The Dust Garden 灰尘花园
By Ken Liu
Translated by Wang Meizi
2014-12
彗星科幻
There are six hundred colonists aboard Sarira with different skills—exogeology, astrobiology, artificial intelligence, group dynamics, micro- and macro-engineering, aeroponics—all of them necessary for a colony to thrive on a new world.
Well, maybe almost all.
I am the first to be awakened.
Suspended dozens of meters above the ground by massive segmented legs, the hibernation chamber resembles a glass-domed eye in the middle of a giant spider, or perhaps a pearl held aloft at the apex of a filigree diadem.
Would someone describe my thoughts as decorative and frivolous?
I look up at the dark sky through the glass: ice crystals strike the dome like flickers in a bubble chamber, expand, melt, disappear.
“Nitrogen,” says the computer, whose lens has been tracking my gaze. “The landing vaporized some of the ice. It’s now freezing back into snow.”
I try to work loose my limbs, numb from hibernation, as I absorb this information. “Is there no Goldilocks planet?” There’s never any guarantee that a suitable planet would be found in the habitable zone.
“We landed on one,” says the computer calmly. So helpful. So not helpful.
I point up at the nitrogen snow. The computer’s lens moves up and then back down.
“It’s winter.”
I flick through screens of numbers and graphs. I had designed these templates myself before launch. There is a kind of beauty to presenting information that is rarely appreciated. Information is entropy, as Claude Shannon discovered. It is the balancing of order and disorder that creates aesthetic pleasure. Too much order, and the data would be boring; too little order, and the data would be incomprehensible.
The rest of the crew had looked at me with pity when I spent hours on these templates. Look at her, trying to make herself feel useful.
The flow of well-tempered data soothes. This planet has a long and eccentric orbit that takes almost thirteen Earth years to complete. For twelve of those years the planet is outside the habitable zone, too cold to support life. Then comes a brief summer, a time of sunshine and warm air, of liquid oceans and breathable air.
I think I understand our situation.
“I want to name the planet.”
“That is your right as the first to be awakened,” says the computer. I’m sure I’m imagining the virtual shrug.
“Cicada,” I say.
“Done,” says the computer. It doesn’t discuss with me visions of colonists burrowing in hiding for twelve years for each year of living. It doesn’t comment on the symbolism of reincarnation. A name is just a label, a proper noun. Everything else associated with the name in my head is just entropy. Frivolous.
“Summer is almost a full Earth year away,” I say. “Why wake me up now?”
The computer puts up more data and graphs on the screen. I see I’ve misunderstood our situation.
The landing was rougher than expected, and the damaged fusion reactors had to be jettisoned. The ship is now running on reserve batteries charged by photovoltaic cells: smooth glass wings that gather the faint light of the distant sun and convert it into currents of electricity.
“The panels were designed only as backups. The engineers had not anticipated the effects of dust.”
Cicada’s surface is covered by a layer of pulverized regolith. As the planet approaches the sun, the dust becomes electrically charged and rises into the air. The dust covers everything, including the smooth panels of the photovoltaic cells, blocking the sunlight that powers the ship, that keeps us alive.
“You woke me,” I say, “to clean the panels.”
“This is not a mere custodial job,” says the computer. “Extensive EVA will expose you to intense radiation and the risk of meteoroid strikes, and I can’t tell what the dust is going to do.”
“That makes me feel much better,” I say. “You’re a really good motivational speaker, you know that?”
The computer shows me more beautifully presented data to explain why I am the best person for the job.
I don’t even bother looking at the calculations. I know why I’ve been picked. I’m disposable.
#
Cleaning the panels takes hours. It is, above all, tedious.
If Sarira resembles a giant long-legged metallic insect, then the panels are otherworldly wings radiating from the hibernation chamber. Or perhaps a better comparison is to the petals of a lotus flower arranged in concentric circles intended to catch sunlight from every orientation.
The distant sun is not yet a disk, but only a star brighter than others in the velvet sky, like the fabled pearls after which the ship is named, the sparkling quintessence left behind in the ashes of a life sublimated into nirvana.
Sorry for the purple prose. It’s hard to climb over these massive panels hour after hour, carefully brushing away the dust to reveal the smooth glass beneath, knowing that I’ll have to do it again tomorrow. It gives you a lot of time to think.
The motion of brushing dust is familiar. Back home I had achieved some measure of fame as a glamorist. You know the shimmering eyeshadow and lip powder that is so popular on the models in magazines? That is my invention.
The powder gives off a rainbow sheen that changes depending on the lighting and the angle. It looks ethereal, otherworldly, but at its foundation, the effect is based on the flow of light, on the sculpting of pathways of information, of patterned entropy.
The Morpho rhetenor’s wings appear blue, but if you were to zoom in, you would not find any blue pigments in the butterfly’s scales. The scales are covered by nanostructures in the range of hundreds of nanometers, the wavelengths of visible light. As photons are deflected among layers of these nanostructures, their wave-like nature asserts itself, leading to constructive and destructive optical interference until a shimmering blueness emerges from the colorless, empty space.
The butterfly provided the model for my work. Extruded from a printer with nano-scale precision, the powder I invented was colorless. But when brushed onto a model’s skin, the layers trapped light and led to shimmering colors that defied description. People loved it.
“We have an opening on Sarira,” the VP of Marketing for Ad Astra approached me one day. They had done their homework: dug up my high school essays about going into space, highlighted my membership in the rocketry club, underlined the fact that I had intended to major in aerospace engineering.
Delicately, he made no mention of the way I had failed out of classes, of my reluctant decision to change course because I couldn’t keep up. There was no beauty in the death of a dream.
A ship’s artist is a frivolous position, an homage to the (invented) traditions of the age of sail and exploration.
“Commercial exploration and settlement of new worlds require public investment,” he said. “Having a ship’s artist on our mission will make the public see it as … glamorous.”
“Like a coating of lip powder,” I said.
He did not object to the comparison.
The word “glamor” comes to us via “grammar,” which used to mean, in the middle ages, any sort of learning, especially of the occult. A glamor is a fascinating, magical allure, the kind of spell a woman was supposed to cast over a man.
So that was how I came to be on Sarira. I am a vacuous spell cast by a corporation, a decorative bit of propaganda to make these voyages where every gram of mass is accounted for seem romantic to a skeptical public.
