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

“You know what I’m going to ask again,” I said as I slumped into a seat facing him.

“You’re going to say ‘Why me?’”

“Very good. So why me?”

“Politics, experience, jurisdiction, the fact that you’re British, but mostly because you specialize in spacecraft accident investigation.”

“There are plenty of others with that sort of background.”

“The suspect is American, the alleged crime took place on American soil, and American law works on performance justice. America contributed only a fifth of the cost of the Argo mission, however, and several of the other nations and worlds don’t use performance justice. That all means compromise. There must be a public establishment hearing on American soil by an independent magistrate to establish the nature of any felony. You will give it an intersystem flavor.”

“And after that?”

“Your findings will be handed over to an American criminal court.”

He shepherded me through the airport’s immigration, customs and security checks. The suborbital took off. I threw up into a mask bag soon after we went weightless, because my anti-nausea caps were still at home, along with the travel pack I had forgotten to bring. An attendant floated over with a dermal, and somewhere above Greenland I decided that I felt well enough to begin reading the briefs. The case was a nightmare maze of psychology, cyber identity, physics, engineering, astronomy and communications, and was technically beyond most legal people. I had spent thirty years in this field, however, and was used to dealing with new, complex and even bizarre precedents.

I was also well known for being able to think on my feet, and this was a big plus. Events would be still unfolding even as the hearing took place. Some of them would be doing so four and a third light-years away.

Within two hours of answering my UDP in London, I was being met and briefed in San Francisco, in daylight. By my second sunset for the day I was being assigned an office in the same building as Mission Control. Before I could even sit down, a legal clerk escorted me to an auditorium that had been set up as a performance court.

“So, you’re a British magistrate,” she said as we walked.

“Yes, Britain’s main export is legal opinions these days,” I began, but she cut me short.

“Know about performance hearing procedures?”

“I’m qualified to preside in them, but this is my first. The Westminster system does not recognize them.”

“Then listen carefully, I have to tell you this so that I can sign you off as briefed. In this country the public has a right to an opinion. The performance hearing is meant to let the public hear from all parties involved, in plain language, so that it can form its opinion. Some people call it a circus, but we find it works better than anything else.”

“Except that in this case the public is everyone, not just Americans.”

“You’ve got it. Everyone paid for the Argo, so they’re all stakeholders. As stakeholders, we have to treat them as honorary Americans.”

Performance justice had been developed after the old system had delivered some bizarre verdicts. Rape victims had been sued for becoming pregnant, vandals had sued property owners for injuring themselves on glass that they had smashed, and bank robbers had sued banks for invading their privacy during holdups by recording everything with security cameras. The law had become so detached from public opinion that the public had lost patience. Public opinion was now factored into the law.

I took my seat and faced the holocameras.

“Firstly, I wish to remind you that this is not a court of law,” I said for the benefit of the holo audience. “This is an establishment hearing under the Interworld Protocols of 2230, and is meant to provide an overview of events while they are fresh in everyone’s memory. Prosecutions may follow, however, so I must advise you all to stay as close to the facts as your memories permit. I call Control-Captain Emily Jackson to the stand.”

Jackson was sworn in. She maintained the carefully attentive but angry expression of a victim. Doubtlessly a stylist had been giving her some very intensive coaching while I had been vomiting above Greenland.

“Now as I understand it, the Argo collided with something three days ago,” I began. “Is this correct?”

“Yes, yes, everything was on the holovista,” she said impatiently. “Haven’t you been watching?”

“I am collecting statements from witnesses, Control-Captain,” I explained. “Establishment hearings are meant to establish an image of the case for the public. I shall also remind you that I am a presiding magistrate in a legal hearing. One more challenge to my authority and you will be charged with contempt.”

The console before me showed nine million Spacebook dislikes and eleven million likes. The public that was bothering to vote was marginally on my side.

“My apologies, Your Honor,” Jackson replied, “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“Now then, was there any warning of danger?” I continued. “Meteors showing up on the radar, that sort of thing?”

“The Argo was traveling at almost seventeen thousand miles per second, Your Honor. The meteor that crippled it could only be seen under a microscope.”

“So there was no threat detected?”

“There were only general indications of threat and risk. Radar picked up some asteroid-sized bodies near our flight path, the biggest was fifty miles in diameter. We got high resolution pictures of one on the way past.”

“And your control crew voted to call it Jackson.”

“That’s correct, Your Honor.”

“Display the images.”

The clerk of the court put a series of pictures and graphs onto a tabletop holovista beside the witness stand, then a rotating hologram of the asteroid appeared. It could have been from our own solar system, and I would never have known.

“So you discovered asteroids,” I prompted. “And where there are asteroids, there is also dust.”

“Yes, Your Honor. I put the Argo on yellow alert and cancelled all VIP telepresence tours as soon as the first asteroid was detected.”

“How long after going onto yellow alert did the Argo hit the grain of dust?” I asked.

“Five hours,” Jackson replied.

“So you were prepared as well as could be expected?”

“Yes. The Argo has many fallback layers.”

“Please tell me what happened immediately after the strike,” I said.

“The readouts in Mission Control went blank and the alarms went off. All telemetry through the entanglement link ceased.”

“How did the control crew react?”

“People shouted that it was a particle strike. Some of them used a few politically insensitive words.”

“And did your contingency and recovery officer, Lieutenant Ashcroft, did he do anything suspicious?”

“No.”

“Well, just what did he do?”

“Nothing. A virtual of the lieutenant was in one of the Argo’s computers. It was meant to take over and restore the systems after any strike.”

“So what did you do, back in Mission Control?”

“I gave orders to turn off the alarms, released media statements, and ordered a coffee from catering.”

“Nothing else?”

“The entanglement link was out, and the Argo was light-years away. We could only wait for a poll signal. That came after three hours. We then linked straight back into the Argo’s systems.”

“Describe what you found.”

“There was a lot of blankout in the data storage arrays, and Ashcroft-virtual was dead. The comms link had been restored from timed contingency routines. While we were starting repairs, I saw that the shield’s computer and circuits were all dead. I used the camera on the robotic maintenance crawler to get a direct view of the probe’s condition. It showed that the shield section had been smashed away. When I ordered a search with the radar unit and main telescope, this is what we saw.”