The Cellist.

I remember lying in a body-warmed bed, the sheets clinging to the sweat of my body. She was naked on a stool across from me, her cello between her pale knees. Her shoulders and arms were bare and uncovered by the cello, giving her an alluring modesty. The fingers of her left hand walked across the strings: sliding and oscillating, glissando and vibrato, expressing more through each note than I could in words. Her right arm maneuvered the bow with fluid, elegant grace, as if she alone were conducting a string section.

I lay with closed eyes, letting the notes fill my ears and slide into my mind. When I peeked from my closed eyes, I saw that she was not smiling as I was; her eyes were affixed to the neck  of her cello, and her face was furrowed with the slight frown of concentration that masked her thoughts when she played.

I was captivated by the way her hands moved when she held a note in vibrato, the way the bow slid over the strings, the purity and strength of the sound she drew from the instrument. It seemed that she held her cello with greater tenderness and love than she had held me just minutes before, as if sex was only a warm-up to the real pleasure.

This memory was from the night before the Project distributed data packets throughout the System to the candidates who had made it through to the final round of offers. That was six, no, almost seven years ago. I had relived the memory of Elgar’s Cello Concerto each time I fell asleep for almost two and a half thousand nights. That part of me disconnected by such timescales felt that it was no longer a memory, but a memory of a memory, the original having been long worn away.

I remember the feeling of the sheets sticking to my body, the way her music improved during turnaround, when her hands flitted like butterflies, unencumbered. She had made the six-month outbound trip from Copernicus to meet me on my way back to the Hub. I remember how much she hated the journey to the outer planets, and being cramped aboard a hauler between transfers. She was accustomed to the bright sunshine and the unending basalt plains of the maria. She shrivelled and turned pale from the conditions, like a flower without light.

Ultimately, that was why the Project rejected her application. The psyche evaluation was blunt, but necessarily so; I remember how personally she took the comments. She would not be able to cope with the five-year journey to Alpha Centauri if she could barely endure the twelve-month round-trip between the Moon and the Jupiter colonies. Her tears were made light and delicate by the zero-gravity of turnaround, but behind them I saw a suppressed, hidden, denied relief.

She came to see me eight weeks before the Quoqasi left Jupiter. She brought her cello. She did not ask me to stay, to change my mind, to give up the greatest adventure of history. Not once did she give voice to the thought that remained silent between us: that once the fusion torch lit and the colony ship slipped its moorings, we would never see each other again. Our lives would continue, diminished, separated by a gulf of a size incomparable to that endured by any star-crossed lovers in the history of the species.

She played Albinoni’s Adagio that night, her jaw set and face furrowed.

In the three months since the Mayflower had arrived, life had improved. It was becoming easier for us to remove Home from our intimate thoughts. But each time I saw Cassiopeia, and each night before sleep fogged my mind, I thought of her. And of her cello.

Planetfall +91

We had already drilled and installed pitons along the length of Wilbur; after we’d guided the Mayflower close to the body, we drew out tethers from her hull and connected them to the pitons. Then – with the ship’s thrusters, our orbiters as tugs, and by tightening the tension in the tethers – we drew the Mayflower in to attach to Wilbur. It took hours, but we didn’t want to compromise the hull or the integrity of Wilbur with our haste and eagerness.

Mayflower was a simply designed ship, even by comparison to the Quoqasi; she had a simple role, and was built to fulfill that role with a rugged reliability. In spreading its achievements to the planets of Sol, humanity had learned to value modular designs above anything sophisticated or specialized. Redundancy, reusability, and mission profiles were crucial; elegance was not. Both Quoqasi and Mayflower embodied this philosophy, although they magnified the scale, as befitted the first of mankind’s leaps across the darkness between stars.

Both ships comprised a drive stack which propelled the mission module – their drive stacks were of the same design and specifications, and in the modular nature of human design, they could thus be called sister ships, or of the same class. But their mission modules were vastly different.

Quoqasi carried a crew of human colonists, and the equipment and materials needed to begin life on another world: it was a colonization ship, composed of four separate colonization pods and all the apparatus needed to ensure their safety.

Mayflower, by contrast, was a supply ship. It required none of the equipment to maintain a crew – life support, complex redundancy navigation computers, communications gear, lifeboats, even sensors. Instead, where the Quoqasi hauled fragile humans and the pods which would begin the first cities in a new stellar system, the Mayflower carried raw payload. With only a preprogrammed course and basic telemetry data relayed from Sol behind it and the Quoqasi light months ahead of it, Mayflower had crossed the dark between Sol and Alpha Centauri alone.

Instead of the colony pods which clustered around the central spine of Quoqasi like berries on a stalk, Mayflower’s stack was enclosed in cargo pallets, serried in rank and level and size. These layers of cargo containers were enclosed by gantries and scaffolding – these were the prefabricated beginnings of Port Mayflower.

