Sometimes, though, you just had to take a gamble.
I’ve said nearly all that needs to be said, I think. I’ve been truthful with you, or as truthful as I can be with myself. We came here to do something glorious, and it would be unfair to say that we failed. The ninth draft is complete, after all. You, whoever you might be – however far downstream you may be from us, a hundred or a thousand billion years – will, I’m confident, be able to make absolute sense of our primitive cave-wall scribblings. Because (I’m certain) you’ll have been around for a very, very long time, and by the time you stumble on this little diamond cinder, spinning through the dark galactic void, you’ll be infinitely cleverer than us. The mistakes we fret about, the errors and inconsistencies, won’t trip you up at all. You’ll have the wisdom to grasp the shining truth behind our fumblings, and in doing so you’ll look on us with a sublime combination of gratitude and pity. Gratitude that we committed this deed, in order to reveal unto you this one cosmological truth that lies forever beyond the reach of even your science.
Pity because you’ll see us for what we truly were. Dragonflies who lived and died in the first few heartbeats of creation, leaving no more than a scratch on time.
Vashka’s gone now, along with everyone else. But I think she can rest easy. As much as it would have pained her to think that we left the project riddled with mistakes, it was still sufficient for its intended purpose. Vashka was just too close to her work. She always had been, from the moment we met. Always reaching for the unattainable. Me, I’m much more of a pragmatist.
That doesn’t mean I’m not open to possibilities, though.
This suit was never designed to keep me alive this long, so I can’t be sure that what I’m about to say isn’t the result of some gradual neurodegenerative breakdown, caused by the starvation of oxygen to my brain. But the mere fact that I’m able to frame that doubt… doesn’t that speak to my higher faculties still being more or less intact?
I don’t know.
But I can be certain of this much: since I’ve been in this place, in the chamber, surrounded by Vashka’s symbols, I’ve felt something. Not all the time. Just occasionally. Like a searchlight sweeping through me. A sense of presence, of the numinous. I don’t believe in God, so that’s not the answer. But I’m prepared to believe in you.
Downstream, however many billions of years that might be, you find this place. You find this cavern, and you find what’s left of me, bottled in my suit. A creature you don’t recognise, dead so long that generations of stars have come and gone since my demise. I doubt that there’s much of me left. Unlike diamond, I’m prone to decay.
On the other hand, I’ll be in vacuum, in the cold between the galaxies. So who knows?
These moments of presence, these numinous interludes… a skin-crawling sensation of being watched, studied, scrutinised… could it really be
you
, at the end of time? Running some kind of scan, for want of a better word, on the relics you find? And the effects of that scan, rippling back in time to me, here, in my suit?
And how do you feel about me, exactly?
I can’t imagine that you’ll have had much difficulty unravelling the symbols scribed on my suit, and then stitching them into language you understand. Allowing for the gulf of species and time separating us, I’m certain you’ll have been able to comprehend the shape of my account. Why we came here, what happened when we arrived. The sordid outline of my crime.
I hope you won’t judge me too harshly. I acted out of fear, not malice. I had our best intentions at heart. I just got things slightly wrong, that’s all.
The point is, if I’m the only one of us you ever find, please don’t taint us all with the flaws that were mine alone. I’ll take responsibility for what I was, what I did.
But then the thought occurs.
Why would you need to know at all? These markings aren’t indelible. My little mouse-sized robot still has power, and while I’m under no illusions that I’ll be dead soon enough, for now I still have some air and life-support, and presumably sufficient intact brain cells to maintain some kind of lucidity.
I wonder if there’s time to change my story?
THE RETURN OF THE MUTANT WORMS
PETER F. HAMILTON
Peter F. Hamilton is one of the best-selling authors in British science fiction. He had his first book,
Mindstar Rising
, published in 1993, and his seventeenth novel,
Great North Road
, is due out late summer 2012. Although known for writing big space opera he is now starting a children’s book project for David Fickling Books. He continues to live in Rutland UK, with his wife and two children.
The writer took breakfast out on the penthouse apartment’s balcony overlooking the Thames. His housekeeper had prepared his usual of eggs benedict and freshly squeezed orange juice, with a napkin over the toast so it would stay warm.
He sat down facing the river, with the warm summer sunlight striking the glass and chrome buildings of Chelsea opposite. It was a late breakfast because it had been another late night; Clarissea had been so delighted about winning her new contract with DiVinaci lingerie she’d been keen to party. Friends and fellow celebs had come over to congratulate her – and him. They hadn’t left the club until after four. And there had still been several paps hanging round outside, snapping pictures of them together. Those images of them, his bow tie undone rather like George Clooney, should make
Tatler
, or at least
Hello
, rebooting his profile. After all, he hadn’t been on Radio 4 for a couple of months now, which had started to trouble him. His agent said not to worry, after all, the new book wasn’t out for another six weeks, they’d start rebuilding his public profile soon in a big (publisher financed) build up to the Booker nomination season. Clarissea would be a big help in that department.
Sipping the orange he glanced at the morning’s post, which the housekeeper had placed on the tray. Usual rubbish: bills, charities, foreign publishers (nothing from Hollywood – again, damn it) redirected fanmail, and a grey blue envelope with a logo he hadn’t seen in a decade. He blinked in surprise at the rocketship and star which even today still managed to look faintly Soviet. There had been a time, twenty years ago, when an envelope baring that logo popping through the letterbox would have made his whole week.
Singularity Crystal
was the UK’s premier SF magazine, the launch pad for so many genre careers. He’d even managed to have a couple of stories accepted himself in his early twenties.