But I remember those long-ago summer nights in the backyard gazing into the eyepiece of a telescope whose lenses I had polished myself, waiting for light that had travelled thousands of years to be bent into pinpricks that would convert into electrical pulses against my retina and quicken my pulse.
I imagine it’s no different from how Filippo Brunelleschi had felt when he gazed into the pinhole in the back of his painting and saw reflected back in a mirror the radiating rays of light that revealed to him the rules of perspective.
Inventing a new way of seeing was once the apex of art as well as science.
How unlike these days, when art has been debased into a silly frill for commerce, as weightless as an empty promise.
But it is good to live one’s dream, isn’t it? Even if one has to go in as a bit player in a disposable role.
#
The computer monitors my health daily. No matter how carefully the airlock scrubs everything, the fine dust gets into the ship, into my lungs, into the delicate membranes where air and blood mix. My chest and throat itch, always.
“How much danger am I in?” I ask.
The computer shows me screens of data and graphs. I can’t make any sense of them. It appears that the language of doctors cannot be made comprehensible even with my data presentation templates.
The computer increases the dosage of various drugs I am supposed to take. “Out of an abundance of caution.”
There is nothing around the ship but deep snow: frozen hydrogen and oxygen and carbon dioxide in thick layers. To relieve myself of the tedium, I don’t brush the dust off the farther end of one of the panels. Instead, I sculpt the dust within this space, about a meter square, into a microscopic rock garden of dust, a nigh-invisible Stonehenge, a nano-scaled Machu Picchu.
I can’t imagine the electricity generated by such a small section would matter. But I need something like this, something not functional, to stay sane.
The dust is unlike any other material I’ve worked with. Generated mostly by the pulverizing action of meteorite strikes instead of weathering and erosion, the individual particles are sharp, crystalline. They get into the joints of the spacesuit, cut through the filters, scratch the glass.
I spend hours looking at them under a microscope: the fractal shapes resemble bundles of knives, cut diamonds, rare jewels of uncommon beauty. Light bounces off the surfaces like the glint of snow on a distant mountain. I think about them cutting through the tissues in my lungs, and it’s hard to keep my hand steady.
At the end of each day, I tend to my garden. Every day, a new layer of dust settles over the previous day’s creation. With the aid of microwaldos and magnifying goggles, I carve out mazes of winding channels, forests of dense pyramids, a city of rococo spires and gothic stelae at the scale of individual corpuscles of light.
And then I retract the helmet-goggles and sit back to admire my work. Under the faint starlight and the growing glow of the distant sun, my creation shimmers with the hues of the rainbow. A bit of makeup on a monster of glass and metal, a bit of quasi order carved out of the random fall of dust.
#
The coughing grows worse. The dust is shredding my lungs, and there’s nothing that can be done until the summer, when the rest of the colonists, including the real doctor, can be awakened. If I don’t make it, the computer will have to wake someone else, the next person on the disposability scale for the mission. All that I will leave behind will be a garden of dust, a corrupt version of the relics after which my ship is named.
“You’re doing excellent work,” says the computer.
I suppose this is the only way the computer knows to offer comfort.
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate that you were programmed to tell everyone what they do matters, even if it’s just sweeping dust.”
“No, I really mean it. Especially at the distal end of panel 8.”
More numbers and graphs on the screen: power output and usage, photovoltaic efficiency, trends in total electricity generation.
The computer is right: there is a spike in the output of panel 8, the location of my dust garden.
“If you can replicate that level of efficiency across all the panels,” says the computer, “you will more than double the amount of power produced.”
That doesn’t make any sense. Dust obscures light.
I close my eyes and imagine the photons bouncing against the dust particles. I imagine their winding paths through the maze of sharp surfaces, the hall of nano-scale mirrors, the traps and dead ends, the cul-de-sacs and spiraling sinks. I imagine Cicada rotating under the stars, changing the angles of the sun’s rays against the surface of the solar panels. I imagine the shifting and shimmering colors.
It’s a new way of seeing.
#
As the sun sets, I finish my last bit of sculpting. The massive lotus flower shimmers and glints under Cicada’s winter sky, a majestic sight that heralds the start of a new cosmic cycle.
There is a copy of the Mona Lisa at the end of one of the solar panels, and a recreation of the carved lid of the tomb of K’inich Janaab’ Pakal at the end of another. If you are patient, you can scan the panels centimeter by centimeter, and you will find miniature versions of the Elgin Marbles in Athens, the Nine-Dragon Wall from Beihai Park in Beijing, illuminated manuscripts from the archives of Aachen, Byzantium, and Bagdad.
And original creations also: portraits of the loneliness of nursing a dying dream, the awe of being the only consciousness on a planet hurtling through the darkness like a speck of dust, the crystalline beauty of a spinning galaxy reflected darkly in glass, the boldness of daring to imagine that we matter.
The nanostructures in the dust artwork function as photon collectors. They scatter and guide more of the photons into the photovoltaic cells, where they excite electrons just as starlight had once excited a young girl’s retinas. This effect is especially pronounced when the sun is near the horizon, when the angle of incidence against the solar panels is shallowest.
The computer and I have done many simulations of these patterns. Too much randomness or too much regularity will both scatter the light. It’s only a quasi-randomness, a kind of barely-contained entropy, that will do the trick.
It requires art.
“There’s enough energy stored now,” says the computer. “Go back into hibernation before losing your lungs.”
“Who will tend to the dust patterns?” I ask.
“Spring will arrive soon, accompanied by the thawing of the frozen atmosphere. The rain will wash the panels clean.”
My art will not last, but no art does. In the long run, all art is disposable, as is all life. We’re all decorative, transient, temporary messages of order in the fall toward universal entropy, like my fall into the stupor of hibernation at this moment. We’re cicadas between winters.
But how glorious it is to be able to mold light, to glow and shimmer and energize, to see the world in a new way, even if only for a summer?
###
[Author’s Note: For more on quasi-random surface nanostructures and photovoltaic efficiency, see Smith, Alexander J., et al. "Repurposing Blu-ray movie discs as quasi-random nanoimprinting templates for photon management." Nature Communications 5 (2014).]
