Ursa Major

In every network, nodes intersect.

Where nodes intersect, trunk lines form, combining streams of information multiplexed together like liquid pulled through tree roots, passed up the trunk and redistributed to branches, twigs and leaves.

Groups of people used to meet around campfires, along river embankments and in hilltop forts to accumulate and multiplex information gathered by their peers.

Information seeks the quickest route to travel — water flowing down a hill, photons passing around a galaxy via gravitational lenses, gossip in the hallway.

– – – – –

Ed’s phone vibrated.

He looked across the small wall separating his office from the dance floor. Everyone was busy either dancing or talking, just the way he liked to see his clients and instructors, no one left alone.

He read the text.

“Update?”

He responded. “Full class tonight.”

He received a smiley face in return.

– – – – –

That evening, several hundreds miles away, in an unused Dekalb-Peachtree Airport hangar, a pizza delivery truck pulled up.

The delivery man lifted a pizza warmer satchel from the back of the truck and pressed a buzzer on the hangar side door.

A bald Turkish man with a thick handlebar mustache opened the door and nodded the delivery man inside.

“What have you got for me?”  The question echoed in the hangar, coming from nowhere.

The delivery man held ou the satchel. “It’s the software and geotracker you ordered, placed in a Faraday cage as specified.”

A brown, hairy arm extended from a gap between two crates. “Give it here.  Your payment is already inside your truck.  You know your next delivery?”

“Neil in Huntsville.”

“That’s right.  He thinks it’s a special pizza order so make sure the local Papa Pie store makes a fresh, hot pizza in time for Neil’s delivery.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can call me Mama Bear.  Now go!”

The Turk, one hand on the semiautomatic machine gun hanging from his shoulder, escorted the delivery man outside.

– – – – –

Ed received another text from Mama Bear. “Order us four large pepperoni pizzas with extra cheese and marinara sauce on the side.”

Ed replied. “How soon do you need them?”

“Four hours from now.”

Ed replied with a wink emoji, then stood up.

“Hey, Neil!”

Neil had finished dancing a foxtrot with a woman he’d taught for six months, her understanding of dance steps just becoming clear.  “Yeah, Ed. Whatcha want?  We’ve still got 20 minutes left.”

“Come here a minute, willya?”

Neil tromped across the dance floor, pointing at Guin and giving her the thumbs-up on the quick progress she was making with Raubine.

“Yeah, boss, what is it? Got another client lined up for me?”

“You still moonlighting at night?”

“Well, sure, Ed.  Furniture moving, architectural rendering, pizza delivery…”

“You’re keeping busy.”

“You know how it is…”

“Sure I do.  You working the pizza job tonight?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Do you mind making a delivery for me if I called it in?”

“If I’m available.”

“Of course, Neil. You can’t determine your route, can you?”

“I could ask, if I knew about what time you needed the pizza.”

“Two o’ clock.”

Neil pulled up the schedule app on his phone, then realized what Ed had said. “Hey, boss, we close at midnight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s the same every weekday.”

“But this is Friday night.  Doesn’t Papa Pie stay open late on the weekend?”

Yeah, midnight, like I said.”

“If I could convince your manager to stay open later, would you mind putting in a little extra overtime?”

“Yes, if there’s a tip involved ’cause waiting around two hours after close ain’t gonna cut it if I could be at home finishing up a drawing.”

“It’s for a special party, if you know what I mean.” Ed patted Neil heartily on the back, winked and snickered.

“I get it, boss, but…”

“And I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Okay, Ed.  I’ll be there.  Now I’ve got to get back and help the new couple get comfortable on the dance floor.”

“New couple?”

“Yeah, Lee and Karen.”

“Go for it. I’ll see you at two.”

“If not before!”

The Next Work in Progress

“Is it exercise, love, or performance art that brought you here tonight?”

They spun around the room to a Viennese waltz, their arms held out in formation, firm but flexible.

She looked up at him admiringly, pressing the small of her back against his palm.  She wanted to say she came to the weekly dance lessons because of him but she knew she wasn’t the only woman who thought that about their handsome, older dance instructor.

“To learn how to hold my own as a follow.”

He smiled at her.  Less than a year earlier he had told his dance instructor the same thing, that he wanted to hold his own as a dance lead, starting out as a newcomer.

“Okay, we can do that.  But I ask one thing of you.”

“Yes?”

