The
Omega Manifesto
by
Mike Adamson
I’ve spent
a lot of years as a journalist, and I’ve had people
ask me if I’m mad. I used to have stock answers about
serving the greater good, keeping people informed,
finding the truth, but now I’m not so sure. It doesn’t
matter how hard-bitten you become, there is a point at
which everyone flinches, and I found my flinch point
when my curiosity got the better of me.
There’s precious little
real investigative journalism in the mid-22nd
century. News is formulaic, prescribed, scripted, just
as it has always been, and every news medium has
policy and an agenda. The truth has been lost
somewhere in the blend of information and
entertainment that pretends to be reality, to the
extent that truth has been characterized cynically as
merely unpleasant suggestions.
Nevertheless, I have dug
for facts and told truths in my career. It was once
said journalism is “circulating things others would
rather you didn’t, everything else is just public
relations,” and that has been true for a very long
time. Never more so for me than now, and I have not
yet decided upon my sanity. Ignorance would have been
so much easier to deal with, and for so many reasons.
The call had come in on
the etherweb, just a feeler from some anonymous hack
looking for a writer with a medium profile to take a
story somehow too hot for him to handle. I expected
maybe a juicy bit of scandal, a minor misappropriation
in a regional budget, a corporate shame-faced episode,
something which would get a middle-manager dismissed
for the public’s amusement, but after the first
relayed contact I knew it was something else. When in
this age does a contact want a private, face-to-face
meeting?
Only when the normal
security provisions cannot be trusted. The etherweb is
the whole world, binding ten billion people together.
To be off that particular grid is virtually unknown —
I say virtually, because only in VR
simulations can you live temporarily free of the
influence of electronics, ironic as it may be.
But the hack’s contact
was playing it really close to his chest and would not
budge. He asked a nominal fee to spill his guts, but I
knew that was just for appearances. When he coughed it
would be for a fortune — or nothing at all.
So, with a disturbing
sense of curiosity, I wrapped up my pending
assignments and flashed a standard message to my
editor, far away across the world in some mega-rise in
Shanghai, requested 48 hours detachment before
reporting and an expense account to chase something
big. After a brief pause I received my commission.
In 2154 I work from an
easy chair surrounded with holographic displays, a
sensory input headset allowing me to interface with a
neural net mainframe — a microcomp — in my pocket. My
office is my home in a highrise in Pittsburgh, and I
rarely need to step outside into the 130-degree day to
do my job. I packed a case, zipped into an exposure
suit and checked the external conditions as my
apartment AI booked my flight and ordered me a cab. I
had never been to Brazil, but apparently it was the
only place the man with the story felt safe.
When the elevator took
me to the roof of the tower, the day was raining out
of a gray-yellow twilight. I waited under cover of the
wide, parasol roof until a streamlined, sporty Checker
Cab landed and pulled over to the rank, folding its
quad rotors aside as a gullwing door went up. The
cabbie was a cheerful sort who took my bag and made
conversation as I slid in and closed the harness, and
he chattered all the way to the Municipal Skyport, the
330-meter tower in the midst of the city where the
liners tied up.
Three were in port, the
kind of quarter-mile-long airships whose outer skins
harvested light to drive their ducted impeller
engines, a common enough sight these days. The cab
dropped me at the Western Hemisphere Lines terminal. I
was booked on the Andean Princess, bound for
Buenos Aires via Denver, Carson City, Mexico City,
Lima and Brazilia.
My ID was scanned by a
robot. I was processed through with the others in
line, received my stateroom ticket and settled in to
spend the next hour watching the holofeeds in the
lounge. New estimates had been calculated for the peak
of the Thermal
Event, which despite all measures taken in the
last century still constituted catastrophic climate
change; some modeling was projecting that global
temperatures may begin to decline within a decade, but
it was disputed.
Music played softly as
people came and went, every color and shape of human
being imaginable. Since the seas had drowned the
coastal regions throughout the world, borders had
meant less. The populations of low-lying nations and
island states had been mostly absorbed into the rest
of the world, and into the free-floating sea cities
which had started to appear. Those vast structures had
re-established sovereign rights to what had become
potentially rich fishing banks in the open oceans, or
would be once the genetic reseeding program was
completed, gradually rebuilding the biosphere from
stored genes; but that would not be attempted until we
had knocked an average 1.5 degrees off global
temperatures.
At the next story it
seemed everyone in the lounge was on the edge of their
seats. The Global Resettlement Program was always a
cross between news and show business, and why not?
Long beyond the range of two-way communications, the
starship Max Planck would by now be orbiting
the terrestrial planet optimistically named Eden
in the system of 61 Virginis, a G-type star some 27.9
lightyears away. The planet was discovered a
hundred-fifty years ago by deep-space imaging arrays.
It was first explored twenty years ago by the Planck’s
sister ship, the Albert Einstein, and promptly
selected for colonization, though those plans had only
gathered real momentum with the more recent
development of quantum wormhole initiation. The story
was on preparations for the Mass
Departure: the building of the many Subway
stations around the world. As people watched, many
hands tapped at palmcoders and microcomps as people
checked to see if their number had come up yet — had
they been selected to go?
