by John Read
“What’s it like inside? Do we think it’s like the Alamo? Or the Presidio?” I said.
“We don’t know,” Commander Tayler said. “Several transports left for Jupiter shortly after the Bradbury disaster. The flight plan filed by the Jovian Mining Corporation said they were cargo ships.”
“Was anyone on board?” I asked.
“Not according to the manifest. But our intel says otherwise,” Tayler answered.
“What intel?” Amelia said.
“This. It was picked up a few days before you arrived.” Tayler hit ‘play’ on a recording.
“Lunar station, Lunar station, this is Callisto calling. We are survivors from Earth, if anyone can hear this, please reply. Direct an optical transmission to Callisto, I repeat, the Jovian moon, Callisto.”
“Survivors? From Earth?” I said.
“There’s more,” the commander said.
“This is Callisto station, I may not have a lot of time, a man named H—”
There was an abrupt click, then silence.
“Three,” Kevin said.
“That is our assumption,” Tayler agreed.
“This sounds like a prank, though,” Amelia said. “Why would anyone claim to be a survivor from Earth?”
“It’s not a prank,” Luke Singer said. “The transmission came via a unidirectional laser pulse. Due to relativistic effects, this would be extremely difficult to fake.”
Kevin and I nodded; apparently Major Singer had a background in astrophysics.
“What’s the plan, Commander?” Serene Johnson said.
Tayler stood up, and looked around the room. “The eight of us are going to the Jovian system. We’re going to find H3. And, we’re going find out what the hell is happening on Callisto.”
“Oorah!” Nash yelled.
“Oorah,” said Tayler.
“On our way to Jupiter, you’ll experience the most intense training simulation NASA has ever developed. Johnson, Nash, Singer, check your egos. You're still ASCANS, just like the noobies. There will be no call signs until you earn them during your training.”
Avro cleared his throat.
“Except you, Garcia,” Tayler said.
“Thank you, sir,” Avro said, smiling in smug approval. Apparently, he'd been called Avro since the day he was conceived.
“Get a good night’s sleep folks,” the commander said. “We leave at o-seven hundred hours.”
11
“Your father is a Doomsdayer?” Lise repeated. “Now I have a HELL of a lot more questions.”
“And I’ll do my best to answer them,” James said.
“Your father is a Doomsdayer,” Lise repeated. “And that makes you?”
“Not a Doomsdayer. I always thought ‘doomsdaying’ was just a kooky hobby for the rich. My father made his money in mining.”
“You’re his successor,” Lise said.
“Not exactly, I’m a zoologist, and a geneticist,” James replied. “I bring species back from the edge of extinction.”
“I bet your father was very proud,” Charles said, plastering James with a scolding gaze.
“Here’s what I don’t get: most rich folks hate freelivers,” Lise said. “Yet, half the survivors are freelivers. It’s a random sample. Why not be more selective in who they want to save?”
“They selected us,” Marie said. “Of all the people in the entire world, they selected us, because of our expertise. And there’s no other rhyme or reason to the selection of the rest of the population.”
“He’s just here because of who his father is,” Lise said, looking at the man from South Africa.
“Perhaps you’re right.” James remained calm, and didn’t seem to take offense to the questioning; he probably expected it, had been rolling the questions over in this mind since he entered his Hive. “But my father was different,” he said. “His friends were different. The Doomsdayers believed everyone deserved an equal chance. They believed a random sample of people was the optimal way to rebuild the human race; not by selecting the people they deemed most ‘worthy’.”
After an awkward silence, Lise asked, “Where did they get the funding to build the secret colony on Callisto?”
“Space mining has been around since we starting tagging asteroids at the beginning of the century,” James explained. “Corporations have been sending stuff into space since before my parents were born, building infrastructure along the way.”
“But this ring, this ‘Callisto ring’ is huge,” Lise said. “It must have taken thousands of drones ...”
“Not thousands, only one; A Universal Constructor that we nicknamed the Santa Claus Machine.”
“You’ve lost me,” Lise said.
“The machine completes one simple function,” James explained. “It constructs a long-pressurized tube.”
Lise still looked confused, and was ready to drop the subject, but James continued.
“It’s like strip mining. The machine rolls along a track, digging a trench.” James ran his hand along the table, pretending to scoop up imaginary dirt. “As the machine travels, it builds the colony.”
“Builds it out of what?” Charles asked.
“Elements from the trench,” James said. “The Santa Claus Machine refines the mineral, and then mills them into whatever shapes it needs.”
“But inside, there are trees,” Lise said.
“A thin layer of topsoil,” James said. “It doesn’t take much organic material to get life started, and Callisto is a very mineral rich world. Last year the Preservation Society sent a small team to get the plumbing going, turn on the artificial sky, that sort of thing. They even placed 3D printing stations along the tube.”
Charles’s stare dropped to the table, then to the window where the sun hung a few degrees above the horizon. The sky had begun to turn pink with the hues and tones of evening. “I just can’t believe they were right,” Charles said, “about the end of the world.”
“That’s where you’ve got me.” James leaned back in his chair. “Doomsday clock aside, I have no idea how they actually knew.”
