In fact, she found few histories of any kind, though she searched for an hour. Several works described the reign of Dominick's family, but they didn't go back to the sixteenth century. Although it was harder to read the historical accounts, they clearly focused on wars and politics, what the authors considered great deeds of the Constantines. Yet she found many hints that his ancestors had also distinguished themselves in scholarly pursuits, showing that same gift for abstract thought she had seen in Dominick and Maximillian.
One section of the library dealt with architecture, including books about the Palace of Arches. Nothing explained the Fourier Hall, but a few studies mentioned a “key” to that great room. She eventually found a description in a book on ancient military codes, of all places. Settling into an armchair, she pored over the text, puzzling out the words. The arches of that gorgeous hall formed a code. Their Fourier transform was a key. But to what?
Janelle sat back, thinking. In two dimensions, the transform would probably be a peak with rippled tails; in three dimensions, it might resemble the diffraction pattern for a circular aperture. The locations of the central peak would specify a time. For what? The text seemed to describe a portal, not the gate that had brought her here but something for a much bigger event.
She went to a desk and rummaged in its drawers until she found an inkbottle, quill, and parchment. It took her a while to figure out how to use the quill, but finally she set to work, trying to derive the Fourier transform of the arches. She couldn't do it exactly; that would require a computer. But the book gave drawings and measurements for the hall, and she could model the arches as the sum of a few squared sine waves.
As she ground away at the equations, the lamp behind the desk burned low. The transform had the shape she expected, with a large peak at the number 2057. Why 2057? She thought it represented a time. Perhaps it meant 2057 years in the future or that many years since something had happened. Or the year 2057.
A chill went through her. In 2057, she would be seventy-one, about the age of the woman in the prophecy. This couldn't connect to her—for that implied she would still be here in fifty years.
Dismayed, she went on another search—and hit gold: a modern account of the Jade Pool. The “jade-hued surface” had to be a Riemann screen. The author considered it an enigmatic artifact of mythical proportions and presented equations for it as if they were runes of a spell. Janelle could appreciate what Gregor had achieved, if he had unraveled practical knowledge from such fanciful treatments.
The book also discussed Riemann gates, which turned out to be a more complicated application of the screen. She didn't understand the technology, but she worked through the equations. No matter how many times she tried to find a mistake in her work, she derived the same result: the gate didn't depend on two sheets—it involved hundreds. Dominick had managed to go back and forth to her universe because he used the same gate, but it was closed now, and the entire cycle would have to complete before it reopened. That would take centuries, maybe even millennia.
She stared at the parchment with its blotted ink. Then she folded her arms on the desk and put her head on her forearms.
Sometime later, a man said, “Janelle?” A hand rested on her arm.
She lifted her head to find Dominick watching her. He had pulled a stool up to the desk and was sitting next to her.
"What happened?” he asked.
She shook her head, too disheartened to answer.
"Tell me,” he said softly.
"I don't think I can go home.” The words burned inside her. “If you hadn't opened the gate when you did, you could never have found me. I would have been long dead before the cycle returned to my universe."
"You are telling me the prophecy created itself? That if Gregor had never said anything, you wouldn't be here?"
She could only say, “Yes."
He answered in a low voice. “Then I am doubly sorry."
"Something happens in fifty years,” she said unevenly. “When I'm the age of the woman Gregor saw in the pool. Another gate is going to open. A big one. During those few months, your people may be able to do something incredible."
He seemed bewildered. “What something?"
"I don't know.” She hesitated. “Maybe your ancestors didn't strand you forever. Maybe you can find them.” She laid her palm against his chest. “Your family had the gifts to understand once."
A strange look came into his eyes. “There is a saying.” He spoke in an unfamiliar language.
"What does it mean?"
"Roughly translated: Constantines are the key to the future."
She stared at him. “Who else besides you and the monks has a library like this, with the ancient books?"
"Just Maximillian."
