The Hard SF Renaissance

by David G. Hartwell

  Washen climbed out of the walker, and Miocene handed down the vault.

  To the eye, it wasn’t an impressive machine—a rounded lump of gray ceramics infused with smooth blue-white diamonds. Yet most of the Waywards stared at the prize. Till was the lone exception. Coming down the open slope, walking slowly, he watched Miocene, wariness mixed with other, less legible emotions.

  Locke was following the Waywards’ leader at a respectful distance. “How are you, Mother?” he called out. Always polite; never warm.

  “Well enough,” Washen allowed. “And you?”

  His answer was an odd, tentative smile.

  Where was Diu? Washen gazed at the crowd, assuming that he was somewhere close, hidden by the crush of bodies.

  “May I examine the device?” asked Till.

  Miocene took the vault from Washen so that she could hand it to her son. And Till covered the largest diamonds with his fingertips, blocking out the light, causing the machine to slowly, slowly awaken.

  The clearing was a natural amphitheater, black iron rising on all sides. Washen couldn’t count all the Waywards streaming out of the jungle above. Thousands had become tens of thousands. Some of them were her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Diu would know which ones, perhaps. How many of her descendants lived with the Waywards? In the past, during their very occasional meetings, Diu had confided that the Waywards probably numbered in the millions—a distinct possibility since they’d inherited their parents’ immortal genes, and since Till seemed to relish fecundity. In principle, this entire audience could be related to Washen. Not bad, she thought. Particularly for an old woman who for many fine reasons had only that one child of her own.

  The vault began to hum softly, and Locke lifted an arm, shouting, “Now.”

  Suddenly the audience was silent, everyone motionless, a palpable anticipation hanging in the hot dry air.

  The sky grew dark, and the clearing vanished.

  Marrow swelled, nearly filling the chamber. Barren and smooth, it was covered in a worldwide ocean of bubbling, irradiated iron that lay just beneath the hyperfiber ceiling, and the audience stood on that ocean, unwarmed, watching an ancient drama play itself out.

  Without sound or any warning, the Bleak appeared, squirming their way through the chamber’s wall, through the countless access tunnels—insect like cyborgs, enormous and cold and swift.

  Like a swarm of wasps, they flowed toward Marrow, launching gobs of antimatter that slammed into the molten surface, scorching white-hot explosions rising up and up. The liquid iron swirled and lifted, then collapsed again. In the harsh light, Washen glanced at her son, trying to measure his face, his mood. He looked spellbound, eyes wide and his mouth ajar, his body shivering with an apocalyptic fever. Every face seemed to be seeing this for the first time. Washen remembered the last time she spoke to Diu, almost a decade ago. She asked about the vaults and the Waywards’ beliefs, explaining that Miocene was pressing for details. In response, Diu growled, reminding her, “I’m their only nonbeliever, and they don’t tell me much. I’m tolerated for my technical expertise, and just as important, because I long ago stopped kowtowing to Miocene and all the rest of you.”

  A hyperfiber dome suddenly burst from the iron, lasers firing, a dozen of the Bleak killed before the dome pulled itself under again.

  The Bleak brought reinforcements, then struck again.

  Hyperfiber missiles carried the antimatter deep into the iron. Marrow shook and twisted, then belched gas and fire. Perhaps the Bleak managed to kill the last of the Builders. Perhaps. Either way, the Builders’ revenge was in place. Was waiting. In the middle of the attack, with the Bleak’s forces pressing hard, the buttressing fields came on, bringing their blue-white glow. Suddenly the Bleak appeared tiny and frail. Then, before they could flee, the lightning storm swept across the sky, dissolving every wisp of matter into a plasma, creating a superheated mist that would persist for millions of years, cooling as Marrow cooled, gradually collecting on the warm, newborn crust.

  Gradually, the Bleak’s own carbon and hydrogen and oxygen became Marrow’s atmosphere and its rivers, and those same precious elements slowly gathered themselves into butter bugs and virtue trees, then into the wide-eyed children standing in that clearing, weeping as they stared at the radiant sky.

