by Sarah Lahey
“Why would he go off his Meds?”
“We had a lot to do. The election looming, murmurs of an uprising, crazy talk about a revolution and civil war—now not so crazy—we needed him in combat mode. It’s unfortunate, but he’s a better fighter, and stronger, when he’s off his Meds. So, until he takes them again, we need to be patient, tolerant, and understanding. It’s not his fault.”
“Or we inject him with the SelfMed.”
“It’s not that simple. You want to try holding him down?”
***
Wearily, the new arrivals return to their cabin. Quinn collapses onto the bottom bunk and places a pillow under her head and another over her feet. Mori curls up contentedly at the end of the bed.
Quinn reviews the past week: A few days ago, she was alone on an atoll, strolling the beach, taking two naps a day, and making cairns. Now, she’s on a boat with an AI meerkat who thinks he’s human and a jealous ex-lover who has lost all sense of reason, and today she killed people, several people. She feels remorse, shame, and guilt—this is not a good thing she’s done. It makes her a poor human, but it was war and it had to be this way. Oh the justification of the subconscious; how easily we let ourselves off. The truth is, she felt more wretched about killing Jane. What’s the difference between killing for survival and killing for food? It’s still killing. It makes a mockery of her Pacifist pledge, broken so easily. Killing animals and people is not the moral dilemma she thought that it would be, that it should be.
A rotten smell wafts through the air.
“Did you just . . . fart?”
“I opened the vibrating seal of my anal sphincter.”
“Close it.”
“Do you think I am becoming more human? A human trapped in a meerkat’s body.”
“You’re a robot trapped in a meerkat’s body. Switch off, or go to sleep, whatever it is you do.”
She closes her eyes, but she’s woken minutes later by an intermittent gulping sound coming from Mori. She feels for him and taps him with her foot to make him stop.
“I have hic hiccups,” he says.
“No you don’t.”
“They will hic not stop hic.”
“Make them.”
“I-I hic cannot.”
She takes the pillow keeping her feet warm and places it over her head. Surely by now some smart scientist should have invented a way for humanity to store sleep, like a sleep bank where you can accrue credit. She could have deposited all the extra hours of sleep she had on the atoll and then, on nights like this, make a withdrawal, and feel fabulous the next day. This could be her next research project: a sleep bank. She won’t be on this boat forever. She’ll need a plan for the future. Sleep banks—she’ll be a trillionaire.
Thirty-Five
There is a baby human growing inside you.
QUINN WAKES TIRED AND queasy. The boat is rocking heavily, and outside her window, sky and ocean merge into one distinct shade of cerulean—they’re at sea, and it’s late. She’s overslept. Mori has disappeared.
She staggers into the galley and flops onto the sofa beside Planck, who’s tickling Mori’s tummy. He giggles uncontrollably, and Planck is clearly amused.
Planck glances Quinn’s way and balks. “You’re green, and something terrible has happened to your hair.”
“I’m not well, I feel . . . sick.” She burps.
“Swells picked up, I’ll fix you something to eat.” Ze stands and flattens Quinn’s hair down for her, a partially successful gesture, and Quinn pats Mori’s fur down, because he’s also looking disheveled after his tickle time.
“Better.” Planck smiles at the two of them, together on the sofa. Quinn can tell ze likes having passengers onboard.
“Latest news.” Ze recounts the newscast. “Dirac never lost control of his forces. They were handpicked, would die for him. And they did. He attacked his own military and blamed the rebels. Now he gets to ‘cleanse,’ and the consequences are dire. Arrest warrants issued for thousands of officials. Quate and Jove are missing. The military’s rounding people up for detainment, and he wants to reinstate the death penalty. We have a problematic reputation with the far right; we’ll need to bunker down, stay off grid, under the sonar, for a few weeks, set our invisibility shield till things settle down.”
***
Breakfast is a milky-colored cornbread with smoked fish—a meal indifferent to Quinn’s seasickness. Planck suggests a turn around the deck to take in the fresh air, and ze’s keen to show her the boat.
