Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel

by Michael D. O'Brien

  Our people have never been census takers, but in general we know that there are now about 1.8 million people living on the four most populated continents and a quarter of a million more in communities throughout the five smaller Commonwealth territories. Everywhere, families are large and energetic, and, with few exceptions, happy. This is our world. We have all been born into it. It is our home.

  It was not so for the original pioneers, who surely would have felt they were strangers in a strange land. It must have seemed to the first few generations that their civilization grew with painful slowness, though by hindsight, it appears to us as rapid development. We need only remember the turning of the fields by men and their ploughs, drawn forward through the rich soil by those blessed creatures the Regnum ox and the massive oryx horse. I think also of their heavy labors felling and dressing the trees with which they built their homes, the gathering of stone for chimneys, the clearing and harvesting of fields for their livestock. Then came gravel roads, the gradual spread of small communities, farms, orchards, and vineyards throughout the valley of the Great River, and into neighboring valleys and beyond. With the passage of time, a second large community grew up on the coast, with its fleet of primitive wooden fishing vessels. And from that came the first sailing ship, which took colonists to Josephsland in the east and Zion in the west and Gilead in the South.

  Then, the great leap forward into the age of steam, the building of the first paddle-wheel ship, followed a half century later by the invention of the propeller-driven steam ship, which has made travel across this broad world so much more efficient. And in our own times, the extraordinary appearance of the steam locomotive and the spread of the railroad.

  My musing takes me back to a time before these latter events, especially to the fourth generation and the uneasy return to the mountains of catastrophe. Led by Bishop John Adamson, the third successor of Bishop Paul Miki Nagakawa, the expedition discovered the legendary great glass bowl upon which a forest of saplings (now the Old Forest) grew up from the ashes. We have all read the accounts of that day, written by those who were present. There, the bishop offered the memorial Mass for the souls of those who had died on the day of disaster, and for the untold millions who had died at the hands of the evil race that dwelled there in ages past. I try to sense some of what he felt as he stood at this epicenter of darkness. I know well his later reflections on the matter, and those of his companions, the geographers, priests, and historians. We have read that the bishop and his fellow explorers gave little thought to the possibility of lingering radiation. And in their reflections, they ponder the lingering radiation of man’s tendency to evil. Though I wonder if the horror had become something of an abstraction, I know that in more than one account there is reference to an undefined sense of presence—an apprehension of millions of ancient voices crying out to God across the millennia of evil’s reign. The writings of expedition members lament those victims, but I believe they grieved as much, or more, for the abiding condition of man’s nature, which will be our burden until the end of time.

  In this prologue, I have rather wandered back and forth across the years. Let me now return to the foundation era, when memory of the original pioneers had not yet begun to fade, for the settlements were populated mainly by their immediate descendants. These children and grandchildren of hope knew the Tale of Origins well, had listened again and again to the account over meals and by firesides and in bedtime stories, and had read about it too, for the pioneers had taken pains to record everything they knew about what had happened during the Kosmos expedition, and also about mankind’s history on Earth.

  It would be well into the second generation before the people could apply themselves to the reestablishment of electric power. In due course, the mineral smelters and forges had produced some basic metals, primarily iron, tin, and copper—though not a great amount of any of these. With the advent of copper wires at the beginning of the third generation, primitive electromagnetic coils were engineered; and in time, the water wheels that had ground our grain so faithfully were adapted to the rotation of motors and the generating of electric current. Following upon that, wave manipulation (the transmission and receiving of radio frequencies) was re-mastered, but not in time for us to learn the entire story of what had happened to the Kosmos.

  By then, it had been known for several years that a satellite had appeared high in orbit above the equator. Using the single telescope in their possession, the second generation of pioneers had noted its presence early on and had deduced from its orbital behavior that it was a man-made object. Though the image in the lens was too small for identification (no more than a luminous dot), some believed that it might be a ship sent out from Earth. Historians recount that fear gripped the population for several weeks, though it declined throughout the following months until, by the end of the first year of the satellite’s arrival, the general feeling had been replaced by one of puzzlement. Why, it was asked, had no landing craft descended? The question would remain unanswered for decades to come. Not until Year 57 (2191 E-y), when radio was reactivated, did they learn that the ship was silent. It has remained so ever since. So, too, the Earth.

  In summation, the chronology is as follows, in both Earth years and Regnum Pacis years. Note that the planet Earth had a year of 365 days and a 24-hour day, considerably shorter than our year of 412 days and 31-hour day. One E-year is approximately 0.686 of the RP-year (one RP-year is 1.46 E-years). With apologies to the mathematicians, I am a linguist and historian, for whom the space-time continuum and general relativity remain forever beyond comprehension. I offer this dating schema, therefore, as subject to future correction, in the hope that it contributes to a provisional understanding of the sequence of events:

  2097 (Earth-year)

  The Kosmos departs from Earth.

  late 2106 (Earth-year)

  The ship arrives in orbit above AC-A-7 (Regnum Pacis).

  early 2108 (Earth-year)

  The Catastrophe.

  The Kosmos departs for Earth.