When Mayflower was mated to Wilbur, our teams set to work cutting through the last of its ablative hull. Tonnes of ice, formed billions of years ago and a handful of light years away, were cut into rectilinear shapes, and cast aside. Later, when the space elevator was completed, we would lower this ice to the surface, where it would be injected into our closed-loop life support cycles; for now chunks of it formed a shell around the station, and these pieces circled Fram in their own orbits.

Then we began to unfurl the station structure – booms and cranes of scaffolding, which had enfolded the cargo components of the ship like the articulated arms of an insect, began to unfold, extend, and straighten. Mayflower’s hull became the main body of the orbital station, and its fusion engine became the power source. As these gantries unfolded into docking stations, our orbiters were able to put to berth, and the crews went to work pressurizing those sections of the Mayflower which would become the manned areas of the station.

Along with the structure of our orbital shipyards, Mayflower had brought with it a long spool of carbon nanotube, manufacture of which was far beyond our fledgling industrial capabilities. We began the slow process of uncoiling the ribbon from the ventral stack of Port Mayflower to Charlotte Station.

Port Mayflower took shape – facilities carried by the Mayflower blossomed across the surface of Wilbur, and arms extended at right angles from the Mayflower’s spindly hull. These arms formed the flanks of our space docks: the smallest would enclose our orbiters, the largest were the beginnings of drydocks for the construction of the planned systemships.

On the far side of Wilbur’s surface we had planned to dock Quoqasi. The two ships would have been equal in length, and would have bracketed the asteroid with their wiry forms; instead, Quoqasi’s dock was cut to half its length, and the salvaged drive stack berthed here. Somehow, through all the chaos of the last week, we hadn’t let the death of Quoqasi affect us; we had been too busy, too stressed, too worried, and this had distracted us from facing its loss. Now, though, seeing that half-length drydock, and in the absence of existential crises, it all hit home.

We turned our high-gain antenna toward Cassiopeia and transmitted a narrow-band message to Sol, thanking them for sending the Mayflower. We did this as a formality, a tradition – Mayflower had left Jupiter’s orbit five years ago, just after we had in Quoqasi; and any message we sent them today would not be heard by human ears for over four years, nor would we receive a reply for closer to nine. Along with our grief for the loss of Quoqasi was the melancholy that came with the realization that Mayflower was our last physical connection to Home.

We had received our first and only supply ship; there was nothing else to look forward to, no promise to hold out for, no outside influence to pin our hopes on. Now we were on our own.

Mopping Up

“…grazing the skies below, the orbital operations to recover debris from the Quoqasi destruction continued as Texas was chased down.  What couldn’t be salvaged was shunted into the atmosphere, to be burned up upon re-entry.  We had come too far to be ambushed later by rogue pieces of dead starship, travelling at a deadly speed…”

We brought six orbiters with us from Sol. Initially we’d only been able to put four in orbit, but once the mining site injected enough quartz, silica, and graphite into our resource pool for us to manufacture ceramic heat tiles, the last two were rushed into service.

Two went after Texas; two went after the decompressed stern of Quoqasi, still in a lateral spin after being sheared from the bow; two went out ahead to meet the Mayflower.

No human eyes had been laid on the Mayflower in five years. She was an automated starship, thrown from Sol three months after our own departure in the Quoqasi – she’d trailed us through the long, cold, interstellar night. We didn’t know what condition she was in, how she had fared through her trip, what her current mass was or how profound the Pioneer Anomaly had been on her voyage – we needed to know these things so that we could shunt her into a perfect orbit.

So the last two days before her arrival were the most hectic they had ever been at mission control. We had to calculate the May’s orbit, we had to clear that orbit of pieces of the wrecked Quoqasi, and we had to slingshot Texas the hell out of near Fram orbit for good. No one slept, not even the orbiter crews, which was dangerous and reckless but we had no other choice.

All this was further complicated thirty-two hours before orbital insertion – true to the nature of our existence on Fram to date, all our servers crashed, overloaded by the comms and data traffic between ground-based observation sites, satellites, the labs in the Colonies, and of course our intrepid orbiters. It took two hours to get everything back on line, during which objects in orbit were lost from our screens and the May rocketed ever closer to Fram.

The orbiter crews did as much as they could without telemetry and guidance from the ground. But our plan with Texas had been to use the solid-fuel boosters in concert with the ground-based solar station. During those two hours the station couldn’t track Texas, and we lost precious time and a crucial amount of thrust. Fifteen minutes after our systems came back online, simulations showed what we had feared for five straight days – an eighty-six percent chance of coincidence between the orbit of Texas and the orbit of the Mayflower.

