by J. S. Morin
Kaylee leaned forward to push her chair back. “Thank you for—”
Alan reached across the table in unison with Kaylee’s lean. “For the opportunity. We’re committed to making Mars a place where we can build a home for ourselves.”
Kaylee hesitated. They’d often spoken about settling on Mars permanently, maybe having one or two more children once they’d gotten used to the relocation—Martian, born and raised. Their son, Stephen, had a different career in mind every time Kaylee asked, but every one of them involved space. His sister, Athena, was already talking internships at Kanto—no thoughts of Mars on that one’s mind. Kaylee knew, deep down, that her kids were going to build their own lives, not follow her and Alan around the solar system.
Never fully formed, Kaylee’s thoughts passed in a mushy blur of emotional footprints left by months of conversations with her husband. She found herself shaking Andy’s hand in turn. “Mars is our home now. We’re willing to do what it takes to keep the partnership with Earth intact.”
Chapter Seven
The Solar Mining Committee met in the conference room of the West Virginia Orbital Ore Refinery. Ever since Jason12’s self-termination 875 years ago, Jason90 had been in charge of production at Kanto. As the years rolled past, he found fewer and fewer reasons to leave the kingdom-sized factory. Each year, production demands rose. Each year, new designs and upgrades poured in from hobbyist inventors and his own crack team of roboticists. The demands on Jason90’s time grew to fill in the gaps that had once held time for leisure.
This meeting was reason enough for Jason90 to make the trek to the far side of Earth to attend in person.
Projected on the planetarium-styled full-ceiling display was the scheduled mining operations for the upcoming three months. Scalable to show the entire Kuiper Belt or a single mining vessel, the screen could display travel routes, planetary and lunar orbits, ore collection rates and compositions, and IDs for every ship under committee purview.
Mining Committee chairman Jason266 shifted the planetarium view to focus on a mining transport on its return trip to the core of the solar system. “Vessel 87 is currently scheduled to make a stopover at Mars to deliver twenty kilotons of iron ore to the Curiosity colony before continuing onward to Kanto with the remainder of the load. However, we have an emergency request from the Directory of Production at Kanto. Jason90…?”
Jason90 stood and addressed his colleagues on the Solar Mining Committee. “As you are all aware, with the recent breakthrough in Truman-Effect technology, we are ramping up production of miniaturized reactors. The Version 85.0 is going to be in demand unlike any chassis design we’ve ever seen. We’re currently averaging five power-supply rescues per year. There’s even poor Toby79 on board that mining vessel, hooked up to ship’s power on a tether because they ran out of working power cells. The theoretical mean time between failures on a chassis-compatible Truman-Effect Reactor is 625 years.”
There were grumbles around the room. Jason90 increased his auditory gain until he could eavesdrop on all the conversations throughout the meeting hall. He heard complaints about chassis wait times getting longer, about personal troubles with existing power cells and recharge times, about the dependence on external power being a constant thorn in the back of a robot’s mind that they weren’t biological creatures.
It was easy to overlook that last point most of the time.
All of it was music to Jason90’s ears. All but one voice, and that voice didn’t require eavesdropping to be heard.
“How can you even consider this?” Miriam Hazra demanded, marching from her seat in the advisory members’ section and storming over to the table reserved for voting members of the committee. “Mars needs that ore. You’ve already diverted our dark matter to Kanto. Now our only ore delivery this month?”
Jason266 spoke up, despite Miriam’s ire being aimed squarely at Jason90. “Your position is duly noted, Ms. Hazra. I should like to point out that Mars has ample local sources of iron ore. Per the Martian Resource Extraction Committee’s mandates, those reserves aren’t eligible for shipment off world. Kanto is dependent on asteroid mining to supply—”
“They have their allocation,” Miriam snapped. “There’s over sixty kilotons left after we get our share.”
“Even the eighty-two for the full load isn’t enough to meet demand,” Jason90 pointed out.
