PHOENIX IV

 

 

 

The fourth Phoenix mission—it was the most critical of all the black hole missions. At last, human beings had the know-how, the technology, and the drive to use quantum singularities in the centers of black holes to power a fantastic new transportation drive. Phoenix IV would test a probe designed with the new drive, but on a very tiny scale.

Roger McFarland checked the last of his seat harnesses. All were secure. All suit systems were operating nominally. Unfortunately, someone had to perform an “extra-vehicular activity” (EVA) and come very close to the black hole’s event horizon in order to read anything from the probe that they would send through the massive dead star.

Strapped securely to his EVA unit, Roger drifted slowly out of the docking couplings and through the airlock door of the United States exploration vessel Phoenix. He sighed in an attempt to calm his nerves. He was hovering less than half a kilometer above absolute oblivion.

“Bored already, Rodge?” asked Keith Malloy, a young man with blonde hair to his shoulders, the lucky son of a gun sitting in the command module while McFarland risked his life going EVA in the orbit of a black hole. He had control over most of the systems via a pair of “data hands” gloves, which integrated him into the ship’s computer. Outside of the command room, in the rickety space module sat Devin Whitehead, a thin black man with thin-rimmed glasses, no hair, and no tolerance for lollygagging. He was monitoring all the sensor readouts. Despite his lack of direct control, he was the commander of the mission.

Roger sighed again. “Those simulations will even make the outdoor view seem dull. Blasted holodecks take the imagination out of everything.”

“Don’t give me that, Rodge,” Keith said. “You’re still amazed. Seatbelts?”

“I’m all tucked in, big Kay. Tether in place.” In fact, he was amazed. In order to orbit the black hole as closely as they were, they had to travel ludicrously close to light speed. This made the backdrop of the Galaxy’s stars whir past at an alarming rate. It took years of training just to get over the dizziness. The stars didn’t just roll by, either. What Roger could see of the horizon had an almost solid band of white, because light from so many stars from just as many directions was being bent in that direction by the dead star’s massive gravity. The stars themselves changed speeds as they moved across the sky. It was like looking at them through an oddly shaped magnifying glass—and they were moving incredibly fast.

Keith said, “Tidal neutralization fields still operating at peak efficiency. No spaghetti today, I see. Good.”

Devin’s voice crackled into Keith’s ears only. “Shut up and concentrate, Keith. Your cheerfulness would end real fast if that unit’s TNF did die out. They don’t call it ‘spaghettification’ for nothing, you know. Keep those TNF’s operating or this hole’s gravity will make us all pancakes.”

Keith ignored him for a moment. “Time to switch on your head-up display,” he said to Roger, then to Whitehead, “Yes sir, oh grand exalted leader! Listen, you would not believe how under control this thing is over here.” Then to Roger, “Emergency tow net in place. We ain’t lettin’ you go without a fight.”

“Good to know, Kay. Switching on HUD.” Roger pressed a black button on the left wrist of his spacesuit, and a spherical grid was projected onto the blackness ahead of him. It was like a globe, except it did not contour to the shape of a planet, but marked the boundary of the black hole’s event horizon, the point beyond which even light cannot escape. To go beyond that grid would be certain death. Several quickly changing numbers on the left side of his view showed him his current speed, orientation, and proximity to the black hole, which some joker decided to name Charles. Nobody could remember a time before black holes were christened like the hurricanes of Earth, but they were so commonplace nowadays that they simply had to be named. “Hello, Chuck.”

“My name’s Keith.”

“Your name’s Mud, if you don’t concentrate.”

“Never mind, Kay,” Roger laughed nervously. “Probe ready. My life is flashing before my eyes. This is spooky,” He said. Strange, thought Roger. A hundred runs in the simulator, and only now I feel afraid. God, my hands are trembling.

“Chill,” Keith reassured him. “Activating the probe’s beacons. Quantum shield charging. Don’t worry, little buddy. Besides, if this shield thing works, we’ll be able to use guys like Chuck here to travel anywhere from here to Andromeda! We’ll get you home safe.”

Roger would have fidgeted if his suit allowed. “I was afraid you’d say that. Makes me even more nervous. Maneuvering into deployment position.” Roger activated the Nitrogen thrusters that would coast him closer to the event horizon. Without brakes, it would be a suicide maneuver. I can feel it already, he thought. Something bad.

Whitehead spoke up. “Hold on you two, I’m picking something up. Very hard to see. Very fast.”

Roger sensed something go wrong behind him. The adrenaline rush ensued. “Did you just tug on my tether? Tell me that’s the new signal to come back.”

Devin’s voice shouted through the tiny radio in Roger’s helmet, “Micrometeorites! Get back in! Back in, now! My God, those are fast!”

First instinct: Roger reached behind him for the tether floating behind him. Right now, his HUD told him he was one hundred meters from the event horizon and closing. He grabbed the thick cable and began to pull. But when it should have gone taut, it kept slack. “Oh, sh—it’s been cut! Kay! What are you doing back there?!”

“It’s not me!” Keith protested, clacking furiously with his computer gloves.

“Micrometeorite probably hit it,” said Devin. “These things are dense. They’re moving too fast to see!”

“How fast can that be? We’re practically at light speed!” shouted Keith.

“It’s all relative.”

“You don’t have a clue, basically,” Keith murmured, his fingers still racing over the concave keyboard.

“Get Roger out of there!”

