The Beacon: Hard Science Fiction

by Brandon Q Morris

  “First of all, I would like to congratulate you on your successful launch,” said the CEO.

  “I’m happy to return that sentiment. Without your new rocket, everything would have been too late.”

  “Too late?”

  Peter had almost let the cat out of the bag. He was annoyed with himself, because he knew he mustn’t tell his true story to anyone. “Quite brave to start a space company in Germany,” he said. Maybe he could manage to distract Bintzew.

  “Not at all. The conditions were perfect: trained engineers, a research environment, it’s no problem to get any specialist to move, plus the investors and public funding. After all, I come directly from the university myself.”

  “You seem older than that.”

  “Thank you for the ‘compliment,’ Bintzew said with a chuckle. “But you are right. I studied first in my hometown of Kiev. Space technology, in Germany, was my second degree. But now it’s your turn. How did you come to launch your own CubeSat?”

  “Shouldn’t every man, in his lifetime, father a child and launch a satellite?”

  “‘Plant a tree,’ my friend. But no one spends almost half a million on that. Not that I’m in the least upset about it, but there must be more to it than that.”

  Bintzew paused and reached into his pants pocket. “Excuse me, this is important. The control room.”

  Bintzew stood up and listened for a minute.

  “And that is absolutely certain? No reaction?” he then asked in English.

  Peter could not hear the answers from the other side, but Bintzew did not seem to be pleased. He was probably about to say goodbye and run to the control room. Instead, the CEO sat down again, looking at him seriously.

  “We have a problem. Sören just called in from the ground station, which has since taken over the CubeSats.”

  “A problem that also affects my satellite?”

  “It affects only your satellite.”

  “Oh, great. Is it not broadcasting?”

  “I can’t say. It’s probably transmitting. It just can’t be controlled from the ground.”

  “How can that be?”

  “The satellite would have to do a half turn to get the long-range antenna pointed in our direction. That doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “But if it’s broadcasting, what’s the problem? That’s what I wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Each satellite has a DEO built in, a deorbiting device. This allows it to be nudged into the atmosphere at the end of its life, where it burns up—waste avoidance. But sometimes satellites just don’t respond. In that case, the DEO acts like a dead man’s switch. If the satellite does not receive an acknowledgment from Earth, after a certain amount of time the DEO activates, destroying the satellite before it can get in the way of others. A defective object should leave its orbit as soon as possible.”

  “But my satellite is not defective. It’s doing its job!”

  “The DEO knows nothing about the task. Without communication with us, the DEO will react—it has no alternative. It’s hard-wired to do that. With an additional long-range antenna, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “But it wouldn’t have fit in the 6U format.”

  “You’re always wiser afterward.”

  Shit, shit, shit. The satellite must transmit or the sun will die!

  “Is there nothing that can be done? It is exceedingly important that the satellite not self-destruct. It’s vital.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, even if I don’t know the reason, but no one can prevent the DEO from being activated. It’s technically impossible. How could you turn off a mechanism that is not accessible?”

  “Maybe with stronger transmitting power? I could use a large radio antenna...”

  Thomas would certainly help him.

  “From the surface of the Earth, you have no chance. The antenna is misaligned. You have to get within a few kilometers. I’m really sorry, Peter, but there’s nothing I can do for you there. You’ll just have to make do.”

  “Couldn’t you find another satellite that’s in a similar orbit and transmit the signal from there?”

  “It would be a great coincidence if, first, you could find a satellite suitable for it, and second, if you could convince the operator, and as quickly as possible. I’m afraid you’d have to fly there yourself.”

  Shit! That couldn’t be true! Peter would have liked to bang his fist on the table, but he didn’t dare do that among all those people. If the satellite will at least transmit until April 4 or 5!

  “How much time do I have?” he asked.

  “For what?”

  “How long until deorbiting starts?”

  “The DEO device waits exactly 72 hours from the time the satellite is released for a connection with the ground station. Upon confirmation, the DEO is disarmed. If it fails to make the connection, it removes the object from orbit.”

  He couldn’t believe it. He’d come so close! Thoughts swarmed through his head. Had he spent all that money for nothing? On the other hand, if the beacon didn’t transmit long enough, money was no longer his problem. He had to get back to Franziska as quickly as possible. Then they could at least spend the little time they had left together. He couldn’t think of anyone with whom he’d rather spend his last days.

  Would there have been an alternative? The second antenna, certainly, or another mechanism for turning the satellite. But there was no point in stewing about it now. It was just too bad that there was no connecting flight to Munich today. But he could at least fly to Helsinki in the evening and take the early plane home from there. That way he could reach Franziska shortly after eight.

  What had Bintzew said? He’d have to fly there himself! Peter hit the brakes without thinking and came to a stop on the narrow shoulder. He cringed instinctively, expecting to be crashed into from the rear, but there was no one behind him. He hadn’t seen another car in half an hour.

  Peter got his notebook out of his backpack. He used his smartphone to set up a hotspot. Forests stretched to the horizon to the left and right of the road, but cell reception was still better here than at home.

