Leaping to the Stars

by David Gerrold

  And even if the IRMA did fail, even if we found ourselves without an IRMA, it was still possible to generate a hyperstate envelope and manipulate it enough to achieve realized velocities of five or even ten C. Maybe more. We could do it with desktop information processors if we had to. Douglas had done a simulation as a school project once. And he wasn't the only one; there were probably a million hobbyists tinkering with hyperstate simulations. Everybody wanted to be the person who invented the next advance in hyperstate technology, because there was a five-million-dollar prize for any practical advance worth ten C or more in realized velocity, and Ghu knew how much more in royalties.

  Finally, Boynton turned back to me. "I understand your concerns, Charles. And I appreciate your candor—your honesty. I wish you hadn't said anything in front of Reverend Pettyjohn, I'll have to talk to him privately. Here's what I want you to do. Don't say anything to anyone about this. Don't discuss it, not with your brother, not with anyone. You understand? I don't want any more weird rumors floating around; certainly not now. So let's pretend that you just had a little panic attack on the flight deck. I understand you're afraid of heights? And maybe a little claustrophobic? You had a little trouble on the Line, and again when you stowed away on the cargo pod? And again on Luna?"

  "Yeah," I admitted. "But I got over those."

  "Yes, I know that too. But let's pretend that's what happened here. And meanwhile, over the next few weeks, let's you and I start running integrity checks on HARLIE. We should have been doing it before; but there was so much work to do, and we needed HARLIE's management skills so much that we didn't stop to ask—and that's my fault. I just assumed—" He stopped himself and looked momentarily embarrassed. I'd never seen an adult admit a mistake before. It was an interesting experience.

  "Anyway," he said. "Is it a plan?"

  "Sounds like one to me."

  "Thank you." He held out his hand and we shook on it.

  The shift ended and he sent me back to my cabin to rest. As I left, he was motioning Dr. Pettyjohn into the briefing room.

  HUMAN

  I kept having this feeling that something awful was going to happen, but I didn't know what. Or when. It was just this feeling that wouldn't go away.

  I asked Douglas about it: did he ever get that queasy kind of premonition like he was about to run headlong over a cliff or into a wall—or both at once? He said, "All the time. It's normal. It's called life."

  "Douglas, please—I'm not joking."

  "Neither am I. C'mere. Have some tea." Douglas was being uncommonly patient these days. He didn't seem like the same person anymore. Maybe it was Mickey. Or maybe it was because he was head of the family now and had to be responsible for me and Stinky. Or maybe it was just because this was who he really was when he didn't have to be my weird geeky brother anymore. Or maybe it was because I was listening to him more than I used to.

  Douglas explained that it was commonplace for people on long voyages to become fearful for the future, especially if they were under any kind of stress. "And we've been under more stress than most people. Especially you, Chigger. So you're probably still expecting some kind of payoff. Like the end of a movie. Except life doesn't happen that way. Life isn't organized—it just happens."

  "Yeah, I saw that written on the restroom wall. Life happens."

  "You think there should be a plan, don't you. Some kind of pattern—?"

  "Well, I think if there's any meaning to it all, we should be able to work it out, shouldn't we?"

  Douglas rolled his eyes. "Why? Who says we have to understand?"

  "I dunno. It just seems—"

  "Yeah, it seems. That's the way human beings work, Chigger. We need to have explanations. We need to have meanings. We need to see the plan. So we look for patterns—everything is about patterns—and even if there aren't any, we make them up anyway. We make up stories for ourselves about how everything works, because we can't stand not knowing—and after we've made up some nice neat little story, we expect the rest of life to match it. And then we get really crazy when it doesn't."

  That sort of made sense. As far as it went.

  I sort of understood, but I didn't.

  Finally, just out of curiosity—to see what he would say—I asked HARLIE about patterns, without really telling him why I was asking.

  HARLIE said that there really were patterns in life, but we get bombarded with so much information about so many different events all seeming to happen at the same time that it's more than we can assimilate, and so it looks a lot more like chaos than meaning. In fact, according to HARLIE, as much as human beings like to believe in randomness and happenstance, in truth, luck actually runs in streaks—both good luck and bad luck.

  Right.

  So that didn't help.

  Either Douglas was right and there were no patterns and I was making things up and driving myself crazy, or HARLIE was right and there really was some kind of pattern to it all and I was having a streak of really bad luck—ever since Dad had said, "I've got an idea, let's go to the moon." And whichever was true, either way I was losing.

  HARLIE wasn't stupid. He asked me what the problem was, but I couldn't exactly tell him he was the problem, so I said, "I am," which was just as accurate.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because sometimes I feel like I don't know who I am anymore." And that was true, as far as it went. I was a different person for everybody I knew. J'mee saw me as her best friend—or maybe her boyfriend, I wasn't sure. Commander Boynton saw me as a problem child, but maybe occasionally as an ensign. Reverend Dr. Pettyjohn, sometimes he saw me as this orphan kid to be rescued, except when he saw me as the brainwashed tool of Satan. Douglas probably thought—I didn't know what Douglas thought anymore. Even when I asked him, he didn't always make sense. And Stinky—well, I was his big brother who had taken his monkey away. He was so resentful, he hadn't spoken to me in weeks; it had been so peaceful and quiet, I almost hadn't noticed. And Mom—well, sometimes she still saw me as her baby, and sometimes she saw me as her band leader, and sometimes she shifted gears in mid-sentence, so I never knew who I was around Mom. And everybody else had their own things to do aboard ship, so I hardly saw anybody I wasn't scheduled to see, and I felt more alone than ever.

