Robert Charles Wilson / Роберт Чарльз Уилсон - Собрание сочинений
Годы выпуска: 1985-2015 г.
Автор: Wilson, Robert Charles / Уилсон, Роберт Чарльз
Роберт Чарльз Уилсон (Robert Charles Wilson) родился 15 декабря 1953 в американском штате Калифорния, но вырос в Торонто и провел большую часть своей жизни в Канаде. В 2007 он получил канадское гражданство.
Первый свой рассказ опубликовал в 1975 году под псевдонимом Боб Чак Уилсон (Bob Chuck Wilson). Однако всерьёз и надолго писатель пришёл в фантастику только во второй половине 1980-х, и с тех пор из-под его пера выходит в среднем по одному роману в два года.
Поистине всемирное признание Уилсону принёс роман «Спин», который удостоился премии «Хьюго», высшей американской награды в области фантастики, и затем был переведён на основные европейские языки, а также на японский. За «Спином» последовало два романа-продолжения, «Ось» и «Вихрь», однако они не снискали такой же любви читателей. Вся трилогия о «гипотетиках» издана на русском языке.
В своих произведениях автор сочетает тонкий и выверенный психологизм с захватывающими воображение НФ-идеями. Стивен Кинг назвал Уилсона «возможно, лучшим автором НФ на сегодняшний день». Согласно он-лайн «Энциклопедии НФ» Клюта, особое место в творчестве канадского фантаста занимает моделирование альтернативных реальностей, существующих бок о бок с нашей. Это могут быть и иные измерения («Gypsies» и «Mysterium»), и Земля, с карты которой непостижимым образом пропала вся Европа («Darwinia»), и стремительно меняющаяся Вселенная за пределами кокона, замедляющего течение времени («Спин»). Вместе с тем, в книгах Уилсона находят отражение острые проблемы современного общества, поэтому многие из них можно отнести к социальной фантастике.
02 Axis / Ось 2007, fb2, ISBN: 978-0-7653-0939-6, Tor; 2008, epub, ISBN: 978-0-7653-4826-5, Tor
03 Vortex / Вихрь 2011, fb2, ISBN: 978-0-765-32342-2; epub, eISBN: 978-1-4299-6073-1, Tor
Memory Wire 1988, fb2, ISBN: 0-553-26853-8, Bantam Spectra
Gypsies 1989, fb2, ISBN: 0-385-24933-0, Doubleday
The Divide 1990, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-385-24947-0, Doubleday
A Bridge of Years 1991, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-385-41937-6, Doubleday
The Harvest 1993, fb2, ISBN: 0-553-09123-9, Bantam Spectra
Mysterium 1994, fb2, ISBN: 978-0-553-37365-3, Bantam Spectra; 2010, epub, ISBN: 978-0-7653-2741-3, Orb
Darwinia 1998, fb2/epub, ISBN: 0-312-86038-2, Tor
Bios 1999, fb2, ISBN: 978-0-312-86857-4, Tor
The Chronoliths 2001, fb2, ISBN: 0-312-87384-0, Tor
Blind Lake 2003, fb2, ISBN: 0-765-30262-4, Tor
Ghostlands 2006, epub, eISBN: 9780061806728, HarperCollins (with Marc Scott Zicree)
Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America 2009, fb2/epub, ISBN: 978-0-7653-1971-5, Tor
Burning Paradise 2013, fb2/epub, ISBN: 978-1-4668-0076-2, Tor
The Affinities 2015, epub, eISBN: 978-1-4668-0077-9, Tor
Повести и рассказы:
Divided by Infinity / Разделенные бесконечностью 1998, fb2
The Great Goodbye 2000, fb2
The Cartesian Theater 2006, fb2
Julian: A Christmas Story / Джулиан. Рождественская история 2006, fb2, ISBN: 978-1-905834-27-3, PS Publishing
Utriusque Cosmi 2009, fb2
UPD Раздача обновлена 26.06.2015
SPINEverybody falls, and we all land somewhere. So we rented a room on the third floor of a colonial-style hotel in Padang where we wouldn't be noticed for a while.
