The impact crater had a name no-one used.
Once referred to as the Holst Crater, the landscape had long been cultivated by engineers and excavators, laced with kilometers of carbon wiring, and littered along the rim with habitats and comms dishes. Four wires the width of a railroad extruded from the circumference of the crater towards the center, connecting to an extruding receiver that was, ultimately, the second-tallest artificial structure on the Munar surface. With a final diameter of over seven kilometers long, and a gold-plated receiver base itself over a square kilometer in size, Holst Crater was finally re-commissioned as the Munar Far Side Observatory - an ultra high frequency radio observatory built inside its host crater, the polished basin serving continually as the largest reflector dish in the solar system.
Beyond its mission as an astrological data site, the Observatory served as an important pioneering program for the Spatial Project Authority. When the engineering agency was founded alongside its twin in 2181, they chose Holst as the site for their first surface megaproject. It required less raw materials but more tedious planning to construct an observatory on such an immense scale, and the Authority desperately wanted the experience for their future endeavours. When it finished construction in 2190, it spent the following decade basking in the fourteen days of the Mun’s night cycle, drinking in the universe’s static - ten years of pulsars, novas, and the faint breath of the cosmic microwave background.
Its position on the far side of the Mun was, compared to its competitors on Kerbin, very advantageous, beyond just the benefit of its colossal size. The Mun would block all of the radio interference from Kerbin, and avoid the problems that the ionosphere would provide at the ultra-long wavelengths. The final product was the most uninterrupted view of the night sky, with more clarity for minor details than any site prior.
Though, there was more than just quality of reception that went into the considerations for where to build the Dish - an equatorial crater would have been better suited, but Holst, in the Mare Séverin, was a dozen degrees southwards. Indeed, when the UIF voted on the funds for the project, consideration was given for observation in a specific direction of distant space. The astronomers agreed, and for a few Munar cycles a year, when Kerbin was in the right spot in its orbit, the Observatory had several key objects of the local neighborhood in its direct purview.
The radio waves it received remained very constant over time, so when a small shift occurred over the hydrogen line, it was first noticed with indifference. When it re-appeared the following cycle, it was met with fascination, and when it occurred a third time, it received direct attention. Appearing as a continuous wave, the signal-to-noise ratio was initially very faint, but noticeably increasing each time. The third detection confirmed to the observers that the signal was growing exponentially in scale - at which point, the decision was made to inform Greater Comberth of their discovery.
Aleksandre and a team of astrophysicists from NewCom Polytechnic sat in earnest at the Observatory’s data center some days later. While the first signals were too weak to decode or interpret, they could extrapolate when in the future the intensity would be high enough for more thorough analysis to be made. They didn’t even change the shift schedules, he thought to himself and chuckled, but it’s never been more crowded in here. The team of researchers deliberated their next actions over their lunch coffees, the colossal dish in the crater below them visible through the wide windows of the center.
“Hang on - it’s starting again,” he said to scientists mid-conversation, as a green light illuminated on top of one of the consoles. Slightly ahead of schedule. In the crater below, the dish remained as lifeless as ever, but in the data processors, screens lit up to display the new data transmitting through in the thousand-MHz range. Everyone was quiet as the machines compiled their recordings; by the time the green light softly extinguished a few minutes later, it felt like more than an hour had passed to him.
He had the privilege of being the one to rip the printed data out of the processor; though, to the untrained Kerbal eye, it looked like a bunch of gibberish. 1420.4556 MHz, on Channel No. 2, digits written vertically - the sequence of spiked metrics at this frequency would later be renamed “The Holst Line,” in honor of the Observatory. As expected, it was now strong enough to be translated.
“Right. I’m sending it in to be decoded,” Alaksandre narrated his actions as he moved to another station, manually feeding it into a specialized computer. “Can you compare it to the last lines?”
“On it,” another physicist put his head down over his keyboard to type away, comparing the latest frequency to that of the last transmissions, and their minute differences.
Astrophysics was, in practice, a very detailed application of data science; millions of lines of subtle data points that were tedious to collect, then processed through computers - potentially for hours - to calculate a solution. It was a lot less chalk-on-blackboard math than he fantasized when he was younger, but it was still up to the research teams to make sure they were asking the right questions, for the machines to process the answers to. As the loading wheel spun on their computer, they would find out shortly if they got their parts right.
