I zoom in on the image. Because I have no body to anchor me in the ship, it feels like I am falling directly into this sun. I am falling lower and lower, with the giant gas bubbles coming toward me.
Watching a working fusion power plant is great. The surface resembles boiling soup, but it is much more dangerous. I am not afraid of small, hot splashes hitting my naked skin. No, I have the feeling there is a huge animal swimming below the surface and waiting to catch those who get too curious. I imagine seeing its sparkling scales in the moving plasma, and when the arc of a magnetic field stands vertically to the surface, it might as well be the creature’s tail fin. It is almost as if I notice the hair on my neck rising while I am instinctively trying to keep my distance, and at the same time I consciously attempt to further magnify the image in order to get closer.
I know that all of this is only a virtual impression. The spaceship is far enough away, but it feels as if I am a surfer fearlessly riding the plasma waves of this sun, without knowing that soon a tsunami is going to crash down on him.
“Marchenko,” I hear via the ship’s radio, “could you take a look at this?”
When I return, I shudder with relief. It is Eve. She appears to have taken some measurements of Proxima Centauri as well. “I took a closer look at the data about the last flares,” she says.
“And what did you find?” I ask.
“Well, we determined an average period of 40 days.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“I was concerned about this averaging. The data could also be interpreted differently,” Eve says.
“Sure,” I confirm. There are always different ways of drawing conclusions from raw data.
“It could be the period is regularly fluctuating, and therefore it varies. Take a look at this!”
She uploads a spreadsheet into memory. Eve is right—the data could be interpreted differently. However, there is a problem.
“Your thesis lacks significance, Eve,” I say. “We don’t have enough data to prove or disprove it. That’s why it was sorted out by the algorithms.”
“Yes and no,” she replies. “It is true that we don’t possess sufficient data. But there is a coincidence we have overlooked so far. Look here.” Eve presents a chart showing the activity of the magnesium spectral line during flares. She goes on to explain, “When the flares occurred earlier, this was always announced by a corresponding activity in the magnesium line.”
This is also correct. Up to now we did not pay attention to this, as we considered the variances to be insignificant. “100 percent of all cases—that is significant,” I say. “What kind of period are we talking about?”
“From the increased activity to the flare it’s about 84 hours,” she answers.
What Eve has found is very important. It means that most of the time we can rely on the 40-day period. And if that isn’t the case, measuring the Proxima Centauri spectrum would give us a timely warning 3.5 days before the event.
“I also took a look at the current spectrum.”
Eve is really thorough. “And what does it report?” I ask.
“An hour ago the activity increased.”
Her answer leaves me at a loss for words, yet Eve looks surprisingly calm. She knows just as well as I do that it will be a close call. We have about four days until we will be safely behind the planet, and if Eve’s theory is correct, the next flare will arrive half a day earlier.
December 15, 18
“Marchenko, I’ve got an idea,” Adam says, waking me.
“Were you unable to sleep?” I ask.
“It’s difficult right now, but never mind. Let me quickly describe my plan. Time is short.”
“Okay,” I reply.
Adam hesitates, and then says, “For a long time we captured matter with the tantalum net, decelerating this way...” He still seems to be gathering his thoughts.
“That is true.”
“Couldn’t we reverse the process?” Adam asks.
“You mean, gaining speed by losing mass?” I answer.
“Yes, in principle.”
“Let me do a quick calculation.”
“I’ve already calculated it. In order to arrive at Proxima b in time before the flare, we would have to eject at least a third of our mass. How realistic is that?”
“Just a moment, Adam—I am going to check this.” I quickly go through the structure of Messenger, and it does not look good. Not only do we need the engines for the landing, but besides this there is little remaining that might be considered superfluous. “I am sorry, but we cannot get rid of more than ten percent. I also don’t know how we could dismantle the spaceship so quickly. The fabricators are too slow.”
Looking worried, Adam nods. “I thought so,” he says. “But shouldn’t there be some kind of solution?”
“Just a moment,” I tell him. I have the feeling he might have something there. He has triggered thoughts in me, whose courses run closer to stored knowledge. “The net,” I say, not fully sure where this thought will lead. It is a fascinating feeling to sense an idea being formed.
“Yes?”
“There are propulsion concepts in which a net plays a role,” I am realizing this even as I speak the words, and then I say, “Like magnetic sails.”
Adam immediately knows what I am referring to, and replies, “That would be perfect. The plasma storm is full of charged particles. We can spread a sail and be pulled by it. The closer we get to the flare, the faster we would become.”
“That is like windsurfing,” I say, and then realize Adam has probably never heard of this sport. I go on to explain, “On the oceans of Earth people stand on boards, spread sails, and have the wind drive them across the water.”
“Awesome!” he says. “Is it dangerous?”
“Not on Earth. If the sail fails, the worst that can happen to you is falling into the water.”
Adams smiles and nods at this. “What would our sail look like?” he asks.
