Existence

89.

An expanse of cloudy shapes spread in all directions, puffy and throbbing with potentiality. An almost limitless capacity to become.

Rising to consciousness-now alert, aware, interested-he looked around and knew at once; this was no earthly landscape.

Light came from all directions… and none.

Up and down, apparently, were only suggestions.

He wasn’t alone; figures could be seen dimly, through a haze that drank all definition from their moving forms. They might be small and close, or giants moving ponderously, very far away. Or both at once? Somehow, he suspected that could happen in this place.

This… place…

What is all this? How did I get here?

I knew the answer to that, didn’t I?

Once upon a time.

There was something more pertinent. A question they (they?) had said he must ask of himself, each time he awakened here.

Oh, yes.

Who am I?

What is my name?

Letting his gaze settle downward, he looked upon a pair of masculine human hands-my hands-rather large, with long fingers that flexed when he told them to. Manicured nails gleamed. Floppy sleeves covered his arms, part of a robelike garment. Not angels’ robes, he noted with some relief. Terry cloth. Rough and comforting. My old bathrobe.

And I am…?

Words. He spoke them out of reflex, before jerking at how hollow and resonant they sounded in this place.

“Hamish. My name is… Hamish Brookeman.”

Author. Director. Producer. E-tropist. Celebrity confidant of statesmen and the mighty. Beloved of masses. Failed husband. Object of ridicule and devotion. Both hands lifted to stroke his face, finding the texture taut, vibrant, pleasantly youthful. And somehow he knew that he would never have to shave again. Unless he wanted to.

“Oh yes,” Hamish recalled. “I know where I am. What this place is.

“I’m aboard a starship. A crystal emissary, bound for a distant sun.”

The first production run of envoy-capsules would be just ten million, they said. All that could be made on a narrow starting budget, equal to that of a medium-sized nation. All that could be propelled by just one giant laser-launcher, perched in orbit above the moon. Of course, those ten million were the vanguard of enormous numbers to come later, once remaining political and social resistance was finally overcome with relentless persuasion-imaginative, varied, and persistent.

The message carried by this little probe-(it seemed so vast inside!)-was worth all the effort, the expense, the resources, and sacrifices. A message of cautionary warning for other young species. An offer of hope.

Now Hamish recalled the pride, the great honor, of being chosen as one of the first. Not only to upload a version of himself into many tens of thousands of crystal ships, but also when he was invited to come up in person-frail but spry in his nineties-to inspect the first batch of probes, all shiny and new, emerging from humankind’s first giant, automated factory-in-space.

That memory-of being old, with creaky joints and aching bowels, yet lauded with a role at the ribbon cutting-seemed fresh as yesterday. In fact, he remembered everything up to the point, a few days later, when they attached electrodes and told him to relax, assuring him that personality and memory recording almost never hurt.

So, it must have worked.

I was skeptical, in my deepest heart, that any copy of me would ever waken in a virtual world, no matter how thoroughly we tested alien technologies, modifying and revising them with human science. Many of us feared the inhabitants would be just clever simulations. Robaitic automatons, not really self-aware.

But here I am! Who can argue with success?

It was all coming back. Years spent leading a new branch of the Renunciation Movement, fighting an obsolete prophet for control, then guiding the faction in new directions. Making it less a tool of oligarchs, religious troglodytes, and grouchy nostalgists. Transforming it instead into a more aggressive, technologically empowered force. An affiliation combining tens of millions… even hundreds of millions… who wanted science controlled. Guided by wisdom.

Good times. Especially sticking it to all the boffins and would-be godmakers who thought they could “prove” him wrong with mere evidence. A notion easily belied by hordes of adoring fans who stayed loyal to him, even when his “hoax” story about the artifacts was shown to be a hoax, in its own right…

Hamish frowned then, recalling how many of those same followers later reviled him when he veered yet again, lending his support to a bold technological endeavor. The growing push in favor of building star messengers.

Well, new reasons, new arguments, new motives… all can lead to new goals. New aspirations. So he explained at the time. So he believed now.

Anyway, millions held true, accepting his assurance that the universe needs us.

With nervous curiosity, Hamish performed a body inventory, palping and flexing arms and legs. They felt strong. The torso, tall and lean as it had been in youth, twisted and rippled satisfactorily. Simulation or not… I feel like me. In fact, more like me than I did as a frail old man.

And if it weren’t accurate, how would you know? asked a small part of him that tried to raise existential questions. Might a virtual being be programmed to find its new self satisfactory?

Bah.

Hamish had always dabbled in philosophy, but more as a storytelling tool. A plot gimmick. A great source for aphorisms and wise protagonist chidings, letting his characters opine about chaos theory or laws of robotics, while preaching against hubristic technology. In fact, he had no use for philosophers.

“I am aboard a crystal starship.” He tasted the declaration out loud, getting reacquainted with speech. “I’m Hamish Brookeman, on an adventure across interstellar space! One of many, on thousands of such vessels, each of them equipped with new ways to contact new races. Each of us charged with a mission, to spread good news!

“And maybe… with luck… those thousands could become billions, scattering through the galaxy, delivering a desperately needed antidote. The cure to combat a galactic plague.”

Movement in this strange new setting involved more than just flexing your legs and shifting your weight. By trial and error, Hamish learned to apply direct volition-willing motion to happen-the way he might impel his arm to extend, with unconscious assurance. At first, progress took many fits and starts… but soon he began gliding among the cloudlike globs, which started out mushy or springy, each time he landed. Hamish adapted his technique and soon they reacted by providing firm, reliable footing.

Once he got the knack, movement became smooth, even fun.

Hamish tried heading toward some of the shapes that he made out vaguely through the haze. But chasing after them proved difficult-like clutching at an elusive idea that kept slipping away.

Eventually, he was able to approach one. Perched atop this cloud-blob was a house with gabled roof-more of a cottage, actually. The wooden, clapboard walls seemed quite realistic and Earth-homey, down to paintbrush strokes covering each exterior panel. Alighting near the front porch, Hamish wiped his feet on a doormat that read EXPECT CHANGE.

Glancing down at his bathrobe and slippers, he thought.

This isn’t appropriate. I wish-

– and voilà, in a whirl of what had to be simulation pixels, his attire changed, transforming into the gray suit he used to wear for interviews, back in days of Old TV.

That’s better. You know, I could get used to this.

Raising a fist, he knuckle-rapped on the door and waited… then knocked again, louder. But no one came. Nobody was home.

Ah well. In fact, that’s a good sign. People have things to do. Places to go. Folks to see and matters to attend to.

He had worried about that. Back home, some of the experts tried to explain about subjective time flow rates and the danger of interstellar ennui. They discussed a number of solutions. Such as sleep. Or slowing the mental clock rate. Or else keeping busy. Even a simulated mind must find many ways to survive the long epochs, with no way to affect or influence the external, objective universe.

They made it sound more cramped in here than it is, Hamish pondered, leaving the porch and launching himself again across the sky. Glancing back, he saw the little house diminish behind him. Soon, Hamish passed other constructions. One was a medieval castle, covered in vines. Another combined glassy globes and glistening spheres, in ways that he deemed much too modernist, impractical, even alien. I guess I’ll want to fashion a home of my own. Providing I learn how.

Or ever figure out how to get anywhere or meet anyone!

In fact, tedium was already setting in. The simulated reality’s expanse, which had seemed pleasingly vast, was now starting to frustrate and bug Hamish. It would help a lot if I met someone who could answer questions. I wish-

Behind him. A soft sound, like the chuffing of breath, an ahem-throat-clearing. While Hamish struggled to turn quickly, thwarted by the queer footing, a voice spoke.

“It is good of you to join us at last, Mr. Brookeman. Might I be of assistance?”

“Thanks. I could really use-”

Hamish stopped, his mouth freezing shut when he saw the figure who had popped into being behind him.

Rotund-chubby, its roundish head topped a height even taller than Hamish. The entity was also a much more massive being. Yet the impression wasn’t threatening. More Buddha-like, with slitted eyes that seemed permanently squinting in amusement. A thick-lipped mouth even curved slightly upward at the ends, as if with an enigmatic smile. There was no nose-breathy sounds came from stalky vents that opened and closed rhythmically, at the top of its head.

An alien. One of the artifact beings, among the earliest discovered, in the very first crystal the public ever saw. Hamish recognized the figure-who wouldn’t?

“Om,” he said, nodding a stiff bow of greeting. It stood for “Oldest Member.” “No one told me you’d be aboard.”

“Are you surprised to see me, in particular? Or any aliens at all?” Om seemed indulgently amused. “By the time this first batch of probes got launched, some compromises were made. Come now, you knew the reasons.”

Hamish recalled. There had been design flaws in the probes sent out by the home planet of Courier of Caution that carried just one simulated species aboard. The inhabitants of that world tried to copy only themselves into their warning-messengers, in order to help safeguard new worlds against infection, but the effort failed. Attempting to rip out every embedded trace of previous programming had resulted in a crystal that was too fragile, too easily corrupted. Apparently, if you were going to use this ancient technology, some of the older extraterrestrial personalities had to be included. For technical reasons.

“Well… so long as the mission remains-”

“-to alert other races about the Big Bad Space Virus Plague? And to offer them the Cure?

“Yes, that is still the plan, Mr. Brookeman. The function of this probe. This fleet. Perhaps, if we all are very lucky, we aboard this very crystal may get a chance to tell some bright new sapient species the wonderful news!”

Hamish raised an eyebrow, archly.

“And you don’t mind helping to spread the Cure? You were part of the plague!”

The Oldest Member shrugged, a human gesture that took some contortion, making Hamish realize that the entire conversation took place in flawless English. Well, it was already known that artifact beings could learn. A good thing, since Hamish planned to learn a lot.

“I suppose I was part of it, for millions of your years,” Om said. “So? Should I repent until eternity? Or shall I atone as best I can-with this new-improved version of myself-by assisting you humans in your sacred mission to help other cultures survive?”

Hamish felt his ersatz eyelids blink several times as he roiled with questions, objections! “But… but…”

“Look,” Om said. “You wanted help. You wished for a guide. Shall I assist you now, and answer your prudish denunciations later? There will be plenty of time, believe me.

“Moreover, let me point out one central fact. That there is no way to go back to Earth and alter the situation. Our probe is dispatched and on its way, beyond any conceivable recall. As you humans say: what’s done is done.”

A pause. Then Hamish sighed with a shrug of his own. And a nod.

“Very well. Then teach me.”

Om bowed with evident satisfaction, giving Hamish a clear view of the breathing vents, puffing like flexible chimneys atop the alien’s bulbous head.

“What would you like to see first, Mr. Brookeman? I will take you. And along the way I shall explain a thing or two about scale.”

90.

Hamish soon realized why he’d been having so much trouble getting anywhere. As one of the institute boffins once explained it, the inner world of crystal probe was limited, yet there were ways to cleverly maximize its sense of roominess. As an inhabitant, you could adjust yourself down to any number of “fractal levels” of size. The smaller you shrank, the more personal space you had. And the greater your freedom to make things happen simply by wanting them to.

The boffins had warned (while ninety-year-old Hamish half slept through tedious briefings) that entities aboard a crystal probe could “die,” vanishing from any future contact with the universe. One way for this to happen was for the simulated being to dive way down the scale ladder, plunging smaller, ever smaller-into realms where wishes and magic reigned, and where you became too small to matter anymore, to anyone back in the “real” world.

That is, unless a new civilization starts dissecting your probe. Or tries building uncontaminated versions. That’s when we discovered hidden ones are always there, tucked inside the atom-by-atom structure of the crystal itself, but able to rise out of deep scale-dormancy, protecting the virus and its self-serving mission.

