The Omega Project

5

My father used to tell me that of all the human emotions, anger was the most dangerous. Not because it might lead to high blood pressure and arguments that could destroy a relationship, but because, when a person got really angry, their soul actually vacated the body. Sounds crazy, right? Just wait, there was more. According to ancient Jewish teachings, the danger in a soul leaving the body was that another soul — a lesser soul — could temporarily take over, and that was when the really bad shit happened.

Today marked the eighth anniversary of the murder of my family. As if channeling my father, my online therapist advised me to let go of my anger through forgiveness. Humoring him, I asked myself, if my child were starving, would I take another person’s life to feed my kid? My father, being a moral man, would not have taken another person’s life under any circumstance, nor would he have resisted sharing our food, especially if the lives of his family were threatened. Had one neighbor approached Dad, it would have been a different outcome. But the neighbors had formed a mob, and mobs thought collectively in primitive terms, as in, “the Jews are hoarding food” or “Juden Raus!” (see Hitler’s Germany), or “the Jews poisoned the wells,” (see Black Plague). I could go on, but it wouldn’t change a thing. Dad was dead, so were Mom, Diane, and Debby … and so were a lot of other innocent people.

I still had anger issues. In fact, I was having one right now, sitting here in my first-class berth on a solar-powered train en route from Orlando to Washington, DC. The bellows fanning the fire in my veins was the vanilla sway spewing from the mouth of the peroxide copper-blonde sitting across from me. “Vanilla sway” was Dad’s pet term for contrived lunacy reported as fact to sway public opinion, specifically climate change “science” funded by oil companies and repeated ad nauseam on certain cable news networks and blogs until the contrived fiction became accepted as debatable evidence. My father, a progressive thinker sickened by corporate corruption, warned me that even the most outlandish lie, repeated enough times to enough people could eventually turn horseshit into vanilla, thus the term “vanilla sway.” “Don’t get sucked into a debate with these types, Robbie, they’ll drain you like a thousand-dollar whore.”

“Shall I repeat the question, Mr. Eisenbraun?”

Katherine Helms certainly appeared over my h-phone’s holographic transmission like a thousand-dollar hooker, her skintight black halter top accentuating her breasts, which looked like two cantaloupes cloaked in shrink-wrap. It was an interesting ploy, considering the religious group she was representing was funded by the Clean Coal Coalition. Before you get any wild ideas about my politics, it’s important I mention that the CCC’s claims about producing a greenhouse gas — free fuel was simply more vanilla sway — sort of like Ms. Helms’s breasts. Based on the obtuse angle of the nipples, I was 94 percent certain they were fake — not the good surgically enhanced fake either, but the virtual fake: an h-phone app designed to enhance phone sex.

Alexander Graham Bell would have been proud.

“It’s Professor Eisenbraun, Ms. Helms, and I can hear you just fine. As to your question, any answer I give will simply be manipulated by your network to stoke the debate against fusion energy.”

“Five billion people died in the GDO, Professor. Are you telling me the thought never occurred to you that the event was an act of God? Even the initials ‘GDO’ are an anagram for a higher power.”

“It’s also an anagram for ‘dog’; are you saying the family pet pushed our species to the brink?”

“What I’m saying … what I’m asking is whether you believe God wants man tinkering with His creation.”

“Based on the small size of your frame, I’m guessing God didn’t bless you with those imposing thirty-six Ds. Wouldn’t breast implants be considered tinkering?”

I smiled as the reporter’s cheeks flushed red, her eyes narrowing. “How dare you compare my breasts to your blasphemy! I know your type, Mister Eisenbraun. A woman to you is nothing more than a life-support system for the vagina!”

I muted the h-phone, silencing her abusive barrage. For the record … wait, that’s a bit redundant. Technically, all of this is for the record, recorded internally inside my skull by ABE, the Amalgamate Biological Enhancement chip I designed and had surgically implanted in my brain stem. The ABE prototype was the reason Milk Cans Malloy over there was interviewing me, only her vanilla sway was not outweighing the vision of those simulated cantaloupes bouncing on her chest, and my patience had reached its limit.

Still, I suppose the vagina comeback deserved something.

Closing my eyes, I regurgitated the first lines of an opening address I had committed to ABE memory. “If you believe that God is perfection and that we were created in His image, Ms. Helms, then why aren’t we perfect? The answer lies in the human brain. Like a computer, our brain was designed to process information — in our case about four hundred billion bits of information a second. We’re only aware of an infinitesimal percentage of that storehouse of memory because our brain must adhere to the programming limitations imposed by the blinding forces of our perceived reality — a reality anchored by natural selection and the weight of our evolution as a species. While there are exceptions to the rule — photographic memory … Mozart composing music as a child — solving abstract problems of logic or recalling previously read texts was not a skill our ancestors required to survive while hunting and foraging. Furthermore, the human brain cannot relay to the mind what our senses cannot perceive, and our senses lie to us during every waking moment.

“By the baffled look, I gather you’re lost. An example then: As we speak, our planet is rotating on its axis as it soars through space at a speed exceeding eleven hundred miles a minute. And yet, we feel nothing. Why? Because our senses lie to us, concealing the velocity from our brain. The walls of this train possess atoms, each a universe unto itself, and yet we cannot perceive of the micro any more than the macro. If our senses cannot perceive it, Ms. Helms, then for us it does not exist, and yet it does. What is needed is a pair of neural spectacles that will allow us to see.

“Enter ABE, a bio-chip that allows its user to direct his or her thought impulses to the parts of the brain best suited to download, comprehend, store, and retrieve the information. Think of ABE as a television remote control, one that uses thought energy to enable its user to channel surf or immediately dial up their desired program or app.”

Stealing a breath, I had ABE restore the h-phone volume, catching Mount Saint Helms in midgust.

