The Oort Crowd

KEN MACLEOD.

Ken MacLeod lives in Scotland and has published four SF novels. This is his first published short story, from Nature . When he began to write, he said in an interview online with Andrew A.

Adams, "first of all I decided to write some short stories. So I would send short stories off to Interzone , and they'd send them back. No wonder, actually, looking at them now. The final nadir of this came when Interzone sent back a story and suggested I send it to a small press magazine.

So I sent it to our local small press SF magazine, which was called New Dawn Fades , and they rejected it. So I thought that there was nothing else for it and that I'd have to write a novel; that I couldn't do short stories." His first novel, The Star Fraction, appeared in 1995 in the UK but his fiction began to be published in the US in 1999 with The Ca.s.sini Division. His four novels to datehave earned him a reputation at the forefront of newer SF writers, especially for their striking political speculations-his first four books envision a post-Capitalist socialist society. Though he is often called a hard SF writer, he objects: "I don't know enough physics to write hard SF. All the convincing-sounding physics, wormholes and so on, I made up or have blatantly stolen. The only physics I've tried very hard to get right is the Newtonian physics." Still, he belongs in the SF crowd that is making British SF prominent in the last decade.

"The Oort Crowd" foreshadows his forthcoming novel.

As we enter the first year of the 23rd century (or the last year of the 22nd-some arguments never go away) we look back with satisfaction at the triumphs of science and technology in the first two centuries of the third millennium. The advances in medicine, in biotechnology, in communications, in atmospheric engineering have been more than adequately celebrated elsewhere. They are familiar to the most isolated farmer on the barest rocks of Antarctica. But in long-term significance for the human prospect, nothing can compare to the discovery of the G.o.ds.

The word "G.o.ds" is used advisedly. Humanity's earliest speculations about the nature of any superhuman intelligences with which it might share the Universe are, paradoxically, more relevant to our real situation than the predictions of alien contact in the once-popular genre of science fiction. It must be admitted, however, that some of its pract.i.tioners (see, for example, Boyce, 1998, http://www.et presence.ndirect.co.uk) reached part of the truth.

That truth, as we all know, is that a large, undetermined and (for good reason) indeterminable fraction of the bodies in the asteroid belt, the Kuiper Belt and the Oort Cloud are the sites of complex intelligent life. The precise evolutionary route(s) from extremophilic microorganisms to intelligence, apparently bypa.s.sing multicellular organization, remain unknown and perhaps (again, for good reason) unknowable. Computer simulations have yielded interesting, if inconclusive, results (Chang-Hoskins, 2197, provides a useful overview).

Those of our readers who have benefited from advances in medicine may recollect, and our younger readers can easily retrieve, the excitement that greeted the initial, accidental discovery of an ET intelligence in 2031. The first downloads from the Gates Foundation asteroid prospector revealed not the potential wealth of resources expected in a carbonaceous chondrite, but a complex interior structure variously described as "crystalline," "fractal" and "organic." Fortunately scientific openness, the drilling operation was webcast live, and as the pictures slowly scrolled down the screens of a few hundred thousand s.p.a.ce enthusiasts, the news spread across the net faster than a virus.

In those first hasty, misspelled e-mails and postings we can see-from references to the structure as "the alien computer" or "Asteroid City" or even as "the starship"-the depth of initial misapprehension.

Far from having been built by beings broadly similar to ourselves, the structure itself was the alien, or the civilization-the nature and number of centers of consciousness within it remain controversial. And it was neither alone nor isolated.

Billions of years of evolutionary "tunning" have given the cometary minds an exquisite sensitivity to the electromagnetic output of each other's internal chemical and physical processes. Their communications are, once looked for, as detectable as they are incomprehensible. Some of the larger bodies in the Oort seem to act as relays, extending the communications net across solar and possibly interstellar distances.

(As is known, the tenuous outer reaches of the Oort Cloud intersect those of their Centaurian equivalent.) Despite strenuous efforts, no human communication with the extraterrestrial minds has been established (the results claimed by Lunan, 2049, are at best ambiguous). They are, to us, in precisely the position of the G.o.ds postulated by Epicurus, serene in the s.p.a.ces between the worlds.

