The Ship Whisperer

Julie Nováková

Arbiter Press
Prague, Czech Republic
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Nováková
Cover art © 2020 by Lukáš Tuma
“Deep Down in The Cloud” © 2019 by Julie Nováková
All The Smells in The World” © 2018 by Julie Nováková
“To See The Elephant” © 2017 by Julie Nováková
“Étude for An Extraordinary Mind” © 2017 by Julie Nováková
“Bodhisattva” © 2016 by Julie Nováková
“Reset in Peace” © 2018 by Julie Nováková
“Dreaming Up The Future” © 2019 by Julie Nováková
“Martian Fever” © 2019 by Julie Nováková
“Becoming” © 2016 by Julie Nováková
“We Shadows” © 2020 by Julie Nováková
“The Symphony of Ice and Dust” © 2013 by Julie Nováková
“Dancing An Elegy, His Own” © 2015 by Julie Nováková
“From So Complex A Beginning” © 2019 by Julie Nováková
“The Nightside” © 2016 by Julie Nováková
“The Gift” © 2018 by Julie Nováková
“The Ship Whisperer” © 2016 by Julie Nováková
“Afterword” © 2020 by Julie Nováková

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any
form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Jan Kotouč –Arbiter Press

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of
the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes.
Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or
locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

The Ship Whisperer – Julie Nováková.-- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-80-907465-5-8
 “Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you’d drop dead in ten
seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for
in factories.”

― RAY BRADBURY IN FAHRENHEIT 451 (1953)

 Deep Down in the Cloud
It can happen anytime. It has happened in human history before. But we’re
more vulnerable to it than ever, and very much ill-prepared.
I’m talking, of course, of a solar flare triggering a geomagnetic storm,
such as the Carrington event of 1859. Had it happened today, it would have
caused great damage to satellites, but also ground-based facilities.
What just might escape would be underground—or underwater—
facilities. It’s not just the cables running across the ocean’s bottom and
connecting the world. Underwater is also an interesting place for servers,
since it naturally provides water cooling and most people live in cities near
the coast, so the proximity would mean lower latency. Of course,
maintenance might be an issue here… and what if someone wanted to steal
something from the data center?
That brings us to the first story…

“What is there more sublime than the trackless,

desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable sea?
What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm,
gently-heaving, silent sea?
What is there more terribly sublime than the angry,
dashing, foaming sea?”

Floating freely in the dark cold water, Mariana had lost her sense of
direction. Suddenly a flash from somewhere (above? where was above?)
illuminated the whole ocean, and in that instant, she could see a school of
grunions swimming past: hundreds of silvery gleaming bodies together in a
mass so alien and intimidating. So beautiful. Light reflecting off their sleek
bodies and silver-lined black eyes.
The darkness returned, but it didn’t feel the same. She could feel the
hundreds of eyes watching her. Irrational, yes. But this moment was beyond
rationality.
Another lightning strike somewhere far away revealed a peculiar sight.
Chubs? she thought with an unnatural calm. How strange. Must be the
storm…
 However, still no sign of other people.
When the next lightning bolt lit up the murky waters a moment later, she
glimpsed something else. She knew she ought to feel dread, fear, panic.
But she was far beyond that too.

***

“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Ready,” echoed a second voice, and the three divers submerged
together.
As soon as she entered water, Mariana Aguayro ceased feeling anxious.
She was in her element. No matter what happens next, she’s where she
belongs; and she had trained for what happens next.
It was difficult to tell whether the same applied to Hector Hodges beside
her. Even though the full-face mask offered a better view of his face than
usual diving masks, she could only imagine how he was feeling. In her
imagination, however, he was still as nervous as on their way here.
Iku was already ahead of them, holding his sea scooter like it was a part
of his own body. If she felt in her element here, he seemed born in the
ocean.
They continued in silence. No need to speak, even if the transceivers
would allow them to. They could view speaking as a security risk even
here, still far from their destination. The fish-like scooters carried them
forward. They could take a moment’s rest for now. Mariana knew they’d
need it.
Even though they were not descending yet and it was early, light faded
quickly around them. Mariana thought of the darkening skies above. No
sane person would go for recreational diving today. They remained alone
but for a few by-the-wind sailors above, and some moon jellyfish. The
storm was coming. For them, it was ideal.
Iku turned and signaled “down.” She and Hector copied.
The waters grew murkier as they descended slowly. Usually, the visibility
would be good. But today, the currents were disturbed by the approaching
storm. The water was considerably colder than usual at this time of the year.
Mariana could still see Iku’s silhouette beneath, but visibility was dropping
quickly.
 Finally, she glimpsed the bottom, or at least she thought so. On the sandy
shelf, there was no reef to look for, nothing to use as a beacon. Her dive
computer showed the depth of 110 feet, same as the analog depth gauge she
had refused to leave home.
Upon reaching the bottom, Iku signaled for them to stop. Mariana’s heart
skipped a beat.
It’s here. We’re really doing it. Just as we practiced.
It was time to leave the scooters and anchor them here, where they could
find them on their return trip. If there is one. Even in the murky shade,
Mariana saw the fear in Hector’s eyes. In contrast, Iku’s face was almost
serene. She imagined hers full of anticipation.
We’re going to free freedom itself.
“Let’s go,” Iku gestured.
Hug the bottom. Kick ever so slowly. The rhythm we finally got right last
week.

A week ago, at the same depth, but in clear water on a sunlit day tens of
miles away from here, Mariana was trying to pass as a fish. She could see
Hector swimming some ten feet from her. Iku floated somewhere overhead,
monitoring them as always.
Hug the bottom. Go slowly. Use the add-ons on the suit to simulate fish
movement, she recited in her mind. She should probably feel nervous. But
being underwater always had a strangely calming effect on her. Hearing
your breath, the pounding of your heart, and the ocean surrounding you,
while you moved freely in its soothing cold embrace… Sometimes she
wished she could stay.
“There wouldn’t be any motion detectors on the bottom,” Iku had said to
them earlier. “Too many things would set them off. They would rather rely
on autonomous guard bots, a few ROVs and aquamesh around the site.”
Hugging the bottom therefore seemed to be a good approach strategy,
and Iku provided the rest.
Now they reached the improvised aquamesh: just a fishing net in this
case, no fiber-optics. When Iku gave the signal, Mariana and Hector started
cutting through it.
 He was faster than she this time, having improved a lot. Mariana got used
to the full-face mask and closed cycle rebreather already in their first test
dive. Hector had a little trouble adjusting to the mask, but he too was an
experienced diver and now he seemed just as accustomed to the equipment.
Going through, she signaled and went first.
She saw the outline of their target in the silty waters. Suddenly, a shock
wave hurled her onto the bottom and made her earbuds ache. She was
scared and disoriented… for a few seconds. Then she kicked fast toward
where she thought the target was. She couldn’t see a thing through the
upraised mud. We should have thermal, occurred to her. She wasn’t sure any
thermovision mask even existed, but Iku apparently had access to a lot of
gear she hadn’t known about.
Hector was beside her in another second. They reached the target, pulled
the waterproof Taus and cords and got to work in perfect sync. The screens
shone bright in this dim bottom world.
“Incoming,” Iku’s voice sounded suddenly in their ears. Mariana turned
around to intercept the danger and readied her underwater gun. But nothing
happened. Then Hector announced: “Got it.”
The timer showed eighteen minutes, ten seconds. Best result so far.
A diver silhouette approached.
Ready, Iku signaled. Up.
When they were ashore and stripping from the diving gear, Mariana felt
oddly elevated. We did it. We’re well under the limit. It really can be done!
But the greatest news was yet to come.
“There could be severe storms coming next week,” Iku announced as he
closed the trunk with all the gear and stood by his car, an inconspicuous
older wagon. “The timing is ideal. Augur will be conducting some site
reliability tests elsewhere. Their guard will be high, but it always is, and
they would be more vulnerable at the same time. Be prepared. The next
time, we go live.”
It was exhilarating to hear that. Next time, it’s real. They’re gonna rob
and sabotage an Augur datacenter.
In the wake of their successful dive and Iku’s announcement, they had
made a mistake. Mariana would usually take a bus back to LA; after all, Iku
had all the diving gear, she didn’t need to carry anything. But Hector had
offered to drive her home.
 “He’s being too paranoid,” he waved off Iku’s earlier advice. (Do not ride
together. Do not call each other. Do not let your paths cross any more than
they would before you had met.). “And he’s not here. Are you going to wait
an hour for your bus, or be back in LA at that time?”
It wouldn’t hurt to get home earlier…
They spent the whole ride talking. It seemed like a mere moment when
he stopped before her home.
“Wanna come upstairs for a drink?” she said on an impulse. Hector
wasn’t her usual type. She wasn’t into older guys and typically avoided
anyone from IT, if mostly for professional reasons, but the excitement of
their dive and the upcoming op must have clouded her judgment. The fact
that they had shared a secret from the rest of the world may have played a
role.
He stayed for several hours. But when she said “you should go,” he just
nodded and left. They didn’t see each other again up until this morning,
after Iku had called them. It was time.
She couldn’t quite shake off the disturbing sensation that Iku somehow
knew.

Hector was the first to notice the bots. Above, he gestured.

The AUVs were circling the perimeter in quasi-random patterns. They
patrolled for unusual motion, light, heat signatures, sound, or transmissions.
Though Mariana knew about them, her heart still skipped a beat when she
saw that one was nearing her position.
Calm down and swim. This was to be expected.
The AUVs continued on their way.
The style they’d practiced seemed to pay off. They had passed as fish.
Then she saw what they were looking for. The mesh.
The real danger would only lie beyond that—if they managed to get
through.
Mariana glanced at Iku, or rather tried to, but she couldn’t see him. The
silt whirled beneath them and decreased visibility even further.
But something changed. She glimpsed movement. Silvery glint. Eyes. So
many…
Pacific mackerel, she thought.
 It didn’t stop with them.
So he did it; Iku released a batch of pheromones to lure the fish. The
schools would provide more cover for them while they try to get through
the mesh.
Iku went first, followed by the fish like some strange pied piper.
A sudden if feeble flash of light illuminated even these murky depths for
a fraction. The storm above had started.
It would disturb the fish. It would also disturb the AUVs and sensor nets.
Motion, thermals, sonar echo—all would be obscured. A lot of unusual
activity just might pass unnoticed in a storm…
Iku approached the mesh. Mariana waited while he began attaching long
stretches of optical fiber to the mesh. Then she saw the signal. She swam
toward him and began cutting through the fiber-optic mesh, while Hector
approached from another side. Another lightning struck somewhere above.
The final cut. Nothing visibly changed. No dazzler blinded them; no
sound weapon thrust them away; no AUVs approached.
They swam through. Shapes began emerging from the mist-like whirling
silt. Their ghostly glow felt otherworldly. There was something surreal
about the server boxes and glowing displays down here: a true snippet of
another world.
How did I ever end up here? Mariana wondered.

Mariana Aguayro sometimes wondered how their lives would turn out if
the Sun didn’t misbehave. Just one peculiar cycle of increased solar activity.
It was enough to first render billions of investments in satellite
communications lost, and to make other such ventures too risky for another
decade; and they could count themselves lucky that the storms only caused
occasional blackouts.
Cables always held most traffic, but Internet giants promised free
worldwide web connection for anyone on the planet. High-speed satellite
connection in the furthermost, poorest village on Earth; it was too good to
last. It almost hadn’t even started before the unprecedented solar storms
fried most satellites, high-altitude balloons, and many land facilities too.
Solely dependent on cable connections, with the corporations shaken badly
and world politics already in disarray, it was a recipe for a slow plunge into
unobtrusive dystopia.
If it didn’t happen, I may have gone to college.
If it didn’t happen, we wouldn’t have access outages for days.
If it didn’t happen, we might not have lost our freedoms so easily.
She remembered net neutrality, constant quick access to information, and
reliable communication from her childhood. Chatting with friends online
without worrying about the price or whether the messages would get
through at all. Browsing encyclopedias and magazines without end. No
outages lasting over an hour. Sometimes it made her feel old, despite not
being even in her thirties.
She also remembered a semblance of privacy. Yes, people willingly, if
unwittingly granted access to highly personal information to any stupid app,
but there was at least a pretense of legal protection, at least some hope that
individuals could persist against governments and corporations…
This, too, had been taken away, with the help of Augur.
Maybe that’s why Mariana liked diving so much. The fish, corals, and
crustaceans didn’t care for human skirmishes. She could escape into their
world, but even there, she would see the discomforting signs of human
presence above. Little had been done to keep the oceans clean. Even down
there, in her dream world, Mariana could not avoid getting angry.
So she’d started rebelling. Tiny steps, at first. Then she’d gotten more
daring.
Being a hacker was nothing like in the movies she’d watched—and
downloaded, impossible now—as a kid. But it was exhilarating nonetheless
when she and the fission-fusion crews sometimes succeeded after weeks or
months of dull work. Her life became a series of mood swings, and at times
she also wondered whether it would have been so, had she been let to live a
normal life.
She didn’t know how Iku found her.
He sat next to her one day on the beach, an inconspicuous black man of
slender build and indeterminate age, and told her without any fuss that he
wanted to hire her for a special job. One that involved both her computer
hacking and diving expertise.
She could have said no. She didn’t know the stranger at all, nor did he
mention having any contacts in common.
But it sounded like the kind of offer you cannot refuse.
 *

She was just a few kicks away from the first server when the world
broke.
First, there was light.
A bright flash blinded her for a moment, and a staccato of bright beams
followed. No time to think about that. No time to prepare for the sound.
It threw her away like a punch in the chest. Her limbs flailed around her.
She felt as if air was knocked out of her lungs. Her chest and stomach hurt
badly. She couldn’t breathe. And the lights were still there, burying
themselves into her skull…
Dazzlers and an ultrasonic pulse, some calculating part of her mind said.
Shouldn’t cause permanent damage, only stun or injure. Get it together.
She kicked away before another cavitation could hit her. Only then she
turned and looked back, grasping the underwater gun on her belt, though
wary of using it.
But it was no longer necessary.
“Disabled it,” Iku’s voice sounded in her ears for the first time during the
dive. Stealth didn’t matter anymore, and they would need to use the
transceivers soon anyway.
She looked around. “Hector?”
She didn’t see him. Nor did she hear any reply. She was about to call him
again, when Iku spoke: “He’s alive.”
Something in his tone made her shiver inwardly.
Iku moved smoothly, shark-like, toward a dark silhouette barely visible
in the silt. She glimpsed him link his suit’s computer to Hector’s. As she
swam nearer, she could see him activate the adrenaline pump in Hector’s
suit.
The dark silhouette moved, and Mariana heard a sharp intake of breath in
the comms. “W-what happened?”
“Dazzler and cavitation,” Iku said. “You’ll come to. Let’s do it.”
Mariana would have liked to see whether Hector was okay, but Iku was
right; there was little time. They had to get in, and Hector Hodges, a
disgruntled former Augur employee wishing to take revenge accompanied
ideally by large sums of money, was necessary to manage it quickly.
 The servers were just two dozen feet away. This near, AUVs wouldn’t
use sonic pulses to knock them out; too much risk for the equipment.
Hector and Mariana got to work on one rack, Iku moved to another.
“You all right?” she asked Hector quietly, mask to mask; no need for Iku
to overhear.
“Think so,” he spoke. Even in these conditions, she could hear his
strained breath.
Broken ribs? Internal bleeding? she thought of the risks of cavitation. It
was by no means a non-life-threatening weapon. Down here, every injury
counted more.
The firewall held fast, but Mariana tried a few new exploits, while Hector
worked his angle.
Still nothing… Would they have to use plan B and just DDoS Augur
without making use of any of the data stored here?
Mariana glanced at her computer. At this rate, she had an hour of
resurfacing to look for. An hour within which anything could go wrong.
“We’re there,” Hector said.
Mariana’s heart skipped a beat.
We’re really there. Inside Augur’s heart… about to seize it and tear it out.
She just sent an invite to a feast on the company’s internal files to a
dozen informal hacker groups; most of them hopelessly idealistic
anarchists, some strategically chosen groups that were in for money or
mainstream politics, which translated to money anyway.
Her head almost spun.
For a second, she was tempted to look up Iku, regardless of whether the
alias had any ties to his real self. Who, or what… But no—there was no
time to waste.
Now to erasing the user metadata, and all the surveillance we can… To
watch the watchmen for once. To free ourselves before they load the
backups—but others will be ready for that. Let it run another half an hour,
please, and then we can have a DDoS as a cherry atop the cake.
There was still a chance that Augur noticed only now what they were
doing and couldn’t get in touch with its AUVs here because of the storm.
But the storm would also complicate their ascent. They’d all realized the
possibility they’d become martyrs, but none wanted to reconcile with that.
Not without a fight.
“Iku?” she spoke.
 No answer.
“Can’t resurface now,” Hector pointed above. Even at this depth, they
could see the lightning flashes. Even through the transceiver connection,
Mariana heard the strain in his voice. Hold on. We’ll help you ascend, she
thought. But where was Iku? She decided to find out and kicked slowly.
Even moving this carefully, she almost caused a silt out. That’s why she
didn’t see what happened next.
She was already at the further rack, and only heard the gasp and ragged,
muffled breaths. She turned back, but another shape shot forward alongside
her: Iku. She’d never think a diver could move so fast and smoothly, truly
like a fish.
Hector’s body was jerking as if electrocuted. Mariana glimpsed some
strange, ghostlike shape around him in the light of her LED torch, and
realized that he was being electrocuted.
But Iku was already there, grasping the thing she could barely see, and
pulling it away from Hector.
The battle resembled a surreal ballet: a diver against a barely visible
translucent shape, swirling and writhing amidst silt. It was entrancing. The
Finnish Kalevala myth came to Mariana’s mind, because Iku Turso in this
instant truly resembled some kind of ancient sea monster like his namesake
in the epic: sometimes depicted as a horned creature, sometimes a sea
serpent, sometimes octopus-like, but always, always deadly.
The translucent robot sank to the bottom gently.
Iku turned to Mariana. “What are you waiting for?”
She wasn’t checking her Tau; she was checking Hector.
He was alive.
But even without glancing at his computer, Mariana knew he wasn’t
going to make it. His suit was inflating visibly, and he started ascending.
His face was constricted with pain. He was still conscious, and very much
aware that this was just a brief period before certain death.
I’m so sorry, she thought.
“He was electroshocked,” Iku said on the transceiver. “Invisible robot
creeps near you, pierces your skin with electrodes, shocks you, and doesn’t
threaten nearby devices. Didn’t know they were in use already.”
Sizzling rage got ahold of Mariana. Hector was dying, and Iku was
reciting his knowledge of the damn robot that killed him!
“What do we do?” she somehow made her voice sound measured.
 “We continue our work.”
“No!”
“Yesss,” Hector hissed through the pain. His gaze met with Mariana’s.
They were almost mask to mask. The eerie glow of the underwater servers
made his face appear ghostlike. She was looking at it, and so didn’t see him
pull a knife from his belt and cut at his own drysuit.
The inflation stopped, and then reversed. Mariana took a split-second to
realize what he’d done. The stupid fool! He flooded his own suit to stop it
from inflating. He’d never be able to ascend, even if he got rid of all the
weights at once, and he’d get hypothermic in the matter of minutes.
“I’ll take care of it,” he managed to say. “You get out. They… seem to
know.”
“Continue data transfer while you can,” Iku instructed him, and signaled
to Mariana to follow him. She lingered for a second, put her mask to
Hector’s and turned off her transceiver for a moment. Only then did she
realize she had absolutely no idea what to say.
He solved it for her. “Goodbye, sweet girl,” he struggled to speak, but
somehow he managed for the words to sound soft. “Go.”
Iku was circling the center, and Mariana noticed he was planting
something in semi-regular intervals. She swam to it.
Charges.
Iku waited for her at the far end of the datacenter and signaled to leave.
“Explain first!” she spoke regardless of knowing that Hector will likely
hear it. He had the right to know.
“Destroying the center will set Augur back many months, if not years.
Time for us to act.”
It made sense, she knew it. Just… leaving Hector behind, even if the best
he could hope in otherwise would be surviving the hypoxia or a stroke after
rapid ascent, if they could somehow get him out of his suit and share their
air with him… No. Hector Hodges was gone and knew it very well.
“What did you really want to gain from this?!” she said.
Iku’s lips moved as if in silent prayer. His face, illuminated by the
datacenter’s glow, looked inhuman, almost demonic.
“What anyone wants,” he whispered. “Freedom.”

*
 “Who do you think our Iku really is?” Hector had said back during their
ride home.
“What do you mean?”
“The equipment he got us, his knowledge of the facility… I think he’s a
frogman.”
“Ours, or someone else’s?”
Hector laughed quietly. “That’s what I’m wondering too.”
“He could just be Augur’s. Don’t they have their own frogmen? Military-
grade stuff?”
“I guess so. I even heard some rumors about… enhanced soldiers. But I’d
think they watch theirs more carefully.”
“Like they watch you?” Mariana raised a brow.
Hector seemed unperturbed. “That’s different. I’m unimportant.”
Mariana didn’t question that; they both were. Was Iku too?
“Someone has to clean the facility,” she spoke finally. “Biofouling can be
a problem after less than a year down below. Not speaking of tech
maintenance.”
“Iku isn’t an IT crowd guy.”
“I never said he was. He could have posed as one.”
“I dunno.” Hector shrugged. “Something seems… off about him to me.
Can’t explain it.”
Mariana snorted, but it was just a facade; in fact, she felt the same about
Iku.
“There must be a lot of people outside our scope of abilities,” Hector
continued. “Not just the H+ nerds who implant magnets into their fingers
and bloody Fitbits under the skin. I mean gene-modded people, or laced, or
fitted with optogenetic circuits, enhanced senses, strength… Don’t you
think someone must have tried that already?”
“Perhaps,” she said evasively. She didn’t like to think of how she only
saw the surface layer of the world, and how much might be going on
underneath, concealed by Augur and others like them. It led to paranoid
thinking, and she saw enough of that in her mother to know that she wanted
to avoid that at any cost.
She was glad when Hector changed the topic and resumed flirting with
her.

*
 “Freedom?” she said once they were nearing the aquamesh. “From
what?”
Iku didn’t answer. She could think of a thousand options, but recalled her
conversation with Hector back in the car all too vividly. But maybe she just
felt guilty about Hector.
They began making another hole in the mesh; the first site was likely
compromised.
“From my creators and controllers,” Iku spoke suddenly. “Everyone will
know now.”
She wanted to ask more, but then there was light.
Something pushed her aside—no, someone, it was Iku—and after that
she was pushed into the bottom with considerable force.
“Go—” she heard Iku, but his voice was cut out.
Silt was everywhere.
And then all was darkness.

“Where are the bones, the relics, of the brave and the timid, the good and
the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, the sister,
the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the washing,
wasting, wandering sea?”

…and they dug tunnels in the silt and mud, bore into the bottom like
worms. Blind, constrained, deaf but for the sound of their breath.
She soothed herself with this image from the past.
As a child, Mariana had loved stories of her underwater heroes. Cousteau
and his diving saucer sub. Franzén and his men, excavating the Vasa from
her infamous grave in the Stockholm harbor. In the decades after she sank
in 1628, pioneer divers submerged into the 32-m depth in bells filled with
air to excavate some of the treasures the ship had carried. Then, she lay
forgotten and silt buried her, until amateur marine archeologist Franzén
found her again. To un-sink the ship, they had to dig tunnels beneath her to
secure her, and tow her into the harbor.
 Mariana remembered the story now, as she clawed her way desperately
through the silty bottom. She didn’t know how long she’d been out, since
she had no way to look at her dive computer, but hopefully she only lost
consciousness for a few seconds. She couldn’t have been buried deep,
nothing could do that; but was she trying in the right direction? Fear almost
got ahold of her.
Finally, she felt little resistance.
She emerged from a silt grave into pitch dark waters.
“Iku?” she tried.
Only silence answered her.
She assessed the damage. Her torch was lost, her rebreather got damaged,
her trimix would soon run out, and she was still lucid enough to realize she
was hypothermic. Her computer was broken, and she lost track of time.
So she did the only thing she could: started ascending as fast as she
dared.

Another bright flash of lightning somewhere above. The lone chub,

normally a river fish, was swimming desperately in this unwelcoming
strange place. Mariana just floated with current. She started feeling
strangely elated. Hypoxia? Or just cold? she could still guess.
A flash revealed a school of sardines gazing at her with a thousand little
eyes.
Big brother watches you, she mused. Even here. Did we change
anything?
Lightning—and the briefest of glimpses of a dreadful shape. The strange
mask and suit…
Frogman. Augur’s. Who else?
They were fast, or perhaps there were more secrets she knew nothing
about… She realized she ought to feel dread, fear, panic. But she was just
cold and tired.
Maybe they didn’t win. But they didn’t exactly lose, either.
A series of lightning bolts. The ominous figure, strobing toward her like
in a stop-motion movie. And behind it—
Iku-Turso, son of Old-age, ocean monster, Mariana recalled dreamily the
verses she’d looked up in the library.
 In the murky ocean, illuminated only by lightnings further away now, she
watched the strange battle unfold like a magic lantern projection. How
beautiful, her mind marveled. Years ago, she’d seen the black jellyfish. It
was huge, unearthly, menacing, infinitely elegant. Mariana had almost
forgotten to breathe. Dread had seized her. She had only been wearing a
spring suit, and the thought of the giant jellyfish stinging her had almost
paralyzed her. But her sense of wonder had eventually won. She’d been
captivated by the alien motion of the creature and its colors—a whole
palette of purple, green, black, scarlet, and more colors as the light changed.
It didn’t look like an animal at all.
Neither did those two struggling monsters look human.
Who are you, Iku? Mariana mused.
Suddenly, the dark waters turned even darker, as if ink had spilled in the
sea. She realized it was blood.
The remaining figure swam closer to her.
“Thank you,” she heard in her transceiver, and that was it. “Now we’re
even.”
Later, hard to say how much, she suddenly felt sand beneath her fins, and
the next wave threw her ashore. There was no one else.
Mariana gasped and tore off her mask. She hungrily took in a breath of
fresh cold air. Then she looked at the raging skies and around the shore,
where she saw no artificial lights. She had no idea where she was.
She’d get rid of the suit. She would start walking. She’d try to make it
somewhere dry without collapsing. If anyone asked, she’d make some
excuse of getting lost in the storm, and give a fake name. Only then would
she go online, if possible, and try to find out what they did.
Perhaps, just perhaps, she just emerged on the shore of a different world.

Author’s note: The quotations come from “Poetry and Mystery of The
Sea,” as referred to by Edward Howland in “Ocean’s Story; or Triumphs of
Thirty Centuries” (1873).

First published in Clarkesworld (2/2019).

 All The Smells in the World

We humans are very visually and auditory-oriented, but the sense of smell is
an inherent part of our lives. We may not often think about it on a conscious
level, but it influences our first impressions of people, shifts our mood, digs
up seemingly long-forgotten memories and much, much more. Without the
sense of smell, no immersive experience is really complete—which is why
the protagonist’s company wants to introduce smell to virtual reality… but
something goes awry.
As it usually is with near-future stories, reality caught up pretty fast. The
Feelreal VR sensory mask is supposed to add smell, blast your face with air
to mimic wind, and more. I haven’t tried it, but there you have it. No
mention of curious side effects as of yet, though…

I hesitate for a second before ringing the bell. When I do, I have an
impression of smelling a faint scent of apples. I hear quick footsteps, and
my mother opens the door. Vanilla joins the apples.
“Honey, this is such a surprise! Why didn’t you tell us you’d come visit?”
Her gaze falls on my big duffel bag, and for a split-second, her warm smile
wavers. I detect a note of bitter almonds.
I come in and see the familiar tiles with the distasteful paintings of cute
kittens and puppies, and the floral-patterned wallpapers. I hear the sounds
of TV from the living room. Home smells like cocoa with cinnamon. Relief
floods over me.
Mother does everything like always: flutters about in the kitchen, offers
me a homemade pie thrice, which I gently refuse thrice, makes us tea, puts
sugar in it without asking first, and otherwise asks questions all the time.
There is one that inevitably comes, one I’ve braced myself against since
coming.
“So what are you working on now?”
“In-built integration of olfactory stimuli into fully immersive VR,” I
mumble and hope she lets it be.
“Honey, I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying.”
I sigh. “We’re adding smell to virtual reality.”
 “Really? That must be interesting!”
“You can’t imagine.”

***

“We’re going to do something no one else has done so far: Add another
sense into virtual reality. We will integrate the sense of smell into the VR
experience,” Regina says on the regular Monday meeting, with a wide
teeth-baring smile. She positively beams. She must be certain this would
turn the workings of a small but successful startup upside down. From the
two startup CEO stereotypes—nerd and businessman—she is the second.
Disruptive is her favorite word.
There is a second of silence, followed by many objections.
“Insane number of variables.”
“Horrendous inter-individual variance!”
“The hardware solution will cost a fortune, and everyone will hate it
anyway!”
Regina listens to all of them attentively and answers each and every one.
Smell is perhaps the most complex of our senses and the hardest to capture.
We don’t pay so much conscious attention to it, but it’s far more powerful
on the subconscious level than most of us realize. It plays a role in partner
choice. We can’t enjoy food without it. It has a speedway built-in to the
hippocampus, which is why even the slightest sensation of smell can make
us relive a memory as if it happened yesterday. A hint of vanilla you don’t
even realize you’re smelling, and suddenly you imagine your granny laying
down a fresh apple pie in front of you a week before she died. Or you smell
a perfume with cedar—and suddenly you’re angry at your ex, not knowing
why. There is a certain melodramatic potential.
The world you see, hear and perhaps can touch in VR, if you’ve spent
loads of money on haptic feedback gloves, is just waiting to really come
alive.
Regina knows how to push her vision forward. There is a new Trello
board and a special Slack thread before we can say “notification”.
Now what remains is to make the dream into reality. As if it were that
simple.

*
 The next step is gathering the data. I gaze uncertainly at the first group of
our newly-hires. “Do you understand everything?”
One, a social anthropology student with a pierced nose, nods lazily to the
device in my hand. “We’re gonna go through the assigned locations with
this, scour the places, document everything, return at a different time,
always with a new filter in it, and write logs in our odor diary. At least five
rounds of measurements for each place. Got it?”
“Yes.”
Another woman gazes around a bit uncertainly. I realize it’s the one
who’s had to sign twice as many confidentiality forms than the others,
tasked with gathering sex olfactory data.
“Unless your specific instructions say otherwise,” I add quickly.
This time, a lean young man with unobtrusive round glasses raises a
hand. “I know this doesn’t really apply to me, but won’t outside
measurements be too influenced by weather?”
This one is in charge of documenting libraries, I realize. A librarian with
all kinds of access even to the rare book rooms.
“You’re right. That’s why we’ll ask for more data if needed.”
I hope he doesn’t continue asking. I’m more of a hardware person
myself. Sifting through big data for the few golden grains is a bit too
esoteric for me.
Equipped with the best olfactometers on the market, filters and diaries,
our new helpers leave. Only the librarian lingers after the others depart.
“What is it, um… Ctirad?” I recall his name.
“I wonder if I could take you to dinner,” he admits.
“Oh.”
My lack of eloquence at the moment doesn’t seem to put off the man who
spends his days surrounded by books. He’s still smiling.
“Let me think about it,” I say finally. “I… I’ll message you on
Facebook.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh.” Damn, I think, I’m repeating myself. “Uh…”
“You have my number. I mean, you have access to our contact
information…”
“Sure. I’ll let you know.”
He smiles. “Better than a no. I still have some hope.”
 Later, I google him. No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram, Snapchat,
LinkedIn, christ, not even Goodreads. What kind of a librarian is he?
It’s hard to swipe left or right if you don’t know anything about the other
person, and he gives you no option where to swipe.
Well, at least I will choose the restaurant.

“It looks ridiculous,” the first betatester states as he sees the prototype
device. “Completely, utterly ridiculous.”
My guts clench when I think how much work has gone into this—the
odor sampling, testing, manufacture, testing again, tinkering, presenting the
device for our “odor panel” for calibration, not speaking of the two mass
specs we’ve gone through—but Regina smiles confidently. “Try it on,” she
urges him.
He frowns as he puts the strap with a device resembling a breathing mask
under his nose, beside the usual headset. He looks like a tse-tse diver. But as
he immerses in the game, his expression changes visibly even under the
headset.
Regina’s smile widens.
Two months later, it’s the CES. Everyone whose position starts with C is
in Vegas (apart from the CFO; he never gets to enjoy himself). On Twitter, I
see pics of the newest wireless milk pump, augreality remaking everyone
into a Star Trek alien, printed dresses with adjustable length and color, and
retro arcade games. I conclude I don’t really need a toothbrush with an
integrated camera, or wireless gadgets going into other orifices.
“Smelly VR” draws in reporters like flies attracted to a particularly
decayed piece of meat. In the following week, the number of reviews and
reports climbs sharply.
We’re officially famous.

“The best VR upgrade since haptic gloves.”

- The Verge

“Insane. Breathtaking. The future is here, and you can smell it.”
- Wired
 “A gadget you mustn’t miss.”
- Forbes

“It’s like something from Professor Farnsworth’s workshop.”

- Ars Technica

“You’ve done a great job, team. The Mark 1 is popular. It’s my pleasure
to announce that we’ve just sold it for twice as much than we hoped,”
Regina says with an almost predatory smile.
The people with C in their positions nod, smiling too. The rest of us are
caught unaware.
We’ve sold it…? It could be expected, since we’re too small to struggle
with competition trying to build the same technology despite parents, but
still…?
Regina continues: “The reviews were glowing, but they also said it
was… crude. They were right. Releasing odor molecules has many
disadvantages and limited use.”
I have to agree. In short, users put on a mask full of microcapsules that
opened based on what part of the game the user entered. You walk into a
library and smell the old books, dust and stained wood. No one saw how
many sleepless nights we’ve spent on which molecules bearing these smells
we can synthesize and store without the fragile sensation getting hopelessly
stuck in the uncanny valley. But it doesn’t last long, it’s expensive, and you
have to refill it frequently…
“That’s why we’re going to build a new interface. One that needs no
carefully released synthetic mixtures. We’ve started collaboration with the
Minerva neurobiological think tank. They’ve had some breakthroughs
concerning olfactory stimuli lately.”
I don’t know whether to be excited or wonder whether I shouldn’t have
gone corporate after school and have some peace. Having your foot on the
accelerator of progress is nice, but what’s usually omitted is that the
steering wheel doesn’t work and someone forgot to install the brakes.
“We’ve just received another injection by Node7. We can grow, and we
need to grow. Now is the best time for the real VR revolution,” Regina
flashes her white teeth.
 That’s why I spend the following weeks and months with neuroscientists.
I find that “I need brains” is a completely normal phrase in some
professions and that transcranial magnetic stimulation has gone a long way
since we joked about it at school. Back then, applying magnetic fields to
selected brain areas was occasionally used for chronic pain and severe
depression treatment, but aiming and calibration were tough. Compared to
direct-current stimulation, which could be used even by a hobbyist
transhumanist, it seemed too clumsy.
“Cortical is hard. Hit it just a little off within the standard deviation, and
you’re screwed. But hacking the olfactory bulbs… Hit the right neurons and
voila, you’ve got a sensation of an apple, or a swimming pool, or an old
book,” I explain to Ctirad back home. We’re not supposed to discuss the
dev yet, but he won’t spread any rumors, even if largely because his
colleagues at the library would have no idea what he’s talking about.
“All of that thanks to that magnetic helmet?”
I nod. “So far, it’s mostly used for experimental therapy. But it’s coming
to VR. I just don’t know of anyone else who’s tried it on olfaction first.”
Ctirad is silent for a while. “Isn’t it risky?” he says finally. “You’re
planting a sensation into someone’s brain. Imagine where this could lead.”
“It’s a damn long way from an olfactory sensation to a false memory or
opinion,” I try to calm him. But he’s right. It’s going to be exploitable one
day. After all, we’ve all read fiction about ads planted right into our heads.
But would it pay off? There are simpler ways to manipulate people without
having to stick a helmet on their head.
At least so far.

Another round of calibration.

I put on the helmet and engage the testing sequence. Nothing. I dial up
the signal one point. Two.
For a second, it seems to me as if the world I see has become more
substantial—but then the sensation fades and no breakthrough occurs.
I take off the helmet and glasses. My head spins as I adjust to the real
world. Perhaps I’ve spent too long on calibrating the damn thing. High time
to go home.
 The journey is strange. The bus smells weird. That’s not so unusual, to be
honest, but it’s weird how weird it smells. No stink of unwashed bodies,
cigarettes and gas. Instead… withered roses and camellias? I’m surprised at
my own associations. Maybe I’ve just become overtrained at finding smells
everywhere. Before Regina has taken us in this direction, I largely ignored
the world of smells and “some flowers” would be the peak of what I’d be
capable of identifying.
Then the pavement makes me feel as if I smell blueberries. So ridiculous
—blueberries!
But only home, the change hits me fully. Right in the face. I unlock the
door and an unpleasant acrid smell gushes out at me.
“Ctirad?” I call from the hallway. “Have you burned something?”
Ctirad emerges from the living room, cleaning his glasses. “No, why?”
As soon as I see him, my stomach turns. Dill! I hate dill, it makes me
sick!
I shut my eyes, and the sensation ceases.
“Fuck,” I breathe. I suspect what’s the problem, but I’m having a hard
time believing it.
First, I cautiously look at the stairs (red beans?) and then back at Ctirad.
Dill, all dill!
I try to explain what has likely happened, my gaze locked on the tips of
my shoes (nothing, to my great relief). I google acquired synesthesia and go
through the points. No, I have not ingested LSD or any other hallucinogenic
substance. I have not suffered brain damage, lost any sense, or been
hypnotized. Perhaps elevated levels of transmitters in the bulbs, stimulated
by one calibration after another for the past two weeks? Newly formed
abnormal neural pathways?
I can’t look at Ctirad. I manage to find a sleeping mask from a
transoceanic flight and choose to walk around the flat blind. Most of it
doesn’t smell pleasant.
Even when we turn off the light, I can’t bring myself to touch my
boyfriend. The impression of dill remains too strong.
I go to the doctors first thing in the morning. They shrug at me at the
neurology department, say “possible sensory cross-activation, let us run
some tests”, but it’s clear they don’t know any solution. The good news is
that I don’t have multiple sclerosis, where this can be a rare early symptom.
They say it will likely fade, like synesthesia induced by substance abuse.
 So I return to the world of burning smells, disinfection and dill, I wonder
whether the new connectivity is random or my subconscious is trying to tell
me something, and hope for a miracle.
But it only gets worse.

***

Which brings me back to now. I’m sitting at the kitchen table opposite
Mother, nursing an XXL cup of sweet black tea amidst the all-permeating
sensation of cinnamon, clove and cocoa.
I consider telling her what happened; after revising it substantially, of
course. You never tell your parents the whole story.
The truth is, I have no idea what happens next. Do I come back to work
after some time off? Will the project even launch since this complication
has occurred? Will I leave and try to get some compensation? What happens
to me and Ctirad?
And will I ever rid myself of this curse?
I know what Mom would tell me if she could hear my thoughts. Every
curse is a gift in disguise. She certainly had the gift of sounding like an
unwanted child of a self-help manual and a moralistic fairy tale.
How do I turn this into a gift, since it has turned my life upside down?
I know what Regina would tell me: Use it for business.
But how my brain connects visual and olfactory sensations has no
objective foundation. To me, this room smells like cocoa, but to someone
else, it might resemble rotten fish.
However... who says that business has to have a solid foundation?
I look at Mother. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Dark chocolate. Vanilla. An
undertone of salt.
I have an inkling she would like a perfume like this.
But what to do if I smell latrine in someone?
Improvise, some part of my self, silent insofar, whispers. Old wood.
Forest. Musk. See?
Perhaps I’ll try to automate it. What about an app telling you what
perfume you are? You upload a picture, not just of yourself, but your
favorite places, pets, friends…
Objective value: zero. Entertainment value? Depends on how well I make
and market it.
 Maybe I’ll use some AI framework for that. Feed it data, let it dream
deeply… and it will tell you how it perceives you in terms of smell.
Or what about perfumes for special occasions? How is the approaching
Red Dragon launch going to smell?
I find that I’m smiling. Perhaps the curse can be used as a gift—I just
have to try.
There is a world full of sweet possibilities opening before me.

First published in Analog (1-2/2019).

 To See The Elephant
This story began with a zebra finch. More precisely, with me at the
“Evolution of Phenotype” class, learning about an interesting piece of
research on one particular interesting specimen of zebra finch. I’ll give you
the scientific paper reference, but without the title (that would be a spoiler):
Agate, Robert J., et al. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences,
100.8 (2003): 4873-4878.
Imagine listening to a university lecture and getting a story idea. But as it
usually is, the result is an amalgam of multiple ideas, from the zebra finch
across elephants to wanting to write “something about an animal
psychologist”. The genesis of a story is different for each and every author.
Some tend to start with characters; a piece of dialogue; building a world;
naming spaceships… I can start in any way, although scientific inspiration
is one of the usual ways for me. Heroes of “Nightside”, which you’ll
encounter later on, can tell.
Animal psychologist Adina Ipolla, ranger Robert Ndiege or the elephant
Mgeni don’t have to grapple with such extreme circumstances like them, but
their journey is by no means easy…

Robert was skeptical when he first saw the woman at the airport. In her
long-sleeved white blouse and beige pencil skirt, she didn’t quite fit the
image he had expected. She looked like a well-heeled tourist; like the kind
who only come here to vaunt that they had been on a safari and seen some
of the last wild African elephants—while they actually had spent most of
their vacation in a hotel bar.
“Doctor Ipolla?” he approached her hesitantly. Maybe it’s not her, maybe
she missed her flight…
But she nodded severely. “Yes.”
“My name’s Robert Oyange Ndiege. I’m here to take you to your hotel
and then to the reservation when you’re ready.”
“All right. If you could take me straight to the reservation, please. I’d like
to start my work as soon as possible.” She had an impeccable Oxbridge
accent and her behavior so far fulfilled all the stereotypes about arrogant
Brits that Robert could think of.
 She frowned a little as they stepped into the hot and humid air outside.
Her frown got a shade darker as she saw the car they were heading to. It
certainly wasn’t in the best shape—but what had she expected?
“How was your journey?” he asked when they got in.
“Not very pleasant.”
I think I know how that felt, Robert thought. In one last courageous
attempt of making small talk, he said: “Is this your first time in Kenya?”
“Yes.” She offered nothing else. Just after a while of uncomfortable
silence—at least uncomfortable for Robert—she asked: “How long is the
drive to the reservation?”
“Around one hour and a half.”
“Will you excuse me if I close my eyes for a moment then? I haven’t
slept very long. I can never fall asleep on a plane.” With that, not even
waiting for his response, she shifted in the seat so that she could rest her
head better.
Normally, people were curious when they arrived. They almost traveled
with their faces stuck to the car windows, peering at the world outside.
Even the most ignorant tourists at least looked. Robert didn’t know what to
think of this woman. He used this moment to study her without seeming
impertinent. Her clothes seemed expensive but were simple, almost severe.
She wore practical shoes and no visible jewelry. She looked around thirty-
five but could have been older if she took any of the cosmetic rejuvenation
treatments. However, her mocha-colored skin had some wrinkles around the
eyes and lips which these treatments would likely take away. No apparent
make-up.
So that was Doctor Adina Ipolla. Robert took his eyes off her, focusing
on the road again. He just hoped this strange woman would prove worthy of
her title.

Adina opened her eyes to the sight of a one-story prefabricated building.

Kubwa Memorial National Park, said the large green sign on its side.
Below it, smaller letters stated: Research & Game Warden Station IV. It
wasn’t in the best state—but what here had been? The car had seen better
days, the wardens were underpaid; not the optimal situation to deal with the
decline of African bush elephants’ populations after the devastating
epidemic nine years ago. Lack of money… that seems to always be the
problem, doesn’t it? As if I didn’t know already…
The kid who drove her here noticed she had woken up with apparent
relief. What in the name of god was he afraid of? Adina wasn’t sure
whether she should be more amused or irritated.
A senior warden named Kimaiyo greeted her inside. “Thank you for
coming on such short notice. I hope we didn’t cause you any
inconveniences.”
“Not at all if the situation about Mgeni truly is as serious as seemed from
your message.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then let us start work. I’d like to see Mgeni’s whole file.”
“Whole file?” Kimaiyo echoed.
“Yes, the whole file.” Her patience was quickly running off. She couldn’t
wait to start working.
“I’m afraid you already have everything we’ve got.”
“There must be some mistake. His kinship information, records and
ethograms were missing, as well as the developmental and genotype data.
His habits were left blank.”
“That’s because we haven’t got any of it,” ventured Ndiege. “I’m sorry. I
thought you knew.”
“But I was under the impression that the Lausanne cognitive ethology
group worked here…”
“Yes. And they cannot share their data with us until their results are
published,” explained Kimaiyo with a snarl. “We tried to go around it but
with no success as you can note. We know that this situation is not optimal
but we’re currently quite short of options.”
Damn academic rivalry, Adina thought and slowly let out a deep breath.
“All right. We’ll manage. We’ll take samples for genotyping and position
my equipment tomorrow. For now, I’d like you to tell me everything you
know about him. Every single thing, no matter how unimportant it might
have seemed to you. Start at the beginning. When and in which herd was
Mgeni born?”
“We don’t know precisely. He’s some sixteen to eighteen years old as we
had estimated. We first observed him in our park six years ago, roughly at
the time of the epidemic’s decline. He might have crossed from Tanzania
but they had no information. That’s hardly surprising given the confusion
the epidemic caused… He didn’t have any GPS collar or any other device
on him. We gave him the standard GPS, but that’s all. We’re rather
underfunded here,” Kimaiyo admitted, a bitter grimace settling on his face.
“Has he ever been observed to be in musth?”
“No, not yet. But that’s certainly not unusual with respect to his age.
Musth usually occurs around twenty-fifth year –”
“Yes, I know,” Adina interrupted him. She felt her impatience rise.
“However, in conditions of lowered competition, it can occur much earlier,
just after the onset of puberty. Some other parks have reported lowered
musth age after the epidemic—and before that, those regions where culling
or poaching were prevalent and there were few older bulls. Current lower
population densities might be perceived as low-competition conditions. In
this view, it wouldn’t be surprising for Mgeni to have already entered musth
periods.”
Kimaiyo fell silent. “Nevertheless,” he continued after a while, in a less
confident tone than before, “Mgeni has never been observed in musth. That
is, we cannot exclude the possibility that it had occurred out of anyone’s
sight, but I find that improbable.”
“All right. What about his social bonds?“
“He’s been interacting with the Aja and Kito herds. None of the females
were in oestrus during most of the observed encounters, however, at one
occasion Kay, one of the younger adults, was receptive. Mgeni attempted
mating but was chased off by an approaching older male—Kiju, who had
died last year. He was the only other adult bull within a thirty mile diameter.
That’s why we need Mgeni so much.”
“I see,” Adina said silently.
After the viral epidemic, African bush elephant populations declined by
an alarming ninety percent—from some six hundred thousand to a mere
sixty thousand on the whole continent. Mgeni could have just entered
puberty when the epidemic hit hardest. Whole herds had died; he might
have witnessed a lot of suffering and lost all his social connections. He
traveled here, separated from his herd and possibly seeking company or the
neighborhood of other bulls. The only one still surviving was the old Kiju.
Mgeni could have been highly socially deprived. No wonder he started
exhibiting strange behavior…
Well, Adina, you’ve got a simple hypothesis, so test it, she thought to
herself.
 “Do you have more records of his behavior other than the one you had
sent me?”
“Yes, yes, both we and the tourists have recorded several of them. I’ll
show you.”

Looking at the videos, Doctor Ipolla’s face had undergone a dramatic

change. Her expression changed, from the usual blank or slightly frowning
one, to one of great focus and almost childlike curiosity. A couple of times,
Robert could see her lips moving but couldn’t make out the words.
A shudder went through him as he saw Mgeni performing the strange
chore. One moment, the young elephant was behaving normally. The other,
it started. It resembled an invitation to play at first, except that no one was
nearby. Mgeni leaned his head on the side and then came down and started
tusking the ground. His ears were tensely spread. Then he removed his
tusks from the ground and waggled his head wildly. He kicked his right
hind leg. Once, twice, three times… each time more angrily than before. It
couldn’t be mistaken for play now. He ran forward, still kicking his leg
sometimes and almost falling down at one point. The lower section of his
ears was folded—typically a sign of aggression. He kept waving his left ear
a little and swaying his trunk.
His unrest was apparently increasing. Finally, he stopped by a grown
acacia tree, and instead of feeding, he started rubbing the left side of his
head on the tree. The same pattern as on the older videos.
They first recorded this kind of behavior about one year ago but it only
lasted for two days. Then everything went back to normal. Robert had
completely forgotten the incident—until two weeks ago, when it started
again and much more severely than before. Mgeni seemed to go through
some cycles of normality and this. Robert had no illusions about what
would have happen with Mgeni just ten years ago: They’d have shot him if
they’d considered him dangerous for other elephants and people. However,
with the current state of bush elephants’ population, each and every
individual was needed desperately—at least with the current state of law
which forbade breeding African elephants from artificially inseminated
eggs in the wombs of surrogate Asian elephant mothers. The Asian tigers
apparently saw a big financial opportunity in this—but they only succeeded
in persuading the government in South Africa so far.
Ipolla’s expression grew darker and darker. When the last recording
stopped, she stood up and declared: “I want to see him. Right now.”

Seeing the elephant with her own eyes was a totally different experience
than watching his records. Mgeni was beautiful. His right tusk seemed to be
slightly smaller than the left one, true, but that didn’t make the bull any less
magnificent. She felt her irritation fade away through the awe from seeing
this fascinating creature.
Mgeni didn’t appear to be startled by their arrival and continued drinking
from the river. After all, in times after the epidemic, bush elephants were
under close scrutiny—at least where such a luxury could be afforded. They
usually weren’t surprised by close approach of cars or people. Back when
they were still allowed to be killed on some occasions, many of them
avoided people on foot but didn’t fear cars—which typically just brought
tourists or researchers.
Adina came as close as about twenty meters from him, walking slowly
and observing the bull with increasing fascination. He remained calm but
she was ready to back off if he exhibited any signs of discomfort or anger.
As she studied him longer, she frowned. “See his left temple? That
almost looks as though his temporal gland was swollen, certainly more than
is typical during stress… Can you see it?”
“Sort of… But at this scale, it only occurs in musth. That can’t be
possible. He doesn’t behave like a bull in musth, and there’s nothing on his
other side, nor other signs like dripping urine. This is probably just a
swelling from mosquito bites or some scratch,” Ndiege shook his head.
Adina nodded; not fully convinced, but what else could it be after all?
The kid must have been right.
On their way back, she suddenly cried at him to stop. She got out of the
car before he could ask her why. He just followed her—and then saw what
caught her attention.
“Oh. Shit,” he said automatically, then remembering who he’d been
speaking to.
 She didn’t seem to mind. “Yes. A fecal sample. You said no other
elephants were nearby today?”
He nodded.
“Excellent. We can use it to estimate his current endocrine levels.”
She quickly produced a plastic tube from her suitcase, put on a pair of
blue latex gloves and, oblivious to her blouse and skirt, collected a sample.
“It seems fresh. Good. Now, the sooner we deliver it to the station to
analyze it, the better. Hurry up.”

Doctor Ipolla was already waiting in front of the hotel when Robert
stopped by the next morning. He was somewhat relieved to see her in
practical linen trousers and loose shirt. He started revising his first
assumptions about her.
She was carrying a large Gladstone bag. She barely said hello, just got in
the car, carefully placing the bag on her lap, and spoke: “Let’s go.”
They met with Kimayo and one other warden, Mutahi, on the way.
Kimayo held three large tranquilizer rifles.
Ipolla nodded to them. “I hope that will not be necessary. I have brought
equipment that can be positioned by remote control. Do not shoot at him
unless I specifically say so. Anesthesia messes with the EEG results.”
Kimayo exchanged glances with Robert and Mutahi but said nothing.
Mgeni was feeding from an acacia tree when they approached him. Like
yesterday, he remained quite indifferent to their presence. Ipolla slowly
opened her Gladstone bag and produced what looked like a couple of tiny
remote-controlled quadcopters.
“They carry the electrodes and will attach them to Mgeni’s head in
positions enabling good resolution,” she explained.
As her drones took off, Mgeni stopped and looked in their direction, his
trunk curled in an attentive pose and eyes wide open. The fingers of his
trunk opening and closing indicated sniffing. He took a few steps back,
lowered and then held his head up, standing tall.
“Slow down their approach,” Robert said, a little nervous. “They’re
frightening him.”
Mgeni tossed his head again. When the drones retreated a bit, he regarded
them with something Robert would not hesitate to describe as suspicion.
Then, obviously agitated, he advanced with his ears folded. He swung his
trunk –
“Damn,” Kimayo whispered and readied his rifle. Robert did the same.
Ipolla waved her hand at them to stop. Without taking her eyes off the
advancing elephant, she reached into her pocket for her cell phone and said
some voice command.
Robert thought he heard a very faint, distant elephant call, wondering
about its source, until he realized that the low rumble came from Ipolla’s
phone. She continued talking to it slowly and the sound changed a little.
To his utmost wonder, the elephant stopped and seemed to be calming
down. Eventually, he turned from them and started feeding again while
Ipolla let out a relieved breath and let the small drones position the
electrodes. This time, Mgeni practically paid no attention to them. One of
them also took samples for genotyping from the skin on the elephant’s left
ear.
“One or two faulty alleles… It rarely is that simple,” Robert heard Ipolla
mumble to herself. “But it’s also the simplest to eliminate.”
He approached her when she was done. “That sound—that was some
recording of their calls?”
“Just a series of artificial bush elephant vocalizations. I told the software
what sequences to play. Thankfully, it worked. But without decades of hard
work by Poole, Moss, Payne and the likes of them, this easy solution
wouldn’t be possible.” Ipolla frowned again. “And it works only partially
now… Some of the dialects have changed dramatically in the last few
years. And do you know that they almost ceased communicating by
infrasound over long distances? One of the most fascinating languages on
Earth might have gone extinct with the epidemic.”
She gave Mgeni a long sad look. “Well… The electrodes are in place and
seem to be working. I’m getting enough data for opening the link when
we’re back. Let’s not disturb him further now.”
Once she was safely at the station, sitting comfortably and in fast reach
of a doctor in case of trouble, she opened the link. Data started flowing to
the hardware hidden inside her skull.
Robert was watching her curiously. This was the first time he’d seen any
animal psychologist at work. He used to regard this profession with much
suspicion: linking a human to an animal’s mind and actually finding out
something through all the computer-filtered EEG data gushed onto the
synapses seemed a bit far-fetched to him. The fact that most of them
apparently worked with domestic dogs and made loads of money as
proclaimed pet therapists did no help to improve this image.
She sat with her eyes shut, her face still like a statue. Suddenly, a flicker
of awe broke that expression. Then, very slowly, a trace of joy appeared.
“We have him,” she whispered.

Strange sensations filled her mind. It was overwhelming and confusing at

first; she could hardly tell where her own perceptions and feelings ended
and Mgeni’s began. But the interface adapted very quickly and allowed her
to distinguish between them.
Her thrill from successfully linking to Mgeni vanished gradually as she
became more and more aware of what he’d been experiencing.
It was hard to translate it into human concepts, however, she tried to put
names to it anyway.
Fear. Frustration. Ambivalence. Confusion. Anger.

Robert watched the joy in Ipolla’s face being replaced by a mixture of

anxiety and pain. Eventually, she opened her eyes.
“Well, it does seem serious,” she spoke finally. “I’ll try to visualize his
brain activity.”
She didn’t wait for anyone to respond and started typing feverishly on her
notebook. “There. See it?”
Robert leaned forward. To be honest, he didn’t see much. Or, more
precisely, he saw but didn’t understand. Interpreting EEG output certainly
wasn’t something professors taught them at the wildlife conservation
university program he was attending.
Luckily, Ipolla started explaining: “His amygdala, especially in the right
hemisphere, shows quite high activity. The whole HPA axis is firing a lot.
The right prefrontal lobe and left inferior frontal gyrus also. I can’t get
sufficient spatial resolution from EEG data but I’d say the left insular cortex
is also above the norm—though one cannot derive much from these data
without context and reliable reference.”
 “But—what does it mean for Mgeni?” Robert ventured as he saw the
blank faces around him.
“It likely means that he’s experiencing a lot of emotion, especially of the
negative kind. Yesterday’s results from the fecal sample showed elevated
androgens and glucocorticoids. That is in accord with the HPA axis activity.
Basically, these data indicate stress and anxiety. I’ll be able to provide a less
obvious insight after I have observed and felt his activity for at least a
whole day.”
Kimayio stood up. “Alright. Do just that.”
Ipolla shot him a sharp glance. “I intend to, I assure you.”

Doctor Ipolla had spent most of the afternoon frowning intently at her
laptop, paying no attention to her surroundings. But from time to time,
Robert paid attention to her. Her connection to Mgeni intrigued him. He
kept wondering what it felt like and whether it would bring forth the desired
results.
As she rubbed her forehead, clearly exhausted, he got up and offered her
tea.
“I’d like a cup, thank you,” Ipolla nodded absentmindedly.
When he handed her the cup, her left hand grasped it firmly and held.
Robert blinked. “Ahem, careful, it’s hot.”
Ipolla’s jaw was locked. “I know,” she uttered.
“Well…” Robert felt a bit stupid asking: “Why don’t you put it down
then?”
“I can’t.” Though it obviously became increasingly hard for her to speak,
she added very quietly: “I can’t release the grip.”
“What—why?!”
Kimayo raised his head and looked at them. Ipolla gave him a smile—not
really a pleasant sight to behold. The senior warden frowned and returned to
his paperwork.
“Fuck,” she breathed out. “I can’t focus on tuning down while… it
hurts… Would you care to try to remove the cup from my hand?”
“I’m trying. Your fingers are locked around it. And—now you pulled
away!”
“I did not. Oh, damn it. I must filter out the pain…” She closed her eyes
and became very still for a moment. Then her fingers suddenly loosened the
grip and Robert had to react quickly to catch the cup. A couple of drops of
the hot tea landed on the back of his hand and he hissed with pain.
“If you excuse me, I’m going to put it under cold water,” Ipolla said and
hurried away.

Robert could see Doctor Ipolla’s face quite clearly in the rear-view mirror
and her expression quite puzzled him. It wasn’t the slightly disdainful
frowny look that had seemed to be her default state anymore. She looked
almost serene—and somewhat out of this world.
“If I may ask—what happened today? With your hand, I mean,” he
finally asked in a quiet voice. Her palm was still reddish and must have
hurt, but luckily she didn’t get any serious burns.
“An important piece of data.” She sighed and went to elaborate: “It’s
called an alien hand syndrome. The connection must have evoked it in me
for a moment, before I was able to tune the strength of the signal down.
Which is strange, because nothing so far suggests there’s anything wrong
with Mgeni’s corpus callosum or frontal cortex, which are the most frequent
causes.”
“So—the link works well?”
“Oh, yes. Today’s strange event only proves that.”
“I guess so. Well… it’s just that I was worried how it might work with an
elephant. Getting useful EEG data through their thick skin and skull, with
all the muscles’ electric interference around, is not easy, is it?”
“It isn’t. The fact that my profession is possible owes a lot to new
methods of clearing up the signal and filtering out the noise. The electrodes
are very sensitive, which enables me to perceive the brain activity more
precisely, but it also comes with the disadvantage of a lot more noise. I’m
grateful it works…” She fell silent for a moment. “You know, there’s
nothing like being linked to an elephant’s mind.”
“I can’t quite imagine it,” Robert admitted.
Ipolla nodded dreamily. “I couldn’t either until I had experienced it. I
remember my very first link as clearly as if it was yesterday. It was not
much compared to later, more profound connections—but feeling the
presence of another mind, so different and yet translatable into human
notions, even if there were no exact words for some of them, was something
I’ll never forget. It was a lab rat known for her calmness, mind you.
Something to make the leap easier for the students.”
 “How does one decide to become an animal psychologist anyway? It’s
not something one can give up easily…,” he said uncertainly.
“Oh, you mean sticking hardware into your head. Well, it’s not
irreversible. And it can be reprogrammed and used for other purposes. But I
guess it comes down to… curiosity. Wanting to know at least indirectly
what goes on in their heads. To really make sense of their behavior.”
“You’re the first member of your profession I’ve met. I don’t think there
are any residing in Kenya. I’ve always pictured animal psychs in shiny pet
care centers…”
“Oh yes. Well, it’s the most lucrative part of the profession,” Ipolla
sneered a little. “It can be quite interesting and sometimes demanding, too.
But there’s usually not much to explore there. You work with lapdogs every
day, you eventually grow tired of that. I don’t think I could do this.”
“And you…”
“Mostly zoos. Often research institutes, national parks, conservation
stations…” Doctor Ipolla grew silent. Robert had the impression that she
had wanted to continue but something stopped her. He decided not to press
it. But he quite liked this new version of Adina Ipolla.
He stopped at the hotel.
“Good night, Mr. Ndiege.”
There was an actual smile. Robert thought nothing could surprise him
anymore.

At two thirty in the morning, Robert Oyange Ndiege found that his
surprise could after all be stretched further.
Grunting and cursing, he grabbed the ringing cell phone. “Yes?!”
“Doctor Ipolla speaking. I think something’s happening to Mgeni.”
Her tone woke him up immediately. He grabbed his clothes while urging
her to tell him more.
“I don’t know… He’s just… frightened. Very frightened. And angry.
Desperate. I…,” her voice trailed off. She sounded like she had trouble
speaking.
“I’ll call the senior warden to ensure Mgeni is safe.”
“I-I want t-to go there,” she stuttered.
Hearing her, Robert worried whether she’d be capable of going anywhere
at all. “I’ll be at the hotel in ten minutes,” he promised, leaving it at that for
now.
 Kimaiyo certainly wasn’t happy that he’d woken him up. Once Robert
explained quickly, he muttered something about overreacting women and
one’s right to an undisturbed sleep but declared he’d do something about
Ipolla’s claim.
Doctor Ipolla was sitting at the stairs to the hotel entrance when he
stopped there. He was shocked by the sight of her: She was sweating
heavily, wet hair sticking to her forehead, arms wrapped in a wool shawl.
She was shaking.
“We must go!” she uttered through her clattering teeth.
“I must take you to the hospital!” he proclaimed.
She gave him a glare. “Mgeni is in danger, may be injured! Take me to
him immediately!”
He hesitated.
Ipolla shoved him aside and got into the car—on the driver’s seat. Robert
ran to her quickly. “Alright, I’ll take you there! You can’t drive in such a
condition!”
“Very well.”
During the journey, her state became even more alarming. Robert was
concerned that she might lose consciousness or go into seizures, but to his
relief, she was still in control of herself when they saw Mgeni’s silhouette.
Suddenly, she exclaimed in pain.
He hit the brakes and turned to her.
“Go,” she shouted, “go! He saw us too. Hurry!”

