Noumenon Infinity

by Marina J. Lostetter

  “Please do not leave your quarters yet,” I.C.C. said, startling her to a halt.

  She pulled at her hair wrong and hissed, the hairband between her teeth. “Why?”

  “I am taking care of a situation outside.”

  Small beeps and clatters chimed, as though in confirmation, in the hall beyond.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I am resolving the situation. You may leave shortly.”

  She didn’t like its evasive tone. “I.C.C., tell me what’s outside.”

  A beat passed. “I’d prefer not to burden you with—”

  Finishing with her hair, ignoring how messy it might look, she pressed the open button, expecting the door to slide back immediately. When it didn’t, she took a cleansing breath. “You can’t keep me in here against my will.”

  “I am not,” it insisted. “I’ve temporarily disabled the switch so that the cleaning bots would not get caught in the mechanisms and jamb the door. My wish is not to create further hardships for you.”

  This close to the door, she picked up on the sharp smell of astringents emanating from the other side. There were more clatters and robotic chirps, accompanied by a few hollow clangs and one very wet squelch.

  “There,” I.C.C. said. “You may try the door again.”

  She pressed the button and dashed through as soon as the thick metal moved aside—she didn’t want to get pinned because the stupid computer decided it hadn’t removed the incriminating evidence accordingly.

  Evidence of what, though, she was soon to find out.

  Outside, various cleaning bots scurried back and forth, away from her feet like rats running for a loose bulkhead (Mira had a rat problem once. She remembered it as a hazy blur through a four-year-old’s eyes). One carried a bucket sloshing over with cleaning solution, another sported scrub brushes at the ends of its four articulated arms.

  The carpet beneath her shoes smooshed uncomfortably, and a dark stain fanned out before her quarters. She spun immediately, taking in the front of her home.

  On the leftmost wall was a clear T, the letter hastily applied in what looked like machine oil. The second letter was cut in half by the gap that was her entryway—the automatic door had yet to slide back into place. She assumed I.C.C. was keeping it open, to shield her from reading the word smeared across it—one that, judging by the dripping, lowercase R on the right wall, did not say anything especially nice about her or her family.

  “Close the door,” she told the computer, surprised by how small she sounded.

  “It is not necessary for you to read the rest—the intended negative effect has been achieved. I attempted to have it cleaned away before you left. I’m sorry I was unsuccessful.”

  “It says ‘Traitor,’ doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t care,” she said giving an overly dramatic shrug, trying to convince herself as much as I.C.C. “They can say whatever they want about me. No one’s being forced to do anything.”

  “For the most part, you are correct,” it said, clearly attempting to be supportive.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, to be factual, everyone on board is being forced to make a decision. Stay or go.”

  “That’s awfully pedantic of you.”

  “In addition, while no one will be forced bodily to either stay or go, the decision of family members and colleagues will play a large part in everyone’s sense of obligation. People may feel forced, even if—”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  “Just because a decision is difficult or comes with troublesome consequences does not make it wrong,” it attempted to reassure her.

  With her fists firmly ensconced in her pockets, so that no one could see her digging her nails into her palms, Caz marched toward the mess hall. “I’m not sure I should thank you for hiding this from me, but thank you for trying to clean it up.”

  “You are welcome. And the authorities have been alerted. The perpetrator is already in the brig.”

  She sighed. Putting one foot in front of the other had suddenly become difficult. “That’s not necessary. I mean, I get it. I do.”

  “Vandalism is not tolerated.”

  “I understand.”

  Many of the people she encountered through the halls and on the lifts either refused to meet her smile or downright gave her the evil eye. She wanted to rail at them, but couldn’t. Still, it hurt. It wasn’t like she possessed no convoy loyalty. She was devoted to the community, to their mission—she simply interpreted that loyalty differently. Why couldn’t they see that, sometimes, sacrifices had to be made? Just because they’d been one force for hundreds of convoy years didn’t mean it always had to be that way. Not if there was something better.

