by Ian Douglas
Once, he thought, the government would have attempted to censor the data, at the very least classifying it “secret” and allowing only a select inner circle of scientists and AIs to even know of its existence. Secrets of that sort, however, were ephemeral, especially when the scientific community was brought into the picture. His advisors—including Marcus—had insisted that the secret had to be kept simply because the USNA couldn’t afford to let the Confederation get the jump on them. If Geneva managed to make contact with the Rosette Aliens—worse, if they managed to forge a treaty, it might well mean the end of North America’s bid for independence.
Koenig, however, had been adamant. As important as the war with Geneva was, contact with a species as self-evidently powerful and technologically advanced as the Rosette Aliens was more so by far. An alliance with such a civilization—if that was even conceivable—would mean safety at last from the Sh’daar. In Koenig’s view, what was vital above all was the survival of Humankind; North American independence was of secondary import.
Koenig looked through the download material, checking to see if there was anything he’d missed. It was all there as he’d remembered it—the observations made by America’s battlegroup at Omega Centauri, the images and data collected by the close passage of a single human scout across the Rosette’s whirling lumen, the speculations by various members of the expedition’s science teams . . . including an analysis that placed the aliens solidly in the K-3 bracket of high-tech civilization.
“If we’re all up to speed on this material,” Gilmore said after a moment, “we can welcome our first presenter, AI Stephen Hawking.
Gilmore’s face was replaced by the computer-animated image of a long-dead human physicist, and the buzzing, vodor-generated tones of Stephen Hawking sounded in Koenig’s mind.
“Good morning, humans and fellow electronic sophonts,” the quaintly archaic electronic voice intoned. “It is my very great pleasure today to speak with you, and to be able at last to announce a final and verifiable proof of one of the original Stephen Hawking’s favorite hypotheses . . . that of multiple and parallel universes within a larger multiverse. . . .”
It wasn’t the original, human Hawking, of course, but an extremely sophisticated artificial intelligence with that twentieth and twenty-first-century physicist’s persona and name, a kind of electronic avatar that interacted with humans in the same way that Konstantin presented itself as the Russian futurist Konstantin Tsiolkovsky. The original Stephen Hawking had been, arguably, the most brilliant scientist since Sir Isaac Newton, whose chair at Cambridge he’d held. Afflicted by the crippling motor neuron disease amyotrophic lateral sclerosis in an era just before neurological reconstructive nanomedicine, he’d nevertheless beaten the odds and become one of the most famous and accomplished theoretical cosmologists of all time.
His most important work had been a collaboration with Roger Penrose on theories concerning gravitational singularities within the framework of general relativity, the prediction that black holes would emit radiation—Hawking radiation, as it came to be called—and a cosmology that united quantum mechanics with general relativity.
Koenig had heard of the AI version of Hawking, a super-AI like Konstantin doing important theoretical work at a number of universities and scientific think tanks, including both Colorado and New Cambridge. Like Konstantin, Stephen was a fifth-generation digitally programmed and enhanced AI, a machine-mind running within a vast and teeming network of several thousand Digital Sentience DS-8940 computers with something like 1024 neural connections . . . roughly 10 billion times more than the connections possessed by a human brain.
“As you can see by these data,” Hawking’s voice buzzed on, “the gravitometric matrices measured by the CP-240 Shadowstar as it passed above the opening to the Rosette Wormhole are perfectly matched by predictions of multiple gravitational leakage across universal boundaries. . . .”
The original Hawking, Koenig knew, had been a firm believer in the many-worlds interpretation of quantum physics—of many universes incorporated into a far vaster multiverse. The theory had been around for centuries. At its simplest, the many-worlds interpretation held that every time there was a choice in the universe—a given particle might be either spin-up or spin-down, for example—the result was a branching of the universe itself to incorporate both possibilities . . . a universe where that particle was spin-up, and another universe, identical in every way, save that the particle was spin-down.
Such bifurcations had been popular with writers of science fiction long before Hawking’s day. There were universes, a near infinity of them, where the USNA achieved full independence from the Confederation . . . and a near infinity of other universes where the Confederation won, and where ultimately the Sh’daar determined the ultimate future of humankind. There were universes where the cat locked in the box was alive, and others where it was dead . . . the two states being in superpositions until an observer looked and collapsed the quantum wave-form fucntions.
Physicists tended to dislike the many-worlds interpretation because it seemed so counter-intuitively wasteful to call an entire universe into existence for the sake of a single photon. Still, the evidence had been mounting over the centuries that that was exactly what happened, though more modern finesses suggested that a degree of overlap existed between universes. There’d already been widespread speculation within the scientific community that physical structures like the Rosette at the center of Omega Centauri or the ancient and enigmatic TRGA cylinders led not only to other regions of space and time, but to entirely separate realities. Koenig himself had discussed the possibility with his officers on board America.
And now Stephen was claiming proof.
“We have been searching for the reality of dark matter since the late twentieth century,” Stephen continued. “One of the great paradoxes of physics has long been wrapped up in the question: Why is gravity so weak?”
