by A. G. Riddle
Before the Long Winter, I always felt like an outsider in the world, a person with no real place, someone who didn’t understand the way the world was and why people did what they did. Once again, I feel like a man in between. Camp Seven is the only home I want to claim. This is where Emma and I returned after the first contact mission, broken and hopeless. This is where Oscar and I nursed Emma back to health when she was too weak to stand. This is where Emma and I fell in love and where our child was born and where my friends and family live.
To me, this is home.
At NASA headquarters, I have a private office next to Fowler’s. I don’t spend much time there. I’m usually with my team in our large workroom, building prototypes for drones and designing the ships that will defend Earth.
As usual, the workroom is a pigsty when I arrive. Nice to see that hasn’t changed. Our long metal work tables are covered in mangled drone parts, interrupted only by flat screens that rise up in the wreckage like billboards in the middle of a miniature junkyard.
The entire team is here: Harry Andrews, the other roboticist on the project; Grigory Sokolov, a Russian astronautical and electrical engineer; Lina Vogel, a German computer scientist; Min Zhao, a Chinese navigator; Izumi Tanaka, a Japanese physician and psychologist; and Charlotte Lewis, an Australian archaeologist and linguist. Oscar is here too, working quietly in the corner.
I expect seven smiling faces, a smattering of “welcome backs,” and maybe a hug or two. My arrival elicits none of those, only solemn expressions, no one moving forward to greet me.
Finally, Harry walks up and lightly puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s twenty years older than me and always quick with a joke, but his tone is dead serious now. “Hey, James. We have something you need to see.”
Without another word, he leads me out of the room and down the hall.
“See what?” I ask, jogging to keep up.
“I need to show you,” Harry replies as he stops at the door to one of the clean rooms. We only use the clean rooms when we need to emulate the sterile vacuum of space.
What’s this about?
Harry bends slightly and exposes his eyes to the retinal scanner, and the airlock door slides open. He strides past the blue space suits and helmets hanging on the wall.
“Do we need to suit up?” I ask, looking first at Harry, then back at the team. Everyone avoids eye contact.
“No,” Harry says. “It’s been through quarantine. It’s not a threat… unless it gets on you.”
“What’s been through quarantine? What’s going on, Harry?”
“It’s better if we show you,” he says softly and steps through the inner door.
The clean room is empty except for a long metal table that holds a single item: a white plastic box about the size of a suitcase. Harry motions toward it. “You’re the only one qualified to handle it, James.”
The team stares at me as I approach the box and slowly open the hinged top.
A small object lies inside: a silver biohazard bag.
“It’s organic,” Harry says as he inches forward to stand beside me at the table. “It’s a sample. We think the entity creating it arrived on Earth right after you left.” After a pause, he adds, “We need you to tell us what to do with it.”
I can’t resist the mystery another second. Gently, I peel the seal off the biohazard bag and peer inside. There’s a puffy white object, flat, about the size of my hand.
My face goes slack when I realize what it is. I nod slowly as I reach inside and take the diaper out. “You guys are hilarious. Really.”
The group breaks into uncontrolled laughter.
“This is what you’ve been doing while I was gone?” I’m trying to act serious, but I can’t hold it any longer. A smile forms on my face and I shake my head, fighting not to laugh.
I hold the diaper up. “This is the maturity level of the team of geniuses the world is depending on to save them? Diaper jokes?”
Harry makes his face serious again and whispers, “We need you to tell us what to do with it, James.” He pauses. “You’re the only one qualified to handle it.”
That ignites another round of laughter. In the doorway Oscar is smiling as well, all the while studying the others’ faces, seeming to take note of their reactions.
Just then, I realize that there’s actually some heft to the diaper. There’s something inside. Surely not. Due to a strange mixture of horror and curiosity, I slowly spread the diaper open, revealing a dark brown blob. No. Surely they wouldn’t have…
Again, feigning seriousness, Harry echoes his earlier words, “It’s organic.”
Grigory breaks from the group and walks toward me, reaching into his pocket. “Not to worry, James. I come to your rescue.”
The Russian engineer unfolds a white paper bag and takes a bagel out. Before I can react, he takes the diaper from me and dumps the gooey brown contents onto the bagel and folds the top over. I’m speechless as he takes a bite.
He shrugs, speaking with his mouth full: “What? It’s not like they’re making any more Nutella.”
After a more serious meeting to catch up with the team, Oscar and I descend to the basement of NASA headquarters, into a lab that only he and I have access to. It’s a place where I’ve been conducting a secret project, one I think has the potential to save humanity from the war that’s coming.
As I enter the room, the LED lights turn on automatically, illuminating the cavernous space with its concrete walls and floor and metal girders above. My footsteps echo as I walk toward my prototype.
“Wake up. Run system check,” I call out.
“My name is Oliver. All systems pass.”
Oliver looks exactly like Oscar, but he has some significant system upgrades. In short, Oliver is built for battle: on Earth or in space. If we’re going to have any chance of beating the grid, we’re going to need a lot of androids just like him.
