Manifold: Origin

by Stephen Baxter

  Della said, "The geologists tell me that if the Red Moon stays in orbit around Earth, it is possible that the fault lines between Earth's tectonic plates such as the great Ring of Fire that surrounds the Pacific – will ultimately settle down to constant seismic activity. Constant. I can't begin to imagine what that will mean for us, for humanity. No doubt devastating long-term impacts on the Earth's climate, all that volcanic dust and ash and heat being pumped into the air... When I look into the future now, the only rational reaction is dread and fear."

  "People need to see that we are hitting back," Malenfant said. "That we are doing something."

  "Perhaps. That is the American way. The myth of action. But does our action hero have to be you, Malenfant? And what happens when you crash up there, or die of starvation, or burn up on re-entry? How will that play in the polls?"

  "Then you find another hero," Malenfant said stonily. "And you try again."

  "But even if you make it to the Moon, what will you find? You should know I've had several briefings in preparation for this meeting. One of them was with Dr. Julia Corneille, from the Department of Anthropology at the American Museum of Natural History. An old college friend, as it happens."

  "Anthropology?"

  "Actually Julia's specialty is paleoanthropology. Extinct homs, the lineage of human descent. You see the relevance."

  "Homs?"

  "Hominids." Della smiled. "Sorry. Field slang. You can tell I spent some time with Julia... She told me something of her life, her work in the field. Mostly out in the desert heartlands of Kenya."

  "Looking for fossils," Malenfant said.

  "Looking for fossils. People don't leave many fossils, Malenfant. And they don't just lie around. It took Julia years before she learned to pick them out, tiny specks against the soil. It's a tough place to work, harsh, terribly dry, a place where all the bushes have thorns on them... Fascinating story." She picked up the scrap of bone from her desk. "This was the first significant find Julia made. She told me she was engaged on another dig. She was walking one day along the bed of a dried-out river, when she happened to glance down... Well. It is a fragment of skull. A trace of a woman, of a species called Homo erectus. The Erectus were an intermediate form of human. They arose perhaps two million years ago, and became extinct a quarter-million years ago. They had bodies close to modern humans, but smaller brains – perhaps twice the size of chimps'. But they were phenomenally successful. They migrated out of Africa and covered the Old World, reaching as far as Java."

  Malenfant said dryly, "Fascinating, ma'am. And the significance –"

  "The significance is that the homs who rained out of the sky, on the day you lost your wife, Malenfant, appear to have been Homo erectus. Or a very similar type."

  There was a brief silence.

  "But if Erectus died out two hundred and fifty thousand years ago, what is he doing falling out of the sky?"

  "That is what you must find out, Malenfant, if your mission is approved. Think of it. What if there is a link between the homs of the Wheel and ancestral Erectus? Well, how can that be? What does it tell us of human evolution?" Della fingered her skull fragment longingly. "You know, we have spent billions seeking the aliens in the sky. But we were looking in the wrong place. The aliens aren't separated from us by distance, but by time. Here – " she said, holding out the bit of bone " – here is the alien, right here, calling to us from the past. But we have to infer everything about our ancestors from isolated bits of bone – the ancient homs' appearance, gait, behavior, social structure, language, culture, tool-making ability – everything we know, or we think we know about them. We can't even tell how many species there were, let alone how they lived, how they felt. You, on the other hand, might be able to view them directly." She smiled. "Even ask them. Think what it would mean."

  Malenfant began to see the pattern of the meeting. In her odd mix of hard-nosed skepticism at his mission plans, and wide-eyed wonder at what he might find up there, Della was groping her way towards a decision. His best tactic was surely to play straight.

  Nemoto had been listening coldly. She leaned forward. "Madam Vice-President. You want this Dr. Corneille to have a seat on the mission."

  Ah, Malenfant thought. Now we cut to the horse-trading.

  Della sat back in her rocker, hands settling over her belly. "Well, they sent geologists to the Moon on Apollo."

