‘So you came.’
‘What do you want, Dad?’
He grinned, a slightly deranged expression she remembered too well. ‘Same old Sally. Down to business, eh?’
‘Is there any point me asking what you’ve been doing – hell, since you turned the world upside down on Step Day?’
‘Pursuing projects,’ he murmured. ‘You know me. You either wouldn’t understand or you wouldn’t want to know. Suffice to say it’s all for the common good.’
‘In your opinion.’
‘In my opinion.’
‘And is there some new project that you brought me here for?’
‘Here?’ He glanced around at the GapSpace installation. ‘Here is only a waystation, en route to our ultimate destination.’
‘And where’s that?’
He said simply: ‘The Long Mars.’
Sally Linsay was used to wonder. She had grown up stepping, as a child she had walked into uncounted alien worlds. But even so, as her father spoke those words, she felt the universe pivot around her.
They were met at the compound gate by a guy her father introduced as Al Raup. While his scalp was shaven, a thick black beard sprouted from his chin, giving Sally the odd impression that his head had been rotated around the axis of his stub nose and re attached upside down. He wore canvas shorts, grubby sneakers with no socks, and a black T-shirt too small for his belly with a faded slogan:
SMOKE ME A KIPPER
He might have been any age between about thirty and fifty.
He stuck out his hand. ‘Call me Mr Ttt.’ Tuh-tuh-tuh.
She ignored the hand. ‘Hello, Al Raup.’
Willis raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, Sal, play nice.’
‘Come, let me show you around my domain . . .’
Raup swiped them through the security barriers, and they walked into the compound. Sally heard the growl of heavy vehicles, smelled brick dust and wet concrete, and saw giant cranes loom over holes in the ground. Workers wandered around in yellow hardhats. In some cases she saw ‘danger: radioactivity’ signs, and that was new since she’d last visited. Nuclear rockets under develop ment maybe?
She did notice a party of trolls labouring at a concrete mixer, apparently happy enough. Sally cared little for technology, or people, compared with animals.
‘So,’ Raup said. ‘Welcome to Cape Nerdaveral, Marsonauts!’
‘You’re exactly the type I remember from my last visit here,’ Sally snapped at him.
‘Ah, yes. When you snatched those trolls.’
‘When I liberated them. Glad to see your kind hasn’t gone extinct with the corporatization of this place.’
Raup waved fat fingers. ‘Ah, well, we geeks were here first. We figured out the basic parameters of how to use the Gap, we started the construction of the Brick Moon and sent over a few test shots, all before anybody even noticed we were here.’ His accent might have been middle American, but he had a strangulated, showy way of speaking, with looping vowels and over-precise consonants. She had an odd sense that he had already rehearsed in his head almost everything he said, in case he ever had an audience to use it on. ‘We’re no innocents. We filed a few patents. But in the end the corporate guys had no interest in screwing us over. Easier to buy us out; we were relatively cheap, in their terms, and we had expertise they needed.’ He grinned. ‘We Founders are all dollar millionaires. How cool is that?’
Sally couldn’t have cared less, and dismissed his bragging.
In among the gargantuan industrial facilities she saw sprawling residential blocks, bars, a hotel, a cinema-cum-theatre, a lot of casinos and gaming houses, and shadier-looking establishments she guessed might be strip joints or brothels. And there was one modest chapel, she saw, built of what looked like native oak, with a small graveyard set out within a low stone wall: a reminder that space travel was a dangerous occupation even here.
‘I can see you have plenty of chances to spend all those dollars.’
‘Well, that’s true. It’s something like an Old West mining town,’ Raup said. ‘Or maybe an oil rig. Or even early Hollywood, if you want a more glamorous example. Actually you have to watch your step these days.’
‘He means, there’s organized crime,’ Willis murmured. ‘Always drawn to places like this. There have already been a few murders, over gambling debts and the like. One way to do it is to just drop you into the Gap without a pressure suit, and no Stepper box. Sleeping with the stars, they call it. That’s why there’s such a security presence now: policing the criminal element, and watching out for saboteurs.’
Raup said, ‘But it’s still a cool place to be.’
Sally just dismissed that remark.
