Learning the World Read online

  Learning the World

  Ken Macleod

  A four hundred year journey through space is about to end for the teeming inhabitants of a large ship-world. The air is thick with expectation as they enter the system that is to become their new home, the probes reporting nothing more advanced than bacteria and algae among the clustered planets. But the original data was wrong, and direct scans of the planet reveal a whole alien civilisation. Maybe the aliens have just arrived. Maybe evolution has been incredibly rapid during their long journey… Neither of these explanations seem plausible. It seems likely that the probe data has been falsified from the beginning. Advice is years distant, help is decades away. They’re on their own and they’ll have to decide a plan of action fast as the rest of humanity is just as vulnerable and not much further away.

  Won Prometheus Award in 2006.

  Nominated for BSFA Award in 2005.

  Nominated for Hugo, Locus, and Campbell awards in 2006.

  Learning the World

  by Ken MacLeod

  Population will mightily increase, and the earth will be a garden. Governments will be conducted with the quietude and regularity of club committees. The interest which is now felt in politics will be transferred to science; the latest news from the laboratory of the chemist, or the observatory of the astronomer, or the experimenting room of the biologist will be eagerly discussed. […] Disease will be extirpated; the causes of decay will be removed; immortality will be invented. And then, the earth being small, mankind will migrate into space, and will cross the airless Saharas which separate planet from planet, and sun from sun. The earth will become a Holy Land which will be visited by pilgrims from all the quarters of the universe. Finally, men will master the forces of Nature; they will become themselves architects of systems, manufacturers of worlds.

  —Winwood Reade, The Martyrdom of Man, 1872

  A Note on Translation

  For convenience, some numbers used by characters who count in an octal system have occasionally been rendered in decimal. Terms derived from a dead scholarly language are rendered as if from Latin. There is an explanation for this.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks are due to Carol for giving flight to my characters, to Charles Stross for handwaving their limbs, to Farah Mendlesohn for helpful comments at various stages of the draft, and to Del Cotter for sending me a paper about world ships.

  Some of the ideas and images were inspired by The Millennial Project, by Marshall T. Savage, and Reason in Revolt, by Ted Grant and Alan Woods.

  1 — The Ship Generation

  Learning the World

  14364:05:1217:24

  The world is four thousand years old. I was eight years old when I found that out for myself. My name is Atomic Discourse Gale and this is the first time I have written something that anyone in the world can read. It is strange and makes me feel a little selfconscious, but I reassure myself that not many people will read it anyway.

  14364:05:1318:30

  That was a joke. I see I have a few readers. J – – wants to know how I found out the age of the world. It was six years ago now but I remember it quite well. I was very young then and didn’t understand everything that happened, but looking back I can see that it was a significant event in my life. That is why I mentioned it. So this is what happened.

  “How old is the world?”

  I asked my caremother. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why don’t you look it up?”

  “I’ve looked it up,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Seventeen billion years?” I said. “That’s impossible.”

  “Ah,” she said. “That’s the universe. Well… everything we can see. The stars and galaxies.”

  I went off and formed a more careful query. Nothing came back. I returned to my caremother. “This world,” I said. “I can’t find anything about that.”

  “All right,” she said. She pointed up to the sky. “See up there… where the sunline enters the wall? Inside there, in the forward cone, you’ll find what is called the keel.”

  “Like the bottom of a boat?”

  “In a way, yes. It’s really the base of the engine, and it’s the first part of the ship to be put in place. You will find the date of the final assembly there. And from that you can work out the age of the world.”

  “You don’t know what it is?”

  “No,” she said. She frowned, in the way adults have when they’re searching. “It isn’t in memory.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll go and have a look.”

