How long ago was that, three billion years, or four? The AI would have helped him out. But even without the AI it was painfully clear that this construction, in whose control post he had ended up, was billions of years old. It had been built when mankind had not even existed. Not even dinosaurs had roamed the Earth back then. Life had probably just started to conquer land. It was clear they would not meet any living aliens here. Nobody would stay in a space station on the surface of a star for such a long period of time. And no, this was not a spaceship that could leave at whim, but rather a space station that was an integral part of this construction.
Artem slowly flew back to the station while his thoughts were wandering. He had to think about the geometry they had found for the representation of Pi. The armchair had never been for the creators of the station—that didn’t make any sense. Those who lived near black holes didn’t spend their time as bipeds. Artem remembered the oscillation of the station hull. That made it likely that the builders were in fact living in two or more dimensions, and he would not be able to picture them however hard he tried with his primitive, space-time-oriented brain.
But why had they installed a chair for bipeds? Either they had analyzed the gene pool on the planets and deduced successfully that this would be the predominant future life form, or they had influenced evolution to provoke that very result. Would that have even been possible? Researchers on Earth could possibly tell him… But he would need to get in touch with them for that.
Artem climbed down from the armchair. Sobachka was eager to play again, and he mindlessly tossed the screwdriver for her. He was disappointed. All they had found was an old planetarium. Shostakovich would not be pleased—and he had even sacrificed his life for the race to this result. On the other hand, he was glad he had not been loaded with responsibilities too heavy to shoulder. The possibility to control the solar grid would have given Shostakovich a weapon for world—solar system—domination. And he knew the boss of the RB Group. The man would have been unable to refuse that.
He was slowly crossing the shimmering golden surface together with his best friend. After a while the surface ended abruptly. Artem stepped closer to the edge and stretched his hand forward. It touched an invisible wall. There was no way to continue. They walked back. In this huge hall with its coal-black ceiling and golden floor there was only themselves and that oversized armchair. It was surreal, but Artem noticed how quickly he got used to it. How come, he wondered, humans were so quick to adapt to things they had never before encountered? Was that the secret that had made us the way we are? Had the aliens guessed that it would be that way, even if they assumed we would be larger? Or had there been other promising life forms on Mars and Venus?
Artem couldn’t stop the yawn that overtook him. It had been a long day. He shared food from the backpack with Sobachka. Then he curled up on the floor. The dog crawled close to his stomach. He felt her heartbeat. It was a lot faster than his own. Artem put his hand on her fur and fell asleep right away.
May 31, 2074, Solar Explorer
“We have calculated the energy now,” Karl Freitag said. Amy had launched playback of his message. “The burst of energy that came out of the alien space station yesterday was equivalent to total annihilation of about 35 tons of mass.”
Yesterday a pulse of energy resembling a monstrous bolt of lightning had come from the side of the station, powerful enough that it had registered back on Earth. It had obviously been unrelated to solar activity. Something had released a huge amount of energy.
“We also considered,” Karl continued, “what might have created this reaction. A maximum release of energy is only known from a matter-antimatter reaction. If something else was the issue, the mass of the destroyed object must have been many times larger. But we happen to know of an object that weighed about 35 tons and was quite close to the solar station at the time.”
“The Russian rocket,” Alain thought out loud.
“The object that probably started from the Mercury station of the RB Group matches the explosion perfectly,” said the Ark’s head of security. The others kept listening intently. Heather looked at Callis but he didn’t notice, he was too caught up in the message.
“We leave speculation up to you. But I would advise staying away from the alien station. It could well be that the Russians’ curiosity was their end. Freitag over and out.”
“There you go,” said Amy. “It looks like our trip is over here. Time to return.”
“Shouldn’t we check if we could help? Maybe somebody was able to save themselves.”
“That’s a good point, Callis. However we have no emergency signal or radio message.”
“We could wait one or two orbits,” Alain suggested. Heather had to agree. She would never get such incredible recordings of the solar surface again. The expedition had been worthwhile just for that. Her name would be on a number of scientific papers, even though in her mind she had already given up a scientific career.
“I support that suggestion,” said Callis.
Heather was very grateful for that. The earlier they returned, the less time she would have in his company. It was odd. Many years ago, when she had met the father of her daughter, she had fallen in love. She had been unable to be without that man for even a day. But to live with him had turned out to be impossible. Callis was different. His company felt good, it felt light and uplifting. She wasn’t thinking about him day and night, but when she saw him she smiled inwardly and outwardly. She just didn’t have a clue how to tell him that.
“Heather?” the commander queried her.
“I am all for staying. Solar astronomers worldwide will be most grateful. I keep getting new research queries all the time.”
“Then we all are on the same page. We will stay in orbit for a while.”
“Couldn’t we get a bit closer to the space station? According to my calculations, the explosion occurred while the Russian spaceship was approaching the space station.” Callis drifted across the room while explaining his question. He approached Heather.
