He began to pull the tether back, cautiously, hardly daring to breathe.
My God, he thought. Here I am fishing for a spacetime worm-hole. On any other day this would seem unusual.
The tether grew taut.
He pulled, hand over hand, gently. He felt the combined inertia of the three of them, a stiff resistance to movement. But he was patient; he kept the pressure on the tether light and even.
“We’removing. . .”
Cornelius’s voice, radio transmitted, had blared in his ear. Malenfant winced and tapped at the touchpad on his chest.
“Cornelius? Can you hear me?”
Cornelius’ voice was heavily laden with static, as if he were shouting into a conch shell, but he was comprehensible. “Are we moving? Did you—”
“Yes, I got hold of the portal.” He added reflexively, “I think we’ll be okay now.”
Cornelius managed a croaky laugh. “I doubt that very much, Malenfant. But at least the story goes on a little longer. What about Emma?”
“She hasn’t woken up yet. You know, Cornelius, sometimes eyes recover. A few days, a week…”
Cornelius drifted alongside him, sullen, silent.
Let it pass, Malenfant.
They reached the portal. It loomed over Malenfant, huge and blue and enigmatic, brilliant against the reddening sky. Malenfant touched the surface, tried to figure a way to attach a tether or a piton to it.
He discussed the problem with Cornelius.
“Just hold on to it, Malenfant,” he said, and he had Malenfant pull him around until he was doing just that, his hands loosely wrapped over the portal’s blade-sharp rim.
Malenfant turned to Emma. She was still unconscious, but she seemed to be sleeping peacefully now. He saw a soft mist on her faceplate close to her mouth. “I wish I could get this damn suit off of her, give her a drink.”
Cornelius turned blindly. “Maybe something will come along, Malenfant. That’s what you always say, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I always say. How’s your suit?”
“I’m out of orange juice. And I think my diaper is full… Malenfant, what color is the sky?”
“Red.” Malenfant lifted up his gold visor. It was still bright, just a uniform glow, but it was not so bright he couldn’t look at it with his unprotected eyes. “Like hot coals,” he said.
“That makes sense,” Cornelius said. “After all our radios work again. So this universe must have become transparent to electromagnetic radiation. Radio waves—”
This universe. “What are you talking about, Cornelius?”
“Malenfant, where do you think we are?”
Malenfant looked around at the sky’s uniform glow. “In some kind of gas cloud.” He tried to think out of the box. “Maybe we’re in the outer layers of a red giant star.”
“Umm. If that’s so, why was the sky white hot when we got here? Why is it cooling down so fast?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the cloud is expanding—”
“Can you see a source? A center? Any kind of nonuniformity in the glow?”
“It looks the same to me every which way. Come on, Cornelius. Time’s a little short for riddles.”
“I think we fell into another universe.”
“ What other universe? How?”
Cornelius managed a laugh, his voice like a dry, crumpling leaf. “You know, Malenfant, you always have trouble with the big picture. You didn’t seem disturbed philosophically by the idea of a gateway that takes you instantaneously to another time. Well, now the portal has just taken us to another spacetime point, instantaneously, like before. It’s just that this time that point is in another universe, somewhere else in the manifold.”
“The manifold?”
“The set of all possible universes. Probably one related to ours.”
“Related? How can universes be related?… Never mind.”
Cornelius turned blindly. “Damn it, I wish I could see. There’s no reason why this universe should be exactly like ours, Malen-fant. Most universes will be short-lived, probably on the scale of the Planck time.”
“How long is that?”
“Ten to power minus forty-three of a second.”
“Not even time to make a coffee, huh.”
“I think this universe is only a few hours old. I think it just expanded out of its Big Bang. Think of it. Around us the vacuum itself is changing phase, like steam condensing to water, releasing energy to fuel this grand expansion.”
“So what’s the glow we see?”
“The background radiation.” Cornelius, drifting in red emptiness, huddled over on himself, wrapping his suited arms around his torso, as if he was growing cold.
