The Hard SF Renaissance

by David G. Hartwell

  “No,” said Miocene, “and no.”

  It would be a strange place for sentience to evolve, thought Washen. And if the builders had left ruins behind, they would have been destroyed long ago. The crust beneath them wasn’t even a thousand years old. Marrow was an enormous forge, constantly reworking its face as well as the bones beneath.

  “I can’t help it,” Diu confessed. “I keep dreaming that the builders are down there, waiting for us.”

  “A delirious dream,” Miocene warned him.

  But Washen felt the same way. She could almost see the builders slathering the hyperfiber, then building Marrow. This was a huge place, and they couldn’t see more than a sliver of it from their tiny vantage point. Who knew what they would eventually find?

  Diu couldn’t stop talking. “This is fantastic,” he said. “And an honor. I’m just pleased that the Master would include me.”

  The Submaster nodded, conspicuously saying nothing.

  “Now that I’m here,” Diu blubbered, “I can almost see the purpose of this place.”

  With a level glance, Washen tried to tell her companion, Shut up.

  But Miocene had already tilted her head, eyeing their eleventh-grade colleague. “I’d love to hear your theories, darling.”

  Diu lifted his eyebrows.

  An instant later, with bleak amusement, he remarked, “I think not.” Then he looked at his own hands, saying, “Once spoken, madam, a thought hides inside at least one other.”

  MISSION YEAR 1.03:

  Planetfall was exactly as the captains had planned—a routine day from the final five kilometers of bridge building to Miocene’s first steps on the surface. And with success came cheers and singing, followed by ample late suppers served with bottomless glasses of well-chilled champagne, and congratulations from the distant Master.

  Except for Washen, the day was just a little disappointing.

  Watching from base camp, studying data harvests and live images, she saw exactly what she expected to see. Captains were administrators, not explorers; the historic moments were relentlessly organized. The landscape had been mapped until every bush and bug had a name. Not even tiny surprises could ambush the first teams. It was thorough and stifling, but naturally Washen didn’t mention her disappointment, or even put a name to her emotions. Habit is habit, and she had been an exemplary captain for thousands of years. Besides, what sort of person would she be if she was offended that there were no injuries, or mistakes, or troubles of any kind?

  And yet.

  Two ship-days later, when her six-member team was ready to embark, Washen had to make herself sound like a captain. With a forced sincerity, she told the others, “We’ll take our walk on the iron, and we’ll exceed every objective. On schedule, if not before.”

  It was a swift, strange trip to Marrow.

  Diu asked to ride with Washen, just as he’d requested to be part of her team. Their shielded tube-car retreated back up the access tunnel, then flung itself at Marrow, streaking through the buttress fields to minimize the exposure, a trillion electric fingers delicately playing with their sanity.

  Then their car reached the upper atmosphere and braked, the terrific gees bruising flesh and shattering minor bones.

  Artificial genes began weaving protein analogs, knitting their injuries.

  The bridge was rooted into a hillside of cold iron and black jungle. The rest of the team and their supplies followed. Despite an overcast sky, the air was brilliant and furnace-hot, every breath tasting of metal and nervous sweat. As team leader, Washen gave orders that everyone knew by heart. Cars were linked, then reconfigured. The new vehicle was loaded, and tested, and the captains were tested by their autodocs: Newly implanted genes were helping their bodies adapt to the heat and metal-rich environment. Then Miocene, sitting in a nearby encampment, contacted them and gave her blessing, and Washen lifted off, steering towards the purely arbitrary north-northwest.

  The countryside was broken and twisted, split by fault lines and raw mountains and volcanic vents. The vents had been quiet for a century or a decade, or in some cases, days. Yet the surrounding land was alive, adorned with jungle, pseudotrees reminiscent of mushrooms, all enormous, all pressed against one another, their lacquered black faces feeding on the dazzling blue-white light.

  Marrow seemed as durable as the captains flying above it.

