The Soul Continuum

by Simon West-Bulford

  Aquatics: 1 period

  Communications Center: 2 periods

  Contemplation: 1 period

  Craft Studio: 1 period

  Data Library: 1 period

  Defecation: 0.25 periods

  Dining: 0.5 periods

  Equipment: 0.25 periods

  Family Communion: 4 periods

  Food and Water Storage: 0.25 periods

  Gallery: 1 period

  General Storage: 0.25 periods

  Genoplant: 1 period

  Guest Room: 1 period

  Gymnasium: 3 periods

  Home Maintenance: 0.5 periods

  Hydroponics and Garden: 0.25 periods

  Hygiene Control: 1 period

  Kitchen: 1 period

  Navigation: 0.25 periods

  Procreation: 0.5 periods

  Recreation: 3 periods

  Research Facility: 5 periods

  Simulation: 3 periods

  Sleeping: 2 periods

  Study: 5 periods

  Routine, routine, and more routine. There is comfort in routine.

  But I have had to sacrifice thirteen of my rooms to accommodate Oluvia’s needs. The Family Communion, Navigation, and Procreation rooms are never used, and some of the others could be merged. Lighting and heating had to be installed, and floor two is now one large area completely dedicated to a simulation environment so that her surroundings are more aesthetically pleasing. I cannot allow her to ever go outside where she might be sighted.

  It was Lennon Cartinian’s suggestion to enhance the simulation in replication of Earth in the pregalactic era. There I could manufacture surroundings better suited to her development. I am told by Yeeka that to keep the child human, she requires trees and sunshine and laughter and play. I don’t understand this assessment, but after drone-crafting the Old Earth Gardens of Eysha, in which all of these things are abundant, I note that Oluvia demonstrates signs of happiness, and I too notice a change in my cerebral readings when I spend time in that place with her. Whilst I do not believe it is happiness, I could describe it as satisfaction that she is no longer unhappy.

  These inconvenient rearrangements of my home are, of course, temporary, but I have become preoccupied with this female child in a way that I cannot explain. Yeeka and Sooli joke that I have become fond of Oluvia, and I suspect they believe there is some truth in that. I, however, do not believe this. There is something else about her. Between us there is a bond, a link or tie, something I cannot identify, something that torments and teases me with its blatant statement that we were activated at the same time. It is a source of frustration, but once I have solved the riddle, I will turn her over to the Council for them to decide her fate. I imagine they will honor their rules regarding population control. She will be exiled.

  Before I complete this log entry, there is something else I must articulate. It seems trivial, but it is the core reason that prompted me to make this log entry today, and I have procrastinated because the idea of further analysis disturbs me. There are sounds. In one sense I am very grateful for them because they have awakened another emotional element that I was unprepared for: fear. It is a strange sensation, one that has no comparison in the Unitas Communion, but I suffered all the symptoms common to human experience.

  I woke inexplicably seven minutes before the end of my sleep period last night. Only Oluvia was present, and she was sleeping soundly in her gel mattress at the foot of my own. I listened to her soft breath, rising and falling, rising and falling. It was very peaceful, and it may have sent me back to sleep were it not for the change in the atmosphere. Oluvia stopped breathing. Or seemed to. This was when I felt the fear. My first instinct was that she had mysteriously died, and I went to her immediately. This was when my fear escalated. Plainly, she had not died. I could see her breathing. Her chest was rising and falling rhythmically, and I could see the heat clouding gently from between her lips. But the sound was not there. There was no sound at all. It was as if audio had suddenly been swept from reality, leaving me completely deaf. I determined to go to the genoplant for a physiological analysis; it was natural to assume a fault had developed in my ears, but I took only two steps before I knew there was no malfunction. Sound returned. A single noise, but one that I find hard to describe, because it is easier to equate it with a feeling rather than something audible. It was cold, sinister, deep, and powerful, like a rumbling within the fabric of the walls, like jagged nails breaking as they are dragged hard against rock, yet it was a voice, too: a distant moan with a questioning edge. It wanted to know. It wanted to find me. It wanted to consume me. And then it vanished, and the sound of Oluvia’s breathing returned.