  “Good for you,” she said. “I’ll help you pack.” So thirty minutes later I hitched my little rucksack, heavy with a litre of water and a kilo of sandwiches, onto my shoulders and set off to climb into the sky. I walked out of the estate and after a while I found a ladder at the edge of a dense and ancient clump of trees. The ladder had been familiar to me since I was much smaller, but none of us had ever climbed more than a few score steps on it. It soared into the sky like a kite string, the kinks of its zigzag flights smoothing into a pale line and then disappearing. You couldn’t easily fall off it — it had close-spaced rings around it, and every thirty metres or so there was a small platform and another flight. The first day I climbed a kilometre, found a big platform, ate my sandwiches and drank my water, and pissed in a far corner like an untrained kitten. I sat and watched the shadowline creep across the land towards me. It reached me in what seemed a final rush, and the sunline turned black. The land below was dim and beautiful in the farlight from the other side of the world, and within minutes lights pricked on all across that shaded scene. After a while I curled up and went to sleep. When I woke the sunline was bright again. It seemed as far away as ever, and the ground a long way below. I was just thinking of setting off back down when a crow landed on the platform, carrying a package.

  “Breakfast,” said the bird. “And dinner. Your ma says hi.”

  “Tell her thank you,” I said.

  “Will do,” said the crow, and flew off. Crows don’t have much conversation. I unwrapped the package and found, to my great delight, hot coffee and hot berrybread for breakfast, and a fresh bottle of water and another pack of sandwiches for later. As I ate my breakfast I let my clothes clean me. Normally I would have washed. The clothes did a reasonable job but made my skin feel crawly and tickly. After I had eaten I chewed a tooth-cleaner and gazed around. The estate looked tiny, and I could see a whole sweep of other estates and towns, lakes and hills and plains, along and around. I was almost level with the tops of the slag heaps piled against the forward wall. Between me and the sunline a few clouds drifted: far away, I could see rain falling from one, onto a town. It was strange to see rain from the outside, as a distinct thing rather than a condition. More interesting was to see aircraft flying high above me, and a few below, taking off or landing. I faced resolutely upward, and continued my climb.

  Of course I did not climb all the way. I was a tough and determined person, but it would have taken a month even if the ladder had extended all the way there, which it did not. What happened, about halfway through my second day, was that a small aircraft landed on a large platform a few hundred metres above me, and when I reached it, a man stood waiting for me. He even reached over and took my hand and hauled me up the last few steps, which I thought was unnecessary, but I made no objection. He then backed away and we looked at each other for a few seconds. He was wearing a loose black suit, and his skin was not a lot lighter. His features might have been carved out of mahogany, with deep lines scored in it around the eyes and mouth. “My name is Constantine the Oldest Man,” he said. The name meant nothing to me but seemed suitable.

  “Mine is Atomic Discourse Gale,” I s
aid, sitting down on the platform.

  “I know,” he said. “Your caremother asked me to meet you.” He jerked his head back, indicating the aeroplane. “I can take you to the keel, if you like.”

  I had been determined to reach the keel myself; but I saw the man and the aircraft as part of my adventure, and therefore within my resolution rather than as a weakening or dilution of it. Besides, I now had a much better idea of how long it would take to climb all the way.

  “All right,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He stepped over and peered into my eyes. I noticed a tiny shake of his head, as if something that might have been in my eyes wasn’t there (a nictitating membrane, I now realise). He led me over to the aircraft, motioned me to sit in the front and lower seat, showed me how to strap up, and passed me a set of wraparounds, transparent and tinted. I slipped them on. He climbed in behind me and started the engine. The propeller was behind us both, the wing above. After the engine had built up some power the little machine shook and quivered, then shot to the edge of the platform and dropped off. I may have squealed. It dipped, then soared. My stomach felt tugged about. Wind rushed past my face. The collar of my jacket crept up over the top and sides of my head, and stiffened. I hadn’t known it had that capability.

