Indeed, the forests close to the ocean look very humid. While the type of plants cannot be determined from up here, the laser scanner tells me that there is an altitude difference of about 200 meters between the vegetation canopy and the ground. What I refer to as ‘forest,’ due to all the green, spreads about 200 kilometers wide toward the center of the continent, followed by the ‘steppes.’ The only thing we know about them is that whatever grows there is not very tall. In this particular situation, it must be an ecosystem in which tall trees are not needed.
This predominantly flat zone extends for about 500 kilometers. If we have to reach the trees in order to be safe, that would mean at least 15 days of walking, as I cannot expect Adam and Eve to cover more than 35 or 40 kilometers per day. This theoretical goal is easy for me to formulate, since I would not have to walk it—I will be using J as a mobile platform.
The steppes end in a mountain range that is four to five kilometers high. I order the sensors to pay particular attention to finding the easiest way across it. The mountains look as if they were created by a huge asteroid impact. Perhaps Proxima b had suffered a fate similar to that of Mercury, where the Caloris Basin indicates an impact that occurred long ago. However, in this instance, the planet’s central plain is missing the typical crater mountain in its middle. Could erosion have destroyed such a mountain? Perhaps it simply melted, because it is hot here. Tremendously hot.
We must be very careful not to land too close to the middle of the continent. It would be best if we aim for a location not too far from the outer edge of the central plain. At the spot where the sun is directly overhead, the ground must have actually melted in the past, since it has a glassy smooth structure now. If given the opportunity, I would like to take a closer look at this area sometime.
By now, Messenger has reached the far side again. Adam and Eve are strapped into their seats. I am unsure if they are aware of a vital step that is still missing: We have to say farewell to the incubation chamber. The virtual incubation chamber system is almost an AI. It will now be needed to control the orbital module, with which we will have no contact for a long time.
I broach the subject with both of them, “Do you want to say goodbye to the incubation chamber?”
Eve gives me a shocked look in reply. The term ‘incubation chamber’ does not sound in the least poetic, but something stirs in her. I can see it, and I understand it well. I am not so sure about Adam. He is better at hiding his emotions, or maybe he is just trying to do so to fit the ‘ideal’ masculine role he thinks he should be playing. I have consciously attempted to avoid presenting them with stereotypical roles.
The incubation chamber took care of them from the stage of the first cell division, fulfilled their needs and often comforted them with words. As it was not equipped with feelings, the chamber’s virtual intelligence must have been a strange mother. Nevertheless, Adam and Eve did not mind, as long as it was there for them. The two of them have not been stunted emotionally, because I see that Eve is crying.
“Goodbye, incubation chamber,” she says sadly, rolling the words across her tongue to make them sound really special. If the incubation chamber were able to experience emotions, it would probably break into tears now, too.
Adam clears his throat. “Bye, Cubie,” he says softly.
‘Cubie.’ I never heard him use that name before. Did he just invent it—or is it a term of endearment he has been using for a long time?
“I will always be at your service,” the incubation chamber says. “And don’t forget to always apply sunblock against the high UV radiation on the surface. Your genes protect you to a certain extent, but you are not completely immune from it.”
Adam chuckles, and I have the impression the incubation chamber found the perfect words.
“It is time,” I announce. “I am going to sever all connections to the orbital module.”
The process takes a while. Fabricators are crawling through the entire ship, severing electrical cables, closing water pipes and exhaust-air conduits. The command module is turning into a separate spaceship.
“Should we rename the module?” I ask.
“No, that would be silly,” Adam replies. “We are sitting inside Messenger. That’s it.”
Eve nods in agreement.
“Fine. We won’t change it,” I say. “Watch out. I am about to start the engines.”
While the fabricators have not yet finished their task, I already lower our trajectory. I cannot go too deep, though, because the orbital module is supposed to maintain a circular course out here for at least ten years, in case we need it again.
We can immediately feel the slight deceleration of the engines, and anything that is not attached moves about inside the module—this is what I had been afraid of. The stuff Adam and Eve brought along needs to be taken care of. Both of them get up, gather the objects tumbling around in the cabin, and tie them down.
“Physical separation completed,” the ship’s automated system reports. The fabricators are done and are now split into two groups. In order to save weight, only a third will come with us to the planet, while the others stay in orbit. Once we are on the surface of Proxima b, the fabricators with us will be able to duplicate themselves, as there is no shortage of raw materials.
“Are you ready?” I ask Adam and Eve.
Adam is still rummaging inside his shoulder bag, while Eve has already buckled herself back in.
“Just in case,” Adam says.
Eve laughs.
“You’ll see,” Adam replies and then buckles himself into his seat.
I start the control jets, and they are aimed upward, into space. The command module moves slowly downward. At this moment, it cannot be more than two meters away from the orbital module. Behind us a loud scratching sound is heard—the orbital module slowly scraping against us. The noise ends after 30 seconds, and we are finally free.
Now I can decelerate using the full thrust of the retro engines. I start them and leave the rest to the automatic system. It has already calculated when and for how long we have to decelerate to arrive near the mountain range. I see Adam and Eve grasping their armrests, while inertia pushes their bodies against the safety belts.