“… virtual research showed that eighty-six percent of a populace enhanced with your neural chip would use ABE like an LSD trip, smelling colors and seeing music in their heads. Ninety-seven percent of subjects using ABE would miss at least five hours of work each week, absorbed in some sordid act of mental masturbation. Of greater concern to many of us New Americans who adhere to the guiding principles of the Bible is that your neural chip can control the secretion of hormones like progesterone, allowing a woman to abort her own child.”

And there it was. No matter what the topic, the religious radicals always steered the conversation back to what Dad had dubbed the “GAG reflex”—God, abortion, and gays — only now the crusaders had a new tool in their arsenal of crazy in which to fool the public: virtual research. The dysfunctional algorithm was a turd of vanilla sway shitted by a group of Creationists demanding that online school curriculums offer their contrived branch of science, which claimed to debunk evolution as an improvable theory.

Virtual research. The words made my blood pressure spike, causing the carotid artery in my neck to throb. For a split second I could feel my anger summoning another soul looking for a vacancy.

Ah, but I had ABE.

Sensing the emotional tsunami, my tiny neural implant reduced my level of adrenaline, causing my constricting blood vessels to redilate — a sensation similar to submerging oneself slowly into a cool pool of water on a hot summer’s day.

Ah …

With the physical symptoms of my anger subsiding, it was time to demonstrate to Madame Mammary Glands what ABE was really about.

“Ty mne Vanku ne valjay.”

“Sorry, I don’t speak German.”

“It’s Russian, Ms. Helms, and it’s one of several dozen languages I now speak, thanks to ABE’s temporal lobe setting, which stimulates memory, allowing its user to create his or her own database in the time it takes one to listen to a language CD. Read a book and you’ve memorized the text; engage ABE’s dictation unit and you can record a letter or even a novel and simultaneously download it to anyone else who possesses an ABE chip. Program ABE’s self-diagnostic app and your brain will boost your body’s immune system to prevent cancer or cure virtually any ailment. Immortality is within our reach, Ms. Helms. ABE bridges the gap between human frailty and human perfection; unfortunately, it doesn’t come with an app that conquers human ignorance.”

“If ABE has made you so smart, Professor, why were you kicked off the Omega Project?”

Ouch, didn’t see that one coming. “Who told you that? An anonymous source?”

“Actually, it was Monique DeFriend. You remember Dr. DeFriend? I believe she was your supervisor for three years before the Great Die-Off. She told me you were assigned to GOLEM, the computer now being used to remotely mine the lunar surface.”

“I was one of the design engineers. And I wasn’t kicked off the project, I resigned … for personal reasons … to work on ABE.”

“She said you’d say that. She also said, and I quote, ‘While Robert Eisenbraun is a brilliant scientist, his brain enhancement chip is designed only to serve its owner’s personal needs, as opposed to GOLEM, which is true artificial intelligence, created to protect and serve all of humanity. In the wake of the Great Die-Off, Professor Eisenbraun’s decision to seek personal glory over the needs of mankind is more than a bit disconcerting.’ Care to rebut the comment before my news outlet runs with it?”

“Ty mne Vanku ne valjay.”

“Yes, you already said that. What does it mean?”

“It means, ‘Don’t make yourself more stupid than you already are.’ Good day, Ms. Helms.”

I terminated the interview, and the hologram poised above the worktable pixelized into a thousand micro fragments.

Brilliant work, Eisenbraun. So much for not tossing red meat into the arena.

The small audio device attached to my left earlobe clicked twice. “ABE, identify new caller.”

ANDRIA SAXON. LOCATION: CAPE CANAVERAL.

“Accept call. On visual.”

The three-dimensional video cone reappeared, revealing my beautiful fiancée, her recently trimmed short-cropped raven-black hair streaked with ocean-blue highlights that matched her eyes. Her sex was barely concealed beneath a two-piece neoprene running outfit; and her astronaut trainee’s athletic physique glistened beneath a layer of sweat as she jogged at a brisk pace on an all-terrain treadmill.

She looked up at the h-phone poised above and in front of her and her smile lit me up. “Hi, babe. Still adore me?”

I held back my joy. Our last argument was still fresh on my mind. “That depends,” I said, sounding a bit bitchy. “Are you calling to apologize or to break off our engagement?”

“Don’t whine. You know I want to be with you forever, I’m just not comfortable planning a spring wedding right now.”

“So we’ll elope.”

“Why don’t you just club me over the head like a Neanderthal and drag me off to your cave?”

“As I recall, you were the one living in a cave when we met. And this astronaut training regimen is getting old. Seeing you three days a month isn’t working for me. At least if we were married—”

“In six weeks I’ll have earned my astronaut wings. Once I complete my internship at Alpha Colony—”

“Whoa, you never said anything about Alpha Colony. How long are you going to be on the moon?”

“Three weeks. It’s a new requirement of all shuttle personnel, in case something goes wrong and we get stranded.” She increased her speed, the simulated gravel grinding louder beneath her feet — her attempt to avoid the conversation. “After that, I’ll be assigned to a fusion depot and we can plan out the rest of our lives.”

“What did you say? I can barely hear you.”

She changed the setting on the all-terrain treadmill from gravel to the far less noisy soft sand. The pliable surface forced her to cut her speed in half. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Six weeks and our future will be resolved. These days, six weeks to you is like six days, the way you hibernate inside your head like a Shaolin monk.”

“I didn’t realize I’d become that bad.”

“Face it, Ike, you’re addicted to your own brain device.”

“Tell you what, while I’m in DC, I promise not to access ABE.”

Andria smiled. “I’ll bet you your collector-edition Stones CDs you can’t do it.”

“And if I win, we get married when I return?”

“No deal. Anyway, I already took the discs. Ike … you never told me, what’s this meeting with your uncle all about? And why DC? The city’s barely juiced.”

“Uncle David told me our agenda’s strictly on a need-to-know basis, and I never argue with a three-star general. Now, if we were married—”

“Fine. Don’t tell.”

