The Tau Ceti Diversion

by Chris McMahon

  “Give me the revival sequence for the officers.”

  Janzen and himself were first by priority, beyond that the order was randomly generated.

  “Janzen and Andrai, Mara and Ibri, Evelle and Gemma.”

  He let out a long breath.

  With a hand gesture, he swept the virtual interface away.

  He had an hour before Janzen and Andrai revived. He tapped his knuckle on the console as he thought of his ex-wife Evelle, and Gemma, most at risk in the revival process.

  Ryal was down the central axis at the main fusion plant. That was top priority for him when roused by a shift override.

  Karic tapped the comband on his wrist. “Ryal?”

  Ryal’s thin face with its close-cropped reddish hair appeared on the screen of Karic’s comband, the bulkheads of the fusion plant behind him. Ryal listened calmly as Karic outlined the situation.

  “That explains the system failures,” said Ryal.

  “I want you back here. This could be bad,” said Karic.

  Ryal’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed. Karic recognized the dour look, and knew that whatever Ryal was thinking, there would be no arguing him out of it. “I can’t see any other option but to take the fusion drive back to standby. If we lose control of that while it’s delivering thrust …” He did not need to finish the sentence. The whole ship would become a hydrogen bomb.

  It was suddenly hard to breathe. “How long?”

  “At least two hours. Maybe more,” said Ryal.

  “OK. Get cracking,” said Karic. “I’ll check out the biodome, then get down there to help.” The systems in the biodome filtered and recycled their air, and were critical to the crew’s long-term survival. When it came to biological systems, there was no substitute for the human eye.

  “Acknowledged.” The comband’s square screen faded to dull gray. For a moment, he saw his own faded reflection there in miniature, his deep brown eyes fierce and determined beneath dark brows, cheekbones prominent on an otherwise well-proportioned face framed with wavy brown hair.

  Karic started to rise from the chair when he realized he had not watched the last duty log, the routine video record left by the last two officers on shift. He been too distracted by the damage to the ship and the threat posed by the radiation. The report was three months old, but even so, it was important he reviewed it — any piece of information may prove vital. Karic swiveled the command chair to face the wall screens. The last two officers on shift had been Mara and Commander Janzen, both now in stasis.

  “Shipcom. Play last shift log.”

  The screen brightened and he saw the smooth, handsome face of Commander Janzen.

  “Good morning, Karic,” said Janzen, smiling to reveal a row of perfect, white teeth. He was wearing his trademark odin — optical data-interface glasses — the left pane opaque. “I’m always pleased to see you on-shift.

  “The efficiencies have been a little low on the main drive train. You might want to pay some attention to the energy-use factors. I don’t have to tell you how expensive those fuel pellets are.” Janzen’s eyes flicked to the left and went out of focus as he switched his gaze to the odin’s tiny screen. “Mmnn. Andrai did report some deterioration in the outer structure, but — yes. That looks minor.”

  At a whispered command the odin contracted to a narrow yellow band below Janzen’s carefully shaped eyebrows. He looked back to the camera, seeming to meet Karic’s eyes. “Well. Mara has uploaded a more detailed update. Have a good shift. Next time I see you, we will be orbiting Tau Ceti.” Janzen’s voice was deep and rich, but there was no disguising his hunger for success. His family had financed the mission, hoping to find a habitable world and cash in on the immense profits of the colonization trade. The sort of world they were hoping to find orbiting Tau Ceti.

  The commander ran a hand through his short blond hair in an unconscious gesture. “Maybe we can have that tennis rematch?”

  Back on Earth he and Janzen had been keen players. Karic and Evelle had been invited into the elite circles of Janzen’s family, the Davises, on two occasions, playing social doubles on a world-class court set into the immaculately landscaped grounds of their Long Island mansion. He and Janzen had even had the odd cyber-match in the habitat’s recreation room while they completed their mission at Epsilon Eridani, but the pace of work had soon left little time. The keen disappointment of their first mission had also affected them all. The indications of a promising world in the habitable zone around Epsilon Eridani — as seen from Earth — had led to a Mars-sized moon orbiting a gas dwarf. A tortured world squeezed by tidal forces and bathed in radiation.

