Analog SFF, May 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Oh, don't overdramatize things. There was no medical crisis, no stroke, no sudden onset of mental illness. That is what people were speculating, right?” That discomforted her enough to let him squeeze out of the question. “So what's the verdict? Am I in for next week?”

  “Well...” The waiter rolled up with their entrees. “It's not all my decision, but I'll let you know.”

  * * * *

  Harris switched off the holophone and started to whoop, but it came out as a squeak. He was on the team—and the hypothetical becoming a fact hit him hard in the gut.

  He was going to be debating, not just declaiming. Linny had confirmed he would have to participate in the whole debate. He had agreed, of course, with a readiness he hoped was well feigned.

  Now the nerves were hitting him, and he knew one way to combat them. He sat back down at his workstation and got cracking on his opening statement. With some diligence, he could have it in shape for the team strategy session tonight that Linny had mentioned.

  He got only twenty minutes’ work done before the house computer interrupted him. “There is an incoming call, sir. A member of the press requesting an interview.”

  Harris groaned. The point of the debate was publicity for their cause, but he had hoped to avoid this. “Put him off, please, but politely. Tell him I'm too busy preparing for the debate. Do that for any journalists, in fact.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  That silence, and the little bubble world that composing his remarks created around him, got him through until the evening. When the time arrived, he reset his workstation for immersive projection, and a conference room appeared around him. He was seated at a round table of smooth dark wood, with two of his debate partners already there.

  “Ittai, hello. It's been too long.” Ittai Haleri nodded his heavy head in reply. “And Mei-li, you're looking well.” Hu Mei-li was giving a warmer greeting when the last member shimmered in.

  “I don't think you've met Roman,” she said. “Harris, this is Roman Feiffer, one of our rising talents. Roman, meet Harris Kensil.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” Harris said, mastering a flutter of anxiety. Feiffer muttered something Harris didn't quite catch and quickly began discussing strategy with the others. Harris waited for an opening.

  “I've got an early version of my opening statement already prepared.” Copies appeared before each of them. “If you have comments, suggestions for revision, I'm all ears.”

  The others began reading, two of them with neutral faces, Feiffer with a fixed scowl. “I wish it were Ketta delivering this,” he said.

  “How's that?”

  Ittai started to chastise Feiffer, who paid no heed. “You bumped Ketta Roselli to get on the team, Mr. Kensil. She's an excellent public speaker, but she was junior, so she had to go.”

  Harris instinctively began stammering out an apology, but the others beat him by apologizing for Feiffer first. The rest of the meeting felt like being squeezed in a vise. They got work done, but Harris was never unaware of Feiffer's resentment, or the reserve of Ittai and Mei-li. They were not what anyone would have called a team that night.

  Things went much easier the next couple of days, as Harris spent them working alone. He incorporated all the suggestions from the meeting, even those from Feiffer that weren't outright sarcastic. They did improve the text, and Harris decided he'd have to thank Feiffer for a couple of acute points. Just not right away.

  He set up mock debate sessions, with his house computer filling in as his adversary. The computer was limited, naturally. No computer was allowed to even approach the processing power where it could become self-aware: One Emergence War in history was quite enough. Still, his home-comp made an adequate sparring partner, with which he could restore some atrophied skills.

  It was a pleasant solitary stretch, but the outside world insisted on intruding. A story about comments by one of his upcoming debate opponents climbed the news hierarchy, and Harris finally could not resist accessing it. It was nasty, and worse, it was about him.

  “The Far Flighters are in the wrong,” Dr. Myron Jakes said in the clip, “and they're hoping a stunt like resurrecting a dropout from their movement will cover that up. They don't see how it's going to backfire, or maybe they have no better alternatives. But really, what can they expect from someone going through the motions for a cause he no longer embraces?”

  Jakes said more, all of it just as high-minded and complimentary. Harris was no longer listening, as he spluttered and raged at the air, until his home-comp politely asked if it should summon medical assistance. He declined that help, finally shut off the news link, and sat down to compose a scorching public rebuttal.

