Existence

by David Brin

  Father would approve of this, he thought, deliberately mis-aiming a droplet to splash just below his nose.

  That is, if Awfulday hadn’t cut short Jason Sander’s lifelong pursuit of vigorous self-indulgence. Sometimes, Hacker almost felt the old man riding alongside, during these jaunts. Or flaunts. JT used to say that rich people bore a special obligation—a noblesse oblige. An onus to show off!

  To explore the limits of experience, of possibility, of propriety … even the law. A duty more important than mere philanthropy. Letting all the world’s people benefit from the invigorating effects of envy.

  “Look at history, son,” Jason once told Hacker. “Progress is made by folks trying to keep up with the other guy. The other nation or company, or their betters, or the Joneses next door. It is our role—our hard task—to be Jones! A goad for every jealous, ambitious, innovating bastard to try and match us.

  “It’s a crucial job, Hacker. Though I doubt anyone will thank us.”

  Oh, Dad had been a pip, all right. Mother, of course, was another story.

  For the short span—a few minutes—that his capsule streaked toward the top of its trajectory, all seemed peaceful. Hacker’s ever-busy thoughts slowed as he relished a champagne interlude, alternately watching the Milky Way’s powder-sprinkle and Earth’s living panorama below.

  Others, billions, may have forgotten this dream. Professional astronauts helped kill it, by making space exploration super-obsessive, communal, nerdy. Boring.

  Then there are other members of my caste, who buy day trips aboard luxury “spaceship” shuttles … or take pleasure freefall holidays, up at the High Hilton. Flaunting without earning. Adventure without risk. “Accomplishment,” without putting in a lick of work.

  Hacker rubbed the back of one callused hand, scarred from welding splatters and countless hours in the workshop, helping his people make this little craft, almost from scratch. Or, at least, from a really good kit. Which was almost the same thing.

  But a few, like me, are bringing back the romance!

  Through the transparent, interlaced-diamond nose cone, he spotted a glitter, moving rapidly past the fixed constellations.

  Well, speak of the devil. But no … that’s not the Hilton. Too much reflection. It must be the old space station. Still plugging along. Still manned by a few pros and diehard scientists, at public expense.

  As if that ever made any sense.

  Look across four millennia. Was there ever any development or real headway that wasn’t propelled by an aristocracy? Why, I’ll bet—

  Abruptly, a sharp, painful reddish glare washed the capsule! Hacker winced behind a raised hand.

  “What the hell?” He cursed aloud, feeling the words vibrate in his throat, though not with clamped eardrums. Instead, his sonic jaw implant translated a computer alert.

  INCOMING LASER MESSAGE.

  His sudden, sinking suspicion was confirmed when a dashboard screen lit in holographic mode. That pompous blond jerk, Lord Smits, appeared to float toward Hacker, grinning. The fool hadn’t merely pushed back his faceplate, but removed his helmet entirely, defying every rule. Despite an expensive biosculpt job, the baronet’s face seemed deformed by an ugly rictus—weightlessness did that to some people—while forming words that floated between them, flecked with spittle.

  Sander, I got you! You’re dead!

  Hacker tooth-clicked to transmit a subvocalized response.

  What the hell are you talking about, Smits?

  In addition to printed words, the nobleman’s cackle hit one of the vibration modes in Hacker’s implant, making his jaw throb.

  I targeted you, dead center. If this were real, you’d be kippers on my plate.

  Hacker realized—

  It’s that “space war” game some of the neos were atwutter about during training, instead of listening to us old hands. They want competitive excitement, beyond a ballistic ride. Swoop and play shoot-’em-up during apogee.

  Idiotic. For a dozen reasons.

  He made the nerves and muscles in his throat form sharp words, which were transmitted across the forty or so kilometers between them.

  You fool, Smits! I’m not playing your damned game. Reentry starts soon. There are checklists to—

  The blond visage smirked.

  Typical new-money cowardice. I know you tried the simulator, Sander. You know how to do it and your boat is equipped. You’re just a frightened hypocrite.

  Insults, meant to goad. Hacker knew he should ignore the dope.

  But nobody called a Sander “new money”!

