by Jerry
“Your questions were few, but good, as expected. A few philosophical ones, a few personal. I’m not sure where you were going with that last question about the temperature, but no matter. So tell me, in your opinion, Madam, on a scale of one to ten, how confident are you that the tested thought analog thinks like your mother?”
“Zero,” I say, looking straight into his eyes.
“Of course.” Dr. Dimeji nods calmly and starts tapping at his tablet to make a note before he fully registers what I just said, and then his head jerks up, his expression confounded. “I’m sorry, what?”
“That contrivance is not my mother. It thinks things that she would but in ways she would never think them.”
A grimace twists the corners of Dr. Dimeji’s mouth and furrows his forehead, enhancing his reptilian appearance from strange to sinister. “Are you sure?” He stares right at me, eyes narrowed and somehow dangerous. The fact that we are alone presses down on my chest, heavy like a sack of rice. Morbidly, it occurs to me that I don’t even know if anyone will come if he does something to me and I scream for help. I don’t want to die in this ugly room at the hands of this lizard-faced man.
“I just told you, didn’t I?” I bark, defensive. “The basic thoughts are consistent but something is fundamentally different. It’s almost like you’ve mixed parts of her mind with someone else’s to make a new mind.”
“I see.” Dr. Dimeji’s frown melts into a smile. Finally, some human expression. I allow myself to relax a little.
I don’t even notice the humming near my ear until I feel the sting in the base of my skull where it meets my neck and see the edge of his smile curl unpleasantly. I try to cry out in pain but a constriction in my throat prevents me. My body isn’t working like it’s supposed to. My arms spasm and flail, then go rigid and stiff, like firewood. My breathing is even despite my internal panic. My body is not under my control anymore. Someone or something else has taken over. Everything is numb.
A man enters the room through the still half-open door and my heart skips a beat.
Ah! Tunji.
He is wearing a tailored gray suit of the same severe cut he always favors. Ignoring me, he walks up to Dr. Dimeji and studies the man’s tablet. His skin is darker than the last time I saw him and he is whip-lean. He stands there for almost thirty seconds before saying, “You didn’t do it right.”
“But it passed the regression test. It passed,” Dr. Dimeji protests.
Tunji glowers at him until he looks away and down, gazing at nothing between his feet. I strain every muscle in my body to say something, to call out to Tunji, to scream— Tunji, what the hell is going on here? —but I barely manage a facial twitch.
“If she could tell there was a difference,” Tunji is telling Dimeji, “then it didn’t pass the regression test, did it? The human control is here for a reason and the board insists on having her for a reason: she knows things about her mother no one else does. So don’t fucking tell me it passed the regression test just because you fooled the other pieces of code. I need you to review her test questions and tell me exactly which parts of my thought patterns she detected in there and how. Understand? We can’t take any chances.”
Dr. Dimeji nods, his lizard-like appearance making it look almost natural for him to do so.
Understanding crystallizes in my mind like salt. Tunji must have been seeding the memrionic A.I. of my mother with his own thought patterns, trying to get her to agree with his decisions on research direction in order to add legitimacy to his own ideas. Apparently, he’s created something so ridiculous or radical or both that the board has insisted on a regression test. So now he’s trying to rig the test. By manipulating me.
“And do it quickly. We can’t wipe more than an hour of her short-term memory before we try again.”
Tunji stands still for a while and then turns calmly from Dimeji to me, his face stiff and unkind. “Sorry, Grandma,” he says through his perfectly polished teeth. “This is the only way.”
Omo ale jati jati! I curse and I swear and I rage until my blood boils with impotent anger. I have never wanted to kill anyone so much in my life but I know I can’t. Still, I can’t let them get away with this. I focus my mind on the one thing I hope they will never be able to understand, the one thing my mother used to say in her clear, ringing voice, about fulfilling a human desire. An oft-repeated half-joke that is now my anchor to memory.
It’s never the optimum. It’s always just a little bit off.
