Links 18/01/13

Cabin Porn is liable to induce envy in those who want a little place to get away from it all.  I lust after the studio cabin in Wayne, Maine (page 3).

'100 Wild Huts is an experimental challenge I’ve set myself to build 100 small survival shelters on any piece of ground that harbours enough natural resources for the build. I intend to sleep rough in each shelter for one night and blog about the experiences.'

Bit Rot

Like most writers, I'm healthily paranoid about backing up my work.  It's done automatically every ten minutes, and at the end of the day I back up files to a thumb drive, an external terabyte hard drive, and send an email to myself via gmail, with the work-in-progress attached.  I also add new files to an offsite thumb drive periodically.  (So far, I've resisted the allure of dumping copies in the Cloud using DropBox or an equivalent, mainly because I have the feeling that while it's free now, it probably soon won't be, an opinion backed up by a couple of friends who work in IT.)

When I started out, things were much easier.  The only computers were mainframes, and the only word processors were Wangs.  So almost every author either wrote by longhand, or typed, and all backups were in the form of atoms.  I typed my first stories and my first published novel, backing up first with carbon paper copies, and later on by submitting photocopies.  I graduated to bit storage with my first computer, which used 5.25" disks.  Later media included Zip disks, and 3.5" disks, which as well as accumulating new files were also imprinted with copies of old files that travelled from computer to computer.  And because files produced by old word-processing programmes aren't always compatible with new WP programmes, all final versions are saved in WP and the universal .rtf format.

But even bits can rot.  As I prepared to copy-edit old WordPerfect 5.0 versions of the first two Confluence books, I discovered that chunks were missing from the files thanks to some copying error that must have originated in the WP program - all back up files were identical.  Luckily, copies on atoms saved the day.  I spend several evenings over Christmas razoring out the relevant pages from the relevant US hardbacks, turning them into text files using my scanner, correcting the (surpriusingly few) errors in the resultant files, and patching them into the existing WP files.  If there's a lesson in all this it's this: keep backup copies of everything.  Including your own books.

Monoliths

There were three of them in on it at the start. Juny Parrish and her partner, Moss, were engineers working on the Mare Imbrium section of the trans-lunar railway; their friend, Ringo Takashi, was designing a mural for the big interchange station at Archimedes City. They were all from Paris, Dione, had helped to rebuild the city after the Quiet War, and had worked on the railway that girdled Mimas. The railway stretched across the nearside southern hemisphere of Earth’s Moon was a much bigger project, but in many ways easier. With the exception of Montes Taurus, the terrain was mostly rolling lava plains, with few large craters or rilles. The big machines that fabricated the pylons and track rolled on at a steady three kilometres per day, with few snags, so Juny and Moss were able to commute between the railhead and Archimedes City fairly regularly. One night, over dinner, Ringo told them about a fabulous three-hundred-year-old movie he was mining for his mural, a vast panorama blending dozens of paleo-spaceflight representations of the exploration of the Solar System. He showed them a clips of ape-men clustered around a vertical slab, and people in weird silvery spacesuits examining an identical slab in a pit dug into the lunar surface, said he was working on something that would merge the two.

‘A where-we-came-from, where-are-we-going kind of thing. I might make it the centerpiece.’

Moss was interested in the slabs. ‘Where is the one on the Moon supposed to be?’

‘Tycho,’ Ringo said. ‘The movie is very strange: an attempt at realistic futurism mixed with weird transcendentalism. Aliens uplifting the ancestors of humanity, astronauts triggering an alarm on the Moon, proving that humanity has left the cradle, and nonsense involving wormholes and a kind of posthuman transformation.’

‘I know these people working on wormhole theory,’ Moss said. ‘A posthuman clade in the Belt. You should show them this.’

Juny said, ‘Are they really trying to make wormholes?’

‘Of course not. You know posthumans. All theory and no application.’

Moss was fiddling with the second clip, freezing the moment when one of the astronauts reached out to the black surface of the slab.

‘It would be interesting to actually make one of these things,’ he said. ‘You could plant it in Tycho.’

That was how it began.

At first, they talked about casting a slab of black lucite and incorporating it into Ringo’s mural, playing the two clips superimposed on each other in its depths. Ringo soon dismissed this as a cheap and obvious trick, but the idea didn’t quite go away. Why not make a slab, a monolith as it was called in the movie, and plant it somewhere? Bury it, Juny suggested, with clues pointing towards it, and make a piece of action art or secret theatre involving unwitting treasure hunters that would imitate the lunar scene in the movie, complete with a radio pulse aimed at Jupiter. Or better yet, Moss and Ringo said, aim the pulse at some star where the aliens might come from . . .

It became a game they played over several dinners. Evolving and refining it, until they were all agreed that they had something worth doing. Juny and Moss organised the design and construction of the monolith in a print factory run by a friend of theirs. A black slab with dimensions in the ratio of 1:4:9, the square of the first three integers, 3.35 metres tall. Its faces smooth and black and non-reflective, incorporating a system that converted sunlight to electrical power, stored in capacitors that at a touch anywhere on the surface discharged in a radio squeal shaped by internal waveguides.

The fabrication of the monolith was straightforward: the three of them spent far more time discussing how to erect it, and where. They quickly eliminated Tycho Crater and anywhere on the nearside, because there were too many installations and satellites and spacecraft that could be disrupted by a powerful radio signal. They talked about sites elsewhere in the Solar System, but eventually settled on the farside of the Moon, atop the rimwall of a small crater inside the larger Mendeleev Crater, a spot near a popular hiking trail.

After much argument, they settled on an enigmatic unmodulated radio signal rather than some kind of encrypted message, and decided that it should be aimed at the core of the galaxy. Moss, with the stubborn literalism that was sometimes endearing, sometimes frustrating, said that no alien civilization would ever be found there because the central black hole violently affected the whole region; Juny and Ringo pointed out that they weren’t aiming it at actual aliens, and besides, there were a good number of nearer stars in the same direction. It was a trivial hack to make the wave guide directional, and to delay transmission of the signal when the galactic core was below the horizon. Moss incorporated a safety routine, too, so that the signal would also be delayed if the monolith detected any spacecraft or satellites in the path of the radio beam.

‘We don’t want this to come back and bite us,’ he said.

All that was left was to organise the emplacement. They hired a lunar hopper and borrowed a small construction robot, swore Ringo’s assistant to secrecy, and planted the thing in six hours. Ringo’s assistant took photographs of the three of them posed in front of the monolith, as in the movie clip, helmet visors fully polarised to hide their identity, and after Moss activated it they all had to resist the temptation to touch it: part of the fun was waiting for some random stranger to discover and trigger it.

They did not have to wait long. The first squeal was triggered just eleven days after the monolith had been emplaced, and soon there was a steady trickle of signal pulses. It became a brief sensation. People hiking the trail made a point of diverting to the monolith and triggering it and posing for pictures. Several couples performed partnering ceremonies in front of it. Visitors left tokens, or added rocks to a cairn. Someone strung Tibetan prayer flags nearby, which slowly bleached in the relentless sunlight. The nearest hiker shelter was renamed Monolith Station.

Juno and Moss and Ringo talked about claiming credit but never did. It was more fun to leave it as an enigma. They moved on to other work, and over the years mostly forgot about their little project. Juno and Moss drifted apart; she continued to work in railway construction, while Moss set up home in an ecocommune on Mars, gardening a tented crater. One day, some thirty-six years after they’d planted the monolith, Ringo sent an eidolon to Juno, who was working then on girdling a rock some twenty kilometres in diameter with a monorail.

