Beyond Asimios: Book One Page 9

  —I’m curious, Graf said after a short time, his fingers running through his salt and pepper beard. You spoke to me when I held the gun on you. It wasn’t through my visual interface; you told me to put the weapon down. How did you do that?

  Oreg looked at Graf. A thought entered Graf’s mind…a vague thought, but significant. No more questions for now. Graf had his answer, he knew, but he didn’t quite know why?

  —There is a game we play where I come from, Graf said. We play it to pass the time. I’m particularly fond of it.

  Oreg turned lazily in Graf’s direction.

  —The rules are easy, but the variations are nearly infinite. I can build this game for us if you’re interested.

  —Continue, Oreg chirruped.

  —It is played on a board. There are sixty-four squares on the board of alternating black and white. You are given sixteen pieces and your goal is to capture your opponent’s king.

  —Zawtek , Oreg said.

  —I’m confused, Graf said.

  Oreg hissed something at the ship and a holo board appeared between them. It was of an unusual color but immediately recognizable.

  —Yes! Amazing!

  —Is this the game you describe? Oreg barked.

  —Perhaps, although there are pieces missing.

  Oreg coughed a word and the holo produced pieces on the very spaces where the thirty-two chess pieces would have stood. Graf turned and grinned at Miranda.

  —Well, how about that?

  Oreg expanded the board and centered it between them and after a brief discussion it was clear that each was intimate with the rules.

  —A gentleman’s game to start, Graf said. No time constraints.

  —Agreed, Oreg said with a wagging of his head.

  It was a close game to the end, but Graf took the contest. When they finished both were pleased with themselves but too tired to begin a second match, so Graf swallowed a relaxant Oreg had offered him and found his bunk. He slept long and deep and better than he had in months. When he awoke, he declared himself nearly fully rejuvenated. His back felt limber and the sound of the ship, the low gurgle of the engine cores, had become the background noise to a temporary home. When he returned to the bridge, Miranda informed him that he had been asleep for over seven hours. He was only slightly discouraged that he had not been out longer.

  —Feels like a lot more than that, he said. Boy, I tell you, it’s amazing what a good sleep can do.

  —Only 142.73 standard hours to go.

  —Wonderful, Graf muttered as he pulled the belt of his robe tight around his expansive waist.

  —Would you like to try some Goerathians carbohydrates and protein? Oreg is in his quarters, but he demonstrated how to use the galley.

  —I thought you’d never ask, Miranda, Graf said as he felt the aching chasm in his belly. Are you familiar with chess, he asked as Miranda led him down the hall.

  —Of course, doctor. I can perform at all levels of expertise.

  —I’m sure you can. How about we start with an easy level and see how things progress?

  —As you wish.

  —And also, Miranda, I was wondering…

  —Yes?

  —Did Paul transfer any music to your memory?

  —I have several hundred thousand files in memory, as a matter of fact.

  —Do you have any Mahler?

  —Yes.

  —How about his fourth symphony?

  —I do, Miranda said. Wait a moment. Yes. Fritz Reiner conducting. 1958.

  —Is it possible for you to send it to my VI?

  —I will.

  —Miranda.

  —Yes?

  —You’ve just made an old man very happy.

  As they neared the portal, Oreg and Graf had concluded twenty-two games of chess (or zawtek, as Oreg called it) with Graf holding a slight margin at twelve wins. During their days of travel, when they were not testing each other’s mental acuity in “the King’s Game”, they would play against Miranda, and when they were not losing miserably to Miranda, Graf and the droid would sit and watch Oreg’s small collection of classic Goerathian movies on the bridge holo, fascinating accounts of Oreg’s people as they struggled for identity, place and security against often violent and extra-planetary opposition. These films, to Graf’s disappointment, were fractured—splintered and non-linear, unlike most from his human experience—but over time he was able to stitch together comprehensible stories, while Oreg came and went, commenting on this and that and fielding questions to enlighten the doctor and droid on the nuances of Goerathian life.

