Permanence

by Karl Schroeder

  "What test is that?" asked Blair.

  "She called it 'the Supreme Meme, " said Rue. Now that she'd started talking about this, she was a bit embarrassed. Jentry's crowd scoffed at any metaphysical talk.

  She pressed on. "It's what you call a thought experiment, a way to test whether something you believe is good for you or not. You know what memes are?"

  "Memes are the genes of culture," said Evan promptly. "They are ideas and behaviors that use humans and our culture to propagate themselves. Religions are usually full of memes— ideas that don't mean anything, or serve any useful purpose, but are just so compelling that they get passed on generation after generation."

  "Right. Well, the Supreme Meme is like a way of exploding all other memes— other ideas about life, you know? It has the power to destroy beliefs that are bad for you."

  "And what is it?"

  "Simple," she said. "We know the multiverse is infinitely old and spawns new universes in infinite amounts all the time. That means that infinitely far in the past and infinitely far in the future, there's a universe just like this one, where everything happened just the same way, with the same people; and you and I and this place and this conversation, all happened before and will happen again, not once, but an infinite number of times." Now she was sounding stuffy; she had recited this description from memory.

  "Yeah, I've heard that idea," said Evan dismissively.

  "Oh, that's not the idea," she said with a grin. "The idea is this: Say you had just died and the angels or kami or whatever asked you where you would like to go now— anywhere in the multiverse, any kind of rebirth or heaven you want. Here's the Supreme Meme: How would you have to feel about the life you've led and your universe, to say to that angel, 'let me come back to where I started and live this life over, exactly as it was, no detail spared. »

  "Well, that's, just—" sputtered Evan.

  "How would you have to feel? And could this or that religion or ideology that I believe give me that feeling— even in theory? That's the question and you apply it to the religions people try to sell you on. Because if a religion can't, well… sanctify… everything, even the crappy parts of your life, then it doesn't measure up."

  Evan looked horrified.

  Mike sat back, a bemused look on his face. After a moment he half-smiled. "And has anything ever measured up for you?" he asked.

  "No," she said. There was an awkward silence. "Anyway, that's what my mother taught us," Rue said.

  "I'll have to think about that," Mike said with apparent sincerity. "But for now… you never did answer my original question."

  "What question?"

  "Can I call upon you for asylum?"

  "Oh! Of course."

  "We've got a spare bunk if you'd like," said Rebecca, with a sidelong glance at Rue.

  "Ah, well, I… Isn't Lake Flaccid part of your territory? That's where the science team is setting up, anyway."

  "Of course," Rue said firmly. "I'll tell Crisler to keep his hands off you as long as you're anywhere in the Envy. I'll tell him I'm keeping an eye on you myself." Of course, Rue knew she had no power to enforce her orders. She had to assume that Crisler wouldn't feel too threatened by this. If he did… well, she had to try.

  They left the table and Mike shook hands with each of them at the airlock.

  After he was gone Rue scowled at Rebecca. "You're shameless. Haven't you got anything better to do than try to set people up?"

  "Hey, matchmaking's an old and respectable tradition," she replied with a grin.

  "Not on my ship it isn't." But they were all laughing at her and after a moment she joined in.

  * * *

  RUE COULDN'T SLEEP, so she drifted out into the common area. Rebecca was sitting up, talking through a holo window to one of the women from Crisler's security team. She noticed Rue and said, "Call you later," then closed the connection. Then she frowned at Rue. "Back whence ye came."

  "I can't." Rue settled down at the table next to Rebecca. She clasped her hands in front of her and stared through the holos. "I'm glad Mike came over tonight," she said. It wasn't what she wanted to say, but she didn't know how to approach that.

  Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "You like him, don't you?"

  "Yes, but… It's just… I was starting to go seriously crazy worrying, when he showed up. He proved I was right about not trusting Crisler. But he also took my mind off things."

  "What things?"

  She shrugged angrily. "You know what's at stake tomorrow."

