Текст книги "The Long Mars"

Автор книги: Terence David John Pratchett

Соавторы: Stephen Baxter
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

18

IT WAS A YEAR after that first meeting in Happy Landings that Joshua next came across Paul Spencer Wagoner – this time, in Madison West 5.

‘Hello, Mr Valienté!’

Joshua was standing with Sister Georgina, in the small graveyard outside the Home that his old friend had run at that point. After the Madison bombing the Home had been painstakingly reestablished here in West 5, and the new graveyard held just two stones. The most recent was for Sister Serendipity, a lover of cooking whose enthusiasms had always lit up Joshua’s young life – and who, according to Home legend, had been on the run from the FBI. It had been Serendipity’s funeral that had brought him here, in fact.

And now Paul’s bright voice, older but unmistakable, called to him from across the street.

With Sister Georgina, Joshua crossed the road. It took a while; Georgina was another veteran of Joshua’s childhood days, and was almost as old as Serendipity had been.

Paul Spencer Wagoner, now six years old, was standing there with his father. They both looked uncomfortable, Joshua thought, in new-looking Datum-manufacture clothes. But Paul had a black eye and a swollen cheek, and his dark hair looked odd to Joshua, as if roughly cut. Joshua’s own little boy, Daniel Rodney, was just a couple of months old, and the Sisters had been cooing over the images Joshua had brought home for them. And there was enough of a father’s soul in Joshua now to make him wince at the trouble Paul, still a very young boy, was evidently having.

They quickly introduced each other. Sister Georgina shook hands with Paul and his father, who looked out of place, almost embarrassed.

Paul grinned up at Joshua. ‘Good to see you again, Mr Valienté.’

‘I suppose you deduced I’d be here.’

Paul laughed. ‘Of course. Everybody knows your story, about where you grew up. I thought I’d come visit now we live here too, in Madison.’

‘Really?’ Joshua glanced at the father. ‘I thought Happy Landings is a place people generally end up in, rather than leave.’

Tom Wagoner shrugged. ‘Well, it got a little uncomfortable for me, Mr Valienté—’

‘Joshua.’

‘My wife was the Happy Lander. Born there, I mean. Not me. She’s one of the Spencers. There are these big sprawling families in Happy Landings, the Spencers, the Montecutes. But she came to college on the Datum, in Minnesota, where I grew up. We fell in love, married, wanted kids, moved back to Happy Landings to be closer to her family . . .’

Sister Georgina prompted, ‘So what happened?’

‘Well, Happy Landings isn’t what it was, Sister. Not as happy a landing place, you might say. I think it’s been building up since Step Day. Before then it was a kind of refuge, a place where people who had kind of got lost would drift in, and stick. There were the trolls, too, which was always kind of weird to me, but you got used to them hanging around. But these last few years, with everybody stepping all over the place, people kept stumbling upon Happy Landings, and there were just too many strangers. The numbers were getting too high as well, and the trolls don’t like too many people. And newcomers – people like me – just didn’t fit any more.’

‘So you left.’

‘It was more me than Carla. She was with her family there, after all. It put us under a lot of pressure, to tell the truth. We came here, got jobs – I’m an accountant, and this is the place for jobs just now, Madison West 5 is growing fast since the nuke – but our marriage is going down a rocky road.’ He patted Paul’s head. ‘Oh, it’s OK. He knows all about it. Knows too damn much to be comfortable sometimes.’ He forced a laugh.

Now Sister Georgina touched Paul’s cheek, his eye. The boy flinched. ‘These injuries are recent,’ she said. ‘So what happened to you?’

‘School,’ Paul said simply.

Tom said, ‘Well, the butchered haircut was given him by a neighbourhood boy. The cheek was the other kids at school. The eye was one of the teachers.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Joshua said.

‘Afraid not. Guy got sacked. Didn’t help Paul. I keep telling him, nobody likes a smartass.’

‘It’s frustrating at school, Mr Valienté,’ Paul said, apparently more puzzled than distressed. ‘The teachers always make me wait for the other kids.’

