I snorted. ‘Imagine growing up with a dead hero for a grandfather. And his one communication to me is a lecture about the damn Fermi Paradox. Look, Reid Malenfant was a loser. He let people manipulate him his whole life. People like Frank Paulis, who used him as a front for his predatory off-world capitalism.’
‘That is very cynical. After all this project, the first human exploration of the Bubbles, was funded privately – by Paulis. He must share some of the same, ah, curiosity as your grandfather.’
‘My grandfather had a head full of shit.’
Celso regarded me. ‘I hope we will learn enough to have satisfied Reid Malenfant’s curiosity – and that it does not cost us our lives.’ And he went back to work.
Humans fired off their first starships in the middle of the twentieth century. They were the US space probes called Pioneer and Voyager, four of them, launched in the 1970s to visit the outer planets. Their primary mission completed, they sailed helplessly on into interstellar space. They worked for decades, sending back data about the conditions they found. But they haven’t gone too far yet, all things considered; it will take the fastest of them tens of thousands of years to reach any nearby star.
The first genuine star probe was the European-Japanese D’Urville: a miniaturized robot the size of a hockey puck, accelerated to high velocity. It returned images of the Alpha Centauri system within a decade.
The D’Urville found a system crowded with asteroids and rocky worlds. None of the worlds was inhabited … but one of them had been inhabited.
From orbit, D’Urville saw neat buildings and cities and mines and what looked like farms, all laid out in a persistent hexagonal pattern.
But everything had been abandoned. The buildings were subsiding back into the yellow-grey of the native vegetation, though their outlines were clearly visible. Farms and cities: they must have been something like us. We must have missed them by no more than millennia. It was heartbreaking.
So what happened? There was no sign of war, or cosmic impact, or volcanic explosion, or eco-collapse, or any of the other ways we could think of to trash a world. It was as if everybody had just up and left, leaving a Marie Celeste planet.
But there were several Bubbles neatly orbiting the empty world, shining brightly, beacons blaring throughout the spectrum.
Since then more probes to other stars, followers of the D’Urville, have found many lifeless planets – and a few more abandoned worlds. Some of them appeared to have been inhabited until quite recently, like Alpha A-IV, some deserted for much longer. But always abandoned.
And everywhere we found Bubbles, their all-frequency beacons bleeping invitingly, clustering around those empty worlds like bees around a flower.
After a time one enterprising microprobe was sent inside a Bubble.
The hatch closed. The Bubble shot away at high speed, and was never heard from again.
It was shortly after that that Bubbles were found in the Oort cloud of our own solar system. Hatches open. Apparently waiting for us.
Paulis had set out the pitch for me. ‘Where do these Bubbles come from? Where do they go? And why do they never return? My company, Bootstrap, thinks there may be a lot of profit in the answers. Our probes haven’t returned. Perhaps you will.’
Or perhaps not.
It doesn’t take a Cornelius Taine to figure out that the Bubbles must have something to do with the fact that my grandfather’s night sky was silent.
… Or maybe we aren’t alone, but we just can’t see them. Why not?
Maybe the answer is benevolent. Maybe we’re in some kind of quarantine – or a zoo.
Maybe it’s just that we all destroy ourselves in nuclear wars or eco collapse.
Or maybe there is something that kills off every civilization like ours before we get too far. Malevolent robots sliding silently between the stars, which for their own antique purposes kill off fledgling cultures.
Or something else we can’t even imagine.
Michael, every outcome I can think of scares me.
Celso called me over excitedly. ‘My friend, we have travelled for days and must have spanned half the universe. But I believe our journey is nearly over.’ He pointed. ‘Over there is a quasar. Which is a very bright, very distant object. And over there –’ He moved his arm almost imperceptibly. ‘I can see the same quasar.’
‘Well, golly gee.’
He smiled. ‘Such a double image is a characteristic of a cosmic string. The light bends around the string. You see?’
