Capacity

by Tony Ballantyne

  Judy couldn’t reply. She could only think about the baby.

  She pushed that thought from her mind. “So what now?”

  Lemuel pointed to the front of the room.

  The performer was coming to his final piece. Slowly, with much deliberation, he donned a microphone headset. Lights flickered on his keyboards as he changed the voice settings, and then he was still. The audience sat up a little straighter in anticipation as he held his position, and held it, and then finally he pressed his hands down. An organ chord filled the church, a note that seemed to sound out across the centuries, and then the performer sang, his voice emerging from the speakers as a full choir.

  “Veni! Veni Creator Spiritus!”

  Fumbling trumpets sounded.

  Lemuel looked at Judy.

  “What?” she said. “I don’t understand. It’s not as if he’s even that good.”

  Lemuel arched an eyebrow. “Many of us consider him to be the greatest artist humankind has yet produced,” he said. Judy looked at him in disbelief.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, five centuries of music delivered by one man, daringly arranged, delivered to the very limits of his skill.”

  “You can’t be serious. There are many human performers far better than him. Listen to his mistakes!”

  “I can hear them. But I also hear the mistakes made by even the best human performer. Every human performance is imperfect, Judy, and still we observe them all. We nurture you all and help you to grow. That is why I am here. That is why the Watcher is here.”

  “You don’t know that for certain!”

  “I don’t, but still that is what we choose to believe. All you can really do is trust me when I say the Watcher’s motives are for the best. Tell me, do you trust the Watcher?”

  Judy gazed at Lemuel for a long time. Did she trust the Watcher? She thought of Chris. He didn’t trust the Watcher. Why did he believe that Judy could be brought to think the same? Was it because the Watcher had programmed her to be a virgin? No. She couldn’t believe that was true.

  But maybe she was programmed not to believe that.

  She thought of her dead sisters.

  Did she trust the Watcher?

  She had spent her life working for Social Care, working to make people’s lives better and fairer. But who decided? The Watcher. Was it right? She didn’t know. And if her personality had been written by others, she could never know. Did she still believe it was right?

  She looked inside herself. Yes, she realized with some surprise. Yes, she did.

  She looked at Lemuel.

  “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I do. Yes, I do trust the Watcher.”

  Lemuel smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

  Three days before…

  …and not that far away from the church, just a little further along the coastline, the cannon on the top of the building near Peter Onethirteen’s apartment came to life and shot a beam of violet light at an approaching piece of debris. It flared in a glorious golden display of color that brought applause from the watching crowd. The applause gradually faded, along with the golden light of the falling object. A murmur of alarm sprang up as the object continued plunging down to Earth. Something grey and heavy. The cannon tracked it, pouring energy into the object to no avail. It was a threat, it must be destroyed, yet nothing seemed to affect it. The crowd began to scatter as the object came towards them, and then there was a surprisingly gentle popping noise and an understated thump as the object hit the ground, churning up a great wave of grass and earth.

  The crowd picked themselves up and looked towards the impact point, thanking the Watcher for their lucky escape. Now that the immediate threat was over, the cannon redirected its attention to following pieces of debris, which, being wood, burnt beautifully, not that anyone noticed. They were all too busy looking towards the impact point.

  Someone was calmly walking away from there. Someone, possibly dressed in dark grey, but too far away to make out clearly. Their attention gradually returned to the show taking place above them.

  Chris looked up into the sky, at the great firework display that was the end of the World Tree.

  And then he began to walk towards the apartment block.

  About the Author

  Tony Ballantyne grew up in County Durham in the northeast of England, studied mathematics at Manchester University, and then worked as a teacher, first of math, then IT, in London and later in the northwest of England.

  Nowadays he enjoys playing boogie piano, cycling, and walking. In the past he has taught sword fencing at an American children’s camp, been a ballroom dancer, and worked voluntarily on conservation projects and with adults with low literacy and numeracy.

