Analog SFF, May 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The ship was equipped with the means to hollow out asteroids and manufacture duplicate ships. Their nanotechs could be programmed to construct nearly anything. The original intent was for each colony, after it became established, to then build and send out more colony ships. But this meant that there might be a delay of many years before the new ships would be launched, since the resources of the original ship would be needed to establish and develop the planetside colony.

  Originally the crew had only numbered one thousand. Double that number theoretically could be supported by the ship's renewable resources, which was thought to be a comfortable margin. But long ago the maximum limit of two thousand had been reached. This was in addition to the capacity for eight thousand crew to be stored in stasis if needed. But there were fifty thousand colonists in stasis. When they were revived, they would greatly outnumber the crew—and outnumbered meant outvoted.

  After more than a generation of debate and simmering disaffection, finally the crew decided to defy the planners back on earth. They would still deliver the colonists to their target planet, but only after the crew had made a new starship for themselves first, and set off on their own, out of reach of the “landers.” A small skeleton staff of volunteers—consisting of the handful of crewmembers from the third generation who had resisted the mutiny and been forced into stasis—would be revived and remain on the Magellan to revive the sleeping colonists.

  The three of them walked in silence for a while along the flagstone pathway into the narrow band of trees that separated the mech doors from the living space. Finally Mitterand spoke again, softly: “The Council offers you another week of holiday, for—ah—coming to terms with things. If you want it."

  Aaron shook his head. “I've been off quite a bit already, full or part time. I think I need to get back to work."

  Cinthi swallowed. When she spoke she seemed fairly well composed, even if her voice was a little husky. “I've had light duty for a couple of months now. I agree. I need to get back to work, too."

  "Besides,” Aaron added, “It's just a few more days until Thirteenth Week, when we'll all have a week-long holiday. I volunteered to be counselor for a unit of children setting up festival balloon-bells. I've kind of been looking forward to that. Some of my friends will be leading similar units."

  Rather than have holidays scattered at random throughout the year, the crew had long ago decided to take holidays all together in the last week of each quarter of the year, Earthtime. The one coming up was fourth quarter, which was Aaron's favorite, with its strong flavor of Christmas/Hanukah/New Year themes.

  Mitterand responded, “That's true. And most people find the fourth quarter holidays especially cheering. Though I kind of like Third Quarter."

  Aaron made a wry face at the thought of that Thirteenth Week, which combined elements of Thanksgiving and Yom Kippur, with an Azazel ceremony at midweek (using CGI hologram goats), which then led into the weirdness of Halloween costume parties and Trick-Or-Treating. It was the minor key Hebrew music with its rhythmic, dance-like songs segueing into Mussorgsky's “Night on Bald Mountain” that struck him as truly bizarre. Kids loved it, though. Of course.

  "You like the candy, huh?” Aaron remarked.

  The Council Rep chuckled. “Yep. I admit it. Course, also I'm part Jewish."

  "What? How does that work?” Cinthi asked.

  "Well, back when I was a teenager, I told it like this: My mother's Jewish, my dad's Catholic, but I'm Protestant!"

  Aaron laughed. Even Cinthi managed to giggle a little. Mitterand definitely was not a pompous, stuffed-shirt type of politician!

  He grinned. “I have an Adventist friend who tries to explain to me the Christian significance of the Jewish Yom Kippur. Something to do with the Judgment. But see, what I've discovered is that if you just keep an open mind and practice real tolerance, you can have a lot of fun. You can celebrate practically anything with anyone. We can celebrate each other's holidays! And that helps to bind us all together as a community.” He paused a moment. “Oops, I guess that sounded a little ‘speechy.’ Sorry."

  Aaron regarded him with a somber smile. “I see why the council sent you. You're good at what you do."

  Mitterand touched a curled finger to his forehead, then looped his hand downward as he bowed, smiling.

  Their gazes were drawn upward for a moment as a large flock of birds cascaded down from the heights.

  "Looks like it's about time we scheduled another bird hunt,” Mitterand observed. The ship's environment needed insects to pollinate the plants, birds to keep the insects in check, and periodic hunts with nets to keep the bird population in check. Unfortunately there was nothing to keep the humans in check.

  Then the lights flickered and dimmed.

  The three of them stood there, mouths agape, looking up at the three light globes connected by the power conduit that ran along the central axis of the colony.

  "That's not possible!” Aaron breathed. But the lights were dimming to the point where he could make out the faint grayness of the fine mesh screen that kept birds and insects from immolating themselves in the plasma balls. In a moment, the light globes flared up again to their normal brilliance.

  They exchanged looks. Everything had changed, now.

  This was no accidental thing, no natural occurrence. Even non-engineers knew that the ship's internal power grid, like the engines, was supplied by quantum power generators that drew their power from quantum space. Though energy was not evenly distributed in quantum space, there was abundant power available even in the voids between stars. Here in the midst of the Epsilon Eridani star system, there should be more than enough power available. There should be no power fluctuation.

  The only explanation was that someone must have hacked into the power control system. And if they could do that, then they could, potentially, do all kinds of mischief.

