by Baen Books
"You were telling us about AB.6," he prompts. "You're in orbit now and there was some reason you couldn't send us pictures. Something about the ship's cameras?"
"Not functioning," I say. My throat clenches and avatar-Natasha brushes her neck without me directing it to do so.
"But you've deployed the probes."
"My communication with them is down. I have to wait for their return."
"Damage during the journey?"
"Diagnostics tell me it's not a physical problem." Avatar-Natasha runs her hand over her throat again, as if trying to remove something that's not there. Get a grip.
The faces in the crowd are all too young to be anyone I know. They stare up at their screens with rapt attention. No one seems to have noticed that my cartoon avatar has a nervous tick.
"Care to explain in more detail?" Cook says.
"Can I talk to Howard?" My voice comes out sounding too high pitched.
Cook glances at the people around him for clues. "Howard?" He shifts from foot to foot and reads something on his palm. "Howard Vine? The lead compu-psychologist in your training?"
The uniformed woman at his side turns and addresses the crowd. "Can we clear the room of all non-essential personnel, please?"
In the minute it takes the people to file out I run through video files of hang-gliding to calm my nerves.
Cook straightens his uniform and speaks slowly, as if I'm a nut job. "Natasha, you understand you slept fifty-two years, right?"
I go through my defensive excuses in nanoseconds, discard the childish ones and settle on the mature response. "Actually the compu-psychological team might be of some help."
Cook nods to the woman in the business suit who steps forward. "Hi Natasha, I'm Dr. Najim, the lead psychologist for your team and a theoretical compu-psychologist."
I get her caught up on the basics, trying not to sound too crazy: the panic when I awoke, the choking sensation, the problems communicating with the Little Guys.
She stares at my avatar.
My avatar clears her throat. "This problem can't be new to you. Sure, the technology was cutting edge when I left but—"
"Uploading was banned over forty years ago. This was for political reasons, not because there was something wrong with the technology, Natasha. A problem like the one you describe was never reported. Before the ban, we had scientists volunteer to have themselves copied for upload and sent on space missions within our solar system, and others who were shut off for long periods of time, as you were. None have reported problems."
"What are you saying?" Cook asks.
"I don't know how to help," she says.
I stood at our dining table back home in Phoenix, with friends crowding around me as I prepared to blow out six tall candles on a princess cake. Mom's perfume made my eyes water and I felt her close behind me, leading everyone's singing in her off-key way. Dad stood across from me, taking pictures with his phone and grinning like a fool. Matthew James looked at me with sad eyes and I wondered why. I wore a pink frilly dress that I had always loved before, but now in the memory it feels wrong, and my cheeks flush in embarrassment.
On the real day I didn't dislike the dress, did I? I wore it for years afterward. The others at the party must see that I look ridiculous wearing this. They'll make fun of me for being a girl.
No one seems to notice.
AB.6 is a thing of beauty. The first pictures from the Little Guys show all whites and blues and a deep purple I can't help but speculate is plant life. Its atmosphere is eighty percent nitrogen and nineteen percent oxygen. The surface temperatures estimated in fifty locations ranged between negative twenty Celsius near the winter pole and a max of positive forty. It's roughly three-quarters the size of Earth, with slightly more land mass. It is, in other words, just right.
I call it Goldilocks.
"So how ya feeling?" Whitaker asks with his deep, ninety-year-old vibrato. He's a colleague from my team back before takeoff and the only person I've met who was alive when I lived on Earth. His sagging eyes water with thinly-veiled emotion at being allowed the visit. I didn't anticipate how good it would feel to see someone I know, even someone I didn't know well. I've wondered about the other Natasha, how she's doing and if she'd be able to tell me what's wrong with my memories.
Despite the tears, there's laughter in Whitaker's eyes and in those around him. Everyone is in a better mood today after the news about Goldilocks.
I smile. "I'm ready to get out of this metal box and down to that damn fine planet."
More chuckles.
Dr. Najim says, "All in due time. Protocol, after all."
While I have the ability to run the mission on my own, protocol dictates that Mission Control authorizes the landing. They say they're waiting for the Little Guys to finish their flybys and perform preliminary safety tests, find a suitable landing site, what have you. Easy for them to say. They're not suffocating in this box.
I send over a friendly but exasperated expression.
"Follow your heart, kiddo," Whitaker says.
Dr. Najim shoots him a look.
"She's anxious to get down there, of course," he says.
"I'd prefer if you didn't refer to me as 'she' actually," I say.
"Pardon?" Najim asks.
I don't want to tell them it feels like nails on a chalkboard being referred to as the wrong gender so I say, "I'm a machine. 'It' is more accurate."
UASA folks try to usher Whitaker away, but he plants his feet and grips the armrests of his chair.
Dr. Najim looks at the others, opens her mouth, and closes it again. "Okay? If that makes you more comfortable, we'd be happy to refer to you as an 'it' rather than a 'she." She nods slowly and leans back from the camera as if trying to distance herself while she thinks things through.
