Thinkers had been known to create massive and authoritative LitVid works while in machine dream. Some said the best historians were no longer human, but I disagreed. Alice One and Alice Two seemed quite human to me. Alice even called her copy a "daughter." I'd never worked closely with thinkers before, and I was charmed.
Sitting on my cramped couch in the dark, a projection of Mars's orange and red surface scrolling above me, I wondered what Charles was doing now. Unlike Charles, I hadn't yet found anyone to seriously occupy my free time. The day before launch, I had spoken with Diane, and she had asked if I looked forward to a shipboard romance. "Dust that," I'd answered. "I'll be a busy rabbit."
The trip would take eight Terrestrial months, one way. Each passenger chose from three options: warm sleep with mind embedded in a sophisticated sim environment (sometimes crudely called cybernation), realtime journey, or a pre-scheduled mix of the two. Most Martians chose realtime. Most Terrestrials returning to Earth chose sims and warm sleep.
The Mars scene cut suddenly to a view of the Tuamotu in space. Booms furled, passenger cylinders hugged tightly to the hull, our home for the next eight months looked tiny against the stars. Tugs fastened helium-three fuel and water and methane mass tanks to the bow. The drive funnels flexed experimentally at the stern.
A small voice provided running commentary in one ear. Tuamotu was fifteen Earth years old, built in Earth orbit, nano maintained, veteran of five crossings, refitted before her trip to Mars, well-regarded by travel guides on Earth and Mars. She carried a crew of five: three humans, a dedicated thinker, and a slaved thinker backup.
I had a touch of tunnel fever at the thought of being shut up for so long. I had studied the ship's layout a few hours before boarding, learning my way around the passenger cylinder, previewing shipboard routine. But I would have to overcome the conviction that there was no way out. Despite spending most of my life in tunnels and enclosed spaces, I always knew there was another tunnel, another warren, and as a last resort, I could suit and pop through a lock and go Up . . . luxuries not available on the Tuamotu.
I was less than comfortable with the thought of spending so many months in the company of so few. What if Bithras, Allen, and I did not get along at all?
A tiny elevator carried three passengers at a time from the primary lock down the length of the hull and debouched us into a small cabin forward of the drive shields. The steward for our cylinder — short, taut, sandy-haired and brown-skinned, male, about forty Earth years old, with sharp black eyes — greeted us formally and politely, and introduced himself as Acre — just Acre. He had the remarkable ability to change his feet into hands, and to bend his long tan legs backwards and forwards, which he demonstrated quickly and with minimal explanation. He escorted us in small groups to the secondary lock. Here, we climbed through an access pipe barely a meter wide into our cylinder, where we drifted in the observation lounge, surrounded by direct-view windows now shuttered and shielded.
The lounge had room for all of us. We crowded together waiting for instructions. Bithras headed the last contingent of passengers and conferred briefly with the steward before scowling and searching the crowd. His eyes met mine, the scowl reversed into a radiant smile, and he crooked his arm and waved twinkle-fingers.
The steward called my name from the access pipe. I floated forward, fumbling at the grips and bumping a few of my fellows apologetically before anchoring myself. "You're in charge of our friend here, I understand," he said, pushing forward Alice's box. Alice's arbeiter carriage weighed as much as she did and had not been brought along; we would rent her a carriage on Earth.
"Thank you," I said.
"Please hold on to it while we check cabin assignments and get things organized."
"Her, not it," I said.
"Sorry." He smiled. "We'll stow her in her niche after orientation."
I took Alice in hand and moved to the side of the lounge. She was endo not exo for the moment — her sensors and voice were inactive.
"Now that we're all here," the steward said, "welcome aboard Tuamotu. We'll give out some important information and then off to your cabins to snug in."
Bithras and Allen Pak-Lee floated beside me. "This is my second passage to Earth," Bithras said in an undertone, "and your first, of course."
"My first," I affirmed.
