Johnny Winger and the Europa Quandary

by Philip Bosshardt

  Chapter 11

  U.N. Quantum Corps Western Command

  Table Top Mountain, Idaho, USA

  February 12, 2121

  1130 hours

  Jake Argo had been CINCQUANT for all of five years now and never before had he found himself in such a ticklish spot. It wasn’t often that the Commander in Chief, Quantum Corps found himself at a complete loss for words. But then it wasn’t every day he had to ask a favor of a living legend like the Great Atomgrabber himself, one Johnny Winger.

  “General, I won’t try to sugarcoat any of this. I need you. The Corps needs you. I just got word from UNSAC last night. A mission to Europa is being planned. It’s called Operation Europa Forge. The objective of this mission is to reconnoiter the surface of Europa and determine if the Keeper, originally submerged in the Europan ocean, has in fact come to the surface. If so, Europa Forge is tasked with one job: destroy, quarantine or render harmless said Keeper.”

  Winger whistled. “Well, you had me worried there, Jake. I thought you were going to ask me to do something really difficult.”

  Argo didn’t crack a smile and Winger knew his little attempt to lighten the atmosphere had been a complete bust.

  “General, I just need to know one thing: can you help us? You’re a retired civilian but you’ve also been to Europa…you’ve dealt with the Keeper. Say the right words to me and I can make you a consultant to the Corps. You’ll be a team member for Europa Forge under a special services contract.”

  Winger didn’t have to be asked twice. “Jake, you know me. You know my answer.”

  “I have to hear it, in your words. Legal stuff, you know.”

  Winger made his words and tone of voice deeper, official-sounding. “I, John Winger, U.N. Quantum Corps retired, being of sound mind and body, do hereby affirm that I can and will be part of this mission…when do we leave?”

  Argo cracked the barest hint of a smile. He stuck out a hand. Winger shook it.

  “It means another eight to ten month voyage to Jupiter, General. Can you swing that? Your expertise and experience with the Keeper is unequaled though. The Corps and UNIFORCE needs you. I need you.”

  “You’ve got me. Of course, I’ll have to run this by Dana. You know how that works. Dana and Liam…he’s in town tonight, by the way. It’s our thirtieth anniversary tomorrow.”

  “ Congratulations and all that. The kid’s home on sabbatical? How’s academic life going for him?”

  Winger shrugged. He and Liam had had their differences lately. “He teaches on things I can’t even pronounce. And he just made tenure…youngest ever at Cambridge. You know they offered him the chair once held by Charles Babbage. My son…can you imagine that?”

  Argo checked the time. “I remember Liam when he was running around with his drones, scaring the neighbor’s dog. By the way, UNSAC is vidconning in a few minutes. Her Majesty’s sour face will be right here on my desk—She’ll want to know you’re onboard.”

  “I am, Jake. I am. Can you fill me in on the details?”

  “Not officially…that’s for UNSAC. You know how Evelyn Lumumba likes to make pronouncements from Mount Olympus, like Zeus. But I can tell you this much: One of your crewmates will be Evan Metcalf, special UNIFORCE investigator. You met him at Gateway…he’s been looking into the MARTOP stuff.”

  “Metcalf?” Winger crunched on that detail for a moment. “The real thin guy? Seems kind of young. Good man?”

  Argo nodded. “One of our best. He’s kept the eggheads at Gateway on this MARTOP thing with a tight leash. He knows protocol and procedure. Plus he’s tenacious as my wife’s Chihuahua. Metcalf will be your right-hand man on the trip.”

  “What about the ship?”

  Argo warmed to his description. “Ah… the ship. You’re in luck, General. Your ship will be a new corvette, now being assembled at Gateway. Frontier Corps top of the line fittings. She’s the UNS-227 Johannes Kepler. The dockhands call her K-Dog. This will be her first operational mission for Frontier Corps and UNISPACE.”

  “She’s had her shakedown cruise?”

  Argo shook his head. “No such luck. Europa Forge is her shakedown cruise. You can wring her out all the way to Jupiter and back. Skipper’s an experienced cycler pilot though: Captain Hideki Yamato.”

  Winger wracked his brain for a recollection. “Yamato’s done deep-space before, if I remember correctly.”

