Czytaj książkę: «Noumenon»

CHAPTER ONE
REGGIE: A KING OF INFINITE SPACE

APRIL 14, T MINUS 37 YEARS TO LAUNCH DAY (LD)
2088 COMMON ERA (CE)

The Planet United Consortium was formed in order to pursue Earth-wide interests in deep space. Each Planet United Mission is designed to further humanity’s joint scientific understanding, its reach beyond the home planet, and to ensure the longevity of planet-wide cooperation …

The hot stage lights made Reggie’s forehead break out in beads of sweat. He could barely hear the professor from Berkeley even though she was only three seats away. She sounded like she was broadcasting from the surface of Mars.

Mars—wouldn’t that be a nice alternative to where he was now? It was quiet on Mars. Deserted. No cameras and no horde of scientists, reporters, and politicians ready to hang on his every word.

“It’s your discovery, you give the presentation,” Professor McCloud had said back in his study. From behind his mahogany desk he’d stared at Reggie like a mad dog, ready to bite if he didn’t get his way.

Of all the professors in the world, Reggie had to get the only one who wasn’t eager to slap his name all over a graduate student’s research. “Sir, defending my thesis is one thing, but this … I don’t know if I can.”

“Of course you can.” McCloud coughed heavily into his handkerchief, his thick white sideburns jumping with his jawline. “They’re just people, for cripes sake. If you can stand a bunch of crusty old intellectuals judging you on every eh, but, and I think that comes out of your mouth you can stand a few colleagues and digital recorders.”

“But—”

“See! Besides, the discovery has been validated. So they’re not going to make fun of you. They’re not even going to be there for you. They’ll be there to hear about the idea, to marvel at the concept. When it’s all over they won’t even remember you were there. It’s the information that matters, Straifer, not your mumbling, fumbling presentation.” He leaned closer to Reggie, his chins jiggling. “If you’re passionate about this mysterious, stroboscopic star of yours, it would be a crime to force an old, gluttonous man like me to make the case for you.”

“The professors’ point is valid,” chimed in an electronic voice from Reggie’s pocket. He pulled out his phone. The Intelligent Personal Assistant’s icon was blinking—he’d set it to interject-mode. “In the past twenty-five years, projects requiring similar screening before financing have been seventy-eight percent more likely to succeed when the original researchers have presented their findings directly. Third party involvement—”

“Thanks, C.” Reggie turned the phone off and gave the professor a glare.

Ten minutes later, he’d reluctantly agreed.

Oh, but how he wished now, as he stood in front of this crowd, that he’d told Dr. McCloud and the computer both to shove it.

And there the professor sat, in the third row, nodding at every other syllable that came out of the presenter’s mouth. His focus momentarily shifted to Reggie, and he gave him a go-for-it grin.

He turned his attention back to the presentation. Had he heard right? Dark matter? Was the professor from Berkeley seriously suggesting they focus the long-range studies solely on dense dark matter regions? He almost laughed. That was a ridiculous way to allocate these funds. What could twelve dark matter studies reveal that one couldn’t alone?

But dark was sexy. Anything with a “dark” label: matter, energy, forces, etc. What was sexy about his discovery?

It’s like the star’s encrusted, he said over and over in his mind. He had to word it right. Word choice made all the difference. That would make his star interesting, notable. And, hopefully, it would be enough to convince them to allocate him a team.

This variable star, designation LQ Pyxidis, was unique. He had to make them see there was something special about it. He knew it was a great find waiting to be fully unveiled by an actual visit.

He just needed them to agree.

We’re going off-world, Reggie thought excitedly. We’re going into deep space. For the first time in human history, people were going to try and visit the wonders of the universe. Reggie wanted to be a part of that in some way. But, more importantly, he knew LQ Pyx had to be a part of it. He could feel it. This variable star was important.

Reggie turned on his tablet and scrolled through his notes. As always, the simple, black-and-white snapshot the JWST 3 had taken of his star made him pause. It was easy to see how lopsided LQ Pyx was; energy spewed off to one side, the output orders of magnitude greater than the star’s opposite hemisphere. And the readings shifted consistently. Either the star rotated unusually slowly for having such a dramatic solar jet … or something was orbiting around it, obscuring the star’s normal output.

It’s like it’s encrusted. Encased.

Dr. Berkeley—what was her name again? He couldn’t remember; his brain felt like it was draining out of his ears. Anyway, she was almost done with her Q and A session.

Reggie pulled a tissue out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. It tore, and a few bits of the soggy paper stuck to his face. He hastily brushed them away, hoping he’d gotten them all.

It was almost his turn. He looked up and down the table, glancing at each of the other presenters. It was a long line of veteran researchers. Three of them had authored textbooks he’d used as an undergrad. Two of them had authored books he’d cited in his own doctoral thesis. He could pick out an accolade for each and every one of them—when he wasn’t too nervous to remember their names. They were all seasoned, all well respected—even those whose theories were controversial; they had the excitement of popular contention going for them. And one hosted a highly acclaimed TV series, The Cosmos and You. They’d all made names for themselves, all had fantastic careers in full bloom.

And then there was Reggie.

