Scott Nicholson - First Light

“The usual,” Katherine said. “Possible disruption of regular signal transmission but no need for extraordinary measures.”

“A little static on the cell phone,” Chien said. “A little snow for the TV viewers with a dish. No Doomsday on the radar.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“I’m thrilled. An apocalypse would be terribly inconvenient. I’ve got a hot date tonight.”

Katherine managed a rueful smile. “Wish I could say the same. Take my advice and never get married.”

Chien didn’t want to tiptoe through those conversational landmines, so he shifted back to business. The bulging projectile of the solar flare clung to the sun’s surface like a drop of water on the lip of a leaky faucet. Usually, the flare would collapse again, the charged particles of helium and hydrogen reeled back by the intense gravity. But this one kept swelling, a ragged dragon’s breath of plasma leaping into space.

Chien flipped through the suite of instruments, observing the flare at different wavelengths. “Are you seeing this, Katherine?”

“Let me get this bulletin out first.”

“I’d hold off on it for a moment. We might be upgrading.”

“We can’t upgrade. This is M-1 already.”

Chien’s mouth went dry and his heart hammered. The solar flare’s footprint grew both on the surface and in its bulge in the heliosphere. “Looking like an X.”

“Daniel, that’s serious. It means rerouting high-altitude aircraft and damage to satellites. If we send out a red alert, we’d better be right.”

“The sun doesn’t care who’s right or wrong,” he said, watching the ragged hole on the sun’s surface widen further and the plume take an immense leap.

X-class solar flares dispensed radiation that could threaten airline passengers with exposure if they were not adequately shielded by the Earth’s atmosphere. Such flares were rarely recorded, but Chien was well aware that human measurement of such phenomena was but the blink of an eye against the ancient history of the sun. No doubt thousands—perhaps millions—of massive flares had swept across the Earth in ages past, scouring the planet with radiation and scrambling its geomagnetic fields. Chien was alternately excited and frightened that he might be witness to one of them.

But Katherine was right. Issuing an X-class bulletin would set a whole range of actions in motion, affecting the telecommunications industry, defense, and air transportation. Rerouting flights alone would cost millions of dollars, not to mention throwing off flight schedules that could disrupt international travel for weeks. Any shutdown of telecommunications and satellite service could quickly run costs into the billions as well. This was a panic button that, once pressed, could not be easily dismissed.

“You know what happens if we cry wolf,” Katherine said.

As project director, Katherine would be the scapegoat for any political fallout, but Chien would likely be drummed out as well. Sure, he could always return to university life, where notoriety was little more than a mildly eccentric selling point on the tenure track. But he’d likely be done in the field of government-funded research, and there wasn’t a whole lot of private-industry opportunity.

But facts were facts, and the numbers were screaming X all the way. “We can’t close our eyes to this,” he said.

“Okay, I will give a warning of ‘possible disruption, monitoring closely,’” Katherine said. “That should keep us covered until we can crunch all the corn flakes.”

She issued the alert to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the Federal Aviation Administration, the Federal Communications Commission, and the departments of Defense and Homeland Security. Katherine rated the threat a G3, a strong geomagnetic storm as measured on a scale of one to five. She logged the data and noted the time, saying to Chien, “Your shift is up. You better go play Romeo.”

“No way,” he said. “The solar cycle doesn’t peak again for 11 years, and I’m not getting any younger.”

“Your call. But take my word for it. When you get to be my age, you wish you’d had more dates with people and fewer dates with computers.”

The solar plume on the screen had grown to epic proportions, so much so that Chien had to zoom out on the imagery just to fit it on the screen. Even for a trained scientist, it was difficult to equate what looked like a bit of Hollywood illusion with billions of tons of solar material hurtling toward the Earth at two million miles an hour. Even if the plume proved truly dangerous, the solar wind and its charged particles wouldn’t reach Earth for at least a day, maybe two.

“Something’s got me worried,” Chien said. “The SDO has only been operating for four years, and in that time we’ve had no major solar storms.”

“So?” Katherine had apparently already swallowed her own downplaying of the threat and accepted mild space disturbance as fait accompli .

“The SDO is itself a satellite. With a vicious enough solar wind, we’d lose uplinks and downlinks, as well as orientation. Worst-case scenario, we won’t be able to track the effect.”

“Well, let’s just pray it’s not a worst case, then,” Katherine said, with a wry smile. Religious references were rare in the space center.

Chien, a Taoist, was not amused, nor was he comforted.

“It’s a bird,” the girl, Madison, said.

“I see that,” Rachel Wheeler said. “It’s pretty. Why don’t we put it in the sky?”

Madison had snipped the misshapen bird from a sheet of black construction paper. It was part of a collage, a series of different shapes held in place with paste. The bottom was a strip of green paper and the sky was a strip of blue paper. There was a square for the house, and a block with wheels that represented Daddy’s truck. The forked brown tree was topped with a clump of green for leaves, and three scallop-edged dots of white were drifting clouds. The biggest object in the collage was a wobbly orange oval, a sun that projected brightness and cheer.

But Rachel’s main interest was the hidden interior of the house.

“Right here?” Madison said, setting the bird in the tree.

Tree. Perhaps she sees security there, maybe a nest.

“Wherever you want,” Rachel said.

“There,” Madison insisted.

“Okay, let’s put the paste on the back so it will stick.” Paste had not changed much from Rachel’s own grade-school days, and she helped Madison dab it on with big, greasy strokes using a wooden Popsicle stick.

Madison stamped the bird into place and frowned. “Maybe it should fly away.”

“How come?”

“So it won’t hear what’s happening in the house.”

“Would the bird be afraid?” Rachel kept her voice level, suppressing any eagerness. She was painfully aware of Do-Gooder Syndrome and those who wanted to help no matter the cost.

Madison shook her head, swishing fine blonde hair across her thin shoulders. “No, because the bird can fly away.”

“Do you sometimes wish you could fly?”

“Yeah, because Daddy won’t let me ride the school bus and then I could come to school.”

Madison had repeated the second grade because she’d missed twenty-seven days in the last school year. Despite the intervention of the Mecklenburg County Department of Social Services, Madison’s father didn’t feel compelled to follow the law. Her mother was serving three years in prison for the manufacture, sale, and delivery of methamphetamine. Because the county had little funding for child services, Madison would remain in her father’s custody unless he committed some unforgivable atrocity on the order of molestation or murder. The “welfare state” was just one of the many oxymoronic catch phrases Rachel had encountered as a school counselor.