"My God,” she whispered. “It's you. Your family. You're the key. The Fourier Hall is a clue, or a remnant, like the waveforms on the walls, but you're the guardians of the knowledge. It's probably why your family ended up ruling Othman.” She motioned at the library. “Everything you've lost is still here. The ability to unlock it is in you, in your genes, your minds. If you can find it.” She felt as if she were breaking. “But why me? How could you reach across universes for someone to help you do this?"
He spoke in a subdued voice. “Gregor said the pool showed many futures. My father wanted the one that maximized his empire. I always assumed it depended on who ruled, Max or me, and that you came into it because you brought power into our family, probably through an alliance.” Quietly he said, “Maybe it is much larger than this battle between brothers. Perhaps it is something only you can do."
A tear slid down her face. “At what price to me?"
"Ai, Janelle.” He put his arms around her shoulders and drew her to him. “I don't know how to take you home. But if you let me, I will give you a home here worth having."
She laid her head against him and fought back her tears.
* * * *
Dominick's suite was far different than the chamber where Janelle had spent her first night in the palace. It was five times the size. Low, black-lacquered tables stood around the room, surrounded by big cushions instead of chairs. Rich tapestries in gold, red, and green hung on the walls. The rugs he used for a bed filled one corner, tumbled with velvet pillows. Braziers burned in other corners, and oil lamps flickered in wall sconces, shedding a dim golden light. It all had a barbaric elegance.
Janelle sat with Dominick on his bed, leaning against the wall. They had come here from the library, and now he held her. She fitted to his side, unable to talk, her thoughts edged with pain.
After a while, she said, “It is hard to believe you are brothers."
He answered in a low voice. “Do not see me with blinders. What Max does and believes—it is in me also. I had a different life, and it taught me other ways. Had brutality molded me instead, I would be just like him."
"Will you go to war?"
"He is my brother, despite everything.” He sounded tired. “But I will not desert my home and people to go ‘across the sea,’ as he says I must. If that means we must fight, so be it."
She understood. Six of his officers had died in the raid on the palace. He could rebuild the hall, but nothing would bring back those men. At least Kadar, the guard who had helped her in the tunnels, had survived. He had been injured, but he was recovering.
"Gregor told me about your family,” Dominick said. “I'm sorry."
She couldn't talk about it. So she said only, “My father was an ambassador. Do you have them here?"
"Yes. It is a position of honor, usually held by a nobleman.” He rubbed his hand along her upper arm. “The people of Othman have a history of strife with the Andalusian Empire. We descend from their colonies, but we gained our independence centuries ago."
Andalusia. Southern Spain. “The empire doesn't exist in my universe. But Spain is a nation. I lived there for years."
He didn't seem surprised. “It is no wonder the prophecy predicted you would affect our
balance of power. Your background suits you well to the throne."
Dryly she said, “I don't think your brother was interested in my background."
The corded muscles in his arm tensed. “Max will never be satisfied until he takes you from me or kills us both.” Grimly he added, “He will succeed with neither."
"He says he and I are married."
Ire sparked in his voice. “He cannot marry my wife."
"His spy told him you and I never wed."
"I gave you the jewels. And we consummated the marriage. So we are wed."
"Uh, Dominick.” She lifted her head. “We didn't consummate it."
"I stayed the night. As far as anyone knows, we did.” He cleared his throat. “Unless you plan to say otherwise."
She smiled. “I won't."
He looked relieved. “Good."
"I met your daughter. She's charming."
His tone gentled. “Yes. All my children are."
"I'm sorry ... about their mother."
"Ah, well.” He sounded muted. “It has been years."
He fell silent after that, and she regretted bringing up the memories. After a while, she said, “What happened to your people five hundred years ago? Was there a war? A catastrophe?"
"I don't think so.” For one of the few times since she had met him, he sounded uncertain. “Some of the people just left."
"To where?"