  I spent additional time in the Home Maintenance room today searching for a possible fault in my home’s architecture, but I found nothing. I determine my experience to be hypnopompic, but it is still a mystery why I woke early to be subjected to a dreamlike state I have never once encountered before. If it happens again I will be mindful to take a recording.

  FIVE

  Days 61 to 799: No significant events.

  Day 800: Log entry review.

  “Where did Lennon come from?” Oluvia asks.

  “To you, his name is Mr. Cartinian,” I tell her.

  “Where did Mr. Cartinian come from?”

  “I do not know. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Mr. Cartinian, where did you come from?”

  Lennon Cartinian III is not paying attention. In truth, I have no idea why he is still here today. He claims he can find the source of the sound that comes to plague us from time to time, but at this moment, he is not investigating anything. Hanging upside down from the branch of an old oak tree in our simulated garden, he is drifting into a world of amphidextrine-enhanced visions. It astounds me that he has the muscular control to cling on, especially as almost all his blood must be pooling in his head by now. His long black hair sways like greasy cords grazing the grass, and his pupils are dilated so widely that there is very little white left in his eyes. Yeeka and Sooli are not in much better condition. They have fallen asleep against the trunk of the tree. Oluvia and I are seated on a bench facing them, and I am running an internal diagnostic.

  Cartinian smiles stupidly at Oluvia. “I came from UnderParis, sweetheart. You know that, right?”

  “No,” Oluvia stamps a foot and grins. “I want to know where you come from.”

  “Well, that’s . . .” Cartinian’s mouth widens. “Oh, that’s . . . that’s profound. Where do I come from?”

  “He came out of the ground, wriggling to the surface of the dirt like all worms do.” The observation comes from Sooli, who still has her eyes closed as she smiles at her own joke.

  Oluvia giggles. “And where did you come from?”

  “Me?” She smacks her lips and shuffles slightly, as if returning to slumber is the only important thing. Her eyes still do not open. “That answer comes on a need-to-know basis.”

  Oluvia looks at me. “What about me? Where do I come from?”

  “I am not prepared to discuss reproduction with you, Oluvia.”

  “Redopuxion?”

  “Reproduction. The biological results of male and female intimacy.”

  “Oh. What’s a worm?”

  I grow tired of Oluvia’s questions. Her ability to consume knowledge is formidable, but her habit of seeking it is magnitudes greater, and most of the time, I am her wellspring. Each time she asks a question, I have to reboot my diagnostic.

  “Cartinian is a worm,” I tell her.

  “Screw you, robot,” he says, gesticulating obscenities.

  “Mummy isn’t a robot,” Oluvia informs him. “She is a cybernetic hybrid of flesh and silicon.”

  Cartinian’s mouth forms a small O in mock surprise, and he swings a little harder on his branch. “Looks like a robot to me. Apart from those . . . what the hell are those, anyway?”

  I glance at him momentarily. “Ovaries.”

  “Shit! That’s what they are? I shouldn’
t be able to see ovaries. No man should be able to see ovaries. Can’t you—you know—opaque your skin or something?”

  “I had no idea my ovaries offended you.”

  “Well, they do now that I know what they are.”

  “Good.”

  Oluvia laughs. “What are ovaries?”

  “Egg sacks containing randomized DNA.”

  “Ewww!” Oluvia points to my stomach. “And what’s that funny pulsing thing that looks like a fat, pink leaf?”

  I look down and peer through the clear subcutaneous layers at the fleshy organ beating like a heart. Oluvia’s description is quite accurate. With a large vein running through its center and several capillaries extending from it to fork into the edges, the new organ does resemble a leaf. Perhaps a maple.

  There is a thud directly in front of me and I look up to see that Cartinian has somersaulted from the tree branch onto his feet. Both Sooli and Yeeka have opened their eyes, and now four pairs of eyes are studying the organ.