Tom smiled wistfully. ‘His headmaster says he’s like a young Einstein, ready to take on relativity. But his teachers can’t teach him beyond long division. Not their fault.’

‘Mostly I sit and read. But I can’t keep quiet when I see people making mistakes. The other kids in class, or the teacher. I know I should keep quiet.’

‘Hmm,’ Sister Georgina said. ‘And these bruises are your reward.’

‘It’s like people care more about their pride than about what’s correct, about the truth. What kind of sense does that make?’

‘We’ve had worse than bruises actually,’ Tom said now. ‘Some of the parents have asked for Paul to be removed from the school. Not just because he’s disruptive, though he is, if I’m honest. Because they’re – well, they’re scared of him.’

Sister Georgina cast a concerned look at Paul.

Tom said, ‘Look, don’t worry, we can speak frankly. He understands all this better than I do.’

‘I have been reading about people,’ Paul said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Psychology.’ He pronounced it puh-sike-ology. ‘I don’t know a lot of the words, and that slows me down. But I get some of it. People are scared of strange stuff. They think I’m not like them. Well, I’m not. But I’m not that different. One woman said I was like a cuckoo in the nest. And there was the man who said I was like a changeling, left by the elves. Not a human at all.’ He laughed. ‘One kid said I was E.T. Not from this world.’

Sister Georgina frowned. ‘Well, look – this is a time when people are scared anyhow. The coming of stepping was a big change for all of us. And now we’ve had the nuclear attack and everybody’s been affected by that. At times like this people want scapegoats, somebody they can comfortably hate. Anybody different will do. That was why people blew up Madison.’

Joshua nodded. ‘When I was a kid I always tried to keep my own step ability hidden. I felt the same, I knew how people would react if they knew, if they thought I was different. Sister Georgina here can tell you about that; she was there. And that was on the Datum. Out in the Long Earth, I’ve seen it for myself, you have a lot of small, isolated communities. People are growing up superstitious, more than in the big Datum cities—’

To Joshua’s surprise, Paul’s response was angry, almost a snarl. ‘At least in Happy Landings there were other kids like me. Smart, I mean. Not here. Here they’re all dumb. Well, I’d rather take a few punches from the kids at school than be like them.’

Tom took his son’s hand. ‘Come on, we did what we came for, you said hello to Mr Valienté, now we need to let these good people get on with their day . . .’

Joshua said Paul could come and see him any time he could find him, wherever he ‘deduced’ where Joshua was. And Sister Georgina offered Tom any support the Home could give him, and his unhappy family.

When they’d gone, Joshua and Sister Georgina exchanged a look. The Sister said, ‘This place Happy Landings has always sounded odd to me, from your descriptions. Whatever’s going on there, I hope our modern generation of witch-hunters don’t find it any time soon . . .’

19

THE TWO GLIDERS, Woden and Thor, sat side by side on the red dust of Mars.

The gliders were spindly constructions, supremely lightweight. Their wings were long – fifty or sixty feet, each wing longer than the entire fuselage – wings surprisingly narrow and sharply curved, which was something to do, Sally learned, with managing the flow of the very sparse Martian air. But the slender hulls of the gliders had been intelligently designed, Sally discovered as they got the ships loaded up, with a lot of room for food and water, surface exploration gear, inflatable domes for temporary shelter, spares and tools to maintain the gliders themselves – and some items that surprised her, such as emergency pressure bubbles, each big enough for one human, and little drone aircraft to act as eyes in the sky.

And, poking around the hulls, Sally discovered that each ship carried a whole stack of Stepper boxes, ready to be fitted out with Martian cacti.

