Asimov's SF, October-November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  For an instant, Rabiah's wondrous body drifted before Ferrum's eyes.

  Then the man continued, pointing out, “In another month, countless people are going to look through these telescopes and see the sky in a new way. Everyone will witness the Night in its full glory. Unless of course you're unfortunate enough to be stuck on the Wax Islands or the Gray Continent."

  Those bits of land were on the far, daylight side of the world.

  “I agree with you, Ferrum. Intellectually, yes, we know exactly what the Night brings. But if you study history as I have ... well, there's only one conclusion: Each Day brings its revolution."

  “Because we expect change.” In a charitable mood, Ferrum would concede this point. “Self-fulfilling prophecies."

  But his companion dismissed that easy answer.

  “Do you think something mystical is at work here?” Ferrum asked. “Do you believe in an Almighty hand?"

  “What I believe..."

  Then the wind gusted, and the voice hesitated.

  Ferrum looked over his shoulder, tired of their game.

  “Explanations don't matter much,” the fellow claimed. “I accept the possibility that one of our Gods, or even some unrecognized scientific principle, might be at work. But mostly, I believe everything changes because nothing can stay the same.” The smile was joyous, the eyes grim. “It is the nature of people. Of history and our world. The old must be swept aside, my friend. And what better place to begin than with the Dawn?"

  * * * *

  Ten millions years ago, an elderly shield volcano choked on its own magma, and moments later, a single titanic blast flung rock and dust across the sky. The surrounding countryside was scorched and then buried. Every end of the world saw the sun grow dim, and no doubt there were places where a different Night held sway, too little light finding its way down to hungry leaves and a billion blind, terrified eyes. The resulting winter would have been sudden and years in duration. Countless species must have gone extinct, while others prospered in the ripe chaos. But then the rich dusts finally fell to the ground, and the climate found its new balance, and with the patient hands of wind and rain, the remains of that gutted volcano were gradually carried away.

  What remained was a ring of dark mountains, and in the middle, a plain as round as a coin and as flat. The mountains helped keep the country too dry for crops or trees, and most importantly, those rounded peaks practically guaranteed that the skies would remain free of clouds. A few towns were scattered across the wide emptiness—just enough to supply food and water to the crowds coming from the cities. Every little highway was jammed with cars. The sun was high and bright, and driving out onto the plain, Ferrum understood why Rabiah's tribe had picked this location. He was thinking about the evening to come, anticipation pushing aside every lesser emotion. But then Rabiah said proudly, “Do you know who picked this site for us?"

  “Your cousin,” he guessed.

  “I have quite a few cousins,” Rabiah reminded him. “But it was Ocher, yes. Of course it was."

  “The cheating husband,” he muttered.

  “Why don't you ever say his name?"

  Ferrum replied with a thoughtful silence, and then asked, “How much farther?"

  They arrived at the designated location in the early afternoon. Where a volcanic crater once stood, more than a thousand strangers were building a busy, temporary city. Men were pitching colorful tents, setting up long tables, and testing the fires in a hundred big camp stoves. Women were chatting happily, sweeping out the tents and assembling the beginnings of the evening feast. Children seemed to be everywhere, and Ferrum was glad to see them: The adults used their mother tongue, but the youngsters screamed and complained in the language he knew.

  Ferrum had met Rabiah's parents, but it took him a few moments to recognize them now. Instead of the drab clothes of business people, they were dressed in the brilliant robes of their desert tradition, and instead of being reserved for the sake of propriety, they were outgoing, even giddy. They greeted both their daughter and her boyfriend with warm hands and quick kisses. “I was afraid you were going to miss all this,” the mother confessed. Her voice was very much like her daughter's, but slowed by an accent that made her words difficult to understand. Turning to Ferrum, she asked, “Did you have trouble finding us?"

  Ferrum didn't want to mention oversleeping, since that might bring up the matter of sharing one bed. So he offered a simple, pragmatic lie. “It's my fault. I took a wrong turn at Damp Sand."

