Майкл Бишоп - The Final Frontier - Stories of Exploring Space, Colonizing the Universe, and First Contact

“But it didn’t survive. It was blown to bits.”

“It was blown into only two bits. The important bit is still working.”

“How?”

“It has multiple fallback layers.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, think of a medieval knight. He had a shield to stop arrows, but if any got past that, he had armor. Some arrows can pierce armor, so under the armor was cloth padding. Any arrow that got past all that was going a lot slower, so it had less of a chance of killing him. The Argo is similar. It can take a lot of damage and keep working.”

“So it’s okay?”

“Yes and no. The Argo and its armor were blown apart from each other by the collision. Unprotected, the Argo can’t pass close enough to Centauri A to change course for Gliese 581.”

“Why not?”

“Because stars are hot, the heat would melt it!” I snapped, almost taking his bait and yelling. “Get your act together, Jason, you’re not that stupid.”

“Don’t damage Jason’s self-esteem,” said my wife without looking up.

“Hang on, if the Argo was pointed to go that close to the star, won’t it still go there and melt?” asked Jason.

“So, you are paying attention.”

“Well? I asked an intelligent question.”

“And I’m still recovering from the shock.”

“Do I get an answer?”

“There were six more Harpy probes on the Argo, each with a rocket engine. The control crew in California fired the rockets of the probes without releasing them. This changed the Argo’s course, taking it further away from Centauri A.”

“But that means it won’t swing around to point at that other star.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why bother saving it?”

“Because of what may be out there that we can’t see as yet. The Argo’s power plant is rated for three hundred years of operation, and two hundred and fifty of those years are still left. It may be pointed at empty space, but who knows whether empty space is entirely empty?”

The flyby of Centauri A was very poor as a holovista spectacle, because there was nothing to see from the probe. The Argo’s telescope, instruments and sensors had been put into lockdown, and all equipment that could be spared was turned off. With so much heat pouring onto the probe from the star, the instruments could not be allowed to generate any more heat than could be helped.

Computer graphics had replaced the imagery from on-board cameras, and an internal temperature graph took up half of our holovista. Two tracks, representing the Argo and its shield, were edging closer and closer to Centauri A. Ironically, shield was on the original course, and would swing around the star and go on to reach the Gliese system in two hundred years. The Argo was by now two million miles further out.

“Strange to think that the shield will survive the flyby better than the Argo,” I said.

Jason grunted. He was interested, but trying hard to disguise the fact.

“Meantime the Argo has speed on its side, and it will not be in the super-hot zone for very long,” I continued. “If we’re lucky, nothing important will fail before it starts cooling down.”

“But there’s nothing ahead to look at,” said my wife.

“Nothing that we know about,” I replied, trying hard to stay optimistic.

For reality entertainment, the flyby had little drama. The temperature peaked a minute after the closest approach, but apparently that was something to do with heat dispersal, and was expected. Very little failed, because even the Argo’s internal equipment had been built to survive extremes. Someone opened a bottle of champagne and began handing out glasses.

“Okay, now I know we don’t have much to celebrate,” Jackson began as she raised her glass to toast the Argo’s survival.

“Control-Captain!”

I have no idea who shouted, but the holovista immediately switched to a screen projection displaying three words and a number. The message had not come from the Argo.

FIREWALL SURVIVED. ACKNOWLEDGE. 41.

There was the sound of breaking glass as some of the control crew dropped their champagne in their haste to get back to their consoles. I noticed that my wife and son were suddenly giving the holovista their complete attention. After what seemed like ages, Jackson spoke to the journalist.

“The backup processor on the shield has come back to life!” she said breathlessly.

“What does that mean?” the journalist asked.

“The shield’s computer survived. It’s on course to Gliese 581.”

“But all the instruments are aboard the Argo,” she pointed out.

“The shield has an entangled processor, a few instruments, a small telescope, batteries and solar panels. It can do a survey at Gliese after all. We just need to check its course.”

“Can’t you focus on the signal that came in, and do a Doppler analysis?”

Suddenly the cat was out of the bag. The journalist had been acting dumb, but in the excitement of the moment she had forgotten herself and started asking intelligent questions.

“The message came through the shield’s entanglement circuitry, and that’s not directional,” said Jackson. “I’m having the Argo’s main telescope activated and swung around to focus on where the shield will be. It should still be visible, its surface is highly reflective.”

The image from the telescope was put on the screen, but it was blank.

“Too far?” asked the journalist.

“The shield should be a faint star at the center of the divided crosshairs. It’s transmitting, so it’s still in one piece.”

“Then where is it?” asked the journalist.

“It has to be there. Maybe the coating on the shield darkened because it flew so close to Centauri A.”

“Try scanning on a course intercepting Centauri B in six days,” said a male voice off-camera.

“What was that, lieutenant?” asked Jackson.

“Scan for Centauri B intercept at around four percent of c,” said the unseen officer. “The shield did an aerobrake in Centauri A’s atmosphere.”

There was a short, razor-sharp silence. This was holovista reality at its most intense.

“Do it!” Jackson finally shouted.

Moments later the telescope had been repositioned. At fifteen million miles, the image had to be blown up so much that it displayed as just a cluster of half a dozen square pixels, but there it was. The shield had lost velocity equal to nearly five percent of lightspeed and was on a course for the second largest of the Centauri suns.

“Arrest that man!” shouted Control-Captain Jackson, pointing at someone off-camera. “Arrest Lieutenant Ashcroft!”

The holovista image winked out, and was replaced by some talking head anchor man. He apologized for the break in transmission.

My family and I were still babbling to each other about what might have happened when my UDP sounded.

“Hullo, Harper speaking.”

“Mackerson here, Andy. Have you been watching the Argo flyby?”

“Yes, yes. It’s unbelievable. I—”

“Are you willing to preside in an establishment hearing for the Argo case?”

“Me?” I gasped stupidly. “They asked for me? No, no, I mean, er, who asked for me?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

He’s offering you a chance to be part of the Argo mission, screamed a voice in my head. Say yes, you idiot, say yes!

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“You’re to be at Heathrow Suborbital Departures in forty minutes, I’ll bring a tiltfan to your house. Your briefs, itinerary and clearances will be downloaded to your UDP.”

I now learned what is meant by instant fame. Within a few minutes, Mackerson’s contract security guards had arrived and turned the house into an exclusion zone. Not far behind them were the experientialists, bloggers, agents, promoters, paparazzi, tooters, tweeters, Spacebook frontals, and even a few old-style journalists. I had gone from being a respected but obscure magistrate to an interworld celebrity in less time than it takes to have a rushed breakfast. Jason discovered that his Spacebook posting ‘Dad’s got the Argo case’ had seven thousand likes. I was winched up from my front steps to a tiltfan shuttle while hundreds of cameras focused on me. Mackerson helped me through the hatch, then the tiltfan spun about elegantly and set off for the airport.