‘There are other monoliths,’ the eidolon said, without preamble, and showed her in quick succession images of slabs on Ceres, Vesta, several smaller asteroids, and one of Mars’s moons, Phobos. They were identical to the original and like the original aimed their radio blurts at the galactic core, and had appeared within the last hundred days. Clearly a large crew, or perhaps several smaller ones, had been involved in their placement.‘I have no idea who who did it,’ Ringo’s eidolon said. ‘Has anyone contacted you?’

‘No. I suppose Moss might know something.’

She hadn’t seen her ex-partner for more than ten years, but thought with a little stab of old
exasperation that it would be just like him to ruin their lovely little site-specific idea.

‘I’ve already talked to him,’ Ringo’s eidolon said. ‘He claims to be as baffled as me, and
has been buried in that ecocommune for years. He’s taken some kind of vow of poverty. My
assistant, and that friend of yours who helped with the fabrication, they don’t know anything
either. It’s a mystery.’

Juno told the eidolon a little about her work and her new partner, asked to be kept in the loop.
In the next decade, more than a hundred monoliths appeared, scattered through the Belt, on
Mars, on the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. No one claimed credit, although someone belw up
a giant monolith more than a hundred metres tall that appeared on Earth, in the Australian
outback, and released a terse statement claiming that monoliths diverging from the norm were
heretical. Rumours of a secret cult of philosopher-monks circulated but were never
confirmed, and no one ever saw a monolith being erected.

Ringo and Juno met one last time on Phobos. Ringo was outward-bound; Juno was heading
towards Bradbury, to advise on construction of a tram system inside the tented city. They
confirmed to each other that no one had ever contacted them about the original monolith.
Ringo believed that it was a gigantic practical joke, and the rumours about vagabond monks
and worship of alien overlords were part of it.

‘Anyone with an industrial maker swarm could replicate what we did,’ he said. ‘We should
only be surprised that it is still ongoing after all these years.’

Juno told him that she had analysed the spread of the monoliths. There appeared to be at least
nine separate nodes, nine groups making them and setting them out.

‘If it is a joke,’ she said, ‘it’s highly organised. Many people must be involved, and none have
ever broken cover.’

‘Neither did we,’ Ringo said.

‘Imagine if we did.’

‘No one would believe us.’

‘There’s no sign that they’ll stop,’ Juno said. ‘Whoever they are.’

‘Maybe they truly believe in what they are doing,’ Ringo said. ‘Maybe it isn’t a joke, to them.

Maybe they really do believe that random radio signals will be detected by aliens.’

‘Our silly little joke,’ Juno said.

‘Our work of art,’ Ringo said. ‘I’m glad we never signed it. Because if aliens did answer the
signals, if they were hostile or if they destroyed us without meaning to, we’d be made into the
worst and the most foolish villains in all of history.’

He looked deadly serious for a moment, then burst into laughter.

Juno laughed too. ‘For a moment you almost had me.’

They never met or talked about it again. But on rocks in the belt, on moons in the Outer
System, on kobolds and comets, the monoliths continued to appear, each a lonely and
enigmatic iteration of a secret purpose, each a single voice of a random and unfinished
symphony, singing out to the stars at the touch of a wanderer’s hand.

Links 11/01/13

I seem to be looking at a lot of space-based stuff lately. Maybe I'm unconsciously searching for new subject matter, or maybe it's just that there's been a huge number of amazing new discoveries.  There's evidence that Titan's hydrocarbon seas may have hydrocarbon icebergs floating on them, for instance, and three-dimensional imaging of weather patterns in a brown dwarf with the catchy name 2MASSJ22282889-431026: wind-driven layered clouds 'composed of hot grains of sand, liquid drops of iron, and other exotic compounds.' And astronomers have discovered an incredibly old star just 190 light years away: with an age of at least 13.2 billion years old, HD 140283 is only slightly younger than the universe, but because it possesses small amounts of heavy elements it is probably a second-generation star (only hydrogen and helium formed immediately after the Big Bang; all other elements heavier than iron were created by supernovae). Meanwhile, Cassini scientists list their top ten discoveries in and around Saturn and its rings and moons, in 2012.

As Kevin Kelly observed in a recent thought-piece, thanks to the panopticon of phone cameras and the internet, the improbable is becoming the new normal.  Kelly, ever the optimistic, thinks this will change us in interesting ways; web pioneer Jaron Lanier thinks the whole Web 2.0 thing may have been a terrible mistake. Even though it links you, instantly, to stuff like this - 2001: A Space Odyssey comics, with space squids.

The Trinity Effect

I'm a sucker for little museums, and this has to be one of the smallest, a tribute to Michael Faraday housed in a garden shed. It can be found at Trinity Buoy Wharf, the site of London's only working lighthouse, formerly the site of workshops where shipping buoys were repaired. Sited in Tower Hamlets, where Bow Creek debouches into the Thames, it's one of those odd, overlooked corners of London that isn't on the way to anywhere else. The wharf has been made over into an art quarter, and despite the corporate-bohemian feel (that web site, plaques overexplaining the 'heritage', a visitors' centre), the area is a nice mix of industrial activity and Victorian decay. There are workshops, studios housed in repurposed shipping containers, an American diner (closed, darn it, when I visited on the Sunday between Christmas and New Year's Day), and the Longplayer installation.

Composed by Jem Finer for Tibetan singing bowls, the Longplayer is designed to play for a thousand years (it started on January 1st, 2000). There's a listening post up in the old lighthouse, which gives lovely views across the river; I was inspired then and there to write a short story about a similar installation orbiting inside Saturn's rings.

Confluence

The Constable of Aeolis was a shrewd, pragmatic man who did not believe in miracles. In his opinion, everything must have an explanation, and simple explanations were best of all. ‘The sharpest knife cuts cleanest,’ he often told his sons. And: ‘The more a man talks, the more likely it is he’s lying.’
 
But to the end of his days, he could not explain the affair of the white boat.

 Very pleased to report that I have just received a contract from Gollancz for a reprint omnibus of my far -future science fiction trilogy, Confluence. The three novels (Child of the River, Ancients of Days, Shrine of Stars) were published way way back at the end of the last century, and went out of print fairly quickly. Now they're coming back as a big omnibus edition (1100 manuscript pages, 360,000 words), with two related stories as bonus material. Right now, I'm re-formatting and copy-editing ancient text files in a long-dead version of WordPerfect. The book should be out in December this year.

The New Neighbours

Here they come! Here come our new neighbours! They’re so close now that if you went outside and stood on the shell of our garden, you would be able to see them without enhancement: six sparks of fusion flame, six ships killing their velocity as they make their final approach to our home. Our new neighbours, come to visit in quaint old ships, lumpy cylinders equipped with so-called anti-proton ‘fast-fusion’ drives. And as their ships approach our home, our ships approach theirs, which is also naked-eye visible. You see? That faint fleck about twenty-eight degrees antispinward of Jupiter’s cold brilliant star.

