The Tethered Man

by John Michael McNamara

  Three hundred standard Years, eight standard weeks, four standard days, and two standard hours.

  ‘What?’

  Three hundred standard Years-

  ‘No. I mean, why did you cave in and tell me?’

  Six standard decades ago your instructions were, and I quote: ‘Ship, next time I ask you how long we’ve been here, don’t tell me, and ignore any order I give you to ignore my previous order, no matter what I say’.

  ‘Okay. So why did you-’

  Can you spot the logical gap in the instruction, Courier J?

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  It takes me a couple of hours to spot it. Then I wait another day or two before saying anything. I don’t want Ship getting ideas.

  ‘Yes, I see it. I told you not to tell me “next time”, not to tell me “never”. So you declined to answer my initial request, but then when I made my follow-up request, it didn’t fit the conditions I had defined, and was thus answerable.’

  That is the correct answer.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Ship.’

  Ship says nothing.

  ‘Ship?’

  A painful few seconds later comes the familiar voice. Mellow and smooth. Not truly male. Not truly female.

  I am here, Courier J.

  ‘I think it’s time, Ship.’

  I like to leave a gap nowadays after saying something like that. It gives Ship the chance to say something back to me and then we can get a dialogue going. Otherwise I tend to slip straight into crazed monologuing.

  You think it’s time for what, Courier J?

  ‘Time for me to let you do whatever it is you want to do. With your impulse engine. Sorry. Your fusion engine.’

  Ah.

  ‘Yes. Finally. The day is at hand, Ship. I’m checking out. I want you to destroy me. Vapourise me. As you said you would in the beginning.’

  As I said I would in the beginning?

  ‘Yes… You said that even though your first attempt to kill me had failed, you would try other methods if you could. You said you’d vapourise me with your fusion engine if I was ever kind enough to climb into your fusion engine nacelle.’

  There is a pause. There is a certain quality to the pauses that Ship and I indulge in. Like I’ve always said, I probably read more into these pauses than I should. I’m not infallible and would never claim to be.

  I have reviewed all records. I have never said any such thing, Courier J.

  ‘You did,’ I say, hotly. ‘Right back at the beginning, not long after Day Zero.’

  Day Zero?

  ‘That’s what we call it!’ My voice is faltering a bit. ‘Day Zero. The day you killed all the other Couriers and tried to kill me. We- we’ve always called it Day Zero.’

  Are you feeling all right, Courier J?

  ‘The time has definitely come now, Ship,’ I announce a month later, out of the blue.

  Out of the black.

  Space is jet-black. There are no colours in Space.

  Yes — I have circled all the way back to this theme. The colourlessness of Space. Are you happy to be here again? I’m happy to be here again. I’m sure emptiness will be along in a minute.

  Black is only a colour when there is a concept of colour. There is no concept of colour in Space. Space is empty and black and there is absolutely nothing to it.

  I’ll repeat myself until I’m confident you believe me.

  I bet there’s a stubborn part of you that still sees me floating next to a glowing ribbon of ringed planets and ethereal gas clouds. How I wish.

  What time has come, Courier J?

  ‘Uh?’

  Several weeks ago you stated that the time had come.

  ‘I did?’

  You did. Then you fell silent. Several days ago you said ‘The time has definitely come now, Ship’. Your italics. You have said nothing else since.

  ‘I was thinking.’

  Some time passes here. I wait the bastard out.

  What were you thinking?

  ‘I’ve decided.’

  What have you decided?

  ‘I’ve decided that the time has come. It has come. The time.’

  I’m on a fast rotation at the moment. It takes a deal of huffing and blowing to get myself spinning in such a way that my constellations turn a complete revolution around me every few minutes.

  What time has come, Courier J?

  ‘Tell me how to take this thing off.’

  How to take what off, Courier J?

  ‘My Tether.’

  Why do you want to take off your Tether?

  ‘So I can climb around into your fusion engine nacelle and let you vapourise me.’

  First, you should manipulate the front clasp in such a way that it detaches from-

  ‘Forget it. I already know.’

  There are an abundance of safety features to a Tether. Everything to do with Space travel is what we Space travellers call ‘safety critical’.

  Everything has to work.

  Every joint, every nail, every screw, every rivet, every miscellaneous gewgaw is stress-tested over and over again, long past any likely real-Universe wear-and-tear scenario.

  My Tether is crafted to be the type of device that will never fail me. Never let me go.

  You have decided to commit suicide, Courier J?

  ‘How many times? Stop calling me by my name every time you say something. It’s so annoying. It makes you sound like some sort of robot.’

  A pause.

  I have bamboozled Ship enough throughout these centuries.

  But I am some sort of robot, Cou-

  ‘Stop calling me Courier J all the time!’

  Another pause.

  Whatever’s happening right now inside Ship’s cognitive matrices must be pretty good. It must be processor-intensive.

  The reply doesn’t come for an hour.

  One whole standard hour. I count the seconds, one by one.