“You must be willing to practice.  A lot.”

“How much?”

The song stopped and he escorted her off the dance floor.

“How much time have you got each week to exercise?”

“Usually 30 minutes in the morning before I go to work and 30 minutes to an hour at night, depending on my social calendar.”

“Then give me your 30 minutes in the morning and at least three hours at night each week.  Can you do that?”

She sat in the chair he offered her.  She wanted to be with him as much as she could.  How many other women was he teaching?

“How much will this cost me?”

“Let’s talk about cost later.  No matter what, I will make it affordable for you.  Thank you again for a wonderful dance, Raubine.”  He bowed his head and turned to hold the hand of a woman seated nearby who had waved as he stepped off the dance floor, leading her silently to a clear spot on the floor just as a samba started.

Raubine visited the studio a week ago after buying a discount coupon on the Internet for a free dance lesson by the owner followed by one more lesson for $5 by an assigned instructor.

The dance studio owner, Ed Post, was a military veteran who had just celebrated 27 years of teaching ballroom dance styles.  His cartoonish smile and thinning hair made women feel at ease, especially when he showed them in their first lesson how much they didn’t know they already knew about basic footwork, musical rhythm and body posture.

After the first lesson, Ed assigned Raubine to Neil, a half-Irish, half-Greek dance instructor who had torn a ligament in his left knee while teaching Tae Kwon Do and had taken up ballroom dancing to rehabilitate his leg.

Neil’s torso was bulked up from years of body building.  Despite his bulk, he was graceful and charming on the dance floor, confident in his dance technique despite little training.

Raubine watched Neil’s samba moves on the dance floor, unaware he had only learned samba two weeks ago.

She sat and watched Neil take four different women on the dance floor, wondering if anyone would ask her to dance again during this two-hour open dance session when a young, bubbly blonde with a red face walked up to her.

“Hi! I’m Shelmi!  What’s your name?”

“Raubine.”

“Is this your first time?”

Raubine shook her head.  “How ’bout you?”

“Yep.  But I’ve danced before, just not a lot of ballroom.  You taking lessons with Neil?”

“Not yet.  I’m supposed to later tonight.”

“He’s great.  My friend Guin — that’s her over there — she taught Neil everything she knows.  Her and Ed, that is.”

Raubine nodded.  Guin was a tall brunette who had the flat feet and strong legs of a gymnast.  She was talking to Ed and laughing.

Shelmi reached out her hand.  “Do you mind dancing with me?  I’d love to practice the cha-cha.”

“I don’t know how…”

Shelmi scrunched her face.  “Pshaw!  The only way to learn is to try.  I promise I’ll only trip you a few times.”

Raubine allowed Shelmi to lift her to her feet and walked with her onto the dance floor.  Shelmi’s energy was infectious.  Her skin glistened and radiated heat which gave Raubine the impression that Shelmi must have been dancing all night.  Yet Raubine hadn’t noticed Shelmi on the dance floor.

Shelmi stood beside Raubine and walked her through the basic zig-zag follow pattern of cha-cha, then turned to face her and showed her the lead part.

“So, you wanna be lead or follow?”

Raubine was about to answer when Guin jumped in between them.

“Hey!  I’m Guin!  Who are you?”

Raubine was astonished by all the attention she was getting.  “I’m Raubine.”

“Hi, Raubine.  Shelmi, mind if I step in?”

Shelmi frowned.  “Well, I don’t know.  She’s already my date for this dance.  But if you insist…”

“I owe you!” Guin patted Shelmi on the shoulder.  “You can watch.”

“In that case…” Shelmi crossed her arms and leaned back on one hip, eying in mock criticism.

“Okay, Raubine.  I just talked with Ed and we’re going to give you not only the starter package but also a group package at a major discount.  He likes the way you learn so quickly and would love to have you as a regular at his studio.”

Raubine raised her eyebrows.  “And would Neil still be my dance instructor?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”  She held Raubine’s hands in hers.  “However, I can tell you it’s best if you learn from a woman, too.  Your follow will be so much better.”

Shelmi nodded enthusiastically.  “She’s right.  And Guin is so good at this, you’ll want to take lessons from her!”

Raubine looked from Guin to Shelmi out to Neil giving another woman cha-cha lessons.

“Well…”

“Look, I’ll give you two free lessons on top of whatever Neil’s giving.  I absolutely promise I’m doing this for your own good.  You will rock the dance floor and never be able to sit down all night.”

