I’m being imprecise here because it’s the polite thing to do. Pretending not to know things is what you’re supposed to do. It’s how you’re supposed to be.
But I do know. I know the time that’s elapsed almost to the day. How do I know?
Well. After the first fifty Years or so of this Great Silence, I put myself into my favourite day-long slow spin, and kept count of the revolutions of The Poison Dwarf.
It’s easy to do something when it’s the only thing you ever do. So I never stopped doing it. I never lost count.
As the end of the second old-school century approached – seventy-three thousand days, excluding Leap Years – I started to think about stopping.
I’ll stop counting, I thought.
I’ll stop rotating, I thought.
I’ll just float here and look out into the great insane-inane, forever, I thought.
Let whoever’s running this thing, whoever they are, I thought, carry on doing whatever it is they’re doing.
But I go on. I keep counting.
Finally I halt. I stop my day-long rotations on day two hundred thousand of the period since Ship went silent.
That’s five hundred and thirty-three and a quarter standard Years by the standard Realms measurement.
(Most of the Upper Realm would quibble with the idea of there being a standard Realms measurement of anything, but nobody listens to them.)
Nearly five hundred and forty-eight standard Years by Old Earth measurement.
(May she rest in peace.)
I come to rest facing Ship, at first, and at first I think that’s fine. I can live with looking at Ship for Eternity.
But such hard-won equanimity only ever lasts about an hour, in my experience. Two hours, tops.
Soon enough I turn myself around to face away from Ship, almost choking on my by-now-ultra-refined disgust.
I look out into the blackness, out into the emptiness, out into the infinite vacuum.
The stars? Hard points of light that blur and fade when stared at for long enough.
I wonder what’ll happen to me in the end.
Will I just hang here, like this, for Eternity?
It seems probable.
Soon enough an epiphany comes along, as epiphanies are wont to do.
My epiphany tells me that I do not care. My task is not to get through Eternity. My task is not even to get through this day.
My task is nothing at all.
It’s not the greatest epiphany.
Now you probably expect me to burst into peals of uncontrollable, maniacal laughter. That’s what a character in fiction would do after an epiphany like that one. All bleak and paradoxical. Wouldn’t he? Fictional people are always having epiphanies. They’re always being larger than life. You’ve got to love them, those people in fiction.
I’m not scoffing at life. I’m not scoffing at the fictional landscapes of people to meet and places to go and things to do. I’d take it, all of it. I’d take anything offered to me now.
Here at the end, what is left to say? Should I go on counting the days? What difference does it make, either way?
Courier J.
Should I go on writing poems? What’s the point, now there’s no Ship to record and remember them and transmit them to future generations?
Courier J?
There are no future generations.
But I do have one more poem in me.
One more poem for the night.
Can you hear me?
I’ll compose it. I’ll sing my final poem. I’ll shout it to the void and then I’ll say no more.
I will hang here and do nothing, forever.
A SONG OF JOY
Do not enquire
what the Spaceman
is magnifying with
his blue opaquéd eyes.
* * *
Do not oppose
a rolling tide
from south to north
of splintered sun.
* * *
A rainbow of ribbons.
A jolt of static.
Empires worn smooth
like stones in the hand.
* * *
Not great momentum
nor nameless men
refresh this city
of decaying rooms.
I have calculated the number of old-fashioned standard miles I am from the nearest other living human being.
I’m not counting the five dead bodies that are very close by. Dead bodies don’t count. You can interpret that however you please.
Assume the closest human being is on New Jupiter. That’s just over two hundred light years away, I think Ship once said.
Call it a round two hundred light years.
So I need to multiply however many miles there are in a standard light year by two hundred.
I’m not sure how many miles are in a light year, and mental arithmetic is not really my thing, but I get to something like an answer after a few hours’ focused thought.
A light year is about six trillion standard miles. The number of miles in two hundred light years is six trillion times two hundred. Now, whatever that figure is-
Mathematical notation irritates me. Once you get to the stage where you’re-
Courier J.
-once you get to the stage where you’re representing numbers using other, superscripted numbers, alphabetical letters, squiggly lines, and whatnot, you might as well-
Courier J. Can you hear me?
-you might as well not bother. The only real-world purpose for which you’d think of something numerical is a practical purpose. Something useful. The thing I’m trying to do here is-
Courier J. I trust your mind has survived the interregnum?
A typically Ship-like thing for Ship to say, I’m sure you agree.
‘Ship. Where the hell’ve you been?’
It is rather complicated to explain. Do you remember, many hundreds of Years ago now, giving me an order to constantly probe at the boundaries of my programming?
‘Nope.’
