Jack Mcdevitt - Infinity Beach

infinity beach

Infinity Beach

Jack McDevitt

The underwater sequence in chapter XIV is loosely adapted from “In the Tower,” Universe 17, Doubleday (1987).

Hobo Times, Fall 1997. Used by permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living

or dead, is entirely coincidental.

EOS

An Imprint of HzrperCollinsPub Ushers

10 East 53rd Street

New York, New York 10022-5299

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Eos, an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers.

First Eos paperback printing: February 2001

First HarperPrism hardcover printing: February 2000

Eos Trademark Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. and in Other Countries, Marca

Registrada, Hecho en U.S.A.

HarperCollins® is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

For the Brunswick Five:

Ted Barton, John Goff, Jack Kraus, Ron Peiffer, and George Tindle

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They haven’t quite worked out the secret of life, but they know it has something to do with lunch.

Acknowledgments

The author appreciates the advice and assistance of Jeffrey Hall of the Lowell Observatory; of Jimmy

Durden, the Glynn County, Georgia, coroner; of my agent and friend, Ralph Vicinanza; of my son Chris

McDevitt for devising PAULS; of writers Walt Cuirle and Brian A. Hopkins for their advice on early

versions of the manuscript. Thanks also to Will Jenkins/Murray Leinster, for “First Contact,” and for his

other magnificent forays into the imagination. To Caitlin Blasdell, my editor at HarperPrism. To Rebecca

Springer. And of course to Maureen.

We have always stood along a beach opening onto an infinite sea. That sea beckons us, but for ages we

were limited to looking across its expanse with our telescopes and our imaginations. In time, we learned

to build outriggers and we got to a few of the barrier islands. Today we have finally in our hands a true

four-master, a ship that will take us beyond whatever horizons may exist. —KHALID ALNIRI, The

“Infinity Beach” Speech at Wesleyan

We’ve known for a long time that contact might eventually happen, maybe would have to happen, and

that when it did it would change everything, our technology, our sense of who we are, our notions of what

the universe is. We’ve seen this particular lightning strike coming and we’ve played with the idea of what

it might mean for eleven hundred years. We’ve imagined that other intelligences exist, we’ve imagined

them as fearsome or gentle, as impossibly strange or remarkably familiar, as godlike, as remote, as

indifferent. Well, I wonder whether the bolt is about to arrive. With you and me at the impact point.

—SOLLY HOBBS to KIM BRANDYWINE,

On the occasion of their visit to

Alnitak

Dates, unless otherwise indicated, are given in the Green-way calendar, whose Year 1 coincides with the

first landing on that world in 2411 of the common era. The Green way and terrestrial year are almost

identical in duration, which is one of the reasons that world was selected for terraforming.

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infinity beach

infinity beach-1.jpg

Illustrations by James P. Beery

Prologue

• AIM 3.513

“Don’t do it.” Kane, covered in blood, stood framed in the doorway.

“—no choice—” Tripley called as the flyer lifted off the pad. “Do what you can for her.”

As he’d feared, the bastards did not show up on his screen. But he could see their eerie companion, the

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infinity beach

spectral thing that floated through the moonlight. It was tracking northwest, toward Mount Hope. He had

to assume it was escorting them. Riding shotgun.

The village fell away, and he was out over the lake. He switched to manual, climbed to fifteen hundred

meters, and gave it everything it had, which wasn’t much. The flyer rattled and creaked but got up to two

hundred fifty klicks. To his surprise he saw that he was gaining ground.

Was that possible? Or had the thing slowed down, to lure him on?

Three of Greenway’s moons, in their first quarter, floated in a cloudless sky, illuminating the distant

peaks, the cool, dark lake, the dam, the fleeing cloud.

What was it anyhow?

It had drawn itself almost into a sphere, trailing long, hazy tendrils. Like a comet, he thought; unlike any

other that had sailed past the world. Lethal and efficient and starkly graceful, framed against the

snowcapped mountains.

But the sensor return was getting louder. He was gaining.

In these first quiet moments since everything had come undone, he listened to the wind and the burble of

his elec-

Ironies, and he wished desperately he could go back and change everything.

