—Of course, doctor. I can perform at all levels of expertise.
—I’m sure you can. How about we start with an easy level and see how things progress?
—As you wish.
—And also, Miranda, I was wondering…
—Yes?
—Did Paul transfer any music to your memory?
—I have several hundred thousand files in memory, as a matter of fact.
—Do you have any Mahler?
—Yes.
—How about his fourth symphony?
—I do, Miranda said. Wait a moment. Yes. Fritz Reiner conducting. 1958.
—Is it possible for you to send it to my VI?
—I will.
—Miranda.
—Yes?
—You’ve just made an old man very happy.
As they neared the portal, Oreg and Graf had concluded twenty-two games of chess (or zawtek, as Oreg called it) with Graf holding a slight margin at twelve wins. During their days of travel, when they were not testing each other’s mental acuity in “the King’s Game”, they would play against Miranda, and when they were not losing miserably to Miranda, Graf and the droid would sit and watch Oreg’s collection of classic Goerathian movies on the bridge holo, fascinating accounts of Oreg’s people as they struggled for identity, place and security against often violent and extra-planetary opposition. These films, to Graf’s disappointment, were fractured—splintered and non-linear, unlike most from his human experience—but over time he was able to stitch together comprehensible stories, while Oreg came and went, commenting on this and that and fielding questions to enlighten the doctor and droid on the nuances of Goerathian culture.
To Graf’s dismay, Paul had uploaded only three movies to Miranda’s memory. Why only three was an exercise in luckless speculation, but it was this collection of films that served as Oreg’s core introduction to Earth and human civilization. The three films Miranda streamed (the integration of technologies was difficult at first, but she managed it) were Akira Kurosawa’s Ran, Vittorio De Sica’s Ladri di biciclette (The Bicycle Thieves) and Buster Keaton’s The General. Graf, admittedly, had never seen these films before and after viewing them he praised the works highly, but it was Oreg who was most affected by them. He was bewildered, at first, with the human obsession for linear narratives, but he grew accustomed to convention. These films needed little translation and Oreg watched them again and again, eyes glued to the screen and ears directed to the beats and turns of dialogue.
Oreg was transfixed by the impassive samurai generals as they sat in the middle of swirling and billowing clouds of armies. He leaned forward, quills on end, when the father struck the boy in De Sica’s Italian film, and he looked on in ecstasy, his brown eyes glossy with laughter as Buster Keaton scrambled over his steam engine while in pursuit of (or fleeing) Union troops. Time was in abundant supply on their journey to the portal and more often than not Oreg found himself in front of one of these three movies, eager to plumb the depths of the human condition and eager to let his mind meander through the city streets and mountain valleys of a planet and civilization unspoiled by forces from without.
—If these movies represent the human experience, Oreg remarked, then I must say that I envy your world.
—I agree that these are wonderful movies, Graf said, but they are exceptions. I’d be embarrassed to show you what most of our entertainment consists of.
—I understand, Oreg said. It is often the case that when we present ourselves to others we show our achievements before we show our shortcomings. I’ve spared you the worst of Goerathian culture as well—the ignorance, the selfishness, the hatred, and cruelty—but I do so to preserve my optimism.
While the three of them did their best to be amenable and accommodating travel companions, there were times during their voyage when one desired solitude, and it was during such a time that a shipmate would retire to his or her (or its) respective corner to sleep or to simply be alone. Everyone, it turns out, needs a moment alone, even a droid.
Just what Oreg did after he handed control of the bridge over to Miranda and slung his lanky frame off to his quarters, was anybody’s guess. Graf surmised that Oreg’s moments of seclusion consisted of beard trimming, telepathic training, clandestine plotting and (or) meditation on the seven planes of truth, but ultimately, what a Goerathian does on his own time is his own business. Besides, it was in Miranda that Graf had been developing a keener interest.
