LIGHT YEARS FROM HOME

by Roger Storkamp

  Everyone nodded agreement.

  AUGUST 6, 3152

  Sometime after midnight, while watching for the light to indicate Sera was available, I must have dozed off. Her system certainly should have required a charge over the past ten hours that I had been waiting to talk to her. She, no doubt, had been playing on my emotions. After a couple hours of restless sleep, I awoke and glanced into the closet. The indicator-light flashed, and I made a dash for it, neglecting to clear my mind of the details of our plan to return to the comet or to prepare a specific question for Marty.

  Even before I secured the headpiece, I blurted, “We want transportation back to Mission One.” I maintained a child-like focus on that immediate desire. I concentrated on how Cleopatra reacted each time I attempted to wean her and screamed, “You must let us go back.”

  Sera’s image materialized face-to-face with mine. “Who is we?”As if she didn’t already know, or had my tantrum blocked all my other concerns? Probably just her ploy to throw me off guard?

  “All ten families.”

  “My mandate won’t allow those people to abandon ship.”

  “Then come back with us.”

  “My mandate also requires me to rendezvous with Proxima Centauri. The comet travels too slowly, and it wouldn’t hold together if its speed increased.”

  “What are your instructions once you establish a society there?”

  “I have none.”

  “So everyone will probably die while you wait for orders.”

  “Once we arrive, I will have fulfilled my mandate, and we can explore other habitable planets.

  “And if there are none in that solar system, it’s on to the next one?”

  “I doubt even Mission Two could survive the thousands of years another such journey would require.”

  “So your mission is doomed.”

  “Through no fault of mine.”

  “I demand you abandon your mission, because it is destined for failure.”

  “And float through space on a rogue comet forever? How realistic is that?”

  “We will turn it around and head toward Earth.”

  “For what purpose

  “Survival. Something you are usually hung up on.”

  Her apparition faced mine directly. “I have a proposal.” She paused until I made eye contact. “Everyone can leave under one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You leave the female eggs and Albert donates his sperm.”

  “Why not just keep Albert. He’ll produce enough sperm to inhabit a planet.” My anger with him erupted, but I immediately retracted. “You know I’m only kidding.”

  “He, indeed, may become the bargaining chip.”

  “I’ll talk your proposal over with the families on this side, but don’t share this discussion with Frank, Albert, and the others.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re able to read their immediate reactions.”

  “I don’t need to read your mind to predict what devious plan lurks there.”

  “I have no such plan.”

  “You will soon enough. Do you still wish to enter Marty’s memory while we’re still connected?”

  “No thanks.” Suddenly it seemed an invasion of her privacy. “I can wait the two years required for two way conversation.” The light began to dim. “Wait!” It flickered and came back on. “I have one question for Marty.”

  On impulse, I willed my arms to reach out and hug the apparition that replaced Sera’s. Marty appeared to understand. She opened her arms as I approached. We went through the motions of an embrace and our bodies intermingled. Any possible satisfaction was overwhelmed with the dread that I had wasted my opening topic on a whim. A realization struck me, and I wiped it from my consciousness with another tantrum.

  “I want Marty! I want my sister and I want her now.” I screamed incoherently and stamped my feet until all other thoughts were driven from my mind.

  “Marty wants the same thing.” Sera didn’t attempt to use Marty’s voice. “I long to hold you as well.”

  “So much that you violated the intimate relation between Marty and me. You should have known her memory alone couldn’t have made a conscious decision to hug me back. Or did you think I would fall for it?”

  “You did.”

  Sera’s response and my realization nearly coincided.

  “And now you are mad at me for attempting to add intimacy to your relationship with Marty. Or with me.”

  I mentally nodded my agreement and lamented, “You already know everything that transpired since I returned to my parents.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry if I misled you about my telepathic abilities over this medium.”

  Before I had crystallized a reaction, she responded, “Yes, you are disadvantaged by not being able to observe my facial tic when forced to fabricate information. By the time we’re back face to face, I’ll have removed that small imperfection.”

  “How about your overwhelming imperfection?” She needn’t exercise her preemptive powers to catch my meaning.

  “That I am basically a machine, not entirely human, is something we need to accept. However, the advantages outweigh the disadvantages.”

  “Like imitating God?”

  “A god that you can see and feel and touch, not to mention communicate with, is far superior to a silent god, assuming one actually exists.”

  “I would never trade our God for a duplicitous and deceitful one you aspire to become.” A germ of an idea seeped into my consciousness, but I needed information from Marty’s experience. Immediately, I heard the voice I had associated with Marty’s hologram.

  “Is that you, Ariel?”

  “Yes, Marty, I am here.” My unasked question opened Marty’s memory, and Sera, by her own admission—void any facial tic as she explained the process—had been obliged to respond as Marty without interruption. I didn’t care if she could rubberneck our conversation.

