♩♫♪♪♫
Can’t say I like the look of that. “Ffff…oooh…rrrr,” I say. Will that do? “Incorrect. What’s two plus two?”
Dang it. I summon all my willpower and inner strength. Also, I’m starting to panic a little. Good. I use that too.
I think in imperial units. That’s a clue. I’m probably an American. Or English. Or maybe Canadian. Canadians use feet and inches for short distances.
Ten-foot ladder. I think in imperial units. That’s a clue. I’m probably an American. Or English. Or maybe Canadian. Canadians use feet and inches for short distances. I ask myself: How far is it from L.A. to New York? My gut answer: 3,000 miles. A Canadian would have used kilometers. So I’m English or American. Or I’m from Liberia. I know Liberia uses imperial units but I don’t know my own name. That’s irritating.
Oh my God it’s good! It’s so good! It’s like thick gravy but not too rich. I squeeze more straight into my mouth and savor it. I swear it’s better than sex. I
Hmm. I think mostly in metric when doing science stuff. Interesting. Most scientists do, though, right? Even scientists who grew up in America.
My subconscious has priorities. And it’s desperately telling me about this. I think my job is to solve the Petrova problem. …in a small lab, wearing a bedsheet toga, with no idea who I am, and no help other than a mindless computer and two mummified roommates. My vision blurs. I wipe my eyes. Tears. I can’t…I can’t remember their names.
My subconscious has priorities. And it’s desperately telling me about this. I think my job is to solve the Petrova problem. …in a small lab, wearing a bedsheet toga, with no idea who I am, and no help other than a mindless computer and two mummified roommates. My vision blurs. I wipe my eyes. Tears. I can’t…I can’t remember their names. But…they were my friends. My comrades.
I want to remember something—anything—on purpose. I don’t care what. But I want to initiate it. Let’s see what I get. I start with what makes me happy. I like science. I know it.
“Your doctorate is in molecular biology, correct? Don’t most scientists agree that liquid water is necessary for life to evolve?” “They’re wrong!” I crossed my arms. “There’s nothing magical about hydrogen and oxygen! They’re required for Earth life, sure. But another planet could have completely different conditions. All life needs is a chemical reaction that results in copies of the original catalyst. And you don’t need water for that!”
It’s a mission crest. I’ve seen enough NASA documentaries to know one when I see one. The circular crest has an outer ring of blue with white text. The text reads HAIL MARY across the top and EARTH across the bottom.
She pressed the intercom button. “There’s a very good chance the sample in that cylinder is an alien life-form. We’re not taking any chances.” “Wait…you’re not taking any chances. But I am!” “It’s not like that.” “How is it not like that?” She paused. “Okay, it’s exactly like that.” I
She sat in one of the chairs and gestured to the other. “Have a seat.” “I’m in the middle of—” “Have a seat.” I took a seat. She had a commanding presence, that’s for sure. Something about her tone of voice or her general confidence level, maybe? One way or another, when she spoke you just kind of assumed you should do what she said.
“First thing I tried was the x-ray spectrometer. It sends x-rays into a sample, making it emit photons and you can tell from the wavelengths of the photons what elements are present.”
“I did some back-of-the napkin math. And I’m pretty sure that light is how they move around.” Stratt raised an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.” “Believe it or not, light has momentum,” I said. “It exerts a force. If you were out in space and you turned on a flashlight, you’d get a teeny, tiny amount of thrust from it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “This isn’t Vulcans dropping by to say hi. This is…space algae.” “An invasive species. Like cane toads in Australia.” “Good analogy.” I nodded. “And the population is growing. Fast. The more of them there are, the more solar energy gets consumed.”
I struggled to remember my Greek and Latin root words. “I think you’d call it ‘Astrophage.’ ”
Each screen has a handy label on the top. “Life Support,” “Airlock Status,” “Engines,” “Robotics,” “Astrophage,” “Generators,” “Centrifuge”—wait a minute. Astrophage? I check the Astrophage panel closely. REMAINING: 20,906 KG CONSUMPTION RATE: 6.045 G/S
But why put a diagram of the ship on this screen? That’s like putting a blueprint of a car on its gas gauge.
“A warm-blooded microorganism?” she said.