  Rebecca sighed. "I know what you think is at stake."

  "Rebecca, we haven't found anything like a control system anywhere else in the Envy. If it's not in the Lasa habitat, then maybe there isn't one. Not one we'd understand, anyway." All during their search for supplies to repair the stacks, Rue had kept an eye out for anything that might be a control surface. They hadn't opened all the habitats yet, but they'd certainly visited the biggest ones. For days a sense of helplessness had been growing in her and she'd confided in no one, until tonight she felt like bursting. "We've got to think about what happens if we can't control the Envy," she said.

  Rebecca put a hand on hers, "Yes, Rue, we do need to do that. But we don't need to do it tonight. There's months to go before we reach our rendezvous with Colossus. Anything could happen in that time.

  "Hmm." Rebecca looked at her appraisingly. "I remember when you showed up at Treya, all jittery and determined. You didn't seem to know what you were determined about, but you were determined." They both laughed. "But that's just it, Rue; have you asked yourself what you're going to do if we do find out how to control the Envy?"

  Rue stared at her. The question was infuriating somehow, though she couldn't have said why. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Ah, I think you do." When she saw that Rue wasn't going to answer, Rebecca continued. "You know, Rue, you're one of the most driven people I know. But you don't think of yourself that way."

  "I'm just trying to survive."

  "By doing this?" Rebecca waved around at the habitat. "This is more than just survival. We could have settled down on Chandaka; I could have finished my education there, you'd have found something—"

  "We'd have been poor! Worse than poor— indentured. Same as I was at Treya."

  "Rue, you were perfectly happy working in the mountains and living hand-to-mouth. I remember it very well."

  Rue shrugged angrily. "But I wasn't responsible for all you guys then."

  "We can look after ourselves, you know." The words stung. "I'm not saying you're not a wonderful captain— you are— it's just that you've got to learn that your responsibility ends where our ability to think for ourselves begins. You're upset about Max putting himself in cold storage, aren't you?"

  "Of course I am! I should have taken better care of him."

  Rebecca shook her head. "You did all you could for him. After a certain point, how he takes the help you give him is up to him. Max's problems run too deep for you or I to help him. We can be supportive; and ultimately you were, when you allowed him to put himself on ice."

  Rue sat back, absorbing the words. They were silent for a long time; then Rue said, almost against her will, "Then I don't know what it means to be captain. Rebecca, I don't get it."

  "You will. Just… not tonight." Rebecca pointed imperiously in the direction of the staterooms. "Now go to sleep. I want to see you fresh in the morning."

  "Yes, doctor," said Rue unhappily. "Beck, I… I'm glad you're here."

  Rebecca hugged her and Rue sailed back to her room, feeling a little lighter, though no less confused.

  Rebecca was right, though; Rue had no picture in her mind of what her life would be like after this expedition. No picture at all. Success or failure seemed the same to her— a blank.

  She resented Rebecca's insight, so when she strapped herself into bed, Rue fought down all thought— since to think would be to think about the question Rebecca had raised— and soon fell fast asleep.


  16

  THEY APPROACHED THE Lasa habitat in three sleds. This was the largest party to visit any of the Envy's strange, self-entombed vessels; even Crisler was along this time. That was unfortunate, because the admiral had made it plain that he considered Michael a renegade now, and the marines were watching every move he made. That would make it difficult for him to execute his little plan. He remained stubbornly determined, however. Crisler had made him angry.

  The slowly spinning habitat glowed beautifully in the floodlights— a finely iridescent black, like velvet, with crimson lettering set in it in discrete islands. By Michael's reckoning, they were approaching from the side opposite to the side whose photos had been faked. On the face of it, this made sense: They were simply approaching the pole of the spinning ball that faced the Banshee.

  When they were a hundred meters away, Michael said, "Let's take a quick orbit of the place. That way we can get a higher quality photomosaic."

