Callisto Deception

by John Read

Kevin secured the door. “Hatch secure.”

  Avro thumbed the comm. “MATC, this is spacecraft Mars Force One requesting permission to taxi to the runway.”

  “Mars Force One?” I said.

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Avro lifted his AR glasses to look me in the face.

  “Oh great, not you too,” I said.

  The spacecraft bumped along the tarmac as we approached the runway’s threshold.

  “Rock and roll,” Avro said, and activated the takeoff sequence. Rocket engines ignited, thrusting the sleek spacecraft down the runway. It curved up, assisting in the spacecraft’s transition to vertical flight.

  I watched through holovision-sized windows as we approached the runway threshold. The engine’s muted roar was accented by the hiss of thrusters located under the nose. The colony dwindled below us as we accelerated toward space, red skies darkening to black as we climbed.

  Main Engine Cut Off, or MICO, occurred 250 miles above the surface at a velocity of over 6,213 miles per hour. Avro activated the magnetoplasma array and set the autopilot for Earth. Plasma gleamed neon blue as the spacecraft began its slow but constant acceleration towards home.

  I unstrapped my restraints and floated out of my chair. Amelia did the same, and went to explore the luxurious spacecraft’s amenities.

  “These bedrooms are huge!” she observed, peeking into one of the rooms at the rear of the spacecraft. “Avro, check this out, there are holomirrors on all six walls,”

  “Whoa,” Avro said. “Warm up the nuke before you light my fire.”

  “I call the room farthest from those to rabbits,” I said.

  Amelia floated back towards the bow. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back to Earth?” she asked, resting a hand on the AR crèche as Avro finished up in the cockpit.

  “Eat real carne asada,” Avro said.

  “Real beef? I never could taste the difference,” Amelia said. “All I want to do is lie on the beach.”

  “Robot Olympics,” Kevin said.

  “I don’t think we’ll have much time for sightseeing,” I said. “Who knows where we’ll be headed next? I don’t think we’ll find H3 on Earth.”

  There was a buzz, and Avro hit a virtual button with the AR glove.

  “What is it?” I said. Avro held up a hand, letting me know he was receiving a message.

  “Course correction. Zero point, zero, zero, one degrees. Stand by.” He paused as the autopilot plotted the correction, then yelled, “Shit,” and tossed his headset at the forward window, and rose from his crèche.

  “What is it?” Amelia asked.

  “We’re not going to Earth,” Avro said.

  “What the hell?” I yelled.

  “That course correction was only a fraction of a degree, we’re still headed towards Earth,” Kevin said.

  “That’s true, we’re headed toward Earth,” Avro said. “But we’re going to land on the moon.”

  9

  Marie had one priority: to find Branson. She flipped up her AR glasses, and saw nothing but masses of people flailing around in weightlessness; nausea returned and she wanted to puke. She set her glasses back in place, and waited in the virtual courtyard for the nausea to subside, realizing that the Virtual World was now an order of magnitude more pleasant than the reality.

  She tapped a virtual watch and said, “Where is Branson Orville?”

  “Branson Orville is in the pre-school, located at Piazza della Signoria,” said the female voice inside her watch. “Head north, seventy meters.” Her watch projected a red arrow on the cobblestone street. She followed it, bumping into a lady with a shirt and hat that read “Grief Counselor.”

  “Can I help you?” the counselor said in a condescending tone.

  Marie ignored the woman involuntarily; frustrated that something was blocking her arrow. After an awkward dance, Marie said, “No, thank you,” and sidestepped.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned, frustrated at yet another distraction. It was Malcom.

  “Marie, I wanted to apologize,” he said, but before he could say another word, Marie slugged him in the face. His avatar reeled from the blow. Marie cupped her wrist. The punch had hurt both of them. Marie staggered, shocked by the realism of the punch. Malcom cupped his jaw then said “I …”

  Marie left him alone on the street and didn’t look back. She followed the European terraces to the pre-school, entering a three-story Renaissance structure with several other eager parents.

