by Caitlin Hopkins
Chp. 1, Silence
For eons, Earthlings have pondered the same daunting question, one that haunts our mortal existence, and looms over our conscience like the stars themselves. Are we alone?
In an attempt to quell our burning curiosity, scientists have long studied the sky, from nearby planetary systems to faraway constellations. Engineers and physicists have constructed feats of technological greatness, and used them to peer into the depths of our cosmic dwelling, intricately mapping every corner of our solar system: our Sun’s mass, the Kuiper Belt’s breadth, Pluto’s identity crisis. With every modern advancement, we further our reach into the universe. And yet, our query remains unanswered.
The silence ensues.
1
. . .
Overwhelmed by an intense bout of writer’s block, Zoya slumps over her laptop in idle contemplation. She scans her work again and again, in hopes that somehow, she will compose a flawless topic sentence to introduce her first body paragraph; but as five minutes dwindle to ten, and ten turn to twenty, sleep deprivation catches up to her akin to a snake sinking its teeth into its prey, rendering her energy lifeless in an instant.
She tilts back in her chair, eyes tracing the decrepit copper ceiling, the oxidizing edges, the splotches of amber liquid from who-knows-where. Am I not the author I once was? She sits up to observe the scenery lying just outside her circular window, but her view lacks a paved sidewalk. It is devoid of a lawn, trees, or cawing crows.
Instead, she studies the vast expanse of outer space.
I suppose I have a bit too much on my plate, seeing how I am skyrocketing through the cosmic depths of Proxima-Centauri’s planetary system. Besides, NASA is 4 light years away, she reasons. The book is going to be later no matter what.
When NASA selected Zoya, an acclaimed astrophysicist, biologist, and award-winning writer, to join the first intergalactic mission to a different star system decades prior, they tasked her with documenting the team’s travels. They entrusted her with the creation of the most paramount book in human history, one that would inspire future generations of people for eons to come. Yet, after thirty years aboard Asterope in cryogenic sleep, a prolonged state of hibernation in which her body underwent little to no change, Zoya awoke to a plethora of other issues in need of attendance. With mere weeks remaining until their descent on Proxima Centauri-B, she dedicated her time to ensuring the efficacy of plant growth systems and trajectory calculations. In doing so, she lost track of her commitment to writing the book, but more so than that, lost the drive to write anything at all.
And here she is now, struggling to finish the first page of a novel that should be hundreds long. A series of knocks suddenly echo from her iron door, ripping her away from her trance of anxious thoughts.
“Up late again, Zoya?” Chase says as he enters her room, his tired face and gray strands illuminated by the dim light of her screen. “You know a healthy brain requires a minimum of eight hours to function as well as you want it to. As well as we need it to.” As the resident doctor on board, she trusts his jurisdiction without question. She exhales a breath of trepidation, and his eyebrows cave in sympathy. After hours of conducting his own biomedical studies, he understands her abundance of responsibilities, from her research, to the weight of documenting humanity’s first leap toward an undiscovered frontier.
“Hey look, I get it. We have no clue what dwells on Proxima Centauri-B, but we are prepared to make this mission worthwhile.” He pauses. “By that, I really mean worth the trillion dollars NASA poured into this project.” Zoya chuckles, and the room fills with a silence only interrupted by the faint hum of overworked engines, whirring relentlessly in the background. The two exchange goodbyes without a word, and Chase leaves as quickly as he came.
Ignited by the desire to be efficient – to be the novelist, scientist, and leader NASA knew she could be – Zoya returns to her laptop, assuring herself one more hour of work. She cracks her knuckles. Just one more.
Chp. 2, Pressure
Stars form due to pressure. When large clouds of gas and dust accumulate inside a Nebula, they inevitably collapse under their own gravitational force. As they implode on themselves, their material core heats to the degree of fusion ignition. Thus, another star enters reality, and when it dies, it forges particulate matter.
Every human being, every living thing. They are all made from the embers of stardust. 3
Maybe that is why some people perform better whilst under pressure. Though hard to believe, it is a theory continuously proven true by not only my own questionable work ethics, but by my team’s remarkable ability to escape catastrophe in just the knick of time.. 45
. . .
Deafening alarms urge Zoya from her slumber, waking her to the sight of red lights strobing throughout the corridors. Without thought, she stumbles from her bed and barges through her cabin door, racing toward the main console. She finds Celeste, the head pilot of Asterope, maneuvering the ship between asteroids while smaller bits of rocky rubble scrape against the outside of the capsule.
