Noumenon

by Marina J. Lostetter

  “Now don’t go blaming your parents or your sister. Babies can’t be blamed for anything.”

  “This is stupid.” The boy stood and pulled at his hair. “You have to fight, you can’t let them take you.”

  “They’re not taking me. It’s not like I’m going to get carried away kicking and screaming. This is just how things work. This is how they’re supposed to be. The old die off, leaving resources for the young. We just make it a little neater and a little tidier. The exact same thing happens on Earth. It’s a natural cycle.”

  “That’s bull—”

  “Watch your language.”

  Jamal was embarrassed for a moment, but it didn’t last long. “I won’t let this happen, Diego. They can take the baby back.”

  “Now you’re just being childish. Listen to me. I’m okay with this. I knew it was coming. More important, I’m happy to give my resources over.”

  “How can you be happy you’re going to die?” Nothing about what Diego was saying made sense.

  “Because I’m helping the mission. It makes me proud to do so. By retiring, I’m assuring the convoy remains balanced and healthy. To prolong my life after my time would be selfish. Wrong. Disloyal.” He pushed himself up and took Jamal by the shoulders. “I would be abandoning my responsibilities. It would be the worst thing I could do, you know that.”

  He knew, he did—loyalty to the convoy, to the mission, to each other above all else was pretty much the first thing they learned in school. But it didn’t stop him from throwing his arms around Diego’s waist. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want them to take you away.”

  “I know, boy. But it’s for you and your generation. I die so you can live.”

  Jamal put on a brave face—even if it was wet and puffy—when he went home. No amount of reassurance from Diego could convince him the old man’s retirement was a good thing, though. No one wanted to die. No one really thought dying was a good thing.

  Why would they want to exchange Diego—he’d just fixed that bean processer or something, hadn’t he?—for a useless baby. How did that make any sense?

  This was wrong. He might only be eight, but there was no way he would sit by while they hauled off his favorite person in all of space.

  That night he lay wide awake while Akane cried out in the communal space. His parents were trying to soothe her, but she wouldn’t shut up.

  Since he couldn’t sleep he worked on a plan. Diego wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.

  The next day was group-play day. Not really school, and not really a day off. Someone—someone’s grandma, their amma, if he remembered right—called it daycare. If your parents didn’t have the day off when you did, you went to group-play. Thankfully, Lewis was there.

  Several halls merged to form the communal play space. It wasn’t a room, and it wasn’t a passage either. It was a strange space on Mira, meant for mingling but rarely used by anyone other than children. Chairs and tables popped out from cubbies in the walls. Hidden closets held extra dishes and celebratory items. The area could be turned into a fort with a few reappropriated bed sheets and a little squinting.

  “Wanna play spelunker?” Jamal asked Lewis, noting the group-play guardian’s back was turned.

  “What’s a schpeel-lunger?”

  “A guy who explores caves.”

  “Yeah, all right. How do you play?”

  Jamal shoved his hands in his pockets and side-stepped down the hall, away from the communal area. He found an access panel and dropped to his knees. From his pocket he produced a screwdriver taken from his parents’ emergency tool kit. “You watch out for bears and such,” he said with a wink, “while I explore this cave and make sure it’s safe for you to follow. Okay?”

  Lewis nodded.

  Carefully, Jamal unscrewed the fasteners that secured the panel, then crawled inside. “Be back soon,” he promised, then hurried away to put his plan into action.

  There were all kinds of rumors about the access tunnels. Sure, the wrongly grown freaks were supposed to live in them, but that wasn’t all. Alligators, giant bugs, ghosts (dead people were buried in the walls, after all), and even alien egg sacs were supposed to call the convoy ducts home.

  Several times he had to stop and fight off the willies—especially when the motion-sensing work lights failed to flick on as fast as he’d hoped—but he kept moving along.