  My grandmother shorted Polaroid, then Xerox, and then Microsoft. She bought Virgin and Telcram low and sold them high, while your family was still lamenting Cromwell in the House of Lords.

  Hands flew, calling up subroutines that slewed his comm laser about, using short-range radar to pick out Smits amid the ionic haze. And, yes, Hacker had spent time in the “space war” simulator, back at training camp. Who could resist?

  Oh, no you don’t, Sander. Just watch this!

  The radar blip shifted, breaking into multiple decoys … an old electronic warfare trick that Hacker swiftly countered with a deconvolution program. You won’t get away that easily.

  Part of him grew aware that reentry had begun. Faint shimmers were starting to appear around his heat shield, encroaching on the brittle stars. Those checklists awaited—

  —but how many times had he already run through them, with his team? A hundred? Let the capsule do its thing, he figured. The ai is in some ways smarter than I am.

  Meanwhile, that blue-blooded boor kept cackling and taunting. Now that Hacker had penetrated his electronic camouflage, Smits used his onboard maneuvering jets to dodge and veer, preventing a good fix.

  Imbecile! You’re overriding the control systems, just when your ai may need to make adjustments.

  The face in the holo array seemed to grow more animated and manic by the second.

  Come on Sander! You can do better than that! You jumped-up shop boy!

  Hacker stopped and blinked, realizing. Even the baronet wasn’t normally this stupid. Something must be wrong.

  He stopped trying to target a hit-beam and transmitted a warning instead.

  Smits, put your helmet on! I think your air mix may be off. Either concentrate on piloting or switch to auto—

  No use. The visage only grew more derisive, more inflamed … possibly even delirious. Words floated outward from that mouth, boldface and italicized, swirling like a vituperative cyclone. Meanwhile, several more times, the fool sent his laser sweeping across Hacker’s capsule, chortling with each “victory.”

  Now comes the coup de grâce … Sander!

  Hacker quickly decided. The best thing he could do for the fellow was to remove a distraction. So he cut off all contact, with a hard bite on one tooth. Anyway, getting rid of that leering grimace sure improved his own frame of mind.

  I am so going to report that character to the Spacer Club! Maybe even the Estate Council, he thought, trying to settle down and put the incident aside, as more ionization flames flickered all around, reaching upward, probing the capsule like eager tentacles, seeking a way inside. The tunnel of star-flecked blackness in front of him grew narrower as reentry colors intruded from all sides. Shuddering vibrations stroked his spine.

  Normally, Hacker loved this part of each suborbital excursion, when his plummeting craft would shake, resonate, and moan, filling every nerve and blood vessel with more exhilaration than you could get anywhere, this side of New Vegas. Hell, more than New Vegas.

  Of course, this was also the point when some rich snobs wound up puking in their respirators. Or began screaming in terror, through the entire plunge to Earth. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to wish that upon Smits.

  I hope the fool got his helmet on. Maybe I should try one more …

  Then an alarm throbbed.

  He didn’t hear it directly with his drugged and clamped eardrums, but as a tremor in his jaw. With insist
ent pulse code, the computer told him:

  GUIDANCE SYSTEM ERROR …

  FLIGHT PATH CORRECTION MISFIRED …

  CALCULATING NEW IMPACT ZONE …

  “What?” Hacker shouted, though the rattle and roar tore away his words. “To hell with that! I paid for triple redundancy—”

  He stopped. It was pointless to scream at an ai.

  “Call the pickup boats and tell them—”

  COMMUNICATION SYSTEM ENCRYPTION ERROR …

  UNABLE TO UPLOAD PREARRANGED SPECTRUM SPREAD …

  UNABLE … TO … CONTACT … RECOVERY … TEAMS …

  “Override encryption! Send in the clear. Acknowledge!”

  This was no time to avoid paparazzi and eco-nuts. There were occasions for secrecy—and others when it made no sense.

  Only, this time the capsule’s ai didn’t answer at all. The pulses in his jaw dissolved into a plaintive juttering as subprocessors continued their mysterious crapout. Hacker cursed, pounding the capsule with his fist.

  “I spent plenty for a top-grade kit. Someone’s gonna pay for this!”