These G.o.ds, while indifferent, are not pa.s.sive. Subtle control over their outga.s.sings results, over very long periods, in orbital changes. More rapid processes occur within the asteroids. Careful study of recent and historical Near-Earth Objects suggests that the orbits of at least some NEOs have been the result of conscious intent.

In view of the above, it appears in retrospect unfortunate that the first probe to the Oort Cloud andbeyond, launched in 2030, should have used as its initial means of propulsion a plasma sail consisting of ionized gas within a "magnetic bubble" thousands of kilometers across, and as its secondary means a prototype "electromagnetic ramscoop" sucking in vast quant.i.ties of interstellar and cometary matter.

Subsequent changes in the volume and intensity of intercometary communication, and in the orbits of numerous comets and asteroids, cannot be accounted for by the physical effects of its pa.s.sage. They can only be considered a response.

The effect on human society of the discovery of the G.o.ds has been positive. Excluded from many of the s.p.a.ce-based resources once thought unoccupied, we turn to a less profligate use of our planet's own.

The expectations of John Stuart Mill, in his famous chapters on the "stationary state" and "the probable futurity of the laboring cla.s.ses," have been largely realized.

But, as our astronomical and s.p.a.ce-defense workers' cooperatives continue their urgent sky-watching, there may be some risk of overlooking a danger closer to home. There is no reason to suppose that extremophilic consciousness is confined to minor interplanetary bodies. Perhaps the majority of the Earth's bioma.s.s consists of subterranean extremophiles.

Watch the ground.

The Thing About Benny

M. SHAYNE BELL.

M. Shayne Bell (www.mshaynebell.com), from Salt Lake City, Utah, has been publishing SF since winning first place in the Writers of the Future contest in 1987. He also publishes poetry and he enjoys hiking, backpacking, and climbing. In the fall of 1996, Bell joined an eight-day expedition to the top of Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa. He has an MA in English: "I completed the first science fiction and fantasy creative writing thesis at Brigham Young University, after years of struggle. It was a collection of my short stories. The loathing for the entire genre in the English department at the time astonished me." His SF novel, Nicoli, was published in 1991. He edited the anthology Washed by a Wave of Wind: Science Fiction from the Corridor (1993), and has published a steady stream of short stories for the last decade.

"The Thing About Benny" is from the excellent anthology Vanishing Acts, edited by Ellen Datlow, stories upon the general theme of endangered species. Bell's humorous story takes place in the not too distant future and is very plausible hard SF, to which is added some canny sociological commentary. Bell's own comment is: "My story is a dark comedy about plant extinctions. Really. That it turned out to be funny at all surprised me more than anyone."

Abba, Faltskog Listing 47: "Dancing Queen," day 3. En route from the airport.

Benny said, apropos of nothing, "The bridge is the most important part of a song, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah," I said, me trying to drive in all that traffic and us late, as usual. "That's all I think about when I'm hearing music-those important bridges."

"No, really." Benny looked at me, earphones firmly covering his ears, eyes dark and kind of surprised. It was a weird look. Benny never has much to say, but when he does the company higher-ups told me I was supposed to take notice, try to figure out how he does what he does.

The light turned green. I drove us onto North Temple, downtown Salt Lake not so far off now.

"Bridges in songs have something to do with extinct plants?" I asked.

"It's all in the music," he said, looking back at the street and sitting very, very still.

"Messages about plants are in the music?" I asked.

But he was gone, back in that trance he'd been in since L.A. Besides, we were minutes from our firststop. He always gets so nervous just before we start work. "What if we find something?" he'd asked me once, and I'd said, "Isn't that the point?"

He started rubbing his sweaty hands up and down his pant legs. I could hear the tinny melody out of his earphones. It was "Dancing Queen" week. Benny'd set his player on endless repeat, and he listened to "Dancing Queen" over and over again on the plane, in the car, in the offices we went to, during meals, in bed with the earphones on his head. That's all he'd listen to for one week. Then he'd change to a different Abba song on Sunday. When he'd gone through every Abba song ever recorded, he'd start over.

"Check in," Benny said.

"What?"

"The Marriott."

I slammed brakes, did a U-turn, did like he'd asked. That was my job, even if we were late. Benny had to use the toilet, and he would not use toilets in the offices we visited.

