Leaping to the Stars

by David Gerrold

  "But this isn't a certified IRMA, is it?"

  "Nope," said Lang. "There aren't any certified IRMAs left in the solar system. They're all out traveling. And most of them won't be coming back. At least not for a long time. So no, we can't afford to wait." Before I could ask the next question, he said, "But remember, once upon a time, some IRMA had to be the first—and this IRMA has the advantage of having in its memory the recorded experiences of every other IRMA, including every successful hyperstate transit ever made."

  I guess I should have found that reassuring, but I didn't. It bothered me, but I didn't know why. At least not until Commander Boynton came forward to tell me that he wouldn't be needing me on the bridge anymore, thankewverymuch. I wasn't being demoted, just reassigned. It bothered me because it felt like a punishment. But I hadn't done anything wrong—

  I'd only given the orders. HARLIE had done it. Well, that wasn't exactly true either.

  But there hadn't been any choice. If we hadn't launched from Luna when we did, we wouldn't have been allowed to launch at all. So how could Commander Boynton hold that against me? He'd have done it himself. So why was it my fault?

  I drifted (literally) forward to hang out in the forward lounge for a while, but there wasn't anyone there—it was mid-shift and everybody had jobs to do. Except me. I'd been detached from bridge duty and nobody had told me what I should do instead. I thought about helping Mom and Bev. They were working down in the farm pods. Bev thought she could get some really humongous Portobello mushrooms growing in free fall. But that didn't sound like much fun. Douglas and Mickey were assigned to the reloading teams. Stinky was in school.

  So it was just me by myself—nothing to do but stare out at three unfinished starships and assorted other space junk that might someday be a permanent habitat out here. There was talk that one or two of the unfinished ships might be moved to Martian orbit to help the Martian colonists, but a lot of folks on board still believed in starships and they wanted to continue construction. I felt bad for them; they couldn't go back and they couldn't go forward. They still had a lot of supplies and material onsite, but they didn't have enough to finish the job. Within two or three months, they'd run out of parts and they'd have nothing else to do. Some folks were saying that the unfinished ships should be cannibalized to finish the Galaxy, but the parts that the Galaxy needed didn't exist on the unfinished ships either, so it was all just talk.

  Somebody floated into the lounge behind me; a paunchy man with graying hair. I didn't recognize him. He was clean and shiny and rosy cheeked, like a polished apple. He looked like he liked to look important, but he wasn't wearing a name-badge. He introduced himself as Reverend Doctor Pettyjohn. "You look a little troubled, son. Is there anything I can do?"

  "Nah, I just want to be alone to think for a while." I noticed his collar. "Are you the ship's chaplain?"

  "Oh, no, not at all. I'm with the transfer group. The Cascade will be making a stopover at New Revelation. That's where we're headed."

  "Oh," I said. "Well, good luck. Or God's Blessing. Or whatever you say." I knew a little bit about New Revelation. It was one of the colony worlds we'd vetoed early on. We didn't want to be Revelationists, and unless you were a Revelationist you couldn't emigrate there.

  "Thank you, Charles." So he knew who I was. But that wasn't much of a surprise. By now, everybody on the Cascade knew who I was.

  I made as if to leave, but he put out a hand to stop me. "I know it's presumptuous," he said. "But I'd like to ask you something. May I?"

  "You can ask … " I said suspiciously.

  "The intelligence engine you brought with you … " ,

  "HARLIE?"

  "Yes, that's the one. You've spent a lot of time with it. Tell me something … ?" He looked serious. "Do you think that it's really alive?"

  "You mean sentient?"

  "More than that, son."

  "I don't understand." I really didn't. I had no idea what he was driving at.

  "It's not an easy question. It's one that has troubled a lot of people for a very long time. And no one has ever really been able to answer it." He looked into my eyes. There was something weird in his gaze. "Tell me. Do you think it has a soul?"

  "Um." I had the feeling that no matter how I answered his question, it was going to be the wrong answer. I tried to fudge my way out of the discussion before it started. "I really haven't had much time to think about it."

