Holt sighed, but tapped away at his tablet.
“About 8 light years, say another 10 to get the message from there to Planet Conference” said Holt. “Still not enough time for us to get there first.”
“Yeah, but they need time for translation, too,” said Arianne, picking up her console and tapping in some numbers. Kotlin followed her thinking and joined in.
“- and simulation of the language change at either end.”
“Right,” said Arianne, “let’s say six months to a year.”
Dart gave a tongue-click of understanding. “Plus filtering though their Dynamic Strategic Translational Impact Engagement Centre” she added. “And, hang on, if we’re lucky, they might receive the message during the second lunar cycle.”
“Why is that important?” asked Arianne.
“Summer holidays – they last quite a long time there. The mail backlog won’t clear for years.”
“You seem to know a lot about the insurance company’s mailing system,” said Kotlin suspiciously.
Dart shrugged. “I needed some quite non-standard insurance.”
“Well, since you’re an expert, do you know if they use deniability email?” asked Kotlin.
“Oh, yeah! We might get double-lucky” said Dart, beaming.
“What’s de-” Holt stopped himself mid-sentence and looked around him in fright.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess it’s safe to ask stupid questions now?”
“I’d expect nothing less,” said Arianne. “Lots of academic institutions use a deniability email service. A random 10% of mail is guaranteed to be diverted into a huge junk email folder that only gets sorted every 10 years.”
Holt looked puzzled.
“If you don’t get a reply from them,” said Arianne, “they can plausibly claim that they haven’t received it yet.”
Dart and Kotlin were fiddling with their tablets. After a few moments they both showed their screens to the group. Dart’s screen was littered with lines and labels, half of the screen was a pulsing glow of pixels and another section had thousands of lines and arcs all piled on top of each other. Arianne and Holt frowned and turned towards Kotlin’s screen. It simply had a single number in monospace font:
74.9%
Dart was beaming with pride, while Kotlin simply looked mildly bored. Arianne rolled her eyes.
“What are we looking at?” she asked.
“Well,” began Dart, “beginning from a suite of assumptions about the underlying psychology of insurance company employees, I simulated -”
Kotlin cut across her. “We have a 74.9% chance of getting to Planet Conference before the insurance company agents there are alerted.”
Dart flailed in flusterment. “Based on what assumptions?”
Kotlin just shrugged. “The most likely ones.”
“Ah, Kots, you’re no fun.”
“Never mind,” said Arianne firmly, “those odds are good enough for me. Lay in a course for Planet Conference.”
Holt reflexively stiffened in response to the command, but leaned forwards again and asked.
“And what is the plan once we get there?” he asked.
“We’ll build that bridge when we get to it.” said Arianne, breezily.
Holt looked concerned. “Is that wise, Arianne?”
Arianne just shrugged. “Honestly, we don’t really know very much about what we’ll find when we get there. Sometimes the best tactic is to stay flexible.”
She pushed away from the table and stood, trying to draw the meeting to a close. Holt didn’t move. He fixed Arianne with a calculating stare. She felt the same weight of judgment that her old supervisor used to inflict on her. Professor Golden could stare silently for a lifetime of seconds at one of Arianne’s excitedly scribbled but sketchy proposals, with the meaning loud and clear: finish it properly. It made total sense, but went against her habitual desire to just jump into the blue. Maybe Holt had a point. Maybe she should prepare some kind of battle plan. But on this ship, wasn’t she the one who had hired Holt? Wasn’t she in charge? The weight of responsibility was not something she wanted to think about. And if there was one thing Arianne knew she was adept at, it was not thinking about things when it suited her.
Holt shifted his shoulders and stood.
“Alright, I’ll set a course for Planet Conference,” he said.
Everyone breathed a short sigh. Kotlin closed her terminal and they all rose to move to the chryo deck.
“Ooo!” said Dart suddenly. “I forgot one other thing I found out.”
Kotlin rolled her eyes and Arianne nodded assent.
“The name of the firmware project: Resister.”
A cold sensation gripped Arianne’s throat as she heard the sinisterly familiar name.
“Well that’s not good,” she said.
“I know,” said Dart, “it’s not even spelled right.”
