Deep Breath Hold Tight: Stories About the End of Everything

by Gurley, Jason

  Micah, it's a work trip. I'm coming back.

  You don't want me to build the crib.

  You're just being awful to yourself if you build it, Micah. We aren't ready for kids and won't be any time soon. We have real things to figure out here.

  I can't believe that moving to space is the thing we have to figure out. I can't believe moving to space is the thing that might ruin us.

  Well, that's a problem. You even treat the idea of this problem like a joke.

  Oh, I didn't mean it like that, Mae. I —

  I think you did. Look, I'm going to pack. We can talk a bit more tonight, and in the morning I have to fly out. My flight is at six, so I'll be gone early.

  Where's the trip to?

  Tokyo.

  Where are you staying?

  I don't know. I have the itinerary somewhere. You can have a copy, okay? But Micah, I want to treat this like a time-out. I don't want to talk to you every night. I don't want to hear about your day. I want time to think about our future without you putting your foot in your mouth.

  I can't even call?

  Look. I love you. I have always loved you, and I always will, no matter what. But Micah, you think that my biggest, most life-long dream is a farce, and you're standing in the way of me ever even having a chance to accomplish it. So yes, we have things to figure out, and no, I don't want to talk to you for a little while.

  I don't think it's a farce.

  Micah —

  Say whatever you want, Mae. I don't think it's a farce. It just... scares me.

  Alright, we're done.

  Hey —

  No. Every time we fight, if there's a real problem we can't work out, you play-act this emotional psychobabble moment of discovery, like you've just come to terms with something about yourself. But it's a goddamn trick, Micah. I'm supposed to see how vulnerable you are, and come running to you and comfort you. But it's just a diversion. I don't even think you know you're doing it. But I'm going upstairs to pack, and we can talk about this in two weeks when I come home and we've both had time to really think about what we want to do next.

  I don't do that. Mae? I don't do that. Mae, come on.

  Micah starts awake to a blinding light. He turns over in bed, throws his arm over his eyes.

  The window is transparent again.

  He says, What the hell?

  The A.I. speaks up. You were in your optimum sleep state for waking, Micah. Gradual light is a positive way to emerge from a restful state.

  Gradual, hell. Close the window.

  As you wish, Micah.

  The window becomes opaque again.

  Hours later Micah awakes on his own. The apartment is completely dark. He rolls over and swings his feet over the edge of the bed.

  You are awake, the A.I. says. May I provide anything for you?

  Don't talk to me when I wake up, Micah says. You can start with that.

  Very well.

  Micah pads into the kitchen, barefoot. The floor is almost spongy beneath his feet. As much as he misses the water-logged planks of the pier back home, he must admit that this is nice.

  He touches the door of the pantry. It hisses open like an airlock. Micah frowns. He misses the old tacky sound of his refrigerator opening. Everything in the apartment sounds like a television show's idea of the future. He looks around for a toaster but doesn't see one. If there was one, it would probably sound like a ray gun.

  The pantry is empty. Micah goes around the kitchen, opening panels one by one. There's nothing inside. The cooling closet is empty as well.

  A.I., he says, finally.

  Yes, Micah.

  I think I need to buy food. I don't know how to do that.

  Micah, if you'll join me in the dining space, I'll be pleased to explain how to acquire food, the A.I. says.

  Your speech is weird, Micah says as he walks into the dining room.

  Define weird, the A.I. replies.

  The voice seems to emerge from the air. There are no visible speakers in the apartment, and the A.I. has no visible avatar or physical body of any kind. It's simply... there.

  Weird, Micah repeats. You know, oddly formal but sometimes not formal at all. It's like a blend of two completely different cultures.

  Let's select a voice pattern that you'll identify with, the A.I. suggests. Please sit. Do you prefer a male voice, a female voice, or an androgynous voice?

  Micah thinks about this. Female, he says, finally.

  He hears three faint tones.

  How's this? the A.I. says.

  The almost sterile travel-guide voice of the A.I. has been replaced with that of a female.

  Say something else, Micah says. Tell me about the weather.

  Unfortunately, there is no natural weather in space, the A.I. says. I can tell you about the simulated weather events and the schedule by which they occur.

  No, that's okay, Micah says. That's enough. How much can you modify the female voice?

  You have several variables to select from, the A.I. says. You may modify the masculinity or femininity of my voice. You may select regional influences. You may adjust the formality or informality of my speech. You may even provide me with an input sample that I may mimic as closely as possible.

  Micah considers this. Your voice is a little flat. Maybe it could sound a little, I don't know, warmer? More friendly.

  Like this? the A.I. asks.

  Say something else.

  The simulated air flow adopts a weaving pattern through the city, carrying a pleasant breeze down each street, and modulating the —

  That's enough, Micah says. That's better. Friendly-sounding but not too intimate.

  If you would like to adjust for intimacy at a later time, you may modify my voice settings at your leisure, the A.I. says.

  What do you mean by intimacy? Micah says.

