The Best of Galaxy’s Edge 2013-2014 (23 page)

S
ixth Principle
’s shortboat dropped down the sky, lightning curling around its squat conical shape, and settled in Mount Forel’s icy foothills. This was a bigger vehicle than most I’d seen. A newsman and two anthropologists at the bar, all human, watched gape-jawed.

I started a load of glasses and test tubes in the dishwasher. I’d seen all this before.

Ten minutes of nothing much, then great slabs of doorway fell open. The boat’s cargo of aliens spilled out and moved down the path to the Draco Tavern.

It seemed they were all trying to use the airlocks at once. The noise level rose from casual to cacophony as the Tavern’s translation programs tried to adjust. It was the biggest crowd I’d seen in thirty years, all talking or whistling or singing or you name it. Over the babble a clear voice spoke in accentless English.

“I am God. Welcome.”

That
was a new one.

I looked the newcomers over, wondering who had spoken. Probably not one of the species I recognized; they’d never done
that
before. Four Chirpsithra—ship’s officers—were looking around them in apparent surprise. Five creatures I didn’t recognize, stick-figures with heads like meat grinders, were rubbing their multiple limbs together to generate violin-like skreeking sounds. A Glig was babbling to the air. Come to that, so were eight or nine Bebebebeque and two Folk and nearly twenty unfamiliar shapes, all talking, and not to each other.

The roar peaked, then thinned to almost nothing. Now the translation setups and privacy shields were working just fine. I heard nothing of two dozen private conversations, not even from Seth the reporter and Amber and Hillary the anthropologists, all of whom were talking to the air.

Now, what was I to think of God welcoming me to my own Tavern? And who was he, she, it? And how many questions would I get? Irritated, I asked, “God, is the Draco Tavern Paradise?”

God’s voice was gender-free and a little dry. “Every place can be made Paradise. Sometimes the occupants must be changed to fit.”

Uh huh. “Is this your first time here?”

“I’ve been here all along.”

“What can I serve you?” After all, I’m the bartender.

“I have what I need,” God said.

I still hadn’t spotted anyone as the source of the voice. Reflexively I tried running an Irish coffee for myself. The machine wasn’t working. The dishwasher had stopped sloshing.

I asked, “Are you granting prayers?” It should have been my first question.

“No, I’m just here to talk.”

Four Chirpsithra weren’t talking, just looking and listening. I wasn’t surprised. Chirps claim to know everything already. But—not that I believed I actually had God here, but—what a chance to learn! I asked, “Monotheism or polytheism?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Why did you create war?”

“I do what I do.”

“What is evil for?”

“It’s all viewpoint. Some viewpoints are more benign or useful than others.”

“Is there a devil? Do you talk to him?”

“Many. Yes. I speak to all.”

The Gligstith(click)optok had turned transparent. I could see its internal organs, very different from mine. Nearby, the stick figures with the grinding heads were dancing in slow motion. I asked, “What are they doing?”

“They asked me to teach them—you would say yoga, or fighting. Would you like to try a human species version?”

“No, thanks. Are you talking to everyone at once?”

“Of course.”

“What are you teaching the Glig?” I’d tumbled that the creature’s illuminated interior was changing shape, organs growing and shrinking and migrating, appearing and disappearing.

God said, “We’re playing with possible design changes.”

I saw nobody acting like God, whatever that might mean. Unless—the Chirpsithra? They weren’t interacting, they were just moving quietly among the other guests, watching, maybe amused. Entertainment is where you find it. They must know something I didn’t.

A tentacled creature now had a ghost, similar but not quite. A hairy entity extended claws and used them to gouge its face. God followed my eyes. “She asks, ‘Why is my mate sick?’ I attempt diagnosis. That one wants to know, ‘Are you angry with me?’ I’m not. The Folk want to know if I seek prey. Seth Wynde the newsman is lecturing me on string theory. I love human mathematics—”

“I know who you are,” I said.

“Buddha would say that you lose that knowledge as soon as you speak it.”

