Worlds

  WORLDS: A NOVEL OF THE NEAR FUTURE

  Joe Haldeman

  www.sf-gateway.com

  Enter the SF Gateway …

  In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

  ‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

  Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

  The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

  Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

  Welcome to the SF Gateway.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Gateway Introduction

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Website

  Also by Joe Haldeman

  Dedication

  Author Bio

  Copyright

  you shall above all things be glad and young.

  For if you’re young,whatever life you wear

  it will become you;and if you are glad

  whatever’s living will yourself become.

  Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:

  i can entirely her only love

  whose any mystery makes every man’s

  flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

  that you should ever think,may god forbid

  and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:

  for that way knowledge lies, the foetal grave

  called progress,and negation’s dead undoom.

  I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing

  than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

  —e. e. cummings

  Worlds apart

  You can’t know space unless you were born there. You can get used to it, maybe.

  You can’t love the surface of a planet if you were born in space. Not even Earth. Too big and crowded and nothing between you and the sky. Things drop in straight lines.

  But Earth people do visit space and Worlds people do visit Earth. Always to come back changed, sometimes leaving changes.

  The Worlds

  The world didn’t end in the twentieth century. It did take a beating, though, and through most of the next century the psychic scars of the recent past were a prominent part of the human landscape; more prominent, perhaps, than present wonders or future hopes.

  Many people, though not a majority, thought that the only real hope for the human race lay out in the Worlds, the orbiting settlements whose population, by the eighties, was approaching a half million. It looked as if the Worlds gave humanity a place to start over, clean slate, unlimited room for expansion. It looked that way from the Worlds, to most people, and from the Earth, to some.

  They were called “the Worlds” for convenience, not as an expression of any significant degree of political autonomy or common purpose. Some, such as Salyut and Uchūden, were simply colonies, with populations that were still loyal to their founding countries. Others owed their first allegiance to corporations like Bellcom or Skyfac or, in one case, to a church.

  There were forty-one Worlds, ranging in size from cramped little laboratories to vast New New York, home to a quarter of a million people.

  New New York was politically independent, at least on paper. But after forty years of exporting energy and materials, it still owed huge debts to the United States of America and New York State. It had looked like a sound long-term investment back in 2010, since smaller-scale energy farms like Devon’s World (then called O’Neill) were making fortunes. But then came cheap fusion, and New New could barely charge enough per kilowatt-hour to keep up interest payments. Two things kept the settlement in business: foamsteel and, surprisingly, tourism.

  New New started out as an asteroid named Paphos and a philosophy called “economies of scale.”

  Paphos (its real name was 1992BH) was a small asteroid whose orbit brought it, once each nine years, to within 750,000 kilometers of Earth, about a half million miles. It was a nickel-iron asteroid, which meant it was made of nearly pure steel.

  Two hundred and fifty trillion tonnes of steel is a prize worth going after. In 2001, an orbiting factory intercepted Paphos and latched on to it. For the next nine years, hundreds of carefully calculated nuclear blasts warped its orbit, bending it in toward Earth. In 2010, it slid into a geosynchronous orbit—a new star hanging still in the skies of North and South America, unblinking, brighter than Venus.

  The bombs that had steered it were “shaped charges,” and so did double duty, excavating the planetoid while moving it. When Paphos arrived at its new home, its middle had been scooped out, providing a hollow where people would eventually live. It had been made to rotate much faster than any natural planetoid, spinning to provide artificial gravity on the inside.

  The megatonnage that brought Paphos into orbit and started it spinning had been donated by the United States (scavenged from obsolete weapons left over from the previous century’s arms race), in return for perpetual “most favored nation” status. One percent of New New York’s mass would supply the United States with steel for a thousand years, and it would be the only country that didn’t have to pay duty.

  They sealed off the open end and filled the hollow with air, soil, water, plants, light; landscaping the interior into a combination of carefully planned wilderness and manicured parkland. Then the people started to come. Miners at firs
t, with huge mole-machines that chewed steel out of the solid metal ground beneath the growing grass and forest. The steel was worth its weight in money to any country or corporation that was building structures in orbit. Normally, ninety-nine percent of the cost of building materials was launch expense. New New York could transfer steel to any orbit for pennies, via slow solar-powered tugs.

