Mind Over Ship

by David Marusek

  The supposed colonist, himself, wore a battle suit and was packed into the tight space like a contortionist. As the scout reached his head, which was crushed beyond repair, Fred wasn’t sure who he would see. The member of some aff’s private army? A cloned soldier? What he did see was the biggest surprise of all. The soldier was a TOTE.

  Fred recalled his scout. While he waited for it, he swiped the capsule’s control panel, which was redlined across the board. The name that popped up was certain to be counterfeit, but the capsule’s final destination was not — the Chernobyl.

  When Top Ape returned, Fred told him to lose the cryocapsule somewhere where it would never be found and to fix all records of it. Then he returned to his own space gate. Along the way, the donalds struggled to contain their mockery.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, as Fred was returning on a shuttle from a scheduled mentar delivery to the Kiev, and an unscheduled visit to the Chernobyl, he received an urgent call from Mando.

  “Fred!” his friend exclaimed. “The Fentan has a slot! You still want to go? It leaves in four days. Should I buy it for you?”

  “Yes,” he said without having to think. “Buy it.”

  By the time Fred arrived back at his rez wheel, he had withdrawn seven hundred hours of emergency personal leave, to commence at once. His plan was to move on board the Fentan as soon as he could, but before he was finished packing, he received a summons to the Elbow Room. He had been expecting it, and there was no getting around it, so he left his packed travel bag and returned to civieside for one final meeting.

  Market Forces

  It was unlike any simulgraphic brainscan Mary had ever undergone. Instead of actively thinking about what she wanted a proxy to do, she had no control over her thoughts at all. Instead of emoting on cue for the Leena sims, she was reliving her entire life — all at once. More memories flew by than she could ever hope to catch. She kissed Fred for the first time, and she kissed him for the thousandth time. Shelley introduced her to Reilly who had a friend named Fred. His face was so innocent when he was asleep, and he buttered his bread methodically. Wednesday night in the Tin Room at Rolfe’s and Sazza complains about the silk pillowcase, her hangnail snagged on a thread, while this water tastes funny.

  Evangeline School, and Mary is submerged in a sea of sisters. The games! The adventures! Pinching Marie and leaving a mark. Raising her hand in class; pick me, pick me. Listening real hard and telling you what I thought I heard you say.

  A very distinct memory surfaced and lingered awhile before melting away. It was a class in flower arrangement, a skill that would always be in fashion. She’s nine years old by the calendar, eighteen in maturation. It’s her last year in school. Shelley bursts into the classroom, tears in her eyes. What’s wrong?

  Shelley opens a frame, and the sisters come around the workbench to watch, dropping sprigs and wires. It’s a news program on the Anti-Transubstantiation Channel, which is no friend to clones. What does it mean? asks a sister, and the rest of them shush her. Shush!

  “Vanity is a fickle master,” the reporter is saying, “and recent figures from E-Pluribus bear this out.” She is no impartial journalist, this reporter, but a partisan, as any ’leen can tell from the note of satisfaction in her voice.

  The news scene switches to the headquarters of their future employer, Applied People, where CEO Zoranna Alblaitor is answering questions. “It just goes to show that the needs of society change, sometimes quickly. Now, fifteen years later, that demand is no longer there.”

  The reporter asks a question, and Zoranna replies, “No, I wouldn’t call it a ‘fad’ per se. That completely mischaracterizes the nature of trend forecasting. We certainly wouldn’t have invested our resources into designing this or any new germline on the basis of a ‘fad.’ ”

  Another question, and, “Perhaps. But you’re going to have a time lag with any new germline. We’re able to cut a human’s maturation period in half, from crib to college, but that still means nine years before the first units are released to the marketplace.”

  A final question, and, “No, we’re canceling development of the evangeline line immediately. Fortunately, only the prototype batch was ever decanted, and that consisted of only ten thousand units.”

  What does it mean? repeats your sister. It means our stock has crashed. It means we have no value. It means we’re in for a very bumpy ride.

  Degrees of Freedom

  “Before we get to the unpleasantries,” Veronica TOTE’s proxy said, “let me commend you on your quick thinking the other day.”

  Fred said, “You know what I found, of course.”

  “I can only imagine,” the proxy said, unwilling to give anything away.

  “Don’t strain your imagination,” Fred said. “I’ll show you.” Fred used his Spectre to project a little frame with the dead soldier’s sheet. A tissue sample Fred’s scout had retrieved had enabled his Spectre to make a positive ID. “I don’t know exactly how many men you have aboard the Chernobyl, but I did some traffic analysis last night, and I estimate there’s as many as five thousand. I was just over there today, and I scanned over 450 possible TOTEs in one crypt alone. The way I figure it, and I’m sure you’ll correct me if I’m wrong, you plan to hijack the Chernobyl en route to Upsilon Andromedae.” He waited for a reaction, but the proxy remained poker-faced, so he continued. “I’m not sure when, but I figure you’ll postpone the takeover for as long as possible because unless you have some quantum trick up your sleeve, you’ll still need the Heliostream particle beam for acceleration. And you’ll want to wait at least four years because that’s how long it’ll take to leave the solar system and any likely pursuit by the UD Space Command. But I’m thinking you’d like at least twenty years because by then the Chinas will have their own solar harvesters online, and you’ll probably be able to rent a particle beam from them.