Raubine smiled.  “Really?”  She was normally shy and didn’t understand why these women would want to make her less socially awkward.

Shelmi patted her on the back.  “Yes, yes, yes.  It’s true.  Oh, there’s my boyfriend!  See y’all later!”  She ran across the room.

The cha-cha ended and Neil walked over.  “Raubine, I see you’ve met Guin.”

“Hey, Neil.  Are you giving Raubine her lesson tonight?”

“I plan to.  Why?”

“My appointment backed out.  Mind if I help you teach Raubine for the next hour?”

He looked at Raubine.  “Guin is a great teacher.”

Raubine was confused.  “So, is this my official dance lesson or what?”

“No, this is still the open session.  Guin, you’re just going to walk her through all the follow dance steps, right?”

“That’s right.  Raubine, it will make you so much better when you have your lesson with Neil.”

“Okay.”

Neil patted her on the arm.  “That’s perfect.  Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to help reinforce a dance lesson I taught earlier today.”  He walked across the room toward an older woman in a pink blouse and long yellow skirt, her hands in her lap, sitting quietly but attentively by herself.

“Okay, Raubine.  First things first.  Your hands.”  She flexed Raubine’s hands up and down.  “You’ve got to learn how to keep her hands poised without clinching.  Let them relax in my hands.  That’s it.  Now slightly curve your fingers.  Good.  Your dance lead will communicate a lot of where he intends to send you on the dance floor through his handhold.  You’ve got to have just enough of a connection with him to feel his intent without gripping too hard or too loosely that you lose the connection.  Here.  Rest your hands on top of mine and let me raise or lower them while you let your elbow and shoulder relax.  That’s it.  Feel the connection?”

Raubine was amazed at easily Guin was getting Raubine to feel as a dance partner.  With Ed, she had a general feeling of almost being lifted and carried around the room, completely in Ed’s soft but firm guidance.  Guin gave Raubine the idea that she was participating equally by giving Guin feedback through her hands.

“That’s a great start.  Now, I want you to hold me as if you are the dance lead so you can understand to be a better follow.  Place your right hand on the small of my back.  No, a little higher, just below the shoulder blade.  Good.  I’m going to push back so you know how much pressure the lead feels.  Feel that?  See how the tiniest movement of my back, including side to side, tells the lead where your center of balance is moving?”

Shelmi ran up, her boyfriend in tow.  “Raubine, this is my boyfriend, Geoff.  Geoff, this is Raubine.  She’s brand-new.”

Geoff extended his hand.  Raubine let go of Guin and shook his hand.  “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.  You taking lessons from Guin?”

“I just started.”

“She’s the greatest, isn’t she, Shelmi?”

Shelmi swung Geoff’s arm in the air.  “Spin me around, you silly, and show Raubine what Guin taught us last week.”

Geoff lifted his arm, raising the grip he had on Shelmi’s hand above her head.  She turned in place like a ballerina and returned to the position she started in, facing Geoff.

Raubine clapped.  “Very good.”

“Thanks, Raubine.  You’ll be able to do that in no time!”

The boy who thought he was a shoe

Muscovy ducks waddled past the porch every morning, leaving their nests for time in the neighbourhood pond.

Aneratsporp sat on the porch and watched the ducks.

He knew his grandparents would carry a basket of crumbled biscuits out to the pond soon, feeding the ducks, pigeons and sparrows that congregated around the pond most mornings.

Aneratsporp wanted to join them.
But Aneratsporp was not a regular boy.

He thought he was made of leather and nails, pieced together by his mother’s fifth husband, the local cobbler, childless until the age of 75 when he married Aneratsporp’s mom.

Aneratsporp was always small, his mother assuring him from birth that because he was special, it would take a special person to fit into his life.
The old cobbler said the same thing to customers whose feet were too small or too large for the wooden shoe forms displayed in his shop window.

As a baby, Aneratsporp lay in a crib at the back of the shoe shop while his mother laundered clothes for the local hotel.
His grandparents didn’t like that their grandson spent all day staring at the ceiling next to open pots of glue and varnish.

When Aneratsporp was three, his grandparents came for him and took him to their cottage on the edge of Decatur, Alabama.

They tended a small working farm, setting him on the porch where they could watch him while they gathered eggs, pulled weeds and milked goats.

