I don’t understand it, either. Word/meme overlap is complicated. Contractions are okay; hyphenations, rarely. Punctuation appears to be invisible. No German agglomerations of words. They fairly represent single ideas. My mind still separates them. It’s not an arguable thing. At least, not for me. DNA is the subconscious arbiter.
I just go with it.
My dissertation was 75 pages. A marvel of technical conciseness. Enough data for 300 pages. Proof that meme limitation works. And may even be superior. Or at least very useful. That’s a key concept: useful. All useful abominations are tolerable. Right up until they’re not. Am I useful doing nothing?
Someone please work with me.
Another four months; nothing’s changed. No contact from the aliens. No further developments down below. The square void still remains. Continued silence from Ear—homeworld.
(Must pretend at information security. Not that a name matters. They must know our location. We weren’t particularly careful … before. We left very obvious trails.)
I did notice one thing. The planet bears no life. Other than the viral destroyers. Human breathable atmosphere; temperate climate. Ready to serve some purpose. Yet functionally desolate from disuse. I suppose lifecycles are unnecessary. No consumption requires no replenishment. Pointless to refresh unbreathed air. Only possible in closed systems.
Is that a message, itself? Better lifeless than unwanted life? Even if life is supportable? An illustration instead of words. How would I even respond?
Ship’s biological detectors report clean. Yet unnatural sleep oppresses me. It’s the nightmare made real. My life will end now. What did I do wrong?
Sleep does not mean failure. It’s more basic, I think. Information security on their side. Their enabling mechanisms remain mysterious. Or perhaps my sanity protected.
My ship is now grounded.
Don’t ask; I don’t know. It wasn’t built to land. An amazing feat in itself. Descent must have been terrifying. Otherwise, it seems fully functional. Life support systems read normal. Direct communication with the satellite. Internal and external sensors firing. Onboard biolab and spectrometers online. Upright; balanced; all seals intact.
And gravity’s a real bitch.
I’d forgotten how it feels. Weightless for nearly seven years. It’ll take time to acclimatize. But I will get there. Right now I’m just tired.
I’m in the square void. Nothing but dead vacuum outside. Snug in the NNW corner. Walls a hundred meters away. Not really walls, I guess. Still, they are evident boundaries. Visible lines on the ground. Debris outside was blown away. The ground there scoured smooth. Inside, organic waste is everywhere. Plants and animals; variably discomposed. Perfectly preserved over long decades. Both a horror and fascination. Such casual brutality to life. Easily disposed and easily replaced.
What’s the consequence for Humanity?
We’re just as easily disposed.
I struggle to fight rage. At both humans and aliens. (We never did name them.) Why the cloak and dagger? Why create—then abandon—me? The precaution was always fruitless. No need to limit me. No value in isolating me. No purpose in ignoring me. Not now that I’m here.
Why have all forsaken me?
My personal crisis has passed.
For the moment, at least.
I won’t pretend I’m content. But discontent is not useful. I have a critical mission. The aliens know I’m here. Now to build the bridge.
The hard question is how. Alien presence, but not appearance. Pictures worth thousands of words. But words in what language? I have no translation dictionary.
And so I fly blind.
First I must build strength. I have functional EVA gear. And a large, working airlock. The suit weighs a ton. Five minutes is my max.
I’ve collected a few biosamples. Initial analysis offers no surprises. DNA messages—just like Ernte. And the other settled planets. Base pairs as binary datastream. Bitmaps rather than genetic backups. A planned, dual function flaw. First, transmit warnings to visitors. Stark images declare clear intent. Visitors arrive, are attacked, leave.
No real ambiguity in that.
It must confuse the aliens. The messages are so clear. “Go away and stay away.” Yet we completely ignored them. Are we stupid or belligerent?
And how can they distinguish?
That genetic structure creates brittleness. The message functions as timebomb. Organisms have no genetic backup. The second helix becomes irrelevant. The useless datastream readily unravels. Mutations simply can’t be corrected. Most variance means catastrophic failure. Precarious pairs that won’t transcribe. An easily triggered destruct mechanism. (A genetic retrovirus, for example.) It would also prohibit evolution. Or severely limit it, anyway. Only tRNA transcription errors allowed. Cancers would likely be rampant. Stable cells, but altered functions.
A second planned purpose revealed.
There might well be more. Purposes made for alien minds. Machinations beyond my willing comprehension. Still, these two are enough. The implications are truly terrifying.
Intelligent life will never evolve. Biomes are locked in stasis. Easily altered; just from outside. Created to an indistinct purpose. Little possibility of independent will. Just decorations—or warning signs. They’re not threatening in themselves. And will never become so. They exist only to serve. They have nothing to prove.
It seems like a shame.
Isn’t life its own purpose?
Pointless question, in the end.
I must complete my task. The aliens want to communicate. That much is abundantly clear. I must converse without words. With an unseen, unknown partner.
Just another problem to solve.
