‘That’s your privilege,’ Zuba said mildly. ‘And it will be my privilege to stand here with you.’
Bisset seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Call it my own brand of xenoethics.’ She turned to Ulf Thoring. ‘Have you told the Citizen Associate about the results of the IGWI programme?’
‘No.’ Ulf said defensively. ‘They’re not published. And besides—’
‘Tell him now.’
Structure, Ulf told him, has been detected in the signals from the beginning of time. No, not just structure – life, its unmistakeable signature, with traces of mind susceptible to standard animistic deconvolution. Even in those very first instants, as cosmic energies raged, life flourished, blossomed, died, and was aware. The study of this primordial life is the whole purpose of the IGWI programme – though, as nothing has yet been published, it is still a matter of gossip on academic sites.
This stunning discovery has led to a revision of our theories of life’s origin. Perhaps the essence of life was born in those first instants. Or perhaps, some speculate, it was injected into our infant universe, from – somewhere else.
‘Okay,’ Zuba said. ‘Here’s what I take from all of that, in my simple way. Everywhere we have travelled we have found life and mind. But it is not like us. It exists on utterly different scales from us – hugely more extensive in space, and in time.’
She was right. At best multi-celled forms like us are an episode in the long dream of bacterial life. Away from Earth, we’ve found a few fossils; that’s all.
Zuba said, ‘There are similarities in the cognitive maps of your pet stromatolite, Bisset, and the antique minds from the inflationary period. Similarities. But we are different; we are nothing but transient structures that soon dissolve back into the mush. You’re right, Citizen Associate; only we humans know death. And in a universe that teems with life, we humans are still alone, in a way Juliet has never been alone. That is why I will wait for you, Citizen Associate, until that damn moon hammers me into the ground like a tent peg. Because all we humans have is each other.’
You have to admit she was impressive.
Bisset thought it over. ‘I should get out of this pond.’
‘Good idea,’ I said fervently.
Bisset glanced once more at Juliet. She was unharmed, save for a slight scarring from our cognitive net. He dropped the laser, which sank out of sight into the water, and began to wade towards us. ‘Tell me one more thing, Captain.’
‘Yes?’
‘So we humans work for each other. But why are we here? We spoke about this, Susan. Why explore, why go on and on?’
Zuba said, ‘We don’t know what we might find. We humans are lost now, but not forever. There’s a place for us.’
Bisset laughed softly. ‘Like the movie song.’
‘What movie?’ I wondered.
‘What is a movie?’ Ulf Thoring asked.
Zuba glanced up. The Hammer was an inverted landscape sliding over the dreaming stromatolites. ‘You might want to hurry it along.’
Bisset splashed to the edge of the water, and we hurried forward to help him.
The Long Road
Hara took days to walk the long road, from the hunters’ camps in the hills to the sandstone huts of the fisher folk by the marshy shore. But the road ran straight, its surface hard, the walking good. This directness pleased Hara, as she walked alone through the autumnal sunlight. She was fifteen years old.
Her father scolded her for these excursions. But Hara would be able to trade cattle leather for bream and mussels, and enough cockle shells for an anklet or two.
Besides, her father’s misgivings were to do with the road itself. People muttered darkly that it must have been built by vanished giants. But Hara had a practical turn of mind. A straight line was simply the most obvious way from hills to coast. And generations of patient walkers like herself had surely flattened the ground with their feet, without the help of giants: Britain was already an old country.
The wind rustled dying leaves. She could smell the ice that still lay not far to the north. She hoped to reach the coast before nightfall, and, perhaps, and to find a certain boy of the fisher-folk clan. Smiling, warm deep inside, she hurried on, her feet padding softly on the road’s grassy surface.
Under the unusually hot sun of this northern summer’s day, Marcus Plautius, stripped to the waist, worked with his men on the road.
Marcus didn’t have to do this. A centurion from north Italy, he had won his seniority the hard way. But road-making pleased him: the surveying with plumb lines and beacons, the grades of stone and gravel laid in sequence, the design that ensured good foundations, a decent walking surface, and reliable drainage. Maybe it was because of all the destruction he had seen that he found road-building so satisfying.
But a soldier understood that the roads were the Emperors’ supreme instrument of control. Just here they happened to be following the course of an old rutted track, but Roman roads ran straight whatever was in their way, their cold geometry freezing barbarian minds. And where roads ran, towns and prosperity flourished, and citizens paid their taxes – and Marcus’s salary.
So Marcus worked with a will, immersed in songs from Spain and Persia and Africa, and the road stretched true from horizon to horizon.
Seth sat in the musty dark of his toll gate lodge, chewing on tobacco. He had had an argument with his son.
Like his father, Seth was a turnpike gatekeeper. This was a profitable road, the obvious route to carry your cotton goods straight from city to port. And thanks to the tolls those who used the turnpike paid for its upkeep, so the old road was restored to its best condition since the Romans.
But now the railway had come, its culverts and embankments following the road’s own direct route. The turnpike traffic had reduced to a trickle, and the tolls dried up with it. Today Seth’s son Thomas had vowed that he would never become gatekeeper but would go work on the railway.
Seth heard a clattering of hooves. Another traveller, another penny. Sighing, he pulled himself up from his chair.
The road itself was aware.
It still followed the ancient, logical route between inland city and port. But now every centimetre was saturated with chips and actuators, and nano-machines repaired every crack, while the road monitored and controlled the traffic that thundered along it.
The road, integrated into a global transportation network, had become very smart indeed. And it understood a great deal.
Transport drove the global economy, but things were out of balance. For a century it had been cheaper to travel than to build. So children commuted to huge regional schools, their parents to work in faraway cities. But if you factored in the cost of waste and excess heat, transport really wasn’t so cheap after all – and the days of ‘cheap’ travel must soon end anyhow. And then what?
The road suspected that nothing like it was ever likely to be built again. But then it would sink back into the joy of purpose fulfilled, as storms of traffic broke over its long back.
Lida, fifteen years old, took days to walk the long road, from the hunters’ camps in the hills to the huts of the fisher folk by the shore, where she would trade rabbit skin for bream and mussels.
The road ran so straight and firm that people muttered darkly about its origins. But Lida was practical. This was simply the most obvious way from hills to coast, and generations of patient walkers like herself had surely flattened the ground. No need to imagine vanished giants.