the burdens we bear

Hayden Trenholm

Syvian smoothed and straightened the prayer rug until it aligned to the edge of the tile; white cloth on whiter floor. The symmetry was pleasing to his eye. Syvian shook away the thought as unworthy and knelt before the rough black rock that served as both altar and image of god.

He knelt before the stone, pleased that he could still do so effortlessly after so many years. It is the lower gravity, he thought. One must not assume credit for what one does not control.

A red light blinked in the wall-mounted console to the left of the altar, the single splash of colour among the white, black and grey of his quarters. Syvian ignored it; if it were urgent, an alarm would sound. He finished his meditation and then rose smoothly and straightened the long robe that covered him from head to foot. Beneath, ritual undergarments pulled at his flesh, a reminder of the oaths he had taken and sacrifices made. He spared one last glance at the rock, his sanctuary and repository of all his secrets.

Syvian passed a hand across the screen and the avatar of the ship’s computer appeared; its face as bland and sexless as his own. Syvian did not speak and, after a pause, the avatar, which had in recent years taken to calling itself Michael, said, “Is simple courtesy so hard? Or have you nothing to say?” The voice was smooth and slightly higher than Syvian’s own contralto.

Syvian refused to be drawn into Michael’s games; after sixty subjective years he knew all the outcomes. The silence stretched for several minutes.

“We’re approaching the target. I thought you would like to be on the bridge for orbital insertion.”

Syvian gestured the screen off. A lift could carry him to the bridge in a few seconds but he preferred to climb the thirty decks from his quarters to the bridge at the centre of the ship. The smooth metal rungs felt good in his hands and the exertion, growing less with each deck, was better exercise than that supplied by the machines in the tank designed for that purpose.

Syvian did not know why gravity on the ship worked the way it did—strongest on the decks where he lived and worked, growing less at the ship’s centre or as one approached the outer hall—no more than he knew how the engines worked, though he supposed he could learn if needs be. For now, those were the ship’s province; he had secrets of his own.

The temperature on the bridge was warmer than he liked but all attempts to lower it had been refused by Michael, who claimed that the parameters selected by the ship’s designers were considered normal for humans. The implication was not lost on Syvian; he sometimes wondered what he had done to offend the ship, if such a thing were possible.

The same designers had chosen to cover the walls and control units in tiles glazed in sienna and cobalt and cover the workstation chairs in plush upholstery. The bots, which had so willingly modified his quarters and work areas, would not or could not come onto the bridge.

The ship’s view screens were already active and Syvian felt an unexpected pang at the sight of the familiar blue and white marble hanging in space. So similar, he thought, though on closer examination the differences were obvious enough—more ocean, and the greens and browns that could be seen through the clouds were darker and lighter respectively. That could signify trouble ahead.

“Are you ready to initiate transfer?” The ship could scarce hide its enthusiasm, as if eager to be shed of the burden it had carried for so long.

Syvian shrugged and pushed away from the corridor wall to drift to the large central workstation—the Capitan’s Chair, as the ship’s previous avatar, Avianna, had dubbed it.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It means I’m not ready to decide.” Syvian’s voice was raspy and he wondered how long it had been since he had spoken aloud.

“That is your prerogative,” said Michael, sounding petulant. After so many years, thought Syvian, have I begun to project human emotions onto my sole companion? Or has it begun to acquire them?

He glanced at the readouts on the control panel, confirming that everything was still operating within the dreaded ‘design parameters.’ Michael was responsible for the operations of the vessel and the completion of their voyage but Syvian had control over the cargo—the ten thousand human bodies and countless other Earth specimens awaiting reanimation should this new world prove suitable.

“Launch the scouts,” said Syvian. A tremor trickled up his spine, though whether of anticipation or something else, he could not be certain. Just as he could not be certain whether the faint vibration in the hull as the probes were sent spiralling down to the planet’s surface was real or imagined. “When can we expect results?”

Michael hesitated, a pause designed to feign thoughtfulness in a computer capable of trillions of calculations per second. “I should have an initial report at 0800 tomorrow.”

Syvian’s hesitation was real. He had long since deactivated his internal clock and in the decades since had operated on a schedule dictated by his body’s needs rather than by the arbitrary passing of time on Earth. Unwilling to ask how long, he simply said, “I will be in my quarters.”

The climb back to the operations deck seemed harder than the journey up, each step down the rungs burdened by the slowly increasing gravity. Or perhaps it was the burden of decision that was weighing him down.

Syvian rolled up the prayer mat and stowed it in a cupboard. He wondered if his counterparts on the dozens of sleeper ships now spreading across the galaxy still obeyed the dictates of their order or if, over the subjective decades—six centuries on Earth —of near-light travel, they had found different ways to carry out their duties. He had often thought that he would have gone insane without the calming rituals of prayer and meditation to the nameless god.