  And she certainly wasn’t trying to split up families. Nor was she trying to manipulate the board for her own gains. She simply—and logically—believed this was the right thing to do, for all of them. For science, for humanity.

  The mess hall itself gave her the chilliest reception. Conversation at tables fell dead in her wake as people glared. They looked at her with such distaste, she was reminded of the rude sister from Diamonds and Toads, who was cursed to have snakes and frogs fall from her mouth whenever she spoke.

  By the time Caz reached the captain’s private mess, she was hopping from foot to foot with anxiety. All she needed was to get away from the eyes—all those judging, angry faces.

  A swift knock and an even swifter “Come in” saw her inside.

  When the door swished shut behind her she collapsed against it, bearing all her weight on her back.

  “Caznal?” Nwosu asked, rising, concerned, to his feet.

  “I don’t know about you,” Caz said, slumping into a seat at the table, “but this past month has not been fun for me.”

  “Oh?” He eyed his sunny-side up eggs, already broken into, the yolk pooling around his chorizo and hash.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s happening on your own ship. And don’t pretend it doesn’t please you.”

  He set his fork down. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to me. It doesn’t. You’re right, I’m not ignorant. I.C.C. informed me of the abuse scrawled outside your door just this morning. I don’t want anyone on my convoy to face such disdain, no matter how abhorrent their views.”

  “So, my caring about the Nataré is abhorrent now?”

  He passed Caz an empty plate and gestured for her to self-serve from the awaiting platters. “If I can’t feign ignorance, neither can you,” he chided, sitting once more. “You know what I mean. You want to, essentially, divide a nation. Divide a world. We are a civilization unto ourselves and you would have at least a thousand of us secede. To choose to tell the rest of us we’re wrong.”

  “But we’re not saying you’re wrong! Just that we can both be right.” Quietly, she added, “And I didn’t pick that number, you did.”

  “You picked it,” he countered sharply. “I’m not sending you off to die because you’re understaffed.”

  Caznal’s heart fluttered for a moment. Did that mean—? With only two days left for volunteers to step up, did this mean they’d actually done it?

  She hastily shoveled a pile of frijoles and chorizo past her teeth, to keep from asking after the vote.

  “I asked you to breakfast, because we need to strategize.”

  “Oh?” she mumbled through her mouthful. The spices were wonderful—sharp and full. Better than a shot of espresso to the senses.

  “If the current numbers are anything to go by, you’re not going to make it.”

  Caznal’s hand twitched, the once carefully poised fork clattering to the tabletop, smearing ruddy sauce over the tablecloth. “What?” she asked, coughing down her last bite. “Which numbers?”

  “As of now, you’re about two hundred and fifty short. That’s a lot to make up for in the next forty-eight hours. A whole fourth of your crew is missing.”

  “I’d expect most people to p
ut in their ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ at the last minute,” she said, pushing the plate aside and leaning in. “It’s not unreasonable to expect they’ll use every second they have to make sure it’s the right decision.”

  “I doubt that many people are on the fence.”

  The captain continued to eat. Caz wasn’t sure she could get another bite past her lips without vomiting.

  “If you’d won,” the captain said, starting what Caz anticipated to be a very long sales pitch, “I don’t think there would be a problem, from a public relations standpoint. People would be angry initially, but as time goes on and we get you ready to move out, they’d come to respect the choice. But if you don’t go—which is looking more and more likely by the minute—when we release the data, show that over seven hundred people voted to leave . . . well. That will be seven hundred more than I think most people expect. It will create suspicion among colleagues, friends, spouses. People will wonder who wanted to turn their back on us.

  “So, I propose we rebrand this, as an exercise, to show that we are largely unified. It’s not so unsettling, when looking at the bigger picture, to note that out of one hundred thousand people, less than one percent were unsatisfied. We focus on trying to improve that satisfaction rate—”

  “But that’s not why anyone would volunteer. It’s because they want something more, not because—”

  “You can’t say that for certain,” Nwosu snapped. “You can’t say that someone out there didn’t jump at the chance to leave because they’re secretly unhappy.”

