by Greg Egan
The Four Thousand, the Eight Hundred Copyright © 2015
by Greg Egan. All rights reserved. First published in Asimov's Science Fiction, December 2015.
Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2016 by Dominic Harman.
All rights reserved.
Print version interior design Copyright © 2016 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
978-1-59606-792-9
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
subterraneanpress.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
1
Camille peered out from her cocoon into the star-strewn blackness, waiting for the moment of terror to come and grant her a modicum of peace. Every minute she spent awake only wasted her resources and added to the risk that her heat signature would be detected, but she didn’t dare begin hibernation until she knew for sure that she was well-enough secured to survive at least one collision. If she was shaken loose at the very first impact—still awake, still in sight of Vesta—she might have a chance to make it home. Any time after that, it would be fatal.
The cocoon was only a few centimetres wider than her suit in any direction, and its thick acrylic walls undermined the crisp transparency of her face plate, leaving her with a dull, distorted view. Elastic restraints kept her from rattling around inside her plastic coffin, but since it was glued smack on the rotational pole of the ten-metre slab of basalt—whose spin was so stately that her mind wandered every time she tried to track the turning of the stars—her own fidgeting far outweighed any centrifugal force. She’d stopped responding to every maddening itch, but she was afraid of keeping her legs too still lest she find herself with a painful cramp that she’d have no room to deal with.
She turned her head to the left and forced her body to the right against the tug of the restraints, until she could just make out part of Vesta below her, a lopsided crescent almost bisected by the slab’s horizon. How many more of her friends would die, before she saw this world again? She shaped her lips and blew across her face to dislodge the tears.
Her neck began to ache, so she twisted it in the opposite direction to let the muscles recover. To her right, the silhouette of a solar collector carved a black ellipse out of the stars. Camille caught a glint against this dark background, probably sunlight reflecting off another slab of cargo, but she couldn’t tell if it was export or import; the same white polymer sheaths covered Vestan rock and Cererian ice. Each world had too much of one and too little of the other, so for generations they’d been swapping tonne for tonne, turning each other’s dross into riches. But now here she was spoiling the symmetry, hitching a ride on the river of stone, an export no one had ordered or authorised.
Vertigo gripped her, then subsided, leaving her stomach clenched and a ringing in her ears. She turned her gaze back to Vesta and saw her home world drifting serenely along the edge of the slab. The collision she’d been dreading had come and gone, rendered so smooth by the rebounding of the sheaths that this crash of boulders had delivered no greater jolt to her body than a fiercely returned serve in a game of squash. But however gentle the encounter had seemed, the rock she was riding had been struck head-on by an equally massive block of ice, and like the pieces in a cosmic Newton’s cradle the two had had no choice but to exchange their states of motion: the ice now took her place in the parking orbit, while she, very slowly, was on her way to Ceres.
Camille managed a sob of relief. The collisions yet to come would be with helper rocks, ferrying momentum from the ever more distant river of ice, but the effects should be no rougher. Gustave’s handiwork had passed the test.
Every breath was a luxury now. Camille spoke to the cocoon’s controller and told it to begin its task.
She relaxed and let the restraints pull her limbs clear of the upper wall, which abruptly turned opaque and plunged her into darkness. The vacuum between her suit and this carapace would allow its outer surface to cool far below her hibernation temperature, while the rock behind her back was massive enough to absorb the trickle of her residual body heat and barely show it.
When the venous tap in her elbow opened, the outflow was almost imperceptible; the shock came when the same fluid was returned to her, chilled. Five degrees centigrade hadn’t sounded so bad when she’d fitted the pump; with no ice crystals to burst her cell walls, the drug cocktail didn’t even need antifreeze. But her shivering flesh didn’t understand the biomedical pros and cons: she just felt as if she had suffered a wound so sharp and deep that it put an end to any distinction between her body’s interior and the world beyond, allowing this flood of icy water to engulf her from within.
“Stay safe,” she murmured. Her mother’s words to her, her own to her mother. Camille repeated them until her lips went numb. Five years before, she’d treated a young joyrider whose suit had been torn open all the way along one arm, allowing the rocks on Vesta’s surface to touch his naked skin and turn his flesh necrotic with cold. And now here she was, pinned to a heat sink more than sufficient to suck every trace of living warmth out of her and leave nothing but a sack of purplish-black sherbet. She’d checked the pump and the drugs herself, but it wouldn’t matter what was flowing through her veins if the cocoon’s thermostat went awry and she dropped all the way to the ambient temperature.
Gustave had promised that she’d be euphoric as her consciousness slipped away, but he would have told her anything to keep her from backing out. What finally took the edge off her panic was simply a deadening of her senses, an absence of signals from her body much like the onset of ordinary sleep.
