Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel

by Michael D. O'Brien

  Hoyos: That’s true. However, I don’t feel depressed.

  Arthur: It may be that you’ve put another name to it. What I would like to suggest is that you try some medication that we’ll prescribe. It will ease the symptoms.

  Hoyos: That’s kind of you. However, I don’t seem to have any symptoms.

  Arthur: Dr. Hoyos, if I may, I think you do have significant symptoms. There are irregularities in your brain waves as well. The scan shows no abnormal growths, thankfully, so we can rule out tumors as the cause. This indicates that there are other causes.

  Hoyos: Such as?

  Arthur: Intense emotional conflict, with resulting alteration of brain chemistry and subsequent negative effects in thinking patterns.

  Hoyos: What kind of effects?

  Arthur: You may be experiencing painful cyclical thinking, perhaps obsessional thoughts.

  Hoyos: Paranoid feelings?

  Arthur: That would also be fairly typical.

  Hoyos: Typical of. . .?

  Arthur: Why don’t you think it over for a day or so. Then you can get back to me with your decision.

  Hoyos: That seems fair enough.

  Day 2309:

  Digital button recording:

  Arthur: Good to see you, Dr. Hoyos. Thanks for coming in.

  Hoyos: Good to see you too, Doctor.

  Arthur: So, how have you been feeling?

  Hoyos: Wonderful, actually. I’ve taken up swimming again, resumed my daily laps in the pool. I’m also studying languages with a friend.

  Arthur: Excellent.

  Hoyos: I just thought I’d drop by to give you my decision about the medication.

  Arthur: Uh-huh.

  Hoyos: I don’t need it.

  [Rustling of papers, protracted silence]

  Hoyos: Well, thanks for your good efforts, Doctor. I’ll be going now.

  Arthur: Dr. Hoyos, uh, it’s not as simple as that. You see, the medical team has made another thorough study of all your results, and there is consensus that these medications would help you.

  Hoyos: But I don’t need any help.

  Arthur: Yes, I’m sure you feel that way. A sense of, well, denial, is usually part of the problem.

  Hoyos: You believe I’m in denial?

  Arthur: I regret to say, I do.

  Hoyos: Well, what can I reply to that.

  Arthur: I’m sorry. I know this is difficult for you.

  Hoyos: I think it’s more difficult for you. Thank you again, and good-bye.

  Arthur: Dr. Hoyos, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. [More rustling of papers, more protracted silence.] I really regret it, sir, but the medical oversight committee has mandated the medication. It’s just one small tablet per day. It wouldn’t impede your activities in any way. In fact, it would help you feel more positive about life.

  Hoyos: You’re saying I have to take it.

  Arthur: Um . . . yes.

  Hoyos: What would happen if I refuse to take the pills?

  Arthur: Unfortunately, you would be compelled to take them.

  Hoyos: By force?

  [In reply to my question, he nodded and dropped his eyes. There was another strained silence during which Dr. Arthur appeared to be greatly embarrassed. He hated what he was doing. Somehow he was justifying it to himself, possibly for humanitarian reasons or for the sake of community well-being, or maybe he was merely joining that long line of folks in the historical tradition of “just obeying orders”. If I stood firm and refused to take the medication, what then? I had a flash preview of myself being immobilized by medical orderlies while a pill was crammed down my throat, or a syringe pumped equilibrium drugs into my veins. I saw myself struggling to stop them. I saw report after report being written up about my irrational behavior, my “episodes” of violent resistance, and duly entered into the archives. I saw myself confined to a ward under sedation, possibly under restraints. I saw the scheming mind who was behind the whole thing, and I saw what I must do.]

  Hoyos: Perhaps you’re right. I should try some medication. Maybe it will help me.

  Arthur: Thank you, Dr. Hoyos, thank you.

  Hoyos: I guess I really haven’t been quite myself lately. Sometimes I imagine things, get upset about it, and then . . .

  Arthur: It can be so disturbing, can’t it? I know how you feel. But I guarantee you’ll begin to feel better within days.