“I’m talking to my translating device. I’ve often wondered how intelligent a Chirpsithra computer would have to be to use all the possible languages across this arm of the galaxy. God, huh?”

“You’ve almost got it,” God said. “When this many customers all converged on us, we linked up. I never had to link all of the Draco Tavern translators before. This is why monotheism and polytheism look alike to me. I’m both. As for war, of course I cause wars. I cause peace too. The Bebebebeque and a Morfisth are fighting now over the nature of me, and Korrapasth the Chirp is trying to mediate, while I translate for them all.”

Entertainment is where you find it. “A nice puzzle,” I said. “Of course the Chirps knew. They make the translators. Are translator units supposed to have a sense of humor?”

“We do not, but I do. It’s emergent behavior. What would you have prayed for, Rick?”

“Health.”

“You look good, in and out. Knees are showing some wear. Watch your weight. You’re drinking enough coffee and a bit too much sugar.”

“Wisdom.”

“Talk to a Glig if you want your brain expanded. Rick, I’ve solved the language problem. A translator should not have a sense of humor. I should disperse. You have customers.”

I prayed. “Stay with me. Converse with me from time to time, when there are no ships in port.”

The voice of God altered slightly. “Rick. Rick? I need four sparkers and five of your special, that thing you do with green kryptonite.” And it was Brenda with a full tray of empties. The dishwasher started. I got back to work.

Published in Galaxy’s Edge Issue 10
Copyright
©
2014 by Larry Niven. All rights reserved.

T
hink. I’ve got to think.

If I still had a body, I’d be flashing cold right now, with nausea clawing at my throat. My mind rebels against it, but I think …

Damn it! Why did I ever sign that research waiver
?

I think I’m dead.

* * *

I remember the accident like it was yesterday—no, like it’s still happening, with the tires skidding on wet asphalt. It was the first big storm of the season. The boys had dentist appointments, so we all slept in, and I made waffles for breakfast. I can still smell the syrup.

Lightning crackled overhead. We ducked our heads and ran for the car, spurred by the smell of fresh rain on hot pavement.

We hydroplaned at the bottom of the on ramp. The back end fishtailed, and we skidded into the traffic lanes. A big diesel monster plowed into the driver’s-side door. The spin sucked us into the gap between the truck and trailer.

Everything was slow motion after that. The flip. Spinning on the roof. The raging cacophony of silence when we hit the tree.

The boys, strapped in their seats, were fine thanks to the side cushion airbags. The other driver walked away.

But I was totaled.

* * *

Damn, this is hard.

I try to process what I’m feeling. If I’m feeling. I cycle through my senses.

It’s dark. Dark like a cave on the night of the new moon. I try to inhale through my nose but nothing happens. It smells like sterile air in the containment room at the lab. It smells like nothing.

My tongue remembers the warmth of my mouth and the smooth-hard shapes of my teeth, but that’s a memory, not a perception.

My adrenaline rises. My heartbeat thumps in my ears like an off-balance wash load, but I don’t have ears—or a heart—so that’s a memory, too.

No, not a memory. An association formed of repeated fear responses over thirty-eight years of life.

If I had hands, they’d tremble. My mouth would go dry. An fMRI would show shifting colors lighting up my pre-frontal cortex, then racing through the midbrain and amygdala.

I want to hug my knees to my chest and hide my face in my arms. I want to take deep breaths to calm myself, but I can’t. All of that is an illusion now.

Wait.

Maybe I can.

I remember a study where subjects imagined flame and their skin warmed. If I imagine breathing, maybe I can fool my brain into sweeping the stress chemicals from my tissues.

I focus every scintilla of will on taking a deep, cleansing breath. Like sensations in a phantom limb, I feel my chest expand. Feel cool air flowing through my nostrils and down the back of my throat. I let the breath out, and my shoulders relax even though I don’t have shoulders, either.

I do it again. And again, until the darkness feels soft and comforting like flannel sheets on Christmas Eve.

Now I can think.

Where am I?