Dominick pointed upward. “There. Somewhere.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “I have more education than most because my mother insisted Max and I study history, language, astronomy, and mathematics when we were boys, as much as anyone could teach us. But it barely touches what is my library. Why did our ancestors desert this world and never come back?” He shook his head. “We have lost that knowledge. They took so much with them. Legend says they left us behind deliberately. Some claim a political rift existed between those who went and those who stayed. Others say we remained of our own free will, as guardians of Earth, and that those who left cannot return because they became lost between worlds, even universes.” Softly he said, “Perhaps it is both. But it's been half a millennium. Our memories are faded."
It was heartbreaking to think of the human race fractured that way. “Maybe they'll return someday."
"You will search for answers?"
She nodded, gratified he didn't object. “Gladly."
"You say I have some small talent for scholarly pursuits.” He sounded bemused.
"More than small, I think."
"I haven't the interest, though.” His smile flashed. “But ah, Janelle, our children will be brilliant."
It hurt to realize her children would never know her world. Yet it was true; if they inherited their parents’ ability for abstract thought, and learned to use it, they might truly reach for the stars. She would teach them what she knew. But most of all, she would love them, as her parents had loved her.
He was watching her face. “Together, you and I can achieve much."
"I hope so.” Her voice caught. “We will make a good place.” Somehow.
"Aye,” Dominick murmured. “We will."
Janelle didn't know if she would ever understand this complicated man, but she wanted to try. She knew life here wouldn't be easy. It was a violent world, harsh and unyielding, and Maximillian would always be there. Yet it also had an incredible beauty. If she could never go home, she could at least have her work in the library, a family to love, and dreams of the day when humanity might soar beyond the bounds of Earth.
A bittersweet peace settled over her. This wasn't a life she would have chosen. But it might hold joy, even astonishing events, and for that, she could look forward to the future.
Copyright (c) 2007 Catherine Asaro
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Science Fact: Project Boreas: A Base at the Martian North Pole by Stephen Baxter
One of my many hats, in this case a space cadet peaked cap, is that of a Fellow of the venerable British Interplanetary Society. From June 2004 to February 2007, I worked with the BIS on a design study of a manned base at the Martian north pole. For definiteness we imagined a five (Earth) year stay, from 2037 to 2042. This is in a long tradition of similar studies by the BIS, which produced a design for a lunar lander as early as 1939, and for an interstellar probe in 1978. It is a weighty study; project leader Charles Cockell is a professor of astrobiology at the Open University.
I worked on history, culture, glaciology, and climatology, and was also in charge of the sheep dip (old Monty Python joke). It did me good, I think, to work in a team for a change, and to do something resembling real science. The results of our work have been published as Project Boreas: A Station for the Martian Geographic North Pole, ed. Charles S. Cockell (British Interplanetary Society, 2006) (and Arthur C. Clarke and I are planning some scenes set at the pole of Mars in our next Time Odyssey collaboration [Firstborn, Gollancz and Del Rey]).
As a place to live, the Martian north pole is a pretty good approximation of a torture chamber. So why send humans there? For the thrill of it, and for the science, some of which only humans are going to be able to do in the near future—in particular ice cores, which are crucially important. In 2000, the First International Conference on Mars Polar Science and Exploration concluded that “the principal goal of Mars polar research is to determine whether there is an interpretable record of climatic and geologic history that has been preserved in the [layered] polar deposits.” And for the foreseeable, it's going to take a human presence to extract an ice core from Mars.
It's the science I want to concentrate on in this piece. But what kind of place is the Martian north pole?
* * * *
Overwintering on Mars
It's cold and it's dark. Mars has the same sort of axial tilt as Earth, so just as on Earth, the north pole enjoys half a Martian year of perpetual daylight, and then half a year of darkness—that is, about a full Earth year of night. What's worse, for a good chunk of time even Earth is below the horizon.
