by Ginger Booth
Sass pointed. “Commander, what just happened there?”
“They misbehaved. They can rejoin recess after time out.”
“I didn’t see a teacher tell them to do that.” Sass didn’t see anyone but the children in the play hall.
“Shiva runs the creche,” Lumpkin clarified, and turned away. “The cafeteria is this way, but closed. It’s naughty to eat between meals.”
Naughty. “Commander, how did Shiva speak to the children?”
“They are chipped, of course. Our communications utilize the chips.”
“But why did the children obey her?”
Lumpkin appeared sorely puzzled by that one. “Why wouldn’t children obey when given instructions?”
Sass huffed a laugh. “Do you have children, commander?”
“Yes, three. One was in the play hall. The other two are older.”
Sass’s amusement died. No child waved to Lumpkin, nor did the community leader extend any greeting. “I see. Do the children live with you and your husband?” There was no reason they couldn’t, with grav plating everywhere. They could spend the evenings at home with their parents.
“I never married. The children live in the creche. This way.”
Don’t judge, Sass beseeched herself. Creche care was necessary in these artificial environments. The practice weakened family ties on Mahina, too, and eradicated them on Denali. And it wasn’t as though young people would envy her doing childbirth the natural way, complete with stretched abdomen, blood, and dirty diapers.
Lumpkin led on to her own personal accommodations, a modest bedroom and bath. A large display faced the foot of the bed. This showed the playing fields upstairs as though it were a window. The room was devoid of personal touches, except for one corner, which offered a brightly lit potted plant.
Sass pointed to the ferny thing. “This is the first greenery I’ve seen in your,” compound, “community. I guess you don’t spend much time in here.”
“Twelve hours a day,” Lumpkin refuted this. “Ganymede bedrooms feature living plants. This is one of the ways we differ from Martians and Loonies.”
Sass nodded and turned back to the corridor, as though tactfully removing her gaze from abject poverty. The room wasn’t punitive, exactly, far more pleasant than a Mahina prison cell. But the crew bunks on Thrive displayed more personality.
Well, they used to, and would again.
“Tell me, commander, could I buy some mattresses? When Shiva attacked my ship, we lost beds along with the crewmates sleeping in them.”
If Lumpkin was disturbed by Sass bringing up her casualties, she didn’t show it. She merely blinked a few times, then nodded. “These can be manufactured. Once you’re chipped, you can submit an order.”
When hell freezes over, Sass reflected. Next Lumpkin led her down a vacant corridor toward her office.
Suddenly, as though obeying some cue Sass missed, doors opened and people poured into the hall in a traffic jam. Lumpkin calmly shifted to the right-hand side of the corridor as the crowd filed past.
Arriving in the office, Sass noted that the screen display stood in the same position as in the bedroom, as did the room plant, though this one featured big rubbery leaves. A utilitarian grey steel desk replaced the bed. On the screen, the grey-clad throng began to emerge onto the sports fields.
They both sat on steel chairs, Lumpkin looking resigned. “Welcome to Ganymede Too. I imagine you have more business with the Martians.”
“Why would you imagine that?” Sass asked. “In fact, my partner and I lived with the Gannies for years. Your crews transported every colony in the Aloha system. And our only visitor since the founding was a Ganny.” Sass smiled. “We consider you almost family. Are any of the colony crew still alive? We might know them!”
The commander’s brow furrowed slightly. Blink, blink. “No, they’re dead.”
“And the wildcatters?” Lumpkin didn’t know the term. Sass explained, but the commander said none of them lived in Ganymede Too.
Disappointed, Sass grasped for another conversational gambit. “And you’re a commander. How long did you serve in space?”
“I’ve never been to space. We made the ultimate sacrifice and now enjoy our leisure.”
“So I’ve heard,” Sass growled. “I’m confused. Why are you called a commander? And Colonel Tharsis and Major Ling?”
“Ah. This is my title as mayor. My rank is lower than the Colonel and the Major, because Ganymede Too is smallest. Our colony ships were few and understaffed. When our population overtakes Nova Tycho, my title will advance to captain, and Ling will become lieutenant. Gannies will not outnumber Martians in my lifetime.”