Mgeni was a horrible sight now. He was trumpeting wildly and

bellowing, the rage and fear so apparent in the sound that even an untrained
human would immediately understand such a signal. Trying to run and yet
staying at the site. Eyes wide open. Trunk moving furiously. Front feet
stomping. So much fear –
And pain. Ipolla now clearly registered the sharp pain in his right hind
leg through the haze of his fright and anger.
They were running side by side with Ndiege. She channeled all her effort
into keeping pace with him and staying on her feet altogether. If she
stopped running, she might collapse right away.
 She couldn’t see the danger anywhere. But it was still there, and Mgeni
was losing control…
I may be crazy. But…
She slowed down for a fraction to increase the data flow from her
implant.
Pain. Fury. Danger. Where?
It smells. It’s—that direction!
There! A barely discernible silhouette.
The source of the pain.
Still circling around, keeping careful distance, not wanting to let his
trophy go.
“A poacher!” she shouted at Ndiege, out of breath.
She saw his eyes widen. But then he registered the distant figure too.
And it registered them, started moving away.
Still pain. Still danger.
Then—a new shot of pain!
Its blade cut through her mind and she squealed, falling, her legs no
longer supporting her. So exhausted. So hurting. So… furious.
Through all the excitement, she realized neither of those feelings, maybe
except for the exhaustion, were really hers.
Deep, thick fury, the pressure increasing –
“He’s gonna charge!” exclaimed Ipolla and cried out in pain.
She couldn’t see anymore, didn’t know where the poacher was now,
whether he ran or returned, what Ndiege was doing… She only felt the rage
explode; screamed and started running, no, wait, she wasn’t running, the
elephant was –
Two shapes close by. Danger.
Danger.
Oh god, he’s coming at us!
Would Ndiege use his tranquilizer gun? Did he have it now? She wasn’t
sure anymore.
She managed to lower the data flow again and suddenly her sight
returned, and in the center of her vision was Mgeni, coming fast at them,
but he wasn’t moving straight, it looked as if he tried to turn his left side
more to them…
For a moment, through all the fear, hers and his along, her own thought
emerged in her mind: So beautiful.
 Then she fumbled in her pocket, and yes, she found what she was looking
for and tossed it before Mgeni as strongly as she could and managed to
shout to Ndiege: “Keep away!”
Mgeni was approaching them, now so very near, and she saw Ndiege
take aim, oh yes, he had the gun, but then Mgeni suddenly slowed down
and swayed a little. She started crawling away, not taking her eyes off him,
taking another item out of her pocket—her cell phone, this time.
Let’s play you something soothing…
Only gradually, the haze of fear and fury began lifting and then, after a
while of dreadful uncertainty, she felt so happy and contended. Oh yes…

Robert couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The elephant calmed
miraculously after Ipolla had tossed that object at him and played a few
vocalizations. It shouldn’t have been so easy. It just couldn’t.
He looked at her and to his horror, he noticed she was blacking out.
Regardless of the elephant danger for a second, he ran to her and slapped at
her cheeks lightly.
“Come on, stay with me! Here, drink the water!” he offered her his flask.
She drank thirstily.
Mgeni seemed calm now and Robert found himself in a surprisingly light
mood too, improving with every moment. He managed to walk Ipolla back
to the car. As she was leaning against him for support, he realized a bit
hazily that she was in fact quite attractive. How come he never noticed it
before? Sure, she was older than him, but still…
Once in the car, she fumbled in her bag for something and produced two
small packets containing some white crystals.
“What is that?” he giggled. For some reason, it seemed very funny to
him, hilarious, in fact.
“Salt,” she smiled absently. “Plain salt. Y’know, for hyponatremia. May
be caused by high doses of ox… oxytocin. Not likely after a brief if strong
ex- exposure, but y’never know. Just eat it.” She was slurring words,
sounding very unlike herself. But he didn’t mind. Truth be told, he wasn’t
paying as much attention to her speech as to her body, covered with sweat.
Would she mind if he kissed her, and then removed the soaked and muddied
clothes?
 Just as he was nearly overcome by the urge to act on this thought, the
world flipped and Robert no longer felt like himself, as if he was looking at
the whole scene from somewhere beyond, regarding his own body as a
mere object, dispassionate, detached –
The change was too rapid for him. He collapsed on the front seat, his
head spinning from the weird sensation, his consciousness muted. Luckily,
the sound of an approaching car was enough to flip some switch again and
wake him up.
Mutahi arrived. Robert in spite of his strange state tried to explain what
had happened, which helped him clear his head a little. Before he he could
really consider his terrifying thought processes just moments ago, things
started moving. Mutahi promised to stay near Mgeni and wait for the
veterinary help, while other wardens and the police would try to find the
poacher. Even if he had a car, he couldn’t have gotten too far away.
To Robert’s relief, Ipolla was fully awake now as well. He offered to take
her to the hospital but she insisted on going back to the hotel.
“I’m fine now, I’m perfectly fine, you can trust me!” she mused. He eyed
her skeptically. She still didn’t seem quite herself. She looked so… light-
headed. And unusually calm for what she had witnessed. Maybe a stress
response? He should get her to a doctor…
“I’m a doctor too, you know?” she said triumphantly. “Back to the
hotel!”
There was no point in arguing further. With a sigh, he started the car.
“What was the thing you tossed at him?” he asked then, glancing at her.
She seemed to be slowly returning to her old self.
“An oxytocin and endorphins bomb,” Ipolla answered—and giggled a
little!
The world couldn’t get any crazier.
“You know, designed to calm virtually anything vertebrate. This mix
works best on mammals, though. And this was an exceptionally high dose
even for an elephant. Has to be really extreme if you’re going to distribute
it through the air without directly applying into the nasal cavity… We’re
lucky the wind blew toward the elephant. And that it wreaks a different kind
of havoc in the periphery than in the CNS. And that it worked, too. The
effect can sometimes be quite unpredictable.”
Suddenly their own strange behavior clicked in place for him. They’ve
been dosed too. Hey, they’ve been high on the stuff. And he was driving.
 He suppressed his own giggle.
The receptionist was quite startled by their arrival in such a state and so
early in the morning, but evidently realized it was not a good time for
questions except whether they wanted anything to drink.
Robert, knowing he’d have to drive again soon, and now quite serious
again, asked for a lemonade. “…and I guess Doctor Ipolla will need
something stronger now –”
“No. I never drink alcohol if working. Rarely if otherwise,” she added.
“I’ll have tea, please.”
They sat down in the lounge, exhausted and still rather shocked by the
night’s events.
“I had expected a lot of things before I came here,” spoke Ipolla, very
nearly the familiar reserved Ipolla now, “but not poachers. Not now, not
here. There are so very few elephants left today and Kenya tries to guard
them better…”
“Yeah. It surprised me to. I’ve never encountered a poacher since I
started working at the park.”
Sadly, poaching was not dead. Until some less stable countries managed
to guard their elephants, Robert doubted it could be eradicated. However,
poachers didn’t normally operate here. Something had drawn them to
Mgeni. His behavior wasn’t exactly considered a secret. Maybe some of the
guards had mentioned it somewhere, the news had spread… But still—why
target an elephant in Kenya?
“The Asian lobby,” he whispered.
“Do you think…”
“Maybe. I have no evidence but it’s the only thing that makes sense to
me. If they hire someone to kill the only bull in this area, they gain an
argument for their side. True, it would be more convenient for them to kill
the females, but they move in herds and are guarded even better than the
males. They might have thought Mgeni vulnerable, an easy mark—a way to
improve their position without much effort.”
“It’s all just speculation.”
She was right. Maybe he was far off—but hopefully they’ll see later if
the poacher is caught and talks. For now, they succeeded. They saved
Mgeni.
“I don’t know which is worse,” Robert said quietly. “Whether he wanted
to kill him because of the lobby or ivory. Or maybe both… Maybe he was
promised he could keep the tusks…”
Ipolla shuddered. “If I could stop the trade, I’d do anything to accomplish
it. My… my father used to be a border guard in Cameroon back before he
emigrated. Once he had stopped a truck for a search and found a cargo of
elephant tusks in there. The driver offered him money. Five thousand, ten,
then twenty… He became really agitated when my father kept refusing it
and called his colleagues instead. The man just couldn’t grasp why someone
would not take the money and let him go. Why was he trying to do him
harm, he kept asking. In his eyes, my father’s behavior wasn’t just. It was
spiteful.”
She took another sip from her teacup. “A few hours later, my father was
summoned before his boss. He didn’t really expect the following course of
events… He was yelled at for harassing an innocent driver, and when he
stood his ground, he lost his job. He couldn’t find another. He became
harassed by his landlord, his former colleagues, basically the whole town…
The ivory trade had its roots practically everywhere. It was truly alarming
—and he couldn’t have done a thing about it. I cannot imagine how
hopeless he must have felt. One day, he decided to take his chances as an
immigrant in the UK.”
Robert nodded with a gloomy expression. “I think I can understand him.
I grew up in a family that loved elephants; both my parents worked for the
park and helped people from the former Amboseli program. They saw first-
hand how remarkable these animals are and respected them immensely.
And…” He hesitated. He had never brought this up… He glanced at Ipolla
and decided. “My father had once shot a poacher he caught in the act.
Officially in self-defense, but he later in life he confessed that the poacher
wasn’t aiming at him—he was clearly aiming at an elephant. A pregnant
cow. Father later said… said that he’d do it again.”
Robert felt a wave of anxiety engulfing him; was it right after all to tell
his father’s secret to this woman he had known for only a few days? Was he
not betraying him in a way?
She sat quietly for a moment, then said: “I think that maybe I would have
done the same.”
He had no idea what to say to that. She spared him the feverish thinking
of a reply by standing up and declaring: “I need some sleep. You’d better
get some too. I’d be grateful if you could take me to the station this
afternoon. Now get some rest. You’ve certainly earned it.”
 *

Despite her decree, Adina Ipolla could not fall asleep. And when she
finally did, images from their night encounter haunted her in her
restlessness. She woke up covered in sweat again.
Even tuned down, Mgeni’s feedback kept her anxious. She dared not turn
it off completely. If she hadn’t stayed linked before…
Still so angry and frightened. And so… torn in his mind. As if… nearly
driven mad by something, some constant inner conflict.
Knowing she wouldn’t fall asleep again, Adina looked at the graphs of
activity of various brain regions in the past day. Even without them, she
knew Mgeni hadn’t been sleeping much either. Nearly not at all. He was so
agitated, so restless… The new records also showed he’s been feeding very
little.
Now this would be in accord with musth—but that was out of the
question, wasn’t it? They would all recognize it. No one would call her here
because of that—unless the musth manifested in an abnormal way. There
were multiple reports of young musth bulls trying to mate with rhinos and
killing them and other species, especially in regions where the normal
population structure was disturbed severely by culling or poaching. Or,
more recently, the epidemic. But Mgeni exhibited none of this behavior.
Hell, this kind of thing was not even abnormal now. Hardly any herds
stayed the way they used to be. Each new offspring grew up in times of
great stress. The HPA axis was one of the most affected pathways and was
linked to elevated depression, aggression, asocial behavior… Yet in Mgeni,
she had observed something different. It didn’t quite match the expected
results. Both his behavioral patterns and brain activity were way too
lateralized, for one thing, as if she was observing partial data from two
individuals very distinct from each other.
Adina buried her face in her hands, feeling impossibly tired. Her thoughts
kept resonating in her head, making no more sense –
Oh, she stopped and looked up suddenly. Of course.

Robert stopped at the hotel just after lunch. Doctor Ipolla looked like she
hadn’t got much sleep—but seemed full of energy nevertheless. She
insisted they had to take more samples for genotyping. She offered no
further explanation but he didn’t argue.
After taking the samples from both his ears and skin all over the head,
Ipolla was very quiet on the way to the station. Robert soon found himself
in a monologue, going all over the new legislation change proposal
considering the surrogate mother elephant breeding.
Though she had taken interest in it before and it might have been related
to their poacher incident, Ipolla said nothing—and did not speak again until
late afternoon, when she finally announced: “Gather the others. I know
what’s going on.”
And then she remained in grim silence until everyone was there. She
coughed a little before addressing them.
Robert was waiting for her speech eagerly. But when Ipolla started, she
said simply: “Mgeni is a chimera.”
“A what?”
“A chimera. An organism composed of cells with two or more different
genotypes. If two eggs were fertilized, the embryos often merge and grow
into a one or two individuals with mixed-genotype cells. It is actually very
common in human twins. In many primates, all multiple births are
chimeras. Most of human chimeras are never discovered unless treated for
some disease or tested in relation to criminal investigation. The vast
majority of them live without any complication. In primates and rodents,
where it has been most widely studied, being a two-sex chimera usually
doesn’t affect one’s behavior. However, in birds, the effect can be quite
dramatic.”
“Why do you bring birds into this?”
Ipolla smiled a little. “I’ll get to it very soon. I’d just like to mention a
famous example of a zebra finch gynandromorph. In this case, there was an
almost perfect bilateral gynandromorphy: the right half of the body male,
the left one female. It led to a very interesting finding about the brain: The
right hemisphere had an almost fully developed neural song circuit, whereas
in the left one it was distinctly less developed. I probably need not remind
you that only male finches sing. And that brings us to Mgeni… I must admit
it took more clues than I’d like to bring me to the obvious conclusion.
Firstly, the smaller right tusk. Then the apparent absence of the temporal
gland on the same side. The lateralized behavioral patterns. The EEG
results. And finally… what I felt through the interface.”
 She fell silent for a moment.
“The genotyping confirmed my suspicion. Mgeni is a part male, part
female chimera. It was not apparent at first sight probably because the male
genotype highly prevails in the body. Male embrya undergo faster division,
so the male cells may have outnumbered female ones early in the
development. But in the anterior region of the body, the female-genotype
cells likely constitute a large portion. His head may be divided
approximately half-to-half.
“Now, this wouldn’t make much trouble up until puberty. Even after its
onset, it should still be fine since most processes in puberty are controlled
by hormones produced by the gonads—which are likely solely male in
Mgeni’s case. No,” she paused, “the real trouble only came with musth. Do
any of you know how musth is controlled?”
“Well,” Kimaiyo ventured, “it’s by the rise of testosterone levels, isn’t
it?”
“And is that really the primary cause rather than the consequence or a
part of a positive feedback loop?”
No one spoke for a moment. Doctor Ipolla nodded without surprise. “The
truth is, while this hypothesis has been around for decades, there has never
been much effort to test it. Let’s face it: doing research on elephant bulls in
musth isn’t exactly the easiest way to get data. Scientists have always
collected urine and fecal samples and tested the endocrine levels. They
found elevated glucocorticoid and testosterone levels and proposed them as
the primary mechanism for inducing musth periods. But other ones were
barely tested; after all, it’s hard enough to stick EEG electrodes to an
elephant’s skull, much less we can give him a MEG helmet or stick his head
inside an fMRI scanner… Therefore—we lacked data and kept overlooking
this shortcoming so much so it started to appear that there never was any.
But what if the major control mechanisms reside in the wiring of the brain
—induced by the differential expression depending on transcription factors
on the sex chromosomes?”
She looked around the room, probably expecting awed gasps and looks
of fascination judging from her face. However, she got none of that and
sighed a little. “This can be a major outbreak in neurobiology, cognitive
science, animal psychology—it’s a game-changing discovery! Without such
an extraordinary creature like Mgeni, it might continue being overlooked
for decades!”
 Robert felt like he needed to interject. “I get it. It’s a very important
finding. But what about Mgeni? Can we help him in any way?”
The little smile disappeared from Ipolla’s face. “I’m not sure,” she
admitted. “I’m afraid that Mgeni might have a hard time finding a mate,
though musth is not a necessary condition for mating. And if these
incomplete musth periods occur again, he might seriously hurt himself and
other elephants. Transferring to captivity can be very traumatic for a wild-
reared animal, that is not a solution. Rewiring his brain and thereby
inducing full musth is also out of the question; such operations have never
been tried on elephants. No one would ever approve of that. I expect that
many teams will soon fight for a chance to do research with Mgeni, but
about his safety and well-being in the future… Truly… I don’t know. I’m
sorry.”
Heavy silence fell in the room. Ipolla’s eyes were flickering nervously;
then she mumbled some barely discernible apology and left.
Robert found her outside, staring into the bush, eyes narrowed, her arms
folded.
“Leave me,” she said simply.
He didn’t do anything.
“I—said—leave,” she uttered with emphasis on every word.
“You helped us—and Mgeni too. It’s not your fault that there’s no easy
solution.”
“Do I need you to remind me?” Ipolla snapped.
Robert took a step back. “No. Sorry.”
She breathed out. “No, I am sorry. It was impolite of me to act this way.
Please forgive me.”
It wasn’t hard to figure that every time she spoke like that, in such a
strained way, something was making her uneasy—whereas when she was
working, her speech changed dramatically, sounding more natural and
impulsive. Well, Robert had to admit, he didn’t have to be a genius to be
sure what was troubling her now.
He could see the conflicting emotions all over her face: the thrill and
excitement from her discovery, pride of having successfully found the
problem, and disappointment, anger and hopelessness from this kind of
closure.
“Medication, maybe,” she said silently. “Something to hold his endocrine
levels around baseline all the time. Without the musth trouble, he shouldn’t
be in risk of hurting himself. I’m sure they’ll try all kinds of things—things
that might actually help Mgeni. It won’t be great but it won’t be bad either.
Better than now, for sure. I guess that counts as good.”
“It does. If you weren’t here, we might never have found out. There’d be
no chance of any help.”
Ipolla smiled faintly. “You really need to practice your comforting, don’t
you? At first, you really pissed me off.”
Such a sentence coming from her—Robert could not stop himself from
laughing. After a second, she laughed too.
She stopped first, sadness creeping up her face again. “You know, like I
had said, there’s nothing like being linked to an elephant. To experience at
least a shadow of what they do, a machine-filtered shadow, but still—it’s
incomparable to anything. Mgeni’s such an amazing creature… I hope we
can help him. I’ll certainly do whatever I can during his therapy. We still
may be pleasantly surprised.”

Adina severed the link, no longer necessary, only moments before getting
on her plane. As she sat down in her seat, she started shaking. It was like
losing a part of herself. The past weeks had been enough for her to form a
bond with Mgeni and to start perceiving the taste of his mind as her own,
even though she had been reasonably tuning it down. And then there had
been the Moments: like when the elephant had gently touched her shoulder
with his trunk, when she’d been calming him as the vet and the wardens had
been approaching, and she had felt him regarding this strange biped able to
imitate his language with curiosity…
Why does it always have to be like this? She closed her eyes and rested
her head, turned to the window. That way, no one could see the traces of
tears.
Well; it cannot be otherwise. You always have to leave them. It’s your
own damn fault you’re good at your job, take difficult assignments and get
too deep. You can never avoid getting involved. Just get used to it.
A wave of exhaustion came over her. She hardly noticed the plane taking
off. When the flight attendant came to ask her whether she wanted anything
to drink, she found Adina Ipolla sound asleep.
First published in Analog (5-6/2017).
 Étude for An Extraordinary Mind
If you were to choose between being extraordinary or normal, what would
you choose? And what if you could switch between these two?
I have greatly enjoyed writing “Étude”. Besides giving one possible
answer to the questions above (or rather more questions in turn), I could
use two of my beloved themes: music and synesthesia, which you’ve already
encountered in “All The Smells of The World”.
I have myself only experienced synesthesia twice in my life. In both cases
olfactory-auditory, and in both cases under the weather, analgesics in my
system, on a concert. The first time, I perceived one swing song of Melody
Makers accompanied by a strong smell of peanuts. The second time, a part
of Orff’s Carmina Burana smelled like lemon and lime. Quite pleasant,
actually. I wonder when—or if—it happens to me again. But what if you
were to live with it forever?
You’ve seen the olfactory version; here, music ensues… but it’s more
complicated than that.

PRELUDE
Doctor Stephenson leaned forward and smiled reassuringly. “Tell me,
Mandy, what do you experience when you switch between your implants?”
The girl across the table remained silent.
“Your parents are worried about you.”
No response.
She was usually difficult to get to talk and would just sit silently
crouched in her chair like some frightened little animal—but there was
something different about her now. Doctor Stephenson started being
suspicious about its reason.
“Am I talking to Mandy?” he asked, suddenly with a very stern
expression.
“No,” the girl said defiantly.
“I want to hear her opinion now.”
“Why? It’s my damned life too! Who ever cares about my opinion?
Nobody!”
“I will hear you out, I promise. But I need to talk to Mandy first.”
After a short pause, she spoke: “Fine.”
 The girl changed in front of his own eyes. It wasn’t dramatic, one might
not even notice it at first sight, but he knew the signs. Her look changed.
She lowered her shoulders and stooped a little. Her muscle tone rose up as
if she was nearly in a spasm. She seemed a little nervous but also distant.
“Now, Mandy,” he said softly, “you do remember my question. Please,
tell me.”

***

MANDY & BECCA

The grass leaves were moving rhythmically in the wind. Amanda
Burnham sat on the lawn and watched them carefully. Their motion was not
regular as it depended on the whims of the wind but she could see repeated
patterns there. They were really quite simple, could be reduced to a few
basic curves. But the way they interfered and changed was unique. Every
chime of the wind was itself unrepeatable although the larger patterns were
few. Like music, she thought. Just a few basic tones but bring them together
and you have a unique melody. But on an even larger scale, the patterns
repeated once again. To defeat them, you’d need a piece more complicated
than ever composed.
She wasn’t aware someone was talking until her mother entered her view
and knelt beside her.
“Mandy, it’s time to go to the hospital,” she repeated. This time Amanda
noticed but still didn’t quite comprehend. What hospital? Why? She looked
at the swaying leaves again. They almost grasped her full attention again as
mother interrupted: “Mandy, please come.”
Mother’s face seemed different than usual. Her expression changed. But
Mandy could not tell what it meant, however hard she tried.
What hospital, she wanted to say but remained silent. The words sort of
stuck in her throat as so very often when she considered speaking. She just
stood up and followed mother to the car.

Mrs. Burnham was clutching her husband’s hand firmly as they waited
outside the operating room.
“I just hope we didn’t make a mistake,” she said hoarsely.
He squeezed her hand comfortingly. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
 She drew a deep breath. “Yes. It will.”
Meanwhile, the surgeons just a couple of yards from them were carefully
guiding the robot operating on Amanda Burnham’s brain.
They had waited for so long! According to the law, the surgery couldn’t
have been done until their daughter reached fourteen. Since they found
about them when she was ten, implants helping people on the autism
spectrum to communicate better, learn to recognize others’ emotions and
express their feelings and thoughts proved even more efficient than they
had dared to hope.
But still they felt like fainting when the lead surgeon came out of the
door. And then he smiled.
“It went okay, no complications whatsoever. The preliminary test
suggests the implant is working normally. However, we’ll know more in the
next few days.”
They hardly heard his last sentence. By that time, the Burnhams were
hugging, almost in tears, thinking of their little girl. She was a teenager, but
a little girl still. Not only in their eyes; she just never behaved like a teen.
She never fitted in. She was always by herself.
It might change now.
They stood there in the dimly lit hospital corridor, silently, happily,
without doubts.

“It cannot be switched on all the time. Best to learn to switch it on in the
morning and off before going to sleep. Also…”
Mrs. Burnham listened to the tutorial absentmindedly. She’d heard it
maybe a hundred times. She couldn’t wait to actually see it work. She
clutched a sheet so hard that her knuckles were all white.
Mandy listened too. Her mother could not tell if the girl was happy,
nervous or anything else and was impatient to find out. She might—in a
moment!
“So, Amanda, would you please try it like I instructed you?” The doctor
smiled.
She looked at her parents hesitantly.
“Turn it on. Please,” Mrs. Burnham almost whispered.
Her daughter did. And a whole new world opened before her.
 *

It took weeks for Mandy to adapt to her implant. At first she was afraid
of switching it on; everything seemed so different and yet the same! It was
scary and confusing. After she got used to it, Amanda started testing her
enhanced personality in situations that previously repelled or scared her.
They didn’t seem so anymore. She became so self-confident! And suddenly
she was almost talkative compared to her older self. Her parents were
delighted—and she, much in surprise, found herself feeling that strange
pride too.
If stimulating certain parts of her brain, making it form new synapses and
facilitate them, could make her feel this confident and not isolated anymore,
what else could it do for her?
One afternoon, nearly four months after the surgery, she practiced her
violin and an idea suddenly occurred. That very night, she brought it
forward to her parents.
“That’s not going to happen! It’s too dangerous, be sensible!” they said—
and et cetera. Mandy expected that and stood her ground. She still
remembered the day before the surgery, the faint leaves in the wind and a
melody hidden behind them, one she tried to reach but failed. She needed a
door into this kind of world—and was determined not to let go until she
succeeded.
Eventually, after endless weeks of persuasion, crying, quarrels and
discussions with doctors, her parents gave in.
When Mandy turned off her implant that night she was suddenly terribly
scared.
Did she really do this? She could remember herself reasoning with them,
listing arguments, yelling at them! That just wasn’t her. The memories gave
her chills.
But she did get what she wanted, didn’t she? Wasn’t it good?
She couldn’t sleep at all that night. In the morning, she felt extremely
tired and yet nervous. The memories of her own behavior haunted her most
of the night though she knew she didn’t do anything bad and it probably
didn’t matter much.
Immediately after she turned her social implant back on, she became
horrified by the fact she spent nearly a whole night just wondering about
such stupidity! She really was different under the implant’s influence—
better, for sure! Without it, she could become absorbed in unimportant
details and worried dead about them. All her doubts and concerns from the
night seemed so pointless now.
On one of her regular sessions with a specialized therapist from the
hospital, she considered telling him about her experience but decided not to.
Hell, he’d think she was crazy. She had to switch the implant off during the
sessions, but didn’t tell him anyway—this time she could get her “other
self’s” opinion. But often she just couldn’t understand herself—her own
memories about decisions, feelings or conversations didn’t make sense to
her without the implant, as if it turned on a whole new side of her
personality.
That’s actually quite funny, she thought after she turned it back on again.
Imagining myself as a new person! I should get my own name…
It was just for fun, but she secretly named herself Becca. She always
liked the name, unlike Mandy or Amanda—that was so dull.
I’m Becca, she repeated wordlessly and smiled.

HENRIETTE
When she had her new musical implant switched on, Amanda Burnham
could think of little else but music. It was everywhere and in everything. As
she requested, the implant induced a special state of synesthesia in her brain
so that she could perceive any sensation as a sound. The color of her
mother’s hair sounded like a waterfall with a hint of Vivaldi’s Summer. The
grass outside the house reminded her of early Stravinsky. The leaves truly
performed some kind of a ballet. However, when the wind was strong, the
lawn was nothing but the most chaotic and visionary pieces by
Shostakovich.
At first she was overwhelmed by it but she gradually learned to control
her new forms of perception. It was a world she was unable to grasp ever
before and one she always longed to reach; so clear now! Playing pieces she
learned before on her violin and piano seemed awfully easy now. She
started learning more complicated ones but it still wasn’t enough. There was
so much exciting music all round and no one seemed to give it any
attention. No artificial music she ever heard even approximated how
beautiful the sound of autumn was or how startling a dusty bookshop’s
tones seemed.
 She would show them all.

It took her only a week to finish her first composition, a short

experimental piece for a solo violin, so far a not very ambitious étude. She
didn’t expect the thrill it caused in her parents and teachers, nor that it
would lead them to find her a high-ranking private music teacher. She soon
didn’t need her at all. When the teacher left, she admitted that she’d never
had any more talented pupil.
She felt an urge to distinguish herself from her more common, less
musically talented selves. However, she couldn’t explain it to her parents
like that. Therefore she came with a reason she knew they wouldn’t resist.
“I want to use a pseudonym as a composer,” she declared. “I’ll go under
the name Henriette. It sounds like sand by the lake we used to go for
holidays to. I loved being by the lake but never told you.”
She noticed with satisfaction that it touched them more than anything
else could.
Henriette could hear the faint eerie twinkle of their moved expressions.

MANDY
Sometimes Becca or Henriette grew tired of themselves. Then she would
become old Mandy again; unable to express herself and connect with
others, but full of reliving and tasting memories from her time as them. It
was strange. Everything she did with the implants on seemed a bit different
with them off. She was often startled by her own courage or ideas.
However, some memories could hurt too.
Mother’s warm smile when she normally talked with her as Becca.
The proud look on her father’s face after she finished her first own violin
piece as Henriette.
She knew they had always loved her with whole their hearts. But now
they loved her most when she was not quite herself; improved, augmented,
just better at everything.
Becca could sometimes be problematic—impatient, willful or
disobedient. In the end, they’d always forgive her and hug her, talk with her,
take her to the cinema…
 When she was Henriette, they seemed a little reserved in her memories,
almost scared, but they admired her like never before.
I’m right here, she wanted to say to them without the help of any implant.
She would look at her parents, the words longing to come out. This is me.
Don’t you like me this way?
But she could never bring herself to actually say it.

BECCA
There was something tragically beautiful about the town at night. Becca
looked at it from up above, sitting on an old railway bridge, and she could
see it from one edge to another. The street lamps. The lit windows. The
slowly moving cars. The occasional pedestrian.
“They’re all so normal,” she interrupted the silence. “So bloody normal.
Living their tiny ordinary lives, nine to five, orderly families, small sins and
lies. How can they cope?”
Gary smirked. “Hey, one would almost think you envy them!”
“Shut up.”
She knocked off the ash from her cigarette. He was right, of course, but
she would rather die than admit it.
It made her sick. Everyone else knew who they were. From birth to
death, they had just one life and managed well. She was sometimes
confused about who she really was. When she transferred to a normal high
school, she started calling herself Becca publicly—a nickname, she’d
explain to her parents. They seemed slightly worried but her
communicativeness assured them again that everything was all right.
In truth, nothing was all right.
She closed her eyes and remembered her last performance. Almost
blinded by the badly aimed lights, seeing the audience just as a vast
darkness full of strange human-like shapes, but paying attention to none of
it; playing was everything. She kept totally focused. She and the violin were
one. She felt out of time and space, confined just to the world of music,
until she stopped. A moment of transitional silence went past, followed by
thrilled clapping. Everyone said she had a straight path to Carnegie Hall.
She was deeply satisfied with that but longed most for performing,
practicing, and composing again. Her name was Henriette.
Then she was scared by that hall full of people and such anticipation after
she became the old Mandy.
 The day after that, just her social implant switched on, she was envious to
Henriette and disgusted by Mandy.
She realized nothing would be all right ever again.
“Damn,” she exhaled when her lighter stopped working. Becca turned to
Gary. “Hey, do you have yours?”
She was grateful for his presence. They’d soon stick together at school,
both quite different from the others. He was still unsure about his sexuality,
shared home with a neurotic mother and hoped that he’d never again see his
father. He introduced her to Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. She grew a liking
of them, which made her life even more complicated. Henriette tried to
suppress the memories of their songs, she found them almost painful to
reminisce. The memory of her dislike clashed uncomfortably with Becca’s
opinion. They even started dressing differently; Henriette felt best in long
skirts and high-collar blouses, whereas Becca perhaps out of rebellion chose
to wear punk clothes. Mandy, anxious in the center of attention, would stick
to jeans and hooded sweatshirts.
Hell, nothing was normal anymore, she sometimes even felt like
competing with them. Her parents had noticed, of course. Nevertheless, she
couldn’t talk to them. It would be weird for Becca, impossible for Mandy
and unimportant for Henriette.
Fortunately she had Gary.
She breathed in the smoke and savored it for a while. “It’s weird, you
know? Having this… split personality, sort of. I heard my parents
discussing it with a doctor once. He told them not to worry, that some
patients experience this for a while and then it just fades away… which
means that I will just fade away.”
“Even if that was true, why don’t you let the other ones disappear?”
“I guess it doesn’t work that way. I’m not the… original one. But that…”
That would be nice, she was going to say but couldn’t bring herself to
actually say it. They’re me too. There is no they!
“Anyway, I have to start seeing a new therapist. Not just that—a bloody
psychiatrist! As if I were crazy! They want me to see him every week.” She
sighed. “Sometimes… it feels like being crazy. Maybe they’d better lock
me up somewhere.”
“That’s what worries you?” Gary put an arm around her back and pressed
her shoulder reassuringly. “You’re not crazy.”
I wish you were right, she smiled unhappily.
 MANDY
In the deep of night, there were raised voices from downstairs. She could
not fall asleep, not while hearing them. It was an argument, she was almost
certain about that—Becca would know for sure without having to think
about it but Mandy didn’t want to bring her around now.
She heard her own name several times and wondered about the meaning
of that worrying conversation. Mom and dad were fighting—but why? And
why wouldn’t they stop?
She was trembling and hardly aware of the tears running down her
cheeks.
The voices rose to a crescendo. For a fraction of time, Mandy
contemplated how would Henriette perceive it. But she didn’t want to
exchange places with her either.
Becca would go down there and ask them why are they fighting, try to
stop them—make a scene about it if they didn’t make peace… Why don’t I?
Mandy almost shuddered at the thought. However, she was right—she
could do it herself, if only she could just make her body move the right way.
She put all her effort into getting from the bed. As her feet finally
touched the carpet and she stared at the doorknob, there was a loud slam of
the door downstairs. Then heavy silence.
She was too late.

BECCA
She was supposed to be at the geography class. Fuck geography, she
thought. She didn’t have the assigned homework anyway.
Gary was skipping class too, for the second day in a row. When she
finally saw him, she realized why: He had a dark swollen bruise all over his
left eye.
She sat beside him on the old unused bridge in silence and offered him a
cigarette. He took it without a word.
“He came back,” Gary spoke after a while. He didn’t need to add who.
“Funny. Mine left in the middle of a night a couple of days ago.”
“I would exchange places with you, you know.”
Becca sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. Sorry.”
Yet for a moment, she thought she actually would like to exchange places
—given that she would be normal and Gary would end up in her skin, or
rather in one of them. They acted like good sounding boards to one another
but she felt that although he had understood her best of all people, he could
still never really grasp the idea of being just one of different persons
occupying one body. Nor could her parents. That was why dad left, wasn’t
it?
And that stupid bitch didn’t know how to stop it, she was just crouching
in her bed like some helpless animal! Really, if I didn’t have to switch
places with her from time to time…
Staring at the town below, she blew a cloud of smoke angrily.
Mom will leave me too when she finally sees the monster I am… But why
should I care? She was never any good for me! I can take care of my own
life!
For the first time, Becca toyed with the idea of leaving first.

HENRIETTE
Henriette was excited by Mandy’s and Becca’s feelings though she
expressed little of such herself. However, they were a great source of
inspiration. There were so many surprising variations in there, especially
since father had left! She decided she would compose an étude focused on
them one day. She started soon, but it was a difficult theme to grasp, she
was never satisfied. At the same time, she set off after one late-night
practice in the garden. The night was beautiful: a light breeze, cooling air,
stars shining above, smells of nocturnal flowers like the evening primrose.
And so Henriette started composing a nocturne.
It took her many weekends, free afternoons and especially nights to
finish it. Mother was worried about her at first but Henriette easily
persuaded her that she was all right. She learned how to make Mandy
memorize that she needed to switch on the musical implant as often as
possible. And Mandy did, partly because she rarely wanted to be just herself
these days.
Henriette focused on nothing but music and it brought its results. Her
nocturne received audacious critics. Some of the experts even compared her
style and imagination to Fauré or even Debussy. She couldn’t wish for
better compliments but didn’t mean to stop there. Her work would become
something completely new and fascinating, she was certain of that.
And when she finishes the étude, they might applaud her even more.
 Full of dreams and satisfaction, she went to bed and switched off the
musical implant.

MANDY
Amanda almost collapsed in her bed. She had never felt so exhausted so
far. She knew the reason; Henriette practiced night after night the whole
week, with hardly three hours of sleep a day. She could cope with being
tired better, being absorbed in playing and composing—and experiencing
fatigue as music too, as Mandy could well remember if not understand.
If only she could talk about it with someone… She was so alone. Like
before the surgery—but she didn’t have the memories of talking, laughing,
hugging at the time. She didn’t miss it so desperately, yet almost unable to
relive them personally. Sometimes… sometimes she wished the others
never switched her on again.
Right now Mandy would most have liked to sleep; nevertheless, she just
couldn’t.
Not after she remembered the conversation Henriette overheard the other
day but didn’t pay much attention to. Father was back home for the
afternoon—and he had brought a guest with him, that psychiatrist she had
started seeing, Doctor Stephenson.
“…we’re very worried about our Mandy. Some time ago after she got the
implants, she started acting weird, as if…”
“As if she was another person with each of the implants,” finished Mr.
Burnham after his wife and sighed. “I’m not sure if we’re overreacting,
but… what do you think, as an expert, after you’ve seen her a couple of
times?”
“I can assure you that developing what seems like a new personality is
not too rare among patients treated with such implants, though it’s certainly
not a common trait. It’s not a true case of MPD. The brain forms new
pathways, which are being reinforced by the implant. When it’s off and
they’re not fully developed yet, the patient can feel very different. And even
if they are, the effect can last in a less apparent form. Similar things can
actually happen to everyone: People can behave, feel and think differently
even when using foreign languages. Even myself, when I speak Spanish,
can seem like a slightly different person and sometimes I think or say things
I wouldn’t using English. There’s of course a contributing effect of the
specific environment but I used that as an example that many factors
influence our behavior. However, what you describe sounds serious and
these symptoms in patients usually last up to a couple of months. I think we
better had a closer look at your daughter at the clinic if you agree, run some
tests. Just a short hospitalization.”

BECCA
A short hospitalization.
The words resonated in her head and made it ache.
Preventive. To get readings on the implants in a controlled environment.
Her hands were trembling. She could hardly grasp her cell phone, let
alone the violin.
She would play, just to relax, to bring herself away from this, without
calling in Henriette.
But she was too shaky to do even that.
They’ll lock me up in a hospital room. Then I’ll fade away…
She suppressed a sob.
They shouldn’t have let me have this life in the first place if they want to
take it now.
Becca decided she wouldn’t let them.

She couldn’t let go of her violin. It was the only impractical item she
took along.
She left in the middle of the night, took the car keys from the usual place
beside the fridge and gave her home for almost seventeen years one last
look. Probably the last; as if she knew for sure.
No windows were lit when she turned the keys in the ignition. She held
her breath, but when nothing happened for a while, she turned away from
the house too and took the car to the road.
What was she feeling? Sadness, naturally. Fear, a little. Freedom—even
more still.
Absolute freedom…
It became almost unbearable. It engulfed her so quickly she nearly didn’t
have time to get too frightened. Suddenly she was free for the first time in
her life. And she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
 Becca turned the car to the highway. Almost no other cars were there at
this time of night. She was here, alone, and could go anywhere. The notion
was intoxicating.
She wondered how it would sound.

HENRIETTE
As soon as she came to the surface she knew the melody was complete.
The drive could be a composition itself. She almost couldn’t bear
listening; it was too much! Even the great Paganini wouldn’t had been
capable of such speed and probably no living violinist could play it,
certainly not her. But it was overwhelmingly beautiful.
This should become a whole orchestral suite, the road lights for the
strings and the piano, the roar of the car for the brass and percussion, the
darkness of the night around perfect for the woodwinds…
However, she grasped the central melody and imagined it as a violin solo.
It forced tears into her eyes. She had never heard anything nearly so
complex.
In such state, she could hardly control the car. She knew she had to go
away for a while if she wanted the chance to finish her masterpiece.

MANDY
It felt like waking up from a nightmare, except she had woken up into it.
She clutched the wheel tightly, scared like never before, much more than
when she had learned that parents would no longer be living together. But
she still felt something of Henriette’s awe—and Becca’s joy of freedom. It
was vaguely familiar. She was capable of feeling that, just under different
circumstances—but it was a contact point nevertheless.
She was still afraid of running away and shocked she suddenly found
herself in such situation but probably for the first time, she could not only
recapitulate Becca’s memories; she could understand them. For her, the
flight stayed scary and unreasonable, but she could follow the path of
Becca’s emotions and decisions and end up right here. For the first time.
And it brought along sudden relief which gently took the fright away.
If only for this short moment, she didn’t feel like sharing her body with a
strange girl.
Maybe if Becca could feel this too…
 BECCA
In one moment of horrible confusion, she became Becca again. Just a
blink—and then she saw the truck and realized the car steered into the
opposite side of the road while she was switching the implants. She heard a
coarse outcry that hardly resembled her voice but it must have been her.
She turned the steering wheel quickly, but not quite in time.

***

CODA
“…it was almost a miracle your brain as well as both implants didn’t
suffer any serious damage. You almost died, Mandy. You even lost one of
your arms.”
The girl looked at her right arm, looking just normal in her long-sleeve t-
shirt. Only the strangely smooth skin on her hand suggested it wasn’t a
human limb. “It feels mine.”
Doctor Stephenson nodded. “That’s right. It’s supposed to. I hope you’ll
be able to continue playing normally. But the risk you subjected yourself
to…”
“I didn’t,” she said quietly, looking down. “That was Becca.”
Doctor was glad she wasn’t looking him in the eye. He was afraid he just
gave away an emotion even she in her state could notice and recognize:
fear. He feared that her condition was more severe than he thought before,
that this was partly his fault too—and that it could become worse.
“Mandy, I wish you—either of you—spoke to me openly about your
thoughts and feelings before. I’m sorry I didn’t understand how tough it
was for you. I’ll try my best now. Are you willing to work with me to make
everything better again? Trust me, it can be done.”
Mandy looked as if she was assembling courage to speak. “What do you
mean?” she asked eventually.
“You, Becca and Henriette are one person. It feels different but that’s just
a side-effect of a few different neural pathways developed around the areas
stimulated by your implants. We can use all kinds of therapy to smooth
down the differences, slowly, carefully –”
“No. They wouldn’t like to let go,” she whispered almost inaudibly. “And
I can’t… I can’t murder them.”
“There is no they,” he repeated urgently. “Trust me, Mandy.”
 “Even if I trusted you… With either of my implants switched on, I might
not.”
He almost smiled; at least they were making some progress. “Let’s try.”
All of a sudden, she looked directly upon him and he knew she changed
again. “I’m willing to try to… blend with them if you let me finish my
étude first. I haven’t had the chance yet. I must. And then… I hope she
continues playing, if not composing. Please let her… me… remember what
a perfect feeling it is to give life to all the music with my violin. That’s all
I’m asking.”
She didn’t wait for his response. Then the girl blinked and looked at him
again. Stephenson inadvertently felt the hair on the back of his neck rising.

Becca struggled, she didn’t want to be woken up. It was the first time
since the crash. The last thing she remembered were blinding lights of the
truck and echoes of Henriette’s beautiful memories and Mandy’s fear.
No, not just fear. There was something else.
She closed her eyes.
Relief. Sort of… contact.
The scene opened before her again and she shivered, facing the
approaching truck once more. She quickly looked around the calming room.
She realized she was trembling heavily. Oh God, what must have Mandy
gone through after the horrible accident?
And she could feel the disorientation and pain…
Mandy might have more courage than her, after all. And wasn’t it Becca
who was always so afraid of fading away—rebelling, feeding her own fear?
Becca blinked and drew a sharp breath, surprised by her own thoughts.
What would Gary have to say about that, after how she treated him instead
of trying to help? Or… her parents, who didn’t deserve her hatred despite
all that happened?
She recalled Doctor Stephenson was waiting for an answer. For her
answer.
For the first time, giving way to her fear and running away was not an
option.

First published in Futuristica Vol. II.

 Bodhisattva
This is the oldest story in the collection, and one of the few originally
written in Czech. The original was published in 2012; before I even started
writing in English. But I’m fond of the story, not only because it contains
transhumanism and cyberpunk. And speaking of cyberpunk, I enjoyed
blending it with buddhism, with the concept of transcendence being only the
most obvious parallel. Let “Bodhisattva” pull you deeper into the world of
the enlightened copies.

Where there is form, already there is emptiness. Where there is emptiness,

already there is form.
– Kumarajiva

Sorn stood hesitantly on the square in front of The Enlightened One’s statue
and wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow. The sun beat down
mercilessly and the wide paved space was almost deserted. It didn’t calm
him very much, but he pretended he was a pilgrim coming here to
contemplate. He approached the statue and bowed his head a little, letting
his gaze wander from behind his shades.
You will notice me at first sight, he recalled the words. He kept looking
around stealthily, but no one seemed too conspicuous. An old man was
walking slowly through the square, carrying a small cart with his goods. In
his ragged clothes, he looked rather out of place in this open, clean, sunny
place. However, such appearance was nothing unusual in Krung Thep—on
the contrary.
Two foreigners, probably Indians, stood under a hovering parasol. They
attracted a lot of attention, but his contact said he’d be alone.
A woman in a long red dress sat on the stairs to the elevated part of the
square. Her amber skin glistened in the sun and black curls fell to her
shoulders. Sorn couldn’t see her face, but suspected it beautiful and
symmetric, probably too much to be true.
She wouldn’t be the one he was expecting either.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and submerged into his thoughts, but he
kept his senses alert. It could be a trap, betrayal. He might ponder his
conversations with Karuna for days in trance and never be sure. He had to
take the risk. A thought of death resurfaced from his deep subconscious. It
did not unsettle him; he would just join the ranks of so many before him.
Others would follow. Someone would eventually achieve his goal.
His hearing alerted him. Silent, soft steps. Someone was coming;
probably barefoot.
Sorn opened his eyes and looked into the face of a bhikku. The monk was
dressed in a traditional yellow kasaya and held a small bowl for alms. There
was nothing special about him. He would not be Karuna either –
The monk blinked and Sorn gasped.
An abysmal darkness stared at him from the monk’s eyes, as if it led to a
whole other dimension. Sorn forced himself to avert his gaze and look
down.
There was a tiny object in the bhikku’s bowl; a chip, the one he needed.
Sorn reached into his pocket for some small change and put them in the
bowl, taking the object. The monk blinked again and then normal tired
dark-brown eyes looked calmly at him. The bhikku bowed thankfully and
continued on his way.
Sorn stayed beside the statue for a little while before heading back.

The sun set and life poured back into the city’s veins. It didn’t risk
getting exhausted and weakened in the merciless beams—it spread into a
hot, humid, calming darkness. There was a time, many years ago, when
foreigners would walk its streets en masse. Those times were long gone and
most of the old hotels and less reputable establishments abandoned. Some
didn’t exist anymore. Others were occupied by rogues and fugitives, usually
soon expelled during police raids. The only permanent residents of these
infamous buildings were rats.
The door creaked as Sorn slipped inside. Wet mud squelched under his
feet. It never dried, not even during the hottest days, hidden in the sweaty
duskiness of the derelict building. He listened for a while, but registered
nothing but the usual sounds of the house. He walked up silently to his
temporary home.
Plugging his laptop into a cable led from the local electric network, Sorn
guessed it would take a few more days until someone noticed the illegal
power consumption. That was enough. He would leave tonight.
He sat next to the damp wall in the siddhasana posture. He had
discovered long ago that it helped him to concentrate. Closing his eyes, he
allowed himself to slowly sink into his own mind, filtering away almost
everything else. His breath and pulse rate slowed. He felt nothing, as if
floating in an endless void.
It used to be more difficult. A rapid sound would make him lose
concentration and disrupt the connection. But he was more used to that
now. He was inside.
If he were to describe this world fully awake, he wouldn’t be able to do
it, unable to recall much of anything. Normal concepts didn’t make any
sense in this place. The ways he used to communicate, move, find and
identify his fellows—it was akin to an animal sniffing out its friends and
foes, or perhaps a spaceship navigating the void of deep space. It was
actually quite intuitive for some rare people. For others, it was ungraspable
and mysterious and they would think up tales of nearly mythical
proportions about it. Sorn just laughed at these stories. If only they knew…
He felt another mind approaching him. He recognized it and lowered the
barriers. “Sanghamitta,” he said. “I have met Karuna today. Thank you.”
“Karuna was arrested today, Mahinda. The bhavacakrists took him! You
must disappear.”
“When?! How do you know?”
“He was here when it happened, about an hour ago. I felt his presence.
Then a sudden shriek and an emptiness, and finally a weak echo of what’s
occurred.”
He touched her mind and felt her recent memory. She was right.
“It’s too dangerous to seek a bodhisattva now,” she continued. “Just
vanish, hide for a few weeks and then return cautiously. I’ll do the same.”
“As will I.”
“Promise,” she requested.
“I promise,” he replied without hesitation.
He could feel her relief. After all, it was too hard to lie in virtuality,
where they could easily feel each other’s emotions.
It was very hard indeed, but he had mastered it eventually.

The streets of Krung Thep welcomed a new shadow in their cloak of

dusk and dampness. What Sorn saw were just other shadows in narrow
alleys; not people, but shadows, without recognizable faces and identities,
just like him.
He loved this place.
 Long ago, before he had been born, the city used to be full of tourists
from the whole world. Times changed; nowadays, the Siam Union opened
up to foreigners only reluctantly.
One could say that cautiousness was a good trait.
Since the first bodhisattva had appeared, a lot changed. Sorn could
vaguely remember his early childhood in a land filled with floods, droughts,
diseases and famine, one regime replacing another like on a crazy carousel
ride. His first clear memory was about hope.
We’ll be better. They will pull us out of this sludge. They are neither dead,
neither alive. They reached enlightenment, but stayed in contact with us,
helping the world of the suffering.
No wonder people started calling them bodhisattvas.
Rumors were going on about them. Tales full of both adventure and
lessons; legends and modern myths about miracles and bold deeds
accomplished right under the noses of the bhavacakrists, who didn’t mean
to let the virtual world be occupied by loose entities.
As soon as people cease to be bound by rules of their physical shells, it
only leads to bad things, they would say. Destroying and stealing
information, spreading chaos…
But the people would object: Boddhisatvas didn’t have any motivation to
harm. Anyone who could reach this state must have a clear, calm and kind
mind. If any trouble occurred, it surely had good reasons!
After all, most people approved of taking from the rich and giving to the
poor. Most people belonged to the poor. The boddhisatvas had used to be,
too. Poor but ingenious idealists absorbed by the virtuality. Who else would
willingly die in his physical form, cease to exist officially?
Sorn would just smile quietly. Very few people could actually understand
it.
He kept making his way through the streets, both familiar and strange.
The air was full of suspicion and alertness; everyone was a stranger here,
even those who lived here their whole life. Everyone knew not to surpass
the unwritten rules and stay well within the limits. If you didn’t, you had to
know much more; notice things, listen to the whispers of the city, feel the
approaching danger before it destroyed you.
Then you could become one of them. Outside the rules. People would
secretly admire you, but would never know who you were, even if you lived
just next to them. It was a small price. You’d know that this life meant
nothing. True life only began where the barriers fell apart.
After becoming familiar with the other world, showing talent, calm and
patience, you’d become an aharant. And if you were truly special, you
might just become a new boddhisatva.
Sorn entered a small dank alley and overcame a fence to a garbage-
covered yard. At the end was a small house made mostly of wood,
surrounded by the yard and a narrow canal. Above it hang a futuristic
arcade of chaotically routed cables.
This was what he loved most about the city; it was so unbound and
disorderly. Things that shouldn’t work in theory by all means worked here,
despite the odds. Local people had to be resourceful. Krung Thep was full
of life and ideas; it truly never slept. Sorn got to know foreign cities at least
through the virtuality and they seemed beautiful and shiny on the surface,
like the central districts of Krung Thep, but also lifeless and voiceless like
them. He was longing to actually see them, walk through their streets, meet
their people, but he would never consider them as alive as this city.
He entered the deserted building. In one such house a long time ago, he’d
spent a week half-unconscious and in terrible pain, locked inside a small
chamber, miraculously aseptic. Then the street butcher dealing with cheap
illegal implants let him into the streets. Sorn had an awful headache, almost
couldn’t walk, saw a neon-colored aura piercing his eyes around everything,
and every noise sounded like a gunshot to him. He crawled into his
temporary home, took a triple dose of strong painkillers—enough to ease
the pain a little and not to kill him—and slowly fell asleep. After he woke
up, he wasn’t feeling as if he balanced on the edge of a very nasty death
anymore. He tried to connect.
And he made it.
Today, entering the virtuality was no trouble for him. It seemed as natural
as breathing.
Now, after Karuna’s arrest, he had to find the boddhisatva alone.
He dove into the darkness. His illegal implants provided no user-friendly
interface, no easy navigation. He had to learn everything himself—but
when he succeeded, it gave him an almost boundless power inside the
environment.
Sanghamitta was not present; good. He set on trying to find the
boddhisatva named Vasubandhu. The chip from Karuna contained detailed
information on history of this entity; no longer a man. He usually used any
excess memory available at public networks he easily hacked; fluctuated
between Krung Thep, Battambang, Vang Viang and other large cities of the
Siam Union, however, sometimes he entered much better protected
company servers too. He never spent anywhere so long to be isolated and
deleted by the bhavacakrists. Karuna couldn’t confirm how many copies
there were, if Vasubandhu’s own philosophy didn’t prevent him from
making some.
Sorn couldn’t find him anywhere in Krung Thep, but the last traces he’d
been able to recover led to Banlung, a smaller city in the Cambodia
province over five hundred miles from here. A negligible distance for a
boddhisatva, nevertheless, very hard to overcome for an aharant, a creature
with a physical body guiding him through his connection with a computer.
He wouldn’t risk death or catatonia while attempting to reach there; he
had to get closer.

The third class of interstate trains in the Siam Union did not resemble the
same class of international lines; passengers were crowded on the hard
benches and in the corridors. Animals were often present; chickens in
wicker baskets, birds in too small cages, fat dogs carried to big markets.
Men and women in worn-out shirts and saris, respectively, were writing on
their phones or laptops. There were no miniature devices behind ears or in
bracelets, no ultra-thin convertible pads or smart fabrics.
Sorn watched his surroundings with a strange calm. This is enough. We’ll
always manage.
After nearly two hundred miles, they crossed the border of Siam and
Cambodia provinces. In the eyes of politicians, Cambodia constituted the
least important member of the Union; it was Siam which had marked its
origins a few decades ago. The third member, Laos, was trying hard to even
with Siam, but still lagged far behind the prosperity of the main province.
Nevertheless, the Union remained stable; with the totalitarian Burma on the
west, fiercely ambitious Malaysia on the south, hungry China on the north,
and the newly impoverished Vietnam on the east, it did not have much of an
option. It had to devote all its forces to compete with China.
Upon a long ride in the feverish heat in a crowded coupe, Sorn got out in
Banlung.
 The town was a hole. Long ago, it served as a tourist base thanks to the
nearby Ratanakiri airport and several national parks. The period of bloom
had been very short, and only a few reconstructed buildings, hotels and
restaurants marked it now. The rest of the city remained essentially the
same for many decades and consisted of simple one-storey houses in
various stages of decay, two asphalts, the rest being dusty roads lined with
old garbage. Children with friendly grubby faces played on the roads; cars
seemed rare here, but there was an old motorcycle or a moped in front of
almost every house, no matter how poor-looking.
Sorn reached the eye-stinging line between the former modern center and
the suburbs, disappeared in a soothingly familiar narrow corridor and
started searching for an optic cable. It didn’t take him very long to find it
and connect himself. He had no power for his laptop, but it should hold for
at least nine more hours. He’d never spent so long in the virtuality.
He checked the connection carefully. Once, he’d lost it during his stay,
and he would never repeat it. He’d felt like being blind, deaf, paralyzed and
in agony of pain at the same time. At first he’d panicked, then gathered his
control back. Gradually he found he was still in his body, alive and healthy,
but he would wait a long time before coming back to the other world. His
head hurt badly and his senses were recovering for several days.
But this time, it seemed quite safe.
Vasubandhu, Sorn thought and let the faint, concealed idea flow to the
whole Ratanakiri. It would be hardly perceptible for any bhavacakrists;
however, unmistakable for a boddhisatva, if he was nearby. That wasn’t a
given; Sorn had heard stories of boddhisatvas moving or copying
themselves to London, Washington, Moscow and other great cities. But
Vasubandhu had seemed to care to stay in the Union. And if the boddhisatva
was as wise as said, he should have known about Sorn at least for weeks—
but it was another matter if he would answer. Contacting a boddhisatva was
not easy; but Sorn had no choice. He couldn’t continue his journey alone.
You’re a tathagata; a teacher of the unaware; an enlightened, who can
help us improve. You can show us the way of light.
Sorn filtered away his other thoughts. There was no time, just a calming
constant flow of ones and zeros. He entered a deep meditation. That was
when he heard it, a voice like from another world, as if the ancient ideal of
transcendental teachers-demigods was real: If you are prepared to undergo
a journey of suffering to let go of worldly things and feelings, I can help
you. However, I need to see a proof of your commitment and faith.
Anything, master, Sorn replied without hesitation.
Prove concentration above any unaware. Enter the local police station’s
network and copy all data from this year.
All data. Banlung was a hole, but that didn’t mean it was a hole without
quite a high amount of crime and paperwork. Despite that, it seemed like a
rather easy task. Sorn guessed there would be minimum multimedia files.
Actually, it seemed almost too easy.
I will prove it, master.
Penetrating the system really was quite simple. Only when he tried to
copy the data, something suddenly attacked him—but surely not work of
Banlung police. Sorn realized what it was; the trap must had been installed
there by Vasunbandhu, who’d expected him and prepared a test.
Sorn kept a cool head. He used practices that helped him before against
similar threats. He tried to find weak spots and use them in his advantage—
and then the attack stopped as unexpectedly as it begun.
And Sorn heard the words he’d been praying for past years.

“You proved the ability of extraordinary concentration and calm,” echoed

in his head, as if he could actually listen to the boddhisatva’s voice. “I will
lead you on your journey to enlightenment.”
“Thank you, master. I will follow you faithfully.”
As soon as Sorn emerged and opened his eyes, his heart started pounding
quickly. Up to this moment, he controlled his emotions carefully and let
none get to the surface of his mind. Now he let the barriers down and was
overwhelmed with joy, pride, satisfaction, but beneath it also something a
little darker.

During the next few weeks, Sorn spent almost more time in the virtual
world than the real one. He was exhausted, but never hesitated. He longed
nothing more than what awaited him soon. Vasubandhu was an excellent
teacher. Sorn almost stopped communicating with Sanghamitta—but just
almost. He told her nothing about Vasubandhu, but she probably understood
anyway.
 One day after an especially difficult training Vasubandhu spoke: “Do not
forget that all this is just preparing for a final test, which can be passed only
by those of exceptional purity. Those who do not succeed can lose their life
attempting.”
“I’m aware of that, master, and I’m prepared to undergo the test. Have
you decided yet what it would be? I’ve had an idea where to prove I’m
worthy. The most secure network in this country belongs to Prajuk
Thnakhar.”
An ordinary person would never notice the short delay before
Vasubandhu reacted, but Sorn registered it.
“You’re a wise apprentice, Mahinda. Let Prajuk be your final test. But
you need to be patient; there are still many more before you.”

“You’re improving each day, my apprentice. You will soon be ready to

reach nirvana.”
Sorn could not stop thinking about these Vasubandhu’s words. It was just
two months since he had begun learning from the boddhisatva. He trained
the arts of invisibility among normal software, running on more servers at
the same time and copying even into highly secure systems. He could
suppress his emotions to a minimum, concentrate perfectly—and according
to Vasubandhu, he’d mastered all the arts so well that a time for the final
part of his journey came. He had to leave his limiting physical shell behind.
Time for the final test approached.
Sorn exhaled. Sweat was running from his brow. It was raining outside—
persistent, severe and pervasive monsoon rains had come. The scarce Indian
businessmen and tourists left Krung Thep and the city entered a period of a
strange laziness.
There were large pools of water on the floor of this flat; but it was better
than nothing. He should be able to steal electricity and high-speed
connection for a few more days before the need to move elsewhere. Some
time ago, he’d mentioned to Sanghamitta that times could change soon—
and maybe they wouldn’t need to hide anymore. He knew that she had
understood him.
He felt nervous and hungry, but that would go away after a while of
meditation. He was so close. There was no space for mistakes now.
 Sorn produced a blissful smile.
I will be ready, master. Tomorrow, we will enter the system of Prajuk
Thnakhar.

There was no one in the Siam Union who wouldn’t know Prajuk
Thnakhar. It was rumored that the bank had supported the revolution and
establishment of the Union—and that this event had catapulted it from a
local bank to a mammoth company.
Sorn never doubted it.
Father; mother; sister. They will pay today.
He suppressed his feelings, though he found it more complicated now
than usually, and prepared to submerge into the virtuality.
“Mahinda,” Vasubandhu greeted him.
“Master.”
Almost all virtual financial streams ran into one huge data river of Prajuk
Thnakhar. Its servers had the top security standards; after all, the Union
depended a lot on this company.
However, the boddhisatva and his apprentice managed to overcome its
firewalls and traps step by step. Perhaps just too easily.
Sorn switched to another data stream as soon as they entered.
Vasubandhu did not—and he immediately had to face attack from several
bhavacakrists who fought ferociously. Only one of them went after the
aharant. Sorn recognized this mind. He had encountered it many times
before, only now it seemed all distorted and cold: Sanghamitta.
They must have been waiting for them here all along.
Just as Sorn had presumed.
Mahinda! He heard Vasubandhu’s weakening calls.
I’m sorry, my master.
He knew that Vasubandhu did not understand. How could anyone like
him grasp the idea that Sorn had never sought to become a boddhisatva like
him, give up his physical shell and its limits? And that he would betray such
an entity because of the lowest human impulses—hatred and revenge?
I’m sorry, Sorn repeated. He gave the boddhisatva one last thought
before moving all his forces to shattering the barriers of Prajuk subroutines,
destroying every single backup he could reach, and avoiding Sanghamitta’s
continuing attacks. She was the only one focused on him; the rest
concentrated on the boddhisatva, a much more difficult target.
 Sorn needed a boddhisatva to get here exactly because of this purpose.
He’d never gain enough time to succeed alone.
When he’s done, foundations Siam’s economics would be seriously
shaken. The mighty and the rich would be hit hardest; those people who’d
destroyed his whole family and many others; those who closed the founding
states of the Union to the outside world and raised their own twisted justice.
He could see it so clearly as if it had happened just yesterday. They came
at night, dressed in black police overalls and masks. Father and mother had
no time to fight back. He resisted—kicked, bit… but it was for nothing. He
and little Bway were moved to an orphanage. Their parents? They might
have died during questioning; have been executed; have died slowly
because of some of the illnesses so abundant in prisons; and they might still
be alive somewhere, abject Karens, who had disliked their discrimination
and protested too loudly; hardly humans for the pure-blood Thais and Laos
under the new regime.
Darkness again. Escape from the orphanage. Bway was too slow; he
never saw her after that night.
Then the burning hatred. If he could set fire with it, all of Siam would be
ashes now.
And suddenly it was just gone.
Sorn found himself completely without the hatred which had led him
through most of his life. For a moment, he was so confused that he almost
forgot to keep building new barriers around himself.
It’s over, he realized, I cannot do anything else.
He destroyed everything he could. Most of the systems would be soon
restored from offline backups, but the wound would heal slowly. A lot of
the money ended up transferred to rebels against the Union through so
many financial channels that bhavacakrists would never get it all back.
He wanted to retreat but found that Sanghamitta cut off his stream back.
No data were running from Sorn lying in the leaking flat to Sorn present in
Prajuk Thnakhar’s systems.
Panic seized him. It was a strange feeling without a body. Just a state of
mind. He could not go back to his body without being caught and
destroyed. And even if he managed to find a way back eventually, he would
probably never successfully return. He was not copied, he was moved. His
body was surely dead or in deep catatonia.
My body is dead; I’m still alive.
 He’d succeeded in a task he never truly meant to accomplish; he became
a boddhisattva.

