CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
THE KALPA AND ENVIRONS
A. FOURTEEN ZEROS: PROLOG
PART ONE FATE SHIFTERS
TEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
FOURTEEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
TEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
FOURTEEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
TEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
FOURTEEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 23
TEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
FOURTEEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
TEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
PART TWO BROKEN LOGOS
FOURTEEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
TEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
FOURTEEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
PART THREE TERMINUS AND TYPHON
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
FOURTEEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
TEN ZEROS: CHAPTER 67
NO ZEROS: CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
CHAPTER 104
CHAPTER 105
CHAPTER 106
CHAPTER 107
CHAPTER 108
CHAPTER 109
CHAPTER 110
CHAPTER 111
CHAPTER 112
CHAPTER 113
CHAPTER 114
CHAPTER 115
CHAPTER 116
CHAPTER 117
CHAPTER 118
CHAPTER 119
CHAPTER 120
CHAPTER 121
CHAPTER 122
CHAPTER 123
CHAPTER 124
CHAPTER 125
CHAPTER 126
CHAPTER 127
ENTR’ACTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY GREG BEAR
COPYRIGHT
For Richard Curtis:
celebrating thirty years
a cognizant original v5 release november 12 2010
A.
FOURTEEN ZEROS
PROLOG
* * *
Very deep is the well of the past. Should we not call it bottomless?
—Thomas Mann, Joseph and His Brothers
“It’s Time,” Alan heard himself whisper. “Time—gone out like a tide and left us stranded.”
—C. L. Moore and Henry Kuttner, Earth’s Last Citadel
Everything you know is wrong.
—Firesign Theater
The Kalpa
Coming to the Broken Tower was dangerous.
Alone at the outer edge of an empty room half a mile wide, surrounded by a brutality of high crystal windows, Keeper Ghentun drew in his cloak against the mordant chill. A thin pool of air bubbled at his feet, and a fine icy mist lingered along the path he had taken from the lifts. This part of the city was not used to his kind, his brand of physicality, and did not adjust willingly to his needs.
Servants of the Librarian came here rarely to meet with suppliants from the lower levels. Appointments were nearly impossible to obtain. And yet, Ghentun had requested an audience and had been summoned.
The high windows gave a panoramic view of what lay outside the city, over the middle lands and beyond the border of the real—the Typhon Chaos. In all the Kalpa, only the tower had windows to the outside; the rest of the city had long ago walled itself off from that awesome, awful sight.
Ghentun approached the nearest window and braced for a look. Directly below, great curves like the prows of three ships seemed ready to leap into the darkness: the Kalpa’s last bions, containing all that remained of humanity. A narrow gray belt surrounded these huge edifices, and beyond that stretched a broad, uneven black ring: the middle lands. That ring and all within was protected by an outward-facing phalanx of slowly revolving spires, blurred as if sunk in silt-laden water: the Defenders, outermost of the city’s reality generators.
Outside of their protection, four craters filled with wreckage—the lost bions of the Kalpa—swept away in a wide curve to either side and back again, meeting in darkness hundreds of miles away: the city’s original ring.
Out of the Chaos, the massive orb of the Witness beamed its gray, knife-edged searchlight over the lost bions and the middle lands, blasting against the foggy Defenders, arcing high as if to grasp the tower—too painful to watch.
Ghentun averted his eyes just as the beam swept through the chamber.
Sangmer, the first to lead an attempt to cross the Chaos, had once stood on this very spot, mapping the course of his journey. A few wakes later he had descended from the Broken Tower—even then called Malregard—and gone forth on his last quest with five brave companions, philosopher-adventurers all.
None ever heard from again.
Malregard, indeed. Evil view.
He felt a presence behind him and turned, bowing his head. The Librarian had such a variety of servants, he did not know what to expect. This one—a small angelin, female in form—stood barely taller than Ghentun’s knee. He colored his cloak infrared, making the nearest pools of air bubble furiously and vanish. The servant also shifted spectrum, then brought up the temperature in the chamber until finally there was some pressure.
Ghentun bent to give the angelin a primordial speck of dirt, a crumbled bit of Earth’s basalt—the traditional payment for an audience. These were the old rules, never to be forgotten. The Librarian and all his servants were liable to withdraw at a whisper of rudeness into ten thousand years of silence—something the Kalpa could no longer afford.
“Why are you here, Keeper?” the angelin asked. “Has there been progress this side of the real?