“Does anyone go into space?”
“Shiva runs our asteroid facilities. There is no need to risk human lives. She protects us here at the colony.”
The door opened behind Sass, with the familiar whir of the mobile robot post. She rose from her chair to face not one, but three of the devices.
112
“You agreed to be chipped,” Lumpkin noted in her office. A trio of the pole robots advanced on Sass to do the deed.
She replied, “And I’m sure I will,” not, “after our medic has a chance to look over the chip.”
Posts one and two shot arms out at her, but Sass flipped her gravity and somersaulted to crouch on the ceiling upside-down. The room was less than 3 meters high, though. Post three extended its articulated arm toward her shoulder, brandishing its inoculation gun.
Sass shifted, then rose to grasp the arm by its ‘shoulder.’ This extended her personal grav field to the device, which suddenly speared the ceiling. She relieved it of the inoculation gun then let go, with the predictable result suffered by many a beer bottle released on the ceiling of Thrive. The post crashed to the floor, knocking the other two posts over, their wheels exposed to whir in thin air without traction. Sass flipped down, landing with both feet on one robot arm that tried to cantilever itself back to standing. From there, she kicked another back to prone, and bolted out the door to run home to Thrive.
That didn’t go well. She even forgot to ask where Hugo Silva sat.
But Lumpkin did point out a corridor to the ‘science labs.’ And more robot posts appeared to be headed for her. For a little village of 1100 people, Ganymede Too sure had a lot of robots.
Sass ducked into the right hallway. These doors, like Lumpkin’s, bore the occupant name. The first of the pole posse turned into the hall just as Sass found Hugo Silva’s room. The door was locked, with a keypad beside it, so she kicked it open.
With barely a glance at the deserted electronics lab she found herself in, she grabbed a familiar steel chair and rammed it under the doorknob to keep out her robot entourage.
That might grant her a few minutes’ reprieve. She sighed and began to take in her surroundings. Like any tinkerer’s lair, her first impression was chaotic. Equipment boxes and tools lay everywhere, stacked on tables, workbenches, and shelves as high as she could comfortably reach, with cartons of rejects stored above. Lights blinked or shone steadily on some panels, not on others.
A workstation screen with old-style keyboard displayed the Ganymede grey version of the Colony Corps logo with a login prompt. A gladiator helm formed of aluminum foil dangled above it. Sass assumed that was a toy. She picked up a lab notebook lying open beside the keyboard, not expecting to understand it.
But jotted on the page were names: John Copeland, Ben Acosta, Teke, Thrive, Sassafras Collier, Clay Rocha, Darren Markley, etc.
How did Hugo Silva get the names of Cope and Ben, left behind on Mahina eleven years ago? The mention of Teke, her stowaway Denali teenager, was particularly baffling. What the hell?
“Such a lovely facility,” Darren Markley enthused. He paused to admire a typically Loonie mural on a wall. An abstract of grey hatched toning erupted with a strong drippy blot of crimson. “What exactly does this painting convey to you, Major Ling?”
“This is a replica of a masterpiec
e in the Great Hall of Luna Colony.”
“So history, continuity?” Darren suggested. “Security?” Sass and Clay’s VR simulation of Luna Colony failed to include such a piece. Or perhaps they didn’t like the artwork. Neither did he.
The elderly Ling blinked a few times. “I don’t know. This way is our cafeteria. It’s naughty to eat between meals.”
Darren peered in anyway. “Do you have any bars open? The sun is starting to set.”
True Mahinan, to him sunset meant drinks. The natives observed their hours-long once-a-week sunset with happy hour to open the dim days of weekend. Not that those days were dark. On Glow, a bright Pono blazed forth with candlepower equivalent to a thousand full moons from old Earth. They welcomed cool days after the broiling sun, though.
“Bars?” Ling asked, puzzled. Then she blinked a few times, and continued. “Alcohol and mind-altering substances are forbidden in Sanctuary Colony. Those are naughty.”