  "One geologist," said Malenfant. "Only after years of infighting. And Jack Schmitt was trained up for the job; he made sure he was, in fact. As far as I know there are no paleoanthropologists in the Astronaut Office."

  "Would there be room for a passenger?"

  Malenfant shook his head. "You've seen our schematics."

  Della tapped her desk, and brought up computer-graphic images of booster rockets and spaceplanes. "You are proposing to build a booster from Space Shuttle components."

  "Our Saturn V replacement, yes."

  "And you will glide down into the Red Moon's atmosphere in a – what is it?"

  "An X-38. It is a lifting body, the crew evacuation vehicle used on the Space Station. We will fit it out to keep us alive for the three-day trip. On the surface we will rendezvous with a package of small jets and boosters for the return journey, sent up separately. The whole mission design is based around a two-person crew. Madam Vice-President, we just couldn't cram in anybody else."

  "Not on the way out," Della said evenly. "Two out, three back. Isn't that your slogan, Malenfant?"

  "That's the whole idea, ma'am. And those outbound two have to be astronauts. The best scientist in the world will be no use on the Red Moon dead."

  "The same argument was used to keep scientists off Apollo." Della said.

  "But it is still valid."

  Nemoto said coldly, "The reality is that I must fly this mission because the Japanese funding depends on it. And Malenfant must fly the mission –"

  "Because the American public longs for him to go," Della sighed. "You're right, of course. If this mission is approved, then it will be you two sorry jerks who fly it."

  If. Malenfant allowed himself a flicker of hope.

  Nemoto seemed to be growing agitated. "Madam Vice-President, we must do this. If I may –" She leaned forward and unrolled her softscreen on Della's desktop.

  Della watched her blankly. Malenfant had no idea where this was leading.

  "There is evidence that similar events have touched human history before, evidence buried deep in our history and myths. Consider the story of Ezekiel, from the Old Testament: And when the living creatures went, the wheels went by them: and when the living creatures were lifted up from the Earth, the wheels were lifted up. Or consider a tale from the ancient Persian Gulf, about an animal endowed with reason called Oannes, who used to converse with men but took no food... and he gave them an insight into letters and sciences and every kind of art –"

  Shit, Malenfant thought.

  Della was keeping her face straight. "So is this your justification for a billion-dollar space mission? UFOs from the Bible?"

  Nemoto said, "My point is that the irruption of the Red Moon is the greatest event in modern human history. It will surely shape our future – as it has our past. The emergence of the primitive hominids from Malenfant's portal tells us that. This one event is the pivot on which history turns."

  "I feel I have enough on my plate without assuming responsibility for all human history."

  Nemoto subsided, angry, baffled.

  Della said bluntly, "However I do need to know why you are trying to kill yourselves."

  Malenfant bridled. "The mission profile –"

  "– is a death-trap. Come on, Malenfant; I've studied space missions before."

  Malenfant sat up straight, Navy style. "We don't have time not to buy the risks on this one, ma'am."

  "You're both obsessed enough to take those risks. That's clear enough. Nemoto I think I understand."

  "You do?"

  Della smiled at Nemoto. "Forgive me, dear.
Malenfant, she may be an enigma to you, but that's because she's young. She lost her family, her home. She wants revenge."

  Nemoto did not react to this.

  "But what about you, Malenfant?"

  "I lost my wife," he said angrily. "That's motive enough. With respect, ma'am."

  She nodded. "But you are grounded. Let me put it bluntly, because others will ask the same question many times before you get to the launch pad. Are you going back to space to find your wife? Or are you using Emma as a lever to get back into space?"

  Malenfant kept his face blank, his bearing upright. He wasn't about to lose his temper with the Vice-President of the United States. "I guess Joe Bridges has been talking to you."

  She drummed her fingers on her desk. "Actually he is pushing you, Malenfant. He wants you to fly your mission." She observed his surprise. "You didn't know that. You really don't know much about people, do you, Malenfant?"

