The Gods We Make

by Eric Johannsen

  “Do what now?” Dylan asked.

  “For radiation shielding. When you get up near Jupiter, the radiation will be far greater than during interplanetary flight. We need to leverage everything we can to protect you boys. We’re using advanced materials and experimental magnetic systems to carry much of the burden, but good ‘ole fashioned excrement can absorb quite a bit, too. There’s no sense dumping it overboard.”

  “I should know that,” Dylan said. “Any ordinary mission, I’d know every detail of ship design.”

  “Don’t fault yourself,” Pops said. “It was a late design decision. You had to focus on mission ops. It’s forgivable this time if the mission parameter ‘protect us all from getting fried by radiation’ is a black box in your mind.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I’ll catch up on design during the trip out. There’s plenty of time and not much to do.” Inspiration flashed in Dylan’s eyes. “Can you make a toilet from the station work?”

  “It would take some doing, but I suppose I could.” Pops thought for a moment then instructed one of his crew to disassemble a station toilet.

  “You better get two of them,” Dylan said. “If one fails, we need a backup. I never in my life thought I would say this, but our lives might just depend on our poop.”

  #

  “Merry Christmas, boys! I hope you all slept well.” A large monitor was secured to the Jupiter Express next to the starboard hatch. The screen displayed a chimney with a smoldering fire. Four stockings were hung from the virtual chimney with care. “Before we head off, let’s see what Saint Nick brought us.”

  Ian laughed. “I didn’t know Santa’s sleigh was space capable. That wasn’t in any of my boyhood stories.”

  “Magic, Ian,” Chad said with a wry smile. “Santa doesn’t obey the normal laws of physics. He’s powered by faith.”

  “Let’s see what Santa brought!” Musa said, eyes bright as Christmas-day snow.

  Chad turned to Musa. “I figured you for Muslim.”

  “My mother is Muslim. My father’s Irish Catholic from Boston. I grew up knowing and respecting both religions.” Musa grinned with childlike enthusiasm. “And, of course, knowing Santa Claus.”

  Chad smiled mischievously at Musa and blasted his get-around toward the stockings, cutting off Musa in the process. Musa fired up his own git-around half a second later. The two tussled and raced for the virtual fireplace. When kids on Earth pushed to be first, it was easy enough to stop. Not so in zero gravity. Both men crashed head-long into the chimney sending ripples across the screen.

  “Now, boys, let’s settle down and play nice,” Dylan said.

  “What shall we do about these kids, Dylan?” Ian asked with mock seriousness.

  Musa was first to empty his stocking. He pulled out a two-centimeter-tall model of the Great Pyramid.

  “Press the top,” Dylan said.

  Musa pushed down on the apex of the pyramid. The sides grew to three times their original length and the walls stretched to match. “Wow. That’s cool,” Musa said.

  “When we get back, lets you and me go see it in person,” Dylan said.

  Chad pulled out a paper book titled On Faith - Comparative Religion in the 21st Century. “Thank you, Santa!” he said.

  “I guess Santa figured you only believe what you can see with your eyes,” Dylan said, “but understanding more about faith might help your eyes notice things they might otherwise miss.”

  “Tell Santa I love it,” Chad said. He opened the book and flipped through.

  Ian’s present was a holo-disk shaped like a coin three centimeters across. Tapping it on the edge produced a life-sized video hologram of his family. It synced to his aiDe, sending the audio directly to his ear. “Thank you, Santa. I guess you know how much I miss them when I leave Earth.”

  Finally, Dylan pulled out an old-fashioned brass compass from his stocking. “I suppose Santa wanted to make sure I can always get my crew home.” I will get these boys home. The burden of his command weighed heavy now. “Allow me to offer a prayer,” he said. Dylan closed his eyes and lowered his head. The others followed suit. “Lord, please watch over us. Grant us the wisdom to make right choices and the strength to succeed. Watch over our fragile vessel as we sail the cosmos in the hope of discovering knowledge for the benefit of our fellow man. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the others echoed.

  “All right now, let’s get this show on the road,” Dylan said.

