Terry Pratchett - The Long Utopia

‘Sorry. I had no mirrors. I will practise. I wouldn’t want to scare anybody.’

‘No,’ Joshua said carefully. ‘Especially not your son.’

He took that bit of news calmly, nodding, his expression blank. ‘I have been a busy chap, haven’t I? I don’t think a simple synch will be enough this time.’

‘I wouldn’t think so, Lobsang.’

‘Shall we walk?’

So Lobsang completed his preparations, and they left for home.

But by the time Joshua, Sally and Lobsang had completed the long stepwise journey back to New Springfield, the situation there had got a whole lot worse.

THE GLOBAL EXPEDITION was Captain Boss’s idea. He would select a diverse group with broad experience and opinions, load them aboard the Cowley , and take them on a brief tour of this suffering world, before coming to a final decision on what to do about the problem of the silver beetles. Joshua thought this Navy captain was either showing a democratic instinct or indecision, depending on your point of view.

So the party gathered outside New Springfield, ready to board the great craft over their heads, enduring an awkward wait for the elevator cage to descend.

Joshua looked around. Alongside himself and Sally, still newcomers to this battered world, here were the science people from the twain crew and its civilian passengers. Agnes stood between two versions of Lobsang, the sombre elderly-gentleman pioneer edition and the battered robot explorer, eerily alike yet unalike. The Irwins, colonials from New Springfield, were here as representatives of their neighbours, who were still stubbornly sitting it out in their lodges on stepwise worlds. The Irwins were very obviously trying not to stare at the ambulant units – they’d only recently learned the truth about their animatronic neighbours.

The newly arrived Lobsang, dressed in a nondescript Navy coverall, was easily distinguished from his twin, at least. For the sake of those who had to look on him, the more obvious flaws in this Lobsang’s visible skin had been roughly patched – but he was still lacking that arm, and one sleeve was neatly sewn flat. Of those present only George, Agnes, Joshua and Sally knew that the right arm wasn’t all this ambulant unit was missing. For Joshua the worst moments had come when the two ambulants had swapped data, at the beginning. They would clasp hands, or stare into each other’s eyes, and Joshua imagined streams of data pouring from their gel-based processing cores through the medium of their touching palms, or chattering in sparks of light between their eyes, as they synched their understanding.

And, to complete the group, here was a young man in a homburg hat who called himself simply Marvin, standing beside a middle-aged woman, brisk, sturdy, competent-looking, named Stella Welch. Dressed simply, plainly spoken, these were representatives of the Next, somehow summoned by Lobsang. They looked very ordinary to Joshua, but then he’d only met immature Next before, like Paul Spencer Wagoner. The sun cream, dark glasses and floppy hats they all had to wear out in the open – the extreme winds had thrown water vapour high into the stratosphere and broken down the ozone layer – did nothing to add to the authority of the Next.

‘I imagined Vulcans,’ Joshua admitted to Sally.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Look at us. What a crew. Three androids, the egghead science types, two blank-eyed brainiacs, two bewildered Mom-and-Pop homesteaders – and two lifelong misfits in me and thee, Joshua.’

Agnes said dryly, ‘It’s like a Traveling Wilburys reunion tour.’

That made ‘George’ laugh.

His one-armed twin ‘Lobsang’, though, looked puzzled. That was another difference between them. Maybe his knowledge of late-twentieth-century rock bands, always an essential around Sister Agnes, had eroded away during his decades with the Traversers. Indeed this long-lost copy of Lobsang had been staggered to meet Agnes in the first place, and even more so to discover why his successors had had her reincarnated. The Lobsangs had diverged, interestingly.

The Irwins glanced over, as if offended by the laughter, as well they might be. Agnes had told Joshua something of how it had been when ‘George’ had finally revealed his and Agnes’s true nature. All Agnes could do was apologize to the neighbours she had deceived – and who now kept their kids away from her as if she was about to turn Terminator.

And then there was Ben. As far as Joshua could see Agnes and Lobsang were putting the boy through a process of slow, gentle revelation. It was never going to be easy. Of course this day, the day of truth, had to come for their adopted son sometime. But now it was forced on them, in the middle of a wider crisis.

Yes, this twain certainly had a motley and divided crew, Joshua thought. But who else was there to do this? Who was better qualified to handle the problem?

And the reality of the problem was not in doubt. Even as they stood here, the morning sun, a mother-of-pearl disc sporadically visible in the ash-laden air, seemed to Joshua to move perceptibly, the shadows it cast shifting like an accelerated movie of a sundial. The various timers the ship’s science teams had set up confirmed that the rotation of this world had in the last few months sped up to an astounding twelve hours – half the original day. Even the two Lobsangs had given up trying to estimate the energy that was pouring down from the sky, had given up trying to predict the end point.

At last the elevator cage arrived. They gave a ragged cheer.

Joshua Valienté was no fan of enclosure, and he was certainly no friend of the US military.

But it was a relief, this day in early January of 2059, to ride up from the ground of New Springfield at last, to get out of the stinging sunlight and be enclosed in the sterile, womb-like interior of the USS Brian Cowley . Joshua breathed deeply of clean, recycled, humidified, filtered air, air that smelled of nothing but electronics, carpets, and military-issue boot polish – air that did not smell of death, of ash and sulphur and rot and the smoke of burned forests, air that did not make your lungs ache, for the world outside was even losing its oxygen to the continent-wide fires.

The twain itself was interesting to Joshua, a veteran of such vessels. The ‘gondola’ of this Armstrong- class ship, though the crew called its habitable compartment by that name, wasn’t a gondola at all but entirely contained within the body of the thousand-foot-long lift envelope, with observation galleries around the ship’s equator leading back from the bridge at the very prow.

The civilian party from Springfield were brought to one such gallery now, led by Margarita Jha, the ship’s science officer. Waiting for them here was Ken Bowring. The burly seismologist seemed to be enjoying this experience far too much, Joshua thought. A yeoman, a smart young man, passed among them with trays of coffee, soft drinks, water.

Distant turbines hummed, the great ship shuddered slightly as if coming fully awake, and they were lifted smoothly into the air.

‘Anchors aweigh, then,’ Agnes murmured, peering out of the window.

The Irwins, Oliver and Marina, went to stand together close to one of the big viewing windows, peering out into the smoky air.

Ken Bowring stepped forward. ‘I do understand how you feel,’ he said to the Irwins. ‘But look how much has changed, in the years since the bugs started their spin-up. You can see how much damage has been done, even right here.’ He pointed. ‘The basic features of the landscape are still there, of course, and they still bear the names you gave them. Manning Hill, Soulsby Creek. There’s the old Poulson house, as you call it …’ The Poulson house, the beetles’ portal, was now the centre of an intensively observed, heavily guarded military compound, where science crews kept watch day and night on this flaw in the world. ‘But look over where Waldron Wood used to be.’ The slab of dense forest beyond the creek to the north was gone now, a burned-out ruin.