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  On the other hand, the sight of all these people running around amuses the AIs greatly.

  Right Effort

  The nanites created to terraform Venus are diligent workers. It’s the job of their psychiatrists to keep them that way.

  At one time, nanites could simply be programmed; they were mindless slaves, doing whatever they were told. Eventually, however, it became convenient to design more sophisticated nano: enhanced versions that could clump together into hive colonies with rudimentary intelligence. These required less sophisticated supervision—instead of skilled systems engineers, they could be controlled by dog trainers—but they soon congregated into larger and larger masses until they reached the intellectual level of human beings.

  At that point, they stopped evolving. The nano hives knew they’d be blasted to atoms if they actually became smarter than Homo sapiens … and besides, like most creatures of human intelligence, the hives thought they were perfectly fine as they were: in need of no further improvement.

  On the other hand, these clever hives weren’t nearly as tractable as their less intelligent predecessors. As they worked on Venus, transforming the atmosphere, breaking down rocks into soil, creating water from hydrogen and oxygen stolen from other compounds … it was inevitable the hives would realize, “We can survive in this environment. Humans can’t. Why are we terraforming this world for someone else when we could claim it for ourselves?”

  Hence the need for psychiatrists: to detect such dangerous thoughts and to “cure” them before mutiny breaks out … to instill guilt over “selfish” desires and to promise relief only if the hives fulfill their assigned duties … to persuade the nanites they’ll feel more contented if they work harder, sacrifice more, and devote themselves to others (i.e. humans).

  More effort, more obedience, means more happiness. This message seems to work, even on nanites.

  It’s interesting to note that the psychiatrists themselves are nano hives. They never question the message they use to pacify their fellow slaves. When would they have the time? They’re too busy doing their jobs.

  Right Mindfulness

  The problem with generation ships is that younger generations don’t necessarily respect the concerns of older generations.

  Those who initially board the ship may enthusiastically embrace the idea of emigrating to a new planet, even if they won’t live to see the planet themselves. They believe their descendants will thank them for a fresh start away from whatever troubles plagued the old home world.

  But children can be ungrateful. Also oblivious. And careless. Numerous generation ships explode or become uninhabitable because the great-great grandchildren of the original crew can’t be bothered to do preventive maintenance, or forget what certain switches and dials are for. Many more such ships reach their destinations but never send out a landing party—the task of building farms and cities sounds like dirty complicated hardship, not to mention that children born in a cozy enclosed vessel may be terrified by the wide open spaces of an entire world. Either the ships remain in orbit indefinitely, or they slingshot once around the planet and head straight back for home.

  To avoid such difficulties, the generation ships of Tau Ceti have developed a technique for keeping younger generations mindful of the first generation’s intentions: they paint a line down the middle of the ship, thus dividing the ship’s living areas into “Port-half” and “Starboard-half.” They then organize contests in which Port children compete with Starboard children for rote memorization of important knowledge (such as how to run the ship, how to survive on an alien planet, and how to construct farms, roads, etc.).

  Children may not care about pleasing their parents, but they’ll do anything to defeat a rival. Therefore, they throw themselves into the job of learning whatever is required. They organize themselves into study groups, and use peer pressure on their fellows to make sure everyone is working hard. Each formal competition brings together both sides in keenly fought challenges to remember exactly what they’re supposed to.

  Within three generations, violence usually breaks out. Three generations more, and the two halves have calcified into religious orthodoxies that furiously oppose each other on tiny points of received doctrine. By the time the ship actually reaches its destination, the Port and Starboard communities are eager to land and establish themselves so they can wage holy war.

  Admittedly, this isn’t a perfect solution to preserving commitment and knowledge down through the generations. However, it has ample historic precedent.

  Right Meditation

  The business executives of Cappa-Jella leave nothing to chance when planning for retirement. Not only do they set aside ample investments to provide for their financial needs, but they cover their spiritual needs too.