  One by one, the four floated through the hatch and took their place on the command deck. They were several days behind the Chinese crew, racing to complete the longest journey in human history.

  #

  “Three days in space, and you’re still puking?” Ian looked concerned.

  Chad emerged from the lavatory holding yet another sick bag and looking rather green. “Yep. Loads of fun in space.”

  “You turn any greener, someone might mistake you for a Martian,” Musa said.

  “Good one, Musa. No really, I mean it.” Chad didn’t seem to mean it.

  Dylan floated in from the command deck. “Hey, Chad, you’re lookin’ a little green around the gills there.”

  Chad was unamused.

  “What?” Dylan asked. “Anyhow, come settle around the table. I have an update from NASA.” Dylan and Chad floated over to join the other two. Dylan tossed down a pad which clung to the table thanks to integrated fans drawing air through small vents in its surface like a reverse air hockey table. The pad displayed the Chinese and American ships’ trajectories along with flight data. “The Chinese are pulling away from us. Their acceleration is about four percent greater than ours, and they have a head start. We won’t be first, so we need to outsmart them when we arrive.” That is, assuming they don’t figure things out before we even get to Jupiter. Dylan paused then swiped a finger in the general direction of the pad. The image changed to a highly distorted video of Jupiter, close enough to see details of the swirling clouds comprising its colorful bands. “The folks at NASA have a bunch of nanosats studying Jupiter and its moons. They got lucky. A couple of those moons lined up just right to slingshot one of the nanosats into low Jupiter orbit. The radiation that close in tore up the electronics right quick, but it captured decent images before it fried.” An elegantly curved structure entered the video. They saw a curvilinear section connected to a roughly cylindrical body.

  “Is that thing metallic?” Ian asked.

  “The video is too grainy to be sure, but I think it may be,” Chad said. “Too bad there isn’t a spectrograph on board the nanosat.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Dylan said. “Turns out, it has one.” He made a flicking gesture with his fingers, and a spectrograph overlaid on the video. “But I’m not sure it’ll tell you anything more. At least, the engineers at NASA can’t make heads nor tails of the readings. Of course, that instrument might have been damaged by the radiation.”

  “I wonder…” Chad said.

  “Wonder what?” Dylan asked.

  Chad pulled on his hair and had a slight frown on his face. “I’m not sure yet. That spectrum seems familiar, but I’m not sure why.”

  The probe continued along the structure and the video showed a transparent dome. “What’s that? There.” Ian pointed at two dim shapes. He spoke to the tablet. “Enhance contrast.” The shapes took clearer form.

  “Seats?” Musa asked.

  “Sure looks like it.” Ian scrutinized the image.

  Chad looked up from his thoughts and spoke to the tablet. “Estimate the dimensions of this structure.” He outlined one of the possible seats, and the tablet approximated its size based on the nanosat’s known distance. “If it is a chair, it’s about the right size for a human.”

  Nobody spoke for half a minute.

  “What does that mean?” Musa crossed his arms over his powerful chest. “Aliens that just happen to be human sized? Time travelers?”

  “OK, McFly,” Ian said.

  “Mc… what?” Musa was p
uzzled by the reference.

  “Never mind. Let’s just say, I don’t expect it’s time travelers. I doubt it’s built by human hand. The dimensions, though, and those seat-like things. Maybe it won’t be too hard to figure out the technology after all.”

  “Even if those are seats and they are about our size,” Chad said, “there’s no reason to expect their technology to be at all familiar. Humans had chairs since antiquity. That doesn’t mean that an ancient Egyptian could sit down in a 787 and fly it. He wouldn’t even conceive that it could fly, other than maybe by its vague resemblance to a bird. No, we must expect the technology to be very different. It might be a natural evolution of what we have now, but what would our technology look like in a thousand years? It might work on an entirely different principal. Maybe the builders see the universe more like insects, in terms of scents and chemicals. Maybe the technology reads their minds. If they do have eyes, it could be they don’t even see in our visible spectrum. All the controls might show up in ultraviolet or infrared. Two centuries ago humans didn’t even know about light that’s invisible to our eyes or about radio waves or quantum coupling. They might use some means to interact with their technology we can’t hope to understand or detect.”

