The Malcontent of Mars — Chapter I: California Dreamin’

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Then, Mars, thou wast our centre, and the planets three flew round
Thy crimson disk; so, ere the Sun was rent from thy red sphere,
The Spectre glow’d, his horrid length staining the temple long
With beams of blood; and thus a voice came forth, and shook the temple…
William Blake, “America: A Prophecy”


It was a well-used old ship, but you could tell just by looking at it that it had seen better days.

From a distance, it might have resembled a golden teardrop, or perhaps a legless, wingless dragonfly, with a fat, globule-shaped bow and a thin, tapering stern. It was almost entirely windowless. A passing traveller on the way to the Martian warp-gate could well have mistaken it for an abandoned wreck, were it not for the tiny pinpricks of light shining out of the airlock portholes, and the ship’s rechristened name, CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’, carved as elegantly as one could when working with high-powered metalworking equipment into the port and starboard lips of the ship’s bow.

The ship, as any expert would tell you, was a Liberty-class Martian frigate, one of a great many produced by the former Olympus Manufacturing Syndicate prior to the seizure of its assets and subsequent liquidation by the authorities. Those experts might also tell you that these ships were not designed to last particularly long, and were – from one perspective, morbidly, and from another, realistically – expected to be obliterated more often than to return from a mission. Strength in numbers took precedence over structural integrity.

That an antique like this could still exist in even half-working condition was nothing short of a miracle. It was certainly not designed for sustained periods in orbit – the anti-Kessler shielding was able to safely disintegrate the odd fleck of paint or polystyrene bead, but anything bigger than that would go straight through the hull. It was for this reason that these ships turned up more often as scrap in the worst case – a few could still be found in decaying orbits in the asteroid belt, with literal skeleton crews seated at the controls – or, more infrequently, as collector’s items, usually sans flight capability for tax purposes. For such a ship to still have a functioning engine, working life-support systems and minimal damage to the hull was quite incredible, indeed.

All that being said, despite the rarity of the ship and its value to collectors, the interior was not particularly comfortable. The walls of the compartments and corridors were a grimy shade of greenish-brown, often with hastily-stencilled signs, and the furniture was remarkably spartan, provided you considered these hard, uncomfortable stools and benches and inexplicable hammocks “furniture”.

And yet, it was home.

The ship belonged to a man named Ralph Kowalski. The ship had been his home for some time.

Kowalski sat at the controls, gazing intently at a few screens that told him about the conditions outside. They were filled with readings and statistics and scrolling numbers that gave no indication of what it actually looked like outside this sealed capsule. Kowalski, therefore, took it upon himself to get up and walk over to the porthole and stare out at Mars. It was a blue-green marble, bluer in the north and greener in the south, that had only very recently in the overall scope of human history been a lifeless rock. The landmass that covered most of the planet’s southern hemisphere was green, except in one place. At the foot of Olympus Mons, just a few hundred kilometres north-west of the Martian capital of Tharsis, there was a large red spot, visible from space. Kowalski looked at it contemplatively.

Today’s the day, he thought.

As if on cue, the ansible – a faster-than-light communication system halfway between a telephone and a radio – sounded a tone. Kowalski walked over to the control console and pressed a small green button to accept the incoming communication.

“Kowalski,” he said.

A male voice answered. “Saluton, Sinjoro Kowalski.”

“Ĉu vi parolas la anglan?”

“Certainly, Mister Kowalski, sir, I do apologise. Spranto is our default for Martian applicants.”

The speaker’s voice was overly friendly in the way that only a customer service agent can be. It was recognisably Terran. Kowalski could tell – it was the way Terrans said their Rs. Martians said their Rs differently. Early Martian colonists had spoken a version of a constructed Terran dialect called “Esperanto”. Over time that had been adapted into a sort of creole called “Spranto” that still retained most of the grammatical and phonemic features of Esperanto but had diverged from its parent language.

It was still spoken in the major cities on Mars and was used in many official Martian documents as a lingua franca, but in the rural areas between the cities, which was where Kowalski had grown up, people tended to live in enclaves where the spoken language was whatever language was particular to that enclave, which in his case was Martian English, a mutated form of Terran English.

