by David Brin
Glancing down at his bathrobe and slippers, he thought.
This isn’t appropriate. I wish—
—and voilà, in a whirl of what had to be simulation pixels, his attire changed, transforming into the gray suit he used to wear for interviews, back in days of Old TV.
That’s better. You know, I could get used to this.
Raising a fist, he knuckle-rapped on the door and waited … then knocked again, louder. But no one came. Nobody was home.
Ah well. In fact, that’s a good sign. People have things to do. Places to go. Folks to see and matters to attend to.
He had worried about that. Back home, some of the experts tried to explain about subjective time flow rates and the danger of interstellar ennui. They discussed a number of solutions. Such as sleep. Or slowing the mental clock rate. Or else keeping busy. Even a simulated mind must find many ways to survive the long epochs, with no way to affect or influence the external, objective universe.
They made it sound more cramped in here than it is, Hamish pondered, leaving the porch and launching himself again across the sky. Glancing back, he saw the little house diminish behind him. Soon, Hamish passed other constructions. One was a medieval castle, covered in vines. Another combined glassy globes and glistening spheres, in ways that he deemed much too modernist, impractical, even alien. I guess I’ll want to fashion a home of my own. Providing I learn how.
Or ever figure out how to get anywhere or meet anyone!
In fact, tedium was already setting in. The simulated reality’s expanse, which had seemed pleasingly vast, was now starting to frustrate and bug Hamish. It would help a lot if I met someone who could answer questions. I wish—
Behind him. A soft sound, like the chuffing of breath, an ahem-throat-clearing. While Hamish struggled to turn quickly, thwarted by the queer footing, a voice spoke.
“It is good of you to join us at last, Mr. Brookeman. Might I be of assistance?”
“Thanks. I could really use—”
Hamish stopped, his mouth freezing shut when he saw the figure who had popped into being behind him.
Rotund-chubby, its roundish head topped a height even taller than Hamish. The entity was also a much more massive being. Yet the impression wasn’t threatening. More Buddha-like, with slitted eyes that seemed permanently squinting in amusement. A thick-lipped mouth even curved slightly upward at the ends, as if with an enigmatic smile. There was no nose—breathy sounds came from stalky vents that opened and closed rhythmically, at the top of its head.
An alien. One of the artifact beings, among the earliest discovered, in the very first crystal the public ever saw. Hamish recognized the figure—who wouldn’t?
“Om,” he said, nodding a stiff bow of greeting. It stood for “Oldest Member.” “No one told me you’d be aboard.”
“Are you surprised to see me, in particular? Or any aliens at all?” Om seemed indulgently amused. “By the time this first batch of probes got launched, some compromises were made. Come now, you knew the reasons.”
Hamish recalled. There had been design flaws in the probes sent out by the home planet of Courier of Caution that carried just one simulated species aboard. The inhabitants of that world tried to copy only themselves into their warning-messengers, in order to help safeguard new worlds against infection, but the effort failed. Attempting to rip out every embedded trace of previous programming had resulted in a crystal that was too fragile, too easily corrupted. Apparently, if you were going to use this ancient technology, some of the older extraterrestrial personalities had to be included. For technical reasons.
“Well … so long as the mission remains—”
“—to alert other races about the Big Bad Space Virus Plague? And to offer them the Cure?
“Yes, that is still the plan, Mr. Brookeman. The function of this probe. This fleet. Perhaps, if we all are very lucky, we aboard this very crystal may get a chance to tell some bright new sapient species the wonderful news!”
Hamish raised an eyebrow, archly.
“And you don’t mind helping to spread the Cure? You were part of the plague!”
The Oldest Member shrugged, a human gesture that took some contortion, making Hamish realize that the entire conversation took place in flawless English. Well, it was already known that artifact beings could learn. A good thing, since Hamish planned to learn a lot.
“I suppose I was part of it, for millions of your years,” Om said. “So? Should I repent until eternity? Or shall I atone as best I can—with this new-improved version of myself—by assisting you humans in your sacred mission to help other cultures survive?”
Hamish felt his ersatz eyelids blink several times as he roiled with questions, objections! “But … but…”
“Look,” Om said. “You wanted help. You wished for a guide. Shall I assist you now, and answer your prudish denunciations later? There will be plenty of time, believe me.
“Moreover, let me point out one central fact. That there is no way to go back to Earth and alter the situation. Our probe is dispatched and on its way, beyond any conceivable recall. As you humans say: what’s done is done.”
A pause. Then Hamish sighed with a shrug of his own. And a nod.
“Very well. Then teach me.”
Om bowed with evident satisfaction, giving Hamish a clear view of the breathing vents, puffing like flexible chimneys atop the alien’s bulbous head.
“What would you like to see first, Mr. Brookeman? I will take you. And along the way I shall explain a thing or two about scale.”
90.
TRANSPARENCY
Hamish soon realized why he’d been having so much trouble getting anywhere. As one of the institute boffins once explained it, the inner world of crystal probe was limited, yet there were ways to cleverly maximize its sense of roominess. As an inhabitant, you could adjust yourself down to any number of “fractal levels” of size. The smaller you shrank, the more personal space you had. And the greater your freedom to make things happen simply by wanting them to.
