pediatrician noticed that the little girl had a concerning tremor.
The incredibly unlikely juvenile amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (JALS) diagnosis came at the age of five, with the degenerative disease attacking her relatively newfound ability to walk. Sophie began her life in a wheelchair, though she had no intention of ending it there. With an almost inhuman resolve, particularly for a child, she had set her ingenious mind and iron will to escaping the bounds of gravity.
She had succeeded.
Every reputable doctor had predicted she would be dead by the age of twelve. Instead, she had persevered, taking advantage of each new medical advance, and eventually become a world-renowned scientist and an American astronaut.
Kline found that the chronic pain in her muscles nearly disappeared in microgravity, and her wasted body wasn’t a disadvantage the way it was on earth. In constant free fall, she was as physically capable as any astronaut. More capable, in fact, since she did not have to worry about the muscle-wasting effects of weightlessness.
Thus, using only her arms, Kline turned her body to face the circular porthole in the center of the viewing cupola. Six trapezoidal panes of glass splayed radially out from it—the largest window ever put to use in outer space. Beyond, the face of the planet slid past, surprisingly close. Today, she saw an endless jungle vista—a dense landscape of treetops twined with gleaming rivers that looked to Sophie like the wriggling trace of neurons.
It was a view that absolutely should not have been there, and the sight of it indicated that a serious emergency had occurred during sleep cycle.
Internal ISS video footage showed Sophie Kline muttering in disbelief, frantically scanning the computer monitors ringing the neck of the cupola. Physiological monitoring logs reported her heart rate elevating as she took hold of two slender blue handrails and pulled her face to within inches of the central porthole. The terrain scrolling past below would have been utterly unfamiliar to the seasoned astronaut.
Like the other two crew members on board the ISS, Kline’s body was instrumented with wireless physiological sensors. Unlike her crewmates’, however, Kline’s monitoring extended further—at one-second intervals, her mind was being read. As a teenager, Kline had been implanted with a Kinetics-V brain-computer interface (BCI) at her own insistence, so she could continue her college courses via computer as the disease progressed through her nervous system.
The BCI device was a golden mesh of thousands of wires, soaked in a biocompatible coating to prevent foreign body rejection, and sunk into the jelly-like surface of Kline’s motor cortex. Upgradable via radio, the current software iteration employed a deep-learning algorithm to map the electrical activity of neurons in Sophie’s brain to actions in the real world. The unique interface linked Kline mentally to the ISS computer systems—an almost telepathic connection.
Kline realized that the ISS had undergone a severe trajectory change. Such an event could only signal imminent disaster, and it should have been a cause for panic. Indeed, her outward reaction to the unexpected terrain had been consistent with surprise and shock. However, routine monitoring of her brain implant’s data stream showed that Kline’s predominant state of mind was an alpha brain wave varying between 7 and 13 Hz—a state of nonarousal, relaxed alertness in the face of mortal danger.
It was a small discrepancy that would go unnoticed until much later.
Kline opened a comm channel to Houston flight control and requested information from CAPCOM.
The initial response was static.
A lot had happened during the astronauts’ sleep period, beginning at precisely 23:35:10 UTC when, under the auspices of General Rand L. Stern, the USSTRATCOM Command Center issued an emergency notification to ISS Mission Control in Houston.
USSTRATCOM advised of a likely close approach of the ISS to multiple red threshold objects. Such notifications were fairly common, as the command center is tasked with monitoring any object in low orbit with a diameter larger than one and a half inches.
Officially, the debris source was attributed to a failed NSA satellite deployment, but console operators at Houston were backchannel notified that the orbital debris was in actuality the aftermath of a classified antisatellite weapons (ASAT) attack performed against China by Russia.
In public, these space warfare operations were universally condemned for scattering dangerous space junk in low Earth orbit. Yet it was an open secret that since the 1960s every spacefaring nation had been enthusiastically experimenting with ASAT platforms—from simple kinetic kill warheads to more sophisticated reusable approaches deploying shaped-charge explosives.
The attitude determination and control (ADCO) officer, at Mission Control, Vandi Chawla ran a simulation on the USSTRATCOM-supplied data and confirmed the high likelihood of a conjunction in the orbital pathway. Because they were red threshold objects, not yellow, there was no debate about the primary response. She immediately authorized an emergency debris avoidance maneuver (EDAM), even though the orbital modification would result in several missed launch opportunities over the next months, none of them critical resupplies.
While the astronauts slept, commands for a prolonged thirty-nine-minute avoidance maneuver were issued from the trajectory operations manager (TOPO) console. The ISS’s four 220-pound control moment gyroscopes shifted rhythm immediately. Made of stainless steel, the circular flywheels generated the torque that leaned the ISS forward at a constant four degrees—keeping the station’s floor pointed at Earth’s surface and maintaining an Earth-centered, Earth-fixed (ECEF) diving orbit. The electrically powered gyros began to modify the station attitude in preparation for the maneuver.
Once situated, the next step would normally have called for an extended thruster burn from the robotic Progress cargo module attached to the Pirs docking compartment. However, due to the substantial translation needed, TOPO decided to authorize use of an experimental solar electric propulsion (SEP) device.
Electrical power gathered by onboard solar arrays was routed to a cluster of highly efficient electrostatic Hall thrusters, conserving precious supplies of traditional chemical propellant. On activation, the thrusters pulsed in perfect rhythm, ejecting a flickering plume of plasma exhaust. The resulting force pushed the ISS upward directly through its center of gravity, while also translating the bulky structure to a southward trajectory.
A typical reboost maneuver would change only the altitude of the ISS, but in this case the azimuth was also modified from fifty-four degrees to zero, resulting in a highly unusual equatorial orbit. The maneuver was completed within the allotted time, and a summary press release was issued, citing a routine debris avoidance maneuver and praising the success of the SEP device.
General Stern had managed to coordinate the entire effort without ever informing NASA, RNCA, or JAXA of the true underlying emergency.
And yet Sophie Kline knew right away the trajectory change had something to do with Andromeda. This was not surprising, since Kline was one of the very few people intimately aware of the true purpose of the International Space Station.
The full, unclassified transcript of her initial exchange is below:
ISS-KLINE
Houston this is Station, come in. Requesting status update. What … [unintelligible] Why am I seeing Brazil moving east west?
HOU-CAPCOM
Just, uh, had an EDAM, Station. Orbital debris. Good news, though. The SEP thrusters worked perfectly.
ISS-KLINE
That is good news. But, this is so far … listen, I’m initiating a special query request. Have you been contacted by Peterson Air Force Base?
[static—four seconds]
HOU-CAPCOM
I’m sorry, Station, we’ve got no record—
[transmission lost]
[static—eleven seconds]
PAFB-STERN
Kline. This is Stern. We are on a private channel. I’ve