Exultant

by Stephen Baxter

  As the young universe unfolded, some of the spacetime-chemistry races developed high technologies. They ventured from their home “worlds,” and came into contact with each other. Strange empires were spun across galaxies of black holes. Terrible wars were fought.

  Out of the debris of war, the survivors groped their way to a culture that was, if not unified, at least peaceable. A multispecies federation established itself. Under its benevolent guidance new merged cultures propagated, new symbiotic ecologies arose. The endless enrichment of life continued. The inhabitants of this golden time even studied their own origins in the brief moments of the singularity. They speculated about what might have triggered that mighty detonation, and whether any conscious intent might have lain behind it.

  Time stretched and history deepened.

  It was when the universe was very old indeed—ten billion times as old as it had been at the moment of the breaking of its primordial symmetry—that disaster struck.

  Light itself did not yet exist, and yet lightspeed was embedded in this universe.

  At any given moment, only a finite time had passed since the singularity, and an object traveling at lightspeed could have traversed only part of the span of the cosmos. Domains limited by lightspeed travel were the effective “universes” of their inhabitants, for the cosmos was too young for any signal to have been received from beyond their boundaries. But as the universe aged, so signals propagated further—and domains which had been separated since the first instant, domains which could have had no effect on each other before, were able to come into contact.

  And as they overlapped, life-forms crossed from one domain into another.

  For the federation, the creatures that suddenly came hurtling out of infinity were the stuff of nightmare. These invaders came from a place where the laws of physics were subtly different: the symmetry-breaking which had split gravity from the GUT superforce had occurred differently in different domains, for they had not been in causal contact at the time. That difference drove a divergence of culture, of values. The federation valued its hard-won prosperity, peace, and the slow accumulation of knowledge. The invaders, following their own peculiar imperatives, were intent only on destruction, and fueling their own continuing expansion. It was like an invasion from a parallel universe. Rapprochement was impossible.

  The invaders came from all around the federation’s lightspeed horizon. Reluctantly, the federation sought to defend itself, but a habit of peace had been cultivated for too long; everywhere the federation fell back. It seemed extinction was inevitable.

  But one individual found a dreadful alternative.

  Just as the cosmos had gone through a phase change when gravity had separated from the GUT force, so more phase changes were possible. The GUT force itself could be induced to dissociate further. The energy released would be catastrophic, unstoppable, universal—but, crucially, it would feed a new burst of universal expansion.

  The homelands of the invaders would be pushed back beyond the lightspeed horizon.

  But much of the federation would be scattered too. And, worse, a universe governed by a new combination of physical forces would not be the same as that in which the spacetime creatures had evolved. It would be unknowable, perhaps unsurvivable.

  It was a terrible dilemma. Even the federation was unwilling to accept the responsibility to remake the universe itself. But the invaders encroached, growing more ravenous, more destructive, as they approached the federation’s rich and ancient heart. In the end there was only one choice.

  A switch was thrown.

  A wall of devastation burned at lightspeed across the cosmos. In its wake the very laws of physics changed; everything it touched was transformed.

  The invaders were devastated.

  The primordial black holes survived—and, by huddling close to them, so did some representatives of the federation.

  But the federation’s scientists had not anticipated how long this great surge of growth would continue. With the domain war long won, the mighty cosmic expansion continued, at rates unparalleled in the universe’s history. Ultimately, it would last sixty times the age of the universe at its inception, and it would expand the federation’s corner of spacetime by a trillion, times a trillion, times a trillion, times a trillion. Human scientists, detecting the traces of this great burst of “inflation,” the single worst catastrophe in the universe’s long history, would always wonder what had triggered it. Few ever guessed it was the outcome of a runaway accident triggered by war.

  As the epochal storm continued the survivors of the federation huddled, folding their wings of spacetime flaws over themselves. When the gale at last passed, the survivors emerged into a new, chill cosmos. So much time had passed that they had changed utterly, and forgotten who they were, where they had come from. But they were heirs of a universe grown impossibly huge—a universe all of ten centimeters across.

