Manifold: Space

by Stephen Baxter

  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 could 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 explosive 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.

  The shuttle climbed farther. The Lunar Japanese around her applauded the smooth launch.

  Now Earth rose. It looked as blue and beautiful as when she and Frank had left for the stars. But it had changed, of course. Even from here, she could see Gaijin flower-ships circling the planet, the giant ramscoops of the alien craft visible as tiny discs. She felt a stab of antique resentment at those powerful, silent visitors who had watched as humanity tore itself apart.

  And now, as the shuttle tilted and settled into its two-hour orbit around the Moon, Xenia saw a sight she knew no human had ever seen before today:

  Comet rise, over the Moon.

  The coma, a diffuse mass of gas and fine particles, was a ball as big as the Earth, so close now it walled off half the sky, a glare of lacy, diffuse light. Massive clumps in the coma, backlit, cast shadows across the smoky gases, straight lines thousands of kilometers long radiating at her. The comet was coming out of the Sun, straight toward the Moon at seventy thousand kilometers an hour. She looked for the nucleus, a billion-ton ball of ice and rock. But it was too small and remote, even now, a few minutes from impact. And the tail was invisible from here, fleeing behind her, running ahead of the comet and stretching far beyond the Moon, reaching halfway to Mars in fact.

  Suddenly there was light all around the shuttle. The little ship had plunged inside the coma. It was like being inside a diffuse, luminous fog.

  "Vileekee bokh."

  Frank leaned across her, trying to see. He was seventy years old, physiological; his nose was a misshapen mass of flesh. He was a small, stocky man, with thick legs and big prizefighter muscles built for Earth's gravity, so that he always looked like some restless, half-evolved ape alongside the tall, slim Lunar Japanese.

  "Eta prikrasna," Xenia murmured.

  "Beautiful. Yeah. How about that: we're the last off the Moon."

  "Oh, no," she said. "There's a handful of old nuts who won't move, no matter what."

  "Even for a comet?"

  "Takomi. He's still there, for one," she said.

  "Who?"

  "He's notorious."

  "I don't read the funny papers," Frank snapped.

  "Takomi is the hermit out in the ruins of Edo, on Farside. Evidently he lives off the land. He won't even respond to radio calls."

  Frank frowned. "This is the fucking Moon. How does he live off the land? By sucking oxygen out of the rock?..."

  The light changed. There was a soft Fourth-of-July gasp from the people crammed into the shuttle.

  The comet had struck the Moon.

  A dome of blinding white light rose like a new Sun from the surface of the Moon: comet material turned to plasma, mixed with shattered rock. Xenia thought she could see a wave passing through the Moon's rocky hide: a sluggish ripple in rock turned to powder, gathering and slowing.

  Now, spreading out over the Moon's dusty gray surface, she saw a faint wash of light. It seemed to pool in the deeper maria and craters, flowing down the contours of the land like a morning mist on Earth. It was air: gases from the shattered comet, an evanescent atmosphere pooling on the Moon.

  And, in a deep, shadowed crater, at the ghostly touch of the air, she saw light flare.

  It was only a hint, a momentary splinter at the corner of her eye. She craned to see. Perhaps there was a denser knot of smoke or gas, there on the floor of the crater; perhaps there was a streak, a kind of contrail, reaching out through the temporary comet atmosphere.

  It must be some by-product of the impact. But it looked as if somebody had launched a rocket from the surface of the Moon.

  Already the contrail had dispersed in the thin, billowing comet air.

  People were applauding again, at the beauty of the spectacle, with relief at being alive. Frank wasn't even watching.

  It was only after they landed that it was announced that the comet nucleus had landed plumb on top of the Fracastorius Crater dome.

  Fracastorius, on the rim of the Sea of Nectar, was one of the largest settlements away from the primary Copernicus-Landsberg-Kepler triangle. The Lunar Japanese grieved. The loss of life was small, but the economic and social damage huge – perhaps unrecoverable, in these straitened times, as the Moon's people tried to adapt to life without their centuries-old umbilical to Earth's rich resources.

  Frank Paulis seemed unconcerned. He got back to work, even before the shuttle landed. And he expected Xenia to do the same.

  Xenia and Frank had spent a year of their lives on a Gaijin flower-ship, had submitted themselves to the unknown hazards of several Saddle Point gateway teleport transitions, and had gotten themselves relativistically stranded in an unanticipated future. On their way home from the Saddle Point radius, Frank and Xenia had grown concerned when nobody in the inner system answered their hails. At
last they had tapped into some low-bit-rate news feeds.

  The news had seemed remarkably bad.

  Earth had fallen into a state of civil war. There were battles raging around the equatorial region, the Sahara and Brazil and the Far East. Frank and Xenia had listened, bemused, to reports laced with names they'd never heard of, of campaigns and battles, of generals and presidents and even emperors. Even the nations involved seemed to have changed, split and coalesced. It was hard even to figure out what they were fighting over – save the generic, the diminishing resources of a declining planet.

  One thing was for sure. All their money was gone, disappeared into electronic mist. They had landed on the Moon as paupers, figuratively naked.

  It turned out to be a crowded Moon, owned by other people. But they had nowhere else to go. And, even on the Moon, nobody was interested in star travelers and their tales.

  Frank had felt cheated. Going to the stars had been a big mistake for him. He'd gone looking for opportunity; he'd grown impatient with the slow collapse of Earth's economy and social structure, even before the wars began, long before people started dying in large numbers.

  Not that he hadn't prospered here.

  The Moon of the late twenty-second century, as it turned out, had a lot in common with early twenty-first century Earth. Deprived of its lifelines from the home world, the Moon was full: a stagnant, closed economy. But Frank had seen all this before, and he knew that economic truth was strange in such circumstances. For instance, Frank had quickly made a lot of money out of reengineering an old technology that made use of lunar sulphur and oxygen as a fuel source. As the scarcity of materials increased, industrial processes that had once been abandoned as unprofitable suddenly became worthwhile.