The Final Frontier

by Neil Clarke

  “What about aliens?” the journalist asked.

  “We got a view of part of the night side,” the scientist replied, “but there were no lights from cities. If there are any intelligent aliens, they would still be hunter-gatherers.”

  He went on to make the usual comments about what a pity it was that there would be no follow up probe, and that this would be all that we would ever learn about the planet Wells.

  The Wells flyby had been timed to be part of a larger show. While Harpy 1 had been flashing past the planet, the Argo was approaching Centauri A. More accurately, two chunks of the Argo were approaching the star. Three days earlier there had been a collision, and the Argo had been split.

  “So the Argo collided with a bit of dust, and that was enough to blow it apart?” asked Jason.

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn’t happen.”

  “The Argo was traveling at nine percent of the speed of light,” I said with my hand over my eyes. “That means the kinetic energy released was equal to that of quite a large bomb. We were lucky that the Argo survived at all.”

  “But it didn’t survive. It was blown to bits.”

  “It was blown into only two bits. The important bit is still working.”

  “How?”

  “It has multiple fallback layers.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, think of a medieval knight. He had a shield to stop arrows, but if any got past that, he had armor. Some arrows can pierce armor, so under the armor was cloth padding. Any arrow that got past all that was going a lot slower, so it had less of a chance of killing him. The Argo is similar. It can take a lot of damage and keep working.”

  “So it’s okay?”

  “Yes and no. The Argo and its armor were blown apart from each other by the collision. Unprotected, the Argo can’t pass close enough to Centauri A to change course for Gliese 581.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because stars are hot, the heat would melt it!” I snapped, almost taking his bait and yelling. “Get your act together, Jason, you’re not that stupid.”

  “Don’t damage Jason’s self-esteem,” said my wife without looking up.

  “Hang on, if the Argo was pointed to go that close to the star, won’t it still go there and melt?” asked Jason.

  “So, you are paying attention.”

  “Well? I asked an intelligent question.”

  “And I’m still recovering from the shock.”

  “Do I get an answer?”

  “There were six more Harpy probes on the Argo, each with a rocket engine. The control crew in California fired the rockets of the probes without releasing them. This changed the Argo’s course, taking it further away from Centauri A.”

  “But that means it won’t swing around to point at that other star.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why bother saving it?”

  “Because of what may be out there that we can’t see as yet. The Argo’s power plant is rated for three hundred years of operation, and two hundred and fifty of those years are still left. It may be pointed at empty space, but who knows whether empty space is entirely empty?”

  The flyby of Centauri A was very poor as a holovista spectacle, because there was nothing to see from the probe. The Argo’s telescope, instruments and sensors had been put into lockdown, and all equipment that could be spared was turned off. With so much heat pouring onto the probe from the star, the instruments could not be allowed to generate any more heat than could be helped.

  Computer graphics had replaced the imagery from on-board cameras, and an internal temperature graph took up half of our holovista. Two tracks, representing the Argo and its shield, were edging closer and closer to Centauri A. Ironically, shield was on the original course, and would swing around the star and go on to reach the Gliese system in two hundred years. The Argo was by now two million miles further out.

  “Strange to think that the shield will survive the flyby better than the Argo,” I said.

  Jason grunted. He was interested, but trying hard to disguise the fact.

  “Meantime the Argo has speed on its side, and it will not be in the super-hot zone for very long,” I continued. “If we’re lucky, nothing important will fail before it starts cooling down.”

  “But there’s nothing ahead to look at,” said my wife.

  “Nothing that we know about,” I replied, trying hard to stay optimistic.

  For reality entertainment, the flyby had little drama. The temperature peaked a minute after the closest approach, but apparently that was something to do with heat dispersal, and was expected. Very little failed, because even the Argo’s internal equipment had been built to survive extremes. Someone opened a bottle of champagne and began handing out glasses.

  “Okay, now I know we don’t have much to celebrate,” Jackson began as she raised her glass to toast the Argo’s survival.

  “Control-Captain!”

  I have no idea who shouted, but the holovista immediately switched to a screen projection displaying three words and a number. The message had not come from the Argo.

  FIREWALL SURVIVED. ACKNOWLEDGE. 41.

  There was the sound of breaking glass as some of the control crew dropped their champagne in their haste to get back to their consoles. I noticed that my wife and son were suddenly giving the holovista their complete attention. After what seemed like ages, Jackson spoke to the journalist.

  “The backup processor on the shield has come back to life!” she said breathlessly.

  “What does that mean?” the journalist asked.

  “The shield’s computer survived. It’s on course to Gliese 581.”

  “But all the instruments are aboard the Argo,” she pointed out.

  “The shield has an entangled processor, a few instruments, a small telescope, batteries and solar panels. It can do a survey at Gliese after all. We just need to check its course.”

  “Can’t you focus on the signal that came in, and do a Doppler analysis?”