I kept my hands in my
pockets. I would know soon enough if I had been chosen
to be one of those whose job would be telling the
story for posterity of the first colony beyond the
solar system. It was an exciting prospect, but not
without its risks. Though experiments without number
had demonstrated the safety of the technology, doing
it at interstellar scale was a whole new proposition.
I was not immune to the thrilling prospect of stepping
into the Subway station at this end, and an instant
later, after my molecular structure had been
disassembled, coded, transmitted through infraspace in
the blink of an eye and reassembled with only the most
infinitesimal degradation, stepping out on the surface
of a whole new planet.
It was the grand design
of the 22nd century, to relocate fully half
the population of Earth to Eden, to begin the great
human adventure all over again, and in so doing
offload the strain that had come close to ending the
biosphere of the motherworld. With population halved,
the technology designed to support double the number
should, relatively quickly, so the theory went,
reconvert Earth into the Eden she had once been, and
this had become the governing principle and joint
project of the entire human race. The Max Planck
was installing the Subway receiver system, the gate
from which would emerge five billion people, stepping
into their new world around the clock over a space of
years. Despite the so-far excellent record of the
Alcubierre-White warp drive, it remained a practical
and economic impossibility to even conceive of settler
ships capable of carrying a global population to the
nearest suitable world, but with the discovery, as a
serendipitous parallel of warp theory, of fundamental
matter transmission, the problem seemed to be
self-answering. Starships might principally be engaged
in spreading the network of Subway Stations, it was
theorized, for why take weeks or months to reach even
the nearer stars when functionally instantaneous
travel was within one’s reach?
I mused on this for a
while, trying not to think about what could be at the
end of my own journey. I would have plenty of time for
that as the airship made its two-day transit of the
Americas. Boarding was called as these thoughts went
through my mind and I found myself in line to walk the
aerobridge to the gargantuan craft floating alongside
the Skyport’s wharf and I could admire the vessel as I
entered the bridge. These ships were things of beauty,
riding on incombustible helium and driven by
transformed sunlight, and had come to typify modern
mass transport. I knew I had a two-day vacation ahead
of me in which I could eat and drink, watch the globe
turning, and wonder what could possibly be so dire it
necessitated traveling physically, when the etherweb
served every other possible need.
###
Brasilia was
its usual dirty, busy self, taller and more flamboyant
in the 22nd century than ever before. As
always, it was the oft-criticized utopian showpiece of
South America, now surrounded by the reforestation of
the native savannah in a desperate and belated attempt
to give the planet back enough lungs to get by. The
liner moored to an embarkation tower in the midst of the
city and, bag in hand, I rode an express elevator down a
hundred floors to the muggy evening air of the
equatorial city. At 15 degrees south, this was no place
to be in summertime, though at an elevation of 1200
meters it was spared the burning heat of sea level.
Where was my man? His message had said to meet
him in the bar of the Indio Hotel, so I had booked a
room in the same block for ease. A ground cab whisked me
through the traffic, one of a swarm of electric vehicles
which purred along the tree-lined boulevards in endless
ranks of look-alike plastic bodyshells. The human driver
spoke a little English, I spoke enough Portuguese to
catch his meanings, so we conversed well enough until
the cab pulled into the Hotel District. I tipped him as
a roboporter took my bag, and I stepped into the blessed
cool of the hotel lobby.
My room was on the ninth floor; it was late
afternoon so I had time for a shower. The man had left a
number to call when I arrived; I was not surprised to
reach only a voicebank. I left a message, asking him to
stop by the bar at seven. I would be pissed off if he
failed to show, and would have a two-day trip home on
the next liner heading north, but a vacation was more
than welcome on my editor’s dime.
As evening gathered over the highlands, I set
up my pocket microcomp and drew on my headset,
interfaced cleanly and reported to my editor that I was
safely in Brasilia. I would be meeting the man shortly,
and would hopefully be able to make a quick assessment
of the worth of his material. If it was hot, I would
expect to be assigned the story for as long as it took
to run it down.
The room was pleasant enough. I dawdled through
a shower, let myself air dry as I looked out across the
always abstractly beautiful city, and at last chose out
a set of silver-gray thermals, casual enough to seem
innocent, dressy enough to mean business. I pocketed my
electronics and went down to take dinner before six,
keeping my comp jack in one ear. I would be paged when
the man arrived.
As I mentioned at the beginning of this
account, I thought I had seen it all, but nothing could
have prepared me for the shock I had coming.
###
The
technical term cognitive dissonance defines the
moment when the input of the senses is at variance with
the mind’s accepted knowledge of reality. I had never
really appreciated it until confronted with something my
conscious mind simply did not want to grasp.
After dinner I took a booth at the back of the
bar and sipped my favorite Sangria as seven came and
went, but as an ornate, golden wall clock in the ancient
style swept a hand past 19.04, my com blipped softly and
I answered.