Dr. Dimeji wearily approaches me as Tunji steps aside, his eyes emotionless. Useless boy. My own flesh and blood. How far the apple has fallen from the tree. I repeat the words in my mind, trying to forge a neural pathway connecting this moment all the way back to my oldest memories of my mother.
It’s never the optimum. It’s always just a little bit off.
Dr. Dimeji leans forward, pulls something gray and bloody out of my neck, and fiddles. I don’t feel anything except a profound discomfort, not even when he finishes his fiddling and rudely jams it back in.
It’s never the optimum. It’s always just a little bit off.
I repeat the words in my mind, over and over and over again, hoping even as darkness falls and I lose consciousness that no matter what they do to me, my memory, or the thing that is a memory of my mother, I will always remember to ask her the question and never forget to be surprised by the answer.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE SKY WHALES
A Que
An in-flight announcement woke me as the ship entered Goliath’s atmosphere in the dead of night. I opened the window shade and was bathed in cool moonglow, which caused the middle-aged woman dozing next to me to stir briefly. I got closer to the window and looked down. A sprawling expanse of cloud layers, like massive fish scales, extended to the limits of my vision. A white whale cruised through a distant cloud bank. The massive, graceful creature breached, turning over ponderously, describing a steep arc, then plunged back into the bank and vanished.
It was freezing out there. At an altitude of thirty-thousand feet, the temperature was fifty below zero. I wondered if these creatures, having grown up in the warmth of the Golden Sea, felt cold.
I pressed my forehead against the window. A few seconds was enough to give me vertigo, and the shakes. I had drummed up my courage for Frond’s sake, crossed a sea of stars to reach this world at the far end of the Golden Shipping Belt—but that didn’t mean I’d overcome my fear of flying. Throughout the long journey, this phobia had never ceased tormenting me.
Fortunately, this was the final stage of the journey. Soon I’d be holding Frond in my arms.
The ship passed through thick cloud layers, descending toward Goliath’s Port Seven. This steel colossus stabbed into the sky, its thousand docks incessantly receiving and disgorging ships. Over ninety percent of the vessels were freighters. The port was like a giant leech, its docks high-speed suckers drawing in this world’s natural resources: from ores to wood, quadrupeds to fish. Even water from the Golden Sea was constantly being sucked into orbit for export.
Humanity’s expansion across the myriad stars depended on this sort of restless, unending plunder and extraction.
There was a disease control checkpoint near the port exit. A dark-skinned, emaciated procurator asked about my plans on Goliath. He lowered his head to study my data. His hair was cropped short, peppered with premature white.
“I’ve come to bring back my girlfriend.”
“And why did she come to Goliath?”
“Planetary biology. Her research focus was cloud whale physiology.”
The procurator looked up, pleasantly surprised. “Outstanding! Most people come here to get rich. Your girlfriend is really distinguishing herself. So why are you taking her away from us?”
“Because she’s dead.” I let that sink in, let the silence grow. “I want to take her ashes back to Earth. Back to her hometown, to the place we met.”
The procurator eyed me from head to foot. “Unfortunately, sir,
you must know that according to the Interstellar Disease Control Act, a citizen must be buried on the planet where she died, whether or not the death was abnormal. You would never get her ashes through port inspection. And regardless, you’d never find a ship willing to take her off-world.”
“I know.”
The procurator continued to appraise me, then sighed. He customs-cleared me with an electronic seal. I thanked him, lifted my bag, and headed down the corridor.
“Good luck sir,” he said behind me. “You’re going to need it.”
I spotted Michael in the crowded receiving hall.
Even though we’d never met face to face, I recognized him from only a brief glance—thanks to Frond’s social media page. Frond had been the type to embrace the world, without reservation. Every day her page had updated: the latest images of their lab work, their pub conversations, their exuberant travels on the backs of cloud whales. How many nights had I opened those images, sketches of her in light and shadow, vivid but untouchable?
