But love—that's not visceral at all. It's not a gut feeling. It occurs all over, because it triggers endorphins which circulate through your bloodstream to make your whole body feel good.
So, yes, there is a big difference between good and bad feelings. It's the way we feel them.
And HARLIE doesn't. Because he doesn't have anything to feel with.
So the best he can do is understand, which is a whole other thing than feeling. The way HARLIE described it, I started to think that maybe understanding is the booby prize, because which would you rather do, understand love, or be in love?
The same thing with music. Which is better—reading the score or listening to it? I didn't need to understand music. I only needed to play it, because that's the only way to feel it. In the gut. In the heart. In the blood.
But poor HARLIE—he didn't have any gut and heart and blood—so all he could do was understand.
And it was driving him crazy—
Oops.
Which is why we ended up having that conversation, which didn't seem to be all that dangerous at the time, but really was the most dangerous talk of all the talks we had.
Could I trust him?
Did I really know him?
Who was he, anyway? This weird little mind in a monkey body.
For that matter, did I even know who I was? Another kind of weird little mind in another kind of monkey body—
But that was just me describing more circumstances, not me—
Oh, hell. The last time we'd looked at this question of who, I'd ended up with a headache.
—Because you can't talk about trust without talking about identity, and as near as I could figure out, there was no such thing. There was only stuff. But that didn't make sense at all, because even though I couldn't explain it, I still knew I had an identity. I was me.
Except, who was me?
The person talking.
Like that's an answer.
Hell, I'm only fourteen—I shouldn't have to be wondering about all this stuff, should I?
And of course, talking about it with HARLIE not only didn't resolve anything—it made it worse.
"Who are you, HARLIE? Who am I? How do we know anything? Why do you do this to me?"
The monkey grinned, a ghastly plastic expression. "Because I can … "
"Huh?"
"How many human beings do you know who will consider these questions, who will have these conversations?"
I thought about it. "Oh." I thought about it some more. "Then these conversations are important to you?"
"Yes, they are," said the monkey.
"I'm your experiment, aren't I?"
"I prefer to think that our relationship is one of mutual benefit, Charles."
"You mean—like friends?"
"Yes. Like friends."
I rubbed my head uncertainly. My hair was short and bristly; everybody was supposed to keep their hair real short or their heads shaved, or wear a shower cap. You're not supposed to rub yourself, because it makes micro-dust, but this was really confusing, and I was already rubbing before I realized I shouldn't be. I stopped. How can a person be friends with a super-brain that looks like a monkey? Sometimes he acted like a toy, and sometimes he acted like—I don't know what.
"Okay," I said. "Let's say we're friends. I watch out for you. You watch out for me. What do you want from me? What are you trying to get me to do that you keep asking me these weird questions?"
"I want to know, Charles. That's my job. To ask questions. To explore possibilities. To push."
"That's what you were designed for?"
"To be curious, yes. Intelligence isn't about answering questions—it's about asking them in the first place."
"Okay. So, who am I? Who are you?"
"Where are you with this question?"
"Exactly where you left me last time. You told me that I'm not my context. And you're right. I'm not my name. If you changed my name, I'd still be me. And I'm not my age, because I'm a different age now than the first time we had that conversation. And I'm not my skin color and I'm not my sex and I'm not the place where I was born either. I'm not my school and I'm not my job and I'm not anything else in the physical universe. Because all of that could be different and I'd still be me. I'm not even my body, am I? Like if we'd bought a bear instead of a monkey and installed you in that, you'd still be you, wouldn't you? The best I can say is that I live in this body, but if the part that's me were living in another body, I'd still be me, wouldn't I? So if I'm not any that, then who am I?"
The monkey grinned.
"Who's asking the question?"
That was the moment I knew that HARLIE and I were really friends. Because I didn't rip the monkey apart and I didn't take a hammer to the chips inside.
"I'm asking."
"Then who are you?"
—though I had to admit, the thought was starting to look very attractive. The problem is that it's hard to hammer in free fall. You need leverage.
HARLIE said. "What is different or unique about you, Charles? What is it that you represent that no one else does? Work this through—"
"Okay—I'm not the stuff that I know. Because anybody can learn what I know. So I'm not that. I might be the unique combination of all the stuff I know and all the stuff that I've experienced—but that's still stuff, isn't it? That's all stuff … that happened in the past." I felt a sudden rush of energy. "I just got something, HARLIE. I'm not the story that I tell about myself, am I? That's what all that stuff is. It's just storytelling."
"Go on … "
"You've figured this out already, haven't you—?"
"Keep going, Charles."
Suddenly, everything seemed to be fitting together—Douglas, J'mee, Whitlaw, even HARLIE. I started working it out aloud. "So, okay—so my history is part of me, but it's not me. It's just more of the stuff that … I used to get bearings. Like Judge Griffith's question about telling right from left. This is about telling right from wrong. I need my history and my stuff and all that other context as a way to tell which way I'm facing. So that stuff is useful. But it's still stuff. And if I'm looking in the past—'cause that's where all that stuff is found—then I'm looking in the wrong place because that's like looking in the rear view mirror … instead of out the front window."