Darren laughed out loud and pushed through the door into the cafeteria. “So all your festivities are held in here?” The light switch was a flat-rocker design instead of the Ganymede-style toggle popular among Mahina settlers. His home city, Mahina Actual, employed both, but rarely the dial-style favored by Martians. “Did you know that my ancestors were brought to Mahina by Loonies?”
Ling blinked rapidly again. Darren wondered if the eye ducts malfunctioned in her decrepit, unfamiliar form of old age. “Ah, the Loonie ship Manatee brought the original terraformers to Mahina,” she noted. “You are descended from them. No, I did not know that.”
Darren hesitated a half-step on that one. You didn’t know the fact you just cited? But he was more interested in the cafeteria serving bay, fully automated. “May I ask how old you are, major?”
“I’m seventy-one, among the oldest of Nova Tycho,” Ling said proudly.
“Oh, nice! I’m seventy-two,” Darren shared. He pressed a start button on a dispenser that reminded him of a coffee machine in MA. This dropped a paper-light drink bulb, and began filling. Green lights appeared over a couple dozen buttons, each now labeled with picture or text. Some depicted fruits he recognized, the others logos wholly unfamiliar. After a few seconds, the lights began blinking urgently.
“Two seconds,” Ling prompted.
Darren punched the red speed-striped button for ‘Shot!’ and another stream squirted. The lights abated and the machine powered itself off with a sigh. Delighted, he extracted his drink bulb and took a sip from the integrated straw. “Ooh, bubbly!”
“That flavor is high in caffeine,” Ling warned him.
Darren grinned. “Even better.” He strolled along the rest of the service counter, then eyed the room. Compared to similar lunchrooms at Mahina University, he estimated it could seat 300. The machines were variations on food printers, aside from the delightful soda fountain. Thrive used the same technology to turn protein stock into whatever the cook programmed in. They used recycled protein at this point. Their first-run soy stock ran out years ago.
He happily slurped his straw, enjoying his cola. Mahina manufactured cola syrup, too, used to flavor grain alcohol, but Corky hadn’t stocked any. Carbonated drinks were rare, other than beer. “Where do they serve salads? Fresh fruit?”
Blink, blink. “We employ a closed-loop recycling system.”
“Oh, dear. We’ll have to introduce you to Sass’s fruits and vegetables.” He drifted back to the drinks dispenser for another ‘Shot!’ “How do you open this thing for restocking? Oh, never mind.” He found the catch to open the cabinet and admire its innards. “I look forward to meeting your engineers.”
Blink, blink. “We have no engineers. It’s naughty to eat between meals.”
Darren chuckled.
Ling continued, “We made the ultimate sacrifice and now enjoy our leisure.”
He glanced at her. “That seems to be a popular saying. A quote from someone famous?”
“It is our lifestyle.”
“You have no engineers. Who runs the spaceport out there? Our ship needs to refill the water tanks. Who do I talk to about that?”
Blink, blink. “Consult Shiva after you’re chipped.”
“Your AI is going to sling water hoses for me?” Darren quipped. “Or, oh, you have robots to do all that?”
“Yes,” Ling said gratefully.
Darren leaned back against the counter. “You weren’t born here. You were what, eight years old when the colony was founded? Five when you left the Lunar Colony. You must remember it.”
Blink, blink. “No, I don’t remember my childhood.”
“Hm. I bet you remember how the hoses worked before you had robots, though.”
Did she seem nervous? “We have always had robots.”
“Oh, I’m sure they weren’t this sophisticated! And your AI! It must have taken a long time to train her to run this place.”
“We had hard times,” Ling said repressively. “We made the ultimate sacrifice and now enjoy our leisure.”
“Yes, you mentioned. What was down that dark corridor?”
“Excess housing. Nova Tycho’s population has fallen by 30% since the founding.”
“I’d like to see it.” Darren led the way back through the halls, hoping Ling would play along. “This is very exciting for me. Your colony is so similar to my own when I was a child. Oh, children. This is your creche?”
