by Nathan Dodge
“Why would I be sulking?”
“It isn’t often that you’re so quiet.”
“Well, I have a lot on my mind.”
He started to ask what, then simply keyed up his choice:
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”
As he finished, she said, “Why the hell did you read that?”
“Sorry. I just thought you might like a little cheering up.”
“For God’s sake, I just didn’t have anything to say today.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, damn it. Let’s just get the pulser finished so I can start testing.”
Kessick and Molly argued occasionally—well, okay, frequently. But he couldn’t remember Molly being upset without provocation. She was a computroller, for Christ’s sake, programmed to sound like a woman to keep a lonely pilot company.
Getting old, just like me, he thought. He went aft, determined to remain quiet unless the pulser installation demanded instructions.
Which was approximately seven seconds after he picked up the winch control. The new pulser, all two tons, had to be tilted about twenty degrees from the horizontal to insert into its socket.
“How in the hell do I do that?”
“I assume that’s not a rhetorical question.”
He turned toward Molly’s engine-room eyes. “Are you kidding? How in hell can I maneuver that thing when it weighs twenty-five times what I do? That doesn’t make any sense!”
Molly’s voice took on a familiar tone of tolerant forbearance. “It’s simpler than it looks. The designers knew you might need to install a pulser. Look at the top of the socket—it extends out into a sort of lip with a bit of a curve. The top of the pulser is rounded to fit in that curve. Jockey the pulser under the lip, then lift it slowly. When it hits the lip, it will tilt by itself as the winch exerts more pressure. Once in place—make damn sure the cables are not pinched by the body of the pulser—gently move the arm toward the wall. Those two ridges on the top of the pulser will guide it into the socket.”
It did make sense. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I don’t give you information until you can use it, Cal. I don’t want to confuse your simple mind.”
The pulser secured, Kessick wiped his sweaty face with the same dirty shop cloth he’d used for two days and threw it into a storage bin where, if he ever got the urge, he could retrieve it along with the year-old pile of filthy cloths that lurked there and actually wash them. Retracting the winch, he stowed the control remote and trudged up the stairs.
The exertion had made Kessick hungry, so he detoured into the galley, heated frozen enchiladas, and ate in silence. Done, he wandered to the bridge, more because he was bored and missed conversation than because he needed to check their progress. On the bridge, most instruments were off, including the main display. A few—ship power, life support, collision alarm—remained active. Kessick lounged in the pilot chair and activated tactical view.
After a moment, Molly said, “Something wrong?”
He was silent a moment, then said, “I just got to thinking … I mean, there we were, arguing like crazy, just like an old married couple. Hell, I’m probably closer to you than any person back home. I just wondered if it felt that way to you.”
After a pause, she said, “Of course.”
“So you think, ‘I’m a woman?’”
“Sure. I have a few billion lines of personality code. You know the history: Companies tried pilotless ships, but I don’t have to tell you the problems there. Ship controllers after about 2140 have a lot of sophistication, but there are so many variables in a jump that a human still has to be on board. Hey, that’s why you make the big bucks.”
He stood up, starting for the hatch, managing to grin into Molly’s bridge eyes. “You’re a pretty good wife, although you sure don’t put out much.”
“Right now, even if I could, you’d be out of luck, buddy.”
The rest of the day was a blur, a meaningless series of trips back and forth to the bridge. Struggling to bed, he slept until nine, staggered to the bath, and finally wandered to the galley.
“Feeling better today?”
“I wasn’t the one in a bad humor yesterday.”
He opened the freezer and removed an egg omelet with sausage. “Okay. I’m a little off. We’re both getting older, and the jumps are beginning to matter.”
“My circuits are in excellent shape—”
“Mine aren’t. I’ve been tired ever since the unload. Sorry. I was hoping I’d start getting younger again, but it’s not working.”
Molly remained silent as he nuked the breakfast and slipped it out of its plastic cover and onto a plate. As he poked cheese omelet and sausage into his mouth, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I’m the one showing his age.”
“Your ass still looks pretty good in the shower.”
“There’s no camera in the shower.”
“Shows what you know.” Humming to herself, Molly didn’t say another thing. He finished his food, grabbed a thermos of awful coffee, and went to the lounge.
Sprawled on the sofa, he asked, “Any reason to check the bridge?”
“Later. Now that we’ve kissed and made up, are you going to read to me today?”
“Sure. But I get to choose the poet.”
“Oh, God, more Poe.”
“I don’t like Poe that much.”
“Except The Raven.”
“Okay, that one poem. But not right now.”
He opened the reader and dialed a title. After a moment, he began to read.
“Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God's land together,
And we sang the old, old Earth-song, for our youth was very sweet;
When we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether,
Along the road to Anywhere, the wide world at our feet—
Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story;
When time was yet our vassal, and life's jest was still unstale;
When peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory,
Along the road to Anywhere we watched the sunsets pale?
Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster;
There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so!
As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master,
And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as, swinging heel and toe,
We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere,
The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.”
Molly said, “I’ve never heard that poem, but it’s a familiar style.”
“Don’t look it up. Guess.”
“Guess? I don’t guess. When I want a fact, I consult my databases.”
Kessick said patiently, “Don’t consult anything but memories of our sessions. I’ve read you at least ten thousand poems. Find similar poems. We’ve read this poet before.”
“Cal, I don’t like guessing games.”
“Please.”
“Okay, okay. I’m not sure. It’s sort of like … Kipling. A lot like Kipling, yet …” Molly muttered to herself, still unsure. It was as human a response as he had ever heard.
“You’re clo
se.”
“Service! Robert Service. He was accused of imitating Kipling, wasn’t he?”
“Right. He’s one of my favorites. He wrote poetry of the frontier, poetry of the Yukon. He wrote The Cremation of Sam McGee, remember? But that’s not why I read it.”
“Then why …? Read it again.”
He did. Not as slowly, but still relishing the words.
Molly sighed. “Ah. You read it for us. About us. ‘… the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere, the tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.’ We’ve been on that road thirty years and more. A long road, except it’s not tragic yet.”
He managed a smile. “‘Yet’ is the catch, right? I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going.”
“Hey, if this old bucket is good for a few more jumps, so are you.” She hesitated. “Kessick, do you … do you think it qualifies as real poetry if a ship controller writes it?”
Startled, Kessick looked into Molly’s expressionless lounge eyes, trying to stretch his face out of its current frown. “Absolutely. You been holding out on me?”
“Just thinking. Sometimes I think. By myself.”
“I’d love to hear your poetry.”
Molly said nothing, and Kessick turned back to the reader.
“Now, how about some Poe?”
Molly made a rude sound and Kessick, a sly grin finally twisting his face, dialed up The Raven.
* * *
Kessick finished checking Molly’s numbers, per National’s procedure manual. “We are three point two billion kilometers from Aerovale’s sun, and total gravitational force is minimal. We’re good to go.”
“Then go and take your pills.” Kessick nodded and left the bridge.
Half an hour later, Kessick sat back and lifted his legs over the sill of the capsule.
Molly asked, “Have you taken both relaxers?”
“Yeah. I’m already fuzzy.”
She couldn’t see in his quarters; the slightest concession to a pilot’s privacy (he was going to have to inspect the shower), so she would naturally check. Kessick lay back and the capsule cover slid into place as Molly activated the hood. As the locks snapped tight, Kessick heard a soft hiss as his breathing system switched to pure oxygen at point four normal pressure. Extra oxygen would help him recover from the schism of the jump event, which happened in something less than a femtosecond.
Molly’s crisp voice came over the capsule speaker. “All systems go. New pulser shows all circuits normal. Jump in forty-four, forty-three, forty-two …”
Her voice and the status screen blurred as the pill had its desired effect, and he slept.
* * *
“Cal?”
The capsule was already open. “Awake. Hungover, as usual. Jump status?”
“Successful. All deflectors optimum, shock, shock. We hit the destination dead-on. Next jump coordinates are already set.”
He swung his legs over the sill. Oddly, his toes tingled. “Per procedure, let me stroll to the bridge, stick my nose in the engine room, and we can move on.”
“Hurry. I want to race for home while all systems are go.”
“No problem.” He stood up, taking a step toward the hatch….
… and discovered he had no feeling in his lower legs. He pitched forward, flailing against the inevitable collision with the floor. His head hit with a thump, and flashing lights and blackness swirled around him.
* * *
Something touched his face. A hand, Kessick decided after a moment. “Molly?” But that was silly—Molly didn’t have hands, or any sort of a body for that matter. Gradually, he opened his eyes. The medical droid bent over him, the pebbled-gray ceiling verifying that he was in the infirmary.
“How do you feel?” The slightly mechanical voice of the droid sounded concerned. Experimentally, he moved both arms, rubbing his face, exploring his body. He was naked except for a light cover.
“Okay, I guess. Molly? Can you hear me?”
The droid’s plastic mouth stretched into a vague smile. Like most ship automata, it was built with no wasted cost such as synthaskin or realistic features. “It’s me, Cal. I took control of the medical droid.”
“I thought it crashed.”
“It did. Some sort of CPU blivet. I downloaded copies of the medical software into its memory and took control. I can use its voice unit to talk to you.”
Kessick remembered the last seconds before he blacked out. “How bad am I?”
“You had a standard jump-dislocation injury. Humans can experience them after a few hundred jumps, and you’ve done over eight K.”
“Told you, good genes.”
“Be serious. Your spinal nerves experienced partial separation, which interrupted signal transmission, mainly at the knees and below. You were lucky the separation was under a few microns, and that we have regeneration compound in our cabinet. I wrestled you down here to the infirmary and into one of the pods using the droid, made the injections and put you under. The last scan indicated you’ve healed.”
“How long have I been out?”
“A week.”
“A week!” He tried to sit up, but the droid held him down.
“Yes, we’re late. I sent a jump-drone, and by now it should be broadcasting.”
“Help me sit up. Please.”
The droid wrapped an arm around his shoulder and back, lifting gently. Grabbing a lift bar above the pod with both hands, Kessick hauled himself up. The droid still watched him closely.
“The scan looks good?”
“Within its resolution. There is always danger of dislocation mismatch and signal degradation. The healing may not be perfect.”
Cautiously, he lifted his legs over the edge of the pod, aware that he had done it a week ago, and seemed fine until he tried to take a step. He motioned to the droid. “Squeeze my right calf.”
The droid did so. “Ouch! Well, I can feel some things.”
Kessick shivered. The ship was kept at around 17 ͦ C. Naked and no longer underneath the blanket, he felt as though he were freezing, although it was probably due as much to lack of motion as to ship temperature.
“Can I get something to wear?”
“Got it right here.” The droid held up a jumpsuit and shorts. Carefully, Kessick donned the clothing, shifting around on the edge of the pod until he could slip on socks and underwear.
“Don’t see any bruises.”
“Cause you can’t see the one on your forehead.”
“Ha, ha.”
“I think you’ve healed nicely. Take a step or two. Don’t worry, the medical droid is plenty beefy, even if its CPU is squiggly.”
Kessick reached for the droid’s arms. Hanging on for dear life, he pulled himself erect. He felt the weight of his body on the soles of his feet, surely a good sign.
He lifted his right leg and took a dainty step forward, planted his foot, and shifted his weight. It gave slightly, as though it were half asleep, but it held. He took an experimental step with his left leg, also successful. “I think I can walk if I hold onto the droid. I’m still shaky.”
The infirmary was small, cluttered with two medical pods, diagnostic equipment, storage cabinets, and two chairs, all in charming dull gray plastic. Kessick hated the infirmary.
“Where do you want to go?”
“The bridge.” He edged forward, arm still around the droid, which kept pace.
“What the heck is a squiggly CPU?” he asked.
The droid patted him on the butt as they neared the hatch. “Don’t worry about it.”
They passed through the hatch into the hallway, turning left, Kessick’s progress slow but steady. On the bridge he plopped into his seat, suddenly sweating, and leaned back to take the weight off his legs. “I should have stopped in the galley. I’m starved.”
The scratchy speaker awoke. “I’ll get you something.” The droid left the bridge silently.
Kessick shook his head. “It can’t do anything solo, can it?”
“No, but that’s not a problem. I’ve got CPU cycles to spare.”
He turned to the main view screen, showing a tactical view of the outer sectors of the galaxy between Earth and Aerovale, plus the plot of their jumps and current position. He scratched his week-old beard. “So far, so good.”
“Yeah, except for you getting your spinal column stretched.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, Molly.”
“Yeah, you did—over eight thousand jumps and thirty years. Every jump makes the nerves, the brain, the circulatory system more fragile.”
He rubbed a hand through lank, dirty hair. “The medics still pass me. Yeah, I don’t have the energy I used to. But hell, I’m not thirty anymore.”
“You’re not even fifty anymore.”
“Molly, it’s all I know. And I wouldn’t be here with you.”
“You may never be with me again after this trip.”
“Hey, I’m healed. Just don’t log the incident.”
Before she could answer, he toggled the display to system status. “Besides, the problem is getting home this time, not worrying about next time. All systems are optimal. Let’s get the hell home. A couple weeks off and I’ll be good to go.”
The droid arrived with a bowl of broth and a cup of tea. He muttered a thanks before grabbing the bowl and proffered spoon and attacking the broth. Spooning broth and checking status panels wasn’t easy, but he managed. Trading empty bowl for tea, he looked into Molly’s bridge eyes. “Checks complete. Let me take the first pill and we can start the jump sequence.”
She considered. “You’ve still got a little anesthesia in your body, but go ahead.”
Kessick agreed. Still feeling wobbly, he grudgingly let the droid help him back to his quarters. Popping pill number one, he sprawled onto his bunk, determined to rest a bit. In fact, he fell asleep, rousing only when the overhead speaker said, “Preparing countdown. Have you taken the second pill?”
“I will now.”
“Cal …” Molly’s voice had that tentative, I’m-about-to-tell-you-something-you’re-not-going-to-like tone.
He shook his head. “What is it, Molly?”
“You should do the jump in the infirmary, not the capsule.”
“Why the hell should I jump in the sick ward?”
“I had a hell of a time wrestling you to the infirmary after you knocked yourself out.”