  To Graf’s dismay, Paul had uploaded only three movies to Miranda’s memory. Why there were only three was an exercise in speculation, but it was this collection of films that served as Oreg’s core introduction to Earth and human civilization. The three films Miranda streamed (the integration of technologies was difficult at first, but she managed it) were Akira Kurosawa’s Ran, Vittorio De Sica’s Ladri di biciclette (The Bicycle Thieves) and Buster Keaton’s The General. Graf, admittedly, had never seen these films before and after viewing them he praised the works highly, but it was Oreg who was most affected by them. He was reticent, at first, with the human obsession for linear narratives, but he grew accustomed to convention. These films needed little translation and Oreg watched them again and again, eyes glued to the screen and ears directed to the beats and turns of dialogue.

  Oreg was transfixed by the impassive samurai generals as they sat in the middle of swirling and billowing clouds of armies. He leaned forward, quills on end, when the father struck the boy in De Sica’s Italian film, and he looked on in ecstasy, his brown eyes glossy with laughter as Buster Keaton scrambled over his steam engine while in pursuit of (or fleeing) Union troops. Time was in abundant supply on their journey to the portal, and more often than not Oreg found himself in front of one of these three movies, eager to plumb the depths of the human condition and eager to let his mind meander through the city streets and mountain valleys of a planet and civilization unspoiled by forces from without.

  —If these movies represent the human experience, Oreg remarked, then I must say that I envy your world. It is an innocent place…one yet uncorrupted.

  —I agree that these are wonderful movies, Graf said, but they are exceptions. I’d be embarrassed to show you what most of our entertainment consists of.

  —I understand, Oreg said. It is often the case that when we present ourselves to others we show our achievements before we show our shortcomings. I’ve spared you the worst of Goerathian culture as well—the ignorance, the selfishness, the hatred, and cruelty—but I do so for my own sake.

  While the three of them did their best to be amenable and accommodating travel companions, there were times during their voyage when one desired solitude, and it was during such a time that a shipmate would retire to his or her (or its) respective corner to sleep or to simply be alone. Everyone, it turns out, needs a moment alone, even a droid.

  Just what Oreg did after he handed control of the bridge over to Miranda and slung his lanky frame off to his quarters, was anybody’s guess. Graf surmised that Oreg’s moments of seclusion consisted of beard trimming, telepathic training, clandestine plotting and (or) meditation on the Seven Planes of Truth, but ultimately, what a Goerathian does on his own time is his own business. Besides, it was in Miranda that Graf had been developing a keener interest.

  After their exchange about religion and the quantum mind, Graf now regarded this sleek amalgam of metal, electronics and synthskin, as a being of depth, complexity and moral comportment, and he felt remorse for having treated her with such impudence back on Asimios. He had taken advantage of Miranda as a servant droid and never once assumed, even with evidence to the contrary right in front of him, that she was unique—an independent droid, one capable of higher order thought. But even with this revelation, he found himself uneasy. He was uneasy because this development brought with it certain implications. There was another “be
ing” to tiptoe around now; another “person” in need of politeness, consideration and respect, all measures requiring energy and effort.

  Fiddlesticks!

  More often than not, Graf found Miranda in the engineering cubby, at work trying to repair the sentry bot’s basic functions. Oreg had provided her with toolkits and several replacement component caches and she spent a good deal of her time poking and prodding and running diagnostics on the gray and lifeless hunk of plasteel.

  —It is funny, Miranda said, when I try to cross-apply the alien tech with our own, I find it challenging. The work requires considerable concentration. Before I can use any of the alien components, I have to do a thorough test for compatibility.

  —Do you have an instruction manual for Cyclops there?

  —I do not understand?

  —Are there any embedded schematics? Do you have any troubleshooting instructions?

  —No. There are some standard ESCOM diagrams, but this droid is a non-standard model. I do believe, however, that I have isolated the areas of damage. Extracting and repairing these failed components is where the difficulty lies.

  —I’m sorry. I guess I’m not of much help.

  —No.