  “Commander Janzen, out.”

  The screen darkened for a moment, then an image of Mara flared to life above him. In the recording, Mara was standing at the main console, her dark hair pulled back into a business-like bun, her slim, attractive face tight with tension, her dark brown eyes intent. Always detached and efficient — on the surface. It had been only at the end of their brief but intense affair that Karic saw firsthand the emotional intensity that boiled inside her.

  “Morning, Karic,” said Mara. It was convention to greet people at the beginning of their shift as though it was morning. “Everything seems to be pretty much under control here at the moment.” Three months ago. “The only thing I’m a bit worried about is radiation. Up until now I’ve had all the sensors configured to get as much data on the planets around Tau Ceti as possible. I detected an intense X-ray burst from the direction of the star. We didn’t have our sensors aligned to monitor it, so I can’t tell for sure whether Tau Ceti was the point of origin.” Their efforts had been particularly focused on a big planet orbiting Tau Ceti at 0.55 AU — a favorable orbit for life — which showed signs of both oxygen and water. Another, orbiting at 1.35 AU, which was even bigger, was also on the edge of the habitable zone.

  Mara’s forehead wrinkled. “I can’t determine the cause of the X-rays,” she said. For that moment, she had forgotten he would be watching her.

  A memory of Mara, laying beneath him, her eyes unfocussed in ecstasy, fled through his mind, leaving a trail of longing in its wake.

  “That sort of star shouldn’t be producing anything remotely like this,” continued Mara. “I am hoping that it’s coming from a singular celestial event, way out beyond the system, and that the worst is past. But, if the source is in the vicinity, this could just be the beginning of a sustained burst. Anyway, I have aligned some of our sensors on Tau Ceti to gather data. Just keep an eye on it for me, will you? Wake me if it’s anything critical.” She clenched her jaw tightly and she leant forward. The video feed cut.

  So there were signs of X-rays, even three months ago.

  A redoubled sense of urgency propelled Karic out of the command chair and across to the hatchway. He touched the faceted diamond of the release sensor on the wall, which was lit with sharp highlights of red and amber that would still be visible through smoke and fume in an emergency. Such a simple piece of equipment, yet somehow smooth and reassuring beneath his thumb. The hatch shot open with the soft hiss of the broken seal and a muted thud as it hit its stops inside the wall. At least that still works. It shut automatically behind him with a dull thump. Outside, he followed a narrow corridor that ran down the length of the habitat section to the biodome. To his left and right, he passed the crew’s day areas, laboratories, and workrooms, now out of sight behind closed hatchways. His breath came faster. The crew were helpless in stasis. If the worst came to pass, those spaces would remain as empty and silent as a mausoleum.

  Here, as for all areas of the ship, the floors were covered with the ubiquitous gray polymer coating. Tough and durable, it deadened the sound of his footfalls, giving slightly under his weight, and helped to dampen vibration. It was functional and well-designed, yet it always brought up images of the overcrowded urban towers of Earth, and the gray, composite polymers used there for durability and resistance to vandalism and graffiti. As though even in t
his tiny capsule of human life the stark inequalities of Earth clung to them.

  The walls and ceiling were lined with molded white plastic glowpanels, now softly lit. The crew’s bunks and stasis chambers were in the low-g sections of the habitat, above his head and closer to the axis. The upside-down layout of a rotating habitat had seemed strange at first, but was now second nature. It was only the centrifugal force throwing his weight against the inside of the hull that gave the illusion of gravity.

  Despite the danger they were in, he felt the visceral thrill of being here, on the first Terran starship. Based on reports that had reached them at Epsilon Eridani, nine interstellar craft had left Earth after them — some heading for systems that were not even considered likely candidates in 2157 when the Starburst set out, but had become hot targets based on new observations. The possibility of being upstaged by these newcomers made no difference to Karic. The Starburst was the first. Her voyage was a realization of his own lifelong dream.

