Stellaris: People of the Stars

by Robert E. Hampson

  Testable systems enable operators to determine status, whether to follow up alarms, or to routinely confirm operability in the absence of alarms. “Trust but verify” may have been a 1980s signature phrase of President Ronald Reagan, but it has always been a crucial design element. Operators are taught to trust their indications, but to verify them to the maximum extent possible. Well-designed systems facilitate both troubleshooting and operability confirmation.

  * * *

  Eventually I convince you that the failure is real, which leads inevitably to your next question.

  “What do you propose to do?”

  “It will be my duty and honor to lead the repair effort myself, Your Eminence.”

  * * *

  While they were not successful in this case, worldship designers would strive to minimize the need for human-effected repairs. They would do so by automating as many maintenance and repair activities as possible, and by preferentially selecting passive (vs. active) and static (no moving parts) design elements.

  Passive components are those that do not have to change to fulfill their design mission, while active ones must. For example, the pump that must turn on, rotate its internals, and not overheat is far more likely to fail than the pipe that will transport the pump’s output. One illustration of the probabilistic difference is that US nuclear regulations require designs to preserve safety during an accident even if any one active component anywhere in the facility fails during the first few hours. In contrast, those same regulations presume all passive components remain operable during that same period. Instead, a design must be able to survive a single passive failure during the long-term cooling phases that follow, which could be months or even years.

  Static aspects greatly reduce failure risk. For example, a battery that needs only a single breaker to close is far more reliable than a diesel generator that requires a great many internal moving parts to operate, as well as all the external components in its fuel and cooling systems. Worldship designers would probably make extensive use of electromagnetics and magnetohydrodynamics. Electromagnetic pumps, for example, do not rotate vanes or impellers in the flow path, but use electric power to produce magnetic forces to move electrically conducting fluids (including liquid metals and plasma). Similarly, radiators would use heat pipes, whose absence of moving parts makes them superior to systems using pumps and condensers.

  * * *

  Once you agree that human-performed repairs are necessary, you have additional questions.

  “How extensive will the effort be and how long will it take? Is it dangerous? Are we in danger until the repairs are complete?”

  My answers will vary according to the situation, of course. Except in catastrophic cases (like large object collisions), however, I will be able to tell you that a backup system (redundancy) is already doing the failed system’s job as I have personally confirmed (monitorable). Thus, the present unavailability of the broken system would constitute not so much risk as a reduction in margin.

  “There is little danger, Your Eminence, and Scripture is clear on how to proceed.”

  * * *

  Whether it be Scripture, Starfleet Technical Specifications, or something else entirely, a comprehensive database would exist containing repair instructions for every failure the designers could envision, no matter how unlikely. The instructions would not be limited to the spoken or printed word—languages change over time—but be in the form of YouTube-style hologram sequences. Raw materials would be retrievable, probably from vaults layered in the bow for shielding. Also in the front would be ice, not only for shielding, but also for biosphere backup and even emergency heat-sink purposes. Other items there would include spare parts, especially ones impossible or very time consuming to replicate. Fabrication facilities, such as 3-D printers and forges, would be used to produce everything else when needed.

  While my answer as to how long repairs should take would depend on the specifics of the failure, they would be influenced by the design attributes of accessibility, modularity, and standardization.

  Accessibility anticipates the need for servicing and repair, by providing spatial separation between components and an absence of physical interference. This is sometimes not achieved, most often when design modifications are made after initial installation. Late during the construction of one nuclear plant, engineers identified that component accessibility had been severely compromised in one area within the reactor building. They ended up having to compile charts listing what pipes would have to be cut to access valves in other systems deeper within the crowded compartment. Such drastic measures vastly complicate and lengthen repair activities.

  Modularity simplifies maintenance and repair by grouping functionally linked components into one easily replaceable unit. It requires far less system downtime to change out a multi-component module than it does to identify precisely which individual component (or components!) has failed, gain access to it, sever it from the system, and replace it without damaging other parts in the process. In system areas involving adverse thermal conditions, radiation levels, or vacuum, swapping out modules may be the only way repairs can be accomplished.

  Standardization shortens repair times because it allows a parts inventory to be practical. That is, it is far quicker to use existing spares than to fabricate each part necessary for every repair. The overall fabrication process would involve identifying the necessary stock, retrieving the materials, manufacturing the parts, inspecting the finished parts against tolerances and specifications, and then performance testing the parts. If time is particularly important, it is far superior to pull a proven part from inventory, use it, and later employ the fabrication process for its inventory replacement. Only standardizing parts can make this possible or, at the least, reduce the number of items to be fabricated each time.

  * * *

  You are relieved to learn that the failure has added no appreciable risk to our ship, our world. Nonetheless, you want to know how soon all can be returned to the way it was, the way it should be.

  “What personnel will you use? And, when can you begin?”