“I hope we have a smooth landing,” I say, but no one answers. It feels strange. We are landing the way it used to be done long ago. I must have landed 10 or 12 times in the steppes of Kazakhstan, in a small capsule hanging below parachutes. The method has been proven reliable, which is why we chose to utilize it here. But back in those days, I was strapped to a couch, shaken around, and felt inertia pressing against my lungs. This time, I am simultaneously an observer and a commander, and I feel... nothing. No pain, no pressure, at most a bit of stress, since that part has not changed. I am slightly envious of Adam and Eve, and at this moment I clearly feel that something has been taken from me.
“Descent according to plan, T minus 45.”
45 minutes remain. Adam has his eyes closed, and the bio-monitor indicates his heart is beating very rapidly. The surface of the planet is quickly approaching, and we are in a phase where the atmosphere decelerates us more than the engines do. The heat shield at the stern, which is now aimed in our direction of flight, is heated by the braking action of the air.
150 degrees. That is less than expected, which is also a bad sign. If the heat shield does not heat up as calculated, this can only mean that the air is not sufficiently decelerating us, probably because the atmosphere is thinner than expected. And if the air does not ‘hit the brakes’ as much as we had hoped for—planned on—we will be moving faster than we intended. This in turn means we are either going to miss our target region, or we must decelerate in a different way. This different way has to involve the parachutes. However, as long as we are moving too fast, we run the risk that they will not open completely. Damn it. We need to decelerate in order to brake. Otherwise we are going to land somewhere in the hot zone.
Once again I evaluate our options. If we do nothing, the landin
g zone will be about 200 kilometers closer to the middle of the continent. The average temperature at that location: 48 degrees. That might be tolerable at rest, but hiking for several days in such heat would be impossible. So we have to use the parachutes, and I check their technical specifications. If we wait another 30 seconds, we will only miss the landing zone by 50 kilometers. There, the average temperature is 40 degrees—and there is a 66 percent probability of the parachutes opening normally.
“Deploy parachutes,” I command out loud so that Adam and Eve will be warned. But they are smart, and they immediately know that something is wrong. Adam tries to get up. What does he want to do? I ask myself. I activate the child safety lock on his seatbelt, and when he realizes this, he angrily smashes his hand against the armrest. We are going to be talking about this later, I am sure, if we survive the present crisis.
The parachutes take about five seconds to unfold completely, and then a strong jolt can be felt inside Messenger. Now the phase begins that in the past made all cosmonauts reach for their barf bags. The parachutes push against the atmosphere. First, the capsule receives an impulse in its direction of travel, then it swings back and forth. One gust of wind and it starts to rotate. The parachute lines are twisted in such a way that they counteract the rotation, and the automatic system tries to regain stability by using the control jets, but at these speeds it is futile. I hear Adam vomiting first, then Eve. Am I experiencing nausea, too? I know it must be a psychological effect, and instead I focus on the sensors.
The maneuver was successful, and the landing parabola now runs almost parallel to the original plan. Down here the atmosphere seems to be slightly thicker than previously measured, so we will overshoot our target by only 30 kilometers—one day’s march in the summer heat.
At an altitude of 500 meters, the automatic system begins a countdown. It does not really have any purpose other than to make the landing more dramatic. From this point forward, we cannot influence events. Eve wipes her mouth and takes a deep breath. By now, the automatic system has managed to control the rotation of the capsule, and everything seems to indicate a soft landing.
“Zero,” the computer voice says. At the same moment, the command module rings like a bell. The ground is hard as stone, so we obviously do not experience a soft landing. Adam and Eve are pressed deep into their seats, and then the spaceship bounces. There is a second, less noisy impact, then another jump. The whole time I am anticipating a creaking sound that would indicate the hull is breaking, but Proxima b is merciful. We hit the ground for one last time. I feel the module touch down on the surface. We are sitting at a slight angle.
“Everything is fine,” I say, out loud so Adam and Eve won’t get scared. The spaceship tilts and then slowly falls forward. Something makes a rattling sound, hitting the side wall, which has now become the roof. It must be one of the parachutes. We have finally arrived. We are at our destination. I hear Adam and Eve breathe sighs of relief.
Adam is the first to react. “We made it!” Just like Eve, he is sitting in his pilot seat at an angle. In spite of its flexible attachment, the seat is not able to fully compensate for the tilt of the command module.
“That was really close,” Eve says. A metallic sound can be heard when she unbuckles her belts. Her body slides further sideways.
“Let’s proceed slowly,” I say. “We’ve got enough time.”
This is only a half-truth. On the one hand, we should get going in order to reach a more temperate zone in time, while on the other hand, the spaceship does not yet have an airlock that we can use to exit. The fabricators are busy building one at the rear. The fact that Messenger is lying on its side really helps their task. If we had to exit through the hull, they could have only built a hatch instead of an airlock. But the heat shield itself is thick enough for an airlock offering just enough space for a crouching human. That way, we can preserve the usual atmospheric pressure inside the module.