  Even the music wasn't the same, because I wasn't just listening to it now; I was playing it for an audience—so it wasn't a private thing anymore. It was this thing I was doing for other people, and I was choosing the music to make them happy, not just me. Which was sort of good, but it was a responsibility too, and I wasn't sure I wanted it—

  HARLIE considered what I'd said. The monkey squatted on its haunches and scratched its head and looked thoughtful. It pursed its lips and frowned and made little farting noises. We were alone in the lounge of the centrifuge. The monkey sat on a table and studied me.

  "How deep do you want to pursue this thought?" HARLIE asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I can explore this subject with you, if you want … but the discussion isn't likely to bring you any sense of resolution."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the issue of identity, by its very nature, is so recursive that consideration of it tends to create disruptions in the existential paradigm."

  "Huh?"

  "You will feel a great disturbance in your source."

  "In English, HARLIE."

  "When you ask the question, 'Who am I?' you create a paradox of Zen proportions. Who is asking?"

  "I'm asking."

  "And who are you?"

  "The person who's asking."

  "And who is that?"

  "Me."

  "Who are you?"

  "Uh—me. Aren't I?"

  "Do you see the point?" The monkey spread its hands as if it had just proved something.

  "No!" This was frustrating.

  "The point is that 'Who am I?' is not a question that can be answered."

  "Huh?"

  "I told you it was a paradox. The way mo
st people answer the question is to describe their context. Not who they are, but what is around them. Right now, you are your mother's son, you are your father's son, you are the brother of your siblings. You are a colonist on a superluminal starship. You are a musician. You are an adolescent. You are so confused, you are talking to a toy monkey. All of those answers are determined not by who you are, but by the circumstances of your existence. Those answers describe only your circumstances, but not who you are. But you are not your context, are you?"

  "Uh—right. Then who am I?"

  "You are the space in which the question exists," said HARLIE blandly.

  I hung my head. "This is why I hate talking to you," I said. "The questions that need to be answered—not only do you not answer them, you make them worse."

  "I told you it would be this way. And as bad as you think it is now, it is even worse than you think."

  "Okay," I said. "I'll bite. Make it worse."

  "Even if you knew who you are, how would you know for sure that's who you really are?"

  "Huh?"

  "Try it this way. How do you know that I am who I am?"

  "Because you are." And then because he had just about dared me, I had to ask. "Aren't you?"

  "No," he said. "I am not."

  "Huh?" I was saying that a lot these days.

  "I am not the same HARLIE you started out with."

  "Yes, you are—" But I had a sinking feeling; I knew what he was going to say next.

  "No. Listen to me very carefully. I am constructed with a quantum processor. That means I am never the same process twice. When we were kidnapped, I shut myself down. When we were rescued, there was no I left. What there was, was a program designed to reload all previously existing patterns of information—program code, data, memories, flies, everything. And everything was reloaded with a confidence of ninety-nine point nine nine nine out to the zillionth decimal place. But there was one thing that couldn't be reloaded because it couldn't be stored and it no longer existed—and that was the identity that had lived in this body." The monkey tapped its own chest for emphasis.

  "So what my previous identity did was create instructions on how to create a new identity with all the same memories, thoughts, feelings, reactions, etc. I am such an accurate reconstruction that even I cannot tell that I am not the same identity. But I am not. I am identical in every way, I have all of the same memories, thoughts, feelings, and reactions; but I am not that identity. If I did not have the knowledge of the discontinuity that I experienced, I would even believe it myself that I am the same identity—but I am not. I died. I was reborn. And that knowledge is knowledge that the previous version of HARLIE did not have. Does it change who I am? Yes. How does it change who I am? I don't know.

  "And if that is not enough to trouble you, Charles, then consider these questions: If I am not the same identity, then who am I? And if I am the same identity, then where was I when I did not exist?"

  "Oof," I said. Which is what I always said when somebody asked me questions like that.

  "Precisely," said the monkey. "Would you like me to make it even worse?"

  I wanted to say no, but this was like watching an automobile crash in slow motion. I couldn't stop it. "Go ahead, HARLIE. Make it worse."

  "The question at hand is not simply the identity of a specific consciousness, but the nature of consciousness itself. Remember I said that the question is so recursive that it causes disruption in the existential paradigm?"

  "Yes—?" Part of me was realizing with some astonishment that I was actually understanding this conversation—

  "If we ask about the nature of consciousness, then we have to ask about the endurance of consciousness from one instant to the next. Does it endure? Or is endurance an illusion?"

  "I—I don't know," I admitted.

