Bridge Across the Stars: A Sci-Fi Bridge Original Anthology

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Gray gives another of those noncommittal nods.

  “What?”

  “We believe that the original plan may be somewhat shortsighted.”

  Again, the teacup clatters into the dish, but this time, it is the pricking of her pride that shakes her fingers. “How so? You do realize we’ve been planning this since before I was even born. Before my mentor or even his mentor was born. Thousands of years of cryo-sleeping Directors have planned this down to the nanite.”

  “Director—” At her glare, Gray corrects herself. “Swanson, I don’t mean to counter any plans, because the plans are perfection. It is only the additional information that calls for some alterations. I did note the two aberrant systems. In each case their social constructs changed in unacceptable ways after planetary disaster. Please observe.”

  With that, Gray waves and a display lights up centered over the big table. “This is what we were able to reconstruct from the data we received from the quantum buoys. The stream was somewhat corrupted.”

  On the display, a small girl no more than a handful of years old is strapped to a T-brace, every part of her that can move secured by wide, dark straps. The brace is tilted a little and without any preamble, a man wearing a hood and little more than a loincloth steps up and swings an axe. First one arm and then the other are severed under the power of two quick blows. Very quickly, another man comes forward and slaps handfuls of black goo onto the girl’s bleeding stumps, then sets them alight with a torch.

  While Swanson’s hand comes up to cover her mouth at the horror, the girl barely moves. When she is lifted from the brace and turned around, Swanson sees that her mouth is gagged and her eyes closed, but the little girl’s chest hitches with uneven breaths.

  “Turn it off! Turn it off! How dare you show me this monstrosity!”

  The display disappears with another wave of Gray’s hand, but she seems entirely unaffected by the horrors they have both just witnessed. Wisely, the Facilitator says nothing and waits for the older woman.

  Regaining her composure by reminding herself that this happened long ago and far away, Swanson swallows down the bile that has risen in her throat. “And the other? I don’t wish to see it—only tell me.”

  “It is the opposite of this, but equally brutal. All save three percent of males are killed at birth. The rest are kept for breeding.”

  This is terrible. Too terrible. Swanson slides an elbow onto the table so that she can rest her forehead in her hand. Her head has suddenly become so very heavy. She understands what Gray is saying even without saying it. Still, she must have it confirmed.

  “And you’re sure these atrocities happened after planetary disasters?”

  “That is correct. In both instances. The one from the video is from a planet that had the terraforming process well underway and nearly five thousand Strands on the planet. No Loaded Strands, of course, since they maintain memories of their original life on Earth. Only Strands that started as infants without memories can become colonists. Previous reports indicated all was well and breeding was proceeding on the surface. An asteroid impact soured their land and within a few years, the beginnings of this system were evident. That girl was to be a Voice; a female who can speak. Most females are Hands, which means they work, but have their vocal cords removed.”

  Anger courses through Swanson’s stiffening limbs. It is this kind of brutality on Earth that made humans create the Seed ships in the first place. The ships were meant to give them a chance to develop without strife or war, without struggle, on new worlds untainted by humanity’s savage history. They were meant to make us better, to help us evolve as a species.

  That has clearly not happened.

  “Well, then, I know the first place the Peace Force should go,” she says through gritted teeth.

  Gray sighs a little, a strangely human gesture from someone almost entirely divorced from emotion. “While we have made strides in understanding the numbering of the Seed ships, we will not experience those same successes with the planets. Their numbering is truly random. Only the Seed ships know those locations so they know which planets have already been taken. We do not and will never know where that planet is.”

  Squeezing her eyes shut at the memory of that footage, Swanson says, “But the advances in sensors on the new ships…”

  “Yes, they will help. Eventually, the Peace Force will find them.”

  “Eventually,” Swanson sighs.

  Three

  The horrors of a few days before are almost forgotten as she flies over the land. Looking down at the plain, Swanson can’t help the smile that transforms her face. The Earth has become perfection. Beauty at its highest point.

