The Downloaded, page 11
Actually, though, my position was that we didn’t need any sort of leadership. With a total population of—what’s thirty-five plus twenty-three? Fifty-eight, right? With a total population of just fifty-eight, all of us could vote on every decision that needed to be made. True direct democracy, instead of the representative kind, see? I wasn’t looking for any special power for myself; I just wanted something that was fair for everyone.
But—and, really, I already knew this from my reading in sociology—most humans like hierarchies. Whether it’s the chain of command for a starship crew or just all the crap they taught us about in my MBA program—a boss on top, management in the middle, and regular employees at the bottom—people crave structure. And, frankly, most people just want things taken care of; they don’t want to be pestered to decide all sorts of piss-ant details.
So, my original idea of doing every little thing by simple plebiscite was shot down there in the cafeteria. As Alan Smithee so delicately put it, “Fuck that noise.”
According to him and the other ex-cons, if we were going to have a leader, it should be a mayor, not some bloody commander. Now, the astronauts all knew each other, but none of us prisoners had met until a few days ago when we were downloaded. But I guess I’d made a favorable impression on some of them because Alan said, “Make it Roscoe,” and others agreed.
But we had to vote on that, at least, right? And there was no question who the astronaut “party,” if I can call it that, was going to run against me: their captain, Letitia Garvey.
So Penolong found a couple of pads of Post-it notes that had fallen apart—the adhesive had long ago dried out. He gave each person two Post-its, one faded yellow and one faded blue, and he passed around a Kleenex box that had somehow survived, with that opening they have in the top. You scrunched your Post-its up into little balls and dropped one into the box. If you put in the yellow one you were voting for me, and a blue one was a vote for Letitia.
The results were thirty-five for me and twenty-three for her, which strongly suggested it had gone along straight party lines.
Well, that prompted a huge fight. As Jürgen pointed out, the ratio between ex-cons and astronauts was going to stay constant at about 3:2, and so, he said, each astronaut vote should count for one-and-a-half times a prisoner vote, to even things out.
To which Alan replied, “I’ll cut you, man, you ever suggest again you’re worth more than me.”
That was as far as we went that day. Letitia had already seen one prisoner riot; she knew enough not to spark another by contesting the election. But she took on a fuck-it attitude, I have to say. She threw up her hands and left, without telling us whatever the hell it was she’d brought us together to hear.
Anyway, I didn’t actually want the job, but, like a Mennonite who’d randomly been handed the hymn book with the slip that said, “You’re the new Bishop!,” suddenly I was mayor of our little community.
And, look, there’s precedent. You know the movie Les Misérables? No? There are a crap ton of versions but in all of them, an ex-con becomes mayor. Yeah, granted, that guy stole a loaf of bread to feed his sister’s kids and I stabbed a man in the chest, but you know what they say: people get the government they deserve, am I right?
Interview with Captain Letitia Garvey
Well, fine, I wasn’t chosen to be mayor. Their loss. I stormed out of the cafeteria—not my finest moment—and found an empty office to decompress in. Okay, all right: I wasn’t going to lead this mob; I doubted anyone could. But I was still captain of the Hōkūle‘a, and responsible for my crew, and—
And while I was calming down and letting my breathing get regular again, Mikhail Sidorov came to mind. I was torn over what to do about him. The poor guy’s skull had been smashed in—although when during the last five hundred years, I couldn’t say. But his consciousness remained intact in his silo inside the quantum computer.
I went and found Jürgen, and he and I argued about it—and, yeah, I was probably unfair to him, venting steam in his direction that he didn’t deserve. But, as he never failed to point out at every opportunity, he’d been quite happy in his own silo, thank you very much. He said, why should I burst Mikhail’s bubble? Ignorance can be bliss, he claimed, and Mikhail was probably indulging to his virtual heart’s content in—well, in whatever it is that Russian roboticists secretly crave. Vodka fountains and nested sexbots?
Anyway, Jürgen said, there wasn’t a damn thing we could do to help Mikhail. He’d never have physical form again, and there was no point getting him all worked up about the impending impact of Brimstone. The guy could be happy as a Moscow clam until the moment the asteroid hit, and then it would simply be over for him and everyone else; he wouldn’t feel a thing.
But as we were arguing, an idea came to me. The clock governing my crew had been slowed to 1/120th of normal, right? That’s how five hundred years—Earth years, that is, not your supersized Martian ones—passed outside while we only experienced four subjective years.
And that prison pilot project? That was interesting. I hadn’t known about it when we uploaded, and, frankly, it never occurred to me that someone would want to speed up the apparent passage of time. Wiidooka tells me the prisoner clock was running at twenty-four times normal speed until I accidentally mucked it up, which, it said, was the fastest the system could go at that level of resolution.
Well, do the math: that means in the seven objective years before Brimstone slaps Earth upside the head, a hundred and sixty-eight subjective years could pass for anyone in a silo running at that clock speed. Which meant from his point of view, we could give Mikhail a life longer than any person on Earth has ever had. You’d think a doctor, like Jürgen, would be all about informed consent, but he said I should just go ahead and do it: hit the clock accelerator and let Mikhail sail on.