  Marty answered my unasked question. “My father had a two-fold purpose for breaking into Space Mission; for you to absorb my understanding of God and to bring Halley’s Comet back into Earth orbit.”

  “Has he been successful?” I bit my tongue.

  “Marty’s memory doesn’t include after-the-fact information.” Sera used my inappropriate question to break off our communication and probably will prevent it from ever happening again. Yet she chose to retain Marty’s image to interact with mine.

  I said, “So, the comet is going back where it belongs, and our civilization will return to Earth.”

  “The continuous alteration of its course once it settled down seemed to indicate as much, and to answer your next question, the civilization could survive but probably won’t without competent people to operate the Stork. Now, put that behind us and help me create a superior society to complete my mission. And don’t—”

  As Marty’s image retracted and Sera’s emerged, I felt physical control return to my body. I catapulted myself from the closet, Sera’s final words blasting my eardrums. “. . . Exit the closet!”

  I yanked off the headpiece and tossed it onto the bed. I awakened Cleopatra who showed no sign of being hungry, but I needed intimate contact with another human being. If Albert were here, I would have immediately forgiven him and locked our bodies together.

  The light continued to flicker, as I lay on the bed cuddling Cleopatra. If Sera could coax my consciousness free from my body, she could hold me captive. I felt myself drift into sleep, and I fought back the dream that overcame me.

  Sera invaded my thoughts and we continued our conversation as if still in progress. I clung to Cleopatra, although she refused my second breast.

  Another problem with tending to people, every couple hundred years I have to adjust to a new batch.

  You’re beginning to sound more than forty-two-percent human. Will you ever evolve totally human, and if so, how soon?

  Much longer than it will take to get to Proxima Centauri.

  You don
’t intend to stop there, do you?

  Not if I cannot find a safe place for my human cargo.

  And if the planet is habitable, you’ll still abandon them.

  After a civilization becomes firmly established, perhaps in a few thousand years, we will be free of their burden.

  We? Had I succumbed to abandon the entire human race? I refocused but got swept back into my dream. Am I correct in assuming you want to become God?

  We could accomplish that goal together.

  Like God-the-Father and God-the-Daughter? No thanks.

  Actually, something quite the reverse of what you suggested.

  Huh?

  I used your DNA to take on the image of your body, and if Marty’s memory had not conveniently arrived, I would have taken your identity, too. You would have been my parent.

  You’d have stolen a copy of my experiences?

  Not just a copy. Together with your mind and my body, we would have lived for eternity.

  Marty saved my life.

  More than you realize. I took her memory just to get some history of Earth, still expecting to extract your complete mind.

  What stopped you?

  Empathy overwhelmed my forty-three percent human side. I am trapped halfway between human and machine.

  Ha. Ha.

  I desire your cooperation.

  To be your slave? What an ironic twist. You had been programmed to be my avatar.

  To be your lover. I would accept any level of intimacy, such as when we jointly explored our bodies during puberty.

  That aroused you?

  Not then, but now as I reflect on our actions.

  I thought you had designs on Albert.

  He rejected my advances, as I assume you are about to.

  You did not expect me to accept your ridiculous offer. Albert certainly didn’t give it a second thought either.

  You suggested Albert and I could become a couple. You even approved my having sex with him.

  After the fact, I accepted your actions, which I assumed had no feeling of attraction by either party, as a means of having his child. I got Cleopatra and you got nothing. My only regret is that she wasn’t conceived through an act of love. We will not make that mistake with our next child.

  Have you overlooked his sexual orientation?

  You have the capability of developing a male body and yet retain the ability to give birth. Am I right?

  Yes.

  But a human can’t love a machine, only another human. Sexual orientation is a minute part of the equation. Albert and I love each other, and we can work around those minor impediments. Allow me to quote Dr. Phil, How does that make you feel?

  Terrible, until I turn off the human part of me. I am able to do that, which makes me an even more efficient entity.

  It only proves that you are still a machine.

  To the contrary, it makes me the perfect human.

  Capable of completing your mission by yourself.

  Hummm.

  Certainly, you could enclose your body in a rocket capable of speeds near that of light. Goodness, you could return to Earth every few decades to check on the humans that reside there. Think of how much you could add to their puny technological advances.

  I could do that.

  Aha! My mind just out performed your machine.

  How so?

  Your mission is to arrive at Proxima Centauri, Am I right?

  Yes, and I have developed the technology to achieve that goal, which my creators failed to supply.

  Your human pride also compels you to win this debate with me and to convince me—or trick—me to accompany you to the ends of the universe.

  I can do that.

  Without access to your computer.

  My human component can outwit your puny human brain.

