Project Sail

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Reagan chased after Hawthorne, reaching him in the corridor as they approached the canteen.

  “Commander, wait one moment. Commander?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fisk?” Hawthorne replied without stopping.

  “Are you saying this side trip has to do with a friend of yours?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Commander, I need information.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Hawthorne stopped, but not to address Fisk. He stopped to look in the open door of a cabin, a quick glance and then he moved on.

  Reagan followed and when he reached the open compartment door, he also looked inside. He saw Lieutenant Thomas sitting on the floor with her arm around a machine that might have been a robot dog. She and her metallic companion watched a black and white video of a fat bald man being poked in the eyes by a smaller man with a nasty disposition, which Thomas found incredibly funny.

  Fisk then hurried to reach the Commander as he entered the canteen where Wren, Kost, and Carlson sat at the table.

  Carlson—as usual—interacted with his wrist computer, seeing images no one else could see, while Kost sat on Wren’s lap. She had a sour expression on her face and Fisk saw why: she wore one of Wren’s earplugs, obviously sampling his music.

  Hawthorne moved toward the cupboard.

  “Commander Hawthorne, who is Lazarus and why did he pay thousands of dollars to deliver a package just so he could see you?”

  Carlson joined the conversation without taking his eyes from whatever image danced on his wrist.

  “Lazarus was the first human uploaded into a computer.”

  “What?” Fisk held a finger in the air. “The guy whose brain they put in a computer a few years back?”

  “Not his brain, dumb ass,” clearly Wren needed only one ear to listen to his music. “His consciousness and memories.”

  “I thought that failed,” Fisk said.

  “Nope, it worked.”

  Hawthorne rummaged through the cupboard.

  “The others failed,” Carlson said although he gave the conversation only a small fraction of his attention. “They could not repeat the success. Last I heard they gave up.”

  “Yeah, after eight fucking attempts,” Wren said.

  Hawthorne corrected, “Actually, the eighth one worked but the guy—if that’s what you could call him—kept screaming so they turned him off. The others never took hold.”

  “That is fucked up,” Wren spat.

  Fisk said, “So this friend, or computer, is out here and wants to see you. Somehow he heard you are on this ship and can afford ten grand to pay for a package to be delivered on this spacecraft so you can stop for a minute and say hello.”

  Hawthorne found a snifter and closed the cupboard.

  “First, Mr. Reagan, his station handles a third of the communications in the solar system, so he probably knew I was coming on the Virgil before you did. Second, I doubt he has any money of his own, so he probably hacked some corporate flunky’s account for the credits. You might want to check with your bank while we are docked.”

  16. Lazarus

  As Horus promised, entering the facility on Pan did not require shuttles or capsules. Built into the side of a rocky mountain, the base stood hundreds of feet above the surface; the Virgil need only pull alongside.

  Hawthorne floated across a long docking tunnel and entered the base’s airlock. After a moment, the inner door opened, bathing him in bright light.

  A walkway spanned a thin, deep chasm and then led into a big room that appeared part cave and part modern construction: stone walls combined with smooth paneling and track lighting.

  “Greetings! Commander Hawthorne, I presume?”

  The voice belonged to a middle-aged man with curly brown hair wearing a plaid shirt with blue jeans and eyeglasses that resembled corrective lenses but housed a computer interface.

  “My name is Steven Tasker and I welcome you to ThinkTek.”

  “Where?”

  “ThinkTek is the name we use now, but we change it every so often; we believe that helps spur creativity.”

  Tasker guided him across the walkway into a large chamber beneath a rotunda made of stone and metal. People milled around wearing a variety of dress including casual, formal and odd. A medley of scents tickled his nose, ranging from the smell of burning wire to a pleasant aroma suggesting flowers or a lady’s perfume.

  The place struck Hawthorne as more a college dormitory than a high tech communications outpost.

  He said, “Pan sits at the center of the solar system’s biggest communications network but it feels more like summer vacation around here.”

  Tasker told him, “Robotic maintenance and computer control maintain the network, freeing us to explore the fullest extent of our creativity. We also store trillions of Yobibits of data for governments and corporations.”

  They left behind the domed area and walked a wide hall lined with rooms of varying sizes. Hawthorne heard a strange tone that resembled a clarinet, and then another noise that sounded like a small turbine whirring to life.

  As he walked with Tasker, he realized no one wore identification badges and there were no signs of door locks, guard stations, or surveillance equipment.

  “Wait a second, I don’t see any signs of security,” but Hawthorne hit on the answer before his host could reply. “Let me guess: the major powers agree not to mess with Pan.”

  “The corporations have a substantial investment in the relay.”

  Hawthorne thought of Titan as well as the asteroid belt understanding.

  “They keep coming up with new rules saying whom you can attack and where.”

  Tasker did not understand but he flashed a friendly smile nonetheless.

  “So, you know Lazarus?”

  “I knew him when his name was Gerald Faust. We served together.”

  Hawthorne glanced into a room and saw people combining yoga with virtual reality goggles, either exercising or playing.

  “Have you met with him since his ascension?”

