Existence

89.

LUMINOUS

An expanse of cloudy shapes spread in all directions, puffy and throbbing with potentiality. An almost limitless capacity to become.

Rising to consciousness-now alert, aware, interested-he looked around and knew at once; this was no earthly landscape.

Light came from all directions… and none.

Up and down, apparently, were only suggestions.

He wasn’t alone; figures could be seen dimly, through a haze that drank all definition from their moving forms. They might be small and close, or giants moving ponderously, very far away. Or both at once? Somehow, he suspected that could happen in this place.

This… place…

What is all this? How did I get here?

I knew the answer to that, didn’t I?

Once upon a time.

There was something more pertinent. A question they (they?) had said he must ask of himself, each time he awakened here.

Oh, yes.

Who am I?

What is my name?

Letting his gaze settle downward, he looked upon a pair of masculine human hands-my hands- rather large, with long fingers that flexed when he told them to. Manicured nails gleamed. Floppy sleeves covered his arms, part of a robelike garment. Not angels’ robes, he noted with some relief. Terry cloth. Rough and comforting. My old bathrobe.

And I am…?

Words. He spoke them out of reflex, before jerking at how hollow and resonant they sounded in this place.

“Hamish. My name is… Hamish Brookeman.”

Author. Director. Producer. E-tropist. Celebrity confidant of statesmen and the mighty. Beloved of masses. Failed husband. Object of ridicule and devotion. Both hands lifted to stroke his face, finding the texture taut, vibrant, pleasantly youthful. And somehow he knew that he would never have to shave again. Unless he wanted to.

“Oh yes,” Hamish recalled. “I know where I am. What this place is.

“I’m aboard a starship. A crystal emissary, bound for a distant sun.”

* * *

The first production run of envoy-capsules would be just ten million, they said. All that could be made on a narrow starting budget, equal to that of a medium-sized nation. All that could be propelled by just one giant laser- launcher, perched in orbit above the moon. Of course, those ten million were the vanguard of enormous numbers to come later, once remaining political and social resistance was finally overcome with relentless persuasion- imaginative, varied, and persistent.

The message carried by this little probe-(it seemed so vast inside!)-was worth all the effort, the expense, the resources, and sacrifices. A message of cautionary warning for other young species. An offer of hope.

Now Hamish recalled the pride, the great honor, of being chosen as one of the first. Not only to upload a version of himself into many tens of thousands of crystal ships, but also when he was invited to come up in person- frail but spry in his nineties-to inspect the first batch of probes, all shiny and new, emerging from humankind’s first giant, automated factory-in-space.

That memory-of being old, with creaky joints and aching bowels, yet lauded with a role at the ribbon cutting- seemed fresh as yesterday. In fact, he remembered everything up to the point, a few days later, when they attached electrodes and told him to relax, assuring him that personality and memory recording almost never hurt.

So, it must have worked.

I was skeptical, in my deepest heart, that any copy of me would ever waken in a virtual world, no matter how thoroughly we tested alien technologies, modifying and revising them with human science. Many of us feared the inhabitants would be just clever simulations. Robaitic automatons, not really self- aware.

But here I am! Who can argue with success?

It was all coming back. Years spent leading a new branch of the Renunciation Movement, fighting an obsolete prophet for control, then guiding the faction in new directions. Making it less a tool of oligarchs, religious troglodytes, and grouchy nostalgists. Transforming it instead into a more aggressive, technologically empowered force. An affiliation combining tens of millions… even hundreds of millions… who wanted science controlled. Guided by wisdom.

Good times. Especially sticking it to all the boffins and would-be godmakers who thought they could “prove” him wrong with mere evidence. A notion easily belied by hordes of adoring fans who stayed loyal to him, even when his “hoax” story about the artifacts was shown to be a hoax, in its own right…

Hamish frowned then, recalling how many of those same followers later reviled him when he veered yet again, lending his support to a bold technological endeavor. The growing push in favor of building star messengers.

Well, new reasons, new arguments, new motives… all can lead to new goals. New aspirations. So he explained at the time. So he believed now.

Anyway, millions held true, accepting his assurance that the universe needs us.

With nervous curiosity, Hamish performed a body inventory, palping and flexing arms and legs. They felt strong. The torso, tall and lean as it had been in youth, twisted and rippled satisfactorily. Simulation or not… I feel like me. In fact, more like me than I did as a frail old man.

And if it weren’t accurate, how would you know? asked a small part of him that tried to raise existential questions. Might a virtual being be programmed to find its new self satisfactory?

Bah.

Hamish had always dabbled in philosophy, but more as a storytelling tool. A plot gimmick. A great source for aphorisms and wise protagonist chidings, letting his characters opine about chaos theory or laws of robotics, while preaching against hubristic technology. In fact, he had no use for philosophers.

“I am aboard a crystal starship.” He tasted the declaration out loud, getting reacquainted with speech. “I’m Hamish Brookeman, on an adventure across interstellar space! One of many, on thousands of such vessels, each of them equipped with new ways to contact new races. Each of us charged with a mission, to spread good news!

“And maybe… with luck… those thousands could become billions, scattering through the galaxy, delivering a desperately needed antidote. The cure to combat a galactic plague.”

* * *

Movement in this strange new setting involved more than just flexing your legs and shifting your weight. By trial and error, Hamish learned to apply direct volition-willing motion to happen-the way he might impel his arm to extend, with unconscious assurance. At first, progress took many fits and starts… but soon he began gliding among the cloudlike globs, which started out mushy or springy, each time he landed. Hamish adapted his technique and soon they reacted by providing firm, reliable footing.

Once he got the knack, movement became smooth, even fun.

Hamish tried heading toward some of the shapes that he made out vaguely through the haze. But chasing after them proved difficult-like clutching at an elusive idea that kept slipping away.

Eventually, he was able to approach one. Perched atop this cloud-blob was a house with gabled roof-more of a