—Barnes and Noble Explorations
“Complex and inventive. Hundreds of pages of smart, suspenseful science fiction. ‘Our Pick.’ ”
—Science Fiction Weekly
“An astonishingly original concept, one of the most chilling versions of nanotechnology yet envisioned. McCarthy is able to make the idea... seem quite believable. The pacing of the book is also excellent. McCarthy has a real talent for hard-SF concepts and thriller plotting.”
—SF Age
“A feast of exposition [that is] tasty as well as nutritious. His sworn agenda to balance hard science, adventure, and characterization is vindicated by the completed product. Bloom is a fine synthesis between Hard and Literary SF, a trick many have tried, but few have managed.”
—SF Revu
“The science is plausible, the narrative sinewy and taut. [McCarthy’s] assurance and skill are evident throughout. Starlog Verdict: ***** [5 out of 5 stars].”
—Starlog UK
“Bloom might be the wide-screen novel nanotech SF needs to kick-start itself. As soon as I read the cover blurb I couldn’t wait to start reading, and then once I’d started reading I couldn’t stop. Wil McCarthy’s take on nanotech SF may be just about as far as we can go with the idea in fiction.”
—Infinity Plus (UK)
“Destined to become the classic nanotechnology novel.”
—Bookman News
“Impressive. Believable. The story-telling and plot devices are tight, tight, tight. I regretted ever having to put the book down. I found it to be often insightful, in psychology, relationships, even philosophy. But the bottom line is that Bloom is fun. Complaints? Nope, can’t think of one.”
—Fantastica Daily
Acknowledgments
Dragging this fanciful future into print has been a long and sometimes arduous journey. I’d like to extend my earnest thanks to Shawna McCarthy for twisting my arm; to Scott Edelman, Chris Schluep, and Stanley Schmidt for editing earlier phases of the project; and to Anne Lesley Groell for believing so wholeheartedly in this one. To the extent that the ideas in this book are mature, it’s thanks to years of kicking around by friends and relations, most especially Gary E. Snyder, Richard Powers, Mike McCarthy, and Geoffrey A. Landis. I’m also grateful for the wisdom, advice, and enthusiasm of David Brin and Hal Clement, and for the more specific patience of Kathee Jones, Laurel Bollinger, and Don Kinney in critiquing early manuscripts.
I am, of course, deeply beholden to the swarms of physicists, chemists, astronomers, and other scientists on whose work these stories are based. Many of these men and women have been generous with their time, and thoughtful with their imaginations. I owe Bernhard Haisch and Marc Kastner a particular debt. And, as always, the greatest thanks go to my own family for their love and support, which make all the rest of this possible.
Any errors you find in this book are the fault of Secret Villains, whose mad schemes will soon be revealed.
Chapter one.
The spheres of heav’n
One man in a sphere of brass.
One man alone in the vacuum of space.
One man hurtling toward solid rock at forty meters per second—fast enough to kill him, to end his mission here and now, to cap a damnfool end on a long and decidedly damnfool life. To leave his children defenseless.
In the porthole ahead is the planette Varna, his destination, swathed in white clouds and shining seas, in grasslands, in forests whose vertical dimension is already apparent against the dinner-bowl curve of horizon. Not planet: planette. It looks small because it is small, barely twelve hundred meters across. Condensed matter core, fifteen hundred neubles—very nice. The surface workmanship is exquisite; he sees continents, islands, majestic little mountain ranges jutting up above the trees. Telescopes, he realizes, don’t do justice to this remotest of Lune’s satellites.
The man’s name is Radmer, or Conrad Mursk if you’re old enough. Very few people are old enough. Radmer’s own age would be difficult to guess—his hair is still partly blond, his weathered skin not really all that wrinkled. He still has his teeth, although they’re worn down, and a few of them are cracked or broken. But even in zero gravity, as he kicks and kicks the potter’s wheel that winds the gyroscopes which keep the sphere from tumbling, there’s a kind of weight or weariness to his movements that might make you wonder. Older?
To be fair, the air inside the three-meter sphere isn’t very good. Cold and damp, it smells of carbon dioxide, wet brass, and the chloride tang of spent oxygen candles. Old breath and new—the only way to refresh the air is to dump it overboard, but after two and a half days he’s out of candles and out of time, and there’s a healthy fear stealing upon him as the moment of truth approaches. Opening the purge valve would be a highly risky stunt right now.
Giving the winding mechanism a final kick, he ratchets his chair back a few notches and unfolds the sextant. This takes several seconds—it’s a complicated instrument with a great many appendages. When it’s locked into the appropriate sockets on the arms of his chair, and then properly sighted in, he takes a series of readings spaced five clock-ticks apart, and adjusts a pair of dials until the little brass arrow stops moving. Then, sighing worriedly, he folds the thing up again, stows it carefully in its rack, and clicks the chair forward again to kick the potter’s wheel a few more times. Course correction needs a stable platform, you bet.
When he’s satisfied the gyros are fully wound, he takes up the course-correction chains, winces in anticipation, and jerks out the sequence the sextant has indicated. Wham! Wham! The sphere is kicked—hard—by explosive charges on its hull. Caps, caps, fore, starboard, starboard... It’s quite a pummeling, like throwing himself under a team of horses, but before his head has even stopped ringing he’s setting the sextant up again and retaking those critical measurements.
The planette’s atmosphere is as miniature as the rest of it, and there’s the problem: from wispy stratosphere to stony lithosphere is less than half a second’s travel, if he comes straight in. That’s not long enough for the parachute to inflate, even if his timing is perfect. To survive the impact, he has to graze the planette’s edge, to cut through the atmosphere horizontally. Shooting an apple is easy; shooting its skin off cleanly is rather more difficult, especially when you’re the bullet.
Could he have sent a message in a bottle? A dozen messages in a dozen bottles, to shower every planette from here to murdered Earth? That would be an empty gesture, albeit an easier one. God knows he’s needed elsewhere, has been demanded in a dozen different else-wheres as the world of Lune comes slowly unraveled. But somehow this dubious errand has captured his imagination. No, more than that: his hope. Can a man live without hope? Can a world?
Alas, the sextant’s news is less than ideaclass="underline" he’s over-corrected on two of three axes. Sighing again more heavily, he stows the thing and gets set up for the next course correction, gathering the chains up from their moorings. When he jerks on the first one, though, no team of horses runs him over. Nothing happens at all.
With a stab of alarm, he realizes he’s been squandering correction charges, not thinking about it, not thinking to save a few kicks on each axis for terminal approach. Can he recover? By reorienting the ship, which he needs to do for landing anyway? Yes, certainly, unless he’s been really unlucky and run out of charges simultaneously on all six of the sphere’s ordinal faces.