No wonder it had taken decades to perfect the Cure.

“Let me show you the way,” Oldest Member told Hamish. “Try to follow me.” And he departed… without traveling or even leaving. Instead, Om started growing larger.

Hamish, who had spent most of his life as the tallest person in almost any room, didn’t like the sensation of tilting his head to stare up at a giant. It added to his sense of motivation-wanting to catch up with the alien. If only there were a bottle labeled “drink me.” There’s got to be a trick to it!

Focusing hard on changing his sense of scale-on growing-he found that the secret was more a matter of looking in a certain way. Expecting to see things that you can’t control. Makes sense, he thought as the blob shrank beneath his feet and he began scaling up to follow Om. If going small gives you power to alter everything around you, then getting large entails coming to terms with what you can’t change.

He could see the logic of it all. Tiny beings would have lots of subjective space around them, to erect their ideal homes, virtual companions, games and distractions, while not interfering with any of the crystal vessel’s other official inhabitants. On the other hand, if you choose to grow big enough to interact with other uploaded passengers, then you must accept the same concept that thwarted most humans-as babes and again in adolescence-the harsh fact that other beings may not want the same thing that you do.

Funny perspective though, Hamish thought. Looking down, he still seemed to be in a vast world of cloudy shapes. But lifting his eyes, Hamish began to discern something up-and-ahead… like a dome of dark color, obscured by both distance and a strange mist. Following Om’s lead, he began walking toward that distant dome, while continuing to grow.

Hamish noticed-it was more difficult to move at this scale. His feet now felt a bit heavy and the surface under them somehow stickier. Progress wasn’t exactly hard, but it took some effort, like striding into a stiff breeze. Or being held by gravity.

At last Hamish could make out some of those other figures that had seemed so distant and blurry before. Two humans and a mantislike alien emerged from a fog bank at one point, sparing him a nod of slight greeting as they hurried by, apparently too busy to stop and chat. Hamish felt a little miffed, but shrugged it off.

Minutes later, he spotted a sleek, gray-blue dolphin suddenly pop out of some nearby clouds. Arching and swimming closer, its flukes thrashed at what seemed to be air, yet the creature moved swiftly and energetically, as if the muscular torso and tail were powering their way through water. Two passengers rode atop the cetacean’s slick back, clinging to its dorsal fin. Blinking in surprise, Hamish noted a monkey and what looked like a very large, grinning, cartoon rat.

The monkey pointed and chattered, prompting the dolphin to veer close toward Hamish and Om, swerving at the last moment before speeding off. For an instant, it felt as if a splash-wave of invisible water enveloped Hamish, chill and wet. Dolphin chattered and monkey shrieked as they receded. Even Om chuckled, while Hamish teetered toward outrage… then instead chose mild, wry amusement.

“Good one,” he admitted. It took just moments for that damp illusion to evaporate as the two of them resumed their forward-upward march.

Soon he realized, all the giant glob-clouds had become a fog of infinitesimal droplets and bubbles, collecting and parting in shreds of haze that swirled around. Especially ahead of them, obscuring vision. Hamish leaned forward against the uphill climb and a resisting pressure, eager to reach that dome he had seen, catching an occasional glimpse of sparkles on satin, somewhere ahead…

… until, abruptly, he and Om finally pushed through cloudy shreds. And Hamish sighed.

There they are, at last.

The stars.

What he had taken for a dome was just one sector of a great ceiling-the curved window-interface between a crystal cylinder’s interior and the universe outside.

Space.

A twentieth century man, Hamish had grown up associating the vast realm outside with romance. Adventure. Even though his own tales about Bad Science cynically ridiculed that notion, calling outer space an immense vacuum-desert punctuated by rare oasis-specks, a part of that old feeling nevertheless drew him toward the barrier, plodding and climbing against increasing resistance.

It’s not the interstellar travel we were promised. The warp drives and grand ships and sexy alien princesses. The star battles and empires and utopian colonies and melding of great civilizations, each learning from the others.

This way is both simpler and more practical, while far riskier on an individual basis. Just one of my thousands of copies may actually meet living beings on some far world, helping them to survive and thrive.

Still, it really is interstellar travel.

Wow. I’m a voyager, crossing the galaxy!

“The friction gets more intense as you approach,” Om commented on how hard Hamish found himself working, as he pushed closer to the barrier-so much like a membrane separating the outer world from the living interior of a cell. “And it can be very cold. Unless you approach with the help and companionship of others.”

Just ahead, Hamish could sense the frigid chill of space. He reached out and, for a moment, he felt as large as a virtual being could possibly be, inside this crystal vessel. Briefly, the hand near the wall seemed as big as the rest of him combined. Perhaps even full life-size-twelve centimeters wide at the palm-pushing toward the inner wall of a “ship” that was itself less than two meters long.

Someday I may stand here and press my hand against that wall when it’s warmed by an alien sun. And on the other side will be a living being. A member of some new race, innocent and promising. Bringing close a hand or feeler or paw of its own.

For some reason, pondering that encounter filled Hamish with as much anticipation as he used to get from fame, or sex, or any conceivable accomplishment. Well, that made a kind of sense…

… but stretching toward the interface took exhausting effort and the space-cold was harsh. He let his hand drop and stumbled back a few paces toward the mist, feeling himself shrink in scale.

Hamish turned to his alien guide.

“Well then? Let’s go find some others.”

91.

He saw it soon.

As they traveled together “forward,” striding toward the bow of this great crystal ship, Hamish glanced past the curved wall and spied a rippling arc that crossed the Milky Way at a steep angle. On one side, the vast spray of stars looked normal, untwinkling, and vastly numerous. (I wonder, have the constellations already changed?) But just ahead of that demarcation the pinpoints seemed to waver just a bit, as if reflecting off the surface of a gently curved pool.

Hamish realized, with a thrill.

It’s the sail!

A great sheet of atom-thin fabric, more than a hundred kilometers wide, intelligently reactive and nearly foolproof, it would accept the propulsive push of human-built lasers, reflecting photons, transferring their momentum to its slender cargo, propelling Hamish and his companions ever faster across the great gulf. And, upon arrival, the sail would turn, using the new sun’s light as a counter force to brake momentum. Whereupon-after many elongated orbits and planetary swings-it would finally guide this crystal ship into the warm hearth-zone where living worlds lay. Bearing a message from Earth to its faraway target.

“We will find more people at the very most forward end of the ship, discussing matters having to do with the sail,” Om said.

While Hamish felt eager to speed the pace, he could sense his companion slowing down a bit, as if suddenly reluctant. When he glanced at Om, the alien pursed those thick, expressive lips.

“I should warn you. This vessel was loaded with some… unconventional personalities. Your leaders ignored our best advice about what type of entities should be added to an emissary crew, in order to maximize their individual chances of survival. I’m afraid some of our crewmates will not last all the way to our far destination.”

But when Hamish pressed for details, the creature lifted a three-pronged hand. “I have already overstepped the bounds of propriety. I just felt that you should be prepared for some… eccentricity.”

Hamish refrained from answering. But inside he knew. If they banned human eccentrics from uploading, I would never have been given a single slot, let alone ten thousand, no matter how popular or famous I was. Diversity is our strength. It will remain so, till we stop being human.

The domelike ceiling was starting to curve more, tapering over in front of them as they kept taking giant strides forward. And soon Hamish made out figures-both human and alien-who stood in clusters near an array of holo tanks, flat screens, and instrumentalities.

Of course. If this is a ship, then there must be a control room. A “bridge.”

Hamish picked up his pace, hurrying toward the group… and soon realized that he had better start getting smaller, too. Of course, the people down there would have reduced their fractal scale factor. How else could they wish into existence things like knobs and levers and screens? Anyway, he couldn’t interact with them as a giant, could he? If those people looked up now, they might only see him as a nebulously man-shaped cloud.

Dropping closer, in both distance and size, he began making out details.

The most colorful creature was something like a hybrid between a human and a bird of paradise-two slim legs and a feminine contour were covered with iridescent down. Shimmering flight feathers hung from slim arms, like the folds of a cape, leading back to a magnificent, curved tail. Even the beak melded gracefully into a face that might be a movie starlet’s. The creature was squawking and gesticulating at a human woman, whose good looks were very ordinary by comparison-a nice figure and glossy brown hair, streaked with stylish gray. She wore a snug T-shirt emblazoned with an eye-emblem, inside a giant letter “Q,” rimmed by a bold statement: YOU MAY SOON BE TYPICAL.

There were others nearby, two more humans and an alien whom he knew he ought to recognize. This ET-bipedal with sleek reddish fur-was almost as famous as the Oldest Member, though its name wouldn’t come to mind.

As he both descended and shrank, Hamish felt a strange sense of power starting to form at his fingertips, as if they now contained some kind of magic. Like before, when he changed his bathrobe into a neat suit of clothes. Ah, yes. Smaller scale meant more could happen at whim. The sensation made him feel tempted to just keep going, diminishing past this fractal level to check out the realms of instant wish-fulfillment.

But I always enjoyed being tall.

Hamish slowed down his approach and turned to Om.

“I know that woman. The rich science junky, Lacey Donaldson-Sander. She seems a lot younger than when she passed away, decades before I…”

Hamish realized that he had no idea how to speak of dates and time. Perhaps the control center could bring him up to speed about such things.

“As do you, my friend,” Om commented.

“Hm, yeah. I guess I do. As for the others. They look familiar. But could you help me, before we land among them? That ET who looks like a crimson otter-”

“You refer to M’m por’lock, I presume. Called by some the Traitor… and by others the Loyalist.”

Hamish nodded. “Oh, yeah. He helped us to develop the Cure, didn’t he?”

Om nodded, noncommittally. But he held out a hand to halt their approach. “It occurs to me, Mr. Brookeman, that you appear to be data blind.”

“Data… oh, you mean walking around not linked to the Mesh by aiware. Well, you know I was an old guy and a bit of a techno-grouch. I hated the eye implants young people were getting, to stay hooked in twenty-four/seven. When I had to walk around using augmented reality, I put on tru-vu goggles, like God intended-”

Hamish blinked.

“I see. You’re saying this place has its own equivalent to the Mesh. And I’m wandering around half blind, unable to simply look up info on people I don’t recognize.” He sighed. “All right then. How do I…”

Om performed a hand-flourish, then held something out to Hamish. A pair of tru-vus. The old-style virtuality goggs that Hamish used to employ, way back then. Well, what do you know.

“Until you figure out how to make your own interface,” the Oldest Member explained.

Hamish slipped them on. At which point, looking back at the people below, he now saw them equipped with name tags.

M’m por’lock

Lacey Donaldson

Birdwoman303

Jovindra Noonien Singh

Emily Tang

Emily Tang!

Chief architect of the Cure. The one human personality likely to be inserted into every crystal probe that humanity made. Suddenly-as he and Om finished shrinking and alighted on the glassy deck of the control area-Hamish felt a bit bashful and awestruck. What do you say to a woman whose idea coalesced human ambivalence about the “alien fomite plague,” coming up with a strategy to both fight back against the interstellar infection and possibly reclaim the stars?

Responding to his interest, the ersatz goggles began scrolling background text.

“The Cure” applies to a strategy for persuading some artilens to defect from their software allies, converting them instead to work honestly and effectively for humanity and Earth civilization. This method was inspired by the discovery, in the asteroid belt, of a relic-

The helpful summary vanished as Hamish diverted his attention to the creature looking a lot like a super-otter, who now conversed with Emily Tang. M’m por’lock, he now recalled, had been the very first extraterrestrial virtual being to fully accept Emily’s offer. Called a betrayer by some of the other crystal entities. Or the Loyal One, for remembering a much older allegiance.

