by Rich Horton
Which didn’t stop the people in R&D from telling me over and over again to take careful notes on everything I observe and send them the information on the down low, of course. I was sent here to reclaim any research and history that could help us save ourselves, but I think they’re hoping that I’ll learn about useful alien tech too. I’m tempted to send them a report that says: Sorry nerds, it’s all just magic.
No, Saul, not really. My official reports are going to be way more straightforward and professional. You know, double the facts and half the amount of sarcasm. But I think I’m going to keep sending these messages to you, for a while at least. All this is not actually why I “ran away” from home.
Really, it was just a good excuse to get out of commuting in Chicago traffic.
Just kidding. It was the Great Plains fires. There’s only so much smoke and ash an asthmatic researcher can deal with before she ships out.
Only sort of kidding.
I have a list of things I need to investigate for the scientists back home, but for now, I think I’m going to call it a day. Looking at the amazing amount of information around me makes me realize how much we’ve lost. How the Librarians managed to recover all this is a mystery I don’t intend to solve, but hopefully they managed to save the research I’m looking for.
Have I mentioned how much of this is mission is chalked up to hope?
• • •
Hello, Saul, I’m lost. No, that’s not true, my memory won’t let me get lost, but I imagine this is what it feels like. The rows of memory tablets are identical, if you don’t pay attention to the Archivists’ annotations at every turn. I can’t actually read them because they just look like miniature sculptures, but I remember the small differences. The Archivists were kind enough to give me a basic map with a basic translation of where to find things. But Librarians’ basics and human basics are not the same thing.
God, I thought finding the research would be the easy part of this trip, but I might never find my way out of the single-celled organism section. So, give the family my love.
I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I do. You’re thinking: “How about you come home then, Hazel, and help me with these seedlings?” because we’ve been having this argument for what, ten years now?
No, not quite. Nine years, 10 months, and twenty-seven days, since that first fight over dinner.
Yeah, Saul. My memory is my own worst enemy sometimes.
By the way, I got your second message today. Apology accepted. But I can’t come back, Saul. I barely started my information recovery project. Some good stuff got destroyed this last decade.
Like Dr. Ryu’s research. If I can find it. If it’s here at all.
God, this message is depressing. Hey, here’s something cool I learned today; the kitchen cabinets produce whatever food I’m thinking about and the twenty some blank books in the living room become whatever I want to read. It really is like magic. Everything a human needs and all the books a girl can want.
I’m not coming home, Saul.
• • •
Well, it’s been a week and while I still haven’t found Dr. Ryu’s research, I’ve found plenty of other interesting things here. Like patents and working concepts of solar powered vehicles and papers on regenerating corn seed that needs two times the amount of CO2 for photosynthesis. We had so many opportunities to stop things before they got terrible, Saul. And we missed them all.
Honestly, the wealth of information here is mind-blowing. The Librarians are like the universe’s most organized hoarders. They’ve saved everything from road construction projects to packing and advertising protocols for the garment industry. And get this, every time I activate a memory table, the information is projected around me. Sometimes the entire aisle transforms and I literally get lost in my work. Which is why there’s been a long gap since my last message. Sorry about that, Saul.
Don’t laugh, but I spent all of yesterday in the children’s literature section. All the stories there came to life too; old houses covered in vines and chocolate factories and little engines that could. It was fantastic, Saul. And completely depressing. Because as I sat there surrounded by those hopeful stories, it hit me that your grandchildren might not even know these stories exist. Yes, I know you disagree. But I’m a learned anthropologist and a general pessimist and I’m scared.
I asked an Archivist if this is how they store all their information. They asked if I’d be offended if they laughed and showed me the memory tablet that contained all the knowledge of the Library. It was about the size of paperback romance novel.
“Our information would be inaccessible to you otherwise,” the Archivist explained. “All of your search engines are either too crude or too biased.”
“But didn’t this take you forever to build?”
“No,” they said, but I must not have looked convinced. “Magic,” they added.
Saul, I think the alien race of information scientists are listening to these recordings. So whatever you do, don’t reply back with anything you don’t want recorded for posterity.
“Why is the Library so large then?” I asked.
And here’s where the story gets really depressing, Saul.
They told me that once this planet, the inhospitable place that’s just a wasteland and a massive Library now, was full of life. There were once billions of Librarians. Now, there’s only a few thousand. Before they became the masters of information science of the known universe, the Librarians ended up destroying their planet too.
The first Librarians I ever met told me the Library is a beacon for sentient life in the galaxy, except now I know it’s not just a beacon for other species. The reason why the Library’s so big, Saul, is that most of the Archivists and Librarians live here too.
They couldn’t save their planet either.
I can hear you asking me why I bothered coming here if I’m going to be stubbornly bleak about the future and it’s not an easy thing you demanded, brother mine, and I’m trying to tell you in my circular, rambling way, that I . . .
I . . .
Saul. I need to call you back. I think I finally found Dr. Ryu’s research.