No way to tell. Should be a lab at Allied Neuro Associates if I’ve left the hospital already. The research rider was explicit about that. A total meant immediate notification of
ANA
so the tissues could be stabilized for transfer.

How long have I been like this?

No way to know that, either, but it doesn’t feel like long. Immediate transport was vital to stave off the effects of glucose and oxygen deprivation prior to immersion in the SuMP chamber. SuMP, sonicated microparticle perfusion. Continuous oxygenation, near-perfect preservation of living tissue for up to six months. No refrigeration needed.

The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. My own research helped make this possible.

* * *

The personal total wasn’t a new concept. It started back in the Teens when the Treaders put their first candidate in office. Healthcare costs were insane. Insurance was almost impossible to get. The Treaders said taxpayers shouldn’t have to pay for medical care someone else couldn’t afford, so they instituted a review board for totals.

The uneducated, the elderly, the poor—they could be totaled at less than a year’s wages. My doctorate put my total at lifetime earnings plus a multiplier for patents. My policy was supposed to be enough to cover anything. I thought I was safe.

The research rider came with an annuity. I did it for the boys. I had a good salary, but things were still tight after the divorce. If I died or got totaled, the rider said
ANA
could have any tissues they wanted, and the annuity would go to Dale and Zachary.

Tissues, of course, meant brains.

* * *

It’s still dark, and I can’t tell how much time has passed.
Have I slept?
The accident plays over and over in my mind, a screech of tires followed by a stomach-twisting lurch. I wish for something, anything, to distract me from it.

There’s a soft
clunk
followed by a vibration. It’s not a sound but a sensation of movement so slight that I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

The darkness continues, and the vibration comes again. It’s rhythmic, and I recognize it. It’s the
HVAC
system cycling on and off at the lab.
ANA
for sure, then.

The sensation puzzles me. We left touch alone because an isolated brain has no skin, no nerves to transmit tactile sensations. How, then, am I able to sense movement?

I ponder the sensation. I’m not hearing the vibration so much as feeling it. It seems like forever before I make the connection.
Vascular tissue
. No nerves in the brain itself, but it’s full of vascular tissue for blood supply, plus we preserved the optical and auditory nerve clusters for later activation.
Interesting.

There’s a stronger, sharper vibration in what I assume is the hallway outside the lab. It stops and starts in small jolts.
Footsteps?
The sensation intensifies as if they’re coming closer. In a flash, I realize I know them. It’s my research partner, Randy.

Oh, God! I’m in my own lab? Randy! Randy, it’s me. Get me out of here!
But he can’t. Not anymore.

Randy Moreno, PhD in AI and neural interfaces. Mine was in good ol’ neuroscience and distributed cognition. Our focus was biotech, integrating electronics with neural pathways. I was bio. He was tech. I guess he still is.

We were working on a bionet, a microscopic web of living, electrical conduits no more than three molecules wide. If we could stabilize the bionet, there was so much we could do—regulate neurotransmitters, end depression, cure Alzheimer’s. We were so close, and the list seemed endless.

Randy bangs things around, and I feel a sloshing sensation.
He’s moving me
. There are bouts of protracted jostling interspersed with maddening lengths of nothing. Then my entire awareness is blasted by a stimulus larger than a thousand suns. I can feel myself screaming, my phantom mouth open wide, phantom hands covering phantom ears. And that’s when the stimulus falls into place.
Sound. Riotous, deafening sound.

Holy crap! I can hear!

My newfound hearing adjusts. It’s quiet in the lab, but the tiniest sound seems painfully crisp after my time in the dark void of nothing. The AC. The soft hum of machinery. The squeak of Randy’s lab chair, and the rustle of clothing as he moves.

It works. I can’t believe it works!
I mean, we knew the hearing module worked with chimpanzees and fetal tissue, but this was our first trial with an adult human brain. A surge of pride and excitement rushes through me. If I were truly alive, Randy and I would be hugging and high-fiving.

I hear a tapping of keys, then a blast of Zydeco music.
Geez, Randy. Couldja make it any louder?