Most Earth English accents were familiar to me from LitVid; the steward, Acre, might have been Australian. His features seemed indigene. Acre delivered the "doctro" crisply and clearly in less than five minutes. He gave us a few safety tips for the next leg of the trip — boost and solar orbit injection — and had us circle around the lounge to become familiar with weightless aids and procedures.
Tomorrow," he said, "we'll discuss immunization levels and all the options available throughout the voyage. Some options are closed — all warm-sleep berths are taken for the duration. All temp berths and switchouts are closed, as well. We hope that causes no inconvenience."
"Woe," murmured Bithras.
Acre helped me stow Alice in her niche just forward of the lounge and showed me how to run the legally required connection checks. Bithras attended for a few minutes, applied a strip of ID tape to a seam to protect against unauthorized removal, and left the rest to Acre and me.
"Family thinker?" Acre inquired.
"A copy," I said.
"I'm fond of thinkers," he said. "Once they're stowed, they're no trouble at all. I wish they'd travel with us more often — Sakya gets lonely sometimes, the Captain says."
Sakya was the ship's dedicated thinker. I reached into the niche, palmed my ID on Alice's port, and asked, "Everything tight?"
"I'm comfortable, thank you," Alice replied, coming exo quickly. "Bithras has sealed me in?"
"Yes."
"I'm talking with Sakya now. This should be pleasant. Will you join me for a chat once we're underway?"
"I'd love to," I said. I closed the hatch on Alice's niche. Acre locked her in and gave me the key. "We raise them right on Mars," I said.
"Might teach Sakya some manners," he said.
Everything aboard Tuamotu was impressively high nano; she had been refitted with the latest Earth designs before her last crossing. There were no telltale yeast or iodine smells during nano activity. The ship's visible surfaces could assume an apparently infinite variety of textures and colors and were capable of displaying or projecting images with molecular resolutions.
I felt wrapped in luxury, examining my private cabin — two meters by three by two, private vapor bag and vacuum toilet. If I wanted, I could turn almost the entire cabin into a LitVid screen and be surrounded by any scenery I chose.
I pulled out the desk, ported my slate, and selected my scheme. The desk became the color and texture of stone and wood with gold inlay. I ran my fingers along the tactile surface; the sensations of polished oak, cold marble, and smooth metal were flawless.
It was traditional for passengers to gather for the boost. I wanted to have a seat, so I quickly unpacked my few things and went aft.
Allen Pak-Lee followed and hooked himself to a seat beside me. "Nervous?" he asked.
"I don't think so," I said.
"God, I am. Don't misunderstand. I have a lot of respect for Bithras. But he's very demanding. I took a brief from his assistant on the last trip. He said he spent several months in hell. There was a crisis and Bithras insisted on hogging the waves."
Bithras returned to the lounge and sat beside us with a curt nod. "Damn them," he said.
"Who?" I inquired.
"This ship reeks of progress," he said.
The lounge filled as the gong sounded. The steward, with the aid of a few slim, graceful octoped arbeiters, served drinks and explained the procedure to the uninitiated. The boost would be comfortable, no more than one-third g. For a few hours, we would have a "lazy sense of up and down." Actually, one-third g was just below Mars standard — not quite full weight for a red rabbit.
The passengers in the lounge who had
claimed seats settled in, and those who drifted found grips and hooks and arranged for a place to drop their feet. I looked them over curiously — our companions for eight months. One family would be in our cylinder, a handsome man and woman with a daughter whom I judged to be about seventeen Earth years old — native Terries, by their appearance. The daughter, too beautiful to be completely natural, played with a faux mouse.
Acre looked at the ceremonial wristwatch on his left arm, raised his hand, and we counted backwards . . .
At five, the ship vibrated like a struck bell. At four, the ceiling projected a full-width view aft. Everybody looked up, jaws gaping. The drive funnels flexed. A methane-oxygen kicker motor would take us out of Martian orbit.