His chip-phone buzzed near his eardrum, and the display screen implanted behind his iris sprang to life. “Are you ready? Do you have all of your notes? No last-minute requests? We’re about to move on.”

“Yes,” he mumbled. “I’m ready.”

“Okay, prepare to rise. We’re moving to you in five, four …” the countdown continued only in visual form. His heart leapt as each purple number faded before his eyes.

“Thank you, Dr. Countmen,” said the moderator. That’s her name. “Next, may I present Mr. Reginald Straifer.”

As he stood, Reggie could have sworn he heard a collective snicker under the obligatory opening applause. Why couldn’t the board have awarded him his doctorate before the conference? Was a face-saving title too much to ask for?

All five-foot-seven of him trembled. But the irritation was subtle—he’d tensed every muscle to keep himself still. Gawky, with a mouse-brown mop on his head, a squat nose, and shy eyes, he knew he wasn’t exactly the picture of confidence.

Relax. Pretend. They’re here for the work, not you.

“Th-th-thank you. I—I’m here to propose one of the convoys be built with the express purpose of visiting variable star, LQ Pyxidis. Or, as I like to call it, Licpix.” Silence. Reggie tugged at his collar.

“Deep breath, sir,” C said from Reggie’s pocket.

That elicited a small giggle from the first row. “Quiet mode, please,” he asked, then did as the AI suggested. “Uh, if we could have the animation on screen.”

The lights dimmed, and a reproduction of LQ Pyx in full color appeared on everyone’s implants. Reggie reminded himself to keep things colloquial—the reporters were broadcasting to the world—and then he launched into his spiel.

As he explained about the strange jet of energy, and how it might not be a jet at all, he felt himself falling into a rhythm. He demonstrated how the star’s wobble might indicate an extremely massive partner they could not make out at this distance. And he presented his hypothesis about the hidden partner’s location—how it most likely encompassed the star.

“It’s crusty—eh, encrusted. It’s like a light bulb that’s become part of a child’s arts-and-crafts class. Say the child thought the bulb might look better with a smattering of paint and plastic gems. So she covers the bulb—glue and glitter everywhere—but happens to miss a spot. What would we see when that light bulb is illuminated? Most of the observable light would come from a small expanse of surface, even though the bulb’s fundamental output has not changed. Overall, it would appear dim, with a single bright point: much like this star.

“It’s simply concealed. Something unusual is blocking out the starlight, and it is crucial that we travel to LQ Pyx to discover exactly what that is.”

Finished with his presentation, he took a deep breath and sat down. Bracing himself for an onslaught of probing, nitpicking questions, he eyed the crowd.

After a moment a palsy ridden hand went up. An elderly gentleman in a tweed jacket and bow tie stood. “What do you believe to be the culprit, young man?” He had an accent Reggie could not place. “If we go there, what will we find?”

Reggie accepted a glass of water from one of the stage aides and took a hearty gulp before answering. “Well, I, uh … If I knew that we wouldn’t have to go, would we? An extremely small and dense version of the Oort cloud, perhaps. Or maybe an asteroid globe instead of a belt. Wouldn’t that be something, to discover new possibilities of orbital projection? It could be the beginnings of a new system—we could be seeing a stage we’ve never observed before. This could change our theories on planet formation. I … I don’t really know.”

The old man nodded, and his bushy white eyebrows knitted together. “And what about Dyson?”

The question surprised Reggie. “You’re asking if it could be artificial?” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

The audience erupted into conversation, everyone murmuring to their neighbor. The auditorium rumbled with speculations. A knowing glint came into Professor McCloud’s eyes.

“Why not indeed,” the old man in the bow tie called to Reggie, a smile lifting the bags on his face.

“That old man made me look like an idiot,” Reggie said. He lifted his glass and threw back the rest of his golden ale. The brew smelled like old T-shirts. “Made me seem like an American hick who should just slink back to the Midwestern town I hail from.”

After the presentation session, Professor McCloud had ushered him to a nearby pub. Oxford had many to choose from, and yet they’d come to this hole-in-the-wall. It was dark—not for the sake of ambiance, but because half the overhead lamps were out. Cigar smoke permeated everything, including the ripped vinyl cushions of their booth. The décor reminded him of a poker lounge from the 1970s without any of the charm.

All of the other patrons were at least sixty, like McCloud. Reggie suspected this was a regular hangout for tenured dons.

Something I’ll never have to worry about becoming now, he thought.

“That old man made you look like a genius,” McCloud countered, taking a sip of his Jack. He gestured for the waitress to bring another glass for Reggie. “You’ve speculated about artificial constructs around Licpix before, why didn’t you bring it up yourself?”

Reggie tilted his glass so he could look at the seal on the bottom. He wished he was looking at it through more beer. “It’s silly.”

“The reason?”

“No, the idea.”

McCloud scoffed and pulled the glass from Reggie’s fingers. “If it’s within the realm of the possible, it’s not silly.”

“A construct larger—and perhaps more massive—than a star?” Reggie said. “Built by whom? All those billions of life forms we’ve taken note of out there?” The sarcasm was heavy, almost condescending, and he wished he’d dialed it back as soon as he spoke.

“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

“Wasn’t that Dr. Countmen’s argument?”

