One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries (38 page)

Frenzied theories gripped the population. Proponents of Malicious Design declared that God had tired of his playthings. The Army of Souls fundamentalists claimed it was insurrection by the androids, and shortly afterwards unstoppable viruses began burning out mechanical brains.

Mike35 had been the pilot of the Athanas Corporation’s executive flagship when it was ambushed by the Army of Souls, just beyond the asteroid mines of Saturn. In the thick of the fire-fight, with his hull ripped wide open, he executed a short-range phase jump directly into Earth atmosphere, but for his five thousand android passengers, it was already too late.

Ven had heard the story from Bester, the maintenance droid she’d befriended at the sea base, but she’d never dared to confirm it with Mike. All she knew was that he hadn’t always been Mike35, and his Evolver Intelligence matrix wasn’t something generally patched onto cargo ships. She hadn’t wanted to part with her old co-pilot, Mike34, but Doctor Josh had promised he would find a good home for him.

Ven stretched, the cable in her right thigh catching a little. Solomon would have seen the cloudcasts of the android retaliation strikes, the bombings and the poisoned waterways. He’d have grown up in a world already polarised along carbon-based lines, and the last thing Ven needed was a co-pilot with baggage. But for all Mike’s cynicism, he was as lost as she was.

She glanced at the monitor, and the sine wave dipped a little.

“
We can look for survivors, if you want,” said Mike. “But they can’t outrun time.”

“
They say Solomon did.”

After a pause, the sine wave shrugged.

“
We’ll see.”

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Five years and one week after Day Zero

28 light minutes from Earth

Solomon had adjusted surprisingly well to life aboard the
Morning Star
. He was already demonstrating culinary flair with the nutrient synthesiser, and he’d taken a keen interest in the ship’s operations. However, he’d yet to speak a word to Ven, and her attempts to introduce him to Mike had elicited no reaction from the boy beyond polite observation.
 

Ven persisted in her one-sided conversations with Solomon, chatting as they explored the module beneath the ship together. The
Morning Star
herself was an engine sled, shaped like a deck of cards with fierce blue fusion engines — little more than a cockpit and crib inside. But her undercarriage was designed to slot into a range of modules, transforming her into anything from a research satellite to a space bus. And Doctor Josh and his team had fitted her with a whole new deck.
 

Everything had been scrounged from parts and patched together, but the
Morning Star
’s new deck boasted a multimedia pod, a medibay, and they’d even kitted the ship with guns.
 

In case you meet a space kraken
, Doctor Josh had said.
 

Ven inspected the unfamiliar scanners and implements in the medibay. Doctor Josh’s colleagues had been studying Solomon, but biology and physics had never been Ven’s strengths. Doctor Josh had once brought her to a lecture on quantum physics, and although she’d memorised the presentation, it had meant nothing to her beyond ‘something particles, something red shift, something cosmic donut’. The Elucidation-Class androids had looked at her as though she were a wooden duck on a string.

Ven had been the prototype for Doctor Josh’s doctoral thesis at Hawking University, and his algorithm for emotional processing had become standard encoding in all autonomous intelligence androids. His latest opus, just before the first wave of deaths began, had been a vivacious creature with a warm laugh and a flush in her cheeks. In the end, she’d been the one at his side as the world turned to ash.

Ven looked down at her own waxy hand, her fingerprints worn away. Doctor Josh had stopped upgrading her some time ago. Years earlier, he’d removed her wireless interface to repair, and forgotten to replace it.

Ven straightened as a halting tune drifted from the far side of the module. She followed the piano chords to the recreation room, where a mahogany piano had been summoned from the nanomorph panel in the floor. Solomon was playing a wistful piece, which Ven suddenly recognised as fragments of the songs she’d hummed to him earlier. He stopped when Ven entered.

“
Where did you learn to play?” said Ven. To her surprise, the boy spoke.

“
Doctor Gillian,” said Solomon.

His voice was soft, with a texture that reminded her of sandalwood. Ven didn’t move, cautious of breaking whatever spell had finally roused the boy to speak.

Doctor Gillian Kagare had been a colleague of Doctor Josh’s, and the first scientist to draw a connection between the inexplicable deaths and a hundred year old research paper by the discredited physicist, Arvel Hem. After his disgrace, Hem had taken an experimental spaceship — the
Darwin
— and disappeared beyond the range of Earth’s probes, but fragments of his research remained. Primarily as a cautionary tale.
 

Kagare hadn’t been the only epidemiologist to notice that the more genetically homogenous the population, the higher the percentage of fatalities. Countries with xenophobic immigration policies became morgues overnight, while multicultural metropolises lost fractions of their populations at a time. When researchers began to find cases of extended families — separated by continents — dying on the same day, they realised the affliction had a genetic root.

A century before, Hem had hypothesised an interaction between human genetics and the properties of time. He suggested that time was not a featureless constant, but a landscape, with valleys and hills, that could impact upon the expression of genes.

Ven found it difficult to think of time as a substance. The Elucidation-Class androids used to smirk that Ven looked a little like Kagare, but possessed the processor of a pomelo. Ven would never admit that she’d had to look up what a pomelo was.

Doctor Josh had described the hypothesis in terms of Kagare’s landmark experiment, in which one hundred lab mice were modified with a human genetic marker, and then left to live out their mousy lives for several generations. On day two hundred and four, all eleven thousand mice died. From the year-old geriatrics to the newborn pups — not one of them woke that day. This was the moment scientists realised that humanity’s funeral march had a score.

Shortly after the publication of this study, Kagare found Solomon.

“
That’s a lovely piece of music,” said Ven. “Are you going to give it a name?”

