Edge of the wire, p.1
Edge of the Wire, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Scott Kenemore
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design: Kai Texel
Cover photo: Getty Images
Print ISBN: 978-1-945863-87-5
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-945863-88-2
Printed in the United States of America
What if, parallel to the life we know, there is another life that does not die, which lacks the elements that destroy our life? [ . . .] Ah, but I have seen its manifestations. I have talked with them.
—Frank Belknap Long, “The Hounds of Tindalos” (1929)
“What’s to prevent us from looking around the moon?”
“Nothing,” said Thorn.
“Mars, Jupiter, the Milky Way?”
“Nothing.”
“Beyond that? The stars we can’t see? The worlds out there in the black?”
“Nothing.”
“What,” said Pence, “do you suppose we’d find, in the end, if we went far enough?”
“I don’t think you would find anything out there,” said Thorn quickly. “You would not find God.”
—Howard Wandrei, “The God-Box” (1934)
What must be faced is that the entire world or cosmos is not [yet] subjugated to the divine will . . .
—Philip K. Dick, Exegesis [50:87] (January 1978)
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER ONE
THE SILKWORMS SAT QUIETLY IN THE IMPRESSIVELY-TIERED, BRILLIANTLY-lit briefing auditorium, and Rowe thought about how he was going to die.
Before them, upon the carpeted stage, a vidcom screen flashed scenes of rich nebular vistas from across the universe. More accurately, it showed conquests. Places that had already been counted, cataloged, and colonized. Places the Silkworms had already wired within the Goo.
To one side of the stage was a massive hull window that looked out into sheer naked space. A thousand yards off floated the Halifax, a near mirror-image of their own vessel, the Apollinax. The two spaceships glowed bright and silent, each dazzling the other with a powerful array of illumination.
And then, past the Halifax, the thing itself. The planet. Tendus-13. Vaguely gray-green and covered by clouds that shimmered with never-ending lightning storms.
The Silkworms looked at it uneasily.
They were young; most under thirty. And all were male. By these two facts alone, they were smart enough to be alarmed. It was the first meeting since entering the planet’s orbit, and not everybody had been invited. When the Silkworms weren’t looking out the hull window, they were looking at one another. And the more they looked, the more concerned they became.
Rowe—still idly considering his own mortality—cast a weak smile at Waverly, his best friend, who sat beside him. Waverly smiled back, but there was concern in his eyes too. Whatever was happening was definitely not normal, and probably not good.
At long last, a woman walked onto the stage—the only woman in the room. She was slender, with iron-gray hair. Sixty if she was a day, with a stern face chiseled as if from Martian rock. She looked out across the orderly rows before her; 111 men in all.
“Pagebrin, gentlemen,” she said, in a perfunctory display of the ancient greeting.
“Pagebrin!” they answered, gamely and in unison.
The woman did not smile; her expression remained solemn. The enormous vidcom behind her clicked alive. The men focused. Finally, some answers.
They hoped.
“As you all know, I am Mission Commander Collins. You are in this room today because you have been selected for operational duty on Tendus-13. You men are believed to have qualifications that will make you especially suited to the task at hand. This situation—parts of it, at least—will require you to call upon all aspects of your training. We are up against a special challenge. A situation of great difficulty. Mental toughness will surely be essential. And let me be abrupt and point out that each one of you has been Briefed within the past five years. In other words, you are all fresh.”
Some of the Silkworms twitched in their seats or unconsciously crossed their legs. Being reminded of the Briefing was not pleasant for anybody. Many of the Silkworms managed to suppress the urge to squirm or flinch outwardly, but still found their minds wandering down dark hallways, past doors better kept locked.
The Briefing was now presented so regularly—and at such relative scale—that the ESA had developed some acumen when it came to mitigating its side effects. Even so, depression was still common in the weeks directly afterward, and cases of irreversible clinical madness—though rare—still occasionally occurred.
At the core of the Briefing was the terrible secret that there had once been a time before the Goo. The Goo had not always existed, and it was certainly not naturally occurring. It was a thing made by humans, for humans. And it depended on humans to continue its spread.
Asking contemporary men and women to accept this was akin to asking a fish to imagine a time “before water.” Or a priest to imagine life “before God.” How could there have been a “before Goo”? It was everywhere, told you everything you wanted to know, and kept an eye on what was happening on every planet in all the known universe.
And, near as anyone could remember, it had always been there.
Except it hadn’t.
The Goo had not always been there. It had not always co-existed with humans, ready to provide information at a moment’s notice, expanding along with the universe, trending outwardly forever, at the very border of all things known . . . as though it was the universe itself.