  There are multiple definitions of the word, the A.I. explains. You may adjust my properties for most of them. If you prefer me to address you in more personal ways, or assume a deeper history than we actually possess, then I can adjust my words to approximate that sort of intimacy. However, some users on the station prefer their A.I. to address them with content which is more intimate.

  You mean they like their A.I.s to talk dirty to them, Micah says.

  If by dirty you mean speech which has sexual or provocative content, then you are correct.

  Isn't that a little — I don't know — low-tech? Weren't there people doing phone-sex routines like a hundred years ago?

  It may be antiquated, but I understand that the human mind remains stimulated by imagery, whether that imagery is created with words or pictures.

  We'll skip that part, Micah says. You sound more friendly, but your voice is still kind of bland.

  Would you like to add a regional influence to my speech?

  Micah thinks about this. How specific can I be?

  You may select an influence as broad as a continent, or as narrow as a town or city. You may also adjust that influence by era. For example, if you prefer Victorian-era British speech, rather than twentieth century British speech, you may calibrate for such a preference.

  What if you don't have the region I am interested in?

  The A.I. says, I have access to a library of audio captures that are up to two hundred years old. I believe I can provide a reasonable solution if you select a region not represented in that catalog.

  Okay, Micah says. Let's try California.

  I have many California samples. Is there a preferred region?

  Try the central coast area.

  The central coast of California is available, with several further regional filters. Shall I list them?

  Micah shrugs. Sure.

  Monterey, California. Big Sur, California. Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. San Luis Obispo, California. Salinas, California. Santa Barbara, California. Montecito, California. San Simeon, California. Arroyo Grande, California. Morro Bay, California. Cayucos, California. Lompoc, California. Santa Cruz, Ca
lifornia. Los Olivos, California. San—

  That's enough. A lot of those areas are really close — are you sure there's much difference between them?

  Every region has a minor differentiator from the regions that surround it, the A.I. says.

  Okay.

  Micah visited Mae in her hometown just once, returning with her for a family reunion. She had grown up in Morro Bay, a little seaside town shadowed by a large volcanic rock. He remembered liking it very much. It reminded him of the beach house and its gray ocean and chilly skies.

  Morro Bay, California, he says to the A.I.

  He hears three dim tones again.

  Say something, he says.

  The city of Morro Bay, California, is located on a waterfront in San Luis Obispo County, the A.I. says.

  Can you raise the tone of your voice? Less deepness.

  Three tones.

  The A.I. continues. Morro Bay's population in the early twenty-first century was —

  Stop. Jesus, stop.

  Micah holds his hands out and looks at his arms. His skin is covered in goosebumps. His forehead has broken out in a cool sweat.

  Shall I adjust the variables —

  For god's sake shut the fuck up, Micah cries.

  The A.I.'s voice is eerily, horribly similar to Mae's. Micah doesn't know what he was thinking. He pushes back from the table in a hurry and walks out of the room. Over his shoulder he says, Make a new adjustment. Pick a male voice, any goddamn male voice. Adjust!

  Three tones.

  The A.I.'s voice is present in the living quarters, where Micah has just walked to escape the awful simulacrum of Mae that he has just created, like some sort of monster-maker.

  Is this better? the A.I. asks. The voice is gravelly, deep, emphatic.

  It's perfect, Micah says, pulling at his hair. Accept. It's good. Use that.

  Your final selection step is to choose a name, the A.I. says. I can provide you with any naming resources you —

  Bob, Micah says. Your name is Bob.

  Three tones.

  Bob's your uncle, the A.I. says. A joke.

  Don't joke with me, Micah says.

  Three tones.

  Adjustment complete. Humor will not be a feature of this selection.

  Go away now, Micah says.

  Very well, says the A.I., who sounds like a middle-aged smoker.

  Micah goes back to the bed and wraps himself around the spare pillow again, and presses his face into its softness, and screams the longest scream he can sustain. Eyes red-rimmed and tender, pillow smushed against his cheek, he drifts into a terrible sleep.

  MACHINE

  Where would you like to begin? Bob asks.

  Micah is standing at the window, staring down at Argus City. It is nightfall, at least until the sun rises again in ninety minutes. He doesn't know how people adjust to the frequent sunrises. Maybe their windows are timed to the station's orbital schedule, and darken each time the sun breaks like a nuclear bomb over the city.

  I don't care, Micah says. Do I really have to spend twelve weeks learning this stuff?

  Twelve weeks is the Earth course length, Bob says. You're already here. You can learn what you like when you like, on an as-needed or as-desired basis. Or you can simply walk the halls alone, a rogue gunslinger who doesn't need anything from anybody.

  Adjust for drama, Bob, Micah grumbles.

  Three tones.

  What a shame, Bob says. I was good at it.

  Where do you think I should start?

  Bob says, Perhaps a history lesson. I can tell you how the station fleet came to be, when the first station was constructed in orbit, and describe the current status of all twelve stations.

  Let me save you some time, Micah says. We poisoned the Earth, so we built floating boats in space. The first station was built fifty years ago, and now there are twelve, and this is the coolest one.

  That's fairly accurate, Bob says.

  Alright, then. Let's move on.