“A magnetic sail is usually created by metal threads spreading far out into space, with electricity running through them,” I say. “The electricity creates the magnetic field that then serves as a sail.”
“That sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“On paper, yes it does.”
Adam grins.
I suddenly realize I have used another outdated term, and rephrase my reply, “That’s an old man’s way to say, ‘Yes, in theory.’ However, there have so far been no practical tests conducted for this. Therefore, I have no idea how large the field would have to be to get us safely behind Proxima b in time.”
“Then we should start our first attempt right away!” Adam says, enthusiastically.
“At least we have one advantage. The closer the flare gets to us, the higher the pressure it exerts on the sail. With a gale at our back a handkerchief might be sufficient as a sail.”
“You and all your comparisons to life on Earth. You really must be an old man, Marchenko.”
December 17, 18
We have woven a net of fine metal threads, spreading it through space behind us. So far, so good, I reassure myself. The actual truth is, we really cannot be sure how successful our makeshift sail will be. For one thing, we do not have any experience with this particular technology. In addition, the flare will not come at us directly, it will come from behind and at a slant. The reason for this is that the flare goes outward from the star, while we are moving at a tangential course to it. The good news is, we do not have to cruise directly against the wind. But, it is not possible to place our sail at an optimal angle.
Adam and Eve have strapped themselves into their pilot seats in the command module. They seem very self-assured, but I would like to peer into their minds to see whether they are as calm as they pretend to be.
“What will happen if we gain too much speed?” Adam asks. “I want the truth, Marchenko.”
I have asked myself the very same question. According to my calculations, though, we will not exceed the esc
ape velocity of Proxima b. “That is not very likely. If it does happen, the planet would not be able to capture us and we’d have to take another lap,” I explain. “But that wouldn’t be a problem, because we would be back in 16 days and could try again.”
“Then we could even circle it a third time before the next flare arrives,” Eve adds.
“We shouldn’t push our luck,” I caution. “I would suggest we find a safe shelter first, on the front side. The other side of the planet, with minus 80 degrees and eternal darkness, is probably not too pleasant.”
It feels as if I were sitting between Adam and Eve. They talk to me as if I were a real human being, and it’s a heartwarming feeling. I sincerely hope it will always stay this way.
The sensors registered the flare when it separated from the red dwarf 30 minutes ago. A huge part of the surface initially turned dark, and then we saw this one part being broken from below, as if a huge monster were trying to finally escape from its prison. Every 40 days or so Proxima Centauri gives birth to a creature made of ions and electrons, which is now hurrying to find a victim. This creature is moving into space following a curved trajectory, as the rotation of the star gives it angular momentum.
“X-ray exposure above tolerance level,” the automatic system reports. The flares are accompanied by strong X-rays. I check our course. Another 25 minutes before we reach the shadow of Proxima b. At this moment the wave reaches us. We do not feel anything, but the sensors go haywire.
“It is happening,” I say.
Adam and Eve stare intently at the monitor, which is already showing the approximate form of the magnetic sail. This display makes it clear where the monster is coming from. It presses and pushes from below and behind at an oblique angle, deforming the lines of the magnetic field. The ship accelerates, and there is an abrupt clinking sound as a previously floating screwdriver now drops to the floor. The sail is working. It propels us and shields us at the same time. We surf above a hot flood measuring millions of degrees. Another 15 minutes.
“Looking good,” Adam says as if to encourage himself. The magnetic sail is bulging more and more. The creature is desperately trying to reach us. This monster is digging into the magnetic field like a puppy into a pillow, and if it continues long enough, the pillow will burst, with feathers flying in all directions. A shadow moves in front of the sun’s disk, and the planet is coming in reach.
“Looking very good,” I confirm. We need the magnetic sail to last another five minutes.
“Breach imminent,” the automatic system warns. It is right. The plasma cloud will reach us in less than a minute. Safety is still four minutes away. Adam’s facial expression is emotionless, but his eyes are wide open. Eve is grabbing the armrests of her seat as if preparing for a jolt—the plasma monster will attack us in utter silence.
“Discard magnetic sail,” I command. The automatic system immediately separates the metallic net from the ship. The net no longer receives electricity from Messenger, and the charged plasma particles immediately take hold of it. Through self-induction caused by the Lorentz force, they will create a field in opposition to their source. Thanks, Lorentz force! We feed the net to the monster, hoping it will choke on it. At least this will give us a little breather.
One minute later the dark side of Proxima b appears above us. Eve raises her arms, and Adam is smiling to himself. The plan worked! The planet protects us, while its front side is being bombarded by radiation. Now we have 40 minutes to decide on a landing spot, prepare and then start our descent. Or should we wait for another orbit?
My opinion is that 40 minutes are more than enough to initiate the landing procedure. We are a highly efficient team.
“Shall we land?” I ask.
Adam and Eve nod in agreement.
“The next question is, where?” I ask. “We have four options: the opposite side, the dry central plain, the steppes, or the forest.”
“The forest is probably the most interesting region,” Eve replies.