At the heart of the complex they walked down a kind of central mall lined with office blocks, brand new, concrete gleaming white and unstained. Raup led them to a low, flashy building marked with a bronze plaque: ROBERT A. HEINLEIN AUDITORIUM. There was a crowd at the doors and Raup had to produce passes to enable them to jump the line. He said apologetically, ‘We built this for Walter Cronkite-type news conferences. Our corporate masters insisted. Normally it’s deserted. But you’re in luck, Ms Linsay; the scuttlebutt is that the Martian rainstorms have cleared enough for the Envoy mission controllers to attempt a landing this very day. So it’s a good chance to show off to you what we’re doing here.’
Sally glanced at her father. ‘Rainstorms? On Mars?’
‘It isn’t our Mars,’ he said. ‘You’ll see.’
Raup led them into a central auditorium, with rows of benches before a lectern, the walls coated with big display screens. The place was full of chattering technicians and scientist types. For now the wall screens were blank, but smaller screens and tablets around the room showed grainy colour images being put through various enhancement processes. Sally glimpsed fragments of landscapes, grey-blue sky, rust-red ground.
‘Wow,’ Raup said, seeing the screen images, for once not sounding like he was simulating the emotions he expressed. ‘Looks like they did it, they landed the Envoy. The first time we made it, to this copy of Mars.’
‘Envoy?’
‘A series of unmanned space probes.’ Raup drew her attention to hard-copy images on the wall: trophy pictures of chunks of a planet, taken from space. ‘The first couple of Envoys to Mars were flybys, and these are the pictures we got. Today’s was the first actual landing, a necessary precursor to the manned missions that will follow. The very latest pictures, live from the Mars of the Gap!’
Willis snorted. ‘Yeah, but they’re getting the mix wrong. The sky is nowhere near that colour.’
Sally stared at her father. If these were the first landings on this Mars, how could he know that? But she’d long ago learned not to try to interrogate him.
Raup said, ‘You understand that the probe itself is really only a test article. For now we’re just proving the propulsion technology. With the Gap, you can do a lot. We’re hauling over nuclear rocket stages – inertial confinement fusion, if you’re familiar with the technology – and with those babies we’re getting to Mars in weeks, where it used to take you seven, eight, nine months depending on the opposition. . .’
Sally knew or cared nothing about nuclear rocketry, but the pictures caught her attention. One showed a disc, presumably the full globe of Mars imaged from space – but it wasn’t the Mars she remembered from decades of NASA pictures back on the Datum. This Mars was washed-out pink, with streaks of lacy cloud, and patches of steel grey that glinted in the sun: lakes, oceans, rivers. Liquid water, on Mars, visible from space. And there was green, the green of life.
‘I told you,’ Willis said. ‘This Mars is different.’
‘You understand you’re seeing the Mars of the Gap universe, the universe one step over from here,’ Raup said, back to his over-rehearsed way. ‘The images are radioed back to the Brick Moon, our station in the Gap. We have a clever system of packet-feeding the data stepwise to our facilities here . . . Our Mars is a frozen desert. This Mars, the G
ap Mars, is something like Arizona, though at a higher altitude. The Envoys confirmed the higher atmospheric pressure. On this Mars you could walk around on the surface with nothing more than a facemask and sun cream.
‘In this particular launch window, it was unlucky for us that our twin Envoy landers arrived in the middle of the worst storm season we’ve seen since we started watching Gap Mars, oh, a decade or more back. Not dust storms – here you get rain, snow, hail, lightning. The controllers didn’t want to risk that maelstrom, and for weeks the orbiters’ cameras have sent back nothing but images of lightning flashes. But now the storms have settled out, and evidently the mission planners agreed to go for a descent attempt. We’re just waiting for the images to stabilize . . .’
Now, in a stir of excitement, the technicians and scientists gathered closer around the TV monitors and tablets. The live images were clearing up, as if a snowstorm were fizzling out. Sally saw the flank of a stubby aircraft sitting on a surface of what looked like wet ruddy sand, like a beach revealed by a recently receding tide. The camera must be mounted on the aircraft itself; she could clearly see the Stars and Stripes boldly painted on its hull.