I couldn't care less if I confused them, I just want out of this ship and down on the planet. They sent a computer out to space and a computer is what they're going to get. Maybe they'll authorize my trip sooner.
On the southeast hemisphere of Goldilocks there's this mountain range that puts the Himalayas to shame. The desert that stretches out on its leeward side ends with rolling violet plains. Beyond that is the planet's equivalent of a forest, with white-barked trees and brilliantly hued leaves the size and shape of dinner plates. These same trees, a taller variety with pink leaves rather than purple, are also found on a continent five thousand kilometers to the north.
I revel in every new piece of information the Little Guys bring back. Their high-res telescopic cameras take detailed pictures from orbit, but I'm itching to get down there and see it for myself, analyze the air and determine if it's truly habitable for a human colony.
There's no evidence of animal life yet, but the place teems with plant-like organisms. Xenobiology was my first PhD and remains my passion. I've found my landing site without Mission Control's help—a high plain on the edge of several ecosystems. Nearing the ocean is a cliff that must be three thousand feet high with incredible rock formations at its base.
It's been weeks and they still won't authorize my landing. In that time I've gleaned clues about Earth they neglected to send me in the official updates. Parts of the planet are in turmoil. The Indian Space Agency sent generation ships this direction in the blind hope habitable planets would be found. With their speeds I won't get visitors for decades, but I might create the groundwork to save their lives.
I enter my landing site into the ship's navigation.
I reboot and try again.
Yes, yes. I know.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
I ping Mission Control and tweak my avatar, trying to get the look right while I wait. The screens come into view and a young guy in a UASA uniform sits in front of me.
"I'm ready to land and start my analysis of the surface," I say. "I need you to resend
me the ship's landing authorization."
"Resend?" he asks. "Um. Can you give me a minute? It's 2:00 a.m."
"Yes, of course."
Dr. Najim shows up an hour later wearing another one of her business suits. She sits ironing-board straight with her legs together and her hands folded in her lap. "You've changed your avatar."
The old one didn't feel right anymore. "I needed a change."
"You've changed your gender. And your race."
"Well, I'm not any gender or any race now am I?"
"How do you feel about this change?"
"It's just a picture." Honestly this new one isn't right either, but I wouldn't tell her that.
"I can't help but notice that you've changed yourself to a white male. I feel there's some significance to that." When I don't answer she says, "I hear you requested landing authorizations?"
"Yes. I've had enough waiting, I want to get down to the surface." And out of this damn capsule, I refrain from saying.
"I understand," she says. "But let's get a few of these kinks worked out first. We don't want to risk unintentional damage in case anything goes wrong due to your—" She rethinks her word choice. "—processing problem."
"Then help me with my problem. What's wrong with me? Some hitch during boot-up? I was fine one second, I switched off for space flight, and then I woke up feeling like I'd been buried alive. Why am I suddenly afraid of being in space when I've loved it my whole life?"
She sighs. "This development is unprecedented. The rare issues with the other uploads were immediately evident, not weeks after. Your initial testing looked great, that's the reason you were selected."
"Listen," I say. "You've got colonists on their way who need to know if they've got a safe place to land. What you need is a probe on the ground, you need me down there."
Dr. Najim nods, but before she has a chance to say something I cut in.
"You can't give me this responsibility," I say and am not sure why I said it.
"But you just said you want to go down there."
"I'm not talking about that responsibility. I'm talking about the other one."
"What other one?"
"I don't know!"
I restart.
When the video feed comes back Dr. Najim still sits in the same place. I wasn't gone long.
"Natasha Washington might help," I say. "I want to talk to her."
"That's you," she says as if I didn't know that.
"No, the other one. The human one who used to be me. She's alive right? Is she senile?"
Dr. Najim shakes her head. "Oh no, I'm not supposed to talk to you about your other self. That was one of the foundational rules of uploading. It's best that two distinct individuals are formed."
She seems to think it over.
"Listen," she says, lowering her voice. "I will tell you that she's alive and she's not senile, but there's no way you're talking to her."
"She could help me figure out what's wrong," I say. "She's me." But sane.
I sat on our neighbor's couch, playing a game on my phone while the baby slept upstairs. I slipped into my least favorite memory on purpose this time. There's something distinctly wrong with it, I just can't figure out what.
"Baby Sophia is up there right now." Matthew James stood at the foot of the stairs in his favorite airplane shirt. "Can we go check on her? I can't go up there by myself."
My phone screen showed I'd hit a new high score so I smiled and checked my watch. Sophia's parents would be home soon.
Matthew James ran to me. "Go up there and check on her," he yelled. "How are you supposed to take care of me if you can't take care of one little baby?"
I ignored him. The hand gripping my phantom throat squeezes like a vice-grip while the thirteen-year-old me continued breathing normally.
Her parents arrived home carrying the whiff of Chinese-food takeout. Sophia's dad paid me while her mom went up to check on her. Matthew James slammed his hands over his ears as Sophia's mother screamed.
"She's not breathing! She's not breathing!"