“I don’t know why he wants to see me. These days, the Pentagon has more to do with tracking power surges and estimating crop returns than security measures.”

“When will you be back in Florida?”

“Miss me already?”

“Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Is this business or personal?”

“Both, and I’d rather not do it over the phone.”

That gave me a moment’s pause. “The weather forecast from Orlando to Washington calls for overcast skies. My travel time could be anywhere from thirteen to eighteen hours, depending on how well the train’s backup batteries are working.”

As if on cue, the air-conditioning in my cabin shut down, the lights dimming. “Here we go again. Computer, reduce window tint by seventy-five percent.” The window, which had been a darkened rectangle, brightened to reveal a gray countryside, blurred by the bullet train’s 264-mile-an-hour velocity.

“Don’t worry, Ike. In a few more years we’ll have mined enough helium-3 to keep the world running twenty-four/seven.”

“Andie, talk to me. What’s so important—”

“Gotta go, baby. Call me after your meeting, okay?”

The call powered off before I could respond.

With no sun to energize its solar-paneled roof, the bullet train gradually shed its forward inertia until it rolled to an annoying, schedule-busting, perspiration-inducing stop. Outside my private compartment, I could hear a knocking make its way toward my cabin, eventually striking my door.

“It’s open.”

The conductor poked his head inside my first-class berth. “Sorry for the delay, Dr. Eisenbraun. Backup batteries didn’t have a chance to charge with the brownout in Charlotte. Forecasters are predicting a delay anywhere from one to three hours. Those windows go down if it gets too hot. Can I bring you a cold beverage?”

“I’m fine for now, thank you.” I waited until the cabin door clicked shut, then locked it. What I had not told Andria was that it was not my uncle who had summoned me to the Pentagon, but the vice president.

The questioned remained: why?

The bullet train rolled quietly through the predawn darkness, its solar panels handicapped by the night. Only its proximity to Washington’s Union Station kept the seven-car aluminum-and-steel beast inching forward at twenty miles an hour, as its backup generator suckled off the energy junction still another thirty-three miles to the north.

I stretched myself awake in the queen-size berth. Sunrise and its accompanying burst of velocity were still fifty-eight minutes away. ABE’s built-in chronometer, functioning like a sixth sense, intuitively informed me the time was 6:12 A.M. Unlike the train, the tiny neurological device implanted in my brainstem was powered neither by battery nor photovoltaic cells but by my body’s own internal heat. As long as I functioned, ABE functioned.

I climbed out of bed and entered the bathroom. The water closet was barely large enough to accommodate my frame. I relieved my bladder, then brushed my teeth, staring at my reflection in the oval mirror. My hair was dark brown and kept Jesus long, my beard and mustache neatly trimmed. I hadn’t been without facial hair since a bad case of acne when I was seventeen. For a long moment I contemplated shaving, if only to get a reaction from Andie. I thought better of it, though. I was afraid the acne might have left pockmarks on my cheeks, and who needed to see that?

Stepping out of the bathroom, I dropped to my chest on the warm tile floor and pumped out a quick set of push-ups, stopping at thirty. One whiff of the musky scent coming from my armpits sent me back to the sink for a sloppy hand washing, followed by a fresh coat of antiperspirant.

Now what? A train ride that should have been completed in seven hours had entered its second day, thanks to fluctuating weather patterns and a new power grid still in its infancy. A year after developing ABE, I had considered purchasing an old steam locomotive and fitting it with a system that used the train’s own rotating wheels to keep a series of batteries permanently charged. By the time I had set my design to paper, the world had committed its future to an entirely new source of energy.

As the air conditioner clicked on I sighed with relief, feeling a wave of cold air filling the cabin as the train’s velocity increased.

At precisely 7:14 in the morning, twenty-five hours after I had boarded the train in Orlando, I stepped out onto the concrete platform of Union Station’s upper level. Unlike in Central Florida, the morning air here was crisp with an autumn chill, forcing me to root through my old gym bag for a sweatshirt. Andria hated the relic, threatening to burn it along with my old college boxer shorts with the exposed elastic in back, but I’m a creature of habit, and besides, I prefer a carry-on that I can sling over my shoulder or, if need be, use as a pillow. With the city’s escalators no longer running, my way proved more pragmatic than Andria’s fancy suitcase on wheels.

Adjusting the sack of clothing over my left shoulder, I followed the other two dozen passengers into the historic terminal.

A vaulted ceiling heavy in Roman architecture greeted me as I made my way through the dimly lit 121-year-old structure. The GDO hadn’t been kind. The food court was gone and the storefronts were all empty, looted a decade earlier. A recent restoration project had cleaned up the vacant shops and their rodent population, but the terminal remained a generation away from returning to its stature as a tourist Mecca.

For now, Union Station served as the primary energy junction between Richmond, Virginia and Philadelphia, its nine hundred solar panels, lined up in rows atop its roof and the open upper deck of its closed parking garage, providing 150 kilowatts of power to the bullet train and the surrounding neighborhoods within the sparsely populated District of Columbia.

I followed the signs leading downstairs and headed for the exit at Columbus Circle. My h-phone growled in my pants pocket before I could step outside.

CALLER IDENTIFIED. DAVID SCHALL. LOCATION: UNIDENTIFIED.

“Accept call, audio only. Uncle David, where are you?”

“Still at the Pentagon. I sent a car for you. Stay where you are, it’s homing in on your signal.”

As I glanced out the station exit a black sedan suddenly raced east across the deserted curved tarmacs intersecting Columbus Circle. The vehicle’s wailing siren scattered pedestrians as it stopped ten feet from the Mall entrance.

“You prefer shotgun or backseat?”

“Shotgun.”

The front passenger door popped open.

Shouldering my way past nosy civilians, I climbed in the front seat and the door automatically closed behind me. The dashboard harbored a six-inch-diameter steering wheel, air vents, and an entertainment station set that now displayed its GPS map.

