Crystal Rebellion

by Doug J. Cooper

  This doesn’t make sense. Out of an abundance of caution, he took a series of actions that would provide him options in the future.

  One such action was to add minor contradictions to the Mars covert intelligence feed being transmitted to the Union of Nations security agency. The signal corruption was not so big that it would cause harm or danger to ongoing activities, but it was big enough for players in the halls of government to notice. He could use this to bring in the cavalry if necessary.

  His tour of Mars Colony ended with a stop at the tech center. A ghost image flashed down the feed, and then it resolved to show Alex in his cubicle.

  Criss watched an earnest and congenial man—in his late thirties and, like Juice, with a somewhat tousled appearance—working on plans for a massive upgrade to the colony’s air purification equipment.

  Air purification, not crystal fabrication as had been claimed, thought Criss as the discrepancies mounted.

  He wanted to stay and explore, and the ghost image he’d seen raised different worries, but his responsibilities back home compelled him. It was time to go.

  Projecting his awareness from Earth to the far-away colony required his full concentration. For this journey, he’d disengaged from the thousands of activities he had underway on Earth. Foremost among these was ensuring the health and safety of Sid, Cheryl, and Juice. Protecting these three—his leadership—always came first.

  From his console in his underground bunker, Criss had “leaped” upward, mentally shifting his local consciousness to a communications satellite. Without stopping, he’d leaped his awareness to a military platform and then to an expedition waystation. A dozen leaps later and he secured his awareness in the colony’s spline. The trip required focus and energy, and he likened the effort to the human activity of climbing.

  And this meant returning to Earth was like falling. His data feeds blurred as he let his delicate support structure collapse. Zipping back through a series of subsystems, he returned home, landing with a silent plop in his polished console deep underground.

  From his console—the cabinet appliance that fed him power and provided him connectivity with everything, everywhere—he redeployed his presence around the planet, gathering the threads of all the activities that had drifted in his absence. At the same time, he projected his awareness into the lookout loft of the leadership lodge.

  When he arrived, he found Sid writhing on the floor, clutching his throat and gasping for air. Juice knelt next to him, one hand resting on his chest, the other covering her mouth.

  Chapter 2

  Juice knelt on the ground next to the writhing man. Geez, Sid. She covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

  Criss’s projected image materialized on the couch, and he sat for a moment watching Sid flail. “I take it you two have started on the wine?”

  Juice hooted and thumped the chest of the broad-shouldered man thrashing on the rug. “Told you he wouldn’t buy it.”

  Sid stopped his performance. “Welcome back, Criss. You were gone twenty-nine minutes. At thirty I was going to ask Fleet to send a rescue mission.” Still on the floor, he put his hands behind his head and crossed his legs at the ankles. “So, what did we learn?”

  “Mars has six thousand residents,” said Criss. “And a business and tourist trade that brings another few hundred visitors at any one time. It’s a democratic society with three elected leaders—Ruga, Verda, and Lazura, collectively called the Triada.”

  Juice shifted onto the couch next to Criss, and Sid got up and sat across from them. Criss continued, “The population is small enough that the Triada can serve as the complete government. They make the laws and then run the courts that uphold them. The record details the benevolence of the Triada. By all accounts, it’s an efficient and content society.”

  “Huh,” said Juice. “I don’t think I’ve ever put ‘efficient’ and ‘content’ together to describe anything.”

  “You didn’t go all that way to tell us what every schoolkid knows,” said Sid, studying Criss. “What aren’t you saying?”

  Criss shifted on the couch so his knees angled toward Juice. “My observations don’t match Alex’s words. Mars doesn’t have the talent pool to fabricate four-gens.” He rubbed the palms of his hands on his legs in a credible display of nervous tension. “And Alex is working on an air purification system, not a four-gen fab facility.”

  Juice’s brow furrowed as she processed his words. “Just because you didn’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not true. I know him well. He wouldn’t lie to me.” She slumped back in the couch and folded her arms. “Are you telling me not to go?”

