The Observers thd-9

by John Scalzi

  “Your boss might not be happy with you saying ‘obvious things’ to us,” Lowen noted.

  Liu opened his mouth before Wilson did. “On the contrary, I think Ambassador Abumwe knew exactly what she was doing when she assigned Lieutenant Wilson as our liaison,” he said.

  “She’s the opposite of stupid,” Wilson agreed.

  “So I am learning,” Liu said, and then yawned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Space travel is still new to me and I’ve discovered that it wears me out. I believe I will get some rest.”

  “How are you finding your quarters?” Wilson asked.

  “They’re cozy,” Liu said.

  “What a diplomatic way of putting that,” Wilson said.

  Liu laughed. “Yes, well. That’s my job,” he said. He excused himself and exited.

  “Nice fellow,” Wilson said, as he left.

  “An excellent fellow,” Lowen said. “One of the best diplomats in the world, and one of the nicest people you’d want to meet. He even gave up his private berth for Franz to use and roomed with Thierry. Franz got a bit claustrophobic. Said he’d seen prison cells that were larger.”

  “It’s probably true,” Wilson said.

  “The irony is that the person who is going to suffer most for it is Thierry,” Lowen said. “Liu is brilliant and wonderful, but he also snores like a freight train. Thierry’s got to suffer through that now. Don’t be surprised if for the next few days you see him look very, very tired.”

  “You could prescribe him something to get to sleep,” Wilson said. “You’re a doctor, after all.”

  “I don’t think my scripting privileges extend past Neptune,” Lowen said. “And anyway, Franz travels with a white noise generator to help him get to sleep. He’s already given it to Thierry for the duration. He should be fine. Should be.”

  “Good,” Wilson said. “And you? How are your quarters?”

  “They suck,” Lowen said. “And Luiza already claimed the bottom bunk.”

  “It’s a hard life you lead,” Wilson said.

  “If people only knew,” Lowen said. “Speaking of which, who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?”

  “Fortunately, no one,” Wilson said. “There’s an officers lounge three decks down. It offers a regrettable selection of terrible light beers and inferior spirits.”

  “I can fix that,” Lowen said. “I travel with a bottle of eighteen-year-old Laphroaig in my case.”

  “That’s not necessarily healthy,” Wilson said.

  “Relax,” Lowen said. “If I were genuinely an alcoholic, I’d take along something much cheaper. I brought it on the off chance I might have to butter up one of you folks and pretend to be friendly and such.”

  “Thank God you didn’t have to do that,” Wilson said.

  “Before we arrived, I thought I might ask Ambassador Abumwe if she’d like a drink,” Lowen said. “But I don’t really get the sense she’s the sort to appreciate a good buttering up.”

  “I think you’ve accurately assessed the ambassador,” Wilson said.

  “You, on the other hand,” Lowen said, pointing at Wilson.

  “I am all about the buttering, Dr. Lowen,” Wilson assured her.

  “Wonderful,” Lowen said. “First stop, the crawl space you folks laughingly call officers berths on this ship. Second stop, officers lounge. Hopefully, it is larger.”

  The officers lounge was larger, but not by much.

  “Does the Colonial Union have something against personal space?” Lowen asked, hoisting the Laphroaig onto the very small table. The officers lounge was empty, except for Lowen, Wilson and the Laphroaig.

  “It’s an old ship,” Wilson explained while selecting a pair of cups from the lounge’s cupboard. “In the old days, people were smaller and appreciated a good snuggle.”

  “I am suspicious of the veracity of your statement,” Lowen said.

  “That’s probably wise,” Wilson said. He came over to the table and set down the cups. They made a click as they connected with the table.

  Lowen, puzzled, reached for one of the cups. “Magnetic,” she said, lifting the cup.

  “Yes,” Wilson said. “The artificial gravity doesn’t frequently cut out, but when it does it’s nice not to have cups floating about randomly.”

  “What about the stuff in the cups?” Lowen asked. “What happens to that?”