It’s an old place, their home, an old way station constructed by Earth’s European Union four centuries ago. It looks like a sea creature from Earth – a sea urchin. You see? At the heart of that cluster of spikes, pointing in all directions, is a small stony rock. The spikes are cylindrical habitats, what they call skyscrapers, on Earth. They are linked by a web of cableways and tubes, and those lights in their casings, they’re windows. Inside the spikes, the skyscrapers, are divided into hundreds of rooms.

I know. It is a strange way to live. We’d find those skyscrapers cramped and claustrophobic: the rooms are small, and not every room has a window. And yes, I know, our new neighbours look strange, too: small, compact, golden-furred. But we must look strange to them – long and skinny, mostly bald, mostly pale-skinned – and they’ll find our garden strange and unsettling, too. Imagine being used to living in a crowded maze of little spaces, little rooms, and finding yourself inside a spherical room twenty kilometres across, with a layered shell of foamed diamond-fullerene composite and water, and all green inside, raft forests and airkelp clouds and secondary spheres two or three hundred metres across arrayed around a little central sea and lit by chandelier clusters. They’ll think our lovely bubble fragile and overwhelmingly empty, and they won’t be able to swoop and glide through its airy volumes; they’ll cling to the towns strung along the struts.

We’ll have to be kind and patient, even though we have so much to show them, so much to celebrate, so much to talk about, and so little time.

There are more than ten thousand gardens and habitats like ours, constructed from materials mined from rocks and comets. There are more than a million and a half rocks with a diameter of more than a kilometre, and about one per cent of them are permanently inhabited. That’s a lot of cities and settlements, yes, but the Belt is a big place, a toroidal volume of 6 x 10 to the power of 24 cubic kilometres. On average, rocks and gardens are about a million kilometres from their nearest neighbour, and most of their nearest neighbours are either barren or are not much more than pebbles or boulders, too small to ever be colonised.

But everything in the Belt is moving in different orbits around the sun, at different speeds. Everything is constantly changing its position relative to everything. And whenever a garden or an inhabited rock crosses our sky close enough to reach with minimal expenditure of reaction mass, we like to visit our new neighbours. It doesn’t happen very often – after all, this is the first conjunction since you were born – and that’s why it’s important, and exciting.

Yes, of course we’ve already talked to them. We already know a lot about them. They’re very eager to talk about their work, even though we don’t understand much of it. The geometries of manifolds; theoretical work on wormholes, those fabulously impossible dreams of rapid-transit systems between worlds and stars. They are posthuman and scrupulously rational, with minds as hard and spiky as their home; we’re dreamers, gardeners, experts in the malleable possibilities of the so-called soft sciences. But there’s much we have in common. We’re all from the same stock, human and posthuman. And it’s good to be reminded of how much we have in common with people who seem utterly unlike us.

Everyone agrees this is a Golden Age, four hundred years of peace and prosperity, four hundred years since the last big war, when certain powers from Earth attempted to impose their authority on the cities and settlements of the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. Oh, I know there’s conflict. This is a golden age, but it isn’t a utopia. It’s vital, ever-evolving, struggling in a thousand different directions towards a thousand different ideals. There are plenty of arguments and disagreements in our great and variegated human family, and sometimes disagreement flares into brief conflict, and there are civil wars, too, one family toppling another, scions fighting parents, the rising generation struggling to escape to influence of its elders.

But there aren’t any big conflicts, and in the past four centuries no single ideology has attempted to use violence to stamp its imprint on history. Trade is one of the big reasons for peace. And so are visits like this. Visits from new, temporary neighbours. They send visitors to us; we send visitors to them. Yes, I’ve heard that a few cynics call it an exchange of hostages, but it’s really a cultural meiosis.

Here they come, swinging down the sun’s gravity well in their funny old ships! There will be scientific and philosophical talkfests, poetry olympics, concerts, and games of all kinds. There will be commerce and romance and intrigue – even espionage, a game with rules and penalties thousands of years old. Information will be exchanged; new ideas may be born from fusion of our different traditions; techniques considered trivial by one party may kickstart an artistic or industrial revolution in the other. Who knows what will happen? We will dance with our new neighbours, and when we separate we will begin to discover how we have been changed. Here they come!

Links 04/01/13

'Researchers with the Keck Institute for Space Studies in California have confirmed that NASA is mulling over their plan to build a robotic spacecraft to grab a small asteroid and place it in high lunar orbit. The mission would cost about $2.6 billion – slightly more than NASA's Curiosity Mars rover – and could be completed by the 2020s.'

Report in the New Scientist; the Keck Institute's proposal here (.pdf)


Dark, carbon-rich material on the surface of Vesta may have transferred during early impacts with small asteroids.  Similar collisions may have delivered the building-blocks of life to Earth.


Stem cell scammers lay the ground work for a thousand technothrillers.


Scientists have manipulated a quantum gas to cool it to a fraction below absolute zero, paving the way to create new forms of material:

'If built, such systems would behave in strange ways, says Achim Rosch, a theoretical physicist at the University of Cologne in Germany, who proposed the technique used by Schneider and his team. For instance, Rosch and his colleagues have calculated that whereas clouds of atoms would normally be pulled downwards by gravity, if part of the cloud is at a negative absolute temperature, some atoms will move upwards, apparently defying gravity.

'Another peculiarity of the sub-absolute-zero gas is that it mimics 'dark energy', the mysterious force that pushes the Universe to expand at an ever-faster rate against the inward pull of gravity. Schneider notes that the attractive atoms in the gas produced by the team also want to collapse inwards, but do not because the negative absolute temperature stabilises them. “It’s interesting that this weird feature pops up in the Universe and also in the lab,” he says. “This may be something that cosmologists should look at more closely.”'

Prometheus Warps The F Ring

An ancient philosopher from Earth once suggested that humanity’s defining characteristic was that it could not resist stamping its footprints into pristine unspoiled ground. There was no good reason, for instance, why anyone would want to live on Prometheus, the shepherd moon that orbited just inside the narrow, twisted rope of Saturn’s F Ring, the outermost discrete segment of the gas giant's glorious ring system. Prometheus was a lumpy, irregular cylinder of dirty water ice about a hundred and thirty-five kilometres long and sixty to eighty kilometres across. Porous, lightly scarred by impact craters, blanketed by drifts of bright ice dust stolen from the F Ring, it possessed no useful resources, and its chaotic orbit meant that it was difficult to reach. Even so, a crew of gardeners stabilised one of its shallow valleys with a muscular mat of fullerene strands and tented it with diamond composite, and quickened a homeostatic microgravity ecology of spinweed, air kelp, and hypertrophied bryophytes. A famous poet lived there for a year; two different but equally short-lived tribes of utopianists briefly colonised it; it became a way station for the occupying force at the height of the True Empire; much later, an ascetic hermit took up residence, and captured the restless fluctuations of the F Ring in an ever-changing symphony.

At its closest approach, Prometheus’s gravity warped the F Ring’s icy material into waves and streamers, ploughing temporary dark channels into the strand of icy shards and dust that spiralled around the central core. The F Ring’s other shepherd moon, Pandora, also perturbed the ring as it orbited the outer edge, and hundreds of snowball moonlets swung around the ring too, passing through its inner core whenever their orbits were perturbed by Prometheus and creating temporary jets that extended for hundreds kilometres. The ring shivered and shook, plucked by gravity and ponderously slow impacts.