Chapter 10
Yarran Idris looked out over the view before him. Planet Conference. A thousand, thousand arenas where the greatest research careers of the galaxy rose and fell. Even with the horizon stretching out before him, he had to keep reminding himself that this was a real, solid planet. His stomach was doing a zero-g dance, but that was obviously down to nerves. In a few short hours, he would be standing in front of the intellectual giants of his field, trying not to look like he was a cowering invertebrate.
“Hexcuse me,” said a thundercloud behind him.
Idris span around, to be confronted by two actual giants and he felt his spine wobble. So similar were they, it was like standing before a two-headed monster. Or rather, like being trapped in a corner by a two-headed monster. Idris let out a short peep of panic, but stifled it quickly, realizing that these were not the guardians of some sort of personal hell, just the local Planet Conference enforcers.
“Well now, Whitney, who ‘ave we ‘ere?” said the left head.
“You know, Mann,” said the right head, “I’ve met so many people of ‘igh hesteem today that I have quite hexhausted my fusiform gyrus.”
“Perhaps the gent-helman would kindly allow you to use your helectronic scanning devhice, just to ‘elp jog your mehmory?”
“What an ‘elpful hidea, Mann.”
“I can assure you,” said Idris nervously, “I’ve paid and -”
But Whitney had already drawn out a scanning tablet, which looked comically small in his enormous hands, and had pointed it at Idris.
“Well, my spinning satellites, of course, Dr. Idris, isn’t it?”
“Of course, Whitney, a familiar face here at our little bi-decade conference.”
Idris had never been here in his life. Why were they being so frighteningly nice?
“Shouldn’t that be bidecannual, Mann?”
“Why, Whitney, you’ve got me all befuddled,” said Mann, looking about as befuddled as a mountain. “What would you say, Dr. Idris?”
Idris was trying his best not to physically cower away from the question. He gulped and stuttered out “Er … the- it’s bidecennial?”
“There now, see?” said Mann, “there’s someone who knows about hwerds and such.”
“Ah yes, Mann, he’s clearly one of the top tier profs ‘ere.”
“Oh yes, Whitney. And that haint saying nothing - there’s so many fantastic minds haround ‘ere.”
“No doubt about it, Mann, no doubt habout it - a top man in a top conference.”
The two faces grinned widely, showing rows of gravestone teeth. For a full four seconds they just started into Idris’s soul. Suddenly, Whitney looked at his tablet.
“Ah, but what’s this, Mann? Surely some kind of herror?”
“What’s that, Whitney?”
“It says ‘ere that the ‘onorable doc has only registered for a grade one conference pass.”
“‘Ow very hodd, Whitney. Shocking, really - surely an haccident, barely above student-grade.”
“And so hrestrictive, Mann, especially for such an hesteemed member of our
community.”
“Totally beneath ‘is station.”
“I agree, Mann, ‘e’ll miss out on so many hopportunities.”
“What a grave, sorrowful pity that is, Whitney.”
They both sympathetically flexed their biceps.
“Look,” said Idris, “I’ve already used up a lot of my funding budget just to get here, and the prices are just -”
“Oh, we hunderstand,” said Mann.
“Hentirely,” said Whitney.
“You’ve been too busy to get the hupgrades.”
“Where does the time go?”
“But that’s why we’re ‘ere”
“To help, you see.”
Whitney turned the tablet towards Idris.
“You can hupgrade your ticket with us right ‘ere.” he said.
Idris looked at the numbers flashing up on the tablet - there were ten levels of conference ticket, each trying to out-do the last in name, but most spectacularly in price. Who in space could afford to buy these things?
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I really can’t afford to upgrade - I’m here, I’m going to give my talk and that’s about it.”
“And what about listening to talks, Dr. Idris,” said Whitney smoothly. “Surely you didn’t come all this way, to be so close to the hother brilliant minds, but not ‘ear what they ‘ave to say?”
“What?” said Idris, beginning to panic.
“Well, you’re only on the lowest tier,” said Mann, “listening is not covered, I’m afraid.”
“But you could upgrade to the next level -”
“A most sensible course of haction, Mann.”
“Oh most certainly Whitney.”
Oh sweet vacuum, thought Idris, this was daylight robbery. But they were right - he needed to be in the talks, to ask questions, be seen, find out what was going on in the field. It would be over two decades before any of this research came out in journals (plus another 50 years for the journal papers to be beamed over to his university in Gliese). He was here now, he knew there would be extra costs, he’d just have to bow to fate.
