by Allen Steele
Galactique’s final module, Nathan 5, was still being assembled in Northern California. It contained two major segments: the ninety-foot landing craft that would transport the newborn infants to the planet surface, where they would be raised by what were affectionately being called “nannybots” until they were old enough to fend for themselves, and the biopods that would precede them, aeroshells containing first the bioengineered “genesis plants” capable of transforming Gliese 667C-e into a human-habitable planet and then later the fledgling flora and fauna that would populate the new world.
Next to the vessel itself, this was probably the most challenging aspect of the project, one that was pushing human technology to its furthest limits. It was hoped, though, that the Galactique Project would bootstrap a new era of space exploration. Aside from brief missions to Mars and the Moon and small-scale efforts to mine near-Earth asteroids, humankind was still largely confined to its native planet. The foundation believed that Galactique would demonstrate the viability of beamships and thus prompt private industry to use the project’s beamer to send manned missions to the outer planets.
In any case, Matt liked visiting this place and often stole time from writing press releases or making travel arrangements for visiting journalists to view Nathan 3 being prepared for its journey. But it wasn’t just his growing interest in Galactique that brought him to the gallery. It was also being able to watch Chandi at work. Her outfit should have made her indistinguishable from the rest of her group, but nonetheless, he could always tell who she was; she seemed to move just a little differently from her colleagues. And although she acknowledged his presence with only a brief wave, that small gesture was enough.
They’d see each other in the evenings after dinner when the launch team would get together on the patio for drinks and perhaps a joint or two. By then, Matt had become better acquainted with some of the other people working on the project. They’d come to accept him as a nonscientist who had his own role to play, and he made an effort to keep his skepticism to himself in order to assure their friendship.
Yet one evening, something slipped out of his mouth that he hadn’t meant to say. And that got him in trouble with Chandi.
Matt was sitting at a poolside table with her and a couple of other team members: Graham Royce and his husband, Rich Collins, both of them British space engineers who specialized in beam propulsion systems. The three men were sharing an after-dinner joint—Chandi didn’t smoke but politely tolerated those who did—and watching the crescent moon come up over the palms. By then, Nathan 3 was on the launchpad, with countdown scheduled to commence in just four days. The Brits were relaxed, knowing that their job was done for a little while; they wouldn’t have to go back to work again until Nathan 3 was docked with Nathan 2 and the orbital assembly would attach the sail’s rigging to the service module.
“You’re hoping on a lot, aren’t you?” Matt asked, passing the joint to Rich. “I mean, the way I understand it, the beamer has to fire constantly for … what is it, two and a half years?”
“Pretty much, yes,” Rich said.
“Nine hundred and twenty days.” Graham was the older of the two—although with retrotherapy, it was hard to guess his true age—and had a tendency to be annoyingly precise.
“Whatever. So for two and half years, the sail has to catch a microwave sent from Earth even as it’s moving farther and farther away. Meanwhile, the ship’s moving faster and faster—”
“Acceleration rate is 1.9 meters per second, squared.”
“—until the ship is about half a light-year from Earth.” Graham took a brief drag from the joint and gave it to his mate. “By then, it’ll be well out of the solar system and traveling half the speed of light, so we can turn off the beamer and let the ship coast on its own. Any course adjustments will be accomplished by the onboard AI using maneuvering thrusters. When it reaches Gliese 667C-e—”
“Eos.” Chandi smiled. “I think everyone’s pretty much settled on that name.”
“Until the International Astronomical Union approves,” Graham said, “it’s officially Gliese 667C-e.”
Rich coughed out the hit he’d just taken. “You’re such a prick, you know that?” Graham smirked, and Rich went on, “So what’s your question—or did I miss something?” His eyes narrowed in stoned confusion.
“Well,” Matt said, “it’s just that it seems like you’re counting on everything going exactly the way you’ve planned. The beam not getting interrupted or missing the sail entirely—”
“That’s why the sail is so bloody big,” Rich replied. “The beam spreads as it travels outward, so the sail has to be large enough to receive it.”
“But if something punches through it, like a meteorite or—”
“Meteoroid,” Graham said. “It’s not a meteorite until it passes through Earth’s atmosphere. The sail is large enough it can take a few punch-throughs without losing efficiency.”
“The reason the beamer is being located in L-4 orbit is to minimize the number of occasions the beam will be interrupted by Earth’s sidereal orbit around the sun.” Rich handed the joint back to Matt. “Everything is being automatically controlled by synchronized computers aboard both the beamer and Galactique, so there’s little chance of the beam getting lost.”
“But you’re still putting everything on faith.” The joint was little larger than a thumbnail by then, and Matt had to gently pluck it from Rich’s fingers. “I mean, it’s almost like religion for you guys.”
No one said anything. Although it was a warm evening, it seemed as if the temperature had suddenly dropped a few degrees.
“Is that what this seems like to you?” Chandi asked after a moment. “Religion?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” Matt carefully put the joint to his lips, inhaled what was left of it. “I used to call it the Church of Galactique when my mom and dad were talking about it.”
