Asimov's Science Fiction: October/November 2013 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #453 & #454
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"Maybe this is an easy decision for Isaac, too." "How long do you think it'll be before we send a person that deep into space?" "On a one-way trip? A long, long time. Maybe never. We're doing the right thing,
Leonard." "I know," he says. "Good luck, Abe."
"You too. Both of you."
At the spaceport, as we're making our way to the launch pad, I pause by a window and watch the dawn's rays caress the hull of the rocket that will take us up to the Prometheus. I can't help but picture in my mind's eye how much a rocket in flight resembles an upside-down torch, as if humanity is returning to the heavens the fire the mythical Prometheus once stole. But the metaphor breaks down, for knowledge cannot be unlearned, and the past cannot be unlived.
After I climb aboard and get strapped in, while the crew goes through preflight checks, I have plenty of time to think about all the good-byes of my life.
And about my non-good-bye with Isaac, who exists free from the fetters of regret and guilt, in a perpetual present where there is no distinction between memory and history, and each moment's actions have to answer only to that moment's context.
The countdown is a blur, and then so is everything else.
When blastoff 's disorientation wears off, a single thought occupies my mind: I am Orpheus.
It's taken science three thousand years to catch up with the myth, but now we know that observing a physical system can disturb its quantum state, or even destroy it entirely. You've got atoms doing all sorts of wonderful, outrageous things, but if you try to look, if you try to measure—poof! All that quantum magic collapses to less than a fleeting shadow.
Compared to me, Orpheus had it easy—all he had to do was keep his head turned the other way. I need to worry about all possible sources of decoherence—mechanical, magnetic, optical, thermal, all of it, and the isolation system I'm carrying is the most sophisticated in history.
Unlike Orpheus, I know that nothing can ever bring my wife back.
The ride up out of the Earth's gravitational well is as smooth as can be expected. Twenty minutes after takeoff, what remains of the rocket docks with the orbital platform, and two dozen of us get out. No one mentions that this is the last time in orbit for most of us.
We float through the brightly lit corridors, past labs and workshops, to the assembly area, where, finally free from scaffolding and cables, rests the gleaming bulk of the Prometheus.
Although unmanned, it's honeycombed with narrow crawlways, to allow access to the systems buried deep inside. I make my way over to the computer unit, hidden away in the very center of the vessel to maximize shielding from cosmic rays. The quantum computer, Junior, is a box thirty centimeters on a side, attached to the ship's conventional supercomputer.
I brace my back against one wall and a foot against the other and unscrew the cover of the auxiliary quantum memory module slot, added to Junior's design at the last minute to accommodate this plan. When I take the case I brought with me out of my shoulder bag, all the anxiety and doubt within me coalesce into an immobilizing jolt of "What am I doing?!"
I notice that my hands are shaking and I'm soaked with sweat. The air is suddenly unbearably stuffy, and the crawlway claustrophobically constricting. A wave of nausea hits me, and it's all I can do to not drop the module. After several interminable seconds, the churning in my gut subsides, dissipates. Sweat stings my eyes.
I wipe my forehead and eyes with my free hand, relax every muscle I can, close my eyes, and take twenty deep breaths. When I open my eyes and lift the encased module up, my hand holding it is steady.
I peel open the case and extract the egg-sized auxiliary module. Even looking at it makes me uneasy. I ease the termination cap off the connector jack and slide the module into its slot. I screw the slot's cover back on. I exhale. The rest is in Leonard and Isaac's hands. I call Leonard as
Leonard." "I know," he says. "Good luck, Abe."
"You too. Both of you."
At the spaceport, as we're making our way to the launch pad, I pause by a window and watch the dawn's rays caress the hull of the rocket that will take us up to the Prometheus. I can't help but picture in my mind's eye how much a rocket in flight resembles an upside-down torch, as if humanity is returning to the heavens the fire the mythical Prometheus once stole. But the metaphor breaks down, for knowledge cannot be unlearned, and the past cannot be unlived.
After I climb aboard and get strapped in, while the crew goes through preflight checks, I have plenty of time to think about all the good-byes of my life.
And about my non-good-bye with Isaac, who exists free from the fetters of regret and guilt, in a perpetual present where there is no distinction between memory and history, and each moment's actions have to answer only to that moment's context.
The countdown is a blur, and then so is everything else.
When blastoff 's disorientation wears off, a single thought occupies my mind: I am Orpheus.
It's taken science three thousand years to catch up with the myth, but now we know that observing a physical system can disturb its quantum state, or even destroy it entirely. You've got atoms doing all sorts of wonderful, outrageous things, but if you try to look, if you try to measure—poof! All that quantum magic collapses to less than a fleeting shadow.
Compared to me, Orpheus had it easy—all he had to do was keep his head turned the other way. I need to worry about all possible sources of decoherence—mechanical, magnetic, optical, thermal, all of it, and the isolation system I'm carrying is the most sophisticated in history.
Unlike Orpheus, I know that nothing can ever bring my wife back.
The ride up out of the Earth's gravitational well is as smooth as can be expected. Twenty minutes after takeoff, what remains of the rocket docks with the orbital platform, and two dozen of us get out. No one mentions that this is the last time in orbit for most of us.
We float through the brightly lit corridors, past labs and workshops, to the assembly area, where, finally free from scaffolding and cables, rests the gleaming bulk of the Prometheus.
Although unmanned, it's honeycombed with narrow crawlways, to allow access to the systems buried deep inside. I make my way over to the computer unit, hidden away in the very center of the vessel to maximize shielding from cosmic rays. The quantum computer, Junior, is a box thirty centimeters on a side, attached to the ship's conventional supercomputer.
I brace my back against one wall and a foot against the other and unscrew the cover of the auxiliary quantum memory module slot, added to Junior's design at the last minute to accommodate this plan. When I take the case I brought with me out of my shoulder bag, all the anxiety and doubt within me coalesce into an immobilizing jolt of "What am I doing?!"
I notice that my hands are shaking and I'm soaked with sweat. The air is suddenly unbearably stuffy, and the crawlway claustrophobically constricting. A wave of nausea hits me, and it's all I can do to not drop the module. After several interminable seconds, the churning in my gut subsides, dissipates. Sweat stings my eyes.
I wipe my forehead and eyes with my free hand, relax every muscle I can, close my eyes, and take twenty deep breaths. When I open my eyes and lift the encased module up, my hand holding it is steady.
I peel open the case and extract the egg-sized auxiliary module. Even looking at it makes me uneasy. I ease the termination cap off the connector jack and slide the module into its slot. I screw the slot's cover back on. I exhale. The rest is in Leonard and Isaac's hands. I call Leonard as
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