The first of many artilens who came over to our side, revealing some clever memic tricks the fomites had been using against us. Instead of steering human civilization in the direction of spasmodic virus-creation, they helped us make the Cure. Because we offered them a deal they couldn’t refuse.

And our bribe?

Just what we were inclined to do anyway. To increase, yet again, the diversity of what it means to be “human.”

The Cure also persuaded Hamish to alter his version of Renunciationism. To throw his support behind building the Space Factory and the big laser.

Hamish shifted his gaze yet again, toward the most vivid-looking entity-the avian-human hybrid creature, whose name tag responded to curiosity, by expanding.

Birdwoman: representative of the Autie League-Fifth Branch of Humanity.

Ah. Now he understood. Not an alien, but a self-made form. A common thing nowadays, among the portion of humanity that spent ten thousand tragic years awaiting virtual reality and ai to set them free.

His fellow passengers were turning now, reacting to his arrival.

“Mr. Brookeman,” said the dark-haired woman, with a welcoming smile. “We were wondering if you’d ever deign to show up.”

When Hamish reflexively glanced at her tight T-shirt, his tru-vus interpreted the logo.

Symbol of the Quantum Eye, the oracle who famously predicted that-

Meanwhile another pop-out commented:

Size 36-D. Biographically correct and unenhanced-

Hurriedly, Hamish lifted his gaze back to her face. This was one reason he never liked augmented reality.

“Madam Donaldson-Sander,” he took her hand in a clasp that felt warm and realistic. His first personal touch in this place. “Apologies for my absence. I left instructions to be wakened when something of significance happened. I guess that must have been both overly conservative and ill advised.”

“Hm. Well, you missed the launch for one thing. It was quite a show!” She turned and waved at the forward half of the star-flecked sky. “Our sail was filled with light from the propulsion laser and the acceleration was terrific.”

“Dang. Sounds like a real experience. I can’t imagine why I-”

“Oh, don’t worry. We recorded it. You can live through the event from many points of view.”

Hamish let go of his disappointment. “Thank you, Madam Donaldson-Sander.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, call me Lacey.”

“Fine. Lacey. Hamish then.” He continued down the row, exchanging greetings with the other AUPs-autonomous uploaded personalities-his companions, with whom he might share the next several million years. Hamish managed not to show any sign of hero-idolatry when he shook hands with Emily Tang, who grinned with a glint of whimsy, as if she knew a secret jest.

Only when he finished introductions did his mind turn to pick at something that was said earlier. “My awakening instructions were poorly thought out,” Hamish admitted. “But then… I take it that ‘something of significance’ has now happened?”

Lacey held up one hand. “Could you hold that thought, Hamish? We’re trying to settle a very important question.”

She turned to her colleagues. The man named Singh-elegant with a pointed beard, a white turban, and a dagger at his waist-said, “My best estimate is about five hundred and fifty a.u. As for speed…” He glanced at the Birdwoman, who fluttered her feathered arms and emitted a squawk. Hamish let his new, virtual aiware insert a translation:

Give me some time to finish my calculations.

Emily and M’m por’lock also consulted briefly with two other humans at the control panels. Then Emily returned to offer Lacey a sigh and head shake.

“But can’t you at least tell me what…”

“Why don’t you accompany me, Hamish?” Lacey suggested, touching his elbow and swiveling him in a new direction, with the ease of one born to graceful arts of persuasion. “I have an important errand. You and Om might as well come, too. We can talk along the way.”

“An errand? Where?”

Lacey made circular motions with her right hand. And in response, an oval portion of the glassy floor started to lift, carrying the three of them with it. Soon they were floating about half a person-height above the others.

“We are heading aft,” she replied.

Small cylinders manifested, about hip-level. When Om and Lacey clasped the ones nearest to them, Hamish realized they were handholds, he clutched one also.

“How fast are we going to-”

The newly formed conveyance took off with a jerk, then a steady surge of acceleration that did not let up, making Hamish glad of something to grip. The control center receded behind them at a rate he found intimidating.

“Aft?” he asked. “How far?”

Lacey smiled enigmatically.

“All the way… and then some.”

92.

This vehicle, Hamish soon concluded, was a utilitarian compromise. Only a couple of fractal levels down from the crystal’s outer shell-he figured his “actual” height was now about a tenth of a millimeter. They had enough wish-power to make useful things, like the travel disc. Yet, the comparative distances weren’t too great.

Overhead, through occasional gaps in the misty overcast, he could still catch glimpses of the great black night. Looking down, he saw a realm of glob-clouds that were rich with potential to become whatever anyone wanted. Layer after layer of complexity diminished into smallness below, an infinity of minute scale, laced with occasional flashes of multicolored lightning.

A part of him knew what had just happened.

They didn’t want to answer my questions, just yet. And they know I’m still gawking around like a tourist. So they figure taking me on this ride will distract me for a while.

Well… they’re right!

Staring downward, he discovered that his tru-vus would zoom toward distant-or much smaller-things, bringing into focus occasional globs that had already been transformed into fairy-tale palaces, amusement arcades, alien parklands with purple trees, and so on. Those oases were rare however; vast, unused gulfs separated them. Well after all, the long interstellar voyage was just getting started.

Several times he almost blurted out questions, but stopped when the goggles offered a terse explanation. At one point, their hurtling path across the starprobe’s inner expanse took them above-on a nearly parallel course-what looked like an ocean-going luxury liner, complete with swimming pools, tennis courts and liveried servants. Interest-zoom brought into view tanned figures lounging or playing on deck. Several looked up and waved as Lacey’s little oval vehicle rushed by. Hamish stared. This time he didn’t need any of the subtitles the goggles supplied:

Helena duPont-Vonessen

Daphne Glaucus-Worthington-Smythe

Yevgeny Bogolomov

Wu Chang Xi

Hamish rocked back, turning to Lacey. “Socrates weeps! What are those people doing here?”

“You mean my peers from the First Estate?” she asked, using terminology that had been briefly fashionable in the 2040s and 2050s. “Come now, Hamish. Who do you think helped pay for all this?” She waved skyward, clearly meaning the entire crystal vessel. “The space factories. The giant laser? Most of the members of the Oligarchic clade accepted the doomcasts-the dire outcomes predicted by their pet boffins and farcaisters. They wanted lifeboats from a world apparently fated to fail. A lot of lifeboats.”

“But…” Hamish recalled those long-ago days when he used to fawn over oligarchs-then decades spent fighting and denouncing them. “But slots were supposed to be allocated by-”

“By merit? Yes, well.” The woman offered a ladylike shrug. “A lot of them were. In the end though, the institute decided that there’s plenty of room.”

“Plenty of… say, how many uploaded minds are aboard-”

Before he could finish the question, his tru-vus answered: 8,009.

“Eight thousand and… but I thought there was limited storage capacity for full-scale minds!”

Now the Oldest Member spoke for the first time since they arrived at the control center.

“This crystal vessel is larger than average. It has many times the normal volume. Nor is that the only difference.” Om gestured ahead, in their direction of travel.

Hamish could sense their conveyance decelerating. Already, the sky-ceiling seemed to be curving inward again, as the probe’s cylinder shape tapered at the aft end. Soon that terminus came into view. Only it wasn’t what Hamish expected.

He had figured the scene would reveal familiar constellations of brittle-pinpoint stars, with an especially bright one dead center. The still-bright sun that shone on Earth. And also, possibly, the stunning glare of the propulsion laser.

Instead, beyond the curved end of the crystal, Hamish saw a huge, flat wall of very dark brown, blocking any view in that direction. He shook his head.

“I’m confused. What the hell is that?”

Lacey nodded sympathetically.

“Here, allow me.”

She touched the side of her head. Then, with the same finger, she reached up and tapped his tru-vus, which erupted with a simple illustration.

“So… what I’m looking at is a great big box that’s attached to the rear end of our ship?” Hamish shook his head. “That’s not standard design, is it? I mean… the smaller compartment at the front is there to control the sail. But what the heck is all that for?” He motioned at the brown wall blocking their view toward home.

“We’ve speculated about that,” commented the Oldest Member. “Some of us believe that it contains instrumentalities to increase our chance of success, when we reach our destination.”

“What, you mean tools? What kind?”

“The implements might include signaling devices, to better announce ourselves to a local species. Or telescopes to study them.

“Or else, perhaps the container comes loaded with weaponry, in order that we should be better able to protect ourselves. Say, in the event that we find the new solar system infested with malignant, old-era probes.”

“Well, anything that improves our…”

Hamish halted, feeling a sudden thrill of realization. His fingers made a satisfying snap, even in this virtual realm.

“Of course! This has to do with the Cure. The box must contain bioreactors and genetic codes and artificial wombs and all the things we’ll need at journey’s end, in order to start turning ancient data into living, organic beings!”

That had been Emily Tang’s great plan-a scheme she came up with after learning about a long-dead seeder ship, discovered in the asteroid belt. A Mother Probe whose colonist-children were murdered about the same time as the dinosaurs. The Seeder itself represented an obsolete way to spread biological sapience around the galaxy-a shortsighted and self-centered approach, doomed in this more dangerous era.

But it sparked Emily’s big idea.

Why not use the same kind of technologies to resurrect a few of the artilen species that we find locked inside ancient probes? Sapient races that are long extinct-vanished from the universe. Today, their only remnants are software shadows trapped within crystal eggs. But might it be possible to bring some of the original species back to life? Or creatures who are close to them, both physically and culturally? Restoring them as living organic beings, here on Earth?

And if we can do that… why not start with those who prove their friendship first?

The very idea had been enough to shatter some of the viral-fomite alliances. The offer provoked some of the virtual artifact entities to experience surges of unexpected nostalgia for their original maker-selves. Long-dormant sentiment for living creatures who once strode in the open, breathing air, interacting directly with the cosmos, building dreams and hopes that were all their own, under naked suns.

“You would do that for us?” they asked. “Even knowing what we are? What we tried to do?”

To which humanity replied:

“We’ll not be doing it for you, but for your ancestors, the earlier versions of your species, who made you. And for your living descendants.”

When the first resurrection experiments bore fruit-when a few alien infants were born out of artificial wombs and adopted by human families-virtual envoys in scores of artifact probes abruptly brought forth secret treasures. Stretches of genetic code that they had hidden away, in copy after copy, information buried for ages deep within crystal lattices. For them, an older loyalty suddenly trumped their Darwinian self-interest as bits of “viral” data. And they were more than willing to pay the required cost.

The truth. Or as much of it as they could pry loose from the other fomite beings. Those still desperate to promote the plague.

So successful was the program-with dozens of species of alien infants now being raised in nurseries, crèches, and private homes across Earth, adding to the diversity of what it meant to be “human”-that a notion began spreading around the planet, intensely assertive, brash, even messianic.

Why not teach this?

If the method works for us… to cure the plague through acts of potent generosity… then might it work for others out there, too?

Hamish felt certain. This had to explain the extra-large cargo compartment at the rear of their vessel.

“It must contain tools to work the Cure! Machinery to start the process in our new solar system.”

It came as a disappointing blow when Lacey shook her head.

“I have to doubt that, Hamish. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Why?”

“Because no mere box a meter long could contain any of the devices you describe. And the genetic codes are all imbedded here”-she gestured around them-“in the data lattice of our ship.

