Death’s Dimensions a psychotic space opera

“Take me back to Earth!”

“Am programmed only to transfer according to the pre-arranged tour plan. You are given only a four light-day radius per transference for individual maneuvers.”

“Cancel that program.”

“It is integral in construction and cannot be defeated without a total system shutdown.”

Damn. He’s thought of everything. Maybe. “Ben-calculate a return to Earth in jumps of four light-days each, in as rapid a sequence as possible.”

“No.”

“What?” I’m arguing with a machine!

“Do not wish to go through that again.”

“You don’t wish?” He unstrapped and floated to the viewing port, snaking around the maze of control panels. The star system shone before him, Alpha Centauri A and B were the two bright points directly ahead of him at a distance of two light days; he could not locate Proxima Centauri. He gave the stars only a cursory glance, then drifted toward the terminal.

“Could you endure over three hundred ninety consecutive death illusions, one after the other, no rest?”

Virgil shrugged.

“Of course not,” the computer continued. “Your blood pressure rose fifteen millimeters just after we transferred. Your breathing went to twenty-five per minute. Your pulse increased to ninety-three. Dying takes a lot out of you.”

He’s right. To die and die and die and never stop living would drive me insane. He laughed. Insane. “So I’m stuck.”

“Continuing the tour, yes.”

Death Angel, where are you now? Never to see you again.

Dead when I return. A real death, cold and stony. “Calculate a transference to any habitable planet,” he whispered, “and initiate the run-through of your standard search procedure.” Virgil worked his way back into the command chair and strapped in.

The computer, after a silence of several minutes, spoke. “Have located two possible planets within the Huang critical surfaces. One orbits near Proxima, the other orbits B at a distance that would indicate a tropical climate if it were terran in nature.”

Death Angel how could you serve Nightsheet so well? Everything is dead for me.

“Preparing to transfer, though am reluctant. Interior planet stands best statistical chance for life. No neutrino flux to indicate a high level of civilization.”

Death Angel, you let Master Snoop trap me in this circus with no way to get back to you. Why? You saved me from the death of stillness in DuoLab now you give me a death of loneliness.

“Transferring now.”

Death Angel, give me a real death if I can’t have you. The corridor, yes. Take me down, angel of madness and terrifying joy, I’ll walk beside you into darkness. And light.

Jord Baker awoke in a strange place.

He struggled against the restraining straps, then sat very still, thinking. His body was too skinny, his hands too thin. Too white. He breathed. It sounded wrong.

“Transfer completed,” a mechanical voice said somewhere to his left. Finding the releases, he undid the belts and searched for a way out of the tangle of electronics around him. He located the switch that withdrew the equipment and floated to the viewing port.

Before him hung a white-clouded planet. Beyond its thin crescent glowed a star slightly redder than the sun. Far to port, a second star shone brightly, a disc almost visible. Baker spun around.

“Where am I?”

The computer did not answer. Baker searched around for the terminal. Before he could fly toward it, the computer made a pinging noise and asked, “What is your name?”

“Jord Baker,” he said slowly, then added with angry sarcasm, “What’s yours?”

“Initiate sequence Baker, per contingency program.”

“I said, where am I?”

“Hello, Jord,” a familiar voice said.

“Dee?”

“I’m speaking to you from the ship’s memory. You’re onboard Circus Galacticus bound for a grand tour of stars in the local group. I can’t go into details, but-as you can tell-you survived the fall from your flyer.”

Baker started to protest, but realized his error an instant later and merely floated before the port, watching the planet move slowly across his field of view.

Delia continued uninterrupted. “You’ll have to keep very calm through all this. You’ve been given a new body, in case you haven’t noticed, and some extra skills. We had a hard time saving your life, so you’ve got to hold on.

“You remember Circus from the time when it was supposed to be a nuclear- powered settlement ship? Well, you’re the only one onboard, now that it’s been converted to use the Valliardi Transfer. Remember your last test flight? It was successful enough for Brennen to try this stunt.

“The computer will explain the tour plan and its current status-something I can’t-and since most of the exploratory functions of the ship are already programmed in, all you have to do is serve as a trouble shooter. There are gigabytes of tech manuals in the memory banks. Enjoy the trip-it probably won’t be more than a few months, subjective.” Her image faded from the viewing port.

“How long in real time? Computer-how long in real time?”

“For the trip?”

“Yes, God damn you!”

“About one hundred forty years.”

“What?”

“Any longer than that, and the Brennen Trust feared it would not receive an adequate return on its investment.”

“What about me? I don’t remember volunteering for this mission.” Baker turned around to kick off from the railing in front of the port. He floated at a lazy gull’s pace toward the hatch leading out of Con-One.

“Please don’t leave, Jord. The ship must adjust its velocity to correspond with local space.” Something trembled beneath the seat as Baker climbed in and strapped down tight.

The computer’s voice sped up, giving a verbal readout of everything that flashed on the scrims surrounding Baker. The planet and stars suddenly shifted to the right. Baker strained against the side of the chair, his breath coming in a hard gasp. He was slammed in the opposite direction as the massive vernier engines stopped the ship’s yawing. A low drumming pounded through the ship and Baker was shoved back in the chair.

“Hey, ease up!”

The computer paused long enough to say, “Telemetry shows you can take it,” then resumed its rapid talk. Baker figured the gee force to be about four. He knew he could take it-at least his old body could-but he did not have to like it.

He wondered about his real body. What had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was waking up for a moment in a dark room, losing consciousness, and then waking up in the command seat of Circus.

The acceleration ceased and Baker took a deep, cautious breath. “Is that all?”

“We are in orbit about a planet roughly twenty-eight thousand kilometers in diameter revolving around Alpha Centauri B at a distance of one hundred twenty-four million kilometers with an apparent diurnal rotation of seventeen hours and twelve minutes. Extended observations will yield more precise figures.”

Baker sighed. He was here, and that was that. “Atmosphere?”

“Carbon dioxide, water, sulfuric acid, and trace elements. Basically Venerian, though with a lower surface temperature.”