  “He has. Scoopship run at Jupiter a few years ago. I think she was the Sydney…prototype on the early helium runs. They had some kind of engine casualty…one of the first plasma torch drives. Nearly fell out of orbit. As a matter of fact, Yamato’s been deeper into Jupiter’s atmosphere than any other man alive, unintentionally, of course. You’ll have to ask him about that. Quite an investigation, that one. But Frontier Corps did pin a medal on him.”

  Argo and Winger discussed the mission objectives and rules of engagement as well as K-Dog’s complement of crew and equipment.

  “This is all off-the-record, you understand. I can’t step on UNSAC’s toes. But you’ll have HERF batteries, coilguns and mag weapons, full array. Plus, she’s got a more powerful plasma torch engine. She can make a speed run out to Jupiter in eight months, actual time. And there’s two landers.”

  “Two landers? How come?”

  “Insurance. They’re called Tycho and Rex. Tycho has ice-boring capability and can even operate in Europa’s ocean, as well as on the surface. Like your old Trident submersible years ago. Rex is for surface ops only.”

  “That brings back bad memories,” Winger told him. “The Keeper we encountered on the Jovian Hammer mission is not your average adversary. We’ll need to be extremely cautious in proximity to that thing.”

  Argo understood. “We’ve tried to do our homework on your mission. In addition to all the other gear, K-Dog will carry a pallet of upgraded disentanglers, to jam comms with Config Zero, maybe even the Old Ones. And some advanced MOBnet systems for confining the Keeper to a surface enclosure on Europa, if that’s even possible. “ Argo leaned forward, hard blue eyes boring in on Winger. “General, I want you to be the mission commander. Yamato will be the ship commander. Nobody else is as qualified as you.”

  Winger took a deep breath. “I’ll run it by the home front, check all the details out with Dana and Liam. Where do I sign?”

  Argo started to reply but the vid chimed at that moment. “You sign when UNSAC says you’re in. Here she is—“ He pressed a button and Evelyn Lumumba’s disembodied face and shoulder materialized on the desktop pad, UNSAC in full color and 3-d. She was wearing some kind of red and black sarong-like dress, an African tribal amulet hanging on a heavy chain around her neck. Bone jewelry clinked in her tight hair braids.

  Winger thought she looked like a voodoo trinket.

  Jake Argo briefly went over what they had discussed. “The mission timeline is tight, General. If you join up, you’ll have to be at Gateway Station in two weeks for departure briefings.”

  UNSAC’s face was ebony black, like a carved figurine. Her eyes blazed out at him. “Your expertise is critical, General Winger. I don’t have to tell you that. We all know what you did for UNIFORCE ten years ago, at Europa. Now, we’re in a world of hurt and Europa Forge is vital to getting a handle on this crisis. You see the same news as I do: angelizing out of control, Net infections, accelerated environmental change.”

  “Yes, ma’am. This time, it looks like we’re in a real fight.”

  Lumumba rolled her eyes. “If only I could get the Secretary-General and the Security Council to see that. But that’s politics…I’ll handle that end. We’ve got to cut off these bot swarms coming to Earth from the source, at least what we think is the source. That’s where Europa Forge comes in. Already, millions of people are going angel, turning into clouds of bots or whatever…it’s insane. Mass suicide, if you ask me.”

  Exactly my thoughts, Winger told hi
mself. If only Liam would see it that way. “Madam Secretary, with Symborg being released, all hell has broken loose.”

  Argo agreed. “At this rate, the whole planet will be nothing but angels in a few years.”

  UNSAC nodded affirmatively, her bone jewelry clinking. “You’re preaching to the choir, gentlemen. Of course, this could be exactly Config Zero’s idea. What Q2’s been able to determine from deciphering this Prime Key seems to show the Bugs want to sweep the Earth clean as it is…exterminate single-configuration entities like you and me. But that isn’t going to happen…not on my watch.”

  The three of them went over the details of Winger’s special services contract. Winger signed the virtual document immediately, did the bioscans and they were done.

  “Of course, I’d pay you more, if I could,” UNSAC told him. “But then, nobody joins the Corps to get rich.”

  “No, ma’am. I’ll settle for busting the Keeper right in the chops, if you ask me. But I do have to run this by the family.”

  They discussed the rules of engagement in more detail, then UNSAC signed off, saying she had a briefing to attend to downstairs at the Quartier-General. Her 3-d likeness vanished like smoke and the pad went dark.