  Cramped, dusty, and sweltering, the tunnels were not the stuff of playtime fantasy. It was slow going, pulling himself up flimsy ladders, shuffling through tight shafts, and squeezing around awkward corners. No one was meant to travel from one end of the ship to the other this way, but that was the idea. If someone found Jamal wandering the hallways they’d stop him, turn him around, and escort his butt right back to daycare.

  Static-charged dust worked its way into his mouth, leaving a sparky, slightly feathery sensation on his tongue. His lungs felt heavy, and he constantly fought off the paranoia-induced sensation of being trapped.

  By the ship’s backside, he’d risk becoming one of the tunnel-roaming ghosts if it meant saving Diego.

  Twenty minutes later he kicked his way out of another access panel. Only a moment passed before he regained his bearings and confirmed he was where he wanted to be: Outside I.C.C.’s main server room.

  He pounded ferociously on the door.

  “Yeah, just a sec,” came a man’s voice from inside. A moment later the door slid to the side, revealing a tall, well-built, middle-aged black man.

  “I need your help,” Jamal said.

  The man considered the boy for a second longer before realizing, “Hey, you’re my replacement, aren’t you?”

  There were two primary clones for each job—cycle mates. Clone A would be in charge while Clone B apprenticed—all while another Clone A was educated and another Clone B was born. The staggered growth was meant to add some normalcy—so that no one was forced into the surreal situation of having to train a genetic mirror of themselves. Subsequently, no fewer than two versions of a clone were alive at any time.

  Jamal seeking out his predecessor was unusual, but not unprecedented. It was natural to be curious about your genetic twin. But cornering them at their place of work was discouraged, because it was rude. Young Jamal was acutely—though not fully—aware of this when the older Jamal invited him into the server room. The space was dark. Ghostly lights formed rows and columns down the sides of the big black servers, which in turn had been laid out in the room on a grid.

  “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, little man,” said the older clone. He sat down at his workstation near the rear of the room. He swiveled his chair to face Jamal, and did not offer the boy a seat.

  Jamal realized for the first time why it was important to have the third slapped on the end of his name. “I need your help, uh, sir. It’s important. Something terrible is happening on board, and we’ve got to stop it.”

  “And you came to me because you thought, heck, I’m you and I’ll understand your problem immediately through, what, a mind-meld? Do they not explain what a clone is to you kids?”

  “You’re not me,” Jamal said, indignant. “I came here because you’ve got access to I.C.C. I want to change some records and you can do it best.”

  Older Jamal considered this for a moment. He nodded once. “Okay. Spill.”

  Jamal explained, went on and on about Diego’s multitude of virtues, then presented his solution. “I just want you to change the babies’ numbers. Make it so fifty—no, a hundred babies have to be born before Diego retires. Or, you know, just change Diego’s other number—his death number.”

  “I cannot allow tampering with the convoy’s inventory system,” said I.C.C.

  “What it said.” Older Jamal sniffed and wiped his nose on his eggplant-colored jumpsuit sleeve.

  “Inventory?” said Jamal. “You mean like when we have to count all of our quarter’s spoons and forks and stuff to make sure it’s all there? You do that with people?”


  “Of course. What did you think the numbers were for?” The computer sounded confused, though its inflections were even.

  “Look, kid,” said Older Jamal. A work cap sat on his terminal. He picked it up and twirled it between his hands. “You’ve got to face it. We’re all spoons, okay? If you want a brand-new spoon, you have to get rid of the bent one. Get it?”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with this spoon,” Jamal insisted. “And he’s not a spoon, he’s a person. He’s my friend.”

  “Yeah, well, we all lose friends. This is just how things work. We’re all on a timetable, all set up to rotate. You were born at the precise time you needed to be so that you could replace me when I start to get slow. It’ll be the same for the Jamal after you. It’s part of life. I suggest you accept it and run back to school.”

  “But why is it a part of life?”

  “Because some guy back on Earth looked at all the numbers and decided this way was best for the mission.”