  Growth rates were phenomenal, and for more reasons than photosynthesis. Early findings showed that the jungle also fed through its roots, chisel-like tips reaching down to where thermophilic bacteria thrived, Marrow’s own heat supplying easy calories.

  Were the aquatic ecosystems as productive?

  It was Washen’s question, and she’d selected a small, metal-choked lake for study. They arrived on schedule, and after circling the lake twice, as prescribed, she landed on a slab of bare iron. Then for the rest of the day they set up their lab and quarters, and specimen traps, and as a precaution, installed a defense perimeter—three paranoid AIs who did nothing but think the worst of every bug and spore that happened past.

  Night was mandatory. Miocene insisted that each captain sleep at least four hours, and invest another hour in food and toiletries.

  Washen’s team went to bed on time, then lay awake until it was time to rise.

  At breakfast, they sat in a circle and gazed at the sky. The chamber’s wall was smooth and ageless, and infinitely bland. Base camp was a dark blemish visible only because the air was exceptionally clear. The bridge had vanished with the distance. If Washen was very careful, she could almost believe that they were the only people on this world. If she was lucky, she forgot for a minute or two that telescopes were watching her sitting on her aerogel chair, eating her scheduled rations.

  Diu sat nearby, and when she glanced at him, he smiled wistfully, as if he could read her thoughts.

  “I know what we need,” Washen announced.

  Diu said, “What do we need?”

  “A ceremony. Some ritual before we can start.” She rose and walked to one of the specimen traps, returning with one of their first catches. On Marrow, pseudoinsects filled almost every animal niche. Six-winged dragonflies were blue as gemstones and longer than a forearm. With the other captains watching, Washen stripped the dragonfly of its wings and tail, then eased the rest into their auto-kitchen. The broiling took a few seconds. With a dull thud, the carcass exploded inside the oven. Then she grabbed a lump of the blackish meat, and with a grimace, made herself bite and chew.

  “We aren’t supposed to,” Diu warned, laughing gently.

  Washen forced herself to swallow, then she told everyone, “And you won’t want to do it again. Believe me.”

  There were no native viruses to catch, or toxins that their reinforced genetics couldn’t handle. Miocene was simply being a cautious mother when she told them, “Except in emergencies, eat only the safe rations.”

  Washen passed out the ceremonial meat.

  Last to take his share was Diu, and his first bite was tiny. But he didn’t grimace, and with an odd little laugh, he told Washen, “It’s not bad. If my tongue quit burning, I could almost think about enjoying it.”

  MISSION YEAR 1.22:

  After weeks of relentless work, certain possibilities began to look like fact.

  Marrow had been carved straight from the jupiter’s heart. Its composition and their own common sense told the captains as much. The builders had first wrenched the uraniums and thoriums from the overhead iron, injecting them deep into the core. Then with the buttressing fields, the molten sphere was compressed, and the exposed chamber walls were slathered in hyperfiber. And billions of years later, without help from the vanished builders, the machinery was still purring along quite nicely.

  But why bother creating such a marvel?

  Marrow could be a dumping ground for radionuclides. Or it could have worked as an enormous fission reactor, some captains suggested. Except there were easier ways to create power, others pointed out, their voices not so gen
tly dismissive.

  But what if the world was designed to store power?

  It was Aasleen’s suggestion: By tweaking the buttresses, the builders could have forced Marrow to rotate. With patience—a resource they must have had in abundance—they could have given it a tremendous velocity. Spinning inside a vacuum, held intact by the buttresses, the iron ball would have stored phenomenal amounts of energy—enough to maintain the on board systems for billions of years, perhaps.

  Washen first heard the flywheel hypothesis at the weekly briefing.

  Each of the team leaders was sitting at the illusion of a conference table, in aerogel chairs, sweating rivers in Marrow’s heat. The surrounding room was sculpted from light, and sitting at the head of the table was the Master’s projection, alert but unusually quiet. She expected crisp reports and upbeat attitudes. Grand theories were a surprise. Finally, after a contemplative pause, she smiled, telling the captain, “That’s an intriguing possibility. Thank you, Aasleen.” Then to the others, “Considerations? Any?”