Why indeed. Despite what you might think about gravity’s strength when you fall down the stairs or contemplate the hellish surface environment of a neutron star, gravity is by many orders of magnitude the weakest of the four standard forces that operate the universe. Of the other three forces, the weak force—responsible for certain nuclear interactions such as beta decay—is still 1025 times stronger than gravity, while electromagnetism is 1036 times stronger—picture a child’s magnet picking up a nail against the total gravitational pull of an entire planet. The strong force, which holds together the quarks making up the protons and neutrons within an atomic nucleus, is 1038 times stronger than gravity. The difference, of course, is that the strong, weak, and electromagnetic forces act over limited distances—the strong interaction is actually undetectable beyond the boundary of an atom’s nucleus—while gravity operates across the entire universe.
Gravity’s relative weakness set it in stark contrast to the other forces. Numerous explanations had been advanced over the years, but the best, the most promising, had been the idea that gravity, alone of all particles or forces, had the ability to travel between the universes of the Bulk.
The Bulk was a hypothetical extra-dimensional realm within which multiple universes existed like an infinite number of two-dimensional sheets side by side . . . if by “side” you took into account the fact that there were more than the usual four dimensions of spacetime. From the perspective of this 4-D universe, the other universes occupied the same area, as distant from this reality as the thickness of a shadow. From the perspective of the hyperdimensional Bulk, all of the universes—the ’Branes of M-theory—were two-dimensional sheets side by side.
And if gravity was not limited to this one universe, perhaps it “leaked” into others.
If you supposed that the nearest other universes in this scheme were similar in their histories to this one, you could imagine that they included analogues of this g
alaxy. Gravitational leakage would explain, then, why galaxies seemed to be so much more massive than could be accounted for by simply tallying up the stars, planets, dust and gas observed in each.
The theory was elegant, and it allowed for simple and elegant expressions of several unified field theories. It explained the “Great Attractor”—that mysterious point in intergalactic space, off in the direction of the constellations Centaurus and Hydra, which seemed to be pulling on myriad galaxies, accelerating them along in what was popularly known as the Dark Flow. Perhaps most important: it gave an explanation for the mystery of dark matter.
Koenig pulled down a definition through his in-head, checking on the latest description of dark matter. Centuries before, careful measurement of the movement of visible matter within the Milky Way and throughout the universe had presented cosmologists with a most uncomfortable conundrum. All of the stars, planets, dust, gas, and energy . . . everything tangible within the universe actually amounted to less than 5 percent of what was actually out there. Fully 26.8 percent of the universe comprised so-called dark matter . . . with another 68.3 percent being the even more mysterious dark energy.
Normal matter, in other words, the kind that made up atoms, was responsible for less than 20 percent of all the matter out there. Dark matter was invisible, as its name implied, was intangible. And, in fact, the only way it could affect normal matter was through the effects of its gravity.
For a time, cosmologists had been confident that dark matter would turn out to be a physical particle fundamentally different from normal matter. For decades, a favorite candidate was the hypothetical “WIMP,” or weakly interactive massive particle. According to theory, WIMPs might annihilate one another, creating otherwise unexplainable bursts of gamma rays . . . or they might decay into normal matter. Attempts to detect anomalous gamma rays or emergent matter broke down, however, simply because there were other ways to explain the observed effects.
But suppose that dark matter was “dark” simply because it existed in neighboring, “nearby” universes? Unreachable . . . unobservable . . . but “felt” by virtue of that matter’s gravity leaking across the Bulk from other universes . . .
“We can now say with some confidence,” Stephen continued, “that the Shadowstar passing the black hole rosette in Omega Centauri was not, as we originally theorized, observing other regions of space in this universe. Instead, Lieutenant Walton actually was recording a succession of parallel universes, other universes more or less like our own within the hyperdimensional Bulk.
“With this in mind, we can also confidently suggest that the so-called Rosette Aliens are members of a multiverse-faring civilization of extremely advanced technological prowess, passing from their universe into ours. Why they are doing this is, of course, as yet unknown. They may be explorers. They may be refugees from their own, dying universe, attempting to cheat the deadly chill of entropy.
“Or . . . just possibly . . . they may represent this universe’s original Creator. . . .”
Koenig heard a kind of susurration running through the huge crowd listening to the AI’s presentation . . . a background murmur largely filtered out by the AI monitors running the event, but still audible nonetheless. One thought, put into the link matrix by a large number of minds arriving at the same conclusion independently, came through as an audible term: the Stargods.
“I am well aware that these suggestions will be highly controversial,” Stephen said, “particularly the last one. Still, as a hypothesis it should be testable . . . assuming that we find a way to interact with these beings, to communicate with them in some meaningful way. I leave it to others to suggest just how an ant might manage to communicate with a human as it walks across his great toe.”