  Winger and Argo shook hands. “This means a lot to me, General. I mean, personally. I’ll sleep better, knowing K-Dog has the right people on the job. Or at least, I’ll have different nightmares now.”

  “This isn’t going to be a vacation in the Med, Jake. I know you know that. We’ll need every trick and tactic we can come up with to bag this Keeper once and for all, something we should have done ten years ago.”

  “You’ve got two weeks. Get yourself ready and be at the spaceport on the 26th.”

  They said their good-byes and Winger left Table Top, riding his turbobike down off the mesa and out onto Highway 7, toward Haleyville. The Winger farm was a twenty minute ride and Winger enjoyed the fresh but frigid mountain air on his face as he blasted along on auto through the Notch and past the turnoff to the wargaming range up at Hunt Valley. On both sides of the highway, the high passes were draped with heavy snow, still falling in big wet flakes out of a thick gray, gunmetal fog that had descended over the valley. The bike slowed down for conditions, flashing CAUTION warnings on his helmet head-up display.

  Winger ignored the icons and barreled on ahead through the swirling flakes. The turnoff to the farm came up twenty minutes later.

  The truth was he didn’t know what would happen when he ran into Liam. They had parted on somewhat less than amicable terms a month ago. The boy had come home for a short sabbatical a day before, to celebrate his and Dana’s thirtieth wedding anniversary.

  Thirty years…jeez, that couldn’t be right, could it?

  That night, dinner was a subdued affair.

  “When do you have to leave?” Dana asked. She was re-arranging dishes to make the pot roast the center of the table.

  “I’m due at the spaceport in two weeks. I’ll spend a few days at Gateway, meeting the crew and going over equipment and procedures. Sometime around the first of March, Kepler boosts out of orbit. It’ll be eight months out.”

  Dana seemed strangely indifferent, almost resigned. “It’s what you want. You could have said no.”

  Winger forked himself a few slices of roast, topped them off with mashed potatoes. “Not really. This is all about the Keeper. I’ve been there, I’ve fought with the damn thing. I know what they’re getting into, better than they do. The Corps needs me to do this.”

  Dana picked at a salad. “Always the Corps. Well, somehow Liam and I will manage.”

  Liam sat opposite Winger. Trying to change the subject, he hoisted a goblet. “To both of you. Thirty years. And you haven’t killed each other yet.”

  They all toasted peace and harmony.

  “You seem a little distracted, honey,” Dana told her son. “What’s on your mind? Did the University saddle you with too many classes?”

  Liam shook his head. “There’s only one, Mom…Advanced Cerebral Mnemonic Networks. Meets twice a week, plus Net tutorials and exams. No, I was just thinking.” He chewed thoughtfully on a celery stalk. “There’s a rally over in Boise day after tomorrow. They say Symborg will be there…at least one of the Symborgs. I’m thinking of going.”

  Winger silently cursed the very ground the robotic messiah walked on. “It’s a waste of time, Professor. An up and coming Cambridge faculty member shouldn’t be wasting his time with Assimilationists and trash like that.”

  Liam knew it would come to this. He kept his eyes focused on an armoire along the wall, silently counting the dishes inside. He didn’t look at his father. “I knew you’d say that. Anything new, anything different…anything not from the Corps, Dad…you’re against it.”

  Dana said breezily, “I think it’s a good idea. I may just go along. And I was in the Corps, Liam.”

  “You’re different, Mom.”

  You can say that again, Winger thought but didn’t say. “Did you ever think about what a university professor represents, especially one sitting in a distinguished chair from Cambridge? Something like respect, authority, knowledge, little details like that.”

  “And inquiry,” Liam added. “Don’t forget that. Freedom of thought. A spirit of questioning.”

  “You don’t want to do anything that damages the University ‘s image. What would people say if a tenured Cambridge professor is picked up in some kind of disturbance? What kind of example does that set for your students, for your fellow faculty members?”

  Liam was unmoved. “I would think it shows I care about new things, listening to all sides, giving everyone a say. You know, a little detail called academic freedom. Maybe even the dignity of being heard.”

  Winger couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “They’re not even humans, Liam. All these angels around us…they’re clouds of bots, swarms of mechanisms, distributed intelligence, whatever you want to call them. We treat them like humans because the illusion is so good. We’ve become so good at disguising what they are…and because we want to believe they’re real.”