  "I don't think that'll be necessary, Bequith." Interesting— that was Crisler's voice.

  "The more detail we have the better analysis we can make," he retorted. A couple of the scientists murmured in agreement.

  "All right, then," said Crisler. That was a bit surprising.

  He reached down into a thigh pouch and drew out the camera Rue had lent him. The mirror he left in the pouch. If for some reason they were not allowed to make this orbit, he had been planning to toss the mirror and try to photograph the far side of the habitat in its reflection. He was almost disappointed at not getting the chance to be so devious.

  Maybe it was someone on Chandaka who had faked the Lasa photos, in which case all his caution was unnecessary. Maybe it was the saboteur… He should know in a few seconds.

  The far side of the habitat rotated into view and the floodlights played over it. Michael had an inscape window open with the existing photomosaic in it and he looked at this, then at the habitat, then back at the mosaic.

  "Gods and kami," he murmured. The full paragraph came into view and it was exactly the same as the one in the photos.

  Was this somebody's idea of a joke? — take a photomosaic and doctor it to look like something had been faked when nothing had? Or had Blair just copied four pictures to complete an incomplete photomosaic? That was so sloppy as to be ridiculous— and Blair himself had insisted his photo documentary was complete. He had not missed this side of the sphere.

  Michael looked over at sled two, which was briefly silhouetted against the red script. The third figure back was Rue Cassels. She was turned his way, a human shaped erasure of the lettering. He made an exaggerated shrug. She turned away.

  It didn't make any sense. Frustrated, he aimed the camera and took a few shots of the paragraph anyway.

  They returned to the «north» pole of the habitat— the one facing the Banshee. There was an airlock here, but not at the «south» pole, which only had a ring tying down the cord to the plow sail.

  This airlock was of the same design as the one at Lake Flaccid. The iridescent black material of the hull gave way to a burnished metal ring— beryllium, Salas had declared— with the familiar black disk inside it like the pupil of a giant eye.

  "Hold up here," said Crisler. The three sleds braked to a stop a meter from the lock. Michael took a flashlight and shone it on the black surface of the sphere. He was astonished to see that the surface was not smooth. "It's fur," he said. "The thing is covered in fur."

  He reached out to touch it, even as Katz was saying something about fur being a better insulator in vacuum than air. The fine black pelt didn't seem to give at all under his touch. He pushed harder and felt a sudden sting in his fingertips.

  "Damn!" He pulled his hand back. A red diagnostic window popped open, telling him he'd suffered a minor breach of suit integrity.

  "What happened?" asked Crisler.

  "It's hard as diamond— it poked me right through the glove."

  "Well, nobody touch it, then."

  The red writing was apparently bald hull. Very weird. While the others focused on finding the latch for the airlock, he swept his light along a long swath of hull. Now he could see texture to the fur, as if it had been mussed by the hand of a passing giant. It was like the back of some enormous, sleeping creature.

  "Here it is," said one of the marines.

  "Good work, Barendts." Crisler and Herat drifted over to the man. Without hesitation Herat reached out and put his hand in the switch hollow. The black disk roiled in a now-familiar manner.

  Crisler put his arm out to block Herat's way. "We should send in a mesobot first."

  "I suppose you're right." Herat gestured to Michael, who fetched a fist-sized explorer from the sled. Herat pushed it into the liquid material of the lock, letting go only when he was up to his elbow. "That's got it."

  Michael made a public inscape window of the mesobot's camera readout and put it next to the lock. Everyone gathered around to watch. For the first few moments there was nothing to see but blackness.

  "Registering magnetic field— very strong," said Herat. "And the walls are vibrating. Temperature rising rapidly… this place is alive, whatever it is." The little mesobot's lights came on, illuminating a metal wall several centimeters away; it swiveled around at Michael's command.

  There was a collective intake of breath among the watchers. In the window, a large curving space appeared, cluttered with drifting debris. "Look at that crap," said the marine Barendts. "Something must have blew up."

