Existence

hate. Scary and weird.”

I feel an involuntary shift. My nod of agreement.

“Tor. Your name is Tor.”

Again, a warming smile.

“Very good. Now tell me yours.”

I pause. It takes some time to search, as if opening raw, unfinished drawers.

“I was… I am Seeker.”

Her approval gives me pleasure. An attractive but unsettling sensation.

“Excellent. Now try to stand up, like I’m doing. Envision it.”

I have never done this before. But she patiently helps until I wobble in the soft gravity. Looking down, I see two spindly legs, ending in ridiculous paddle-feet, pale and squishy. Pebbles crunch between what could be toes.

Reflexively, I lift things that must be hands. Even squishier. Yet unbelievably supple.

“I am human now?”

“We agreed. Gavin and I spent years with you, as mostly machines. It’s your turn. You could not exist as physical flesh. Not yet. So this version will suffice.

“Anyway, it will help you to prepare, till we arrive.”

“Arrive?”

“At the first of many stops, ports, interventions. Adventures. We have things to do. Places to go and strangers to meet. Destinies to transform!”

It all sounds rather grandiose and tiring. But yes. I recall now. Memories are coming back. One thread tugs painfully.

“I… had a purpose.”

She nods. Partly in sympathy. But I know that there is more.

“Yes. And you still have it. Only, it’s become larger, yes?”

“Larger… yes.”

And I mourn. Lost simplicity. Lost purity.

“It has changed?”

Tor smiles at me, taking my hand, leading me toward a rainbow of impossible brightness.

“Silly,” she chides. “Don’t you know by now?

“Everything changes.”

THE END…

… of Existence…

The question that will decide our destiny is not whether we shall expand into space. It is: shall we be one species or a million? A million species will not exhaust the ecological niches that are awaiting the arrival of intelligence.

– Freeman Dyson

AFTERWORD

I get questions from all directions. For example: “What relevance does the literature called science fiction offer-what light can it shine-on ‘eternal human verities’ or the core mysteries that vex all generations?”

A quite different query comes from fans of the hardcore stuff-bold, idea-drenched sci-fi: “Why are most serious authors no longer writing deep space adventures, using warp drive to explore on a galactic scale? Have you all just given up and surrendered to Einstein?”

Two seemingly opposite perspectives, from a very broad reader base! Yet, I found both concerns converging during the long, arduous process of writing Existence. Let me answer the second one first.

No, I haven’t lost any love for grand, cosmic vistas, or contact with strange minds, or even great cruisers roaming the interstellar expanse. I’ll return to the Uplift Universe soon, where vivid heroes and villains don’t have just one way to cheat relativity, but twenty! I promise gigatons of sense-o-wonder.

Still, “warp drive” is kind of like playing tennis with the net lowered. Way fun, but more and more, authors like Bear, Robinson, Banks, Asaro, Sawyer, Kress, Vinge, Benford, Baxter, and others want to see what they can do with the hand nature dealt us. And if that means dancing with Einstein? Well, so be it.

Existence is about the cosmos that we see. Stark, immense beyond immensity, and unwelcoming to moist mayflies like us. Strangely-dauntingly-quiet. And perched in this vast emptiness is the oasis speck of Earth. More fragile than we imagined.

Yet, despite all that, might there be ways to persevere? To endure? Perhaps even to matter?

Which brings us back to question number one. Like most (usually) serious SF authors, I’m appalled by the notion of eternal human verities. A loathsome concept, foisted by brooding, husk-like academics, proclaiming that people will forever be the same, repeating every Proustian obsession, every omphaloskeptic navel-contemplation, and every dopey mistake of our parents, all the way until time’s end. A horrible concept that is-fortunately-disproved by history and science and every generation of bright kids who strive to climb a little higher than their ignorant ancestors. And to raise kids of their own who will be better still. The greatest story. The greatest possible story.

Yes, great works of the past are enduring as art. The poignancy of Aeschylus and Shakespeare will remain timelessly moving and valuable. We’ll never lose fascination for and empathy with the struggles of earlier generations. Still, what intrigues me, far more than “eternal” static things, is how people grow. (And let’s define “people” in a way that’s broad, that’s challenging!)

How children sometimes learn from the mistakes of other generations… or else deliberately refuse to. How, on occasion, they actually improve themselves, their town, nation, even species… and go on to commit fresh mistakes of their own invention! Using the art of gedankenexperiment to explore those potential improvements-and errors-is interesting! A compelling chance to peer ahead, or to the side. That-rather than mere starships or light-saber nonsense-is what our genre offers and none other.

We live in a strange time, when our newfound taste for diversity is growing into fascination with the strange, even alien. When we’re on the verge of picking up every tool that God is said to have used and boldly applying them in our own turn at co-creation, for well or ill. Whether by plan or happenstance, we apprentices are building that tower again. And, possibly, we’re about to build new companions, too. New friends. Again, for well or ill.

Admit it. Scary or not, that’s fascinating.

* * *

Now the challenge. Never before have human beings so benefited from membership in a sagacious, scientific, and increasingly virtuous civilization. Wisdom flowers and spreads… even as does silliness. Like the absurd assertion (repeated ad nauseam by left and right) that wisdom hasn’t grown! A damnable outright lie.

This is a bona fide renaissance, threatening to make everything better, in all ways. A renaissance that must find every potentially lethal error and hence, ironically, benefits from endless criticism. Helpful, vigorous criticism- but not chic-cynical despair.

* * *