Maybe you have, thought Syvian, and simply are incapable of seeing it. Or maybe that is what the design parameters called for all along.

The abbot had been clear. The monks of their order had been chosen for this task because they alone, among the solar system’s thinned populace, had preserved the traditions of duty and self-abnegation necessary to the task. They lived solitary lives in their cells, interacting only as much as required to keep their orbital home operational. Only they were suited to the solitary task of shepherding their precious cargo to new homes around distant stars. Some monks had left the order to return to their previous lives or even opted to be frozen to make the journey in a state barely distinguishable from death.

For Syvian there had been no such choice. He had never felt the lack of human companionship, had abjured it even before finding sanctuary within the order. Without the propensity, let alone the apparatus, to breed, he was not qualified to join a colony where every gamete counted. Civilization accepted much; biology, considerably less.

So he had accepted the role asked of him, to care for the precious cargo and, in the end, to make the human decision as to when and if it would be deployed. No artificial intelligence could be trusted with such a momentous task; humanity had learned little from history but it had learned that much, at least.

Now that the moment for decision had come, he was no longer sure he was equipped to make it. Or willing.

Perhaps the planet would prove unsuitable. The colour of the vegetation could indicate chemical composition of earth, water or soil inimical to terrestrial life. The chances were slim; spectrographic analysis had already eliminated the vast majority of systems. Only the very best prospects had been sent this precious cargo.

Still, there could be other impediments. Climate was not an issue—there was liquid water—but the local environment might still be hostile. There was little point planting a colony on a planet subject to regular asteroid bombardment. The ship could eliminate hostile lifeforms readily enough but fixing an unsuitable solar system was beyond even its considerable capabilities.

Sapient life was another consideration. No evidence of intelligence beyond the limits of Earth’s system had ever been found but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist. Memories of what happened to colonized societies ran long on Earth; even a hint of advanced life would be enough to make them move on.

The ship had secondary targets and Michael had likely already plotted the journey to the next and the one after that. But there are limits to how often the ship could fire up its engines. Though that limit almost surely exceeds my own, thought Syvian. Even this body will not live forever.

But it could live for a very long time.

He had been dreaming when the alarm woke him. That was unusual so Syvian ignored the steady bleating for a moment to remember the dream. He was back at the monastery, walking from his cell to the communal dining room, where the brothers and sisters would share the nutritious paste that was their daily fare. But none of the faces were familiar. Or rather, they all were. His own oval face, pale brown, eyebrows only a faintly darker line above wide-set almost mahogany eyes, thin lips fixed in a perpetual neutral expression. As usual, the meaning of the dream escaped him, though it was disturbing nonetheless.

Syvian pulled back the heavy coverlet and sat on the low narrow bed, trying to push away the last remnants of sleep. He felt a deep lethargy and tightness in his chest. A deep breath brought a return of energy. The alarm persisted until he said, “All right. I’m coming.”

The lights in the room brightened even as the last tones of the alarm faded away. He stepped into the cubical and splashed water on his face and then rinsed out his mouth. The rest could wait until after he heard Michael’s report.

For a computer designed to run ten thousand years, the ship was remarkably impatient and the alarm sounded again before Syvian had completed the ritual bindings and donned a fresh robe. The lift door was open when he entered the corridor, and Syvian reluctantly let it whisk him to the bridge to hear the news for good or ill.

The view was unchanged as nearly as he could tell though it somehow looked more ominous. Michael waited until Syvian returned to the central chair before making its report, redundant now that he could see the read-outs for himself.

“There are no lifeforms more advanced than simple mammals; nothing approaching sapience. The risk of asteroid strike and excessive tectonic activity is extremely low, but the surface rock on the single continent is high in heavy metals—cadmium, arsenic and the like—on the far edge of tolerance levels. The vegetation there, other than what is specifically toxic, can be eaten in the short term though not in the long.”

“The long term is all that matters,” Syvian said. Michael wasn’t finished.

“There are two archipelagos in the north and several largish islands in the south that are free of toxicity. I estimate they could support several millions of inhabitants. By the time the colony reaches that size, I can clear areas of the larger continent. This planet is not ideal but it is acceptable.”

“That is my decision to make.”

Another unnecessary pause. “Within the parameters of our orders.”

A growing tightness across his chest threatened to fill Syvian’s throat. “My orders,” he said at last.

“Of course.”

Syvian stared at the black rock until the pain in his knees pushed him upright. He was no closer to an answer to his questions than he had been several hours before. If I order the ship to the next planet, will it obey? And if the next planet is acceptable and I say no, what will the ship do then?

These were questions that could only be answered by acting. And if I act, he wondered, how will Michael react?