As the darkness behind her eyes deepened, Camille looked down from on high and pictured the journey to come: her slow spiral out to Ceres, the hundred gentle nudges, the thousand days slipping by in silence. Her fear was gone; all she felt now was grief and shame. Her escape was a fait accompli, but the fight would go on without her.
2
“We have a rider,” Anna’s Assistant declared.
“Show me.” Anna accepted the overlay and stared at the infrared image of the cargo sheath. The green-tinged blotch stood out clearly against the square of blue—but the legend putting numbers to hues showed that the difference in temperature between the two was only a fraction of a degree.
“How long to recovery?” she asked.
“We should be able to detach the life support structure and get it to an airlock within forty-five minutes. I’ve notified the medical team.”
Anna switched views to a traffic control map of the port. The tug that had imaged the rider was now ferrying the cube of basalt down to a powered orbit that would allow it to hover just a few hundred metres above the surface. Two specialised extraction robots were already waiting outside the nearest airlock, ready to rise up and do their work. The tugs’ automated checks were usually reliable, but Anna’s skin crawled at the thought of what might have happened if the rider had been missed. The pods were meant to activate radio beacons and start heating up to human-friendly temperatures once they were close to their destination, but before it was understood that they sometimes failed to do that, three riders had b
een crushed to death by machinery meant for handling much more robust cargo.
Anna rearranged herself restlessly in her hammock, then made a decision and pulled herself free. “I’m going to meet the medical team by the airlock,” she told her Assistant as she started down the corridor, dragging herself along the guide rope until she could build up enough velocity to glide. The protocol did not require her presence, but she was responsible for the recovery, and it did not feel right to loll around her office while this person’s life was still in the balance.
The grey stone walls flew past her: Vestan rock, all of it. People dawdled in the corridor, chatting, scowling at her unseemly haste. Anna grabbed the rope to correct her downwards drift and replenish her speed. “How’s the extraction going?” she asked her Assistant.
“The robots are in situ, but still assessing the structure.”
“What about the medical team?”
“They should be at the airlock in about ten minutes.”
When Anna arrived, the team was setting up their equipment. Her Assistant made the introductions, putting names to the three faces; Anna merely nodded a greeting.
“Your first rider?” Pyotr asked, a little amused that the port’s director had chosen to join him and his colleagues.
“Yes.” Anna didn’t think she owed him an explanation, but she wanted to make it clear that she was here to learn, not to interfere. “Six days into the job, there are still a lot of firsts.”
“This is routine now,” Pyotr assured her. “And so long as we spot the pods, ice-cream scoops tend to do better than wrigglers.” Anna hadn’t come across this terminology before, but she resisted the urge to express an opinion on it. “I’ve been telling people to try to get the word back to Vesta about that,” Pyotr added, with a note of frustration. “Everything about the process is a thousand times safer in a hospital bed than it is in deep space. They should just start up the beacon and leave the rest to us.”
“It’s a long pipeline,” Anna replied. Even if the advice was heeded, it would take years to have any effect on the state of new arrivals. But it would also take a lot of faith in your rescuers, to relinquish the one trace of autonomy that remained when you consigned yourself to the journey.
The robots began detaching the pod. Anna watched the overlays, sharing the machines’ vision as one sliced through the cargo sheath and the other gripped the opaque cylinder. Synthetic imagery blossomed over the ordinary multispectral visuals, as ultrasound echoes built up a map of stresses in the pod walls and MRI tomography revealed the intact pressure suit and the living form within. Anna’s attention skated over most of the data screed, but the layperson’s summaries of the blood proteins suggested that the rider had suffered no life support glitches or adverse health events.
The robot holding the pod rose up from the cargo block, but even in transit it kept working: a bright red gash grew lengthwise along the cylinder, the heat signature of a laser cutting through the wall. By the time Anna heard the faint thump of arrival above her and the hum of the airlock’s outer door opening, the outline of a rectangular aperture was all but complete.
The robot lowered the pod gently into the airlock and retreated. Anna dismissed the overlays and looked across the vestibule as Pyotr, Alex and Elena gathered around the inner door. Air sighed into the vacuum of the lock, a long, slow exhalation.
When the door slid open Alex stepped inside and manoeuvred the pod out, bear-hugging it from behind. Anchored to the floor with geckoed soles, he held the pod still while Pyotr cut through the final centimetre that was keeping the pane of white plastic in place, then lifted it away with a suction pad. Anna grabbed a guide rope and raised herself up to a better vantage point.
Elena attached a probe to the exterior of the rider’s suit, then after about a minute reached an assessment and began unscrewing the bolts that held the helmet in place.
