The Gods We Make

by Eric Johannsen

  “My employer purchased your marker. He owns your debt now.”

  Ian laughed. “You should have done your research before pulling out your checkbook. Sales from A View of Mars are pretty much done. The story of Mars Station’s construction isn’t fascinating anymore. Everyone takes it for granted now that we have a permanent presence in Martian orbit. It’s going to be quite a while before my NASA salary can pay off the debt.”

  “My employer is confident your life will take more interesting turns, and that you will be able to make good on your financial obligations.”

  “Say, when is China going to get around to a permanent Martian presence?”

  The Chinese man bent forward, toward the fountain. “In fact,” he said with emphasis, “you are beginning such a chapter as we speak. My employer has authorized me to erase some portion of your debt in exchange for, shall we say, advanced insight into your latest exploits.”

  “Advanced insight?” Ian scoffed. “You want me to spy for you.”

  “Spy? No. Of course not. My employer is simply interested in the space programs of all nations. He’s well-connected in Washington and heard from a source that you’re on a new mission. Very hush-hush. He doesn’t want you to reveal anything classified, merely a few tidbits to whet his appetite for knowledge.”

  “Whet his appetite?”

  “Yes. For example, if you tell me today how large this mission’s crew is, I can take fifty-thousand dollars off the debt.”

  “Fifty grand? To tell you the crew size?”

  “Yes. Surely that can’t be considered top secret.”

  Ian rubbed his frosty cup across his forehead. He drank the last bit of lemonade, then tossed the cup and ice into a trash bin a good three meters away.

  “Nice shot.”

  Ian drummed four fingers on his knee.

  The Chinese man smiled thinly. “Your account statement will be updated within the hour. I can offer you an additional-”

  Ian stood. “Time I get back to NASA.”

  “I understand. I will be in touch soon.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Patriots and Spies

  Sara and Jake strolled up the marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Dozens of tourists milled about, necks craned to absorb the grandeur of the monument, to view each detail symbolizing Lincoln’s presidency. Locals filtered onto the lawn outside the memorial, setting up chairs and blankets to secure a spot for the Fourth of July firework show.

  The sixteenth president’s stately likeness, seated on a massive armchair, towered over the pair. Sara, mesmerized, sauntered toward its base. “Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing.” She looked warmly at Jake. “Lincoln. One of my favorite quotes. He was an inspirational man.”

  “One of the best,” Jake said.

  Sara pivoted to the north wall. “The two murals represent principles upon which Lincoln based his life. This one,” she pointed at a mural sixty feet tall and twelve feet wide, “depicts unity, fraternity, and charity. The one on the south wall embodies freedom, liberty, immortality, justice, and the law.”

  “Solid principles to live by.”

  Sara shot him a quick glance, her eyes sparkling. They walked arm-in-arm through the memorial, stopping to reflect on the symbolism depicted in each section.

  They wandered back toward the steps as the deep orange sun cast long shadows across the lawn. Many more people had gathered in anticipation of the night’s festivities.

  “Sara, these past few months.” Jake shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I enjoyed getting to know you.”

  She took his hand and nudged his arm with her shoulder. Don’t get serious on me now, Jake. Not the time. “I hear there’s a special firework making its debut tonight. Did you hear about that?” She knelt down, searched through her daypack, and pulled out two bags, each the size of a shoe. She removed an object from one of the bags. A flip of her wrist set a bundle of lightweight mesh and a collection of carbon-fiber poles into motion. They assembled themselves into a small but serviceable chair. “I brought one for you, too.” They sat and absorbed the view from the lawn, which was now thickly sprinkled with people.

  Jake slumped in his chair and let out a soft sigh. “So, how’s work been?”

  “Busy as usual.” Sara forced a casual laugh. “I feel like I’m getting behind taking the Fourth of July off.” Six days a week for the past five months. This work is going to drive me crazy. “Thank you for spending the day with me.” She touched his arm. “The truth is, our time together helps keep me sane.”

  Jake leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. “I keep hearing rumors about the Chinese and some major new development.”