Aneratsporp was happy being a shoe.
By age five he was 18 inches tall.

He couldn’t read, write, or talk but he understood what people said.

He knew his grandparents loved him and kept him from being seen by their customers.

He didn’t mind.

He sat on the porch, being a shoe in sunlight and rain showers. 

He knew he was a special shoe because, of all the shoes in the house, he was the only shoe that his grandmother changed clothes everyday.

He smiled when his grandparents called him their little babushka.

A mockingbird landed on a tree behind the house and sang a song just for Aneratsporp.

Tweedle, tweedle, tweep. Chirp, chirp. Doohickey, doohickey. Tweedle, tweedle. Chirpoodle. Chirpoodle. Tweet.

A fluffy bird song.

The Muscovy ducks waddled back to their nesting sites.

The sparrows flew away.

Pigeons returned to their pecking order under the eaves.

Aneratsporp heard his grandfather scrape a hoe in the garden while his grandmother poured water into the trough in the animal pen.
Aneratsporp closed his eyes and dreamed of being the perfect little shoe for someone someday soon.

Confound it!

“Captain, it’s going to be at least another 72 hours before we finish repairs.”

“Wuh?”

“Sorry, captain, but it appears to be a design flaw we have to correct before we get to Mars orbit.”

Lee nodded and turned to Guin. 

She shook her head. “You stir crazy?”

Lee nodded again.  “I’m taking a quick nap.” He flipped his solar visor down and touched his wrist panel to single comm with Guin. “You tired, too?”

She flipped down her visor and leaned back. “Something bothering you?”

“Yeah. The darkness. You are the only person I can talk to about suicidal thoughts without triggering worry or sympathy.”

“Uh-huh.” During their early space travel training on Earth, Lee and Guin demonstrated to the psychiatry staff that their high level of creativity corresponded with bouts of depression that they managed by talking to each other.

“They’re old repetitious thoughts, almost comforting in that way.”

“I know.”

“In my daydreams, I’ve been speaking to myself from both the male side and female side, going through the arguments for staying alive. They’re not original thoughts… I’m depressed because I don’t have kids and if I kill myself I won’t leave behind a legacy even if I’ve impacted the lives of others in more ways than many with kids, etc.”

“Hey, look where we are.”

“Yeah. You know I married Karen monogamously for life and if she was unable to have kids, then we wouldn’t have kids. Therefore, all else being unknown givens, there was no reason to live any longer if the only real purpose of being a sentient primate is to procreate.”

Guin raised a eyebrow, which Lee smiled at in his VR view of her face inside the helmet. “Remember, I’m the one who knows more about what Katen experienced with a hysterectomy than you.”

Lee frowned.  “True.”

He lowered his chin to his chest. “I pass through these thoughts in frequent enough cycles that I’ve grown used to seeing them as their own form of escape mechanisms like fiction writing.”

“Wah wah wah.”

“I told you these are old. What am I escaping or hiding from?”

“Well, Karen was a nice person so I don’t think you were trying to escape from her specifically.”

“Maybe not. Instead, I look at my ‘faults’ — depression cycles, self-centeredness, bisexuality, my father’s passive-aggressive anger issues, to name a few — and think it might be best if one, I didn’t have kids, and two, I don’t live any longer.”

“What about on Mars?”

“Kids, you mean?”

“Maybe.”

“Still undecided?”

“Not in our mission goals. That’s partly why I’d kill myself tomorrow but I’m stuck in here for the next three days.”

“Yeah, dude, don’t stink the place up with your carcass!”

“Haha. I’d hate to waste a clean set of underwear so soon!  Besides, I love life even if I don’t love me.  I want to see how you keep progressing which means I’d have to stay alive at least until we can get back into the living quarters and out of this cramped command module.”

“Or after I see you on Mars?”

“Of course. There are times on Earth I’d say I’ll wait to kill myself until after X (some movie release, for instance).”

“Part of ordinary human existence, in other words…”

“Yep. Methinks it’s just a matter of dance withdrawal.  Only I can fix that, I have to care about myself and say it’s worth reworking our schedules that will support dancing. I risk losing more memories of Karen and living on my own…”

“Which you tried once and I appreciated the effort. Don’t worry, you won’t have to live alone for a long time, not on Mars!”

