“And the tax man,” somebody called to rather tense laughter.
“I’m honored to be present at this birth,” Siobhan said. “Yes, it is a birth in a real sense. When I close the switch before me a computer will be booted up—but more than that, a new person will arrive in the universe. Unlike Aristotle and Thales before her, who had to demonstrate their personhood to us, from the very moment of her awakening she will be a Legal Person (Nonhuman), with rights every bit as full and rich as those I enjoy.
“It’s marvelous to think that the mind who will begin her existence today will emerge from a network of the billions of components created in the gardens and farms, rooftops and window boxes of human beings across the planet. She owes her existence to all of us, in a sense—but it is a debt she must pay back. She will begin work immediately, on the great task of turning the shield to face the sun. From the moment of her awakening she will bear a grave responsibility.”
She glanced at Bud. “As for her name, it’s Colonel Tooke’s idea. As a child I grew up knowing the old Greek myth of Perseus, son of Zeus. Perseus faced the Medusa, whose gaze would have turned him to stone. So he held up a shield of solid bronze. He could see Medusa by her reflection, and he slew her. Bud informs me that, according to some versions of the myth, the shield actually belonged to Perseus’s sister, a goddess in her own right. And so the name Bud has suggested, the name of that warrior-goddess, seems entirely appropriate to me.”
She held her hand over the touch pad before her. “Welcome to the world—and to a vital place in our future.” She pressed down her palm.
Nothing obvious changed. The people crammed in the room glanced at each other. But it seemed to Siobhan that there was something different in the air: an expectancy, an energy.
Then somebody called, “Look! The shield!”
Bud hastily brought up a softscreen image of the shield’s whole disk, taken from a monitoring platform high above the central axis. The sun’s long shadows streaked across its plane—but now ripples of rocket sparks spiraled out across the face of the disk.
Bud said, “Look at that. She’s already started work.” He glanced up. “Can you hear me?”
The voice came out of the air. A little unsteady in tone, smooth and free of accent, it was like a female version of Aristotle.
“Good morning, Colonel Tooke. This is Athena. I am ready for my first lesson.”
33: Core
The damaged sun grew quiet. To a casual observer, it might have looked as if nothing had happened, as if the rogue Jovian had never come this way.
But that, of course, was the design. The complex waves washing through the sun’s core would take centuries before they reached their resonant peak. All of it followed logically from the moment that metaphorical pebble had been thrown just so, in a solar system sixteen light-years away.
As the anticipated sequence of events played itself out, on Earth, empires rose and fell.
When one young civilization rediscovered the thinking of a long-vanished ancestor, a profound revolution began. For the first time since antiquity European minds turned to the sun, not with awe, but with curiosity and analytical skills. In 1670 Isaac Newton split sunlight with a prism, creating a captive rainbow. A little later John Flamsteed, the first Astronomer Royal, used Newton’s laws to map the movements of the planets, and determined the size and distance of the sun. In 1837 William Herschel let sunlight warm a bowl of water, and so measured the star’s power. By the twentieth century astronomers were using neutrinos to study the workings of its deepest interior.
These were a new sort of people, to whom the sun became an everyday object, a specimen to study. And yet they were just as dependent on the sun’s bounty of heat and light as their sky-worshiping ancestors.
And all the while, deep in the heart of the sun, something was stirring.
It began in the core, as do all the sun’s processes.
Since the great blow struck by the rogue Jovian two millennia before, the core had been ringing like a bell. Now its complex and cross-leaking modes of vibration at last combined in a concentration almost as energetic as the planet’s impact in the first place. It detonated beneath the stultifying layer of the radiative zone. But—of course, as had been planned—it happened right beneath the unhealed wound cut through the radiative zone by the Jovian’s passage.
Energy cascaded up through the radiative zone, releasing some of the pent-up energy in that million-year storage tank into the bargain. And, two-thirds of the way to the surface of the sun, these energies reached the tacholine: the frontier between radiative and convective zones, above which point the substance of the sun boils like water in a pan. The tacholine was the place where the sun’s active regions had their deepest magnetic roots. And it was into the tacholine, this troubled border, that the core’s oscillations vented their anger.
Sun-girdling flux tubes writhed like snakes, and immediately began to rise. Normally it would take months for a flux loop to reach the sun’s surface. But these mighty toroids, shouldering aside the cooler plasma above, took only days. And such was the disturbance in the sun’s deeper layers that energy poured after the loops, like air escaping from a balloon.
Even in quiet times, loops of magnetic flux breach the sun’s surface. They form a carpet above the photosphere, a weaving of loops and patches and fibrils of plasma. The smallest of such loops is immense on the scale of Earth. The loops that arose now were monstrous, rising high above the sun’s surface, dragging plasma streams behind them. This huge magnetic disruption interfered with the flow of energy from the sun, and for a time the area at the base of this forest of magnetism, starved of energy, actually grew darker than the rest of the star. Human eyes and instruments saw an immense sunspot region blossom across the sun’s shining face.
The loops that protruded above the surface were like trees packed together, with roots buried deep beneath the photosphere. The loops braided, twisted, jostled, and sheared as they tried to shed energy and find a new equilibrium. At last, at the heart of this writhing forest, two loops crossed like wizards’ wands. The loops merged and snapped. The release of energy into the surrounding forest was catastrophic, driving currents of plasma to a frenzy, and in turn driving the other loops to further thrashing. Soon there were more reconnections all across the continent of disturbance.
The magnetic forest delivered up its energy in a cascade of events, and a great pulse of hard X-rays, gamma rays, and high-energy protons gushed out into space.
This was a titanic event—but it was just a solar flare, though an immense one, a flare created by the processes by which a restless sun had always shed its energy. What followed was unprecedented.
The immense sunspots beneath the magnetic forest began to break up. Through the deep wound burrowed into the sun’s flesh two thousand years before, a harder light began to shine. Soon the sun would shed, in a few hours, energy that could have kept it shining for a year.
Just as had been planned, far away and long ago. It was April 19, 2042.
34: Sunset (I)
Bisesa woke.
She sat up, rubbing at her shoulder. She had been napping on the sofa in the living room of her flat. While she had been asleep the flat had grown dark.
“Aristotle. Time, please.”
To her surprise he didn’t give her a clock time in response. Instead he said: “Sunset, Bisesa.”
This was April 19, the day before the sunstorm itself. And so this was the last sunset.
On the Moon, Eugene was predicting that the storm would break during the night, at about three British time. So the far side of the planet would suffer the storm’s initial effects. But the world would turn as it always did, and over Britain the sun would rise.