Proxima Trilogy: Part 1-3: Hard Science Fiction

by Brandon Q Morris

Experts had realized from the very start that a manned flight to a star four light years distant was completely beyond mankind’s technical capabilities, no matter how much money was invested. However, at least a part of the budget which had so surprisingly appeared could be invested in sensible space research within the solar system. For research purposes, spaceships flew all the way to Neptune, and for a while the scientific community was happy.

  Only one man, a Russian billionaire, did not want to accept that a visit to Proxima b would take 200 years or more. Nikolai Shostakovich had made his fortune in IT and spaceflight technology. At first he tried to bring in other private investors, but then he recognized the advantages of independent mission planning: He would not have to deal with ethical concerns raised by his peers, or even governments, against decisions he considered sensible.

  Would they have allowed him to modify Adam and Eve’s genetic material, for one example? But this was the best decision, because they would have to explore a strange world all on their own. Would the world have accepted sending two persons on a voyage with no possibility of return, persons who could not consciously agree to this? It was very unlikely. And would the mission have received an AI like me, one which, or who, originated from a biological consciousness? More than likely not, especially if people ever found out about my existence. That aspect is still puzzling to me—how did I end up on Messenger? I hope the Creator will reveal it to me at some point. I have decided to ignore this issue until then.

  I concentrate on the signals streaming into my mind via the new antenna. There is a crackling noise reminiscent of electrons knocking other electrons from their nuclear shells. Then another image replaces it—thick raindrops pattering on a skylight. I watch them burst, as Francesca lies next to me, sleeping soundly. She has pushed her blanket aside and I can see her breasts. The image is obviously fake—I know I never spent time with her on Earth. I met her aboard a spaceship. We loved each other, but we never slept together under a skylight with rain falling on it. Didn’t I think just a few weeks ago that my memories could not play such tricks on me?

  I look for further clues in the antenna input. A part of these vibrations comes from deep inside the star. I can hear its heartbeat, so to speak, and Proxima Centauri has a strong heart. The star will live a long life because it thriftily uses its limited fuel. Gradually, we should learn how to predict the flares. I will be able to warn Adam and Eve, so they can move to a safe area in time.

  However, I am not surprised that I cannot hear the most important thing: The Signal fell silent half a year before our launch. For several years Proxima b sent the message in an endless loop—“please help us, please help us, please help us.” And then it ended. There was only one possible interpretation for this cessation: There is no one left to transmit the message, or the sender has been destroyed—both of which essentially mean the same thing. For one last time all the experts debated, and then the media returned happily to reporting marriages and deaths instead of strange messages whose true implications no one seemed to understand.

  Nikolai Shostakovich, the Creator, was glad. This meant less attention would be paid to his private project, as well as giving him a good excuse to revive the two-decades-old Starshot project. “Shouldn’t we at least check what happened?” he asked. Everyone could follow this argument. So just like in the 2060s, a giant laser was used to accelerate a fleet of tiny spaceships on a journey, supposedly to send images back to him 25 years later. Shostakovich increased the power of the laser tenfold, hoping to receive faster answers. Mankind never found out that among the 20 miniature spaceships there was a very special model, Messenger. Adam and Eve will explore the first planet outside the solar system without the public on Earth ever knowing anything about them.

  September 5, 1

  Today I measured the first eruption of Proxima Centauri. The star flickered in the x-ray range, though it was barely noticeable. It was a flare of medium strength. According to my calculations, a human being would need a few meters of material with reasonable insulating properties to be protected from the star. Diving to the bottom of a lake, if one exists there, would be totally sufficient, at least for Adam and Eve. In the end, no normal human being will ever set foot on Proxima b. Adam and Eve are both different. Their genetic information has been modified so much that the strong UV and X-rays of their new sun will have less effect on them. The experts in human biology really did everything to prepare the two of them for their mission.

  It will be my task to listen for messages from Earth at predetermined dates. It was clear from the very start that regular communication made little sense. However, there might be important updates. The fact that the antenna dish is aimed in the direction of Proxima Centauri poses no problem. I just have to put Messenger in a spin around its lateral axis. While the spaceship would still be flying straight toward its destination, the focal point of the antenna would move in a circle and briefly point at Earth, which is directly behind us. In order to reach us today, the Creator would have had to combine several large radio antennas over three years ago so they could transmit in the direction of Proxima Centauri. Replies would work the same way, but they are unwanted. This stands to reason, because the public does not know anything about the existence of an active radio transmitter so far out.

  The ether remains quiet, and that is good news.

  However, I am aware of—and afraid of—a very dangerous event awaiting us: the shockwave front.

  In the days after The Signal fell silent, astronomers developed different explanations for this occurrence. The spectrum of Proxima Centauri—which, just like the aliens’ call for help reached Earth at the speed of light—showed little change. This could not have been the main reason for the end of The Signal. What was the event the senders of The Signal had feared so much? Physicists believed it could have spread via a method that mostly used particles slower than the speed of light. These high-energy particles—electrons, and protons, and ions—would reach Earth much later. But since they were radiating into all directions of space, Messenger will sooner or later hit the shockwave front that might have extinguished life on an entire planet. How will Messenger cope with this? The sooner we ride the shockwave the better, as it will be much more intense if we do not encounter it until we are closer to Proxima Centauri.