  Aaron and Cinthi looked at the council rep. He spread his hands and began to shrug, but then his shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “We got an anonymous warning a couple of days ago that there was going to be some kind of ‘demonstration.’ We think it came from Save Our Children. The official leadership denies having anything to do with it, of course."

  "What do they want?” Cinthi asked. “'Save the Children’ doesn't sound like a bad thing."

  "That's just the name, Honey. Not necessarily the agenda,” Aaron said. “Especially if there is a hidden one. The question is how do they intend to go about saving the children?"

  Mitterand nodded. “Don't quote me, but I have heard rumors that there is a radical underground that seeks to eliminate the colonists in stasis, to make room for more children of the crew, and remove any need for us ever to have to go to Epsilon Eridani II."

  Aaron stared at him, horrified. “That would be murder! What could they be thinking? We don't want our society to be founded on murder!"

  The council rep regarded him with a sad shake of his head. Before he could say anything more, he must have sensed an alert from his neural implant. He put a hand to his temple in the traditional way of signaling others that he was engaged in a neural communication. Then he glanced at them and said, “Emergency meeting of the Council. I've gotta go."

  They thanked him for being there for them, and bid him goodbye as he made his departure.

  Cinthi looked back at Aaron. “Consequences of the mutiny?” she asked, hesitantly.

  Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Let's just hope it's not another one."

  "Another—?"

  "Mutiny. Another mutiny. Against us, this time."

  Jos Stearman glanced up at Aaron. “Ready?” At Aaron's nod, he stroked the last controls in the sequence, and the stasis field vanished like evaporating pink mist. The capsule lid had already slid down into the base, so the upper half of the sleeper was now accessible.

  Hurriedly Aaron applied the hypospray against the exposed flesh of the waking colonist. Sometimes the only way to do a thorough diagnostic and fix of the stasis tanks was to brin
g the sleeper out of stasis. But they did not want him to wake up.

  George Proctor, acting as security guard standing a little distance away, was new at his post. He asked, “Why do you have to knock ‘em out?"

  Aaron smiled a bit wryly. “Oh, we don't want the sleepers to wake up at this point. They might begin to ask questions it would be awkward to answer. If they suspected the fact that there has been a change in the agenda—thanks to the mutiny—they might be upset."

  Stearman put in, “And some of them are like this guy—he's a Roland, see?"

  "'Roland'—what's that?"

  Aaron quoted, “'He had the strength of ten, because his heart was pure.’”

  "Huh?"

  Aaron looked at Stearman and shook his head. “They're not teaching the classics like they used to.” He turned to Proctor. “Sir Roland was a knight, who supposedly was much stronger than a normal man.” When the light still did not go on, he added, “This colonist has some cyborg enhancements. Titanium-reinforced bones.” He pointed at a diagnostic on the side of the tank. “If we did a microanalysis, we would undoubtedly find nano-fibers in his muscles and tendons. A few of the colonists consented to this. The planners figured it could prove useful having a few supermen to help start a colony on a new world."

  Finally a light did go on. “So that's why I'm here,” the security man said, patting the small pistol holstered at his side.

  They finished their checking of the tank in silence, and switched the stasis field back on. Proctor turned away and strolled off, apparently intending to take a break until they would call him to the next tank that needed checking.

  Aaron regarded Stearman closely, and spoke in a low voice. “This one isn't just a Roland, is he?"

  Stearman shook his head slightly. “This is something we prefer to keep quiet. Some crew members might be upset to know about it.” He kept his eyes steadily on Aaron until Aaron gave a nod.

  "I see your point."

  * * * *

  He regarded the group of eight eight-to-eleven-year-olds as they gathered around him. There were three girls and five boys. The thought occurred to him that he might feel some resentment because he and his wife were denied the right to have their first and only child with them, while all these other children were free to live with their parents. But no, that was not how he chose to see it. He was glad for the opportunity to work with the children and help them learn to play a useful part in the life of the community. He was glad that at least someone's kids got to grow up with them.

  The argument was often raised that each couple should be allowed an individual quota of two children. That is the way it used to be done, several generations ago. But then some couples had a third child, and complained at having their newborn put into stasis, when there was still plenty of room left in the total quota for the crew. There was room, they pointed out, for the population to double. After much debate, the policy change had been made, so that the total quota for the crew was checked at the time of each childbirth, and if there was room, the child did not have to go into stasis. It had worked for a while.

  He sighed and shook his head. Then he looked up and smiled at the eager, delighted looks on the kids’ faces and the excited, joyful tones of their voices as they helped him unload the van. He suppressed a chuckle at their instinctive disorganization, and gave them a few simple directions to make their work go quicker and easier. He stepped in and took a hand himself, showing as well as telling, and sharing in the work. He could see they liked that.

  He took a moment to look over the clipboard with the list of residents who had given permission for balloon-bells to be set up on their property. Thirty-five of the thirty-six yards were so noted. He didn't know what was wrong with Scrooge at the end of the block, but at least it was easy for the kids to know where to do their setups—all the yards until they reached the end of the lane.