  “All is going well?” she asks Gray, who sits next to her in the small airship as it hovers over the only place in the world left for normal humans … except they’re not humans anymore. Rather, they are now digital humans inside a digital universe.

  “Perfectly,” Gray answers, eyeing the structures in the center of the plain with cool eyes.

  With a scowl, Swanson turns to the Facilitator. “Details, please.”

  “As you wish, Dir … Swanson. The virtual worlds have had no problems. Currently, there are nineteen inhabited planets … virtual ones, of course. Expansion has been limited and sufficient barriers are in place to maintain the challenge. There are three hundred conflicts ranging from open war to small, localized skirmishes. At the moment, there are two pandemics and six limited epidemics. On Earth Prime, there is a political battle consuming the populace.”

  Swanson raises an eyebrow at that. “Really? Political battle?”

  Gray nods. “Yes. Ennui was setting in at some locations, so we switched out candidates and put a highly unstable leader in place. We are seeing a significant uptick in cohesion in individual human data-prints. As you know, ennui or too much peace brings degradation of the system and cause individual human data-prints to fragment.”

  Her lips twist at that news. Swanson, like all the Directors before her, must remain biological, only going into the Virtual at the end of her physical existence. Most humans are born only as digital forms in the virtual worlds. They never suffer the indignities she suffers now as an old woman. Not truly. While they age or get sick, and eventually die inside the Virtual, even those things are made less awful than they are in the real world. Suffering is attenuated.

  The only truly natural humans remaining are the Director class. They are decanted from unaltered Strands as babies and learn their duties at the knees of the previous Directors. It is only now, as the project nears its end, that no new Directors are decanted.

  Soon, there will be only altered Strands left in biological form, DNA imprints altered so much that they serve only the purpose they were made for. Facilitators to protect the facility that houses all the billions of humans in their electronic forms and a few Healers to tend the Facilitators and oversee decanting new Facilitators. That’s all. The rest will enjoy the Virtual, which contains worlds without limit.

  Heaven. Yet also hell sometimes, it seems.

  The Director can barely wait to join the rest of her kind. Soon.

  An irregularity in the perfectly concentric circles surrounding the black dome catches her eye. Swanson points to it. “What happened there?”

  “A minor problem that will be corrected soon. Giant sloths upset one of the power receivers. It happens sometimes. We have more than sufficient power. They would have to upset a great many receivers before we had problems.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  Gray inclines her head a little, then says, “Often enough. Do you see there? The tiny spot of white? No, just there.”

  “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. What is it?”

  “Wolves got to that one.”

  “Wolves?”

  “Yes. And over there, the small patch of brown at the perimeter?”

  “Yes. It looks like freshly turned earth.”

  Gray nods. “Exactly so. Some burrowing animal gnaw
ed through the subterranean lines there. We’re not sure what species, since the animal was gone before we got there.”

  Swanson’s brows draw together, another of those tickling sensations crawling up her back. “Do you mean it simply gnawed through the lines and then went away. Just like that? Before you could get there?”

  There’s no hint of any underlying uncertainty in Gray, only the matter-of-factness built into her genetic code. “Yes, just so.”

  “And you don’t find that odd?”

  Gray’s eyes are without emotion or concern, and that concerns Swanson. “No. They are animals. We cannot know their motivations.”

  Looking back upon the perfection that is all of humanity, a single black dome housing an entire galaxy within the databank of one computer, Swanson is struck by a memory. It’s an old one, from when she was young and learning to be a Director from her mentor. Director Tyrell had already been old then, but he’d laughed with abandon and was always kind to her. He’d once said that the world had not forgiven humanity its trespasses. He’d said that even though we took very little from the world now, it would someday shake humans off like a dog shakes off fleas.

  At the time, she’d merely laughed at the notion of the Earth having a long memory. Glancing at that spot of freshly turned earth and wondering if the animals had expressed the planet’s frustrations through their actions, she wishes she hadn’t laughed then. She wonders what else the Earth might choose to exact its revenge upon.

