DON’T MISS
ANY OF THE NOVELS
BY DAVID BRIN
THE PRACTICE EFFECT
THE POSTMAN
HEART OF THE
COMET
(with Gregory Benford)
EARTH
GLORY SEASON
OTHERNESS
THE UPLIFT NOVELS
SUNDIVER
STARTIDE RISING
THE UPLIFT WAR
BRIGHTNESS REEF
INFINITY’S SHORE
HEAVEN’S REACH
Available now in paperback
PRAISE FOR EARTH
“Boasts enough thrills, special effects and intriguing speculation to put it at the head of the pack for next year’s Nebula and Hugo awards. It’s a powerful, cautionary tale and deserves an audience well beyond the confines of science fiction fans.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Brin has conceived his story on a supremely ambitious scale, and executed it with all of the skills at his command.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“The prime attraction of Earth is the author’s unfailing resourcefulness in extrapolating a post-greenhouse effect future that is plausible, dismaying, and amazing in equal parts.… Brin’s prose ranges from regular to high octane … his characters have vivid intellectual lives.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“It is indeed a book that anyone interested in the survival of our terrifying species should read.”
—Interzone
“A major effort conceived with great imagination and written with Brin’s usual panache.”
—Locus
“Fully dimensional and engaging characters with plausible motivations … Brin’s exciting prose style will probably make this a Hugo nominee, and will certainly keep readers turning pages.”
—Publishers Weekly
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF DAVID BRIN
GLORY SEASON
“Brin is a bold and imaginative writer, and Glory Season will be one of the most important SF novels of the year.”
—The Washington Post Book World
STARTIDE RISING
“One hell of a novel.… Startide Rising has what SF readers want these days; intelligence, action and an epic scale.”
—Baird Searles, Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine
SUNDIVER
“Brin has a fertile and well-developed imagination … coupled with a sinuous and rapid-paced style.”
—Heavy Metal
THE POSTMAN
“A fast-paced but thoughtful novel … abounds with mythic dimension.”
—The Washington Post Book World
HEART OF THE COMET (with Gregory Benford)
“A glittering new work of hard science fiction.”
—Los Angeles Times
THE PRACTICE EFFECT
“Lively, outlandish, and entertaining.”
—Publishers Weekly
THE RIVER OF TIME
“Brin is a scientist who knows how to tell a story. That’s a rare combination.”
—Jerry Pournelle
Bantam Spectra Books by David Brin
EARTH
GLORY SEASON
THE HEART OF THE COMET
(with Gregory Benford)
THE POSTMAN
THE PRACTICE EFFECT
THE RIVER OF TIME
STARTIDE RISING
SUNDIVER
THE UPLIFT WAR
OTHERNESS
BRIGHTNESS REEF
INFINITY’S SHORE
HEAVEN’S REACH
CONTACTING ALIENS
An Illustrated Guide to
David Brin’s Uplift Universe
EARTH
A Bantam Spectra Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition / June 1990
Bantam paperback edition / June 1991
Bantam reissue edition / September 1994
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1990 by David Brin
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-4.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-57340-7
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Random House, Inc., New York, New York.
v3.1
TO OUR COMMON MOTHER
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Preface
Part I - Planet
Part II - Planet
Part III - Planet
Part IV - Planet
Part V - Planet
Part VI - Planet
Part VII - Planet
Part VIII - Planet Killer
Part IX - Planet
Part X - Planet
Part XI - Planet
Part XII - Planet
Afterword
Ambiguity
Acknowledgments
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
As writers go, I suppose I’m known as a bit of an optimist, so it seems only natural that this novel projects a future where there’s a little more wisdom than folly … maybe a bit more hope than despair.
In fact, it’s about the most encouraging tomorrow I can imagine right now.
What a sobering thought.
PART I
PLANET
First came a supernova, dazzling the universe in brief, spendthrift glory before ebbing into twisty, multispectral clouds of new-forged atoms. Swirling eddies spiraled until one of them ignited—a newborn star.
The virgin sun wore whirling skirts of dust and electricity. Gas and rocks and bits of this and that fell into those pleats, gathering in dim lumps … planets …
One tiny worldlet circled at a middle distance. It had a modest set of properties:
mass—barely enough to draw in a passing asteroid or two;
moons—one, the remnant of a savage collision, but big enough to tug deep tides;
spin—to set winds churning through a fuming atmosphere;
density—a brew that mixed and separated, producing an unpromising surface slag;
temperature—heat was the planet’s only voice, a weak one, swamped by the blaring sun. Anyway, what can a planet tell the universe, in a reedy cry of infrared? “This exists,” it repeated, over and over. “This is a condensed stone, radiating at about three hundred degrees, insignificant on the scale of stars.