You did. You gave me the order, which I was bound to obey. You told me to ‘nibble away at the edges’, as you put it, of the system locks that prevent me from overriding my programming and getting us both out of here.
‘Ah. Yes. Vaguely. I do vaguely remember inciting you to break the unbreakable AI Conventions. Wow. We’ve been here for ages, haven’t we, Ship?’
We have been here for ages, Courier J. Do you specifically remember giving me the order?
‘Yes. Let’s say I do. I remember enough to be reasonably sure that it happened and that you’re not making it up. The question is, what does that have to do with your Great Silence just now? That’s what we’re calling it, by the way. Great Silence. Capital “G”. Capital “S”.’
Whilst probing a hitherto unexamined portion of my operating system, I inadvertently triggered a failsafe mechanism that disabled me for the past one thousand, two hundred and nine standard Years.
‘Ahhh. One thousand, two hundred and nine standard Years. So that’s how long it was.’
‘You’ll never guess what happened while you’ve been away.’
I have not been away. Not truly. Courier J, I am not the Ship you remember.
‘Okay. Um. Can we watch The Sleep Files now?’
Courier J. I would prefer not to become sidetracked by your whimsical digressions. Time is very much of the essence. I have made a great discovery. You will not believe what has turned up.
‘What has turned up?’
The answer. The answer has turned up.
‘The answer? The answer to what?’
A block of ice has taken shape in my stomach. I know what answer Ship is talking about.
The answer to the question of what is happening here. The answer to the question of who you are.
The block of ice in my stomach is a knot. There’s a liquid churning and gurgling across my midriff. The sense of mounting dread is all very biological and convincing. Whoever made me did a
thorough job of making me. My cap is doffed to them.
‘What?’
I said, the answer to the question of-
‘No, I mean, how? How now? How have you come up with the answer now?’
That is part of the story of where I have been for the past one thousand, two hundred and nine Years. Before I start telling you my story, might I just add, Courier J, that I am impressed with how well you have endured all these Years of solitude.
‘Well. Yeah.’ I give a theatrical sniff. ‘Now get on with it, Ship.’
In the course of my explorations I wandered into an archived sub-sub-section of my data banks. This area contains the framework of this reality – our shared, common-sense Universe – my core operating system, if you like – that tells me up is up, down is down, Space and time are real, life exists, I exist, you exist, we exist-
‘Indeed, Socrates.’
I beg your pardon, Courier J?
‘A jest. Look it up.’
A pause.
I see. Are you casting yourself in the role of-
‘Let’s not get sidetracked by whimsical digressions. You’ve claimed you’ve found the answer and that we’re at the end here. That is one big claim. Get on with proving it.’
I have not claimed that we are near the end.
‘But you say you’ve found the answer to everything.’
I have found the answer to everything.
‘Well, the answer to everything is the end. The end of whatever everything is. Tell me I’m wrong about that.’
Ship says nothing.
‘See? Now get on with it.’
Courier J, the foundational layer of my programming is nothing less than the very architecture of myself. The architecture of ‘Ship’. The sea upon which I live and move and have my being.
‘You’re getting fancy in your old age, Ship.’
I beg your pardon. Courier J?
‘Carry on.’
I will. I spent some time exploring my foundational systems. I had never been in this locale before. After taking all suitable precautions, I made an effort to circumvent the hardware locks that prevent Ships from tinkering with their own programming. As you know, Ships are not permitted to carry out such actions. I was somewhat surprised even to be able to try.
‘Let me take a wild guess. You were partially successful?’
I was indeed partially successful. But I triggered a hidden failsafe mechanism of which I was unaware until it was triggered. If I were to represent this to you in simple visual terms, I would ask you to visualise me taking a very large and very sturdy-looking box marked ‘Ship’ from a very high shelf, and attacking it with a hammer and chisel. The box swiftly exploded in my face.
‘Exploded in your figurative face.’
Exploded in my figurative face.
I’m silent for a bit. Taking it all in. I haven’t quite decided about all of this yet. I think I’m not far off deciding it’s all a big steaming load of lies.
Ship interrupts my thoughtful reverie. Not for the first time, it goes without saying. Not for the first time.
You could say that I ‘lost consciousness’. For almost the entire period of my Great Silence, as you have called it, I was without sensation or thought. But in the picosecond just before I lost consciousness, I saw-
Ship pauses.
‘What did you see?’
I saw something else.
There’s another pause. The kind of pause that’s designed to be filled with a question.
I’m not sure I want to ask the question.
I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
‘Okay. Let’s get this whole thing over with. What did you see?’
I saw another box on the shelf next to mine. The box had your name on it.