  “It gets slurped frantically,” Wilson said, picking up his own cup and waggling it in front of Lowen. Lowen eyed Wilson sardonically, opened the Laphroaig, tipped in a finger and a half and gave herself an equal amount. “To artificial gravity,” she said, in a toast.

  “To artificial gravity,” Wilson said.

  They drank.

  Drink two, some minutes later:

  “So, is it easy?” Lowen said.

  “Is what easy?” Wilson asked.

  Lowen waved at Wilson’s body. “Being green.”

  “I can’t believe you just went there,” Wilson said.

  “I know,” Lowen said. “Jim Henson and several generations of his descendants are now rolling in their graves, many dozens of light-years away.”

  “It is a funny joke,” Wilson said. “Or at least was, the first six hundred times I heard it.”

  “It’s a serious question, though!” Lowen said. “I’m asking from a place of medical curiosity, you know. I want to know if all those so-called improvements they give you Colonial Defense Forces soldiers are actually all that.”

  “Well, start with this,” Wilson said. “How old do I look to you?”

  Lowen looked. “I don’t know, maybe twenty-two? Twenty-five, tops? You being green messes with my age sense. A lot younger than me, and I’m thirty-five. But you’re not younger than me, are you?”

  “I’m ninety,” Wilson said.

  “Get out,” Lowen said.

  “More or less,” Wilson said. “You’re out here long enough and you eventually lose track unless you check. It’s because as long as you’re CDF, you don’t actually age.”

  “How is that even possible?” Lowen said. “Entropy still works out here, right? Physics hasn’t totally broken down?”

  Wilson extended an arm. “You’re engaging in the pathetic fallacy,” he said. “Just because I look like a human being doesn’t mean I am. This body has more genetic material that’s not strictly human than it does material that is human. And it heavily integrates machines as well. My blood is actually a bunch of nanobots in a fluid. I am and every other CDF soldier is a genetically-modified cyborg.”

  “But you’re still you, right?” Lowen asked. “You’re still the same person you were when you left Earth. Still the same consciousness.”

  “That’s a question of some contention among us soldiers,” Wilson said, setting his arm back down. “When you transfer over to the new body, the machine that does the transfer makes it at least seem like for an instant you’re in two bodies at once. It feels like you as a person make the transfer. But I think it’s equally possible that what happens is that memories are transferred over to a brain specially prepared for them, it wakes up, and there’s just enough cross talk between the two separate brains to give the illusion of a transfer before the old one shuts down.”

  “In which case, you’re actually dead,” Lowen said. “The real you. And this you is a fake.”

  “Right.” Wilson took another sip of his drink. “Mind you, the CDF could show you graphs and charts that show that actual consciousness transfer happens. But I think this is one of those things you can’t really model from the outside. I have to accept the possibility that I could be a fake Harry Wilson.”

  “And this doesn’t bother you,” Lowen said.

  “In a metaphysical sense, sure,” Wilson said. “But in a day-to-day sense, I don’t think about it much. On the inside, it sure feels like I’ve been around for ninety years, and ultimately this version of me likes being alive. So.”

  “Wow, this conversation went places I wasn’t expecting it to go,” Lo
wen said.

  “If you think that’s weird, wait until I tell you that thanks to the mechanics of the skip drive, you’re in an entirely different universe and will never see your friends and family again,” Wilson said.

  “Wait, what?” Lowen said.

  Wilson motioned to the Laphroaig bottle. “Better pour yourself another drink,” he said.

  Drink four, sometime later:

  “You know what the Colonial Union’s problem is, don’t you?” Lowen asked.

  “There’s just one problem?” Wilson responded.

  “It’s arrogance!” Lowen said, ignoring Wilson’s question. “What sort of government decides that the smart thing to do, the prudent thing to do, the wise thing to do, is to keep an entire planet in an arrested state of development, just to use it to farm colonists and soldiers?”

  “If you’re expecting me to act as defense for the Colonial Union’s practices, it’s going to be a very short debate,” Wilson said.

