Boz woke up slowly, convinced he
was hearing an ancient crooner sing "White Christmas."
He pulled his pillow over his head to drown out the
noise before he remembered where he was.
Space. The ship. Light-years from anything.
Christmas carols? He'd never expected to hallucinate
them.
He sat up. His room was filling slowly with light. The
on-board systems had been set up to mimic a typical
Earth day (as if a typical Earth day had constant
sunshine), and they did adjust for the seasons.
When the Beautiful Dreamer had been in the
planning stages, the crew decided two things: that
they'd remain on a 24-hour day, and they'd follow the
western calendar. He didn't mind the 24-hour day, but he
saw no reason to keep the calendar. He had voted against
it and had been overruled, which was funny, given that
he was going to be the only one awake to "enjoy" that
calendar.
He sighed, rolled over, and pulled the pillow off his
head. Sure enough, some twentieth century icon was
singing about Christmas. Only the song had changed to
"I'll Be Home for Christmas." That was a cruel joke. No
one on this ship was going home again.
Not that Boz cared. He hadn't had a home in decades.
He sat up, rubbed his hand through his scraggly hair,
and asked, "Computer, what's the date?"
The computer answered in its relentlessly cheerful
voice, "December 25."
Christmas.
"I'll be go to hell," he whispered, and then shivered.
The music wasn't playing in the computer speakers. If it
was, he would have heard it directly in his room.
Instead, it sounded far away, as if someone were playing
tunes down the hall.
(It actually sounded just like it used to when he lived
alone in New York: Christmas music would waft at him
from everywhere—his neighbor's apartment, the nearby
storefronts, the street below. He shivered again, not
liking that memory. Those days before he'd joined the
mission had been difficult ones.)
"Make the music stop," he said.
"I do not register any music." When the damn thing was
being negative, the voice grated all the more.
"Well, somebody's playing some, and there's just you and
me on this ship." "Correction," the computer said.
"There are 656 individuals on this ship. I am not
an individual. I am a construct designed to …"
"I know." He wished he hadn't spoken aloud. He
sighed and tried again. "Has someone awakened
accidentally?"
"All of the sleep chambers are functioning properly. The
crew is unchanged."
"Then where is the music coming from?" Boz asked.
"I do not register any music. Hearing things is a
warning sign. Should I call up the holographic
psychiatrist?"
"No," Boz said, and decided to stop talking to the
computer. If the computer determined he was crazy, the
damn thing would wake someone else up—with no hope of
that person returning to cold sleep. Then Boz would be
stuck with another person—a person who had been told he
was ill, injured, or had mental problems.
He couldn't cope with that.
The music had changed again. Now young people's voices
rose in "Happy, Happy Holiday Time." At least that tune
was a little more modern. The chorus of pure children's
voices gave him a sudden longing for snow, of all
things.
Snow and chill air and a breeze. What he wouldn't give
for a breeze.
He stopped just inside his door and leaned his head on
the metal. He hadn't had this kind of homesickness since
the first month. He'd been alone on this vessel for
nearly a year, and for the most part, it hadn't bothered
him, just like predicted.
He was an off-the-charts introvert, someone who would
live alone even if he were given the choice to live with
people he liked, someone who preferred his own company
to everyone else's—at least, that was what the battery
of tests said. The tests had been strictly
anonymous—done by number, so that the researchers
wouldn't look at the subject's history. Once his number
was revealed, all Boz's personal history did was confirm
the diagnosis.
No marriages, no children, his parents long dead. Boz
had lived alone since he was sixteen years old, and
hadn't missed the company.
But the point wasn't ancient history. The point was
Christmas carols—"Jingle Bells" now (what did that song
mean, anyway?)—and the fact that the computer denied any
knowledge of the sound.
Something had malfunctioned, oddly malfunctioned. He
would find it.
