CHAPTER 20
I don’t think we’re facing just one… Lieutenant Mattoso had asked him to explain, but Konami just said he had a feeling. That didn’t help her anxiety, especially when she realized she had the same feeling. The CO and XO kept urging that everyone continue about their lives. They said there was no reason to believe anyone was in immediate danger.
She wanted to believe it. And I wanted to believe in Santa and his clones delivering presents to obedient children from his workshop on Pluto when I was little.
She was still struggling to accept that there could be killers aboard. That was why they left in the first place! Was this whole journey – the entire purpose of the Society for a New Humanity – for naught?
She refused to accept that. They weren’t perfect, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a worthy goal. For all they knew, one or two killers managed to get past the Aotea’s character screenings, but everyone else was still as worthy as she’d believed from the beginning.
That had to be it. Anything else was unthinkable.
She had a little time before she was supposed to meet Pat at the Repro Lab, so she checked her network feed. The latest article on Aotea Today featured a text interview with the user of the handle Pol Revear who, apparently, originated the ‘HUMANS GO HOME’ forum posts:
Aotea Today: What drove you to make these alarming posts?
Revear: It’s not just me. There are many of us, and our numbers are growing.
Aotea Today: So what are your goals?
Revear: Simply put, our goal is to survive and protect all Aoteans. We are the first humans to leave Earth’s solar system. We all know why we left — endless conflict, endless violence, the toxic culture inherited from humanity’s birth and social evolution. But maybe we’re not the only ones who noticed. Maybe they — and by ‘they’ I mean whoever is sending these signals — think that we’re just going to bring that conflict with us.
Aotea Today: Do you think they’re right?
Revear: I don’t know. It doesn’t even matter; what matters is what they believe. We’re only just able to travel to other solar systems — anyone out there is going to be far more advanced than we are. If they want us to stay home, all that matters is what they believe.
Aotea Today: Is anonymous advocacy, and what some are calling vandalism, really consistent with the values of the Society for a New Humanity?
Revear: Telling the truth isn’t vandalism, and there’s nothing in the Society texts about anonymous advocacy. In fact, if I remember my history, one of Paula’s biggest advocates before the Society was created was an anonymous writer.
Aotea Today: Why do you believe that these strange signals are related to the two recent deaths onboard?
Revear: Simple — it’s too much of a coincidence. Two murders at the same time as unexplainable signals?
Aotea Today: This sounds far-fetched. Do you really believe Aoteans will accept that we’re being warned to return home by aliens?
Revear: I’m not positive myself. But I’m worried. If my concerns are borne out, then we better turn around before we all end up dead.
Aotea Today: What do you think we should do?
Revear: If I were captain, I’d slow us down. If the signals continue, even as we turn around, then maybe it’s nothing — just a comet reflecting a pulsar or something. But if it stops, or if they change, and especially if the deaths cease, then maybe that means they approve of our course change.
Mattoso scanned the rest of the interview, and it was just more of the same — wild hypotheses and accusations and doomsaying. She shook her head and ceased the projection. We were supposed to be the cream of the crop — the best twenty thousand of all of humanity, or at least the very best out of the billion applicants. Her Earth-born grandmother used to say “when it rains, it pours” — an idiom unfamiliar to most Cereans, since the domes and tunnels on the asteroid had no weather patterns — but she had a feeling that it fit here.
“This is a weird time to be getting a pet, you know,” said Pat, smirking.
Mattoso and her lover stood in front of the Repro facilities while they waited for a Genetic Engineer to be free.
“We live on a spaceship, babe,” replied Mattoso. “Doesn’t get much weirder than that.”
“I’m glad we’re doing it here,” said Pat. “It’ll be a lot more fun to order in person than just through the net.” Mattoso squeezed her companion’s hand in agreement.
An older woman in a lab coat emerged from an office inside the Repro space and greeted them. She looked awfully familiar.
Pat whispered in her ear, wondering if it was one of the Bigwigs
Holy shit! It was. “Miss — Professor Ngayabo,” mumbled Mattoso. “There must be some mistake. We’re here—”
“You’re here to choose a pet, correct?”
“Yes,” said Mattoso.