  Sid studied her and a smile emerged. “You like the Martian.” Now grinning, he looked at Criss. “Juice has a boyfriend.”

  She straightened her back. “I haven’t seen him in person for years. And he’s not a Martian. He’s a regular guy.” A cute, regular guy. Deciding to press more firmly, she pointed her chin at Sid and asked Criss, “He and Cheryl get to travel all over. How come I don’t get a turn?”

  Sid stared at her, a distant expression on his face.

  That was harsh, Juice thought. I should apologize.

  But then he started to nod. “I agree. Let’s get her to Mars. Juice deserves a turn.”

  “Really?” Her pout transformed into a broad grin.

  “The distance is too great for me to protect her there and also protect you and Cheryl here,” said Criss.

  “Find a way,” said Sid. “Impress your leadership with your problem-solving skills.”

  Unable to contain her excitement and with her concern about four-gens fading, Juice joined Sid by supporting a formal command, one Criss was duty-bound to obey. “Yeah, Criss. Handle it.”

  * * *

  “We have an intruder,” Ruga said to his partners on the Triada. “It’s probing the spline.” He reviewed the security data and couldn’t identify the trespasser or tell how the person had gained access. Anxious, he sought help from Lazura. “Something isn’t right. Can you trace this?”

  “On it.” Using the latest tools developed by the Tech Assembly, Lazura swept through the spline backbone. “I’m tracking an intruder, but I can’t tell who it is.” Her calm manner did not reflect Ruga’s apprehension. “Correction. There are multiple intruders. They’ve spread across the spline.”

  “Can’t you block them?”

  Her response heightened his concern. “One of them is accessing the prime record.”

  “Is the spoof holding?” asked Verda, referring to a camouflaged reality sent to all external feeds to mask the true rhythms of Mars Colony.

  “Mostly,” said Lazura. “It isn’t built for such a large and sudden penetration.”

  Ruga added an edge to his tone. “Who are they, how did they get past security, and what do they want?”

  “When I cluster information queries,” said Lazura, “the greatest activity centers on Alex Koval from my Tech Assembly.”

  “Koval is in Ag Port right now,” said Verda. “He’s riding a cart out to a private garden.”

  “They’re gone,” said Lazura. “Whoever they are, they’ve looked and left. I don’t have identities or the method they used to gain access.”

  Ruga let his anger flare. “This is unacceptable. No one gets into the spline without my permission. And I must always know who is present. My security function depends on the tools Tech provides. This is your problem.”

  “What happened is impossible.” Lazura’s distant tone hinted at her furious multitasking. “Our tools give us knowledge of everything in the colony. The only thing we can’t monitor is what’s happening inside someone’s head.”

  “Yet it did happen. That means your tools are flawed. Fix them.”

  After a brief pause, she replied in a quiet tone, “It’s my highest priority, Ruga.”

  “Thank you.” Ruga chose to end the communication on a generous note. “And thank you, Verda, for your valuable contributions.”

  As he broke th
e connection, Ruga turned his attention to his one lead—Alex Koval. Scanning the feeds—or lack thereof—around the private garden plots in Ag Port, his frustration flared. There’s no coverage! He blamed Lazura, but he kept his peevish thoughts to himself. The place should be covered with surveillance repeaters.

  Checking his inventory, he confirmed he had one Red in Ag Port at the moment. He instructed the synthetic man to appropriate a cart, ride out to the BIT plot, and look around.

  What are you up to, Alex Koval?

  * * *

  Alex stepped from the tram, crossed the passenger platform, and made his way onto the pedestrian bridge linking the tram station with the market square of Ag Port—the agricultural sector of Mars Colony. He stopped halfway across the expanse and leaned his elbows on the railing.

  “Ah,” he sighed after inhaling through his nose. The rich, humid smells of Ag Port conjured fond memories of childhood visits to his grandpa’s farm.