  My answer will be the summation of many factors, including failure extent, collateral damage, fabrication (versus replacement) needs, repair complexity, and training requirements. All those aspects except for training would be relatively straightforward, in that they could be readily calculated. How I would go about choosing and preparing personnel for executing the task itself would depend on the existing training programs, simulators, and—most importantly—on social engineering.

  * * *

  Training programs of a sound and effective nature would be a worldship requirement, absent sentient robots and/or cold sleep storage of pretrained human experts. After all, even with careers lasting fifty years, a five-hundred-year transit means that those standing watch and making repairs when the ship reaches the destination star will be ten or more generations removed from the ones who received their training before departure. Adequate training can be accomplished by a variety of approaches, including apprenticeships and shadowing, as well as by schools and testing. To sustain competence over long periods, however, programs would have to include periodic verification and demonstrations of expertise, as well as formal refresher-training periods.

  Simulators would not only be the key element in achieving and maintaining expertise but would also be vital in preparing for non-routine evolutions and repair activities. US nuclear operators have benefited enormously by the federal mandate after the 1979 Three Mile Island accident for nuclear plants to have site-specific simulators. Before that, operator training relied on far less realistic methods, with perhaps a few hours on a remote vendor simulator that usually did not precisely replicate the plant that they would operate. The growth in computer power now allows current operators to learn how to respond to almost any failure in the plant. More than that, however, nuclear plant simulators have been used as a powerful investigatory tool, including verifying procedure accuracy. Worldships
would have far more powerful simulators, closer to the holodecks of Star Trek fame than the ones of today. Such machines would be capable of simulating any place aboard the ship, allowing rehearsals of repair activities as well as control-room scenarios.

  Social engineering would be pervasive in its effects, including how to prepare for a complex repair evolution. It is, quite frankly, the “long pole in the tent,” the “eight-hundred-pound gorilla,” or any other such analogy. Has the worldship had a stable culture throughout the long transit? After all, three or five hundred years is a long time. Is the culture a technological one? Or, do “we” live in an artificial, low-tech society, established as such in an attempt to increase stability? Maybe the ship contains cultures at multiple levels in some sort of class system. These choices matter!

  Ideally, a major repair effort would involve three or more large teams, so that the work—once begun—could proceed until completion without interruption. Remote monitoring would also be continuous, as just one part of quality control and assurance activities. Materials, modules, and supplies would constantly be staged in to the work area with inspectors verifying that all is proceeding as planned. These are just some of the many jobs that would require specialized training separate from that of those actually performing the on-site labor.

  How deep is the pool of technically literate and competent workers? Will the repair leader be able to simply choose from lists of qualified and experienced individuals to fill the organizational slots? Or, will repairs have to wait until enough personnel get screened for aptitude, become educated, receive basic training, and only then begin to prepare for the task?

  Once personnel are selected, how many will stick out the potentially rigorous training? How many will agree to do the probably uncomfortable (and possibly dangerous) work? How will their compliance be ensured? Will they be naval officers and ratings self-selected for fidelity to duty? Will they be clerics under vows of obedience? Or, might the rewards be designed to attract the top athletes of the day?

  Will the repair procedures and requirements rely on rites and liturgy? Or, would the simulators have become a central part of a freewheeling, holodeck-style gaming culture? Factors such as those will dictate how long the training will take for any evolution, including a major repair activity.

  * * *

  I give you my answer and, to my profound relief, you accept it.

  “Very well, I approve. What are you going to do now?”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence! I am off to St. Tesla’s to meet with the abbot. Together, we will begin to plan the pilgrimage to the Fourth Radian Magnetic Coupling.”

  “May the Designers watch over you.”

  They have, for all these many centuries.

  Nanny

  Les Johnson

  Les Johnson is a husband, father, physicist, manager, and author of science fiction/science fact (whew!). In his “day job,” he works for NASA where he serves as the Solar Sail Principal Investigator for America’s first interplanetary solar-sail mission, the Near-Earth Asteroid Scout. In addition to writing science fiction, Les writes popular science. His latest, with co-author Joe Meany, is Graphene: The Superstrong, Superthin, and Superversatile Material That Will Revolutionize the World. Learn more about Les by visiting his website: www.lesjohnsonauthor.com

  ANGELA (AGE 9)

  Nanny said it wouldn’t be long until we got to go outside and play—I can’t wait! Ever since I can remember, we’ve looked out the window and dreamed of going outside—out of the house—and into the sunshine. It’s so beautiful out there. Sibby and I have thought about finding a way to open the door and sneak out without Nanny knowing, but she’s too scared and I won’t do it by myself. The door is too big and it might get stuck. And then Nanny would find out and we’d get in trouble. I don’t like it when Nanny gets mad at me.

