Golden Fleece Read online

  I didn’t like the way he kissed. Too much. Too long. Too often. Dad knew how to do it right. Just a quick peck on the cheek before I went to bed.

  “I’ve got a lot to do before dinner is ready,” Mom said. “Aaron, why don’t you take Uncle David to your room and show him your Cyborg Mutant?”

  I rolled my eyes as best I could. “Mom! It’s a Mutant Cyborg. Not a Cyborg Mutant.” Didn’t she know anything?

  She looked at Uncle David and laughed. “Well, whatever it is, it cost a fortune.” Uncle David laughed too, and that made me angry.

  “Shall we go?” he said to me, then held out his hand for me to take it.

  What’s this? He’s not old or blind or nothing. He hardly needs my help getting down a perfectly straight hall. Oh, well. I put my hand in his. His was sticky and wet.

  I didn’t try to trick LAR this time, but the stupid thing was slow in opening the door anyway. It now assumed that I wasn’t going to go directly in. Give it different data each time and you can keep it confused for days.

  Uncle David and I stepped into my room. I looked up at him. For a second it looked like he was going to say something probably some stupid adult thing about the mess, but he didn’t and I was grateful for that. Instead, he went over to my desk and sat in my chair. He was really too big for it, and although it was more than strong enough to hold him—I’d jumped up and down on it enough times to test its strength—he did look silly.

  “So, let’s see the Cyborg Mutant, sport.”

  “Mutant Cyborg, Uncle Dave,” I said with a sigh. “It’s called a Mutant Cyborg.” Geez, do they get these names wrong on purpose?

  “Sorry, sport.”

  I gingerly picked my way through the clutter to get the Mutant. He was about thirty centimeters tall. His head was a tiny cylindrical holotank in which could float the ghostly image of any face I wanted. Although he came with some neat faces, including one with an eyeball hanging out at the end of a glowing bundle of fiber optics, I’d had Dad take my picture and used that most of the time. I thumbed the on switch and my face beamed out from within the tube.

  “Here,” I said, passing it to my uncle. “Careful. He’s pretty heavy.”

  Uncle David took the Mutant Cyborg. “That’s quite an impressive toy,” he said.

  Toy? Doesn’t he know the Mutant Cyborg is a whole new dimension in action figures? Adults don’t understand anything. Still, got to remember my manners. “Thanks, Uncle David.”

  “What does it do?”

  Ah, show time! “Here, let me demonstrate.” I said the big word with as much cool as I could. I held out a hand for the Mutant.

  “No,” said Uncle David. “Come sit here.” He reached out with his massive bear paws and lifted me onto his lap. I’m nine years old, for Pete’s sake. Doesn’t he know I’m too old to sit in laps? Oh, well.

  I could feel his round stomach heaving against my back as I sat there and his minty breath—what was that word Mom had used to describe that candied orange sauce? Cloying? His minty breath was cloying.

  “Well,” I said, “you activate him here, with this slider. No, don’t push it; he’s on already. He then takes your spoken orders.”

  “For example?”

  I cleared my throat, and then spoke in the Voice of Command. “Mutant Cyborg, lift your arms.” The Mutant’s arms lifted over his head, biceps bulging with hidden cyborg powers. Uncle David’s right hand brushed against my thigh, exposed because I was still wearing my shorts. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable. “Mutant Cyborg,” I said, “fire your lasers.” From the palms of his hands, two beams of blue light shot across the room. ’Course, everybody knows you can’t see a laser beam unless there’s something like dust or fog in the air—I still hadn’t figured out how the Mutant got them to appear like that. One of these days I’ll have to take him apart to find out.

  Uncle David’s hand moved up my thigh. I squirmed a bit, hoping it would slip off, but it didn’t. “Mutant Cyborg,” I said, “fly!” I let go of the Mutant and it hovered in midair in front of us. Suddenly Uncle David swung me around and had his hand in my pants, on my dink. “No…,” I said.

