An Answer

Her belly screeched. It was painful to forego food hour for the second day in a row, but today she was particularly optimistic. Yesterday, at Fourteen hour, her supervisor had left the Manufacturing lab, and she had removed the electric charger from the machine that produced tooth-cleaning gel. These portable rubidium chargers could run any apparatus on the ship, so surely it could provide power to an ancient technology as well; of course, she was assuming the early form of computer also used electricity. Perhaps it didn’t. Maybe it produced electricity, but needed food for fuel. Now that was something she hadn’t tried, inserting a flavor-cake into the slot. She laughed to herself. Well why not? Maybe it had taste sensors that would activate once it was turned on. If so, it would certainly appreciate yellow as much as she did.

           She exited the empty vacuum elevator and stepped carefully along the non-slip surface of the corridor to her grandfather’s office. She listened for a moment against the door to ensure it was devoid of assistants, then tapped it open with her fingerchip. The wall screens were all on and glowing out vast quantities of data, each fronted by a workstation, their table screens all paused when the assistants went to eat. Usually someone was always on duty here in Navigation, in case a rogue planet or something appeared on the map, but that wasn’t a priority. The food chemists had created a new item and were introducing it today. That was infinitely more exciting than any rogue planet.

           She paused at her grandfather’s rotating chair in the center of room and swiveled her neck, pulling out the tension in her muscles, telling herself to tranquilize, so as not to be disappointed if today’s attempt failed again. Her eyes absorbed the familiar screen layouts. One showed a diagram of the ship—a swollen oval with rounded points on each end. The older generations jokingly called it ‘the lemon,’ but never defined the word to anyone younger. Another screen was filled with statistics. Their current velocity was 33,310 kilometers per second, or 1/9th the speed of light. They had been traveling for 96 ‘year’ cycles of 365 days, or 24-hour periods—all were completely arbitrary units of time, or so she had been taught. She had been alive for 39 of those cycles, and though she had been seeking the answer since she was at least 25, that hole in her knowledge still gaped painfully. She didn’t need to look at the third wall screen, the map; it always irritated her. On its left side was a miniature depiction of the ship, on the right was planet Wolf 1061c, their destination. Connecting the two, between a field of stars, was a red line that never seemed to get any shorter. Ophelia never wasted time envisioning life on the distant planet. She would be extremely old when they were supposed to arrive in 68 years, so she wouldn’t be motivated anymore to build a new life on solid ground. Leave that to her children. Instead, her mind gnawed at its daily obsession of finding out what had originally been on the left side of the map. Where did they come from? What planet did her grandparents, who refused to discuss it, call home?

           Sighing, she turned away from her grandfather’s chair and tapped open the closet door on the far side of the room. There it was on its shelf, next to a pile of snacks and emergency medical supplies. Her grandfather’s precious machine. He had told her that he inherited it from his grandfather, who packed it in his cargo when he left his home planet because it contained information that was important to him, but that was all she could ever find out.

           It was a small square box, light gray in color, on the upper face of which was a darker gray convex surface. Its coldly smooth, reflective face hinted to Ophelia that this dark square was the screen, and thus she had long ago decided that accessing its information meant turning it on and reading something there. She had not been able to turn it on so far, no matter what she did, and she had tried everything. On the front, below the screen were two slots, one blocked or shut, and the other a waiting maw; but she could find no attachments to insert. Below the lower slot were the words ‘Macintosh SE,’ meaningless to her, but likely representing the computer’s name or its primary use. On the far left was a small, colorful symbol. It was generally round in shape, but on the bottom and right sides tiny semicircles were cut out, and on the top of the symbol was a little point. Ophelia thought of it as a human head with a spike of hair and an open mouth; her current theory, therefore, was that the machine computed dietary needs. The appealing color pattern fit with this premise; bands of green, yellow, orange, red, purple, and blue could represent nutrients. The back of the box presented a mass of information, thankfully in human language, but very little was instructional. From her time spent rereading and memorizing the text, the primary fact was that the machine was, indeed, a computer. One short line on the back stated ‘Apple Computer, Inc.’ The unknown proper nouns before and after the word ‘Computer’ were but a few of the many, many unknown words on the panel. She had long ago exhausted herself creating imaginary purposes for them all. One intelligible section provided a warning of electric shock; another part mentioned that it was office equipment. Pretty generic matter.

           There was one written phrase on the back of the machine that Ophelia held dear, as it was the closest thing to an answer: ‘Made in U.S.A.’ She was no ignoramus, plus she worked in Manufacturing, so obviously U.S.A. was the place in which this computer had been built. The hours spent in her apartment futilely conversing with the ship’s education interface need not be counted. Her spouse now demanded complete control of the entertainment programs after work, so she had given up. The ship’s database had no answer anyway, regarding the identity of U.S.A., and the only new information it accumulated was from ongoing measurements, nothing from the past.

           Glancing over her shoulder, she pulled out the rubidium charger and, with both arms wrapped around the machine, pressed it against the back panel, right over the written warning of electric shock. A high tone sounded, almost like what came before a shipwide announcement, but quieter. Ophelia shuddered backwards, almost dropping the charger as the screen instantly awakened into a bright blue square of light.

