Transcendent dc-3

  Transcendent

  ( Destiny’s Children - 3 )

  Stephen Baxter

  Set in the same vast time scale and future as Coalescent (2003) and Exultant (2004), Transcendent can be read independently. Michael Poole is a middle-aged engineer in the year of the digital millennium (2047) and Alia is a recognizably human (but evolved) adolescent born on a starship half a million years later. Michael still dreams of space flight, but the world and its possibilities are much diminished due to environmental degradation. The gifted teen has studied Michael’s life, for the Poole family played a pivotal role in creating the human future, and thus her world. Through seemingly supernatural apparitions, Alia bridges time to communicate with Michael as they determine the future of humanity. The Pooles are a troubled family, and readers will appreciate the conflict between Michael and his son as they are forced to find common ground in a struggle to reverse the final tipping point of global warming. Teens will also understand Alia’s alarm, and her growing determination to choose her own destiny, when she is selected to join the Transcendents and is rushed into their unimaginable post-human reality. This is visionary, philosophical fiction, rich in marvels drawn from today’s cutting-edge science. A typical paragraph by Baxter might turn more ideas loose on readers than an entire average, mundane novel does, but all this food for thought is delivered with humor and compassion. Experienced SF readers will enjoy sinking their teeth into the story, while general readers who have enjoyed near-future, science-based suspense novels such as those by Michael Crichton will discover here that science fiction can set a higher, much richer standard than what they’ve experienced before.

  Transcendent

  by Stephen Baxter

  ONE

  The girl from the future told me that the sky is full of dying worlds.

  You can spot them from far off, if you know what you’re looking for. When a star gets old it heats up, and its planets’ oceans evaporate, and you can see the clouds of hydrogen and oxygen, slowly dispersing. Dying worlds cloaked in the remains of their oceans, hanging in the Galaxy’s spiral arms like rotten fruit: this is what people will find, when they move out from the Earth, in the future. Ruins, museums, mausoleums.

  How strange. How wistful.

  My name is Michael Poole.

  I have come home to Florida. Although not to my mother’s house, which is in increasing peril of slipping into the sea.

  I live in a small apartment in Miami. I like having people around, the sound of voices. Sometimes I miss the roar of traffic, the sharp scrapings of planes across the sky, the sounds of my past. But the laughter of children makes up for that.

  The water continues to rise. There is a lot of misery in Florida, a lot of displacement. I understand that. But I kind of like the water, the gentle disintegration of the state into an archipelago. The slow rise, different every day, every week, reminds me that nothing stays the same, that the future is coming whether we like it or not.

  The future, and the past, began to complicate my life in the spring of 2047, when I got an irate call from my older brother, John. He was here, in our Miami Beach house. I should “come home,” as he put it, to help him “sort out Mom.” I went, of course. In 2047 I was fifty-two years old.

  I had been happy in Florida, at my parents’ house, when I was a kid. Of course I had my nose in a book or a game most of the time, or I played at being an “engineer,” endlessly tinkering with my bike or my in-line roller skates. I was barely aware of the world outside my own head. Maybe that’s still true.

  But I particularly loved the beach out in back of the house. You understand this was the 1990s or early 2000s, when there still was a beach in that part of Florida. I remember I would walk from our porch, with its big roof-mounted swing chairs, and go down the gravel path to the low dunes, and then on to the sandy beach beyond. Sitting there you could watch space shuttles and other marvels of rocketry from Cape Canaveral rising into the sky like ascending souls.

  Mostly I’d watch those launches alone. I was out of step with my family over that one. But once, I believe around 2005, my uncle George, my mother’s brother visiting from England, walked out with me to watch a night launch. He seemed so stiff and old, barely able to make it down to sit on the scrubby dune grass. But I guess he was only in his forties then. George was an engineer, of sorts, in information technology, and so a kindred spirit.

  Of course that’s all gone now, thanks to the Warming, the rising sea levels, the endless Atlantic storms; Canaveral is a theme park behind a sea-wall. I guess I was lucky to be ten years old and able to watch such things. It was like the future folding down into the present.

  I wonder what ten-year-old Michael Poole would have thought if he could have known what the girl from the future told me, about all those old and dying worlds out there waiting for us in space.

  And I wonder what he would have thought about the Transcendence.

  I think over those strange events, my contact with the Transcendence, one way or another, all the time. It’s like an addiction, something you’re aware of constantly, bubbling beneath the surface level of your mind, no matter how you try to distract yourself.

  And yet I can remember so little of it. It’s like chasing a dream after waking; the more you focus on it, the more it melts away.

  Here’s what I make of it now.

  The Transcendence is our future — or a future, anyhow. A far future. The Transcendents had made (or will make) themselves into something unimaginably powerful. And now they were on the cusp, the cusp of a step to change into something new altogether.

  After this point they would transcend to what we would think of as godhood — or they would subside to defeat, at the hands of a foe I barely glimpsed. Either way they would no longer be human.