“Thanks for listening.  I may have figured out the latest reason for suicidal thinking: overthinking my withdrawal from dancing and how I can find a long-term solution for dancing more frequently.”

“Just not in the next 72 hours!”

“My chameleon/people pleaser self keeps wanting to draw a picture with you in it every time I talk to you and that’s not always necessary.”

“I understand. Perfectly natural. We’ve been space exploration partners longer than anyone.”

“Every time I talk to you like this, part of me wants to compose flowery love sonnets or a rap song just because I can and it’s fun to think you’d get an emotional kick out of my expressing lovelorn lamentations. Yes, part of me loves you that way but not always.”

“I love you, too, Lee. Feel free to hit me with your lamentations anytime. I won’t melt or faint, I promise.”

“Humans can do that, of course.”

“We’re not fully human anymore.”

“No. Still, though, I miss dancing with you on Earth, seeing how well your students improved, planning this future where two characters based in part on us (and others we know) would help build a new civilisation on Mars”

“Thanks. That is a nice way of showing what our friendship meant all along.”

“No problem. Doesn’t seem that long ago when I tried to stay away from you because I thought you’d be harmed emotionally by me when it was never my intent.”

Guin clicked her teeth and struck a John Wayne pose. “Well, pardner, you ain’t gettin’ away from me now!”

They both drew imaginary pistols and shot each other, their wrist panels automatically sensing an instant game of Cowboy Shootout, announcing Guin the victor of that round.

Lee feigned a chest wound and leaned back.

Transmission from the future transcribed on 11th Mar 2017

Via Inner Solar System Alliance Comm

[begin transmission]

Diary of a Left Hander

Of the many sets of states of energy with which I interact comfortably and thus call a friend (yet so much more because we do not limit ourselves to human-based conventional labels), you are truly one.

I would say I miss you but you are a continual part of my thought process meaning, of course, that I miss making eye contact with you and dancing in Mars’ gravitational fields with you as a nonjudgmental partner.

We express our knowledge of each other in centuries so the days, weeks and years in between the time we spend together are not fraught with meaning.

Instead, we measure what we have together in the immeasurable ways we encourage the other to focus on staying busy, hoping that the accumulation of information through moments building on moments we call wisdom gives us a cushion to lean on when we’re up against a wall beating our heads to avoid the abyss of…well, that place, the Big S.

At this point in our careers we have overcome enough project setbacks that we calmly face work-related problems as we calculate multiple outcomes to predict the best possible solution(s) given the current working dataset.

Do you remember that one summer when I attempted to move out on my own, forgetting, as I often do, that I am unable to function without a primary caretaker? My caretaker at the time was my longtime friend and marriage partner who was always jealous of anyone getting between her and her time with me.  She never understood the levels of friendship associated with polyamory, including platonic friendships of a nonsibling nature.  Like ours.

Your dance routines are just some of the parts of your being I admire for the melding of your creativity with your body form.  From that admiration I drew inspiration to create the ever evolving backyard creation I started calling a treehouse but which branched out into the inner solar system as our sets of states of energy were adapted to extraterrestrial existence.

At times my longterm depression expresses itself more strongly such as when I eat too much to compensate for lack of faith in a longterm future with you in it.  So far I’ve always resolved that situation.  So far.

Until next time!

[End communication]

Glacial Springs

“I’m not sure what love is anymore.”

Midmorning heat from the Sun melted frosty dew, water drops pipping and plopping from ancient tree limbs onto the glacier’s mottled surface.

The gurgle of a nearby moulin lulled them into silence once again.

He reached over and touched his fingers on the top of her head. “Is this love?”

“Maybe.  I mean yes, here in this moment.”

They held hands.

She continued looking down at a sedimentary rock, imagining its history.

“What is love to minerals frozen in time? Does a rock know love any more than the vapor trails we call clouds?”

He remembered standing under an apple tree on his grandparents’ farm, desiring to be as tall as his cousins who could leap and grab the lowest branch, pulling themselves up into the tree. He had to be lifted.  What kind of love was that?  What divided maturity and responsibility for younger siblings from a kind of numbness that comes with an early life full of tough lessons?

“If love is just a meme of a meme, a euphemistic cliche, how else have we led ourselves astray?”

The glacier rumbled under their feet in a low rhythm, as if music thumping in a bass box of a distant car was pulsing up through their soles.

“To you, love is just a generalised set of states of energy in motion.”

“To us both!”