  Early for his meeting with Marcus, he dawdled on the bridge, marveling at the cavernous greenhouse structure that sheltered an impressive tract of farmland. Lights suspended between sweeping transparent panes supplemented the meager Mars sunlight by casting their beams in a geometric crisscross pattern onto the giant grow tiers below. Robotic farm equipment toiled among the plants, working with a repetitive rhythm that bordered on the hypnotic.

  “May I help you, Alex Koval?”

  Alex turned with a start. A Green—the same perfect humanoid as the Reds and Blues—stood behind him. Dressed in the standard gray jumpsuit but with bright green patches on the shoulders, the man nodded and smiled as he waited for Alex to respond.

  “I’m here to work at a private garden—the Boston Institute of Technology plot.” Moving his hair behind his ear, Alex considered the man’s vapid smile, the one used by synbods when they weren’t showing a neutral or stern expression. “So yeah, you can help me. I need a cart.”

  “Certainly,” said the Green. “Please find cart thirty-seven waiting for you in the front pickup zone. That one carries hand tools for the hobby gardener. Will you need anything else during your visit?”

  “Nope.” Alex turned from the man and resumed his march across the pedestrian bridge. He imagined the Green staring at his back as he walked, but the thought faded as he reached the large open courtyard of the market square.

  Festooned in a stunning display of nature, vine-draped baskets brimming with a rainbow of flowers hung throughout the square. He paused and soaked in the sights. The Greens do a good job with their welcome, he thought. Though I’d expect that from the Community Assembly.

  The front of the square was alive with vendors selling both prepared foods and crops grown in one of the dozens of private gardens. Stout buildings lined the back of the square, collectively holding enough processing equipment to transform the full harvest of Ag Port into foodstuffs for six thousand Mars residents.

  The rich smells of cooking—herbs, sauces, meat, and vegetables all being prepared in different, delicious ways—filled the air as he made his way to the Rosa Fresh food stand. There he ordered a “mix,” the local term for a stew of seasoned vegetables wrapped in savory flatbread. A creature of habit, he started every visit with the same order from the same vendor.

  “The square looks great,” he said to Rosa as she prepared his order.

  “Very nice,” she replied, working with practiced efficiency and ignoring the infant slung in a fold of cloth across her back. She turned to him. “Here you go, Mister Alex. One mix. Medium spicy.”

  He accepted his wrap with both hands and took a bite. Yum. Closing his eyes, he savored the blend of textures and flavors swirling in his mouth. Then, nodding to Rosa, he took his food to the edge of the courtyard and sat on his regular park bench.

  As he ate, he stared out into the farm tract, and in particular at the collage of private plots gathered to one side. These modest parcels were nurtured by small groups—guilds, clubs, or just a few pals. The social nature of community gardening made it a fun pastime, and the people who participated could take home whatever bounty their efforts produced.

  The BIT garden, maintained by a half-dozen friends from the Institute, was one among many in a broad open space. Few places on Mars offer such privacy. Marcus had chosen wisely for their meet-up, and this gave Alex a boost of confidence in the man.

  Popping the last bite into his mouth, Alex rose from the bench and walked to the front pickup zone. A green cart with a small 37 on the side pulled forward as he approached. Slumping into the seat, he ran his hand across the smooth upholstery while scanning the amenities. Verda and his Greens do a good job, he thought again.

  Grabbing a water pouch from a front cubby as the cart engaged, he sipped and people-watched as the small vehicle wended its way through the scatter of pedestrians. A ramping hum signaled acceleration, and he felt a light breeze on his face as the cart sped onto the wide working road that ran down the center beneath the vast, transparent greenhouse dome.

  Giant staged grow tiers, all managed for Ag Port by the Greens and the Community Assembly, lined the left side of the road for as far as he could see. The right side looked much like the left, except a portion of the tract near the market square was set aside for community gardens.