“Look,” the professor said, “it got the crowd talking, didn’t it?”

“Your proposal is the only one that postulates the possibility of meeting intelligent life, or finding evidence thereof,” C chimed in. Reggie’s phone sat on the table between the two men. “Its uniqueness is statistically likely to make it more appealing.”

He had wanted interesting, he’d wanted sexy. And what was sexier, a bunch of rocks or an enormous alien machine?

“But, it’s just so unlikely,” Reggie said. “So unlikely that—”

“That what?” McCloud asked.

“That it feels like a lie.”

The waitress sauntered up, quickly exchanging his barren glass for one of plenty. She gave them both a sweet smile, one Reggie tried to return. Instead of thankfulness, though, he was sure his expression signaled mild indigestion.

McCloud started to speak, then paused to cough into his handkerchief. He wiped his mouth and nose, then tucked the square back in his pocket. “If I told you your research could either end up earning you a minor teaching position, or the Nobel Prize for physics, would I be lying?”

Reggie sighed and took a drink. “I’m not going to win a Nobel Prize.”

“But it is a possibility, no matter how remote. My suggestion that it might happen, whatever the odds, is no lie. That’s very different than saying I believe it will happen if I don’t.”

Reggie pouted. “You don’t believe my research is worthy of a Nobel?” He felt ridiculously petulant even as he said it and took another drink to hide his embarrassment.

“Did I say that?” He slugged Reggie in the shoulder and they shared a laugh. Professor McCloud finished off his whiskey. “So, if you don’t believe it to be an alien machine, what do you believe?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I want them to go find out—find the truth.”

“You want them to go, or you want you to go?”

An internal shudder ran through Reggie’s nervous system. McCloud had just hit on an idea Reggie hadn’t even let himself contemplate—a secret desire he hadn’t dared to hope for. He shook his head. “That’s impossible. Not worth thinking about.”

“Weren’t we just talking about possible/impossible? You could go. No one says you can’t. They haven’t decided on how to crew the ships. Haven’t decided who they need to man the warp-drives or whatever.”

“SD drives,” Reggie corrected. “It’s subdimensional travel.” Subdimensions, ha! It was a mangled term if he’d ever heard one. Almost as bad as calling something “dark” when it was simply unknown.

That was why the missions were being put together now. Deep space travel was finally a reality, the world’s political climate was in an upswing, armed conflict was at an all-time low, resources were abundant and more evenly dispersed than ever before, population growth had leveled out at nine billion (some scientists projected a possible decrease in the next fifty years), and humanity intended its first steps beyond its own solar system to be grand.

Humans were finally ready to see if they could survive out there, beyond the warm embrace of their little G-type star.

“I would never make it,” Reggie said. “It’s too far. You know how long it would take to get to LQ Pyx. Generations.”

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t go along for the ride. Get things started in the right direction.”

“But it does mean I’ll never know.” He pushed his ale away. “I’ll never know why LQ Pyx is the way it is, one way or the other.”

“So, you’re a glass-half-empty man?” McCloud tapped his fingertips against the beer glass.

Reggie shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“Here’s something I think glass-half-empty people always fail to consider.” He paused.

Reggie pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

With a flick of his wrist, McCloud had the beer in his hand. In the next moment he poured it down Reggie’s front.

“Ah!” Reggie sprang up, trying to jump away from the liquid that had already soaked through to his skin. “What the hell?”

McCloud laughed. “It’s not the empty that leaves an impression, is it?” He offered Reggie his handkerchief, but Reggie declined—he knew where it had been. Instead he held his shirt out from his chest, glancing around for help, but none was coming. McCloud continued. “Life’s not about missed opportunities, Mr. Straifer. It’s about the moments that drench us to the bone and leave us sopping with experience.” He pointed to the back of the pub. “Restroom’s that way, I believe.”

“There are three dry cleaners in this sector of town,” chimed C.

McCloud was crazy.

But that didn’t mean he was wrong.

In the months of waiting that followed, after he and the professor had returned to the States, Reggie spent a long time contemplating soggy Dockers as a metaphor for life. But he was a scientist, not a poet. Math was his thing—he’d never had much use for metaphors.

He got the gist, though.

Reggie was precariously balanced on a wobbly footstool, hanging his recently framed doctoral certificate, when his phone rang. He answered using his implants. When he heard who was on the other end, and why they were calling, he dropped the diploma. Glass shattered. The fragments formed a distinct blast pattern out across his wood-laminate flooring.

“They awarded me what? My proposal … my project? Are you sure? There’s no mistake? Yes, yes, that’s me. Oh my god. I can’t—I mean, thank you. Thank you!”

After twenty-four weeks, the panel—composed of thousands of professionals from nearly one hundred nations—had voted. Another week and the votes were tallied. The top twelve proposals, one to match each of the twelve convoys, had been chosen.

And his had claimed a spot. They were going to his star.

They were going to LQ Pyx.

Without picking up the glass he dashed for the coat closet and pulled out his jacket. Two more steps brought him to his apartment door, and he was already on the phone before it latched shut behind him.

It was time for a party. The kind of party he hadn’t thrown since his undergraduate days.

“C, send a message to the troops: we’re going in!”

