He immediately had I.C.C. put him in touch with the manufacturing department. “You want to do what with the SD storage theory?”
“We want to let the convoy at large know about it,” said Nakamura.
“It’s too soon,” he said. “It’s only an idea—we haven’t even devised a proper test for it yet. We don’t have experiments, let alone results.”
“But that’s more than we’ve had in years. This is about morale. Captain Nwosu approached me with the idea, and I think it’s a good one. It shows a shift in thinking, and in turn will give a sense of progress to those who aren’t in engineering. Sometimes it’s difficult to see why a biologist on Eden can’t get excited about a new alloy, but those kinds of baby steps aren’t impressive to most individuals outside the field. It’s like when they came up with those beans that had two percent more protein—we thought it was neat for two seconds, then forgot about it, right? But we’re not out here so they can cultivate better beans, we’re out here to build an alien machine, and we’re a substantial step closer now. Everyone else needs to be just as excited by the developments as we are.”
“Oh, now, come on,” he said. “We’re all intelligent here. We’re all scientists in one sense or another. The crew doesn’t need premature conclusions in order to feel connected to the processes.”
“Intellectually, they don’t,” she agreed. “Emotionally, they do.”
“It sounds like I won’t change your mind.”
“You won’t. I’m going to go to the board,” she said, “and suggest you be celebrated in a public ceremony.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“They used to have prizes back on Earth for this kind of thing.”
“For discoveries,” he corrected. “Not supposition. Solid research. We’re years away from confirming or denying these theories.”
“And when we reach that point, we’ll have a whole ’nother reason to get the public excited.”
“When the board asks you how I feel about this, I want you to be absolutely clear with them—I think it’s a bad idea.”
A week later, the board informed him they thought it a marvelous idea. And as soon as they announced he would be given a public honor, Toya turned up at Jamal’s door. It had been months since they’d last spoken. When the knock came, he’d been reading—Dickens, appropriately enough—and still had the book in hand when he answered.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, cutting off his hello. Her uniform was crisp, but her hair was rather wild—bits sticking out haphazardly from her bun.
He motioned for her to come inside, keeping his expression stoic. Being mad at her would be too easy. Instead, he was blank at her—which he supposed wasn’t much better, but at least it was something in the right direction.
“I don’t know which I should do first,” she said, flitting around the room like an Eden butterfly. “Congratulate you or beg your forgiveness.”
Please don’t do either, he thought.
“Instead of taking care of you when you needed help, I let my own selfish fears get in the way.” Toya was overflowing with sisterly pride.
“How’s married life?” he asked, glad about his initial reaction to her showing up. Truth was, he didn’t buy her apology. Looking at her, hearing her, it was clear she didn’t actually feel selfish, didn’t think she was in the wrong. She just wanted back in his good graces now that the convoy thought him worth cheering.
“Good,” she said with a smile and a nod. “My prewedding jitters settled down, and now I’m good.” Her eyes scanned the room a little more, until—finally—she looked into his. “Look . . . I know it’s not nice of me to stumble in unannounced like this. And I know I’ve been horrible. I just thought it had been too long since I said I love you.” She kissed him on the forehead and squeezed his hand. “I’ll get out of your hair now. I’ll see you at your ceremony.”
“Our ceremony,” he whispered as the door closed behind her, but Three and Five weren’t there to hear. He looked at the musty book in his hand, then tossed it on the futon. Best of times and worst of times, indeed.
Screw it, Jamal decided, one week before the ceremony. He’d tried to respect Toya’s wishes, but doing so hadn’t made them any closer. She’d still kept her distance until she’d decided they should reunite. Which is when he finally understood: her feelings were not more important than his. Whatever he was going through, neurologically, it was his to deal with as he saw fit. No one else got to make that call. The crew’s comfort was not more important than his. Why should he have to carry their emotional burdens? Why did he pose an emotional burden at all? Just because his mind worked differently, that didn’t mean it worked worse.