  Visit Tony Ballantyne at www.tonyballantyne.com.

  Cause and effect part ways in the conclusion of

  TONY BALLANTYNE’S

  thought-provoking trilogy:

  Coming May 2007 from Bantam Spectra

  DIVERGENCE

  On sale May 2007

  Edward 1:2252

  Edward and the rest of the crew of the Eva Rye had grown up in the twenty-third century, where AIs worked at speeds far beyond those of human thought. The incredible slowness of FE software was frustrating to them all. Even now, after five weeks of use, it was trying on their patience to wait for the twenty or thirty minutes it took the routine to complete. Add to that the sense of nervous expectation that awaited the results of the transaction, and tempers, already high on the ship, were pushed past breaking point.

  It all started innocently enough.

  “We’re approaching point oh five lights,” said Craig. “The resolution on the viewing field is improving already. We should be able to get a proper look at the Stranger soon enough.”

  “How long until we get to it?” asked Joanne.

  “About two hours.”

  “Wouldn’t it be faster if we made a jump into Warp?”

  “Yes, but it would take more fuel.”

  “Ah, we never used to have to worry about that sort of thing,” said Joanne wistfully. “I’d never even heard of the concept of fuel until we began Fair Exchange.”

  The image of the Stranger in the viewing field gradually resolved itself. It wasn’t a ship. It was a robot. But a robot like no one had ever seen before.

  “Who built you?” asked Armstrong, rubbing at his panga.

  “That information does not come for free,” said the Stranger. “Do you wish to trade?”

  “No, thank you, I was just making conversation. I think I’ve seen something like you out in the Dawlish sector. That’s where the old Sho Heen company finished up, if I remember correctly. They used to build repair craft that look a bit like you.”

  “They look nothing like me,” said the Stranger indignantly. “They are a completely different class of robot: no symmetry, no artistic line to their structure.”

  The Stranger had reason to be proud, thought Edward. His body did look rather beautiful, in its odd way. It rather resembled one of Armstrong’s throwing stars. Edward had never seen a swastika, but if he had he would have said the Stranger looked a little like that. Four black and silver legs curved out from the center of the robot, their ends branching into an array of tentacles, some incredibly fine, some thick and powerful, no doubt for heavy-duty repairs. The Stranger was spinning slowly in space, allowing the crew of the Eva Rye to see all eight of its eyes: four on top of the central section to which the legs joined, four beneath. Yellow letters and numbers could just be made out, written across the whole of the black and silver body. Edward could just make out some of the larger letters; the rest were lost to the fuzzy uncertainty of the viewing field’s resolution.

  “What’s that you have written on you?” asked Donny, squinting to make out the words Jeu de Vagues.

  “Oh, just verses, epigrams, things that I like the sound of.”

  Donny glanced at his console.

  “Circumstances uploaded for both us and the Stranger.
Correlation is now running. It’ll take about ten minutes.”

  “What’s going on?”

  At the sound of Miss Rose’s voice, Edward put down his glass of milk and went to sit down again at Craig’s feet. The old woman stood in the carved wooden doorway leading to the living area, wearing a white shift over a dove-grey passive suit. Her white hair was brushed back to cover the balding patch at the back of her head.

  “What’s he doing?” she said, pointing at Edward. “Drinking all the apple juice, I bet.”

  “I had milk, Miss Rose,” said Edward defiantly, but Miss Rose ignored this and shuffled into the middle of the room, staring at the Stranger’s eerily beautiful body still coming into focus in the viewing area.

  “What’s that thing?” she asked.

  “The Stranger,” said Michel. “We’re giving him a lift to safety. In return he’s going to repair some of the failing systems on this ship.”

  “Good. He can fix the AI in my room. I haven’t been able to get a peep out of it since I boarded this ship.”

  Michel raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve told you this before, Miss Rose. There are no AIs on board this ship. You know that. We can’t have anything to do with them if we are to run the FE software.”

