Sharon presses her hand against the clear tank surface, feeling its warmth and a subtle throb. Lowering her ear down to the glass, she hears what she suspected: the gentle lub-dub of a human heartbeat. She grins.
Munro sees her smiling against one of the tanks and steps over beside her. “I’m told the first generations were raised in darkness, with no biorhythmic stimulation. Most of them lacked social instincts and would isolate themselves from others. Often, they developed severe behavioral disorders. With decades of experimentation, we discovered that simulating the interior of a human body produced individuals with significantly improved cooperative instincts. They proved to be far more productive and dependable than their predecessors.”
Gregor grunts cynically as if mocking an advertisement. “Building better people through eugenics!”
“Precisely!” Munro beams.
“What kind of disorders?” Sharon asks with genuine interest.
“From what I was told, they tended to be obstinate, refusing to work or participate in any way. They would harm themselves, and at times”—Munro gets a morose look about him—“they would harm others. Sadly, the early years were filled with many failures as we blundered through the human genome. In trying to keep our own genetic defects at bay, we frequently caused them.” He gingerly places his large hand against one of the cylinders, looking into it deeply. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like then… to have to discover the results of your failures on living children…” Munro trails off, not permitting himself the indulgence any longer, and he takes his hand off the tank.
“What happened to them?” Ortega asks.
“They were reconstituted, of course.”
All four colonists perk up at once.
“Reconstituted?” Keller asks.
“Yes, reconstituted,” Munro repeats. “It's a selective lobotomy to remove the defective neural structures, which are replaced with implanted chipsets. The individual is no longer capable of highly skilled tasks, but they are rugged laborers and can be programmed for a wide variety of basic functions. This way, they can still contribute as useful cadre personnel.”
The colonist officers stiffen rigidly, fascination replaced by moral outrage. The four look at each other; and though they want to blast Munro for his Mengela-esque medical practices, they bite their tongues.
Munro cannot help but notice the change in his guests’ postures and expressions. He lets some of the air out of his chest, taking a cautious half step toward them.
“Is something wrong?”
Gregor, Sharon, and Ortega will not look at him. Even Keller’s instinct is to turn around and walk back to his ship, but he forces himself to confront what he sees, to confront the idea of medical dismemberment for the purpose of slave labor.
He thinks back to the meeting a few hours ago with O’Kai and the other cadre officers; and he hears the counselor’s voice reminding him to look past the surface, to first accept and then try to understand.
They have no concept of property. They share everything, even themselves. It isn't about oppression...it's bigger than that. It's more important than that.
As he surveys the room with the cylindrical tanks around him, it finally dawns on him how much effort goes into maintaining their population, how much is invested in every embryo.
It's easy to feel superior when your survival isn't so uncertain, he thinks, and it shames him that for even a moment he placed Munro and the cadre beneath him.
Munro still looks inquisitively at him, but Keller does not answer. Rather, he calms his mind, taking in the whole of his surroundings: the soft red glow, the gentle lub-dub, and the warm air.
This is where they come from. This is their mother. They have to do what they must to protect her.
From the security measures to get in, it also occurs to Keller that few cadre personnel would have even seen the inside of this room. And here, Munro has welcomed them in without reservation.
“What you describe, Colonel,” Keller replies at last, “shocks us. To have our minds removed and our bodies used against our will is terrifying.”
Munro squints, wanting to understand. “Why? Wouldn’t you want to be a benefit to the others? By your rank, I can see that you have a structure of authority and compliance. Isn’t it better to have everyone contributing to the same goals?”
“Of course,” Keller concedes, “but our compliance is obtained willingly. To have it forced from us would destroy what we are entirely.”
Munro nods reassuringly. “I can’t see how, but… We would never attempt any such procedure on you or your crew.”
Ortega, Gregor, and Sharon turn to look at the huge man, trying to gauge his sincerity.
“I have your word?” Keller asks.
With complete authenticity, Munro replies, “To us, Captain, saying is the same as doing.”
The more that Keller interacts with the cadre, the more he understands that lying is simply an impossibility for them. But a queer emotion lingers, reminding him how fragile civil liberties are and how easily they disappear in times of insecurity.
Keller relaxes, releasing the air in his chest. “That’s a relief. For us, reconstitution would be a fate worse than death.”
“Worse than death?” Munro asks in disbelief. He scrunches his face as if trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. “All we have are our lives. We work to extend them as long as we can, but when we die, we’re taken from our siblings to oblivion. There is nothing worse than death, Captain!”
The four stand in silence, feeling the gravity of Munro’s conviction. Ortega’s faith tempts him to debate, but faith has been dreadfully scarce in Keller since Earth's annihilation. The elder captain cannot help but admire Munro’s zeal for life, especially when it is a life of labor, pain, and sacrifice.
“Thus far,” Munro announces, “you’ve seen our primary reactor facility, life support, sensors, maintenance, recycling, engineering, manufacturing, and incubation. That leaves MedLab. This way.”