Nine hundred euros a night bought us privacy and a balcony view of the Indian Ocean. During pleasant weather, and there had been no shortage of that over the last few days, we could see the nearest part of the Archway: a cloud-colored vertical line that rose from the horizon and vanished, still rising, into blue haze. As impressive as this seemed, only a fraction of the whole structure was visible from the west coast of Sumatra. The Archway's far leg descended to the undersea peaks of the Carpenter Ridge more than a thousand kilometers away, spanning the Mentawai Trench like a wedding band dropped edge-up into a shallow pond. On dry land, it would have reached from Bombay on the eastern coast of India to Madras on the west. Or, say, very roughly, New York to Chicago.
Diane had spent most of the afternoon on the balcony, sweating in the shade of a faded striped umbrella. The view fascinated her, and I was pleased and relieved that she was— after everything that had happened—still capable of taking such pleasure in it.
I joined her at sunset. Sunset was the best time. A freighter heading down the coast to the port of Teluk Bayur became a necklace of lights in the offshore blackness, effortlessly gliding. The near leg of the Arch gleamed like a burnished red nail pinning sky to sea. We watched the Earth's shadow climb the pillar as the city grew dark.
It was a technology, in the famous quotation, "indistinguishable from magic." What else but magic would allow the uninterrupted flow of air and sea from the Bay of Bengal to the Indian Ocean but would transport a surface vessel to far stranger ports? What miracle of engineering permitted a structure with a radius of a thousand kilometers to support its own weight? What was it made of, and how did it do what it did?
Perhaps only Jason Lawton could have answered those questions. But Jason wasn't with us.
Diane slouched in a deck chair, her yellow sundress and comically wide straw hat reduced by the gathering darkness to geometries of shadow. Her skin was clear, smooth, nut brown. Her eyes caught the last light very fetchingly, but her look was still wary—that hadn't changed.
She glanced up at me. "You've been fidgeting all day."
"I'm thinking of writing something," I said. "Before it starts. Sort of a memoir."
"Afraid of what you might lose? But that's unreasonable, Tyler. It's not like your memory's being erased."
No, not erased; but potentially blurred, softened, defocused. The other side effects of the drug were temporary and endurable, but the possibility of memory loss terrified me.
"Anyway," she said, "the odds are in your favor. You know that as well as anyone. There is a risk… but it's only a risk, and a pretty minor one at that."
And if it had happened in her case maybe it had been a blessing.
"Even so," I said. "I'd feel better writing something down."
"If you don't want to go ahead with this you don't have to. You'll know when you're ready."
"No, I want to do it." Or so I told myself.
"Then it has to start tonight."
"I know. But over the next few weeks—"
"You probably won't feel like writing."
"Unless I can't help myself." Graphomania was one of the less alarming of the potential side effects.
"See what you think when the nausea hits." She gave me a consoling smile. "I guess we all have something we're afraid to let go of."
It was a troubling comment, one I didn't want to think about. "Look," I said, "maybe we should just get started." The air smelled tropical, tinged with chlorine from the hotel pool three stories down. Padang was a major international port these days, full of foreigners: Indians, Filipinos, Koreans, even stray Americans like Diane and me, folks who couldn't afford luxury transit and weren't qualified for U.N. approved resettlement programs. It was a lively but often lawless city, especially since the New Reformasi had come to power in Jakarta.
But the hotel was secure and the stars were out in all their scattered glory. The peak of the Archway was the brightest thing in the sky now, a delicate silver letter U (Unknown, Unknowable) written upside down by a dyslexic God. I held Diane's hand while we watched it fade.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
"The last time I saw the old constellations." Virgo, Leo, Sagittarius: the astrologer's lexicon, reduced to footnotes in a history book.
"They would have been different from here, though, wouldn't they? The southern hemisphere?" I supposed they would.
Then, in the full darkness of the night, we went back into the room. I switched on the room lights while Diane pulled the blinds and unpacked the syringe and ampoule kit I had taught her to use. She filled the sterile syringe, frowned and tapped out a bubble. She looked professional, but her hand was trembling. I took off my shirt and stretched out on the bed.
Suddenly she was the reluctant one. "No second thoughts," I said. "I know what I'm getting into. And we've talked this through a dozen times."
She nodded and swabbed the inside of my elbow with alcohol. She held the syringe in her right hand, point up. The small quantity of fluid in it looked as innocent as water.
"That was a long time ago," she said.
"When we looked at the stars that time."
"I'm glad you haven't forgotten."
"Of course I haven't forgotten. Now make a fist."
The pain was trivial. At least at first.
. . .
THE GREAT GOODBYETHE HARDEST PART OF THE Great Goodbye, for me, was knowing I wouldn't see my grandfather again. We had developed that rare thing, a friendship that crossed the line of the post-evolutionary divide, and I loved him very much.
