Noriama: Chapter 5
Victoria stepped into meeting room seven and began to panic.
It was not an uncommon reaction. As a First-Responder trauma specialist, she was familiar with the learned instincts and reflexes colloquially dubbed ‘punctual-panic.’
As a byproduct of their training and experience in the field, First-Responders often showed increased anxiety over wasted time, both in themselves and others. Time was a valuable resource to the First-Responders; seconds meant deaths. Minutes separated a successful response from a catastrophe.
If the room was empty, Victoria might have gone to the wrong room. How many dead as a result? She would need to contact her coordinator or the base supervisor to find the right room. How many more would die?
Victoria forced herself to breathe easy; if time cost lives, so did panic. First step was to confirm her location. Tapping her watch, she pulled up her coordinator’s summons. Sure enough; Meeting Room Seven. She was in the right place.
Breathing deeply, Victoria talked her beating heart down. Time was a valuable resource, and if her coordinator wasn’t there, then the mission wasn’t a time-sensitive emergency. It happened every once in a while: an epidemic had been quarantined by martial law or closing roads to the infected village, but the local medical facilities were ill-equipped to stem any further outbreak. Or perhaps a tsunami had trapped a small group of people in an isolated but stable situation, and the local government needed a little help while they took care of more immediate concerns.
Victoria rubbed her hands as she picked one of the flimsy plastic chairs around the tiny table and set herself down to wait. She always felt nervous when she walked into the meeting rooms, all stark and pale and lit by harsh white light. She had spent her whole life cultivating that energy, turning it from fear into passion. It wasn’t blind panic, it was focused action. She wasn’t afraid, she was ready.
Ready for what?
Meeting Room Seven was the smallest of the meeting rooms, reserved for two- or three-person teams, and there was no-one else here. As a trauma-specialist, she was rarely sent out on her own; it was a rare emergency indeed that traumatized its victims but required no engineers, firefighters, soldiers, or doctors. More often then not, if she was sent off on her own it was to consult or speak at some public event, but that rarely happened these days.
She rubbed her hands again; a nervous tick she had picked up since the earthquake. A reassurance that her hands were still there, if unreliable.
Moments before her urge to pace became unbearable, the door opened again and a uniformed woman stepped into the room. She held a coffee mug in one hand, holding three folders under her arm with an ease that betrayed a familiarity with paperwork. She smiled half in apology, half in weary obligation, before setting down her mug and the files on the small table with a single fluid motion.
Victoria’s heart began to beat fast again. This was not her coordinator. She didn’t even recognize her.
Victoria had been a First-Responder for over thirty years, and had been briefed on the governments and uniforms of almost every country and region in the world. When First-Responders were dropped into dangerous situations, it was important to know who was in charge of whom and what uniforms meant what. The Northern Americas were pummeled with natural disasters so often she had accidentally memorized their different service badges, and after one of her teammates had shared his neumonic with her, she’d never forget the Seven Nation’s color-coded medical hierarchy.
This woman was dressed in the Military Uniform of the EU. What was an EU soldier doing, meeting with a First-Responder?
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman’s voice was melodic, seasoned with a soft French accent. “I was told it is considered very impolite for First-Responders? I took the wrong turn at the end of the corridor.”
Victoria’s eyes flicked to her shoulders. Two stars under a circle of oak-leaves. Not just a soldier, this woman was a General.
Victoria’s heart-rate picked up again. Emergencies were one thing, governments quite another. When the situation was public they wanted you in and out like a fire-fighter, solving problems that should have been prevented ages ago with more funding and appropriate infrastructure maintenance. When the crisis was private, however — if it had somehow managed to be contained — there would be arguments at the highest levels as to whether the First-Responders were even necessary. There was always someone; some prideful jackass who thought their country didn’t need help. That their government could do everything faster and better than an elite team of trained professionals who had spent their lives training for emergency situations. Sometimes, they were right. India in particular had a fully funded branch of the military that functioned very similarly to the First-Responders.
In Victoria’s experience, however, this reluctance never extended further than the halls of government. When the First-Responders had touched down in the aftermath of the Rayada Tsunami, the Indian military had been elated for their help. The people in the trenches who had to deal with the reality of a situation always were.