  Jamal squeezed the screwdriver in his pocket, looking for something to hold on to. Something to use as a touchstone. His whole world seemed to be sliding off its blocks. “Is it?”

  Older Jamal placed his cap on his head. “Is it what?”

  “Best?” Jamal turned toward a blinking red light and camera lens mounted in the back of the room. “Is it, I.C.C.?”

  “I do not currently have a holistic comprehension of the idea: best. Please clarify.”

  His little hands did a dance in the air as he tried to explain. “Best, you know, the, uh goodest way to do stuff. Like, brushing your teeth is better than not brushing your teeth, otherwise you’ve got to see the dentist with the drill.”

  “I think the word he’s looking for,” said Older Jamal, repositioning himself in front of a monitor at his workstation, “is efficient. Is our current grow-and-recycle system the most efficient use of personnel in accordance with the mission?”

  “It is a system in which the fail-safes create inefficiencies, but ensure the greatest chance of overall success,” responded I.C.C. in its cold, mechanical way.

  Older Jamal shrugged. “There you have it.”

  There you have what? “I don’t understand.”

  The computer began again, “The system is reliant on—”

  “Let me put it in laymen’s terms, I.C.C.” Older Jamal waved a hand in dismissal. I.C.C. thanked him, and it almost sounded relieved. Jamal knew it wasn’t used to answering a child. “Look, little man. Sure, our system isn’t the best in the sense that we don’t squeeze every last drop of productivity out of a person before they croak. We work them till death, but we don’t work them to death. Come here.”

  Flicking a finger at the boy, he simultaneously stiff-armed ‘flex-sheets, a half-eaten sandwich, and a coffee cup aside on his console. With a sliver of trepidation, Jamal came forward and let the man pick him up and place him on the now-clean surface.

  Jamal looked his older, biological twin in the eye. The expression he found was stern, but not unkind. There were flecks of gray in the hair nearest the man’s temples, and Jamal found himself wondering just how many years into his future he was looking.

  “Everything in service to the mission, correct?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Jamal agreed.

  “And what is that mission?”

  “To make it to the interstellar anomaly, designation LQ Pyxidis, and discover . . . discover whatever we can.”

  “Who has to make it?”

  Twisting his lips, Jamal thought for a moment before answering. “We do.”

  “Who do? You and me?” Older Jamal asked. “No, kid. It’s not a ‘who,’ it’s a ‘what.’ The convoy. Everything we do is in service to the convoy, and it’s the convoy’s mission to get to the star and figure out what its problem is. Why’s the darn thing blinking like that? Huh? Inquiring minds want to know.” He patted Jamal’s head. “We’re just parts. Cogs in a machine. Pieces in I.C.C’s system. You’ve got to decide you’re okay with that, or be miserable. It is what it is. Life’s always been what it is. It’s whether you accept that or not that makes it good or bad, right or wrong, upsetting or not.”

  Jamal sighed. Why was everyone he talked to so . . . what was the word for it? It was a good word, he’d just learned it . . . Rational. That was it. They were like the computer. Didn’t they ever listen to their feelings instead of their brains? Or was that what being grown-up was all about: learning to be logical?

  But wasn’t ignoring your feelings illogical? Why was his gut so insistent if he was supposed to ignore it?

  “What if there’s a better way?” he asked.

  “A bunch of bigwig, scientific mucky-mucks back on Earth couldn’t figure out a better way, but sure, you’re what, nine? I have complete faith that a nine-year-old can figure out a better way.”

  “I know what sarcasm is.”

  “Good.”

  Jamal pouted. “Why don’t we just try my way? An experiment with Diego, to see if maybe I’m right and this is wrong.”

  Red and blue lights began flashing down one of the server rows, and Older Jamal went to check on them. “I think it’s best if you went home now, kid,” he called.

  I.C.C. opened the server room door.

  “That’s it? Just no?”

  Older Jamal sniffed again, loud enough to be heard over the humming of the servers. “Just no. Believe me kid, they thought of everything when it came to the mission. If you want to change the system you’ll have to shirk the mission.”