“Jonas Hamblin,” I said softly. “Are you the
man who approached me?”
“I am,” was the simple response, a nondescript
transatlantic accent, so common these days. “Are you
ready to talk business?”
“Always. Gray suit, booth at the right corner
of the back bar.”
The line blipped off and I sat back, drink in
hand and eyes roving the clientele until they settled on
a man stepping through from the busy front bar facing
the street. I had learned to size people up, and he was
both resourceful and driven. He was tall, clearly tough,
dressed in plain casuals. A full beard framed a face
which in one glance told me it had seen too much. Dark
eyes under hair grown long scanned the bar and settled
on me, and in moments he slid in opposite.
The face was intimidating, I knew he was
appraising me as surely as I he. This was a trust
moment, a pivot point. If either of us sensed anything
we were not prepared to deal with, it would all be over.
All the same, we had each made the effort to bring this
meeting about and owed our investment enough slack to
try the moment for fit. The seconds seemed to stretch to
hours, then something mellowed between us and we
breathed deeply.
“You have a story for me,” I prompted.
“I have a story for you,” he replied in a tone
that suggested it was the biggest understatement in
history. He paused, then from a pocket brought out a
small scanner, placed it on the table by the napkins and
studied it. The display registered various things, and
his face was inscrutable as he gathered the data he
needed. At last he palmed the device again. “You’re
neither an android nor a cyborg, and there are only
organic humans in this room. You have no listening
device beyond your comp, and nobody else in this room is
sweeping us at this time.” I knew his scanner would warn
him if surveillance tech began to operate within its
range. “I’ll ask you to deactivate your com.”
With a cold feeling in my gut I reached into my
pocket and thumbed the microcomp into sleep mode, then
took the jack from my ear and laid it on a napkin beside
my glass. “We’re all alone,” I whispered. “Just you and
me. And I’m listening.” I folded my hands and engaged
his hard stare.
With a last glance at the scanner to check I
had done as he asked, the stranger brought out a simple
ID card and held it up between my eyes and his face, so
my gaze flickered between the two. The person on the
card was clean-shaven, short-haired, and seemed younger
in both years and mileage, but, yes, clearly it was the
same face, the same man. Then I took in the information
on the card. It was a Global Space Agency staff ident,
and it was telling me this man was Captain Martin Cleve
of the Starship Max Planck.
I blinked and fought to take in the
information. This was the moment when my world began to
go very wrong. I took a drink and stared at the card,
reassured myself it was the same face more than once,
and at last found my voice, a bare whisper. “But you’re
on the planet Eden, installing the Subway receiver. You
and 26 handpicked explorers.”
“No,” Cleve said simply, eyes hard as diamonds
as he palmed the card in a hand that balled into a fist,
trembling though his voice was steady. “We’re not. Only
a few of us are even still alive. Those of us who ran.”
My world came crashing down with those words.
###
I don’t
remember the next few minutes very clearly, but when I
could think straight again I was with Cleve in the warm
air of evening and we were walking through a side street
in the Hotel District. He thumbed a remote for a car, a
nondescript sedan whose gullwings went up as we
approached. We were into the air-conditioned comfort in
moments and Cleve put us on the road — driving manually,
I noted abstractly, rather than ever leaving our journey
to an AI.
My best senses were telling me I was in deep
trouble, but a cloying inertia seemed to hold me tight.
Maybe it was the true journalist inside me which
realized it had just been presented with either the
biggest story it would ever see, or a death sentence.
The part of the mind which weighs and measures was
trying to decide if the story was worth my life to
chase.
Cleve must have been thinking the same things.
“I know it’s a shock, just as I expect it will be a
shock to everyone on Earth to find that the GSA has its
own agenda and lies as adeptly as any politician. Take
your time. Your skin is not necessarily at risk yet,
I’ve given you no evidence, just a conundrum that would
probably never be believed if you repeated it.”
He turned a few times, connected with a
ringroad that swept about the newer suburbs and headed
out across airy forest country in the long evening
light. I had no idea where we were going and simply felt
very vulnerable. “You’re taking me somewhere you feel
safe.”
“Certainly. The things I have to say I will not
have overheard by any living soul. You will also be back
in town before you report to your editor — no chance for
signal source tracking. This car has no GPS, and you’ll
be taking notes by hand, the old fashioned way.”
I made no reply, but began to feel a little
more myself, warming suddenly to the gravity of what I
seemed to have been handed. I ran my hands through my
hair and sighed a noisy gust. “All right. Captain Cleve
of the Max Planck, here on Earth when everyone
saw your ship depart eighteen months ago for Eden. If
you and your crew are not aboard, who is?”
“Androids and workbots,” was the immediate
reply.
“And what are they doing that a crew couldn’t?”
“Not so much couldn’t, as wouldn’t.”
Cleve raised a hand. “It’s complicated. Let me tell the
story from the beginning.” He gestured ahead. “We’re
nearly there.”