The hermit injected several million self-replicating probes into the ring, wrapped in photosynthetic sheaths and equipped with detectors that emitted signals that fluctuated in response to minute changes in velocity and trajectory. A chamber in the tented garden on Prometheus translated the sum of millions of oscillating signals into sounds analogous to those generated by Tibetan Singing Bowls; some ten years after she died, a rare visitor to the tiny shepherd moon discovered the hermit's desiccated corpse there, her music still huming and chiming in the luminous air.

The so-called Eternal Symphony of the F Ring was briefly famous. Pilgrims came to Prometheus from all over the Solar System to float in the chamber and submerge themselves in the oscillating drone of the ring, the deceptive cadences and eerie glissades of the warps created by Prometheus’s orbit, the rumbling percussion of colliding moonlets and the chiming clatter of the resultant jets. There was a brief fashion for apoapsis parties in which afficionados gathered to bathe in the atonal and violent passages created when Prometheus passed close to the F Ring, but like all fashions this soon faded. A century after the hermit’s death, hardly anyone visited Prometheus anymore, and the mirror feeds of the Eternal Symphony on various moons of Saturn, on Earth and Mars, in various cities of the Belt, were either disconnected or languished in forgotten corners of libraries.

Perhaps it would be rediscovered one day; or perhaps all trace of it would vanish from humanity’s collective memory. It did not matter. The symphony played on regardless. The probes manufactured new copies to replace those lost to time and chance; the semisentient chamber repaired and renewed itself; Prometheus and Pandora and the snowball moonlets pursued their endless, endlessly changing dance around the F Ring, and the ring’s rope of icy fragments poured around Saturn, as it had long before the distant ancestors of humanity took their first steps across the African plains, as it would long after the unknowably distant descendants of humanity had forgotten all about their first home.


(Thanks to James Alan Gardner, who suggested it.)

Intermission

Season's greetings to all who stopped by this year. After a short break, Unlikely Worlds will return early in the new year.

Space Fever

The town was gripped by space fever. In cafés and markets, in bars and on street corners people talked about the impending visit of the Outer diva and her concert with the town’s famous griot. Posters of the diva, Jupiter’s banded globe tilted at her left shoulder, were plastered on walls. Star-shaped lights were strung around the perimeter of the main square and above the main streets. Children printed off plastic spaceships and ran with them held above their heads, making whooshing noises as they reenacted the old space battles around Europa and Dione.

In schools, there were special lessons about the Outers and their strange tent cities. Pupils studied globes of the moons of Jupiter, discussed the brief occupation by Earth’s Three Great Powers. Afel’s little brother, George, brought home the project he’d been working on: a virtual model of a domed city fitted inside the rim wall of an actual crater on the Moon, with smaller domes inside it over buildings borrowed from cities around the world, and green parks and a canal system. He had working on it for a couple of weeks, but it was still pretty sketchy. Only his palace were modelled in detail, with fountains and huge rooms, a monorail and a zoo, and a secret passage running through the crater’s rim wall to a landing pad jutting out on the other side, cluttered with gigs and runabouts, most of them from space war epics.

Afel praised it anyway, and so did their mother and father. Georges was ten years old, and full of fleeting but passionate enthusiasms. That month, he had decided that he wanted to be an architect when he grew up, just like his older brother. He had taken to going up on the roof at night, to watch stars and ships and satellites. He pointed out the space elevator terminal to Afel, a steady, bright star high in the south-east. It was a carbonaceous chondrite that had been set to Earth from the outer edge of the asteroid belt, George said: machines were mining its material and spinning a diamond-fullerene cable that would reach all the way down to the new spaceport in Entebbe. Afel had studied fullerene construction techniques last semester, and told George something about the strong, lightweight frames that were being used in new buildings in the capital. George said that he wanted to build a real city on the Moon, or a space hotel in orbit, or a place where space pilots could stop for coffee or tea or cola, and gossip and smoke their hubble-bubble pipes, just like the family’s café.

It was on the big road that cut past the eastern edge of the town, the café. The family had owned it for more than a hundred years, and for most of the time it had just managed to get by, but it was thriving now. Twenty years ago, an experimental project involving a collaboration between the government and a cabal of Outers had planted specially modified vacuum organisms the edge of the desert, several hundred kilometres north. The vacuum organisms, composed of multitudes of tiny, pseudocellular machines, absorbed sunlight like plants, and made copies of themselves. They grew very fast, extending their roots a kilometre down to ancient aquifers and drawing up the water. Afel had seen images: they looked like giant black baobab trees, each standing at the centre of a spreading oasis. Now, the government was building farms and factories and villages on the reclaimed land, and planting many more vacuum organism trees. It was a special economic zone, and there was a constant traffic of land-trains and big trucks carrying workers and construction materials from the docks on the Niger River to the north.

Three years ago, Afel’s parents had built a motel block and a big new extension to their house, and they could afford to send him to study architecture at the university in the capital. When he’d been George’s age, he’d wanted to be a mathematician. It came to him naturally and he loved arcane theories of geometries that couldn’t exist in the real world, and had come third in a national competition. But his father, a kind but strict man, had other ideas for his eldest son. No one ever made a fortune playing with numbers; it was far better to learn a trade, to make a useful contribution to society. And so it was decided that Afel would be an architect, and now he was in the second year of his studies, and finding all kinds of practical uses for the intrinsic beauty and structure of mathematics, from visualising complex, non-Cartesian geometric shapes to calculations of the load-bearing capacities of beams and walls spun from exotic new materials.

That summer, he had come home for the vacation and as usual was helping out at the café, shopping in the markets with his mother in the morning, waiting tables in the afternoon, sitting at the reception counter of the little motel in the evening, studying his texts and making sketches for the project that would occupy most of his third year: a station for the maglev railway that would cross Africa from north to south, once the dozen countries involved could ever agree on the construction contracts.

Like his parents, Afel had little time for the visit of the Outer diva. It was good for business, the motel was fully booked by visitors who’d come for the concert – four of the guests had come all the way from France, two more from Greater Brazil – but it was a fleeting attraction, according to Afel’s father. He liked to employ a statistic he’d found in the cloud when customers at the café talked about the diva’s visit. Less than one per cent of those born in the three hundred years after the Russian, Gagarin, had first orbited the Earth, had ever gone up temporarily or permanently. Earth would always be more important than anything up there, he said.

So the day that the diva arrived in town was much like any other. George and his sister, Penda, had been chosen by their school to be part of the official reception, and they had put on their school uniforms and gone off to the little airport to greet the diva’s flitter, but otherwise it was business at usual. There was the breakfast rush, and then, after the trucks that had parked overnight pulled away and visitors had taken taxis into town, Afel went to the market with his mother and helped her unload the fresh produce and begin preparations for the lunch crowd.

Usually, the window in the café showed sports – football, wrestling, camel-racing – but that evening customers asked to watch the live broadcast of the concert. Over in the motel, where Afel was working, several truck drivers had set up a window outside one of the rooms and were drinking beer and smoking kif and watching the griot, Etienne Diabaté, and his band play an old, old song about how everyone’s work, from fisherman to teacher, contributed to the wealth of the country.

One of the drivers, Souleye Coulibaly, was a regular customer. A big, friendly woman who liked to tease Afel, asking him to multiply large numbers, or find their square root, or guess how many pumpkin seeds she was holding in her hand. Now she called to him, telling him to forget his texts for just one hour and come and watch a little history.

