Ashes of Exploding Suns, Monuments to Dust
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Ashes of Exploding Suns, Monuments to Dust Christopher McKi tterick when skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man —e.e. cummings Extinction +15,000 years Scientists say you do not dream during cryosleep. This is untrue. If you enter the state intend - ing to kill billions, the subconscious mind punishes. Cryosleep dreams move slowly, the way glaciers take thousands of years grinding a civilization to gravel. Violence acting almost imper - ceptibly over protracted time still leaves enduring scars, like aging. Warming away the residue of hibernation, the sleep capsule lit my nerves on fire. The all- consuming pain of being resurrected is difficult to convey. A facsimile of your own blood dis - places hibernation fluid. Senses scatter and conflate. Skin crackles and muscles creak as the nano-bath electrifies. To activate switched-off nerves, embeds twitch one’s body in disconcert - ing jolts. Teeth rattle. Images from dream and memory overwhelm the casket’s synesthetic re - ality. Nightmares fade and rise again. No matter how tranquil one’s normal state, panic grips the throat. 130 NOVEMBER /D ECEMBER 2018 This phase lasts longer than the corporeal shock of waking. Not forever, though the hind - brain panics. After enough practice, discipline helps dissociate from the sensations. This suf - fering will end, like all things. If you fail to revive, you die before this liminal state, blissfully unaware. Those waking from cryo often envy those who remain forever asleep. What does it mean to live? An accurate measure is awareness of pain. As I surfaced toward consciousness, the reason for retreating into hibernation all those cen - turies ago crashed through me, like meltwater rushing beneath ice. Lights winking out. Our homeworld shrouded in the fog of vaporized buildings. I began to laugh. This noise emerged from the darkest part of my soul, the part about to pull the trigger to destroy worlds. If there were tears, they were only natural. Something that felt like whalesong pummeled my ears. A stabbing sensation in my eyes less - ened as I relaxed my fierce squint. The pain resolved into a light flashing very near my face, red-blue-red, red-blue-red; the whalesong resolved into an audible alarm. As I focused on the muffled sound and meaning of the light, it was as if I rose from drowning. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. My heart stuttered. My mind clawed up to the surface of consciousness enough to check the virtual clock in my head. Some emergency had awoken me almost three hundred years too soon. I mentally ordered the alert off. The inrushing silence howled like a distant storm siren. It took several attempts to get my voice to work well enough to speak: “How many intruders?” “One,” replied the Security AI. “An Original Man.” My heart pounded so hard the arteries in my neck ached. Security’s smooth and confident voice added, “It has been secured.” My eardrums fluttered. It took me a few seconds to collect my thoughts enough to ask, “Is the enemy’s ship within sensor range?” “No,” replied Tactics. “No vessels have moved under power in Karalang System for more than nine thousand years.” So much time . the weight of loss crushed the air from my lungs. Green ready lights shone through my closed eyelids. I waved them off and drew a shaky breath. “You may exit capsule when ready,” Medical said gently, aware of my fragile condition. I popped the casket hatch. Ancient gaskets cracked and peeled. Preservative gas dusty with inactive nanos hissed out of my pod into the cruiser’s echoing hibernation garrison. For the first time in millennia, I inhaled. The sharp tang of ozone and oxidized metals triggered a coughing fit, loosening phlegm that had formed during the last days of my people. It felt like only yester - day when our branch of the human species was snipped from the family tree. Liquid running from my eyes cooled my cheeks. I blinked against the pale yellow lighting. I creaked to my feet and stretched to regain mobility, joints popping. The garrison’s controls glowed to life around me. I cancelled the display. No need to put the ship’s other 91 crewmembers through the pain of waking just to deal with a single, secured in - truder. I could be merciful at the same time I was ruthless. This, perhaps, has always been my trademark. * * * Extinction +97 days (15,000 years ago) The real nightmare started long ago. “Captain,” my comms officer said, stiff and unblinking in the bright passageway. Several sol - diers stood behind her, likewise rigid. One bore red eyes and salt-streaked cheeks, though he kept his face calm. They had woken our first from hibernation, a small scout team. “It’s ready.” She