Resilient, p.1
Resilient, page 1
Allen Stroud
Resilient
Book Two of the Fractal Series, Following Fearless
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
Foreword
Back in 2015, I was attending the Science Fiction Foundation masterclasses at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. Pat Cadigan was the guest tutor for the afternoon and the text she asked the gathered group of Ph.D. students and other researchers to analyse was a short story by Alfred Bester.
As part of the discussion, Pat gave an account of Bester’s difficulties in getting some of his content past his editors. A close analysis of the writing revealed he was describing non-white characters, a fact that wasn’t immediately obvious on first reading as it was subtly done.
This moment resonated for me. As did another moment at Eastercon the next year when I attended a panel discussing non-white male protagonists in Fantasy and heard the speakers discuss how, as young readers, they had created their own images of different heroic characters, editing out the gender or ethnicity descriptions even as they read them to preserve the sense of identification they felt with those characters as being female or gay or Black or Asian.
Fearless, the first book in the series, is a product of my thinking along those lines. The opening chapter is a barometer. Captain Ellisa Shann’s physical disability is part of who she is. The opening introduction to her in the book is purposefully designed to be hard hitting and to linger in the mind of the reader. When it was first read at Fantasycon 2017, I could feel the audience were a little uncomfortable, and felt perhaps the fourth wall break, and her casual accusatory tone, were aimed at them.
I was born in 2080, with no legs. Perhaps that gives you an image of me? An image that defines who I am to you as a person? Maybe you get a sense of who someone is by their limitations? Do you think who we are is determined by what we look like? What we can’t do? Or what we don’t have? The world doesn’t work that way anymore.
In a way, the accusation is levelled at the reader, but also in a way, it isn’t. This isn’t about feeling guilty over some specific action or wrongly accused of prejudice. Instead, I wanted to banish the default of considering her as a person with two arms and two legs. I wanted to make sure the reader would not slip into seeing her that way as some of Bester’s readers, including his editor, had slipped into accepting a white western default. I judged that our genres have moved on sufficiently to accommodate a physically disabled protagonist who is not restricted by her body in the environment she lives and works in. The accusation is blunt and abrupt. That’s the point. It is made that way, so we all remember who Shann is and what she represents. The image of her lingers, because of the jolt.
It is also a massive risk, gambling with the identification and empathy of readers on the very first page of chapter one, introducing the main character. But then, as writers, we have to take risks. This was the first time I chose to do so right from the beginning.
The fourth wall is broken again right at the end of the book, with Shann talking to us about her dilemma and her feelings. To me, it was important to do this for a couple of different reasons. Firstly, less importantly, there’s a symmetry to it, providing a sense of finality. Secondly, more importantly, it prioritises the second key theme of the book on an equal footing to the first. Shann is suffering from a mental illness brought about by the stress of her situation. The onset of this illness has been shown in the narrative of the story and the way she is compartmentalising her emotional reactions right up until the moment they overwhelm her, and she cannot control herself.
As a writer, I have come to believe that a book is a partnership between two imaginations – the writer and the reader. There is room for both, and for a story to stay with us, both have to be given space to work. I welcome you, the reader, to imagine the scenes I describe in ways that are personal to you. Beyond the words on the page, the story is yours to shape and visualise as you wish. But in these specific elements, I wanted to be clear and unequivocal. This is Shann. This is who she is, at the beginning and at the end.
Prologue
2017
‘Oumuamua, the first known interstellar asteroid, may contain water, scientists say, and if it does, that means it’s water from another star system.
First detected by deep space telescopes on October 19th, the asteroid’s velocity and approach vector do indicate that it originated from one of our neighbouring solar systems. Although, at this stage, no researcher is prepared to go on record and say which one.
When it was first detected, ‘Oumuamua’s strange elongated shape provoked widespread speculation that it might be an artificial body, or ‘spaceship’, but that excitement quickly died down when the body showed no signs of ‘outgassing’ or course correction when it approached the Sun. However, the race to investigate this possibility did demonstrate to the wider public the limitations of our telescopes and tracking systems to accurately determine the shape of an object travelling through space.
But the latest findings suggest water might be trapped under a thick, carbon-rich coating on its surface.
‘Oumuamua is scheduled to leave the range of Earth’s telescopes by the end of the year. Given its highly unusual orbit, it is likely we will never see it again.
Chapter One
Holder
“Name and Employee ID please?”
I sigh, wipe my sweaty forehead with the back of my arm and hold up my badge, right in front of the camera.
The guy on the screen leans forward, squinting at it. “Sorry, I can’t read that. Can you tell me where you’re from?”
“Natalie Holder, Amalgamated Solutions?”
There’s a delay, latency on the connection to his remote access terminal somewhere else in the world. The guy glances down at some paperwork in front of him. “Yes, okay, I have you. Employee ID number?”
“AK667AB1E8.”