We thought of altering the asteroid’s orbit, if we couldn’t move it completely – a couple of degrees from its current latitude would swing it across Fram’s equator and, eventually, over several weeks, approach a circumpolar orbit. But it was an impermanent solution, made useless by the Mayflower’s own complex orbit: to avoid the ring of Fram, the May – like the Quoqasi had – would graze the atmosphere above the north pole, bleed away the last of its inertia through atmospheric breaking, and slide through its own circumpolar orbit until it could readjust its attitude to match the geostationary orbit of Wilbur, beneath the ring.

So instead we did something we probably should have tried all along, had we been as inventive in the hours after we’d lost the Quoqasi as we were forced to be in the hours before insertion. Counter to all conventional logic, we started maneuvering Texas lower, down towards Fram, and we put as much force behind it as we could.

Texas hit Fram’s atmosphere at a shallow angle, much shallower than the reentry of our orbiters. It slammed into the thick blanket of carbon dioxide which encircled our world, and started to break up and burn. We were terrified, nervous, anxious – our mainframe had crashed just hours earlier and we were all exhausted and deprived of sleep, so we feared our calculations could be wrong.

But then it happened: the altimeter climbed, confirmations came in from a dozen sources, and everyone in mission control cheered. Texas had skipped from the atmosphere like a stone across a pond, and our computer overlaid a red arc – a course projection – tracing a line from the icon of Texas back up into the ring.

“Sure looks good from up here,” came the disembodied voice from one of the orbiters salvaging Quoqasi. The voice was heavily chopped with static, and harsher syllables were distorted entirely. “Plenty of smoke still across the atmosphere, but I can see the thing rising. God, what a beautiful sight.”

“Amen to that,” replied a joyous capcom, over the shouting.

The Mayflower was in good condition, no worse than Quoqasi had been when it arrived. Its armour of Kuiper ice was largely intact, although pitted on a microscopic level by its passage through the cosmic medium. The orbiters could not immediately identify any weaknesses in this outer hull; most of it would ablate away when the May roared across the pole. We began to redeploy the Texas orbiters to meet the Mayflower – the four orbiters would work in tandem with each other and with the May’s own vernier rockets to guide the cargo ship into its complicated orbit.

At planetfall plus ninety-one, the Colonies stopped. There wasn’t a functioning e-suit still in the racks, an operating vehicle in the garage, nor anybody unable to get outside not clustered around a monitor to watch the televised broadcast of two points of light – one Wilbur and one the Mayflower – draw closer and inevitably together in the sky, until at last they merged and became one source of light…

Texas

 “…’Race Headquarters’ was the affectionate title given to Ground Station Alpha-1, a round-the-clock hive of activity dedicated to rectifying the mess made by the wayward rock known as Texas.  Fram’s top orbital engineers cross-checked data relays with the settlements’ best physicists as radio chatter from the orbital crews high above crackled endlessly.  Both Texas and the decaying Quoqasi needed cleaning up.  And fast…”

The rush was on.

Over the gentle curve of Fram’s horizon we could see Texas, the body we’d tagged and wrapped last week, and which had been sent spiraling downwards by those idiots in the solar station. Texas was another two hundred and sixty something orbits from entry into the atmosphere, and it was moving in a slow tumble – all the energy imparted by the Quoqasi when Texas smashed clean through her, eight hours ago.

I willed Texas closer, or rather, our orbiter closer to Texas. Time was running out. We’d catch up with the body in another two or three orbits, but by then it would be so deep in the gravity well of Fram that our solar station had no chance of moving it higher. We would have to dock and capture, EVA, strap solid-fuel boosters to it, and try and stabilize its orbit.

We didn’t have enough reaction mass to bring it out of the gravity well, only to stabilize its orbit. There was a rush because the lower it slipped with each orbit, the deeper it fell into the well, and the harder it was for us to stabilize the orbit. Texas wasn’t huge, nothing on the scale of the bodies that created What If or Hiroshima Craters, but it was a lot larger than the object which had ripped through Alpha-2, all those weeks and lifetimes ago.

Our projections put Texas, were we unsuccessful, crashing down about eight hundred kilometers north east of our settlement. A new crater would be punched in Fram’s surface, the latest in a long history of bombardment, fresh and crisp in the duricrust. Regolith would be thrown into the sky, carried by the wind storms gathering in strength the closer the planet drew to Alpha B and the further it receded from Alpha A. Light would diminish, the air would become as abrasive as the upper regolith, and we’d have no chance of unfurling the nanoribbon from Wilbur to Charlotte.

The Mayflower would be here in five days. Its fusion torch was now distinguishable from Sol, an arc second or two away from the star which had hurled it toward us, an optical binary in our skies. As it was, even if we stabilized the orbit of Texas, we had five days to send it back to where it came from: in its stable, lower orbit, our window for launch and recovery was ruined by the piece of misaligned rock, spinning around our planet just above the atmosphere.