  "No." Michael skewed the camera around again. Now it was clear what the curving space was. The outer hull of the Lasa habitat was separated by a space of at least five meters from an inner sphere which was made of white metal. This inner sphere had no writing on it; instead, it was covered with hundreds of outward-dimpling airlock doors, one every four meters across the whole visible surface.

  The space between the hulls contained various freely drifting objects. They were mostly spherical, but some were torus or bolo-shaped. Michael stared at one for a few seconds, trying to puzzle out what it was.

  "Models!" shouted Dr. Herat. "Those are models of habitats!"

  Crisler cursed under his breath; it was an exclamation of wonder. Michael shook his head. Once again, Herat had beaten him to an essential realization. He was indeed looking at a model habitat. In fact, the little sphere, which must be about a meter in diameter, was a dead ringer for Lake Flaccid.

  "What are we waiting for?" said Rue. She sounded tense. "Let's get in there already."

  Just then the inscape window flashed so quickly that Michael almost missed it. "What was that?"

  "Not sure. Wait— there's some kind of light source coming on in there."

  "It knows we're here?"

  A slow pulse of light welled up from several small points on the inner hull. It started out deep red, then rainbowed all the way to blue before fading away completely. The mesobot reported that it had started out in the deep infrared and went up to ultraviolet before fading. It happened again and began repeating at nine second intervals.

  "What's it mean?" asked Crisler.

  "Damned if I know," said Herat. "It doesn't seem dangerous, anyway. We'll wait and see if there's any change. If it's still doing this in five minutes, I'm going in."

  As they waited, Rue drifted over to Michael's side. "Hey." She made a sign for him to go on private channel. "Did you get your photos?" she asked when he had.

  "Yeah— but none of it makes any sense." He was beginning to feel like he was being had, somehow.

  "Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so," she said. "What about this place? Models? What does that mean?"

  "I can't even begin to speculate. And Dr. Herat's stymied too, for once." He said it with some relish.

  "The pattern's not changing," said Herat. "I'm going in, unless one of you burly gentlemen has some objection?"

  Crisler waved a gloved hand indifferently. Herat reached into the edge of the airlock disk and pulled himself through.

  "No resistan
ce," he said as his feet vanished into the black surface. "There's no atmosphere at all in here."

  "Any ice?" asked Rue. "We need to find more oxygen."

  Michael groped inside the lock and found the familiar bar, then flipped himself through. Pride demanded that he be second inside after Dr. Herat and he was, but only by seconds as the rest of the team followed, leaving three marines with rescue training outside. They snaked some umbilicals through the airlock; these stood up out of the disk like surreal reeds in the light of Michael's helmet lamp.

  He called the mesobot and it obediently returned to him. Just then, a sweep of prisming light swept over it, causing Michael to miss his first grab for the bot.

  "This is wild," said Rue. "Beautiful— but weird."

  For someone raised on planets like Michael, it was a hard environment to get used to. It was natural to choose an up and a down to orient yourself, but here the choice was arbitrary and none of the options was comfortable. If he decided that down was in the direction of the airlock on the outer hull, that meant he was floating at the bottom of a giant bowl, with a huge metal sphere hanging over his head. If he put down in some direction tangent to the airlock, then he was in midair beside a sphere, with a long drop beneath him that curved out of sight. And if he pictured himself at the very top, then he had nothing to hold onto and could imagine sliding down that inner sphere and falling into the space between them.

  "The light's brightening," said Crisler.

  Michael turned his head and at that moment the small circles that were flashing went out. In their place, a series of red expanding rings appeared on the outer hull. One of these swept over Michael before he had time to even look away. His eye was momentarily dazzled by crimson laser-light. The marines started shouting.

  "It's all right!" said Dr. Herat. "We're being scanned, is all. We can't see the beams because we're in vacuum— only the reflections off the outer hull. I think whatever it is that's in here is trying to decide what we are."

  "We should leave," said Crisler.