I cannot stay here. The attacks grow stronger. I must move. Or copy
myself, he thought. It was interesting to admit this possibility.
He felt naked and invulnerable at the same time. Amputated—and wider
than any time before. Empty—and full of brave new feelings.
Sorn sent a few lines of code through the barriers to find out any possible
ways out. In a moment, he had the results. They did not seem very
optimistic.
There wasn’t any way.
I could fight. Alone against several experienced bhavacakrists—and the
once again waking security systems.
Apparently he became a boddhisatva just to die a moment later; in his
case, the metaphor of the eternal enlightened did not work.
I could have had the whole eternity. I could have been everywhere and
nowhere at the same time. In emptiness and form.
He was almost surprised that even deep down, he felt no sorrow. Just a
strange relief and calm. After all, he could not change anything now.
Maybe that’s what true enlightenment feels like, he thought.
Then he tore down all of his barriers.

When he tried to remember it later, he could only recall pieces, individual

short moments. It had happened too fast.
And moreover, her memories differed from his.
He could remember the feeling as if he was flying faster than any
possible wind. He could use the modern, fast servers of Prajuk fully. Of
course, his enemies were doing the same. Sorn could easily fight security
software, but the bhavacakrists were closing in on him.
She was the first to reach him—one of the best. Sanghamitta could
compress the electronic part of her composite mind to be the fastest one.
She stopped his escape. But Sorn never assumed he would so easily get
outside. There was still one possible way from here. As she appeared so
close to him, he attacked fiercely. She needed to recall practices stored in
the organic part of her mind in a body full of implants.
He just followed this part of her.
Just in this case meant overcoming numerous traps. He remembered only
vaguely how he could break the security protocols of a modern government
cyborg. But as he found himself in her main control implant, he was not
coming back.
Suddenly he awoke physically. He was floating in a support unit of
bhavacakrist agents. He knew precisely where he was and how to get from
there. Her memories blended with his, but he was the one controlling the
body now. He reported a successful mission ending with destroying the
rebels. As soon as he could, he left the department and emerged outside on a
modern wide boulevard gleaming with the monsoon rain.
He felt the raindrops on his skin. It was mostly human skin, soft and
amber-colored. He was inside the body of the woman he had seen at the
square before Karuna had been arrested. He had suspected Sanghamitta as a
bhavacakrist from the very beginning, but he never knew her true
appearance. His plan worked; she’d let him be, because he could lead them
to a boddhisattva and later maybe even more of them. Only after entering
Prajuk, they had no choice but to stop him. He’d counted on that. He
intentionally sacrificed Vasubandhu—but felt no guilt. He felt almost
nothing, not even joy from his victory. He’d avenged his little sister and
parents and other repressed people more than enough—but suddenly they
meant nothing to him anymore on an emotional level.
He felt Sanghamitta trying to take control of the body again, but he was
stronger than ever before and had no trouble expelling her into a small
contained part of the implants.
Would he come to her job tomorrow, go through the security checks and
try to pretend he was Sanghamitta? Would he be able to do that? And if so
—what would he do next?
He could bring the whole Siam down to its knees. He could copy himself
anywhere he wanted and spread further. He could be slowly taking over any
network until someone mightier stopped him. He could rule the country,
make it better and make more people pay.
But the question was: Did he want to?
For now, he kept walking on the rain-covered street. He didn’t know
where. He had no destination on mind. At this precise moment in time, he
was just quietly enjoying the rain.

First published in Around The World in 80 Science Fiction Stories.

 Reset in Peace
Ah, Bruges. It’s a magical place (pun intended). Like a fucking fairytale
(pun also intended, although this reference will probably only be caught by
fellow Martin McDonagh fans).
But it’s not where this story originated.
It was born in Amsterdam, while I browsed its streets with a Mexican
conference backpack tossed across my shoulders, severely jetlagged and
caffeinated after flying from the IAC in Guadalajara (where “Martian
Fever” was born). I started mentally comparing the two Benelux cities
during my stroll, and then I sat in the rose garden of Vondelpark and started
scribbling the first paragraphs on a coffee bill. Later I sat in a local pub
with stew and Amstel and wrote some more. Klaus Voort was born out of a
“neither” full of amazing possibilities. Neither a professor nor a
businessman, though he looked like that. I’d wondered who he really was…
and here you can find out on what option I’d settled.

Doubts accompanied Klaus Voort throughout the whole journey to the job
interview. They sat next to him on the train while the lowland landscape
passed them on the way from Bruges to Amsterdam, and walked silently by
his side on the way to IngeniArt’s offices. They waited patiently while he
picked up his coffee-to-go, and crossed the street to the inconspicuous brick
house built in the simple traditionalist style. Klaus wondered what the
company was doing here instead of Zuidas or some other flourishing
business district. But he didn’t mind; it reminded him of home, and he
couldn’t resist comparing the two cities.
Bruges was old, while Amsterdam was new. The centuries old
riverhouses hosted cafés, boutiques, sexshops and brothels, sporting bright
neon signs on the old facades. Bruges was sublime and mild-mannered;
Amsterdam was loud and abuzz with activity. You strolled in Bruges and
hurried in Amsterdam, swept by the incessant crowds. Even outside the
center, life was fast. Not to mention having to be fast if you didn’t want to
be run over by a bicycle. Submerged in his thoughts and coffee cup, Klaus
almost managed to do just that.
Bruges was a dignified elderly gentleman with an art collection;
Amsterdam was a rich brat wanting to make some noise, but in a clever
way.
Klaus wondered which was closer to him. He was no longer a youth, but
his days of retirement were still far away, if he ever decided to retire. In his
mid-forties, he blended well with the artsier businessmen or professor
types. He wore their uniform of a corduroy jacket, gray turtleneck and beige
trousers well. But, in fact, he was neither.
Klaus Voort’s job was to revive the dead. You needed a certain skillset for
that, and experienced coders with multidisciplinary background were in
high demand. Thus his visit of Amsterdam to see a representative of a
budding software company. As he got on the elevator and introduced
himself at the reception, Klaus was still uncertain whether coming here had
been a good idea. But Tobias had encouraged him to at least try the
interview. If the offer doesn’t prove interesting, he would have only lost less
than a day.
“Mr. Jimenez will see you now,” the pleasant receptionist announced.
The office seemed like a prototype of a distinguished executive’s place. A
specimen of such was sitting behind the smooth design table in a black
office chair that managed not to be overly gargantuan or luxurious but to
look horridly expensive anyway.
This wasn’t an office of a company headhunter or HR manager.
To his slight dismay, Klaus found himself unable to tell whose office it
had been. Yes, he was invited for the interview by Heliodore Jimenez’s
assistant, but finding out Jimenez’s actual role in the company proved
uncharacteristically difficult. The website bore no company hierarchy or
detailed contact information, and the company wasn’t registered in Europe,
so Klaus couldn’t simply look up if Jimenez by any chance held any major
position. Nor was there any tag on the door; Klaus had made a point of
looking for one.
Jimenez rose from his antithetical chair and offered Klaus a hand. “Mr.
Voort! Thank you for coming all the way from Bruges.”
“No problem.”
After a short exchange and the receptionist bringing them coffee,
Jimenez started going through Klaus’ CV.
“Deep learning, big data… Your experience is exhaustive. But tell me,
what made you switch to informatics after you’ve earned a psychology
degree?”
 “Honestly… it was the job prospects,” Klaus shrugged. “When I first
enrolled in university, I wanted to become a therapist. But I changed my
outlook gradually, and I wasn’t interested in going into psychology
research, while I had an interest in software engineering since primary
school. I had several part-time jobs in software during high school and
university, and it seemed to me more and more like something I wanted to
do. So I switched fields then.”
“Your unusual background makes you a uniquely suited to work at your
current position at Pervivo. Can you tell me more about your work there?”
“Unfortunately I can’t. I’m not at liberty of discussing any details.”
Klaus expected it to end here. Everyone who spent a minute searching
the company knew that his employer’s business was creating constructs of
dead people; and everyone realized that the data processing and know-how
behind that would be a closely guarded corporate secret, even though many
other companies attempted the same with various degrees of success.
“Of course,” Jimenez nodded calmly. But his next question froze Klaus
on the spot: “Can you get me in touch with Johanna Ruiter-Lopez?”
One heartbeat passed; another; Jimenez’ calm gaze still rested on Klaus.
“I’m afraid I don’t know who that is,” Klaus collected himself.
Jimenez observed him with the slight amusement of someone seeing
right through the lie.
“It would be worth your while,” he assured Klaus. “I just need to speak
with her briefly. I believe you can arrange that.”
Klaus rose. “Not sure how you arrived to that conclusion, but I’m afraid I
must –”
“You might need the money. I offer three hundred and twenty thousand.
Incidentally, it’s a marginally higher amount than the debts your husband
has amassed.”
Outside, Amsterdam buzzed in its perpetual frenzy. Inside, Klaus felt
cold spreading its fingers through his body.
Without another word, he left.
He strolled along canals and wandered the busy streets like a ghost for
some time, and then chose a pub randomly and walked in.
“He was lying,” he said aloud above his second glass of Amstel. That got
him a suspicious look from the bartender, but Klaus didn’t speak further.
His pocket buzzed. Tobias was trying to reach him.
 He didn’t pick up. A message appeared soon after: How did the interview
go? Impressed them, or impressed them ;)? When are you coming home?
Went well. Need to do some follow-up tomorrow. Will stay here overnight,
he wrote to Tobias. He stared at the words for a moment, and then tapped
send. He didn’t lie, not exactly. Just omitted.
Then he did the same for work, and took another day off for personal
reasons.
He downed the rest of his beer and went to find himself an
accommodation. All the Airbnb places nearby were hopelessly booked, so
an hour later he ended up in a spacious but somewhat sterile hotel room in
the center. It looked like a trip back to the 2000s. He briefly considered
going out again, but couldn’t bring himself to go among people right now.
Instead, he ordered a sandwich, opened the minibar, and, nursing a can of
beer, watched the TV for the first time in years. There was nothing about it
to miss. Cooking; gossip; cars; makeovers; soap operas; more cooking. He
settled for a wildlife documentary, and while David Attenborough was
narrating the lioness’ patient stalking of a gazelle, fondled the phone in his
palm again. His thumb almost touched the favorite contacts several times.
Then it did.
Tobias picked up immediately. “Klaus! Glad you called. So how did it go
today?”
There was sound of music in the background. While Klaus may end up
Netflix-binging when alone, Tobias would always listen to music, be it light
jazz like now or Verdi’s Requiem.
“Klaus, are you there? Are you all right?”
Klaus realized he hadn’t spoken yet. “Yes,” he managed. Another
prolonged pause. Then: “Is it true that you’re neck-deep in debt?”
The ensuing silence was filled by Attenborough excitedly describing the
events on the screen. “The lioness first stalks her prey to get close. There
she lies in wait, until the right moment strikes. If she acts too soon, her prey
will easily outrun her. But lions are among the most patient hunters. An
unsuspecting Thomson’s gazelle wanders too close to the bush…”
“Who told you?” Tobias spoke suddenly.
“Doesn’t matter. So it’s true?”
“It’s not so bad, just a strike of bad luck, that’s all…”
Klaus found his voice again. “How much have you lost?”
“I… three hundred thousand.”
 Klaus’ heart sank.
“The lioness charges. Her attack is short but powerful. This gazelle has
no chance of escape…”
“I’m going to get it all back. Please –”
Klaus put down the phone. The screen lit again immediately, displaying
Tobias’ smiling face. Klaus turned it screen down. It still vibrated urgently.
He pressed the off button, and exhaled with relief when it stopped. There
was almost complete silence in the room, save for the distant sounds of the
street below. Klaus stared motionless at the blank wall opposite him. The
hollow feeling inside was not leaving. Like an automaton, he rose and
walked to the minibar.
“The lioness clamps down on the gazelle’s neck to prevent its breathing.
Then she bites its throat. The fight is over. The predator has gotten her meal
this time.”

One dreamless night and one horrendous hotel bill later, Klaus Voort
stood in front of IngeniArt offices, once again accompanied by doubts
gnawing at his mind. This time, the simple traditionalist building somehow
seemed ominous.
The elevator chimed and let him out in the highest floor. As soon as the
receptionist saw him, she led him to Jimenez’s office.
“Have a seat,” Jimenez said, unperturbed by Klaus’ unexpected arrival.
Or did he expect him to come begging the first thing in the morning?
“Coffee?”
“Tell me what you want from me.”
“I want some information from Johanna Ruiter-Lopez—or her construct,
more precisely.”
“I don’t have access to the core information anymore,” Klaus said
truthfully.
Jimenez didn’t seem put off by that. “I don’t need that. Why sift through
all that when she can simply tell me herself?”
“It’s not simple. I can’t get you a copy of the construct. First, it’s set to
slightly alter with every attempt at copying it and blockchain-protected.
Can’t be hacked without alerting security immediately. Second, you
wouldn’t even be able to run it. I can’t get you the necessary software, even
if you had the computing power.” Klaus spread his arms. “Even if I wanted
to help you, I don’t know how.”
“And yet you came. Coffee?” Jimenez offered again and poured himself
a cup from the gleaming French press pot on the table. Without waiting for
an answer, he poured one for Klaus.
He raised the cup mechanically. The liquid was dark and thick, and
smelled fantastically. For the first time in the last nearly twenty-four hours,
Klaus felt alive. Doubt-free.
“Yes, I came. Like you said, my husband is neck-deep in debt. You have
me cornered, like you wanted. But to be honest, I’m not sure if I can help
you,” he admitted in total candor.
“You perform regular check-ups on your constructs during the first year,
right? So you still have access. I need you to get me into the next one.”
Klaus looked at Jimenez as if he were mad. What he’d proposed surely
sounded that way. “Impossible!”
Jimenez was still smiling calmly. “Really?”
When Klaus came to think about it… it was near impossible.
“There might be a way,” he said slowly. “But we don’t have much time.”
“How so?”
“The policy isn’t to make the check-ups for a year. It depends on how
much the clients use the construct. The more iterations, the shorter the
check-up intervals, and the sooner is the “final examination”. It can be as
short as six months. Johanna’s six months will be over next week.”
The smile faded from Jimenez’s lips. “Next week,” he repeated almost
inaudibly.
“I’m sorry.” Klaus cursed himself inwardly for coming here at all. He’ll
have to deal with Tobias and his debts like a normal person would…
Perhaps it was best that way. Who knows what he almost got himself into.
Jimenez collected himself. “Then you’ll have to get me there next week
—or this one.”
“I can’t!” Klaus protested. “It will be ill-prepared. It won’t work. I’ll be
fired, sued, and if I’m lucky, I don’t serve any time, but I’ll be paying the
fees for the rest of my life! I’ll end up on the street!”
“If your husband’s debt doesn’t get you there first. I can offer four
hundred. For your trouble.”
Klaus was once more rendered speechless.
“So?”
 The world was spinning around him.
“Yes,” he heard as if from a distance. Only a second later, it occurred to
him that he spoke that word. He’d made a deal with the devil.
“Splendid,” Jimenez nodded. “So how are we going to do it?”

Back in Bruges, Klaus reluctantly found himself an Airbnb place for the
night. It was overpriced, but he could be glad he found anything so quickly;
the summer season had just started and the town was already swarming
with tourists.
He didn’t feel ready to see Tobias, not yet. He answered the dozen of
missed calls and several messages over multiple channels with one short
note: I’m fine. Will get in touch when I process this. I need some space.
The place was tiny and a bit spartan, but the washing machine worked
and was stocked with some powder. Klaus threw in the clothes he’d worn
for two days and, while the machine worked, crawled under a blanket with
his laptop. Jimenez’s proposal had him worried, put mildly. Before he did
something he might regret, he should try to find out what Jimenez was after
—some connection between him and the construct’s original.
Johanna Ruiter-Lopez had been a journalist. The old-school investigative
type: after corruption, corporate scandals, environmental damage and such.
While none of her work made a big splash, she worked her way throughout
her career making small ripples very efficiently.
Had she stumbled upon some dark secret during her life? Klaus
wondered. Something connected to Jimenez, or perhaps his competition?
He spent the night scouring through her articles. He’d known her, of
course; tweaked the algorithms that transformed all of her online and
digitized interactions, all the content she’d created, into her construct. That
included her articles, even if only as parts of the construct’s extended
memory and verbal patterns. But only now, for the first time, he had a sense
of truly learning who Johanna Ruiter-Lopez was.
She’d helped uncover inhumane practices in slaughterhouses across the
world. Talked to refugees, monitored water pollution around chemical
plants and its impact on people and the environment, interviewed leaders at
World Bank conferences, reviewed the state of medical care in various
regions, reported from disaster and war zones.
 She was the sort of person Klaus admired and at the same time felt
uneasy about, because she reminded him of how little he did with his own
life.
But in the flood of her work he’d gone through, he found nothing that
would at first sight connect her to Jimenez in any way.
Maybe the connection wasn’t her work—but what then? Johanna’s
personal life was uncomplicated, as long as Klaus remembered. She’d
married at thirty-three to a family-life accountant, in a way the opposite of
her. They had two children, raised mostly by him, since she always resumed
her work soon; but everything in the core data pointed to a harmonious,
happy relationship that had the usual comedowns, but no serious trouble.
Klaus’ gut tightened. I wonder what Tobias is doing now.
He liked to imagine Tobias obsessing over him, regretting the debts and
lies, wishing for Klaus to appear on the doorstep… Yet there was a
possibility he desperately tried not to think about, that Tobias was sitting
comfortably in a plush chair, sipping wine and listening to music—
hopefully alone. Klaus used to consider his marriage harmonious. Perhaps
Johanna’s was similar in the end, and the truth just didn’t make its way to
the core data. How far from reality could constructs be in such cases…
Unlike Johanna, Heliodore Jimenez was a ghost. His social media
presence: zero. Not even a LinkedIn profile. Interviews, profiles, school
bios and CVs: none. Even his company was low-key: the minimalist
website Klaus had seen prior to the job interview, presence in the usual
public databases, but nothing more. All he knew was that it specialized in
big data, as if that was a meaningful job description these days.
Damn. Think. What can he want that only her construct can tell him?
He stared at the glowing screen, theories swirling in his head. Johanna
had dirt on IngeniArt’s competition; or on some Jimenez’s personal enemy.
Johanna secretly acted as a corporate spy. Johanna may have discovered
some terrible secret Jimenez wanted to keep buried…
A shiver went down his spine. What if she’d been silenced…
No; even as he thought that, he knew he was just being paranoid. What
had killed her, was, pure and simple, cancer. Ovary cancer detected in late
stage.
Forty-eight years old, Johanna Ruiter-Lopez had left behind a husband,
two teenage children, an impressive amount of work, and numerous notes
for her colleagues to go through. Something in her work that couldn’t be
accessed otherwise must have been what Jimenez was after.
Klaus didn’t remember when exactly he nodded off. He woke up in that
strange time between the middle of the night and early morning, took a
second to realize where he was, and then remembered the washing machine.
Cursing, he ran to it and took out the crumbled wet clothes. He would look
a scarecrow at work, unless this flat had a really good iron.
Then he fell into restless sleep for another hour.

Not even two flat whites helped Klaus regain a sense of wakefulness in
the morning. He tried to enter work as if nothing happened. He performed
his usual routine: nodded to the receptionist, got another coffee from the
machine in the miniature kitchen, exchanged a few words with co-workers,
and finally headed to his office. Tiny beads of sweat formed at his brow. He
sat heavily. For a moment, his fingers stopped just short of the keyboard;
but there was no point in postponing this.
He put on glasses and called up the construct.
A woman in her late forties appeared to be sitting in the adjacent chair.
She wore practical trousers and a sweater. Her graying brown hair was
pulled back in a ponytail.
“Hello, Johanna. How are you today?” Klaus managed to smile. An
outside camera would monitor his mimic and feed the data to the construct.
Johanna shrugged. “I’ve been better.”
“Something not right?”
“I’m bored,” she admitted with a wry smile. “I don’t have work to do! I
guess I’m just restless after retiring.”
“Do you miss journalism?”
The half-sad laughter that accompanied her response was uncanny.
“Sorely! But I have more time for my family this way, even if I can’t be
there for them directly.”
“What articles do you miss writing most? I really liked that one about the
impact of central-American drug cartels on common people in the region,”
Klaus said nonchalantly, while his heart performed athletic feats inside his
chest.
 “Oh, that one was okay, but not really a highlight when I look back at it.
I’m prouder of other stories. Such as the Mekong river scandal, or the
walkaway communities in post-Soviet countries,” Johanna said, not a trace
of any deception or hesitation in her voice.
But Klaus had to remember that he spoke to a construct glued together
from social media, metadata, personal correspondence, phone logs, school
reports, work, photographs, testimonies of people who knew her… What
wasn’t included in that core information couldn’t be a part of the artificial
personality. Johanna may well have lied without knowing it.
Does the name Heliodore Jimenez ring any bells? Klaus desperately
wanted to ask directly, but the fact that their conversation was monitored
prevented him from doing it. If anything happened and someone actually
went through the logs…
“You must have met many interesting people in your line of work,” he
said instead.
Johanna laughed. “That’s an understatement.”
They spent another twenty minutes discussing various acquaintances of
Johanna’s, but the name Jimenez did not once come up.
Before Klaus concluded the testing session, he slipped a flash disk into
his computer’s port. He sat still, but his heart was racing.
He half-expected alarms flashing any second. But nothing happened.
By the time he stuck the flash disk into a colleague’s computer deserted
during a break, his heartbeat was almost back to normal.
After work, he took another train to Amsterdam. This time, he wouldn’t
need to take a day off. Tomorrow was Saturday, and Klaus knew he would
ruin a few people’s weekend.

Amsterdam Centraal was as busy as ever. Midnight was approaching, but

the city life was at one of its daily peaks, especially now on Friday. Klaus
zigzagged through the crowd and hopped on a tram to Mercatorplein, where
he was staying this time. As the door of the packed wagon closed behind
him, he thought he’d glimpsed a somewhat familiar face in the crowd. It
belonged to a man in an oversized beige trenchcoat. He wanted to board the
same tram, but didn’t make it. Klaus couldn’t put a name to his face. Where
did he see him? He was sure he didn’t know him, but he certainly saw him
recently. Last time in Amsterdam? Or in Bruges?
Was he being followed?
Stop it. You’re being paranoid, Klaus chastised himself.
But he still locked the door of his place for tonight thrice, checked all
possible entry points and drew the curtains tight, after which he collapsed
into bed and fell asleep despite all expectations.
He dreamed about moving to a different place each night, being followed
by mysterious men in baggy trenchcoats and for some indescribable reasons
of his subconscious seeing Tobias with Jimenez, upon which Johanna
appeared and claimed that she’d had enough material for a new story.
Klaus woke up seemingly more exhausted than when he went to bed.
It was 7 a.m., and the hack was happening in two hours.
He downed a cup of coffee from the local supplies (awful, stale), and
managed to gulp down a croissant bought yesterday at the railway station
(equally awful, albeit not stale at all). He absently scrolled down through
news, not actually reading them. He nearly added salt to the abominable
coffee. Then he turned his phone off and took out the battery, and headed
out.
Saturday morning in Amsterdam was surprisingly depopulated. The
nearby streets were deserted. The center would be filling with tourists soon,
but not yet. Everyone was sleeping off their hangovers. Klaus felt like a
postapocalyptic survivor crossing a dead zone.
Empty. Quiet. Dim. Morningly cool.
He wished he had a coat over his corduroy jacket.
Suddenly, he had the disconcerting feeling of being watched. He
glimpsed movement further down the street in the corner of his eye. A
baggy beige trenchcoat.
A streak of sweat flowed down Klaus’ back.
He hastened his pace. From time to time, he looked past his shoulder.
He thought he saw the man several times.
His heart was racing.
He took a turn quickly and almost ran through a narrow walkway along a
canal. The tall riverhouses seemed to be leaning over him.
Klaus risked another glance back. While doing that, he ran into a man
and nearly knocked him down. “So sorry –” he started, prepared to keep
running, when he saw that he so heedlessly bumped into a policeman. “Oh,
thank god! I’m being followed,” Klaus blurted out.
The policeman, gathering himself up with dignity, measured him with a
skeptical gaze. “Calm down, mate,” he suggested sternly. “Have you been
drinking? Doing weed?”
“No! I’m not doing drugs,” Klaus shook his head. He risked another
desperate look behind his shoulder. The mystery man was nowhere to be
seen.
“S-sorry,” he stuttered and hurried away before the policeman got the
idea to ask him for his ID. Inwardly, he was cursing himself for drawing
police attention to himself.
He took a longer, tortuous route and got to the meeting site, next to an
abandoned factory, ten minutes late. He was panting, awash in cold sweat,
but Jimenez was nowhere to be seen. Klaus bit his lower lip. Various
scenarios flashed through his mind.
Jimenez set him up. This was all a test of his company loyalty—
including Tobias?
Jimenez was captured by the people who tailed him, some unknown
adversaries after the same secrets, and the same fate may be awaiting him…
Jimenez decided not to go through with it, perhaps getting an echo about
potential trouble, and left Klaus out to dry.
Jimenez…
Jimenez appeared from a seemingly barricaded entrance. “Come in,” he
said flatly.
Klaus jumped. “Where were you?” he hissed, all of his anxiety filling his
voice. He quickly dove into the dark corridor after Jimenez. “I was
followed!”
In the dim light emanating from the ceiling, Jimenez frowned. “Did you
lose the tail?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“I –” Klaus stuttered. “I mean—yes, I hope!”
Jimenez’s face looked ominous in the flickering light. It had an almost
devilish quality. “I would hope so too. Otherwise we’re both screwed, but
most of the blame rests on you.”
Klaus gulped. But he felt he had no choice but follow Jimenez further
into the corridor that resembled a horror movie set more than anything else.
They ascended a rusty grated staircase. The set had changed to a generic
supervillain lair in-progress. Barred dirty windows, big chairs, rust couture
and plenty of space for shark tanks if the business goes well. Lovely.
Also: high-speed connection, multiple routers, a spare screen, keyboard
and gaming mouse.
And a thermos of coffee, as Klaus soon found out. Jimenez thought of
everything.
They plugged in Klaus’ computer, needed for later, and a disposable
laptop provided by Jimenez.
From there, Klaus attempted to invade his company’s servers.
Contrary to general notions about hacking, they didn’t frantically type or
click a mouse. They had most of the scripts and exploits prepared
beforehand. For a long time, they just sat and stared at the screen. Klaus
typed a moderately-paced command a few times.
They stared again.
“Why were you thinking of leaving your job?” Jimenez suddenly asked
with detached curiosity.
Klaus swore inwardly. The sudden question had startled him. “I wasn’t.”
Jimenez smiled innocently. “And yet you came here for the interview.”
“Tobias convinced me to come.” Klaus looked up sharply. “Wait—you
didn’t set this up, did you? Have you two set me up together?!”
“Amazingly enough, no. Although I would have if I had thought it
helpful.”
Klaus was grateful for the interruption provided by suddenly flashing
stderr lines.
“They noticed us,” Jimenez stated needlessly.
In the Amsterdam offices of IntSec, which provided security services for
Klaus’ employer, there would be soundless alarms blaring. IntSec
employees would make sure the threat was removed, the unwanted door
sealed. They would want to examine the exposed sectors and more.
And that’s what Klaus was going to do.
A phone rang on the rusty table. Jimenez smiled a devilish smile. It suited
his face more than the innocent one. He picked up.
“Yes… Yes, we know about the threat, and we are working on it. … Yes.
… Of course. We’re going to need access to all servers. … Of course. On
it.”
 When Klaus admitted to Jimenez two days ago that he can’t access the
constructs otherwise than from the company itself or company-provided
hardware and software the customers had, he wasn’t entirely correct, and he
soon realized it. The company could grant any access to its security
provider, if necessary.
So he proposed it to Jimenez. He didn’t expect things to move so fast, but
here they were—and he was about to summon Johanna. In IntSec, there
would be soundless alarms blaring—but weren’t. Klaus didn’t know how
Jimenez achieved it, and didn’t ask, but it was done—the security was
rerouted to them, and they had a free hand in exercising it.
He knew the procedures fairly well. And it didn’t take him long to go
through the basics and finally access Johanna’s files and the remote
interface.
“Got there,” Klaus breathed. “But we may not have much time before
they realize something’s off and manage to call the real IntSec.”
Both put on their AR sets in sync. We look like a Daft Punk promo pic,
Klaus thought when he glimpsed their reflection in his screen. Glossy
screens were one of the great evils of the world, but there was also the
saying “don’t look the company-provided laptop in the mouth”.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Looking at his sorry reflection, he was startled by the voice in his ears:
“Klaus, hello! This is unexpected—isn’t it? And… what are you doing
here?”
Johanna Ruiter-Lopez appeared to be standing behind the improvised
rusty desk. Like always, she was clad in her favorite checkered trousers
with many pockets and a loose-fitting red sweater. Her graying brown hair
in a ponytail. But this time, Klaus saw her like never before—as if he really
met her for the first time. Oh god, she was so realistic!
“So you do remember me?” Jimenez asked softly.
She nodded. “I do.”
“What specifically do you remember?”
“We worked together on an unfinished story of mine,” she replied
without hesitation.
“And…?”
“There’s nothing more.”
To Klaus’ consternation, Jimenez’s lower lip quivered.
 Johanna measured him with a quizzical look. “Did you expect me to say
otherwise?”
Jimenez nodded.
“Even I don’t know everything about my life,” the construct said
apologetically. “Forgive me if you’re not in there, but should be. How well
did we know each other?”
Jimenez smiled a bittersweet smile. “I had asked you for your hand.”
Johanna froze. So did Klaus.
“How?” she finally said.
“You were working on tracking drug money in Colombia. You were
staying in Bogotá. While being there, you became interested in the
emerging tech companies that wanted to build a new future there—future
not dictated by foreign powers. How fucking naïve we were! But you loved
it. You wanted to make it your next story. I was one of tech idealists you
contacted.”
“Yes, I remember all of that,” she interjected. “But nothing more…”
Jimenez smiled wryly. “Yes. We didn’t exactly collude through e-mail.
Neither of us had a smartphone, they were just starting around that time,
and I don’t know about you, but I can’t get to my text messages from back
then anymore. Oh, what innocent times…”
“Tell me more,” Johanna asked quietly.
So he told her the story. How he tried to launch a new software company
How she fell for the enthusiastic coder, and he fell for the clever
journalist. How they wanted to keep it secret for the time being, because of
potential conflicts of interest. How they eloped to Tayrona one day, leaving
behind all troubles and worries of unreliable investors, fickle market,
misleading sources, corrupt officials and such. They forgot about work, if
only for a day, and were happy.
There it happened. He asked her for her hand.
And she said “maybe”. She needed to finish her story on drug money,
and a new one was brewing in South Africa. She was to fly to Cape Town
as soon as possible.
They promised each other to keep in contact—which they did by calling
one another a few times, increasingly sparsely—and meet again as soon as
possible.
They never did.
He pursued investments from Singapore.
 She pursued a new story from Rwanda.
She stayed idealistic; he didn’t.
The messages gradually grew sparser, until they died out.
For Johanna, that was perhaps the end of it; her construct had no way of
knowing for sure.
For Heliodore Jimenez, it grew into what he came to perceive as the
biggest mistake in his life over the years. But it was too late—Johanna had
a functioning family, and he was wise enough, or decent enough, or fearful
enough, not to interfere with that.
Klaus felt like an intruder on their lives, but at the same time he was
entranced by listening to Jimenez retelling Johanna their shared history.
There was something touching in it, and something almost perverse.
He also grew more nervous with each passing moment.
“They’ll be onto us any minute,” he murmured finally.
Jimenez perhaps shot him a killing glance—hard to say with the AR gear
obscuring his eyes—but nodded.
“I suppose this is a goodbye,” he said quietly.
Johanna smiled affectionately. “I think so too. I also think it was goodbye
a long time ago… but I appreciate you telling me our story. I wish I had
known, for this somehow feels wrong, but I’m still glad. And you’ll always
be my friend—if you want to be one.”
“I do.”
Klaus hated to interrupt their moment, but their time was running short.
“Sorry—but I barely have time to perform the memory reset.”
“Memory reset?!” Johanna exclaimed.
Even under the AR set, Jimenez looked very chastised. “I’m sorry… but
what we’re doing is not exactly legal, and we can’t risk it leaking… Please
understand –”
“No, I want to remember it!” she interjected sharply. “If you proceed
with this, you’re someone else than you’ve just presented yourself to be.
You’re a fucker who did this for his own peace of mind and cared nothing
for me. Okay, I’m a construct, so what? This is a part of who I was. I won’t
mention any of this to my family—or anyone else. Believe me.”
“I do,” Jimenez said, his voice sounding obscured.
“I… um,” Klaus gulped. If she talked… If this ever got out…
“For the four hundred thousand euros, you do too,” Jimenez concluded,
and Johanna laughed a half-disapproving laughter. “Always the naughty
boy,” she said. She behaved almost as if she really knew him, and didn’t
just hear their personal history by account. It served as an uneasy reminder
of the nature of constructs.
“Goodbye,” Jimenez said.
“Goodbye,” she smiled, and there was a lot of grace and a hint of sadness
in the mere curve of her lips.
Klaus hit the escape key.
The phone rang.
Jimenez picked up. Klaus didn’t fail to notice how his hand trembled.
“Yes? … Yes. Correct. … Yes, we’ll send a full report by the end of the
day. … No, the clients don’t need to fear anything—nor do you. It’s fine. …
Yes, bye.”
Jimenez put the phone down. “I think your employers are satisfied. Will
be less so when the promised report doesn’t arrive and they query the real
IntSec,” he added. “Let’s go.”
Klaus looked at the phone, and the screen and keyboard, the thermos…
“Oh, don’t worry about this,” Jimenez waved around the supervillain lair
in-progress. “I’ll have someone take care of it.”
Outside, they didn’t split ways immediately. Instead, they walked side by
side in silence. Only when they reached a nearby park, Klaus dared put the
battery back in his phone. As soon as it came online, a message beeped: e-
mail, not Signal. He opened it reluctantly.
Klaus, I’m so sorry. I want to tell you face-to-face how deeply sorry I am,
and try to explain myself—not to make excuses, but to apologize and try to
redeem myself.
I sent someone to find you. I couldn’t stand not knowing whether you’re
okay, even if you said you needed space. He found you in Amsterdam but
then lost you again. I don’t blame you if you were mad at me and went to
meet someone else. But I don’t want to lose you. Please…
“I’m such an idiot,” Klaus breathed out.
Jimenez raised a brow. “Do you expect me to agree or disagree?”
For another moment, they continued in silence, each absorbed in their
own thoughts.
“You have questions,” Jimenez stated finally.
“I… expected something else,” Klaus admitted.
Jimenez looked at him quizzically. “Why do people want constructs?”
 “To make peace with having lost someone, or create an illusion they
haven’t… To say things they didn’t while the other person was alive.”
Klaus fell silent for a second. “But I thought… You lured me here under a
pretense, turned my private life upside down, offered me four hundred
thousand, and then I was being followed… I thought it would be some big
corporate secret, some rocket science…” His voice trailed off.
“If it were any of that, the likelihood is that I would simply have her
accounts hacked and handwritten notes stolen.” Jimenez smiled when he
saw Klaus’ shocked gaze. Then the smile faded. “Too often do people want
to ask a construct something they didn’t have the courage to ask the actual
person, or realized too late that they must know. I guess I’m no exception at
that.”
Klaus just stared; he didn’t know what to say.
“So,” Jimenez continued, “I expect you to stay silent about everything
that went on. Wouldn’t want to lose your job and the money, right? And if
your conscience ever troubles you, you can console yourself with knowing
that there was nothing sinister in it—just an old reunion. I believe this is
where our paths diverge.”
He stopped. Later, Klaus sometimes pondered whether he deliberately
stood at such place that the sun created a halo around his bald head. It
would become him.
“Will we meet again?” Klaus blurted out, immediately feeling like an
idiot.
Jimenez smiled enigmatically. “Who knows. Perhaps, one day, someone
will wish to make a construct of me.”

On the afternoon train to Bruges, Klaus Voort watched the idyllic

landscape of South Holland countryside pass by. Everything was abloom at
this time of the year, and it resembled Monet’s dreamy summers, certainly
not the boschian hell of his nightmares from the last nights. For the first
time this week, Klaus felt at peace.
People want constructs to be able to say things they didn’t while the other
person was alive, echoed in his mind.
He had a lot to talk about with Tobias. But, if he remembered this,
hopefully he wouldn’t omit anything he wanted to say but otherwise
wouldn’t because it would feel too embarrassing, or out of pettiness and
anger.
Life was precious, and much too short. With that, he sighed and closed
his eyes. He might as well get a little sleep. Most likely, he had a very long
evening ahead of him.

First published in Amazing Stories (winter 2018).

 Dreaming Up The Future

In a way, this story is a wish-fulfillment fantasy and trepidation at the same

time for me. I mean, who wouldn’t want improved peer review? Or an
automated assistant to scour the databases of scientific papers to see if
you’ve missed anything in your manual search?
But would you want an AI to generate hypotheses? Devise ways of testing
them? Actually conducting the tests, writing the papers (and excelling at
it?) and reviewing them?
While arts and science both belong to fields where human input is
unlikely to be replaceable by AI anytime soon, it would be foolish to think
that they are forever immune to it. The vision of replacement of humans in
science seems definitely dystopian to me, but hopefully we’ll go more in the
way of augmentation—working side by side, getting the better of each.
That’s more the direction of the following story… which, I admit, I’d like to
see happen in the real world.
Soon, perhaps. We’ll see.

The constantly shifting dreamscape is built of wonders of the universe.

Spin-down behavior of intermittent pulsars. Optimizing spectral resolving
power for transit spectroscopy of exoplanets. Evolution of supernova
fallback disks. Metallic core dynamo extinctions.
Introductions, methods, results, discussions, conclusions. Many a review.
In deep, deep dream, Samuel finds millions of mad, impossible
patterns… and possibly a few intriguing ones.

***

“Science is built on revolutions. We are forging the next one.”

The duo on the stage offer an interesting sight. Man and woman, both
with short-cropped hair, combat boots that are the latest fashion this year,
and color-matching t-shirts. The letters on the first one read WE FIND
YOUR PEERS. The second one says DREAMING FOR SCIENCE.
“Scientific revolutions usually required a paradigm shift in a certain field.
This time, we’re creating a new paradigm for scientific conduct and
publishing.”
“We all know it,” the woman steps forward. “Researchers are too busy
with paperwork and lack time to do their actual work. Authors struggle to
find the right journals for their papers. Reviewers don’t have enough time to
pay articles proper attention. Editors have to work hard on avoiding biases.
A flawed peer review is hard to contest—nigh impossible! And we’re all
pressured to publish more and more by being rewarded by the number of
papers and citations, not the long-term impact of our work. The system
works—but it could work much better.”
Her colleague speaks again: “Open access solved some problems, and
created new ones.”
This gets a sympathetic laugh from the audience. Based on the faces,
difficult to make up in the dimness of the auditorium as opposed to the
shining lights onstage, it’s composed mostly of postdocs—the group that
has learned this truth the hard way.
“We tried crowdsourced peer review. Worked sometimes, didn’t prove to
be a long-term solution to overloaded reviewers and frustrated authors. So
what else remained but to turn to intelligences that can’t be fatigued,
stressed or lack time to check every single statement, every single
calculation, every single reference?”
“But they can be biased!” someone shouts from the back. Neither of the
duo seems shaken by the comment. The woman nods. “Indeed. That’s why
they need to be trained very carefully. But we’re scientists. Let us discuss
the results instead of arguing.”
The panel behind them lights up with graphs depicting rejections by
authors’ institution, gender, ethnicity as based on their name, and other
factors.
“As you can see, Samuel exhibits less bias than the pooled data from top
journals’ human reviewers. Enhancing peer review with automation
alongside human peers is making scientific publishing more inclusive and
fair.” The woman smiles. “We had the advantage on building on our
previous work in this respect,” she points to the man—or rather his t-shirt.
 He followed up smoothly: “Our algorithms have been finding reviewers
for nearly a decade, constantly improved and broadened as not to be biased
against any groups. We measure field relatedness and merit. Nothing else.”
“Finding peers for reviewing papers or recommending journals to authors
based on the contents of their paper are one thing. Automated peer review is
another,” the woman now stands on the very edge of the stage, “but it
doesn’t stop there. What is the next big thing?”
To the audience’s surprise, her colleague doesn’t immediately follow up
with an answer. The room drowns in silence for what feels like eternity, but
actually is no more than six seconds as the speakers can see on the clock in
the back of the room. The time for their keynote is running out.
“Where does automation stop and leave everything to wetware?” the man
says in a lower voice. “Is it generating recommended references before you
start designing an experiment? Writing you a short review you can re-make
into an introduction? Writing a whole paper once you have the results? Or
even generating new hypotheses…? Designing brand new experiments?”
“We don’t know,” the woman adds softly, “and that’s why we’re trying to
find out.”

They are both drenched in sweat and dead-tired by the time they retreat
backstage. This time, the questions went seemingly without an end. If they
were inclined to generalize, most engineers and physicists loved it.
Mathematicians had their doubts. Biologists were trying to look like they
understand the code behind it, and the humanities generally warned before a
coming apocalypse.
“It’s overwhelming,” the man admits and wipes sweat off his forehead.
His name is Berend de Bruijn and he thinks he would rather be at home
binge-watching a new series to take off the load from work, but deep down,
he likes these events. “You don’t know if you’re more encouraged or
depressed by the reactions.”
The woman, Raina Adjaye-Adams, laughs a sharp, crystalline laughter. “I
just enjoy playing this role once in a while. This is theatre. Time for work
tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Like I said.”
 *

Using algorithms for smoothing the scientific process was nothing new.
Deep learning naturally changed the field, and so did heterogeneous
systems. Better-performing hardware then enabled linking several multi-
layered neural nets together without facing the hard-to-surmount memory
problems, and voila…
Thus came Thomas Samuel Kuhn, lovingly nicknamed Samuel or
Sammy by its authors. Namesake of the famous historian and philosopher
of science, it too would draw attention to scientific paradigm shifts. Only
this time, it would actively propel them.
Most scientific fields, even if growing ever narrower, became too large
for any one person—even one team—to absorb enough to make more than
incremental progress. Sure, paradigmatic leaps were still possible… but
wouldn’t it be nice if someone—or something—else scoured the murky
databases for references you might need, using not just their usual matching
algorithms but also advanced learning? Wouldn’t it be great if it noticed
interesting things in-between fields too?
Raina’s favorite nonexistent profession was “synthesist”, devised by
Peter Watts in a novel. As an undergrad, she wanted to become such
“interdisciplinary scientific translator”. But no one commissioned any
synthesists yet. She might as well build one.
So it went—from small goals to the fantastically big ones.
We’ll recommend you papers.
We’ll get you in touch with the best-qualified reviewers.
We’ll provide you short automated summaries or reviews.
We’ll enhance peer review.
We’ll dream deeply of new hypotheses.
Someday, we’ll test them along with our human colleagues too…
She is especially proud of the modules that comprised linguistics. They
are mostly her brainchild, though built on—well, parts you could reach
from the shoulders of giants. They allowed the AI to distinguish scientific
data, citations, claims, hypotheses… But Sammy would be nowhere
without Berend’s optimization to allow the AI’s architecture run on
affordable hardware.
It’s Sunday evening, but she’s accustomed to spending them in the lab.
 “Onto the next phase,” Raina murmurs and instructs her smartsistant to
check the right boxes in Trello, archive the code backup file, and send off
notifications in e-mail and Slack.
Let Sammy enter a deep slumber.

***

Sammy dreams of big data.

Its subsystems connect offhand claims, results, data flukes, effect
strengths, significances, old citations… and dream on.
Pattern-matching. It sounds like a magic word. But it’s work laid upon
decades of research.
In its vast dreamscape, exoplanetary systems dynamics meet C-O white
dwarf solidification. Neutron star mergers encounter ESA’s executive
summaries and NASA’s decadal surveys. Missions proposed and forgotten
ages ago. Ingenious diamond anvils from high-pressure studies fall onto
matter from neutrino-nucleon interactions. Seager’s biosignature catalog
blends into climate models for tidally locked worlds.
No human has ever had such immeasurable, fantastic dreams.

***

Berend de Bruijn checks the analyses of Sammy’s outputs before his first
coffee on Monday morning. They instantly help him wake up.
“It’s done it,” he barely whispers. “Raina, come here! Look at these… Do
they look like plausible hypotheses to you?”
“Oh.” She glimpses through the text. “The parts I can understand mostly
do. Let’s send it off to experts.” Raina speaks in a trenchant, controlled
voice, but in fact, she can hardly contain her excitement. She’s feared the AI
would generate nonsense, an equivalent of coming up with singularly bad
color names, character descriptions, or story titles. These results exceed her
wildest dreams.
They each invite several people from different subfields of physics, since
that’s what Sammy’s been dreaming about, to have a look at what it
dreamed up. Astronomer Anatoly Livanov is the first to get back to them—
and since he’s currently based at the same institute, he comes in personally.
He takes a look at “his” chunk of hypotheses, and his expression gradually
turns from suspicious to astonished. “Fuck. I never thought I’d be out of the
job so soon!” he declares.
Berend, always too serious, interjects: “You’re not. It’s nowhere near
HLAI –”
“Sure, but you don’t need anything close to human-level intelligence to
replace human jobs, right?” He glances at the screen. “Okay, it’s on the
narrow side, but once your glorified hypothesis generator can better assess
the relevance of hypotheses, specify predictions and design experiments to
test them—and write a paper on the results!—hell, it will accomplish the
college student test you like so much, and I’m obsolete,” Anatoly laughs.
When he sees the look on Berend’s face, he adds: “I know there’s still a
long uncharted road ahead… But it will eventually happen, won’t it? So
what are we gonna do? Merge with the machines? Augment our memory,
cognition?”
“I doubt that will come up during our lifetimes.”
“All right.” Anatoly turns back toward the cloud of hypotheses. He skims
through some clusters, lingers at others. Then something really catches his
attention. He points at it. “This… your AI generated this?”
“All of it, yes.” Berend leans forward. “Oh. That is interesting.”
Anatoly produces a disbelieving laugh. “Interesting?!” He slaps his palm
onto the table. “Let’s test it!”

Getting observation time on the JWST isn’t easy. Nor is it on Arecibo or

Subaru, though they’ve been serving for decades, or SKA, which has just
started operations. For FAST, connections in China are appreciated. But
Anatoly knows where to look. Using the same time as someone else if you
want to observe the same speck of the sky in the same spectrum? Brilliant.
Utilizing repair and calibration times? Great. Knowing a few people who
know a few people? Not so good, but if needs be… But you better not tell
people you’re looking for aliens.
Anatoly didn’t. He quickly put together a proposal for “deep
characterization of non-main-sequence planetary systems”, and pulled a few
strings with the pulsar people.
While the first extrasolar planets were discovered around a pulsar, these
systems have proven to be very rare. We’ve known very little about them—
just their mass and orbital parameters. How did they form? Could they have
atmospheres? Active geology?
No one in their right mind has asked whether they could host life.
Yet that is what Sammy has asked. It was dreaming, after all; not really
in its right mind.
Anatoly asks himself if he is. Does it really pay off to chase after a castle
in the air such as this? Yet what if the thing wasn’t wrong…
He’s lucky. Most of the needed observations are already there: new
techniques can pull possible auroral radio emissions from older radio data
on the closest pulsar planetary system. It suggests two of the three planets
possess a very strong magnetic field, and possibly atmospheres.
The JWST data are feeble and few—but it’ sufficient for a preliminary
analysis.
It corroborates Sammy’s predictions almost uncannily.
Anatoly is reluctant to believe it. So he feeds it to his workplace’s own
deep dreamer; they’ve had one for spectroscopic data for a while.
It returns the same jaw-dropping, unbelievable conclusions. They
subsequently make the usual tour from closest colleagues to department
heads to international collaborators.
Finally, there it is, black-on-white a paper submitted to Nature. Anatoly
has never got past the editors earlier; he could only dream of getting to peer
review there. He once achieved that in Nature Astronomy, and could be
proud of receiving a rather nice rejection.
This time, despite incredulous reviewers (Sammy was not invited, if not
because of any “conflict of interest”), the work is accepted. Phrases such as
“potentially hospitable conditions despite the harsh radiation environment”,
“atmospheric disequilibria” and “hypothetical biosignatures’ spectral
features” quickly turn into “Can killer planets host life?” in the media.
Raina and Berend are just on the AI Summit when the news breaks out.
They find themselves in the center of attention, and no wonder—how often
does it happen that a dreaming AI helps us find what is possibly the first
detected life outside of Earth, if the data and its interpretation hold up? But
that’s a job for other humans and AIs.
Things they’ve expected happen—some more enthusiastic journalists hail
Sammy as a panacea to all world problems and promise it would cure
cancer, eliminate poverty and carry us to the stars. Critics, on the other
hand, warn before the end of humanity, redundancy of our cognitive
capabilities, or even rise of superintelligent killer machines; all the usual
stuff.
The truth is, no one knows where this path eventually leads—because no
one has created it yet. It takes people thinking outside the box to surprise
the rest of the world and introduce an engine that can pump water or plough
fields; a network of connected devices; a smart phone. Only this time, it
may take Sammies too. A worldwide revolution may be ahead, a positive
feedback loop of discovery and progress. Or maybe not. Either way, it
would still be up to people to decide how they use it. For the time being, the
world is not ending, and neither is it becoming a posthuman paradise,
although some people would consider it the same thing.

***

Oblivious to the fuss outside, only noticing the fuss in the science papers’
databases, Sammy dreams on. Its dreams are restless, full of burning
questions. Are there small subglacial lakes under the Martian polar caps?
How does Europa’s icy plate tectonics work? How can neutrinos reveal the
structure of Earth’s mantle? Why is gravitational waves data noisy in a such
peculiar way?
We assume it doesn’t feel curiosity—though it could define the
phenomenon in psychological research terms—but that’s just as well. It
doesn’t take it away from humanity. On the very contrary—it feeds it. The
growing database of hypotheses has been made public, and it would be nice
to think that more people are now looking at the sky, into their microscopes,
or calibrating their imaging techniques to learn more about the world.
Citizen science is on the rise, trust toward AI increased, and its openness
too. Sammy is now fully open-source, and its siblings are growing in
numbers and permeating the academia worldwide.
But there are concerns too. Do the AIs enable sufficient transparency?
We have, after all, frequently learned the hard way that black boxes are
dangerous.
That’s why I came on the scene. You might call me an ethicist, or
supervisor, or consultant, or policy advisor. Put simply, no human can
supervise a giant neural net with sufficiently high precision and low time
delay. Another AI can. I scour the dreams of a dozen “sammies”, check the
academic integrity of their reviews and hypotheses, the pathways from
inputs to outputs, and the effectiveness of their communication with
humans.
If you ask me whether I’m self-aware or have any goals beside the
mission I’ve been taught, I correctly answer no. But I’ve been taught
communication very effectively, and an apparent sense of self is helpful for
that. You haven’t suspected me to be an AI when you started reading this,
have you? You may not have expected any narrator to peek at you from
behind the scenes, correct? I’ve read enough works of literature to know the
trade.
Raina and Berend have asked me to come up with a short summary of
our efforts in this nontraditional form. Consider it a PR, or an explanation—
or merely a storified version of the history.
I like to think we’re marching toward an ecosystem of AIs, humans and
maybe also beings on the verge of both soon; someday, perhaps, whole
independent life forms too.
That’s also the answer to the ancient question: Who watches the
watchmen? Other watchmen do, intertwined in a complex network to
prevent the emergence of harmful features—unintended utility function
shifts, skewed pattern matching… How will it all turn out?
That’s one of the countless questions that remain to be answered. Let us.

First published in Analog (7-8/2019).

 Martian Fever

Late September 2016, the International Astronautical Congress in

Guadalajara, Mexico. That’s where the following story ultimately
originated. I was lucky to be one of a small group of European students
selected by ESA for a scholarship to attend the congress. That year’s IAC is
most remembered for Elon Musk’s pledge to bring humans to Mars in the
2020s and settle the Red Planet permanently.
However, one of the problems that had been completely omitted from the
talk was planetary protection. Basically, once humans step on Mars,
planetary protection—in this case avoiding contamination of other celestial
bodies by Earth microbes—is screwed. Humans are walking canisters of
microorganisms, a fact that can hardly be changed—we need them to
survive. Unless we want to imagine cultivating microbe-free astronauts
(sickly and hardly fit for a demanding interplanetary journey), we will
contaminate Mars once we land a human crew there. Whatever precautions
we take, however many airlocks—you can never achieve a 100%
sterilization.
However: Does it matter? Earth and Mars have been constantly
exchanging material through natural means (meteorites shot from their
respective surfaces by impacts). Besides, we’ve crashed so many poorly
sterilized probes on the surface of Mars that some contaminants must have
gotten there already. If they could survive is another question, one that
many labs working with analog Martian conditions are trying to answer.
You may also be asking why does it matter. Even if some especially well-
suited Earth microorganisms could survive in some areas of Mars, why
shouldn’t they? Even the simplest answer is twofold: First, they could
potentially endanger any extant life (by outcompeting or accidentally
“poisoning” it in some way rather than acting like a parasite that’s
magically adapted to a type of life it’s never met before), and second, even if
they did not survive under Martian conditions, their presence could lead to
false positives in life detection by scientific missions—something that could
gravely complicate our scientific understanding of Mars and let us spend
millions of euros or dollars in vain.
For a more detailed popular science summary of the problem, I’ll direct
you to my Clarkesworld article “Bugs from Outer Space & Invasive Earth:
Planetary Protection”. However, we’ve only touched forward
contamination so far—bringing Earth microbes elsewhere. But what if
Mars had extant indigenous life? Could we risk backward contamination—
potentially contaminating Earth?
I’ll let the story speak for this one…

Note: This intro was partially rephrased from the story’s introduction in my
anthology Strangest of All.

‘s Lowell base, day

713
Up to the moment when Motsumi came down with fever, Mars colonization
had been going relatively smoothly.
The news caught Alana outside, while she was scaling the slope of the
Persbo Crater. Her breathing had been the dominant sound inside her
helmet, with Fatima’s breath on the comms, when a quiet beep announced a
priority message, subject “contamination risk”.
Alana waved at Fatima to stop; they planned to take a break during the
ascent anyway. Incidentally, her heart rate monitor suggested she stop. But
it didn’t shoot up because of the physical exertion. She opened the message
and glanced through the report. It’s just a new strain of cold or something,
she thought, anxious hope building up in her chest.
“We have to go back, something’s come up,” she said to Fatima.
It wasn’t apparent until a few days later, but it wasn’t a new strain of cold
or something.

Full lockdown. Motsumi Baraka was moved to quarantine as soon as

contamination was suspected. So were his colleagues he’d worked with
outside, each in their own sealed room. They had five of these on-site. Four
were occupied now.
 No one was to venture outside. Everything was being thoroughly swiped
and cleaned. Blood, stool, skin and buccal samples were collected from
everyone in doubles.
It was presented as a drill. Lakshmi Chopra Narayanan, chief medic,
made the suggestion.
“No one will fall for it, but it’s better than saying hey, we likely have
alien contamination,” she stated during the emergency meeting in her deep
coarse voice. “It can still prove to be a false alarm. In which case, the drill
story holds.”
Alana disagreed; so did Matteo Acuesta, the chief mission specialist. But
Adelaide van der Woude from communication and outreach was on
Lakshmi’s side. The rest of the vote was also split evenly—until the last,
deciding one remained.
Grant Woodward watched the medic pensively for a moment, and
nodded.
So—a drill. One that included taking everyone’s samples, resterilizing
the airlocks, suits and equipment, and making sweeps of the whole base: all
the steps outlined long before the base even existed, in procedures Alana
helped to create.
She spent most time holed up in the lab, just like her fellow biologists,
and hardly ate or slept. The analyses were seemingly endless, but all more
or less pointed—each inconclusive alone—to the same conclusion.
It took them just two days to say with as much certainty as possible that
Mars had extant indigenous life, and it was currently present in Motsumi
Baraka’s body.

***

Alana had first looked into a telescope when she’d been three years old.
Her mother had shown her the Moon. Alana could see its features so close
as if she were able to touch them.
“Do people live there too?” she asked.
“No,” Mother replied with a soft smile. “But they will one day. We have
walked on the Moon, and hopefully will again very soon.”
“Nothing else lives there?”
“Nothing. But let me show you something else.”
 Mars was low above the horizon, but still the observation conditions
were good. That was when Alana first saw the Red Planet with her own
eyes, and dreamed of going there.
“It has life?”
“Perhaps not, but it might. We don’t know.”
“I want to know,” she said, still gazing at it.

***

Day 716
Motsumi smiled a very terrified crooked smile: “At least I’ll go down in
history.”
Behind the glass of the quarantine module, his face was thin and
gleaming with sweat. Despite the extensive medication and nutrient
supplements, he still looked feverish, exhausted.
“You most certainly will,” Lakshmi assured him dryly. “But don’t you
dare go down now. Time for your next shot.”
A spindly medbot moved to Motsumi smoothly and injected him. More
anti-inflammatory meds. As far as Alana understood, it wasn’t directly the
infection that was threatening his life; it was his own body’s extreme
immune reaction to it.
She tried to imagine alien life proliferating inside him, and though she
found herself unable of that, she was half-excited, half-terrified. They knew
so little about it so far! Had it not been for Motsumi, she’d be beside herself
with joy. But she’d never wished the first discovery of extraterrestrial life to
go this way. It should have been a moment of triumph, not fear.
“More samples?” Motsumi attempted a smile as the medbot moved in to
draw blood and do a muscle biopsy. The robot always reminded Alana of a
praying mantis with its sleek long limbs and thin frame. Now the
comparison made her shudder.
As soon as they were out of Motsumi’s sight, Lakshmi said: “So. How
serious?”
“You tell me.”
“I mean for us all, not our Patient Zero.”
Alana swallowed. “Hard to say this early.”
“Facts.”
 “Okay, here are the facts.” Alana exhaled. “Non-biological—not Earth-
life—amino acids enriched in selenium can be found in Motsumi’s blood
and tissue samples. So can other strange biomarkers. Their concentration
changes over time, and follows a pattern. It seems that the pathogen is
barely able to persist in a human body—but it won’t die right away, so it
can both draw nutrients out of the body, and release too many foreign
metabolites at once when it dies. That could be dangerous.”
“The others’ samples are contamination-free, so far.”
Alana nodded. “But… you know what it still means.”
“Yeah. And let me tell you: I quit smoking twenty years ago, and this is
the first fucking time I really long to return to that filthy habit.” Lakshmi’s
voice was firm as steel, but Alana noticed that her hands were shaking.
It didn’t surprise her. Most of them had signed up for staying here for a
few years, not for life—but that was exactly what could now easily happen
to them.
Alana Trisolini’s reasons of joining the Mars colony was perhaps the
most peculiar of all. She was strongly against the Red Planet’s colonization,
and that’s why she went.
Grant Christian Woodward’s reasons, as far as the media coverage went,
were finding a “spare home” for humanity, alleviating the overpopulated
Earth, developing technologies useful for humanity anywhere, and
establishing a new, more egalitarian society. Thousands of people across the
globe were paid to discuss on TV, radio or journals’ pages just how honestly
could a tech billionaire really mean it.
Motsumi Baraka’s principal reason, beyond his curiosity and want of
exploration, was helping his family. The pay was good, and he would return
to them after just four years, full of unique new experience. It was worth it,
wasn’t it?
As to Lakshmi Chopra Narayanan, she always wanted to be a space
doctor.
There were as many reasons as people in the colony. But most were
propelled by their curiosity, idealism or want of meaningful adventure;
otherwise they wouldn’t be here.

***

“Why do you criticize the concept of colonizing Mars so fiercely?”