As for the weather, Mars is a bit like high-altitude terrestrial deserts: when the sun goes down, it gets cold fast. At the pole, as soon as the sun disappears at the autumn equinox, a “snow” of carbon dioxide ice nucleated on dust and water-ice crystals starts to fall. But Mars's atmosphere is mostly CO2: thus on Mars, in the winter, the air snows out. It lasts all winter. Ultimately you get a dry ice layer one to two meters thick, and throughout the winter there is a steady low-speed wind into the polar regions to replenish the lost air. It's no fun to live under this; it's not like a blizzard, more a permanently smoggy sky, so in the polar dark you can't even see the stars.
In all, fully one-third of the atmosphere freezes out each winter. Imagine that happening on Earth!
In the spring the sun's heat sublimates away the carbon dioxide, leaving behind a residue of water ice with dust and other contaminants, thus adding a layer to a permanent water-ice cap.
In Project Boreas, we explored the challenges of living at the Martian pole. Although British comic-book hero Dan Dare (in a 1951 Eagle story) once holidayed at the Hotel Mars-Astoria, “one of the glass-domed airtight winter-sports hotels at the north pole of Mars,” sadly we found it would be a sort of multiplication of the usual difficulties of life on another world, the confinement and the limited resources, with the unique challenges of polar exploration on Earth. You would face months of darkness stuck in a dome on a featureless white surface, an environment like a sensory deprivation tank. Life would be still more constrained by planetary protection protocols, keeping any Martian life insulated from the terrestrial and vice versa, which would complicate the simplest operation.
And despite Dan Dare, you couldn't even ski, incidentally. The ice is too cold to allow the melting of a lubricating layer under your skis, as on Earth. It would be like skiing on concrete.
So why would you go there? Perhaps for the resources. In the first realistic study of how to send humans to Mars, the Mars Project of 1953, Wernher von Braun pro
posed landing winged ships on one of the polar ice caps, chosen for their smoothness: the 125-tonne “landing boats” needed runways. In the 1990s, NASA scientist and SF writer Geoffrey A. Landis proposed a first landing at a Martian pole for ease of access to water in the surface ice; temperate-zone landings would have followed later because there you would have to drill for your water. We're certainly going to be studying ISRU (in-situ resource usage) techniques at the pole. For if you can live off the land on a Martian ice cap, there's a good chance you could make it on the surface of any ice moon, from Ganymede on out.
And there's good science to be done. In this way, Project Boreas is a logical culmination of four centuries of exploration since 1666, when, just 56 years after Galileo first observed Mars telescopically, Giovanni Cassini first spotted white polar caps on the planet.
* * * *
Weather and Ice on Mars
Project Boreas will give us a chance to establish “ground truth” validation of the theories we have been building up on Mars's climate and glaciology since Cassini, from orbiters and rovers and observation from Earth.
The permanent ice cap itself is a thing of wonder, with features unlike anything on Earth. From space it looks like an ice cream hurricane, with the ice cut through by “spiral canyons,” thought to be formed by a combination of ice flow and wind effects (like ice caps on Earth, the Martian cap has a parabolic profile, more evidence for ice flow). Through steady sublimation and deposition, the canyons migrate with time, and as the planet's axis nods, the cap expands and contracts. The polar cap is a self-organizing system a thousand kilometers across, a frozen storm that spirals with the centuries and breathes with the millennia.
Our astronauts will have a chance to examine all this in detail. We'll drive down the spiral canyons and sample the exposed strata in their walls. The cap's internal structure, to be detected by seismology and radar studies, is complicated, containing layers of carbon dioxide ice or clathrates, and up to 50% trapped material, including dust, volcanic ash, impact fallout, evaporites from past seas and lakes, and perhaps even biological traces. Even the ice cap surface itself has a complex structure, with features without terrestrial analogs, such as “cryptic” areas of dark albedo (carbon dioxide ice?) and “cold spots” (where carbon dioxide is being depleted from the atmosphere?).
Analog SFF, March 2008 Page 10