###
舍利号上有六百名殖民者,各有各的技能——天体地质学、天体生物学、人工智能、群体动力学、微观和宏观工程学、气培法,要确保殖民地在新世界繁荣发展,这全都是必须的技能。
呃,或许应该说是绝大部分。
我是第一个被叫醒的。
休眠舱距离地面数十米,由节肢状的长腿支撑着,像是巨型蜘蛛长了一颗玻璃外表的大眼睛,又像是金丝王冠顶端的一颗明珠。
会不会有人说我的想法华而不实呢?
我抬头透过玻璃看着幽暗的天空,冰晶就像气泡室中的闪光,扩展,融化,消失。
电脑摄像头在追踪我的目光,说道:“是氮气。着陆时蒸发了一些冰,现在正在重新冻结成雪。”
我活动着因为休眠而麻木的腿脚,消化着这一信息。“就没有适宜居住的行星吗?”永远无法保证能否在适居带发现一颗合适的行星。
电脑冷静地说:“我们着陆的就是。”这话太有用了。真是太有用了。
我指了指氮形成的雪。电脑摄像头向上抬了抬,然后又降了下来。
它说:“现在是冬天。”
我浏览着一屏又一屏的数字和图表,其中用的模板都是我自己在发射前设计的。很少有人理解信息的展示方式也有它自己的美感。正如克劳德•香农所发现的,信息就是熵。是秩序和混乱的平衡创造了美学的愉悦。太有秩序,数据就会让人厌倦。太缺乏秩序,数据就会难以理解。
我花很多时间鼓捣这些模板的时候,其余船员都用怜悯的目光看着我。瞧瞧她呀,想方设法要让自己派上点用场。
表达良好的数据流有安抚情绪的作用。这颗行星有一条很长的偏心轨道,长是指绕轨道一周将近十三个地球年,偏心则意味着其中的十二年都位于适居带之外,气候冷到没法活。随后,短暂的夏天带来阳光、暖风、海洋和可呼吸的空气。
我想我明白我们的处境了。
“我想给这颗行星命名。”
电脑答道:“作为第一个被叫醒的人。这是你的权利。”我敢肯定自己想象着电脑在耸肩。
我说:“蝉。”
电脑说:“好了。”它并未和我讨论未来的前景一一殖民者要在地下躲藏十二年,才能有一年真正的生活。它没有评价其中所象征的重生含义。名字只是个标签,一个专有名词。我脑海中与这个名字有关的所有其他东西都仅仅是熵。不实用。
我说:“还有将近一个地球年才到夏天。为什么现在叫醒我?”
电脑在屏幕上显示出更多数据和图表。我发现我没真正明白我们的处境。
着陆过程比预期更艰难,聚变反应堆受损,不得不丢弃。飞船运行现在靠的是备用的光伏电池:光滑的玻璃翼收集遥远太阳的黯淡光线再将其转化为电能。
“电池板当初设计只是备用。工程师没有预料到灰尘的影响。”
蝉星表面覆盖着细碎的土壤层。随着行星接近太阳,灰尘会带上电核,飘到空中。所有东西都被灰尘覆盖,包括光伏电池板的光滑表面,阻挡了阳光,无法为飞船供电,无法让我们活下去。
“你叫醒我,”我说,“是为了清理电池板。”
电脑回答:“这不是一项简单的维护工作。长时间舱外活动会使你暴露在高强度辐射中,还有被流星击中的风险。而且,我不清楚这种灰尘会对你的健康有什么影响。”
我说:“你的话还真让人放心啊。你可真是一个鼓动高手啊,知道吗?”
电脑又给我看了更多很花哨的数据,说明了为何我是这个任务的最佳人选。
我甚至都懒得看那些计算过程。我知道为什么选了我。因为我无足轻重。
###
打扫电池板要花好几个小时。这活儿的首要特点就是很无聊。
如果说舍利号外形像是一只巨型长腿金属昆虫,那电池板就是从休眠舱生长出来的怪异翅膀。另一个比喻可能更贴切,它更像是莲花的花瓣,以同心圆方式排列,以便从各个方向收集阳光。
遥远的太阳还不像个圆盘,现在还只是一颗星,在天鹅绒般的天空中比其他星星更闪亮一些。明珠一样的小太阳就像是传说中的舍利子,这艘飞船名字就是这么来的。生命焚为灰烬,涅槃,化作闪亮精华。
抱歉用了这么文艺的修辞。我在这些巨大的电池板上没完没了地爬上爬下,仔细扫去灰尘,露出下面的光滑玻璃,心里想的却是明天还要重复同样的活。这让我有了很多思考时间。
扫去灰尘的动作很熟悉。在家乡,作为耀妆师的我小有名气。你知道杂志模特很流行的闪耀眼影和唇粉吧?那是我发明的。
这种粉会随着光线和角度变化散发出闪烁迷离的虹彩。这种效果看起来很有仙气,像是异世界的产物,但它的基础其实是光线流动,为信息打造通道,也可以说是有规律的熵。
尖翅蓝粉蝶的翅膀看起来是蓝色,但如果放大观察,就会发现这种蝴蝶的鳞片上根本没有蓝色素。鳞片上覆满了数百纳米级的结构,这也是可见光的波长。光子在这些纳米结构间折射,表现出波的特性,形成各种光学干扰,于是无色空间便产生蓝色光彩。
这种蝴蝶给我带来了灵感。我用纳米精度的打印机制造了无色粉末。用粉刷把它打在模特的皮肤上,层层粉末经过光线照射便产生难以形容的闪耀光彩,很受大家欢迎。
探星公司市场部副总监有一天找上了我:“我们在舍利号上有个空缺。”他们的调查报告很厉害,搜出了我高中时写的太空探索短文,标记出我参加过火箭俱乐部,还强调我曾想获得航天工程专业的学位。
他们非常老道,没有提及我没拿到学位,因为跟不上进度换了专业。死掉的梦想没有卖相。
飞船艺术家是个没什么实用价值的职位,是在向(臆想出来)的大航海冒险时代传统致敬。
他说:“新世界的商业探索和定居需要大众投资参与。我们的飞船上如果能有个艺术家,大众就会觉得……有魅力。”
我说:“就像是涂唇粉。”
他并未反对我的比喻。
“魅力”这个词本身就带有神秘、暧昧的色彩,令人神魂颠倒的诱惑魔法,女人对男人施的咒语。
我就是这么登上舍利号的。我是大公司施的无聊魔咒,装点门面的宣传工具,好让这种探索旅行在满腹狐疑的大众眼中披上一层闪闪发亮的玫瑰面纱。
但我还记得,很久以前的夏日午夜,我在后院用自己抛光镜头的望远镜凝望夜空,等待光线跨越千年进入针孔在我的视网膜上转变为电脉冲使我心跳加快。
我想,文艺复兴那时候菲利波•布鲁内莱斯基从那个小孔望出去看到镜子反射的光线按透视法则成像时,也是这种心情吧。
发明一种新的观看方式是艺术的一次巅峰,也是科学的。
不像如今,艺术已被贬为商家的愚蠢包装手段,轻如鸿毛。
但能实现梦想仍然是件好事,对吧?哪怕只能扮演最无足轻重的那个角色。
###
电脑每天都监控着我的健康状况。无论气闸多么仔细清洗一切,微小的灰尘仍然会进入飞船,进入我的肺,进入空气与血液混合处的薄膜。我的胸口和嗓子发痒,总是发痒。
我问:“我的情况有多糟?”
