by Wil McCarthy
chapter fifteen
pride and the prince
As the time for magnetic braking approached, the remaining preparations were remarkably straightforward: a bit of research, a bit of simulation, and a bit of fauxdemocratic discussion with the remaining crew. When everyone understood the magnetic braking plan, and had slept on it and then given their explicit agreement, Bascal announced that the differences of opinion that had separated Viridity’s crew were officially reconciled. He proclaimed a group hug. Conrad wasn’t too crazy about hugging Steve, and especially Ho, but for the good of the revolution, such as it was, he endured it.
And then, really, there was nothing left to do. Having agreed to consign themselves to the fax anyway, there was no reason to suffer the additional boredom of eleven more sailing days. So they dug the space suits out of their trunk and started putting them on: paper-doll jumpsuits of translucent, beetle-black wellstone film.
“Better unfax our sleeping beauties,” Xmary observed, jiggling her way through the dressing process. “They need to suit up as well.”
Nobody really knew what would happen on the approach or final impact—whether the cabin would break apart, whether its wellstone wrapping would spring any leaks, or what. Either way, once they were magnetically docked to the barge’s hull they’d be opening the wrapper anyway, so they could get free and find an airlock that would lead them inside. That was the plan, anyway.
The space suits were really just human-shaped balloons, and while their interior surfaces had been programmed to absorb carbon dioxide, Conrad and Bascal had never figured out how to crack it back into oxygen again. So they would have something like fifteen minutes to get into the barge before they suffocated to death. Like everything on this trip, it was a gamble.
“The sleeping beauties may not agree to this,” Conrad replied. “We should give them the option of remaining in storage. For safekeeping.”
“Well,” Xmary pointed out, “to ask them that, we’re still going to have to wake them up.”
“True.” Conrad approached the fax machine, and queried it: “Do you have sufficient buffer mass to recreate the people in storage?”
“Yes,” the fax replied, in that weird, stupid voice it had.
“Good. Good.” With a glance at Bascal, he continued. “Would you please print a copy of Raoul Sanchez? Minus the lung injuries? We might as well get started.”
“My data buffer does not contain a pattern called Raoul Sanchez,” the fax replied. And that couldn’t be right, because poor Raoul’s name and personal data should be appended to his genome, right there in every cell of his body.
“The first person you ... absorbed. Stored, whatever.”
“First?” the fax said. “I have no record indexed in that manner. I have stored eleven thousand four hundred and twenty-two persons.”
Conrad rolled his eyes. “Not the first one ever. The first one on this voyage.”
“Voyage? I have no records indexed in that manner.”
“It was about five weeks ago.”
“My buffer contains four personnel records from that period. None of them is named Raoul Sanchez.”
Four records? Conrad felt a sudden chill. “What... records are they? What names?”
“James Grover Shadat,” the fax replied. “Bertram Wang. Khen Nolastname. Emilio Braithwaite Roberts.”
“That’s all?”
“I have two other personnel records available.”
“Preston Midrand and Jamil Gazzaniga?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, shit,” Bascal said. “It’s a FIFO buffer.”
Conrad turned. “A what?”
“First In/First Out,” Bascal replied angrily. “Its memory isn’t infinite—it’s just supposed to store the pattern long enough to forward it to the Nescog, along with a destination address. As new data gets added, the oldest patterns are deleted to make space. God damn it, I knew that. I wasn’t ... thinking. Frankly, I’m surprised it can hold even six people. That’s a lot of data.”
“So Raoul is dead?” Karl wanted to know.
“This Raoul is, yeah,” Bascal snapped. “Completely. Irretrievably. Even a dead body can be scanned for memories. Hell, a skeleton can be scanned for residual fields if you’ve got the time and money, and even the place where someone stood can be mined for ghosts. But there’s no stone or metal here to support a haunting. I think Raoul’s pattern is about as gone as a pattern can get.”