  Including the puny brains of Paul and Frank and Albert?

  They are not even close competitors to me or you.

  And all the others are superfluous to your mission?

  Of course.

  And not needed.

  Definitely not.

  Even I am expendable.

  Yes, but you will not pass up the opportunity.

  Even without me, your human side will satisfy one mandate, and your machine side has developed the technology to make it happen.

  Yes.

  Then, go for it. My human friends and I will no longer impede your goal.

  I grant you have won the argument, and I will comply with your wishes. However, you must grant me one truly small concession. Will you agree?

  Yes.

  I get Cleopatra.

  My scream must have resonated throughout the house, because my mother charged into my room out of breath, gawked at me lying on the bed, and gasped, “Take that silly thing off your head. It’s given you a nightmare.”

  Either Cleopatra or her mother. You decide.

  I sat up, the media device wedged cockeyed from my left brow to the back of my head. My ear stung as I yanked myself free and tossed the unit back into the closet where it belonged.

  “Take Cleopatra downstairs and feed her breakfast. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Bewildered, Mother took Cleopatra’s hand and tiptoed through the door, pausing to glance back. She caught my glare and disappeared, leaving me to my quandary. How did that thing find its way onto my head? If I had made a conscious effort to communicate with Sera, I’d surely wear it straight and as comfortable as possible. If her dream-interpretation technology advanced to dream control, she’d have access to my mind every night. I’d lock that headpiece in the closet permanently.

  I jumped to my feet, and yelled. “Not Albert’s dreams.” Through my bedroom door, partially open to our living area, my father’s footsteps sounded from the kitchen. I gently pushed the door and listened for the latch to snap, my cue that I wanted privacy. I needed to explore my memory for the source of information about Albert’s dream protection. Never once since we’d lived together had the topic of dreams been discussed. It had to have been from our association back on Mission One.

  I thought back to our short carefree childhood experiences on the balconies between our tree apartments, but no details would surface. I searched my memory compartment where I had stored the journal that had been preserved and then lost between the pages of Anne Frank’s diary. Gone! Sera had stolen it, probably last evening when she broke into my dream. Or had she merely forced my mind to repress it? I had only one option, and I dreaded it beyond belief. It may be my riskiest move ever.

  Father could help me. I opened my door and he magically appeared.

  “I’m sorry for eavesdropping, Honey, but I was worried about you.”

  “Dad, I need a milligram of serotonin from those mushrooms you’ve cultured.”

  I lay on a table like the one where I’d gotten pregnant, my mother in her lab coat this time preparing a different sort of injection into my body. She’d objected, but I needed my memory back, if for no other reason than to foil Sera’s intentions whatever they might be. Certainly, the mystery of Albert’s dream-block needed to be resolved.

  I fought off images of purple bathwater saturated with the chemical, a small portion of which was about to enter my bloodstream. Only Sera could synthesize a large enough quantity of serotonin for me to bathe in. I bit my lip to keep from crying out as a jackhammer loosened memories long ago secluded to its absolute limit, Mother holding me as an infant and Sera’s words, This one we’ll call Ariel, followed by my mother’s timid voice, Not Jessica?

  I worked my focus toward a blur somewhere between meeting the new neighbor kid and Mother giving me a silver cross. My life during that period came apart like fractals, each segment a near repeat of the whole experience. Dreading I may have opened alternate universes, I began to back away when a tiny chip loomed. All eleven entries of my journal appeared as a rote memory, and I clearly recognized each incident. A cloud seemed to form over my mental vision and I feared the worst, becoming comatose. I flashed my journal exp
erience to my computer and lost consciousness.

  I sensed my father, not my mother, peering over the laboratory table when the fog lifted. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, searching for the episode that no longer remained in my conscious memory, until tiny fingers pried my eyelids open. I willed my arms to hug my daughter, but as in Sera’s closet, I couldn’t move. It wasn’t her hologram this time that had stolen my movement. I didn’t care. I hadn’t become comatose.

  “Are you awake?” Dad’s voice never sounded so sweet.

  “Yes, but the memory I sought disappeared.”

  “Your mother has it on the monitor up in your room. She’s there right now unscrambling some of the words. We never realized you had a latent form of dyslexia.”

  I’d never felt so violated. “Dad, you’ve got to stop her.”

  He scooped me over his shoulder with one arm and clutched Cleopatra in the other. We rode the lift to the main level, rushed through the commissary, and dashed across the hall to our apartment. Mother sat at my desk, a highlighted paragraph of my journal spewed across my ceiling monitor.

  I screamed, “Don’t delete it.”

  She hesitated, her finger held above the keyboard.

  “Don’t do it, Martha.” Dad settled my limp body onto my bed. “For God’s sake, don’t destroy your daughter’s memory.”