  Suddenly the cat was out of the bag. The journalist had been acting dumb, but in the excitement of the moment she had forgotten herself and started asking intelligent questions.

  “The message came through the shield’s entanglement circuitry, and that’s not directional,” said Jackson. “I’m having the Argo’s main telescope activated and swung around to focus on where the shield will be. It should still be visible, its surface is highly reflective.”

  The image from the telescope was put on the screen, but it was blank.

  “Too far?” asked the journalist.

  “The shield should be a faint star at the center of the divided crosshairs. It’s transmitting, so it’s still in one piece.”

  “Then where is it?” asked the journalist.

  “It has to be there. Maybe the coating on the shield darkened because it flew so close to Centauri A.”

  “Try scanning on a course intercepting Centauri B in six days,” said a male voice off-camera.

  “What was that, lieutenant?” asked Jackson.

  “Scan for Centauri B intercept at around four percent of c,” said the unseen officer. “The shield did an aerobrake in Centauri A’s atmosphere.”

  There was a short, razor-sharp silence. This was holovista reality at its most intense.

  “Do it!” Jackson finally shouted.

  Moments later the telescope had been repositioned. At fifteen million miles, the image had to be blown up so much that it displayed as just a cluster of half a dozen square pixels, but there it was. The shield had lost velocity equal to nearly five percent of lightspeed and was on a course for the second largest of the Centauri suns.

  “Arrest that man!” shouted Control-Captain Jackson, pointing at someone off-camera. “Arrest Lieutenant Ashcroft!”

  The holovista image winked out, and was replaced by some talking head anchor man. He apologized for the break in transmission.

  My family and I were still babbling to each other about
what might have happened when my UDP sounded.

  “Hullo, Harper speaking.”

  “Mackerson here, Andy. Have you been watching the Argo flyby?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s unbelievable. I—”

  “Are you willing to preside in an establishment hearing for the Argo case?”

  “Me?” I gasped stupidly. “They asked for me? No, no, I mean, er, who asked for me?”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  He’s offering you a chance to be part of the Argo mission, screamed a voice in my head. Say yes, you idiot, say yes!

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “You’re to be at Heathrow Suborbital Departures in forty minutes, I’ll bring a tiltfan to your house. Your briefs, itinerary and clearances will be downloaded to your UDP.”

  I now learned what is meant by instant fame. Within a few minutes, Mackerson’s contract security guards had arrived and turned the house into an exclusion zone. Not far behind them were the experientialists, bloggers, agents, promoters, paparazzi, tooters, tweeters, Spacebook frontals, and even a few old-style journalists. I had gone from being a respected but obscure magistrate to an interworld celebrity in less time than it takes to have a rushed breakfast. Jason discovered that his Spacebook posting ‘Dad’s got the Argo case’ had seven thousand likes. I was winched up from my front steps to a tiltfan shuttle while hundreds of cameras focused on me. Mackerson helped me through the hatch, then the tiltfan spun about elegantly and set off for the airport.

  “You know what I’m going to ask again,” I said as I slumped into a seat facing him.

  “You’re going to say ‘Why me?’”

  “Very good. So why me?”

  “Politics, experience, jurisdiction, the fact that you’re British, but mostly because you specialize in spacecraft accident investigation.”

  “There are plenty of others with that sort of background.”

  “The suspect is American, the alleged crime took place on American soil, and American law works on performance justice. America contributed only a fifth of the cost of the Argo mission, however, and several of the other nations and worlds don’t use performance justice. That all means compromise. There must be a public establishment hearing on American soil by an independent magistrate to establish the nature of any felony. You will give it an intersystem flavor.”

  “And after that?”

  “Your findings will be handed over to an American criminal court.”

  He shepherded me through the airport’s immigration, customs and security checks. The suborbital took off. I threw up into a mask bag soon after we went weightless, because my anti-nausea caps were still at home, along with the travel pack I had forgotten to bring. An attendant floated over with a dermal, and somewhere above Greenland I decided that I felt well enough to begin reading the briefs. The case was a nightmare maze of psychology, cyber identity, physics, engineering, astronomy and communications, and was technically beyond most legal people. I had spent thirty years in this field, however, and was used to dealing with new, complex and even bizarre precedents.

  I was also well known for being able to think on my feet, and this was a big plus. Events would be still unfolding even as the hearing took place. Some of them would be doing so four and a third light-years away.

  Within two hours of answering my UDP in London, I was being met and briefed in San Francisco, in daylight. By my second sunset for the day I was being assigned an office in the same building as Mission Control. Before I could even sit down, a legal clerk escorted me to an auditorium that had been set up as a performance court.

  “So, you’re a British magistrate,” she said as we walked.

  “Yes, Britain’s main export is legal opinions these days,” I began, but she cut me short.

  “Know about performance hearing procedures?”

