Rejoice, a Knife to the Heart Page 21

  The solo offings were, to Maxwell’s mind, more disturbing. There weren’t many of them, and these loners went quietly, without fuss. In their old lives they weren’t bullies, or assholes. They weren’t filled with all the hate that comes with the private fear of personal inadequacy. So, what were they seeing that drove them to the blade, the pills, the hose in the tailpipe?

  Aggression was innate, genetically programmed into the struggle for survival and success. So said the socio-biologists. Whatever forms human society took—through all of history and back into prehistory—it all boiled down to competition, to succeeding over others, often at their expense. People fought to make room for themselves and that had been going on forever.

  Animals did the same. Insects, too.

  Is it typical human hubris to think we’re different?

  Problem was (or so he’d been reading, getting ever deeper into the philosophical discussions online), that sociobiological tact had been employed as an excuse for virtually every reprehensible act ever committed by one human over another, not to mention the human war against the environment. All genetically programmed, built-in absolution. Apparently, the much-vaunted human mind was little more than a slave to reptilian impulses carved into the DNA.

  Now, if ET believed that, then it was in the process of conducting a protracted invitation to universal suicide and, ultimately, the extinction of the human species. All without a single alien appendage being raised. A clever, almost poetic proof of humanity’s deterministic, self-destructive fate.

  And then, with the world expunged of its dominant, most vicious species, ET could finally land its colony ships, to set up in the fecund garden of humanity’s absence.

  There was a chilling logic to that.

  Maybe the solo suicides were people who’d seen too clearly the future awaiting this planet. People who didn’t want to stick around to witness the grisly demise. Or maybe they simply understood that without aggression, and all its outlets, humanity was doomed anyway. Like pulling wires out of the magneto coil, the engine couldn’t run. All progress halted, all ambition nullified, an end to dreaming itself.

  The optimist needed aggression as much as the pessimist. Both engaged with reality as if it was an adversary. Faith decided the outcome. For the pessimist, it was the faith that nothing would—or could—succeed, which in turn sought to drag reality down to confirm the veracity of that belief. For the optimist there was the faith that things could be better, that life could be improved, that no one need lose in the future’s game. And so they pushed against reality, seeking to raise it ever higher.

  Fight, struggle, defy, refuse to surrender: all definitive traits of life. Refuse to yield those faiths: it seemed history was the tale of that push and pull, and yet, how often had optimism led to calamity? How often had pessimism fed cynicism and thereby guaranteed that the worst that could happen, did happen?

  What the hell is ET up to? Shutting us down like this?

  Everyone was asking, but no answers seemed forthcoming. Was humanity meant to work it out for itself? Just what kind of fucking First Contact was this, anyway?

  Frustration and anger had the internet boiling over.

  Idly, Maxwell wondered if people who believed in God spent their whole lives asking these same damned questions, and just like ET, God wasn’t offering up any answers.

  He sighed and straightened to stretch his aching back.

  Time for another bowl of ice-cream.

  “Don’t know about any of you out there,” said Joey Sink, “but I thought getting out of jail would feel great, so why doesn’t it?” He paused, winked at the steady red light of the web-cam. “Hey what, Joey? Did you get sent up for something? That’s what you’re asking, right? Nah, I only been living in the same world as the rest of you. You know, the prison of fear. And now ET’s gone and unlocked the door and out we stumble, blinking in the sunlight. So, you tell me, how does it feel for you?”

  He then moved to lean forward, only to pull back again to keep his visage centered in the camera’s eye. “Now you’re saying ‘oh yeah, Joey? What about ET? That’s something to fear! So we’re out of one prison and into another one, Joey!’ Well, maybe so, and maybe that’s why I’m not dancing on this desk-top.” He shrugged. “Hey, got some callers … hold on, here’s my old foul-mouthed buddy, King Con. Hey there, bro, let’s hear the latest miracle, just keep it PG—whatcha got?”

  “Venus is getting hammered!”

  “Sorry, what’s that?”