Fowler’s office is similar to mine: sparsely decorated, a wall full of flat screens, and family pictures on his desk.
The largest wall screen displays a real-time image of the newly rebuilt International Space Station, glittering against the black of space. It was built by the world’s three super nations: the Atlantic Union where Emma and I live, the Caspian Treaty, where survivors from Russia and the Middle East reside, and the Pac Alliance, which is home to the surviving Asians. My team was intimately involved with the design and construction, including consultations with Emma. She was the mission commander aboard the original ISS when the grid destroyed it, killing her entire crew. I think working on the new station was deeply cathartic for her. Indeed, it’s been a symbolic achievement for all of us—an example of just how much we can achieve in a short amount of time if we work together. But more importantly, the ISS is a practical tool for the defense of Earth. The new station will be much more than the last: it will be a shipyard where we’ll build the fleet that will defend humanity.
Our plan for Earth’s defense is twofold: drones and spaceships.
Our Centurion drones will be capable of both observation and attack. A large percentage of the six thousand Centurions we’re planning to build will be stationed near Earth. The rest will be scattered across the solar system, lying in wait, watching.
The spaceships will house the vast majority of our offensive capabilities. We’re calling them supercarriers and each will be capable of transporting and deploying ten thousand battle drones. We expect the first carrier to be operational in five years, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it took us a little longer. On the screen, arms of scaffolding branch out from the ISS, beginning the work on our first prototype supercarrier, the Jericho.
“Good to have you back,” Fowler says, rising from his chair and offering his hand. “How are Emma and Allie?”
“They’re doing great,” I reply, taking a seat. “Thanks for asking.”
“And how about you?”
“Let’s just say if the camp runs out of coffee, I may not make it.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, your blood-caffeine concentration might be high for a while.” Fowler bites his lip. “Look, I have some bad news, so I’ll just start with it. The triple alliance defense committee has denied your request to put Oliver into production.”
“Did they say why?”
“Not specifically. But I think they’re worried that the grid could compromise any android army.”
“The same is true for the drones.”
“That may be. But the drones aren’t in their backyard, a hundred feet from their homes, capable of killing them in the night.”
“Do you see any chance for negotiation?”
“Not really. They’re pretty set on the issue. But they’re allowing you to continue your development work. They do see the value in having a working prototype and a solid design in case we ever need to put Oliver into mass production.”
The decision is a blow to my work and one that I think is wrong. If we end up fighting a war on the ground, we’re going to need some help.
I want to ask about progress on the Jericho—and a number of other things—but I can’t resist mentioning the interview with Richard Chandler first. At this point he may be a bigger threat than the grid. “Did you see Melting Point this morning?”
Fowler’s usually kind, grandfatherly expression turns hard. “I saw it. Don’t worry about Chandler.”
“It’s hard not to.”
“I’m afraid we’ve got bigger problems. We’re going to need those ships and drones sooner than I thought.”
“What did I miss?”
“A lot of little things. And three very big things.”
Fowler taps on his keyboard and the wall screen switches to a map of the solar system, the sun at the center, the planets around it, thin white lines tracing their orbits.
He hits another key and the image zooms in on the Kuiper Belt, a collection of asteroids and dwarf planets that circles the entire solar system, just beyond Neptune. Three objects break free from the belt, heading toward the inner solar system.
“As you’re well aware, it took a lot of effort just to get these probes near the Kuiper Belt. We still don’t know how much mass is out in the Kuiper, but our projections are that it might be two hundred times that of the asteroid belt.”
“A lot more mass for the grid to build weapons and solar cells from.”
“Correct. There are three dwarf planets in the Kuiper—including Pluto. We used to think most of the periodic comets originated in the Kuiper, but that’s been disproven. The belt is dynamically stable, which is why we were so surprised to see these asteroids break from it.”
The implication is clear to me: the grid has returned. It’s likely sent another machine similar to the first—a harvester—a craft capable of traveling to our star system and transforming raw materials into the solar cells it requires.
“You think a new harvester has sent the asteroids toward Earth.”
“I feel we should proceed on that assumption. If so, it means the new harvester arrived some time ago.”
“How long do we have before impact?”
“We’re still working on the projections.”
“Best guess?”
“Two years. Roughly.”
“The supercarriers will never be ready by then. Even if we expedite construction, we’ll miss it by a year, maybe more.”
“I agree. We’ll have to take the asteroids down with a drone fleet. A large one.” Fowler leans forward. “How doable is that?”
“I don’t know.”
Chapter 3
Emma
two years later
The habitat is filled with my favorite sound: the pitter-patter of little feet slapping against the floor.
Though I want to, I’m in no shape to chase Allie this morning. I put a hand against the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass.
From the master bathroom, I hear the footfalls stop, drawers in the kitchen being pulled open, their contents rattling around.
“Allie,” I call out, “come back in here where I can see you.”
It’s silent except for the news playing over the habitat speakers.
