Crystal Rebellion (2 page)

No way they’re four-gens.
She shook her head as she dismissed
the thought, though why Alex would give her that pitch didn’t make sense either.
If anyone would know, Alex would
.

For the remainder of her run, she thought about how he’d
made a play for her affections when they worked together years ago. She really liked
him—they still kept in touch—but other priorities always seemed to take
precedence in her life.

“Criss, this is just hypothetical, but what would a trip to
Mars look like if I were to go? How would I travel, how long would it take,
that sort of thing?”

* * *

Soon after, Criss entered the
spline, moving cautiously and scanning for danger. The primary pathway for connectivity
across Mars Colony, the spline started in the Central District and spiraled out
to link everything with everything else.

Though Juice had not yet made a final decision, Criss’s
forecasts predicted she would travel to Mars to see Alex. And duty-bound to protect
her, he traveled there now to perform a forward risk assessment.

Finding the spline free of peril, he darted in several
directions at once, gathering information about the colony and its citizens. He
monitored the ebb and flow of pedestrians in the central neighborhoods, toured
the outlying districts, and gathered background material from the colony’s prime
record.

As he pieced together details for a trip, he started to
fret. Mars and Earth were so far apart that he couldn’t protect Sid and Cheryl at
home and also protect Juice if she were to travel here to the colony. The
distance made reaction times too slow to be effective in both places at once.
Even this forward assessment forced him into a no-win situation. His leadership
was on Earth, away from his protection, while he took this quick glimpse.

I need to keep them together to ensure their safety.

And as he gathered information, he couldn’t discount the
mounting conflicts in his observations. Foremost among these was that the
colony didn’t have people with the skills to build a fourth-generation AI
crystal fabrication facility, among the greatest technological undertakings on
either world.

But Juice’s friend Alex had stated with certainty that
crystal production was imminent, and his demeanor had conveyed alarm at the
notion. Yet for Mars to produce four-gens, they’d need to convince some key technologists
to move here from Earth. And even then, they had years of work ahead of them
before they could produce a sentient crystal.

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.

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 the 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.