by C. Gockel
He took a step forward, the doors slid away, and his eyes fell on a glass case filled with a disorderly pile of pastries across the room.
“May I help you?”
James blinked. His hand was balled in a fist. He’d walked forward without conscious thought. Now he was just a step away from the pastries, prepared to plunge his hand through the glass.
“Professor Sinclair?”
Shaking his head to clear the darkness, he found himself facing 6T9. The ‘bot was standing behind the display, a large plastic bin filled with pastries in his hands.
Letting his fist drop, James said, “I’d like something to eat.”
“Of course,” said 6T9, putting the bin on the counter. James snatched up one of the pastries. With the first flaky, fatty, sweet, and salty bite, his neurons and nanos stood up and started to sing. Before the hyper-augmentation, he hadn’t been a fan of sweets … now they filled him like nothing else.
“You’re not with Noa,” said 6T9.
James blinked at the ‘bot. 6T9 was a sex ‘bot, or in polite terms, a cybernetic consort, designed to look like a human male. Like James, he wore clothing from the Ark stores: a loose shirt and trousers of gray stretchy fabric. Eliza Burton, 6T9’s owner, had usually outfitted him in skimpy outfits; the unremarkable clothing made him look more human. He was leaning on the counter now, one hand on his chin, gazing up at James.
“Yes,” James said, distractedly. The pastry in his hand was much better than standard tourist fare. Besides being filling, the flavors were wonderful and complex: coconut oil, butter, and a flavor reminiscent of lime. Chewing slowly to savor the delicacy, he turned to survey the cafe. He was in what looked like a high-end coffee shop, even with the asteroids visible through the portholes. The floors were polished wood. Plush sofas in velvety oranges and deep arm chairs of brown faux leather were arranged around low tables. The entire place was tastefully lit by warm recessed lighting. It still smelled like Luddeccean summer. This space had originally been the galley, but the Ark had been a museum exhibit. They must have transformed it for the tourists.
“You know,” 6T9 said slowly, “you don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to.”
The ‘bot languidly dragged a rag across the glass case, looking up at James from beneath long lashes. “The offer I made you on Luddeccea still stands.”
On Luddeccea, 6T9 had invited James to join him in a tryst. Apparently, Eliza didn’t mind sharing. “The answer is still no,” James said, finishing his pastry and reaching for another.
Shrugging, 6T9 turned away and began wiping the case with more vigor. “I propositioned you in front of Noa last time. I thought you might have just been trying to portray yourself as exclusively interested in her. I had to ask you alone, in case it was an act.” He stopped wiping the counter. “Of course, if you ever lose confidence in your relationship with Noa going anywhere … the offer will still be open.”
James’s brow furrowed. It struck him that he wasn’t insulted by the ‘bot’s proposition. He felt nothing at all. No, that wasn’t true, he was mildly annoyed. James was too polite to talk with his mouth full, and 6T9 was keeping him from his pastry. And …
“I’m not unconfident with Noa.” He thought about the electrons flowing between their minds, her forehead against his, the heat everywhere they touched. “It’s everything else …” Noa was the only thing that felt real—in his past and in his present. His vision went black … He was here, eating, instead of with her. Before his hyper-augmentation, hunger would not have kept him from a woman. He’d been fine in the heat and smoke of the fires … and suddenly now he was hungry at the least opportune time.
The heat of irritation prickled beneath every inch of his skin. Glancing down, he saw the tattoos he didn't remember getting blooming across his arms. He let out a breath of frustration at the sight of the mysterious etchings.
“That’s a shame,” said 6T9, wiping down the glass case. “I was hoping you’d help me reevaluate my programming.”
James swallowed a bite of pastry. “I just said no, 6T9 ...” And then he remembered 6T9's improper use of his idiom app a few hours before. “Unless you're talking about reevaluating your idiom app?” His jaw shifted in an aborted smile, as he chided the 'bot.
6T9’s brow furrowed. “My idiom app is a fine-toothed comb.”
James's eyebrows shot up. He swore he felt his neurons and nanos flicker.