“Is there an emergency?” Victoria asked. It wasn’t the best way to start off any meeting, but she wasn’t about to deal with any more delay if there was a crisis somewhere that needed her attention.
The General opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “My name is Brigade General Simone Coli, I’m here on behalf of the EU to ask you a few questions.”
“Is there an emergency?” Victoria asked again.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question,” Simone smiled again, now more tired than apologetic. “I do apologize for keeping you in the dark, but this is a sensitive matter. Speaking of…” General Simone opened the first folder, pulling a small stack of paper out and handing it to Victoria, followed by a pen. “Standard Non-disclosure agreement. Anything and everything you hear from this point on is classified. This meeting, and everything that comes of it, never happened.”
Victoria flipped aimlessly through the legalese. The agreement looked the same as the others she’d signed, but they had always been looked over by the First-Responders’ lawyers. “What happens if I don’t sign it?”
“Ah, there’s that South American spirit I’ve heard so much about,” the General smiled a third time, as she opened the second folder and flipped through the pages. “You were born in Brazil, yes?”
“Careful,” Victoria dangled the agreement between her thumb and forefinger. “I haven’t signed anything, yet.”
The General looked up again, and gave a slow nod. She closed the file and leaned back in her chair, clasping her fingers over her stomach. “If you do not sign, I will leave right now, disavow I ever met you, and if either you or your coordinator breath word of this meeting to anyone, I will personally lead the team to arrest and incarcerate both of you, as well as remove the First-Responders’ accredited charity status from the EU to ensure they never touch European soil again.”
It took a minute for Victoria to process what she had heard. Slowly, she set the agreement down in her lap. “You can’t do that, that’s illegal. It violates the URC’s Code of Human Rights.”
“It does,” the General nodded. “I’ll do it anyway, and when you and your coordinator are eventually freed and go to the URC’s Justice Division with your story, I will submit myself to their court. Look, it’s just a silence agreement, not your soul. We need your help, and we need your discretion. Your coordinator already signed. Please sign the agreement.”
Victoria didn’t trust governments. She had been born in Brazil, yes, but she had grown up in the Free South American State of Argentina, and inherited much of its anti-establishment sensibilities. Her mother had done the rest, constantly complaining about local laws and edicts, her vehemence growing in direct proportion to the distance from the governing body in question.
But Victoria hadn’t joined the First-Responders because she hated governments. She had wanted to help people, and she couldn’t do that if she didn’t know what was going on.
Victoria pulled the cap off the pen and flipped to the last page. She was about to sign her name when her eye caught the small rectangle next to the dotted line. She looked up, just as General Coli placed a small metal slab with an indent on one side on the desk in front of her.
Damn.
Victoria had learned other anxieties during her time with the First Responders. As a surgeon, she had been paranoid about her hands; they were the tools of her trade. DNA signing worried her…even something as tiny as a pinprick reminded her how fragile her body really was. If her hands were ever damaged, broken, useless…
Taking a deep breath, Victoria signed her name, and pressed her thumb into the small indent on the slab. One quick painful pinch later, and General Coli was pressing a printed piece of tape onto the rectangle next to Victoria’s signature. Printed memory, filled with enough of her DNA sequence to mark exactly who signed this document.
Victoria rubbed her hands. “There,” she sat back in her chair. “Now, can you explain?”
“Not everything, no,” General Coli filed the signed paper away, flipping to the next folder in her stack. “Here’s what I can tell you. The URC is building a small team of highly trained and effective professionals who are experienced in life-threatening situations.”
“The URC?” Victoria blinked. “Not the EU?”
General Coli nodded. “I am here as a representative and liaison of both. With your permission, I would like to interview you and assess your suitability for our needs.”
What needs could those be, if it wasn’t a timely emergency? Timely emergencies were all Victoria had dealt with for the past forty years of her life. “How do I know if I want to be on your team if you won’t tell me what it is for?”
General Coli winced. “If we wish to make an offer, we shall do so, and you may accept or refuse as you will at that time. So, let’s get started.” Her smile was brittle as she straightened in her seat and pressed a button on her computer. “Please state your name, age, and current residence for the record.”