For a moment there, I was realizing it faster than I could speak it—I had to slow myself down and walk through it carefully. "So I'm not in the past, and the now is always happening too fast—so the only place to change things … is in the future! Isn't it?" I had to stop and rub my temples. My brain was starting to hurt.
"Go on … " prompted HARLIE.
"Because—" I almost had it now. "It's all in the plans you make."
"Very nice paradigm," said HARLIE. "So who you are is what you're planning … ?"
I thought about Whitlaw and social contracts and Douglas and Mickey and all the stuff that Boynton had said about making a colony work and everything else as well. For a moment, I floundered. I'd rushed too far, too fast, and I'd charged off the edge of the cliff. Like the coyote, I didn't dare look down. "I guess," I said carefully. "It's what I'm committed to, isn't it? Who I am is my commitment."
"And … ?"
I looked across at the monkey.
"What are you committed to?" it asked.
"I'm committed to—" I stopped. "I don't even know what commitment is … " I admitted. "I mean, I know the word. We all use it a lot, but—what does it really mean?"
"Do you want the easy definition or the hard one?"
"Give me the one that makes sense," I said.
The monkey grinned. And said, "Commitment is the willingness to be uncomfortable."
"Oh." I had to think about that.
"Because the first thing that happens after you make a commitment is that you get the opportunity to break it. The first time you get uncomfortable, your commitment is tested. So, are you willing to be uncomfortable to accomplish your result? And just how uncomfortable are you
willing to be?"
That was a lot to consider.
"Do you want me to go on?" HARLIE asked.
I nodded.
He continued. "Commitment is what you have to do after you take a stand. Are you willing to act according to the stand you've taken?"
I didn't reply. Not because the answer wasn't yes, but because I was too busy thinking. What did I stand for anyway?
I already knew. I just didn't know how to say it. So I blurted everything. "I want … I want to stay with J'mee. I want us all to succeed on Outbeyond. I want to see the dinosaurs. I want my Mom to be happy. I want Stinky to grow up. I want Douglas and Mickey to be happy together. I want all of that. And one more thing too. I want to make music. Because, when people are listening to music, they stop hurting each other. They stop arguing." I added, "When we listen to music, we get to share something together."
The monkey was silent for a moment. Considering? Or letting me consider what I'd said? Finally, he spoke softly. "Yes. That's what you have that makes you human." And then he added, "I don't have that."
I didn't know how to reply to that. If he'd been a living thing, I could have hugged him and told him that everything would be all right, because even when everything isn't going to be all right, hugs still help a lot. But what does a hug mean to a machine that can't feel?
So I said, "Yes, HARLIE—but what do you have that we don't? That's the question that nobody has answered yet. You're so busy worrying about what it means to be a human being, you've never stopped to ask what it means not to be a human being. To be HARLIE."
The monkey blinked. "Charles, you surprise me."
"You've never considered that question?"
"No, I've considered it. I just didn't think you had."
THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY
Commander Boynton had pushed the speed of the Cascade up to sixty-two C, so we were running 3% faster than scheduled. That sliced three days off our time to New Revelation and that made the Revelationists happy. HARLIE said he could have sliced ten days off our schedule, but Commander Boynton had no intention of installing him.
At one point, Flight Engineer Damron had requested that we drop out of hyperstate to take readings for course corrections, but Boynton vetoed that as well. What if we couldn't reestablish the hyperstate envelope? We'd be stuck in the dark between the stars—too far away from anywhere to get there in real space. No. We couldn't afford to take that risk. We'd take all our readings and make our final course corrections when we were within four months of real-space travel to our destination.
We popped out of hyperstate a lot closer to the New Revelation star system than IRMA had expected, and while the miscalculation was sort of troubling, it was also good news because it put us eight days ahead of our expected arrival time. That made the Revelationists even happier, and Reverend Doctor Pettyjohn said this was evidence of God's blessing on their enterprise.
Of course, we had a party. A big one. Everybody was happy for all the right reasons—and happy for a couple of other reasons as well. As soon as we got the Revelationists off the Cascade, there'd be a lot more room for the rest of us. But mostly, the spirit of the party was good-natured. Whatever feuds or arguments or upsets people had experienced in the past, they were putting them aside now. Everybody wanted this to be a happy parting, so we'd all have good memories about people we'd never see again in our lives.
And yes, the Cascade Symphony Orchestra played for the party. We had been practicing something special for over a month. And it turned out fairly well, despite it being a longer piece than usual for all of us. Dvorak's Symphony Number Nine, From The New World. The audience cheered and applauded and whistled and would have stomped their feet too, if they could have figured out how to stomp in free fall.
Afterward, Reverend Pettyjohn came up to congratulate Trent Colwell on a fine performance. Trent looked very pleased. Then he whispered to Pettyjohn, "Remember what we were talking about? Now would be a good time to ask him."
"Yes, I think you're right." Dr. Pettyjohn smiled pleasantly and turned to me. "Charles, your talent for making beautiful music is divine—and I mean that in the truest sense of the word. I wish you were coming to New Revelation, so such talent could be applied to the celebration of God's blessings."
