Seveneves

  “Not as much as you’re going to in about an hour,” Ivy said.

  “I’ll try to hold out that long.”

  THERE WAS NO PROBLEM GETTING INTO IT. IVY FLEW ENDURANCE into the great crevasse like a Piper Cub into the Grand Canyon. Within minutes the walls were reaching far above them. The bottom was still lost in shadow.

  Following Dinah’s general suggestion, Ivy then nudged the ship toward a part of the canyon, several tens of kilometers distant, where the walls converged and the radioactive sky became a narrow, starry slit above. Still she kept pushing onward, occasionally scraping the ship’s outlying modules against the walls, until she reached a place where she could go no deeper.

  Looking both directions along the crevasse from this place, they could see spots where the sun was shining in. Here, though, they were protected from rocks and radiation alike. Ivy set Endurance down on the floor of the canyon. Cleft’s gravity was exceedingly faint, but it was enough to give words like that a little meaning, and it was enough to keep the ship lodged in one place until they decided to move it.

  Which they never would.

  Cleft

  ON THE SURFACE OF CLEFT, A HUMAN WEIGHED ABOUT AS MUCH AS three pints of beer would weigh on Earth. Endurance weighed about as much as a couple of semi-trailer rigs.

  Ivy lit the ship’s attitude control thrusters one last time and pivoted her tail up until it was vertical. Endurance was standing on her head, the torus aloft, iron Hammerhead nose-down on the iron floor of the crevasse. Dinah sent out some Grabbs to weld the ship to the asteroid. Ivy shut down the thrusters.

  Endurance was no longer a ship but a building.

  From the Hammerhead, now one piece of metal with Cleft, the Stack ran straight up like the trunk of a tree. Various structures ramified outward from it like boughs. Its widest part was the array of eighty-one arklets that had formerly made up the stern of the ship. These now projected upward like leaves.

  Or so they imagined. They couldn’t actually go outside and look at it until they got out of the Hammerhead. During the battle, they had sealed the hatch. By the time they had brought her to rest and welded her down, the rest of Endurance had been quiet for a long time. Finally they opened the hatch and began to explore it one module at a time. They sent Buckies and Siwis out ahead of them to illuminate dark spaces and aim cameras into hidden corners. Tekla then went in, taking point, with Dinah and Ivy watching her back. They were armed with cudgels made from lengths of pipe. But they never had to use them.

  It was some combination of crime scene, battleground, and disaster zone. Only about half of the modules were still pressurized. Some of them had become completely isolated and could only be reached by a person in a space suit. It took days to get to them all.

  In one of them they found Aïda, the only other survivor from the heptad. Two days had passed since she had eaten the last of Tavistock Prowse, so she was very hungry, but otherwise in good shape. After becoming trapped by a combination of combat and bolide strikes, she had holed up in a water-filled storm shelter, then begun drinking its contents as she awaited rescue.

  The total number of living humans was now sixteen. Several had suffered injuries from combat or from the consequences of bolide strikes. Anyone who had not taken shelter in the Hammerhead, or in a storm shelter, was suffering from radiation sickness. The healthy ones patched holes, repressurized modules, got the torus spinning again, and turned it into a sick bay, which filled up immediately.

  Dinah managed to get Doob out for one last space walk. He had been failing for days. Once they got him into the suit, though, his energy flooded back. Dinah took him out on the floor of the crevasse where he could walk, light-footed, with magnetized Grabbs latched onto his boots to keep him from floating away with every step. They rambled for about a kilometer, turning around every so often to look back at humanity’s new home. Above the spinning torus, where Moira was even now unpacking her genetics lab, Tekla was inspecting the arklets on the top level, learning which were whole, which were beyond repair, and which could be patched up for future occupancy. On the floor of the crevasse, Grabbs and Siwis were at work, rooting Endurance to her final resting place with spreading cables and struts.