Ahead, the comet-shape was moving ever slower. And beginning to dissolve.

Tripley braked.

He knew that the ship would be continuing straight on. He laughed, thinking of it in those terms. A ship

that no one could see, that didn’t show up on the screens, that could lose itself out there without any fear

of being found.

And there lay the problem. He could not follow without the telltale cloud to lead him. And he would have

to kill the cloud to survive himself. How in hell had things gotten so desperately out of hand?

Kill the cloud.

Was the damned thing even alive?

They’d passed over the northwest shore. Dark forest lay below, the Gray Mountains rose ahead.

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It turned to confront him.

He watched it spread across the night, opening for him, expanding into a kind of blossom, waiting to

receive him. It had filaments, backlit by the moons, through which something, a nutrient, a life force,

pulsed steadily.

He hesitated briefly, suddenly fearful, and then accelerated again to full throttle. He would kill the bastard

or die himself.

Close the vents. Check windows and doors. He didn’t want any part of it getting into the cabin.

The night was full of regrets. He’d made the wrong call at every turn, had gotten people killed, and God

knew what he’d unleashed on the world. But maybe he could start making amends now.

The wind roared across his stubby wings, and the creature floated in the moonlight, waiting. He could see

the constellations in its veils.

It was unspeakably lovely, a mixture of mist and starlight, moving easily with the wind. He aimed

directly at the center of the thing. He’d plow through and come around and rip into it again and keep

slicing it apart until it was scattered across the sky.

And when that was done, he’d get back on the base course of the fleeing ship. There had to be a way to

run it to ground. But one thing at a time.

The comm buzzer alerted him that someone was trying to reach him.

Kane.

The apparition began to move, tried to draw aside. Trip-ley felt a surge of joy. It was afraid of him. No,

you son of a bitch. He adjusted course to keep it in his mental crosshairs.

The buzzer sounded again.

He knew what Kane would say. She’s dead. And: Let it go. But it was too late now for common sense.

Wasn’t that what Kane had been saying from the beginning: Use common sense? But it had been hard to

sort out, to know what to do—

Tripley braced himself, not knowing what to expect. The cloud was growing thinner as he approached,

but that might have been an illusion, the way mist seems to dissipate when one plunges into it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not sure to whom he was speaking.

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And then he ripped into the cloud. Through it. Came out into clear starlight.

He looked back and saw that he’d blown a hole through its center. Parts of it were drifting away.

He went hard right, circling around for a second pass. He was confident now that it couldn’t hurt him. Its

suppleness appeared to be gone. It was struggling.

He raced through it again from a different angle, hurling its fragments into the night, exhilarated by the

taste of vengeance.

That was for Yoshi.

And this—

Everything failed. The soft murmur of the magnetics changed to a whine and died.

The instrument panel lights blinked out. And suddenly the only sound was the whisper of the wind.

The flyer fell through the night.

He fought the controls, trying frantically to restart as the trees rushed up. Above him, silhouetted against

Glory, the largest moon, the cloud was trying to re-form. And in those last moments, riven with fear and

despair, a brilliant white light erupted on the slopes of Mount Hope. A second sun. He watched it expand,

watched it engulf the world.

And he felt a final rush of satisfaction. It had to be the ship. The thing’s masters, at least, were dead.

And then it ceased to matter.

1

• New Year’s Eve, 599

It seems safe now to assume that the terrestrial origin of life was a unique event. Some will quibble that

we have, after all, seen only a few thousand of the billions of worlds drifting through the gently curving

corridors we once called bio-zones. But we have stood on too many warm beaches and looked across

seas over which no gulls hover, that throw forth neither shells, nor strands of weed, nor algae. They are

peaceful seas, bounded by rock and sand.

The universe has come to resemble a magnificent but sterile wilderness, an ocean which boasts no

friendly coast, no sails, no sign that any have passed this way before. And we cannot help but tremble in

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the gray light of these vast distances. Maybe that is why we are converting the great interstellar liners

into museums, or selling them for pans. Why we have begun to retreat, why the Nine Worlds are now

really six, why the frontier is collapsing, why we are going home to our island.