It hovers just beyond perception. An underlying pattern knits facts. I can’t quite grasp it. A shiver that won’t release. Just a few more clues …
Life’s appeared beyond the walls.
A wide variety of plants. Bacteria, algae, fungi, insects, arachnids. The beginnings of complex organisms. Even small mammals and birds. Apparently normal lifecycles, including decay.
It’s a joy to behold.
Mostly mundane; a few surprises. But even those seem … right. Nothing I couldn’t reasonably imagine. Satellite says the planet teems. A variety of ecosystems, biomes.
All in about eight weeks.
Lifecycles appear to be accelerated. But slowing down very quickly. They’re building life for me. Life may be their toys. But they play very well.
I understand the process, now.
I discarded biomass samples outside. Stacked neatly near the wall. Despite precautions, contamination clearly happened. Life developed five days later. Life consistent with my DNA.
I’ll need samples to verify.
The wall remains absolute, resolute. Grasses right to the edge. Creatures approach to within centimeters. But they never come across. Everything recognizes the essential barrier.
I’ve reached things through it. Rodents sniff, gnaw, scamper away. A dish of water, halfway. The “outside” half eventually melts. The inside half stays frozen. Animals drink freely without harm. The same happens with food. But not when pulled back. Complete molecular breakdown; gray ash. Nothing organic can come inside. Metals, minerals, ceramics—all okay. Carbon and oxygen break down. Even when encased against vacuum. Even when otherwise chemically combined. Hydrocarbon plastics are completely obliterated.
A semipermeable membrane; unidirectional barrier. Which means I can’t cross. Not and come back again. That poses a real problem. Hominins have appeared just outside.
They seem like modern humans. Can’t verify without genetic analysis. They have no apparent language. They are clearly quite intelligent. Knowledge is rudimentary at best.
They both hunt and gather. There are now larger mammals. Appeared just before the hominins. Predators seem
scarce; deer abound. That will undoubtedly change soon. No fire; only simple tools. Sexual differentiation is quite obvious. They group by family unit. And they build simple shelters. They don’t fear each other.
I have noticed one oddity.
They have only four digits.
A prank by the aliens?
Or a message with meaning?
It’s my one great frustration. There’s no way to know. No one to consult with. I can only make guesses. No proctor bearing answer keys.
We’re fascinated by each other.
256 days since I landed. That number is a message. Like everything the aliens do. Four raised to the fourth. Does that mean they’re tetra-memers?
No wonder I couldn’t grasp. An alien pattern for me. Four is an incomplete sequence. A question awaiting an answer. A start, not a finish.
Four planets offered as warnings. The fifth represents a violation. Four days to destroy life. (Three days and a pause.) Four more to obliterate atmosphere. But days are 25 hours. Major events at five years. They recognized that essential difference. Did the best they could. Met me on my terms.
Today is the transition point. A peaceful morning; clear skies. Life teems outside the wall. That’s their only real question. Can we accept the offer?
I call the planet Tetramere. We are a boundary world. A demilitarized zone of sorts. We’re neither human nor alien. We create a useful separation.
Humanity sent me to discover. To ask just one question. Are we safe from them? The aliens answered quite clearly. Yes; just stay over there. Yours is an alien zone. A void we will ignore. But a boundary we defend. You may seed life anywhere. Then let it grow, independent.
Earth has already accepted that. (I use the name freely.) They will not be subservient. But they will respect bounds. They just need more time. To advance their technological skill. To counter strength with strength. Earth will not be threatened. The time will yet come. But we’ll meet as equals.
Tetramere sits in the middle. I vouchsafe each side’s secrets. I buffer each side’s fears. Not really an optimal position. But good enough for now.
Earth has a response mechanism. A satellite with broadband blast. Reconfigured to emit sharp tones. Pointing at no single place. An omnidirectional notification of intent. One blast means no dice. The enemy has rejected peace. Prepare as best you can. Two blasts means good news. Time to respond at leisure.
Recognized as unnecessary long ago. But the decision was made. The door already slammed shut. Too late to change now. They’ll prepare for war, anyway.
I triggered it; two blasts. 25 seconds long; 16 apart. Swift acknowledgment; satellite fully deactivated. My mission is now complete. My life is my own.
It’s surprisingly hard to go. So much useful technology, abandoned. But I must start clean. Earth notified; now the aliens. The forms must be honored.
There’s neither fear nor triumph. I do feel strange empowerment. How often are beginnings possible? With such foundations of knowledge? A bittersweet leaving, and yet …
I hesitate only a moment. Then go—one small step. The suit comes off immediately. I toss it back across. I will feel no regrets.
Fresh air and direct sunshine. It’s been so very long. Warm hands and curious fingers. So much to learn here. And so much to teach.
I keep one memento, though. Or, more accurately, a set. A reminder of questions asked. A symbol of problems solved. Tiny plastic figures, posed oddly.
I am Ric; a pentamemer.
The future is always uncertain.
The void remains; palpable presence.
I choose to trust possibilities.
