Stephen Baxter - Space

And he even saw it all through the gauzy eyes of mathematics. He could see the brutal equations of gravity and electromagnetism that governed the drag of the star’s remote companion, the push of star on sail and sail on star; and he could see, like shining curves extending ahead of and back from this single moment, how those equations would unfold, the evolution of the system through time, out of the past, through the now, and into the future.

Not enough, he saw.

Still the construction of the sail was outpaced by the neutron stars’ approach. The project was projected to fail; the stars were mathematically destined to collide before the sail’s deflection was done, the great gamma-ray burst lethally mocking their efforts. But they must, they would, try harder, the toiling communities here.

…And if you see all this, Malenfant, then what are you? God knows you’re no mathematician.

He looked down at himself.

Tried to.

His gaze swiveled, yes, his vision sparkling with superhuman spectra. But his head did not turn.

For he had no head.

A sense of body, briefly. Spread-eagled against the sail’s gauzy netting. Clinging by fingers and toes, monkey digits, here at the center of the Galaxy.

A metaphor, of course, an illusion to comfort his poor human mind. What was he truly? A partial personality, downloaded into a clumsy robot, clinging to this monstrous structure, bathed by the lethal radiation of a neutron star?

And even now the robot he rode was working, knitting away at the net. This body was working, without having to be told, directed, by me, or anybody else.

But that’s the way it is, Malenfant. Self is an illusion, remember. You’ve always been a passenger, riding inside that bony cage of a skull of yours. It’s just that now it’s a little more… explicit.

Welcome to reality.

But if I’m a robot, why the pain?

He looked for Cassiopeia, for any of the Gaijin, reassuring dodecahedral bulks. He saw none, though the unwelcome enhancements of his vision let him zoom and peer through the spaces all around him.

But when he thought of Cassiopeia, anger flooded him. Why?

It had been just minutes since she had embraced him on that grassy simulated plain… Hadn’t it?

How do you know, Malenfant? How do you know you haven’t been frozen in some deep data store for ten thousand years?

And how do you know this isn’t the first time you surfaced like this?

How could he know? If his identity assembled, disintegrated again, what trace would it leave on his memory? What was his memory? What if he was simply restarted each time, wiped clean like a reinitialized computer? How would he know?

In renewed terror, lost in space and time — in helpless, desolating loneliness — he tried again to scream. But he could not, of course.

The sail shuddered. Great ripples of disturbance, thousands of kilometers long, wafted through the net. As the waves passed, he saw others shaken loose, equipment hurled free, damaged.

Without his conscious control, he was aware how his body — or bodies? How do you know you’re even in one place, Malenfant? — grasped tighter to the fine structure.

He felt a clustering of awareness around him. Other workers here, perhaps. Other parts of himself.

Frightened.

Have faith, he told his companions, his other parts. Or his disciples.

But that was the problem. They didn’t have faith. Faith was a dangerous idea. The only thing less dangerous, in fact, was the universe itself, this terrible rebooting accident of celestial mechanics.

All this had happened before: the wars, the destruction, the abandonment of work, the resumption, the patient repairs.

There was a species he thought of as the Fire-eaters. They were related to the Crackers, who had tried to disrupt Earth’s Sun. But these more ambitious cousins wanted to steal part of the sail and wrap up a hypernova, one of the largest exploding stars in the Galaxy. As best he understood it they would try to capture a fraction of that astonishing energy in order to hurl themselves out of the Galaxy within an ace of light speed. And that way, their subjective experience stretched to near immobility by time dilation, they would outlive this reboot, and the one after it, and the one after that. He remembered a diversion of resources, a great war, huge damage to the sail, before the Fire-eaters were driven off.

…He remembered.

Yes. He had surfaced, like this, become Malenfant before, cowering under a sky full of silent, deadly, warring ETs, in a corner of the sail where the threads buckled and broke.

Surfaced more than once.

Many times.

How long have I been here? And between these intervals of half-remembered awareness, how long have I toiled here, awake but unaware?

Ah, yes, but take a look at where you are, Malenfant.

He looked up from the rippling sail, away from the lethal neutron star, and into the complex sky.

He was at the heart of the Galaxy, within the great central cluster of stars, no more than a couple of dozen light-years from the very center. At that center there was a cavity some twenty light-years wide, encased by a great shell of crowded, disrupted stars; the neutron star binary huddled at the inner boundary of this shell.

The emptiness of the “cavity” was only relative. There was a great double-spiral architecture of stars, like a miniature copy of the Galaxy, trapped here at its heart. The spiraling stars were dragged into their tight orbits around the object at the Galaxy’s gravitational core itself: a black hole with a broad, glowing, spitting accretion disc, a hole itself with the mass of some three million Suns. It was the violent winds from the vast accretion disc that had created this relative hollowness.

But still the cavity was crammed with gas and dust, itsparticles ionized and driven to high speeds by the ferocious gravitational and magnetic forces working here, so that streamers of glowing gas crisscrossed the cavity in a fine tracery. Stars had been born here, notably a cluster of blue-hot young stars just a fraction away from the black hole itself. And here and there rogue stars fell through the cavity — and they dragged streaming trails behind them, glowing brilliantly, like comets a hundred light-years long.

Stars like comets.

He exulted. I, Reid Malenfant, got to see this, the heart of the Galaxy itself, by God! He wished Cassiopeia were here, his companion during those endless Saddle Point jaunts to one star after another…

But again, at the thought of Cassiopeia, his anger flared.

And now, his reassembled mind clearer, he remembered why.

He had found out after submitting to Cassiopeia’s cold, agonizing embrace, after arriving here, an unknown time later.

He had learned that even if all went well here — if the wars ceased, if the supplies of raw materials didn’t fail, even if the neutron-star sail, this marvelous artifact, was completed and worked as advertised — even then, it wouldn’t do him a blind bit of good.

Because it would already be too late. For him. And his people.

This binary, yes: this implosion was far enough in the future to affect, with this low-tech solution, robots and nets and solar-wind rockets. But this wasn’t the next scheduled to blow up.

There was another coalescing neutron-star binary, buried still deeper in the Galaxy’s diseased heart, another reboot. And it was already too late to stop that one, too late to avert the coming catastrophe.

This unlikely sail would work. But it was too long-term. The project would avert the next reboot but one.