  “You did not,” Rabiah snapped.

  Ferrum hesitated.

  “We were up late watching the sky,” Rabiah confessed.

  The mother's eyes twinkled. “More than just sky-watching, I hope."

  With a dismissive gesture, Rabiah said, “He did just enough for me. Yes."

  Then both women broke into a hard, shared laugh.

  Ferrum was embarrassed. He dipped his head while looking at the father, trying to read emotions that hid behind a broad, painfully polite smile.

  When he and Rabiah were alone again, he asked, “Why did you say that?"

  “What did I say?” she replied. And then, as if suddenly understanding the simple question, she added, “My parents are thrilled to have a responsible man in their little girl's life. In fact, I think they adore you. At least a little bit."

  “Adore me?"

  “As long as you keep me happy, they will."

  But Rabiah's happiness was never easy, and to make matters worse, Ferrum had the impression that his own feelings, good or lousy, were inconsequential when it came to their relationship.

  The remains of that afternoon brought introductions to cousins and aunts and family friends, plus people who Rabiah didn't know but who felt curious about this fellow of hers. Almost every name offered was forgotten before the introduction was finished. A hundred polite conversations ended in uncomfortable silence. Soon the faces surrounding Ferrum looked much the same, and he found himself thinking about inbreeding and other uncharitable possibilities.

  The feast proved amazing, and miserable. By convention, young men shared the same long tables while the single women were safe at the far end of the field. Strangers filled the pillows beside Ferrum. Most were conversant in his language but few were willing to use it. Foods he had tasted on occasion were suddenly heaped high on his platter-sized plate, every bite laced with spiced salts that burned his mouth and throat, and later, his belly. When the feast was finished, he lugged his swollen carcass to a large black tent that Rabiah had pointed out earlier. “I'll meet you there,” she had promised. But standing in the tent's long shadow, it occurred to Ferrum that his lover hadn't specified an exact time for this meeting. Where was she? Was that her standing over there? But no, Rabiah had been wearing trousers and a simple blouse, while most young women were showing off the gaudy dresses of their home country, legs and arms and the long elegant necks covered with jewelry, their feet balanced on impossibly delicate shoes.

  She was testing him, Ferrum hoped.

  Because every other possibility seemed more awful.

  Suddenly a pair of young men approached. They wore smiles and tool belts, and the nearest fellow called to him by name before saying, “Come with us."

  “Where to?” Ferrum asked.

  “Over there,” he said with a wave. “She told us you would help us."

  “You mean Rabiah?"

  Just mentioning the name made both strangers laugh. Then the second man, wrestling with the unfamiliar language, said, “Come. Help."

  “With what?"

  “The show!” the first man shouted. “We are slow. We need cool hands, please."

  Ferrum followed them through the noisy, happy crowd. He couldn't see how he might help, but at least he wasn't standing in one place, waiting for a woman who might never appear again.

  “Have I met you already?” he asked the first man.

  That deserved another laugh.

  “I'm sorry,” Ferrum continued. “I don't
remember names—"

  “Rabiah,” the man interrupted.

  “Excuse me?"

  The stranger stopped and turned, and with his pleasure receding into some other emotion, he said, “You are lucky. Very lucky, you know."

  “In what way?"

  The second stranger asked a question of his companion.

  An answer was offered—an impatient bark of syllables. And then the first stranger turned back to Ferrum, regarding him with a careful gaze before saying, “Or maybe you are not fortunate. Too soon to say, maybe."

  Again, the three men walked on. Eventually they fell into the open, and later, far from the celebratory racket, they were standing on a flat-topped little knoll. Suddenly Ferrum understood what was happening, and after a lot of consideration, he still didn't approve. But what else could he do? Perhaps twenty other men were busy with this very important work. Rare skills were on display. What Ferrum was qualified to do was uncoil the new copper wires while walking quickly from place to place. It would be best if the job was finished before evening, and the men were thankful for his help. After a while, there was an odd moment when Ferrum completely forgot his old objections. He discovered that he was enjoying this uncoiling and stretching of the wires, and later, the careful planting of long tubes. Then a gentleman that he didn't know smiled at him and said, “Good,” and Ferrum's reaction was to smile back and bow a little, saying, “Thank you,” with relish.