• • •
I’ve got it, oh my god, I’m so relieved. It was a fight to get it, though. No, Saul, I’m not exaggerating. Stop rolling your eyes.
Remember when I said the Archivists could keep their information sentient? Well, she was sentient enough, Saul.
When I accessed the memory tablet, the researcher herself appeared so real and sharp I could see the gray strands in her hair and the clear gloss on her fingernails. She didn’t look thrilled to see me and I should’ve taken it as a warning, but I was way too excited.
“Are you Dr. Yumi Ryu?” I asked. (Gushed would be more accurate.)
“Up to the age of 53,” she answered
“Amazing! It’s great to finally meet you, Dr. Ryu. I want to ask you everything. What’s it like being archived by the Librarians? No, wait, can you tell me about your reforesting research first?”
For some reason, Saul, my rambling didn’t put her at ease. “Why?” she asked, her expression suspicious.
“Um, well, because the news back home isn’t good. Most of the North Pacific rain forest has been destroyed by a combination of drought and wildfires. Including your original research at UBC.”
She didn’t seem surprised by this, just sad. “And where is your team, Ms. . . . ?”
“Hazel Smith. It’s just me.”
She frowned, the suspicion on her face growing. “They sent a single astronaut? Why?”
“Resources and funds. Both are extremely limited these days.”
“Why you then?”
“Because I’m a researcher too, Dr. Ryu, and I’m dedicated to preserving human society. Also, because I have an extraordinary memory, especially for data and details, and don’t need batteries.”
Ryu arched an eyebrow. Out of nowhere, a memory tablet about the size of a romance novel appeared in her hands.
She stared it intently.
“What are you doing?” I asked, not getting a good vibe from this.
“Reading your articles, academic and otherwise. Being part of the Library, Ms., excuse me, Dr. Smith, means I can check out materials too.”
Suddenly, I knew how this conversation would go. It would be like those awful dinner parties that ended in silent awkwardness when people asked why I didn’t have kids. But there was nothing I could do, except try not to chew on my fingernails. In all of human culture, there’s nothing more uncomfortable than standing there while someone else reads your work.
But if anthropology has taught me anything, Saul, it is that human beings can always surprise you.
“Wow,” Dr. Ryu said and the tablet disappeared from her hands. “You have a depressing view on human nature.”
I’ve always hated having this conversation, so I stuck my hand in my pockets and said: “I’m just going off history.”
She nodded. “For what it’s worth, I agree.”
Color me stunned, Saul. “So will you tell me about your research?”
Ryu stared at me hard, with that critical eye that only people who spend too much time in labs analyzing details can pull off.
“No,” she said.
No. That’s what she really said. After traveling thirty-two and a half lightyears for research like this. I won’t lie, Saul, for a brief second I considered smashing the memory tablet.
“You serious?” I said.
“Yes, Dr. Smith. I’ve spent most of my professional career fighting politicians, big businesses, home developers, farmers. Anyone who didn’t like the idea of giving up their land and returning it to forests, to try to reverse some of the damage we’ve done. I can’t tell you how many times people tried to destroy this research.”
“I’m not here to destroy anything, Dr. Ryu. I’ve given up too much for that.”
“And what did you give up, Dr. Smith?”
“Earth. Everyone I know and love. I’ve risked my life for this information!” I said. In hindsight, maybe a little too defensively.
“No, that’s running away,” she replied. Yeah, she really said that to me, Saul. “Why are you really here?”
I sighed and used your classic line. “Because it’s hope for the future that keeps us going.”
“And who do you have hope for, Dr. Smith? Because from what I’ve read, you don’t paint a hopeful picture.”
I didn’t know what else to do. So, I told her, Saul. Everything I’ve been trying to tell you.
• • •
There aren’t many defining moments in my life. Mostly, I think defining moments are clichés in hindsight. So maybe this is too, but do you remember that summer, ten years ago, when everything burned? Yeah, hard to forget.
I’d just gotten my first master’s degree and wildfires in northern Washington were raging, and there was a trail you could take up a mountain that was still a safe distance away, but you could witness the worst fires in history firsthand. It was only an hour drive from campus. And I was frustrated and scared, but also curious. So I figured what the hell.
I took this guy with me. No, you’ve never met him, Saul.
We walked up that mountain together, though the ash made for awful traction.
It wasn’t love and we both knew it. That was one of the many, many rules I broke to myself that summer. But I liked him and he liked me. And in that moment, that was enough. Good enough. The world was on fire and right then, I was too grateful to have someone who would climb a mountain with me just to watch the world ending.
Mortality makes you reckless sometimes, Saul.
Eventually the smoke got so bad that my asthma couldn’t take it. He practically carried me back down.
Two months later, he went back home to Colorado, where there were a few trees left and I spent that fall sobbing and wheezing. Which made sense when I took a pregnancy test.
