The Gods We Make

by Eric Johannsen

  #

  “It’s getting dark. Let’s go up on deck,” a simulation of Sara said.

  The wind was blowing briskly, pushing the boat across the bay at a good clip. Sara sat on the port rail, turned forward to look toward the setting sun. Jake sat beside her and put one arm around her waist, then his other. He pulled close and kissed her tenderly on the cheek.

  Sara sighed and lowered her chin. “Jake. I wish I could. You understand that, don’t you? We shouldn’t do this, not now.”

  “If not now, when?”

  “My work is too important. To me, to the country. I can’t change that. I can’t fail. Distractions cause failure.”

  “Relationships aren’t only distractions. They can give you balance, inner strength.”

  Sara looked up at him, eyes longing. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. She placed a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth, then another. She pulled herself close.

  “Stop simulation,” Jake said. He snatched up a half-empty bottle of beer and flung it. Glass shattered.

  The virtual avatar that was Sara disappeared. The boat was gone. Jake stood in the living room of his apartment, a splat of liquid running down the far wall.

  He took a deep breath. “That’s not what actually happened.” Jake proceeded to tell his AI simulation of Sara how events transpired in real life.

  Sara’s voice said, “Updating parameters of the Sara Wells simulation. Psychographic profile recompiled. Simulating events on the boat with the new matrix.” Heartbeats passed. “The simulation fidelity is estimated to be eighty-seven percent.”

  “Better,” Jake said. He walked to the kitchen, stepping over a squat robot that was picking glass from the carpet, and grabbed another beer. Thank you, Dr. Tanner, for this wonderful bit of classified technology. “Create a sandbox to practice conversations with Sara. Set the environment to the DC zoo.”

  Jake’s aiDe created the environment and added the updated simulation of Sara.

  Simu-Sara said, “I suggest you portray yourself as vulnerable and make targeted demands that appear rooted in your own insecurity. That will maximize your chances to manipulate my emotions. There is not enough data to project whether I will enter a serious relationship with you, but it will create feelings of regret in me that you can leverage to your advantage.”

  “Perfect.” Jake smiled. “Let’s do this. Begin simulation, zoo date one.”

  Job Insecurity

  “Ellington Tower, NASA Niner Zero Niner. Ten miles to the southwest, inbound, landing with information Bravo,” Major Chapwell radioed. The T-50 training jet was returning from Chad Tanner’s second high-g orientation flight.

  “NASA Niner Zero Niner, Ellington Tower. Cleared to land, Runway Four,” the tower instructed.

  “Runway Four?” Major Chapwell asked. Runway Three Five Left was the primary runway. It was closer to the NASA jet facilities and better aligned with the prevailing wind.

  “Confirmed. NASA Niner Zero Niner, cleared to land, Runway Four. And I have a special request from Commander Lockwood. Hold on the runway short of Taxiway Golf until further instructed.”

  “Er, Roger. Cleared to land, Runway Four, hold short of Taxiway Golf,” the pilot said. He then spoke over the intercom. “How are you hanging in there, Chad?”

  “Major, you failed your mission,” Chad said from the rear seat of the jet. “Both vomit bags are empty. This time.”

  Major Chapwell chuckled. “I fly most mission specialist candidates four hours a month for two years. Some still fill their bags at the end of the program. I’m glad your innards are firming up. I’ll have you on the ground in a moment.”

  The T-50 banked gently to the left to line up with the assigned runway. As they glided over the runway threshold, Chad noticed a black vehicle parked on an access road adjoining their runway a kilometer ahead. He relaxed in his seat, watching the ground rise to meet the aircraft. The pilot landed so gracefully that Chad didn’t notice the wheels touch down.

  As the trainer jet rolled to a stop two-thirds down the runway, Dylan Lockwood’s carbon-black Ronin GT-R pulled out from the access road. The beast raced toward the T-50. “What the-” Major Chapwell said. The car swerved to the left before turning in a sharp arc back to the right, its hood coming to a stop next to the jet’s cockpit. Dylan stepped out of his vehicle and waved impatiently toward the aircraft. The pilot and Chad shared a bewildered glance.

  Dylan spoke into a small, handheld radio. “Tom, open up!” The cockpit unlatched and swung upward. “Well, what you waitin’ for?” Dylan stared at Chad, seemingly perplexed at the delay.

  “How do you expect me to get down from here? Did you bring a ladder?” Chad shouted, amusement and curiosity in his expression.

  “Just hop on the hood. Don’t fret, she’ll hold your sprouts-and-granola frame.”

  With a laugh, Chad pulled off his flight helmet and hopped onto Dylan’s hood. He turned back to Major Chapwell. “Thanks for the flight, Tom.”

  “Any time Chad. Say, I didn’t see another flight on this week’s roster. Do you know when you’re going up again?”

  “We’ll see. They set up this crazy schedule for me.” Chad knew it was his last flight. The crew was scheduled to leave for Florida in the late afternoon. He banged the side of the jet’s cockpit twice and gave Major Chapwell a wave goodbye then turned to Dylan and flashed a mischievous grin. Chad bounced up and down on the hood, using it as a springboard to propel himself into the air. He jumped off, toward the passenger side, pulled his feet and knees together, and landed athletically on the tarmac. “Nice suspension.”