And then the camera panned away from the aircraft to reveal a glimpse of a shallow valley, with a river running, and tough-looking grey-green vegetation clumped on the banks. A living Mars.
The Poindexter types whooped and cheered.
They retired to a small coffee bar.
Sally faced her father. ‘All right, Dad, enough of the space trophies and the enigmatic remarks. In no particular order—’ She counted the points on her fingers. ‘Tell me why you want to go to Mars. And how you’re going to get there. And why under all the heavens I would want to go with you.’
He eyed her shrewdly. He was seventy years old now, and the wrinkled skin of his face looked tough as leather. ‘It’ll take a while to explain. Here’s the headline. I want to go to this Mars, the Mars of the Gap, because it’s not just Mars. It’s not even just a Mars with a significantly different climate. It’s a Long Mars.’
She took that in. ‘You said that before. Long Mars. You mean you can step there?’
He nodded curtly.
‘How do you know? . . . No, don’t answer that.’
‘There’s something specific I’m looking for, and expecting to find. You’ll see. But for now – the most important thing is, if a world is Long, then it must harbour sapience. Intelligent life.’ He looked at her. ‘You understand that much, don’t you? The theory of the Long Earth, the interfacing of consciousness and topology—’
Her jaw had dropped. ‘Hold on. Back up. You just dropped another conceptual bomb on me. Intelligent life? You discovered intelligent life on Mars?’
He was impatient. ‘Not on Mars. On a Mars. And, not discovered. Deduced the necessary existence of. You always were a sloppy thinker, Sally.’
Needled, her instinct was to fight back, as it had been since she’d been old enough to need to establish her own identity. She said provocatively, ‘Mellanier wouldn’t agree with you. About sapience and the Long Earth, that a Long world is somehow a product of consciousness.’
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Ah, that fraud. As to why you might go with me to explore – well, why the hell wouldn’t you?’ He glanced around at the geeks in the coffee bar, noisily celebrating their triumph. ‘Look at these back-slapping Brainiacs. I do know you, Sally. You liked it best before Step Day, when the Long Earth was just ours, right? Long Wyoming was, anyhow. Before I came up with the Stepper box I couldn’t step myself, I needed you to take me over, but—’
‘You’d read to me. Stories of other worlds, of Tolkien and Niven and E. Nesbit, and I’d pretend that was where we were going . . .’ She shut up. Nostalgia always felt like a weakness.
‘And now it’s all cluttered up by yahoos like these. No offence, Al.’
‘None taken.’
‘Sally, I know you still spend a lot of time alone. Wouldn’t you like to get away to a new world, a raw world, empty except for us – well, us, and a few Martians? Leave humanity behind for a while . . .’
And Lobsang, she thought.
Raup leaned forward, sweaty, intrusive. ‘As to how we’d get there, maybe you can already tell that the space programme we’re running out of this place is developing a hell of a lot faster than the plod back on Earth. Of course we’re able to build on all they learned and reapply it—’
‘Get to the point, propeller-head.’
‘The point is we’re ready to go. The first manned spacecraft to Mars. It’s waiting at the Brick Moon, just one step away, in the Gap. We wanted to wait until we got confirmation of the planet’s atmospheric conditions and so on from these automated landers. But now that we’ve got that—’
‘We? Who exactly is going on this mission?’
Raup puffed out his chest and lifted his hefty belly. ‘Our crew will be three, just like the Apollo missions. Yourself, your father, and me.’
‘You.’
Willis put in, ‘I know what you’re thinking. But you and I aren’t astronauts, Sally—’
‘Nor is this puff-ball. Dad, there’s no way I’m spending months in a tin can with this guy.’
Willis seemed unperturbed. ‘You have an alternative?’
‘Does a guy called Frank Wood still hang around here?’
3
WOULD FRANK WOOD TAKE a ride to Mars?
In 2045, Francis Paul Wood, USAF (retired), was sixty-one years old. And flying in space had been his dream since boyhood.
As a kid he’d been an odd mix of sports jock, engineering hobbyist and dreamer. He was encouraged by his parents, and an uncle who wrote about the space programme and loaned him a library of old science fiction, from Asimov to Clement and Clarke and Herbert. But by the time his dreams started to take realistic shape, the Challenger crash was already history, a disaster that had happened before he was two years old.