  Just as they were about to get started, he heard the hum of another van, and looked up as it stopped, and his friend, Art Merant, stepped down out of the driver's seat. One of his charges, a dark-haired kid who looked about ten or eleven, got off slowly behind him.

  Merant had an apologetic look on his face, like he was about to ask a big favor that he thinks is not going to be very welcome.

  "Hi, Art. What's up?"

  Merant sighed. “I hate to put this on you, Aaron, but we've been having a problem with this one kid. He's incorrigible! None of the other guys have been able to do anything with him. You're the only one left. Will you give him a try?” He turned and looked at the kid who had gotten out behind him, and was standing with his arms folded in front of him. He waved a hand at him. “This is Matthew Terrell."

  He looked from Merant to the boy, and shrugged. Frankly, he felt embarrassed by what Merant had said in front of the boy, and wanted to end the discussion before anything more that was hurtful was said. “Okay, Art.” He nodded at the boy. “C'mon, Mat."

  Merant gushed with gratitude. “Oh thank you, thank you, Aaron! I'm really sorry to put this on you, but everyone else tried and gave up on him. This is really appreciated."

  Aaron winced, then nodded and turned quickly, giving a half-wave. For a moment, he could not even bring himself to look the boy in the eye. “You're welcome to join us, Mat.” Then he went back to what he had been doing with the other kids.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he kept track of young Matthew, who meandered over to the group of kids, but stayed on the outer periphery, with his hands in his pockets. After Aaron had given the first assignments out and most of the kids were tending to their tasks, he looked closely for the first time at Matthew. The boy had a slight scowl on his face, a look that might be one of impatience. But there was something about the way he carried himself, like not only did he not want much direction, he actually felt that he did not need it.

  Aaron remembered something his father once told him about how children needed to be treated as individuals.

  He decided to try something. He walked over to Matthew and pointed at the larger unit that was still lying on the ground, “Mat, have you ever set up a main carillon before?” It was the most important and complicated of the balloon-bells. Normally the adult counselor set them up.

  "Sure.” The answer came without any hesitation. “My dad let me do it before."

  "Okay, then, I'll let you set this up. Use the handcart. It goes in lot 18, ten meters in from the sidewalk. I need to help these little kids over here—looks like the first time setting up balloon-bells for them.” He hesitated just a moment, thinking how much trouble he could get into if things went wrong. “Uh, just make sure you keep your feet clear when the prongs slam down into the ground."

  The young boy gave him an indulgent look and nodded. “Of course. No sweat!"

  Aaron nodded, pointedly turned his back, and walked away. It was a struggle not to look over his shoulder and keep watching the boy out of the corner of his eye. But he felt he needed to let the boy know he was really leaving the challenging task to him.

  The balloon-bells were extravagant devices that inflated a ring of illuminated balloons all around the central module, and also projected waving, aurora-like curtains of light up above the unit, which pulsed and danced in time to the music. For most of the balloon-bells, the music sounded like a bell choir, which chimed in response to any loud note a passerby might sing. Once enough notes had been sung to establish a recognized tune stored in the device's memory, the bell choir would expand into four-part harmony, and play the song as accompaniment to the singers. Balloon-bells as close as forty meters away would also take up the refrain, which then would activate still more distant balloon bells.

  After a device was firmly anchored into the grassy lawn, and the safety switched off and the valve control twisted to inflate the balloons, it was necessary to conduct tests and make any adjustments in pitch or sensitivity that might be required. When everything was right, he had the two kids who had installed it sing a familiar song of their choosing. Usually the kids c
hose Christmas carols, but some chose secular songs, or popular Hebrew psalms or horas. Aaron offered a prize to anyone who could stump the balloon-bells and come up with a song that was not in its repertoire. So far, in his five years of leading these groups, none of them had been able to.

  After a couple of balloon-bells had been set up and tested, he looked off in the distance at Matthew. He had not heard any screams yet; that was a good sign. The boy was not writhing on the ground, did not seem injured, and the main carillon balloon-bell seemed to be set up securely. Just then he heard the strains of choral music, accompanied by orchestra, as Matthew tested the device. Aaron smiled in satisfaction and pride. The boy had done well.

  He went over to check, and sure enough, everything was registered and set properly. Matthew stood by, exuding confidence and pride. Aaron nodded. “Perfect.” Then he held out his hand and said, “It's always nice to meet someone who knows what he's doing."

  Matthew seemed a little stunned, then burst out into a sunny smile and shook the proffered hand.

  "Would you help me with some of the little kids, Mat? They haven't done this before, and I could use your help with them."

  Mat was momentarily speechless, but he nodded and followed Aaron as he headed back to the other kids.

  With young Terrell's help, they finished their assigned route in good time. Then everyone climbed back aboard the open van and they went to the park, where the youth picnic was to be held. Aaron found the place assigned to his unit, and led them as they joined in to help prepare the picnic tables and campfires they would be using.

  Terrell and he had just gotten the campfire going well when Merant walked up. He did not say anything at first. He just walked up to Terrell, took his head in his hands, and began closely examining him. “I don't see any marks or bruises. You didn't beat him. How did you do it? What did you threaten him with?"