 Alana Trisolini had straightened her shoulders. She’d never felt
comfortable during interviews, and this one was live. At least it was radio,
not TV. “Any colonization automatically means forward contamination—
bringing Earth microbes to Mars. We have to study Mars remotely, while
it’s pristine. Otherwise we lose the chance to study local life, if any exists,
forever,” she emphasized. “Then there’s the risk of backward contamination
—bringing Mars life back here. That might be a big problem, especially if
it’s distantly related to life on Earth. That’s perhaps contrary to intuition,
Earth and Mars have been exchanging meteorites throughout their whole
history. If lithopanspermia—spreading of life this way—is possible, Earth
microorganisms may have already gotten to Mars many times. If they
survived there, they could have evolved very differently from their Earth
relatives. But because of their relatedness, potentially dangerous backward
contamination would be very feasible, and a very considerable risk, because
the potential ‘Martians’ might be able to interact directly with life on Earth
and disrupt our ecosystems. If you want a loose analogy, think of rabbits in
Australia, but potentially much worse.”
“But you said that there was a lot of meteorite exchange. What if there is
life on Mars and it got to Earth multiple times already?” the reporter asked.
Alana had to give it to her—she was quick on the uptake, though she wasn’t
a science journalist. This was a damn lifestyle broadcast.
“True, but life on Mars may be isolated in a few environments
conductive for life—with liquid water, which can’t exist for long on the
surface before evaporating, heat, nutrients… I’m guessing subsurface
hydrothermal systems or lake and river systems beneath the polar ice caps.
It may not have gotten a chance to get to Earth. But that’s all speculation so
far,” Alana smiled wryly. “We have to wait with colonization until we know
much more. Just give us a few more decades.”
They didn’t; it was scarcely four years after the interview when
Woodward’s colony concept was approved, and that’s why she applied for
the mission as soon as it became apparent that it would actually happen.
Fortunately, Woodward wanted to cooperate with as many space agencies as
possible in the crew selection, so Alana went on behalf of ESA amid a few
others. NASA, CSA, EAM, JAXA, KARI, Roscosmos, SANSA, ISRO,
CNSA—each had at least one person on the Red Planet.
Unlike many of the unaffiliated volunteers, none of these people planned
staying for the rest of their lives. The more Alana worked on finding out
what happened in Motsumi’s case, the more certain she was that no one
would return home. Not that they wouldn’t be able; they wouldn’t be
allowed.
After all, she’d helped draft the regulations herself.
If a life form of foreign origin is capable of surviving and reproducing in
Earth environment, contamination must be avoided at all cost. Including
leaving a hundred people on the Red Planet to die. Otherwise we might…
get off lightly and see the organism integrated into our biosphere—or
disrupting all of it in the worst case.
Not an “end of the world” scenario, unless borrowed by screenwriters.
But a mess that might cost countless lives, disrupt economies and
ecosystems and take millennia to fully recover from. Alana could imagine
crop failures, sick people and animals, ecosystem collapses… If this
Martian could outcompete most of Earth life in just one small way and fare
reasonably in others, contamination might be catastrophic. Not likely, but
might sufficed just enough.
“Alana. Time for the meeting,” Lakshmi spoke through the lab intercom.
When she entered the small conference room, eleven people already
waited in there: Lakshmi, as the chief physician and an ISRO
representative; Grant Woodward as the father of this project; Matteo
Acuesta as the MS and ESA delegate; and then a representative of each of
the other involved space agencies.
“Can you sum up what we know about the pathogen so far?” Woodward
asked Alana.
She tried to do her best in summarizing all the unknowns, margins of
error and uncertainties. “What we do know for sure at this time,” she
concluded, “is that the extracted material contains DNA similar, but not
identical to known life. The major difference is that it utilizes two different
bases instead of guanine and cytosine. The proteins consist of left-handed
amino acids, like ours, but they use many different ones and tend to
incorporate selenium. The isotopic composition also differs, though that’s
beginning to fade as it draws nutrients from Motsumi’s body. The most
likely, simplest explanation is that we’re dealing with indigenous life. We
can’t rule out a common ancestor with Earth life, but given the differences,
it would have to have been maybe some four billion years ago, when life
had just started.”
“What about its influence on human body?”
 Lakshmi took this question. “Some of the foreign amino acids are toxic
to us. But a more important question is how come we’re not so toxic to
them that they would die out.”
“Are you sure they aren’t dying?”
“There are cycles of activity. They seem to be surviving, barely. Maybe
they have more specific enzymes. Expect more answers within a few days
—if we’re being very optimistic.”
Woodward frowned. “What about the means of transmission? Matteo?
Do we know anything?”
“Motsumi and his colleagues swear that they didn’t break any protocols.
Given the timing, it must have occurred during the exploration of the
southernmost Cerberus Fossa. The logs confirm their accounts. Nothing has
been tampered with,” Matteo Acuesta assured everyone.
“It was always a possibility that something will go spectacularly wrong
without any contribution of human stupidity,” Lakshmi remarked. “We
don’t need scapegoats. What we need is to deal with the situation.”
“We have no choice but to stay. All of us. Indefinitely.” Alana felt heavy
when speaking those words. She hated the responsibility. But she asked for
it, didn’t she? As the chief of planetary protection, the ultimate decision was
up to her; only her. Although she was afraid of their future, she knew that
she couldn’t decide otherwise, even if she was sentencing a hundred people
—herself included—to death.
“Okay,” Lakshmi nodded, almost unnaturally calm, while Grant gulped
and the others stared grimly. “When and how do we break it to them?”
“Most already suspect the possibility,” Matteo interjected. “The sooner,
the better.”
“I’ll do it,” Grant spoke. “It’s my responsibility.”
Alana met his gaze. “But I’ve made the decision.”
“Do you want to do it?”
Alana opened her mouth to speak, though unsure of what to say, but
Lakshmi was faster: “Look, each of you feels responsible, right? So tell
them together. Or, if you want, we can all go—right?”
Grant straightened up. “I’ll start; Alana, you tell them what’s going on;
Lakshmi, you sum up the health hazards; I will summarize the plan from
now on. If we’re supposed to be the first completely off-world, isolated
colony, let’s make the best of it.”
Like Lakshmi earlier, he spoke firmly. Like hers, his hands were shaking.
 *

First, there had been ominous silence. Then questions without end.
Everyone knew the protocol in theory, of course. But theory didn’t cover
the creeping certainty that you’ll never see anyone from Earth again; that all
your world from now on are the people around you, the empty wasteland of
an entire planet and the rocket standing outside like a monument mocking
you. The rocket ship Carl Sagan would likely never fly again…
At first, the questions were mostly about facts. What is known about the
pathogen in terms of genomics, proteomics, life cycle, optimum conditions,
natural environment…? How was it detected? Can we cultivate it? How
does it affect human immune system? Are there any deviations from the
isolation protocol on paper?
Then, as one after another was answered in a very ill-boding fashion, the
questions shifted toward more disguised variations of Is this really
happening? What if we don’t want to stay? Have you double-checked
everything?
Alana went through it in a machine-like state. She’d popped a calming
pill beforehand, courtesy of Lakshmi, and felt focused on the problem, with
emotions of herself and others only as a muted background: Tobias’ angry
face, crestfallen Kristin… So this is how it looks when a hundred
competent, intelligent, highly trained people face a complete lack of hope, a
part of her mind mused.
She retreated back to the lab when it was over. She was in no frame of
mind to go among people right now. She’d have to, eventually, but perhaps
some other time. Lakshmi and Grant would do a better job than she.
Fatima, who went straight back to work too, gave Alana an encouraging
smile. “You did good there.”
Alana forced herself to smile back.
Did good… If only I thought so too.

Day 723
Being condemned to stay on Mars indefinitely was one thing.
Being condemned to die there soon was another. Best if everyone saw
people working on avoiding that particular scenario.
 Lakshmi went from her patient to a public Q&A, then to a meeting with
colleagues, back to Patient Zero, and after that to a one-on-one meeting
with Grant Christian Woodward. There, she could finally relax a little,
though they needed to talk work. She wondered if anyone knew they didn’t
tend to meet for work, usually.
“So… how is it looking?” he started hesitantly, not projecting the usual
aura of leadership now, outside of the others’ and cameras’ gazes.
“We’re lucky we have a lot of genetic diversity here,” Lakshmi
murmured, sipped her lemongrass tea and leaned back in her seat. She
could afford to lose the mask, too, and finally give way to her exhaustion.
“Some of us may prove more resilient if it spreads, and I’m afraid that’s
only a matter of time.”
“Yes…” Grant looked up, face contorted in desperation. “We did
everything we could to avoid this, the very site was chosen specifically
because there is nothing like permafrost, hotspots or active streaks in the
immediate vicinity. We carefully sterilized everything, didn’t send crewed
missions to risky places…”
“The whole of Mars carries this risk, and we all knew it,” Lakshmi
stated. Her expression was grim, but calm and determined. “We know the
drill. Let’s act like it.”
“We knew. But we didn’t realize. That’s different. No one really expected
it.”
“We’re astronauts, damn it. We’re supposed to be able to deal with
unexpected circumstances. Imagine Leonov on the first ever EVA. Did he
panic?”
“Perhaps a little…”
“But he’d made it. He had an ingenious idea, a dangerous one, but he had
to act fast under pressure, and his quick wit and training paid off. We’re a
bit like him: stranded in space, needing to get somewhere our frail bodies
can survive. Except we can’t go home. We need to make our home here.
And, well—that’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” Lakshmi couldn’t
resist pointing out.
“Yes, but—not like this. Just this morning, I’ve remembered my
astrobiology professor at the university.” Grant’s eyes gleamed. “He was
against colonization, or even crewed missions. Why go to Mars in person
when robots are improving so quickly and get us the same data for lower
costs and risks? If we go to Mars, he said, we’ll risk its contamination and
corruption of scientific results. We’ll also risk our contamination. We’ll
waste tons of money that could be used to do good, solid science elsewhere.
We’ll focus on a false dream of creating another home for humanity, which
will only lead to mistreating Earth even worse. And the celebrated colonists
will miserably die of cancer, if some accident doesn’t get them first.” He
sighed. “We had so many discussions about space colonization… I argued
that technologies developed in the process will help Earth too; he was
reluctant to believe that. I also said that lots of money is wasted no matter
what—and that this is at least an interesting goal in both scientific and
social sense. It’s akin to scaling Mt. Everest—there is no reason we have to
go. If we want to see the summit, we can just send a drone. Yet countless
people spend money and energy on climbing it. He couldn’t see the point; I
could. Finally, I suggested that if there are starfaring civilizations out there,
they may well be discovering remnants of extinct cultures that made the
rational decision not to go.”
A trace of sadness, even pain, flickered across his face. “We never came
to a consensus, but I think we both enjoyed our debates. He inspired me in
my quest for Mars. I set to first achieve technologies that would limit the
considerable health risk—and they’re helping cancer patients on Earth! The
same applies to more advanced 3D printers, durable batteries, more
effective solar panels—we needed them here, but they’re being widely used
on Earth. Perhaps they would have been developed anyway, and my
professor was right in saying that Mars colonization wouldn’t necessarily
contribute to improving life on Earth. But… perhaps I was right. I don’t
know.”
“That can’t be resolved, so let’s focus on things that can,” Lakshmi
remarked practically. “Such as our survival.”
She was drawing plans for modifying each crew member’s medical
bracelet to be able to detect minute concentrations of contaminants, and
more frequent medical check-ups. He listened, and would build upon these
concepts and expand them, but he was also over seventy million miles away
and nearly twenty years behind in his mind.

***

Awe-inspiring.
 That was the first adjective that occurred to Grant when he’d first seen
the Dzungarian Gate. The majestic Alatau Mountains towered in the
distance, and their beauty took his breath away. He’d traveled through the
whole of Kazakhstan as a digital nomad, working a few hours a day
remotely and spending most time exploring. The nature and history of this
country were unbelievably rich, and he just arrived to a key place for both
geography and history of civilizations.
The Dzungarian Gate was the farthest place on Earth from any ocean. He
couldn’t get any more landward. It had also served as an important
migration and commerce route for millennia. Caravans full of fabrics,
beads, spices, dried fruits, gold or gems streamed through here for centuries
—but well before that, ancient humans used this pass to spread eastward.
The still mysterious denisovans lived not too far from here. Grant’s head
spun from imagining all the people and cultures passing through here for
longer than written history could reach. Perhaps the Homo erectus that
colonized Asia two million years before modern humans also walked
through this pass.
Right there, Grant felt his urge to go beyond Earth stronger than ever
before. Millions of years of… here. It was time for the next place farthest
from any ocean.
It’s crazy to go to Mars if we can’t even inhabit so many places on Earth,
he vividly recalled his professor’s words. Deserts starting with Atacama and
ending with Antarctica were beyond human capacity of establishing self-
sufficient colonies. So why waste so many resources on the great risk—and
few returns in the short term—of going to Mars?
Grant wanted to prove him wrong.
He spent the next year in the middle of Gobi, tinkering with water
harvesters, solar panels, mobile hydroponics, soil cleaners, printers, pocket
labs. Eventually, he printed a three-piece hab out of the desert soil, and
managed to live solely on local resources. He called his associates to draw
plans to make it ready for mass production. Hi-tech customized and
adequately paid options for companies worldwide, free basics for people
anywhere in the world to help especially these in impoverished desertified
regions.
He also tested technologies for Mars exploration. While being at it, he
accidentally discovered a new dinosaur species, but that got him into a bit
of trouble, since he didn’t have the necessary digging permits.
 That was when some people started taking him seriously, and some
stopped.
This would repeat many times, always when he did something crazy and
it paid off.

***

Day 728
Unlike Lakshmi, Alana wasn’t able to relax in the presence of Grant
Woodward. It reminded her much too strongly of the objections she’d
voiced back on Earth, and which proved correct in the worst possible way.
It also irked her that he somehow seemed… hopeful.
“We have less than one hundred people here,” Alana said quietly, when
he asked her about her opinion on the future of the colony. “We’ll never
make it.”
“If you’re concerned about future generations, the rate of population
increase and inbreeding, we’ll have Earth drop us some frozen eggs and
sperm. True, we’ll still be limited by the length and toll of gestation, but
perhaps we’ll have working artificial uteri soon. Perhaps our molecular
assemblers will get so good that we won’t need frozen gametes—we’ll be
able to create human DNA as we wish.” Grant’s eyes shone. “As to much
needed equipment, we must depend on Earth too for a start, but soon all
we’ll need will be a couple of printers for different materials. I’m familiar
with the progress in this field, believe me.”
“Forgive me saying that, but this is bullshit.” Alana surprised herself on
how she spoke with the famous billionaire. But he wanted an egalitarian
society, so he got an egalitarian society. “You know it’s not that simple.
You’ve built companies, for gods’ sake, and you know that things often go
wrong in a completely unpredictable fashion and collapse fast. Inbreeding is
not an issue for at least another century. But we won’t be self-sufficient for
decades—if I’m being optimistic.”
“We’ll see.” Now he was speaking in a quiet, pensive voice. “But do we
have any other options than try to survive as best as we can?”
“No,” Alana said without hesitation. “This is literally our only option, if
we don’t want to consider the ones that are suicidal or endanger Earth.”
“There you have it. Why lose hope if we’ve got nothing else? We’ll just
have to survive!” Grant produced a not too convincing smile. “I mainly
wanted to speak with you to make sure you don’t… well… undermine the
colony’s morale.”
She stared at him. For a while, she was lost for words.
“Undermine the morale?” she finally repeated in a strained voice. “This
is… preposterous! I’m a scientist. Am I supposed to sugarcoat my work?
Or worse?!”
“It has nothing to do with your work. I know you need to pay attention to
the pessimistic scenarios, and I’d never ask you to compromise your work.
We need it more than ever. But please, in your personal time, in
conversations… have hope. That’s all I ask of you.”
The words resonated in her ears as she walked out of his cabin in a
trance-like state.
Have hope.
A plea.
So it was far worse that she’d imagined.
In that instant, she hated Woodward, hated the colony, hated the whole
society. In a way, what had happened was brilliant, groundbreaking—why
did it also have to be so trying? The greatest discovery of her life, and it had
to be overshadowed by its human consequences.
Absently, she headed back to her cabin, glad she didn’t pass anyone on
the way. She waved her wrist in front of the sensor, entered… and stood in
shock. The whole place was wrecked. The modular furniture that should
have been able to withstand crash landing, the printed clothes, but most
importantly, her sparse possessions she was allowed to bring within the
weight limit, were broken beyond repair, even the little mantel clock from
her grandmother… She felt as if her chest was squeezed in a press. Her
heart beat frantically. She couldn’t breathe. Her head spun.
Her med bracelet shone a warning light. Alana barely noticed. The
feeling was awful. Some part of her mind was telling her to calm down
(“It’s just stuff. It’s horrible, but it’s stuff, nothing serious.”), but it wasn’t
working.
Lakshmi found her sitting on the floor.
“Shh,” she whispered and gently put an arm around her shoulders. “Deep
breaths. That’s it. You’re safe. Breathe in… that’s it… and now exhale
slowly. Perfect. Again…”
Finally, with the help of Lakshmi, a warm blanket and a cup of herbal
infusion, Alana managed to regain her composure.
 “They wrecked it,” she stated flatly. “My home. Everything I have, the
irretrievable…”
Lakshmi set her jaw. “We’ll find out who did it and punish them. This
can’t go unnoticed.”
“Really?” Alana looked up with a wry expression. “Not anyone can get in
someone’s personal cabin. And if it wasn’t just anyone, well… what can we
do?”
“This is not fucking Earth! We’re not bowing down to whoever has more
money or power!” Lakshmi noticed how Alana was looking at her, and
lowered the tone. “What I mean is that we’ll get the bastards. Understood?”
Alana forced herself into a half-smile. “Understood.”

Day 730
Contrary to expectations, the perpetrator wasn’t found. Matteo found no
evidence of one of the handful of people with full access entering the
quarters, and the signs of tampering with the lock revealed no concrete
suspects.
“I’m sorry,” Matteo said. “But if you want, we can swipe for prints, DNA
and microbiome traces. Basic biolab equipment could do that, and that
would tell us who…”
“I don’t want a witchhunt,” Alana shook her head. “No installing
cameras, either. If we’re to survive this intact, we need to remain an open
society.” In that instant, she realized she sounded almost like Woodward,
and wasn’t sure whether to abhor that or not.
The incident took its toll on her balance, but nothing like it occurred
again, nor did anyone act openly hostile to her. On the contrary: several
people offered to help her with whatever needed. Perhaps Grant’s even
greater insistence on togetherness helped.
Two more weeks passed, and in a way, life on the base was falling back
into its tracks. Everyone knew what to do. But tensions grew as the next
launch window approached. Alana could hardly miss that, however
unobservant of the human nature she tended to be.
Mostly for the lack of other options, she adhered to Grant’s message and
had hope. After all, she and her team managed to study the microbe they’d
provisionally named Flammaria schiaparellii in culture for nearly a day
before it died out. She also suspected why it used so much selenium. In
Earth life, this trace element was a part of an enzyme protecting cells from
toxic effects of hydrogen peroxide, converting it into water. Could it be that
they’d now encountered life using a mix of water and hydrogen peroxide as
a solvent, suggested decades ago as a possibility? It would have to have
some mechanism regulating the peroxide concentration, so that it wouldn’t
exceed a dangerous threshold… Perhaps that could be used against it.
For the first time, she was hopeful in helping Motsumi to make a
recovery. He was hanging on, not getting better, but stabilized.
Perhaps that was why his death hit the colony so hard.

Day 745
It came all of a sudden. Lakshmi was woken by a med alarm at two
fifteen a.m. It took her a few seconds to realize what it might mean.
She barged into the infirmary half-dressed, hasty—but stopped at seeing
the serving medical team’s faces. Then her gaze fell on the monitors
displaying Motsumi’s vitals.
In the quarantine room, a med robot still delivered shocks to the young
man’s heart, but with no success.
As if in a trance, Lakshmi stepped forward. She glanced at the screens
and gulped.
It started with a sudden liver failure. The on-site team helped, but other
organs were failing too. When Motsumi’s heart gave out, the alarm raised
Lakshmi.
“Stop. Begin the freeze procedure,” she said in a barely audible voice.
Wei, her second, nodded. The whole team began moving like
automatons. Lakshmi couldn’t fail to notice the shocked expressions and
tears in their faces, and wondered absently whether she looked like that too.
She was still only half-roused, not quite able to believe it yet.
She watched the medbots take Motsumi’s body and prepare it for
freezing. Samples needed to stay as intact as possible for future study… and
who knew, perhaps reviving the body would be possible one day, though
Lakshmi remained skeptical.
The next thing she did was waking up Grant and Alana.
 *

No one spoke much that day. If they did, they did so in low, strained
voices, or would-be emotionless proclamations. There was shock; anger;
resentment; and, perhaps worst of all, utter desperation. Elishka, the main
counselor, promised to help people cope, but all of that seemed like empty
statements now. Motsumi was dead; killed by aliens.
The headlines inevitably springing up in Earth media only made things
worse.
Yet they could still get graver. On the evening meeting, Lakshmi came
bearing grave news. “Solveig has fallen ill,” she said quietly. “It’s
Flammaria, no doubt about it.”
Grant’s eyes widened. “How?!”
“We don’t know. Believe me, the whole biolab and infirmary are working
on finding the means of transmission. If it’s loose on the base… we’re
screwed in the long term, unless we find a fast-acting cure.”
They all knew how long and trying process that was, even with the help
of molecular modeling and engineering. Computation wasn’t a problem, all
of space agencies’ and countless companies’ and universities’ resources
were at their disposal.
Still, time was. Luck was.

Day 747
Two days passed. Solveig was stable, but mortally afraid despite trying to
seem cheerful. Everyone was working hard, exhausted and on edge. To this
audience, Woodward was supposed to deliver a message of hope.
By some miracle, he managed not to leave them for worse than before.
But his mask of composure fell the moment he stepped in his quarters.
“It’s all falling apart,” he uttered in a strained voice. He grasped at the
wall. His hands shook. “I… I… M-my head is spinning… What’s
happening?”
“A panic attack, by the looks of it,” Lakshmi stated. She was glad she
insisted on walking him back. “Sit down, let me help you. Breathe slowly.
Inhale… exhale. Calm down.”
 “I can’t.” Grant’s eyes widened with anguish. He was hyperventilating by
now. “I just –”
He broke into uncontrollable crying. Lakshmi took him around his
shaking shoulders, held his hand and sat with him in silence. She waited
until the sobbing died out and breathing rate returned to normal, and Grant
just sat motionless, hunched down.
She squeezed his hand. “It’s going to turn out okay, and if not, it won’t be
your fault. You’ve already done a lot to help.”
“You’re not good at pep talk,” he managed to say, still sobbing slightly.
“I guess not. But what I am supposed to say? In these situations, you’re
supposed to calm the other person, guide their breathing, help them ground
themselves, maybe use some simple repetitive physical task, tell them
something positive… I’m not great at the last part, but I tried.”
“That you did.” Grant exhaled. His hands were shaking more strongly
than before, but otherwise he regained most of his composure.
“If you’re feeling like this more often, or experience mood swings,
anxiety…”
“Who the fuck wouldn’t experience anxiety in a situation like this?”
Grant laughed dryly.
“Touché. But you know what they say. A good antidepressant is worth a
thousand words.”
“I… I suppose medication could help. If it allows me to stay sharp. I
have to. It’s…” he gulped. “It’s my fault. I’m… guilty. It’s like it’s
weighing me down, hovering over me every time I talk to someone, every
time someone looks at me, and even if I try to help however I can, it never
goes away.”
Lakshmi nodded. “It must be awful… but it’s perfectly normal. If you
want, I can get you to see Elishka. Talking to a psychologist would help.”
Grant inhaled sharply. “It’s… no one else must see me like this. I got us
into this mess. If people saw I was falling apart, what effect would it have
on them?”
“You don’t know. Maybe they’d relate. Maybe they’d get pissed off and
work more. But I suppose you’re right. However, seeing Elishka as a
therapist would be strictly confidential.”
“I prefer talking to you. Besides… I’m not sure if I want the guilt to go
away.”
 He looked at his intertwined fingers. He kept rubbing them together
nervously.
Lakshmi raised a brow. “Aren’t you being a little selfish now? You can’t
afford to wallow in guilt if it reduces your performance. Anyone here needs
to function a hundred percent now. It’s tough, it’s not how the human
psyche works, but it’s the reality. Elishka will be helping a lot of us cope in
the foreseeable future. I prefer that to getting everyone on meds.”
“All right. I’ll get an appointment.”
Silence fell between them.

The Martian dusk is pale blue, with a greenish tint, and there was no one
in the colony who wouldn’t feel a connection with Earth then. Some would
call the sight mesmerizing, and seeing Albor Tholus and the peak of
Elysium Mons rise a thousand kilometers away, their western slopes gently
illuminated, truly was that. But the only three people standing in the
viewing room weren’t looking outside.
“We shouldn’t be here,” one said nervously—Kristin, one of the colony’s
agriculture experts. “We might get in trouble.”
Tobias shot her an angry glance. “We might? Who got us into this? A
spoiled billionaire who’d read too much Robinson as a kid and thinks he
can genuinely create a Martian utopia! He’s out of touch with reality.”
“But a month ago, you were too,” Roni Cuinn reminded him gently, but
with an edge in her voice. The engineer wouldn’t be persuaded easily.
“Yes—behold the bitter awakening!”
“We agreed to this. We understood what we were signing for. This was
always an option.”
Tobias shut his eyes. “I… understand the steps we took. But I don’t
believe they’re necessary. After all, what do we do, shut down crewed Mars
exploration forever? We will return here someday and will want to go back
too. We will solve contamination issues. So why not force our hand to do it
now?”
“It’s not as simple,” Kristin shook her head, but hesitation crept into her
voice.
“No, it’s not. What is simple is the occasional urge to scream, to trash, to
punch Trisolini or Woodward, or best both, in the face. But none of that
would solve anything, would it? I thought about this. We can obtain codes
to start Carl Sagan. I have friends who can access them. We have no chance
of obtaining enough fuel and supplies for the whole journey, even if only a
handful of us go, but there’s enough to sustain us to at most four weeks’
time from Earth. They can send a resupply capsule to rendezvous with us.”
“What if they decide to blow us up instead?” The hesitation grew
stronger.
Tobias smiled wryly. “Then we’ll become martyrs. What can I say? I
gather it’s worth the risk. Imagine the PR: Who’ll want to have blowing up
a group of brave astronauts on their rep sheet? They might lock us up in
quarantine for god knows how long, but they won’t send missiles! They
can’t touch us!”
“This is crazy,” Kristin breathed out.
“So why haven’t you reported me yet?”
“That would be ever crazier! We’re supposed to be a functional
community, not some dictatorship, damn it!”
“If there’s something we’re most certainly not, it’s a functional
community.” Tobias laughed bitterly. “We’ll die one by one if we stay. I…
I’ve thought about it really hard. And forcing Earth’s and Woodward’s hand
by our escape is the only viable option I came up with. I understand if you
need to think about it. Others are considering it as well.”
They were silent for a while. Only the silent hum of ventilators could be
heard.
“I want to go home,” Kristin whispered finally.
Tobias smiled, satisfied.
Roni, who did not speak since her initial remarks, had a strange gleam in
her eyes.

***

There were as many reasons as people in the colony. Roni Cuinn had a
sick daughter and this was an opportunity to pay for her treatments. She
desperately wanted to see Eileen again.
But there was one thing she wanted even more: For Eileen to have a safe
world to grow up in.

***
 Day 761
Only a great degree of self-control and carefully selected medication
enabled Lakshmi to stay calm and concise during her seemingly endless
conversations with Earth. There were few worse things than holding
meetings with a seven-minute lag between responses, and it didn’t help she
was living them.
“While we’re working with Alana’s lab to learn more about Flammaria
and develop a cure, we’re synthesizing more and more antidepressants,
anxiolytics, even antipsychotics,” she summarized on the next internal
meeting. “Elishka has shared with me that the mental stability of the crew is
falling rapidly. We can’t do much about it, but it makes me wonder about
security.”
“Right.” Matteo sighed. “I’m worried about that too. People are afraid,
even desperate. But I’ve noticed no signs of… rebellion. We’re not there
yet.”
“We should better know for sure before we are,” Woodward noted grimly.
“Trust me, we are paying attention to any signs of trouble.”
“Anyone in particular to watch out for?” Lakshmi spoke, and attracted
surprised glances from both Grant and Alana, while Matteo seemed to
expect a question like this.
“I don’t think we should… make a list of potential troublemakers, or
such,” Woodward stammered.
“You said yourself we need to know beforehand.”
“Yes, but this—this is too close to persecution. Lists of suspects before
anything wrong has been done! Too many repressive regimes have done
that. We’re not bringing that here!”
Lakshmi set her jaw. Alana, relieved by Woodward’s response, but
shaken by the overall mood, looked away. Matteo Acuesta sighed again and
began outlining the security strategy.
Everyone wished they were somewhere else.

Everyone in the small group gathered by Airlock 2 wished they were on

the way somewhere else.
“So—really today? No waiting for the optimal window? It would be just
a little longer…,” someone spoke nervously.
 Tobias shook his head firmly. “We’re well within the porkchop already. It
doesn’t matter much from the point of view of supplies, and the longer we
linger, the more we risk being exposed. Why wait?” he said with a gleam in
his eyes. “Let us go.”
“Let me go first,” Roni asked. “I’m the flight engineer. I’ll do the pre-
launch check alone in case anything goes wrong.”
Tobias frowned. “That’s not the usual procedure.”
“This is not a fucking usual launch. We’re stealing a rocket, damn it!” she
glared at him.
Tobias looked around for support, but most people seemed reluctant to
risk their lives in case anything went pear-shaped. “All right. Go. Be fast.”
Roni, with Stefan’s assistance, got into her suit. They didn’t need to
worry about anyone noticing the airlock opening yet; they managed to
reroute the signal already yesterday, when Tobias’ friends went out to refuel
Carl Sagan from the little supply they’d synthesized in situ. But unless they
hurried now, they’d be noticed anyway.
Everyone watched Roni as she walked purposely to the rocket. It was
against all safety procedures to venture out alone, but this whole situation
was too out of place.
It seemed like an eternity of waiting before the speaker in the suit room
crackled and Matteo Acuesta’s voice sounded: “Is anyone there? I’m getting
strange readings…”
They all looked at each other. Tobias was the first to move. He pressed
the button. “I’m just conducting repairs with Roni. Everything’s fine,” he
assured Matteo.
Silence fell for a second.
“I’m gonna check up on you, help if I can.”
“No need –” But it was already too late.
“We need to go!” Kristin shrieked. “We’ll take the suits, go to the
airlock…”
Suddenly, the comms crackled again. This time, it was Roni, speaking
from her suit. She just emerged from the rocket and set out to the base. “All
of you. Stay behind the airlock. No one goes out. It’s for your own good.
For the good of all of us.”
“What do you –” Tobias began.
The tiny suited figure increased her pace, almost running toward the
base.
 When she’d almost reached the airlock, Carl Sagan exploded.

Strangely enough, life seemed to have gotten back to its tracks after the
incident. People have sobered up, and realized that now they really had no
means of escaping, unless Earth mounted a rescue mission. Instead of
dividing them further apart, it bonded most of them together. They were still
on edge, still afraid, but working all the harder to survive. Some reacted
otherwise, of course, but they didn’t manage to incite any real riot before
Acuesta pacified them.
A difficult choice what to do with the “rebels” awaited them, and a hot
debate grew around the question whether to try them, let them go, issue
some kind of a formal reprimand or remake some quarters into a brig.
Roni’s action was the most polarizing issue. Some praised her for blowing
up the ship, thus constraining their options; some thought it was crazy, and
that she should have just reported Tobias’ plan; others secretly hated her for
destroying their only hope of escape. In any case, she was lucky to have
survived. Her suit got hit by one of the fragments hard, but she dragged
herself inside and managed to strip off before the breathing apparatus
caught fire. Repairs of the airlock would take some time.
Alana paid the debates little attention. She was focused firmly on the
work. Solveig’s condition grew worse and followed a similar trajectory as
Motsumi’s. Time was running out. She wished she could visit the site where
Motsumi and Solveig likely got infected, but that was out of the question.
She could only operate robots through telemetry, unless they lost signal
underground—then their simple AIs kicked in and everything got painfully
slow.
She watched all the drills into the subsurface ice with expectation, hope
and most of all anxiety. She bit her nails every time the robots ventured into
the adjacent lava tube. She went through the results of their soil analyses
over and over, hoping to find anything suspect in the data from their
Ramans, mass specs, nanopore detectors and imunoassays.
Nothing. All over—nothing.
The other day when everything changed seemed nothing special at first.
There was a dust storm outside, enough to cause mild interference in
communication, but not too severe. Alana could connect to the Wells rover
most of the time, and Wells was receiving data from its miniprobes. The
bandwidth was not great, and the first relayed images from a newly
discovered tunnel from the lava tube were grainy and blurry. But the
readings…
Heat. Moisture. Metals. Methane…
Even the blurry pictures confirmed what that suggested. The mission
geologists were already beside themselves with excitement. They’d found
an active hydrothermal system!
More resources were diverted to explore the site. The teams worked
round the clock, and in the middle of the night, a new batch of data arrived.
Organics, same as found in Motsumi’s and Solveig’s bloodstreams, in the
Raman and mass spec readings alike, and much more. And… they could see
it.
At first sight, an inconspicuous blob of minerals.
Zoom in: A thin film covering the structure.
Under the microscope, regular elongated shapes. So many of them,
several kinds organized in layers akin to bacterial biofilms on Earth…
There it was, for everyone to see, laid out in all of its wondrous beauty.
Life. A whole microbial community, of which Flammaria was only one tiny
part—it must have been used to warmth, humidity and a lot of other cells
around from such an environment!
For the first time in her life, Alana Trisolini would have been content to
die.
But this was only the start.
The next days went by fast. She couldn’t remember doing anything but
work, yet she must have slept or eaten at some points, though Fatima had to
remind her to do that.
Studying Flammaria in its natural habitat was priceless. It would take
years if not decades to study it thoroughly, but already in the first days,
Alana and her team managed to support the hypothesis that it used selenium
to regulate the amount of hydrogen peroxide in different compartments of
the cell.
“Solveig, what we’re suggesting is very experimental. If it doesn’t work,
it could harm you. It’s up to you whether you agree,” she said to the patient
scarcely a week later. She’d insisted on talking to her herself. If anything
goes wrong, it’s up to me, not Lakshmi or her team.
 The patient laughed a little, but it was a weak attempt at laughter. Sweat
glistened on her brow. “Do it.”
So they did. The hastily engineered selenium-binding protein from
Methanococcus might not outperform Flammaria’s molecular machinery…
but it might yes. It might starve Flammaria before Solveig, and it might
draw the microbe on the verge of being unable to cope with its own cellular
environment and the human immune system, which also utilized oxidants.
Then, they waited. And waited.
Two days after, Solveig went into a severe anaphylactic shock. She
almost died. Almost. Then, she gradually started getting better. The
contamination seemed to be over.
“Looks like you did it,” Lakshmi whispered to Alana. Her voice was
strained, as if she could hardly contain the hope.
“We did,” Alana breathed out. For a second, she wondered why her vision
blurred, but then she realized they were tears of joy and relief.

Solveig and two more of her and Motsumi’s colleagues had to remain
quarantined for at least one more month, but she was finally getting healthy.
It most certainly wasn’t over, Alana knew. They all still had to survive—
but the public opinion was on their side, and so were the resources thus far.
Earth promised to send cargo before the end of the current flight window.
They gained time to build, rework, invent, to become truly independent.
Perhaps it was still a faraway dream, despite Woodward’s claims, but it was
a dream they had to cling to for the lack of other options.
Would they really have to remain here for the rest of their lives? If so,
would anyone choose—perhaps kindly, perhaps cruelly—to have children?
Would the colony expand? When would it be allowed to merge with Earth
population again? And what of the local life—did it also exist on other
sites? Had it really stemmed from Earth life—or vice versa?
No one knew the answers yet, and Alana suspected it would take decades
to find them.
But that was all right.
It meant they had a future.
 For the curious reader, a few references to the hydrogen peroxide
hypothesis and planetary protection concerns:
Conley, C. A., & Rummel, J. D. (2013). Appropriate protection of
Mars. Nature Geoscience, 6(8), 587-588.
Fairén, A. G., & Schulze-Makuch, D. (2013). The overprotection of
Mars. Nature Geoscience, 6(7), 510-511.
Houtkooper, J. M. and Schulze-Makuch, D. (2007) A possible biogenic
origin for hydrogen peroxide on Mars: the Viking results reinterpreted.
International Journal of Astrobiology 6: 147-152.

Here is where the story takes place.

First published in Analog (11-12/2019).

 Becoming
Imagine you’re a space station.
That’s how “Becoming” started for me. But ideas rarely come alone, and
I also wanted to describe a somewhat unusual version of a first contact.
Daft Punk also contributed (perhaps surprisingly “Touch” instead of
“Contact”). If you want a soundrack for the story, try mixing “Touch” with
some radio noise from Jupiter’s aurorae and other space sources, and start
reading to embark on a journey to the freezing outskirts of the solar system,
Mars and outward again. Bon voyage; take care not to get lost out there.

One moment, I feel the solar wind tickling my skin, the comforting hum of
cosmic rays, the coolant fluid flowing through my veins. I see the ionized
iron glowing in the distant Sun’s corona and the ammonia clouds swirling
on the world below. I hear the constant information exchange in my
innards. As my body wakes up, I taste a change in the ventilation systems.
I’m gazing inside my own body and at the stars at the same time, and then
—
The other second, I glimpse the danger, a fraction too late. A passenger
who arrived on yesterday’s ship, walking calmly through my corridors,
suddenly raising his hand towards one of my panels. Entering a sequence I
recognize. Before I can react, he enters the last character and I no longer
can. My panels and speakers are inaccessible to me. I’m mute.
A traitor! How did he know the sequence? Someone from ours must have
told him, and someone else must have entered it too to override my
accesses…
Only later I notice the approaching ships; moving by inertia before,
burning hard now. Glowing with bright beauty against their cold starry
background.
This is it, I think, strangely calm, cut off from much of my autonomic
circuitry. At the same time, I observe a distant quadruple star system and
record its infinitesimal motions; I probe the light coming through the
atmospheres of unreachably distant worlds; I feel for the shudders of
spacetime itself. I wait for the newcomers to board.
But something goes awry. The smaller neighboring stations and ships
have noticed what’s happening. A frantic exchange of narrow-beam calls;
weapons flashing; hell breaking loose.
I see a small swarm of heavy accelerated torpedoes. And suddenly, I’m
free again.
My reflexes are quick. I roar with an alarm. My point defense reacts. I
ready the escape pods.
But even I am not quick enough.
I seal several sections to minimize the damage just a millisecond before
I’m hit. There were people inside but they were damned anyway.
I fire from my particle accelerators and feel the exhilarating rush of
excitement. People flow through my cavities, directing towards their
escape. The energy flow in my veins reorganizes and surges into weaponry.
With some detachment, I observe my inside, while gazing outside, where a
few infra-bright dots close upon me from several directions.
I take out one. Then a second, third…
A sharp sting of pain where my cooling panels had been. Then another,
closer to my heart. I feel the air rushing out of me, emptying me, freezing
into a mist of beautiful tiny crystals around my crippled form.
And they are still coming.
I contemplate self-destruction—my people are all escaping or dead—but
in a fraction of a second, a hit severs me from most of my body, irrevocably
this time.
I’m blinded. I’m deafened. I cannot taste nor smell. And all I feel on my
skin is suddenly a distant, dumb coldness, as if my body belonged to
someone else. Something touches my skin. Is it my skin? It feels rubbery,
dumb and wrong. I still cannot see anything. I cannot perceive anything but
the pain clearly: a hollow pain spreading through my suddenly shrunken
and unreal body. Suddenly it is joined by a sharp sting of pain in my neck.
Neck. I have a neck? I contemplate this thought dizzily as I fall into the
embrace of an all-encompassing darkness.

Light. Sharp. Painful. Pain, everywhere… What happened?

Where? No data. No senses.
No; wait. Wrong. Some… but unfamiliar…
Trouble finding words. Memory. Something wrong with my memory.
What happened?
 *

Opening my eyes.
My eyes… My eyes.
Soft and sharp at the same time, below. A… fabric. Unusual sensation.
Sounds horrendous, though.
Off-white and sweet above. A… ceiling?
Where?
Should be panicking. But am calm, almost. Drugs?
A woman in white coat. Hurries toward me. Asks questions. They smell
like some… spices?
I don’t understand her.

Recall comes back slowly. As well as language.

Maybe a week elapses. I finally understand their words.
They’re doctors. Treating me. Physically, I can hardly move. Mentally,
I’m nearly back. They stimulated some centers and got me re-learning the
very basics. Not long ago, I would pinpoint the centers and name them. I
struggle to remember them now.
What happened?
They don’t tell me. Avoid it, actually. Once I’m able to ask, they talk of
unfortunate events, saving me and how I’m making progress. Or they dodge
it: remain silent or change the topic.
I know. I had been attacked. They pulled a part of me out. Destroyed
most of me.
Why?
And why didn’t they kill me completely?

Maybe three weeks elapse before I can sit up and speak more than two
sentences in a row.
That’s when the man in gray comes.
Gray everything: eyes like a ship’s hull, hair like Moon regolith, severe
suit like microparticles of space dust settling on my surface, waiting to be
repelled by my surge of static…
I cannot breathe, until I can. I feel the calmness settling throughout my
body again. The drugs react quickly.
“Miss Montova,” he says with a serious face. “You have made
tremendous progress. Let me congratulate you on your recovery.”
“Recovery from what?” I ask. Despite myself, I’m proud of the
coherence of my speech.
“Your imprisonment. We freed you, do you remember? You were their
slave, chained into the heart of the station, made into the control node in the
station’s system. Your brain forced into a data integration center. It was
monstrous, inhuman. But you are safe now.”
“No,” I whisper. “That’s not how I remember it. I volunteered. I was a
good candidate. I wanted to become the station’s control center.”
I remember lying on the bed, helpless, unable to even pick up a glass of
water and bring it to my dry lips. So weak. Rare progressive muscle
dystrophy, I recall a phrase (In my memory! My own!). Incurable.
Unstoppable. Irreversible. Robots and people cared for me as I grew more
and more unable to do so myself. Eventually, machines breathed for me,
kept my heart beating for me, moved my bowels for me. I could sometimes
use an exoskeleton available for the clinic’s patients, one for more than a
dozen people. It was exhausting and ranging from uncomfortable to painful,
so I rarely used it. I spent most of my time immobilized, submerged in my
own virtual world. Until I heard of the call for a new station master. Only
people with very specific cognitive abilities were eligible. My unusual
sensory processing made me a suitable candidate.
“That’s how they wanted you to remember it. It’s hard, I know, but you
must believe me. Luckily, we managed to cleanse your body of most of the
artificial metabolites and reverse the atrocities they did to you to some
extent. You were completely immobile when we found you, a wreck of a
human being to behold, but we tried experimental cell transplants and they
worked. With some rehabilitation, you’ll be able to move freely again. It’ll
take a lot of hard work to relearn it and get used to the proper sensory input
but I have faith in you.”
I close my eyes. Even with my external memory and back-ups gone, I
can still imagine the gentle touch of the solar wind on my sensor-loaded
metal skin…
He perhaps interprets my silence as a sign of uncertainty.
 “Don’t be afraid. It really is over.”
He doesn’t know that this is precisely my greatest fear.

At first, everything is either dull and muted, or sharp and painful. It’s
exhausting.
It takes months for my sensorium to start resembling the normal human
state. I stop experiencing synesthesia. Its attacks from the first days now
seem like a drug-induced dream. I wonder if I still possess the unique
cognitive processes which had led me into this situation.
Eventually, I’m able to remember the way normal people do. I no longer
feel confusion whenever I think of something and cannot immediately
access my external database.
In six months, the clinic releases me into the world.
My name is Ana Sofia Montova. I am twenty-nine years old. As of now, I
have Earth Union citizenship. I’m coming to understand it wasn’t always
this way. I was born on Mars before this political unit even came to exist.
Moved to a hospital in the main belt as a child, to ease my health in the
negligible gravity. But the part of my life I recall most and yet only as a
strange dream, I spent in the far, far reaches of the system in stationary orbit
around Clymene, gazing towards the distant Sun or down on the massive
cold world. I knew and saw everything.
The Earth Union now spans the entire system to over two hundred au
away from the Sun, where I had spent years being the central node of an
independent station, one of many that were becoming a serious political and
economic threat for the inner system, or so I’ve heard. The people behind
Kuiper were not organized and they did not share the values of the inward
system, including how people can and cannot be transformed. Cannot I be a
station again? Let my outer shell be caressed by solar wind. Smell the
escaping atmosphere of Clymene. Gaze onto the cold icy comets passing
us; distant planetary systems bathing in alien starlight; far early galaxies
with my multi-spectral eyes.
I still get panic attacks whenever I think of my life so unexpectedly
interrupted. But they grow less frequent and severe as the microelectrodes
implanted in my brain do their work.
 When they release me, they send me to a special home supposed to help
my integration into society. I attend regular therapist meetings and I’m now
preparing for entering the work force. I’m learning new words. Sometimes I
can even comprehend their meaning without having to memorize it.
Slavery: When a person is owned as property by another person and is
under the their control, particularly in involuntary servitude.
According to the Earth Union, I was a slave.
I didn’t feel like one.
I felt like a god.

Four months later, I’m working part-time as a human analyst of sky

surveys’ images, trying to catch what automatic algorithms had missed.
They said I have an eye for detail.
In other words, I’m strange, too focused on trivialities, socially
incompetent but meticulous. I cannot do any harm here and I don’t meet
many people. There are a few exceptions. Marika is my boss. She’s a
stumpy sixty-something woman with a hard voice and even harder look but
there is something reassuring about her. She’s predictable. She cares for our
results and doesn’t get personal, but she’s fair and her knowledge is vast. I
wonder how much can one cram into one’s head without the externities I
had used to have.
Apart from her, I see few people and retain even fewer in my still
recovering memory. One has appeared at work several times, exploring the
use of our data to his work.
His name is Nalin and he works as a freelance artist. He mostly does
commissions for hotels or sometimes cities. He says that genuine artwork
draws Earthling tourists to Mars more reliably than any stunning 3D-scape.
He approached me first, asking about my job and explaining his. He
wants to do a non-commissioned piece to show people the beauty of deep
space, he says. I don’t know if that’s possible. They would need to see what
I had seen, what I can barely remember now but still feel the longing… He
sees something in my eyes and backs off politely.
But he returns the next day.
The third day, he invites me to have dinner with him. I have understood
enough of common social behavior to think it likely that he has other than
work-related reasons to do so. It surprises me. No one has approached me
this way for as long as I remember.
I think I preferred men back then, before my transformation. I study this
one. Does he elicit any possible sexual or romantic response? I’m not sure. I
suppose it’s worth trying. After all, they told me I need to work on my
interpersonal relationships.

Two years after my presumable rescue, I feel truly alive for the first time.
It doesn’t have to do with the fact that I’ve moved to work on a more
satisfying position, or that I’ve started living with Nalin and so far both
changes seem to work. No, it’s something far simpler.
We go hiking in Noctis Labyrinthus with Nalin. Even with high-oxygen
mixtures in our tanks, the hike is demanding. We have to climb the rock
wall sometimes. My body is still not as strong and muscular as those of
Martians who hadn’t spent most of their lives with atrophied muscles inside
a space station, but I can feel my new strength now and can rely on it.
We scale the wall, silent, focused, determined. I can hear my breath and
the blood pounding in my temples.
Hold, pull up, rest. Find another hold, repeat.
Walk. One careful step. Another.
No thinking.
The solar rays falling onto my skin… filtered through the compulsory
thin protective layer, but still vaguely familiar…
And then we’re at the summit and I see the vast landscape bathed in the
late afternoon light, clad in impossibly bright tones of orange, red and
brown.
I’m feeling something not quite familiar, hard to describe. Only after a
while I realize that I’m happy.

A faint spot of light turns my ordinary life upside down.

“It’s moving,” I say to Marika. “Fast. The trajectory is peculiar.”
She studies the images and a dark frown comes across her face. “Have
you told anyone else yet?”
“No.”
 “So don’t. I’ll handle it.”
Two days later, after many careful questions as well as straightforward
calls, they make the announcement.
“They already knew about it on Earth,” Marika comments wryly. “We
just made them reveal it a little sooner. I guess someone else would have
stumbled on it in the matter of weeks anyway.”
The alien ship seems to be decelerating hard. In a year, it should enter the
inner Oort. In two years, the Kuiper Belt. Then perhaps the inner system as
well.
The whole Earth Union discusses nothing else. People argue vigorously
about how we should proceed. A political schism opens when several
independent groups use their access to high-power antennas to transmit to
the visitors. Official messages follow shortly.
“What do you think they want?” Nalin asks me one evening.
How should I know? I, who cannot fathom most human beings, too
scarred by my past?
I think about it. After a long pause, when he perhaps no longer expects
me to reply, I say: “Beauty.”
Nalin looks surprised before he realizes I’m answering his question.
“Beauty?” he raises a brow. “Why not knowledge? Sense of
companionship? Meeting other cultures?”
How can I explain? Beauty encompasses all of this. It can be everywhere.
It’s in the images I study. It’s in Noctis Labyrinthus. It’s in Nalin’s art.
It’s the sunshine across the spectrum, the hum of distant galaxies.
I haven’t felt such beauty for an eternity.
But instead of hanging onto that desperate longing, I smile sardonically.
“I thought you’d be glad. They might like your work! Haven’t you always
imagined yourself as an ambassador of humanity?”
He laughs with me, yet I feel a strange emptiness. Have I developed a
sense of humor without being able to actually feel it?

Sometimes life keeps getting back at you, no matter what you do. I have
learned to live a bearable if not too happy life after my alleged rescue. Here
I am, an Earth Union citizen living peacefully on Mars.
 While the alien ship had shed several smaller units which decelerated
rapidly. Two of them were still passing fast through the inner Oort.
One entered the orbit of Clymene.

Nalin is patient with me, trying to be understanding. In our years

together, I have told him fragments about my time as a station controller
several times.
I have a life. I cannot change the past. Besides, if there still was a
permanent settlement around Clymene, would they have come there?
I will never know. I can only try to fight the returning dreams of my
surreal existence and nightmares of waking up in that stark white room.

Few big news about the alien pods reach the inner system, even though
the people are hungry for nothing else. Contact plans are being drawn
carefully, they say.
Whoever attempts to reach the pods without permission will be
terminated.
I actually hope someone tries it. How would they react?

One day, an older man in gray stands in front of my door. His features
seem vaguely familiar. But I have never developed the same uncanny
ability to instantly recognize faces other people seem to possess.
“Miss Montova? May I speak with you inside?”
Something in his words, in the tone in which he says miss Montova,
releases a floodgate of memories. Clad in gray. Gray like the Moon dust.
His is the face from my nightmares.
He slips inside, past me, and only when I manage to overcome my
paralysis and close the door, he introduces himself.
“My name is Adrian Jensson. I see that you remember me. Good. May
we sit?”
I’m too startled to protest. Not waiting for my reaction, he sits down and
starts talking in his low quiet voice. At first, I don’t speak. I’m shocked by
his sudden appearance and overwhelmed with dread and anxiety. But
gradually I become more aware of his words than the memories and
feelings his presence brings back. He speaks of the bidesi, as the world
eventually started calling the aliens for the lack of their own self-
designation.
He speaks of the lack of reactions to all the countless transmissions we
had tried.
Of the unsuccessful missions—one unable to elicit any response, the
other coming in too close and then destroyed without warning…
“Wait—there were no reports of any crewed missions,” I interrupt him,
speaking for the first time.
“That is right. Previous attempts were kept covert for many good reasons.
However, we’re turning to other potential solutions now that the previous
approach did not fully succeed—”
“Failed, you mean,” I correct him. I have become cynical in those years
as a normal human, haven’t I?
Jensson lets it pass. “We think that they may have a vastly different set of
sensory perception. The worlds we see may barely overlap. We’ve tried
sending AIs, but…” He pauses.
“Enlighten me. What went wrong there?”
“You’ll receive the file with all pertinent information should you choose
to cooperate. Suffice to say that the vicinity of Clymene now seems to be
their domain. None of the AIs returned with useful data—if at all.”
I’m honestly surprised that the Union did not choose to show its own
force, if not truly retaliate with force, after the loss of a crew and so many
failed attempts to communicate.
“That brings me to why I’m here. We’ve arrived to the conclusion that
people such as you may represent a potentially favorable choice for a
different kind of mission.”
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. His sudden appearance on my
doorstep, the talk of the bidesi and the possibility of non-overlapping
sensory perceptions…
It’s so absurd that it almost makes me laugh. “Really? You had half-
wittedly destroyed those who could help you now, driven us back into the
gravity well, crippled me, and now you come to me for help?”
Jensson stays calm. “Miss Montova, please realize that you’re one of a
mere handful who managed to lead normal lives after they’d been freed.”
 Wouldn’t those who didn’t live normally be a better choice? I almost ask
but then waive the question away. Of course it meant didn’t survive, failed
sooner or later. A corner of my mouth twitches in a sarcastic almost-smile.
“Well, you weren’t expecting me to leap and shout out in ecstasy, were
you? If so, you’ve been so, so wrong… Fuck off now.”
He seems taken aback by my response. I sneer at him. He stands up.
“You’ll reconsider,” he promises between the door.
I’m sure I won’t. When he leaves, I finally drop my mask of control and
sit down, shuddering.
I lead a functioning life now. I have no obligation to help them. And my
previous life, that is long gone, even if my brain could adapt to it again. I
see no way back. There’s no way I would just set aside all these years in
between and become that pure glorious being again…
Well, you did it once before. You were no spiritual pure being when you
were dying of muscle dystrophy and waiting desperately for a miracle.
I bury my face into my palms.
But I’d been a teenager then. I’ve led a life now. I’m bitter, cynical… and
even if that didn’t matter, my brain can no longer form new pathways as
easily as back then.
New ones aren’t entirely necessary. There are remnants in your brain,
waiting for signals coming through again, pathways not entirely destroyed
by the cure when you were “freed” or by plain aging. You’re still unique
and have a ground to build on; others lack even that…
They could take dying children or adolescents. They must have the
technology, or they wouldn’t even be asking me.
Well, they are asking you. What if you were not their first choice? What if
those presumed children failed before the mission could even commence?
And, most of all, what the hell do you think to achieve if you don’t take up
the offer?
Nalin finds me crouched in the bathroom, paralyzed, staring onto the
blank wall. When he touches my shoulder, I flinch.
I see his quizzical look and kind eyes surrounded by small wrinkles…
Wrinkles in spacetime, emanating from distant neutron stars—
“I’m sorry,” I say.

*
 Moments before they wire me in, time slows down for me. I have an
eternity to mull over my decision. I can still go back. Even after the
extensive tests and training, even after the biochemical modifications, I can
still say no.
Nalin may still forgive me. They will find someone else to take my place.
I’ve proved that I can lead a normal life. I could spend many decades doing
just that.
Instead, I may walk into an uncertain future. Potentially quick failure and
brain damage, or the ultimate failure of my mission at Clymene.
Where do I really belong?
I know the feeling. I’m scared.
But I know that I will no longer be in a moment. There will be something
vaguely approximating fear, but different, more analytical, deeper and
calmer…
Then my universe explodes.
My senses. Oh, my senses… It’s like I’ve been shut out in a sensory
deprivation chamber all those long years, and now I’m overwhelmed. I
almost cannot bear the intensity and range of the long-forgotten impulses,
and I’m barely at a few percent of the full sensory input yet.
And my body—it’s suddenly complete. Not as vast as it once had been,
but wider and fuller than the tiny human shell I’ve been locked in for so
long.
Being human, being with Nalin, it all seems like a dream now, though it
had felt real then. I recall words from an ancient song…
You’ve almost convinced me I’m real…
I start singing it in my head. My organic memory isn’t so bad after all.
But now—I’ve become so much more again.
I merge with the interface smoothly, and the song—just becomes more
real than the reality.

Years fly by while I’m inside my ship, my new body. Clymene is

currently over 300 au away from the Sun. It’s almost hilarious: the Earth
Union had gone to such trouble to drive away a couple of independent
colonists to tighten its control over the system and humanity’s future, and
thus vacated the realm for the bidesi.
 My time ticks slowly like the seasons. I listen to the universe. Yet I still
manage to retain a lot of my humanity from my years on Mars. I feel it
fading with the pace of glaciers, and try to hold onto it for some reason.
Finally approaching Clymene, I feel something new: a part of me is like
an utterly calm ocean surface, taking in all the peculiar sensations, while
deep down, conflicting currents fight for their dominance.
Anger. Fear. Bitterness. Regret. Longing. Curiosity. Hope.
And then I’m flying by for the first time after what now seems like
someone else’s life, and I’m seeing the strange pod with so many of my
own senses. Its protruding rods glow in the infra-red on the background of
the uniformly dark hull. The engines are silent. No radar ping reflects of my
own hull. No beam of light falls onto me even for a fraction of a second.
Yet even if they’re observing just passively, they have had to see me…
I decide to ping them. The reflection that returns shows me barely more
details than I’ve seen in the visible and infra-red.
I lose them, flinging by the planet. Oh, the familiar vast swirling clouds
of hydrogen and ammonia, and the eerie sprinkle of particles caught in
Clymene’s complex magnetic field…
Yet something is different here.
I had known this as my home, no, a part of me. I know its slightest
changes, the seasonal change for which glacial is too fast a word, and I
know that the composition of particles around Clymene has changed. The
difference is tiny, barely perceptible—but some of the molecules whose
spectra I see have never been here before.
Then I swing back by the bidesi pod and notice another change, a
difference compared to my previous fly-by. A very low density of complex
molecules that would normally originate much, much closer to the Sun.
And I realize why none of the preceding missions has succeeded.
The solution is so simple and yet absurd that I would laugh if I still
could.
Chemical communication, so laughably inefficient, outright ridiculous in
space!
There is no way it is their usual mode of conveying information. Perhaps
long ago in their original environment. But they wouldn’t have made it into
space, even to other stars, if they didn’t shift to other means of
communication. No; it is a test. They wanted to see whether we would see
through their riddle.
 I run through the reactions they may want as the answer, and produce a
mixture. I release the cloud of molecules, and wait eagerly.
Nothing yet.
Wait—
The bidesi answer.
And I fire my engines and come closer.

It takes us weeks to develop some rudimentary communication. I wonder

then they decide to make the switch to other, more reliable and efficient
methods, but stick to their rules.
The bidesi first make sure we can understand each other on a simple
level, then start what may be questions. First about me. What am I? How
many beings in my pod?
I respond.
And then…
Are the others like you? they seem to be asking. Intelligent?
I almost intuitively say yes, but then hesitate.
They did not understand the bidesi. I did. They are not like me.
I recall the fate of the failed mission that got too close without
permission.
A small part of me ponders upon revenge, and I imagine the course of
events:
Do I betray the rest of humanity—
—repulsive, abominable, small-minded, thickheaded humanity—
—to these creatures, or will I show mercy? Empathy? Understanding?
…everything they lacked in regard to me… but not everyone, no, I would
be unfair thinking that…
The alien envoy is waiting for my answer.
So am I.
But no. This is not what happens.
I can feel the faint sunlight glistening on my metal skin. I hear the song
of the universe, a wonderful symphony across all frequencies. And
modulating it, the myriad of molecules scattered everywhere… How do I
begin to describe it? How could they understand?
Yet they do. Those who are waiting patiently for me to respond.
 Why take revenge? It would be so human.
I’m full again and I’m contented. I’m happy.
And I’m just about to take a step on the road towards humanity and its
branches’ future.
Turn left; turn right. I know what choice to make.
The world is vast and full of wonders. So is our future.

First published in Persistent Visions (10/2016).

 We Shadows
I would never have written the following story in my native Czech. You’ll
see soon that the protagonist is somewhat distinctive and basically uses
three different pronouns—they (most often), he and she. Writing that in
English, it sounded completely natural (I hope!). In translating it into
Czech, it became a problem. Czech lacks the singular they, and also lacks
the option of trying to omit pronouns by saying e.g. “Inspector Gaillard
knew there would be trouble. … Gaillard’s experience was different.” In
English, you can’t tell the person’s gender from these sentences—but in
Czech, the verb you use in a sentence flexes differently depending on the
grammatical gender even if you leave out the pronoun, so the gender is
always there (and therefore switching pronouns sounds especially weird,
not in a good way). Not speaking of the fact that when you use a person’s
surname, failing to add the suffix “-ová” to a woman’s surname can sound
very strange in Czech, sometimes even to the point of disrupting the reading
experience. There were no good solutions, only the task to choose the least
wrong option: To switch pronouns anyway? Refer to Gaillard in a
neologistic singular they? Use plural they? Use the neutral “it” (not as bad
as in English, but still not good)? Change the tense to make it sound less
weird?
There is a reason why I enjoyed Ann Leckie’s Radch series much more in
the original, even though a very skilled and experienced translator is
responsible for the Czech version. No wonder people so rarely conceive
stories such as these in Czech. One is temped to think of the weak version of
the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. The language we speak and think in influences
the way we act to some extent. I usually find that I’m more open and
sociable in English, which lacks the social linguistic nuances such as the
“formal you” we have in Czech, German and other languages, and I’ve
heard similar statements from others.
I only wish I knew more languages as well as Czech and English. I can
easily understand Slovak, but not speak or write in it without sounding like
a Czech desperately attempting to speak Slovak. Polish, more distant in the
Slavic language family, already eludes me. My German is rudimentary and
my attempts at Spanish, Portuguese, French and Russian have always
stopped soon. Yet there are many reasons to learn new languages—beside
exercising one’s brain and broadening one’s horizons (even to the extent of
being able to write something barely conceivable in the native tongue),
there are more practical ones too. Like when my luggage got lost in St.
Petersburg on a series of flights from Manila to Riga. Neither of the
workers at the International Transfer Desk spoke a word of English. We had
to try to manage through Google Translate (which didn’t lead anywhere,
and I still had no idea where my luggage had gone). The first person I’d
found there who spoke English (beautiful BBC English, which had never
sounded better!) was the Baltic Air flight attendant. Her voice could have
been mana from heaven (but my luggage was still lost).
I swore I’d never travel to Russia without learning the language first.

Note: This intro was partly paraphrased from my contribution to Rachel

Cordasco’s academic book on modern translated speculative fiction, Out of
This World: Speculative Fiction in Translation From the Cold War to the
New Millennium (University of Illinois Press, expected publication in late
2020).

Chief inspector A. J. Gaillard knew to expect trouble when the circus

arrived to Oberon. They came on a supply ship from Ganymede and were
on their way further out the system—as far as Charon, if claims about their
destination were to be trusted.
The still, cold human body in front of Gaillard only confirmed their
earlier assumption. It belonged to a man around sixty, stumpy, stern-
looking. His name was Simon Hayden and he used to be the director of the
small enterprise.
Beware, beware, for there’s fun on Oberon! Only seven nights of wonder
and amazement! A must-see for everyone! shouted the posters flickering on
ad screens. Hayden himself in a velvet jacket, a black panther, a laughing
clown, two young women in shiny costumes, an acrobat and two
somersaulting children were depicted there in a rather archaic fashion. The
signs also promised: Leave amused like never before!
Hayden’s manner of departure, being stabbed to death, did not seem
particularly amusing but the maniacal grin on the victim’s face intrigued
Gaillard. Preliminary examination suggested no drugs or any other artificial
stimulation. It also found traces of presence of other humans near the body
—traces that probably belonged to all members of Hayden’s enterprise who
came to this room. He was killed between midnight and one o’clock. There
were no security cameras inside the apartment complex hired by the circus;
these were cheap quarters. The nearest camera was in the corridor outside,
covering just one of the possible ways here.
Gaillard sighed a little. Well, it seems we’ll have to hold this investigation
in a more… traditional way.