“What’s happening?” she yells as she enters the cockpit.
“Left wing engine breaker failure”, Celeste shouts in response, remaining laser focused on the slew of meteorites hurtling toward her. Zoya leaps by her side, navigating the switch board in hopes of equalizing throttle between the left and right wing engines; while doing so, the rest of the crew shuttles in. Without discussion, the ten astronauts adopt separate jobs in means of averting the crisis, and through their brisk action, they narrowly avoid disaster.
. . .
..As I write this, my crewmates and I are still repairing damages which occurred after the cataclysmic failure of Asterope’s left-wing engine breaker. While not uncommon, at the time of malfunction, Celeste was piloting us through Proxima Centauri’s outer Asteroid belt. When power from the left faltered, steering became nearly impossible. Only with the collective haste of the entire team did we manage to escape the meteor field.
With less than a week until arrival, it is crucial that all elements of Asterope are adequately prepared to deliver us on Proxima Centauri-B, though we already feel secure in its capabilities. After all, it has been voyaging through the cosmos at 1/10 the speed of light, powered by electrolysis, for over 30 years. It is a testament to humanity’s galactic endeavors – our never ending race to conquer our planet, and discover what lies beyond it. 47
Chp. 3, Entry
Today is 2.21.2253 –
the day in which humans will henceforth be classified as an interstellar species. escaping the confinement of Earth’s neighborhood to catch drift among the current of the cosmos. On the basis of all research ever conducted until this point, we are alone. Regardless of speculative hypotheses, we are the only population of living, sentient beings throughout the entirety of space. But now, my crew and I are mere hours away from determining if humanity’s perception of life as we know it – the idea that we are wallowing in solitude in the vastness of the universe – is fact or fiction.
We cannot help but gaze in awe upon closer inspection of Proxima Centauri-B, admiring its patches of liquid water and vast regions of sandy terrain. We suit up while Celeste takes control of the steering system, drastically slowing Asterope and sending it into orbit around the planet as we prepare for entry.
Chase and I verify the efficiency of the propulsion system, while our peers boot up systems that have remained dormant for the majority of the trip. Upon confirmation to land, we strap into our respective seats, backs slick with droplets of sweat only intensified by Celeste’s advice:
“Hold on tight”, she warns. “This is going to be a bumpy ride.”
62
. . .
Asterope pummels through the atmosphere of Proxima Centauri-B.
Its thrusters rotate downward in an instant, counteracting the weight of the vessel, while carbon-fiber tarps branch from its sides, increasing drag through plumes of opaque clouds. Like an eagle swooping down to its nest, Asterope lowers through the planet’s stratosphere. Aiming for specific landing coordinates, it flies across the open expanse of Proxima Centauri-B’s largest ocean, spurring the wake of waves far below. As the spacecraft slows, Zoya observes how the light of Proxima Centauri shimmers upon the swells of dark blue water beneath her, a scene viscerally reminiscent of Earth.
Zoya finds pride in knowing that her footprint will be one of the first on intergalactic ground. A tide of serenity to wash over her –
Everything I have ever done has led up to this moment.
The research papers, the sleepless nights, the decades of cryosleep.
And now, we are finally here.
Asterope touches down.
Chp. 4, Arrival
Days have passed since our arrival on Proxima Centauri-B.
While the atmosphere is near breathable, the concentration of oxygen is just high enough to induce nausea. To combat such an issue, we wear air masks supplied by tanks that compress the planet’s oxygen while combining it with nitrogen gas, allowing us to inhale without toxication.
Though the planet is tidally locked, we are stationed between the two extremes of hot and cold, in an environment perpetually illuminated by the sun hanging above the horizon. Earth’s sunsets undoubtedly pale in comparison.
Two days ago, the crew and I set up a research camp via the deployment of a large tent system, and tomorrow, Celeste and I will venture westward to collect samples of nearby terrain. If time permits, we may even reach the ocean in time to pick up some water. Fingers crossed we detect some form of life, some ounce of biomatter. Hell, a single cell would perfectly suffice. Fingers crossed.
93
. . .
The buggy zips across the tumultuous landscape of Proxima Centauri-B.
“Right over there,” Zoya says, placing one hand atop her forehead to shield the glare of the rising sun, and pointing with the other.