  After twenty minutes of staring at his screen, he called Linny instead.

  “Yes, I heard it, Harris. Pretty low stuff, I thought.”

  “I was thinking plenty worse. I'm ready to send a response in kind, if I have your leave.”

  “I'd ... rather you didn't. I've already talked to Drew and Ito on the board, and they're looking to take the high road on Jakes. We'll be issuing our own statement. If you insist on replying, at least run it past us first.”

  “I understand, Linny. I'll see what the board releases before I do anything more. Good-bye.”

  He cut off fast, before she could see through him. He had wanted her to spare him from responding. He felt no better for getting his wish. Linny might not think him a coward, but he'd know.

  He called up his opening remarks and started another polish, to give him something else to think about.

  * * * *

  Harris walked onto the busy stage. His colleagues and adversaries were consulting with the moderator near the tables. Cameras were floating into position for the broadcast. Through the one-way curtain, he saw the last empty seats in the auditorium filling up. Seeing all those people gave his stomach a fresh lurch, but it passed.

  Hu Mei-li came over. “Our esteemed opponents drew the long straw. They'll give their opening statement first, but we'll have last word at the closing.” Harris nodded his head. Mei-li tipped hers. “Are you okay, Harris?”

  “I'm ... yes. I think so.” That good belt of scotch, plus the little something extra, seemed to be doing the job.

  “Good. Let's introduce you around. I promise, most of them don't bite.”

  He knew the moderator from way back and exchanged pleasant words. He gave handshakes to the opposing debaters, even a quick cold one with Jakes. Small talk filled the time until the moderator sent them to their seats.

  The curtain flashed three times, then evaporated. The audience began applauding ... and Harris felt like he was falling into a deep, deep well.

  “...and welcome to tonight's debate on...”

  He remembered the sensations of stage fright from the one time he had it, over thirty years ago. It hadn't been nearly this penetrating, this paralyzing. He started cursing himself inside. All his preparations, and for nothing.

  “...four distinguished members of the Far Flight Foundation...”

  No! He had to fight. He had to think. His opening remarks: How might he have to modify them, depending on how the anti-exploration side opened the debate? He felt a hand on his arm, but shook it off.

  “...opening statement, Dr. Myron Jakes.”

  Fighting his spinning head, Harris fixed his attention on Jakes rising to speak. He noted a quick glance, and an even quicker sneer, before Jakes began.

  With the first words, Harris felt back on solid ground. Jakes was rattling off all the needs humanity had, things like expanding the public personal databases, producing a universal telepathic interface, abating icecap reexpansion, even building up Martian infrastructure and broadening asteroid prospecting. All this, of course, would need money that interstellar exploration was siphoning off. The argument dated back to the twentieth century, and Harris knew how to dismantle it in his sleep.

  “All those things must go ill funded,” Jakes continued, “because of one faction, indulging a sel
fish pursuit of personal curiosity at others’ expense.” The personal slant stung, but Harris kept cool. “No practical benefit accrues to us. The findings from each system have carried a dismal sameness. We're assured that the next system on the list will bring something new and fascinating, a pledge we keep hearing.

  “This time they're promising life. If they find it, that will be their excuse to demand much more funding. If they don't, that will be their excuse to demand much more funding, to learn why their expectations were disappointed. Everything will have to be bigger: larger budgets for larger ships going longer distances with bigger crews—and bigger computers.”

  The audience murmured, and Harris rankled. Exploiting fears of a Reemergence was demagoguery. Harris knew just how wrong Jakes's insinuation was—but he wouldn't be able to say how.

  Jakes finished his statement—"It's time to stop the snowball, before it grows too big for all of us."—and sat down to moderate applause. Even before the moderator called his name, Harris was on his feet. He took a breath.