She looked away for a moment, then back through the window at me. “Astrophage is an alien microbe. What if it can infect humans? What if it’s deadly? What if hazmat suits and neoprene gloves aren’t enough protection?” I gasped. “Wait a minute! Am I a guinea pig? I’m a guinea pig!” “No, it’s not like that,” she said. I stared at her. She stared at me. I stared at her. “Okay, it’s exactly like that,” she said.
They’re called nanosyringes, but they’re actually about 50 nanometers wide. Still, the needle was tiny compared to the hulking 10-micron Astrophage—only about one two-thousandth the width. I poked an Astrophage with the needle and what happened next was nothing I could have expected. First off, the needle penetrated. No doubt on that front. For all its resistance to light and heat, apparently, Astrophage was no better at dealing with sharp
First off, the needle penetrated. No doubt on that front. For all its resistance to light and heat, apparently, Astrophage was no better at dealing with sharp things than any other cell. The instant I poked a hole in it, the whole cell became translucent. No longer a featureless black dot, but a cell with organelles and everything else a microbiologist like me wants to see. Just like that. It was like flicking a switch. And then it died. The ruptured cell wall simply gave up the ghost and completely unraveled. The Astrophage went from being a cohesive roundish object to a slowly widening puddle with no outer boundary.
“How did you do it? What killed it?” “I penetrated the outer cell membrane with a nanosyringe.” “You poked it with a stick?” “No!” I said. “Well. Yes. But it was a scientific poke with a very scientific stick.” “It took you two days to think of poking it with a stick.” “You…be quiet.”
“Well?” Stratt said. “Well?!” “Um. There’s carbon and nitrogen…but the vast majority of the sample is hydrogen and oxygen.” I sighed and plopped down in the chair next to the machine. “The ratio of hydrogen to oxygen is two to one.”
“I commend your body to the stars.” It seems appropriate.
Besides, if I had a nickel for every time I wanted to smack a kid’s parents for not teaching them even the most basic things…well…I’d have enough nickels to put in a sock and smack those parents with it.
Most notably, a group in Perth sacrificed one of their Astrophage and did a detailed analysis on all the organelles inside. They found DNA and mitochondria.
“According to the Indian Space Research Organization, you guys get going up to 0.92 times the speed of light.” I pointed at them. “Didn’t know we could do that, did ya? Figure out your velocity? They used Doppler-shift analysis of the light you emit to work it out. And because of that, they also know you’re going both directions: to and from Venus.”
When light hits gas molecules, the electrons get all worked up. Then they calm down and re-emit the energy as light. But the frequency of the photons they emit is very specific to the molecules involved. Astronomers used this for decades to know what gases are out there far, far away. That’s what spectroscopy is all about.
That’s when I saw the fourth Astrophage. Just…minding its own business. A fourth cell. It was right in the same general cluster as the first three, on the filters. “Holy…”
A woman in a lab coat had been on her phone. She set it down, then spoke with a thick Chinese accent. “Our scientists have reproduced your results.” Minister Voigt scowled at her. “How did you even know his process? He just told us!” “Spies, presumably,” said Stratt.
“Yes, every star eventually infects all of its neighbors. Judging from our data, we think Astrophage has a maximum range of just under eight light-years. Any star within that range of an infected star will eventually be infected.”
“They only get to about ten percent dimmer before they stop dimming. We don’t know why. It’s not obvious to the naked eye, but—” “But if our sun dims by ten percent, we’re all dead,” I said. “Pretty much.”
“I teach junior high school science,” I said. “These things come up.”
“We have figured this out, yes,” said Dimitri. “With lasers. It was very illuminating experiment.” “Was that a pun?” “It was!” “Good one!”
“Astrophage cell is now seventeen nanograms heavier. You can see where this goes, yes?”
Ah…that would mean there’s a ridiculous amount of IR light coming out the back of the ship right now. Like…enough to vaporize a battleship or something.
So it’s 540 trillion watts. I can’t even fathom that amount of energy. It’s considerably more than the surface of the sun. Literally. Like…you would get hit by less energy if you were on the surface of the sun than if you were standing behind the Hail Mary at full thrust.