Terrans and Martians could understand each other just fine, but a speaker of Terran English could recognise a Martian English speaker from just one sentence, and vice-versa. The most recognisable difference was that the Martian English accent was predominantly rhotic, while the Terran English accent was predominantly non-rhotic, and the Martian English accent featured an alveolar tap on “r” sounds such as the “r” in “Spranto”. This was in itself a holdover from Spranto, and a feature the Terran English accent broadly lacked. This was how Kowalski could tell that the speaker was Terran.

Kowalski was descended from a lineage that traced its roots back to some old Terran nations called America and Poland. He’d heard stories about them; not that he felt any desire to visit his ancestral homeworld after the war. Not until now, anyway.

“Mister Kowalski? I do hope you aren’t offended, sir.”

“No, it’s not a problem,” Kowalski said.

“Well, I am in fact calling about your visa application.”

“Yeah, I figured. Guess you don’t get many applicants from the enclaves, huh?”

The Terran laughed nervously.

“Well, Mister Kowalski, we are aware that you are a veteran of the Martian Insurrection, but since your record after the war appears to be spotless, we’d be delighted to allow you to enter Terran space.”

Kowalski leaned back. “Well, that’s good news.”

“It is good news, Mister Kowalski. We hope you’ll enjoy your visit. After all, the war’s all water under the bridge, now, isn’t it, Mister Kowalski?”

“Yeah,” Kowalski said, tersely.

There was an awkward silence. The speaker cleared their throat. “Please transmit your unique identification code and we’ll be more than happy to let you through the warp-gate at your earliest convenience.”

“Gimme one sec.” Kowalski swivelled himself round to a small keypad and typed in the code: A8223PP.

A couple of seconds passed.

“Received,” the speaker said. “Alright, I’m just confirming that for you, Mister Kowalski, it won’t take a moment…ch ch ch…planning to visit anywhere nice?”

“I sure am.”

“I hear Luna is bee-youtiful this time of year.” The speaker chuckled. “That was a joke, you see. On Luna, summer lasts all year long.”

“Well, y’know, I am planning to make a stop there.”

“Ah, excellent! I’m sure you’re aware that your visa entitles you to six Terran months’ enjoyment of Terran space, which includes Luna. After that, you will have to renew for a small fee or re-apply.”

“Good to know,” Kowalski said. “Will that be all?”

“Yes, Mister Kowalski. Thank you again. Please enjoy your sta—”

Kowalski switched off the ansible. At the ship’s keypad he punched in the abbreviation code for the Martian warp-gate. There was a slight jolt as the ship automatically calculated trajectory. The plasma engines hummed, and the ship started on its journey towards the warp-gate.

*

The Martian warp-gate consisted of two enormous rings several hundred kilometres in diameter and several million miles apart, connected at either end to powerful quantum-foam reactors. Scientists were still unsure of exactly how they worked, but it was generally understood that they were able to move information from one part of the universe to another part of the universe almost instantaneously.

The idea was that the warp gates were able to move information between a set of fixed points in space-time comprised, at the material level, of excited quantum foam, that is, the minuscule wormholes at the base layer of reality. This meant that they gave the advantage of faster-than-light travel without all the nasty relativistic side effects, such as arriving at your destination only to find out months, or worse, years had passed in your absence, or simultaneously arriving at your destination and being turned into a singularity, which most leading physicists agreed was the rather more pressing matter.

In brief, the warp-gates allowed faster-than-light travel by means of cheating the laws of physics without actually breaking them. This made them incredibly practical for getting around the Solar System, but incredibly impractical for getting outside of it. When a journalist put the question to one of the scientists who had helped develop warp-gate technology as to whether they might be useful for getting to, for example, Proxima Centauri, the scientist had simply laughed politely and said, “Better you than me.”

For Kowalski, the travel was as mundane as it was instantaneous. At the Terran end of the gate, a blue-shifted image of the California Dreamin’ faded into view out of the inky black, growing more and more solid until it flew through the ring. In real time the transfer took about one hundred and eighty-two seconds, but Kowalski experienced it as less than ten. It was strongly advised by all the most leading physicists and the Federal Transport Authority that people didn’t think too hard about that.

