The Gods We Make

by Eric Johannsen

  Pops led them to the command deck at the front of the ship.

  “A little cramped, isn’t it?” Dylan asked. It would accommodate the crew of four, barely.

  “We had to work with a pre-existing ship design,” Pops said.

  “I know, Pops. I just wish we had a bit more leg room.”

  Pops shrugged. “Behind the command deck is your common area.” It was spacious compared to the previous room. “We’re installing a kitchen table that uses a nifty ducted fan system to hold shit in place. It’ll hold your pureed steak pouches down just as good as your table back on the ranch. It should make you feel right at home.”

  Technicians were installing the world’s finest zero-gravity meal preparation devices along the port wall.

  “Nice, an espresso machine.” Musa grinned.

  “Only the best for you boys,” Pops said. “Let me show you your luxury staterooms.” He directed them to four vertical boxes two meters on a side and as tall as the common area. Each was open on one side for easy access but could be partitioned with a silvery curtain. “We installed a high-definition panel on the side you face when resting. You can watch TV on it or create a sky, so you feel less claustrophobic.”

  The three men continued their inspection for another few minutes. Dylan glanced at his watch. “Pops, if you don’t mind, it’s almost fireworks time. Care to join us?”

  “Thanks, son. I’ve plenty of work here still. Maybe next year we can watch them together in Dallas.” Pops shook hands with both men then turned to a pair of workers joining an external fuel tank to the hull. “You two! Slow down now,” he bellowed. “If you dent my ship, you’re pulling double overtime to fix it.”

  “Musa, we’re running late. Come on now, follow me.” Dylan gave an extended blast from his get-around, hurling him toward the hatch connecting the assembly area to Scobee Station proper. The hatch slid open as they approached. Rather than slow and return the jet pack to its hook, he shot right through and up the corridor. He heard Musa mumble an expletive then a burst from Musa’s pack. As they approached the junction leading to the observation lounge, the two fired an extended blast upwards from the get-arounds to slow their ascent. They somersaulted to face along the next corridor and then some, directing most of their thrust down the new passageway, with a portion of it angled to arrest their remaining momentum away from the assembly dock. Musa managed the maneuver smoothly.

  Dylan didn’t quite zero out his upward velocity. He smacked his head on the ceiling of the radial corridor. “Shit!” He gave another pulse from the get-around and straightened himself out. “That smarts something fierce.”

  As the two approached the observation lounge, they performed a half flip, gave a strong blast toward their feet, and brought themselves to a stop. They grabbed a railing, popped off the get-arounds, and latched them to the wall. With a push, they drifted into the observation area.

  “Your head OK?”

  “Yep, I’m fine,” Dylan said. A lump was starting to form. “Come on now, we’re going to miss it.” He punched coordinates into a control panel. The station’s telescope swung around and pointed right at Dallas. He tapped another button and the image from the telescope appeared on the viewport. “Just in time!” Fireworks exploded over the city far below. “Dang, I almost forgot.” He tapped another key, and the Star-Spangled Banner played in the room.

  “I like fireworks as much as the next guy,” Musa said, “but they seem to hold a special meaning for you.”

  “They do, do they?” Dylan asked. “I suppose you have a point there.” He thought for a moment. “When I was a boy, my friends and I would sneak into the firework launch area. We all liked to be up close to the flash, feel the boom reverberate through our bodies. For me, though, it meant something more.” Dylan’s eyes misted over. Not now. Get a hold of yerself. “You see, the fireworks always conjured up the words ‘the rocket’s red glare, bombs bursting in air.’ They always brought to mind - bring to mind - the tens of thousands of men who died in the Revolutionary War and all the wars since. They gave their lives for liberty. The Fourth of July is my time to remember the sacrifice of those brave souls that died in defense of freedom.”

