Project Sail (12 page)

Worse, when the ship took to the air he mumbled, “Dear God, watch over my poor, worthless soul and guide us to our destination.” When they hit space, “Praise Jeebus, we have reached orbit.” On docking, he assured his fellow passengers that, “It is God’s will that our journey was successful.”

Lieutenant Thomas spent the trip smiling at Hawthorne, suggesting a hero worship he had not experienced in years. Better yet, he learned that Lieutenant Kelly Thomas was twenty-two years old, making her less than half his age. He would likely need pharmaceutical assistance to survive the trip to Uranus.

When the heavy lifter docked with the
Virgil
and as the passengers unbuckled, Captain Horus addressed the group.

“There has been a slight change in our travel schedule. We will make a quick stop before leaving Saturn orbit.”

Fisk protested, “You are being paid to take us to Oberon.”

“Yes, but someone just paid me ten thousand dollars to deliver a package to another of Saturn’s moons. We will depart for Oberon later than planned but well within our launch window.”

Hawthorne asked Horus, “Where?”

“Pan.”

“Pan?” Hawthorne repeated.

Wren told them, “It is in the Encke Gap in Saturn’s rings.”

Hawthorne said to the Captain, “Your special delivery isn’t a package; it’s me.”

---

An astronomer would describe Saturn’s rings as ice and rock particles ranging in size from dust to small asteroids. That astronomer would measure the rings at two hundred and eighty thousand kilometers wide with a thickness fluctuating from a few meters in some areas, nearly a mile in others.

Reagan Fisk was no astronomer. He did not see ice and rock as he viewed the rings from the
Virgil’s
bridge; he saw resources that could improve the lives of people.

They sailed low and fast over the chunks of rock and dust with Saturn to port and the universe to starboard. This quick side trip caused him consternation, but he put aside his angst and replaced it with pride, at least for a minute.

He was playing a part in what might be man’s biggest step forward. If he managed to keep Wren from pissing everyone off and Commander Hawthorne pointed in the right direction, he might just earn a promotion and a raise.

Just as important, Reagan Fisk understood the potential space represented. Those balls of ice and rock drifting in Saturn’s rings below the
Virgil
were the perfect example.

Pan orbited inside those rings, a so-called shepherd moon converted into the most important data and communications hub in space. The tiny satellite hosted the Laser Communications Relay, built jointly by three corporations to facilitate high-speed communications across the solar system. Construction involved lassoing dozens of asteroids in Saturn’s A-Ring into a network spanning a hundred square miles with Pan at the center.

When completed, the corporations created an independent entity to operate the relay. Fisk thought that a grand gesture of placing the public good ahead of profits.

He recognized that some people saw corporations as faceless entities full of corruption and excessive political influence. In contrast, Reagan Fisk saw UVI as a big family working to improve the human condition. Profit was the reward for success; greed a word used by shortsighted people who felt a sense of entitlement and did not understand the concepts of hard work and personal investment.

Reagan Fisk was familiar with those concepts. When he was five years old, his father lost his job as a loan officer, replaced by algorithms capable of accurately predicting an applicant’s breakfast three years into the future, let alone the ability to repay debts. Applying for a mortgage or lifestyle loan required thirty seconds at a computer kiosk, no human interaction required.

Like so many transitioning from the devastation of the Great Atlantic Tsunami to a world of space stations and nanobots, Reagan’s dad was lost to technology and lived the rest of his days on corporate relief.

With his family nearly bankrupt, Reagan started work at thirteen, writing dialogue files and personality profiles for companion robots, a job he did online from home while helping to care for an ailing grandmother.

Many of his peers applied for assistance when they turned eighteen as if it were a rite of passage. Reagan Fisk, however, took a transcript of academic honors into a corporate apprentice program. That meant long hours and no vacations but it paid dividends. Recognition from his superiors led to employment in UVI’s Space Resource Exploitation Division, a tough assignment for a young man afraid of orbital launches, but a boost to his career. His father had nearly cried with pride when he shared the news.