“No, it's something else,” 6T9 said. His chest rose and fell, in a semblance of a sigh, and his lips parted as though he were about to say something. But then, drawing back from the counter, he said, “I’m not at liberty to talk about it.”
James blinked. ‘Bots weren’t supposed to evade a question or order unless it meant complying would harm a human. How was James’s question harmful, and to whom?
At that moment, 6T9 hissed, picked up a broom and rushed around the counter. James spun around. From the floor came a squeal. Looking down, James saw Carl Sagan darting beneath an overstuffed chair. Rocking the chair back, 6T9 raised the broom like a club.
Dropping the pastry, James shouted, “No!” thinking of just how unhappy Noa would be if her pet got squished. The broom was already dropping. It hit the floor with a thwack, just missing Carl Sagan, who darted forward with a shriek. The creature drew to a halt just before James and shrieked again. Dropping to his heels, James reached toward the werfle. “Here, Carl Sagan!”
For a moment time stood still. Carl Sagan did not move even as 6T9 raised the broom again. James’s mind spun. Earth mammals as distant as horses, dogs, and humans shared some body language. Werfles were native to Luddeccea; the double helix of their genes were based on a completely different string of chemical pairs. It could not understand James’s command, or his gesture.
Just as that realization hit, the werfle leapt into his arms. James pulled back in relief and shock. 6T9 stood by the chair, gesturing with the broom. “Put it down, let me kill it! Eliza hates rats!”
Carl Sagan swirled his long body around James’s arm and hissed.
“It’s a werfle,” James protested. “They eat rats. Eliza should love them.”
6T9 lowered the broom. “She does like werfles.” He stared at Carl Sagan. “How can you tell it is not a rat?”
James rocked back on his feet. Even if idioms weren't his forte, 6T9 could grasp sexual innuendo, could mimic and read human emotions, and could even theorize on human behavior, but the ‘bot could not tell the difference between a werfle and a rat?
“It is not in my animal database,” 6T9 continued, eyes narrowing at Carl Sagan.
James’s neurons and nanos made a mighty leap. Luddeccea was too conservative to manufacture sex ‘bots. 6T9 had to have been imported. Werfles were rare; they’d never been added to 6T9’s databases. Still …
“It has ten legs,” James said. “Can’t you count them?”
“I can count,” said 6T9.
“You’ve seen this werfle before,” James said, still vexed, “... at Eliza’s home.”
“She told me it was a werfle, then,” said 6T9, his expressive voice becoming cool and analytical. Robotic. “It is out of context here. I was unable to identify it.” He stood stock still and his eyes drifted to a point beyond James’s shoulder.
James sighed. It was, in 20th century parlance, a bug in 6T9’s programming. He had all the pieces but couldn’t put them together. Humans had once feared machines taking over the galaxy. In the 1960s Moore’s Law had predicted the doubling of transistors in a dense integrated circuit every two years—and of processing power growing in sync. But then Moore’s Law hit “Moore’s Wall.” Advances in computer speed became more and more incremental, more and more expensive, and growth in processing power slowed to a crawl.
“Count the legs from now on,” James ordered the ‘bot.
“I will count legs from now on,” 6T9 said. The ‘bot turned and took the broom behind the counter and then declared, “Well, early bird catches the cheese!”
&nb
sp; James again felt as though his thought processes had been shut off. As they flickered back to life, his jaw shifted as he tried to smile again. “That's not—” And then James caught himself.
Tilting his head, the 'bot asked, “What's wrong?”
James scratched Carl Sagan beneath the chin. The random version had been better than the real version. “Never mind.”
The werfle gave a startled sounding cheep, as though protesting the lie.
Smiling benignly, 6T9 nodded in James's direction. “I am going to recharge now. See you later.”
“First mouse gets the worm,” James called after 6T9, as the 'bot left the room.
“That's not how it goes, Professor,” but then the door whooshed shut before the 'bot finished, leaving James alone with the werfle. With a squeak, Carl Sagan prowled up James’s arm and settled around his neck, sniffing the whole way, as though following a trail of breadcrumbs.