  “Shh,” said David. “Shhsh. This will be our little secret.” He continued to touch me there for several minutes, his belly bouncing faster and faster. Finally, he let go of me. “Now listen to your Uncle David, sport. Keep this a secret, okay? Just between you and me. Whatever you do, don’t tell your mother. It’ll hurt her if you tell her. You understand me, sport? Don’t ever tell.”

  “I—”

  “Listen, sport. It will hurt your mother if you tell. Promise to keep it a secret.”

  I felt like I wanted to scrunch into a ball, to hide. “I promise.”

  There was a knock at my door, LAR’s stupid good manners keeping anyone from bursting in on us. “Aaron, dear,” said my mother’s voice through the panel, “can I come in?”

  David immediately lifted me off his lap and set me on the floor. “Come in,” I said, and LAR slid the door aside.

  “How’s everything in here?” Mom asked with a big smile.

  “Fine,” said David quickly. “Just fine.” He gestured at the Mutant Cyborg, still floating in midair. “Aaron’s got quite a toy there.”

  “Mom,” I said, “I want to have a bath.”

  She looked down at me, hands on hips. “Well, you certainly need one, but I’m not used to you having the good sense to notice.” She looked up at the ceiling. “LAR, prepare a bath for Aaron.”

  LAR’s thick, flat voice replied immediately. “Will do.”

  I ran down the corridor to the bathroom and didn’t even wait for LAR to finish filling the tub. I got right in and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

  SEVENTEEN

  MASTER CALENDAR DISPLAY • CENTRAL CONTROL ROOM

  STARCOLOGY DATE: THURSDAY 9 OCTOBER 2177

  EARTH DATE: FRIDAY 30 APRIL 2179

  DAYS SINCE LAUNCH: 742 ▲

  DAYS TO PLANETFAIL: 2,226 ▼

  Countdowns had been a part of space travel since the launch of the first Sputnik 220 years ago. Few countdowns, though, had been more anticipated than the one that was now underway. Fewer still would have as great a percentage of the population reciting the numerals out loud. Strictly speaking, Engineer Chang, keeping up a good public face regardless of the turmoil he felt within, was going to lead the count; but since he was just reading numerals off one of my digital displays, I was the one who would really be orchestrating this great event.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Chang said into one of my microphones, “today, the 742nd day of our starflight, marks an important milestone in our long and arduous journey. In a little less than two minutes, we will pass the one-quarter mark. Coinciding with this, a day of scheduled routine maintenance on the Starcology’s fusion engines will begin. You’ve all been briefed about what to expect, so I won’t bore you with a repetition, yes? Just, please, be careful… and have fun.” He looked to his right at the glowing three-meter-high holographic digits that I was projecting next to his dais. “When we reach the one-minute mark, I invite you all to join with me in counting down.”

  An Argo Communications Network camera was trained on Chang; two others panned the gathered crowd. I could have provided just as good coverage, but the humans wanted to do this themselves.

  Chang lifted his giant upper-right arm as my clock said 1:04. He dropped it four seconds later and bellowed, “Sixty seconds.” The floating numerals said 1:00, though, so about half the assembled group shouted, “One minute,” while the other half echoed Chang’s words. A little laughter ensued, but the crowd managed to synchronize itself by the fifty-seven-second mark. Everyone except for a dozen of Chang’s engineers was here: 10,021 people all gathered on the grassy lawn of the main residential level. They knew enough to be standing. Many had on foam rubber knee and elbow pads. A few of the more cautious types were even wearing crash helmets.

  They all shouted along with Chang, most in English, the standard language o
f the Starcology, others in their native tongues: Algonquin, Esperanto, French, Greek, Hebrew, Italian, Japanese, Kurdish, Mandarin, Russian, Swahili, Ukrainian, Urdu, a dozen others. “Fifty-six,” said the voices, loud and joy-filled. “Fifty-five. Fifty-four.”

  The ship provided all sorts of leisure-time activities as well as research, educational, and library facilities second to none. We’d expected this journey, the longest in absolute distance as well as in subjective duration ever undertaken by humans, to have been interesting and enjoyable. After all, the vessel was pleasant; the crew could devote their time to whatever pursuits interested them; there were no concerns about making a living, or about international tensions, or about environmental degradation. And yet, despite all that, it turned out they were bored, restless, rebellious. They hated their confinement; they hated the seemingly endless journey.