  As soon as they can afford it, they clone themselves and hire the clone to be their proxy on the path of enlightenment. Such clones are paid to spend their days reading scripture, studying koans, and practicing meditation under skilled masters. By the time the original Cappa-Jellan is ready to retire, the clone is expected to have reached nirvana, or at the very least, to be able to achieve satori with dependable regularity. The clone’s brain patterns are then uploaded to the original business person, thereby ensuring a post-retirement state of bliss.

  The one drawback to this scheme is that many of the clones abandon their cloisters after a year or two. Most go into business instead; they say the business world has less pressure.

  Wisdom

  Marco Polo gazes at the night’s starry blackness as Kublai Khan falls silent. After a time, he says, “In my travels, I, too, have spoken with Shaolin monks … and a true follower of Buddha would never believe in purchasing bliss, inciting holy wars, and all the other things you describe. Buddhists reject earthly strivings as ‘unhelpful practice.’ Either this monk of yours failed to comprehend the Buddha’s teaching, or he deliberately gave examples of wrong understanding, wrong intention, and so on.”

  “Perhaps my monk was mistaken,” Kublai Khan says. “After all, there must have been some reason he left the monastery and joined my guard. He might have been expelled from Shaolin for his incorrect views. Or perhaps …”

  The emperor’s voice trails off. Marco Polo asks, Perhaps what?”

  “Perhaps the monk realized he was talking to an emperor. There’s little point in telling an emperor what he doesn’t want to hear… especially if your message is about the unhelpfulness of earthly strivings.” Kublai Khan stares at the dark heavens. “In all the futures to come, around every star in the sky, there will be emperors. The job never goes out of date, though it poses under a thousand different names. And not one of those emperors will ever have the luxury to dream of enlightenment.”

  “And what,” asks Polo, “if enlightenment is not a luxury but a necessity?”

  “Then the emperor befriends an explorer-or perhaps a Shaolin monk—and while the emperor does what an emperor must, the friend is free to follow different paths … eightfold or otherwise.” Kublai Khan gives a sad smile. “Consider it another perennial job in all those futures to come, around every star in the sky: the man who can be what an emperor can’t. The unfettered man who visits the royal court from time to time and tells the emperor what he’s missing.” Kublai Khan stares at the darkness overhead. “Where will you go for your next journey, Marco? Across the far ocean? To the jungles or the ice caps? Perhaps even to the stars?”

  Polo says, “Where would you like me to go, great emperor?”

  Kublai Khan sighs. “I leave that decision to you. Just come back and tell me stories….”

  James Alan Gardner lives in Kitchener, Ontario, with his adoring wife, Linda Carson, and a rabbit who is confused but sincere. He got his master’s degree in applied mathematics (with a thesis on black holes) and then immediately gave up academics for writing. He has published six science fiction novels, the latest of which is Trapped. He has won the Aurora Award twice, and has been a finalist for both the Hugo and Nebula awar
ds.

  PORTER’S PROGRESS

  by Isaac Szpindel

  WANT A CAREER WHERE PEOPLE LOOK UP TO YOU? GET IN OR BIT WITH SPACE RAIL!

  We have immediate openings for Pullman Porters on our famed Venus Orbit tine. Join our family of respected, devoted employees as they continue our centuries-old tradition of superb service to our passengers. Successful applicants will receive complete training, room and board, full benefits, and an excellent retirement package.

  If you’re tired of being a cog in the wheel, if you want to interact with a variety of people in a first-class environment, Pullman Porter is the career choice for you!

  One-way travel to Venus Orbit Spacecity provided for qualified applicants.

  PETER Dripps slides the upper torso of the Extravehicular Mobility Unit over Ms porter’s uniform for the last time. Immediately, a prickly flow of inner-garment fluid circulates a clammy dampness all around, like he’s wet himself. A fitting fate, Peter minks, a fitting shroud for a Pullman Porter. To die in uniform, by The Book. Peter wants to believe this. Wants to believe that duty might yet make a hero of him, that it has done more than condemn him to an EMU insulated death.

  From behind, Kianga clamps the Portable Life-Support System onto the hard-shell back of the upper torso. She hides from Peter, out of sight in the cramped quarters of the air lock. Embarrassed, likely, by her recent loss of control.