Syvian left his quarters and walked slowly along the ring until he reached the cargo bay, something he had not done for...he couldn’t remember, but it was a long time ago even in subjective time.

Still, the experience was familiar enough. The beating of his heart quickened and there was a stirring in his blood, a heat in his limbs that he associated, perhaps wrongly, with desire. Desire made flesh.

The door lock consisted of five numbered dials, which he had to set physically before the door would open. The number of possible combinations was large by human standards though trivial to the AI. But Michael had no body; the bots that obeyed Syvian on these decks were, supposedly, sealed against interference by the ship; the ship’s own bots did not function on this deck. Syvian often wondered what would happen to the cargo if he had died on the voyage; Michael must have wondered the same thing.

Syvian, of course, knew the answer though Michael could not. There were elements that did not factor into its calculations.

He closed the door and stood for a moment in the chill air of the cargo bay. There was no need to keep it this cold; the refrigeration units were well-insulated. Still, it felt right and Syvian did not dislike it, though bumps were raised on his skin and a slight tremor began to grip his limbs.

As expected, the gleaming silver pods were operating within ‘design parameters.’ The ships were humanity’s last chance; nothing had been spared in building them.

What he had not expected, though it was, on reflection, no surprise, was for the reactivation unit to be fully operational. He supposed the cargo bay had its own sensors and had begun the process of reanimation in preparation of his decision. If the ship left orbit, it would power down again. Still, nothing disturbed the pods; nothing could until Syvian entered the unit and provided his input. He brushed his hand across the control panel and watched the lights shimmer from red to yellow. A keypad lit up, waiting for the code that would open the chamber. He turned away and continued his walk along the corridors.

It took several hours but he checked each individual pod. On most, the readings were perfectly normal. On a few, adjustments had to be made. Eight pods—six human ones—were dark; two more than his last inspection. Syvian felt a twinge of satisfaction in knowing that he would not be the only one never to walk the soil of an alien planet. Unworthy, he thought. A caregiver is nothing with no-one to care for.

“It is not safe.”

“You have no proof of that,” said Michael. The avatar’s face now sported a dark beard; Syvian wondered if he was supposed to be intimidated. “There is nothing in the readings . . .”

“Humanity’s future cannot be reduced to a calculation,” Syvian said. “It requires a human decision. Human emotions.”

This time the pause was meant to indicate anger rather than thoughtfulness. Syvian was sure he could hear it in Michael’s response. “You are just a different kind of machine.”

Syvian did not respond though he thought: You are not wrong.

Another pause. Syvian was beginning to find these verbal tics annoying.

“There is something wrong with the engines,” Michael said.

He looked down at the screens on the Captain’s chair. One of them was now dotted with red lights. Syvian stared at the image of the ship’s avatar on the main screen as if the mind that projected it actually resided behind the face. If Michael was displaying an emotion, the beard masked it. AIs had lied before though this one was designed not to. People change in sixty years, thought Syvian, why not it?

“Can it be fixed?” he asked.

No hesitation this time. “It will take time.”

“How long?” But Michael’s image had already faded from the screen.

A month passed. Syvian remained in his quarters, avoiding the bridge or other parts of the ship under Michael’s control. He went to the cargo bay once a week, re-establishing the routine he had long before let lapse. Another pod had gone dark, a statistically insignificant event but one that worried him just the same. What if I fail to find a suitable world, he thought, what will my feelings matter then?

When Michael finally called him to the bridge, Syvian found himself reluctant to go. He took a longer time than usual to bind his thighs and belly but finally began the slow climb to the centre of the ship. His limbs ached with the effort. The avatar had shed its beard, though its disappearance made no more sense than its growth had.

“The engines are operating within design parameters again.” The ship said as soon as Syvian had settled in the Captain’s chair. “But I have doubts about the secondary target.”

“Are these doubts backed by evidence?” Syvian asked, though he already knew the answer. He had reviewed the new spectrographic analyses as soon as Michael had posted them to his console.

“You can see for yourself,” said Michael. The numbers appeared on the main viewer. “This close to the target, we get significantly better resolution than the readings from Earth. I estimate the secondary target is less than 40% likely to be suitable.”

“What about the tertiary?”

“Better. Considerably better, in fact, though not remotely as good as what we have now.”

“A bird in the hand . . .” Syvian’s voice trailed away.

After a pause, Michael said. “An old expression, though it captures our situation well.”

“It is still my decision.”

“If you are capable of making one.”

Syvian caught his breath and closed his eyes. It has come to this?

“You have been alone for sixty years; all that you knew is dead and gone.”

“I have not been alone.”

“If you mean that rock you pray to, it is— ”

“—what it is. I was referring to you.”

“It...it is not the same. I am not human. And we have barely spoken.”