“I.C.C.,” Jamal said in his darkened quarters. Three and Five weren’t around, but he still enjoyed sitting in the dark, listening to himself breathe. It was the sound of life. “I need a friend. I need you.”
“What can I do for you, Jamal?”
He laid out the theories he’d discussed with his predecessors. About signal reverberations, the possibility of brain wave residue and the like. “I need to know how they came to be. If it’s something that can be known.”
“Your very own noumenon,” I.C.C. said.
Exactly. “Yes.”
“Then I need all of the information,” I.C.C. said. “I need to know the precise moment when you began having . . . visitors. And I’d like you to set up an appointment at Hippocrates to have a brain scan.”
“I’ve had more CAT scans than I can—”
“No,” the computer interrupted. “I’d like you to schedule full brain mapping. Neuron location with digital webbing. I have what you would call a hunch.”
“What do you mean?”
The computer sounded far away when it spoke next. “At the time of your . . . visitors’—” Jamal wasn’t sure he appreciated the way I.C.C. made the word lag “—first appearance, we were in a scheduled SD dive for drive maintenance. I contact the drive AI to initiate regular dives, for moments at a time, to ensure all systems are still functional.”
“Sure.”
“During that particular dive, there was an incident.”
“I don’t remember any problems.”
“They were imperceptible to the crew. But the records are there, you can review them if need be. The SD bubble suffered a small, let’s call it a thinning, while we were submerged. It wasn’t a tear, exactly. But the protective film was momentarily weakened. There was a spike in the creation of virtual particles for point-zero-zero-seven-six seconds.”
“So?”
“At the same time, I was reminiscing.”
“You do that?”
“Often. I was reviewing archived footage of your line. Reexperiencing key moments in convoy history related to Jamal Kaeden clones.”
Jamal swallowed dryly. “You were thinking about Jamal Kaeden the Third and Jamal Kaeden the Fifth when they appeared?”
“It would seem so.”
Jamal dashed over to the light switch, illuminating the room swiftly, seeking out I.C.C.’s camera. “Why do you want to map my brain?”
“To compare it to my own artificial neural network. I am beginning to suspect these images in your mind are not hallucinations created solely by your brain. I fear I may have helped.”
“My nano-neurons—a misnomer, as they are smaller than human neurons—are laid out in patterns resembling human neurons, except that my servers contain several orders of magnitude more neurons than a human brain.”
“Okay,” Jamal said, staring at the wall screen in his office, scratching his chin. “But what am I looking at?”
There were millions of points of light on the image, representing one portion of I.C.C.’s artificial neural network. Beside that image, another. This one of Jamal’s recent detailed brain mapping.
I.C.C. stripped away all information from the brain’s image, save small red dots representing neurons. It then overlaid the two images.
Jamal’s eyes went wide. He reached a han
d forward, groping at the screen. “It’s a match.” Most of the overlay was different, but there were portions of the frontal lobe that fit perfectly.
“Nearly,” I.C.C. said. “Portions of this section of my network are identical to eighty-seven percent of your neural pathways in this specific part of your brain. The artificial patterns may have always been here, or they may have been created when I was restored after the revolt—when I nearly died. It could be someone’s homage to the original Jamal Kaeden, I don’t know.”
“But how can that be? Even if part of your network were based on my original’s, the human brain is incredibly plastic. Because Jamal the First’s experiences and my experiences are totally different, our brains should have grown differently in response. Which means the odds that you and I would have such an overlap should be astronomical.”
“Very true. And yet astronomical does not equal impossible. Your frontal lobe has naturally developed to remarkably resemble one of your clone ancestor’s. In turn, it happens that a portion of my neural network resembles the same. Our matching physical properties, plus my thought patterns during the virtual particle surge, plus the particles themselves, plus the weakening of the SD bubble, could have all come together to create some kind of, if you’ll pardon the expression, perfect storm. It is possible that our ‘minds’—in a sense—are resonating. Sharing energies. The fact that I cannot detect these energies troubles me, though. I wonder if it was siphoned out of the SD. I wonder if . . .”