  —I was wondering, though, Graf added. Did…er, does, the sentry bot also have one of these quantum minds? Did Paul stick a quantum brain in this guy too?

  Miranda looked up at him.

  —I mean, is he like you? Can the damned thing think?

  —I believe, said Miranda, that Paul Ness installed quantum integration in both of us. It is my understanding, however, that the mind in the sentry bot is of limited capacity. It can adapt and learn, but only at a lower level.

  —I see. It’s kind of like a child, then?

  —Perhaps. She is sophisticated by ESCOM standards, however.

  —She?

  —Yes. And she has first-rate sensors and extraordinary positioning analytics.

  —And yet here she is, the unfortunate victim of a cargo ramp accident.

  —No one is perfect.

  Graf raised his eyebrow:

  —True, so very true, he said.

  The other thing Graf noticed about Miranda was the strange way she occupied her quarters, or maybe it wasn’t strange at all? Her bed never appeared to be slept in—the covers were never disturbed (…but then why would a droid need to sleep under covers? It doesn’t need to maintain a stable body temperature, does it?) When Graf had seen her now and then through the open door, she was always seated at the end of the bed, as if she were unable to lay down. And Graf wondered if that is how she spent her recharging time, in that seated position at the end of the bed. What did she think about when she was recharging? Did she shift into some sort of dream state? Did she process information? He knew she had to spend time in this way…but was the droid’s idea of sleep the same as a human’s?

  As far as it concerned Graf, when he needed time alone he stole away to his quarters for solitude, and when sleep eluded him (sleep: the great devourer of time) he endeavored to do what all literary-minded people do (and Graf was indeed literary-minded) when placed face-to-face with The Void…he put pen to paper and wrote. In his condition of perpetual confusion—his condition of grief and awe—the idea of utilizing his VI to verbally record his thoughts and reflections struck him as sterile and grossly insufficient. A digital artifact of deep space soul-searching seemed inadequate. He wanted to experience the kinetic act of thought. He wanted to feel the chalky rustle of his skin as it brushed over paper and he wanted to smell the fresh ink as it congealed into words and permanence. He wanted to give himself over to the process of writing. He wanted to vomit out a poem.

  The first order of business, was to acquire pen and paper, and to do this he consulted Oreg, for there was nothing in the nooks and drawers that he had access to that resembled, in some alien way or derivation, what he was after. When he asked Oreg for writing materials, Oreg seemed genuinely perplexed. The captain scratched his head and twirled his beard between his fingers.

  —You want a physical writing device and the material on which to use it? Oreg said.

  Graf smiled and nodded.

  Oreg then began the hunt. He riffled through many drawers and hollows, many closets and chests and cubbies before returning with what he believed Graf had in mind. The pen-sized implement appeared to be a pen, and the paper-like material bound in together appeared to be paper, but when Graf tried to use them the results were less than desirable. Only a few streaks and splats found their way to the page, nothing intelligible and nothing even slightly resembling writing. He asked for Oreg to help, and Oreg demonstrated the process, how one pinched the end of the pen to produce the mark. No ink was involved. Graf called it a photo-pen, for a fine needle of light descended on the surface of the paper to trace a narrow black line. With a little practice, Graf was ready. He retired to his room, took a deep breath and focused.

  When he was nineteen years old he had published a poem in the New New York Review of Books (no small achievement) so he was familiar with the art of verse, and this may be why, after a hiatus of many years, his first attempt at writing involved that ancient discipline. With a little coaxing, the rusty gears broke free and music and meter rose to the surface. Out came a poem:

  I’m writing here

  in outer space,

  to represent

  the human race.

  Please join us on

  our happy trip,

  and be a guest

  on Oreg’s ship!

  Graf surveyed his work and stroked his beard. He raised an eyebrow. A moment later he grimaced, balled up the paper and threw it across the room so that it bounced off the wall and hit him in the shin. Then he chuckled to himself and started with a clean sheet. This is what followed:

  My Dearest Julie,

  “Well, you’ve gone and done it again, haven’t you, Dr. Graf. You’ve made a royal disaster of things.”