  “I’m qualified to preside in them, but this is my first. The Westminster system does not recognize them.”

  “Then listen carefully, I have to tell you this so that I can sign you off as briefed. In this country the public has a right to an opinion. The performance hearing is meant to let the public hear from all parties involved, in plain language, so that it can form its opinion. Some people call it a circus, but we find it works better than anything else.”

  “Except that in this case the public is everyone, not just Americans.”

  “You’ve got it. Everyone paid for the Argo, so they’re all stakeholders. As stakeholders, we have to treat them as honorary Americans.”

  Performance justice had been developed after the old system had delivered some bizarre verdicts. Rape victims had been sued for becoming pregnant, vandals had sued property owners for injuring themselves on glass that they had smashed, and bank robbers had sued banks for invading their privacy during holdups by recording everything with security cameras. The law had become so detached from public opinion that the public had lost patience. Public opinion was now factored into the law.

  I took my seat and faced the holocameras.

  “Firstly, I wish to remind you that this is not a court of law,” I said for the benefit of the holo audience. “This is an establishment hearing under the Interworld Protocols of 2230, and is meant to provide an overview of events while they are fresh in everyone’s memory. Prosecutions may follow, however, so I must advise you all to stay as close to the facts as your memories permit. I call Control-Captain Emily Jackson to the stand.”

  Jackson was sworn in. She maintained the carefully attentive but angry expression of a victim. Doubtlessly a stylist had been giving her some very intensive coaching while I had been vomiting above Greenland.

  “Now as I understand it, the Argo collided with something three days ago,” I began. “Is this correct?”

  “Yes, yes, everything was on the holovista,” she said impatiently. “Haven’t you been watching?”

  “I am collecting statements from witnesses, Control-Captain,” I explained. “Establishment hearings are meant to establish an image of the case for the public. I shall also remind you that I am a presiding magistrate in a legal hearing. One more challenge to my authority and you will be charged with contempt.”

  The console before me showed nine million Spacebook dislikes and eleven million likes. The public that was bothering to vote was marginally on my side.

  “My apologies, Your Honor,” Jackson replied, “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  “Now then, was there any warning of danger?” I continued. “Meteors showing up on the radar, that sort of thing?”

  “The Argo was traveling at almost seventeen thousand miles per second, Your Honor. The meteor that crippled it could only be seen under a microscope.”

  “So there was no threat detected?”

  “There were only general indications of threat and risk. Radar picked up some asteroid-sized bodies near our flight path, the biggest was fifty miles in diameter. We got high resolution pictures of one on the way past.”

  “And your control crew voted to call it Jackson.”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.”

  “Display the images.”

  The clerk of the court put a series of pictures and graphs onto a tabletop holovista beside the witness stand, then a rotating hologram of the asteroid appeared. It could have been from our own solar system, and I would never have known.

  “So you discovered asteroids,” I prompted. “And where there are asteroids, there is also dust.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I put the Argo on yellow alert and cancelled all VIP telepresence tours as soon as the first asteroid was detected.”

  “How long after going onto yellow alert did the Argo hit the grain of dust?” I asked.

  “Five hours,” Jackson replied.

  “So you were prepared as well as could be expected?”

  “Yes. The Argo has many fallback layers.”

  “Please tell me what happened immediately after the strike,” I said.

  “The readouts in Mission Control went blank
and the alarms went off. All telemetry through the entanglement link ceased.”

  “How did the control crew react?”

  “People shouted that it was a particle strike. Some of them used a few politically insensitive words.”

  “And did your contingency and recovery officer, Lieutenant Ashcroft, did he do anything suspicious?”

  “No.”

  “Well, just what did he do?”

  “Nothing. A virtual of the lieutenant was in one of the Argo’s computers. It was meant to take over and restore the systems after any strike.”

  “So what did you do, back in Mission Control?”

  “I gave orders to turn off the alarms, released media statements, and ordered a coffee from catering.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “The entanglement link was out, and the Argo was light-years away. We could only wait for a poll signal. That came after three hours. We then linked straight back into the Argo’s systems.”

  “Describe what you found.”

  “There was a lot of blankout in the data storage arrays, and Ashcroft-virtual was dead. The comms link had been restored from timed contingency routines. While we were starting repairs, I saw that the shield’s computer and circuits were all dead. I used the camera on the robotic maintenance crawler to get a direct view of the probe’s condition. It showed that the shield section had been smashed away. When I ordered a search with the radar unit and main telescope, this is what we saw.”

  Jackson put up a blurred image of the shield pulling away from the Argo.

  “It looks undamaged,” I said.

  “I assumed that the damage was on the other side. Now I realize that the explosive separation bolts had been fired. There had been no collision.”

  “Was there any communication between the shield and the Argo?”

  “When we transmitted the kill switch key to take manual control of the shield, all we got was the INVALID KEY response. That indicates catastrophic damage.”