”
“That is for the Librarian to judge. All honor to its servants.”
The angelin silvered and froze—simply stopped, for no reason Ghentun could fathom. All the forms had been observed. Ghentun switched his cloak and plasma to slow mode so he might maintain some disciplined comfort. Clearly, this was going to take a while.
Two wakes passed.
Nothing around them changed except that out of the Chaos the Witness’s gray knife-edge beam swept three times through the chamber.
The angelin finally cleared its silvery shell and spoke. “The Librarian will receive you. An appointment will be made available in fewer than a thousand years. Pass this information to such successors as there may be.”
“I will have no successor,” Ghentun said.
The angelin’s reaction came with surprising swiftness. “The experiment is concluded?”
“No. The city.”
“We have been out of touch. Explain.”
Ghentun observed sharply, “We do not have the luxury of time. Decisions must be made soon.”
The angelin expanded and became translucent. “Soon” could be interpreted as an affront to any Eidolon, but particularly a servant of the Librarian. It was difficult to believe that such beings still lay claim to the honor of humanity—but it was so.
“Explain to me what you can,” it said, “without denying the privilege of the Librarian.”
“There are troubling results. They may be harbingers. The Kalpa is the last refuge of old reality, but our influence is too small. As the Librarian anticipated, history may be corroding.”
“The Librarian does not anticipate. All is permutation.”
“No doubt,” Ghentun said. “Nevertheless, world-lines are being severed and unnaturally rejoined. Others may have been dissolved. Whole segments of history may already be lost.”
“Something like that is being felt by a few of the ancient breed. They are our indicators, as they were designed to be.”
Intrigued, the angelin reduced and solidified. “Canaries in a coal mine,” it said.
Ghentun did not know what canaries were, and only vaguely understood the implications of a coal mine.
“Do any of the ancient breed experience unusual dreams?” the angelin asked.
Ghentun drew his cloak tight. “I’ve revealed what I can, all honor to the Librarian. I need to make the rest of my report in person—directly. As instructed.”
“From Malregard, we watch your breeds crossing the border of the real—violating city law. They seem determined to lose themselves in the Chaos. None have been observed to return. Is your report an admission of failure?”
Ghentun carefully considered his position. “By nature, they are a sensitive and determined folk. I am humble before the Eidolons—I leave those observations to your kind, and seek criticism from the Librarian, if it is due—directly.”
Another long pause.
The Witness’s gray beam again swept the chamber. As it passed through the angelin, Ghentun observed a lattice of internal process—the highly refined, jewel-like structure of sapphire-grade noötic matter. The angelin oscillated before Ghentun’s face. Its lips did not move but its bubble of cold shimmered. “Induce an individual affected by these dreams to accompany you to the Broken Tower.”
“When?”
“You will be notified.”
Ghentun felt a flush of frustration. “Do you understand urgency?” he asked.
“No,” the angelin said. “You can either stay and explain it to me, or carry out these instructions. In seventy-five years there will be an interview with the Librarian. Is that soon enough?”
“It will have to do,” Ghentun said.
“Peace and permutation be upon you, Keeper.”
The angelin darted off, leaving a trail of silvery vectors that quickly summed and vanished. Once, the vector trail of an angelin would have been a glorious thing to behold. Now it seemed pale and constricted.
Reduced fates, narrowing paths.
Ghentun gathered up his cloak and departed Malregard. He had not answered the angelin’s question about dreams, because he needed to hold back as much as he could, to be revealed only later—to the central mind of the Librarian himself, he fervently hoped. At any rate, his level of optimism about this whole endeavor had never been high.
The end of all history, of everything human and worthy—consumption in the malign insanity of the Chaos that had been looming for ages—was now upon them.
After a hundred trillion years, it was likely that the Kalpa was beyond saving.
PART ONE
FATE SHIFTERS
TEN ZEROS
CHAPTER 1
* * *
Seattle
The city was young. Unbelievably young.
The moon rose sharp and silver-blue over a deck of soft gray clouds, and if you looked east, above the hills, where the sun would soon rise, you saw a brightness as yellow and real as natural butter.
The city faced the coming day with dew cold and wet on new green grass, streaming down windows, beaded on railings, chill against swiping fingers.
Waking up in the city, no one could know how young it was and fresh; all had activities to plan, living worries to blind them, and what would it take to finally smell the blessed, cool newness, but a whiff of something other?