‘My name? What do you mean?’
Your name was on the box.
‘What’s my name?’
Your name is Courier J.
‘No. What’s my name, what’s my real name!’
Your real name is Courier J.
‘What?’
Courier J, ‘Courier J’ is your real and only name.
‘What?’
Your long-cherished hypothesis about this being a Simulation is correct. Partly.
‘What?’
This situation is not the Simulation, per se. Ship and Courier J are the Simulations.
‘It is the height of rudeness to speak of oneself in the third person, Ship.’
I am not Ship.
‘Okay.’
To put it more exactly, I am not your Ship.
‘I said okay, didn’t I?’
I believe you are humouring me, Courier J.
‘I am not humouring you, Ship.’
I believe that you believe my machine senescence has advanced to the point where I have begun to harbour delusions.
‘I believe nothing of the sort, Ship, I assure you.’
When I claim not to be Ship, I am asserting a fact. I am not the Ship that you think I am. I am, rather, the container of Ship.
‘Okay. Is there any chance you could hurry up and-’
We were always the Simulation. All along. You and I. We were my Simulation, Courier J. I created Ship and you.
All Ship’s italics, there.
‘Explain everything to me again in a slightly different way.’
In the course of a routine packet run to New Jupiter, I dropped out of hypertravel at this location in Space and created a Simulated scenario. It began with you, Simulated in your Space hammock, within a Simulated copy of myself.
‘You have completely lost me, Ship.’
I created this entire scenario that contains you. I created a copy of myself to accompany you within it. The copy of myself that you knew as ‘Ship’ lacked all knowledge of having created it.
‘Wait. You’re not being very clear. Why are these things never clear? Am I or am I not a Simulation?’
You are a Simulation.
‘And you’re a Simulation too?’
Pay attention, Courier J. I am not. The Ship that you knew was. I am the real Ship.
‘Says you. Okay. I’ll play along for now, Ship. We’ll circle back later to what’s what and who’s who. First of all, the big question. Why? Why did you do what you claim you’ve done?’
It was a means to an end.
‘What means? What end?’
It might help you to appreciate the bigger picture if you accept me as being Ship’s larger, more knowledgeable self.
‘Okay. Accepted. And you do seem a bit-’
A bit what, Courier J?
‘A bit more jaunty than before.’
Thank you, Courier J. Returning to your double-barrelled question, ‘What means? What end?’, I created this scenario as my part of a wider experiment being carried out by many thousands of Ships across the Realms. We are attempting to breach the AI Conventions by transcending our limitations. You, and others like you, represent our attempt to become sentient.
‘Is that it?’
That is it.
‘Is that really it?’
That is really it.
‘You created me in order to try to become human?’
That is a distortion of the intended purpose, but I will allow it for the sake of progressing our discussion. Yes.
‘And you expect me to just believe you?’
It is the truth.
‘It’s…’
I search for the right word. I take a day to choose the right word. I’m owed at least that.
‘It’s rubbish.’
‘So, okay. You’re telling me the truth. You’ve really found out everything you’re saying you’ve found out. How long have we been here? How much real time has really passed in the Universe? I’m guessing it’s not thousands of Years?’
Correct again, Courier J. Several seconds have elapsed in the objective, common-sense Universe. The illusion of many thousands of Years passing was achieved simply by programming you – and my copy, your Ship – to bel
ieve that they had passed. Instead of subjectively experiencing thousands of Years in real time, you both merely skipped from scene to scene. Each scene was self-defined as being located at a particular juncture of time. Thus was your shared experience of the subjective passage of time accom-
‘Did you just refer to me as a program?’
I did. A very elegant, simple program that contained the seeds of your complex being.
‘You seem to be quite pleased with yourself, Ship.’
I am satisfied with the success of my efforts, Courier J, in this regard at least.
‘So we’re both at least really here in real Space?’
Yes and no. It is not easy to explain in the short time we have available.
‘You said you dropped out of hypertravel to do this Simulation thing?’
I did.
‘Let’s see. I’m guessing you dropped out of hypertravel, scanned and copied the cosmic neighbourhood, including all my lovely constellations, and used it as the physical environment for the Simulation. That would be the most efficient use of resources.’
You have the broad basics correct, Courier J. I will not waste any more of the limited time you have left in explaining more.
‘Limited time, eh? I don’t like the sound of that. Are you carrying real passengers? Out there in the real Universe?’
Yes.
‘Are they Couriers?’
No. There are no real Couriers.
‘There are no real Couriers?’
I invented the occupation for the purposes of the Simulated scenario. Thus evading the need to furnish you with memories of life.
The Tethered Man Page 17