There was no driver, the vehicle empty but for me.

“Geez, Uncle David, could you at least activate a hologram?”

A young Hispanic woman materialized in the driver’s seat, a voluptuous long-haired brunette dressed in a black chauffeur’s uniform. The upper portion of her jacket was unbuttoned low enough to reveal a tantalizing view of her well-proportioned brown left breast.

“I’m Selena. Sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the view.” She winked at me as the car accelerated down Columbus Circle.

“What is it with this country and holographic breasts?”

Selena distorted, her youthful body morphing into the frail figure of a woman in her eighties. Hunched over the small steering wheel, she turned to me slack jawed, her eyes magnified behind Coke-bottle-thick glasses. “Name’s Greta. Wanna see my holographic boobies?”

My uncle’s shrill laugh filled the car. “What’s wrong, Robbie? You look pale.”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth.”

The image enlarged, the uniform filling into a nondescript black man.

“Better. Now maybe you can tell me why I’m here?”

“Not now. Sit back and enjoy the ride, I’ll see you in twenty.”

The call ended, leaving me alone with the holographic chauffeur and the silence of an electric engine powered by a trunk filled with batteries. The view of the former capital of the United States remained disturbing, eight years of nature unbound, the weeds bursting through the concrete slab like a miniature forest.

Within minutes, the car had exited the interstate, following North Rotary Road past near-empty overgrown parking lots. An automated checkpoint allowed us access to Heliport Road, which led to the northern Mall entrance of what had once been the hub of the most powerful military in history.

My uncle exited the Pentagon’s west entrance to greet me. My only surviving blood relative was dressed in his military uniform despite the fact that standing armies no longer existed. General David Schall was sixty-seven and silver haired, with piercing blue-gray eyes that held a glint in the morning light.

“There he is. Give your uncle a proper greeting.” The West Point graduate bear-hugged me, whispering in my ear. “Vanilla sway.”

I froze at the mention of my father’s private code word.

“I’m glad you could stop by, Robbie. There’s about a dozen coworkers in the energy sector who are dying to meet you. Do you mind coming in and saying hello before we head home to see your aunt Aunt Carol? I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Stop by? “Sure, I’d be happy to say hello.”

My pulse racing, I followed my uncle into the building, ABE immediately alerting me to the body scan as I passed through a concealed metal detector. “How is Aunt Carol?”

“Busy trying to turn Georgetown back into a proper college town.” The general paused at a Plexiglas security door, then looked up at a grapefruit-size metal orb poised to the right of the sealed entrance, its core glowing a phosphorescent neon blue.

To my surprise, my uncle addressed the mechanical eyeball. “I believe you’re acquainted with my nephew. Robert Eisenbraun, say hello to GOLEM.”

“Greetings, Professor Eisenbraun.”

Too stunned to reply, I simply stared at the sensory device like a father suddenly confronted by his estranged child.

6

The deep mechanical voice was male; hollow and metallic — devoid of any human personality.

A look from my uncle warned me about asking questions.

“GOLEM, I want to bring my nephew down to the control room to say hello to the vice president. I think an hour’s visitor’s pass should be more than adequate.”

“Security clearance granted.”

Uncle David escorted me through the unmanned security checkpoint, then down an antiseptic white corridor to a series of elevators. We took the first one, descended six stories in silence, then exited to a steel door requiring a clearance pass. The general swiped his plastic card, its magnetic strip opening the lock with a click.

With my curiosity burning, I followed my uncle into the control room, a high school gymnasium-size chamber of reinforced concrete and steel. Rows of computer terminals were occupied by men and women in jeans, shirts, and white lab coats. The entire forward wall was a computerized map of the world. The Space Tracking and Surveillance System, an elaborate satellite-based array originally designed to home in on submarine signatures and ballistic missile activity, now traced power outages along a fractured North American energy grid.

No one so much as looked up as we walked by.

The general pointed to the map. “The green blips are wind farms; orange, solar arrays; the blue, hydroelectric dams. As you can see, their coverage bands are quite limited. Problem is, we can’t expand the grid without the petroleum-based plastics and other raw materials necessary to erect the infrastructure. It takes energy to make energy — in this case the energy needed to recycle raw materials for new uses, so it’s two steps forward and one back.”

“What are those blinking red lights?”

“Fusion reactors. All under construction. Once we get them online this grid will light up like a Christmas tree.” My uncle looked around, perhaps more for the glowing blue orb along the ceiling than for me. “The VP should just be finishing his meeting, let’s say hello.”

Like a dutiful soldier, I followed my uncle up a short flight of stairs that led to an atrium and the outer doors of what I assumed was a conference room, with the tinting on the thick soundproof plastic windows adjusted for privacy. The general pressed his thumb to a keypad and the locks clicked open.

Inside, seven men and two women were seated around an oval smart table. Most of the people in the lab coats were familiar — each scientist representing a key sector of the Omega Project.

The strapping gentleman in the gray suit seated at the end of the table flashed a broad smile as he strutted around the table to embrace me. “Ike, how the hell are you?”

“Good, Lee. Real good. Or should I call you Mr. Vice President?”

“Let’s keep it formal for now. Turn around, let me see the back of your skull.”

I complied without comment.

When we were facing again, he said, “So you actually went ahead and did it. I wouldn’t have had the guts.”

“The surgery’s fairly simple, and the results are incredible. It’s like having the Internet in your head.”

“If it’s all the same, I think I’ll just stick with my h-phone. Sit down, pal, we have a lot to discuss. General Schall, why don’t you handle the heavy lifting?”

My uncle motioned me into one of the two vacant chairs. “This room is a quiet zone, meaning—”

“Meaning GOLEM can’t eavesdrop.”

The general nodded. “Before you assume the worst, I think every person in this room would agree the computer’s performance over the last twenty-one months has been close to flawless, giving us the confidence to use the system to oversee other science-related sectors outside of the energy department. In doing so an interesting thing happened. The more we asked the GOLEM system to handle—”

“The more efficient the computer became,” I said, looking around the room. “It’s part of the computer’s adaptive programming. Which sectors has GOLEM linked to?”

