Marooned in Realtime

  Fifty years ago, back in 1997, the Peace Authority eliminated war. In one smashing worldwide coup, the Authority removed missiles, armies, governments, entire cities—everything that could oppose peace.

  The Peace Authority’s weapon was—and still is—the “bobble,” a unique spherical state of stasis that can encapsulate an object in an impenetrable force field. Nothing can get in or out of a bobble, not even light or air; it’s a prison—perfect, even beautiful. And permanent.

  Since the “peace war,” all high technology has been banned, and civilization has fallen into a semi-feudal state. What has replaced war is tyranny, but as Peace Authority Director Hamilton Avery would add, it is a benign tyranny, isn’t it? A small price to pay for permanent peace.

  Only old-timers like Paul Naismith, the reclusive leader of the Tinker underground, can recall a time before the Authority’s reign. A mathematical genius, he’s spent 50 years secretly developing his own extraordinary, illegal, technology, far surpassing that of the Authority, hoping to strike back some day. But nothing can defeat the Authority’s bobbler.

  Until now.

  Something is happening to the bobbles…something that the theory said could never occur. And it means Paul can launch his revolution. He has a 16-year-old vagabond for help—a natural genius as brilliant as himself—plus the network of Tinker misfits, and a secret about the bobbles the Authority does not guess.

  He also has a traitor in his midst…

  Comprising The Peace War and Marooned in Realtime, Across Realtime melds brilliant hard-science and all-too-possible social speculation into a gripping depiction of a revolution against “peace,” a revolution that will continue beyond Paul’s time…on a near-deserted Earth 50 million years in the future…among a small group of survivors faced with a murder that only someone—one of their own number—skilled with a bobbler could commit.

  THE PEACE WAR

  Copyright © 1984 by Vernor Vinge

  MAROONED IN REALTIME

  Copyright © 1986 by Vernor Vinge

  The characters in this book are fictitious, and any

  resemblance to actual persons living or dead

  is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of Bluejay Books, except where permitted by law.

  Published by arrangement with

  Bluejay Books, Inc.

  1123 Broadway

  Suite 306

  New York, New York 10010

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  —The Peace War—

  —Marooned in Realtime—

  I am grateful to:

  Chuck Glines and Bil Townsend of the US Forest Service for talking to me about Los Padres National Forest;

  Jim Concannon and Concannon Winery of Livermore, California, for their hospitality and a very interesting tour of the Concannon Winery;

  Lea Braff, Jim Frenkel, Mike Cannis, Sharon Jarvis, and Joan D. Vinge for all their help and ideas.

  To my parents,

  Clarence L. Vinge and Ada Grace Vinge,

  with Love.

  FLASHBACK

  One hundred kilometers below and nearly two hundred away, the shore of the Beaufort Sea didn’t look much like the common image of the arctic: Summer was far advanced in the Northern Hemisphere, and a pale green spread across the land, shading here and there to the darker tones of grass. Life had a tenacious hold, leaving only an occasional peninsula or mountain range gray and bone.

  Captain Allison Parker, USAF, shifted as far as the restraint harness would permit, trying to get the best view she could over the pilot’s shoulder. During the greater part of a mission, she had a much better view than any of the “truck-drivers,” but she never tired of looking out, and when the view was the hardest to obtain, it became the most desirable. Angus Quiller, the pilot, leaned forward, all his attention on the retrofire readout. Angus was a nice guy, but he didn’t waste time looking out. Like many pilots—and some mission specialists—he had accepted his environment without much continuing wonder.

  But Allison had always been the type to look out windows. When she was very young, her father had taken her flying. She could never decide what would be the most fun: to look out the windows at the ground—or to learn to fly. Until she was old enough to get her own license, she had settled for looking at the ground. Later, she discovered that without combat aircraft experience she would never pilot the machines that went as high as she wanted to go. So again she had settled for a job that would let her look out the windows. Sometimes she thought the electronics, the geography, the espionage angles of her job were all unimportant compared to the pleasure that came from simply looking down at the world as it really is.

