The Dark Spring: Hard Science Fiction Page 4

  Karl rotated the lander on screen. The robot had an octagonal base, open on one side. On the open side was a kind of viewer, the ROLIS instrument, which looked like an eye. It had surveyed the landing area for Philae. The other sides and the top were equipped with solar cells. From the front—the point of view of the eye—three legs extended out to the left, right, and back. Philae couldn’t move with these legs. It had a gas jet, but that was on top, and, if it hadn’t failed, it would have pressed the lander onto the ground so that the mini harpoons integrated into the legs could anchor it to the ground.

  This process had somehow malfunctioned. But they’d still been successful, much to the pride of the team. Philae had bounced off twice but finally landed on the comet—unfortunately in shadow, which ultimately doomed the solar cells. That was puzzle number one, which he had to solve. Philae must have moved out of the shadow of a rocky outcrop. But how?

  Karl switched to the structural model. The walls disappeared, and only the supporting structures and the measuring instruments remained. Philae possessed many more options for gathering information about its surroundings than were possible with a human’s senses. More than a quarter of its mass was devoted to this purpose—like a man whose nose, eyes, and ears were as big as his arms and legs.

  Several cameras showed what the landing site looked like. With the APXS instrument, Philae could taste the composition of the rocks under it. COSAC could take ground samples and analyze volatile components—like a human nose. CIVA contained a microscope and a spectrometer for ground samples, CONSERT detected the physical structure of the comet, MUPUS assessed temperature and solidity, and ROMAP detected magnetic and electrical fields.

  Karl hid the image so that the vast range of possibilities didn’t make his head explode. What was most important right now? The cameras. He didn’t need a specialist to evaluate those images. He wrote a command sequence to provide him with a panoramic view of the surroundings. The computer model reported no errors, so he sent the small program to Robert in West Virginia.

  August 18, 2026 – Lunar Gateway

  “Arms above your head,” said Dave.

  Daniel lifted his arms. He was breathing heavily. The new Artemis suit, of which NASA was so proud, was hard to control, and the joints were stiff and didn’t quite line up with his own joints.

  “Further. All the way up,” said Dave.

  “I can’t go any further.”

  “Put some effort in. You wouldn’t have passed the exam with that kind of performance.”

  Daniel stretched his arms and watched his own movements in the mirror. Dave was right—he looked pitiful. He finally managed to touch his hands together.

  “There you go,” said Dave. “And now bend down and pick up this multi-purpose tool.” Dave showed him the tool, bent down, and placed it on the floor. “Like this,” he said.

  The motion was easy for Dave, who was only wearing his work suit. Daniel brought his arms back down. He mustn’t bend them the wrong way because the Artemis spacesuit had less freedom of movement than his body. They’d practiced this stuff extensively in training, but that was a while ago.

  “You need to be able to do it faster,” said Dave.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Man! What’s up with your generation? You’d rather stay in the lander and steer a rover using VR, wouldn’t you?”

  Daniel shook his head. But when he thought about it, the VR systems were quite good these days. “The suit’s really stubborn,” he finally said.

  “You’re stubborn. Have you seen the suits the Apollo astronauts wore on the moon? They didn’t complain!”

  “That was almost sixty years ago.”

  “I still know some of them,” said Willinger. “They were real heroes.”

  “Times have changed, Dave,” said Livia.

  Thanks, Livia. Daniel still hadn’t reached the floor.

  “It’s got nothing to do with the times. You just don’t want to push yourselves anymore. Compared to the Apollo capsule, this Gateway’s a gymnasium, and you’re complaining that it’s too cramped.”

  “I didn’t complain,” said Daniel.

  “Man, stop talking and get down there.”

  Suddenly Dave pressed down on his shoulders. Daniel’s knees buckled under the weight, and the fabric bulged out around them. The special joints gave way and he sank down.

  “See, you can do it,” Dave exclaimed.

  Daniel’s heart was galloping. Dave could be pretty brutal. “Are you crazy? The joints could’ve burst.”

  “Better they burst now than when things get serious. Imagine I fell and my breathing tube tore off. You want to give me air from your container. You have to be able to bend down fast. If the suit doesn’t allow you to do that, we’re done for, anyway.”

  “Please don’t try things like that down there,” said Daniel.

  “Hopefully you’ve learned something, boy. You need to push yourself harder. It’s like driving a car. Sometimes you have to step on the brakes with everything you’ve got. You’re depending too much on the ABS.”

  “I don’t even have a driver’s license,” said Daniel.

  “What? But weren’t you a fighter pilot in the Navy?”

  “I was. But you don’t need a driver’s license for that. I always use Uber. It’s much more convenient.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Daniel!”

  Daniel pressed his nose against the pane. He missed the ISS dome. In this tin can, ostentatiously named Habitation and Logistics Outpost, or HALO, there weren’t many peepholes. That was supposed to change at some point, but for now they just had to live with it. And it wasn’t yet clear what would become of the Gateway once the Artemis missions to the moon’s surface, approved by Congress, were completed. The Russians and the Chinese now had Mars in their sights. They could still rely on the Europeans and the Japanese, but it was doubtful whether the budget would cover the maintenance of a large station.

