Iterations
Kava’s tail, which, like all Shizoo tails, stuck straight out behind her horizontally held body, was resting on an intricately carved wooden mount. Her chest, meanwhile, was supported from beneath by a padded cradle. “And what will happen to the Earth when this giant rock hits us?”
Cholo was standing freely; no one was allowed to sit in the presence of the Queen. He tilted his torso backward from the hips, letting the tip of his stiff tail briefly touch the polished wooden floor of the throne room. “Doubtless Your Highness has seen sketches of the moon’s surface, as observed through telescopes. We believe those craters were made by the impacts of similar minor planets, long ago.”
“What if your flying rock hits one of our cities?”
“The city would be completely destroyed, of course,” said Cholo. “Fortunately, Shizoo civilization only covers a tiny part of the globe. Anyway, odds are that it will impact the ocean. But if it does hit on land, the chances are minuscule that it will be in an inhabited area.”
The Shizoo lived on an archipelago of equatorial islands. Although many kinds of small animals existed on the islands, the greatest beasts—wild shieldhorns, meatscoopers, the larger types of shovelbills—were not found here. Whenever the Shizoo had tried to establish a colony on the mainland, disaster ensued. Even those who had never ventured from the islands knew of the damage a lone meatscooper or a marauding pack of terrorclaws could inflict.
A nictitating membrane passed in front of Kava’s golden eyes. “Then we have nothing to worry about,” she said.
“If it hits the land,” replied Cholo, “yes, we are probably safe. But if it hits the ocean, the waves it kicks up may overwhelm our islands. We have to be prepared for that.”
Queen Kava’s jaw dropped in astonishment, revealing her curved, serrated teeth.
Cholo predicted they had many months before the flying mountain would crash into the Earth. During that time, the Shizoo built embankments along the perimeters of their islands. Stones had to be imported from the mainland—Shizoo usually built with wood, but something stronger would be needed to withstand the waves.
There was much resistance at first. The tiny dot, visible only in a telescope, seemed so insignificant. How could it pose a threat to the proud and ancient Shizoo race?
But the dot grew. Eventually, it became visible with the naked eye. It swelled in size, night after night. On the last night it was seen, it had grown to rival the apparent diameter of the moon.
Cholo had no way to know for sure when the impact would occur. Indeed, he harbored a faint hope that the asteroid would disintegrate and vaporize in the atmosphere—he was sure that friction with the air was what caused shooting stars to streak across the firmament. But, of course, Cholo’s rock was too big for that.
The sound of the asteroid’s impact was heard early in the morning—a great thunderclap, off in the distance. But Cholo knew sound took time to travel—it would take three-quarters of a day for a sound to travel halfway around the world.
Most of the adult population had stayed up, unable to sleep. When the sound did come, some of the Shizoo hissed in contempt. A big noise; that was all. Hardly anything to worry about. Cholo had panicked everyone for no good reason; perhaps his tail should be cut off in punishment…
But within a few days, Cholo was vindicated—in the worst possible way.
The storms came first—great gale-force winds that knocked down trees and blew apart huts. Cholo had been outdoors when the first high winds hit; he saw wingers crumple in the sky, and barely made it to shelter himself, entering a strongly built wooden shop.
A domesticated shieldhorn had been wandering down the same dirt road Cholo had been on; it dug in its four feet, and tipped its head back so that its neck shield wouldn’t catch the wind. But five of its babies had been following along behind it, and Cholo saw them go flying into the air like so many leaves. The shieldhorn opened her mouth and was doubtless bellowing her outrage, but not even the cry of a great crested shovelbill would have been audible over the roar of this storm.
The wind was followed by giant waves, which barreled in toward the Shizoo islands; just as Cholo had feared, the asteroid had apparently hit the ocean.
The waves hammered the islands. On Elbar, the embankments gave way, and most of the population was swept out to sea. Much damage was done to the other islands, too, but—thank the Eggmother!—overall, casualties were surprisingly light.
It was half a month before the seas returned to normal; it was even longer before the heavens completely cleared. The sunsets were spectacular, stained red as though a giant meatscooper had ripped open the bowl of the sky.
“You have done the Shizoo people a great service,” said Queen Kava. “Without your warning, we would all be dead.” The monarch was wearing a golden necklace; it was the only adornment on her yellowish-gray hide. “I wish to reward you.”
Cholo, whose own hide was solid gray, tilted his head backward, exposing the underside of his neck in supplication. “Your thanks is reward enough.” He paused, then lowered his head. “However…”
Kava clicked the claws on her left hand against those on her right. “Yes?”
“I wish to go in search of the impact site.”
The waves had come from the west. Dekalt—the continent the Shizoo referred to as “the mainland”—was to the east. There was a land mass to the west, as well, but it was more than five times as far away. Shizoo boats had sailed there from time to time; fewer than half ever returned. There was no telling how far away the impact site was, or if there would be anything to see; the crater might be completely submerged, but Cholo hoped its rim might stick up above the waves.
Queen Kava flexed her claws in surprise. “We are recovering from the worst natural disaster in our history, Cholo. I need every able body here, and every ship for making supply runs to the mainland.” She fell silent, then: “But if this is what you want…”
“It is.”