  “My compliments to your autopilot, Fred. That burn puts us right down the slot.” Angus never gave Fred Torres, the command pilot, any credit. It was always the autopilot or ground control that was responsible for anything good that happened when Fred was in charge. Torres grunted something similarly insulting, then said to Allison, “Hope you’re enjoying this. It’s not often we fly this thing around the block just for a pretty girl.”

  Allison grinned but didn’t reply. What Fred said was true. Ordinarily a mission was planned several weeks in advance and carried multiple tasks that kept it up for three or four days. But this one had dragged the two-man crew off a weekend leave and stuck them on the end of a flight that was an unscheduled quick look, just fifteen orbits and back to Vandenberg. This was clearly a deep-range, global reconnaissance—though Fred and Angus probably knew little more. Except that the newspapers had been pretty grim the last few weeks.

  The Beaufort Sea slid out of sight to the north. The sortie craft was in an inverted, nose-down attitude that gave some specialists a sick stomach but that just made Allison feel she was looking at the world pass by overhead. She hoped that when the Air Force got its permanent recon platform, she would be stationed there.

  Fred Torres—or his autopilot, depending on your point of view—slowly pitched the orbiter through 180 degrees to bring it into entry attitude. For an instant the craft was pointing straight down. Glacial scouring could never be an abstraction to someone who had looked down from this height: the land was clearly scraped and grooved, like ground before a dozer blade. Tiny puddles had been left behind: hundreds of Canadian lakes, so many that Allison could follow the sun in specular glints that shifted from one to another.

  They pitched still further. The southern horizon, blue and misty, fell into and then out of view. The ground wouldn’t be visible again until they were much lower, at altitudes some normal aircraft could attain. Allison sat back and pulled the restraint more tightly over her shoulders. She patted the optical disk pack tied down beside her. It contained her reason for being here. There were going to be a lot of relieved generals—and some even more relieved politicians—when she got back. The “detonations” the Livermore crew had detected must have been glitches. The Soviets were as innocent as those bastards ever were. She had scanned them with all her “normal” equipment, as well as with deep penetration gear known only to certain military intelligence agencies, and had detected no new offensive preparations. Only…

  …Only the deep probes she had made on her own over Livermore were unsettling. She had been looking forward to her date with Paul Hoehler, if only to enjoy the expression on his face when she told him that the results of her test were secret. He had been so sure his bosses were up to something sinister at Livermore. She now saw that Paul may have been right; there was something going on
at Livermore. It might have gone undetected without her deep-probe equipment; there had been an obvious effort at concealment. But one thing Allison Parker knew was her high-intensity reactor profiles, and there was a new one down there that didn’t show up on the AFIA listings. And she had detected other things—probe-opaque spheres below ground in the vicinity of the reactor.

  That was also as Paul Hoehler had predicted.

  NMV specialists like Allison Parker had a lot of freedom to make ad lib additions to their snoop schedules; that had saved more than one mission. She would be in no trouble for the unscheduled probe of a US lab, as long as a thorough report was made. But if Paul was right, then this would cause a major scandal. And if Paul was wrong, then he would be in major trouble, perhaps on the road to jail.

  Allison felt her body settle gently into the acceleration couch as creaking sounds came through the orbiter’s frame. Beyond the forward ports, the black of space was beginning to flicker in pale shades of orange and red. The colors grew stronger and the sensation of weight increased. She knew it was still less than half a gee, though after a day in orbit it felt like more. Quiller said something about transferring to laser comm. Allison tried to imagine the land eighty kilometers below, Taiga forest giving way to farm land and then the Canadian Rockies—but it was not as much fun as actually being able to see it.