Hundreds of kilometers ticked by as the orbiter rushed toward Texas. Fram slid by beneath – bland, featureless, a dusty world pocked by endless bombardment, swallowed by carbon dioxide and clouds of argon and methane.

Then we saw the Quoqasi, or rather, what was left of its forward section. It was below us, trailing ice crystals and debris. It had snapped just behind the centrifugal shucks for the colony pods – devoid of these and now its main drives, we saw only the forward repellers and a long, thin strut, the spine of the ship. The whole wreck was glowing a cherry red, brightening to highlight of pink and orange at the edges. And then flames leapt from all along its length – not flames, I realized, but superheated plasma, the atmosphere of Fram setting the wreck ablaze as it plummeted in an uncontrolled reentry.

We watched the ship which we had all boarded five years ago above Jupiter, the ship we’d lived within for all those years, the ship which had carried us across light years on the greatest adventure in human history – we watched this ship break up, section by section, level by level, and the component pieces scattered across a burning sky, trailing fire.

I set my eyes toward Texas, and counted down the kilometers.

 

Divergence

Over five billion years ago, our neighbourhood of the Universe, on the inner rim of the Orion Arm, was filled with a diffuse mist of hydrogen. This hydrogen formed an immense molecular cloud, and light took dozens of our years to cross this cloud. It was a brilliant, beautiful, resplendent stellar nursery – complex vespers of gas were lit by the energetic emissions of nearby, second-generation stars, and highlighted by the glare of the nascent Galactic Core.

Today we look into the skies and see such giant molecular clouds in the Orion, Carina and Eagle Nebulas.

The molecular cloud which composed our area of the Galaxy was spun by its orbit and by its density into structures: clumps, bubbles, sheets, and filaments of gas orbited with the Galactic disc. Slowly, on timescales incomprehensible to the mind of the intelligence which would eventually arise here, these irregularities condensed and the clumps grew, as consequence of both the density of the cloud and of its low temperature. After less than ten million years, these gravitational forces began to exceed the pressure pushing outward from the clumps.

We can think of several causes for the molecular cloud to collapse: the cloud could have hit another, equally-dense broth of hydrogen; or, it could have, in its orbit of the Galaxy, passed through a dense region of the spiral arms, crowded by stars already blazing into the night. But we know, instead, that one of these nearby stars exploded, and that the uneven force of such a shockwave was the catalyst for collapse. We know this because of the presence of heavy elements in the star systems humanity has visited, and studied – gold, uranium, iron, nickel, lithium, and, crucially, carbon; almost everything heavier than hydrogen and helium, the soup of the Big Bang. It was probably a massive second-generation star. These elements could only have been formed inside the nuclear reaction at the heart of this star, or through neutron absorption; in either case, these elements were scattered by the supernova which marked its death. The high-speed impact of this shocked matter into the molecular cloud caused it to lose stability, and collapse.

As it collapsed, it fragmented. Chunks of that filament, clumping together into irregular balls, began to separate and disperse. We now call this turbulent fragmentation. The nonuniform velocities within the molecular cloud compressed the gas in shocks as the whole cloud collapsed, causing compression into objects of varying sizes and densities. As these collapsing clumps of matter distinguished themselves from one another, some became gravitationally unstable, and fragmented again, into two or, in the case of Alpha Centauri, three major parts.

From this fragmentation came the material which would compose Sol and its attendant stellar system, the cradle of mankind, and the matter which would form the Alpha Centauri system.

Although these protostars could not yet create nuclear reactions, they did become warmer and thus began to glow brighter. By collapsing and contracting, they converted gravitational energy into kinetic energy – the closer their constituent atoms fell toward the center of contraction, the less their gravitational energy, which increased those atoms’ thermal kinetic energy. These clumps warmed; as the hydrogen molecules contracted and collided they became excited and emitted radiation in the microwave and infrared spectrums. Much of this burgeoning radiation escaped, in the beginning, but as the contraction continued the molecular density increased, which began to trap these emissions, and a runaway heating effect began.

The protostars grew hot, quickly, and began to glow a dull, cherry red.

Over a hundred million years, the protostars began to spin, flattening the material which surrounded them into a fat circumstellar disc. This material continued to accrete, and would eventually, in billions of years, become the companions to these stars as they orbited the Galaxy – planets, moons, asteroids, and comets. Then, as young, T Tauri stars, Alpha A and B poured out a strong stellar wind. This pushed back the gases of the disc, and matter stopped falling into the star itself.

Parts of the disc began to clump together as had the molecular cloud: no longer falling toward the protostar, the gravitational heating slowed and the disc cooled, and grains of silicates and ice condensed. The grains of metals, water, ammonia, and methane – that 2% of the mass of the disk planted by the detonation which began its collapse – stuck together electrostatically, and as these clumps plowed through the disc, they slowly grew into planetesimals. Bound together by a static force and a growing, weak gravity, they swam through the hydrogen and helium gases, and distorted the homogeneity of the disc as they orbited the protostars.

