Seveneves

“Bolide Fragmentation Rate,” Doob said. “The rate at which new rocks are being produced.”

“Is that a standard term?” Pete wanted to know. His tone was not so much hostile as unnerved.

“No,” Doob said, “I made it up. Yesterday. On the plane.” He was tempted to add something like I am allowed to coin terms but didn’t want things to get snarky this early in the meeting.

Seeing that Pete had been silenced, at least for a moment, Doob tried to get back into his rhythm. “We’ll see an increasing number of meteorite impacts. Some will cause great damage. But overall, life is not going to change that much. But then”—he clicked again, and the plot bent sharply upward, turning white—“we are going to witness an event that I am calling the White Sky. It’ll happen over hours, or days. The system of discrete planetoids that we can see up there now is going to grind itself up into a vast number of much smaller fragments. They are going to turn into a white cloud in the sky, and that cloud is going to spread out.”

Click. The graph continued shooting upward, rocketing up into a new domain and turning red.

“A day or two after the White Sky event will begin a thing I am calling the Hard Rain. Because not all of those rocks are going to stay up there. Some of them are going to fall into the Earth’s atmosphere.”

He turned the projector off. This was an unusual move, but it snapped them all out of PowerPoint hypnosis and forced them to look at him. The aides in the back of the room were still thumbing their phones, but they didn’t matter.

“By ‘some,’” Doob said, “I mean trillions.”

The room remained silent.

“It is going to be a meteorite bombardment such as the Earth has not seen since the primordial age, when the solar system was formed,” Doob said. “Those fiery trails we’ve been seeing in the sky lately, as the meteorites come in and burn up? There will be so many of those that they will merge into a dome of fire that will set aflame anything that can see it. The entire surface of the Earth is going to be sterilized. Glaciers will boil. The only way to survive is to get away from the atmosphere. Go underground, or go into space.”

“Well, obviously that is very hard news if it is true,” the president said.

They all sat and thought about it silently for a period of time that might have been one minute or five.

“We will have to do both,” the president said. “Go into space, and underground. Obviously the latter is easier.”

“Yes.”

“We can get to work building underground bunkers for …” and she caught herself before saying something impolitic. “For people to take refuge in.”

Doob didn’t say anything.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said, “Dr. Harris, I’m an old logistics guy. I deal in stuff. How much stuff do we need to get underground? How many sacks of potatoes and rolls of toilet paper per occupant? I guess what I’m asking is, just how long is the Hard Rain going to last?”

Doob said, “My best estimate is that it will last somewhere between five thousand and ten thousand years.”

“NONE OF YOU WILL EVER STAND ON TERRA FIRMA, TOUCH YOUR loved ones, or breathe the atmosphere of your mother planet again,” the president said. “That is a terrible fate. And yet it is a better fate than seven billion people trapped on the Earth’s surface can hope for. The last ship home has sailed. From now on, launch vehicles will rise up into orbit, but they will not go back for ten thousand years.”

The twelve men and women in the Banana sat in silence. Like the destruction of the moon itself, it was too big a thing for them to take in, too large for human emotion to get around. Dinah focused on trivia. Such as: just how damned good J.B.F.—the president—was at saying stuff like this.

“Dr. Harris,” said Konrad Barth, the astronomer. “I am sorry, Madam President, but is it possible to get Dr. Harris back into the picture?”

“Of course,” said Julia Bliss Flaherty, who, with some reluctance, stepped sideways, making room for the larger frame of Dr. Harris. Dinah thought that he looked shrunken and diminished compared to the famous TV scientist. Then she remembered what he had explained to them a few minutes ago, and felt uncharitable for having drawn that comparison. What must it have been like, to be the only man on Earth to know that the Earth was doomed?

“Yes, Konrad,” he said.

“Doob, I’m not disagreeing with your calculations. But has this been peer reviewed? Is there a chance that there is some basic error, a misplaced decimal point, something?”

Harris had begun nodding his head halfway through Konrad’s question. It was not a happy kind of nod. “Konrad,” he said, “it’s not just me.”

“We have signals intelligence suggesting that the Chinese figured it out a day before we did,” the president said, “and the British, the Indians, the French, Germans, Russians, Japanese—all of their scientists are coming to more or less the same conclusions.”

“Two years?” Dinah piped up. Her voice was hoarse, broken. Everyone looked at her. “Until the White Sky?”

“People seem to be converging on that figure, yeah,” Dr. Harris said. “Twenty-five months, plus or minus two.”

“I know that this is a terrible shock for all of you,” said the president. “But I wanted the crew of the ISS to be among the first to know about it. Because I need you. We, the people of the United States and of Earth, need you.”

“For what?” Dinah asked. In no sense was she the official spokesman for Izzy’s crew of twelve. That was Ivy’s job. But Dinah could tell, just from looking at her, that Ivy was in no condition to speak.

“We are beginning to talk to our counterparts in other spacefaring nations about creating an ark,” the president said. “A repository of the entire genetic heritage of the Earth. We have two years to build it. Two years to get as many people and as much equipment as we can into orbit. The nucleus of that ark is going to be Izzy.”

