Space m-2

by Stephen Baxter

  Madeleine glanced down for the last time through the FGB module’s picture window, at smoky accretion-disc light. The flower-ship skimmed past the flank of “God”; the netting structure swarmed around the pulsing core.

  The Chaera thrashed in its tank.

  Ben pulled down the heavy hatch between the modules — it hadn’t been closed since the flower-ship had swept them up from the surface of Earth’s Moon — and dogged it tight.

  Madeleine was running a hasty computer program. “Remember the drill for a pressure-hull breach?” she called.

  “Of course. But—”

  “Three, two, one.”

  There was a clatter of pyrotechnic bolts, an abrupt jolt.

  “I just severed the FGB,” she said. “The explosive decompression should fire it in the right direction. I hope. I didn’t have time to check my figures, or verify my aim—”

  Bits of radiation spat out like javelins as the core began to open.

  “What have you done, Meacher?” Nemoto thundered.

  She saw the FGB module for one last instant, its battered, patched-up form silhouetted against the gigantic cheek of “God.” In its way it was a magnificent sight, she thought: a stubby twentieth-century human artifact orbiting a black hole, fifty-four light-years from Earth.

  And then the core opened.

  The FGB Module got the X-ray pulse right in the rear end. Droplets of metal splashed across space… But the massive Russian construction lasted, long enough to shield the Chaera worldlets.

  Just as Madeleine had intended.

  The core closed; the surface of the net smoothed over. The slowly cooling stump of the FGB module drifted around the curve of the hole. Madeleine saluted it silently.

  “The journey back is going to be cramped,” Ben said dryly.

  The Saddle Point gateway hung before them, anonymous, eternal, indistinguishable from its copies in the Solar System, visible only by the reflected light of the accretion disc.

  “You saved a world, Madeleine,” Ben said.

  “But nobody asked you to,” virtual Nemoto said, her voice tinny. “You’re a meddler. Sentimental. You always were. The Chaera are still protesting. ‘Why did you hide God from us?’…”

  Ben shrugged. “God is still there. I think all Madeleine has done is provide the Chaera with a little more time to consider how much perfection they really want to achieve.”

  “Meacher, you’re such a fool,” Nemoto said.

  Perhaps she was. But she knew that what she was learning — the dismal, stupid secret of the universe — would not leave her. And she wondered what she would find, when she reached home this time.

  The blue glow of transition flooded over them, and there was an instant of searing, welcoming pain.

  Chapter 17

  Lessons

  World after world after world.

  He saw worlds something like Earth, but with oceans of ammonia or sulphuric acid or hydrocarbons, airs of neon or nitrogen or carbon monoxide. All of them alive, of course, one way or another.

  But such relatively Earthlike planets turned out to be the exception.

  He was shown a giant world closely orbiting a star called 70 Virginis. This world was a cloudy ball six times the mass of Jupiter. The Gaijin believed there were creatures living in those clouds: immense, whale-like beings feeding off the organics created in the air by the central star’s radiation. But colonists had visited here, long ago. At one pole of the planet there was what appeared to be an immense mining installation, perhaps there to extract organics or some other valuable volatile like helium-3. The installation was desolate, apparently scarred by battle.

  Close to a star called Upsilon Andromedae, forty-nine light-years from Earth, he found a planet with Jupiter’s mass orbiting closer than Mercury to its Sun. It had been stripped of its cloud decks by the Sun’s heat, leaving an immense rocky ball with canyons deep enough to swallow Earth’s Moon. Malenfant saw creatures crawling through those deep shadows, immense beetlelike beings. They were protected from the Sun’s heat by tough carapaces and had legs like tree trunks strong enough to lift them against the ferocious gravity. Perhaps they fed off volatiles trapped in the eternal shadows, or seeping from the planet’s deep interior. Here the battles seemed to have been fought out over the higher ground; Malenfant saw a plain littered with the wreckage of starships.

