And of course I was in charge. And of course I should say something; it didn’t seem right to just plant the man and go. But of course I had absolutely no idea what kind of words the deceased would have wanted, did not even know if he subscribed to one of the religions humane enough to be permitted under the Covenant or not. If nobody knew what his first initial stood for, there was no point posting a query about his metaphysics on the ship bulletin board. I had no all-purpose nondenominational homilies on tap; I had experienced only one death, and hadn’t heard a word anyone had said at the funeral.
I stood there for a long time feeling inadequate, stymied by the question, hating Kathy for raising it. She waited. And finally I heard myself say, “Let the universe take note of this man’s passing. Somebody should. He was one of the bravest adventurers our species ever produced: he died on the way to the stars.” That night instead of sleeping I thought of better things I might have said, and said them in my head to a man I had never known.
The Zog told me I’d done well when he returned. He’d had a different spot in mind for the ship’s cemetery, but was fine with the one I’d picked. I warmed to his praise. But it took me a while to stop resenting Kathy for asking that question.
Third year, third year…let me scan my diary.
The social bombshell of that year, beyond question, was the surprise wedding of Sol Short and Hideo Itokawa.
If the nuptials of the Zog and Merril the year before had startled everyone, this one stunned us all speechless. The Zogby-Grossman match had paired two strong people, both administrators, one quiet and the other loud. Sol and Hideo were two extremely powerful minds, both mavericks, one loud enough to dominate any cubic he entered and kind and hilarious enough to get away with it, and the other so impossibly quiet and still that the eye tended to subtract him. I hadn’t even realized Buddhist priests were allowed to marry.
I don’t believe anyone aboard opposed the match, once we thought about it. But to do that you had to first imagine it, and that took us a while.
I found out when Tenzin Itokawa asked me to play at the wedding. I don’t remember what I said.
The wedding feast was a memorable blast, and there is nothing in the world duller than hearing the details of someone else’s blast memories, unless you were at the same blast, so I won’t recount any.
That was the kind of year it was. The most exciting event in it was not really worth recounting, to anyone who was not conceived that night.
Year Four would probably have been downright dull if it hadn’t been for the Happy Disaster.
Three months into the year, the Sim Deck went down.
And stayed down, for weeks. The Sheffield’s diagnostic systems furnished an explanation, and the six people aboard capable of understanding it all agreed that it sounded reasonable to them, but I never comprehended a word of it, and will not reproduce it here.
By that point, most of us were making fairly heavy use of Sim, for recreation and for emotional therapy and for a way to fight the growing monotony and claustrophobia of life in a great big can. If Dr. Amy or one of the other three Healers decided you were using it too much, they could limit your access, and by that third year they were starting to do so often enough that it became a subject of jokes, unhappy ones.
When the Sim hardware first failed, I worried for colony morale. It doesn’t matter how huge it is: any space becomes confining if you absolutely can’t escape it. Without the escape valve of assisted fantasy, I was afraid the ship would start to shrink on us. A few folks did panic, at first, and the general tension spiked.
It didn’t help when Matty Jaymes had a public flameout. He had no regular partner, and Sim use was not monitored by the Healers like drug intake, so no one had really noticed as, over the years, Matty had quietly turned into a hardcore Sim addict. But when he was forced into withdrawal, he switched instantly to a hardcore drunk, and that became very ugly very fast. Dr. Amy did all she could, but even sober he was unmanageable, and finally she was forced to put him in his quarters: his door stopped opening for him. It was only the second time in her career that she’d ever suspended anyone’s Covenant rights, and it devastated her. And upset the rest of us. Until then he had been much liked and highly respected; his collapse left everybody on edge.
But then word went around there would be an unscheduled ETM, and when we all logged in, it was Dr. Amy leading the Town Meeting. That was surprising in itself, but what she proceeded to do was probably the last thing any of us would ever have expected.
She yelled at us.
She didn’t say a whole lot. She never used profanity, obscenity, or blasphemy. But what she did say was as memorable as an unexpected enema.