Even PhDs know how to get good and snockered.

“Come on. Come on, it’s fun.” Reggie entwined his fingers with a young woman’s as he led her out into the night. With his free hand he toyed with the neck of his beer bottle, and his feet took stumbling, giddy steps through the grass. Behind them the party continued to roar.

One of Reggie’s friends, Miguel, rented a house in the hills not far from campus, and Miguel had agreed to host the shindig. “It’s like your coming-out party,” he said, slapping Reggie on the back. “You know, like they have in the south when girls get their periods.”

“That’s not what a coming-out party is for,” Reggie said. To be fair, he hadn’t a clue what it was for, but it couldn’t be that. Regardless, he let his friends go around telling everyone he was “coming out.” Somehow they’d found a way to turn the get-together into a celebration and a ribbing all at once.

Light streamed into the backyard, and music with a heavy bass beat still rocked Reggie’s insides though they’d left the speakers far behind.

With him was a dark-featured young woman, her hair as wavy and body as curvy as any Grecian goddess’—Abigail, she’d said her name was.

Abigail. He liked how that sounded. He liked how her hand felt in his.

He just wasn’t quite sure how her hand had actually found its way into his …

The party was full of people Reggie didn’t know. Friends of friends, relatives of friends, walk-ins who’d come to investigate the noise and mooch some munchies. Abby—wait, no, she said not to call her that—Abigail was a cousin of a friend’s friend, getting her masters in English.

“What do you study?” she’d asked.

Oh. Right. Reggie had immediately grabbed her hand and led her out the back door. “I’ll show you.”

Through the flimsy wire gate, up a steep incline (pausing so she could remove her shoes), around a little rocky outcrop, and they were at the top of a tall hill. The flat little college town spread out below them, and the wonderfully wide sky stretched out above.

“Lie down,” he said, waving at a comfortable stretch of grass.

She crossed her arms and gave him a skeptical raise of one eyebrow. “Yeah, right.”

He was crestfallen, until he realized how he sounded. “Oh my god, no! I’m sorry—not like—sorry—no, look. Like this.” A little tipsy, his flop onto the ground was less than graceful. He stretched out his arms and shivered, as though he’d tucked himself into a comfortable bed. “You can’t see the stars from there,” he said when she leaned over him, hands on her hips.

Apparently deciding Reggie had no evil intentions, she shrugged and sat down beside him. She craned her neck back, trying to take it all in.

“This!” he said, reaching upward. “This is what I study.”

“The stars?”

“Yes. I’m an astrophysicist.” His tongue stumbled over the ysicist.

“Oh. It’s your party. Congrats. A Planet United Mission is a big deal.”

Reggie was half sure she was teasing. Big deal? he thought. Big deal? It’s the biggest deal in the history of big deals.

It was also a big responsibility. But he didn’t want to think about that right now. Responsibility was not party-talk.

“Noumenon is gonna be the greatest mission ever.” He’d meant to say something a little more profound, but his brain was floating in a beer haze. He reached for his drink, but couldn’t find the bottle. He’d set it down somewhere between here and the house.

“Noumenon?” she pressed.

“They said I could name the mission whatever I wanted.” He wrinkled his nose, trying to chase a scratch. “Nostromo was already taken, and I’m pretty sure it’s doomed, so …”

She punched him lightly in the arm for the joke. “So you picked Noumenon? Why? What is that? Sounds like one of Achilles’ lovers—you know, Agamemnon, Patroclus, Noumenon …”

“Agamemnon and Achilles weren’t—”

She winked at him and he blushed. She was joking right back.

“Oh. A—A noumenon is a thing which is, is real, but unmeasurable—the flip side of phenomenon. A phenomenon can be touched, tested, while a noumenon …” He wasn’t sure if he was explaining this right. For a moment he wished for sobriety. “What is a thought? What is a value, or a moral? These things exist, they’re real, but the thing itself can’t be directly measured.”

“But how does that relate to your mission?”

“The convoy’s gonna go to this star, see. Variable star, which is a phenomenon. A thing to poke and prod and study. But for me, it will always be unknowable. It’s real, but unreachable. That doesn’t make it a literal noumenon, but it … it feels fitting to me. There are things I can never know, things humanity can never know—or, hell, maybe I’m wrong and nothing is unknowable, nothing unmeasurable. But that just means the noumenal world is fleeting, a vast frontier.”

She nodded to herself. “Noumenon. Okay. I think I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because I already sent in the paperwork, and I’m pretty sure it’s too late to change it.”

She giggled and inched closer to him. “What do you love about them?” she asked quietly. He looked over just as a light breeze whipped her hair across her face and she tucked it back.

“Who?”

She laughed louder. “The stars.”

He thought about it for a moment. “They’re pretty. Hold on, let me finish.” He held up a finger to stave off further snickering. “Pretty, but dangerous. Powerful. And … strange. They’re mysterious to me. They’re like lighthouses. Each one is different, and each is sometimes the only part of a system we can see.”

“Lighthouses,” she murmured. “I like that.”