  Karic had been against the diversion to Tau Ceti. Within ten lightyears of Epsilon Eridani there were more than eight systems that looked just as promising. In just a few days of personal time, with each of the crew taking their turn out of suspension to monitor the ship, enough real-time would have elapsed for Earth’s gigantic orbital telescopes to provide them with a much more thoroughly analyzed target system. A system with much lower inherent risk — and greater chance of success.

  “The race is still on,” Janzen had argued. “We may have been the first to leave Earth, but we have the oldest tech. If we want to be the first to find signs of alien life — or a habitable planet — we cannot wait for Earth’s astronomers.” Karic still remembered the warmth of Janzen’s hand on his shoulder, and looking up into his handsome face, framed — as always — by his stylish odin glasses. “This is our chance, Karic. We are at the frontier. We have to take the gamble.”

  In the end, there was nothing Karic could say to alter what was, in fact, a command decision. Even if it had not been so, it would be hard not to have been swayed by Janzen’s optimistic certainty. I guess when you were the son of the legendary Zin Davis, and heir to the immense Davis fortune, you had plenty to smile about. Not that Karic begrudged him his wealth — far from it. If not for Janzen and the backing of his company ExploreCorp, the Starburst would never have left Earth orbit.

  That there had been no more news from Earth was even more worrying. The tight-beam from Earth had gone out of alignment at Epsilon Eridani, shortly before their diversion to Tau Ceti. The Earth orbital station should have been able to correct the transmission based on the Starburst’s return broadcast, but there was still nothing.

  Now they were facing their first major challenge. An unknown and deadly threat. He and Janzen would have to work together with the whole crew to deal with this crisis. At least he could rely on Janzen. The imposing commander respected Karic’s expertise. They had worked hand-in-glove since the beginning of the project — when Starburst was nothing more than a dream. Janzen ironing out any snags in the finances and delivery of resources, Karic leading the design team and unraveling the technical problems as they arose. Both of them shared a vision and drive for space exploration that had overcome all obstacles to get them here. Their falling out over the diversion to Tau Ceti marked their only disagreement of the voyage.

  At the end of the habitat section, the molded panels that lined the walls were in poor condition. Large sections were discolored, having disintegrated to a bone-white powder that dusted the floor. Three panels had failed to darkness, standing like rotten teeth against the creamy brightness of their neighbors. The results of the exterior scan showed the rear skin of the ship had taken damage, yet to see it like this also inside the ship was deeply disturbing.

  Still, it was not possible to halt the attrition of decades. Even in a vacuum-sealed storage locker, the blue officer’s stripes down the arms and legs of his uniform had faded almost to the blue-gray color of the jacket and pants. Only the sub-commander’s bar still gleamed silver above the ExploreCorp logo on the left side of his jacket.

  Karic thumbed the hatch release and entered the humid atmosphere of the biodome, blinking in the intense light. The specially designed glowpanels on the ceiling flooded the space with daylight ambience. He took a deep breath, imbibing the organic richness of the air like a tonic. A gardener robot bustled past, intent on some duty. The biodome took up the whole rear section of the outer level of the habitat. There were few true windows on Starburst, because of the structural problems and shielding issues. Instead, the rear wall of the biodome was lined with screens that could display the exterior starscape, giving a pleasant illusion. They remained dark now.

  He set off on a circuit of the dome, studying the vegetation as he went. It was uplifting to be here, with sight of the walls obscured by the plant growth, the illusion of an Earthbound garden only ruined by the glowpanels above his head. He was amazed at the growth, but then, it had been more than three years since his last shift. Not all the signs were good. Here and there amongst the rows, plants had died. He had soon circled the whole floor to arrive back where he started. Then he walked to the rear of the dome where the control stations were located. He came across a robot methodically cutting and removing a dead tree. Karic knelt down and gathered a handful of soil. It looked rich and dark, and yet he wondered how many of the carefully selected bacterial cultures it had been seeded with remained alive. Evelle, who was biosystems officer, would have her work cut out for her.

