by JD Moyer
The end of reckless corporate profiteering was a boon for the human spirit. Despite retreating in numbers, humanity was once again advancing culturally. The dark age of the Hundred-Year Recession lifted, and the mid-twenty-third century came to be known, in the spirit of the French Renaissance, as the Revival.
Why not be hopeful? With the excesses of the Corporate Age reined in, life for most human beings was good. Climate change required some adjustments, but it was easy to grow delicious food on Greenhouse Earth. Industrial Age environmental conundrums (how to dispose of trash, how to generate cheap clean energy, how to limit toxic chemicals) had been solved over the decades; humans had finally learned to not crap where they ate. Even the oceans, reduced in large part to acidic, overwarm habitats for visible-from-space algal blooms and huge swarms of jellyfish, were beginning to show signs of recovery. In response to carbon sequestration from reforestation, a lack of acid rain, and a sharply reduced demand for seafood, coral reefs returned, and thought-to-be extinct species reappeared. Human beings had not irrevocably trashed the planet after all, and with this realization came the end of the psychological winter that had plagued humanity for a century.
As a means to sell more goods, the Corporate Age had promised the individual citizen limitless choice and freedom, but instead delivered ‘option paralysis’ and dopamine-driven consumeristic discontent. With less pressure from advertisements and a more civic-oriented zeitgeist, human beings rediscovered the joy of commitment (to family, to friends, to a place, to principles, to purpose), and though life on average was simpler, slower, and less extravagant, the angst and neuroticism of the Corporate Age faded. Consumerism was replaced by vocational, creative, intellectual, and spiritual pursuits. Even some religious practices and ceremonies were rediscovered and refashioned by the secular mainstream and scientifically literate, leaving mystical beliefs (Creation, Sin, Heaven and Hell, the Immortal Soul) as relics for theological historians to ponder and debate.
Culturally and philosophically, the Revival took a view of progress as not inevitable, but achievable, and citizens took to building ‘messy utopias’ with creative zeal. The Revival ethos emphasized practicality over perfection, empiricism over dogma, and working with existing realities instead of insisting on clean slates. The dreamers behind the new ‘messy’ utopias used whatever approaches worked, and viewed moral behavior as something to foster and encourage (not as a character prerequisite, nor as an ultimate goal).
With this new sense of global optimism, birth rates slightly increased, but did not reach replacement levels. Even with near-universal improvements in quality of life, there were fewer people every year, and ever-growing swaths of rewilded terrain.
14.05.02727, the Stanford
Adrian sipped an iced coffee while he waited for Xenus Troy. The coffee wasn’t bad. Not as good as the imported stuff grown on the Alhazen, but drinkable. Still, he would have preferred a chilled Corsican mint if the vending machine had offered such an option. Hair Lab was hot. Literally hot, with lots of bodies and kinetic energy. Most of the engineers were young and ostensibly employed by the Academy, but few had any real responsibilities or well-defined job descriptions. The fab-labs were pure research and development. Engineers could either work on their own devs or volunteer for projects with specifications (Adrian had garnered a half-dozen eager recruits within an hour of posting his own project spec – contributing to a Repop Council project was worth a lot in terms of prestige and bragging rights).
Seeing Troy’s close-shorn pate from across the hall, Adrian stood and waved. The younger man joined him in the café area, smiling and extending his hand. Adrian shook it, greeting Troy warmly. He had misjudged Xenus Troy at first, mistaking the Council member’s polite earnestness for weakness. What he had missed was Troy’s ambition. It should have been obvious. Nobody ended up on Repop Council accidentally. All the positions were elected except for the appointed liaison to the Over Council (currently Kardosh).
“Thanks for meeting me here,” said Troy. “Can you believe this is my first visit to Hair Lab? I’ve heard about it, of course….Who hasn’t? Why is it called that, anyway?”
“I have no idea,” Adrian said. “Probably some inside joke. But who cares? Let’s go look at the prototype.”
Adrian led them to Bay-23. Two of the engineers, both men under thirty, were working on the craft. Nearby, two young women studied a wallscreen displaying a design schematic of the rotor-blade mechanism. Nobody noticed Adrian and Troy standing there until Troy spoke.