电脑给我看了一屏又一屏的数据和图表。我一点也看不懂。看来,就算有了我的数据展示模板,医学语言也仍是天书。
电脑把我要服用的各种药物剂量加大了。“以防万一。”
飞船周围只有无尽的冰雪,固态氢、氧、二氧化碳堆起厚厚一层。为了让自己不那么无聊,我留下了其中一块电池板边缘的一小部分没有清扫,而是把大约一平方米之内的灰尘雕刻成微观奇石园、肉眼难见的巨石阵、纳米级别的马丘比丘。
我想,这么小一块区域产生的电力应该无足轻重。我需要这么一块地方,一块没有实用功能的自留地,好让自己保持理智。
我以前没见过像这种灰尘一样的物质。它主要是流星撞击形成的粉末,而非风化侵蚀所致。每个粒子是一颗小晶体,非常锋利。它们能钻进太空服的接缝,割开滤网,刮伤玻璃。
我在显微镜下长久地观察这些粒子。不规则的形状就像是一丛丛刀片,切割过的钻石,美丽无匹的珍奇宝石。光线从它们表面反射回来,就像是远山覆雪的闪光。我想到它们割穿我的肺部组织,手就控制不住的发抖。
每天结束前,我都要打理我的花园。每天都有一层新的灰尘落在前一天的创作上。我利用微型遥控装置和护目放大镜,雕刻出隧道蜿蜒曲折的迷宫,金字塔密布的森林,华丽尖塔和高耸石柱的城市,这一切都是以光子的尺寸计量的。
随后,我摘下护目镜,坐下欣赏自己的作品。星光暗淡,遥远的太阳愈来愈亮,我的作品在它们的照耀下闪烁着虹彩。为玻璃与金属的怪物化上淡妆,从随机落下的灰尘中塑造出一丝若有似无的秩序。
###
咳嗽越来越严重。灰尘撕扯着我的肺,但毫无办法,只能等到夏天,才能唤醒其余殖民者,也包括真正的医生。如果我没挺住,电脑就得再叫醒一个人,在这项任务中稍微不那么无足轻重的人。我能留下的东西只有一个尘埃花园,就像是破败的舍利子。
电脑说:“你干得非常出色。”
我猜电脑大概只会这一种安慰人的方式。
我答道:“谢谢。谢谢你的程序设定让你肯定每一个人的的价值,哪怕只是扫地的。”
“不,我是真心的。特别是在8号电池板远端。”
屏幕上出现更多数字和图表:电力输出和使用情况,光伏电池发电效率,电力生成总量变化趋势。
电脑是对的。8号电池板的电力输出突然产生了一个峰值。那正是我的灰尘花园的位置所在。
电脑说:“如果你能让所有电池板的发电效率都达到这个水平,发电量就能翻番有余。”
这不科学。灰尘会阻挡光线。
我闭上眼睛,想象着光子在灰尘微粒之间弹跳。我想象着它们构成表面锋利的迷宫中的蜿蜒路径,纳米级别的镜厅、陷阱、死路、螺旋通道。我想象着蝉星在群星下旋转,阳光落在太阳能电池板上的角度也随之变化。我想象着色彩迷离闪烁,不断变幻。
这是一种新的观看方式。
###
太阳落了,我刻完了最后一点。巨大的莲花在蝉星的冬季天空下闪耀着光芒,这一壮观景象宣告着一个宇宙新纪元的到来。
一块电池板远端有一幅蒙娜丽莎的仿作,另一块电池板上是巴加尔二世石棺盖上类似宇宙飞船图案的复制品。如果有耐心,可以一公分一公分地细细观察这些电池板,就会发现许多微缩模型:雅典帕特农神庙的大理石浮雕,北京北海公园的九龙壁,亚琛、拜占庭和巴格达档案库的华丽手稿。
也有我自己的原创作品。孵育一个死去梦想的孤独,在奔向黑暗的星球上孤身一人如凡尘一粒的寂畏,旋转星系在镜中映出幽暗身影的晶莹之美,竟以为我们能算得上什么的冒失胆魄。
灰尘艺术的纳米结构发挥了光子收集器的作用。它们散落开来,引导更多光子进入光伏电池板,刺激着电子,就像星光曾经刺激着小女孩的视网膜。太阳靠近地平线时效果尤其显著,那时相对于电池板的入射角最小。
我和电脑对这些图案做了很多模拟。过于随机或过于有规律都会使光线发生散射,只有准随机状态,部分可控的熵,才能发挥这种作用。
也就是艺术。
电脑说:“存储的能量足够了。趁你的肺还没报废,回去休眠吧。”
我问:“那由谁来打理灰尘花园?”
“春天很快就要来了,冰冻的大气层会融化。雨水会把电池板冲洗干净。”
我的艺术不会永恒,但没有任何艺术能做到。纵眼看去,一切艺术都无足轻重,一切生命亦然。我们都是表面的、转瞬即逝的,一时间秩序的信息,终将归于宇宙之熵,就像我此时坠入休眠的恍惚。我们皆是冬季与冬季之间出现的蝉。
但能够去塑造光线,发光,闪耀,行动,以新的方式观看世界,即使只是一个夏季,不也是一件荣耀的事?