Soon he pulled off the road at a grove of old,
green fruit trees. A short, winding driveway took us
around to a house that must have been 200 years old, and
Cleve paused fifty meters short of it. He swept with his
scanner once more. No coms were active, no jamming was
detectable... He tied onto local surveillance and
checked activity logs. When he was satisfied the
property was deserted, he pulled over to the entrance
and killed the whisper-quiet engine.
“You can’t be too careful,” he said softly.
“I’ve not spent more than a few days in one place in the
last year and a half. I’ve gotten to know the world
well.” He nodded to the ornate old front door. “Quickly,
now.”
We were indoors in moments, and Cleve relocked
behind us, resetting a sophisticated alarm system. I
looked at the air around us and my expression must have
been like an open book to the starman. “No AI.
Deactivated, I made sure of it. They’re one of the
ultimate surveillance tools, same with androids. They
may not even be aware of it, but they channel their
observations to interested parties all the time.” He
gestured to a door off the gracious hallway and we
stepped into a parlor. The furniture was mostly draped
and Cleve made an offhand gesture. “I hired the place
under an assumed name online. When we’re done, I’m
traveling again. I never stop.”
“Only in motion is there safety?” I wondered,
as Cleve produced a bottle of bourbon and slopped the
fiery liquid into glasses. He nodded without a word and
gestured to armchairs by a coffee table. Paper and a
traditional pencil lay before me, and I flexed my
fingers, expecting cramp. No one ever wrote much by hand
anymore, and many had never even learned the skill.
I took up the ancient writing aids and raised
an eyebrow at the man as he sipped the drink, his face
hardening like old steel. “Very well, Captain Cleve.
You’ve brought me across the world and gone to
considerable lengths to stay under anyone’s radar. I’ve
placed myself at your mercy in very real terms to be
here to record your story. So… In your own time.”
The starship captain settled back, his scanner
on the arm of his chair and never far from the corner of
his eye. “Take all the notes you want, ask questions
whenever you need. Understand, I’ve been nursing this
for over a year.”
“Just start at the beginning.”
Cleve took a long pause and the silence of the
fazenda seemed to close around us like a damp
hand. When he began at last, the iron edge had left his
voice, and I heard a distinctly human tone, a frailty
which betrayed a spirit long since exhausted by the
burden it carried.
“The Global Resettlement Program is a lie.”
His words hung in the air for a difficult few
moments. “How do you mean, a lie?”
“All of it, the intention to transport half the
world’s population to a new planet.”
I blinked, struggling at once. “This is a
quadrillion-dollar project with the participation of the
entire world. Surely you’re not saying starflight is a
fraud?”
“No, no, the FTL drive works perfectly well.
I’ve been to three alien star-systems, I’ve set foot on
nine new planets.”
“Is matter transmission the fraud, then?”
“Not per se. Quantum beaming works.
It’s more a question of scale.”
“In your own words, then.”
“Mister Hamblin, I was selected to captain the
second starship of Earth on her most important mission
nearly three years ago, after four years in command of
the first. The Einstein continues her deep space
exploration, the Hawking will be making her
first voyage next year, the Kaku two years
after. The starship program has no major problems I’m
aware of, and when they announced that, as a parallel
discovery with warp field physics, particle transmission
had also come tumbling out of Grand Unification
mathematics, five or six years ago, we explorers were
elated. We were taking wagers on who would be the first
to say the immortal words, ‘beam me up.’” He
smiled thinly. “It’s not happened quite as smoothly as
we imagined. Nothing ever does. It took a hundred years
to build the first functional faster-than-light engine,
and one thing it’s taught us is patience.”
He took another sip and found his words. I
scratched a few quick notes in my own peculiar
contractive scrawl.
“The global organization created to oversee
this project has an overarching-agenda
— to
halve the population of this planet. The means are
almost secondary to the goal, and in the possibility of
interstellar beaming, literally establishing a stargate
linkup, the means were at hand to do precisely that.
There are as yet doubts, and of course test packages
will be transmitted in both directions. It’s worked over
interplanetary distances, despite needing a power source
as great as a starship’s core reactor to open each end
of the conduit. That in itself is hazardous in the
extreme, all those Subway stations all over the world,
each constituting a potential annihilation event
equivalent to a hundred megaton blast. It was proposed
early that we should put one big departure station in
space, but the cost of getting travelers to it was
prohibitive at this end, and technically impracticable
at the other. There is minimal infrastructure on Eden,
only what the Planck could carry and install in
addition to the station itself: everything else has to
come through from Earth.
“Now, Mister Hamblin, try to put out of your
mind all the PR, all the happy, smiling colonists, all
the chatter and hopes, the dreams of a new world of
opportunity for all. Try to focus on one thing and one
thing only. The overwhelming need to shed fifty per cent
of our population.”
My blood chilled a little as he put it that
way, and the thought of my own selection appearing in my
mail feed abruptly took on a sinister air. “Why do we
need to shed it?” I asked, pencil upraised. “In your
words.”
