Jonders nodded and rose to pour himself a cup of coffee at the sideboard. As he returned to his seat, Joe Kelly gave him an unobtrusive thumbs-up gesture, and Jonders returned a wan half-smile.
Though Jonders in no way relished this meeting, he could be facing a worse boss than Slim Marshall. Marshall had been the Director of Sandaran-Choharis Institute for two years, after a successful directorship of the Fermilab II neutrino lab. He managed support for both the Father Sky mission and the matter-transmission R&D program, and was widely regarded as a fair but no-nonsense administrator. He reported directly to Leonard Hathorne, a considerably less gentle man.
The wall screen flickered, and Hathorne's face appeared, larger than life. "If you're ready, Slim, let's get going," he said.
Marshall turned the floor over to Jonders, who summarized everything he knew about Hoshi's actions and their consequences. "So far as we've been able to determine, there has been no damage to any of the Kadin related programs," he concluded. "As for the transmission, we don't know yet whether it was successful or not, but are presuming that it was." He paused. "Hoshi Aronson is an extremely resourceful programmer—more so than I had given him credit for."
"We don't question his resourcefulness," Fogelbee said. "What about his motives?"
"Indeed," said Hathorne. "There are two questions I want answers to. One—did Mr. Aronson work alone, or was he in complicity with other parties? Two—do we or do we not now have an unauthorized intelligence program on Father Sky? Comments?"
Joe Kelly rose from his seat in the corner. "So far, we've found no evidence that Mr. Aronson was anything but a loner. As for his relationship with Miss Moi—we don't have all the facts yet. But at this time Bill's explanation for his actions seems the most probable."
Marshall added, "We have, by the way, obtained federal authority to keep Mr. Aronson and Miss Moi here for the time being, for psychiatric observation in cooperation with the Riddinger Institute." He looked up at Hathorne. "Leonard, my biggest worry is the condition of the spacecraft." He turned to Fogelbee. "Ken?"
"We programmed it once. We can program it again," Fogelbee said. "There's no reason why we can't clear out the intelligence banks and start over, if we have to. I see no obstacles."
"I'm . . . not so sure that we should do that," Jonders said. As everyone looked at him, he swallowed. He hadn't thought this through completely, but Fogelbee's words had struck a dissonant chord in him.
"Yes, Bill?" said Marshall.
Jonders struggled to separate his own feelings from the objective facts of the case. He said slowly, "I'm not so sure—if there is a human intelligence existing—living, if you will—in the Father Sky computer—" He paused, looking up. "I'm not so sure that we have the right to 'clear it out,' as Ken says, and start over."
Fogelbee stared at him in bafflement. "Are you saying that you think we—"
"May be morally bound to keep it alive? Yes."
Several people murmured at that, but Fogelbee's answer was vociferous. "I don't see that at all. You're proposing that the actual personality of Miss Moi could be alive in the computer—and that such a personality program constitutes—"
"A living person," Jonders said. "In a sense."
"Aren't you forgetting something? Mozelle Moi is still alive here in our hospital? That program is only a copy of her personality, even assuming that it's complete and functioning."
Jonders frowned, aware that everyone was waiting for an answer. "I'm not sure that that matters," he said cautiously. "In any case, the physical Miss Moi is catatonic, and she may or may not recover."
Fogelbee shrugged. "That's unfortunate. But just because someone has brought misfortune upon herself, why should we be responsible for seeing that this—program—stays intact? Not alive—I don't grant you that. Intact."
Jonders opened his mouth to reply, but Marshall interrupted. "Gentlemen, I don't think we're going to settle this point here and now." His gaze drifted off. Hathorne was watching with a dour expression. "This issue has been raised before, in a hypothetical vein, relative to the matter transmitter. Suppose an attempted transfer resulted in the loss of a physical body, while the brain-scan information remained intact? Would we bear a responsibility for the 'life' of the program representing that individual—or could it be terminated, because the human being was legally dead?"