  But at this point, on this side of the cusp, they were still human. And they were tortured by a very human regret, a regret that had to be resolved now, before they proceeded and shed their humanity for good. This was what I was drawn into, this strange inner conflict.

  Everybody knows about my work on the climate disaster. Nobody knows about my involvement in something much larger: the agonies of a nascent superhuman mind of the far future, in the culminating logic of all our destinies.

  The future folding down into the present. That ten-year-old on the beach would probably have loved it, if he’d known. It still scares me to death in retrospect, even now.

  But I guess even then I had my mind on other things. For the most remarkable thing I saw on that beach wasn’t a spaceship being launched.

  The woman who came to the beach was slim and tall, with long, strawberry-blond hair. She would wave and smile to me, and sometimes call, though I could never make out what she said for the noise of the waves and the gulls. She always seemed to stand at the edge of the sea, and the sun was always low, so the sea was dappled with sunlight like burning oil, and I had to squint to make her out — or she would show up in some other equally difficult place, hidden by the light.

  When I was a kid she visited occasionally, not regularly, maybe once a month. I was never frightened of her. She always seemed friendly. Sometimes when she called I would wave back, or yell, but the crashing waves were always too loud.

  I would run after her sometimes, but running in soft wet sand is hard work even when you’re ten. I never seemed to get any closer, no matter how hard I ran. And she would shrug, and step back, and if I looked away she was gone.

  It was only much later that I worked out who she was, how important she would become to me.

  Uncle George never saw her, not during his one and only viewing of a spaceship launch from the beach. I wish he had. I’d have appreciated talking it over with him. I didn’t know much about ghosts when I was
ten; I know only a little more now. George knew a lot of things, and he had an open mind. Maybe he could have answered a simple question: can you be haunted by spirits, not from the past, but from the future?

  For, you see, the mysterious woman on the beach, who visited me intermittently all my young life, was another visitor from the future. She was Morag, my dead wife.

  The future folding down into the present.

  The girl from the future was called Alia.

  She was born on a starship, fifteen thousand light-years from Earth. She lived half a million years after Michael Poole died. And yet she grew up knowing Poole as intimately as any of his family.

  She had Witnessed his life almost since her mother and father had first brought her home from the birthing pods, when her hands and feet could grasp nothing but the fur on her mother’s chest, and the world was an undifferentiated place of bright glowing shapes and smiling faces. Michael Poole had been there for her even then, right from the beginning.

  But she was thirty-five years old now, almost old enough to be considered an adult. Michael Poole was a relic from childhood, his little life like a favorite story she listened to over and over. She would always turn to him when she needed comfort. But he was a small, sentimental part of her life, his story tucked away in the Witnessing tank, unconsidered for days on end.

  What really mattered to Alia nowadays was Skimming.

  She met her sister in the Engine Room, the deepest bowel of the Nord, in steel-gray light, where hulking, anonymous machinery loomed. The sisters faced each other and laughed at the delicious prospect of what was to come.

  Like Alia, Drea was naked, the best way to Skim. Drea’s body, coated with golden hair, was neatly proportioned, with her arms only a little shorter than her legs, and she had long toes, not as long as her fingers but capable of grasping and manipulation. It was a body built for zero gravity, of course, and for hard vacuum, the natural environment of mankind, but it was believed that this body plan was pretty much the same as that of the original human stock of old Earth.

  Drea was ten years older than Alia. The sisters were very alike, but there was more gravity to Drea, a little more levity to Alia. As the light shifted, multiple lids slid across Drea’s eyes.

  Drea leaned close, and Alia could smell the sweetness of her breath. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Drea grasped Alia’s hands. “Three, two, one—”

  Suddenly they were in the Nord’s Farm deck.

  This was a high, misty hall, where immense ducts and pipes snaked down through the ceiling, lamps shed a cool blue-white glow, and green plants burgeoned in clear-walled hydroponic tanks. The Nord was a starship, a closed ecology. The big pipes delivered sewage and stale air from the human levels above, and carried back food, air, and clean water.

  Alia breathed deep. After the cold, static austerity of the Engine Room she was suddenly immersed in the Farm’s vibrant warmth, and the deck plates thrummed in response to the huge volumes of liquid and air being pumped to and fro. Even the quality of the gravity felt subtly different here. Alia had felt nothing of the Skimming: no time passed during a Skim, so there was no time for sensation. But the transition itself was delicious, a rush of newness, like plunging from cold air into a hot pool.

  And this was just the start.

  Drea’s eyes were bright. “Jump this time. Three, two, one—” Flexing their long toes the sisters sailed up into the air, and at the apex of their coordinated jump they popped out of existence.

  On the sisters fled, to all the Nord’s many decks, shimmering into existence in parks, schools, museums, gymnasiums, theaters. In each place they stayed only a few seconds, just long enough to lock eyes, agree the next move, and jump or pirouette or somersault into it. It was really a kind of dance, the challenge being to control the accuracy of each Skim and the mirror-image precision of their positions and movements at each emergence.