Another researcher in the center had the translating software ready to go; if his prediction was correct, the data would feed in seamlessly, and provide a working 2D graphic. Within moments, the screen lit up: a solution had been generated, and was ready to print.
He clicked play.
The computer broadcasted several chirping pitches as the graphic printed on the screen. Line by line, the pixels and digits fell into place, slowly generating a solution of the broadcast's signal.
Many of those in the room had previously wondered what the reception was if they ever came across a devastating discovery. Was there going to be a wave of shock? Would a researcher drop their coffee as they froze in fear and awe? In reality, the reception was far more subdued - as it took weeks for the signal to grow strong enough to decode, the surprise had long since worn off, and when it first arrived, it was too mundane to quickly infer a larger mystery.
The image, as it continued to print, finally delivered on their curiosity, however. And now, he thought, was the time to be a little shocked. It was a moment of discovery that would be the highlight of the majority of their careers - he sighed, feeling the right to express a little emotion.
“I have the differences worked out,” the scientist comparing the three latest signals broke the silence.
“And?”
“Continuing to inch closer to the hydrogen line. Red shift, again… and narrower. Microscopically narrower.” Another physicist moved over to check his work.
Aleksandre nodded as he stared blankly ahead, unfocused through the window to the Munar exterior. Their work so far had pieced the puzzles together nicely, then the picture, and the redshift - the decreasing redshift - made it clear. Another scientist opened up a bright red action binder, as a fourth prepared to make another call to Greater Comberth.
They’re there.
And they’re decelerating.
“Standby!” An officer shouted, and the conversations in the command center quickly dimmed down.
Melekhin froze when he heard the command, an instinct from years of military service, for the issued statement when a superior officer was about to enter the room. Though in this case, the entourage from Starfleet was already present; it was just called because the test was finally ready.
The return trip to the Munar surface was uneventful. The antimatter, for all the stress it may have caused, was handed off unceremoniously and dispatched to a new test lab by an underground monorail. Then, before returning to his normal duties as a Starfleet attaché, he was afforded the opportunity to hear about what the Observatory was up to - and he, without knowing it, was more shocked about what they found than the researchers themselves.
The Holst Line, as it came to be known, was a kick in the pants to all of the commands at NewCom. For now, the signals were still too faint to be heard elsewhere - unless you had a converted crater mega-dish radio receiver the size of a small city - so the Systems Commonwealth was able to keep it under wraps, but it was only a matter of time before they grew strong enough to be detected by amateurs, or other national observatories on Kerbin. The jolt quickly followed, supposedly from The Empress herself, when she heard the news. He was impressed at how she got gears moving so quickly again on the Mun, and proud to be part of it.
Long after completing his active-duty deep space tours to Moho and Duna, the lieutenant commander’s reserve role in New Comberth had reverted mostly to normal, “in-dome” work, as a point of contact between the Admiralty and the colony’s science bureaus. After delivering the antimatter, it was mostly deliberations, paperwork, and meetings: testimonies on delta-V, discussions on thrust-to-weight ratios between what fleet strategists wanted and what the corporate engineers could deliver, and other mundane errands. The invitation to the APL firing range interested him again.
“Ignition sequence start, T minus sixty…”
Compared to his last orbital hop, Melekhin was wearing his ceremonial dress uniform, as were the other Starfleet officers present at the test. On his chest were his wings of gold, centered with a shield and two anchors of the services’ terrestrial Naval traditions, then layered with a shooting star, piercing through an elliptical ring. His acquaintance from Ushakov Station, Henshin, was present again as well, representing the interests of the Office, his flight suit also eschewed in favor of a formal suit and black tie.
He took one last look around as people began to find their seats; virtually every faction in the UIF had found invitations here. He was, of course, here on Starfleet’s behalf, and Henshin for the OAI, then there were the ISEA scientists themselves in their white lab coats, and delegates from the Chamber of Energy representing the federal government. The only guests not in formal clothing were one man and one woman, slouched casually in their seats, each wearing bright red flight suits. Typical, he thought.