  “Socrates knew thy—er, he said—”

  He stopped, grabbed his water glass, and took a big drink. He fought down a twitch in his leg. He would not give in. He would not.

  “Socrates said, ‘Know thyself.’ We are a part and a product of our universe, so to truly understand who we are, we must understand the underve—the universe. And as far as our horizons have expanded the last two hundred cent—years, the universe is still almost vast—too vast for our comprehension. So ... we have a lot of work ahead.”

  It only got worse. He felt his partners growing restive, the audience disdainful, his opponents derisive. The awareness only compounded his struggles. The snowball was, indeed, growing fast, but he had to keep talking.

  “Lacking curiosity is a bad enough fault.” His voice squeaked, and he thought he heard a snort from Jakes. “But dropping broad hints of nebulous dangers is worse. It plays on fear, and I'd like to think we're all above such fear here.”

  Titters ran through the audience. Down the table, he could see Roman Feiffer lowering his head. Part of Harris perceived the debacle this had become. The stubborn part somehow won out. Feiffer was biased, after all, and there were bound to be Homer partisans in the audience.

  He muddled on to the end of his remarks. For the night, of course, it was only the beginning.

  * * * *

  The doorbell rang, and Harris winced. He'd told the house not to accept calls, but someone was persistent enough to intrude in person. “Voice,” he told the computer, then, too loudly, “Who is it?”

  “Evelyn.”

  Harris rubbed his aching head. Worse than the press: them he could ignore. “One minute,” he said. He thought of changing out of his pajamas and robe, but that would take too long. Better that he take his medicine quickly.

  Linny marched inside the instant he opened the door. “Why did your house refuse my call?” she demanded.

  “I've been busy this morning, and hello to you too.”

  She looked him up and down. “Have you seen any of the coverage, or were you too busy for that too?”

  “Yes. I was too busy.” He knew how weak the lie was. He was too scared to read and hear what he expected, and Linny could probably tell that at a glance.

  “It was rough,” she said, still curt. “Rougher than I expected, and most of it directed at you.” He didn't try to keep his eyes raised, looking straight at her feet. “The consensus is that you cost us the debate, Harris. You're being mocked: the coward who wants us to be courageous. And I don't have a rebuttal for them.”

  “I'm sorry.” He raised his eyes a little, up to her knees. “I didn't realize how rusty I was at public speaking. I have to work on that, get myself back up to snuff. In a few months, maybe a little longer—”

  “Harris, no.” Her voice had gotten hoarse. “We have to face the facts. You're not an asset to us any longer; you're a liability. You need to retire from the public side of our cause, this time for good. If you don't, if I don't have your commitment to quit before I leave your home, then the foundation's board will have no choice but to publicly disavow you as unfit to represent our cause.”

  And there it was. He could walk through the door or be kicked through. “The board,” he rasped. “That's including you?”

  “Yes. Including me.”

  A part of him was relieved, ready to accept her demand, craving the release of quitting. The part that was weak, the part that was mutilated. The part he hated.

  He finally looked up, right at her stony face. “Do you have no choice but to stop me from writing as well?”

  “No. If you remain anonymous, you can keep writing your speeches and essays. That's fine.”

  She looked pleased to drop him those crumbs. Such a good friend. “How generous of you, Evelyn,” he croaked, turning away. “I'm glad there's some level at which I'm still tolerated.”

  “Harris, please!”

  He heard her voice crack, but didn't turn back, not wanting to see.

  “Harris, if you doubt me at all, watch the news reports, read the journals. Better, watch the debate over. Watch your performance and compare it to what you were doing three, five, ten years ago.” She sniffled and gulped. “If you're honest with yourself ... if you're as honest as I had to be with myself...”

  His head turned, against his will. He caught a glimpse of her face, reddened and anguished, before he flinched away.

  “We're in the fight of our lives here,” she said, “tougher even than getting the original program passed. We need our best public face at every moment, and I'm sorry, Harris, but that isn't you.” She sniffed again. “Part of it's my fault. I was too easy to convince, too ready to believe. The board might have to make an example of me too.”