“If you cannot function without sucking on a holographic fantasy teat that does all your imagining for you every day of your life, what good will you be to Colônia Brasil Novo?
“It usually takes a life-and-death crisis to show you what you’re made of, and what your neighbors are made of. Thank whatever powers you believe in that all it will cost you is a few weeks without your favorite soap operas.
“The overwhelming majority of your primitive ignorant ancestors managed to get through their lives without 3D-5S Simulation somehow. It must be possible, don’t you think? Children in an empty playroom can amuse themselves, for Covenant’s sake.
“Some say anyone who goes to the stars is a loser, running away from reality. I have never believed that of anyone aboard this ship. I’d rather not start.”
Those were some of the highlights.
I guess she summed it up in her literal last word, and in the force of the exasperation with which she delivered it:
“Cope.”
And do you know, later on when the dust settled, it turned out the Sim systems failure had been a good thing, after all—maybe even one of the luckiest things that had happened to us so far. Forced to amuse and inspire ourselves, we rose to the challenge. Social groupings of all kinds sprang up throughout the colony. Get enough people talking long enough and sooner or later someone will say something interesting or useful. Happy meetings occurred. Good conversations got held. With more time to read, we spent more thought on what might be good to read, and began to learn things. Creativity that begins with off-hours amusement soon accidentally spills over into work, and into social interaction. Weddings and less formal partnerships of all kinds spiked to record levels. The theater group acquired competition, and rose to the challenge. The ship’s daycare program finally got serious—none too soon. Shipwide drug intake went down.
And when the system finally came back up, Sim use never did reach its previous level again, let alone exceed it.
Indeed, toward the end of the year I developed a funny suspicion about how well it had all turned out, and queried the Sheffield as to whether any previous starships might ever have suffered Sim failure, and discovered an overall benefit. I was absolutely certain it was physically and emotionally impossible for an untrue word to pass the lips of Dr. Amy, but for all I knew any or all of her three colleagues could have conspired to hoodwink us all for our own good. But if that was the case the ship’s AI was in on the gag: it told me only nine previous ships had even carried 5S Sim gear, and none had ever experienced more than momentary failures, save for the one that had blown up.
Clever con or sheer luck—either way it was damned good luck. The colony was emotionally healthier than it had ever been as it entered its fifth year of star travel, gaining confidence in its own ability to cope. That proved useful when disaster struck.
What goes on in the Power Room of a relativistic starship like the Sheffield?
Maybe God knows, if She exists. The Relativists themselves aren’t at all sure.
I remember I was sitting at a table at the Horn once with Herb and all five off-duty Relativists, everyone but Kindred—I can’t recall what led them all to be awake at once—and Herb asked what it was like.
I’d never have had the hairs to ask, myself, and there was a silence that
lasted nearly ten seconds. Then Dugald Beader shifted his pipe in his mouth and said, “It’s like staring at a random-visuals screensaver until you can predict what it’s going to do in the next second.”
George R said, “It’s like playing jai alai with fifty different opponents at once, in zero gravity, blindfolded.”
London, her head on his shoulder, said, “It’s like being inside a spherical mirror, in free fall, and remembering at all times where the door is.”
Sol grinned. “It’s like running full tilt across a tightrope in spike heels with your eyes closed while cooking an omelette with a blowtorch,” he said, and turned to his husband. “Your turn, Spice. ‘It’s like…’”
“…not being…” Hideo said.
“Aw, come on,” Sol said. “I declare that answer void.”
Hideo blinked at him, and then nodded. “Very well. It is for me like an archery exercise, in which you must first hit the bull’s-eye, then hit that arrow, then hit that arrow, and the next, continuing until you can retrieve all your arrows with a single tug, without taking a step forward.” He turned to the rest of us. “The secret,” he confided, eyes twinkling, “is to aim.”
Sol hooted with laughter and hugged him. “Much better.”