The kids he saw were older teens, maybe 50 of them milling around an overlarge room. Six played a variant of basketball using three hoops. The others skulked around looking shifty to one degree or another, as that age group was wont to do. Like Ling, they all wore navy blue uniforms. A dozen stood staring at a blank wall, but this oddity didn’t concern Darren. His own three were hostile alien fruitcakes at that stage. His parents assured him he was worse. Best to leave teenagers to the creche.
He continued onward to the dark hall.
“There is no reason to go here,” Ling complained.
“Oh, but there is!” Darren assured her. “I want to see…” He opened a first door onto an abandoned hospital ward, eight cots replete with medical equipment, layered in dust. He waded in and inspected an old life support cuff system. A thought belatedly occurred to him. “You didn’t seem surprised by my age, major.”
“Shiva knew that you were older than you look.”
“We have that technology to share, you know.” He switched his inspection to an intravenous system, archaic. Auto-docs were a Mahina innovation. The Gannies could have brought them along to Sanctuary, but perhaps they didn’t. “May I speak to a doctor?”
“We have no doctors.”
Darren couldn’t imagine a community that didn’t prioritize some kind of healer. Perhaps they called it something else. He powered on a centrifuge and opened it. Test tubes still lingered within, crusted with dried blood. Not much of a hospital. “You don’t seem interested in the possibility of regaining your youth.”
Blink, blink. Blink, blink. “Please come this way for chipping.”
“I asked why you want to die, Major Ling.” Darren peered straight into her eyes in challenge. At his age, he was only eight years shy of nanite obsolescence back on Mahina. On Thrive, they upgraded his old MA nanite suite to the new Yang-Yangs. But if he’d stayed behind, Mahina Actual’s urbs were at the bottom of the waiting list for those treatments. Mortality was breathing down his neck. Back home, he and Dot spent many an evening discussing their oncoming sudden descent into old age and death, after decades of vibrant health in young bodies.
Darren came on this trip for the adventure of a lifetime. His wife came for the nanites.
Anyone who looked like Ling, and didn’t welcome the chance at a young and vibrant physique again, simply wasn’t human. Either that, or the major was suicidally depressed. Perhaps both.
“I –” Ling attempted, then turned and stalked out. “Please come this way for chipping.”
Darren didn’t argue. He exited the final home of long-dead Loonies, and calmly walked after hi
s host. When they reached the main drag corridor, she turned away from the staircase to the surface. That’s when he made a break for it, sprinting to escape back to Thrive.
The pole robots were getting sneakier. An arm reached out and snagged him as he ran past. He tried to push it off, but a second helped hold him pinned. A third zipped in and got him with the inoculation gun.
The painful shot went straight through the engineer’s button-down shirt, driving unsterile fabric into a wound in the upper arm. Darren was incensed. He tipped the damned robot over with a steel-toed boot, and kicked another’s articulated arm.
But the other two poles simply righted their fallen comrade, and they whirred away. Up the hall, Ling nodded to him, and retreated as well.
Darren blinked. Then he ran unimpeded, as fast as his feet could carry him, back to his wife.
Whatever this damned thing was they stuck in his arm, he wanted it out!
113
“I’d love to see your police station,” Clay shared with Colonel Zeb Tharsis. They strolled along the main drag corridor in the New Hellas sector. “Do they wear a different color uniform?”
The fashion plate was having some difficulty with how the ‘Martians’ all wore the same pink outfit as Rosie the Shiva-face, neck to ankle. Not that it was a bad shade of pink, sort of a rusty brick, flattering to most complexions, if not his. Still, he couldn’t help feeling that a self-respecting man shouldn’t wear pink below the belt. Perhaps his prejudice was a holdover from Earth.
“We all wear Martian red,” the colonel explained. “We need no police force. Surveillance is complete within the colony. Illegal acts are prevented.”
“Who monitors –? Ah, your AI. Shiva.” Clay hoped to get Tharsis unplugged from her surveillance as soon as possible, to get some straight dope.
“Of course.” The colonel – podunk village mayor – paused to admire a mural in the hall. “This masterwork was on Mars.”