  2108 (Earth-year)

  Year 1 (Regnum Pacis-year)

  Pioneers return to Regnum Pacis on shuttle.

  2117 (Earth-year)

  Year 7 (Regnum Pacis-year)

  The Kosmos narrowly misses Earth, and continues on into the exo-solar region (according to last received transmission).

  ca. 2160 (Earth-year)

  Year 36 (Regnum Pacis-year)

  A satellite arrives in orbit above Regnum Pacis.

  2191 (Earth-year)

  Year 57 (Regnum Pacis-year)

  Radio technology remastered; pioneers learn that the object is radio-silent. Neither are any transmissions from Earth detected, then or since.

  2485 (Earth-year)

  Year 258 (Regnum Pacis-year)

  The satellite is boarded, its identity confirmed as the Kosmos.

  Project development For two hundred and twenty years, the Kosmos has orbited Regnum Pacis. Fifteen years ago, the Commonwealth made the decision to apply a portion of its resources to the development of a small vessel that might one day be able to escape planetary gravity and unite with the satellite, whatever it might prove to be—a great ship from Earth or elsewhere, or a celestial entity of unknown origins. Given the current state of technical development, this was a laudable though improbable dream—at least for any time in the foreseeable future. It was rightly believed that new sciences and discoveries would be needed in order to bring the dream to reality, and that, given enough time, they would appear. It was thought that the project could not be fulfilled before the passage of another three or four generations—or more—but that the effort should begin.

  A hundred years earlier, the original Kosmos shuttle had been restored (physically, not operationally) and preserved in its museum near the landing site at Foundation City. Though it had been meticulously examined for generations, fifteen years ago engineers and other specialists applied their skills and our then-current state of knowledge in a renewed effo
rt to understand how it worked. We knew from the records that the shuttle had been driven by a combination of fuel propellant and “anti-gravity”. The latter device, while entirely incomprehensible to us, was located beneath the interior floor of the hull, and easily identified: engraved on its side were the words “Anti-gravity generator. Authorized technicians only.” It was a self-contained tubular unit that ran the length of the shuttle. Its sealed casing was made of a material (presumably a sophisticated alloy) that had not succumbed to the ravages of time, neither to rust nor wear nor any sign of incisions made by previous investigators. Indeed, the surface continued to resist all attempts at penetration.

  The unit was removed from the shuttle and installed in a freestanding framework of light steel (an iron-carbon alloy, one of the benefits of railroad development). The structure was a web of thin girders about the size of a small family home. With much trepidation, the scientists applied electricity to the anti-gravity unit’s external circuit portal, hoping to control it by a rheostatic mechanism. Nothing happened. It took some few years for the specialists to realize that there was not a thing wrong with the device. They had to learn by trial and error that what we had called electricity ever since the creation of our first primitive electromagnetic generators two centuries previously, was not precisely the same thing as the “electricity” and “electronics” referred to in older documents from Earth. The state of their technology had far surpassed ours many centuries ago. What that was, we could only guess.

  Providentially, a genius or two is born into every generation. And one such person was a member of the development team, Dr. Felix Arthur by name. I could not begin to explain what he conceptualized into material reality. Nor can anyone else, for reasons I will explain in due course. We do not understand his invention; we know only that it worked. When standard electricity was connected to it, his device “translated” it and directed energy into the anti-gravity device, and then the latter activated.

  Dr. Arthur felt strongly that the pace and the character of modern progress was showing signs of becoming harmful to the human community—especially the question of power combined with speed. He found it convenient to ride as a passenger on the railway system from time to time, since he continued to teach courses at the university, and it would have been a two-day journey from the science base at Foundation City to Stella Maris, if he had traveled by horse-drawn carriage or by boat. Nevertheless, he remained cautious about the train’s long-range effects on the body, and especially on the mind. He felt it could very well prove to be unhealthy for men to travel at speeds faster than forty miles per hour (the maximum gallop speed of a thoroughbred oryx horse). I knew him personally, and can verify that he was a reflective, brilliant man to whom a precipitous action or thoughtless utterance was entirely alien, and so I believe his conclusions on the matter were no superficial opinion. We should, I think, ponder his cautionary insights with some attention.

  Why then, one may well ask, did he agree to participate in a project that would, if successful, propel men at velocities faster than the speed of sound? In his personal memoirs, completed shortly before his death, he writes that while he at times regretted his involvement, he understood that the benefits to be derived from a reconnection with a “starship” (which he suspected was the Kosmos returned) would outweigh the potential dangers of too-rapid technological advancement. Nevertheless, he urged the governmental and scientific authorities to delay for generations to come the application of any discoveries that might be made in the fields of fuel propulsion, the new electronics, and anti-gravity. It remains to be seen whether or not he will be heeded.

  To return to the crucial moment when the use of anti-gravity first became possible:

  Dr. Arthur plugged a “live” standard electrical wire into his invention and flicked a switch on its side. Soundlessly, it projected a thin pulsing beam of “something” into the power portal of the old anti-gravity device. The thing hummed, remained motionless for a few seconds, and then slowly floated a few inches off the ground, drawing the modern framework with it, though the whole must have weighed close to a ton. Using the rheostat on his invention, Arthur increased the current, and the entire structure rose more swiftly, trailing the umbilical power cord, hundreds of feet long. Careful decreasing of current (combined with a different pulse sequence) made it descend smoothly.

