Free After: First Light (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 0) by Scott Nicholson Page A

solar flares, but his cataclysmic scenarios were pushed aside for what were considered the more-relevant dangers of low-flying nuclear missiles. The military couldn’t fight the sun, and neither could it procure billions of tax dollars by provoking the administration’s fear of the sun. Besides, terrorist threats were far sexier than probability modeling.
    Last year, Chien had co-authored a report that painted a grim picture of infrastructure failure on the heels of a massive solar storm, calling it “the greatest environmental disaster in human history.” Since then, Katherine and the other SDO researchers had wryly called Chien “Dr. Doom.”
    Chien had stood firm in his quiet way. Besides, it really wasn’t a matter of “if.” It was a matter of “when.”
    But even Chien didn’t really expect “when” to be now .
    “Look at AR1654,” Chien said.
    Katherine’s keys clacked as she brought up an image on her laptop screen. “It’s only an M-1,” she said. “At worst, we could get a few radio blackouts in the polar regions. No biggie.”
    “But AR1654 is aligning with the Earth. That means we will be right in the path of the plasma stream if a flare erupts.”
    “And it will pass right over us. That’s why we have an atmosphere, so we’re not exposed to constant radiation. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be around to have this conversation.”
    Katherine, apparently satisfied with her prognosis, resumed typing. Chien watched the image on the screen for another minute, as sauce leaked from the edge of the pizza’s crust and bulged out into space in huge, curling ribbons.
    Maybe I’m no different than Newton, a sensationalistic glory hound. But he died a virgin, so I’ve got him beat there .
    Chien went through the rote recording of data that occupied much of his duties, but his mind wandered to Summer Hanratty, the woman he’d been dating for the last six months. He couldn’t escape the irony of her first name, and its connotation with sunny weather had fueled their initial conversation at a colleague’s party. Maybe they were getting serious.
    Heating up, huh? Well, even Dr. Doom needs a little comfort in the night.
    Katherine’s clipped voice interrupted his reverie. “Did you see that?”
    “See what?” Chien had flipped away from the satellite imagery to tables of temperature, X-rays, and magnetic energy.
    “Check the Magnetogram,” she said, referring to the telescopic image that mapped the magnetic energy along the sun’s surface.
    Chien summoned the proper screen, which now showed the solar pizza as a mossy tennis ball pocked with violent orange and cobalt-blue acne. The area near AR1654 showed a brilliant plume erupting from the surface.
    “It will loop,” Chien said, referring to the sun’s habit of bending much of its escaped energy back into the thermonuclear maw. As turbulent as the imagery made the sun appear, most of the activity took place deep inside, where hydrogen and helium burned away at astonishing temperatures. It took light 200,000 years to emerge from the center of the sun to the surface, and from there a mere eight minutes to reach the Earth.
    Chien thought he would share that little factoid with Summer when he dropped by her apartment tonight. It was the kind of romantic bon mot that would wash down well with a glass of Chablis.
    “Even with a loop, it will likely shoot some electrons our way,” Katherine said.
    “Should we log a report?”
    One of the center’s responsibilities was to warn of potential interference with satellites and telecommunications equipment, which helped justify the $18 billion NASA budget. A caricature of a notoriously penurious Republican senator was pinned to the bulletin board near the restrooms, bearing a handwritten admonition: “A phone call a day keeps the hatchets away.” Providing a practical public benefit was essential to the long-term survival of the center.
    “The usual,” Katherine said. “Possible disruption of regular