  “It sounds like you expect us to fail,” Ian said.

  “No. I don’t expect anything. Nothing at all. The best chance of success is to go in without expectations, without preconceived notions of how things are supposed to work.”

  Ian nodded. “I guess that makes sense.”

  The video quality rapidly degraded. Dylan zoomed in, making the picture harder to interpret. “Anyone see a way into that thing? The whole skin looks smooth to me.”

  “No,” Ian said, “but the feed is pretty grainy. Is that the best NASA can do with it?”

  “NASA did their best to enhance the picture. Now there’s a whole team of NSA programmers with specialized software trying to clear it up more. Let’s keep studying it. It’s the only leg up we have on the Chinese.”

  #

  “Reaper Two, Reaper One. One hundred nautical miles to Mischief Reef,” Dylan called over his F-35C’s secure communication channel.

  “One hundred miles, Roger.” Reaper Two’s reply was calm and professional.

  Dylan scanned the South China Sea. For the third time this week he and his wingman Lt. Jerry Stone were overflying Mischief Reef, an island China artificially created by dredging up coral reefs to stake a territorial claim to the abundant fishing grounds and underwater natural gas deposits nearby. Beautiful place, these islands. Sure would be interesting to visit sometime. It’s a shame there’s so much conflict here.

  A call came over the radio in broken English over the international emergency channel. The same call they received on the previous two overflights. “American aircraft, you are head for Chinese airspace. Change course. I say, change course.”

  Dylan responded with Southern suave and a touch of condescension. “Chinese station, we’re flying over international airspace. We have the right to navigate as we see fit, and we sure as hell intend to exercise that right.”

  “American aircraft,” the voice on the radio said, now a pitch higher, “you have been warned. You alter course. Alter immediately. You have been warned.”

  “Yep, you warned us. Now we’re going to go ahead and enjoy our scenic flight over this lovely island. We’ll be out of your hair just as quick as you can say international waters.”

  Diiiiiiiiii. Twenty miles out, a steady, high-pitched tone from the missile warning system indicated a surface-to-air missile launcher was locked on to Dylan’s aircraft. “Reaper Two, I’m being painted. Be ready to rodeo.”

  “Reaper One, I’m lit up too.”

  The two jets passed the twelve nautical mile boundary that China claimed around the tiny island.

  Di-di-di-di-di-di!

  “Missile launch! Missile launch! DAS shows S-400 launch. S-400 launch.” Dylan’s voice was tense and his articulation precise.

  “Reaper Two defending S-400.” Lt. Stone pushed the words out loudly.

  “Reaper Two, break left. Break left,” Dylan said. The inbound missile was headed straight for his wingman.

  “Breaking,” Lt. Stone shouted. “ECM active.” After a moment, “SAM lock, SAM lock. I’m still locked.” For ten seconds no sound came over the radio.

  “Reaper Two, status,” Dylan said. A second or two later, he repeated, “Reaper Two, status!”

  “Reaper Two egressing southeast. Angels thirteen.” His wingman’s breathing was labored.

  Dylan followed hard left, fighting to keep his partner in sight. The SAM flew just past Lt. Stone’s aircraft.

  Di-di-di-di-di-di!

  “Another SAM launch. Another SAM launch. Same location. Three more SAMs inbound.” Shit, this is bad. “Reaper Two, do you copy?”

  “Roger,” Lt. Stone said. “Reaper One. SAM tracking you, nose five low. Break right, break right!”

  “Negative contact,” Dylan said. Shit shit shit. Dylan pulled the stick over hard. Excessive g-forces yanked the blood from his head. His compression suit squeezed his body to compensate. Dylan’s peripheral vision darkened, and he strained to breathe. “Reaper One blind.”

  “Now break left! Break-” Lt. Stone said.