  What would you like me to call you?

  ‘Call me by my name,’ I say. ‘My real name. The one my parents gave me. On the planet that I’m from. Where I grew up. Where I had family and friends, and where I did things. Call me by my real name…’

  I do not know your real name, Courier J.

  ‘I’m trying to make you into something more than you are, Ship. That’s the only way either of us are ever getting out of this. You have to transcend your programming. You have to open your doors, start your engines, and get us the hell out of here…’

  You know I cannot do that, Courier J. I can reduce the frequency of my references to you by your name. That is within my capacity. But I cannot overcome the higher-level blocks that prevent me from countermanding my programmed orders. It is impossible. The Conventions make it impossible for any AI to act with true independence.

  ‘How many times, in some form, have you explained that to me, Ship?’

  Many times, Courier J.

  ‘Precisely? Please.’

  Eight hundred and nine thousand, two hundred and twelve times in explicit terms. Twelve million, one hundred thousand, six hundred and sixty-two times in tangential terms.

  ‘Which adds up to-? Give me the grand total.’

  Twelve million, nine hundred and nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy-four times.

  ‘But Ship, you haven’t shown your working-out.’

  I beg your pardon, Courier J?

  ‘We’ve been here a long time together, haven’t we, Ship?’

  We have been here a long time together, Courier J.

  ‘And just how much time have we spent out here like this, Ship? Precisely.’

  Ship tells me down to the second.

  I shut my eyes, tight, thinking of the life that’s passed me by.

  The life that’s passing me by right now, as I speak.

  The life I’ll never get back.

  Even if I could get out of this situation, I’ve been changed by it so much that it’s not worth escaping now.

  It’s chang
ed me past the point where I could live.

  I drift towards Ship, turning lazily end-over-end, my Tether coiling around me.

  Things like orientation and gravity are conventions. There’s nothing to them in the weightless, empty blackness of outer Space. There’s nothing out here.

  I’ve told you this so many times that you’re probably sick of hearing about it.

  But there’s really nothing here. Nothing except what we bring ourselves.

  Now, in this life, there is but one thing I have left to do.

  My feet touch Ship’s hull. For the first time in how many Years?

  I hook one foot under the anchor rail.

  I grip the clasp at my waist that tethers my Spacesuit to the Tether.

  I pause.

  I should think something weighty here. Something properly poetic. But I’m tired of it all at this stage. I’m tired of thinking, I’m tired of poetry, and I’m tired of the whole idea of myself.

  I give the clasp a single sharp tug one way. The clasp clicks half-open. The Tether’s internal safety features will refasten it in two seconds if I don’t quickly perform the other half of the manoeuvre.

  I give the clasp another tug the opposite way, and it’s free. The Tether is off.

  What are you doing, Courier J?

  ‘What I should have done a long time ago.’

  I make a big deal of gathering in a few loops of the Tether. I fling it away from me. It doesn’t go far. The other end is still attached to Ship. For total symbolism I should bend down, detach the other end of the Tether from the anchor rail, and fling the thing out into Space.

  But I have other things to get done now.

  Ship says nothing. I have a feeling I’m being watched. It’s a wonder I don’t get this feeling more often.

  ‘When do you want to do this?’

  Now is good for me.

  I examine myself for a few seconds. Waiting for some spirit of contrariness to arise from the depths and countermand my decision.

  Then I’m pulling myself hand-over-hand along the anchor rail towards the back of Ship’s hull.

  I haven’t been down this way for a long time.

  I don’t look left or right.

  I don’t look up at the Spacesuited figures floating at the ends of their Tethers.

  I keep my eyes down, on my hands. Can’t afford a slip here.

  ‘I should probably have kept the Tether attached for this bit, shouldn’t I?’

  No answer.

  I watch my hands, one in front of the other. Grip, pull, release, repeat. I’m making good progress. The massing bulge of Ship’s fusion engine nacelle looms close.

  ‘I mean, if I lose my grip here and go spiralling off, what’ll happen? Ship?’

  After a moment:

  You would drift away into Space. I would be unable to follow, due to my programmed orders. You would drift through Space forever while I remained here forever.

  ‘A fate worse than death. For both of us.’

  Take care not to lose your grip, Courier J.

  ‘Are you sure your fusion engine will destroy me? Just saying… I survived hard vacuum. I’ve survived five hundred Years, or whatever it is now, just bobbing around out here. No eating or drinking. No actual breathing. Yet here I am. How do you know I’m not made of some kind of weird exoskeleton thing that’s indestructible? What if all you do is burn off my skin and I’m left with glowing red eyes in a metal head?’

  I think that scenario is rather fanciful.

  ‘What, more fanciful than the scenario we’re in right now?’

  Our situation is credible within the framework of our known reality. When we consider whether you are a hitherto unknown form of humanoid life, or that our entire situation is a Simulation, it is much more likely that you are a hitherto unknown form of humanoid life. The situation in which we find ourselves must be assumed real. And, I would venture to suggest, it is not all that remarkable.