“Thrusters are out,” said Roger, looking at the proximity indicator in his HUD. It had just passed eighty-five meters. “Can’t get back. Use the emergency net!” Roger felt as if he was shouting over his own heartbeat. He could smell his own fear.

“Coming out—now!” Keith said. A puff of dust signified the firing of the net. It came sailing out of the blocky spaceship toward the derelict EVA unit.

Seventy-five meters. Roger watched the net approach. Four green box-corners marked the location of the net in his field of view, and numbers beneath it counted away its distance. A hundred yards, seventy, forty, ten yards away. Roger reached for it. It seemed to be slightly off course, but he could still see a way to grab at the edge of the moving net. There it was, like the Hand of God reaching out to snatch him from the clutches of Hell and pull him to safety. Closer, he thought. No, closer than that.  God was a lousy shot.

“You missed!” He shouted.

“You missed!” Repeated Devin.

“No worries, Rodge,” Keith said nervously. “We’ll get you back. I just need to reel that thing back.”

“May not need to. I just passed sixty meters. You’ll never rewind it in time.”

“Yes we will. It’s coming back as we speak. You sure you can’t get those thrusters back on?”

Roger gave his equipment another once-over. “They’re gone, Kay.”

Keith started thinking aloud. “Well, maybe we can—”

“More incoming,” said Devin.

“AAAAUUUUGGGHHH!”

“Roger!” Keith exclaimed.

“Meteor nicked my visor. I thought I was done for. Forty-five meters, man. Where’s that net?”

“Soon, buddy, soon. Hang in there.”

“Interesting choice of words. Forty-two meters.”

Before Devin could even react, another thick flood of meteorites washed through. Roger watched the Phoenix rattle and spark. The command level crumpled and shattered away as if under heavy machine gun fire. It bloomed into a spectacular ball of flame that warped and shifted through every color of the spectrum before disappearing completely. Keith and Devin were dead. Roger remained untouched through the meteorite storm. The tidal neutralization field must have still been working, because Roger failed to be torn to bits by the black hole’s gravity. He would remain unharmed until he reached the event horizon.

Only thirty-eight meters remained between Roger and that deathlike blackness beneath him. No more reason for the radio. He turned a dial on the side of his helmet and the static in his ear faded to silence. Cold, deathly silence. The spinning stars above made him nauseous. He cursed, and vomited all over the lower portion of his helmet. It seemed as if there was no sound in the universe save his heaving breath and the piteous sounds of his pathetic, weak and battered body. He turned to face the black death ahead of him. It wasn’t so nauseating to stare at nothingness and a green grid map that kept getting closer. Thirty-two meters. Deep breaths only drove him further toward the breaking point. It was best to keep as quiet as possible. Peace, he commanded his mind. Be at Peace. Twenty-nine meters.

Then an idea entered his head. He could not avoid plunging into the black hole, but he might be able to protect himself as he did so. The probe equipped with the “quantum shield” was built and programmed to use the energy of the black hole’s center to transport itself straight to Sol. The Solar System. Home. He looked at the O₂ gauge on his wrist. He had almost three hours of air left. He would most likely be able to catch a ride home if the experimental probe worked. He moved quickly. He had only approximately thirty seconds to prepare. He drained the power from his EVA unit and used it to boost the energy shield of the probe, but he doubted it made any difference. Unbuckling from the EVA unit, he held himself tight to the oblong probe. It was taller than he was. “Please work,” he begged it. His plan was to contain himself within the “quantum shield” that the probe possessed, and perhaps he could “ride” it home. He flipped the switch that engaged the shield. It was almost time to hit the event horizon. Roger counted down in his head: Five, four, three, two, one, zero…

Negative one, negative two, neg—

And a flash of color burst out all around him. He felt as if he were being pulled in a thousand different directions at once. He vomited again—more painfully this time. Weightless bile drifted down through his suit. Then suddenly, just as abruptly as it began, the dizzying display vanished completely.

One quantum-shielded probe, one white space suit, and one miserable astronaut blinked into existence some ninety-eight million miles from Sol. The Phoenix project was a success. Roger smiled. A familiar star hovered warmly before his face. He could make out a faint blue crescent and a smaller white one not too far away. He turned his radio back on. There was enough power left between his suit and the probe to use it. “This is Roger McFarland of the Phoenix IV mission. I will explain everything about what has happened if someone would just please get me out of here ASAP. Is anyone out there? Please respond.” His suit’s interior was starting to reek of digestive acids.

Like the sound of a thousand angels singing, a voice came back in his radio. “We hear ya’, McFarland. Can’t wait to hear your story. This is Captain Wertz of the USS Delacroix. We’re the closest ship in the system and we’re already headed in your direction at maximum speed. We should reach you in just over three and a half hours.”

Three and a half? Roger double-checked his O₂ gauge. He couldn’t read the gauge on his wrist through the hydrated applesauce spattered on the bottom quarter of his visor. Raising his hand higher, he read two hours, forty-two minutes. He swore. “Delacroix, I’ve got—” he began, but as if to punctuate the revelation, his HUD winked out and the white noise of his radio was abruptly extinguished. All power to his suit’s systems was gone. No point in completing the sentence now.

Three hours and thirty-five minutes later, the Delacroix found the probe, still proudly proclaiming that it safely traveled from one side of the Galaxy to the other—but they never found the man from the Phoenix IV mission who had contacted them. They never found his acid-eaten corpse or his frozen space suit. Mysteriously, the crew of the Phoenix was never heard from again.