Miriam threw up her hands. “The dark matter shipment getting sent to Earth has already delayed the Mars Terraforming Initiative. Losing the iron ore too will prevent us from even being able to work on infrastructure until we can get a replacement shipment. What are we supposed to do now?”
“Managing Martian manpower allocation is beyond the purview of this committee,” Jason266 said bluntly. “Our sole concern is with the efficient and timely distribution of mineral resources from the asteroid mining operations throughout the solar system. Nothing more.”
“Mars isn’t getting anything efficiently or timely!”
Jason266 brought his fist down on the table like a gavel. “That will be all, Ms. Hazra. You’ve had more than your share of debate on this issue in past meetings. Let’s have the vote on shifting the entirety of Vessel 87’s ore load to Kanto. All in favor.”
Jason90 voted “aye” along with the majority.
The system worked.
Robots who’d dreamed of freedom from periodic recharge would finally start getting chassis upgrades with their own unlimited power sources.
Miriam Hazra, looking to pump breathable air onto the surface of Mars faster than humankind could possibly populate it, stormed out of the committee chambers.
“No patience,” Jason266 muttered to Jason90 as the two of them watched the human depart.
Chapter Eight
The crowd at Watney Arena roared. The hometown Curiosity Rovers had just taken the ball after executing a well-timed midfield trap to steal the ball from the London Fog. Though they numbered fewer than three hundred, the fans who’d traveled from all across Mars showed their support.
The arena’s open roof featured a view of the Curiosity colony dome overhead, its transparent steel panels with their non-reflective coating allowing in the glint of the starry night sky. But such subtle beauty was lost in the moment as eyes turned to the giant screens that replayed the recent action with close-up views and multiple angles.
The Rovers took the ball up field, passing ahead to their forwards.
In the stands, fans rose to their feet in anticipation. Fog defenders closed in. Lars Volkov made a crossing pass to Chip Nelson. Nelson took the shot with number 10 from the Fog matching him step for step. The Fog goalkeeper, Chad Mengele, dove and punched the ball aside at the last nanosecond.
An audible groan deflated the crowd.
One of the robotic referees retrieved the ball from out of bounds and tossed it with backspin such that it came to rest in position for a corner kick.
Landry Farris turned to his friend, Mike Saito, who’d come from Discovery just to watch this match. “Makes you wonder what that gene-freak’s made of. Mongoose? Something insect? Reflexes like that just aren’t natural.”
“I’m more impressed how the robots always get the ball to stop in an exact spot,” Mike replied. He was munching on a meat pie in an attempt to get cultural. “London keeper’s not a modded genome. Says so on his stat bio.”
Landry grunted. “Says the Earthling. I hear they’ve got do-it-at-home gene splicing now. Who’s to say he wasn’t born with a regular scrub and did the rest himself?”
“Stuff a sock in it,” Mike replied good-naturedly. He gestured with his meat pie. “They’re about to kick it.”
The Fog and Rovers players jostled for position in front of the Fog goal, arrayed in ragged lines in anticipation of the corner kick. Landry stood and cupped his hands to his mouth. It wasn’t like the old archival games when the droning crowd was a monolithic noise. “Come on, you buggers! Curl it, and put it in!” He knew the players could hear him.
&nbs
p; Still seated, Mike chuckled. “Yeah. Bet they never thought of that.”
Glowering down at his friend, Landry gave him what for. “You come halfway around the planet to stuff synthetic meat in your face or to cheer for the home team?”
“Your home team,” Mike pointed out. “I root for the Greenies.”
With no other practical advice, Landry hooted general encouragement as Chip Nelson lined up to make the corner kick. The ref whistled, and Nelson took a three-step run.
With a thump heard throughout Watney Arena, the ball sailed toward the dual lines of opposing players. It curled. Players jockeyed for position beneath its path. No fewer than five of them jumped to put a head on the ball.
Volkov was there. The ball caromed off his skull as he rose just higher than the Fog sweeper defending him. This time, Chad Mengele wasn’t quick enough to intercept it.
