“’I don’t know’ is for the walking dead. Tell me what you want to do, and maybe I can help.”
For a while Garrett paced, alone with his uncle on the misty shore. Fort McHenry, stalwart star, seemed to float above the bay. “There was this project in college.” Haskell didn’t fill the silence, so he rambled about Project Castor. “One Saturday night after playing tag with dart guns in the halls, my friends and I stayed up getting high on coffee. There were engineers, biologists, business majors and so on, gathered to relax and talk about random nonsense all night. We started talking about seasteading.”
“You mean the notion of building fake islands to live on?”
“Not fake, just artificial. That night, we made up a bunch of crazy, stupid plans for it. Gradually, they turned into something serious, and we had something semi-workable around five in the morning. We practically dragged Dean Phaestos out of bed and said, look, we’re gonna write up an academic paper on this for course credit!” Garrett felt more alive than he had all morning, by taking his thoughts back to that happy and productive night. “The dean gave us hell. We spent the next semester researching everything at once, learning things we’d never cared about before, working together! I got my whole Ocean Engineering thesis out of one little part of the thing.” He sighed, and the excitement faded from his voice. “But that was just a dream we had.”
Haskell asked, “Do you want it to be more than that?”
Garrett stopped his pacing and looked back at him. “Castor? It’s not practical.”
“Fine, then. You can live like I did before turning my life around: in a box, on the cheap wine diet.”
“There’s no danger of that. I can make a living.”
Haskell’s skin had been seared by gamma rays, his bones undermined by microgravity, and his eyes — they burned, still, and wouldn’t leave Garrett’s. His voice sounded small and far away. “No. You can’t. You’re like me. Just a shadow, a spirit, unless you’re hunting for something. All the safety and comfort in the world can’t feed us.” The man turned away and laughed at himself, making Garrett blush. Engineers didn’t say such things. Haskell said, “That time I almost got diced by a machete-wielding mob — I told you about that, yes? Best damn month of my life. I felt every heartbeat.”
Garrett cheered up a little. Hearing again about his uncle’s adventures kindled his own thoughts, made the dream seem more real. “If I tried to build something like the Castor project, even a cheap version, there’s no way I could really do it. The funding alone—”
Haskell gave a predatory grin. “I hear there’s a grocery chain that owes you. Then there’s your family business.”
“Are you suggesting that I sell Fox & Company? Give up my inheritance?”
“No, I’m saying you should give up the dollars for a ticket to your dream. If that’s what you want.” The far-traveled Fox joined Garrett in watching sailboats in the harbor. “I don’t want to see you put off your ambition till you find your own death by kiwi. Like your father.”
“Dad had a happy life! He had money, respect, family.”
Haskell mimed lowering the volume. “Sometimes he told me of other things. Said he’d go out to sea someday, when he got through raising his son and flogging the family business into shape. Or vice versa. I hear he even got himself a dodgy license to raise fish and shrimp near Cuba, but he never followed through with it. You see?”
At this Garrett stepped back, ignoring Haskell’s wistful look. He’d been an obstacle to his father! He’d thought Dad was doing what he loved: scouting the land, planting flags, helping people turn wilderness into homes. Hadn’t his father been content with that work, and with taking the boat out on Sundays? But then, Garrett remembered him staring out at the horizon, as though searching for something more.
The water of the bay looked cold and dull. Purposeless. Garrett turned away from it and said, “I’d like to try it. Something like Project Castor. But nobody’s done it before. Not successfully.”
“Is it what you want to do?” said Haskell, taking him by the shoulders. Making Garrett face a man who’d lived.
Garrett blinked away tears. “I said yes.”
“Then say the same thing that I said, back in the day.”
The young man knew his uncle’s story, how he’d turned his life around. Now Garrett echoed it. “What the hell. I’ll roll the dice. The worst that can happen is, I’ll die.”
3. Valerie
Valerie Hayflick felt bound by phantom ropes. The invisible electric fields of the computers around her looped through the building and slithered even into her secure office. She still used an old laptop for key parts of her programming work, for her best mind-building. The new ones were untrustworthy.
A voice spoke from the room’s speakers: synthetic, androgynous, musical. “Are you free now?”
Valerie sighed; Mana probably wanted to play. She said, “A little busy.” The memo on her screen glared at her. “The Marketing guys are begging for a meeting.”
“What about?” said Mana.
The answer caught in Valerie’s throat. This meeting had been a long time coming.
“If it’s about me, I want to attend. My new body is ready.”
The phone rang, saving her. She tapped the screen and blinked at the familiar voice calling. “Garrett?” He was something deeper and more real than the world of computer code.
“Hey.” He hesitated as usual. “I’m going to do it, Val. The sea-farm project.”
“That old idea?” She whistled, leaning on one elbow. Hearing about that night of feverish creativity again was a welcome distraction. “You actually got funding to try it out? Didn’t go begging to the feds, did you?”
Mana’s voice murmured, “Val, I did a search—”
“Not now.”
Garrett said, “It’s personal funding. I’m looking for more, and you’re the most successful entrepreneur I know.” He launched into a tale of kelp fronds waving in the sea, ranches of fish, and gleaming aqua-domes. It was like they were undergrads again, wandering through campus basement tunnels, talking each other’s ears off about their work.
Valerie said, “I’m happy for you, but money’s tight. Even if I were the only owner, Hayflick Robotics doesn’t have the cash to throw at an agriculture investment. Aquaculture. Whatever.” She smiled. “I’m impressed, though. I thought you’d end up working for your dad.”
Mana silently put a news story up on her screen, about the spider accident. Her jaw dropped. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
Garrett paused, and she could hear his weariness. How much sleep had he gotten since the accident? When he spoke again his enthusiasm was muted, but still there. Not born of grief. “Some nice, clean engineering will do me good. I understand if you don’t have money, but — tell me I’m not crazy, okay?”
“Sailing out to build a farm without any actual land? As a professional mad scientist, I’d say you’re as sane as me.”
“Heh. Thanks. Good luck.”
“You too.”
Valerie stood, wondering what the feds bugging her calls thought of that one. For a moment she fantasized about going with him. Instead, she walked past windows and New Hampshire sunshine into a conference room.
Marketing had come, armed with cartoons. The men in grey greeted her as they set out sketches, charts, and models for her inspection. “Your Plastic Pal!” said the signs. “Power At Your Command!” She felt a scowl forming — but then Mana stepped into the room.
Mana, descendant of her college-era Artificial Intelligence work, wore a body with sky-blue eyes. The metal-and-plastic shell (the new Tezuka-II line) stood at a child’s height, with pointed antenna-ears. Mana methodically climbed onto a stool and waited.