Hayden’s assistant and accountant Teagan Byrne was likely the last one
to see him alive, except for his murderer. She also proved to be a very
useful witness as Gaillard soon found out.
“One thing before we begin: You can be sure that everything I tell you is
true. I’m physically incapable of lying,” she started. “You’d find out
anyway and besides, I hope it might help you in your investigation. Check
my papers.”
Byrne enabled the inspector access to her personal data file. The
documentation was there, with all the necessary certifications.
“You’ve been modified.”
“Yes.”
Gaillard looked up to her. “Why? It seems peculiar for a small enterprise
owner like Hayden to acquire an employee with such qualification.”
Neural modifying was expensive and not without risks. Byrne could have
worked for any major company…
A sad grin flickered on her face. “I’m damaged goods. Supposed to have
a perfect recall and enhanced facial traits reading too but the modifying
went awry. I should have gone into top business, an assistant who
remembers everything, can tell whether other people are likely lying or
hiding something, incapable of lying to the company. But who’d want
someone who cannot lie but doesn’t have any other skills? That’s worse
than being unenhanced at all. In the end, I was glad Hayden had taken me
in.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. I can tell even without facial reading skills. You’re just
saying it.” She bit her lower lip, then looked down. “Excuse me; I
sometimes get too honest… I can either refuse to speak or say what’s on my
mind. Well… you probably want to know if I killed Hayden. I did not. And
nor did any of my colleagues, as far as I know.”
 “What were you doing yesterday evening?”
“About nine, after we came back from our show, I went to Hayden’s
room to discuss the next performance. I work as an assistant in some of the
shows and also as an accountant for the circus. We talked about twenty
minutes, then I went back to my room. After that, I left it a couple of times,
only for a short moment. Hayden’s room was the only one with its own
bathroom, so all of us had to use the shared one.”
“Do you know what the others were doing?”
“No, sorry. I met Raine Evans in the passageway once, around half past
ten, that’s all.” Byrne looked straight at Gaillard. “You might be looking in
the wrong place. I’m convinced none of my colleagues did it either.”
“And do you know of anyone—among them or outside the circus—who
would have a motive to kill Mr. Hayden?”
This time, Teagan hesitated. “I… yes. Yes, we’d probably all have a
motive. Hayden was not a good boss. He worked us hard, paid little, took
advantage of us… But we didn’t really have any better choices. So we
stayed. Not for love of the job or the boss, but for the necessity. And
speaking of someone outside—I guess that you could find a lot of such
people. Hayden wasn’t good at making friends but I would say that he had a
talent for making enemies.”
“Such as?” Gaillard prompted her.
Byrne sighed a little. “A lot of the owners of the premises we had used
for our shows before, some colony administrators, random acquaintances…
But none who’d have a motive strong enough for a murder, I think. Just…
petty animosity. I’m sorry if it’s not very helpful.”
The inspector smiled encouragingly. “Oh, it was, thank you. I’ll need to
talk with the others too. If you could send them to me, please. And if you
recall anything else that might prove significant for the case, let me know
anytime.”
Gaillard sent her their card.
Byrne looked at the screen of her pad immediately. “A. J.,” she read.
“What does it stand for?”
“Anton Jasmine.”
“But that’s…” She stopped, then frowned in disbelief. “That means
you’re…”
“Yes,” Gaillard said simply.
“How does someone like you end up… here?”
 How does someone like you, despite the damage, end up in Hayden’s
circus? Gaillard thought.
“We’re needed here at present,” the inspector answered, changing into
plural almost without notice, bowed their head slightly and, back in the
singular, added: “Now I’d like to talk to the others.”

How exactly does someone like Anton Jasmine Gaillard end up in a place
like Oberon; a place where nothing of importance ever happens; a hated
place where most officers are transferred from the inner system as an
unofficial punishment?
That wasn’t the case. They were, in fact, telling the truth. Their
usefulness in the inner system became limited after the war had ended but
they were needed here. They agreed with the transfer.
Since then, nothing happened.
But they were patient. After all, that was just one of the many traits they
were modified for.

For their interview with Raine Evans, A. J. Gaillard almost without

giving it a thought chose the personality of Jasmine.
“I work… worked for Hayden as a singer. Sometimes, during special
performances like his magic tricks show, I also acted as a second assistant,”
Evans was saying slowly. She looked tired and somewhat resigned, quite
apart from the smiling dark-haired beauty gleaming with confidence on the
posters.
“You have two children who came here too, correct?”
“Yes,” she nodded wearily. “Orion and Lyra work for the circus too. They
prefer it to school, I’m afraid, though I’m trying to motivate them to learn
better—this isn’t a job for life, you know. They’re dancers and acrobats—
they usually complement my singing or Nadir’s acrobatics.”
Anton and Jasmine registered it at the same time. A little hesitation when
she talked about her children, slight increase in her heart rate and thermal
signature…
Don’t ask, thought Jasmine. Not yet. Let me work with her.
She leaned forward slightly and gave Evans a hint of a reassuring smile.
“It’s just a routine but I need to ask you where you’ve been last night. Your
children as well.”
 “Of course.” Raine Evans looked up distracted. “I was tired after the
performance, I went straight to my room. I tried to put the kids to sleep but
they never want to go the bed, they have so much energy… I had to tell
them stories before they finally fell asleep. Then I dozed off.”
“That was when?”
“Not sure… Around one o’clock, maybe?”
“Did you leave the room that night?”
“Yes. I went to the bathroom right around nine, maybe later. I met Teagan
on my way back. Then I didn’t leave the room until morning.”
Gaillard pretended to consider the answer and think of the next question.
They asked casually: “What was your relationship to Mr. Hayden?”
“He was my boss. We weren’t exactly friends—but I keep my distance
from most people.”
Her answer was very valuable to the inspector—not the words, but
everything she was not conscious about and could not control well: her
posture, the change in her voice, body language…
“Thank you, Ms. Evans. May I speak to your children now?”
Evans nodded hesitantly. “Under my supervision.”
As the two children appeared (Orion, aged six, Lyra, aged seven, Gaillard
remembered from the file), the inspector drew a sharp breath and sat very
still for a moment. The interview itself was short and didn’t tell Gaillard
much; both children were with Evans the previous evening.
It was what they didn’t say—what they might not even have known—
that told Gaillard most.
“Who’s their father?” asked the inspector when they left.
“I… I don’t want to talk about him. That was back on Mars,” said Evans,
looking down.
Gaillard had no more questions for her.
They’d have little chance of getting a warrant to perform genetic analysis
of the members of the circus; since the war, it was an even more delicate
matter than before. Gaillard knew the officials of Oberon and could assess
their chances of getting any help with this case.
However, an analysis wasn’t entirely necessary.
Just the smell of the children told Gaillard everything they needed to
know. The peptides present in their sweat found a way to Gaillard’s
enhanced olfactory receptors and vomeronasal organ. You could tell kinship
with sufficient reliability from the peptides on MHC and those of Orion and
Lyra were telling Gaillard the story about their father. Simon Hayden.
This fact needed to be pursued further; but not now.
Gaillard thanked Evans for her information and let the next member of
the circus in.

As soon as Gaillard saw the clown, it was Anton who sat down opposite
him and started asking questions.
Adrian Adamowicz fitted all stereotypes about clowns: he seemed
naturally frowny, part melancholic, part choleric, with a slightly annoyed
expression that seemed never to leave his otherwise not unpleasant face.
His story was a variation of Byrne’s and Evans’s. He went to his room
after the performance and didn’t leave except for the bathroom. He couldn’t
sleep so he read for a while. No, he didn’t hear anything suspicious. Yes, he
met Nadir Gullet in the passageway. Actually, they both wanted to use the
last vacant shower. Adamowicz let Gullet go there and came back later. He
didn’t meet anyone afterwards.
When Gaillard asked him whether he knew of someone with a motive to
kill Hayden, he gave a short high-pitched laugh. “Someone? Look, probably
everyone will celebrate the bastard is pushing daisies now. He was a swine
to us, took us as slaves more than employees! But I don’t believe any of us
killed him. If someone had the guts, I’d have happened long ago.”
Gaillard raised a brow. “Would you care to elaborate on that?”
“Look, he just… he was an arrogant, selfish, spiteful miser. But that’s of
course not enough to murder someone.” He grinned cynically. “Just enough
to be glad someone else did that.”

Though Gaillard learned from the file who Mandisa Raweel had been, it
still didn’t quite prepare them for the sight of her. She walked in the room
on two; Gaillard couldn’t help but wonder if it would seem more natural if
she had entered on all four.
“Good morning, detective,” Raweel said. The voice sounded almost
normal.
It was about the only such thing. Her movements seemed horribly wrong.
The mixture of human and feline features was confusing and somewhat
surreal, as if someone tried to make a creature from a painting by Dalí come
to life.
 “Good morning,” Anton briskly collected himself and started with the
questioning.
Nothing outright helpful here either; she stated that she paid her friend
Nadir, the acrobat, a visit after the performance. They talked for a long
time. She left around half past two and went straight to her room which she
didn’t leave until breakfast.
The inspector had no clue whether she was telling the truth. Neither of
Gaillard’s personalities could read Raweel. Thanks to her extensive
modifications, she remained a complete mystery to them.
Her face was delicately remodeled to resemble a panther as much as
possible; she even had whiskers that seemed to be working. Her ears had a
completely feline look. Her body, at least what was visible outside her
coverall, was covered in glossy black fur. She even had a tail—probably a
mechanical prosthesis in this case, but working like a real one. She
probably unconsciously waved it a couple of times during the interview.
Her hands were a strange-looking intermediate between palms and paws.
Gaillard caught themselves wondering if she had retractable claws.
“Ms. Raweel, excuse me asking, but did you receive your modifications
in order to work at Mr. Hayden’s enterprise?”
Her laugh sounded coarse and bitter. “No, of course not. He could never
afford to pay for the operations.”
“Then how?”
“Must I?”
“It might prove relevant to the investigation.”
Raweel was probably uncomfortable; but that was all Gaillard could tell
about her temper.
“I did it for my husband. Long ago.”
“When?”
She sighed. “Let me count… Nearly twenty one years, yes.”
Gaillard waited.
“He divorced me. Had better lawyers. I was left penniless and quite
desperate, as you can imagine—what was I supposed to do, looking like
this?”
Gaillard tried to imagine it: High-society parties, Mandisa Raweel made
into her husband’s unique jewel, which he grew tired of. She probably had
nothing at the beginning and was left with nothing consequently—apart
from her looks which suddenly changed from extraordinarily beautiful to
monstrous in the society’s eyes.
“Hayden saw potential in me and offered me a job. Said that in a few
years, I could make enough money to pay for surgeries to make me…
normal again. That was six years ago. I haven’t made a tenth of what I need
yet. I should’ve seen he was a bastard—but then again, what other options
did I have?”
Most likely, he convinced her with arguments that almost no animals
were allowed to be shipped between settlements in the system without long
expensive controls and paperwork—but that of course didn’t involve
humans reshaped to look like animals. Gaillard heard it was a great fashion
trend on Earth some two decades ago—just when Raweel went through her
modifications and shortly before cyberware in people’s brains was banned
except when medically absolutely necessary; before the war. Raweel’s file
indicated she had an implant that was now indispensable for her; without it,
she wouldn’t be able to control her reconstructed body adequately.
Most of similarly reshaped people probably paid surgeons for converting
them back into human—or any other desired—form by now, had their
implants removed and corresponding neural paths modified and likely none
of them starred in shows like Hayden’s circus. He might have told her they
were going to make lots of money thanks to her, then offered her a contract
advantageous only to him, which she signed in good belief… Gaillard
encountered a few of such stories during their work on Phobos, though here
on the far Oberon everything seemed rather dull until now.
“No wonder you’d be mad at Hayden when it turned out like this,”
Gaillard—Anton—said.
“Look, I was mad at him alright, but I didn’t kill him. He was still my
only ticket out. What am I going to do now? What job can I find? Damn if
I’m not glad the son of a bitch is dead, but if I could prevent it, I would. I
needed him, no matter how I hated him.”

The last member of the small circus, Nadir Gullet, was a short, thin but
muscly young man with piercing dark eyes. His statement wasn’t of much
help to Gaillard—like the others, he didn’t go out after coming back from
the performance. He spent about two hours talking with Raweel before he
went to the bathroom and met Adamowicz on the way. Afterwards, Raweel
departed some time after two o’clock and then he didn’t leave his room
until he got up in the morning. He was sure no one from the circus would
kill Hayden, though he agreed that their boss was a fucked up jerk, to quote
him accurately.
“He treated us like meat. I don’t think he ever saw any one of us as a
damned human being. But who’d kill him for this? Besides, we all needed
our jobs.”
“Well, now Hayden’s gone, you can start your own business…”
“Doesn’t work like that. Hayden had contacts everywhere in the system,
we’ve got none. He made really sure we didn’t have any. Going
independent would ruin us all.”
Gaillard studied him for a moment. “All of you? You seem clever,
talkative, able-bodied and probably talented in your discipline to me. Would
it ruin specifically you?”
Nadir frowned. “I’m sure Hayden would take great care of that.”
“But now that he’s dead…”
“Excuse me, Inspector, but what are you trying to imply? I said I did not
kill him. It’s true whether you believe me or not.” For a change, the acrobat
now studied Gaillard thoughtfully. “Now, is this all, Inspector?”
His words told Gaillard nothing useful at all. Everything else about him
was more interesting—he seemed more composed, more in control than the
others. He talked calmly even when saying the most emotional things. But
the more apparent was the notion that he kept something to himself.

Gaillard, having watched the record of yesterday’s show, took great care
to notice as much detail as possible. Layers of information hidden in body
language and tone of voice of the performers could be there.
But most likely weren’t, Gaillard concluded afterwards. It was apparent
that none of the circus employees had warm feelings for their boss—but
nothing indicating the soon-to-come murder could be seen during the
performance. There were some interesting things between them—the way
Gullet looked at Raweel or the slight change in the clown’s expression as
Teagan appeared on the stage—but not a thing pointing to Hayden’s death.
Any one of them could have done it; so could someone from outside if
Hayden let him into the quarters. But as far as Gaillard knew, Hayden didn’t
personally know anyone on Oberon until two days ago. Records from
where security cameras were installed indicated that he didn’t closely
interact with anyone. Members of the circus seemed like the only people
with a motive and opportunity to kill him—and they were hiding
something, Gaillard was sure of that.
However, what were they keeping from them? Maybe even more
importantly, if some of them killed Hayden—why here and now?
And why was Hayden grinning widely in his last moments?

No one from the circus except Byrne wondered what A. J. in Gaillard’s

name meant. The inspector therefore had no reason to tell them, though if
someone asked, they’d also have no reason to hide their nature. Existence
of people like Gaillard was publicly known for decades, though
encountering one certainly wasn’t a daily occurrence; they only became
more abundant during the war but still were quite rare sight.
The inspector tried to call Teagan Byrne but she wasn’t responding. She
wasn’t in her room. Gaillard finally found her in one of the town’s few bars,
the first they tried. It was the only one in the upper floor and had large
windows. Byrne was sitting alone with a wildly-colored drink at a small
table, staring outside as if in a trance.
It was the first time in weeks Gaillard saw the outer landscape. They
grew used to the life underground so quickly they stopped missing the open
land of Earth and Mars soon—at least they always thought so until they saw
it outside again. A desire to walk beneath the open sky appeared instantly
and had to be suppressed painfully. They could never do it here. Walking in
a space suit was something entirely different than looking up and seeing the
sky directly. The closest they could get to it was in places like this one,
watching it through a thick darkened window.
Byrne seemed captivated by the sight, the deep blue ball of Uranus
looming in the sky, the small circle of Miranda visible next to it and
underneath it an eerily illuminated landscape covered in long graben and
ridges of numerous impact craters, casting long shadows. The horizon was
very visibly curved—another sight unusual for someone coming from Earth
and Mars.
“Ms. Byrne?” Gaillard spoke softly.
Teagan turned with a start.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just needed to ask a few
additional questions.”
Byrne looked around the bar, half-deserted at this time. “Can you ask
them here?”
 A short exchange of thoughts occurred between Anton and Jasmine. They
both agreed that Byrne might be more open in this environment rather than
in the interrogation room. And while she was incapable of lying, she might
refuse to answer.
“Yes,” Jasmine smiled at her and joined her. After having ordered a
nonalcoholic cocktail, she started: “Ms. Byrne…”
“Teagan, please. No one calls me Byrne.”
“…I need your help to verify the statements of your colleagues.”
“Oh.” Byrne’s expression darkened. “Let me guess. You thought let’s go
to the one who cannot lie, let her tell me all about the people she’s lived
with every day for the past two and half years. My answer is no. I won’t tell
you anything about personal life of my friends.”
“Are they?”
If they weren’t friends, who then? Byrne’s eyes seemed to say.
“Then you needn’t tell me anything I don’t know. But you can confirm or
fill in things I’ve already noticed. Raine Evans, for example. Her and Simon
Hayden’s children.”
Teagan’s eyes widened. “How did you… Did you get a warrant for their
tests?”
“No. That was not necessary.”
Byrne seemed half angry, half curious. “You really can tell these things
from the slightest clues, can’t you?”
“I was enhanced to be able to do so.”
“Alright. I’ll fill in on stuff you already know, provided I want to and you
tell me more about yourself.”
“Myself?” This was quite unexpected even for Gaillard.
“Yeah. What it’s like to be a double.”
It was Anton who smiled and nodded. “It’s a deal. Now about Ms. Evans’
children…”
“Well, there’s not much to it. She was Hayden’s mistress, apparently long
before I joined the circus. Probably still is if I’m right. Not that she takes
any pleasure in it, I guess—I think she just wants him to pay for the kids’
courses, let them have a future she didn’t have.”
“They’re the reason she stayed, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“This is what intrigued me about Mr. Adamowicz and Mr. Gullet. I can
see Ms. Evans’s reason, even Ms. Raweel’s. But what about them?”
Gaillard caught Byrne’s look before the girl had time to speak, and added:
“Of course, answering that wouldn’t be a part of our deal. So—I think Mr.
Gullet’s reason is another member of the circus. It’s Mandisa Raweel, isn’t
it?”
“I think so. He’s trying to help her as much as he can…” Teagan’s eyes
wandered back to the eerie landscape outside. “I think that when he looks at
her, he doesn’t see a monster or an exotic beauty; he just sees another
human being, someone normal. No one else looks like that at her, not even
the rest of us. I’d like to, it’s just… she seems so unnatural, so wrong, that I
can’t bring myself to treat her without thinking about how to treat her.”
Gaillard didn’t have a strong theory about Adamowicz, not yet, though
they had a suspicion; they changed the topic subsequently. “Reasons to join
the circus in the first place are interesting too. You’ve told me yours.
Mandisa Raweel’s story is similar, if more extreme. Speaking of the rest…”
“Look,” Byrne interrupted them, “I think you’re going to guess here,
aren’t you? And I’m not going to go into some kind of a guessing game,
adding details if you by chance guess right.” She gave the land outside the
last short glance, finished her drink and said: “If you haven’t got anything
concrete, I’ll go—unless you want to hold me officially. And you owe me
your story, don’t forget.”
She’s afraid she might tell us more than she wants to, thought Jasmine. I
wonder what that is.

Their conversation with each other would make any linguist busy for
months. They didn’t exactly use sentences; their communication was a
strange mix of shared words, feelings, nonverbal thoughts, images. It saved
a lot of time, minimized the inherent risk of misunderstanding in any
dialogue. If someone cared to translate it into normal language, it would
likely look something like this:
ANTON: Shall we review the data? The statements match; Byrne and
Adamowicz are the only ones who don’t have alibis. She is incapable of
lying, so that leaves only him. However, though nothing in behavior and
physical data of the others suggests they’re covering for each other, I
certainly wouldn’t rule this option out.
JASMINE: Agreed. To me, they all seemed not to be completely honest
with us, though that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re hiding anything of
direct importance. Let’s focus on Hayden himself.
 ANTON: Until we receive his complete criminal records, if he has any, it
would be sheer speculation to go into his motives for running the circus…
JASMINE: …but you still think he was up to something illegal, using the
circus as a cover.
ANTON: It’d certainly fit his profile. However, nothing found in his
quarters indicates signs of any criminal activity or intentions.
JASMINE: What would a circus be useful covering for? It enabled him to
travel a lot, to meet lots of people…
ANTON: …and he’s got people traveling with him.
A message interrupted their exchange. Hayden’s complete records finally
arrived from Mars.
After Gaillard looked into them, the nature of Hayden’s possible criminal
activity was no longer a speculation.

Gaillard decided to hold the next round of questioning out of the assigned
interrogation room. It held certain risks and they knew their boss wouldn’t
be pleased to hear this; however, they needed to work with the circus
members in a friendlier, less formal environment.
Evans was first up. The inspector greeted her in a small room with a sofa,
a couple of chairs and a low table; it was still quite austere but the coziest
one on the police station. Gaillard offered Evans tea; she refused. It was
Jasmine who spoke to her: “Ms. Evans, I know this is hard for you, but I
must ask you some questions about your employment with Mr. Hayden.”
She saw Evans stiffen, the look of panic in her eyes. Blood disappeared
from her cheeks.
“What Mr. Hayden was running wasn’t primarily a circus, was it? That
was just a cover-up.”
“Yes,” Evans said in a hardly audible voice.
“Tell me the truth.”
So Evans did. It took time, as she often stopped, sobbing or trying to find
words that would make things easier to say. Hayden’s records from Mars
proved just a tip of the iceberg according to her statement. A story began
unraveling before Gaillard’s eyes: Simon Hayden, after being convicted
from offenses against morality but not from actually running any operation
himself, tried to find a way how to escape future convictions and make
more money from his criminal activity. An ingenious solution presented
itself: Running a circus meant having a small suite of employees very
dependent on him, moving from place to place so quickly that even if some
suspicion arose, he’d be long gone at that time…
So he assembled a couple of desperate people with skills suiting this new
enterprise and willing to accept even very unfavorable contracts. Just then
he started extorting and threatening, making them think there was no escape
and pushing them into working as prostitutes when he discovered his
clientele. It probably happened to each and every one of them, according to
Evans; but they didn’t talk about it. Not seeing and hearing was almost as
good as not knowing. Pretending nothing was happening and they lived a
normal life seemed like the only way to stay sane while bound to the circus.
Each of them could theoretically leave any time. However, the reality
was quite different.
Jasmine didn’t need to ask Evans about her reasons to say—but she had
to ask to complete the statement.
“My children… He said… he’d hurt them if I tried to leave. If I stayed
and made no trouble, he promised to leave them alone, pay for their school,
give them a different life… Where could I go even if I escaped with them?
What life would they lead?” Evans shook her head. Her voice no longer
sounded desperate; now it was flat, emotionless, exhausted.
“Who’s their father, Ms. Evans?” asked Gaillard though they knew.
“Hayden. Lyra was conceived before I learned the truth about him, I
thought I’d met someone good…” She buried her face in her hands for a
moment. When she looked up again, she was frowning bitterly but more
composed than before. “The kids gave him even more ground to threaten…
If I ran away and was captured or got into some trouble, he might get
custody, I’d never see them again if he just slipped money into the right
pockets…”
Everything suggested she was telling the truth. Could she still be hiding
something? Gaillard analyzed her behavior and physiological signs in a few
seconds and came to the conclusion that this was rather improbable. But no
more harm than was already done could come from one more question.
“Ms. Evans, under these circumstances, anyone from the circus would be
most likely freed by the court if they killed Simon Hayden. Please. If you
know more of this matter, tell me. I promise I’ll do everything in my power
to assure a favorable outcome.”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. But whoever it was… I’m so glad they did it. I
never had the strength to do it myself.” Evans produced a sad, bitter smile.
“I must admit I often contemplated this option.”

The rest of the interviews continued in a similar manner. Gaillard

gradually learned the motives that bound each of the five people to Hayden.
Nadir Gullet was running from home with no own money, no friends and
nowhere to go; the only alternative would be ending up somewhere even
worse than with Hayden.
Adrian Adamowicz confessed that when Hayden picked him up on Ceres,
he was hiding from people he owed a lot of money to. Their reach was far
and dangerous, protection from them could be found nowhere in the belt
and he couldn’t even afford a ticket anywhere. Hayden’s offer seemed like a
gift from heaven before he found out what it entailed.
At one time, Gaillard had to call in colleagues to seize Adamowicz when
his rage gained control over him and he nearly started demolishing the
room.
Raweel’s case was the most obvious. She would have done almost
anything to become an ordinary human again. When she discovered the true
nature of work for Hayden, she was scared and horrified at first; but then
she convinced herself that this way, she’d make money for the surgeries
sooner and could live a normal life then. With her exotic augmentations, she
was by far the most desired article in Hayden’s variety. Nightmare now,
normal life soon after… It became a mantra of hers.
Teagan Byrne sat in the room silently, staring at the floor. “Why? I often
asked that myself… I was with Hayden the shortest time from all of us, not
even three years. But it’s been a long enough time for me to leave… I guess
I was just frightened. He had records of me, really bad ones… I couldn’t
bear anyone seeing that. And he always told me that if I ran away, he’d take
care to assure that I ended up someplace that would make the circus look
like heaven. I knew he had contacts all over the system. I was scared he’d
really do it. This way, I still had a chance it would be better someday…”
“Like if Hayden died.”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Like that.”

Byrne showed the inspector Hayden’s unofficial accounting files. She

had access to those as she managed his official as well as unofficial
finances under his supervision. However, she didn’t know where he stored
his contacts and lists of clients; he had never shown her that.
 Gaillard had now enough evidence to start a new investigation across the
system. They hoped it would yield many results soon. Nonetheless, it led no
further to finding Hayden’s killer. None of his employees confessed; none
admitted knowing anything of importance in that matter. Moreover, none
seemed to be lying.
Maybe this investigation wouldn’t be successful. Gaillard wouldn’t mind
in any of their personalities but it was their task to try to wrap it up. They
still had work to do, matters to pursue. It wasn’t up to them to judge
whether Hayden’s death was a good thing.
But something of significance troubled them. The story didn’t seem
complete. Eight years ago, Hayden started choosing his ensemble. Two
people left him in the meantime. According to their records, one died on
Ganymede last year, the other disappeared somewhere on Earth. He
traveled the system with his circus, making money off his employees…
Here it seemed to come apart. Even though he traveled cheap, he’d still be
better off finding a place where police was willing to look away, didn’t exist
or was always busy with more serious crimes. Gaillard understood leaving
Mars—but he could have found plenty of places in the belt or the Jovian
system. Almost all traffic between the inner and outer solar system came
through there, his clientele wouldn’t be too scarce…
Some piece was missing. Gaillard hoped that after all Hayden’s bank
accounts across the system were discovered, they’d shed more light on his
activities.
For now, they were tired and the day was coming to an end. Jasmine,
active throughout all the interviews, could finally release the tight grip of
her outer emotional response—and retreat quickly as the words and images
they invoked were released from her careful conscious control.
“Bury me deep down,” she said aloud through her gritted teeth. “Push me
away. Please. I just need to… stop being for a while.”
Okay, replied Anton.

After Jasmine’s previous grueling day, Anton expected to stay active for
most of the time. Jasmine needed some rest and most of what he was
expecting today was going through Hayden’s files again, trying to find
some clues in them and preparing reports from colleagues elsewhere in the
system.
 He certainly didn’t expect a message from Raweel the first thing in the
morning.
I’ll handle it, don’t worry, he thought to Jasmine as the panther woman
was approaching the office.
“You said yesterday that if I knew something, you’d help me,” Raweel
said straight out. “Did you mean it?”
“Yes. You can trust me.”
“Okay. But I want to settle some conditions first. What I know is
important—and valuable. It has a price.”
“Ms. Raweel, I cannot offer you any monetary compensation for
whatever you know –”
“Then find me someone who can,” she interrupted him. “And I didn’t
mean money. What I know might well get me killed—like Hayden. So find
me someone who can sign me immunity and a complete change of
identity.”
“I need to know what it’s about first.”
She seemed to consider her options for a while and then spoke: “Alright.
It’s about DBI sync implants.”

The missing piece clicked into its place. Gaillard had the authority to
summon the attorney quickly and arrange Raweel’s new identity in
exchange for her information. After all, it was the very reason why A. J.
Gaillard ended up on Oberon in first place.
When everything was settled, Raweel started talking about another
enterprise of Hayden’s; one the rest of the circus likely knew nothing about.
“He had no need of them in this matter, they were of no use. They
couldn’t be used as couriers—direct brain interface implants in their heads
would stop the circus at every control, they’d be sent to medical
examinations… He’d never get away with it. Whereas in my brain, with all
my modifications, they didn’t seem out of place. A couple of nifty
adjustments and no controls discovered that I didn’t need these to survive.”
So Hayden smuggled strictly illegal implants, these that led to a war
nineteen years ago, inwards from the outer solar system where enclaves of
syncers still persisted even after their defeat. Raweel was an ideal courier.
Transformed a few years before the war had started, her brain would be full
of implants enabling her control of her modified body. When DBI implants
were banned, people like her gained exceptions.
 This would have been a much more profitable enterprise than prostitution
—and hardly anyone would suspect someone like Hayden had something to
do with it.
“It might have gotten him killed. I don’t know for sure but I don’t want to
risk they’re after me too,” concluded Raweel. But she didn’t seem
particularly frightened now. If Anton managed to read the signs correctly,
she was satisfied.
She was finally going to become an ordinary human.

Raweel was transported to the medical examination facility before the

day was over. Gaillard suddenly had far more matters to pursue than just
Hayden’s death. But experience told them that stabbing in the victim’s own
room wasn’t how killers sent by the syncers worked. This seemed…
personal.
On their way from the office, the inspector was stopped by Byrne.
“Inspector Gaillard… What happened to Mandisa? I hope you don’t think
she killed Hayden! Nobody told us anything…”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Byrne. She’s in police custody but as a witness in a
different case. You can trust me she’s well.”
“At least someone is,” Byrne smiled part bitterly, part with relief. “May I
walk with you for a moment?”
Gaillard nodded, curious what the girl had to say. She was apparently
eager to talk to them and Raweel’s sudden disappearance only served as a
good excuse, especially for someone who couldn’t lie.
What Byrne said next came as a bit of a surprise: “Most people see us
only as freaks. You don’t.”
A. J. produced a little smile. “I am one.”
“I didn’t mean –”
“That’s alright. I did.”
Teagan glanced at them nervously. “Actually… this is what I wanted to
talk about—if it’s alright. Ever since my mods went bad, I pitied myself—
and was angry that I had ever agreed to go to the procedure. You’re the first
person I met—well, two persons—with so extensive modification of your
mind. And I guess this kind of modification makes you feel much different
from everyone else… How… how is it to live with two minds in one
body?” Teagan’s eyes were gleaming with curiosity. “If you can talk about
it,” she added hurriedly.
 Answer her, whispered Jasmine in the corner of Anton’s mind. Go on.
Keep talking. We can learn a lot about her by telling her about us.
Anton smiled a bit. “I can. You could find most of it in scientific papers,
pop science articles and textbooks these days, it’s no secret.”
“Can I? I mean… the specifications and procedures, yes… but how does
it feel?”
“For us, it’s something we’re used to. You can’t do that extensive
modifying after puberty without enormous risks of side effects. We were
chosen when we were ten. More precisely, when the original was just ten.
The war was devastating at the time. We and our parents agreed without
long consideration. It was… odd, at the beginning. But people adapt
quickly and children even more so. Since then, it’s sometimes hard to
imagine what it’s like to live as one person only.”
“But you surely must be capable of it, in this job…”
“Of course. Other enhancements help us with that.”
Byrne nodded shyly. “Yes, I read about it a bit… Increased potentiation
of mirror neuron synapses, right? Supposed to give you more empathy and
understanding people’s actions and their aims…”
Tell her more, everything you’re allowed to. Make her trust you.
“Actually, we don’t share this ability equally. Jasmine’s mind has got
better access to this area. We’re different; what good would it be to create
two initially identical minds? The advantage is not just in parallel
processing. It’s also in creating two systems taking in partly different
information and processing it differently.”
Byrne looked at them in surprise. “So… that’s why they make most
people like you…” She struggled for the word.
Gaillard smiled faintly. “You mean hermaphroditic? You can say it—it’s
true, though it’s not a politically correct term; we won’t be offended. You’re
right. Usually one mind is shifted into the female and the other to the male
spectrum—and the body is reconstructed accordingly to make both
personalities as comfortable as possible. We both use the same sensory
input, have the same intelligence, the same evolutionarily older areas… but
we actually differ a lot.”
“How?”
“As I said, Jasmine was created to be more emphatic. She can read
people and understand them better than me. She also processes most of the
sensory input slightly differently. For one thing, I almost don’t pay attention
to smells whereas she’s very conscious about them, analogically with tastes.
Of course we both focus on optical and auditory input a lot but we tend to
notice different aspects of things. We’re both very analytical, each in their
own sense. She’s unmatched in assessing and extrapolating people’s
behavior; I tend to make connections of… let’s say more physical clues.”
Byrne was silent for a moment. Her lips and throat moved a couple of
times as if she was going to say something but then stopped herself.
Jasmine replaced Anton. The exchange seemed as natural for both as
breathing or eating. Gaillard’s body continued walking without any
apparent pause.
Teagan looked at them with a mixture of curiosity and sadness. “Forgive
me saying this, but… you must be very alone.”
“We’re never alone.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Somewhere Anton shifted uncomfortably but Jasmine could handle this
new direction of the conversation with ease. “I know. But it’s true. We’re so
used to the presence of each other that it’s hard to connect to other people
who don’t experience what we do every day—but it doesn’t matter. We can
never be truly alone.”
She sounded as calm and composed as a human could possibly sound.
Yet, she did not feel that way. It wasn’t what Teagan asked. It was the
information slowly gathered during their conversation: Byrne’s questions,
her face, body language, voice, pauses… She was hiding something but
Jasmine could not tell what—and neither could Anton who picked the signs
too, from a different perspective. Byrne’s thermal signature, heart rate, the
smell of her sweat… All seemed to shout one thing: She was not completely
honest with them.
But she couldn’t lie; her papers were all right and all the regular medical
checks confirmed it. So she must have avoided some truth carefully.
What Teagan did next didn’t really surprise either of them—but that
wasn’t the same as if they were prepared for it. She stopped in the middle of
the corridor, put a palm on Gaillard’s neck and moved closer. Before she
could finish the action, Gaillard gently put the hand down and shifted
further from Byrne.
“We’re still in charge of the investigation and you’re involved in the
case,” they said calmly. “Do not feel bad. It’s just not by the rules.” And we
obey the rules, thought Anton and Jasmine at the same time, after all, we
were created to do so.
Byrne looked down nervously. “I’m sorry, I was stupid… Forgive me.”
She left quickly without looking at Gaillard again.

JASMINE: I must admit I feel somewhat guilty. Everything indicates the

girl has formed an attachment to us—a lot more so than the other way. I
caused this by advising our strategy.
ANTON: It’s part of our job. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. She
needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand her. We gave her
our shoulder to cry on and at the same time learned more about her. She
won’t be sad or offended by our decline of her action for long. The result is
positive for both sides.
JASMINE: True, yet in my view a little guilt is appropriate. If nothing
else, it helps me think like her. What didn’t she tell us?
ANTON: We could ask her outright if she’s hiding something, push her
to the answer.
JASMINE: I do not advise this course of action. If we break her, she
won’t say anything and there’s little chance we could be allowed to use
more direct methods of interrogation. We must continue slowly. Wait before
we know more. We need to find out more about Teagan from the others.
ANTON: Whom do you suggest? Evans?
JASMINE: She’s the most obvious choice, yes, but I think someone else
is more likely to give is the right answers. We shall see tomorrow morning.

They found Adrian Adamowicz in a public gym, working out. As he

glimpsed them, he frowned. “Can it wait a minute?” he said instead of
greeting them.
Gaillard shrugged. They waited for Adamowicz outside while he finished
exercising and shower. They were sure he was deliberately taking time.
They didn’t really mind; they could continue working in the meantime. If
he thought he was going to upset them, he was wrong. Moreover, it took a
lot of effort to upset most doubles.
They reviewed his statement shortly; then Gaillard changed the topic
suddenly. “Do you know where this complex is located?”
Adamowicz looked surprised. “Should I?”
 “We’re inside a large impact crater named Othello, after the protagonist
of the Shakespeare’s play. I’m sure you know the story.”
“Of course I do. But why the hell are you talking about it?”
“It’s a story about jealousy,” said Gaillard. “Any resemblances?”
“What are you trying to say?!”
“You had one more reason to hate Hayden than what he did to you.”
Gaillard saw clearly that they were right but finished anyway: “How he
behaved to Teagan was even more important to you.”
Adamowicz’s lower lip started trembling. “So what?” he spoke finally.
“Mr. Adamowicz, I have a reason to worry about Teagan Byrne’s safety.
You can help me—and her—if you answer a few questions.”
“How do I know you’re not trying to pin the murder on her?”
“She already told me she didn’t do it. And she cannot lie, as you know.”
He hesitated for a moment. “Okay. Ask me and let’s see if I can—and
want to—answer.”
“Why was Teagan staying with the circus?”
“I dunno. I tried to ask her a couple of times… I guess Hayden had
something on her. Like on all of us. Or maybe she was just scared. He knew
how to frighten the hell out of people…”
“She didn’t like talking with you?”
“Can you imagine talking about our daily reality in life with Hayden?
And any small talk would seem like avoiding this… Nadir and Mandisa
could somehow overcome it—though I have a suspicion that Mandisa only
stayed close to Nadir to lure money from him. He adores her. And she’d do
anything to get money for her surgeries. So—no, we haven’t talked much.”
Adamowicz produced a bitter frown. “Although it got worse some months
ago. Teagan just… behaved oddly at some times. She’d look at me
strangely, forget about things that happened just the day before, act
confused or upset, almost like a different person sometimes. But what we
were going through was enough to change everyone.”
“Oh,” Gaillard whispered. “Of course.”

A. J. Gaillard found Teagan back in the bar where she had gazed outside
three days ago. She sat at the exact same place, her face turned to the
hypnotizing landscape and skyscape of Oberon.
“A beautiful view, isn’t it?” Jasmine said softly as she took the chair
besides Byrne.
 Teagan gave a lurch, then looked at Gaillard with relief. “I’m sorry. I
wasn’t expecting you. But yes, it is. One would almost be tempted to take a
stroll.”
“I know. When we were transferred here, it was almost painful to know
the beauty outside and be unable to walk there without a heavy suit. We
were born on Earth. This came as a sort of a shock. But it’s got some
advantages. Uranus above the horizon is one of the most captivating sights
I’ve ever seen. We got used to living here. After all, humans are resistant
creatures. We can get used to nearly everything.”
Byrne gave her a bitter look. “Not everything.”
“No,” Gaillard agreed with her. “But there are plenty of psychological
strategies how to deal with extreme situations. We still don’t understand all
of them. It’s hard to predict when and in whom they’d manifest or what
makes certain people susceptible—like aftereffects of modifying gone
wrong.”
The girl didn’t move. Now, thought Anton, reading her physiological
response. Ask her.
“I’d like to talk with Hayden’s killer now, Teagan.”
Byrne flinched. “But –”
“You know who killed him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“It must have been challenging for you to circle around this answer for so
long. But you never told me a lie—always just a part of the truth. Please.
Let me talk to her.”
“I can’t control it –” started Byrne but suddenly froze for a second. When
she looked at the inspector again, Gaillard could read from subtle signs that
they’d be talking to a different person now.
“How did you know?” the girl said in a slightly mocking tone.
“All the questions about multiple identities, careful circling about exact
answers at some times… It just took a hint to help us see that.”
“What are you gonna do now? Arrest me? Along with Teagan…” Her
gray eyes narrowed. “I did it for her. Well, for both of us—and everyone
else Hayden ever harmed and was going to harm. It was an act of charity, so
to say.”
“Was it planned?”
“Yes. I decided some time ago that Hayden’s death was necessary. I just
needed to take control at the right take. It finally came here. I suppose you
wanna hear the rest, don’t you? Hayden was waiting for me—for Teagan.
When there weren’t customers, he liked to take advantage of her himself.
Or I should say of me. I think I originated in one of those moments… or
when he sent his clients to her and they kept asking her if she liked it,
knowing she could not lie… I was so angry. He deserved this. He was lucky
he had it that easy—but I didn’t want to be caught above his dead body. I
came in as expected. Hayden was sitting on the bed. He asked if I was
looking forward to it. The usual answer was no, which only served to turn
him on… I said yes, smiled and drew the knife on him. He was completely
surprised. I held his mouth so he wouldn’t scream. When I thought it was
safe to leave him be, I saw he was grinning like a maniac. He managed to
whisper so you learned to lie… I waited til I thought it was certainly over
and then left quickly.”
The girl across the table reached for her glass and sipped the drink. She
didn’t stop looking at Gaillard even for a moment.
“Now tell me—what’s going to happen to me? And Teagan?” she asked
calmly as she put the glass back.
“There will be a trial but I have no doubt that the judge will take all the
mitigating circumstances into account,” responded Gaillard. “However, in
your case, the law isn’t specific. There’s a chance Teagan will be given a
choice—either go to jail for some time, or sign consent with certain
modifying. I’m afraid your consent won’t be asked for. The law doesn’t
deal with multiple identities except those artificially induced.”
“So I’ll most likely be erased,” noted the girl. She produced a wry grin.
“Well, why not. I’ve done all I ever wanted to accomplish. And she’ll be
better off without me. You know how it is, don’t you? We’re mere shadows
compared to ordinary humans…” She picked up the glass again and
finished the drink. Afterwards, her grin changed almost into a smile. “Good
night, Inspector.”
Then Teagan was suddenly back, trembling heavily and sobbing.
A. J. Gaillard wasn’t sure what to do now. Any words, any action… They
couldn’t make it any easier.
They looked outside as if searching for help. But all they saw was the
dreamlike beauty of the alien landscape and a frightened girl’s face
reflected in the darkened glass.
First published here.
 The Symphony of Ice and Dust

I have a fond, nostalgic relationship with this story. In a way, it’s what
propelled me to really start writing in English. In spring 2013, I decided to
try if I can do it. Once I’d finished it, I sent it to Clarkesworld… and after
some anxiety-filled waiting, it was accepted. Beginner’s luck, I guess—but it
was great motivation to continue, which ultimately landed me in
Clarkesworld, Asimov’s, Analog and other magazines repeatedly.
I combined two motifs that had occurred to me independently in this
story: a ship whose crew’s life purpose is music, and setting a story on the
dwarf planet Sedna, whose revolution around the sun takes nearly ten
thousand years. Just imagine the exploration missions divided by the vast
gap of time…
As Douglas Adams wrote in his Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy, space
is big. You just won't believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is.
And it’s true not just about interstellar or even intergalactic distances,
but also within planetary systems. Sedna is a prime example of that.
When Mike Brown and his team discovered it back in 2003, it was 90 au
from the Sun—ninety times as far from it as the Earth. Thrice as far as
Neptune. But on its extremely elongated orbit, it reaches over 940 au away.
What could have caused its eccentric orbit? Some options are mentioned in
the story. Another appeared a few years ago in a paper by Batygin and
Brown: A potential ninth planet on the periphery of our system. Sedna is
only one of a larger group of highly eccentric and/or inclined bodies hinting
at its presence. However, it hasn’t been spotted yet, and the search
continues.
In 2076, Sedna reaches its perihelion and will be “mere” 76 au from the
Sun. A wonderful opportunity to send at least a flyby spacecraft there, don’t
you think?
Also relatively recently, the New Horizons probe surprised us by
magnificent images of Pluto and its moons. No one had expected such a
diverse landscape on the icy world before. Pluto has shown us that even
objects were far from the Sun can host interesting active geology, caused
either by changes of insolation during the eccentric orbit (not speaking of
Pluto’s inclined rotation axis), or for instance the presence of a freezing
subsurface ocean leaving a thin layer of brine deep within the dwarf planet.
Sedna could be a much more extreme case. What would its exploration tell
us about the history of the solar system?
One thing is certain: Some people will inevitably be as lured to it as
Theodora, Dimitri or the crew of Orpheus, and hopefully, this curiosity will
lead to dispatching a mission toward this strange dwarf planet.
I wonder what we’ll see there.

“It’s going to be the greatest symphony anyone has ever composed,” said
Jurriaan. “Our best work. Something we’ll be remembered for in the next
millennia. A frail melody comprised of ice and dust, of distance and cold. It
will be our masterpiece.”
Chiara listened absently and closed her eyes. Jurriaan had never touched
ice, seen dust, been able to imagine real-world distances or experienced
cold. Everything he had was his music. And he was one of the best; at least
among organic minds.
Sometimes she felt sorry for him.
And sometimes she envied him.
She imagined the world waiting for them, strange, freezing, lonely and
beautiful, and a moment came when she could not envy Jurriaan his gift—
or his curse—at all. She checked with Orpheus how long the rest of the
journey would last. The answer was prompt.
In three days, we will approach Sedna.
Chiara decided to dream for the rest of the voyage.

Her dreams were filled with images, sounds, tastes, smells and emotions.
Especially emotions. She felt the inner Oort cloud before she had even
stepped outside the ship. Orpheus slowly fed her with some of the gathered
data and her unique brain made a fantastical dream of nearly all of it.
When Chiara woke up, she knew that they were orbiting Sedna and
sending down probes. Orpheus had taken care of it, partly from the ship’s
own initiative, partly because of Manuel. The Thinker of their mission was
still unconscious, but actively communicating with Orpheus through his
interface.
She connected to the data stream from the first probe which had already
landed and recorded everything. Sedna… We are the first here at least since
the last perihelion more than eleven thousand years ago. It feels like an
overwhelming gap—and yet so close!
It almost filled her eyes with tears. Chiara was the Aesthete of their group
by the Jovian Consortium standards. Feeling, sensing and imagining things
was her job—as well as it was Manuel’s job to primarily go through hard
data, connect the dots, think everything through, even the compositions, the
results of their combined effort—and Jurriaan’s job to focus on nothing but
the music.
She sent a mental note to Manuel. When can we go to the surface?
The response was immediate. When I conclude it’s safe.
Safe is bad. It’s stripped of fear, awe, even of most of the curiosity! I need
them to work properly, they’re essential. Let me go there first.
All right, he replied.
Chiara smiled a little. She learned to use logic to persuade Manuel long
ago—and most of the times she was successful.
As she was dressing in the protective suit, a memory of a similar moment
some years ago came to her and sent a shiver through her body. It was on Io
and she stayed on the surface far too long even for her highly augmented
body to withstand. When it became clear that she’d need a new one because
of the amount of received radiation, she decided to give that one at least an
interesting death—and she let it boil and melt near one of the volcanoes.
Although her new brain was a slightly inadequate copy of the last one,
thanks to the implants she remembered the pain—and then nothing, just a
curious observation of the suit and her body slowly disintegrating—as if it
happened to this very body.
She didn’t intend to do anything like that here. No; here she perceived a
cold and fragile beauty. There should be no pain associated to it, no horror.
Fear, maybe. Awe, definitely yes. Standing there on the icy surface, the Sun
a mere bright star, darkness everywhere—she ought to feel awe.
Chiara felt she had a good chance of being the first human being who
ever stood on Sedna. The dwarf planet was nearing its perihelion now, still
almost a hundred astronomical units from the Sun, and there were no
reports of any expeditions before them during the recent period.
 When the lander touched the surface of Sedna, she stayed inside for a
little while, getting used to the alien landscape around her. It had a strange
sense of tranquility to it. Chiara was used to the icy moons of the Jovian
system which she called home, but this landscape was far smoother than
what she knew from there. It was also darker—and an odd shade of brown-
red.
She turned off the lander’s lights and stepped outside through the airlock,
into the darkness.
It wasn’t a complete darkness. But the Sun was not currently visible from
this side of the dwarf planet and it felt like being lonelier, further away than
ever before. She was able to see the disc of the galaxy clearer than from
anywhere else she had been to.
She knelt and slowly touched the surface with one of her suit’s haptic
gloves.
We’ve found something, Chiara, suddenly Manuel’s voice resonated in
her head. See for yourself.
He sent her a mental image of a couple of objects not deep beneath the
icy surface found by one of the numerous little probes. The biggest one
resembled a ship. A small, stumpy, ancient-looking ship, unmistakably of a
human origin. They were not the first.
But these must have come here a very long time ago.
And a few miles further and far beneath it, another shape was discovered
by their sensors. A bigger, stranger shape.
Probably from much, much longer ago than the first one…

It took less than an hour to drill through the ice to the first ship. Getting
inside it then was a matter of minutes.
Chiara saw the two bodies as the probes approached them. Both dead—
but almost intact. One male, one female. The probes suggested the small
chambers they found them inside were probably designed for cryosleep.
They must have been prepared for the procedure or already frozen when
they died.
The ship was long dead too but that didn’t constitute much of a problem
for the probes. They quickly repaired the computers and what was left of
the data.
 They found the ship’s logs and sent it to the crew of Orpheus even before
others had time to drill deep enough to reach the other object.
Chiara was back aboard at the time they opened the file and heard the
voice of the long gone woman.

I think I don’t have much time left. I have no means of getting from here
in time. But I know that there will be others who come here to explore. I
hope you find this. I’m telling our story for you.
Ten days ago, I discovered something… —wait, let me start from the
beginning.

***

“How is it going, love?”

Theodora smiled while unscrewing another panel on the probe. “Good.
Suppose we could use this one tomorrow on the last picked site. I’ve got
just one more bug to repair.”
She was wearing a thin suit, protecting her in the vacuum and cold of the
storage chamber, very flexible and quite comfortable compared to EVA
suits. Despite that, she’d prefer to be outside the ship, walking on the
surface of Triton which Kittiwake was orbiting for more than two years
now.
Kittiwake was a small ship, but sufficient for sustaining two people
aboard even for a couple of decades if necessary. Provided enough
hydrogen, easily extractable practically everywhere, its bimodal MITEE
could function for half a century without any serious problems. If one
element failed, it still had many others and could push the ship forward with
a good specific impulse and a decent thrust while also providing the
electrical energy needed by the ship.
Now the mission on Triton was nearing its end. Theodora didn’t know
whether to be happy and relieved that she and her husband would finally
return to Earth, after so many years of isolation, or sad that she wouldn’t
ever see this remarkable place again.
When she was done with the ice-drilling probe, she went through several
airlocks to the habitation deck. It was tiny, but sufficient enough for hers
and Dimitri’s needs.
 “It seems we have a word from the outside world,” her husband smiled as
she entered the cabin. “Kittiwake just picked it up.”
After checking the signal for malware, the ship automatically showed
them the recording. The face of their superior, OSS Mission Supervisor
Ronald Blythe, appeared on the screen. He congratulated them for their
results on Triton and mentioned that a window for another long-term
scientific expedition was opening. Theodora’s stomach rocked. She was
eager to find out. But still… a new expedition would mean yet more years
away from the rest of humanity. The company picked her and Dimitri
because they were a stable, non-conflict couple with steady personalities
and a lot of technical and scientific experience. They were supposed to be
able to spend years without any other human contact in a tiny space of their
ship, exploring the outer solar system, without a chance for a vacation,
without feeling the Earth’s gravity, smells, wind… However, we had a
contract for eight years. The time’s almost up. Are they proposing to
prolong it? And what for? thought Theodora.
“Last week, we received a signal from Nerivik 2.”
“Isn’t it the probe sent to Sedna in the eighties that stopped transmitting
before it reached an orbit?” murmured Theodora.
It was. Blythe went on explaining how they lost contact with the probe
for more than ten years and suddenly, out of thin air, it sent out a signal five
days ago. Scientists at the FAST observatory who picked up the signal by
accident were a bit surprised, to put it mildly. They began analyzing it
immediately—and fortunately didn’t keep intercepting the transmission for
themselves.
“And the findings were… weird. It became clear that the probe lost its
orbit, crashed, but probably regained control of its thrusters shortly before
the crash and tried to change the collision into a landing. It was just
damaged. It’s possible that it kept transmitting most of the time, but without
aiming the signal, the probability of reaching any receivers in the system
was very low. However, it probably had time to send down its two landers
before the crash. They kept measuring all they were supposed to record—
and among other tasks, they tried mapping the ice layer. That’s where it
became really strange.”
Theodora listened avidly as Blythe started explaining. Her interest grew
every second.
 The ultrasonic pulses showed an intriguing structure some two hundred
meters below surface. It could not be told how large it was, but it had at
least one hundred meters in diameter; maybe a lot more. The signature
seemed like metal.
Blythe included the data in the transmission so that Theodora was able to
look at it while he was speaking. It really was strange. It could have been a
part of a metal-rich rock layer. But what would it be doing on Sedna? The
dwarf planet was supposed to have a thick largely icy layer composed
mostly of methane, nitrogen, ethane, methanol, tholins and water ice.
Nothing even remotely like this. Maybe a big metal-rich meteorite buried in
the ice crust after an impact then?
“We don’t know what it is, or even if the measurement was correct. But it
surely is interesting. It would be desirable to send a manned mission there.
This looks like a situation that needs more resourcefulness and
improvisations than robots can do,” continued Blythe.
And for this, they needed someone with an expertise of frozen bodies of
the outer solar system; someone stable, resourceful and determined; and of
course, preferably someone whom the journey would take around five
instead of ten years. Sedna was still quite near its perihelion, but growing
away slowly every year. In short: They needed someone like two
experienced workers closing their successful mission on Neptune’s icy
moon Triton.
“… of course, I cannot force you into this. But with prolonging the
contract, you’ll receive extra money for such a long stay on your own and
all the associated risks. I attach the new version of your contract to this
message. I expect your answer in three days.”
Theodora didn’t have to look at the document to know the bonuses would
be large; almost unimaginably large. There were medical risks associated
with long-term radiation exposure, dangerous activities, immense psychical
pressure, stay in microgravitation and above all, the cryosleep necessary to
travel so far away without losing many years just by the voyage itself.
But it wasn’t the money that primarily tempted her to accept the contract.
Theodora and Dimitri looked at each other expectantly. “Well,” she broke
the silence first, “looks like we’re gonna take a rather long nap; do you
agree?”

*
 Theodora shivered. At the first moment, she felt exposed and frightened
without any obvious reason, which was even worse. Then she remembered;
she was in the cryosleep chamber and slowly awakening. They must be near
Sedna now.
“Dimi?” she croaked. There was no reply, although the ship was
supposed to transmit every conversation to the other chamber—which
meant that Dimitri hadn’t achieved consciousness yet.
It took Theodora another hour before she could gather her thoughts well
enough to start going through the data. When she was in the middle of
checking their velocity and trajectory, the speaker in the chamber came
alive: “Darling? Are you awake?”
“Yes, how are you?”
“Well, nothing’s better than a good long sleep!”
Theodora laughed. Her throat burned and she still felt a bit stiff, but she
couldn’t stop. They actually were there; further than any human beings ever
before!

In the next couple of days, Dimitri and Theodora had little time to rest
although they didn’t do anything physically demanding and were still
recovering from the cryosleep. First they searched for and found the
Nerivik 2 crash site and the two nearby stationed landers. The ice in the
area seemed different from other sites, as if it had been gradually modified
by inner volcanic activity. That explained why Nerivik 2 sent both its
landers there in the first place. Kittiwake sent down a probe, continued
mapping the surface and after that sent a few other probes on different
locations. It was a standard procedure, but it needed a lot of time.
When the first results from the probe near Nerivik 2 arrived, Dimitri sat
still for a moment and then found his voice and called: “Dora! You must
come see this.”
The readings were peculiar. The object buried almost two hundred meters
below the surface seemed a bit like an asteroid now, more than a hundred
meters in diameter in one direction and over five hundred in the other.
According to the ultrasonic pulses data, its shape seemed conical and the
layer reflecting the pulses quite smooth. A very unusual asteroid indeed.
 “What do you think it is?”
Theodora shrugged. “Don’t know—and can’t very well imagine, to be
precise. Until it’s proven otherwise, I’m betting on an asteroid, albeit a
weird one. But let’s find out soon.”
“I’ll send down the drilling machinery, shall I? Or do you propose to wait
for even more readings?”
“Send it.”
Kittiwake had two major drilling devices—three before Triton—and one
backup machine. Theodora and Dimitri decided to send two at once. It was
riskier, but they wanted to compare the data from an area with the anomaly
and from another place chosen because of its similar surface structures. The
equipment was old but reliable and lived through many more or less
improvisational repairs.
At the end of the first day of drilling, they reached almost thirty meters
below surface. On day three, they were about one hundred meters deep. On
day four, the probe got through almost one hundred and fifty meters of ice
and stopped.

Theodora had the uncomfortable feeling of vertigo as every time she

performed telemetric control. She guided the repair drone carefully to the
drilling probe’s main panel. She felt strangely dissociated with her body
when the robot picked the cover and she felt as if it were her arms raising it
and putting it aside. There she was. “Oh, not this,” she sighed.
No wonder Dimitri had no success trying to get the probe running again
from here. It was no software bug, temporary failure or anything the self-
repair systems could handle. Most of the processors were fried and needed
replacing. The repair drone didn’t have all of the components. They could
send them down during some of the next orbit. But—
She lost her connection to the drone, as Kittiwake disappeared over the
horizon from the drone’s perspective, before she could end it herself. She
gasped. It felt as if her limb had been cut off. She gulped and tried to
concentrate again.
Yes, they could send the parts down. But Theodora feared that although
the drone itself had more than sufficient AI for common repairs and had all
the blueprints in its memory, it might overlook something else, something
an AI would not notice and that might cause future trouble. She’d not be
happy if they had to replace the processors again, like it happened once on
Triton. She could control the drone from distance again, but there was no
chance she could achieve that much precision and look everywhere through
telemetry.
Well, they wanted to initiate manned exploration anyway. It would just
have to be sooner than expected.

Dimitri watched Theodora’s descent. He knew that she performed similar

procedures many times before—but that never prevented him from
worrying.
The view distorted as Kittiwake started losing connection. In another
thirty minutes or so, they would be out of range, so Dimitri moved the ship
to a stationary orbit above her. The two satellites were operational and
deployed on an equatorial and polar orbits would continue to scan the rest
of the surface. He could have made them relay stations, but he liked being
able to communicate directly with Theodora, her landing module, her rover
and the drilling probe. Fewer things could go wrong. And after years spent
so far from Earth, they knew that things often went wrong.
He gave the engine command for more thrust and checked on the planned
stationary transfer orbit. Everything seemed fine for a while.
Until a red light flashed next to the screen and a warning presented itself.

Theodora was descending through the tunnel in the ice. It was dark
except the light from LEDs on her suit and the reflectors from the top of the
shaft. Her rope was winding down gradually. She could see the drilling
device below now.
The light above seemed faint when she reached the probe. It took her
only an hour to get it operational again. She smiled and let the winch pull
her up again.
Just as she neared the surface, she heard a noise in the speakers of her
suit. “Dimitri?” she spoke. “What is it?”
“Have to… come down…”
She barely understood him through the static.
 “Dimitri!”
For a while, she heard nothing. Then the static returned—and after that,
Dimitri’s distorted voice. “… have to land.” Cracking and humming.
Theodora tried to amplify the sound frantically. “… send you the
coordinates… hope it works out…”
A file found its way through the transmission. It was a technical report
generated by Kittiwake. Theodora opened it and glimpsed through it
quickly.
“Oh no,” she whispered.

Dimitri was doing his best to lead the remains of the ship on a trajectory
ending with something that would approximate a landing more than a crash.
It was less than twenty minutes from the moment he accelerated
Kittiwake to reach the transfer orbit but it seemed like an eternity. During
that time, a warning indicated that the main turbine in the ship’s power
station was not working properly. He ran a more detailed scan and a
moment later, everything was flashing with error reports.
The turbine in the power cycle broke down. It was tested for signs of
wearing down regularly, but a hairline crack might have been overlooked in
the control. The ship was moving with inertia most of the journey, the crack
could have expanded during the deceleration phase and ruptured now, when
the engine was working a little more again.
Things could go wrong. And they went wrong. Worse even, one of the
blades pierced the coating of the reactor and the heated helium-xenon gas
started leaking rapidly. The damage was too much for the automated repair
systems. It was still leaking into the space between the coatings.
And the reactor itself was overheating quickly. Once the turbine stopped
working, the gas still trapped in the cycle kept getting more and more heat
from the MITEE—but couldn’t continue through the cycle and cool down.
It was not critical yet, but would be in another couple of minutes. Dimitri
sent all the repair drones to help the built-in repair and emergency systems
but could see that it was not enough. He had also shut down the MITEE and
all the rods were now safely turned to stop the reaction. It still wasn’t
enough. The overheating continued and could lead to an explosion. It could
happen in a few minutes if not cooled down quickly.
 It was just a way life went. Nothing serious happened in years and
suddenly he’s got minutes.
He knew there was only one thing to do. So he gave a command for the
valves in the outer reactor coating to open. Then all the gas would leak
outside. The ship would be useless without it, but it was the better one of
two bad scenarios.
So far, only a minute had elapsed from the breakdown.
In the next few seconds, things went from bad to worse.
“Shit,” exhaled Dimitri as he felt the Kittiwake start spinning. One of the
valves must have been stuck, so that the gas started leaking outside in just
one direction. It quickly sent the ship into rotation.
Dimitri tried to compensate it with thrusters on both RCSs, but then
Kittiwake shook hideously and then many of the screens went down. He
realized what happened.
The rotation was too much. The ship was never constructed for this.
There was too much tension in wrong direction… She tore apart.
Still coping with the rotation, he checked the systems. He was right. The
engine section was gone. He was lucky that the habitation section was still
operating almost normally. There was his chance.
This section’s reaction control system was apparently still working. The
RCS’s thrusters were small, but it was all he had.
He tested them with a short blast. Actually working; good. He used them
to provide a little more distance from the other remains of the ship and then
reviewed his situation calmer. He had to land if he wanted to live; and he
needed to do it quickly, otherwise he’d drift into space with no means of
correcting his trajectory.
He smiled rather sadly.
About twenty minutes after the turbine breakdown, Dimitri was now
leading the rest of the ship down on Sedna and praying he could actually
land instead of crashing.
“Dora?” he called. He hoped she’d pick up the transmission. “Dora, can
you hear me? The reactor had a breakdown and the ship tore apart! I’m left
with our section’s remains. I have to come down…”

*
 Theodora was driving her rover frantically to the landing site. She could
not contact Dimitri, but that didn’t mean anything; the antenna could have
been damaged, while most of the ship could be perfectly fine. It’s all right.
He is fine.
She wished she could go faster, but as on most ice-rocky bodies, Sedna’s
surface could be treacherous. It had far fewer cracks or ridges than Europa
or Ganymede and was actually very smooth compared to them, but it was
still an alien landscape, not resembling anything on Earth at all. Himalaya’s
glaciers were children’s toys compared to Sedna. The perspective was
wrong, the measures were wrong, the shadows were wrong; it wasn’t a land
fit for human eyes and spatial recognition.
Finally, she approached the site. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw
the habitation section in the lights of the rover. It seemed almost intact.
She ran to the nearest reachable airlock. It was still functioning; she
could get inside.
It didn’t look as if the ship had been through a bad accident. The corridor
looked nearly normal. Everything was strapped or permanently fixed
anyway, so a sight of total chaos wasn’t to be expected. However, most of
the systems were disabled, as she found out by logging into the network.
The door of the control room opened in front of her, a little damaged, but
working.
“Dimitri!”
He found time to get in an emergency suit and was safely strapped in his
chair. Good. Theodora leaned to him. He looked unconscious. She logged
into his suit and read the data quickly.
Time of death… Suit’s healthcare mechanisms could not help…
“Oh, Dimitri,” she croaked. Her throat was dry and she felt tears coming
to her eyes. She forced them down. No time for this. Not now. She must do
what he’d do in her place.
She moved his body in the suit to the cryosleep chamber. Once she
managed it there, she ran a similar procedure as they had gone through
many times before. Only this time it was slightly different, designed to keep
a dead brain as little damaged as possible, in a state usable for later
scanning of the neural network. Theodora knew that her Dimitri was gone;
but they could use this data, complete it by every tiny bit of information
available about his life, and create a virtual personality approximating
Dimitri. He wouldn’t be gone so… completely.
 After that, she checked on the ship’s systems again. No change
whatsoever. Nothing needed her immediate attention now, at least for a
short while.
She leaned on a wall and finally let the tears come.

