Schild’s Ladder

history. In less than a year, it will be gone.”

“I’m sorry.” Tchicaya knew better than to respond with platitudes about history living on in memory. He said, “Do you think I want to see Zapata destroyed?” She didn’t need to name the planet; everyone knew the awful schedule by heart. “If we can halt the border without wiping out the entire novo-vacuum, I’ll back that. I’ll fight for that as hard as anyone.”

Zyfete’s eyes flashed angrily. “How very evenhanded of you! You’d let us keep our homes, so long as there was no danger of you losing your precious new toy!”

“It’s not a toy to me,” Tchicaya protested. “Was Zapata a toy nine thousand years ago, when it lay on the frontier?”

“That frontier spread out from Earth, and it was made up of willing settlers. It didn’t incinerate anyone who dared to stay put.” She scowled. “What do you think you’re going to find in there? Some great shining light of transcendence?”

“Hardly.” Transcendence was a content-free word left over from religion, but in some moribund planetary cultures it had come to refer to a mythical process of mental restructuring that would result in vastly greater intelligence and a boundless cornucopia of hazy superpowers?—?if only the details could be perfected, preferably by someone else. It was probably an appealing notion if you were so lazy that you’d never actually learned anything about the universe you inhabited, and couldn’t quite conceive of putting in the effort to do so: this magical cargo of transmogrification was sure to come along eventually, and render the need superfluous.

Tchicaya said, “I already possess general intelligence, thanks. I don’t need anything more.” It was a rigorous result in information theory that once you could learn in a sufficiently flexible manner?—?something humanity had achieved in the Bronze Age?—?the only limits you faced were speed and storage; any other structural changes were just a matter of style. “All I want to do is explore this thing properly, instead of taking it for granted that it has to be obliterated for our convenience.”

“Convenience?” Zyfete’s face contorted with outrage. “You arrogant piece of shit!”

Tchicaya said wearily, “If you want to save people’s homes, you have greater obstacles than me to overcome. Go and comfort your friend, or go and work on your model. I’m not going to trade insults with you.”

“Don’t you think it’s insult enough that you come here and announce your intention to interfere, if we ever look like we might be on the verge of succeeding?”

He shook his head. “The Rindler was built by a coalition with no agenda beyond studying the novo-vacuum. The individual members all had their personal goals, but this was meant to be a platform for neutral observation, not a launching pad for any kind of intervention.”

They’d reached the walkway. Tchicaya kept his eyes cast down, though he knew it made him look ashamed.

Zyfete said, “The bodiless I can understand: what lies outside their Qusps is irrelevant to them, so long as they can keep the same algorithms ticking over. But you’ve felt the wind. You’ve smelled the soil. You know exactly what we have to lose. How can you despise everything that gave birth to you?”

Tchicaya turned to face her, angered by her bullying but determined to remain civil. He said, “I don’t despise anything, and as I’ve said, if it’s possible, I’ll fight to preserve all the same things as you. But if all we’re going to do with our precious embodiment is cling to a few warm, familiar places for the next ten billion years, we might as well lock ourselves into perfect scapes of those planets and throw away the key to the outside world.”

Zyfete replied coldly, “If you think a marriage has grown too stale and cozy, I suppose you’d step in and stave one partner’s head in?”

Tchicaya stopped walking and held up his hands. “You’ve made yourself very clear. Will you leave me in peace now?”

Zyfete faced him in silence, as if she’d run out of venom and would have been happy to depart at precisely this moment, if only he hadn’t asked her. After a delay long enough to preclude the misconception that she might be doing his bidding, she turned around and strode back along the walkway. Tchicaya stood and watched her, surprised at how shaken he was. He’d never concealed his views from the people he’d lived among?—?apart from keeping his mouth politely shut in the presence of anyone in genuine distress—?and over the decades he’d had to develop a thick hide. But the closer he’d come to the source of the upheaval, the harder he had found it to believe that he was witnessing an unmitigated tragedy, like the floods and famines of old. On Pachner, where the sorrow and the turmoil had been at their most intense, he’d also felt most vindicated. Because beneath all the grief and fear, the undercurrent of excitement had been undeniable.

If Zyfete’s attack had stung him, though, it was mostly through the things she hadn’t said. Just being here meant that she had already left her own home behind, already tasted that amalgam of liberation and loss. Like Tchicaya, she had paid once, and no one was going to tell her that the price had not been high enough.

Tchicaya took a shower to wash off his vacuum suit, then lay on his bed, listening to music, brooding. He didn’t want to spend every waking moment on the Rindler questioning his position, but nor did he wish to grow impervious to doubt. He didn’t want to lose sight of the possibility that he had chosen the wrong side.

If the Preservationists did achieve their goal, the possibilities offered by the novo-vacuum need not be lost forever. Whatever was learned in the process of destroying it might open up the prospect of re-creating it, in a safer, more controlled fashion. In a few tens of millennia, there could be a whole new universe on their doorstep again, but this time it would pose no threat to anyone. No one would be forced from their homes. No one would be made to choose between exile and adaptation.

And in a few tens of millennia, how much tighter would the deadening spiral of familiarity have wound itself? If the nine-thousand-year history of Zapata was too precious to lose, after ninety thousand years every tradition, every grain of sand on every inhabited planet, would be positively sanctified.

Still, those who believed they were being smothered could always flee, as he’d fled Turaev. Those who were happy sleepwalking into eternity could stay. He had no right to force this cusp on anyone.

He didn’t have the right, but he didn’t have the power either, nor did he aspire to it. He was only here to state an unpopular case, and see if anyone could be swayed. If he believed that the novo-vacuum offered the greatest wealth of opportunities the species had faced since leaving Earth, what else would it be but cowardice and dishonesty if he failed to argue against its destruction?

The cabin was beginning to feel less spacious by the minute. He left it and made his way around the ship, heading for the garden. He still felt jittery on the walkways, but his confidence was slowly improving.

The garden was almost deserted. He found a bench that faced away from the border, offering a view he could take in without vertigo. The reel of the blue polar stars was slow enough to be soothing, and with the foliage to break up their perfect arcs the whole sight seemed less mechanical.

The Doppler shift was a novelty to him, but the motion of the stars was familiar. The night sky on Turaev had looked just like this, during a mild Slowdown. The only thing missing was the sun, rising and setting with each turn.

He’d stood by the crib that would prepare his body for storage, and his mind for transmission. It had asked him to state his wishes on the eventual recycling of this, his birth flesh. His father had pleaded gently, “We could still wait for you. For a thousand years, if that’s what you need. Say the word, and it will happen. You don’t have to lose anything.”

Someone passing glanced his way, curious at the sight of an unfamiliar passenger. Their Mediators interacted, and the stranger requested an introduction. Tchicaya hadn’t asked not to be interrupted, and he allowed the exchange of information to proceed. Protocols were established, translators verified, mutually acceptable behavior delineated. There were no local customs to defer to, here, so their Mediators virtually flipped a coin to decide the manner in which they should greet each other.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. My name’s Sophus.”

Tchicaya stood and gave his own name, and they touched each other lightly on the left shoulder. “I’ve only been here a day,” he explained. “It’s my first time off-planet; I’m still adjusting.”

“Do you mind if I join you? I’m waiting for someone, and this is the nicest spot to do it.”

“You’d be welcome.”

They sat on the bench. Tchicaya asked, “Who are you waiting for?”