  That wasn't exactly the truth. What with one thing and another, the escape, the chase, the kidnapping, I hadn't had time to talk about it with anyone, not even Douglas—but I had thought about it a lot. On my own.

  HARLIE's soul—if he had one—existed in the two bars we'd installed in the monkey; his intelligence existed in whatever machines he could tap into. He could store a lot of data, but he needed to borrow processing cycles to use it. That was the part of the problem that most folks didn't understand. All we had was the core, not the whole machine. But it was the core that gave the rest of the machine its personality. But what was in that core—? I didn't know. I didn't think anybody did yet. Because maybe we didn't even know what human consciousness was—so how could we recognize any other kind?

  "Where do you think souls come from, Charles?"

  I shrugged. I'd never really thought about it. I'd always considered it one of those questions that nobody could answer until after they were dead.

  "Souls come from God," Reverend Pettyjohn answered his own question. "Your soul is a piece of God. That's who you are. That's who everybody is. And when you die, your soul returns to God. So now, let me ask you. Do you think your HARLIE device has a soul?"

  "He acts like he does."

  "Yes, it's a very clever machine. But it was constructed by men, wasn't it? So it can't have a soul from God, can it?"

  I shrugged/nodded, more out of politeness than agreement. It was that evasive gesture that meant I really don't want to have this conversation.

  "So where could its soul have come from? Tell me that, Charles."

  He just wasn't going to take the hint, was he? Obviously, he didn't spend much time really with teenagers. Reverend Doctor Pettyjohn was just another adult with an agenda.

  There was a thing Stinky always did when he didn't want to have a conversation. He stopped talking. He just looked at your Adam's apple and waited until you gave up. It really pissed me off—so of course, he did it whenever I tried to talk to him. It was his only control in the conversation. And he was very good at it.

  I did that now. I just looked at Dr. Pettyjohn's fat shiny neck and waited.

  At first I thought he wasn't going to get it. He kept nattering about souls and machines and stuff like that, and I kept thinking about how long it must take to shave all that skin—why do adults let themselves get that way?

  Abruptly, he interrupted himself. "I'm sorry, Charles. I'm imposing on you. And you're too polite to say so. Please forgive me. This is a question that has vexed me for a long time, and because you've spent so much time in the company of the HARLIE device I was honestly curious to hear what you thought. Perhaps some other time we can finish this conversation? Let me apologize again, and let me offer my sincerest condolences on the loss of your father. If I can be of any assistance to you or your family, please don't hesitate to call on me."

  Somehow I didn't think it was coincidental that the Reverend Doctor Pettyjohn had found me in the forward lounge when he did. And I didn't think it was coincidental that he'd wanted to talk about HARLIE. And where he ultimately intended to go with that discussion … was someplace I didn't want to go.

  Douglas would know, though. I headed back to our cabin—

  And that was the next unpleasant thing that happened.

  Well, not unpleasant as much as it was startling.

  I pushed open the cabin door and Douglas and Mickey were in bed. Well, not bed—they were in one of the curtained areas that we use for sleeping. In free fall you don't really have beds. You don't need them. You just tie yourself in
one place and fall asleep. But they were there in the dark and they had their arms around each other and the way I was oriented, they looked horizontal to me—the point is, they were about as "in bed" as you could get in free fall.

  They weren't doing anything, though. I mean, they had all their clothes on. But Douglas had his arms around Mickey as if he was comforting him, and when Mickey turned around to look at me, his eyes were puffy and red, like he'd been crying.

  I blurted, "Excuse me—" and backed out, embarrassed.

  —and just hung there in the corridor, wondering what I'd seen.

  It didn't bother me that Douglas and Mickey were in bed, cuddling. Oh hell, Bobby wrapped himself around me often enough when he was scared or lonely or just needed to be loved. And I'd spent my share of time holding onto Douglas too. But this was different. And not just because Douglas and Mickey were boyfriends or partners or whatever you wanted to call them.

  It was the fact that Douglas was comforting Mickey.

