 | |  | |  | |  |
"So let me get this straight. You solved the problem of the exploding FTL drive, but
the solution is worse than the initial problem?"
Thomas Wells nodded miserably.
"How in the world could it be worse? You look like heck, by the way."
Thomas ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it as much as Einstein’s famous mop in
the poster opposite him. That was about all that was the same in the office,
though—that and the two men locked in painful conversation. The three months had
taken as much of a toll on his office as they had on Thomas Wells. Maybe more. The
last time he’d managed to convince Minister Creasey to come to his office, he’d
cleaned and straightened to honor the man he’d needed to convince. This time,
well, this time he’d given up, and the surrounding disarray showed it. The only clean
spot besides the two chairs the men sat in was an irregular circle on the desk around
a small device.
Thomas blinked. What had the other man asked? Oh yes. "How could it be worse?
Well, take my word for it: it is."
"I thought you said you were onto something with the tests involving living
subjects." When Thomas didn’t answer, the minister prompted him. "Your reports
said you could improve the odds if you included a plant or animal on the test
rockets?"
The physicist nodded. "That was my idea, too. I couldn’t support it mathematically
yet, but intuitively it seemed like the essential time when a similar dividing line
between otherwise identical states was the line between living and dead tissue.
One instant, alive, the next dead . . . it was the closest precursor we’d experienced
to the matter/anti-matter mirror."
"Is that what you’re calling it now?"
"In public. In private I call it the mirror of life and death."
"Go on," the minister said.
"We weren’t getting any further with mechanized trials, so I started with plant
tissue. We’d switched to smaller ships, less to minimize loss when they exploded
than to minimize the explosions. By this time, they were just enough of a shell to
hold an atmosphere, minimal propulsion and navigation systems, and a radio. In case
they survived. The first ones, with the plants, didn’t even have the radio. We’d just
send them through on autopilot, have them programmed to turn, and come back
through. If they didn’t blow up, we’d go in and examine them."
"And they had a better success rate."
"Marginally. We couldn’t explain it, but it was there. There was some trouble—some
plants that made it through withered and died—but we thought it was from residual
radiation from the failed attempts."
"So you moved on to animal trials."
"Yes. You know all this."
"Except where it is headed. Except why it failed. Except why we can’t send people
through. Except why we’re trapped on this damn rock, breeding ourselves to death."
Startled out of his self-pitying mope, Thomas looked up.
The minister was boiling mad. "You ass. You think you’re the only one who wants the
stars? The only one who cares? The only one who makes tough decisions about who
lives and dies? Just this morning, I had to—"
Creasey took a breath, and, as plainly as if he’d folded his anger and tucked it into
his jacket pocket, was calm again. "Go on."
Ashamed, Thomas went on. "Some of the plants that returned died, but at least
they made it through. We figured, well, we were desperate. The clock was ticking.
So we tried animals."
"With a higher success rate."
"Yes. And more ambiguous results."
"Explain."
"More of them survived. But more of them sickened and died. Some wouldn’t eat.
The turtles just sat there until they starved. Some—the mice ate each other. But
the higher up the ladder of biological complexity, the greater the initial success
rate. We decided we needed to try a conscious mind, fully aware of the dangers and
the choices involved."
"And that’s when you asked me to get you volunteers."
Thomas bowed his head. If he’d been ashamed before, what should he call what he
was feeling now, so much stronger, so much darker?
"They were real volunteers," Creasey said mildly. "And they were all fully informed of
their chances for survival."
"Informed! Well, okay. They could all parrot the statistics I’d told you in our previous
visit, and all were very clear on how well they would be paid for each trial jump. Or
their families, and—" Thomas broke off, rubbing his forehead. "It’s just . . . oh,
Christ. I can’t tell it."
With that, the physicist reached out and pressed a button on the device on his
desk. Silence followed, and Minister Creasey looked at him. Thomas explained,
"There’s some dead air at the beginning. Then you’ll see."
"It’s just a recorder, then?"
"It was one of several out at the test site. Three rigged for each human subject, and
shh."
The first sound that came from the recorder was a ragged inhalation. Then a sob.
Eventually, the crying stopped, and a man’s voice could be heard. It cracked from
time to time, and lapsed into sobs. Thomas had heard it before. He’d lost count of
how many times he’d listened to it. To all of them. He listened to them at night, as
a kind of penance. He cried too, most nights. Now, he just listened.
". . . my family. Make sure you tell my family I loved them. Tell them I . . ." more
crying, then . . . "I’d do another jump, but I just can’t—the dying is too hard. I can
feel it. He—I—it only takes the briefest instant to die, but it’s with me forever . . ."
Then there was just crying. The minister shook his head, troubled but still not
getting it.
Thomas lifted the recorder from his desk, and replaced it with another one. Before
he pressed the replay button, he said, "I’m calling it molecular resonance. It happens
on the cellular level."
Then he pushed the button. The two men listened to another weep. Eventually,
they listened to him speak. "This is Devi Singh. Singh here. I . . . oh, it is too hard. I
can’t go on, knowing in my belly that I am dead. That I am already dead. Tell them I’
m sorry. I can’t . . ."
Greg Beatty © 2009
the solution is worse than the initial problem?"