  After the miners had been tunneling for a year or so, the construction crew came in, to make city of the corridors and caverns. Like its namesake, New New York was to have a Central Park—more literally central in the case of New New—to provide a place of greenery and open spaces for people who would live most of their lives in metal caves.

  The cheap fusion that had undermined the energy market also made space travel accessible to the merely wealthy. Tourists came to strap on wings and fly (effortless along the zero-gravity axis) or to sit for hours in the observation domes, lost in the terrible wheeling beauty. Honeymooners and others came to consummate themselves in weightlessness, which is wonderful unless you start spinning, and to enjoy the extravagance of paying two thousand dollars a night for a small room in the Hilton. Oenophiles scrapped their life savings to come up and sample the wines that were never exported: the Saint-Émilions, the Châteaux d’Yquem and -neuf-du-Pape that had no vintage years because every year was the same; every year was perfect; the wine of the century down to eight decimal places.

  The tourism worked both ways, of course. Nearly every man, woman, and kiddo on New New wanted to see Earth. Balance of payments forbade it for all save one in a thousand.

  Marianne O’Hara was one of the lucky ones. Depending on how you look at it.

  Families

  Unlike most of her contemporaries, O’Hara was not obsessed with genealogy, so she didn’t know anything about any ancestors beyond her great-grandmother, who was still alive and in fact also lived in New New York.

  She had to learn, though, facing menarche and the prospect of taking a mate. The prevalence of “line families” in the Worlds could generate a lot of relatives. They joked that before you went on a date, you had to check a computer to see what degree of incest you were liable to commit. O’Hara was fourth-generation Worlds, and was related to six different lines, three of them because of her grand-mother, who in her time had been a one-woman population explosion.

  Various families’ records went back to a striking red-haired woman who had left a bad marriage and Prussia in the late nineteenth century and came to America. This woman married a blacksmith in Pennsylvania and they had seven children. One son went to wicked Chicago and made his living, eventually, as a courier of money and sometime pickpocket. He was good at both trades, and at being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and was machine-gunned to death, which was not an unusual way to depart, for a young criminal in Chicago. He’d left a son in a prostitute, who left it in an orphanage. The son was encouraged by a gaggle of nuns, and eventually became a stodgy professor of Attic Greek. He had a daughter (the Prussian woman’s red hair coming back) who through a curious sequence of emulation and rebellion wound up with a doctorate in biochemistry, in a specialty that required some work in orbit. In orbit she had a bastard daughter. This daughter stayed in space, joining the New New York Corporation, and eventually became the great-grandmother of Marianne, who would take the name O’Hara.

  Her mother was annoyed at Marianne for choosing the name O’Hara. A girl-woman usually chose her name to honor someone; they didn’t even know anyone named O’Hara. She said she’d picked it because she liked the sound (and it did sound better than “Marianne Scanlan,” her root name); actually, she had pored over lists and lists, looking for one best name, until she had lost all power of discrimination.

  The night before her menarche party, her body full of private outrage, her head foggy with the drugs that would precipitate fertility, she’d looked at the reading list for her course in twentieth-century popular novelists, and honored John O’Hara because he was near the middle of the alphabet, so she’d never be at the end of a line.

  Did her mother have a tin ear, to name her Marianne in the first place? No; at the time of her birth, her mother’s name had been Nabors. They didn’t join the Scanlan line until Marianne was five, her mother all of seventeen.

  Most of the people in New New belonged to line families; everyone who wasn’t a groundhog was at least related to a line. The custom had its roots in America, just before the turn of the century, born of taxation and sexual freedom.

  Line families first became widespread in New York, where inheritance taxes could gobble up as much as ninety percent of an estate. One way around this was to redefine your family as a corporation, with everybody on the board of directors. A best-selling book explained the simple legal process.