“I wanted to be an astronaut. Still do.” He hadn’t admitted that since his undergrad days. It was a private dream, and he hadn’t told anyone in a long time for fear of seeming childish. But now … “To go into space—to see Earth as just another twinkling dot. If this dot can contain so much, but seem from afar like all the others—what else is out there?”

“You’re a king of infinite space,” she said wistfully.

He grinned, though he didn’t understand. “What?”

“It’s from Hamlet. Your world could be the size of a walnut, but your mind gives you infinite space to explore. You’re here on Earth, but the universe is your playground.”

He liked the idea. It was a comforting concept. He pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket. “C? Make me a note: read Hamlet again. All the way through this time.”

She laughed once more, and Reggie was sure he’d found his favorite sound in all the world.

FEBRUARY 5,-28 LD
2097 CE

… Convoy Seven has been assigned the mission designated Noumenon, the express purpose of which is to visit the star LQ Pyx, determine the cause of its variable output, conduct in-depth proximity research for two decades, and return home to educate earthbound researchers with regard to its origin, scientific significance, and viability as a resource …

The sweet smell of buttercream frosting mixed with the pungent scent of black coffee. Under the fluorescent lights of the campus meeting hall, toasts were made and welcomes were given. It was supposed to be a party—the first time all of Reggie’s team members were together in the same place—but he wanted nothing more than to get down to business.

His team consisted of a baker’s dozen head thinkers, each in charge of a subteam—people Reggie had never counted on meeting—who would really make the work come together.

Now his team leaders were all here, in person. They represented five countries, and two thirds of them were still jetlagged. They only had a few short days together before everyone was expected back at their respective posts and day jobs, so a party—even one as casual as this—felt like an unnecessary drain on their scant resources.

“Breathe, my boy. Relax. Give them all a chance to unwind before you throw new loads on their backs,” said Dr. McCloud. He’d retired after convincing the dean to hire Reggie, but had returned to share in this meeting of the minds.

“But we don’t have much time. And teleconferencing is a bitch.”

“Oh, I know, I know.” A sly grin crossed McCloud’s lips, an expression akin to one Reggie had seen many times during his graduate work.

“What?” he asked cautiously. “That look used to mean all-nighters.”

“No, no. I’m—you’re going to make an old fool say it, aren’t you?”

“Say what?”

“That I’m proud of you, Reggie. You’re so sure, so focused. You’ve gained so much confidence since that day I soiled your pants for you.”

“Some people need a slap in the face—apparently I needed a lap full of beer.”

“I don’t think that little incident is what did it.”

“Then what?”

McCloud threw out his arms toward a comely Greek woman headed their way. “Confidence, thy name is Abigail Marinos.”

“Leonard.” She smiled warmly and accepted his hug. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“What, and miss our boy in action? Not in the cards. He won’t shake me till I’m a stiff.”

She laughed. “I hope not. I’ll be right back, Reggie. I have to go check on a group of students.”

“Afraid they’ll start tearing out pages for paper airplane material?” McCloud asked, clearly delighted by the idea.

“More afraid they’re all chatting on their implants instead of focusing on the assigned chapters. I swear—they adore pontificating about how much they love books, but most of them haven’t read squat.”

McCloud slapped Reggie on the back. “Knew plenty of those in my day.”

“What? I was a great student!”

McCloud laughed. Abigail leaned in and kissed Reggie. “Well, I know you’re great,” she said, then promptly left the room.

“Have you proposed to her yet? I’m not getting any younger, and I’d like to dance with her at your wedding before I die. Consider it a last request.”

Reggie patted McCloud’s tweed-covered shoulder. “Oh, you’ll be around for plenty more than that. She and I have talked about it—getting married. For a long time I was afraid to broach the subject.”

“Why was that?”

Reggie gestured around.

“Because of the project? I’ve heard a lot of lame excuses for a man keeping his emotions all knotted up in his bowels—”

With a light touch on the arm, Reggie interrupted him. “Because of the possibility. You know, that I might …”

“That they might put you onboard.”

“Exactly.”

Laughter erupted in a corner of the room, pulling them from that somber thought, and they both looked over to see Donald Matheson—the mission expert on social systems—doing a drunken chicken dance on one of the flimsy folding tables. His blue shirttails dangled freely from his trousers, and he made a strange sort of beak-like gesture around his overtly-large and very Roman nose.

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Reggie mumbled, moving in the direction of the ruckus.

McCloud stopped him. “You reap what you sow. Adults are the same as children—let them touch the stove once and they won’t touch it again. You were explaining why you haven’t driven off the cliff of marital bliss just yet.” Reggie tried, halfheartedly, to pull away, but the professor’s grip was firm. “Someone will catch him if he falls, Reggie. Damn it, I don’t get to see you that often these days, Straifer. Speak.”

Reggie shifted restlessly on his toes and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I asked years ago if she could come. The consortium made it clear that no nonessential personnel would be allowed. If I were to go, she couldn’t.” McCloud nodded; Reggie continued. “And it’s not like I’d be a soldier going off to war, with some slim chance of returning. It would be the end.”

“So, what was your plan? To break up? ‘Nice knowing you, kid, but duty calls’?”

McCloud tried to catch his eye, but Reggie avoided the stare. “Something like that. Hell, most relationships can’t survive being separated by state lines. You think one could stand up against AUs of disconnection with no chance of reunion?”