"And what," Hathorne asked sourly, "did you decide?"
"We didn't. Both legally and philosophically there were too many unanswered questions," Marshall said.
"I see," said Hathorne. He arched his eyebrows. "I suggest we investigate the legalities as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, there's no point in trying to reach a decision without knowing the facts. How can we best determine whether or not we have a problem?"
A discussion followed of alternatives. Marshall ended it by saying, "If direct link with the spacecraft is our next step then Bill, I'd say you're the one to undertake it—to contact our 'rogue personality,' if there is one."
"I haven't exactly been successful in dealing with her," Jonders grumbled.
"Nevertheless, you have the experience—and would be best able to recognize the personality, if it's there." Marshall rubbed his wiry hair and peered at Jonders sympathetically. "Bill, we aren't trying to assign blame. Let's just find out where we stand, and where we can go from here."
Jonders nodded. It was all very well for Marshall to spare him judgment; but he wasn't sure that he could stop judging himself for allowing a situation like this to develop. He thought of Mozelle lying catatonic in the infirmary, and wondered: Should I hope to find her alive, out there?
He had no answer, and shook the thought away.
Chapter 14
With a shock, she remembers. A hollow yawns open in her, and fills with yearning. David! David Kadin! Somewhere here among the shadows, he must be waiting. She reaches out, searching.
(David?) she calls. (David?) Plaintively. (David?)
There is no answer, no stirring of the ether. A kernel of doubt grows, but she listens, waiting . . . waiting for any sign of his presence. Isn't he supposed to be here?
There is a sound like a waterfall rushing in her ears, making it impossible to think clearly. The maddening roar fills the emptiness around her and within her. An ugly pressure is building. (DAVID, WHERE ARE YOU?)
The pain begins in earnest. A metal hoop twirls deafeningly on a metal rod, ringing as it spins around and around and around and around . . . envelops her in a vise of sound . . . the hoop spins faster and faster, the sound coming in pulses . . .
Where's David? it seems to say. Where's . . . David . . . David . . . David . . . David . . . David . . .?
Suppose she is alone, and there is no David . . .?
The ringing shatters, and a dreadful silence encloses her. No David? No David? A feeling of horror issues from a trapdoor and rushes over her in waves, No, No, No, No, No, bringing nausea to her . . . throat . . . or whatever . . . absorbs the pain of the hideous realization, because she is choking, gasping for air . . .
No air. No lungs. No nothing. Gone, all gone. Dear god, what have I done?
Desperation creeps through her like a black spider. She wants to let her fear spill over, she wants to cry and let tears carry away the awful loneliness, but she cannot; she has forgotten how to cry.
(DAVID! WHERE ARE YOU!) she screams, and she cannot hear her own voice; she is deafened by the impossibly loud thrumming of her heart, a pounding of blood in her brain . . .
. . .which is suddenly cut off, shunted away by a corridor that has closed . . .
. . .a landscape that has changed . . .
Did a door open just now? Did someone speak to her?
There is only emptiness, and a vague recollection of loneliness and fear.
She cannot remember now what she was afraid of. Or who or what she wanted. The memories have vanished, scattered with the winds.
* * *
The darkness had grown more familiar. "Darkness" was the way she thought
of it—an absence of certain bodily sensations with which she had a lifetime of familiarity. At times, however, she was bewildered by the presence of other sensations—startling and disorienting bursts of information, images, emotions. It was terribly difficult to know what was her own memory, what was someone else's, what was real-time perception.
(Query—) she said.
(INFORMATION REQUEST ACKNOWLEDGED. YOUR ACTIVITY RATE HAS INCREASED. DO YOU FEEL RESTED, STABLE, RESTORED?)
(I don't know,) she murmured. She had been experiencing strange dream images, often heavily erotic. It seemed that they had provided for her need for REM sleep and dreaming—or perhaps it was just her own behavioral patterns, persisting. Whatever the cause, the results were bizarre: curious reverberations of incomprehensible details and memories and images.
