Echoes of Earth

by Sean Williams

  He stood for a moment before the big wraparound screen with the limp droid dangling like a dead octopus from one hand, thinking. He knew it would be dangerous to hesitate too long, lest he lose his train of thought and forget altogether what he was supposed to be doing. There would be no patient voice of Cleo Samson in his ear to jog him back to awareness. Or perhaps that was what he wanted: to forget, to be deflected, to have the decision taken away from him.

  He stirred. “Arachne, are we ready to move?”

  “I am ready,” the ship replied. “Please select a destination.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I want you to take us to where we went before—back to the gas giant.”

  As before, the screen showing the inside of the Dock went black. There was no sense of motion whatsoever, but he knew they were on their way. He wasn’t sure exactly what complex combination of moves it would take to put the hole ship in a stable orbit about the gas giant; he imagined it must look odd to an observer seeing the ship appear in a gravity well for a second or two, enough time to accelerate, then disappear again, only to reappear an instant later somewhere quite different but with the same vector. It seemed a bizarre way to travel, only making sense if the energy required to accelerate—or to equip the ship with the means of accelerating—was less than it took to jump small distances. He didn’t know if that was an unreasonable proposition or not, especially if the Spinners had only given humanity the ship in order to teach them about the drive. Maybe thrusters of some kind could be added to it later, when humanity learned more about the technology itself.

  The now-familiar view of the gas giant appeared on his screen. He probably had a few minutes before images of the hole ship would reach the Tipler. He didn’t dare take the chance that Samson would fail to notice them, and he didn’t need to. He had just wanted a moment to confer with the ship, without sitting in the Dry Dock long enough to arouse her suspicions.

  “I need to communicate with the Tipler on a private channel,” he said. “If I give you the frequency and the code required, can you set that up for me?”

  “This can be arranged,” replied the calm, gender-free voice. “There will be a delay of—”

  “I know, I know. Before we open the channel, I want us to move closer. Much closer. Can we do this?”

  “I would require more specific data,” the AI replied. “But the proposal is feasible.”

  He swallowed nervously, then asked, “What would happen if we came out of hyperspace—or jump mode or whatever you call it—right next to the Tipler? So there would be no delay at all. Could we damage it?”

  “The chances of electromagnetic interference increase exponentially with proximity—”

  “I don’t want any details,” he said irritably. “Just give me a figure. How close can we get and still be safe?”

  “Fifty meters would provide a 1 percent risk of minor damage.”

  It seemed a reasonable risk to Alander. At least no one could accuse him of not trying, if something went wrong. And if it did work...

  “Okay. When I say so, I want you to take us that close to the Tipler. Additionally, I want you to place us away from where the main sensor array is located on the external frame, where we’re less likely to be seen. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” he said. “And be ready to open that channel as soon as we arrive. I’ll tell you what I want you to do when it’s open. You’ll find the code in a sealed archive called Silverstream. The password is Drive.” The information came easily from the memories his original had given him. “Do you have any problem with that?”

  “All of your instructions have been registered and are achievable,” the AI replied.

  “Right. Take us in.”

  He seated himself in the couch as the hole ship left the gas giant and maneuvered to its new location practically on top of the Tipler. His palms were sweating as the AI went about its work. The fact that he didn’t know exactly what it was doing, that this entire aspect of the operation was completely out of his hands, only added to his nervousness. But he was less afraid of it making a mistake than he was of what awaited him. Or what he had to do.

  He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, his heart pounding anxiously in his chest.

  If not for us, then for whom?

  The screen cleared. He was looking at a close-up of the Tipler’s underside, an unglamorous rectangle webbed with supports and basic microwave dishes. On either side of him, he knew, stretched the combined solar cells and light sail that provided backup power and kept the ship in its station. These silver wings were the ship’s most glamorous aspect; the rest were just boxes and stanchions, fitted snugly together to withstand years of deceleration.

  “I have that channel opened now,” said the AI emotionlessly.

  “All right. Give me an open mike,” he said. “And ignore all attempts to communicate on any other frequency. Do not break the line, whatever you do.”

  He spoke assuming that the Tipler could hear him. “This is Peter Stanmore Alander, ID 27-LAU, override authorization code TCW-10. I am requesting an external command node.”

  The response from the ship’s AI was immediate: “I’m sorry, Dr. Alander, but I am unable to comply with your instructions. I am not authorized to grant external access.”

  He cursed aloud. Either Samson had anticipated such a move or Hatzis had installed the block to prevent the gifts taking over. Either way, it meant there was now just one other option—one he had been hoping to avoid.

  “I need to get closer. Can this cockpit move on its own?”

  “It has some limited independent mobility.”

  “Can it get me here?” He gestured at the screen with his hand. “To the Tipler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it.” He stared at the screen, trying to stay focused. “I need to get out.” The image of the Tipler ballooned toward him. “I want you to evacuate the interior of the cockpit and open the airlock.”