In the window, Etienne Diabaté was introducing the diva. She was tall and thin and pale, dressed in a severely-cut white suit, the black bands and struts of the exoframe that allowed her to walk in gravity eight times stronger than the gravity of her home world, Callisto, wrapped around her torso and limbs. She bowed gracefully, and she and Etienne Diabaté began to sing a love song about a young man and a young woman from opposite side of the river.

‘She isn’t bad,’ Souleye said.

‘Imagine making love to her,’ one of the others said. ‘You could show no passion, or you’d break all her bones.’

‘Or boil her blood with your hot kisses,’ someone else said.

They asked Afel to fetch beer, and when he came back the diva was singing one of her songs. Or he supposed it was a song: she was chanting in English over a medley of electronic squawks and random percussion and a fluctuating bass drone. Something about someone walking over a plain towards mountains, seeing a garden on ice . . . It was very long, and seemed to describe everything the walker saw. Once or twice the diva broke into song, crooning the same line over and over with increasing urgency, and then she’d resume her chant. It went on and on. The drivers gossiped and joked; Afel went back inside to his studies. When he came out for a break an hour later, Etienne Diabaté and the diva were singing together again, short verses, in French and then in English, about the similarities between deserts of rock and deserts of ice, the hard work of making homes in each.

Souleye caught Afel’s gaze and said, ‘Well, it was different, anyway. How about another round, kid?’

Customers at the tables on the café’s veranda were chatting noisily, as they always did, and the window inside had been switched back to sports, and out on the highway trucks strung with constellations of little lights blew past in the hot African night, on their way to the new frontier.

Links 21/12/12

NASA has named the site where twin agency spacecraft impacted the moon Monday in honor of the late astronaut Sally K. Ride, who was America's first woman in space and a member of the probes' mission team.

A little over 40 years after the last Apollo astronauts left the Moon, the two spacecraft comprising NASA's GRAIL mission impacted on the surface.  After mapping the structure of the lunar interior, the spacecraft, Ebb and Flow, were commanded to alter their orbits and fly in formation on a trajectory that caused them to impact with a mountain near the Moon's north pole, well away from any of areas of interest, including the Apollo landing sites.

The impacts of Ebb and Flow add to the debris left on the Moon, whose surface was first modified by human activity when the Soviet Union crashed its first spacecraft to reach the Moon, Luna 2, as well as its third rocket stage, near crater Archimedes in September 1959.  In addition to lunar module landing stages, lunar rovers, scientific instruments, tools and flags, the Apollo astronauts left behind a huge variety of trash, including two golf balls, a falcon's feather used in a demonstration of Galileo's theory of gravity, bags of urine and excrement, and a photograph of astronaut Charles Duke's family.

(Image credit: Charles Duke/NASA)

Rendezvous With Indifference

(Note - this was written - for no payment beyond the enjoyment of renewing my acquaintance with the novel - for a volume of essays celebrating Arthur C. Clarke's work that more than a year later appears to have run aground before publication. So it goes. I've been thinking a lot about aliens recently, so this is a kind of starting point for further developments.)

Rendezvous With Rama (1973), written at the height of his fame, winner of just about every award in the science-fiction field, is Arthur C. Clarke’s third novel about first contact. In the first, Childhood’s End, devilish aliens arrive on Earth to uplift the children of humanity and supervise their fusion with a cosmic overmind; in the second, 2001: A Space Odyssey, aliens represented by enigmatic monoliths gift the ancestors of Homo sapiens with the capability for abstract reasoning, and thousands of years later signpost the way to a star gate that transmits an astronaut to a place where he is transformed and given the key to the next stage in the evolution of human intelligence. Rendezvous With Rama takes an entirely different approach. Its theme is not cosmic awakening, but the vastness of the universe and its indifference to human endeavour.

In the first chapter, set in 2077, a relatively small meteor smacks into Northern Italy, ‘destroying in a few flaming moments the labour of centuries’ and killing six hundred thousand people. To prevent similar cosmic accidents, the people of Earth create Project SPACEGUARD (a nice example of Clarke’s prescience: a decade after the novel was published, the name of his fictional project was borrowed for a NASA study on how to protect Earth from a serious meteor strike). Fifty years later, SPACEGUARD spots something hurtling through the Solar System on a sun-grazing trajectory: an alien starship, named Rama by its human discoverers. Only one spaceship is capable of matching Rama’s velocity. The race is on to explore it and attempt to make contact with its crew before it passes too close to the Sun.

Rendezvous With Rama is by no means a perfect novel. Despite the problems of having one wife on Mars and another on Earth, the leader of the exploratory team, Commander Norton, is oddly bloodless, and the rest of his crew are only lightly sketched, and include rather too many people who just happen to possess the right kind of expertise required to solve the problem to hand. References to the voyages of Captain Cook and the discovery of Tutenkhamen’s tomb contribute to a quaint, Boy’s Own Adventure feel that’s reminiscent of Clarke’s early stories, in which astronauts fry sausages in their moon buggies and alien treasures are dispatched to the British Museum rather than the Smithsonian. Ideas are interjected via the talking heads of the Rama Committee, which appears to operate out of a Pall Mall club. The notion of using genetically altered monkeys to carry out the routine tasks aboard a spaceship finds no foothold in the story.

None of this much matters. Clarke’s alien starship is a potent and iconic artifact. There’s a nice passage describing the rescue of a stranded explorer, and an attempt to inject some drama when the aggressive colonists of Mercury decide to park a precautionary H-Bomb next to Rama, but most of the novel’s power comes from carefully calibrated revelations about a pharaonic project that embodies the vast effort required to traverse interstellar distances without violating Einsteinian physics, and investigation of its strange landscapes, described with Clarke’s characteristically lucid precision. Rama’s huge cylinder is hollow, with what appear to be cities on its inner surface, a world-girdling circular sea dividing it in half, and a cluster of huge, mysterious spires at the far end. At first it appears to be derelict, but as the heat of the Sun penetrates its thick hull the human explorers witness a brief spring as the lights come on, the Circular Sea melts, and biomechanical robots, biots, appear and busy themselves with mysterious tasks.

But despite the best efforts of the explorers, Rama remains enigmatic, and impervious to human intervention. They fail to have any meaningful interaction with the biots, and learn almost nothing about the nature and purpose of the ship’s builders, who ‘would probably never even know that the human race existed’. The Solar System is merely a way point on an interstellar voyage that has already lasted longer than the span of human civilisation, with a destination that is nowhere in galaxy; instead it is ‘aimed squarely at the Greater Magellanic Cloud, and the lonely gulfs beyond the Milky Way.’

Much science fiction – especially much American science-fiction – is driven by bumptious optimism. The universe is our oyster; all we need to do is figure out the right tools to crack it open. Rendezvous With Rama is a necessary corrective: a grand adventure, and a fine and rigorously thought-through lesson in humility.

About This Year

I'm very pleased to announce that two of the stories I published this year will appear in Gardner Dozois's The Year's Best Science Fiction, Thirtieth Annual Collection (full table of contents here). 'The Man' was first published in issue 1.2 of the new science-fiction magazine, Arc Infinity; 'Macy Minnot's Last Christmas On Dione, Ring Racing, Fiddler’s Green, the Potter’s Garden' was first published in the anthology Edge of Infinity, edited by Jonathan Strahan, which collects thirteen stories about the colonisation of the Solar System (my contribution is a Quiet War story that frames a set of Quiet War stories). 'Macy Minnot . . .' was also selected by Jonathan Strahan for his The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year Volume Seven, which also includes many and various stories from an eclectic range of sources.