  “Impacts, man. Icy comets. Wham wham wham! And there might be a big old asteroid now orbiting the planet—”

  “Hang a sec, bro, got Nonny Mouse rapping on the window here. Bet he’s got something to say about your claims—”

  “Claims?” King Con said. “It’s happening, man!”

  “Nonny Mouse, how you all doing at JPL or wherever it is you are?”

  “Hi Joey, and hi there, King Con. You had it right, mostly. We’ve already had a rain of rubble from broken-up asteroids, presumably helping to blanket the frozen carbon dioxide covering the planet’s surface. Now, these icy asteroids aren’t full impacts. They’re grazing the atmosphere, being busted up into snow and hail and making multiple passes. Which makes sense. You don’t want heavy kinetic impacts on the surface of the planet—not if you can help it. The challenge, beyond just cooling Venus down by shading it, is the runaway greenhouse condition of the atmosphere. The shade turned the carbon dioxide into snow, which was the start of things. But what’s left up in the atmosphere still needs settling down. You need water—rain and snow—to start taking out the suspended corrosives—the sulfuric acid. The whole thing is pretty amazing.”

  “Wow,” said Joey before King Con could cut in, “unbelievable. We gonna have ET as our new neighbors? Solar system’s getting a bit crowded, ain’t it? I mean, that’s like, our backyard.”

  “We don’t know why Venus is being terraformed, or who it’s meant for,” said Nonny Mouse. “Not to say even us techies aren’t panicking every now and then. But well, it’s all out of our hands, isn’t it? Maybe it does feel like someone’s setting up digs in our backyard, it’s not like we planted a flag there—”

  “The Russians did!” King Con interrupted. “Only it burned up. Still, they fu—frickin landed there like, decades ago!”

  “Hardly relevant,” Nonny Mouse replied. “It’s all out now anyway, but we were facing serious prohibitions when it came to our space program, and I don’t mean just the funding cuts. Getting multimillion-dollar technology swatted out of the Lunar and Martian skies put a damper on our plans, you know. So, what I’m saying is, it’s not all our fault, know what I mean?”

  “Sure sure,” King Con said. “That really sucked. Still, you’d think ET would cut us some slack precisely because of that. Out of our hands, right?”

  “We don’t know if Venus is being terraformed for them or for us,” Nonny Mouse said again.

  “For us?” Joey managed to interject, tapping the mute temporarily on King Con’s feed. “Wow, you really think it might be for us? A whole new planet to mob and mess up?”

  “It’s like this,” explained Nonny Mouse. “Overpopulation is driving Climate Change here on Earth. The one primary cause that no one talks about, instead going on about air pollution or whatever—don’t get me wrong, that stuff was bad in its own right. But overpopulation, Joey, that’s your elephant in the room. So, if you’re really going to bring down global warming, you need to address the fact that there’s too many people on this planet. The fix? Give us another planet, an empty one. One about as Earth-like as we can get. And we won’t be able to screw it up like we did the Earth. You honestly think there won’t be Exclusion Zones on Venus?”

  “Oh man,” laughed Joey, “that’s a brain-trip, Nonny. But what’s got you thinking ET’s going all soft on us? Haven’t you been reading the news out there? We’re killing ourselves everywhere and ET’s not doing a damned thing about it!”

  “Actually,” said Nonny Mou
se, “most of those cult suicides are going on here in the States, and one small one in Alberta that may have had more to do with the jobs lost with the end of the Tar Sands.” He paused. “Sucks to admit it, but it’s our country’s that losing it. Most of the others are managing just fine.”

  Joey released the mute on King Con. “Hey King Con, what you think?”

  “Hey, bro, if I’m gonna rail I’d appreciate it if you didn’t gag me.”

  “Sorry, bud, but this is my show, ain’t it? But you’re clear now. What have you got to say?”

  “Aw, it don’t matter. Maybe Nonny’s got it down. Let’s frickin hope so. Otherwise, it could be Day of the Triffids from Venus. Hey Nonny, I was gonna ask—what’s going on around Mars?”

  “Not sure,” Nonny Mouse replied. “Deimos and Phobos went crunch, softly. Barely a cloud in their wake. May have picked up a few more chunks of rock, too. But we’re not seeing any wholesale climate tinkering going on with Mars—”

  King Con’s interruption sounded smug. “Try IR, buddy.”