Streamers of violet played against the blackness and the limb of sunrise Mars: warmup and test. Then the kicker fired full thrust, throwing a long orange cone that quickly turned translucent blue.
Gently, we acquired weight. The weight grew until it almost felt as if we were on Mars again. The unseated passengers laughed and stood on the floor, and a few even did a little jig, slapping hands.
We severed our bonds with the world of my birth.
In my cabin, just before sleep, I studied diagrams from the ship's operations manual, things I normally wouldn't give dust for . . . Charles would, however, and I felt again a perverse obligation to think about him. I attributed these thoughts to simple fright and homesickness. Twelve of the passengers in our cylinder would enter warm sleep after the ship had extended its booms for cruising. That would leave twenty-three of us awake for the entire voyage — mostly Martians, ten female, thirteen male, six of them "eligible," though I suspected, given contemporary Earth attitudes, even the unaccompanied and married males were fair game for travel liaisons. I was not interested, however.
I did not feel any immediate affection for Allen, and Bithras was still a threatening cipher — not so much a human being as an unfulfilled potential for difficulty. I had never been exceptionally gregarious, a reaction to my diverse and noisy blood relations, and even now was avoiding a First Night Out mixer in the lounge and dining cabin . . .
Chemical reaction motors and ion thrusters, used to direct the craft out of planetary orbit and accelerate to just below cruising speed, leave negligible amounts of debris. However, the plume of fusion-heated reaction mass from the main drive contains radioactive engine-surface ablation. The fusion drive must be fired with due regard for vehicles which may cross these orbits for as long as four days afterward, as required by Triple Navigational Standards . . .
The ship would switch on its main drives ten million kilometers out from Mars.
Solar wind must be able to clear all fusion debris from a region ten million kilometers above and below the plane within two weeks (the manual informed me). This gives sufficient leeway for most times of the solar cycle, but at periods of minimum solar activity, debris may not be cleared for as long as forty-five days, and special permission from Triple Navigation Control must be obtained if fusion-driven ships are to be launched in this period.
Colorful 3-D diagrams unfolded in the air to supplement the text.
Earth-Mars passages launched when the planets are not in their most favorable configurations require more fusion boosts and higher speeds. Elongated, faster ship courses — as opposed to "fatter" and slower courses — take liners within the orbit of Venus, and occasionally within the orbit of Mercury, with greater exposure to solar radiation. Medical nano has advanced to where radiation damage in passengers can be repaired quickly and efficiently, eliminating ill effects from even the closest "sun-grazing" passages . . .
What if I wasn't cut out for space flight? I had passed the examinations well enough — but there were instances of space-intolerant passengers having to be sedated if warm sleep cubicles weren't available.
Eight months of horror seemed to stretch before me. The cabin closed in, the air tasted stale. I imagined Bithras pawing me. I would clobber him. He wouldn't be nearly as understanding as he should be, and I would be fired before reaching Earth. I would have no option but to return at the next available opportunity, another ten or even twelve months in space ... I would go insane and start screaming. The ship's medical arbeiter would pump me full of drugs and I would enter that horrid state described in pop LitVids, caught between worlds, mind drifting free of my body with nowhere to go, away from the humanized spheres, forced to consort with elder monstrosities.
I started to giggle. The elder monstrosities would find me inexpressibly boring and reject me. Absolutely nobody and nothing to talk to, career ruined, I would end up counseling asteroid miners in how to program their prosthetutes for more lifelike behavior.
The giggles turned to laughter. I rolled over in my bunk and stifled the noise. The laughter was not pleasant — it sounded forced and harsh — but it was effective. I rolled on my back, fears quelled.
Acre and his fellow steward in charge of the opposite cylinder held a party for "Half-Degree Day." Acre was a master at giving parties; he never seemed bored, was never at a loss for polite conversation. His only time alone came when the rest of the passengers were asleep. His sole defense seemed to be a certain blankness that did not encourage long conversations. I was pretty sure he wasn't an Earth-made android, but the suspicion never passed completely.