Marie awoke the next morning in her flat, four stories above the central pavilion. Fractured sunlight penetrated the curtains and, for a moment, she wished for shutters so she could sleep a few more minutes.
She threw her legs over the side of the bed, removed the covers from her lap, and tiptoed over the cold floor to the dresser. The clothes in the drawers looked boring and generic; shirts and pants in an assortment of greys and white. She held each item up in turn, tossing it onto the bed.
Now for the part of the morning she dreaded: going to the bathroom. Marie flipped up her glasses and returned to the reality where thousands of bodies floated together in zero gravity. She reached around to her back, and hit the button that released her suit from the scaffolding, freeing her to float to the nearest restroom.
Minutes later, she was back in the comfort of VR. Live video from the nursery displayed on her bedroom mirror. Branson slept alone in the crib-sized cubical where Marie had tucked him in during her evening shift.
She watched as his chest rose and fell.
A message across the top of the mirror read “Two hours per day keeps space anemia at bay”. A running stick figure punctuated the sentence where a period should have been.
She riffled through the drawers, finding shorts and a pair of running shoes. Marie slipped on the shorts and put on a shirt. The shoes fit perfectly which surprised her at first, but then she remembered that her life was a glorified video game.
She was about to leave when her watch buzzed, displaying the notification “You have earned $400 eDollars.”
“What are eDollars?” she asked.
The watch answered, “eDollars are exchanged for goods and services anywhere in Virtual Callisto.”
“Like what?”
“A complete list of goods and services will be available soon,” the watch replied.
Marie exited her flat, closing the door behind her.
She jogged down the stairs and into the pavilion where several storefronts were opening.
A woman in an apron stood on a ladder hammering on a sign that read “Judy’s Art Studio”. Inside, rows of blank canvases rested on wooden easels.
Besides Judy’s shop, another storefront read “Michelle’s Boutique Fashion”. A woman inside pulled a blouse over a manikin. The next store over was a bicycle shop; there was a large design screen, and several people stood at the colorful wall, perfecting the designs while a printer brought the bikes into existence.
A quarter mile down the road she passed an open warehouse. Inside, technicians in coveralls danced in front of an interface, using their fingertips to trace the forms the printers would soon create. A tall man in white directed the artistic display, like an orchestra conductor.
“Yes, a little bit more, higher, wider, great … great … now print!” the man said. He glanced at Marie and then went back to waving directions. This was a school of sorts, Marie reasoned, and these people were learning the manufacturing techniques to be used on Callisto.
She jogged along a country road. Pebbles crunched under her shoes, and dust rose in tiny arcs with each pace. Calli, the virtual world which Marie spent over ninety percent of her time in, simulated Callisto’s gravity, and Marie flew forward with each stride, feeling like a deer bounding through a meadow. Lush deciduous trees decorated the left side of the road. On her right, green fields rolled to the horizon.
Running past the pillared trees created the illusion that she was traveling faster than she actually was. Even so, Marie was sure that she was achieving her best speeds since college.
She found a trail leading though a forest, and for the first time in weeks, achieved runner’s high. She meditated, clearing her mind as the forest blew past. The human mind adapts with surprising efficiency; Calli was beginning to make more and more sense.
Then she thought of John, and how he’d never see Branson grow, or see him learn and experience new things. She wanted to feel the agony of his loss, but the pain didn’t hurt as much as it had a few days earlier. She’d also lost her parents, aunts, uncles, best friends, and everyone else she ever knew. Her current indifference to the magnitude of the disaster surprised her, and she thought for a moment that maybe there was more in the water supply than just anti-nausea medication, Valium perhaps. She pounded on, the path sloping upward, with enough incline to make her calves burn.
The road arched over a cantilever bridge and Marie stopped at its center to lean on the railing. She peered down at smooth rocks several dozen meters below. In the distance, the ravine opened into a lake that stretched over the horizon. The sun was still low, but sunbeams illuminated rocky islands speckled with pine trees.
Marie closed her eyes, and let the morning sun warm her body, now fully consumed by the illusion of reality.
She cleared her mind, and counted her breaths, one … two … three …. After ten breaths, tears began flowing from her eyes, fogging her vision. Tears don’t fall in zero gravity, she remembered. But that didn’t matter, she kept her eyes closed, and let the raw emotion course through her entire body. Anger, grief, depression; not directed at anything or anyone, just existence.
Marie thought of John, her friends, and her family, and wished more than anything, that they were there with her. She climbed onto the railing and stretched out her arms, a prayer to the cruel universe that had taken so much. Then, in a symbolic gesture, and without opening her eyes, she dropped into the ravine. She could feel wind ruffling her clothes and for some strange reason, felt at peace. The fall was slow at first, under the reduced gravity, but with each passing second her body accelerated towards the rocks.
Her “death” felt like a belly flop into a pool. When Marie opened her eyes, she was on her bed, face down. She felt pain from head to toe, as if struck by 1,000 rubber bands.
She rolled over, feeling euphoric, got up, threw open the window and laughed at her strange new world.
Marie found herself jogging every morning before waking Branson in his berth.
