Ad Astra (11 page)

“Auto-immune diseases,” Yasmina observed in a shocked voice.

“Yeah. The testing process matched with learning routines and an ability to improve repair capabilities inevitably pushed Sandra into becoming better and better at identifying and fixing damage. Unfortunately, living organisms are obvious lessons that there’s no optimum point at which that stuff stops. It keeps trying to get better even after it gets so good at its job that it turns harmful.”

The captain had come to stand with them, her face sober. “It shouldn’t have happened. We knew everything there is to know about every one of the components on that ship.”

Another engineer shook his shaved head. “It’s a scientific principle that you can know everything there is to know about something, and still not be able to predict an outcome. We just proved it again.”

“Assuming you did know everything,” Kevlin snapped. “You tried to make a machine work like a living creature, with self-direction and self-repair capabilities. What made you think you could tell how it would act? Humans are the mature result of millions of years of evolution and we only function halfway well because of an enormous investment in cultural, organizational and medical systems designed to control our actions and compensate for our faults!”

“What’ll happen to Sandra?” Yasmina wondered.

The captain glanced at Kevlin. “Do you think she’ll be safe once the power dies and everything goes dark?”

“The macro stuff, probably. I don’t know about the nanos. It all depends if they evolved in the direction of viruses that can remain dormant for almost indefinite periods while awaiting conditions to reactivate.”

This time the captain grimaced. “We’ll have to junk her. There’s no telling how some of her internal components have evolved, so we’ll probably use an automated drone to show her onto a trajectory into the sun. We’ll have to severely limit or block evolution of nanos on the next model. Maybe not even use them. They’re too hard to track if they do start changing. But we can put limits on the macro drones, too. We’ll do better next time,” the captain vowed.

“That statement probably could’ve been carved on a substantial number of tombstones throughout human history.”

“Next time will be different,” the captain insisted.

“You’re right about that,” Kevlin agreed. “Next time
I
won’t be aboard.”

“Yes, you will.”

“No, I won’t. My contract clearly limits the duties to which I can be assigned.”

The captain smiled. “If you’re right, these ships will need medical expertise to identify, diagnose and treat problems. One of the potential duties listed in your contract is ship’s doctor. So congratulations. That’s what you’ll be. The ship’s doctor.”

Author's Note on
Down the Rabbit Hole

One of the good things about attending conventions (and there are many good things) is that I get exposed to information that can help generate new stories. At one convention in Baltimore, I heard Dr. Catherine Asaro giving a talk about the latest research into hyper-velocity space travel and what physics currently told us regarding things like faster-than-light. One thing struck me after that talk. Our nervous system works at the speed of light. How well does it work if we’re moving faster than that? Years before I had read about how the human mind tricks us into thinking that we see things that we don’t. And then there’s that trick that dancers use to keep from falling over with dizziness when they’re spinning around over and over again. On top of that, Stan Schmidt, the editor of
Analog
, had challenged me to come up with a reason why pilots of aircraft might not make the best spacecraft pilots. Put them all together, and there’s a story in there.

Down the Rabbit Hole

"We'd like you to pilot the next Prometheus probe, Commander Horton."

Commander Josh Horton fidgeted slightly despite the padding in his chair, his eyes darting around the conference room, resting for the briefest moment on the face of one NASA administrator before leaping to the next. Every face held the same forced cheerfulness, the same projection of an honor conferred, and the same more-or-less poorly hidden anxiety. "The next Prometheus probe?" he finally asked. "I didn't know there'd been a first."

"Well, you understand security, Commander, don't you? A successful test of a faster-than-light propulsion system would have incalculable significance for the human race. We certainly don't want to generate false hopes prior to a successful test."

"So the first probe wasn't successful?"

Administrator eyes shifted helplessly for a moment, then steadied. "No. At least, we don't think so. There's been no contact with any of the probes since they engaged their FTL devices -"

"
Any
of the
probes
?" Horton demanded. "There's been more than one failure?" Silence met his question. "Look, people, I deserve to know what's going on before you strap me into that can."