  September 30, 1

  The incubation chamber informs me it has selected the final embryos. I do not know why, but I am required to confirm the selection. Maybe it has to do with the responsibility I will take on by doing this? I examine the future passengers through the eyes of the incubation chamber. First Eve, then Adam. A three-dimensional microscope image appears in my mind. One cannot tell what they will develop into later, as they only consist of four cells each, but they are absolutely beautiful. I even believe I might be able to distinguish them if I did not know who was in which compartment. But this is probably my imagination, the pride of a father-to-be. Yes, I am really proud of them, though I know they do not carry any of my genes. It does not matter. I will accompany them as long as they need me.

  I save the image, just in case, so I can show it to them at some later date.

  From today onward, Adam and Eve will grow every day, until they are finally mature enough to be born. The two compartments are filled with a liquid that chemically replicates the fluid found in the uterus of a pregnant woman. It would be too risky to let the embryos grow in absolute zero gravity. Therefore, Messenger from now on will simulate a bit of gravity by slowly rotating around its longitudinal axis. For one last time I listen in the direction of Earth. During the coming nine months I must not spin the ship around its lateral axis, because this might disorient the cell colonies developing in the incubation chamber. Earth is quiet, just as I expected.

  While Adam and Eve are growing, I will have to prepare the ship for its new passengers. This will be the most massive remodeling of Messenger so far. Months ago, the matter captured by the tantalum net had been used to greatly increase the ship’s surface ar
ea. The collecting and building continued. Adam and Eve are going to need a room, a place where they can move around safely, and where the ship systems can provide for them. The Creator’s plan calls this room ‘the nursery.’

  November 4, 1

  My two blurry dots in space disappear—the first two ISUs I sent out are gone, unresponsive, as good as dead.

  Something enormous must be approaching us from out of the darkness! I feel my hands start to tremble—even though I no longer have hands—at the moment I notice the ISU signals are gone. In a strange way I have grown fond of these sensor units. They are, somehow, flesh of my flesh. For more than nine months they provided me with an image of the surrounding area and the first glimpses of our destination. That is over now. While the other two ISUs are still out there, I fear they will suffer the same fate. Once the wave reaches us, we will zoom blindly through space for quite a while.

  If we survive, that is, because the complete annihilation of Messenger is still possible. I immediately stop the remodeling work for the nursery. Instead, I order the fabricators to build a shield to protect us from the effects of the wave. There is only one problem: I do not know exactly what to prepare for. The only obvious fact is, this wave had a catastrophic effect on Proxima b, as its looming threat triggered the plea that precipitated our journey. The more this wave spreads—holding a spherical configuration—through space, the weaker it must become, since its components will be distributed in an always-increasing volume.

  Above all, I have to protect the incubation chamber because it contains the most precious cargo. The chamber is in the center, along the ship’s axis, and I concentrate my defensive strategy on it. While I am also indispensable, there is a copy of my consciousness in an almost-indestructible, read-only memory unit, from which I can be reconstructed under practically any circumstances.

  While I am not altogether sure what kind of opponent to expect, there are some useful clues. It cannot be radiation, but this does not mean I should avoid protecting the ship against it. The wave probably consists of charged particles in various sizes. Electrons are the smallest and therefore probably represent the forefront. They would be followed by significantly heavier protons, and then by ions—atoms missing electrons—proceeding at a greater distance. I can only estimate at which intervals these particle waves will arrive.

  If I knew anything about how they were actually created, I could calculate the energy distribution more precisely. But since this is an unknown factor, I have to prepare protective measures across the entire range. The electrons pose the greatest problem, I think, and at the tip of Messenger I construct a massive shield against them. From the outside the shield looks as if it would not let anything or anyone through it, since on the atomic level it consists mostly of nothingness. In reality, the distances between atoms are huge compared to the size of subatomic particles. This is particularly true of the size of electrons, which are almost pinpoint-shaped. Usually, we can shield against electrons rather well, as electromagnetic fields can deflect them. However, those coming toward us might be simply too fast and therefore too energy-rich for our tiny spaceship. The fact that the ISUs failed immediately, and did not survive until after the arrival of protons and ions, seems to indicate this. Therefore the shield growing at the bow of Messenger might only be useful against the second and third part of the shockwave.

  But what can I do against electrons? It would be enough to use a magnetic field to move these charged particles into a slightly different direction. This task would have to be fulfilled by a probe flying slightly ahead of Messenger. It would need to contain superconducting coils generating a strong field. Finally the coldness of space turns out to be useful! I briefly wonder how I suddenly know so much about low-temperature physics. I was a medical doctor, not a physicist, yet the Creator appears to have considerably increased my store of knowledge.