Humanity had become, by that autumn of 2350, two very distinct human species—if I can use that antiquated term. Oh, the Stock Humans remain a "species" in the classical evolutionary sense: New People, of course, have forgone all that. Post-evolutionary, post-biological, budded or engineered, New People are gloriously free from all the old human restraints. What unites us all is our common source, the Divine Complexity that shaped primordial quark plasma into stars, planets, planaria, people. Grandfather taught me that.
I had always known that we would, one day, be separated. But we first spoke of it, tentatively and reluctantly, when Grandfather went with me to the Museum of Devices in Brussels, a day trip. I was young and easily impressed by the full-scale working model of a "steam train" in the Machine Gallery—an amazingly baroque contrivance of ancient metalwork and gas-pressure technology. Staring at it, I thought (because Grandfather had taught me some of his "religion"): Complexity made this. This is made of Stardust, by Stardust.
We walked from the Machine Gallery to the Gallery of the Planets, drawing more than a few stares from the Stock People (children, especially) around us. It was uncommon to see a New Person fully embodied and in public. The Great Goodbye had been going on for more than a century; New People were already scarce on Earth, and a New Person walking with a Stock Person was an even more unusual sight—risque, even shocking. We bore the attention gamely. Grandfather held his head high and ignored the muttered insults.
The Gallery of the Planets recorded humanity's expansion into the Solar System, and I hope the irony was obvious to everyone who sniffed at our presence there: Stock People could not have colonized any of these forbidding places (consider Ganymede in its primeval state!) without the partnership of the New. In a way, Grandfather said, this was the most appropriate place we could have come. It was a monument to the long collaboration that was rapidly reaching its end.
The stars, at last, are within our grasp. The grasp, anyhow, of the New People. Was this, I asked Grandfather, why he and I had to be so different from one another?
"Some people," he said, "some families, just happen to prefer the old ways. Soon enough Earth will belong to the Stocks once again, though I'm not sure this is entirely a good thing." And he looked at me sadly. "We've learned a lot from each other. We could have learned more."
"I wish we could be together for centuries and centuries," I said.
I saw him for the last time (some years ago now) at the Shipworks,where the picturesque ruins of Detroit rise from the Michigan Waters, and the star-travelling Polises are assembled and wait like bright green baubles to lift, at last and forever, into the sky. Grandfather had arranged this final meeting—in the flesh, so to speak.
We had delayed it as long as possible. New People are patient: in a way, that's the point. Stock Humans have always dreamed of the stars, but the stars remain beyond their reach. A Stock Human lifetime is simply too short; one or two hundred years won't take you far enough. Relativistic constraints demand that travellers between the stars must be at home between the stars. Only New People have the continuity, the patience, the flexibility to endure and prosper in the Galaxy's immense voids.
I greeted Grandfather on the high embarkation platform where the wind was brisk and cool. He lifted me up in his arms and admired me with his bright blue eyes. We talked about trivial things, for the simple pleasure of talking. Then he said, "This isn't easy, this saying goodbye. It makes me think of mortality—that old enemy."
"It's all right," I said.
"Perhaps you could still change your mind?"
I shook my head, no. A New Person can transform himself into a Stock Person and vice versa, but the social taboos are strong, the obstacles (family dissension, legal entanglements) almost insurmountable, as Grandfather knew too well. And in any case that wasn't my choice. I was content as I was. Or so I chose to believe.
"Well, then," he said, empty, for once, of words. He looked away. The Polis would be rising soon, beginning its aeons-long navigation of our near stellar neighbours. Discovering, no doubt, great wonders.
"Goodbye, boy," he said.
I said, "Goodbye, Grandfather."
Then he rose to his full height on his many translucent legs, winked one dish-sized glacial blue eye, and walked with a slow machinely dignity to the vessel that would carry him away. And I watched, desolate, alone on the platform with the wind in my hair, as his ship rose into the arc of the high clean noonday sky.
Не жилим спасибо. Не забываем голосовать за трекер!!!
Добавления:02 Wilson, Robert Charles - Axis (Spin) - 2008.epub к имеющемуся fb2
Wilson, Robert Charles - Julian Comstock_ A Story of 22nd-Century America - 2009.epub к имеющемуся fb2
Wilson, Robert Charles - The Affinities - 2015.epub
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