  The sun set before they were finished.

  Once, then again, older men approached to complain, mentioning the time remaining and the sorry state of affairs. But the full moon made their work easy enough, and they were done even before the world's slow shadow began to obliterate the sky's brightest light.

  Ferrum joyfully accepted the thanks of his new friends, and then he returned alone to the black tent, imagining Rabiah waiting for him. But the tent had been moved or dismantled, and his lover was still missing. Where could she be? He walked about the camp, searching for everything that was lost. He wanted to retreat to the car and grab his telescope, but there wasn't much time left. The moon was already half-consumed, the Sullen Sisters hovering close to its left limb. Ferrum spent a few moments listing the ways that the woman had made his life miserable, and then he stopped walking, closing his eyes while wishing he was anywhere else in the world.

  Somebody called his name.

  Ferrum turned and opened his eyes, finding a familiar face, and then that face said to him, “You look so very unhappy."

  “Hello, Ocher."

  “I know where we can find a good telescope,” the old man mentioned. “But we don't have very much time. This way, please."

  And without hesitation, Ferrum fell in beside his newest friend.

  * * * *

  Ocher's telescope was set on flat ground outside the campground. It was no hunter's tool meant to search for herds of poor-lillies and fat blackbottoms, but instead it was a precise astronomical instrument with three heavy legs and a broad mirror, tiny gears and motors moving the tube along the same course that the sky took. Ferrum's long first look showed him the brilliant snows of the moon's southern pole—a frigid terrain famous for killing the only explorers to ever set foot on it—and then the world's shadow fell over that wasteland, a rainbow flash marking the sunlight as it passed through the same air he was now breathing in gulps.

  “Did you hear?” Ocher asked. “It is raining at home."

  He looked up from the eyepiece. “Now?"

  “A colleague called me with the sad news,” his companion allowed. “A squall line is sweeping out of the west. Probably gone before sunrise, but there's going to be a lot of angry souls in its wake."

  Ferrum imagined hundreds of novice astronomers standing beside that expensive, useless telescope, faces glistening with the rain, every sorry voice screaming at the profoundly unfair sky.

  His personal gloom began to lift, just a little.

  The moon was soon immersed in the night.

  Ocher pulled a small timepiece from his shirt pocket, adjusted his telescope's aim and then stepped back again. “If you wish, watch the Sisters vanish."

  “Don't you want to?"

  “Oh, I'm not being generous,” said Ocher. “I just want my eyes kept in the dark, to help them adapt."

  Those distant suns looked like twin gemstones, brilliant but cold. Ferrum's vision blurred, but he watched carefully as the lightless bulk of another world rose to meet them. Then thin dry atmosphere made one flicker, then the other, and then the first Sister touched the rim of a crater, and it vanished.

  “I hope she's watching,” Ferrum muttered.

  “I am sure she is,” Ocher promised. Then he made a low sound, as if intending to say something else ... or ask his own question, perhaps ... but that's when the final Sister plunged out of sight, and the lightless air was filled with gasps and exclamations, old prayers and inarticulate screams as old as their species.

  The Night had come.

  Ferrum jumped back from the telescope.

  Like a startled animal, he looked up. His eyes chose a random line, and after wiping the eyes dry, he stared as hard as he could into the new sky. But what was he seeing? Somehow his mind had forgotten a thousand lessons of science, and for that delicious moment, he felt scared and happy, and confused, and absolutely enthralled. There was nothing to see; there was nothing but black upon black. That was because there was nothing there. Except for the Sisters and their own sun, the universe was devoid of meaningful light. Eyes a thousand times stronger than Ferrum's would do no better. Only mirrors that were a billion times more powerful could work, and then only when thrown high above the world's atmosphere ... and even the luckiest of those telescopes would gather in nothing but a few weak photons—odd travelers from regions too distant and ancient to resolve with any confidence whatsoever.

