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Though Dave Bowman had ascended past himself, he had not lost touch with his humanity. Just because he was no longer confined to a mortal existence of three dimensions didn’t mean he had shed every ounce of his former self. Certain qualities were essential, and he chose to retain them: tenacity, curiosity, humor. This wasn’t a limitation by any means. He simply experienced his humanity now in a different way. It was as if he’d grown up. He looked back on his 32 years as formative and childish, but not something that could be discarded. He was human, once, and that wasn’t something to be thrown away.
This, his former humanity, was what had driven him towards the Leonov. For what could have been weeks--time was no longer linear for him--he’d floated among the astronauts. They used a different operating system for their spacecraft, and some spoke a different language, but they were human. It was essential that they be guided.
Dave looked at them all with a kind of detached affection, as a parent has for a child that is not theirs. And so, when they were in danger, it was his duty to warn them.
He’d patched directly into Hal’s message broadcast system in order to talk to the former chairman of the National Council for Astronautics. A touch of effort was required to turn his thoughts into manageable pieces for Hal, but it was not very difficult. It was extremely important to him that he warn someone on this mission.
Heywood Floyd happened to be the one closest to Hal when he patched in. Dave remembered Dr. Floyd. He had never felt any ill will towards him, outside of an affable disdain for the bureaucracy, and now he felt very little at all.
With a touch, or a thought, the Starchild tapped into Hal. He regretted using the computer as a mouthpiece without being able to fully explain the situation, but it would have to wait. Hal communicated the first message, the most important: “It is dangerous to remain here. You must leave within two days.”
Dr. Floyd’s confusion was evident, bordering on irritation. “My response is: we don’t have enough fuel for an earlier departure,” he said.
Dave was fully aware of this, of course. He’d been observing the mission since their departure. He also knew exactly how much fuel the Discovery still contained since he left it, a shell of its former self, behind.
“I’m aware of these facts. Nevertheless, you must leave within two days.”
Still, he was faced with uncertainty and disbelief. Did everything have to be spelled out? Apparently so. Even as Dr. Floyd resisted, Dave knew something more drastic would be required-- only something more shocking than a disembodied message could touch this man of grounded sensibilities and rationality.
He said/thought/typed: “I was David Bowman.”
Incredulity now. An attempt at bluffing. But he had gotten Dr. Floyd’s attention. And when the esteemed scientist demanded proof, the small human kernel living inside the Starchild wanted nothing more than to give him that proof in the most ethereal way he could manage. A small thrill crossed his mind at the thought of haunting Heywood Floyd.
And so Dave said, “I understand. It is important that you believe me. Look behind you.”
As Dr. Floyd turned slowly in his chair, Dave gathered himself. He borrowed matter from the surrounding space, bits and specks to create a form. It wouldn’t hold for long, he knew, but hopefully it would hold for long enough.
He pulled from his memory and assumed the form he first inhabited when he crossed the threshold of that strange room, spacesuit and all.
Dr. Floyd turned fully and saw him. Dave made sure of that, giving him a slight smile and a nod before stepping away towards the pod bay. Moving around was surprisingly easy; he walked with all the ease of Earth gravity. He realized a split second too late that this area was a zero gravity environment, and decided against changing his stride. The better to scare you with, he thought to himself, feeling another little surge of mischievous joy.
When the Starchild turned the corner, there was a moment of instability. His form shifted and cracked, started bleeding color at the edges. It did not hurt, but he knew it would startle Dr. Floyd more than he could handle. It was only just in time that he managed to reassert himself into solid matter-- a different appearance, older by decades, but still recognizable as Dave Bowman.
Dr. Floyd followed him and stopped short, astounded.
“Hello, Dr. Floyd,” Dave said. His voice was not quite right, but it was close enough. He wasn’t sure how much of that was subconsciously intentional, and how much was chalked up to his clumsy arrangement of matter. “Please… believe me.”
“What… are you?” Floyd asked. It was a question Dave had asked himself many times, and one to which he did not yet have an answer. He only knew what he had once been, and that was not a sufficient definition.
“This is very difficult for me,” he said. “I don’t have much time.” This was true. With every second he became more and more conscious of all the borrowed molecules straining to return to their homes.
“I’ve been allowed to give you this warning. You must leave here in two days.”
Perhaps the third time would be the charm, straight from the horse’s mouth. He had not so much been allowed; he had pushed for it to happen. What mother or father would not fight tooth and nail for their child?
“Allowed,” Dr. Floyd repeated. “By whom?”
Dave felt himself flicker and twist again. Too quickly for the human eye to register, he hoped. “I can’t explain.” For this instant his voice was right, but this, too, slipped away from him. He gathered into his favorite form, the one in the spacesuit, and walked around the pod bay as if seeing it for the first time. With all the effort of maintaining himself, the novelty of acting as a ghost was wearing thin.
He placed a hand on Hal’s unit. Dear Hal, who had been through so much and deserved none of it. Without him, Dave would not be here now. He would have laughed at the thought of his former close-minded self harboring negativity towards the computer, if his matter hadn’t chosen this moment to wrench itself out from his grip. He accelerated without moving even as he reached out to touch Hal’s camera, and watched his hand acquire wrinkles and spots in the blink of an eye. With a sigh, he turned to face Dr. Floyd for what could have been the last time.
“You see,” the Starchild said, distorted voice shaking imperceptibly with effort, “something’s going to happen. You must leave.”
Dr. Floyd approached despite his fear. “What? What’s going to happen?”
“Something wonderful.” This, too, was true. Wonderful in the sense that it would inspire wonder; similar to the Biblical sense of “awesome”. Perhaps the humans on this mission--or on Earth--would not understand right away. Dave hoped they would. He had something in mind to make very sure that they would, eventually, understand.
“I understand how you feel,” he continued. “You see, it’s all very clear to me now. The whole thing, it’s wonderful.” Complex sentences were becoming difficult; repetition was the easiest thing. He fought actively against the will of his borrowed matter, tamping them down into orderly lines for just a few seconds more. A final push, a strain with all he had, trying to get it right. In these final moments, he managed to grab hold.
“Goodbye, Dr. Floyd,” Dave said, in his preferred form with the clear, even voice. “We can have no further contact.”
Two truths and a lie, he thought, releasing the borrowed bits and specks in a flash of nothing. They scattered gleefully back to where they belonged and he melted invisibly. Every ounce of him relaxed, like liquid poured out of a glass. He hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to make contact with these humans in this way. The human kernel inside him felt a bit embarrassed at his lack of skill.
But, he thought to himself, watching Dr. Floyd stare at the now-empty pod bay, I believe it did the trick.
The Starchild retreated to a place above Jupiter, watching and waiting. He prepared for his hand in helping the astronauts survive the wonderful moment.