  I'd always thought that Mickey was the strong one and that Douglas was the one who needed Mickey's strength. Not the other way around.

  I'd never thought of Douglas as being strong.

  But now that I did think about it, I realized that he'd been the strong one ever since we'd left West El Paso.

  And while I was marveling over that, Douglas came out of the cabin and found me in the hall.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Oh yeah—sure," I said. "You mean, about that? Yeah. I'm sorry for barging in on you guys."

  "No, it's my fault. I should have set the privacy latch."

  "Is Mickey all right?" I asked.

  "Not really … " Douglas admitted.

  "What's the matter with him?"

  "Think about it, Chigger. His Mom missed the boat. He's never going to see her again. Or anyone else he knows. We're all he has left. He's been depressed for days—but after the launch, he really broke down."

  "Oh," I said. I'd been so wrapped up in my own upsets I hadn't thought about anybody else's. What had been a getaway for us was an exile for him. "He doesn't want to come?"

  "No. He wants to come. But that doesn't stop him from missing what he left behind. We talked about it. He's excited about the trip, but he's worried about his Mom and his Aunt Georgia and everybody else."

  "It's like us and Dad, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, kind of. Except he knows they're still alive and they miss him just as much as he misses them. And he can still talk to them by phone—at least until we launch. Once we go into hyperstate, he'll never see them again. It's hard to say good-bye, Charles. You know that."

  I thought about it. We'd never really had the chance to say goodbye to anyone—not Mom when we'd left her behind at Geostationary. Not Dad either. Suddenly he was gone. We weren't very good at good-byes anyway. We were a lot better at breakups. So I couldn't imagine how hard all this had to be for Mickey. "Is there anything I can do?"

  Douglas said, "Just be nice to him."

  "Yeah," I said. "I can do that." I didn't know what I could say to him that would help, but maybe I'd think of something. Mickey had been nice to me when I needed it. I owed him one.

  But all of that stuff, all happening all at once, left me feeling weird, kind of unsettled. I wasn't sure why—it was just that everybody else seemed to have invented a new life of their own all of a sudden and I didn't fit in anywhere anymore.

  RESPONSIBILITIES

  I wasn't the only one feeling strange. Everybody was.

  It was everything. Getting the command module secured, getting the new colonists installed into their quarters and into the shipboard routine, getting supplies and duties and classes organized—and all the while, watching the continuing polycrisis on Earth, watching the pictures of burning cities, rioting crowds, piled up bodies, clogged highways, tanks rolling—I didn't understand the half of it. No one did. The communications from Earth were scattered and haphazard and didn't make sense half the time.

  Everyone was worried and scared, and there wasn't anything we could do except keep on doing what we were doing: getting ready for departure.

  And then, abruptly—after three days of frantic rearranging and scheduling and hassling and fussing and fidgeting—Boynton announced a gathering in the gym. Mandatory attendance.

  Actually, it wasn't really a gym, it was just a humongous cargo barn that doubled as a machine shop and a repair facility and a storage bay, and even though it was already half-filled with supplies, there was still room inside for several hundred people. Some folks hung in midair, others parked themselves in the orange webbing on the walls. Others, who were still on shift, watched from their stations, their cabins, or various lounges.

  Boynton floated at the far end, surrounded by several of the ship's officers. He spoke very bluntly. "I know everybody is under a lot of strain. We've all been feeling it. And it's starting to affect our work. Even worse, it's affecting the way we deal with each other. It's time for us to take a break. We need it. We've earned it.

  "First of all, we want to welcome our new colonists—all the folks who rode up with the command module. It's been a rough time for all of us, but especially for the people on the last boat out. So let's welcome all of them to the Cascade family and help them get settled in as quickly as possible. Please give them all the assistance and support that you can."

  He waited until the applause died down. "To all of you newcomers, I want to say, we're very happy to have you aboard. You bring skills and experience that we desperately need. You're going to find that life aboard a colony ship is hard and rigorous, and it's going to take some time to adapt. Some of you have already put yourselves to work, and we appreciate that. We'll be finding placements for the rest of you as fast as we can.