(本文启发自2014年《自然》杂志上一篇有关准随机纳米结构和光电效应的文章)
「完」
—————————————————————————--
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By Ken Liu
Translated by Wang Meizi
2014-12
彗星科幻
There are six hundred colonists aboard Sarira with different skills—exogeology, astrobiology, artificial intelligence, group dynamics, micro- and macro-engineering, aeroponics—all of them necessary for a colony to thrive on a new world.
Well, maybe almost all.
I am the first to be awakened.
Suspended dozens of meters above the ground by massive segmented legs, the hibernation chamber resembles a glass-domed eye in the middle of a giant spider, or perhaps a pearl held aloft at the apex of a filigree diadem.
Would someone describe my thoughts as decorative and frivolous?
I look up at the dark sky through the glass: ice crystals strike the dome like flickers in a bubble chamber, expand, melt, disappear.
“Nitrogen,” says the computer, whose lens has been tracking my gaze. “The landing vaporized some of the ice. It’s now freezing back into snow.”
I try to work loose my limbs, numb from hibernation, as I absorb this information. “Is there no Goldilocks planet?” There’s never any guarantee that a suitable planet would be found in the habitable zone.
“We landed on one,” says the computer calmly. So helpful. So not helpful.
I point up at the nitrogen snow. The computer’s lens moves up and then back down.
“It’s winter.”
I flick through screens of numbers and graphs. I had designed these templates myself before launch. There is a kind of beauty to presenting information that is rarely appreciated. Information is entropy, as Claude Shannon discovered. It is the balancing of order and disorder that creates aesthetic pleasure. Too much order, and the data would be boring; too little order, and the data would be incomprehensible.
The rest of the crew had looked at me with pity when I spent hours on these templates. Look at her, trying to make herself feel useful.
The flow of well-tempered data soothes. This planet has a long and eccentric orbit that takes almost thirteen Earth years to complete. For twelve of those years the planet is outside the habitable zone, too cold to support life. Then comes a brief summer, a time of sunshine and warm air, of liquid oceans and breathable air.
I think I understand our situation.
“I want to name the planet.”
“That is your right as the first to be awakened,” says the computer. I’m sure I’m imagining the virtual shrug.
“Cicada,” I say.
“Done,” says the computer. It doesn’t discuss with me visions of colonists burrowing in hiding for twelve years for each year of living. It doesn’t comment on the symbolism of reincarnation. A name is just a label, a proper noun. Everything else associated with the name in my head is just entropy. Frivolous.
“Summer is almost a full Earth year away,” I say. “Why wake me up now?”
The computer puts up more data and graphs on the screen. I see I’ve misunderstood our situation.
The landing was rougher than expected, and the damaged fusion reactors had to be jettisoned. The ship is now running on reserve batteries charged by photovoltaic cells: smooth glass wings that gather the faint light of the distant sun and convert it into currents of electricity.
“The panels were designed only as backups. The engineers had not anticipated the effects of dust.”
Cicada’s surface is covered by a layer of pulverized regolith. As the planet approaches the sun, the dust becomes electrically charged and rises into the air. The dust covers everything, including the smooth panels of the photovoltaic cells, blocking the sunlight that powers the ship, that keeps us alive.
“You woke me,” I say, “to clean the panels.”
“This is not a mere custodial job,” says the computer. “Extensive EVA will expose you to intense radiation and the risk of meteoroid strikes, and I can’t tell what the dust is going to do.”
“That makes me feel much better,” I say. “You’re a really good motivational speaker, you know that?”
The computer shows me more beautifully presented data to explain why I am the best person for the job.
I don’t even bother looking at the calculations. I know why I’ve been picked. I’m disposable.
#
Cleaning the panels takes hours. It is, above all, tedious.
If Sarira resembles a giant long-legged metallic insect, then the panels are otherworldly wings radiating from the hibernation chamber. Or perhaps a better comparison is to the petals of a lotus flower arranged in concentric circles intended to catch sunlight from every orientation.
The distant sun is not yet a disk, but only a star brighter than others in the velvet sky, like the fabled pearls after which the ship is named, the sparkling quintessence left behind in the ashes of a life sublimated into nirvana.
Sorry for the purple prose. It’s hard to climb over these massive panels hour after hour, carefully brushing away the dust to reveal the smooth glass beneath, knowing that I’ll have to do it again tomorrow. It gives you a lot of time to think.
The motion of brushing dust is familiar. Back home I had achieved some measure of fame as a glamorist. You know the shimmering eyeshadow and lip powder that is so popular on the models in magazines? That is my invention.
The powder gives off a rainbow sheen that changes depending on the lighting and the angle. It looks ethereal, otherworldly, but at its foundation, the effect is based on the flow of light, on the sculpting of pathways of information, of patterned entropy.
The Morpho rhetenor’s wings appear blue, but if you were to zoom in, you would not find any blue pigments in the butterfly’s scales. The scales are covered by nanostructures in the range of hundreds of nanometers, the wavelengths of visible light. As photons are deflected among layers of these nanostructures, their wave-like nature asserts itself, leading to constructive and destructive optical interference until a shimmering blueness emerges from the colorless, empty space.
The butterfly provided the model for my work. Extruded from a printer with nano-scale precision, the powder I invented was colorless. But when brushed onto a model’s skin, the layers trapped light and led to shimmering colors that defied description. People loved it.
“We have an opening on Sarira,” the VP of Marketing for Ad Astra approached me one day. They had done their homework: dug up my high school essays about going into space, highlighted my membership in the rocketry club, underlined the fact that I had intended to major in aerospace engineering.
Delicately, he made no mention of the way I had failed out of classes, of my reluctant decision to change course because I couldn’t keep up. There was no beauty in the death of a dream.
A ship’s artist is a frivolous position, an homage to the (invented) traditions of the age of sail and exploration.
“Commercial exploration and settlement of new worlds require public investment,” he said. “Having a ship’s artist on our mission will make the public see it as … glamorous.”
“Like a coating of lip powder,” I said.
He did not object to the comparison.
The word “glamor” comes to us via “grammar,” which used to mean, in the middle ages, any sort of learning, especially of the occult. A glamor is a fascinating, magical allure, the kind of spell a woman was supposed to cast over a man.
So that was how I came to be on Sarira. I am a vacuous spell cast by a corporation, a decorative bit of propaganda to make these voyages where every gram of mass is accounted for seem romantic to a skeptical public.