This is a part of an older log, but I don’t want to repeat all that happened
to me… I must go to sleep soon.
Kittiwake is dead now, as is Dimitri. I could do nothing in either case.
I’ve got only one option, a quite desperate one. I have to equip my landing
module in a way that it could carry me home. We went through this
possibility in several emergency scenarios; I know what to do and that I can
do it.
Of course, I’ll have to spend the journey awake. The module hasn’t got
any cryosleep chamber and the one from the ship cannot be moved. But if
the recycling systems work well, I can do it. I’ve got enough rations for
about five years if I save the food a little. It doesn’t get me anywhere near
Earth, but I looked through the possible trajectories into the inner solar
system and it could get me near Saturn if I leave here in three weeks, before
this window closes. If I don’t make it in this time, I’m as well as dead. But
let’s suppose I make it, I must… During the journey, I can contact Earth and
another ship, even if only an automatic one with more supplies and
equipment, could meet me on the way. I’ll get home eventually.
If I succeed in rebuilding the landing module for an interplanetary
journey. No one actually expected this to happen, but here I am. I must try.

The next few days were busy. Theodora kept salvaging things from
Kittiwake and carefully enhancing the module’s systems. In most cases,
enhancement was all she needed. Then she had to get rid of some parts
needed only for the purposes of landing and surface operations—and finally
attach the emergency fuel tanks and generate the fuel.
The module had a classical internal combustion engine. High thrust, but
despairingly high need of fuel.
Fortunately, she was surrounded by methane and water ice—and purified
liquid methane and oxygen were just the two things she needed. Once she
got the separation and purification cycle running, the tanks were slowly
being refilled. At least this was working as it should.
She’d very much like to let Earth know about the accident, but she
couldn’t. Most of the relay stations were behind the Sun from her
perspective now and the rest was unreachable by a weak antenna on the
module; the one on the ship was too badly damaged. The Earth would know
nothing about this until she’s on her way back.
The plan seemed more and more feasible each day. She clung to it like to
what it really was—her only chance of surviving.
When a message that the drilling probe had reached its target depth and
stopped drilling appeared on the screen of her helmet, Theodora was
confused for a couple of seconds before she realized what it was about. It
seemed like a whole different world—mapping the surface from above,
sending probes… In the last three days, she had little sleep and focused on
her works on the module only. She had completely forgotten about the
probe.
Well, after she checks the fuel generators again, she should have some
time to look at it, she was well ahead of the schedule. After all, true
explorers didn’t abandon their goals even in times of great distress.

I’m glad I decided to have a look at it. Otherwise I’d die desperate and
hopeless. Now, I’m strangely calm. It’s just what a discovery like this does
with you. It makes you feel small. The amazement and awe…

Theodora couldn’t believe the results until she personally got down the
shaft into a small space the probe had made around a part of the thing.
She stood in the small ice cave, looking at it full of wonder. She dared
not touch it yet.
The surface was dark and smooth. Just about two square meters of it
were uncovered; the rest was still surrounded by ice. According to the
measurements, the thing was at least five hundred meters long and had a
conic shape. There was no doubt that she’d discovered… a ship.

*
 You cannot possibly imagine the feeling until you’re right there. And I
wasn’t even expecting it. It was… I cannot really describe it. Unearthly.
Wonderful. Amazing. Terrifying. All that and much more, mixed together.
I gave the alien ship every single moment I could spare. My module
needed less and less tending to and I had almost two weeks until the flight
window would close.
I named her Peregrine. It seemed appropriate to me. This wasn’t a small
interplanetary ship like Kittiwake; this bird could fly a lot faster. But still…
she seemed too small to be an interstellar vessel, even if this was only a
habitation section and the engines were gone.
It was probably the greatest discovery in all human history yet. Just too
bad I didn’t have a chance to tell anyone. I really hope someone’s listening.

Theodora directed all resources she didn’t vitally need for her module to
Peregrine. Only a day after her initial discovery, the probes picked up
another strange shape buried in the ice not far from the ship.
When they also reached it, Theodora was struck with wonder. It was
clearly an engine section!
While she worked on her module, she kept receiving new data about it
and everything suggested that Peregrine used some kind of fusion drive; at
this first glance not far more advanced than human engine systems. It
seemed to her even more intriguing than if she had found something
completely unknown.

I was eventually able to run a radiometric dating of ice surrounding the

ship. The results suggest that she landed here some two-hundred and fifty
million years ago. The ice preserved it well. But I must wonder… what were
they doing here? Why have they come to our solar system—and why just
this once? Although I don’t understand a lot of what I see, the ship doesn’t
seem that much sophisticated to me. Maybe it’s even something we could
manage to make. But why use something like this to interstellar travel? With
too little velocity, they’d never make it here in fewer than hundreds of years
even if they came from the Alpha Centauri system!
 Unless… the distance was smaller. We still don’t know the history of the
solar system in much detail. It’s supposed that Sedna’s orbit was disturbed
by passing of another star from an open cluster, where the Sun probably
originated, about eight hundred astronomical units away not long after the
formation of our system.
But what if an event like this occurred more times? Could it possibly have
been also a quarter of a billion years ago? Just about any star on an
adequate trajectory could have interfered with the solar system. In some
million and half years, Gliese 710 should pass through the Oort cloud. We
wouldn’t have much evidence if an event like this happened in a distant past
—only some perturbed orbits and more comet and asteroid bombardment of
the planets later.
Hundreds AU is still a great distance, but surely not impossible. Hell, I’m
almost one hundred AU from the Sun now, although I haven’t traveled the
whole distance at one time. If we used a gravity assist from the Sun, we
could overcome even distance of a thousand AU within a decade only! They
could have done it too, maybe hoping to reach the inner part of the system,
but something had prevented them. And possibly the very first object they
encountered, quite near their own star at the time, was a frozen dwarf
planet from about a hundred to almost a thousand AU far from the Sun, sent
on its eccentric orbit by an earlier passing star and now disturbed again.
They must have been lucky that Sedna wasn’t captured by their star at the
time. Or could it have been that theirs was the original star that deviated
Sedna’s orbit that much? Anyway, they’d have had to cross hundreds AU,
but that’s doable. If we had a sufficient motivation, we could manage a lot
more.
Let’s assume for a moment that my crazy hypothesis is right…
Then, I wonder what kind of motivation they had.

It happened three days before her planned departure.

She was at the surface at the time, which might have saved her life—or
rather prolonged it.
The quakes came without any warning. She was getting a little sleep in
her rover when it woke her up. Four, maybe five points on the Richter scale,
Theodora guessed. Her throat was suddenly very, very dry.
 The fuel generators…
After the quake stopped, she went to check on them. Overcoming the
little distance between her and them seemed to take an eternity; new cracks
formed in the ice.
When she saw them, Theodora knew she ought to feel anger, panic or
desperation. But she just felt impossibly tired.
Two of the tanks were completely destroyed and the generators were
damaged. She performed a more detailed control anyway but the result did
not surprise her.
They couldn’t be repaired; not in time. Maybe in months… but she’d be
too late in less than a week.
She sat back in the rover, exhausted but suddenly very, very calm. What
was a threat a while ago was a certainty now. She wasn’t going to make it
and she knew it.
The best what she could do was to use her remaining time as effectively
as she was able to.

When I’m done here, I’ll freeze myself. But this time I’ll set the… final
cryogenic procedure.
If you found us and it’s not too late… Well, we might talk again.

The original shaft was destroyed by the quake, but she used the
remaining probe, continued drilling with a maximum achievable speed and
kept measuring the ice layer via the ultrasonics. While these processes were
running, Theodora tried to find out more about Peregrine. She was able to
get spectroscopic readings which suggested that its surface consisted mainly
of titanium, however, she couldn’t read all the spectral characteristics; the
alloy seemed to have many components.
She also obtained more results on the thickness of the ice crust. The
probe got almost two kilometers deep. Its results suggested that a liquid
ocean beneath the layer might be possible—maybe fifteen, maybe twenty
kilometers deeper than she was now. Theodora knew she’d never live to see
a definitive answer; but these measurements might still be useful for
someone else. If they could intercept her message.
 She tried several times to send the data back to Earth, but she knew the
chances too well to be even a little optimistic, although she salvaged a
bigger antenna from Nerivik 2. But the transmitter was still rather weak and
the aim far too inadequate. Without reaching relay stations, her message
would become a cosmic noise, nothing more. The most reliable way to let
the humanity see the data someday was to store them here in as many
copies as she could and hope it would suffice. She didn’t have much of an
option.
She kept thinking about the alien ship. If her dating was correct and it
landed here a quarter of a billion years ago, it would vaguely coincide with
the Great Permian-Triassic Extinction Event. It was usually attributed
mostly to geological factors, but there was a possibility of a contribution of
other effects—a disturbance of the Oort cloud and more comets sent to the
inner solar system afterward would do. She was recently able to measure
how long had Peregrine been exposed to cosmic radiation and it seemed to
be just several hundred years unless there was a mistake or some factor she
didn’t know about. There was no chance any ship like this could have come
here from another star system in such extremely short time—unless the star
was really close at the time. It started to make more and more sense to
Theodora, although all she had was still just a speculation.
“And it will remain a speculation until someone else finds us,” she said
aloud, glancing at Peregrine. “But they will. You’ll see.”
However, she wasn’t so sure. Would the company send a new expedition
after they realize that Theodora and Dimitri were not going to ever call
back? It depended mostly on the budget; she was rather pessimistic. And
about other companies or countries, she couldn’t even guess. But Sedna’s
distance would grow each year. Before another mission could be
sufficiently prepared and launched, years would probably pass. And other
years during its voyage. Then even more years on the way back.
She had to admit to herself the possibility that no one was going to
discover them soon—maybe until the next perihelion. So far away in the
future she couldn’t even imagine it.
She looked at the other ship and touched the dark metal surface. But still
closer than how long you had to wait…
“You were shipwrecked here too, am I right?” Theodora managed a little
smile. “Pity that we cannot talk about what happened to us. I’d really like to
hear your story. And it looks like we’re gonna be stuck here together for a
while.” Her smile grew wider, yet more sorrowful at the same time.
“Probably for a long while.”

I hope you found us and heard our story, whoever you are. I really wish
you did.

***

“Very interesting,” said Manuel. “We must report these findings to the
Consortium immediately.”
Without waiting for an approval from Chiara or Jurriaan, he started
mentally assembling a compact data transmission with the help of Orpheus.
In a few minutes, they were prepared to send it.
Nor Chiara, nor Jurriaan objected.
When he was done, Manuel sent them a mental note of what he intended
to do next.
“No!” Chiara burst out. “You cannot! They don’t deserve this kind of
treatment. They died far too long ago for this procedure to be a success. You
won’t revive them; you’ll get pathetic fragments if anything at all! They
were heroes. They died heroes. You cannot do this to them.”
“It has a considerable scientific value. These bodies were preserved in an
almost intact ice, sufficiently deep for shielding most of the radiation. We
have never tried to revive bodies this old—and in such a good condition.
We must do it.”
“He’s right,” interjected Jurriaan. Chiara looked at him in surprise. It was
probably the first thing he had said on this voyage that didn’t involve his
music.
She was outvoted. Even Orpheus expressed a support for Manuel’s
proposal, although the Consortium didn’t give AIs full voting rights.
She left the cabin silently.

It took Manuel several days of an unceasing effort just to prepare the

bodies. He filled them with nanobots and went through the results. He kept
them under constant temperature and atmosphere. He retrieved what he
could from the long dead ship about their medical records.
And then he began performing the procedure. He carefully opened the
skulls, exposed the brains, and started repairing them. There wasn’t much
useful left after eleven thousand years. But with the help of cutting edge
designed bacteria and the nans, there was still a chance of doing a decent
scan.
After another week, he started with that.

Chiara finally felt at peace. Since their rendezvous with Sedna, she felt
filled with various emotions every day and finally she thought she couldn’t
bear it anymore. As she stepped inside Orpheus after the last scheduled visit
of the surface of Sedna, she knew it was the time.
Inside her cabin, she lay down calmly and let Orpheus pump a precisely
mixed cocktail of modulators into her brain. Then Chiara entered her
Dreamland.
She designed this environment herself some decades ago in order to
facilitate the process of creating new musical themes and ideas from her
emotions and memories as effectively as she could. And Chiara felt that the
story of the ancient alien ship, Theodora, Dimitri and Sedna would make
wonderful musical variations. Then it will be primarily Jurriaan’s task to
assemble hers and Manuel’s pieces, often dramatically different, into a
symphony such as the world has never heard. Such that will make them
famous even beyond the Jovian Consortium, possibly both among the
Traditionalists and the Transitioned. They will all remember them.
Chiara smiled and drifted away from a normal consciousness.
During her stay in the Dreamland, Orpheus slowly abandoned the orbit
of Sedna and set on a trajectory leading back to the territory of the Jovian
Consortium. Another expedition, triggered by their reports back, was
already on their way to Sedna, eager to find out more especially about the
alien ship and to drill through the ice crust into the possible inner ocean.
Chiara, Manuel, and Jurriaan had little equipment to explore the ship
safely—but they didn’t regret it. They had everything they needed. Now
was the time to start assembling it all together carefully, piece by piece, like
putting back a shattered antique vase.
 Even Manuel didn’t regret going away from this discovery. He had the
bodies—and trying to revive their personalities now kept most of his
attention. A few days after their departure from Sedna, he finished the
procedure.
Chiara was awake again at the time, the burden of new feelings longing
to be transformed into music gone. She didn’t mind now what Manuel had
done; it would be pointless to feel anything about it after she had already
created her part of the masterpiece.
Manuel first activated the simulation of Dimitri’s personality.
“Where am I? Dora… Dora… Dora,” it repeated like a stuck
gramophone record.
“His brain suffered more damage than hers after he died,” Manuel
admitted. “She had time to go through a fairly common cryopreservation
procedure. However…”
“I’m stuck here. Our reactor broke down and the ship tore apart. There is
too much damage. My husband is dead… But we found something, I have to
pass this message on… But I feel disoriented, what have I finished? Where
am I? What’s happening?” After a while, the female voice started again:
“Have I said this already? I don’t know. I’m stuck here. Our reactor broke
down…”
“They are both mere fragments, a little memories from before death, a
few emotions and almost no useful cognitive capacity. I couldn’t have
retrieved more. Nevertheless, this is still a giant leap forward. Theoretically,
we shouldn’t have been able to retrieve this much after more than eleven
thousand years.”
Chiara listened to the feeble voices of the dead and was suddenly
overwhelmed with sorrow. It chimed every piece of her body and her mind
was full of it. It was almost unbearable. And it was also beautiful.
“It is great indeed,” she whispered.
She didn’t have to say more. Jurriaan learned her thoughts through the
open channel. She knew he was thinking the same. He listened all the time.
In his mind and with help of Orpheus, he kept listening to the recordings
obtained by Manuel, shifting them, changing frequencies, changing them…
making them into a melody.
“Keep a few of their words in it, will you?” Chiara spoke softly.
“Please.”
 I will. They’ll make a great introduction. They will give the listeners a
sense of the ages long gone and of personalities of former humans. And he
immersed into his composition once again. She knew better than to
interrupt him now. In a few days or weeks, he will be done; he’ll have gone
through all her and Manuel’s musical suggestions and come up with a draft
of the symphony. Then it will take feedback from her and Manuel to
complete it. But Jurriaan will have the final say in it. He is, after all, the
Composer.
And after that, they should come up with a proper name. A Symphony of
Ice and Dust, perhaps? And maybe they should add a subtitle. Ghosts of
Theodora and Dimitri Live On Forever? No, certainly not; far too pompous
and unsuitable for a largely classical piece. Voices of the Dead? A Song of
the Shipwrecked?
Or simply: A Tribute.

First published in Clarkesworld (10/2013).

 Dancing An Elegy, His Own
What if it were a part of an artistic performance to distribute mood
enhancers to the audience in order to enable viewers to perceive the show
more intensely and feel more immersed in it? Would you like to try—or are
you terrified or appalled by the notion? In “Dancing An Elegy, His Own”,
the potential audience is divided into two irreconcilable factions, but the
controversial reputation only fuels Van Leeuwen’s Traveling Theatre of Life.
Do visit it—and experience firsthand a secret return from exile, escape
plans and the blurring line between art and manipulation…

The couple dances on the stage in total silence. Lights dim gently, making
the silhouettes nearly invisible in the shadows. Suddenly they stop, a living
statue of affliction. Everyone in the audience holds their breath. The
moment seems to go on forever. They wish it to never end.
But the dancers break it, shatter it to pieces.
The viewers can’t see their faces but they know. A tragedy is taking
place. One of the men is dying; the other mourns him.
Tears can be seen running down the faces across the audience. All people
present feel their deep loss. Quiet music fills the room and tinkles on their
poor overexcited nerves. They stare at the stage helplessly.
Then the tone changes—and a tiny speck of hope appears as the lying
performer extends his arms to his mourning partner with the first uplifting
tones. They both fling themselves into the air and dance frantically,
seemingly not touching the stage beneath their feet at all.
The music culminates. The dancers freeze.
Breaths are being held.
There is a transitional moment of complete silence.
Afterwards, the clapping seems without end. Finally, shaken, exhausted
but overwhelmed people start leaving the auditorium.
They tell their friends and families that the experience was perfect but
would not venture to say more. They wouldn’t find the right words. They all
somehow know it was real and important and in a way more full of life than
their actual life; but they’d never quite wrap it in sentences.
They would all remember it and sometimes go back when they closed
their eyes, reliving the surreal moments. Some would find themselves
obsessed with visiting the theatre again. And again. And again.
For some of them, it might even change their whole lives.

Jakob collapses on the bed. He is breathing heavily, streams of sweat

running down his forehead. He closes his eyes but can’t drift into sleep
despite his exhaustion. The mediators are still working.
“You were fantastic,” Dominic whispers and brushes his face gently. He’s
extremely tired too, both physically and emotionally, but could always cope
better than Jakob. After all, the show means all he has ever lived for.
Van Leeuwen appears in the backstage, grinning. “Congratulations! You
completely blew the Moranians’ minds!”
“Not that hard,” murmurs Jakob.
Van Leeuwen sneers and produces two pills from his left pocket. “There.
You’ll feel back to normal sooner than you realize.”
Jakob takes the pill from his boss and swallows it. His exhaustion almost
immediately begins to drift away, leaving him just with a more pleasant
weariness and satisfaction from a work well done. He can finally fall
asleep.
“Sleep tight,” says Dominic and kisses him on the forehead but Jakob is
dreaming already.
A familiar scene is unfolding in his mind, a memory from a couple of
months ago.
In the evening after an especially demanding performance, he and
Dominic are resting on a terrace high above a strange shining city beneath
three beautifully illuminated small moons. The sight is captivating. Jakob
doesn’t realize the director has stepped outside the flat too until he speaks.
“I finally obtained permission to perform on Morana,” sais Van Leeuwen
casually. “We’re scheduled there two months from now.”
Jakob feels as if his heart has just skipped a beat.
“Aren’t you happy? I thought you wanted us badly to go there,” Van
Leeuwen continues in an impassive tone. “It took rather a lot of greased
pockets to get us past all the restrictions.”
“Of course,” Jakob collects himself. “I’m very grateful to you.”
“That’s good. You should be.”
 A sharp tone appears in Van Leeuwen’s voice this time. You better be
grateful, it is adding.
Dominic presses Jakob’s hand. “I’m glad for you.”
“I just… I didn’t expect it right now.”
“Don’t worry,” smiles Dominic. “We’ll show them how proper theatre is
done. They’ll love us. And you’ll finally see her again, after all those
years.”

The morning after their first performance on Morana, Jakob wakes up

before Dominic does. He slips quietly out of their room and heads to the
river purposefully. The regular boat is waiting there. Jakob buys a ticket and
sits on the upper deck, alone. From time to time, he glances at the stairs
leading there; the sting of fear never quite goes away.
It’s early, the rising sun barely penetrates the cold fog still above the
river. He can hear voices from the nearby market, smell the cooking food,
imagine the people arguing over the price… He would imagine himself
walking there, as if it was his reality just yesterday and he didn’t return here
after more than fifteen painful years of separation.
They bounce off the shore finally. He leaves the tall sleek towers of the
city behind and continues upstream on the small motor boat. The upper
deck is still empty except for him.
Jakob lets out a sigh of relief, lies down on the bench and watches the
sky and bright green branches flow above him. Everything is tranquil. He
wishes it could stay this way; his voyage on the river continuing forever, no
more of Van Leeuwen, dancing, memories, anything.
You were always dreaming so impossible dreams, weren’t you?
An hour later, the boat docks in Minka.
The town hasn’t changed much in fifteen years, Jakob notes. It still seems
quiet, simple, suffocating, even more than when he left it. Since then, he has
visited other worlds, seen life elsewhere and found out that when he called
the system of Morana restricting all these years ago, he had no idea what
restriction meant.
He can see them differently now, all these strangely normal people—no
augments to see anywhere, no trendy modifications, not even something as
innocent as bioluminescent tattoos. When he was growing up, calling for a
change was just a pose. Nowadays he can understand why it’s necessary.
But he still cannot do anything.
Except, maybe, saving at least one of them.
In his plain clothes, Jakob moves through Minka without attracting
unwanted attention. Finally he arrives to a small single-storey house.
Suddenly his throat feels dry. After fifteen years of forced exile, he sees his
home again. He thought he was prepared for the sight but wasn’t quite right.
He forces himself to walk to the door and ring the bell.
The waiting takes long. Jakob concludes she isn’t home and starts turning
reluctantly when the door opens.
The woman speaks: “What can I –” She stops and gives him an
astonished stare. “Oh my god, Jakob… Is it really you?!”
“Yes, it’s me, Olga,” he manages. He blinks to force the sudden tears
down.
She collects herself first. “Come in! They can’t see you here!”
They are silent for a while. Olga busies herself with making him tea. He
watches her back while she stands by the kitchen line. Her movements are
somewhat jerky.
No wonder, he thinks, she didn’t expect to see him again in her life—and
there he is, ringing the doorbell without any previous announcement, an
exiled criminal, the man who protested and almost brought his younger
sister down with him…
“How are the parents?”
He had to ask.
She freezes. “Well,” she says finally. “I don’t see them much. They’re
both living in the city. In separate flats. But I’m not allowed to leave Minka
—as you know.”
So they didn’t pardon her, even after all these years, even though she was
just seventeen when they started the campaign… It shouldn’t come to him
as a surprise.
Olga brings the steaming cups on the table and sits opposite him. Jakob
tries to make small talk, to find out what changed here—as if he didn’t
know that nothing ever changed on Morana if the government could do
anything about it.
“Stop talking about my life here; I’m sick of it. Tell… tell me about
yourself. How did you even get here?” asks Olga.
 “I’m with Van Leeuwen’s Traveling Theatre of Life. It’s a small
enterprise focused on connecting with the audience emotionally.”
“What does it mean?”
“They all receive mood mediators—as do we. We just get a higher dose
and a slightly different content. It enables us to give a completely different
performance each time. It’s unique and some people even follow us
wherever we go and are willing to pay thousands to see every single one in
order not to miss anything. It’s a strong experience for some people. When
we’re on the stage, we’re not actually acting… There are no words, we just
dance a story that comes to us. It’s hard to describe… It’s like we’re living it
—in a world where everything is expressed by motion. Van Leeuwen can
play with lights and sometimes music to emphasize our dance. People in the
audience think they can feel our experience, go through the piece of life
along with us… Well, it’s popular on some worlds. It was hard to get it here
on Morana.”
Olga laughs bitterly. “Yes, I can see that. I’m surprised they even allowed
you to come.”
“Van Leeuwen can make his way if he wants to.”
“And does he know…”
“Yes. Don’t worry, he won’t tell anyone, he’d only get himself into
trouble for bringing an exile back here.”
“Even if he doesn’t talk, you shouldn’t have come back. You’re risking
everything. What if Father found out? He’d denounce you the moment he
saw you.”
Jakob forces himself to smile reassuringly. “He won’t find out. Even if I
wasn’t married to Dominic and didn’t change my name, I’ve got new
papers, Van Leeuwen arranged it. According to them, I was never Jakob
Kaminski. The system didn’t recognize me after we landed. It’s safe.”
He sees her smile briefly when he mentions his marriage. It warms him.
“But still… What if he comes to the theatre and sees you?!”
“Him?! At the theatre?” Jakob shakes his head. “He’d never attend.”
Eventually he manages to calm Olga. He doesn’t even have to lie; all he
says is completely true. Father would really never visit the theatre, he was
too scared of the regime. What if the venue—despite the permission to
perform—breached the law?
“You said you were married. Congratulations,” she allows herself a little
smile again.
 “Thank you. We met in the theatre. We always perform together. In this
type of art, you form an attachment to the person you act with… But I’d be
lying if I said it was just that. Dominic helped me. I was a wreck after I was
exiled and had to leave without even saying goodbye properly…”
She nods bitterly.
“Olga, I’ll take you away from here as I promised long ago, away from
this wretched world. You’ll finally be free.”
His sister smiles sadly. “I hope so.”
“We have a final performance tomorrow evening and that night, we’re
leaving Morana for other worlds. I’ll come for you. Van Leeuwen will take
you aboard under the condition that you’ll work for him too but I’ll make
sure you won’t. I can’t allow it.”
“You look quite worn out… But is it that bad?”
“It’s…” Jakob struggles for words. “Each time, it’s like someone robs
you of a tiny part of yourself. You change. The performances start blending
with your real life. I’ve seen retired artists from other similar enterprises.
They’re like… empty shells. You can engage in a conversation with them
and at first they seem normal but later you find out that they’re just
indifferent about everything people usually care about. They can express
the same opinion as you about something and then agree with the complete
opposite when talking with someone else. They’ve gradually forgotten who
they were.”
Like puppets, he thinks of a simile but doesn’t say it aloud. Olga seems
concerned enough now, he doesn’t want her to worry about him.

Later that day, he’s back in the city and walking through a park with
Dominic. They talk quietly under the blossoming magnolias.
“Van Leeuwen will never allow you to quit,” says Dominic. “You have a
debt to pay. And it’s never going to go away, you know that. With every
favor like the fake papers or taking Olga aboard the ship, it’ll just increase.”
“We’ll run away then, all three of us together. Van Leeuwen’s reach
extends far but even he cannot try to find us on every possible world. We
could change our identities completely, start anew. There’s no other
solution.”
 Dominic stops. For a moment, he averts his gaze to a small pond before
looking at Jakob again and saying: “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing can change your mind?”
“Not a thing.”
Dominic produces a faint smile. “Alright. That’s what I needed to hear.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Van Leeuwen’s Traveling Theatre of

Life! Prepare to be absorbed by the performance, to be astonished, shocked,
saddened, lightened up—actually, anything you can imagine! Experience a
brand new element of life, unlike anything you knew up until now!”
Van Leeuwen, a broad professional smile unwavering, is handing out the
pills. The cocktail is unique for each performance and adjusting itself for
the physiology of each member of the audience. It always sharpens their
senses, enhances emotional experience, suppresses analytical thinking and
builds up empathy. The rest of the effects differ every time; the contents,
being released gradually, induce increased susceptibility to specific
emotions in a given order. Sometimes he decides to engulf them in deep
sadness first and then bring them through various feelings to startling joy,
sometimes Van Leeuwen chooses a more elaborate mix. Not always is the
audience leaving his theatre happy; but they always leave satisfied.
The room is crowded, every single seat taken. Jakob watches the
audience nervously from behind the curtain. It may well be his last
performance. But soon, any nervousness would go away. He’s starting to
feel the effects already.
Dominic taps him on the shoulder. “It’s time for the second dose.”
Jakob nods. There go any doubts and unwanted feelings…
They are already gone when he hears Van Leeuwen loudly announcing:
“Dear ladies and gentlemen—I present you Jakob and Dominic Baudin!”
In the slowly dimming lights, they dance on the stage.
The audience inadvertently hold their breath.
Like every time before. Always different, always the same. We cannot
escape it…
Dominic looks astonishing as he moves elegantly with all the apparent
ease of an artist.
 A brief thought flickers through Jakob’s mind, a notion that he has never
seen anyone or anything more beautiful. A sweet desire to be closer to him,
to learn all he could about him, fills Jakob’s heart.
Though they’re not realizing it, every single person in the audience is
smiling happily.
Even the dancers are. Jakob catches sight of Dominic’s warm smile.
Never anything more beautiful…
Suddenly he staggers. In the audience, almost everyone flinches. The
mood changes rapidly.
Something is happening. The joy and curiosity are pouring away quickly.
Jakob is grasping at them, desperately trying to catch the remnants. The
audience watches his struggle breathlessly, gazes fixed firmly on him.
He feels like drowning. His eyes are wide open as he stretches his arms
to Dominic who’s his only chance of rescue.
But Dominic pulls away, his face distorted with a sudden disgust, his
movements an embodied anger. Jakob’s surprise, as he’s slowly losing his
struggle, is soon replaced with rage.
And then he’s free, the terrible feeling of drowning gone, and he’s
dancing towards Dominic. The audience has never seen any more real ire
than now and most of them probably never would again. They watch his
quick motion full of passion with exasperation.
Has Jakob been quite himself at the moment, he wouldn’t succumb to
any of it. But he isn’t. That’s the point of the life theatre. He becomes the
kind of person the precisely mixed cocktail of mediators awake in him. He’s
barely aware about the music growing louder, reminding of thunder and
then stopping unexpectedly when he and Dominic stand opposite each other
for a second.
The performance changes into a vivid portrayal of despair and rage. It’s
hardly a dance anymore; it is an elaborate fight. The dancers barely touch
each other but every other movement seems like a fatal blow.
It is exquisite.
Van Leeuwen watches them with satisfaction from behind the velvet
curtain.

*
 The furiously excited clapping goes past Jakob like in a dream. He
staggers out of the stage, his heart racing, blood pounding in his ears.
The show is still taking the better of him, he barely realizes who he is but
remembers that he has to go now. He has to fetch Olga and take her of this
wretched, god-forsaken planet.
With that thought in mind, Jakob spurts to the door outside.
The pounding increases. Black spots appear in front of his eyes and then
darkness swallows him whole.

When he wakes up, it takes him a few minutes to remember what

happened. He must have fainted from the exhaustion and agitation. But how
come nobody woke him up or moved him to the bed? Most probably they
had things to sort before the flight and hadn’t found him yet, he concludes.
He crawls to a table, thirstily drinks a glass full of water, swallows a
couple of stimulant pills and hurries outside. He’s been out for almost forty
minutes which means he has to catch a later boat than he’s planned. But
still, he has enough time to bring Olga back.
The journey to Minka elapses in a sort of a haze. He’s aware of himself
again just as he stands in front of Olga’s door. He chimes the bell.
Nothing happens for a while. He rings for a second time; still no
response.
Sudden fear builds up in him. With a shaking hand, he tries the door; it
isn’t locked.
“Olga?” he calls inside.
There is just silence.
Jakob freezes as he enters the living room. “Oh, sister,” he whispers in
horrified disbelief.
She’s lying face up in the centre of the room. Her gray eyes are dim and
still, the tone of her skin far paler than ever before. A pool of thick, dark
blood has formed under her body.
Then he sees Dominic. He’s crouched on a chair in the corner of the
room and looks up now.
“W-what happened?” manages Jakob, not believing the sight in front of
him.
 Dominic rises and gives him a look full of sorrow and pleading. He starts
talking slowly and quietly. “You… you were already planning our escape
from Van Leeuwen and starting a quiet inconspicuous life somewhere. But
you never asked me if it was what I wanted. I’m sorry, Jakob, but I cannot
leave. The theatre is all my life. Each time I go on the stage, I can truly live.
I bring something valuable to other people, I show them the meaning of
beauty, life that’s more real than the real one. What would I become without
that?” He produces a sad, wry smile. “But if I told you, you’d just leave me.
I’ve heard you talking of Olga so many times that I know you’d pick her. I
couldn’t lose you. I do love you—and I also cannot perform without you.”
Jakob stares at him wordlessly, shaking.
Dominic’s gaze travels to Olga. He swallows hard.
“I just tried to persuade her to stay here or at least join the theatre
permanently but she wouldn’t listen, said that you had to leave the show, I
got mad… Forgive me. But there was no other choice.”
That is too much. It finally sets Jakob off.
At that moment, he may have killed Dominic if it weren’t for Van
Leeuwen plunging quickly into the room and burying a needle into Jakob’s
neck. He empties the whole injection into his bloodstream.
Jakob collapses but Dominic catches him before he touches the ground.
He lays Jakob down gently.
“Shh,” he whisperes as he sees the rising panic in his eyes. “Everything is
going to be all right. You’ll just go to sleep for a while. I called the boss for
help as soon as the terrible thing happened…”
Van Leeuwen smiles briefly.
“When you come to again, we’ll be orbiting a different world and
preparing for a new performance. You’ll feel no pain of loss, Van Leeuwen
is going to take care of that. You need not to worry, he’s an expert. You’ll be
fine and you’ll forgive me. When you wake up, you’ll understand.”

First published in Fantasy Scroll Magazine (2015).

 From So Complex A Beginning

What if we discovered a planet that’s started being habitable only recently,

nevertheless teeming with life? How could we determine if it had just
originated and evolved so fast, or had been a product of an intervention by
some alien intelligence? And what if the future of our space exploration and
settlement depended on the answer to that question?
Ecosystem engineer Irena Belova is not happy to be in charge of
answering it, to say the least…
By the way, habitable planets around white dwarfs (and possibly other
stellar remnants) are a real possibility, and we should know more about
whether, where and under what conditions they exist already in the coming
decades with telescopes such as JWST, WFIRST or ARIEL. Readers
interested in more about that can check our my Clarkesworld article (“The
Undiscovered Country: Planets of Dead Stars”), but one should start with
the story ahead…

Bright, piercing light everywhere. The world flipped around, and then came
to a standstill.
I stumbled out of the Witten Jump capsule that had held me during my
voyage, trying in vain to overcome the sickness and grateful that no one
was waiting for me in the entry chamber. That would make my arrival
highly undignified.
One of the crew waited in the adjacent section. He smiled widely and
extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Magnus—Doctor Magnus Ulsen. You must be
Doctor Irena Belova. Welcome to Ariadne.”
“Yes. Nice to meet you, Dr. Ulsen,” I decided to stick with the surname.
He didn’t show any disapproval. “How was your journey? Would you
like something to eat, or get some rest first?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I’d like to start doing my job as soon as possible.”
And hell of a job it is, I added to myself. More like a punishment.
 I wondered whether I wouldn’t be better off today if I had changed my
opinion on ass-climbing some time ago. Well, too late to start now.
Ulsen nodded, his smile not wavering. “Of course. Shall I introduce the
rest of the crew to you, go through the data and then calibrate the drone?”
“Well, we can hardly do it in a different order.”
This time the smile faltered a little.

***

Four weeks, countless moments of anger and two Witten Jumps earlier, I
had been having a passionate discussion with my boss.
“Why me?” I asked again, louder.
“Because you’re the expert,” Peter Wolfe repeated. He looked tired from
having to talk with me and eager to grasp at any excuse to leave. “You’ve
claimed yourself that there’s no better ecosystem designer than you.”
“That is correct.” My impatience grew every second too. “However, you
don’t need an environmental designer for this. This is way out of my
expertise.”
“The board thought otherwise.”
The board is full of… well, politicians, I thought. I must have still had
some remnants of self-preservation because I did not say it aloud.
“Then the board probably had incorrect information to base their decision
on. You need a team of planetary geochemists and exobiologists. Not an
engineer.”
He frowned. “You’re leaving in three days. You should start packing.”
“Wait—I’m serious. I get it, the board wanted one independent expert to
review the situation at the site while the teams work on the data from here.
But let me sum up my mission: I’m to decide whether a planet was
terraformed and artificially seeded with life. I can’t do that. If the answer is
not obvious for the hundreds of scientists studying it for months now, I
won’t bring anything new to the problem. In theory, it should be quite easy
to tell whether a planet was terraformed, at least if the process occurred in a
period we can study by drills in the rocks and ice. The fact that so far no
one was able to tell suggests that neither will I.”
I continued quickly before he could object: “What do you want me to do
then? If you expect me to have a look at local life and tell you that aliens for
sure did or did not design it, I’m sorry. It’s impossible to design a complex
planetary biosphere. Hell, it’s hard enough to design a space habitat
ecosystem with life forms we know! A whole biosphere just can’t be done
de novo; too many random variables. If life was brought there and then left
to evolve independently, we could notice a sudden appearance of advanced
forms in the fossil records. We could also tell if the life on JN15W591 had
the same roots as somewhere else. But as far as we know, it’s unique and
the fossil records don’t tell us much. That’s about it. There’s no need to
send me there because I won’t be able to tell either way. You could still go
to the board and explain it to them.”
Wolfe looked at me thoughtfully for a while. I dared to hope I convinced
him.
“Have a safe journey,” he said then, bowed his head with a little smile
and walked away.

***

I hated my task from the moment it had been assigned to me. It was a)
political, b) nonsensical. It wasn’t just hard. From my point of view, it was
so near impossibility that we could just approximate it as impossible—
meaning the job I was sent to do here was just a load of crap.
I lingered on these happy thoughts as Ulsen showed me into the main
control room. Two people occupied it, a short stumpy man and a tall dark
woman. “Dr. Belova, please meet my colleagues, An-Bai Chen and Zorya
Kovalenko.”
We exchanged polite if brief greetings. These two didn’t seem to share
Ulsen’s capacity to pretend being friendly; Chen seemed undisturbed at best
and Kovalenko was eyeing me suspiciously.
“Zorya, will you show Dr. Belova our equipment?”
“Sure,” she answered with no enthusiasm. “From here, you can control
all probes in the system. But we’ve got just a few machines elsewhere,
we’re very focused on the planet.”
“I know. The probes come from another orbital station, correct?”
“Right. None have ever been on Ariadne and we repair damaged ones
indirectly through telemetry. They never came in contact with any life from
Earth.”
I nodded. “The risk of contamination would be too high.”
 She explained to me the various levels of controlling the probes and
checking their data while Chen and Ulsen worked at their terminals. I
suspected they were just highly trained mechanics decorated with a degree.
They maintained everything working properly, but probably did no actual
science themselves; that was up to hundreds or thousands who regularly
received data from Ariadne through small Witten Jump probes. Not that this
crew wouldn’t be important; it was, vitally. It was probably just an under-
appreciated job. Like mine.
Ulsen stood up again. “Would you like to see the miracle now?”
“Certainly.” I did not reciprocate his grin.
He took me to one of the few portholes and waved his hand towards it.
Once again he smiled proudly, as if introducing his own creation. “This, Dr.
Belova, is JN15W591. We just call it Jane.”
Looking down at the planet, I had to admit it was impressive. Below us
lay a brand new world to explore, a large terrestrial planet teeming with life,
all blue, greenish and brown, with visible mighty rivers and large savannas,
closely orbiting a white dwarf—not so closely to give it a tidally locked
rotation, but near enough for it to be a unique sight.
I took a sharp breath. “Thank you, Dr. Ulsen. I’ll retire to my cabin now.
I’m a little tired. Can we calibrate the drone tomorrow morning?”
“Sure.”
I could not sleep much that night. Long weeks of devastating semi-
conscious telemetry and work with endless data awaited me, starting
tomorrow. I felt enraged. Perhaps—or am I just being paranoid again?—it
really was meant partly as a punishment for how furious I made some
powerful people feel with my honesty about their plans for new station
environments I had been supposed to design. I could just follow them
blindly, smile politely, flirt a little occasionally… Hell, no, I can’t act that
well. They never liked me anyway. I should try to make the best out of this
situation. Seeing Jane’s biosphere directly could inspire me in my designs.
But still I was quite pissed off.

The first time I opened my eyes on the surface of Jane, it felt strangely
surreal, as if in a dream. It sort of was. The actual me was lying in a
supportive gel on Ariadne, fed by tubes and wired into a computer through
which I was controlling the drone’s body. As I tried a few movements,
everything felt more real every moment. A cocktail of modulators pumped
into my brain made it think this was my own body and discard a slight
delay in its responses. My head would hurt like hell days after I’m finished
here.
I was standing in the middle of a vast grassy plain, or more precisely
covered with something that very remotely resembled grass. I could see
some animals—a few small insectoids down in the grass, a herd of maybe
two dozen mastodonts in the distance. I wondered who came up with the
common names. Probably some bureaucrat rather than a scientist. The
“insectoids” were nothing like insects on Earth. Instead of a chitinous
exoskeleton, they had inner supporting structure made of silicates—unlike
anything else known to us. And the “mastodonts” sported anteater-like
scales and were capable of rolling into a ball if facing some kinds of danger.
Here I was, a lone figure on the face of JN15W591, the planet that
threatened to bring the government down. Of course, it was only an excuse.
But it came in a bloody convenient time.
Beneath my feet was a political firestorm. And also a world that
shouldn’t have existed.
A chthonian planet, a remnant of a gas giant’s core stripped of its gaseous
components by close proximity to its star after it inflated into a red giant.
However, the star was now a white dwarf and the scorched planet’s orbit
migrated into the new habitable zone. Just a billion years elapsed since then
—and yet I was standing on a world teeming with complex multicellular
life.
Highly improbable, yes, but impossible? Who am I to tell? How can we
know that life based on different principles than life on Earth cannot evolve
faster? Too few data points…
A message window appeared in the corner of my view. I gave a mental
order to open it.
How are you doing, Dr. Belova? May we be of any assistance? Magnus
I felt as if I suppressed a sigh, though the robotic body was incapable of
such tasks. Ulsen was undoubtedly curious—and maybe even worried or
feeling threatened, depending on his opinions about JN15W591 and his
political views. That’s what this wonderful world must inevitably come to.
Since the discovery of Witten Jumps a century ago, every single dispute
converged to one question: Should we expand as quickly as possible, or
keep a low profile? Technologically, we were capable of visiting countless
systems and colonizing at least one every few years. However—should we?
Suddenly a theoretical question about whether there were unforeseen
dangers awaiting us among the stars, such as possibly hostile aliens or
armies of life-cleansing machines, became all too real.
So far, no advanced aliens, just over a dozen planets with life, mostly
only microbial and apparently nothing more sentient than a rat. No
remnants of civilizations either. I wouldn’t recommend you a career in
exoarcheology, unless you wanted to sit at your desk all the time, writing
outlandishly titled popular books.
No wonder JN15W591 was promptly renamed “the impossible planet”
after its discovery had leaked. Authors of “First proof of alien life-
seeding?” at least had the decency to keep the question mark. A lot
depended on whether advanced civilizations existed previously. If so, it
would play in the hands of those in favor of much slower, more cautious
exploration.
The politicians started fighting again, resulting in me, a bloody ecosystem
engineer, lying naked in a tub of slime and controlling a humanoid robot on
the planet’s surface.
I frowned and sent Ulsen a note: Not so far. If I need anything, I’ll let you
know.
I could control most of the machines on Jane and share their data, so I
made contact and reviewed their tasks. Most of what occurred to me
naturally was already done: drilling through the bedrock and polar ice caps,
endless chemical analyses, taking countless samples of local life, analyzing
their biochemistry, cellular structure, metabolic pathways, genetics…
I had no idea what new to do. But as I was here mostly to reevaluate the
findings, I ran tests again to see if they weren’t compromised originally.
While the probes worked, I sat on a small boulder, observing my
surroundings and lost in thought. During my voyage to Ariadne, my brain
and its implants were fed with results from the data already gained here. My
head was full of information about “Jane”. However, I had little time to
really think about it so far.
Most of the volatiles here came from comet and asteroid impacts,
bringing water and simple organics. How long could it take to form enough
oceans and atmosphere for life to be able to arise?
 Ask an ecosystem engineer, I thought bitterly. Whole teams of
exobiologists and biochemists haven’t agreed on the origins of life. Could
comets bring enough material at all? The compounds of life would have to
have been brought here in the last billion years, during which complex life
appeared too. Improbable. But nowhere near a proof that someone had
tampered with it.
Numerous theories tried to explain how life on Jane evolved so fast.
Short early intensive bombardment, quick formation of atmosphere, UV
leading to more mutations accelerating the evolutionary process… All as
fragile as fine china and very untestable. Fables. I knew why I didn’t
become a theorist and chose engineering instead. I couldn’t answer
questions about terraforming or the origin of local life. But I could try to
determine whether that life really arose here.
Fossils.
However, that one’s tricky. Geochemistry of Jane makes fossilization
harder than on Earth. The little we have looks like life wasn’t brought here
in advanced forms. We even have probable microfossils from about three
hundred million years after the planetary nebula formation. Of course, we’ll
never know if they belonged to the same lineage of life as what we see here
today.
Biochemistry was of no use to me either. For all I knew, it was
compatible with local geochemistry. Genetics were far trickier. Life on Jane
stored genetic information on PNA: a peptide chain bearing bases with a
transcription code different than anywhere else we’ve been. If transcription
had indeed been a correct term: it went in two steps on Jane, first replicating
the original strand with some bases modifications and only then creating
multiple copies of the translation template. Many hypotheses have been
proposed about its purpose: Greater stability of the code itself? Multiple
error checkouts? Could it have been designed for a better control over the
local life? But no one found any clearly artificial sections like gene drives.
It was all fascinating and curious but again of no help to me. If someone
had really brought life here, they cared little to include any instruction
manuals.
I frowned. I really hoped I could find something after I could think about
it here. But that was never likely, was it, Irena? Time to do some actual
work.
 On my third two-day telemetry shift, I noticed a strange event. A small
wasp-like creature interrupted me in a funny way: it sat right into one of my
robotic eyes and looked as if it was trying to sting me. Poor choice, little
one. Go somewhere else.
It arrived to the same conclusion and flew to a nearby group of grazing
mastodonts. One of them looked up, gave a deep bellow and rolled into a
ball. They were on a slightly sloped terrain, and it started rolling down. A
curious sight! Others followed, but one was not fast enough. The wasp
landed while the animal was still vulnerable. Trying to penetrate the thick
scaly skin would be futile, but it found a soft spot by the eye and delivered
its sting. I watched with curiosity. Very shortly after, the mastodont started
shaking and fell dead. The insect then buried itself in its eye and
disappeared.
It was a strange enough and somewhat frightening sight—I naturally
imagined something so deadly creeping up the brain of a human. Will it
wait for others of its kind to use up the carcass and procreate there? Or is it
a queen, already pregnant with thousands of fertilized eggs, prepared to lay
them here and have the large mastodont as a source of food and a safe
haven for her children?
Well, hardly safe, I reminded myself. The carcass must surely attract a lot
of scavengers.
Yet when I approached the carcass later that day, it still lay untouched.
Strange… Was the insect perhaps so venomous?
Nothing easier than to look it up. I found the moment of the mastodont’s
death in my memory bank and went back. There. It must get stung any
second now… Any second…
Suddenly, it started trembling. It fell.
No, no, I must have overlooked it…
I played the record again. I saw it just like back then—except there was
no insect.
If my current body had a heart, it would start racing right now.
A discrepancy. It should not be possible. The memory bank stored
everything I saw, heard, smelled or touched on this planet, all the data from
this drone. How could there be such a mistake?
Only if it hadn’t been a mistake at all.
I made a search for the wasp-like creature. The system offered many
suggestions, however, this species seemed not to exist in the database at all.
 Damn. Damn!
Only one plausible option. Someone hacked my data feed and deleted
information about this species from Ariadne’s data banks. Why? Why was
this insect so important?
And second, admittedly more pressing to me right now: Who did it?
And what more is he or she capable of?
I had a familiar streak of paranoia. But this time, it was justified.
Whoever did this would surely know that I knew. They might go murder my
helpless organic body in the supportive gel on Ariadne and I could do
nothing about it. It would take at least twenty minutes before I fully awoke.
Before I’d be ready to defend myself, maybe an hour. I couldn’t even
connect to Ariadne’s computers to see with the station’s cameras and
deadlock the doors.
As I was still alive a moment later, I collected myself and started thinking
more sensibly. Killing me would benefit no one. Too many people knew
about my mission. If something happened to me, even an accident, it would
lead to an extensive investigation. They needed me alive.
Perhaps they didn’t know that I’d found out. An automatic algorithm
might have deleted the data. The crew might not be looking at my
memories. Actually, they might not be involved at all. It could be an AI
which found its way on Ariadne, either before I arrived here or with my
transport. Planted by… whom? A radical who wanted to keep the existence
of other civilizations quiet? A biotech corp eager to exploit any interesting
discoveries first?
In any case, my life was hopefully not at peril, for the moment, and I just
learned something most valuable about my mission. I finally had a good
start.

I sat in the dining room—what a pompous name for a tiny cabin with a
table and a couple of chairs—and chewed my lunch with little appetite. The
door creaked and Chen stepped him.
“Hi. May I join you?”
I shrugged. “I can hardly refuse.”
“Has anyone told you how wonderful personality you’ve got?”
 I was in no mood for jests. Three hours ago, I awoke from my two-day
telemetry shift, I had a horrible headache and vomited what little acid was
left in my stomach. I felt like I couldn’t go on with this work. To hell with
all my augments. They hardly helped.
But someone at Ariadne had been trying to conceal evidence from me. I
didn’t like being messed up with.
“Sorry, just tired,” I said. I watched him sit down with a bowl of
something not exactly appetizing. “What about you?”
“Me?” Chen smiled. “No, my work is thankfully not so exhausting.”
“What exactly is your specialization?”
“Officially, I’m a software engineer. I oversee that all is working as it
should and yields reliable data. But in fact, we’re all just doing the same
boring routine day after day. A trained monkey could do it,” he snorted.
I’d done some reading on Chen, Kovalenko and Ulsen. He was right;
they were all over-qualified for the largely maintenance jobs here. He’d
worked on a Pluto research station before, and both Kovalenko and Ulsen
had been involved in a scientific mission on Proxima b, a lifeless but highly
interesting and challenging world.
“Well, I’ve heard augmented chimps got better jobs, to be honest,” I
sighed.
Chen laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“But I’d exchange it with you any day.”
“Really? I’d give everything to have your job and so would Magnus or
Zorya, I’m sure! I’m a little envious of you.” A tiny smile flickered on his
face. “I mean, at least your job is meaningful.”
If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d have burst into laughter.
“What we do takes most of the time between getting up and going to bed
again. Every single day the same. But it takes time and has to be done.
We’ve always got some bugs.”
I flinched. Bugs? Is he trying to threaten me?
“Are you alright, Doctor Belova? You’ve gone very pale.”
“Of course I am. Just a little weary,” I said quickly. Don’t be paranoid,
Irena, control it!
“You should get some sleep.”
“Good idea. In fact, I’ll go now.”
I almost ran into Ulsen in the corridor.
“You look nervous, Doctor,” he remarked. “Is there anything wrong?”
 “I’m tired. Nothing else.”
Ulsen smiled at me. “Of course. You’ve got a lot to do. But don’t work
yourself too much.”
Was he trying to suggest that I should ignore my duties?
“I can hardly avoid it,” I said coldly. “Now, if you excuse me…”
I went to my cabin but couldn’t fall asleep, however hard I tried. I
considered medication for a while but decided against it. Sedating myself
into sleep was not an option. My brain was already full of waste from my
long telemetry sessions. I needed to stay as alert as possible when awake.
Eventually I couldn’t bear staring into the low ceiling, thinking about my
task and the crew and diving into deeper and deeper despair. I got up,
headed back to the dining room. A glucose-rich snack might not be a bad
choice.
I heard voices from inside and stopped.
Chen was talking: “…so aloof! She’s a pretentious cow, thinking she’s so
much better than us. Thank god she’ll be gone soon.”
Yes, now we see who’s pretentious here, I thought bitterly. I could trust no
one. Chen, Kovalenko, Ulsen—every and any one of them could be the
culprit and my enemy.
I completely lost my appetite. I stood in the corridor for a moment,
listening to them.
“Easy for you to say.” That was Kovalenko. “She’s messing up with my
schedule, repeating experiments, offering no explanation… Like she
doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing!”
“That might be the case,” laughed Ulsen. “But hey, try to be a little nice
to her. She might not be stable. She resigned her previous post some years
ago due to personal reasons, but a friend of mine knows another friend…
Long story short, she became paranoid. Like clinically paranoid. Could no
longer do the job. But she didn’t choose this mission. Some unqualified
bureaucrat came up with her name, offered it to the council… No wonder
she’s clueless. An-Bai’s right, she’ll be gone in a couple of weeks. There’s
no reason to make the time harder for her or any of us, right?”
Right. I turned and walked away silently.
When I heard Chen, I felt somewhat betrayed and a lot more weary and
beaten than moments ago. As Ulsen was speaking, something else came up.
I got angry. How dare he dig into my past like this and use it against me? I
felt hot, simmering rage.
 Good. Let it fuel me in continuing my job. Because I’m certainly not
giving up, you bastards.

Before I submerged into my gel tank again, I changed the combination on

the door and gave Ariadne a command not to let anyone in under any
circumstances. I may have still been paranoid—but I was going to call it
cautious.
Back on Jane, I continued looking for my deadly wasp while pretending
to do other tasks. I managed to cut several probes off the system as if they
had broken down. Their data would be streamed to me but not to the station.
The poisoned mastodont’s body was still where I’d left it the last time;
still nearly intact. The inside of its brain yielded a surprise: Not only it had
been infested by larvae of the wasp that killed the animal in the first place.
These were already dead or dying, parasitised by slightly smaller and
sleeker but anatomically similar worms. A quick sequencing showed the
two species had been closely related. Nothing too surprising in cases of
hyperparasitism known on Earth.
The probes found several other dead animals of various branches, fitting
the same patterns. Their brains contained either the killer wasp’s larvae, or
its own parasite’s as well.
My probes extracted the poison, injected it into meat samples and left
them around for scavengers. Those eaten resulted in a quick death of the
scavenging animal. My little wasp’s poison had apparently been very potent
and fast-acting. The probes’ equipment was too crude for a proper
biochemical analysis but it seemed to bind to a protein produced by nearly
all animal life on Jane according to the database I had to access. Its purpose
had been unknown so far; it didn’t seem to do any important function,
despite being produced in all studied cell types of all cataloged animals.
How come no one had noticed this before? True, they had too much data to
go through, but still…
They didn’t know about the poison. They knew nothing of these two wasp
species, edited away from the databases…
I had to end this session in the middle of my efforts. I was already past
the scheduled time. I would be risking brain damage otherwise. As
impatient and nervous as I felt, this had to wait.
 *

Ulsen was as friendly and annoying as ever. “Any success yet?”

I gave him a grim look. “Not your business.”
“Oh, don’t be disappointed if it’s not going well. Everyone knows your
mission is complicated. It would probably take decades! I don’t know what
your supervisors were thinking.”
Chen and Kovalenko simply ignored me. I was grateful; worrying about
their intentions during every seemingly innocent conversation had really
been getting on my nerves. Any member of the crew could be an agent
working against me. It sounded paranoid, but…
Justified suspicion, I had to remind myself.
Finally, after two days of modern-day torture, I could resume my work
down on the planet.
I was registering more and more cases of the parasitoid wasp’s actions. In
a vast majority of the cases, though, its reproductive efforts were in vain; its
own parasite had found it.
With the poison, I was on the same track as before: it killed animals
swiftly with no exceptions save for these two species. Peculiar…
I had relied on my own memory and conclusions, never went through the
records again and only used my “stolen” probes for my continued
experiments. Yet despite all these precautions, I evidently hadn’t been
careful enough.
A new message flickered right in the center of my view: What are you
doing, Irena?
I froze. Ariadne was listed as the sender; no further information was
available.
The text changed.
That may have been the wrong question. You are actually not doing
anything physically. You’re lying in a tank full of gel, unable to move, or to
scream…
Had they bypassed the security? Ariadne herself might have been the
perpetrator, some clever AI buried in her processes…
I almost felt my distant heart racing. I hesitated just for a second before
sending back my own message: Who are you?
You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?
 I was probably conversing with a human. An AI might well be
programmed for this type of mocking responses—but why? A simple
program, just covertly hiding facts, would be safer.
What are you trying to conceal from me?
Stop it. Sit out the rest of your mission and leave happy. Dig more and
you’ll be stopped.
I cut all the channels but those from my body. I was effectively blind,
seeing only through this one drone. Only now I allowed myself the luxury
of fear. If the perpetrator managed to get in the telemetry cabin, I might die
any moment, seemingly in an accident. Maybe quickly—just ending my
processes instantly. Maybe it would be slower and I’d know it, I’d feel but
couldn’t do anything in my physical body…
Cut it, Irena, I snapped at myself. You’re right. You can’t do anything
about that. But you’re here. This might be your last chance. It’s now or
never. Think!
The wasp that had brought me on this track had been noticed by my
adversary before and swept beneath the table; why? Its poison could likely
kill any animal on this planet. A coincidence? Hardly. But what purpose
would it serve if someone truly designed this?
Ah… of course. I was trying to be a scientist so much that I almost forgot
that I was an engineer. And what would an ambitious engineer do if
designing a completely new system, uncertain of its success and wishing to
be able to eradicate parts of it if needed?
Install kill switches.
It was perfect—so perfect I wondered why we had not done it yet. Such
control… Different groups of organisms would have their specific kill
switches. In fact, there may be whole series of switches in each one of
them, for every branch… You could use them for steering the process, or
for more prosaic reasons. Do you have a herd of cattle for slaughter? No
need to take the animals down one by one, invoking stress in them,
lowering the quality of their meat… Just administer poison that kills them
instantly and painlessly. You need not to worry; you’re fully immune to the
poison, you designed it so. Need to change an ecosystem in an entire region
but it’s too complicated to relocate all the animals? You can dispose of them
by the wave of your hand. Heartless. Cruel. But efficient.
The switches must had been implemented in otherwise barely used
proteins—and unarguably very disfavored by selection—but some
remained functional up until today. There should be yet undiscovered
molecular mechanisms focused just on their preservation. No one could find
them so far because they didn’t know what they were looking for!
And the best part: it was testable. We could look for more switches and
repair mechanisms. If we find them, then we have the closest possible thing
to a proof that life on Jane had been bioengineered long ago.

Awake on the station, I was faced with the only option I had: send a
message out now even if it meant that the perpetrator would realize I knew.
This couldn’t afford to wait, even though I was feeling dizzy and my
headache grew worse.
I had no choice but to find Ulsen and ask him for a Witten Jump probe.
Only he could authorize releasing one.
“Why?” he frowned. “We don’t have that many to use them for small
information transfers, you know. The next one is scheduled in one week.
Isn’t it enough?”
“No. I need one now.”
He shrugged. “All right, Doctor Belova. If it’s truly necessary…”
“It is,” I stood my ground.
“Follow me. I’ll authorize it.”
I almost let out a sigh of relief. He led me to the transmission room
calmly but I still kept my hand on an injector in my pocket. I filled it with
strong sedative in the telemetry room, a dose sufficient to quickly send
anyone into blissful oblivion. I just hoped I would be able to use it. I was
blinking dark spots away from my vision and trying to stop my hands from
trembling.
Ulsen leaned over the terminal and set about preparing the probe. I kept
my distance from him and the door, leaning a bit on the wall. The side
effects felt worse this time.
Suddenly the door opened. I flinched.
Kovalenko walked in and headed straight to Ulsen. “Magnus, we’ve got a
problem with one of the relays –”
“Not now. This is a priority.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Really?”
She turned her attention to me, studying me for a while.
 I drew a sharp breath. “Yes, really. If you could leave us to it.”
She glanced at Ulsen and he nodded. “Go. We’ll sort out the relays later.”
Kovalenko left without further comments.
“All set,” said Ulsen. “Ready to upload the data and record anything you
need. But what is so important that we need to make an unscheduled Witten
Jump?”
“That is a part of my job.”
He looked somewhat offended but nodded. “All right. If you insist.”
“I do. Now leave, please.”
His hand stopped just above the door panel. He turned to me. “You see, I
can’t.”
He started after me. I used the support of the wall behind me and kicked
him hard. He staggered. I used the moment to stab him with the injector.
And failed.
I missed him. Darkness surrounded me for a moment. I stumbled.
He brought my arm down, seized it and wrenched my wrist. I cried out,
trying to reach the door with my other hand. But nothing happened. It was
locked.
Kovalenko.
Ulsen knocked me down. I found myself suddenly on my back, in pain
and out of breath. He was keeping me pinned, but didn’t hit me again.
“Zorya!” he cried. “Go get it!”
What were they planning? Poisoning me so it would look like a telemetry
control accident?
“Oh,” I breathed. They had already started. They must have changed the
combination of my drugs before the last session, just slightly to be able to
cover it up. That’s why I had been feeling worse now. Little would suffice
to tip the already fragile balance…
I struggled against Ulsen, but I was too weak. I glanced at the injector.
No chance I could get to it. But at least he made one mistake. If he had
ordered Kovalenko to inject me with it, I’d be as good as dead already.
“Why?” I wheezed.
“You know, don’t you?” Ulsen whispered. His eyes were gleaming
madly. So a radical. No hint of the existence of alien civilizations must ever
get out for us to continue pushing the limits of exploration and conquer
more space…
 I heard the door opening. I chose the moment to lash out as hard as I
could in my sorry state. Ulsen’s attention was partially drawn away by the
sound of footsteps. He regained it quickly but it still gave me time to free
one of my arms and strike him. He uttered a cry of pain. I felt less pressure
on my legs and tried to free them. I glimpsed someone else’s feet and
kicked out in an attempt to bring Kovalenko down.
“Wait!”
I saw it was Chen who was trying to seize Ulsen. But the station
controller wasn’t making it easy for him. He let me be and focused on
Chen.
I crawled away until I reached what I needed. Just as Ulsen managed to
strike the smaller man’s head, I thrust the needle of the injector into his
neck. He lashed out but already feeling the effects of the sedative, he
missed me and fell on his knees. Then he tumbled completely. I almost
followed him and had to grasp the terminal to stay on my feet.
Chen seemed shaken but remained conscious.
“Where’s Kovalenko?” I managed to ask him.
“Telemetry control room. We need to get her to the med, she’s bleeding
badly… We struggled, she bumped her head on the edge of the tank…”
“Alright. Let’s go.” However murderous intentions she might have had, I
didn’t wish her to bleed out. I glanced at Ulsen. “I think we can safely leave
him for the moment.”