  “So you said. But I can’t see one little AI in my room hurting anybody. It would give me someone to speak to. Are you going to give an old woman a seat?”

  Despite the fact that there were plenty of empty seats around the room, she made Maurice move to another place.

  And who is this?” asked the Stranger. “Why hasn’t she spoken before?”

  “This is Miss Rose,” replied Michel, “the last member of our crew. She’s…older than the rest of us.”

  “He thinks I’m senile,” said Miss Rose. “Is one of you going to get me a drink of apple juice?” She looked accusingly at Armstrong and Maurice.

  “I’ll get it,” said Armstrong easily.

  “No, let me,” said Maurice, leaping to his feet and heading for the fridge. Edward watched sullenly as he poured a glass of apple juice for Miss Rose. She was the one who drank all the juice, but when she blamed Edward, everyone believed her. It wasn’t fair. She said Edward could drink beer like the other adults, but Edward didn’t like beer. Everyone drank apple juice on Garvey’s world. They drank cider when they were hot, and they distilled it into apple brandy to keep out the winter chill. Edward wasn’t used to beer.

  “Thank you,” said Miss Rose, accepting the cold glass that Maurice gave her. “So, are we going to get ripped off again?”

  “We haven’t been ripped off,” said Michel. “The FE software stops that happening.”

  The yellow carbon disks woven into the n-string bracelet on Miss Rose’s wrist jangled as she took a sip of apple juice.

  “We always get ripped off,” she said with finality. “That last ship we met was barely functioning. With half of its life system down, we should have cleaned up on that deal. So what happened? We gave it Douglas and a spare set of nanotechs to fix their life support, and got what back in return? A warning about Earth and two useless wooden dinosaurs that are currently taking up all the space in the large hold.”

  “They’re not dinosaurs,” said Michel weakly. “They’re venumbs. Half plant and half Von Neumann Machine…”

  “Hah. And what are we going to do with them? Like I said: we gave them Douglas and we got two venumbs and a warning.” She spoke in an affected, screechy voice. “Don’t eat the food on Earth! Don’t drink anything! The Watcher has drugged everything to keep the people there compliant!” She shook her head. “Like we were planning to go to Earth anyway. I don’t call that a good deal.”

  Michel looked at the floor. He didn’t really have an answer to that. Saskia leaned in closer.

  “You really need to think about our track record,” she said. “People are beginning to talk.”

  “And then look what happened on Garvey’s world,” continued Miss Rose.

  Edward felt anger begin burning inside at that. He knew what was coming next.

  “Leave him alone,” said Craig warningly.

  Miss Rose took a sip of apple juice. “I wasn’t going to mention the dummy,” she replied. “I just wanted to point out that we gave a lot of n-strings away there, and what did we get in return? Some apple juice and an apple juice disposal unit.”

  “I said, leave him alone,” repeated Craig in an icy tone.

  “At least you got something out of the deal,” observed Miss Rose sagely.

  Craig leapt to his feet. “I’ve told you before, you vicious old hag…”

  “Leave it, Craig,” said Armstrong easily, slowly rubbing carbon along the blade of his knife.

  “Come on, let’s just calm down,” agreed Maurice.

  “You need to do something here,” Saskia whispered loudly to Michel. “Stop them arguing amongst themselves.”

  “What would you suggest he do, Saskia?” asked Joanne sweetly, as Michel’s eyes darted this way and that.

  “People, people, let’s all calm down a little,” said the Stranger, spinning easily in space. “Not in front of the children.”

  At that all eyes turned towards Jack and Emily, who were huddled by Donny’s legs, looking around the room with big eyes.

  “Okay,” said Michel, and a gentle calm descended. “The Stranger is right. Donny, how much longer with the correlation?”

  “Almost done,” he said, rubbing at his unshaven chin.

  “Maurice,” said Miss Rose, “I’ve finished with my juice. Be a darling and take it for me, will you?”