“So you didn’t talk about marriage because you were afraid of making a commitment to a relationship that might become intangible.”

“Right. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Especially her. She’d be here, going about life just the same, but without me. Without someone. I didn’t want to rob her of the chance to have a real partner, you know? To be bound and loyal to a ghost, when there are so many flesh-and-blood possibilities …”

“But now you’ve talked about it. What changed? You decided to stay?”

Reggie smiled. “The decision was made for me. The consortium knows how it wants to populate the convoys, and I’m not on the list.”

“Ah. So now you’ll finally pop the question.”

“Yeah. And I know she’ll say yes. I just have to find the right ring and the right time.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. Now that you’ve made your choice, the right time is always now. After all, I’m not the only one that time’s pushing along. If you want to get her pregnant you’ll have to do it soon.”

Reggie frowned—he was amused, but Heaven forbid McCloud know that. “You’re toeing the line there, professor.”

“I’m not anyone’s professor anymore. Just some old blowhard tossing his BS at a wall, hoping some will stick. Let’s grab some of that cake, get a good sugar-high going, and talk to some of your colleagues here, eh? I know you’re champing at the bit. And look, Mr. Matheson is still with us—all in one piece.”

A few minutes later Reggie had the team gathered round. On a party napkin he drew a quick diagram while speaking through a mouthful of cake. He had C operating on his tablet, and it was synched with a wall screen. “There are going to be nine ships—is that correct?”

“That is correct, sir,” said C, bringing up proposed concept sketches for some, and a few basic schematics for those that were already rolling on production lines.

“Thanks, but I was asking Nakamura.”

Nakamura Akane, head of the specialty-ship design team, nodded concisely. Her eyes were a dark brown-and-gold under harshly cropped black bangs. Her expression carried the utmost seriousness, and her powerful, pointed movements were what Reggie might have expected from a strapping Russian man, not a petite Japanese women.

Matheson pointed flippantly at the tablet. “You still have an IPA? I thought those things were extinct. Nobody likes them. Too chatty.”

“Its name is C—it’s not a beer,” Reggie said. “And I like it. It’s been with me a long time. Keeps me on schedule, and keeps me company in the lab.”

“No picking on my lad for his choice of friends,” McCloud said.

“Can we get back to the ships?” asked Dr. Sachta Dhiri in her heavy, bubbling accent. Her focus was observational tactics and strategy. She was a plump woman, and wore a well-loved green-and-gold salwar kameez; the long tunic and billowing trousers were faded from many years of washing. “What on Earth—pardon the expression—is the use of nine? They’d need shuttles to travel to and from. Think of the extra fuel that would require. Not to mention the wear and tear accrued. Isn’t it more practical to put everything into one ship?”

“No,” Matheson said plainly.

“Care to elaborate?”

“We on the design teams think each research division could use its own ship,” Akane jumped in. “And then there are the supplies. It’s not practical to make each ship entirely self-sustaining, what with the number of crew members the consortium wants the convoys to consist of: sixty to one hundred thousand. So, while some food and water, etcetera, will be kept aboard each ship, the majority of the supplies will have to be stored and maintained separately. Otherwise we’d need ships larger than we can currently build.”

“One hundred thou … That’s—that’s over a million people. Twelve convoys and a million people,” Dr. Dhiri said. “They want to send one million people into space? Where are they going to find that many volunteers—expert volunteers? Do they want to send as many of our scientists, engineers, and thinkers off-world as they can, and hope everyone else picks up the slack?”

Reggie and Akane shared a look. “I know,” said Reggie, lapping at a smear of buttercream at the corner of his mouth. “I thought it sounded crazy, too. Before I talked to Matheson and learned exactly what the consortium has in mind.”

All eyes turned to Matheson. He sobered up quickly. “Um, yeah. My preproject research focused on social stability in isolated societies. And what’s more isolated than a bunch of self-contained space cans, am I right? Obviously there are thousands of factors that go into societal consistency, but one is size. Size in terms of both population and area. If you have too many people in a small area, you get claustrophobic reactions. Too few people in too large an area and you get subgroups, like rival tribes.

“What we want is a single, united convoy. But not a trapped convoy—that’s why the social practicality of several ships outweighs the engineering practicality of trying to cram it all into one space. People need to feel like they can move or else they start feeling like they’re prisoners; like they’re entombed. The multiple ships and the ability to travel between them will give them a sense of range and movement unachievable otherwise.

“It’s more than that, though. Because while the crew members will be divided by department, we don’t want them to become competitive. That’s why it’s essential there be a home base—a place everyone thinks of as the place they collectively belong. A unifying location, if you will. That means a ship whose sole purpose is housing. Then each research division gets its own ship. And finally, there’s got to be a ship fully dedicated to resources—food and water processing. Specialization will ensure each ship be tailored for optimum efficiency. No worries about making it suitable for multipurpose.”

“Okay,” interrupted Dhiri, “but what does that have to do with a crew of one hundred thousand? Wouldn’t it work just as well with ten thousand? Or two hundred?”