I carried the bags up to our rooms-no bellhop needed, thank you. What's a personal a.s.sistant for if not to lug your luggage around? I called Utah Power and Light to tell them we were still coming. Then I waited for Benny in the lobby. My mind kept playing "Dancing Queen" over and over. "It's all in the music," Benny'd said, but I failed to understand how anybody, Benny included, could find directions in fifty-year-old Abba songs to the whereabouts of plants extinct in the wild.

Benny tapped me on the shoulder. "It's close enough that we can walk," he said. "Take these."

He handed me his briefcase and a stack of World Botanics pamphlets and motioned to the door. I always had to lead the way. Benny wouldn't walk with me. He walked behind me, four or five steps back, Abba blasting in his ears. It was no use trying to get him to do differently. I gave the car keys to the hotel car people so they could park the rental, and off we went.

Utah Power and Light was a first visit. We'd do a get-acquainted sweep of the cubicles and offices, then come back the next day for a detailed study. Oh sure, after Benny'd found the Rhapis excelsa in a technical writer's cubicle in the Transamerica Pyramid, everybody with a plant in a pot had hoped to be the one with the cancer cure. But most African violets are just African violets. They aren't going to cure anything. Still, the hopeful had driven college botany professors around the world nuts with their pots of begonias and canary ivy and sword ferns.

But they were out there. Plants extinct in the wild had been kept alive in the oddest places, including cubicles in office buildings. Benny'd found more than his share. Even I took "Extract of Rhapis excelsa"

treatment one week each year like everybody else. Who wanted a heart attack? Who didn't feel better with his arteries unclogged? People used to go jogging just to feel that good.

The people at UP&L were thrilled to see us-hey, Benny was their chance at millions. A lady from HR led us around office after cubicle after break room. Benny walked along behind the lady and me. It was Dieffenbachia maculata after Ficus benjamina after Cycus revoluta. Even I could tell n.o.body was getting rich here. But up on the sixth floor, I turned around and Benny wasn't behind us. He was back staring at a Nemanthus gregarius on a bookshelf in a cubicle just inside the door.

I walked up to him. "It's just goldfish vine," I said.

The girl in the cubicle looked like she wanted to pick up her keyboard and kill me with it.

"Benny," I said. "We got a bunch more territory to cover. Let's move it."

He put his hands in his pockets and followed along behind me, but after about five minutes he was gone again. We found him back at the Nemanthus gregarius. I took a second look at the plant. It looked like nothing more than Nemanthus gregarius to me. Polly, the girl in the cubicle, was doing a little dance in her chair in time to the m.u.f.fled "Dancing Queen" out of Benny's earphones. Mama mia, she felt like money, money, money.

I made arrangements with HR for us to come back the next day and start our detailed study. The company CEO came down to shake our hands when we left. Last we saw of Polly that day was her watering the Nemanthus gregarius.

Abba, Faltskog Listing 47:"Dancing Queen," day 3. Dinner.

The thing about Benny is, he never moves around in time to the music. I mean, he can sit there listening to "Dancing Queen" over and over again and stare straight ahead, hands folded in his lap. He never moves his shoulders. He never taps his toes. He never sways his hips. Watching him, you'd think "Dancing Queen" was some Bach cantata.

I ordered dinner for us in the hotel coffee shop. Benny always makes me order for him, but G.o.d forbid it's not a medium-rare hamburger and fries. We sat there eating in silence, the only sound between us the m.u.f.fled dancing queen having the time of her life. I thought maybe I'd try a little conversation.

"Hamburger OK?" I asked.

Benny nodded.

"Want a refill on the c.o.ke?"

He picked up his gla.s.s and sucked up the last of the c.o.ke, but shook his head no.

I took a bite of my burger, chewed it, looked at Benny. "You got any goals?" I asked him.

Benny looked at me then. He didn't say a word. He stopped chewing and just stared.

"I mean, what do you want to do with your life? You want a wife? Kids? A trip to the moon? We fly around together, city after city, studying all these plants, and I don't think I even know you."

He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "I have goals," he said.

"Well, like what?"

"I haven't told anybody. I'll need some time to think about it before I answer you. I'm not sure I want to tell anybody, no offense."

