Ark

by Stephen Baxter

  ′And we need to think about the command structure within the ship.

  ′Even while we were at Jupiter we still had Gordo Alonzo and the Nimrod project executive as a chain of command above us. But now there′s no higher chain of command, outside of the Ark. And we need to find a new way of running things.

  ′This isn′t a warship; it′s our home. And so I don′t think a military-style hierarchy of command is appropriate. That′s why I liked Grace′s suggestion of the name ′′parliament′′ for these bull sessions with the council, which you based, Grace, on how Nathan Lammockson ran Ark Three?′ Grace nodded. ′A parliament is a place where you talk.

  ′As for leadership - well, we need a leader, a focus for decisions and disputes. Before we went to warp Gordo appointed me captain for the interstellar cruise, and it was an honour, I′m proud of that. But I don′t need, and shouldn′t have, the absolute authority of a captain of a ship at sea. I propose that I should be referred to as the ′′speaker′′ - that is, my only real privilege is that I′m the first to speak at these sessions, and each of you, when you speak, should address me. OK?′

  Without giving anybody a chance to respond she pressed on.

  ′Furthermore, when it comes to the laws by which we order our lives, we have a manual, a law book drawn up by the social engineers back at Denver. But they aren′t here - and neither are half the Candidates it was meant to apply to. We can use that as guidance, but I propose that instead we should develop what we already refer to as ′′Ship′s Law′′. Iron rules regarding safety and the maintenance of the ship and its systems, rules that we all accept can be the basis of a set of laws which will emerge as we need them, by precedent, on a case by case basis. A law we don′t need is a bad law, in my book. Let′s work it out ourselves. I might say that I am making these recommendations having consulted with my senior colleagues here; these are collegiate proposals.

  ′Furthermore …′

  Holle detected a slight shift in the crowd at that second ′further-more′, the first signs of strained patience.

  ′Furthermore, I don′t want myself or anybody else to be imposing decisions on the crew, on you. The ship′s too small for that. I want to govern by consensus. Not even by majority vote, which always leaves a rejected minority. I want to work by unanimity, if we can achieve it. If there′s a dispute, we′ll just talk it out as long as it takes. God knows we′ve got the time to do that, between here and 82 …′

  Theo Morell murmured, ′Oh good. We can talk, talk, talk all the way to the stars. I can imagine what my dad would have said about that.′

  Holle dared not so much as grin in a forum like this.

  She did wonder how long these fine ideas would last. As Kelly spoke, Venus sat behind her at the table, her face expressionless, and Wilson was staring around at the crew, challenging, ape-like. Holle believed Venus and Wilson and maybe others were playing a long game in the increasingly intricate political arena of the Ark. Having grown up with these highly competitive and gifted individuals in the Academy, Holle knew that was inevitable. These were games Holle herself shied away from. But she had a feeling that whatever structure of power and command emerged in the months and years to come would have little to do with Kelly′s Utopian visions.

  She tried to focus on what Kelly was saying now.

  Some of it seemed to be well thought out. Kelly had given some consideration to the nature of liberty in the environment of the Ark. The need to maintain essential common systems would lead to a natural tendency to the centralisation of power. But in such a confined space you couldn′t hide from any tyranny, you couldn′t flee - and, so fragile was the Ark, no rebellion could be tolerated. So the usual mechanisms by which tyrannies might be challenged on Earth were not available here.

  ′And that might still be true after we reach Earth II,′ Kelly went on. ′Even there we′ll be living in sealed shelters, at least at first; we will be reliant on shared systems even for the air we breathe. What we need to find is a way to ensure compliance with the basic, life-preserving rules that will always dominate our lives, without succumbing to tyranny. It′s a whole new experiment in human affairs - our experiment. And the way we conduct our affairs now, if we get it right, might serve as a model for the generations to come.′ She said this with a smile and an open-armed gesture, to which people didn′t quite respond.