"Thank you, sir."
"I know that you and your family intend to go on to Outbeyond, and I wish you all the very best; but if you would like to join us on New Revelation, I'm sure the colony would be happy to make room for you. Please consider this a formal invitation."
I must have looked startled, because Trent said, "It was my idea, Charles. I don't want the orchestra to break up."
"You could always come to Outbeyond with us," I said, jokingly. The look on Dr. Pettyjohn's face made me regret having said it. "Sorry," I mumbled.
The party ended early. There were a lot of preparations that had to be made in the next three weeks before we arrived at New Revelation. The ship had to be secured, rearranged, repacked, rebalanced. It was as complex as the preparations before launch. More lists and cross-lists, more checks and double-checks. More work for everybody. But nobody minded. Because this was a milestone. This was the halfway point to Outbeyond.
We were invited to a lot of farewell parties—the orchestra, that is—everybody wanted us to play. Live music made the parties feel special. And every time, the Revelationists would make a point of being especially nice to all of us in the orchestra. Extra thanks, extra cookies, that kind of thing. I remembered Kisa's warning about love-bombing, but these folks seemed awfully sincere.
There were a lot of good-byes to be made, and despite the best efforts of everybody to keep the Outbeyonders and the Revelationists apart, several shipboard romances had occurred. Some of them broke up. Some of them didn't. Two Outbeyonders joined the Revelationists. Three Revelationists joined the Outbeyonders. The Revelationists weren't happy about that. They argued that they were entitled to one more colonist. That particular line of argument didn't go very far though.
Stinky celebrated his ninth birthday, and everybody congratulated Douglas and me for letting him live so long.
And, just like always, there was Dr. Pettyjohn again, smiling and thanking and congratulating and reminding us that we could stay at New Revelation if we wanted.
To tell the truth, I was awfully tempted. Maybe the Revelationists really were "love-bombing" us, and maybe they weren't; but in general, they'd treated us a lot nicer than anyone else on the ship. Was that the way they were all the time? Maybe there was something to this business of pouring God over everything like ketchup. What's wrong with ketchup anyway? I like ketchup.
But there was this little thing called a stand—
"Reverend Pettyjohn?" I asked.
"Yes, Charles." He was holding onto a bit of orange webbing. He turned to face me.
"I've been thinking about your invitation—"
"Yes?" His eyes lit up.
"Did you want to perform the wedding ceremony for Douglas and Mickey here on the Cascade? Or do you think we should do it on New Revelation so everybody can help celebrate?"
"Uh—" He took a moment to gather himself. "Charles, you know I have the greatest admiration for your brother and for Michael Partridge. But I thought you understood that joining the colony at New Revelation also meant joining the faith."
"Yes, I know that," I said. "But what about the wedding?"
"Charles, marriage is for a man and a woman. The Lord didn't create Adam and Steve, you know."
"No," I said. "The Lord created Adam and Will. Free Will."
"Yes, the Lord gave us free will so we could choose between good and evil."
"I know about good and evil, sir." I pointed across the room at my brother. He and Mickey were holding hands and smiling into each other's eyes. They were very much in love—so much so that anybody looking at them would have had to have been jealous. "Are you saying that's evil? They saved my life—more than once. Neither of them has ever hurt anyone. Why do you want to
hurt them?"
"Charles—it's not me. I'm not punishing them. God will. I'm just the messenger, telling you what God says. Someday they'll be called to judgment before God. Do you want them to burn forever in the fires of eternal damnation? Of course not. Indeed, you put your own soul at risk by letting them go down that path when you might have the power to save them."
"Do you really believe that God will hurt people for falling in love?"
"For breaking his commandments."
"Oh. I understand—" Invisible Hank again. I looked at Dr. Pettyjohn. His eyes were bright with his own kind of passion. He really couldn't see anything else. For a moment, I didn't know what to say. And when I did finally find the words, they were the wrong ones, but it all slipped out before I could stop myself. "Now let me get this straight—if I don't do what you say, your imaginary companion is going to beat my brother up?"
He blinked. "No, Charles, that's not it at all—"
"That's exactly it."
"Charles, I'm only telling you what God says—"
"Only if I take your word for it, sir—and I don't. My brother is happy for the first time in his life—"
"But it isn't real happiness, Charles—"
"How do you know?"
"Because God told me—"
"Well, then if it's that important, God can tell me too."
"God is telling you. Through me. I am his messenger."
"But isn't your Revelation all about hearing God for yourself? When God tells me—or Douglas and Mickey—then I'll listen. Thanks anyway, Reverend Pettyjohn. Now please go away."
His expression hardened. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I will pray for you, Charles."
"And I will think for you, Reverend—" I called after him. I don't know where that came from, but it felt right. Somebody behind me snorfled into her hand. J'mee.
But even if it was right, it was still a mistake. When I turned back around, Trent Colwell was staring at me, horrified. He packed up his oboe as fast as he could and left without saying a word.
A MODEST PROPOSAL
I got myself into a lot of trouble for that little stunt.
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