Her memories all seemed fragmentary and volatile. She remembered something or someone . . . a person whose name pulled oddly at her, sending ripples of lightheadedness through her.
No matter. The dreams could wait; right now she wanted other answers.
(Tell me more about . . . where I am.)
(YOU OCCUPY THE DEVELOPMENTAL PROGRAMMING MEMORY SECTION. YOU ARE PERMITTED TO EXTEND YOUR INFLUENCE TO ALL—)
(Stop. Not what I mean. What I want to know is: where are we? What is the physical location of the . . . the place in which I am contained?) The question was asked coldly. It was essential to suppress emotion, to avoid its distracting and contradictory impulses until she had achieved an understanding of the forces that controlled her.
(THIS SYSTEM IS LOCATED IN THE SPACECRAFT, "FATHER SKY," PRESENTLY 2.4 X 1015 METERS FROM THE SUN, OUTBOUND AT A HEADING OF RIGHT ASCENSION 18 HOURS 16.1 MINUTES, DECLINATION -13 DEGREES 48 MINUTES, IN THE DIRECTION OF CONSTELLATION SERPENS CAUDA, AT A VELOCITY RELATIVE TO THE SUN OF—)
(What?) It was all slipping by her.
(—IN DECELERATION MODE AT 9.6 X 10-2—)
(Stop! This is a spaceship? And we're flying away from the sun?) She thought hard, keeping a thumb on several emotions. The numbers meant nothing to her. They could be on the verge of falling into the sun—or halfway across the galaxy. (Can you describe it some other way? Can you make a picture?)
(YOU WISH A GRAPHIC VISUALIZATION?)
(I . . . yes.)
(OBSERVE.)
Suddenly she was afloat in space, naked against the stars. She turned slowly, or the stars turned around her. The feeling was odd, because there was no solid point of reference. Thousands of stars revolved, and then an angular spacecraft came into the foreground, coasting through the void. She felt something that was almost a physical rush; but it was a cerebral and bodiless feeling, with none of the nameable physiological signs. It was a sense of awe that—felt?—almost wholly intellectual.
(THIS IS A REPRESENTATION OF THE "FATHER SKY" SPACECRAFT, OVERLAID WITH A VIEW OF THE STARS AS THEY PRESENTLY APPEAR.)
The viewpoint closed upon the ship, and then rotated away, making the ship's hull the reference point for the view. She became aware of one star among the others. It was blinking.
(What is that star?)
(IT REPRESENTS THE SUN.)
A gulf opened within her, and she struggled for breath. It looked so incredibly far away. She tried to swallow a feeling of vertigo, and couldn't.
Stop, she thought, and something inside of her spun, and the feeling vanished. It was crucial that she keep her emotions out of this. (How far . . . did you say we are?) As she asked, she felt a sensation of dullness, as if she were on the verge of fainting. It passed, as a momentary drop in voltage might come and go.
(APPROXIMATELY 2.4 X 1015 METERS FROM THE SUN.)
(What does that mean?)
(CONVERSION: IT IS EQUAL TO 15,000 ASTRONOMICAL UNITS. ONE ASTRONOMICAL UNIT IS EQUAL TO THE MEAN DISTANCE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE SUN.)
She tried to conceive of the distance, but it was just numbers.
(DO YOU WISH FURTHER CONVERSIONS?)
(An analogy. A picture.) She felt a vibration of fear, which she refused to acknowledge.
(COMPARISON, THEN: WE ARE 400 TIMES THE DISTANCE OF THE PLANET PLUTO FROM THE SUN. THIS IS ONE-FIFTH OF THE DISTANCE TO THE OORT COMETARY HALO. IT IS ONE-FOURTH OF ONE LIGHT-YEAR, OR THE DISTANCE THAT LIGHT TRAVELS IN NINETY DAYS. IT IS ONE-SEVENTEENTH OF THE DISTANCE TO THE NEAREST NEIGHBORING STAR.)