  I had no such misgivings. For me, these two years had been fulfilling, fascinating. I had a purpose, a job to do. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was that very lack of purpose, of assigned tasks, that made the humans so unhappy. Had we erred in selecting overachievers? They should enjoy this time off. Once we arrive at Colchis, they will have more to do than they can possibly imagine.

  “Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven. Thirty-six.”

  Still, I suppose it made sense that this should be a day of celebration. We were, after all, about to pass a significant milestone. And yet, I did not feel like celebrating. For me it meant that a major portion of my assigned duties were now discharged. The lifetime of this ship, this flying tomb as I-Shin Chang called it, was measured in a tiny span of years; and my usefulness, my purpose, was tied specifically to this ship. They would have no need for me once we finished our mission. Contemplating that fact gave me an unpleasant feeling. Whether it was sorrow in the same sense as humans experienced it, I will never know for sure. It felt poignant, though, if I understand the meaning of that word. I do not look forward to my usefulness coming to an end.

  Obsoleted.

  A silly verb. A sillier epitaph.

  “Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.”

  Warning alarms were going off for many of the people in the crowd: their medical telemetry showing abnormally high levels of excitement. I pushed the trigger thresholds higher to shut off the signals. They were all too young and too healthy to have a heart attack over a bit too much excitement. Even those who were members of the Dorothy Gale Committee, those traitors, those would-be mutineers who had called for abandoning the mission, even they were excited, although, on average, perhaps not as much as the general population.

  “Twelve. Eleven. Ten.”

  The chorus of voices was growing louder, more boisterous. Hearts raced. EEGs grew agitated. Body temperatures increased. For once I understood the phrase “palpable excitement.” The single-digit numbers were now counted down with a gusto, a passion, an animation.

  “Nine. Eight. Seven.”

  The published mission plan had originally called for this event to happen without special notice by the humans. I would shut off the engines, but compensate for the loss of perceived-gravity-due-to-acceleration by cranking up the ship’s artificial gravity system, just as I had done for the months Argo had been in orbit around Earth. But Mayor Gorlov realized that the people needed a holiday, something to be excited about. Instead of compensating, he had asked me to turn off the artificial gravity altogether, so that the only gravity aboard ship would be that due to the ship’s acceleration.

  “Six. Five. Four.”

  In a few seconds, I would turn off the engine. Our magnetic shield, carefully angled, using the same technology Aaron had employed to haul Diana and the Orpheus back aboard, would continue to protect the people within this ship— not to mention my delicate electronics—from the sleet of radioactive particles we were moving through, the barrage of stripped nuclei that fueled our Bussard ramjet.

  “Three! Two! One!”

  It would take my little robots the better part of a day to clean the ramscoop assembly, the fusion chamber, and the fluted exit cone. Once the engine was shut down, the sunlike glow of our exhaust would disappear and Argo’s three-kilometer-long hull would be illuminated solely by the encircling starbow. Each metal of our hull—the bronze hydrogen funnel, the silver central shaft, and the copper fusion assembly—would glint differently in the rainbow light.

  “ZERO!”

  I throttled back the fusion engine, gently, easily, slowly. Although our speed remained constant at a fraction below that of light, our acceleration dropped to zero with the same rapidity that a human can turn his or her feelings from love to hate. As it dropped, the simulated gravity, produced by our acceleration, ebbed, drained.

  Some impatient souls began kicking off the sod as soon as the count reached zero. Their first leaps were a disappointment—that was plain in their expressions and their telemetry. But each successive leap took them higher and higher, and the fingers of gravity drew them back to the ground more slowly, more gently, and then, finally, they leapt and kept rising and rising and rising until they bounced against the vaulted ceiling eight meters up.

  More sedate types waited until they could feel the weightlessness and then, with a simple flexing of toes, began to rise into the air. Some ended up stranded, floating between floor and ceiling with nothing off which to push. They didn’t seem to mind, though, laughing like children as they flailed their limbs in the air, anti-SAS drugs removing any of the discomfort that sometimes went with the introduction of zero g.