Victoria’s fiery independence warred with her common sense for only a moment before she heaved a sigh. “Victoria Hastings. Eighty-four. I have no stable residence.”
“That is because you are a member of the International Non-Governmental Organization named the First-Responders, correct?” The General’s voice was carefully measured. A computer couldn’t have synthesized a more calming and casual tone.
“Yes.”
“Could you please describe the work you do as a First-Responder?” General Coli folded her hands expectantly.
Why was she asking? Everyone had at least heard of the First-Responders, and the EU Military had to have reams of files on them…
She wants to hear my answer.
“The First-Responders,” Victoria quoted from memory, “are an I-NGO charity, designed to provide medical, social, logistical, diplomatic, military, or industrial support to areas hit by plague, natural disaster, or conflict. Our primary goal is speedy and efficient stabilization of problem areas, minimization of loss of life, and building support foundations for the slower and more cumbersome organizations and governments to use so they can take all the credit.”
General Coli glanced down at her papers. “Do you have a husband, wife, significant other, or any children?”
Victoria paused. Her mouth had gotten her into trouble before, and if this was truly an official interrogation, the General should have asked her to keep her commentary to a minimum. She hadn’t, therefore she didn’t want Victoria to keep her commentary to a minimum.
As a trauma-specialist, Victoria knew the tricks of the trade. This wasn’t just an interview, it was a mental evaluation.
“I have no immediate family.”
“Who is your closest relative?”
“I have an uncle. We don’t speak much.”
“I imagine it would be difficult to have a family, given the nature of your work. Are you interested in starting a family?”
Victoria leaned forward, suspicion and curiosity warring in her brain. “At my age? No, I am not.”
“Do you regularly engage in any sexual activities of any kind?”
“What sort of question is that?”
“Please, ma’am. I know, it may seem odd, but it is important.”
“Things may be different in the EU, but in the South Americas, we tend to leave someone’s personal life personal.”
“I understand,” The General’s smile was looking less and less relaxed. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”
Victoria took a deep breath. “I’m…I’m ace.” Sex had never felt that important to her growing up, and her experimentation in college has been…unimpressive. Before long, after waiting for some blossoming that never came, she recognized herself as asexual. She knew it was a biological act as important for humanities survival as eating, but she was just…never hungry.
After joining the First-Responders, her celibacy had become an asset. The time required to manage a sexual relationship while running from crisis to crisis, snatching no more than a few hours of sleep at a time before needing to cut, sew, and clamp bodies back together again, was prohibitive. She had often joked if she hadn’t been ace before being a First-Responder surgeon, she certainly would have learned it.
General Coli nodded, and flipped the paper over. “Can you please explain to me what happened on Janurary 10th, 2138?”
Victoria rubbed her hands. “No.”
“No, you can’t tell me?”
“No, I won’t tell you. An official statement from the First-Responders has been filed with all pertinent organizations involved.”
“And there’s nothing you want to add?”
“It’s been fifteen years. I don’t…I can’t remember everything that is in the official statement. I don’t want to say anything if there is any chance my fallible memory contradicts the official record.”
General Coli set her paper down. “You were right there. In the thick of it, as they say. It must have left an impact on you.”
“The job leaves an impact.”
“To refresh your memory, then; you were one of seven survivors from your team of twenty-three. Do you ever think about them? The other survivors?
She didn’t even remember who the other survivors were. She remembered the crying.
“You’d worked earthquakes before, and I know you’ve had to deal with aftershocks. Was there anything different about this one? Anything stick out in your memory, even fifteen years later?”
She remembered the sound of crunching steel and snapping concrete, like teeth gnawing on bones.
“I have a list here of the recovery sites. You were pulled from the wreckage of a re-purposed parking garage designated Rescue Site Green, along with five surviving civilians. Do you remember them at all? They said you spoke to them under the rubble.”
She didn’t remember speaking to anyone. She didn’t remember anyone surviving. She remembered the smell of bile and blood. Dust and decaying plants. She remembered the silence, as the faces faded away into the darkness.