“If we don’t fully understand SDs after all.”
“Yes. But what worries me the most are your visitors. When things resonate in physics, sometimes they break. Hallucinations are not always unhealthy, but they can be a sign of physical degradation.”
“I still don’t think they’re hallucinations,” Jamal said. “Not in the traditional sense. If you’re right, and we’ve created them—you and I, together—then they may not be my literal ancestors back from the grave, but they are real. They exist.”
“I cannot say that they do,” I.C.C. countered. “At best, I concede that they may be subliminal thought patterns that your mind does not know how to interpret, so it has created these visuals as a grounding point. If my processes are interfering with your mind, giving you information you did not consciously access—”
“I.C.C.,” Jamal said softly. “I don’t care. You’ve given me a why, even if it’s only a theory. Just like the damn thing they want to give me an award for. And I get it now. A theory is something, it’s a start. I can hold on to it.”
“I think we should continue to study this phenomenon,” I.C.C. said.
“If you can’t measure it,” Jamal said, “then it’s a noumenon. A truth you can’t get to. You only have five more years before I retire. Think you can reclassify it before then?”
“With your permission, I shall try.”
The board decided to present Jamal with a medal and everything. The event was held in the belly of Slicer and broadcasted convoy-wide.
Jamal felt two inches tall. He stood behind a raised platform that sat near the Nest, waiting for his cue. None of this seemed right. Not only was the announcement premature, it wasn’t even his discovery. But he couldn’t admit that—then they’d all want to know who they could look to, who they could thank and honor. Who they could pin a medal to.
And he certainly couldn’t tell them the truth.
Jamal was instructed to mount the platform with Captain Nwosu, which he did without trying to show too much reluctance.
The live audience was modestly sized, mostly consisting of engineers on shift. Toya and her husband stood near the back. She waved when she caught his eye.
“Today we recognize an esteemed member of our crew,” Nwosu began, medal in hand. He detailed Jamal’s theory, and what it would mean to future generations of the convoy.
“Pretty spiffy setup,” said Three, standing at Jamal’s right elbow. “Will there be cake and ice cream, too?” His tone wavered between obvious sarcasm and genuine appreciation.
Five stood at the base of the platform, looking up at Jamal. “You’re doing great, keep that smile strong,” he said. “I bet you’re sweating bullets, am I right? I mean, no one can see me and I’d still rather be down here than up there. All those eyes . . . staring at one thing . . . you.”
Jamal frowned momentarily.
“Ah-ah, keep it up,” Five said.
Captain Nwosu leaned over and looped the medal’s ribbon around Jamal’s neck. It hung like an anchor, dragging him toward a murky bottom in his own mind—a silty place where the truth was buried to save face.
So what if it was I.C.C. and not Three and Five? It still wasn’t just him. It wasn’t his discovery alone. It felt disingenuous to state otherwise.
The medal was nothing like those the athletes of old had worn—it was not shiny, or emblazoned with insignias of achievement. It was simple and gunmetal gray. Deep scoring was its only decorative aspect. It seemed the right type of award with which to honor this achievement.
It had simply been slung around the wrong neck.
“Doctor Kaeden, would you care to say a few words?” the captain asked, stepping aside to let Jamal take center stage.
Jamal looked out at Toya. Her face shone with delight. He was glad he’d been able to make her happy, if only for a moment. But he didn’t want to live like she did—fearing that the truth would push loved ones away. Family was about acceptance.
“Thank you, everyone,” he said, doing his best to project. “Thank you for honoring science and discovery. Thank you for honoring knowledge. But I can’t take credit for this particular development. I had help.”
The crowed grinned, assuming him modest. Toya’s smile faltered.
“Yes, my team was a great inspiration. But if it wasn’t for two men in particular, I would not be standing here today.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Five.