  "Ma'am, with respect, does it matter? If I fly to the Red Moon, whatever my motives, I'll still serve your purposes." He eyed her. "Whatever they are."

  "Good answer." She turned again to her softscreen. "I'm going to sleep on this. Whether or not you bring back your wife, I do need you to bring us some good news, Malenfant. Oh, one more thing. Julia's ape-men falling from the sky... You should know there are a lot of people very angered at the interpretation that they might have anything to do with the origins of humankind."

  Malenfant grunted. "The crowd who think Darwin was an asshole."

  Della shrugged. "It's the times, Malenfant. Today only forty per cent of American schools teach evolution. I'm already coming under a lot of pressure from the religious groups over your mission, both from Washington and beyond."

  "Am I supposed to go to the Red Moon and convert the ape-men?"

  She said sternly, "Watch your public pronouncements. You will go with God, or not at all." She fingered the bit of hominid skull on her desk. "O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord."

  "Pardon?"

  "Our old friend Ezekiel. Chapter 37, verse 4. Good day."

  Emma Stoney

  There were bees that swarmed at sunset. Some of them stung, but you could brush them away, if you were careful. But there were other species which didn't sting, but which gathered at the corner of the mouth, or the eyes, or at the edge of wet wounds, apparently feeding on the fluids of the body.

  You couldn't relax, not for a minute.

  Uncounted days after her arrival, Emma woke to find an empty shelter.

  She threw off her parachute silk and crawled out of the shelter's rough opening. The sun was low, but it was strong, its warmth welcome on her face.

  Sally's hair was a tangled mess, her safari suit torn, bloody and filthy. Maxie clung to her leg. Sally was pointing towards the sun. "They're leaving."

  The Runners were walking away. They moved in their usual disorganized way, scattered over the plain in little groups. They seemed to be empty-handed. They had abandoned everything, in fact: their shelters, their tools. Just up and walked away, off to the east. Why?

  "They left us," Maxie moaned.

  A shadow passed over them, and Emma felt immediately cold. She glanced up at the deep sky. Cloud was driving over the sun.

  A flake touched her cheek.

  Something was falling out of the sky, drifting like very light snow. Maxie ran around, gurgling with delight. Emma held out her hand, letting a flake land there. It wasn't cold: in fact, it wasn't snow at all.

  It was ash.

  "We have to go, don't we?" Sally asked reluctantly.

  "Yes, we have to go."

  "But if we leave here, how will they find us?"

  They? What "they"? The question seemed almost comical to Emma.

  But she knew Sally took it very seriously. They had spent long hours draping Emma's parachute silk over rocks and in the tops of trees, hoping its bright color might attract attention from the air, or even from orbit. And they had labored to pull pale-colored rocks into a vast rectangular sigil. None of it had done a damn bit of good.

  There was, though, a certain logic to staying close to where they had emerged from the wheel-shaped portal. After all, who was to say the portal wouldn't reappear one day, as suddenly as it had disappeared, a magic door opening to take them home?

  And beyond that, if they were to leave with the Runners – if they were to walk off in some unknown direction with these gangly, naked not-quite-humans – it would feel like giving up: a statement that they had thrown in their lot with the Runners, that they had accepted that this was their life now, a life of crude shelters and berries from the forest and, if they were lucky, scraps of half-chewed, red-raw meat: This was the way it would be for the rest of their lives.

  But Emma didn't see what the hell else they could do.

  They compromised. They spent a half-hour gathering the largest, brightest rocks they could carry, and arranging them into a great arrow that pointed away from the Runners' crude hearth, towards the east. Then they bundled up as much of their gear as they could carry in wads of parachute silk, and followed the Runners' tracks.

  Emma made sure they stayed clear of a low heap of bones she saw scattered a little way away. She was glad it had never occurred to Sally to ask hard questions about what had become of her husband's body.

  The days wore away.

  Their track meandered around natural obstacles – a boggy marsh, a patch of dense forest, a treeless, arid expanse – but she could tell that their course remained roughly eastward, away from the looming volcanic cloud.

