Debatable Space (49 page)

Also, I use Lena’s journal as an excuse to explore some of my own favourite ideas, such as the Coleridgean concept of the
“primary imagination”, and the nature of emergence (which explains how complex systems can be created out of simple systems,
as in an ant colony or, indeed, the human body). And so at the very heart of the story is my sense of awe at the way that
random molecules can form order and pattern and then life, and then sentience, and then civilisation, until an entire universe
of miraculous, heart-stopping complexity has arisen—in the midst of which, on a daily basis, the human race perpetrates all
sorts
of stupid shit.

I would happily concede that some elements of my Debatable Science don’t stand up to detailed scrutiny. One such is the scene
where Alby sees supersymmetrical strings which have become macroscopic due to exposure to high levels of energy. In theory
this
is
possible, according to the distinguished sources I have plundered. But the caveat is that superstring theory is by no means
as well established scientifically as Einstein’s relativity or quantum physics. So it may well be that in five or ten years’
time, superstring theory is superseded and that incident in Alby’s life is no longer scientifically tenable.

This, however, bothers me not one whit; Alby after all is a super-intelligent ball of flame with a lisp. If you’re willing
to believe that, then you’re morally bound to believe
anything.

Science fiction can also ask a third question. Not just “What if?”, not just “How?” but “What would it
feel
like if… ?” And this, above all is my driving principle in the telling of this tale. This is a story of characters in
crisis; it is a story about friendship, and love, and betrayal; it is a story about a mother and a son; it is a story about
the
people
who inhabit that story. This of course is what all fiction does—it puts us in the skin and in the minds and hearts of others.
So although I’ve enjoyed myself hugely in creating what (I hope!) is a credible basis of Debatable Science with which to construct
my world, I trust that the readers of this book will accept the simple and indubitable fact that
all the men and women and aliens in this narrative are real.
They actually do exist—and I have shared their lives.

A few acknowledgements: my friend Dr Paul Bostock has provided exemplary support in critiquing my scientific flights of fantasy,
and has corrected some factual errors; though generally he has taken the view that fiction should be fun. His creative notes,
also, were first rate.

I’m indebted to the writings of Brian Greene (
The Elegant Universe
) and John H. Holland (
emergence, from chaos to order
) and Lee Smolin (
Life of the Cosmos
and
Three Roads to Quantum Gravity
) for exploring some of the most extraordinary concepts in contemporary physics. I should in this context acknowledge the
influence of Michael Crichton, who so far as I know is the first person to write an entire novel about emergence (the excellent
Prey
). And I also tip my hat to Jules Verne, Isaac Asimov, George Orwell, Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Theodore Sturgeon and
a host of others for creating the genre that is now the playground for a whole new generation of writers.

My grateful thank-you also to Angell McGregor for giving me excellent detailed notes just when I needed them, and Sally Griffiths
for allowing me to steal all her best ideas.

And special thanks to John Jarrold, my friend and agent; and to my editior, the subtle and bold Tim Holman, and all at Orbit,
for having faith and for loving science fiction so much.

Philip Palmer, 30th August 2007

introducing

If you enjoyed DEBATABLE SPACE,

look out for

VERSION 43

by Philip Palmer

I was in a cheerful mood. The sky was a rich blue. The twelve moons of Belladonna shone, it seemed to me, like globes on a
Christmas tree in the daytime sky. I could smell heliotropes, growing in banks beside the moving walkways, and orchids and
lilies and peonies growing in baskets that hovered above the pedestrian boulevard.

I was one day old. I would, my database warned me, grow more jaded with the passage of time. But for the moment, life felt
good.

It was a short walk from the spaceport to the crime scene. I was in constant subvocal contact with the Sheriff, Gordon Heath,
and the crime-scene photos scrolled in front of my eyes as I walked. But the air was fresh, and the heliotropes and the orchids
and the lilies and the peonies were fragrant, as were the roses and the summer lilacs and cut grass in the parkland that led
off the boulevard. A woman was sunbathing naked on the grass, and I registered her distant beauty, and felt a faint stirring
of remembered regret.

Then I walked on, another five blocks. Most of the citizens were using the moving walkways, twin rivers on either side of
the pedestrian thoroughfare. Flybikes and flying cars zoomed above me, rather lower than was prudent or indeed (I checked
this on my database) legal. The Belladonnans, I noted, dressed soberly but elegantly. Many of the men had grey or black waistcoats
and ornate buckled belts and armoured jackets. The women tended to wear long silver or gold or scarlet dresses and high-heeled
boots, apart from the courtesans who wore jewelled gowns.

“I’m Sheriff Heath.”

“I’m aware of your identity,” I said. I was now at the crime scene, and I filtered out my olfactory sensations to focus on
the case.

“Pleased to meet you too,” the Sheriff chided, and I registered the hint of irony but decided it would be politic to ignore
it.

The Sheriff and I were standing outside a twelve-storey hotel made of black brick. Police officers had cordoned off the area
with holos proclaiming POLICE and MURDER SCENE – KEEP AWAY. The citizens on the moving walkways gawped at the sight, secretly
thrilled (or so I posited) at the glimpse of a terror that had passed them by.

“Sheriff, feel free to call me Luke,” I added, in a belated attempt to build a rapport.

In fact, “Luke” was not and never had been my name.

“Sure, I’ll do that. ‘Luke’.”

This time, there was open scorn in the lawman’s tone, but I chose to ignore that subtextual nuance also.