  The present reemerged gradually, almost reluctantly.

  “There’s much more,” Miocene promised, her voice urgent: Motherly. “Other records show how the ship was attacked. How the Builders retreated to Marrow. This is where they made their last stand, whoever they were.” She waited for a long moment, watching her son’s unreadable face. Then with a genuine disappointment, she warned, “The Builders never show themselves. We understand a lot more now, but we’re still not sure how they looked.”

  Till wasn’t awestruck by what he had just witnessed. If anything, he was mildly pleased, grinning as if amused, but definitely not excited or surprised, or even particularly interested with what Miocene had to say.

  “Listen to me,” she snapped, unable to contain herself any longer. “Do you understand what this means? The Event that trapped us here is some kind of ancient weapon designed to kill the Bleak. And everything else on board the ship … perhaps …”

  “Who’s trapped?” Till replied with a smooth, unnerving calm. “I’m not. No believer is. This is exactly where we belong.”

  Only Miocene’s eyes betrayed her anger.

  Till continued with his explanation, saying, “You’re here because the Builders called to you. They lured you here because they needed someone to give birth to us.”

  “That’s insane,” the Submaster snarled.

  Washen was squinting, searching for Diu. She recognized his face and his nervous energy, but only in the children. Where was he? Suddenly it occurred to her that he hadn’t been invited, or even worse—

  “I know why you believe this nonsense.” Miocene said the words, then took a long step toward Till, empty hands lifting into the air. “It’s obvious. When you were a boy, you found one of these vaults. Didn’t you? It showed you the war and the Bleak, and that’s when you began all of this … this nonsense about being the Builders reborn … !”

  Her son regarded her with an amused contempt.

  “You made a mistake,” said Miocene, her voice shrill. Accusing. “You were a child, and you didn’t understand what you were seeing, and ever since we’ve had to pay for your ignorance. Don’t you see … ?”

  Her son was smiling, incapable of doubt.

  Looking at the Waywards, Miocene screamed, “Who understands me?”

  Silence.

  “I didn’t find any vault,” Till claimed. “I was alone in the jungle, and a Builder’s spirit appeared to me. He told me about the Ship and the Bleak. He showed me all of this. Then he made me a promise: As this day ends, in the coming twilight, I’ll learn my destiny …”

  His voice trailed away into silence.

  Locke kneeled and picked up the vault. Then he looked at Washen, saying matter-of-factly, “The usual payment. That’s what we’re offering.”

  Miocene roared.

  “What do you mean? This is the best artifact yet!”

  No one responded, gazing at her as if she was insane.

  “It functions. It remembers.” The Submaster was flinging her arms into the air, telling them, “The other vaults were empty, or nearly so—”

  “Exactly,” said Till.

  Then, as if it was beneath their leader to explain the obvious, Locke gave the two of them a look of pity, telling them, “Those vaults are empty because what they were holding is elsewhere now. Elsewhere.”

  Till and Locke touched their scalps.

  Every follower did the same, fifty thousand arms lifting, a great ripple reaching the top of the amphitheater as everyone pointed at their minds. At their reborn souls.

  Locke was staring at his mother.

  A premonition made her mouth dry. “Why isn’t Diu here?”

  “Becaus
e he’s dead,” her son replied, an old sadness passing through his face.

  “I’m sorry. It happened eight years ago, during a powerful eruption.”

  Washen couldn’t speak, or move.

  “Are you all right, Mother?”

  She took a breath, then lied. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Then she saw the most astonishing sight yet in this long and astonishing day: Miocene had dropped to her knees, and with a pleading voice, she was begging for Till’s forgiveness. “I never should have struck you,” she said. She said, “Darling,” with genuine anguish. Then as a last resort, she told him, “And I do love the ship. As much as you do, you ungrateful shit … !”

  MISSION YEAR 4895.33:

  From the very top of the new bridge, where the atmosphere was barely a sloppy vacuum, Marrow finally began to resemble a far away place.

  The captains appreciated the view.