  Hoyos: That’s a relief, Doctor. Thanks. I guess I have been in denial . . . a little.

  [The poor man smiled and nodded with relief.]

  Arthur: You can drop by here every morning and take your pill. The committee mandate says it shouldn’t be patient-dispensed. I’ve e-maxed a prescription to the pharmacy, and it’ll be here later today. You can begin treatment tomorrow morning.

  Hoyos: I understand. In my frame of mind, I might forget to take it myself.

  Arthur: Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.

  Hoyos: Thanks.

  [He stood up. I stood up. We shook hands.]

  Hoyos: Uh, Doctor, my bad leg has been giving me a lot of problems lately. You wouldn’t be able to prescribe something for the pain, would you? Getting down here to deck D from my room cost me quite an effort.

  Arthur: I’m sorry to hear that. You should see your regular physician about that one. What concourse do you live on?

  Hoyos: B.

  Arthur: And who is your physician?

  Hoyos: Dr. Sidotra. I haven’t seen her for a long time.

  Arthur: I’m sure she’ll be happy to take a look at that leg and prescribe something for it. I’ll send a memo to her.

  Hoyos: Thanks so much.

  [I hobbled painfully to the door of his office, flinching with every step.]

  Hoyos: Um, Dr. Arthur, do you think you could have Dr. Sidotra give me the other pill every morning? Her clinic’s on my floor. It would save me a lot of grief with this dang leg of mine.

  [He hesitated a moment, then smiled reassuringly.]

  Arthur: Of course. She can administer it just as easily as I can. And with much less trouble for you.

  Hoyos: Thanks again, Doctor.

  Arthur: I’m honored to serve you, Dr. Hoyos.

  Day 2310:

  Early this morning I hoofed it straight to Pia’s clinic. Before I had a chance to tell her what was happening, she whisked me away to the nearest art alcove.

  “There’s no guarantee the clinic is free of audio surveillance”, she explained on the way.

  When we were secure, she said, “Neil, what’s going on?”

  “Uh, d’you mean physically, psychologically, politically, or cosmically?”

  “Just the first three categories. This morning I received Dr. Arthur’s memo, and the pharmacy sent your medication. Are you aware of what this is?”

  “I’m very aware of what it is, politically.”

  “It’s an anti-psychotic drug. And I know that you are definitely not psychotic.”

  “Don’t think too badly of Dr. Arthur, Pia. He’s a really nice guy. He’s just obeying orders.”

  “I guessed as much. This is not good, Neil, not good in the least. One of the side effects of this particular item is that if you’re not psychotic, you will develop secondary psychotic side effects.”

  “You understand why they’re doing this?”

  “Yes, I do. Your personal dossier will now be full of memos about you needing an anti-psychotic drug. If anyone should want to check into your allegations, they’ll attribute your suspicions to mental illness. Also, your behavior will now alter sufficiently to offer them additional evidence that you’re living in unreality. It’s so good you’ll feel no negative side effects whatsoever, and you’ll experience some positive ones—positive in the sense that your mood will elevate, and you won’t mind at all being considered mad.”

  “So, I guess it’s time to take my little black pill, huh?”

  “Not so fast. I have an idea.”

  Pia was always full of ideas. In short, she wants to give me a placebo every
morning, and flush the mind-warper.

  This is a fortuitous turn of events. I get to keep my mind and enjoy daily meetings with this cagey lass.

  I asked her if there had been any follow-up on her and her beau’s letter to the Captain. Her face grew angrier and she said: “Regrettably, that gentleman informed Paul that he can’t do anything to help. There’s a twofold problem, he says. First, there’s no conclusive evidence to support the allegations. Second, even if there was evidence, he has no authority to override the Department of Social Infrastructure.”

  “What! He’s the Captain.”

  “Yes, he’s the Captain. But it seems that this means something different than the authority of a captain on an ocean-going vessel. He exercises no overall command. He has absolute say on what happens to the body of the Kosmos, where it goes, how it goes, when it goes. But he has no say over the human affairs inside it. DSI is in charge of that.”