Sheriff Heath, I noted, looked shockingly old – too old perhaps for cosmetic rejuve? – though his body was fit and strong.
He was bald, heavily wrinkled, with a grey walrus moustache and peering blue eyes. I had been impressed at the diverse range
of his bio: soldier, pirate, artist, scientist and bartender. Now, he was Sheriff of the Fourth Canton of Lawless City.

“Through here.”

The holograms of the crime scene didn’t do justice to its horror. Blood and human flesh spattered the walls and ceilings.
A screaming severed head swam in a pool of blood on the bed. And inside the mouth, which gaped unnaturally large, was a human
heart, squeezed and squirted. It was evident that multiple murders had occurred, and that the killings had all been frenzied.

I switched on my decontam forcefield and hovered back and forth a centimetre above the ground. I used my finger-tweezers to
take samples of blood and flesh, and carefully counted and collated the scattered limbs and organs in order to make a tally
of the corpses. (Final count: five, of which two were male, three female.) The chaotic dispersal of body parts at this crime
scene was far from typical: I found two legs and all five livers in the wardrobe and a pair of hands and six eyes underneath
the floor
panels in the kitchen, and the entrails of all the corpses were enmeshed and interconnected to form effectively a vast colon.
In addition, one set of lungs had fallen under the bed.

At one point I glanced behind, and was startled to see that the Sheriff was pale and looked nauseous.

“Murder weapon?” I asked.

“We found nothing. We don’t know what could have done this.”

“Plasma beam? Samurai sword?”

“Look closer.”

I looked closer. I’d assumed that the heart in the mouth of the severed head on the bed had been inserted by a psychopathic
ritual killer. But an eyeball-tomograph told me that the heart was actually occupying the space normally reserved for a tongue,
and was organically connected to the throat. I took pinprick microsamples and analysed the DNA, and found that the DNA in
the head’s staring eyeballs didn’t match the DNA of the head itself, and neither was a match for the heart. I then performed
a dissection of the heart, and found, inside it –

– an erect penis.

For the first time in many years, I wished I could desire to vomit.

“What
is
this?” I marvelled.

“Our best guess,” said the Sheriff. “These bodies were quantum teleported, and got jumbled up along the way. That’s why we
called you in. A quantum teleport weapon, we ain’t never hearda such a thing. So we reckoned, must be banned technology, your
kinda can of worms.”

“Amongst other things. Do we have any idea who these victims are?”

“I recognise this one,” the Sheriff said, gesturing at the severed staring head.

“Who is it?”

“It’s my son,” the Sheriff said, barely a quaver in his voice.

I processed that fact for a few moments, and decided not to comment on the horrific coincidence.

“His name?”

“Alexander. Alexander Heath. We didn’t get on so well. He was a stubborn bastard, just like me.”

“Enemies?”

“Just me.”

“What gang did he work for?”

“He was clean. He was a doctor at the City Hospital. Two convictions for violence as a boy, but they were gang-related
mano a manos
, and since then, he’s lived the pure life.”

“What about you? Do you have enemies?”

“None. I’m corrupt as hell. No one could fall out with me.”

I processed this too; it tallied with all my data. I nodded.

“I’ve identified two men, including your son, and three women. Could they be colleagues?” I asked.

“Worth checking out.”

I checked it out, cross-referencing the DNA of the corpses against the City Hospital personnel records.

“They’re all medics,” I said, a few seconds later. “In addition to your son, the corpses are: Andrei Pavlovsky, Jada Brown,
Sara Limer, Fliss Hooper. Know them?”

“Fliss was my son’s girl. Pretty as hell. He thought I was hitting on her; that was one of our fallings out.”

“Were you?”

“In my dreams. She was a looker.”

“Did you love your son?”

“Oh yes.”

I felt an emotion inside myself, and identified it, and marvelled at its richness and its power:

It was Rage.

Lawless City had a real name: Bompasso. After John Bompasso, one of the three creators of
cute-o,
the Quantum Theory of Everything.

No one ever called it that.

It was a city built on hills, and riddled with rivers – five of them, intertwining like rats’ tails – and dominated by black-stoned
towering buildings decorated with jewelled carvings by master artisans. Many of the buildings teetered precariously on thin
pillars, or even floated above the ground. It was forcefield architecture at its most inspired: the marble and the stone were
clad over a diagrid of unyielding nothingness.

I had, my database told me, visited this city three times before. Once I had been ambushed by desperadoes and killed. The
second time I had arrested and then executed those desperadoes. And on my last visit, I had successfully smashed the entire
crime cartel. Four gang bosses had been killed, eleven more had been brain-fried. A democratic government had been appointed,
and incorruptible cyborg judges had been placed in charge of the criminal justice system. And an army of street cops were
hired to enforce the rule of law.

That was a hundred years ago. Now, the gangs were back in charge. The dons were all new immigrants, with souls seared by frequent
brain-frying on one of the Home Planets. They were ruthless, hungry, and full of dangerous exhilaration at having survived
the fifty-fifty.

It was a wretched state of affairs, but I didn’t feel even a twinge of despair at the prospect of working on such a planet.

For I had expunged Despair from my circuits long ago, considering it to be a purposeless and dispiriting emotion. Instead,
I felt Excitement at the challenge ahead. I would solve this crime; and when I had solved the crime, I would solve all the
other crimes that I might happen to stumble across. I would restore peace and justice to Bompasso.

Then I would leave, and peace would reign for a while.

And then, after a slightly longer while, the violence would return. And Bompasso would once again be known as Lawless City.