Spin Control

NOVALIS Ground Truth

The first sign of trouble on Novalis was the detailed volatiles inventory. Theoretically, the nonsensical DVI numbers were a purely scientific issue. In practice, however, the DVI crisis turned out to be less about science than about culture and social skills. And the ensuing flurry of questions, arguments, and recriminations made Arkady begin to worry that the Novalis survey might turn into the kind of spectacular disaster that provided fodder for mission-planning manuals.

The DVI was Aurelia’s baby—Aurelia the rock doctor, not Aurelia the people doctor. Both Aurelias had become Arkady’s fast friends before he’d even scrubbed away the last remnants of freezerburn. He’d worked with other Aurelias before, and the Aurelias on the Novalis mission had their geneline’s typical character and attitudes. They worked hard, even by Syndicate standards. They gave short shrift to fools and hypocrites. They expected perfection from themselves and others. They were tactless, abrasive, aggressive, impatient, and generally impossible if you got in their way. They were also loyal, affectionate, and profoundly kind if you were lucky enough to have earned their friendship.

As often happened on new assignments, Arkady and the current pair of Aurelias benefited from past goodwill. Arkady had been close friends with other Aurelias and was hoping to be equally close to the new A-12 workpair. The Aurelias had fond memories of past Arkadys and were primed to make friends with their new A-11 colleagues. Arkady slipped into the ready-made friendship as comfortably as a duck hopping into a familiar pond…which was a good thing considering the distinctly uncomfortable nature of what should have been a much closer friendship: the one with Arkasha.

Not that he had a lot of time to think about that. Everyone was racing so frantically to get the prelanding work done before the ship fell into orbit around Novalis that they barely had time to sleep and eat, let alone worry about their social lives.

The DVI was central. The count on free volatiles would tell them whether the planet was geophysically capable of supporting plant and animal life. It was the DVI more than any other single set of numbers that the Aziz A’s would be looking at when they decided whether or not to greenlight the mission and transfer the team to the landing module. And when the DVI went south, so did all hopes of making planetfall on schedule.

The crux of the problem was Bella—and, in a more general way, the very presence of Aziz and Motai constructs on what was supposed to be a purely scientific mission.

The Novalis mission was a one-shot sprint-style expedition: fast and cheap, but by definition shorthanded. Each team member had to be capable of assisting with, or if necessary taking over, mission-critical tasks outside their normal areas of specialty. Indeed, one of the main arguments for including the Aziz A’s and the Motai B’s instead of four more scientists was that they had the generalized practical expertise to take up the slack for the life-sciences teams.

Things hadn’t quite worked out that way.

The two Aziz A’s, with all the goodwill in the world, lacked the training and technical skills even to serve as lab assistants. And the Bellas…well, the Bellas were turning out to be complicated.

As Arkady had predicted, they were quite easy to tell apart despite their uncanny physical resemblance. By the second day out of cold sleep, Arkady had privately dubbed them “Shy Bella” and “Bossy Bella.” Shy Bella barely spoke unless spoken to, and when she did screw up the courage to get a few words out you had to strain to hear them. Arkasha and Laid-back Ahmed both claimed she had a wicked sense of humor, but they were the only two crewmembers besides her pairmate that she was comfortable enough to joke with. And frankly Arkady wasn’t sure how comfortable she was with her pairmate.

By Syndicate standards, Bella’s diffidence verged on social deviance. Arkady had wondered how a construct with such a personality fault had made it through the MotaiSyndicate’s famously stringent culls…until he saw her at work in the orbsilk garden. At that point the mystery of why she’d been spared culling gave way to the mystery of why such a supremely gifted silk thrower had been exiled to the social backwater of a long-term survey mission. No matter. Whatever the reason, at least on this trip they wouldn’t have to worry about defective solar sails or hab ring seal blowouts.

Bella’s pairmate, on the other hand, could have used a healthy dose of shyness. Bossy Bella was that rare thing in Syndicate society, and space settlements generally: a truly rude person. Watching her in action, Arkady could only conclude that socialization in MotaiSyndicate crèches involved a lot fewer lectures about consideration, politeness, and Lotka-Wilsonist ideals, and a lot more of the aggressive jockeying for social dominance that was supposed to have vanished with the abolition of class oppression and private genetic property. He got the distinct impression that Bossy Bella was used to reigning over her fellow Motai B’s from the top of some primitive pecking order and was now working out just how far she could push her bullying in a group of science-tracked A’s who weren’t used to taking orders or deferring to anyone.

So far Bella’s pushing had worked pretty well. By-the-Book Ahmed liked her. Laid-back Ahmed tolerated her. The Rostov and Banerjee A’s were either blissfully blind to social nuance or too busy to notice.

But now Bella had let her social jockeying bleed into Aurelia’s DVI. And Aurelia, being an Aurelia, was out for blood.

Technically, what modern Syndicate ecophysicists did wasn’t terra-forming at all. Certainly it had little to do with the sledgehammer-style “planetary engineering” that early human terraformers had attempted when they hurled the first unmanned seed probes out of their solar system.