  Caz concentrated on breathing through her nose. “Isn’t that what our oh-so-revered founders were supposed to screen for?” she asked. “Isn’t that why we’re clones in the first place? Our most satisfying paths were supposed to be chosen for us.”

  “And yet here you are, defying their wisdom.”

  “Here I am, making my own decisions. I guarantee we were never supposed to fill our positions blindly. We weren’t supposed to be autons, just taking up space like a cog. We were supposed to think, and think critically, inquisitively. You all have twisted our existence into some sort of preordained thing. Like it’s unchangeable, like it should be unchangeable. Well, it shouldn’t. Civilizations evolve, they mature. Those that keep looking backward are the ones that collapse.”

  “We are looking forward. Our future is the Web.”

  She stood abruptly. She couldn’t stay and have this discussion anymore, not when Nwosu was so certain Caznal’s way was ridiculous. “Thank you,” she said, “But our future isn’t written yet.”

  When the volunteer numbers were announced, she accepted them with dignity. Eight hundred and forty-two people had offered to go. One hundred and fifty-eight too few.

  She didn’t ask for the names of the volunteers, knowing she’d be denied. That wouldn’t fit into Nwosu’s plan for unity.

  She’d have to stick with the list of names she already had.

  Popping into the Nataré headquarters on Holwarda—a small office space split through with freestanding desks—she clapped to get everyone’s attention. “Come on,” she said, “I need everyone to follow me. We’re going on a little field trip.”

  “To the crater?” Ivan asked, closing out his gravitational map-analysis program.

  “Nope. A little closer to home. Aziz, I need you to get me the locations of everyone else in the division, all right? Can you do it en route?”

  Aziz shared wide-eyed looks with his colleagues. None of them had a clue what was happening. “Uh, yes, sir?”

  “Good. Leave the Inter Convoy Computer out of it, okay? Let’s go.”

  Some of the team tucked ‘flex-sheets under their arms, or put a stylus between their teeth, following her out into the main halls without question. They fell into loose ranks, shuffling more than marching, but keeping close to her lead.

  “We’re headed to Hvmnd,” she announced, not looking over her shoulder, but filling her diaphragm and projecting far. “We did not get a fair vote. There are convoy crew who were not heard. They did not get to participate, and they deserve that chance. Our march on Hvmnd is a protest, a demand that these people be given a choice.”

  She could hear shoes stumbling behind her, faltering on the carpet and falling back.

  “No one is obligated to join me,” she said. “But if you volunteered—if you believe the Nataré need to be studied, that our maps need to be followed, please keep marching.”

  The footsteps picked up again. She didn’t turn to see if the ranks had thinned. It didn’t matter if they had. This was about choice after all—not about what she felt was right or wrong, but about everyone getting a fair shake, leaving no one unheard.

  She wasn’t sure she should feel as emboldened as she did, as noble in her day’s endeavor. What if Captain Onuora turned her away? What if this was one more exercise in futility?

  Then, at least she’d tried.

  “Aziz?”

  “Yes?” he called from somewhere near the back of the pack.

  “Get in contact with the others yet?”

  “I’ve sent a message to most of them—let them know we were on the move. Should I tell them to make for Hvmnd?”

  “Please.”

  In the bay, the shuttle pilots were unprepared for the group that swarmed them. Diego was there with a handful of his fellow chemists. A few dozen others from various departments—those who’d told Caznal of their support—had shown up as well.

  All in all, their force was a hundred bodies strong.

  There were marches on Earth, Caznal thought, that would dwarf the entire convoy’s population.

  Perhaps that should have given her pause. If she could only rile a metaphorical handful to step up, to risk the unknown at a chance for scientific discovery, for new adventure, then was it so noble after all?

