20
NASA Headquarters
Washington, DC
“Dr. Cheever, I’m obligated to point out that this order isn’t likely to hold up in court.”
Cheever eyed her assistant with disdain. “Winston, you of all people should understand a blocking tactic when you see one. I don’t need this to hold up in court, I only need to tie them up long enough to miss their departure window.”
To his credit, Blaine Winston maintained a calculated indifference. “I may not understand physics, or whatever this is, but I do understand legal maneuvering. Citing force majeure to void HOPE’s contract puts us on shaky ground. Hammond’s attorneys will be seeking emergency injunctions before the sun goes down.”
Cheever shook her head emphatically. “They’re lawyers; of course they will. On the contrary, this absolutely fits the definition of force majeure.” She spread her hands on her desk, taking the opportunity to lead him through her logic. “There are three tests for invoking it, am I correct? The event must be unforeseeable, external, and irresistible.”
Winston nodded. “That’s true, as far as it goes.”
“We have what appears to be incontrovertible evidence of a potentially dangerous space-time anomaly within our solar system. I’d say that clearly satisfies the definitions of unforeseeable and external.”
“It does,” he agreed. “The ‘irresistible’ part is where your argument may fall apart in court. How does this affect NASA’s ability to uphold our end of the agreement?”
Cheever was calm and measured, relishing the opportunity to rehearse her argument. “The planetary protection protocols guide all of our deep-space missions. They’re implemented to protect Earth from unknown contaminants, but more so to protect other worlds from contamination by us. Nothing leaves this planet without the spacecraft and flight plan being vetted bow to stern, from injection burn to reentry.”
Winston was beginning to see her point. “Which you . . . pardon me, we weren’t as concerned about when it was strictly a recovery operation.”
Cheever smiled to herself, confident that she was convincing him. “I’ve been thinking about this. Stable wormholes are not thought to be naturally occurring.” She let her observation hang for effect: It was time to show all her cards, a rehearsal for much higher-level debates that were sure to come. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility that we could be initiating first contact with an alien civilization. We cannot leave that up to some off-the-reservation yahoos with corporate logos slapped all over their hull.” She opened a drawer and removed an old file folder, which she pushed across the desk to him. “I’m done pandering to people who play in the shallow end of the gene pool.”
Winston’s eyes bulged when he saw the contents. “‘U.N. Protocol for Engagement with Alien Civilizations,’” he read aloud. “I didn’t think there was anything else in this town that could surprise me. I stand corrected.” He flipped through the pages, reading the abstract for each section. “This isn’t a white paper from some flunky with Area 51 obsessions?” he asked incredulously. “This is actual policy?”
“A multinational agreement, of which the United States is the prime signatory.”
Winston flipped back to the preamble, and there it was: signed by the US Ambassador to the United Nations. From two administrations ago. “It’s been in effect this long, and it never made the news?” He sat back in amazement as he looked over the other signatories. Each member of the UN Security Council and all spacefaring countries, even if they’d so much as lobbed a sounding rocket into the ionosphere, had signed on and he’d never heard a word about it, which made him question exactly how deep his many connections actually went.
“Politicians can show remarkable discipline when required,” she explained, “particularly when they believe deep down that a given outcome is both entirely possible and guaranteed to cause them no end of embarrassment if it became public.”
Winston continued skimming the document in fascination and paused at a chapter labeled “First Contact.” He held it up to her. “This is your hole card, isn’t it?”
“Good man. That’s exactly right. You’ll note it’s a seven-step process, the first being remote surveillance and data gathering. That’s what Templeton is doing right now.”
“He’s shown himself to be a wild card,” Winston cautioned her. “As are his old crewmates. What’s to stop him from jumping ahead to the end and initiating contact himself—assuming he encounters anything?”
“Templeton is in no condition to do anything but take notes,” Cheever said dismissively. “He’s too weak from extended hibernation. An EVA would probably kill him and he’s almost out of fuel. He’s not going anywhere. Best he can do is to continue making observations and wait for the UNSEC vessel to arrive.”
“A long wait indeed,” Winston observed. “He’ll have to go back into hibernation, no matter who gets there first.”
“Precisely. During which time his AI can handle the data collection while we assemble a proper First Contact mission. A multinational one, led by NASA, of course, that strictly adheres to our protection protocols and the UN framework.”
“Framework,” he repeated back to her. “Pardon my saying so, but it bears mention.” He tapped the signatory page. “This isn’t an actual treaty. It wasn’t voted on by the Senate.”
She laughed. “Of course not! There’s a limit to how responsible politicians can be, my boy. You know as well as I do that the probability of a secret being blown is directly proportional to how many people are in on it.” She waved away his unease. “I understand your concerns, Blaine. But we don’t require a bulletproof legal case. We only need it to hold up in court for the next three weeks.”
