Relativity

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Once inside, Jo stood in front of the glass case containing the duplicate, while Trista walked around the case, taking pictures of the duplicate’s engraved surface with her pocketbrain. When she was finished, something apparently caught her eye. “Look!” she crowed, pointing to the adjacent glass case. “There it is—taken apart, but there it is!”

  Jo glanced at the other case and laughed. “Those are just retired bands.”

  Trista made a perplexed frown. “Like the Barenaked Ladies?”

  “No. Bands from the original trophy. It always consists of the cup on top and five circular bands forming the cylindrical body.” He pointed back at the mockup. “See? Each of the five bands has room for listing the members of thirteen winning teams. When they fill the last spot on the bottom band, they retire the top one, slide the other four up, and add a new band. Those bands in that other case are the ones that have already been removed.”

  Karen took some pictures of the retired bands, then looked back at the mockup, peering at its base. “But the last band on the trophy is already full,” she said.

  Jo nodded. “That’s right. They’re going to have to retire the top band this year and start a new one.” He paused. “Seen enough?”

  Trista nodded. They exited, crossed the street, and waited for their car to come get them. With the Gardiner buried, it was easy to see the Central Nanotechnology Tower on the lakeshore, but there was no point going up to the observation deck anymore. Jo shook his head; he was old enough to remember when the city’s nickname had been Hogtown, not Smogtown.

  The car took them north on Yonge Street, the toll being debited automatically. It had been ten years since GTA amalgamation, combining Toronto with everything from Mississauga to Oshawa. Still, the stolen trophy had to be somewhere inside the supercity’s borders; like every other North American metropolis, T.O. was surrounded by security checkpoints, and something as big as the Stanley Cup couldn’t have been smuggled out.

  On their left now was the Eaton Centre. Jo’s sister had a condominium there, in what had once been a Grand & Toy store; with most people shopping online these days, there was little need for big malls. As they continued up Yonge, the towers of Ryerson—“the Harvard of the North,” as CNNMSNBC had recently dubbed it—were visible off to the right. Jo watched the landscape going by—a succession of Krispy Kreme donut shops, pot bars, and licensed bordellos. Karen, meanwhile, had her pocketbrain out and was staring at its screen, studying the pictures she’d taken earlier.

  Their car turned right onto Carleton, heading towards Maple Leaf Gardens—a historic site, which perhaps might hold a clue—when suddenly Trista looked up from her screen. “No! Car, turn around—head to University Avenue, and then go south.”

  Jo looked at his partner. “What’s up?”

  “I think I know where the Stanley Cup is.”

  “Where?”

  Trista brought up a map of downtown Toronto on her pocketbrain and showed it to him. “Right there,” she said, tapping a spot on the screen.

  “Oh, come on!” said Jo. “Why would they want it?”

  “Did you see what was on that band they’re going to retire this year?”

  “Thirteen old winning teams,” said Jo.

  “Yes—but which teams?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She brought up one of the images she’d taken of the duplicate trophy. “The winners from 1953 to 1965.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ve read what’s on all the bands now, including the retired ones. The band they’re about to remove lists the only five-wins-in-a-row Stanley Cup champions.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. See? From 1956 through 1960, Montreal won the Stanley Cup every single year, and—”

  Jo got it in a flash. “And there’s no way a sovereign Quebec would let the band commemorating that be archived at the Hockey Hall of Fame, which is on Canadian soil. But the Quebec Consulate—”

  “Exactly!” said Trista. “The Quebec Consulate is technically Quebecois soil.”

  Jo frowned. “But we don’t have any jurisdiction on the consulate grounds.”

  “I know,” said Trista. “It’ll take some political wrangling between Ottawa and Quebec.”

  “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose,” said Jo.

  “What’s that mean?” asked Trista. She was young enough that she hadn’t had to study French in school.

  Jo looked out the car’s window as they turned onto University, passing the statue of Mel Lastman. “The more things change,” he said, “the more they stay the same.”

