Synchronicity
Once he was done with all the training, and given that the new forms of locomotion and reality perception were now an integral part of his cognitive processes, Carlos proceeded into the testing stage, thousands upon thousands upon thousands of questions, the kind which could only be answered through yes or no, until the monitor AI and the supporting research staff got a well formed picture of his personality makeup, as well as the secret paths of his entire neural roadmap. Finally, inside the CAT cylinder where lights chased one another at the sound of a little Mozart tune played for relaxation, they scanned his brain, one level after the other, until the AI could base upon it a Turing model in all aspects similar to the original.
As for the rectenna implant procedure, Carlos didn’t feel a thing. The truth, however, was that he’d spend the remainder of his days with a semi-proteinic microchip attached to his pre-frontal lobes, an implant which would only be activated–if ever–many, many years from then.
Finally, the Institute’s research staff brought all the children to a nigh-euphoric state of mind by taking them in single file to the screening room where an animated film about the Hershel probe’s journey to Proxima Centauri was showing. Between shouting, clapping and the chewing of liquorous chocolate, they watched the probe pass over the Oort cloud, shuddered in face of so many ice balls that twirled in the ever expanding emptiness of space, and applauded as the electromagnetic grid of the Bussard reactor unfolded and attracted thousands of hydrogen atoms to itself, which then powered the fusion torch and propelled the probe at an apocalyptic acceleration into the stellar chasms. Twenty five trillion miles, explained the narrator in a compassionate voice. A little over 4.29 light-years. A journey to last for years on end. When the signal got back, more likely than not all Project members would be dead. Unless those members were children. Children such as you, o glorious explorers. Children who would one day pick up the signal and experience in person, on the brink of old age, a peerless adventure from their twelve year old counterparts. Happy are those who can wait for a lifetime. Happy are those who, fifty years from now, will stroll in the lush green meadows of a new world, free from illness and death.
“All together now,” shouted an old professor, right from the center of the illuminated stage, connected to a wheelchair where they could see more tubes and circuitry than actual organic parts. “On the right arm of your seats there’s a button. Press it when the green light goes on. In that precise instant, your personalities will be uploaded by laser beam to the probe’s autognostic intelligence. Part of you will therefore contribute to the gestalt memory of the exploration modules. But a small part of that memory, and here’s your true reward, will have a conscience, with decision power and reflexive capabilities. My friends, such tiny experience of a new world, once lived through, will be sent back, first to the satellites in geosynchronous orbit around Proxima 4, then across stellar space, back to Earth and the orbital satellites from which you’ll be able to download your memories. So please do us the favor of staying alive (laughter) for the next fifty years. Be patient and stand by for the most extraordinary experience ever bestowed upon mankind. That of walking on a new world…”
“For how long?” Carlos Esteves asks, arm raised, shouting so he can be heard, in French even, since the semantic translator had decided to momentarily switch to Serbo-Croatian. “For how long will we be able to control the probe?”
“What?” the old Professor checks the audience list and the place where the question came from on his virtual organizer. “Carlos? You want to know if you’ll have enough time to build your sandcastle? Certainly, my son. All the time in the world. I thought you already knew that. Five minutes, right? Good, hey? You can do lots of great things in five minutes… All the time in the world… And now, let’s all press the button at the same time. A-one, and a-two, and a-...
2
Fifty years passed, and Carlos can barely remember he’d sent part of himself on the memory banks of a semi-gnostic probe bound for the fourth planet in the Rigil Kent trinary system. The Project had failed. The research team responsible for it had reached the age of compulsive retirement and been discreetly euthanasiated by the new eugenic policy that protects Europe from a senile and unproductive population. Others, subject to the laws of chaos and entropy, simply died along the way, contaminated by some mutant virus or a prion concealed in the muscle tissue of pigs and chickens. The virtual memories of the Project had been erased, eaten away or destroyed by the electromagnetic pulse bombs of terrorists.
Besides, Carlos Esteves now had different matters to worry about. It’s only a few days till the end of the new century, and he contemplates a sealine fraught with smoke and adorned ships from inside the control cabin of the frigate Gil Eanes. He’s one hundred miles off the southern coast of Algarve, under a hothouse sun on a rust-tinted ocean, part of the vanguard blockade fleet. From high above, surveillance cameras hum like a querulous swarm, sometimes stable, but almost always rushing from one place to the other, few centimeters above the choppy sea. Far ahead, partially concealed beneath the horizon line, a refugee convoy stains the sea red with spilt oil and putrefying corpses. Even at a distance, the stench of death chafes the nostrils of those who walk the decks unprotected. The European fleet faces the dreaded invasion at last. Here’s the weight of the Third World—or what little is left of it—piled up on whatever freighters, fishing ships and oil tankers still operate. Millions of starving, HIV-positive children hidden below the contaminated bulge of the tankers. Millions of warriors sweating blood from every pore, prey to a new strain of Ebola. The Hot Zone shuffles in a final death-rattle, bearing on Paradise. The voices, at once menacing and imploring, sound through the radio. Voices demanding right of passage and an end to the Shengen agreement. Voices claiming to have active nuclear devices with them, old bombs bought from the Emirates, ready to detonate in sequence should a single freighter be torpedoed. Bombs capable of building up a vast tidal wave and destroy the last fishing-banks in existence for good. Voices demanding deliverance, or Fortress Europe’s glorious demise.