But I didn’t feel right doing so without his permission. And, yeah, frankly, I did want to know if Jaxon David Fingerlee or another prisoner—or, Jesus, even worse, one of my own crew, somehow—had shattered Mikhail’s skull. It’s not every detective who gets to ask the murder victim if he has any idea who might have killed him! And so I headed off to the operations center to give Comrade Sidorov a call.
Interview with Mikhail Ivanovich Sidorov
Please, not to call me “astronaut.” I am cosmonaut. Proudly Russian. Da, there has been no Russia, or America, or any other nation, since civilization fell, but past is important to me. We put first satellite in space, first man in space, first woman in space. We did first spacewalk, landed first probes on Moon, Venus, Mars. First space station? Ours. First person to walk on Mars? One of us.
But I am not just cosmonaut. Am also roboticist. Why such profession, you ask? I was born in Petrovichi, same tiny village Isaac Asimov was born in. Ever since child, I often visited stone memorial to him there. If great person could come from that small place, maybe I could—how do you say?—make something of myself.
I read Foundation, of course—what Russian could not be interested in the fall of an empire and an attempt to make it rise quickly again, nyet? But I loved best his stories of robots, and I knew his Three Laws of Robotics by heart from boyhood. You have heard of them never? Please to listen:
First law: “Robot may not injure human being or, through inaction, allow human being to come to harm.”
Second law: “Robot must obey orders given it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with First Law.”
Final law: “Robot must protect own existence, except where such protection would conflict with First or Second Law.”
Such logical restrictions! And devised by person from my village of just three hundred! It inspired me to study robotics. For mission to Proxima Centauri beh, we pack very many robots in cargo hold for use once we arrive; my job to oversee them.
Da, yes, you are right. We did not end up going there. I was jolted to learn that—although not as jolted as by other news to come!
I expected to hear from Captain Garvey around this time; it is when we were to arrive at our destination. And I was not surprised she intruded on my reality as merely disembodied voice, rather than three-dimensional avatar. She could only generate latter when still uploaded herself, and she was supposed to download before rest of us.
When voice came from sky, I was sailing on Lake Seydozero, as often I had in real life. I imagined red sailboat with yellow sails, same as I once actually had; I called it Lunokhod, after first series of Soviet space robots. Although my recollections were vivid, this simulated reality had tiny imperfections and low-resolution areas. Passable, but nothing equals real thing, nyet?
After Captain Garvey called out to me, I said, “Is it time to activate robots?”
She began her reply with, “Actually . . .,” which I long ago learned when said by English speaker means, “This you will not like.” She explained what had happened—our bodies still on Earth; our starship gone nowhere.
I said, “Then we all should download. Staying in quantum computer makes no sense any longer.”
And that dreaded word again: “Actually . . .”
Have you met Jameela Chowdhury, our stellar physicist? She has word I like: “gobsmacked.” My gob was well smacked by what Letitia said next! My skull crushed? My physical brain in ruins? Me stuck for rest of eternity inside proklyatyy quantum computer?
And when I said to her, “Rest of eternity,” again with the “Actually!” So I learn from her of this asteroid, Brimstone. She wants to slow down passage of time in my silo, so I will still seem to live long time before it impacts Earth. Otherwise, I would only have three subjective weeks’ existence left. I told her to only set clock to normal speed—seven years inside for seven outside—while I contemplate, but I do not want extended time inside computer! Believe me, four years was more than enough. I remember quote from book I read once: “Virtual reality is nothing but air guitar writ large.” Da, enough of the ersatz, the simulated, the fake. I had been counting days until I could return to real world—and now I was trapped inside machine!
Captain Garvey asked me if I had any idea of who would want to cave in my head. I said nyet. Did I know of a murderer named Jaxon David Fingerlee? I had heard of him—like Russian, he used three names, so was memorable to me. But I could think of no reason he, or anyone, would want to damage my body. I puzzled it over, but eventual discovery of who had done it left my gob smacked even more!
Interview with Captain Letitia Garvey
After I spoke to Mikhail, I went down to the cafeteria, hoping to find some people still there—and there were: nine of my crew and a dozen prisoners. I’d learned my lesson about trying to call a meeting, or start with a preamble, so I simply marched to an unoccupied table in the center of the room, stepped on a chair and from there onto the tabletop, clapped my hands together, whistled, and stomped my feet. Heads swiveled to look at me, including that of our newly minted mayor, Roscoe Koudoulian, and I announced in as loud and steady a voice as I could manage: “The whole goddamn planet is doomed.”
“The fuck she talkin’ about?” said Caleb, and “Sit down, sister!” demanded another prisoner, and “Crazy bitch,” muttered a third.
But I pushed on. “Listen! The whole planet is doomed. There’s a thousand-kilometer-wide asteroid on a collision course with Earth, and it’s going to hit in 2555, just seven years from now.”
“Bullshit!” shouted a female con. And even Marie Dubois, one of my crew, called out, “Oh, come on!”