I also published two stories in Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, ‘Bruce Springsteen’, and 'Antarctica Starts Here', and contributed a self-contained story, or chapter, or segment, to Stephen Jones' mosaic novel Zombie Apocalypse! 2, which is by no means as tongue-in-cheek as the exclamation mark suggests: a lovingly designed collection of journal and diary entries, emails, newspaper headlines, internet posts and other documents that detail the ongoing struggle between surviving humans and increasingly intelligent and organised zombie hordes. Also wearing my other hat, or William Shatner mask, of horror writer, I contributed to the portmanteau play 'The Hallowe'en Sessions'. With a framing story by Kim Newman, and other episodes by Stephen Volk, Maura McHugh, Anne Billson, and Sean Hogan, it had a short, sold-out run in the West End's Leicester Square Theatre, directed by Sean Hogan.  It was somewhat daunting, but in the end enormously enjoyable, to be a small part of this energetic and imaginative collaboration. An audiobook version of the play may well appear next year.

This year also saw the publication of my third Quiet War novel, In The Mouth of the Whale, and the completion of the fourth, Evening's Empires. That's gone through the first edit stage, and at the beginning of the year I'll be dealing with the copy edit and the proofs. It's scheduled for publication in July 2013. I've also dealt with the editing and proofreading stages of a big retrospective collection of my short stories, A Very British History, which PS Publishing will be releasing in April 2013. There'll be a Jim Burns' cover, and a couple of limited editions with various extras.

I also published two short ebooks for Amazon's Kindle, a spooky novelette set in early Victorian London, Dr Pretorius and the Lost Temple, and another collaboration with Kim Newman, the post-alien invasion story Prisoners of the Action. And regular readers will know that I'm currently publishing more Quiet War short stories here on the blog, at the rate of one a week. When I have twelve or so I'll collect them in a new ebook, along with two or three longer stories and other pieces.

All of this fiction writing meant that, apart from a couple of book reviews, I had little time or energy left to pursue my ambition to write more nonfiction. Maybe next year. First, and somewhat behind schedule, I have to work up my plans for several new novels.  But before I do that, somewhat exhausted by contemplating this list, I might sit down with a cup of tea and a mince pie . . .

Life As We Know It

It was a slow night at the Still Point. A little after midnight, Aeshma was thinking of closing up when an old man ankled up and slid onto one of the stools and asked for a shot of Bluewater Collective pear brandy.

'You still carry that stuff don’t you?’

‘This is the only bar in Paris that does,’ Aeshma said, although yo had to root around at the bottom of the racks before yo found the dusty bottle.

The old man closed his eyes after the first sip, saying at last, ‘That’s so like your classic Proustian moment it isn’t even funny.’

He was dressed in red leggings and a black jumper cinched with an antique utility belt. A narrow seamed face, white hair shaved at the sides to leave a crest along the top of his scalp, in the manner of pilots a century ago.

‘I thought I’d stop by, like I did in the old days,’ he said, after taking another sip from his tube of brandy. ‘See if this place was still here. And here it is, exactly as I remember it. Amazing.’

It was a small place, the bar, tucked into the corner of a cut-through in the low-rise neighbourhood of bars, teahouses, restaurants, theatres and song clubs around the Central Market. A bamboo and canvas shack with a counter of polished impact glass and four stools, a little hotplate on which Aeshma prepared snacks, and bottles racked in front of a big mirror, many labelled with the names of regular customers. Aeshma’s grandsire had rebuilt it after the war, and it had been handed down from sire to scion ever since.

The old man introduced himself, Herschel Wu, and said, ‘I guess you must be Aeshma’s kid. Yo’s scion, as you people have it.’

‘You knew my sire?’

‘About a hundred years ago. No, closer to a hundred fifty. Before the Quiet War.’

‘Then you knew my great-grand sire, Aeshma One. I am Aeshma Four.’

‘Yo didn’t call yoself “One”, but yeah. You look just like yo. I guess that isn’t surprising, the way you people do, but that robe of yours, that green leaf pattern, you wore one just like it. Aeshma, Aeshma One, is he still around?’

‘Yo died in the war.’

‘Yeah?  I’m sorry to hear it. A lot of people did. And those that didn’t, most of my friends and relatives, mostly just died of old age while I was away. Back then, before the war, I was a free trader. Mostly lived on my ship. But whenever I was in Paris I’d come here, shoot the shit with your great-grandsire, catch up on news, gossip, tips. And then the Greater Brazilians and the other political gangsters from Earth moved on the Outers, the Quiet War and all that, and some of us took off before they rounded us up or killed us. The Free Outers, we called ourselves. You heard of us, maybe.’

Aeshma shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s ancient history. We moved to Uranus at first, and then the Greater Brazilians caught up with us there, so we moved on to Neptune. And then to one of the Centaurs. Nepenthe. We built a nice little garden there. I raised a family, but my partner died and I got the itch to move on. Ended up doing a little tour of the Kuiper belt, which is why I’m here. A science jamboree wants me to talk about what I found out there, what some people call the progenitor bug. Maybe you’ve heard of it.’

Aeshma apologised again, saying that he didn’t keep up with science.

‘No reason why you should, I guess. What are you drinking, Aeshma?’

Aeshma hesitated.  He didn’t like the way Herschel Wu had referred to ‘you people’, as if androgyne neuters were a separate species of human being, suspected that he harboured an ancient prejudice to neuters and their cloned lineages Outers had mostly forgotten. But the old man was an old customer of the Still Point, he’d known Aeshma One, and beneath his bluster he seemed lonely and a little lost. So Aeshma said that he would also have a brandy, and dispensed a shot into a fresh tube and refreshed the old man’s, telling him it was on the house.

‘That’s mighty kind of you,’ the old man said, raising his tube. ‘To your great-grandsire.’

They talked about Aeshma One, and Paris in the old days, the days before the war, before the defeat of Earth’s Three Powers and the re-establishment of the Outers’ hegemony.

‘They tell me this is a golden age of peace and prosperity,’ Herschel Wu said.

Aeshma shrugged. ‘Business here is much as it always was.’

‘You always worked here?’

‘I helped my sire until yo retired, three years ago.’

‘And you’ve always lived on Dione, in Paris.’

‘Of course.’

‘Never went on a wanderjahr, took off on a whim to some other city, some other moon?’

‘We are happy here.  Life is good.  Why change it?’

‘Something I asked myself a hundred years ago,’ Herschel Wu said, ‘when I decided that I’d grown too comfortable, in Nepenthe. That I hadn’t seen all I needed to see. Some of us had been to Pluto, in the old days, and we went back. But there were already people there, and I decided to go further out.’

‘To the Kuiper belt.’

‘There are people in the Kuiper belt, now. But back then, not so much. I plotted a grand tour, skipping from kobold to kobold all the way to the far edge of the belt, sleeping out the transits. I had a good motor on my ship, but distances between kobolds are very large out at the edge, and I used minimum-energy courses to conserve reaction mass. I visited eight in all, over the course of a hundred years. And on one of them I found this,’ Herschel Wu said, and conjured a small sphere of translucent plastic between finger and thumb. ‘The progenitor bug. Go ahead, take a look. It’s laminated. Quite safe.’