  Relativity

  Mike Resnick edits a lot of anthologies, and I’m always thrilled when he asks me to contribute to one of them. In 2003, he did a pair of fascinating books for DAW entitled Men Writing Science Fiction as Women and Women Writing Science Fiction as Men. Mike said I could only be in the first, as I was “biologically disqualified” from the second.

  I’ve always been fascinated by time dilation and relationships (one of my all-time favorite SF stories is John Varley’s “The Pusher”) and so “Relativity”—the title piece for this collection—was born.

  I’m rather happy with the way the story turned out, but whenever I look at the anthology it originally appeared in, I feel a pang of sadness. One of my best writing friends, Robyn Herrington, contributed to Women Writing Science Fiction as Men. She had been mentored through her career by both me and Mike, and we both loved her a lot. Sadly, though, on May 3, 2004, shortly after her story was published, she passed away after a two-year battle with cancer. I’ll always miss her.

  You can’t have brothers without being familiar with Planet of the Apes. I’m not talking about the “re-imaging” done by Tim Burton, apparently much ballyhooed in its day, but the Franklin J. Schaffner original—the one that’s stood the test of time, the one that, even a hundred years after it was made, boys still watch.

  Of course, one of the reasons boys enjoy it is it’s very much a guy film. Oh, there had been a female astronaut along for the ride with Chuck Heston, but she died during the long space voyage, leaving just three macho men to meet the simians. The woman ended up a hideous corpse when her suspended-animation chamber failed, and even her name—“Stewart”—served to desexualize her.

  Me, I liked the old Alien films better. Ellen Ripley was a survivor, a fighter. But, in a way, those movies were a cheat, too. When you got right down to it, Sigourney Weaver was playing a man—and you couldn’t even say, as one of my favorite (female) writers does, that she was playing “a man with tits and hips”—’cause ole Sigourney, she really didn’t have much of either. Me, I’ve got not enough of one and too much of the other.

  I’d had time to watch all five Apes films, all four Alien films, and hundreds of other movies during my long voyage out to Athena, and during the year I’d spent exploring that rose-colored world. Never saw an ape, or anything that grabbed onto my face or burst out of my chest—but I did make lots of interesting discoveries that I’m sure I’ll be spending the rest of my life telling the people of Earth about.

  And now, I had just about finished the long voyage home. Despite what had happened to Apes’s Stewart, I envied her her suspended-animation chamber. After all, the voyage back from Athena had taken three long years.

  It was an odd thing, being a spacer. My grandfather used to talk about people “going postal” and killing everyone around them. At least the United States Postal Service had lasted long enough to see that term retired, in favor of “going Martian.”

  That had been an ugly event. The first manned—why isn’t there a good non-sexist word for that? Why does “crewed” have to be a homonym for “crude”? Anyway, the first manned mission to Mars had ended up being a bloodbath; the ebook about it—The Red Planet—had been the most popular download for over a year.

  That little experiment in human psychology finally taught NASA what the reality television shows of a generation earlier had failed to: that you can’t force a bun
ch of alpha males—or alpha females, for that matter—together, under high-pressure circumstances, and expect everything to go fine. Ever since then, manned—that damn word again—spaceflight had involved only individual astronauts, a single human to watch over the dumb robotic probes and react to unforeseen circumstances.

  When I said “single human” a moment ago, maybe you thought I meant “unmarried.” Sure, it would seem to make sense that they’d pick a loner for this kind of job, some asocial bookworm—hey, do you remember when books were paper and worms weren’t computer viruses?

  But that didn’t work, either. Those sorts of people finally went stir-crazy in space, mostly because of overwhelming regret. They’d never been married, never had kids. While on Earth, they could always delude themselves into thinking that someday they might do those things, but, when there’s not another human being for light-years around, they had to face bitter reality.