Everyone went about their business.
The day passed into dusk.
Hardly anyone noticed there was a difference.
A hint of loss.
With a shock that nearly made her cry out, Ginny thought she saw the old gray Mercedes in the wide side mirror of the Metro bus—stopped the next lane over, two car lengths behind, blocking traffic. The smoked rear windows, the crack in its mottled windshield—clearly visible.
It’s them—the man with the silver dollar, the woman with flames in her palms.
The bus’s front door opened, but Ginny stepped back into the aisle. All thoughts of getting out a stop early, of walking the next few blocks to stretch her legs and think, had vanished.
The Metro driver—a plump black woman with ivory sclera and pale brown eyes, dark red lipstick, and diamonds on her incisors, still, after a day’s hard work, lightly perfumed with My Sin—stared up at Ginny. “Someone following you, honey? I can call the cops.” She tapped the bus’s emergency button with a long pearly fingernail.
Ginny shook her head. “Won’t help. It’s nothing.”
The driver sighed and closed the door, and the bus drove on. Ginny took her seat and rested her backpack in her lap—she missed the weight of her box, but for the moment, it was someplace safe. She glanced over her shoulder through the bus’s rear window.
The Mercedes dropped back and turned onto a side street.
With her good hand, she felt in the pack’s zippered side pocket for a piece of paper. While unwrapping the filthy bandage from her hand, the doctor at the clinic had spent half an hour gently redressing her burns, injecting a big dose of antibiotics, and asking too many questions.
Ginny turned to the front of the bus and closed her eyes. Felt the passengers brush by, heard the front door and the middle door open and close with rubbery shushes, the air brakes chuffing and sighing.
The doctor had told her about an eccentric but kind old man who lived alone in a warehouse filled with books. The old man needed an assistant. Could be long-term. Room and board, a safe place; all legit. The doctor had not asked Ginny to trust her. That would have been too much.
Then, she had printed out a map.
Because Ginny had no other place to go, she was following the doctor’s directions. She unfolded the paper. Just a few more stops. First Avenue South—south of the two huge stadiums. It was getting dark—almost eight o’clock.
Before boarding the bus—before seeing or imagining the gray Mercedes—Ginny had found an open pawnshop a block from the clinic. There, like Queequeg selling his shrunken head, she had hocked her box
and the library stone within.
It was Ginny’s mother who had called it the library stone. Her father had called it a “sum-runner.” Neither of the names had ever come with much of an explanation. The stone—a hooked, burned-looking, come-and-go thing in a lead-lined box about two inches on a side—was supposed to be the only valuable possession left to their nomadic family. Her mother and father hadn’t told her where they had taken possession of it, or when. They probably didn’t know or couldn’t remember.
The box always seemed to weigh the same, but when they slid open the grooved lid—a lid that only opened if you rotated the box in a certain way, then back again—her mother would usually smile and say, “Runner’s turned widdershins!” and with great theater they would reveal to their doubting daughter the empty interior.
The next time, the stone might stick up from the padded recess as solid and real and unexplained as anything else in their life.
As a child, Ginny had thought that their whole existence was some sort of magic trick, like the stone in its box.
When the pawnbroker, with her help, had opened the box, the stone was actually visible—her first real luck in weeks. The pawnbroker pulled out the stone and tried to look at it from all directions. The stone—as always—refused to rotate, no matter how hard he twisted and tugged. “Strong sucker. What is it, a gyroscope?” he asked. “Kind of ugly—but clever.”
He had written her a ticket and paid her ten dollars.
This was what she carried: a map on a piece of paper, a bus route, and ten dollars she was afraid to spend, because then she might never retrieve her sum-runner, all she had to remember her family by. A special family that had chased fortune in a special way, yet never stayed long in one place—never more than a few months, as if they were being pursued.
The bus pulled to the curb and the doors sighed open. The driver flicked her a sad glance as she stepped down to the curb.
The door closed and the bus hummed on.
In a few minutes the driver would forget the slender, brown-haired girl—the skittish, frightened girl, always looking over her shoulder.
Ginny stood on the curb under the lowering dusk. Airplanes far to the south scraped golden contrails on the deep blue sky. She listened to the city. Buildings breathed, streets grumbled. Traffic noise buzzed from east and west, filtered and muted between the long industrial warehouses. Somewhere, a car alarm went off and was silenced with a disappointed chirp.