Bridging Infinity

by Jonathan Strahan

  Dhaka spoke up. “Okay, enough cohort bullshit. Let’s talk about you. The band’s heading back to long-sleep soon – and then what, Zippy? You heading back to Mars and your daughter?”

  Jeni looked around the room hesitantly. “Lara’s never been to Venus, and I promised her she could visit me... if you’ll have me?”

  “If?” Vega laughed. “I hated playing those recordings of you. Rather hear it live.”

  “I’m not as zippy up and down the chords as I used to be, you know,” Jeni warned. Everyone was turning to look at Euclid.

  “It’s a more confident sound,” he said with a smile. Dhaka whipped globules of whiskey at them and laughed.

  Kumi beamed, no doubt already dreaming about meeting his ‘granddaughter’.

  “Hey, Zippy,” Euclid said. “Here’s to change. Good change.”

  “Maybe,” she smiled and slapped his raised hand in agreement and approval. “Let’s dream on that.”

  THE FIRST FEW days after long-sleep were never pleasant, but this awakening was the worst of Euclid’s experience. He slowly remembered who he was, and how to speak, and the names of the people who sat quietly with him in the lounge after their sessions with the medics. For a while they silently watched the high cities of Venus glinting in the clouds below their orbit from viewports near the long-sleep pools.

  Later they began to ask questions, later they realised that something was very wrong. They’d been asleep for fifty years. Two long-sleeps, not the usual single sleep.

  “Everyone gone silent back on Vesta,” Dhaka said.

  “Did we get idled?” Euclid demanded. They were a band, not workers. They shouldn’t have been idled.

  The medics didn’t answer their questions. They continued to deflect everything until one morning an officer turned up, dressed in black sub-uniform with empty holster belt, as if he had left his weapons and armour just outside the door. He looked barely twenty, far too young for the captain’s insignia on his shoulders.

  He spoke with slow, stilted formality. “Mr Slinger, Mr Djansi, Mr de la Vega, Ms Miriam and Ms Baptiste – thank you for your patience. I’m Captain Abrams. We’re sorry for the delay, but your recovery was complicated.”

  “Complicated!” Kumi looked disgusted. “Can you explain why we had two long-sleeps instead of one? Fifty years? We had a contract!”

  “And we had a war.” The reply was unexpectedly sharp. “Be glad you missed it.”

  “Our first interplanetary war? That’s not the change I wanted,” Euclid muttered to Vega.

  “What happened?” Jeni asked, her voice barely a whisper. “My daughter, she’s on Mars, is she safe?”

  The officer glanced away in a momentary flash of vulnerability and guilt. “You have two weeks for news and correspondence with your cohort and others. We can provide political summaries, and psychological care for your readjustment. After that, your tour begins. Transport down to the cities has been arranged. I just... I have to say... we still need you now, more than ever.”

  “The rass?” Kumi stared at the soldier, spreading his arms.

  Again that touch of vulnerability as the young soldier replied with a slight stammer. “Please. We need you. You’re legends to the entire system now, not just the cohorts.”

  “The hell does that mean?” Vega asked as the boy-captain left.

  JENI’S DAUGHTER HAD managed one long-sleep but woke on schedule while they stayed in storage. The war was over by then, but Martian infrastructure had been badly damaged and skilled workers were needed for longer than the standard year or two. Lara had died after six years of ‘extra time’, casualty of a radiation exposure accident on Deimos.

  They gathered around Jeni when she collapsed to her knees and wept, grieving for the child they had never known.

  Their correspondence was scattered across the years, their cohort truly broken as it had been forced to take cover, retreat, or fight. The war had started in Earth orbit after a temporary habitat split apart, disgorging water, air and people into vacuum. Driven by desperation and fury, several other orbital inhabitants had launched an attack on SDC-MME owned stations, seeking a secure environment to live, and revenge for their dead.

  Conflict became widespread and complicated. The orbital habitats were either negotiating for refugees, building new orbitals, or fighting for the SDC-MME. Mars got involved when the government sent its military to protect the Martian investment in the SDC-MME. Jupiter, which was now its own functioning techno-demarchy, had struck directly at the Belt, taking over a large portion of the Glitter Ring.