  Heat welled up Sara’s neck and onto her face. You know better, Jake. She reached up and pinched his earlobe. Hard. With a firm tug, she brought his ear next to her lips. “You can’t ask me about work. It could get us both fired.” She gave his ear a quick kiss then let go. “There sure are a lot of people out for the fireworks tonight.”

  They spoke of college, their early careers, and why they chose the paths they did. Such a wonderful man. Smart, funny, giving. It’s like he was created just for me to fall in love with. Three streaks shot up in the distance, pulling her away from her dreamy reflections. The fireworks exploded in red, white, and blue fireballs to the delight of the crowd. Sara held Jake’s elbow tight. The display took her away, back to when she was a nine-year-old girl watching fireworks with her dad. It had been a blissful time, filled with love and innocence. She could almost taste the hot dogs and hear the laughter of the neighborhood kids running around with blazing sparklers. Her father’s warmth had filled her heart with delight that warm summer evening long ago. Before the betrayal. Before his death.

  Jake nudged her shoulder. “What the hell is that?”

  “What?” Sara’s thoughts returned to the present. Through moist eyes, she saw half the sky light up like the American flag. The red, white, and blue were formed by brilliant lights cascading across the celestial dome then faded in unison. Cheers erupted from the crowd.

  “Amazing,” Jake said. “I wonder how they pulled that off.”

  That’s not right. The picture’s not right. Those lights are in orbit. “It looks like-” Sara said.

  The flag dissolved into points of light that spelled out words.

  Happy.

  Fourth.

  From.

  The Chinese flag flared up, brilliant red and yellow shining down upon the stunned crowd.

  “Damn,” Sara said. “We’ve been schooled in the most diplomatic way possible.”

  #

  “Good news,” Minister Yang said.

  President Li placed a portion of white cut chicken from a community plate into his rice bowl. “Go on.”

  “Are you sure we should discuss such matters in the open?” Colonel Long was incredulous. The men were seated in an outdoor pavilion in the gardens of Yingtai Island, just outside the party headquarters in Zhongnanhai.

  “Your concern is appreciated, but we are quite alone here. There are extensive measures in place to ensure our privacy,” Minister Yang said.

  “Your news?” the president asked.

  “The Americans are not as apt at protecting their outdoor gatherings as we are. They are celebrating their independence from Great Britain today. The festival is traditionally a picnic involving the consumption of alcohol. Most of NASA is closed for the public holiday, but we were able to identify a group of engineers that were held over. They celebrated on the Johnson campus. We developed bots that physically mimic an insect indigenous to Texas. They are able to identify groups of humans, move close, and record their conversations.”

  “If we can do that, we must assume that the Americans can as well.” The colonel’s face tightened, his mouth forming a distinct scowl. “Or perhaps they record us from far way and read our lips.”

  “Colonel Long, would you allow me to demonst
rate why that is of no concern?” Director Lin stood and gestured toward the field surrounding the pavilion.

  The colonel nodded.

  “Please, follow me.” He walked to the edge of the pavilion. Director Lin reached his hand out. The air in front of him distorted.

  The colonel did the same.

  “This way, colonel.” The Director stepped right, then forward, then left. “Look at our table. What do you see?”

  “Nothing.” The colonel was pleased. The pavilion appeared empty from the outside.

  “Gentlemen!” the president called. “If the colonel is satisfied, I wish to hear Minister Yang’s news.” The sound of the president’s voice was dull and muffled only a few meters from the invisible curtain.

  “At once,” the colonel said, returning to the table.

  “Where was I?” Minister Yang asked. “Ah, yes. We were able to observe NASA engineers celebrating. Most of the talk was innocuous. Recipes for food, sports rivalries, office politics. We captured one snippet of conversation that validates our fears.”

  A recording played in English, the sound emanating from no apparent source. One voice said, “I’m concerned about the oxygen tanks on the Jupiter Express. They’re too exposed. They go, we’ll have four corpses. It’ll take a month to rework the design. Maybe more.” A second voice said, “Bill, not here. Tomorrow, at the office.”

