Of all this it neither knew nor cared. For the present, atoms kept pouring in. If a complex, fulgent knot in space can be called happy, then that was its condition.
After all, what else was there in the universe, but matter to eat, light to excrete, and vacuum? And what were they? Just subtly different kinds of folded space.
Space was the fabric of its existence.
Without fuss or intent, it grew.
□ Worldwide Long Range Solutions Special Interest Group [□ SIG AeR.WLRS 253787890.546]. Space Colonization Subgroup. Open discussion board.
Okay, so imagine we get past the next few rough decades and finally do what we should have back in TwenCen. Say we mine asteroids for platinum, discover the secrets of true nanotechnology, and set Von Neumann “sheep” grazing on the moon to produce boundless wealth. To listen to some of the rest of you, all our problems would then be over. The next step, star travel, and colonization of the galaxy, would be trivial.
But hold on! Even assuming we solve how to maintain long-lasting ecologies in space and get so wealthy the costs of star-flight aren’t crippling, you’ve still got the problem of time.
I mean, most hypothetical designs show likely starships creeping along at no more than ten percent of the speed of light, a whole lot slower than those sci-fi cruisers we see zipping on three-vee. At such speeds it may take five, ten generations to reach a good colony site. Meanwhile, passengers will have to maintain villages and farms and cranky, claustrophobic grandkids, all inside their hollowed-out, spinning worldlets.
What kind of social engineering will that take? Do you know how to design a closed society that’d last so long without flying apart? Oh, I think it can be done. But don’t pretend it’ll be simple!
Nor will be solving the dilemma of gene pool isolation. In the arks and zoos right now, a lot of rescued species are dying off even though the microecologies are right, simply because too few individuals were included in the original mix. For a healthy gene pool you need diversity, variety, heterozygosity.
One thing’s clear, no starship will make it carrying only one racial group. What’ll be needed, frankly, are mongrels… people who’ve bred back and forth with just about everybody and seem to enjoy it. You know… like Californians.
Besides, it’s as if they’ve been preparing themselves for it all along. Heck, picture if aliens ever landed in California. Instead of running away or even inquiring about the secrets of the universe, Californians would probably ask the BEMs if they had any new cuisine!
• CRUST
Fast approaching the scene of carnage, a detachment of the Swiss navy arrived in the nick of time. Sweeping over the ocean’s morning horizon, the proud flotilla un-furled bright battle ensigns, fired warning shots, and sent the raiders into rout at flank speed. Rescued! The crews of rusty fishing barges cheered as their saviors hove into sight, the bright sun at their backs. Only moments before, all had seemed lost. Now disaster had turned to victory!
Nevertheless, Crat barely took notice. Amid the throng of filthy, sweat-grimed deck hands, climbing the rigging and waving their bandannas, he was too busy vomiting over the side to spend much effort cheering. Fortunately, there wasn’t much left in his stomach to void into waters already ripe with bloody offal. His fit tapered into a diminishing rhythm of gagging heaves.
“Here, fils,” someone said nearby. “Take this rag. Clean yourself.”
The voice was thickly accented. But then, nearly everyone aboard this corroded excuse for a barge spoke Standard English gooky, if at all. Grabbing at a blur, Crat was dimly surprised to find the cloth relatively clean. Cleaner than anything he’d seen since coming aboard the Congo, some weeks ago. He wiped his chin and then tried to lift his head, wondering miserably who had bothered taking an interest in him.
“No. Do not thank me. Here. Let me giff you something for the nausea.”
The speaker was white haired and wrinkled from the sun. And despite his age, it was clear that his wiry, sun-browned arms were stronger than Crat’s own soft, city-bred pair. The good Samaritan grabbed the back of Crat’s head adamantly and lifted a vapor-spritzer. “Are you ready? Goot! Breathe in, now.”
Crat inhaled. Tailored molecules soaked through his mucous membranes, rushing to receptors in his brain. The overwhelming dizziness evaporated like fog under the subtropical sun.
He wiped his eyes and then handed back the kerchief without a word.
“You’re a silent one, neh? Or is it because you’re choked up over our triumph?” The old man pointed where the green raiders’ rear guard could still be seen, fleeing west-ward in their ultrafast boats. Of course nothing owned by Sea State could hope to catch them.
“Triumph,” Crat said, repeating the word blankly.
“Yes, of course. Driven off by the one force they fear most. Helvetia Rediviva. The fiercest warriors in all the world.”
Crat shaded his eyes against the still-early sun, wondering vaguely where his hat had gone to. By the captain’s orders, everybody aboard Congo had to wear one to protect against the sleeting ultraviolet… as if the average life span on a Sea State fishing boat encouraged much worry about latent skin cancers.
The first thing Crat saw as he turned around was the listing hull of Dacca… the fleet’s cannery barge and the green raiders’ main target. Deck hands dashed to and fro, washing down gear that had been sprayed with caustic enzymes. Others cast lines to smaller vessels nearby, as pumps fought to empty water from Dacca’s flooding bilges.
The greeners hadn’t had any intention of sinking her, just rendering her useless. Still, raiders often overestimated the seaworthiness of ships flying the albatross flag. Crat was too inexperienced to guess if Dacca’s crew could save the ship. And damned if he’d ask.
Near the factory ship, a UNEPA observer craft loitered, blue and shiny like something from an alien world — which in a sense it was. The dumpit U.N. hadn’t done a gor-sucking thing to stop the greeners. But should Dacca drown — or spill more than a few quarts of engine oil saving herself — UNEPA would be all over Sea State with eco-fines.
“There,” the oldster said helpfully, nudging Crat’s shoulder and pointing. “Now you can get a good look at our rescuers. Over toward Japan.”
Is that what those islands are? The mountainous forms were low to the northeast, like clouds. Crat wondered how anyone could tell the difference.
He saw a squadron of low-slung vessels approaching swiftly from that direction, so clean and trim, he naturally at first assumed they had nothing to do with Sea State.
Smaller craft spread out, prowling for greener submarines, while in the center a sleek, impressive ship of war drew near. The nozzles of its powerful cannon gleamed like polished silver. Bulging high-pressure tanks held its ammunition — various chemical agents that it began spraying over poor Dacca to neutralize the greeners’ enzymes. Although neither dousing was supposed to affect flesh, the new bath caused Dacca s crew to laugh and caper, luxuriating as if it were a Fragonard perfume.
“Ah!” the old man said. “Just as I thought. It is Pike-man. A proud vessel! They say she never needs to fight, so fearsome is her name.”
Crat glanced sideways, suddenly suspicious. This fellow’s eyes glittered with more than mere gratitude at being saved from greener sabotage. There was unmistakable pride in his bearing. From that, and the thick but educated accent, Crat guessed he was no mere refugee from poverty, nor a foolish would-be adventurer like himself. No, he must have joined the nation of the dispossessed because his birthplace was still officially under occupation by all the world’s powers — a country whose very name had been confiscated.