Idris sighed, reached out and tapped the tablet to upgrade his status from “minor nobody class” to “executive minor nobody class”. He could almost feel the credits being drained from his precious funding budget.
“That’s hexcellent.”
“A wise choice”
“Well,” said Idris, leaning forward to move past the now somewhat placated beef monoliths, “if you don’t mind, I’ll just be going to the first session.”
He walked into unmoving pectoral muscles.
“And of course,” said Whitney, “surely you’ll be want to come to the conference dinner?”
Idris took a step back with his eyes closed.
“Well, I’m not sure ...”
“Such a special occasion,” said Mann, breaking out in a smile.
“Everyone will be there in their grandest dress, puttin on a show, ‘avin’ a gab,” said Whitney, joculantly digging an industrial digger of an elbow into Idris’s ribs.
“Talking about funding I hexpect, Whitney?”
“Oh without a doubt, Mann.”
“I hear the wheels of funding hassessment are greased during such hevents.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“My, hno! And they’ve promised such a lovely cabaret.”
“Practically inoffensive!”
“And all very haffordable.”
“You can spread the cost over four ‘undred manageable hinstallments.”
Whitney gave another playful nudge to Idris, whose glasses came flying off.
“Look!” said Idris, face flushing in anger, “I can’t afford it! I’m sorry, but it’s just out of my range - it’s ridiculous! You pay a massive amount of money for food you don’t really want, you sit next to people you have no interest in and then you’re forced to listen to terrible local musicians play novelty music.”
With every point, Idris’s arm struck out in defiance, and the faces above him grew grimmer and grimmer.
“And I’m already paying through the nose for things as it is! So I’m sorry!” he squealed, “I just won’t give this terrible conference any more money.”
The faces above him were now stone monuments to the god of grimness. Whitney gently flicked at his tablet.
“Doctor Idris … let’s see. Ah yes,” he said, turning the tablet towards Idris. “An habstract hentitled Explaining the great convergence.”
Idris looked at it blankly. It was indeed his talk abstract.
“That’s a nice habstract”, said Mann. “Pity if something were to … ‘appen to it.”
Idris’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“What!?”
“Those margins look a bit hwide to me, Mann”
“Oh yes, a touch hwide there, Whitney.”
“Can’t have people taking advantage of the template now, can we?”
“Certainly not, Whitney.”
Whitney placed a meaty thumb and index finger on the tablet’s surface, across the width of the text. And slowly, and surely, he began to squeeze them together.
“What are you doing?” breathed Idris.
The margins of the text crept inwards, and the words began jostling for position. Whitney continued to squeeze, and suddenly a technical term couldn’t stand the pressure any longer. It snapped onto the line below it, sending spasms of re-alignment throughout the text.
“You can’t scare me!” wheezed Idris, but sweat was forming on his brow.
Whitney squeezed again, the margins tightening further. This time the cascade of text dislocated a figure, yanking it down to the page below.
“Aaa!” cried Idris, “Please!” He’d spent weeks finely balancing the abstract to fit in the ridiculous space limits. Several citations at the bottom of the text now spilled onto a new page.
“Oh dear,” said Mann, with all the concern of an angle grinder, “looks like this habstract is over the page limit.”
“We can’t ‘ave that, Mann.”
“Certainly not, Whitney.”
Mann swiped his hand roughly over the face of the tablet, deleting the trailing lines. Idris was petrified against the wall, his face pale and ghastly.
“You monsters!” he croaked.
“Monsters, Mann, did you ‘ear?”
“Very hrude, Whitney.”
Whitney slapped the screen back and forth, pinching a figure and dragging it into an elongated rectangle.
“Argh! Please! You’re distorting the aspect ratio!” cried Idris.
Words were now pouring out of the bottom of the page as the figure was wrenched even taller.
“Hosting these habstracts is costly, see,” said Mann, punching a further three citations out of existence.
“And someone” said Whitney, ramping up the font size, “needs to pay for it”.
The citations were now almost totally decimated.
“Please, stop!” croaked Idris.
“It’s your choice, doctor.” said Whitney, throwing the tablet on the floor, slicing the last of the citations section off the edge of the abstract.
“You can make this stop!”
Mann and Whitney were now stomping on the tablet screen, smashing up the acknowledgements section and sending the figures spinning wildly across the document. The conclusion paragraph was now looking perilously close to the edge.
Resister: Space Funding Crisis II Page 9