  Her smile brought a wave of complimentary noise.

  In private, Washen doubted they were inside someone’s dead battery. But this wasn’t the polite moment to list the troubles with flywheels. And besides, the bio-teams were reporting next, and she was eager to compare notes.

  A tremor suddenly shook the captains, one after another, spreading out from its distant epicenter. Even for Marrow, that was a big jolt.

  Compliments dissolved into an alert silence.

  Then the Master lifted her wide hand, announcing abruptly, “We need to discuss your timetable.”

  What about the bio-teams?

  “You’re being missed, I’m afraid. Our cover story isn’t clever enough, and the crew are suspicious.” The Master lowered her hand, then said, “Before people are too worried, I want to bring you home.”

  Smiles broke out.

  Some were tired of Marrow; other captains were tickled with the prospects of honors of promotions.

  “Everyone, madam?” Washen dared.

  “At least temporarily.”

  According to the ship’s duty roster, the missing captains were visiting a nearby solar system, serving as travel agents to billions of potential passengers. And the truth told, there’d been boring moments when Washen found herself wishing that the fiction was real. But not today. Not when she was in the middle of something fascinating … !

  As mission leader, it was Miocene’s place to ask:

  “Do you want us to cut our work short, madam?”

  The Master squinted at the nearest window, gazing out at one of the ship’s port facilities. For her, the room and its view were genuine, and her captains were illusions.

  “Mission plans can be rewritten,” she told them. “I want you to finish surveying the far hemisphere, and I want the critical studies wrapped up. Ten ship days should be adequate. Then you’ll come home, and we’ll take our time deciding on our next actions.”

  Smiles wavered, but none crumbled.

  Miocene whispered, “Ten days,” with a tentative respect.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Madam,” the Submaster began, “I would feel much more comfortable if we were certain that Marrow isn’t a threat.”

  There was a pause, and not just because the Master was thousands of kilometers removed from them. It was a lengthy, unnerving silence. Then the captains’ captain looked off into the distance, saying, “Considerations? Any?”

  It would be a disruption. The other Submasters agreed with Miocene. To accomplish their work in ten days, with confidence, would require every captain, including those stationed with the support teams. Their base camp would have to be abandoned temporarily. That was an acceptable risk, perhaps. But mild words were obscured by clenched fists and distant, worried gazes.

  Unsatisfied, the Master turned to her future Submaster. “Do you have any considerations to add?”

  Washen hesitated as long as she dared.

  “Marrow could have been a flywheel,” she finally allowed. “Madam.”

  Brown eyes closed, opened. “I’m sorry,” the Master responded, the voice devoid of amusement. “Aren’t we discussing your timetable?”

  “But if these buttresses ever weakened,” Washen continued, “even for an instant, the planet would have expanded instantly. Catastrophically. The surrounding hyperfiber would have vaporized, and a shock wave would have passed through the entire ship, in moments.” She offered simple calculations, then added, “Maybe this was an elaborate flywheel. But it also would have made an effective self-destruct mechanism. We don’t know, madam. We don’t know if the builders had enemies, real or imagined. But if we’re going to find answers, I can’t think of a better place to look.”

  The Master’s face was unreadable, impenetrable.

  Finally she shook her head, smiling in a pained manner. “Since my first moment on board this glorious vessel, I have nourished one guiding principle: The builders, whomever they were, would never endanger this marvelous creation.”

  Washen wished for the same confidence.

  Then that apparition of light and sound leaned forward, saying, “You need a change of duty, Washen. I want you and your team in the lead. Help us explore the far hemisphere. And once the surveys are finished, everyone comes home. Agreed?”

  “As you wish, madam,” said Washen.

  Said everyone.

  Then Washen caught Miocene’s surreptitious glance, something in the eyes saying, “Nice try, darling.” And with that look, the faintest hint of respect.