  “Jupiter Express!” the president said. “So literal. I thought Americans were in love with code words and acronyms.” He took up his chopsticks and sampled his dish. “They face a production issue that should delay them. That’s good news, indeed. Do we know more about when their launch is planned?”

  “The American astronaut we are blackmailing has so far refused to name a launch date,” Minister Yang said. “This recording confirms what he said about the crew complement. He provided accurate information once. We can place more trust in his information now.”

  “Step up the pressure. We need to decide whether to hurry our mission or spend more time preparing so we are more effective once we get there.”

  “And how is our own mission progressing?” Colonel Long asked.

  Director Lin poured more tea. “We finished redesigning the asteroid miners currently in Earth orbit for a manned mission to Jupiter. Construction is underway. The ships were designed for a long-range mission, so the Americans will not observe any external modifications. We can print the vast majority of internal crew structure using equipment already on board, so it’s mostly a matter of getting more raw material to the assembly dock. Shenzhen Astromining will make a false announcement today claiming they were contracted to construct a third mining ship. That will account for the increased launch schedule needed to complete the retrofit.”

  “Clever,” President Li said. He looked at Minister Yang. “I want to know the American launch schedule. I don’t care what you must do to that astronaut to get it.”

  #

  “Amazing,” Dylan said. “I never get tired of the view from orbit.” Scobee Station floated two hundred fifty miles over Cairo, Egypt. He and Musa were in an observation room that was part of a ring turning opposite the station’s axial rotation, so that it always faced Earth. “When’s the last time you visited home?”

  “Home?” Musa laughed. “You know I haven’t lived in Cairo since I was a toddler. Anyhow, I’m only Egyptian on my mother’s side.”

  “You know what I mean. Back to see your heritage. It’s your roots, part of you. It’s important to understand where you come from.” He cast a lopsided grin at Musa. “It helps you understand who you are.”

  “You seem proud of your Texan heritage.”

  “Proud? Well, it’s part of who I am. Texas produces a lot of fine folks. So do most other places. I embrace my roots, but I don’t think for a minute it makes me better than anyone else.” Dylan glanced back down at Cairo. “You should go visit one day. Hell, I’ll go with you. I would love to see the place.” Dylan checked his wrist. “We’re here for a reason. Let’s go inspect her so we can get back in time for the fireworks.”

  The men pushed off a wall and glided effortlessly across the small, dimly lit observation room. They passed through a round doorway and along a bright white, octagonal corridor. Thirty meters down, Dylan watched with a half-smile as Musa gradually drifted away from the centerline toward a wall. When Musa was half a meter from a collision, Dylan extended his hand. The two astronauts pulled together, their trajectory an average of Dylan’s near-perfect one and Musa’s. After another ten meters, they reached a junction. Each man grabbed a small, orange handrail at the intersection and held it long enough to deflect their momentum ninety degrees, into corridor along the station’s rotational axis. After another twenty meters, they approached a closed, round hatch. Dylan and Musa tucked their legs in and performed a slow, graceful somersault. Their feet landed squarely on the hatch, their knees bending to arrest their momentum.

  Dylan placed his palm on a glass surface and made an exaggerated smile into a tiny camera next to it. “Dylan Lockwood,” he said. The sensors scanned his fingerprints, imaged his face, analyzed the heat patterns his body emitted to make sure he was still alive, and cross-correlated analysis of his voice.

  “Welcome, Commander Lockwood.”

  The hatch rolled open revealing a large room, as rooms on a space station go. It was a football field long and wide, and half as deep. The assembly dock rotated opposite the station, nullifying Scobee’s artificial gravity. An awkward-looking spacecraft was centered in the hangar. Multiple lines and wires connected it to the station. Workers drifted around it, urgently cutting, welding, laying wires, and installing a six-inch-thick carpet-like wrap over the outside of the crew section. The ship was created by outfitting a Mars resupply ship with a significant quantity of additional fuel tanks and a new, experimental ion thruster. The hull was wrapped with state-of-the-art radiation shielding. A foreman shouted instructions in a baritone voice, so loud that it was almost inhuman. The man was of short stature, with powerful arms and the sort of belly earned by a lifetime of enjoying large quantities of beer. He sported a thick, upward curled mustache a century or two out of fashion.