But I remember those long-ago summer nights in the backyard gazing into the eyepiece of a telescope whose lenses I had polished myself, waiting for light that had travelled thousands of years to be bent into pinpricks that would convert into electrical pulses against my retina and quicken my pulse.
I imagine it’s no different from how Filippo Brunelleschi had felt when he gazed into the pinhole in the back of his painting and saw reflected back in a mirror the radiating rays of light that revealed to him the rules of perspective.
Inventing a new way of seeing was once the apex of art as well as science.
How unlike these days, when art has been debased into a silly frill for commerce, as weightless as an empty promise.
But it is good to live one’s dream, isn’t it? Even if one has to go in as a bit player in a disposable role.
#
The computer monitors my health daily. No matter how carefully the airlock scrubs everything, the fine dust gets into the ship, into my lungs, into the delicate membranes where air and blood mix. My chest and throat itch, always.
“How much danger am I in?” I ask.
The computer shows me screens of data and graphs. I can’t make any sense of them. It appears that the language of doctors cannot be made comprehensible even with my data presentation templates.
The computer increases the dosage of various drugs I am supposed to take. “Out of an abundance of caution.”
There is nothing around the ship but deep snow: frozen hydrogen and oxygen and carbon dioxide in thick layers. To relieve myself of the tedium, I don’t brush the dust off the farther end of one of the panels. Instead, I sculpt the dust within this space, about a meter square, into a microscopic rock garden of dust, a nigh-invisible Stonehenge, a nano-scaled Machu Picchu.
I can’t imagine the electricity generated by such a small section would matter. But I need something like this, something not functional, to stay sane.
The dust is unlike any other material I’ve worked with. Generated mostly by the pulverizing action of meteorite strikes instead of weathering and erosion, the individual particles are sharp, crystalline. They get into the joints of the spacesuit, cut through the filters, scratch the glass.
I spend hours looking at them under a microscope: the fractal shapes resemble bundles of knives, cut diamonds, rare jewels of uncommon beauty. Light bounces off the surfaces like the glint of snow on a distant mountain. I think about them cutting through the tissues in my lungs, and it’s hard to keep my hand steady.
At the end of each day, I tend to my garden. Every day, a new layer of dust settles over the previous day’s creation. With the aid of microwaldos and magnifying goggles, I carve out mazes of winding channels, forests of dense pyramids, a city of rococo spires and gothic stelae at the scale of individual corpuscles of light.
And then I retract the helmet-goggles and sit back to admire my work. Under the faint starlight and the growing glow of the distant sun, my creation shimmers with the hues of the rainbow. A bit of makeup on a monster of glass and metal, a bit of quasi order carved out of the random fall of dust.
#
The coughing grows worse. The dust is shredding my lungs, and there’s nothing that can be done until the summer, when the rest of the colonists, including the real doctor, can be awakened. If I don’t make it, the computer will have to wake someone else, the next person on the disposability scale for the mission. All that I will leave behind will be a garden of dust, a corrupt version of the relics after which my ship is named.
“You’re doing excellent work,” says the computer.
I suppose this is the only way the computer knows to offer comfort.
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate that you were programmed to tell everyone what they do matters, even if it’s just sweeping dust.”
“No, I really mean it. Especially at the distal end of panel 8.”
More numbers and graphs on the screen: power output and usage, photovoltaic efficiency, trends in total electricity generation.
The computer is right: there is a spike in the output of panel 8, the location of my dust garden.
“If you can replicate that level of efficiency across all the panels,” says the computer, “you will more than double the amount of power produced.”
That doesn’t make any sense. Dust obscures light.
I close my eyes and imagine the photons bouncing against the dust particles. I imagine their winding paths through the maze of sharp surfaces, the hall of nano-scale mirrors, the traps and dead ends, the cul-de-sacs and spiraling sinks. I imagine Cicada rotating under the stars, changing the angles of the sun’s rays against the surface of the solar panels. I imagine the shifting and shimmering colors.
It’s a new way of seeing.
#
As the sun sets, I finish my last bit of sculpting. The massive lotus flower shimmers and glints under Cicada’s winter sky, a majestic sight that heralds the start of a new cosmic cycle.
There is a copy of the Mona Lisa at the end of one of the solar panels, and a recreation of the carved lid of the tomb of K’inich Janaab’ Pakal at the end of another. If you are patient, you can scan the panels centimeter by centimeter, and you will find miniature versions of the Elgin Marbles in Athens, the Nine-Dragon Wall from Beihai Park in Beijing, illuminated manuscripts from the archives of Aachen, Byzantium, and Bagdad.
And original creations also: portraits of the loneliness of nursing a dying dream, the awe of being the only consciousness on a planet hurtling through the darkness like a speck of dust, the crystalline beauty of a spinning galaxy reflected darkly in glass, the boldness of daring to imagine that we matter.
The nanostructures in the dust artwork function as photon collectors. They scatter and guide more of the photons into the photovoltaic cells, where they excite electrons just as starlight had once excited a young girl’s retinas. This effect is especially pronounced when the sun is near the horizon, when the angle of incidence against the solar panels is shallowest.
The computer and I have done many simulations of these patterns. Too much randomness or too much regularity will both scatter the light. It’s only a quasi-randomness, a kind of barely-contained entropy, that will do the trick.
It requires art.
“There’s enough energy stored now,” says the computer. “Go back into hibernation before losing your lungs.”
“Who will tend to the dust patterns?” I ask.
“Spring will arrive soon, accompanied by the thawing of the frozen atmosphere. The rain will wash the panels clean.”
My art will not last, but no art does. In the long run, all art is disposable, as is all life. We’re all decorative, transient, temporary messages of order in the fall toward universal entropy, like my fall into the stupor of hibernation at this moment. We’re cicadas between winters.
But how glorious it is to be able to mold light, to glow and shimmer and energize, to see the world in a new way, even if only for a summer?
###
[Author’s Note: For more on quasi-random surface nanostructures and photovoltaic efficiency, see Smith, Alexander J., et al. "Repurposing Blu-ray movie discs as quasi-random nanoimprinting templates for photon management." Nature Communications 5 (2014).]