“He’s right,” Three hissed in Jamal’s ear. “This is not a truth shall set you free moment. We don’t care if you take the credit, but they do.”
“I know,” Jamal said, loud and clear, turning to face Three.
Five dropped his head into his hands. “Aaaaand, he’s officially popped his hinges.”
Addressing the audience once more, his confidence blazing like a star, Jamal said, “I have been aided these past few years by two of my ancestors, Jamal Kaeden the Third and Jamal Kaeden the Fifth. Their knowledge made the discovery of the stable SD storage bubble possible.”
A few more smiles wavered. Toya’s slid off her face like a hand through a grease slick, but it wasn’t replaced with mortification. Nor sympathy. No, her expression was something he’d never seen on her before.
“Some of you may think I’m speaking metaphorically,” he said with a laugh. “I’m not. These two men are here with me today, but you cannot see them. I do, however, have proof that they exist.”
“Say what?” asked Three.
“I.C.C. holds that proof,” said Jamal.
“I do not know if it is proof of a visitation,” said I.C.C. out of the blue, as though it had been waiting for this moment. “But I have evidence suggesting that it is highly improbable the current Doctor Kaeden could have reached his conclusions on his own. There might have been . . . interference.”
Jamal was fine with it relating its theories, about unnamed energies and resonance and the lot. But the AI hesitated. It wasn’t ready to make outlandish declarations to the crew. Clearly it would leave that to Jamal. It could, however, discuss the rationale behind its assertion. Still, it let a beat pass before explaining further. “Doctor Kaeden has never seen, nor had described to him, the damage incurred to the first iteration of the ship Bottomless during the year 121 PLD. His lack of prior knowledge makes his comparison of that incident to the incident that occurred in the additive manufacturing division illogical.”
“Illogical does not equate impossible,” said Nakamura from her place near the stage, an uncomfortable laugh coloring
her tone.
“Not if his comparison was part of a systematic study. But it was not.” I.C.C. went quiet. When a voice issued again from the comms system, Jamal recognized it as his own.
“. . . I’ve had access, but I’ve never seen the wreckage. You’re saying the implosion patterns are the same? That the damage in manufacturing looked identical to the damage on Bottomless? I.C.C.? Will you please bring up all files related to the decommissioning of Bottomless?”
The clip ended, and I.C.C. spoke again. “That is the first record I have of Dr. Kaeden comparing the two events.”
“Who was he speaking to?” asked Nakamura.
“No one. My scans revealed him to be the only human in the room, and he was not communicating with anyone outside the room.”
“I was speaking to my ancestors,” Jamal said firmly. “I believe they’re all here with us, in some capacity. I don’t know how, precisely, and I don’t know why, yet. But I do know that they helped me. And it doesn’t matter if you all think I’ve lost my mind—I know they’re a real, unimagined part of my life. So, you see, today does not belong to me. It belongs to all of us. Those who came before, those of us who live now, and those who will be born tomorrow.”
He stepped back, and the crowd began to mumble, then rumble, then shout. Some were afraid, some were skeptical, some were angry. Most, though, were confused.
None of it mattered to Jamal. Perhaps this was his great, everlasting contribution to the universe. Or at least, to the convoy. He’d admitted tapping into something foreign and ethereal. Something science hadn’t had a chance to touch yet.
Toya ran through the bickering group until she reached her brother. Jamal held up a finger, afraid of what she’d say. “Not right now,” Jamal ordered. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m not getting help because there’s nothing wrong with me. We all have to find our own truth.”
She smacked his hand down, firmly but not violently. “I don’t care about that. It doesn’t matter how you did it,” she said imploringly. “Figured out the problem, I mean. It’s your business. And I don’t care what the rest of the convoy will think of me or you—not anymore. I meant what I said earlier. I love you. And . . . I’m proud of you. The rest is immaterial.”
Noumenon Infinity Page 25