In what we would eventually call the Alpha Centauri system, the interactions of the protostars and their circumstellar discs must have been complicated, as are the orbits of the bodies in the system today. The clumping of the disc around each protostar was influenced by the gravity of the other, causing radial lines to spread from each protostar toward their mutual barycenter. These interactions prohibited the formation of the massive Jovian gas giants which grace the Solar system. The beginnings of these gas giants were pulled apart by the competing gravities of the two stars, or were dissipated by their combined stellar winds, leaving only heavy, silicate planets like Fram to form.

Perhaps their discs merged at their edges, and material was swapped between the protostars and the lumps slowly building in their orbit. It is even possible that Alpha A and B were much closer, these billions of years ago, and swam like titans through a shared circumstellar disc, churning the glowing material about in complex tides.

Alpha A and B must have been spectacular sights, five billion years ago when they were T Tauri protostars. Their surface temperatures would have been similar to what they are now, though they would have been noticeably brighter, as their radii were smaller. Their discs would have glowed red-hot, and would have neatly bisected the stars themselves. From a distance, above or below the plane of the ecliptic, a dome sat at the center of the disc – a hemisphere that was half a star, surrounded by a wall of slowly spinning matter. The light of the star would throw million kilometer shadows past the matter that was already clumping together in the disc, and complicated ring systems would have developed in that disc as the interactions of the other star perturbed its orbit. And across the sky, the nearby stars would have been hot and young, filling space with violent stellar winds.

And then, probably within a million years of one another, and over two hundred million years before Sol, each of the twin stars of Alpha Centauri blazed to Main Sequence life.

Deuterium fusion ignition began, pouring out light, heat and radiation. This outflow slowed the collapse, and was channeled by the discs into bipolar streams. This flow imparted the angular momentum of the star to the material of the disc, just as the magnetic fields of their T Tauri stages had – forever, the planets which formed from the protoplanetary discs would orbit their parent stars on an equal plane of the ecliptic, at the equator of that star, and would match the star’s rotation.

Eventually the heat and mass of these stars would be enough to switch from fusing hydrogen to deuterium to fusing into helium instead. Very quickly, nuclear fusion found a balance where the energy exerted from the core balanced the weight of the collpasing matter which composed the star, and gravitational collapse ceased.

Alpha A eventually accreted more mass than Sol, while Alpha B slightly less; Proxima, orbiting far from the barycenter, accreted about an eighth the mass of Sol. The lump of the molecular cloud from which Proxima developed was small, unstable; nuclear fusion in its heart was slow, fusing hydrogen into helium with much less efficiency than the furnaces at the hearts of Sol, Alpha A or Alpha B. It could not easily radiate photons from its core, an instead moved energy to its surface through convection.

Proxima was dim and isolated – it lacked its own circumstellar disc – and from the heart of the growing Alpha Centauri system, it was an insignificant, flaring bead, tracing an arc around the system thirteen thousand times as far away as Earth is from Sol.

Over a billion years, the clumps of silicates, metals, water, ammonia and methane began to build in size. Initially, they were carried by the turbulent motion of the gas disk itself, like debris carried by the swirling, seething motion of a whirlpool stirred by the two stars. When they collided with one another, they clung together, and grew. Soon they grew so large that they developed their own, shallow gravity wells, and attracted one another without the use of the currents foaming about them. Others formed by coalescing in the mid-plane of the disc, where the heavier material collected through the angular momentum of the disc’s rotation, and collapsed not unlike the molecular cloud had thousands of millions of years before.

Protoplanets kilometers across formed in these ways, and glided in languid orbits. And so began a period of intense violence: these planetesimals collided, smashed together, blasted one another apart, coalesced, and, eventually, formed a stellar system recognisable to us today. Close to the Alpha A and B, volatiles like water and methane could not form, and instead bodies of silicates and metals settled into orbits – we now call the largest of these Nebu, and Fram. Both of these planets were created through countless impacts, which imparted mass to their subjects, and altered their orbits. Nebu, its moons and rings, found a comfortable orbit close to Alpha A; Fram, its satellites and rings, was hammered, pushed and pulled into a looping orbit between the two Main Sequence stars.

Stellar winds forced the gaseous hydrogen and helium of the disc far from the stars, and icy volatiles which could not form close to the heat and energy of Alpha A and B found stability here also. Thus formed a massive Oort Cloud – trillions of inert lumps of dirty ice, slung from the warm heart of the system by their hyperbolic orbits, or coalesced from the cooled gas, gathered dozens of times further from the barycenter as was Proxima. The Oort Cloud of Alpha Centauri was of much greater mass and density than Sol’s, for here could be found that material of the circumstellar disc which had formed the cores of Jupiter and Saturn, and the entirety of Uranus, Neptune, and the Kuiper Belt around Sol. These objects, while the best source of water for light years, were also the greatest challenge for the Quoqasi to navigate as we decelerated from our interstellar slingshot, and arrived in Alpha Centauri…

 

Charlotte Station

Exactly one week before the Mayflower would arrive, the mining site cracked through the crust and started digging into the upper mantle. Immediately we started bringing up unprecedented amounts of silicone and aluminum, which partially offset how late these resources had started coming in.