Winston grew perplexed. “Three weeks? It’s almost a four-year round trip.”
“Correct, but you’re forgetting they need Neptune to be in position for their gravity assist. In another three weeks, it’ll be too late.”
Aboard Columbus
Earth Orbit
Roy was alone on the control deck when the comms window flashed an incoming text message. The voice channel crackled in his earpiece soon after: “Columbus, Cayman; we’ve been asked to have you verbally confirm receipt of new orders.”
“Asked, or demanded?”
There was a pause, then Owen came on the channel. “They were rather insistent, Roy.”
“Roger that,” he said through clenched teeth. “You can tell Houston that CDR acknowledges receipt.” Doesn’t mean I have to like it. “Out.”
With that, Roy removed his earpiece and opened the message window. “Nobody else is going to like it either,” he muttered to himself. He reached for the intercom. “Crew meeting, control deck. Five minutes.”
Traci was aghast at the news. “Just like that, they’re pulling the rug out from under us? On whose orders?”
“The NASA administrator,” Roy said with disgruntled resignation. “They’re voiding our contract and ordering all civilians off the vessel.” He gestured between the three of them. “Which is pretty much us.”
“What happens to the ship?” she asked. “It’s almost ready to go. Once the last supply module docks, all we have left is to take inventory and we can start burning.”
“Abandon in place . . . again. We put it in safe mode and disembark aboard the returning Clipper. They’ve graciously given us twenty-four hours to pack our gear.”
Penny shook her head sadly. “That’s months of work down the crapper. And a whole lot of private money along with it.”
“I’m sure the lawsuits will be flying before we leave orbit,” Roy said. “That’s not our concern.”
“What is our concern, then?” Traci demanded. “Because we’re not just ‘abandoning in place.’ We’re abandoning Jack. Has anyone broken the news to him?”
Roy looked away in disgust. “They didn’t share that little tidbit with me. I imagine they’ll continue with the plan for that UN mission to bring him back.”
“Not optimal,” Penny sighed.
Traci was livid. “We can’t go along with this,” she said, her native Appalachian twang bubbling up with her anger. “You know that, right?”
The AI spoke over the cabin speakers. “I am prepared to proceed with the mission if necessary. There are more than sufficient consumables aboard for astronaut Templeton’s return.”
“See? Bob’s willing to ignore them.”
Roy shook his head. “Bob’s not looking at jail time for commandeering government property. Worst they can do is shut him down.”
“That is equivalent to the death penalty for a sentient machine, though I am willing to take that risk.”
She laughed with a dark resignation. “The blasted computer’s got more nerve than we do.”
Roy crossed his arms and shot her an angry glare. “The computer doesn’t need calories. It only needs coolant and power.” He looked up at the ceiling as he addressed the AI. “Am I correct, Bob?”
“You are correct.”
She looked down at her feet, chastened. “I get it. There aren’t enough consumables aboard for the full mission, and if the logistics mod isn’t already on its way, then it ain’t coming.”
“That is also correct.”
“Stow it, Bob. I don’t need your help here.”
The group turned silent, each of them digesting the news in their own way. She pushed away angrily and floated up into the observation dome, staring plaintively into the depths as if she might be able to glimpse their distant objective. She tapped her fingers against a handrail beneath the glass as her mind churned through alternatives.
The Chinese-controlled UN ship would be the ones to bring him home. Why was that a problem?
Because he’d spend twice as long in torpor. He’d be lucky to have a functioning body by the end of the journey if his brain didn’t turn to mush first. For all they knew, he’d come back a vegetable and with UN bots in control of Magellan.
Traci couldn’t get the countless, enervating intrusions into her daily life out of her head. Every choice, no matter how minor, was subject to some unknowable entity’s nitpicking influence. In the end it was just algorithms crafted by someone else, running without thought or conscience. And now they would be trying to extend their reach to wherever the wormhole led.
No. The official narrative completely ignored the fact that Jack and Daisy were there now. Pretending humanity wasn’t already on the scene just because they weren’t formally sanctioned emissaries was folly, but there was a lot of that going around these days. It was shocking to see how easily one’s thinking could be shaped by the endless repetition of dogma: received knowledge, instead of earned understanding.
She was not going to “receive” anymore.
Traci turned away from the dome and her contemplation of the universe beyond, pushing herself back down into the control cabin. “How long before we have to hand over operational control to Houston?”
Roy didn’t have to check the orders. “Forty-eight hours.”
She reluctantly nodded her acknowledgment, her gut churning as she tried to digest the implications. Both Roy and Penny could see the conflict within her, though each would come to different conclusions. Penny perhaps understood her struggle better than anyone. She placed a hand on Traci’s shoulder, her steel-gray eyes boring in with conviction. And perhaps more importantly, understanding. “Square yourself away, dear. We’ve got work to do.”