  Where they walked, it was dark most of the time. That was the price of being sheltered from cosmic rays and coronal mass ejections. Looking up, however, they could see sunlight gilding the edges of the crevasse above them. They talked about how to set up mirrors that would bounce sunlight downward onto the arklets, which could grow food and scrub air in their translucent outer hulls. Doob spoke of Endomement, the idea that, in time, a ceiling could be thrown over the top of the crevasse and walls built to keep in the air, whereupon a whole section of the valley could be given an atmosphere and turned into a place where children could go “outside” without the need for space suits.

  Then he walked home and died.

  They stored his body with the others, in a damaged arklet that would serve as a mausoleum until such time as they could cut a grave out of Cleft’s surface. That would take a long time, but the survivors all shared the conviction that, having sacrificed so much to make it here, they should be interred and not burned. Doob would share a grave with Zeke Petersen, Bolor-Erdene, Steve Lake, and all the others who had died at about the same time.

  Some of those remained conscious long enough to relate the stories of what had happened to them during the conflict with the people who had come in from the Swarm, and Endurance’s final, hectic passage through storm and stone. Their accounts were recorded and archived. One day some historian would piece the story together, comparing it with data logs to figure out who had slain whom in combat and which module had gone dark when.

  Aïda, of course, might have been their best source of information, had she felt like talking. But she didn’t. She had sunk into a profound depression, emerging from it at seemingly random moments to chatter about whatever stray thoughts were flitting through her head. No one wanted to talk to her. When she talked to you, she watched you too carefully with those avid, penetrating eyes, as if she saw, or imagined she saw, too deeply. It was impossible to be the object of that gaze without thinking of what she and the others had done, and without imagining that you were being sized up as food.

  An epic tale was told by the three-year backlog of email, Spacebook posts, blog entries, and other ephemera that filled up all of their inboxes as soon as the network of the Swarm recombined with that of Endurance. The general arc of the story seemed to be a growing detachment from reality that had afflicted J.B.F. and some of her inner circle. Luisa likened it to the growth of spiritualism after the First World War. During the 1920s, many who had not been able to bring themselves to accept the loss of life in the trenches and the subsequent influenza epidemic had fallen prey to the belief that they could communicate with their lost loved ones from beyond the grave. They had, in effect, sidestepped grief by convincing themselves that nothing had happened.

  The analogy was a loose one. The loss of life in the Hard Rain had, of course, been much worse. And few of the Arkies had adopted spiritualist beliefs per se. But after a particularly severe coronal mass ejection had slain nearly a hundred Arkies, Tav had written a blog post about the journey he had made to Bhutan with Doob and the conversation that they’d had en route with the king concerning the mathematics of reincarnation. It was a meditative piece, a secular eulogy for those who had fallen, but in retrospect it seemed to mark an inflection point in the survivors’ thinking. The Swarm had always had a sort of quasi-divine status to some, who had perhaps read too much chaos theory too superficially and were prone to believing that its collective decisions, lying beyond human understanding, partook of the supernatural.

  The mishmash of techno-mystical ideation that had grown out of that one blog post was unreadable and incomprehensible to Luisa or to anyone else who read it after the fact, with a clear mind, but it seemed to have offered hope and comfort to many terrified young people trapped in arklets. Tav, to his credit,
had backed away from any efforts to elevate him to prophetlike status. If anything, though, his modesty might have backfired.

  “I have no idea,” Luisa said, “how anyone could read these threads and find hope in them. Or even meaning. But they did. Long enough to distract them from the real problems they were facing. And when Aïda and the others finally came to their senses and began to push back against J.B.F. and the others, the reaction was just that much more severe. Because things had gone too far by that point.”

  The backlash had started in a two-triad bolo where a number of like-minded Arkies, including Aïda, had “called bullshit” on the prevailing tone and substance of official statements emanating from the White Arklet and begun to denounce Tavistock Prowse as a puppet blogger for the regime. Dubbing themselves the “Black Bolo Brigade,” they had begun to spread their insurrectionist message to other arklets in the Swarm.

