Terry Pratchett - The Long Earth

There was no trouble finding a place to stay in Reboot, once they accepted you weren’t any kind of criminal or bandit, or worse yet a representative of the Datum federal government which had suddenly turned so hostile to the colonists. In their time here Joshua saw the locals welcome even the hobos, as they called them, a drift of rather vague-looking people wandering through the Long Earth, evidently with no intention of ever settling down, and therefore with not much to contribute to Reboot. But out here every new face, with a new story to tell, was welcome, however briefly they stayed, so long as they tilled a field or chopped some wood in return for bed and board.

In the evening, Joshua and Sally sat by the fire, alone together, under the dark hulk of the Mark Twain .

‘I like these folk,’ Joshua said. ‘They’re good people. Sensible. Doing things right.’ He felt like this because of the way he was, he accepted that; he liked it when people did what they had to do, such as build this community, properly and methodically. I could live here, he thought, somewhat to his own surprise.

But Sally snorted. ‘No. This is the old way of living, or an imitation of it. We don’t need to plough the land to feed vast densities of people. We don’t just have one Earth now, we have an infinite number and they can feed an infinite number of us. Those hobos have it more right. They are the future, not your starstruck little fan Helen Green. Look, I suggest we stay here for a week, help with the harvest, take our pay in supplies. What do you say? Then we’ll head for home.’

Joshua was embarrassed, but he said, ‘And then what? We can deliver Lobsang, or what’s left of him in the Mark Twain , to transEarth. Not to mention his cat. But then — I’m going to want to go back out, Sally. With Lobsang or without. I mean, it’s all out there. All these years since Step Day we’ve hardly scratched the surface of the Long Earth. I thought I knew it all, but I’d never seen a troll before this trip, never heard of Happy Landings… Who knows what might be left to find?’

She gave him her sideways look. ‘Are you suggesting, young man, that the two of us might travel together again?’

He’d never suggested such a thing to any other human being in his life. Not unless he was trying to save them. He evaded the question. ‘Well, there is the Gap. The Long Mars! Who knows? I’ve been thinking about that. Step far enough there and we might find a Mars that’s habitable.’

‘You’re beginning to dribble.’

‘Well, I did use to read a lot of science fiction. But, yeah, let’s go home first. It feels like it’s time. Check out Madison. See how people are. Sally, I would very much like to introduce you to Sister Agnes.’

She smiled. ‘And Sister Georgina. We can talk about Keats…’

‘And then, when Lobsang two point zero launches the Mark Trine , I intend to be on board. Even if I have to stow away with the damn cat.’

Sally looked thoughtful. ‘You know, my mother had a saying when us kids used to run around like wild things: «It’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.» I can’t help thinking that if we keep pushing our luck with this wonderful new toy of a multiverse, sooner or later a big foot will come down on us hard. Though I guess you could look up and see whose foot it was.’

‘Even that would be interesting,’ said Joshua.

As they prepared to leave they sought out Helen Green, who had been the first to greet them here, more or less civilly, and now they wanted to say goodbye to her.

Helen was in the middle of her working day, a bundle of much-read books under her arm: calm, competent, cheerful, getting on with her life, a hundred thousand Earths from where she had been born. She seemed a little flustered, as always around Joshua. But she pushed her hair away from her brow, and smiled. ‘Sorry to see you go so soon. So where are you heading, back on the Datum?’

‘Madison,’ Joshua said. ‘Where you came from too, right? I remember that from your blog. We still have friends there, family…’

But Helen was frowning. ‘Madison? Haven’t you heard?’

FOR MONICA JANSSON, Madison’s bad day had started when Clichy called, and she had to leave her UW seminar on demographic impacts of the Long Earth. She got glares from her fellow delegates, save for those who knew she was a cop.

‘Jack? What is it? This better be good—’

‘Shut up and listen, Spooky. There’s a bomb.’

‘A bomb?’

‘A nuke. In central Madison. Believed to be stashed in Capitol Square somewhere.’

This convention centre was a long way north-east of downtown. She was already running, out of the building, heading for her car, and already panting; there were times when she felt every one of her forty-plus years.

An outdoor siren started to wail.

‘A nuke? How the hell—’

‘Some kind of suitcase thing. The warnings are going out. Listen to me. Here’s what you have to do. Get people indoors . Understand? Underground if you can. Tell them it’s a tornado if you have to convince them. If that thing goes off, outside ground zero itself you can cut your immediate casualties from radiation to a fraction if — damn it, Jansson, was that your car door slamming?’

‘You got me, Chief.’

‘Tell me you’re heading out of town.’

‘Can’t tell you that, sir.’ Already people were coming out of office buildings, shops, homes, into the sunlight of a bright fall day, looking bewildered. On the other hand others were going indoors, reflexively; Wisconsin did get its share of tornado touchdowns, and people knew to listen to warnings. Another couple of minutes and the roads would be jammed by people trying to get out of town, no matter what the official advice was.

She put her foot down while the road was still relatively clear, started up her siren, and roared south-west towards the Capitol.

‘Damn it, Lieutenant!’

‘Look, sir, you know as well as I do that it’s going to be some fringe Humanity First — type group responsible for this. And that’s my business. If I can be on the spot, maybe I’ll see something. Eyeball one of the usual suspects. Kill this thing.’

‘Or get your sorry lesbian ass fried!’

‘No, sir.’ She patted her waist. ‘I got my Stepper…’

She heard more sirens wail, over the noise of the car. Inside the vehicle emergency messages started popping up, coming via multiple systems: a reverse-911 call on her civilian phone, emails to her tablet, grave Emergency Alert System messages on the radio. None of it was enough, she realized.

‘Listen, Chief. You have to change course on this.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Sounds like everybody’s following the standard plays. We have to get people to step, sir . Anywhere, East or West, just away from Madison Zero.’

‘You know as well as I do that not everybody can step. Aside from the phobics there are the old, kids, bedridden, hospital patients—’

‘So people help each other. If you can step, do it. But take someone with you , someone who can’t step. Carry them in your arms, on your back. Then go back and step again. And again and again…’

He was silent a moment. ‘You’ve thought about this, haven’t you, Spooky?’

‘It’s why you gave me the job all those years ago, Jack.’

‘You’re insane.’ A pause. ‘I’ll do it if you turn your damn car around.’

‘Not a chance, sir.’

‘You’re fired, Spooky.’

‘Noted, sir. But I’ll stay on the line even so.’

She hit East Washington, and her view of the Capitol opened up, shining white in the sun. People were milling around, coming out of or going into the offices and shops. Some of them tried to wave her down; they looked annoyed, and probably wanted to complain about the noise of the sirens, wailing on and on apparently without reason. The car ahead of her had a prized old Green Bay Packer licence plate. On the walls she saw posters of Brian Cowley, grave, finger-pointing, like a spreading virus.