  And so NASA started sending out—well, color me surprised: more sexism! There’s a term “family man” that everyone understands, but there’s no corresponding “family woman,” or a neutral “family person.” But that’s what I was: a family woman—a woman with a husband and children, a woman devoted to her family.

  And yet…

  And yet my children were grown. Sarah was nineteen when I’d left Earth, and Jacob almost eighteen.

  And my husband, Greg? He’d been forty-two, like me. But we’d endured being apart before. Greg was a paleoanthropologist. Three, four months each year, he was in South Africa. I’d gone along once, early in our marriage, but that was before the kids.

  Damn ramscoop caused enough radio noise that communication with Earth was impossible. I wondered what kind of greeting I’d get from my family when I finally returned.

  “You’re going where?” Greg always did have a flair for the dramatic.

  “Athena,” I said, watching him pace across our living room. “It’s the fourth planet of—”

  “I know what it is, for Pete’s sake. How long will the trip take?”

  “Total, including time on the planet? Seven years. Three out, one exploring, and three back.”

  “Seven years!”

  “Yes,” I said. Then, averting my eyes, I added, “From my point of view.”

  “What do you mean, ‘From your point…?’ Oh. Oh, crap. And how long will it be from my point of view?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Thirty! Thirty! Thirty…”

  “Just think of it, honey,” I said, getting up from the couch. “When I return, you’ll have a trophy wife, twenty-three years your junior.”

  I’d hoped he would laugh at that. But he didn’t. Nor did he waste any time getting to the heart of the matter. “You don’t seriously expect me to wait for you, do you?”

  I sighed. “I don’t expect anything. All I know is that I can’t turn this down.”

  “You’ve got a family. You’ve got kids.”

  “Lots of people go years without seeing their kids. Sarah and Jacob will be fine.”

  “And what about me?”

  I draped my arms around his neck, but his back was as stiff as a rocket. “You’ll be fine, too” I said.

  So am I a bad mother? I certainly wasn’t a bad one when I’d been on Earth. I’d been there for every school play, every soccer game. I’d read to Sarah and Jacob, and taught Sarah to cook. Not that she needed to know how: instant food was all most people ever ate. But she liked to cook, and I did, too, and to hell with the fact that it was a traditional female thing to do.

  The mission planners thought they were good psychologists. They’d taken holograms of Jacob and Sarah just before I’d left, and had computer-aged them three decades, in hopes of preparing me for how they’d look when we were reunited. But I’d only ever seen such things in association with missing children and their abductors, and looking at them—looking at a Sarah who was older now than I myself was, with a lined face and gray in her hair and angle brackets at the corners of her eyes—made me worry about all the things that could have happened to my kids in my absence.

  Jacob might have had to go and fight in some goddamned war. Sarah might have, too—they drafted women for all positions, of course, but she was older than Jacob, and the president always sent the youngest children off to die first.

  Sarah could have had any number of kids by now. She’d been going to school in Canada when I left, and the ZPG laws—the zed-pee-gee laws, as they called them up there—didn’t apply in that country. And those kids—

  Those kids, my grandkids, could be older now than my own kids had been when I’d left them behind. I’d wanted to have it all: husband, kids, career, the stars. And I’d come darn close—but I’d almost certainly missed out on one of the great pleasures of life, playing with and spoiling grandchildren.

  Of course, Sarah and Jacob’s kids might have had kids of their own by now, which would make me their…

  Oh, my.

  Their great-grandmother. At a biological age of 49 when I return to Earth, maybe that would qualify me for a listing in Guinness eBook of Solar System Records.

  Just what I need.

  There’s no actual border to the solar system—it just sort of peters out, maybe a light year from the sun, when you find the last cometary nucleus that’s gravitationally bound to Sol. So the official border—the point at which you were considered to be within solar space, for the purpose of Earth’s laws—was a distance of 49.7 AU from the sun, the maximal radius of Pluto’s orbit. Pluto’s orbit was inclined more than 17 degrees to the ecliptic, but I was coming in at an even sharper angle. Still, when the ship’s computer informed me that I’d passed that magic figure—that I was now less than 49.7 times the radius of Earth’s orbit from the sun—I knew I was in the home stretch.