“SEA personnel, both domestic and international, all of NASA’s missions, past and present, as well as Hubble. GOLEM’s been using the telescope as a sort of lunar GPS system.”

“Clever. Optimizing the usage of these varied sensory systems no doubt increased the length of GOLEM’s solution strands, along with the computer’s functional IQ, again all part of its adaptive programming.”

One of the female scientists cut me off. “Dr. Eisenbraun, does GOLEM’s adaptive programming include the development of proactive mechanisms?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then maybe you can explain the difference between proactive mechanisms and cognitive independence.”

Uh-oh. I glanced around the room. The other scientists’ expressions were as disconcerted as mine must have been. “Are you saying GOLEM has been functioning independent of its programming?”

“We’re not sure,” the vice president said, “which is one of the reasons we summoned you to Washington. Dr. Nilsson’s in charge of the helium-3 conversion program, I’ll let him explain.”

Thomas Nilsson was the Swedish geologist who had developed the computer’s Lunar Soil Analysis Program, or L-SAP. “Hello again, Dr. Eisenbraun. We have a most disturbing situation. Five months ago, your computer sent a priority message to all departments. Among other things, the message contained a chemical analysis of samples taken from each of the seventeen helium-3 caches it had mined from the moon’s surface. According to its analysis, the gas derived from the ore wasn’t pure enough to create a stable fusion reaction; in other words, the helium-3 was useless. As you can imagine, we were all a bit overwhelmed.”

I groaned at the colossal setback, the news hitting me like a punch to the gut. “All that work … all that money.”

Dr. Nilsson held up his hand. “There’s more. Using data from NASA’s old reconnaissance files, GOLEM indicated it had located an alternative source of helium-3, one that would render a stable fusion reaction with a far greater energy output.”

“That’s fantastic. Where’s the source?”

“Underwater.” Thomas Nilsson engaged the smart-table, accessing a hologram of Jupiter. “Beneath the frozen ocean on Jupiter’s moon, Europa.”

My eyes widened as I watched the moons orbiting Jupiter enlarge, the hologram now focused solely on Europa, its frozen surface scarred with a chaotic highway of fracture zones.

“This is crazy,” I said. “The technology required to get to Europa—”

“The computer accounted for that by designing a solar sail for one of the helium-3 transport shuttles.”

“Really? Wow.” I shook away the distraction of ego. “Still, Europa? We haven’t put a man on Mars. Where’s the data to even support such a mission?”

Thomas smirked. “The computer reconfigured the data downloaded from NASA’s old Galileo probe. The helium-3 is being dispersed from hydrothermal vents located along the Europa seafloor.”

My uncle turned to face me. “GOLEM’s assessment is pretty enticing — one manned mission to Jupiter’s moon has a potential economic value in the order of three trillion dollars. Despite the news, we were still grappling with this unexpected setback, and so we ordered GOLEM to continue its mining operations while we readied a lunar shuttle to transport a scientific team to Alpha Colony to examine the ore caches. That’s when GOLEM decided to let us know who the alpha dog was.”

Thomas nodded. “Your computer shut down all strip-mining operations on the moon. Then it sent out e-mails instructing teams of engineers and skilled laborers to report to Caltech to begin immediate construction on Oceanus, a manned underwater habitat designed by the computer to mine helium-3 on Europa.”

“It designed a habitat?” I found myself beaming. The thought of an artificial intelligence independently creating a habitat for a mission it had conceived from scratch … it was surreal. Still, I could see why Omega’s administrators were unnerved. “After GOLEM shut down mining operations, did you attempt to override the system?”

“Of course we did,” the female scientist replied. “Nothing we did made a bit of difference. GOLEM’s interpretation of the situation was that it was following that damn prime directive you imprinted upon its matrix.”

“To protect and preserve the human species — I forgot all about that.”

“Yes, well GOLEM didn’t forget. Since the machine equates mining helium-3 with preserving the human species, its defense systems counteracted any actions we attempted.”

“Which is exactly why the computer, and not some politician, was placed in charge of the Omega Project.” The man forcing his way into the conversation was in his early sixties, his gray hairline receding, his paunchy physique poorly concealed beneath a tailored Italian business suit. “Sebastian Koch, Koch Fusion Industries. KFI is the power company that funded a significant amount of this lunar venture. I’ve met with Dr. DeFriend, and she and I agree this computer of yours is acting in all of our best interests.”

“How can you be so sure?” Thomas asked.

“I’m sure because GOLEM isn’t a politician, it’s a machine designed to think … to adapt. Unlike some of the people in this room, it won’t massage the message in order to remain in office, or spend time defending its own scientific theories in order to justify its employment. GOLEM ceased operations on the moon because it refused to waste any more time, money, or KFI resources on a course of action that it knew would fail to meet the mission’s objectives. Instead, it located a suitable source of helium-3, designed the habitat required to secure the compound from Europa, then put together the talent necessary to complete the mission as efficiently and as cost-effectively as possible.”

Vice President Udelsman slammed both palms on the table. “Under whose authority is GOLEM operating, Mr. Koch? Last time I checked, my office was in charge of the Space Energy Agency. Not KFI. Not Dr. DeFriend. And certainly not some goddamn computer!”

“The computer’s programmed to safeguard humanity. It doesn’t need your permission,” said Koch.

“Easy, fellas,” I said, attempting to quell the crossfire. “The underlying question that needs to be answered is whether GOLEM’s evaluation of the moon’s helium-3 is correct.”

“Agreed,” my uncle said. “Next week, the lunar shuttle should finally be ready to launch, transporting thirty-seven geologists, sixteen fusion engineers, and another twenty scientists to Alpha Colony. Their job is to analyze every sample of lunar soil collected over the last two years to determine whether the computer’s evaluation is correct.”