  ‘Fly there yourself,’ Bintzew had said. Of course! That was no longer a utopian dream, ever since 2022. Several companies offered flights into space. All he needed was a bit of luck.

  And he was in luck! Virgin Galactic flew on April 3. Peter did the math. Seventy-two hours would have passed by April 2. But the deorbiting process that started then was slow. The iodine engine had little power, just enough to lower the satellite’s orbit over two or three days so that the increasing air resistance would do the rest.

  He looked up the orbital data. The orbit of his CubeSat was at an altitude of about 340 kilometers. Virgin’s space glider flew only a single orbit with its passengers, reaching a maximum altitude of 300 kilometers. In fact, it was very convenient that the DEO device would have been activated the day before. He just had to manage to switch it off again in time. Even at an altitude of 300 kilometers, his beacon would be able to transmit for a few months, and after that, the danger should be averted if his calculations were correct.

  Virgin conveniently disclosed all flight plans, which allowed him to read the necessary data to feed the app that otherwise controlled his astral projector. When the device was not available, the app output its results to the smartphone. That would have to do.

  He started the simulation. The CubeSat and the space glider moved around the Earth at different levels. There, over Africa, for example, they should meet. But the altitude would not be right, nor would the speeds synchronize. The CubeSat would cross the space glider’s path about 30 kilometers below it, and at a rapid pace.

  Is that enough to reach the DEO device and disable it? He had to make sure, even if it meant taking control on board—the first mutiny aboard a starship. He’d go down in history... and end up in prison. He would have saved the world, but no one would believe him.

  First he had to secure a seat. For the April 3 launch, Virgin
was using the latest model in its fleet, which had ten seats. In the beginning, in 2022, it had been very difficult to get a seat, but now such small excursions had become normal. In fact, there were still two seats available on the 3rd. So he could take Franziska with him—if he still had 400,000 U.S. dollars left, because a seat cost 200,000. But he didn’t. Of the amount transferred in advance by the broker, there was still just under 200,000 euros left. At the current exchange rate, that was 240,000 dollars.

  So it was only enough for himself—a pity. Franziska would undoubtedly manage to convince the captain of the space glider of the necessary course change.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  The theme music of Today’s Journal could be heard in the background. He had waited until Tatort was over.

  “I thought so,” said Franziska. “So, did you have success?”

  “How was Tatort?” he asked instead.

  “A little confusing. It didn’t work out?”

  Now he had to tell her.

  “Yes and no—there’s a problem. The beacon is transmitting. But it will stop soon. Too soon. The DEO on board is coupled with some kind of dead man switch that—”

  “I don’t need the details. What does that mean?”

  “There’s only one way to fix this. I have to go up there myself.”

  “Knowing you, you’ve already booked the ticket.”

  “Yes. I couldn’t go this far and then let it all go now. The beacon has to keep transmitting.”

  “So you’re not coming home tomorrow?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I would have loved to come to you, please believe me. But I’m flying directly to the U.S. I’m taking off on the 3rd.”

  “You’re going into space? You’re insane.”

  “It has to be done. I fly with Virgin Galactic. Don’t worry. They’re exceedingly reliable. There hasn’t been a single abort yet.”

  He preferred not to tell her that he planned to hijack the space glider. He still hoped that he could somehow spare himself that, after all.

  “I see.”

  Crap. Franziska was angry. He had hoped that she’d at least understand his predicament.

  “How much is this actually costing you?” she asked.

  “$200,000.”

  “A princely sum.”

  “It was more expensive a few years ago.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re saving so much.”

  “Please, Franziska, stay in the house and wait for me.”

  “That’s a lot to ask... You know that?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I’ll think about it, Peter. That’s all I can promise you.”

  “Thank you. I love you.”

  “Until you get back, I don’t want to talk to you again. You hear me?”

  “I... Okay. Then how do I find out what you’ve been thinking about?”

  “You’ll see when you enter the house.”

  Franziska hung up. He had done his best. More than that was not possible. She hadn’t said she loved him. But she hadn’t said she didn’t love him either.

  That gave him hope. Still, tears ran down his face. He didn’t know where the salty stuff came from.

  March 31, 2026 – In Transit

  The airplane shuddered its way across the Atlantic. The on-board entertainment system seemed to be overloaded by the simple map display. Eight hours to go.

  The air was dry, and the neighbor in the middle seat, 40ish, had been farting constantly since takeoff and obviously thought no one would notice. At some point, his digestive system would manage to equalize the pressure, right? At least he didn’t have to fight for the armrest. Since the food trays had been cleared, his neighbor had been sitting with his eyes closed, his arms folded in his lap. Now and then one eyelid twitched, which Peter noticed even when he was not looking.

  A transatlantic flight like this was really no fun. He’d wrestled with the idea of paying for business class, but it was a day flight, so he wasn’t likely to get any sleep anyway. Why should he pay three times as much money just for the better food? He would land in Houston, Texas, at 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time—7 hours and 55 minutes to go. After that, immigration to the U.S., which often took forever. If he was unlucky, he’d miss the connecting flight. If he was lucky, he’d be in Albuquerque, New Mexico, at 9:41 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time. Phew.