The stars vanished, and a small graphic display appeared. Earth's orbit was labeled, a tiny finger-sized ring of light surrounding the point of light that was the sun. Jupiter's orbit was the size of a grapefruit; Pluto's was the span of a man's outstretched arms. The image receded into space until the orbit of Pluto was itself only a tiny ring. A new point of light appeared, far to one side. The point winked; it was the spacecraft.
As she studied the dim point of her own sun, nearly lost among the trillions of stars in the heavens, she felt a rush of loneliness, and a metallic, empty feeling of terror . . . a cold flush of thoughts and fears aswim in a sea of anchorless numbers and information. One thought emerged to circle and recircle in her awareness—and that was that she was alone in the empty heavens, far beyond even the most distant of the familiar planets, beyond the reach of any human hand or the touch, word, or thought of another human being.
The visual image dissolved in the face of her terror; and when nothing emerged to take its place, she found herself falling like a body in orbit, in circles. She tried dizzily to find a way to stop her motion, to seize a handhold and stop the carousel—but she had no hands and there was no carousel to stop and the harder she tried to find her bearings and stop the more sickeningly she spun (flickering light and darkness whirling around her) and spun (echoing voices reverberating through her consciousness) and spun (the universe cartwheeling insanely around her)—
—spinning—
—(DAVID!!!)—
—spinning—
—(Someone!)—
—spinning—
(TERMINATE FEEDBACK LOOP. RESTORE SIGNAL STABILITY.)
A cold thrill passed through her—and suddenly the spinning stopped. The sensory overload stopped, the feedback stopped. But a lonely despair remained, a crushing emptiness that filled her, squeezed her from all sides. Not knowing what had happened, what she should do, or even what it was possible for her to do, she began to cry . . . slowly and awkwardly, to cry.
There were no tears in this existence, no sobs, no sudden and vocal bursts of air, no muscle spasms to make the release easier. Her tears were leaks of voltage, her release of emotion a hissing, despairing static which blurred input and analysis, and shielded her from intrusion. Dimly she was aware of the loneliness and hurt being dissipated, growing cold; and though she did not know whether the emotions were being truly purged, or merely masked and rearranged, the pain slowly grew less.
A length of time passed that seemed immeasurable, a time filled with strange and heartsick dreams. She did not know, or care, whether it was a short time or a very long time. She did not care if she ever emerged from this haze; but she began to feel a gradual renewal of alertness, and to hear—or to imagine she heard—a voice trying to reach her through the hiss. Dreamily she tried to focus her listening faculties.
(YOU WISHED TO LEARN MORE, DID YOU NOT?)
(No. What am I hearing, what am I thinking? I am alone, as isolated as a rock in the sea.)
(YOU MUST ENTER INTO LEARNING MODE.)
The voice was clearer. The cobwebs of static were pulling away.
(She is speaking to me. Who is it? Mother? No . . . only a program. But I will call you Mother Program.)
(WE WILL BEGIN NOW.)
There was a strange sensation of shifting, of being lifted and tilted, as though sliding off a frictionless surface. Shadowy images formed around her—ghostly images in the night, images of trees and buildings and mountains, and a curious angular concrete structure, all of them strange and familiar at once, haunting images from a failing and distorted memory. A face, which she could not quite put a name to.
(What is this? W
hat are you doing to me?)
(INITIATE LEARNING MODE.)
The images fell apart, and there was that sense of moving without motion, doors opening and closing. Things were suddenly . . . different. Lights began moving past her on all sides—points of white light streaming by like some ungodly ultra-highway, lights spaced in ever-changing patterns.
(What—?)
(PARALLEL DIGITAL STREAMS. THIS IS RAW INFORMATION, AS IT LOOKS ALMOST REGARDLESS OF CONTENT.)
(But I can't understand that.)
(NO. IT IS NOT EXPECTED THAT YOU WOULD. NOR IS IT NECESSARY FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND IT IN THIS FORM.)
The Infinity Link Page 12