  That was it with Kelly. She was intensely able, intelligent, articulate, forceful, and in that sense a natural leader. But in all the years they had grown up together Holle had always been aware of Kelly′s intense, overriding ambition, above all else - an ambition that, as many people knew, had led her to leave a kid behind on Earth. People didn′t quite get Kelly Kenzie. Now, rather than be inspired by her visionary talk, they tended to look away.

  The arguments started now, questions about shared ownership and the collective raising of children. Somebody suggested they model their new society on the old kibbutzes of Israel. Kelly responded forcefully. The atmosphere became like the Academy in the old days when a tutor would throw them some hot topic to gnaw over.

  Kelly′s senior colleagues sat patiently at the table, Venus glancing discreetly at her wristwatch. But others on the fringe of the crowd started slipping away.

  When Zane turned on his heel and left, having said nothing, Holle gave Kelly an apologetic wave and cut away to follow him. For her the day′s real business was about to start. Her heart beat faster.

  59

  She followed Zane to his small, solitary cabin. It wasn′t exactly far.

  He seemed surprised to see her, and wouldn′t meet her eyes. But he didn′t object when she asked if she could come in and talk. Her nervousness increased as she followed him inside, and she wondered how she was going to broach the subject she wanted to discuss.

  But she was distracted by his cabin. It was nothing but a box of partitions. Everybody else had personalised their cabins one way or another. Holle′s small room had her personal stuff, her bits of clothing, her images of her father and mother, her Angel. And if you had a kid, like Grace Gray, you had a spontaneous home-maker on your hands. There was none of this about Zane′s space. The furniture was functional, just a bed, a couple of chairs, a cupboard. There was work stuff here, an elaborate workstation and some precious hardcopy manuals on relativity and warp drive and space engineering. But, aside from heaps of clothes on the floor, that was it. This was just somewhere Zane existed, rather than lived.

  She sat on a chair; she had to clear off a heap of socks first. Zane sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded on his knees. Uncertain of his mood, uneasy about the space he lived in, she became even more unsure about the wisdom of what she was planning to do. But, overwhelmed by her own nervousness and self-consciousness, she went ahead anyway.

  ′It′s this way, Zane,′ she said.

  His head turned towards her.

  ′I′ve been thinking. Look, you know the nature of the mission - the social design. The crew was chosen to be as genetically diverse as possible, so that when we have kids they have the best chance of avoiding inbreeding. This was drummed into us at the Academy. But that means we all have a duty. We need to become parents. It′s our responsibility to ensure that all our genes join the pool of the colonists on Earth II.′

  ′So why are you telling me this?′

  She bit her lip. Did she really have to spell it out? She began to suspect that something was wrong here, something beyond her own nervousness. But she pressed on. ′Zane, you′ve seen people pairing up, especially since Jupiter. The rumour is Kelly and Wilson are a couple now.′

  He frowned again. ′Wilson. The external systems engineer.′

  ′Yeah,′ she said, confused by his response. ′That Wilson, Wilson Argent who you grew up with … The truth is, Zane, I left Mel behind on Earth. Well, you know that. And I can′t see myself falling in love with anybody else on this rust-bucket. And, frankly, I can′t see you pairing up with anybody either.′

  He looked baff
led.

  She felt concern, and a spasm of affection. She crossed to him, kneeled on the floor, and took his hands. ′Zane, we may not be soul mates. But we′ve known each other most of our lives. We′ve worked together for the same goal. And we always supported each other. I remember how you waited for me on my first day at the Academy, and got yourself in trouble as a result. I wondered if - I mean, it doesn′t apply now, not until we get to Earth II. But maybe we should think about having kids together. You and me. There. So what do you say?′

  He raised his head and for the first time looked straight at her. ′Do you believe in the warp bubble?′

  She settled back on her ankles. ′What did you say?′

  ′Do you believe in it?′ He glanced at his workstation, and laughed, and spoke rapidly. ′I mean, I′ve studied the theory. But it′s impossible! Basic physical principles would have to be violated for it to work. Aside from obvious issues of causality and the breaking of the weak, strong and dominant energy conditions, the vacuum stress-energy tensor of a quantised scalar field in an Alcubierre spacetime diverges if the ship exceeds the speed of light. Diverges! That would lead to the formation of a horizon, which, which …′ His voice cracked, and he stopped speaking, as if he had run down. ′I can show you the mathematics.′

  ′Zane? I don′t understand what you′re saying. The warp works - we′re in flight. You worked on the design solutions, with Liu Zheng and the others, which got us to this point …′ As she had been holding his hands, his coverall sleeves had ridden up his arms, and she saw a pattern of marks on the skin of each forearm, small cross-shapes. She touched them cautiously. Some were healed-over scabs, other were more livid. It looked as if he had been jabbing the point of a Phillips screwdriver into his flesh.

