The ecolog, p.1
The Ecolog, page 1
The Ecolog
Faraday Nelson
Borgo Press (2000)
Rating: ★★★★☆
Tags: Science Fiction, Fiction, General, Adventure
Science Fictionttt Fictionttt Generalttt Adventurettt
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Laser Books
Laser Books was a line of 57 paperback science fiction (SF) novels published from 1975 to 1977 by Canadian romance powerhouse Harlequin Books. Laser published three titles per month, available by subscription as well as in stores. The books were limited to 50,000-60,000 words. They were numbered as a series, though each was a standalone novel. All the covers were painted by Hugo Award winning artist Kelly Freas.
Tim Powers, whose first book was published by Laser, has said that Epitaph in Rust was "mangled" by the editors at Laser Books. An unedited version was later issued by a different publisher. Piers Anthony had problems with their publication of his novel But What Of Earth?. This novel was also issued later, through Tor Books.
The Ecolog
Faraday Nelson
INTRODUCTION
In my previous book, Then Beggars Could Ride, I proposed a certain kind of Utopia, one that could be accomplished on a limited energy budget, one that avoided the boredom of most "perfect societies" by decentralization and diversification, by making room for many different ways of life rather than attempting to impose a single lifestyle on everyone.
Some of the helpful souls who hear my novels read out loud, chapter by chapter, before publication pointed out that my planet wasn't very "far out." It was still the planet Earth, even if an Earth set in the future. They wondered if such a society would be possible on another planet.
This was an embarrassing question, since it exposed one of my worst blind spots. I knew something about history, the arts, mythology and other such "humanities," as one might expect from a graduate of the Hutchins' Era University of Chicago, but unfortunately I knew absolutely nothing about astronomy.
My friends reassured me that many science fiction writers were in the same boat, even some of the all-time greats. Ray Bradbury, they said, created a Mars that, even at the time of his writing, was impossible. And what did Philip K. Dick know about the stars? Or Edgar Rice Burroughs? Or Reg Bretnor? Or Harlan Ellison? Or Mike Moorcock? If ignorance was bliss for all these giants, why should a small fry like me worry my poor head about such things?
They had a point, but I was worried all the same.
For years I'd been writing science fiction and, as they pointed out, had almost never ventured off the surface of homey old Sol Three. I was limited, and I don't like to be limited.
I decided to give myself a crash course in astronomy and have a go at writing my first true space-opera.
I laid my problem before Poul Anderson. He helpfully provided me with a xerox of an article he wrote for the November 1966 issue of The Bulletin of the Science Fiction Writers of America entitled "How to Build a Planet." I read it, but I must admit I did not understand it. I read it again. A pattern began to emerge. It made my head ache, but it certainly revived my flagging sense of wonder.
I talked to another friend of mine, amateur astronomer and cat collector Leonard Metula, who loaned me a few books: Alone in the Universe by John Macvey; Intelligence in the Universe by MacGowan and Ordway; and Superworlds by Joshua Strickland. These too were a bit steep for me.
The breakthrough came when the teenage girl next door lent me her high school astronomy text. With a painful sensation of inferiority, I browsed through it. From that moment on there was no turning back.
Astronomy was one subject I was going to understand if it killed me. Help came from many sources. Robert Anton Wilson patiently explained black holes, which he said might be the ultimate reality. Astrologer Richard Fabry drew up my horoscope. I watched Star Trek reruns. I searched everywhere for a map of the Milky Way Galaxy and finally, in a war game called "Alpha Centauri," found a remarkable chart of at least the neighboring stars. At the "Federation Outpost" on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley I located a relentlessly authentic starchart of the skies of Vulcan, where Mr. Spock comes from. I read The Mote in God's Eye by Niven and Pournelle and was very impressed until, in a Galaxy article, the authors admitted fudging. (Their spaceship was built from a plastic model kit.)
Gradually, bit by bit, a grand panorama began to unfold. There were population-one stars located in the spiral arms of cur galaxy, and there were population-two stars located in the hub of the galaxy and in galactic clusters above and below the galactic plane. Population-two stars were short of heavy elements and might not have any planets, or perhaps only gaseous ones. Double and triple stars might also lack planets. But there were still many possible planetary systems left, particularly since planets have been recently discovered around two nearby stars.
I was annoyed about that. Here I sit in front of my television set every night under the delusion that I'm watching the news, and all the time whole planets are being discovered without the media breathing a word about it. In case you too haven't heard, there are perhaps two planets circling Barnard's Star about six light-years from here; and around Lalande 21185, about eight point two light-years away, swings a monster planet ten times the mass of Jupiter.
If there are that many planets here in our own neighborhood, that means that (a) there are lots and lots of planets all over the place, or (b) we live in a very exclusive neighborhood.
Thus encouraged, I set about planning the book you now hold in your hands.
If you wonder where I found the wild descriptions of flight at near light speeds, I did not just make them up. They are borrowed from Spaceflight, the usually quite conservative journal of the British Interplanetary Society.
The planet itself, New Earth, is my own creation.