Thankfully, some bright spark back Home had pushed for the essential components for the anchor station to be carried with us, prefabricated. At the cost of reaction mass we hauled most of the ground station with us: all that had to be built were the tethers to the body placed in geosynchronous orbit by our orbiters. We had started running simultaneous missions to get that part ready for the Mayflower, and at any time now we had at least two of our five orbiters up above us.

By the time we finished Charlotte Station, our impression on this ancient planet had grown to be quite considerable, though it must be said that it was much less than we had intended, six months after planetfall. There were four cities, growing out of, and over, the colony pods; we had an underground mine and were planning a second, open-cut site far to the north; an active spaceport with limited launch facilities; and now Charlotte, our ground station for the space elevator. Connecting these were the beginnings of our carbon highways, slowly spreading out from the cities like cracks in ice.

Our timetable, written by the same learned people who foresaw the need for a prefabricated ground station, put the completion of all components of the space elevator at a date already more than three weeks past. We had yet to extend the ribbon itself, made of carbon nanotubes, from Charlotte to Wilbur, that silicate hunk of Amundsen that we had captured and slipped into orbit directly above the ground station. And, of course, while the Mayflower was itself enclosed by the structure which would unfold to become our space station and shipyard, it still required a basic dock to tether itself to when it arrived, which we hadn’t finished.

It would be a close thing, but that had been how this colony had started, and got by in the time since. There was growing optimism in everyone here. Some of us began to believe that we had passed the worst of the bottleneck – that the arrival of the Mayflower would mean the end of rationing and the end of double-shifts. But this optimism was not yet widespread. Many still feared the one event which would instantly destroy our modest progress. More of us would simply not allow ourselves to hope.

And then one of our solar stations misaligned, nudging one of the objects tagged by the orbiters in the wrong direction. It orbited Fram sixteen times, each orbit dropping lower and lower, before it slammed into the Quoqasi – still in the orbit we had left it when we made planetfall. The ship which had borne us across the unimaginable distance between Sol and Alpha Centauri was snapped in two, and the entire bow section was decompressed…

Frontier Medicine

“…the medical bays were relatively small; each colony pod had ten or so, not counting the prefab-packs still in storage. They could be rigged onto M-1010 catepillar rigs to create mobile medico stations, which proved useful during the initial stages of colonial construction.”

It was simple enough – a procedure practiced for hundreds of years, the doctors said. Sanna was nonetheless nervous, and the rest of the colony with her. She felt the weight of anticipation upon her, as heady as the painkillers.

“Okay, Sanna,” the doctor spoke to her, “we’re performing a lower uterine segment section. One cut, right across here.”

Sanna saw the doctor’s arm move, but could not feel the gloved finger draw a line across her abdomen. Her heartbeat quickened. She remember the epidural anesthetic, even if the doctor didn’t.

“Right above the bladder. There will be less blood loss, and it’s much easier for us to repair.”

Sweat had clustered on Sanna’s brow; someone wiped it away. She wished Lia had been here. She conjured Lia’s face, and imagined him stroking her jawline, whispering reassurances. Lia replaced the doctor, drowned him out entirely: she heard nothing of the caesarian hysterectomy, the effect of interstellar deceleration on her placenta and uterus, or the statistics of miscarriages since leaving Sol.

Sanna blinked at the light, mounted on an articulated arm, which the doctor positioned over her. The vitals software beeped and clicked; she heard her own heartbeat pounding in her ears and emulated by the monitors in a shrill monotone. She felt dizzy, hot, like she would pass out; she wondered if this was anaesthesia, or analgesia, or simple fatigue.

There were no contractions, of course. Her pregnancy had been complicated – by the tail-end of Quoqasi’s deceleration, by planetfall, by the effects of rationing. These were the somatic problems; Lia’s death so close to full term was the most worrying. Sanna had been carefully monitored throughout her pregnancy, particularly after planetfall. When Lia was killed in the mining accident, the doctors began to prepare for surgery.

There was one quick, confident motion; a transverse cut across her swollen belly.

The anesthetist scrutinized her readouts. She couldn’t see her smile, of course, but read comfort in her eyes and the way they softened at their outer edges. Sanna stared into her eyes, desperate for human contact; the anesthetist reassured her without any words.

A sheet was draped across her body, below her breasts; above this she saw the doctor lift a purple mass, sticky with amniotic fluid. There was a cough, more of a choked splutter, and then the beep of her heartbeat and the buzz of electronics were replaced by a febrile, urgent crying.

