Dong-Joo stared at his phone, the conversation stirring something deep within him. This debate, brimming with scientific reasoning and measured confidence, resonated with his own recent struggles. It mirrored the futile battle his family had waged against his mother's cancer a relentless force of destruction that no treatment could halt.
Apophis. A looming global catastrophe. It felt like a metaphor for the loss that had just gutted his life, a chilling echo of the darkness he couldn't escape.
The discussion buzzed with theories and speculations, the room alive with the sharp focus of minds tackling a cosmic mystery. At the center of it all was Apophis, the asteroid whose sudden shift in orbit had left astronomers baffled. Eyes darted between graphs and computer simulations projecting its new trajectory, each animation an ominous reminder of the puzzle they were trying to solve.
The Yarkovsky effect was the first to be proposed. "Imagine a boat propelled by the steady push of a paddle," one scientist explained, his enthusiasm lighting up his face. The asteroid, like a sunlit rock in space, absorbed heat on its sun-facing side. As it rotated, that heat radiated away from the opposite side, creating a tiny but persistent push. Over time, this could alter its orbit. Logical, yes—but there was a problem. The change in Apophis's orbit had been so abrupt that if the Yarkovsky effect were to blame, astronomers would have noticed gradual shifts months earlier. They hadn't.
"What about a collision?" someone ventured, their voice cutting through the buzz of conversation. This theory gained traction with reports of a sudden burst of light captured by telescopes near Apophis when its orbit shifted. But it was a fragile idea at best. Over a decade of intense observation since 2010 had revealed no nearby asteroid capable of causing such an impact. The mystery deepened.
Then came a truly bizarre suggestion: volcanic activity inside Apophis. "An asteroid of that size might build up enough internal pressure to trigger an eruption,"
proposed an older professor, his tone laced with doubt. But why would such an eruption nudge the asteroid's path so conveniently toward Earth? The idea was dismissed as an uncanny coincidence.
The atmosphere in the room took a darker turn when someone threw out a controversial possibility: "What if this wasn't natural at all? What if humans had a hand in it?"
A heavy silence blanketed the room. A few nervous chuckles punctuated the tension, but those who understood the implications sat motionless, their expressions clouded with unease. The facts, as they unfolded, only deepened the collective apprehension.
Since the early 2010s, NASA had been developing the Asteroid Redirect Mission (ARM), a program designed to protect Earth from potential asteroid threats while simultaneously exploring the lucrative potential of asteroid mining. It wasn't just about safety; asteroids were treasure troves of rare minerals like nickel and rare earth metals—resources valued at trillions of dollars. NASA wasn't the only player in this high-stakes game. Japan's Hayabusa missions had already proven successful, and other nations, like South Korea, had floated plans to target Apophis itself—plans that mysteriously vanished without explanation.
"Could humanity really mine an asteroid?" murmured Dong-Joo, a young student who had been quietly soaking in the discussion, his curiosity a live wire.
His thoughts spiraled into research. For small asteroids, those no larger than ten meters in diameter, the process was surprisingly straightforward. A spacecraft could approach, match its speed, and capture the asteroid with a specialized net. This would slow its rotation, locking it under the craft's control. But Apophis? That was a beast of a different size.
Dong-Joo stumbled upon the concept of a gravity tractor.
"It's surprisingly simple," he muttered, his eyes glued to his screen. A spacecraft would orbit close to the asteroid, its gravitational pull subtly altering the asteroid's trajectory. For larger shifts, the spacecraft could increase its mass by incorporating material from the asteroid itself.
All of this effort served one ultimate goal: guiding the asteroid to a Lagrange point, a gravitational sweet spot between Earth and the Moon. Once there, it could be safely "parked," like a cosmic warehouse brimming with untapped resources.
Dong-Joo exhaled, his mind racing.
"Could it really be that simple?" he wondered, doubt lingering at the edges of his excitement.
Yet, no matter how much he read, the questions only multiplied. Why Apophis? Why now? And most importantly, if humanity had truly begun tampering with an asteroid's path, what unforeseen consequences might follow?
The answers weren't forthcoming, but one thing was abundantly clear: the mystery behind Apophis's sudden orbital shift was far more complex—and potentially dangerous—than anyone could have anticipated.
Dong-Joo stared at his computer screen, his brows furrowed in deep confusion. For what felt like the hundredth time, he reread the scientific journal articles scattered across his desk, searching for some overlooked clue—some explanation that could unravel the puzzle gnawing at his mind. This wasn't about the results of an actual space exploration mission, he reminded himself. No, this was a computer simulation—one rigorously verified by leading scientists—but it held a strange, almost unsettling allure.
In the simulation, a small spacecraft carried a rock no more than three meters in diameter, orbiting around the much larger asteroid Itokawa, which measured a formidable 540 meters across. At first, nothing seemed to change. But after sixty days, the subtle pull of the tiny rock began to leave its mark. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the orbit of the larger asteroid began to shift. Dong-Joo scrutinized the results once more, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the staggering implications. It was incredible, almost absurd: by simply positioning a small spacecraft carrying a rock in orbit, the trajectory of a massive asteroid could be altered.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady the racing thoughts in his mind. But the professor's words echoed relentlessly, like a ghost refusing to be exorcised.
"So, could it be true? Could someone really be attempting to alter the orbit of Apophis using a plan like this?" Dong-Joo murmured, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room.
A creeping suspicion began to take root in his thoughts. If this simulation alone demonstrated such a profound possibility, who could say for certain that something similar wasn't already happening out there, in the vast, uncharted reaches of space beyond the gaze of human eyes?