  Millions had died as rocks were flung between the worlds and ships danced around each other in the vacuum. People fought hand to hand in civil wars inside hollowed out asteroids, gleaming metal orbitals, and in the cold silence of space.

  Humanity had carried war out of Earth and into the great beyond.

  Despite the grim history lesson, as the band shared notes and checked their financial records, one thing became clear. They were legends. The music of the Mighty Slinger and the Rovers had become the sound of the war generation and beyond: a common bond that the cohorts could still claim, and battle hymns for the Earth emigrants who had launched out from their decayed temporary orbitals. Anti-SDC-MME songs became treasured anthems. The Rovers songs sold billions, the covers of their songs sold billions. There were tribute bands and spin-off bands and a fleet of touring bands. They had spawned an entire subgenre of music.

  “We’re rich at last,” Kumi said ruefully. “I thought I’d enjoy it more.”

  Earth was still there, still a mess, but Vega found hope in news from his kin. For decades, Pacific Islanders had stubbornly roved over their drowned states in vast fleets, refusing resettlement to the crowded cities and tainted badlands of the continents. In the last fifty years, their floating harbours had evolved from experimental platforms to self-sustaining cities. For them, the war had been nothing but a few nights filled with shooting stars and the occasional planetfall of debris.

  The Moon and Venus had fared better in the war than Mars, but the real shock was the Ring. According to Dhaka, the leap in progress was marked, even for fifty years. Large sections were now fully functional and had been used during the war for refuelling, surveillance, barracks and prisons.

  “Unfortunately, that means that the purpose of the Ring has drifted once again,” she warned. “The military adapted it to their purposes, and returning it to civilian use will take some time.”

  “But what about the Assembly?” Euclid asked her one day when they were in the studio, shielded from surveillance by noise and interference of Vega’s crafting. “Do they still care about the purpose of the Ring? Do you think we still have a mission?”

  The war had ended without a clear victor. The SDC-MME had collapsed and the board had been tried, convicted and exiled to long-sleep until a clear treaty could be hammered out. Jupiter, Mars, Venus and some of the richer orbitals had assumed the shares and responsibility of the original solar charter. A tenuous peace existed.

  Dhaka nodded. “I was wondering that too, but look, here’s the name of the company that’s organising our tour.”

  Euclid leaned in to read her screen. Bouscholte, Bouscholte & Abrams.

  CAPTAIN ABRAMS REVEALED nothing until they were all cramped into the tiny cockpit of a descent craft for Venus’s upper atmosphere.

  He checked for listening devices with a tiny wand, and then, satisfied, faced them all. “The Bouscholte family would like to thank you for your service. We want you to understand that you are in an even better position to help us, and we need that help now, more than ever.”

  They’d come this far. Euclid looked around at the Rovers. They all leaned in closer.

  “The Director of Consolidated Ring Operations and Planetary Reconstruction will be at your concert tonight.” Abrams handed Euclid a small chip. “You will give this to him – personally. It’s a quantum encrypted key that only Director Cutler can access.”

  “What’s in it?�
�� Dhaka asked.

  Abrams looked out the window. They were about to fall into the yellow and green clouds. The green was something to do with floating algae engineered for the planet, step one of the eventual greening of Venus. “Something Cutler won’t like. Or maybe a bribe. I don’t know. But it’s an encouragement for the Director to consider a proposal.”

  “Can you tell us what the proposal is?”

  “Yes.” Abrams looked at the band. “Either stop the redevelopment of Earth and further cement the peace by returning the orbitals inhabitants to the surface, or...”

  Everyone waited as Abrams paused dramatically.

  “... approve a cargo transit across Mercury’s inner orbit to the far side of the Glitter Ring, and give us the contracts for rebuilding the orbital habitats.”

  Dhaka frowned. “I wasn’t expecting something so boring after the big ‘or’ there, Captain.”