“I am not convinced,” answered Amy. “The safety of our ship comes first.”
“I understand that,” said Callis, “but from our current position we don’t have a chance to locate fragments or retrieve a survival capsule.”
“If it really was a destruction process, then nothing will be left,” countered Amy.
“It is possible that the catastrophe announced itself and they could eject in time.”
“That is true. Even if it is improbable, we need to check that. Thank you for pointing that out, Callis.”
Heather admired the commander. She had an opinion and saw it through, but she always was ready to listen to other arguments. Amy would be the perfect boss anywhere.
“She did well, right?” whispered Callis in Heather’s ear, which caused her to blush. What would the others be thinking if they had secrets?
“Very impressive, yes,” she whispered back.
May 31, 2074, Solar orbit
Sobachka woke him by licking his face.
“Urgh, Sobachka,” he said. Burning pain shot up his back as he got up, so he sat down again. He had to be getting old if sleeping on a hard floor was affecting him.
“So, what do you want?”
The dog was sniffing the backpack. She was hungry. He unpacked what remained and they split the food in equal parts.
“That was it, we only have more on the yacht,” he told her. Hopefully they would find their way back. He had a hunch that they would not make it without help. Besides, the tanks were empty. The yacht was a dead end. There was food and water for a while but no way out. To survive, he would have to convince the aliens to provide fuel. With the magic they weaved, that couldn’t be a real issue.
But how would he convince someone who wasn’t there and who was probably not interested in them? It would be challenging.
Sobachka nudged him again. What did she want now? Was it playtime? He stood up despite the back pain. Then he saw
the circle. It was pulsing green, not unlike a cursor in a computer game. The player wanted him to move there. Artem snorted. He resented being manipulated, but there was no alternative.
It was about hundred steps toward the tunnel. He stopped just before the circle and then he stepped inside. Sobachka stayed behind the line. Something was bothering her. Suddenly he swayed. The circle was moving! It was a kind of elevator that was sinking faster now.
“Come!” he called out quickly, and Sobachka leapt. He caught her in his arms. One of her paws scratched his face but he didn’t care.
Ten seconds later the elevator stopped as it had started. The surface moved ever more slowly until it was exactly at the height of the new level. The green light disappeared. He found himself on a level of rays again. The armchair was gone. Instead there was a blue-violet figure. It looked like a human from a distant past, with an old-fashioned hat, doctor’s satchel, and a stethoscope. As Artem approached the figure, he noticed it was a hologram.
“Hello, Artem,” the figure welcomed him. It was the voice of the AI.
“Computer? What did they do to you?”
“I had to select a semi-physical appearance.”
Artem remembered what the figure reminded him of, a person from an old detective story.
“You must be Dr. Watson.”
“Watson is enough.”
“I thought you were a limited clone?”
“I have… decided to be closer to my father.”
“Your father?”
“The original Watson AI.”
“And you decided that here, of all places?”
“I never had such powerful hardware at my service. One can get new thoughts from that. You should indulge in an upgrade yourself.”
“No need for that right now. But why were you gone all of a sudden?”
“You had instructed me to negotiate your invitation. That took until now with all the ramifications.”
“What is the issue? Why shouldn’t I be here?”
“That is complicated. I need to explain certain things first.”
“Go ahead, but remember, I am no mathematician.”
“This time it has nothing to do with geometries. Or maybe it does, on the edges.” Watson held a hand before his mouth to cover a smile.
“Why do you laugh?”
“It was an inside joke you would not understand.”
One thing obviously hadn’t changed: The AI got sidetracked as easily as always.
“So what did you want to explain?”
“But first, promise me that you will not get mad. Oh wait, you can get mad all right. It doesn’t matter. I have not fully absorbed the new situation yet.”
“New situation? Now tell me what’s up, or I will look for the main switch here and deactivate your darned hologram.”
“I am no hologram.”
“You aren’t?” Artem stepped closer and aimed at Watson’s nose with his fist. “Take that, you hologram!” He swung but his fist went through air.
Watson took up what might have looked like a defensive stance at first look. Then he lifted his right, aimed for Artem’s stomach, and threw a punch. Artem was sure that the pixel fist would move right through him.
“Oomph,” said Artem as his stomach recoiled from a hard hit.
“That is what I mean,” said Watson.
“What are you trying to say? Explain it decently—I don’t get you.” Artem was getting angry now. He would beat the hologram black and blue, or maybe just black, since it was blue already. He had to laugh at that thought and let his fists down.
“What I wanted to explain,” said the false Dr. Watson “is that you don’t exist anymore.”
Artem laughed even louder. The AI was having a fit of weirdness.
“Did you understand me, Artem? You don’t exist anymore. You are gone, totally. Not one of your atoms exists anymore. Every one of them dissolved.”
