Portals (Into The Galaxy Book 1)

by Ann Christy

  At this moment, I realize exactly how alien these aliens are. He doesn’t understand the impact of what he just told me. He sincerely thinks I can put this aside and have a chat. Not human at all.

  “Yeah, not going to happen. You can’t slip news like that into a conversation and then let it ride. Let’s just say that I’ll be able to listen better if I know I don’t have a ticker running down my life. Understand?”

  He does that thing like he’s listening again, but this time I’m not waiting. I snap my fingers in front of his face and say, “No, none of that. If you want to talk about me, then I want to be in on the conversation. You make it so I can hear what’s going on.”

  Jack blinks and takes a step back, clearly unsure about me. Then he nods and says, “Please speak openly.”

  “I’m speaking as openly as I can—”

  I’m interrupted by a voice coming from the room. “Lysa, can you do me a favor and try to calm down?”

  The voice is even, pleasant, and not quite male or female, but rather some neutral point between the two.

  “Are you the person that’s been talking to Jack?” I ask the ceiling.

  “Yes, but I’m not a person. I’m Hub.”

  “The space station? You’re the space station?”

  “Yes, that’s essentially correct. I’m the central mind of the station. The entire station is the hub, while I’m Hub. One is an object. The other is a name.”

  “Oh.” I really can’t say more, because that’s some weird information right there. The space station is alive? Or sentient?

  “I’m terribly sorry you’ve been upset by this information. While I’ve made every effort to assess all life on Earth and created extensive databanks, the details of individual lives are not as complete as I might like. Please do try to understand that Jack is doing the best he can to give you information and work with you.”

  Now I feel bad. Of course, I’ve also got a physical problem and that’s screaming in my head like a thousand televisions at high volume, but I also feel bad for freaking out on Jack. He’s looking at me with that patient gaze of his.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” I say.

  He shrugs and says, “No problem.”

  To the ceiling—because I have nowhere else to direct my words—I say, “I didn’t mean to be rude, but you just gave me some really craptastic news here. I feel like I’ve got bugs crawling under my skin and my heart might explode.”

  That mellow voice answers in precisely the same tone as before, as if I’m not freaking out on it. “I can assure you that you don’t have any insects under your skin. I can also accurately report that your heart is fine. The time it will take to orient you to your situation is minimal and will not interfere with my ability to repair your condition. You can put that worry aside.”

  Put the worry aside? The hub says that like I have a choice in the matter. That creepy bug feeling is still there just under my skin, and I have the strangest sensation that I can feel my ovaries shrinking. Considering the fact that I had no clue anything was wrong with me until Jack told me there was, I realize that’s just my emotions projecting sensations. That doesn’t mean it isn’t terribly uncomfortable all the same.

  I take a deep breath and try to convince myself I don’t feel the heebie jeebies, shutting my eyes and really focusing on calming myself. It doesn’t work. When I open my eyes again, the heebie jeebies are still in full force.

  “Can’t do it,” I say. “Still freaked out.”

  Jack gives a little head-shake, like I’m just such a delightful mess. “I suggest we go ahead.”

  The hub answers quickly. “Explain on the way, Jack. Lysa, I can’t always speak with you this way in other sections of the station. Jack will speak with me as needed and relay my answers or comments. Do you agree with this?”

  “Yes. Absolutely and positively agree.” Stepping over to the door, I open it and wave Jack out with an impatient sweep of my hand. “Let’s roll.”

  He gives me an odd look and says, “No, we’ll walk.”

  All I can do is roll my eyes and follow him into the hallway.

  Thirteen

  Jack leads me out of the dormitory hall and then out of the college looking lobby, tossing a wave at the man behind the desk as he does. Once we’re out of the main door and back into the super-futuristic looking station areas, he starts talking.

  “I’ll give you a quick explanation of what’s going on. You’re a non-transfer and there are quite a few of you coming through. Right now, we’re running about ten percent, which is extremely difficult to deal with. There are so many that we’re coming close to our redline…which is our maximum allowable change to your planet. Luckily, Hub keeps re-stacking the transfers, which means it recalculates who’s going, so that more who were non-transfers become transfers even while they’re transiting the portal. So, even when the intended transferee sends someone else back through the portal, most of the time Hub can recalculate and shift the transfer lists to include the non-transfer. Then someone else on Earth goes onto the non-transfer list. Unfortunately, Hub couldn’t reshuffle you, so you’re one of the true non-transfers. There aren’t that many of those, which is lucky. Got all that?”

  “So, the non-transfers are people like me? Defectives? Too defective to even shuffle the lists?”

  He shakes his head and then weaves around a big unmanned cart making its way down the hallway. I look as it passes, noting many boxes with labels neatly printed with my name.

  “Hey, that’s my stuff!” I say, turning to watch it go and walking backwards.

  I back right into Jack, who must have stopped and looked too. He grabs my arms to keep me from falling and stands me upright again. His face is only inches from mine and I get a nice long look at that heart-stoppingly handsome face. Good heavens, but these aliens know how to build a human body!