He pulled open the door. The music got louder. He could
hear piano and drums behind those children's voices,
singing happily about dashing through snow (ooh, the
longing again: he shook it off. He couldn't get
lost in nostalgia—he had two more years of
breezelessness ahead). The smell of hot cocoa warmed
him, and made him think of the only Christmases he'd
ever celebrated: those with his parents.
Hot cocoa?
He looked down. A tray sat just to the left of his door.
A mug with something that looked like hot cocoa and
steamed like hot cocoa sat on one edge of the tray. In
the center, a coffee cake glistened, the frosting so
fresh it slid off the side.
His stomach growled.
He bent down and touched the tray. It was real. Had he
ordered it? The three 'bots that had been brought along
to make his life easier would put a tray out if he
wanted it. He had never wanted one before.
He touched the mug, recognizing it as one of the ship's
set. He only used his personal dishes, an affectation
the captain called it, but part of the ritualized
necessities that kept him going.
The shrinks had said that he wasn't mentally healthy—at
least when it came to socializing—but he was exactly the
kind of person to be left alone on the ship for the
three years it took to get to the new colony. Initially,
colony vessels like the Dreamer kept three or
four people awake to handle backup problems, but the
monotony put them at each other's throats. More than one
"accidental" death had changed that policy, and then the
shrinks got involved.
Competent introverts were the answer.
Boz's problems faced him on the other end, when the ship
reached the new planet's orbit, and he woke up the main
crew. From then on, he would be in close contact with
people, maybe for a year or more.
He worried about it, even now. He had actually told
Captain McNeil that the required socializing
disqualified him. Boz wouldn't be able to tolerate the
living conditions, not just on the ship, but in the
colony itself.
"We know," the captain said. Her pretty blue eyes
twinkled. He'd often wondered how such a cheerful person
had risen so far in the colony programs. "We have
several solutions on the dock for you. You can study
them as you travel."
His stomach clenched. He didn't want to think about the
future. It scared him more than he wanted to admit.
Almost as much as the Christmas carols and the hot
cocoa. He crouched, touched the mug, felt the warmth
through the unbreakable synth ceramic. Then he stuck a
finger in the liquid—very hot—and brought it to his
lips.
Hot cocoa. He hadn't had that in years, hadn't thought
to make it here either, even though the ship's stores
had everything he could ever want.
Then he touched the coffee cake. It was warm too. He
broke off a piece. It felt fresh baked.
He took a bite. It tasted like the pastries he used to
get in New York, before he moved to Houston to begin
training for the colony program. Rich, warm, delicately
spiced. A taste of the past, one he hadn't even realized
he missed.
The entire morning was unnerving him. Was this some kind
of test? If so, who had created it, and why do it now,
when the ship was in flight? They couldn't turn back,
and Captain McNeil had explained to him that they didn't
want anyone else to wake up if at all possible.
He ate the coffee cake, sipped from the cocoa but left
it on the tray. Too much sweetness for him this early in
the day. He pushed the tray aside—something to deal with
later—and headed down the hall, toward the music.
Instrumental now. Something from the Nutcracker
Suite. He'd never bothered to learn much about that
thing—what he knew about most of the Christmas
traditions, he'd picked up as part of the culture. In
fact, he'd felt a little relieved to be away from the
annual holiday-assault fest.
Christmas.
He hadn't even realized.
The music grew louder as he reached the rec room. One of
the bots stood outside, a tray of cookies on its head.
Christmas cookies with frosting and sprinkles and "Happy
Holidays" written in red and green across the tray
itself.
"I didn't program you for this," Boz said to it.
"That is correct," it said in its mechanized little
voice.
He let out a small sigh of relief. He had been starting
to doubt his own memory.
"Then what's this all about?" he asked.
"You must enter the recreation room," it said.
"First, tell me what's going on," he said.
"You must enter the recreation room," it repeated. "Or
have a cookie."
He flattened his palm against the door lock, then
grabbed a cookie despite his best efforts not to and
stepped into the recreation room. The music was louder
here. The entire place smelled like pine needles. He
took a deep breath of the nearly forgotten odor.
