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Authors: Hugh Howey
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buried the rock under
drifts a hundred meters deep. The problem, of course, was in not knowing when
that half day would fall. Every climber across thirteen worlds studied the weather
charts like daytraders. As the season neared, predictions were logged on the
net, men in their warm homes with their appetites intact and the feeling still
in their fingers and toes would make guesses, watch reports from the satellites
left behind by those government expeditions, and make bold claims.
I had been one of those prognosticators until
recently. But now, after spending a night at camp 7 beneath the Khimer
Ridge, I felt as though I had graduated to one who could sneer at the antics of
those at lesser heights. By dint of my travel between the stars and my arduous
climb thus far, I was now an expert. It lent Hanson and I the illusion that our
guess was far more refined than the others.
Or perhaps it was the lack of oxygen that made us crazy
this way. In the middle of that terrible night, rather than spend my last
morning thinking of my wife and kids or dwell further on the debts incurred to
travel to frontier stars and hike up a murderous peak, I thought of all my
fellow climbers who were safely ensconced in their homes as they followed our
every move.
Right now, they likely followed Shubert and Humphries, two
strong climbers who had knocked out all else the galaxy had to offer. They
would also be keeping an eye on Hanson and I. And then there was the pairing of
Ziba and Cardhil, who were also making a bid that year.
Ziba was an enigma of a climber, a small woman who looked
far too frail in her heatsuit and mask. When first I saw her navigating the
Lower Collum Ice Falls above basecamp, I mistook her oxygen tanks for
double-oughts in size, such as they dwarfed her frame. The consensus was that
there was little to fear in her attempt that year. I had done some digging
before my uplink succumbed to the cold, and read that Ziba had knocked out the
peaks of her home planet, none of which top thirty thousand feet, but she had
at least done them in style. No oxygen and swiftly, one of those modern
climbers. It had been a private joy to watch her give in to the true
mountaineering methods necessary on Mallory’s great face. The methodical lift
of crampons, the bulging tanks of air, the fogging and frosted masks. These
were the ways of the true climber. Mallory is an instructor to all, and Ziba
did not seem too full of herself to submit, learn, and adapt.
Cardhil, I figured, was the great unknown. Ziba had chosen
an odd tentmate in the android. And if it were a manchine that was the first to
summit great Mallory, the consensus across the alpine forums was that nothing
would have occurred at all. There would not even be an accomplishment to
asterix. And anyway, I had sent notes a week ago to an old climbing buddy,
telling him not to worry. The cold was worse on the manchine’s joints than our
own. Hanson and I had left camp 6 while Ziba was chipping away at Cardhil’s
frozen ankles. And please don’t tell me that a man’s memories counted for the
man himself, that the android lived because he remembered living. I have had
many a conversation with Cardhil around basecamp and watched him with the
Sherpas. He is no different than the droid who cleans my pool or walks my dog.
A clever approximation, but with movements too precise, too clean, to pass for
human. The other day, Hanson nudged me in time to turn and catch Cardhil taking
a great spill on the East Face. The way he did even this was unnatural.
Supremely calm and without a whimper, the manchine had slid several hundred
feet on his ass, working his climbing axe into the deep snow, with all the
false grace of an automaton.
Nobody feared this duo as long as they were behind and
below us. There, off our ropes and out of our way, they had only themselves to
kill.
3
Hanson and I left our flapping tent in utter darkness. The
driven snow blocked out all but a few of the twinkling
drifts a hundred meters deep. The problem, of course, was in not knowing when
that half day would fall. Every climber across thirteen worlds studied the weather
charts like daytraders. As the season neared, predictions were logged on the
net, men in their warm homes with their appetites intact and the feeling still
in their fingers and toes would make guesses, watch reports from the satellites
left behind by those government expeditions, and make bold claims.
I had been one of those prognosticators until
recently. But now, after spending a night at camp 7 beneath the Khimer
Ridge, I felt as though I had graduated to one who could sneer at the antics of
those at lesser heights. By dint of my travel between the stars and my arduous
climb thus far, I was now an expert. It lent Hanson and I the illusion that our
guess was far more refined than the others.
Or perhaps it was the lack of oxygen that made us crazy
this way. In the middle of that terrible night, rather than spend my last
morning thinking of my wife and kids or dwell further on the debts incurred to
travel to frontier stars and hike up a murderous peak, I thought of all my
fellow climbers who were safely ensconced in their homes as they followed our
every move.
Right now, they likely followed Shubert and Humphries, two
strong climbers who had knocked out all else the galaxy had to offer. They
would also be keeping an eye on Hanson and I. And then there was the pairing of
Ziba and Cardhil, who were also making a bid that year.
Ziba was an enigma of a climber, a small woman who looked
far too frail in her heatsuit and mask. When first I saw her navigating the
Lower Collum Ice Falls above basecamp, I mistook her oxygen tanks for
double-oughts in size, such as they dwarfed her frame. The consensus was that
there was little to fear in her attempt that year. I had done some digging
before my uplink succumbed to the cold, and read that Ziba had knocked out the
peaks of her home planet, none of which top thirty thousand feet, but she had
at least done them in style. No oxygen and swiftly, one of those modern
climbers. It had been a private joy to watch her give in to the true
mountaineering methods necessary on Mallory’s great face. The methodical lift
of crampons, the bulging tanks of air, the fogging and frosted masks. These
were the ways of the true climber. Mallory is an instructor to all, and Ziba
did not seem too full of herself to submit, learn, and adapt.
Cardhil, I figured, was the great unknown. Ziba had chosen
an odd tentmate in the android. And if it were a manchine that was the first to
summit great Mallory, the consensus across the alpine forums was that nothing
would have occurred at all. There would not even be an accomplishment to
asterix. And anyway, I had sent notes a week ago to an old climbing buddy,
telling him not to worry. The cold was worse on the manchine’s joints than our
own. Hanson and I had left camp 6 while Ziba was chipping away at Cardhil’s
frozen ankles. And please don’t tell me that a man’s memories counted for the
man himself, that the android lived because he remembered living. I have had
many a conversation with Cardhil around basecamp and watched him with the
Sherpas. He is no different than the droid who cleans my pool or walks my dog.
A clever approximation, but with movements too precise, too clean, to pass for
human. The other day, Hanson nudged me in time to turn and catch Cardhil taking
a great spill on the East Face. The way he did even this was unnatural.
Supremely calm and without a whimper, the manchine had slid several hundred
feet on his ass, working his climbing axe into the deep snow, with all the
false grace of an automaton.
Nobody feared this duo as long as they were behind and
below us. There, off our ropes and out of our way, they had only themselves to
kill.
3
Hanson and I left our flapping tent in utter darkness. The
driven snow blocked out all but a few of the twinkling
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