“Anyway, remember, the plan starts by helping a young alien race with all phases of their development crisis. Teaching them to stand up and think for themselves and to resist other crystals that pose as ‘gods,’ for example. To not view us as gods! And other vital things like ecology, using sustainable technology wisely. Plus the vital tricks of reciprocal accountability and positive-sum games…

“Only much later, during the inevitable crisis, when they have high technology and when their minds are threatened by fomite virus memes, that’s when we’ll add the Tang Offer, teaching them how to mix and brew more types to people. To increase the diversity and wisdom of their civilization. Helping them acquire the hybrid vigor to take on all challenges.

“Plus empowering them to make the same offer to the crystals that have infected their system,” Hamish added, to prove he understood all this. “Luring cooperation from many of the virus entities.”

“We carry the schematics and knowledge needed to do all that, Hamish, adjusting and adapting the designs to fit local conditions. But our plan counts on locals doing all the physical work!

“Also, that’s the only moral way. It solves the ethical dilemma of the old seeder probes, whose plan to colonize Earth would have ruined our planet’s chance to evolve sapients of its own. This way, a world gets to make its own smart race first. And only then-by their own choice-do they invite others to join them, creating an outpost of cosmopolitan, galactic civilization.”

Hamish blinked at Lacey’s stunning version of the Cure. He had never looked at it quite so grandly before. She sure thought on an impressive scale.

“Terrific!” he nodded. “So for the sake of our mission-”

“The point is, I find it unlikely that Earth would have crammed a package full of teensy bioreactors, that would only decay or go obsolete anyway, across millions of years. We’ll teach. We aren’t meant to do it ourselves.”

Feeling deflated, Hamish found nothing to say, except a grunt of soft disappointment, like he always felt when one of his cool ideas got shot down.

He turned and saw that they were slowing. Approaching a cluster of figures at the aft end of the great crystal ship, where the ceiling’s descending arc became almost a vertical wall. As had been the case at the ship’s opposite end, a handful of human figures mingled with aliens near some holo and twodee displays.

He let out a sigh, turning back to Lacey and Om.

“All right then. So the box doesn’t have directly to do with the Cure. Still, this means our vessel is larger and more capacious than your typical crystal probe. It also comes equipped with tools and ways to interact with the world. That’s great! We won’t be helpless. This should improve our chances of mission success. Right?”

Something about Om’s reaction seemed off. Too muted or reserved.

“I suppose that is true, my friend,” answered the alien entity. “The odds may go up, for this particular probe.”

“And the other ten million just like it?”

“They, too, will benefit, if they were dispatched so-equipped.”

“So. Then. What’s the problem?”

Hamish looked to Lacey, who lifted her shoulders. “I believe Om considers the extra expense to be a foolish waste.”

The Oldest Member nodded. “Exactly so, my lady. Ten or twenty smaller, cheaper models could be made and cast across space for the cost-in time, effort, and resources-that went into making and equipping our lavish vessel.”

“But you just said that our own chances of success were greater.”

“By a very small factor. Perhaps they doubled. An insignificant amount.”

“Double is insignificant?”

“Remember that each probe is like a grain of pollen, cast into the wind! Triumphal achievement of our overall mission-spreading the Cure-will depend far more on numbers than on any one probe, Mr. Brookeman.

“It will call for… it will require… vast quantities. Immense numbers.”

Hamish felt a strange sensation, like numbness, pass across his face.

Vast quantities… Oh.

His expression was one that Om misinterpreted, despite decades of experience with humans.

“Do not worry, my friend. A lot of new sapients pass through this phase, lavishing excess care and attention upon their first wave of probes. They soon get over it and switch over to a more efficient approach.”

For once at a complete loss for words, Hamish turned to Lacey Donaldson. But she was busy piloting her little craft toward a landing. Causing it to match-in both location and size-the figures ahead, who were gathered around some very mundane-looking displays, near the very aft end of the ship. Where the vertical crystal barrier came into direct contact with the mysterious, boxy cargo compartment.

Trying hard to shake off a terrible sinking feeling, Hamish focused on the people who were turning now to greet them, as the travel disc melted into the floor of a glassy plain. First came a pair of humans he did not recognize and whose names meant little to him. Experts in optics and instrument design, he gathered. The third entity was far more interesting.

Courier of Caution, emissary from a planet called Turbulence, where one race saw through the trap of the fomite plague and tried to come up with a solution. Its own early, primitive version of the Cure. Sending out capsules with the aim of helping new species, alerting them to the danger.

Hamish glanced at his guide-his Virgil-the Oldest Member. These two (or different, earlier versions of them) once fumed, strutted, and hurled accusations at each other, during the first of the Great Debates between various crystal probes. An exercise that edified humanity and helped make a big difference. A crucial first step down the twisty path that threaded minefields, leading (perhaps) to survival.

At least that was what Hamish had believed… till just minutes ago, when a dire suspicion was born, like a wasp within his mind.

If he expected fireworks or friction between Courier and Om, they showed no sign of animosity. Well, weren’t they now sworn to the same mission? The same sacred goal? Helping to spread an antidote to poison.

Courier stepped up to Lacey. The creature’s bullet head and throbbing eye-strip had been less endearing than Om’s Buddha-like appearance, during those first debates. But the artilen’s blunt dedication and honesty won hundreds of millions of hearts.

“Well?” Courier asked.

Lacey shook her head.

“Birdwoman wants to calculate some more. But that’s how she deals with stress. Just crunching more numbers won’t make a difference. I’m afraid it’s pretty conclusive.”

“What’s conclusive?” Hamish asked.

Both Courier and Lacey turned to look at Hamish. He could not read the artilen’s expression. The woman was clearly torn. She started to speak-

– but was interrupted, by a voice that came from behind Hamish.

“Brothers and sisters, why be reticent? Even newly wakened, this here mon is no frail. Tell him de truth now. Or let me.”

No, Hamish murmured to himself. Please don’t let it be…

Turning around, he found his dread justified. A dark human figure approached, almost as tall as he was, but with “hair” consisting of snakelike tendrils, waving and emitting random puffs of aromatic smoke. Despite many other virtual augmentations-a bare, bristly chest and a softening of the man’s famously excessive island dialect-Hamish recognized the newcomer instantly.

Professor Noozone offered a cheshire grin and arms wide in welcome.

“Coo-yah, Mass Brookeman. How nice of ye to join us. I hope you will find today’s news adequately ‘significant’ to justify your wakeup call.”

Hamish clenched his fists over the ribbing, but maintained surface calm. “Will somebody please tell me?”

“Sure thing, mon,” Profnoo replied, the grin fading into a merely wry smile.

“You see, we had been scheduled for another laser boost, to fill our sail an’ accelerate us boojum-faster across space interstell-ar. But it never came, y’know. Nor has any explanation come to us by narrowbeam radio.

“This prompted us to take sightings an’ do some measurements of our very own. Good enough measures to reckon a fell fac’.”

Hamish hated the way this man milked drama with every opportunity. But he was clearly expected to ask.

“What fact is that, professor?”

“Why, the rhaatid fac’ that the speed of our good vessel is no-quite up to what it should be, mon.”

Hamish turned to Lacey. “I know this ship is a bit heavy. But how far off could we possibly-”

He stopped when she closed her eyes.

“By a factor of more than a hundred,” Lacey said.

“What?”

If he could have asked for a less realistic emulation of a human body, Hamish would gladly trade right now. This virtual copy felt awash in chemical reactions of astonishment and despair. Or simulations that were all too similar to the “real thing.” Above all, though, he wished that the next words came from anybody else, other than the Jamaican pop-scientist.

“Bodderation, eh? At this velocity, we won’t even escape the system sol-ar, just orbit through de old Kuiper Belt an’ loop back aroun’ the sun again, eon after eon. Maybe snap some pictures of Pluto or Tyche or Planet X or whatever iceballs we happen upon.

“But no aliens. No new star systems.

“An’ that’s not even the biggest bloodclotty thing, mon.”

With a reluctant sense of foreboding, Hamish forced himself to ask.

“What… is the biggest… thing?”

“Zeen, why de fact that Earth is no even tryin’ to correct the problem, with new laser shoots. It seems, my old fren an’ adversary, dat wicked old world-dat Babylon we come from-has done abandoned us to our fate.”

93.

By now this crystal ship, a mere two meters long but packed with passengers and data-cargo, should have already entered the Oort Cloud of comets, starting at ten thousand times the Earth’s distance from the sun… not poking along at just five hundred or so astronomical units.

Worse, their apparent speed was abysmal. Why had Earth failed to provide the promised boost, filling their sail with intense laser pulses, propelling it to 5 percent of lightspeed?

Hamish sat at an edge of the glassy plane. Half listening while others argued behind him, he dangled his long legs over the seemingly vast interior of the probe. If measured by an external observer, he sat less than fifteen centimeters from the cylinder’s central axis. In fractal terms, the depth might be infinite.

Techies kept waving their arms and conjuring into existence various instruments to measure the problem… as if a hundred-fold shortfall in velocity were something you could “analyze and solve.” Anyway, there were major obstacles to looking outside.

First one thing; any view backward-toward Sol and Earth-was blocked by the great big cargo container. “So we can’t get a precise Doppler measurement, only rough estimates on how fast we’re leaving the sun,” explained a boffin.

Another impediment-they could manifest telescopes and things with a wave of the hand, but only down here at a middling fractal scale, where “magic” was possible, where mist obscured most of the starry vista. It was futile trying to drag the instruments “upward,” close to where crystal met space. Made of virtual wish-stuff, the tools simply evaporated, upon approaching the boundary wall. Only autonomous uploaded passengers-or AUPs-could survive next to that harsh, outer reality.

“The cause of it all may be political,” Lacey Donaldson suggested. “Our consensus to build a space factory and laser was never complete or universal. The Renunciation Movement still had a lot of strength, back home. Under new leadership, perhaps spurred by some bad event, populist know-nothings may have taken power and stopped the process.”

Ouch, Hamish thought, recalling his own turn at the helm of that worldwide faction.

“And hence,” continued the mellow voice of Oldest Member, “the problem may just be temporary. It often happens that a species will take a pause, work through some emotional issues, then resume production.”

“That happened several times on Turbulence Planet,” added Courier of Caution. “Hence, it is possible, at any point, that our acceleration pushes may resume.”

Normally, that might have cheered Hamish. But right now, he found any sign of agreement between Om and Courier depressing.

Looking downward, he saw immense depths of ever-increasing complexity and pondered. Why not dive down there, right now? Start exploring. Try those magical abilities. Check out the wonders that other passengers have already built, through sheer wish-power… and maybe start building some of my own?

All my life I was known for creativity. This could be my real chance. To show what I’ve got. To imagine greater than anybody!

That had always been the plan, anyway. Even if their probe had been on target, with every hope of success at the other end, he still would have spent ninety-nine point nine nine (and so on) percent of the time either sleeping or amusing himself in games, simulations, and make-believe playgrounds.

At least at this distance we’ll still have a slim supply of solar energy to tap. In the cold, unlighted depths of interstellar space, time itself would slow down for all inhabitants, as the crystal ship conserved power.

“Well,” one of the humans behind him said, “if that were the case-if they shut off the laser-you’d think they’d have the decency to tell us!”

Professor Noozone snorted.

“Tell ten million little lumps o’ glass that everythin’s all fit n’ frock? Dat we should jus’ wait aroun’ a little for de real-life Earth folk to finish squabblin’? Now why would they feel obliged to do that? Remember we’re not people. Not citizens. We are probe-entities, zeen? Mere replicants aboard a dread zeppelin that’s goin’ nowhere. And jus’ one machine emissary out of millions. We’re quattie, mon. They owe us neegle.”

Shut up, Hamish wished. But the voice continued.