  Whenever Washen was on duty, she gazed down at the city-like encampments and sprawling farms, the dormant volcanoes and surviving patches of jungle, feeling a delicious sense of detachment from it all. A soft gray twilight held sway. The buttresses had continued to shrivel and weaken over the last millennia, and if Miocene’s model proved true, in another two centuries the buttresses would vanish entirely. For a few moments, or perhaps a few years, there would be no barrier between them and the ship. Marrow world would be immersed in a perfect blackness. Then the buttresses would reignite suddenly, perhaps accompanied by another Event. But by then the captains and their families, moving with a swift, drilled precision, would have escaped, climbing up this wondrously makeshift bridge, reaching the old base camp, then hopefully, returning to the ship, at last.

  What they would find there, no one knew.

  Or in a polite company, discussed.

  In the last five thousand years, every remote possibility had been suggested, debated in depth, and finally, mercifully, buried in an unmarked grave.

  Whatever was, was.

  That was the mandatory attitude, and it had been for centuries now.

  All that mattered was the bridge. The surviving captains—almost two-thirds of the original complement—lived for its completion. Hundreds of thousands of their descendants worked in distant mines or trucked the ore to the factories. Another half million were manufacturing superstrong alloys and crude flavors of hyperfiber, some of each added to the bridge’s foundation, while the rest were spun together into hollow tubes. Washen’s duty was to oversee the slow, rigorous hoisting of each new tube, then its final attachment. Compared to the original bridge, their contraption was inelegant and preposterously fat. Yet she felt a genuine pride all the same, knowing the sacrifices that went into its construction, and the enormous amounts of time, and when they didn’t have any other choice, a lot of desperate, ad hoc inventiveness.

  “Madam Washen?” said a familiar voice. “Excuse me, madam.”

  The captain blinked, then turned.

  Her newest assistant stood in the doorway. An intense, self-assured man of no particular age, he was obviously puzzled—a rare expression—and with a mixture of curiosity and confusion, he announced, “Our shift is over.”

  “In fifty minutes,” Washen replied, knowing the exact time for herself.

  “No, madam.” Nervous hands pressed at the crisp fabric of his technician’s uniform. “I just heard. We’re to leave immediately, using every tube but the Primary.”

  She looked at the displays on her control boards. “I don’t see any orders.”

  “I know—”

  “Is this another drill?” If the reinforced crust under them ever began to subside, they might have only minutes to evacuate. “Because if it is, we need a better system than having you walking about, tapping people’s shoulders.”

  “No, madam. It’s not a drill.”

  “Then what—?”

  “Miocene,” he blurted. “She contacted me directly. Following her instructions, I’ve already dismissed the others, and now I am to tell you to wait here. She is on her way.” As proof, he gave the order’s file code. Then with a barely restrained frustration, he added, “This is very mysterious. Everyone agrees. But the Submaster is such a secretive person, so I am assuming—”

  “Who’s with her?” Washen interrupted.

  “I don’t think anyone.”

  But the primary tube was the largest. Twenty captains could ride inside one of its cars, never brushing elbows with one another.

  “Her car seems to have an extra thick hull,” the assistant explained, “plus some embellishments that I can’t quite decipher.”

  “What sorts of embellishments?”

  He glanced at the time, pretending he was anxious to leave. But he was also proud of his cleverness, just as Washen guessed he would be. Cameras inside the tube let them observe the car. Its mass could be determined by the energy required to lift it. He pointed to the pipelike devices wrapped around its hull, making the car look like someone’s ball of rope, and with a sudden dose of humility, he admitted, “I don’t seem to quite understand that apparatus.”

  In other words, “Please explain it to me, madam.”

  But Washen didn’t explain anything. Looking at her assistant—one of the most talented and loyal of the captains’ offspring; a man who had proved himself on every occasion—she shrugged her shoulders, then lied.

  She said, “I don’t understand it, either.”

  Then before she took another breath, she suggested, “You should probably do what she wants. Leave. If Miocene finds you waiting here, she’ll kick you down the shaft herself.”