Dugald took another crack at it. “Sometimes I think of it as looking for a hayseed in a giant needle stack.”
“Oh, Duggie, that’s good,” George R said, wincing as he mimed rummaging through needles.
His wife said, “To me it’s always seemed very much like hearing a very complex unfamiliar four-part harmony in the distance, and trying to instantly, intuitively improvise fifth, sixth, and seventh harmonies.”
That one boggled my own mind. Most people have trouble intuiting the third harmony.
Nobody else came up with anything better that night. But I later learned someone had asked Peter Kindred, and he’d offered two of his own, “It’s like looking at a Rorschach blot until it means everything,” and, “It’s like repairing nothingness.”
None of which tells me anything.
Despite years of friendship with five Relativists, and close friendship with Sol, George R, and London, I don’t know what it looks like inside the Power Room, or even the antechamber; nobody does who hasn’t been inside one. The convention that has become established in film and other forms of fiction is to portray Relativists sitting before banks of instruments with lots of blinking lights, intently studying gauges and readouts, constantly making fine adjustments with levers, dials, wheels, or mice that invariably cause beeping sounds. But no such layout has ever been certified authentic, and as far as I or anyone really knows, it is equally likely that what they do in there is simply sit in meditation in a bare white cubic…a meter off the floor, held aloft by sheer spiritual purity. I have no idea what takes place in a Power Room, and I particularly have never been able to conceptualize what it is like in there at the moment of transition, when one’s shift ends and another’s begins—how that handoff is accomplished.
I am not one of those fools who believe Relativists guard their guild secrets to protect their monopoly. None of the ones I knew had an avaricious bone in their bodies. Avarice would appear incompatible with the mindset that produces a Relativist, or that a Relativist produces—a rare case of fortune bringing immense wealth to people fundamentally indifferent to it. But I have no idea why it is that they do discourage specific questions about their daily activities. I simply know it is their right if they choose, and they do. It is purely my own intuition that they do so to protect the rest of us from the knowledge, for some reason.
It may equally well be that they simply literally can’t explain what they do—that you and I have no referents for the information, nothing in our experience that any words we know could evoke. Maybe I’m like a cat trying to understand exactly how the fish get into those little cans, or a man trying to understand women: unequipped.
For all I know, something happened in that room, every day, all day, that was simply beyond ordinary human understanding. That’s the way I lean, anyway.
The one thing I’m absolutely certain of is that my last chance to ask any of the Relativists I know about such matters is gone for good. I waited too long.
Anybody who was aboard can tell you where they were and what they were doing when it happened.
Any society has such events, benchmarks in its shared history. Usually they involve great tragedy. It may be the untimely death of some universally beloved public figure, or a natural disaster of uncommon magnitude; in the old days it was most often a war, and sometimes a plague.
But in those times, war and plague were expected dangers, and survivable ones. I doubt there have been many humans in history who’ve known anything like the instant ice-cold horror that comes to every passenger aboard a relativistic starship when they suddenly find themselves in free fall.
Where I was that day was on Bravo Ag Deck, goofing off behind the goatshed, chewing the fat with Sol Short, while the two colonists I’d drawn as my unskilled labor that shift, John Barnstead and Adewale Akbage, listened and tried not to look awed. We were passing around a flask of wine Zog had made from the Brasilian flower Muira Puama (Ptychopetalurn Olacoides), which was making a very happy adjustment to Brasil Novo conditions.
I can even remember what we were talking about. At the gentle urging of Dr. Amy, and with Sol as intermediary, I had long since buried the hatchet with transportees Richie and Jules, going so far as to comp them for a night at the Horn so they could hear me play. It made a difference; Richie came backstage after to stare at the floor and say he “apollenized,” and Jules put one arm around me and hugged me, and from then on whenever we encountered each other in the corridors, they were both loudly friendly.