  “This is my catharsis gland.”

  “I haven’t seen one of those before,” says Yeeka. “I didn’t know silicants had them.”

  “They don’t,” Cartinian says, “and I’ve been wanting to know what that thing is for a while. Just lately, I got my own ideas what it might be, and I never asked before because I just knew she’d never spill, but I have a feeling we’re going to find out today. That’s if she’s still in a chatty . . . mood.” He smiles mirthlessly at me as he emphasizes the last word, secretly threatening me with something I haven’t wanted him to reveal to the others.

  “Astute,” I tell him. “Mood is the operative word. My catharsis gland is a new creation built by the Unitas Communion. It regulates the level at which my brain can function without the influence of nanodrone cells or the Unitas Communion.”

  Yeeka screws her face up. “It does what?”

  Oluvia lifts her chin. “It means the more she uses it, the more human she can be.”

  “Very good, Oluvia,” I say. “Almost correct. I have always been classified as human, but my emotions were very different before the Unitas Communion chose me to test this organ. If it operates at anything below 3 percent, I would be connected to the Unitas Communion. Between three and 85 percent the Unitas Communion’s influence is gone, and my brain allows me to feel brain emotion in combination with my CPU emotion. Between 86 percent and 100 percent, I would be aware of only brain emotion.”

  Sooli squats and rests her arms over her knees. “So what percentage are you running at now?”

  “Sixty-one percent. I have the percentage incrementing at a slow rate so that I can acclimatize.”

  “Whoa!” Cartinian says. “So what’s it like to have real emotion mixed with fake?”

  I am uncertain if Cartinian is trying to tease me, or if he is genuinely ignorant. “I do not have any fake emotions. The emotions generated by my machine self are simply silicon based instead of carbon based. Thoughts and emotions are nothing more than uniquely configured electrical impulses. It does not matter if they are generated by brain matter or silicon circuitry.”

  “Okay, okay!” Cartinian grins and holds his hands up. “Keep your hair on. Oh, wait, bitch don’t have hair, does she?” He looks at Yeeka and Sooli, who roll their eyes.

  “Does it hurt?” Oluvia observes me seriously now, and the smiles fall from the faces of the other three.

  “Does what hurt?” I ask her.

  “Having two different types of feeling stuck together. Does it hurt?”

  “Shit!” Cartinian says, shaking his head. “She’s not even three years old and she’s asking questions like that?”

  I study Oluvia carefully. She continually baffles me. Despite much study, I am no closer to understanding why we are linked or why her growth was triggered. From my studies of modern Homo sapiens children, I gauge Oluvia to be unremarkable. With the standard genetic augmentations set in motion by DNA tuning, her growth rate is normal, the point at which she first began to walk is normal, and her comprehension of language is normal, yet she does, on occasions like today, exhibit above-average signs of maturity.

  “The machine emotions hurt,” I tell her. “It is why we created the catharsis gland, so that silicants can feel what other human species can feel. The previous four designs failed, but I feel confident that this one will succeed.”

  “Is this why you are called Silicant 5?” Sooli asks.

  “Yes.”

  Oluvia nudges closer to me on the seat, her eyes wide and concerned. “Why do the machine emotions hurt? What do you feel?”

  How can I tell her that the machine emotions, which are still 39 percent active, hate her with a passion? It hates that she is pushing her repulsive flesh against me. It hates all irregularities and imperfections and smells and touch and—most of all—it hates the part of me that shares organic commonality with her kind.

  Instead of answering her question, I look at Cartinian. “You told me you were investigating the sounds we keep hearing. Do you have anything yet?”

  “The sounds were scary,” Oluvia tells him.

  “Ah, your freaky sounds,” he says and scratches his head, squinting as if the sun is in his eyes. “Yeah, they’re kind of . . . well, I guess Oluvia has a point: they are scary. Sounds like the walls are growling.”