“I have nothing to say about it,” she said.
“When you were finally released from the hospital, you changed your profession, didn’t you? You put down the scalpel and became a trauma specialist? That’s a little lower speed, isn’t it?
Victoria rubbed her hands.
The General set her paper down and crossed her arms in front of her. “I’ve listened to a few interviews from several of your colleges, both before and after the earthquake. A few recent ones too. Tell me, Ms. Hastings; are you…looking forward to retirement?”
“Do you know what it takes to be a First-Responder?” Victoria struggled to keep her voice calm. “Do you know what it’s like to be the first person on the scene of a disaster, again and again and again? Sometimes, it’s like a war zone, with people in military uniforms running back and forth, everyone desperate to do something…anything…because standing still is too much like death and there’s too much death all around you. Or its completely still and silent. No one around, just collapsed buildings, and you know there are still people alive underneath the rubble, but you don’t know where, and you don’t know for how long, and you have to decide where to start. And you can’t think, because if you spend a second to think, that’s a second lost that could have saved a life.”
“So you get to work. You set up your tent in less than a minute — we do drills — and if you’re lucky you don’t even get a second to breathe before the first body is brought to you. You check for vitals, you inspect the wounds, you do everything you can to stabilize them, and then you move to the next one. Then the next one. Sometimes you don’t even get a tent, and have to work on bodies half-buried in rubble. I worked for three years at a hospital in Chile, and I saw patients from admission to release. As a First-Responder…I couldn’t even see all my patients through their stabilization. I plugged holes. I cauterized leaks. I started to save a thousand lives.”
“Then the uniforms come. Locals. They show up, and they take over. They grab the scalpels from our hands, the rubble from our backs, and we step back. We have a motto: Non Numerare. Never count. We are not allowed to count up the lives we save and the lives we don’t. We’ve been to countries where our doctors are twice as skilled and effective as the locals, but we don’t compare who lives and who dies because of whose actions. Because if we did, if we start to tally up the lives we save versus the lives we don’t, we might start wondering if its worth it.”
“There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t pray that I don’t have to go out and do my job. A day without disaster would be heaven. But until that day, we are the only people who are there to pick up the pieces. Am I looking forward to retirement? What do you think?”
Victoria shut her mouth. She hadn’t intended to be so aggressive, but once she had started, she just couldn’t stop. Part of her wanted to apologize for ranting, but the stronger part of her, the part that had come from her mother and grew up in the strong-willed Free State of Argentina, squared her jaw and dared the General to expect an apology for speaking her mind.
General Coli, for her part, was looking thoughtful. After a moment, she gave a small nod.
“You want to know what I think? I think you’ve been doing a damned near impossible job for more than half of your life, and I can’t think of a single person that could do what you do without it weighing on them. I’ve watched good military men and women struggle to deal with impossible situations. The EU has a whole system set up to help our soldiers deal with the tragedies they experience, and sometimes…it doesn’t work. There’s a memorial in the EU to every one of them. We even mark their headstones. If you ever see a black tear…that’s what it means.”
“I think,” She rested her hand on an un-opened folder, “that based on your recent mental evaluations, medical assessments, and written reports, that you broke your own code; you did start counting. Or maybe you were forced to count, and you’ve been struggling to find a reason to go on ever since. I think, and this is me putting it mildly, you’re tired, Ms. Hastings, and there is a part of you, deep inside, that is aching for the day that everything will finally stop.”
Victoria didn’t say a word. The problem was, it was all behind her, peering over her shoulder, licking its lips and waiting for her to drop her guard. At any moment it would be there, screaming at her, grinding bones in her ear, blowing harsh wind through her hair, showing her the looks on the faces as they faded away into the darkness. Then she’d wake up, crying.
“Don’t worry, though,” General Coli leaned back in her chair. “As it turns out, that’s exactly what we need.”
The offer was made in Brussels, in a military briefing room in the depths of the EU campus. After a deluge of papers, affidavits, non-disclosure-agreements, and enough signatures to please even the most neurotic of bureaucrats, Victoria was finally ushered to the a small spartan room where she was promised some answers.