  We flew in an irregular spiral, perhaps to avoid stair-ladders and other obstacles invisible to me, but always up. I looked down, at the ground. I could see houses and vehicles, but not people. Other small aircraft buzzed about the sky, at what seemed frighteningly short clearances. The air felt thinner as we climbed. As we levelled out I could feel the sunline hot on my shoulders, bright out of the corners of my eyes. Ahead loomed the forward wall. Featureless from the distances at which I had always seen it, it now looked complex, with gigantic pipes snaking across it and great clusters of machinery clamped to it. Wheels turned and pistons and elevators moved up and down. Rectangular black slots became visible, here and there on the surface, and we flew towards one. As naively as I’d thought I could climb to the sunline, I’d imagined we would fly to it, but we flew into the slot — it was two hundred metres wide by at least thirty high — and landed. Other small aircraft were parked in the artificial cavern. It was in fact a hangar. Constantine helped me out of the seat. My memory may be playing tricks, but I fancy I felt slightly lighter.

  “I thought we were going to fly all the way,” I said, trying not to sound querulous.

  “The air doesn’t go all the way to the sunline,” Constantine told me. “So we will take the lift.”

  I followed him across the broad floor to an inconspicuous door. Behind it was an empty lift, big enough to hold about a dozen people. Its walls were transparent, giving a view of a dark chasm within which gigantic shapes moved vertically, illuminated by occasional random lights. The doors hissed shut and the lift began to ascend. So rapid was its acceleration that my knees buckled. Constantine grasped my shoulder.

  “Steady,” he said. “It doesn’t get worse than carrying someone piggyback.”

  Vaguely affronted, I straightened up and stared out. Looking down made me dizzy, so I looked up. The space in which we moved was in fact quite shallow in relation to its size. We were headed for a bright spot above, which I knew to be some manifestation of the sunline. The lift decelerated far more gradually and gently than it had accelerated. As it did so, I found that I was becoming lighter. An experimental downward thrust of the toes sent me a metre into the air. I yelled out, startled and delighted, as I fell back.

  Constantine laughed. “Hold the bar,” he said.

  The lift halted, as if hesitating, then shot upward again. We passed through a hatch or hole. For a moment I was pressed against the wall of the lift; then I found myself weightless. Constantine glided over my head, twisting and somersaulting at the same time. I let go of the bar, flailing. The sensation of falling was for a moment terrifying. My stomach heaved, then settled.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re in the forward cone now.” The teeth of his smile were a vivid white. He caught my elbow and swung me onto his back. I gripped fistfuls of fabric at his shoulders and clung. He grinned sideways at me and kicked off. The door of the lift hissed open. My eardrums clicked. We skimmed above the floor of a long tube. Shafts of light stabbed down from small holes or windows above us; my eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness, not darker, in truth, than indoor lighting. About three metres high by two wide, the tube ran straight into the distance as far as I could see. Within it, as we moved along, I noticed many other corridors branching off. Constantine’s foot flicked at a wall and we hurtled into one of these side corridors. There was a smell of earth and ozone, of plant and animal and machine. Rapidly and bewilderingly, we passed through a succession of corridors and chambers, within which I glimpsed machinery and instruments, gardens hanging in midair, glowing lights and optical cables, and many people flying or floating or scuttling like monkeys along tubes or flimsy ladders. And what strange people they were, long of limb and lithe of muscle and wild of hair. Naked as the day they were born, lots of them; or looking similar, but in bright-coloured skintight suits; others crusted with stiff sculptured garments, like the camouflage of a leaf insect, or swathed in silky balloon sleeves and pants. Their indifference to orientation was for me disorienting; looking at their antics I felt a resurgence of unease in my belly.

  I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again we had reached our destination. We floated near the floor of the biggest enclosed space I’d ever been in, apart from the world itself. The floor was smooth, and extended far ahead of us, and curved up on either hand like a smaller version of the curve of the world. Up and down had in a manner been restored. The thing that I craned my neck to look at, from my vantage on Constantine’s back, was unmistakably up. Above us it vanished into shadows, ahead it stretched and tapered into distance. A thousand or more metres long, hundreds of metres high, it was complex, flanged, fluted and voluted, yet seemed cast from a single block of metal, ancient and pitted as an iron asteroid. There was one piece of metal, however, that shone bright and distinct from the rest: a metre-long rectangle of burnished brass, on which some writing was engraved. We hung in the still, rust-scented air not an arm’s length from it. The inscription was as follows:

  Sunliner But the Sky, My Lady! The Sky!

