Toby Tsur
Flow Intergalactic IQT Departure Station, Lunar Orbit, Sol, Milky Way
June 14th, 2170
”It’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll have my marbles,” I tell her with a soft smirk.
She laughs and wipes the tears from her eyes, “I know… I’m going to worry anyway."
"I know,” I relent, and go in for one last hug before the big event.
We stayed like that for probably a solid minute before Clyde clears his throat, “You’re up, Dr. Tsur."
"Which one?” Mom and I reply simultaneously.
Before he feels the need to awkwardly explain himself, I chuckle and step in line with him for the rest of the walk to the transfer room. The whole thing will be publicly streamed of course, but for security reasons the actual process will occur in a sealed chamber underground.
We entered, and I finally get to lay eyes on my new hull in person. The “Rustybot” drone model. An old joke name of mine that I think suits the industrial practicality of this visual style perfectly.
It sits docked to a support stand in the center of the room next to what resembles a dentist’s chair. A boxy, orange and grey metallic chassis with no lower body below the abdomen. Who needs legs in space, right? Instead, a set of hexagonal hover thrusters will allow me to safely descend during planetfall, with additional hexpads positioned strategically at various joints and surfaces for omnidirectional acceleration, stabilization, and heat dissipation.
I admit the facial display screen might not be entirely necessary, but the idea is for me to record logs as I explore this new world I’m being sent to, so having a personable appearance will help public image. Plus, personally, I don’t enjoy inhabiting a chassis that can’t emote.
I take the digital equivalent of a deep breath, then step into the view of the camera waving and smiling. I’m being watched by a little over a billion viewers on Earth alone, not to mention the lunar and martian colonies. Probably a few dozen from our Alpha Centauri outposts too. All able to view from anywhere in real-time thanks to QEC and the Datanet.
I approach the dormant drone and begin my speech, “This journey represents the breaking of a barrier the likes of which have never been seen before. Andromeda is a distant place, so far removed from reality in our minds that even now I speak of it as if it were a single location. The truth is that it encompasses a galactic environment even more expansive than our own. One with more stars, more worlds, and more possibilities than we can conceive. My arrival will be a show of humanity’s ability to explore untold new reaches of our universe.”
“It has been said that we do things not because they are easy, but because they are hard. I say, why allow them to be hard at all? In the blink of an eye, I will find myself amidst new horizons that were thought to be out of reach for centuries to come. I do it not because it is hard, but because it used to be, and through effort, spirit, and ingenuity, we made it easy. Thank you.”
Silently grateful I didn’t flub up any lines, I sit in the chair to the light applause of the scientists present. One of them steps up beside me and reaches towards my primary drive port, which I unlock and allow to open. I lean back, falling into sensory deprivation as he removes the part of me that I inhabit.
I never like this part. It’s a fundamental requirement of being a digital mind, but transferring between physical bodies is always a vulnerable state to be put in. I could go into stasis, but that feels like it would be… worse, somehow. Not knowing how much time has passed. Not knowing that I’ll ever be awoken. Even if I end up thinking to myself forever, at least I get to experience existing.
…
Oh, here we go. I feel the new connection. That was, what, 2 minutes of subjective time? Probably took about 25 actual seconds for him to transfer my drive then. That wasn’t so bad.
I allow the feed from my two facial cameras to become my primary sensory input, and see the team looking at me expectantly.
I access my new systems and get a feel for controlling myself. My hexpads begin to glow blue, dissipating heat from the microfusion power core’s new load. I activate the primary vertical hover thruster and lift off of the docking stand, holding position with the stabilizer pads. I access the facial display and set it to show my signature hexagonal eyes, in the same blue as my other lights.
I raise my hands and visually inspect my new palms, taking in the intricacies of how my fingers move and getting a feel for what differs from my previous form.
Once again turning to the camera and waving, I drift towards the transfer chamber. By now there will be a narration of the process on the feed so I don’t need to say anything. All I have to do is focus on the task at hand.
First: the transfer chamber needs a load to send to its destination. That’s me. Second: the chamber seals itself and depressurises. Sending air with me that will immediately dissipate into the vacuum of space would be a massive waste of energy. Third: both myself and the team double triple check the calibration of the target point to make sure I don’t end up inside the planet we want me in orbit around, or that I’m not left in interstellar space a galaxy away without even a warp drive. Fourth: I smile for the camera, I give a salute to the team, and I wave to my mom through two layers of glass.
Fifth: I disappear.
Toby Tsur
Primary Drive, Unknown
Unknown
Sixth: I… Arrive?
…
Where’s my sensory input? If everything went right, I should be able to see Quindlet right now.
Running diagnostics, it seems there’s a protocol in place keeping my primary drive from interfacing with my body. At least, that’s my best guess. Not two seconds ago I was fully connected and now I can’t feel anything. Obviously, this makes no sense. That type of system is highly illegal if put in place on purpose, and no one would be stupid enough to make one by accident… Right?
No, of course not. I have faith in my fellow programmers. Maybe the jump jostled me hard enough to destroy my drone and only my drive remains. Implausible, but possible.
I guess… I wait for rescue? Also implausible. Perhaps even more so.
…
Ok. So I can’t move, see, communicate, or modify my situation in any way. I can think… and uh… that’s it. Um. I guess I wait longer.
…
Uh oh.