  “Guys—“ Dana tried to intervene. “Guys, this is a dinner table not a—“

  But the argument wouldn’t be denied. Liam cut in. “Angels are the future. They’re a new lifeform. It’s a new way of living. And I, for one, want to be part of it.”

  “Yeah, and when you were two years old, you wanted to be a medieval knight in armor. You wanted to be a race car driver. You wanted to fly like a bird. Dreams are great, Liam. But dreams aren’t real.”

  “They can be real,” Liam said quietly. “Dad, Mom…angels give us a chance to be so much more. That’s what Symborg always says.”

  The argument grew more and more intense, obliterating any sense of family that might have started the evening. At some point, Winger excused himself to get some air.

  He never came back. Instead, he hauled out his turbobike from the garage and sped off toward Highway 7. He needed to do something, anything, go somewhere, to clear his head.

  A high-speed ride through the Buffalo Range would do nicely.

  Winger cranked the bike up to a hundred and twenty, skidding through several turns, ignoring the CAUTIONS flashing on his head-up display. He was worried, there was no denying that. Depressed maybe. When he got back from Europa Forge, would Liam still be Liam? Would Dana be Dana? What the hell could you count on to be real? He squeezed the bike handle, just to reassure himself. Then he cracked the visor on his helmet, letting the wind blast into his eyes. That was real.

  He saw the sign for Custer Inn come zooming up out of the dark. Why the hell not? He skidded through a turn and went bumping across its ancient gravel parking lot. Inside, the bar was half full, smoky as usual, raucous with some kind of honky-tonk country tune thundering out. A boozed-up couple made languorous turns on the tiny wooden dance floor. Winger came up to a barstool, waved to Jake…no auto-
tender here at the Custer Inn...and got a pitcher of something like beer for his efforts.

  Jake could see Winger was in something of a dither. “Got to be a wife,” he said knowingly. “You’ve got that girl trouble look on your face, General.”

  Winger chugged down a long draw on his beer. A carbonated belch blew out his nostrils and lips. “Kind of, Jake. Son trouble, too. My boy wants to go Assimilationist. He can’t see what they are…he’s been holed up in an ivory tower too long.”

  Jake was sympathetic. “Isn’t Liam a professor or something?”

  “Yeah. Across the pond, no less. Cambridge. Sure, I’m proud of him, hell Dana and I are both proud. But he’s misguided. He’s young. And he’s gotten caught up in this angel stuff, become some kind of apologist for Symborg and his kind. I told him they’re just machines. But you know how it is with your first crush. You’re half blind. They can’t do anything wrong. He’s too close, can’t see what Symborg and the asses are doing to us. It’s just mass suicide, in the service of some wacky philosophy about the Old Ones, the mother swarm, all that crap.”

  Jake took a deep breath. His eyes went to the ceiling. “Maybe it’s not all crap.”

  “Jake…Jake…tell me it’s not true. Not you too.”

  The bartender shrugged. “I like to keep my options open.”

  That was all Johnny Winger needed to hear. He finished his beer, slapped down a few bills and took off. The bike was his best friend now. It was freedom. It was something he could control. It was something he understood. And it wouldn’t be obsolete any time soon.

  He almost killed himself taking curves too fast along Highway 7.

  Back at the house, Liam had left. No surprise there. Dana wasn’t around. Winger went up to their bedroom. His wife…what he had once thought of as his wife…was in bed. Asleep. Or whatever state angels were in when they simulated sleep.

  He stood in the doorway, in the darkened hall and listened to the simulated snoring. Damn, they were good. He could almost believe it. He decided he didn’t want to wake her up, so he went into the library-study at the other end of the second floor and shut the door.

  Lights came on. Music started up, but he waved his hand. The gestural interface stopped the music. He dropped into a sofa seat, idly scanning the spines of printed books.

  I need some company. He withdrew the containment pod with Doc III inside and thumbed the control studs on the side. He set the pod down on a table.

  While the swarm issued out in a thin stream of flickering mist from the pod and began forming itself up into a passable likeness of old Doc Frost, Winger poured himself several fingers of Glenlivet. He swirled the amber liquid in the glass and watched the bemused countenance of Doc Frost materialize over the cherry wood desk that dominated the study.