Still hungry, James went behind the counter, grabbed a jug of milk from the fridge and the bin of pastries, and then plunked himself down on a sofa. He picked up a loose slice of ham from among the pastries and Carl Sagan gave a squeak.
“Would you like a—”
The werfle ripped the slice from his fingers.
“—bite?” James finished.
James raised a brow in bemusement. Carl Sagan, a creature separated from James by billions of years of very different evolution, whose every fiber of being was made up of different molecular components, had, in a completely unfamiliar context, correctly identified James as a possible ally and 6T9 as a definite threat. A few minutes later, he’d communicated his desire for the ham slice with only a squeak. 6T9 could speak English, but Carl Sagan had a more sophisticated understanding of the universe than the ‘bot. James scratched the werfle between the ears. Werfles had been designed to seek company for warmth, companionship, safety, and reproduction, to find food and shelter, just as humans did. That had to be the reason for the understanding; it was convergent evolution of thought processes.
His fingers paused … The saboteurs of Time Gate 8 were beings of pure energy according to Kenji, Noa’s brother. What could beings of pure energy have in common with beings of flesh and blood? And if, as the Luddecceans suspected, James was connected to them …
“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered to himself. But his hand on Carl Sagan started to shake, as though it belonged to someone else. The sensation of a thousand pinpricks spread from his fingers to his wrist. Pulling his trembling hand to his stomach, the weight of everything wrong began to bear down on him, as though the ship's gravity had increased again. It wasn't just his connection to the time gate that was wrong, his hyper-augments, or the tattoos he didn't remember ... it was his detachment from his former self. He didn't feel like Professor James Hiro Sinclair anymore ... he felt like ... like ...
He needed to see Noa. He almost reached out to her ... but his vision darkened, remembering how exhausted she'd been on the bridge. She needed her sleep. He couldn't wake her.
By his ear, Carl Sagan began to fidget, bouncing on James’s shoulder, tiny claws tearing through his shirt. James felt Noa reaching out to his mind. With a rush of relief, he answered the call, felt their minds connect … and then Noa’s scream pierced the ether. “Leave me alone!”
Chapter Three
“Noa?” James called, jumping to his feet. Was someone on the ship trying to hurt her? His skin heated and his fists balled at his sides.
“Leave me alone,” she said, this time the mental equivalent of a whisper.
James accessed her location. Noa was in the hallway just outside the cafe and alone … He ran to the exit, the door whooshed open, and he saw Noa with her hands over her bowed head. She was stumbling down the hall like she was drunk. Looking back over her shoulder, she shouted at the empty hallway, “Stay away from me!”
“Noa!” he said, “What’s …?”
And then the electrons in his neural interface connected to Noa exploded in his visual cortex. James saw a semi-transparent Kenji in the periphery of his vision and a woman dressed in Luddeccean Green carrying a billy club, a stunner attached to her hip. The Ark’s gray halls transformed and became a long aisle between beds like the kind he associated with Nazi prison camps, filled with emaciated women.
He was in Noa’s memories—he took in her wide eyes and stumbling steps. No, he was not in her memories, he was in a nightmare.
Carl Sagan hopped and squeaked on James’s shoulder.
“Noa, I can help you!” the nightmare Kenji said.
Not knowing what else to do, James cautiously approached Noa, holding out his arms. She looked right past him, spun around to face her brother, and then held up her hands as though he might hit her. James had seen Noa take on armed men barehanded. Now she was cowering before her misguided brother. His skin heated in anger and frustration; into the ether he whispered, “Oh, Noa.”
“James?” she said, looking past him. James took her arms. His touch was gentle, but she struggled against him, punching the air helplessly, like her hands were pulled by strings, and he was able to pull her back to his chest.
“Let me go! Let me go!” she cried.
He didn’t. On impulse, he closed his eyes. The nightmare became more substantial, not less ... and darker, much darker. He could “see” the faces on the beds.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he said to Noa, and projected his avatar, letting it encircle her with his arms as he was in real life.
She stopped struggling. “James?”
“Noa, you have to leave him!” Kenji said. “You’re delusional, Noa.”