  She found a door marked “Mount Everest Children Ages: 2 – 4.” Inside, six children explored a three by four-meter space. The room looked like any pre-school class, with holograms for walls that could simulate a multitude of educational environments. Kid-friendly tablets and large Crayola styluses littered the floor. A box overflowing with stuffed animals rested in the corner. A model solar system hung from the ceiling. Earth, the third planet from the sun, looked just like the old photographs; its blue oceans shimmered as the little globe rotated in midair. Jupiter orbited over Marie’s head, its stormy red dot swirling ominously.

  The teacher welcomed Marie, introducing herself as Mrs. Shelly Hanson. She dressed the part, wearing a bright red apron over blue slacks and a yellow blouse. The apron’s pockets held a stack of Dr. Seuss books, ready to be drawn like pistols in a duel.

  Marie sat down on the floor near her son. At first, Branson didn’t notice her. She called to him and he toddled over with outstretched arms. Marie reached out and ruffled his hair, amazed at how real it felt. Branson just stared back; his mother’s hand a gentle sea of photons on his temples. He didn’t feel a thing.

  Branson tried to touch her but his hands grasped at nothingness. He reached up both his hands asking to be picked up.

  Marie sighed. “Sorry, Branny,” she said, forging a smile and backing up to avoid the awkwardness of his hands passing through her avatar. “I can’t pick you up.”

  Branson began to cry, grasping at Marie with outstretched hands, clawing at the projection until he worked himself into such as frenzy that he emanated a banshee-like screech.

  Several other parents entered the room, receiving similar welcomes from their children.

  Mrs. Hanson gave Marie a tired look, then said, “I’d rather you limit your visits to reality, where you can actually touch your son.” She walked over, grabbing Branson’s hand. “How about we read a book?” The banshee scream persisted and several other children covered their ears.

  Another parent entered the room, a black woman wearing a white jumpsuit. Marie expected her child to go ballistic as well, but the woman reached down, scooping the small girl into her arms. That woman was in reality.

  Turning back to her screaming child, Marie said, “Go ahead, Branson, I’ll see you soon.”

  From her pocket, Mrs. Hanson drew Fox in Sox, Branson and John’s favorite story book. Marie could never get her tongue around it. Mrs. Hanson handled the rhymes without issue, hypnotizing the children with the rhythm of her voice: “a tweetle beetle noodle poodle bottled paddled muddled duddled fuddled wuddled,”—she must have read the book 1,000 times. Branson continued to sulk, but sat Indian-style in front of the teacher.

  Marie’s watch dinged and a message appeared on her wrist. “Please report to the Center for Genetic Diversity (CGD).” Another arrow appeared on the floor. Marie became anxious, realizing that she was about to meet her colleagues. Meeting new people usually never bothered her, but this was different. These people would be familiar with her work, and she expected them to have strong opinions on it. Diversity of thought was something she encountered frequently in academia, but when it came to defending her work, the debates often made her uncomfortable.

  Marie stood up and turned to leave, planning to see her son in person as soon as she got out of this resistor suit. Awkwardness and screams aside, interaction with kids his age was good for Branson. He’d seen more children in the Hive and here on the Mount Everest than he ever had in San Francisco. She t
ook one last look at her son, and walked out the door.

  The trip from the nursery took several minutes. Marie was convinced the programmers spaced things out so that residents would get their exercise, combatting the adverse effects of zero gravity.

  There were no cars, or trams, or anything else that moved under its own power. Several people had acquired bicycles from kiosks located conveniently around the simulation. The bicycles were blue with friendly baskets at the front and rear. A teenager ripped off the baskets on his bike, tossing them in a recycolizer where they disappeared from existence.

  The arrows took her down a switch-back road like Lombard Street in San Francisco. She passed a dozen four-story apartment buildings and two pavilions. The streets were busy, filled with people following arrows. Narrow cobblestone streets crisscrossed in a meaningless manner, convincing Marie this town was based on Naples.