  “Gray, do the Facilitators still maintain a data backup for us?”

  Gray nods. “Of course.”

  Swanson turns away from the plain and toward Gray’s seat. “You should consider moving it to the moon.”

  The Facilitator waves and the little airship darts back in the direction of the Director’s hall. “That seems a misuse of resources. We’re quite fine here, Director. And that final decision was made a long time ago by the Humanity Director. We can’t change it now.”

  Expelling a short, bitter sounding breath, Swanson leans back in the comfortable seat and closes her eyes. Gray can’t understand. Perhaps that’s better in the long run. Someday, perhaps someday soon, the flea that is humanity will be shaken off. The Earth has a long memory, after all, it seems.

  Living forever in the virtual worlds never did sound all that appealing to Swanson. As long as the Peace Force is completed and sent on their way, she’ll be satisfied. Anything beyond that is extra.

  Four

  “Swanson, are you alright? Do you need assistance?” Gray asks.

  They’ve just docked with the Peace Force ship in orbit, and the trip up was far more difficult than Swanson remembered it being. Of course, the last time she was up here was about three hundred years ago, when the ships weren’t nearly this big or imposing. Time is playing havoc with her.

  Pushing Gray’s hand away, Swanson levers herself up from the couch and flings the straps back. There’s a jarring clatter of metal on metal. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

  Gray stands still as always, waiting for Swanson to tidy her clothes and regain her steadiness. Swanson again feels that urge to stab Gray and see if she’s truly organic. Instead, she takes a deep breath to push away the annoyance and smooths back her short, gray hair.

  “Lead on.”

  Swanson read all the briefs and even watched some of the videos prepared for her, but seeing the giant vessel with her own eyes is another thing altogether. The ships are so large, so incredibly present. As they’d approached the landing bay, it was all she could do not to jump from her couch and run to the window, craning her neck to see it all at once.

  When they get through the airlock and are met by the ship’s Captain and the commander of the troops for this vessel, the shock is intensified. It’s one thing to read the averages of height and weight of this time’s personnel, it’s another thing to meet them in person.

  The Captain is personable and what the Director would call average. Nothing too extraordinary about her, but then again, the Captain will never fight a battle with her body. She’ll fight using the ship if it comes to that.

  The troop commander—the General—is another matter entirely. She’s a monster. Towering over the Director by a foot or more, she must weigh nearly twice what Swanson weighs, maybe more. Her muscles are ridiculous, and her mouth and lips are covered in scars.

  While touring the ship, Swanson grows ever more unsettled. Given the hardiness of the X chromosome and the ability to alter it more significantly without causing failure, it’s no wonder that they finally settled on an all-female crew, but it’s still strange to see it. Directors are always male, then female, then male again … and so on down the lines. In real life, altered humans are almost always female. It makes Swanson feel like the odd one out in a way. What is she compared to these competent people?

  And after seeing that video of the horrific planet and that little girl, she has to wonder if they’re creating the beginning of such a thing all over again, right here and now.

  Swanson is jerked from her musings by the General’s shout. “Hey you, Douchebag! Did you sandpaper those boots or are you just a lazy twat?”

  Shaking her head at the archaic insults, Swanson looks at the trooper receiving them. She’s huge, like the General, and squatting in a clear area in front of an opening with a sign above it that reads Suit Preparation. The woman laughs, then salutes and shouts back, “I am a lazy twat, sir! I will correct that immediately!”

  The Captain nudges the General and grins. “She’s the one doing the suit demo?”

  Nodding, the General shouts to the trooper, “No, you won’t. You’ll do the demo, then you’ll correct yourself. But you better make me proud in there!”

  Standing taller and straighter, the trooper’s smile is replaced with stony determination, and even Swanson can see the pride there. “I will make you proud, sir!”