The boffins had warned (while ninety-year-old Hamish half slept through tedious briefings) that entities aboard a crystal probe could “die,” vanishing from any future contact with the universe. One way for this to happen was for the simulated being to dive way down the scale ladder, plunging smaller, ever smaller—into realms where wishes and magic reigned, and where you became too small to matter anymore, to anyone back in the “real” world.
That is, unless a new civilization starts dissecting your probe. Or tries building uncontaminated versions. That’s when we discovered hidden ones are always there, tucked inside the atom-by-atom structure of the crystal itself, but able to rise out of deep scale-dormancy, protecting the virus and its self-serving mission.
No wonder it had taken decades to perfect the Cure.
“Let me show you the way,” Oldest Member told Hamish. “Try to follow me.” And he departed … without traveling or even leaving. Instead, Om started growing larger.
Hamish, who had spent most of his life as the tallest person in almost any room, didn’t like the sensation of tilting his head to stare up at a giant. It added to his sense of motivation—wanting to catch up with the alien. If only there were a bottle labeled “drink me.” There’s got to be a trick to it!
Focusing hard on changing his sense of scale—on growing—he found that the secret was more a matter of looking in a certain way. Expecting to see things that you can’t control. Makes sense, he thought as the blob shrank beneath his feet and he began scaling up to follow Om. If going small gives you power to alter everything around you, then getting large entails coming to terms with what you can’t change.
He could see the logic of it all. Tiny beings would have lots of subjective space around them, to erect their ideal homes, virtual companions, games and distractions, while not interfering with any of the crystal vessel’s other official inhabitants. On the other hand, if you choose to grow big enough to interact with other uploaded passengers, th
en you must accept the same concept that thwarted most humans—as babes and again in adolescence—the harsh fact that other beings may not want the same thing that you do.
Funny perspective though, Hamish thought. Looking down, he still seemed to be in a vast world of cloudy shapes. But lifting his eyes, Hamish began to discern something up-and-ahead … like a dome of dark color, obscured by both distance and a strange mist. Following Om’s lead, he began walking toward that distant dome, while continuing to grow.
Hamish noticed—it was more difficult to move at this scale. His feet now felt a bit heavy and the surface under them somehow stickier. Progress wasn’t exactly hard, but it took some effort, like striding into a stiff breeze. Or being held by gravity.
At last Hamish could make out some of those other figures that had seemed so distant and blurry before. Two humans and a mantislike alien emerged from a fog bank at one point, sparing him a nod of slight greeting as they hurried by, apparently too busy to stop and chat. Hamish felt a little miffed, but shrugged it off.
Minutes later, he spotted a sleek, gray-blue dolphin suddenly pop out of some nearby clouds. Arching and swimming closer, its flukes thrashed at what seemed to be air, yet the creature moved swiftly and energetically, as if the muscular torso and tail were powering their way through water. Two passengers rode atop the cetacean’s slick back, clinging to its dorsal fin. Blinking in surprise, Hamish noted a monkey and what looked like a very large, grinning, cartoon rat.
The monkey pointed and chattered, prompting the dolphin to veer close toward Hamish and Om, swerving at the last moment before speeding off. For an instant, it felt as if a splash-wave of invisible water enveloped Hamish, chill and wet. Dolphin chattered and monkey shrieked as they receded. Even Om chuckled, while Hamish teetered toward outrage … then instead chose mild, wry amusement.
“Good one,” he admitted. It took just moments for that damp illusion to evaporate as the two of them resumed their forward-upward march.
Soon he realized, all the giant glob-clouds had become a fog of infinitesimal droplets and bubbles, collecting and parting in shreds of haze that swirled around. Especially ahead of them, obscuring vision. Hamish leaned forward against the uphill climb and a resisting pressure, eager to reach that dome he had seen, catching an occasional glimpse of sparkles on satin, somewhere ahead …
… until, abruptly, he and Om finally pushed through cloudy shreds. And Hamish sighed.
There they are, at last.
The stars.
What he had taken for a dome was just one sector of a great ceiling—the curved window-interface between a crystal cylinder’s interior and the universe outside.
Space.
A twentieth century man, Hamish had grown up associating the vast realm outside with romance. Adventure. Even though his own tales about Bad Science cynically ridiculed that notion, calling outer space an immense vacuum-desert punctuated by rare oasis-specks, a part of that old feeling nevertheless drew him toward the barrier, plodding and climbing against increasing resistance.
It’s not the interstellar travel we were promised. The warp drives and grand ships and sexy alien princesses. The star battles and empires and utopian colonies and melding of great civilizations, each learning from the others.
This way is both simpler and more practical, while far riskier on an individual basis. Just one of my thousands of copies may actually meet living beings on some far world, helping them to survive and thrive.
Still, it really is interstellar travel.
Wow. I’m a voyager, crossing the galaxy!
“The friction gets more intense as you approach,” Om commented on how hard Hamish found himself working, as he pushed closer to the barrier—so much like a membrane separating the outer world from the living interior of a cell. “And it can be very cold. Unless you approach with the help and companionship of others.”