  Chapter 42

  Quin Base shocked Pirius Red.

  He was dismayed by the cramped corridors and heaped-up bunks of the barracks, the crowding, the stink of shit and urine and semen, the metallic odors of failing life-support systems. The people swarmed through their cavernous lairs, feeding and sleeping, shouting and wrestling and rutting. The only difference he could see between privates and cadets was the gleaming metallized pupils of the “veterans.” He thought their silvery stares made them seem inhuman, like huge, lithe rats, perhaps.

  If he had been faced with hostility in the barracks back at Arches, here he was regarded with undisguised loathing. In fact, the station commander, a stern prosthetic-wearer called Captain Marta, insisted that he and Pila were accompanied by guards wherever they went.

  Pila, oddly, didn’t seem disturbed by this squalor. “What did you expect? Pirius, you are a pilot; you are relatively skilled and intelligent, and in battle you would be expected to show individual initiative. The conditions of your upbringing and training reflect that. These cadets are animals to be thrown onto some dismal Rock to dig and fight and die. This is a war of economics, remember. How much do you think it is worth spending on their brief, wretched lives?”

  Pirius wondered if she was wearing nose filters.

  “You just don’t fit in,” said Enduring Hope.

  “Thanks,” said Pirius dryly.

  Hope and Pirius Red faced each other across the small room in Quin’s cramped Officer Country that had been commandeered for Pirius’s use. This engineer, who had flown with Pirius Blue aboard the Assimilator’s Claw in a different destiny, was one of the first candidates selected by Pila. Pirius Red had only met Hope from across the courtroom, during the hearing on the magnetar episode.

  Hope seemed to regard Red as an inferior version of Blue. It was deeply disconcerting to be known so well by somebody Pirius had never properly met before—known, and judged, and found wanting.

  “You don’t belong here,” Hope said. “Your adjutant doesn’t either, but she looks like an earthworm, and you can see she doesn’t care.”

  “How perceptive,” murmured Pila.

  “You, though—you’re neither one thing nor the other. You’re not an earthworm, but you walk around like one. You want us to accept you, to take you back. Everyone can see it in your face. You’re needy. But you can’t come back. You’re polluted.”

  “Maybe,” Pirius said tightly. “But I had no choice about what happened to me.”

  Hope shrugged. “Doesn’t change the fact.”

  “And whatever you think about me, I have a job to do. I want you to help me do it.” He outlined the assignment he wanted Hope to take. On Rock 492, Hope would be in overall charge of the ground crews. He knew Hope had been assigned to artillery batteries here on Quin, and he imagined Hope, a born engineer, would be attracted by the idea of getting back to working on ships.

  But Hope said, “Why me? There are plenty of other engineers stranded on this rock.”

  Pirius shrugged. “I—I mean, Pirius Blue—once selected you for his crew. I ha
ve to trust my own judgment.” He forced a smile at his own weak joke. “And remember, our duty isn’t to do what we want—”

  Hope leaned forward, suddenly angry. “Don’t patronize me with crèche slogans, you desk jockey. I know all about duty.”

  “I’m sorry. Look, Hope, I won’t have you assigned if you don’t want it. I want to work with you, not against you.”

  Enduring Hope stood up. “I’ll do it if Pirius does it. I mean,” he said caustically, “the real Pirius.”

  Pirius Red faced other problems when he interviewed other candidates.

  He was brought a young woman called Tili, who, it was said, had shown intuitive promise as a navigator before she had been banished to this dismal place for some irrelevant misdemeanor. Her condition shocked him. She had been wounded in action, and though her physical injuries were healed, her eyes were wide and filled with an inchoate pain. He got off to a bad start when she wouldn’t even respond to her name. It seemed she had been one of a set of triplets; since the other two had been killed, she had insisted on being known only by her “family” number, Three.