  Skimming, voluntary teleporting, was so easy small children learned to do it long before they walked. Alia’s body was made up of atoms bound into molecules, of fields of electricity and quantum uncertainty. Alia’s body was her. But one atom of carbon, say, was identical to another — absolutely identical in its quantum description — and so it could be replaced without her even knowing. She was just an expression of a temporary assemblage of matter and energy, as music is an expression of its score regardless of the medium in which it is written. It made no difference to her.

  And once you knew that, it was easy to see that she, Alia, could just as easily be expressed by a heap of atoms over there as one over here. It was just a question of will, really, of choice, along with a little help from the nanomachines in her bones and blood. And very little Alia willed was denied her.

  Most children Skimmed as soon as they found out they could. Adults found it harder, or gave it up as they gave up running and climbing. But few of any age Skimmed as skillfully as Alia and Drea. As the sisters passed, scattering startled birds, young people watched them with envy, and older folk smiled indulgently, trying to mask their regret that they could never dance so gracefully again.

  And at each step, in the instant after the girls had vanished, two clouds of silvery dust could be seen suspended in the air, pale and transparent, still showing the forms of the two sisters. But in the ship’s artificial breezes these chimeras of abandoned matter quickly dispersed.

  In one last mighty Skim the girls leapt all the way out of the Nord itself.

  Alia felt the tautness of the vacuum in her chest, the sting of hard radiation on her face as delicious as a shower of ice water on bare skin. With her lungs locked tight, and the Mist of biomolecules and nanomachinery that suffused her body eagerly scouring for damage, she was in no danger.

  There were stars all around the sisters, above, below, to all sides; they were suspended in three-dimensional space. In one direction a harder, richer light came pushing through the thick veil of stars. That was the Core, the center of the Galaxy. The Nord was some fifteen thousand light-years from the center, about half the distance of Sol, Earth’s sun. Only ragged clouds of dust and gas lay before that bulging mass of light, and if you looked carefully you could make out shadows a thousand light-years long.

  Alia looked down at the Nord, her home.

  The ship beneath her feet was a complex sculpture of ice and metal and ceramic, turning slowly in pale Galaxy light. You could just make out the vessel’s original design, a fat torus about a kilometer across. But that basic frame had been built on, gouged into, spun out, until its lines were masked by a forest of dish antennae, manipulator arms, and peering sensor pods. A cloud of semi-autonomous dwellings, glowing green and blue, swam languidly around the ship: they were the homes of the rich and powerful, trailing the Nord like a school of fish.

  Their hands locked, the sisters spun slowly around each other, their residual momentum expressing itself as a slow orbit. Complex starlight played on Drea’s smiling face, but her eyes were masked by the multiple membranes that slid protectively over their moist surfaces. Alia savored the moment. When they were younger the sisters had been the most important people on the Nord for each other. But Alia was growing up. This was a cusp of her life, a time of change — and the thought that there might not be too many more moments like this made this all the sweeter.

  But Alia was distracted by a gentle voice, a whisper in her ear.

  Her mother was calling her. Come home. You have a visitor…

  A visitor? Alia frowned. Who would visit her that could be important enough for her mother to call? None of her friends; any of them could wait. But there had been a gravity about her mother’s tone. Something had changed, Alia thought, even as she had danced through the Nord. Drea clung to Alia’s hands. Alia felt a surge of love for this sister, companion of her childhood. But Drea’s expression was complex, concerned. She knew something, Alia realized. There was suddenly a subtle barrier between them.

  They swam toward each other, and they Skimmed one last
time.

  Like a clash of cymbals their bodies overlapped, the atoms and electrons, fields and quantum blurrings overlapping. Of course this merging was frowned on; it was a dangerous stunt. But for Alia it was delicious to be immersed in her sister’s essence, to become heavy with her, everything about the two of them merged into a single cloudy mass, everything but some relic trace of separateness in their souls. It was closer even than sex.

  But it lasted only a second. With a gasp they Skimmed apart, and drifted side by side. And with that moment of oceanic closeness over, Alia’s niggling worry returned.

  Let’s go home, Drea said.

  The sisters spiraled down toward the Nord’s bright, complicated lights.

  When I flew into Miami, all I seemed to see from the air was water. It was everywhere, the encroaching sea at the coast, and inland shining ribbons that sliced the landscape to pieces. Much of downtown Miami was protected, of course, but outlying districts, even just blocks away, were flooded. I was mildly shocked.

  But the place still worked. Impressive causeways linked up the new islands, and I saw pod buses in chains like shining beads, navigating around the new archipelago much as in my childhood you could drive down the Keys from Largo to West.

  A dutiful if reluctant son, I was returning to Florida. I hadn’t been back here for, shame to say it, over ten years. That’s a long time these days. It’s a changing world, and over such an interval change heaps up like a head of water behind a sandbank, and then bursts all over you.

  Out of the airport, I took a pod bus down to Calle Ocho, 8th Street, and then a ferry. It was a smart, agile airboat, not much more than a sheet of plastic driven by an immense fan. My pilot was a girl, maybe twenty, with not a word of English. She made that little boat skim like a skateboard; it was a fun ride.