“How can universes be different?”
“If they have different physical laws. Or if the constants that govern those laws are different…”
“If we fell into a Big Bang, it occurs to me we were lucky not to be fried.”
“I think the portal is designed to protect us. To some extent anyhow.”
“You mean if we had been smart enough to come through with such luxuries as air and water and food, we might live through all this?”
“It’s possible.”
“Then where did Michael go? “
Cornelius sighed. “I don’t know.”
“The Sheena squid came through the portal, and she found herself in the future. Seventy-five million years downstream. Staring at the Galaxy.”
“I do remember, Malenfant,” Cornelius said dryly.
“So how come we didn’t follow her?”
“I think it was the Feynman radios. The crude one we built at Fermilab. Whatever was put into the heads of the Blue kids, Michael and the others. The messages from the future changed the past. That is, our future. Yes. The river of time took a different course.”
“If this isn’t the future—”
“I think it’s the past,” Cornelius whispered. “The deepest past.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not, Malenfant. Why should you?”
“Cornelius. I think the sky is getting brighter.”
It was true; the reddening seemed to have bottomed out, and a strengthening orange was creeping back into the sky.
Malenfant said, “That’s bad, right? We’re heading for a Big Crunch. We just lived through a Big Bang, and now we’re facing a Crunch. One damn thing after another.”
“We can’t stay here,” Cornelius whispered.
Malenfant looked around at the glowing sky, tried to imagine it contracting around him, the radiation that filled it compressing, rattling around the walls of the universe like gas in a piston, growing hotter and hotter. “Cornelius, will there be life here? Intelligence?”
“Unlikely,” Cornelius whispered. “Our universe was a big, roomy, long-lived place. Lots of room for structure to self-organize, atoms and stars and galaxies and people. Here, even the atoms will exist for just a few hours.”
“Then what’s the point? An empty universe, no life, no mind, over in a few hours? Why?”
Cornelius coughed. “You’re asking the wrong person.”
Malenfant gathered the others — Cornelius curled into a fetal ball, Emma sleeping, starfished, the tether length on her leg dangling — and he faced the portal.
The sky was getting brighter, hotter, climbing the spectral scale through orange toward yellow. “Visors down.”
Cornelius dropped his own gold sun visor into place, reached over, and did the same for Emma, by touch.
Malenfant wrapped his suited arm around Emma’s waist and grasped Cornelius firmly by the hand. He turned his back on the collapsing, featureless sky without regret, and pulled them both into the portal.
Maura Della:
Houston was hot, muggy, fractious. The air settled on her like
a blanket every time she hurried between airport terminal and
car, or car and hotel, as if it was no longer a place adapted for
humanity.
She booked into her hotel, showered and changed, and had her car take her out to JSC, the NASA Johnson Space Center. The car pulled into the JSC compound off NASA Road One, and she drove past gleaming, antiquated Moon rockets: freshly restored, spectacularly useless, heavily guarded from the new breed of antiscience wackos.
She was dismayed by the depression and surliness of the staff who processed her at the NASA security lodge. The mood in Houston seemed generally sour, the people she encountered overheated, irritable. She knew Houston had special problems. The local economy relied heavily on oil and chemicals and was taking a particular beating as the markets fluctuated and dived over rumors of the supertechnology that the Blue children had been cooking up, stuff that would make fossil-fuel technology obsolete overnight. But she had come here with a vague hope that at least at NASA — where they were all rocket scientists, for God’s sake — there might be a more mature reaction to what was going on in the world. But the national mood of fear and uncertainty seemed to be percolating even here.
Dan Ystebo came to collect her. He led her across the compound, past blocky black-and-white buildings and yellowing lawns, the heat steamy and intense. Dan seemed impatient, irritable, his shirt soaked with the sweat of his bulky body. He had spent a week here at her behest, crawling over plans and mock-ups and design documents and budgets, in order to brief her.