"Yes." The senior-most administrator nodded his head ruefully. "You do deserve that. There have been six Prometheus probes launched. None have returned. We have no idea why."

"Six?" Commander Horton's brain hazed momentarily, then he shook his head several times to clear it. "What, they blew up?"

"No!" The woman who'd answered looked around, embarrassed by her outburst, then repeated her reply firmly. "No. The only energy discharge noted was that predicted from the FTL transition. No other discharge. No debris. No events noted downrange."

"Downrange." Horton ran the word around his mouth for a moment. "Downrange can be measured in light-years, right? If something blew up when it came out of FTL you wouldn't see it for years, maybe."

"That's correct. However, sufficient time has elapsed so that we should have been able to observe such events from the tests by now."

"I see." Horton licked his lips, closed his eyes, then nodded. "Well, I guess we've got to keep trying." Then his eyes shot open and he looked around the table again. "Wait a minute. You said you wanted me to pilot the probe. But I'm a Systems Officer, not a pilot."

"Yes, Commander. We know that. That's why we're asking you to, uh, occupy the probe for this test."

#

Earth's sunlit arc, splashed blue/white/brown, hung within Josh Horton's line of sight. Next to the small viewport stood Dr. Orasa, waiting patiently for Horton's attention to return to her. "Sorry, Doc," Josh apologized. "I've never been up here on the station before. The views are pretty impressive."

"That they are," Dr. Orasa agreed. "Seeing the Earth from here always reminds me of that scene in the movie where the waltz is playing as the space station rotates majestically. Of course, our station doesn't rotate. Do you remember that scene?"

"Oh, sure. Everybody involved the space program knows that one. But that's not the movie I was thinking of just now."

"Really? Some other space epic?"

"Uh uh." Josh smiled in half-embarrassment. "I was thinking about the old musicals. You know, with the spectacular dance routines."

"Yes…" Dr. Orasa replied with a mix of puzzlement and patience.

"I always loved those routines. Watching Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and Ann Miller dance like you figured angels would if angels ever acted in films with silly plots. So, I was looking out and thinking what kind of dance routines those people could have done up here in zero gravity. Imagine it!"

Dr. Orasa smiled in reaction to Horton's enthusiasm. "I suppose I can. Be that as it may, Commander Horton, I'm sorry my information won't be as dazzling. In truth, there's very little I can tell you."

"I thought you were a hot-shot quantum physicist, Doc."

"I am," she replied with another slight smile. "The problem is that just about everything we know about conditions on the other side of the light-speed barrier is theory. All I can do is summarize that theory for you."

Horton nodded somberly. "Because nobody who's actually been there has made it back."

Anguish shadowed her face. "I'm afraid that's correct. We don't know how moving faster than the speed of light will affect many things. Our nervous systems, for example. Or your perceptions of everything around you. Do you understand the concept of a frame of reference?"

"Yeah." Josh nodded again. "The Three Stooges did a routine about that once."

"The Three Stooges?" Dr. Osara blinked in evident confusion. "They did a routine about alternate frames of reference?"

"Yeah," Josh repeated. "In the skit they were carpenters, I think, and Moe and Larry got into an argument over which way was Right and which was Left. So Moe calls over Curly and tells him and Larry to stand facing each other, then tells them both to point to their Right. Well, naturally Curly points one way and Larry points the exact opposite way, and Moe gets mad, calls them knuckleheads and slams their heads together. But they were both pointing the right way, based on their own frames of reference. Right?"

Dr. Osara blinked again. "Uh, yes. That's…roughly the concept involved. You'll be perceiving the Universe in a manner different from any of us who aren't traveling at your velocity."

"But you don't know just what that'll mean."

"No." She managed another smile. "I hope you won't consider me a knucklehead because of that."

Josh smiled back, trying to ignore the tight knot which persisted in forming in his guts. "Nah. You don't know what you don't know, do you?"