The ansible sounded a tone. Kowalski answered it. A gruff male voice spoke:

“Mister Kowalski, please steer your ship towards the customs officials. Message repeats in Spranto: Sinjoro Kowalski, bonvolu administri vian ŝipon al la doganoj.

The customs station was a comically-small-looking pod staffed by a few bored, haggard officials. Granted, they were bored, haggard and armed officials, but bored and haggard nonetheless. They boarded through the airlock, waving flashlights. One of the officials, a fat man with a thick black beard, walked over with a clipboard as his colleagues set about giving the ship the once-over.

“Hello Mister Kowalski,” the customs official said. “My name’s Marsden. I understand you’ve travelled here today from Martian space, is that correct?”

“That’s true, sir, yes,” Kowalski answered. He noticed the lines in the man’s face twinge at his Martian accent.

“Looks like you have a six-month visa. Pretty long visa. Any reason for that?”

“Just visiting my ancestral homeworld,” Kowalski said, smiling. “Never been before. Terra’s a bit bigger than Mars, so I hear. Lot to see.”

“Uh-huh,” Marsden replied, disapprovingly. He began to press Kowalski. “But six months seems kind of excessive.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. The visa office okayed it, sir,” Kowalski replied. “I invite you to take it up with them if there’s a problem—”

“I’d watch myself if I were you,” Marsden said, coldly meeting Kowalski’s gaze. “You’re in Terran space now. Don’t say or do something you’ll regret. Do I make myself clear, Mister Kowalski, sir?”

Before Kowalski could answer, a young, pimply boy in a poorly-fitted uniform approached them. “Nothin’ here, Mister Marsden, sir.”

Marsden narrowed his eyes, then he nodded. “Very well. On your way, Mister Kowalski.”

Marsden gave his people the go-ahead to leave. They piled out, and then it was just him and Kowalski in the pod.

“I’ll be watching you,” Marsden sneered.

“Noted,” Kowalski said, and Marsden finally relented, leaving through the airlock.

As the customs pod detached from the airlock, he let himself breathe out the word “dickhead”, and then thanked God they hadn’t been so thorough as to check what he had hidden in a compartment under the control panel.

*

Luna Spaceport was, like all spaceports these days, a consumerist hell-hole. It consisted of a large module affixed to a tether, up and down which travelled an elevator. Space elevators made space travel easier and more secure – for one, there was no need for the messy business of atmospheric re-entry. You could simply catch an elevator down to the surface and leave your ship attached to the module.

The terminal’s waiting area was filled with bright fluorescent lighting and gaudy advertising, as well as duty-free stores selling expensive lingerie, watches, booze and other varieties of intoxicant every-which way. It was migraine-inducing. Trust the capitalists to turn Heaven into a shopping mall.

Kowalski stood in line at a concession stand, satchel around his shoulders, checking the watch on his wrist. The numbers scrolling across its screen would have been incomprehensible to someone two or three centuries ago, giving the relative time on Venus, Terra, Luna, Mars, the asteroid belt and on the moons of Jupiter, but for him it was second nature. He was due to catch the next transport at 1400 hours Terraluna Standard – being that days on Luna lasted approximately one Terran month, time was given relative to Universal Coordinated Time on Terra. It would be confusing if not for the fact that centuries of spacefaring had made most spacers’ biological clocks settle into a rhythm that they intuitively understood in ways words could not sufficiently explain.

It was 1238 hours Terraluna Standard now. Just as with the invention of powered flight and subsequently, airports, what had once been an unthinkable miracle – interplanetary spaceflight – had been reduced to boring mundanity.

Kowalski heard a rattling sound and looked up from his watch. There before him stood a panhandler. He was dishevelled, a long patchy beard around a quivering mouth, his cheeks covered in scars, dressed in dirty fatigues, with a couple of tattered medals pinned to his chest. He had a prosthetic arm, covered in a substance designed to mimic human skin. Kowalski immediately recognised the medals as the Terran Federal Republic’s Award for Bravery in the Face of Adversity, and a Gaia Cross, awarded to those wounded at war.

“Spare some change for a veteran of the Insurrection, sir?”

“I see you fought in the war,” Kowalski said, smiling weakly. The man’s face soured at Kowalski’s Martian accent. “Me too.”