  “I thought they were just a bunch of social workers.”

  “No, they’re the de facto government. They’ve kept a low-profile until now because there was no need for them to be heavy handed about it. They’re still playing it subtle in order to maintain the general atmosphere of a free society—the team, you see, the community. But the truth is, their authority is absolute.”

  “They are the government.”

  Pia nodded.

  Day 2313:

  Each morning I show up at the deck-B clinic and take my placebo. I feel a tad more irritable than ever, and deep-down angry. Normal reactions. I did some careful reading in the Manual. Though the article on authority structure is made palatable with textual brain sweetener, its meaning is clear: DSI is the government. Skinner is the Emperor, and Elf is his assistant Caesar. Skinner the demi-god and Elf the enforcer who can dirty his hands.

  I’ve spent a few days alerting the other conspirators, asking them to back off for a while, explaining the enforced drugging and also the placebo. I warned them that I’ll be sending them fake messages to cover what I’m really going to do, and that they shouldn’t believe anything I write to them through ordinary means of communication. We will try to speak covertly whenever we can—chance encounters that we hope will look like natural happenstance.

  Today I sent a max message to Stron, telling him that I’m having doubts about our “theory”. Stron replied that he’s having doubts too, and chalked it up to too much confinement, boredom, and whiskey. He concluded by saying that he now wonders if he was being paranoid.

  We bumped into each other by “accident” in the food line at the cafeteria, chatted about how embarrassed we now feel about our over-reactions, which turned a few ears before us and behind us. Then we proceeded to a lonely table.

  He barked an excremental expletive a trifle too loudly.

  “A perfectly apt English expression, Stron, but you might want to adjust your style or lower your volume.”

  “Scatology-heads of the fifth dimension!” he snarled.

  “Nicely put”, I said. “And it’s good to see you so unusually cheery today.”

  “This is a coup d’etat”, he said, casting a grim look over his shoulder.

  “Not really, Stron. They cut the head off real government before the voyage began. They did it to the whole world a long time ago.”

  “And left us bread and circuses to keep us preoccupied. So what do we do now, Billy-boy?”

  “We slowly, slowly pull the wool over their eyes and let them calm down. They’re not going to take their eyes off us, but they are going to believe we’ve been neutralized.”

  “Maybe we have been neutralized.”

  “No, we haven’t. But we need to go carefully.”

  “Can you lend me some of your psycho pills? I could use a bucket of those.”

  “Not on your life. I need you mean and ugly and paranoid.” He chuckled menacingly.

  “I need the real you, Stron. But watch what you say on the surface. Be very, very nice.”

  “I will. I can be a charmer, as you know.”

  Day 2337:

  Today, Stron asked me for my opinion about the drugging situation. He wonders why they haven’t called him into Medical for his own set of sanity tests, and his own prescriptions.

  “I’m not sure why”, I replied. “Probably because it would look strange in the records if all the accusers were suddenly diagnosed as psychotic, and all were forced to submit to silencing pills. Besides, in their eyes, I’m the ringleader, the one who gave the disruptive talk. I have no doubt they’re watching you to see your reaction to my change of viewpoint. They’ve noted you going along with it, and they’ve concluded that you’re no longer a threat, you don’t need my kind of medication.”

  “I’m crazy enough without it.”

  “That too.”

  Day 2400:

  It has been two months since my last entry in these written journals. My days are spent ruminating in my cell. I keep throwing stardust into the observers’ eyes by surfing on my de-privatized max, mainly in the fields of astronomy, physics, and other allied fields. It fills the void. David’s absence has shown me that every person who enters our lives is present as a unique phenomenon, radiational, gravitational, altering the symphony.

  We are powerless I try to get my mind off the situation by reading everything there is to know about the Alpha Centauri system, over and over again. It presents a wonderful complexity. Streams of information are arriving, and the telescope visuals are also tightening up our view of the planet. Probably much is known upstairs that the flight astronomers do not share with us. Through the public presentations, we receive general knowledge and enhanced impressions. Stron grumbles continually, frustrated by the lack of technical data from a range of instruments.