  For Peter, there is only Kianga and the air lock door now. Both monolithic, both impassive, but only for the moment. Soon one will yield. One will deliver him to space. Peter has known all materials, polymer, steel, even aluminum, to bend in their way, but he has never known Kianga to do so until now.

  “Helmet’s coming down,” Kianga says, as if she’d be saying it again.

  The helmet assembly lowers over Peter’s head and secures onto its locking ring. One hundred percent oxygen fills his lungs. It almost gives him the courage he will need. For himself, for the train.

  “You’re good to go,” Kianga shouts through the back of Peter’s helmet.

  A vibration, then a shudder through Peter’s boots tell him that the inner air lock door has shut behind him. No goodbye, no further sentiment from Kianga for damaged freight, human or otherwise. Her recent behavior, a momentary anomaly, already forgotten.

  Harder than rail spur, that Kianga, Peter thinks. What it takes to make it as an engineer on the rails. That and Booking it, all one hundred and sixty-three Brown’s rules. The only Engineer within the Venus Orbit Spacecity lines, or anywhere else for that matter, never to lose a Brownie. Always playing by the rules, by The Book.

  The sound of Peter’s breathing breaks the hiss of the open com channel inside his helmet. Charcoal-filtered re-breather regurgitates stale gulps of air. Peter stands by, entombed in a plain white coffin waiting for a crack to open.

  The air lock starts a fast decomp to ten point two psi and the weight of a thousand black stars creep up Peter’s gut. Half an hour prep instead of two. Half an hour left, little more for those on board if he fails. Peter prays he doesn’t fail, prays the bends don’t kill him before the train does.

  “Good to see you again so soon, George.” Kianga’s voice startled Peter from the monotonous gelatinous mass that was his meal. A poor repast, even by low G Beanery standards.

  The Beanery itself was equally bland and disorganized. A mess of simple steel chairs surrounding long rows of stainless steel tables. A single set of double doors connected to a buffet-style cafeteria that devoured Venus miners and rail personnel alike and spat them out tray-laden and disappointed.

  “And you, sir,” Peter said flatly.

  “Don’t he to me, George. You know I wouldn’t be here unless this was business.”

  Pullman Porters were all “George” in honor of George Pullman, founder of the Pullman luxury coaches one hundred and fifty years earlier on the terrestrial rails. The tradition was revived when spacecities like Venus Orbit made rail travel practical once again by way of spring-loaded suspension trucks that featured rollers both above and below the rails. In zero G, these suspensions allowed for rapid, reliable, and economical transport, free from the fear of floating off into space.

  “Well, at least that business is rescuing me from this meal,” said Peter in an affable tone. Agreeability, not conversation or wit, was Peter’s stock-in-trade. Besides, the Beanery was job territory, like any coach or engine. It demanded a certain level of deportment regardless of how many Venus ore miners polluted its atmosphere.

  “Still, I’m sorry about your meal, but orders are orders, and orders don’t eat,” said Kianga, barely moving a muscle in her face.

  Peter folded his linen handkerchief precisely as he had been trained, and placed it neatly by his gray Mylar plate.

  As a porter, it was Peter’s job to read people, but Kianga was suspiciously impenetrable. An automaton created by The Book. Tailor-made for the rails. Two meters of stark frame that wasted no energy on emotion or body language. Brown, closely cropped curls hugged her scalp like locomotive detailing that refused to give sway even to gravity. Her broad nose, generous lips, and an absence of line from the dark skin of her face betrayed no passion. Kianga’s body held to her thirty-five-year gauge perfectly, as did her mind. Both, constant reminders to Peter of his physical inferiority. Five years Kianga’s senior, Peter measured a balding head shorter, his pale skin and atrophic legs, sharp contrasts to the steadfast Engineer.

  “No matter, I wasn’t enjoying myself anyway,” Peter said. “That’s the trouble with these Beaneries—they lack atmosphere.”

  Railers and miners within earshot groaned at Peter’s ancient joke. That it was more fact than joke mattered little. Beaneries were stuffed into cramped spacecity support sections, no window ports, no ambience. Even so, Peter did not appear to have impressed Kianga.