  The State retaliated by proving in court that a corporation whose board was entirely blood-related had to demonstrate that it had not been set up purely for the avoidance of taxes. This generated a loud chorus of outraged editorials and pious pronouncements by temporarily out-of-work politicians. Another best-selling book, complete with tear-out forms, explained that the simplest way to get around the new law was to effect a merger: join forces, on paper, with some family that was not related to you.

  At this time America was enjoying a return of sexual permissiveness, so a lot of the joining was done on beds as well as on paper. There was also a fashion for communal living, which started in rural areas but was widely embraced in cities—especially New York—when it was shown that a corporation of tenants could make a landlord very cooperative. The term “line family” became common in California, where members of these consensual corporations took the same last name; the custom moved east, and up.

  In the Worlds, as on Earth, line families encouraged both nonconformity and rigidity. Over a couple of generations, experiment would become habit would become tradition—and if you don’t like it, why don’t you go start your own line; all right, I will.

  For instance, the Scanlan line was made up of three-mate marriages called triunes. Triunes occasionally interlocked to form larger units, but that was considered racy. The Nabors line was less formal. In general, young men paired up with older women and young women with older men, with frequent changes of partners. That Marianne’s mother was only twelve when she gave birth did not raise any eyebrows. But when it turned out that the father not only was not a Nabors, but was a groundhog as well, mother and child were unceremoniously disowned.

  To become a Scanlan, a person only had to be of proven fertility, and had either to find a compatible broken triune or to apply with two other fertile people (all three not to be of the same sex). Marianne’s mother took the latter course: she applied with two men, her current lover and Marianne’s father, who returned to his Earthside wife a week later, as had been prearranged.

  Thus Marianne was a fatherless prefertile adjunct to a broken triune, with a mother young enough to be her sister (Scanlan women normally postponed children until their thirties). She was different, and the other children were not kind. The boys were unkind and bigger than she was, which might be one reason she delayed womanhood as long as possible.

  When she did become a woman she was striking, rather than beautiful, with the genes that had come from Prussia two centuries before: thick dark red hair, eyes the color of copper, skin as pale as wax. People would stare at her.

  Blood sisters

  A menarche party is fun for everybody but the guest of honor. Old wine doesn’t mix well with new hormones. Smug sympathy while your girlhood is being torn bleeding from your body.

  O’Hara knew she was drinking too much wine, trying to wash away the acid taste of vomit. That had been because of too many pain pills. The cramps were still there, gentle pressure, waiting for the medicine to wear off. If she sat still she imagined she could feel meat growing, shoving up beneath her boyish nipples. But she couldn’t sit still; no position was comfortable for long. And she couldn’t stand up without feeling nauseated. She had moved the party outside,
upstairs into the park, which had helped for a minute. Now there was no place else to go. Except out the airlock. That sounded like an attractive proposition. She wasn’t even bleeding yet, raped by stiff cotton. She would not cry. If one more woman tried to put her arm around her, she’d knock the bitch’s teeth down her throat.

  “My poor baby.” Can’t hit your own mother. “You’re so pale. You aren’t going to be sick again?”

  “Thanks,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’d almost forgotten.”

  “You really shouldn’t drink so much wine, you know. It doesn’t help.”

  “Mother. I always throw up at parties. Nerves. I’m all right now. Once always does the trick.”

  She smiled uncertainly and cocked her head at her daughter. “I can never tell when you’re being serious.”

  “Never serious. Morose, sometimes. Never serious.” She swallowed hard and blew her nose. “Boy. Wish we could do this every year.”

  “Well, you brought it on yourself. You know what Dr. Johnson said.” The gynecologist had been after her for five years. The longer you put it off, the more it was going to hurt. Finally, approaching seventeen, she had to menarche or face real trouble with her pelvic girdle later on.

  “Dr. Johnson knows as much about this as I know about peeing standing up.”

  “Oh, Marianne.”

  “It’s true; he’s never told me anything I didn’t know. He just likes to poke around inside little girls.”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  “Big girls, too.”

  “He’s a nice man.”

  “Sure. Keeps his instruments in the refrigerator so they’ll be nice and fresh.”

  She shook her head. “Poor girl. I know what you’re going through.”