Starbound

  It was asking the question of me. “They would . . . devalue what we would call ‘normal’ life? In favor of life partnered with machines? There’s something like that going on on Earth, even now.”

  “Really? The Others might want to get in touch with them.”

  “That would be fun,” Elza said. “Some of them are halfway aliens already.”

  Spy looked at her with an unreadable expression. “Most of this I knew from Other-prime. But Fly-in-Amber added a turning point, a missing link.

  “The final separation between the two groups came about when the Others discovered free power, the ability to bleed energy from an adjacent universe.”

  “The same as our source of power,” Fly-in-Amber said.

  “That’s right. You got it from them, though I take it that neither Martians nor humans really understand how it works.”

  “Only how to use it,” Paul said.

  Spy nodded. “This discovery allowed the Others to put a safe distance between themselves and the enemy, to move out to Wolf 25’s dark companion.

  “They thought that this would make their physical separation complete. At almost the same time, they took total control of their life processes and abandoned their carbon-based form in favor of the virtually immortal bodies they have now.”

  “So they downloaded their minds,” Paul said, “into artificial creatures with low-temperature body chemistry.” The Others had told us that their version of organic chemistry was cryogenic, based on silicon and liquid nitrogen.

  “It wasn’t as simple as transferring information. Each individual had to die, and hope to be literally reborn in its new body.”

  “They had no choice?” I said.

  “Apparently they did. But the ones who didn’t change died out long ago.”

  “Probably helped along by their successors,” Namir said.

  “That could be. I don’t know.

  “What I do know is that the ones left behind on this planet grew fearful. So they began building this huge invasion fleet.”

  “Why on the ground, I wonder,” Paul said. “If they’d put them together in orbit, the ships wouldn’t have to be streamlined. And the net energy saving would be huge.”

  Namir laughed. “They wouldn’t have to worry about that. They couldn’t have done this if they didn’t also have the free-energy thing.”

  “And that was really what doomed them,” Spy said. “Even without the huge fleet, their discovery of the power source put them essentially next door to the Others.”

  Unlike us, I hoped to think.

  “Maybe if they’d remained in friendly contact, there might have been some accommodation. But there was no commerce or even communication between the races. So the Others hit them with one overwhelming blow.”

  “As they attempted to do with us,” Paul said.

  “No, not at all.” Spy shook its head slowly back and forth. “You have to stop thinking that way. The Others posed a problem for you, and you successfully solved it. This Home planet was too close for them to risk that.”

  “If there were no survivors.” Fly- in-Amber said, “where did we come from?”

  “There’s no direct line of succession. You were modeled after these Home creatures but independently manufactured. There are various anatomical differences.”

  “I’m glad we have the extra hands,” Snowbird said, wiggling fingers.

  “And you’re organized differently,” Spy said. “Each one of you is born into a specialty, born with its appropriate language and vocabulary. These Home ones were born dumb, like humans, and had to learn language.”

  “But they had freedom to do whatever they wanted?” I asked.

  “That isn’t known,” Spy said. “The Others left Home before you humans parted company with the Neanderthals.” There was a barely audible scraping sound. “We’re back.”

  “Back where?” There hadn’t been any sensation of movement.

  “In orbit, on your iceberg.” I moved to where I could see the ports by the air-lock lips. They showed our lander with the transfer cable.

  Namir stepped over and looked out. “So. We go on now? To meet the Others?”

  The expression on its face was close to embarrassment. “Actually, not all of you. We discussed this, Other-prime and I, with the Others. All of them.”

  “Just now?” Meryl said.

  “No, we had time to talk with the Others for about a month before we left to meet you here. They discussed various possible courses of action.

  “This one is best. Of course, they can’t have a conversation with you in any sense. So they worked out every probable combination of relevant factors and allowed me, with Other-prime, to make the final evaluation and speak for them. Other-prime gave me a final piece of input a few minutes ago.”

  “Telepathy?” Dustin said.

  It tapped its ear. “More like radio. We won’t kill you all, which was an option much discussed, and still favored by a minority.”

  “But you will kill some of us,” Namir said, almost a whisper.

  “No, not killing, not like murder. We must take two of you, a human and a Martian, back to the planet of the Others.”

  “For how long?” I asked.

  It paused, I think not for drama. “It would be forever. You would be joining the Others, physically.”

  “Frozen solid?” Elza said.

  “You would have nitrogen, a liquid, in your veins.”

  “The Martian would have to be me,” Fly-in-Amber said.

  “That’s right,” Spy said. “The human . . .”

  There was a lengthy silence. Paul half raised his hand. “I—”

  “You’re the pilot,” Namir said, “and not expendable. I’m the oldest”—he looked at his spouses—“and, among the military people, I have the highest rank. The honor will be mine.”

  “No!” I said. “Namir, be practical.”

  “It can’t be Moonboy,” he said. “He’s not competent. Did you want to volunteer?” He was smiling, rueful rather than mocking.

  “With all respect,” Dustin said, “this is not a job for an espionage specialist. You want a philosopher.”