Most Evacuation-era terraforming starts had gone belly-up, leaving nothing behind but impact-scarred wreckage interesting only to historians. But where luck and skill had been with the original terraformers, their remote seeders had created impact craters in which the precious free volatiles collected and life could eventually thrive. The original terraformers had called these chains of isolated island ecosystems “oases.” Syndicate terraformers, none of whom had ever seen Earth’s oases, just called them “potholes.”

The pothole worlds (Gilead had been one when the first generation ship fell into orbit around it) were not terraformed but merely potentially terraformable. Each pothole evolved as its own separate planet, separated from its neighbors by sterile highlands lashed by lethal dust storms and solar radiation. Most of them flared into brief unstable life, then crashed. As Arkady’s first biogeography teacher had pointed out, knowing that isolated population fluctuations took the form of undamped oscillations around a stable equilibrium was small consolation if a downward oscillation dropped the population of a critical organism below zero. But some potholes survived. And a few, a very few of them were still there when the first-generation ships arrived: the scattered seeds of viable planet-spanning biospheres.

All but a handful of human colonies failed anyway, even where they were lucky enough to land on pothole worlds. The number of ways colonists had found to choke, drown, starve, or poison themselves was awe-inspiring. In most cases, however, the ultimate cause of death was startlingly basic: failure to adapt.

Dead colonies—including the genetically nonviable colonies of walking ghosts that the Treaty euphemistically called “bare branches”—died for one of two reasons. Either they refused to retool Earth-born customs and expectations to fit the unforgiving fragility of synthetic biospheres, or they refused to accept the invasive genetic engineering humans needed in order to survive anywhere but on their native planet. Colonies that survived only did so by facing up to the cold equations of life after Earth’s ecological collapse. They gave up the dream of building a second Earth. Or they gave up the dream of staying human. Or they died.

The Syndicates had given up on both those dreams. And in doing so, they had earned the privilege of working miracles. Which meant that the new worlds, the worlds out in the Deep beyond the treaty lines, were theirs for the taking.

Novalis was a typical Syndicate terraforming mission. It unfolded in four phases, only the last of which involved launching a manned driveship toward the target planet. Or rather, the presumed planet. For when the first remote probe launched, its target wasn’t a planet at all but merely a suggestive infrared excess in the spectrometry of a distant star.

The first probe swooped around Novalis on its subluminal flyby and found planets, two of them in orbits that were at least theoretically compatible with the presence of liquid water.

A second probe arrived eight months later, its launch window carefully scheduled to give the RostovSyndicate ecophysicists time to chew on the first round of raw data. In a maneuver that was always touch-and-go in terms of fuel conservation, it fired its onboard thrusters in order to translate into the plane of the most promising satellite: a more or less Earth-sized planet, blessed with a more or less Moon-sized moon that had the geophysicists whispering hopeful little phrases like “satellite stabilization” and “mild Milankovitch cycles.”

Translation was successful. The flyby happened—a spectacular display of interstellar sharpshooting at a mere seventy thousand kilometers above the target planet’s cloud-shrouded surface. The probe dropped seven automated landers before it hooked around Novalis’s yellow sun and shot off on its final voyage into the unsounded Deep.

Four of the landers vanished without transmitting any data at all.

The fifth lander made it most of the way down before succumbing to a damaged heat shield segment, and it sent back infrared and microwave soundings of an ocean (an ocean!), whose scatterometry produced a marine wind field map that Banerjee’s chief oceanographer pronounced promisingly reminiscent of Earth’s southern oscillation.

The sixth lander reached the surface and sent back a wealth of intriguing and frustratingly inconclusive readings before it drove over a cliff, to the spluttering humiliation of its design team, and shattered its solar collector.

The seventh lander caught an ant.

An ant whose DNA, when crushed and sequenced and crosschecked and cataloged, proved her to be the many thousandth great-granddaughter of a cloned ponerine queen boosted into space in 2031 on one of the European Space Authority’s venerable Ariane rockets and still covered by a perpetual, though obviously unenforceable, patent originally held by a Delaware corporation with the unlikely name of Monsanto.

With the discovery of one humble ant, all hell broke loose in the skies over Gilead. Scientific teams zipped back and forth from Syndicate to Syndicate. Aziz and Banerjee planners hammered out launch windows and crew and cargo manifests. The infamous “annoyance questionnaires” began to circulate among potential payload and mission specialists, a sure sign that not only was a long-range mission being planned, but that it would be a sprint mission: a desperate direct throw of the bare minimum of personnel and equipment needed to stake a claim to the target planet. Good luck, happy sailing…and we’ll deliver logistical support if you survive long enough to need it.

A third unmanned probe was dispatched, this one sleek, heavy, expensive, and freighted with a weight of scientific equipment worth the gross annual product of some of the smaller Syndicates. Two years behind the third probe—these things take time, after all—RostovSyndicate launched the ship whose arboretum they had just flown through at a speed that precisely measured the technical advances in interstellar propulsion made in the six years that separated the two ships’ launch dates.