A report out today from the United Nations estimates that for the first time since the Long Winter ended, there are more humans living outside the evacuation camps than inside, as the wave of immigration out of the Atlantic Union, Caspia, and the Pac Alliance continues. New Berlin tops the list with the largest population, followed by Atlanta, and London.
But not everyone is happy with the pace of migration out of the evacuation camps. Dr. Richard Chandler, one of the scientists who was instrumental in defeating the grid, is calling on the superpowers to place more focus on returning its citizens to their homelands. Here’s an excerpt from last night’s edition of Melting Point with Craig Collins: “The grid is gone, yet the vast, vast majority of worldwide economic output is dedicated to defense spending. These evacuation camps have become nothing more than forced labor camps. We’re all working endlessly on James Sinclair’s super ships and the drones he claims will save us. Well, the truth is that the grid may not be back for a hundred years. Or a thousand years, or ever. Yet we live in abject poverty with no say, no vote, no basic rights. This has to change.”
I really dislike that guy. Not as much as James, but a lot. He’s all over the news, telling lies and stirring up trouble. Unfortunately, he’s also gaining followers.
Another drawer in the kitchen slides open.
“Allie, I mean it! You’re going to time out in…”
Silence.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One!”
As if a race was starting, the sound of tiny feet pounding the floor once again rings out, and Allie appears in the bathroom doorway, smiling innocently.
“What have I told you? No playing in the drawers. Only Mommy and Daddy can open the drawers.”
Some children have a sad face. Allie’s sad expression is full-body: hanging her head, shoulders rolled forward, arms hanging loose—as if every bit of energy has been drained from her. She has three modes. Full-on, blissful playing. Sleeping. And the current state of sulking (which escalates to whining when she doesn’t get her way, an occurrence that happens several times daily).
From my perch on the closed toilet, I point to the toys on the bathroom floor: seven bracelets, a stuffed sheep, and a yellow rubber duck. “I need you to play in here until I’m ready. Okay?”
Another wave of nausea grips me. I feel as though I’ve been thrown out of a plane and am free-falling with no control.
Allie ventures closer and reaches out and hugs me, her tiny arms around my lower abdomen, too short to get all the way around me. She peers into my eyes, studying me.
“Mommy boo-boo?”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m okay, sweetie.”
“Mommy sad?”
I place a hand on her back and gently move it up and down.
“No. I’m all right. Just play with your toys. Everything’s okay.”
I close my eyes again and wait. When the nausea passes, Allie is placing the bracelets on her arm, arranging them in an order that makes sense only to her. Without warning, she bends over and picks up a raisin from the floor.
“No, sweetie, don’t eat that.”
Allie brings the raisin to the sheep’s mouth and pauses as if feeding it. She looks up at me, a hint of mischief there.
I smile.
And she eats the raisin before I can stop her. I have no idea how long it’s been on the floor. It’s not from breakfast this morning. But if our human ancestors were hardy enough to survive the Toba catastrophe and cross the Bering Strait, Allie will probably survive a day-old raisin. Maybe two days old. Possibly three.
I open the drawer of my vanity and feel around for the personal health analyzer. I hold it to my finger and wait for it to draw the few drops of blood and run routine tests. The device beeps, and the results appear on the display. Blood chemistry is normal except for a borderline low vitamin D level.
The camps are out of birth control (it was low on the priority list when the mass evacuations happened—the governments prioritized food, shelter, and life-saving medicines). James and I have been careful, but the last two years have been extremely stressful. Our bedroom time has become a necessity.
I scroll to the bottom, holding my breath. I exhale when I see the result. I stare at the screen, filled with both joy and fear.
Pregnant: Yes
Allie holds my hand as we pass through the security checkpoint at NASA. As usual, she’s wearing the tiny backpack James made for her. In his usual fashion, he went overboard, equipping it with a GPS tracker, a camera, and a speaker we can use to communicate with her. I wouldn’t be surprised if he secretly built in some kind of hidden deployable attack drone to protect her.
James and I both work at NASA, and we used to walk Allie to preschool together every morning. But for the last eight months or so, he’s always gone when I wake up and returns home after dark. He’s working himself to death. He’s doing it to protect us, but I wish he would take more time to be with us.
At the preschool entrance, Allie releases my hand and makes a break for it, but I grab her and pull her into a hug. When I relax my hold, she takes off like a thoroughbred at the opening bell of the Kentucky Derby, backpack bouncing as she races past the teacher, who waves at me.
As I walk the halls of NASA headquarters, I get a few second looks, flickers of recognition from people who might have seen me on the news feeds. Some people are just curious about my limp.
The limp is a remnant of my time in space and the loss of bone density I sustained. It’s not going to get any better, and because of it, I’ll never return to space, not for any extended period of time anyway.
Since I was a child, my dream was always to be an astronaut. I achieved that goal, but the two battles with the grid left me unable to continue in that career I loved. Like everyone in this strange new world after the Long Winter, I’ve adapted. I’ve found a new role to play, one I cherish.