  Still about four hundred seconds till final pitch-over. Her mind drifted idly, wondering what ultimately would happen between Paul and herself. She had gone out with better-looking men, but no one smarter. In fact, that was probably part of the problem. Hoehler was clearly in love with her, but she wasn’t allowed to talk technical with him, and what nonclassified work he did made no sense to her. Furthermore, he was obviously something of a troublemaker on the job—a paradox considering his almost clumsy diffidence. A physical attraction can only last for a limited time, and Allison wondered how long it would take him to tire of her—or vice versa. This latest thing about Livermore wasn’t going to help.

  The fire colors faded from the sky, which now had a faint tinge of blue in it. Fred—who claimed he intended to retire to the airlines—spoke up. “Welcome, lady and gentleman, to the beautiful skies of California…or maybe it’s still Oregon.”

  The nose pitched down from reentry attitude. The view was much like that from a commercial flyer, if you could ignore the slight curvature of the horizon and the darkness of the sky. California’s Great Valley was a green corridor across their path. To the right, faded in the haze, was San Francisco Bay. They would pass about ninety kilometers east of Livermore. The place seemed to be the center of everything on this flight: It had been incorrect reports from their detector array which convinced the military and the politicians that Sov treachery was in the offing. And that detector was part of the same project Hoehler was so suspicious of—for reasons he would not fully reveal.

  Allison Parker’s world ended with that thought.

  1

  The Old California Shopping Center was the Santa Ynez Police Company’s biggest account—and one of Miguel Rosas’ most enjoyable beats. On this beautiful Sunday afternoon, the Center had hundreds of customers, people who had traveled many kilometers along Old 101 to be there. This Sunday was especially busy: All during the week, produce and quality reports had shown that the stores would have best buys. And it wouldn’t rain till late. Mike wandered up and down the malls, stopping every now and then to talk or go into a shop and have a closer look at the merchandise. Most people knew how effective the shoplift-detection gear was, and so far he hadn’t had any business whatsoever.

  Which was okay with Mike. Rosas had been officially employed by the Santa Ynez Police Company for three years. And before that, all the way back to when he and his sisters had arrived in California, he had been associated with the company. Sheriff Wentz had more or less adopted him, and so he had grown up with police work, and was doing the job of a paid undersheriff by the time he was thirteen. Wentz had encouraged him to look at technical jobs, but somehow police work was always the most attractive. The SYP Company was a popular outfit that did business with most of the families around Vandenberg. The pay was good, the area was peaceful, and Mike had the feeling that he was really doing something to help people.

  Mike left the shopping area and climbed the grassy hill that management kept nicely shorn and cleaned. From the top he could look across the Center to see all the shops and the brilliantly dyed fabrics that shaded the arcades.

  He tweaked up his caller in case they wanted him to come down for some traffic control. Horses and wagons were not permitted beyond the outer parking area. Normally this was a convenience, but there were so many customers this afternoon that the owners might want to relax the rules.

  Near the top of the hill, basking in the double sunlight, Paul Naismith sat in front of his chessboard. Every few months, Paul came down to the coast, sometimes to Santa Ynez, sometimes to towns further north. Naismith and Bill Morales would come in early enough to get a good parking spot, Paul would set up his chessboard, and Bill would go off to shop for him. Come evening, the Tinkers would trot out their specialties and he might do some trading. For now the old man slouched behind his chessboard and munched his lunch.

  Mike approached the other diffidently. Naismith was not personally forbidding. He was easy to talk to, in fact. But Mike knew him better than most—and knew the old man’s cordiality was a mask for things as strange and deep as his public reputation implied.

  “Game, Mike?” Naismith asked.

  “Sorry, Mr. Naismith, I’m on duty.” Besides, I know you never lose except on purpose.

  The older man waved impatiently. He glanced over Mike’s shoulder at something among the shops, then lurched to his feet. “Ah. I’m not going to snare anyone this afternoon. Might as well go down and window-shop.”