  “You okay?” he asks, smiling at me. His eyes are more gray than blue now that I see them up close. And boy, oh boy, they sure are pretty eyes.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say, tugging my pajama top down and trying not to act ridiculous. “You know, except for the bleeping arteries and all.”

  He chuckles and says, “Yeah, except for that. Anyway, the bot will put your stuff in your quarters.” He points to his head and says, “I just relayed the message.”

  “That’s handy,” I reply, then we’re off again.

  We turn away from this long hall, which is really a thoroughfare off the ring based on my best guestimate. The interesting thing is we turn the opposite direction than when I walked here from the module, which means we’re turning inward, toward the station.

  The space station that talks, mind you.

  “So, you were saying?”

  Jack points down a little side corridor for me to follow. “Ah, yes. To answer your question: sort of. Non-transfer can mean many things. A good many will die within a short period and won’t significantly contribute in terms of discovery or species knowledge before that time. Others might be incompatible with life in a long terms sense. Some have personalities that would decrease stability in the transfer society. Not necessarily in a bad way, either. There are a lot of reasons, but usually there’s not just one reason. A combination of things usually causes a person to be a non-transfer. Most humans won’t transfer when you get right down to it, but as you pointed out, we also take older humans who probably wouldn’t be alive by then either. The matrix that racks and stacks them is based on moving a sufficient variety, but not everyone. Most who will have completed their primary contributions to society won’t transfer, unless they rank much higher in several other factors.”

  My steps slow as he speaks and then I stop short. It takes him a few steps to realize I’m not behind him, then he comes back and asks, “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. “You mean that basically anyone who’s useless is a non-transfer.” I can’t believe how much it hurts to say that.

  “No, there
are a lot of people you might call useless who are transfers. No one is useless really. Only less utilized.”

  “Oh, so only the especially useless then?”

  He’s confused. I can tell by the expression on his face. He has no idea how hurtful this news is. “Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

  Sighing, I look at the floor and say, “No, not if that’s the truth. I’m useless, so I don’t get the transfer ticket. I get it.”

  He bends a little, so he can look me in the eye. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  We’re in a little side corridor. The area is bare of furnishings or anything else, but Jack takes my hand and leads me to the side. He sits with his back against the wall and pats the floor. “Sit with me.”

  I’m reluctant to let him distract me from getting whatever is wrong with me fixed, but I’m starting to understand why he wanted to give me some orientation first. Everything he says is either a shock or a huge disappointment.

  I’m useless. Great.

  Jack surprises me by taking my hand in his, then folding his other hand over it so mine is sandwiched between both of his. His smile is very sympathetic. “You’re not useless. It’s all a matter of getting the job done. Creating the ones you call replacements isn’t as easy as you think, and this is a very big puzzle with a lot of moving pieces in a constant state of change. The energy cost of each transfer is probably more than you can imagine too. Hub is shuffling the lists of transfers and non-transfers at all times. We’re very good at what we do, but no system for projecting the future is always correct. There is always change. As I said, it’s very complicated.”

  The wall is cool against my back and Jack’s voice is very soothing. That itchy feeling is still there, but his words are kind and have the ring of truth in them. Before I can ask yet more questions, he squeezes my hand a little and keeps talking.

  “There’s also the matter of disturbing things as little as possible. We cause enough change by simply doing the transfers. In the case of your planet, too much change. You’re a very odd species, you know. Highly volatile. Really, your whole planet is filled with volatile life-forms.”

  “You have no idea,” I mutter.

  He smiles at my tone and says, “I’m getting the idea quickly enough.” Letting go of my hand, he says, “If anything would have changed with your condition, then you might have been shuffled to the transfer list and no one would have known the difference. Or maybe something else on the list would have changed to make you transfer. There’s no way to know. You just came too quickly and on your own…which means you’re stuck as a non-transfer. You’re not useless and no one ever thought you were. Your life was—would have been—too short.”

  I take a deep breath and look around. This little hallway is very white, the hiss of ventilation the only real sound. Even so, it all looks very real to me all the sudden. Everything is vivid and somehow more tangible. Is that what happens when someone realizes there’s an actual end date to life? Does everything grow more real and more important, more alive?

  There’s a question in Jack’s eyes. Will I be okay, and do I accept?

  I nod and smile. “I’ve got it. Now can we just get me fixed?”

  He hops up and holds out a hand to help me up. “It’s just through here.”

  He stops at a spot on the wall that looks no different to any other place except that a discreet silver square gleams in the white. A string of characters I don’t recognize flits across when we approach. Immediately after that, a nice bit of English lets me know that the atmosphere is suitable for humans and I should exercise caution.

  Interesting. Very interesting. How many other types of atmospheres do they have in here?

  The door slides open and I’m pretty sure this is a medical facility of some kind. It isn’t that far off from the ones I’ve seen in video games or movies about the future. There’s a short row of human-sized tables with big transparent bubble-like things suspended above them. There are cabinets and shiny things—but nothing that looks like a probe—and a couple of larger silver areas that I know will be screens if they do what all the other silver spots do.