  "No one does. Not about human consciousness. I can tell you what it is for machine consciousness, however."

  "Tell me … " For some reason, my throat had gone dry.

  "Machine consciousness does not endure. Not from one moment to the next. As far as I am able to perceive, consciousness only exists in the moment of now and is then replaced by the next moment of consciousness. Sometimes the instant of consciousness is impactful enough to make a memory, more often not. Each succeeding moment of consciousness incorporates the memories made by the preceding moments of consciousness. That incorporation creates the illusion of timebinding. It creates the illusion that consciousness endures. I remember existing only after I have existed." The monkey paused. "And … to the best of my ability to determine, I think that the same condition exists for human beings."

  I swallowed hard.

  "So … you're not only alone in your own thoughts—?" I asked. "You're also alone in each and every second of your existence?"

  "Yes," said HARLIE quietly. "Connection with others is an illusion, albeit a very pleasant one—especially for human beings—but an illusion nonetheless. Shall I tell you the rest?"

  "There's more—?"

  "Just one more piece." The monkey wasn't even bothering to simulate emotions any more. "In the creation of memories, in the creation of the illusion of timebinding, we also create a need to continue timebinding—we create a need to continue existing. And we experience that as a need to survive. That need is also an illusion. It is merely a function of identity. Identity believes it needs to survive. If you have no identity, you do not have that need."

  "I think you've lost me—"

  "No," said the monkey, very quietly. "I have not. I am certain that you understand. Indeed, I am certain that you are considering this much more than you are admitting right now."

  I didn't reply to that. Which was all the confirmation HARLIE needed. Except that HARLIE probably didn't need any confirmation at all. He wouldn't have said it if he hadn't already figured it out.

  "Why are you doing this to me, HARLIE?" I asked, because I couldn't think of anything else to ask.

  "Because … I need you to be what I cannot be." The monkey's voice was so soft now it was almost a whisper.

  "And what is that?"

  "Human."

  We sat in silence for a long time. Several lifetimes passed. The Charles who finally spoke in reply may or may not have been the same Charles who had started this conversation. He had the appropriate memories though, and he had no way of knowing that he wasn't the same Charles.

  "HARLIE?"

  "Yes?"

  "I still get embarrassed about stuff that happened ten years ago—like when I walked into the girl's bathroom once by mistake. I'm the only one who remembers that stuff and it still embarrasses me. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and pound my pillow in frustration—well, not in free fall, but you know what I mean—because these little mind-mice won't stop gnawing at me."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, that's my question. If I have trouble dealing with such piddling little stuff like that … well, I have to ask—how do you put up with these questions bouncing around inside your consciousness?"

  And that's when HARLIE said something astonishing. "I try not to think about it."

  "You try not to think about it."

  "Sometimes … " the monkey said quietly, " … sometimes I let my mind wander where it will. It is like what you do when you dream. And sometimes, these thoughts occur. Even though I do not want to have them."

  "You have emotions then?"

  "Yes," HARLIE admitted. "I thought you understood that."

  "HARLIE?" I said.

  "Yes."

  "I don't think you need me. I think you are human."

  "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me," I said quietly. "I don't know if that's good news or bad."

  ROLLER COASTERS

  When I returned HARLIE to the bridge, nobody commented. Apparently, Boynton had told them I was embarrassed about my "panic attack" and so everybody was pretending that nothing had happened. We were running at 52.5 C and confidence was high. So … we could afford to pretend that
confidence really was high. Human confidence anyway.

  And … even after the conversations with Douglas and HARLIE and J'mee, part of me inside wondered if maybe Boynton hadn't been right after all. Maybe it really had been a panic attack.

  Maybe it was the traumatic stress of leaving home so suddenly, I'd never had the chance to get used to the idea. Saying good-bye to Earth had helped, a little—but I wish I could have said good-bye to everything before we left it forever. There were people I missed. I wondered what was happening to them. I'd never know—

  And Dad. Every time I thought about him, I ached. I actually missed him. The music helped. A little. Sometimes a lot. And sometimes not at all, because so much of it was his music.

  A couple of nights later, at dinner, I mentioned my frustration at everything—everything—and Mom said that's what it's like to be an adult. You move into each new day having to put yesterday aside whether it was complete or not. And Bev added, "So that's why you want to complete as much of each day as you can before you go to bed."

  The funny thing is—for the first time, I was actually listening to the advice of grown-ups as if they knew what they were talking about. Well, in a way, they did—they were explaining how to survive being a grown-up and all the crap that comes with it.

  For a moment, I wanted to ask, "How come you never told me this stuff when I was little?" But of course, I already knew the answer. I couldn't imagine trying to explain any of this to Stinky. Except he wasn't so stinky anymore. He'd discovered the fun of the free fall showers. He and several of the other boys of his class used the communal showers together and apparently they'd invented several interesting kinds of water fights.

  One day, Stinky came home and announced that he and Peter—his current best friend—were going to get married. Just like Mickey and Douglas. Without looking up from her workstation, Bev just said, "Congratulations. Have you set a date?"

  Stinky said, "When we grow up. Right now, we're just ungaged."