“A ‘label,’ a ‘symbol.'”

“Uh-huh. And…?”

“Is the beauty of this place just to you sets of liquids succumbing to the law of gravity?”

“This place, yes. The beauty, no.”

“Then what is love?”

“Love is the thing and the memory/anticipation of the thing, whatever that thing may be. You are love, because we share memories and anticipate sharing more memories together.”

“Any memories?”

“Maybe…”

“Surely, love can’t be the anticipation of pain?”

“Some say it is. Our subculture taught us that a father who passively watched his son accused of crimes against humanity, then systemically tortured and murdered is love.”

“True.  Do I torture you enough?”

“More than I’ve let on.  I know when you’re mad at me but play innocent, even dumb, to deny your emotional victory over me.  That’s also love.”

“No doubt, sly fox!”

They swung their arms up and down to the rhythm of the glacier.

“Love is a musical instrument tuned to the vibrations around us.  A lover, a parent, a friend hears music, everyone else hears noise or nothing at all.”

They nodded in agreement and ran as fast as they could across the glacier, sending small shockwaves into the crevices and cracks crunching under their crampons.

Meanwhile, off planet..

“I miss the way it used to look when Orion shot a flaming arrow in the shape of the crescent moon during early spring on Earth.”

“Yeah, me, too. Oh, how jealous in was of the Moon when you two were alone, the moonlight looking over your shoulder when you studied for exams on the back porch.”

“Doesn’t seem that long ago, does it?”

“Unh unh. Makes me seem old yet I still feel so young!”

“Well, we are a few hundred Earth years old…”

“…but who’s counting?!” they said in unison, and began to dance.

“Do you still get jealous every time I dance with someone else?”

Lee nodded.

“Even the dance partner simulator?”

“Yes, Guin, even more so.”

“Good!” Guin pushed away from Lee and called up the dance sim, performing an elaborate ballet duet routine she’d found in old childhood memory archives recently.

A peace mint

Jogger, wearing a headlamp on a north Alabama side road, influenced by a viral video of villagers rescuing a neighbour’s body from within a python, bobs up and down as bobolinks and robins wake up in the predawn air.

We don’t pick cotton or cut sugar cane by hand around here anymore.

No, manual labour has lost its value as far as commercially-farmed edibles is concerned.

Manual labour still exists in the form of handcrafted art and jewelery.

Workers still fill potholes with shovelfuls of asphalt, still run power cable by hand, still hammer studs and plant bushes with their arms as levers.

But the tools grow more sophisticated, the workers’ brainpower redirected, their hand-eye coordination rewired.

We look to education to solve human-machine interface configuration issues.

What are looking for, really?

Is it one person’s yacht versus a thousand persons’ robotic movements?

Are we forever doomed to be hierarchical antmound builders, some with a mountaintop view and some in perpetual darkness underground?

A recent visitor to this planet asked if we’ve always been mountbuilding social creatures, observing from space that our domiciles are primarily boxes piled on top of boxes, linked by antlike trails carrying food and supplies from domicile to domicile primarily across the surface of the planet.

Who was I to disagree?

The visitor asked if we planned to carry these habits with us as we moved on to other planets.

A good question.

Have we advanced beyond moundbuilding civilisations?

Will we ever?

Will we continue to appease our ancestors or completely reconfigure ourselves to enhance our ability to travel great distances across the galaxy?

The visitor left us with many questions, providing no answers except in the negation of our Earthbound habits.

The visitor was not humanoid or superintelligent, the visitor did not use a universal translator to communicate.

The visitor was an asteroid with a shiny surface, reflecting us back to ourselves, reminding us that the tree which drops seeds on the ground is composed of the same galactic material.

The messages we write into DNA which triggers a new species to assert itself beyond Mars orbit, that is the lesson the asteroid taught us: we already have the tools we need to successfully move away from Earth, we just need to reeducate ourselves to use the tools properly, getting beyond moundbuilding and social hierarchies in the process.

The Fourth Wall

Lee met Shadowgrass for a moon bounce.

They’d take a hop for a couple of sols, bouncing from Martian moon to Martian moon, racing each other through suborbital traffic.

A typical parent/child venture.