  I’d be a hero, no doubt about that (and, no, not a heroine, thank you very much). I’d be a celebrity. I’d be on TV—or whatever had replaced TV in my absence.

  But would I still be a wife? A mother?

  I looked at the computer-generated map. Getting closer all the time…

  You might think the idea of being an old-fashioned astronaut was an oxymoron. But consider history. John Glenn, he was right out of Norman Rockwell’s U. S. of A., and he’d gone into space not once but twice, with a sojourn in Washington in between. As an astronaut, he’d been on the cutting edge. As a man, he was conservative and family-centered; if he’d run for the presidency, he’d probably have won.

  Well, I guess I’m an old-fashioned astronaut, too. I mean, sure, Greg had spent months each year away from home, while I raised the kids in Cocoa Beach and worked at the Kennedy Space Center (my whole CV could be reduced to initials: part-time jobs at KFC while going to university, then full-time work at KSC: from finger-lickin’ good to giant leaps for…well, for you know who).

  When Greg was in South Africa, he searched for Australopithecus africanus and Homo sterkfonteinensis fossils. Of course, a succession of comely young coeds (one of my favorite Scrabble words—nobody knew it anymore) had accompanied him there. And Greg would argue that it was just human nature, just his genes, that had led him to bed as many of them as possible. Not that he’d ever confessed. But a woman could tell.

  Me, I’d never strayed. Even with all the beefcake at the Cape—my cape, not his—I’d always been faithful to him. And he had to know that I’d been alone these last seven—these last thirty—years.

  God, I miss him. I miss everything about him: the smell of his sweat, the roughness of his cheek late in the day, the way his eyes had always watched me when I was undressing.

  But did he miss me? Did he even remember me?

  The ship was decelerating, of course. That meant that what had been my floor up until the journey’s halfway point was now my ceiling—my world turned upside down.

  Earth loomed.

  I wasn’t going to dock with any of the space stations orbiting Earth. After all, technology kept advancing, and there was no reason for them to keep thirty-year-old a
dapter technology around just for the benefit of those of us who’d gone on extrasolar missions. No, my ship, the Astarte—“Ah-star-tee,” as I kept having to remind Greg, who found it funny to call it the Ass Tart—had its own planetary lander, the same one that had taken me down to Athena’s surface, four years ago by my calendar.

  I’d shut down the ramjet now and had entered radio communication with Houston, although no one was on hand that I knew; they’d all retired. Still, you would have thought someone might have come by especially for this. NASA put Phileas Fogg to shame when it came to keeping on schedule (yeah, I’d had time to read all the classics in addition to watching all those movies). I could have asked about my husband, about my daughter and son, but I didn’t. Landing took all my piloting skills, and all my concentration. If they weren’t going to be waiting for me at Edwards, I didn’t want to know about it until I was safely back on mother Earth.

  I fired retros, deorbited, and watched through the lander’s sheet-diamond windows as flames flew past. All of California was still there, I was pleased to see; I’d been worried that a big hunk of it might have slid into the Pacific in my absence.

  Just like a big hunk of my life might have—

  No! Concentrate, Cathy. Concentrate. You can worry about all that later.

  And, at last, I touched down vertically, in the center of the long runway that stretched across Roger’s Dry Lake.

  I had landed.

  But was I home?

  Greg looked old.

  I couldn’t believe it. He’d studied ancient man, and now he’d become one.

  Seventy-two.

  Some men still looked good at that age: youthful, virile. Others—apparently despite all the medical treatments available in what I realized with a start was now the 22nd century—looked like they had one foot in the grave.

  Greg was staring at me, and—God help me—I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Welcome back, Cath,” he said.

  Cath. He always called me that; the robot probes always referred to me as Cathy. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the shorter version.