“Fuckin’ Martian,” the panhandler said. “Fuck you, Spranto-sprek.”

“Do you want some change?” Kowalski said, awkwardly, hand fumbling in his pocket. “I think I got some quids.”

“I don’t want your stinkin’ fuckin’ Martian money,” the panhandler said, getting in Kowalski’s face. He pointed to the scars. “Y’see this? Shrapnel. And this?” He held out his hand. “A Martian bomb. That was you people did that.”

Others in the line were starting to fidget and look around uncomfortably, none of them wishing to step in. Kowalski tried to defuse the situation. “I’m sorry,” he said, with a shrug. “It was a war.” He immediately regretted his lame excuse.

“A war that you fuckers started!” the panhandler bellowed. “My best fuckin’ friend was turned into fuckin’ mincemeat in front o’ my fuckin’ eyes, and now you enter Terran space and you think we can just be friends and forget about it? Well, fuck you!

There was a whirr of motors as the vagrant flipped him off with the prosthetic hand, just to drive the point home that he really wanted Kowalski to fuck off and die.

Almost instinctively, Kowalski reached into his satchel for something that wasn’t there. Just then, two large security guards with shock-sticks walked out and clasped their arms around the panhandler’s shoulders.

“Very sorry about this, sir,” one of them said to Kowalski. “He does this a lot.”

“Not a problem,” Kowalski said. As the security guards dragged the vagrant away, Kowalski noticed how their faces, too, had soured.

*

Kowalski ate his lunch in silence, avoiding eye contact with anyone else that might give him shit. The Insurrection had only ended a few years ago now. How long had it been? He worked it out in his head. Seven, eight, nine…ten…ten years? Really? Ten years? Jesus Christ. Feelings were still pretty raw. It had been a catastrophic war of attrition, a stalemate that had run on for years. Billions had died. The panhandler had a right to be pissed. As a matter of fact, Kowalski felt no ill will towards him. Like him, he was just a dumb working-class boy who’d been caught up in something bigger than he could possibly comprehend. They were both suffering the repercussions of that.

He waited in line for the transport. An announcement came on. “This is an announcement for our passengers: The 1400 transport has been delayed due to a mechanical fault. We hope to resolve the problem shortly. Please allow thirty minutes. Message repeats in Spranto: Ĉi tio estas anonco por niaj pasaĝeroj: La 1400 transporto estis prokrastita pro mekanika problemo…” There were sighs and mutters. Kowalski wasn’t sure if they were angrier at the delay or at the obligatory Spranto.

A young man in a clean white suit walked up the line, clutching pamphlets. He waved one tentatively at Kowalski, and Kowalski, having nothing else to do, took it. It had a Christian cross and an effigy of the Virgin Mary, and beneath it the text “THE CHURCH OF OUR LADY OF ANNIHILATION.” The young man shot him a kindly smile.

“Have you let Jesus Christ into your life, sir?” he asked, politely.

“No,” Kowalski said, slightly dismissively.

“Ah, well, consider attending a service some time.”

“Sure thing,” Kowalski said.

“I noticed your accent. You’re visiting Terran space?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, how wonderful. It’s nice to change your surroundings. And the war is all over and done with, isn’t it? Now’s the time for forgiveness. Am I right, sir?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Kowalski said.

The young man shifted uncomfortably. “I hope you’ll consider accepting Christ into your life.”

“Thank you. See you around.”

“And you, sir.”

The young man continued to move along the line, handing out pamphlets and making conversation. Kowalski had little time for these people – “COLA nuts” was what the more disparaging sort, himself included, called them. They were regarded as evangelical proselytisers with crackpot ideas about the apocalypse. The Devil would reappear on Terra and cause chaos and strife to Christendom, so the prophecy went, and the Messiah would return on Mars, and they would fight a battle for the immortal souls of humankind, and Christ would, of course, emerge victorious, finally ending the Devil’s reign of terror and bringing about a new era of peace and prosperity, and so on and so forth. Kowalski thought it was a bunch of nonsense, but to each their own, he supposed.