So I had begun a small but precious collection of Richie-isms, and loved to compare specimens with Sol, who appreciated them as much as I did. That day, I recall, I had shared with him, “Don’t kill the goose that laid the deviled egg,” and, “You can’t sell a fuckin’ book by looking undercover.” John threw one in, then: he’d heard someone ask the pair why they were constantly together, and Richie had said, “Two heads are better than none.”
And Sol had just gifted us all with the gem “Atojiso,” as in, “I knew that would happen. I hate to say atojiso, Jules, but I fuckin’ atojiso,” and we were roaring with appreciation, when all at once the ceiling came down to join us, and the floor fell away.
Sudden unexpected weightlessness can only mean drive failure, and this is never good news.
But if you’re on a starship, it probably means you’re dead. You and everyone in your world.
It is just barely possible to restart a quantum ramjet at velocities higher than 0.5c. But time is critical—and luck even more so.
It had been done. Twice before in history, in each case by a Relativist said to be particularly adept. Successfully, I mean. There had been two spectacular failures—by colleagues generally agreed to have been equally good. That was why the Sheffield needed a minimum of four Relativists—six hours was the longest one could reliably sustain the necessary concentration—and why it carried six. We’d have carried more, if Kang/da Costa had been able to hire more.
If the quantum ramjet was not restarted, and damn quickly, the Sheffield would literally never get anywhere. There would be plenty of power for life support—and nowhere near enough to slow all those megatons of mass appreciably. We would drift for all time through the void at more than nine-tenths of the speed of light, forever unable to decelerate to any more reasonable speed, incapable of making any port.
John and Adewale and I were none of us spacemen. We panicked. The blood did not drain from our heads because there was no gravity; but we didn’t become as ruddy as we should have. We’d all been in free fall long enough to learn some basics, but none of us had free-fall instincts or reflexes. All we had was enough intelligence to understand how much trouble we were in.
The goats didn’t even have that—they knew only two gradations
of terror: none and total. They simply happened to be right for once. The goat shed exploded, and jagged pieces of its walls became lethal Frisbees, followed by a second wave of hay, hooves, and horns.
Miraculously, none of us was hurt by any of these. It was Solomon Short who broke my collarbone, using it to launch himself toward the stairwell, and who dislocated Adewale’s shoulder using him to leapfrog, and busted John’s nose when he couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. I figure I’m responsible for my concussion; I could probably have ducked that goat, if I hadn’t been watching Sol dwindle in the distance. But how can you look away from somebody crying like that?
To be honest, I don’t think I’d have been much help to him even if I hadn’t gotten my skull kicked. I was already thinking in terms of coping with my own responsibilities: my livestock, my farm—both my farms! Everywhere, things would be going to hell, delicate hydraulic systems pumping dry, containers spilling over, lattices coming apart, koi trying to swim in damp air—
So it was John, not even particularly a friend of Sol’s, who thought of it first, and did it in time, and so ended up accomplishing far more good than I would that day. The instant he had drifted within reach of something substantial enough to change his vector—a light fixture in the ceiling, still on, still hot—he used it to launch himself after Sol. He stayed close to the ceiling, and used every surface feature he passed to add speed, so he had soon built up nearly as good a head of steam as Sol had.
At about that point I heard the right rear quadrant of my skull make the sound “KLOP!” and decided to take a little nap, so I missed John’s triumph.
Sol had sensibly ignored the lift, beelined for the emergency stair-shaft/drop-chute, and flung himself down it like a hungry ferret going down a hole. It was the mental picture of him in that ship-length tunnel, reaching ever higher velocity with the help of the handholds that were usually rungs under gravity, that had galvanized John. He was far less free-fall savvy than Sol, but massed more, so he arrived at about the same speed. He knew there was no way he’d make the turn. But he never even attempted to decelerate, just sailed into the chute, slammed against its far wall, and accepted the damage. “FLIP! FLIP!” he was screaming as he came through the doorway, and after he crashed and got his breath back, he resumed screaming it at the top of his lungs down that long Freudian shaft. “FLIP, SOL! FOR CHRISSAKE, FLIP!”