  Not far from the star Procyon there was a nomadic world, a world without a Sun, hurled by some random gravitational accident away from its parent star. It was in utter darkness, of course: a black ball swimming alone through space. But it was a big planet with a hydrogen-rich atmosphere; it warmed itself with the dwindling heat of the radioactive elements in its core, with volcanoes and earthquakes and tectonic shifts. Thus, under a lightless sky, there were oceans of liquid water — and in their depths life swarmed, feeding off minerals from the deeper hot rocks, not unlike the deep-sea animals that clustered around volcanic vents in Earth’s seas. Here, though, life was doomed, for the world’s core was inexorably cooling as the heat of its formation was lost.

  But even this lonely planet had been subject to destructive exploitation by colonists; there were signs, Malenfant learned, of giant strip-mine gouges in the ocean floors, huge machines now abandoned, perhaps deliberately wrecked.

  Everywhere, he had learned, life had emerged. But every world, every system, had been overrun by waves of colonization, followed by collapse or destructive wars — not once, but many times. Everywhere the sky was full of engineering, of ruins.

  And the bad news continued. The universe itself could prove a deadly place. He was taken through a region a hundred light years-wide where world after world was dead, land and oceans littered with the diverse remains of separately evolved life.

  There had been a gamma-ray burster explosion here, the Gaijin told him: the collision of two neutron stars, causing a three-dimensional shower of high-energy electromagnetic radiation and heavy particles that had wiped clean the worlds for light-years around. It had been a random cosmic accident that had cared nothing for culture and ambition, hope and love and dreams. Some life survived — on Earth, the deep-ocean forms, perhaps pond life, some insects would have endured the lethal showers. But nothing advanced made it through, and certainly nothing approaching sentience; after the accident, its effects over in weeks or months, it would require a hundred million years of patient evolution to fix the rent in life’s fabric suffered in this place.

  But nothing was without cost, he learned; nothing without benefit. The intense energy pulse of nearby gamma-ray bursts could shape the evolution of young star systems; primordial dust was melted into dense iron-rich droplets that settled quickly to the central plain of a dust cloud and so accelerated the formation of planets. Without a close-by gamma-ray burst, it was possible that star systems like the Solar System could never have formed. Birth, amid death; the way of the universe.

  Maybe. But such cold logic was no comfort for Malenfant.

  The Gaijin seemed determined to show him as much as possible of this vast star-spanning graveyard, to drive home its significance. After a time it became unbearable, the lesson blinding in its cruelty: that if the universe didn’t get you, other sentient beings would.

  Sometimes a spark within him rebelled. Does it have to be like this? Can’t we find another way?

  But he was very weak now, very lonely, very old.

  He huddled in his shelter, eyes closed, while the years, of the universe and of his life, wore away, drenched in blue Saddle Point light.

  There is only so much, all things considered, that a man can take.

  PART THREE

  Trenchworks

  A.D. 2190-2340

  The Gaijin had a somewhat mathematical philosophy. Malenfant thought it sounded suspiciously like a religion.

  The Gaijin believed that the universe was fundamentally comprehensible by creatures like themselves — like humans, like Malenfant. That is, they believed it possible that an entity could exist that c
ould comprehend the entire universe, arbitrarily well.

  And they had a further principle that mandated that if such a being could exist, it must exist.

  The catch was that they believed there was a manifold of possible universes, of which this was only one. So She may not exist in this universe.

  It — She — was the final goal of the Gaijin’s quest.

  But until the God of the Manifold shows up, there’s only us, Malenfant thought. And there is work to do. We have to fix the bugs in this universe we’re all stuck in. Hence, we throw a net around a star.

  Hence, my sacrifice.

  But, almost from the beginning, we fought back. We barely understood a damn thing, and nothing we did alone was going to make a difference, and the whole time we were swept along by historical forces that we could barely understand, let alone control, much as it had always been. We didn’t even know who the bad guys were. But, by God, we tried.

  At whatever cost to ourselves.

  Chapter 18

  Moon Rain

  There were only minutes left before the comet hit the Moon.