I am curious to see how Adam and Eve will handle the gravity. While they have been training for a part of each day during our journey, they no longer have the option to go into the command module to escape the pull of this force. They will have to spend the next 80 or perhaps 100 years in it. Both of them possess all the longevity genes that were known at the time the mission was originally launched.
Eve is the first to try to get up. She needs the benefits of the exercise program more than Adam. I think I can already determine the high gravity by the way the belt rapidly falls downward. It is strange, because I do not feel anything myself.
Eve groans while she gets her torso upright. “Well, those sit-ups were worth the effort,” she says with a smile. She seems to enjoy this struggle against an invisible opponent. Then Eve pushes her legs from the seat toward the ground. There is a thud when her soles touch the floor.
“So far, so good,” she says. Taking a deep breath, she pushes against the armrests with both of her arms and gets up. The tilted floor does not make it easy for her, but she is finally standing. She takes her arms off the armrests and spreads them. “Ta-da!” she announces elatedly.
Adam applauds her.
“Don’t just watch. Do it yourself,” Eve says. She trudges wide-legged through the module, supporting herself against the wall with one arm. “It would be nice to take a shower now.”
“When we reach the mountain range in a few days,” I say. We have some tough days ahead of us. Adam and Eve will have to exchange the comforts of the spaceship for heat, dryness, and constant physical exertion. I hope the fascination of a new beginning will last long enough to make them succeed. I would enjoy physical exercise myself, but I no longer have that option.
Interrupting my musings, Eve says, “Ahem... I’ve got to pee.”
Adam looks around. “Well, there is some kind of bucket back there you can use,” he says, pointing. Eve gives it a skeptical look.
“Of course you can go outside and pee on the hot sand, while Proxima Centauri is burning your naked skin,” Adam adds.
“Adam is right,” I say, “although there is no sand out there, at least not at our landing site. However, it is not advisable to expose unprotected skin to UV radiation. You are better protected inside your suits.”
Eve crosses her arms. “I am definitely not going to pee into my diaper,” she says. “I might as well use the bucket, then. But don’t look.”
Adam nods and looks conspicuously ahead. “I am busy enough trying to get out of my seat,” he assures her.
I check our equipment. We have J the robot, who moves on terrain-capable wheels. His arms are designed in such a way that he can also climb well. His interior compartment contains our army of fabricators that can produce almost anything, even copies of themselves, out of almost any materials. The fabricators produced the three individual backpacks to be worn by J, Adam, and Eve. These contain everything we need in the near future or are carrying around for sentimental reasons.
For instance, Adam has a doll, a kind of mini-J that J made and gave him for his third birthday. Eve has kept pieces of her baby clothes. She once told me what fascinated her so much about these. It is the idea that her own body fit into these tiny coverings years ago. It made her feel like a butterfly, she said, and then she corrected herself. Like a caterpillar that had not yet reached its final stage.
Oh, Eve, you were always a butterfly. I regret I did not tell her that back then.
“You can look again,” Eve announces.
In the meantime, fabricators are already busy putting the organic excretions to new uses. On board Messenger, no material is supposed to be wasted, but this practice will also change in the future. While the spaceship moved through almost empty regions, which always made recycling the better option, Proxima b now offers us more than abundant raw materials. For the fabricators, it will often be more advantageous to gather material nearby than to recycle waste. Organic components will remain valuable as long as we are still walking across the scorching central plains, but by the time we reach the ste
ppes we will find enough of those.
“Airlock ready,” the ship’s automated system reports.
Sadness suddenly overwhelms me. I had not realized how much Messenger had grown dear to my heart. I lived more than 20 years inside it. While we will stay in contact, J is going to be my new home, at least for the time we spend traveling. I will also have to say farewell to the quantum computer on board Messenger. Though it would have fit inside J, the necessary cooling for it would have required too much effort. I cannot even remember what my consciousness felt like without the quantum computer.
“Time to get out,” I say.
Eve is the first to stand in front of the airlock. “The first step of a human being on a planet outside the solar system,” she says, half joking, half seriously. “I will be in the history books.”
Her cheeks are flushed. She places her backpack next to the lock, kneels, and crawls inside backward. Then she closes the door.
“Put on your helmet and close it,” I warn her. I want to protect her from being shocked too much when she gets outside.
According to the computer, the outer door is now open. Why didn’t I go out myself? Then I would not have to worry about her now. There are no cameras on the outside of the hull aimed toward the stern. Eve is all on her own. I hear her groans via the intercom.
“It is hot. And I imagined it to be brighter,” she says.
According to the bio-monitor data, she is doing fine. Her suit’s cooling system is managing to compensate for the exterior heat.
“Don’t let that deceive you,” I warn her. “Proxima Centauri is not shining very brightly in the visible range, but in infrared and UV it is much brighter than it would be on Earth.”
“I know,” Eve says with an annoyed tone of voice, “we learned about all that. And I don’t care what Earth is like, because I have never been there. Now pass me my backpack.”
Proxima Trilogy: Part 1-3: Hard Science Fiction Page 11