  She climbed two flights of stairs leading to a reflective glass cube overlooking a well-manicured lawn. Statues of world leaders guarded paved walkways while flags of the world fluttered in the light breeze.

  Marie paused at the top of the stairs then walked toward the structure. On the door, a sign read “Center for Genetic Diversity”. Marie sighed before entering, thinking, I have a bad feeling about this. I possess too much knowledge.

  She pulled on the handle and heaved the large glass door open.

  Marie was the last to arrive. She entered a large room unnoticed while the others made small talk at a conference table. The room was lit with natural light (as natural as light in virtual reality could be) from floor to ceiling windows and skylights. Trees cast checkered shadows on the floor. Outside, birds chirped and squirrels scurried around, gathering acorns.

  “Hello,” Marie said to the room.

  The three others, who Marie assumed were either geneticists or anthropologists, put on smiles, and walked across to meet their new colleague.

  James Bekker introduced himself first, shaking Marie’s virtual hand with both of his. He was tall, and despite the grey in his hair, looked to be in his late thirties. His accent was distinctly South African, his body most likely onboard the Victoria.

  Lise smiled and Marie could tell the smile was genuine, so she smiled back. Deep brown eyes held the pain of loss, but also something else: hope. She was tall, fit, and wore her hair in long braids. Tribal beads hung in layers around her neck. She had caramel skin and a flattish nose. Her bare arms were covered in scribbles and lines in a language Marie had never seen.

  “A Native American proverb,” Lise said, aware of Marie’s curiosity. "It says this: ‘When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a way that when you die the world cries and you rejoice’."

  “It’s beautiful,” Marie said.

  Charles Thomson held his chin down. His eyes looked up over reading glasses that weren’t there, the quintessential look of someone who’d spent a lifetime in academia, brooding over student’s papers with a red curser. His green eyes spoke of wisdom without words. When he spoke, his accent was distinctly Australian, and Marie assumed that his body was probably onboard the Melbourne. The man had light brown hair styled with a perfect part down the left side, and Marie wondered if he had styled it “just so” when his avatar was uploaded.

  They sat at a table facing a rotating display where 10,000 little identity cards hovered on branches, leaves on a family tree.

  Marie sat, staring at the mass of photos and personal information dancing in front of her, the same personal information she’d accessed from her room in the Hive.

  “I was in Australia,” Charles said. “It was in the wee hours of the morning when the spacecraft hit. Soon after we heard the news about California, a jump-jet landed right in front of my home. A man ran out to meet me, told me a tsunami was coming. I boarded the plane. We met up with several other planes over the Pacific, hovering, and rescuing people from a cruise ship parked near a reef.”

  “And was there really a tsunami?” Marie asked.

  “When the wave hit the ship, it was gone, like that!” Charles snapped his fingers. “And when I say gone, I don’t mean sunk. When the wave hit, the ship literally exploded into pieces. Fortunately, they got most of the people off.”

  “Did you see the bombs?” Lise asked.

  “None in Australia,” Charles said. “But I was rescued only minutes after Bradbury impacted.”

  “Lise, you’re from the Klondike?” Marie said.

  Lise nodded. “I was on the Hyperloop, heading from Juneua to Vancouver when I felt the impact. They were redirecting trains right into the Hive. I was freaked out when I learned they’d pegged me. Soon as I got off the train someone radioed, ‘we got her.’”

  “Our Hive was built in an abandoned diamond mine,” James said. “I worked nearby at a safari retreat. You are all familiar with the current conflict in South Africa between the local militants and the Communist Alliance?”

  “I thought there was a truce?” Marie said, but then realized it was a silly comment. Conflict between the CA and the rest of the world had been marginal, but the atrocities that occurred behind the communist veil, could never be considered peace.