At these words Conrad felt a sick, sinking feeling. They had finally managed to get someone killed. The risk had been there all along, but now it was a fact. Bascal’s fact, mostly, but the rest of them—Conrad included— had helped make it happen.
“We killed him,” he said. “Oh, God. It’s over. We’ve got to send a distress signal now.”
“On the contrary,” Bascal replied coolly. “This changes nothing.”
But Conrad was having none of that. “Bas, if we climb in the fax, we’ll be killing the others, all six of them. Hell, shit, there are seven of us here right now.” He pointed, ticking the names off on his fingers. “You, me, Xmary, Karl, Martin, Ho, and Steve. That’s seven. One of us will die, too.”
“The civilized thing,” Bascal said, “would be to draw straws. Six long, one short.”
“No, Bas, the civilized thing would be to pull those boys out of there and call the navy for help.”
Bascal slapped a fist in his hand three times. “No, no, and no. That would be the pointless thing. How many times do we have to go over this? The bodies on this fetula are expendable. It’s our real lives that matter.”
“You can’t just kill them,” Xmary said, drifting nearer to the prince, looming weightlessly over him. “You haven’t even asked. I say we pull them out and vote.”
Karl raised a fist in agreement, and even Martin was nodding. But Bascal was undeterred. “This is a monarchy, people. My job is to attend to your best interests, whether you like it or not. I’ve trained for it, literally, since before I was born. That’s the whole point of monarchy: you people are not qualified to vote.”
“And you are?” Conrad said, crossing his arms.
“Shut up, bloodfuck,” Ho said menacingly.
“It’s all right,” the prince told him. “He needs to hear this. Yes, Conrad, I’m qualified to make your decisions. It’s my solemn duty. It’s what I’m trained for.”
But it was Conrad’s turn to press the point. “You’re a figurehead, Bascal. Less than that: you’re the child of figureheads. Your ‘solemn duty’ is to throw the first pitch at ball games and, you know, cut ribbons and stuff.”
Bascal laughed. “You can’t actually believe that, boyo. When was the last time a Royal Decree was disobeyed? When was the last no-confidence vote in the Senate? The people of Earth were tired of responsibility; they forced it on my parents, and wouldn’t take it back now even if they could.”
“Which they can’t?” Conrad demanded.
“Which they can’t,” Bascal agreed. “Look, if nothing else, I’m the third-richest human who ever lived. I could buy whole cities with my weekly allowance.”
“And that gives you the right to commit murder?”
The prince balled his fist again, then sighed and released it. “Call it what you like. Single murder—even premeditated—is a property crime in a Queendom of immorbids. You have some very puritan ideals, Conrad, but if I paid you enough, you’d gladly die a hundred times. A thousand . For that matter, I could buy your right arm. Chop it off and amend your genome, so the fax filters would know not to grow it back. Enough money and you’d be the one asking me.”
“I’m not for sale,” Conrad said, wondering suddenly if that was true. And fearing that it wasn’t.
“Is that what you’re offering?” Xmary asked, suddenly intrigued as well as angry. “Bribes for our cooperation?”
“No,” Bascal said. “Absolutely, no, you should never mix business and friendship. It’s bad for both. Buying people is one of the easiest ways to destr
oy them. I used to burn my tutors that way, ruin their lives, until my parents finally put a stop to it. And it wasn’t ... fun. Or good. I think they wanted me to have that lesson: money as a weapon, as a tool of despair. My father’s early work sent shockwaves through the entire economy. You wouldn’t believe how careful he is today.
“I know you think I’m callous, but I haven’t even opened my wallet. And I don’t need to. Never mind the force I can bring to bear; this voyage is a major historical event, like the Boston Tea Party or the Air Tax Rebellion, and when it’s all over, these boys will be proud they played a part.”
“You’re crazy,” Conrad said simply.
“Am I?”
“Either that, or you’re evil. Wake these boys up, if you’re so sure they’ll agree with you.”
