Living in Syn (14 page)

Mission
woke up and saw Susan dozing in the chair beside his bed.  He watched the
rhythms of her breathing, the work file clutched in her hand.  He studied the lock
of hair that fell across her face.  She opened her eyes and smiled.  "Hi. 
How do you feel?"

In
truth, he felt a bit disincorporated, not an uncommon feeling for patients who
have slept as much as he had.  He tried to shift somewhat in the bed and said,
"Don't take this the wrong way, but don't you ever go home?  You need a
decent meal and a good night's sleep."

She
smiled again.  "I'm managing.  Your place just seems empty without the
stench of your cigarettes."

"Look,
Your sarcasm really is fine in small doses, but can't you ever say something
positive?  You know, like,
Mission, you are irresistible in a pale green
hospital gown
."

"Alright,
I'll give it a try.  Mission, I think your stomach is quite handsome now that
it's shaved."

Mission
looked at her for a moment and said, "I can tell I'm going to have to be
incredibly careful when I ask you for anything."

Then his
face turned serious and he said, "How's the trip coming?"

"Very
good.  We have a firm itinerary, we are 90% complete on the equipment list, and
we even met our Pioneer teammate."

"Dick?"

"You
were right, the name is also a description.  He's a lecherous little weasel who
appears to suffer from caffeine overdose."

"Did
he talk about his interests in the trip?"

"Yes,
he said he's really tagging along as an efficiency analyst.  He's very
interested in our diagnostics to maximize utilization of synthetics in the
mining process."

"Well,
that doesn't sound too bad.  Hey!  I've got to talk to the professor.  I
promised him an answer on Monday, and ... "

Susan
pointed across the room.  Mission turned to see Professor Matlin, standing by
the room divider and smiling.  "Hello Mission.  You seem to be feeling
better."

Susan
said, "This looks like a good time to run some errands.  Bye."

Mission
nodded.  "Yes, I'm ready to get out of this bed and back to the world of
the living."

The
professor shook his finger.  "If you try and rush this, you'll end up
waving good-bye to the team as they leave.  I have to tell you, I’m very
concerned with this entire plan."

"You
should be.  The risks are real.  But Susan’s going to be safe with Montag.  I
think I should sit down with you and Chandler before we leave.  We all need to
be clear on what authority I'll have in terms of reaching an accord."

Matlin's
eyebrows raised.  "You know what’s going to happen!  Or at least you
suspect.  What is it?"

Mission
said, "I'm not sure.  I get these feelings and the supporting facts float
to the top of my consciousness later on.  How would Paradox react if they had
to scrap this line?  You could use the same physical brain and the same body,
but with radically different programming."

"Well,
my staff is playing with some ideas."

"Any
revolutionary ideas as opposed to evolutionary?"

"Yes,
you know Elliot, he's the smallish, very young, very bright engineer?"

Mission smiled.
“That doesn’t really narrow the field, but yes, I know Elliot.”

"Yes. 
Well, he came to me saying that we have been trying to shoehorn an organic
programming system into an electronics based brain.  He developed the
fundamentals of a programming language and system that he tailored to the
functioning of a polychromadrine based brain."

Mission
looked at the professor and said, "This is just my opinion, but I think
you should fund that system and go to prototype as quickly as possible."

Matlin
considered the suggestion.  "Mission you talk like a man who works for the
company.  Do you work for the company?"

His
expression was pained.  "Look, I want to accept the position offered me,
because I don't want to wonder for the rest of my life, if I could have done
it.  But I fear that I won't know what I'm doing."

Matlin
sat down at the foot of the bed.  "I don't have any doubts.  But if I did,
our discussion just now would erase them.  You’re looking at a very narrow
interpretation of what an engineer does.  You're thinking that someone hands you
specs for a frequency analyzer, you go through them with a fine tooth comb, and
turn out a detailed design specifying every component, from the power source
and the cabinet, to the chips, and the I/O systems.  Right?  Of course I'm
right."

"But
Mission, do you know how long an engineer can do that sort of work?  An average
of four to six years.  Tops.  And then they've lost touch with the current
theory in their field, and they look to some kid who doesn't even shave yet, to
take over.  Those kids are an important part of the work."

"But
you know what?  At the same time, they are complete idiots.  They find it
difficult to consider costs constraints.  They don't really understand how
their module fits into the system being built, and they couldn't begin to take
into account the wants and needs of the customer."

Matlin
tapped his chest and said, "I do that for them.  Senior Engineers do that
for them.  We look at their designs and say,
You need to make this component
smaller.  You are producing too much heat at this point.  These components cost
five times what we budgeted.
  Then we discuss.  Sometimes, they are right
and we can't find a way to make it smaller or cooler or cheaper.  Most of the
time, we just insist that they fix it, and they dream up something.  That's
what a Senior Engineer does.  And that’s what you have been doing with my staff
since this thing started."