I’d spent a blissful week doing nothing but science. No meetings. No distractions. Just experimentation and engineering. I’d forgotten how much fun it was to get immersed in a task.
There’s one directory just called “Library of Congress,” and it appears to be the entire digital catalog of everything that’s ever been copyrighted in the United States. No books about the Hail Mary, unfortunately.
The next two days are, basically, me worrying about what happens next. Oh, I know what happens next—I’m just worrying about it anyway.
Is this really a good idea? I want that cylinder so badly I’m just plowing ahead without any sort of plan. Is this worth risking my life over? Yes. Unequivocally.
Stratt sighed. “We sent out those preliminary designs for general feedback. Not command appearances in Geneva.” “Then file this under ‘general feedback.’ ” “Could have been an email.”
Once positioned, it waits for the hull chunk to arrive and makes a perfect catch. And then, I swear to God, it waves at me! One of its little arms waves at me! I wave back. It waves again. Okay, this could go on all day. I head back toward the airlock.
No one ever talks about the really hard parts of first contact with intelligent alien life: pronouns. I’m going to go with “he” for now, because it just seems rude to call a thinking being “it.”
No one ever talks about the really hard parts of first contact with intelligent alien life: pronouns. I’m going to go with “he” for now, because it just seems rude to call a thinking being “it.” Also, until I hear otherwise, his name is Rocky.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s see what you left me.” “♩♫♪♪♫,” says Rocky.
I look to my alien counterpart. “You have twenty-nine times as much atmosphere as I do.”
Okay, not a problem. We have sound and we can pantomime. That’s a good start for communication
It’s the one set of concepts we’re guaranteed to share—physical laws are the same everywhere.
am not rested at all. Every pore of my being yells at me to go back to sleep, but I told Rocky I’d be back in two hours and I wouldn’t want him to think humans are untrustworthy. I mean…we’re pretty untrustworthy, but I don’t want him to know that.
I am not rested at all. Every pore of my being yells at me to go back to sleep, but I told Rocky I’d be back in two hours and I wouldn’t want him to think humans are untrustworthy. I mean…we’re pretty untrustworthy, but I don’t want him to know that.
He showed me a unit of time, so I’ll show him a unit of length. The tape measure is metric, thank God. It’s going to be confusing enough using base-6 Eridian seconds. The last thing I want to throw in there is imperial units—even if they are natural to me.
Rocky, meanwhile, doesn’t use any system to record what I’m saying or doing. No computer, no writing implement, no microphone. Nothing. He just pays attention. And as far as I can tell, he remembers everything I told him. Every word. Even if I only told it to him once several hours earlier. If only my students were that attentive
I point to the vial. “Astrophage on my star. Bad.” “♫♩♪♫ ♫♪♫♩ ♫♪♫,” Rocky says. The computer translates: Astrophage on me star. Bad bad bad.
Rocky has picked up the basic word ordering of English. I think he realized early on that I can’t automatically remember stuff, so he works with my system rather than trying to teach me his. I probably seem pretty stupid, honestly.
Rocky has picked up the basic word ordering of English. I think he realized early on that I can’t automatically remember stuff, so he works with my system rather than trying to teach me his. I probably seem pretty stupid, honestly. But some of his own grammar sneaks in once in a while.
“Many seconds…” he says. “Why be still so many seconds, question…Understand!” He relaxes his limbs and they go limp. He curls up like a dead bug and remains motionless for a while. “Eridians same! ♪♫♫♪!” Oh thank God. I can’t imagine explaining “sleep” to someone who had never heard of it. Hey, I’m going to fall unconscious and hallucinate for a while. By the way, I spend a third of my time doing this. And if I can’t do it for a while, I go insane and eventually die. No need for concern. I add his word for “sleep” to the dictionary.
I shimmy into bed and resist the urge to say good night. It would just lead to more questions.
“Why?” “I sleep better if you observe.” “Why?” He waves a few arms, trying to find a way to phrase it. “Eridians do that.”
The Blip-A had a crew of twenty-three. Rocky is the sole survivor and he’s understandably upset about it. “Wh…er…” I stammer. “Bad.” “Bad bad bad.” I sigh. “My original crew was three. Now it’s just me.” I put my hand up against the divider. Rocky puts a claw on the divider opposite my hand. “Bad.”