  He waited for the hole ship to advise him against such an action, to inform him that the Immortality Suit would not protect against hard vacuum and radiation, but thankfully, his fears went unrealized. Either the ship was obedient to the point of letting him commit suicide, or it knew he would be all right. He tried to be reassured, but his rising anxiety levels were taking a heavy toll on his optimism.

  Once the base of the Tipler was stationary on the screen, he assumed the cockpit had come to rest beneath it. He turned around to find the airlock already open. The suit had stiffened slightly around his joints but was otherwise unchanged.

  His stomach tightened in apprehension, but he forced himself to keep his breathing steady and easy. “Okay, I’m going outside now. Maintain your position here until I get back. And remember: I don’t want you to respond to any other transmissions but mine.”

  “There is no need for repetition,” said the AI. “Your instructions from before were sufficient.”

  “Couldn’t you just humor me?” he muttered as he moved through the airlock.

  “That is not my function.”

  Outside, he caught the full glare of the sun. Immediately his head began to spin. Floating in vacuum with only the suit protecting him from the elements, he suddenly felt terribly exposed. Knowing that was an irrational reaction didn’t help; it was human to fear what couldn’t be controlled. He took a minute to breathe deeply, to calm himself before he proceeded. He couldn’t delay any longer, no matter how he felt.

  The underside of the Tipler hung a body’s length away from him. Wary of the change to free fall, he steadied himself on the lip of the exit, measured the distance between himself and the maintenance framework, and jumped.

  It was only a short distance, but his stomach lurched all the same. He dreaded to think what might happen if he missed or bounced off, as he doubted the suit had thrusters listed among its capabilities. So when the Tipler loomed before him, he scrabbled for a handhold with all his strength and resisted the ricochet.

/>   He clung tight for a moment before looking around to get his bearings. He needed to get across the face of the ship, around the edge, and onto the other side. His movement was slow and awkward, encumbered by the fact that the ship hadn’t been built for more than the bare minimum of external maneuverability. He had to jump twice more in order to reach the handholds he needed, each time having to rest afterward with his eyes firmly closed to shut out the unsettling view around him. Adrasteia was bright, and the silver shell of the Tipler reflected the glare back at him; to his right was Upsilon Aquarius, while to his left, behind the cockpit’s looming black disk, was the hole ship, Arachne. There was no way of knowing if Samson had noticed what he was doing. All he could do was keep going, hoping that she was so ensconced in her virtual world that she would never consider a physical approach. Or at least not immediately.

  He reached the manual access point at last and placed a hand against it. For a moment, he was terrified that the suit might interfere with the infrared receptors on his skin, but a second later his fears were swept away as the voice of the ship sounded in his ears.

  “You have access, Dr. Alander.”

  He repeated his earlier request for an external command node. This time the ship’s response was more encouraging:

  “Your configuration is not standard. Would you like a custom interface?”

  He swallowed. “No. ConSense will be fine.”

  This was the moment he had really been dreading. He didn’t have time to work out a system to interact manually with the ship’s complex systems; he had no choice but to accept the interface everyone ordinarily used, even if it was the one he had been unable to tolerate ever since his breakdown.

  Although he tried to steel himself for it, the flooding of conSense over his real senses took him off guard. The exterior of the Tipler vanished and was replaced by a void characterized by intangible icons he had only ever been able to describe by their function rather than their appearance. They acted like drawers, or windows, but they didn’t look like anything at all. They were just holes, potentialities, in which things could be called into being.

  He could sketch a framework around him—what earlier flat-screen users had called wallpaper—but he didn’t have time. Already he could feel his mind skidding on the slippery surface, reaching for reference points but finding none. He had to move quickly, before his mind slipped away entirely.

  He imagined the structure of the ship’s command network and compared it to what he sensed around him. Hatzis had changed almost nothing from the configuration Sivio had placed it in back on Earth. He had expected that: Hatzis was a reliable leader but not an original one; she would always prefer to operate in an existing control structure rather than create a new one. But that was fine by him. At least it meant he had a good idea where everything was.

  Telemetry, reactor control, structural integrity... He flicked through the various menus. Attitude adjustment, communications, records ...

  Engram Overseer.

  He opened that window. It irised around him and swept him into its interior. A wave of giddiness threatened to undermine him, but he kept up the mantra that had served him so well in recent days: I know who I am. I know who I am. I know who I am....

  When he was inside, he confirmed what he already knew. The activities of all the engrams on the ship were indicated by displays showing current processing demands. Only one person was using any at all; the rest had been frozen in time, caught between one thought and the next. They weren’t dead or unconscious, just halted in their tracks. Only he, with the capacity to process consciousness data independently, was protected from her influence. Now that he knew to isolate himself from the Tipler, he was perfectly safe.

  The one engram showing activity was Cleo Samson. In order to free the others, he would have to shut her down. And even with the command overrides, that wasn’t going to be easy.

  He hesitated, suddenly very uncertain about what he was about to do. Did he have the right to do this? He might think he had no other choice, but would Earth thank him? And what if he was wrong? Could he live with himself knowing what he had done?