Maura had been coopted onto the UN-led international task force that was seeking to investigate and manage all aspects of the Blue-children phenomenon. And she, in turn, had coopted Dan Ystebo, much against his will.
Dan took her to Building 241, where, it turned out, NASA had been running life-support experiments for decades. Now the building was the focus of NASA’s response to the government’s call to return to the Moon, to establish a presence on the Moon alongside the children.
Dan was saying, “It isn’t ambitious — not much beyond space station technology. The modules would be launched to lunar orbit separately, linked together and then lowered as a piece to the Moon’s surface, as close as you like to the kids’ dome. A couple of robot bulldozers to shovel regolith over the top to protect you from radiation and stuff, and there you are, instant Moon base.”
Dan walked her through mocked-up shelters, tipped-over cylinders with bunks and softscreens and simple galleys and bathrooms. Most of the equipment here was thrown together from painted wood panels, but at least Maura got a sense of the scale and layout. She had to get from one shelter to another by crawling along flexible tubes — difficult, but presumably that would be easier in the Moon’s one-sixth gravity. All of this was set out in a huge hangarlike room; fixed cranes ran along the ceiling, and there was a lot of litter on the floor: wood and metal shavings, piled-up plans, hard hats. The sense of rush, of improvisation, was tangible.
“Feels like a mobile-home park,” she said.
“Yeah,” Dan said. He was puffing from the exertion of crawling through the tubes. “Except it will be an even worse place to stay. Remember, you’ll never be able to open a window. The power will come from solar cells. The engineers are looking at simple roll-up sheets you could spread across acres of the lunar surface or drape from a crater wall, whatever. It should be possible to move them around as the lunar day progresses. To survive the two-week nights they say they will need radioisotope thermonuclear generators.”
“More nukes, Dan?”
He shrugged. “In the short term there isn’t much choice. We’re constrained by where the kids came down — in Tycho, one of the roughest places on the Moon. The old NASA plans always showed astronauts colonizing a polar crater, somewhere you could catch the sun all lunar day, and where there would be ice to mine. As it is we’re going to have to haul up everything, every ounce of consumable. Initially, anyhow.”
He led her into the next hangarlike room. Here there was a single construction: a dome of some orange fabric, inflated, with fat tubes running around its exterior. It was maybe eight feet across, five high. Maura saw a small camera-laden robot working its way into the dome through what looked like an extendable airlock.
“This is stage two,” Dan said, “a Constructable Habitat Concept Design. You have your dome, inflated from the inside, with self-deploying columns for strength, and a spiral staircase down the center.”
“What’s the fabric?”
“Beta cloth. What they’ve been making spacesuits out of since Apollo 11. NASA is a somewhat conservative organization. This dome will contain a partially self-contained ecology based on algae. The medics here are looking at electrical muscle and bone stimulation to counteract the low-gravity effects. And regolith mining will get under way. The Moon isn’t as rich as Malenfant’s C-type asteroid, and it is mostly as dry as a bone. But you can make a reasonable concrete from the dust. And the rocks are forty percent oxygen by weight, and there is silicon to make glass, fiberglass, and polymers; aluminium, magnesium, and titanium for reflective coatings and machinery and cabling; chromium and manganese for alloys—”
“Living off the land, on the Moon.”
“That’s the idea. They are working to stay a long time, Maura.”
He led her to a coffee machine. The sludge-brown drink was free, but bad. The lack of fresh coffee was one of the consequences of the world trade minicollapse: something small but annoying, the removal of something she had always taken for granted, a sign of more bad news to come.
Maura asked him how come the NASA people were reacting so badly. “If anybody on the planet is trained to think about cosmic issues, to think out of the box of the here and now, it’s surely NASA.”