This was the secret of secrets. And whether they liked it or not, these 111 men all knew it.
A spacecraft appeared on the vidcom behind Collins. It was slightly different from the Apollinax or Halifax, but still fighting in the same weight class.
“The ESA Marie Curie,” Collins said soberly. “One month ago, it touched down on the surface of Tendus-13. J-Class wiring job with a Hazard Rating of 23. Difficult, yes, but not impossible. The captain was Martha Cortez, a competent and experienced officer. Ninety-seven Silkworms were aboard the Marie Curie. The crew members had a superlative track record and had served in some of the most challenging interplanetary environments one can imagine. And, gentlemen, all of them are dead.”
A murmuration spread across the auditorium.
Whenever possible, planets were wired for Goo remotely, via robot, with Silkworms merely directing things from a safe orbit. But these long-distance wirings were for planets without atmospheric anomalies that tore apart spaceships. Without spinning rings of ball lightning that could cut through a probe’s hull in a matter of seconds. And certainly without violent flora or fauna that liked to rip up robots for fun.
Such places still necessitated a personal touch.
“Tendus-13 represents the first such setback in many years, and the first time in over a century that an entire crew of Silkworms has been lost,” said Collins. “There is currently no connection with the planet-side ship, and the atmospheric lightning storms make orbital analysis impossible.”
Near the front of the briefing room, a brave Silkworm raised his hand and stood. He smiled and hesitated before he spoke, like a student composing a first sentence in a foreign language.
“How much do we know about what happened . . . considering that we can’t see or hear what happened . . . because it happened . . . not where the Goo is?”
A few Silkworms chuckled at this linguistic dexterity.
Collins smiled and nodded, acknowledging the absurdity of it.
“The Goo’s best hypothesis from probability models is that there was some kind of disease outbreak,” she explained. “Likely a virus unique to the planet. We believe it first affected the female Silkworms—perhaps, exclusively affected them. This is the reason why all of you are male. It’s also the reason why, as a precaution, all female crew members will be departing by JetPod to the Halifax, our sister ship, before any of you return. Once planetside, your mission will be to discover the cause of this tragedy, and—more importantly—to pick up where
Another hand.
“Commander . . .”
This Silkworm also hesitated a moment, remembering his own training in “un-knowns.” He twisted his tongue to find the right words.
“Is it possible that some of the crew of the Marie Curie could still be alive . . . but we don’t know that, because . . . the Goo doesn’t yet know?”
Collins nodded seriously.
“The lightning-rich atmosphere above Tendus-13 makes ship-to-shore contact impossible. J-Class, as I said. But we have every indication that the TerraChem deployed to the surface prior to the Marie Curie’s landing was effective. Below the lightning, the air should be breathable and the climate temperate. The storms, however, will probably take centuries to dissipate. Though the lightning is constant, it does not strike the ground in most places. There technically could be survivors, if that’s what you’re getting at. Though, again, it seems very doubtful according to the Goo’s models.”
Another hand.
“I’m still confused, Mission Commander. How do we know it was a virus? And why the women first? If the planet’s not wired, how do we know any of this? When you say the Goo has modeled scenarios, what did it use to do that?”
Collins smiled.
“I think I can see where these questions are going, so let me just skip ahead.”
She toggled her clicker several times, continuing to narrate as she did.
“A lone probe from the Marie Curie was sent back up through the lightning layer. We do not know by whom; it may have been accidental. The probe was severely damaged, and the general electronics aboard were destroyed. This is all it contained.”
Collins stopped clicking. The vidcom showed a black-and-white image, much of it blurry. Possibly it had been captured from an imprint left on a lens. Such a thing was an artifact. A living fossil. The kind of thing that Rowe surmised might have appeared on broken televisions back in the twenty-first or even twentieth centuries.
“We believe this photo shows the infirmary aboard the Marie Curie, shortly before its power cells were shut down entirely. The Goo’s best guess is that the Marie Curie encountered an undiscovered virus that compelled the crew members to attack one another, apparently based on their sex. It may help you to make out the image more clearly if I explain that the shapes near the bottom of the frame are human arms and legs.”
The men in the tiered auditorium now understood that they regarded an abattoir, crudely rendered in unsettling shades of gray. It was a scene of human bodies reduced to meat. Pieces of limbs strewn about the floor. Exploded bags of muscle and fat.
And it did seem, as Rowe studied the image, that it showed a female form cutting into those who were male.