  Daniel would have preferred to fly to Mars, too, but the moon mission was probably better. When he thought about having to endure months in such a narrow tube with two or three other crew members, it probably wasn’t for him.

  He pressed his cheek against the cool glass. He could still only see blackness, since they were flying in the moon’s shadow. Nothing was darker than the dark side of the moon, not even a starless sky.

  But the Earth should rise soon. That must be an incredible sight. Returning astronauts always raved about it.

  A bright spot appeared out of the nothingness. It could have been a supernova that had just exploded. But it kept growing and then became a disc, then a semi-circle... changed color, becoming light blue, then dark blue—a radiant blue the likes of which he’d never seen. Then he saw the oceans. They were so far away, and yet he could make out a surprising amount of detail. He should have spent more time consciously observing the moon, which must look at least as detailed from Earth. Strangely, he’d never been interested in astronomy.

  He felt Livia’s hand on his shoulder. Didn’t she need to sleep?

  “Crazy, isn’t it?” she said.

  He nodded. How long had she been there? He pushed himself away from the porthole to make room for her.

  “It’s okay, stay there. I’ve already watched the Earth rising lots of times,” she said.

  He looked out again. “It’s wonderful,” he said. Livia’s hand on his shoulder felt good, not in an erotic sense—just friendly.

  “Yeah, and it’s nice to be able to experience it with someone,” said Livia. “I couldn’t stay where I was when I saw you here.”

  “Thanks,” said Daniel.

  August 18, 2026 – DLR Control Center, Cologne

  “Hello, Charly,” wrote Bob. “I had to wait a while before I could take another look at your problem child, but here’s what you wanted. You owe me a beer. Oh, yeah. One more thing. I have to confess that I took a look at it, and I’m a little skeptical about whether you’ll be able to use th
e image.”

  What did Millikan mean? Karl clicked to open the attachment, a compressed archive. A large number of image files appeared, which was to be expected, because Philae had several cameras, the output of which he still had to compile. Karl opened the first file. Black. The lens must have been covered. Next. Black again. Was this what Robert was alluding to? In the next, there was nothing to see, either. And the one after that. Shit. Maybe all the images were from the same camera? He scrolled down. Click. Black. Click. Black. Click. File not readable. This one must have been damaged in transmission. Click. Black.

  So that was what Robert meant. Philae had its eyes closed—or was standing in complete darkness. Karl searched for the stitcher, a program for creating a combined image from individual ones. They’d written a script especially for Philae. A bar ran across the screen. Back then, they would have had to wait an hour. Ten years later, his computer was so fast it spat out the result in half a minute.

  “Ready.”

  He opened the compiled image. Even if there was something to see on just one of the individual photos, he should see it now. But everything was black. What had happened? He increased the contrast. If Philae was in shadow, there must be a reflection somewhere. But nothing was showing up. He placed it next to the calibration photo—the one that had been made with the lens closed, and saw they were slightly different. The background wasn’t completely black, more a diffuse dark gray that dominated every photo.

  The color was a little lighter where the lander’s leg had presumably come into the shot, which Karl only noticed because he was looking at the spectrum. The cameras weren’t defective. Philae must be inside a thick cloud of non-reflective, impenetrable material. His first thought was dust—the surface of the comet was covered in a thick layer of it—but dust was never distributed so evenly. And if the lander was in darkness, how were the solar cells able to provide enough energy to the battery to activate the device? There was no longer any doubt Philae was awake.

  He’d have to ask Sylvia. She was the planetary scientist, and nobody knew 67P as well as she did. But she wouldn’t be pleased to hear from him. It would be best to write her an email.

  Send.

  There was nothing more he could do. He’d used a conciliatory tone. In the past, he’d always been able to rely on the scientist in her, and the news that their baby was active again would surely make her happy.

  But, Philae could produce much more than just blank landscape photos. Karl launched the program editor, ready to bring out the big guns.

  What was the material beneath Philae composed of? Which fields could the lander detect? This time he addressed the command sequence to all the sensors.

  At the same time, he fetched the old data from the archives. He tested a script on the model, which suddenly came to life. The CONSERT outrigger shifted backward, as though Philae needed to stretch. The MUPUS sensor sank to the ground. APXS looked around under the lander. The model didn’t report any errors.

  Karl imagined the way the real Philae was reacting to the comet. It was only a machine, which had been piggybacking across the solar system for more than 12 years.

  August 19, 2026 – Kennedy Space Center, Florida

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Not at all.”

  Brandon thought about it. One only said that because it sounded cool and masculine, and that was important when one was speaking to a woman one had only known for three weeks. But it was true. One was very calm.

  I’m very calm, he corrected himself.

  Sophie, the French painter, was looking across at him from her launch seat as though she was reading his thoughts and correcting him. Don’t say ‘one,’ she’d say, if you mean ‘yourself.’ Thoughts were free, but he’d learned it was best if one altered one’s thoughts if one... Correction: It was best if he altered his thoughts.