So when he heard complaints about the seven major corporations or capitalism in general, he saw it as ignorance and selfishness. Ironic how someone would call a corporation greedy for earning profit but campaign for taxes that took from the producers and gave to those who had no ambition, no desire to succeed. Watching news videos of anti-corporation protests made him so angry he wanted to scream.

So when he looked at Saturn he saw the resources that could power mankind into a bright future and he saw the producers making it happen, while the lazy sat home and collected a handout.

From the window he spied Pan, a walnut-shaped rock orbiting in an open gap in the rings. As it moved, the moon’s gravity sent gentle waves to either side, playing its shepherd’s role in clearing a path through the clutter.

Commander Hawthorne came to the bridge carrying an unopened bottle of liquor and spoke to Horus, who sat at the navigation console on the starboard side.

“Captain, how big is the package?”

“Smaller than a briefcase. I have no idea why someone would pay to have something that size delivered on a cargo ship when robotic couriers are available.”

“It’s not about the package; it is about a friend who wants me to visit.”

Horus started, “A friend? You know Lazarus?”

“When I knew him his name was Gerald and this is something he would pull.”

“I’ll give the package to you once we dock.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Hawthorne retreated from the bridge.

Fisk glanced out the front window again as they closed on Pan. To him, it resembled a flying saucer: a flat disc with a ball in the middle measuring forty kilometers across at best.

What a strange thing, running around in its private space between the rock and ice of the rings.

A friend? Lazarus?

A friend should not know Hawthorne’s whereabouts and this ship should not be diverted on a whim. It was one thing when Horus explained the ten thousand dollars he would collect for this detour—Fisk understood that motivation. But now he suspected there was more afoot.

Reagan chased after Hawthorne, reaching him in the corridor as they approached the canteen.

“Commander, wait one moment. Commander?”

“Yes, Mr. Fisk?” Hawthorne replied without stopping.

“Are you saying this side trip has to do with a friend of yours?”

“Something like that.”

“Commander, I need information.”

“No you don’t.”

Hawthorne stopped, but not to address Fisk. He stopped to look in the open door of a cabin, a quick glance and then he moved on.

Reagan followed and when he reached the open compartment door, he also looked inside. He saw Lieutenant Thomas sitting on the floor with her arm around a machine that might have been a robot dog. She and her metallic companion watched a black and white video of a fat bald man being poked in the eyes by a smaller man with a nasty disposition, which Thomas found incredibly funny.

Fisk then hurried to reach the Commander as he entered the canteen where Wren, Kost, and Carlson sat at the table.

Carlson—as usual—interacted with his wrist computer, seeing images no one else could see, while Kost sat on Wren’s lap. She had a sour expression on her face and Fisk saw why: she wore one of Wren’s earplugs, obviously sampling his music.

Hawthorne moved toward the cupboard.

“Commander Hawthorne, who is Lazarus and why did he pay thousands of dollars to deliver a package just so he could see you?”

Carlson joined the conversation without taking his eyes from whatever image danced on his wrist.

“Lazarus was the first human uploaded into a computer.”

“What?” Fisk held a finger in the air. “The guy whose brain they put in a computer a few years back?”

“Not his brain, dumb ass,” clearly Wren needed only one ear to listen to his music. “His consciousness and memories.”

“I thought that failed,” Fisk said.

“Nope, it worked.”

Hawthorne rummaged through the cupboard.

“The others failed,” Carlson said although he gave the conversation only a small fraction of his attention. “They could not repeat the success. Last I heard they gave up.”

“Yeah, after eight fucking attempts,” Wren said.

Hawthorne corrected, “Actually, the eighth one worked but the guy—if that’s what you could call him—kept screaming so they turned him off. The others never took hold.”

“That is fucked up,” Wren spat.

Fisk said, “So this friend, or computer, is out here and wants to see you. Somehow he heard you are on this ship and can afford ten grand to pay for a package to be delivered on this spacecraft so you can stop for a minute and say hello.”

Hawthorne found a snifter and closed the cupboard.