There were four of them in total. They had all smiled awkwardly, gently shaking each other’s hands as they introduced themselves. Victoria didn’t recognize any of them, and it was clear they didn’t recognize each other. Quite an eclectic group, she thought.
Sughouri Chowhury was the first to jump out of her seat to shake Victoria’s hand, her smile wide and voice bright. She was the only one dressed in uniform, with her breast patch marking her as a Sergeant in the Indian military, but beyond that, Victoria was at a loss. She wore several patches on her arm, one of which was covered in stars — was she an astronaut?
The second was Captain Kristiana Kwan. A tan-skinned Seven-Nationer with a shaved head and a row of tiny scars along the top of her skull, marking her as a Netter; one of the few people who braved surgery to connect their brains to the global network. Her manner was detached and businesslike, almost condescending.
The last woman was Zuri Conde, an ebony-skinned woman from the African Union, and the eldest of the four of them, or at least the oldest looking. She wore a unisex suit, rumpled and well-worn. If Kristiana was detached, Zuri was isolated. She barely moved when Victoria entered the room, and did little more than raise a hand in greeting when Sughouri introduced her.
Victoria had just taken her seat when General Coli entered the room and walked around the table. In seconds, she had set up her small computer and was projecting slides on the far wall.
“I know I shouldn’t have to mention it,” she said, speaking with both voice and hands, (Victoria risked a quick glance at her compatriots. Whom was that for?) “especially after everything you four have signed, but everything from this moment forward is strictly confidential. At the end of this briefing, you will be offered a position on a special URC emergency response team. You will be free to accept or decline as you see fit.”
No one bothered to respond, instead merely waiting patiently while schematics and graphs appeared behind the General.
“Seventy years ago,” the General continued, “the Kolonie-Arche Projekt, or KAP was put into practice by a joint effort of URC member nations. The EU, AU, Seven Nations, Northern Americas, India, Australasia, and the Pan-Arabian states in particular created and launched a series of rockets designed to instigate and facilitate colonization of a planet orbiting Proxima Centauri, one of three stars in the Alpha Centauri star system. This system is the closest solar system to our own, and the planet Proxima b was considered the best option for human colonization. The rockets, outfit with then state-of-the-art Sunessen drives, were able to make the trip in about fifty years. Upon arrival, the rockets were alternately dismantled, modified, or recycled into the exo-planetary colony now known as Noriama.”
It took a moment for the word to register in Victoria’s mind. She had learned about Noriama in school, of course. The launch had happened when she was a child…but it was always distant. External. A subject at best tangentially related to anything of importance in Victoria’s life. Another glance around the table showed most of her companions did not share her bemusement.
“Due to political and scientific necessity, the URC and Noriama have maintained cursory contact with each other since its founding. Communication has been carried out through the Optical Laser Communication Relay, or OLCR.
A powerful laser on the surface of each planet points itself at a satellite in geostationary orbit, which in turn targets a series of over two-hundred relay stations between the two planets, like a series of semaphore towers.”
A series of diagrams flashed on the wall, information that meant nothing to Victoria. The only image that registered to her was a picture of a lumpy tube lined with large mirrors, like a sail-boat. A smooth white sphere perched on one end. It wasn’t until she noted the scale at the bottom that she realized these relays were almost as large as a building.
“Alpha Centauri is four and a quarter light-years away, so any message sent from one end to the other takes four years and three months to arrive, then another four and three to send a reply. That’s almost a nine year time delay between transmission and reception. Communication protocol was established before the KAP launched, and Noriama has been abiding by these protocols for the twenty years following its founding. These standards are as follows: first, both Earth and Proxima b were to maintain a standard transmission signal through the OLCR, containing various pieces of meta-data. This was to ensure that even if we weren’t sending a specific message, the line of communication would remain open. Second, we were always saying something. After sending any message or information along the OLCR, both Earth and Proxima were to constantly repeat that message until receiving an acknowledgment from the other end. This acknowledgment would likewise be repeated until the other end stopped repeating the original information. It’s a necessary redundancy when communicating over astronomical distances, to insure there is no loss of information.”