“Ah…I suspected you were going to show me a vehicle when you told me to meet you at Hair Lab. But a hovercraft…hmm…I suppose…. How fast can it go? It certainly is…”
“Small. And very light. But the payload is significant. Five hundred kilos.”
The young developers finally noticed them. One of the women smiled and nodded at Adrian. As soon as the team realized it was a show-and-tell that didn’t require their input, they went back to work. “Ignore us,” said Adrian, formalizing what had already happened. Adrian briefly wondered if the hierarchy-free culture of the Engineering Department had gone too far. But the working group had certainly produced results, and quickly.
“How fast can it go?” Troy asked.
“About three hundred kilometers per hour, or two hundred with a full load,” said Adrian proudly. “Mediterranean to the glacial line in two or three hours. It functions best between two and twenty meters above surface, over land or sea, and is stable in wind speeds of up to seventy kilometers per hour. Did I get that right?”
One of the engineers looked up. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Never mind, back to work,” said Adrian, forcing a smile.
“What’s the maximum altitude?” asked Troy.
“Untested, for obvious reasons, but theoretically one hundred meters shouldn’t be a problem, at least in calm weather.”
“So it’s really a flying vehicle. Is it safe? And how do you propose to get it down there?”
Adrian pointed to a nearby cargo cube. “Disassembled, the whole thing fits in a standard crate. We could mule down three at a time if we needed to. Assembly only takes a few hours once you learn how to do it. They won’t let me touch the prototype yet, but I intend to learn the procedure myself.”
Adrian was able to answer most of Troy’s questions, and interrupted the developers only a few times (the devs were surprisingly unenthusiastic about showing off their creation – apparently all they wanted to do was work on it). How was it powered? (A high-voltage fuel cell, fed compost scraps or just about anything.) Could it be repaired from camp if it broke down? (Easily – and a backup crate of spare parts would be prepped for each unit.) What were the training requirements for operation? (Virtually nil – a small child could probably figure it out.)
Troy was obviously impressed, though he did his best to appear nonchalant. Certainly the young Council member was aware of the tension between Adrian and Townes; it could hurt Troy politically to be seen as cozying up to Adrian. But he was interested in the idea of an advance research station. Townes would vote against Vander Camp, but Troy was on the fence. Not for long, hopefully.
“You know,” said Adrian, as if the idea had just occurred to him, “the station is going to need a Research Coordinator. The position would report to the Research Director – Penelope Townes – but the Research Coordinator would be more hands-on, and would have a great deal of say in prioritizing missions and determining investigative direction. Logistics too, of course, but not just that.”
Troy was listening closely, but didn’t say anything. No bite. Adrian would have to be more explicit.
“I think you’d be ideal for the role.”
Troy raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s premature to discuss that? Your proposal isn’t even up for a vote.”
“No, not yet. Maybe you’re right. I’m just thinking out loud here. You’d be on my
short list, that’s all I meant to say.”
“Wouldn’t the position be elected, like the Research Director? Not appointed?”
“Of course! But I’d like to think a nomination by the Department Head would carry a little weight. No? You’re by the book, Xenus, aren’t you? That’s good – I like that about you. A bit like Polanski.” Troy grimaced at being compared to Polanski, as Adrian expected he would. The young man saw himself as independent, a pioneer. He was playing hard to get, but Adrian could tell he was interested.
Vander Camp. No matter who was appointed Research Coordinator, Adrian himself would be the visionary behind the project. He would be the chief cultural engineer, shaping and sculpting the first permanent Earth settlement composed of ringstation citizens. The first node was important. The values and cultural norms of that first settlement would ripple out through time, influencing the nature of society for centuries to come. What cities had thrived in the greater region? Damascus, Jericho, and Jerusalem in the Middle East; Argos, Athens, Thebes, Rome, and Byzantium in the Mediterranean; Lutetia (Paris) and Londinium farther north; they had all started as small settlements. Each had become a great city, thrived for millennia, and finally fallen, but their influence and legacies lived on among the ringstations. Vander Camp would be the same way, and Adrian would be the architect. The Founder.
“…food supplies. That could be problematic.” Troy was speaking. Adrian’s attention had wandered. “I wonder if there are herds of domesticatable fauna in the region? Maybe strains that have only recently rewilded, left over from Survivalist settlements. Would any of those animals have survived? Maybe wild goats?”