  Mike recognized the idiom, though there were no “windows” in the shopping center, unless you counted the glass covers on the jewelry and electronics displays. Naismith’s generation was still a majority, so even the most archaic slang remained in use. Mike picked up some litter but couldn’t find the miscreants responsible. He stowed the trash and caught up with Naismith on the way down to the shops.

  The food vendors were doing well, as predicted. Their tables were overflowing with bananas and cacao and other local produce, as well as things from farther away, such as apples. On the right, the game area was still the province of the kids. That would change when evening came. The curtains and canopies were bright and billowing in the light breeze, but it wasn’t till dark that the internal illumination of the displays would glow and dance their magic. For now, all was muted, many of the games powered down. Even chess and the other symbiotic games were doing a slow business. It was almost a matter of custom to wait till the evening for the buying and selling of such frivolous equipment.

  The only crowd, five or six youngsters, stood around Gerry Tellman’s Celest game. What was going on here? A little black kid was playing—had been playing for fifteen minutes, Mike realized. Tellman had Celest running at a high level of realism, and he was not a generous man. Hmmm.

  Ahead of him, Naismith creaked toward the game. Apparently his curiosity was pricked, too.

  Inside the shop it was shady and cool. Tellman perched on a scuffed wood table and glared at his small customer. The boy looked to be ten or eleven and was clearly an outlander: His hair was bushy, his clothes filthy. His arms were so thin that he must be a victim of disease or poor diet. He was chewing on something that Mike suspected was tobacco—definitely not the sort of behavior you’d see in a local boy.

  The kid clutched a wad of Bank of Santa Ynez gAu notes. From the look on Tellman’s face, Rosas could guess where they came from.

  “Otra vez,” the boy said, returning Tellman’s glare. The proprietor hesitated, looked around the circle of faces, and noticed the adults.

  “Aw right,” agreed Tellman, “but this’ll have to be the last time…Esta es el final, entiende?” he repeated
in pidgin Spanish. “I, uh, I gotta go to lunch.” This remark was probably for the benefit of Naismith and Rosas.

  The kid shrugged. “Okay.”

  Tellman initialized the Celest board—to level nine, Rosas noticed. The kid studied the setup with a calculating look. Tellman’s display was a flat one, showing a hypothetical solar system as seen from above the plane of rotation. The three planets were small disks of light moving around the primary. Their size gave a clue to mass; the precise values appeared near the bottom of the display. Departure and arrival planets moved in visibly eccentric orbits, the departure planet at one rev every five seconds—fast enough so precession was clearly occurring. Between it and the destination planet moved a third world, also in an eccentric orbit. Rosas grimaced. No doubt the only reason Tellman left the problem coplanar was that he didn’t have a holo display for his Celest. Mike had never seen anyone without a symbiotic processor play the departure/destination version of Celest at level nine. The timer on the display showed that the player—the kid—had ten seconds to launch his rocket and try to make it to the destination. From the fuel display, Rosas was certain that there was not enough energy available to make the flight in a direct orbit. A cushion shot on top of everything else!

  The kid laid all his bank notes on the table and squinted at the screen. Six seconds left. He grasped the control handles and twitched them. The tiny golden spark that represented his spacecraft fell away from the green disk of the departure world, inward toward the yellow sun about which all revolved. He had used more than nine-tenths of his fuel and had boosted in the wrong direction. The children around him murmured their displeasure, and a smirk came over Tellman’s face. The smirk froze.

  As the spacecraft came near the sun, the kid gave the controls another twitch, a boost which—together with the gravity of the primary—sent the glowing dot far out into the mock solar system. It edged across the two-meter screen, slowing at the greater remove, heading not for the destination planet but for the intermediary. Rosas gave a low, involuntary whistle. He had played Celest, both alone and with a processor. The game was nearly a century old and almost as popular as chess; it made you remember what the human race had almost attained. Yet he had never seen such a two-cushion shot by an unaided player.