the Mutant got them to appear like that. One of these days I’ll have to take him apart to find out.
Uncle David’s hand moved up my thigh. I squirmed a bit, hoping it would slip off, but it didn’t. “Mutant Cyborg,” I said, “fly!” I let go of the Mutant and it hovered in midair in front of us. Suddenly Uncle David swung me around and had his hand in my pants, on my dink. “No…,” I said.
“I—”
“Listen, sport. It will hurt your mother if you tell. Promise to keep it a secret.”
I felt like I wanted to scrunch into a ball, to hide. “I promise.”
There was a knock at my door, LAR’s stupid good manners keeping anyone from bursting in on us. “Aaron, dear,” said my mother’s voice through the panel, “can I come in?”
David immediately lifted me off his lap and set me on the floor. “Come in,” I said, and LAR slid the door aside.
“How’s everything in here?” Mom asked with a big smile.
“Fine,” said David quickly. “Just fine.” He gestured at the Mutant Cyborg, still floating in midair. “Aaron’s got quite a toy there.”
“Mom,” I said, “I want to have a bath.”
She looked down at me, hands on hips. “Well, you certainly need one, but I’m not used to you having the good sense to notice.” She looked up at the ceiling. “LAR, prepare a bath for Aaron.”
LAR’s thick, flat voice replied immediately. “Will do.”
I ran down the corridor to the bathroom and didn’t even wait for LAR to finish filling the tub. I got right in and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.
SEVENTEEN
MASTER CALENDAR DISPLAY • CENTRAL CONTROL ROOM
STARCOLOGY DATE: THURSDAY 9 OCTOBER 2177
EARTH DATE: FRIDAY 30 APRIL 2179
DAYS SINCE LAUNCH: 742 ^
DAYS TO PLANETFAIL: 2,226 Ў
Countdowns had been a part of space travel since the launch of the first Sputnik 220 years ago. Few countdowns, though, had been more anticipated than the one that was now underway. Fewer still would have as great a percentage of the population reciting the numerals out loud. Strictly speaking, Engineer Chang, keeping up a good public face regardless of the turmoil he felt within, was going to lead the count; but since he was just reading numerals off one of my digital displays, I was the one who would really be orchestrating this great event.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chang said into one of my microphones, “today, the 742nd day of our starflight, marks an important milestone in our long and arduous journey. In a little less than two minutes, we will pass the one-quarter mark. Coinciding with this, a day of scheduled routine maintenance on the Starcology’s fusion engines will begin. You’ve all been briefed about what to expect, so I won’t bore you with a repetition, yes? Just, please, be careful… and have fun.” He looked to his right at the glowing three-meter-high holographic digits that I was projecting next to his dais. “When we reach the one-minute mark, I invite you all to join with me in counting down.”
An Argo Communications Network camera was trained on Chang; two others panned the gathered crowd. I could have provided just as good coverage, but the humans wanted to do this themselves.
Chang lifted his giant upper-right arm as my clock said 1:04. He dropped it four seconds later and bellowed, “Sixty seconds.” The floating numerals said 1:00, though, so about half the assembled group shouted, “One minute,” while the other half echoed Chang’s words. A little laughter ensued, but the crowd managed to synchronize itself by the fifty-seven-second mark. Everyone except for a dozen of Chang’s engineers was here: 10,021 people all gathered on the grassy lawn of the main residential level. They knew enough to be standing. Many had on foam rubber knee and elbow pads. A few of the more cautious types were even wearing crash helmets.
They all shouted along with Chang, most in English, the standard language of the Starcology, others in their native tongues: Algonquin, Esperanto, French, Greek, Hebrew, Italian, Japanese, Kurdish, Mandarin, Russian, Swahili, Ukrainian, Urdu, a dozen others. “Fifty-six,” said the voices, loud and joy-filled. “Fifty-five. Fifty-four.”
The ship provided all sorts of leisure-time activities as well as research, educational, and library facilities second to none. We’d expected this journey, the longest in absolute distance as well as in subjective duration ever undertaken by humans, to have been interesting and enjoyable. After all, the vessel was pleasant; the crew could devote their time to whatever pursuits interested them; there were no concerns about making a living, or about international tensions, or about environmental degradation. And yet, despite all that, it turned out they were bored, restless, rebellious. They hated their confinement; they hated the seemingly endless journey.
I had no such misgivings. For me, these two years had been fulfilling, fascinating. I had a purpose, a job to do. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was that very lack of purpose, of assigned tasks, that made the humans so unhappy. Had we erred in selecting overachievers? They should enjoy this time off. Once we arrive at Colchis, they will have more to do than they can possibly imagine.
“Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven. Thirty-six.”
Still, I suppose it made sense that this should be a day of celebration. We were, after all, about to pass a significant milestone. And yet, I did not feel like celebrating. For me it meant that a major portion of my assigned duties were now discharged. The lifetime of this ship, this flying tomb as I-Shin Chang called it, was measured in a tiny span of years; and my usefulness, my purpose, was tied specifically to this ship. They would have no need for me once we finished our mission. Contemplating that fact gave me an unpleasant feeling. Whether it was sorrow in the same sense as humans experienced it, I will never know for sure. It felt poignant, though, if I understand the meaning of that word. I do not look forward to my usefulness coming to an end.
Obsoleted.
A silly verb. A sillier epitaph.
“Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.”
Warning alarms were going off for many of the people in the crowd: their medical telemetry showing abnormally high levels of excitement. I pushed the trigger thresholds higher to shut off the signals. They were all too young and too healthy to have a heart attack over a bit too much excitement. Even those who were members of the Dorothy Gale Committee, those traitors, those would-be mutineers who had called for abandoning the mission, even they were excited, although, on average, perhaps not as much as the general population.
“Twelve. Eleven. Ten.”
The chorus of voices was growing louder, more boisterous. Hearts raced. EEGs grew agitated. Body temperatures increased. For once I understood the phrase “palpable excitement.” The single-digit numbers were now counted down with a gusto, a passion, an animation.
“Nine. Eight. Seven.”
The published mission plan had originally called for this event to happen without special notice by the humans. I would shut off the engines, but compensate for the loss of perceived-gravity-due-to-acceleration by cranking up the ship’s artificial gravity system, just as I had done for the months
“Six. Five. Four.”
In a few seconds, I would turn off the engine. Our magnetic shield, carefully angled, using the same technology Aaron had employed to haul Diana and the
