Schild’s Ladder

ruined Scribe. He smiled at the memory of Mariama’s voice, promising to rescue him. On Turaev, if they’d given in to their feelings, it would have ended badly, burning out in a year or two. When this was over, though —

Yann said, “That’s a bit ominous.”

“What?”

“Can you turn your head back toward the Scribe? That might be quicker than me trying to put it into words.”

Tchicaya twisted his neck. The border had formed a bellshaped hillock, forty or fifty meters high, that had completely swallowed the Scribe. As his rotation forced him to stretch even more, he stopped fighting it and twisted his neck the other way, hastening the sight’s return instead of trying to delay its departure.

The hillock was collapsing now, but as it did, a ring around it was rising up. Suddenly, Tchicaya noticed a whole series of lesser rings surrounding the first, like concentric ripples in water. They were undulating out from the center at great speed: the leading edge, the fastest component, in some kind of surface wave. The bulk of the wave was spreading more slowly. But it was still traveling faster than they were.

He searched for the shuttle, and found it, its exhaust a pale blue streamer against the stars. The thrust generated by the ion engine was very low; over time it could accumulate into a significant velocity, but the craft was about as maneuverable as a bathtub on ice. It might just reach them before the wave, and even accelerate away from the border again in time, but there’d be no margin left for any more surprises that might manifest themselves in the wake of Branco’s intervention.

Yann read his mind, and declared flatly, “They have to stay clear.”

Tchicaya nodded. “Mariama?”

“No!” she hissed. “I know what you’re going to say!”

“It’s all right. We’re backed up, we’re calm. Don’t even think about it.”

“It’s a wave. It’s a predictable phenomenon! I’ve computed a trajectory that meets all the constraints?—? ”

“Predictable?”

“We can do it!”

“You’ve all voted on that, have you? Tarek? Branco?”

Branco replied laconically, “It’s all the same to me.”

Tarek said nothing, and Tchicaya felt a pang of sympathy for him. No one could reasonably expect him to put himself at risk, merely to spare his two adversaries the loss of their replaceable bodies and a few hours' memories. Yet if he did, many people would respect him for it. You had to be a utilitarian zealot, rotted to the core by dogma, not to admire someone who was willing to jeopardize their own comfort and continuity to preserve another’s. Whether or not this required courage, at the very least it was an act of generosity.

Tchicaya said, “Stay clear! We can’t afford to lose the shuttle!” This argument made no sense?—?the Rindler's stock of raw materials had not been depleted, and there were parts of the ship itself that could be cannibalized anyway, if necessary?—?but he wanted to offer them an unselfish-sounding alibi. “You have to gather all the data you can,” he added, a little more cogently. “With the Scribe gone, every observation you can make is invaluable.” The Rindler itself had powerful instruments trained on the border, but some crucial detail might conceivably depend on the shuttle’s proximity.

Mariama did not reply immediately, but in the silence that followed Tchicaya knew that he’d swayed her.

“All right.” Her voice was still strained, but there was a note Tchicaya recognized from their days on Turaev: a rare concession, not so much of defeat, as the realization that they’d been struggling over the wrong thing altogether. She understood the tradeoff, and she knew that he and Yann were resolved. “Peace, Tchicaya.”

“Peace,” he replied.

Yann said, “You handled that well.”

“Thanks.” Over Yann’s shoulder, Tchicaya could see the wave closing on them. It was dropping in height as it spread out from the point where the Scribe had been, but it wouldn’t fall far enough to miss them. Tchicaya wondered if Yann would want to be distracted, or to confront what was happening directly.

“So well that I almost hate to do this. How strong do you think your legs are?”

“What?” It took a moment for Tchicaya to understand what he was suggesting. “Oh, no. Please?—?”

“Don’t go squeamish on me; we don’t have time. It would be hard to decide who to save if we were from the same modes, but I can start from backup with no delay. You’d be out of the picture for months.”

That was true. The Rindler had run out of bodies, and there were currently about twenty new arrivals waiting. Tchicaya would have to join the queue. Normally, a delay like that would mean nothing compared to the centuries he’d lost to transit insentience, but Branco’s experiment had just guaranteed that every day from now on would be unique.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” he said. His stomach was knotted with revulsion at the thought.

Yann didn’t quibble over the hyperbole. “And I’ve never died, in a body. Sex and death, all in one day. What more could an acorporeal ask for?”

The wave came into view again; they’d have a minute or less. Tchicaya struggled to clear his head. Yann was demanding no more of him than he’d demanded of Mariama. The sense of shame and selfishness he felt, at the thought of indulging his own visceral urge to survive at Yann’s expense, was the right thing to feel, but that didn’t mean he had to elevate it above every other consideration. Nor, though, did he have to annihilate the emotion in order to act against it. He would do what the situation required, because it would be a foolish waste for both of them to lose their bodies, but he wasn’t going to pretend that he was happy, or indifferent about it.

He took hold of Yann’s left hand, then released his iron grip on his shoulder so they could join right hands as well. He folded his knees up against his chest, then froze. The crest of the wave was thirty meters away. This was too complicated. They’d never have time.

Yann said calmly, “Give me your body. I’ve worked out the steps.”

Tchicaya surrendered motor control, and they began to move together in a perfect, symmetrical ballet. It was as if his limbs had been gripped by a dozen firm, invisible hands, manipulating him without resistance. His back arched, his arms stretched painfully, but their fingers stayed tangled in a monkey grip as their legs forced their bodies apart, until their feet met, sole to sole.

Tchicaya said, “You made me an isotopy.”

Yann laughed. “Nothing original, I’m afraid.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

Tchicaya had become disoriented, but as they swung around together his line of sight fell from the stars to the approaching wave. The muscles in his legs tensed, and the pressure against his feet grew until he felt as if his arms would be torn from his shoulders.

Yann said, “See you later.”

Their fingers parted.

Tchicaya clutched at the emptiness between them, then stopped himself and wrapped his arms across his chest. He was ascending at a shallow angle, back toward the point where the Scribe had been. As the crest approached, he curled into a ball, and it raced past beneath him, a flash of silver licking at his heels as he tumbled.

An elaborate grid of colored lines scarred the inside of the retreating wave, like the map of some kind of convoluted maze. The pattern shifted as he watched. There was a tantalizing logic to the changes?—?the lines weren’t dancing about at random?—?but deciphering it on the spot was beyond him. All he could do was record the sight.

Drained for a moment of every other concern, Tchicaya locked his gaze on the retreating enigma.

Everything had changed, now. Whatever Branco had revealed, or created, the wall between the worlds had finally been breached.

Chapter 9

“Everyone complains about the laws of physics, but no one does anything about them.”