  #

  The following week was a blur of training exercises, intelligence updates, and status reports. Roy pushed the team hard. They pushed themselves harder. Each day, NSA reports showed China taking two steps forward while the Americans took one. Or none. The astronauts’ nerves frayed, and they began failing routine drills. NASA ordered a day of rest. Dylan ordered the best steaks in town, delivered to his ranch for a relaxing evening of beer, barbecue, and poker.

  Ian studied Musa’s stoic expression. “Call.” He pushed a few chips over the poker table’s immaculate, green velvet top. The community cards were four, nine, ten. It was a rainbow flop, each card of a different suit. His pocket jacks were probably ahead. Musa’s drawing to a straight.

  Dylan folded and went to the kitchen. Roy was outside tending the barbecue. Ian and Musa were the only players still in. The next card fell. Ace of Spades.

  “Check,” Musa said.

  He’s trying not to move. Hardly breathing at all. That missed him. “Twenty.” Ian pushed a few chips into the pot.

  “Call.” Musa sipped his beer.

  The last card, the river, was a jack. That gave Ian three of a kind. “Fifty,” he said, pushing some chips into the middle.

  Musa leaned back. “I’ll see your fifty and raise you two hundred.”

  Yep. A straight draw and he just hit it. “If I fold my trips, will you show me your king and queen?”

  Musa’s eyes widened.

  Ian tossed his pair of jacks, face up, onto the chips in the middle of the table. “Fold.”

  Musa showed his cards. Exactly what Ian predicted.

  Dylan returned with four glass bottles, large drops of water condensing on their surface. “Trips is a decent hand. How could you be so sure Musa had you beat?”

  Ian accepted an ice-cold brew. “Experience.”

  Dylan glanced at Ian’s dwindling stack of chips. “I suppose so.”

  Roy walked in from the garden. “Who won?”

  Musa beamed. “I just outplayed our resident pro.”

  Ian scoffed and picked up the cards to deal. “Everyone in this hand?”

  Dylan set the remaining beers on a side table, turned his chair so the back was toward Ian, and straddled it to face him. “You OK, Ian? This here’s a friendly game.”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” Far from it. How am I going to pay off that poker debt if I can’t even beat a few amateurs?

  “The grilled Portobello mushrooms are just about done,” Roy said in an upbeat voice. “Steaks, too, if anyone wants to clog their arteries.”

  “How long are you going to stay on this vegetarian kick, Roy?” Dylan asked.

  “When you reach a certain age,” Roy said, “you have to watch your intake if you want to keep on looking this good.” Roy gestured at his own rotund physique.

  “Are you trying to win Mr. Senior Universe there Roy?” Dylan asked, an amused smile on his lips.

  “That food smells delicious,” Musa said. “Let’s eat.”

  “Sure,” Ian said without enthusiasm.

  Ian’s back yard was large for a suburban home, even by Texas standards. Hickory smoke from the barbecue pit hung in the warm, humid air. The sun’s orange disk hid behind distant thunder clouds, and the faint croaking of frogs and the incessant buzzing of mosquitoes heralded the evening.

  Ian plopped down in an oakwood garden chair and surveyed his ranch-style home. I can’t even sell the damn thing to pay off the Chinese. Too much mortgage debt.

  “So, Ian,” Musa asked, taking another chair, “are you going to write a book about this mission, too? If the story of Mars Station sold a ton of copies, this story’s bound to be a best-seller.”

  “He can’t, Musa.” Dylan handed both men a plate overflowing with a huge T-bone steak, grilled veggies, and a baked potato. H
e returned to the barbecue for his plate, then sat beside the two. Roy was still waiting for his mushrooms to finish cooking. “This mission’s going to remain classified for a long time. Mark my words.”

  “But if there’s…” Musa hushed his tone “…what we expect might be up there, that’s something all humanity needs to know about. It’s too big, too important, for the United States to keep secret. Sure, some of the details, the methods, might remain classified, but the big story will come out. Won’t it?”