  Pterosaur drones had already drawn three maps of the region. Yet as Washen passed overhead, she realized that even the most recent map, drawn eight days ago, was too old to be useful.

  Battered by quakes, the landscape had been heaved skyward, then torn open. Molten iron flowed into an oxbow lake, boiling water and mud, and columns of dirty steam rose skyward, then twisted to the east. As an experiment, Washen flew into the steam clouds. Samples were ingested through filters and sensors and simple lensing chambers. Riding with the steam were spores and eggs, encased in tough bioceramics and indifferent to the heat. Inside the tip of the needle flask, too small to see with the naked eye, were enough pond weeds and finned beetles to conquer ten new lakes.

  Catastrophe was the driving force on Marrow.

  That insight struck Washen every day, sometimes hourly, and it always arrived with a larger principle in tow:

  In some flavor or another, disaster ruled every world.

  But Marrow was the ultimate example. And as if to prove itself, the steam clouds dispersed suddenly, giving way to the sky’s light, the chamber wall overhead, and far below, for as far as Washen could see, the stark black bones of a jungle.

  Fumes and fire had incinerated every tree, every scrambling bug.

  The carnage must have been horrific. Yet the blaze had passed days ago, and new growth was already pushing up from the gnarled trunks and fresh crevices, thousands of glossy black umbrella-like leaves shining in the superheated air.

  Washen decided to blank the useless maps, flying on instinct.

  “Twenty minutes, and we’re as far from the bridge as possible,” Diu promised, his smile wide and infectious.

  No other team would travel as far.

  Washen started to turn, intending to order chilled champagne for the occasion, her mouth opened and a distorted, almost inaudible voice interrupting her.

  “Report … all teams … !”

  It was Miocene’s voice strained through a piercing electronic whistle.

  “What do … see … ?” asked the Submaster. “Teams … report … !”

  Washen tried establishing more than an audio link, and failed.

  A dozen other captains were chattering in a ragged chorus. Zale said, “We’re on schedule.” Kyzkee observed, “There’s some com-interference … otherwise, systems appear nominal.” Then with more curiosity than worry, Aasleen inquired, “Why, madam? Is something wrong?”

  T
here was a long, jangled hum.

  Diu was hunched over sensor displays, and with a tight little voice, he said, “Shit.”

  “What—?” Washen cried out.

  Then a shrill cry swept away every voice, every thought. And the day brightened and brightened, fat bolts of lightning flowing across the sky, then turning, moving with purpose, aiming for them.

  From the far side of the world came a twisted voice:

  “The bridge … where is it … do you see it … where … ?”

  The car bucked as if panicking, losing thrust and altitude, then its AIs. Washen deployed the manual controls, and centuries of drills made her concentrate, nothing existing but their tumbling vehicle, her syrupy reflexes, and an expanse of burnt forest.

  The next barrage of lightning was purple-white, and brighter, nothing visible but its seething glare.

  Washen flew blind, flew by memory.

  Their car was designed to endure heroic abuse, the same as its passengers. But it was dead and its hull had been degraded, and when it struck the iron ground, the hull shattered. Restraining fields grabbed bodies, then failed. Nothing but mechanical belts and gas bags held the captains in their seats. Flesh was jerked and twisted, and shredded. Bones were shattered and wrenched from their sockets. Then the seats were torn free of the floor, and like useless wreckage, scattered across several hectares of iron and burnt stumps.

  Washen never lost consciousness.

  With numbed curiosity, she watched her own legs and arms break, and a thousand bruises spread into a single purple tapestry, every rib crushed to dust and her reinforced spine splintering until she was left without pain or a shred of mobility. Washen couldn’t move her head, and her words were slow and watery, the sloppy mouth filled with cracked teeth and dying blood.

  “Abandon,” she muttered.

  Then, “Ship,” and she was laughing feebly. Desperately.

  A gray sensation rippled through her body.