Kava let air out in a protracted hiss. “It’s not really a suitable reward. Yes, you may have the use of a ship; I won’t deny you that. But while on your voyage, think of what you really want—something lasting, something of value.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Cholo. “Thank you.”
Kava disengaged her tail from the wooden mount, stepped away from her chest cradle, and walked over to the astronomer, placing the back of a hand, her claws bent up and away, gently on his shoulder. “Travel safely, Cholo.”
They sailed for almost two months without finding any sign of the impact site. Cholo had tried to determine the correct heading based on the apparent direction from which the huge waves had come, plus his knowledge of the asteroid’s path through the sky, but either he had miscalculated, or the ocean really had covered over all evidence of the impact. Still, they had come this far; he figured they might as well push on to the western continent.
The ship deployed its anchor about thirty-six bodylengths from the shore, and Cholo and two others rowed in aboard a small boat. The beach was covered with debris obviously washed in by giant waves—mountains of seaweed, millions of shells, coral, driftwood, several dead sea serpents, and more. Cholo had a hard time walking over all the material; he almost lost his balance several times.
The scouting party continued on, past the beach. The forest was charred and blackened—a huge fire had raged through here recently, leaving burnt-out trunks and a thick layer of ash underfoot. The asteroid would have heated up enormously coming through the atmosphere; even if it did hit the ocean, the air temperature might well have risen enough to set vegetation ablaze. Still, there were already signs of recovery: in a few places, new shoots were poking up through the ash.
Cholo and his team hiked for thousands of bodylengths. The crew had been looking forward to being on solid ground again, but there was no joy in their footsteps, no jaunty bouncing of tails; this burned-out landscape was oppressive.
Finally, they came to a river; its waters had apparently held back the e
xpanding fire. On the opposite side, Cholo could see trees and fields of flowers. He looked at Garsk, the captain of the sailing ship. Garsk bobbed from her hips in agreement. The river was wide, but not raging. Cholo, Garsk, and three others entered its waters, their tails undulating from side to side, their legs and arms paddling until they reached the opposite shore.
As Cholo clambered up the river’s far bank and out onto dry land, he startled a small animal that had been lurking in the underbrush.
It was a tiny mammal, a disgusting ball of fur.
Cholo had grown sick of sea serpent and fish on the long voyage; he was hoping to find something worth killing, something worth eating.
After about a twelfth of a day spent exploring, Cholo came across a giant shieldhorn skull protruding from the ground. At first he thought it was a victim of the recent catastrophe, but closer examination revealed the skull was ancient—hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. Shizoo legend said that long ago great herds of shieldhorns had roamed this continent, their footfalls like thunder, their facial spears glaring in the sunlight, but no one in living memory had seen such a herd; the numbers had long been diminishing.
Cholo and Garsk continued to search.
They saw small mammals.
They saw birds.
But nowhere did they see any greater beasts. At least, none that were still alive.
At one point, Cholo discovered the body of a meatscooper. From its warty snout to the tip of its tail, it measured more than four times as long as Cholo himself. When he approached the body, birds lifted into the air from it, and clouds of insects briefly dispersed. The stench of rotting meat was overpowering; the giant had been dead for a month or more. And yet there were hundreds of stoneweights worth of flesh still on the bones. If there had been any mid-sized scavengers left alive in the area, they would have long since picked the skeleton clean.
“So much death,” said Garsk, her voice full of sadness.
Cholo bobbed in agreement, contemplating his own mortality.
Months later, Cholo at last returned to Queen Kava’s chambers.
“And you found no great beasts at all?” said the Queen.
“None.”
“But there are lots of them left on the mainland,” said Kava. “While you were away, countless trips were made there to find wood and supplies to repair our cities.”
“‘Lots’ is a relative term, Your Highness. If the legends are to be believed—not to mention the fossil record—great beasts of all types were much more plentiful long ago. Their numbers have been thinning for some time. Perhaps, on the eastern continent, the aftermath of the asteroid was the gizzard stone that burst the thunderbeast’s belly, finishing them off.”
“Even the great may fall,” said the Queen.
Cholo was quiet for a time, his own nictitating membranes dancing up and down. Finally, he spoke: “Queen Kava, before I left, you promised me another reward—whatever I wanted—for saving the Shizoo people.”
“I did, yes.”
“Well, I’ve decided what I’d like…”
The unveiling took place at noon six months later, in the large square outside the palace. The artist was Jozaza—the same Jozaza who had assured her own immortality through her stunning frieze on the palace wall depicting the Eggmother’s six hunts.
Only a small crowd gathered for the ceremony, but that didn’t bother Cholo. This wasn’t for today—it was for the ages. It was for immortality.
Queen Kava herself made a short speech—there were many reasons why Kava was popular, and her brevity was certainly one of them. Then Jozaza came forward. As she turned around to face the audience, her tail swept through a wide arc. She made a much longer speech; Cholo was growing restless, hopping from foot to foot.
Finally the moment came. Jozaza bobbed her torso at four of her assistants. They each took hold of part of the giant leather sheet, and, on the count of three, they pulled it aside, revealing the statue.
