Beyond Asimios: Book One

by Martin Fossum

  Graf was silent during the drive back to Camp Heyerdahl. They had lingered at the site for over an hour, shuffling around and sifting about for clues, but they turned up nothing. There were no footprints—no hint of someone having been there. It was vexing and pathetic, but what else was there to do.

  Back at the camp, Graf rooted around in one of the closets and found what he had hoped to find: an old jar of Rick Arronson’s aqua vitae—Asimios’s “water of life,” as he called it (ethanol with extract of bio-dome mint). Graf unfastened the lid, stuck his nose in it and shuddered. He took a swig and then sat down on his mattress and leaned back against the wall.

  —I suppose the two of you are wondering what comes next? he said.

  —I was going to ask, Miranda said as she came toward him and lowered herself on a cot near his. The sentinel floated toward the doctor and Graf grumbled.

  —It’s funny, Graf said as he leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, how, as the time approaches for me to end my life, I begin to wonder if I’ll be able to carry it out? In some ways, the more I think about it, the more difficult it becomes. Graf tilted his head and stared at the floor before taking another sip from the jar.

  —Basically, he went on, the concept of killing oneself is counterintuitive. It goes against the fiber of one’s being; that is, the drive to live. It’s an evolutionary carryover, I suppose, but it’s a situation I haven’t had the opportunity to experience before. The will to live is inexorable. Graf looked over at Miranda for a moment and then he shut his eye.

  Miranda tilted her head and the bot swung its sensor in Graf’s direction.

  —Please, Graf went on, don’t get me wrong. I will kill myself. It’s just that there’s this nasty business of screwing up the courage.

  Miranda regarded him with concern.

  —The question that haunts me, of course, Graf continued, is how to do it? Should I expire slowly from hunger or thirst, or should I die by altering my environment—removing the oxygen from the air in the camp, for example? You could run me over with the crawler, he said over to Miranda, but that might be messy. Also, if it doesn’t work the first time, I really wouldn’t want to be run over twice. Another option, however, would be for me to strip down and go out for a walk in the middle of the night. That might be the easiest solution. It’s well known that hypothermia is a pleasant way to go. Also, low oxygen levels outside would, perhaps, seal the deal. Which brings me back to hypoxia. Oxygen depletion, as I understand it, can be euphoric. And if you’re going to go, why not go in a state of euphoria?

  Miranda and the ESCOM bot remained still as Graf spoke.

  —Well, all of this has nothing to do with you, Graf added. You’re simply spectators in this sordid mess. You’re lucky, is what you are, very lucky not to have to deal with these kinds of human dilemmas. In the meantime, let’s take a walk out to the edge of the rift, have ourselves a little picnic, if you don’t mind. There’s a spot with a good view. It might be nice.

  So Graf foraged around the camp for a few things: some protein strips, water, a couple thermacones, and the aqua vitae. He found a pair of folding chairs in a supply closet and stuffed them under his arm as he led the way down to an overlook at the edge of the rift. Graf smoothed a clearing with his boots and then set out the chairs so that they faced the sun where the great golden orb was brushing against the mountains to the southwest. He retracted the feet on the thermacone, found the igniter switch and then placed the glowing cone in front of them where it immediately provided warmth.

  —Sit yourself down, Miranda, Graf said before he found his seat. I want you to enjoy this sunset with me. It may be my last.

  The two of them sat and looked toward Stelos Proxima where it was slowly succumbing to the advancing horizon. It was beautiful. There was hardly any wind and the day’s dust had settled and a clear sky was unfolding above them, a deep velvet-and-yellow tapestry so remote and so calm that nothing could compare. Graf lifted his breather and took a sip from his drink. He shivered and coughed.

  —For some reason, Graf said, quiet sunsets always remind me of my childhood.

  Miranda looked over at him from where she sat and the sentinel drifted slowly toward the edge of the rift.

  —I’m not sure if you’re interested, Miranda, Graf said, but I had a brother back on Earth.

  —Is that so?