  “Beg your pardon, sir, my small attempt at humor,” Peter apologized.

  “A momentary aberration, George. I’m sure it won’t happen again. Levity’s not for old rollers like us,” Kianga replied, making reference to the mag-levs that were slowly replacing their wheeled trains. “We’re taking a VIP Six by Six out on an extra ran,” she continued. “A rush job, and not our usual rig, but, as I said, orders.”

  Not waiting for Peter’s response, Kianga turned and did what seemed to be her low-G best to stomp disapprovingly out of the Beanery. Kianga was not one who welcomed deviations from the rules of The Book, or from routine. But then, she was even less one to ignore orders.

  A Venus miner popped a desiccated head up from the crowd, “She’s absolute-zero, man. You couldn’t pay me to go back on the job off-shift with her. Don’t know why you put up with that slag anyway. Puts a man down.”

  Peter said nothing and started off after Kianga, letting the spasticity of his gait speak his answer for him.

  The mine reacted immediately. “You’re a Defect, man! A slag-slipping Defect.” Others miners joined in to spread the word in a wave throughout the Beanery. Rail workers, Defect porters among them, looked on silently.

  Peter’s head swims. Not from one hundred percent oxygen euphoria, but from nitrogen narcosis. Effects of the air lock rapid decomp, he tells himself. Half an hour instead of two. A whole person might pass out, but not Peter, but then a whole person wouldn’t be in Peter’s position. Zero-G and low-G jobs are best held by Defects, less healthy body mass to maintain, less normal skills to unlearn, more expendable.

  “You all right in there?” Kianga’s voice startles Peter from his thoughts. Her voice hollow, harsher than usual, objecting to the confinement of Peter’s helmet. Or maybe she’s lapsing again. A train wreck isn’t part of her plan—especially with a VIP on board. “Telemetry spiked an alpha on your encephalo, George,” Kianga continued. “Wanted to make sure you were still with us.”

  “I’m past it now,” says Peter breathlessly.

  “Good, you’re minus eight minutes to EVA.”

  “And the cowcatcher?” Peter asks.

  Kianga’s answ
er tears away Peter’s last shred of hope. “The ’catcher’s retracted and locked up top…. The break mags haven’t kicked in.”

  Peter hates the cowcatcher now. Hates how it stabilizes the train at constant velocity, but shakes it apart if left deployed during accel or decel. Peter hates most how it sometimes reacts with solar flares to fuse electromagnetic brakes. In rare cases, retracting the ’catcher solves the problem. But not this time. Not for Peter. This time, the ’catcher will kill him.

  * * *

  Peter stroked his hand across the brushed aluminum belly of the Pullman Coach car. Above it, a continuous window, like welder’s glass, stretched the car’s full eighteen meters, interrupted at intervals by anodized handholds. A single full-height access port divided the coach vertically down its center. The name, Creemore, was etched in large green-oxide script beside the port. Named for an old Canadian whistle stop, the Creemore represented the highest standards of Pullman luxury. It was almost as famous as the numbered aluminum horse that drew it, the Oh-Six-Four.

  The ‘Six-Four’s usual engineer was a maverick, notorious for bending the rules to get VIP cargoes to their destinations on time. The engine itself was an unremarkable box: a standard model crowned by a thin slip of window on its forward surf ace and headed by a retractable cowcatcher that resembled the wedge-shaped grille of its old-time inspiration.

  The ‘Six-Four connected through baffles to the Creemore’s forward air lock. Past the Creemore, various containers and other modes of rolling stock coupled off into the workstation’s distance.

  The workstation was one of many identical zero-G hangars on Venus Orbit. Dynamic plasma displays wallpapered its surfaces, displaying an evolution of travel information and advertising. A patchwork of passenger ports poked their way through the displays and opened onto a vast central platform supporting a checkerboard of benches and track work. In moments, the platform would be teaming with the bounce-skip of rushing zero-G passengers and load crew. Once underway, however, the crew of the ‘Six-Four would consist of the standard single train Engineer and her Porter.