  “God bless you and your faith in humanity, Musa.” Dylan chomped on a large slice of meat. He savored the flavor then washed the morsel down with a swig of beer. “I’ve been around long enough to know better.”

  Roy joined the three astronauts, a plate of roasted vegetables in hand. “If you want to write a book, Ian, you can write about the journey. Leave out the real reason for the trip. I enjoyed your first book for the personal stories of the men and women building Mars Station as much as for the technical details. You’re a hero in my eyes. Heroes make for excellent stories.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.” A hero. It used to feel good, being a hero. Back when I could call myself that. “I’m sure Dylan’s right. They won’t let me write a meaningful story.” He pushed himself up from his chair. “Anyone want another beer?”

  “I’ll take one,” Roy said.

  Ian stood, took a dozen steps toward the house and glimpsed back over his shoulder. “It’ll be a few minutes. I have to make a call first.”

  #

  “I told you to send a cutout this time,” Ian said. He was seated on the same wooden bench in Austin, next to the same Chinese man.

  “A cutout? I had to look up what that means.” The man produced his hideous laugh again. “You imagine you are in some spy novel. I’m an employee of a Casino owner not some master agent. You’ll have to deal with me. Or pay the remainder of your gambling debt. I might add we are generous not to demand immediate payment. Yet.”

  “Not a gambling debt. Poker debt. I made a mistake getting into debt, but I would rather lose my career and go broke than betray my country.”

  “There you go again, talking about betrayal. My employer never demanded you betray anyone. He simply wants to get some innocent information a little sooner than NASA gets around to publicizing it. Nothing more.”

  “Why is this information valuable if it’s so innocent?”

  The Chinese man spoke in a hushed tone. “My employer is wealthy. Such people often spend vast amounts of money on matters of passion. Space is his passion.”

  “I see. What information is your employer passionate about today?”

  “He just wants to know when you expect your mission to launch. Since you have not shared any mission details, there should be no damage to your national security. He would simply like to know when a mission is launching, not where it is going or what it is doing.”

  “The launch date, huh?”

  “Yes, the launch date. He is willing to forgive another fifty thousand dollars for that information.”

  “He’s selling this information to Chinese space firms, isn’t he?”

  The Chinese man did not answer.

  “Two hundred grand.”

  Rhythmic splashes from the large fountain filled the air, spraying them with a fine, cooling mist. “Seventy-five thousand,” the Chinese man said. “Nothing more.”

  Ian balled his fingers into a fist and gently hit his knee. “All right. But you tell your boss, if he wants anything else from me, we’re talking six digits.” He breathed the fountain spray in deeply through his nose. “Officially, the launch window is the third week of January. Now me, I doubt we’ll make it. Too many things have gone wrong. If we do launch in January, we probably won’t even make it past the Moon before something goes wrong.”

  “I see, and when do you think you will actually launch?”

  “Six digits. Let me know when you get permission from your boss to make that deal.” Ian stood and left.

  The Chinese man peered around then followed Ian.

  “What are you doing?” The astronaut quickened his step and waved his hand impatiently. “Go home, we’re done here.”

  “I’m afraid my employer was most insistent. He wants to know the launch date. He authorized me to be most generous with you. Or to be most… unpleasant.”

  Ian turned to face the man. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I want us to stay friends.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “I don’t want to create difficulty for you. My job is important to me. It puts my children through private school. I need the launch date from you. The real one.”

  “And I need two hundred grand taken off my debt.” He turned and walked toward his car.

  The Chinese man’s lips curled up. “That is more than I can do. But I’m sure we can reach some compromise.”

  Ian reached his car and slipped into the driver’s seat. The Chinese man opened the passenger door and slid in next to him.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Get out.”

  “It is a beautiful vehicle. I’m sure it would fetch quite a bit at auction. You see, you may be able to pay back much of your debt after all.”

  “One fifty K.”