  The Submaster had exactly the same face and figure that she had carried for millennia, but in the eyes and in the corners of her voice, she was changed. Transformed, almost. On those rare occasions when they met face to face, Washen marveled at all the ways life on Marrow had changed Miocene. And then she would wonder if it was the same for her—if old friends looked at Washen and thought to themselves, “She looks tired, and sad, and maybe a little profound.”

  They saw each other infrequently, but despite rank and Miocene’s attitudes, it was difficult to remain formal. Washen whispered; “Madam,” and then added, “Are you crazy? Do you really think it’ll work?”

  The face smiled, not a hint of joy in it. “According to my models, probably. With an initial velocity of five hundred meters per—”

  “Accuracy isn’t your problem,” Washen told her. “And if you can slip inside your target—that three kilometer remnant of the old bridge, right?—you’ll have enough time to brake your momentum.”

  “But my mind will have died. Is that what you intend to say?”

  “Even as thin and weak as the buttresses are now … I would hope you’re dead. Otherwise you’ll have suffered an incredible amount of brain damage.” Washen shook her head. “Unless you’ve accomplished a miracle, and that car will protect you for every millisecond of the way.”

  Miocene nodded. “It’s taken some twenty-one hundred years, and some considerable secrecy on my part … but the results have been well worth it.”

  In the remote past—Washen couldn’t remember when exactly—the captains toyed with exactly this kind of apparatus. But it was the Submaster who ordered them not to pursue it. “Too risky,” was her verdict. Her lie. “Too many technical hurdles.”

  For lack of better, Washen smiled grimly and told her, “Good luck then.”

  Miocene shook her head, her eyes gaining an ominous light. “Good luck to both of us, you mean. The cabin’s large enough for two.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because I respect you,” she reported. “And if I order you to accompany me, you will. And frankly, I need you. You’re more gifted than me when it comes to talking to people. The captains and our halfway loyal descendants … well, let’s just say they share my respect for you, and that could be an enormous advantage.”

  Washen guessed the reason, but she still asked, “Why?”

  “I intend to explore the ship. And if the
worst has happened—if it’s empty and dead—then you’re the best person, I believe, to bring home that terrible news …”

  Just like that, they escaped from Marrow.

  Miocene’s car was cramped and primitive, and the swift journey brought little hallucinations and a wrenching nausea. But they survived with their sanity. Diving into the remains of the first bridge, the Submaster brought them to a bruising halt inside the assembly station, slipping into the first empty berth, then she took a moment to smooth her crude, homespun uniform with a trembling long hand.

  Base camp had been without power for nearly five millennia. The Event had crippled every reactor, every drone. Without food or water, the abandoned lab animals had dropped into comas, and as their immortal flesh lost moisture, they mummified. Washen picked up one of the mandrill baboons—an enormous male weighing little more than a breath—and she felt its leathery heart beat, just once, just to tell her, “I waited for you.”

  She set it down, and left quietly.

  Miocene was standing on the viewing platform, gazing expectantly at the horizon. Even at this altitude, they could only see the captains’ realm. The nearest of the Wayward cities—spartan places with cold and simple iron buildings fitted together like blocks—were hundreds of kilometers removed from them. Which might as well have been hundreds of light years, as much as the two cultures interacted anymore.

  “You look as if you’re expecting someone,” Washen observed.

  The Submaster said nothing.

  “The Waywards are going to find out that we’re here, madam. If Till doesn’t already know, it’s only because he’s got too many spies, and all of them are talking at once.”

  Miocene nodded absently, taking a deep breath.

  Then she turned, and never mentioning the Waywards, she said, “We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s go see what’s upstairs.”

  The long access tunnel to the ship was intact.

  Tube-cars remained in their berths, untouched by humans and apparently shielded from the Event by the surrounding hyperfiber. Their engines were charged, every system locked in a diagnostic mode. The com-links refused to work, perhaps because there was no one to maintain the dead ship’s net. But by dredging the proper commands from memory, Washen got them under way, and every so often she would glance at Miocene, measuring the woman’s stern profile, wondering which of them was more scared of what they would find.