Spin

by Robert Charles Wilson

  “It’s hardly untested. The Martians have been doing it for centuries, and the Martians are as human as we are. And I’m sorry, Tyler, but I’m not really interested in your professional scruples. They simply don’t enter the equation.”

  “They do, though. As far as I’m concerned.”

  “Then the question is, how far are you concerned? If you don’t want to be a part of it, step aside.”

  “The risk—”

  “It’s my risk, not yours.” He closed his eyes. “Don’t mistake this for arrogance or vanity, but it matters whether I live or die or even whether I can walk straight or pronounce my f-fucking consonants. It matters to the world, I mean. Because I’m in a uniquely important position. Not by accident. Not because I’m smart or virtuous. I was appointed. Basically, Tyler, I’m an artifact, a constructed object, engineered by E. D. Lawton the same way he and your father used to engineer airfoils. I’m doing the job he built me to do—running Perihelion, running the human response to the Spin.”

  “The president might disagree. Not to mention Congress. Or the U.N., for that matter.”

  “Please. I’m not delusional. That’s the point. Running Perihelion means playing to the interested parties. All of them. E.D. knows that; he’s perfectly cynical about it. He turned Perihelion into a dollar windfall for the aerospace industry and he did it by making friends and forging political alliances in high places. By cajoling and pleading and lobbying and funding friendly campaigns. He had a vision and he had contacts and he was in the right place at the right time; he stepped forward with the aerostat program and rescued the telecom industry from the Spin, and that dropped him into the company of powerful people—and he knows how to exploit an opportunity. Without E.D., there wouldn’t be human beings on Mars. Without E. D. Lawton, Wun Ngo Wen wouldn’t even exist. Give the old fucker credit. He’s a great man.”

  “But?”

  “But he’s a man of his time. He’s pre-Spin. His motives are archaic. The torch has been passed. Or will be, if I have anything to do with it.”

  “I don’t know what that means, Jase.”

  “E.D. still thinks there’s some personal advantage he can wring out of all this. He resents Wun Ngo Wen and he hates the idea of seeding the galaxy with replicators, not because it’s too ambitious but because it’s bad for business. The Mars project pumped trillions of dollars into aerospace. It made E.D. wealthier and more powerful than he ever dreamed of being. It made him a household name. And E.D. still thinks that matters. He thinks it matters the way it used to matter before the Spin, when you could play politics like a game, gamble for prizes. But Wun’s proposal doesn’t have that kind of payoff. Launching replicators is a trivial investment compared to terraforming Mars. We can do it with a couple of Delta sevens and a cheap ion drive. A slingshot and a test tube is all it really takes.”

  “How is that bad for E.D.?”

  “It doesn’t do much to protect a collapsing industry. It hollows out his financial base. Worse, it takes him out of the spotlight. Suddenly everyone’s going to be looking at Wun Ngo Wen—we’re a couple of weeks away from a media shitstorm of unprecedented proportions—and Wun picked me as front-man for this project. The last thing E.D. wants is his ungrateful son and a wrinkly Martian dismantling his life’s work and launching an armada that costs less to produce than a single commercial airliner.”

  “What would he prefer to do?”

  “He’s got a big-scale agenda worked out. Whole-system surveillance, he calls it. Looking for fresh evidence of activity by the Hypotheticals. Planetary surveyors from Mercury to Pluto, sophisticated listening posts in interplanetary space, fly-by missions to scout out the Spin artifacts here and at the Martian poles.”

  “Is that a bad idea?”

  “It might yield a little trivial information. Eke out a little data and funnel cash into the industry. That’s what it’s designed to do. But what E.D. doesn’t understand, what his generation doesn’t truly understand—”

  “What’s that, Jase?”