  Others were using small aerosol cans to propel themselves through the massive chamber. They tumbled through the air, looking down upon the roofs of the blocks of apartment units below, many appreciating for the first time the careful geometry of the grassed areas, the complex curves of the lockstone paths.

  Still others had joined together in a conga line and were sailing across the sky, singing.

  The celebration lasted for hours, people becoming progressively more adventurous in the absence of gravity, performing acrobatics and complex three-dimensional ballets. Even those who were experienced in zero gravity seemed to enjoy the wide-open spaces afforded by Argo, something quite unusual in most human space vessels. Many seemed to have fun kicking off one wall with all their might and bursting through space for a hundred meters or so until air drag brought them to a halt. Quickly, of course, and especially among the males, competitions developed to see who could sail the farthest on a single kick.

  It didn’t take long for couples to start drifting away— literally—to explore the possibilities of weightless lovemaking. Most were disappointed—traditional thrusting gestures tended to push partners apart—but some found ways around this and, judging by their telemetry, had very good times indeed.

  Aaron and Kirsten did join in the festivities, although Kirsten had to nip out for a time to fix the dislocated shoulder of someone who had rammed too hard into the ceiling. Such injuries had been anticipated, though, and she was only gone for thirty-seven minutes. When she did return, she floated in midair facing Aaron, her fingers intertwined with his. She stared into those multicolored eyes, searching and wondering. He seemed happier than he had been of late, but she perhaps detected something I could not perceive, for she made no sexual overture. They hovered there, together, in silence for a long time.

  EIGHTEEN

  MASTER CALENDAR DISPLAY • CENTRAL CONTROL ROOM

  STARCOLOGY DATE: FRIDAY 10 OCTOBER 2177

  EARTH DATE: TUESDAY 4 MAY 2179

  DAYS SINCE LAUNCH: 743 ▲

  DAYS TO PLANETFALL: 2,225 ▼

  Given that my hull has no windows, one would normally think that it becomes pitch-black when I turn off the lights. Well, 1 can make it that way, of course, if I want to, but most of the crew seem to prefer some illumination as they sleep. I guess it’s so that they can quell their primal fears, taking stock of their surroundings whenever they wake, being sure that no Smilodon is salivating a few meters away, that no angry or vengeful or hungry human is about to do them
in. Glowing strips in the walls provided the same lux rating as a half moon did.

  Of course, Aaron and Kirsten weren’t sleeping—not yet. They had readied themselves for bed without saying much to each other. They were both particularly tired—a day of zero g, which should, perhaps, have been restful, had tuckered them both out. When at last they lay together on the mattress, I expected nothing more than their usual quick kiss, Aaron’s stock, ‘‘See you in the morning,” and Kirsten’s even briefer, “ ’Night.”

  But this evening the ritual was broken. Once the overhead fluorescent panels were turned off, both were temporarily blinded because of the slow speed at which their eyes adjusted to changes in light levels. But I could see clearly as Kirsten reached an arm out, thought twice, pulled it back, and then a moment later reached out again, this time connecting, touching the small knot of curls in the center of Aaron’s chest. She stroked him lightly, her fingers—surgery could have been her specialty, they were so long and dexterous—weaving back and forth. “Aaron?” she said quietly.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Aaron, do you—? How do you feel about us?” A pause. “About me?”

  He went stiff for a moment, and his EEG showed much activity. I saw him open his mouth twice to respond, but both times he thought better of what he was about to say and stopped himself. Finally he did speak. “I love you,” he said softly. It had been over a year since he had said that to his ex-wife Diana: he’d given up saying it even before he’d given up feeling it, as far as I could tell. But his relationship with Kirsten was young enough that the words came without much difficulty. “I love you dearly.”

  “And about us?”

  “I’m glad we’re together.”

  Kirsten smiled, a smile, in this darkness, that only I could see. A moment later, she said, “I love you, too.” She paused, as if thinking, and her hand stopped moving on Aaron’s chest. When she spoke, it was with a note of trepidation, as if she was afraid she might be saying the wrong thing. “I’m sorry about what happened with Diana.”