Read Online Warp by Lev Grossman - Free Book Online

if warp is more like water? Maybe you need to run the engine all the time, just like a ship needs its propeller going all the time, to fight against the resistance of the water. See what I’m saying? Maybe there’s resistance, and you have to keep pushing all the time, or you just slow down and stop. What if warp isn’t all just coasting along all the time?”
    The calculating capacity of my artificial positronic brain is approximately seven trillion times that of your human brain.
    â€œMaybe,” Blake said. “Maybe. Still, they talk the same way about impulse power, too.”
    He thought for a moment.
    â€œAll that bridge protocol comes from nineteenth-century naval stuff, you know. It’s all in Patrick O’Brian.”
    Malo climbed into his skiff and paddled out into the middle of the bay. No one saw him.
    â€œTransporters, though, that’s another thing: Scotty was trapped in a transporter for eighty years, right? In the Dyson Sphere episode. He doesn’t age, because he’s trapped in a transporter beam. Or does he? What about Lieutenant Barclay—when he’s stuck in the transporter, something bites him on the arm. The Transporter Psychosis episode. It’s not like he’s frozen in time, he’s still conscious. So why doesn’t Scotty age when he’s trapped in the transporter beam?”
    Blake finished his drink. Nobody said anything.
    â€œWell, anyway,” he said. “Think about it.”
    â€œGeordie says it’s on a special diagnostic circuit.”
    â€œYour mother’s on a fucking diagnostic circuit,” said Peters.
    A crowd of three or four people banged in through the door, talking loudly. Cold air washed through the room. More drinks arrived.
    â€œPlus,” said Blake, “if he was trapped for eighty years inside a transporter he’d go insane, even if he didn’t die of old age.”
    â€œMaybe he was lying,” Peters said.
    â€œLie is a blow to the tyranny of fact,” Hollis said.
    He studied the backs of his hands, wiggling his fingers.
    â€œI think lies are good,” he said. “People should lie more. Lies are like these little peepholes into a better world.”
    â€œMilord waxes eloquent,” Peters said. “God, you’re a cheap date, Hollis.”
    None could match his merry gibes.
    â€œI heard about this perfect job the other day,” said Rob. “Some of my radio friends. There’s this Japanese news program that needs an entertainment reporter to cover, like, the whole U.S. scene. It has some dorky Japanese name, like Eyepopper News or something—you have to be fluent in Japanese. But if you were, you’d be set.” He shook his head, looking a little glassy-eyed. “The money was unbelievable.”
    Hollis unobtrusively took his wallet out of his pocket, under the table, and counted the money in it. His hands were shaking.
    Even those who tried to draw closer to him, lured by his wealth or the secret of his success.
    No one spoke, and Hollis’s attention wandered to the rest of the bar. Warm, humid air had steamed up the windows. A woman with short dyed-blond hair sat by herself, occasionally drinking beer from a glass, with a vacant expression. She was pretty, in a schoolgirlish way. Hollis caught her eye. She looked, then looked away. Some waiters and waitresses were sitting together in a closed-off section, sipping water and talking sedately among themselves. A few had already changed into their street clothes.
    â€œIf there’s a bright side to the galaxy,” Peters said, more or less aimlessly, “we’re on the planet that’s farthest from it.”
    For the first time that night Hollis noticed some long strings of garlics and dried peppers that were hanging from the ceiling. He was definitely feeling the gin and tonics, and he closed his eyes and pressed on his eyelids with the tips of his fingers.
    The spins