Jeez, Benny, take a chance on me why don't you, I thought. We went back to eating our burgers. I knew the higher-ups would want me to follow the lead Benny had dropped when we were driving in from the airport, so I tried. "Tell me about bridges," I said. "Why are they important in songs?"

Benny wouldn't say another word. We finished eating, and I carried Benny's things up to his room for him. At the door he turned around and looked at me. "Bridges take you to a new place," he said.

"But they also show you the way back to where you once were."

He closed the door.

I didn't turn on any music in my room. It was nice to have it a little quiet for a change. I wrote my reports and e-mailed them off, then went out for a drink. I nursed it along, wondering where we stood on the bridges.

Abba, Faltskog Listing 47: "Dancing Queen," day 4. UP&L offices.

World Botanics sends Benny only to companies that meet its criteria. First, they have to have occupied the same building for fifty years or more. You'd be surprised how few companies in America have done that. But if a company has moved around a lot, chances are its plants have not gone with it.

Second, it's nice if the company has had international ties, but even that isn't necessary. Lots of people somehow failed to tell customs about the cuttings or the little packets of seeds in their pockets after vacations abroad. If a company's employees had traveled around a lot, or if they had family ties with other countries, they sometimes ended up with the kind of plants we were looking for. UP&L has stayed put for a good long time, plus its employees include former Mormon missionaries who've poked around obscure corners of the planet. World Botanics hoped to find something in Utah.

The UP&L CEO and the HR staff and Polly were all waiting for us. You'd think Benny'd want to go straight up to the sixth floor to settle the Nemanthus gregarius question, but he didn't. Benny always starts on the first floor and works his way to the top, so we started on floor one.

The lobby was a new install, and I was glad Benny didn't waste even half an hour there. Not much hope of curing cancer with flame nettle or cantea palms. The cafeteria on the second floor had some interesting Cleistocactus strausii. Like all cactus, it's endangered but not yet extinct in the wild-there are still reports of Cleistocactus strausii growing here and there in the tops of the Andes. As far as anybodycan tell, it can't cure a thing.

We didn't make it to the sixth floor till after four o'clock, and you could tell that Polly was a nervous wreck.

But Benny walked right past her Nemanthus gregarius.

"Hey, Benny," I said in a low voice. "What about the goldfish vine?"

Benny turned around and stared at it. Polly moved back into her cubicle so she wouldn't block the view, but after a minute Benny put his hands in his pockets and walked off. Well, poor Polly, I thought.

But just before five, I turned around and Benny wasn't behind me. I found him at the Nemanthus gregarius. Jeez Benny, I thought, we need to know the name of the game here. Declare extract of Nemanthus gregarius the fountain of youth or tell Polly she has a nice plant but nothing special. I steered him out of the building and back to the Marriott.

Abba, Faltskog Listing 47: "Dancing Queen," day 4. Dinner.

I ordered Benny's burger and a steak for me. We sat there eating, the only sound between us a m.u.f.fled "Dancing Queen." After last night, I was not attempting conversation.

I'd taken time before dinner to look up Nemanthus gregarius on the Net. It is not endangered. It grows like weeds in cubicles. It can't cure a thing.

I didn't know what Benny was doing.

He sucked up the last of his gla.s.s of c.o.ke and put the gla.s.s down a little hard on the table. I looked up at him.

"I want to find a new plant and name it for Agnetha," he said.

"What?"

"My goal in life," he said. "If you tell anyone, I'll see that you're fired."

"You're looking for a new plant species in office buildings?"

"I'd actually like to find one for each of the four members of Abba, but Agnetha's first."

And I'd thought finding one completely new species was too much to ask.

"When Abba sang, the world was so lush," Benny said. "You can hear it in their music. It resonates with what's left of the natural world. It helps me save it."

It was my turn to be quiet. All I could think was, it works for Benny. He's had plenty of success, after all, and who hasn't heard of crazier things than the music of dead pop stars leading some guy to new plant species?

When I wrote up my daily reports that night, I left out Benny's goals. Some things the higher-ups don't need to know.

Abba, Faltskog Listing 47: "Dancing Queen," day 5. UP&L offices.

We spent the day looking at more sorry specimens of Cordy-line terminalis, Columnea gloriosa, and Codiaeum variagatum than I care to remember. By the end of the day, Benny started handing out the occasional watering tip, so I knew even he was giving up.