He got
up and headed toward the door, mumbling over his shoulder to Mission as he
went.  "So, don't worry.  You'll be fine.  And if not ... well, if not
we'll just fire you.  Get your rest, Mission."

Mission
leaned back on the pillow and smiled.  Senior Robotics Engineer.

It would
be impossible to not feel some excitement.  Mission looked out the window at
the shuttle they would board.  It seemed ironic in a way.  Completing the first
large scale space station made possible the manufacture of alloys unprecedented
in terms of insulation from heat.  The new alloys made trips outside the
earth's gravity into no more than a long plane flight.

Mission
visited Planet's Row (the name used by everyone in referencing the string of
space stations from Mercury's orbit out to the edge of the solar system) once
before, also courtesy of Paradox.  He tracked a syn to a shuttle flight, but he
refused to pay for a ticket to Planet's Row from the bounty he might earn. 

Paradox
paid and he just barely made it to the shuttle before they closed the doors for
takeoff.  He found his mark almost as soon as he disembarked, and within two
hours, he sat on the shuttle heading back home.  He remembered little about the
flight, except that he would need a very good reason to do it again.

He
turned to look at Susan.  Although she perched on a chair, she virtually hummed
with nervous energy.  Mission sat down next to her and said, "Are we a
little antsy?"

She
still carried the icy smile in her repertoire and she chose to use it.  "I
hold you responsible for all of this.  Here I am, a sane and rational person,
about to board an aircraft that will soon cause me to weigh over a thousand
pounds."

"What
new wonder toy do they have on this model to ease the discomfort of G
forces?"

"The
brochure says that they have seats filled with flexi-polymer on hydraulic
assemblies.  This state of the art system virtually negates any of the
consequences of G forces."

Mission
said, "Ha!"

Susan
read on, "As some passengers may suffer slight discomfort, Valium is
available ½ hour before flight time."

They
both laughed.  Mission moved his shoulders slightly and then frowned.  Susan
said, "What's your problem, mister?"

Mission
almost pouted.  "I feel weird without my Glock.  Like part of me is
missing."

"Where
did you pack it?"

"In
one of the lighter equipment bags.  I disassembled it for the authorities and
then packed it in a checked bag.  I can't reassemble it until we hit the space
station."

"You
do realize Mission, that billions of people go their entire lives without ever carrying
a gun?"

"How
many of them look like a jigsaw puzzle, courtesy of a combat model
synthetic?"  The cuts on his face from the mirror still showed, even
though they would disappear in another week or so.

"I
keep telling you.  You don't look like a jigsaw puzzle, you look like a
Picasso."

Mission
grunted.  "Anyway, my world has required a gun for some time.  I guess an
argument in a technical meeting with the engineers shouldn't be settled by
gunfire."

Susan
grinned.  "It is extreme, but you'd only have to do it once, and then it
would be quite easy to build consensus."

They
boarded the shuttle and took their seats.  Susan looked nervously at the double
shoulder harness and seatbelt.  As the flight attendant moved past, Mission
asked for Valium and she gave him two doses.  He took his and set the other on
Susan's armrest.  She pretended not to notice.

Mission
looked around the cabin.  Pierce and Montag nodded and said hello.  The Dick
sat two rows up.  He was everything Susan had described and more.  He refused
to admit he had lost his hair and instead, combed hair from the side all the
way over the top.  He bore a pasty sort of complexion seen most commonly at
funeral homes, and he obviously bought his clothes from the
One Size Fits
All
store.

All of
this could be overlooked if he were a nice guy, but he wasn't.  He seemed to perpetually
pant, wheeze, and drool.  He would see a woman and stare conspicuously, looking
her up and down with obscene intentions all too obvious.  Mission hoped that
they would find little opportunity to work with him.

The
engines fired up and Susan showed signs of alarm when they grew, say, twice as
loud as a standard earthbound jet.  She snatched up the Valium and downed it
and then clutched the armrest like she dangled over the Grand Canyon.  Mission
put his hand on hers to calm her.  It didn't help.

The
seats used to have scales showing how many Gs one was pulling.  However, they
sent too many of the passengers into panic, so the airlines removed them.  The
scales, not the panicked passengers.  Mission knew they were nudging ten Gs. 
One didn't move.  One didn't speak.  One prayed for the experience to be over.

Soon
they entered that stage where gravity fades to zero, and a star field replaces
the horizon.  Susan pointed out constellations and they looked out into space,
in awe.

Finally,
a slight turn revealed Space Station Three off the starboard bow.  The
deceleration and docking proved tedious, and time consuming.  The captain
completed the procedure and released the passengers to enter the station.  