“Mmm…yes. Probably.”
“And the soil – it must be fertile from the Campi Flegrei ash deposits. Productive gardens would only take a few months to establish. Crops within a year, fruit and nut trees within a few years.”
Adrian suppressed a grin. Xenus Troy would be a poor poker player; his affirmative vote was all but counted.
“Xenus, I’m afraid I have another appointment. It’s been a pleasure meeting with you. Would you like to schedule a follow-up meeting?”
“Yes, yes…of course. Just thinking out loud, as you say. If the research station…. Well, certainly I’ll have some follow-up questions.” Troy cleared his throat. Was he turning a little pink? Perhaps he was remembering his allegiance to Townes right now. “The craft…it’s certainly well-designed. Your dev team is skilled. Kudos, engineers!” The devs, who had paid no attention to their conversation, returned Troy’s awkward praise with tight smiles.
Adrian escorted Troy out of the lab and bid the younger man goodbye. Already he was thinking about the other Council members. Svilsson, the quiet one, was an enigma. There would also be a Station Director position; would Svilsson be interested? Adrian had considered volunteering for that spot himself. But without a majority vote, there would be no research station, no Vander Camp. What about Polanski? She would probably stay loyal to Adrian, unless she viewed the research base as a permanent settlement (and thus a violation of their established protocols). Was there a carrot he could dangle to secure her vote?
Adrian opened a line to Manning at SecondSkin. The consulting firm had designed the specialized bioskins worn by Car-En and the other field researchers. Manning was the lead tech and a contributing developer (he had personally designed a good chunk of the drone swarm interface). The technician didn’t answer right away, but Adrian’s m’eye indicated that Manning was at the SecondSkin office. Adrian took a walkway up to Sub-1 and patiently strolled through a shopping district, waiting for a response.
Finally Manning’s unshaven face appeared in Adrian’s m’eye. “What is it?” He sounded irritable.
“Sorry for disturbing you, but it’s important. I need another override for Car-En.”
“Why?”
“She’s been having some blood-sugar regulation issues. Her last biostat was totally out of whack. We’re afraid her implants might be malfunctioning.”
“What does that have to do with SecondSkin?” asked Manning. His brusqueness was bordering on rude. Adrian wondered if he would have to remind Manning that being respectful was still in his best interest.
“The bioskin kit talks to her pharma implant, doesn’t it? If her blood sugar gets too low she could pass out, even slip into a coma. Normally we could rely on her implant to regulate, but with the technical problems….”
“Mmm,” Manning grunted. “Just run a diagnostic on the implant. Or call Stanford Medical, talk to a technician.”
“I already have,” Adrian lied. “We need the override, in case of an emergency. Car-En is all alone down there. If she has a serious medical issue, she’s days away from help – almost two hundred kilometers from the mule station. A kit override might be her only chance.”
“I don’t know. I mean, it’s doable, but I’m not sure you should be talking to me. Let me put you through to Harriet.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I like dealing with you, Manning. You know how to get things done. I’m almost done with your recommendation for SecSys on the Liu Hui. Personally, I think they’d be stupid not to take you.”
Manning grunted again, looking down. Adrian had an advantage, being able to see Manning’s face, while the tech could only hear Adrian’s voice. He didn’t want to be too heavy-handed, but he wasn’t in the mood for patient cajoling.
“Look, I’ll see what I can do. I might not be able to swing a full override.”
“Access to the blood-sugar regulation subsystem is all we need.”
“You need to be extremely cautious – you could really mess her up if you don’t know what you’re doing. Why don’t you just pull her in, get the implant fixed, and redeploy? Are you guys on some kind of schedule or something? A bad implant is serious. Let Medical deal with it.”
“That’s the plan, but remember she’s on foot, days away from the mule station. Can you get me access, or do I need to speak with Harriet?”
A long pause. Manning stared at the recording dot, brow furrowed. “I’ll see what I can do. Give me a day or two.”
“The sooner the better. Thank you, Manning.” Adrian closed the patch.