  This was the Creation, utterly empty and divinely cold.

  Save for this one tiny realm, of course.

  “Where is that girl?” he growled.

  “Standing directly behind you,” said Rabiah, her deep voice laughing.

  Then despite telling himself not to, Ferrum turned, ignoring the sky in order to reach out and grab a body and face that he knew better than he knew anything, including his own sloppy pounding heart.

  * * * *

  The three of them stood close together in the absolute Night.

  The hollering and chants in the camp gradually fell away, becoming gentle conversation and reflective silence, and at some imprecise point Ocher began to talk, using surprisingly few words to explain the basics of his life's work.

  “Has Rabiah told you?” he began. “I'm a failed scientist. I tried physics twice before falling into mathematics. But I'm very good with calculations, and my old school chums use me to test their ideas. ‘Do my equations balance, Ocher? Are they pretty? And are we telling the truth about the universe?’”

  “What about the universe?” Ferrum managed.

  “It is far larger than we can see,” the genius reported. “There is physical evidence to support that hypothesis. Microwave radiations. Exhausted particles from hot, bright places. Even the shape of the cold holds its clues.” He had a pleasant voice, smooth and almost musical at times. “The true universe is unimaginably grand, and it doesn't have to be as smooth and empty as we find it here. Hydrogen and helium can pull together, with help. Through simple probability, it can be shown that there must be regions full of suns and worlds like ours, and presumably, worlds very different from the handful that we know well.

  “But not our realm, no.

  “And so long as we think in small ways, this is where we will be trapped, and for all of our Days."

  A sudden shout interrupted the lecture. From the knoll where Ferrum had helped uncoil wire, someone shouted a single command ... and then, on that signal, a soft wet woosh could be heard.

  Ferrum saw red sparks rising in the darkness.

  Rabiah's warm hand slipped inside his grip, and now she lean
ed hard against him, waiting for a kiss.

  Then the first explosive was detonated above the flat barren plain—a bright greenish light that flung stars in every direction, accompanied by a host of bright sharp blasts.

  A cheer rose up with a wave of rockets.

  Rabiah had explained the tradition this way: In ancient times, the desert people were never caught unaware of the Night. Their open country was the best place to watch the sky, and when the heavens warned of darkness coming, scarce wood was piled high. When it was impossible to see, great bonfires were set ablaze. The tribes feared that the gods would forget what light was if none could be seen, and that was how people ensured that the Sullen Sisters would find their way to the other side of the moon.

  In recent times, bonfires gave way to more interesting pyrotechnics.

  Each wave of rockets was bigger than the last, and despite his doubts, Ferrum found himself spellbound. The colors; the noise; the wild patterns burning into his eyes: The show was spectacular and lovely, and thrilling, and he didn't mind that the darkness was being pushed away. He smelled the burnt powder and his own excitement, and he felt Rabiah's wonderful body pressing hard against him. When the fourth wave exploded, he looked into her face. When the fifth broke, he clumsily pawed her. Then came the sixth wave, and he thought to look for Ocher. Her one-time lover was standing beside his telescope, his hands on the tube but his gaze watching the nearer spectacle. Ferrum walked to him. Together, they watched the seventh salvo of rockets head skyward, and just before the carefully timed blasts, he put his mouth against the man's ear, asking, “What did you mean?"

  “Mean?” the man replied.

  Then neither could hear anything but the noisy rainbows flying overhead.

  When the rockets paused, Ferrum said, “If we think in small ways, we will be trapped?"

  “Yes,” said Ocher.

  “But what is a large way to think?"

  The eighth flight of rockets was the largest—a thunderous fleet of suicidal machines arcing higher and higher into the smoke-rich sky—and as they watched the grand ascent, Ocher said simply, “Space can be cut, if you know how. If you focus enough energy in the proper ways. And then a brave soul can leap across a trillion light-years in the time it takes one Night to pass."