I chose. And I don’t regret that choice, Saul. Except three days, eighteen hours, and twelve minutes later, you called and told me about the first child you and Huang wouldn’t have after all.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, Saul. But I’m not sorry either. I was twenty-three, and though I could repeat back textbooks verbatim, I consistently lost my keys and forgot to eat. And after that summer, it was hard to see myself with a future and much less, a future for a kid. I know you’re disappointed in me because you believe that no opportunity should be wasted. You think every life, even the cockroaches in the shed, should have a go at it. You’ve always believed in a future on Earth, Saul. Where I saw ashes, you saw fertile soil.
That’s what I told Dr. Ryu. I told her all about you and Huang and your relentless perseverance and hope. I think she saw a kindred spirit in you or maybe just the right strain of stubbornness. So, she agreed to share her research with you. We’re going to transcribe a little every day. Her memory tablet makes the Library’s aisles transform into thriving forests. It is truly beautiful.
Consider this part one of my gift to you, Saul, because like hell am I going to apologize for the choices that brought me here.
Part two is that one of the benefits of becoming the last astronaut was getting a ridiculous stipend from the government. Well, more like a life insurance payout, because I’m going to be here for a long time. Hopefully not forever, but there’s a lot of lost information here and the Archivists apparently are used to long-term guests.
I told you I had one last, terrible cliché and it’s the worst one of all. The one where the astronaut doesn’t come home.
Saul, I want you to use that money to start that family you and Huang always wanted.
Honestly, I’m still not convinced we can save Earth, but you are, and that works for me. So, I’ll keep searching and sending home the information I find and maybe, between the two of us, that’ll be enough.
So, give the family my love.
The Archronology of Love
by Caroline M. Yoachim
This is a love story, the last of a series of moments when we meet.
Saki Jones leaned into the viewport window until her nose nearly touched the glass, staring at the colony planet below. New Mars. From this distance, she could pretend that things were going according to plan—that M.J. was waiting for her in one of the domed cities. A shuttle would take her down to the surface and she and her lifelove would pursue their dream of studying a grand alien civilization.
It had been such a beautiful plan.
“Dr. Jones?” The crewhand at the entrance to the observation deck was an elderly white woman, part of the skeleton team that had worked long shifts in empty space while the passengers had slept in stasis. “The captain has requested an accelerated schedule on your research. She sent you the details? All our surface probes have malfunctioned, and she needs you to look at the time record of the colony collapse.”
“The Chronicle.” Saki corrected the woman automatically, most of her attention still on the planet below. “The time record is called the Chronicle.”
“Right. The captain—”
Saki turned away from the viewport. “Sorry. I have the captain’s message. Please reassure her that I will gather my team and get research underway as soon as possible.”
The woman saluted and left. Saki sent a message calling the department together for an emergency meeting and returned to the viewport. New Mars was the same angry red as its namesake, and the colony cities looked like pus-filled boils on its surface. It was a dangerous place—malevolent and sick. M.J. had died there. If they hadn’t been too broke to go together, the whole family would have died. Saki blinked away tears. She had to stay focused.
It was a violation of protocol for Saki to go into the Chronicle. No one was ever a truly impartial observer, of course, but she’d had M.J. torn away so suddenly, so unexpectedly. The pain of it was raw and overwhelming. They’d studied together, raised children together, planned an escape from Earth. Other partners had come and gone from their lives, but she
and M.J. had always been there for each other.
If she went into the Chronicle, she would look for him. It would bias her choices and her observations. But she was the most qualified person on the team, and if she recused herself she could lose her research grant, her standing in the department, her dream of studying alien civilizations . . . and her chance to see M.J.
“Dr. Jones . . . ” A softer voice this time—one of her graduate students. Hyun-sik was immaculately dressed, as always, with shimmery blue eyeliner that matched his blazer.
“I know, Hyun-sik. The projector is ready and we’re on an accelerated schedule. I just need a few moments to gather my thoughts before the site-selection meeting.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Hyun-sik said. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I wanted to offer my support. My parents were also at the colony. Whatever happened down there is a great loss to all of us.”
Saki didn’t know what to say. Words always felt so meaningless in the face of death. She and Hyun-sik hadn’t spoken much about their losses during the months of deceleration after they woke from stasis. They’d thrown themselves into their research, used their work as a distraction from their pain. “Arriving at the planet re-opened a lot of wounds.”
“I sent my parents ahead because I thought their lives would be better here than back on Earth.” He gestured at the viewport window. “The temptation to see them again is strong. So close, and the Chronicle is right there. I know you’re struggling with the same dilemma. It must be a difficult decision for you, having lost M.J.—”
“Yes.” Saki interrupted before Hyun-sik could say anything more. Even hearing M.J.’s name was difficult. She was unfit for this expedition. She should take a leave of absence and allow Li Yingtai take over as lead. But this research was her dream, their dream—M.J.’s and hers—and these were unusual circumstances. Saki frowned. “How did you know I was here, thinking about recusing myself?”
“It isn’t difficult to guess. It’s what I would be doing, in your place.” He looked away. “But also Kenzou told me at our lunch date today.”