Munro moves briskly from the soft red glow to the giant wheel-door and taps in the necessary code. The door's pistons retract from the doorjamb at once, and it slides out, then rolls aside.
“Unfortunately, I cannot take you inside the genetic engineering portion," the colonel states. "Viruses are frequent by-products of our work there. You could fall ill and die within days.”
“Then how do you work there?” Sharon asks.
The group steps past the huge door, and Munro returns it to its place. Striding down the metal corridor, he answers, “Most of the work is done via remote. We design the chromosomes from the safety of our laboratory, and machines perform the actual assembly. When maintenance is required, a technician suits up and crawls through the access corridor. Anyone going in is inoculated against our most recent set of viral threats. Upon exit, the air in the corridor is evacuated to space, and the individual endures a three-stage chemical and radiological decontamination process.”
“Sounds pretty harsh,” Ortega notes.
“It is sufficient to maintain our safety.”
Ortega leans closer to his captain. “I’ll bet Sahara would love to see that place.”
Munro slows his gait and cocks his head. “Suh-hah-ruh?”
“Sahara Taggart,” Keller explains. “She’s our chief medical officer, currently in cryo-freeze.”
Munro smiles broadly. “Ah! Good! That is my designation as well! I look forward to discussing practices with her.”
“I’m sure you’d captivate her with your conversation…” Gregor mutters sarcastically. Sharon elbows him in the ribs.
Munro arches an eyebrow, aware of the insult, yet choosing to let it pass. He balls his strong fist and grits his teeth, assuming a swifter pace. Keller and his officers have to trot to keep up, the polished metal walls passing quickly by.
Ahead, the corridor takes a sharp right then arcs smoothly left as if deflecting around something large.
“Colonel,” Ortega calls out. He sl
ows his pace to drag a hand along the convex wall. Munro halts, abruptly turning to face him.
“Yes, Commander?”
Ortega pauses, checking his memory to be sure this feature was not explained earlier, then asks, “Is there something here you couldn’t tunnel through? I don’t see any rooms or passages in this direction.”
Munro nods. “Beyond this wall stands one of four ground-based UV excimer lasers, our primary defense.”
Ortega’s eyebrows lift with interest, and he searches for an access hatch, but the metal walls are uninterrupted.
“How do you get to it?”
“Access is at the silo’s base, 150 meters down.”
The Spaniard whistles as he grasps the weapon’s scale. “What kind of energy output?”
“Sufficient to perforate six meters of iron with an effective range of four hundred thousand kilometers. Targeting is handled by four satellites in synchronous orbit, and the beam is directed by omni-directional mirror.”
“What if the mirror gets hit?”
“There are five backup optics per silo; however, when operating in concert, the four silos can deliver sixty shots per minute at full output. It’s unlikely anything could get close enough to damage them.” Munro turns and resumes his quick pace. Sharon hurries after him; but Gregor, Keller, and Ortega linger, admiring the potent sentry buried in the ground beside them. When Keller turns to ask another question Munro is already way ahead, and the three men run to catch up.
* * * * *
The counselor sits comfortably in Sharon’s navigation station aboard the Europa. General O’Kai leans over his shoulder in complete engrossment as the counselor pulls up image after image of plants and animals stored as embryos. His jaw drops with amazement.
“And these life-forms… they assemble your nutrients?”
“After a while,” the counselor explains. “They have to mature before they can start producing.”
“How long?”
“A few months.” The counselor looks up at his guest, and he grins when he recognizes the same expression Maiella and Thompson wore when they first discovered the colonist’s living cargo.
“What do they need?” O’Kai asks.
The counselor taps some keys, pulling up a schematic of the circular colony structure. Pointing to each section, he explains, “The biosphere was engineered for maximum efficiency and conservation; so basically, all we need is light, soil, and water.”
O’Kai rubs his chin, studying, pondering.
The counselor watches him, accurately guessing his thoughts. “You’re wondering if we could set it up here?”
O’Kai looks down at his guide. “Yes, but we don’t have enough room internally. Could this be set up on the surface?”
The counselor shakes his head. “The domes are designed to withstand a wide variety of pressures, but not a vacuum. Nor could they shield the crops against that intense star of yours. Only a planet with an atmosphere will do.”
“Some of the gas giant planets orbiting farther out have moons that are almost planet size. A few of them have dense atmospheres…but the tidal forces cause quakes and eruptions on a regular basis. How much shaking can those structures take?”
“The base structure is built for that, where it partially decouples the main structure from the ground. It's rated for about seven point nine, MMS, but it can take a bigger shock than that, I hear.”
“MMS?”
“Moment Magnitude Scale? Okay.” The counselor types a conversion query into the terminal and reads the result. “Uhhh, a seven point nine MMS event is a release of around fifty petajoules, give or take.”
O'Kai scowls. “We measured events over three hundred petajoules.
The counselor reverses the conversion query and reads aloud, “Ooh, that's almost eight point five...”
“Could it take that?”