The
station looked no different than any other facility where space is the most
precious resource.  Everything was a tight fit.  The designers tried to
compensate for the lack of windows by strategically locating vue screens on the
walls.  All in all, a claustrophobic environment even for the most well-adjusted
individual. 

The
group moved directly to the hotel where their bags would arrive.  Montag
insisted on checking everyone in, but the wait became unpleasant.  The traffic
through the station constantly overflowed into the check-in area, moving,
pushing, and prodding them until Mission realized it was good that he didn't
have his gun.  Montag motioned to them and they moved in his direction.

Pierce
said, "What's up?"

Montag
said, "They need our palm prints.  They become our room keys."

With
registration accomplished, they headed for the elevators to check out their
rooms.

Mission
opened the door and it bounced off the bed and swung back. He hit the light
switch and got a good look at his ... closet.  No bedroom could be this small. 
The single width bed hung five feet off the floor with a small sink, a databay
for a computer, and a storage chest underneath.  The toilets and showers were
down the hall.  A small vue screen clung to the wall opposite the bed.

Mission
picked up his com.  Susan answered and he said, "Help.  I'm stuck in my
room and can't get out."

"I
know the feeling.  And people actually pull 18 and 24 month rotations on these
stations?"

"Not
only that.  They don't get the luxury suite like we do.  No sink, no databay,
and no vue screen.  That makes enough room for another bed and another
person."

"Just
the thought is unbearable."

"You
know, I had these notions of us having dinner in one of our rooms.  Just
relaxing.  Listening to music or watching mindless vue screen programs."

"Well,
the thought was sweet."

Mission
groaned.

"Stupid!
 I meant the thought was stupid."

"Much
better.  When do you want dinner?"

"How
about 6:00?"

"I'll
knock on your door at six."

Mission
relaxed on the bed.  He wondered what Susan was doing. Probably expecting that
he was making preparations for confronting 1000 potentially hostile syns and
not allowing anyone on the team to get killed.  Simple.

Classify
the next five days as unremarkable in that they formed part of a monotonous and
unpleasant repetition.  Virtually all shuttles travel from one space station to
the very next.  This meant the group traveled by shuttle to the next station,
checked into a closet that someone in advertising chose to call a bedroom, ate
mostly canned food around a table the size of a dinner plate, and then started
all over again the next day.

On route
to Space Station Eight, the unrelenting boredom grew too much for Mission to
handle.  He asked Susan for an itinerary and gaped at it in disbelief.

"Four
days!  We have to stay at Number 8 for four days?"

The
question surprised Susan.  "Yes Mission.  We've known that since we
started planning the trip.  Haven't you looked through the itinerary
before?"

"Well,
actually, no.  I mean who looks at those things?  I figured I get off the
shuttle when everyone else does, and we meet in the lobby the next day and get
back on.  I never considered that we might have a long layover."

She
smiled a knowing smile and said, "I can just tell, your administrative
assistant is going to love working with you."

Then she
pulled out her com, complete with a pocket reference.  She had loaded it with
information about Neptune and its moons, the various settlements outside Earth,
mining operations, and anything else she thought might be relevant for the
trip.  She punched up the data to show Mission.

"See? 
Neptune has only the one moon of sufficient mass to support an operation.  And
New Angeles is the only settlement on Triton.  So you don't have the same
traffic demands to the space station like you see for Jupiter with its four
habitable moons and 18 total settlements.  Or for Saturn with four decent
moons, plus Titan with a population greater than the rest of the settlements
combined.  That of course is due to the increasing success in modifying Titan's
atmosphere to an acceptable mixture for humans."

Mission
grinned.  "You sound like a travel brochure.  But that still doesn't
change the fact that we will be stranded in individual sardine cans for four
days and three nights."

"I'm
sure we can find something to do."

Mission's
face turned grim.  "I don't share your optimism.  There will be a cramped
bar with alcohol and drugs, and one woman for every fifteen men.  And they will
be pleasure models.  You can take her back to your bunk and make your dreams
come true while your roommate watches.  Or you can go to the exercise unit and
run on those simulated mountain ranges until exhaustion stops you.  Then wait
in line for a shower in a stall the size of a coffin, and go back and listen to
your roommate make it with a syn.  God!"

She
looked at him seriously, inspecting his face, trying to look inside. 
"Honestly, if you can't stop painting these fairy tale visions of some
Shangri-La, I'm going to stop listening.  I suppose much of what you say is
true.  I don't think you adjust to this, I think you just have to turn
everything off, and live inside yourself.  I don't know why anyone would do
it."