“Then there is no mistake,” said Mara Ngayabo. Mattoso flinched at her stare. She knew that each the Bigwigs had a professional specialty, and performed duties outside of their unofficial advisory role, but she had never actually interacted with any of them other than in passing. Certainly not in any professional capacity. Mara Ngayabo was a Genetic Engineer, she recalled, while Hamad Maltin was an Agricultural Biotechnologist, and Wilson Paramis was a Demographer. “Let’s begin,” said Ngaybo, finally, leading them down a passageway.
In a small laboratory, a pair of genetic technicians worked from holographic displays, twisting and splicing and mixing DNA strands from dozens of lifeforms, each one marked by a digital image as it looked on Earth. Ngayabo pointed to a pair of heavy doors, set far apart on the opposite bulkhead. “Behind these doors are the most valuable treasures we are bringing with us.” For the first time she could remember, Mattoso sensed a flicker of feeling behind Ngayabo’s stone face. This is what she cares about. The Bigwig pointed to the larger door. “Simply put, we have brought with us the genetic legacy of Earth. Everyone knows about the millions of human genetic samples — the future populations of our colony on Samwise — specifically chosen for their hardiness and diversity, as well as positive neural traits.” Ngayabo pointed to the other door. “But that’s just half of our treasure. Joining them in the secondary bank are samples of thousands of non-human species from Earth — from microscopic creatures to marine behemoths; any creature that might possibly be useful or desirable.”
She led them to a dark room, handing out low-light goggles. “And here is the nursery.” Mattoso knew that Repro had the capability to incubate non-human animals in artificial wombs, but it was quite another thing to actually see these wombs — rows of translucent poly structures, a few actually occupied by alien-looking, wriggling zygotes, ranging from infinitesimal and magnified on displays, to “giants” the size of her big toe. A spindly, long-limbed TenderBot moved from womb to womb, taking fluid samples and administering nutrients, while a young apprentice veterinary tech looked on and took notes.
“Where do they all go?” asked Mattoso.
“If they’re not pets, then the vet lab,” replied Ngayabo. “For practice. Or other labs, for research. Skills need to be maintained, even if we won’t need them for decades.”
“You said you could recreate whales,” said Pat. “How is that possible? None of these wombs are big enough for a human, much less a whale.”
“We have other nurseries,” answered the genetic engineer. “With artificial wombs large enough for humans, and even for small cetaceans. Theoretically, once we establish a coastal colony on Samwise, we can use larger and larger adult cetaceans to bear the next generation of a slightly larger species, if we wish.”
“Why would we need whales?” asked Mattoso.
“Ask the ecology department,” said the older woman. She reminded Mattoso of a particularly harsh schoolteacher from her childhood on Ceres. “With the samples in the genebank and our nurseries, we will create a new biosphere on Samwise, with whatever Earth life we deem necessary or pleasing.”
“What about Samwise’s native life?” inquired Mattoso. The question burst out before she could hold it back.
“Ask the bioethicists,” responded the genetic engineer, leading them to a bank of monitors. “Now, your pet. Dog, cat, or other?”
Mattoso looked at Pat. “A dog,” she said.
Ngayabo led her through a series of choices — coat color, size, energy level, attachment level, affection, and more, showing signs of impatience any time they took more than a few seconds to choose. When it was complete, Ngayabo departed without so much as a goodbye, leaving them with a third class genetic technician.
“Your pet will be ready in approximately eight weeks,” said the Third. “You may come visit any time after week two to view its development.” The technician lowered her voice. “But I don’t think you’ll want to see it until week four or five. Before that it’s pretty much gooey-tadpole territory. And don’t worry about Engineer Ngayabo — you just had the bad luck to catch her on her once-per-month proficiency watch.”
“Not as much fun as you hoped, huh?” asked Pat as they strolled back to Mattoso’s quarters.
“It’s so strange, seeing one of them at work, on watch,” Mattoso replied.
“You’re not kidding,” chuckled Pat. “You should see our curriculum… I’m not sure who you learned about growing up on Ceres, but on Earth we grew up learning about Nzinga, Yoshimune, and Charlemagne, among others. Now, on Aotea, I teach kids about Edda Ngayabo, one of the founders of the Society for a New Humanity, and her granddaughter, our very own Mara Ngayabo. And before they graduate fifth cycle, every student conducts an interview with one of the Bigwigs.” Pat gave her a wry look. “Guess which Bigwig is everyone’s last choice?”