  “You got to beat the future, or it will beat you! Believe me, I’ve been there. Look around you, pal. You guys have lasted a hundred and fifty years up here, in your greenhouses and your mole holes. A hell of an achievement. But the Moon can’t support you…”

  Xenia Makarova had a window seat, and she gazed out of the fat, round portholes. Below the shuttle’s hull she could see the landing pad, a plain of glass microwaved into lunar soil, here on the edge of the green domes of the Copernicus Triangle. And beyond that lay the native soil of the Moon, just subtle shades of gray, softly molded by a billion years of meteorite rain.

  And bathed, for today, in comet light.

  Xenia knew that Frank J. Paulis thought this day, this year 2190, was the most significant in the history of the inhabited Moon, let alone his own career. And here he was now, a pile of softscreens on his lap, hectoring the bemused-looking Lunar Japanese in the seat alongside him, even as the pilot of this cramped, dusty evacuation shuttle went through her countdown check.

  Xenia had listened to Frank talk before. She’d been listening to him, in fact, for 15 years, or 150, depending on what account you took of Albert Einstein.

  “…You know what the most common mineral is on the Moon? Feldspar. And you know what you can make out of that? Scouring powder. Big fucking deal. On the Moon, you have to bake the air out of the rock. Sure, you can make other stuff, rocket fuel and glass. But there’s no water, or nitrogen, or carbon—”

  The Japanese, a businessman type, said, “There are traces in the regolith.”

  “Yeah, traces, put there by the Sun, and it’s being sold off anyhow, by Nishizaki Heavy Industries, to the Gaijin. Bleeding the Moon even drier…”

  A child was crying. The shuttle was just a cylinder-shaped cargo scow, hastily adapted to support this temporary evacuation. It was crammed with people, last-minute refugees, men and women and tall, skinny children, subdued and serious, in rows of canvas bucket seats like factory chickens.

  And all of them were Lunar Japanese, save for Frank and Xenia, who were American; for, while Frank and Xenia had taken a time-dilated 150-year jaunt to the stars — and while America had disintegrated — the Lunar Japanese had been quietly colonizing the Moon.

  “You need volatiles,” Frank said now. “That’s the key to the future. But now that Earth has fallen apart nobody is resupplying. You’re just pumping around the same old shit.” He laughed. “Literally, in fact. I give you another hundred years, tops. Look around. You’ve already got rationing, strict birth control laws.”

  “There is no argument with the fact of—”

  “How much do you need? I’ll tell you. Enough to future-proof the Moon.”

  “And you believe the comets can supply the volatiles we need for this.”

  “Believe? That’s what Project Prometheus is for. The random impact today, which alone will deliver a trillion tons of water, is a piece of luck. It’s going to make my case for me, pal. And when we start purposefully harvesting the comets, those big fat babies out in the Oort cloud—”

  “Ah.” The Lunar Japanese was smiling. “And the person who has control of those comet volatiles—”

  “That person could buy the Moon.” Frank reached for a cigar, a twentieth-century habit long frustrated. “But that’s incidental…”

  But Xenia knew that Frank was lying about the comets, and their role in the Moon’s future. Even before this comet hit the Moon, Project Prometheus was already dead.

  A month ago, Frank had called her into his office.

  He’d had his feet up on his desk and was reading, on a softscreen, some long, text-heavy academic paper about deep-implanted volatiles on the Earth. She had tried to talk to him about work in progress, but he patently wasn’t interested. Nor was he progressing Prometheus, his main project.

  He had gotten straight to the point. “The comet is history, babe.”

  At first she hadn’t understood. “I thought it was going to supply us all with volatiles. I thought it was going to be the demonstration we needed that Prometheus was a sound investment.”