"Choices. 
It's all about choices.  Look at Jeff Taylor.  He's certainly not stupid and
he's not without talents.  But he couldn't win a scholarship, and his parents
couldn't pay for college.  So he looked around and saw what the mining colonies
offered.  A guy like Jeff, who doesn't drink much and doesn't frequent hookers
can save his entire salary.  Every time he comes home, he looks for a better
job, and he takes learning software back to the settlement with him, to study
in his free time.  If he ever finds a job on Earth, he'll have enough saved to
buy a house, get married, those kinds of things."

He
looked up at Susan.  "It's all about choices.  That's why he does 18 month
mining tours, and I risk my life hunting syns."

"Shouldn't
you use the past tense when you talk about tracking?"

He
smiled.  "Perhaps I should.  It still doesn't seem real.  Anyway, on this
trip, I'm a tracker first and foremost.  If I don't approach it that way, my
next job could be corpse."

"You
really know how to cheer a person up."

She
paused and then said,  "I've been thinking about everything I own, sitting
there in my apartment."

Mission
said confidently, "We’ll get things straightened out up here, and pretty
soon, you can come and go as you please, without a bodyguard.”

She
nodded. “Yes, that will be good, that’ll be great.”

Mission
looked at her for a moment.  The silence felt uncomfortable. Just to say
anything, Mission started, “I would think this is very hard on you. It would be
for me, having to spend every waking moment with someone watching me. I like
people, but I treasure my privacy.”

Susan
nodded. “Empathy? Why, Mission, sometimes you can be very ... stupid."

"Alright. 
A  guy blurts out one little phrase in the heat of the moment, and then pays
for it for the rest of his life.  I vow to find a suitable substitute for the
word sweet."

"You
can think about it while you're running up those simulated mountain
ranges."

"You
know, I think we have more space in these shuttle seats than in our room.  If
we slipped someone a hundred, I'll bet they would let us stay here."

Mission's
assessment of the space station turned out to be almost completely wrong. 
Number Eight was the last in the string of complete stations fully servicing a
settlement.  So even though the dimensions were still tight, there were very
few people.  Apparently, warehousing parts for Number Nine comprised the
station's only significant activity.  As its construction proceeded, they would
pull the needed parts and then the vacated space would be filled with the next
components in the process.

Mission
made a note to ask Susan if the government still subsidized the station.  The
government would underwrite a station when it determined there were sufficient
commercial interests to eventually support it.  Once construction was complete,
work on the settlements began, and the government began to recoup its
investment in the station.  After a year or two, the station became a completely
commercial enterprise, with the government retaining certain rights for
guaranteed space and accommodations.

But this
station couldn't make it on a for profit basis.  It moved like a ghost town. 
And once Number 9 went operational, they would lose the warehousing income,
which must be 80% of its business.

That
evening, Mission and Susan took a leisurely walk through the facility.  He took
her hand and they wandered through the empty rooms and unused bays.

Mission
said, "So, Dr. St. Jean, tell me about your family."

Susan's
reacted with surprise.  "My what?"

"Your
family.  You know, your Mom and Dad, brothers and sisters, that sort of
thing."

"Well
my mother and father both teach high school.  Mom teaches Math, and Dad teaches
history, sociology, those sorts of things. My brother Alan, he's six years
older than me, teaches Philosophy at the University.  He's tenured now.  And my
sister Clarisse who is four years older than me.   She started a business
remodeling home interiors, especially kitchens.  Then she married Paul, he's a
dentist."

"Where
are you from?  Are you the only one who left the hometown?"

"Yes. 
The rest of the family lives in and around Chicago.  Why all the
questions?"

"I'm
interested.  And I realized I don't know much about your personal life."

"And
I know anything about yours?  I don't even know what your first name is.  And
you've never told me anything about your family."

"All
true.  You'll never know my first name.  But as for my family, my Mom and Dad
are gone.  I have a brother Troy who's four years younger than me.  Thinks he's
God's gift to women and manages to get the more unsuspecting ones to believe
it.  Good athlete, plays in a tough semi-pro basketball league in his spare
time.  And then there's Julia who's six years younger.  God is she a beautiful
kid.  And she loves kids, she works with kids on the weekends.  You should see
her eyes light up.  She's still in school."

"And
where do they live?"

"Troy
lives in San Francisco and Julia goes to school in New York.  The children's
center gives her room and board, so she works there all summer."

"And
what about the eldest Mission?"

"Well,
he’s working on a dangerous, thorny problem, he’s is in the middle of a career
change, things are going really well for him right now"

Susan
nodded. “Yes, I think you will really like your new job.”

“That’s
not it.”

“Explain
please.”

“When I
said things are going well, I meant the way you and I can talk to each other. I
like that.”

He
looked at Susan. She was staring at him very hard, and there was the slightest
quiver in her lower lip. He continued. “I look forward to talking with you.”

Her
voice was very soft. “I do too.”

And then
they kissed.