And now, in a matter of days, the survey team would swing into orbit around Novalis…and begin the real work for which each of them had been training ever since they’d opted for the sciences track at sixteen and tested into geophysics, genetics, engineering, astrophysics, oceanography, zoology, genetics, molecular biology complex systems study, chaotic systems control, and all the other manifold specializations that the science-cum-art of terraforming demanded.

Arkady was at once awed and inspired by the sheer weight of history that lay behind each step of a preterraforming survey. Every reading, every sounding, every measurement they would use to establish the baseline condition of Novalis’s biosphere represented the life’s work of generations of engineers and scientists before them. Even so simple a task as taking the temperature of the ocean’s surface from orbit embodied a trajectory of technological evolution that began with the first primitive infrared sounding devices NASA engineers invented back in the twentieth century to explain the subtle color shifts that entranced the first astronauts to see Earth’s oceans from space.

Each member of the survey team—Arkady with his ants, Aurelia with her exacting measurements of the planet’s geophysical processes, Arkasha with his DNA samples—was part of an endless cycle of trial and error and recalibration that spanned two sentient species, several dozen planets, and a millennium of scientific investigation. And at the end of all their work lay the same thing their forebears had faced, a term coined by the first geophysicists on Earth but still a fertile part of the terraformer’s working vocabulary all these centuries later:

Ground truth.

Ground truth was the final judge from whose verdict there was no appeal. Ground truth was what you found when you finished your measurements and plans and preparations and took your heart in your hands and landed on your target planet. Ground truth was what you found when you sampled the soil, when you physically dropped a sounder into the ocean, when you walked through the forest or grassland or tundra you had surveyed from orbit and dissected and sequenced the specimens you collected there.

And this was the second source of Arkady’s endless fascination with his chosen field. In a very real sense every expedition to a new planet retraveled in miniature the long evolution of the discipline that humans called terraforming and Syndicate scientists called ecophysics. Syndicate survey teams might be armed with technical and theoretical tools that would have appeared near-magical to pre-Evacuation humans; but each new planet, even if every living thing on it was earthly in origin, presented an entirely new set of experimental parameters. Those parameters inevitably produced results that confirmed prior theory…and results that pointed out the limitations of trying to generalize about the largest complex nonlinear dynamic system anyone had yet encountered based on a sample size of one. Every unsurveyed planet was, quite literally, a new world. And nothing in all the wide universe said that the next planet wouldn’t blow the lid off every prior theory.

Which was exactly—though it was hard for Arkady to bring himself to believe such a thing could be happening—what Bella’s DVI numbers would do.

If they were real.

“You want her to learn on the job?” Aurelia was asking incredulously when Arkady walked into the hastily called formal consult over what the Ahmeds were calling the DVI situation. “She was supposed to know her job before we launched. People who can’t do a simple job right belong on a euth ward, not on a deep-space survey mission!”

“I did do the job right the first time!” Bossy Bella protested. Bella had been assigned, after much covert maneuvering and insistence that she was too busy (she wasn’t, and wouldn’t be until it was time to establish the food cycle systems in the dirtside habitat module), to help Aurelia with data collection for the all-important DVI. The two of them had already developed a cordial dislike for each other…and when something went wrong, the inevitable happened.

“So now you know my job better than I do?” Aurelia asked coldly.

“My numbers are right,” Bella insisted.

Her sib stirred beside her. “Perhaps…”

“Perhaps nothing! If you’d been helping me instead of wasting time staring into space, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Shy Bella bowed her head submissively, but judging from the dark shadows under her eyes Arkady seriously doubted she’d been slacking. In fact, she’d lost several kilos since they came out of cryo, and she and her sib were now worrisomely easy to tell apart even before they opened their pretty mouths.

Someone jogged his elbow: the other Aurelia. She was worried about her sib, and her usually confident face showed it. “What does Arkasha think about the numbers?” she asked Arkady in a nervous whisper.

He cast a furtive glance at Arkasha, who was sitting at the other end of the consult table, his shoulders turned away just enough to isolate himself from the rest of the group, flicking through a sheaf of densely inked printouts.

“How should I know?” he said bitterly. “I haven’t exchanged twenty words with him since we woke up. I couldn’t have seen less of him if he’d been ducking out of airlocks to avoid me.”

“I’ve been around a while,” Bossy Bella was saying when Arkady turned back to the general conversation. She’d been detanked two years before her pairmate and three years before the Ahmeds, Arkadys, and Aurelias. In her place, Arkady would have been embarrassed about being dropped behind his age group, but Bella predictably treated the age difference as a reason to pull rank on the rest of the crew. “I was on the Kuretz-12 survey while you all were still waiting for your year nineteen cull. And no one has ever found any problems with the work I do—”

“I, I, I, I, I!” Aurelia burst out, exasperated. “If you thought a little less about your precious self and a little more about our job out here—”

“How dare you accuse me of—”

“No one’s accusing you of anything,” Laid-back Ahmed said soothingly.