  Abrams smiled. “One small course adjustment at the start can change an entire orbit by the end of a journey,” he said to Euclid.

  That sounded familiar.

  “Either one of those is important?” Euclid asked. “But you won’t say why.”

  “Not even in this little cabin. I’m sure I got the bugs, but in case I didn’t.” Abrams shrugged. “Here we are. Ready to change the solar system, Mr Slinger?”

  VENUSIAN CITIES WERE more impressive when viewed from the outside. Vast, silvery spheres clustered thickly in the upper atmosphere, trailing tethers and tubes to the surface like a dense herd of giant cephalopods. Inside, the decor was sober, spare and disappointing, hinting at a slow post-war recovery.

  The band played their first concert in a half-century to a frighteningly respectful and very exclusive audience of the rich and powerful. Then it was off to a reception where they awkwardly sipped imported wine and smiled as their assigned liaison, a woman called Halford, briskly introduced and dismissed awe-struck fans for seconds of small talk and a quick snap.

  “And this is Petyr Cutler,” Halford announced. “Director of Consolidated Ring Operations and Planetary Reconstruction.”

  Bodyguards quickly made a wall, shepherding the Director in for his moment.

  Cutler was a short man with loose, sandy hair and bit of orbital sunburn. “So pleased to meet you,” he said. “Call me Petyr.”

  He came in for the vigorous handshake, and Euclid had already palmed the small chip. He saw Abrams on the periphery of the crowd, watching. Nodded.

  Cutler’s already reddened cheeks flushed as he looked down at the chip. “Is that –”

  “Yes.” Euclid locked eyes with him. The Director. One of the most powerful people in the entire solar system.

  Cutler broke the gaze and looked down at his feet. “You can’t blackmail me, not even with this. I can’t change policy.”

  “So you still redeveloping Earth?” Euclid asked, his tone already dull with resignation.

  “I’ve been around before you were born, Mr Slinger. I know how generational projects go. They build their own momentum. No-one wants to become the executive who shut down two hundred years of progress, who couldn’t see it through to the end. Besides, wars aren’t cheap. We have to repay our citizens who invested in war bonds, the corporations that gave us tech on credit. The Earth Reconstruction project is the only thing that can give us the funds to stay afloat.”

  Somehow, his words eased the growing tightness in Euclid’s chest. “I’m supposed to ask you something else, then.”

  Cutler looked suspicious. He also looked around at his bodyguards, wanting to leave. “Your people have big asks, Mr Slinger.”

  “This is smaller. We need your permission to move parts across Mercury’s orbit, close to the sun, but your company has been denying that request. The Rock Devils cohort also wants to rebuild the surviving temporary Earth orbitals.”

  “Post-war security measures are still in place –”

  “Security measures my ass.” Jeni spoke so loudly, so intensely that the whole room went quiet to hear her.

  “Jeni –” Kumi started.

  “No. We’ve sacrificed our lives and our children’s lives for your damn Ring. We’ve made it our entire reason for existence and we’re tired. One last section to finish, that could finish in less than three decades if you let us take that shortcut to get the last damn parts in place and let us go work on something worthwhile. We’re tired. Finish the blasted project and let us live.”

  Kumi stood beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, but she did not falter. Her gaze stayed hard and steady on the embarrassed Director who was now the centre of a room of shocked, sympathetic, judging looks.

  “We need clearance from Venus,” Director Cutler mumbled.

  Euclid started humming a quick back beat. Cutler looked startled. “Director,” Euclid sang, voice low. He reached for the next word the sentence needed to bridge. Dictator. How to string that in with... something to do with the project finishing later.

  He’d been on the stage singing the old lyrics people wanted to hear. His songs that had once been extempo, but now were carved in stone by a new generation.

  But right here, with the bodyguards all around them, Euclid wove a quick song damning him for preventing progress in the solar system and making trouble for the cohorts. That’s right, Euclid thought. That’s where the power came from, singing truth right to power’s face.

  Power reddened. Cutler clenched his jaw.