He checked his conscience, searching for misgivings or any pang of anticipatory guilt regarding what he planned to do. All clear. It made sense and it was justified. Beyond insubordination, Car-En had gone fully rogue. She was Intervening. And what was one life compared to the future of humanity? Without Car-En’s interference, there was a good chance the Harz villagers would do themselves in. Adrian couldn’t afford to have her mucking about in their business, aiding and assisting them.
Insulin was the perfect solution to the problem, and Adrian felt a renewed surge of pride for thinking of it in the first place. Car-En’s death would appear to be accidental. With access to her implant, he could simply edit the algorithm that regulated her blood sugar. Her demise would be attributed to a programming error. There would be hell to pay at Stanford Medical. A full audit might reveal the code alterations, but Adrian would be sure to cover his tracks. And all that assumed an autopsy; a more likely scenario was that Car-En’s body would never be recovered. The Happdal villagers would dispose of her, or her corpse would be consumed by wolves. Wolves weren’t above scavenging dead meat, were they?
Adrian did have a conscience. He cared deeply about people, about humanity. He wasn’t as empathetic as most; he was outside of Standard Edits norms (bordering on sociopathy, according to a private test he’d taken). Long ago he’d ceased to feel self-conscious about this difference. Society needed people like him to move forward. History would forgive him his harsher decisions – if they ever came to light – and remember only his contributions. It was the way of the world. Christopher Columbus had been a cheat, a kidnapper, a torturer, a slaver, and an accomplice to far worse crimes by his crew. And East America had named a holiday after him.
A
drian would accomplish far more, with far less death and destruction. Car-En’s death would be painless. This was important to Adrian. Despite her stubbornness (maybe even because of it), he liked her. From the start she’d been bright, ambitious, precocious. He’d groomed her from her first days as a field student in the department. He would miss her. What would he say at her memorial service? He’d be able to share his true feelings, to speak honestly to her family, friends and colleagues. He respected and admired Car-En Ganzorig.
Didn’t civilization ultimately require men like him, to progress? What good would it do to repopulate Earth with gentle Homo sapiens melior2 if they would all eventually be slaughtered by sword-wielding brutes? Adrian cared for his species more than he cared for himself. He was dedicating his life to the greater good. Could Townes say as much?
Adrian passed an arcade, forcing a few teenagers to make way as he strode past. A girl glared at him sullenly through her augment lens, but looked away at the last minute when Adrian refused to break eye contact. The augment, wrapping halfway around her head, was probably for gaming. Adrian had no taste for holographic immersion himself. Life, unaltered, was interesting enough. One of his Academy friends had gotten involved in game culture and had stopped studying altogether. Adrian had redoubled his own academic efforts at that point, eventually graduating with honors and gaining the anthropology field position on the Alhazen that had launched his career. Now Adrian was an elected member of Repop Council, planning the repopulation of humanity’s home planet. And what was his ex-friend doing? Probably still reliving ancient Greek sieges from millennia past….
Adrian took an elevator to Main, ending up on the outskirts of McLaren Park. He checked the time in his m’eye: 18:30. He was hungry. He briefly considered cooking, but there was no food in his apartment. He’d stop at a park café on the way home.
The Standard Edits made sense; they were for the benefit of humanity, even if Adrian himself didn’t conform to them exactly. His amygdala might not function the same as everyone else’s, but he was resistant to radiation, free of disease-causing traits, of small stature (compared to historical Earth norms), highly intelligent, and unlikely to succumb to any sort of degenerative disease as long he updated his nanodrones every decade or so. The social and personality traits emphasized by the Standard Edits were optimized for ringstation life (living in space, living inside of a closed loop – both literally and figuratively). The Edits favored genotypes associated with greater co-operation, greater empathy, less proclivity toward violence, cautiousness, conscientiousness, a high ability to defer gratification (low impulsivity), and a great propensity for advance planning. While any first-year psychology student could tell you that the greater part of moral behavior was condition-dependent (any person could be ‘good’ with a full belly, surrounded by supportive friends and family), genetics still mattered. Ringstation life provided optimized nature and nurture. The result was a smooth-running society, a vanishingly small crime rate, and extremely high levels of social trust. A tube full of sheep was the phrase that sometimes popped into Adrian’s mind. It would be harder to get away with murder in a less trusting culture.