“Well, not if it was sitting right on top of it, but our geologists could map the fault lines and—”
“Forget it. Much as I want that thing producing close by, we can't risk losing it or anyone operating it. Besides, the radiation from the gas planets would be a real problem.”
The general stands straight, momentarily stymied, then looks back at the counselor. “Your original mission...you wouldn't have launched without a destination.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you make it?”
The counselor looks away remorsefully. “Uninhabitable. Too many isotopes in the ground.”
“Hmmm,” O’Kai thinks. “You all told us the Europa has been traveling for over a thousand years… Could the levels have dropped enough?”
The counselor frowns, shaking his head. “Soil samples showed uranium, strontium, radium, and radon. Enough to keep that planet hot for eons.”
O’Kai reaches beside the counselor to pull up the Europa’s flight logs. “In all your light years of travel, didn't you come across anything with a chance of habitability?”
The counselor purses his lips, a bit uncomfortable displeasing someone so physically imposing. “This ship was only intended to travel to a preset destination. She isn’t equipped with powerful telescopes or sensitive instrument arrays to discover new planetary systems, just ones strong enough to keep us from flying into something in our path. We’ve taken the information we can collect and have been making educated guesses all this time. It’s the best we could do.”
O’Kai brings his hand up to his mouth, tapping with one finger pensively.
“Counselor, how was a world selected for colonization?”
“I’m not an authority on that, General. We had an entire division of geophysicists in our company back on Earth who would—”
“Earth,” O’Kai interrupts. “You know where Earth is. You must know, it was your point of origin!”
“Of course, but…don’t you?”
O’Kai shakes his head. “In the early days, this facility was smaller, not designed for self-sufficiency. The first of us had to build new assets to survive, and building new machines meant building new software. We only had the computers on hand at that time, and to store new operating programs we had to clear space. Any data not immediately required for survival was purged…that included information on Earth.”
The counselor looks up skeptically, then remembers a similar conversation with Thompson months earlier. It was absolutely baffling how these people could have no memory of themselves—no history besides the technological advances that have kept them alive. Is this some kind of deceit? Are they hiding something?
The counselor digs. “Thompson didn’t recognize the name, Earth, when I mentioned it to him, but you do. Why is that?”
“There's a verbal legacy passed from one general to the next, shared with no one else.”
“But that makes no—” The counselor censors himself mid-sentence. “I'm sorry, General, but what I mean to say is, why would you keep something like that from your own people?”
“Simple. In the beginning, our people longed for their home to great distraction. It prevented them from laboring at full productivity. When people were not told they came from some other place, they accepted their lives here and labored to higher potential.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The counselor’s head swims with such astounding pragmatism. “Then why pass it from general to general? Why bother?”
O’Kai nods, validating the question. “Our lives are built upon service to higher authority. As General, there is nowhere else to advance, no higher post to strive toward. Thus, we must remember Earth and keep our focus over the many years, because every general knows—it is our duty to return. Should we forget about our ancient home, that return will never be possible.”
The counselor leans against the console, propping his head up with a hand, amazed again by such stark practicality.
“Do you know what this facility was intended for before the attack?”
“Genetic research and engineering,” O’
Kai answers without hesitation, “but that’s all I know.” No longer able to restrain his curiosities, he reaches past the counselor and pulls up data on Earth: system location, geological conditions, meteorological features. When he finds a photo archive he stops at the first image he sees and marvels.
“You know where Earth is, yet you haven’t returned? Why?”
The counselor becomes defensive, turning in his seat to face the general. “We wouldn’t dare!”
“Why not?”
The counselor swivels a quarter turn, wondering why the general would ask a question with so obvious an answer. “Our ship has no defenses whatsoever… and the enemy is sure to be there.”
“How do you know?”
The counselor absorbs the question, weighing it. He looks into the terminal then back at the general, finally admitting, “We don’t.”
The two men stare at each other, and in the silence, volumes are spoken.
“Major Ralla,” O’Kai hails through the communicator perched on his ear.
“Ralla here, sir. Go ahead,” comes his radioed reply.
“Delegate your current assignment and report to the bridge of the Europa.”
“Understood. Ralla out.”
Leaning forward again, O’Kai focuses on the Viewscreen.
“Show me more.”
The Misery of Being
A soft tone repeats rhythmically, accompanied by the flicker of room illumination. The communication panel at the head of his bunk lights up, and Thompson swats it with the back of his hand to turn it off. Another four hours of no sleep…
He sits up gruffly, sunken eyes squinting against the bright light. Only his ingrained routine gives him the motivation to get out of bed, and he swings his legs out toward the floor. Rubbing his rough face, he gets to his feet and steps to his hygiene station. A chemically treated towel rests on a rack; and he snatches it, dragging it over himself in the cadre’s version of a daily shower. Letting it drop, he picks up a razor and joylessly scrapes it across the patchy stubble of his beard. His other hand picks up an aging dental appliance and he scours his teeth with it. When done, he spits, then considers his gaunt appearance, the drawn cheeks, the bags under the eyes, the pale flesh. He sneers.
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