C spoke up. “According to the files I have marked Scale Studies one through sixty-three, two hundred people would be thirty-seven percent more likely than ten thousand to incur full crew psychological breakdown, which may lead to hallucination, mutiny, and murder. It is the perfect size for a mob.”

“Like the PA says: No,” said Matheson. “Not for our purposes. It’s all about checks and balances. You need a certain number of people in order to put pressure on those who might be disruptive. And a certain number of people to compensate if something drastic happens.

“We have to remember that the crew members aren’t from a society that’s always been isolated. Their group will have been dramatically severed from its parent culture, and they will be fully aware of that parent culture and what they’re not getting from it. Psychologically, they will go through identity crises. This could potentially tear them apart, but we’ll be giving them every opportunity to band together.”

“More people equals a greater shared identity,” Reggie added. “It means for each person who wants to reject the situation, there should be hundreds who can apply direct pressure to accept the situation.”

“And the nine ships should give such a large population enough room to roam,” said C. Blue digital wire skeletons lit up on the wall, revealing distances from end-to-end for each ship as well as all available passenger floor space.

“But how do you know there’ll be an acceptable internal-breakdown to external-pressure ratio? What if they all get cabin fever and start clawing at the walls? Madness can feed madness,” said McCloud. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his hanky.

“That does pose a problem. Along with the sheer number of volunteers it would take. But we think we’ve found a solution. Success is still not guaranteed, but it ups our chances considerably.” Though his tone carried confidence, Matheson paused and scratched his chin, hesitant to continue.

“A solution, yes.” Nakamura nodded, but didn’t look happy. “A controversial one.”

“Eighty-six percent of experts presented with this idea rejected it outright upon initial suggestion,” said C.

“Are you going to tell us what it is, or do we have to keep listening to this saying-without-saying, nonconversation?” McCloud asked.

“The solution—”

“To give you a half answer, Professor: genetics,” Reggie said, temporarily hitting mute on the PA’s feed, cutting C off. “The crew has been chosen based largely on their DNA and histones. On top of that, the consortium is getting full psych evals and family histories. There are predispositions that have been left out. Those with violent tendencies won’t be aboard, or those who lack loyalty, or those who are flighty—”

“No anarchists allowed, eh?”

Reggie nodded. “Or dictators, or psychopaths, misogynists, etcetera. No matter how intellectually brilliant they are, without the proper emotional factors—emotional intelligence, if you will—they will hinder societal stability, and could endanger the mission’s success.”

“Utopia?” McCloud ventured.

“I doubt it. But hopefully less chance of dystopia.”

“Interesting.” McCloud lost himself in thought for a moment. “So, if we’re discussing stability and assuring positive interactions, that must mean the consortium intends for the crew—the entire crew—to be awake at all times? No automated birthing systems for a payload of frozen embryos or the like?”

“Right. I supported the mech-based auto-birth option, but they’ve since rejected it. Said the risk of malfunction and mission failure were too high.” Reggie shrugged.

The old professor was clearly determined to hold on to his skepticism. “A hundred thousand people, all awake, all volunteers—no embryos—all as stable intellectually and emotionally as we can screen for, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Matheson said.

“And how does the consortium propose to get all these lovely people in one place?”

“There are no guarantees,” Reggie said. “It’s not foolproof.”

“Is anything?” chimed in Nakamura.

“Exactly,” Reggie said.

McCloud glanced between them, cynicism furrowing his brow. “The geneticists have their work cut out for them. What, do they expect to test all nine billion of us on the planet and just hope they end up with the right number of volunteers with the right set of traits?”

“That’s why I love you, professor,” said Reggie, slapping the old man’s shoulder.

“Because I bring the obvious to the table?”

“Exactly,” he said again, this time with a wink. “If we allow generations to pass, we can’t control who the convoy carries for the majority of its journey. We’re being denied frozen embryos, and we don’t have the technology to freeze and thaw adults. We also can’t be assured the consortium will find one million people who fit their remarkably narrow criteria. So, what’s the answer?”

“I don’t like riddles,” McCloud said. “Clearly you, Matheson, and Nakamura here already know what’s happening, so spit it out.”

Nakamura bowed her head graciously. “I apologize, but you must understand our hesitancy to … It won’t be announced publicly for years. The consortium doesn’t want the real plan out yet, because public knowledge could equal complications. There’s a bit of a moral dilemma surrounding their top option.”

“Which is?” McCloud leaned in.

She looked to Reggie, and he nodded reassuringly, adding, “He’ll stay quiet. If not, I know where to find him.”

She turned back to McCloud. “They want to send clones.”

Reggie unmuted C, who immediately said, “Isn’t that interesting?”

MAY 29,-26 LD
2099 CE

When Reggie stepped out of customs at London Heathrow, C exclaimed, “He’s over there, over there!”

Reggie had his phone synced with his implants. As his eyes scanned the crowd—passing over families decked out in Union Jack T-shirts, business people in gray suits, and security guards with drug-sniffing dogs—C had run a facial recognition app for its creator: Jamal Kaeden.

Reggie waved at the man C indicated, and the two swam through the throngs, dodging baggage carts and people too focused on their implants to watch where they were going. Jamal was only perhaps half a foot taller than Reggie, but his lankiness gave the impression that he was a tower of a man. Neatly sheared dreadlocks were gathered in a ponytail at the base of his neck. He smiled broadly while they shook hands, and his smile shone bright white in his dark face.