There is no looking back.
Inconstant Moon
written by
Larry Niven
illustrated by
BERNARDO MOTA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Larry Niven was born in 1938 in Los Angeles, California. There he attended the California Institute of Technology, but flunked out after discovering a bookstore jammed with used science fiction magazines.
He eventually graduated from Washburn University in Kansas with a BA in Mathematics and with a Minor in Psychology, and later received an honorary Doctorate in Letters.
His interests include science fiction conventions, role-playing games, comics, filk singing, yoga and other approaches to longevity.
He also enjoys attending meetings for the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS) and other gatherings of people at the cutting edges of science, with the hope of moving mankind into space by any means but particularly by making space endeavors attractive to commercial interests. In the 1980s he helped host the Citizens Advisory Council on National Space Policy.
Larry grew up with dogs but now lives with a cat, and borrows dogs to hike with. He also has a passing acquaintance with raccoons and ferrets, and says that by associating with non-humans, he has gained some insight into alien intelligences.
Larry doesn‘t write many love stories, but this one was written for his wife, Marilyn. Larry says that Jerry Pournelle gave him the clue that allowed him to finish the tale properly. He said, “You don’t write tragedies.”
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Bernardo Mota was born in 1996 in Setúbal, Portugal. Growing up surrounded by books, movies, video games and the Internet created an interest in science fiction, fantasy and, eventually, illustration.
His short comic won the second place in the Amadora BD 2011 contest for work in his age range, and he was formally honored as a young talent by his hometown the next year. He was one of the 2014 Illustrators of the Future winners published in Writers of the Future Volume 30.
Inconstant Moon
I
I was watching the news when the change came, like a flicker of motion at the corner of my eye. I turned toward the balcony window. Whatever it was, I was too late to catch it.
The moon was very bright tonight.
I saw that, and smiled, and turned back. Johnny Carson was just starting his monologue.
When the first commercials came on I got up to reheat some coffee. Commercials came in strings of three and four, going on midnight. I’d have time.
The moonlight caught me coming back. If it had been bright before, it was brighter now. Hypnotic. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony.
The balcony wasn’t much more than a railed ledge, with standing room for a man and a woman and a portable barbecue set. These past months the view had been lovely, especially around sunset. The Power and Light Company had been putting up a glass-slab style office building. So far it was only a steel framework of open girders. Shadow-blackened against a red sunset sky, it tended to look stark and surrealistic and hellishly impressive.
Tonight …
I had never seen the moon so bright, not even in the desert. Bright enough to read by, I thought, and immediately, but that’s an illusion. The moon was never bigger (I had read somewhere) than a quarter held nine feet away. It couldn’t possibly be bright enough to read by.
It was only three-quarters full!
But, glowing high over the San Diego Freeway to the west, the moon seemed to dim even the streaming automobile headlights. I blinked against its light, and thought of men walking on the moon, leaving corrugated footprints. Once, for the sake of an article I was writing, I had been allowed to pick up a bone-dry moon rock and hold it in my hand.…
I heard the show starting again, and I stepped inside. But, glancing once behind me, I caught the moon growing even brighter—as if it had come from behind a wisp of scudding cloud. Now its light was brain-searing, lunatic.
The phone rang five times before she answered.
“Hi,” I said. “Listen—”
“Hi,” Leslie said sleepily, complainingly. Damn. I’d hoped she was watching television, like me.
I said, “Don’t scream and shout, because I had a reason for calling. You’re in bed, right? Get up and — can you get up?”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter of twelve.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Go out on your balcony and look around.”
“Okay.”
The phone clunked. I waited. Leslie’s balcony faced north and west, like mine, but it was ten stories higher, with a correspondingly better view.
Through my own window, the moon burned like a textured spotlight.
“Stan? You there?”
“Yah. What do you think of it?”
“It’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it. What could make the moon light up like that?”
“I don’t know, but isn’t it gorgeous?”
“You’re supposed to be the native.” Leslie had only moved out here a year ago.
“Listen, I’ve never seen it like this. But there’s an old legend,” I said. “Once every hundred years the Los Angeles smog rolls away for a single night, leaving the air as clear as interstellar space. That way the gods can see if Los Angeles is still there. If it is, they roll the smog back so they won’t have to look at it.”
“I used to know all that stuff. Well, listen, I’m glad you woke me up to see it, but I’ve got to get to work tomorrow.”
“Poor baby.”
“That’s life. ’Night.”
“’Night.”
Afterward I sat in the dark, trying to think of someone else to call. Call a girl at midnight, invite her to step outside and look at the moonlight … and she may think it’s romantic or she may be furious, but she won’t assume you called six others.
So I thought of some names. But the girls who belonged to them had all dropped away over the past year or so, after I started spending all my time with Leslie. One could hardly blame them. And now Joan was in Texas and Hildy was getting married, and if I called Louise I’d probably get Gordie too. The English girl? But I couldn’t remember her number. Or her last name.