Greg Egan - The Clockwork Rocket

To her naked eye the slender crescent cradled a disk of featureless gray, but through the theodolite’s small telescope the planet’s night side was revealed as an elaborate patchwork of hues. She recognized a few tiny splotches of pure wheatlight, but mostly the colors of the forests and fields were woven together too tightly to separate. She thought of Tullia—on the peak of this very mountain, not so long ago—hunting for the spectral signature of plant life on other worlds.

No cities were visible at this remove. No wildfires, either; even if the crater the Peerless had left behind was still smouldering, here was proof that the launch had not created another Gemma. Yalda shuddered, imagining for a moment how it would have felt to look back and discover that everything they’d been fighting to protect had been consigned to flames.

She recorded the bearing from the theodolite’s dials, then took sightings of Gemma, the inner planet Pio, and a dozen bright stars. Four Hurtlers were visible, long gleaming barbs skewering the scene like the tools of a blind but indefatigable assassin. Clockwork and gyroscopes wouldn’t be enough to guide the Peerless safely to its destination, the empty corridor where it could drift for an age without fear of being stabbed from any angle. Only a routine of meticulous observations, calculations and adjustments could lift the odds of a successful journey above those of Benedetta’s automated probes.

The calculations took more than a bell, but the results were encouraging: the Peerless ’s position and orientation were very close to the values specified in the flight plan, and the small adjustments she’d pass on to the feed chambers would easily nudge the vehicle back toward that ideal path.

Yalda was reluctant to leave. She aimed the telescope at her old home again, trying to commit its unfamiliar face to memory. On the ground, there’d been farewell after farewell, but this was the final parting.

As a pang of loneliness grew in her, she tried to assuage it by confronting the subject directly. If she’d had the chance to bring anyone she wished along with her, who would she have chosen? Eusebio and Daria would have been enough to keep her company, she decided; better that Lidia and the children, Giorgio and his family, Lucio and the others all stayed put. If everyone she cared about had come along for the ride, she might have felt tempted to abandon the idea of the Peerless ever returning, content to imagine this fortunate few, safe and self-sufficient, drifting on through the void with their rear eyes firmly shut.

Satisfied that the emergency had passed and no more saboteurs were likely to emerge in her absence, Yalda decided to take a short trip up through the mountain. She’d received news of some minor damage via the rope network, and though the repairs were reportedly proceeding smoothly she wanted to see how things stood for herself.

One of the feed chambers for the second tier of engines had suffered a partial ceiling collapse during the launch; it had been empty at the time, so no one had been harmed. When Yalda arrived a work team was still shifting rubble, and Palladia, a former mining engineer who’d been involved in the construction phase, was on site assessing the damage and making plans to insert a new supporting column.

“Can you fix this in five stints?” Yalda asked her. The second tier wouldn’t be firing quite that soon, but as well as having its damaged parts replaced the feed mechanism would need to be cleaned, inspected and tested—none of which would be possible while there was building work going on.

“Three stints,” Palladia promised her. Yalda looked around the chamber at the women and men with wheelbarrows, shovels and brooms, collecting up everything from fist-sized chunks of hardstone cladding to innocuous-looking streaks of powdered sunstone that had fallen through the broken ceiling from the surrounding lode. If the liberator tanks had ruptured, innocuous would not have been the word for it.

“I think it’s good for morale that there’s something to be fixed,” Palladia mused. “Once you’ve repaired a building with your own hands, you really have a stake in it.”

“You could be right,” Yalda said. Nobody wanted to feel like a caged vole that Eusebio had tossed into the void, a breeding animal who was only here for the sake of their remote descendants’ accomplishments. “Still, I wouldn’t hope for too much more of the same.”

“The kind of compressive forces that the launch produced here won’t ever be repeated,” Palladia replied, “but when the weight of the mountain vanishes entirely, that will be an experiment we’ve never really carried out before.”

When the workers took a meal break, Yalda sat and ate with them, joining one group in a quick game of six-dice. The pantries on every level had been stocked with loaves—and holin, which the women passed around unselfconsciously, as if it were some kind of condiment. The few men in the team, most of them accompanied by their cos, appeared comfortable enough in this strange new milieu, and if anyone was suffering regrets over the ties they’d severed, the camaraderie here surely dulled the pain.

After the meal the cleanup resumed, but Yalda was out of synch with her hosts and in desperate need of sleep. When she woke she bid Palladia and the crew farewell, and continued her long trudge upward.

The moss-lit staircase stretched above her interminably, the view barely changing as she ascended. The higher engine tiers were undamaged—or at least, they’d passed a superficial inspection, and any further attention could wait until the second tier was in perfect shape—so she’d have no cause to linger in those deserted chambers. She could still hear the sound of the engines below, but distance took the annoying edge off it, leaving an almost reassuring buzz.

With no company, she passed the time sorting through a long list of anxieties. Would these runaways do a better job of raising their friends’ children than she’d done with Tullia’s? At least the fatherless wouldn’t be a derided minority here—but if that were the deciding factor, what would be the fate of the fathered few? Then there was the transition that would inevitably follow: the rebalancing of the sexes in the next generation, bringing problems of its own. The Peerless had been a gift to runaways, but from here there was nowhere to flee. The only hope for their children would come from instilling the principle of autonomy so deeply that no one had reason to fear their own co.

When she reached the first level above the highest engines, Yalda unbarred the safety doors and stepped out of the stairwell; a short tunnel with three more sets of doors took her to the edge of the cavern. The arborines would have no reason to leave the most comfortable place in the Peerless for them, but she wouldn’t have wanted a confused animal rampaging through the feed chambers below.

She stood among the bushes watching a nearby tree, one branch trembling as two lizards ran along it chasing mites. It had taken so much work to construct this buried forest that when it had first shown signs of flourishing—long before the launch—she’d felt as if they’d already succeeded in bringing the whole world with them into the void. But if that sentiment had been premature, at least the launch appeared to have done no harm here; the trees had proved resilient enough, and the lizards looked as vigorous as ever. She wouldn’t seek out the arborines to inquire about their health, having seen the kind of mood they were in after the test flights—but those flights had included greater accelerations than the Peerless had experienced, and still caused the creatures no injuries.