Join (43 page)

There has been a slow
and continual erosion in the size of the refuge that the Earth can offer. Chance has watched for years as its edges have crept inward and its center has weakened. Death is impatient, and suffering multiplies, but not yet for joins. They just don't notice it, as each successive catastrophe is quickly buried beneath the limitless weight of individual days and years. For now, Chance's fellow joins are comfortable, which seems to be enough for them to continue minutely examining the mysteries of life.

Chance does hear people saying the right things. And sees encouraging signs. But despite those, the fibers of the shroud that the race is weaving for itself continue to multiply and lengthen. And somehow Chance can see it all while others don't seem to be able to.

Then one day it dawns on Chance that the Arc Project itself is an affirmation of an argument Rope had been making. The Arc and the promise of interstellar travel give the human race an illusion of transcendence. As Join has.

Chance doesn't want to sabotage the Arc. Sabotage is an act of destruction, and bodies could be killed. Chance actually believes that the Arc would be a thrilling, inspiring accomplishment. But the world seems to be making a choice. Almost five years after Chance's video conversation with Excellence, Vitalcorp and the world's powers have offered nothing significant beyond the Arc Project and the reduction in licensing costs.

The irreversible past—Hawaii, Monterey Bay, all of the others—insists on action. Chance casts about for something that might be effective—that might provoke the needed changes—and ultimately targets the time line. There must be a time line. Any individual ship could meet with disaster, so for interstellar travel and colonization to be a viable choice, the Earth has to remain livable long enough for several colony ships to set out.

Simply slowing progress toward space travel might force those rushing toward colonization to concede that the Earth should remain a viable habitat indefinitely. If only as insurance against the unforeseeable. And if the same political will that was marshaled to build the Arc was applied to Earth's environmental problems, perhaps real progress could be made.

A plan begins to take shape, but as it's unfolding it just seems crazy. Even to Chance, who is conceiving it. Its assumptions seem crazy. Chance has all five remaining drives checked for a meme virus or cognitive degradation. But they're all healthy. The plan doesn't appear to be a figment of a pathology, at least not one that can be diagnosed.

Chance begins to suffer the burdens of a tyrannical conscience. Moving forward seems indefensible, while abandoning the plan is cowardice in the face of urgent need. There is no longer a safe choice. Indigestion afflicts many of the drives, night sweats, anxiety attacks.

If things go as Chance expects, there will be damage. Some drives will probably be killed. At least there are no solos working on the Arc. Joins can recover from the loss of a drive.

As Chance Nine walked the
short gangway toward Valve G1 there were still many factors working against the plan. The fail-safes might engage and shut down the translators. Or the wobble created by the mass calculator might not result in a breach. That's what Chance was aiming for—a radioactive breach that would force a long delay in the project. Hopefully, it would be small enough that only a few drives would be hurt. The accident, and the delay in the project, could give opponents a reason to restart the debate around priorities and the allocation of resources.

But there was also a slight risk that heat from a breach would cause an explosion. And an even-smaller likelihood—an almost nonexistent likelihood—that that explosion would cascade through the whole bank of translators and then through the whole power infrastructure.

Many years later, a report on the incident will show that, at the moment of the initial breach, the recently engaged energy translators had been under temporary stress from a series of unusually large solar flares. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been a problem.

When Chance can see and
hear and breathe again through Chance One, he lies for a moment on the office floor, listening to the chaos erupting around him, the voices, the shouting, the sounds of panic. Chance Nine is gone.

Chance One's work space is inside the control structure on the Derrick. He props himself up on an elbow and peers around the room. A couple of his colleagues are also on the floor. Someone is bending solicitously over him. Someone is staring at a screen, moving her hands erratically and cursing loudly. Two bodies are standing in apparent shock in front of the large viewport, looking out into space in the direction of the Arc. Then they're using their arms to shield their eyes. Light is coming in from the viewport.

Chance Five comes to on
the grass of the football pitch. There are faces in his peripheral vision. They're saying things he can't quite understand. He's watching the few stars visible in the night sky above them, searching until he finds one in particular. A red one that is brighter, angrier than it should be.

Chance One rolls to his
side and then rises slowly. He walks to the viewport where the incoming light is diminishing but still flaring in small bursts. Others in the office walk there as well. There is crying, soft crying and loud sobbing. Someone is saying no, over and over. Those at the viewport are quiet.