  “A doctor,” Elza said. “I know more about human beings than both of you combined.”

  “We should do it by lot,” I said. “Excluding Paul and Moonboy.” When I said it, my stomach dropped. I looked at Meryl, and she nodded, looking grim.

  “This is fascinating,” Spy said, “and I’m tempted to let you keep fighting it out. But what makes you think the choice is yours to make?

  “The fact that Moonboy has been unconscious since arriving here makes him the most attractive of you, to the Others.”

  “What?” Namir said. “He’s mentally incompetent.”

  “Your mental competence is not an issue. The most intelligent of you, which would be Dustin, is still only human. What’s more interesting about Moonboy is that he’s immune to any consensus the rest of you might have arrived at since coming here. He is a tabula rasa with regard to the Others, and therefore will be easier to work with.”

  “What makes you think you can wake him up?” Elza said.

  “He won’t be awake when he joins the Others. He won’t even be alive, technically.”

  “So the human race is going to be represented by a somewhat dead lunatic,” Namir said.

  Spy paused, as if deciding whether to make a joke of that. “His individual characteristics and experiences are not particularly important. His recent experiences are, though; the less he knows about the Others, the better.”

  “I think I understand,” Fly- in-Amber said. “Like positive feedback in a circuit. Interfering with the signal because of its similarity.”

  That was the most science I’d ever heard from Fly-in-Amber. “You aren’t upset about this, yourself? Being kidnapped and killed and stored in a deep freeze?”

  He clasped his head in appreciation of humor, a gesture he rarely used. “Another way of saying it is that it’s a chance at
literal immortality, representing my race among the Others. How many foreign races would I be joining, Spy?”

  “Two hundred forty-eight. Though more than half of them would be so different from you that communication would be unlikely.”

  “You see, Carmen? As Namir said, it’s an honor.”

  “I was not being literal, Fly- in-Amber. My feelings are more like Carmen’s.”

  “I think Moonboy’s would be, too,” Meryl said, her voice thick and shaking. “We should try to revive him.”

  “Shock him out of it?” Elza said. “And tell him ‘Prepare to die’?”

  “That is what it would be,” Spy said. “If his comfort or happiness is at issue, I think your course is clear.”

  Meryl crossed her arms over her chest, holding herself. “My course is not clear. It’s euthanasia to treat mental illness. For my husband of twenty-three years.”

  “One of you is headed there.” Spy stepped toward her, and his voice lowered. “An objective observer would see that he is giving up the least. You can’t say that’s not true.”

  “You’re not going to be able to care for him. He needs constant medical attention.”

  Not if he’s going to die, I thought.

  “In terms of duration,” Spy said, “he will spend less time going there than you will spend returning to ad Astra from here. Minutes.”

  “It might be a kindness,” Dustin said. It was clear that Meryl was struggling with it—it would be a kindness to her, as well, of course.

  “Take me, too?” she said.

  “No. We don’t have two of any race. Not possible.”

  She sat down and stared at nothing.

  “I wonder if it would be possible for me to kill you,” Namir said quietly.

  “It’s an interesting thought,” Spy said. “How would you propose to do it?”

  “Physical force. I’ve done it to bigger and stronger creatures.”

  “It wouldn’t be smart,” Paul said.

  “We’re running out of smart.” Only his lips moved, and his eyes. But the quality of his poise changed. He was gathering himself, ready.

  “Don’t,” I said. “They can kill you with a thought.”

  “We could,” Spy said, “but might not. Go ahead and try.”

  After the longest second in my life, Namir said, “It was a hypothetical question. You’ve answered it,” and relaxed, turning his back. Spy looked at each of us in turn, perhaps recording our reactions.

  “So. We just go back to Earth?” Paul said. “How will that work?”

  “You set up the flight as you normally would. You will begin to accelerate, then, after a period of no duration, stop. That will be at the turnaround point. You spend thirty hours or so there, turning around again, then you complete the journey, also with no duration. Almost twenty-five years will pass, of course, while you travel the twenty- four light-years.”

  “Will we be seeing you again?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you’d better hope not.”

  13

  END OF A WORLD

  So we left Moonboy and Fly-in-Amber to the tender mercies of the Others and made our weightless way along the cable back to ad Astra. Before we got to the air lock, the starfish rose and sped away. Namir stood still and watched it depart. I wished I could have seen his face.

  Once inside, I stayed close to Meryl, but she didn’t want to talk about it. We all raided the pantry for human food, however uninspiring.

  “I’ll need a day or two to consolidate the data we have about the planet; make sure all of it’s mapped,” Paul said. “Though we could spend years mapping and measuring, and scientists on Earth would still want more. The first detailed observation of an Earth-like exoplanet.”

  “It probably won’t be the first,” Dustin noted. “They’ll have had fifty years to explore nearer Earth.”

  Paul laughed. “I hope you’re right. There ought to be robot probes all over the place.”

  I pulled gecko slippers out of the rack by the air lock and followed Snowbird into the Martian quarters. Not too cold for a short visit.

  She was inspecting the racks of mushroomlike plants. “Hello, Carmen.”