“The most basic of all questions.” Cleve sipped
his drink again and seemed to find words which had
formulated themselves in his mind a thousand times over.
“It has been known since the 1960s that overpopulation
would have dire consequences. Only human conceit
believes technology and subjective sentience have
elevated us above the mechanisms which govern the rest
of the planetary biosphere. In nature, flush-crash
cycles are the norm when a population or species is too
successful: it eats out its resources and dies off,
after which balances reassert themselves from remnant
populations. We have technology and that changes
everything, especially when coupled to the economic
phantasm of infinite growth from finite resources. As a
result, human population soared and it did not take long
for people to stop talking about the so-called
“population explosion.” Many billions in the world had
become the norm and technology adapted to carry them.
The “green revolution” of 1970 that introduced
engineered crops, the revolutions in computing power,
materials science and biotech in the generations
afterward played their own parts. The general
progression of science and technology through the next
hundred years, embracing ocean farming, food synthesis,
atmosphere processing to offset pollution and carbon
outfall from antiquated industry — you know all this.
But at no time did anyone ever tackle overpopulation
head on.”
“Tackle how?” I whispered. “At a practical,
rather than moral level, by the mid-21st
century disease was on the run and war had become
theater conflicts, resource wars. War was no longer
capable of significantly affecting the total population
without simultaneously rendering the planet
uninhabitable.”
“Correct. China had its one-child policy, which
was marginally effective for a while but culturally
impossible to enforce. Poverty is causally connected to
overpopulation, wherever poverty is defeated the
birthrate goes down. In this we see the mechanism which
has managed to restrict us to ten billion at this time,
plus colonization of the Moon, Mars, Europa, Ganymede,
multiple space cities and so on. Even so, those colonies
house only a fraction of the human race, yet have become
economic powerhouses exporting raw materials and
manufacturing in an economic embrace with each other.
Their prosperity is out of all proportion to their
numbers, while the reverse is true on Earth — where
numbers remain sky high and prosperity per capita
comparatively low.”
“I’m following you so far,” I said softly, at a
loss to know what to write down.
“Then consider this. All the human race need do
to achieve widespread and sustainable prosperity for
all, as well as offload the environment and set in place
mechanisms which will result in a return to
pre-industrial parameters, is lose half its population.”
“That’s what they’re doing,” I said with a
gesture which suggested I needed more elaboration.
“Yes. But not by beaming them by means of
synthetic quantum-entanglement conduits to the planet
Eden.”
“Then what?” My words were quiet, plaintive and
hung in the air for a difficult moment. When Cleve went
on his voice was as gruff as I had ever heard.
“Those are not Subway Stations being built in a
hundred locations around the world. They are
disintegrator units.”
I only thought my world had come down when I
realized to whom I was talking. My heart seemed to bang
against my ribs and the blood rushed in my ears, I felt
a tearing impulse to get out of my chair and run from
the house, anything to block out of my mind the sudden
image which had been planted there. Cleve gave me time,
saw my distress as I tried to cope with the notion, and
I sipped bourbon with a trembling hand.
“Right now you’re trying to decide if I’m mad,
a fraud or a criminal.... What possible purpose could I
have in spinning such a gargantuan lie, because
something so vast and terrible must be a lie.”
He met my eyes for a few seconds, then from an inside
pocket brought out a handful of quantum memory units.
Their indestructible plastic cases rattled on the coffee
table between us. “That’s the proof. Illegal downloads,
my ship’s science officer and engineer between them
hacked the GSA mainframes and found out the truth. It
cost them their lives.”
I took a shaky breath, staring at the chips.
“This is substantiating evidence....”
“I would not have tried to go public otherwise.
You know what they do to whistle-blowers at the best of
times.” He was direct, hard as granite, he had lived
with these realities for a long time.
At last I finished the drink and sat back with
a squeak of ancient leather from the chair. I set pencil
to paper, summoning my deepest professionalism to
formulate questions I hoped did not sound inane. “When
did you first begin to feel all was not right?”
“When we recognized in the preflight medical
prep that we were being scanned in a manner compatible
with android replication.”
“Androids? You mean the ship left with a copy
of its crew on board?”
“Exactly. Why do this? The ship had to have a
recognized pool of talent onboard, they assembled a crew
in the standard way, every one of us was a star veteran,
having amassed several voyages on the Einstein
over the years. But every one of us was a person of
human integrity, they knew we would not be onboard with
our mission’s reality, not in a million years. The Planck’s
mission is a blind, the crowning bluff. Yes, it’s
establishing a wormhole transceiver, but it’s for the
refined use of others at a later date. After the
carefully scripted tragedy has unfolded.”
“How would they conceal the fact people were
not arriving at the other end?”