Solomon swiped his hand across the keys, and the piano pooled obediently into a rug on the floor. Ven’s heart fell as Solomon padded away across the room, but he returned with a paper-thin display tablet in his hands, which he presented to her.

Sketched on its linen white surface was something resembling a large potato with matchstick arms and legs. Further to the right of the page stood a much smaller, but similarly malnourished potato.

“
That,” said Ven, “is awesome.”

On a screen beside the nanomorph panel, a sine wave snickered softly.

“
So awesome, in fact,” continued Ven, “it deserves a special place.”

Ven pressed the tablet to the wall, and swiped the edge of the device. It emitted a soft click, and when she pulled the tablet away, an imprint of the drawing remained etched in the bulkhead. Solomon touched the dark lines, eyes wide.

“
We also have to talk about the matter of birthdays,” said Ven seriously. “I’m sure we need to commemorate yours on a regular basis, preferably annually. Do you have a particular date?”

Solomon stared at Ven with equal gravity.

“
Do you have a birthday?” said Solomon.

Ven’s processor seized briefly.

“
Actually, let’s not worry about birthdays,” said Ven. “How about we celebrate the day we met instead? We can call it Hello Day.”

Solomon considered this.

“
Hello,” he said, and smiled.

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Ven sealed the door to the polyhedral multimedia pod, illuminating multiple screens with a swoop of her fingers. They had supplies to last fifteen years, maybe twenty, but circling this lonely sun was like staying at a party after everyone had gone. A galaxy of broken bottles and stale canapés.

A screen to her left flickered into an agitated blue sine wave.

“
You realise that if everyone wasn’t dead, they’d have taken the critter off you by now,” said Mike.

“
You’re just sore I tattooed your arse,” said Ven.

“
I think of it as my bicep,” said Mike. “But while you’re playing tea parties with Lonesome George, this ship isn’t going to fuel itself.”

Ven swept her hand across an image, and the chamber filled with stars, as though she were floating in a tank of miniature galaxies.

“
We’re going to find the
Darwin
,” said Ven.
 

The sine wave almost flatlined.

“
Arvel Hem saw this coming a hundred years ago,” continued Ven. “If he hasn’t already found a solution—”

“
Hem was a fraud,” said Mike flatly.

“
He misappropriated funds—”

“
That’s kind of what ‘fraud’ means,” said Mike.

Ven paused. Dealing with Mike required patience, and right now, she needed Mike. Plus, he was half right.

Arvel Hem had begun his career as a gifted biophysicist, publishing revolutionary articles on cellular regeneration. However, as his research became more outlandish, he struggled to secure funding. Eventually, he was recruited into the multi-trillion dollar geneceuticals industry, where he spent his time giving sixty year olds the skin of pre-pubescent teens.

Eventually, it was uncovered that Hem had diverted some of these funds into his research on chronogenetics. It was concluded that if he’d lied about the money, perhaps he’d lied about his research too. However, in Ven’s opinion, someone who lied to save their child was very different to someone who lied to rob an elderly war hero. At times, the motive behind the lie mattered more than the lie itself. As far as Ven was concerned, there were no such things as liars, only different kinds of humans.

“
It’s our best hope of finding other survivors,” said Ven. “Doctor Josh wants Solomon to have a future.”

“
You said they didn’t give you specific instructions,” said Mike.

Ven actually had a little trouble recollecting the details of those final, chaotic days at the sea base. She had the impression the researchers just shoved the boy into her arms and said, ‘Good luck.’ Years ago, she’d asked Doctor Josh if he might consider upgrading her neutron drive to a particle processor, but he’d shrugged it off with a warm smile.

They don’t make drives like yours anymore
, he’d said.
Brains like yours were built to last.
 

He’d touched her face then with such tenderness that she couldn’t bring herself to ask him again. Ven had been the pinnacle of artificial intelligence once, but the crucial word had been ‘artificial’. Solomon deserved a life with more than just a simulacrum for company.

“
You can pilot a phase drive, can’t you?” said Ven.

Ven had double-checked the upgraded schematics for the
Morning Star
, and Doctor Josh’s team had installed a compact phase drive. Without it, they would take roughly nine hundred billion years to reach the last known co-ordinates of the
Darwin
, and Ven wasn’t sure if the universe would last that long.
 

“
Hem was a physicist, you know,” said Mike finally. “Not an immortal.”

Ven suppressed a smile.

“
Hem didn’t leave on his own.”

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Six years after Day Zero

9000 light years from Earth

The first phase jump slung them past the mines of Neptune, and far beyond the solar tides. The second jump sent them streaming through the Sagittarius Arm of the Milky Way, deep into the smoky heart of the Eta Carina Nebula.

Phase drive technology had been pioneered by Kiruchi Wen, a contemporary of Arvel Hem. She built upon the hypothesis that by hopping out of phase with the universe, and back in at a different point, using an alternate dimension as a shortcut, she could skip around the thorny problem of faster than light travel.

When she couldn’t find a pilot crazy enough to test her prototype, she flew the experimental ship herself, zipping out past the heliosphere and returning with only three broken ribs, a mild concussion, and inexplicably, a potted cucumber which hadn’t been there when she left.

These days, phase drives were only operated by EI pilots with the equivalent of fifteen doctorates, so Ven was happy to let Mike drive. It gave her time to focus on other things.

She flipped through a file of reports on the medibay terminal. Bloodwork looked fine. Vitamin D was a little low. Bone density could be better. All systems nominal.

“
Mike, keep the solar lamps on for an extra twenty minutes per cycle, and increase the gravity in the training room by one point five gees,” said Ven.

“
Do you think there’s something not quite right about him?” said Mike.

“
He’s fine. I know how humans work,” Ven said, checking her bookmark on the section for emergency appendectomies.