  “So that’s my window, four to twenty years. If you touch me anytime before then, the Space Command will get a copy of this, and they’ll either capture you or shut off the beam, or both. I’d like more time to get out of your reach, but four years oughtta do.”

  Fred stopped talking. Veronica’s proxy seemed more amused than he would have liked.

  “My, what a rich fantasy life you lead, Commander,” she said. “I can see you’ve put a lot of thought into this, as well as a lot of wishful thinking. Too bad you didn’t finish your homework. Otherwise, you would have realized that the same clue that gave us away argues against your scenario.”

  Fred didn’t like the sound of that, and his thoughts raced to discover any flaw in his reasoning.

  “You are correct that we have an army on board and that we plan to hijack the ship, but as to the destination and time frame, you’re way off. My soldiers are not in deep biostasis but only in a light fugue state, a form of hibernation, as you surmised from the liquid blood. A body can survive that for a year, two years tops, not twenty years, not even four. Which means we have to make our move much sooner than you’d like. In fact, we will take over the ship within a few months of its departure. And that means your insurance policy expires in less than six months from today. And believe me, you couldn’t hide from us in any case.”

  Fred was confused. The particle beam acceleration was so incremental that in six months the Oship would hardly be beyond Earth’s orbit.

  Veronica read his expression. “Whatever made you think we were interested in deep-space colonization? I thought you were paying attention to my speech last year at the Charter Union Rendezvous. There are no space-faring charters, Commander. The powers that be have effectively frozen us out of the space game. They wouldn’t even sell us a ship without taking our land in exchange. Our way of life must be too threatening to allow us to gain even a toehold in space. But we refuse to give up either our claim on Earth or our rightful share of the solar system.”

  The truth finally dawned on Fred. “You’re stealing the Chernobyl for in-system colonization!”

  “At last,” Veronica
’s proxy said. “It took you long enough. Yes, we’ll use this wonderful platform to bootstrap our own inner system colony. I don’t think I’ll tell you exactly where, but it wouldn’t be hard to guess. We have all the chemical rockets we need to get us there and we have nuclear power to run life support. So we won’t need Heliostream after the launch. We’ll establish a whole new space economy to break the stranglehold of the UD and the Chinas. We’ll create a brand-new center of power in this weary old system.”

  Fred shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I assure you we are not.”

  “You won’t last a week. The Space Command will board you.”

  “You think? We have our own insurance policy. Have you forgotten our hostages? We will have crypts full of freeze-dried hostages. Think of it, we won’t even need to feed or water them or take them to the bathroom. They’ll never complain. They have an indefinite shelf life and are conveniently packaged so we can return them as good-faith gestures, one at a time over vast distances of space.” The TOTE leader seemed to relish the ingenuity of her plan. Her confidence impressed Fred, and he tried to see the logic of her reasoning, but it didn’t add up.

  “You picked the wrong class of hostage,” he said at last.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Think about it. The colonists aboard the Chernobyl have already chosen to leave Earth forever. As far as public opinion is concerned, they’re already dead and gone. In addition, they’re made up of economic refugees, ex-chartists, small business owners, schoolteachers, and poets. In a word — ordinary nobodies. Do you honestly think the UD Space Command will think twice about them when they blow the hatches to board you?”

  “Absolutely,” Veronica’s proxy said, as confident as ever. “We’re talking about a quarter million men and women. The world would never allow so many people to be snuffed out at once.”

  Fred could only shake his head in disbelief. “Where have you been for the last hundred years? The UD would rather torpedo you to bits than let you get away with that ship. And then they’ll blame you and make it look like it was your fault. What were you thinking?” A tiny but all-important hint of doubt crept into Veronica’s expression, and Fred drove his point home. “I’m sorry to rain on your parade, but, honestly, don’t you people hire consultants?”

  Fred prepared to leave. He doubted his words would have any effect on this pirate charter’s grand scheme. Before exiting the stockroom, he turned to the proxy, which didn’t seem nearly so cocksure as a few moments ago, and said, “Now, if you had chosen the Hybris instead, then you’d have real hostages. Each one of those feckers is either an aff or the clone of an aff. There aren’t nearly as many of them, but they make up for that in juice. They’re all VIPs, every last one of them. They are the very flesh of presidents, diplomats, and vid stars, parliamentarians — you name it. Now those are some hostages. No one’s going to torpedo that ship of fools. Not only that, but half its stasis crypts are empty.

  “Anyway, thanks for the chat, but if all I have left is six months, I better get to it. See you back on Earth.”

  FRED’S BRAVADO CARRIED him all the way back to his stateroom, where he finished packing. It took him to the Admin Wheel, where he turned in his standstill wand, visor cap, and TECA sidekick. It took him out the spar to the space gate where the Fentan was docked. It took him all the way to the gangway, but there it abandoned him. If he had managed to sow a seed of doubt in Veronica’s mind about her crazy scheme, she had managed to sow one in his about dropping everything and running to Mary’s side.