  Forged this day 6 February 10 358 AG.

  Constantine reached around and disengaged me from his back. We drifted for a few minutes, hand in hand.

  “I never knew the world had a name,” I said.

  “I named it,” said Constantine.

  “Why did you call it that?” I asked.

  He swung me and caught my other hand, like a dancer, and once again gazed into my face as if looking for something.

  “You’ll know one day,” he said.

  I know now.

  Horrocks Mathematical blinked away the girl’s biolog. It seemed that like all of the ship generation she was maturing on schedule. He himself had gone through adolescence, five or six years ago now, without any such epiphany. The Mathematical were tenth-generation crew and Horrocks had never had to suffer a grounded upbringing. Although born in the ship he did not consider himself or his cohort part of the ship generation. They were among the youngest members of the crew, that was all. Through the foliage of the air-tree and the skin of the bubble in which he floated he could see the land twenty-five kilometres below — its parks and copses, rivers and lakes, estates and towns an ideal of savannah and suburbia that was said to be a hard-wired part of the human evolutionary heritage, though only manifested among flatfooters. As a free-flyer, Horrocks felt that his was a more evolved biophilia.

  The air-tree, growing from a hydroponic tank, its branches grafted to form an open wickerwork sphere, was about fifty metres in diameter and five years older than he was. Horrocks pushed through the lianas that crisscrossed its interior and thrust himself out into the greater confinement of the bubble. He had work to do. The bubble was one of scores strung on a circular cable around the sunl
ine like beads on a bangle. The cable contra-rotated the ground, putting the bubbles in an approximation of free fall. Only the slight intermittent backward tug of the small jets that countered the effect of the ship’s deceleration broke the spell, but that was all they broke.

  On the other side of the bubble, making a rocky counterpart to the air-tree, hung a tethered lump of asteroid clinker about a hundred metres across. A thrust of his feet took Horrocks towards it. As he drifted he tugged on his cuffs. The fabric slid over his hands and fingers, to form tough gloves by the time he impacted the rock’s side. He worked his way over and around the rock, checking each of the scores of machines he’d spent the past few days bolting to its surface. They jutted out a metre or so; their display and control panels — some of them simple touch screens, others elaborate but rugged arrangements of knobs, push buttons, and dials, and a few remote brain interfaces — were already filmed or crusted with dust. All in order, however. The tenebrific shade had passed over him many times, and half the morning had passed, before he was satisfied with that.

  Ready for the kids to play with. Horrocks tweaked a final bolt and took a deep breath. He pulled his collar up over his head and down over his face until it sealed under his chin, and launched himself towards the bubble’s airlock. The scooter on the other side of it took him, on a spiralling trajectory that would have dizzied and sickened a flatfooter, around and along the sunline to the airlock of the forward wall. Once inside, he pulled his hood off his face, gasped a couple of times, and relaxed into his own world, the world of the forward cone.

  Immediately the corner of his eye filled with messages. It was not that they were unavailable outside, but that they were easier to ignore. He blinked through them rapidly, discarding most as routine. One from his friend Awlin Halegap, a speculator, urged him to check one of the latest observations of the new system into which the ship was decelerating.

  Horrocks smiled — Awlin’s speculations were often indeed speculative, and had already cost Horrocks and other acquaintances almost as much credit as they had profited them in the last couple of years — but tuned in to the list anyway. Most of the observations were of the first tranche of asteroids detected, and of the moons of the ringed gas giant and the waterworld that were the most prominent bodies in the system, and a few of the planets. The one Awlin had tagged was of the least immediately usable of the planets: the habitable-zone terrestrial. When he expanded the data he could see nothing of note; its amount and resolution, from a distance of several light-hours, were sparse. He made contact with Awlin.