David Brin - Existence

Ouch, Hamish thought, recalling his own turn at the helm of that worldwide faction.

“And hence,” continued the mellow voice of Oldest Member, “the problem may just be temporary. It often happens that a species will take a pause, work through some emotional issues, then resume production.”

“That happened several times on Turbulence Planet,” added Courier of Caution. “Hence, it is possible, at any point, that our acceleration pushes may resume.”

Normally, that might have cheered Hamish. But right now, he found any sign of agreement between Om and Courier depressing.

Looking downward, he saw immense depths of ever-increasing complexity and pondered. Why not dive down there, right now? Start exploring. Try those magical abilities. Check out the wonders that other passengers have already built, through sheer wish-power… and maybe start building some of my own?

All my life I was known for creativity. This could be my real chance. To show what I’ve got. To imagine greater than anybody!

That had always been the plan, anyway. Even if their probe had been on target, with every hope of success at the other end, he still would have spent ninety-nine point nine nine (and so on) percent of the time either sleeping or amusing himself in games, simulations, and make-believe playgrounds.

At least at this distance we’ll still have a slim supply of solar energy to tap. In the cold, unlighted depths of interstellar space, time itself would slow down for all inhabitants, as the crystal ship conserved power.

“Well,” one of the humans behind him said, “if that were the case-if they shut off the laser-you’d think they’d have the decency to tell us!”

Professor Noozone snorted.

“ Tell ten million little lumps o’ glass that everythin’s all fit n’ frock? Dat we should jus’ wait aroun’ a little for de real-life Earth folk to finish squabblin’? Now why would they feel obliged to do that? Remember we’re not people. Not citizens. We are probe-entities, zeen? Mere replicants aboard a dread zeppelin that’s goin’ nowhere. And jus’ one machine emissary out of millions . We’re quattie, mon. They owe us neegle.”

Shut up, Hamish wished. But the voice continued.

“I t’ink we need to accept another possibility, bredren an’ sistren. Yeyewata. That this may be no mere setback politic-al. We must consider that the very worst has happen. That de ol’ wicked world has finally done it.”

“Done what?” someone asked.

“Why, done stepped into a zutopeck pit. Forsaken Jah an’ done gone where rude bwoys all wind up.”

“What do you-”

“That Earth has gone and blown itself up, mon! The ginnygogs have wrecked all hope. It’s over. An’ that’s why nobody be callin’ us on de phone.”

During the long silence that followed, Hamish envisioned the crystal-their entire universe-traveling several thousand kilometers farther from the sun. A long way… and a pathetically useless pittance.

Finally, Lacey Donaldson spoke in a soft voice, very small.

“I wonder what it was… which failure mode. The odds were always against us. There were so many ways to mismanage the transition… to blow it… even before external influences arrived to make matters worse.

“It could have been a war. A designer disease. A food collapse. A calamitous physics experiment, Another eco-mess. Or…”

She stopped as her voice seemed to choke off.

Hamish stared harder into the depths. One half of his view was taken up by the shimmering inner wall of the ship, its aft end plunging almost vertically. And just on the other side of that barrier, a sheer massif of dark brown. The “box” that Noozone and the others had been trying to study-till far more serious news crashed in. News of failure. Of abandonment.

And the possibility that we may be the last remnants of humanity. Not even successfully sent across the gulf to other stars, but left to drift in the outermost solar system, aboard a “ship” that’s filled with genetic and cultural riches. Gifts meant for others, far away.

I guess we might hope-or imagine-that someday one of these crystal depositories will get picked up. Maybe by visitors from beyond. That way, someone might decipher, study, and relish bits and pieces of what we were… like possibly my novels and films.

But for that to happen, some race would have to actually survive out there, in order to become the first real star-farers. Some sapients must find a real cure, and finally escape the trap.

The many traps of existence.

Hamish knew that he had plenty of faults. But no one ever accused him of indolence. Or inattention. Or lack of passionate caring about human destiny.

All his life had been spent nosing around for possible mistakes, for “failure modes” that might ensnare his species. Every tale that he wove was meant partly to exploit and entertain and make lots of money… but also to warn and stir new wariness about yet another error to avoid. And if many of humanity’s brightest people resented him, for attacking science in general? Well, at least he was engaged, participating in the argument. Playing the role of vigorous devil’s advocate. Probing the path ahead for snakes, quicksand, and land-mines.

Prove me wrong-I always demanded-by ensuring that this type of calamity can never happen. But first, I will make you pay attention.

That was the core point. Always the underlying message of everything he ever wrote.

For all the good it apparently did.

In the end, perhaps I made no difference at all.

Well, at least humanity would not be contributing to the demise of others.

If the end had finally come, on Earth… or if some clade of oligarchs had succeeded in the natural goal, using renunciation as an excuse to permanently reassert feudalism… either way, the planet would not be a source of further infection across the cosmos.

Hamish had already been depressed, before learning about Birdwoman’s dire calculation. His earlier conversation with the Oldest Member made him realize a terrible truth.

The “Cure” we were so proud of. It was just another layer of persuasion. Another insidious meme-driver to get humanity to do the same thing everybody else does, who doesn’t renounce. To devote huge resources and build giant factories and billions upon billions of messenger probes along with lasers to hurl them skyward.

In our case-as it had been on Turbulence Planet-the decision required an extra motive beyond selfishness.

Altruism. A desire to help others. That makes us above average.

But didn’t it just lead to the same result? Oh, we swore we would only send ten million, pushed by just one laser. But Om showed me. The fomite logic would eventually demand more, and more-for the sake of the Cure! Till we fell into an unstoppably fatal cycle of missionary zeal.

The Cure was clever. But clever enough to overcome a disease with a bottomless supply of tricks that evolved across eons? In the end, we were just as gullible, just as infected, as anybody else.

He stared downward, tempted to leap off this virtual platform into the void below. To seek succor in diminishment and unlimited power. To plummet. And thereupon shrink into a mere god.

“Y’know, there are other possibilities,” someone said. Hamish recognized the voice of Emily Tang. She must have followed soon after Lacey’s group, in order to join this discussion.

“For example, suppose the folks back home came up with an improved model of interstellar probe! We were among the first, after all. Perhaps they stopped producing our version and switched to one that’s more efficient, less heavy, and easier to propel to high speed.”