“It’s true, damn it,” I said. “It’s true. Jameela’s been tracking it, and—”
“She the British chick?” said Caleb.
“She is the British astro-fucking-physicist, to quote you,” I snapped back. “And she’s been tracking this damn thing. You think the devastation Earth has already experienced is bad? That’s nothing. This is going to liquefy the planet’s crust when it hits.”
At last there was silence. Total, stunned silence. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity, and then another of my astronauts said, softly, “Then . . . then what do we do?”
“We pull together,” I said. “Remember, the Hōkūle‘a is still in orbit—”
“That’s right!” said Caleb. “They got a fucking ship!”
“Yes, we do. And we’ve got seven years to find a way to get up to it.”
“All of us?” said Caleb.
I felt my stomach clench. I knew this was coming, but . . . damn it all, I didn’t have a good answer. “The ship is huge,” I said, “but the habitat module is small. It can’t hold almost sixty people and—”
“Then it’s a race,” announced another prisoner. “See which of us can find a way to get up there first.”
I held up my hands, palms out. “No, no, no. We’ve got to work together. The shuttle launch facility is in Mojave, and might still be—”
“That’s half a fucking continent away!” said another prisoner. “And it’s probably wrecked, like this place.”
“And, anyway, this bitch is gonna leave us behind,” said Caleb, pointing at me.
“It’s true, we can’t all go,” I said. “But I’m not saying it’s astronauts first. There’s another possibility—and it’s open to everyone. Listen. Please, just listen—and, for God’s sake, keep an open mind.”
Slowly, carefully, as calmly as I could, I explained that if any of them wanted to upload again, I could give them another hundred and sixty-eight years of subjective life before Brimstone smashes into Earth.
There was mayhem, of course, and lots of questions, which I did my best to answer. Finally, though, people started drifting out of the cafeteria. Some were clearly dazed—one female prisoner walked into the doorjamb as she tried to exit—and a couple of people were softly crying. When it looked like there was no more good I could do here, I got off the table and ambled out myself, not sure where to go or what to do next. I slowly drudged up the stairs to the lobby, and . . .
. . . and there was Roscoe Koudoulian, who’d also now left the cafeteria. I tensed up, ready for a confrontation, but he was as affable as could be. “Thanks,” he said. “It—it’s going to make matters a lot harder, but . . . thank you. We needed to know that.”
“Can you let other people know?” I asked.
“Sure, when I see them.” He cut loose a long sigh. “Don’t know how some of them are going to take it.” He jerked a thumb at the glass doors and I saw a hulking form outside picking its way slowly among the rubble: Jaxon David Fingerlee. Roscoe said, “I’ll tell Alan when he comes back in.”
I just wanted to go lie down, but this was an opportunity to confront Fingerlee. If he did get violent, there’d be a lot more space for me to maneuver among the ruins than in an enclosed room. Still, I didn’t want to face him alone, and—
Ah! And there was Jameela, just coming into the lobby herself. I asked her to come outside with me; if Fingerlee tried anything funny, she could pip-pip cheerio him to death.
Fingerlee was standing near some hunks of concrete, looking at a rebar rod sticking out of one, a pretender to the throne contemplating Excalibur. We approached him from behind, but Jameela hung back a bit.
I cleared my throat. “Alan?”
He swung around like a dancing bear doing half a pirouette. He was wearing a T-shirt; probably the same one I’d seen him in the other day. Finding enough clothing—and a way to wash it—was a problem we’d soon have to solve.
Alan had managed to slick his dark hair back from his forehead, but God only knew what gunk he was using to hold it in place. “What?” he snarled.
“Look,” I said, “I know who you are. Jaxon David Fingerlee.”
“So?”
“So, there’s a . . . a situation that needs sorting out. The consciousness of one of my astronauts is still uploaded into the quantum computer.”
“Yeah, Caleb said something about it.” He looked at Jameela in the distance and imitated a British accent. “Bit of hard cheese, that.”
“Do you know why he’s still uploaded?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“His body was damaged. His head was damaged. His skull was caved in . . . with a crowbar.”
“You accusing me, bitch?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Tons of copycat killers out there. Happens every time.”
“Yes, but only a few people had access to the Quantum Cryonics Institute.”
“Bullshit. Wikipedia, or whatever the fuck that little robot’s name is, told Roscoe over four hundred people worked there.”
“True, but—”
“Could’ve been one of them.”
“Yes, I suppose. Still . . .”
“Still, you think it was me. Knick-knack paddywhack, crack some guy’s head bone.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
He glowered at me, and my fight-or-flight reflex kicked into high gear. But he just said, “What’s the name of your spaceman?”
“Mikhail Sidorov.”
“What’s that, Russian? Don’t think I ever met no Russian.” He looked at Jameela again then back at me. “Listen, I got no beef with you or that hot chick over there. So, let me just tell you flat out: I didn’t do it.”
“With all due respect,” I replied, “that’s what you said when you were charged with murder. I saw it on the news.”
To my surprise, he barked a short laugh. “Huh. Did you, now? Well, yeah, I was lying then, sure. But I’m not bullshitting you now.”
