Ben Bova: To Save the Sun

“Get me the woman scientist who reported at the conference on the Sun’s explosion, thirty years ago. She was not present at the conference; her report was presented by a colleague.”

The computer needed more than a second to reply, but finally: “Sire, there were four such reports by female scientists at that conference.”

“This was the only one to deal with a plan to save the Earth’s Sun.”

Medical monitors were implanted in his body now. Although the Imperial physicians insisted that it was impossible, the Emperor could feel the microscopic implants on the wall of his heart, in his aorta, alongside his carotid artery. The Imperial psychotechs called it a psychosomatic reaction. But since his mind was linked to the computers that handled all the information on the planet, the Emperor knew what his monitors were reporting before the doctors did.

They had reduced the gravity in his working and living sections of the palace to one-third normal, and forbade him from leaving these areas, except for the rare occasions of state when he was needed in the Great Assembly Hall or another public area. He acquiesced in this: The lighter gravity felt better and allowed him to be on his feet once again, free of the powerchair’s clutches.

This day he was walking slowly, calmly, through a green forest of Earth. He strolled along a parklike path, admiring the lofty maples and birches, listening to the birds and small forest animals’ songs of life. He inhaled scents of pine and grass and sweet clean air. He felt the warm sun on his face and the faintest cool breeze. For a moment he considered how the trees would look in their autumnal reds and golds. But he shook his head.

No. There is enough autumn in my life. I’d rather be in springtime.

In the rooms next to the corridor he walked through, tense knots of technicians worked at the holographic systems that produced the illusion of the forest, while other groups of white-suited meditechs studied the readouts from the Emperor’s implants. Even though the machinery was so highly automated as to be virtually sentient, Imperial tradition—and bureaucratic insistence—kept triply redundant teams of humans on duty constantly.

Two men joined the Emperor on the forest path: Academician Bomeer, head of the Imperial Academy of Sciences, and Supreme Commander Fain, chief of staff of the Imperial Military Forces. Both were old friends and advisors, close enough to the Emperor to be housed within the palace itself when allowed to visit their master.

Bomeer looked young, almost sprightly, in a stylish robe of green and tan. He was slightly built, had a lean, almost ascetic face spoiled by a large mop of unruly brown hair.

Commander Fain was iron gray, square-faced, a perfect picture of a military leader. His black and silver uniform fit his muscular frame like a second skin. His gray eyes seemed eternally troubled.

Emperor Nicholas greeted them and allowed Bomeer to spend a few minutes admiring the forest simulation. The scientist called out the correct names for each type of tree they walked past and identified several species of birds and squirrels. Finally the Emperor asked him about the young woman who had arrived on the Imperial planet the previous month.

“I have discussed her plan thoroughly with her,” Bomeer said, his face going serious. “I must say that she is dedicated, energetic, close to brilliant. But rather naive and overly sanguine about her own ideas.”

“Could her plan work?” asked the Emperor.

“Could it work?” the scientist echoed. He had tenaciously held on to his post at the top of the scientific hierarchy for nearly a century. His body had been rejuvenated more than once, the Emperor knew. But not his mind.

“Sire, there is no way to tell if it could work! Such an operation has never been done before. There are no valid data. Mathematics, yes, but even so, there is no more than theory. And the costs! The time it would take! The technical manpower!” He shook his head. “Staggering.”

The Emperor stopped walking. Fifty meters away, behind the hologram screens, a dozen meditechs suddenly hunched over their readout screens intently.

But the Emperor had stopped merely to repeat to Bomeer, “Could her plan work?”

Bomeer ran a hand through his boyish mop, glanced at Commander Fain for support and found none, then faced his Emperor again. “I… there is no firm answer, Sire. Statistically I would say that the chances are vanishingly small.”

“Statistics!” The Emperor made a disgusted gesture. “A refuge for scoundrels and sociotechs. Is there anything scientifically impossible in what she proposes?”

“Nnn… not theoretically impossible, Sire.” Bomeer said slowly. “A star’s life span can be increased; it has been known for centuries that some stars rejuvenate naturally. Massive stellar collisions at the centers of the globular clusters have been known to transform dying red giants into young blue stragglers, although the process is obviously highly destructive in itself. But her theories involve something entirely different, and in the practical world of reality… it… it’s the magnitude of the project. The costs. Why, it would take half of Supreme Commander Fain’s fleet to transport even the most basic equipment and material needed for such a venture.”

Fain seized his opportunity to speak. “And the Imperial fleet, Sire, is spread much too thin for safety as it is.”

“We are at peace, Commander,” said the Emperor.

“For how long, Sire? The frontier worlds grow more restless every day. And the aliens beyond our borders—”

“Are weaker than we are. I have reviewed the intelligence assessments, Commander.”

“Sire, the relevant factor in those reports is that the aliens are growing stronger and we are not.”

With a nod, the Emperor resumed walking. The scientist and the Commander followed him, arguing their points unceasingly.

Finally they reached the end of the long corridor, where the holographic simulation showed them Earth’s Sun setting beyond the edge of an ocean, turning the restless sea into an impossible glitter of opalescence.

“Your recommendations, then, gentlemen?” he asked wearily. Even in the one-third gravity his legs felt tired, his back ached.

Bomeer spoke first, his voice hard and sure. “This naive dream of saving the Earth’s Sun is doomed to fail. The plan must be rejected.”

Fain added, “The fleet can detach enough squadrons from its noncombat units to initiate the evacuation of Earth whenever you order it, Sire.”

“Evacuate them to an unsettled planet?” the Emperor asked.

“Or resettle them on the existing frontier worlds. The Earth residents are rather frontier-like themselves; they have purposely been kept primitive. They would get along well with some of the frontier populations. They might even serve to calm down some of the unrest on the frontier worlds.”

The Emperor looked at Fain and almost smiled. “Or they might fan that unrest into outright rebellion. They are a cantankerous lot, you know.”

“We can deal with rebellion,” said Fain.

“Can you?” the Emperor asked. “You can kill people, of course. You can level cities and even render whole planets uninhabitable. But does that end it? Or do the neighboring worlds become fearful and turn against us?”

Fain stood as unmoved as a statue. His lips barely parted as he asked, “Sire, if I may speak frankly?”

“Certainly, Commander.”

Like a soldier standing at attention as he delivers an unpleasant report to his superior officer, Fain drew himself up and monotoned, “Sire, the main reason for unrest among the frontier words is the lack of Imperial firmness in dealing with them. In my opinion, a strong hand is desperately needed. The neighboring worlds will respect their Emperor if—and only if—he acts decisively. The people value strength, Sire, not meekness.”