Now here was Michael in a threadbare jacket, holding a placard with my Chinese name scrawled on it. He was a tall, haggard man, complexion pallid. He hadn’t shaved in several days.
He saw me as I walked toward him, then he pointed outside and turned, pushing people out of the way. I followed in his wake. We didn’t talk. How could we? I didn’t know what to think of this man, didn’t know if I should hate him, blame him for winning Frond yet failing to look after her—or accord him sympathy, and help him commemorate the woman we’d both loved. He surely held the same conflicting feelings. Silence was our best option for now.
I followed him through the brightly-lit port toward the darkness outside.
He started his dilapidated research vehicle. The anti-grav drive fired up, belching several times before emitting its bright blue ion flow. The vehicle lifted off the ground and hung there uncertainly. I climbed in and, feeling a bit cramped, lowered the front passenger seat. Michael looked at me. He seemed about to say something, then turned his attention to piloting.
I realized that Frond had probably sat in this seat, during field work. She’d been rather petite. The seat had been set high for her. This thought left me feeling gloomy. All I could do was turn and look out the passenger window.
We quickly left the port district behind, entered a wild region. The terrain went from flat to precipitous, giving way to craggy mountain stone, and a range of peaks loomed before us. The vehicle kept close to the ground, following the terrain high and low. The headlights flashed on the winding road ahead, weakly illuminating it. We were like a firefly lost in the thick night.
The aptly named Research Retreat Valley had a large complex built into one alpine slope, a fortress of reinforced concrete that had seen better days. I reckoned it had been built just after Goliath’s discovery. Years of sandstorm abrasion and moisture had taken their toll. The steel reinforcement was rusted, and the access roads were fissured.
It was very late. The mountain winds were fierce. We put on protective suits and got out of the vehicle. The night wind slammed into us. We breathed canned oxygen in our helmets, but I still tasted the salt tang of the atmosphere. Dumbfounded, I looked westward.
Although dense clouds were gathering, moonlight still penetrated the stacked layers, dimly illuminating the night. But to the west was a thick, impenetrable darkness that seemed to swallow all light.
The Golden Sea.
Research Retreat Valley was near the Gold Coast. No wonder the damp wreaked such havoc here.
I gazed into the distance for a long time. Michael finally coughed politely, and I followed him into his monkish living quarters. He tidied up his bed and said, “Tonight you can sleep here.”
“Frond’s . . .” I paused. “What about Frond?”
Michael turned and went out. He soon returned and placed a metal urn wrapped in black cloth on the table. I knew Frond’s ashes were inside. I stared, waiting for my legs to buckle.
“It won’t get past customs, but I can put you in touch with a ship that might help. When will you go?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I said, sounding like a sleepwalker.
“Okay. They can be here by then.” Michael withdrew from the room, shutting the door.
I picked up the metal urn and sat on the bed. Although I’d anticipated this moment countless times, seeing beautiful, vibrant Frond turned to ash and gathered in a cold metal container was surreal.
“Rest easy Frond,” I said, leaning the urn against my face. “I’m taking you home.”
I tossed and turned for a few hours, then figured I might as well get up. It was early morning. The complex was dark, except for one illuminated lab. I glimpsed Michael through a window. He sat alone in a corner of the room, expressionless, draining a bottle of beer. At his feet were quite a few empties.
I left the building, donned a breather mask, and headed toward the shore. As I sat on the sandy beach, a strong wind scattered the clouds, and I grew cold. The tide rose and fell, periodically lapping at my feet. The Golden Sea’s water was warm, even at night.
Goliath had six moons that could illuminate the night, but few people saw all six high-soaring wonders at once. Tonight, three moons hung visible in the western sky. The other three were shrouded by clouds. A pod of white whales cruised beneath one moon. Several calves dove and climbed among the adults, filling the night with melodious whale-song. Their pace was leisurely, like kites floating across the sky, but when they passed overhead and doused me in vast shadows, I remembered that they were this planet’s biggest species. I looked up and watched them drift eastward, sweep past Research Retreat Valley, and vanish into the darkness.