  “Very funny. Now get in,” Dylan said. His passenger secured, he threw the car into reverse, pulled back from the jet, and shot down the runway at nearly a hundred sixty kilometers per hour before pulling a high-speed turn back onto the access road. They streaked down the path toward the Sonny Carter Training Facility.

  “So, what’s the emergency?”

  “Emergency? We gotta go pick up my niece from school.”

  “That’s all? I thought I was late. Holding up the launch or something.” Chad watched a row of storage containers fly past on the right as the car raced toward the training facility’s busy parking lot. “Er, you going to slow down?”

  Dylan stomped the brake, thrusting Chad into his five-point harness. “Sure, wouldn’t want to do anything dangerous.” He maneuvered the car at an almost-reasonable speed past the parked vehicles, even waiting patiently for one to pull out, before reaching Space Center Blvd. and flooring it again. “My niece is over in River Oaks. I said my goodbyes to my sister and her family a few days back. Jesse asked if I could spend a few hours with her before I head out. Who could say no to such a darling little eight-year-old?” He adjusted his hands on the steering wheel and slowed as they merged with city traffic. “I figured you don’t have any family out here, so you might as well come along.”

  They pulled up to an elementary school, where a long line of cars waited to pick up children. There was one lane for parents awaiting their kids and a second lane for cars leaving the pickup area. Dylan ignored the pickup line, instead parking at the head of the pull-through lane. He hopped out and sprinted toward the school before any of the parents could react. A thirty-something blond lady driving the pickup truck Dylan just double-parked shot a menacing glance over at Chad, who sat helplessly in the passenger seat. He meekly shrugged his shoulders and smiled back. Her window went down, and Chad lowered his.

  “Y’all gonna have to move. You’re blocking the exit.” The lady spoke with Southern charm and a touch of rattlesnake venom.

  “Sorry, I don’t have the key.” Chad fidgeted in his seat. “Warm weather we’re having.”

  “You pilots, y’all act like you own the place,” the woman said.

  Chad looked down at his uniform, realizing he was still in his flight suit. “Oh no, ma’am. You see, I’m a mission specialist.”

  “NASA, huh? Well, you’re not reflecting proudly o
n the uniform today. I have half a mind to call up your CO-”

  A full-sized truck pulled out of the pickup line and rolled up behind the Ronin GT-R, centimeters from its bumper. Dylan sprinted back with a dark-haired girl in tow. The pickup driver rolled down his window and shouted, “What’s the idea, holding everyone up.”

  “Now hold on, I wasn’t but a second,” Dylan said, showing no concern for how well the explanation was received. He hopped in, turned to make sure his niece was secure, then pulled away.

  “Jesse, this here is Chad,” Dylan said once they were on the highway again.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Jesse said with practiced politeness and childish delight.

  “Likewise,” Chad said. “Did you know your uncle Dylan’s playing hooky from work just so he can come spend time with you?”

  “Uncle Dylan!” she said, her words a child’s imitation of admonishment.

  “Say Jess,” Dylan said. “How’s your parents?”

  “Oh, mom’s fine. She’s still volunteering at school, but I think she would rather be back at work.”

  “I see. And your dad?”

  “Still writing that book of poetry. I sure wish he’d publish it. It’s really quite good.”

  “Your dad does have a talent with words. Is that basic income working out all right for you?” Dylan asked.

  “I suppose. We’ve got what we need,” Jesse said. “Mom says AI makes it darn near impossible for regular folk to get a job anymore. That’s why I want to be an astronaut just like you!”

  “I hate to tell you Jess, but most space ships are piloted by AI these days. I’m one of the lucky ones.”

  Jesse crossed her arms over her chest and frowned.

  “Say,” Dylan asked, “did you know Chad here’s a certified genius? He’s one of the smartest engineers you’ll ever meet.”

  “Wow, a real genius?” Jesse’s mood brightened.

  Chad blushed. “Now I don’t know about genius, but I do love to build stuff.”

  “Like what? Do you build rockets? Like the rockets Uncle Dylan flies on?”

  “No, not rockets. At least, not since I was a kid.” Chad thought for a moment. “I specialize in building really strong materials. Stuff that’s both tough and lightweight.”

  “Oh.” Jesse struggled to hide her disappointment.

  “You want to make a rocket, Jess?” Dylan asked.

  “Really? A real rocket?” Her eyes lit up.

  “Sure. Well, nothing big enough to carry us up to space. But big enough to have fun with.” Dylan scanned the street until he came across a supermarket. “There we go.”

  “Supermarkets don’t have rockets, Uncle Dylan!” Jesse laughed.

  “Nope. But you can get all the parts you need, right in there.” He pulled up to the market. He and Jesse went to procure a two-liter bottle of Diet Sprite, a decent bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and plastic party cups. They picked up a pump needle, the kind used to inflate a ball, from the home goods aisle. Parts in hand, the trio drove to a nearby park. They found a quiet corner with a wide-open grass field and a few shade trees. Dylan spread their purchases out under a tree.