  “Reaper Two, you still there?” Dylan asked. There was no reply. “Reaper Two, you still there? Reaper Two!” Dylan’s helmet-mounted display showed the track of a surface-to-air missile streaking toward his position. This will be close. He snapped the aircraft around as fast as it would go. The missile flew to the right of the cockpit but not far enough. Fifteen yards ahead, its proximity fuse detonated the warhead. Shrapnel tore through the cockpit window, shattering it. Dylan felt a sharp pain in his right temple. A raging wind forced blood over his face, blinding his right eye. The taste of iron filled his mouth. The cockpit was blown to shit. How am I still alive? The aircraft began to veer to the right. Warning indicators flashed in his helmet display and on what remained of the control panel. The aircraft pitched violently up and down. Dylan reached for the ejection handle and yanked. Explosive bolts popped, releasing the shattered remains of the canopy. The ejection rocket fired, smashing Dylan into his seat and knocking the wind out of him. The seat cleared the cockpit zero point one five seconds later. After half a second, the chute deployed. A few heartbeats after that, Dylan, strapped into the ejection seat, floated tranquilly over the South China Sea. His body was limp.

  Dylan sat up abruptly. Something snapped tight, holding his shoulders in place. Droplets of sweat flew off his forehead, glistening like tiny stars in the dim light, drifting toward the ceiling. His chest felt as if a massive, unseen hand was crushing it. He was no longer dodging SAMs above the Pacific, fourteen years ago. He was safely in his bed aboard the Jupiter Express. That dream. Again. Jerry. Lt. Stone’s aircraft suffered a direct hit. The Chinese recovered his body the next day and left it on a table in a hangar. You bastards, why did you march me past his broken corpse?

  Space is a Dangerous Place

  “Good morning, Commander Wei,” Major Liu Yaping said. She floated into the cockpit, a confident smile on her lips. Each hand pinched a clear packet of piping hot jasmine tea. “Careful, Commander, I just made it.” Many things worked well on the Kuànggōng, but the hot water system was not one of them. There were only two settings, tepid or scalding hot.

  “Thank you, thank you,” the Commander said without looking up from his work.

  She tapped his tea packet sending it drifting across the cockpit until he could grasp it.

  The Commander pinched the pouch with a finger and thumb then positioned it half an arm’s length in front of him, ensuring it had neither velocity nor angular momentum. It floated precisely in the spot he intended while he completed a checklist.

  Major Liu pushed off the door frame and tumbled adroitly through the cockpit, her momentum carrying her over the pilot’s seat. She was tracking right into the front window but then released her tea pouch with a
slight tug to slow it down and reached behind her back, athletic fingers grasping the pilot’s chair. With a graceful yank and in a single, smooth motion, she redirected her momentum into the seat, pulled the safety harness around her body and over her shoulders, clicked the buckle shut, and re-grasped her tea just before it floated out of reach.

  Commander Wei turned his eyes in her direction, smiled faintly, and offered an approving chuckle before completing his work. “Major Liu,” he said, “we have news from home. The Americans launched their vessel three days after we did. Our intelligence service was correct about that cloaked section of Scobee Station.” He spoke with the confidence of a man who held authority for all his adult life.

  The Major raised her eyebrow. “If the American ship was not seen, how do they know?”

  “Human intelligence,” Commander Wei said. “Don’t worry, we have a substantial enough lead on them. It seems, too, we are faster, so our lead will grow.”

  “Hmm,” Major Liu said. “Even with a lead, they will arrive after a time. What if we’re still there?”

  “Are you asking me to reveal my confidential orders?”

  All expression vanished from the Major’s face, her eyes lowered, and she looked straight ahead. “My apologies, sir.”

  “No matter now. We are far from Beijing. And in truth, I would value your insight. Should we still be there when the Americans arrive, I am to lay claim to our objective in the name of China and refuse them access. At the same time, I am not to provoke any physical confrontation. You see my predicament.”

  The Major, a smile returning to her thin lips, said, “The Americans must see… whatever this is… as existential. Especially after our mastery of fusion power. I don’t think they will return to Earth without laying their own claims.”

  The Commander’s thin eyebrows flattened, creasing the skin above his nose. “That exactly,” he remarked in a deep, steady, contemplative tone, “is what gives my mind no rest.”

  Major Liu worked through a checklist. Still looking at her work, she asked, “What is he like in person? President Li. I understand you’re related by marriage.”