“Well, you’re not alone anymore, buddy,” I say. “Neither of us are.”
He shifted in his seat. “Nuclear reactors, coal plants, solar thermal plants…in the end they all do the same thing: Use heat to boil water, use the steam to drive a turbine. But with Astrophage, we don’t need any of that crap. It turns heat directly into stored energy. And it doesn’t even need a big heat differential. Just anything above 96.415 degrees.”
But he didn’t design it for efficiency. He designed it for scalability.”
“See, there we go,” he said. “Save the world and permanently lift Africa out of poverty while we’re at it. Of course, this is all just a theory. I have to develop the blackpanel and make sure we can mass-produce it. I’d need to be in a lab instead of prison.”
I clear my throat. “Rocky. I am here because Astrophage makes Sol sick but doesn’t make Tau Ceti sick. Are you here for the same reason?”
As a rule, we tried to avoid each other. Our relationship had matured from “annoyed with each other” to “very annoyed with each other.” I was as much a part of the problem as she was.
“Yes. They’ll make neutrinos and have leftover energy. Then they bump into other protons, et cetera. Any heat energy above the critical temperature gets quickly converted into neutrinos. But if it drops below critical temperature, the protons are going too slow and neutrino production stops. End result: You can’t get it hotter than 96.415 degrees. Not for long, anyway. And if it gets too cold, the Astrophage uses stored energy to heat back up to that temperature—just like any other warm-blooded life-form.”
“I know. Did you hear that global warming has been almost undone?” She nodded. “Humanity’s recklessness with our environment accidentally bought us an extra month of time by pre-heating the planet.”
She rubbed her temples. “And we need to make two million kilograms of it. If we make a mistake along the way…” “We’ll save Astrophage the trouble of destroying humanity by doing it ourselves,” I say. “Yeah. I think about that a lot.”
Another day, another staff meeting. Who would have thought saving the world could be so boring?
Because it doesn’t matter if I get cancer. I’m going to die here anyway. But I don’t want to explain that I’m on a suicide mission right now. The conversation’s been pretty heavy already. So I’ll tell him a half-truth. “Earth’s atmosphere is thin and our magnetic field is weak. Radiation gets to the surface. So Earth life evolved to survive radiation.”
“You are very heavy,” I say. I hope he doesn’t take that to mean Hey, fatty! Go on a diet! “My mass is one hundred sixty-eight kilograms,” he says.
“You ship has more science than my ship. Better science. I bring my things into you ship. Release tunnel. You make you ship spin for science. You and me science how to kill Astrophage together. Save Earth. Save Erid. This is good plan, question?”
“Device not malfunction. Device broke. Fell off ship during trip. Device gone.” “Oh! Wow. Why did it break off?” He wiggles his carapace. “Not know. Many things break. My people make ship very hurry. No time to make sure all things work good.” Deadline-induced quality issues: a problem all over the galaxy.
But his voice remains low. “I try so many times. Fail so many times. Not good at science.” “I am,” I say. “I’m a science human. You’re good at making and fixing things. Together we’ll figure this out.”
He wiggled a claw. “Average is six hundred eighty-nine years.” “Earth years?” “Yes,” he says a little sharply. “Always Earth units. You are bad at math, so always Earth units.” I can’t even speak for a moment. “How many years have you been alive?” “Two hundred ninety-one years.” He pauses. “Yes. Earth years.” Holy cow. Rocky is older than the United States.
“Wait.” He holds up a claw. “How much Astrophage you ship need for return to Earth, question?” “Uh…just over two million kilograms,” I say. “I can give,” he says.
To be fair, Bob had done his job well. He had managed the Sahara Astrophage Farm magnificently. It’s rare to find a scientist who is also a good administrator. It was no easy task, but the farm was generating Astrophage at the levels he’d promised.
I leaned to Dimitri. “Are all Russians crazy?” “Yes,” he said with a smile. “It is the only way to be Russian and happy at the same time.”
I can do four years all alone, right? We were in comas to keep from killing one another. But solitary confinement is a whole different set of psychological damage. I should read up on it.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Name is ♫♩♪♫.” I don’t need the frequency analyzer anymore. That was an A-below-middle-C major fifth, followed by an E-flat octave, and then a G-minor seventh.