“Hell, Maura, it’s not as simple as that. NASA has lacked self-confidence for decades anyhow. Reid Malenfant drove them all crazy. Here was a guy who NASA wouldn’t even hire, for God’s sake, and he just went out there and did it ahead of them. Look at this.” He dug into a pocket and pulled out a cartoon printed off some online source: bubble-helmeted NASA astronauts in a giant, glittering spacecraft being beaten to the Moon by a bunch of raggedy-ass kids in a wooden cart. What s the big deal, guys?
Dan was grinning.
“You shouldn’t look like you enjoy it so much, Dan. Bad for relations.”
“Sorry.”
“So is that it? Hurt pride?”
“Maybe that’s a rational response,” Dan said. “The Blue kids, after all, have to operate within the laws of physics. So the solution they found to space travel must be out there somewhere. How come they got so smart, just sailing up to the Moon like that out of a nuclear explosion, for God’s sake, while we stayed dumb, still flying our Nazi-scientist rockets after decades and terabucks? And besides…”
“What?”
“Rocket scientists or not, the people here are only human, Maura. Some of them have Blue kids too… The good thing is that these NASA types have been dreaming of this, running experiments and pilot plans and paper studies, for decades now. When the call did come they were able to hit the ground running. And they are preparing to be up there a long time.” He eyed her. “That’s the plan, isn’t it, Maura?”
“It’s possible. Nobody knows. We don’t know what needs the children have. They may be genius prodigies at physics and math, but what do they know about keeping themselves alive on the Moon? Our best option may be to offer help.”
Dan looked skeptical. “So that’s our strategy? We imprison them, we nuke them, and now we offer them green vegetables?”
“We have to try to establish some kind of relationship. A dialogue. All we can do is wait it out.”
“As long as it takes?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Is it true they’re sending messages? The children, I mean.”
Maura kept stony-faced.
“Okay, okay,” Dan said, irritated, and he walked on, bulky, sweating.
They walked on to other test sites and seminar rooms and training stations — more elements of this slowly converging lunar outpost — inspecting, planning, questioning.
/> Reid Malenfant:
There was an instant of blue electric light, a moment of exquisite, nerve-rending pain. Malenfant kept his grip on Emma and Cornelius, focused on the hard physical reality of their suited flesh.
The blue faded.
And there was a burst of light, a wash that diminished from white to yellow to orange to dull red — a pause, as if recovering breath — and then a new glissando back up the spectrum to glaring hot yellow-white.
Then it happened again, a soundless pulse of white light that diminished to orange-red, then clambered back to brilliance once more.
And again, faster this time — and again and again, the flapping wings of light now battering at Malenfant so rapidly they merged into a strobe-effect blizzard.
The warning indicators on his suit HUD started to turn amber, then red. “Hold Emma.” He pulled Emma and Cornelius closer to him, gathered them in a circle so their faceplates were almost touching, their backs turned to the brutal waves of brilliance, the flickering light shimmering from their visors.
“Cornelius.” Malenfant found himself shouting, though the light storm was utterly silent. “Can you hear me?”
“Tell me what you see.”
Malenfant tried to describe the pulsating sky. As he did so the clatter of white-red-white pulses slowed, briefly, and the pumping of the sky became almost languid, each cycle lasting maybe three or four seconds. But then, without warning, the cycling accelerated again, and the dying skies blurred into a wash of fierce light.
“Cosmologies,” Cornelius whispered. “Phoenix universes, each one rebounding into another, which expands and collapses in turn. Each one destroyed so that the next one, its single progeny, can be born. And the laws of physics get shaken around every time we come out of a unified-force singularity.”
“A what?”
“A Big Bang. Or the singularity at the heart of a black hole. The two ways a universe can give birth to another… Black holes are the key, Malenfant. A universe that cannot make black holes can have only one daughter, produced by a Crunch. A universe that can make black holes, like ours, can have many daughters: baby universes connected to the mother by spacetime umbilicals through the singularities at the center of black holes. Like a miniature Big Crunch at the center of every hole. And that’s where cosmic evolution really takes off… We’re privileged, Malenfant.”
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