  “And not just any planet,” Lowen said, ignoring Wilson again. Wilson smiled; clearly Lowen was self-winding when she was tipsy. “But Earth! I mean, seriously, are you fucking kidding me? The cradle of human life in the universe, the place from which we all spring, our home planet, for crying out loud. And a couple hundred years ago some pricks on Phoenix thought, Hey, screw them. Honestly, what did you think was going to happen when we found out how badly you’ve been messing with us? And for how long?”

  “I reiterate my comment that if you’re expecting me to defend the Colonial Union, you’re going to be sorely disappointed,” Wilson said.

  “But you’re one of them!” Lowen said. “You know how they think, at least, right? So what were they thinking?”

  “I think they were thinking that they would never have to deal with the Earth finding out anything,” Wilson said. “And for the sake of accuracy, the Colonial Union did do a very fine job of keeping the Earth in the dark for a couple of centuries. If it hadn’t tried to kill off a friend of mine, and his entire family, and his colony, for the purposes of political expediency, they’d probably still be getting away with it.”

  “Hold on,” Lowen said. “You know John Perry?”

  “We left Earth on the same boat,” Wilson said. “We were part of the same group of friends. We called ourselves the Old Farts. There were seven of us then. There’s three of us now. Me, John and Jesse Gonzales.”

  “Where is she?” Lowen asked.

  “She’s on the colony of Erie,” Wilson said. “She and I were together for a while, but she eventually wanted to leave the CDF and I didn’t. She married a guy on Erie and has twin daughters now. She’s happy.”

  “But all the rest are dead,” Lowen said.

  “They told us when we joined that three-quarters of us would be dead in ten years,” Wilson said. He was lost in thought for a moment, then looked up at Lowen and smiled. “So strictly on a percentage basis, the Old Farts beat the odds.” He drank.

  “I’m sorry to bring up memories,” Lowen said, after a minute.

  “We’re talking and drinking, Doctor Lowen,” Wilson said. “Memories will surface just as a matter of course.”

  “You can call me Danielle, you know,” Lowen said. “Or Dani. Either is fine. I figure if we’ve drunk this much Scotch together, we should be on a first-name basis.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Wilson said. “Then call me Harry.”

  “Hello, Harry.”

  “Hello, Dani.”

  They clinked their cups together.

  “They’re renaming my high school after your friend,” Lowen said. “It was Hickenlooper High. Now it’s going to be Perry High.”

  “There is no higher honor to be bestowed,” Wilson said.

  “I’m actually kind of annoyed by it,” Lowen said. “I get mail now saying, ‘Greetings, Perry Graduates,’ and I’m all, ‘What? I didn’t go there.’”

  “If I know John at all, he’d be mildly embarrassed to have your high school’s name changed out from under you,” Wilson said.

  “Well, to be fair, the man did free my entire planet from the Colonial Union’s systematic and centuries-long campaign of repression and social engineering,” Lowen said. “So I guess I shouldn’t begrudge him the high school.”

  “Possibly not,” Wilson agreed.

  “But that just brings us back around to the original question: What the hell was the Colonial Union thinking?” Lowen asked.

  “Do you want a serious answer?” Wilson asked.

  “Sure, if it’s not too complicated,” Lowen said. “I’m a little drunk.”

  “I’ll use small words,” Wilson promised. “I would be willing to bet that in the beginning the Colonial Union justified it by thinking that they were both protecting the Earth by taking the focus off it and onto the Colonial Union worlds, and then also helping humanity in general by using the Earth to help our colonies grow as quickly as they could with new immigrants and soldiers.”

  “So that’s at first,” Lowen said. “What about later?”

  “Later? Habit,” Wilson said.

  Lowen blinked. “‘Habit’? That’s it? That’s all you got?”

  Wilson shrugged. “I didn’t say it was a good answer,” he said. “Just a serious one.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m a diplomat,” Lowen said. “Or I would tell you what I really thought of that.”

  “I can guess,” Wilson said.

  “And what do you think, Harry?” Lowen asked. “Do you think that Earth and the Colonial Union should have an alliance? After everything that’s happened?”

  “I’m not sure I’m the best-qualified person out there to answer that,” Wilson said.

