On Distant Worlds: The Prologues & Colibri. Brian Gonzalez
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systems as well. If our own star system was rendered biologically inert by the Cataclysm, the reasoning went, there was no reason to assume any of the nearby and therefore reasonably well-known star systems would be spared a similar fate. To survive the worst-case Cataclysm scenario, humankind needed to become a space-based species for the indefinite amount of time it would take to find one or more hospitable worlds to sustain us.
BioShips would be designed and sent out into space, racing not directly away from the Cataclysm in futile attempt to outrun it but away and in courses perpendicular to the Cataclysm’s wavefront in order to, in great time, evade it. A sidestep maneuver.
In order to find planets which could lie hundreds of light-years away, the ships had to be self-sustaining. Even with the Plan’s projected advances in human hibernation paying dividends it would take multiple generations to reach other stars so the ships had to be generation ships, and in order to avoid creating cruel and harsh lives for those born en route and destined to play out their lives in the gaps between star systems a reasonable standard of living needed to be provided. What use preserving physical humanity if moral humanity was lost? The BioShips would be no less than discrete miniature worlds housing tens of thousands of people living in better conditions than much of humanity’s past generations and better than the impoverished citizens of their own time, many of whom objected violently to this point of the Plan.
Point #3 was audacious, forward-thinking, meticulously planned, and ruinously expensive. It would by far consume the most resources of any of the three Points, resources which otherwise might have enriched the lives of what might be the last generations of humans, the youngest of which had taken to calling themselves “The Lastest Generation” and which perhaps understandably felt a certain sense of sullen entitlement.
The opposition to the third point of the Plan was universally vicious and it was almost axed completely within a month of the Plan’s release. The Plan’s architects fought to keep the provision alive, dropping the number of BioShips from nine to six and then to just three. Their best efforts were not enough and a year later the third Point was indeed killed.
Thirty years later the shelved version was hastily revived, modified down to just two larger BioShips because there now would not be enough time or resources to complete and launch three. We were finally able to discern with acuity the actual effects of the Cataclysm wavefront solidly engaging several of our neighboring star systems simultaneously, a series of events which had occurred between five and twenty years ago. Every exoplanet we could observe was taking -- had taken – multiple hits. A couple of the systems were lighting up like a vidgame. The observed damage was far worse than models had predicted and the probability that our entire solar system might be devastated had just increased to panic levels.
In response humankind began the most ambitious project in its history; the orbital construction of two artificial worlds. When finished, the BioShips would be by far the largest artificial objects ever created, each larger than some of the smaller moons in the solar system, at least in terms of volume. Measured by mass they would be far less impressive, being composed largely of ice. But in terms of sheer size, only the world’s longest bridges and largest particle colliders would be discernible at that optical scale.
Of course only the one BioShip was actually built and launched. The second was already behind schedule when the fanatics bombed it. The ship was not destroyed but was knocked years off schedule and rather than leave the massive object (and its potential to become an incoming fireball) in near Earth orbit during the Cataclysm, they towed it into a four-month long plunge into the Sun.
We don’t know if the third point of the Plan worked. As expected, several weeks after launch the massive vehicle ignited the most powerful of its multiple propulsion systems, the radio signal-obliterating fusion drive, for a burn that was scheduled to last for months or even years if all went well. By the time they shut off the drive, if anybody on Earth was actually still receiving their signal, the record of such has not survived to our present day. Certainly the BioShip didn’t receive any signals behind that massive drive jet, but presumably at some point they would have looked back to see Earth darkened by the shroud of dust and rock and smoke and magma kicked up when Impactor One slammed into Eurasia.
Twenty very long years ago when they first announced the mission to follow the path of the BioShip and find any human colonies she might have generated, I knew immediately I was destined to fly that Jumpship. And I was in a perfect position to act on that goal: I already had my Second Degree in Cataclysm History and had already committed to Third School at the Andean Institute which had not just an excellent Jump Tech program but also a Leadership Academy and even a feeder program into the Security Forces. It was perfect, and I was convinced I was the right woman for the job.
I spent the next fifteen years of my life single-mindedly working to get into the Emissary Program.
Eight years of that was more public schooling, during which time I acquired a hard-won reputation as a top authority on the BioShip and her crew, and that got me into the Security Forces Academy with a junior commission.
Two years later I completed my flight training and performed my first Jump, the basic supply hop to Oort One. I piloted intrasystem for three years, then long-jump for two more, including twice to nearby star systems and once to deep empty space for multiple-hop testing. The Emissary mission would be the longest lasting and furthest-ranging mission yet attempted; we would be spending years out there and hopping many, many times. There was a lot of testing to be done, and I was there piloting a share of it.
I walked into the Emissary program with almost forty hops on my record, including several multiples and several long-jumps. I’d given up a lot to get there, essentially my entire youth. I hadn’t seen my parents in years, and I hadn’t been in a relationship or even had a fling in longer than that. The longest of journeys might begin with a single step, but the selection process for the journey involved a million. I’d spent every Saturday night for years studying or writing papers even long after I was no longer a student. But it had paid off. I was in the program, as I’d intended since I was so young it put a lump in my throat to think about.
I spent the next five years fighting to prove I deserved to be the pilot of the Emissary. And I failed. I didn’t even come in third in Primary Piloting. The fantasy I had worked toward for so long of being the one to pilot the Emissary on her voyage of exploration to other stars had crumbled. Others tested a bit quicker here, a little more consistently there. The Emissary program had done a good job bringing in top talent to compete, and some of that talent had kicked my ass. My dream of flying the Emissary into unknown star systems ended yesterday.
So if I had relied on only my piloting skills to get me named to the crew I would have washed out of the program right there. But I’m not unaware. I’d recognized the possibility I might not be the top Jump pilot in the world (although I admit not being top three stung a lot). So in addition to the contingency plan I had already executed, that of becoming a recognized BioShip expert, I had also put in the time and effort it took to excel in my secondary, emergency, and community skills. As much as my schedule allowed, I had attacked those other skills as though each was my Primary. While I’d come in fourth in my Primary, I’d picked up a couple of seconds in cross-training (small vehicle operation, tactical planning), had been top five in every category but one (field medical), and had earned the top overall cross-training mark. I could do over half the jobs on the mission, and nobody going knew more about the BioShip than I did.
They wanted me on the mission almost as badly as I did, and the way to accomplish that was to name me a Mission Specialist. It’s not “Lead Pilot” but it does have a certain cachet. I’m less disappointed than I might have been, because the job I actually did get has considerably more duties than the one I was trying for and I’m already getting overscheduled. Not much time for reflection or second-guessing. As my specialty I’ll be Chair of the BioShip Search Team tasked with finding the BioShip’s trail, a mystery I relish solving and which also puts me on the command deck at important times; it would have been so frustrating to be on the mission but only watching on vid below decks. I’m also on the Security team and the Damage Control team and the Colonial Contact team. I’m backup Surface Team leader. I’m backup Comm Tech. Community-wise, I’ll shift in the kitchen (all those weekend study nights