  “Is that the window is closing. The human window. Our time on Earth. The Earth’s time in the universe. It’s just about over. We have, I think, just one more realistic opportunity to understand what it means—what it meant—to have built a human civilization.” His eyelids shuttered once, twice, slowly. Much of the wild tension had drained out of him. “What it means to have been singled out for this peculiar form of extinction. More than that, though. What it means…what it means…” He looked up. “What the fuck did you give me, Tyler?”

  “Nothing serious. A mild anxiolytic.”

  “Quick fix?”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I suppose so. I want to be presentable by morning, that’s what I want.”

  “The medication isn’t a cure. What you want me to do is like trying to repair a loose electrical connection by pushing more voltage through it. Might work, in the short term. But it’s undependable and it puts unacceptable stress on other parts of the system. I would love to give you a good clean symptom-free day. I just don’t want to kill you.”

  “If you don’t give me a symptom-free day, you might as well kill me.”

  “All I have to offer you,” I said, “is my professional judgment.”

  “And what can I expect from your professional judgment?”

  “I can help. I think. A little. This time. This time, Jase. But there’s not much room to maneuver. You have to face up to that.”

  “None of us has much room to maneuver. We all have to face up to that.”

  But he sighed and smiled when I opened the med kit again.

  Molly was perched on the sofa when I got home, facing the TV square-on, watching a recently popular movie about elves, or maybe they were angels. The screen was full of fuzzy blue light. She switched it off when I came in. I asked her if anything had happened while I was gone.

  “Not much. You got a phone call.”

  “Oh? Who was it?”

  “Jason’s sister. What’s her name. Diane. The one in Arizona.”

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “Just to talk. So we talked a little.”

  “Uh-huh. What did you talk about?”

  Molly half turned, showing me her profile against the dim light from the bedroom. “You.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Yeah. I told her to stop calling you because you have a new girlfriend. I told her I’d be handling your calls from now on.”

  I stared.

  Molly bared her teeth in what I registered was meant to be a smile. “Come on, Tyler, learn to take a joke. I told her you were out. Is that all right?”

  “You told her I was out?”

  “Yes, I told her you were out. I didn’t say where. Because you didn’t actually tell me.”

  “Did she say whether it was urgent?”

  “Didn’t sound urgent. Call her back if you want. Go ahead—I don’t care.”

  But this, too, was a test. “It can wait,” I said.

  “Good.” Her cheeks dimpled. “Because I have other plans.”

  Sacrificial Rites

  Jason, obsessed with E. D. Lawton’s pending arrival, had neglected to mention that another guest was also expected at Perihelion: Preston Lomax, the current vice president of the United States and front-runner in the upcoming election.

  Security was tight at the gates and there was a helicopter on the pad atop the hub of the Perihelion building. I recognized all these Code Red protocols from a series of visits by President Garland over the last month. The guard at the main entrance, the one who called me “Doc” and whose cholesterol levels I monitored once a month, tipped me off that it was Lomax this time.

  I was just past the clinic door (Molly absent, a temp named Lucinda manning reception) when I got a paged message redirecting me to Jason’s office in the executive wing. Four security perimeters later I was alone with him. I was afraid he’d ask for more medication. But last night’s treatment had
put him into a convincing if purely temporary remission. He stood up and came across the room with his tremorless hand extended, showing off: “Want to thank you for this, Ty.”

  “You’re welcome, but I have to say it again—no guarantees.”

  “Noted. As long as I’m good for the day. E.D.’s due at noon.”

  “Not to mention the vice president.”

  “Lomax has been here since seven this morning. The man’s an early riser. He spent a couple of hours conferencing with our Martian guest and I’m conducting the goodwill tour shortly. Speaking of which, Wun would like to see you if you have a few minutes free.”

  “Assuming national affairs aren’t keeping him busy.” Lomax was the man most likely to win the national vote next week—in a walkover, if the polls were to be trusted. Jase had been cultivating Lomax long before Wun’s arrival, and Lomax was fascinated with Wun. “Is your father joining the tour?”

  “Only because there’s no polite way to keep him out.”

