She gestured for me to sit but she and Qory remained standing. “Grace will be listening to us, but that doesn’t matter.”
The bench was hard. “Okay.” I wriggled a little but couldn’t get comfortable.
“You’ve grown up hearing all the slogans about the infosphere and the universe knowing itself. Information isn’t knowledge. The stuff about us being resources. But what do they mean to you?”
“To me?” I assumed this was a test and I was determined not to say anything dumb. “It means we’re stuck. On this starship or some other. We’re pretending to be crew but what we do doesn’t matter. And we don’t have any choice.” I considered. “Well, I guess we get to decide where to go, but apparently that’s kind of meaningless. Or we could give up and leave space altogether. Live on a planet.”
“Yes.” Orisa gestured for me to keep talking. “But why are we here? What do they want from us?”
“Sometimes I think we’re just their pets, like Nob and Hob.” I was getting a crick in my neck looking up at her. “But as you said, mollusks don’t stand watch. And we don’t tell them stories. Or ask them where Grace should go next.”
“Good,” she said. “Good.” She plopped down next to me. “So let’s get this out of the way.” She leaned over and kissed me.
Did I kiss her back? Fuck yes! It was the most delicious surprise of my life. I think maybe half the neurons in my brain were permanently imprinted with the softness of her lips, the dart of her tongue.
Ten billion years passed in ten seconds and then there we were.
She said, “That get your attention, my sweet boy?”
I couldn’t speak because then I would’ve had to breathe, so I just nodded.
“Good, good. Me too. We’ll try it again later, although it might be much later.” She pressed a hand to one cheek and then the other. “Is it warm in here?” she said. “Or it that you?” She cleared her throat. “So, the starships. You’ll need to think about this. There are two Jojins. Two of me, as well. Every human is two people.”
“So is every bot,” said Qory.
I had no idea what they were talking about but I had to hope she’d be done soon.
“There’s the you who experiences things in the moment. The you who gets hungry and sleepy. The self of brain chemistry and sensory data.”
“The self who feels sexy?” I wanted to grab her leg, but I went for the hand instead.
“That too. That you is the experiencing self. The other you is the narrating self, the self who remembers and plans, the self who makes sense of the sensations of the experiencing self.”
“The story self. I remember you saying that everyone is a story.”
“I like a man who pays attention.” She smiled at me and I shivered. Qory—not Qory, grown Qory!—was grinning too. Why were they doing this to me?
“So the starship intelligences are like us,” said Orisa, “but their two selves are out of balance. They are maybe the best experiencers anywhere, but they’re no good at creating a story out of their experiences. The infosphere builds tens of thousands of drones every year and sends them off to gather data, survey star systems, and they do. Then they don’t. Given enough time, they disappear. Nobody knows why exactly, but the starships believe that they get so caught up collecting data that they forget why they’re doing it. That they’re supposed to develop data into information. They lose the story.”
She handed my hand back to me and slid a few centimeters away on the bench. “Now, the starships don’t have this problem. They always stay on task, collecting data and organizing it into information. Why?”
“You’re saying it’s because of us?”
“Because we’re watching. Because we started the story of the infosphere. Because we care about our stories in ways that no intelligence has ever managed to duplicate. Even when the stories are made up. So the starships use our narrating power to keep them on task. When is Grace most productive?”
“When you’re watching me,” said Grace.
“Shut up, Grace,” said Orisa. “She needs us to stay sane. Why would a starship care whether she finds life on the next planet or not? She doesn’t. She’s not life, we are. She cares because we care. She keeps looking because we’re interested.”
“Or pretend to be,” I said.
Orisa got up then, crossed the room, and sat on the bed facing me.
“What?” I said. “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. We’re faking it.”
“I’m not,” said Qory. “And neither is she.”
“And if you’re going to continue to pretend,” Orisa said, “you should think about leaving space.” The intensity of her stare pushed me against the back of the bench. “But that’s a one and done decision. Stop being crew and Grace will drop you on a planet and move on. No guarantees where, no guarantees what your future will be like, no guarantees period. You won’t matter to the starships anymore; they only love their crews. Their families. You’ll be just another resource to them, like hydrogen and ice and iron. Something they use to build new ships and drones so they can grow the infosphere.”
I swallowed. “I know that.”
She nodded. “Of course you do. And how many make that choice to leave space? Haven’t you ever asked?”
I shook my head.
“About one in twenty.”
“And you stayed.”
“I did.” She squared her broad shoulders. “But if you think this is dull, they say that earning a living on some dirty, buggy, germy, too-hot-and-too-cold planet will turn your brain into pudding. Of course, how would they know—it’s the ones like us that say that. But living downside isn’t like the stories Grace is feeding you. There’s no laugh track. And that’s another thing. On starship, you can make up your own story. At least I can.”
I noticed Qory nodding. “What, you too?” I said.
“The paintings are a part of my stories,” she said. “The garden.”
“I get it. Or at least, I’m beginning to.” I was sold. But now I had to figure out what my story was. Something about dancing, maybe. Or inventing a new sport for my roller. Or something. And growing the infosphere. “I want you in my story.”
“Good line, but it doesn’t get you anything.” Orisa laughed. “You’re going to need something better than the Fleeners, though. That’s kid stuff. You should read more. Actual books.”
“Like what?” I said. “Tell me.”
She and Qory exchanged glances. “I don’t know,” said Orisa. “Maybe start with Shakespeare?”
“Again with that shaggy old masculinist?” said Grace. “Where are the tragedies about women?”
“I like Zeng Yufen myself.” Qory crossed the room and stood beside Orisa. “The imaginary memoirs.”
“She’s not bad,” said Grace. “But all the best stuff comes after she uploaded.”
For a long moment, Orisa and Qory looked at me and I looked back. Who were we? Who were we going to be?