  “Do you think the Chinese saw our little spaceship factory yet?” Musa locked one arm onto Dylan’s shoulder as the two floated through the hatch.

  “Probably.” Dylan’s tone was matter-of-fact. “This room is far larger than our tin can of a spy ship, and the Chinese probably spend a whole lot of time observing Scobee. The optical cloak’s pretty good but far from perfect. Now do they know what we’re up to in this here room? Who knows? I guess that depends on whether they fell for the decoy.”

  “Decoy?”

  “Oh, right. Need to know. Since I spilled the beans, I guess you need to know. To account for the resupply ship, NASA looked to the World War II playbook. They printed a dummy replacement, mostly hollow on the inside with just enough structure to handle an initial thrust in the general direction of Mars. It won’t ever get there, but the Chinese aren’t likely to track it very far. It’ll probably be months before they realized it didn’t show up at Mars Station.”

  “When did we send it out?”

  “Need to know.” Dylan winked. “Let’s go see our ship.”

  Musa shook Dylan’s shoulder with excitement.

  “Howdy Pops,” Dylan hollered.

  The stout foreman pirouetted in place to face the two astronauts. “Did you bring my toilet, son?”

  “Do what now?” Dylan asked.

  “My toilet. For the ship. It didn’t make it onto the last resupply rocket, and I’m ready to install it.” Wayne ‘Pops’ Bosco sounded brusque, but not angry.

  “Um, sorry no, Pops. They didn’t send your toilet up with us,” Dylan said. “Didn’t your AI scheduler tell you that?”

  Pops laughed. “Sure it did, but if I give you shit about it, you might kick some butt to make it happen next flight.”

  “Is that supposed to be a pun?” Dylan asked, his lips working their w
ay into a wry smile.

  Pops scowled then chuckled. “Get over here and take a gander at her. There’s a few get-arounds inside the hatch.” He moved toward the spacecraft.

  Dylan and Musa turned to the wall behind them, where they found lightweight jet packs latched to a rail. The packs produce just enough thrust to drift about. The two strapped themselves in, rotated their head toward the foreman, and gave a short spurt of power. They cut through the open space from the hatch to the ship in half a minute.

  “So, you’re saying this thing doesn’t have a toilet? I guess we can always use baggies,” Dylan said.

  “We have a few months, son. Don’t worry, I’ll give you boys a proper john,” Pops said. “It’s just that these constant supply SNAFU’s mess with my schedule.”

  “Can’t you print one up?” Musa asked.

  “Well, if need be. It won’t have the same quality.” Pops itched his side. “I sure wish they’d give me more time. They want to launch by Christmas. The NSA can’t figure out jack shit about what the Chinese know and don’t know, and the White House is scared shitless they’ll get there first.”

  “Well, shit.” Dylan mustered a weak grinned. “Pops, is this thing going to get us there in one piece?”

  “I’m doing all I can, Dylan.” Pops’ voice was quiet, almost reverent. “There’s an army of mighty smart engineers working on this project, and I have the A-Team assembling it for you. But we’re working eighteen-hour days and swallowing enough go-pills to keep a blue whale up for a week. If it’s clearly not safe or ready to go, I’ll tell President Billmore personally it ain’t happening. I’m more worried that we’ll miss one of a thousand details that could spell disaster for you gents.” Pops forced a smile. “Come on now boys, let me show you what we’ve got so far.”

  Though the pace of construction was break-neck, the quality was amazing. The ship was a bizarre mashup of sterile, boxy superstructure and an organic mess of hastily-added components, efficient mass production meeting NASA ingenuity. The crew module began as an unmanned supply capsule. Several printers were set up inside, taking in raw material and churning out the walls, panels, and other items needed to support a crew. Technicians busily wired in computers and controls, installing plumbing to route water from tanks surrounding the spacecraft to a tiny galley and mounting acceleration seats. In some cases, the printer was used to fashion a cover for the many wires and pipes. In others, a liberal application of space-grade duct tape got the job done.