‘I still don’t know what a cosmic string is.’
‘A fault in space. A relic of the Big Bang, the birth of the universe itself … Do you know much cosmology, Michael?’
‘Not as such, no.’ It isn’t a big topic of conversation in your average poker school.
‘Imagine the universe, just a few years old. It is mere light years across, a soup of energy. Rapidly it cools. Our familiar laws of physics take hold. The universe settles into great lumps of ordered space, like – like the freezing surface of a pond.
‘But there are flaws in this sober universe, like the gaps between ice floes. Do you understand? Just as liquid water persists in those gaps, so there are great channels through which there still flows energy from the universe’s earliest hours. Souvenirs of a reckless youth.’
‘And these channels are what you call cosmic strings?’
‘The strings are no wider than ten hydrogen atoms. They are very dark, very dense – many tons to an inch.’ He cracked an imaginary whip. ‘The endless strings lash through space at almost the speed of light, throwing off loops like echoes. The loops lose energy and decay. But not before they form the kernels around which galaxies crystallize.’
‘Really? And what about this primordial energy?’
‘Great electric currents surge along the strings. Which are, of course, superconductors.’
It sounded kind of dangerous. I felt my stomach loosen – the reaction of a plains primate, utterly inappropriate, lost as I was in this intergalactic wilderness.
But now there was something new. I looked where Celso was pointing –
– and made out a small bar of light. It moved like a beetle across the background.
‘What’s that? A bead sliding on the string?’
He grabbed a softscreen, seeking a magnified image. His jaw dropped. ‘My friend,’ he said softly, ‘I believe you are exactly right.’
It was one of a series of such beads, I saw now. The whole damn string seemed to be threaded like a cheap necklace.
But now the perspective changed. That nearest bar swelled to a cylinder. To a wand that pointed towards us. To a tunnel whose mouth roared out of infinity and swallowed us.
We sailed along the tunnel’s axis, following a fine thread beaded with toy stars – a thread that had to be the cosmic string. The stars splashed coloured tubes on the tunnel walls; they hurtled by like posters in a subway to hell.
I clung to the Bubble walls. Even Celso blanched.
‘Of course,’ he yelled – and stopped himself. There was no noise, just the feeling there ought to have been. ‘Of course, we have still less reason to fear than before. Our speed must be vastly less than when we were in free space. And I believe we’re still slowing down.’
I risked a look.
We were dipping away from the axis. Those tremendous bands of light flattened out and became landscapes that streamed beneath us.
We slowed enough to make out detail.
One model sun was a ruddy giant. By its light, fungi the size of continents lapped vast mountain ranges.
The next sun was a shrunken dwarf; oceans of hydrogen or helium slithered over the tunnel walls. I saw something like an enormous whale. It must have had superconducting fluid for blood.
So it went, sun after sun, landscape after landscape. A subway filled with worlds. Worlds, and life.
Celso’s dark eyes shone with wonder. ‘This tunnel must be a million miles across. So much room …’
We dipped lower still. Atmosphere whistled. The latest sunlight looked warm and familiar, and the walls were coated with a jumble of blue and green.
The huge curved floor flattened out into a landscape, exploded into trees and grass and rivers; suddenly we landed, as simple as that.
Gravity came back with a thump. We fell into the base of our Bubble.
Without hesitation Celso pulled on his suit, set up our inflatable airlock, and kicked the hatch open.
I glimpsed grassy hills, and a band of night, and a white dwarf star.
I buried my face in the wall of the Bubble.
Celso came to me that evening.
(Evening? The toy sun slid along its wire and dimmed as it went. In the night, I could see Earthlike landscape smeared out over the other side of the sky.)
‘I want you to know I understand,’ Celso said gently. ‘You must come to terms with this situation. You must do it yourself. I will wait for you.’
I shut my eyes tighter.
The next morning, I heard whistling.
I uncurled. I pulled on my suit, and climbed out of the bubble.