It's a lot like Old Earth, but it has arrived at this appearance by quite a different route. The star it rotates around is a population-two star, which means any planets it spawns must be very low on metals. I like it that way, since this makes particularly pressing the problems of ecological poverty I want to portray. New Earth has been artificially made to resemble Old Earth, but the problem of the shortage of raw materials has not been licked.
Before I asked the question, "Can we have Utopia on a budget?"
Now I ask, "Can we have Utopia on a very tight budget?"
The answer, it seems to me, is that when the available resources fall below a certain point Utopia is still possible, but only for a tiny minority. I don't go into it much in this book, but it also seems to me that the form of government is largely determined by the availability of resources. Primitive technology is unable to tap more than a small fraction of the available resources; for all practical purposes primitive societies operate in a condition of great scarcity and thus literally cannot afford "liberty, equality and fraternity." Authoritarian societies are the unavoidable result of extreme scarcity; conversely, democratic forms of government are dependent on a certain minimum supply of energy and raw materials.
The Ecolog owes something to Pournelle and Niven; in the same article where they admit to the use of plastic model spaceships, they outline their reasons for using an aristocratic style of government in God's Eye. I think they used an aristocratic style of government because that is the life-style they secretly long for, though they are fair enough to admit the great unsolved problem of aristocracy: "How to avoid succession crisis?"
When the Man on Horseback dies, how do we avoid having everything fall apart, as it did on the death of, say, Alexander the Great? My Ecolog solves this problem in a way I believe to be scientifically possible, but I also show, I hope, how scientific factors are not the only ones in play. Is it really such a good idea to have a Man on Horseback—or in my case a Woman on Horseback—who lasts forever?
In the early stages, the spaceship was called The Victoria, but then I changed it to The Corregidor. My hero, Commodore Briggs, does represent the values of the Victorian Age, but I didn't want to give the impression that determination, self-discipline, a sense of duty and a feeling for elegance died, with the Grand Old Monarch Victoria, at 6:30 p.m., January 22, 1901.
CHAPTER 1
"Looks like an ambush," the bow watch reported, and even through his headphones Phillips could hear restrained tension in the voice. "Two Lorn starships coming in fast at grid 12 and 12."
Dead ahead, thought Phillips. When a ship comes in at near light speed, there's no way it can be seen or detected until it's almost on top of you. Typical Lorn tactics. Strike hard and fast and kill everybody. The Lorns weren't humans, and human life meant nothing to them. They don't even hate us. They just want us out of the way so they can have our planets.
Another voice crackled in the headphones. "Briggs here. We'll take evasive action on computer control. Key in all battle stations and prepare to fire. On my signal we're going off manuals. Repeat, off manuals."
On manual control from the forward control room, the starship Corregidor began to turn.
"Now," came the voice of Commodore Briggs. On the control panel of Lieutenant Mike Phillips the little red light indicating manual control went out. The computer had taken over. Mike leaned back in his bucket seat and permitted himself a glance through the transparent canopy above him, instinctively expecting to see some sign of the enemy, though he knew they were still too far away for visual contact. There were stars in plenty; the Milky Way looked much the same as it would have from Earth, at least to the casual glance, but the nearest star was yellow orange Epsilon Eridani, a point of light behind him. Two days ago the Corregidor had been in orbit around her titanic fifth planet, unloading supplies for the Eridani orbiter. Mike wished he was back there now. They might have received some help from the orbiter. From here a radio message would take hours to reach friendly human ears.
The earphones crackled again. "Bow watch reporting. They're closing on us, firing." The voice was calm, almost bored, except for a faint undertone of panic.
A violent explosion shook the Corregidor throughout its half-kilometer length. Phillips, in the secondary control room amidships, waited for the Corregidor to return fire, to hit back. It was up to the computer now.
Precious seconds passed.
Nothing happened.
Mike scanned his control panel, saw that the manual control light had turned on again, red, unwavering. Mike spoke into his helmet microphone. "Manuals are still on, Commodore. The computer's not taking hold."
The secondary control room was dim, lit only by Epsilon Eridani behind him, the Milky Way above and the myriad tiny lights and green-glowing dials on the control panels that surrounded him. "Commodore Briggs," called Mike into his helmet phone, unable to totally conceal the anxiety in his voice. "Commodore Briggs. Answer please."
Still the commanding officer of the Corregidor did not reply, but a third voice came on the line. "The Lorns hit the main control room. Instruments say the hull is broken. There's no air in there." Mike recognized the voice. Ensign Peter DeCarli, head of damage control. DeCarli added, "Computer's hit, too."
Mike thought, Briggs was in there, and all the other senior officers … except me. He said aloud, "Briggs must be dead."
Nobody contradicted him.
As if in a dream Mike did what he was trained to do. "This is Lieutenant Phillips in the secondary control room. I'm taking command." His gloved fingers danced over the studs on the control console. The Corregidor leaped into motion.
Above him, outside the canopy, there was a silent flash that would have blinded him if the durlite hadn't momentarily clouded, triggered by the safety eye. Well, they almost nailed us again, he thought, smiling faintly. It was not warm in the control room, but his coveralls were stuck to his back with sweat.
