The Sphere

The First to Look

On a planet which circled a star some 2,000 light years from Earth, there lived a race of creatures. An extremely old and wise species. They bore no resemblance to humanity.

Their thought patterns were totally different. Their motivations, hopes, and desires would have baffled a human psychologist. Human scientists would have had difficulty determining that they were even living beings, much less intelligent.

One day one member of this species was studying the stars, and happened to align its instruments toward the galactic center. Within a short time it was gasping uncontrollably. For the first time in its life, this creature felt fear.

After it communicated its findings to the government of its planet, the entire species became gripped with that unfamiliar emotion. They were afraid. Something would have to be done, and soon.

Fifty Years Later

On a planet about 1,550 light years from Earth, a young and aggressive species suddenly ceased a millennia-long war of extermination. One of their observation platforms had accidentally oriented upon an object far in the depths of space.

Suddenly, this species felt the cold stab of fear. They quickly settled their disagreements and began working together for the first time in their history.

Seventy-Five Years After That

On another planet, roughly 2,400 light years from Earth, another species turned its eyes toward the heavens. When they examined one particular patch of sky, the entire species recoiled in anger.

Sacrilege, they cried in unison. They must be punished.

A Century Later

On yet another planet, a species observed the strange happenings in the sky with fear and foreboding. They knew something must be done. They didn’t have anywhere near the power necessary to meet the challenge.

Thus, they began searching the skies for allies.

Two Thousand Years On

For the first time in the history of the galaxy, hundreds of different species from thousands of planets worked together toward a common goal. Virtually every space-faring species was represented, and all were determined to see that the conference was successful.

It had taken lifetimes to find them all, and lifetimes more to learn to speak to one another. Once the danger was made clear, every species, without exception, agreed to take part.

The greatest minds in the galaxy cooperated, examined all available data, and came to a decision. This decision changed the course of galactic history forever. Nothing would ever be the same again.

This is being written by a man who has been alive for almost as long as the thing it’s about. I don’t say this to claim authority. I say it so that you know, from the start, who’s putting the words down.

I’m Orin. I was born in the eighth year of the surface, on a settlement that no longer exists in a sector that’s been reorganized four times since. My mother grew the grass that bound the soil that held what came next.

My father came down from a construction platform and learned to work the ground. I was a child when the surface was a child. I’ve lived everything that follows.

What follows isn’t a history. Histories are built by people who weren’t there, working from records made by people who couldn’t see what they were recording. This is something else.

I’ve read the records too. I’ve spent more years inside the archive than most lives last. I’ll tell you what was in the records and what wasn’t in the records and what I was told, late, by people who had carried things they didn’t write down.

I’ll tell you what I did and didn’t do. I won’t pretend to a distance I don’t have.

The thing humanity built was the largest thing any species has ever built, by any measure that means anything. It cost something to build it. It cost more to keep it.

What it cost in the end, the part this book is finally about, is a debt that was paid by other people, in other systems, who had no say in any of it. I’m one of the people who said yes when the bill was presented. I’ve lived long enough to be ashamed of the yes, and long enough to understand why I gave it, and long enough to know that the second understanding doesn’t erase the first.

* * *

Before I tell you what we built, I want to tell you what was already there.

The galaxy, when humanity arrived in it with this kind of ambition, wasn’t empty. It wasn’t young. Civilizations had been rising and arranging themselves and falling and arranging themselves again for longer than our species had been a species.

By the time we understood that we weren’t alone, the others had already developed protocols for being not alone. They’d agreements. They’d a coalition, which wasn’t a government but was something they used in the place of one when they’d to act in concert.

They’d a long memory.

They watched us. They’d watched us for a long time before we knew they were watching, the way one watches a child who has just discovered fire and not yet discovered burning. When we began the construction, they convened.

When the construction continued, they convened again. They were patient. They tried to understand what we were doing.

They concluded eventually that they did understand, and they were correct in that conclusion in most respects but wrong in one, and the one they were wrong about turned out to be the one that mattered.