Vortex

you’ve traveled through any of the Arches that connect the Eight Worlds you’ve been “among the Hypotheticals” to just the same degree as Turk had been. Lots of people even in my day (Allison’s day) crossed the Arch from the Indian Ocean to Equatoria, which meant they had been taken up and carried across the stars by Hypothetical forces. That didn’t make them gods or even godlike—it didn’t make them anything at all, except unusually well traveled. But time is a different dimension, supposedly. Spookier.

There were temporal Arches elsewhere in the Worlds, of course. They’re a common Hypothetical construct. We knew from geological evidence that temporal Arches appeared and disappeared every ten thousand or so years. They were part of some Hypothetical feedback mechanism, storing and dispensing information. But the first temporal Arch to engulf living human beings was the one that had popped up in the Equatorian desert and swallowed, among others, Turk Findley. Which meant it would be the first to disgorge its human cargo… which it had done, precisely on schedule, a couple of weeks ago.

So Turk was one of the first people to exit a temporal Arch alive. But oh, the bullshit that had accrued around that simple fact! It was an article of Voxish faith that the survivors would emerge transformed, conduits between mere humanity and the forces that had engineered the Ring of Worlds. And that those survivors would be able to shepherd us through a dysfunctional Arch back to Old Earth.

Treya had never questioned that dogma, and maybe it was even true, to some degree. But if we did successfully manage the transit to Earth, that was liable to be more a problem than a solution. Because in all likelihood Earth was no longer a habitable planet.

I said some of this to Turk. He asked me whether the people of Vox were entirely sane, believing what they did. I felt the ghost of Treya take offense at the question. “Sane compared to what? Vox has been a functioning community for hundreds of years. It’s survived a lot of battles. It’s a limbic democracy modulated by the Network, and all this stuff about the Hypotheticals and Old Earth is written into the code. Might even be some truth in it, I don’t know.”

“But Vox has enemies,” Turk pointed out, “who went to the trouble of bombing it.”

“They would have finished us by now, if they had anything left to throw.”

“So we’ll pass under the Arch, one way or another?”

“Two possible outcomes,” I told him. “If nothing happens we’ll be left adrift and defenseless on the Equatorian ocean. Probably invaded and occupied by the bionormatives, if they get their act together.”

“And if we do make it to Earth?”

“No way of knowing, but Earth was barely habitable when the Arch stopped working, and that was a thousand years ago, give or take. The oceans were going bad, huge bacterial blooms emitting massive amounts of hydrogen sulfide into the air. We have to assume an atmosphere poisonous enough to kill any unprotected living thing. Which is why it would be a very bad idea to be out of doors if we cross.”

“So where do we find protection?”

“The only real safe place is Vox Core. It can seal itself and recycle its air. That’s where the Farmers are heading. With the Network and other systems down, they can’t count on protection for the out-islands. They want to get inside the walls before the transit. But there isn’t room in Core for every outlier community in the Archipelago. The Farmers will have to fight their way in.”

4.

At the end of another day’s march the Farmer militia halted for the night. Digger Choi lowered the gate of the cart, pushed two bowls of green gruel inside, and untied our hands so we could eat. Turk stood up for the first time today, rubbing his wrists and legs. He balanced himself against the wall of the cart and turned his head to see where we were. That was when he got his first look at Vox Core.

The expression on his face was interesting—awe and fear, mixed together.

Vox Core was mostly underground, but the fraction of it that showed was impressive enough. The Farmers had camped in the lee of a low hill, and from this angle Vox Core looked like a jewelry box abandoned by a spendthrift god. Its half-mile-high defensive walls were the box; the jewels were the hundreds of faceted towers still standing: communications and energy-distribution points, light-gathering surfaces, aircraft bays, managerial residences. To Turk I suppose it looked improbably gaudy, but I knew (because Treya had known) that every material and every surface served a purpose—black or white facades to sink or radiate heat, blue-green panels doing photosynthetic work, ruby-red or smoky indigo windows to block or enhance particular frequencies of visible light. The setting sun gave it all a soft, seductive sheen.

The part of it that was intact, at least. There was enough of Treya in me to ache at the damage that had been done.

Most of what I recognized as the starboard quadrant of the city was gone. That was bad, because what lay beneath that part of the visible city was some of Vox Core’s essential infrastructure. Vox was complexly interconnected, and in the past it had sustained major damage without loss of function. But even the most decentralized network will fail if it loses too much connectivity, and that was what must have happened when the nuke penetrated our defenses. It was as if Vox’s brain had suffered a massive stroke, the damage spreading and compounding itself until the whole organism lost function. Tendrils of smoke still wafted up from the impact point. A hole had been punched in the starboard wall of the city, which might have provided an entry point for Farmer forces, except that radioactive and still-smoldering rubble had barred the gap.

Treya had spent the whole of her life in this city, and her shock welled up in me and made my eyes water.

Turk—once he made sure Digger Choi was out of earshot—said, “Tell me about the people who did this.”

“Built the city or dropped the bomb?”

“Dropped the bomb.”

“An alliance of cortical democracies and radical bionormatives. They were determined not to let us cross the Arch. Scared we’ll call down some kind of doom by attracting the attention of the Hypotheticals.”

“You think that might happen?”

It was a question Treya would never have entertained. Treya had been a good Voxish citizen, blithely convinced that the Hypotheticals were benevolent and that human beings could aspire to some kind of intercourse with them. But as Allison I could be agnostic about it. “I don’t actually know.”

“Sooner or later we might have to pick sides in one of these fights.”

That would be a luxury, I thought, to pick a side.

But for now the question was moot. We ate the pea-green gunk we had been given and stood up for a last look around before Digger Choi came to tie us up for the night. The sky had gotten darker and the peak of the Arch shimmered almost directly overhead. Vox Core itself had filled with shadows.

That was the saddest thing of all, it seemed to me: the darkness of Vox Core. All my life (Treya’s life) the Core had been ablaze with light. It leaked light like a glorious sieve. Its light was its heartbeat. And now it was gone. Not even a twinkle.

The Farmer attack, if it was going to happen at all, would have to happen soon. Until then there was nothing to do but look at the sky, and it was obvious from the dire angle of the Arch that we were at the critical point of the passage. The Vox Archipelago was big enough that some of it must already be past the midway point. But that didn’t matter—Vox would transit all at once or not at all. An Arch—and this truth had been established many centuries ago—was more like an intelligent filter than a door. Back when this Arch was working it had been able to distinguish between a bird in flight and a boat in the water: send the boat from Earth to Equatoria but leave the bird behind. That’s not a simple decision. The Arch had to be able to identify human beings and their works while ignoring the countless other living creatures who inhabited (or had once inhabited) both worlds. Crossing an Arch, in other words, wasn’t a mechanistic process. The Arch looked at you, evaluated you, accepted you or rejected you.

The most likely outcome was that we wouldn’t be admitted to Old Earth at all. But I was more afraid of the other possibility. Even before the Arch stopped working, the Earth had changed beyond anything Turk would have recognized. The last refugees from the polar cities had described drastic shifts in the oceanic chemocline,