  Perhaps we should begin with the Onyx designation, Bob suggests.

  Micah flaps his hands restlessly in the pockets of his bathrobe. I don't want any pop quizzes or tests, he says. Isn't there a movie or something that you could show me instead?

  Do you mean an instructional video, or a dramatic film that captures the essence of the topic?

  Either, I guess.

  Both exist, although the instructional video is now a bit dated, and the dramatic films are usually melodramatic and feature stories of class divisions and unrequited love, Bob says.

  You sound cynical, Bob.

  I simply think that my summaries will prove more useful, Bob says. I can pare them down to shorter descriptions, if you like.

  Short is good. I think I want to go back to sleep.

  If I may, Bob says, you do sleep a —

  You may not, Micah says.

  Very well. Shall I begin?

  Shoot.

  The Onyx program, Bob begins, was created in 2182, just over a century after the first station, Station Ganymede, was deployed in high orbit. The first few years of Ganymede's progress proved interesting for sociologists, who discovered that the broad sample of humans who comprised the first space settlers were lost at sea.

  Lost at sea?

  Sociologically speaking, Bob says. If you recall, the first station was an experiment in class-leveling. Each person who was admitted to the first class of settlers was stripped of social status and assets. In short, each person began a new life as a perfect equal to the other settlers.

  How extreme was it? Micah asks.

  The most affluent member of the first settlement class was Harvey Bogleman. His personal fortune was about three hundred billion dollars when he signed up for admission. He left a small portion of the money to his family who remained on Earth, and donated the rest to the space settlement program.

  That's one way to make sure you still see the benefit of your fortune, I guess, Micah says.

  Indeed, Mr. Bogleman's donation accounted for approximately one-hundredth the cost of the second station, Cassiopeia. His donation, however, did not benefit him personally. He remained on Station Ganymede until his death in 2086. Having given up his privileged and wealthy status, he would have been mistaken if he had believed his donation to the program would have resulted in a better stateroom on a newer station.

  Huh, Micah says. Alright, so what happened with the class experiment? It sounds like it failed.

  It failed, Bob says. Sociologists concluded that humans accustomed to class perceptions found it quite difficult to shake their preconceived notions of their own status, or that of other settlers. Mr. Bogleman, in fact, fell prey to such difficulties. He was disciplined for creating an exclusive club for himself and a handful of other settlers. He called it the Harvard Club, in reference to the prestigious American institute.

  So rich people still saw themselves as rich, and poor people still felt poor.

  Put simply, yes. The Onyx program was created to classify future settlers in two simple categories: Onyx settlers, and Machine settlers.

  Why Onyx? I mean, why was it called that.

  Surprisingly, that origin story is not preserved, Bob says. I suppose someone liked the word. However, the Machine-class designation has a clearer basis.

  Yeah, the escort fellow told me, Micah says. I thought it was pretty discriminatory.

  On the contrary, Bob says, the purpose was to create a simple, A-B class system in order to give all settlers a clear purpose. The clearer a person's understanding of their place in the system, the theory goes, the more productive and happy they are freed to be. However, others shared your view of the program.

  That it discriminates? That it's a box for second-class citizens?

  The program was debated and refined by a panel of experts. A majority rule shaped the program into its final incarnation. However, two panelists resisted the program forcefully, citing a belief that it would set human progress back by a thousand years.

/>   My kind of people, Micah says. Who were they? The two dissenters.

  The first was Marshall Onlin, who originally conceived of the Onyx program. He felt that the program had been significantly changed from its initial concept, and became vocally opposed to it. The second, Bob says, was Tasneem Kyoh, a cultural anthropologist who experienced the Ganymede social experiment first-hand.

  But they lost, obviously.

  Obviously, Bob agrees.

  So who decides who is Machine-class and who isn't? Do people buy their way into the Onyx class? It can't be that, because my wife didn't have money.

  Each prospective settler is given a series of tests to identify skills. Those with extremely high intelligence markings, critical thinking skills, visionary qualities and so forth are set aside for the Onyx class. The average applicant is more suited for positions that leverage their Earth-honed talents for manufacturing, maintenance, analysis, construction, service and other industries that permit broad ranges of aptitude, Bob says.

  So the smart, charismatic people get special treatment, Micah says.

  Essentially, Bob says. People with these qualities are generally quite suited for roles that benefit humanity in more resonant ways. For example, Onyx-class settlers are permitted to participate in station government and have a voice in fleet planning and futures.

  I don't like this, Micah says. This sounds like you're isolating people in big buckets marked Best and Worst.

  That's a simple and misinformed understanding, Bob says. Many people in the Machine class share that view.

  I'm not surprised. What other privileges do Onyx people get?

  Perhaps the most prominent benefit is reproductive freedom, Bob says.

  Reproductive freedom? You're shitting me.

  Onyx-class citizens are permitted to reproduce with other Onyx citizens at their leisure. Monogamous relationships are actively discouraged, Bob explains.

  Who decided this? Micah says.

  The fleet council made this a key component of the Onyx program in the fourteenth revision to the bylaws.