Anyway, now I have to come up with an English word that means “Rocky’s spouse.” “Adrian,” I say. Why not? “Human word is ‘Adrian.’ ”
Once again I’m struck by melancholy. I want to spend the rest of my life studying Eridian biology! But I have to save humanity first. Stupid humanity. Getting in the way of my hobbies.
A food coma for Rocky is no small thing. This doesn’t look voluntary at all. This is a biologically enforced post-meal siesta.
The arms dutifully hand me a cup of coffee. It’s kind of cool that the arms will hand me a cup when there’s gravity, but a pouch when there isn’t. I’ll remember this when writing up the Hail Mary’s Yelp review.
Ah, the c-word. “Culture.” We have an unspoken agreement that cultural things just have to be accepted. It ends any minor dispute. “Do it my way because it’s how I was raised,” basically. We haven’t run into anything where our cultures clash…yet.
I eat my breakfast and drink my coffee. Rocky doesn’t say anything to me during that time. He never does. Eridian courtesy.
He waves a claw dismissively. “No. Camera is old technology. Display is old technology. Both were on my ship for science. I only modify to use inside.” I think Eridians have a lot of modesty in their culture. Either that, or Rocky is one of those people who just can’t take a compliment.
I laugh. He has a slightly different tone when he’s joking around. It took a long time for me to identify. It’s like…it’s in the timing between words. They don’t have the same cadence. I can’t really put my finger on it, but I know when I hear it.
“It’s only a hundred feet off the ground,” I said. “Maybe wait till it reaches orbit?” DuBois sipped his wine. “Astronauts celebrate when the tower is clear.”
It’s a simple idea, but also stupid. Thing is, when stupid ideas work, they become genius ideas.
They don’t know about length dilation. The distance to Tau Ceti will actually increase as you slow down relative to it—even if you’re still going toward it.
It’ll take over twelve years to get back to Earth, but all told the little guys will only experience about twenty months. Do you believe in God? I know it’s a personal question. I do. And I think He was pretty awesome to make relativity a thing, don’t you? The faster you go, the less time you experience. It’s like He’s inviting us to explore the universe, you know?”
Anyway, I named him after Pete Best—he was the drummer for the Beatles before Ringo.”
This is one of those things I frequently have to explain to my students. Gravity doesn’t just “go away” when you’re in orbit. In fact, the gravity you experience in orbit is pretty much the same as you’d experience on the ground. The weightlessness that astronauts experience while in orbit comes from constantly falling. But the curvature of the Earth makes the ground go away at the same rate you fall. So you just fall forever.
“Confirmed. Hull breach. Port fuel tank.” “Why thrust, question?” It all comes together. “Oh crap! The Astrophage in the fuel bay! It’s exposed to space! That means it can see Adrian! My fuel is migrating to Adrian to breed!” “Bad bad bad!” That’s where the thrust is from. Trillions and trillions of horny little Astrophages, all ready to breed.
One thing I learned back in my graduate school days: When you’re stupid tired, accept that you’re stupid tired. Don’t try to solve things right then.
“Additional dose available in three hours and four minutes.” I frown. “Computer: What is the current time?” “Seven-fifteen p.m., Moscow Standard Time.” “Computer: Set time to eleven p.m. Moscow Standard Time.” “Clock set complete.” “Computer: painkillers.”
And oh, what a result it is! I hit the sweet spot. All of a sudden, Rocky’s carapace vents belch out black smoke. The nasty dust and debris that built up when he was on fire. It’s intensely satisfying. Like that feeling when you blast an air duster into an old computer.
DuBois pointed somewhere at the middle of the page. “I would like to die by nitrogen asphyxiation. All my research shows it is among the least painful ways to die.” I nodded and took some notes. “That paper includes a list of the equipment I will need to ensure my death. It’s well within my personal-item mass allowance.”
She set her beer down. “I want heroin.” Everyone looked at her. Even Yáo blanched a little. “Sorry, what?” I said. “Heroin.” She shrugged. “I have been good girl all my life. No drugs. Limited sex. I want to experience massive pleasure before I die. People die from heroin all the time. Must be very nice.” I rubbed my temples. “You want to die…from a heroin overdose?”
