First LightFirst Light is a collection of stories not currently available anywhere else; Lind froze in place, blinded by green afterimages. With her automatic glare filter turned off in the dimly lit bay, the security robot’s red light dazzled her. The bot scanned her suit identification and accepted her voice command to switch off, move on. The ship architect stayed still. There were too many wrong places to put her feet. Holed by my own hull mine. The surveillance system had caught a few crewmen sightseeing six or seven ship’s-hours ago and Lind had sent in the bots. Eyes closed, she listened to her suit puffing as it fought the cold. The J-AO1, J-series Astronomical Observer One, had started the plunge to near the cosmic background temperature. Twelve ship’s-hours from now, its crew would board. The ship would be launched immediately thereafter, and renamed Huygens. Already the J-AO1 was in its natural element. The bay was separated from space only by grated safety gates. Except for the psychological comfort of being enclosed by Los Angeles and its frame of reference, Lind might as well have been floating in the open. Vision restored, she blinked and looked about her. The huge construction bay was meticulously clean. The ship’s builders had worked with gold and even more precious materials. Almost anything was harder to replace than recycle in the great deeps of space. And, even if the shipwrights had been willing to waste anything, it would have been blown out with the residual air when the bay was decompressed. Some of that cloud of particles surrounding Los Angeles would go with the J-AO1. The craft’s outer shell was a meter deep layer of ablative foam. Lind hoped it would be enough protection against the inevitable launch debris. Now, beyond the grating, she could see stars. Lind inched forward. The one exception was the sealed living-control module that had only been joined to the main frame today. Inside that had the subtle irregularities produced by human hands, plus color, 3-Ds, music, soundscapes, and privacy soundproofing: six people would be spending a long, long time together. Those remaining on Los Angeles could hope to return to Earth to live out their late middle age and senior years. The observatory ship riders were unlikely to meet humanity in the flesh again. Some had left eggs, sperm, clones, or frozen children-to-be behind them. Others had not, fearing that they themselves would fit in only with their own kind and their children would be considered odd or pitiable. One or perhaps two had given offspring to their close kin or friends in discreet adoptions. Lind had done none of these. Building ships she had designed was to be her life’s work. She had thought it would be enough, but here, scanning for one last time the glassy hull that would be continuously robot-renewed throughout the Huygens’ life—here, she was not so sure. I designed it, she thought, but I— “Lind?” came the query in her ear. It was John Coltsfoot, second in command of the project and likely successor, should one be needed. “Coltsfoot?” “We’re no longer losing heat from the bay. I think we’re close to temperature turn-around. Unless you’ve found a problem, you might want to leave.” Diplomatic, she thought. Had it been me on the intercom, I would have had a few things more to say. “Thank you,” she said. Coltsfoot would have waited until the last possible moment. It was the way he was. Safe behind her reflective faceplate, Lind grimaced. Damn. An impenetrable façade was one of the burdens of command. Not for senior officers the cozy camaraderie of the mess. The Code said, “There must be a distance, graciously maintained, between those with rank and those without.” Glancing at the red time check at the corner of her faceplate, Lind lengthened her stride, felt the foot walk flex under her. Ten hours and counting. Time was when maintaining command distance had been easy for her, but as the voyage grew longer Lind sometimes wished she were as free to remake herself as her project members. She missed the warmth of human contact. But, she reminded herself, if stone-faced posturing becomes unbearable, I can resign, become one of the crew. Some other competent person would be elevated to her position. Coltsfoot, probably. He wanted the job, would not have been suitable if he were not ambitious. Nothing is forever in the deeps of space, but Lind found the very thought of leaving her post to her excellent second, who apparently lacked the assertiveness that made a good boss—although he had no other flaw—repellent. She walked faster, eager to get inside. Any project had to stop at some arbitrary degree of fulfillment, and this one had approached ideal more closely than most. Listening to her feet hit the plating, Lind was a long way from demoting herself. It’s stopping improving