But Aurelia wasn’t willing to let it slide. And if you put half the energy into working that you put into slinging malicious gossip—”

“I refuse to allow this consult to degenerate into personal attacks,” By-the-Book Ahmed said, predictably rising to Bella’s defense. “If you don’t have the leadership skills to manage the people under you—”

“That’s humanist crap!” Aurelia burst out. “I don’t need leadership skills! I’m not a goddamn sheepdog! And it’s not my Part in life to chase down people who won’t put in an honest day’s work unless they’re nagged and nattered at!”

“Listen,” Arkady began, knowing from late-night drinking sessions that once Aurelia started in on her ideological objections to caste-based genelines things could only go downhill. Not that he disagreed with Aurelia on either count. Ever since that first night she’d let her sib do her dishes, Bossy Bella had shown a formidable talent for being nowhere in sight whenever there was work to do. And as to the caste nonsense…well, just look at the current situation.

His interruption did no good, though; Aurelia had gotten the bit firmly between her teeth.

“And speaking of nagging and nattering,” she went on, “I’ve about goddamn well had it with the so-called shipboard duty schedule. Are we grown-ups or crèchelings?”

“Collective job lists are inefficient,” By-the-Book Ahmed said in his usual categorical tones.

“Not as inefficient as pissing people off by treating them like galley slaves instead of pre-citizens!”

“Shipboard duty rosters work,” Ahmed insisted. “It’s proven.”

“By AzizSyndicate studies!” Aurelia said contemptuously. “Studies done on B’s and C’s. Well, we’re not B’s and C’s, in case you hadn’t noticed. And if your so-called leadership skills are limited to bossing around worker drones sociogenetically programmed to swallow your counterrevolutionary humanist bullshit—”

“Look,” Laid-back Ahmed said in his usual levelheaded tone. “Let’s just focus on the problem at hand. We can’t solve everything today. And none of the rest matters worth a lick if we can’t get to the bottom of the DVI situation.”

“Why not just redo the DVI readings and make a fresh start on the problem?” Arkasha said. It was the first time he’d opened his mouth since the consult started.

There was a momentary silence while everyone considered his proposal. Arkasha had acquired an unofficial and nebulous authority over the past week as his crewmates—one by one, and without ever admitting they’d done it—downloaded his public dossier. The long string of publications, citations, and discoveries attached to the dossier had subtly shifted not only their views on Arkasha but their assumptions about the entire mission. Arkasha was the closest thing the anti-individualist culture of the Syndicates had to an academic superstar: one of the best theoretical geneticists of his generation in a society where genetics was the undisputed top of the scientific food chain. Naturally his articles were published under his geneline name. But you only had to see that all-important first footnote to understand how many articles he’d written, and how influential his work had been on other geneticists. Arkasha’s presence on the mission signaled the magnitude of what the joint steering committee expected them to find on Novalis. And without doing or saying anything to demand the position—in fact he barely even talked to anyone except poor little Shy Bella, who was the farthest thing imaginable from a social power broker—Arkasha had become the de facto lead scientist on the survey.

Bossy Bella, however, was conspicuously uninterested in Arkasha’s academic qualifications. She and Arkasha stared at each other, locked in a private battle of wills. “If you’ve got something to say,” she told him, “why don’t you have the guts to say it? Or would you rather come creeping around my quarters again making your nasty insinuations?”

“There’s no need to jump down his throat!” Aurelia snapped, interrupting whatever had been going on between Arkasha and Bella and foreclosing any chance at finding out what Arkasha’s “nasty insinuations” had been. Arkady smothered a sigh. He dearly loved Aurelias in general, and these Aurelias in particular…but their “help” in a consult was a burden he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

“Don’t browbeat me!” Bella cried, her attention momentarily deflected from Arkasha.

“Browbeat her?” Aurelia’s sib muttered for Arkady’s ears only. “I wish we could horsewhip her.”

“Come on, people.” Laid-back Ahmed again. “Let’s focus on solutions, not fault finding.”

Arkady took a deep breath and plunged in. “Maybe the best solution really is just to check the numbers again. I’ll redo the DVI if Bella doesn’t have time. It’s no problem. Honestly.”

Laid-back Ahmed gave him an eloquently grateful look. The idea that doing a little extra work yourself was better than letting the social gears get squeaky was one of the many things Arkady and the big Aziz A had already discovered they saw eye to eye on.

“I don’t need you looking over my shoulder for mistakes,” Bella snapped at Arkady. She cast a venomous look toward Arkasha’s end of the table. “And don’t think I don’t know who put you up to this!”

“No one put me up to anything,” Arkady said, wondering what Arkasha could possibly have said to provoke such animosity. “I just meant that I have a little extra time and if you’re too busy to be able to go over the numbers again, I could…uh, help you.” Arkady did his best to make the offer sound supportive and unthreatening. Inside, however, he was having counterrevolutionary thoughts about whether some of those bad old repressive human political systems had found a way to make sure the decent hardworking people didn’t get the short end of the stick…and the bullies, prima donnas, and manipulators didn’t rise to the top like scum on milk.

Bella’s sib leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Whatever it was Bella didn’t like it much.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she cried. “Why are you turning against me?”

