The Death of the Universe: Rebirth: Hard Science Fiction (Big Rip Book 3) Read online

  The Death of the Universe: Rebirth

  Hard Science Fiction

  Brandon Q. Morris

  Contents

  The Death of the Universe: Rebirth

  Author's Note

  Also by Brandon Q. Morris

  The Guided Tour to the End of the Universe

  Glossary of Acronyms

  Metric to English Conversions

  Excerpt: The Triton Disaster

  The Death of the Universe: Rebirth

  November 15, 1983, Earth orbit

  Goodbye, Earth. The probe had reached its top speed. Russia lay 380 kilometers below, where the probe had left the factory of the NPO Lavochkin Aerospace Company more than a year ago. But ‘Prognoz 9’, as it was officially called, wasn’t looking down. Its gaze was directed continuously toward the sun. At the same time, its two-meter-wide, one-meter-long cylindrical body rotated on its axis approximately every two minutes.

  This was practical, because it meant the sunlight always reached the four solar panels, stretched out from its sides like the leaflets of a four-leaf clover, at the optimum angle. But even more critical was the measuring instrument that Prognoz 9 carried on the underside of its barrel-shaped body, which was always facing away from the sun. ‘Relikt-1’ consisted of two horn-shaped antennae, which measured the intensity of a particular wavelength of the microwave radiation propagating in space. The Earth—which Prognoz 9 had left five months ago on the tip of a Molniya-M rocket—was in the way. That was why the probe was distancing itself as much as possible on a starkly elliptical orbit, up to a distance of 720,000 kilometers, more than twice as far as the moon that had been the Earth’s companion for billions of years.

  It was lonely all the way out there, but that was where Prognoz 9 had to spend the majority of its time. The deeper it penetrated into the blackness of the universe the more it slowed, and the more precise the measurements of the Relikt-1 instrument became. It tirelessly collected photons from the cosmic background radiation, charting the entire celestial sphere. Every four days the probe sent the collected data back to Earth, where the Space Research Institute of the Soviet Academy of Sciences was waiting to receive it.

  Every seven days Prognoz 9 checked whether the sun was still directly in view. Today, the control unit ordered a short burst from the corrective thruster, which was sufficient to align the probe precisely again. Its mission would be complete after it orbited the Earth two more times.

  Prognoz 9 industriously collected data. But it didn’t understand the data stored in its primitive memory. It only recorded 120 measurements per Earth orbit. Still, the data contained something that would excite the scientists in Moscow and ultimately shape the future of humanity.

  The data also harbored a danger, the extent of which went beyond the imagination of the researchers. Because it came from a time when this universe didn’t yet exist.

  December 20, 1983, Moscow

  “Comrade Strukov?”

  “Speaking. What is it?”

  Strukov was holding the black telephone receiver against his left ear. He used his other hand to push aside the stack of pages that had come off the printer. The corrections would have to wait.

  “I’m the secretary to Dr. Doroshkevich from the Lebedev Institute. My name is Shandarin.”

  One of those poor Kandidat Nauks. Strukov forgot his name immediately. It took forever to go from Kandidat Nauk—the first doctoral degree—to the next level. During this time the hopeful scientists were little more than glorified henchmen. Or secretaries, like this... What was his name again?

  “What do you want?”

  At this level, being friendly was a total waste of time. By the time this secretary had finally made it, Strukov knew he himself would have long since been made a life-long member of the Academy... as long as his biggest supporter within the Institute’s management kept his promise.

  “Dr. Doroshkevich would like to speak with you,” said the secretary.

  Doroshkevich himself? Strukov’s heart beat faster. That was another league altogether. Doroshkevich was significantly farther up the career ladder than the rung he sat on. He was probably already earning over 300 rubles, while his own wife still complained about the 220 that he brought home each month.

  “Of course. I don’t have a lot of time, but for your boss I will make time.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Strukov. I’ll transfer you.”

  The line clicked twice. Then it crackled and clicked again.

  “Doroshkevich here. Good afternoon, Strukov.”

  “Good afternoon, comrade. What can I do for you?”

  Doroshkevich headed the laboratory for the physics of the early universe at the Lebedev Physical Institute at the Academy of Sciences. It was a very prestigious job—after all, the institute dated back to Tsar Peter the Great.

  “I’m just reading the article you submitted for publication in the Astronomicheskii Vestnik.”

  Strukov started sweating. Why hadn’t the editor of the journal warned him he was going to ask Doroshkevich, of all people, to perform the mandatory review before publication? The man was known for his harsh, even caustic reviews.

  “I’m pleased, comrade.”

  “Andrei. Call me Andrei, Igor.”

  Sweat was now running down his temples. Something wasn’t right here. Doroshkevich was a few years older, and enjoyed higher status. There was no reason for him to be so chummy—unless he wanted something from him. But what could he possibly want? Everything that occurred to him Doroshkevich could get without his help through the connections he doubtless already had.

  “Yes, comrade, it’s an honor.”

