David Brin - Existence

Those occulting discs will take turns blocking the sun’s glare, allowing lensed light from distant objects to skirt by for our big mirror to collect. A delicate feat of countless adjustments.

Instead of classic images, a gravitational lens made globby, jumbled overlaps of distant points, “focusing” over a vast zone from five hundred out to several thousand astrons.

We’ll stare at the sun-skimming ring in a hundred ways, while cruising through region after region, scanning for rare treasures. Some images may flash for a millisecond as we hurtle through each narrow g-spot! Others could require collection and integration for years, massaging and beaming home more data than all of humanity’s prior instruments put together. And we’re just one component out of ten million, each staring past the sun from a different angle. Together composing the mightiest telescope of all.

Lacey envied the probes speeding away from galactic center. They’d sift a maelstrom of fascinating objects, like Milky Way’s central black hole. Courier, too, was disappointed that this ship could never glimpse Turbulence Planet. But Earth promised to share results. Sooner or later, some probe would bring Courier’s home into clear view, almost like next door. Lacey hoped for good news, and not just on her friend’s account.

It would be nice to have allies in this cold cosmos.

She should be resting. AUPs need sleep, as it turned out. So Lacey came down to her cottage on the One Millimeter Level, summoning a globe of night to surround it. But nervous energy from a momentous day kept her puttering around. Creating fresh flowers for a window box. Adjusting a picture of Hacker and his beloved dolphins, exploring their own amazing frontier. A different story.

One bonus for staying in the solar system. I’ll get news of my sons, their children, and grandchildren. I can’t bug them directly-how horrid to be nagged by ten million ghosts of long-dead granny! Still, I expect they’ll transmit photos, now and then.

Granny. Her last living memories were of lined, leathery skin. Of fragility and pain and irritability with everyone who complimented her “spunkiness.” She had expected to wake up here as the old woman they recorded for uploading.

Now? Lacey felt less grannylike than ever! Even as a young woman, she had stooped under the burden of other peoples’ expectations. Her family’s aristocratic pretensions. The harpy-chivvyings of partygirl-papparazzi-fashionistas who kept flattering her away from better longings. The somewhat more rewarding life of bride, wife, and mother. The secret guilt of knowing that-but for all of those distractions-she might have focused on great things. Beautiful things.

Only now I’m a keystone member of the most important of all scientific endeavors! And my mind feels…

It might be a programmed illusion. But this virtual version felt young, vigorous, ready for challenges.

And then some. It hadn’t escaped Lacey’s attention how the tall, craggy Hamish Brookeman kept intermittently staring at her, then struggling to hide it. Jeepers. And I deliberately chose to appear age forty-two. Anyway, the man was hardly my favorite person, back in reality.

Of course, in this world Brookeman couldn’t hinder science, only help it. In fact, his talents might prove more valuable here than they ever were on Earth. We’ll need a storyteller and not just for distraction. When the data floods in, with glimpses of far-off worlds and alien beings, we tech-types will often seize the first theory or explanation that fits.

Brookeman would keep posing alternatives, just to be ornery! The overlooked but barely plausible “what-ifs.” Those irritating 1 percent improbabilities. Across this endless voyage, many 1 percenters would prove true.

Also, I admit, he seems likely to be… entertaining. Perhaps inexhaustibly. That could prove handy. For immortals.

Having wandered into the bedroom, Lacey found herself standing before a full length mirror, half aware of turning left and right. Till a curiosity caption popped up.

Body image: 85 percent accurate re-creation of former self at age thirty-seven.

Uh-oh. Preening.

She blinked. So this new life included sex and vanity ?

With an unladylike snort, Lacey made a hand motion and the mirror vanished. Then she laughed.

The Great Telescope would complement other projects. Like archaeology in the asteroid belt, studying all types of ancient, mechanical probes. Or peeling back the stories and schemes encrypted layer-by-atomic-layer within crystal fomites. Or bringing more long-dead races back to life.

The overall goal? Chart a history of civilizations that struggled to rise in this quadrant, across the last two hundred million years. To grasp their myriad failure modes-from feudalism and renunciation to impulsive god-making. From war and short-sighted greed to ecological blundering. From too-much to too-little individualism. From careless technological arrogance to scientific timidity… all the way to other pitfalls that human sages never imagined. And, of course, the frequent killer of those who rose above a certain point. The Plague.

Were there exceptions? Perhaps an elder race or two, who might offer both solace and advice?

And if so, why have you been silent all this time, leaving us terrified youngsters to tiptoe through a minefield, without help?

On the other hand, what if we’re the first to get this far? Can we make it the rest of the way? And if so…

A haunting, lonely thought struck Lacey.

… might we become the elder race?

The people who finally get out there to help everyone else? The fabled and foretold redeemers? Doctors who cure. Postmen who connect. The mentors who teach others to survive and thrive?

Those who help to raise the dead and lost?

Not the kind of notion that settles a restless mind. It was daunting enough to carry the burden of your own posterity. Your species and planet. But a galaxy-a cosmos-waiting in suspense for someone not to blow it? All those quadrillions of lives. All that potential.

What a terrifying idea! And-of course-statistically improbable to the point of absurdity.

And yet, she did need rest. Tomorrow, once the great sail finished transforming and all optics lined up, brilliant rings of sun-lensed data would then pour upon this little exploration vessel. Lacey had to be there! For the best moment of any telescope-First Light.

A satin nightgown fluttered into being over a corner of the four-poster bed. Some AUPs had virtual-servants, but for that kind of magic you must live below the submillimeter level. Anyway, Lacey had spent a lifetime being waited-on. A tiresome thing.

She crossed her arms, preparing to strip off the tight T-shirt, with its Eye-and-Q symbol, representing the great quantum supercomputer in Riyadh-the oracle she once hired for a personal reading, whose very expensive answer cost two million dollars per word.

You may soon be typical.

Why do I keep dwelling on that augury? That depressing omen?

As a reminder of the odds against us? To keep my expectations low?

The Quantum Eye had access to millions of alternate-reality versions of itself, or so they said. It never lied. Though it could be infuriatingly cryptic.

Pulling off the shirt, she tossed it in a corner and lifted a hand, but could not cast a simple dissipate spell. Stopped by her unconscious, Lacey knew she’d wear the shirt again tomorrow. And again, till she figured out why.

The nightgown was silky and cool, pleasant against pseudo skin that felt real in the best ways. With luck and a nod from the gods of programming, this life might remain bearable for millennia of work and discovery. A better fate than being a mere virus.