“All right. Commander Yáo? How about you?” “I want a gun, please,” he said. “A Type-92 handgun. Standard Chinese military-issue. Store the ammunition in a dry, sealed plastic container for the trip.”
“You almost kill me.” “What?! How?! I blew all the soot out of your radiator!” He shifts his weight a little. “Black substance is not soot. My body make this. It cover damage while body repairs.” “Oh…” I say. “Oh no…” I didn’t blow soot out of his radiator. I blew the scabs off his wounds! “I’m so sorry! I was trying to help.” “Is okay. If you did earlier I die. But I heal enough before you do it. Removing help a little. Thank.”
“Adjust orbit while stupid. Good plan.” I snicker. “New word: ‘sarcasm.’ You say opposite of true meaning to make point. Sarcasm.” He chimes the word for “sarcasm” in his language.
There are a bunch of things I want to do, but I need to take it slow. I can’t risk another “stupid day” like yesterday. I almost ruined the sample and killed Rocky. I’m smart enough now to know I’m stupid. That’s progress.
“Math is not thinking. Math is procedure. Memory is not thinking. Memory is storage. Thinking is thinking. Problem, solution. You and me think same speed. Why, question?”
“Then, most important: How long until orbit decays, question?” I blink a couple of times. “I…don’t know.” “Work fast.” “Yeah.” I point at the screen. “First I have to wait for my computer to wake up.” “Hurry.” “Okay, I’ll wait faster.”
“You sleep. Human no function well after no sleep. EVA dangerous. Sleep first. EVA next.” I roll my eyes. “All right, all right.” He points back to my bunk. “Sleep.” “Yes, Mom.” “Sarcasm. You sleep. I watch.”
“It must be your decision,” said Yáo. “I will not have someone on my crew who is there against their will. You must come of your own volition. And if you refuse, we will bring in Ms. Cáceres and do our best to train her up. But I urge you to say yes. Billions of lives are on the line. Our lives matter little when compared against such tragedy.”
I have, shall we say, an inexhaustible supply of Taumoeba. The Hail Mary is currently the Taumoeba party bus. All I have to do is open the fuel line that used to lead to the generator when I want more.
“Hey, Rocky!” I call out from the lab. “Watch me pull a Taumoeba out of a hat!”
Nitrogen is utterly harmless and nearly inert in its gaseous state. It’s usually content to be N2, which barely wants to react with anything.
I’m all wired up, but if I don’t go to sleep soon, Rocky will start hassling me. Sheesh—you almost ruin a mission one time and all of a sudden you have an alien-enforced bedtime.
I fall asleep easier than I have in weeks. I have Taumoeba that can save Earth. Modifying an alien life-form. What could possibly go wrong?
He bounces and skitters down his tube to the lab. “Why humans need water so much, question? Inefficient life-forms!”
“Eridians need water, too, you know.” “We keep inside. Closed system. Some inefficiencies inside, but we get all water we need from food. Humans leak! Gross.”
“Not forever. We save planets. Then we have Astrophage technology. Visit each other.” I give a wry grin. “Can we do all that within fifty Earth years?” “Probably not. Why so fast, question?”
“Not forever. We save planets. Then we have Astrophage technology. Visit each other.” I give a wry grin. “Can we do all that within fifty Earth years?” “Probably not. Why so fast, question?” “I only have fifty years or so left to live. Humans don’t”—I hiccup—“don’t live long, remember?” “Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment. “So we enjoy remaining time together, then go save planets. Then we are heroes!”
Speaking of loneliness, my thoughts turn back to Rocky. My only friend now. Seriously. He’s my only friend.
There’s a nitrogen apocalypse going on in the breeder farm. If you can get into the xenonite walls deep enough that the nitrogen can’t reach, you get to survive!
I settle into the comfortable chair, crack my knuckles, and start the class. “All right, all right,” I play. “Everyone settle down and get in your seats.” They scamper to their assigned desks and sit quietly, ready for the lesson to begin. “Who here can tell me the speed of light?” Twelve kids raise their claws.