Controversial? That was one word for it. Koenig felt a tingling wave of emotion sweeping up his spine, but couldn’t quite identify it. Wonder . . . awe . . . surprise . . . it was all of that, and quite a bit more.
“I do suggest,” Stephen went on, “that we take another, very close look at the anthropic principle.”
Koenig had to thoughtclick the icon for definitions again. He thought he remembered . . . yes. That was it.
The anthropic principle was as much philosophy as it was science . . . perhaps more so. Essentially, it could be stated by the question, Why does the universe appear to be precisely designed to allow—even to require—the appearance of life and, ultimately, of intelligence?
Within physics and cosmology, it turned out, there were certain numbers, values for specific physical constants, that were so fussily precise that any change in any of them would have precluded the appearance of life. Human understanding of M-theory and how the universe had appeared suggested that most—perhaps all of these numbers—were essentially random; they could have been almost anything.
The anthropic principle came in various flavors, ranging from weak to strong. The weak anthropic principle simply stated that the universe happened to allow the evolution of life and intelligence. The strong version went further: the universe had to be the way it was because it contained life. Variants of these two included one that required living observers for the universe to exist at all, and another that required a multitude of universes so that all possible combinations of laws and conditions existed.
Koenig ran quickly down through the list of fundamental variables.
N: The ratio of the Electrical Force to the Gravitational Force . . . the fact that electromagnetism is 1036 times stronger than gravity. If gravity was any stronger, stars would have been smaller, hotter, and have aged much faster . . . too fast for their planets to evolve life. If gravity was weaker, stars might not have formed in the first place.
Sigma: The strength of the strong force binding protons and neutrons together within the atomic nucleus relative to the repulsive electrical force between positively charged protons. The number works out to .007 . . . and if it had been as small as .006, hydrogen would not be able to fuse within stars, while if it were .008, protons would have latched onto protons in the first instants of the big bang, and there would have been no free protons left from which to form hydrogen . . . and stars.
Omega: The rate of cosmic expansion . . . fast enough to give galaxies the billions of years necessary to evolve life, but not so fast that stars never formed.
Lambda: The strength of universal antigravity that drove the accelerating cosmic expansion in direct opposition to Omega, but slowly enough not to tear the cosmos apart before life could evolve.
Q: The amount of wrinkling in space as it unfolded from the Big Bang, a number defined as 10-5, small enough that all matter did not collapse into black holes early in the universe’s history, but large enough that stars could form from the primordial cloud of hydrogen.
D: The number of extended spatial dimensions. Had the universe existed as a “flatland” of only two primary dimensions instead of three, gravity would be even weaker than it is, and stars would never have formed.
G: The gravitational constant, a value given as 6.6784 x 10-11m3kg-1s-2. Stronger, and the universe would have already collapsed in upon itself. Weaker, and stars would never have formed, and stellar fusion would not have been possible.
There were other numbers on the list, but these were some of the most important—universal constants and ratios so important that if any of them had been just a little different, the universe would not be recognizable as what it is today . . . and life—at least, the kind of life that tended to build starships and squabble over politics and ponder the wonders of existence—would never have appeared. Koenig noted that the first six had been presented by the Astronomer Royal of England in 1999 in a book called Just Six Numbers: the Deep Forces That Shape the Universe. Other numbers had been added later—G, the mass of the Higgs Boson, the mass of the electron. Change any of these, and life became impossible.
Other variables were specific to Ea
rth—the size of the planet’s iron core, which in turn determined the strength of the planet’s magnetic field and the degree to which it shielded the surface from harmful solar radiation and let Earth maintain an atmosphere. The fact that Earth possessed a large moon that stabilized the planet’s tendency to wobble. The continental drift that contributed to the planet’s incredible biodiversity. The oxygen atmosphere that allowed the development of fire . . . of smelting . . . of modern technology.
Life, it was now well known, had appeared on lots of planets without those secondary factors; the H’rulka, for instance, were immense gas bags floating in the hydrogen atmosphere of gas giants, while the Turusch had evolved in a reducing atmosphere that was mostly carbon dioxide. But there were hints that such species had required help to develop the technology necessary to leave the worlds of their birth.
The so-called Stargods . . .
The anthropic principle had long been evoked as proof of a God, a supreme being who had balanced those numbers precisely in order to permit life to form. Some suggested that it was life itself that determined the various values . . . perhaps the technic civilizations that survived and evolved all the way through to the end of their universe.
Koenig had trouble following some of the fuzzier philosophical concepts. The simplest approach, it seemed to him, would be to shrug your shoulders and say, “Well, if the numbers were different, we wouldn’t be here . . . but we are here, so maybe the numbers are what they are purely by chance.”
But that was dodging the issue, Koenig knew, a cheat, pure and simple. It beggared belief that all of those values should be what they were within such tiny, finicky, precise parameters.
One group of proponents of the strong anthropic principle—meaning the theory that the universe had been designed the way it was—suggested that extremely advanced aliens might have created this universe, complete with life-friendly constants . . . possibly as a bolt-hole for when their own universe began to die.