Passengers gathered in the lounge from both cylinders, still mingling freely, and watched Mars become the size of Earth's Moon, as seen from Earth. The Terrestrials found the sight entrancing, and there were songs of "Harvest Mars," though the planet was only one-third full. The Captain broke out a glass bottle of French champagne, one of five, he said.
The young girl introduced herself to me at breakfast on our third day out; her name was Orianna, and her parents were citizens of the United States and Eurocon. Her face fascinated me. Eyes uplifted at the corners, slightly asymmetric, pupils the fiery red-brown color of Arcadia opal, her skin flawless multiracial brown, she seemed perfectly at home in micro-g and floated like a cat. She recommended the best sims available on the ship, and seemed amused when I told her I didn't go in for sims.
"Martians are lovely curious," she said. "You'll be a big draw on Earth. Terries love Martians."
I was prepared not to like Orianna very much.
For the first week, Bithras spent much of his time exercising, working in his cabin, or waiting impatiently to communicate with Mars. He rarely even spoke to us. Allen and I spent some time in each other's company at first, exercising or studying together, but we did not hit it off personally, and soon drifted to other passengers for conversation.
I knew the public interior of our cylinder fore and aft, and despite my reticence, had spoken to almost everybody. Not much chance of shipboard romance; the men were all older than me, and none seemed interesting; all, like Bithras, were movers and shakers and much absorbed in things they really couldn't talk about.
I fantasized being aboard an immigrant ship, with men of diverse background, whose hidden pasts they would suddenly feel the urge to confess . . . Dangerous people, intriguing, passionate.
Mounted on the hull was a four-meter telescope, kept collapsed and hidden away for the first few million kilometers, then unfurled for the use of passengers. I had signed up for a few hours. The free hours aboard Tuamotu were wonderful for catching up on subjects I had neglected, including astronomy.
The viewing station for our cylinder was in the observation lounge, a small cubicle with room for four. I had hoped to study alone, try my hand at celestial navigation and object finding, tracking a few of the near stars known to have planetary systems. I wanted to rediscover at least the most prominent and closest examples. But in the lounge I met Orianna.
Point-blank, she asked if she could join me. "I haven't signed up, and it's full for a week!" she said plaintively. "I love astronomy. I'd like to transform and go to the stars ..." She separated her hands a few centimeters, suggesting the proposed size of humans designed for interstellar migration. "Would you mind?"
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I did, but Martian manners kept me polite. I said of course she could join me, and with a smile, she did.
She was adept with the controls and ruined my game by tracking all my chosen objects expertly within a few minutes. I expressed my admiration.
"It's nothing," she said. "My parents gave me seven different enhancements. If I want, I can play nearly all musical instruments with just a few days' practice — not like the best, of course, but enough to pass as a talented amateur. In a few years, if they make it legal, I could install a mini-thinker."
"Doesn't it bother you, having so many talents?" I asked.
Orianna curled into a ball and with one finger flicked herself upside down in relation to me. Her toe caught on a bar and she stopped spinning. "I'm used to it. Even on Earth, some people think my parents and I have gone too far. I've asked for things, they've given them to me ... I have to really ramp down to make friends."
"Are you ramped down now?" I asked.
"You bet. I don't show off, ever. Good way to spoil any chance of connecting. You're a natural, aren't you?"
I nodded.
"Some of my friends would envy you. The chance to just be what you are. But it would slow me down too much. Do you ever feel slow?"
I laughed. She was too ethereal to resent . . . much, or for long. "All the time," I said.
"Then why not enhance? I mean, it's possible, even on Mars. And you're from Majumdar, the finance BM . . . aren't you?"
The inflection of her last question told me she knew very well I was from Majumdar.
"Yes. How long have you been on Mars?"
"Just time for turnaround. Two months. We came on a fast passage, inside Venus. My parents had never been to Mars. My folks thought we should see what Mars and the Moon are really like. Carnay. In the flesh."