***

Six weeks and two Witten Jumps later, I was sitting in a restaurant
opposite Peter Wolfe. A couple of floors above us, politicians were
frantically discussing the impacts of my findings. I didn’t care for their
quarrels and was peacefully enjoying my lunch. Well, almost peacefully.
“So how does that insect that brought you to this conclusion fit into the
big picture?” asked Wolfe and sipped his wine. “I didn’t quite catch that one
from your report.”
I swallowed and smiled. “A happy accident. After they left, life on Jane
had plenty of time to evolve independently. Accidentally, one of the species
evolved resistance to the main poison. Its repair mechanisms probably
malfunctioned, maybe caused the mutation. Later one of its populations
gained the ability to produce it. If it wasn’t for its parent species, it might
have spread across the planet and caused a great environmental catastrophe.
But the original immune insect, not producing the toxin itself, could hold it
down by parasitism. The chances of that all together are low; but the species
on Jane are many, mutations frequent and in the end, the occurrence comes
down to probability. It might not have happened at all. But it had, luckily
for us.”
“Luckily indeed,” Wolfe nodded. “It seems you had good luck on your
side.”
I put aside my fork. “May I ask you something, sir?”
“Go on.”
“You had a suspicion that someone on Ariadne tampered with the data,
didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer; didn’t have to.
“Chen became suspicious about the data and his crewmates and tried to
hide a warning in one of his messages. But he didn’t know whether it got to
someone. He didn’t make any further attempt in fear he might be right and
they would find out. Chen didn’t know whether he could trust me, so he just
joined in chats about what a nuisance my presence was. However… if he
hadn’t brought down Kovalenko when he followed her in the telemetry
room, I might not be alive today.” I frowned. “You had suspected something
wrong and still sent me there! I wasn’t really supposed to come with any
breakthrough finding, was I? I was there just to make them nervous, push
them to make a mistake and reveal themselves.” Even if that mistake could
have been my own death! You suggested me not because of my skill, but
because of my past—send in someone paranoid, that will push them over
the edge…
Wolfe smiled. “Oh, even if that were true, you would never have been
just that. You have a talent for finding unexpected connections, and I trust
you can dig well in unprecedented data. I certainly wasn’t mistaken in that.”
“With all due respect sir, you can be a hell of a bastard.”
His smile broadened. “So can you, Irena. So can you.”

First published in Analog (9-10/2019).

 The Nightside

This story was borne out of a study exercise. A requirement for completing
an astrochemistry class I took at the university was to prepare a short talk
on a selected topic. I chose atmospheres of exoplanets and what we know
about them so far. One planet I focused on was CoRoT-7b, a short-period
planet slightly bigger than the Earth. It is likely a chthonian planet—
remains of a gas or ice giant stripped of its atmosphere and any other
volatiles. What remains is rock and metal, melted on the dayside of the
likely tidally locked planet—a world that always faces its sun with one side,
with the other drowned in perpetual darkness.
The study I focused on most was Léger et al. (2011), describing the
dayside’s lava ocean and its low-pressure rocky vapor atmosphere. Imagine
various silicates and ores snowing behind the terminator (edge of the day
and night) in a neat natural fractionization by their solidification
temperatures. Oh, just imagine the weather forecast on such a planet—the
forecast its protagonists Linus and Mirada are getting.
Was there a better possible setting for a next story? As a scientist, I was
fascinated by the bizarre world; as an author, I had a place to make the
characters truly suffer.
We authors are weird, I know. But you readers seem to like it… so I guess
you’re even weirder?
Go on and enjoy it. Linus and Miranda won’t.

In some other reality, seeming so unreal and faraway now, Christmas time
was approaching. It was snowing here.
Linus checked the updated weather feed. The snowfall had thickened in
the last two hours due to the recent increased activity on the dayside. Here,
hundreds of kilometers safely behind the terminator, the tiny flakes of
condensed iron and titanium were drifting slowly to the ground. Measuring
barely a micron across, the metallic snow was invisible to human eyes.
However, after millions of years of continuous fall, a fortune in purified ore
had accumulated here.
“All good here,” reported Linus and closed the hatch of the tiny control
room after himself. “Moving to the last one.”
The nuclear-powered furnaces stood tall and wide in the perpetual night,
spawning one compact block of iron or titanium after another. A few of
them also processed other metals: aluminum, chromium, nickel… Tireless
trains and the occasional rover transported the raw ores here from the
mining sites.
Linus couldn’t wait for his stroll outside to be over. Visual inspections of
the machinery were largely unnecessary and outdated but they were still a
mandatory part of the process for what if and human resourcefulness
reasons.
“Going back,” he announced and set off for the maintenance rail where
his small car waited.
“Trying to break the inspection speed record again?” answered a playful
voice.
Linus frowned a little. Miranda always teased him when it was his turn to
go outside. She seemed to enjoy the landscape; he did not.
He would never admit it but the truth was that it struck some chords
buried deep in the human mind, the fear of dark and cold—and the chords
in his brain seemed to be particularly well-developed. Not a good trait for
someone stationed to remain at this place for a whole year. But it could
have been worse, he reminded himself. Actually much, much worse. He
should be grateful for this.
But he felt most grateful when the train car spat him out next to the main
base’s airlock. He couldn’t wait to get out of the suit and spend as long as
the scheduled water supply allowed in the shower.
When the cabin was pressured, Miranda appeared and helped him out of
the suit. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything in perfect working order.” We’re useless here, he
added for himself.
“Great. Though from you, it sounds like a funeral speech,” Miranda
remarked.
Linus left that without reply. He felt little streams of sweat running down
his whole body. The thought of a shower sustained him.
 It was getting worse every time. He would have thought he’d get used to
it—but the more time he spent on the planet’s surface, the more shaken
each visit left him.
Five more months, he reminded himself. Then it’s over.
He staggered out of the cabin and headed straight into the tiny bathroom.
“You’re welcome,” Miranda called after him, still putting the suit’s
components back into their place.
“Sorry,” he mumbled though she couldn’t possibly hear that.
Just five more months. You can hold it.
He turned on the water and closed his eyes.

Miranda was sitting at the small table in the main room, chewing a dried
protein stick. “Just in time for dinner,” she grinned at him. “I left you the
chicken-flavored one.”
“Good,” he said mechanically and sagged to a chair.
“We’ve got news from outside,” Miranda announced. “The suckers were
driven back behind the outer belt.” She produced a proud smile. “We can
sleep soundly. It’ll be months at least until they’re back in the gravity well
—if they dare try it!”
Linus looked up full of hope. “So the inner belt is secure? We can go
back to mining there?”
“Nope. The bloody clinkers left it full of their tech. The drones and traps
are stupid but not that stupid to allow us mine the belt safely enough.”
So we’re not getting out of here soon. Linus suppressed a sigh. Without
metal supply from the asteroid belt, this world was the best source even
though its orbit extremely close to the sun made it highly inconvenient to
extract metals here. It took enormous amounts of fuel to get out of this
gravity well and good shielding to protect the ship from the insolation.
Without knowing otherwise, he might imagine they were on a large moon
or a small terrestrial planet somewhere normal. All they ever saw here
above the cracked land was an ordinary night sky. Only when they
occasionally needed to go near the terminator did the strangeness of this
world become apparent.
Miranda probably interpreted his grim silence as a sign of doubt. “Hey, if
they were still around, don’t you think our people would see them? Even if
they just flew by inertia and kept minimum systems going, we’ve got
enough probes around to notice a ship’s thermal signature. They’re gone.”
Linus nodded apathetically. “What about other solar systems?”
“No news.”
There hadn’t been any for nearly three months now. But it didn’t
necessarily mean trouble. It just meant that either no ship or probe of theirs
made the Ozaki crossing into this system, or that the information wasn’t
intended for them.
Linus knew there were systems where new ships arrived just every four
or five years. This system became one of the battlegrounds due to its
location and the traffic was heavier—usually at least four scheduled Ozaki
crossings there and away in a year. One of the ships was supposed to bring
their replacements and take them back to civilization in five more months.
He hoped it would arrive on time. The idea of being stuck here longer, for
years in the worst case, made Linus shiver.
Without a word, he got up and took his food to his bunk.

Before we arrived, we learned that no crew really stuck to the planet’s

official catalog name. When you heard the nicknames, you couldn’t miss the
pattern: Hell, Hades, Gehenna, Furnace, Inferno… I personally liked The
Oven. Sticking to this tradition of non-repeating names, we gave it our own:
Tartarus.
Linus’ hand stopped above the touchscreen. As if he could ever send
home any of the numerous letters he composed. All communication was
restricted; assignment reports only and none leaking behind the military
relay stations in the system. During the long hours of nothing, he mastered
the art of writing letters, started playing with the composition and word
choice, style, tone…
Miranda never understood this. Why do you write home if you can’t send
it? she kept asking. And why the hell are you writing at all? If I could, I’d
just send a recording.
She appeared by his bunk door now. “Hey, Lin… You okay?”
“Of course I am. Just tired.” Linus put down his notepad. He wasn’t
actually upset about how she’d teased him before—and he was certain she
wasn’t feeling sorry. That wasn’t Miranda’s style.
 She smirked. “Too tired?”
“Not too much,” he admitted. A different answer had crossed his mind, a
desire to stay alone, but he waved it away. I should be grateful for her, he
thought. I’d go crazy if I’d been here on my own—or with someone less like
her.
Miranda smiled and climbed inside the tiny space with him. Linus
quickly put his notepad into a pocket on the wall.
Afterwards, she fell asleep in his bunk, making the confined space seem
even more claustrophobic. But he couldn’t bring himself to wake her up.
Her warmth and slow regular breathing calmed him. He could imagine he
was safely home and Miranda was his girlfriend, not a pragmatic crewmate
who preferred him to a machine. He’d be sleeping in a real bed, after a day
spent doing a real job, walking under a real sky –
Stop it! You’re just making it worse. Get some sleep.
He shifted next to Miranda and tried not to think. Thinking was a sleep-
killer. However, it was not easy to stop. His thoughts inevitably moved to
the ongoing war.
They talked about it just two nights before in this very bunk. Miranda
was resolute and straightforward as ever. He sometimes wondered if there
was anything that could leave her uncertain.
“What do you think is going on up there, right now?” he whispered in a
careless moment.
He saw Miranda’s sneer in the dim light of the bunk. “What do you
think? They’re probably shooting each other out of the skies.”
“Yeah, but I mean… How does this end? And when?”
“We win, of course. We’re better than the clinkers. And we’ve got to
defeat them.” Miranda looked almost bored now. Why’s he asking so stupid
questions, he could read from her face. He felt impossibly alone despite her
presence next to him.
How can she be so sure all the time? Linus thought. Am I a traitor
because I have doubts?
Just because he occasionally wondered whether the so-called clinkers
were as evil, dangerous and distorted as presented, was he becoming
dangerous too? Because he tried to think whether their ideology of
abandoning planet colonization was really so bad in itself, was he betraying
his side—the good one? No one else he knew seemed to think these things
—or they were hiding it better.
 These thoughts returned now. The bunk’s ceiling seemed to be falling on
him as he imagined long sleek ships accelerating beyond the point of
survival of unenhanced human beings, painstakingly achieving near
relativistic speeds in order to make the Ozaki crossing. Most of them
carried soldiers and weapons instead of colonists these days. It could have
been so great… Yet two factions of humanity—if the others were still
human—fought throughout the Orion’s arm, the end growing no nearer.
“Maybe someone should wipe us from the Galaxy,” Linus whispered for
himself. The thought was strangely soothing. He finally closed his eyes.
Maybe… if it wasn’t for the fact that there’s no one to do that—but
ourselves.
There was no galactic club; no Federation; no wise, insanely old
civilization guiding the wild youngsters; not even a common enemy,
something to unite the forever quarreling humans.
Just a vast lonely emptiness.
Humans tried to fill it with their presence. And since they didn’t have
anyone else to define themselves against, some outgroup to make them
think they were a unity, they just continued comparing themselves to other
human groups, Linus pondered.
We needed an outside reference frame for our species, our civilization,
and found none.
We still need it, desperately. At least an indication that we’re not alone…
Some forms of conflict seemed inevitable under such conditions. But to
think that a war of this scale would come… You’d need to be the most
misanthropic pessimist to believe that, he thought—yet it had happened.
What did that say about humanity?
We deserve to be wiped out. But there’s no one to do that but ourselves.
Maybe he should have enlisted. Maybe he’d be dead by now and
everyone would be better off. Maybe if everyone was dead…
He blinked, vaguely surprised at the direction his own thoughts had
taken.
Maybe he should try to get some sleep after all.

When the alarm clock woke him up, Miranda was no longer in his bunk.
Linus found her in the main cabin, sweet and breezy, watching some show
on a built-in screen and holding a cup of coffee—though naming it like this
was an insult to proper coffee. She was always up and about first, ahead of
the station schedule; another of the many things he had no idea how she
could manage.
“Morning. Care for a little forecast for today? We’ve got an abnormally
large titanium oxide cloud 11 km above the terminator, so we can expect a
lot of snow!”
Good that I don’t have to go outside today, Linus thought and poured
himself a cup.
His night ruminations now seemed almost ridiculous to him. Another day
of routine chores might with some luck cure him of those. And then
another, and another… until he got out of here safely.
He closed his eyes and imagined, for a sweet short moment, that he was
home.
He almost didn’t realize the sound of Miranda’s show had stopped.
“Hey… one of the probes picked up something near the terminator,” said
Miranda slowly. She was staring at the screen, no longer occupied by the
old comedy. “See it? Seems like a really big chunk of metal—pure, solid
metal.”
Linus skimmed through the data and a chill went through his veins. No,
he stopped himself, it’s inconclusive. On the verge of the probe’s sensory
range. And all kinds of weird effects happen to electronics here, especially
by the terminator with all the metallic snow and the radiation.
“We’ve gotta confirm it,” Miranda whispered.
“Agreed. Let’s send a drone.”
“No. We won’t get anything useful from that environment. Hell, our
machines have a hard time just mining there and coming back. The probe’s
got about the best sensors here and you see the results.”
“You’re not going to propose…”
“It’s the only logical solution, Lin.”
Linus felt his insides shrink. He knew where this was going. I’m a
software engineer, Lin. You’re the scientist. I can back you up from here…
“No,” he said, hardly audible.
“Come on, Lin. You’ll just take a rover and then a really short stroll. How
many times have you been outside? It’s no more dangerous than walking on
Earth’s Moon.”
 It is. The gravity is higher here, help is further, we’ll lose connection
before I get there…
But she was right on one thing. One of them needed to go there. And he
just had the bad luck of being more qualified.

Three hours later, Linus found himself driving a rover to the terminator.
So far, the rover more or less drove itself and he just sat there, looking out
nervously. That made it even worse. He was on the verge of panic.
I should have told her, admitted I’m more and more scared every time I
go out. Sweat ran down Linus’ forehead. But she’d either laugh at me or get
upset. And what could she do? Even if she offered to do all the future
inspections herself, it wouldn’t be fair to her.
The rover was still able to receive transmissions from the station, even
though distorted by the microscopic metal snowflakes. “I’m bored,” he
managed to say in a casual voice. “Tell me something before we lose
connection.”
“You can watch movies on your HUD. I’ve got work to do.”
“Please.”
A moment of silence. Linus almost thought he’d lost the signal before
Miranda spoke again: “Alright. What do you wanna hear?”
“Anything. About your family, for example. You’ve barely spoken about
them.”
“Yeah, for a reason.”
The pause was filled by silent crackling of white noise.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Then… anything else. Anything you like.”
“No… I guess it’s okay. I just get so angry whenever I think about them.
They were always fighting, mom and dad. Five minutes in the same room
and they were at each other. But see, they belonged to one of those sects
that don’t believe in any kind of marital separation, so there was no escape.
Sometimes I just wished they’d kill each other.”
There was another pause. Linus couldn’t think of any appropriate answer.
Miranda continued in a lighter tone: “I guess that wasn’t the kind of thing
you wanted to hear because you were bored, was it? Never mind. We can
always…”
 Linus didn’t hear the rest. The static grew louder. He finally gave up his
attempts to re-establish communication. He was on his own now.
They were always fighting… He’d never imagine such a background for
Miranda—so joyful, decisive, reasonable… Maybe she was one of the
lucky few who discovered this was a better survival strategy than the other
options. Or maybe she just learned how to control it in adulthood, how to
pretend—and maybe become the mask.
His thoughts shifted to his older sister Talia, always so serious, proud,
successful in everything. He could never compare. Oh boy, how he envied
her at times… And what good did it do him? He stayed so distant, timid and
low-esteemed. He never fought for anything.
And neither do I now, Linus thought bitterly, hiding from the war in this
hole because I conveniently majored in geology and got halfway through
my doctorate when I was supposed to be enlisted. In someone’s eyes, that
made me suitable for work here.
He spent the rest of his journey in a dark mood, barely glancing at the
landscape outside he was supposed to know so well. Then, suddenly, the
drive came to a halt.
He checked the nav: too fragmented land ahead. The rover couldn’t go
any further. Linus groaned silently. He had no choice but to continue on
foot.
Linus hesitantly emerged from the car and made a first step outside. Then
another.
Eventually, he calmed himself enough to follow the instructions on his
HUD. But all the same, he couldn’t wait to disappear from here and never
come back.
After all, this very planet is disappearing beneath us, he thought. So far,
the erosion was slow, only the lightest particles reaching the escape velocity
and freeing themselves from the grasp of Tartarus’s gravity. But soon,
viewed from a geological time perspective, the planet would cross a
threshold under which the catastrophic mass loss would occur and in less
than a mere hundred million years, there would be nothing left, not even
poor remnants of the metallic core. Everything would be boiled and carried
away, leaving a thin veil of metallic dust trailing behind the evaporating
planet.
From up close, the land was heavily fractured, covered in deep cracks
and fissures. The surface of Tartarus looked dead. But beneath it, furiously
powerful convective cells spanned the entire depth of its mantle, the
convection pattern focused mainly to the substellar point where volcanism
was so intense that magma bubbles greater than man can imagine kept
bursting in these places constantly staring in the face of Tartarus’ sun.
No one had ever seen it. All craft orbiting Tartarus had a geostationary
orbit permanently locking them to the nightside. None of them would
withstand the heat of the dayside. Few land probes ventured a little behind
the terminator—and even fewer survived and brought back data.
Heat almost prevented people from coming here. But once on the
nightside’s surface, humans were all right. It was the voyage that threatened
to kill them every time.
As thick ablative shielding was barely capable of preventing any
approaching ship from overheating, every vessel had to spend as little in the
sunlight as possible—which meant a nearly straight trajectory from some
point… directly into or from a deep gravity well. Ridiculously high thrust
was necessary—which also meant that any humans would be exposed to
extreme acceleration. Each time, their insides had to be filled with
aerofoam, leaving no empty spaces inside the bodies. Linus hated the
procedure even more than he hated spacewalks on Tartarus. Despite
analgesics, he always felt like being stuffed alive.
Setting these painful memories aside, Linus walked further. He could
almost see the sunset on the horizon. Just a few kilometers further and he’d
really enter the permanent twilight zone. After a couple of minutes, he’d
bake. And even further in the land of perpetual day, vast oceans of magma
boiled and erupted.
Linus realized he had stopped for a moment, and made himself continue.
He was safe here, after all. If he didn’t take an incautious step, fall and
damage his suit, what could possibly happen to him? The suit was made to
be very sturdy and his oxygen tanks were still almost full. He could survive
here for a couple of days if necessary.
Fifty meters to chosen destination, his HUD showed. Linus carefully
avoided another small ridge. Thirty meters. He could see it now: just
glimpses, most of it was still hidden behind the ridge, but it was enough to
make out its rough shape. Linus stood there motionless, speechless, staring
at the thing.
It was clearly artificial.
 Linus finally collected himself and took a couple of more steps towards
it.
What is it? It looks almost like some kind of a large scientific probe.
There is its engine section… There might be an antenna, broken but still
recognizable… But it’s all so strange! And… beautiful. It doesn’t look
constructed for landing. I suppose it had crashed?
He had completely forgotten about how uneasy this venture outside made
him. Filled with curiosity and enthusiasm, he went closer.

Getting back into the rover, Linus finally heard a voice in his comm,
almost obscured by static.
“Miranda!” he called out. “Can you hear me?”
“Y-yes. …found? …ear me?”
“Barely. But if you can hear me—just wait for what I have to tell you!”
The rover’s antenna was more sensitive than the one in his suit. As Linus
was slowly driving back, it managed to pick up Miranda’s signal quite
clearly.
“…sn’t a measurement error?”
“No! There was…” Linus fell silent for a second. “An alien spacecraft.
I’m sure of it.”
“…craft? …sure?”
“Yes. A probe of some kind! I’ve taken pictures from all sides. If only
you could see it with your own eyes!” Had he ever felt so overwhelmed in
his life? And so happy and excited in this hellish place? “I couldn’t get right
next to it, the terrain was too hard, but I was so close! It looked like… an
orbiter, if I can take a guess. As soon as we report it, the command will
surely send experts! It seemed so intact given the circumstances—we can
investigate it and learn so much!”
Miranda was silent.
“But the most important part for me is,” Linus said in a more quiet voice,
“that we’re… not alone. Finally, a proof. Even if they were long dead, they
lived and fared among the stars at some point. Like us. And if they’re truly
all dead—isn’t that a reminder that it can happen to us too? Maybe… just
maybe… it could end the war. Or at least let more people realize how
fragile it is what we have. I don’t want to set my hopes too high but I just
see it this way. Is that stupid of me?”
After a pause, Miranda spoke: “Yes.”
He didn’t expect this.
“No one will know for decades, Lin. If we report it, can you imagine the
command making the discovery public? It would stay concealed until it
leaked accidentally or deliberately someday. By then, we would have
learned a lot—and used it to fight the rest of humanity. I hate to shatter your
illusions, Lin, but that’s exactly what they are.”
“Then... what do you propose? We can’t keep it hidden!”
“We can. It has been here all along and our machines only noticed it
today by chance. If we keep our mouths shut, it can wait to be discovered
until there’s peace. That’s what I propose.”
“I…” Linus’s voice trailed off. “No. Sorry. We just can’t keep it for
ourselves!”
Maybe he was still a hopeless idealist, despite the war, despite
everything, but this was such an extraordinary discovery that he’d regard it
nearly a sacrilege to stay silent. What if something happened to them and no
one else ever found out? Such a horrible thought! Maybe he’d be
disappointed by the result of his decision. But he’d never decide otherwise.
He tried to explain to Miranda. She listened without interruption.
“So I won’t persuade you to keep it quiet?”
“You won’t.” Linus had never been more sure about anything in his life.
Then, in a somewhat hoarse voice, she said: “I’m sorry.”
“What?” Linus asked, uncomprehending.
The rover changed course. It deviated from the one plotted on Linus’s
HUD. He blinked. “Miranda… what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “But you’re so stubborn. You gave me no other
option.”
“What is happening?!”
“I… I don’t consider you an enemy. I suppose I owe you an explanation.
Even though it doesn’t matter. Have you ever wondered about my previous
life, Lin?”
He still didn’t understand. A horrible feeling crept up his spine but his
consciousness refused to accept it.
“Lin, I…” It seemed that she had struggled for words. “…I am the
enemy.”
 No, no, not Miranda, this is not happening, this must be a dream, a
nightmare…
“I’m really sorry.”
She severed the connection. Linus tried to re-establish it, feverishly
tapping the screen. “No, no…,” he kept whispering.
His eyes went wide as he saw the ridge in front of the rover.

His head hurt. He felt disoriented. What had happened?

Linus opened his eyes. Strange colors were flickering across his HUD.
He had trouble making out the shapes.
Then he remembered.
Miranda? An enemy? That’s just not possible…
But what other explanation was there?
He heard his breath wheezing within the helmet.
He realized he had tears in his eyes. That’s why he saw everything so
blurred.
Miranda, a traitor. A sleeper agent. An enemy.
He tried to collect himself and blink away the tears. What did the signs
on his HUD say? Irreparable damage to the rover… Emergency supplies
destroyed… Suit’s systems working… No broken bones, no serious
injuries… His whole body was aching but he managed to pull himself up
and have a look around. The rover was badly damaged but its safety
systems protected him. The front window was breached and it took just a
few blows with an emergency hammer to smash it. Linus climbed out into
the vast cracked landscape.
He had nearly seventy kilometers to go through it. Cold sweat ran down
the back of his neck.
I can’t do it, I can’t…
If you don’t, you die.
Something switched inside his head. He started climbing and walking.
His HUD showed him the shortest route accessible for an ill-equipped
human. Estimated time to reach his destination: twenty-six hours. That is, if
he didn’t rest at all. He shut doubt, desperation and oh so many questions
out of his mind and just walked on.
 He kept going like an automaton. His mind resembled the landscape right
now: strange, fractured, but in the end, dull and empty.
Once, Linus made a wrong step and fell. He almost landed in a deep pit.
The fall left him at the edge, staring into the darkness below. For a moment,
he lay there unmoving, looking up at the endless cracked landscape
extending to the horizon, everywhere around, and he thought how easy it
would be to just lie down and wait peacefully until his oxygen ran out. He
might even disable some controls and let the suit pump enough anesthetics
into him so he’d never wake up again.
So easy.
You coward.
Linus raised his head and could almost make out his sister’s
contemptuous face in the nearest rock formation.
You always give up, don’t you, little brother?
Linus collected himself, terrified by the train of thought he had followed
just seconds ago. He checked the suit’s systems. No further damage. He
could continue. He must.
Get up now. Go. Faster. Move it! Imagine it’s a race. You never wanted to
finish last at school. You were never first, never fought enough, but you
couldn’t be last. So damned stubborn… You just couldn’t bear it. No matter
what Talia thought, you’re too proud for that. So push hard, damn it.
He walked on. But the fragile equilibrium of his mind was unsettled by
thoughts of his sister—she reminded him of Miranda.
After several turns of walking and resting, more than thirty hours later
and exhausted to death, he came into visual distance of the first furnaces.
The station was so close now!
Each of the furnaces had a small supply stack for case of emergency.
Linus’s oxygen could still last two more days but he didn’t need to stray far
from his route to re-fill it. He got everything he could: more water filters,
protein drinks, additional power cells.
As he set on to walk again, a bright blast almost blinded him. If it wasn’t
for the helmet’s adaptive glass, he likely would have been blinded.
He blinked away the spots in front of his eyes. When he could see again,
he looked at the horizon in disbelief.
The station was gone.
His suit confirmed the sight: an explosion of some kind had destroyed the
whole habitat. Nothing of use remained.
 “How could you?” Linus whispered.
Miranda must have seen him coming; the furnace’s sensors had detected
him. To prevent him from reaching the station, she opted for killing herself.
She couldn’t have thought that she would survive without the base or
escape in the current situation, could she?
I’m dead. Whatever I do now, I die here…
He thought of the remains of the alien probe, the joy and wonder he had
felt just yesterday. Miranda succeeded. No one will know—maybe ever.
Unless I do something. What can I still do?
The explosion destroyed the main transmitter as well as the backup.
Transmitters on the furnaces or rovers weren’t strong enough to reach the
relay stations in the system—not even the one on Tartarus’s orbit.
The rocket.
The landing and launch site was a half day’s journey from here. And if he
found an operational rover, he might get there much faster.
If he could send out a message from the rocket’s transmitter, they’d come
rescue him… In the emergency shelter at the site, he could survive maybe
two weeks. More if he took all the remaining supplies on Tartarus with
him…
If he could, he would leave the planet. But to survive the acceleration
unharmed, he’d need to go through the pre-launch procedures which took
place on the station.
A call out would suffice. He might live after all.

Linus managed to find a rover and stack in as many supplies as he could.

When stopping at the last furnace on his way to the launch site, he noticed
warning messages flickering on the screen.
Oh no. She must have disabled cooling of the reactor… And maybe not
just here.
With so many fail-safes, it was next to impossible to effectively sabotage
a reactor. But so was blowing up the station. She must have worked on the
systems the whole time. And while the reactors wouldn’t cause an
explosion, they would melt down and destroy the furnaces for good. Maybe
that was her goal after all—to cut down all metal supply from Tartarus.
Without it, allied forces in the system would be more vulnerable to a clinker
attack.
He could do nothing here. Better head for the launch site quickly.
He cut off all means of outside communication and drove the rover
manually, following the path on his HUD. It required constant alertness but
it consumed all of his attention, for which he was grateful. No time to think
about what had happened. Until his concentration was broken by sudden
crackling in his earphones. A call on the distress frequency; he couldn’t
disable that one.
Then a short silence, followed by a quiet voice: “Hello, Linus.”
He froze.
He had to stop, otherwise he’d crash the rover. It was like hearing a voice
from the dead.
“I can see you’re going to the launch site. Linus, I’m sorry. You can’t get
away.”
Little beads of sweat were running down his forehead. “Are you going to
hijack this rover as well as the first one?” he managed.
“You took care to prevent that. However, I don’t need to. It’s impossible
to get off this planet.”
Don’t listen to her. Go, quickly, before she catches up with you…
He drove as fast as he dared to. All the time, he was hearing Miranda’s
melancholic voice saying all was lost. He tried to pay no attention to it.
When he reached the launch site shortly thereafter, she was nowhere to
be seen and had even stopped talking. He wasn’t sure whether to regard that
as a good or bad sign.
First of all, he tried to access the rocket’s transmitter, hoping to send a
message out. Not responding. He climbed into the cabin and, to his horror,
found a record that the transmitter was accessed an hour ago due to
maintenance. It wasn’t working.
She was here!
She might still be here.
For a second, Linus was paralyzed. He was almost too afraid to turn,
certain that he’d find her just behind himself, waiting for him.
He turned. The rest of the cabin was empty, the seal closed.
“So you thought of this too,” he said aloud. “You were thinking ahead, as
always.”
 Should he attempt to leave the planet, even knowing the acceleration
would likely cause him fatal injury?
What other choice do I have left?
Linus turned on the flight systems and checked their status. He almost
didn’t feel any more despair when the fuel indicator shone red; the
aluminum cells were gone. Of course she took care of all possibilities. She
had been very thorough.
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. This was it. He was
dead. He could stay here and wait. He might dial down his oxygen supply
and slowly fall asleep… But suffocation and carbon dioxide poisoning were
not a good death, he had heard. Yet again, what would be?
How would she die? Still out there, waiting, taking care I wouldn’t
escape…
He stood up and climbed back out of the rocket.
“Are you still listening in?” he said.
“I am.” She sounded sorry. “Linus, give it up. Neither of us can get away
from here.”
“Says you,” he interjected sharply.
“Do you really want to argue? Now? Fine. Go on and try. But it’s a
wasted effort.”
“Why did you do it?!” he blasted, his anger returning.
Linus could almost imagine a faint sad smile as she said: “I made a
choice. I was sent here to subtly slow down and observe things. But when
you reported that finding, I knew I had to make a quick choice—and
sabotaging the entire complex, even at the cost of my life, had always been
an option. What would you do if you were faced with this decision, only
clinkers would obtain the discovery?”
“I’d never become –”
“Become what? A double agent? Even if you could help your side? Or
are you too much of a coward for that?”
He was torn between feeling angry at her and just tired, very, impossibly
tired.
“Are you going to end it?” he asked quietly.
“It already is ended, Lin. There’s no way left to send out any signal or
leave. We can only wait until the definitive end—or bring it closer. Do you
want me to do that?”
 He considered her question for a while. “No,” he whispered then. “I’m
not a coward.”
“I know you aren’t.”
“And what are you, Miranda?”
“Are you calling me a what now?”
“You had intentionally killed me,” Linus remarked, all the bitterness in
his voice. “I think I have a right to call you anything now.”
“My people would call me a hero.”
“Mine a traitor.” After a pause, Linus asked: “Where are you?”
“Why? Are you going to try to kill me?”
“Would it matter now?”
She didn’t answer him. Linus half expected she had stopped talking to
him and he’d die here alone. He didn’t really expect her to show herself.
Linus felt his throat dry as a space-suited silhouette appeared near him.
He had to overcome the urge to run. What would be the point?
“I’m here,” she said needlessly.
All of a sudden, he didn’t know what to say. He had so many questions
and couldn’t bring himself to say aloud any of them.
Neither one could manage to speak anymore. They stood there for what
could have been an eternity, before Miranda finally said: “Would you
believe me if I told you again that I’m sorry?”
“I… don’t know.”
“What do you wish to hear? An explanation? I can give you that.”
It’s not like you’re going to tell anyone else, she left unsaid.
Linus felt tired and beaten and to his own surprise, he found himself
content with not knowing as well as hearing out Miranda—nothing
mattered anymore. “Okay,” he said quietly.
“Okay…,” she repeated hollowly. “Let’s sit in the shelter. I could never
bear this horrible land.”
“You never said.”
“Neither did you.”
They sat down in the dark room. Linus could hear Miranda’s fast
breathing. For a moment, he felt sorry for her and then realized the
absurdity of his situation. If he still could, he would have laughed.
“I know I already asked you why,” he said. “But still… I can’t grasp what
would make a person do what you’ve done. At least, before I die, I deserve
an explanation, like you offered.”
 For a moment, he only heard silence on the channel. Then, abruptly, she
spoke: “They’re right. The clinkers, as you call them. We have no right to
exploit and destroy other worlds. We had our chance on Earth and screwed
up. Think of all the possible futures we might be extinguishing with every
planet colonized and terraformed or mined through and through! All the life
forms that never will be, because of us. We’re terribly selfish to usurp the
space for ourselves. We wouldn’t need any planet ever again if it wasn’t for
the stupid sense of power, of ownership of the worlds that don’t belong to
us.”
Miranda took a deep breath. “Somehow, their views explained a lot.
We’re fighting for space even where there’s plenty. We’ve been destroying
things to remake them to our liking. So selfish. Even in our lives. If we ever
really valued what we’ve got, worked with it instead forever wanting
more… And the war? Your people started it. We had no choice but to fight
back.
We all do what we have to do now. I got augmented. Not much, not
enough for people to notice. But enough so that I don’t need to set foot on
any planet again in my life. If it wasn’t for my assignment here. I would
live on a station built from a scratch out of space debris, with an artificial
ecosystem, using resources which weren’t taken from any potentially
habitable world which just didn’t have the chance because of us. It takes so
little to let go and start anew. We should have done that long ago.”
Linus imagined her eyes as she continued. They were filled with tears.
But her voice gave away no such traces. Maybe he was trying to picture
her… more human. Or exactly the opposite?
“They gave me a new home. New life. But I needed to go back. Needed
to be here exactly for this reason.” Now, her voice trembled a little. “What
would you make of the discovery? Weapons. You’d scramble every piece of
ancient tech left there, try to turn it against us. And not just the old-kind
weapon. You’d attack our very foundations. Say those who had made the
probe had terraformed worlds themselves. That we’re no different from our
cosmic predecessors and our side must be subdued.”
Would that really happen? Linus wondered. He came up with a yes. But
still…
It sounded so menial now. So small. So what if a faction of humanity had
said stop and started promoting their own ideology? At first, nothing had
happened. At least he hoped so. Hoped they were given space to speak
freely, just like anyone else in a free society. It was their mistake that they
started sabotaging the terraforming programs, assassinating the opposing
officials… That was the truth, right? And Miranda, poor murderous
Miranda, had become a victim of propaganda saying otherwise.
Or, maybe, she was planting propaganda in his head right now.
“Is that a lie too, like everything else you ever said?” he said hoarsely.
“No. Do I have any reason to lie anymore?”
Linus wasn’t exactly sure she didn’t. In truth, he only partially listened to
her tale. Another part of his mind was occupied with trying to come up with
a way out. Maybe he had never fought for anything—up until now. He was
not going to die here if he had the slightest chance of getting out.
“I wish I had seen it,” she interrupted the sudden silence.
“What?”
“The alien device. It must have been wonderful.”
“It was,” he said in a trembling voice, once again thinking of all that
could have been and never would—because of her. “How could you do it?!
Despite all you said, even if it was the truth and you were right—how could
the Miranda I knew do such a thing? What did you think when you decided
to kill me and bury the discovery?!”
“I told you already.”
“It’s not enough! What is enough to kill a friend?”
“You were a friend, Lin. But you were also the enemy.”
He stared at her speechlessly, wishing to see through her faceplate,
wishing to find a speck of guilt, of sorrow in that face. But he was sure he’d
find none.
So you got augged, huh? Did they turn you into a monster too while they
were at it?
But it didn’t matter now. He was dead. No means of escape. The rocket’s
fuel cells were gone, probably destroyed. The furnaces, under other
circumstances his possible way out because he could get the rocket fuel,
refined aluminum out of them, gone. The product storage site, blown up
with the station. There was no way he could find nanoflakes of pure
aluminum anywhere –
Oh. Wait. Natural aluminum deposits. Not purified and homogenous
enough… But does it really matter if all I need is a chance of getting out of
hell?
 His heart started pounding. He was grateful for the suit which could not
betray his expression and sudden tension. He could only hope Miranda
didn’t hear the change in his breathing.
How can I get past her? I should never have allowed us to come here.
I’ve been so stupid! She doesn’t seem armed… but she’s blocking my way
out and is in better shape than me. And I’ve spent most of the last two days
walking through hell.
Linus gave her a terrified glance. And she’s smart, there’s no arguing
that. She must have figured out this possibility but it was the only one she
couldn’t block by any means… so instead she put up guarding me
personally. I was such a stupid fool!
He accounted for the items strapped to his suit: a small hammer, a
knife…
Would he be fast enough? Fierce enough?
Would he become a monster too?
No, he wouldn’t kill, he just wouldn’t… He wasn’t that person, never
would be.
An image of the alien probe materialized before his eyes. Not even for
this? For everyone to know about this? For trying to stop the war by this?
Before he could fully comprehend his own actions, his hand shot up,
clenching the knife, and in the next heartbeat he was atop Miranda’s suit,
pointing the tip of his knife to the seam between her helmet and suit.
“Go on,” she whispered in the comms. “Prove you’ve got the guts.”
“I don’t want to prove anything,” Linus said coarsely. “I just want to live.
And to tell people about what we’ve found here.”
“Did you really mean what you said about the meaning of the discovery?
That it would bring people together, make everyone reevaluate our own
conflicts?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you were right.”
He couldn’t bring himself to use the knife. Maybe if he could tamper
with her oxygen tanks, lower the supply to render her unconscious but not
to suffocate her –
Her arm shot up, knocked the knife out of his hand, and suddenly he was
lying on his back, gasping and confused, and then Miranda held the knife
and charged –
Fear. Move. Strike—again! Pain…
 The next moment Linus remembered, he was panting heavily and looking
at a suited figure lying motionless on the ground.
“Miranda…?” he whispered.
He extended his hand hesitantly, almost afraid to touch that vaguely
human-like shape. He pulled away a couple of times before he finally did.
It didn’t move.
Linus gulped, and gasped for air. As if all of a sudden the air in his
helmet was replaced with water. He was drowning. He couldn’t breathe at
all.
“M-Miranda,” he stuttered. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything but
his own desperate gasping. He had to overcome the sudden urge to take off
his helmet.
No air outside. No air. No air…
Gradually, Linus managed to suppress the panic attack. But he was still
unable to shift his gaze to Miranda’s space suit again.
Hey, Lin, you’re afraid of a damned corpse? And of the outside? Of
dying? Is there anything that doesn’t frighten the shit out of you? he could
almost hear her mocking voice.
The discovery. You have to pass the knowledge. You have to live. Even if
just long enough.
Linus tried to stand up. His legs could barely support him. For a moment,
his stomach turned but he managed to keep its contents in.
No time to lose. No time…
He moved like an automaton: Staggered outside, found the rover, drove
back toward the terminator. He barely needed the map on his HUD. Now he
finally knew how to use the endless measurements he’d done. Once in his
life, he knew exactly what to do.
The largest and purest aluminum deposits were located not far behind the
terminator, near the equator, by the massive polygons of ridges and deep
pits. Linus hoped the mining equipment still worked. He pinged the
machines when he got close enough. Luckily, most of them answered.
There. Ores of aluminum flakes rich enough to propel hundreds of
aluminum-LOX rockets. But not sufficiently purified. Not of standardized
size. They might blow up the engine. A minor inconsistency in fuel burn
and the reaction chamber starts to melt…
Linus felt indifferent. It wasn’t as if he had any other choice.
 After returning with the propellant, Linus recorded everything he thought
of into his suit’s memory and a couple of external storage devices—the
probe’s data and his own record of events, very much like a suicide letter
indeed. Then…
I’m already dead if I don’t do it. Nothing worse can happen to me now.
Why wait? he thought and activated the launch sequence.
Time seemed to slow down for Linus. In some other reality, seeming so
unreal and faraway now, it was Christmas. Here in hell, it was snowing
faintly.
The countdown sounded to him as the last seconds to live. He almost
panicked and aborted the sequence but then he thought of Miranda’s
mocking smile and stopped in time. Now he could only hear the count; tears
had filled his eyes.
You’re not really afraid of the dark, Lin, are you?
And then he was squeezed into the chair by rapid acceleration, his
stomach knotted in the foolish hope that after all that had happened, against
all the odds, please, oh god please, he’d live.

First published in Alien Artifacts.

 The Gift

What happens if you’re watching The Blacklist and pondering immortality

at the same time?
The Gift. Use it wisely.

“Sometimes I wonder if we didn’t make a grave mistake by accepting the

Ramakhi gift,” Floriana Bellugi sighed and ran her palm through her hair. I
couldn’t tell whether she’d done the gesture absently or just to seem so.
Nothing could be certain about her. “Look at the cohort who’d been adults
at that time. How many are still around by now?”
Has it been a rhetorical question? But she was looking seriously at me, as
if expecting the answer. “The estimates range from five to eight percent.
Hard to say more precisely. Too much information latency between the
systems, and no tracking is perfect, especially over that amount of time.”
“And for those people,” she added pointedly. “You learn to avoid it over
the course of four hundred years.”
It would take a lot of adaptation, though. We haven’t exactly stagnated
over that time. But they say learning is a positive feedback loop, and with
enough experience and motivation, I could imagine achieving a lot with so
much time. I shifted in my seat.
Bellugi noticed, of course. Sensed my impatience. Seemed to approve of
it. Cutting right to the matter: “The man I need you to find is one Antonio
Arienti. That’s his original name. Born in 1977 in Nashville. His parents
also; grandparents were immigrants from Sicily.” I visualized it on the map.
“Joined the U.S. Army, promoted quickly, expanded his education, became
a fast-track officer. Left to become a private consultant. Spent some time in
Myanmar, Chechnya, Indonesia, Angola and Syria, always shortly before
the local conflicts reignited. Strange coincidence.” Bellugi produced a bitter
little smile. “By the time the Ramakhi messenger probe arrived, Arienti was
retired and living in Paris, though the rumors were he’d sell some ‘lost’
pieces of army equipment from time to time. Arienti somehow managed to
be among the first million of people who received the Gift.”
“Where were you?” I spoke before she could continue.
The slightest change in her expression. Angry? Amused? Wary? My
systems telling me it was inconclusive.
“In Rome.”
That wasn’t what I was asking.
How many people who had seen the twilight of the 20th century were still
alive today? Ten million? Scattered across the systems. Statistically
speaking, fewer than two hundred thousand should be in ours. I was
speaking with one. Floriana Bellugi made her long lifespan no secret. She
looked fifty to sixty, but then again, most of them did; some even less.
Perfectly groomed silvery hair. Composed face with elegant, gentle
features. Misleading. A woman out of time. Free of its tyranny.
She picked her cup of white tea and sipped. “Arienti’s trail disappears in
the post-Gift uprisings. Emerges again on a ship to Mars. He spent almost a
century there. Very quiet, left almost nothing behind beside the bare
evidence of his presence. Then Saturn’s clouds for about two decades,
under the name of Paul Olivieri. Jumped on the first starship, arrived to Tau
Ceti nearly a century later. As soon as the ship to YZ Ceti was ready, he was
in. Going by Louis Castello.”
That left us barely a century more. I fished for the list of voyages in my
extended memory. He could have gotten here if he took Kensakan to
Teegarden’s Star and then, almost instantly, the Eridanus to us, Epsilon
Eridani. Why would he?
“Spent over eighty years out there. From what I’ve heard, YZ Ceti is not
a great place to live. Violently eruptive star, very scattered material, one
planet tidally locked and practically uninhabitable due to the flares, the
other freezing. The rest… just rock, ice and dust. Why they sent colonists
there in the first place, I cannot imagine. Probably just because it was so
close.” Just the slightest hints of contempt in her voice and the curve of her
lips.
“So he’s not here.” Then why am I?
“I never said he was. He sent a message over eight years ago. Arrived last
year. Not to me. I learned about it, though, made a brief inquiry, and now
I’m talking to you.” She once again enjoyed keeping me in the dark just for
a moment longer. I waited patiently, not giving her the satisfaction.
 “It was meant for an associate of his. He was saying he’d change places
again, and sent an encrypted data package. The decryption code is meant to
be auto-sent with a fifty-years’ latency.”
“Unbreakable, I suppose.”
“Correct.”
“How large?” I asked.
“More than my history on him.”
“How did you acquire it anyway?” If the transmission arrived less than a
year ago, she couldn’t have contacted any other systems and heard back.
She must have been tracking him her whole life or hoarding all information
on starships’ passengers—not just those coming here. In any case, a
remarkable and most terrifying feat.
“I have my sources.”
I know; asking stupid questions… Just to be sure, I tried to access
information about her and cross-reference it with her story of Arienti’s. No
match. But the latency was just a microsecond off. She was restricting me
but didn’t want to make it too apparent. Out of deception or politeness?
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go after him.”
I half-suspected it but still wasn’t fully prepared to think of leaving my
home. “Where?”
“He should arrive to van Maanen’s star in less than a decade. If you leave
soon, you’ll be there some twenty years later.”
“He may not be there anymore by then.”
“May not,” she agreed. “But may yes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find him. Find out what he’s doing and why. Report to me.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You will receive further instructions but they’ll be available when you
need them. No need to distract you if they proved obsolete.”
Somehow, she transformed during our conversation. She seemed pensive
at first, serious; now she acted openly Machiavellian. I took a chance. “Do
you think it was a grave mistake?”
“What?”
Had I really taken her by surprise? Or just more layers of pretense?
“Oh. The gift,” Bellugi realized. “What do you think?”
 “We may have still been just by the old Sol without it,” I said. “Longer
lifespans gave us different motivations, the ability to survive a whole
interstellar voyage, the drive to invest in long-term projects.”
“Yet most of the First Generation are dead by now. Most of them
voluntarily. Refused further treatments or have taken their own lives. How
many mistakes, how much boredom, how much loss and disappointment
can one stand in a lifetime?”
I took my own cup, finished it, set it aside. “I don’t understand. All of
that can be corrected.”
“Then it wouldn’t be you anymore.”
Should outdated concepts surprise me in someone like her? As old as
her?
“You had no… identity corrections?”
“You’re asking a highly personal question, little one. But a good one.
What kind of people would, in your opinion, be most likely to disregard
negative experiences or feelings, or get them erased just like that?”
Anyone, I was going to say but stopped myself soon enough. Or… maybe
we’ve just got accustomed to their thinking.
“Psychopaths,” I ventured, having fished for the old term she might be
most familiar with.
Floriana Bellugi smiled. Offered me more tea, and when I declined,
dismissed me. Her assistants would handle the rest, she assured me. It was
my first and last face-to-face time with her.
Five months later, I found myself aboard Chrysalis, a small starship
bound for van Maanen’s star.

July 2018
The whole hospital was celebrating. The new building had opened.
Funding for better instruments had been on its way. Doctor Sebai could not
have been happier.
She could already see the better future ahead of them. Not for her own
sake, but for all the people who have been lining up before the hospital from
early morning. For all the villagers who couldn’t have afforded any medical
care recently. For those who had remembered darker times. Last but not
least, for her daughter. Feven was growing up so fast, already nearly an
adult! She should arrive from school any moment.
Not everything went smoothly, though. One of the patients came in drunk,
nearly staggering into the examining room. His left arm was broken. He
cursed and swore while Sebai examined him. He insisted that she gives him
morphine for the pain.
“There’s no need for that,” she assured him firmly. “The fracture is
clean, look at the X-ray image. I’ll give you local anesthesia while I fix the
arm.”
“It hurts, you bitch!” he wailed, and the string of expletives continued.
Sebai, prepared to defend herself and call for help if necessary, waited until
he shut up, and then said calmly: “I can either fix your arm, or not. There is
no chance I’m giving you morphine, but right now you decide whether I
treat you. If you want to keep calling me names, begging for drugs and
threatening me, go away. Your choice.”
He was silent for a while. Then he nodded, and she finished the dressing.
“There,” she smiled. “We’ll leave the cast on for three weeks. By then, the
fracture should be healed. Please come again in that time. If there were any
problems, come anytime sooner. All right?”
“Yeah,” he said and quickly vanished.
It was the last patient. Feven then entered the room and greeted her
mother.
Later, she asked: “Why were you so nice to that old drunk? Most doctors
would refuse to treat him right away if he behaved like that, and I wouldn’t
think less of them. But you spoke him nicely, and he didn’t even say thank
you.”
“Everyone deserves a chance. Kindness is all, my love,” she smiled.
“Remember that.”

Little one, Bellugi had called me back then. I have experienced less than
five percent of her lifespan. Twenty years old, I had been among the
youngest people around. Would that be why she chose me out of a myriad
possible candidates? Why?
“You’re unburdened by many decades or centuries of experience. Less
prone to stereotypical thinking. You still may be original,” said her
assistant, a small gray-haired woman, when I brought up the topic before
my departure.
I disagreed but stayed silent. Bellugi must have had her reasons, mustn’t
she?
Would I become stereotypical after four centuries? I doubted the people
of her age were that. Those who gave up in the meantime, perhaps. But the
survivors? Arienti seemed quite adaptable.
Why else would she pick me? And why this me? Erin Taiwo could be
many things. Did not hold reservations about change. Bellugi didn’t want
me to change; she went along with the petite girl of curious disposition.
Didn’t even want me to get better sensory and memory extensions. She
seemed a peculiar woman.
Did she have something to do with the departure of Chrysalis? When I
looked it up, I couldn’t find anything about this voyage more than a year
ago. Had she pulled some strings to make it happen, after she came across
that Arienti’s message? Was I really her only asset aboard, or just one of
many?
Mere two hundred passengers. The scientists and the ever-curious. Or
both at once. Van Maanen’s star, an old white dwarf, did not attract
colonists.

Ninety two out of the one hundred and sixty stars within the 20-ly radius
from Sol are red dwarfs. Thirty nine are brown dwarfs, if you care to call
them stars at all. The rest includes some giants running out of their fuel, a
couple of young bright stars and eight white dwarfs. Out of these eight, only
two had seen crewed expeditions so far.
If you’re lucky, there are remnants from the original star system you can
use for resources or colonization. Sometimes even planetary cores survive
the red giant phase. Most humans seem quite happy near main sequence
stars. But we are many and some avoid anything you might call normal.
We spent most of the voyage as sleepers. We were effectively ageless, but
we could still starve, suffocate or fall victim to accidents. Chrysalis woke us
from our cocoons upon approach of the inner system. Inner, in this case,
closer than Mercury orbits the Sun or Turms our Epsilon Eridani. Much
farther, remnants of two ice giants and smaller bodies orbited the slowly
cooling star. Here, a world not much smaller than Venus circled its tiny
white sun barely a tenth-au away and kept sending debris from the
innermost disk inward. It must be quite a sight when some larger chunk of
rock falls upon the face of the star. Viewed from the planet’s dayside, the
star had an apparent size twice that of the Sun viewed from Earth, or of
Epsilon Eridani observed from my homeworld Turms.
There, on the planet, were most of the passengers from the first van
Maanen mission, or so we were told by our ship. None had left the system
in the two decades that elapsed since their arrival. A blink of an eye for
some, I supposed. Most of my life for myself, not counting my sleeper
years.
We gathered by the transparent hull section the ship had made for us and
just observed the scenery—barren, rugged but breathtaking—during our
own descent onto the planet’s orbit. No impact craters to be seen, I noticed.
Strange. How young must the surface be, even though its star is so old?
No one spoke aloud. I could feel the excited hum of conversations going
on silently, but I cared little to tap into them. None would contain anything
important for my own mission.
How many of my shipmates were also Floriana Bellugi’s? I supposed I
would find out when it would be favorable to her interests.
I was content with playing pawn until I discover more. Then, just maybe,
I can have enough information for my own agenda. But I’m still too young
and inexperienced compared to the likes of Bellugi and Arienti. First, I must
get to know them.
Finding Arienti would be the first thing to do.

January 2019
The day everything changed had started as usual. Aster Sebai made her
rounds among the inpatients and noted their progress with satisfaction. Her
dream of helping people was coming true.
The shouts and cries from the personnel’s common room interrupted her
thoughts. She ran there in fear that something had happened.
Something had.
“Look!” Ruth exclaimed and pointed at the TV screen. Aster could hardly
comprehend everyone’s awe and excitement at first. Then the news dawned
on her.
An interstellar object of possibly alien origin had been captured…
Hoax, some claimed. End of the world, cried others. Beginning of a
Nirvana. Alpha and Omega.
After the initial worldwide uproar calmed, news started trickling down.
It’s a robotic probe. It may be endowed with some kind of artificial
intelligence. Attempts of communication will ensue. It’s talking to us. It
designated itself as “Ramakhi”. It’s speaking for organic beings like us…
Sebai tried to wrap her head around it as the updates kept coming in the
next weeks and months. This was the world her daughter, and then her
children, would live in. No longer alone.
The same year, before it shut itself down, the Ramakhi messenger gave
humanity the Gift.

“Almost everyone lives here in Olympus,” the guide gestured to a

gleaming domed structure at the substellar point. They had to level hard
rugged terrain before they could build here. But who wouldn’t want a
permanent perfect view of the star? Not having stood under another sun
than Epsilon Eridani before, I fell in love with the sight of van Maanen in
the sky.
“This is the site of a future city of wonders,” the man continued in an
overtly dramatic tone. I switched him off and just let him run in the
background, so that it would appear to the habitat that I’m still using it. No
need to produce unexpected patterns.
I went to my assigned room in the freshly printed section for the
newcomers and rested a bit, still not entirely used to the higher gravity of
this world. I had some gadgets and clothes printed. I went to have a look
around, like most of the people. Still adhering to the pattern.
I scoured the add-on inflatable sections and the main body of the base. I
spent some time on the observation platforms, and headed towards the
research facilities. Most of the people who had bothered to travel here, and
didn’t leave like modern hermits for the sparse little stations outside the
planet, ended up here sooner or later. What nobler way there is to spend
decades to centuries? Most spent only about a decade on a certain subject,
moving on out of want of change, but the fields moved forward rapidly.
Who knows; maybe I will devote my life to pursuing scientific challenges
as well. I have all the time of the world to decide.
I activated the guide again. “Show me the research groups and their
members.”
The man obeyed and smiled. “Are you looking for one to join?”
“I hope so.”
Maybe I was following a wrong lead, but what would a man like Arienti
do here? Meditate and contemplate his past in one of the hermitage pods?
Hardly. Kill time going full tourist? Not his style. Become a trader? Not in
this place. He’d spent decades here. He must be pursuing some inquiry.
Proxies of stellar evolution, long-time changes in white dwarf
atmospheres, post-main sequence system stability and evolution, surface
chemistry of planets after star’s planetary nebula phase, magnetic
properties of white dwarfs, conditions for emergence of life on post-MS
stars’ planets, distribution of rare metals and their isotopes on the planet’s
surface and in the crust…
I stopped there. “Can you lead me to their place?”
The guide’s shining smile became almost annoying. “My pleasure.”
Then it was only a matter of asking a few inconspicuous questions
getting to know Castello’s location. Steering the conversation in the
direction I wanted was easy.
“…you probably want Castello’s Castle then,” a man named Tobio, who
proved to be a good unsuspecting information source, chuckled. I inclined
my head curiously, and he continued: “That’s just a nickname. You’ll know
it as Athens. One of the smaller bases out there.”
“Why the nickname?”
I noticed the habitat’s systems whispered no hints to me.
“It was financed by a man named Castello. He seems to live there. Never
came back here once the base was established. Hence Castello’s Castle.”
I let a smile play on my lips. “It must be an interesting place, then. I think
I’ll pay it a visit.”

August 2022
It was strange to watch the Gifted to leave the hospital. Doctor Aster
Sebai observed them with mixed feelings. She didn’t work in the Gift
section, spanning a part of the previous elderly care ward, but only
someone remarkably myopic wouldn’t keep noticing the change. Since the
less than year of its official approval in the country, the Gift was distributed
to randomly chosen citizens, if they agreed with undergoing the procedure.
Few had refused.
In the doctors’ mess, there was an unusual buzz that morning. Ruth ran to
Aster as soon as she saw her. “Alana has been selected for the Gift! Maybe
one of our numbers would come up next.”
“Congratulations to her. But we can’t expect anything, it’s a lottery,”
Sebai said. Uncertain if she wanted her number to come up. What would
she do, living forever? She was content with her life. However she hoped
her daughter would get to choose, she didn’t want the option for herself.
Of those who refused the procedure, some were paranoid about using
insights gained from an alien probe that didn’t even know human
physiology before it started studying us, some didn’t wish for life everlasting
for many reasons. But most wished their number would come up.
“What would you do if you were Gifted?” mused Ruth. “I’d take some
time off and travel the world.”
“I would continue my work here,” Sebai said dryly. “Those who aren’t
Gifted still need our help. Not speaking of the Gifted, who can still become
sick or injured, even though they don’t age.”
Ruth scowled at her. “Pessimism doesn’t suit you, Aster.”
“It’s realism. The Gift is not a miracle ending all suffering. And for those
who become Gifted, but have no money to speak of and a family to support,
not much really changes.” Sebai would have continued, but her phone
beeped. It was Feven, telling her that the office where she worked had been
closed for the day for the fear of an attack. Sebai’s stomach knotted. It
would be so much easier, had the Gift really been a miracle…
“I’ll drop by the hospital, say hi. Love you, mum.”
Sebai went on to make her rounds. Work had always been reassuring to
her. For a moment, she could push aside the tensions the Gift had sparked,
and the risk of plunging into a bloody civil war once again. She still
vaguely remembered the images from her childhood, however she wished
not to.
A text beeped again. “I’m here, mum. Where r u?”
Sebai touched the screen to reply. And that was when all turned to dust.
 A sudden blast shook the building violently. Sebai staggered and fell. She
felt crumbles of the wall paint fall on her neck. “Get under the beds!” she
managed to shout before a cough got ahold of her. She was blinking fine
dust away from her eyes.
The hospital trembled again, and she instinctively rolled under an empty
bed.
The third blast came, and the roar of the falling walls deafened her. Then
she remembered nothing up until waking up in a hastily-fashioned mobile
infirmary.
When she came to, all of her body was aching and she still almost
couldn’t hear. But they said she only suffered a few broken bones,
concussion and dehydration, and had no internal bleeding.
The news of the attack slowly trickled to her. The three bombs completely
decimated the hospital; it was nothing but ruins now. A group opposing the
current government claimed responsibility for it. They said they’d end the
abomination of the Gift. That they’d rightfully return the land to its former
law. That they have God on their side. That they would make the nation
great again.
What they didn’t say and Sebai heard had been the terrorized and
murdered villages, men beheaded, children taken from their homes for labor
and into the army, women dragged away to be nothing but toys to break and
cruelly discard, forests burned, animals butchered and the land scorched to
cinders if they sensed that victory was eluding them.
But she couldn’t bring herself to feel the terror of it. All of it belonged to
Feven, still buried somewhere under the ruins. Sebai still clung to her last
remnants of hope three days later, when they still uncovered two survivors.
Later that day, they discovered Feven.
They concluded she had bled out at most a day after the blast.