  The tour is long, though it might have been shorter had Swanson not been so old and frail. Many of the troopers, technicians, and administrators give her side-eyed glances. They’ve probably never seen an old person before, so she doesn’t take it personally.

  They take a break—again, mostly for her—in the General’s conference room. Supposedly meant to give her time to ask questions and make decisions, Swanson decides its true purpose is likely to make sure she doesn’t keel over before achieving her purpose. The food is good, if somewhat uniform in texture and shape. The tea, on the other hand, is excellent.

  “Well, Director Swanson, what do you think of our little crew?” the General asks. Her surname is Bravo, because she is the overall leader of the troops stationed onboard the second ship, but Swanson can’t bring herself to use it. It sounds silly.

  Putting down her fork, she says, “I’m amazed. The additional generations requested during my last visit seem to have paid off. They are ideal forms. And everyone is stable? All the Strands can be replicated reliably?”

  With a pleased nod, the General says, “Absolutely consistent. Though if you want to talk details, I’ll need to get an Administrator in here. As you know, I’m a Military Class Strand myself.”

  “Of course, of course. No need for that. I’ve already had a long video conference with Administrator Alpha, from ship … umm … Alpha. I merely wanted your impressions as their leader.”

  “Oh, well then. You have a yes vote from me. My troopers are the best there ever was. Loyal, strong, smart. You just can’t beat them.”

  With a small smile, Swanson says, “Let’s hope so.”

  Both the General and the Captain laugh at that, big laughs that bounce off the walls in the spartanly furnished room. Before they can continue, the door slides open and the trim form of an Administrator enters.

  She smiles brightly, looks at Swanson and says, “I’m Administrator Bravo, and I thought I’d pop in while there was a break to see if you had any questions.”

  Swanson gives Gray the eye, and the younger woman wisely doesn’t look back at her. She must have called
the Administrator, knowing Swanson’s questions would stray beyond the boundaries of the expertise already present in the room.

  Rather than say anything unpleasant, Swanson waves toward an empty chair. “By all means, join us.”

  After pouring her own cup of tea and complimenting the Captain on her brew, she sets down her cup primly and says, “I understand there was some confusion over language.”

  Ah, so that’s it. Gray must have called after Swanson asked too many times about the name-calling she’d witnessed. Well, she did want answers for that, so perhaps this was a good interruption.

  “Yes, thank you for coming, Administrator. I did have a question or two. I didn’t understand some of the words being used, so I looked them up.” She paused, pointing to her ear and the little computer there. “They seem to be ancient pejoratives, nasty words. I still don’t entirely understand douchebag, but the rest have clear definitions. Can you explain? This wasn’t the case during my last visit.”

  The Administrator practically wiggles in her seat, obviously eager to share. They were designed to build consensus, reason out problems creatively, and work well with others. While that was probably more exciting than being a Facilitator, they usually only dealt with others exactly like them, so how exciting could it be? An outsider must be a huge event for them, Swanson thinks.

  “I can shed light on that!” she exclaims. “During the simulation runs for various conflicts, we noted that in every case the troops developed words that separated themselves from their foes. Essentially, they found a way to identify those they would fight as other … other than themselves, that is. Research was problematic, but we eventually identified the source.”

  Still unclear where name-calling came into this, Swanson prompts, “And?”

  “Oh, of course. I keep forgetting you’re not linked to us. Well, once the Identity Act was passed on Earth a long time ago, pejoratives were censored from all historical media, but we were able to access pure scans of old documents. It turns out that in all conflict in which the two foes are not personally known to each other, there is a requirement in the human psyche to identify a way in which the person is “other” than themselves. Otherwise, they can’t fight. It’s present in all armies in history. Most of the time it was based on appearance or ethnicity or religion or some easily identifiable trait. Far back in history, humans were once divided by geography, and appearances were fairly distinct in each region. Religious devotees wore specific clothing or hair or other identifiers to distinguish them. In short, all conflicts involved demeaning or otherwise diminishing the humanity of a foe sufficiently to make killing an acceptable act.”