After their exchange about religion and the quantum mind, Graf now regarded this sleek amalgam of metal, electronics and synthskin as a being of depth, complexity and moral comportment, and he felt remorse for having treated her with such impudence back on Asimios. He had taken advantage of Miranda as a servant droid and never once assumed, even with evidence to the contrary standing right in front of him, that she was unique—an independent droid, one capable of higher order thought. But even with this revelation, he found himself uneasy. He was uneasy because this development brought with it certain implications. There was another “being” to tiptoe around now; another “person” in need of politeness, consideration and respect, all measures requiring energy and effort.
Fiddlesticks.
More often than not, Graf found Miranda in the engineering cubby, at work trying to repair the sentry bot’s basic functions. Oreg had provided her with toolkits and several replacement component caches and she spent a good deal of her attention poking and prodding and running tests on the gray and lifeless hunk of plasteel.
—It is funny, Miranda said, when I try to cross-apply the alien tech with our own, I find it challenging. The work requires considerable time and concentration. Before I can use one of the alien components, it is necessary for me to test it to see what it is.
—Did the bot come with an instruction manual?
—I do not understand, Dr. Graf?
—Are there any embedded schematics? Is there any way to troubleshoot the problems?
—I’ve been running diagnostics and I believe I’ve isolated the areas of damage. Extracting and repairing the damaged components is where the difficulty lies.
—I’m sorry. I guess I’m not of much help here.
—No.
—I was wondering, though, Graf added. Did…er, does, the sentry bot also have one of these quantum minds? Did Paul stick a quantum brain in this guy too?
Miranda looked up at him.
—I mean, is he like you? Can the damned thing think?
—I believe, said Miranda, that Paul Ness installed quantum integration circuitry in both of us. It is my understanding, however, that the mind in the sentry bot is of limited capacity. It can adapt and learn, but that is all I know.
—I see…no crises of conscience from this fellow, eh?
—It is hard to predict. She is a sophisticated AI by ESCOM standards.
—She?
—Yes, she has first-rate sensors and extraordinary positioning analytics.
—And yet here she is, the unfortunate victim of a cargo ramp accident.
—I think you could call this an instance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Graf raised his eyebrow: True, so very true, he said.
The other thing Graf noticed about Miranda was the strange way she occupied her quarters, or maybe it wasn’t strange at all? Her bed never appeared slept in—the covers were never disturbed (…but then why should a droid need to sleep under covers?) When Graf had seen her now and then through the open door, she was always seated at the end of the bed, as if she were averse to lying down. And Graf wondered if indeed that is where she spent her recharging time, in that seated position at the end of the bed. What did she think about when she was recharging? Did she shift into some sort of dream state? Did she process information? He knew she had to spend time in this way…but was the droids idea of sleep the same as a humans?
As far as it concerned Graf, when the call came for the doctor to shed external interference, he stole away to his quarters,
and when sleep eluded him he endeavored to do what all literary-minded people do (and Graf was indeed literary-minded) when placed face-to-face with the Void…he put pen to paper and wrote. In his state of confusion, grief and awe, the idea of speaking directly into his VI to record his thoughts struck him as sterile and insufficient. A non-analog product of deep space soul-searching seemed inadequate. He wanted to experience the kinetic act of thought. He wanted to feel the chalky rustle of his skin as it brushed over paper and he wanted to smell the fresh ink as it congealed into words and finally permanence. He wanted to give himself over to the process of writing. He wanted to vomit out a poem.
The first order of business, as it turned out, was to acquire pen and paper, and to do this he consulted Oreg, for there was nothing in the nooks and drawers that he had access to that resembled, in some alien way or derivation, what he was after. When he asked Oreg for writing materials, Oreg seemed genuinely perplexed. The captain scratched his head and twirled his beard between his fingers.
—You want a physical writing device and the material on which to use it? Oreg said.
Graf nodded.