  That message—which made perfect sense, as far as it went—was all about the need to face reality and to implement realistic, effective steps to address the Swarm’s problems. That included, if need be, throwing themselves on the mercy of Endurance. They had demanded that J.B.F. open the books and provide a current and accurate account of all stocks of water, food, and other staples, and how those numbers were changing over time. Julia had resisted those demands until the data had finally been leaked by a turncoat on her staff. The food picture had turned out to be bleak. This had led to a variety of responses that had determined the history and politics of the Swarm ever since: among some, a further retreat into mysticism and wishful thinking, based on a belief that the Agent had been some sort of avenging angel sent by God, or by aliens so powerful that they might as well be God, to bring about the end of days and the merging of all human consciousness into a digital swarm in the sky; among others, a frank embrace of cannibalism—in the sense not of killing people for food but of eating those who had died of natural causes—as a stopgap measure until J.B.F. could be toppled and replaced by people who knew what they were doing. The first group, the mystics, had tended to rally under Julia’s banner. The cannibals had ended up under Aïda, who because of her intensity and her charisma had gradually emerged as the leader of the Black Bolo Brigade.

  The one Swarm had thus fissioned into two smaller ones, neither of which was as viable, and thereby worsened the same problems that had led to the split in the first place. From there the story had been predictable enough, and had led to the events of the last few days.

  Aïda still wasn’t talking, but Julia was. According to her, Aïda and the other Black Bolo survivors had calculated, in the last weeks, that their turn to cannibalism would be so repugnant to the survivors of Endurance as to render them permanent outcasts. Rather than passively await the judgment—which they foresaw as extremely pious, sanctimonious, and punitive—of Ivy and her claque, they would seize part or all of Endurance, beginning with her network, and then negotiate terms from a position of strength.

  This explained, at least in a general way, everything that had happened, save possibly for the physical mutilation of both Julia and Tav.

  Asked for a theory as to that, Julia shrugged. “We were criminals to them. Criminals need to be punished. It’s hard to punish people who are already starving to death in a confined space. What is really left in the executioner’s tool kit, other than attacking the body? They wanted to silence me, and so they did. And they wanted to give Tav a taste of his own medicine by uploading his physical body into theirs.”

  A WEEK LATER, WHEN THE LAST OF THE VICTIMS HAD SUCCUMBED to their wounds or to radiation sickness, eight humans remained alive and healthy.

  Ivy called for a twenty-four-hour pause to grieve and to take stock. She then called a meeting of the entire human race: Dinah, Ivy, Moira, Tekla, Julia, Aïda, Camila, and Luisa.

  They did not know quite what to do with Julia and Aïda. For years they had dreamed, in idle moments, of one day bringing J.B.F. to justice—whatever that would mean. Then, at the last moment, she had been eclipsed by Aïda. And now it all seemed a moot point anyway. Could six women put two women in jail? What would it mean to be in jail in a place like this? Corporal punishment was at least a theoretical possibility. But Aïda had already gone there, with results that they all found sickening.

  J.B.F. was a threat to no one. Aïda still possessed an air of menace. But short of locking her up in an arklet, there was nothing they could do about that save keep an eye on her. And so they did, never letting her out of their sight, never letting her get behind them.

  They met in the Banana, sitting around the long conference table. To one side of it was death: the sick bay where Zeke, the last man alive, had given up the ghost a day and a half ago, after making a joke about what a shame it all was: being the only man alive, with eight women to choose from. They had scrubbed the place down with bleach and made the beds with clean sheets in the hopes that none of them would be occupied for a long time. To the other side was life: the series of compartments where Moira had been setting up her genetics lab.

  The meeting would later be known as the Council of the Seven Eves. For, though eight women were present, one of them—Luisa—had already gone through menopause. Ivy opened with a report on their general situation. From a certain point of view, this was surprisingly good. They had grown so inured to terrible news that she had to emphasize this more than once. Few places in the solar system were as safe as the one where they had come to rest. No cosmic radiation could touch them here. From coronal mass ejections they were equally immune. Sunlight for energy and agriculture could be had a short distance above them, high on the walls of the crevasse, where the sun shone almost all the time.