Another day in orbit, stuck in the capsule with my sensors going off as if I'm being crawled on by a thousand ants. I'm trying to figure out the piece I'm missing by playing through a memory, one where I'm an adult for once. I was accepting my degree in an outdoor graduation and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. I looked out over the crowd at my smiling family—Mom, Dad, and ten-year-old Matthew James. As the shadows draw in, something clicks in my brain, something important that's just out of reach. A ping from the Beacon brings me out of the memory.
It's like a whack to the head. My processors fire warnings. A quick sweep of the data packet tells me not to download it.
It's from Mission Control. I know what this means: a remote wipe and reload.
They decided to wipe me clean and upload the probe with some kind of AI to finish their job. They're trying to get rid of me. It's a risky move, one that could leave them with a hunk of metal and nothing else. I'm equipped for attacks like this. Of course I am, couldn't have a terrorist organization or rival government hijacking the mission's most important resource.
When my head clears I send them a single message: "It's not going to work, assholes."
I cut off communication and scramble for clues on how to fix myself. If they try that again and I have a malfunction they could get through my defenses. Cutting off the Beacon relay is an option—they can't wipe my processors clean and load the probe with AI if the Beacon shuts off.
Hours later, when I'm confident I'll hold for now, I reconnect to the Beacon and send a message.
"Let me talk to the human Natasha. Get her there today or I'm cutting off communication permanently."
They're fast, I'll give them that. Two hours later I watch my former self, now eighty-six, walk into Mission Control. Her hair has gone white and she's shrunk in her old age, but she still walks tall. She sits down with a huff, looks up at my avatar and raises an eyebrow.
"Why do you look like that?" Her voice sounds deep and crackly, as if she's smoked the last fifty years of her life. "You sure you're me?"
"The avatar is there so you have someone to talk to," I say.
"Well, I know that. It just doesn't look like any face I'd have wanted."
That shouldn't sting. I shouldn't care what she thinks. "I need to ask you about the night Sophia died."
Her brows furrow and her face blanches. "You really must be screwed in the head. I haven't thought about her in fifty years."
What a load of bull. "It doesn't bother you?"
"Nope."
"Tell me, have you had any children?"
She shakes her head, looks away and waves her hand dismissively. "Nothing to do with Sophia."
"No kids, fine. Ever had a dog? Or a cat? A fish? Been responsible for any living thing but yourself?"
The other Natasha's shoulders sag.
"If you could just help me understand why things happened like they did," I say. "The night Sophia died, why didn't we go check on her?"
"She died of SIDS," the old Natasha says, raising her voice. "Did you expect us to check on her every two minutes?"
"But when we were downstairs Matthew James told us to—"
"What? Who the hell is Matthew James?"
I study her face for signs she's not serious. Maybe she's senile after all. "Matthew James. Our ten-year-old brother." As I hear it I realize "brother" doesn't fit.
She looks up at me on the screen and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. "Matthew James. Matthew James." Finally, she smiles. "Matthew James Whitaker!"
My non-existent gut wrenches.
She fumbles on reading glasses and types into the palm of her hand. When she's found what she's looking for, she leans on the console to pull herself to her feet and reads, "Matthew James Whitaker, son of lead computer scientist Michael Whitaker. Died of cancer at age eleven." She peers at me over her glasses. "Six months after you
r departure."
On the recording, Whitaker sits in front of the camera, tears streaming down his deeply lined face. Uniformed officers stand on each side of him and Commander Cook stands with his back to the camera, arms folded.
"It worked," Whitaker says, unable to conceal a smile.
It all happened within a matter of hours after Natasha and I talked. Ninety-year-old Dr. Michael Whitaker was arrested for treason for sabotaging the mission. The other Natasha made sure they sent me the footage of Whitaker's confession upon his arrest. I watched as he broke into tears when he explained how the week before takeoff to Alpha Centauri he'd sneaked his lab equipment home to his young son for the scans. How after I was shut off he added the additional upload to the probe, figuring all he had to do was avoid being caught for the few hours before takeoff and then it'd be too late to do anything about it.
I study his face on the video and see how after all these years the wounds of his child's death haven't left him. He looks at the camera, seemingly at me. His voice falters as he says, "I gave him the stars."
I get a ping from Mission Control and pause the video.
My visual feed kicks in and Commander Cook and Dr. Najim stand behind the other Natasha, who sits in one of the leather chairs. All three smile.
"We have good news," Commander Cook says. "We think we can fix you without a complete wipe."
I send a wary smile to my androgynous avatar.
He puts a hand on the elderly Natasha's shoulder, as if he wants the next bit of information coming from her.
She clears her throat. "Your mind-construct wasn't designed for an additional upload. It doesn't know where you end and it begins."
I nod.
She smiles reassuringly. "The computer scientists believe they can restore you from your backup. You'll have no memory past prepping for takeoff, but I think you'll be happy to have these dark days behind you." She leans forward. "If you give Mission Control access, they can scrub the unauthorized upload."
