”
Her image winked out.
~~~
“Gravity gradient at 0.003 gee per meter and climbing,” Miguel reported in a tone that could not disguise his alarm.
Introspectia had eased in slowly toward the black hole, toward the waiting ellipsoids, for the past several hours. But in the past few minutes, the ship's orbital velocity had increased sharply, to over 1% of the speed of light. Relativistic orbital velocity! The idea of it frightened him.
The period of Introspectia's orbit had shrunk, too, from the eight weeks of their original Lacigo/Malsato park orbit, to three-hour swoops through the swirling gases around Malsato. Then one hour, then half an hour. At least, as they got in closer to the black hole, the gases cooled, being much farther from their parent in both time and space. Lifeblood chilled down from the star's infernal body temperature. And scattered, strewn. Less dense than the near-vanished atmosphere of Earth's moon, but charged (and still very hot) so that it emitted a diffuse glow.
Dynamic pressures on the hull no greater than in a low planetary orbit, usually. But Introspectia shuddered sometimes as it passed through a pocket of higher density. At other times, Miguel fancied he could hear the wind whistling by outside the hull.
Now, they swung round the collapsar once every two and a half minutes, on an orbit only half a million kilometers in circumference. Twice the altitude of a terrestrial communications satellite, and yet moving a thousand times as fast!
Still, the gravity gradient bothered him most of all. At 0.003 gee per meter (no, 0.004!), it had begun to tip the potted palm trees over, to spill things off tables, creating dozens of little messes for the homunculi to clean up. Begun, also, to change the angle of the internal centrifuge gimbals as “down” ceased to fall completely perpendicular to Introspectia's long axis. At the low and high sides of the ship, perceived gravity jumped by 10%, and fell again as the 'fuges rotated away from the invisible line connecting them with the hypermass.
It made him a little queasy.
No, more than queasy! If Introspectia lost attitude control, even for a short time, its long axis would swing around to face Malsato, creating a gravity differential of nearly 0.1 gee across the length of the ship. Enough to play hell with the centrifuge gimbals, enough to place serious loads on a structure designed for weightlessness.
“Beth!” he called out, raising his voice against sounds that were mainly imaginary. “This gradient worries me. Can the ship withstand an 0.1 gee gravity differential on its long axis?”
Pause. “Yes it can.” Pause. “It can hold a sustained differential of 0.4 gee, and limited transients up to about two gee
. Estimates, of course.”
“Of course,” he said. “Let's hope we never find out the truth.”
The potted palm fell over again, spilling dirt and leaf fragments on the brocade carpet. A panel slid open in the wall, and, chuttering with mixed delight and annoyance, a homunculus leaped out to deal with the mess.
“Just take it away!” Lahler snapped at the little creature. “We don't need that in here anyway!”
“Relax,” Miguel said, as the homunculus scurried to obey her. “Pay attention.”
“Apologies.”
“Forgotten. Now hang on a second.”
Miguel(*):Gravity gradient at ellipsoid park orbit? Equivalent gravity differential across length of Introspectia?
Miguel(1):g/R 0.13 s-2
g 3.9 ge
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I thought that. Lordy, we can't do this.”
“Miguel?”
He signaled the thing-captain.
She appeared.
“Chelsea.” Her voice quicker, more anxious than usual. “Just a moment, please.”
“Captain, I recommend we stop the descent. Gravity gradient at 27 thousand kilometers will induce serious loads on our centrifuges, and if the ship somehow gets pointed down toward Malsato—”
“Busy right now,” Lin thing-Chelsea said. “Just a moment, please.”
Then, something changed in her manner. In her posture, perhaps, or in the inhuman jumble of linkware that formed her thing-face. “Yes? Centrifuges? We can shut those off. In fact, we probably should.”
Miguel tried again. “Captain, we consider temporary disablement of the attitude control system a class one failure scenario, yes? Moderate probability, adjust all plans accordingly?”
“Yes, Mr. Barta,” the thing-captain said. “Your point?”
“We have no problem as long as we stay above, uh
Miguel(1):3.4E+07 m
thirty-four thousand kilometers, but the ellipsoids will probably top out at only twenty-four thousand. We could survive at that radius if we stayed pointed along our orbit, but in the event of an attitude control failure, our long axis would pitch down toward the hypermass. The resulting tensile forces would pull the ship in two.”
A pause. The thing-face somehow managed to look angry. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”
“I've warned you about environmental hazards from the beginning. The details of this particular one have only just become clear. Under pressure here, ma'am, we can't stay on top of everything.”
“Nonetheless, I expect you to try!”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Chelsea sighed. “My apologies, Mr. Barta. We have experienced problems with attitude control. Multiple causes, we believe—we haven't finished looking into it yet. Fortunately, your information has arrived... in time.”
Miguel cleared his throat. “Captain, can I ask you the exact purpose of this descent? What, precisely, do you hope to accomplish?”
The thing-captain made an angry noise, and leaned, suddenly, closer to the screen. “Do you mean to question my judgment, Tech Chief?”
“Huh? Oh, no ma'am. I simply wonder if a landing craft could accomplish the job.”
The captain paused, then nodded. “I understand. The... objects have not responded to our prime number signals, and we can't tell what that means. The handbook recommends establishing unassisted visual contact, and I concur with it on that point. This means we have to get a lot closer. Would the landers survive the gravity at twenty-four thousand meters?”