  “Yeah. But it doesn’t pan out.” Frank had tapped the surface of his desk, which lit up with numbers, graphics. “Look at the analysis. We’ll get some volatiles, but most of the nucleus’s mass will be blasted back to space. Comets are spectacular fireworks, but they are inefficient cargo trucks. However you steer the damn things down, most of the incoming material is lost. I figure now you’d need around a thousand impactors to future-proof the Moon fully, to give it a stable atmosphere, thick enough to persist over significant periods before leaking away. And we aren’t going to get a thousand impactors, not with the fucking Gaijin everywhere.” He had looked thoughtful, briefly. “One thing, though. Did you know the Moon is going to get an atmosphere out of this? It will last a thousand years—”

  “Iroonda.”

  “No, it’s true. Thin, but an atmosphere, of comet mist. Happens every time a comet hits. Carbon dioxide and water and stuff. How about that.” He shook his head. “Anyhow it’s no use to us.”

  “Frank, how come nobody figured this out before? How come nobody questioned your projections?”

  “Well, they did.” He had grinned. “You know I’m never too sympathetic when people tell me something is impossible. I figured there would be time to fix it, to find a way.”

  This was, on the face of it, a disaster, Xenia knew. Project Prometheus had gotten as far as designs for methane rockets, which could have pushed Oort comets out of their long, slow, distant orbits and brought them in to the Moon. The project had consumed all Frank’s energies for years, and cost a fortune. He needed investors, and had hoped this chance comet impact, a proof of concept, would bring them in.

  And now, it appeared, it had all been for nothing.

  “Frank, I’m sorry.”

  He seemed puzzled. “Huh? Why?”

  “If comets are the only source of volatiles—”

  “Yesterday I thought they were. But look at this.” He had tapped his softscreen and was talking fast, excited, enthusiastic, his mind evidently racing. “There’s a woman here who thinks there are all the volatiles you could want, a hundred times over, right here on the Moon. Can you believe that?”

  “That’s impossible. Everyone knows the Moon is dry as a bone.”

  He had smiled. “That’s what everyone thinks. I want you to find this woman for me. The author of the paper.”

  “Frank—”

  “And find out about mining.”

  “Mining?”

  “The deeper the better.” His grin widened. “How would you like a journey to the center of the Moon, baby?”

  And that was how she had first learned about Frank’s new project, his new obsession, his latest way to fix the future.

  Ten seconds. Five. Three, two, one.

  Stillness, for a fraction of a second. Then there was a clatter of explo
sive bolts, a muffled bang.

  Xenia was ascending as if in some crowded elevator, pressed back in her bucket seat by maybe a full g. Beyond her window, stray dust streaked away across the pad glass, heaping up against fuel trucks and pipelines.

  But then the shuttle swiveled sharply, twisting her around through a brisk ninety degrees. She heard people gasp, children laugh. The shuttle twisted again, and again, its attitude thrusters banging. This lunar shuttle was small, light, crude. Like the old Apollo landers, it had a single fixed rocket engine that was driving the ascent, and it was fitted with attitude control jets at every corner to turn it and control its trajectory. Just point, twist, squirt, as if she were a cartoon character carried into the air by hanging onto an out-of-control water hose.

  Three hundred meters high the shuttle swiveled again, and she found she was pitched forward, looking down at the lunar surface, over which she skimmed. They were rising out of lunar night, and the shadowed land was dark, lit here and there by the lights of human installations, captured stars on dark rock. She felt as if she were falling, as if the ascent engine was going to drive her straight down into the unforgiving rocks. Sunrise. Wham.

  It was not like Earth’s slow-fade dawn; the limb of the Sun just pushed above the Moon’s rocky horizon, instantly banishing the stars into the darkness of a black sky. Light spilled on the unfolding landscape below, fingers of light interspersed with inky black shadows hundreds of kilometers long, the deeper craters still pools of darkness. The Moon could never be called beautiful — it was too damaged for that — but it had a compelling wildness.

  But everywhere she could see the work of humans: the unmistakable tracks of tractors, smooth lines snaking over the regolith, and occasional orange tents that marked the position of emergency supply dumps, all of it overlaid by the glittering silver wires of mass driver rails.