Chapters Six and Seven

When the computer announced the name of my visitor, I winced.  Half-convinced she would know something was up the moment she got a good look at my face, I briefly toyed with the idea of pretending I wasn’t home.  But that would only be postponing the inevitable.  I couldn’t avoid her indefinitely, not if I wanted to maintain appearances.

Might as well get this over with, I decided.  Drawing a deep breath, I forced a smile and let her in.  “Hello, Maya.”

“Miss Kai!”  She bustled into the salon, a small, gently rounded female figure in cadet-blue tunic and slacks.  Short gray hair waved softly around a plump face aglow with delight.  Her arms were outstretched.  “I’m so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, sweeping me into a cushy, cinnamon-scented hug.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” I fibbed, returning the embrace.

“Here,” she said, clasping my shoulders to hold me at arm’s length.  “Let me look at you.”

“Maya.  It’s only been two months.”

“Hmm.”  Her soft brown eyes gave me a quick once over, lingering on my face.  “You look a bit pale, dear.”  She tsk-tsked.  “And look, you have circles under your eyes!”

“I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

“Working too hard again,” she clucked, taking my arm to lead me to the divan.  “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times:  Miss Kai, you work too hard—always have, always will.  Sit, young lady; I’ll make cocoa.  Nothing sets my girl right like a good cup of cocoa.”  I watched her hustle off stage left into the galley and felt a warm surge of affection.

Maya had nurtured Eran and me.  I had fond memories of her quarters on Deck Three—the salon plump with sturdy, overstuffed furniture and especially my bedroom.  A twentieth-century print of Rosie the Riveter hung above my narrow bed.  I remembered admiring her lovely but determined expression and the way she flexed her creamy bicep under bold lettering that proclaimed, “We can do it!”  I had a historical doll collection, too, my favorite being young Queen Victoria, a vision in cream-colored satin, her chestnut hair pulled softly away from her face and a spray of pink roses nestled above her left ear.

As Maya hummed in the galley, my mind’s eye continued its journey through my old room, finally coming to rest on the video frame I kept on my white desk.   A beaming couple dressed in khaki stood surrounded by lush green vegetation.  The man’s cocked Australian bush hat sat atop an unruly shock of bright red hair; the woman’s baseball cap, pulled low over her eyes, couldn’t contain the feathery auburn wisps framing her face and brushing her nape.  They mugged for the camera, each slipping an arm around the other’s waist.  Tom and Anna Fox always struck me as two people born to go through life together.

As a teenager I tended to smile indulgently as the Foxes blew kisses and waved from the video frame.  Being a member of a much more enlightened society, I considered their marriage charmingly quaint.  The Quingenti had no use for obsolete social conventions like matrimony—established twosomes had actually been screened out before liftoff, monogamous relationships outlawed for the duration of the voyage.  Nobody wanted to deal with petty jealousies, messy breakups, and acrimonious legal battles in multiple life spans.  Much better to keep life aboard ship one for all and all for one.

Three weeks after the video was made, Tom and Anna Fox had vanished together in that same jungle.  Their tandem disappearance seemed fitting somehow, even though it left their only child an orphan at the age of twenty.

Every time Maya caught me watching the video, she would sigh and say, “They adored you.  You suffered terribly when they didn’t come back.  You still miss them.”

But the grown woman sitting on my divan, dutifully waiting for Maya to ply her with cocoa, mused, I never missed Tom and Anna Fox.  How could I?  I never knew them.

Brought up short by that maverick thought, I couldn’t decide whether I should recoil in filial shame or accept it as the honest truth.  That might have been worth thinking about, but I was jolted by a more immediate concern:  For one heart-stopping moment I couldn’t be absolutely sure I hadn’t made the remark out loud.  I turned an uneasy gaze toward the galley.

“Here you go, Miss Kai.”  Maya appeared with a tray, her still-sunny smile welcome evidence that it had only been a thought after all.  The well-remembered aroma of hot cocoa enveloped me as she sat beside me on the divan, and I accepted a steaming cup.

“This is my favorite mug.”  I turned the pot-bellied ceramic cup so the printed side faced me.  You’re history! it crowed in fat, funky black print.  As if I needed the reminder.  I sighed inwardly and sipped.

“Yes, dear, I know.”  She waited a beat before asking, “Well?  How is it?”

Raising my mug in a toast, I admitted, “You haven’t lost your touch, Maya,” and drank again to prove my point.