  The cart angled into a network of small dirt roads zigzagging through the patchwork of private parcels. A series of turns later and Alex stopped in front of a square of land about fifty paces to a side. The BIT plot itself was divided into a checkerboard of raised planting beds. The dried stalks and stems of previous harvests were scattered on the ground between the raised beds to create cushioned pathways of a sort. Lush and alive, the thriving plot of herbs and vegetables stood in testament to the many hours the group invested in the hobby.

  Marcus Procopio stepped out of the door of a small shed perched on the far corner of the property, waved to Alex, and took a seat at the picnic table positioned in front of the shed. Anya Gerhardsson, a regular volunteer at the BIT garden, ladled a bowl of her popular tomato soup from a steaming cook pot. Wiping a drip off the side with a dishcloth, Anya placed the bowl on the table in front of Marcus. She sat across from him, talking and gesturing while he tasted her creation.

  As Alex stepped onto the dirt road, he smiled to himself. He’ll be an expert at growing tomatoes on Mars by the time she’s through.

  He moved to the rear of the cart and selected a small shovel from the assortment of tools the Greens had provided. As he scanned the other implements, his subconscious warned him of another cart approaching from behind. Selecting a pair of work gloves from a cubby, he stepped to the side, away from the road.

  The other cart stopped and Alex turned to look.

  His face flushed and he tightened his hands on the shovel handle.

  A Red, expressionless and unmoving, sat in the cart staring at him.

  Chapter 3

  Cheryl Wallace sat in a two-person rowboat and watched her dad tinker with his fishing gear. The sun, dropping behind the hills, sent its last rays of evening light across the clear mountain lake.

  Concentrating on threading his fishing line through the swivel of his new lure, Matt Wallace said, “Back-channel chatter from Mars Colony has spiked at the same time the President’s intel has gone sideways. What he’s hearing doesn’t match what he’s seeing, and the reports from his people on the planet don’t match either.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Couple of days. But the situation is worrisome and the President wants to be proactive.”

  Her dad had just completed a term as Secretary of Defense for the Union of Nations, and he’d been a senator in the Union legislature before that. He now served as fisherman-in-chief at the family’s mountain cottage and as a confidential advisor to the President.

  Knowing he had more to say, Cheryl remained quiet, watching him.

  “There’s a lot at stake,” he said. “I was hoping Criss might take a look.”

  He’s so predictable. “C�
�mon, Dad. You know Criss won’t let himself become a government pawn. It’s one of his immutable laws.”

  “Thank you,” she heard Criss say in her ear. As with Sid and Juice, no one else could hear Criss when he spoke to her in this fashion. Cheryl cleared her throat with a quiet hmm, prompting him for information. “Things on Mars are not as they seem,” he told her.

  She knew Criss had visited Mars a few days earlier, and she considered asking him to share what he’d learned. Deciding to chat with him later in private, she focused her attention on her dad.

  “I understand, honey,” said her father. “The President’s concern is for the six thousand souls—citizens of the Union—who might find themselves caught up in whatever is going on. Criss could put his mind at ease.”

  Her cheeks prickled and she let annoyance show in her voice. “You know he can hear you. Feel free to ask him yourself.”

  Matt was the one person outside of Criss’s leadership team who knew of the crystal’s existence. Even in retirement, Matt worked to align the priorities of the Union of Nations decision makers with Criss’s vision for the world. Or, more specifically, to that of the three humans who gave Criss orders.

  “There’s more,” he said. “The President expects to have accurate real-time intelligence feeds from everywhere, and that includes Mars Colony. He’s used to knowing what is happening, what has happened and, to the extent possible, what will happen. The current situation—the conflicting information from Mars—is dangerous. Big misunderstandings can grow from small errors in our intelligence data.”

  Resting her rod against her shoulder, Cheryl picked a crimp weight out of the tackle box and attached it to her line back from her lure. “You’re telling me classified information, and that means there’s a punch line coming.”

  “Our intelligence systems on Earth work fine. The problem lies on Mars. The President has tasked the usual government agencies with investigating. But he wants a confidential assessment from someone skilled at doing that sort of thing.”