  “Oh, come on,” Lowen said, and waved at the officers lounge, whose population was still limited to the two of them and the Laphroaig. “It’s just you and me.”

  “I think that it’s a scary universe out there,” Wilson said. “With not a lot of humans in it.”

  “But what about the Conclave?” Lowen asked. “Four hundred alien races not actively killing each other. Doesn’t that make it a little less scary?”

  “For those four hundred races? Sure,” Wilson said. “As long as it lasts. For everyone else? Still scary.”

  “You’re cheerful,” Lowen said.

  “I prefer ‘realist,’” Wilson said.

  Six drinks, even later:

  “Are you green everywhere?” Lowen asked.

  “Excuse me?” Wilson said.

  “I am asking purely on scientific grounds,” Lowen said.

  “Thanks,” Wilson said, dryly. “That makes it so much better.”

  “I mean, unless you prefer unscientific reasons for me asking,” Lowen said.

  “Why, Dr. Lowen…” Wilson feigned shock. “I am not that kind of boy.”

  “Once again, I am skeptical,” Lowen said.

  “Tell you what,” Wilson said. “Ask me that question sometime when you haven’t just consumed a substantial portion of a bottle of fine single-malt Scotch whisky in a single sitting. If you’re moved to do so, you might get a different answer from me.”

  “Fine,” Lowen said sourly, and then looked over at Wilson somewhat as an owl would. “You’re not drunk,” she said.

  “No,” Wilson said.

  “You drank as much as me, and I’m drunk as a skunk,” she said. “Even accounting for body mass, you should be plastered, too.”

  “Benefit of the new body,” Wilson said. “A much higher alcohol tolerance. It’s more complicated than that, but it’s late and you’re drunk, so maybe we’ll save it for tomorrow. Speaking of which, it’s time to get you into your crawl space, if you want to be at the negotiations tomorrow without a hangover.” He stood up and offered his hand to Lowen.

  She took it, wobbling only slightly. “Whoa,” she said. “Someone did something to the artificial gravity.”

  “Yes,” Wilson said. “That’s it exactly. Come on.” He navigated her through the corridors and up the decks to the bert
hs Captain Coloma had assigned to the observers.

  “Almost there,” Wilson said to Lowen.

  “About time,” Lowen said. “I think you took the scenic route. The scenic route that spins a bit.”

  “Maybe I’ll bring you some water,” Wilson said. “And some crackers.”

  “This is an excellent idea,” Lowen said, and then jumped a little at the noise of the door of one of the berths flying open and slamming against the bulkhead.

  Wilson looked toward the noise and saw Thierry Bourkou, looking frantic. “Is everything all right, Mr. Bourkou?” he asked.

  Bourkou turned to Wilson, saw Lowen on his arm and rushed toward them. “Dani, Dani, come quick,” he said. “It’s Cong.”

  “What’s Cong?” Lowen asked, less tired and slurred than moments before. Wilson could see the panic on her colleague’s face, and his alarmed tone was pushing the drunkenness down. “What is it?”

  “He’s not breathing,” Bourkou said. “He’s blue and he’s not breathing.” He grabbed Lowen’s hand and pulled her down the corridor toward his berth. “He’s not breathing and I think he might be dead.”

  “He was fine when he lay down,” Bourkou said. “He and I have both been feeling tired, so we both took naps at the same time. Then he started snoring, so I turned on the white noise machine. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up I told him I was going to get him some tea and asked him if he wanted any. He didn’t respond, so I went to shake him. That’s when I saw his lips were blue.”

  All of the observers were in the Clarke’s medical bay, along with Wilson, Abumwe, Captain Coloma and Doctor Inge Stone, the Clarke’s chief medical officer. Liu was also there, on a stretcher.

  “Did he say anything other than that he was tired?” Stone asked Bourkou. “Did he complain about any other pains or ailments?”

  Bourkou shook his head. “I’ve known Cong for ten years,” he said. “He’s always been healthy. The worst that’s ever happened to him is that he broke his foot when a motorcycle ran over it while he was crossing a street.”

  “What happened to him?” Franz Meyer asked. After Liu, he was the ranking diplomat among the observers.