  He tried to shake the uncertainty from his mind, but his doubts were intense, almost overwhelming.

  He remembered what he had learned about the collective consciousness of the engrams in entrainment. The one time he had glimpsed it, it had been a mess of impressions, difficult to navigate. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have stood a chance in there, given his disability, but this was hardly an ordinary situation. The banks were doing the processing for just one engram, rather than dozens. It would, therefore, be less hazardous.

  But if he lost it, if he lost himself, there might be no going back.

  He mentally shook himself again. He had to know. He had to be sure before he pulled the plug on the one person in Upsilon Aquarius who had been his friend.

  Jumping into her mind took just a command or two. When he was inside, he finally had concrete reference points surrounding him, but they weren’t under his control. Samson was moving constantly, flicking through rooms as though looking for something; the environments washed over her in a disjointed stream, one or two every second, each different from the last. Alander saw rooms that clearly didn’t belong to her—vast, baroque chambers full of velvet and gold trim (obviously fulfilling one of the crew members’ secret whims)—among other rooms designed to be more functional: the Bridge, the Engine Room, the Mess. Just because the Tipler didn’t actually have any of these places didn’t mean that the people crewing it wouldn’t find their existence comforting, easier to work in.

  Her thoughts were chaotic, too complicated to unravel. But she was searching for something, and he could tell that it was causing her some agitation. And when she finally found it, that agitation was transferred almost instantly to himself as a disorienting sensation washed through him.

  He saw himself standing in front of a bank of screens, his hands pressed against one of them and his head tipped back, eyes closed. He looked exactly as he had on Earth, before they had left: tall, thin, pale-skinned, well-groomed, powerful—or was that last aspect, he asked himself, coming from her? Was this the way she still imagined him?

  Seeing himself like that, from the outside, was like standing above the epicenter of an earthquake. Everything he was, everything he had become since leaving Earth, trembled, threatened to crumble into dust.

  “There you are,” she said, her voice sounding in his mind like a bell. “What are you doing, Peter?”

  And suddenly he was outside of her head. Had he pulled himself out or been thrown out? Maybe he had caused some sort of strange loop in the Tipler that had to be severed. Whatever had happened, he was himself again. Even in the giddying nonplace of conSense, he was relieved.

  “Peter?”

  He ignored her. She had been looking for him throughout the many virtual rooms of the Tipler, so she must have known what he intended to do. But nothing she could say would deflect him from the course he had chosen, now that he had chosen it.

  “What about Lucia, Peter?” There was a hint of sadness and disappointment in her voice.

  He opened the Engram Control window and accessed her engram ID. With one command, he could theoretically shut her down. Would that be enough? Wouldn’t the UNESSPRO programmers have thought of that in advance and planned against it? He didn’t know. All he could hope was that they had placed their hope and plans in her alone—that beyond planting her to make sure things went as they wanted them to, they had taken no further precautions.

  He pulled the switch. The thread that was her mind flickered but didn’t cease.

  “You’re making a mistake, Peter.”

  Her voice tugged at him, stung his conscience. Now that a simple shutdown had failed, there was only one option left open to him.

  Hidden deeper in the tangle of commands and displays that made up Engram Control was one marked Erase, for use only in the direst of circumstances. Hopefully, the programmers had left them this fail
safe, because if they hadn’t, he didn’t know what else he could do.

  When he found it, his vision rippled as though it was a reflection on a pond into which a heavy stone had been thrown.

  “Please, Peter,” she said softly. “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t you see, Cleo?” he said, hesitating. “I have no choice. They have given me no choice! If the mission is to have any chance, I have to do this.”

  But before he could make the command, something wrapped around his throat, choking him. The two worlds he occupied suddenly overlapped. He was torn between the virtual illusion and the reality of the outside of the Tipler. Still holding the access point, he managed to swing himself around enough to see his attacker: it was the droid he had left behind in the hole ship. It was stubby but strong, and it had a good grip on the Tipler. Its limbs writhed like those of an angry spider as it unfolded a cutting tool and brought it down with a flash toward his neck.

  He flinched, but all he felt was the impact of the blow: no stabbing pain, no sharpness. Fighting his surprise, he grappled with the limb around his throat, managing with some difficulty to get his fingers around it; then he pulled as hard as he could.

  The knife slashed at his fingers, and again failed to bite. The Immortality Suit repelled the blade, no matter how hard the droid struck. But there was nothing it could do about momentum, and the droid—with Samson’s mind behind it—swiftly changed its tactic. Its limbs spread- eagled around his head to push as hard as they could against the Tipler, hoping to tear him away from it.

  Alander hung on, knowing that if he let go, he might never make it back, while the fingers of his free hand tore at the limb around his throat. He thrashed his head to put the droid off balance. Stars formed behind his eyes as he pitted every muscle in his android body against the machine trying to kill him.

  Then abruptly the pressure was gone and the droid was falling away, quickly becoming little more than a sparkling mote drifting toward Adrasteia.

  He waited until his heart beat normally again before turning back to the Tipler and allowing the virtual world to wash over him again.