  Here I was all ready to make passage to the other side and join you, my lovely wife, in light, warmth and paradise, and now I’m rocketing through deep space toward God knows what, while leaving you and Asimios far behind. You must believe me when I say that this situation was unplanned. (I’m rolling my eyes and tugging on my beard here like I always do…) I really had no idea that I’d meet an alien and board his ship. I was pretty sure I’d wind up getting roundly tanked and run out of air and my body would sit and mummify under layers of Asimios dust for eons to come. But there again, I was wrong. Oh, and your bones are missing, by the way, but I’ll tell you about that later…

  I miss you. I really, really do. I can’t begin to explain how much I wish you were still here, beside me while I work or beside me while I sleep. I never thought I could feel so deeply for something, but it’s true, even after so much time has passed. This may sound trite, but when you left, you took a part of me with you. I’ve had this hole in my gut ever since, and in so many ways I have come to understand that the only way I can heal this hurt is to join you somehow. I know that from a purely rational standpoint that this untenable—seeing each other in heaven, that is—and I know exactly the pitch of your sweet laughter when you tell me how absurd I sound, but I’m just telling you, from my irrational standpoint, how it is for me; not for you, for me. I’m being honest. I’m getting old, you see. I can’t help it, but I’m starting to sort things out. Maybe my mind is turning to mush, but that’s how it is.

  That said, the food on this ship is no better than the slop one might toss to the swine. It rates about a half a star out of five. Not the worst I’ve had, but for a guy who’s gnawed down his share of freeze-dried grub, I can’t say this is much better. Maybe this will help me lose some weight, but for some reason I doubt it. Oh, and my back is still hurting like the devil has set his teeth in it, too. And I still have eczema on my knees and upper arms. I find it absolutely amazing that Dr. Berdinka can implant an ocular VI device in under an hour and still there’s no remedy for eczema.

  As for our alie
n captain, Julie, he’s of the rather gruff sort, and by gruff I mean gruffer than I. Not much to pry out of the fellow, keeps pretty much to himself, and he has this unique way of planting a thought in your head…like he’s talking to you, and it’s got me concerned. I keep wondering if he can read my mind, or is his method of telepathy only a one-way street? If our games of chess are any indication, his ability has its deficiencies: I’ve trounced him on more than a few occasions. Ha! This is, of course, only conjecture. When it comes to determining alien mind-reading skills, I’m no expert. If I was really a problem, of course, I would stop thinking all together…foil the old porcupine’s efforts, but I just don’t have it in me to run that kind of mind game of my own. He seems an acceptable chap, to be honest (…anybody who can beat me in chess has my respect.) And besides, I need his help, and who am I to condemn a host?

  I do have an additional pair of travelling companions, I’ll have you know. They are droids. Well, one is out of commission, so to speak. Had a run-in with a loading ramp and his (I mean her) functions are down at present. The other droid is more interesting. Her name is Miranda.

  Now, without getting into too much into detail, I’ll tell you that Miranda has begun to scare me a bit. It has to do with a discussion we all had on the bridge the other day involving consciousness and so forth. Turns out that Paul Ness, yes, the Paul Ness, the uber-reclusive but entirely brilliant systems engineer, had installed some hi-tech brain in the droid, and it turns out that, according to her, she has the ability to develop a consciousness. She is, for all intents and purposes, an active and sentient “thing.” At least, this is how I understand it. It’s wish her all the best of luck, I truly do, but I wonder if this might pose a problem for us down the line. You know, Julie, it’s the unknowns that always get you in the end.

  And so we’re travelling to this portal, this Vernigan portal, and what we’re going to do when we get there is anybody’s guess. I’m assuming Oreg has some business he’ll attend to, and perhaps, when we arrive, we’ll be handed over to the authorities and get poked and prodded, and then we’ll have some sort of festival or something like that, some sort of grand celebration of cultures, and we’ll meet all the important people and eat all kinds of hideous foods. What a bore it is to be a cultural emissary of Earth. God save us!