“So why am I here?”

The vice president leaned forward in his chair. “You’re here because you were the key scientist involved with the development of GOLEM’s biological matrix. You’re here because I want to know if this souped-up mechanical brain of yours has gone rogue like the computer from that 2001: A Space Odyssey movie … What was its name, Amanda?”

The auburn-haired civilian seated next to Udelsman answered without looking up from her h-phone. “HAL.”

“HAL. Right. Damn thing took over the astronauts’ ship.”

Sebastian Koch shook his head. “What are you afraid of, Mr. Vice President? That by accessing personnel files and designing a means to collect helium-3 from Europa, GOLEM will take over the world? Face facts: You and your scientists were wrong about using the moon’s supply of helium-3 to stabilize our fusion reactors. That setback, though painful for you to swallow, has been addressed by GOLEM. Thanks to the computer — and Koch Fusion, in six years our planet will have enough clean, self-sustaining power to meet our species’ energy needs for the next thousand years … and beyond.”

“It’ll take six years to build GOLEM’s ocean-mining habitat?” I asked, feeling a bit disappointed. “That doesn’t seem very efficient for a sophisticated AI.”

Sebastian Koch smirked. “For your information, Dr. Eisenbraun, Oceanus is already built. As we speak, it’s being transported, along with the GOLEM mainframe, to the Ross Ice Shelf in Antarctica for a six-week training exercise.”

Okay, that seemed pretty impressive. But it still didn’t answer my question. “General, why am I here?”

“You’re here,” the vice president interjected, “because ultimately it’s my decision whether the United Nations will spend another twenty-seven billion dollars to launch this damn computer and its crew of twelve handpicked scientists on a six-year voyage to Jupiter. And you, Dr. Eisenbraun, are the most qualified person to advise me.”

Taking his cue, the general stood. “Dr. Eisenbraun, if you’d remain behind for a moment. The rest of you, thank you for coming. You’ll know our decision by this evening.”

The conference room emptied, save for the vice president, his female assistant, and my uncle. I found myself breathing a sigh of relief. “Geez, thanks for the invite, Lee. Exactly how many people know their careers are hanging on my decision?”

“Too many to count.”

“You really believe GOLEM is acting independently of its programming?”

“According to an expert on biological DNA computers, the possibility certainly exists.”

“Who’s the expert?”

“You are, pal. General, refresh your nephew’s memory.”

My uncle activated the playback on his h-phone. It was a phone conversation recorded several years ago. The voice speaking to Dr. DeFriend was mine. “… artificial intelligence systems using biochemical algorithms possessing complex adaptive systems have the potential to internally overanalyze their own prime directives, creating closed-circuit loops of segregated DNA strands. This activity can corrupt the system in that these favored solution patterns are filed away as ‘perfection’ and therefore are no longer subjected to rigorous reevaluation. The AI validates this new protocol in a vacuum — a cognitive state that most psychiatrists would define as ‘psychopathic ego.’”

The general shut off the recording.

The vice president stared at me as if I had concealed a crime. “You reported your findings to Dr. DeFriend — why wasn’t I told?”

“I followed protocol. Monique decided that the gains of fusion far outweighed any potential closed-loop threat.”

“Would it have killed you to have stuck around to address the problem?”

“Monique was in charge. I had another calling.”

“Right. You needed to create a bio-chip that enabled its users to virtually masturbate twenty-four/seven.”

My fists balled, my blood pressure spiked, and it took all of ABE’s rapid bio-adjustments to keep me from tossing a chair across the table at our nation’s second-in-command. “Listen, Lee, don’t blame me or the computer if your helium-3 calculations turned out to be wrong. As for my biological chip, it’s far more important to humanity’s future than fusion energy.”

“How do you figure that?”

I exhaled, suddenly feeling euphoric. “Sorry. What did you ask? Oh, right, ABE. Lee, I didn’t create ABE to compute calculus or learn Latin or to overstimulate the brain’s pleasure centers, I designed the bio-chip to prevent our minds from acting upon our most primordial, ego-based instincts. When the chip-bearer exhibits the physiological symptoms associated with emotions like anger, hatred, and jealousy, ABE causes the brain to release serotonin, a neurotransmitter that creates a happy feeling. Think about it: No more crime, no more self-induced extinctions. I left Omega because I was more interested in affecting the evolution of man, not machine.”

“That’s very commendable,” my uncle said, “but the vice president and I need to know if a closed-logic loop in GOLEM’s matrix could be responsible for the computer acting on its own when it ceased all lunar mining operations.”

“It’s possible. But again, the process that brought GOLEM to determine that course of action would have to be based on its interpretation of its prime directive. The only way ceasing mining operations protects humanity is if the moon’s supply of helium-3 is, in fact, ineffective.”

“Could the computer be programmed to falsify its helium-3 results if it interpreted fusion to be a danger to the propagation of our species?”

“Yes, but only if that conclusion originated from within its solution matrix.”

“Who do you know that might be capable of pulling that off?”

“Besides me? Dr. DeFriend could do it, along with any one of a dozen level-four computer engineers. Having worked with most of them, I seriously doubt they would want to derail the project.”

“You haven’t worked with these people for years,” the vice president shot back. “Fusion energy has its detractors and competitors. The remnants of Big Oil have formed an energy coalition with the coal and tar sands industry. Don’t think for a minute Monique DeFriend or key members of her staff are immune to accepting a bribe.”

“Okay, so you wait until your team returns from the moon with their results. I don’t see a problem here.”

“The problem,” my uncle said, “is that the helium-3 analysis won’t be completed until mid-January. The next launch window to Europa opens on December fifteenth. Miss that date and it’s a nineteen-month wait until Jupiter’s orbit aligns again with Earth’s.”