Celso was squatting by a stream, fishing with a piece of string and a bit of wire. He’d taken his suit off. In fact, he’d stripped down to his undershorts. He broke off his whistling as I approached.
I cracked my helmet. The air smelt funny to me, but then I’m a city boy. There was no smog, no people. I could smell Celso’s fish, though.
I splashed my face in the stream. The water felt pure enough to have come out of a tap. I said: ‘I’d like an explanation, I think.’
Celso competently hauled out another fish. (At least it looked like a fish.) ‘Simple,’ he said. ‘The line is a thread from an undergarment. The hook is scavenged from a ration pack. For bait I am using particles of food concentrate. Later we can dig for worms and –’
‘Forget the fishing.’
‘We can eat the fish, just as we can breathe the air.’ He smiled. ‘It is of no species I have ever seen. But it has the same biochemical basis as the fish of Earth’s oceans and rivers. Isn’t that marvellous? They knew we were coming – they brought us here, right across the universe – they stocked the streams with fish –’
‘We didn’t come all this way to bloody fish. What’s going on here, Celso?’
He wrapped the line around his wrist and stood up. Then, unexpectedly, he grabbed me by the shoulders and grinned in my face. ‘You are a hero, my friend Michael Malenfant.’
‘A hero? All I did was get out of bed.’
‘But, for you, that step across the threshold of the Bubble was a great and terrible journey indeed.’ He shook me gently. ‘I understand. We must all do what we can, yes? Come now. We will find wood for a fire, I will build a spit, and we will eat a fine meal.’ He loped barefoot across the grass as if he’d been born to it.
Grumbling, I followed.
Celso gutted the fish with a bit of metal. I couldn’t have done that to save my life. The fish tasted wonderful.
That night we sat by the dying fire. There were no stars, of course, just bands of light on the horizons like twin dawns.
Celso said at length, ‘This place, this segment alone, could swallow more than ten thousand Earths. So much room … And we flew over dozens of other inside-out worlds. I imagine there’s a home for every life form in the universe – perhaps, in fact, a refuge for all logically possible life forms …’
I looked up to the cylinder’s invisible axis. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me the whole thing’s built around a cosmic string. And the power for all the dinky suns comes from the huge currents left over from the Big Bang.’
‘I would guess so. And power for the gravity fields we stand in – although there may be a simpler mechanism. Perhaps the tube is spinning, providing gravity by centripetal forces.’
‘But you’d have to spin the tube at different rates. You know, some of the inhabitants will be from tiny moons, some will be from gas giants …’
‘That’s true.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘We’ll make a scientist of you yet.’
‘Not if I can help it.’ I hunched up, nostalgic for smog and ignorance. ‘But what’s the point of all this?’
‘The point – I think – is that species become extinct. Even humans … I did not always work in the algae farms. Once I had higher ambitions.’ He smiled. ‘I would have been an anthropologist, I think. Actually my speciality would have been palaeoanthropology. Extinct homs.’
‘Homs?’
‘Sorry: field slang. Hominids. The lineage of human descent. I did some work, as a student, in the field in the desert heartlands of Kenya. At Olduvai I was privileged to make a key find. It was just a sharp-edged fragment of bone about the size of my thumb, the colour of lava pebbles.’
‘But it was a bit of skull.’
‘Homs don’t leave many fossils, Michael. You very rarely find ribs, for example. Until humans began to bury each other, a hundred thousand years ago, ribs were the first parts of a corpse to be crunched to splinters by the carnivores. It took me months before I learned to pick out the relics, tiny specks against the soil …
‘Well. Believe me, we were very excited. We marked out the site. We broke up the dirt. We began to sieve, looking to separate bits of bone from the grains of soil and stone. After weeks of work you could fit the whole find into a cigarette packet. But that counts as a phenomenal find, in this field.