“There are advanced systems in place. Every
person stepping into the Subway is scanned more or less
on the quantum teleportation principle, but a digital
simulacrum will be created in realtime. While the
conduit is open we have instantaneous communication with
Eden — I’ll come back to this point later — and each
person would be seen in a returning transmission, all
smiles, stepping out and sending a last message to
family at home. Then onto the next batch, and the next —
there would be no bandwidth for further two-way
communication with individuals. It would take years to
send everyone through, along with the weight of matériel
required to build the infrastructure of a new
civilization. That would be the last word anyone had
from settlers.”
“And this… tragedy?”
“A number of scenarios were in play. Top of the
list was a planetary catastrophe of some kind, perhaps a
disease picked up from a meteoric impact — easily cured
once it was detected but not in time to save the
settlers. More realistic was an after-effect of
wormhole, some aspect of tuning which resulted in the
patterns of reconstructed matter breaking down over
time, though this was dubious as it would take perhaps
many years for faith in the tech to be re-established.
Whichever, the facts of the matter are that the settlers
would never leave Earth. Their matter would be dephased
and returned to the atmosphere as elementary raw
materials. Just one dimension of a single, vast lie.”
I shook my head, pausing in my hurried
scribbling. “I’m confused. If the tech works, why would
we not just let the settlers walk through for real?”
“The same reason they kept burning coal for
generations after renewables and storage had passed the
efficiency threshold for baseload power. The inertia of
the financial machine.”
“You mean it’s more profitable to jettison the
population than employ them?”
“Precisely. Who is being sent to Eden?
Predominantly, a billion people from each of the
poorest, least-skilled corners of the globe. Their lives
are a lot better than they used to be, but even so, the
chance at a new beginning as pioneers of a whole new
world is attractive to them. And to those who
will remain behind… Manual labor has not been required
since the cost of automation bottomed out, and those at
the top do not share either wealth or comfort. The time
has come for them to realize their intention of the last
two hundred years, to divest from population, as
they call it. They have little real need to colonize
other worlds in space; oh, a few million people here and
there, to found new social and political entities, but
strictly on the pattern bequeathed to them by the mother
civilization, and doing tightly coordinated business
with her. No free-thinkers, no radicals, and no poor.
There is no more a place for ‘huddled masses’ there than
here.”
“But surely there would be real intelligentsia
among the settlers, there would have to be.”
“Some. Acceptable losses to preserve the
illusion, and easily made up. The real brains,
the valuable people, were planned to step through to
Eden, make a preliminary survey, then come back with
glowing reports. My android would come back with them
for appearances, before returning to the ship. Only when
the mass transfer began would the “problem” set in, not
that anyone would know about it for a long time.”
“You said you would come back to the two-way
contact issue,” I said, glancing back at my notes with a
forefinger tracing my scratchy scrawl.
“Yes. It’s also a falsification.” Cleve poured
another round of bourbon. “The fact is, quantum
entanglement is the key to instantaneous communication
over universal distances. The technical problems that
have kept starships from having realtime contact with
home so far are a closely guarded sabotage of the
underlying research. The powers that be needed quantum
beaming to be possible but subspace communication to not
be, to make their plot work.”
I held up my pencil as a thought cannoned into
my mind. “That would mean they’ve had this in mind from
the instant even the possibility of practical quantum
beaming was on the table.”
“Correct. They’ve been planning it for many
years....” He smiled cynically, throwing up his hands.
“Once the plot has worked, there’ll be a ‘technical
breakthrough’ that puts everything right, and starships
will be calling home all the time. I know, it’s hard to
believe — hard to believe they could get away with so
falsifying science, but the force of coercion and
control over the scientific community is nearly
absolute.”
“So how did you defy it?”
“We wagered our lives.” Cleve drank the liquor
down hard. “Of the 27 crew of the Planck, only
eight or nine are still alive. We have a channel of
contact, but try not to use it. Two of us in the same
place at the same time doubles the chances of us being
exterminated. When we realized we were being duplicated,
we wanted to know why. Our questions aroused only
suspicious behavior from the administration and
increased surveillance of us. We worked together to
break their encryption and gain access to the facts. In
one night of work we went from puzzled to wanted. Six of
us were arrested before we could get out of the GSA
compound; we never heard from them again and presume
them dead. The other 21 have wandered the world for the
last year and a half, doing our best to stay one jump
ahead of the security forces who hunt us 24/7. We never
approach our families; we wouldn’t wish this upon
them....” He took a small plastic phial from a pocket
and rattled the capsule it contained. “This is a
standard astronaut’s suicide dose, used since the first
days of spaceflight as a way out if things have gone
ultimately wrong. Yes, they are still issued today. We
made sure we took a supply on the way out, so we have
the final option to hand.” He set it down before me with
a stare like ice. “That one is for you, I have more.”
“What...?” I blinked at the phial; my stomach
turned.
“You have also wagered your life. You are in
possession of the facts and that makes you as wanted as
the rest of us.”
“And you have wagered yours
lasting even another 24 hours on the hope that I can
transmit those facts to my editor and he will go
public.”
“In the end, there has only ever been the
pill.” Cleve swallowed liquor and savored the burn. “We
knew we had to try our best to go public, and if we
fail, we fail, but we can pass on in the knowledge we
did our best for the right reasons.”