  “I can go as high as ninety thousand. Believe me, I don’t want to make this hard. I have a family to think of. I need to keep my job.”

  “Out.”

  “All right, all right. Nine nine, nine nine nine. No six figures. Close.”

  Ian exhaled loudly. “Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and a Chinese fan.”

  “A fan?”

  “Yes, you bring me a Chinese fan next time we meet. Not one of those cheap Chinatown ones. A quality one. Do we have a bargain?”

  “We have a bargain.”

  “The major technical problems will add about six weeks to the launch date. That puts is right around Valentine’s Day.”

  “Ah, Valentine’s Day. Good, good.”

  “Now get the hell out of my car.”

  #

  A hot sun beat down on Chad Tanner, warming the back of his thick wetsuit as he lay on his surfboard. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed through patchy fog over a treacherous break at the mouth of San Francisco Bay. Fort Point was a sub-par surf spot, but its location right under the iconic bridge drew skilled surfers when the swell was right.

  Gulls squawked over the gray, rocky shore thirty meters away. A smattering of tourists, the gaudy colors of their souvenir clothing contrasting the dull day, watched and filmed the local surfers from a bayside walkway. A distant, excited voice said, “Isn’t that Dr. Tanner?”

  The buffeting wind and lapping waves muffled the reply.

  The first voice said, “You know, the founder of Applied Nanomaterials.” The wind carried another smattering of words, among them one that sounded like jerk, or perhaps something worse.

  Dark, cold water welled up and began to crest. Chad paddled then pushed up on his board. Here we go! Sensors integrated into the orange-and-white surfboard scanned the wave, determining its shape and energy. The board adapted its form for an optimal ride. The wave caught the board and heaved it forward. Almost like I’m nailed right to the wave.

  “Woo hoo!” Chad shouted as his invention propelled him parallel to the shore, past a nearby surfer that charged the wave hard in vain. Chad cut back into the break. The board reacted, modifying its shape to match the new conditions. “Woo hoo!” he shouted again as the wave finally lost its energy. He jumped into the water ten meters further than his regular board would have carried him. Two small drones swept past, centimeters over the bay, the other a dozen meters up. Gotta get that footage uploaded.

  Chad’s AI assistant sounded in his ear. “Incoming call from Senator Dees.”

  Re-election time. Chad pulled himself onto his board and paddled back toward the break. “Put him through.”

  “Dr. Tanner. I hope I caught you at a good time.” The Senator spoke with the confidence of a season
ed politician.

  “Sure. I’m just out testing a pet invention.”

  “Pet invention? Where do you find the time? If I were in your shoes, I’d have my hands full running your company.”

  “It’s all about balance, Senator. Too much of one thing isn’t good for the soul.”

  “It’s serendipitous then that we politicians don’t have souls.” A well-rehearsed chuckle followed. “It’s time to ramp up campaigning for November. Re-election will be a tough battle this time around. I want to make sure I can still count on your support.”

  “Of course, Senator. I’m sure we’ll be glad to donate to your campaign. Tyson Webb handles the details. I’ll make sure he knows we’re one hundred percent in your corner.”

  “I appreciate your support. You’re such a busy man. I was trying not to bother you with the details. But, you see, I spoke with Mr. Webb earlier this morning. He said something about a reduced budget for political contributions this year. Dr. Tanner, have I disappointed you in some way?”

  “Of course not,” Chad said. A new swell was forming. He lined up to catch it. “I’m sure Tyson’s adjusted our overall budget. It’s no reflection on our confidence in you. You’ve been helpful as always.” He moved to catch the wave.

  “I see. What if I could be more helpful? Quite a bit more helpful?”

  Chad stopped paddling. The wave rolled under him and crested five meters away. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Not exactly, but this is a secure line. What do you have for me?”

  “Be careful what you say out loud.” A sigh came across the line. “We have detected a ship in orbit around Jupiter. An alien ship. As in, not made from human hand.”