Just ahead, Hamish could sense the frigid chill of space. He reached out and, for a moment, he felt as large as a virtual being could possibly be, inside this crystal vessel. Briefly, the hand near the wall seemed as big as the rest of him combined. Perhaps even full life-size—twelve centimeters wide at the palm—pushing toward the inner wall of a “ship” that was itself less than two meters long.
Someday I may stand here and press my hand against that wall when it’s warmed by an alien sun. And on the other side will be a living being. A member of some new race, innocent and promising. Bringing close a hand or feeler or paw of its own.
For some reason, pondering that encounter filled Hamish with as much anticipation as he used to get from fame, or sex, or any conceivable accomplishment. Well, that made a kind of sense …
… but stretching toward the interface took exhausting effort and the space-cold was harsh. He let his hand drop and stumbled back a few paces toward the mist, feeling himself shrink in scale.
Hamish turned to his alien guide.
“Well then? Let’s go find some others.”
91.
REFLECTIVITY
He saw it soon.
As they traveled together “forward,” striding toward the bow of this great crystal ship, Hamish glanced past the curved wall and spied a rippling arc that crossed the Milky Way at a steep angle. On one side, the vast spray of stars looked normal, untwinkling, and vastly numerous. (I wonder, have the constellations already changed?) But just ahead of that demarcation the pinpoints seemed to waver just a bit, as if reflecting off the surface of a gently curved pool.
Hamish realized, with a thrill.
It’s the sail!
A great sheet of atom-thin fabric, more than a hundred kilometers wide, intelligently reactive and nearly foolproof, it would accept the propulsive push of human-built lasers, reflecting photons, transferring their momentum to its slender cargo, propelling Hamish and his companions ever faster across the great gulf. And, upon arrival, the sail would turn, using the new sun’s light as a counter force to brake momentum. Whereupon—after many elongated orbits and planetary swings—it would finally guide this crystal ship into the warm hearth-zone where living worlds lay. Bearing a message from Earth to its faraway target.
“We will find more people at the very most forward end of the ship, discussing matters having to do with the sail,” Om said.
While Hamish felt eager to speed the pace, he could sense his companion slowing down a bit, as if suddenly reluctant. When he glanced at Om, the alien pursed those thick, expressive lips.
“I should warn you. This vessel was loaded with some … unconventional personalities. Your leaders ignored our best advice about what type of entities should be added to an emissary crew, in order to maximize their individual chances of survival. I’m afraid some of our crewmates will not last all the way to our far destination.”
But when Hamish pressed for details, the creature lifted a three-pronged hand. “I have already overstepped the bounds of propriety. I just felt that you should be prepared for some … eccentricity.”
Hamish refrained from answering. But inside he knew. If they banned human eccentrics from uploading, I would never have been given a single slot, let alone ten thousand, no matter how popular or famous I was. Diversity is our strength. It will remain so, till we stop being human.
The domelike ceiling was starting to curve more, tapering over in front of them as they kept taking giant strides forward. And soon Hamish made out figures—both human and alien—who stood in clusters near an array of holo tanks, flat screens, and instrumentalities.
Of course. If this is a ship, then there must be a control room. A “bridge.”
Hamish picked up his pace, hurrying toward the group … and soon realized that he had better start getting smaller, too. Of course, the people down there would have reduced their fractal scale factor. How else could they wish into existence things like knobs and levers and screens? Anyway, he couldn’t interact with them as a giant, could he? If those people looked up now, they might only see him as a nebulously man-shaped cloud.
The most colorful creature was something like a hybrid between a human and a bird of paradise—two slim legs and a feminine contour were covered with iridescent down. Shimmering flight feathers hung from slim arms, like the folds of a cape, leading back to a magnificent, curved tail. Even the beak melded gracefully into a face that might be a movie starlet’s. The creature was squawking and gesticulating at a human woman, whose good looks were very ordinary by comparison—a nice figure and glossy brown hair, streaked with stylish gray. She wore a snug T-shirt emblazoned with an eye-emblem, inside a giant letter “Q,” rimmed by a bold statement: YOU MAY SOON BE TYPICAL.
There were others nearby, two more humans and an alien whom he knew he ought to recognize. This ET—bipedal with sleek reddish fur—was almost as famous as the Oldest Member, though its name wouldn’t come to mind.
As he both descended and shrank, Hamish felt a strange sense of power starting to form at his fingertips, as if they now contained some kind of magic. Like before, when he changed his bathrobe into a neat suit of clothes. Ah, yes. Smaller scale meant more could happen at whim. The sensation made him feel tempted to just keep going, diminishing past this fractal level to check out the realms of instant wish-fulfillment.
But I always enjoyed being tall.
Hamish slowed down his approach and turned to Om.
“I know that woman. The rich science junky, Lacey Donaldson-Sander. She seems a lot younger than when she passed away, decades before I…”
Hamish realized that he had no idea how to speak of dates and time. Perhaps the control center could bring him up to speed about such things.
“As do you, my friend,” Om commented.
“Hm, yeah. I guess I do. As for the others. They look familiar. But could you help me, before we land among them? That ET who looks like a crimson otter—”