“And this is C,” Reggie said, holding up his phone to display the open PA avatar. C presented as a shifting green-and-purple fractal design. While the system allowed the user to set whatever avatar they wanted from an extensive list of customizable displays—everything from human faces to insects to galaxies—Reggie had let C choose its own form.

“All right, C?” Jamal greeted the program, but then looked at Reggie quizzically. “You didn’t rename it? C is just its personality type indication—you’re supposed to call it whatever you want.”

“Oh, I know. I had a hard time coming up with one, though, and it seemed happy enough referring to itself as C, so I left it. Not very creative of me.”

“C is a good name,” C agreed.

Jamal smiled again, clearly tickled. “My colleagues—blinkered sometimes, the lot of ’em—keep asking why I continue to create patches for the Cs now that AI personalities have fallen out of style, but I knew someone out there must enjoy them as much as I do. I used to patch Gs and Ks, but no one was downloading them. C is the only one still hanging on. Can I tell you a secret, C? You were always my favorite anyway. I still use C on my tablet.”

“Thank you, sir,” it said, sounding genuinely flattered.

Jamal showed Reggie to his tiny electric car. The project had taken Reggie all over the place, and he’d learned to travel light, so cramming his baggage into the two-door wasn’t much of a hassle. They drove to Reggie’s hotel with the windows down. Rain had soaked the city a few hours before, and everything smelled damp and renewed.

“You have an interesting accent,” Reggie noted during the ride.

“Algerian,” Jamal explained. “Lived there until I was ten. It’s my mother’s home country.” He explained that she’d come to the UK for university, where she’d met his father. After graduation they married and went to Africa to teach. They lived there for fifteen years until Jamal’s paternal grandparents had fallen ill and the family had relocated to London. “I’m a man of two nations.”

After dropping off Reggie’s luggage, they went to Jamal’s firm for a tour. “I thought you’d be knackered after your flight,” Jamal said when they reached his workspace. Four monitors sat in a semicircle on the desk, each covered with a series of Post-it notes and conversion charts and reminder stickers. “Was going to spiff up the place tomorrow morning.”

“I’m too wired. And C probably couldn’t wait,” he said with a small laugh. “Besides, it’s fine. My workspace is ten times worse.”

The computer engineering firm took up the forty-third floor in a glass high-rise within six blocks of the famous Gherkin. They had a hardware subgroup and a software subgroup, and Reggie had done enough research on Mr. Kaeden to know he did a lot of crossover work. He was the best AI specialist in the world, as far as Reggie was concerned.

Which meant the mission needed him.

They strolled over to the long bank of windows and Jamal showed off the view. He pointed out several of the visible London highlights. “So, why are you here, Dr. Straifer?” he asked when they’d finished with the cursory pleasantries. “None of the other project leaders have wanted to visit the firm, let alone asked to have a chin wag with me specifically. It’s the ship engineers who’re most interested in the computer systems.”

“My lead engineer—Dr. Akane Nakamura, you might have heard of her—told me that none of the convoys are set to use intelligent personal assistants in their user interfaces.”

Jamal shrugged. “Because most people think they’re duff. Irritating window dressing. Sorry, C.”

“What is ‘irritating window dressing’?” C asked. Both men ignored it.

“Well I don’t think it’s, uh, duff. And I want my project to have one,” Reggie insisted. “Actually, I want it to have C.”

Jamal sat quiet for a moment. He seemed pleased, but concerned. “That’s smashing,” he eventually said. “But it won’t be easy to sort. C’s line isn’t set up for personalization on the order we’re talking about—no PA has ever had to tailor itself to so many users. I couldn’t, for instance, just copy your version of C and upload it into the system. I’d have to start from scratch.”

“But could you make it like C, or use parts of C? There’s got to be a reason it’s hung on so long when the rest have gone extinct.”

“The basics can be the same, sure. But I don’t know if I can mirror its growth pattern. It’s easy to develop basic response algorithms these days for a single user, but … Imagine it’s a person, right? We learn how to interact differently than an AI. We’re far more responsive to nuanced variations. An intelligent PA isn’t like that. The more users it interfaces with, the less likely it is to develop a unique personality, because it becomes an amalgamation that imitates the larger pattern. In other words, I don’t know that I can give you your C, or anyone else’s C. Even if it starts off as a basic C right out of the package, it might stay that primitive forever.”

“What if you had over twenty years’ worth of funding to focus on developing a convoy-wide, hundred-thousand-count user base Intelligent Personal Assistant? I don’t want every device to have its own PA, I want a singular entity that can interact with everyone.”

“And you’ve got the funding for that?” Jamal shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, his lips pursed skeptically.

“I’ve been given discretionary funding so that I can find private, invaluable people to work with. People the consortium may have overlooked.”

“And you want me?”

“I want you and C. This way, I get two invaluable people for the price of one.”

“AIs aren’t people.”

Reggie shrugged. “They can seem like people.”

Jamal nodded. “Yes, they can.”

“I think so, too,” said C.

Both men burst out laughing.