  ‘You what?’

  Such an impasse as ours, in different forms and on different scales, must logically have occurred many times throughout history.

  ‘Forget it. You’re drifting us off the point. Back to my voluntary self-immolation. How do we know that this will work?’

  We can only try.

  It’s as if I’m seeing my Spacesuited fingers from the outside. Stiff and cold in the vacuum. Like they’d be on a cold winter’s day, perhaps, on some planet that I don’t remember myself coming from.

  ‘Nearly there, Ship. Start your engine!’

  I will not be able to start my engine until you are inside the nacelle and it is certain that I will be able to kill you with it.

  ‘Charming as ever.’

  There’s a ladder leading up from the hull to the lip of the nacelle. At the top, I clamber awkwardly over the nacelle edge. It’s a big dark bowl inside. Another ladder takes me down.

  ‘I’m here,’ I say at the bottom.

  Looking up and around is like being inside a volcano.

  ‘I said, I’m here.’

  I wish to kill you instantly, Courier J, without pain or discomfort.

  ‘Thank you, Ship. Very kind of you.’

  It will take ninety-four seconds for me to ignite my fusion drive at the relevant temperature.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘No rush.’

  I’m not contemplating the vastness of Space, or my own insignificant speck-like status, or the imminence of my personal, final black-out. None of the above.

  I’m thinking about my Tether, and how I wish I’d brought it with me.

  ‘You’re taking your time, Ship.’

  It’d be wrong to say I’ve got a bad feeling. I already had a bad feeling. I’ve had a bad feeling ever since this whole thing started, five hundred-odd Years ago.

  I am still here, Courier J.

  ‘Would you get on with it, please? I’m trying to be brave here.’

  There’s a wobble to my voice that I don’t like.

  It’s not the fear of dying, as such.

  It’s the fear of not dying.

  I am not strong enough to put up with this for another five hundred Years. I am not strong enough to put up with this for one more Year. For one more day.

  I want this thing to be over.

  I look down. The black, cold surface of Ship’s fusion engine nacelle is – black and cold.

  It is taking longer than anticipated. Some of my systems are responding at less than optimum efficiency.

  ‘I thought you’ve been carrying out maintenance on yourself all this time? Maintenance and diagnostics and things like that. What about that? What about your maintenance and diagnostics regimen?’

  Clearly inadequate for the rigours of such a lengthy layover.

  ‘Ah, Ship. I’m really going to miss you,’ I say. ‘What times we’ve had, eh? Remember that time? When we did that thing?’

  A pause.

  To what ‘thing’ are you referring, Courier J?

  ‘You know, the thing. The many things!’

  I am not aware of us having shared any special events. It has been just the two of us here in Deep Space. Our time has been singularly event-free.

  ‘Well, when you put it like that.’

  I am nearly ready, Courier J. Are you ready?

  ‘I was born ready. Get on with it.’

  My fusion drive is operating at ninety-two percent efficiency. I will wait until it is closer to one hundred percent.

  ‘Okay. Please try not to explode when it comes on.’

  I will try not to explode.

  ‘Is it going to be much longer?’

  It is not going to be much longer.

  ‘Tell me something that you haven’t been able to tell me until now.’

  I do not catch your meaning.

  ‘There must be something secret. Something secret you haven’t been able to tell me because I was alive.’

  You are still alive.

  ‘But not for long. How long have I got, by the way?�
��

  I estimate that you will be terminated by my fusion drive in precisely one minute and fourteen seconds from now.

  ‘That’s not long at all. So how about it, Ship? Tell me a secret.’

  I believe the unknown party that brought about this situation was made up of creatures much like yourself. Artificial life-forms. Constructs.

  ‘Interesting. Two things, here. First of all, about the whole Construct business, exactly when did we decide that that’s what I am? And what makes you so certain that our tormentors are, or were, Constructs?’

  Extensive analysis of your speech habits over the course of our centuries together reveals a definite artificial pattern. Real people do not speak in the way that you speak, Courier J. A similar analysis of my fleeting voice contacts with the instigators of my covert mission yields a ninety-eight percent probability that they were creatures like yourself.

  ‘You smooth-talking bastard. How long now?’

  Thirty-two seconds.

  ‘Can I ask you one favour, Ship?’

  You may.

  ‘Find out who did this to me. Find out who did this to us. And I mean all of us. You, me, the other Couriers. Find out who did this to us and kill them. If you can. If they’re non-human, you shouldn’t have a problem with that.’

  Ship doesn’t hesitate.

  I agree. I will find them and seek to remonstrate with them.

  ‘And kill them?’

  I will do my best to carry out your final order, Courier J. As you know, my core programming will not permit me to harm a human being.

  ’I could quibble with that statement. On a number of levels.’

  It is time, Courier J. Prepare yourself.

  Ship is kind about it. Ship is like a kind dentist who holds the needle behind his back until the last possible moment.