Designed intentionally to stand out, for both safety and prestige, the test pilots and flight engineers of AROW were the ambassadors of the UIF’s final new upstart organization. “The Arrows,” the last creation of Asimov’s post-war reconstruction, very quickly latched themselves on the SysCom nerve stem. From the Shattering all the way through Reclamation, test projects and experimental programs were done ad-hoc, either by Cyten-Ward or splintered military labs running off Vikus’ direct orders - now they were all centralized, with their own budget and minimal oversight. So far, their projects were few, and far secluded from the public eye, but their insignia stamped on a project was a mark of extreme quality; Melekhin saw to it first-hand with Phoenix the year prior.
It was no wonder to him they had their hands in on most, or all, of this project. The test pilots acted like they owned the place.
“T minus ten…”
In front of him was the Applied Physics Laboratory's engine test range, an installation rebuilt and in service since the System War of the 21st century. Decades of use from various agencies and allied nations in experimental rocketry, efficient chemical propellant, ion engines, and nuclear reactors. Today, on its test rail, was the largest chassis the site had yet seen: AROW’s next-generation fusion engine, a magnitude larger than current inventories, and theoretically the most efficient yet seen. Plans for space research had been set in motion since Asimov, but the Imperial orders brought down by the Holst Line expedited all current projects. He was impressed they could get a working model on the firing line so quickly.
“...five, four, three…”
The engine began to glow in a distinct violet hue as it proceeded above idle. Melekhin watched closely, prepared to take mental notes, as after the test concluded, he would receive the engine data to file his report.
“two...one… Proceeding to max power, fusion dry mode.”
An immaculately bright beam of violet light shot out of the engine, the superheated hydrogen gas propelled out in a narrow streak of plasma maintaining its shape and glow a thousand yards beyond the engine truss. Streams of data recorders displayed the engine temperatures and stability. The engine continued at full power for several moments. The scientists seemed satisfied. Melekhin knew there was more, though, as the mission director had already alluded.
“Dry power test complete, proceeding to wet status. Afterburning fusion engine test in three, two, one…”
The engine flashed sharply. Melekhin winced, and grabbed the darkened glasses provided to each seat. Once fastened, he continued observing through the test center’s windows as his vision returned.
The narrow beam was gone - the engine fired ravenously, casting a beautiful cone of violet plasma propelled to the Munar horizon. Every display of engine performance spiked on their screens. The Mun rocks next to the engine, even with the vacuum of space protecting them, tumbled violently.
“Wet power test complete, commencing engine shutdown. Engine scram in five…”
For such an important test, and such immense preparation, the actual firing was over in minutes. The prototype held, and in dry mode, could sustain operation almost indefinitely. In wet mode, the output was magnanimous.
All parties watched in silence as the engine dropped below idle safely, and extinguished its nuclear fire. Many of the spectators gave a round of applause as the test concluded in complete success, the groups conversing to each other about the results - except the test pilots from AROW, who he saw nod in satisfaction, get up, and leave unceremoniously. Henshin, meanwhile, had his head down, preparing to make a call to his director in St. Arc. The delegates from the Chamber of Energy departed to testify to the States-General on the project, authorizing the engines for low-rate initial production. The scientists of ISEA and representatives of Starfleet deliberated amongst each other, and came to the same conclusions.
The astronauts of the Imperial Stellar Exploration Agency already knew the implications of the dry mode’s superb specific impulse. The admirals of Starfleet, as Melekhin debriefed with his fellow officers, would take immediate interest in the wet mode’s thrust-to-weight ratio - courtesy of some unique fuel sources. The consensus had already been reached before he entered the room; a report on the engine power was drafted, and sent to the Admiralty’s GHQ.
The civilian scientists and military attachés departed the APL with the same data, but advanced in different directions. Unbeknownst to him, but publicly announced by the States-General a month later, ISEA’s specialists left with drafts in hand for the Fort Grace Interstellar Research Vehicle. When he returned to the General Headquarters in New Comberth, Lieutenant Commander Melekhin’s next assigned project had only one word to it, below the Top Secret markings on his manila folder:
“Reclaimer.”