  In the meantime, their big reactor as well as four dozen arklet reactors were producing far more power than they could ever use, and would continue doing so for decades. Of water they still had a hundred tons left over. While melting and splitting the water they’d used for propellant, they had extracted from it many tons of phosphorus, carbon, ammonia, and other chemicals, left over from the dawn of the solar system, that had once cloaked Greg’s Skeleton in a reeking black carapace. That stuff, as Sean Probst had well known, would be priceless as nutrients to support agriculture.

  They no longer had to worry, ever again, about the things that had been their obsessive concerns for the last five years: perigees, apogees, burns, propellant, movement of any kind. No bolide could touch them down here. Even if Cleft banged into an equally huge rock at some point, they would probably survive it.

  The vitamins that had been packed into every arklet launched up into the Cloud Ark had been intended to support a population of thousands. Even though many of these had been lost, what remained was still more than enough to keep a small colony in aspirin and toothbrushes for a long time.

  They were dependent, in many ways, on digital technology. They could not long survive without robots to do work for them and computerized control systems to keep the installation running. They had no ability to fabricate new computer chips to replace the old. But the Arkitects, anticipating this, had stocked them with a large surplus of spare parts that would last for hundreds of years if husbanded carefully. And they had plans for rebooting digital civilization later; they had tools for making tools for making tools, and instructions on how to use them when the time came.

  With immediate needs accounted for, the discussion turned toward the obvious problem at hand. All heads turned toward Moira.

  “My equipment made it through perfectly unscathed,” she said. “The last three years have been boring for me. I’ve been treated as a fragile flower. I have spent the time writing up everything I know about how to use that stuff. If I drop dead of something tomorrow, you’ll still be able to work it out.

  “Obviously, we’re all women. Seven of us are still capable of having babies. Or, to be specific, of producing eggs. So, where can we get some sperm? Well, ninety-seven percent of what was sent up from Earth was destroyed in the disaster on the first day of the Hard Rain. What su
rvived, survived because it had already been distributed among ten different arklets. All ten of those later ended up going off with the Swarm. None of that material, however, seems to have made its way here.”

  Aïda interrupted. Staring across the table at Julia, she announced, “I was in the Swarm, as you know. I can tell you that this fact of the samples in the ten arklets was forgotten. Never discussed. If anyone even knew they were there, they forgot about it soon.”

  Julia was construing this as an attack on her record. “We had eight hundred healthy young men and women from every ethnic group in the world.”

  “Had,” Aïda repeated. “We had.”

  “The amount of effort required to keep a few sample containers deep-frozen wasn’t worth the—”

  “Stop,” Ivy said. “If we can start making babies, their great-grandchildren can pore over the records and make judgments and have debates about what should have been done. Now isn’t the time for recriminations.”

  “I was in the meeting where Markus called bullshit on the Human Genetic Archive,” Dinah said. She was mildly amazed to hear herself backing Julia’s side of the argument.

  “We can’t make the same mistake again,” Aïda said, “of fooling ourselves. Believing in shit that isn’t real.”

  Ivy said, “Had we known that it was going to come down, so suddenly, to seven surviving fertile women, we would have had every healthy male masturbating into test tubes for the last three years. We’d have looked for ways to keep it all frozen. But we never imagined it would come to this.”

  “It’s not clear what the quality of the results would have been,” Moira put in. “Given the amount of radiation exposure, I probably would have had to do a lot of manual repair on the genetic material in those samples.”

  “Manual repair?” Julia asked.

  “I should put that in scare quotes,” Moira said, reaching up with both hands and crooking her fingers. “Obviously I’m not literally using my hands. But with the equipment in there”—she tossed her head in the direction of the lab—“I can isolate a cell—a sperm or an ovum—and read its genome. I’m skipping over a lot of details, obviously. But the point is that I can get a digital record of its DNA. Once that’s in hand, it turns into a software exercise—the data can be evaluated and compared to huge databases that shipped up as part of the lab. It’s possible to identify places on a given chromosome where a bit of DNA got damaged by a cosmic ray or radiation from the reactor. It is then possible to repair those breaks by splicing in a reasonable guess as to what was there originally.”