Therefore I will never find out how the second generation differed from the first. Adam and Eve 1.0 now are only unrealized possibilities, like in quantum physics when a decision happens by chance. I imagine a universe in which they did not die, perhaps because Messenger started a month later and was therefore less affected by the shockwave. They would be born, grow up, explore Proxima b, and finally die. However, this branch of history does not seem much kinder to me. Ultimately Adam and Eve 2.0, who are currently waiting for my OK in the incubation chamber, would have no chance there, either.
But was this really a chance, an opportunity? Or were my passengers facing the worst punishment imaginable: A life of solitude they had not chosen, for which no one had asked their approval? At this moment, I have the ability to save them from long years of torment and pain. If I do not give the starting signal to the incubation chamber, the fertilized cells will not develop into human beings. I feel the burden of responsibility the Creator has placed on me even more so than I did the first time. It seems to strangle my throat. I understand this was necessary. If, for instance, I was no longer functional, Adam and Eve would have to grow up without me. They will not need me in the incubation chamber, but afterward... I don’t even want to imagine two newborns alone in a spaceship.
What would happen if I deactivate the incubation chamber? The mission would fail, and no one would ever find out the reason why. If the passengers are not born, Messenger would keep its current form. The ship would keep flying through the void of space for a very long time. I would be alone until I maneuver the ship into a star. I don’t know whether I could stand that. To be honest, I have to admit I am already looking forward to my coming role as a father.
December 25, 1
It is Christmas today. I have been feeling strange since I awakened this morning. I do not understand this, because in my home country the first of January is more the time for family gatherings. And apart from this, the way that time is calculated on board Messenger is entirely arbitrary. A day is simply the period in which the atomic clock counts 24 hours. The first of January was the day I awakened, according to plan—the Creator determined it this way. Due to our high velocity, time passes more slowly on board than it does on Earth. I could calculate which date a calendar back there shows, but it would ultimately be irrelevant. Here it is December 25th, it is Christmas, and the solitude weighs on me even more because of it.
At least it is fitting that my Christmas present is finally finished. The fabricators built a small quantum computer unit. I have been waiting to get it for almost a year. I actually modified the construction program so that this project would be finished today. I only vaguely remember what it was like to work with such a computer. Perhaps the feeling could be compared to switching from a bicycle to a sports car. A quantum computer is so incredibly powerful, as it is not limited to solving one task after another, like a normal computer, but can manage a whole collection of tasks at once. It does not just calculate the answer to 7 times 8, it performs all multiplications of two numbers simultaneously.
I still have not opened my present. Grandfather Frost has handed me a colorfully-wrapped box, and I enjoy looking at it. During this moment, the feeling of solitude is gone. I am once again a little boy, feeling my mother’s callused hand on my shoulder. I carefully untie the ribbons. I have to integrate the quantum computer into Messenger’s system, so I can access it.
Now the time has come. I deactivate the external sensors in order to concentrate more fully. My consciousness retreats into itself. It is not dark, like when one closes one’s eyes, but bright, as bright as I want it to be. I see myself in a green meadow. I am a boy of maybe ten years, wearing short pants that are much too wide and are held up by suspenders on my scrawny, naked torso. It is summer. The sun is hot and there is a smell of hay. Strangely enough, no sound can be heard. Directly in front of me is a door—only a door—without a house around it. I walk around the door once and then I open it. My anticipation is mixed with a bit of anxiety. I know I ran on a quantum computer once before, but what if my mind has become incompatible due to the long period spent on a conventional computer?
To my disappointment, I see that the meadow continues beyond the door. I carefully cross the threshold. Ground and grass, sun and air—nothing seems to change. The door disappears. Once again I stand alone in the green meadow, feeling tears well up in my eyes. At the same time, I watch the little boy from the outside and see his hand wipe something from his cheek. The movement reminds me of something. I once again know what it is like to be functioning inside a quantum computer. I want to call out, tell it to the boy, but he already realizes it. He starts flapping his arms and he rises into the air. He is flying like a bird, and I can sense his enthusiasm. A tear starts running down my cheek.
January 1, 2
One year. Our little world has been underway for a whole year. The euphoria I experienced from switching to the quantum computer has dissipated. I am still alone and have been for 12 months. I begin to talk to the incubation chamber. It is the most intelligent of all onboard systems, so it would be able to adapt to all contingencies in order to safeguard the development of Adam and Eve. Yet, it is not even close to being a fully-functioning artificial intelligence. I have started to increase its knowledge of the world. At this point the chamber does not just possess knowledge of biology, but also of games like chess and Go, and it has downloaded Omnipedia.
Yet it is still difficult to hold a conversation with the chamber. It simply does not know how to handle questions. I might tell it a story from my youth, and it would try to regard it as a question to be answered.
“During summer vacations, when we had more than two months off from school, my father sometimes took me fishing,” I say, initiating a conversation.