  “A very nice piece of writing, Igor,” said Doroshkevich, raising his tone at the end as though there was more to the sentence, but he didn’t dare say it. Some sentences were better left unfinished, where everyone understood what was meant. But now? Strukov was utterly clueless.

  “Thank you, comrade.” He didn’t dare use the man’s first name. Sometimes these invitations were extended by people of higher rank, with no expectation that they would be accepted. In such cases it was more about conveying a certain sentiment.

  “I’m impressed with the precise way you’ve collated and evaluated the data. That must have taken you several weekends.”

  Well, yes. The work had been comprehensive and thorough. But the essay had been composed by his own Kand-Nauks, based on the measurements from the Prognoz 9 space flight. The text dealt with both gamma radiation bursts and cosmic background radiation. Which one was Doroshkevich interested in?

  “The conclusions you derive from this, comrade, are very bold.”

  ‘Bold...’ That’s not a nice word, he thought. No one who desired to advance his career wanted to be considered ‘bold.’

  “Which section are you referring to?” he asked quietly.

  “Sorry? I can’t hear you very well. The line is quite crackly. Maybe our Chekist friends are listening in, ha-ha.”

  In Doroshkevich’s position, he could get away with jokes about the secret police. But it was best if Strukov didn’t laugh along with him. He held the telephone receiver closer to his mouth.

  “I’m wondering which section you’re referring to in your assessment,” he said loudly into the phone.

  “Ah, now I can hear you much better. I’m talking about the anisotropies in the background radiation found by Relikt-1.”

  “Yes, those were wonderful new findings. The experiment was really worthwhile. It’ll show the world once again how superior socialist science is—”

&nb
sp; “I understand your enthusiasm, Igor.”

  But? Again, the end of Doroshkevich’s sentence had been left hanging in the air. Strukov didn’t answer. He wished the man would just say what was on his mind.

  “We always need to take a broad view in our work, keep an eye on the big picture, you know, Igor. To show the imperialists how good we are is one thing. But sometimes we also have to keep our knowledge to ourselves, when it better serves socialism to do so.”

  Oh. So, that was his previously implied ‘but.’ The disappointment gripped his heart and squeezed it. A research paper the results of which he wasn’t allowed to publish wouldn’t advance his career. He had turned down all the offers from the military for this, even though the army paid their researchers much more. But to never be allowed to publish, that was unacceptable to him.

  His wife was still scolding him about the decision. She probably would have scolded him anyway, even if he’d said yes, because then she wouldn’t be able to live in the capital, and would have had to freeze her ass off on some Siberian base, far away from civilization. Thinking about his wife distracted him from the disappointment that Doroshkevich was about to dish out.

  “Igor? Don’t you have anything to say? Never mind. It’s about the structures you found in the background radiation. You write that there’s no physical process that can explain them, and you even claim that with further research you would be able to prove there was information contained in them.”

  Yes, if the data had been a bit more precise, he was confident he could have detected its information content. But the resolution of the Relikt-1 instrument was simply too low for that. If only he hadn’t included this conjecture! But he had been too proud, and it was a brilliant argument for repeating the experiment with a better instrument. He couldn’t pass up that opportunity.

  “It was actually a little premature of me to state such unproven assumptions,” he said.

  “No, Igor. That’s exactly what the discussion section of every scientific article is for. You’ve done excellent work.”

  “Thank you, comrade.”

  “Nevertheless, I have to ask you to completely remove this section. The observations about the gamma bursts and the general tendencies of the anisotropies of the cosmic background radiation can stay.”

  “What?”

  Strukov couldn’t believe it. He was supposed to scrub out more than half of the article? There was so much more in the data!

  “Igor, I completely understand you, from one physicist to another. But if your assumptions are correct, it would be sensational. The West doesn’t seem to have a clue about it yet. We could be a decade ahead of them—when did that last happen? And who knows what the universe is trying to reveal to us in this data? Do you think it’s a coincidence that our socialist research discovered it first?”

  Now Doroshkevich was laying it on thick. His findings weren’t that significant. They weren’t even facts, just speculation. But Andrei wasn’t just a colleague, he was also competition. His lab also needed to produce results. He was probably thinking he might be able to use the results to propose a follow-up mission under his own leadership.

  “I don’t know, comrade. My superiors will have questions for me. You know that.”

  That was just an excuse. His bosses didn’t take any notice of his work. They had enough to worry about with their own advancement, especially given the uncertainty that had spread throughout the country since Brezhnev’s death last year.

  “I’m sorry Igor, but I have to insist. Without these changes, the article won’t appear in the Astronomicheskii Vestnik at all. And then your superiors will ask you what became of the expensive Relikt-1 experiment.”

  Unfortunately, Doroshkevich was right. Relikt-1 had been his suggestion. He had to justify the rubles spent on it. If nothing was published, Relikt-1 would be considered a flop. Strukov rubbed his temples. There was no way around it. He’d have to swallow the bitter pill.