  “There sort of was,” James replied. “But around the time of the Bradbury impact in California, they just started fighting again. I’m not sure why; something spooked them, I guess. There were militants and Alliance fighters in the area, and we could hear them shooting at each other. They started burning all the buildings at the retreat, the hotels, the animal shelters, everything. We evacuated thousands of people down into the mines, that’s where we found the Hive. Then, the Doomsdayers showed up, claiming Johannesburg was hit with a nuke and we needed to stay underground.”

  “I saw San Francisco crumple,” Marie said. “Felt the earthquakes and saw the bombs over China. I swear I’ll have nightmares for life.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  They turned to the rotating tree of names rising from the table.

  Lise put out her hand to stop the rotation. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” Lise said. She formed a box with her hands, pulling them apart to magnify.

  “Is this live?” James asked.

  Lisa nodded. “Yes, and I’m familiar with the algorithm. The simulation predicts population health several generations into the future.”

  The simulation chimed and a blue circle flashed, drawing their attention to a point deep within the tree.

  “A birth?” Charles guessed. “I figured the launch would send a few women into labor.”

  “Nope, a pregnancy,” Lise said. “The system is adapting now.” The tree shuffled, and names moved around, tying together the father and mother and creating a new web of possibilities.

  James put out both hands and began to shuffle images. “I’ll get the hang of this in a moment.” He accessed a menu, changing several parameters.

  “We can do without the interruptions,” Lise said, entering new constraints for the simulation to follow. “I’m going to limit the changes to pregnancy, birth and death. Let’s save relationship changes for later.”

  “Adjust for known cases of sterility,” Charles said, not interacting with the simulation, but following James and Lise’s actions closely.

  “Good point,” James said, typing a new command. “Adding sterility.”

  Marie leaned forward, witnessing a level of collaboration she hadn’t experienced since her work as a post-doc.

  “Move post-menopausal women to a different part of the tree,” Marie said, stepping up to the simulation and swiping names across the display. “We can still use their genetic material, but only by less traditional means.”

  The others nodded their agreement.

  “How do we know if they’re post-menopausal?” James said. “A survey?”

  “We can extract that data from the genome maps,” Marie said.

  “Ah, right,” James said. “They’re updating those regularly now that we’re collecting everyone’s urine for water recl
amation.”

  “God, I’d prefer not to think about that,” Lise said.

  “Can we simplify this? Include only young couples or something,” James said, stepping back from the simulation and letting the algorithm run its course.

  “We’re at minimum population size,” Marie said. “We’ve got to keep all options open.”

  “Which opens the door to a slew of ethical dilemmas,” Lise said. Marie nodded her agreement.

  “Like a child with sibling parents,” Marie said.

  “In a population this size, it’s bound to happen,” Charles added.

  “That child would need to be taken out of the gene pool,” Marie said. “How are we supposed to deal with that?”

  “That’s our job,” James replied. “We need to determine what the guidelines are. Only we can answer the ethical questions, creating rules for the continuation of the species.”

  “What we do here and now will sculpt the society for centuries, heck, for eternity,” Charles preached. A profound silence followed.

  “What’s the goal here? We don’t even have any direction!” Marie said. “We’d need to seek input from the populous for nearly every decision we make!”

  “No, we won’t,” James said. “This new society we’re creating will operate, for the most part, as a democracy. That said, the Doomsdayers will insure the autonomy of this team will be expressly protected by any constitution.”

  “How do you know all this?” Marie said.

  “There’s another reason I’m on this team,” James said. “I’m not here only because I’m a geneticist.”

  “Oh my God,” Lise said. “You’re a Doomsdayer, aren’t you?”

  “No,” James replied, and then paused to look everyone in the eye. “But my father was.”

  10

  Earth hung in the luxury craft’s window like a blue and white marble shining in a dark cave. A hurricane formed in the Atlantic, and green foliage, showing through broken clouds, implied that a rainforest was healthy and well. It was nighttime in the western United States; city lights ran down the coast, only broken by the wasteland that was California.