it that’s hard. Imagining patting the hull in farewell, she looked instead. It looks old. Designed for extended in-system work without a refitting dock to return to, JOA-1 lacked the usual lumps and bumps of equipment despite multiple redundant systems packed within its sleek hull. But the materials JAO-1 was made of were unimaginable in the past. Six great braided-carbon struts, capped together at each end, and then wrapped tightly with filaments that were one long molecule made its frame. The spaceship’s hull was a composite used by special permission of the military. Its outer shell was foamed silicon, constantly under repair by its team of robots. During the launch the spidery hexagons would retreat to their lairs, ready to emerge if needed. From then on, under almost any conditions, they would be on patrol—not just to protect against disaster but also to insure a good return on a massive investment. When carbon fibers and composite failed they did so catastrophically. The tension that held JAO-1 together and rigid would tear the whole apart. Watching simulations, it was easy to envision helpless, suitless bodies tumbling as virtual atmosphere met virtual vacuum. Lind had deepened the ablative layer again and again. Foam was cheap, personnel and equipment expensive. “Lind?” a quiet voice in her ear reminded her. “Yes.” She lingered a moment more, then said, “On my way.” When the request for proposals was posted, Lind had fought long and hard to justify what she submitted. Her design had looked right. Every line and curve served a purpose, formed a pleasing whole. After all these centuries, human eyes still hungered for the organic forms of the Great Home World. Passing the midpoint on the way back, the architect checked her sleeve readout and sped up. JAO-1 was a long ship: all three of its major elements needed to be separated from one another. The instrument array traveled before the ship on an insulated spar, so the space it sampled and flew through was uncontaminated. Passing under the great wheel of the solar panels and approaching the boom that supported the maneuvering jets, Lind paused. No matter her haste, she would spend a moment here, where a shadowy twin of hers emblazoned the white hull. She admired the pristine sweep, and then frowned. There, on that spar, someone had lettered JAO-1. That touch of paint would do no harm, probably. It was the principle of the thing that had left the rest of the ship white, unmarred. She reached, to hold her reader closer to the potential damage— —her boot cling failed. One heel free, Lind froze, heart hammering in her ears. She didn’t want to leave her mark on her creation by crushing its protective layer into a suit-shaped hollow. The damage could be repaired quickly but the scar would be visible during the launch. Think your way out of it. If she didn’t solve this problem, someone would have to come and haul her in. She could not use her propulsion pack: it produced heat. Her quick-release safety line, so convenient, looked unexpectedly frail. Lips pressed together, Lind pulled on it slowly, slowly, drew herself to her knees, recycled her suit functions. Setting her free heel down hard, she felt it take, and sighed in relief. I really am late. Standing up, placing each foot precisely on the yellow center line, Lind hurried. The thrum of the plating underfoot triumphant in her earphones, she reached the caged section seated against the solid bulk of the mother ship, Los Angeles. She latched the door grate, took one deep, relaxing breath, and then another. Safe. Comparatively safe. She laid a gloved hand on the Los Angeles’s sturdy hull. JOA-1 would have been a much frailer construct than it was if Sam Ho had not invented a new type of drive, not as powerful as those used on interstellar ships, but hotter and cleaner, a magnetically bottled yellow sun that released a miniscule jet of hot plasma. That was a game-changer. Lind had modified her plans and the construction division had toiled long and hard, inventing whole new techniques to bring the revised vision to reality— “Countdown begins. Take your posts,” said her helmet earphones. The story continues in First Light at Amazon.com. Art on this page and and cover art and layout by Paul McCall, copyright 2000; |
No human hand had touched the streamlined reflective white hull that stretched away into the dimness. Real or slaved robots had done most of the construction, and what human workers there were had been completely suited inspectors.
The package shelter and repair pod was the first element of the spacecraft proper. The crew quarters were amidships so they could not leak heat to the array nor absorb particles from the drive. The main drive was at the rear and as far from the other components as possible given the strength of available materials.