The same pause. “Great, yes, that’s fine.” He looks up at me again. “You been here before?”
“No, it’s my first time.”
“All right. Before you go through, the regs state I need to advise you to make sure you’re hydrated and that you have supplies. The Hub is one of the least hospitable places on Earth. Your pass entitles you to a two-hour stay, but after that, it’ll expire and if you stay on premises for too long, you will too.”
“Sure, understood.”
“Great, then let’s get you moving.”
A beam lances out from beneath the screen, bathing me in red light. I hold my breath, expecting the worst, but the worst doesn’t come. Instead, the scan completes and a buzzer sounds. The door in front of me unlocks and starts to swing open. I’m keen to get moving, but I don’t touch the moving panel. The last thing I want is unnecessary attention. These people need to think I’m legit.
I need to do my part. Nothing more, nothing less.
I’m through the door and inside. The temperature is a couple of degrees cooler here; forty-two Celsius, as opposed to forty-four or forty-five. I can feel the heat coming off the painted concrete walls. It’s like an assault, all targeted at me, the only person here.
Out in the middle of nowhere at the entrance to the eighth wonder of the world.
The Atacama Desert, in the former republic of Chile, is home to the largest energy tile farm on Earth. The reflective glow from the massive solar array can be seen from space, even as far as the Luna colony at times. The accompanying underground hydro-battery and distribution network make this one of the most sensitive facilities on the planet.
It’s also unstaffed. The whole complex is unsafe for human habitation, owing to the extreme heat generated by the system. Rather than waste money on expensive coolant processes, everything has been designed to tolerate fierce temperatures. The technology in here is the same as the stuff they use on Ceres and in the asteroid mining stations.
Seven thousand multinational corporations rely on these arrays for their day-to-day electricity. Supply companies beneath them pay regular rates for their power, and beneath them are the eight billion individual citizens of Earth. The whole system is a corporate control web. Two hundred years ago, who would have thought access to electricity would become the way the powerful keep the rest of us in line?
According to the schematic I’ve seen, mobile autonomous security units patrol the interior. They’re maintained and monitored by different commercial contractors across the globe. Each of them has a territory. Whilst I stay on the authorised route for my visit, they won’t be a problem. As soon as I’m detected deviating, the nearest unit will be tasked to intercept me, but there’s latency there too, I’ll have a few seconds.
So, when I make my move, I need to do it carefully.
I start down the path. I grew up in Nigeria, so the heat is something I can tolerate, but the reflection of light bouncing off all the tiles is like looking at the sun in all directions. Three steps in and the brightness is hurting my eyes. I’ve no choice but to keep my gaze fixed on my feet and the scoured gravel underfoot. The instructions specified the distance I need to walk in metres, so I’ve been practising to keep my stride in a regular pattern. However, now I’m here, I can’t help but worry I’ve mis-stepped in some way and I’ll end up lost.
Sixteen metres to the first turn. Go right.
I make the turn. Any outward sign of hesitation might be observed, so I can’t second-guess myself or the directions. Eight metres, then left. Twelve metres , then right again. Four metres, then you’re there.
There’s a shadow over the ground where I stop as instructed. I glance to my left and see the control panel; the reason I’m supposed to be here, according to the authorities. I kneel down in front of it. The location is a small blind spot in the camera coverage. I’m to work on the system using the panel, diagnose the error that was detected, and apply a bespoke software patch, so there’s no need for the security monitoring to be alerted to a deviation.
Not for a while.
My gaze falls to the metal section beneath the control panel. There’s a ventilation grille big enough to fit through. Behind it should be a powerful electrical fan. I reach out and brush my fingers against the metal, but there’s no breeze. Either the fan is switched off, or….
I take out my powered screwdriver, fit the correct socket and start undoing the bolts. There’s eight of them, but they come away pretty easily and the grille lifts off without resistance. Underneath, there’s no fan, but an open space into darkness, out of the sun.
I sit on the ground and lower myself in. About three feet below, my boots meet a step, then another immediately below that. I turn around and begin climbing down.
Into darkness.
Six or seven steps down my eyes begin to adjust. I’m in a concrete box. The shadows of objects clutter the floor. I take out a small pen torch and carefully flick it on.
The extractor unit has been disassembled and left here in a pile, as they said it would be. The chamber has been excavated too. There’s a hole in the far wall where someone’s managed to break through to the next room.
I step off the ladder and walk towards the hole. I shine my torch into the empty space. If I crouch or get on my hands and knees, I’ll be able to get in here, but I need to be careful. The equipment I’m carrying is fragile.
Very fragile.
I crawl into the hole, shuffling over broken stones and mud. It’s much cooler down here where the sunlight can’t reach. I’m shivering a little. Maybe I got too used to the blazing heat outside.
Well, it’ll be hot enough in here pretty soon.
The tunnel ends abruptly. I have to trust we’re in the right place. Whoever dug this out had a job to do, just like me.