Ghostly soap-bubble structures flashed inside the plastic sphere as Aeshma turned it in the glow of one of the star lanterns strung along the fringe of the bar’s canopy.

‘It’s a bacterial cell,’ Herschel Wu said. ‘A specimen of a very big, very strange, very old species of bacteria. They grow in a little subsurface sea I discovered in one of the kobolds I visited. Place almost as big as Pluto, with a moon as big as Pluto’s biggest moon. The sea’s rich in ammonia, kept just the right side of freezing by warmth from tidal friction and residual radioactive decay in the kobold’s core. And these big old bacteria live there. Although strictly speaking they’re not really bacteria. They use RNA instead of DNA, like some viruses, a zoo of short RNA strands in a cytoplasmic matrix. They cleave hydrogen from sulphides, use the energy to fix primordial inorganic carbon dissolved in the sea. And they grow very very slowly, divide once in maybe a hundred thousand years. The scientists are very excited by them. Some claim they are the progenitors of all life in the solar system. You know how life was supposed to have started on Mars?’

‘Not really.’

‘Mars is smaller than Earth, so it cooled more quickly after it formed, and life got started on it while Earth’s oceans were still boiling. And some of that life, Martian bacteria, fell to Earth inside rocks knocked off Mars by big impacts, and kick-started Earth’s biosphere. Also Europa’s. So you might say that we’re all Martians. But then I discovered these RNA bacteria, and now there’s an argument about whether they’re a separate evolutionary domain, or whether they’re the true progenitors of life in the Solar System, unchanged because there’s no evolutionary pressure to change, in their cold little sea. That’s what this jamboree’s all about,’ Herschel Wu said. ‘I’m one of the keynote speakers. Funny
how life turns out, uh?’

‘It’s quite a story,’ Aeshma said, and handed the plastic sphere back.

‘Isn’t it? And it’s better than most traveller’s tales because every word is true.’

They sipped their brandies and talked a little more about old days Aeshma knew only by hearsay. After the old man had gone, Aeshma closed up the bar and drifted home.

Halfway there, yo paused on a slender bridge that arched over the river that ran through the quiet, dark city. Yo was a little dizzy from the brandy, and the cool air above the black water was refreshing. Slow fat waves reflected the webs of little lights strung through the chestnut trees along the banks. Saturn’s big crescent gleamed through the tent’s panes, slanting above flat rooftops. Two people went by on the far bank, shadows under the constellations of the trees. One of them, a woman, laughed at something the other said.

Two lovers in Paris, under Saturn. Aeshma thought of fat, slow globs of slime floating in a frigid sea under the icy skin of a planetoid in the outer dark, undisturbed for billions of years until Herschel Wu came along.  Remote, ancient, strange, nothing at all to do with ordinary life, but why did yo find the thought of them so disturbing?

Aeshma lived in a commune with yo’s scion, yo’s sire, and the members of four other androgyne neuter lineages.  Yo perched on the edge of the sleeping niche of yo’s scion, watching the small child sleep. Three years old, cute as a bug, thumb socketed in yo’s mouth, stirring when Aeshma stroked yo’s fine blond hair. In the commons, Aeshma Three reheated some soup from the stockpot, asked about Aeshma’s day.

‘Oh, you know. The usual.’

Forty Years Ago Today

Apollo 17 descent stage imaged by the lunar rover camera after the ascent stage lifted off at 5.55 PM EST December 14th 1972.

Links 13/12/12

'She's not what you'd call pretty, but she is definitely distinctive.' Specialist facial anthropologist Dr Susan Hayes has reconstructed the face of Homo floresiensis, otherwise known as the 'Hobbit' or 'Flores Man' from the skull of the type specimen, LB1.  LB1 was a woman, and about 30 years old when she died.

Scientists have discovered that cells shed in human urine can be transformed into the precursors of brain cells.

On Mars, the Opportunity rover is investigating a patch of light-toned rock that may consist of clays altered by 'the kind of water you can drink'.

The Cassini spacecraft has imaged a river of hydrocarbons four hundred kilometres long at Titan's north pole, flowing into Ligeia Mare.

A Very British History, Table Of Contents

I have two books scheduled for publication next year. One is a novel, Evening's Empires; the other is a 'Best of' retrospective collection of short stories spanning (good grief) a little over twenty-five years, from PS Publishing. Here's the table of contents:

'Little Ilya and Spider and Box' (1985)
'The Temporary King' (1987)
‘Cross Road Blues' (1991)
‘Gene Wars' (1991)
'Prison Dreams' (1992)
'Children of the Revolution' (1993)
'Recording Angel' (1995)
'Second Skin' (1997)
‘All Tomorrow's Parties' (1997)
'17' (1998)
'Sea Change, With Monsters' (1998)
'How We Lost the Moon, A True Story by Frank W. Allen' (1999)
'A Very British History' (2000)
 'The Two Dicks' (2001)
‘Meat’ (2005)
‘Rocket Boy’ (2007)
‘The Thought War’ (2008)
‘City of the Dead’ (2008)
‘Little Lost Robot’ (2008)
‘Shadow Life’ (2009)
‘The Choice’ (2011)

There'll also be a limited signed edition, and a special lettered edition, with extra material, including an introduction by Alastair Reynolds.  And the cover will be by Jim Burns.

The Sublime

This is one of my current favourite images taken by the spacecraft Cassini. It's a magnificent panoroma with Saturn's largest moon, Titan, in the foreground, with the icy moon Dione behind it.  Titan's diameter is about 3000 kilometres; Dione's is about 1000 kilometers, but it appears much smaller here because it's further away. If you click to embiggen the image you'll see that Titan is haloed by the upper fringe of its frigid atmosphere of nitrogen leavened with methane and a smoggy mix of hydrocarbons.  Saturn and the ring system are in the background, with the shadow of the ring system thrown across Saturn's southern hemisphere - the sun is beyond the upper left-hand corner of the image.  You can find a high-resolution version of the image here.

The image was taken a year ago, December 22 2011.  After a seven year voyage, with flybys past Venus, Earth, and Jupiter, Cassini entered orbit around Saturn on July 1 2004. The Huygens probe that piggybacked on Cassini landed on Titan's surface soon afterwards, and Cassini has been doing science and taking fabulous images ever since. As I've said many times, much of the inspiration for The Quiet War and Gardens of the Sun comes from images taken by a plutonium-powered robot swinging in ever-changing orbits amongst the moons and rings of the second-biggest gas giant in the solar system.

Heaven Is A Place

On the evening of his second day in the Gulf of Ten Billion Blossoms, Rhea, Rickasht Chandrasekaran fell in with a crew who were taking a last break before heading out from the Saturn system to Uranus. This was in the guesthouse in one of the steep little villages that stepped up from the shore of the long lake. Rickasht had reached the village late in the evening, tired and exhilarated after a long hike along a trail that switchbacked through dense semitropical forest, and had been given the last bed. The crew were a boisterous and talkative group of young men and women who sat in a circle on cushions and shaped stones on the guesthouse’s terrace, passing food back and forth and squirting wine into each other’s mouths and making toasts. Several small children ran about. A man was nursing a baby. A woman played a dulcimer, and led a small group in songs that predated the colonisation of the Outer System. Rhythmic handclaps. Laughter. A torrent of happy chatter.