  She wouldn’t volunteer for his squadron, but she would follow orders, she said. “But it makes no difference whatever we do.”

  “Of course it does—”

  “No. Ask This Burden Must Pass.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged, and sat apathetically until he released her.

  After similar experiences with other cadets, as Burden’s name came up repeatedly, Pirius realized that to penetrate the strange, deviant culture of this Base, he was going to have to meet this frontline prophet.

  And, as he had always known, he was going to have to confront his own future self.

  This Burden Must Pass—or Quero, as Pila insisted on calling him—didn’t fit into this colony of child soldiers. He was too tall, too old, too experienced. He sat in Pirius’s commandeered office with a relaxed calm, and yet somehow dominated the room. He was centered, that was the word; he made Pirius feel young, unformed.

  Pirius said, “You’re a good flyer. Your training record is clear about that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you’re good at keeping yourself alive. I’d want you in my squadron for those qualities alone.”

  Burden nodded. But as he took in the notion that Pirius was offering him a flight post he avoided Pirius’s gaze, oddly. “Whatever you say.”

  Pirius delivered his standard line. “I’m reluctant to draft you. I want volunteers, if I can get them; the mission is going to be tough enough as it is without reluctant conscripts.”

  “You’re wise.”

  “But the point is,” Pirius said, “there are many others here on Quin who won’t consider coming with me unless you are there. I don’t understand the hold you have over them.”

  “I suppose I give them hope,” Burden said.

  “It’s this philosophy of yours, isn’t it? You’re a Wignerian. You believe that all of this,” he waved a hand, “will be wiped out when—”

  “When we reach timelike infinity,” said Pila coldly. She regarded Burden with undisguised loathing. For all her cynicism, she was a strict Druzite, and Burden’s non-conformity shocked her. “You’re only here because you’re an opinion former.” She waved manicured fingers. “Out there, in that pit you call a barracks.”

  “I don’t want to form anyone’s opinion. I’m only myself.”

  “Garbage,” Pila said. “I’m astonished the commanders here tolerate your deviance. I wouldn’t, for a second.”

  “You’ll get used to it. And after all, it doesn’t matter. This burden must pass,” Burden said, and he grinned.

  “In any case,” she said, “it doesn’t make any difference if you join us or not. Because whatever we do, all of this will be erased anyhow, won’t it? And so what’s the point of getting out of your bunk?”

  “There is always a point,” Burden said mildly. “All the worldlines contribute to the whole, in some sense beyond our understanding. And of course there are always the people around you. You must care for them, as they care for you. I do believe in timelike infinity, in the final convergence—”

  Pirius nodded. “But we have a duty to behave as if it’s not so. As if this is the only chance we get.”

  Burden eyed him. “You understand. You and I—I mean, Pirius Blue—have had long discussions about these points. You’re deeper than you look, Pirius Red.”

  “Thanks,” Pirius said. “Look, I’m not interested in your endorsement for myself. But it seems I need it to get my job done. Will you fly with me?”

  Now the moment of commitment had come, and Pirius, watching Burden closely, thought he saw a flash of fear in his eyes. There were depths to this strange man, he realized. “You can refuse if you want,” he said, groping for understanding.

  But the instant had passed, and Burden’s smiling control returned. “I think you know I will accept.”

  Pila snorted her disgust. But she turned another box in her checklist from red to green.

  As Burden made to leave, he turned back. “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “There have been rumors—”

  “Rumors?”

  “That you brought a Silver Ghost with you from Earth. A live Ghost.”

  Pirius glanced at Pila, who rolled her eyes; they had had little cooperation from the Quin commanders over security. He said, “I can’t comment on that. And I don’t understand your interest anyhow.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Burden.

  Pirius sensed it actually mattered a great deal. There was much he didn’t understand about Burden, he thought—perhaps a lot Burden didn’t even understand about himself.

  But there was no time to think about it now, because he had to face a still more difficult interview.

  Pirius Blue was arrogant, cocky.