###
舍利号上有六百名殖民者,各有各的技能——天体地质学、天体生物学、人工智能、群体动力学、微观和宏观工程学、气培法,要确保殖民地在新世界繁荣发展,这全都是必须的技能。
呃,或许应该说是绝大部分。
我是第一个被叫醒的。
休眠舱距离地面数十米,由节肢状的长腿支撑着,像是巨型蜘蛛长了一颗玻璃外表的大眼睛,又像是金丝王冠顶端的一颗明珠。
会不会有人说我的想法华而不实呢?
我抬头透过玻璃看着幽暗的天空,冰晶就像气泡室中的闪光,扩展,融化,消失。
电脑摄像头在追踪我的目光,说道:“是氮气。着陆时蒸发了一些冰,现在正在重新冻结成雪。”
我活动着因为休眠而麻木的腿脚,消化着这一信息。“就没有适宜居住的行星吗?”永远无法保证能否在适居带发现一颗合适的行星。
电脑冷静地说:“我们着陆的就是。”这话太有用了。真是太有用了。
我指了指氮形成的雪。电脑摄像头向上抬了抬,然后又降了下来。
它说:“现在是冬天。”
我浏览着一屏又一屏的数字和图表,其中用的模板都是我自己在发射前设计的。很少有人理解信息的展示方式也有它自己的美感。正如克劳德•香农所发现的,信息就是熵。是秩序和混乱的平衡创造了美学的愉悦。太有秩序,数据就会让人厌倦。太缺乏秩序,数据就会难以理解。
我花很多时间鼓捣这些模板的时候,其余船员都用怜悯的目光看着我。瞧瞧她呀,想方设法要让自己派上点用场。
表达良好的数据流有安抚情绪的作用。这颗行星有一条很长的偏心轨道,长是指绕轨道一周将近十三个地球年,偏心则意味着其中的十二年都位于适居带之外,气候冷到没法活。随后,短暂的夏天带来阳光、暖风、海洋和可呼吸的空气。
我想我明白我们的处境了。
“我想给这颗行星命名。”
电脑答道:“作为第一个被叫醒的人。这是你的权利。”我敢肯定自己想象着电脑在耸肩。
我说:“蝉。”
电脑说:“好了。”它并未和我讨论未来的前景一一殖民者要在地下躲藏十二年,才能有一年真正的生活。它没有评价其中所象征的重生含义。名字只是个标签,一个专有名词。我脑海中与这个名字有关的所有其他东西都仅仅是熵。不实用。
我说:“还有将近一个地球年才到夏天。为什么现在叫醒我?”
电脑在屏幕上显示出更多数据和图表。我发现我没真正明白我们的处境。
着陆过程比预期更艰难,聚变反应堆受损,不得不丢弃。飞船运行现在靠的是备用的光伏电池:光滑的玻璃翼收集遥远太阳的黯淡光线再将其转化为电能。
“电池板当初设计只是备用。工程师没有预料到灰尘的影响。”
蝉星表面覆盖着细碎的土壤层。随着行星接近太阳,灰尘会带上电核,飘到空中。所有东西都被灰尘覆盖,包括光伏电池板的光滑表面,阻挡了阳光,无法为飞船供电,无法让我们活下去。
“你叫醒我,”我说,“是为了清理电池板。”
电脑回答:“这不是一项简单的维护工作。长时间舱外活动会使你暴露在高强度辐射中,还有被流星击中的风险。而且,我不清楚这种灰尘会对你的健康有什么影响。”
我说:“你的话还真让人放心啊。你可真是一个鼓动高手啊,知道吗?”
电脑又给我看了更多很花哨的数据,说明了为何我是这个任务的最佳人选。
我甚至都懒得看那些计算过程。我知道为什么选了我。因为我无足轻重。
###
打扫电池板要花好几个小时。这活儿的首要特点就是很无聊。
如果说舍利号外形像是一只巨型长腿金属昆虫,那电池板就是从休眠舱生长出来的怪异翅膀。另一个比喻可能更贴切,它更像是莲花的花瓣,以同心圆方式排列,以便从各个方向收集阳光。
遥远的太阳还不像个圆盘,现在还只是一颗星,在天鹅绒般的天空中比其他星星更闪亮一些。明珠一样的小太阳就像是传说中的舍利子,这艘飞船名字就是这么来的。生命焚为灰烬,涅槃,化作闪亮精华。
抱歉用了这么文艺的修辞。我在这些巨大的电池板上没完没了地爬上爬下,仔细扫去灰尘,露出下面的光滑玻璃,心里想的却是明天还要重复同样的活。这让我有了很多思考时间。
扫去灰尘的动作很熟悉。在家乡,作为耀妆师的我小有名气。你知道杂志模特很流行的闪耀眼影和唇粉吧?那是我发明的。
这种粉会随着光线和角度变化散发出闪烁迷离的虹彩。这种效果看起来很有仙气,像是异世界的产物,但它的基础其实是光线流动,为信息打造通道,也可以说是有规律的熵。
尖翅蓝粉蝶的翅膀看起来是蓝色,但如果放大观察,就会发现这种蝴蝶的鳞片上根本没有蓝色素。鳞片上覆满了数百纳米级的结构,这也是可见光的波长。光子在这些纳米结构间折射,表现出波的特性,形成各种光学干扰,于是无色空间便产生蓝色光彩。
这种蝴蝶给我带来了灵感。我用纳米精度的打印机制造了无色粉末。用粉刷把它打在模特的皮肤上,层层粉末经过光线照射便产生难以形容的闪耀光彩,很受大家欢迎。
探星公司市场部副总监有一天找上了我:“我们在舍利号上有个空缺。”他们的调查报告很厉害,搜出了我高中时写的太空探索短文,标记出我参加过火箭俱乐部,还强调我曾想获得航天工程专业的学位。
他们非常老道,没有提及我没拿到学位,因为跟不上进度换了专业。死掉的梦想没有卖相。
飞船艺术家是个没什么实用价值的职位,是在向(臆想出来)的大航海冒险时代传统致敬。
他说:“新世界的商业探索和定居需要大众投资参与。我们的飞船上如果能有个艺术家,大众就会觉得……有魅力。”
我说:“就像是涂唇粉。”
他并未反对我的比喻。
“魅力”这个词本身就带有神秘、暧昧的色彩,令人神魂颠倒的诱惑魔法,女人对男人施的咒语。
我就是这么登上舍利号的。我是大公司施的无聊魔咒,装点门面的宣传工具,好让这种探索旅行在满腹狐疑的大众眼中披上一层闪闪发亮的玫瑰面纱。
但我还记得,很久以前的夏日午夜,我在后院用自己抛光镜头的望远镜凝望夜空,等待光线跨越千年进入针孔在我的视网膜上转变为电脉冲使我心跳加快。
我想,文艺复兴那时候菲利波•布鲁内莱斯基从那个小孔望出去看到镜子反射的光线按透视法则成像时,也是这种心情吧。
发明一种新的观看方式是艺术的一次巅峰,也是科学的。
不像如今,艺术已被贬为商家的愚蠢包装手段,轻如鸿毛。
但能实现梦想仍然是件好事,对吧?哪怕只能扮演最无足轻重的那个角色。
###
电脑每天都监控着我的健康状况。无论气闸多么仔细清洗一切,微小的灰尘仍然会进入飞船,进入我的肺,进入空气与血液混合处的薄膜。我的胸口和嗓子发痒,总是发痒。
我问:“我的情况有多糟?”