“Wow. We’ve barely traveled for half an hour, and the sun has already climbed to the point where I’m breaking a sweat. Tidally-locked planets are no playground,” Celeste notes, feeling the increasing heat of the red dwarf star as they venture through the light-exposed side of the planet. Upon driving the car up and over a sand dune, Zoya gasps: on the horizon lies the ocean, its varied hues of blue and green glimmering under the luminosity of its star.
“There it is! We still have time to make it,” Zoya suggests, to which Celeste nods her head, steering them through patches of jagged rocks and loose gravel. Upon reaching the shore, they put on gloves, roll up their pants, and waddle into the rolling waves, kneeling to scoop cups of salty water.
“Be careful, we don’t know what we’re dealing with here,” Zoya warns, tightening the lid of her container and returning to the buggy; but Celeste remains still, her eyes glued to the scene unfolding before her.
“What.. What’s going on?” Celeste asks, her voice heavy with confusion. Zoya turns to see the waves, which once stood at their knees, peeling further and further from the shore, as if caught by a lure and being reeled away. The color drains from her face. “We need to go. Now!” She yells without hesitation, prompting Celeste to hop into the driver’s seat and boot up the engine as Zoya sits beside her.
No conversation is needed. They already know what’s coming.
Racing down the same path they came, the buggy slows dramatically to climb the steepening sand dune.
“Can this thing move any faster?” Zoya says in frustration.
“Come on, come on!” Celeste pleads, stomping her foot on the gas over and over in desperation as the wheels kick up sand without gaining traction. Zoya turns her head around and peers out the back, and instantly, her stomach drops.
The water has vanished entirely.
With one final push, the vehicle manages to overcome the height of the hill and dip over the edge.
The two drive in silence, painfully awaiting the wave they know is growing, harnessing every ounce of water from the shoreline to culminate into one massive, destructive tsunami, just waiting to strike. But minutes pass, and soon enough, the hill behind them is nothing but a hazy image in the distance.
“Do you think it’s comi-,” – and that’s when it happens.
Before Zoya can finish her question, the two watch through the rear-view mirror as water shoots upward upon colliding with the mound, reaching what seems to be a mile in the air, before spilling over the edge as it returns back down.
Celeste floors it.
“We’re almost there!” Zoya exclaims, squinting to detect Asterope in the distance. No less than a mile behind them rush tons of water unlike anything seen on Earth, closing in on them like a lion in pursuit of a gazelle. Chase waves his arms and flings down a rope ladder, urging them to climb.
“Abandon the buggy!” He yells, prompting them to work up the cliff face as fast as their arms and legs can carry them. Once atop the plateau, they sprint toward the ship with every ounce of strength they can muster.
“Hurry!” The crew cries as they usher the women in, followed by Chase, who pulls a lever that seals all thresholds.
Instantly, Asterope is struck.
Chp. 5, Life
No more are the days in which humans sit under the stars, and ponder if they sit in solitude. No more are the debates whether our existence is unique in the vastness of space. Because we are not alone.
Because after surviving a wave that nearly killed us, also rendering Asterope a submersible for hours after it crashed, we opened the hatch to the most monumental discovery in human history.
Because against the darkened stone of the tsunami-swept rockface, covered in mud and wet sand, wriggled an organism; and though globular, sporting zero observable limbs and non-existent eyes, it breathed.
Our cosmic brethren.
It pains me that our first encounter with extraterrestrial life resulted with its body splayed across an examination table, under burning fluorescent lights and probing microscopes. Yet, once we collect the data we need, we will release it back into the waters from which it came. We stand steadfast in our promise that our presence on this planet is far from colonial: we simply mean to observe, to understand, and to report back to NASA.
And by the time you are reading this chapter, whoever you are, you will understand why this book is titled ‘Cosmic Brethren’. Hopefully by then, our mission will have also been more fruitful, as this singular breakthrough has already left us pondering an age-old question, now slightly modified:
What is out there.. What else is out there, just waiting to be discovered?
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Author Bio
Caitlin Hopkins lives in Saratoga, and is a Junior at Castilleja High School. She is interested in a range of topics, from crochet and acapella, to robotics and environmental policy, striving to weave bits of these pursuits into every story. Writing has always been an important part of Caitlin’s life, and whether she is detailing an astronaut’s journey across the cosmos, or typing up a history essay, she never fails to find enjoyment in the process.
Creative Inspiration
From rambling on about the mysteries of black holes at family dinner, to learning more about the possibility of life on other planets, Space has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. I knew I wanted to reflect such themes through my writing, which is why I decided to base my story around the journey of a NASA astronaut, tasked with venturing into our nearest star system – Proxima Centauri.