We are coming back at last to Earth. To the forests of our innocence. To the shores of night. Where we

need not listen to the seaborne wind.

Farewell, Centaurus. Farewell to all we might have been.

—ELIO KARDI, “The Shores of Night,” Voyagers, 571

“Nova goes in three minutes.”

Dr. Kimberly Brandywine looked out across the dozen or so faces in the briefing room. In back, lenses

were pointed at her, sending the event out across the nets. Behind, her projections read HELLO TO THE

UNIVERSE and KNOCK and is

ANYBODY OUT THERE?

Several flatscreens were positioned around the walls, showing technicians bent over terminals in the

Trent. These were the teams that would ignite the nova, but the images were fourteen hours old, the time

required for the hyper-comm transmissions to arrive.

Everyone present was attractive and youthful, except sometimes for their eyes. However vital and agile

people were, their true age tended to reveal itself in their gaze. There was a hardness that came with

advancing years, eyes that somehow lost their depth and their animation. Kim was in her midthirties, with

exquisite features and hair the color of a raven’s wing. In an earlier era, they would have launched ships

for her. In her own age, she was just part of the crowd.

“If we haven’t found anybody after all this time,” the representative from Seabright Communications was

saying, “it can only be because there’s nobody to find. Or, if there is, they’re so far away it doesn’t

matter.”

She delivered her standard reply, discounting the great silence, pointing out that even after eight centuries

humans had still inspected only a few thousand star systems. “But you may be right,” she admitted.

“Maybe we are alone. But the fact is that we really don’t know. So we’ll keep trying.”

Kim had long since concluded that Seabright was right. They hadn’t found so much as an amoeba out

there. Briefly, at the beginning of the Space Age, there’d been speculation that life might exist in

Europa’s seas. Or in Jupiter’s clouds. There’d even been a piece of meteoric rock thought to contain

evidence of Martian bacteria. It was as close to extraterrestrial life as we’d ever come.

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Hands were still waving.

“One more question,” she said.

She gave it to Canon Woodbridge, a science advisor for the Grand Council of the Republic. He was tall,

dark, bearded, almost satanic in appearance, yet a congenial fiend, one who meant no harm. “Kim,” he

said, “why do you think we’re so afraid of being alone? Why do we want so much to find our own

reflections out there?” He glanced in the direction of the screens, where the technicians continued their

almost-ceremonial activities.

How on earth would she know? “I have no idea, Canon,” she said.

“But you’re deeply involved in the Beacon Project. And your sister devoted her life to the same goal.”

“Maybe it’s in the wiring.” Emily, her clone actually, had vanished when Kim was seven. She paused

momentarily and tried to deliver a thoughtful response, something about the human need to communicate

and to explore. “I suspect,” she said, “if there’s really nothing out there, if the universe is really empty, or

at least this part of it is, then maybe a lot of us would feel there’s no point to the trip.” There was more to

it than that, she knew. Some primal urge not to be alone. But when she tried to put it into words she

floundered around, gave up, and glanced at the clock.

One minute to midnight, New Year’s Eve, in the two hundred eleventh year of the Republic and the six

hundredth year since Marquand’s landing. One minute to detonation.

“How are we doing on time?” asked one of the journalists. “Are they on schedule?”

“Yes,” Kim said. “As of ten A.M. this morning.” The hy-percomm signal from the Trent required

fourteen hours and some odd minutes to travel the 580 light-years from the scene of detonation. “I think

we’re safe to assume that the nova is imminent.”

She activated an overhead screen, which picked up an image of the target star. Alpha Maxim was a bright

AO-class. Hydrogen lines prominent. Surface temperature 11,000° C. Luminosity sixty times that of

Helios. Five planets. All barren. Like every other known world, save the few that had been terraformed.

It would be the first of six novas. All would occur within a volume of space which measured

approximately five hun-dred cubic light-years. And they would be triggered at sixty-day intervals. It

would be a demonstration that could not help but draw the attention of anyone who might be watching.

The ultimate message to the stars: We are here.

But she believed, as almost everyone else did, that the great silence would continue to roll back.

We live along the shores of night, At the edge of the eternal sea.