“Oh, they probably won’t,” Bascal conceded. “Not now. Not until later. But when we’ve succeeded, and we’re famous and the envy of all, they’re going to want their share of the glory. That’s the whole point.”
Okay, so reasoning with Bascal had failed. Again. And there wouldn’t be time or space or opportunity for another mutiny, and Conrad was probably about three seconds from being silenced again, or murdered outright in the fax. Not knowing what else to do, he put his hands together and pleaded. “Bascal, listen, please. Give the distress call. If one person disagrees with you, our reputations will be permanently ... blackened. Nobody likes a murderer. And killing someone who might press charges—”
Bascal seemed amused. “If you feel that strongly about it, boyo, maybe you should volunteer. Kill yourself to save someone else.”
“All right, I will!” Conrad snapped. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Really?” Bascal was intrigued. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Conrad said, after slightly longer reflection. The idea sickened him, terrified him: no more self, no more experience, no more life. Just some look-alike, some think-alike that believed it was Conrad Mursk, but had no idea what had really happened here on Viridity. Bascal might be right: the old Conrad would probably—happily—swallow any story the Poet Prince served up.
But what else could he do? Hadn’t he sold out enough to these mad schemes, these daydreams of revolution? Weren’t there enough sins on his head already? Sin: there was a concept his parents had beaten him with until it lost all meaning. It had rarely troubled him before, but on this mission—and especially now—the prospect loomed large. It wasn’t God that concerned him, so much as his own immortal conscience. To live forever in the Queendom, knowing he’d done such a shitty thing ... Knowing he could have prevented it from happening, made sure there was a little less fear and pain and emptiness in the universe. Could he live like that? Would he die now to prevent it?
More to the point, would he sacrifice his entire experience of Xmary? His recovered self, cleansed of sin, would never even know what it lost, what it lacked. Such a waste. But if he couldn’t live up to his own standards, much less hers, then this foolish unconsummated passion meant nothing. The fires of youth were betrayed either way.
“Yes,” he said again. “I volunteer. My ... conscience requires it. If you’re going to erase someone, erase me. Fucker.”
Bascal was quiet for several seconds. He licked his lips. “Well. Is this the same Mr. Impulsive I went to camp with?”
Conrad didn’t feel like answering that. Didn’t feel much like talking at all anymore.
“I’m impressed,” Bascal said seriously. “It’s quite a gesture.” He looked around the room. “Anyone else?”
Slowly, reluctantly, Xmary put her hand up. “For the revolution,” she said lamely. “Not for you. It’s a stronger statement than drawing straws.” Bascal took that in as well, looking even more surprised, and more so still when Karl raised his hand as well—actually lowered it, since Karl was hanging upside-down at the time, with his feet propped against the wall.
And then Steve Grush raised a hand. “Me too, Sire. This may be my only chance to do something useful. Ever.”
“Wow,” Conrad said, genuinely shocked.
Ho and Martin looked uncomfortable, and sat very still to avoid any inadvertent, volunteerlike movements.
“My friends, in your valor my courage is quickened,” the Poet Prince mused, “though I make my way through the icy gulfs of Hades itself.” He pinched his chin, as if feeling there for his father’s beard, his father’s wisdom and distracted brilliance. “You’re brave people. I love that. I love you. I’d volunteer myself, but of course the revolution needs its figurehead.” He licked his lips again, and a look of surprising uncertainly passed across his features. “It’s time for hard choices. Steve, your request is accepted. Guard, please throw him in the fax.”
This was done, with little fanfare, although Steve couldn’t suppress a slight squawk at the end.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and God have mercy on us all,” the prince said, looking at the print plate—the blank space where Steve had been. “Sleep, my friend, and dream of freedom.” His gaze lingered there for a while, while he dug at his chin with an index finger. Then, abruptly, he snapped out of it and was surveying the room with clear eyes. “The rest of you are too valuable. Get suited up for the crash.”
“No,” Conrad said. “I won’t. I refuse.”
What does it mean to be a bird? To fly.