Rickasht found he didn’t mind the crowd, the noise. He could disappear inside it. Nothing was expected of him. He smiled and nodded as two young, earnest men told him that they were going to tent over and landscape an embayment in one of the long, deep canyons that cut the icy surface of Uranus’s largest moon, Titania. The crew’s engineers were already out there, supervising the big construction machines that were pouring the tent’s foundations and fabricating the struts and panes of its diamond-fullerene roof. The people here were mostly gardeners and farmers. It was a working holiday, the two men told Rickasht; they were studying the Gulf’s ecosystems, the kelp forests in its lake, the forests that climbed its walls, the heaths and sedge bogs of its upper reaches. The crew's small tent and its simple biome was the beginning of an ambitious plan to tent the deep, long canyon section by section, and create a garden several dozen kilometres wide and more than five hundred kilometres long. The usual mad ambition of outers, limited only by their imagination.

After a little while he noticed one woman in particular, neat and compact and quiet, long black hair teased into a cascade of ringlets. Almost certainly from Earth, Rickasht thought, and felt a pulse of the old familiar ache in his belly. She noticed his attention and smiled at him, and he looked away, pierced by stupid guilt, then looked back again.

Her name was Nisha Minnot-Varma. She had been born on Mars, the Hellas Basin tent. She’d come out to the Saturn system three years ago, and now she was going further out, like the rest of her companions sinking all her credit and karma into the venture. They talked about adjusting to life in the Saturn system. They talked about Rickasht’s childhood on Earth, in Brasilia; he apologised for knowing very little about Greater Brazil’s rainforests and grassy plains and great rivers. They talked about his work in the reclamation plant in Paris, Dione. They talked about Nisha’s work: she was a microbiologist, had been one of the supervisors of the soil manufacturing plant in Camelot, Mimas. In a way, she said, they were both in the recycling business.

'You don’t need soil to farm, but it’s essential for stable ecosystems of any size. Everything passes through it at some point. . . I am amazed by what they have built here in the Gulf. It’s a huge mosaic, yet fully integrated. Hellas was much bigger, but not as stable. We had a severe crash when I was a child; there was talk of evacuation. We had to wear masks that absorbed the excess carbon dioxide for a whole year. I’ve learned so much here, and now I will put it to practical use. You probably think we are crazy,’ she said, looking at Rickasht sidelong.

Rickasht said something stupid about it being an adventure. She had large brown eyes, Nisha, and beautiful eyelashes. Slender hands, nails painted different shades of blue.

‘We will build a new world,’ she said. ‘A very exciting prospect.’

Rickasht said it was a brave thing to set up a home in the unknown; Nisha said that it was a frontier, yes, but not unknown.

‘There are more than ten thousand people in the Uranus system. Too many already for some of the first pioneers, they are striking out for the Kuiper belt. I find it amazing,’ Nisha said, ‘at how skilled we have become at making ourselves at home out here. Three centuries ago the Saturn system was the frontier. And now there are cities and settlements, farms and gardens, wonderful parklands like this. All carved from ice frozen hard as granite, carbonaceous tars, comet CHON . . . ’

‘And outside it’s still cold and airless and lifeless. And a stupid accident can kill you in an instant,’ Rickasht said, and immediately regretted it. Because he didn’t want to talk about that. A year later, and he still missed Jen every day, her absence was a great wound ripped into his side, but he was tired of talking about it, tired of people’s sympathy.

Nisha was saying something about the stark beauty of the moons, the time she’d walked out across Mimas’s surface the first time, and climbed a pressure ridge and stood for a long time looking out at the tumbled moonscape, under Saturn. She’d walked all the way around Mimas, had been to Enceladus and Iapetus and Titan.

‘I like to visit and study Avernus’s gardens,’ she said. ‘Do you know her work?’

Rickasht said that he’d heard of her, of course.

‘She hid on Titan during the Quiet War, and created several extraordinary gardens there. So simple, so elegant, so strange. She was born on Earth, yet she had a complete understanding of the landscapes of the moons.’

They drank a toast to the famous, long-dead gene wizard. Rickasht confessed that this was the first time he’d left Dione, almost his first time he’d been anywhere outside Paris. They talked about places he should visit, gardens and cities, the great mountains of Iapetus. Sharing a bag of wine, sitting so close Rickasht could feel her warmth. It was late, now. Many people had retired; most of those left where clustered around the dulcimer player. Rickasht tingled with anticipation, tried to formulate an invitation that wouldn’t sound crass or clumsy, and then a young woman ankled over and sat next to Nisha, draping an arm around her shoulders with casual familiarity, and he knew with a plunging sensation how stupid he’d been, and after he’d been introduced he stammered something about needing to sleep, and left.

But he couldn’t sleep, not in the shared dormitory. He couldn’t stay. He grabbed his day bag and set out up the village’s steep dark streets, finding his way by luminous dabs on the path and the yellow light of Saturn’s crescent, tipped beyond the high roof. He was drunk and angry, but when he reached the edge of the village he knew it would be crazy to try to find his way through the forest and the high bluffs, and crept under a great sprawling fig tree.

He woke early, from a silly muddled dream of searching for Jen through endless rooms of a rambling house a little like the villa of his parents, and climbed a steep trail beside a slow fat stream that trickled amongst boulders in a slanting ravine. Hauling himself along tethers in Rhea’s minimal gravity was almost like flying (he’d watched fliers rising in slow spirals on thermals above the lake, but hadn’t dared to rent wings). He paused at a deserted camp site to use its shittery, picked a couple of apple bananas and a handful of figs from bushes alongside the stream, perched on a shelf of pitted siderite to eat his breakfast, went on. Climbed a vertical stair of spikes jammed in the sheer face of a cliff, topped out on a broad belt of grassland, drifted onward for several kilometres.

He’d walk to the endcap, he told himself, and take one of the trains along the narrow- gauge railway on the far side back to the locks, and go home. Back to Dione. Back to Paris and the empty apartment full of dead things and memory traps, and his work.

There were no settlements on the strip of heath, and he saw no other people. The tether he’d been following soon ended, and he ankled on in the low gravity gait he’d learnt long ago, moving only from the knees down. The land rose and fell. Swales of tussock grass. Low thorny trees. Industrious bees working patches of small sweet-smelling flowers as yellow as Earth’s sun. A lone bird piping somewhere. His shame and self-disgust blew away on the warm breeze, dissolved in the quiet beauty of the land.

Late in the afternoon, he found a near-vertical path down to another village. A teahouse, little more than a canvas-roofed wooden platform jutted above the boulders tumbled along the shore of the lake. There were many like it along the lakeshore, but as Rickasht sipped his gyokuro he noticed the pleasant manner of the hostess as she talked to the other customers, the way she smiled at the badinage of her partner as he deftly fried snacks on a hotplate and boiled plump little savoury dumplings. The gyokuro was sweet and delicately perfumed and the food was simple but tasty, bamboo tubes hung under the edge of the roof gently clattered, and there was a tremendous view across the tall, slow waves of the lake to the hazy panorama of the green forests and white cliffs of the far side.

There was a flier high up there, a red mote gliding close to parallel to the pine trees along the edge of the cliffs.

Rickasht thought how much Jen would have liked this place, and the familiar pang was there and gone. Red lanterns under the canvas roof brightened as the chandelier light dimmed, and the hostess came over to Rickasht and asked if he would like more tea. He said why not, asked if there was a guesthouse in the village.

'I think I’ll stay a while.’