The writer frowned at the envelope, slightly puzzled as to how the magazine had got his address. He supposed it would be a begging letter, he was vaguely aware that
Singularity Crystal
had slipped to a quarterly schedule a few years back, with a move to online issues imminent. Short story SF was a dwindling market these days.
Puzzlement turned to outright bewilderment as he opened it and read the contract inside. It was a notification that
Singularity Crystal
was to publish his story ‘Mutant Worms Of Kranakin’ in their next issue, there was a transfer authority code for £73.40.
He picked up his mobile and scanned in the number on the letterhead.
The editor’s voice hadn’t changed, still the old-school growl of a forty-a-day man. But then he’d always been a ‘character’ best avoided after ten o’clock at conventions – more than one poor waitress had found out the hard way how dangerous a beanie cap could be on the wrong head. “My dear boy, haven’t seen you for years. We must’ve been going to different conventions.”
“Yes,” said the writer, who’d stopped going to all of them twelve years ago – how was he to know another fan girl was wearing the same masquerade costume. “There seems to be a slight mistake. You’ve sent me a contract for a short story.”
“That’s right, your ‘Mutant Worms’. So glad I could finally get round to publishing it. Our schedule has been very busy.”
“You must have got my name mixed up with someone else, I haven’t sent you a story for a little while.”
“Humm, yes, I’ve got your file up on the screen now; your subscription seems to have lapsed as well. It’s a shame, we are about the last paying outlet for new talent left in the country. We need all the support we can get from the arts community.”
The writer tried to ignore the slight flush that was colouring his cheeks. “Ah, sorry about that. My PA must have forgotten to renew it. I’ll get her to sort that out today.”
“You have a PA? Congratulations my boy, you are doing well for yourself now, aren’t you. From humble beginnings like my little old magazine, eh?”
“Quite. About the story…”
“Yes, I’m really proud to have your name in the magazine again. In fact our next issue should be out at the same time as your new book is published. I’m hopeful the two will complement each other. I might take an advert out in
Publishers Weekly
.”
“I haven’t sent you a story.”
“You did. Time was when you sent me two a week. Around the office we used to call you the best known name on the slush pile. Course, there’s no office any more, just me now.”
“Really, I’m a novelist now, I haven’t even written a short story for years.”
“That’s right; ‘Mutant Worms’ was submitted twenty-one years ago.”
“Twenty-one years!”
“Yes. I sent you an acceptance form which you signed and returned; and a deposit cheque for £8.00, which you cashed.”
“You can’t be serious. You can’t hold me to a twenty-one year old contract.
“Perfectly legal,” the editor assured him. “Especially as you cashed the cheque.”
“But I couldn’t even write twenty-one years ago.”
“It is a little rough and ready, I admit. I’ll do some editing and send you the proof script, of course. Let’s face it, you’re not the first SF writer I helped knock into shape now, are you? Out of all
Singularity Crystal
’s discoveries, you were always my favourite. So don’t worry.”
“No. No no. This is totally unacceptable. I have a literary book coming out. This would be a... distraction.”
“People will enjoy the contrast, I’m sure. About time we saw some decent SF from you again.”
“I don’t write sci-fi anymore.”
“That’s such a shame. I always found it odd that your backlist isn’t available, almost as if you’re ashamed of it. Perhaps this will trigger a demand for older stuff that your publisher can cash in on. After all, we all loved that enormous weird alien sex trilogy of yours.”
The writer felt his jaw muscles tense up. “The Day’s Twilight trilogy was not about alien sex!”
“Really? That’s strange, I certainly remember there being pages and pages of it. I was thinking we might publicise your new story as a sort of prequel.”
“I’ve never written anything else in the Day’s Twilight universe.”
“No, but thematically it’s similar isn’t it?”
The writer took a deep breath, trying not to smash the phone. “I don’t recall the story.”
“Well let’s see: our heroine is Abele Maspar who crashlands on Kranakin one dark and stormy night…”
The writer stopped listening.
Now
he remembered, after all, nobody ever forgot their first true love. He’d been eighteen, and Adele Mason had gone to the same sixth form college. He’d really, really, fancied her. And when she delivered that final no he’d expressed the soul-crushing rejection in the only way an eighteen-year-old literary geek could, by writing a... “Oh crap,” the writer whispered.
“So you see,” the editor continued cheerfully. “What Abele makes that poor worm do really does qualify for the alien sex category, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You can’t publish it. You simply can’t. Tell you what; I’ll write you a completely new story. No, two new short literary sci-f–
SF
stories. And I won’t even ask for payment. You’re quite right,
Singularity Crystal
deserves all the support I can give it. I’ll even mention it on Radio 4 next time I’m presenting.”
“I haven’t heard you on that arts show for ages, I thought they’d dumped you.”
“No, I’m just resting. So, how about that for a deal? I’m going on a huge publicity tour, I can cross-promote the magazine.”
“Well, I’d like to, but we’re already at the typesetting stage, that’s expensive.”
“I can pay for the new stories to be typeset instead. It would be my pleasure.”
“That’s a very kind offer. I’m happy to see you thinking that way. You see, I regard the effort I put in to young authors as an investment in the future. Specifically, my future. You don’t really think I want to spend my best years reading through endless clichés about aliens and wormholes and vampire robots and brass bikinis because I’m some kind of demented masochist. No, like I say, this is an investment for me. Ninety per cent of that investment comes to nothing, but the other ten per cent… ah now that’s what makes it all so worthwhile. Especially in retirement.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying – and this is not one of your metaphors – that I own your ‘Mutant Worms’. I paid a huge personal price for it and all the other dross I’ve read, and there’s twenty-one years of interest accumulated.”