“A.I. won’t solve our problem. There is a fundamental obstacle in our way. Do you know when nuclear fusion was first proposed as the answer to our problems?”
Diego shrugs.
“Over 150 years ago!”
Kwame leans forward. “Dr. Sanders, we’ve come a long way since then.”
“Have we?”
“Yes. Surely we can overcome the challenges.”
Austin shakes his head. “Let me teach you youngsters about the history of nuclear power.”
They listen intently.
“In 1905, Einstein predicted that energy and mass are inter-related in a beautiful mathematical equation—E=mc2. He speculated that tiny amounts of mass equated to large quantities of energy, but it was just a theory.
“Forty years later, Lise Meitner and Otto Robert Frisch split a uranium atom into barium and krypton in a process called fission. Strangely, the reaction products weighed less than the starting material. Where did the missing mass go? Remembering Einstein’s equation, Meitner and Frisch suggested that the matter had turned into energy. They put their ideas to the test in the form of a bomb. That seminal discovery led to the first atomic explosion and the dawn of the nuclear age. We split the atom and harnessed the power inside.
“That was supposed to solve humanity’s problems. A limitless supply of electricity and no more fossil fuels or global warming! Then came Chernobyl and Three Mile Island, followed by a dwindling supply of uranium. Optimism turned to dismay. So then what? Enter fusion, the next hope for humanity.
“It seems simple. Combine two atoms to form a new element with a reduced mass, with energy as the byproduct. This is how the sun works—every second it fuses 620 million metric tons of hydrogen into helium, releasing enough power to drive life on Earth. But there’s the problem—we cannot replicate the conditions inside the sun here at home. It’s a fundamental obstacle. We will never find an ignition source clean and strong enough to trigger the reaction. That’s the bottom line.”
Kwame lifts his hands. “What’s the alternative, Dr. Sanders? If we can’t solve fusion, what do we do for fuel?”
Austin sighs. “There is no alternative. We’ve done this to ourselves. We have built a civilization addicted to hydrocarbons, and once those fuels run out there is no other option. I don’t see any hope.”
“For the project?”
“For humanity. We are in the middle of an extinction event of our own making. The industrial revolution and the information era have led to this… a second dark age. The chickens have come home to roost. We could have avoided this years ago, and it’s too late now.”
“What about the Chinese?” Kwame asks. “How are they expanding their Mars colony? They must have abundant power.”
“Our enemy uses nuclear energy. They have mastered the fuel cycle and their spacecraft have miniaturized nuclear reactors. Our rockets are driven by combustion.”
Kwame hesitates. “…can we purchase one of their portable fission engines?”
Austin chuckles. “You can try to steal one and risk death. The Chinese certainly will not sell one to us. I doubt they’ll help their enemy.” He laughs aloud and the room grows quiet. “Your intentions are good, but unfortunately the tides are against us.”
An awkward silence sours the atmosphere as team members look away. Seeing his employees dismayed, Austin changes the subject. “Speaking of China, this morning I received a phone call from the CIA about an encrypted radio message from Mars. Looks like our enemy has developed a new communications system for their space colony.”
“What does it say?” Diego asks.
“We don’t know. The NSA wasn’t able to crack the code. They want us to decrypt it.”
“Let me take a look,” Kwame says.
Austin points. “I sent the source files to Anil this morning. Anil, can you share the encryption with the rest of the team? We have five days to solve it.”
Anil looks around the room. “I’ve already decrypted it.”
Austin’s eyes widen. “What? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt the meeting.”
Austin smiles. “Well, what is the gist of the message? Can you translate it for us?”
Anil stares at the screen. “Actually, it’s in English, not in Chinese.”
“Saying what?”
“It appears to be a song.”
“Play it.”
“Sure, take a listen.”
Austin leans closer to the laptop. “I can’t hear it. Can you turn up the volume?”
Anil taps his device and rock music blares.
Austin’s brows furrow. “What the hell?”
Kwame looks up. “That’s ‘Johnny B. Goode,’ an old rock song!”
Austin appears confused. “The Chinese encrypted a 1950’s classic hit? They must be bored or out of their minds.”
Laughter breaks out.
“About that,” Anil replies. “The encryption method is entirely new. It’s the most complicated code I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s not our problem,” Austin says. “Just send me the key and I’ll forward it to the CIA. Case closed.”
“That’s the problem, Dr. Sanders. It isn’t a standard 256-bit key. I don’t believe the Chinese sent this message.”
Austin squints and rubs his eyes. “Well, what the hell is this about?”
Anil beams his display onto a wall. “Take a look. I logged onto JPL’s portal and traced the source of the radio signal.”
“How do you have access to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory?”
Anil smiles. “My wife works there, Dr. Sanders.”
“Right,” Austin nods. “Forgot about that.”
“Take a look at this map. Here is the origin of the message. You can clearly see that it’s not coming from Mars.”
Austin gawks at the projection. “Who the hell sent us this?”
“It seems to be coming from Barnard’s star, six light-years from Earth.”
Austin looks Anil in his eyes. “Then why is the message in English?”
Anil shrugs. “I have no idea, sir.”
Silence overtakes the room.
“You have five days to figure it out.” Austin gets up at walks towards the door. “Folks, unless you find a power source, I will put an end to Project Titan and move on. There’s no point in wasting our time.”
The team broods as their boss leaves the room.
4.
“FELINA, open that bottle of champagne.”
Manos Kharon sits at a gold-plated desk in his top-floor Manhattan office. Along the wall, his face graces the covers of ten framed magazines, one of them headlined “CEO of the Year.” Above the collection, a virtual ticker streams financial data in empty space. A live holographic feed of the Oval Office occupies the center of the room and a caption runs below it. “President Hughes to speak momentarily.”
Felina picks up the bottle. “A $20,000 vintage? What’s the occasion, Mr. Kharon?”
“Another win,” Manos says with a smirk.
Felina twists the cork until it explodes into the ceiling, spilling the bubbly onto her leather high heels. She pours it into a flute.
Manos grabs a tissue, bends over, and wipes her shoes, staring into her eyes. “Let me clean that for you.”