Wondrous, their impossible power of flight.
Too bad human whaling ships were faster, and ubiquitous. How much longer would cloud whales soar in these skies?
Eventually I went back. Michael was still in the lab, now passed out against a wall.
I helped him up and supported him back to his living quarters, deposited him on his bed. Dead tired myself, I laid down on the table. The time lag from my journey caught up with me, and I quickly fell asleep.
I woke early to find the sky still dark. I picked up Frond’s urn and went to the top floor of the building, and stood waiting in the morning wind. When I’d left the room, Michael had still been asleep. I guessed I would never see him again.
A Ghost-Three class ship floated over the top of the building. A bald, burly fellow jumped out, followed by a thin person dressed in rags. Through my breather plate I saw that the scrawny one’s right eye socket was empty. This fearsome-looking man used his remaining eye to size me up. He asked my name, then said, “You want to return to Earth?”
I nodded promptly, shivering in the morning wind.
“Where’s Michael?”
“Inside sleeping.”
The thin guy nodded and said, “Go on up. Find an empty place to sit. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us. Many days.” Seeing my uncertainty, he said, “We’re bound for Port Two. We have a friend there, who’s attitude toward his inspection duties is . . . relaxed.”
I cradled the urn, preparing to board.
“Hold it.” The hulking fellow suddenly barred my way. He jutted his chin at the urn. “What’s in there?”
The arm blocking me was thicker than my thigh, bare in the cold morning and knotted with muscles like a young dragon’s, and marked by a garish scar. I raised my head to meet his gaze. He stared coldly. “What? You wanna make trouble?”
The one-eyed scarecrow laughed hollowly. He came over and pulled his colleague away. “Michael paid. As long as it’s not a bomb in there, we’ll get it back to Earth.”
Baldy snorted, but turned toward the ship. One-Eye got close to my ear and said, “Don’t tell anyone you’ve got human ashes in there. We poachers are a superstitious lot. Anything associated with bad luck . . . we fear it.”
“And why aren’t you afraid?”
One-Eye chuckled. “I fear going broke more than ba
d luck.”
The hold of the Ghost-Three was packed with hundreds of metal barrels. Stooping, I walked to a corner and hunkered down. There were seven other people in here. Like me they looked stupefied, sitting and hugging their knees. I guessed they all meant to circumvent customs inspection for one reason or another.
Baldy sat in the pilot seat. One-Eye cheerfully counted the barrels, his grin broadening as the number climbed: “Three-hundred and twenty-two. Bright Pate, this time we’ll make an insane profit.”
“How many times are you gonna count them?” Bright Pate fired up the engines.
“Just let me enjoy myself. The current market price is sweet. Whale blood has gone up ten Union scrip per jin. That’s a hundred and fifty per barrel for this trip.” He tapped one of the barrels, listening. “We could get more than forty-thousand. That’s what we get to split, when the time comes.”
“What about Bling’s share? You plan on taking that?”
“He’s dead. Very dead. I helped him get hired, helped him earn.”
“It won’t do. If it weren’t for him we would’ve been swallowed by that beast. He’s got kin. How about giving two-fifths to his blind mother?”
“Too much. One-tenth is enough.”
“Very well.”
One-Eye nodded, once again smiling and counting.
It was finally dawning on me. These homeostatic heat barrels contained cloud whale blood.
I’d heard about the trade in cloud whale blood, far as it was from the concerns of Earth. The vast Golden Sea contained a miraculous chemical element called F937 that, in its pure and concentrated form, counteracted gravity. The anti-grav engines now in widespread use exploited this element. There were two ways to harvest F937. The first method was to extract directly from seawater, but this required strict environmental conditions that were unachievable on Goliath. Orbiting space stations—and their zero-G, perfect vacuum laboratories—were therefore necessary for such extraction. A thousand cubic meters of seawater yielded approximately ten micrograms of elemental F937.