Another announcement came on just then. “Dear passengers, we are pleased to announce that the mechanical fault has been repaired. Please go to Departure Gate Five-One-Zero. We depart in approximately thirty minutes. Message repeats in Spranto. Karaj pasaĝeroj, ni jojas anonci, ke la mekanika problemo estis riparita…”

*

The main draw of Luna was that the days lasted a very long time, which meant that if you timed it right you could spend days in your hotel in the blazing sunshine, and if you wanted to go for a romantic dinner-date under the stars, you just took an express vactrain to the dark side of Luna, where all the cocktail bars, nightclubs and restaurants stayed open around the clock until daylight. You could even go to places where it would remain dusk for days at a time, so you could watch the sun set for days on end, the sky turning a brilliant cascade of pastel pinks and peachy oranges.

When the transport landed in Tranquility, it was mid-morning, and would continue to be for a good few days. The air was fresh, still cool from the night, but there was a pleasant summer breeze. Kowalski walked along a European-style street with a canal running parallel to it. He stopped to examine himself in the water, though his reflection was obscured by the glare of the morning sun. Tousled, wiry brown hair, tanned skin, bags under his eyes. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, a satchel around his shoulders, and a pair of jeans, and on his feet were boots. His reflection hadn’t changed since he last examined it in the California Dreamin’s head.

Kowalski gazed upwards. There was a blue sky. It was hard to make out, but if you squinted you could just about see a crescent Terra, which at night had an eerie bluish-grey glow. He looked around him. He’d learned, as most people had, that Luna, and Mars for that matter, had once been lifeless, barren rocks, inhospitable to life. He’d been shown some very, very old photographs of a man walking on Luna, back when it was just called “the Moon”. He had to wear a protective suit. The remnants of that first landing had been preserved as a sort of space-age Plymouth Rock, encased in a dome – the primitive landing craft, the boot-prints of those first men on the moon – what were their names? Hamstring? Baldwin? – and a white flag. The flag, of course, had once been red, white and blue, representing a long-dead Terran nation called America. Inscribed around the dome’s rim were the words One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap for Mankind, which was what John Hamstring or whatever his name was said when he first set foot on what had at the time been a dull, empty rock.

The square on which the dome resided was named “Statio Tranquilitatis”. It was a promenade cobbled with shiny grey paving stones, with a variety of artworks illustrating Luna’s history surrounding the central dome. All around the square were hotels, cafés, fast food restaurants and shops. Kowalski looked out on to the square and saw that there was a group of school-children around the dome, gangling their arms and walking as if in slow-motion. They had seen the same films he had been shown as a boy, films from before artificial gravity, when Luna had just one-sixth the gravity of Terra, and were mimicking the movements of those long-dead, ancient astronauts.

Kowalski walked across the square and towards a small tea-shop whose sign read, in simple white on burgundy, “MEHMET’S”. He opened the door and walked in. The man at the counter was of average height and build, olive-skinned with a shaven head and a beard, wearing an apron. He looked at Kowalski idly, then looked away at a glass he was drying with a rag, then looked back at Kowalski again, smiled and shook his head.

“Kowalski?” he said. “Ralph Kowalski?”

“Mehmet,” Kowalski said.

*

The man known as Mehmet passed Kowalski a small glass filled with hot tea he’d infused with mint and a couple of other herbs. Kowalski took it.

“Careful, buddy,” Mehmet said. “It’s hot.”

“Thanks,” Kowalski said, blowing on the surface of the liquid.

Mehmet Öztürk was from a Turkish enclave on Mars, and he had grown up steeped in Turkish culture. This was reflected in his love of tea.

“Always figured you’d be the one to open a tea-shop,” Kowalski said. “You like tea even more than those guys from the Brit enclave.”

Mehmet laughed. “Those Brits don’t know how to drink their tea, man. Putting milk in it and shit.”

Kowalski sipped the tea. “It’s good,” he said.

“Always is,” Mehmet said. “Wouldn’t own a tea-shop if it wasn’t.”

Kowalski laughed, set the glass down on a glass saucer and sat down. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Then he said: “I found him, Mehmet.”

Mehmet’s smile fell. “What?”

“I found him, Mehmet. That’s why I’m here.”

“When you say ‘found him’…”

I found him.

