Beyond Asimios - Part 4 (3 page)

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

As far as it concerned Graf, when the call came for the
doctor to shed external interference, he stole away to his quarters, and when
sleep eluded him he endeavored to do what all literary-minded people do (and
Graf was indeed literary-minded) when placed face-to-face with the Void…he put
pen to paper and wrote. In his state of confusion, grief and awe, the idea of speaking
directly into his VI to record his thoughts struck him as sterile and insufficient.
A non-analog product of deep space soul-searching seemed inadequate. He wanted
to experience the kinetic act of thought. He wanted to feel the chalky rustle
of his skin as it brushed over paper and he wanted to smell the fresh ink as it
congealed into words and finally permanence. He wanted to give himself over to
the process of writing. He wanted to vomit out a poem.

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

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

Graf nodded.

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

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

I’m writing here

in outer space

to represent

the human race.

Please join us on

our happy trip,

and be a guest

on Oreg’s ship!

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

My Dearest Julie,

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

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

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

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

As for our alien captain,
Julie, he’s of the rather gruff sort, and by gruff I mean gruffer than me. Not much
to pry out of the fellow, keeps pretty much to himself, and he has this unique way
of planting a thought in your head…like he’s talking to you, and it’s got me
pretty wound up at times. I keep wondering if he can read my mind, or is his
method of telepathy a one-way street? If our games of chess are any indication,
his ability has ist deficiencies: I’ve trounced him more than a few games. Ha!
This is, of course, only conjecture. When it comes to determining alien
mind-reading skills, I’m out of my league. If I was really concerned, of
course, I would stop thinking all together…foil the old sod’s efforts, but I
just don’t have it in me to run that kind of mind game of my own. He seems an
acceptable chap, to be honest (…anybody who can beat me in chess has my respect.)
And besides, I need his help, and who am I to condemn a host?

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

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

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

I’m afraid. I don’t know what
is really happening here. It’s like a dream, but every time I wake up, there I
am, standing in front of my little mirror, the door waiting for me to open it
and join the others on the bridge. I know I should be excited. I know this is
unprecedented and that I should be writing down every impression and every
thought for posterity, but I just can’t manage it. I’m tired and lonely. I wish
I were home. I wish I were home back on Earth, actually, with you. Even the
thought of Asimios Station makes me shudder. I want rain and wind and pollen!

Your love,

Avery Graf

PS Yes, your bones have gone missing. The whole thing is a
disaster and I never meant for you to find out about this. I can’t, for the
life of me, figure out who might have perpetrated this awful deed. Why, pray
tell, would anyone want to disturb a grave…let alone, an Asimios grave? If
ESCOM or anybody at the station was up to this, I’ll do my best to find and
punish the thieves. If someone else was involved, ie. Oreg, then I don’t know
how far I can pursue justice. But trust me when I say that I will get to the
bottom of this!

PPS I know we argued a lot, Julie, (or maybe I should say
that it was I that argued a lot) and I know that I was loud and a bit
overbearing and I apologize for this. But under my temper and hard-headedness,
I loved you. I tried to do everything for you and I gave you what I could. But
most of all, you taught me how to receive. I often wish we had more time. You
changed me in so many ways.

When
Graf finished with the letter he closed the notebook and lay back in his cot.
The memories of Julie were tangible. She was in the room, but her ghost shifted
and couldn’t be directly traced. Graf closed his eyes. He took several long
breaths as the engine cores rumbled from the beyond. Then he sat up and opened
up the notebook again. He took out his photo-pen, stretched his arm and put
this down:

Dear Dad,

My honorable and respectable father (and I’m not being
cynical when I say this…), I think it would be an understatement if I told you
that the last three days ranked up there with Hillary and Norgay’s Everest
ascent, Armstrong’s touching down on the dusty moon and Yilmaz’s first
footprints on Mars. But then again, I am reminded of the modesty you instilled
in us. Even though I am very likely the first human to meet and communicate
with and alien, I am reminded that you would insist that I not gloat. But, oh,
how nice it is to gloat.
Look at me! I’m
gloating all over this tiny room and nobody can do a thing about it!

Okay, enough nonsense. Yes,
yes, yes, I’ve been recording everything. My VI dutifully takes down all the metrics:
time, temperatures, atmospheres, etc… and I’m also recording images of the
ship, the alien, Oreg, and the alien technologies worth examination. It’s simply
astounding to be in such a completely new environment, yet I’m constantly accosted
with feelings of familiarity. Now and then I experience the sensation that this
craft was designed with a person like me in mind.

You’d be awestruck and thrilled
to learn about the power plants that propel this craft: terrifyingly efficient.
I’ve been keeping a close eye on our benevolent captain and I’ve recognized
some of the overhead readouts as engine temperatures and fuel capacities…beyond
those basic indicators, I haven’t a clue. With no possible help from my VI, Goerathian
writing is all Greek to me.

We are travelling at roughly twenty
percent light speed. Why do I know this? Because I’ve asked our captain, that’s
why. With a bit of arithmetic, I estimate we’re travelling at about one hundred
thirty-seven million miles per hour, roughly three and a third billion miles per
day. With the distance of an AU coming in at about ninety-three million miles,
we would get from the Earth to the sun, and half way back, in an hour. To put
this in perspective, a modern-outfitted ESCOM transport would take over four
months to reach Mars. At our velocity, we’d do the trip in fifteen minutes.
What, exactly, the science is behind these engines remains unknown, but perhaps
our friendly droid will be able to piece this puzzle together.

Otherwise, I’m fine, Dad. I
thought I might be making my grand exit back there on Asimios, but as always, outcome
is a slave to circumstance.

One last note: the aberration
of light is astonishing at this velocity. Yes an amorphous white ball hovers in
the center of our visual when the captain opens up the bridge windows. This is
at twenty percent light speed, mind you. Apparently though, you’ll be thrilled
to hear, at light speed, if I understand Oreg correctly, the whole aberration
phenomenon falls apart and the stars surround the traveler once more. I hate to
admit it here, but your theory might have been correct. At light speed,
something happens that we haven’t understood. More on this later...