  His face, of course, was Pirius Red’s own. But Red was shocked by how old he had become, even compared to his memory from the trial seven months ago, as if far more than a couple of years now separated them. And the infantry-standard silvered discs that replaced his pupils were eerie, glinting.

  “Let me get this straight,” Blue said. “You want me to fly in your kiddie squadron. You want me to report to you.”

  Red worked hard to keep his temper under control. “It isn’t unprecedented.” That was true; he had had Pila look out the records. “There have been many instances of temporal twins serving together.”

  “Yes, but not with one under the command of another.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m you,” said Blue. “Or rather, I’m what you wish you were. I’m the older, wiser, more experienced, better-looking you.” He actually leered at Pila, trying to put her off. Red felt obscurely proud of the contemptuous loathing she projected back.

  In his brief few days as a squadron leader, Red had begun to learn the elements of command. Now he summoned all that up. “Get this straight,” he snapped, and Blue looked surprised at his tone. “I don’t like this situation any more than you do. But I’m stuck with it. I’ve got a mission, I’ve got my duty, and I intend to perform it.”

  “Don’t lecture me, you … you—”

  “What?” Pirius stood up and leaned over the table. “What? What do you think I am? I’m not your clone. I’m not a cadre sibling, or a brother, or even a twin. I’m not some failed copy of you. I’m you. Maybe you resent my existence. But believe me, I resent yours far more. I’m here,” he said. “So are you. Get over it.”

  Blue shook his head. “If you’re drafting me—”

  “I’ve drafted nobody. I’m looking for volunteers.” That seemed to surprise Blue. “I know you can do the job,” Red said. “Because I know myself that well.”

  “So you want me to volunteer.”

  “No. I want more than that. I want you to support me.”

  “Why? To make you feel good?”

  “No. Because you’ll bring with you good people,
like Enduring Hope and Cohl.”

  “I’ll think about it—”

  “Crap. Tell me now, or walk away.”

  Blue, staring boldly at him, shook his head. “You speak to me that way. But you’ve no idea what I’ve seen here. None at all.”

  “Give me an answer.”

  The silence stretched. Pila sat silently, evidently fascinated, as the two halves of Pirius, locked together by fate and mutual loathing, faced each other down.

  Eventually Pirius Blue agreed. Pirius Red always knew he would, though the two of them would fight all the way to Chandra. After all, that was what he would have done himself.

  As Blue turned to go, Red stopped him. “We’re going to have to learn to get along. We’ll always have seventeen years of our lives in common.”

  “So what?” Blue snapped. “That’s the past.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask about her?”

  Blue’s back stiffened. “Who?”

  “Torec. Come on, Blue. We need to talk it over.”

  Blue shrugged. “There’s nothing to talk about. She’s your Torec. Mine is—lost, in a timeline that’s never going to exist. You get used to it.” And he walked out.

  Chapter 43

  The monstrous swelling of the age of inflation was over.

  The universe continued to expand, more sedately than before, but relentlessly. Still phase changes occurred, as the merged forces broke up further, and with each loss of symmetry more energy was injected into the expansion.

  The release of the electromagnetic force from its prison of symmetry was particularly spectacular, for suddenly it was possible for light to exist. The universe lit up in a tremendous flash—and space filled immediately with a bath of searing radiation. So energetically dense was this first exuberant glow that it continually coalesced into specks of matter—quarks and antiquarks, electrons and positrons—that would almost as rapidly annihilate each other. There were no atoms yet, though, no molecules. Indeed, temperatures were too high for the quarks to combine into anything as sedate as a proton.

  The primordial black holes, surviving from the age of spacetime chemistry, again provided some structure in this seething chaos; passing through the glowing soup they would gather clusters of quarks or antiquarks. Though the quarks themselves continually melted away, the structure of these clusters persisted; and in those structures were encoded information. Interactions became complex. Networks and loops of reactions formed, some were reinforced by feedback loops.