“This speck, a mote, exists.”
A simple statement to an indifferent cosmos—the signature of a rocky world, tainted by salty, smoke-blown puddles.
But then something new stirred in those puddles. It was a triviality—a mere discoloration here and there. But from that moment the voice changed. Subtly, shifting in timbre, still faint and indistinct, it nevertheless seemed now to say,
“I … am …”
• CORE
An angry deity glowered at Alex. Slanting sunshine cast shadows across the incised cheeks and outthrust tongue of Great Tu, Maori god of war.
A dyspeptic idol, Alex thought, contemplating the carved figure. I’d feel the same if I were stuck up there, decorating a billionaire’s office wall.
It occur
red to Alex that Great Tu’s wooden nose resembled the gnomon of a sundial. Its shadow kept time, creeping to the measured ticking of a twentieth century grandfather clock in the corner. The silhouette stretched slowly, amorously, toward a sparkling amethyst geode—yet another of George Hutton’s many geological treasures. Alex made a wager with himself, that the shadow wouldn’t reach its goal before the sinking sun was cut off by the western hills.
And at this rate, neither would George Hutton. Where the devil is the man? Why did he agree to this meeting, if he didn’t plan on bloody showing up?
Alex checked his watch again, even though he knew the time. He caught himself nervously tapping one shoe against the nearby table leg, and stopped doing it.
What have Jen and Stan always told you? “Try to learn patience, Alex.”
It wasn’t his best-known virtue. But then, he’d learned a lot the last few months. Remarkable how it focused your mind, when you guarded a secret that might mean the end of the world.
He glanced toward his friend and former mentor, Stan Goldman, who had set up this appointment with the chairman of Tangoparu Ltd. Apparently unperturbed by his employer’s tardiness, the slender, aging theoretician was immersed in the latest issue of Physical Review.
No hope for distraction there. Alex sighed and let his eyes rove George Hutton’s office one more time, hoping to get a measure of the man.
Of course the conference table was equipped with the best and latest plaques, for accessing the World Data Net. One entire wall was taken up by an active-events screen, a montage of real-time views from random locations across the Earth—zeppelins cruising above Wuhan … sunrise in a North African village … the urban lights of any city in the world.
Original holographic sculptures of mythical beasts shimmered by the entrance to the suite, but nearest the desk were Hutton’s dearest treasures, minerals and ores collected over a lifetime grubbing through the planet’s crust—including a huge blood zircon, glittering on a pedestal just below the Maori war mask. It struck Alex that both objects were products of fiery crucibles—one mineral, the other social. Each denoted resilience under pressure. Perhaps this said something about George Hutton’s personality, as well.
But then, perhaps it meant nothing at all. Alex had never been a great judge of people. Witness the events of the last year.
With a sudden click and hum, the hallway doors parted and a tall, brown man appeared, breathing hard and coated with perspiration.
“Ah! You made yourselves at home. Good. Sorry to keep you waiting, Stan. Dr. Lustig. Excuse me, will you? I’ll only be a moment.” He peeled a sweaty jersey off broad shoulders, striding past a window overlooking the sailboats of Auckland harbor.
George Hutton, I presume, Alex thought as he lowered his outstretched hand and sat back down. Not much for formality. That’s just as well, I suppose.
From the open door to the lavatory, Hutton shouted. “Our game had delay after delay for injuries! Minor stuff, fortunately. But I’m sure you understand, I couldn’t let the Tangoparu team down when I was needed. Not during the finals against Nippon Electric!”
Normally, it might seem odd for a businessman in his fifties to neglect appointments for a rugby game. But the dusky giant toweling himself off in the loo seemed completely unselfconscious, aglow with victory. Alex glanced at his former teacher, who now worked for Hutton here in New Zealand. Stan only shrugged, as if to say billionaires made their own rules.
Hutton emerged wearing a dressing gown and drying his hair with a terry-cloth towel. “Can I offer you anything, Dr. Lustig? How about you, Stan?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Alex said. Less reticent, Stan accepted a Glenfiddich and spring water. Then Hutton settled into a plush swivel chair, stretching his long legs beside the kauri-wood table.
Whatever happens, Alex knew, this is where the trail ends. This is my last hope.
The Maori engineer-businessman regarded him with piercing brown eyes. “I’m told you want to discuss the Iquitos incident, Dr. Lustig. And the miniature black hole you let slip out of your hands there. Frankly, I thought you’d be sick of that embarrassment by now. What did some press hacks call it then? A possible China Syndrome?”
Stan cut in. “A few sensationalists set off a five-minute panic on the World Net, until the scientific community showed everybody that tiny singularities like Alex’s dissipate harmlessly. They’re too small to last long by themselves.”