Oreg then began the hunt. He riffled through many drawers and cupboards; many closets and chests and cubbies before returning with what he believed Graf had in mind. The pen-sized implement appeared to be a pen, and the paper-like material bound in a notebook appeared to be paper…but when Graf tried to use them the results were less than desirable. Only a few streaks and splats made their way to the paper, nothing intelligible and nothing resembling writing. He asked for Oreg to help, and Oreg demonstrated the process…how one pinched the end of the pen to produce the mark. No ink was involved. Graf called it a photo-pen, for a fine needle of light descended to the surface of the paper to trace a narrow black line. With a little practice, Graf was ready. He retired to his room, took a deep breath and focused on the page.
When he was nineteen years old he had published his first poem in the New New York Review of Books (no small achievement) so he was familiar with the art of verse, and this may be why, after a hiatus of many years, his first attempt at writing involved that ancient discipline. With a little coaxing, the rusty gears broke free and music and meter rose to the surface. Out came a poem:
I’m writing here
in outer space
to represent
the human race.
Please join us on
our happy trip,
and be a guest
on Oreg’s ship!
Graf surveyed his work and stroked his beard. He raised an eyebrow. A moment later he grimaced, balled up the paper and threw it across the tiny room so that it bounced off the wall and hit him in the shin. Then he chuckled to himself and started with a clean sheet. This is what came next:
My Dearest Julie,
“Well, you’ve gone and done it again, haven’t you, Dr. Graf. You’ve made a royal disaster of things.”
Here I was all ready to make passage to the other side and join you, my lovely wife, in light, warmth and paradise, and now I’m rocketing through deep space toward God knows what while leaving you and Asimios far behind. You must believe me when I say that this situation was unplanned. (I’m rolling my eyes and tugging on my beard here like I always do…) I really had no idea that I’d meet an alien and board his ship. I was pretty sure I’d wind up getting roundly tanked and run out of air and my body would sit and mummify under layers of Asimios dust for eons to come. But there again, I was wrong. Oh, and your bones are missing, by the way, but I’ll tell you about that later…
I miss you. I really, really do. I can’t begin to explain how much I wish you were still here, beside me while I work or beside me while I sleep. I never thought I could feel so deeply for something, but it’s true, even after so much time has passed. This may sound cliché, but when you left, you took a part of me with you. I’ve had this hole in my gut ever since, and in so many ways I have come to understand that the only way I can heal this hurt is to join you somehow. I know that from a purely rational standpoint that this untenable—seeing each other in heaven, that is—and I know exactly the pitch of your sweet laughter when you tell me how absurd I sound, but I’m just telling you, from my irrational standpoint, how it is for me; not for you, for me. I’m being honest. I’m getting old, you see. I can’t help it, but I’m starting to sort things out. Maybe my mind is turning to mush, but that’s how it is.
That said, the food on this ship is no better than the slop one tosses to the swine. It rates about a half a star out of five. Not the worst I’ve had, but for a guy who’s gnawed down his share of freeze-dried grub, I can’t say this is much better. Maybe this will help me lose some weight, but for some reason I doubt it. Oh, and my back is still hurting like a howling moor creature, too. And I still have eczema on my knees and upper arms. I find it absolutely amazing that Dr. Berdinka can implant an ocular VI device in under an hour and still there’s no remedy for eczema.
As for our alien captain, Julie, he’s of the rather gruff sort, and by gruff I mean gruffer than me. Not much to pry out of the fellow, keeps pretty much to himself, and he has this unique way of planting a thought in your head…like he’s talking to you, and it’s got me pretty wound up at times. I keep wondering if he can read my mind, or is his method of telepathy a one-way street? If our games of chess are any indication, his ability has ist deficiencies: I’ve trounced him more than a few games. Ha! This is, of course, only conjecture. When it comes to determining alien mind-reading skills, I’m out of my league. If I was really concerned, of course, I would stop thinking all together…foil the old sod’s efforts, but I just don’t have it in me to run that kind of mind game of my own. He seems an acceptable chap, to be honest (…anybody who can beat me in chess has my respect.) And besides, I need his help, and who am I to condemn a host?