In the corner, a tree leaned against the wall. The tree
was decorated with tiny multicolored lights and silver
balls that reflected those lights. Beneath the tree,
hundreds of presents glistened.
Garlands hung around the room, and more lights hung from
the ceiling. Their colors reflected on silver disks that
lined the floor.
He took a step forward, and one of the disks shimmered.
Then a hologram of Captain McNeil rose in front of him.
The hologram was cheaply made—Boz could see through her
to the tree—and winked in and out, as if it couldn't
quite sustain the image.
"Merry Christmas, Boz," she said. The image paused. He
sighed. It expected a response.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
She smiled. "I hope you don't mind the intrusion into
your routine. We programmed this celebration before we
left. We've used your file to design the best holiday we
can for you."
The image paused again. He wasn't sure how to respond.
Say thank you? For scaring him half to death? He
couldn't say that. He couldn't say much of anything. He
felt as tongue-tied as he would have if she were
actually standing in front of him.
Finally, he managed, "Okay."
"We weren't sure about the music. We programmed our
favorites. You can change that program now. The bots
will prepare a roast turkey dinner for you with all the
trimmings. You're welcome to have it whenever you like."
Her eyes twinkled, even in the damn hologram.
"But do open the presents. Each member of the colonizing
team brought something they thought you'd appreciate,
something you could watch or read or study in the long
years ahead."
His mouth was dry. They gave him presents? Why?
"We wanted to tell you how much we appreciate you
guarding our ship for the next few years," Captain
McNeil's hologram was saying. "We know you wouldn't be
able to take the thanks personally, and thanks means so
much less when the task is actually completed. So we
thought we'd say it now."
The other disks sprang to life. All 656 colonists stood
before him, most miniaturized so that they could fit
into the room. He took a step backward.
Six-hundred-and-fifty-six people staring him—or the
image of them staring at him—made him want to flee.
"Thank you, Boz!" they said in unison. "Merry
Christmas."
And then, mercifully, they all vanished.
Even the captain.
He swallowed against his dry throat. The music changed—a
chorus of out-of-tune voices lustily sang, "We Wish You
a Merry Christmas." He had a hunch he was listening to
the crew.
The door swished open behind him, and one of the bots
entered, a tray of beverages on its round head.
"Mulled cider," it said. "Or coffee or spiced tea …?"
No matter how hard it tried, it didn't sound like a
waiter. Boz smiled, in spite of himself.
He took the mulled cider, then sat on one of the
couches, his heart still beating rapidly. He reached
over and touched the tree. His fingers passed through
the branches. Another hologram, only a better one than
those produced by the disks scattered across the floor.
Then he reached for a present, expecting his fingers to
pass through them. But the box was real. He picked it
up. His name was scrawled on it in an unfamiliar hand.
The tag said the gift was from someone named Betsy
Wilson.
He didn't remember a Betsy Wilson. He felt vaguely
embarrassed about that. He picked up the gift, opened
it, found a dedicated reader—something with a permanent
battery and a voice-over function. He would no longer
have to use the computer for his late-night reading.
Thoughtful. Bought with him in mind.
He understood what was going on. This was part of the
program to ease him into the colony, to prepare him for
the future.
He should probably resent it. Perhaps he should act
cynically and say there was no warmth behind this gift.
But there was. The colonists could have integrated him
in a thousand ways—he'd read about half of those ways on
the first part of the journey (and hoped he wouldn't
have to do them). This—this was heartfelt.
He sat on the couch for a long time, clutching his
reader, sipping his mulled cider, taking cookies from
the tray on top of the bot's head.
Then he made a decision.
The captain was right: thank-yous after the fact didn't
mean as much. He called up the computer log, and had the
computer record the room. He hoped the recording would
get his face, the absolute awe he felt. Because he
wasn't good with words, especially words others would
eventually hear.
But even he could say thank you.
And he did.
The End |