           Several things happened in such rapidity that her flickering eyes were unable to discern their order. A gentle hum began. A tiny red light appeared, blinking, on the closed slot. The shade of blue brightened in hue, and a small shape appeared in the middle of the screen, bearing a smiling face. Before she could admire it, though, a bigger, horizontal rectangle with the words ‘Welcome to Macintosh’ replaced it. Blood surged up her legs, through her knees and into her rigid hips, causing her entire lower skeleton to quiver and jettison its strength. Her right hand sought some support, but by its own instinctual joy slapped her thigh instead. Luckily that hand recovered faster than her brain, immediately clamping over the childlike scream that escaped her throat.

           It was working! A few databases were all she had to overcome before she was suffused with the knowledge of her species. She had no doubt that even the oldest computer in existence would contain information about its home planet, and likely descriptions of the people, society, their surroundings, and all the other details of life. Maybe there were even other species on their origin planet. She glanced at the nearest wall screen. The food hour was halfway over. The Navigation team would return soon.

Her head wobbled along with her eyes as they chaotically scanned the information that was now presented on the screen. Not that there was much of it. The blue square had turned gray. A small image in a lower corner was labeled ‘Trash.’ Trash? Unwanted information? Maybe that would be interesting, but what else was there? Another item was labeled ‘Macintosh HD.’ Enough with this name already. Along the top was a row of words, without adjacent icons: ‘File Edit View Special.’ Nonsensical as a sentence. Anyway, she had to begin somewhere. The word ‘Trash’ was still the most intriguing. She touched it with the tip of her first finger, where the activity chip was nestled. Nothing happened. After tapping the Trash picture several times without result, she began tapping the other icon on the screen, then the words at the top. Nothing happened. An overly forceful strike bent her finger in a jolt of pain. How else could one open databases on a computer screen? The electronic chip in her finger controlled everything in her daily routine, from doors, to screens, to cleaning robots, to the food case in the café. How else could a screen work?

She spoke out loud. “Open Trash.” Nothing happened. She leaned in, her eager breath coating the gray light in a film of moisture. “Open Trash!” she shouted.

“Try ‘Open Sesame.’”

Ophelia squealed and spun around, dropping the charger behind the machine. It was Swaraj, one of the Navigation assistants. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

He lips stretched to release a rolling chuckle. “Did I accuse you?”

His laugh did not ease her defensive posture. Her arms were flung behind her back protectively, as if to hide the computer from a voracious monster. “This is my grandfather’s. I’m allowed to touch it.”

Still smiling, he folded his arms, bunching the cloth of his loose, white shirt, and let his head tilt to one side. He projected curiosity and warmth, not danger. “This is your grandfather’s and I’m not allowed to touch it. May I help you with it?”

Ophelia knew Swaraj, of course, but she had never had much personal conversation with him. She had always thought him a bit of a joker, not too serious about his job, and certainly not someone with whom to trust a secret. Instead of answering, she leaned back even further, as though the object in the closet behind her was her own infant.

He took several more steps and stood directly in front of her, undeterred by her stance. His narrow, fine-haired beard bobbed up and down. “I know how to access the data.”

“Did you find out…” What was she doing? Telling her obsession to a shipmate? Surely they could both be punished for tampering with hidden, discontinued technology. But if someone else knew about it, well, it seemed rather innocent to let him show it to her. Rather than finish the question, she silently curved her body sideways. Sweat cracked through her hair and behind her ears, whether from his proximity or her anxiety, she didn’t bother to wonder.

He pulled his own electric charger from a pocket and placed it gently atop the computer. The screen conducted its opening sequence again. Now, though, Swaraj dug his hand behind the stack of protein bars and vitamins on the shelf and pulled out another object. Its gray color matched the computer’s shell exactly. It was rounded, and about the size of a human hand, attached to a long plastic cord. He inserted the other end of the cord into a portal on the computer. Her bulging eyes reached toward him in silent fascination, as he rubbed and squeezed the object with the palm of his hand. After a moment he nodded at the screen. “Look.”

A black shape—a triangle? an arrow?—had moved over the icon called Macintosh HD, and seemingly activated it. A large white square now filled much of the screen, displaying an array of its own icons, these with much more understandable names: Calculator, Paint, Checkers. Her own kids played Checkers on the home table screen. “There. That one that says ‘Learning.’ That must be the database that can teach us all about the place we came from.”

Swaraj didn’t look at her, but only let one corner of his mouth tighten. Again his hand moved on the control device, sliding and pressing; he looked like someone playing a musical instrument. She watched in silence, her lower lip dangling. The screen flashed through a short series of images then settled on a rectangular picture, with a gray background and large, white, patternless shapes scattered about. The shapes contained dividing lines and dots and words. At the top of the picture was the title ‘World Map.’ Her heart began beating harder than she had ever known it to do; the sweat in her hair exploded down her cheeks and neck; she wavered, desiring air but unable to operate her throat. Her left hand shook as its pointer finger led it in terror toward one of the labeled shapes. U.S.A. It was a place. Not a building, but some area of land. Finally sucking in and coughing out a weak breath, she leaned forward and whispered. “What is the name of this world? The world of our ancestors.”

In response, Swaraj snatched the charger from the top of the computer and slipped it back into his pocket. With a sizzling noise, the screen snapped into darkness. Ophelia flinched as if he had struck her. What cruelty was this? But then he placed a kindly hand on her shoulder and bent his head. “Look at the time. But we have a group. We meet every Day Six at Nineteen Hour. We share and discuss our collected information. You could join us.”

Ophelia’s organs were still ricocheting in fear, excitement, shock. “A group?”

“Yes. An informal group. And totally secret. We call ourselves… ‘The Historians.’”