  The question is, how much time do we have left? And I acknowledge the terrible feeling of knowing so little about this danger. Will I have enough time after the electron shower to expand the shield against the heavier particles? When will the wave arrive? And will our magnetic probe be sufficiently strong and far enough ahead to achieve the necessary effect?

  November 23, 1

  One thing becomes clear: The wave is approaching too quickly. Just now, the ISUs that I launched two weeks ago have failed. The sensor unit at starboard at least survived the electrons before being destroyed by the subsequent parts of the wave. Due to its sacrifice, I now know the intensity has decreased, and this offers a glimmer of hope. However, the wave is still strong enough to destroy Messenger.

  Additionally, it is clear that the secondary wave of hard protons will arrive about 24 hours later. This does not offer enough time to remodel Messenger in a meaningful way. Therefore we need to live or die with what we have. This includes a magnetic probe to shield against electrons, but it has so far only moved about 20 meters away from the spaceship. That will not be enough.

  Knowing what now faces us, I feel strangely focused. Almost relieved, just like back when I used the rocket backpack to fly to the crevasse in order to save Francesca. The memory of this event feels warm, even though I picture a world of enormous cold. I wonder what else I could possibly do, but there is nothing left. The fabricators will be improving the shield up to the very last second, stubbornly fighting to increase the survival chance by a few percentage points. They do not know the doubt that has affected me, and they cannot experience fear.

  November 24, 1

  It will begin soon! I can already see the shockwave with all of my sensors. It is a white wall full of energy. In a fascinating way, it is beautiful, while simultaneously violent and destructive. We are definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. A few months from now this wave will be only a pale shadow of itself, but here and now it is death personified.

  I am afraid, but I can handle it. What concerns me most is my enormous fear for Adam and Eve. No matter how little they are, my protégés—my children—were not made for the violent void of space. If I could sacrifice myself to save them, I would do so immediately. But my sacrifice would be in vain.

  The wave’s first impacts are like tiny raindrops falling from a blueish-black sky, in those moments shortly before a storm when the wind suddenly fades. If I still had a human body, I would hold on to something now. I know this is completely useless anyway—this is no tsunami. It will crash against us without a sound. Messenger will not rock back and forth. From outside, the enormous amount of energy will not even be visible. I can only see the burning sky-fire through my sensors, which reach into areas inaccessible to humans. I calculate our chance of surviving this wave to be 38 percent, and that estimate applies only to the electron wave.

  I am searching for a glimmer of hope. I believe that every situation contains some hope, something to hold on to. In this case it has to be the shield, and the fabricators have performed well. If we survive the electrons, the chance of making it through the remaining partial waves is three in four. That is very high. Unfortunately, 0.38 * 0.75 is less than 0.11100111000111000111000XXIIGR...

  It appears to be starting—cells in my main memory are being hit. I will soon become non-functional. Messenger will be on its own. A hot shower hits the ship, penetrates it, breaks chemical bonds, and turns atoms into ions. It feels as if my sensors are burning, as if my entire body is on fire. I have to close my eyes. Just for one sec—

  November 25, 1

  Adam and Eve are dead.

  The first message I receive after being reactivated seems to be surrounded by a black veil. Can an incubation chamber experience grief and pity, or is this just a projection on my part? There is no time for mourning now. How is the ship doing? I check all the damage logs and learn that the structure of Messenger is generally undamaged. However, all sensors are blind, so we are flying through space with eyes closed. But this can be remedied. As long as the nanofabricators are serviceable, they can recreate any component.

  First of a
ll I launch new ISUs. We have to see what is waiting for us.

  Then I take care of the grieving incubation chamber. It is correct—Adam and Eve show no signs of life. For a moment my human past gets to me: I think they deserve a proper burial, but I know this would be irresponsible. We need the materials they are made of, and we have already lost several months. The incubation chamber needs to create new embryos as soon as possible, without having to collect the necessary material first.

  This will only work, though, if the reserve tardigrades are still alive. I check the supply of these seemingly lifeless barrel-shaped creatures and feel a sense of relief. They really are a robust species, and now the theory they might have arrived on Earth via space does not seem that far-fetched anymore. I order the incubation chamber to initiate everything. This time there will be no time for months of experiments, though. The first embryos it creates will have to be the best ones.

  Only now do I find time to grieve. I have failed. I could not save my protégés. Couldn’t I have launched the first ISUs a few weeks earlier? I know these self-accusations are unfair, but I cannot simply ignore them. I call up the photo I saved showing the four-celled embryos. I will not be able to fulfill my promise and show it to them someday. The incubation chamber has not yet removed their remains. I also commit this image to memory. Not to take a look would seem wrong to me, egotistical, almost a betrayal. The dead embryos, now four weeks old, are no longer just clumps of cells. One can clearly see that they were going to turn into living creatures. And with a lot of imagination I can already see little humans, their arms and legs, their big eyes.