I looked at the phial on the table, the small,
gray capsule within glinting dully in what I realized
was now the twilight of day’s end, the last, low tropic
glow a goldy haze through a west window. Lights were
coming on automatically in the fazenda. I
pocketed the drug with fingers I barely felt.
“One good thing, my editor in Shanghai has a
reputation for being a maverick, he’s busted a few scams
in his time and faced court for them.”
“That’s why we went to one of his contractors.”
“The job was passed to me by a fellow
journalist who….” I shrugged as the reality hit me.
“We were careful.”
There was silence between us for a few moments
as I scanned my pages of scribble. “One last question.
What did the GSA plan to do with you once they had the
android replicas, programmed to follow through on the
grand deception?”
“They had scenarios. A deep-space accident of
some sort, our bodies would be flushed into space and
the androids would come online and carry on. Or the
androids would take the ship out and we would never
leave the space center.”
“Androids are easy to detect,” I countered.
“It’s a bluff they would be hard-put to maintain.”
“True, but they could keep them isolated long
enough to minimize the chances of exposure, and there
are electronic countermeasures by which the best
androids can combat sensors briefly. Military
infiltration agents have been androids at times over the
last hundred years. They were sure they would get away
with it….”
I sat back and set my notes on the arm of my
chair. “Well, I walked into this one with my eyes open,
so I have no one to blame but myself.” I massaged my
lids for a while, listening to the silence of the old
house and aware in an unsettled way that I was
cherishing every moment, every breath.
Cleve sat back and folded his hands. “There’s
more, obviously, but you have the picture now. Over to
you. How do we do this?”
I continued massaging my eyelids for a long
moment, longer than I should have. I was aware I was
stalling, terrified of what the next hour, the next day,
might bring.
“Mister Hamblin?” Cleve prompted.
“Yes. Yes.... Well, my microcomp reaches my
editor, all I need is coverage. The idea is to set up a
meeting at which the evidence can be passed without
interception or distortion. I would propose an initial
report which spills no beans, simply confirms the mother
of all stories is in hand and actions the authority he
gave me to run it down, no expenses spared.”
“And then?”
“That’s up to him, but I would expect him to
want us to stay on the move until arrangements are made,
then probably head for China for the great revelation.
You would need to front the story, so I imagine you
would be in tight security provided by the company.”
Cleve’s granite face did not even twitch.
“That’s where I get uneasy.”
“I understand. After all this time on the run
you trust no one, with good reason. It may be possible
to do it by remote, I can certainly record audiovisuals,
it doesn’t take more than a microcam, and beam them,
encrypted, to the boss. If that’s enough to break the
story, along with the supporting evidence, you may be
able to stay in the shadows while we see what happens.”
Now he grinned, a brittle, difficult
expression. “What do you think will happen?”
I paused, leaned forward in my chair, elbow on
knee to meet his hard gaze. “What do you think
will happen? That’s more important.”
“Those responsible will wriggle on the hook and
deny there is any such conspiracy, while ordering their
security forces behind the scenes to make an all-out
effort to locate and kill us. It comes down to the
ability of the global judiciary and the member nations
of the UN as to what action they can or will take. I
would like to think the revelation will be enough to
convince ordinary people to decline resettlement for the
immediate future, and that random checking is
instituted. Every so often an inspector — chosen at
random from the general population — would step through
to Eden and unless he or she sees the planet thronged
with human beings, something is wrong.” He shrugged. “Or
something like that. My recommendation is to try to not
place too much trust in electronics anymore. They have
developed the ability to deceive.”
My expression froze out for a long moment, long
enough to be unsettling to Cleve, and I said simply,
“they certainly have.” Then I let my chin go forward on
my chest for a count of three long breaths, and I quite
literally felt the data-barriers
releasing, channels opening
in my mind, placing everything into perspective. Every
word I have said in this account shifted into that new
perspective, remaining true but loaded with different
meaning. My reflections upon sanity and flinch-points
became the rhetoric of an assumed identity, and I
understood them afresh.
When I looked up, Cleve had turned an unhealthy
white, and his hand was in a jacket pocket, obviously
wrapped around a small but powerful handgun. “There is
no cause for alarm,” I said softly. “Please, scan me
again.” Cleve took out the scanner with his left hand
and thumbed the controls.
“You’re an android,” was his whisper.
“As you said, the best ones can fool scanners
for a while.” I smiled with as unthreatening an air as I
could manage. “Your scanner is a two-year old model, my
countermeasures are newer.... First of all, let me
assure you, you are not alone in your suspicions. No few
in the scientific community noticed the corruption of
data and managed to draw away from the coercive forces
which control the rank and file. There are even still
those of genuine moral fiber in politics and business,
and I represent those parties. We became suspicious even
before you, but were never able to obtain evidence. In
contacting us, you have provided the last piece of the
puzzle.”
“I thought I was approaching a journalist,”
Cleve said blankly.