Miguel(1):Working
Miguel(2):Working
“A moment please, Captain,” he said. “Um... Yes. With a little margin, even. It... might take a while getting in and out, though. Underpowered.”
She nodded again. “I see. I'll have a lander outfitted with science instruments right away. Were you volunteering to go along?”
A spear of ice rammed suddenly through Miguel's guts, as he realized just what the captain was asking. Into the heart of the fire, into the teeth of the dragon?
“Um,” he said. No! Absolutely not! “Sure, okay.”
“You seem a little hesitant.”
“Well, I've... never done this before. Who else would accompany me?”
Certainly not you, Captain Lin Chelsea. Regulation conveniently prohibits you from leaving the ship unless it is docked. But Lord, don't send me down there alone.
Beth Lahler rose from her chair, yanking the link harness from her head and leaning over the holie screen. “I volunteer, Captain.”
Miguel turned. “Beth! No, the danger—”
“Stuff it. I don't want you going down there alone.”
Barely visible beneath linkware, lips curled upward exposing teeth, and for the second time, Miguel saw the thing-captain smile just like a real human being.
“Ah,” she said. “Tech Aid Lahler, isn't it? I find your dedication admirable. Do you feel certain about this?”
“Yes, Captain,” Lahler snorted, clearly miffed by the question.
The icicle in Miguel's guts began to move in slow circles, stirring, churning...
The thing-captain nodded politely. “Then I gratefully accept your offer. And yours, Mr. Barta. I shall do my best to find you a pilot.”
The thing-face vanished once more from the holie screen.
No hurry about that, Miguel thought at her, loudly.
He turned again to Beth Lahler, and frowned at her. “What do you mean by all that? I don't want you down there!”
She glared. “Has my work fallen below your standards, Tech Chief?”
“You know what I mean, Beth. You know exactly what I mean.”
“Relax,” she said, in the same tone he always used to tell her the same thing.
At that point, he realized she really did mean to go along, and that he couldn't stop her from doing it. Angrily, he turned away, and jammed his mind back into the link harness. He would damn well go over the threats again, and again, and again before they left!
~~~
“Lock yourselves in, people,” First Mate Peng called back over his shoulder. A small man, and quick, with narrow and restless eyes. Peng had volunteered to pilot this tiny lander, on this risky and quite ill-advised expedition. Miguel had met him for the first time only five minutes before, as the two of them had knocked heads trying to climb through the hatch simultaneously. Beth had then collided with both of them, and nervous laughter and introductions had ensued.
For the moment a mere tenth of a gee pressed Miguel back into his seat. Not a lot, but then none of it came from thrust or centripetal acceleration. Pure gravity gradient, and too much of it! Against his recommendation, Chelsea had ordered Introspectia into an elliptical orbit whose periapsis lay all the way down at thirty-four thousand kilometers. Reluctantly, he had agreed with her about the “safety” of the maneuver—very low probability of catastrophe. If attitude control died and the ship went nose-down, and then main propulsion somehow also died, the ship would suffer tensile oscillations, peaking at a two-gee differential every forty-five seconds as it swung through the lowest point on its orbit.
Even then, it would take hours for the structure to fail. A reasonable risk, in the captain's opinion.
The advantage, of course, lay in that same gravity differential: release the landing vehicle from its moorings near Introspectia's forward end, and it would “fall” thousands of kilometers closer to the hypermass. Firing the motors then at periapsis would circularize them, saving hours of slow and costly descent.
“Acknowledged,” Miguel said, reeling his harness straps out and buckling them in a star pattern across his chest. In light of where they were going, it seemed a laughable precaution. But he would wear it, nonetheless!
“Acknowledged,” said Beth Lahler beside him. The harness seemed to give her a bit of trouble before she had it latched and snug around her.
Miguel flashed her an urgent look. “You don't have to do this. Please, there's still time to back out.”
/> Lahler made no reply, but seemed to find something fascinating about her harness buckle.
“Beth, come on. I don't want to do this, and I especially don't want us both to do it. One of us should stay on the ship.”
She looked at him. “Why don't you get out, then? It should frighten me, I know, and it does frighten me. But I want to go. I want to meet the aliens.”
Peng looked over his shoulder again. His eyes glittered with mischief, with excitement, with a sort of calm, channeled fear that Miguel had rarely seen. “Courage, crewmates. Prepare for rotation. Captain Chelsea?”
“Yes?” The captain's voice rose up from a holie panel somewhere in front of the First Mate.
Peng smiled at Beth and Miguel, paused for a long moment. “Let her go, Captain. Any time you're ready.”
“Acknowledged, First Mate. Good luck to you all.”
Miguel's stomach quivered, then lurched as Introspectia, all three hundred meters of it, disengaged its attitude control thrusters and began to pitch downward. Miguel did not perceive rotation as such, but as they swung down into the gravity gradient he felt himself grow heavier in his seat. And heavier, and heavier still. Too much gradient! Too deep in the grip of the hypermass! Soon, he squashed the seat padding beneath him with the weight of a full gee.
Then his weight declined again, and held, and grew once more as Introspectia swung back and forth through the nose-down position. Gravity gradient produces a stabilizing torque, he thought. Greatest force when the alignment is vertical. Indeed, the oscillations damped out rapidly, and Introspectia's control thrusters kicked back on to finish the job. In moments, his perceived gravity had stopped fluctuating.