They hadn’t seen each other for a long time, what between Lee hiding on Enceladus, traveling through a black hole, visiting and revisiting Earth, promoting, selling, experimenting, taking holidays,…

Shadowgrass wasn’t exactly free, either, having supervised the conversion of Lee’s and Guin’s labs and greenhouses to ensure enough tourism kept people focused on and talking about Mars, then soliciting resources for more research facilities far away from tourists.

As they circled the Northern Ice Cap, they noticed a new outpost.

“Have you been there?”

“No. It’s just another resort under construction, currently designated Outpost 14.”

“That’s curious. Why the extensive excavation?”

Shadowgrass had wondered the same thing. ISSANet records indicated special deep foundations were designed for the outpost. But why? The subsoil was firm. “I don’t know, Dad. It’s not readily apparent.”

They circled on around the planet, shooting out toward Deimos for a bite to eat.

“Shadowgrass, when you get back, can you make time to visit the outpost?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Thanks. Your genius will figure out what’s going on in ‘know time,’ I’m sure.”

They laughed.

“Last one to Deimos buys fuel credits!”

S’iht Egneh Snots

S’iht sat silently.

Assigned to the new outpost ten sols ago, S’iht had studied the goals and expectations of the outpost team.

This being the 14th outpost, with tourists taking up much of the old science station quarters of the First Colony, S’iht’s job importance had grown significantly as tourists put pressure on the new Martian government to provide fun, exciting places to explore safely.

S’iht knew that the first thirteen outposts were overcrowded.

The team for this outpost wanted something different, too.

After all, they has mastered all the knowledge that 200 marsyears of recent robotic exploration had accumulated. 

They wanted to be remembered.

Memory was gold in the outposts.

Being remembered by more than your teammates was priceless, rarely if ever achieved.

S’iht had once been remembered.

S’iht arrived in a group of ten excited tourists who had arrived with a shipment of permanent Martian settlers, Permartians, the first people designed to live there.

The Last Humans, S’iht’s tour group were called.

With so many returning tourists reporting major health problems the Mars Tourism Bureau declared the Red Planet offlimits to all but Permartians for next 100 marsyears.

S’iht had won the DNA lottery, surviving untold marsyears of ultraviolet and cosmic radiation exposure with little longterm damage.

S’iht was not remembered for health reasons.

S’iht has been wealthy on Earth, taking calculated but high risks investing in AI technology which turned whole planets into sentient beings, integrating many of Earth’s governments and corporations, forming the precursor to the ISSANet.

The economies of scale turned S’iht into the solar system’s first quintillionaire.

Until the ISSANet reached beyond the mere imaginings of Earthlings, converting S’iht’s wealth into a public resource for, of course, the greater good.

S’iht was erased from public memory, left to serve as a Martian Outpost Operator, unable to convince anyone of S’iht’s previous life.

Always inside the unending view of the ISSANet, the omniscient caretaker crafted to grow its existence beyond the solar system, rewriting and reinventing its connections, no longer dependent on human-based algorithms. 

But S’iht still dealt with tourists using old-fashioned methods of talking, facial movements and body postures developed over millennia of human evolution.

The fourteenth outpost was going to be remembered.

S’iht had a plan.

All while fighting off thoughts of self-hatred, dark thoughts of suicide when S’iht knew the ISSANet would please itself by keeping S’iht alive for centuries.

What if evidence of a strange alien civilisation was uncovered in the fourteenth outpost?

S’iht had new friends, including humans, Permartians and ‘bots. They formed a cohesive unit that communicated ideas without talking about them.

Together they had created a whole back story for a civilisation that had arrived on Mars billions of years ago but died out.

A civilisation that had known Earth in its early days before single-celled organisms had spread across the planet through water networks and evaporation. 

Together S’iht’s colleagues would dig out in full view of the ISSANet a civilisation that never existed.

Despite its advanced technology, the ISSANet carried within its network a series of iterative, reinforcing behaviours that mimicked humans’ sympathy networks, ever so slightly susceptible to subliminal messages.

S’iht’s colleagues spent decades of marsyears nurturing the seed of an ancient civilisation on Mars until the ISSANet convinced itself of the same possibility, doubling the duties of outpost builders to look for such.

S’iht had become an indispensable outpost crew member because of S’iht’s insistence that such a civilisation didn’t exist.

The ISSANet gambled a small portion of its galactic expansion resources on the chance S’iht was wrong.

S’iht just wanted to be remembered again.

S’iht joined the 14th Outpost crew and yelled out, “Let’s Stonehenge this place!”