“Oh, bollocks.” Graham shook his head in disgust. “No wonder they tossed you out of the house.”
Matt glared at him. “I left on my own. They didn’t—”
“There’s a difference between religion and faith,” Chandi said. “Religion means you’ve accepted a set of beliefs even if those beliefs would appear to be irrational to anyone who doesn’t buy into them. Faith means you’ve chosen to accept something that you’ve given yourself the chance to question. It might still be something greater than you, or even God if you decide to go that way, but it’s not irrational. So, yes, we’re operating on faith, but it’s faith in something we’ve done ourselves, not divine providence.”
Matt was already regretting what he’d said. Especially since he’d spoken while under the influence of Ile Sombre marijuana. “But at some point, it’s still something that’s no longer under your control. Once Galactique gets away from here, by the time you hear about anything going wrong, there won’t be much you can do about it.” He grinned. “Doesn’t make much difference if it’s not God. You’re still praying to a machine, right?”
“Oh, Holy Galactique, please render thy blessings—” Rich began, and then he shut up when he caught Chandi scowling at him. “Sorry.”
“That’s why we’re working so hard to make sure everything aboard checks out while we’ve got a chance to lay our hands on it.” Chandi was no longer looking at Rich; her dark eyes were angry as they fastened on Matt. “And that’s not just a machine I’m working on. It’s a vessel carrying what will one day be a human colony—my descendents included.”
“Yours?”
“Yes. Mine.” Chandi continued to stare at him. “I’ve donated my eggs too. So far as I’m concerned, I’m sending my children to Eos. So I’m doing everything I can to make sure they arrive safely, and I’m placing faith in my efforts and everyone else’s that they will. So, no, this isn’t religion to me, and I’ll thank you to keep your bullshit analysis to yourself.”
An uncomfortable silence. Rich broke it by clearing his throat again. “I could use some ice cream. Anyone car
e to—”
“Love to.” Chandi stood up from her chair, crooked her elbow so that he could take it. “Lead the way.”
Matt watched as Rich gallantly escorted her across the patio, heading for the dining room where desserts were customarily laid out at the end of the meal. He might have been jealous if he didn’t know Rich was gay, but nonetheless, he disliked seeing her being taken away by another man.
“You rather stepped in it there, didn’t you?” Graham idly folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Word to the wise, lad—never accuse a scientist of practicing religion with his or her work.”
“I’ll make it up to her.”
“Sure you will. May I suggest how?”
“I’ll apologize. Maybe some roses too.”
“Apologies would be proper, yes, although I doubt you’ll find a florist in Ste. Genevieve. Besides, I was thinking of something a bit more … um, symbolic, shall we say?”
“Such as?”
Graham smiled. “Donate a sperm sample.”
Matt stared at him. “You gotta be kidding. Do you know what that sounds like?”
“I know what it would sound like if it was anyone else but her. In Chandi’s case, though, it would mean that you’re willing to believe in the same things she does … that you’ll take the same leap of faith she has.”
“That’s too weird for—”
“Just an idea.” Graham shrugged. “Think it over.”
7
Graham’s suggestion was strange, and Matt might have disregarded it as the sort of thing someone might have said while buzzed. Yet he remembered it the next morning, and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. There was a poetic sort of appeal to the idea of donating sperm to the mission; as Graham said, it would mean that Matt had come around to Chandi’s way of thinking to the point that he was willing to send his genetic material on the same journey. Together with an apology, it might go far to heal the wound he’d made.
Yet when he went to his father and told him what he wanted to do, Ben turned him down. “Sorry, son,” he said, “but your seat’s already taken by your grandparents.”
“What?”
Ben Skinner stood up from his desk and walked over to the coffeemaker. “Grandpa and Grandma were two of the very first people to donate sperm and egg specimens to the mission, way back when the Arkwright Foundation was getting started. In fact, I think they did it right after they got engaged. You know the story about the Legion of Tomorrow, don’t you?”
“That’s the club my great-great-grandfather belonged to, isn’t it? The one with all the science fiction writers?”
“Umm … sort of.” His father poured another cup of coffee for himself and then held up the carafe and raised an eyebrow, silently asking Matt if he’d like coffee too. Matt shook his head, and Ben went on, “There were only four people in the Legion, and just two of them were writers, both of them your great-great-grandfathers. We named you after Grandpa Harry’s pseudonym, in fact.”
“I know, but what does this have to do with—”
“Because your grandfather and your grandmother both made donations, their genomes are already represented in Galactique’s gene pool. They’re carrying the seed, so to speak, for three members of the Legion—Nathan Arkwright, Margaret Krough, and Harry Skinner. If any of their descendents were to also donate egg or sperm specimens, this would introduce an element of uncertainty to the colony. What if your descendents met and fell in love with your grandmother’s descendents, and they decided to have kids?”
“I don’t see how that would … oh. You’re talking about inbreeding.”