Tears came to Sanna’s eyes, tears of joy and of sorrow, as, she saw, they came to the eyes of the doctors and nurses.

The doctor clipped and cut the umbilical cord. When her child was brought to her, Sanna again feared fainting. She looked into his eyes, grey like marble and misted over, but alive and curious.

“Peregrine White,” Sanna whispered. “Peregrine White Winslow.”

The anesthetist leaned over to her. “He’s the first child of a new generation. This place is really home for him – he’ll never know Earth, or the light of Sol, or even the Ship. All he will know is Fram; everything else will be legend, the stuff the old-timers talk about.”

Sanna was lost. This child, her child, was the first for the Colony. For the first time she felt the importance of this child’s life – the first human to be born under a different sun.

“Miss Winslow,” the doctor said evenly, “In this moment, in this theatre, we’re at a milestone for the species. A hundred a fifty billion humans have existed throughout our history, up to this point – but your son is the first of us to be born away from the cradle of our species…”

She knew that she should feel proud, moved, happy, but she felt those emotions only as a background, projected dimly on her consciousness. All Sanna wanted was for Lia to be there, to hold his son, even just for a moment…

A Few Eggs

“…COIL mining was only a short-term initiative, at least using the MMRs. They’re very unstable machines, many parts seem faulty…or have next to nothing in the way of durability, not to mention a severe lack of safety features.

…Once the May’ gets here, we can leave these temperamental pressure-cookers to the dogs.”

When we had our first accident with the MMRs, we got off pretty lightly. One of the chlorine lines burst, overwhelming the crew on the gantry stacks. We lost more than a dozen people straight away, though it could have been much worse. The chlorine or the iodine could have mixed, the oxygen byproduct could have exploded, or the two components of the COIL could have met in uncontrolled circumstances and we’d have lost the whole rig.

Until the accident, we’d relied on trauma kits and first aid to deal with the injuries that cropped up: cuts, bruises, sprains, concussions, a broken leg. Suddenly we were dealing with things our e-suits couldn’t handle, or at least mitigate. Our inability to respond quickly was what cost those fifteen people their lives.

As with everything in the past fortnight, the hardware was the easiest part to fix. It’s strange to think that, a few weeks ago, all we thought of was spare parts and inventories. Sure, we still had frightening supply problems – we were all hungry from rationing, after all. And we were still on a knife-edge in terms of our capability to maintain even our basic existence, much less the expansion timetable we had for the arrival of the Mayflower.

But a chlorine line and a pump was easier to replace than fifteen of us. We weren’t Home; we’d left Home with five thousand people and, as awful as it was, our numbers where being whittled away by the harshness of our new life. Now, we were hyperaware of our own frailties, of how far from our Home we had come, of how alone and isolated we were, and of how close we were to collapsing under the weight of our own, human ambitions.

Home. Nobody called that star on the edge of Cassiopeia “Sol”, not anymore. It was “Home”, even for those of us dedicated to Fram and to Alpha Centauri and to seeing out what we had started here, in this place, whether that ended with the expansion of human civilization into other stars systems, or the slow death of a preemptive reach for the stars. I wonder, if we even live out the year, how many generations it will take to breed out that habit.

KOVTAR-3C Webfoot

“…the KOVTAR-3C was nicknamed “Webfoot”, due to the additional stabiliser plates adorning its feet and the subsequent comparison to the biped locomation of waterfowl. The slide-crane module was attached to a basic KOVTAR-3 biped chassis, with a counterweight section situated behind the main engine manifold. Reinforced legs meant the Webfoot mobilised in a slow, lumbering way; each footfall accompanied by a sharp hiss and a blast from the suspension valves. With a gross lift limit of fifty tonnes, the Webfoot was an essential part of colonial construction projects. Incidently, it was around the Webfoot where the phraseology for KOVTAR-related accidents or breakdowns took root; any incident being subsequently referred to as ‘Duck a l’orange!’.”

 

“Wow, look at that,” said Zimmerman.

Yi looked up from the tablet. When the tip of his stylus left the screen, the schematics, covered in scrawled notes, blacked out into standby mode.

Yi followed Zimmerman’s outstretched finger. He pointed into the sky, where dots of brown-yellow light were moving. These were silicate remnants of Amundsen, probably no larger than a Sprat, gliding across the red bowl of the sky. But Yi saw a smaller, brighter light among them – this was an orbiter, rolling over its axis, one of its arrow-shaped wings catching the light of Alpha B.

Yi returned to the tablet. There was a marshalling yard, by the side of the carbon ribbon, where the flatbeds were dumping the prefab boxes shipped from the colonies. Of course the arterial had been started on both ends, but did not yet meet in the middle; the flatbeds coming from the old Alpha-2 site were caught in the regolith between when the lead vehicle bogged in a drift and threw its gears. It looked like the KOVTARs would have to unload the lead truck while the other two ground toward their original destination; Yi had to find space in the marshalling yard for the components.