“I’m not. I just—”

“It’s not fair! Why isn’t anyone asking if it’s Aurelia’s analysis and not my readings that are wrong? Why are you all so ready to believe her and turn against me? Because she’s an A and I’m a B, that’s why!”

“Because she knows her job and you don’t, you moron,” Aurelia’s sib muttered—thankfully too softly for anyone but Arkady to hear.

“She has a point,” By-the-Book Ahmed said. “Why aren’t we considering the possibility that the numbers are good and the, uh…what did you call it just now, Arkady?…the ground truth is different than what we thought it would be?”

“Because…” Aurelia said, and trailed off helplessly.

Arkady and every other science track A sitting around the table knew what that “because” stood for. Because the numbers Bella had come up with were flat-out impossible. Because we didn’t come all the way out here to run a basic ecophysics course. Because we all have too much work to do to waste our collective time explaining to Bella why if she knew her ass from her elbow she’d know her numbers were wrong.

But of course the Ahmeds knew even less about terraforming than Bella did. All they knew was that they had a bunch of temperamental techs and scientists at each other’s throats. And in the absence of technical knowledge, they could only fall back on their knowledge of their fellow crewmates. By-the-Book Ahmed sided with Bella because she flattered and deferred to him and was the only crewmember who didn’t display “lack of motivation” by bridling under his beloved shipboard duty roster. Laid-back Ahmed followed his basic philosophy—fair in most disputes but disastrous in this case—of trying to get the combatants to split the difference and compromise.

“I agree,” Laid-back Ahmed said. “I mean there’s no reason not to consider every possibility, is there?”

The science track A’s greeted this with stunned silence. One of the Aurelias coughed. Arkasha fidgeted.

“The thing is,” one of the Banerjees said cautiously, “that if these numbers were right, it would mean we were looking at a planet that already had large contiguous regions of its surface in a state of biogeological climax.”

Both Ahmeds looked blank. Could they really have so little insight into what the survey and terraforming team was supposed to be doing once they hit planet surface? If so, they were going to be deadweight as soon as the team made planetfall. Worse than deadweight if they began meddling in survey decisions they didn’t understand. Something had gone very wrong in the mission preplanning, Arkady realized. And he felt a bitter little seed of resentment over the planning failures lodge somewhere close to his heart.

“So what you’re saying is that Bella’s numbers are better than we thought they’d be,” By-the-Book Ahmed said. “What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not a question of better or worse,” the other Banerjee began.

“Then what is it a question of? Why can’t we get straightforward answers out of you people?”

“Because we don’t have them. This isn’t calculating a launch window or the bearing strength of an I-beam. There’s no simple answer.”

“Then how do you know Bella’s wrong?”

“Because…”

“I don’t think you’re hearing us,” Aurelia said. “This planet shouldn’t be here.”

“Then where should it be?” Laid-back Ahmed asked blandly.

“I meant—” Aurelia began. And then she saw the joke. “Oh for God’s sake, Ahmed, be serious!”

“I am serious. I just think we’re getting a little overheated. No one’s trying to put you on the hot seat. Just give us the general picture in laymen’s terms.”

But of course Rostov A’s were not used to dealing with people who needed to be given the general picture in laymen’s terms…and for the first time in his life Arkady was beginning to see that in the wrong circumstances the very strength of the Rostov genelines might be a liability.

“For instance,” Laid-back Ahmed said, “how do these numbers compare to Gilead?”

“Basically,” Arkady said, “they don’t.”

“So it’s further along than Gilead? Is that impossible?”

“No…um…Gilead’s not a useful comparison.”

“Why not?”

“Because…well…Gilead gives you large contiguous areas of ‘terraformed’ surface. But they’re all being artificially held away from ecological climax in order to keep boosting the volatiles. That gives you a very recognizable volatiles profile, especially in the free nitrogen. Gilead is a textbook-perfect best-scenario case of terraforming on the numbers. But the numbers Bella’s getting for Novalis aren’t that at all. They’re…well, they’re nonsense. There are no comps for those numbers.”

Something moved in Arkady’s peripheral vision.

Arkasha.

He was sliding his thick stack of printouts across the table toward the Ahmeds.

“Yes, there are,” he said. “Right here.”

By-the-Book Ahmed grabbed the printouts and squinted at them.

“Is this another one of your practical jokes?” he asked accusingly. He and Arkasha had already come dangerously close to locking horns twice—both times over what By-the-Book Ahmed referred to as Arkasha’s “too smart to follow the rules” attitude.

Arkasha’s only answer to Ahmed’s question was a dismissive shrug.

Arkady craned his neck to read the heading on the printed page across the table. When he finally managed to decipher it, he decided that Ahmed was right. It must be a joke. It said:

“All Bella’s numbers are fluctuating within two points of this DVI,” Arkasha said flatly.

“Could, uh, this be a coincidence?” Laid-back Ahmed asked in a hollow tone that made Arkady quite sure he had understood what Arkasha was leaving unsaid.

“Not unless Novalis actually is Earth, complete with a two-hundred-year-old planet-spanning fossil-fuels economy and some serious CFC contamination.”