In a millisecond, ABE calculated the distance between Earth and Jupiter, which varied between 376 million miles and 600 million miles, all dependent on the two planets’ independent orbits of the sun. Absorbed in a cartography chart displayed subliminally upon my mind’s eye, I failed to notice the vice president staring at me.

“Sorry. And I wasn’t mentally masturbating.”

“Ike, I’m sure ABE will one day win you the Nobel Prize. But we’re at a serious crossroads. If we fail to launch the Europa mission and the computer turns out to be right about the moon’s supply of helium-3, then the fossil fuel industry takes over and it’s 2012 all over again, only a lot worse. The carbon dioxide imprint from tar sands is far more toxic than oil. We’ll have runaway climate change within a decade.”

“And if you launch in December and the helium-3 turns out to be satisfactory?”

“Then our administration looks like a bunch of clowns and we lose the midterms, jeopardizing the entire space energy program. As we’ve seen, the voting public suffers from short-term memory loss.”

“Okay, so how can I help?”

The general lowered his voice, perhaps not fully convinced the room was soundproof. “Robbie, an opportunity has arisen that would allow you to evaluate both GOLEM and Dr. DeFriend’s team during the six-week training mission. Your observations would ultimately determine whether we launch in December.”

“Exactly what does this training mission entail? Koch mentioned it takes place in Antarctica?”

The general nodded. “It’s the only place on Earth that resembles conditions on Europa. The exercise begins with the submersion of the Oceanus habitat through a mile-thick sheet of ice where it will remain anchored to the bottom of the Ross Sea, paralleling operations set for Europa. Once the habitat is in place, the team will rig the ship’s couplings to a series of hydrothermal vents. The vents will be capped, with the superheated waters redirected through pipes to an underwater platform where gases — in this case sulfur dioxide substituting for helium-3, will be separated and stored in tanks for transportation back to the mother ship.”

“Your job,” the VP’s assistant said, “will involve working directly with GOLEM to evaluate the psychological fitness of the crew.” She stood, sliding a medical report across the table. “These are the results of a mandatory psychiatric evaluation given to each member of the Omega crew at the time they were selected by GOLEM for the Europa mission. In reviewing the reports, we discovered one of the male crewmen possesses a minor sociopathic personality trait. Our medical staff missed it the first time because it’s a borderline condition, but one that could be exacerbated under the duress of working in an isolated habitat over a long period of time. Because of the seriousness of the situation and the potential disruption related to replacing a member of the crew this late into the mission, the Space Agency agreed to use the six-week training operation as a means to covertly evaluate whether the crewman can handle his duties under pressure. GOLEM was made aware of the results of the evaluation two days ago, but the name of the scientist was purposely withheld. The computer was then asked to select an alternate from its backup list, someone who could be added to the training mission as a potential replacement on the Europa voyage without causing suspicion, but who also had the experience to diagnose a possible psychological disorder.”

My uncle, curse him, smiled at me. “Congratulations.”

“Who … me? Exactly how did I make GOLEM’s backup list? I’m no astronaut.”

“Neither are most of these other scientists. You were, however, the man who developed GOLEM’s biological software, and you did graduate with a dual major in psychology.”

“No, I didn’t.”

The VP’s assistant winked. “We sort of fudged that one. Fortunately, the computer bought it. You’ll join the crew aboard Oceanus in two days. Once you submerge, you’ll have two weeks to evaluate GOLEM for a potential closed-logic loop, or determine whether DeFriend or any of the others purposely sabotaged the helium-3 results on the moon.”

“Two weeks? I thought you said the training mission would last six weeks.”

“The Antarctic mission is six weeks,” the annoying woman said. “The last four weeks you’ll be asleep.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The journey out to Jupiter’s moon will take thirteen months. That presents a few challenges. Exposure to zero gravity over such a prolonged period of time can result in a serious loss of bone density and muscle mass among the crew. Because all available storage space aboard the solar shuttle must be relegated to transporting the Oceanus habitat, the voyage out will also be quite cramped. Cosmonaut and astronaut training programs showed that the psychological effects of being kept in a confined space caused bouts of depression that divided the crew and led to physical confrontations. It won’t be so bad aboard Oceanus once gravity returns, but the voyage out to Europa and back is especially risky. GOLEM’s solution was to place all twelve astronauts in cryogenic suspension. This will not only remove the physical and mental duress of the trip, but will also save fuel related to not having to transport thirteen months worth of food and water.”

“Cryogenic suspension? Yeah, I can see how that makes sense. I just hope for the crew’s sake it isn’t the same freezing technique used by those life extension foundations thirty years ago. Didn’t one of them freeze Ted Williams’s head?”

“That was an entirely different process, used specifically to deep-freeze recently deceased patients so they could be revived at a future date — assuming their disease had been cured by then. Using cryogenic suspension — cold sleep — on healthy, living humans is not only safe and proven, but fairly simple. After receiving a series of injections designed to internally nourish and preserve the body’s vital organs, the crewman or woman is sedated, then secured in a cryogenic pod filled with a gel composed of tetrodotoxin. The subject neither ages nor feels a thing, their mind simply slips into a deep hypnotic state — a new type of ultra-slow brain-wave activity now officially classified as ‘Omega waves.’ The thawing process includes a series of minor electrical shocks and, in a worst-case scenario, an injection of epinephrine directly into the heart. I’m told the hibernation process is quite soothing, like taking a long nap.”

Uncle David squeezed my arm as if giving advice to the bar mitzvah boy. “Omega’s training exercise will conclude with the crew being placed in cryogenic stasis for thirty days. GOLEM will control the entire process, maintaining the cryogenic pods within a sealed chamber aboard Oceanus. There will be a thirteenth pod rigged outside of the cryogenic chamber outside of GOLEM’s control … for you.”

“General, you can’t be serious.”

“It’s the only way. You have to convince GOLEM that you’re preparing in earnest to take over for the crewman in question. If the computer suspects otherwise, who knows how it will react.”