  And it wasn’t that bad. At least, it was the lesser evil compared to Sophie’s admonishments. If only he’d known before he agreed to come! One may as well have, correction, he may as well have taken his ex-wife on the trip. Five years ago, when Kenichi had invited him to be part of the voyage, he was still married to Sarah. He’d only agreed to go to escape her constant complaining.

  Orbiting once around the moon—that would have been a dream come true ten years ago, when he’d just published his first novel. But now that he could afford to do it, the moon had become uninteresting to him. He was often there in his thoughts, ever since Warner made a film adaptation of his novel, and the movie had been nominated for an Oscar. His agent claimed that it didn’t win because of the science fiction genre. He didn’t care. He preferred it that way.

  Sophie was still looking at him. Was there an obvious hair sticking out of his nose? Why didn’t she say something? She really reminded him of Sarah—not visually, but her type. Sophie talked to the things she painted, and that said it all! Brandon winked at her just to be safe. He never really knew what people expected of him. Sophie huffed and turned away. Apparently winking was the wrong thing to do. Brandon sighed.

  “Brandon? Are you okay?”

  He’d forgotten about Jenna! She was watching him from the Control Center. Now she smiled. He slightly raised the screen attached to a bracket on the armrest. That way, Jenna wouldn’t see the hair sticking out of his nose, if he’d interpreted Sophie’s gaze correctly.

  “It’s a bit boring,” he said.

  “Boring? You’ve got who knows how many tons of flammable gas below you that could explode at any moment, and you’re bored?”

  “Close to forty-five hundred metric tons, Jenna. But three-quarters of it is oxygen, and oxygen can’t burn.”

  “That leaves eleven hundred and twenty-six tons of methane, which can oxidize very quickly.”

  Answers like that were what had made him fall in love with Jenna. He’d met her at a reading, where she’d drawn his attention to a mistake in his latest novel.

  “But my host’s last twenty-three launches all went off without a hitch.”

  “Those were mostly Eagle 9s, which only have ten thrusters. You’re sitting in a giant bird with forty-three thrusters. If even one of them fails—”

  “Yeah, sure. Try to scare me. You won’t succeed. The only one who can do that is...” he lowered his voice “...Sophie.”

  Jenna leaned in closer to the camera. He could clearly see her make-up. A hair was sticking out of her ear. Cute! That wasn’t there the last time he was with her.

  “Is the artist annoying you?” she asked quietly.

  “Not intentionally, I suspect.” He’d decided to talk as little as possible about his ex-wife. “She just reminds me of... Never mind.”

  “I understand,” said Jenna with a knowing smile.

  Her mouth was slightly open, and her face was so close that Brandon could count her freckles. He looked around. Sophie was ignoring him. It was so loud in the cabin that there was no way she’d hear him if he whispered.

  “What I’d really like to do to you... You already know,” he whispered.

  “Shag? Fuck? Bang?” Jenna laughed. But she was only playing it so cool because she was also speaking quietly so that the conversation remained between the two of them. Or not. What had Kenichi said? The black box recorded all communication for safety reasons. Well, they’d better not crash.

  The screen went black. Then the face of their tour guide appeared. ‘Kenichi Kikuchi, Captain,’ it said in white letters on the dark blue band at the bottom of the screen. He found it hard to take the title seriously, even if Kenichi Kikuchi, KK for short, was quite proud of it. The real captain of the space vessel was the computer. They had to submit to its instructions, especially when SpaceShip SS1—the pride and joy of the private space company—disappeared behind the moon out of range of Earth-bound radio control.

  A manual setting did exist, but it was only for emergencies. And there wouldn’t be any, that was certain—not so certain that they’d dispensed with manual control, but certain enough that none of the passenger
s had been instructed in how to use it. Only KK, who allegedly trained for half a year, was supposed to know his way around it, which meant he was some kind of captain. On the other hand, a tour-bus guide could probably take over from the driver in an emergency.

  “Dear friends,” said KK, “the time has come to say goodbye to our home planet. We’ll release ourselves from the fetters that have chained us to the ground our entire lives.”

  Hopefully the man wouldn’t talk for too long. The countdown must be about to start, and he hadn’t said goodbye to Jenna yet.

  “For some of the time the blue planet will even completely set for us. My friend Ihab Chatterjee, founder of Alpha Omega that constructed this wonderful vessel, has made all this possible for us and sends his warm regards.”

  Hurry up and finish already. The Japanese man was fond of grand gestures and even more elegant words. But he wasn’t all hot air, Brandon had to give him that. He’d bought the first proper voyage on SpaceShip SS1, and he’d stuck with it even when it had been delayed by more than three years and the price had tripled. He’d personally selected all his fellow travelers. Most of them hadn’t known KK previously. Emily Rebehn, the German acrobat whom Brandon enjoyed talking to, had been just as surprised by the invitation as he had.

  “I wish all of us a wonderful journey, an experience that opens our eyes, and a return to Earth, whereupon we are no longer the same people.”

  The others clapped. The applause was muffled because everyone was wearing gloves. A countdown appeared on the blue strip. Only 60 seconds to go. Jenna reappeared.

  “Take care,” he said.

  “Have...”

  A red notification replaced her face. “Close your helmet,” it said.

  Brandon complied. Then Jenna was back.

  “So, have...”