General Coli cleared her throat. “Two years ago, a galactic dust cloud drifted between our solar system and Alpha Centauri. This cloud was small, but slow moving and highly reflective; it disrupted the OLC for nearly half a year. We expected to re-establish communications after the cloud had passed.” General Coli paused. “As of this morning, Earth still has yet to regain contact with Noriama.”
A shifting around the table told Victoria the others found this information disturbing. She didn’t understand why; the General had just said that Proxima b was four light years away from Earth. After communication was disrupted, wouldn’t it take four years to re-establish it?
No, she caught herself. They were constantly talking. If the communications were disrupted for half a year, then there should only be a half-year gap in the data-stream. A two-year gap was something else…
Sughouri raised her hand. “You sure there’s nothing wrong with the relay system? two-hundred stationary relays sounds like two-hundred points of failure.”
General Coli shook her head while her hands continued to translate. ““Each relay contains a Chisaian fusion reactor, an expanse of solar panels, a high powered collimated laser array, and an advanced computer AI system that controls the laser, communications, and a small collection of maintenance robots to perform basic repairs. Each relay transmits and receives diagnostic information both up and down the communication stream. We have re-established connection with every relay and confirmed their continued operation. The OLCR is functioning perfectly. Noriama simply isn’t talking.”
“Do we know they didn’t stop transmitting?” Kristiana asked. Ah. Victoria stole a glance at Zuri, whose eyes were locked on the General’s hands.
“Noriama should be sending a live com-signal, and it’s not. The only way that could happen is if the communications on Proxima were damaged in some way. The problem with that is the black box failsafe didn’t transmit.”
Another series of pictures floated onto the wall. “Noriama was established with twenty-five separate fail-safes, communication backups, and alert systems to keep both Earth informed of every situation. If something catastrophic happened to the colony, Noriama’s ‘Black Box’ would transmit along the OLCR, so we could see exactly what happened. And before you ask, it’s designed to repeat indefinitely. If something happened during the disruption from the dust-cloud, it should still be transmitting along the OLCR. If the communications array were to be damaged or destroyed, it would operate like a dead-man’s switch, and cause the backup in the colony’s space-station to transmit its copy, but that didn’t happen either.”
Victoria leaned forward. “Then…Noriama has vanished?”
General Coli took a deep breath before answering. “We don’t know. If something happened to the colony, we would know about it. If they simply weren’t talking to us, we’d know that too. The fact we don’t know anything is an eventuality we weren’t expecting.”
“What’s the current working theory?” Kristiana asked.
“Officially, we don’t have one,” General Coli shrugged. “There are countless possibilities, and working with a complete lack of data, we can’t rule out anything. Pandemic, meteor shower, power-loss…”
“Space aliens?” Sughouri Chowhury grinned impishly.
General Coli grimaced. “Officially, we cannot hold any expectations about what you may or may not find. No matter how improbable.”
The mood shifted around the table. Victoria was used to stern no-nonsense types who didn’t care for flights of fancy, unproven theories, or wild speculations. To hear such an absurd idea not dismissed outright was unsettling.
Zuri tapped the table and then lifted her hands. “Why are we here?”
“You are here because we need a team to go to Noriama and find out exactly what happened.”
Zuri scoffed and dropped her hands.
“All we know is Noriama has stopped talking with us,” General Coli’s voice was tense. “Maybe the colony failed. Or, there may be survivors who need help. Even if there aren’t, the fact is, we need to know what happened. The Noriama was the first great colonization effort by humanity, and simply shrugging our shoulders and moving on is not a viable option. We need to know if Noriama is still alive, if the terraforming operations were working, if the mining system is operational, and if something went wrong, what?”
“Why only four of us?” Kristiana asked. “Why not five or six or ten? For that matter, why humans at all? Why not an automated team of robots and AIs?”
“Two reasons. First, there’s still political disagreement as to whether our most advanced AIs are as adaptable and creative to be able to handle a search-and-rescue on their own. This mission is going to be astronomically expensive, and going through all the trouble only for a group of activists to speculate about what the AIs missed is unacceptable. If this were a mission to Mars or Europa or somewhere inside the solar system, it wouldn’t be an issue: we could wait for weeks between transmissions to dictate to the AIs how to proceed, but a four year delay is untenable.”