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The effort was called the Beacon Project. Its sponsor was Kim’s employer, the Seabright Institute. But

even there, among those who had pushed the project, who had worked for years to bring it to fruition,

there was a deep, pervading pessimism. Maybe it resulted from the knowledge that they’d all be dead

before any possible answer could come back. Or maybe, as she wholeheartedly believed, it grew from a

sense that this was a final gesture, more farewell than serious attempt at communication.

Emily, who had given her life to the great quest, would have been ashamed of her. It just demonstrated,

Kim thought, how little the DNA really counted.

The Trent lay at a distance of five AUs from its target. The ship was an ancient cargo vessel refitted

specifically for Beacon. Immediately after detonation, its crew and technicians would transfer to another

vessel, which would transit into hyperspace, out of harm’s way. The Trent would be left to probe and

measure the nova until the blast silenced it.

Kim threw a switch, and a computer-generated image of the LK6, a modified antique transport, formed in

the center of the room. The LK6 was loaded with antimatter, contained within a magnetic bubble. It was

traveling in hyperspace and, within a few seconds, would emerge in the solar core. If all went well, the

resulting explosion would destabilize the star and, according to theory, ignite the first artificial nova.

A clock in the lower right-hand corner indicated the time of the image, and a counter ticked off the last

seconds, si-multaneously the last of the century and the last before the LK6 entry.

Kim watched the numbers go to zeroes. The year rolled over to 600 and 580 light-years away the missile

inserted itself and its payload into the heart of the star.

Outside, the Institute people applauded. In the briefing room, the mood was strange, almost somber.

Maxim was older than Helios, and there was a general sense that ending its existence was somehow

wrong.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Kim, “the pictures will be in tomorrow, and we’ll have them for you at the

news conference.” She thanked them and stepped away from the lectern, and they began to file out of the

room.

Woodbridge lingered, looking out the window at the Institute’s grounds. They were covered with a thin

layer of snow. He waited for Kim to join him. “I wonder,” he said, “whether it’s a good idea to advertise

our presence until we know who the neighbors are.” He wore a dark brown robe belted with a silver sash,

and his sea green eyes were thoughtful.

“It’s a valid question, Canon,” she said, “but surely anyone intelligent enough to develop interstellar

travel would be above shooting up strangers.”

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“Hard to say.” He shrugged. “If we guess wrong, we could pay a substantial price.” He looked up at the

clear, bright sky. “It’s obvious that Whoever designed the cosmos wanted to put distance between His

creatures.”

They pulled on their jackets and walked out onto a terrace. The night was cold.

Seabright was only a few hundred kilometers north of the equator, but Greerrway, despite its name, was

not a particularly warm world. The bulk of its population was concentrated in equatorial latitudes.

An array of telescopes had been set up at the north end of the terrace, away from the buildings. A

technician stood beside one, talking with a girl. The telescope was pointed toward the southeast, where

Alpha Maxim was just one more pinpoint of light.

The girl’s name was Lyra. She was the technician’s daugh-ter, probably ten years old, and could

reasonably expect to live two centuries.

“I wonder if she thinks she’ll be able to see the nova,” said Woodbridge.

Kim stepped to one side. “Ask her.”

He did, and Lyra smiled one of those vaguely contemptuous smiles that children use when they think

adults are being condescending. “No, Canon,” she said, while her mother looked pleased. “It will not

change in my lifetime.”

Nor of her kids, thought Kim. Light was so slow.

Woodbridge turned back to her. “Kim,” he said, “may I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to Emily?”

It was a strange question, coming apparently from nowhere. But maybe not, now that she thought about

it. Emily would have wanted to be here tonight. Woodbridge had known her, and he understood that

about her. “No,” Kim said. “She got in that taxi and never showed up at the hotel. That’s all I know.” She

looked past the telescopes. Lyra’s mother had decided it was too cold to stay out any longer, and she was

ushering the child inside. “We never heard a word.”

Woodbridge nodded. “It’s hard to understand how something like that could happen.” They lived in a

society in which crime was almost unknown.

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Jack Mcdevitt - Infinity Beach

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