  Again, Jamal felt sick at the idea. The convoy was his home, the mission filled him with pride and wonder. They were explorers, boldly going . . . somewhere. He was proud to be a part of it.

  But not proud of how they were going about it.

  He went back to daycare the same way he’d come, and wasn’t surprised to find that Lewis had abandoned his post. He was equally unsurprised to find that none of the adults had realized he was missing.

  Nothing he did or said seemed to matter to anyone.

  The day came far too soon. Jamal had wracked his brain for weeks, trying to find a suitable solution, and at every turn Diego tried to discourage him.

  “You don’t have to defend me, boy. Someone died for all of us. Someone died so your pabbi could be born, just as someone died so you could be born.”

  But that just made him more upset.

  “I want to come with you, over to Hippocrates,” Jamal declared that morning. His parents had excused him from class so that he could say his goodbyes.

  “Your afi is coming with me. I don’t want you there, Jamal. It’d be too hard.” He was packing a bag. It was tradition to pack up your quarters before you retired. The most important things went in a black duffle bag, to be handed out to your loved ones as mementos. This the retiree would keep with them until the end. Everything else went back to Bottomless, the supply ship.

  Bleary-eyed, Jamal hugged Diego around the middle and refused to let go for a full three minutes.

  “I know it’s hard. You cry if you want to, let it all out. I’ll miss you, too. But you’ve got to know I’m doing the right thing. It’s for the greater good.”

  Jamal wanted to puke on the greater good. The greater good could get sucked out an airlock for all he cared.

  “Now, I’m going to take a nice, soothing bath before I go. Would you mind putting my bag by the door on your way out?” He kissed Jamal on the top of the head, said one last goodbye, and went to his bathroom with a smile on his face.

  Desiring nothing more than to run down the hall wailing, Jamal took a deep breath and retrieved the bag from the table. He couldn’t deny Diego his last request.

  The bag was heavy. Way too heavy for Jamal to lift. He had to drag it all the way across the room. And then it hit him. It was heavy like a person—a small person.

  Like a Jamal-sized person . . .

  He would go to Hippocrates after all, and stop this terrible mistake.

  Few sounds came through the fabric ungarbled. Lig
ht was totally absent, and the tight space forced him into the fetal position. It was a deadly combination of comfort and sensory deprivation that led to an impromptu nap.

  There was no telling how much time had passed before a jarring woke him up. Someone had picked up the bag. Afi, if his ears weren’t lying. It must be time to go.

  Hold still, he told himself. If he’d stayed asleep he probably wouldn’t have had anything to worry about.

  He could tell when they’d entered the shuttle bay, and again when they’d boarded a shuttle. He was thrown unceremoniously into an empty seat, and it took all of his willpower not to let out an oomph.

  What would he actually do once they arrived? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Surely he would make a grand speech. Something like in the movies Diego used to show him, where the hero dashes in and convinces everyone he’s right through the power of words.

  But what then? If Diego said he didn’t want to retire would everyone else just let it happen?

  He never got a chance to find out. He never even got to make his speech, grand or otherwise.

  He was picked up and plopped down several more times before he decided they’d reached the end of the line. This was it, the place he was supposed to be. Time to make his grand entrance.

  Jamal deftly unzipped himself, jumped up, and cried, “Stop!”

  Everyone stared. There were five other people in the pristine white room—none of them were Afi or Diego.

  Nearby stood a door, and without missing a beat Jamal threw it open. On the other side lay a glass cubicle—and observation station, like all the clone-growing rooms had.

  A place from which to watch someone retire, should you feel the need.

  On the other side of the pane, Diego reclined in a dentist’s chair. On one side was a lady wearing one of those medical masks and a hair net, and on the other sat Afi, holding Diego’s hand. They’d wrapped Diego in a long white fluffy robe that folded down around his feet. He’d been swaddled, like Akane. His eyes were closed.