I turn and lie flat on my back in the dark. The little pen torch has a corded loop. I drape it over a hanging rock, and it illuminates the space above me, so I can see my hands and work.
The three containers I’ve been given are in my pockets. I pull them out and connect them together, as I was shown. The device is a reaction explosive, powerful enough to obliterate me and everything around me in a two-kilometre radius, once it’s activated. The tunnel is right above an underground regulator too. Once I press the ignition switch, this whole place will be wrecked. The damage will be catastrophic.
Everything has been carefully arranged. That’s how it works. You fail when you try to overcomplicate your job. So, instead, everyone does a part. The security clearance was forged, the security scanner was hacked. The ventilation system removed, the hole dug. All of it planned and patiently put together over months by different people.
I’m the last piece in the puzzle.
My hands are shaking, either from the cold or from nerves. I take a moment, steady my breathing. These will be my last minutes alive. I have a purpose. I always wanted a purpose. This is my purpose. This is what I was put here to do, so others can live better and break the chains of slavery. I am what they used to call a martyr, a sacrifice to the cause.
The tears come then, and the sobs. Great body-racking heaves that make me feel sick. I try to fight them in the enclosed space, clinging desperately to the tube in my hands. This little three-sectioned thing that is the key to humanity’s future.
Then I go calm. They tell you about this when you train. There’s a moment of acceptance, a moment when everything becomes clear. The world becomes small and nothing matters apart from you and the trigger. You and the bomb.
That’s the moment you have to seize. Otherwise, you panic, and it all goes to shit.
I press the trigger.
2019
Scientists have confirmed the detection of a second interstellar wanderer into our solar system. This time, though, they’ve managed to find it much earlier in its journey, so there’s substantial excitement over what we can learn.
2I/Borisov is named after Crimean amateur astronomer Gennadiy Borisov, who discovered the comet with his homemade telescope. ‘2I’ stands for ‘Second Interstellar’. According to the International Astronomical Union (IAU), the comet is ‘unambiguously’ interstellar in origin. The race is now on to find out as much as possible before the object leaves our solar system.
The comet is currently inbound towards the Sun, and will reach its closest approach (perihelion) on the 8th of December at a distance of approximately three hundred million kilometres (one hundred and ninety million miles) – about twice the average distance of the Earth from the Sun.
The comet is approaching the planetary orbital plane at an angle of around forty degrees and is travelling at more than 150,000 kilometres per hour. It’s between two and sixteen kilometres (1.2 and 10 miles) in diameter, and current observations note signs of outgassing and the sort of debris tail we’ve learned to expect from comets ever since they were first observed more than a thousand years ago.
Two recent analyses of the comet’s colour and spectra have revealed its suspected material composition. It appears to be similar to the solar system’s long-period comets that originate in the distant Oort Cloud, rather than the short-period comets that come from nearer to the Sun.
Scientists are currently attempting to use their recorded data on the comet’s velocity and trajectory to trace its path back to its point of origin, far outside our solar system. We can only speculate what it may have been a part of, or been a witness to, on its travels.
Chapter Two
Drake
Start of the week is always a bitch in Jezero.
I round the corner to see the queue at card registration stretching out the door. They’re all hard-working civilians like me; the requisitioned Mars workforce, kept that way under CorpGov contract. That’s how the game works.
I need to renew my pass, we all do, every few days. If you don’t, it reverts to its basic code. That’s enough to get you into a public facility, but not much else. Everyone in that line is a specialist like me, working with specialist equipment in a specialist area of the colonial dome. That’s the reason they got a ride up here from Earth. There’s always a long line to get to the reader.
But today, on this particularly Martian morning, it’s particularly long.
I stop in the street, the grips of my boots digging into the rubberised grid designed to slow down anyone running too fast in thirty-eight-percent gravity. I’ve got just under three hours left on my card. I can come back later, but that’ll mean hoping I get a break in my shift, otherwise I’ll end up locked in surgery, or depending on the kindness of others.
Well, I guess they depend on me often enough.
Ahead of me, two people are arguing in the street: a man and a woman. They’re speaking in an Eastern European language I don’t recognise. Both of them wear the grey one-piece uniform of the maintenance division. Workers in that department monitor critical base systems and communication relays. MarsCol needs people who can sit in chairs waiting for something to break down and who have the technical expertise to fix it or work around it when it does.
The three interconnected Jezero domes sit in the crater of the same name on a flatbed of clay. The exterior of our home is continually buffeted by dust storms and solar radiation. Despite our perfect shield against the outside, the average life expectancy of manufactured technology on Mars is half that of anything made and operated on Earth. To compensate, all the people who live up here have to be able to improvise and make use of redundancies, otherwise we’re all screwed.
“Doctor Drake? Are you all right?”
I glance in the direction of the question and smile. “Fine, Antonio, fine. Just intimidated by the queue this morning.”