  “I’m sorry—IR? Infrared?”

  “Planet’s heating up,” King Con said. “Just slip some IR film into your telescope, man, and take a pic. Got that news from some amateur, beating you all to the punch. Planet’s getting hot, Nonny. My pal’s guess is the core’s heating up, going molten again, and when that happens there’s gonna be a new electromagnetic field around Mars, something strong enough to hold an atmosphere. It’s baby steps on Mars, but it’s happening!”

  Nonny said, “Uh, signing off, Joey. Thanks, King Con, we’ll get on that—too much obsessing on Venus going on over here. Later!”

  “Well,” said Joey as Nonny’s feed went dark, “how about that, folks? Stuff’s happening out there, for sure. Whew! What next, I wonder? This is it for me right now. Later, King Con, and thanks as always, bro.”

  “Anytime, Joey.”

  “Put a plug in for Joey’s Kitchen Sink, folks, and see you next time!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “The belief that all you need to do to create sentient Artificial Intelligence is to keep piling on the processors, is dependent on a belief in a mechanistic universe, a universe without God. But if the Quantum folks are right, consciousness lies at the heart of the discriminatory definitions that make the universe work the way it does. And once consciousness is recognized as a necessary component to the creation of reality, we are facing one of two choices: either the universe didn’t even exist until the arrival of humans with the capacity of perceiving it. Or, our consciousness is not the only consciousness in the universe. In which case … hello, God.”

  SAMANTHA AUGUST

  The President of the United States sat glowering at his Science Advisor. He’d never much liked scientists, with their superior airs and all that technical gobbledygook they were spouting all the time. And even worse than the ones with verbal diarrhea, he now amended, were scientists who talked straight. “What do you mean, we haven’t got a rocket?”

  “The Russians said no, Mister President,” Ben Mellyk replied. “And we’ve never had any luck dealing with the Chinese. Besides, they’re launching their own in two weeks.”

  Raine Kent turned to Daniel Prester. “This is ridiculous. We’re the technological leaders of the whole damned world, and we don’t have a rocket?”

  The Director of Homeland Security shrugged, making it clear that this wasn’t his bailiwick.

  Ben Mellyk laced his hands together on the table before him, drew a deep breath, and then said, “Mister President, the United States no longer leads the world in technology, not in its production nor in innovation. We haven’t in some time, to be honest.”

  “Really.” Raine Kent’s tone was flat. “And how did that happen?”

  “Our education system sucks. At all levels, sir.”

  “Passing the buck, huh? Fine, do that. So what’s wrong with our education system, Mister Scientist?”

  “Dropping standards, underfunding, the transformation of universities into businesses, lack of job security for university professors, a burgeoning sense of entitlement among attendees who used to be students but are now customers … shall I go on?”

  “No,” the President replied. “I want it fixed. Who’s my education weenie?”

  “Harcourt,” Albert Strom replied from the other end of the table, where he was now in the habit of taking refuge. “John Harcourt. One of your first appointments, Mr. President.”

  “Oh, him. Well, what’s he done so far? … Anyone? Nothing? He’s done nothing?”

  “The Democrats keep filibustering—”

  “The Democrats are all over Education! Every third damn quote from their caucus is about Education!”

  “Yes sir, but their policies run counter to Republican principles.”

  “Republican principles? What, a whole nation of stupid people? Is that a Republican principle?”

  “Besides,” added Strom, “it’s primarily a state matter. Education, I mean. Our party typically gets in on the promise of tax cuts, mostly. I think—”

  “I want a fucking rocket!” Raine Kent shouted, slamming a fist on the tabletop. “An American rocket! Not a Russian rocket, not a Chinese rocket, not Indian, not French, an American rocket!”

  Ben Mellyk cleared his throat. “Well, there’s Simon Gist—”

  “What, that black guy with the English accent?”

  “Nigerian, originally.”

  “He lives here in America, right? So he’s American now, isn’t he? Shit, don’t tell me he’s a Muslim.”