Hutton raised one dark eyebrow. “Is that so, Dr. Lustig?”
Alex had faced that question so many times since Iquitos. By now he had countless stock answers—from five-second sound bites for the vid cameras to ten-minute lullabies for Senate investigators … all the way to hours of abstruse mathematics to soothe his fellow physicists. He really ought to be used to it by now. Still the question burned, as it had the first time.
“Talk to me, Lustig,” the reporter, Pedro Manella, had demanded on that ashen afternoon in Peru, as they watched rioting students set Alex’s work site ablaze. “Tell me that thing you made isn’t about to eat its way to China.”
Lying had become so reflexive since then, it took some effort to break the habit today. “Um, what did Stan tell you?” he asked George Hutton, whose broad features still glistened under a thin gloss of perspiration.
“Only that you claim to have a secret. Something you’ve kept from reporters, tribunals … even the security agencies of a dozen nations. In this day and age, that’s impressive by itself.
“But we Maori people of New Zealand have a saying,” he went on. “A man who can fool chiefs, and even gods, must still face the monsters he himself created.
“Have you created a monster, Dr. Lustig?”
The question direct. Alex realized why Hutton reminded him of Pedro Manella on that humid evening in Peru, as tear gas wafted down those debris-strewn streets and canals. Both big men had voices like Hollywood deities. Both were used to getting answers.
Manella had pursued Alex onto the creaking hotel balcony to get a good view of the burning power plant. The reporter panned his camera as the main containment building collapsed amid clouds of powdery cement. Cheering students provided a vivid scene for Manella to feed live to his viewers on the Net.
“When the mob cut the power cables, Lustig,” the persistent journalist asked while shooting, “that let your black hole out of its magnetic cage. It fell into the Earth then, no? So what happens now? Will it emerge again, blazing and incinerating some hapless place halfway around the world?
“What did you make here, Lustig? A beast that will devour us all?”
Even then, Alex recognized the hidden message between the words. The renowned investigator hadn’t been seeking truth; he wanted reassurance.
“No, of course I didn’t,” Alex remembered telling Manella on that day, and everyone else since then. Now he let go of the lie with relief.
“Yes, Mr. Hutton. I think I made the very Devil itself.”
Stan Goldman’s head jerked up. Until this moment, Alex hadn’t even confided in his old mentor. Sorry, Stan, he thought.
Silence stretched as Hutton stared at him. You’re saying … the singularity didn’t dissipate like the experts said? That it might still be down there, absorbing matter from the Earth’s core?”
Alex understood the man’s incredulity. Human minds weren’t meant to picture something that was smaller than an atom, and yet weighed megatons. Something narrow enough to fall through the densest rock, yet bound to circle the planet’s center in a spiraling pavane of gravity. Something ineffably but insatiably hungry, and which grew ever hungrier the more it ate …
Just thinking about it put in sudden doubt the very notions of up and down. It challenged faith in the ground below your feet. Alex tried to explain.
“The generals showed me their power plant … offered me a blank check to construct its core. So I took their word they’d be getting permission soon. Any day now, they kept telling me.” Alex shrugged at his former gullibility. An
old story, if a bitter one.
“Like everybody else, I was sure the Standard Physical Model was correct—that no black hole lighter than the Earth itself could possibly be stable. Especially one as tiny as we made at Iquitos. It was supposed to evaporate at a controlled rate, after all. Its heat would power three provinces. Most of my colleagues think such facilities will be cleared for use within a decade.
“But the generals wanted to jump the moratorium—”
“Idiots,” Hutton interrupted, shaking his head. “They actually imagined they could keep a thing like that secret? These days?”
For the first time since Alex’s bombshell, Stan Goldman put in a comment. “Well, George, they must have thought the plant well isolated in the Amazon.”
Hutton snorted dubiously, and in retrospect Alex agreed. The idea was harebrained. He’d been naïve to accept the generals’ assurances of a calm working environment, which proved as untrustworthy as the standard models of physics.
“In fact,” Goldman went on. “It took a leak from a secrets registration service to set that Manella character on Alex’s trail. If not for that, Alex might still be tending the singularity, safe inside its containment field. Isn’t that right, Alex?”
Good old Stan, Alex thought affectionately. Still making excuses for his favorite student, just as he used to back in Cambridge.
“No, it’s not. You see, before the riot, I was already preparing to sabotage the plant myself.”
While this seemed to surprise Goldman, George Hutton only tilted his head slightly. “You had discovered something unusual about your black hole.”
Alex nodded. “Before 2020, nobody imagined such things could be made in the laboratory at all. When it was found you could actually fold space inside a box and make a singularity … that shock should have taught us humility. But success made us smug, instead. Soon we thought we understood the damned things. But there are … subtleties we never imagined.”