“You will observe that there appears to be at least one female Silkworm still alive when this image was taken, but the Goo’s best guess is that such conditions did not last long,” Collins said. “We expect that the final step would be for the virus to turn against its host. Murder of women by other women, and then suicide. Every simulation plays out that way.”
The Silkworms looked on quietly for some time, in a combination of wonder, bafflement, and abject terror. They looked the way men had once looked at unexplored continents or oceans, at cliffs or mountains that had never been scaled, or up at the stars before humans ever knew spaceflight. They looked into the “un-known” with awe, the way you simply had to when nothing—not even the Goo—could tell you what the hell was happening.
Collins cleared her throat and toggled her clicker again.
The image on the screen suddenly changed to that of a large, rotating pill capsule.
“As you know, before deployment, every Silkworm begins a regimen of supplements tailored for optimal protection against the new planet’s atmosphere. You gentlemen will have noticed this pill issued with your food for the past several weeks. And perhaps you have also noticed an uptick in aggression and sex drive? Or acne where there was none before?”
The Silkworms glanced at one another. Rowe idly scratched the zit that itched on the back of his neck.
“Good old-fashioned testosterone,” Collins announced. “We’re not taking any chances.”
Now it was Rowe’s turn. He raised his hand and stood.
“I must confess, I’m still not clear,” he said. “You said the women were infected first with the urge to murder. Were the men infected at all? Or just less than the women?”
Collins continued clicking through her presentation.
“We believe that’s the most probable scenario,” she said. “Of course, there are other possibilities, but the Goo finds them far less likely. Look, I won’t sugarcoat it. Many aspects of this mission will require you to deal with un-knowns. More than would be typical, even for a J-Class. But we are Silkworms. To go into the un-known—and to make it known—that is our sacred mission. The challenge before you is also a chance to bring honor to yourselves, and to our kind. And I know that you will make us proud.”
Rowe swallowed hard and sat back down, immediately regretting having spoken.
“You have your work cut out, gentlemen,” Collins concluded. “You land planetside in forty-eight hours. Mission updates will be sent to your AI continually until then. You know how to perform your tasks, and I am supremely confident in your abilities. Prepare yourselves. Pagebrin, all of you!”
“Pagebrin!” the Silkworms cried, rising to their feet in unison.
The vidcom went black.
Rowe and Waverly took their places in the slow-moving exit queue as the 111 men gradually shuffled out of the auditorium and back toward the carpeted corridors beyond.
Rowe was tall and pale, and his resting expression was that of a man just on the cusp of grasping something. Waverly was strong but slightly round, short and dark, and was often told he looked like ship security.
“Do you believe this?” Waverly asked his friend. “What a thing to wire.”
Rowe nodded.
“I guess I do believe it,” he answered. “This job is all about believing. I mean, whenever we go planetside, we are out of reach of the Goo. But we believe it is there, watching us. That is protocol.”
“Spoken like a true Silkworm,” Waverly said.
“Plus, doubting that the Goo is watching can’t be good for my ARK Score,” Rowe observed.
“Then don’t doubt it,” instructed Waverly.
Before Rowe could say anything further, he felt an unexpected hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Commander Collins at his side. Her silver hair was resilient. Her posture, perfect. Rowe reflexively straightened his own spine.
“Mister Rowe, a moment?”
Rowe nodded to indicate he had all the time in the world, should she require it.
Waverly smirked at his friend and continued down the aisle.
When the rest of the Silkworms had filed out, Collins began to speak.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Rowe?”
She appeared to voice genuine concern.
“Good,” he said. “You know, considering. There’s no pain, if that’s what you mean. I’m told there won’t be . . . that is, until the very, very end.”
Collins gave a sympathetic smile.
“Are you still certain you wish to do this?” she asked. “To devote your remaining weeks to our work? You know this already, but electing to spend your time with, say, family and loved ones, or in a period of quiet reflection . . . Those would be ARK-neutral decisions. Your score would not be impacted.”
“No, I . . .” Rowe said, faltering momentarily. “I’m not close with my family, and they’re literally light-years away. Plus, most of my friends are Silkworms aboard this ship. If I notice any decline in my function—or if the Goo notices—I’ll remove myself from duties. But if I can be useful to the Goo and serve—serve as a Silkworm does—then that is how I’d like to spend what’s left of my time. Besides, I’ve got ARK to spare.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” said Collins.
Now a serious expression crossed her face.
“There is another item,” she said to him. “You haven’t been using the Extant Transitions Coordinator.”
Rowe chuffed.
“That hologram counselor for dying people?” he said, failing to conceal his evident contempt. “Respectfully, Mission Commander, I really don’t—”
