Chapter Text
So, there was this colony... But- not yet.
The proposal for an interstellar colony was built on a carefully curated set of photos, instrument reports, composed appeals to national pride and political dominance, and a pile of hope the size of the Hawaiian islands.
Political committees fussed, making shows to demonstrate how politicians could believe they knew more than the scientist and engineers who used up computer time by the mega-hour. The scientists and engineers were seeking a set of solutions to the problem of 'what to pack in the ships that would make the journey so the colonists would have the best chance of surviving until a resupply ship could be sent'.
The politicians wanted to impress their voters so they'd get re-employed. The scientists and engineers wanted to keep the colony alive.
The photographs and instrument reports seemed to show the planet could support human life; the atmosphere contained lots of oxygen - too much, in a geologic scale. Water seemed to be available on the surface; in multiple tetra-liter quantities; the level of contaminants was uncertain; but distillation and reverse osmosis could hide many sins.
The inert gasses in the planet's atmosphere were nitrogen and argon; the percentage of argon was very high - 10 percent. This was odd; argon is a heavy element, and usually isn't captured during planet formation. If it was there, now, something was happening to supply the argon - lots of decay-chain products around? The nitrogen was normal; it was a heavy gas and, given the g-forces, would stay around almost forever.
The presence of oxygen at 14 percent was troubling, and reassuring. Oxygen was heavy, like nitrogen, but it is reactive as hell. Any metals an the surface, or within a diffusion depth, would oxidize, taking it out of the atmosphere. This happens fast, in relation to the age of rocks. If free oxygen exists, something is emitting it in huge quantities - a very active chemical reaction that keeps on happening.
To earth-bound scientists, this means photosynthesis; the conversion of carbon dioxide (or maybe another di- or tri- oxide) into lots of free oxygen, a ton of free electrons that can transport energy, and light- or another radiation source to drive the reaction.
This means something like life; and lots of it.
The politicians went to work. Assembling the convoys that would be sent to start (or try to start) the colonies would be a global effort; the multiple ships would draw on every nation for parts and supplies. The crew and passengers would be from every region of the globe, officially all would be volunteers; for a value of volunteer appropriate to the political nature of each country.
A second probes' messages arrived during the decades of building the fleet; a second planet that seemed safe for a settlement. Two years of haggling, and the orders for parts and people were doubled. The different conditions of the new planet needed different equipment from the original colony; the engineers shrugged and new equipment was designed, tested, and approved.
'Why build one fleet when the second means more graft?'
The spacecraft were huge. Each armada was a mix of cargo, scientific, engineering, and population ships, for triple redundancy. Three for people, each twice the size of a vacation cruise liner, three for supplies, twice the size of cross Pacific cargo liners, three agricultural ships, full of hydroponics and recycling machines, three engineering and machining and science gear.
And three smaller ships full of weapons.
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The night before the official launch, the captains and commanders of the two fleets had a private dinner with the ten who had sold the world - and quietly funded the development - on the mission. Two Presidents, a Prime Minister, and seven of the wealthiest people of the world. Minor guests were several of the senior judges from the nations of the world.
As the meal ended, the American President rose.
"My friends, it's time to say the most important words. Once the flotilla break orbit, you are on your own. Earth, and the national leaders you leave behind, are meaningless. Whatever orders, secret or public, you've been given are without meaning or force.
You are on your own. As alone as Captain James Cook was when he headed from Portsmouth on his voyage to the Pacific, as independent as Champlain was from the King of France.
Whatever libraries of rules, directives, orders, or commands you've been given are void and null; you have only one permanent order: succeed or die.
Success is your only goal, a viable colony at your destination is all that can be hoped for. All the plans are advice, not handcuffs to bind you and your crew.
Survive, that's the only order that matters."
The President drew a breath.
"Other governments will have placed people in the crew and passengers in attempts to enforce the directives they desire, who will have orders to kill or destroy to those ends.
If you find them - kill them.
They aim failure over success, so those political beliefs will trump reality. Don't waste their bodies; the recycling machines won't care if mutineers gets processed in addition to the usual wastes. Survival is your aim.
The Massachusetts Bay Colony should be in your mind when it comes to political organization, not the beer-filled theories of a German sot in exile in London. Marx disregarded the fundamental fact of human life, people will look after their own interest before the common weal; so use that self interest to your advantage - whenever possible.
It may take a hundred years for us to find you and visit you - I hope we can - and will. There are too many short-sighted maniacs on this planet, filled with stupidity, cupidity, and greed - who have and will oppose second expeditions; I hope earth survives for there to be sufficient people for a second fleet; I'm too much a realist, looking at the opposition to these endeavors, to have excessive hopes.
Survive, that's your only order.
Nothing else should be your goal."
Everyone in the dining room glanced nervously around the room.
The countdown timer started.