Thomas Wells nodded miserably.
"How in the world could it be worse? You look like heck, by the way."
Thomas ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it as much as Einstein’s famous mop in
the poster opposite him. That was about all that was the same in the office,
though—that and the two men locked in painful conversation. The three months had
taken as much of a toll on his office as they had on Thomas Wells. Maybe more. The
last time he’d managed to convince Minister Creasey to come to his office, he’d
cleaned and straightened to honor the man he’d needed to convince. This time,
well, this time he’d given up, and the surrounding disarray showed it. The only clean
spot besides the two chairs the men sat in was an irregular circle on the desk around
a small device.
Thomas blinked. What had the other man asked? Oh yes. "How could it be worse?
Well, take my word for it: it is."
"I thought you said you were onto something with the tests involving living
subjects." When Thomas didn’t answer, the minister prompted him. "Your reports
said you could improve the odds if you included a plant or animal on the test
rockets?"
The physicist nodded. "That was my idea, too. I couldn’t support it mathematically
yet, but intuitively it seemed like the essential time when a similar dividing line
between otherwise identical states was the line between living and dead tissue.
One instant, alive, the next dead . . . it was the closest precursor we’d experienced
to the matter/anti-matter mirror."
"Is that what you’re calling it now?"
"In public. In private I call it the mirror of life and death."
"Go on," the minister said.
"We weren’t getting any further with mechanized trials, so I started with plant
tissue. We’d switched to smaller ships, less to minimize loss when they exploded
than to minimize the explosions. By this time, they were just enough of a shell to
hold an atmosphere, minimal propulsion and navigation systems, and a radio. In case
they survived. The first ones, with the plants, didn’t even have the radio. We’d just
send them through on autopilot, have them programmed to turn, and come back
through. If they didn’t blow up, we’d go in and examine them."
"And they had a better success rate."
"Marginally. We couldn’t explain it, but it was there. There was some trouble—some
plants that made it through withered and died—but we thought it was from residual
radiation from the failed attempts."
"So you moved on to animal trials."
"Yes. You know all this."
"Except where it is headed. Except why it failed. Except why we can’t send people
through. Except why we’re trapped on this damn rock, breeding ourselves to death."
Startled out of his self-pitying mope, Thomas looked up.
The minister was boiling mad. "You ass. You think you’re the only one who wants the
stars? The only one who cares? The only one who makes tough decisions about who
lives and dies? Just this morning, I had to—"
Creasey took a breath, and, as plainly as if he’d folded his anger and tucked it into
his jacket pocket, was calm again. "Go on."
Ashamed, Thomas went on. "Some of the plants that returned died, but at least
they made it through. We figured, well, we were desperate. The clock was ticking.
So we tried animals."
"With a higher success rate."
"Yes. And more ambiguous results."
"Explain."
"More of them survived. But more of them sickened and died. Some wouldn’t eat.
The turtles just sat there until they starved. Some—the mice ate each other. But
the higher up the ladder of biological complexity, the greater the initial success
rate. We decided we needed to try a conscious mind, fully aware of the dangers and
the choices involved."
"And that’s when you asked me to get you volunteers."
Thomas bowed his head. If he’d been ashamed before, what should he call what he
was feeling now, so much stronger, so much darker?
"They were real volunteers," Creasey said mildly. "And they were all fully informed of
their chances for survival."
"Informed! Well, okay. They could all parrot the statistics I’d told you in our previous
visit, and all were very clear on how well they would be paid for each trial jump. Or
their families, and—" Thomas broke off, rubbing his forehead. "It’s just . . . oh,
Christ. I can’t tell it."
With that, the physicist reached out and pressed a button on the device on his
desk. Silence followed, and Minister Creasey looked at him. Thomas explained,
"There’s some dead air at the beginning. Then you’ll see."
"It’s just a recorder, then?"
"It was one of several out at the test site. Three rigged for each human subject, and
shh."
The first sound that came from the recorder was a ragged inhalation. Then a sob.
Eventually, the crying stopped, and a man’s voice could be heard. It cracked from
time to time, and lapsed into sobs. Thomas had heard it before. He’d lost count of
how many times he’d listened to it. To all of them. He listened to them at night, as
a kind of penance. He cried too, most nights. Now, he just listened.
". . . my family. Make sure you tell my family I loved them. Tell them I . . ." more
crying, then . . . "I’d do another jump, but I just can’t—the dying is too hard. I can
feel it. He—I—it only takes the briefest instant to die, but it’s with me forever . . ."
Then there was just crying. The minister shook his head, troubled but still not
getting it.
Thomas lifted the recorder from his desk, and replaced it with another one. Before
he pressed the replay button, he said, "I’m calling it molecular resonance. It happens
on the cellular level."
Then he pushed the button. The two men listened to another weep. Eventually,
they listened to him speak. "This is Devi Singh. Singh here. I . . . oh, it is too hard. I
can’t go on, knowing in my belly that I am dead. That I am already dead. Tell them I’
m sorry. I can’t . . ."
Greg Beatty © 2009
Excerpt From
"God's Gift"
by Greg Beatty
"God's Gift"
by Greg Beatty
| BACK to the Leaps of Faith page |