There was a spark of light from Zimmerman’s faceplate – arc welders, the magnesium white light flickering from the shell of the ground station. The base was completed, although the elevator station and the port facilities were still prefabricated frameworks, and the loading platform hadn’t even been started. There were three buildings under construction, and the foundation for a fourth being laid; these were skeletons encased in scaffolding, lit by welders and crawling with regolith-smeared e-suits.

There were two and a half weeks remaining until the supply ship arrived in orbit of Fram. Zimmerman, his head forever turned to the sky, spent each evening searching for the fusion torch of the decelerating Mayflower. For now he was content to watch the orbiter trace a line across the sky – as stressed as Yi was with the timetable for the ground station, he knew those vacuum-sucking orbiter crews were pulling multiple EVAs each day to clear NFO space, and slip the tether into perfect, geosynchronous orbit directly over his head.

One of those lights, behind the spiraling orbiter, could well be that asteroid: rockets flaring at its nose and decelerating with each orbit until, just before the May arrived, it would be in position and ready to spool down the carbon nanotube ribbon to the ground station.

“Zimmerman,” Yi said, snapping his assistant out of his stargazing, “let’s get two of the Webfoots out to those jackasses stuck in the dust. We’ll stick those crates here and here, but we’ll have to move the lift hydraulics over there…”

With his stylus and with the schematics of the half-built ground station, Yi set to work.

 

Velt Patrol

“…One of the few vehicles that thrived on Fram’s surface, needing no initial retrofitting, was the Sprat-11, a two-man buggy with a remarkable load-bearing capacity of three-quarter tonne. They proved invaluable to maintenance crews tasked with the upkeep of the many remote-region sensor pylons that reported scientific data to the laboratories and monitoring stations at the colony. The Sprat-11 was perhaps the most efficient and rugged vehicle within the colonial motor pool, and would only prove itself further by becoming the trusted and reliable workhorse of the medical field-teams. The Sprat-11 chassis was also highly customisable, eventually leading to a broad variation in practical applications; from sporting excavator frames and forklift attachments to bristling with multi-band receivers and transferring data from isolated sensor fields back to the colony.”

 

The sky was ablaze with stars, bisected by the fuzz that was the planet’s ring. Cassiopeia had set, although Orion had risen far above the Sprat. We could see Betelgeuse and Mintaka and the whole Belt, but Rigel and Sirius were obscured by the ring. I kicked the buggy as hard as it could go. It was bounding off ridges of regolith with a spray of dirt and ice crystals. The engine over-revved after each jolt. I was grinning, of course, though I knew Gingrich, riding tandem behind me, was not. We’d both got our licenses on the same day, but I’d put in more hours, and so knew how to get more out of the Sprat than she did.

It was an automatic vehicle, with simple controls. It could be squirrely, though, especially in loose regolith or crunching along the lips of craters or ridgelines. Ours had been worked hard – almost every creak and rattle in the chassis, and strained growl of the engine, was my fault. There was a rock-strewn path up and out of a crater near Alpha-3 that I loved to belt the Sprat along; you had to hit the incline at just the right speed and with enough revs, or else it wouldn’t make it to the top.

Gingrinch, geo-caching behind me, overlaid our destination on the HUD in my faceplate. It appeared as a red triangle off to our left, with numbers counting down the distance as we approached, which I angled for immediately. The brakes were strong and in good order; I pushed down with pounds of pressure and the Sprat fishtailed to a stop. I kept pushing the brake until there was a click of the handbrake engaging.

Sensor Pylons were meant to be strapped beneath the crew cabin over the wheel clearance. But almost immediately we’d found that the all-terrain suspension of the Sprat, combined with Fram geography, meant that the wheels would at some point bounce up, carried by the loose suspension, and snap the Pylons. Now we stored them higher up on the frame, along the sides of the chassis, so that when stowed they became booms that locked to the sides of the driver and passenger seats. We unhooked these before we could dismount.

Gingrinch and I didn’t much like one another, which was one reason why I floored the Sprat so. We worked in silence, setting the Pylon into the regolith and initializing its systems. It was as close to night time as Fram got at this point in its orbit, and while both stars had set, their light still illuminated all the dust along the ecliptic. Every star was the same as Home, although there was only one pointer to Crux instead of two, and Home was now embedded in a constellation of its own.

Once the Pylon had been networked and was broadcasting telemetry, we headed back to the Sprat and on to our next waypoint. It didn’t have enough juice to kick over with the headlights on; I had to dim these and then start it. With a flick of methane ice billions of years old and, until now, undisturbed for that long, we headed off to the Northern Sky waypoint.