Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: #Anthologies, #Science Fiction, #Anthologies & Short Stories, #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy
After ten minutes I finally tapped the button and spoke—in TransCom, so that the people who might recover the recording would understand.
"My name is Miroslaw Jaworski. I might be the only survivor to have escaped the destruction of planet Earth. If you are viewing this message, it means that I am dead. If it's not too much trouble, I'd like somebody to put up a placard somewhere, for myself and my family."
I slowly repeated the full names of my sister, mother, and father, as well as my grandparents, and several extended family who had been alive when the antimatter bombs wiped out the Earth. It seemed like a good idea to include them, since we were all victims and I wanted our lives to be remembered somewhere, by somebody.
"I don't really care what happens after that. Tabitha and Howard Marshall are entombed on the other side of this facility, and I think they should stay there. My body, and the entire contents of this observatory, are yours to do with as you see fit.
"Out."
I punched the stop key, made sure the file replicated through my crude daisy chain of stand-alone workstations, then stood up and walked to the recording room, where I slowly shut the door, set up the IV system—I'd need fluid put into me during the process, or I'd dehydrate to death before recording was complete—then sat in the recorder's attached chair.
The recorder "crown"—which is how I'd come to think of it—was poised just centimeters above my skull. I'd detached the activator toggle from the control station and put it on a cable that allowed me to hold the toggle in my hand.
I thought about how Howard had once had to do this, with only Tab to monitor his progress.
Swallowing hard, I flipped the toggle with my thumb.
And the universe vanished into a swirl of sounds and color.
Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. One moment I was bathed in an endless sea of shifting and chaotic images—sounds echoing across the cosmos from one side of my mind to the other—and the next moment I seemed to snap back to a state of utterly cold and solid reality.
Only I was seeing the observatory through at least fifty different eyes, and hearing with fifty different ears, and I couldn't blink or turn off the input. So I was trying to scream, but that just made things worse because my scream bellowed from fifty different speakers, which overloaded fifty different microphones. Within my head a feedback squeal like a migraine peeled across my consciousness.
It was Howard who saved me. Or, rather, his memories.
On the chance that I'd be able to access what was left of Howard's intellect, I'd networked his old arrays in a cluster adjacent to the main set of blanks I'd set up for myself. In desperate panic, I mentally reached for Howard, and felt a quick jolt of information flow across the link. Suddenly I was on solid mental ground again, my field of vision rapidly narrowed to one camera view, and my ability to hear narrowed down to a single, neutered computer voice that simply said, "Command access granted, Mirek. Awaiting further instructions."
The system knew my name.
I'd made it.
Only, I couldn't feel excited about that. Intellectually, I think I was relieved. But the glandular
feeling
of satisfaction, of triumph, that should have been mine, was absent. All that remained was the coolness of pure, rapid thought. Thought so fast, I felt staggered by the implications. And capability. No mathematical calculation ever need be beyond my grasp again. The moment I could conceive of a problem, the answer was in my mind at the same instant. Memory recall proved similarly rapid, and I took a few moments to ponder this reality, which brought on a further jolt of data from Howard's banks, which were actively integrating with my own, now that they had a reliable cerebral matrix to map to.
It took me only a few minutes to master the network, and another few to access and test all the remaining, functional systems in the observatory.
At once, it became obvious how sloppy and haphazard I'd been. Total facility efficiency was down to 42 percent, with a list of yellow, orange, and red-lined items stretching into the hundreds. While I scanned and prioritized, I received continual jolts of data from Howard's arrays. One moment, I'd be wondering how to fix a certain problem. The next, the knowledge would be there, as if it had always been, as if I'd done it a hundred times before.
Though his personality was barely perceptible in the data, like a tiny aftertaste on the tongue, Howard was still, for all intents and purposes, gone. I sent numerous mental thank-yous to the man's memory, then made ready to depart the buoy, and begin the downhill leg of my journey towards the Outbound.