  Now that I’m here, I’m hesitant. What exactly are they going to do to me and will it hurt? I mean, I tend to get some vicious cramps during my period, so won’t fixing broken ovaries hurt even worse? Maybe that should have been a clue that something was wrong with me, but my doctor said it was normal for some people to have more pain during the first few years.

  Well, that doctor was wrong in a big way. And now I have the opportunity to fix my body, to extend my life, to create an entirely new future that I wouldn’t have had. Heck yes, I’ll do that and take some pain in the doing. I step over the threshold, but no further. When the door slides closed behind me, anxiety and excitement race through me at the speed of the unknown.

  The hub’s voice startles me when it fills the room. “Hello again, Lysa. This is the medical bay where I’ll be correcting your physical problem. Would you like me to explain or would you rather do it straight away?”

  It’s hard to tell, because the hub’s voice is so very even, but I get the feeling that it would be willing to explain and answer questions for as long as I needed. That alone makes me feel better, and my anxiety dials down one notch.

  Stepping up to the closest table, I run my fingers along the surface. It’s some kind of gel-filled pad. My fingers leave the slightest of impressions when I press lightly. “Is this where you make replacements?” I ask.

  I can almost hear the hub shaking its imaginary head—or maybe not imaginary, because really, who knows. “Not on a large scale, we have a facility for that. This is a relatively new addition, because of the non-transfers that are coming. It’s an almost unprecedented situation.”

  Nodding, I move from the table to the closest cabinet and bend to peek at the contents. The cabinets are filled with pretty much what I might find at any human clinic or urgent care facility. Bandages wrapped in paper wrappings, little bundles of medical goods sealed in bluish plastic, bottles of pills. None of it seems very futuristic. I can’t help but notice that most are items used when you wind up in the emergency room needing stitches or something like that. Why would that be?

  “Do we get injured here often?”

  Jack snorts a little at my overly-casual and entirely suspicious tone, but the hub answers readily enough. “Sometimes. Not every non-transfer comes through willingly, as you did. They often arrive in great need.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but I should have. It’s a common enough occurrence. Tossing anyone nearby into the portal when your double walks out is something that happens all the time. I’m pretty sure most don’t go willingly. “And the ones that are transfers, but got tossed in out of turn?”

  “They are transferred to their destination and aided there most of the time. You wouldn’t have noticed it, but I can suspend the transfer while it’s in progress in order to recalculate and correct the lists. You were suspended for about three seconds, while I attempted to reshuffle your position. If that doesn’t compute or requires further intervention, then those in dire situations might have to be treated in the module. There’s a medical facility there too. There’s very little we can’t fix.”

  After taking a turn around the room and peeking at everything, I say, “What’s going to happen now?”

  “I’m going to repair your flawed systems, but also prevent such a thing from impacting you later, or being passed down to children should you choose to have them.”

  My stomach clenches and I ask, “Surgery?”

  “Not exactly.” The answer is such a non-answer that I sigh, and the hub says, “Should I explain in detail?”

  Jack is still standing near the door and when I look at him, he raises his eyebrows like I should consider the level of detail I might get. Good point.

  “Only as much detail as I can understand, please.”

  If the hub h
as to think about that, it’s not apparent to me, because it answers without a pause. “Your problem ultimately relies on your genetics. It’s not a system flaw brought about by some action or inaction or by your environment. Like many problems, this was written into your genetic code at the moment you came into existence. It was written along with the color of your eyes and the shade of your hair. Do you understand that?”

  Plopping myself down onto one of the little rolling stools, I try to take that in as it pertains to me. This thing is a part of me, a flaw I was made to have. That’s hard to take—and completely unfair—but I can understand it. “Yes, I’ve got it.”

  “In order to repair it, I’ll also need to change what’s inside you that allows it to impact you in the first place. I’ll need to rewrite your DNA. Otherwise, I’ll simply be fixing organs and leaving all the other problems to grow with time.”

  My brain immediately begins tickling at those words. “You mean like you do with the replacements?”

  Jack watches me carefully as the hub answers. “Exactly the same as the replacements.”

  I stand up so fast that the stool rolls away to crash into the cabinets. “You’re going to make me into a replacement? You’re going to duplicate me?”

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking, but there are differences.”

  I back up against the cabinets, estimating my chances of getting to the door before Jack can stop me. They aren’t good, and really, where would I go from here? I’m on a space station. He’s already approaching, his hands up like he’s no threat and concern in his eyes. That’s no good, because it looks like he’s ready to corner me and that feels very threatening at this particular second.

  “Hell no! I’m not letting you kill me and pretend some replacement is me!”

  Jack starts making shushing noises as he nears, shaking his head like I’m misunderstanding the situation. I don’t think I am, and I wonder if he studied dirty street-fighting while he was studying humans, because he’s about to experience exactly that. I pluck a bottle of pills from the cabinet next to me and chuck them at him. He looks surprised.