  “Hello, Snowbird.” I didn’t know what to say. “You will be lonely?”

  “Only for a short while, if what Spy said is true. I may be on Mars soon.”

  “That will be a comfort.”

  “Neither Fly-in-Amber nor I ever expected to see it again.”

  “I will miss him,” I said. “Though there hasn’t been time for it to sink in, him or Moonboy.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for Fly-in-Amber. This is the best possible outcome for him. He was extremely happy when we left.” She turned slightly, to face me. “We will never know about Moonboy, I suppose. He may never know what’s happened to him but just die.”

  “Probably.” Though what his chill reincarnation might be like, we could only guess. No worse than dying, we could hope.

  I shivered. “You’re cold,” she said. “I’ll see you later, in the compromise lounge. I’m sure there will be a meeting.”

  “There always is,” I said.

  I went back to our room and changed clothes. Funny to think that the old ones would sit there for a quarter century before being cleaned. My mother would just shake her head and say “typical.”

  Would she be alive still? She was born in 2035 (three years older than Namir) and we would be back in 2138. She has good heredity for long life, but did I really expect to see her at 103? Did I want to?

  Well, who knows. With a half century of progress in cosmetic science, she might look my age. Younger. That would be too creepy.

  Paul came in over the intercom and asked for a meeting in a half hour, in the compromise lounge. Snowbird would smile, if she had a human mouth.

  I got there a bit early, which was fortunate. Namir had found a jar of Iranian caviar, which we cautiously slurped with two spoons, and some dexterity in midair retrieval.

  Paul joined us in time to help scrape the bottom of the jar. He’d also had the foresight to put some alcohol in the freezer, half and half with water, so we could wash the fish eggs down with ersatz vodka.

  Meryl came out, dressed in a pretty plaid shift with a peasant blouse, mincing along gecko style. “Is that booze?”

  Namir tossed it slowly. “Cheap vodka. Pretty cold.”

  I’d never seen her drink anything stronger than wine, and not much of that. She squirted a big blast of the vodka into her mouth, and on her face, and immediately had a coughing fit. She started to laugh, then sneezed, with enough force to free her slippers and start her in a slow pinwheel. The skirt billowing around was quite pretty, in an abstract way, though the performance might have been more dignified with underwear. She wound up laughing and crying, not a bad combination under the circumstances.

  After we were settled down, Paul said, “I just wanted to make sure everybody has everything sorted out. I’m planning to go into the lander tomorrow at noon. Push the button and see what happens.”

  “Do you want us up there, too?” Namir said.

  Paul paused, probably remembering Namir’s reaction last time. “Strapping in wouldn’t be necessary. But maybe we should all be in the same place.”

  The diffuse feeling of grief, of loss. Elza took Namir’s hand. “We should,” she said.

  “I would like that, too,” Snowbird said. “Even with the heat.”

  “We don’t know anything about the process,” Dustin said. “The emotional impact may be less, now that we’re expecting it. Or it may be of a different nature. Joy, perhaps.”

  “Or anger,” Namir said. “Perhaps we should all be restrained. All but one, who has the key.”

  “Sometimes you scare me,” I said, smiling, but meaning it.

  “Then you should hold the key.” He shook his head. “Actually, it was only Moonboy and I who had severe reactions last time. Maybe in lieu of a straitjacket, I should have Elza give me a sedative.”

&nbsp
; “And anyone else who wants one,” she said. “Except the pilot. Snowbird, I wouldn’t know what to give you.”

  “There is a food that prepares one for the unexpected. It worked well enough last time.”

  “Wish they made it for humans.” Paul said. “I’m going to assume that with no time elapsed, or no duration, we don’t have to do anything special with the plants. Just everybody complete the maintenance roster before noon tomorrow.” He shrugged. “I know you would anyway. Guess I’m just at a loss for anything constructive to say or do.” He passed around a handwritten note:Don’t say anything of a sensitive nature to anyone until we know we’re at turnaround. The walls have ears etc.

  “Can’t play badminton in zero gee,” I said.

  “Namir,” Meryl said, “could you get your balalaika and do me a song or two?”

  “Yes,” Dustin said, with no sarcasm in his voice: “I would like that, too.”

  “The end of the world is at hand,” said Elza.

  14

  PREDICTIONS

  I woke up slowly from the sedation Elza had given me. I remembered having had dreams. They hadn’t been as intense or persistent as the first time, but they left behind the same malaise, guilt and self-loathing.

  If the process had driven Moonboy back into that childhood closet, bound and gagged and strangling in the darkness, I could only hope for his sake that he was truly dead now. Memory is a prison from which there is no other escape.

  But there are distractions. I found my slippers and went out into the hall, and rip-ripped my way along the tomato vines toward the exercise machines, which I could hear ticking along.

  A tomato was floating free, so I ate it like an apple. Not quite ripe, a little sour. My stomach gave a warning growl, so I saved most of it to finish with some bread.

  No need for parsimony anymore, of course. We probably had two hundred times the amount of food we could consume between here and Earth.