"Uh…no. Good luck, Commander Horton."

"Thanks. One more question, though. Do you know why I specifically was picked for this mission?"

Dr. Orasa shook her head, frowning slightly. "No. I can't imagine it was because of your fondness for Ann Miller and the Three Stooges, but I don't know what criteria were used for your selection."

Half an hour and fifty meters later, Josh stood staring at the object which held his fate. Prometheus Seven, resembling nothing so much as an outsized round trash can with a slightly convex nose, sat locked within its cradle inside the space station's service hanger. Slight bulges around the probe's surface marked coverings for instruments and communication systems. Josh Horton ran one gloved hand along the titanium alloy skin of the probe, as if he could somehow feel the metal through the layers of his spacesuit, then levered himself into the cockpit where ranks of gauges and displays grown familiar in brief but intensive training now stared back at him. "Nobody ever told me why this thing is streamlined," he complained.

Colonel Linda Gutierrez smiled briefly. "No one knows what kind of resistance exists in the FTL environment. It's purely a safety precaution, just in case turbulence associated with the FTL transition, or resistance on the other side, might be able to harm anything sticking out."

"Like my neck, you mean?" Josh muttered. "Is that also why there isn't any porthole?"

"That's right. That, and, um…"

"And?" Josh asked sharply.

Colonel Gutierrez grimaced but nodded in acquiescence. "Since you've met with Dr. Orasa you know we have no concept of how things will look in an FTL environment. The outside view may be profoundly disturbing. By using viewscreens you'll be able to shut off that view if you need to."

"If the viewscreens work. I mean, the lenses are electro-optics, and Dr. Orasa pointed out I'll be moving faster than their signals. Heaven only knows what I'll see. Or what I'll think of it." Josh rubbed the back of his neck, frowning in thought. "Now what does that remind me of? Seeing and moving fast and thinking. Oh, yeah. A long time ago I saw some show on the way humans see things. You ever hear about that?"

Gutierrez shrugged. "Maybe. There's a lot of interesting things about the way human systems work."

"You said it. Well, this one talked about how when you're spinning you see things rushing past in a blur. Only it turns out you don't."

"You don't?"

"No. They found out the optic system can't process something it sees that's going by that fast, so what your brain really sees when you sweep your eyes past something is a blank spot. But the brain can't handle blank spots, so it generates a picture of what it thinks should be seen, only the picture's blurry because the brain can't remember all the details. Cool, huh?"

"Unusual," Colonel Gutierrez agreed. "But, regardless, on this flight you shouldn't need to see where you're going, Commander Horton. After the FTL drive kicks in you do a straight run for ten minutes, then a timer drops you back into normal state. If calculations are accurate, that should place you about twenty light minutes downrange when you depart the FTL state."

Horton's mouth worked as if he were tasting something unpleasant. "And if somewhere along that way there's some real big rock in my way? What do I do if I can't see it coming?"

Gutierrez shook her head, face solemn. "Commander, at the velocity you'll be traveling you wouldn't have the chance of a snowball in hell of turning quickly enough to avoid an obstacle."

"Great," Josh grumbled. "This is like putting on a blindfold and diving into a pool without knowing if there's any water below. I guess if I do hit something you'll see the fireworks."

"We haven't seen any fireworks in the prior tests," Gutierrez advised, then quickly added to her statement. "You shouldn't be able to run into anything. In theory, while in the FTL state you should not interact with mass traveling at non-FTL velocities."

"I don't know about you, Colonel, but I'd sure hate to be the one who found out that theory was wrong."

Gutierrez smiled. "Sorry, Commander. If it's any consolation, you seem capable of handling anything you run into. As long as it's not a real big rock."

"Thanks," Josh snorted, then glared directly at Colonel Gutierrez. "Look, Colonel, I'm about to risk my life, and despite everybody telling me about how capable I am I've yet to get a straight answer on why I was picked for this job."

"You're a very level-headed, very capable individual," she recited, avoiding his gaze.