  Ben shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Not that I’m aware of, sir. In any case, he has his Infinity Project, low-orbit, low-cost lifter. I think they’re working on the third iteration at the moment, though I can’t tell you what their schedule for next launch looks like. Still, sir, that may be our best hope now that Lockheed’s overhauled their whole program to make use of the EFFE.” He let his words trail away, seeing a slightly glazed look in his president’s eyes.

  “Low orbit, low cost? That sounds like something you buy in Walmart! The guy’s Nigerian? You really think it’s going to work? Didn’t he crash one? Didn’t the crew die? We don’t need another disaster on the launch-pad. Look, I’ve got my astronaut! All I need now is one simple … goddamned … rocket!”

  “Kepler Industrial may be our best bet,” Ben Mellyk said again.

  “Kepler? Wasn’t he American?”

  The conference room was well sound-proofed, so all Colonel Gus Riesling could hear from where he sat in the antechamber was the occasional wordless bray from the President.

  The air-conditioner was doing its best to keep him cool in his uniform and his dress lid rested lightly on his thighs. His three-year stint flying missions over Afghanistan was beginning to feel like a cake-walk given the utter snafu of this mission. NASA had been trying to angle away from plucking fighter-jocks for its astronaut program, and lacking a PhD in anything remotely useful, Gus had always considered himself a low bet.

  There was a nasty rumor out there that the President had picked him out from a stack of PR photographs—the same package sent off to the rare elementary school that gave a flying fuck about the US Space Agency—and that it had been his All-American Midwestern chisel-jawed, sandy-haired good looks that had decided the President.

  Gus had made a habit of being honest with himself, and he suspected the rumor was probably pretty much dead on. The flying side of things he had down. Same for the engineering expertise, a necessity for anyone entering the program. But crash courses from ambushed anthropologists and exo-biologists in frumpy clothes seemed less than ideal for what could be the first human to alien face-to-face contact in history.

  Well, the first contact not involving cave men or tribal priests or pharaohs or Incas or people named Ezekiel.

  And now they were bringing in linguists and psychologists and sociologists and priests and the whole thing was turning into an unholy mess.

  Whatever argument was going on in the c
onference room continued, and Gus worked hard to keep his hands from tracking the rim of his hat. He was here with a mission of his own, after all. One last pitch for a co-pilot. He didn’t relish the insane prospect of doing all this solo, flying up there alone—really, who did that anymore? Not since the first slew of Gemini astronauts back in the Nineteen Sixties.

  There were about a dozen candidates to choose from—space station veterans one and all, although the run of protracted stays in micro-gravity made most of them high-risk options for another high-g ascent into orbit (a detail kept mostly quiet for PR purposes). And if there wasn’t another qualified newbie in the pipeline because of the last round of funding cuts, then grab someone from another country! A friendly. Some Brit or Aussie or Canuck.

  Now, Gus considered himself a brave man, and he’d do his duty, and if Gordon Cooper did it solo then by God he could, too. But Gordo wasn’t heading up to talk to ET, wasn’t heading up to knock on the door like an unwelcome insurance salesman, wasn’t on his way uninvited and not knowing if he’d get a wave on in or a proton beam through the forehead.

  Unfortunately the man running the country wasn’t good with taking advice, and just how scary was that?

  So, it turned out that one chump was expendable, but not two. Gus knew he had all of NASA on his side, and Mellyk as well, but maybe it was Mellyk getting the dress-down in there right now.

  These days, the voice of reason was down to a whimper. A million people were on the march to DC at the moment, a million bemused, bewildered, frightened people. They wanted something from the leader of their country. Exactly what, no one could say. At least, not coherently. If it all got boiled down, Gus thought, it might come out as ‘we want to go back to how it used to be. Please?’

  Alas, the President didn’t have that power. No one did. Somewhere up there were the representatives of a civilization from another planet, a distant planet, who had conquered the cold depths of space, figured out a way around the limits of light-speed, the physical damage of zero-g and radiation, the psychological stress of living in a tin can surrounded by the merciless vacuum of space.