  Peter leaned forward to catch a glimpse out of the small window. As he did so, his gaze fell on the woman sitting in the window seat. She was half the age of his immediate neighbor and quite pretty. That was noticeable, even though she was wearing a baggy sweater and sweatpants. His two seatmates knew each other—she was probably his daughter.

  The woman winked at him. Peter felt caught and leaned back. All he’d wanted to do was look out the window! He tapped around on the screen. Supposedly there was a camera that looked straight down, but all it showed was ‘snow.’

  Peter took his notebook from the seat pocket in front of him, folded down the little table, and placed the computer on it. The web browser offered to connect it to the super-fast on-board network, but he turned off the wireless module. Last night, as he lay awake in the airport hotel in Helsinki, he’d thought about the messages. The language model had translated them into human poetry.

  Did that mean that there was a cross-species language that used lyrical devices? But what did it really mean? The poems into which the messages had been transformed did not convey facts, but feelings. Perhaps because there were, in reality, no facts in the data. Or maybe because there was no common ground to translate the factual part of the message. The only thing the AI could transmit was that for which mutual understanding was possible. That would be raw feelings like loneliness or passion, longing or love.

  A nice thought—Franziska would be happy about such communication. Unfortunately, it was impossible to verify. But then, shouldn’t the solar system at least participate in the conversion? The signal that his beacon had been sending out so far was completely bland. It was saying, “I’m here,” nothing more. Presumably, it was enough to stop the annihilation. Hopefully, it was enough. But what if another rational being was checking the 418-megahertz signals in the cosmos and came across the sun? Then the inhabitants of this system must seem to him like unfeeling, cold machines.

  He needed a better signal. As a youth, he’d once written poems for an early, purely platonic love. But he was not suitable as the ‘Lyrical Intelligence’ of humankind. He needed something written by a professional. He’d have really liked to ask the young woman in the window seat what her favorite poem was. She had tattoos on her forearms and dark makeup around her eyes, which made her look to Peter’s naïve eye as if she were someone who read poetry.

  Franziska would have had a conversation with her long ago. She might also have had an idea herself. So now he had to use the expensive onboard Internet, after all. He connected the notebook to it and grudgingly paid $20.00 for the rest of the flight, as if that would make any difference now.

  The net turned him on to a book by a well-known literary critic who’d passed away a few years ago. The man had put together a collection of what he thought were the 100 best poems. Peter downloaded the electronic version, and was captivated by the first verses.

  He was almost afraid to continue reading. There were far too many good poems to choose just one.

  Two hours later, Peter chose one, a poem that the German poet Stefan George had written almost 130 years ago. It was an autumn poem and it spoke of farewell. A civilization on a planet with bound rotation or with an exactly vertical axis of rotation would not know seasons, but farewells should be unavoidable anywhere in the universe.

  The poem spoke to him personally, in a strange way, creating quiet voices in his head. He could not understand them, they only whispered. The sound of children running through dry leaves drowns them out. He feels the sun on his forehead. It is no longer hot as in summer, but pleasant. He is suddenly an old man whose life had rolled past. A red-gold leaf lands o
n his palm.

  His neighbor on the right still had his eyes closed. The older woman on his left, on the other side of the aisle, was wearing headphones and watching a movie from the in-flight program.

  Peter read quietly.

  We walk up and down in the rich tinsel / Of the beech aisle almost to the gate / And see outside in the field from the lattice / The almond tree for the second time in flower.

  We search for the shadeless benches / Where no foreign voices have ever frightened us / In dreams our arms intertwine / We feast on the long mild glow.

  We feel grateful as to quiet roar / From treetops radiant traces drip on us / And only look and listen when in pauses / The ripe fruit knocks on the ground.

  He was satisfied. What of it would reach an alien listener? He copied the text into the AI’s language model, which translated it into a data stream. Was that really a good idea? The back-translation was even more subject to error than the translation itself. After all, there was no unique original language, but several from which the model had extracted concepts. Peter reversed the process, and generated the data stream from the German original.

  Now he just needed to upload the new signal to the beacon.

  April 1, 2026 – Albuquerque

  He didn’t make it out of bed until the third ring of the alarm clock. A time difference of eight hours was cruel. Despite the overlong day, he had barely been able to fall asleep, and now he was supposed to get up when it was late afternoon for his body.

  But he had to get out. He had one day to get a weapon. How else was he going to gain control of the space glider? The coffee in the motel breakfast room helped wake him up. It was just the way he liked it: strong, black, hot, and bitter. He poured himself a full ‘dose’ in a big paper cup, drank it down at the table while eating a dry bagel, poured himself a refill, and closed the cup with a plastic lid. If he upped the dose every 60 minutes, he might make it through the day. Fortunately, there was a fast-food café on almost every corner.