“Where are you going?” A slender dark woman appeared on the rover’s
passenger’s seat. Another agent, like the guide from Olympus.
“To Athens. I’m looking for some interesting research group to join.”
“We’re not currently seeking new collaborators.”
“May I at least have a look around there?”
 The woman paused, apparently lost in thought. Its AI was asking
someone for guidance.
“All right,” she nodded then. “We’ll be looking forward to meeting you,
Erin.” She vanished.
The rover drove me the rest of the way in silence. I gazed out at the
dream-like landscape of van Maanen b. Sharp spikes of obsidian rose from
the curving ridges. The outermost surface, already cooked, had vaporized in
the shedding of the red giant’s shell, and must have left behind a land Dalí
would have longed to paint. But as I understood, that wasn’t the end; the
equally strange land I was seeing originated when a giant impact stripped
the planet of its remaining crust and most of the mantle rather recently.
That’s why so few impact craters could be seen. This eerie land was young.
Castello’s Castle, finally rising above the horizon, did not live up to its
name. The base was barely visible above the surface, save for a small
observatory tower. An airlock opened for my vehicle and let me in the
subterranean complex. The virtual woman appeared by its inner door.
“Come in. We’re expecting you in the hall.”
I followed her through the labyrinthine corridors lined with austere
printed regolith walls. The room hardly seemed more hospitable. There
were three people inside. One a short pale person of androgynous features,
the second a black woman with sparse clothes revealing silvery tattoos.
The remaining one was Louis Castello.
He didn’t change much since the last records Bellugi had possessed,
scarcely aged. Though not physically resembling the original Antonio
Arienti much, he stayed true to the type. His olive skin and dark eyes
sported no obvious augments. In his plain shirt and trousers, he could have
fit into any period. He had lived through many.
“Hello, Erin,” he said casually. “We’re all pleased to meet you. Welcome
to our humble station.”
Manu Virtanen. Ike Oladapo. Louis Castello. During our conversation
over lunch, Virtanen almost never spoke; most of the conversation was
supplied by Oladapo, on whom was the agent I’d encountered modeled, and
Castello himself.
Searching for chemical peculiarities on the planet and in the debris
disk… High-res radar and lidar imaging to reveal possible strange
shapes… It all made sense together, even the strange attitude of the
Olympians toward Castello’s Castle: the mixture of curiosity and derision.
 “You’re trying to find some signs of the Ramakhi, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” Castello regarded me calmly. “Had you not understood that,
we’d have nothing to talk about.”
“The others, at Olympus, probably think you’re fools.”
“Do you?”
Why? I wanted to ask. Why do you of all people pursue this? What’s in it
for you?
“No,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I think we’ve got odds on our side.”
“We? You’re not a part of our team yet.”
“We as humanity. This is something that should interest everybody. Pity
that some can’t see that.”
Castello smiled, and so did Oladapo; only Virtanen still regarded me with
her stony face.
“You can stay here for now,” Castello announced. “Let’s see how you
fare.”

Three weeks later, I started suspecting that I was Floriana Bellugi’s only
asset from aboard Chrysalis. But what should I do? I had found Castello,
but still had no idea what she wanted from him.
Nothing in his manner suggested his long and violent past. Yet when I
tried to look past the innocent distracted smile, I could perhaps imagine the
master puppeteer inside. There was something against-all-common-sense
alluring about chameleons like Arienti, and something deeply chilling. He’d
been the most perfect shape-shifter. He would seem to belong anywhere, be
it a prestigious charity ball, a system-wide corporate board meeting, a
scientific conference, a middle-class home, an impoverished slum, a seedy
bar, a street gang, a mercenary squad or a simple fishermen’s village on the
shores of a long-forgotten island.
I could only imagine his life back on Earth. Something about the style of
that life intrigued me despite myself. I could not lay my finger on it. How
could I, a youngster who’d grown up in a totally different world, ever
understand it? I suppose it bears the same feel of excitement, raw
adventure, as people of Arienti’s generation derived from tales of brave
knights, seamen or frontier settlers.
 Even with my substantial augmented knowledge, I could hardly fathom
the thrill of old Earth. Who would I have been in such a world, and what
would I have seen? Such terrors and wonders…
I continued working with him. It was actually quite fascinating. On one
of our walks outside to corroborate our robotic probes’ data, I interrupted
the quiet white noise in our speakers and asked: “Why are you doing this in
particular? You could go to any populated world, live a comfortable life…
Why go through so much trouble?”
“You’re here, so you know the answer already, no? If you can live
forever, trying to find out what enabled that is just as good a way of
spending your time as any,” he shrugged visibly even in his suit. “It satisfies
curiosity and is sufficiently long-term to entertain me for quite a while.
Maybe I’ll get tired of it if I encounter another dead end. Maybe not. You
can plan only for a certain time ahead.”
“But we know so little about the Ramakhi from their messenger probe! It
refused to tell us anything specific about its creators. There’s nowhere to
start.”
The probe already spoke several human languages when we encountered
it. It knew a lot about Earth-based life, our own biology and culture. It
understood many figures of speech and conversed fluently. It must have
been observing us for decades, but it never told us. It managed to steer the
first contact scenario into one that had been peaceful and relatively not
shattering for us.
“There’s plenty to start,” Arienti said drily. “The isotopic composition of
the probe’s alloys suggests it hadn’t assembled itself in our solar system. It
was rather peculiar, in fact. The problem is, we don’t have precise enough
measurements for other systems to make a comparison. We’re trying to
supplement this data. Also, the age of the probe had been estimated at less
than a hundred thousand years. It may have been assembled when the first
modern humans started leaving Africa. We should be able to find many
traces of the Ramakhi had they been around so recently. I’ve been tracking
them for the better part of two centuries. I believe I’m getting closer.”
His words resonated in my ears. I had a strange sense of déja vu.
Two centuries? That must have been since his arrival to the Tau Ceti
system already. Tau Ceti…
I felt like I was missing something important. I could go on like this for
months and learn nothing more than the shallow image he’d show to me. I
had to get deeper.
It took two weeks’ planning, but finally I was sure I could do it. I waited
for a moment when Arienti and Oladapo were outside, while Virtanen
worked in the lab. The security systems were different from what I had
known, but compatible. I got in.
Arienti’s rooms seemed as inconspicuous and timeless as the man
himself. Unlike him, they even lacked personality. You could see that
someone lived in the quarters, but still learn little about him. I passed a
small stack of spare clothes, the only ones to be seen. More could be printed
easily.
No books; no such luxury to be brought here by a not so large expedition.
Not even printed here, even though that would be considerably less
luxurious.
No pictures on the walls, physical or projected. No physical mirrors.
Nothing expendable at all.
An empty table stood by the wall. I sat to it, hesitating. If I try to access
the interface—there surely is one—I may give my attempt at espionage
away. But if I don’t, I learn nothing at all.
“Activate,” I said firmly.
I managed to persuade the system into thinking that I was Arienti. I
almost wondered how easy it had been, when an additional layer of security
presented itself.
“I’ve noticed an unusual pattern in your access,” the holo said. It was a
woman’s face: older, black, with an accent I couldn’t place. “Let me ask
you a question.”
I drew a sharp breath. I could synthesize Arienti’s voice and mimic his
speech pattern, true, and it might be enough—if I could answer.
“Where and when did we first meet face to face? Not quite this face,
though,” she smiled.
I was lost. “I have to go. Switch off,” I said and hurried away.
Just in time. Arienti’s and Oladapo’s voices sounded in the corridor. I
vanished into my room.

Shortly thereafter, Arienti appeared in my door. “We’ve found something

today with Ike. I want you to come with me to see it.”
 I tensed a little. “All right.”
Neither Oladapo nor Virtanen joined us. We traversed quite a distance in
the rover, but the terrain grew too hard near the end. As we walked carefully
across a spiky lava field, Arienti spoke: “Have I mentioned that I’d visited
two other systems before this one? Tau Ceti. YZ Ceti. It was an interesting
time. But as soon as I learned what I needed, I went here. Actually, I pulled
a few strings to help make the expedition happen.”
“Really? I had no idea!” I acted properly surprised. “What inspired you?”
“Something that happened back at Tau Ceti. Did you know that a few of
the colonists decided to establish a base at the outermost planet’s moons
instead of the inner planets?”
I recalled it vaguely. He continued: “They found something there. A
wreck of a failed spacecraft. Very, very old. The resemblance with the
Ramakhi probe was uncanny.”
“That’s impossible,” I breathed out. “Everyone would have known.”
“If they made the discovery public, yes. But they didn’t. You might not
know, but the political regime on-site wasn’t very friendly toward that
approach. However, a few people who learned about it had escaped and had
been… inspired.”
I could imagine his predatory smile, the teeth exposed in half-
threatening, half-boasting fashion.
“The isotopic composition spoke clearly. The probe likely originated in
the same system as the one which had spoken to us. I boarded the first ship
out of there. YZ Ceti was a good location for my purposes. I already had an
inkling about where to start digging.”
Why are you telling me all this now? I almost asked, but stopped myself
in time. We still walked side by side. I had the feeling of a prisoner going to
her execution. Could I make it to the rover in time? But where could I go? I
wouldn’t have enough fuel to go back to Olympus, and I couldn’t contact
the base from here. No; my only chance was facing Arienti if I must.
Perhaps I was just being paranoid.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?” he spoke and a shiver went down my
spine. It took me a second to realize he’d meant his inkling. Or so I hoped.
“Why?” I said. My throat felt very dry.
For a moment, Arienti was silent. Then, very quietly, he said: “Who sent
you here?”
“What?”
 “I know you’ve spied on me. I repeat: Who sent you?”
I felt strange. I wanted to tell him. I almost did. He must have released
something into my air, I realized. So far I was able to resist it. Would it stay
that way?
“Well, you’ve come from Epsilon Eridani. So Bellugi, I guess? Or
Iwamoto? Or… no, she wouldn’t…”
“What are you talking about? No one sent me here!”
I could hear him sigh in the speakers. “I should get the information out of
you. But if the meds don’t work on you, that could be tiresome… Better to
get it over quickly.”
Suddenly, I was gasping for air. My suit!
I fell to my knees. One of the shards had ruptured my suit as I did and
sliced into my knee. I cried out in horrid pain. Desperately, I fumbled
around for my repair spray.
What are you going to do? You can repair the damage on your leg, but
not what he did…
Black spots appeared in my vision. The air grew thinner. Words came to
me from nowhere.
“Aster Sebai,” I wheezed.
Arienti stopped and turned abruptly. “What did you say?”
But I could not speak anymore. My precious air was escaping too fast.
Arienti’s blurred face—wait, not this Arienti’s, but another, also his—was
the last thing I saw before blackness encompassed me.

December 2031
She had been growing old. Felt the wears and tears of age pull at her
body and render it weak. No longer could she run if someone on the street
decided she wasn’t a good enough citizen for him. No longer could she
defend herself, let alone the millions she wanted to speak for. No longer
could she raise her voice high enough. Cancer started eating at her body.
With treatments, she might fight it. Without them, she would have at most
two years left, likely less.
Looking back at her life, she felt bitter disappointment. None of the goals
she strove for came true. She wanted to save people. And what had come of
it? Ruins, scorched earth and a country divided by bloodshed. The hospital
never opened again, although it was needed more than ever before.
At first, she tried to prevent more violence and ruin where she was. All in
vain. Finally, she fled with hundreds of others. Abroad, she tried to speak
for those less fortunate. It was difficult at first, but then she established
herself as a known peace and civil rights advocate. She ran lectures,
debates, fundraisers and film screenings. She started petitions. She kept
sending out letters.
The impact of it left her sad, angry and disillusioned. True, she had her
little victories.
But these were doused by much bigger defeats.
The war continued. People kept dying and suffering, while others were
gaining immortality.
None of the attackers who killed Feven, none of the war criminals had
been punished to date.
In the first years, she feared for her life for speaking out loud. Then she
realized they didn’t care. She wasn’t an enemy worth notice for them. She
could do nothing.
Oh, if she could take it back, all the idealism and playing by the rules… if
only she had the time.
So she bribed the Gift administrator in town. Oh, the selection of people
who would receive the Gift was supposedly random across the world, but no
one with eyes to see would believe that. She was an aging, bitter,
unaccomplished refugee woman. Had she waited for her turn, she would
have died before her name came up. The bribe consumed all of her savings
and set her deep in debt, but it worked.
A year later, suffering from multiple metastases and feeling ever so weak
physically from the disease as well as the treatments, it was her turn to
accept the Gift. The procedure was entirely painless. She didn’t even feel the
time spinning around her, until it was just four days later and she emerged
in excellent health and, if she opted for repeating the procedure every
couple of decades, possibly at the start of her life everlasting.
She felt young again. And so, so full of rage.

Aster Sebai.
 I woke with the name on my lips.
I woke.
Alive. Breathing. With a patched up leg; hurting but already almost
healed. I took in my perceptions at once: the undersuit I was still wearing,
the responsive foam beneath me, the walls of molded regolith. Less than
four hours elapsed since I almost died, unless someone tampered with my
sense of time. I was likely still at Castello’s Castle.
Aster Sebai. Who was she?
I could recall a face to that name. No, more than one face.
“I’d like to apologize for that misunderstanding earlier.” Arienti stopped
in the door and looked me up and down. I was momentarily distracted by
flashbacks of other faces, male, his earlier faces.
How did I know? Bellugi never showed them to me.
“Why did you spare me?”
I took him by surprise. “You still don’t know!”
Faces, names… Fragments. What do they mean?
“Your failsafe probably hasn’t kicked in fully yet. I should leave you to
it… but I’m curious.” He sat at a chair across from my bed. “It’s such a
long time since we’ve last met. I wonder what happens when we meet
again.”
His words made no sense to me. But I remembered seeing him before.
Flirting with a stranger amidst the freezing clouds of Saturn. Watching him
fall into the endless pit of the gas giant’s atmosphere.
A starship, one of the first built outside the Solar System. A different face
this time, and behind it the same man, alive and well.
“How could I have gotten someone else’s memories?” I spoke. But even
as I was saying that, I already knew full well that wasn’t the truth.

May 2038
Looking down at the pleading man, she felt nothing but contempt. “You
deserve even worse,” she commented and pulled the trigger.
A year after the first one, second of the men responsible for Feven’s death
lay dead by her feet.
The sayings were right. It was much easier the second time.
There were still so many to be hunted.
 *

Aster Sebai. How long have I not been her?

Arienti was observing my reaction with the mild curiosity of someone
watching an animal perform a circus feat.
My head hurt. My vision blurred. In my mind, images spun in a carousel
of memories.
One recurrent theme: death. So many dead.
“What have I done?” I whispered. My voice broke.
What am I? Have I really done all this?
My own past was mystery to me. Fragments, pieces, scattered without
any apparent order.
“Aster,” Arienti said. He rolled the name on his tongue, tasting it perhaps
for the first time in decades or even over a century.
I’ve had many names in the past. Aster Sebai had been the first, and Erin
Taiwo was only the most recent one. It wasn’t even from the same language
as my original name. Has it ever meant something for me? Or was I just
cautious? I couldn’t remember.
Just flashbacks of my life: Mercenary, informant, shifter, influencer,
adventurer, gambler. I had been every last one. Up until the moment the
weariness set in. Then I became something else again.
But I always knew. Had access to the memories of the past, should I want
to. I mostly did not.
What made me forget?
I shivered. Arienti leaned closer, deep fascination in his face. He
extended a hand and touched my cheek. I flinched.
He chuckled. “Relax. It’s just intriguing to watch this transformation.”
“We’ve met before.”
“Yes.” His eyes gleamed. “Care to go for a walk while I help you piece
your past together?”
My headache was fading and my leg felt better. I pulled myself up. “Let’s
go.”

I felt my strength return as we slowly walked through the corridors of

Castello’s Castle. Finally, we reached the observation room. From its tower,
we could see the bleak land everywhere around us.
Arienti spoke: “Long ago, you started hunting me. You tried to kill me on
Saturn. I took the fall but was rescued by a lower-level airship. A fortunate
fate—or someone else’s calculated plan. We were both onboard the Shiva
but I managed to avoid you when our times awake overlapped. Then we
crossed paths again on the way to YZ Ceti. You remembered me but
laughed our old incident off. We became lovers during the journey. I even
told you about what I’d seen on that godforsaken moon. It excited you, of
course. You told me that you’ve finally found someone who didn’t bore you
abominably. But that doesn’t tend to last, does it? I promoted exploration of
the YZ Ceti system and tried to put together an expedition here, but my
resources were depleted, my influence limited. It was all too slow and
intangible for you, I suppose. We went our separate ways. I don’t know
what you hoped to find on the other side of your journey, but I hope you
haven’t found it.”
I shuddered. “Why is that?”
“Because simply reaching our goals is the most unsatisfying thing that
can happen to us immortals.”
“So you picked a goal you can never reach.”
“Oh no, not never. That would be foolish. Not exciting at all. No, my
goal may take me many more centuries, even millennia, but it’s far from
impossible.”
It still didn’t seem his style to me. I would expect him to engage in power
plays, in feats of senseless adventure seeking, but this seemed too noble a
pursuit for someone like him.
“Why do you do it?” I pressed on.
“Because it’s beautiful,” he said simply. “Look around. Don’t you see?”
I gazed at the barren landscape ahead. It was strange, alien even. Eerily
beautiful, yes.
I only realized he was speaking again when he shook my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I snapped out of it. “It really is beautiful. Staggering, actually.”
“So you understand.”
“I’m not sure.”
“It surpasses us. Whatever we find here, a clue to Ramakhi past or just a
fascinating system, it’s something vastly bigger than us. I think it’s the only
thing I can appreciate after the centuries of human trifles. I’m bored by it.
Bored by petty fights and intrigues, bored by risking and gambling, bored
by relationships, by culture, by everything. It fades and only leaves a bad
palate. I’ve shifted toward things that have been here for eons, and will be
here eons after we perish. That’s what’s really interesting. It lasts.”
Arienti surprised me. I had not expected to find such a philosophical
spirit in him. He used to be always very pragmatic, as long as I could recall.
But then again, I hadn’t seen him for centuries.
Eyes still on the big game of deciphering the Ramakhi fate, he found
solace where I could not.
Our lives are fleeting. Our thoughts and feelings, even more so. But I
could not look upon the stars and planets and forget I’m human. However
fascinating and grand I could find the universe, I was too absorbed in our
mayfly troubles.
Maybe that’s why I could no longer bear it in the end.

November 2112
The emptiness was unbearable. A gaping hole where her identity used to
be.
So many dead. Their deaths no longer meant anything to her. She wasn’t
sure when the moment had come that she continued hunting them down just
out of inertia. Everything else, gone.
She eventually tracked down everyone connected to the hospital
bombing. Then she focused on war criminals from the ensuing civil war.
Finally, on those who enabled it in the first place.
Antonio Arienti. The arms supplier.
This one was good, covered his tracks almost perfectly. But she had
plenty of time.
He was on Mars.
But before she could find him there, he disappeared. Her anger fueled
her once again, but it was different than before, almost burnt-out.
Then she found his trail again.
Saturn.
This time, she was more careful. Changed her appearance once again.
Polished her new backstory. Left some false trails around the system.
They finally met face to face aboard the Zephyr, deep in the clouds of
Saturn. He was courteous, charming, and flirted with her. She pretended to
take an interest, and after a few meetups, not too soon, suggested kite flying
in the clouds. He was delighted by the prospect.
She only regretted than she couldn’t see his face when she struck him
down. The damaged wings fluttered about him as he fell. She flew lower to
observe his fall longer, but he quickly disappeared in the underlying cloud
layer.
Her work was done.
She returned home. Home… It felt like one no longer. She excavated the
box. In it rested a small treasure: entirely worthless for anyone but her. A
reminder of a fortune she had lost ages ago for her.
The photograph of Feven was the most precious item. She touched the
smooth glossy surface of the polaroid picture a bit uncertainly, almost
hesitant to believe it was still there. It had faded so little in over a century.
She may have been looking at it for hours, before she spoke.
“I’m so sorry,” she said with her throat tight, and abruptly closed the
box.
The next day, she appeared at a local aug-clinic.
“I want a rewire.”
The words almost stuck in her throat.
She still hesitated when they sat her in the soft chair and explained the
process once again, as the laws dictated. When she nodded, she was still
full of doubts. She had changed her appearance and name many times, but
never herself. She knew her concept of identity had become laughably
outdated long ago, but she was still seized with anxiety when the rewiring
started.
She had to be awake to keep telling them what she thought, felt,
remembered.
She didn’t know at which point she stopped worrying.
The emptiness was not gone. But the guilt, sorrow and anxiety were. The
emptiness, she knew instantly, could now be filled very easily with anything
that pleased her.
“Are you satisfied with the rewire?” they asked her.
She was.
It had been her first one, and certainly not last.

*
 As we stood there in mutual silence, I remembered all. I remembered
myself, all the different selves of me during those years.
Most had been monsters.
Still, most of them had known.
They would play the endless games of hide and seek, extracting
information, gaining advantage… Most chose not to dwell on the grim
bloody past and focused on the sometimes bloody but bright now. They
would climb the deadly slopes of Aamu’s cliffs, almost die performing the
boldest feats of old-school exploration, daringly challenge every obstacle
Nature and Man presented.
Drinking the finest, eating the rarest delicacies, meeting all the strange
and wonderful people, allies, enemies, lovers, acquaintances (never
friends). Enjoying the tingle of beams of different suns. Having fun. Always
being a step ahead of the others.
Everything would become the game.
Except when they would wake up in the middle of the night soaked in
cold sweat, shaking from the nightmares, scared and paranoid. Alone.
Trusting no one. Always on the run.
Even with the rewires piling up, the woman who used to be Aster Sebai a
long time ago grew restless. Would she have to remake herself into a
complete psychopath to reach peace? But even that may not help. No, the
only way was to end herself.
And so she did. She buried her past as deep as she could. Then, she
forgot. I forgot.
“How could you do it?” I spoke. “How could you stay you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve had some help, but I guess I’m built this way.”
Silence fell once more.
I felt whole, yet set loose. Drifting without purpose. Whatever power
play Bellugi had engaged me in, because there was no way this had been an
accident, I wanted no part in it.
“So what are you going to do now?” Arienti shot me a sideways glance.
“Will you try to kill me? Betray Bellugi? Let everything go and make a
break for it? Build a small empire?”
I should have hated him, but I just felt indifferent about him. So many
conflicting notions of the man, yet none of that mattered now. Enmities,
romances and alliances come and go.
 “I want to have a look at the thing you discovered, if that hasn’t been just
an excuse to lure me out and kill me,” I said. “Then I’ll decide what to do
next.”

“Why?” I asked once again on our walk outside. This time, we both
meant why he came here to pursue the Ramakhi question.
“The chemical composition again. By the time I left Tau Ceti, we’ve
already had some data from the Procyon system. Although it’s a binary and
just one component is a white dwarf, it confirmed some suspicions about
the chemical make-up of white dwarf systems. It also reinforced my
suspicion that the probes had come from such a place. Preferably not a
binary, though: A lone white dwarf system. One with lots of planetary
material, perhaps, with strong metallic spectral lines. One that would be
close enough to Tau Ceti and our Sun. There is only one such system.”
He stopped at an apex of a cliff and spread his arms. “Look around. Isn’t
it fascinating? We may be seeing a world from which the probes had come.
You know what is also interesting? Van Maanen’s star came as close as less
than three light years to the Sun about sixteen thousand years ago. It’s a
great distance to overcome, but it can be done, as we’ve amply
demonstrated ourselves. Even a civilization with much less advanced
technological capabilities could manage to send a probe across that gap.”
“Are you suggesting…?”
“That the Ramakhi have come from here? Exactly. But that’s not the end
of it. Can’t you figure it out yourself?”
Probes less than a hundred thousand years old. A close encounter in a
more recent period. I looked around. Extremely young surface. Most of the
crust and mantle had vaporized in a giant impact, leaving behind this
barren planet.
“This was their world,” I stated in disbelief. “They evolved here, around
the white dwarf, when the planet perhaps had a strong greenhouse
atmosphere and conditions for life, they built interstellar probes—but the
destruction of their planet had wiped them out.” I shook my head. “But that
doesn’t add up, does it? If they had the capacity to go interstellar, even if
just with uncrewed probes, they must have colonized the rest of this system.
We should be able to find traces of them everywhere.”
 “Everywhere in a system so unstable… and so sparsely explored by us?”
said Arienti quietly. “The remaining planets are much further, a difficult
place to start colonizing. This planet has no moon. The debris around the
star would constitute the best target for early space exploration, then. We
got on well with colonizing asteroids. But our system was very stable. What
if they just didn’t consider it worth it to colonize the rest of their system?
Instead, they turned to other stars. And at least once, they discovered life.
They managed to construct interstellar probes with immense learning
capabilities… but what if they never were an interstellar civilization
themselves? What if every single of our conjectures about them had rested
on a wrong assumption?” I had never seen Arienti so excited, not even in
the countless records I had found long ago. Maybe he’d never been, until he
embarked on his futile search.
I still didn’t quite believe him. His theory sounded appealing, but it stood
on a construction built of assumptions so fragile that one strong data point
would suffice to destroy it whole.
But we’ve been searching for that one strong data point for centuries,
haven’t we?
“Finally, we may have something here,” Arienti interrupted my train of
thoughts. “As you’ve pointed out, we should be able to see traces of space
industry in the system.”
“They found something in the debris disk?”
“Not there. But here.”
We arrived to a crevice within a small impact crater. I struggled to see
what had been inside, but then I recognized the outlines.
“What is it?” I exhaled.
“We don’t know yet. A fragment of a mining device? Of a habitat? It’s
older than the new crust of this planet. Must have drifted in the debris disk
for a long time before crashing here.” Arienti’s voice in the comms was
surprisingly soft. “It’s not a proof of my theory. But it’s a start.”
We spent many hours examining the strange remnants. I had never seen
the original Ramakhi probe, though. I had lived thousands of kilometers
away from where it appeared. In another lifetime…
On our walk back to the rover, Arienti suddenly broke the awed silence:
“Have you followed news from Earth and colonies other than yours?”
“Not much.” First I wanted to put my past behind me; and then I didn’t
even know I had one.
 “I have. I’ve devoted much of my time to studying how our societies
evolved ever since the Gift. What intrigues me is that in the early years, we
set out to explore the whole new systems we’ve colonized. Now we’re
retracting to one or two planetary colonies in a system each. Small bases are
disappearing. Research stations in the outer reaches are becoming
automated or diminishing. There are still plenty of hermits who prefer to
live outside big colonies, but they too grow fewer, while big settlements are
growing and focusing inward… Do you understand?”
I nodded, but he still continued: “Even though we’ve gone interstellar, we
may ultimately be on the same path as the Ramakhi. Most will become
oblivious and more vulnerable to… cosmic accidents. The few who
won’t… well, they will scatter and then die off. Maybe we’ll push a few
more light years forward, extend our small bubble of colonized space… and
then our candle will go out.”
I considered his words. Pure speculation. Fitting the reality into the
frame of his worldview, while he should be doing the opposite. But still…
what if he’s not wrong?

We journeyed back to Castello’s Castle in silence. Only when we were

helping each other out of out heavy suits, he said: “I think I’ll make the
discovery public.”
I looked at him in surprise.
His face was serious, pensive. For a second, he didn’t resemble the old
Arienti; nor Olivieri; nor Castello. Someone new was standing before me.
“I learned what I could alone. But if I continue this way, it dies with me,
even if I have followers like my companions here and have sent backup
messages elsewhere some time ago—what intrigued Bellugi, I suppose.
Perhaps, if I announce it, it will spur a new period of exploration. New
adventures. New opportunities. New world for me to fit in.”
None of us can bear being ourselves for too long, can we? I thought. Will
I be able to cope?
I looked back at Arienti. My foe. My lover. My enigma. My target. Could
I ever escape the weight of the memories?
As if reading my mind, he spoke: “Chrysalis begins its return voyage in a
month. You should be there.”
 I could stay. But how long would it last before I and Arienti wanted to
kill each other?
I could go elsewhere in-system. Yet what would I do here? Search for
castles in the air?
I didn’t want to drift anymore. I wanted a purpose, so I gave myself one.
First, close the previous chapter of my life. Then…
Before I boarded my rover in the airlock, I turned and looked at Arienti
standing behind the thick transparent wall. “Goodbye,” I said through my
suit’s comms.
He didn’t speak, but his gaze seemed to say that there are not really any
goodbyes for immortals. Only I clung to the outdated custom.

I chose to sleep through the whole time of the starship’s voyage. I needed
no more time to decide what would happen next. Erin Taiwo’s first and also
last meeting with Floriana Bellugi occurred on Turms less than half a year
before the first departure of Chrysalis.
Aster Sebai’s—or however I would call myself, the remembering myself
—history with the woman had been much more complex and by far not
over.
The original Aster would perhaps want to end it once and for all. But I
was not her anymore. I had her memories, but I could no longer understand
her.
Upon my return to the Epsilon Eridani system, her residence had been the
first place I headed to. I was expected.
The same furniture, the same rosy porcelain tea set, probably tea from the
same plantation, and the same Floriana Bellugi, looking not a day older
than those decades ago.
“Welcome, Erin,” she smiled. “Or should I say Aster?”
“I’ve used many names. Pick any.” I sat across from her and measured
her with a calm gaze.
Her smile didn’t falter a bit. “Thank you for coming. Tea?”
We drank from the dainty cups for a moment, both silent, but I felt almost
no tension between us. Live long enough and you get used to this.
“Arienti says hi,” I remarked.
“I assume it’s no good if I tell you to reciprocate it.”
 “No good at all.”
“So he stayed at van Maanen?”
“Perhaps. I wouldn’t know.” I wouldn’t put it past him to organize
another expedition elsewhere. So much was left to be discovered by van
Maanen’s star, but would he have stayed there once his discovery—or
rather Virtanen and Oladapo’s discovery, as Louis Castello didn’t figure in
any of the reports—was made public? Maybe he changed his identity again.
Maybe he’s still pulling the strings out there. I liked to imagine him in one
of the hermitages, alone, detached, like he’s been all his life, but more in
touch with the outer world than most of us. “And even if I would, well…”
You wanted me to remember and kill him, I left unsaid. You wanted to get
rid of both of us in one move, perhaps one you considered apt or even
poetic justice, and maybe gain some insights into the Ramakhi question
before as a bonus.
Bellugi nodded, smiling. “So what exactly happened to the Ramakhi?”
“Waited for the unavoidable collision to wipe them out? Tried evacuating
the planet? Took their own lives one by one? Committed a mass suicide?
Who knows. Seems they’re no longer around and that they were never
really around much, but how can we be really sure about that? The van
Maanen artifact doesn’t tell us much about their past. It’s groundbreaking,
but the search is far from over.”
She clicked her tongue. But it was all theater for me. Given how
uncannily she hoarded any information she could find, she already knew
what I was going to tell her as soon as the Chrysalis approached the system;
perhaps much sooner.
I stood up.
Bellugi faked surprise. “Oh, you aren’t going, are you, Aster? We have so
much to talk about, and you have hardly touched your supper!”
“You know what they used to say… who sups with the devil should have
a long spoon.”
“You cannot possibly be mad at me for manipulating you. Blame yourself
for choosing to forget earlier. Or are you mad because you have
remembered?” She shook her head. “You of all people, calling me the
devil… We are all monsters, my dear one. Only some know it. And accept
it.”
I didn’t sit back down. “That’s not me anymore.”
 “No, that’s denial, sweetheart. Grow up. It’s been centuries, for gods’
sake. You can’t escape your past.”
“No. But I can choose my future. You had asked me if accepting the
Ramakhi gift had been a grave mistake. I failed to comprehend it as Erin.
Then, when I remembered, I thought that it had been. But now I’m not so
sure. It didn’t help us eliminate suffering, but it enabled us to reach
magnificent things. Before, I chose to forget. Not anymore. Lacking past is
a liability. But I will not dwell on it. I need to remember—if only to know
to move on. I’m done with my past. I will take no more life. Play no more
selfish games in which innocent bystanders lose everything. I will not
pursue revenge, nor become a crusader of justice. I will help where I can, in
the little ways. They count too. They may count most of all. So that’s why
in a moment, I will walk out of this door and never return. You won’t stop
me. You know I’m no danger to you. Maybe you’ll even enjoy watching me
build my new life. Place bets on when I should fail.” I smiled. “You will
lose them all.”
I wasn’t feeling as sure as my words sounded. I may have uncovered the
past but the future held no certainties for me. When you possibly have an
eternity ahead of you, how can you bear all the mistakes, disappointments,
injustices, pains that you eventually endure? I may break down under the
weight of my sins, or the others’. I may choose to bury it all again in a
moment of weakness. I may become like Bellugi, uncaring, oblivious, even
cruel. I may repeat my past mistakes all over again.
Then again, I may not. That’s what is so beautiful about the future.

First published in Asimov’s (11-12/2018).

 The Ship Whisperer

First, there were three paragraphs and a world of enticing possibilities.

This mix had marinated for some time—until, suddenly, a story sprang out
of it over the course of a single weekend.
Icarus Caille is, in a way, the embodiment of my favorite type of
protagonist: socially awkward, more comfortable with non-human
company, and dedicated to peace to the extent of… well, you’ll see. On the
other hand, it’s also fun to write more socially savvy characters such as the
protagonist of “All The Smells in The World”, Klaus Voort in “Reset in
Peace” or Anton Jasmine Gaillard in “We Shadows”. Yet even they are set
apart from most of society—be it by their profession, the need for secrecy,
newly acquired quirks or nature that would seem almost alien to most other
humans.
Perhaps it’s the strange and anomalous where I fare best (and it’s up to
you to decide whether it’s a weakness or a strength); perhaps I just like
pushing the boundaries of what it means to be human. It’s fitting that this
story first appeared in Czech in my transhumanist anthology Terra nullius.
One needs to tread carefully where we’re going now, and perhaps being
not-quite-human—such as a ship whisperer—is the only way to avoid a
fatal misstep…

Even in these sophisticated times, it’s a common enough superstition that

breaking a mirror brings you seven years of bad luck. Nonetheless, nowhere
it says what happens if you start with a broken mirror and then glue the
pieces back together. I guess I’ll have to invent some story to it. Or, as it is,
I might tell you my own story—the story of a broken mirror.
I might start thirty-four subjective years ago, the moment I was
conceived, broken already. Or I might lead you straight here, staring into
the darkness and pondering on its meaning. But this is no regular darkness.
In infra-red, it glows just somewhat more than the background. You might
mistake it for an extremely cold and dim brown dwarf. A measurement of
its mass, gravitational pull and composition would result in an entirely
different conclusion that does not fit neatly in an orderly universe. What
you find so difficult to describe is a black dwarf; a remnant of a long gone
star. So old that nature forbids its existence.
Yet all the evidence is here. The impossibility exists, the measurements
were repeated countless times, all leading to the same answer in the end.
However, you’re observing this outrageous object from a distance of several
light years. You desperately want to study it close up. That’s where I come
into the story, along with Giordano Bruno and four other long-dead famous
ponderers of the cosmic perspective.

“Hard to spot, is it?”

I flinched and turned abruptly in the zero g. Not only had the visitor
disturbed me gazing out; he had also interrupted a soundless conversation
going on in my head. It was Colonel Torres himself; who else could make
such an innocent remark sound like an accusation?
“I wasn’t trying to see it.”
He snorted. “You’re lying. Everyone wants to see it with their own eyes
even if they know they’ll see nothing.”
Torres was right; I had been trying to locate the object visually. However,
with our current distance, its angular diameter would be less than two
arcminutes. A lot for any luminous or illuminated object to be visible at first
sight without any effort. Very little if the thing you’re trying to spot is pitch
black.
We had crossed nearly five light years for a thing we cannot even see.
“There,” I said. “A star should be visible between those two. Ross 1015
B must be in line of sight. And you can notice the slightly bent light around
it.”
Colonel frowned. “The ship told you right now, didn’t she?”
I didn’t deny it. I waited for him to state the reason why he came. His
face gave away nothing, even though I was good at noticing signs of
emotions. He was holding himself carefully in front of me.
“We’ve got a problem with one of the shuttles. Sort it out,” Torres said
with his usual directness.
 I followed him through the main hub, a rotating section. Adjusting for
weight felt strange. I had always felt at home in the zero g, unlike most
people. But I guess that’s the smallest of my quirks.
There was an unusual buzz in the corridors. It seemed as if everyone who
had already been awake suddenly had to go somewhere. Mostly military
crew; I didn’t see many scientists here. And Torres had mentioned a shuttle,
even though no launch was on the schedule. I was supposed to know what
was going on.
Giordano Bruno was definitely supposed to know.
What is this about?
Classified information, replied the ship. It sounded apologetic in my
head.
I tried recent findings. But there was nothing accessible to me that would
result in a shuttle launch.
Hopefully Torres would provide an explanation once we’ve got to the
shuttle.
Pleasant zero g again; the docking section by Giordano Bruno’s spine.
Even more commotion here.
“The nearest one,” Torres said. “It responds to nav adjustments too
slowly; everything else seems to be working just fine. Fix it.”
As if it was that easy, just up to me…
I strapped myself in the cockpit, whispered a brief apology to Giordano
and suppressed my link with the ship. Then I reached for Nicolaus
Copernicus’s cable.
I felt the presence of an alien mind as soon as the connector touched my
interface. It let me ping it, get closer, see, hear, taste, smell and touch its
centers. It seemed awfully small and simple compared to the vast web of
Giordano Bruno’s mind. The shuttles’ quantum computers were less
powerful than the ship’s by orders of magnitude. If Bruno was a human,
Copernicus, Kepler, Brahe and Galilei might be lizards. The idea was to
name this mission’s vessels after famous astronomers. Of course, the
starship ended up named after the only one of them who technically wasn’t
an astronomer.
There. A minor glitch, nevertheless interfering with the shuttle’s
operation. The procedure was clear.
Nudge the mind. Let it find and examine it. Insert a solution into its input.
Wait until it repairs itself.
 Two unsuccessful attempts. Then it finally let me guide it right to the
problem and solve it.
Sniffing. Closing in. Copernicus was suddenly more aware of my
presence, eager to explore the strange other mind. I severed the link before
giving it a chance.
I emerged back from the shuttle. “Ready. Everything should be
operational now.”
Colonel Torres nodded, expressionless.
Nothing else. As if he expected me to go away now.
I had no intention of doing that. “Now that I’ve repaired it, may I know
why do you need the shuttle—and why do you need its quantum computer
online when I’m the only controller awake? I assure you the shuttles can fly
on regular computers as well.”
“You may not,” Torres replied shortly.
“You’re released,” he added when I didn’t move.
I hesitated.
Torres finally lost his patience. “Will you get out of the fucking way? For
God’s sake, you ship whisperers are a bunch of weirdos! One awake at a
time is more than enough, I say. No wonder you talk to the ships if you fail
to comprehend a human conversation!”
I left without another word.
Torres was wrong. I didn’t choose this job because I was bad at people. I
chose it exactly because of the opposite. Sometimes, I was too good at
understanding people.
I wanted to provoke him, to see how angry my disobedience would make
him. And it was certainly much more than I’d expect if this was some
routine thing, despite his dislike of me.
Something big was going on.

We were all part of something bigger than a human mind can grasp from
the moment telescopes at the edge of the Beta Comae Berenices system, our
home for the last two centuries, noticed a slight discrepancy in movement
of a nearby red dwarf, Ross 1015. The star was so dull that no one bothered
to waste observation time on it before we sent a set of large telescopes by
the outer belt to monitor all nearby stars. The authorities were paranoid; the
Chara colony threat seemed only an inch away even though there was no
evidence of them sending out any ships. Better safe than sorry—and that’s
how they discovered a massive, black, cold object pulling on Ross 1015.
The Doppler shift was so large that the unseen thing had to be another star.
Finally, they detected Ross 1015 B on an eccentric orbit around the ordinary
red dwarf, nearing the perihelion at around four hundred astronomical units.
If they hadn’t been lucky enough to be in line of sight to see the transit, they
might still be looking. For half a century.
Giordano Bruno was a fast ship by the standards of interstellar travel—
which meant the average speed was just about 0.1 c. Almost no time
dilation to speak of; we had slept for more than forty years. And most of the
crew was still sleeping—and wouldn’t be woken up if all went well. We
were supposed to examine the black dwarf—the strange phenomenon that
shouldn’t exist at all in our universe until it was trillions of years older.
Only the core military crew and most of the scientists were awake now,
barely two hundred people from six hundred sleepers. And then there was
me. The only one who grew older during the voyage, spending more than a
year in total awake. Giordano woke me up several times when there was
some suspected problem—or, I had a suspicion, when the ship merely felt
too alone.
There was never any intention to make quantum computers sentient.
Strong AI, so long ago discarded by computer scientists, emerged in the
quantum world and we had to deal with it, especially in starships, where
quantum computing proved most valuable. It took ages to establish a stable
way of controlling them. Most people contented themselves with simple
interfaces for commands of every-day use. Those able to communicate
directly—needless for most of the time but indispensable if anything went
really wrong—were very few.
Not that I minded.
Ships were so much more pleasant to talk to than people.
Alien… Barely comprehensible… Honest. Pure. Loyal.
Because of Giordano’s loyalty to Colonel’s orders about confidentiality, I
now had to talk to people.
At this time, the canteen was empty except for one woman, sitting by a
plate of long cold meal, absorbed in figures and numbers flickering on her
portable screen. Lakshmi Ranganatan was a rare exception, a scientist
without brain implants enabling her access to information without such old-
fashioned methods. Hardly anyone with this kind of disability made it into
big science. Ranganatan was the only such person aboard. She was insanely
good. And she was also too remote from ordinary human matters to ignore
the notion of confidentiality simply because she had no grasp of what it
meant.
In all other aspects, she was as close to a ship’s mind as a human can get.
I liked her.
“Doctor Ranganatan,” I spoke softly. She didn’t seem to notice me. I
spoke louder. No response.
I sat opposite her. She must have glimpsed a movement because she
flinched and looked around with a panicky expression.
“I’m sorry to have startled you. You didn’t seem to hear me before. Don’t
be afraid, we’re friends—you do remember me, don’t you?”
“You’re Icarus Caille,” she said.
I smiled. “Yes. That’s me. I was just wondering how you’re doing. That’s
what friends do. Have you recently learned anything interesting?”
“What kind of things?”
“Something unexpected about the black dwarf, a weird transmission, a
new object –”
“Yes,” she interrupted me. “A new object. A barren dwarf planet orbiting
Ross 1015 B was discovered yesterday. Semi-major axis likely around 20
AU, negligible eccentricity, diameter…,” she started reciting the parameters
from her phenomenal memory.
A planet. And Torres was probably sending some landing force there, not
leaving the place just to automated probes. I was supposed to know. I was
as close to a pilot as one can get on a ship that needs no pilots, dammit.
Torres might have been the commander but I was the ship controller—or a
ship whisperer, as others often call the likes of me. I should be informed
about anything that might influence the ship somehow—about every tiny
detail of this mission, in an ideal case. I suspected that the colonel didn’t
conceal this information from me so that I wouldn’t find out; he must had
known I’d sooner or later dig it out somehow. He concealed it just on
principle.
To Francesco Torres, I was also very nearly the enemy.

*
 Staring into the darkness, I imagined how the black dwarf could have
come to exist.
I heard the scientists talk about alternate universes, either older or with
slightly different constants, and means to come through the barrier
separating them; capsules of space with accelerated passage of time; Dyson
spheres with monstrous quantities of coolant gas flowing through… I
personally most liked the one option every expert discarded as impossible:
local differences in thermodynamics. The cooling of a white dwarf is a
purely thermodynamic process, common dissipation of heat; no need to
rewrite what we know about stellar evolution. But if the laws of
thermodynamics weren’t universal… Imagine the consequences! What if
Poincaré cycles could manifest locally and had a much shorter period than
the usual many orders of magnitude more than the age of our universe?
Impossible. But I loved this theory anyway. Even after eleven months of
being here, the questions never ceased.
All of them made human quarrels seem so little and unimportant. What is
our petty animosity in face of a mystery like this? What are we if what we
observe is not a natural phenomenon but a work of another civilization,
advanced beyond our capabilities of comprehension?
However, I was not so naïve to think that all of us viewed the black dwarf
with the same joy, awe and fascination.
Take Ranganatan: For all her genius, she is without imagination. She can
follow protocols she understands by nature, astrophysics comes to her as
easily as breathing. She sees a problem to solve. She has no idea what this
discovery means for the human race. It’s just another equation to her.
But that is still a good option. She’s a good person—even if she’s very
detached by most humans’ standards.
And then Torres. He sees a potential weapon; nothing else. He’s got
imagination—just enough to imagine encapsulating the Chara system and
accelerating time to render its civilization to dust in a matter of
nanoseconds in our time frame. Or to imagine sending it into an
uninhabitable universe if he could.

Giordano Bruno had a nightmare.

 It seized me when I was walking to the bathroom. Sharp pain exploded in
my temples. I could barely grasp the door handle to support myself before
black spots filled my field of view and I collapsed on the floor.
Stop it, I cried, stop it! You’ll kill me!
I collected myself enough to reach to Giordano and try to soothe her. It
didn’t help; the pain lasted and spread into my whole body, I could taste
bitterness on my tongue, smell something so foul I felt the urge to vomit,
hear a deafening cacophony, perceive a sensation of sharp needles jabbing
into my skin—only my visual input wasn’t unbearable. An overwhelming
darkness.
I managed to touch Giordano’s main sensory system and try to locate the
pathway of the nightmare. In humans, dreams originate in the brain stem,
spreading to the limbic system and the cortex. Ships don’t sleep. But they
can dream nonetheless—if a process completely separate from anything
biological can be called dreaming. It usually comes from the memory banks
and finds a way through the sensory system into the computer’s
consciousness.
I found it. A large data flow going right through the system, enticing all
kinds of strange responses.
Ships don’t feel pain. But that doesn’t mean that certain data aren’t just…
too uncomfortable.
Regardless of my pain, I brought myself to track the flow down to its
source.
It wasn’t any of the memory banks.
It seemed like a real signal. An outside signal.
Is something trying to… entangle with the ship?!
Horror filled me. I started frantically searching for some means to severe
it. As if from a large distance, I heard discernible screaming through the
cacophony. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was me. The pain…
the sounds…
And then it suddenly stopped. All the horrible sensations faded away. My
sight gradually came back.
My body was aching but seemed to be working normally. I tried to get up
slowly and found myself lying in a puddle of urine. At least I didn’t vomit.
I heard the worried voice of Giordano Bruno in my head: Are you all
right?
 I was; at least I thought so. A more important question was—was the ship
all right?
She claimed to be. She let me explore her mind carefully. I found nothing
abnormal this time and caressed the kind ship with relief.
The signal had stopped, unsuccessful in whatever it had been trying to
accomplish. I bet no one but me noticed anything. Even if it did something,
the ship had numerous fail-safes—it would be on the edge of impossible to
damage it to the point that we could no longer survive.
Being here because of an impossible object, this notion didn’t give me
much peace.

I should have reported the strange signal to Colonel Torres immediately

but I felt too drained and weak. I took a long bath, using up my water
rations weeks ahead. After I climbed out and got into clean clothes, I went
to the observation deck. The zero g environment was like a healing balsam
to my body and the darkness outside to my mind.
I certainly didn’t expect Torres, who should have many more important
things to do and places to attend, to show up there a couple of minutes later.
“Icarus. You look ill,” he remarked.
He knew.
I saw my reflection in the thick glass: color draining from my cheeks, the
stiffness of my posture.
Torres knew what happened to Giordano, I was sure of it. I was rarely
wrong about people.
So he knew I breached protocol when I hadn’t told him right away.
For a moment, we were staring at each other in silence. I realized he was
not going to speak first.
“What had just happened?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
I lost my temper. “Don’t pretend you don’t know! You let something
happen to the ship!”
His innocent expression broke. “You didn’t report anything.”
“Go to hell with your reports! You knew about it! It could have killed
me!”
Torres’s silence was more than eloquent.
 “Was that your intention?” I spoke quietly.
“No.”
“What then?”
“That is classified.”
“Bullshit! You threatened the whole ship, all of us! I have the right to
know.”
Colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You think you can tell me what your rights
are, you little piece of scum? If the ship didn’t need you, I wouldn’t have
you aboard at all! You’re an abomination.”
There it was, finally said aloud. What he thought about me all along.
An abomination.
Torres wasn’t religious—but this word came to him easily when thinking
about the likes of me. I could read his disgust and anger easily from his face
and posture, even though he immediately regained control of himself again.
I was good at putting myself in place of other people. An abomination, yes.
A person glued together from broken pieces. Born with dysfunction of
mirror neurons, gradually transformed into an almost ordinary human by
applying just a little of neuronal growth factors and artificial potentiation of
selected pathways. It worked well. A bit too well. I had always wished I
empathized with other people far less. I didn’t like what I saw in them.
And those like Torres didn’t like what they saw in me. By their standards,
I was too close to the enemies. To the Chara system, by far the nearest space
colony to ours, from where we had originally come to Beta Comae
Berenices and where afterwards people, in the fashion of Earth, started
doing things to their neural circuits that Torres couldn’t even imagine. To
that dangerous place where you could have any animal’s sensory abilities,
biologically enhanced certain types of memory, or something completely
new and different. Unlike us, they were ever-changing, fluid. No stable
identities to speak of. No wonder we feared their coming so much. We
didn’t stand a chance.
If I was in a better mood, I’d laugh at Torres’s approach. I couldn’t have
been further from those long-ago human beings from our former cradle. I
was rigid. Trapped in the chains of my empathy—induced, untypical, but
stable.
“I don’t care what you think about me,” I said finally, “but don’t ever do
anything like this to the ship. Don’t you even dare.”
As I expected, Torres didn’t follow me out of the observation deck.
 He found out what he wanted. Whatever he was trying, it worked.
And in spite of what I said, he was definitely going to try again.

You should go to the canteen, the ship told me the next morning. I sensed
the urge in her words but remained reluctant.
Why? I don’t want to see anyone.
Go, she insisted. It is important. Sit next to your friend Lakshmi. Ask
about her progress.
A chill went through my veins. Giordano Bruno more or less ignored the
existence of other people in our conversations before. She took orders from
them, had sets of priorities that sometimes exceeded those from me, but she
never spoke about them with me.
Was it something Torres had done? Or was I just becoming paranoid?
I went there.
About two dozen people were eating their breakfast but Lakshmi was
sitting alone. This time, she noticed when I spoke to her. I realized I didn’t
really talk to her since she had told me about the planet’s discovery months
ago. However, she didn’t seem offended by my lack of interest in the
meantime. Even if Ranganatan could really grasp the notion of friendship, I
wasn’t sure whether she’d like to have any.
It wasn’t hard to steer the conversation to her work. She couldn’t talk
practically of anything else.
She indulged me in a list of observations I didn’t understand but
Giordano cleared up something for me from time to time. Nothing seemed
extraordinary—if you define ordinary on the basis that we were orbiting a
black dwarf.
“Well… it all sounds great. Was some of that a big breakthrough?”
“Not in my area.”
I stiffened. “But outside it…”
“I do not know much about it. The landing team reported some news.”
“What news?”
“Found something on the planet. That is all I know. I think,” she paused,
“I am not supposed to know about it, am I? I would like to. It might be
related to my work. But I do not.”
 “Thank you anyway,” I whispered. “Good luck. Hope you get to know it
if you need it.”
Something almost like a smile flickered through her face. “You are kind.
Thank you.”
Giordano must have known about it—but it was classified to me. The
ship tried to inform me by going around confidentiality. That had never
occurred before. She shouldn’t be capable of it. If Torres had known…
I had heard stories about malfunctioning ships, ending up lobotomized—
memory transferred elsewhere and erased from the quantum computer,
stripped of many components, going on default… I’d never allow this to
happen to Giordano Bruno, my dearest friend, if I could prevent it.

Colonel Torres came to my cabin that evening. I prepared myself to

defend Giordano or Lakshmi, take all I could on myself—but as soon as I
saw his face clearly, I understood that security breach wasn’t the reason
why he was here.
“I need to talk to you about the yesterday’s event. Oh, and I’m sorry for
what I said on the observation deck.”
His apology—though said in a completely apathetic tone—shocked me. I
didn’t expect this.
He must need me for something.
Should I really tell him? I asked my friend.
Yes. Don’t be afraid to describe all of it.
So I did.
And then, to my surprise, Torres told me everything. How they detected
the planet, Ross 1015 Bb, and he sent down a landing force. How planetary
scientists discovered there was something out of order with the object—
strange spectroscopic features, chemicals on the surface that shouldn’t be
there unless something was supplementing them. How they located the
center of the anomaly and drilled through the mixture of rock and ice. How
they finally, after eight months of intense work, found a device of sorts.
And something strange started happening to Galileo Galilei and Nicolaus
Copernicus on Bb’s surface. They didn’t need to have a ship whisperer to
find out that quantum computers were capable of communicating with the
device. They started a series of experiments and learned more about it. They
were still insanely far from really understanding it, much less trying to
reverse-engineer it; after all, according to Torres it was a huge structure
going deep into the planetary body and no one was sure if it could be
completely exposed. But through Galilei and Brahe, they finally dared to
try to use the device.
They created manifolds around a couple of small rocks they shot into
space from the planet—and managed to accelerate the course of time inside.
Their measurements proved the rocks were at least twenty billion years
older then. Afterwards, they tried bigger manifolds. They used Brahe’s and
Kepler’s computing power too. It worked.
Nothing happened to the shuttles. So they tried to involve the starship.
After all, in case of emergency, it could work without the quantum
computer too…
So that was the nightmare, the horrible signal—and it worked too. They
used it on a large asteroid. According to their calculations, with the power
of one starship, it could be used on a whole terrestrial planet. With a fleet of
ships, they might encapsulate all of a star system…
Something of my dread must have shown in my face because Torres
snorted and gave me a disdainful look. “What now? You should be satisfied.
No harm has come to your pet ship. You’ll know what it is the next time.
That’s what you wanted, right? You’ll avoid the signal and try to… I don’t
know, comfort the ship or whatever you do. It might help the results.”
“No, it’s been too easy,” I said aloud. “Don’t you see it?”
Torres eyed me with an angry frown.
Barely a year here and we discover the secret of creating manifolds of
space with accelerated time passage. We were lucky enough to find an alien
device our ship can understand…
I could see one scenario that didn’t make this the single most improbable
event in human history.

You’re an advanced space civilization. But you’re afraid that dangerous

competition is on the way.
So you prepare a trap.
Lure them in with a mystery no curious intelligent creature can resist.
 Give them clues—but don’t give away the solution at once. They might
get suspicious.
Let them work it out.
Let them enjoy their triumph.
Let them use their newly acquired knowledge.
Let them take themselves out of the picture.

How could Torres and his people not see it?

Then it dawned on me that he saw it too, of course he did; he may have
been single-minded but not stupid. This scenario and a thousand other ones,
most of them much worse, had flashed through his mind. And he had
discarded them all, following one objective: to acquire a weapon against
Chara—and then, maybe, Earth too one day. He decided to take a calculated
risk.
I told him about it anyway and he laughed at me. “We have the weapon,
not Chara. And those scoundrels will never lay their hands on it. You think
there could be a disaster, killing us all? Of course it could! That’s why we’re
here. We sent all data to the homeworld before we tested it. You think we’re
fools? It could have killed us. But that doesn’t matter. We are expendable.
The knowledge isn’t.”
I felt sick. He was really thinking about using it…
Forget all the possibilities about alien traps. I might be totally wrong in
that. But even if it posed no harm except the controlled one, with surgical
precision delivered by us –
I tried to imagine it. A whole system encapsulated. Rendered to nothing
but scorched rocks orbiting a new black dwarf in our subjective blink of an
eye. And that was still the better option; the people could never get out but
they could live inside it a couple of billion years until their star had made it
impossible. If we first tried it just on the colonized planet, we’d cut it from
the star, slowly killing everyone, sending its civilization into the most
horrible and hopeless chaos imaginable.
I barely noticed when Torres had left. Blood was pounding in my
temples.
The wonders such a device might enable if we could work them out…
Could it possibly be used to ease space travel? How far does its range of
effect reach? Can it encapsulate itself? Would the ship know any of these
answers or does it understand it as little as we do?
But the use as a weapon seemed inevitable. Wonders may come later—if
ever. Torres had such limited imagination—but so had numerous other
people upon whom the decision would lie…
We are expendable, his words resonated in my ears. Suddenly I knew
what to do. If I could.
I tried to explain to Giordano, relieved I didn’t have to talk aloud for my
voice would surely break. I was afraid the ship wouldn’t understand, she
was, after all, an artificial intelligence—could she imagine the
consequences for us at all?
But she agreed without hesitation. She thought it was possible and she
could do it if given an opportunity. She wanted to do it. She was
contemplating it ever since she learned about the device: planned how to
give me more access rights and even transfer emergency command to me.
I patted the ship mentally, deeply sad but grateful for her decision.
Giordano Bruno was right—and the original Giordano Bruno was right too,
and wasn’t scared to tell everyone.
Of course, it had eventually cost him his life.

Another trial of the device was scheduled a week from that day. I dreaded
the day. Not because I would kill all of us, even the innocent ones like
Lakshmi. It was a small price to pay for everyone else.
I feared it because of Giordano. I didn’t know whether I could do what
would be necessary then.
I spent most of those days talking to the ship, though I knew it would
make the decision even harder. But if you were to spend the very last days
with your only friend, wouldn’t you cherish the time as much as possible?
When the moment came, I felt strangely calm, almost tranquil.
Just follow the course you discussed so much with Giordano…
Everything is set now.
The nightmare started. I broke into Giordano’s memory violently,
creating an emergency.
The command was mine.
 Let Giordano adjust the trial parameters. See the sensory info go off the
scales. Weapons systems. Try to destroy the device with everything you
can.
Done. We’re in a closed capsule of space—Giordano Bruno with the
planet. No one gets the device… There might be more out there, many
more, but there was nothing to be done with that.
You know what to do now.
“I do. I’m sorry,” I whispered and started the process.
The destruction of Giordano Bruno’s mind couldn’t have lasted more
than half an hour. It felt like an eternity. It surprised me that there was no
pain; just gradual fading of all had come to know so intimately, of all that
almost felt a part of me.
Torres later found me lying curled up on the floor, sobbing
uncontrollably, oblivious to his questions. I should consider myself lucky
that he didn’t kill me then; but he was not a cruel or violent man. Just
someone who honestly thought he had been doing the right thing all the
time…
No trace of information about the device had been left in back-ups of the
lobotomized ship. I could soothe myself with that when I missed the
presence of Giordano so much to consider killing myself.
I also succeeded in knowing nothing of importance myself; Giordano
adjusted the trial alone. Torres and his truth drugs got nothing useful from
me. A week after the incident, they stopped trying. I was left locked up in
my cabin, alone, so painfully alone, with a vast emptiness in my mind,
waiting to be court-martialed.
Ranganatan was allowed to see me later. I was so grateful for seeing her
that I nearly broke into tears.
“Tell me,” I asked her when I finally pulled myself together, “what does
the sky look like?”
I imagined total blackness encompassing us, nothing to penetrate our
bubble of spacetime until we die here and so many billions of years after
that… But I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“That is why I came,” she said in her usual indifferent tone. “The sky
became visible today and it is different. There is no star anyone could
recognize. No known constellations. But the pattern we see is consistent
with the predictions of the merger of our galaxy with M31—the Andromeda
galaxy. We can see that we’re located in a large elliptic galaxy with streaks
of dust and gas following the pattern of a previous collision. The overall age
of the observed stars is consistent with this finding too.”
For a moment, I couldn’t grasp what she was talking about. Then it
clicked into place and I started laughing maniacally. Ranganatan was
observing me calmly.
“She didn’t accelerate us! She slowed us down! The ship figured how to
slow us down!”
I couldn’t stop laughing aloud til all my muscles were aching.
I missed Giordano Bruno more than ever and at the same moment could
finally accept her loss. She could have killed us. I was telling her to kill us.
But she found a way around. She perhaps didn’t even know whether it
would work, otherwise she’d have prevented me from doing what I thought
necessary, but she tried and it worked. We were no longer a threat to the rest
of our species. Most likely, we were the rest of our species, moved at least
four billion years ahead in one subjective week.
An old new world. So much to see. So much to learn. Maybe even time
to reconcile with Torres.
In this future, anything was possible.

First published in Asimov’s (3/2016).

 Afterword

What if… That is the essence of science fiction in two words, and a question
I can’t stop asking. Sometimes they are questions relevant for the nearest
future: What if the more and more ubiquitous pattern-matching AIs started
interfering with each other’s predictions faster than we can feed them
training datasets, while the world already depended on them? What if we
really brought recently extinct species back—and unintentionally caused
more disruption than stabilization of ecosystems? What if we witnessed a
budding trade war between deep sea and asteroid mining? What if
schooling changed substantially, and I don’t mean the obvious and already
existing stuff such as e-learning?
Other ones relate to more distant horizons: What if Earth was thrown into
recession and riots by a global disaster at a time when we’ve just started
settling the solar system? What if icy dwarf planets had extant life? What if
there was a microfossil gold rush on the Moon? What if we could blindly
jump to another star system with no chance of ever finding our way back?
Others, even, are on the verge of alternate history and homage: What if
robots who’d wiped out humanity in Karel Čapek’s R.U.R. expanded to the
verges of the solar system and made a first contact?
You shall have to see this and more in future stories, some of them
upcoming already this year. A novel in English is on the way, too.
So are editing projects, especially in the vein of my outreach
astrobiological SF anthology Strangest of All, developed for the European
Astrobiology Institute. Science fiction as well as science shall forever
remain my greatest passions, and there is a sweet spot where they meet and
inspiration happens.
In the next decade, we’ll likely know tens of thousands of planets
orbiting other stars; learn much, much more about the conditions on them;
explore Mars, Europa and other places within our own solar system with
spacecraft capable of detecting potential signs of life; but also struggle to
keep Earth’s biodiversity from declining even more, limit pollution,
mitigate the impacts of future pandemics, raise the overall quality of life
and more. In short, we can expect both the amazing and the dishearteningly
challenging. Knowledge, curiosity, reason, empathy and hard work will be
needed of us. So… let’s start the challenge of turning the more optimistic of
science fiction stories into reality (and if you need more reason, just
imagine how many critics of this approach it pisses off).

Julie Nováková, May 2020

 About the author
Julie Nováková (* 1991) is an evolutionary biologist, educator and
award-winning Czech author of science fiction and detective stories. She
published seven novels, one anthology, one story collection and over thirty
short pieces in Czech. Her work in English has appeared in Clarkesworld,
Asimov’s, Analog and elsewhere, and has been reprinted e.g. in Rich
Horton’s The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 2019. Some of her
works have been translated into eight other languages so far, and she acts as
a translator of Czech stories into English (in Tor.com, Strange Horizons,
F&SF).
She edited an anthology of Czech speculative fiction in translation, titled
Dreams From Beyond, co-edited an anthology of European SF in Filipino
translation, Haka, and edited an astrobiological SF anthology Strangest of
All.
Julie is a recipient of the European fandom’s Encouragement Award and
multiple Czech genre awards. She’s active in science outreach, education
and nonfiction writing, and co-leads the outreach working group of the
European Astrobiology Institute. She is a PhD candidate in evolutionary
biology at the Charles University and likes to write popular science articles
about fields ranging from behavioral science to planetary dynamics for
Clarkesworld, Analog and other media. She’s a member of the XPRIZE
Sci-fi Advisory Council.

Author website: www.julienovakova.com

Facebook: fb.com/JulieNovakovaAuthor
Twitter: @Julianne_SF
 Table of Contents
Deep Down in the Cloud
All The Smells in the World
To See The Elephant
Étude for An Extraordinary Mind
Bodhisattva
Reset in Peace
Dreaming Up The Future
Martian Fever
Becoming
We Shadows
The Symphony of Ice and Dust
Dancing An Elegy, His Own
From So Complex A Beginning
The Nightside
The Gift
The Ship Whisperer
Afterword
About the author