‘What we had found was a trace of a woman. She was Homo erectus. Her kind arose perhaps two million years ago, and became extinct a quarter-million years ago. They had the bodies of modern humans, but smaller brains. But they were highly successful. They migrated out of Africa and covered the Old World.’
I said dryly, ‘Fascinating, Celso. And the significance –’
‘They are gone, Michael. This is what my field experiences taught me. Here was another type of human – extinct. All that is left is shards of bone from which we have to infer everything – the ancient homs’ appearance, gait, behaviour, social structure, language, culture, tool-making ability – everything we know, or we think we know about them. Extinction. It is a brutal, uncompromising termination, disconnecting the past from the future.
‘And for an intelligent species this over-death is an unbearable prospect. Everything that might make a life valuable after death – memory, achievement – is wiped away. There is nobody even left to grieve. Do you see?’
He was genuinely agitated; I envied his intensity of emotion. ‘But what has this to do with the builders?’
He lay on his back and stared at the empty sky. ‘I think the builders are planning ahead. I think this is a refugium, as the ecologists would say. A place to sit out the cold times to come, the long Ice Age of the universe – a safeguard against extinction.’ He sighed. ‘I think your grandfather understood about extinction, Michael.’
I stared at the fire, my mind drifting. He was thinking of the destiny of mankind. I was just thinking about myself. But then, I hadn’t asked to be here. ‘Maybe this is okay for you. Sun, trees, fishing, mysterious aliens. But I’m a city boy.’
‘I am sorry for you, my friend. But I, too, am far from my family.’
It was a long night, and not a whole lot of laughs.
A new sun slid down the wire. The dew misted away.
I rubbed my eyes; my back was stiff as hell from sleeping unnaturally without a mattress on the ground.
There were two alien Bubbles. They bobbled in the breeze, side by side.
One was ours. Its door gaped; I recognized our kit inside it. Within the second Bubble I thought I could make out two human forms.
I shook Celso awake. ‘We’ve got company.’
We stood before the new vessel. Its hatch opened.
There was a woman; a small boy clung to her. They were a terrified mess. When they recognized Celso –
Look, I have some decency. I took a walk along the stream.
After an hour I rejoined the family. They we
re having a nice fish breakfast, talking animatedly.
Celso grinned. ‘My friend Michael Malenfant. Please meet my wife, Maria, and Fernando, my son.’
Maria still wore the grimy coverall of an algae tank worker. She said: ‘The Bubble came and scooped me up from work; and Fernando from his school.’
I gaped. ‘The Bubbles have come to Earth?’
They had, it seemed: great gossamer fleets of them, sailing in from the Oort Cloud, an armada perhaps triggered by our foolhardy jaunt.
‘They make the sky shine,’ said the boy, beaming.
‘Of course it is logical,’ said Celso. ‘The aliens would want to reconstruct stable family units.’
‘I wonder how they knew who to bring.’
Celso smiled. ‘I would guess they studied us – or rather the Bubble did – during the journey. Whoever was most in our thoughts would be selected. The puzzles of the human heart must be transparent to the builders of such a monumental construct as this.’
‘We were scared,’ said Fernando proudly, chewing the flesh off a fishy spine.
‘I’ll bet.’ I imagined the scenes in those nightmarish farms as a Bubble came sweeping over the algae beds … ‘So now what? Do you think you’ll stay here?’
Celso took a deep breath. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘Better than the algae farms, huh.’
‘It is more than that. This will be a fine land in which to build a home, and for Fernando to grow. Other people will be brought here soon. We will farm, build cities.’ He took my arm. ‘But you look troubled, my friend. I must not forget you in my happiness. Was no one in your heart during our journey?’
In my hop-skip-and-jump life I’d never made the time to get close enough to anyone to miss them.
He put his hand on my arm. ‘Stay with us.’ His son smiled at me.
Once again I found myself unable to meet Celso’s kind eyes.
Michael, much of my life has been shaped by thinking about the Fermi Paradox. But one thing I never considered was the subtext.
Phase Space Page 31