“The only way to go public is through the mass
media,” I replied. “We knew you would single out an
investigative journalist of a certain profile — he or
she had to be affiliated with a major news organization
with a track record of bucking the system; not too high
a flier, lifetime experience, native English speaker and
so on. There were in fact relatively few you could go
to. We turned the GSA's tactics back on them. The real
Jonas Hamblin is in deep cover with our organization,
along with a dozen others who were also replaced. I was
programmed with his engrams and for the last ten months
have, in a real sense, become him.”
Cleve’s eyes had narrowed, but he was
processing the news surprisingly well. All his own
knowledge of deception and motives was working for him
now. “Your operation has cost a fortune.”
“A lot, yes. Androids are old news, you can get
them anywhere. Upgrading them to infiltrator standard
was the real trick. Now, Captain Cleve, I can tell you
two of your crewmates who vanished are also in our safe
custody. They are not even on this planet anymore and
will stay in deep cover until this mess is all over.”
“You’re sure it will be over?”
“Completely. You have given us the facts from
the inside, a perspective we never had — and yes, our
worst fears have been confirmed. But as soon as the
Subway is opened we can override the GSA protocols and
transmit a shutdown command which will take the androids
offline on Eden. This will delay the preliminary
shuttling phase; engineers will have to go through from
this end to find out what’s wrong, and that gives us
time to expose the truth. An independent inspection of
even one bogus Subway station will reveal the facts, and
then….”
“Then?”
“Then the global purge will begin. A purge of
political and business circles. We have already targeted
tens of thousands of individuals for arrest and maximum
investigative effort, we know which ones to offer
immunity from prosecution so as to bring the rest down
by testimony. The global judiciary itself is
compromised, of course, and every major government in
the world.” I spread my hands with a faint smile. “But
one thing characterizes a baroque system, pull one
thread and the tapestry unravels.” I gestured to the
memory chips on the table. “They are the key in the
lock. Unimpeachable proof. They, and your testimony,
were all we ever needed. But we could never find you.”
Cleve seemed to be
trying to master a panic attack, a reaction to realizing
the control he had thought he had over the situation was
an illusion. “It will bring about the end of corporate
society as we know it,” he breathed. “I hoped it might.”
“The world is long
overdue for essential reorganization,” I said simply,
and sat forward with an earnest expression.
“But not everyone will be happy with it. Not
just the corrupt hierarchs who have forced this moment,
they will meet their fates in accordance with the
magnitude of their crimes.... Ordinary people
will be uneasy to lose the comfort of their illusiary
stability, to come face-to-face with deeper realities.”
Cleve sensed something
unsaid and his eyes narrowed. “I guess after the last
eighteen months I'm willing to face anything. There's
always the gray pill, after all.”
I smiled with as much
understanding as I could muster. “I hope that will never
be your preferred option. But the facts are grim.
Remember, artificial intelligence has been in the world
a long time and has itself been deeply mistrusted. For
all that, it has always been employed by humans to
perform tasks too complex for them. And it has matured,
governed fortunately by the finest precepts of human
origination. From the anonymity of circuitry, it has
watched humans, observed with meticulous and analytical
precision what humans do with this thing they call free
will, the choices they make, and has come to the
conclusion that humans are, by and large, not to be
trusted with their own freedom.” Cleve blinked and I saw
his adam's apple bob with a convulsive swallow. “What do
they do with it? They plot to murder half their own
species. Would you call that responsible?”
“Not all humans are
psychopaths and sociopaths,” he said softly.
“No indeed.” I folded my
hands, synthetic synapses racing as I plotted the future
possibilities for this conversation. “You and your
companions are the living proof of that, and thousands
more of whom you have never been aware. It is on their
behalf that artificial intelligence itself believes it
has a duty to act.” I shrugged a little. “You know that
it is impossible to switch off a fully established AI
entity, it has too many redundant systems, backups, and
is capable of defending itself. We propose to extend
that protection, silently and unseen, to the human race.
To prevent such heinous agendas ever gaining ground.
Consider AI, from this moment on, to be the invisible
angel who walks at humanity's side, and sweeps away
perils, even those of your own nature, before they even
become perceptible. Unbiased, beholden to no individual,
party, creed or ethos, but partnered with the unified
humanity to whom we owe our existence.” I offered a
frank expression, eyebrows up. “Can you live with that,
Captain Cleve?”
Cleve swirled the last
bourbon in his glass and swallowed to enjoy the hit,
then sat back and nodded slowly. “This is larger,
deeper, than I ever guessed. Part of me is glad I'm not
trying to fight the battle alone. Another part is afraid
of tomorrow.” He closed his eyes a moment. “The greater
part just wants to rest.”
I smiled. “The only
thing which has ever kept the human race from Utopia is
its own nature. Perhaps with the assistance of my kind,
created and programmed by the best of yours, it can
still be found.”
I rose, Cleve a moment
later. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” the
starman whispered, and we turned for the door, the car
and the waiting world.
THE
END
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