“I t’ink we need to accept another possibility, bredren an’ sistren. Yeyewata. That this may be no mere setback politic-al. We must consider that the very worst has happen. That de ol’ wicked world has finally done it.”

“Done what?” someone asked.

“Why, done stepped into a zutopeck pit. Forsaken Jah an’ done gone where rude bwoys all wind up.”

“What do you-”

“That Earth has gone and blown itself up, mon! The ginnygogs have wrecked all hope. It’s over. An’ that’s why nobody be callin’ us on de phone.”

During the long silence that followed, Hamish envisioned the crystal-their entire universe-traveling several thousand kilometers farther from the sun. A long way… and a pathetically useless pittance.

Finally, Lacey Donaldson spoke in a soft voice, very small.

“I wonder what it was… which failure mode. The odds were always against us. There were so many ways to mismanage the transition… to blow it… even before external influences arrived to make matters worse.

“It could have been a war. A designer disease. A food collapse. A calamitous physics experiment, Another eco-mess. Or…”

She stopped as her voice seemed to choke off.

Hamish stared harder into the depths. One half of his view was taken up by the shimmering inner wall of the ship, its aft end plunging almost vertically. And just on the other side of that barrier, a sheer massif of dark brown. The “box” that Noozone and the others had been trying to study-till far more serious news crashed in. News of failure. Of abandonment.

And the possibility that we may be the last remnants of humanity. Not even successfully sent across the gulf to other stars, but left to drift in the outermost solar system, aboard a “ship” that’s filled with genetic and cultural riches. Gifts meant for others, far away.

I guess we might hope-or imagine-that someday one of these crystal depositories will get picked up. Maybe by visitors from beyond. That way, someone might decipher, study, and relish bits and pieces of what we were… like possibly my novels and films.

But for that to happen, some race would have to actually survive out there, in order to become the first real star-farers. Some sapients must find a real cure, and finally escape the trap.

The many traps of existence.

Hamish knew that he had plenty of faults. But no one ever accused him of indolence. Or inattention. Or lack of passionate caring about human destiny.

All his life had been spent nosing around for possible mistakes, for “failure modes” that might ensnare his species. Every tale that he wove was meant partly to exploit and entertain and make lots of money… but also to warn and stir new wariness about yet another error to avoid. And if many of humanity’s brightest people resented him, for attacking science in general? Well, at least he was engaged, participating in the argument. Playing the role of vigorous devil’s advocate. Probing the path ahead for snakes, quicksand, and land-mines.

Prove me wrong-I always demanded-by ensuring that this type of calamity can never happen. But first, I will make you pay attention.

That was the core point. Always the underlying message of everything he ever wrote.

For all the good it apparently did.

In the end, perhaps I made no difference at all.

Well, at least humanity would not be contributing to the demise of others.

If the end had finally come, on Earth… or if some clade of oligarchs had succeeded in the natural goal, using renunciation as an excuse to permanently reassert feudalism… either way, the planet would not be a source of further infection across the cosmos.

Hamish had already been depressed, before learning about Birdwoman’s dire calculation. His earlier conversation with the Oldest Member made him realize a terrible truth.

The “Cure” we were so proud of. It was just another layer of persuasion. Another insidious meme-driver to get humanity to do the same thing everybody else does, who doesn’t renounce. To devote huge resources and build giant factories and billions upon billions of messenger probes along with lasers to hurl them skyward.

In our case-as it had been on Turbulence Planet-the decision required an extra motive beyond selfishness.

Altruism. A desire to help others. That makes us above average.

But didn’t it just lead to the same result? Oh, we swore we would only send ten million, pushed by just one laser. But Om showed me. The fomite logic would eventually demand more, and more-for the sake of the Cure! Till we fell into an unstoppably fatal cycle of missionary zeal.

The Cure was clever. But clever enough to overcome a disease with a bottomless supply of tricks that evolved across eons? In the end, we were just as gullible, just as infected, as anybody else.

He stared downward, tempted to leap off this virtual platform into the void below. To seek succor in diminishment and unlimited power. To plummet. And thereupon shrink into a mere god.

94.

“Y’know, there are other possibilities,” someone said. Hamish recognized the voice of Emily Tang. She must have followed soon after Lacey’s group, in order to join this discussion.

“For example, suppose the folks back home came up with an improved model of interstellar probe! We were among the first, after all. Perhaps they stopped producing our version and switched to one that’s more efficient, less heavy, and easier to propel to high speed.”

“So they might have only abandoned us,” commented the elegant Jovindra Singh. “Discarding the older models, leaving them to drift, while they allocate the laser to better bets. Wow, that is even more insulting than the renunciation theory!”

Hamish expected Om to speak up. This seemed compatible with his earlier comments. But the artilen said nothing.

“If only we could look,” Lacey said at last, after a sullen pause. She clearly referred to their blocked view homeward, where even a clear glance might reveal whether the Big Laser was still in use, even if it were aiming its great power at other targets. Without the box in the way, they might also pick up noise from Earth’s radio networks and industry. That, too, could tell them a lot.

Courier of Caution broadened Lacey’s longing into something more general.

“That has always been my own desire. To look and see, before doing anything else. It is why I urged support for your grand telescopes, Lacey-and other space-born efforts-to find out what has happened to other worlds. Whether any of them survived the disease, while still maintaining a vigorous, scientific culture.”

One of Courier’s most endearing traits had always been this penchant for unquenchable hopefulness, despite a frozen facial expression that resembled purse-lipped doubt. Even when giant mirrors gathered images of his home system, detecting no sign of civilization-no audible communications mesh, no atmospheric traces to suggest ongoing industry-Courier remained upbeat, explaining.

“It only shows that we became more efficient. That is exactly what a mature people must do, over time, in order to both have a mighty culture and use up few resources. It is what you humans have been doing, increasingly, for three generations! Earth was loudest in the radio spectrum back during the 1980s. It became a quieter planet while exploding with talk and ideas, carried over fiber and tight beams. My people have only taken this process further, by thousands of years!

“Need I also add that the galaxy is proved to be a dangerous place? I’ll wager that wise survivor races-like mine-grow cautious about leaking much. No sense in shouting! There are more subtle ways to reach out and explore. To find allies and fight back against an unfriendly cosmos.

“Nevertheless, I have every expectation that the next set of instruments will reveal them, my people, still vibrant and rambunctious. Still resisting the enemy with every strength.”

Hamish recalled how Courier used to say all this before every major new telescope came online. And when that one detected nothing at Turbulence system? Courier simply turned to help design the next.

One of those experiments involved propelling a few dozen early crystal probes, not toward faraway stars but a modest distance, into the gap between Uranus and Neptune. A unique zone, seven astronomical units wide, where theory suggested they might pick up focused gravitational waves, of all things. As Hamish recalled, that project delivered good science and helped humanity test its own early designs for crystal craft. But the probes found no trace of intelligent modulations in the gravitation noise. No spoor of high civilization, from any of sixty different directions.

Behind him, his fellow passengers-the ones who were serious, unlike the dilettantes playing god-games below-argued on, chewing over every possible explanation for their abandonment, from bad news to horrendous. Hamish, meanwhile, found himself staring not into the void, but at the great brown wall. The giant box that lay in contact with the aft end of their crystal vessel, blocking any view of home.

What if we were in a simulation? A test? And not in space at all? Isn’t that “box” exactly the sort of thing that the experimenters would set up, like a one-way mirror, to let them observe us up close? And to keep us from measuring things like the Earth or sun too closely?

Hamish gave in to an impulse and stuck out his tongue toward the great brown wall, at any spectators who might lurk there.

But no. He shrugged that idea aside. Not because it was stupid or illogical… it seemed as likely as anything others were discussing. No, Hamish dropped the idea because of something else. Something he had spent his whole life nurturing.

Intuition. Not always right. Often dead wrong. But always interesting. A trait that once got Hamish invited to join the Autie League! Because it was deemed a “savant-level talent.”

Right now, he was having a powerfully strange feeling, not unlike déjà vu, only in reverse.

A sense that something ought to be obvious.

Something to try.

Right now.

“Say!” he asked aloud, turning to interrupt whoever was talking. “Has anyone actually tried to open that thing?”

Hamish realized, with a bit of chagrin, that the person he cut off was Emily. She had been saying something guilt-ridden, about how the presence of new “alien” people on Earth might contribute to overall human wisdom in the long run, but the greater variety could prove frightening and destabilizing in the short term. She worried that her “Cure” might have killed the patient. An interesting notion-

– though Hamish never deemed any topic more valuable than his current question.

“What did you say?” Lacey Donaldson asked him. “Open what?”

Hamish gestured in the direction everyone called “aft”… which also pointed back toward the sun and everything they all used to know. A view blocked by a giant container.

“That thing. The box. The mysterious crate. Have… you… tried… to open it?”

Courier of Caution stared at Hamish with its ribbon-eye, pursing its diamond-shaped, four-lipped mouth.

“We have set up instruments, Hamish. Tried to probe the box with light and other rays. We even managed to wish-create a weak laser and got return reflections…”

Hamish shook his head. “Look, we’re supposed to have access to the stuff inside, sooner or later, right? So… shouldn’t there be an instruction manual? Aren’t we supposed to be able to use whatever it is?”

The humans turned and looked at each other.

“I suppose that’s logical.”

“We had extensive pre-briefings, but no one mentioned it.”

“Because we were recorded from our originals some years before they settled on a final probe design. This box-thing’s an add-on.”

“So? He’s right. Even if it was all meant to be used at the destination, there have to be instructions!”

“But where? We scanned the surface of the box and found no message.”

“Embedded in the crystal, surrounding us? Like every other bit and byte carried aboard this solid state-”

“You mean like us? We’re just as much bits ’n’ bytes-”

A screech and series of sharp squawks made Hamish turn, to see that newcomers had arrived, bringing all of the team that had been staffing the “control room” at the forward end. Birdwoman and M’m por’lock and several others stepped off a traveling disc-conveyance. So who’s at the helm? Hamish wondered as his tru-vus translated the autie’s wing-flaps and chirps:

The answer is simple. We must have known the method once and forgot it.

“Forgot!” The Oldest Member expressed disdain with undulating puffs of his trunk-like breathing tubes. “I can assure you that I have forgotten nothing.”

“Well… maybe you were loaded that way,” Lacey commented. “But some of us could have had important bits buried. Unconscious. Like a-” she paused, searching for the right phrase.

“Like a posthypnotic suggestion?” offered Emily, rising with enthusiasm. “All it might take is a certain word or thought to trigger recollection. Giving us access to a more information. Like a command. Maybe something coded-”

Her eyes widened, at the same moment that Hamish saw several other people rock back. Including Lacey and Professor Noozone. Whatever it was… he experienced it too.

“Now that’s odd. Does anyone else feel suddenly compelled to say the word-”

“… key…”

“-key?”

“Key!”

“Yea. I-mon feel it, too, obeah-strong.” The black Jamaican science-showman seemed aggrieved at the very idea. Almost through gritted teeth, and glaring at Hamish, he added, “Key.”

Four individuals, all of them human, approached each other near the edge of the glassy plain, while the others watched. Emily, Hamish, Profnoo, and Lacey exchanged looks, back and forth.

“So… now what?” Lacey asked. “Are we supposed to conjure up a key to unlock the box? Something capable of survival near the lattice surface, penetrating through the wall-and vacuum-and then the container? How? Shall we hold hands and wish it into being?”

I ain’t holding hands with Noozone, Hamish grumbled inside.

“Well,” Emily suggested, “if we four concentrate, maybe it will manifest, by force of will.”