  “Of course, Miss Rose,” said Maurice, and Edward watched despondently as he took the half-full glass to the little kitchen and poured it down the sink. He was sure that Miss Rose was laughing at him.

  The Eva Rye turned off its motors. I would coast for the next hour or so, before turning and beginning the process of deceleration that would end in them matching courses with the Stranger.

  In the living area, the process of Fair Exchange was approaching completion. The crew watched the shrinking blue status bar at the base of the viewing field. Above it, the Stranger gradually gained resolution. More and more yellow letters came into view. Edward could read the sentence I never saw a purple cow.

  “Twenty seconds,” announced Donny.

  “Fingers crossed, Eddie,” said Craig.

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Waste of time if you ask me,” said Miss Rose.

  “Ten seconds.”

  “Now, are you sure you’ve done the right thing, Michel?” asked Saskia.

  “Five, four, three, two, one. Transaction complete.”

  Donny looked around the waiting faces on board the Eva Rye, a sour humor awakening in him at the thought of the likely disappointment that awaited them.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he said, and the room held its breath.

  There was a lengthening pause as he tried to make sense of the verdict.

  The Stranger spoke up first. “Well, this seems all in order. Pick-up will be in just over ninety minutes, but I don’t see why I can’t start work right away. System repair will now commence.”

  There was an air of hushed expectation. Edward hoped that the food generators would get fixed.

  The Stranger spoke: “Michel, you are not the right person to be the commander of the Eva Rye. That position should go to Joanne.”

  With an air of utter professionalism, Joanne stood up, fastened the button of her jacket and glided across the room towards Michel. Saskia, sick with jealousy, glared at Armstrong, Craig, and Maurice. They were watching Joanne’s elegant stride, the swaying of her hips in her fitted jacket and skirt, the way her pretty little face betrayed no sign of triumph.

  “I’m sorry,” said Joanne, shaking Michel’s hand.

  “That’s okay,” said Michel, a look of resignation and relief spreading across his face. One could almost hear birdsong.

  “Saskia,” said the Stranger. Saskia was staring at J
oanne with loathing.

  “What you do is dishonest. If you truly believe in what needs to be done, come out and say it for yourself.”

  “What?” said Saskia. “I beg your pardon…”

  “And lastly,” continued the Stranger, ignoring the interruption, “Miss Rose. You are now, and will always be, exactly right. The rest of you would do well to listen to her. And that’s the main work done.”

  The crew of the Eva Rye gazed at each other, blank incomprehension fading into annoyance and then anger. Joanne spoke first, glowing with her new sense of command.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Stranger, I believe there must be some mistake. What do you mean that’s it? What about our self-replicating mechanism? What about the recycling units and the long-range senses? I thought you were offering system repair?”

  “I was, I am, and so I have done,” said the Stranger. “The systems that were most obviously failing on your ship were the command structure and the group dynamic. That has now been rectified. Or it will be if you follow my advice.”

  “What?” called Armstrong. “No! No way!”

  Donny wore an air of acerbic satisfaction.

  “So we’ve been tricked again. Nice one, Michel.”

  “You have not been tricked,” said the Stranger indignantly. “Besides, I still have one last service to perform. When you pick me up, I will…”

  “What if we don’t pick you up?” said Armstrong coolly.

  “All comments through me please, Armstrong,” murmured Joanne. “Still, it’s a good point, Stranger. I don’t think this is a Fair Exchange.”

  The Stranger contracted its legs, irised them closed so that for a moment it was simply a black and silver disk, then straightened them out to form an elongated cross. It appeared agitated.

  “Not a Fair Exchange?” it said. “But it is, by definition. We ran the software routine. You agreed to the trade.”

  “That’s because we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into.”

  She gazed at the stranger, stillness crystallizing around her body.

  “Yes,” said Maurice. “We…” He stopped as Joanne raised a finger, indicating that he should shut up. She was creating a silence for the Stranger to fill. It did so.