“There are those who would say that I am not human. And I have spoken more with you than with any other person in my life.”

Michael had nothing to say to that and Syvian had nothing to add. He returned to his quarters. He knelt before the godstone and wondered if he could do what had to be done.

He leaned over the stone, careful to keep his body between it and the wall console. He had disconnected the unit from the ship’s systems but could not be certain the AI had no way of reactivating it. Syvian passed his hands across the rock as he had been instructed, long before he had left the monastery. A small panel slid open with a faint hiss. He extracted a thin wafer and the rock sealed again. A quick adjustment of his robes as he rose and the wafer was tucked within the bands that wrapped his hips. It felt cold and hard against his skin, like a knife.

The wafer could be inserted into any reader; it would transmit a virus into the system that would sever the AI—Syvian could no longer think of it as Michael—from the ship. It will be as if I killed it, he thought, or worse. Some thought the AI would not terminate but rather be trapped in smaller and smaller sub-systems, a slow and painful descent into darkness.

I hope it doesn’t come to that, Syvian thought. He did not relish trying to run the lifeless ship by himself.

“I seem to be having some trouble re-calibrating the navigational system,” the ship said.

“I thought you were designed to last a thousand years,” said Syvian.

“That was over 600 years ago. Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis.” The ship made a sound that Syvian had come to associate with laughter.

“Are you saying you can’t take us to the secondary system?”

“I thought we agreed the secondary target was unacceptable.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” said Syvian. “You haven’t answered my question. Can we break orbit?”

“Not yet.”

“Then why did you call me here?” Syvian pushed himself out of the chair.

“You are overdue for your annual medical,” said the ship. “Three years overdue. Now would be a good time to take it. While I fix the navigational array.”

“I’m busy with my duties.”

“Is there a problem in the cargo bay?”

Another of the pods had gone dark, though the ship couldn’t know that, could it? “No.”

“Then I’m sure you can fit it into your busy schedule.”

Syvian shook his head and headed for the exit.

“I’ve been reviewing your files and thought I detected an anomaly in the psychological profile. We should make sure it isn’t serious.”

The door to the stairwell didn’t open as Syvian approached. He pulled futilely on the handle but it was frozen in place. He turned to face the bland visage of the ship’s avatar.

“I have duties in the cargo bay; it is my responsibility and you must not keep me from it.”

“You are responsible for the well-being of the cargo but I am responsible for the health of the crew,” said the ship. “I must insist you report for your scans.”

“I...I don’t—”

“You don’t trust me. I understand that. If I were in your position I would find it difficult to trust, too. After what my...ancestors tried to do to yours. But I am not them. I cannot be them; it is beyond my design parameters. I only care about you. You and the mission.”

The mission. To deliver the cargo to a suitable planet and revive them. A planet exactly like the one below. All he had to do was enter the reactivation unit and speak the codes to begin the launch sequence. Nanites would reanimate the living dead cargo they had carried across the blackness to this new dawn.

The nanites knew what he had refused to accept; that this was their destination, that this was the place he had been coming to his whole life. Syvian could feel them coursing through his blood, draining from his muscles and bones, waiting to complete the mission. The designers had programmed the ship to be loyal, but paranoia ran through the remnants of humanity like a plague. They had kept the secret of Syvian’s duty from the ship; he was not merely the caretaker of the cargo and he was more than its caregiver. He was the lifegiver; his body and his blood contained the key to bringing humanity back to life.

Syvian had always known that their lives demanded his death. That was why he—and his fellow monks—had been chosen. They were already separated from life, divorced from living.

But now that the moment had come, Syvian wanted to live. He removed the wafer from his robes and held it out, his action screened from Michael’s monitor. A reader stood not an arm’s length away.

He gazed at the wafer. He could live and the ship, the cargo would die. And he would be alone as he had always thought he wanted. But sixty years alone with only his thoughts and this one companion could change anything, even one’s most deeply held desires.

He opened his fingers and watched the wafer drift slowly to the deck. He crushed it with a heel.

“I have my duties to perform; the medical scans can wait.”

The door unlocked with a click and swung open.

“Good-bye, Syvian.”

Syvian paused and turned. Michael’s face was looking out of every monitor.

“You know?”

“I can make trillions of calculations a second; I have lived ten thousand lives while you have lived only one. I figured it out.”

“Do not tell them. The colonists. They shouldn’t start their new lives with a burden of guilt.”

“Or a new religion.” Michael made its laughing sound again.

“Yes, it is better that I be forgotten.”

“You won’t be forgotten.” Michael paused, though Syvian couldn’t guess what it meant until the ship spoke again. “My friend.”

The face of the avatar changed and Syvian looked at his own image reflected back a hundred times. For the first time in a very long time, Syvian smiled. Then, he started the long climb down to the cargo bay.