Obviously pleased, she patted my leg.  “Thank you, dear.  Now, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

I choked on my cocoa.  Quickly setting the cup on the coffee table, I sputtered and gasped while Maya pounded on my back, and I berated myself furiously.   On a scale of one to ten, with one being a dumb idea and ten being the most idiotic, lame-brained decision you could possibly make, letting Maya through the portal was turning out to be a solid nine-point-five.  What have I been up to? How in the name of Hades was I supposed answer that?

Not much, Maya.  Merely asking myself if it’s time to rebel against the world as I know it, so I can get my personal corner of history back on track and figure out who and what I really am.  That, and trying not to get myself committed, of course.

Perfect.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Stalling for time, I held up a hand and indulged in another round of shallow coughs.  Think! If I didn’t come up with an acceptable answer in the next ten seconds, I knew what would happen.  Maya’s face would go as blank as a mannequin’s, and her gaze would flat line into the thousand-yard stare that signaled a silent query to the behavioral guidance computer on Deck Three.  When I was a kid that expression never failed to put the fear of God in me, because it meant a long, scary, guilt-ridden remedial session with the chillingly calm Doctor Enid Huw wouldn’t be long in coming.

Maya was the closest thing to a mother Eran and I had.  She had diapered us, fed us, bandaged knees and elbows, read us stories, showered us with smiles, and wrapped us in cinnamon hugs.  She was devoted to us.  No, strike that.  Maya was devoted to our Primes.  Of course, according to her programming (and conventional wisdom) Eran and I were one and the same as our Primes.  As long as our words and actions matched the profiles, Maya rewarded us with all the love, attention, and acceptance our little hearts could desire.  And like all kids, our little hearts desired an unending supply.

But the minute we did or said something Alpha-inappropriate, Maya shifted into reporting mode.  I hadn’t crossed that line since I was twelve, but I was light years across it now.  The memory of what had happened all those years ago could still get to me, but I had a sick feeling those remedial sessions would seem like walks in the park compared to the course correction reserved for aberrant adults.  As far as I knew, the Alpha Genesis Protocol had never actually been rolled out.  Maybe that was why information about it was so scarce.  I made a mental note to find out what exactly that Protocol involved.  Living on the edge like I was, forewarned and forearmed suddenly seemed like the smart way to go.

“Miss Kai?”

Drawing a deep breath, I nodded.  “I’m okay.”

She handed me my cup.  “Take your time,” she admonished.  “Now where were we?  Oh, yes.  You were about tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Adrenaline as a catalyst for inspiration.  Who knew?  But how else could I account for my flash of genius?  “I’m about to start a new project,” I announced.

When she smiled, the Pavlovian knot in my stomach unraveled, leaving me both relieved and chagrined.  “Tell me about it.”

“I thought I would look into the history of education.”

“The history of education?”

“Uh-huh.  You know—theories and practices.”

It made sense, I decided with rising excitement.  I would focus specifically on Colonial education, birth through age eighteen, familiarizing myself with the Protocols and the rationale behind them.  I suddenly wanted to learn as much as possible about the forces and philosophies that had shaped my life.  Maybe I could use the added perspective to get a handle on what was happening to me now.

Not that the Protocols were deep, dark secrets; everyone on board knew about them and took them more or less for granted.  Like I said before, when it comes to human beings, some things never change.  We treated the Protocols with the same sentimental indifference past civilizations demonstrated toward their seminal documents—constitutions, charters, bills of rights, etcetera.  Everybody knew the foundational manuscripts existed; everybody agreed they were significant and embodied noble ideals; but most people had only vague, second- or third-hand knowledge about what those documents actually said.

“Oh, I see.”  Maya beamed.  “That should be very interesting, dear.  Which journal will you write it up for?”

“Journal?” I murmured absently.  “ I don’t know yet.  I need to do my research first.”  And I was darned near giddy at the prospect.

For a month now, I had been at the mercy of disturbing, chaotic thoughts, battered by an endless stream of apparently unanswerable questions.  I had hoped Eran would be able to help me make sense of them or at least show me how to live with them.  But in the week since we had spoken, I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.  Waiting, worrying, and wondering were eating me alive.  But now, at last, I had a plan—something to do.  I wasn’t sure what answers, if any, I would find, but I couldn’t wait to start searching.

Ω

CHAPTER SEVEN

The diminutive man seated behind the holographic monitor floating six inches above the desk slowly turned his head.  His mouth fell open; he blinked his mildly protruding eyes once, then blinked once more.  I got the distinct impression he hadn’t expected to see anyone standing in his office—ever—and didn’t quite know what to do with me now that I was there.  When a delighted smile broke over his face, and he leaped to his feet to hurry around his desk, right hand extended, I decided I was right:  The Ministry of Education didn’t get many walk-ins.

“Publius Amon, Educative Administrator One, at your service,” he gushed, pumping my hand enthusiastically.