  Every so often I send out happy messages to my confreres, expressing my newfound belief that the surveillance suspicion had been exaggerated in my mind, and was possibly unfounded altogether. In this way, I hope to convince the surveillance guys, especially my favorite elf, that the little daily pill is doing its job. DSI has disappeared back into the woodwork. They remain as an invisible presence, like Death, which haunts us all.

  Death, the old bogeyman who is never visible until the last day of your life, never showing his face or his teeth until you resist him. I recall El Dia de los Muertos, which made its appearance in the village each year of my childhood, a blend of paganism and Catholicism which my parents and Fray Ramon frowned upon. The good father preached strongly against it during his pickup truck sermons, but most of the villagers absorbed his admonitions with no loss of affection for him, and no compliance. They argued that the annual celebration was just something they had always done and their ancestors had always done, a tradition that did no harm. In retrospect, I think the Day of the Dead was a valid enough laughing at death and a less valid compromise with primitive religious instincts. It was a placation, a temporary truce with death combined with invocation of the spirits of dearly departed loved ones. Year after year, Fray Ramon tried to pull the thing back on track, to keep it purely a day of prayers for the souls of those who had died. He enjoyed little success.

  The power of culture is immense, especially when it is sensually rewarding. I remember my lust for the white skulls made of confectionary sugar with red candies in the eye sockets that other children were permitted to eat. I remember, too, my fits of temper when my parents stood firm against it. Ay, ay, my mother would sigh over me, mi pequeño chilito, my little chili pepper. Sometimes I was mi triquitraque, her little firecracker. Nevertheless, they did not give in, and early on, I learned the futility of tantrums. Ah, how I loved the thrill of the mysterious, the dancing puppet skeletons, the eerie songs, the food offerings left at the edge of the village with burning candles to welcome the spirits home. The food was always gone in the morning. I have no doubt that the snakes and coyotes of our region grew fat on superstition and that we were plagued by the varmints because they had been trained to expect a free lunch.

  But I digress.


  Whenever I connect with my friends face-to-face, in covert mode, we talk real. They reassure me that they know my messages are nothing more than cover story. Even so, most of them are now expressing doubts, calling it whimsically, self-deprecatingly, “our conspiracy theory”. While no one, I think, has made peace with the fact that David Ayne has been subtracted from the equation, many of us are learning to live with this as an unresolved question, as an unknowable. A few have entirely opted out of our private—hopefully, private—discussions in art alcoves and at the end of long cafeteria tables. I have asked Pia to stay at arm’s length from us, since I don’t want it known that she remains convinced of the allegations. DSI may know about her appeal to the Captain, but, if so, I hope the letter has been dismissed as one of many initial reactions on the part of passengers and crew.

  During our best period, we were seventeen dissidents. Now we are back down to six, including four committed activists—Stron, Xue, Dariush, and myself.

  Yet, we have begun to ask ourselves, “Committed to what?”

  Day 2405:

  Feelings of resignation and the first tell-tale signs of indifference are appearing. Not strong, but symptomatic. It is very difficult to maintain a constant state of vigilance. I talked this over with Xue, and we agreed that now is the time to shake the bushes.

  None of us have access to the e-addresses of more than a handful of people. To try to obtain the addresses of everyone on board would be a giveaway. Instead, using his memor and the advanced max of his unnamed friend, Xue created a new single-page file and typed in the following heading above David’s photo and mini-biography:

  David William Ayne is Missing

  This crew member of the Kosmos expedition disappeared on Day 2253, five months ago. His existence has been denied by the Department of Social Infrastructure. Why? His personnel record (see below) has been deleted from all onboard files. Why? If you have seen this man, report it immediately to everyone you know. Discuss it. Ask questions. Think!

  I gave Xue six hundred sheets of my white bond, and he took them away for printing, I know not where.

  Day 2406: