by Nathan Dodge
“She didn’t even make it to my arrival. One of the other women wanted the vaccine, though.”
I nodded. We wrapped the woman and laid her in the coldspace. We didn’t have time to take her samples now.
* * *
I woke to the sound of quiet singing, panicking. Kel was not in the carrier, and I lay on the floor of the lab. Yuri was there, though, and making desperate calming noises, and I tried to breathe even as I looked for him.
“Where? Where?” I stuttered, and she pointed to the second room, the little pantry I had pumped in where Toli had been earlier. Toli was still on her back, but her head was just slightly tilted up, and I saw her lips moving. Next to her, in a small incubator—I couldn’t imagine where she had gotten it—lay Kel. Toli smiled at me, then looked down at Kel, and began singing again softly. I didn’t know the words. They weren’t any language I knew, not even one I knew badly, but Kel seemed to like it, a small smile on his face.
“The fungus is dying off,” Yuri said. “He’ll probably lose his leg before we get it under control. We might be able to grow a new one, if we can get the camp to pull some money together for a growth kit, a proper from-home one. We could donate the electricity hours, I’m sure. I bet we will.”
I nodded, smiling, tears starting down my face. A moment later, I heard a soft sweeping, as if from the sound of silk, and turned to see Madame.
“I wanted to see for myself,” she said, nodding at the boy. “And you! Lucky for you this worked. Risking yourself on the vaccine unnecessarily.” She tsked her tongue. “I paid good money for you, don’t you forget,” she said.
“We will endeavor to repay your greatness all our lives,” I said, and she whirled on me, ready to rebuke me: but then she saw my eyes, and she nodded.
* * *
Somewhat unfairly, six months in, it’s being called the Kelly vaccine. I figure Nora deserves the credit, and Yuri, maybe Toli; but the Kelly vaccine it is.
The grandmothers adored Yuri beyond all measure for having saved their little one. He lost his leg, but the incubator is already on its way for a new one. The door to Yuri's lab is elaborately painted now, and one of the overseers has demanded—demanded!—the right to give Yuri her quarters, which, apparently, are only a little less sumptuous than Madame’s. Yuri seems more embarrassed by the attention than anything else, and retreats to her lab almost as much as before the entire incident—although she has a regular rotation on Kel’s itinerary every Tuesday. She is Aunt Yuri now.
I’m doing pretty well, myself. The overseers like my innovation, and Madame likes my eye for a profit. Between that and the bio background, I don’t worry about disappearing one quiet night anymore. Besides, Anna’s joined us—she got sick, too, and between that and my recommendation, she was in practically before she’d applied. Even if someone was out to get me, I’m pretty sure Anna and Ekaterina would take care of it before I ever knew. Perhaps most importantly, Madame has been so pleased with the subsequent profits of the vaccine she has offered to bring in a second maternal contract. I have asked they bring a little girl this time.
I’m not much for gods and the afterlife, but now and again, when I’m on garden duty on a nice, dry day, I take little Kel out all the way up to the heights on the perimeter. Up there, on those outermost sludge walls high on our mountain, we look out over the land, this land we bought with our blood and our love and our hope, and we watch the distant herd beasts curling through the jungle and the diamond-bright sparks of the cook fires of the camps. And beyond our miniscule man-made home on this great world, we can just see Ralia’s beautiful Golden River glimmering like a bright promise through the rippling emerald of the peri-fungi jungle, a land that is not so frightening now. And there we wave to his father’s spirit, just in case, and tell him that we love him.
At the Edge of the Universe
Nathan
I. Detour
Mr. Benedict.”
Jordan Benedict rubbed his eyes furiously, swung his feet over the edge of the lower bunk, and sat erect. His head grazed the overhead bunk, continuing a virtually uninterrupted series of morning collisions. The result was likewise identical, a long and pungent sequence of comments ending with, “I’m awake.”
“The captain's compliments, and he would like to see you in his quarters, sir.”
Captain’s compliments! Benedict snorted. Sounds like dialog from an E. M. Forster novel. He toyed with a facetious question about the sails being rigged until the uniqueness of the invitation hit home. He said, deliberately, “His quarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Benedict had occasionally been invited to the captain's table for dinner, but he had so far not been to the captain's private living area.
“What time?”
“Right away, sir. My apologies if I awakened you.”
Benedict recognized the voice as Kogan's aide, Lattimer—one of the younger officers, cool and crisp and shiny with Academy polish. For a moment he had the urge to see if he could fluster the calm, unruffled attitude Lattimer always displayed. He shrugged mentally. His irritation was not at Lattimer, but at the condemnably low-slung upper bunk. The captain's invitation was a pleasant variation to his routine. One thing was sure: Benedict had no plans for the day. His role as distinguished passenger among five hundred crewmen was smothering him in boredom. Any change was welcome.
He glanced at the wall display over his desk, noting the time. At home—the farm, not the apartment he still leased in D.C.—the rooster would not yet be tuning up. Only the faintest gray in the east would signal dawn’s first assault on night, and the pine woods of East Texas would still be cloaked in mist and darkness. Here, the day crew had reported for duty, and a cranky, nonagenarian ex-congressman doing one last favor for the president he had helped elect prepared to endure one more in a seemingly endless series of days. Why did I let him talk me into this? Benedict thought, not for the first time.
Standing up, he grimaced at the gray hair and wrinkled faced in the tiny mirror above the sink and took the first, hesitant step toward the toilet nook. “Lieutenant,” he replied in his best good-ol’-boy voice, “I’d be happy to join the captain this fine morning. I'd like orange juice and a cheese omelet with wheat toast. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Lattimer certainly didn't sound intimidated. Benedict grunted. Young smart-alecks. Just because they understood how MV drive worked, they felt superior. Well, compared to you, he thought sourly, they no doubt are.
* * *
It actually took twenty-three minutes to shave, dress, and exit his quarters. Benedict moved down one wide and two narrow aisle ways, dodging rapidly moving crewman with an occasional profane utterance under his breath. Having not been to the captain’s quarters, he had to stop twice for instructions, but finally found his destination. He pressed a call button on the hatch frame and it opened at once to admit him. A glance around impressed him with the seriousness of the situation. No meal awaited him, but there was coffee, and Admiral Stamson, chief science officer and architect of the expedition, was seated across from Kogan, examining a display unit swiveled toward him.
“Hello, Jordan,” Kogan said, genially enough. “Sorry, no breakfast right now, but we will get something sent in later.”
Benedict made an equally social reply, his curiosity on leash. He sat down beside Stamson, who ignored him, as usual.
Benedict gave his surroundings a brief once-over as he awaited an end to the huddle over the display. The captain’s quarters were comfortable, for a cruiser: a three-room suite consisting of the office they currently occupied and bed and bath areas to his right and left through closed doors. The small but efficient office projected the captain’s personality, walls lined with photographs and memorabilia.
Benedict’s engineering training didn’t include relational physics, but his background included enough science for him to appreciate the humor in the neatly lettered sign on the wall behind Kogan’s desk which proclaimed: Heisenberg
was probably here. He allowed himself another brief once-over of the rest of the wall, noting several commendations, Kogan's Commission, and the obligatory picture of an attractive wife and four children angled toward Kogan’s chair on the corner of his desk.
Abruptly, Stamson stood up. “I'll get back to you,” he said in a clipped voice. Instead of his normal frown, the Admiral looked at Benedict with a blank expression, as though his mind sailed on faraway seas. He muttered what might have been some sort of farewell and left quickly.
Kogan swiveled the display, trying to suppress a smile. Only partially successful, he eyed Benedict with the left corner of his mouth curled in an intriguing way, pushing a hand through thick, black hair. “It’s not that he likes you any better today. He’s just preoccupied.”
Benedict sat back in the contoured chair and they regarded each other for a moment. Outwardly, Kogan seemed more typical of a ship’s chief petty officer than the ship’s captain, his thick, compact body and rumpled shirt the polar opposite of the slim, perfectly dressed, shod, and coiffed Lattimer. Benedict had liked Kogan from the moment they met, and while Kogan did not seem necessarily fond of his passenger, at least Benedict felt tolerated by the captain with a moderate level of amiability.
“Oh, I get it—he still hates me.” But Benedict said it with a wry grin.
When Kogan replied, he repeated almost exactly what Benedict had been thinking. “I’ll say this, sir: you’ve been a bit of a surprise. I suppose in the back of my mind I pictured an average politician, or maybe more like the caricature of a government bureaucrat, but whatever it is, you don't fit the mold.”
“Thank you. You’ve been quite gracious, considering the irritation of having the president’s spy on board. I’ve attempted to stay out of your way as much as I could.” After a moment, Benedict added, “Our positions have been mutually difficult.”
“So they have. My staff is the top, and Stamson is the best there is, even if he is an ass. But.” Again, the lopsided face. “Well, I suppose you're the only philosopher aboard, at least the only one I talk to occasionally. And as you're the president’s man, I do appreciate your effort so far to stay in the background, but you deserve the courtesy of a briefing.”
Benedict nodded. “So what’s up?”
Kogan leaned forward in his chair, brushing back tousled hair again. His stocky frame occupied every inch of the chair, projecting more nervous energy than he usually displayed.
“The mission has taken an unusual turn. Literally.”
“How so?”
Kogan spoke to his desk monitor. “Camm, how are we oriented?”
The reply issued from the speaker in the display. “The light source is dead astern, Captain. I can put it on the screen.”
Kogan considered for a moment. “Would it affect your activities to bring us around?”
“No, sir. The broad-spectrum sensors and scanners that I am utilizing are located fairly uniformly over the hull.”
“All right. Please do so.”
Kogan looked back at Benedict. “For reasons known only to the designer, they placed the cabin against the forward hull. Maybe to assure that the captain goes down with his ship if there's a disaster, I don't know. By the way, have you met Camm?”
Benedict shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “We’ve met, but we haven’t spoken much.” He knew very little about one of the ship’s most important personalities. It wasn’t so much that he’d ignored Camm—it was just that his current age and earlier training as an engineer had never prepared him for daily interaction with an AI. Now it felt like he’d been ignoring one of his hosts, barely having spoken to him at the dinner table. Benedict almost blushed.
Kogan fiddled with the display. “Then it’s time for a more formal hello. Camm, say hi to Mr. Benedict.”
“Hello, Mr. Benedict. Glad to meet you.” The friendly voice, with appropriate tonal shadings, sounded male. Had he not known the source of the voice, Benedict could easily have assumed that he was talking to a crewmember. Actually sounds glad to meet me, he thought. Aloud, he replied in kind, “My pleasure.”
“I looked up your record in Congress when I understood you would be aboard,” the computer’s voice continued. “It is extremely impressive.” He went on to list a rather large subset of all the bills Benedict had ever sponsored or co-sponsored. Benedict found himself drawn into a conversation concerning his record fifty-five years in Congress, passing the time of day agreeably with what appeared to be a very well-rounded personality. Did he learn this facility with small-talk, Benedict thought, or was it programmed?
Kogan turned back to Benedict. “Fifty-five years. Why did you come along on this boondoggle? Certainly not for publicity or political advantage. I’d think you would be about ready for a quieter life. Why did you say yes to the president?”
Benedict shrugged. “You know how it was—the whole UN was requesting representation, and we couldn't afford to offend either jealous allies or nervous former foes. And of course both sides of the aisle in Congress wanted a representative.
“From Robbie’s point of view I was a good compromise, since I had retired and have something of a statesman’s reputation, earned or not. He knew he could trust me to be impartial and discreet. If the mission was an unqualified success, I’d say so; if a waste of money, I'd tell him, and that would be a data point to consider for the next appropriations cycle.
“I didn’t want to do it, and Faye was very upset, but after sixty-seven years my wife has gotten accustomed to my foolish habit of trying to please a sitting president, especially when he’s a friend. So she cried a little and then told me to do what I had to. She’s watching our roses now.
“So far I’ve felt useless, so if I can help today, I’m glad to be of service.”
Kogan nodded slightly. “I think you can be. Camm, have you completed the memory audit?”
Into the silence, Kogan explained, “Camm apparently experienced a memory failure. Which may be why we’re in the current situation.”
Camm interrupted. “Complete, sir, and the two questionable units have been replaced. Diagnostics have not revealed any source of the failure.”
Camm's explanation aroused Benedict's curiosity. “Camm, why would a memory failure, even when not detected, cause a problem? Don't you have redundant circuits?”
“Of course, Mr. Benedict. Since there was a navigational computation involved, the units involved are triply redundant. However, regardless of the redundancy, there’s always a finite, though very small, probability of error.”
Sounds a little huffy, Benedict mused. I suppose it’s a shock for a supercomputer to have to admit the possibility of failure.
Just then, Camm announced, “Maneuver complete, sir.”
Kogan touched a square on his desk and stood up, approaching the far right wall as a panel slid away to reveal a jet-black scene bisected by a thin, smudgy, gray band of light. “This isn't a display, Jordan. You're looking through a double sapphire port directly out of the ship.”
Benedict joined the captain at the port. He could detect no other source of illumination than the gray streak. The band of light was unremarkable, stretching to the limits of his vision in both horizontal directions. Directly in front, it seemed brighter and a little wider. There was no resolvable detail—it was simply a smudge of gray about the thickness of his thumb held at arm’s length, stretching horizontally across the window.
“What is it, some sort of nebula or gas cloud? And where the hell is everything else? There's nothing out there at all.”
Kogan ran a hand nervously through his dark mop of hair. “Where is everything else? We don’t have an answer. But I’ll tell what we think: That's the universe out there, my friend, all of it. Somehow or other, despite all theory to the contrary, we've gotten outside of it. I mean really outside. We’ve looked in every direction, and there’s nothing. Not one photon. Not one particle.” Kogan’s face reflected a mixture of irony and humor. “The world really is flat, my friend, an
d we have fallen off the edge.”
II. Mistakes
Benedict studied the view port in silence, finally turning back to Kogan. “I don’t get it. How can we be outside the universe? I mean, I’m no expert in relational theory, but the way I understand it, the universe is all there is. If that’s so, we can’t get outside because there isn’t any outside. So where the hell are we?”
He returned to his chair and sank, a little unsteadily, into the seat.
Kogan made his way behind the console that constituted his work desk and sat. “I've been around the block about this with Stamson and I don't understand either. Camm, you explain it.”
“Yes, sir,” Camm, Benedict thought a bit sourly, could probably explain anything. “You see, Mr. Benedict, there are still holes in multi-vector theory—that is, areas in the theory that are not fully fleshed out. One of my part-time assignments is to investigate some of the terms in the MV General Equation that relate to dimensions higher than the four we normally define—the three spatial dimensions and time.”
Puzzled, Benedict asked. “How many dimensions does MV theory postulate?”
“At least twelve in all, possibly as many as twenty-two. When the last Jump resulted in our current situation, I did some additional analysis of the mission travel scenario. I concluded that there is the theoretical possibility that we might indeed be able to do what we appear to have done.”
Benedict blinked. That sounded like some of the doubletalk he’d heard in his days on the Hill. “Meaning what?”
“It relates to how we travel in MV space, and to the error that may have occurred in my memory today. You know we don't travel continuously, but in Jumps, discreet intervals of four-D space-time, which are related to vectors along geodesics of some of the higher order dimensions. In essence, we exchange vectors, or subvector values.”
A figure appeared on the screen on the wall to their left. Benedict recognized it as Camm said, “You’re no doubt familiar with a Mobius strip.”