“Right. They wouldn’t even know it, but they’d be effectively marrying within the family, and that would cause all sorts of problems in a small founding population.” His father walked over to a bookcase, pulled out a thick binder, and held it up. “This is our record of everyone who has made donations. We’ve spent many, many hours making sure no one who did is directly related to anyone else. Your mother was allowed to make a donation because she doesn’t belong to our bloodline, but I wasn’t, as much as I’d love to. So I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
“Oh, well; it was just a thought.” Matt tried to hide his disappointment with a shrug.
“Nice to see that you’ve taken an interest in this, though.” Ben returned the notebook to the bookcase. “May I ask why?”
Matt was reluctant to explain his reasons. He was afraid his father would have found them childish. “Never mind. Just something I thought I’d like to do.”
“Yes, well…” His father sighed as he went back to his desk. “Believe me, I wish I could help you, but the EFI system is going to be dicey enough as it is. I’m a little afraid of how things are going to work out once Galactique reaches Eos and it gets a closer look at the lay of the land. The genetic alterations that may have to be made…”
His voice trailed off, but not before Matt’s curiosity was raised. “What sort of alterations?”
Ben said nothing for a moment. Standing behind his desk, he turned to gaze at the launchpad. “It’s not something we’re really talking about in public—we’ve had enough trouble with the fundamentalists already—but it’s possible that the specimens may have to be genetically altered in the preembryonic stage to suit the planetary environment. Gliese 667C is an M-class red dwarf, smaller and cooler than our sun, while Eos itself is about one-third larger than Earth, with an estimated surface gravity about half again higher. We know that it probably has a carbon dioxide atmosphere with traces of water vapor, but even after Galactique drops the biopods and the place becomes habitable, in all likelihood, any humans we put there will have to be changed in some very basic ways in order to survive.”
“What sort of ways?”
“The AI will make that determination once it surveys the planet. We’ve supplied it with the necessary parameters and given it some options we believe are suitable, but—” His father paused. “Well, what comes out of the EFI cells will be probably different from what most people normally think of as human beings.”
Matt felt a chill. He tried to imagine the sort of people his father described but could only come up with a race of deformed children, shambling and monstrous. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. Remaking humans, I mean.”
“Really?” His father turned to give him an inquisitive look. “What do you think you’d see if you went back in time—say, four million years—and met your earliest ancestors, the australopithecines who were living in northern Africa? They didn’t look very much like us, either. And they’d probably be shocked by us too. But evolution changed them. They adapted to their environment. That’s much what we’d be doing here … just a lot faster, that’s all.”
Matt didn’t know what to say to this. He was still searching for a reply when his father sat down again. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me. Like I said, thanks for the offer, but—”
“Sure, okay. No problem.” Suddenly, Matt wondered if it had been such a great idea, after all.
8
As it turned out, his notion didn’t make much difference, anyway. The next time Matt saw her, Chandi had apparently forgotten all about their quarrel—either that or she’d simply decided to put it behind her. In any case, she was friendly toward him again as if nothing had ever happened. He decided that it wasn’t worth mentioning to her that he’d tried to donate sperm to the mission, and so nothing was ever said again about the disagreement they’d had.
Nathan 3 lifted off on schedule, a flawless launch that carried the Kubera and its payload away from Ile Sombre and into the black and airless ocean that Galactique would soon sail. This time, Matt watched the liftoff from inside the dome; he sat with his mother and the journalists they were hosting, but when the rocket cleared the tower and rose into the deep blue sky, he looked over to where Chandi was seated. Their eyes met, and she smiled as if she, too, were remembering the previous launch and the moment they’d share
d. He realized then how much he missed sitting with her.
He saw her again at the postlaunch party that night, and this time he was able to keep up with the poolside conversation among the launch team members. Matt decided not smoke pot at the party—after all, it was marijuana that had caused so much trouble last time—and he nursed the one beer he had, and she seemed to appreciate that because she remained at his side most of the evening. In the warmth of a moonlit tropical night, she couldn’t have looked lovelier. Matt was sorely tempted to whisper in her ear and ask if she’d like to come back to his room with him, but he held back. He didn’t want to risk offending her again … and deep inside, he’d come to realize that he wanted more from her than just a one-night stand.
More journalists had traveled to Ile Sombre for the Nathan 3 launch. Now that Galactique wasn’t just a single module in geosynchronous orbit, the press was paying more attention to the project. The half-finished vessel was large enough to become a naked-eye object in the night sky, and Jill asked Matt to send a press release to the news media, telling them how to inform the public where and how to look for it. Before long, even those who’d paid little attention to the project became aware that a starship was being built above Earth, and suddenly Galactique became an object of interest to even those who didn’t care much about space.
Not all the attention was welcome. Until then, the protesters from the New American Congregation who’d camped outside the Ile Sombre Space Launch Center had numbered no more than a half dozen or so, but when he came to work in the morning, Matt began noticing more tents, more signs, more people. He didn’t know if they all belonged to the church or if some were opposed to the project for other reasons, yet technicians flying in from the States reported meeting protesters at the airport, and the ongoing demonstration outside the space center became increasingly aggressive, with angry shouts greeting launch team members as they approached the front gate. The foundation hired more security guards, but when some of the protesters began showing up at the Hotel Au Soleil to harass team members when they came home from work, private cops had to be posted there, as well.