On this particular day, Marie ran farther than she’d ever gone, and ended up at a shoreline and a sandy beach, where several islands peeked over the horizon under the pink predawn sky.
Marie jogged along a wooden boardwalk. The path curved between sand dunes and over streams trickling into the sea. She noticed a woman standing on the beach with arms raised. The woman began dancing, kicking sand into the air, spinning in circles as if she were a bird sailing in the morning breeze. The movements were fluid, more so than a bird’s. The figure twisted, like a fish, arching her body through invisible water in a mysterious dance. The dancing stopped, and she shot her arms behind her back as if spreading an invisible cape.
Marie stepped down from the boardwalk onto the sand. The sun had just broken over the horizon, shining its simulated warmth on her skin. She glanced over at the woman. Long shadows traced her slender figure across the sand, and Marie stopped several paces from the shadow’s head, realizing the figure was Lise with her hair down.
She wore a tank top and shorts that exposed her muscular, tan colored legs. Her eyes were closed, and she was taking long deep breaths, letting the light of the new day coat her exposed skin.
After ten breaths, Lise sat Indian style on the sand, keeping her eyes closed; she lifted her hands into the air. After another ten breaths, Lise reached for something tied around her shoulder like a sash. It was a comb on a leather strap. There she sat in the sand, passing the comb through her long dark hair.
She spent several minutes combing the already perfect strands before opening her eyes.
“I sensed you were there,” Lise called, with a smile. “I can always tell when I’m being watched.”
“I’m sorry,” Marie called back, and then began walking across the sand toward her.
“Please, sit,” Lise said, bringing her knees to her chest, then stretched them out on the sand, pushing the grains into two damp mounds at the ends of her feet.
“I didn’t mean to disturb your meditation,” Marie said.
“That’s okay,” Lise said. “It’s important for me to share my people’s traditions.”
“Oh?” Marie said.
“I am the only Inuit among the survivors. We share our traditions through oral stories, and through song and dance. My father once called me Nuliayuk, the goddess who lives at the bottom of the sea, a place we call Adlivun. Here, Nuliayuk’s body and hair flow with the tides. It is in Adlivun that the souls of the people and the animals go to be reincarnated, made into something new.”
“That’s beautiful,” Marie said.
“Look at the sun and close your eyes,” Lise instructed.
Marie did and concentrated on the sound of the waves lapping against the shore.
“Feel the warmth of the sun on your face and notice the reflection of the water flickering through your eyelids in soft orange pastel light.”
Marie took a breath, exhaling slowly, and observed her heart rate beginning to slow.
“When Nuliayuk’s hair is tangled, there is no food to eat, and the sea is violent. To calm Nuliayuk, to calm the sea, to bring the food, I run my fingers through my hair.”
Lise pulled her long hair into her hands, ran the strands between outstretched fingers. Marie opened her eyes to observe the process, then closed them, grabbed a lock of her own hair, and did the same.
Marie smiled. “How’d you get here? To this beach, I mean.”
“I ran,” Lise replied.
“The nearest town is at least eight kilometers away,” Marie said. “Where are your shoes?”
“I almost never wear shoes. I like to feel the ground under my feet,” Lise said
“I tap out after about twelve miles,” Marie said. “Too bad they won’t give us superpowers. You know they could.”
“They could make us walruses if they wanted to,” Lise said.
Marie laughed. “I’m thankful they didn’t do that.”
Lise go
t up, and shook the sand from her body. Marie stood as well, reached down and took off her shoes, tossing them away. She nodded at Lise, and turned to run.
“Why did your father call you Nuliayuk?” Marie asked.
Lise laughed. “Because Nuliayuk refused to be married.”
12
The quad was scented with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. I stumbled into the room, tripping into a table with four chairs. Kevin slammed a to-go cup into my waiting hand. I glanced at my watch as my eyes focused. 6:30 a.m. I was the last to wake.
Avro and Amelia looked tired. My guess was that they had spent the entire night doing … well, you know. Avro turned to face Amelia and embraced her in front of our duffle bag altar. They were lovers, about to be separated, not by extreme distance or comm delay, but by the titanium walls of their spaceships. No amount of VR, no matter how realistic, could replace the spine-tingling sensation of sensual human contact. Or so I thought.
I grabbed my personal effects duffle with my coffee-free hand and held the door open for the others. A woman in a lab coat directed us toward a glass door marked “Preparation chamber”. The other NASA crew members were inside, and we nodded our hellos and sat down on parallel benches running along bleach-white walls.
A hidden door opposite the entrance opened and a male technician entered the room. He wore scrubs and protective fabric over his feet. “Right this way,” he said. We followed him into a room resembling airport security. “Step into the scanner, please. Leave your bag, and put your hands over your head.” The tech was in his early twenties, and nerdy, scrunching up his nose as he talked.
I went first. “You’re not checking for weapons I hope, because I’m clean, I promise,” I said.
“We’re updating your avatar for the metaverse.”
“Oh.” I stepped out of the machine.
“What is the resolution on this thing?” Kevin said as he stepped inside the booth. Sensors encircled his body, the machine beeped, and he stepped out.