As Chance's eyes adjust and process what he is seeing, he begins to perceive the things that are wrong. In the distance, a chain of bright explosions is lengthening across the structure of the Arc. Some are large, some smaller. Their combined effect is constant enough to create a pulsing light that burns multiple soft afterimages into his vision. The entire ship's structure rocks as the explosions shift it in its metal harnesses. The Derrick crackles and groans, and pieces of it that connect to the Arc are flung away into space. Someone says, “That's the last one.”

Explosions continue along the Arc's length as it begins to move. At first, it drops very slowly away from the Derrick, toward the Earth, but as fires rake it, it picks up a little speed and a clear but subtle lateral trajectory, as if it has received instruction for a specific landing place and is moving under power. It noses to the edge of the viewport's range and then begins to exit the frame.

“Here,” someone shouts. “The main screen.”

Video from a high-orbit tracking satellite shows on the main office screen. On the right side of the screen, just within the Earth's shadow, are the blinking lights of a large portion of the damaged Derrick. Farther away, and floating gently toward the day-lit part of the globe, is the whole length of the Arc, small fires burning and bursting across its ribs.

The woman to Chance's left says, “I can't believe how fast it's moving.”

And a man replies, “It's the starboard tanks, from the test yesterday. They're burning. You can see it there.”

Eventually, as Chance One and his rapt colleagues watch, the Arc's acceleration sends it into distant atmosphere and brighter flames flare all along its length. It very quickly becomes consumed in a single ball of fire—all of it burning, hurtling downward, growing smaller, ever smaller in gravity's strengthening embrace. The fury and majesty of the fall is breathtaking but relentlessly diminishing, until in the Arc's final moment it appears to be only a tiny spark, like a single spark of consciousness, against the vast blue surface of the Earth.

Acknowledgments

This book wouldn't have happened
without David Vann's generous early interest and crucial comments. I cannot thank him enough. Many thanks also to my agent, the incomparable David Forrer, for believing in the book, for his essential insights, and for making things happen. Thanks to the whole team at InkWell Management for their effort and skill. Thanks to Bronwen Hruska, Meredith Barnes, Rachel Kowal, Janine Agro, Kapo Ng, and everyone at Soho Press, for taking a chance on
Join
, for making the novel a beautiful object, and for helping it find an audience. Profound thanks to Mark Doten, whose brilliant editorial contributions helped shape a novel from the story.

Thanks to Ilene, Leonard, Elsie, and most especially to Terri Linn, whose support and care helped make this story possible. Thanks to Charles Johnston. Many of his ideas inform
Join
. I don't know exactly how, or precisely which ones, but they are there. Thanks to KM Alexander, for thoughtful feedback and timely inspiration.

Thanks to each of the following people for their help with early drafts—it's hard to imagine this book without every one of them: Bob Shaw, Ruta Toutonghi, John Shaw, Carolee Bull, Geoff Pfander, Gary Knopp, Jack Hawkes, David Zitzewitz, Will Wagler, and Tom Richards.

Thanks to Pauls Toutonghi, my good and wise younger brother, for his smarts, eloquence, and informed perspective. Thanks to Annette Toutonghi and Bruce Oberg, for friendship and support, infinite awesome, and fundamentalist mac and cheese. Thanks to Gabrielle Toutonghi, for belief and commitment, and to Mike Toutonghi for the example of his daring and intelligence, and for the words.

Thanks to Mary and Joseph Toutonghi for their loving examples, and to Peyton Marshall, Alyona Toutonghi, John Greene, and the extended Toutonghi clan, and to Judi Linn and Leigh Anne Shaw, for unflagging encouragement. Thanks to Mason, Michael, Dan, Anna, Phin, and Bea for building a future and for not being too surprised that I'm proud of them beforehand.

Thanks to those colleagues whose collective efforts and goodwill allowed all of us to help our customers and to earn a living, making
Join
possible. Thanks to John Shaw (again), to Matt Boyle, Rob Ernst, Tok Thompson and Tollef Thompson, because the vorpal blade went snicker-snack.

And finally, thanks endlessly and most especially to my wife, Monique Shaw, who has made a welcome space in our home for each and every sentence.