"Perhaps it wasn't from our time, perhaps it wasn't even from our universe, but perhaps the arrival of the 300 km long stone was the answer to humanity's desperate plea to end the threat of nuclear war. Inside the deep recesses of the stone lies Thistledown: the remnants of a human society, versed in English, Russian and Chinese. The artifacts of this familiar people foretell a great Death caused by the ravages of war, but the government and scientists are unable to decide how to use this knowledge. Deeper still within the stone is the Way. For some the Way means salvation from death, for others it is a parallel world where loved ones live again. But, unlike Thistledown, the Way is not entirely dead, and the inhabitants hold the knowledge of a present war, over a million miles away, using weapons far more deadly than any that mankind has ever conceived. "

Chapter One April 2005

On the first leg of the trip, in the passenger cabin of the long-bed shuttle, Patricia Vasquez had watched the Earth's cloud-smeared limb on a video monitor. Before her own transfer, cameras mounted in the shuttle bay had shown her the long waldos maneuvering the huge cargo out of the bay into the waiting arms of the OTV -- orbital transfer vehicle -- as if two spiders were trading a cocoon-wrapped fly. The operation had taken an hour, and with its slow fascination had distracted her from thoughts about her present circumstances.

When her own turn came and she donned the passenger bubble to be guided across the ten meters to the OTV's lock, she worked hard to appear calm. The bubble was made of transparent plastic, so she did not suffer from claustrophobia -- almost the opposite, in fact. She could feel the immensity of the blackness beyond the spacecraft, though she could not make out stars. They were outdone by the glow of the Earth and the close, brightly lighted surfaces of the OTV, a train of clustered tanks, balls and prisms wrapped in aluminum beams.

The three-man, two-woman crew of the OTV greeted her warmly in the narrow tunnel as she "hatched," then guided her to a seat just behind theirs. From that vantage, she had a clear, direct view, and now she could see the steady pinpoints of stars.

So confronted, with none of the comfortable separation of a video monitor frame, space seemed to extend into a mating of infinite, star-cluttered halls. She felt as if she could walk down any one of the halls and become lost in altered perspective.

She still wore the black jumpsuit she had been handed in Florida just six hours before. She felt dirty. Her hair, even though tied up in a bun, let loose irritating wisps. She could smell her own nervousness.

The crew floated around her, making last-minute checks, punching readings into slates and processors. Patricia examined their colored suits -- the women in red and blue, the men in green and black and gray -- and idly wondered how they were ranked and who commanded. Everything seemed casually efficient with no deference in voice or manner, as if they were civilians. But they were not.

The OTV was a registered unarmed military vehicle, subject to the restrictions imposed after the Little Death. It was one of dozens of new vehicles that had been constructed in Earth orbit since the appearance of the Stone, and it differed substantially from the vehicles that had serviced the Joint Space Force's Orbital Defense Platforms. It was larger and capable of traveling much greater distances; by treaty, it could not carry cargoes to the ODPs.

"We're leaving in three minutes," said the shuttle's copilot, a blond woman whose name Patricia had already forgotten. She touched Patricia on the shoulder and smiled. "Everything will be hectic for a half hour or so. If you need a drink or have to use the lavatory, now's the time."

Patrica shook her head and returned the smile. "I'm fine."

"Good. Virgin?"

Patricia stared.

"First flight, she means," the other woman clarified. Patrica remembered her name -- Rita, just like her mother.

"Of course," Patricia said. "Would I be sitting here acting like a cow in a slaughterhouse, otherwise?"

The blond laughed. The pilot -- James or Jack, with beautiful green eyes -- looked over his shoulder at her, his head framed by the belt and sword of Orion. "Relax, Patricia," he said. So calm.

 

Greg Bear is the author of 24 books, which have been translated into 17 languages. His most recent novel is DARWIN'S RADIO. The recipient of two Hugos and four Nebulas for his fiction, he has been called "the best working writer of hard science fiction" by The Science Fiction Encyclopedia. He is married to Astrid Anderson Bear; they are the parents of two children, Erik and Alexandria.

 

Eon by Greg Bear
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