“Secondly, and more significantly, our AIs are incredibly advanced, but they still need to be trained before they are useful. Even our best self-teaching algorithms need base-line metrics to build from. AIs are great at arriving at solutions, or sorting through a list of possibilities, but they terrible at solving mysteries. That said, you will be taking three separate adaptive AIs with you, each specially trained and capable of learning.”
General Coli smirked. “As for why a four person team, do you really want the politics of it? It took decades just to get the Noriama off the ground. How we even got an agreement for a four-person mission is a horror story for life-time bureaucrats.”
“Where’s Australasia?”
General Coli blanched. “I’m sorry?”
Victoria pointed around the table. “Kristiana’s first name is from the Northern Americas, but her last is Seven Nations; an ex-pat family? I’m from the Southern Americas, Sughouri is Indian, Zuri is from the AU, and we’re meeting in the EU. I’ve dealt with egotistical governments before; the KAP was a global project, which means this is a global mission. Where is Austrilasia? New Jeruselem? The Pan-Arabian States?”
The General pinched the bridge of her nose before responding. “I don’t know. No one has informed me, and frankly, I don’t care. All I know is we had a very specific set of criteria. After collating all the information the URC had, you four were chosen by computer analysis and committee consensus to be interviewed.”
“Was anyone interviewed who didn’t end up in this room?” Victoria kept pushing.
“That’s classified.”
“Do we get to know what the criterion were?” It was nagging at her; why them? What made the URC think she was the person to bring along on this emergency mission?
“If you like. The mission requires an engineering specialist, computer and electronics engineer, a medical specialist, and a systems analyst and coordinator. This should be sufficient to achieve the missions goals with a reasonable chance of success.”
“Okay, that’s a fine team, but there are thousands of people who are doctors and engineers and analysts. Why us?”
General Coli frowned. “I can’t go into every variable that was considered, you understand, but I can give you the bullet-points. First off, you are female; women have stronger hearts than men, as well as a better tolerance for vibrations and radiation exposure. Psychologically, women are better suited to deal with enclosed spaces, isolation, and reduced sensory inputs, as well as stressful social situations. You all score in high percentiles on all these metrics.”
“There’s also diet. Whether by choice or Regional mandate, you are all on what the EU calls a ResCal diet. Restricted Calories. Your bodies, especially your metabolism, will need to be adjusted for this mission, and since you are already acclimated to reduced caloric intake, it should be easier for you to handle. Frankly, your size has a lot to do with it too; you are all shorter than the global average, which means reduced weight for getting you into orbit, and eventually to Proxima b.”
“I see where this is going,” Sughouri grinned, pointing impishly at her legs.
“Yes,” General Coli gestured, “It wasn’t a requirement, but your amputations both reduce your weight, and you’ve shown great adaption to a space environment.”
Victoria didn’t stare, but she was impressed. She hadn’t even noticed Sughouri’s legs were prosthetic.
General Coli turned to Zuri. “Because your inner ear never properly formed, you’ll have an advantage on the others with space-sickness and orientation, though that’s perhaps less important as you’ll be under constant acceleration for most of the journey.”
“In addition, you all have extensive experience in high-stress situations,” General Coli continued, “and three of you have already had space training. Lastly, you all have — you will forgive me for being blunt — few social ties, and strong introverted tendencies.”
“Why is having few social ties important?” Victoria asked.
For a moment, General Coli was silent, some internal war waging in her mind. After a long pause, the General leveled a steel gaze at the four of them. “The space craft you would travel in will take the better part of twenty-one years to get you from here to there. Then, after you’re finished, another twenty-one to get back. If you agree to go on this mission, you will be sacrificing forty years of your lives.”
Victoria caught her breath. She was already eighty-four years old, and the others looked to be of comparable ages. They would be sacrificing the rest of their lives.
Sughouri was also astonished, but for a different reason: “Four light-years in twenty-one? So fast? How?”
General Coli crossed her arms. “I’m afraid that’s classified information. Unless, of course, you accept a position on the team.”