  Veronica was probably right; by the time the Fentan reached Earth, the whole evangeline crisis would be resolved, one way or another. And, besides, what could he do that the world’s leading researchers couldn’t? This was bad enough, but the real question was whether or not Mary would welcome him. Even without the ’Leen Disease, would she want him to come barging in to rescue her? Again? Fred couldn’t get out of his head the little scene they had in their bedroom the morning of the clinic incident. She not only asked him not to interfere, she begged him not to. She sincerely wanted to handle the situation by herself.

  But he had interfered anyway, and he had, in fact and in deed, saved her life, and thus Ellen Starke’s life. She had admitted as much. And by his actions he had landed in prison and then, to repay the TUGs for their logistical support, he had been forced to come up here. But — and here was the rub — had Mary ever thanked him? He scoured his memory for any word of thanks, any hint of appreciation, and he came up dry.

  Fred hung in a corner of the gangway like a gargoyle, oblivious to the curious glances of passersby. If he went, he was screwed. If he stayed, he was screwed. After an hour or so of second-guessing, Marcus called.

  “What do you want?”

  To give you a word of advice.

  “I don’t want your advice.”

  I understand, but you are loitering in a very public space and causing a lot of talk.

  “What do I care?”

  I am asking you to care. You have made arrangements to leave the station and return to Earth. It is my opinion that you proceed to and board the Fentan.

  “Why?”

  Because your continued presence here at Trailing Earth is a constant irritant that will likely spark violent unrest.

  “How so?”

  Your brothers were already under a lot of strain before your arrival, due to the labor troubles with Capias World. The situation with the evangelines has pushed them to the breaking point. You are a convenient scapegoat, and I know that there have already been threats against your person. Now that the donalds have learned of your method results, it’s only a matter of time before they reveal them to the russ population. The falseness of the method will not restrain your brothers. They will express outrage, and our tenuous truce with the donalds will break down. There will be intergermline violence. Worse, there will be fratricide — your brothers will kill you. Your impulse to leave is a good one.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I deserve what I get? You’ve said as much yourself.”

  On the contrary, I haven’t yet given up on you. But the bigger issue is the good reputation of your germline. With your history of retrievable manslaughter, your death here at the hands of your brothers would surely seal the fate of your entire ten-million-strong issue.

  “Really? Is fratricide any worse than our brutish Original Flaw?”

  I’ve told you before, and I repeat, the whole Original Flaw method you underwent was a hoax. I assure you that the russ germline has never had a problem with pedophilia. That was pure fabrication.

  “Is that a fact? And what about our fascination with evangelines and their boyish features and body type?”

  What of it? You are equally attracted to the more voluptuous lulu type.

  “What about my fascination with retrogirls? Even Mary noticed the attention I gave that Kodiak girl last year.”

  Human males have always sought sexual congress with children, all the way back to Paleolithic times when female menarche occurred between the ages of seven and thirteen years. For dominant males to impregnate the youngest fertile females in a tribe was adaptively advantageous to the tribe. While this may no longer be so, the male’s attraction for children has survived into modern times, like the once-advantageous taste for sweets and fats. Biological propensities are hardwired into the genes and may take tens of millennia to weed out when they are no longer useful.

  What’s important to keep in mind is that new, inhibitory tendencies emerge to counteract obsolete ones. While your sexual interest in children may be natural, your inhibition against acting on this interest is also natural and even stronger. Neither you nor Thomas A. nor any russ has ever violated society’s taboos in this regard. Whoever designed the Original Flaw method cleverly used your own russ sense of propriety against you to damage both you and your germline. I am attempting to mitigate the damage, but I will need your cooperation to do
so.

  How Fred wanted to believe the mentar, but he remembered the last time it had tried to talk him down from a ledge. It had tried to convince him that his Book of Russ debacle was due to HALVENE poisoning, and that hadn’t worked out either.

  “Fine. You’ve said your piece, Marcus. I’m not a monster; now prove it. I ask again; if this isn’t the russ Original Flaw, then what is? You said you’d get the Brotherhood Council’s permission to tell me.”

  I said I’d try to get it. Permission was denied.

  “There you have it then,” Fred said as he pushed off from his perch. “Get back to me when you have a better answer.” He left the Fentan gang-way and returned to his stateroom to give the whole matter some serious obsessing.

  Mission Accomplished

  With her skin mission accomplished, Saul and Tia waving good-bye and her rental car lifting off from their sod-paved airstrip, Andrea gave her tired body up to the plush comfort of her seat pod. But she didn’t return to her always room; the real Alaskan panorama outside her windows was too disturbing to ignore. Mountain range on top of mountain range in every direction as far as the eye could see.

  Meanwhile, the six-month term of their quarantine world passed, and the pocket world had not imploded. Perhaps the datapin Zoranna had sent Jaspersen was harmless after all.

  What do you think? E-P said. Break quarantine and open it?

  That was what Andrea wanted to do. It was probably safe, and her curiosity was high, but a nagging sense of caution made her say, “No, let it run another six months. In the meantime, are you able to make me a new Jaspersen sim and sidebob here?”