  "Let me talk about placements for a bit. Each and every one of you will have a job to do. Some of you will think your jobs are demeaning, but let me stress this now—there are no small and demeaning jobs on a starship. Every job serves our larger goal. If your job is cleaning corridors, that serves the ship. If your job is serving meals or washing dishes, that serves the ship. If your job is cargo-balancing, that serves the ship. Any job that doesn't get done costs us twice—the first time because it doesn't get done, and the second time when someone else has to do it. Yes, I know it feels like some jobs are more important than others, and some jobs are more fun than others, and some jobs are more exciting than others—but don't let your thinking fall into that trap. Every job serves the ship.

  "Your second responsibility aboard ship will be education. Everyone on this ship will go to school. We will be in transit for the better part of a year. We cannot afford to waste that time. When we arrive at Outbeyond, we will need doctors, nurses, teachers, geologists, botanists, biologists, meteorologists, zoologists, geneticists, caregivers, therapists, farmers, harvesters, crop-tenders, plumbers, electricians, network specialists, information managers, and a thousand other kinds of specialist. And yes, we'll even need a few lawyers, and maybe a judge or two.

  "We have the teaching programs, we have the libraries, we have the rescued resources of the entire solar system at your disposal. We have counselors who will help you plan a curriculum that excites you. We expect you to apply yourself to your course work with energy and enthusiasm and commitment. The success of the colony depends on the level of expertise that we can bring to our labors. Your studies represent the essential foundation for the job at Outbeyond. We have many jobs to fill and we need you to train yourselves to fill those jobs.

  "Your primary responsibility for the next nine months will be to serve the ship. After that, your responsibility will be to serve the colony. So don't plan on studying medieval English literature or first century Roman law or biblical deconstruction in the twenty-first century. We have no need for those specialties. They won't serve the colony. We need you to study farming and cooking and medicine and plumbing first. We need to assure our survival. We need to take care of our well-being. If you have questions, many of
our crew members have been to Outbeyond, and lived and worked there. They'll be happy to assist you in keeping yourself focused on what's wanted and needed.

  "As part of your primary responsibility, each of you will be required to spend at least one hour out of every twelve in the centrifuge. You won't be worth anything to anyone if you arrive at Outbeyond with no calcium in your bones and your heart shrunk by thirty percent. You can nap there, you can shower there, you can read a book, you can jog, you can have sex, whatever—as long as your health monitor says you're getting your daily recommended allowance of Vitamin Gee.

  "Finally, each and every one of you will assume an additional responsibility—perhaps the most important responsibility of all. You will participate in the planning of a vision for our community. This is not optional, it is required. We will have regular colloquiums, sometimes in small groups, sometimes here in the gym with everybody in attendance. The purpose of the colloquia will be to prepare a transition to a self-governing authority.

  "At the moment, Outbeyond colony is still functioning as a corporate construction zone. Our plan has always been to shift to a representational authority as rapidly as possible. Because you are the first—and last—load of permanent colonists, it is part of your job to begin outlining the shape of that authority. Yes, the 4300 people already living at Outbeyond have strong ideas of their own, based on their own experiences of the past few years; but they know, just like you, that the final decision must be made by all of the inhabitants of Outbeyond, working in partnership. I recommend that each of you think long and hard about what you want a government to look like, because whatever you choose, you're going to be stuck with it for a long, long time."

  Boynton finished his prepared remarks and took a moment to relax. "Yes, I know I've made it sound hard and frustrating. Trust me, it's harder than it sounds and twice as frustrating as you can imagine—but it's also the most exciting job you'll ever love. So let me congratulate you for taking on the challenge. There are a lot of folks who didn't take it on and they're not here. And there are a lot of folks who wanted to take it on and couldn't make the cut. So let's celebrate our partnership. Let's celebrate our mutual commitment. And let's take advantage of this opportunity to get to know each other. The bar is open. One beer per customer. Enjoy!"