  Was it wrong to know how you fit into the grand scheme of things?

  No, of course the majority wasn’t wrong. No one was wrong here, that was the point. That was why she had I.C.C.’s backing—no matter its motives or particular worries.

  Her people lined up at the shuttles. A few pilots began loading immediately, unsure why so many unscheduled people needed to travel at once, but seeing no reason not to strap them in. Others slid between the would-be passengers and their crafts, as though defending the shuttle from an onslaught.

  “Look, man,” one pilot said, a warning hand on Aziz’s chest. “I’m supposed to be over on Hippocrates in fifteen. I’m not a free fare.”

  “Yeah,” said a man in a seafoam green jumpsuit. “Some of us need to start our shifts. You can’t barge in here and take whichever one you want. Swing is starting, and this place is going to be flooded with scheduled traffic.”

  Lights flashed in the bay—not the spinning warning lights for decompression, thank the stars, but a simple flickering of the overhead lamps. Someone in the control booth was trying to get their attention.

  “Whoa, whoa.” The bay’s chief shouted over the comms system, “Hey, hey! Nataré, what are you doing? I need you all to sign in, you can’t just hop on—”

  “A month’s vice rations to all the pilots who take us right now!” Diego shouted.

  The pilot bound for Hippocrates moved aside. The seafoam clad man glared at her. “Hey,” she said with a shrug, “Macaroons don’t grow on trees.”

  The trip over was typical of one of Caznal’s interconvoy jaunts to Hvmnd. Except, this time she wasn’t alone. She was surrounded by the impassioned, by vibrant smiles. From the number of wandering eyes and twitchy ankles, it was clear some of the volunteers still didn’t fully know what they were doing, or how this was supposed to gain them a convoy. Perhaps they thought it would simply send a message, that they were—Caznal shuddered internally, recalling Nwosu’s statement—unsatisfied with the vote’s outcome. But that wasn’t her intent. She meant what she said: there were those who hadn’t been allowed to vote. And that wasn’t right.

  Outside Hvmnd’s docking bay, Captain Onuora and several caret
akers were there to receive them. Clearly Mira’s bay chief had alerted her to the onslaught. Thoughtful, considering her ship didn’t see this much traffic in a month, let alone an hour. The shuttles couldn’t even all land at once, given the constrictions of the small docking area.

  But now, with the addition of those who’d been on other ships during Caznal’s initial march, their party was one-fifty. Still meager, but wholly impassioned.

  “Caznal,” Onuora said evenly as the crowd burgeoned. Four shuttles were being received at a time, then the passengers had to shuffle past the airlock to allow the next aboard.

  People continued to pour in as Caz worked her way to the captain’s side. “Yes?”

  The claws still held the captain’s chair, suspending it a few extra feet off the ground to give her a better view of the invasion. “Might I ask what the hell you are doing?”

  “How do you know it’s my doing?” Planting her hands on her hips, she looked up into her friend’s face.

  Onuora side-eyed her, frowning. “Because it’s always your doing.”

  “I want to ask the caretakers for a favor.”

  “I’m in charge of Hvmnd—you should be asking me.”

  A bit of wind went out of Caznal’s proverbial sails. “Yes, of course, you’re right. And I respect your authority, your opinion. If you tell us to go, we’ll go. But please, give me a chance to make my case. You know as well as I do that . . .” She faltered. The Captain’s gaze was penetrating, intimidating. Perhaps this hasty march had been a bad idea.

  “Go on,” Onuora said impatiently.

  “That, in a way, there have been two convoys since Relaunch. There are the crew members, and then there are the caretakers. Our agendas have never been the same.”

  “My crew doesn’t have an agenda. Not unless taking care of the dreamers counts as an agenda.”

  “It does. And I want you to ask them to wake the servers.”

  The excited chatter of the crowd died around her, like she’d dropped a bomb and the fallout was wafting out in concentric circles.