“I don’t have to take this!” Bella exclaimed, standing up.

“Sit down !” Laid-back Ahmed said in a tone that knocked Bella’s knees out from under her.

Don’t say it, Arkady pleaded with his sib. Just let the Ahmeds handle it. She’s not the kind of person you want to make into your enemy.

But Arkasha wasn’t going to let it go. He was going to try to be nice. And he was going to do it in a way that only deepened Bella’s humiliation.

“I don’t want to cast blame,” he said, keeping his dark eyes carefully fixed on the table. “This is a failure at the steering committee level, not the individual level. A great deal of early training in the sciences involves learning not to panic when your numbers look wrong. And the numbers often look wrong in complex systems work. Throwing someone with a purely technical background into this kind of situation without real supervision more or less guarantees panic. And someone without a really solid grasp of ecophysics might well look at the relatively advanced flora and fauna the landers picked up on Novalis and make the mistaken assumption that a planet so far along in the ecopoietic curve might look the same on the numbers as Earth did when it was on its way down.”

Arkasha had spoken deliberately, so that everyone around the table had time to understand what he was accusing Bella of: cribbing the numbers from the Earth DVI when her own readings didn’t look right.

Twelve pairs of eyes shifted furtively toward Bella, who sat staring at her hands and breathing hard.

Arkasha’s eyes flicked once toward Bella, then dropped away. “There’s no shame in not being perfect. As long as you’re honest. A lot of people’s lives could depend on our honesty. Starting with our own. We need to redo the DVI. We can do it with no questions asked. I think that’s the way we should do it. But it would be extremely helpful to have your notes of the original readings.”

No one spoke for a long moment. The two Banerjees both stared resolutely out the nearest viewport. By-the-Book Ahmed was fuming, while his sib had no readable expression at all on his handsome features. Arkady looked sideways just in time to see Aurelia glance back and forth significantly between him and Arkasha and raise an eyebrow at her own sib.

“Bella?” Laid-back Ahmed said. “Can we have your notes? Please?”

“I gave them to you!” she snapped. And pointed to the neat printout of her final measurements she had circulated at the beginning of the consult.

But those weren’t notes. Even the Aziz A’s knew enough to understand that.

Ahmed and Arkasha looked at each other, obviously reaching some kind of understanding.

“Okay,” Ahmed said, “I see the problem. If there was a problem, which I’m not saying there was. And I propose that we just, uh, decide how to handle the DVI on a forward-going basis.” Ahmed looked around the table but no one contested his analysis. “Any thoughts? Anyone?”

Everyone in the room knew what was supposed to happen next. They’d spent half their lives sitting around tables or in childhood crèche circles, mastering the slow, courtly, circular procedures of consensus decisionmaking. They all knew that the script called for a series of tentative summings up; carefully structured and only vaguely purposeful statements that would begin with self-effacing phrases like “If I understand what’s been said so far,” or “I’m hearing from Bella that…” or “We might consider investigating the possibility of…” and would allow the group to arrive at a decision without actually forcing any single person openly to declare his or her positions and allegiances.

But once again Arkasha wasn’t willing to follow the script.

“I say we land,” he announced, tossing the naked proposal out like a duelist flinging his glove at an opponent’s feet. “Enough probes and flybys and extrapolations. We need a good dose of ground truth. And trust me, if the question is whether or not Bella’s DVI numbers are right, we’ll know that the minute we open the airlock.”

“Unacceptable,” By-the-Book Ahmed snapped. Why did he always have to sound as if he were lecturing children when he was talking to the mission specialists? “Too much risk involved.”

“Too much risk to the mission?” Arkasha retorted, “or too much risk that you can’t cover your ass if things go wrong?”

“I’m responsible for the safety of this ship and crew,” Ahmed said sententiously. “I’m not willing to put us down on a planet you can’t even give me reliable numbers on.”

Arkasha opened his mouth and shut it again. He and the other Rostovs had all bridled under Ahmed’s heavy-handed assertions of authority ever since the mission started. But what could they do, really? The Ahmeds were the ship’s pilots. There might be arguments once they were all planetside about relative authority, but as long as they were in space they were essentially captives.

“I see Arkasha’s point though,” Laid-back Ahmed said, tactfully directing his comment as much to his sib as to Arkasha. “Perhaps we can find a middle ground? What if we agree to spend a predetermined amount of time check—uh, redoing the DVI, and then meet again and make a firm decision on how to proceed? That’ll give us a deadline for one thing, so the DVI doesn’t turn into too much of a time sink.”

Arkasha shrugged—but this time the movement had none of the dismissive quality with which he’d mocked By-the-Book Ahmed before.

“It’s just a question of minimizing the uncertainties, really. Does that make sense to everyone?”

Nods all around the table.

“Would a week be enough time to minimize the uncertainties? What do you all think? I know it’s a tight schedule for some of you, but does a week work for everyone?”

It seemed a week did work for everyone.

“Arkady, would you work with Arkasha and Aurelia to put together a plan of attack?”