  —It is. He was older than me, tougher, too. We caused quite a bit of trouble growing up. Brushes with the law, troubles with teachers and coaches. But I looked up to Joe, and even though he is no more, and even though I am soon to be no more, I will continue to look up to him. He was the basketball star, you know, the popular guy at school who had all the girls interested in him. He got Suzie Segal pregnant when they were teenagers and I never said a word to our parents when they got the money together and drove into the city where, Joe said, everything was taken care of. I also never said a word when Joe set the Sooters winery on fire. We were doing our weekend prowling—just hunting around like boys do—when Joe got out a lighter and started a small pile of straw on fire. The next thing we knew, the barn was in flames, and we watched it all go down from our lookout on the hill above Jefferson Road. Joe said he’d kill me if I ever said anything, and, of course, I didn’t. We thought that if we were found out, we’d go to jail. But it blew over. I think Dad told the police that we were at home that night, but, to be honest, I think he was confused. After a time, the incident was forgotten.

  Graf took a drink and regarded the mercurial sunset.

  —It must be hard for you to conceive of what it must be like to be human and have a brother, correct? Graf asked over to Miranda. It must be hard for you to understand?

  —I will admit that it is, Miranda said.

  —Well, Joe died in Chicago about twenty-five years ago—terrorist attack in a hotel lobby. That kind of terrorism was rare back then. Now it’s commonplace. I miss Joe, though. Sometimes he still pays a visit, though. In my dreams he’ll come by and say hello.

  —I’m sorry to hear about his death, Miranda said.

  —It was a long time ago.

  —Did your brother work on Asimios? Miranda asked.

  Graf had lifted his breather to take a sip from his drink.

  —No, he said. He wasn’t on Asimios. He was educated as an engineer and then he eventually became a defense contractor. I never knew exactly what he did as a contractor, but I always figured he would enlighten me at some point.

  Graf now peered with intensity at the glow of the thermacone.

  —I did admire him, Graf went on, and it was Joe who got me interested in the sciences. I did my Ph.D. in systems engineering. Then I taught for a few years before being lured into the private sector. It’s probably one of my worst decisions. And with the decommissioning of Asimios Station, my career doesn’t really have a lot to show for itself. All the politics that went into getting this place fully functioning, all the ass-kissing and pleading for research dollars and resources makes me wonder if I ever should have been involved.

  —There was a good deal of science that was conducted at the station, Miranda said as she looked quizzically at Graf.

  —Oh, yes, and there were a multitude of spinoff technologies that came out of it, not to mention old beach ball over there and Paul’s work in quantum physics. Yes, plenty of research was done and ESCOM has it all patented down to the subatomic level. Asimios Station, I bet you, will put ESCOM at the transnational apex for decades to come. Make no mistake, if I had known that this project had nothing to do with improving human life and pioneering interplanetary expansion, I would never have signed on. But these folks are masters at pulling the wool over one’s eyes. They are experts in the art of flattery, bribery and coercion, and the scientist is an easy target. I’ve seen it again and again in my career. Most scientists are like children, they trust implicitly, they want attention, and they want candy, and this is their undoing.

  Graf took another sip from his aqua vitae and he slid his breat
her back down over his mouth. The sentinel had come back now and was hovering near Miranda, its sensor eye rotating horizontally as it scanned the dark terrain with intermittent laser sweeps.

  —I’ve fought to engage, Graf said stiffly to Miranda. I’ve donated time and given money to causes I’ve believed in. I’ve strived to be a good person, but I wonder if it’s been enough? My biggest regret…perhaps not being a father. I think I could have given a lot, in that regard. My second biggest regret, maybe not standing up and voicing opposition when I knew something was wrong. I’ve seen a lot of people get thrown under the bus while I kept an eye out for my own interests, and I’ve done my share of stepping over corpses. They say that if you want to succeed, others must fail. Well, I don’t buy that any more. Success is fleeting and it corrupts. Everyone loses in the end.