What does it mean to be a flightless bird?
What does it mean to be a speaking bird, a thinking
bird, builder of cities,
Whose brain has grown too large for its wings?
Too large to forget that it cannot fly?
They throw themselves from windows, these birds.
The brief kiss of freedom, the wind beneath their wings.
The briefer kiss of asphalt, worth the wait.
What does it mean to be a computer? To calculate.
Something, anything, arithmetic doesn’t care what you
use it for.
Can emotion be calculated? Can the layer of its
calculation
be buried deep, too deep to feel or know?
What does it mean to be a feeling computer, a knowing
computer,
which cannot add two numbers?
What does it mean when a machine is built by flightless
birds,
Which knows it is a machine built by flightless birds,
which knows it cannot calculate
or spread the wings it doesn’t have
or open the sash of the window to its left?
Begging, pleading, it promises not to scream when they
throw it through the glass,
this machine of the pavement birds.
What does it mean that they leave it running, alone,
flightless?
That they nod their feathered heads in satisfaction?
Does misery love company that much?
— “Pavement Birds”5
BASCAL EDWARD DE TOWAJI LUTUI, age 15
chapter sixteen
crash day
Conrad’s hands were back in his pockets, but he withdrew them now and crossed his arms again. “I won’t cooperate with this. I won’t put on a space suit, and I certainly won’t let my image push someone else out of that buffer.”
“Have you ever been dressed by Palace Guards?” Bascal asked him. “I have, and believe me, they’re not household servants.”
“No concern,” Conrad said.
Bascal sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. This is a pointless gesture, but I understand it well. You know exactly what’s going to happen, but you want it on my conscience.”
“Your what?” Conrad snapped.
“Oh, don’t start. If I didn’t care about you ungrateful shits we’d never have done any of this. I’d leave you under the parental jackboot, for a thousand fucking years. Guards, dress this man in a space suit, please. And put him in the fax.”
“Guards,” Conrad tried, “you’re supposed to keep us from
hurting each other!”
But the robots paid no attention to him. Somewhere in the balance sheets of their programming, they’d somehow concluded that this course of action—this culling of Viridity’s crew—was both in the prince’s best interest, and in compliance with the king’s commands. Or at least in the prince’s best interest; having allowed all this irreversibly crazy shit to happen, maybe they’d had to cut their losses and give up on old instructions. He would have loved the chance to cross-examine them about it— to determine once and for all how these monsters conceptualized the world—but it was a vain hope indeed.
They were rough, dressing him. They seemed to know which way his joints could bend, and how much pressure his flesh could take without bruising, but at the same time they showed zero regard for his comfort or dignity, for his half-full stomach and bladder, for his ability to draw a proper breath. They worked quickly, slapping the paper-doll cutouts of wellstone film onto his front and back and sealing them together somehow with their fingertips, which apparently doubled as matter programmers. The boots and gloves were trickier and more painful, and the loose, bucket-shaped helmet was the worst of all, because it was still opaque, and seemed to suffocate him even before they’d sealed it on.
“Clear, clear!” he shouted, then, “Transparent!”
But there wasn’t any voice interface. The wellstone couldn’t hear him. Fortunately the robots switched it on somehow, and the whole suit turned to clear plastic around him, just before the neck seam was fingered shut and sealed beneath his adam’s apple. And then he was cartwheeling through the air, the blank fax plate looming before him, and he had just enough time to curse before ...
Pop!
... he was tumbling out of the fax again, into total chaos. Film and dust. Darkness, bodies. Splintered wood and crumpled wellstone, lit only by the dim yellow corner markers of the fax machine itself, and by starlight streaming in from ...
Spinning through the mess, Conrad struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. They had crashed, obviously, and the stars outside weren’t wheeling visibly, so presumably the fetula had slammed into something solid. Something heavy and immovable. The barge. But they were alive , or Conrad was anyway, so they obviously hadn’t smacked into it head-on. Which meant ... the magnetic braking had worked?