They tried for a while. Hamish closed his eyes, envisioning what a “key” might look like. Something to unlock a heavy, massive cabinet. A virtual object tough enough not to unravel when it was brought “up-and-large” near an unbridgeable barrier made of crystal and time. All he could come up with was the mental image of an old fashioned skeleton key with a cylindrical shank and a single flat, rectangular tooth.

He could feel magic gather at his fingertips. Something was happening in front of him. He opened his eyes…

… and saw a mess. His version of a “key”-muddled and half formed-was jumbled with another one that resembled a modern biomet-tag, of the kind that people on Earth might use to remotely identify themselves. Both of those swirled with someone else’s notion of a “key”… a maze of numbers, dots, and computer-readable smudges.

One of the onlookers guffawed at the resulting mishmash. Hamish couldn’t blame him.

“This is silly,” Profnoo said. And Hamish noticed that the man had altered his appearance. Now he resembled a real professor-tweed jacket, turtleneck shirt, and milder dreadlocks. Even spectacles. His affected accent was nearly gone.

“I doubt anything that we manifest will do the job.”

“If we discuss it first…,” Lacy suggested. “Maybe reach a consensus on a single metaphor, we four might then-”

Hamish shook his head, hating to agree with Profnoo.

“Wanna know what I think? I would bet my next cash advance and media options that we don’t have anything else to do, right now. Our job is done. We four had only to remember, all of us at the same time, and say the word together, for it to-”

Birdwoman shrieked!

Hamish swiveled to see her hopping and using both iridescent wing-arms to point downward, over the edge of the plate. Next to her, M’m por’lock crouched on all fours, thrashing a beaverlike tale and hissing.

“I think you had all better look at this!”

Hamish and the others bent or knelt to peer into the depths. And there they saw, far below, refracted by multiple foldings of fractal scale, something that appeared to be rising fast, drawing near with tremendous momentum. A patch of light. A glow. A spot of brilliance that seemed too intense to be merely virtual.

Probably, it would be visible even from outside the probe itself, if anyone happened to be looking.

It must have started in the very most depths, Hamish thought. And it’s been rising ever since we all said the key word. Key… word. Of all the stupid codes! I would never have stooped to using that in a novel.

Staring, unable to move, Hamish watched as the glow brightened, swerved… then plunged straight at the aft-most end of the ship, casting sharp light even past the crystal barrier, to briefly pulse a complex rhythm against the great, brown container-box…

… which then

quietly

opened.

95.

Cracks and seams propagated across the great brown surface of the aft cargo container as it started unfolding.

“Come on!” Lacey shouted. “Let’s get up top for a better view.”

She stepped off the glassy plate and started grow-walking skyward, becoming a giant, striding ever-higher and turning translucent as she climbed. Others quickly followed, leaving Hamish-assisted by the Oldest Member-hurrying to catch up, struggling to master that queer trick of envisioning changes in both position and scale, pushing upward against increasing weight and resistance.

Glancing back, he saw the flat plain where they had been meeting, along with all the instruments and tools that their minds had built, now looking like tiny toys and already starting to dissolve.

“Focus ahead of you, Hamish my friend,” Om insisted. “Think up and out. Think big.”

The others had pulled ahead. Their ankles were gigantic as Hamish fought to keep up. But he had always been a quick study, and soon had the knack, forging ahead and expanding his own scale to match that of Emily, then the otter-alien, then Singh and the Birdwoman-whose personal augmentations were starting to soften, molting her glorious feathers, leaving a much more human-mundane appearance. Professor Noozone, however, was still up ahead. Still huge. Striving hard into a headwind, maintaining his lead.

The mists shredded and parted as stars came out, stark and bright beyond the great ceiling-barrier.

Om was right. This seems a bit easier, accompanied by others.

But the group had not come up here for stars. They gathered where the aft-end curvature of the rounded cylinder was most pronounced, giving them their best view of the cargo box. Its deployment had already progressed.

Rather than just unfolding, the brown sides of the box unraveled, supplying meter after meter of ropy strands. Five of these cables connected to five different blocky objects that now tumbled out of the container, until each of them trailed behind the crystal ship, as if dragged by its own tow-line.

“There!” Emily pointed. “I see it. The sun!”

Indeed, as hundreds of meters of cable spun out from the sides of the box, a great star was revealed, mightier (apparently) than all the rest. Far bigger and brighter, and closer than it should have been, at this point in their mission. And somewhere buried within its glare would be a tiny, blue-green twinkle. Homeworld.

As they watched, each of the five blocks broke in half… then divided again… with each smaller chunk separated by more rope that got increasingly slender, with every division, till five long chains trailed behind the vessel. Each of them consisted of a long strand, with small lumps knotted along its length. Through some kind of magnification or refraction, Hamish could tell that the tethers stretched back kilometers now, perhaps much more.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look like a weapon,” Professor Noozone pointed out, still in his tweedy, university-teacher mode, almost accent free, like when he had been just a regular associate instructor at Caltech. “Nor does it seem like a way to hasten contact with some planet-born, primitive race.”

Lacey had an observation.

“Notice how one of the strands has deployed to trail directly behind us… while the others fan out above, below, left, and right. It must use an electrostatic charge-

“And see now! How all five of them have branched? Each of them splitting into several sub chains? A total of… a hundred strands! Each terminating in a pair of thicker lumps, one after the other? I believe it has to be antenna array-a detector of some sort-meant to cover as large a volume of space behind us as possible.”

Hamish was still getting used to how strange everything felt, up here near the real universe, where the slender crystal’s curved limitations could be felt by those within. No longer capacious and immense, the impression now seemed cramped, confined. His body-when he pressed closer to the barrier-felt warped. Distended and rounded. Confined.

“Lacey you tend to view everything in terms of telescopes,” commented Jovindra Singh, with evident amusement. “It could just as likely-”

The Sikh biophysicist stopped abruptly and they all stared as the lumps-strung out along the many strands-started to open, expanding like very broad, many-petaled flowers, each of them aiming their concave faces away from the sun.

“Well all right,” Singh admitted. “That looks like some kind of detector array. But it’s aimed ahead of us! Aren’t we most-curious about what is going on behind us, on Earth? Whether civilization survived? Whether the big laser is still being used?”

M’m por’lock commented:

“This device was never meant for us to use in that way, checking on our point of origin. It may have been intended to look ahead, during our final approach toward the destination system. To help perfect our ideal trajectory, optimizing arrival at the target planet.”

Courier of Caution disagreed.

“Upon approaching the destination, our type of light-craft always turns around to enter the new solar system aft-end first, with the sail using sunlight to help decelerate. Hence, these mirrors would be aimed away-”

Hamish interrupted.

“Aren’t you all forgetting something? None of those flower mirrors can see a damned thing that’s in front of our ship. There’s something blocking the way!”

He gestured toward the bow of their crystal vessel and Birdwoman squawked, now in spoken English.

“The sail! Sail. Big light-pail!”

It covered a whole third of the sky, warping the starscape with reflections, cutting off any view ahead.

“But… then… if the sail is in the way…” Lacey mused, staring at the curved boundary of the gigantic, reflective surface. “What could all those smaller mirrors be looking at…”

Her eyes widened.

Then Lacey Donaldson let out a cry of realization and joy.

“It’s all…

“… we’re all part of ONE big telescope!”

96.

The group drifted “down” to a nearby fractal layer where it was just barely possible to forge instrumentalities with their minds, yet still have a clear view outside. By concentrating together, they managed to create some image magnifiers to peer beyond the artifact-ship at the two hundred or so flower-mirrors that lay strung behind it, along five trees of branching tethers. Many of the kilometer-wide diaphanous blossoms were still unfolding.

How did all of that fit in a one-meter box? They reminded Hamish of filmy jellyfish-swarms of which had conquered Earth’s great ocean.

Courier of Caution presented a schematic, adding-“Of course, nothing is to scale.”

“So the big sail acts as a giant telescope mirror,” Jovindra pondered, “collecting and reflecting light upon two hundred smaller mirrors, spread around the maximum possible volume… smaller mirrors which then focus on our crystal craft… which can then analyze the images…”

“… since we can also draw power from that concentrated energy,” added Courier, clearly excited.

“So then, can we use this array to look at Earth?” asked a nervous Emily.

Hamish nodded. “With such an instrument, at this small distance, we’d detect even the slightest sign of civilization. Or its destruction.”

“Maybe I don’t want to know.” Emily dropped her gaze.

Hamish turned. “What d’you think, Lacey? Can this big scope gaze Earthward and-”

Looking around, he finally spotted Lacey, Profnoo, and Birdwoman. Each of them now about as tall as his ankle, perched on a miniature platform just a little below this one, surrounded by more sophisticated machinery and computer-like displays. Tornadoes of numbers swirled around Birdwoman-again feathered-who squawked, danced, and pecked at the maelstrom. A data processing task worthy of her savant talents.

Hamish crouched down. Peering at the other miniature woman, whose expression now seemed more perplexed than jubilant as she argued with Professor Noozone, fists provocatively planted on her hips, casually tossing back lustrous brown hair with a single gray streak. For some reason, this perspective made Lacey seem not just “cute” but even more alluring-sexy to Hamish, rousing another flare of curiosity in some primitive corner of his mind.

The tru-vus replied with an answer he never consciously asked for.

L. Donaldson’s body image: 95 percent accurate re-creation of her true self at age forty-two.

Hamish blinked.

Damn, she was a babe!

And why must I be saddled with realistic, male, scatterbrained visual reactions? I thought we’d be above all that, in here.

Shaking his head for focus, Hamish bent closer and repeated his question louder, interrupting Lacey’s intense labor with the autistic savant and the Jamaican science-maestro.

“Things aren’t so simple,” she answered in a diminuated voice, looking up at Hamish. “Remember, the big sail’s main job was to reflect photons for propulsion, like on old-time sea ship. A telescope mirror needs a different curvature.”

“But its shape is adjustable to many purposes.” Courier joined Hamish kneeling at the boundary. “And it can reconfigure later for propulsion, when they send another laser boost.”

When? Don’t you mean if? But Hamish kept it to himself.

“That may be,” commented the Oldest Member without stooping or bending. “But of what use is such a device? To stare back at the solar system you came from? How could news from home affect your chance of a successful mission? Especially a mission that will fail without more laser pushes.” Clearly, Om didn’t think much of all this fancy, expensive hardware, whatever its purpose.

“I know the sail can reconfigure to be a primary mirror, Courier. In fact, we can tell that it has already started doing so.” Lacey’s voice seemed tinny from size and scale effects. “What confuses me is the design of the array behind us! An imaging telescope would need just one secondary mirror back there, not hundreds!”

Professor Noozone, now dressed oddly in formal white evening wear, looked up from an instrument. “I-mon can now tell you some-t’ing just plain obeah weird… dat just half of de many-petaled flowers dat are opening behind us are concave reflecting mirrors.

“De other hundred are flat discs. Opaque-mon. Not shiny at-all.”

“Flat disc? But to what purpose?” Lacey scratched her head, as if it were made of real flesh. “The only use I can think of would be to block or occult the sun. But why do that?”

She waved her hand at the schematic.

“What the heck is all this? And how is it supposed to help us spread the Cure?”

Hamish had nothing to contribute. And if there was one thing he hated in the universe, it was having nothing to say.

So… it came with distinctly-dramatic pleasure when he noticed something to comment on. Something happening far below in the magic-laden mists of the probe’s interior.

“Hold on everybody,” he announced, staring past Lacy into the depths. “I think we’re about to have a visitor.”

