Tomorrow Happens (21 page)

Madness
! I balled my hands into fists in order to keep my diplomat's reserve.
The idiot
!

With deliberate calmness I faced him. "Your Majesty, that makes the keys meaningless. Their original and entire
purpose
is to make sure that no Von Neumann replicant device ever reaches maturity without coming to a central facility for inspection. It's our ultimate guarantee the machines remain under our control, and that their numbers do not explode."

Zardee laughed. "I've heard it before, this fear of fairy tales. My dear beautiful young woman, surely you don't take seriously those Frankenstein stories in the pulp flimsies, about replicants running away and devouring planets? Entire solar systems?" He guffawed.

I shrugged. "It does not matter how likely or unlikely such scenarios are. What matters is how the prospect
appears
to the Other Five. For twelve centuries we've downplayed this potential outcome of automation, because our best alienists think the Others would find it appalling. It's the reason replicant restrictions are written into the Protocols, Your Majesty."

I gestured at the massed herds down below. "What you've done here is utterly irresponsible . . ."

I stopped, because Zardee was smiling.

"You fear a chimera, dear diplomat. For I've already proven you have nothing to worry about in regards alien opinion."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I've
already
shown these devices to representatives of many Locrian, Samian, and Nexian communities, several of whom have already taken delivery of breeding stock."

My mouth opened and closed. "But . . . but what if they equip the machines with space-transport ability? You . . ."

Zardee blinked. "What are you talking about? Of
course
the models I provided are space adapted. Their purpose is to be asteroid mining devices, after all. It's a breakthrough! Not only do they reproduce rapidly and efficiently, but they also transport themselves wherever the customer sets his beacon . . ."

I did not stay to listen to the rest. Filled with anger and despair, I turned away and left him to stammer into silence behind me. I had calls to make, without any delay.

Maxwell took the news well, all considered.

"
I've already traced three of the contracts
," he told me by hyperwave.
We've managed to get the Naxians to agree to a delay, long enough for us to lean on Zardee and alter the replicants' key system. The Naxians didn't understand why we were so concerned, though they could tell we were worried. Clearly they haven't thought out the implications yet, and we're naturally reluctant to clue them in
.

"
The other contracts are going to be much harder. Two went to small Locrian Queendoms. One to a Samian solidity, and one to a Cephallon super-pod. I'm putting prime operatives onto each, but I'm afraid it's likely the replicants will go through at least five generations before we accomplish anything. By then it will probably be too late
."

"You mean by then some will have mutated and escaped customer control?" I asked.

He shook his head. "
According to Zardee's data, it should take longer than that to happen. No, by then I'm afraid our projections show each of the customers will be getting a handsome profit from his investment. The replicants will become essential to them, and impossible for us to regain control over
."

"So what do you want me to do?"

Maxwell sighed. "
You stay by Zardee. I'll have a sealed alliance of his Erthumoi neighbors for you by tomorrow, to get him deposed if he won't cooperate. Problem is, the cat's already out of the bag
."

I, too, had studied Ancient Earth Expressions during one of my lives. "Well, I'll close the barn door, anyway."

Maxwell did not bother with a salutation. He signed off more weary-looking than I'd ever seen him. And our labors were only just beginning.

The Cephallon and the Crotonite weren't exactly making love when I returned to the Guest Suite. (What an image!) Still, they hadn't murdered each other, either.

Jirata had become animated enough to attend to the internal environments controller in his corner of the chamber. He had dismantled the wall panel and was experimenting—creating a partition, then a bed-pallet, then an excretarium. Immersed in mechanical arts, his batlike face almost took on a look of serenity as he customized the machinery, converting the insensitively mass-produced into something individualized, with character and uniqueness.

It was a rare epiphany, watching him so, and coming to realize that even so venal and disgusting a race as his could cause me wonder.

Oh, no doubt I was over-simplifying. Perhaps it was the replicant crisis that had me primed to feel this way. Ironically, though they were premier mechanics among the Six, the Crotonites' technical and scientific level was not particularly high. And they would be among the last ever to understand what a Von Neumann machine was about. From their point of view, autonomy and self-replication were for Crotonites, and in anyone or anything else they were obscenities.

I wondered if this experiment, which had caused a noble and high-caste creature of his community to be cast down so in a desperate attempt to learn new ways, would ever meet any degree of success. What would be the analogy for a person like me . . . to be surgically grafted crude gills instead of lungs, and dwell forever underwater, less mobile than a Cephallon? Would I,
could
I ever volunteer for so drastic an exile, even if my homeworld depended on it?

Yes, I conceded, watching Jirata work. There was nobility here, of a sort. And at least the Crotonites had not unleashed upon the galaxy a thing that could threaten all Six spacefarers . . . and the million other intelligent life forms without starships.

Phss'aah awakened from a snooze at the pool's surface and descended to face me. But it was his robot which spoke.

"Patty, my master hopes your business in this system has been successfully concluded."

"Alas, no. Crises develop lives of their own. Soon, however, I expect permission to confide this matter in him. When that happens, I hope to benefit from his insight."

Phss'aah acknowledged the compliment with a bare nod. Then he spoke for himself. "You must not despair, my young Erthumoi colleague. Look, after all, to your
other
accomplishments. I have decided, for instance, to go ahead and purchase a sample order of thirty thousand of these delightful machines for my own community. And if they work out there, perhaps others in the Cephallon Supreme Pod will buy. Is this not a coup to make you happy?"

For a moment I could not answer. What could I say to Phss'aah? That soon robots such as these might be so cheap that they could be had for a song? That soon a flood of wealth would sweep the galaxy, so great that no creature of any starfaring race would ever want for material goods?

Or should I tell him that the seeds strewn to grow this cornucopia were doomed to mutate, to change, to seek paths of their own . . . paths down which no foreseeing could follow?