GOAL!
The crowd erupted instantly. A scattering of groans from the far side of the pitch identified the few Earthling fans who’d traveled across the void of space to see this game. Landry pulled Mike to his feet, bouncing along with the rest of the Rovers supporters and screaming.
A persistent whistle from the field eventually cut through the cheering and silenced them. In shock, Landry watched as the referee waved off the goal and signaled for a direct free kick by the Fog.
“What?” Landry shouted. “No!”
Mike threw down his meat pie in disgust. “Go back to Earth, you cheating robot!”
That was it… as the replay on the big screen showed, there was no visible movement of the ball. If it grazed Volkov’s hand as he attempted to keep the Fog defender clear, it hadn’t deflected. The robotic referee was making sure the Fog won.
It was more than Landry could stand. And he wasn’t the only one. Someone in the row behind pushed past him and charged out onto the field. Then Mike followed behind. Landry knew that this was the time to show his solidarity. This was Martians fighting for Martian rights. He wasn’t going to be cowed into accepting this travesty.
Landry hopped the low wall surrounding the bench area for the Rovers. The turf was spongy beneath his work boots. He wasn’t the fastest of the Martian fans taking to the field, but he gave it his best effort.
The robot in his Earth-fabbed uniform continued to whistle as if the fans were committing a foul. As if they would follow the commands of a corrupt Earth-made robot. As if a whistle could save him.
What the robot had been thinking was anyone’s guess. That smug, stoic face with its dead, glowing eyes got a taste of Landry’s fist. Instantly, Landry knew he’d broken a bone, but in the congenial rush of delivering community-based justice, he didn’t care. The doctors would fix him up. This robot was going to learn better than to cheat Martians.
Robots might have been stronger, sturdier, and maybe even smarter than humans, but they weren’t indestructible. Heck, they weren’t even all that heavy, especially the new sportier chassis that were getting popular. Landry’s fellow Rovers fans knocked the referee to the ground and fell on top of him.
It felt good to put animal fear into a walking computer that thought it was alive.
If felt good, right up until the referee decided to defend himself. Then, with startling suddenness, Landry felt himself airborne.
Chapter Nine
Charlie7 was rarely surprised. Even when something unexpected did catch him off guard, a subroutine kicked in and prevented any sort of incriminating reaction. So it was with a perfectly impassive expression on his old Version 70.2 face that Charlie7 received the news that there had been a riot on Mars.
“A riot,” Charlie7 echoed the news reader. He watched the video clip again. It was the first transmission from the red planet to show the violence unfold. Before long, he knew, his office would be inundated with footage from every possible angle. For now, all he had was a thirteen-second loop of outraged soccer fans leaping down from the stands and pouring onto the field. “Good lord, what is this? The Middle Ages?”
GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS, Eve Fourteen’s message came in, sent from a hospital bed in Paris.
“The bottom?” Charlie7 mused aloud to himself. “Easy. There are too many ingrates and entitled freeloaders on Mars. Irradiate the colonies. Keep the microbe and algae preserves. Start from the ground up with a new batch.”
Of course, he said none of this over a monitored channel. He, better than anyone, knew that there were limits to the security of any transmission. Instead he texted back. “I’m on it. Any insights?”
THIS HAS SIMMERED TOO LONG. BOUND TO HAPPEN. DOESN’T MEAN WE CAN LET IT GO UNCHECKED—OR UNPUNISHED.
Mars was in need of a good punishing. In fairness, they had their good and bad eggs, just not in a proportion that Charlie7 condoned. The politicians had been bad enough, back when Mars had first formed a semi-independent government. But once they started getting too big for their britches, it had become a hotbed of rabble-rousers and armchair political scientists, none of whom knew the first thing about the jobs they complained about.
Eve’s transmission included updated video files that had been sent directly to her alone. Poor Brent104, just having a little fun on the side refereeing the game, was mobbed by enraged drunks. Around the eighteen-second mark of the video, Brent104 threw back the crowd around him.