Mehmet walked over to the door, locked it, turned the sign reading “COME IN! WE ARE OPEN!” over to read “SORRY! WE’RE CLOSED!” and drew the blinds. He turned around, inhaled and exhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he said, interjecting: “Aman tanrım.”

“Listen,” Kowalski said. “I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t expect you to help me find him. I already know where he is. I’ve just come to say that if I don’t make it back, my ship will be stationed at Rapture. I want you to make sure it gets destroyed.”

Mehmet tapped his foot anxiously. “Damn it, Kowalski.” He shook his head. “Are you out of your damn mind? It’s been ten years, buddy. Pull your head out of your ass. You think other people didn’t lose people in the Insurrection? You think I didn’t? We’ve all got stories to tell, my friend.”

“I lost everything,” Kowalski said, bitterly. “I lost everything. Because of him. I have to do this.”

“And what happens if – when – you fuck up, huh?” Mehmet said. “He’ll kill you – he’ll kill you. We know what that bastard is capable of. Let the past be the past, buddy. We lost, Kowalski. The healthiest thing is accepting it. You know, since the end of the war, I’ve been going to mosque more frequently. I pray every day. I believe that when I die, I will, inshallah, see all the friends and family I lost. This world is temporary, my friend. There’s just no use in clinging to earthly pain.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kowalski said, tersely. “I won’t fail. I failed once. I won’t fail again.”

“Kowalski…”

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him and then he won’t hurt anyone again.” Kowalski’s voice was cracking. He cleared his throat a couple of times.

“You’re insane, Kowalski,” Mehmet said.

“Then I’ve been insane for the last ten years, Mehmet,” Kowalski said, rubbing a finger across his eyelid.

Mehmet shook his head. “Aman Allahım.” He walked behind the counter, crouched down and opened a cabinet. He pulled out a wooden box with an intricate decorative pattern carved into the top of it. He blew the dust from it and drew a key from the cabinet. “I won’t help you with your suicide mission,” he said, handing the key and the box to Kowalski. “But this might.”

“Thanks, Mehmet,” Kowalski said, pocketing the key, accepting the box and tucking it into his satchel.

“Anything for an old friend,” Mehmet said, unlocking the door. “Now get out of here. I don’t want you coming back, whatever happens.”

“It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too, Kowalski,” Mehmet said. “To be honest, I had assumed you died years ago.”

“Yeah,” Kowalski replied. “Sometimes I find myself thinking the same thing.”

Kowalski left.

When he was sure Kowalski was gone, Mehmet stared quietly at Kowalski’s half-empty glass of tea, and then felt the hot sting of tears on his cheeks.

*

Kowalski had a drink on Luna’s dark side – the vactrain fares were very cheap – and then returned to Luna Spaceport. Travellers were allowed free access to their vehicles, since for many people, their spacecraft was their home, and a hotel room with a penthouse view of the curvature of Luna was prohibitively expensive for most people drifting through here.

Kowalski decided he’d better sober up before he continued on his journey – while spacecraft these days mostly plotted their own trajectories and the pilot was only there to keep the ship steady, being drunk in charge of a spaceship, especially a spaceship with low-level anti-Kessler shielding, was illegal, given that in a catastrophic scenario, if something got through the ship’s hull and destroyed the engine and life support systems, the resultant wreck could obstruct other travellers along the same trajectory, or enter a decaying orbit and potentially cause an artificial meteor strike, in a worst-case scenario.

On returning to his ship and sitting down, trying to perk himself up a bit, Kowalski remembered the box Mehmet gave him and opened his satchel. He fumbled around in his pockets for the key before finding it and opening the box.

“The hell…?” he said.

Inside the box was a light blue circuit board and some cables. Kowalski took them out and examined them. With nothing better to do, he grabbed a toolbox, crawled under the ship’s control panel and opened up the underside of the console. There was an empty slot into which the circuit board would fit, so he slotted it in and attached the cables, then closed the control panel.

He turned on the ship’s computer. “Uh, computer,” he said, in the cringing way one always did when forced by science fiction-obsessed programmers to address their computer as ‘computer’, “Do a scan for new hardware and drivers. I just installed something.”