Absurdly, Dinah felt a mild flicker of annoyance that J.B.F. had appropriated their informal term for the ISS. But she knew how it was. She had spent enough time with the NASA PR people to understand. Things had to be humanized, to be given cute names. All the terrified kids down there who knew they were going to die would have to watch upbeat videos about how Izzy was going to carry the legacy of the dead planet through the Hard Rain. They would take out their crayons and draw cartoon pictures of Izzy with a torus halo and a big rock on her ass and a little anthropomorphic smiley face on the side of the Zvezda Service Module.

Ivy spoke up for the first time in a while. A mere two weeks ago, the postponement of her wedding had seemed a big disappointment. But she had just been told that her fiancé—U.S. Navy commander Cal Blankenship—was a dead man walking and that she would never marry him, never touch him, never see him again except through a video link. To say nothing of everyone else she knew. She looked a little spacey. She was talking in her singsongy voice. “Madam President,” she said, “I’m sure you know that there isn’t much space up here to accommodate new people. I’m sure this must be a topic of discussion.”

“Yes, of course,” the president said. “Your job is to—”

“Pardon me, Madam President, can I take this?” Dr. Harris asked. Dinah noted the flick of the president’s eyes, the look of shock on her face. The president of the United States had just been interrupted. Shouldered out of the way. As a woman who had made her way up in the world, she probably had some raw nerve endings around that sort of thing.

But this wasn’t that. It wasn’t J.B.F. asking herself did he interrupt me because I’m a woman? They were past all of that now. This was her asking herself did he interrupt me because the president of the United States doesn’t matter anymore?

“Is Lina there?” Dr. Harris asked. “Pan the camera around please—ah, there you are. Lina, I have read your articles about the swarming behaviors of fish in the Caribbean. Great stuff.”

“I didn’t know your interests extended to things underwater,” said Lina Ferreira. “Thank you.”

People were funny, Dinah thought. Talking like this, at a time like this.

“The videos are amazing. They all move in tight formation, until a predator comes through. Then, suddenly, a hole just opens up in the swarm and the predator sails through it and doesn’t catch a single fish. A moment later they’re back together again. Well, nothing’s been decided yet, but—”

“You want to use swarming behavior in the ark?”

“The proposal is called the Cloud Ark,” the president cut back in. “And you have it correct. Rather than putting all our eggs in one basket—”

“Eggs … and sperm,” Jibran muttered, in his Lancashire accent, so low that only Dinah picked it up.

“We will take a distributed architecture,” J.B.F. said, with perhaps too careful enunciation, as if she had learned the phrase ten minutes ago. “Each of the ships that will make up the Cloud Ark will be autonomous to an extent. We will mass-produce them, I am told, and send them up just as fast as we can. They will swarm around Izzy. When it is safe to do so, they can dock together, like Tinkertoys, and people can move from one to the other freely. But when a rock approaches, fwoosh!” And she spread her fingers apart, the purple lacquered nails darting away from one another.

But what about Izzy? Dinah wondered. She thought better of asking just now.

“In order to make ready for that, there are tasks for all of you,” the president said. “And that is why I asked the director to join us on this call.” Meaning Scott Spalding, the director of NASA. “I’m going to turn it over to Sparky, so that he can walk you through the details. As you can imagine, I have some other concerns to look after, and so I am going to bid you goodbye at this point.”

The twelve in the Banana mustered a low murmur of thanks to usher the president out of whatever conference room this transmission was coming from. Someone torqued the camera around until it was pointing at Scott Spalding. He had managed to find a blazer but he was tieless, and probably would be for the remainder of his life. As a young astronaut, Sparky had been slated for an Apollo mission that had been canceled during the budget cutbacks of the early 1970s. He had stuck with the program, getting his Ph.D. during the hiatus in manned spaceflight that followed. His run of bad luck had continued when a planned mission on Skylab was scrubbed because of the spacecraft’s untimely descent into the atmosphere. His perseverance had paid off in the 1980s with a series of Shuttle missions that had turned him into a past master of the astronaut corps, equally at home fixing busted solar panels and quoting the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. After a couple of decades working at tech startups with varying levels of success, he’d been brought back to NASA a few years ago as part of some dimly conceived repurposing of the agency’s mission. Most of the people in the Banana found him likable, if somewhat opaque, and had the general feeling that he would back them up in a pinch.

Exactly what Rilke poems Sparky thought could address the world’s current predicament, it was impossible to guess. For a moment there, after the camera swung around to autofocus on his sagging and creased face, it almost seemed like some poetry might be on the tip of his tongue. Then he shook it off and found the camera’s lens with his pale eyes. “Words fail me,” he said, “so I am just going to concentrate on business. Ivy, you remain in charge. There’s no one better. Your job is to keep things running up there, communicate with us down here, let us know what you need. If after all of that you find yourself with some free time, let me know and I’ll find you a hobby.” He winked.

And from there he went down the list.

Frank Casper, a Canadian electrical engineer, and Spencer Grindstaff, an American who specialized in communications and who had been doing mysterious work for intelligence agencies, were going to work on establishing the network infrastructure needed to support the activities of the Cloud Ark. Jibran, an instrumentation specialist who was always getting roped into such problems anyway, would work with them.