"That's nice," I finally said. "I'm glad you like our machines. You can have as many as you need."

And I tried to smile. "You can have as many as you want."

All right, I had a special reason for wishing and hoping they might find a way to save the Mir space station. Let me explain why I mourn its demise.

Years ago, my astronaut pal Michael Foale was aboard Mir on that unlucky day when an exhausted cosmonaut blinked at the wrong moment, sending a teleoperated cargo craft crashing into the station.

For twenty heart-pounding minutes, Mike and the Russians scrambled to cut cables and seal hatches to save their lives before the air all went away. Abandoned in the Spektr capsule—which had been ripped open by the collision—were Mike's sleeping bag, toothbrush, family photos . . . and a manuscript copy of my novel
Brightness Reef
, which he had taken along as personal cargo. (Mike took galleys of
Glory Season
on a previous mission.)

Some time after they succeeded (miraculously) in stabilizing the rest of the damaged space station, Mike's wife phoned me to say they were sending up a Progress capsule with more supplies. She would enclose a new toothbrush and photos . . . and Mike was eager to finish the novel! Would I please send the second half to be included in the supply launch?

Of course I did, feeling honored to have the first novel ever rocketed skyward as "emergency equipment" for a space mission! (More powerful was my sense of gladness when Mike made it home at last, safe and sound.)

And yet, ever since then my thoughts kept drifting back to the
other
copy, the one Mike left inside Spektr when they sealed it for good. After rounding Earth every ninety minutes for over six years, was it the most-traveled novel ever? Were there any appreciable effects from time dilation? Exposed for all that period to hard vacuum and sleeting cosmic rays, would the manuscript show evidence of "criticism" by the Great Big Universal Editor in the Sky?

I hoped someday to find out. But alas, now we'll never know.

Is it petty of me to worry over a one-pound sheaf of paper, when the investors in MirCorp lost their shirts and some two-ton hunk of space hardware just missed plunging into downtown Brisbane? I guess so. Maybe it's just been my own way to feel a sense of private involvement, since it seems unlikely that I'll ever go to space in person.

Anyway, better a living book than an orbital relic, no? Then there's the notion that a burnt offering, in the form of a brief, flaming meteor, may be the best use for some manuscripts . . .

Some would say that's the best use for one of my books!

So be it. I bought a round of drinks when MIR went down. Let's all share fond hopes for much greater things to come.

[
Editor's note:
On Friday March 23, 2001, after 15 years of dedicated service to Russia, the venerable Mir space station was intentionally de-orbited following natural orbital decay and a sequence of three braking burns. It re-entered the Earth's atmosphere and crashed into the south Pacific Ocean. Anyone who finds any singed but readable manuscript pages floating around down there should let us know
.]
Editor's Note:
This "challenge" and the two chapters which follow it are exclusive to this NESFA Press volume
.

For some years I taught a writers' workshop. In addition to copious opinionated advice (see the essay containing
advice for neo-writers
, elsewhere in this volume), I also tried to offer students some unusual exercises, aimed at breaking whatever obstacles might stand in their path.

One trick long used by writing instructors has been the Team Round Robin. People who are unable to produce material for themselves sometimes find the motivation if they are part of a group that will succeed only if all parties pitch in.

My version of the Team Round Robin has an unusual twist. The class divides into groups with a minimum of five members each, sorting themselves as members A, B, C, D, and E. Team member "A" gets to read an introductory chapter written by the teacher (in this case, me). "A" then adds a chapter of his or her own and passes the whole thing on to "B" . . . who adds a chapter and delivers the entire growing manuscript to "C" . . . and so on, round and round. With five or more members, the group is large enough to give everyone time for other works, with the round robin falling in each person's lap only once a month or so.

There are many variations on this trick. Some groups choose to let all members write all of their chapters before anyone critiques anything. I disagree. Critiquing as-you-go is the only way to keep learning. It also gives people plenty of familiarity with the growing story—the character's personality and problems and goals—and prevents members from forgetting important plot points.

An added element, contributing considerable enjoyment and insight, was to send the manuscript going around each group
in both directions
. Chapter One goes to
both
A and E. A passes two chapters on to B, while E passes two on to D. Member C gets to see both growing manuscripts—and adds to them—heading in both directions at once! Two distinctly different stories arise, demonstrating the wealth of plot possibilities that can emerge from any given seed.

All right, it's self-indulgent. Maybe even a bit silly. But fun. At least my own students thought so.

Which brings us to the following portion of a novel that I started even before publishing
Sundiver
. At this rate, it seems unlikely I'll ever do anything with it myself, but I did notice that Chapter Two leaves open so many different possible plots that it proved to be a remarkably fertile "seed"—an opening to offer to round robin teams, who took their resulting stories in an amazing range of directions!

As for the core idea in "The Imminent Dreams," a number of authors have lately produced works revolving around similar concepts—portraying the whole world suffering from an inundation of compelling visions. Several have done a much better job than I was doing, back in 1977. Anyway, who can write up all of their ideas?

So here it is: the David Brin work that never was and probably never will be. Teachers or workshops, go ahead and use this trick if you like. If your team does a great job . . . who knows? Above all, have fun.

Blazing summer hadn't cooled much as the sun settled in the western canyons outside of St. George. The dry south-Utah heat lay down unmoving, pressing on a maze of cracked asphalt streets leading past mills and warehouses, baking the small crowd listening to a street-corner preacher. Standing on a rickety wooden crate, he wore a thick, black, pre-chaos wool suit; his only concession had been to loosen his thin tie. Rivulets of sweat darkened dust on the preacher's pale throat, where tendons flexed, taut as the temper of a hungry dog. His voice cracked as he faced the crowd of millworkers, grimy and tired after shift change.