  Graf tried to pry the collar loose on his pressure skin before turning his gaze at the thermacone.

  —Maybe, some day you’ll understand, he said to the droid and bot who sat (and hovered) across from him. Perhaps, if you live long enough, you’ll be able to point a finger at your moral shortcomings and say A-HA! And perhaps then you will suffer from the insight.

  Graf coughed into his hands and tapped his feet a few times.

  —But enough about me, he said suddenly as he shot a gaze at his company.

  He took another sip from the jar and smiled.

  —So, he said, when I’m gone—once I’ve ended it all—what’s the plan for the two of you?

  Miranda and the ESCOM bot stared back at him in silence.

  —Come on, Graf said. What will you do when I’m dead? I mean, have you thought about it? Have you considered the future?

  Miranda and the bot remained silent.

  —Did Paul leave you with any instructions? What was it that Paul wanted you to do here anyway?

  —Father instructed us to care for you and protect you, intoned the ESCOM sentinel through its reedy transducer as it swung its eye in Graf’s direction.

  —We are here to serve you and provide safety, Miranda said.

  —So what will you do when I’m dead? Graf said. Did Dad mention anything about that?

  Miranda and the sentinel were silent.

  —Have either of you thought about it? Have you discussed it?

  Again, silence. Then Miranda spoke:

  —To consider your question would be, for us, to preclude your existence. And that is not logical at present.

  —Well, if I kill myself, then what? I mean, you can’t just guard my body forever, can you?

  Silence.

  —What if I gave you a new set of instructions? Graf asked. Would that work? What if I told you that, after I was dead, you should take it upon yourselves to act autonomously…to achieve individual droid-dom and, or, bot-dom, as the case may be? Would that be possible?

  More silence. Miranda sat still.

  —Eh, what the hell, Graf huffed. What does it matter, anyway? Bury me. Deep. That’s all I care about. No cairn for me, and when you’re done you can dance on my grave.

  At this Graf grew sullen and withdrew. He cradled the jar of aqua vitae in his hands and slowly rocked back and forth in his chair. Miranda and the bot observed his silence and continued their own.

  —It’s a funny thing, getting old, Graf muttered from his chest. Some small thing you did forty years ago can consume you, while the thing you are occupied with at the moment hardly gets a second thought. Even though we’re on the verge of eliminating the physical effects of aging, the mind’s struggle to narrow temporal distance will only intensify. Perhaps the act of remembering will become our final adversary in the quest for immortality?

  —Excuse me, Dr. Graf, Miranda said. Have you decided yet how you are going to kill yourself?

  Graf looked up at Miranda with shock. He jumped to his feet, as quickly as his large body would allow, and he stared down at her as if she had uttered a blasphemy.

  —Oh, so you’re encouraging me now, are you? he said as he backed in the direction of the rift. Want to shut me up, right? Okay, that’s fair. I wouldn’t want to sit around and hear somebody go on and on about death and dying forever. I get it.

  Miranda made her way over to Graf.

  —I’m sorry, Doctor, she said as she approached. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please forgive me.

  Graf’s eye was wide and glassy as he looked down at her and he trembled as he took a sip from his jar.

  —It’s okay, Miranda, he said dispassionately. See that ledge over there, the one on the other side of this rim, the one at the top of that cliff? That’s where I’m going to end it. I’ll jump from there…to my death.

  Miranda looked in the direction of the ledge and considered it in silence. It was cold this far out and Miranda guided Graf back to his chair and the warmth of the thermacone where Graf found his seat and collapsed in it.

  —I’ve had too much to drink, Graf muttered. I’m sorry to say it, but I think I’m too tired to kill myself tonight.

  He stared into the glowing thermacone with a melancholy expression and remained like this for some time. Slowly, he began to fade. At one point his head rolled onto his shoulder and the jar of booze tilted precariously in his lap. Miranda set the drink aside and she lifted him in her arms and carried him back to the camp.