“First, Mr. Reagan, his station handles a third of the communications in the solar system, so he probably knew I was coming on the
Virgil
before you did. Second, I doubt he has any money of his own, so he probably hacked some corporate flunky’s account for the credits. You might want to check with your bank while we are docked.”

16. Lazarus

As Horus promised, entering the facility on Pan did not require shuttles or capsules. Built into the side of a rocky mountain, the base stood hundreds of feet above the surface; the
Virgil
need only pull alongside.

Hawthorne floated across a long docking tunnel and entered the base’s airlock. After a moment, the inner door opened, bathing him in bright light.

A walkway spanned a thin, deep chasm and then led into a big room that appeared part cave and part modern construction: stone walls combined with smooth paneling and track lighting.

“Greetings! Commander Hawthorne, I presume?”

The voice belonged to a middle-aged man with curly brown hair wearing a plaid shirt with blue jeans and eyeglasses that resembled corrective lenses but housed a computer interface.

“My name is Steven Tasker and I welcome you to ThinkTek.”

“Where?”

“ThinkTek is the name we use now, but we change it every so often; we believe that helps spur creativity.”

Tasker guided him across the walkway into a large chamber beneath a rotunda made of stone and metal. People milled around wearing a variety of dress including casual, formal and odd. A medley of scents tickled his nose, ranging from the smell of burning wire to a pleasant aroma suggesting flowers or a lady’s perfume.

The place struck Hawthorne as more a college dormitory than a high tech communications outpost.

He said, “Pan sits at the center of the solar system’s biggest communications network but it feels more like summer vacation around here.”

Tasker told him, “Robotic maintenance and computer control maintain the network, freeing us to explore the fullest extent of our creativity. We also store trillions of Yobibits of data for governments and corporations.”

They left behind the domed area and walked a wide hall lined with rooms of varying sizes. Hawthorne heard a strange tone that resembled a clarinet, and then another noise that sounded like a small turbine whirring to life.

As he walked with Tasker, he realized no one wore identification badges and there were no signs of door locks, guard stations, or surveillance equipment.

“Wait a second, I don’t see any signs of security,” but Hawthorne hit on the answer before his host could reply. “Let me guess: the major powers agree not to mess with Pan.”

“The corporations have a substantial investment in the relay.”

Hawthorne thought of Titan as well as the asteroid belt understanding.

“They keep coming up with new rules saying whom you can attack and where.”

Tasker did not understand but he flashed a friendly smile nonetheless.

“So, you know Lazarus?”

“I knew him when his name was Gerald Faust. We served together.”

Hawthorne glanced into a room and saw people combining yoga with virtual reality goggles, either exercising or playing.

“Have you met with him since his ascension?”

“Ascension? That is an interesting way to put it. I would stop in to see him every so often when he stayed on Mars. Why did he leave?”

“After the upload, the media turned him into a celebrity and started calling him Lazarus. He gained a sizable following.”

Based on the reverence in his voice, Hawthorne figured Tasker was one of those followers.

“He helped with the other upload attempts, but when they failed he became depressed. Not long after, they ended the program, so we invited him to join us. He is a critical part of the team now, even helping us work toward the next evolution of quantum computing.”

“I thought his upload was based on quantum computing.”

“In the past, we expected human uploading would involve mapping the brain and then simulating it with software, but Lazarus represented a new approach based on theories of quantum consciousness. His team physically removed the subatomic particles inside his brain that they identified as responsible for his personality and housed them in a computer. While technically we consider this system a photonic quantum computer, you could argue that it is a biological computer.”

“I’m lost.”

“If a brick house represents human consciousness, then the old approach was to copy the blueprints of that house and rebuild it inside a computer, resulting in one real house and one virtual one. The quantum approach takes apart the house brick by brick and then, brick by brick, rebuilds it inside the computer, all possible because we are dealing at the subatomic level both inside the body, and inside the computer. Because we are dealing with those tiny bricks, he may even be able to evolve someday, changing into a new form, or even adding to it. Consider sand on a beach; you can use it to build a castle or a pyramid or whatever, but you are still building with grains of sand.”