  ′I can′t have kids with you.′ He laughed, but it was a ghastly, hollow sound.

  She looked up. ′Why not?′

  ′I′m dirty. You must know that.′

  ′Dirty?′

  ′It′s all in the journal.′ He pulled away his hands and tapped at his workstation. A kind of diary came up, text and short video clips, Zane′s own talking head. ′He tells it all there.′

  ′Who does?′

  ′Zane. He says he′s going to kill himself, in some of these clips. Like suicide notes.′

  ′He … Zane, that′s you. Is that why you′re harming yourself now?′

  ′What do you mean?′

  She took his right arm, turned it over firmly and pointed at the screwdriver marks. ′Here, and here.′

  He shrugged. ′I don′t remember doing that. I guess I wasn′t here.′

  ′Then where were you?′

  ′I′m faking it, you know,′ he said abruptly. He laughed again. ′That′s the truth.′ He stared at her. ′I don′t know who you are. None of you. I listen to you speaking, and I make notes of what you call each other, and I check for surnames and so forth on the system. I make notes, and try to remember. It′s been that way since Jupiter.′

  She stared at him. ′Then what do you remember?′

  ′I woke up,′ he said.

  ′Woke up?′

  The words came tumbling out now. Evidently he hadn′t spoken of this with anybody else. ′I was in a pressure suit. I was floating in space. I was surrounded by the warp generator, the collider. He was with me.′

  ′Who?′

  ′The external systems engineer.′

  ′Wilson?′

  ′Yes. There was a shimmering around me, a visual effect, the stars. Wilson grabbed me and started slapping me on the back. Big gloved hands. He said we′d done it, that I′d done it.′

  Holle remembered. She had been in Seba watching this very scene on 13th March 2044, the day the warp generator had first been activated.

  ′I didn′t know what I′d done,′ Zane whispered.

  ′Zane - you′d initiated warp. It was everything you′d been working for.′

  ′Wilson took me on an inspection tour of the collider torus. I just followed his lead. When I got back inside, everybody was smiling and nodding and shaking my hand, and I just smiled and nodded back. I didn′t even know their names. When I got to a workstation I looked up the relativity. I understood that, it′s so elementary. And I studied the warp generator, so called. It can′t work!′

  ′You don′t remember anything before warp day?′

  ′And I have blanks.′

  ′Blanks?′

  ′Other times since then that I don′t remember. It′s like I just wake up again.′ He rubbed his face. ′But I′m not getting much sleep.′

  She smiled, and backed off. She needed to get to Mike Wetherbee, she realised. She needed to tell him that their only warp engineer might be schizoid. And so much for having his babies.

  ′Just wait here, Zane. Will you promise me that? We need to talk some more.′ Leaving him sitting on the bed, she turned and fled.

  60

  DECEMBER 2046

  Holle was woken by a soft whisper from her Snoopy cap, on the low cupboard beside her bed. The in-suit systems had been adapted by the senior crew as a clandestine communications channel for times of crisis. In the dark, she grabbed the set and pulled it over the pillow. ′Groundwater.′

  ′Holle? Wilson. Could do with some help over here.′

  ′Over in Halivah?′ She was half asleep; her thinking was fuzzy. ′Light.′ A soft glow filled the room, and she checked her watch. Four a.m., not yet dawn here in Seba or in Halivah, in either of the Ark′s twin hulls. She propped herself up on her elbow. ′Go ahead, Wilson. What′s up?′

  ′We lost a kid.′

  ′A kid?′

  ′Meg Robles.′

  Now four years old, going on five, Meg was one of the first cadre of babies born on the Ark. Her mother, Cora Robles, had been pregnant on embarkation.