Charlie7 winced. It wasn’t a pretty sight. One man’s arm was garishly broken, and another stumbled away with blood streaming down his face from a cut above the hairline that probably wasn’t half as bad as it looked.
Most robots had never been in combat. They carried human memories of boring, mundane lives from their mixed brain scans. Only a few of the Project Transhuman scientists had played sports at even a collegiate level. Charles Truman, for one, had gone into each school year from fifth grade onward with a doctor’s note excusing him from physical education. By and large, they weren’t the most rowdy bunch.
Brent104 had panicked.
Maybe someone in that crowd had carried work tools along to the game. Maybe the refereeing robot had spotted something that he mistook for a weapon. Whatever the case, a robot with a chassis fifty times stronger than any human body had fought back.
By weight of numbers, the human mob could have knocked old Brent104 around a little. Without tools of some sort, they probably weren’t much threat beyond that. None of them were the sort of brute that Plato had been, and the few humans with enough cybernetics to be a physical threat to a robot all lived on Earth.
This wasn’t going to play well on the Martian news networks.
The mixed robots got scrubbed free of so much flotsam in their memories. Charlie13 said it kept them from developing neuroses, and to some extent, it did. But that cleansing included political leanings, cultural biases, and a fair amount of understanding those sentiments in others. The older mixes understood—the ones Charlie7 had mixed himself before Charlie13 came along with his more artful system.
Humans were pack animals. Creatures that socialized in herds kept together out of fear, protected their own, and ran from perceived dangers. The ones that organized into packs had pecking orders, cliques, and enemies. They protected their own, not out of shared fear, but of covetous greed. Threats were first sized up, then eliminated.
Charlie7 had the feeling that robotkind was getting sized up by a new predatory species on Mars. Homo ingratis, the ungrateful hominid, was trying to differentiate from its terrestrial cousin.
As he made his way to his spaceroamer—and Charlie7 steadfastly refused to shorten the term to spacero like so many of his colleagues—more snippets of video poured in, eventually culminating in an official news announcement from the Curiosity-1 news feed.
“Breaking news. Tonight’s soccer match at Watney Arena, between the Curiosity Rovers and visiting London Fog ended in violence over a disputed call in the 57th minute. Rovers striker Lars Volkov was called for a handball on what appeared to be a go-ahead goal for the home team. Fans in the first several rows near the visitors’ goal reacted indign
antly and took to the field. Referee Brent104 confronted the trespassers in an attempt to remove them from the playing area, but the attempt escalated into a shoving match that left five hospitalized in serious condition at Salk Medical Center. The Solar Soccer Federation had issued a statement—”
Leave it to Mars. The most violent incident in the past century between humans and robots, and they still lead with the soccer. Charlie7 knew he’d have time aplenty on the interplanetary transit to review all the data on the case.
The cockpit canopy closed around him with a hiss of compressed gas. With a punch of the throttle, he was off to Mars.
Chapter Ten
For the Martians, it was the next day after the riot. To Charlie7, it was the middle of the night, Paris time. But Curiosity wasn’t on Earth, and the time shift was a mild annoyance at best to a mechanical being whose mind no longer fell subject to circadian rhythms. By the look of the sorry sack of genes across the table from him, Charlie7 guessed that being on local time hadn’t done this one any favors.
Unshaven, with dark periorbital splotches setting off glassy blue eyes, Landry Farris was a sorry specimen. Genetic records claimed that his donor genome belonged to a Russian air force test pilot—one of the oldest samples in the archives. Charlie7 couldn’t imagine a military man slouching with his eyes downcast after a single night in judicial custody.
Of course, Landry’s night hadn’t been spent in a concrete cell or chained to a wall. He’d spent the night at Salk Medical, recovering from various bruises and a clean fracture of both his right tibia and fibula. He hadn’t been deemed a danger in his current condition, and the idea of a fugitive in the domed Martian habitat was laughable.