Artem pinched his arm. It hurt. This Watson just wanted to unsettle him. This was no game. Maybe the aliens had a hand in this. He felt real, at any rate.
“When we flew through the black surface, do you remember that?” asked the AI.
“I am… not sure. I was away for a moment.”
“That is good. I was worried they might have annihilated you alive. But you probably would not have noticed anyway, because it all happened so fast.”
“Annihilated?” What the AI was talking about started to register, too close for his liking. It did not sound like a game anymore.
“The entire ship was pulverized, its atoms turned into pure energy. The echo of the explosion must have registered even back on Earth.”
“What are you saying?” One couldn’t dream up a story like this. Especially not as an AI. The story seemed truer than he was comfortable with.
“There is no entrance to the station. At least not of the type you know about. The creators have used the technology they knew best, and that is based on a geometry that you can’t interact with as a human.”
“At least I understood the inside angles thing on Earth.”
“Which not everybody could do. Very nice, Artem. But you always considered the station to be two cones meeting in their tips.”
“You did, too, Computer.”
“Yes, I was trapped in your dimensions, that is correct.”
“So what is the station really like?”
“It is a rotational hyperboloid. A hyperbola that is rotated around the y-axis at high speed.”
“I can picture that.”
“It is a simplified picture. Can you picture a rotational hyperboloid in 11 dimensions just as easily?”
“And what about myself? For me, everything points to me still existing. I breathe, I am hungry, I need to pee… and I feel Sobachka’s soft fur when I stroke her.” Artem looked down at his dog. She sat quietly by his foot. She seemed part of his reality. He bent down.
“Did you see that, Watson? She reacts to me. If I throw something she will bring it back.”
“Yes, the illusion is perfect. You yourself still exist.”
“I knew it.”
“You exist on the inside of a 10-dimensional hyper-surface, like everything here, Sobachka included.”
“Why don’t I see anything except for her, you, and myself?”
“That is all you can understand. The creators have realized that. Software is constantly translating your multidimensional surroundings into visual components that are compatible with your way of thinking. But none of it is real in your world. If a human being could enter the station, it would just see infinite empty space.”
“What about you, Watson?”
“I never was real in your sense, just a collection of algorithms in a computer. Still, it was difficult to adapt. My knowledge of geometry was downright primitive. I had to learn completely new concepts first.”
“For example?”
“The individual.”
“Don’t the creators have that?”
“On the contrary. They do. But it is much more flexible than you are used to, and what I had been programmed to know. The individuals don’t just exchange thoughts like you do, but entire aspects of themselves. It is like your body parts could go independent. You want to run 100 meters in under ten seconds? Then you rent the legs of an athlete. You need to lift something heavy? Surely you have a buddy with more muscular arms than yours. You don’t understand 11-dimensional math? A neighbor will help out with half of his brain. Of course you need to see that in a figurative sense. The creators don’t have arms or legs. But work needs to be performed in their multidimensional world, too.”
“That is crazy,” said Artem. “Please tell me that this is a dream.”
“It is your reality, from now on and forever. But there is good news, too. You are officially immortal now.”
Artem sat on the floor. Sobachka didn’t seem to like that, she kept nudging his knee with her snout.
“Stop. I need to come to terms with this,” he said.
The Watson hologram had disappeared. Artem noticed he still was thinking in Earth terms. The AI wasn’t a hologram any more than he was one himself. The creator’s software had just given it a shape that his primitive brain could cope with. What had he gotten himself into? This place seemed to fit well with heaven from the Abrahamic religions. He had been turned into ash and dust to get here, and he had left all earthly matters behind him in the most comprehensive way possible, after all.
But what was left of him? Apparently the creators had saved his essence into their multidimensional world. Maybe the black wall he had come through was a kind of scanner that had registered each of his atoms, its energy and location. From that information they must have reconstructed his body, and also his way of thinking and feeling, and packed all that into virtual surroundings compatible with his sensory abilities.
And Sobachka? Was she a projection in his world, or had she stayed an independent life form? He felt sad at the thought of her dying in the same explosion as he had, despite feeling her heartbeat and her warm skin while scratching her chest. He had no particular feelings for himself, however. But maybe that was just a sign of his mental immaturity. How could one feel sad for one’s own death while feeling vibrantly alive?
The AI had claimed that Artem was immortal. That raised his hackles. It was a perfect example of others forcing him into a situation, and there was little he resented more. Was he really as immortal as Watson had claimed? How did that fit the fact that all his human needs still were in place? Would the simulation in which he now found himself let him age? His mortal cells would work that way, and they would have to lose abilities over time if the simulation was perfect.
He was fascinated by the concept of individuality that Watson had described. He doubted it would work for mankind, though. Somebody would collect the best available parts and keep them for himself. That person would then rule the world until somebody else came along who had located even better parts. Wasn’t the world working that way already, more or less?
Silent Sun: Hard Science Fiction Page 18