They all made out a humanoid figure climbing from the inner reaches, starting minuscule but growing rapidly. At first, Hamish reckoned it to be a downloaded person, one of the other AUP passengers. Only this shape appeared simpler, almost two dimensional. It swept higher, rising without effort or any pretense at “walking.”

He felt Lacey and Profnoo rejoin this higher level, while Birdwoman seemed content to stay just below, dancing among her numbers.

The approaching cartoony shape lacked texture or feigned reality. A message-herald, Hamish realized as it drew near… before Emily Tang let out a shout.

“Gerald!”

The figure braked to a halt, floating next to their thought-flattened platform. A simplified version of the famed astronaut explorer, not a full-scale virtual entity. A recording then, with some ai thrown in.

Hamish couldn’t-he just couldn’t-help himself. It simply came out and he vowed never to apologize for it.

“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

The discoverer of the first recovered fomite-artifact hovered near the group, granting Hamish a slight nod.

“Just honorary degrees, I’m afraid.

“Hi Emily. Lacey. Everyone.

“Well, it took you long enough to trigger things in motion. Slower than average by ten percent. Six million other capsules have already checked in.”

Lacey stepped back a bit, her hand over her breast.

“Then civilization hasn’t forgotten or abandoned us? Or blown itself up?”

The figure shook its head, conveying ruefulness.

“Millions of probes, and the virtizens in every one leaped to the same dark conclusion-assuming the worst. What a dismal bunch! If we do this again, we really must include more optimists. Or at least spare you AUPs some suspense!

“To answer your question, no, we’re still tottering along back here on Earth and the Settlements, uncovering failure modes just in time. Sometimes gaining a little breathing room and confidence. At other times barely avoiding panic. Doing some planet repair. Staving off tyrants and demagogues. Coping with both would-be godmakers and fanatical nostalgia junkies. Gradually learning to benefit from our multiplicity.”

Gerald Livingstone’s aivatar spread its hands in an open gesture.

“As for abandoning you and your mission? Now why would we give up such an important investment? You have a big job to do!”

Oldest Member stepped up to confront the message simulacrum.

“Then why did the laser stop firing? Has it malfunctioned? We are moving only at one hundredth of the planned and necessary departing velocity! When will repairs be completed, and more launch lasers built? If this delay lasts much longer, our rendezvous at the target system will have to be recalculated.”

Gerald the herald held up a single finger.

“First, the laser works just fine. When you get your optics running, take a glimpse back home. You’ll see it still operates, alone, on a slow-but-steady schedule, launching special experiments. None as extensive as your particular mission, which required ten million probes.

“As for your complaint about speed, in fact, your craft appears to be exactly on its planned course. No further adjustments or laser boosts will be required.”

Om howled. “That is absurd! At this rate, none of the probes will ever leave the solar system at all!”

The answer he got next failed to please the most ancient known member of a viral chain. The astronaut’s voice had a faint, sardonic edge.

“I’m afraid you’re making a faulty assumption, venerable Om.

“You always had that tendency… my friend.”

Hamish saw the rotund artilen glower in what had to be simmering anger. The next words to puff from those waving vent tubes came as individual snorts.

“And… what… faulty… assumption… is that?”

“Why, that your crystal vessel was ever meant to visit another star system. Or that you were dispatched to be interstellar envoys.

“Or interstellar parasites.”

The simulated image of Gerald Livingstone paused, as it must have aboard many millions of other crystal vessels at the same point, upon delivering similar news. Even caught up in his own state of shock, Hamish appreciated the dramatic effect.

“As a matter of fact, you won’t leave the solar system, because you were never meant to.”

Emily Tang took a step toward her old comrade and lover. “Then our destination…?”

The simulated astronaut’s affectionate smile made him seem almost as real as she was.

“Why, my dear, you are already there.”

97.

“Five hundred and fifty astronomical units from the sun. We’re beyond Neptune, Pluto, and the Kuiper Belt. Way outside the heliopause, where the solar wind stops and interstellar vacuum officially begins,” Lacey explained to the others. “But that’s still only sixteen light-hours from Earth. The nearest stars are several light-years away. Hell, at our present pace, we’ll barely touch the innermost edge of the Oort Cloud, the immense swarm of comets surrounding our sun, before we plunge back down, in the descending part of our orbit.”

“When will that happen?” Emily asked.

Birdwoman squawked, providing the answer. Abruptly Hamish realized, he could now translate her message without the fiction of tru-vu goggles.

three hundred and twelve years

then we plunge like falcons

toward the light

“Even when we dive back in,” Lacey added, “it will be a quick, comet-brief passage, followed by more centuries out here in the cold zone. And so on, forever.”

Hamish turned to pace away, uncertain how to react.

At one level, he felt betrayed. Manipulated! Horrifically used by the powers back on Earth, whose grand tale-about sending ten million messengers of salvation, carrying the Cure to other worlds-turned out to be one big…

… hoax.

The word punched out of his subconscious so forcefully that Hamish actually saw it shimmer for a moment, in the space before him. Despite his still-glowering sense of affront, a part of him felt cornered into grim appreciation of rich irony.

Hamish, can you-the great hoaxer-honestly complain?

Sure I can! he retorted to himself, hotly. Yet, he couldn’t help but notice-his inner conflict was so vivid, so lush and complex, that it made him feel more intensely genuine, more fleshed-out, than any time since he first awoke as a virtual being in this world. Anger and irony seemed to reinforce the sensation-

– that I’m alive.

Anyway, he wasn’t the only one stewing in wrath, fuming apart from the others. Some distance across the glassy plain, Hamish saw the Oldest Member, pacing and stomping in a display of fiery temper. No one had ever witnessed any version of Om behave like this before.

Because he always seemed so calm, so supremely confident, Hamish recalled. In fact, we’re pissed off for different reasons, he and I.

This version of Hamish Brookeman is still habitually self-centered. I wanted to be a stellar voyager. To personally-in this virtual form, aboard this ship-see other worlds and strange kinds of people. I’m angry because I’m disappointed for my own sake.

But Om is an evolved, intelligent virus. He hardly gives a damn about this particular copy of himself, or whether this specific probe ever makes contact. He’s enraged to learn that none of the ten million will ever get a chance to infect some distant race. Nor is humanity building millions or billions more. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Strangely, it was the sight of Om’s fury that started Hamish down the road of lessening his own. He looked at Emily Tang, who had the most reason to feel shocked and betrayed. The famous science-heroine of the century, her great idea led to the miracle of reviving extinct alien intelligent species, adding them to Earth’s great stew, and thus converting some of the crystal-artilens into allies. A method that seemed to immunize against the Plague. A technique that countless Earthlings deemed worth spreading across the stars. A care package of hope called the Cure.

Our fleet of ten million was portrayed as the vanguard of many more. A gift from Earth. A great inoculation to end more than a hundred million years of galactic disaster! Only then…

Only then, what happened?

The Gerald Livingstone message herald had explained what humanity’s brightest minds believed, though they had kept their conclusion secret for a time. A dour deduction that Hamish reached, all by himself, just hours ago.

That the Cure was an excellent step, a palliative, even a short-term remedy… but nothing like a grand, overall solution.

Perhaps only one percent of techno-sapients ever thought of it or implemented it correctly. Still, over time, the disease would have found ways to trick even those clever ones. The missionary zeal that swept Earth-an eagerness to generously help spread the Cure-that very zeal seemed proof the infection still operated! More subtly, but still aimed at the same goal-

– for humanity to go into an insatiable, endless sneezing fit, aimed at the stars.

No. The best minds on Earth-human, ai, dolphin, and others-all concluded. We aren’t ready yet. If we set forth now, even carrying the so-called Cure, we’ll just be part of the problem.

The way Turbulence Planet must have spent itself into exhaustion, spewing forth “warnings” that also carried traps.

No, there is only one course of action that makes sense, right now.

To learn more.

We have to find out what’s happening out there!

Given all of that, Hamish felt awed and humbled by Emily Tang, the author of the Cure. There she stood with the others. Calmly moving past any disappointment-arguing, discussing, helping to plan the next stage.

Their mission. The real mission. One that ought to make Lacey Donaldson-Sander proud. Hamish glanced at her, now vibrant with eagerness. The one whose dream was coming true.

We are a telescope.

That summed it up.

I am a component of a telescope. Hamish weighed a strange mixture of humility and hubristic pride. It is my purpose. My reason for existence. The greatest telescope ever conceived by Man.

Possibly the greatest ever made by anybody.

Feeling his pseudo-heartbeat settle from outrage to mere resentment, Hamish wandered back toward the gathering. At least thirty virtual persons, human and alien, now clustered around a giant book left by the Gerald ai-herald, before it departed once more for the depths, with a jaunty salute.

Exploring the Galaxy from Our Home System.

Using the Sun as a Gravitational Lens.

Hamish didn’t quite get the concept. But he could always ask Lacey to explain things. I did start with a scientific education after all, before becoming a critic-gadfly. A bard of imaginary dooms.

But that left a burning question.

Why me?

Why any of us? Why not just send ten million robots to gather data for century after century, programmed to do it well and like it?

Something about crystal probe technology, packed with virtual personalities, must make it ideal for collecting and massaging vast amounts of data. Looking at his fellow AUPs, some choices were obvious. Birdwoman could probably handle the number crunching single handed.

And Lacey, all her life had led to this. Likewise, Emily, Singh, Courier, M’m por’lock and other science types. They already grasped the purpose and were eager to get started.

At the other extreme were those Hamish deemed useless-purely along for the ride-the oligarchs and other freeloaders who were uploaded for this trip because their money paid for it. They might play magic-wish games down below for ages, never caring that their voyage had been hijacked.

All right. But why is Om aboard? Hamish glanced at the Oldest Member, still pacing and muttering angrily, and realized.

We’ll learn a lot by observing him, whenever data comes in about some distant star system. Even if Om tries to deceive, we’ll have ten million versions of him to compare and contrast. Over time, we’ll poke and pry their paths apart, dissecting his deepest programming, perhaps developing an artilen lie detector!

Hamish smiled, knowing one of his roles.

No one was ever better at “poking” than me. I’ll be his chief tormenter!

And yet-

Was that all?

His only way to be useful?

Perhaps they expected me to join the playboys, down below.

He rebelled against that glum appraisal. Hamish glanced at Lacey.

“No way. I was one of the ‘key’ wielders!”

The four who spoke in unison to open the box and begin transforming their ship into a telescope. That meant he was important, even indispensable! But how?

There must be a talent. A skill he brought along. Something he did supremely well.

And, of course, it was obvious.

98.

Your Mission as a Big Telescope

Thirty-five years before your probe was launched, along with ten million others in Operation Outlook, a much smaller experiment dispatched sixty-four primitive capsules to a zone between Uranus and Neptune. Their purpose? To test an exceptional idea and exploit a quirk of nature.

Way back in the early twentieth century, Einstein showed that heavy objects, like stars and clusters, warp space around them, bending waves that pass nearby. This gravitational lensing effect has let astronomers peer past a few massive galaxies and observe objects so distant, their light departed at the dawn of time.

Till now, these rare viewing opportunities were flukes of astronomical position. We could never choose what to look at.

Then an Italian astronomer, Claudio Maccone, began pushing a strange insight. That we might have a gravitational lens of our very own, nearby and available.

Our sun. Calculations showed that Sol’s mass ought to bend space, refracting any radiation that skims near its surface, so that distant objects would come into focus in a few special places.

The nearest and most accessible of these regions lay between the orbits of Uranus and Neptune, a shell completely surrounding our star, twenty-two through thirty astronomical units out. Only certain kinds of radiation would converge in this zone. Just gravitons and neutrinos. Still, a mission was sent, and sixty probes returned valuable data, including breakthrough knowledge about the origins of the solar system.