“But it’s also the most dangerous,” Adam says. “Not just for us, but for anyone living there. We don’t want to make a bad first impression.”
Eve nods and says, “If you look at it from that point of view, we might as well be consistent and choose the hot central plains.”
“I'm not sure,” Adam says. “Did you see the high mountains surrounding it?”
“We have 40 days left until the next flare,” I remind them. “During that time we can examine each vegetation zone and choose a safe location.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Adam admits.
I agree with them. They did not need me to come to this conclusion. They did not even ask me. I should be glad. “But you don’t want to go down in one fell swoop, do you?” I ask.
“Of course not!” Eve says, her tone sounding as if I had asked a bizarre question. “First we are going to circle the planet several times at decreasing altitudes. Remember, we need information about the surface.”
It is a sensible plan. We can only get the necessary overview from orbit, and we are going to need maps that are as detailed as possible. Once Messenger has landed, it will be too late. We are going to use our next orbit of Proxima b to gradually decrease the radius of our trajectory, but the planet won’t make that easy for us. Its gravitational force pulls us in 50 percent more strongly than Earth would, so we cannot compensate for it with our engines and we would crash. Therefore, we have to employ a two-part landing method: The command module will be separated from the rest of Messenger, which will then be called the orbital module. This way we already reduce our mass by two thirds. The ring on the command module, between it and the rest of the spaceship, is about one meter thick. The fabricators will completely fill the tunnel leading through it with fireproof material, and then this part can serve as our heat shield.
Whatever we are going to need must be moved from the orbital module into the command module. I have everything I need inside my mind, but Adam and Eve start carrying mementos forward. Robot J also moves to the command module. The more independent Adam and Eve have become, the less often we have needed him on board. But now, he will become an important helper again, while Adam and Eve adapt to the high gravity. During the descent, strong parachutes will support us, but we will have limited ability to steer and are going to be dependent on wind and weather. Therefore, we cannot choose the exact landing site, and most likely we will step onto the new planet after a crash landing. If that proves true, it should not matter, as the command module is designed to handle it and remain undamaged.
While Adam and Eve move their stuff, I am studying the landscape below us. We are still flying over the far side of the planet, and it is covered by a thick layer of ice. Messenger measures surface temperature between minus 80 and minus 90 degrees. The air here contains 15 percent oxygen and it is favorably clear. There appear to be no clouds or storms. Clouds might freeze out at these low temperatures, and storms cannot develop either, as there are no energy differences.
Our scanners do not reach low enough to tell me what is under the ice. I am tempted to say it is a water ocean—that would make sense. Proxima b is subject to tidal forces that heat up its interior, and this might be one of the reasons its oversized iron core has not solidified yet. At least the outer layers of the core are liquid. This is indicated by the strong magnetic field shielding the planet. Without that field, those biologists who from the very beginning considered Proxima b uninhabitable would have been right.
I would like there to be a water ocean below the ice. I know that is a sentimental idea, coming to me because in a previous life I had the chance to explore the ocean of the ice moon Enceladus. Even though this ultimately cost me my body, I would not want to have missed the time I spent with the pilot Francesca. Perhaps there is even a being here on Proxima b that resembles the one on Enceladus?
The planet turns below us. I notice a bright strip crisscrossed by lightning on the right edge of the screen. This must be the zone between the bright si
de and the dark side, where the direct heat exchange occurs. Low-pressure zones move in from the bright zone and encounter the huge stable high-pressure area over the dark hemisphere. Energy is exchanged via rain, wind, and stormy weather. It is hard to imagine the sun ever shining here. The strip exists in eternal twilight, but according to the spectrometer, it seems to be teeming with life. I detect a large number of organic carbon compounds—and nitrogen, sodium, sulfur, phosphorus, arsenic, hydrogen cyanide—a truly amazing mixture, but it also shows me we have to be careful.
The transition zone stretches about 50 kilometers beyond the terminator, the dividing line between darkness and light. An ocean begins beyond it. It looks unusual, because it is only about 100 to 150 kilometers wide, yet this ocean stretches around the entire planet. It almost appears as if Proxima b placed a towel made of water around its hips. The ocean does not appear to be very deep, as islands are visible in it. Despite this, it would present a considerable obstacle if we ever attempt to travel from the day side to the night side of the planet. And this body of water is not very suitable for bathing either, not with a temperature of six to ten degrees, not to mention its unknown chemical makeup.
Further toward the center of the continent, there might not be any large bodies of water due to the increasing heat, but I see some rivers winding from the interior to the ocean. I have an idea of how the weather cycle might be functioning here. Due to the energy exchange at the terminator, the air masses absorb moisture over the ocean and carry it into the interior of the continent. The warmer the air gets, the more water it can absorb, until the system reaches a tipping point—perhaps caused by dust from the volcanoes on the continent—and then rain falls. Afterward, the rivers carry the water back to the ocean.
Proxima Trilogy: Part 1-3: Hard Science Fiction Page 10