The canopy cleared. For an instant he glimpsed the enemy, two minute dots of light moving against the starry background. They didn't look dangerous somehow. Two little dots. The Corregidor rolled and the dots swung out of sight.
A voice in Mike's ear asked, "Do we fight or run?" It was Chief Engineer George Dutton. His voice sounded old.
To Mike the answer to this question was like the solution to a mathematical calculation: inevitable. Two against one. And the Corregidor was hit. No computer. And me at the controls.
"We run," Mike replied. "Cancel inertia."
"Inertia canceled," Dutton responded crisply, then added uncertainly, "If you're sure…"
I've been at the helm for a matter of seconds and already they're questioning my orders. Mike snapped, "Accelerate to thirty-five thousand kilometers per hour and hold." From behind he could hear the rising whine of power.
"Aye, sir. Thirty-five thousand." Dutton would never disobey a direct order. Dutton went by the book, as Mike well knew.
The bow watch broke in. "They're firing again."
"We're making a right-angle turn," Mike said. "Now!" His gloved hand gestured over the console and the studs read his movements. The whine abruptly changed to a scream. Instantly the Corregidor was moving on a course perpendicular to its previous direction.
"Right angle completed, sir," noted Dutton. "They missed us." Behind Mike's right shoulder three bright flashes blazed in succession, then faded.
The headphones sounded again. "Aft watch reporting. The Lorns are dead astern of us now, at grid six and six. They're turning to follow us. Oh oh. They're launching homing missiles."
Mike pulled off his gloves and wiped his sweating palms on the knees of his tan coveralls. "Damn bloodhounds! But we can outrun them."
"Outrun?" the chief engineer sounded doubtful.
Mike answered grimly, "We're taking this ship up to just under the speed of light. Now!"
There was a moment's hesitation. "Aye, sir."
The Corregidor lunged forward, as if eager for the race.
"Aft watch here. The missiles are speeding up with us, still tracking."
The whine of power grew higher and more frantic and Mike, frowning, thought he smelled the faint aroma of ozone. He glanced out through the canopy. There was, as yet, no sign of movement in the stars, though the ship was accelerating rapidly. As far as the eye could tell, the Corregidor was standing still.
Mike watched for a motion that never ceased to fascinate him. He did not have long to wait.
The stars began to move, but very slowly, and not in the direction one instinctively expected. They moved forward, as if they, too, were racing with the ship and the missiles that followed it.
The sky in the forward half of the canopy became more and more crowded with stars, while the canopy to the rear grew empty and dark.
"Aft watch here. The missiles are gaining on us."
The relative brightness of the stars changed. Those that had been bright became dark. Darker stars became bright, as different portions of their spectra shifted into visible range. They changed color. Even their shape changed, the round bright dots becoming distinctly oval, as if they were being crushed flat by some universal pressure—the same pressure that seemed to be driving them toward the front of the ship.
"Still gaining, sir." This from the aft watch.
"Have we any more power?'' Mike asked.
"No, sir." Dutton's voice was tired, resigned.
The power whine was steady now, uncomfortably loud. They were moving faster, steadily faster, but there was no feeling of speed inside the ship, no sensation of acceleration.
The stars continued to edge forward, and now a consistent pattern began to emerge from the color change. Those farthest forward were turning blue; those farthest back turned dark red. Between the two extremes bands of graded color formed, until the entire sky became one majestic rainbow, dim to the rear, bright ahead.
"Still gaining, sir," whispered Mike's earphones. Mike bit his lip. The missiles were smaller, had less mass. They would also have less inertia to cancel, and thus would use less fuel.
"Dutton. How does our energy supply look?"
"At this acceleration?" the old man answered grimly. "Not good."
The stars dimmed, fading out in the red and blue portions of the "rainbow." The space behind the ship was now black; the space ahead of the ship was becoming black too, and a quarter of the way back the red band and blue band came together, squeezing the green, the yellow and the orange into oblivion.
Now there was one band: a shimmering violet.
And then, nothing. Total darkness.
The Corregidor was running blind.
"Aft watch here. I've lost visual contact on those missiles. Instrument contact is fading out too."
Mike couldn't see the missiles. Without light or some other electromagnetic radiation in the detectable bands, nobody could see them. But he knew they were there, gaining on him. If he slowed, they'd catch up and finish his ship. The missiles had been on a straight-line course behind him when the acceleration began. No, he couldn't see them, but they couldn't see him either. He was counting on that.
"I'm changing course," Mike announced.
Old man Dutton spoke instantly. "I'd advise against that, sir. No way of knowing where we'll end up."
Mike knew what he meant. It wasn't healthy to steer at near light speeds. The slightest course alteration without any external reference point could send you sailing unaware into the core of some particularly hot, white dwarf star.
"Any other suggestions?" Mike demanded.
Dutton did not reply.
"Then there's no other way." We won't hit anything, he silently reassured himself. Like Briggs always used to say, "In space there's more nothing than anything."
"Now." Mike gestured over the studs.
There was no sensation of movement on board—the stasis field saw to that—but Mike read from his instruments that the pattern of energy expended had caused the ship to branch off at an angle of ten degrees in the vertical plane… wherever that vertical plane might be.