  The words were raw, unheard vibrations in his throat. But Hacker would remember this vow. He’d signed waivers under the International Extreme Sports Treaty. But there were fifty thousand private investigation and enforcement services across Earth. Some would bend Cop Guild rules, for a triple fee.

  Harness straps bit his flesh. Even the sonic pickups in his mandible hit overload set points and cut out, as turbulence passed any level he had known … then surged beyond.

  Reentry angle is wrong, he realized, as helmet rattled brain like dice in a cup. These little sport capsules … don’t leave much margin. In moments … I could be a very rich cinder.

  Something in Hacker relished that. A novel experience, scraping nerves. A howling veer past death. But even that was spoiled by one, infuriating fact.

  I’m not getting what I paid for.

  ENTROPY

  As we embark on our long list of threats to human existence, shall we start with natural disasters? That is how earlier top critters met their end. Those fierce dinosaurs and other dominant beasts all met their doom with dull surprise, having no hand, paw, or claw in bringing it about.

  So how might the universe do us in? Well, there are solar superflares, supernovae, and giant black holes that might veer past our sun. Or micro black holes, colliding with the Earth and gobbling us from within. Or getting caught in the searchlight sweep of a magnetar or gamma-ray burst, or a titanic explosion in the galactic center.

  Or what if our solar system slams at high speed into a dense molecular cloud, sending a million comets falling our way? Or how about classics? Like collision with an asteroid? (More on that, later.) Then there are those supervolcanos, still building up pressure beneath Yellowstone and a dozen other hot spots—giant magma pools at superhigh pressure, pushing and probing for release. Yes we had a scare already. But one, medium-size belch didn’t make the threat go away. It’s a matter of when, not if.

  The Lifeboat Foundation’s list of natural extinction threats goes on and on. Dozens and dozens of scenarios, each with low-but-significant odds, all the way to the inevitable burnout of the sun. Once, we were assured that it would take five billion years to happen. Only, now, astronomers say our star’s gradual temperature rise will reach a lethal point sooner! A threshold when Earth will no longer be able to shed enough heat, even if we scrubbed every trace of greenhouse gas.

  When? The unstoppable spread of deserts may start in just a hundred million years. An eyeblink! Roughly the time it took tiny mammals to emerge from their burrows, stare at the smoldering ruins of T. Rex, then turn into us.

  Suppose we humans blow it, big time, leaving only small creatures scurrying through our ruins.

  Life might have just one more chance to get it right.

  —Pandora’s Cornucopia

  6.

  FRAGRANCE

  “A crisis is coming, Lacey. Awk. You cannot abandon your own kind.”

  Tilting a straw hat to keep out the harsh Chilean sun, she answered in a low voice.

  “My own kind of what?”

  It wasn’t the best time to go picking flowers in a narrow, rocky garden, especially at high altitude, under the immense flank of a gleaming observatory dome. But there were rules against taking animals inside. Oh, the astronomers would make an exception for Lacey, since her money built the place. Still, newblesse oblige taught against taking advantage of one’s station. Or, at least, one shouldn’t do it ostentatiously.

  So, while waiting for the relayed voice of her visitor, Lacey selected another bloom—a multihued Martian Rose—one of the few varietals that flourished this high above sea level.

  “You know what I mean. Awr. The present, patched-together social compact cannot hold. And when it fails, there may be blood. Awk. Tides of it.”

  A gray and blue parrot perched atop the cryo-crate that had delivered it, a short time ago, via special messenger. Flash-thawed and no worse for its long journey, the bird cocked its head, lifting a claw to scratch one iridescent cheek. It appeared quite bored—in contrast to the words that squawked from its curved yellow bill, in a Schweitzer-Deutsch accent.

  “The Enlightenment Experiment is coming to an end, Lacey. Ur-rawk. The best ai models show it. All ten estates are preparing.”

  The parrot might seem squinty and distracted, but Lacey knew it had excellent eyesight. Another good reason to conduct this conversation outside, where she could hide a bit behind the sunhat. Carefully snipping another bloom, she asked—

  “All ten estates? Even the People?”

  It took a few seconds for her words to pass through birdbrain encryption, and then, via satellite, to a twin parrot for deciphering in faraway Zurich. More seconds later, coded return impulses made the feathered creature in front of her chutter, irritably, in response.