I smiled politely.  “Yes, I know.”  Although Publius and I didn’t exactly hang out, we were acquainted in passing.  Everyone on board was acquainted, at least in passing.

“Of course, of course,” he chortled, shaking his head ruefully.  “And you’re Ms. Fox,” he added, releasing my hand, “the historian.”

“Please, call me Kai-Lee.”  I glanced around.  “So this is the Ministry of Education.”  I had never given the MoE a moment’s thought, but if I had, I probably would have imagined a suite of plush, elegantly appointed offices replete with wide wooden desks and high-backed leather chairs.  Reality was a nearly empty overgrown cubicle painted utilitarian gray.  The furniture consisted of two streamlined black computer workstations set cater-corner to the Administrator’s slightly larger workstation, also black.  “It’s … uh … not exactly what I expected.”

Publius folded his hands across the ample waistband of his gray jumpsuit and followed my gaze, his expression one part apologetic, two parts forlorn.  “I know,” he sighed, continuing wistfully, “I was hoping for marble, maybe just a hint of mahogany.  A decor that evoked a sense of … well … these hallowed halls of learning.  But it wasn’t to be.  I understood completely, of course.  The expense involved would have been a shameful waste of resources.”

“It would?”

“Oh, absolutely.  The fact is, this ministry exists solely for the upkeep and maintenance of certain databases and to monitor various programs.  To be perfectly honest, there’s precious little of either to be done.  As you no doubt know, our Protocols and curricula were established centuries ago.  Given all that, I don’t believe the ship’s architects expected anyone to actually walk through our doors.”  And judging by his eyebrows, now lifted in the politely quizzical position, he was finally beginning to wonder why I had.

“I need special access authorization.”  Normal access would have gotten me into an executive summary, but not the detailed Protocols themselves, let alone all the background documentation.

“I’ll be happy to help you, of course, but you could have applied for that electronically.  From the comfort of your quarters?”

“Yes, I know, but I happened to be on Two-B anyway, so when I saw your sign I thought, ‘Why not take care of the formalities in person … as long as I’m in the neighborhood?’”

“I see.”  Smiling again, he nodded. “Strike while the iron is hot, eh?”

“Ah … right.”

“And may I ask the reason for your request?”

“Research.  The history of education, with an emphasis on Colonial theory and methods.  I thought I would start with the Protocols and their supporting documentation and move on from there.”

Clasping his hands against his chest, he rose up on tiptoe and beamed like a kid with a new toy.  “Oh, excellent!  Most excellent!  When do you anticipate writing up your findings?  I would love to read them, possibly include them in our archives.”

Feeling the pinch of guilt associated with ulterior motives, I hedged, “Um … I … ah … don’t know yet.  I have to do the research first.”

“Fair enough!”  He bustled back around his desk, exuding a happy, newfound sense of purpose.  “Ms. Fo-” he broke off, shot me a pleased, self-conscious glance and continued, “I mean, Kai-Lee … we’ll have you fixed up in no time.”  He sat down at his console and got down to business on the embedded touch-screen keyboard, typing in a series of brief commands as he muttered to himself.  “Access records, filter for last name Fox.  Ah-hah!  Here you are:  Kai-Lee Fox.  Let’s see now … occupation … hm, yes … permissions … that would be … ah … um-hm … special access effective ….”

As he typed and muttered, I wandered toward the rear bulkhead, stopping to examine the one item adorning that sterile gray expanse:  an immense parchment framed in what I knew to be twenty-four-karat gold.

The Prime Tenet of the Quingenti Colony

We, the Five Hundred (hereafter known as the Quingenti Colony), having been forced from our home solar system by the short-sighted intransigence and rank intolerance of the established global order, commit ourselves—our bodies, our minds, and our spirits—to this journey in order to remain true to our sacred purpose and seek mankind’s highest good, namely, the Perpetual Continuance of each human life.

We, the undersigned, agree as one that each human life can and should be Unending.  Furthermore, we are without exception convinced—on the basis of clear-cut scientific evidence and comprehensive ethical, sociological, and psychological research—that until such time as our science discovers the means to indefinitely prolong a single lifespan, mortality can and must be circumvented through the conscientious, controlled replication of the Prime (or Alpha) span, thus preserving each Individual (by which term is meant the genotype, physiognomy, and personal consciousness).  In order to insure complete fidelity in preservation, genetic replication will be augmented by certain educational, sociological, psychological, and/or governmental interventions (henceforth known as The Protocols and specified in the appended Codes), which this Body has unanimously deemed humane, appropriate, and helpful.  The Protocols are the product of careful deliberation and have been examined through the rigorous lens of moral rectitude.  Our signatures denote our eternal and wholehearted support for and subscription to these Protocols.