One thing about being a computerized mind: I could make time go as fast or as slow as I wanted to. Weeks and months evaporated in a blink while I made necessary fixes to reactors and set up a schedule to ration the fuel supply, all the while thrusting gently up the relative velocity curve, being careful to have more than enough fuel left over at the endpoint for braking. I had no idea what might be waiting for me there, but I knew it'd probably be bad manners to go speeding past the Outbounders like a semi that's lost its brakes on a steep hill.
I turned my radios forward and began gently peppering my flight path with greetings for whoever it was that would meet me.
I suppose there was always a chance that nobody would meet me, and that the buoy, for all its promise, could have been a deception, or even a relic from an effort that had since failed. But my computer-dictated intellect didn't have the capacity for real fear. Such strong emotion, I found, was purely a residual memory—like a stimulus response, now delayed. I knew I should be afraid, but this was largely a past-tense knowledge, and did not affect my overall progress, or my determination to reach my goal.
What happened when I got there . . . Well, I purposely tried not to wonder about that. What use would the Outbound have for a computer mind like me? It wasn't like I could just put myself back into my own head again. Nor, I began to think, would I want to. The expanded capacity of the neural arrays was almost intoxicating, and after a couple of years had passed I suspected that if ever I had to be restricted again to one set of eyes, one set of ears, one set of senses, I might feel so claustrophobic about the whole affair, I'd go mad.
With the main telescope mostly wrecked, I deployed the backup and used my idle cycles to scan and chart the narrow sliver of the Kuiper Belt through which I passed.
It really was amazing to see so much debris in an area of space that most humans still thought of as empty, even up to and through the twenty-second century. Only the Outbound had had the forethought to see this region for what it truly was: a refuge from the catastrophes that were sure to strike the planets of the solar system—be they comets or asteroids, intense solar flares, or as had actually happened, the competitive stupidity of humanity itself.
Out in the Kuiper Belt, there was room enough to get lost. Like a hermit penetrating deep into the wild, seeking resources enough to survive and distance enough to avoid the madness of other people.
I found two more buoys, each with a similar message to the first.
My antimatter fuel passed the point of no return, making it totally impossible to go back to the Jovian region of space. But I paid little attention. I was Outbound now, and there would never be any going back.
Another decade's worth of time elapsed in surreal ease, and at the end of that, another micrometeoroid shower hit. But I'd secured the vital systems before putting myself into the computer, and the effort paid off. Nothing important was damaged, though the hydroponics and other life support systems would never operate again—too many micro-holes.
I wondered why my messages, which I had been casting ahead of me like rocks across a pond, garnered no response.
Maybe that was just the nature of being Outbound—never reveal yourself until it's absolutely necessary.
At the twenty-ninth year since leaving Jupiter, I should have felt excited and nervous with anticipation.
I felt only lingering ghosts.
I never saw the other ship.
One moment I was alone in space. The next moment a fifty-meter-wide wedge was matching course and speed—which was no small feat.
I politely lobbed radio hellos at the wedge, anticipating a reply. But all the wedge did was spit out a dozen, tinier wedges, each of which fell on the observatory like fleas on the ass of a fresh dog, and suddenly I was struck by the notion that I'd been baited into a colossal trap.
Each of the small wedges touched down and disgorged a series of spider-like drones that began scrambling into the observatory's interior, cutting through metal and rock as easily as a hot knife through butter.
My hello calls became pressed, and then frantic. The spiders blindly ignored my efforts and sped towards the hole where I'd stashed the memory arrays. My cameras and other senses followed them, and I'd have screamed if I'd still felt the kind of visceral panic necessary.
I remember one last camera view, overlooking the arrays. I watched a spider that climbed on top of my databanks, hungrily rubbing together its claw-tipped forelegs, then I sensed my mind fissioning into separate parts—which seemed like the worst kind of insanity imaginable—then merciful blackness.