  “I can sing that louder,” Euclid said. “Loud enough for the whole system to hear it and sing it back to you.”

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Cutler hissed at him, and signalled for the bodyguards to surround him and move him away.

  HALFORD THE LIAISON congratulated the band afterwards. “You did it. We’re cleared to use interior transits to the other side of the Ring and to move equipment into Earth orbit.”

  “Anything else you need us to do?” Dhaka asked.

  “Not now, not yet. Enjoy your tour. Broadcasting planetwide and recording for rebroadcast throughout the system – you’ll have the largest audience in history.”

  “That’s nice,” Euclid said vaguely. He was still feeling some discomfort with his new status as legend.

  “I can’t wait for the Earth concert,” Captain Abrams said happily. “That one will really break the records.”

  “Earth?” Kumi said sharply.

  Halford looked at him. “After your next long-sleep, for the official celebration of the completion of the Ring. That can’t happen without the Mighty Slinger and his Rovers. One last concert for the cohorts.”

  “And maybe something more,” Abrams added.

  “What do you mean, ‘more’?” Euclid demanded, weary of surprises.

  Halford and Captain Abrams shared a look – delight, anticipation, and caution.

  “When we’re sure, we’ll let you know,” the captain promised.

  EUCLID SIGHED AND glared at the door. He nervously twirled a pair of virtual-vision goggles between his fingers.

  Returning to Earth had been bittersweet. He could have asked to fly over the Caribbean Sea, but nothing would be the same – coral reef islands reclaimed by water, new land pushed up by earthquake and vomited out from volcanoes. It would pollute the memories he had of a place that had once existed.

  He put the past out of his mind and concentrated on the present. The Rovers were already at the venue, working hard with the manager and crew in technical rehearsals for the biggest concert of their lives. Estádio Nacional de Brasília had become ENB de Abrams-Bouscholte, twice reconstructed in the last three decades to double the seating and update the technology, and now requiring a small army to run it.

  Fortunately Captain Abrams (retired) knew a bit about armies and logistics, which was why Euclid was not at technical rehearsal with his friends but on the other side of the city, waiting impatiently outside a large simulation room while Abrams took care of what he blithely called ‘the boring prep’.

  After ten
minutes or so the door finally opened and Captain Abrams peeked around the edge, goggles pushed up over his eyebrows and onto his balding head. “We’re ready! Come in, Mr Slinger. We think you’ll like what we’ve set up for you.” His voice hadn’t lost that boyish, excited bounce.

  Still holding his goggles, Euclid stepped into the room and nodded a distracted greeting to the small group of technicians. His gaze was quickly caught by an alloy-plated soprano pan set up at the end of the room.

  “Mr Djansi says you were a decent pannist,” Captain Abrams said, still brightly enthusiastic.

  “Was?”

  Captain Abrams smiled. “Think you can handle this one?”

  “I can manage,” Euclid answered, reaching for the sticks.

  “Goggles first,” the captain reminded him, closing the door to the room.

  Euclid put them on, picked up the sticks and raised his head to take in his audience. He froze and dropped the sticks with a clang.

  “Go on, Mr Slinger. I think you’ll enjoy this,” Abrams said. “I think we all will.”

  ON THE NIGHT of the concert, Euclid stood on the massive stage with his entire body buzzing with terror. The audience packed into stadium tiers all around him was a faceless mass that rose up several stories, but they were his family and he knew them like he knew his own heart. The seats were filled with Rock Devils, Gladhandlers, Sunsiders and more, all of them from the cohorts, workers representing every section of the Ring and every year and stage of its development. Many of them had come down from Earth orbit and their work on the decaying habitats to see the show.

  Euclid started to sing for them, but they sang for him first, calling out every lyric so powerful and sure that all he could do was fall silent and raise his hands to them in homage and embrace. He shook his head in wonder as tears gathered in his eyes.

  Kumi, Vega, Dhaka and Jeni kept jamming, transported by the energy, playing the best set of their careers, giving him a nod or a sweet smile in the midst of their collective trance as he stood silently crying and listening to the people sing.