James growled at the wraith of Kenji and felt his static and heat beneath his skin.
“Kenji,” Noa said, her head falling against James’s shoulder. The shadows cast by the stacked beds became longer; the single female guard grew larger.
James remembered the light between Noa and his mind earlier. The light had been from her … she’d said his emotions slipping across the link triggered it. Pulling her tighter, he tried to remember what he’d felt in those moments before her mind had filled with light. Relief, gratitude … victory. He tried to recreate the sensations, but he could hear Kenji calling, “Noa, Noa,” and all he could feel was rage. Noa shuddered and gave a muffled cry. Closing off all his emotions, he turned on all his apps for recreating scenes and filled the space between their minds with the memory of the bright white light that Noa had imagined earlier. Noa gasped as the light spilled through Kenji, the guards, the bed stacks and the wraiths inhabiting them. James concentrated, letting it burn through all the shadows, until there was nothing but white, and the sound of Noa gasping. Seizing the momentum, he guided her into the cafe and jammed his hand into the close door button. Letting the illusion drop, he whispered, “I’ve locked them out.” Noa didn’t respond; she just stood breathing heavily in his arms. Brow furrowing, James recreated his avatar, and the whole of the cafe into the space between their minds so it would be there—whether their eyes were opened or closed. “I’ve locked them out,” he let his avatar say again.
Noa straightened, and she nodded at his avatar. She was still asleep, he realized, able to connect with mental imagery, but not really in the world. “Come sit down,” James let his avatar say, guiding her to the sofa in real life.
“Thanks, yes,” said Noa—in his mind, not in the real world. “I had a horrible dream.”
“It’s gone now,” said James’s avatar as he sat down next to her on the couch. Noa met his avatar’s eyes, but not his own. An avatar of her own sat up primly on the couch, but her body slumped against the cushions. James’s alarm began to rise again.
James allowed his avatar to venture. “I think I saw some of your dreams …” Which should not happen. The most basic apps would prevent it, and Noa, from what he’d seen, had apps that were quite sophisticated.
Sitting in the spot occupied by her real body, Noa’s avatar’s eyebrow rose. She touched her neural interface with a hand that had all i
ts fingers and two bright rings. “In the camp they put a polyfiber screw in my interface.”
James remembered seeing the thick, wicked screws in the sides of people’s heads on Luddeccean television. “It could have damaged something,” James said.
Noa’s avatar wiped her illusionary face with her hands. “Nightmares … hell of a commander I make. I shouldn’t be leading this mission.”
James’s eyes went to the camera in the room. The camera wouldn’t capture any of this ether conversation, but this ship’s ether wasn’t secure. They weren’t protected by the constantly updating security routines of the time gates or associated satellites. Here they had only an ancient computer, programmed by Ghost, a less than completely trustworthy former Fleet officer. If Ghost bothered to go through the ether records later, he’d see this, and possibly use it against them. He’d nearly let them be captured by the Luddeccean Guard back in Prime. James’s still trembling hand formed a fist. He would rip Ghost’s limbs out, if the man saw this episode and decided to use it against Noa. “You’re the only one to lead this mission,” James let his avatar say. He wouldn’t follow anyone else aboard the ship. None of them felt real.
Noa’s avatar turned away, and completely without segue said, “I smell food.” As her physical body slept, her avatar proceeded to help herself to a dream sandwich, completely detached from the horrors of only a few moments ago. It made a rush of static sting at the back of James’s neck … but he’d had dreams that were just as odd, hadn’t he? Since Luddeccea he hadn’t dreamed, he merely replayed events in his mind, but he remembered dreams where he did extraordinary things like talking to porpoises and flying, and then did mundane things moments later, like going to work. He’d recorded a dream exactly like that for his time capsule. He leaned back against the cushions.
“If I eat this, what will you eat?” Noa’s avatar asked his, lifting the dream sandwich to her mouth and winking at him. Making the moment light, not because she didn't know how bad it was that her apps were projecting her dreams, but despite knowing. A sense of humor was all they had in the face of the absurd and the impossible.