  “Uncle Dylan,” Jesse said with scolding eyes and a mischievous grin. “I still can’t believe you parked in the pull-through lane.”

  “Well, pumpkin, I know. But I was in a rush to spend as much time as I could with you.”

  “That’s naughty. You need a jump-spank,” she said, her eyes widening.

  “A jump-?”

  Jesse leapt into the air and brought her flat hand down smartly on Dylan’s shoulder. “High-ya!” she shouted. The slap was far louder than anyone expected from a girl her age. Jesse giggled.

  Dylan reached up to tickle her ribs, sending her rolling over the grass in laughter.

  “All right, all right,” Dylan said. “You got me.”

  Jesse sat up, hands at the ready to defend against any more tickling.

  Dylan shook his head, smiling. “Look real close now, Jess.” He popped the cork off the wine and set the bottle aside. With a pocket knife, he shortened the cork by cutting it in half. “Got a pump needle, Chad?”

  Chad pulled open a package and handed Dylan the needle.

  Dylan filled two cups with wine and took a sip of his. “The wine’s not part of the rocket, Jess.” He laughed. “Waste not, want not.” Dylan threaded the needle through the hole left by the cork screw. “Now we’ll dump about half the coke to make room for air.”

  “You mean Sprite?” Chad said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. But any coke will do, doesn’t have to be Sprite.”

  “Oh, you mean soda,” Chad said. “Why do you call it coke?”

  “Potatoes, Papas,” Dylan said, as if that settled the matter. “We’ll dump out about half the soda to make room for air. Then we plug the bottle with our cork-and-needle assembly so the soda can’t get out, but compressed air can get in.” Using a cardboard box from the supermarket as a make-shift launch platform, he pointed the plastic bottle skyward and attached his car’s electric tire pump to the needle.

  “Stand clear now! 10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… ignition!” He pressed the tire pump switch, forcing air through the needle into the soda bottle. Air bubbled to the top of the rocket. For a moment, nothing happened. Jesse’s eyes narrowed, suspicious that something had gone wrong. Then… POP-WUSH! The cork flew out, exposing the opening where the cap usually goes. The compressed air propelled the soda through the narrow opening, thrusting the bottle hundreds of feet into the air.

  “Wow!” Jesse’s eyes widened. She ran around under the bottle, left then right, as it settled back to Earth. She retrieved it and came running back. “Again!” she shouted. “Again!”

  “Sure, Jess. Why don’t you give it a try?” Dylan asked.

  “Me?” Hopeful eyes awaited the slightest affirmation.

  “Yeah. Go fill it up in the drinking fountain over yonder. Experiment to see how much water gives you the best launch.”

  “It doesn’t need to be coke?”

  “Nope. Just about any liquid will do.”

  “That’s how y’all get around in space?”

  “That’s the basic idea. We take fuel up with us and push it out the back. Newton’s third law. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. There are some variations on the theme, though. You see, when we break away from Earth’s gravity…” Dylan picked up the soda bottle and simulated a blastoff from the grass up over his head. “When we break away, we need to get moving in a real hurry because the Earth’s pulling back at us. To do that, we use a chemical rocket. They’re not all that efficient, but they sure can get you there in a hurry.”

  “Just like your smelly car!” Jesse noted gleefully.

  Chad put down his cup and laughed explosively through the nose. Drops of red wine rolled over his lip.

  Dylan shot him a glance. “That’s right, it’s a bit like my Ronin over there. Now take Dr. Tanner, here. He drives a mega efficient car. It will get you from A to B without using up all too much energy. If you’re in a hurry, though, that’s not the horse you want to ride. We have something like that in space flight, too. It’s called an ion drive. You could never pull away from Earth’s gravity with one, but once you’re up in space, it’s just the ticket. It pushes a few molecules at a time out the back of the spacecraft, but it pushes them super-fast and doesn’t use up too much energy in the process. Whereas a chemical rocket can burn for a few minutes before it’s spent, an ion drive can keep chugging along for weeks or months.” Dylan looked at her and grinned, his eyes filled with happiness and family pride. “Scoot now. Give it a try on your own!”

  Dylan watched his niece hop to work preparing her first rocket launch. He raised his cup. “To family,” he said.

  “To family.” Chad clinked plastic with him and took a full sip. “Funny what passes for wine here in Texas. I’ll have to bring you a bottle from California.” He set his cup down
. “I didn’t figure you for an engineer. That’s a fine home-made rocket.”

  Dylan took another sip. “Oh, I built quite a few rockets as a kid. I was president of the astronomy club in high school. For the most part, all we did was build the biggest rockets we could, take them out to the desert, and shoot them off. It wasn’t until the Air Force recruited me that I thought about flying anything myself.”

  Chad grabbed a fist full of grass and dirt and crumbled it his hands. “That was quite a move back at the airport. Won’t you get in trouble for driving onto the runway and pulling me out of training so we can go say goodbye to your niece?”

  “What can they do, fire me?” Dylan gulped down a sip of wine. “Don’t worry, I won’t go getting us into too much trouble.”

  Chad’s brows narrowed. “Look Dylan. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you’re a bit rebellious for a senior mission commander.”