  “Enough of them to matter. Stop obfuscating! You know what our models say. The masses comprise the most dangerous estate of all. Especially if they waken. Do you want to see tumbrels rolling through the streets, filled with condemned aristocrats? Only this time, not only in Paris, but all over the world? Awk!”

  Lacey looked up from her small harvest, mostly blue-green cyanomorph ornamentals, destined for tonight’s dinner table, in the nearby Monastery.

  “Did this bird just pronounce ‘obfuscating’? Helena, you’ve outdone yourself. What a fine herald! Can I keep him, when we’re done?”

  One beady avian eye focused on her during the next three-second delay, as if the creature knew its life hung in the balance.

  “Sorry, Lacey,” it finally squawked. “If I got it back, my people could cut out the encryption pathways … awk! But we can’t risk it falling into unfriendly hands. Our conversation might be retro-snooped.

  “Tell you what. I’ll have another bird grown for you, just like it. If you’ll promise to attend the conference.

  “Otherwise, I’m afraid the consensus will be, awr, that you’ve abandoned us. That you prefer your pet scientist-boffins. Maybe the Fifth Estate is where you belong.”

  The implicit threat sounded serious. Lacey gathered up her tools and flowers, silently wishing she could avow what lay in the recess of her heart—that she would give it all away, the billions, the servants, if only such a switch were possible! If she could change her social caste the way Charles Darwin had, by choice, or through hard work.

  But the same God—or chance—that had blessed her with beauty, wit, and wealth—then with long life—neglected other qualities. By just a little. Though Lacey loved science, she never could quite hack the math.

  Oh, there was some mobility between classes. A scientist might patent a big breakthrough—it used to happen a lot, back in the Wild Twentieth. Sometimes a corrupt politician raked in enough graft to reach the First Estate. And each year, several entertainers coasted in—blithe as demigods—to dance in the cloudy frosting of society’s layer cake.

  But few aristocrats went the other way
. You might endow a giant observatory—everyone here fawned over Lacey, patiently explaining the instruments she had paid for—there were comets and far planets named after her. Still, when the astronomers spiraled into excited jargon, arguing about nature’s essence with joyful exuberance that seemed almost sacred … she felt like an orphan, face pressed against a shopwindow. Unable to enter but determined not to leave.

  Jason never understood, nor did the boys. For decades, she kept the depth of her disloyalty secret, pretending the “astronomy thing” was only a rich woman’s eccentricity. That is, till her life was truly hers, again.

  Or was it, even now? Other caste members—with whim-cathedrals of their own—grew suspicious that she was taking hers much too seriously. Peers who had spent the last few decades earning a reputation for ruthlessness—like the princess who regarded her right now, at long range, through a parrot’s eye.

  “Forgive me, Lacey. You and Jason were mainstays in the fight for aristocratic privilege. As his father and mother had been. And yours. If not for them … awk … we’d have been stripped naked by now. Taxed down to nothing. Outstripped by nerd-billionaires.

  “All the more reason why we need you, Lacey! There is a point of decision coming, awk, that goes beyond just the well-being of our class. Survival of the species may be at stake.”

  “You’re talking about Tenskwatawa. The prophet.” She uttered the word with little effort to hide distaste. “Has it come to that?”

  The parrot rocked. It paced for a few seconds, looking around the Andean mountaintop and fluffing stumpy, useless wings. Clearly, the mouthpiece-bird didn’t like such thin, cold air.

  “Awr … Chee hoo chee, chee wy chee … chee put chee, wy put chee, see chee … go-r-go-r-go-r … in harm’s way … RAK!”

  Lacey blinked. For a few seconds, the voice had seemed nothing like Helena’s.

  “I … beg your pardon?”

  The bird shook its head and sneezed. Then it resumed in a higher pitch and the Swiss-German accent.

  “… wasn’t it always coming to this, Lacey? We’ve lived in denial for a dozen, crazed generations. Awk. Dazzled by shiny toys and bright promises, we concerned ourselves with money, with commerce, investments, and status, while the bourgeois and boffins decided all the really important matters.