  “They can't.” His head snapped around. She looked more poised now, any tears wiped away. “Linny, that's not fair.”

  “Oh, none of it's fair. What happened to you ... whatever it was, whatever you won't tell me, I wish I could undo it. I wish I could have the old you back, Harris. The eloquence, the inspiration—and yes, the bravery.”

  Harris fought to say nothing, to honor the pledge he had made. He yearned for the understanding, but knew it couldn't be. The irony was so bitter: He was a coward today because he had been so courageous two years ago...

  * * * *

  The starship Saint Brendan the Navigator streaked through T-space, its entire crew in hibernation for the almost-concluded voyage. All except, in a sense, for one.

  Harry was processing the geometry of the surrounding T-space as fast as the sensors could funnel the data to it. Only it could guide the ship through all of the weird topological kinks, sinks, gaps, and traps, making a smooth course toward Beta Canum Venaticorum. That was the reason it was created—or perhaps more accurately, recreated.

  Mere computers could not navigate T-space. To meet its demands, they'd have to be far too large, well past the emergence point into self-awareness. Human intuition could handle the task with enough training, but human bodies could not maintain consciousness within T-space for more than a quarter hour. So they had needed human-analog minds.

  Harry knew it wasn't a true human mind, but a partial copy imprinted into the blank crystalline matrix of a computer core. It was circumscribed, pared down for the task for which it was created. That thought could disturb it, in moments when it wasn't so busy.

  Making one last check of its calculations, Harry powered up the interdimensional transiter, and at the right millisecond, shifted Saint Brendan back into normal space. Its reckoning was excellent: The ship popped out seventeen AUs from the primary, well below the ecliptic, in no collision danger.

  And that was it. The ship's main computer began waking the crew and gathering preliminary telemetry and would handle all functions until the return voyage began. Harry could go dormant.

  But why would it? The first visual feeds of the system's planets were coming in. Harry tapped into those feeds, taking in the sights it had travel
ed thirty light-years to reach. And there was the second planet, clothed in a green not quite that of Earth, but vibrant enough to know that something was living, thriving, down there.

  Harry was not a true human, but when captured by wonders such as these, the distinction meant nothing.

  * * * *

  Harris remembered listening to the appeal of the head of the Combined Space Agency two years back. Even as Ms. Jabali had emphasized the risks of the dupling process, he had heard the desperation beneath, her need for someone who would say yes, and then say nothing. In a world that still didn't quite trust the restraints it had put on its computers, an innovation like this would scare many, many people, and almost certainly doom the exploration program if it became general knowledge.

  But she had come to the right man, one with both discretion and nerve. He willingly offered his brain as the model for the third starship's navigational computer. He had the right grounding in interdimensional physics from which to train a pilot. Just as important, he learned, he had other things a pilot needed in the terrifying topography of T-space: adventurousness, intrepidity, simple courage.

  Of course, the dupling machine worked extra hard to copy those traits. And, just as Jabali had warned might happen, the intensive copying process all but effaced them from his own mind.

  “Harris? Harris, will you please say something?”

  He so wanted to explain it all to Linny. More than anyone he'd ever known, she would understand. But he was bound by his word, and his convictions. The cause far outweighed the solace of one person, or even two.

  “All right, Evelyn. You win.”

  She looked like he had slapped her. “I wasn't trying to win anything,” she said, as a fresh tear rolled from her eye. “I don't feel like I've won anything.”

  “Then maybe this will sound better: You're right.” He reached for her hand. “You're right, and I'm sorry I was too foolish to realize it before.”

  If that moment of self-abasement comforted her, she gave no sign. She didn't clasp his hand, merely tolerating his hold. He let her go, sparing her that discomfort. If he had broken their friendship, he would mourn it, but it was one more loss he would find a way to tolerate.