“Absolutely.” Arkady accepted for all three of them before Arkasha or Aurelia could stir up any more trouble.

“Is tomorrow evening too soon for us to look over your plan together? No? Good. I’ll look to go over it with you tomorrow evening. And then I’ll go around and get feedback from the individual teams before we finalize the schedule.”

It was neatly done, Arkady realized, with a newfound admiration for the big Aziz A. A potential conflict had been avoided. Everyone’s opinion had been solicited, but in a way that gave no one the chance to complain about his or her colleagues or foment bad feeling. The main dissenter had been co-opted by being put in charge of administering the very decision that had been taken over his head. Arkady had been inserted into the vendetta between Arkasha and Bella so that there was no reason for the two of them to have to deal with each other until they cooled off a bit. And all potential for conflict had been siphoned off into “individual consultations” in which Ahmed’s considerable charm could be deployed to head off any potential acrimony.

But underneath the neat managerial tricks, Arkady had the sense that he’d just watched a tectonic realignment of continents. Bella, who had been jockeying with the equally assertive Aurelias for social dominance, had been publicly shamed. By-the-Book Ahmed had broken fast out of the gate, then fallen behind in the backstretch. Laid-back Ahmed, despite his easygoing affability, had emerged as the real leader of the expedition. And though he clearly neither wanted nor sought the role, Arkasha had replaced By-the-Book Ahmed as the unacknowledged second-in-command.

As the rest of the team stretched and shuffled their papers and began getting back to the real business of the day, Arkady glanced at Bella. She was still in her chair, sitting up quite straight, with her hands resting in her lap and her beautiful face set into a mask of nobly wounded dignity. But her violet eyes were fixed on Arkasha as if he were the only other person in the room. And one look at their expression left no doubt in Arkady’s mind that his sib had just earned an implacable enemy.

Night cycle.

No moon lit the sky. Novalis loomed overhead, visible only as a darker blackness in the surrounding void.

A brush fire raged across the invisible curve of the northern continent’s central grasslands. On the ground the killing fields must cover thousands of kilometers, but from here the fire was just a pinprick in the surrounding blackness: a reminder that life itself was fire, and that all life devoured other life just as surely as the flames licking across Novalis’s gravid belly.

Arkady’s feelings toward the planet had changed subtly over the last few days. His impatient excitement had given way to an apprehension bordering on fear. Eve of battle nerves, he told himself, brought to an uncomfortably high pitch by that distasteful nonsense over the DVI numbers. But a voice inside him whispered that he could die down there, and if he died Novalis would eat his flesh and mulch his bones, and not one molecule of the water or volatiles or trace metals he was made of would ever go home to RostovSyndicate. He stared up at the planet, desperately homesick, and asked himself if he was strong enough to face that ground truth. The only answer was the swirl and flicker of the flames.

He shuddered and turned back into the bright cocoon of the ship. The bridge seemed safe and familiar, a last glimpse of home before the long fall into the gravity well. Status chimes rang soothingly. In the kitchen alcove off the navigator’s station the hum of the refrigerator competed with the splutter of the coffeemaker.

Arkady floated over to the table, feeling liquefied with exhaustion and privately cursing whoever had drunk all the coffee and left the machine empty. He watched the drops of coffee seep into the spherical carafe and wander around until they finally bumped into the container’s viruglass shell and stuck there like caffeinated amoebas. Which he supposed made him what? A decaffeinated amoeba? That sounded about right.

The main bridge door cycled open.

“Oh, good,” the newcomer said. “Coffee’s on.”

Bella. But which Bella? He squinted at her and decided with a distinct lowering of spirits that it was Bossy Bella.

“What a week!” She sighed, settling next to Arkady in a flowing rustle of orbsilk. Arkady repressed the urge to move away from her. When the coffee finally spluttered to the end of its cycle he pushed off with alacrity. “Can I get you some?”

“Thanks,” she said. She made no effort to track down milk or sugar.

“Just look at that sink,” she said. “What a mess! But of course everyone’s too busy and important to do the dishes around here.”

This was pretty rich considering that Bella was undoubtedly the least busy person on board. Which gave her plenty of time to poke her sharp little nose into other people’s private lives, Arkady thought, and then repressed the thought as petty.

“Don’t you agree with me?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, settling cravenly for the path of least resistance.

“I blame the Ahmeds,” she continued. “We would never have allowed things to go this far in my home crèche. They’re too soft, too inexperienced—”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“I do. I may not be an A, but I do know enough to see when things need to be put back on track. A little constructive criticism—”

“I hardly think it’s worth calling a group critique session over a few dirty dishes, Bella.”

“Well…no…of course not. But it’s the idea, you understand.”