They stroll outside, onto the main deck, and spy Tig, busy activating a curtain of invisibility. Planck explains: They’re using a metamaterial that is 50 nanometers thick covered with nanoantennas, which distort and manipulate wavelengths of light. The system works best when directed to a specific color bandwidth, and they’re using green. The cloak removes the boat’s visual, infrared, and thermal signatures, so the vessel merges into the surrounding ocean. They’re still detectable by sonar, however, so Tig also sets a quantum stealth signal that loops sound waves in a repetitive motion around the boat.
Planck directs Quinn toward the power boosters. They’re trying something new: a HydroHarvester that captures vibrations from the ocean on a rotation. Nanotubes are spun into fine threads then twisted into coils and immersed in an electrolyte. When the coil vibrates, it generates electricity. There’s also a basket of coconuts on deck. “Coconut husks as capacitors, gives us an extra shot of power,” Planck says.
How quaint.
“Nice and spongy.” Planck picks up a husk. “Process the coconut, and all that’s left is the carbon. Then you perforate it to increase the surface area and store the energy in electric fields. Boundless power.”
“For about fifteen minutes.”
“Eleven, but whose counting?”
“Tried using nanotubes, or plantations of carbon cylinders—massive surface area—or maybe a polymer network? It’ll increase your power storage. Give you a longer boost.”
“Okay, we need to talk, but coconuts are free.”
Strapped to the front of the boat is a bronze sculpture of a blue man wearing a cone hat, similar to the Indocin doctor’s healing Buddha. This statue holds its arms out, palms turned upward, as if he’s pushing something away.
“Repelling the oceans,” says Planck. “The Buddha used the power gained from meditation to hold back a wall of water. He saw the future.”
Fresh air and a stroll around the deck are effective remedies; Quinn’s nausea is under control. She follows Planck down the hatch to the lower level, the horticulture zone. When they step inside, she squints and shades her eyes. The walls, ceiling, and floor are a glossy white and the space is filled with racks of plants: two rows, five stratums high and thirty meters long, illuminated with phosphorous laser lighting. It’s an edible forest of plants, herbs, fruits, and vegetables. Preform casings cover the seedbeds, protecting the vegetation in rough seas. The far corner holds a nutrient control incubator, with several large and healthy marijuana plants.
“Medicinal,” Planck reports, then frowns at Quinn. “You’re not green anymore; now you’re grey.”
***
Back in the cabin, Mori places a damp towel on Quinn’s forehead and massages her feet. She knew he was worth going back for. Planck checks her vitals with a SelfMed and after considering the readings ze promptly, leaves without speaking, eyes fixed to the monitor.
A few minutes pass. Planck comes back in and checks Quinn over again. “The first reading was inconclusive,” ze says. “I want to make sure you don’t have FF.”
She knows she doesn’t have FF; she has seasickness and a reaction to the spicy food from last night. Ze leaves her to rest, and she closes her eyes. All she needs is more sleep. A few more hours, and she’ll be fine, fabulous, back to her old self. Then maybe she’ll synthesize something to increase the boat’s power. The coconuts have got to go.
As she drifts off to sleep, her head fills with electric fields, blue Buddhas, and bask
ets and baskets of coconuts drifting on the blue ocean . . .
***
She jolts awake. Something has disturbed her—loud noises, arguing in the galley. She hears her name, opens her eyes, and rolls off the bunk.
Tig and Planck cease arguing the moment they see her. She walks toward them and they nervously they step back.
Tig gives her an awkward smile. “Why don’t you sit?”
She shakes her head. She doesn’t want to sit, she’s happy standing, but he’s insistent, pulls up a chair.
“Sit,” he says, and this time it’s a command. So she begins to sit, and then he blurts out, “You’re pregnant.”
Caught midway between sitting and standing, she rights herself and turns to him. “What did you say?”
“You’re pregnant. We’re having—”
“Not possible,” she calmly retorts, “Conscientious Prevention on my twenty-first birthday. I can’t conceive.”