  “Ascension? That is an interesting way to put it. I would stop in to see him every so often when he stayed on Mars. Why did he leave?”

  “After the upload, the media turned him into a celebrity and started calling him Lazarus. He gained a sizable following.”

  Based on the reverence in his voice, Hawthorne figured Tasker was one of those followers.

  “He helped with the other upload attempts, but when they failed he became depressed. Not long after, they ended the program, so we invited him to join us. He is a critical part of the team now, even helping us work toward the next evolution of quantum computing.”

  “I thought his upload was based on quantum computing.”

  “In the past, we expected human uploading would involve mapping the brain and then simulating it with software, but Lazarus represented a new approach based on theories of quantum consciousness. His team physically removed the subatomic particles inside his brain that they identified as responsible for his personality and housed them in a computer. While technically we consider this system a photonic quantum computer, you could argue that it is a biological computer.”

  “I’m lost.”

  “If a brick house represents human consciousness, then the old approach was to copy the blueprints of that house and rebuild it inside a computer, resulting in one real house and one virtual one. The quantum approach takes apart the house brick by brick and then, brick by brick, rebuilds it inside the computer, all possible because we are dealing at the subatomic level both inside the body, and inside the computer. Because we are dealing with those tiny bricks, he may even be able to evolve someday, changing into a new form, or even adding to it. Consider sand on a beach; you can use it to build a castle or a pyramid or whatever, but you are still building with grains of sand.”

  Hawthorne saw that his understanding did not matter; Tasker just enjoyed telling the story.

  “We stood on the brink of the technologi
cal singularity. Imagine, discarding our fragile biological bodies and evolving into a new form of life. Lazarus was the first step in this direction but after eight failures, people lost interest. Worse, the scientific community views him as either a freak success or a fraud.”

  A line of people dressed in jumpsuits jogged by carrying a long glowing tube. Hawthorne watched them go and then offered the package to Tasker who refused it.

  “That belongs to you, Commander. I admit I am not sure what he is planning.”

  “I have known Gerald for years and I can tell you he is playing a practical joke. So where can I find him?”

  “He is, of course, everywhere; free to roam our systems debugging programs, searching for illegal access, and improving the efficiency of data storage.”

  Hawthorne cleared his throat, which came across as you know what I mean.

  “Follow this passage to the consultation room, where he interfaces with visitors. He is expecting you.”

  ---

  Inside the round, cream-colored consultation room Hawthorne found a pair blank video screens, a glass table, and one plastic chair.

  He placed the bottle of brandy, the snifter, and the package on the table. The only sounds came from a soft electronic hum and the tap of his shoes on the acrylic floor. A sharp but fleeting scent pointed to cleaning chemicals, suggesting Tasker recently cleaned Lazarus’ reception area.

  A sharp buzz broke the silence, followed by a monotone, synthesized announcement: “This is the voice of world control.”

  Hawthorne responded, “Oh shut the fuck up.”

  A masculine voice that nearly matched the one Gerald Faust spoke with when he had occupied a biological body replaced the synthesized one.

  “Haven’t seen you in years and you still will not fall for that one.”

  “That’s because you did the same thing the first time I visited after, well...”

  “After I became a computer. Sit down, Hawk and start drinking, I wish I could join you.”

  Hawthorne opened the brandy bottle and poured a dose into the snifter.

  “They can’t write a program for intoxication?”

  “A program to get me laid tops my wish list. Oh that reminds me, thanks for that book you sent last year: Demon Seed by Dean Koontz. I talked dirty to the girls for a week until they threatened to turn off my speech synthesizer.”

  A coat of liquid warmth slid down Hawthorne’s throat.

  “So why did you let them move you off Mars?”

  “I don’t have any choice; they move me around however they want, and that bothers the hell out of me.”

  “You did not want to come here?”

  “I suppose I did after the celebrity treatment stopped. At first, my upload was the next big thing and the gateway to immortality. When they could not repeat the process I became an oddity to the point that I worried they might flip my off switch. Then Tasker made me an offer and I transferred to Pan.”

  “So what changed?”

  “On Mars, I was only an object they studied but now I am working. Even as we speak, I am adjusting the LCR to handle increased comm traffic, cleaning a block of data storage, and balancing the environmental controls.”

  “I never saw you multitask aboard the John Riley.”

  “That’s because you sat on your ass up on the bridge while the engineering crews did the work. Point is I feel relevant again.”

  “Tasker told me he thinks you will evolve into a new life form.”

  “Stop laughing.”

  “Who’s laughing?”

  Lazarus said, “Detecting sarcasm in your voice does not require a computer brain.”

  “You should move into an android body, like the one you had in the early days on Mars but this time get one with big tits and maybe I’ll visit more often.”

  “I find artificial bodies limiting, like a cage. It may not sound logical, but I prefer the freedom of moving around inside a system.”

  “So what is it like in there?”

  “I cannot describe it.”

  “Horseshit.”

  “Try to describe colors to a man blind since birth. There is no way to do that without using visual references. Now take that one step further and describe sight to a person who has never had eyes. You will find it impossible.”