Willis was proud of the design, and bragged about it at length. ‘You can guess the design principle. These gliders will be our equivalent of twains back on the Long Earth. We’ll ride in the sky as we step, safely above any discontinuities on the ground – ice, flood, quakes, lava flows, whatever. Airships would be no use in this thin air – they’d have to be too big to be practical, and we don’t have the lift gas anyhow. But the gliders are based on designs that have successfully flown at ninety thousand feet on the Datum, which is about the air pressure on the local Mars – higher on this Mars, of course . . . The gliders will only step the way twains step – a controlling sapient does the stepping, that is the pilot, metaphorically carrying each ship stepwise. We probably won’t travel too far laterally. We’ll do a lot of circling. That way, if we crash, there’s at least a chance that we could step on foot back to the MEM. Another failsafe option. Right, Frank?’

Before they launched, Sally said she had two questions. ‘Two ships, right?’

‘Well,’ Frank said, ‘we could carry three persons in one ship at a pinch. We’re taking two ships for backup.’

Sally thought almost fondly of Lobsang. ‘You can never have too much backup.’

‘Right,’ said Frank.

‘Two gliders, then. We need two pilots, from the three of us.’ She looked at them. ‘So, question one: who’s driving?’

Frank and Willis both put their hands up.

Sally shook her head. ‘I won’t waste my time arguing with two old-guy control freaks like you.’

‘You’ll get your turn,’ Willis said. ‘We’ll need to rotate.’

‘Sure. I’m happy to ride shotgun. Do I get to choose who I ride with?’ And before they could answer she snapped, ‘You got the short straw, Frank.’

‘That’s all I need. A back-seat driver.’

‘Don’t push your luck, Chuck Yeager . . . And, Dad, here’s my other question – why all the Stepper boxes?’

‘Trade goods,’ he said simply. He wouldn’t expand further.

She glowered at him, but said no more. This kind of secretiveness was typical – the way he’d known all about the Long Mars before they’d even come here, the way he’d been working with the Russians on Mars who he hadn’t mentioned until they landed, the secrets of Mars itself – ‘Ask your father about life on Mars’ – and now these Steppers, carried for a contingency he clearly foresaw but wouldn’t discuss. He’d been this way since she was a teenager; it was a way of keeping control, and it had always made her coldly furious.

But she’d known all about his personality when she signed up for this jaunt. The time to challenge him would come, but not yet, not yet.

Frank was focusing on the flight. He said sternly, ‘We’re going to take this in stages. We’re going to suit up fully, in case of cabin leaks, and we’re going to make our very first step on the ground. Then, if all goes well, we’ll launch and step further in the air.’

Willis scowled. ‘OK, Frank, if you insist. Safety first.’

‘That’s the way to stay alive. Let’s get on with it.’

On their last night, the Russians insisted on taking them all over to Marsograd, served them coffee and vodka and black bread with some kind of algal paste, and made them watch a movie, called White Sun in the Desert. Viktor explained, ‘Old cosmonaut tradition. Movie watched by Yuri Gagarin before historic first flight in space. All Russians remember Gagarin.’

Frank fell asleep during the movie. Sally just sat through it, trying to avoid conversation with her father.

In the small hours, in the dark, they were driven back to the gliders in the Russian rover. They arrived a little before dawn. The MEM was a silent hulk in the dark, sending reassuring status messages to Frank’s tablet, waiting to take them home.

They clambered out of the rover, and the Russians rolled away.

In their already familiar pressure suits the three of them crossed to their aircraft, and boarded. Soon Sally found herself sitting in a cramped bucket seat, looking at the back of the helmeted head of Frank Wood, in the pilot’s bucket seat in front of her.

Even before this first limited trial Frank insisted on running a few more ‘integrity checks’ before going any further.

Then he called back, ‘OK, let’s do this. The ground test first. Thor, this is Woden. You hear me over there, Willis?’

‘Loud and clear.’

‘Sally, I have my Stepper box; I’ll do the stepping. For now I’ll carry you and the ship. OK?’

‘Copacetic, Captain Lightyear,’ Sally said.

‘Yeah, yeah. Just take this seriously; it might keep you alive a little longer. Willis, on my zero. Three—’

Before he’d got to ‘two’ Willis’s ship had winked out of existence.