  “Do you foresee a problem?”

  “I foresee many problems.”

  “Physically, though, you’re all right?”

  “I feel fine. But you’re the doctor. All I need is a couple more hours, Tyler. I assume I’m good for that?”

  His pulse was a little elevated—not surprisingly—but his AMS symptoms were effectively suppressed. And if the drugs had left him agitated or confused it didn’t show. In fact he seemed almost radiantly calm, locked in some cool, lucid room at the back of his head.

  So I went to see Wun Ngo Wen. Wun wasn’t in his quarters; he had decamped to the small executive cafeteria, which had been cordoned off and encircled by tall men with coils of wire tucked behind their ears. He looked up when I came past the steam table and waved away the security clones who moved in to intercept me.

  I sat down across a glass-topped table from him. He picked at a pallid salmon steak with a cafeteria fork and smiled serenely. I slouched in my chair to match his height. He could have used a booster seat.

  But the food agreed with him. He had gained a little weight in his time at Perihelion, I thought. His suit, tailored a couple of months ago, was tight across his belly. He had neglected to button the matching vest. His cheeks were fuller, too, though they were as wrinkled as ever, the dark skin softly gullied.

  “I hear you had a visitor,” I said.

  Wun nodded. “But not for the first time. I met with President Garland in Washington on several occasions and I’ve met with Vice President Lomax twice. The election is expected to bring him to power, people say.”

  “Not because he’s especially well loved.”

  “I’m not in a position to judge him as a candidate,” Wun said. “But he does ask interesting questions.”

  The endorsement made me feel a little protective. “I’m sure he’s amiable when he wants to be. And he’s done a decent job in office. But he spent a lot of his career as the most hated man on Capitol Hill. Party whip for three different administrations. Not much gets past him.”

  Wun grinned. “Do you think I’m naive, Tyler? Are you afraid Vice President Lomax will take advantage of me?”

  “Not naive, exactly—”

  “I’m a newcomer, admittedly. The finer political nuances are lost on me. But I’m several years older than Preston Lomax, and I’ve held public office myself.”

  “You have?”

  “For three years,” he said with detectable pride, “I was Agricultural Administrator for Ice Winds Canton.”

  “Ah.”

  “The governing body for most of the Kirioloj Delta. It wasn’t the Presidency of the United States of America. There are no nuclear weapons at the disposal of the Agricultural Administration. But I did expose a corrupt local official who was falsifying crop reports by weight and selling his margin into the surplus market.”

  “A rake-off scheme?”

  “If that’s the term for it.”

  “So the Five Republics aren’t free of corruption?”

  Wun blinked, an event that rippled out along the convolute geography of his face. “No, how could they be? And why do so many terrestrials make that assumption? Had I come here from some other Earthly country—France, China, Texas—no one would be startled to hear about bribery or duplicity or theft.”

  “I guess not. But it’s not the same.”

  “Isn’t it? But you work here at Perihelion. You must have met some of the founding generation, as strange as that idea still seems to me—the men and women whose remote descendants we Martians are. Were they such ideal persons that you expect their progeny to be free of sin?”

  “No, but—”

  “And yet the misconception is almost universal. Even those books you gave me, written before the Spin—”

  “You read them?”

  “Yes, eagerly. I enjoyed them. Thank you. But even in those novels, the Martians…” He struggled after a thought.

  “I guess some of them are a little saintly….”

  “Remote,” he said. “Wise. Seemingly frail. Actually very powerful. The Old Ones. But to us, Tyler, you’re the Old Ones. The elder species, the ancient planet. I would have thought the irony was inescapable.”

  I pondered that. “Even the H. G. Wells novel—”

  “His Martians are barely seen. They’re abstractly, indifferently evil. Not wise but clever. But devils and angels are brother and sister, if I understand the folklore correctly.”