  Then came the next stage, the permanent coupling of invention and device and their integration with a third component, which was a large electrical battery that would rise along with the other two, ensuring that no energy failure occurred. One mistake in this regard and years of work would plummet to the ground, shattering any hope of connecting to the orbiting object. Repeated experiments revealed that amplification of current made it possible to lift even greater weights to greater heights. Fearing to do damage to a unique and still mysterious triad, the science team discontinued elevation experiments after it reached an altitude of several thousand feet, bearing a trial weight of three tons. That it worked—and worked unfailingly—was beyond all doubt. Yet it was capable only of vertical lifting. It may have had maneuvering functions in times past, but, if so, we did not know how to access them—and still do not.

  During this same period, research scientists had constructed a small petroleum refinery in the subarctic region of Queensland, experimenting with the crude oil pumped from reservoirs beneath the surface. In time, they produced a liquid fuel of heretofore unknown explosive force, which, if properly controlled, might provide additional thrust for escape velocity. It was not then understood that the anti-gravity device was sufficient for this task, that it had no upper ceiling, so to speak. At this stage of theorizing, the planning committees also realized the obvious: that a simple reversal of anti-gravity would not be sufficient to bring a shuttle back down to its launching point. Because the planet revolved on its axis, delicate calibrations would be needed in order to avoid dropping it into a sea or a mountain upon return. Hence the need for a propulsion fuel that would, using calculated bursts of energy released through a system of valves, maneuver the ship at will.

  A new shuttle was built, reproducing the design of the original and the more complex internal design. Much of this replication was based on increased knowledge of how the vessel had once operated, though some of the copying was blind. The problem of stabilizing air pressure was minor compared to the challenge of supplying and purifying atmosphere for the projected twelve-man investigative team and two pilots. A considerable quantity of compressed oxygen would be needed. Based on low-altitude experiments, it was initially thought that the interim from launch to arrival at the mysterious orbiting body would be about three hours. This, however, in no way ensured immediate entrance into the vessel, if it was indeed a ship of some kind. From readings of early manuscripts and other documents relating to the Kosmos, the satellite gave indications of being a duplicate, at least in terms of its external form. The very-high-resolution observations made with the new telescope at McKie Observatory on Mount Zion in the equatorial region, with its 2-meter lens aperture, enabled astronomers to confirm that the object was at least a kilometer in length, and oval shaped.

  If it was the Kosmos, or a duplicate, then shuttle bays would be waiting for us. They might or might not be closed. If all bays were closed, we still might be able to open one, since we had the command codes for this and other docking functions, left in the record logs of the original shuttle. Moreover, these were described as universal emergency portal codes in the archived, unpublished writings of Vladimir Kirilov, the pioneer who piloted the shuttle’s return to the planet at the foundation. Nevertheless, our radio transmission of the code still might not communicate with the code responder in the bay. We had no way of knowing whether or not our radio frequencies were dedicated—could “speak” with each other.

  If the shuttle were able to enter the ship, would the bay doors be closable? And would pressurization still operate in those bays? The ship’s designers surely would have seen the need for h
uman oversight, providing a manual back-up in case of remote command failure. Yes, but in all likelihood, we would find no one left alive on board after two centuries of orbit; there would be no one there to open and shut the doors and change the pressure.

  The questions multiplied: Was there breathable air in the ship? Was its internal gravity still maintained? Was there light and heat? We knew that the energy source had been “nuclear”. We understood very little about this form of power generation, and, of course, it was associated with the catastrophe—in other words, it was a dangerous entity. Clearly, mankind had once harnessed it for positive purposes, but how long did its fuel, or its apparatus, last? Had the ship’s silence been caused by the death of its energy source?

  A year was set aside for test flights that brought pilots up through the stratosphere and well into the mesosphere. The sensation of weightlessness, though expected, was initially a cause of both disorientation and entertainment for the men, but they quickly grew accustomed to it. Oxygen regeneration worked adequately. Reentry was accomplished with only minimal damage (overheating due to too rapid a descent). The designers learned a good deal from these trial flights, and developed a clay-ceramic coating that went a long way toward protecting the hull from extremely high-friction temperatures. Even so, thereafter the shuttle’s test flights took much longer to complete, since ascent and descent times were deliberately increased in order to avoid unnecessary stress on the vessel’s outer skin.

  Test flight In June of this year, the shuttle made its first full test flight to the ship, with two pilots at the helm. During the greater part of the six-hour ascent, their radio communications with Regnum-base were comprised of operational information. During the final hour, however, the pilots’ comments became more exclamatory, the tone increasingly excited by what they were seeing through the cabin window. “It is a ship!” they cried repeatedly. “It’s immense . . . beautiful . . . flawless!” As they made a pass from bow to stern, they discovered on one side, close to its underbelly, a single open bay.