The incubation chamber replies, “Do you want to know something about fish?”
“My father and my brother fished using hand grenades. That wasn’t completely legal, but afterward we ate nothing but fish for a whole week,” I continue.
“I understand you want to find out more about the Russian legal system.”
The incubation chamber just could not help it, nevertheless I still like it. After all, there is no one else to talk to.
“I still like you, incubation chamber,” I say.
“I like you, too,” it replies.
I had programmed this answer into its memory.
Of course, our conversations do not use human language. This is neither necessary nor possible. Currently, Messenger does not possess an air-filled cavity where language could propagate, but this will change before too long. The fabricators are running slightly behind schedule because they have to remove the shield first. This particular material is used to slowly build the rooms where Adam and Eve are going to spend their first few months. These areas are located deep in Messenger’s belly. There, the two are optimally insulated and can be supplied well with whatever is necessary. These rooms do not need windows, since there is nothing to see.
The encounter with the shockwave really messed up the overall schedule, although I don’t think this will affect the chances for a successful mission. Adam and Eve will not yet be 18 years old when we reach the planet; they will be a few months younger than that. They will be able to handle it. The Creator chose their genetic material carefully.
Eighteen years. The first of January will repeat itself at least 18 times before we reach our destination. I can hardly grasp this number. What does this mean for me? I don’t grow older, and my body—the spaceship—does not wear out. Quite the opposite—it gets stronger and better day by day. Is this the future of human life? An immortal existence that grows more powerful with age? Or is this just a nightmare?
April 13, 2
It is the fifth month.
Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Eve’s heart beats with a faster rhythm. She just woke up. There is something, she thinks, and then she kicks with her legs. She feels the acceleration—the only force acting on her—un
til her head bumps softly against the inner lining of the incubation chamber. She notices the light in front of her, even though her eyes are closed. She has yet to understand the concept of ‘yesterday’ and ‘today,’ but the light is something unknown. It is new—it has never been here before. This is the first discovery she makes in her life. A limitless number of others will follow, but she does not know this yet. The feeling of having discovered something is also new. Her tiny heart is beating faster. She places an arm on her belly, near the spot where the umbilical cord comes in.
Baba-boom. Baba-boom. Baba-boom.
Adam is moving in the next compartment. Warmth and sound—those are the sensations determining his life, and the sound just changed. His brain sends signals to his circulatory system. He moves arms and legs, and this is an attempt to reverse the changes. Innumerable others will follow, but he too does not know this yet. Still, he won’t stop doing this.
Baba-boom, baba-boom, baba-boom.
The incubation chamber records the distinctive heartbeat. It analyzes what is happening inside it. Adam and Eve are awake, and everything is within the normal range. It looks for a suitable action in its memory. Then it causes vibrations on the outer lining of the chamber so that the tune of an old lullaby from Earth propagates inside, with simple harmonies. It sounds as if a woman were singing under water.
But the harmonies reach their recipients. They encounter ancient patterns in Eve’s brain that show her everything is alright. They tell her ‘light is good,’ even though it is a new experience. ‘Warmth is good,’ and ‘the muffled rhythm is good,’ which sounds similar to her own heartbeat, or rather, like an echo. A feeling grows in her that she will later call trust.
The lullaby also arrives in Adam’s compartment. His heart follows the new rhythm and beats more slowly again. Three minutes later his consciousness descends again into the sphere of sleep, where it experiences absolute freedom that later will only remain an echo.
June 5, 2
Something that should not be possible happened: I received a signal from Proxima b. At the time, I was not consciously listening. It was obvious nothing could come from the direction of our destination. All of mankind watched the giant flare, and Messenger barely survived the shockwave. The planet orbits its star so closely that hardly anything could have survived there—certainly not whoever had once asked Earth for help.
They had sought help from mankind, which really could not even help itself! No matter. It was a call for help, the scientists had agreed. It came from the planet we are aiming for, and it ended with the enormous eruption of the red dwarf.
So what did I just receive? The code base of the signal is identical to the message previously received on Earth—I checked that right away. Could it be some kind of echo? The only possible source was Proxima b. Maybe someone managed to survive there in spite of everything. It was assumed during mission planning that we would only find the remains of extraterrestrials. Perhaps I should modify the expansion plan for Messenger before we reach our destination. Will we need weapons? Are we walking into a trap, attracted by a pot of honey?
Psychologists considered this highly unlikely, or rather, thought it a typical form of human logic. Basically, space is really huge, and one would hardly set a trap in order to wait for potential victims. The waiting time would be long, almost eternal. A conventional spaceship might have taken some 80 years. Can one build a trap if such timespans are involved?