  “But the more contemporary stories—”

  “Those were deeply interesting, and the protagonists were at least human. But the truest pleasure of those stories is in the landscapes, don’t you agree? And even so, they’re transformative landscapes. A destiny behind every dune.”

  “And of course the Bradbury—”

  “His Mars isn’t Mars. But his Ohio makes me think of it.”

  “I understand what you’re saying. You’re just people. Mars isn’t heaven. Agreed, but that doesn’t mean Lomax won’t try to use you for his own political purposes.”

  “And I mean to tell you that I’m fully aware of the possibility. The certainty would be more correct. Obviously I’ll be used for political advantage, but that’s the power I have: to bestow or withhold my approval. To cooperate or to be stubborn. The power to say the right word.” He smiled again. His teeth were uniformly perfect, radiantly white. “Or not.”

  “So what do you want out of all this?”

  He showed me his palms, a gesture both Martian and terrestrial. “Nothing. I’m a Martian saint. But it would be gratifying to see the replicators launched.”

  “Purely in the pursuit of knowledge?”

  “That I will confess to, even if it is a saintly motive. To learn at least something about the Spin—”

  “And challenge the Hypotheticals?”

  He blinked again. “I very much hope the Hypotheticals, whoever or whatever they are, won’t perceive what we’re doing as a challenge.”

  “But if they do—”

  “Why would they?”

  “But if they do, they’ll believe the challenge came from Earth, not Mars.”

  Wun Ngo Wen blinked several more times. Then the smile crept back: indulgent, approving. “You’re surprisingly cynical yourself, Dr. Dupree.”

  “How un-Martian of me.”

  “Quite.”

  “And does Preston Lomax believe you’re an angel?”

  “Only he can answer that question. The last thing he said to me—” Here Wun dropped his Oxford diction for a note-perfect Preston Lomax impression, brusque and chilly as a winter seashore: “It’s a privilege to talk to you, Ambassador Wen. You speak your mind directly. Very refreshing for an old D.C. hand like myself.”

  The impression was startling, coming from someone who had been speaking English for only a little over a year. I told him so.

  “I’m a scholar,” he said. “I’ve been reading English since I was a child. Speaking it is another matter. But I do have a talent for languages. It’s one of the reasons I
’m here. Tyler, may I ask another favor of you? Would you be willing to bring me more novels?”

  “I’m all out of Martian stories, I’m afraid.”

  “Not Mars. Any sort of novel. Anything, anything you consider important, anything that matters to you or gave you a little pleasure.”

  “There must be plenty of English professors who’d be happy to work up a reading list.”

  “I’m sure there are. But I’m asking you.”

  “I’m not a scholar. I like to read, but it’s pretty random and mostly contemporary.”

  “All the better. I’m alone more often than you might think. My quarters are comfortable but I can’t leave them without elaborate planning. I can’t go out for a meal, I can’t see a motion picture or join a social club. I could ask my minders for books, but the last thing I want is a work of fiction that’s been approved by a committee. But an honest book is almost as good as a friend.”

  This was as close as Wun had come to complaining about his position at Perihelion, his position on Earth. He was happy enough during his waking hours, he said, too busy for nostalgia and still excited by the strangeness of what for him would always be an alien world. But at night, on the verge of sleep, he sometimes imagined he was walking the shore of a Martian lake, watching shore birds flock and wheel over the waves, and in his mind it was always a hazy afternoon, the light tinted by streamers of the ancient dust that still rose from the deserts of Noachis to color the sky. In this dream or vision he was alone, he said, but he knew there were others waiting for him around the next curve of the rocky shore. They might be friends or strangers, they might even be his lost family; he knew only that he would be welcomed by them, touched, drawn close, embraced. But it was only a dream.

  “When I read,” he said to me, “I hear the echo of those voices.”

  I promised to bring him books. But now we had business. There was a flurry of activity in the security cordon by the door of the cafeteria. One of the suits came across the floor and said, “They’re asking for you upstairs.”