  The Runners seemed to prefer grassy savannah with some scattered tree cover, and would divert to keep to such ground – and Emma admitted to herself that such park-like areas made her feel relatively comfortable too, more than either dense forest or unbroken plains. Maybe it was no coincidence that humans made parks that reminded them, on some deep level, of countryside like this. I guess we all carry a little Africa around with us, she thought.

  She was no expert on botany, African or otherwise. It did seem to her there were a lot of fern-like trees and relatively few flowering plants, as if the flora here was more primitive than on Earth. A walk in the Jurassic, then.

  As for the fauna, she glimpsed herds of antelope-like creatures: some of them were slim and agile, who would bolt as the Runners approached, but others were larger, clumsier, hairier, crossing the savannah in heavy-footed gangs. The animals kept their distance, and she was grateful for that. But again they didn't strike her as being characteristically African: she saw no elephants, no zebra or giraffes. (But then, she told herself, there were barely any elephants left in Africa anyhow.)

  It was clear there were predators everywhere. Once Emma heard the throaty, echoing roar of what had to be a lion. A couple of times she spotted cats slinking through brush at the fringe of forests: leopards, perhaps.

  And once they came across a herd – no, a flock – of huge, vicious-looking carnivorous birds.

  The flightless creatures moved in a tight group with an odd nervousness, pecking at the ground with those savagely curved beaks, and scratching at their feathers and cheeks with claws like scimitars. Their behavior was very bird-like, but unnerving in creatures so huge.

  The Runners took cover in a patch of forests for a full half-day, until the flock had passed.

  The Runners called them "killing birds". A wide-eyed Maxie called the birds "dinosaurs".

  And they did look like dinosaurs, Emma thought. Birds had evolved from dinosaurs, of course; here, maybe, following some ecological logic, birds had lost their flight, had forgotten how to sing, but they had rediscovered their power and their pomp, becoming lords of the landscape once more.

  The Runners' gait wasn't quite human. Their rib cages seemed high and somewhat conical, more like a chimp's than a human's, and their hips were very narrow, so that each Runner was a delicately balanced slim form with long striding legs.

  Emma wondered what problems those narrow hips caused during childbirth. The hea
ds of the Runners weren't that much smaller than her own. But there were no midwives here, and no epidurals either. Maybe the women helped each other.

  Certainly each of them clearly knew her own children – unlike the men, who seemed to regard the children as small, irritating competitors.

  The women even seemed to use sex to bond. Sometimes in the night, two women would lie together, touching and stroking, sharing gentle pleasures that would last much longer than the short, somewhat brutal physical encounters they had with the men.

  By comparison, the men had no real community at all, just a brutish ladder of competition: they bickered and snapped amongst themselves, endlessly working out their pecking order. At that, Emma thought, this bunch of guys had a lot of common with every human mostly-male preserve she had ever come across, up to and including the NASA Astronaut Office.

  Stone was the boss man; he used his fists and feet and teeth and hand-axes to keep the other men in their place, and to win access to the women. But he, and the other men, did not seek to injure or kill his own kind. It was all just a dominance game.

  And Stone was not running a harem here. With all that fist-fighting he won himself more rolls in the hay than the other men, but the others got plenty too; all they had to do was wait until Stone was asleep, or looking the other way, or was off hunting, or just otherwise engaged. Emma had no idea why this should be so. Maybe you just couldn't run a harem in a highly mobile group like this; maybe you needed a place to hold your female quasi-prisoners, a fortress to defend your "property" from other men.

  It was what these people lacked that struck Emma most strongly. They had no art, no music, no song. They didn't even have language; their verbless jabber conveyed basic emotions – anger, fear, demands – but little information. They only "talked" anyhow in social encounters, mating or grooming or fighting, never when they were working, making tools or hunting or even eating. She thought their "talk" had more in common with the purring and yowling of cats than information-rich human conversation.