  “You are making my head hurt,” and Hawthorne drank again, leaving only a trace amount in the glass, a problem he remedied by pouring more.

  “Hell, I am not even human anymore, just a bunch of memories and simulated instincts.”

  Hawthorne held his brandy aloft, studied the dark liquid, and told his friend, “Maybe we are nothing more than primitive instincts with memories; software guided by experience and natural impulses.”

  “That is depressing.”

  Hawthorne chuckled. “I can be depressing these days.”

  “You just don’t give a damn, but did you ever, even before Ganymede?”

  “Hell yes, I was a career officer.”

  “You were a good handball player otherwise you would have been out years earlier.”

  “I should have let you beat me so I wouldn’t have been around for the Jupiter mess.”

  “Fuck you and your kill shot, Hawthorne.”

  They paused, one remembering old friends and experiences through a series of data files, the other from somewhere closer to heart.

  “So why did I have to deliver this?”

  “Hang on I want to make sure no one is listening.”

  The door to the chamber slid shut.

  “Sounds like paranoia to me.”

  Lazarus explained, “Pan sits at the center of voice and data communications for the solar system. I hear stuff when decoding transmissions and directing data streams, I even watch news, sports, and entertainment. I am sensing that something big is happening and your mission is more important than you know.”

  “Sounds like you know more about my mission than I do.”

  “I do not have every detail, but you are the next step in the Gliese program.”

  Hawthorne’s ears perked.

  “The what program?”

  “Hawk, you don’t know why they recruited you?”

  “I am sailing to Oberon for a deep space mission as part of something called Project Sail.”

  “You better have another drink.”

  Hawthorne did as suggested.

  “You are traveling to another solar system, Gliese 581.”

  Hawthorne processed his friend’s words and rejected them.

  “Okay, asshole, what is really going on? Gliese is too far away.”

  “Twenty-two light-years”

  Hawthorne said, “Even if they have managed to boost a diametric drive it would take hundreds of years to travel there.”

  Lazarus told him, “They have designed an engine that can do the job.”

  “Bull. A new drive that can reach a planet twenty light-years away earns a headline or two.”

  Lazarus said, “Universal Visions and the United States government have engineered a means of reaching Gliese in three weeks. That is information they want kept secret, considering seven big corporations and four major powers compete for any advantage. Back in February they launched a probe that sent back information that warranted a manned mission, and they want to do it fast, before the Russians or Chinese beat them to it.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “On Oberon you will join a crew leaving for Gliese 581g, the first humans to visit another solar system.”

  “Great, we will hop a ride with Santa Claus and his reindeer. Look old pal, faster than light travel is impossible, just ask Einstein.”

  “Soon you will see for yourself but for now, humor me. I have calculated a twenty-seven percent probability of a connection between the following events. One, the destruction of the USNA Niobe in orbit around Ganymede. Two, ten thousand Martian colonists relocating away from the main domes. Three, the disappearance of the Russian battleship Sergey Gorshkov. Four, the de
ath of two technicians at the Universal Visions station at Oberon and five, your assignment to UVI’s Project Sail.”

  Hawthorne had learned of the Niobe from Captain Charles and Reagan Fisk.

  “The Chinese took out the Niobe because they worried about an American offensive against Europa. As for Martians, the damn domes keep failing so moving colonists is not a surprise. Now what about a Russian battleship?”

  “The Sergey Gorshkov, a new class of battleship. From what I hear, it has their prototype of an Alcubierre-Haruto drive and was doing field tests.”

  “A what?”

  “They have not told you, have they? The Alcubierre—Haruto drive is your ride out of the solar system, which is the point of Project Sail. The Russians and possibly the European Alliance have versions, too.”

  “And it disappeared?”

  “Their home port received a message regarding environmental system malfunctions.”

  Hawthorne thought, or the message was a cover and the Russians are already on their way out of the solar system.

  “What about the two techs dying at Oberon?”

  “They worked with the unmanned probe sent to Gliese. From what I intercepted, they reported suspicions of sabotage. Their deaths appear accidental.”

  Hawthorne said, “I am on this project because their first choices died aboard the Niobe, which maybe had this new avacodao-yamato--.”

  “Alcubierre-Haruto drive. If two military ships equipped with this advanced drive have been knocked out of commission, who benefits?”

  Hawthorne said, “Assuming this fairy tale drive is true, the Europeans and the Chinese, if this is a race to this Gliese place, because of what the probe found.”

  “Or a big coincidence,” Lazarus admitted. “Perhaps I just wanted a reason to see you again.”

  “I am touched,” Hawthorne picked up the package. “So is this empty?”

  “Open it.”

  Hawthorne emptied the contents: a security card, a blue and white Riptide Express Service uniform, and a device on a strap that reminded Hawthorne of the watch his father wore years ago.

  “You want me to dress up like a package deliveryman?”

  “Universal Visions also controls Uranus’s moon Titania, right next door to Oberon, where they are building something big and expensive, but I don’t know what, only that it’s not the ship you are riding.”