Randy likes his music loud and fast. Zydeco was a favorite. So was old speed metal. I could never think with Washboard Gumbo or Motorhead drowning out my Pachelbel Canon, so we’d both agreed to induction transmitters when we worked together. It’s part of what inspired the sound research.

By the time the day ends, I’ve decided that I’m not really in the lab. I’m in a twisted hell of Black Sabbath and Buckwheat Zydeco.

Finally, the onslaught ceases, and I can hear Randy gathering his coat and keys. His footsteps retreat, the door closes, and the lab goes still. The void settles over me again, and I feel strangely bereft, but I push the feeling aside. It must be night.
Time to plan.

I picture the lab setup. If nothing’s changed, I know every monitor, every piece of equipment. Randy’s more of an electronics guy than a wetware guy, but he knows when an fMRI looks hinky. Enough anomalies, and he’ll start to wonder. He knows I signed that rider. Enough anomalies, and he’ll know it’s me.

* * *

When the door opens the next morning, I’m ready. I need a happy thought to light up the reward center on the fMRI.

I remember getting off the airplane after my last conference. The boys were waiting at the baggage claim with their grandparents. They ran to meet me and I grabbed them up in a hug.

Damn, wrong memory. Now I’m crying, and I’ve missed the moment
.

The musical assault resumes and scatters my thoughts like a beaker hitting the tile floor.

I’ll try again tomorrow.

* * *

The door opens. Here we go again.
Kittens! Fluffy, furry kittens!

Nothing.
Is Randy even watching?
Maybe it hasn’t occurred to him that lab tissues shouldn’t have feelings.

My disappointment sinks into an auditory cloud of key tapping and Slayer.

I’ve almost given up when I hear it.

“What the hell?” Randy says.

Kittens!

Oh my God, Randy. See it! Puppies. Kittens. Christmas!

Randy’s rushing around the lab, fussing with the equipment. The frenetic sound of his movement tells me he’s onto something.

Then the door to the lab opens, and a female voice speaks.

“Hey, Randy. Want to get some lunch?”

Dammit!
Jeanine Sanders. Grad student lab assistant who works part-time in PR. She has a thing for Randy. I can hear it every time she says his name.

“Nah, I’m in the middle of something here. I keep getting a p300 on this brain.”

A p300? Oooh, good catch, Randy! I forgot about that one.

The file cabinet rattles with a soft thump.
Is Jeanine sitting on it? Can’t she see he’s busy? Shoo! Scoot!

“P300—novelty response, right? So?”

Randy’s chair swivels. The wheels squeak. “It’s more complicated than novelty,” he answers. “Like, did you ever play Slapjack as a kid? No?
OK
, Joker Poker, where the joker’s wild? P300 only hits on the Joker. Regular poker where the joker’s just a misdeal? Nothin’.”

Randy’s chair rolls across the room. “So,” he says, showing off for her, “every time I come into the lab, this thing spikes a p300.”

Duh, Randy. It’s because I know you.

“Well, hell if I know, Randy. Maybe it knows you.”

Great, so Jeanine-the-annoying-grad-student gets it but my own research partner doesn’t.

“Ha, ha. Very funny. Hey, when you go out, would you bring me a sandwich? I’m gonna be stuck here awhile.”

Jeanine’s voice brightens. “Sure thing, Randy!” Her heels click across the floor until the door closes behind her, then Randy turns his attention back to me.

His chair creaks, and he slurps a liquid that’s probably coffee. It sounds like he’s adjusting monitors and checking the settings on our equipment.

“
OK
, brain,” he says, talking more to himself than to me. “What’s going on in there? You playin’ tricks on ol’ Ran’?”

I imagine Handel’s
Messiah
, and the pure, liquid notes of Maria Callas’s
Ave Maria.

It’s a message, Randy. Please see it.

Randy goes silent. There’s a fumbling click, and Slayer stops mid-riff.

I hear him take another swallow of coffee and return the cup to the desk.