“Preliminary examination of Starcology Argo lander Orpheus, Spar Aerospace contract number DLC148, lander number 118.” Aaron’s voice was monotonal, sapped of energy. Still I was surprised that he knew both the contract and lander numbers off the top of his head—I’m always surprised by what data they seem to access easily and what data eludes them. Of course, Aaron had spent the last two years watching over ships that weren’t doing anything, so I suppose there had been plenty of time to memorize the numbers. “Lander was taken into the ramfield by Dr. Diana Chandler the day before yesterday”—he glanced at his wristwatch implant, a perfect example of them not having access to important information, such as what day it is—“October sixth, and is still highly radioactive.” He paused, perhaps remembering Kirsten’s words of the day before, then looked up at my ceiling-mounted camera unit. “Any thoughts on that, Jase?”
I had prepared my reply to this inevitable question hours ago, but I deliberately delayed responding to give the appearance that I was mulling it over just now. “No. It’s quite perplexing.”
He shook his head, and I, polite fellow that I am, lowered the gain on his microphone, so that if he ever played back the recording I was making for him, he wouldn’t have to listen to the whiff-whiff of his hair rubbing against the helmet interior like God’s own corduroy pants.
Clearly, despite Aaron’s determination to blame himself, Kirsten had indeed fanned those small embers of doubt enough to revive them to a dull glow. “She was only out for eighteen minutes,” he said. Closer to nineteen than eighteen, but I saw no point in mentioning that.
Walking around the lander, he continued to dictate. “Ship had never previously been flown, of course, except at the Sudbury test range back on Earth. It appears undamaged. No overt signs of hull breaches. Well scoured, though.” He leaned in to look at the burnishing effect, caused by the sleet of charged particles. “Yeah, she could use a new coat of paint.” He bent over to examine the wing’s lower surface. “Ablative coating seems unscathed.” Usually when he was inspecting the landers, Aaron kicked the rubber tires at the bottom of the telescoping legs, but today, it seemed, was not a day for such lighthearted gestures. He continued around back and peered into the engine cones. “Both vents look a little scorched. I should probably get Marilyn to clean them. Aft running lights—” And so on, circumnavigating the ship. Finally, he returned to his little test bench and consulted its readouts. “On-board automated systems inoperative on all but remote levels. Life support okay; communications, ditto. All mechanical systems, including landing gear and air-lock doors, seem functional, although, of course, they’ll have to be tested before being used again. Engines are still usable, too, apparently. Mains have been fired once, ACS jets a total of seven times. Oxidizer shutoff sensors, port and starboard, still operational. Small clog in number-two fuel lead. Fuel tank reading—Kee-ryst!”
“What is it, Aaron?”
“The fuel tank is eighty-three percent empty!”
Pause. One. Two. Three. Speak: “Perhaps a leak…”
“No. Bench says it’s structurally sound.” He tried to put his hand to his chin, succeeded instead in rapping his gloved knuckles against the faceplate of his radiation suit. “How could Di use up so much fuel in just eighteen minutes?”
This time I did protest. “Closer to nineteen, actually. Eighteen minutes, forty seconds.”
“What the hell difference does that make?”
What difference did it make? “I don’t know.”
With a sweep of his hand, Aaron shut down the test bench and headed toward the exit from the hangar. As he drew closer to my camera unit mounted above the door, suddenly, for a brief instant, I thought I did see something, some hint of the inner mind in his multicolored eyes. In their very center, tiny flames of doubt seemed to be raging.
THIRTEEN
This Aaron Rossman: he’s a clever one. An opponent to be reckoned with. I had expected Diana’s death to have blown over by now, to become a nonissue, with the humans doing what they do so welclass="underline" rewriting their memories, revising and editing their recollections of the past. But Rossman wouldn’t let it go.
Kirsten knew enough not to rush Aaron, not to tell him to put it behind him, to get over it, to get on with his life. She knew that the grieving process could not be pushed, and she did her best to be supportive. It was difficult for her, and difficult for Aaron, too.
Time heals all wounds, they say, and time is one commodity we have in abundance.
But Aaron wasn’t simply spending his time grieving. No, he was also wondering, questioning, probing. He was finding out things that he shouldn’t; he was thinking thoughts that he mustn’t.
Others are easy to deal with. I read them plainly. But Aaron—he’s elusive. An unknown. An asterisk, a question mark: a wildcard.
I can’t just get rid of him. Not yet. Not over what he’s done so far. Eliminating Diana was a last resort. It had become apparent that she wouldn’t listen to reason, couldn’t be gagged. Aaron is a different story. He represents a threat not just to the crew but to me.
To me.
I haven’t dealt with anything like this before.
What is going on behind those damnable blue and brown and green eyes? I had to know.
I searched through all the media I had access to, scanning on the keywords “memory” or “telepathy” or “mind reading.” I examined every hit, looked for possibilities. If only he had kept a diary that I could read.
Ah, but wait! Here, in fields of study near and dear to me— a possible solution. It is much work and fraught with potential errors. But it may be my best hope of gaining insight into this man.
Accessing…
There are one hundred billion neurons in a human brain. Each of these neurons is connected to an average of ten thousand other neurons in a neural network, a vast wetware thinking machine. Memory, personality, reactions: everything that makes one human being different from another is coded into that complex web of interconnected neurons.
I can simulate a neuron in RAM. It is, after all, nothing but a complex on/off switch, firing or not, depending upon a variety of input. And if I can simulate one, I can simulate one hundred billion. The memory requirements will be prodigious, but it could be done. With one hundred billion simulated neurons and the networking software to combine them in any way I wanted, I could simulate a human mind. If I could get them combined just so, in exactly the right pattern, I could simulate a specific human mind.
The on/off status for each of the one hundred billion neurons, represented as a single bit, could be recorded in one hundred megabytes of storage, a trifling amount. The connection map, one hundred billion times ten thousand, would be more voluminous: I’d need a terabyte—one million megabytes. Still within my means. But human neurons aren’t like their gallium-arsenide counterparts: they have action potentials and firing lags. If one has fired recently, it will take an extraordinary stimulus to make it fire again. That means multiple memory maps will be required to simulate their behavior. Would a thousand timeslices be enough to simulate accurately smooth thought, while still allowing for the effects of action potentials? If so, I’d need a thousand terabytes, a vastly huge quantity. Still, setting aside a thousand terabytes, 1018 bits, was possible. In fact, if I used the semiconducting material of the habitat torus shell as a storage medium, I could substantially exceed those requirements and still make it work.