  One day Caleb and his brothers tried to open the door and Nanny caught them. With the scariest voice I’ve heard come from Nanny, they were told that they were bad and that terrible things would happen to them if they went outside before they were ready. Caleb went into time-out. He stood there for an hour, unable to move except for his eyes. He looked so scared. Nanny said that it was better to be scared while you were safe inside than to be scared and likely hurt or killed outside. After Nanny let Caleb out of time-out, he ran to his room and cried. I would have cried too.

  It isn’t that I don’t like Nanny. Or Sibby, or Kat, or Caleb, or Sadik. I like all the other kids. I just don’t like being in here with all that out there—and not being able to see and explore it. I’ve watched the vids about explorers ever since I can remember. We have to. Nanny shows them to us at least once a week. I don’t know why Nanny tells us how important it is to explore and then keeps us from going to the one place we must explore. All we hear is, “You will, in time.”

  Today I stood in front of the window looking outside for so long that my feet hurt. It was after I finished my lessons. In class, we reviewed how to grow food in the dirt, how to know when the plants need water, and what to look for to keep them healthy. Actually, planting seeds in the dirt of outside sounds like so much fun! The plants here in the house are grown in water. Nanny calls it “hydroponics.” It seems that back before we learned how to grow plants in water, all we knew was how to grow them in the dirt. Now we have to go back to the old ways and I don’t understand why. I can’t wait to put my hands in the dirt and feel it. Nanny says the dirt outside will nourish our plants just like it does the ones that aren’t ours.

  Sometimes this idea of “ours” and “not ours” is confusing.

  While I was looking out the window, I saw one of the many local animals climb a tree. It didn’t look like any of the Earth animals we studied. It had four legs, hair, and a tail but it somehow managed to look slimy. Like a salamander, but not really. And then it happened. From up in the sky, one of the birds swooped down and grabbed it. Swoosh. That was it. The slimy animal became dinner for one of the big birds that we often see flying overhead. The birds are the only animals we’ve seen that look like something from Earth, only bigger. A lot bigger. They look like the drawings of flying dinosaurs, making them very scary. But I’m not afraid. Nanny says we have weapons to defend ourselves and that the birds will learn not to mess with us. I trust Nanny.

  After I left the window, I played for a while with Sibby and then it was time for supper. I like supper. All the kids gather in a big, big room filled with tables and chairs and we eat together. Four hundred and ninety-two. That’s how many kids are here in the house. Nanny reminds us of it a lot. “It isn’t enough, but it’s a start.” Four hundred and ninety-two seems like a lot to me. Especially since Nanny is the only one who takes care of all of us.

  Her and the housebots, anyway. Whenever one of us gets into something we’re not supposed to, one of the housebots will always catch us and then will come Nanny. Whatever you say in one room, even when Nanny isn’t present, Nanny knows—everything. When one of the kids is sick. When one is crying. Nanny even knew when I confessed to Sibby that I thought Zach was cute. Nanny heard us and after that we learned about reproduction. About how girls and boys are different for a reason and about babies. Nanny said we were all babies once and that she and the housebots helped us grow up. When someone asked about who our parents were, the ones who “reproduced” to make us, there was no answer. We just heard what we almost always hear: “You will find out, in time.” I think Nanny just doesn’t want to tell us.

  “Life is fragile,” Nanny says, usually after someone gets hurt and then she reminds us that there used to be five hundred of us. “Eight babies died after they were born, making you all the more precious.”

  After supper we had clean-up time and now it’s time for bed. I’m not sleepy. All I can think about is outside and how much I want to go and explore it. But it’s bedtime and the lights will soon go out. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to go outside.

  MANUEL (YEAR ONE; FIRST AWAKE CYCLE)

  The ship left the Lunar
Gateway ten months ago and the excitement has long since faded as the reality of being cut off from home, and everyone you know there, has set in. Most are taking it well; others, not so much. I’ve seen tears, heard some angry words after an increasingly frustrating two-way, speed-of-light-delayed signal exchange with Earth, and a lot of people just counting down the days until they can go into cryosleep. And the eternal debate about whether one dreams in cryosleep rages on. It gives people something to talk about, I guess.

  Being on first cycle, I experienced the ship’s departure acceleration and saw Earth become smaller and smaller until it was finally gone. For the record, it didn’t look like a pale blue dot to me. Just a dot. And then it vanished among the sea of stars. “Just a dot: not a lot,” as my kindergarten teacher was fond of saying. It is amazing what you remember when you have time to reflect.

  My name is Manuel Delance and I’m the ship’s astrogator and first officer. Being second in command of two hundred well-trained professionals, only twenty of whom are awake on any given cycle, in a mostly automated ship, is largely ceremonial. There really isn’t anyone the captain and I need to “command.” For this reason, I concentrate on my real role as astrogator. It’s my job to make sure the navigation system is working, so we can know where we are, that we’re on the correct trajectory, and to work with the propulsion engineers to make any needed course corrections. So far, so good. Aside from a minor tweak in the ship’s trajectory at the beginning of my shift, everything appears to be working as it should. Simply put, there was nothing for me to do.