changing course isn’t an option except by the barest increments. Eri soars like an eagle between the stars but she steers like a pig on the short haul; tweak our heading by even a tenth of a degree and you’ve got some serious damage at twenty percent lightspeed. Half a degree would tear us apart: the ship might torque onto the new heading but the collapsed mass in her belly would keep right on going, rip through all this surrounding superstructure without even feeling it.
Even tame singularities get set in their ways. They do not take well to change.
We resurrect again, and the Island has changed its tune.
It gave up asking us to stop stop stop the moment our laser hit its leading edge. Now it’s saying something else entirely: dark hyphens flow across its skin, arrows of pigment converging towards some offstage focus like spokes pointing towards the hub of a wheel. The bullseye itself is offstage and implicit, far removed from 428’s bright backdrop, but it’s easy enough to extrapolate to the point of convergence six lightsecs to starboard. There’s something else, too: a shadow, roughly circular, moving along one of the spokes like a bead running along a string. It too migrates to starboard, falls off the edge of the Island’s makeshift display, is endlessly reborn at the same initial coordinates to repeat its journey.
Those coordinates: exactly where our current trajectory will punch through the membrane in another four months. A squinting God would be able to see the gnats and girders of ongoing construction on the other side, the great piecemeal torus of the Hawking Hoop already taking shape.
The message is so obvious that even Dix sees it. “Wants us to move the gate...” and there is something like confusion in his voice. “But how’s it know we’re building one?”
“The vons punctured it en route,” the chimp points out. “It could have sensed that. It has photopigments. It can probably see.”
“Probably sees better than we do,” I say. Even something as simple as a pinhole camera gets hi-res fast if you stipple a bunch of them across thirty million square kilometers.
But Dix scrunches his face, unconvinced. “So sees a bunch of vons bumping around. Loose parts—not that much even assembled yet. How’s it know we’re building something hot ?”
Because it is very, very smart, you stupid child. Is it so hard to believe that this, this— organism seems far too limiting a word—can just imagine how those half-built pieces fit together, glance at our sticks and stones and see exactly where this is going?
“Maybe’s not the first gate it’s seen,” Dix suggests. “Think there’s maybe another gate out here?”
I shake my head. “We’d have seen the lensing artefacts by now.”
“You ever run into anyone before?”
“No.” We have always been alone, through all these epochs. We have only ever run away .
And then always from our own children.
I crunch some numbers. “Hundred eighty-two days to insemination. If we move now we’ve only got to tweak our bearing by a few mikes to redirect to the new coordinates. Well within the green. Angles get dicey the longer we wait, of course.”
“We can’t do that,” the chimp says. “We would miss the gate by two million kilometers.”
“Move the gate. Move the whole damn site. Move the refineries, move the factories, move the damn rocks. A couple hundred meters a second would be more than fast enough if we send the order now. We don’t even have to suspend construction, we can keep building on the fly.”
“Every one of those vectors widens the nested confidence limits of the build. It would increase the risk of error beyond allowable margins, for no payoff.”
“And what about the fact that there’s an intelligent being in our path?”
“I’m already allowing for the potential presence of intelligent alien life.”
“Okay, first off, there’s nothing potential about it. It’s right fucking there. And on our
Even tame singularities get set in their ways. They do not take well to change.
We resurrect again, and the Island has changed its tune.
It gave up asking us to stop stop stop the moment our laser hit its leading edge. Now it’s saying something else entirely: dark hyphens flow across its skin, arrows of pigment converging towards some offstage focus like spokes pointing towards the hub of a wheel. The bullseye itself is offstage and implicit, far removed from 428’s bright backdrop, but it’s easy enough to extrapolate to the point of convergence six lightsecs to starboard. There’s something else, too: a shadow, roughly circular, moving along one of the spokes like a bead running along a string. It too migrates to starboard, falls off the edge of the Island’s makeshift display, is endlessly reborn at the same initial coordinates to repeat its journey.
Those coordinates: exactly where our current trajectory will punch through the membrane in another four months. A squinting God would be able to see the gnats and girders of ongoing construction on the other side, the great piecemeal torus of the Hawking Hoop already taking shape.
The message is so obvious that even Dix sees it. “Wants us to move the gate...” and there is something like confusion in his voice. “But how’s it know we’re building one?”
“The vons punctured it en route,” the chimp points out. “It could have sensed that. It has photopigments. It can probably see.”
“Probably sees better than we do,” I say. Even something as simple as a pinhole camera gets hi-res fast if you stipple a bunch of them across thirty million square kilometers.
But Dix scrunches his face, unconvinced. “So sees a bunch of vons bumping around. Loose parts—not that much even assembled yet. How’s it know we’re building something hot ?”
Because it is very, very smart, you stupid child. Is it so hard to believe that this, this— organism seems far too limiting a word—can just imagine how those half-built pieces fit together, glance at our sticks and stones and see exactly where this is going?
“Maybe’s not the first gate it’s seen,” Dix suggests. “Think there’s maybe another gate out here?”
I shake my head. “We’d have seen the lensing artefacts by now.”
“You ever run into anyone before?”
“No.” We have always been alone, through all these epochs. We have only ever run away .
And then always from our own children.
I crunch some numbers. “Hundred eighty-two days to insemination. If we move now we’ve only got to tweak our bearing by a few mikes to redirect to the new coordinates. Well within the green. Angles get dicey the longer we wait, of course.”
“We can’t do that,” the chimp says. “We would miss the gate by two million kilometers.”
“Move the gate. Move the whole damn site. Move the refineries, move the factories, move the damn rocks. A couple hundred meters a second would be more than fast enough if we send the order now. We don’t even have to suspend construction, we can keep building on the fly.”
“Every one of those vectors widens the nested confidence limits of the build. It would increase the risk of error beyond allowable margins, for no payoff.”
“And what about the fact that there’s an intelligent being in our path?”
“I’m already allowing for the potential presence of intelligent alien life.”
“Okay, first off, there’s nothing potential about it. It’s right fucking there. And on our
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