  “I understand, comrade,” he said. “I’ll need a few days to update the article. Shall I send it directly to you at the Lebedev Institute?”

  “I don’t just need your text for the Astronomicheskii Vestnik, I need all the data, too.”

  Strukov swallowed. “I’ll collate it.”

  “Are there any copies of it left in Tyuratam?”

  “I don’t know. But since Prognoz 9 is still delivering data, I would assume so.”

  “Good, then I’ll need that data at my institute, too. But you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll expect your article in a week.”

  Strukov bit his lip. There was no use getting upset about it. The other man simply had more leverage than he did. “Of course, comrade. And thank you so much for taking the time.”

  Doroshkevich muttered something incomprehensible and then the connection was cut. Strukov continued listening into the receiver. The crackling was soon drowned out by a busy signal. He put the receiver down and rubbed his ear dry. Then he opened his desk drawer, took out a vodka bottle, and poured some of the clear, slightly oily liquid into a glass sitting at the edge of the desk.

  A drunk would just drink straight from the bottle. He wasn’t a drunk. He stowed the bottle back in the drawer and downed the contents of the glass.

  “Aaaaahhhhh,” he said, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

  The warmth spread across his gullet. It smelled like medicine. Now, he needed a cigarette.

  December 24, 1983, Moscow

  “Shandarin, is the data from the Space Research Institute here yet?”

  Shandarin was standing in front of his desk, his arms hanging helplessly at his sides. Hadn’t he explicitly told his secretary to notify him as soon as Strukov’s article arrived?

  “No, comrade, it still hasn’t arrived. You told me I should—”

  “Thank you, Shandarin. Do I have to do everything myself? I’ve told you again and again that you need to take some initiative. You still haven’t reminded Strukov about the data, have you?”

  The secretary blushed, lowered his eyes, and shook his head.

  Doroshkevich actually felt sorry for him. He was reminded of when he himself was still a Kandidat Nauk 20 years ago. But it couldn’t be helped, you had to endure it. Life wasn’t easy at the bottom.

  “Yes, comrade. No, comrade.” Shandarin wilted.

  He seemed to be quite a mama’s boy—even though he had his three years of military service far behind him, which usually made a real man out of every boy. The reason he hadn’t tossed the younger man out long ago was due to his exceptional mathematical talents. Shandarin was an ace when it came to partial differential equations. If he just pulled himself together a little, he’d have a bright future ahead of him.

  “Now, chin up,” he said encouragingly. “To be fair, your reminder wouldn’t have had any effect on Strukov. The man is far too full of his own importance.”

  That would have to do as a consolation.

  “You can go now. Don’t forget the article from Ivanov that you were going to proofread. His problem-solving approach doesn’t seem very well thought-out to me. And close the door behind you.”

  The heavy oak door fell closed. Doroshkevich picked up the receiver and dialed zero for the exchange. A female voice asked him snappily what he wanted. That was typical. The ladies at the telephone exchange were making the most of their power as long as they still had it. Soon all the heads of laboratories would get direct-dial telephones.

  “Strukov, Space Research Institute,” he bellowed into the receiver.

  The woman said nothing, but after half a minute he heard the dial tone and then Strukov answered.

  “Doroshkevich here,” he said.

  “Comrade Doroshkevich, nice to hear from you.”

  “The data, Igor, have you remembered the data?”

  “I still need a few more days. But then—”

  “Quit stalling! I need it now. I have a lot of free time over the next few week
s. I’d like to use that time to analyze it.”

  “But doesn’t your family need you to prepare for the New Year celebrations? My wife is constantly on my case about everything I still need to procure and whether I know someone who...” Strukov paused then, waiting for the reply.

  Doroshkevich was close to exploding. How did Strukov know his wife had thrown him out a few weeks ago? He’d probably gone out of his way to mention the family that he no longer had! No, Strukov couldn’t know. No one in the Institute knew apart from Shandarin, whose tiny hovel he was holed up in. Strukov was just looking for an excuse not to hand over the data yet.

  “No, Strukov, my wife takes care of all that on her own and lets me get on with my work. Maybe you should tell your wife that. She’s hindering the socialist sciences by keeping you from your work.”

  “I keep telling her that.”

  “Good, Strukov. Regarding the data—my secretary will come and pick it up from you in an hour.”

  “But I still have to—”

  “It doesn’t matter what state it’s in. I’ll figure it out. I know the data format of the Prognoz probes very well. I had experiments on Prognoz 5 and Prognoz 7.”

  “Then I’ll be expecting your courier,” said Strukov. “Can I—”

  “Thank you so much for your cooperation. I definitely won’t forget it.”

  Doroshkevich ended the call abruptly. Then he called out loudly to Shandarin, who sat at a small desk in his outer office.

  “Make it quick,” he said, waving Shandarin out of his office.

  The young man left the room.

  Good, he’d soon have that very promising data. Doroshkevich stood up and flopped onto the heavy leather sofa behind his desk. It was one of the perks the head of a laboratory was able to enjoy.