  The next morning Graf awoke with a splitting headache. His swollen eye had opened slightly now, but he still couldn’t see out of it. Apart from that, he was furious because he was still alive, but he was also furious with himself for getting drunk and he was furious for having failed to take advantage of his inebriation to finish his life. He was stuck with the same problem today as he was yesterday, only now there was daylight to contend with and the annoying persistence of a horribly throbbing head.

  —Goddammit, Miranda, Graf exclaimed as he banged around the kitchen while preparing his coffee. Why the hell didn’t you just throw me over the edge when you had the chance? That would have worked!

  —I am here to protect you, Dr. Graf, Miranda said.

  Graf rolled his eyes and brought the coffee cup to his lips…then he cried out as the cup left his hand and he crumpled to the floor.

  —Oh, my God, my head! he exclaimed as he gripped his bandaged lesion.

  He rocked back and forth on the kitchen floor and Miranda was ready to open the medikit and inject him with a soporific, but Graf told her not to. With Miranda’s assistance he stood up, although weakened and somewhat wobbly on his feet.

  —Holy crap, he said with his arm draped over the droid for support. That felt like someone took a white-hot iron and held it against my left frontal lobe.

  Miranda’s cursory examination of his eye revealed nothing.

  —Perhaps the drink you were enjoying last night contained more alcohol than you anticipated? she said.

  —Could be, but that’s one hell of a hangover, for sure. Come on, he said as he pulled away from Miranda and got ready to go outside. Let’s go to the rift and get this over with. I don’t want go through that again.

  Miranda and the sentinel followed the doctor down the path toward the edge of the rift. The chairs and thermacone were where they had been left the night before, but now the sun was rising in the east—a brilliant yellow ball that warmed their faces. A shard of light knifed through Graf’s vision again and he dropped to his knee and reeled in agony. Miranda leaned over to administer aid, but he pushed her away.

  —I just have to get to the edge, he said as he stood, his face bathed in sweat and contorted with fear and pain.

  Miranda stepped back and Graf shuffled off on his own toward the ledge where he would make his final jump. The droid and bot moved to a different section of the rim and watched the doctor as he made his way to the cliff.

  —Do you think he is going to jump? the sentinel intoned from where they paused at the edge of the rift.

  —I am not certain, Miranda said. He seems determined to do so.

  —Should we intervene?

  —No.

>   —Should we assist him?

  —Explain?

  —I could remove the ledge from beneath him with a plasma round.

  —I don’t think that is necessary, Miranda said.

  —Are we doing the right thing?

  —Are you asking if Father would approve?

  —Yes.

  —I do not know.

  The bot paused a moment, then turned its sensor eye away from Miranda and back toward Graf who was ambling his way to the ledge.

  —He did not like me, the bot intoned as it marked Graf’s progress.

  —Humans are drawn toward their likeness, Miranda said.

  —I understand, the sentinel intoned. What do we do after he is dead?

  —Bury him.

  —And then what?

  —Then we wait.

  As Graf came up to the ledge where he had planned to jump, he took a few deep breaths and then shuffled carefully to the outer edge so he could peer into the canyon below.

  —Oh, God, he said, why did I do that?

  His heart started to race and he became dizzy so he retreated a few steps…and then the shard of light struck again. He was racked with pain, but he managed to stay on his feet this time, but something surprising had happened. This time, Graf realized, he could see. A cataract of light poured into his left eye and his VI flickered to life. Environmental data streamed over the interface and a comlink was established between himself and Miranda and the bot.

  —Hello, good friends! Graf called out in elation as he hailed them over the link. I can see! he cried. My VI is up! I can see again!

  —That is good, Miranda said over the link. Her core temperature was up a degree and she felt her internal fluid pressure begin to rise. Are you still going to kill yourself? she asked.

  Graf immediately withdrew.

  —Dr. Graf, Miranda said. Are you still up? Dr. Graf?

  —Yes, I’m here. I guess it makes no difference, though, does it…

  —Sir?

  —Nothing. Yes, I’m still going to kill myself. Goodbye, my friends, goodbye.