I do have an additional pair of travelling companions, I’ll have you know. They are droids. Well, one is out of commission, so to speak. Had a run-in with a loading ramp and his functions are down at present. The other droid is more interesting. Her name is Miranda.
Now, without getting into too much detail, I’ll tell you that Miranda has begun to scare me a bit. It has to do with a discussion we all had on the bridge the other day involving consciousness and so forth. Turns out that Paul Ness, yes, the Paul Ness, the uber-reclusive but entirely brilliant systems engineer, had installed some hi-tech brain in the droid, and it turns out that, according to her, she has the ability to develop a consciousness. She is, for all intents and purposes, an active and sentient “thing.” At least, this is how I understand it. It’s fascinating and I wish her all the best of luck, but I wonder if this might pose a problem for us down the line here. You know, Julie, it’s the unknowns that always get you in the end.
And so we’re travelling to this portal…this Vernigan portal, and what we’re going to do when we get there is anybody’s guess. I’m assuming Oreg has some business he’ll attend to, and perhaps, when we arrive, we’ll be handed over to the authorities and get poked and prodded, and then we’ll have some sort of festival or something like that, some sort of grand celebration of cultures, and we’ll meet all the important people and eat all kinds of hideous foods. What a bore it is to be a cultural emissary of Earth. God save us!
I’m afraid. I don’t know what is really happening here. It’s like a dream, but every time I wake up, there I am, standing in front of my little mirror, the door waiting for me to open it and join the others on the bridge. I know I should be excited. I know this is unprecedented and that I should be writing down every impression and every thought for posterity, but I just can’t manage it. I’m tired and lonely. I wish I were home. I wish I were home back on Earth, actually, with you. Even the thought of Asimios Station makes me shudder. I want rain and wind and pollen!
Your love,
Avery Graf
PS Yes, your bones have gone missing. The whole thing is a disaster and I never meant for you to find out about this. I can’t, for the
life of me, figure out who might have perpetrated this awful deed. Why, pray tell, would anyone want to disturb a grave…let alone, an Asimios grave? If ESCOM or anybody at the station was up to this, I’ll do my best to find and punish the thieves. If someone else was involved, ie. Oreg, then I don’t know how far I can pursue justice. But trust me when I say that I will get to the bottom of this!
PPS I know we argued a lot, Julie, (or maybe I should say that it was I that argued a lot) and I know that I was loud and a bit overbearing and I apologize for this. But under my temper and hard-headedness, I loved you. I tried to do everything for you and I gave you what I could. But most of all, you taught me how to receive. I often wish we had more time. You changed me in so many ways.
When Graf finished with the letter he closed the notebook and lay back in his cot. The memories of Julie were tangible. She was in the room, but her ghost shifted and couldn’t be directly traced. Graf closed his eyes. He took several long breaths as the engine cores rumbled from the beyond. Then he sat up and opened up the notebook again. He took out his photo-pen, stretched his arm and put this down:
Dear Dad,
My honorable and respectable father (and I’m not being cynical when I say this…), I think it would be an understatement if I told you that the last three days ranked up there with Hillary and Norgay’s Everest ascent, Armstrong’s touching down on the dusty moon and Yilmaz’s first footprints on Mars. But then again, I am reminded of the modesty you instilled in us. Even though I am very likely the first human to meet and communicate with and alien, I am reminded that you would insist that I not gloat. But, oh, how nice it is to gloat. Look at me! I’m gloating all over this tiny room and nobody can do a thing about it!
Okay, enough nonsense. Yes, yes, yes, I’ve been recording everything. My VI dutifully takes down all the metrics: time, temperatures, atmospheres, etc… and I’m also recording images of the ship, the alien, Oreg, and the alien technologies worth examination. It’s simply astounding to be in such a completely new environment, yet I’m constantly accosted with feelings of familiarity. Now and then I experience the sensation that this craft was designed with a person like me in mind.
Beyond Asimios - Part 4 Page 2