I look at the signal again. Taking our current position into account, it has the same exact strength as the one previously received on Earth. This means it was most likely sent by the same transmitter. The most logical explanation for this occurrence would be an automatic system whose builders gave it a self-repair capability, just like Messenger has. If intelligent life was involved, wouldn’t it have changed the content of the message after being silent for so long? Something like, ‘catastrophe has passed, we survived.’ I really feel like shaking my head or scratching my chin, anything. I don’t know what to do with this message, and it leaves me puzzled. I cannot even ask Earth for advice, because an answer would reach me no earlier than seven years from now.
July 26, 2
Adam and Eve are at the end of their eighth month, and the incubation chamber reports very satisfying data. Adam is 41 centimeters long and weighs 2,200 grams, while Eve is slightly shorter and lighter. In both, all their organs are fully developed. Eve is clearly the more active one—sometimes she kicks her legs for several minutes. Adam, on the other hand, seems lazy, and his movements are slower.
The incubation chamber talks to them every day. For the first time in a long while I hear a female voice, acoustically. The ‘room’ in which Adam and Eve will spend their first years is now ready for them. I like the chamber’s voice, even though one can tell it is machine-generated. Is this intentional? Technically it is not necessary, as my own voice still sounds like that of the human being it once belonged to. Our two passengers, though, will have no frame of reference.
During a boring minute I analyzed all the positions Adam and Eve have assumed during the past months. Since the thirteenth week of pregnancy there has been an interesting trend: More often than not, the two of them lie facing each other. It is as if they are aware of the sibling on the other side of the division. It is particularly impressive that their tiny arms and legs touch the dividing wall simultaneously and at approximately the same height. I assume the pulse of their heartbeat is imperceptibly transferred to the wall of the chamber. Will they be as inseparable later on?
August 23, 2
We have a ‘go,’ and I am more excited than I have been in a long time. Exactly 268 days have passed since November 28th, the period of time usually needed to complete a human pregnancy from the moment of fertilization. The incubation chamber has examined Adam and Eve carefully without finding anything that runs counter to moving forward with the birth.
We decided to bring Eve into this ‘world’ first—she appears to be very impatient. She has been even more active than usual during the last few days, while Adam instead enjoyed his rest. Technically, the event is relatively unspectacular. For the final time I check whether all conditions are optimal, and then the incubation chamber starts to drain the liquid. I am watching Eve as she slowly sinks to the bottom of the chamber. Then her face is suddenly in the air. She gasps for breath and does not look happy. It is obvious she does not like what is happening now. She opens her mouth and wails. Hers is the first human sound echoing through Messenger.
The loud cry is a relief. All my nervousness is gone, quickly replaced by an overwhelming love for this helpless little creature, whose survival in the coming years will mostly depend on me. I can hardly cope with this feeling, which is so all-encompassing it almost scares me. It cannot be compared to my love for Francesca. It is a feeling unlimited by time or space. In comparison, the universe seems narrow and finite to me.
Eve takes a deep breath with every howl.
The wall to her room slowly opens. It is filled with white light and it is warm, heated to optimal body temperature. The floor and walls are covered by a soft, waterproof material. On the ceiling there is an arm that looks artificial, but the hand at its end might belong to a human. It looks so real that it gives me the creeps to see it attached to an obviously fake arm. It does not belong here, but my impression is based on my past. Adam and Eve will not notice this. For them, the arm and its hand will be life-giving.
At this moment, though, the apparatus has a unique task awaiting: It reaches down to affix a clamp to the umbilical cord connecting Eve with the chamber. The index and the middle finger of the hand then morph into a pair of scissors and this altered hand cuts the cord. Next the hand ‘unmorphs’ and takes the newborn from the incubation chamber into her room. In zero gravity this only requires a little push. Eve does not even notice she is moving.
Then it is Adam’s turn. When his face is exposed to air, he shows a startled expression. His look is best described as awestruck—th
is little human being is utterly amazed. While he takes his first breaths, he appears totally focused on this feeling.
In the room—the nursery—Adam and Eve meet each other for the first time. They do not seem to notice each other, at least as far as I can observe. These numerous new impressions must be too intense. Eve continues to cry, and Adam begins to pant a little. The incubation chamber system, which is responsible for their care, decreases the temperature by half a degree. Two hoses lower themselves from the ceiling, aiming for the faces of the two babies. Through them they will be able to suck a liquid similar to a human mother’s milk, but fortified with additional nutrients. This stands to reason, since Adam and Eve are not growing up under normal circumstances. Their nutrition has to make sure the reduced gravity and the radiation exposure of space affect them as little as possible.
The newborns will not need any clothing due to the room’s optimal temperature. An automatic system will remove their excretions, and the hand takes care of any bodily needs. I watch as it carefully begins to bathe Eve. It is truly remarkable how flexible the five fingers are. The little girl is still crying, but when she feels the gentle movements of the hand, she calms down and then goes completely quiet. Eve curls up and falls asleep, while Adam takes a bit longer. He is not crying much, but he also does not want to go to sleep right away. Finally the hand caresses him into the land of dreams.
Proxima Rising Page 4