  He let the earth fall through his fingers.

  Karic checked the logs and found that activity had increased dramatically over the past few months as the dome’s AI struggled to replace those plants killed by radiation and keep the system running. Seed stock was low and three gardener robots had taken themselves offline in the past year.

  Karic shut down the console. There was nothing more he could do. He had to get down to the axis of the ship and help Ryal.

  Karic looked up whimsically at the darkened screens across the back wall. He would take just a moment, a brief pause to take a breath after all the tension of the last hours.

  “Shipcom. Activate biodome screens.”

  One by one, the big screens that lined the rear wall flared to life.

  “Exterior feed.”

  The Shipcom fed them data from the sensors on the ship’s hull until a continuous starscape spread across the walls. Tens of thousands of stars crowded around him. Karic stood for a long moment, alone with space, allowing a sense of serenity to settle on him. From the earliest age, he had been drawn to the images of distant nebulae, galaxies that swirled with living suns, yet so far from Earth. The desire to reach these distant places had shaped his life, driven him first into fusion spacedrive research, then on to lead the team that made the crucial breakthrough in suspension technology — human suspended animation — reliable long-term stasis.

  Something shimmered at the edge of his vision. For a moment, he wondered whether the biodome glowpanels had been damaged here as well. Two points of light in the vast starscape above him grew brighter, swelling into the shape of huge eyes. In rapid motion, thousands of snaking lines appeared in space, glowing lines connecting him and the ship with those luminous eyes. Each of the lines drew taut, stretched and snapped, the vivid colors dissolving into a dark mass of smoke, covering everything … except the eyes. They swelled, until they were titanic suns of hate, drawing a dark orb into orbit with them: a darkness within a swirling cloud that sang in tones of deadly color. Matter was drawn into that dark core, flashing with violence as it disappeared. The savage energies raced outward, like a blinding arrow, straight to the living human heart of Starburst …

  “Karic, what is going on?” Janzen.

  Karic snapped back to the present. A sweat of fear broke out on his forehead. His eyes flicked to his wrist. Forty-six minutes. He gasped, as an intense wave of nausea hit him. He looked back up to the stars. Everything was normal.

  “Karic. What is the
emergency?” It was Janzen’s voice, small and thin as it issued from the tiny speaker on his comband. Janzen and Andrai had emerged from suspension.

  Karic touched the screen. The commander’s face was still drawn from the revival process, but his penetrating blue eyes met Karic’s directly. His mouth was drawn in a thin line.

  “We have a serious situation on our hands. Remember the radiation Mara was so concerned about? Well, the ship has taken a battering, everywhere from the microstructure to the biodome. Sixteen percent of primary systems have failed.”

  “You were right to be concerned. I have Andrai reviewing the data now,” said Janzen. He took off his odin. “Although it does appear that the radiation has been nowhere near any lethal threshold.”

  “True, but the historical trend indicates a pattern of increasing intensity. We can’t risk having the whole crew in suspension if the radiation levels peak,” said Karic.

  “I would agree — if the radiation were close to any intensity that would threaten our wellbeing. But the situation as I read it is that none of us were threatened. Even so, you altered the presets on the suspension equipment and put all of our lives at risk.” Janzen’s tone remained even, yet the implication stung Karic. Personnel were more at risk during revival, that was why the decision had been such a tough call.

  “I know that equipment. No one’s life was put at risk,” said Karic.

  “Not to this point, but the revival process is far from over,” said Janzen.

  “If the radiation is high enough to affect the revival process, then it’s high enough to threaten us,” said Karic.

  “But nowhere approaching lethal levels,” insisted Janzen.

  “We have to get everyone out of suspension. Then we’ll have options to deal with this,” argued Karic.

  “We need a lot more data before we can make a call like that.” The commander’s voice was tense, his usually cultured tones clipped.