电脑给我看了一屏又一屏的数据和图表。我一点也看不懂。看来,就算有了我的数据展示模板,医学语言也仍是天书。
电脑把我要服用的各种药物剂量加大了。“以防万一。”
飞船周围只有无尽的冰雪,固态氢、氧、二氧化碳堆起厚厚一层。为了让自己不那么无聊,我留下了其中一块电池板边缘的一小部分没有清扫,而是把大约一平方米之内的灰尘雕刻成微观奇石园、肉眼难见的巨石阵、纳米级别的马丘比丘。
我想,这么小一块区域产生的电力应该无足轻重。我需要这么一块地方,一块没有实用功能的自留地,好让自己保持理智。
我以前没见过像这种灰尘一样的物质。它主要是流星撞击形成的粉末,而非风化侵蚀所致。每个粒子是一颗小晶体,非常锋利。它们能钻进太空服的接缝,割开滤网,刮伤玻璃。
我在显微镜下长久地观察这些粒子。不规则的形状就像是一丛丛刀片,切割过的钻石,美丽无匹的珍奇宝石。光线从它们表面反射回来,就像是远山覆雪的闪光。我想到它们割穿我的肺部组织,手就控制不住的发抖。
每天结束前,我都要打理我的花园。每天都有一层新的灰尘落在前一天的创作上。我利用微型遥控装置和护目放大镜,雕刻出隧道蜿蜒曲折的迷宫,金字塔密布的森林,华丽尖塔和高耸石柱的城市,这一切都是以光子的尺寸计量的。
随后,我摘下护目镜,坐下欣赏自己的作品。星光暗淡,遥远的太阳愈来愈亮,我的作品在它们的照耀下闪烁着虹彩。为玻璃与金属的怪物化上淡妆,从随机落下的灰尘中塑造出一丝若有似无的秩序。
###
咳嗽越来越严重。灰尘撕扯着我的肺,但毫无办法,只能等到夏天,才能唤醒其余殖民者,也包括真正的医生。如果我没挺住,电脑就得再叫醒一个人,在这项任务中稍微不那么无足轻重的人。我能留下的东西只有一个尘埃花园,就像是破败的舍利子。
电脑说:“你干得非常出色。”
我猜电脑大概只会这一种安慰人的方式。
我答道:“谢谢。谢谢你的程序设定让你肯定每一个人的的价值,哪怕只是扫地的。”
“不,我是真心的。特别是在8号电池板远端。”
屏幕上出现更多数字和图表:电力输出和使用情况,光伏电池发电效率,电力生成总量变化趋势。
电脑是对的。8号电池板的电力输出突然产生了一个峰值。那正是我的灰尘花园的位置所在。
电脑说:“如果你能让所有电池板的发电效率都达到这个水平,发电量就能翻番有余。”
这不科学。灰尘会阻挡光线。
我闭上眼睛,想象着光子在灰尘微粒之间弹跳。我想象着它们构成表面锋利的迷宫中的蜿蜒路径,纳米级别的镜厅、陷阱、死路、螺旋通道。我想象着蝉星在群星下旋转,阳光落在太阳能电池板上的角度也随之变化。我想象着色彩迷离闪烁,不断变幻。
这是一种新的观看方式。
###
太阳落了,我刻完了最后一点。巨大的莲花在蝉星的冬季天空下闪耀着光芒,这一壮观景象宣告着一个宇宙新纪元的到来。
一块电池板远端有一幅蒙娜丽莎的仿作,另一块电池板上是巴加尔二世石棺盖上类似宇宙飞船图案的复制品。如果有耐心,可以一公分一公分地细细观察这些电池板,就会发现许多微缩模型:雅典帕特农神庙的大理石浮雕,北京北海公园的九龙壁,亚琛、拜占庭和巴格达档案库的华丽手稿。
也有我自己的原创作品。孵育一个死去梦想的孤独,在奔向黑暗的星球上孤身一人如凡尘一粒的寂畏,旋转星系在镜中映出幽暗身影的晶莹之美,竟以为我们能算得上什么的冒失胆魄。
灰尘艺术的纳米结构发挥了光子收集器的作用。它们散落开来,引导更多光子进入光伏电池板,刺激着电子,就像星光曾经刺激着小女孩的视网膜。太阳靠近地平线时效果尤其显著,那时相对于电池板的入射角最小。
我和电脑对这些图案做了很多模拟。过于随机或过于有规律都会使光线发生散射,只有准随机状态,部分可控的熵,才能发挥这种作用。
也就是艺术。
电脑说:“存储的能量足够了。趁你的肺还没报废,回去休眠吧。”
我问:“那由谁来打理灰尘花园?”
“春天很快就要来了,冰冻的大气层会融化。雨水会把电池板冲洗干净。”
我的艺术不会永恒,但没有任何艺术能做到。纵眼看去,一切艺术都无足轻重,一切生命亦然。我们都是表面的、转瞬即逝的,一时间秩序的信息,终将归于宇宙之熵,就像我此时坠入休眠的恍惚。我们皆是冬季与冬季之间出现的蝉。
但能够去塑造光线,发光,闪耀,行动,以新的方式观看世界,即使只是一个夏季,不也是一件荣耀的事?
(本文启发自2014年《自然》杂志上一篇有关准随机纳米结构和光电效应的文章)
「完」
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