Ignatiev felt a sudden urge to comfort her, to protect her from the brutal truth. «Unless we take steps,» he said softly.
«What steps?» Gregorian demanded.
«We have to change our course. Turn away from this bubble. Move along a path that keeps us in regions of thicker gas.»
«Alexander Alexandrovich,» came the voice of the AI avatar, «course changes must be approved by mission control.»
Ignatiev looked up and saw that the avatar’s image had sprung up on each of the conference room’s walls, slightly larger than life. Naturally, he realized. The AI system has been listening to every word we say. The avatar’s image looked slightly different to him: an amalgam of all the twelve separate images the AI system showed to each of the crew members. Sonya’s features were in the image, but blurred, softened, like the face of a relative who resembled her mother strongly.
«Approved by mission control?» snapped one of the engineers, a rake-thin dark-skinned Malaysian. «It would take six years merely to get a message to them!»
«We could all be dead by then,» said the redhead sitting beside him.
Unperturbed, the avatar replied, «Mission protocol includes emergency procedures, but course changes require approval from mission control.»
Everyone tried to talk at once. Ignatiev closed his eyes and listened to the babble. Almost, he laughed to himself. They would mutiny against the AI system, if they knew how. He saw in his imagination a handful of children trying to rebel against a peg-legged pirate captain.
At last he put up his hands to silence them. They shut up and looked to him, their expressions ranging from sullen to fearful to self-pitying.
«Arguments and threats won’t sway the AI program,» he told them. «Only logic.»
Looking thoroughly nettled, Gregorian said, «So try logic, then.»
Ignatiev said to the image on the wall screens, «What is the mission protocol’s first priority?»
The answer came immediately, «To protect the lives of the human crew and cargo.»
Cargo, Ignatiev grunted to himself. The stupid program thinks of the people in cryonic suspension as cargo.
Aloud, he said, «Observations show that we are entering a region of very low hydrogen density.»
Immediately the avatar replied, «This will necessitate reducing power consumption.»
«Power consumption may be reduced below the levels needed to keep the crew alive,» Ignatiev said.
For half a heartbeat the AI avatar said nothing. Then, «That is a possibility.»
«If we change course to remain within the region where hydrogen density is adequate to maintain all the ship’s systems,» Ignatiev said slowly, carefully, «none of the crew’s lives would be endangered.»
«Not so, Alexander Alexandrovich,» the avatar replied.
«Not so?»
«The immediate threat of reduced power availability might be averted by changing course, but once the ship has left its preplanned trajectory toward Gliese 581, how will you navigate toward our destination? Course correction data will take more than twelve years to reach us from Earth. The ship would be wandering through a wilderness, far from its destination. The crew would eventually die of starvation.»
«We could navigate ourselves,» said Ignatiev. «We wouldn’t need course correction data from mission control.»
The avatar’s image actually shook her head. «No member of the crew is an accredited astrogator.»
«I can do it!» Nikki cried. «I monitor the navigation program.»
With a hint of a smile, the avatar said gently, «Monitoring the astrogation program does not equip you to plot course changes.»
Before Nikki or anyone else could object, Ignatiev asked coolly, «So what do you recommend?»
Again the AI system hesitated before answering, almost a full second. It must be searching every byte of data in its memory, Ignatiev thought.
At last the avatar responded. «While this ship passes through the region of low fuel density the animate crew should enter cryonic suspension.»
«Cryosleep?» Gregorian demanded. «For how long?»
«As long as necessary. The cryonics units can be powered by the ship’s backup fuel cells—»
The redhaired engineer said, «Why don’t we use the fuel cells to run the ship?»
Ignatiev shook his head. The kid knows better, he’s just grasping at straws.
Sure enough, the AI avatar replied patiently, «The fuel cells could power the ship for only a week or less, depending on internal power consumption.»
Crestfallen, the engineer said, «Yeah. Right.»
«Cryosleep is the indicated technique for passing through this emergency,» said the AI system.
Ignatiev asked, «If the fuel cells are used solely for maintaining the cryosleep units’ refrigeration, how long could they last?»
«Two months,» replied the avatar. «That includes maintaining the cryosleep units already being used by the cargo.»
«Understood,» said Ignatiev. «And if this region of low fuel density extends for more than two months?»
Without hesitation, the AI avatar answered, «Power to the cryosleep units will be lost.»
«And the people in those units?»
«They will die,» said the avatar, without a flicker of human emotion.
Gregorian said, «Then we’d better hope that the bubble doesn’t last for more than two months.»
Ignatiev saw the others nodding, up and down the conference table. They looked genuinely frightened, but they didn’t know what else could be done.
He thought he did.
The meeting broke up with most of the crew members muttering to one another about sleeping through the emergency.
«Too bad they don’t have capsules big enough for the two of us,» Gregorian said brashly to Nikki. Ignatiev thought he was trying to show a valor he didn’t truly feel.
They don’t like the idea of crawling into those capsules and closing the lids over their faces, Ignatiev thought. It scares them. Too much like coffins.
With Gregorian at her side, Nikki came up to him as he headed for the conference room’s door. Looking troubled, fearful, she asked, «How long … do you have any idea?»
«Probably not more than two months,» he said, with a certainty he did not actually feel. «Maybe even a little less.»
Gregorian grasped Nikki’s slim arm. «We’ll take capsules next to each other. I’ll dream of you all the time we’re asleep.»
Nikki smiled up at him.
But Ignatiev knew better. In cryosleep you don’t dream. The cold seeps into the brain’s neurons and denatures the chemicals that hold memories. Cryonic sleepers awake without memories, many of them forget how to speak, how to walk, even how to control their bladders and bowels. It was necessary to download a person’s brain patterns into a computer before entering cryosleep, and then restore the memories digitally once the sleeper is awakened.
The AI system is going to do that for us? Ignatiev scoffed at the idea. That was one of the reasons why the mission required keeping a number of the crew awake during the long flight: to handle the uploading of the memories of the two hundred men and women cryosleeping through the journey once they were awakened at Gliese 581.
Ignatiev left the conference room and headed toward his quarters. There was much to do: he didn’t entirely trust the AI system’s judgment. Despite its sophistication, it was still a computer program, limited to the data and instructions fed into it.
So? he asked himself. Aren’t you limited to the data and instructions fed into your brain? Aren’t we all?
«Dr. Ignatiev.»
Turning, he saw Nikki hurrying up the passageway toward him. For once she was alone, without Gregorian clutching her.
He made a smile for her. It took an effort.
Nikki said softly, «I want to thank you.»