Reactivation was bothersome, because they wouldn't let me see, hear, or sense anything. Not at first. All I got was the
impression
that someone needed me to be patient, so I waited, tasting the quality of my thoughts and finding them . . . truncated. Limited. The absolute speed and precision of the observatory's databanks was missing. It felt like . . . It
felt
like?
When I finally opened my eyes—?!—I was greeted by several different faces, all of which appeared concerned. I sat up and looked at the Outbounders, each of whom was dressed in what I took for medical gowns, though the room in which they'd placed me was remarkably warm and free from anything even approaching a scalpel or other menacingly surgical object.
"I'm Doctor Hastel. How do you feel?"
That was one of the women, who looked about forty.
"I'm not sure yet," I said. "How did you . . . put me back?"
"It's a long explanation," said one of the men, an Asian fellow in his thirties who identified himself as Surgeon Chow. "Here, I'll make it simple for you."
He never moved, but there was a sudden mind jolt, like the ones I'd gotten from Howard's memory array. In the space of a single second, I suddenly understood everything about the Outbounder procedure. They'd cloned me, using tissue from the frozen corpse they'd found in the observatory's recording room. Inside my clone brain they'd installed a new organ: a direct-connect interface. They'd used it to slowly trickle my cerebral matrix into the clone brain while the clone body grew.
Now that I was awake, the direct-connect would allow me to access their public network—once they deemed it safe for me to do so. I still had a lot to learn before I could get out of the hospital.
All of this knowledge arrived in my consciousness with a cool surety, as if I'd always known such things. But I felt a tight thrill run down my spine while I looked down at my legs.
"Fully functional?" I asked.
"Yes," Hastel said, with a small smile. "Were they not before?"
"No," I said. "Paraplegic."
"We've gotten a few of those," she said. "Easily fixed."
I dared to try to move my legs, which had been useless my entire life, and discovered I didn't really know how. If I concentrated, though, I could feel the sensation of the air cycler's gentle current across my thighs, such that it created tiny goose bumps.
I felt delirious with sudden joy, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes while I smiled broadly.
My mind began to burst with questions.
"All in good time, Mr. Jaworski," said Chow. "We're sorry we had to keep you off-line for so long. Even with advanced gen, it takes years to grow a clone body to the decanting stage. You were put into the queue as soon as possible."
One of the other women, a younger and freckly redhead, asked the next question.
"I'm Surgeon's Assistant Keilor. What would you like to know first?"
"Can I . . ." I stopped to really think about it. Then I said, "Can I get something to eat, please?"
The entire group smiled widely.
I looked around. "Is that the right answer?"
"You bet," Keilor said, taking my hand.
Another mind jolt, directly from her.
I slid off the table and discovered I knew how to walk.
The Outbound were far more numerous and sophisticated than I'd expected them to be. While the solar system had gone about its myopic, self-centered business, the Outbound had secured great whacks of the Kuiper Belt, both for mining and colonization. Eventually they'd erected a monitoring network that had, at first, been designed to keep an eye on the rest of humanity that lived "down in the hole," as I'd learned they called everyone who lived inside the orbit of Neptune.
It was this grid that had first detected the Others, who had apparently erected a monitoring network of their own, dating back to the twentieth century.
Things sort of snowballed from there.
Exchanging information and technology with the other sentient species of nearby star systems, the Outbound rapidly outpaced those of us "down in the hole," so that the Outbound were able to easily mask their gradual takeover of the Kuiper.
None of the Outbound had been surprised by the outbreak of war. They'd seen it coming for many years. The wedge-shaped ship that had intercepted the observatory had been one of numerous, automated picket craft designed to intercept anything sent from the solar system, and determine if it was friendly or hostile. Had I been one of the killsats or any other hostile entity, I'd have been destroyed. But once they found my memory arrays and determined that I was benign, they pulled the arrays, sampled tissue for cloning, returned both the arrays and the sample to a safe harbor, and the rest was history.