  ′Wilson, how do you lose a kid? … Never mind.′

  ′We′re searching. But the kid′s only half my problem.′

  My problem, Holle noted. He might be Kelly′s partner, but Wilson did have a way of treating the whole of Halivah as a personal fiefdom. ′The mother?′

  ′Theo can′t get her out of HeadSpace, and he′s worried how she′ll react if he pulls the plug.′

  ′And you′re calling me because—′

  ′I need your feminine intuition on this one, Holle.′

  ′Oh, piss off, Wilson.′ But he knew she wasn′t about to refuse a request for help; she never did. ′OK. Give me a few minutes.′

  ′Out.′

  In her sleep suit, she stumbled out of her cabin into the cool dim green of night-time Seba, heading for the deck′s communal bath block. Nobody was around, nobody moving on the decks above or below. She made a mental note to check that whoever was supposed to be on watch tonight wasn′t goofing off asleep or in a HeadSpace booth. When the hull was empty like this it seemed bigger, grander, somehow, almost church-like. You were more aware of the sounds, the smells, the tang of electricity and metal that never let you forget you were in the guts of a big machine - and the lingering staleness, a sewer smell that was the signature of thirty-some people having lived in this tank for nearly five years already, since the launch from Gunnison.

  The toilet block was part of a pillar structure that spanned the hull longitudinally from one end to the other; the sinks and showers and toilets on each level connected to a common water and drain system. She used the toilet and washed her face. She derived some satisfaction from the smooth running of her systems, the freshness of the cold water on her face, and the even hum of pumps and fans and filters. This was what she did, she and her apprentices, and she didn′t really care that amid all the politicking and bickering and daily crises nobody ever seemed to notice.

  Back in her cabin she pulled on underwear, coverall and boots.

  Then she clambered up the series of steel ladders that led to the nose of the hull, and the airlock for the tether transit to Halivah. Wall-mounted cameras swivelled, following her passage incuriously. The paintwork hadn′t
been modified from the natural-green scheme that had been bequeathed them from the ground, although after five years the paint was chipped, flaking. And there were no particular signs of the upcoming thousand-day festival. Kelly, following a lead from Gordo Alonzo, was keen to promote celebrations whenever there was an excuse, a mission anniversary, a birthday. Given how short they were of such basic materials as paper and fabric, the crew′s artistic leanings were expressed in more ephemeral forms: oral poetry, music, dance. When the festival day came, the thousandth since the warp launch from Jupiter, the hull would briefly be filled with a carnival. But for now the crew′s artistic endeavours slept in their heads with them.

  At the nose of the hull she slipped off her boots, pulled her Snoopy comms hat on her head, and clambered into one of the three transit suits stored here, hanging like pupae from the wall. It closed up easily, the joints and seals well lubricated, but it smelled of stale farts. She ran through basic integrity checks. Then she climbed up into the nose airlock and waited for the pumps to drain the precious air from the small chamber.

  These cut-down pressure suits were an innovation of Wilson′s, who had grown impatient with the time it took for crew to complete a spacewalk transfer from one hull to another. The most important change was to the suit′s air content, which was an oxygen-nitrogen mix of about the same pressure as within the hulls. The higher pressure made the suit rigid and all but impossible to move around in, but that didn′t matter if all you had to achieve was this simple transfer. Most importantly the higher pressure cut out the need for the hours of pre-breathing you had to endure before a full EVA.

  The hatch opened. She pushed her way out into space, and found herself standing on the nose of the hull. The insulation blanket was soft under her booted feet, worn by years in space, pocked by micrometeorite scars, crisped by solar radiation, and stained a faint yellow by the sulphurous compounds emitted by Io. But the Stars and Stripes were still bright in the ship′s lights, and from here she could see the bold black U and N and I of the words UNITED STATES painted down the hull′s flank, the identity of a drowned nation displayed to the stars.