Arkady gave the Motai B a sideways glance, wondering once more what it would do to a person to grow up under MotaiSyndicate’s harsh normalization regimes. He tried to count up the crèchemates from his own year—very few of them, it had to be said in Rostov’s defense—who had mysteriously vanished after fifth- and eighth-year norm testing. It wasn’t easy. The docents firmly discouraged any discussion of culled crèchemates. And as always when you tried to separate the individual from the geneline, names became cumbersome. But he remembered his feelings about culled crèchemates with painful clarity. Fear. Insecurity. Gratitude to the docents who had approved and promoted and protected him. The panicky need to believe that the vanished children were deviants, and that he could avoid their fate if he just worked a little harder at being normal and well-adjusted. And, worst of all, the first dark suspicion that while most people soon learned to hate the suffering that came with culls and critique sessions, others learned that enforcing “normality” could be a source of pleasure and power.

He thought he knew which kind of person he was. And he was starting to get a pretty good idea which kind Bella was.

Meanwhile she was watching him, her beautiful features alert and hungry-looking. “I’ve noticed that your sib and my sib seem to be pretty friendly with each other,” she said.

Arkady had noticed too. He hadn’t thought much of it. After all, he spent nearly all his free time with the two Aurelias. There was nothing strange about it. The opposite sex was refreshingly…well, opposite. And you could be friendly to them without worrying about the awkward misunderstandings or sexual tensions that complicated relationships between crèchemates.

“So how are you and Arkasha getting along?” Bella asked.

“I have nothing to complain about,” Arkady said evasively.

“That’s not exactly ringing praise.”

“Well what do you want me to say? He’s smart…hardworking…uh, clean…”

They stared at each other. Arkady could feel a furious blush spreading across his face.

“Are you sleeping together yet?”

“I…uh…”

“I thought not.”

“Not everyone jumps into bed with his pairmate the first week of an assignment,” Arkady protested—and then could have kicked himself for the implicit admission. “He’s not deviant, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Bella smiled like a cat who’d just made a kill. Why hadn’t Arkady noticed that sleek, predatory complacency before?

“Deviant!” she said in a voice that was patently insincere yet somehow impossible to challenge. “I only meant that his behavior seems a bit selfish. But you’re his pairmate after all. If you’ve started wondering…and now that you mention it, he did make that odd joke the first night. And, really, the way he looks at my sib sometimes…don’t tell me you haven’t seen it?”

Arkady hadn’t seen it. Arkady didn’t want to see it. Though of course now that Bella had put it into his head, he would see it. That was the problem with this kind of talk. Once someone had put the revolting idea in your mind, nothing could get it out. And you could never look at the person again without that little niggling blister of doubt rubbing at you.

In fact, Arkady did manage to put Bella’s insinuations aside for a few days, not so much through force of will but because the mission itself hit a long-overdue patch of smooth running.

The new DVI numbers were low enough to make sense but still high enough to reassure the Ahmeds. And from the moment the landing was greenlighted, the mission seemed to be running on rails. Site selection and GPS seeding went as smoothly as the most elementary training sim. Even the choice of a landing site went off with only nominal conflict. Arkasha argued for the southern tip of the larger continent, which jutted conveniently toward the equator. The Ahmeds, on the other hand, wanted to land in the temperate zone along the eastern flank of the continent. Arkasha stated his case: higher rates of evapotranspiration would translate into higher species richness, making their field time more efficient; they had a far better baseline for tropical ecosystems than for temperate ones, and so forth. But as Arkady had predicted, Arkasha had resolutely avoided doing anything since the last consult either to patch things up with Bella and By-the-Book Ahmed or cement his alliances with the other science track A’s. So while Arkady and (to everyone’s surprise) Shy Bella supported Arkasha’s preferred site, the rest of the team rapidly reached a consensus for the Ahmeds’ chosen site. To Arkady’s surprise, Arkasha backed down without a confrontation—and they settled on a likely-looking base camp site in the coastal flatlands of the main continent.

Ahmed was the first to the door when they made planetfall. He stepped up to the porthole and peered through the viruglass, gauzy white with decades of impact scratches—and caught his breath sharply enough to send a stab of fear coursing through Arkady’s body.

“What is it?” someone asked.

“Come see.”

The team bunched together in the airlock, staring up at the distant sky like miners peering out of the depths of a pit shaft. The Ahmeds had set the lander down in a broad open area that Arkady would have called a pasture had Novalis possessed any grazing animals, or any mammals at all for that matter. There was a river not far off, and it might have been visible from the landing site during what passed as winter on Novalis. At the moment, however, the line of sight extended for about sixty meters downhill and ended abruptly in a tangled, spiky, completely solid wall of greenery.

Arkady and the rest of the survey team stood in staring amazement. These were not the straggling scrub oak and cottonwoods of the Periphery’s terraformed planets, including Gilead. The trees—if you could call such giants trees—towered overhead for fifteen, twenty, forty meters. Even on a first, casual inspection Arkady counted some two dozen different species. He couldn’t begin to imagine the intricate network of interlocking water, air, and chlorophyll cycles it must take to maintain this world-girdling symphony of greenery.

Shy Bella was the first one to get her breath back and summon up words when they saw what was waiting for them outside the airlock.

“What is that?” she whispered.

Arkady craned his neck backwards, feeling like he was looking up out of a well, his ears full of a roaring like the sound of waves beating on a rocky shore.

“I think it’s a forest.”