Ad Astra by Jack Campbell Page A

if they evolved in the direction of viruses that can remain dormant for almost indefinite periods while awaiting conditions to reactivate.”
    This time the captain grimaced. “We’ll have to junk her. There’s no telling how some of her internal components have evolved, so we’ll probably use an automated drone to show her onto a trajectory into the sun. We’ll have to severely limit or block evolution of nanos on the next model. Maybe not even use them. They’re too hard to track if they do start changing. But we can put limits on the macro drones, too. We’ll do better next time,” the captain vowed.
    “That statement probably could’ve been carved on a substantial number of tombstones throughout human history.”
    “Next time will be different,” the captain insisted.
    “You’re right about that,” Kevlin agreed. “Next time I won’t be aboard.”
    “Yes, you will.”
    “No, I won’t. My contract clearly limits the duties to which I can be assigned.”
    The captain smiled. “If you’re right, these ships will need medical expertise to identify, diagnose and treat problems. One of the potential duties listed in your contract is ship’s doctor. So congratulations. That’s what you’ll be. The ship’s doctor.”

Author's Note on Down the Rabbit Hole
    One of the good things about attending conventions (and there are many good things) is that I get exposed to information that can help generate new stories. At one convention in Baltimore, I heard Dr. Catherine Asaro giving a talk about the latest research into hyper-velocity space travel and what physics currently told us regarding things like faster-than-light. One thing struck me after that talk. Our nervous system works at the speed of light. How well does it work if we’re moving faster than that? Years before I had read about how the human mind tricks us into thinking that we see things that we don’t. And then there’s that trick that dancers use to keep from falling over with dizziness when they’re spinning around over and over again. On top of that, Stan Schmidt, the editor of Analog , had challenged me to come up with a reason why pilots of aircraft might not make the best spacecraft pilots. Put them all together, and there’s a story in there.

Down the Rabbit Hole
    "We'd like you to pilot the next Prometheus probe, Commander Horton."
    Commander Josh Horton fidgeted slightly despite the padding in his chair, his eyes darting around the conference room, resting for the briefest moment on the face of one NASA administrator before leaping to the next. Every face held the same forced cheerfulness, the same projection of an honor conferred, and the same more-or-less poorly hidden anxiety. "The next Prometheus probe?" he finally asked. "I didn't know there'd been a first."
    "Well, you understand security, Commander, don't you? A successful test of a faster-than-light propulsion system would have incalculable significance for the human race. We certainly don't want to generate false hopes prior to a successful test."
    "So the first probe wasn't successful?"
    Administrator eyes shifted helplessly for a moment, then steadied. "No. At least, we don't think so. There's been no contact with any of the probes since they engaged their FTL devices -"
    " Any of the probes ?" Horton demanded. "There's been more than one failure?" Silence met his question. "Look, people, I deserve to know what's going on before you strap me into that can."
    "Yes." The senior-most administrator nodded his head ruefully. "You do deserve that. There have been six Prometheus probes launched. None have returned. We have no idea why."
    "Six?" Commander Horton's brain hazed momentarily, then he shook his head several times to clear it. "What, they blew up?"
    "No!" The woman who'd answered looked around, embarrassed by her outburst, then repeated her reply firmly. "No. The only energy discharge noted was that predicted from the FTL transition. No other discharge. No debris. No