“I know. I know all about it—Conscientious Prevention. But you’re still pregnant,” Tig says. “We checked. Three times.”
She places her hands over her stomach. “It’s not possible. It’s science.”
“Some things are beyond science,” Planck says. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She nods and takes a seat, all the while wondering if these poor fools have lost their minds. There’s nothing beyond science. She knows Mori can confirm the truth. He’ll put an end to this nonsense with his SQUIDS Scanner, and then these two idiots will have to apologize for scaring the shit out of her. Confidently, she calls him over. With an air of assertive veracity, she stands and asks him to check her.
The meerkat blinks a few times. “There is a baby human growing inside you.”
“No, there is not a baby human growing inside me.”
“Perhaps you should sit down,” Planck offers, with a look that suggests things might get worse.
“No,” Quinn snaps. “It’s not possible. Tell me, how this is possible?”
“Maybe the accident dislodged the implant. Who knows? But you are pregnant.” Planck holds the chair out for her, but Quinn declines. She would prefer to stand; she wants to look them in the eye while they have this conversation.
“Conception is a gift,” Tig announces.
“Conception is not a gift. A gift is . . . well, it’s a thing. It’s not people. It’s not a baby. It’s new Tech, or a book, or jewelry, or something else. You don’t give a baby as a gift.” She thrusts her wrist at him, jangles the bracelets on it. “These—why do I have these?”
“I chose you. You’re my beloved, I want to spend my life with —”
“Stop right there.” She’s unable to get her breath; she thinks she might suffocate or hyperventilate, or do both. “You do not get to choose. Are you listening to me? I am a person—I am not something that you choose. Okay? Just because you want it doesn’t mean it will happen.” I can’t believe he just used the C word. “I ‘chose’ you”!? Well, you don’t get to choose!
She’s hit by a wave of nausea. “I need to sit down.”
Planck offers her a chair and then a bowl. She sits, puts her head between her knees, and pukes into the bowl. She wipes her mouth; she pukes again.
Planck rubs her back. “Congratulations.”
***
Quinn lies on her bunk bed, the bowl next to her. Oh, good lordt. How can I be pregnant? She never intended to bring children into a world with ten billion people. She was never going to add to that tally. Adopt, that was her plan. Adopt one of the millions of homeless children who live on the planet. I have choices, of course I do. I don’t have to have this baby. There’s a very straightforward solution to this complex problem. Fuck. I don’t know what to do.
She considers the bracelets around her wrist. Suddenly, they feel tighter. She tugs at them but can’t get them over her wrist. This will never work.
A baby has never been part of her life plan. But neither has sex with a cyborg. Or spending two months on a lonely atoll, or adopting an Automated Living Companion who wants to be human, or spending weeks floating in the Java Sea on a boat. She does the math in her head. She had sex with Mori . . . she can’t remember the last time. The baby is Tig’s.
AI Mori enters the cabin. Without looking at her, he slumps onto the bed, curls up, and lets out a long sigh. Then he sighs again, this time with effect. He wants her to ask him if he’s okay, and she obliges. “Gee, are you okay?” she asks, with sarcasm.
“No.”
“Really? That’s a shame—what’s wrong with you? Tell me all about it.”
“I do not like being called AI or a System.”
“But that’s who you are. That’s the real you. The sooner you accept it, the happier you’ll be.”
“I find it disrespectful.”
She sighs. Somewhere, in the early part of this century, political correctness went mad. “Okay, what would make you happy?” She’s placating him purely to keep the peace. There’s enough anxiety on this boat already.
“I would like to be referred to by my name, Mori.”
If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was feigning distress to get attention. He’s becoming more human every day.
Another knock on the door and Planck slinks into the cabin. “I’ve been thinking,” ze begins, “and I want you to know, I’m rad-fem and pro-choice, so if you don’t want to keep it, as such, I can get the product. Totally safe. Unus is pro-abortion; we have the Fundamental Atheists to thank for that. Just let me know. But if you decide to keep it, and it’s totally your choice, I’ve signed up for midwifery online, an intensive six-month course, so I’ll be ready.” Ze makes a gesture, like ze’s about to catch a ball. Or a baby.
