‘Why didn’t he tell me what had become of him?’
‘No guarantee he knew. Once he was in this state, with his personality running entirely on machine substrates, he could have edited his own memories and perceptual inputs — deceiving himself that he was still corporeal.’
Irravel looked away from the casket, forcing troubling questions from her mind. ‘Is his personality still running the ship?’
‘We detected only caretaker programs, capable of imitating him when the need arose, but lacking sentience.’
‘Is that all there was?’
‘No.’ Remontoire reached through one of the casket’s larger fractures, prizing something from Markarian’s fingers. It was a sliver of computer memory. ‘We examined this already, though not in great detail. It’s partitioned into one hundred and ninety areas, each large enough to hold complete neural and genetic maps for one human being, encoded into superposed electron states on Rydberg atoms.’
She took the sliver from him. It didn’t feel like much. ‘He burned the sleepers onto this?’
‘Three hundred years is much longer than any of them expected to sleep. By scanning them he lost nothing.’
‘Can you retrieve them?’
‘It would not be trivial,’ the Conjoiner said, ‘but given time, we could do it. Assuming any of them would welcome being born again, so far from home.’
She thought of the infected galaxy hanging below them, humming with the chill sentience of machines. ‘Maybe the kindest thing would be to simulate the past,’ she said. ‘Recreate Yellowstone and revive them on it, as if nothing had ever gone wrong.’
‘Is that what you’re advocating?’
‘No,’ she said, after toying with the idea in all seriousness. ‘We need all the genetic diversity we can get if we’re going to establish a new branch of humanity outside the galaxy.’
She thought about it some more. Soon they would witness Hope’s destruction, as the wave of machines tore through it with the mindlessness of stampeding animals. Some of them might try to follow the Hirondelle, but so far the machines moved too slowly to catch the ship, even if they forced it back towards Galactic North.
Where else could they go?
There were globular clusters high above the galaxy — tightly packed shoals of old stars the wave hadn’t reached, but where fragments of humanity might already have sought refuge. If the clusters proved unwelcoming, there were high-latitude stars, flung from the galaxy a billion years ago, and some might have dragged their planetary systems with them. If those failed — and it would be tens of thousands of years before the possibilities were exhausted — the Hirondelle could always loop around towards Galactic South and search there, striking out for the Clouds of Magellan. Ultimately, of course — if any fragment of Irravel’s children still clung to humanity, and remembered where they’d come from, and what had become of it, they would want to return to the galaxy, even if that meant confronting the wave.
But they would return.
‘That’s the plan then?’ Remontoire said.
Irravel shrugged, turning away from the plinth where Markarian lay. ‘Unless you’ve got a better one.’
AFTERWORD
Here are eight stories — more than one hundred thousand words — set against a common background. I’ve written two other novellas and four novels set in the same imagined universe: not far shy of a million words. I’ve plans for more stories and books.
You can probably tell that I like future histories.
The first one I encountered was Larry Niven’s ‘Known Space’ sequence. I was in my middle teens, which is probably exactly the right target age. As I started reading the stories and novels embedded within this consistent timeline, beginning with Ring-world, and later the collection Tales from Known Space, I found myself plunged into a dizzying series of venues and eras. In some of the stories — a few of which were actually set earlier than the date at which I was reading them — humanity was still confined to the solar system and had little or no knowledge of alien cultures around other stars. Some stories were set a few centuries downstream, with colonies beginning to be established around other systems. Still more stories were set in an era when humankind had access to faster-than-light drives, teleportation technology, planet-gouging weapons and near-indestructible materials, and was in contact with many variegated alien races.
At first glance, not all of Niven’s stories appeared to belong in the same universe. But the connections were there, if one looked closely: finding them was half the fun. It was like pulling back from a close-up in which the individual stories were coloured chips in a mosaic. Suddenly you began to see the bigger picture; the larger composition upon which the author had been labouring. It hardly mattered that not all the details were absolutely consistent between the stories, or that some of the tales had been retrofitted into the scheme after initial publication. One still had a sense of the future as teeming, chaotic, prone to unexpected swerves and lurching accelerations.
That sense of a future history as a single fictional entity — a whole larger than the sum of its parts — has never left me, and it’s largely why I find the form so appealing. Future histories are often dismissed as exercises in laziness: why invent a new background when you can reuse one from another story. I don’t quite agree. For my money, it’s generally more difficult to write a second story in a pre-existing universe than to make a new one up from scratch. You have to work within ground rules already laid down, which places severe limits on narrative freedom. If you’ve introduced a world-changing invention in the first story, it has to be incorporated into the background texture of the second, unless the second is set earlier in the first. And if that’s the case, the second story must not introduce inconsistencies in the first. By the time you’re on the eighth or ninth story in a sequence, the narrative airspace can be getting awfully crowded. Future histories usually reach a point of limiting complexity, when trying to slot new stories into the stack becomes so fiendishly difficult that most writers move on to new pastures. I suppose the difficult part is knowing when you’ve reached that point.
Future histories obey differing degrees of consistency. At the soft extreme you have something like the Star Trek universe, in which the writers have been perfectly willing to go back and re-imagine certain details, even if that means contradicting data in earlier episodes. At the harder extreme, which I’d guess is almost exclusively the purview of written fiction, you have writers who maintain a furious lock-hold on consistency. Their published stories are only the iceberg’s tip of a vast private archive of background data, and no new story can be written without the monkish consultation of that hidden bible. I admire anyone with that degree of dedication to the art, but it’s not my approach. My stories fit together like a badly made jigsaw. Some of the pieces don’t even seem to come from quite the same puzzle. You probably need to file down a few corners and press hard to make them fit. My bible consists of one small Word file containing a sketchy chronology, and the written works themselves. If I’m writing a story and a detail comes up that may refer to something I think I might possibly have written in Chasm City, I’ll try to find the relevant page in CC. But I won’t kill myself if I don’t find it. In this approach I’m in the good company of John Varley, who refused to go back and read any of his ‘Eight Worlds’ stories before writing Steel Beach.
I’ve arranged the stories, as near as I can, in chronological order: ‘Great Wall of Mars’ is set barely two hundred years from now, while the last story, ‘Galactic North’, encompasses most of the future history and slingshots into the deep, distant future. But chronological order has little to do with the order in which the pieces were written. The earliest published story in this collection, ‘Dilation Sleep’, is a case in point. It was sold in 1989 and published in 1990, a full ten years before my first novel. It has roots that go back another ten years: in my teens I wrote two novels (A Union World and Dominant Species, since you asked) and a slew of stories set against an unashamedly Nivenesque background, in which a United Nations-dominated humanity makes contact with a zoo-load of alien races and obtains the secret of faster-than-light travel. Although I never tried to publish any of that stuff (which isn’t to say I didn’t inflict it on my long-suffering friends) it was a valuable learning experience. Because I’d written two moderately long novels by the time I was eighteen, I wasn’t intimidated by the idea of doing it again, and to this day I’ve maintained a good track record of finishing projects once I start them: good practice, I think, for any budding writer.