Frank sighed. ‘I knew he’d do that. Here we go—’

Stepping on Mars, Sally discovered, felt just like stepping on Earth. But the landscape beyond the hull of the glider changed dramatically, a more significant difference than most single steps on the Long Earth, unless you fell into a Joker.

Around the two gliders, still sitting side by side on the ground, the basic shape of the landscape endured, the eroded remains of the Mangala valley, the rise to the north-east that was the beginning of the great bulge of Arsia Mons. But aside from that there was only a plain of dust littered with wind-sculpted chunks of rock, under a sky the colour of butterscotch. No life here.

The MEM, of course, and the tyre tracks left by the Marsokhod, had disappeared.

Frank theatrically tapped one of the display screens before him. ‘Air’s all gone. Pressure down to one per cent of Earth’s, and – yep, it’s mostly carbon dioxide. Just like our Mars.’

They clambered out cautiously. In the thin air Sally found her pressure suit inflated, subtly, making it stiffer to move around in. Frank and Sally checked each other’s suit, checked the glider cab. They took care over this, at Frank’s insistence; a failure of their gear over in the Gap Mars would have been survivable – here, probably not. The average Mars was lethal. Unprotected, Sally would be killed by the lack of air, the cold, the ultraviolet. Even the cosmic rays sleeting through the thin atmosphere inflicted a radiation dose equivalent to standing five miles from a nuclear blast, every six months.

Frank looked east, to the rising sun, holding up his hand to shield his faceplate from the glare, until he found a morning star. Earth, Sally realized, a feature missing from the sky of the Mars of the Gap. Frank opened a hull hatch and pulled out a small optical telescope and a fold-out radio antenna.

Willis came walking over from his own glider. ‘At last, this is an authentic Mars. Just like our own. The way Mars is supposed to be.’

Sally said, ‘I thought the Gap Mars was barren. I didn’t realize how much life there was, visible even in a casual glance. Not until now, when it’s all been taken away.’

‘You’d better get used to it.’

Frank was peering through his telescope, listening in to his radio gear. ‘You were right, Willis.’

‘I usually am. What about specifically?’

Frank pointed at the sky. ‘That’s Earth. We came East, right? The GapSpace facility is one step East of the Gap. But there’s no radio signals coming from that Earth up there. No lights on the dark side. If that was the GapSpace Earth we’d see evidence of it, hear it.’

Sally tried to get her head around that. ‘So we took a step into Long Mars. But it doesn’t – umm, run parallel to the Long Earth.’

‘It seems not,’ Willis said, peering up into the sky. ‘The Long Earth chain of stepwise alternates, and the Long Mars chain, are independent of each other. Intersecting only at the Gap. That’s no surprise. They’re both loops in some higher-dimensional continuum.’

Sally felt neither wonder nor fear. She’d grown up with the strangeness of the Long Earth; a little more exotica now hardly made any difference.

Frank, as ever, stuck to the practical. ‘What that does mean is that our only way home is back this way – I mean, back to the Gap universe, and the MEM, and Galileo, and a ride across space.’

‘Noted,’ said Willis. ‘OK. Anybody need the bathroom again? Then let’s get these birds in the air.’

To launch, each glider was fitted with small methane-burning rockets. The craft would scoot along the ground and fling itself into the air, gliding when the rockets were shut down. The gliders carried plenty of methane and oxygen propellant, and were equipped with versions of the Russians’ Zubrin factories, small processing plants, to manufacture more if they needed it.

They took their time to pace out a launch runway across the dusty plain, kicking aside any rocks big enough to cause a problem. Then they lined up the ships. From the air they would look like Lilliputians, Sally thought, toiling to move these fragile toy aeroplanes.

At last they were ready.

Willis went up first, in Thor this time. That was yet another precaution by Frank; he kept two warm bodies on the ground ready to help in case the first flight attempt ended in a crash. Willis put his glider through banks and turns and rolls, testing out responses in a way that would have been impossible in the thicker air of Gap Mars.

When they’d got through that programme and Willis reported he was happy, Frank and Sally climbed aboard Woden and took off in their turn. The methane rockets were noisy and gave a firm shove in the back.