Quinn holds zirs gaze without blinking.
“Too soon, isn’t it?”
She nods.
“Too soon.”
She offers Planck her wrist. “Can’t get these off.”
“We don’t want to do that.” Ze places her arm back in her lap.
“Yes, I think we do,” she says offering her arm again.
Ze places it back in her lap. “Patience.”
“I’m pregnant. Don’t tell me to be patient.”
Thirty-Six
The Epic of Gilgamesh
THE FOURTH ESTATE REPORTS that the political situation in Unus has deteriorated. New Fed has declared a state of emergency and the new President, Dirac Devine, is drafting laws that bypass parliament. In the name of protecting democracy and human rights, he has closed all public buildings including schools, rounded up another hundred thousand officials, and revoked all academic and civic credentials. The dissidents were apparently “radicalized and hypnotized by robots.” Thousands of citizens are missing, including Maim Quate and Kip Jove, the leaders of the opposing parties.
Quinn realizes she could be trapped on this boat for weeks. If only she had a metamaterial, 50 nanometers thick, covered with nanoantennas that distort and manipulate wavelengths of light, then she could make herself invisible. She’d like that because staying out of Tig’s way in such a confined space is not easy. If she’s in the galley and Tig enters, Planck beckons her below deck, or outside, or any space where he’s not. She’s been spending many hours feigning invisibility, hiding in her cabin.
Today, Planck took her below deck and handed her a folded bundle of 3D-printed clothing: a climate suit, shorts, singlet tops, and shirts. Taupe and navy, textured weaves with dark trims, and a “classic white shirt”—zirs description. They’re perfect, and replace the oversized men’s shirt and shorts tied with tape that she’s currently wearing. Ze said the white shirt will be perfect for lazy afternoons on the lounge. She is to roll the sleeves up and undo three, maybe four, buttons. Quinn can’t imagine there’ll be many lazy afternoons on the lounge. Still, it’s nice to have new clothes.
Ze also gave her something for the morning sickness: a tonic mixed with iron, calcium, and foliate—totally organic, of course. Quinn caught a glance at zirs module while ze was mixing t
he tonic: “Online School of Nursing and Midwifery. Unit 1: Anatomy of Physiology Pregnancy and Childbirth.” Ze immediately shut it down.
After she grabbed her clothes and was heading back to the main deck, she met Tig coming down the stairs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just his cargo pants. She had to squeeze to one side and wait for him to pass, and his chest was naked, completely naked. She rolled her eyes, thinking he should put something on, because you can’t just walk around without a shirt. That’s not right—people should wear shirts. Then she couldn’t get the image of his naked chest out of her head. Pregnancy was messing with her sex hormones, so she went to bed early, to sort out her own sex hormones, but when she opened the cabin door she found Mori standing over the empty cactus pot. The plant was tossed to one side, and soil was scattered across the floor. The plant was a bit worse for wear, but still in one piece. Mori looked as guilty as hell.
“It fell from my hand,” he said.
“Paw. You don’t have hands; you have paws. We’ve talked about this.” She scraped up the soil and replanted the cactus.
“An accident.”
“Yes, we all have accidents.”
Tonight she’ll keep the plant by her pillow, just in case there is another accident. She needs to get hold of a QM, so she can sequence the DNA and extract the data.
***
Boats are boring, and Quinn feels trapped. Like a fish in bowl, she’s walked around and around the deck, dozens of times, both clockwise and counterclockwise. The vessel is larger than her apartment Pod in Hobart, three or four times larger, and when she first boarded Nanshe the interior seemed voluminous, with so much space it appeared bigger inside than out. She’d never seen a boat like this before, with so many rooms. Now, after a week on board, the boat feels the same size as a shipping container; it’s claustrophobic, and there’s nothing for her to do. Nothing. All her offers of help are greeted with, “Just relax and put your feet up.”