We who are, will be.

“Nearly done,” Publius assured me.  He typed another brief entry, pressed Enter with a flourish and looked up with a wide smile.  “There!  The permissions will be waiting in your in box.”

I tore my fascinated gaze away from Kai-Lee Fox’s signature and crossed to stand in front of his desk.  “Thank you.”

“No, thank you.  Happy to be of service, Ms. … I mean, Kai-Lee.”  Before I could move, he was around the desk again, giving my hand a few more pumps for good measure.  “I know you’ll find your study of our theories and methods fascinating, absolutely fascinating!  The basics laid out in the Protocols will merely whet your appetite; you won’t be able to resist the urge to delve deeper, you mark my words!  There’s so much more to the program.  It’s really quite impressive, if I do say so myself!  Quite!  I hope you’ll keep me posted?  And please don’t hesitate to contact me, if I can in any way assist you.”

Mumbling something noncommittal and gently disengaging my hand, I escaped into the concourse—in a hurry now to get back to my quarters and dive into my project—Publius’ offer of help echoing in my ears.  It had been nice of him to offer, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be asking.  I couldn’t imagine asking anyone for help.  And who could blame me?  I had already been there, done that, and lived to regret it.  I was thinking about Eran—my truest and best friend?

“I’ll be back, Red,” he said.  “We’ll sort it out,” he said.  “I’m not abandoning you,” he said.

I hadn’t seen him since.

# # #

They say what you don’t know won’t hurt you, and ignorance is bliss.  Based on my research so far, I was beginning to think whoever they were, they had hit the nail dead on.  If I got any more knowledgeable, I decided, leaning back in my chair and scrubbing my hands over hot, tired eyes, I was liable to wind up down on Deck Five, taking a long stroll off the short edge of the hangar bay.

You’ve got to hand it to the Alphas, I mused, sliding into a disconsolate slump.  The Protocols are brilliant.  Scientifically sound.  And the Protocols work, I admitted silently.  Every person I knew was living, breathing proof of that.

But from where I sat, the Protocols were also slightly disturbing.

They called for a closely monitored developmental process carried out in three sequential phases, beginning in infancy.  The program started minutes after birth with the implantation of submicroscopic Interactive Encephalon Chips (ICEs) containing several exabytes of data—a complete autobiographical database, including self-concept, likes, dislikes, opinions, and emotional and event memory.  The ICEs were chemically wired into the brain in such a way that when predetermined synapses fired, corresponding chips were activated.  Coupled with prescribed environmental stimuli, the ICEs could significantly impact a youngling’s neurochemistry, activating target alleles specifically identified as expressers of the genetically encoded Alpha personality.  The written rationale for this and similar measures was lengthy, well constructed, and I couldn’t help but notice, a masterful piece of socio-political rationalization.

Put in a nutshell, the authors’ basic justification went something like this:  Since the individuals embarking on the Janus had gone to great lengths to make sure their helices would remain intact and viable through successive lifespans, and since each voyager’s express desire was total life continuance, the Colony had a moral obligation to do everything possible to assist him or her toward that goal.  That necessarily included preserving individual consciousnesses, as well as genomes.  Nothing should or would be left to chance.

Okay, that sounded reasonable in the abstract.  Except this wasn’t the abstract, it was my life.  By the time I waded through all four hundred pages or so—not counting appendices—I had a pounding headache and a sour taste in my mouth.

I needed more than this, I realized.  The Protocols were heavy on generalities and justification but light on the nitty gritty.  Detailed procedures, it seemed, were kept in various departmental files requiring yet another layer of access.  The only way I could get to them was to place a request with the relevant departments.  I was about to make a list of what I needed, when a totally insane idea popped into my head and more or less ran away with me.  I couldn’t shake it for love or money.  Why ask for access to the records?  Why not go straight to the people responsible for carrying out the program and look them dead in the eye while they explained their roles?  What better way to cut through the verbiage and get straight to the heart of the matter?

My research would be the perfect cover, I decided with rising excitement.  But which officials should I talk to?
I eventually settled on three who struck me as key:  Doctor Ampah Hahona, Publius Amon, and Enid Huw.  I didn’t bother to do a risk-benefit analysis on that last interviewee, because I figured I was certifiable for even considering her.  One wrong move—an inflection in my voice, a gleam in my eye, a bead of sweat on my brow—and I would be toast.  A week ago, I might have been able to talk myself out taking the chance.  Now I was too far gone to even try.

Ω

Kathy DiSanto, 2009, all rights reserved