But soon they were gliding, high over Mars.

They flew in silence broken only for Sally by her own breathing, and the whirr of the miniature pumps in the pressure suit pack she’d stowed behind her couch. There wasn’t a whisper from the Martian air that must be flowing over the glider’s long narrow wings. The cabin was a glass blister that gave a good all-round view, and Sally found herself sandwiched between a cloudless yellow-brown sky and a landscape below of much the same hue. Lacking any contrasting colour to the universal buttery brown, from above the landscape looked like a model, a topographic representation of itself chiselled out of soft clay.

From up here she could make out the distinctive form of Mangala Vallis, as she’d studied it in maps en route to Mars, a complex network of valleys and gullies flowing out of the higher, more heavily cratered ground to the south. It very obviously looked as if a great river had once run here, leaving behind bars and levees and islands, carved out and streamlined by the flow. But the water was just as obviously long gone, and the landscape was clearly very old. The valley features cut across the most ancient craters, huge worn ramparts that would have graced the moon – but the islands and levees were themselves stippled with younger craters, small and round and perfect. Unlike Earth, Mars was geologically static, all but unchanging, and had no mechanisms to rid itself of such scars.

The horizon of Mars, blurred a little by the dust suspended in the air, seemed close and curved sharply. And to the north-east she saw the land rising up, and imagined she saw the mighty flank of Arsia Mons looming into her view. Mars was a small world but with outsized features: volcanoes that stuck up out of the air, a valley system that sprawled around half the equator.

Nowhere in this landscape did she see a glimpse of life, not a speck of green, and not a drop of water.

‘When do we start stepping?’

‘We already have,’ Frank said. ‘Look down.’

Although the gross features of the landscape below the banking gliders endured – the horizon, the mighty carcass of Arsia, the outflow channels – now she saw that details were changing with every heartbeat: a different pattern of newer craters on the older landscape to the south, subtleties in the finer twists and turns of Mangala’s complex of channels to the north. Then there was a blink, she was in a crimson-tinged darkness, and the glider was buffeted as if it had driven into turbulent air. Just as suddenly the darkness cleared, and the gliders flew on.

‘Dust storm,’ called Willis.

‘Yeah. Not very comfortable,’ Frank replied. ‘But we’ve got no vents to clog, no engines to choke. These storms can last months.’

‘But we don’t need to stick around to see it,’ Willis said.

They snapped into the buttery sunlight of the next world, and the next. The Marses slid past below, one every second.

As they flew on, things became relaxed enough that Sally was able to loosen her faceplate and open her suit. The stepping was no faster than the old Mark Twain, the prototype stepper airship she rode across the Long Earth with Lobsang and Joshua Valienté fifteen years ago, no faster than a modern commercial cargocarrier, and a lot slower than the fastest experimental craft, or even the best military ships. But it was fast enough, she thought, for this journey into the utterly unknown.

Except that it seemed like a journey into the utterly identical. There were simple step counters in the cabin, and she watched the digits pile up as time passed: sixty worlds a minute, over three thousand an hour. At that rate, on the Long Earth, they would have crossed over sheaves of Ice Age worlds, fully glaciated planets, within the first hour or more; after ten hours or so they would be crossing into the so-called Mine Belt, a band of worlds with quite different climates, arid, austere . . . Even on smaller scales the Long Earth was full of detail, of divergence. Here there was nothing, nothing but Mars and more Mars, with only the most minor tinkering with detail at the margins. And not a sign of life anywhere: dead world after dead world.

She did, however, notice an odd sensation at times, a sense of twisting, of being drawn away . . . She knew that feeling from her jaunts on the Long Earth: it was a sense that a soft place was near by, a short cut across the great span of this chain of worlds. She supposed that to someone like Frank that would seem unimaginably exotic. To Sally, these subtle detections gave a glow of familiarity.

The gliders flew on, banking like great birds in the empty skies. They had set off not long after dawn. As the Martian afternoon wore on, Sally decided to try to sleep, asking Frank to wake her when they got to Barsoom.