gestured to the tactical-display room beyond their blue uniforms. The hatch stood open. All studiously looked away. I nodded and stepped into the room’s frozen holo. A sphere of stars and planets surrounded ASHES OF EXPLODING SUNS , M ONUMENTS TO DUST 131 ANALOG me. “Play,” I said. I violently rubbed sleep from my eyes. The sphere dimmed to black then bright - ened with data. Point of view: Tactical satellite array in high orbit around Karalang, our homeworld. The next planet out from the sun, Tapil, glowed like a blue-green microdot pinned to black fabric. Stars sparsely populated the sky except along the galactic plane—what Original Man calls the Milky Way or Silver River—where they shone as thick as streetlights in fog. Our moons, brown Frouros and grey Acaung, stood watch side-by-side at crescent phase: the month of the night - fish. The sun appeared ghostly and wavering, like a sunken ship’s lights shining from beneath murky water. The reactor had been set to high drain for powering our defenses. Tuning the per - centage of photons absorbed varied the strength of the array and management field. A slight charge dimmed the sunlight a negligible amount; at max drain, almost nothing escaped except beams of conditioned, usable energy. A muted sun attested to the hard winter Karalang would soon endure. Normally we used it to prevent solar flares from causing havoc and to capture the energy needed for feeding the hunger of advanced technology. Like other civilizations who built their own Dyson collectors, we wanted for nothing. I’m no engineer, but like every Karalang citizen of my era, I learned the system’s basics. A vast array of orbiting AI statites framed the reactor, shaping an artificial magnetosphere that en - veloped the sun along the slippery three-dimensional edges of a multidimensional Calabi–Yau manifold, functionally creating a low-mass Dyson sphere. Hundreds of generations ago, Control came up with a plan to stave off the sun’s eventual Red Giant phase by starlifting excess fusion byproducts. But what to do with so much star-waste? We were a frugal people. Thus was born the Jet, a spear of fire that extended halfway across the sky. Control created this wonder by turning the reactor inward, inducing the field-current to cap - ture and deflect the lifted material in addition to the sun’s naturally cast-off matter. Rivers of plasma flowed along these fields, accelerating along the bubble’s electromagnetic scaffolding, weaving complex coils that converged at a two-stage reaction chamber that looked like a star beside our sun. It was so fiercely bright I had to blot it out with a thumb to scan the tactical sit - uation. Here in the reactor, the matter component of the flow was coerced into induced-anni - hilation while falling through manipulated space. As the collected energy returned to classical space, a magnetic manifold-nozzle similar to our shields collimated the system’s output with collected radiated energies, generating thrust by emitting a coherent beam whose mass was ac - celerated to near-light-speed as it fell back into our dimension of timespace. By harnessing enough energy to power a million Type I civilizations, we transformed our star into a Class D stellar engine. This Rao-Chang drive propelled our sun across the immensity of space, altering its normal or - bit around the Galaxy. Gravity held our system’s worlds in regular orbit, the acceleration too slight to shake loose any but the least-associated objects. Every few thousand years, Control manifested and fired the Jet for century- or millennia-long intervals to adjust our system’s orbital speed and trajectory. This enabled us to explore distant places without having to leave home for longer than short-term missions. Other civilizations built fleets of starships—a complicated strategy, yet far more efficient than ours. Why did we go to so much trouble? Those in charge made many reasonable argu - ments—our star did require intervention to remain stable—but most important was that doing this kept us together as a people. Our way conferred identity. Rather than sending small teams to flit about the stars on independent missions from which they might never return, we all moved together. On our journey toward wherever we visited next, we brought along all our re - sources, our homes, our AI servants, our organizations, our entire civilization. Such missions required tens or hundreds of generations to fulfill, but we were in no hurry. Karalang erected Humankind’s most magnificent feat of engineering to share pride of 132 CHRISTOPHER MCKITTERICK NOVEMBER /D ECEMBER 2018 accomplishment. Though some mocked us, every human civilization across the Galaxy knew us for this achievement. We might have been the only people to create such in all the Universe.