Getting a Technology System in Modern Day
chapter-607

607 Glory vs. Anxiety

Eleven days later.

With enough data about the planet—or its surface, at least— the crew of the Farsight had a prioritized list of possible landing areas. Each of them had points of interest that the ship’s AI had picked out and the researchers had filtered. They ranged from unique geographical formations, to clusters of vegetation that differed from the plants around it, to possible artificial structures that would require a more hands-on investigation. What none of them included, however, were signs of habitation, so the planet had been deemed safe enough for a single lander to be sent down.

“What we know about the planet is that it’s currently a pangea. There is a single, mountainous supercontinent and the rest of the surface is scattered with archipelagos. A bit more than 88% of the surface is water, which our satellite scans were unable to penetrate beyond a certain depth.

“Proxima Centauri itself serves the same gravitational purpose of a moon, which Proxima Centauri b lacks. Or at least we assume that to be the case, as the tides have moved in and out over the past 11 E-days we’ve been surveying it. However, no matter whether it’s aphelion or perihelion, the tides have been steady, so our confidence in the star itself controlling the tides is only about 47%.

(Ed note: “E-time” is the time that passes on Earth, divided into E-years, E-months, and E-days. Hours and minutes are too short to bother comparing to the passage of time on Earth.)

“So, today, we will be sending a single lander to the center of the land mass we’ve tentatively named New Australia, and the crew we send with it—you—will disembark the lander in full environmental protection gear, take samples based on your specialty, and IMMEDIATELY reboard the lander. The time it will spend on the surface is exactly thirty minutes, not a single second more. So you will be back on the lander or you will be left behind. And assuming you survive until our sample research is complete, which isn’t a guarantee, when we return, you will be confined to quarters and stripped of surface privileges for the duration of the mission.

“So I suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that you finish your sample collection and reembark the lander early. Am I clear?” Major Viktor Petrovich said. As the leader of the landing crew’s armed Marine guard contingent, he was the de facto leader of the mission, since his orders took precedence over any others issued before the lander touched down.

“Understood, Major,” the researchers said in disunison. They weren’t soldiers, though, so it was understandable that they made a mess of sound instead of speaking with a single, unified voice.

Ordinary Crewman Lance Parker was with the initial research crew that would soon be headed to the surface. If he wasn’t wearing his full environmental gear, he would have been nervously chewing his fingernails down to the quick. But he was, so all he could do was fidget in place; he had already locked down his crash harness so he couldn’t even pace!

Fleet landers were designed to carry battalions of troops in full gear with full mission equipment, so there would be plenty of room for pacing... if he hadn’t already locked himself down early. When he had first won the random draw to be the first person to set foot on Proxima Centauri b, he’d been beyond excited and could only think about the glory he would come back covered in. But when Major Petrovich had taken him aside and slapped a loaded charge pistol against his chest and told him “shoot them before they eat you”, the excitement had faded and become severe anxiety.

But he couldn’t back out; not now, and not from... from an honor like this. So all he could do was twitch and fret, and try to stay on the surface for the duration instead of just hop out of the lander then immediately hop back in, where he would be safe. He was just an ordinary crewman and his assigned duty station was the algae farm, for fuck’s sake!

Major Petrovich swept his gaze across the waiting researchers and the anxious first-footer, then nodded and said, “Good. Strap in, ladies and gentlemen.”

He walked to the lander’s cockpit and pounded on the door twice, hard, and yelled, “Good to go, let’s get these good people on the ground!”

“Copy that,” the pilot replied, then, without bothering to check if his “cargo” had settled in and engaged their crash harnesses, shot out of the boat bay and rocketed toward the ground with 8G of apparent acceleration. Thanks to the inertial sump in the lander, it was actually shooting toward the ground at over a hundred gees of acceleration while only letting eight “leak through” to be felt by the people inside.

The only thing that kept them from rattling around like dried peas in an old-fashioned air popcorn popper was the gravity plating underneath them. It was still a rough ride, though, especially once the pilot initiated a “random walk” evasive maneuver sequence.

Major Petrovich loosed an uproarious laugh and shouted, “It’s good to be alive, isn’t it, ladies and gentlemen?”

Only a Marine would be crazy enough to enjoy a ride like the one the researchers were on. Only a few of them had had time to strap into their acceleration seats and engage their crash harnesses, and the sound of dozens of people praying to different gods filled the air in the compartment they were in.

Once the lander crossed the Karman Line, however, it rapidly slowed so as not to present a fireball of superheated air around it. The pilot could have all the fun he wanted... outside the atmosphere, anyway. But once his lander had switched to its atmospheric engines and started sucking air instead of vacuum, he had been given strict orders to land as covertly as possible to minimize any disturbance the arrival of humanity caused to the first planet humanity had ever visited outside the Sol system.

The dizzy and nauseous researchers fled to their acceleration seats and strapped into their crash harnesses with a collective frenzy. At least those that could see clearly, anyway; the ones whose helmets had been fouled by last night’s dinner were still having a bit of trouble finding their assigned seats.

The pilot’s voice came across in the hold. “Eight minutes to ground, passengers. Collect your bellies and strap in. This will be a smooth landing, but I make no promises as to the rest of the journey. The landing may be up to me, but the flight is in god’s hands.”

With a collective sigh of relief, those with fouled helmets began a self-cleaning cycle of their environmental suits, triggering an ionic sweep that would vaporize anything stuck to the insides of their visors. The smell, however, lingered, and they were currently thanking whatever higher power they believed in for the suits’ “plumbing” connections that ensured the ONLY fouled things were their helmets.