There were more people in the garden than on the observation deck. When strangers caught his eye, Tchicaya smiled and offered whatever gestures his Mediator deemed appropriate to greet them in passing, but he wasn’t ready for formal introductions, sorting everyone into opposing camps.
“Isn’t there a level where both sides can still cooperate?” he asked. “If we can’t agree on the theory that’s going to underpin whatever action finally gets taken, we might as well all give up and join the wagon train to Andromeda.”
Yann was apologetic. “Of course. Don’t let my moaning give you too bleak a picture. We haven’t reached the point of hostility for its own sake; we still pool resources for the basic science. It’s only the goal-directed experiments that make things a little frosty. When Tarek started scribing graphs at the border that he believed stood a good chance of being viable proto-worms, we cut him out of all the theoretical discussion groups and data sharing agreements — though none of us thought he was in any danger of succeeding. Since then, he’s backed off slightly, and agreed to limit himself to graphs that can test his hunches without running amok if they happen to confirm them.”
Tchicaya began to protest, but Yann cut him off. “Yes, I know that’s a treaty full of holes: it wouldn’t take much disingenuousness to pretend that success was just a terrible mistake. But who am I to lecture anyone about the results they should or shouldn’t have expected?”
Tchicaya muttered, “Everyone’s wise about the accident, after the fact.” He’d met people who’d claimed they’d happily obliterate every extant version of Cass and her accomplices, though that was the rare, extremist view. More commonly, it was conceded that the Mimosans had been cautious, and could not be judged by the magnitude of the force they’d unleashed. Few people could honestly claim that in the Mimosans' place, they would have treated the Sarumpaet rules — inviolate for twenty thousand years — as being subject to serious doubt, let alone erasure.
The last Tchicaya had heard, seventeen people out of the billions of evacuees had chosen to stand their ground and die. He knew that these suicides weighed on Yann’s conscience — as did the distress of all those who’d been driven from their homes — but that didn’t dictate his attitude to the phenomenon. It might have been tactful to withdraw from the debate entirely, as the other seven had, but Tchicaya understood his refusal to do so. The fate of the vacuum had to be argued on its merits, not treated as a surrogate through which its creators could be condemned or absolved, and Yann intended the fact that he’d dared to take sides to highlight that distinction.
“So there’s been no theoretical progress while I was in transit?” A definitive breakthrough would have been the first thing Yann mentioned, but there might still have been promising developments.
Yann shrugged. “Three steps left, four steps down. We scribe these elaborate probe graphs and drop them through the border, then hope that whatever we can see of their decay will tell us something useful. Even when we make an inspired choice of probe and get a clean set of data, as evidence for competing models it’s all hideously indirect.”
In the immediate aftermath of the accident, it had been easy to devise candidates for meta-rules that stabilized both the old and new vacuum in bulk. In those days, the theorists' biggest problem had been an excess of possibilities. The borderlight’s spectrum had helped narrow the choices somewhat, and even the single, fortunate fact that the border was traveling slower than light had ultimately been shown to rule out a class of theories in which the accident had merely changed some particle masses and triggered a boring old Higgs field collapse. In that case, the Mimosan vacuum would have been nothing but a lower-energy version of the ordinary vacuum, and coming to terms with its physics would have been as simple as altering a few numbers in the old equations. A careful analysis, though, had eventually confirmed most people’s instinctive hunch: any single kind of vacuum — even one that was undergoing such a collapse — had to appear exactly the same to anyone who was coasting through it, an ancient principle known as Lorentz invariance, dating back to the abolition of the aether. The only velocity at which a change could spread while satisfying that criterion was lightspeed.
Since the Rindler had provided a stable platform from which to probe the border experimentally — while vividly driving home the point that it was not Lorentz-invariant — the embarrassment of riches had proved illusory. Once it had become possible to put the new theories to the test, the only ones that hadn’t been falsified were those that remained too ill-defined to offer clear predictions. That provisional vagueness wasn’t necessarily a flaw, though; it could easily be the case that the correct grand generalization of the Sarumpaet rules simply couldn’t be pinned down from one example of a stable vacuum and a murky glimpse of another, and it was better to be forced to confront that fact than to be lulled for a second time into a false sense of security.
Yann said thoughtfully, “I suppose we could always stop messing about trying to peek behind the border, and just resurrect the Quietener.” He punched his hands together enthusiastically. “A few well-planned experiments in the old style might cut straight to the heart of things.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea. We could do it right here.” A second seeding of the novo-vacuum, from a starting point that was already moving rapidly in the same direction as everyone who was fleeing the first, would be twice as difficult to escape. Yann’s sardonic suggestion was sobering, though, since it was far from being the only way in which the disaster might be magnified. However careful they were, whatever their motives, there was always the chance of simply making things worse.
“We’re dropping the next probe in about twelve hours' time,” Yann said. “If you’re interested, I could probably swing it.”
“Swing what?”
“Bringing you along.”
Tchicaya’s throat tightened. “You mean, you go down there? In person?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
Yann laughed. “Don’t ask me! You’re the one with the flesh fetish; I thought you’d understand. That’s how they do things here. I just play along.”
Tchicaya looked past him, into the opaque pearly light, more featureless than any darkness he’d ever encountered. The eyes relished darkness, conjuring up hints of what it might contain, but the borderlight flooded his vision with incontrovertible blankness.
And he believed he could live in that light? He believed the embodied should end their flight, end their resistance, and march straight into that blinding whiteness?
The borderlight was a surface phenomenon, a distractingly perfect veil. Whatever lay behind it could easily be as richly structured and complex as the universe he knew.
He said, “Let me sleep on it.”
Half the Rindler's sixteen modules were devoted to accommodation. The ship informed Tchicaya of the cabin he’d been allocated, but he declined detailed directions, since Yann seemed eager to continue as his guide.
“I’ll show you where I am, myself, first,” Yann offered. “It’s on the way, and you’re always welcome to drop by.” The accommodation modules were all split into multiple levels; away from the edges, where you could still glimpse the sky, it was like being in a high-rise building. When they left the stairwell, Yann paced briskly down a corridor, and pointed out the room.