It was made of white marble veined with gold that glistened in the sunlight. The statue was almost five times life size, rivaling the biggest meatscooper’s length. The resemblance to Cholo was uncanny—it was him down to the very life; no one could mistake it for anyone else. Still, to assure that the statue fulfilled its purpose for generations to come, Cholo’s name was carved into its base, along with a description of what he’d done for the Shizoo people.
Cholo stared up at the giant sculpture; the white stone was almost painfully bright in the glare of the sun.
A statue in his honor—a statue bigger than any other anywhere in the world. His nictitating membranes danced up and down.
He would be remembered. Not just now, not just tomorrow. He would be remembered for all time. A million years from now—nay, a hundred million hence, the Shizoo people would still know his name, still recall his deeds.
He would be remembered forever.
The Abdication of Pope Mary III
Author’s Introduction
Scientists dream of having their work published in either Science (the leading American scientific journal) or Nature (the great British one).
Imagine my surprise, then, when I received a commission from Dr. Henry Gee, the Senior Editor of Nature, to write an original 800-word science-fiction story for that magazine (a commission that concluded, in delightful British fashion, by proffering “apologies for this intrusion”). Nature was publishing a series of short stories, beginning with a contribution from my favorite SF writer, Sir Arthur C. Clarke, in celebration of the dawn of the new millennium.
I was thrilled to contribute the following. I deliberately touched on the theme of my twelfth novel Calculating God, since that book would be hitting the bookstore shelves just as this story saw print in the summer of 2000.
The Abdication of Pope Mary III
Darth Vader’s booming voice, still the network’s trademark 600 years after its founding: “This is CNN.”
And then the news anchor: “Our top story: Pope Mary III abdicated this morning. Giancarlo DiMarco, our correspondent in Vatican City, has the details. Giancarlo?”
“Thanks, Lisa. The unprecedented has indeed happened: after 312 years of service, Pope Mary III stepped down today. Traditionally, the conclave of Roman Catholic cardinals waits 18 days after the death of a pope before beginning deliberations to choose a successor, but Mary—who has returned to her birth name of Sharon Cheung—is alive and well, and so the members of the conclave have already been sealed inside the Vatican Palace, where they will remain until they’ve chosen Mary’s replacement. Although no new pope has been elected for over 300 years, the traditional voting method will be used. We are now watching the Sistine Chapel for the smoke that indicates the ballots have been burned following a round of voting. And—Lisa, Lisa, it’s happening right now! There’s smoke coming out, and—no, you can hear the disappointment of the crowd. It’s black smoke; that means no candidate has yet received the required majority of two-thirds plus one. But we’ll keep watching.”
“Thank you, Giancarlo. Let’s take a look at Pope Mary’s press conference, given earlier today.”
Tight shot on Mary, looking only a tenth of her four hundred years: “Since Vatican IV reaffirmed the principle of papal infallibility,” she said, “and since I now believe that I was indeed in error 216 years ago when I issued a bull instructing Catholics to reject the evidence of the two Benmergui experiments, I feel compelled to step down…”
“We’re joined now in studio by Joginder Singh, professor of physics at the University of Toronto. Dr. Singh, can you explain the Benmergui experiments for our viewers?”
“Certainly, Lisa,” said Singh. “The first proved that John Cramer’s transactional interpretation of quantum mechanics, proposed in the late 20th century, is in fact correct.”
“And that means…?”
“It means that the many-worlds interpretation is flat-out wrong: new parallel universes are not spawned each time a quantum event could go multiple ways. This is t
he one and only extant iteration of reality.”
“And Dr. Benmergui’s second experiment?”
“It proved the current cycle of creation was only the seventh such ever; just six other big-bang/big-crunch oscillations preceded our current universe. The combined effect of these two facts led directly to Pope Mary’s crisis of faith, specifically because they proved the existence of—one might as well use the word—God.”
“How? I’m sure our viewers are scratching their heads…”
“Well, you see, the observation, dating back to the 20th century, that the fundamental parameters of the universe seem fine-tuned to an almost infinite degree specifically to give rise to life, could previously be dismissed as a statistical artifact caused by the existence of many contemporaneous parallel universes or a multitude of previous ones. In all of that, every possible combination would crop up by chance, and so it wouldn’t be remarkable that there was a universe like this one—one in which the force of gravity is just strong enough to allow stars and planets to coalesce but not just a little bit stronger, causing the universe to collapse long before life could have developed. Likewise the value of the strong nuclear force, which holds atoms together, seems finely tuned, as do the thermal properties of water, and on and on.”
“So our universe is a very special place?”
“Exactly. And since, as Kathryn Benmergui proved, this is the only current universe, and one of just a handful that have ever existed, then the life-generating properties of the very specific fundamental constants that define reality are virtually impossible to explain except as the results of deliberate design.”
“But then why would Pope Mary resign? Surely if science has proven the existence of a creator…?”
Singh smiled. “Ah, but that creator is clearly not the God of the Bible or the Torah or the Qur’an. Rather, the creator is a physicist, and we are one of his or her experiments. Science hasn’t reconciled itself with religion; it has superseded it, and—”