Between the three busy figures obscuring the view, Anna caught glimpses of a young man’s face. The closed eyes appeared gluey; there was no visible exudation, but the lids were oddly wrinkled in a way that ought not have persisted had they been free to smooth themselves out. The man’s hollow cheeks bore what looked like two or three days’ worth of dark stubble, which seemed eerier than the Rip Van Winkle beard that such a journey should have allowed. The drugs and the cold had slowed his metabolism to the point where an intravenous recycler with a single fuel cell and a kilogram of top-up supplies had been enough to keep him alive for three years—but though he might not have taken a breath since Vesta, time hadn’t stopped for him entirely.
Anna felt a pang of unease at her voyeurism; she let herself drop towards the floor and turned her gaze aside. After a few minutes, the team extracted the man from the pod and laid him on the life-support gurney they’d brought. He was still in his suit, but one sleeve had been cut off. Elena attached a new tube to the port strapped to her patient’s elbow, and a pump inside the gurney began to whir.
Pyotr approached Anna. “It looks as if he’s going to be fine. His dosimeter shows that he stayed well-shielded, and there’s no sign of clots or ischaemia. But we’ll get him to the hospital and do a full investigation.”
“How long until he wakes?”
“A couple of days. It’s safer to take it slowly.”
“Right.” She reached out and shook his hand. “Thank you.”
Pyotr smiled. “You’re welcome, Madam Director.”
Anna raised a hand in farewell to the rest of the team, then turned and left them to their work. Perhaps she’d deserved Pyotr’s gentle mockery: her presence had contributed nothing. But until the day came when the port was placed entirely in the hands of machines, she was the token human in the loop. She was paying a third of her income for the privilege; if she wasn’t going to take the job seriously there was no point doing it at all.
3
“Freeloader,” someone muttered. Not loudly, but they’d leant close enough to Camille’s ear to leave her in no doubt that the insult was meant for her.
She looked around the crowd of students squeezing their way out of the lecture theatre. One man, ahead of her in the throng, glanced back at her and met her gaze disdainfully before turning away.
“What did you call me?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the chatter, but not enough to make a scene. The man offered no reply, and after a moment he pushed his way forward out of sight.
Olivier touched her elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“No.”
Camille repeated the word. Just saying it made her uncomfortable. Olivier grimaced with disdain. “Forget it.”
“It’s Denison’s term,” she replied. “And now people are using it.”
“Denison’s a crackpot. No one takes him seriously.”
“Except the ones who do.” Camille’s skin went cold. “I’ve never spoken to that man in my life! How does he know who my great-great-grandparents were?”
Olivier was silent.
“How?” Camille pressed him. If he’d had no idea, he would have said so immediately.
“Let’s get some food,” he suggested.
In the cafeteria, Olivier showed her the aug, putting up the description in a shared overlay. “It estimates someone’s degree of relatedness to each founder, based on facial metrics. But it’s been around for years; it’s got nothing to do with Denison.”
Camille scrolled through to the available add-ons. “Except now you can tweak it to label anyone in sight who has more than fifty percent of their ancestors from the Sivadier syndicate.”
Olivier spread his hands. “Yes. And there are augs that label anyone in sight who matches the user’s aesthetic predilections—lest a potential object of desire slip past in a moment of inattention. If you’re going to judge the whole of Vesta by the crassest augs on offer, you might as well slit your wrists right now.”
Camille was unswayed. “Have you read The New Dispensation?”
“I skimme
d it,” Olivier confessed. “It was so stupid that I lost patience halfway through.”
Camille had seen eccentric rants on all sorts of issues blaze into prominence and then fade back to obscurity, but six months on, Denison’s manifesto still hadn’t gone the way of most viral pap. When Vesta had been colonised, the founders had agreed that all of their offspring would share equally in the wealth that came from the enterprise. But while the other syndicates had contributed tangible assets—the ships that carried the colonists, the robots that dug the first settlements and mines—the Sivadiers had brought expertise and intellectual property. The other founders had apparently valued these things highly enough to welcome their colleagues on equal terms, but in Denison’s version of history it was a partnership built on extortion. How could it be fair that Isabelle Sivadier and her cronies had wheedled their way into the deal with nothing but their rent-seeking stranglehold on certain mining techniques, while everyone else had paid their share in the honest currency of tonnes conveyed to orbit?
“Do you remember the last line?” she asked.
Olivier shook his head.
“‘It’s time for the Sivadiers to repay their debt. With interest.’”
“And he’s going to make this happen…how?” Olivier put on his best tough-guy scowl. “Hey Denison: you and whose army?”
“You and whose accountants,” Camille corrected him.
He laughed. “Yeah.” He leant across the table and kissed her.
The table buzzed in complaint until Olivier took his elbows away so the serving hatch could open; their meals rose up, steaming and aromatic. As Camille slid her plate closer, she thought: No one’s going to tear up the contract that’s defined this world for more than a century. And no one’s going to take the food out of my mouth because I belong to the wrong family.