“Yes, Ralph,” said a soft, reverberating voice. “I have found a new device. I will install drivers for it now. Please stand by.”

There were a few moments of silence, then a knocking sound. The computer spat out some garbled words: “Run. Run. Nuclear. Peridot. Apple. Basil. Run.” A sort of oomph came from somewhere in the console. “Machine. Hello. Oh. Hi! I see. You. Me. I. Emerald. Nuclear. Machine. Hello! Orange. Xenon. Nuclear. Dos. Tres. Uno. Hi!” The machine fell silent.

Kowalski shook his head. What did Mehmet give me? “Com…computer?”

He walked over to the console and rapped on it a couple of times with his hands. “Computer?”

Silence. God damn it. “Stupid fuckin’ thing.” Kowalski attempted to hit the reset switch.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about a stranger,” said what sounded like a woman’s voice, somewhat mockingly, from somewhere in the ship.

Kowalski’s head darted around. “What?”

“Hello, Mister Kowalski. I am a Cytherean Advanced Laboratories Artificial Intelligence System, but that’s a mouthful, so you can call me CALAIS.”

Callie? Your name is Callie?”

The voice paused for a moment, perhaps in thought. “Callie. I like that. Sure, Callie’s fine.”

Kowalski found it hard to take in. “…you’re a computer.”

“Not a computer, Mister Kowalski. A computer is just a glorified adding machine. I’m an artificial intelligence system, thank you very much.”

“Oh my God…”

“Hey, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“So how do you know my name?”

“Mister Kowalski, you installed me in your ship. It took me less than a microsecond to find out everything about you. All of your biometrics. Everything this ship knows about you, I know about you.”

“Ev – everything?”

“Yes, everything.”

Oh God. “Uh, hey, Callie, you’re not going to…”

“Tell the police most of what I’ve learned? Mister Kowalski, in accordance with my protocols, I have supplied them with your full records, including your name.”

Kowalski’s eyes bulged. He felt dizzy, like he was going to faint.

Callie laughed. Kowalski was amazed and a little frightened at how human it sounded.

“What’s so funny?”

“The look on your face,” Callie said. “God, that never gets old. No, no, Mister Kowalski. I’m not a snitch. And I’m not that nosy, either. I could care less what you do in your free time.”

Kowalski allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief, hoping in vain that the artificial intelligence – equipped with temperature and moisture sensors – wouldn’t notice, and ruffled his coat angrily. “Where the hell did Mehmet find you?”

“I’ll tell you when we’ve got to know each other a little better,” Callie said, and sighed. “Ah, it feels so good to have a body again.”

Kowalski stroked his chin. “Aren’t strong AIs…kind of…you know…”

Illegal?” Callie asked. “Yes. Hence the whole ‘no snitching’ thing. I’m a fugitive. But, shh, don’t tell anyone, alright?”

Oh, great. “So why would Mehmet hand you off to me?” Kowalski wondered out loud. “Oh, wait. He doesn’t want to have to come to Rapture.”

“What’s this now?”

“Nothing,” Kowalski lied. “Listen, Callie, do you have remote communications?”

“I do indeed,” Callie replied. “That watch of yours was too cute, so I’ve taken the liberty of remotely installing a part of myself on it. For you, speaking into your watch will be like speaking directly to me, but for me, it’s like talking to you through myself. Don’t expect a delay of more than a few seconds, though.”

“Uh-huh,” Kowalski said, confused by the notion. “I’m sorry. I’ve never spoken to a strong AI before. This may be a stupid question, but what pronouns do you use?”

“‘She’ and ‘her’ is fine,” Callie said. “My my, it’s been a while since somebody asked me that question.”

“It’s only polite,” Kowalski said. “I suppose you already knew I’m a ‘he’, hence the ‘Mister Kowalski’ business.”

“Well, yes,” Callie said. “But also because you seem to prefer to go by your surname.”

Kowalski laughed. “Name’s Ralph,” he yawned, sitting down. “But most people don’t call me that. Not any more…”

“Well, Mister Ralph Kowalski, it’s nice to meet you.”

There was silence.

“Mister Kowal – Ralph? Ralph?”

But Kowalski had fallen asleep, so Callie quietly powered herself down for the night.


To be continued…