Still, he’d progressed. Once he’d been a NASA candidate astronaut, a career development after active service in the Air Force; he’d got that close. Then came Step Day, when an infinity of worlds had opened up within walking distance of an unequipped human, and spaceships had become instant museum pieces. And so had Frank Wood, it felt like, at thirty-one years old. He had become restless, nostalgic, and without a close family, having sacrificed relationships for a dream of a career. Suddenly he found that he’d become the uncle with the connections to the space programme and a trunk full of science fiction novels.
Burdened by a sense of opportunities lost, he’d spent some years hanging around what remained of Cape Canaveral, doing whatever work he could find. But Canaveral, aside from a continuing programme of launches of small unmanned satellites, was little more than a decaying museum of dreams.
And then had come the discovery of the Gap, a place where a conjunction of cosmic accidents had left a hole in the chain of worlds that was the Long Earth, and a new kind of access to space. A few years after that Frank, by then in his fifties, had gone out there to find a bunch of kids and young-at-heart types busily building an entirely new kind of space programme, based on an entirely new principle. Frank had thrown himself into the project with enthusiasm, and liked to think he injected a modicum of wisdom and experience into what had felt, in those early days, like some kind of ongoing science fiction convention, and these days more like the Gold Rush.
When Yellowstone had blown up back on the Datum, Frank, with many others – including a new friend called Monica Jansson, whom he’d met when Sally Linsay had come here to rescue abused trolls, as she’d seen it – had put aside his own projects and had travelled home to help. Well, Monica was long dead now, and the Datum was kind of settling down to a new equilibrium – or at least people had stopped dying in such numbers as they had been – and Frank felt entitled to go back to his own set-aside dreams. Back to the Gap.
And now here was Sally Linsay in his life again, and her father, with a startling proposition for him.
Woul
d Frank Wood take a ride to Mars? Hell, yes.
They got to work.
4
OUTSIDE MADISON WEST 5, at an unprepossessing workshop belonging to a wholly owned subsidiary of the Black Corporation, Lobsang – or rather an ambulant unit, one incarnation of Lobsang – worked on a service of Sister Agnes’s Harley. He was convincing at it too as he tinkered, his sleeves rolled up, oil smeared on his hands and forehead and grubby old overalls, even as he lectured Agnes on the state of the worlds in a rather rambling way.
Agnes, bundled up against the biting chill of a Wisconsin winter, was content to tune out his words, content to sit by and watch – and, otherwise, to think. This was January of 2045, over four years after the eruption of Yellowstone, and the worlds of mankind were stabilizing, if not healing, and Agnes, and others, had time to rest. And such moments as this gave her time to get used to herself. To being herself again, seven years after her own peculiar reincarnation. She hardly even recalled her given name, these days. She had been ‘Sister Agnes’ for as long as she could remember, and right now was certain that she still was Sister Agnes.
Not that theological doubts often troubled her. Sister Agnes could hardly complain about her new incarnation wrought by Lobsang, to be quick once more in this miraculous artificial body, into which her memories had been downloaded. Of course, to have undergone any kind of reincarnation was somewhat upsetting to a decent Catholic girl, for there was no room for that in the orthodox theology. However, she’d always concentrated on the old maxim that the best course was to do the good that was in front of her, and to put such doubts aside. Maybe God had a new mission for her, in this new form made possible by the advance of technology. Why should He not use such tools? And after all, being alive and apparently healthy was surely much better than being dead.
Meanwhile, what were you to make of Lobsang? In this temporal world he was something like any sensible vision of God, a God of technology, reproducing himself into more and more complex iterations, a being whose consciousness could fly anywhere and everywhere in the electronic world, who could even split himself so that he could be in multiple places at the same time. A being who was aware, as no simple human ever could be. Agnes liked the word ‘apprehend’. It was a good word that meant, to her, to understand completely. And it seemed to her that Lobsang was trying to apprehend the whole world, the whole universe, and trying to understand the role of the human race in that universe.
Long Mars (9780062297310) Page 4