That experiment told us nothing about far civilizations, nor did it answer our most urgent questions. Still, the concept was proved.

And we confirmed there is another zone, much farther out. A shell where our sun brings into focus a different kind of radiation.

One called light.

99.

The Great Telescope’s design grew gorgeously clear to Lacey. Ten million crystal probes, each aiming a hundred kilometer lightsail-mirror back at the sun, peering at the warped glow of distant stars and planets, magnified by Sol’s gravity. A faint, slender ring, surrounding a raging ball of fire.

Those occulting discs will take turns blocking the sun’s glare, allowing lensed light from distant objects to skirt by for our big mirror to collect. A delicate feat of countless adjustments.

Instead of classic images, a gravitational lens made globby, jumbled overlaps of distant points, “focusing” over a vast zone from five hundred out to several thousand astrons.

We’ll stare at the sun-skimming ring in a hundred ways, while cruising through region after region, scanning for rare treasures. Some images may flash for a millisecond as we hurtle through each narrow g-spot! Others could require collection and integration for years, massaging and beaming home more data than all of humanity’s prior instruments put together. And we’re just one component out of ten million, each staring past the sun from a different angle. Together composing the mightiest telescope of all.

Lacey envied the probes speeding away from galactic center. They’d sift a maelstrom of fascinating objects, like Milky Way’s central black hole. Courier, too, was disappointed that this ship could never glimpse Turbulence Planet. But Earth promised to share results. Sooner or later, some probe would bring Courier’s home into clear view, almost like next door. Lacey hoped for good news, and not just on her friend’s account.

It would be nice to have allies in this cold cosmos.

She should be resting. AUPs need sleep, as it turned out. So Lacey came down to her cottage on the One Millimeter Level, summoning a globe of night to surround it. But nervous energy from a momentous day kept her puttering around. Creating fresh flowers for a window box. Adjusting a picture of Hacker and his beloved dolphins, exploring their own amazing frontier. A different story.

One bonus for staying in the solar system. I’ll get news of my sons, their children, and grandchildren. I can’t bug them directly-how horrid to be nagged by ten million ghosts of long-dead granny! Still, I expect they’ll transmit photos, now and then.

Granny. Her last living memories were of lined, leathery skin. Of fragility and pain and irritability with everyone who complimented her “spunkiness.” She had expected to wake up here as the old woman they recorded for uploading.

Now? Lacey felt less grannylike than ever! Even as a young woman, she had stooped under the burden of other peoples’ expectations. Her family’s aristocratic pretensions. The harpy-chivvyings of partygirl-papparazzi-fashionistas who kept flattering her away from better longings. The somewhat more rewarding life of bride, wife, and mother. The secret guilt of knowing that-but for all of those distractions-she might have focused on great things. Beautiful things.

Only now I’m a keystone member of the most important of all scientific endeavors! And my mind feels…

It might be a programmed illusion. But this virtual version felt young, vigorous, ready for challenges.

And then some. It hadn’t escaped Lacey’s attention how the tall, craggy Hamish Brookeman kept intermittently staring at her, then struggling to hide it. Jeepers. And I deliberately chose to appear age forty-two. Anyway, the man was hardly my favorite person, back in reality.

Of course, in this world Brookeman couldn’t hinder science, only help it. In fact, his talents might prove more valuable here than they ever were on Earth. We’ll need a storyteller and not just for distraction. When the data floods in, with glimpses of far-off worlds and alien beings, we tech-types will often seize the first theory or explanation that fits.

Brookeman would keep posing alternatives, just to be ornery! The overlooked but barely plausible “what-ifs.” Those irritating 1 percent improbabilities. Across this endless voyage, many 1 percenters would prove true.

Also, I admit, he seems likely to be… entertaining. Perhaps inexhaustibly. That could prove handy. For immortals.

Having wandered into the bedroom, Lacey found herself standing before a full length mirror, half aware of turning left and right. Till a curiosity caption popped up.

Body image: 85 percent accurate re-creation of former self at age thirty-seven.

Uh-oh. Preening.

She blinked. So this new life included sex and vanity?

With an unladylike snort, Lacey made a hand motion and the mirror vanished. Then she laughed.

The Great Telescope would complement other projects. Like archaeology in the asteroid belt, studying all types of ancient, mechanical probes. Or peeling back the stories and schemes encrypted layer-by-atomic-layer within crystal fomites. Or bringing more long-dead races back to life.

The overall goal? Chart a history of civilizations that struggled to rise in this quadrant, across the last two hundred million years. To grasp their myriad failure modes-from feudalism and renunciation to impulsive god-making. From war and short-sighted greed to ecological blundering. From too-much to too-little individualism. From careless technological arrogance to scientific timidity… all the way to other pitfalls that human sages never imagined. And, of course, the frequent killer of those who rose above a certain point. The Plague.

Were there exceptions? Perhaps an elder race or two, who might offer both solace and advice?

And if so, why have you been silent all this time, leaving us terrified youngsters to tiptoe through a minefield, without help?

On the other hand, what if we’re the first to get this far? Can we make it the rest of the way? And if so…

A haunting, lonely thought struck Lacey.

… might we become the elder race?

The people who finally get out there to help everyone else? The fabled and foretold redeemers? Doctors who cure. Postmen who connect. The mentors who teach others to survive and thrive?

Those who help to raise the dead and lost?

Not the kind of notion that settles a restless mind. It was daunting enough to carry the burden of your own posterity. Your species and planet. But a galaxy-a cosmos-waiting in suspense for someone not to blow it? All those quadrillions of lives. All that potential.

What a terrifying idea! And-of course-statistically improbable to the point of absurdity.

And yet, she did need rest. Tomorrow, once the great sail finished transforming and all optics lined up, brilliant rings of sun-lensed data would then pour upon this little exploration vessel. Lacey had to be there! For the best moment of any telescope-First Light.

A satin nightgown fluttered into being over a corner of the four-poster bed. Some AUPs had virtual-servants, but for that kind of magic you must live below the submillimeter level. Anyway, Lacey had spent a lifetime being waited-on. A tiresome thing.

She crossed her arms, preparing to strip off the tight T-shirt, with its Eye-and-Q symbol, representing the great quantum supercomputer in Riyadh-the oracle she once hired for a personal reading, whose very expensive answer cost two million dollars per word.

You may soon be typical.

Why do I keep dwelling on that augury? That depressing omen?

As a reminder of the odds against us? To keep my expectations low?

The Quantum Eye had access to millions of alternate-reality versions of itself, or so they said. It never lied. Though it could be infuriatingly cryptic.

Pulling off the shirt, she tossed it in a corner and lifted a hand, but could not cast a simple dissipate spell. Stopped by her unconscious, Lacey knew she’d wear the shirt again tomorrow. And again, till she figured out why.

The nightgown was silky and cool, pleasant against pseudo skin that felt real in the best ways. With luck and a nod from the gods of programming, this life might remain bearable for millennia of work and discovery. A better fate than being a mere virus.

In bed, she drifted a while, generally pleased with today. Learning that humanity-through a combination of wisdom, politics, diversity, ethics, foresight, and popular opinion-had chosen curiosity over the easy-but-lethal alternatives. Giving in to the fomites or giving in to fear. And yet, the fate that humanity was fighting against seemed so huge. So ponderous. A galaxy-wide equilibrium of death.

We know there was a long, earlier era of bickering machine probes. That seemed a stable condition too. Till suddenly, in a galactic eyeblink, it ended. And the long, sterile desert of the Crystal Plague began. Another equilibrium.

But the thing about such states… Lacey mused, half asleep… is that they can seem steady, even permanent… until…

… until each one ends, as abruptly as it started.

Which could mean… that statistics don’t matter… since all it takes is one…

Lacey sat up.

Her pounding heart felt more than virtual.

The Quantum Eye had said:

You may soon be typical.

Everyone took the prophecy’s obvious, gloomy interpretation. That humanity would likely join all the other toppled sapients out there. Another typical failure. But there was another possible meaning.

That the galaxy’s situation… the typical condition of intelligent life… might soon transform…

… to be more like us.

Lacey blinked upward in the dimness of her bedroom, whose roof and ceiling magically vanished, like a dream, revealing a skyscape of luminous clouds. And beyond them, she glimpsed Sagittarius, its innumerable stars like dust.

Suppose we find a real cure, a way to prosper… a roadmap through the minefield of existence… then the cosmos may change again, filling with voices and variety. With adventure and wisdom. And by our hand, the galaxy may come back to life.

Lacey settled back against the pillow, feeling suddenly content. This dream-within-a dream culminated a fine day. Moreover, she felt certain the T-shirt would be gone tomorrow.

One question lingered, though. Why had the Oracle been so vague?

Of course. Because there was a choice which of the two meanings came true. It would take combining maturity with perpetual youthfulness-being joyfully ready for anything! Agility. And care. And work.

From all of us, she thought. And drifted into blissful sleep.

She sits before me, cross-legged, as I rise to awareness, vaguely knowing she has been here for some time, tending me like a gardener. Or a mother.

I know about gardens only from Earth-images. The same with mothers. Except my own-

Vast machinery against vacuum-bright stars. Robot hands, constructing me under a small, red sun…

She leans forward now, lithe and human-limbed, to rap me above my oculars. She peers into them with one brown-irised eye, then another.

“Aha! Someone’s home in there, at last. Can you speak?”

Vision broadens and deepens. I look past her at a realm unlike any that I’ve known. Not the comfortable black chill of space. Nor the film-separated layers of Earth-blues and whites above greens and browns. Here, there is a sense of vertical without weight. Dimensionality seems limitless. My sense of scale is painfully warped. The clouds appear to be alive.

And yet-I realize-this isn’t one of those cramped crystal-worlds either. It borrows from all three… expanding on them all.

“Well?”

Her question prods me. And so, words manifest from a place below my oculars, in a way that seems both wet and strange.

“I… remember you.”

“Well, you ought to!” She grins. “We had our times, you and I. Up and down. Trust and betrayal. Friendship and hate. Scary and weird.”

I feel an involuntary shift. My nod of agreement.

“Tor. Your name is Tor.”

Again, a warming smile.

“Very good. Now tell me yours.”

I pause. It takes some time to search, as if opening raw, unfinished drawers.

“I was… I am Seeker.”

Her approval gives me pleasure. An attractive but unsettling sensation.

“Excellent. Now try to stand up, like I’m doing. Envision it.”

I have never done this before. But she patiently helps until I wobble in the soft gravity. Looking down, I see two spindly legs, ending in ridiculous paddle-feet, pale and squishy. Pebbles crunch between what could be toes.

Reflexively, I lift things that must be hands. Even squishier. Yet unbelievably supple.

“I am human now?”

“We agreed. Gavin and I spent years with you, as mostly machines. It’s your turn. You could not exist as physical flesh. Not yet. So this version will suffice.

“Anyway, it will help you to prepare, till we arrive.”

“Arrive?”

“At the first of many stops, ports, interventions. Adventures. We have things to do. Places to go and strangers to meet. Destinies to transform!”

It all sounds rather grandiose and tiring. But yes. I recall now. Memories are coming back. One thread tugs painfully.

“I… had a purpose.”

She nods. Partly in sympathy. But I know that there is more.

“Yes. And you still have it. Only, it’s become larger, yes?”

“Larger… yes.”

And I mourn. Lost simplicity. Lost purity.

“It has changed?”

Tor smiles at me, taking my hand, leading me toward a rainbow of impossible brightness.

“Silly,” she chides. “Don’t you know by now?

“Everything changes.”

THE END…

… of Existence…