  “What do you mean? Have you heard them?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard them,” he says, eyes widening again but avoiding mine. “There are heaps of files in the Council’s database where they’ve been reported and recorded, but it’s not the sounds themselves that scare me. It’s the pattern.”

  A pattern! In my own investigations I had not noticed a pattern, and I find it difficult to believe that Cartinian would discover anything ahead of me. I used him only because of his abilities to hack undetected into all of the Socrates’s systems.

  “Actually,” Cartinian continues, “it’s not so much that it’s a pattern. It’s a repeat.”

  “A repeat is a pattern,” I correct him.

  “No, you don’t understand.” Cartinian stares at the grass beneath his bare feet and takes a deep breath. “It’s a copy of a unique configuration. The occurrence of each sound event was in a random place on the ship every time, but there was no break between each event until they completely stopped three weeks ago. There was a total of five hundred sound events. You know that, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” He nods slowly, then finally makes eye contact with me. “And . . . uh . . . anything happen in your life three weeks ago that was different than normal?”

  “Not that I am aware. Why?”

  “Sure,” he says. “That’s what I thought you might say. So here’s the really freaky part. The places the sounds happened weren’t random at all.”

  “They were.”

  “No, 5, they were not. Well, actually they were, yeah, but they weren’t.”

  “You’re not making sense,” Sooli says. “Either it is or it isn’t; you need to come down off the amps, Lennon.”

  “Shut up,” he barks, then turns back to me. “I think it’s you, 5. I think it’s that weird catharsis gland of yours.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Phantoms of the id. It’s like an old, old story I once read, ‘The Forbidden . . .’ something-or-other. I think you’re doing it unconsciously.”

  “You are deluded. What evidence do you—?”

  “Hear me out,” he says, lifting his palms. He pauses for my consent, then continues. “The pattern of sound placement is an exact copy of another random sequence of events that happened previously. It’s atomic. My algorithms ran the sequence of sound occurrences, looking for a match, and if you take the center point of the Socrates for orientation, the sound locations map exactly to the locations of an electron’s path inside a specific atom.”

  “That is a ridiculous correlation,” I tell him. “There are trillions of atoms on this ship. There is a high probability that one of their electron’s paths would match.�
��

  “Yeah? And what if the atom my algorithm pinpointed was right at the very center of that freaky new organ of yours, huh? Still think it’s a ridiculous correlation?”

  I hold his gaze for several seconds. The accusation is preposterous. Impossible, even. Yet if he is telling the truth, I am at a loss to explain it.

  As if he has read my thoughts, he holds up a finger. “Now you know I got no reason to lie, right?” He shrugs. “I’m just telling you what I found.”

  Sooli and Yeeka frown at me and remain silent. Even Oluvia edges away slightly. Could it be me? Could the catharsis gland somehow be redirecting my machine hatred into some kind of tangible force rather than simply diminishing it?

  “Have you shared this with anyone?” I ask.

  “Nope. The Council are investigating too, but they are taking a different route of investigation. They have maintenance teams scouring the liner’s systems looking for structural defects. Obviously, they haven’t found anything.”

  “Good. Tell them nothing. We need more information before we tell anyone else.”

  “But I just told you—”

  “Your theory is unrealistic,” I tell him. I glance at the others. “There is nothing in my physiology that could possibly create such a phenomenon.”

  “Like I said,” Cartinian says carefully, “just telling you what I found; that’s all.”

  Oluvia’s smile has left her completely now. She reaches out with a podgy hand and gently touches my fingers. I wish I knew what she was thinking, but I cannot ask.

  SIX

  Days 801 to 1824: Routine.

  Day 1825.

  Almost three standard years have passed since the accusation.

  Another sequence of the sounds came days after the first series, equally random in their placement, but Cartinian’s algorithm could not identify a matching atomic signature that time, and when the sounds eventually stopped again, the urgency of the issue lessened until, months later, it was abandoned by all as an unsolvable mystery.