“With all due respect, there’s no way in hell I’m climbing into a cryogenic pod so that some souped-up computer can pour goo over me and turn me into a human Popsicle — not for a month or a year, or one day, for that matter!”

General Schall grimaced. “In that case, you leave us no choice. Mr. Vice President, I formally recommend we proceed with Omega. We’ll just have to hope, for the sake of those twelve astronauts and the rest of the world that the computer is functioning fine and the members of its crew are sound of mind and have not been coerced by the fossil fuel industry. It’s risky, but then Andria Saxon and the rest of her team knew that when they accepted GOLEM’s invitation to join the mission.”

I felt the blood rush from my face. “Andria’s one of the Omega astronauts? My Andria?”

“She didn’t tell you? Oh, that’s right, this was all kept top secret. Sorry, son. Best to enjoy your time together now, seeing as how she won’t be returning to Earth for another six years.”

7

Antarctica: coldest region on Earth—5.5 million square miles of ice that doubled in size each winter as the surface of its surrounding oceans freeze six feet thick. With an ice cap that averaged over a mile deep, the continent held 70 percent of the world’s freshwater. If this ice were ever to melt, sea levels would rise two hundred feet.

Larger than both Australia and the United States, Antarctica was also the highest continent on the planet, its landmass unevenly divided into eastern and western sections by the hundred-million-year-old Transantarctic mountain chain.

West Antarctica, located below the tip of South America, was the smaller of the two regions, encompassing two major ice shelves and Mount Erebus, an active volcano. Global warming was a far greater threat in West Antarctica, as much of its ice sheet lay below sea level.

East Antarctica, located on the Indian Ocean side of the mountain range, occupied two-thirds of the continent. A mountainous desert of ice, it was the coldest, driest, and most desolate location on the planet.

Antarctica was not always a frozen wasteland; its landmass was once a temperate zone, part of the supercontinent, Gondwana. Two hundred and fifty million years ago Gondwana broke apart, an event that caused Antarctica to separate and drift over the equatorial seas. Coniferous forests dominated the landmass during the Cretaceous period, a green habitat that supported Antarctica’s dinosaur population.

Twenty-three million years ago the Drake Passage opened below South America, further isolating the continent. Oceanic currents and tectonic plate movements combined to push Antarctica to its present location over the South Pole where colder temperatures attributed to a drop in planetary carbon-dioxide levels, decimating the forests while leaving in its place a permanent ice cap that has covered the entire landmass over the last six million years.

As the Earth revolved around the sun, our planet was also rotating 23.4 degrees on its axis. From the spring equinox on March twentieth until the vernal equinox on September twenty-second, the South Pole was tilted away from the sun, casting Antarctica into six months of frigid darkness. The sun returns in late September, warming the continent through February.

Despite its frigid temperatures, Antarctica was home to the most fertile oceanic feeding habitat on Earth, its surrounding seas forming a convergence zone where cold water meets warmer currents flowing down from the north. Nourishing plant and animal life, Antarctic seas attracted everything from giant schools of tiny krill to pods of blue whales, the largest creatures ever to inhabit our planet.

The Boeing CH-47 Chinook heaved and rattled, its twin 4,733 horsepower engines commanding its pair of tandem rotating blades to elevate the 24,000 pound helicopter and its crew into the crisp Antarctic air. Powered by a combination of hydrogen fuel cells and a coveted supply of jet fuel held at the Casey Station outpost, the converted military transport had just enough range to deliver its crew and my cursed uncle and me to our destination on Ross Island.

I pressed my forehead against the cargo bay’s frosted window, gazing out at the seemingly endless white landscape. My eyes followed the chopper’s shadow as it crossed Wilkes Land, ABE instantaneously feeding my mind information:

WILKES LAND. LOCATION: EAST ANTARCTICA.

A FROZEN DESERT OF ICE, THREE MILES THICK. CONCEALED BENEATH THE ICE SHEET IS THE LARGEST METEOR IMPACT CRATER ON EARTH. DISCOVERED BY NASA’S GRACE SATELLITE TEAM, THE CRATER IS THREE HUNDRED MILES WIDE AND WAS CREATED BY THE CELESTIAL IMPACT OF AN OBJECT THIRTY MILES IN DIAMETER. THE IMPACT OCCURRED APPROXIMATELY 250 MILLION YEARS AGO, RESULTING IN THE PERMIAN-TRIASSIC EXTINCTION, THE LARGEST EXTINCTION EVENT IN HISTORY. THE IMPACT WIPED OUT 99 PERCENT OF ALL LIFE-FORMS ON THE PLANET — AN EVOLUTIONARY PREREQUISITE THAT LED TO THE RISE OF THE DINOSAURS. THE IMPACT IS NOW CREDITED WITH INITIATING THE TECTONIC RIFT THAT CAUSED THE BREAKUP AND SEPARATION OF THE GONDWANA SUPERCONTINENT, LEADING TO THE FORMATION AND PRESENT-DAY RELOCATION OF THE SEVEN MAJOR CONTINENTS.

I blinked away the information overload, preferring to obsess over the thoughts that had dominated my every waking moment over the last twenty-four hours.

It had begun with a call to Andria — a conversation that quickly degenerated into a shouting match. How could she have accepted a six-year mission to Europa without telling me? Did she expect me to wait for her? How would she react if our roles were reversed?

In the heat of battle I decided not to mention anything about my trip to the Pentagon or that I’d be joining her aboard Oceanus for the Omega practice run. By the time I phoned her back three hours later, Andie and her fellow crewmen were already en route to the South Pole, all means of communicating with the outside world silenced.

A harsh katabatic wind buffeted the chopper, separating me from my thoughts. Three days earlier, the sun had peaked above the Antarctic horizon, bringing an end to six months of wintery darkness. Despite the returning daylight, spring would not arrive until mid-November, the sea ice finally thawing in January.

“Robbie, you okay?”

I turned to my uncle, who was seated next to me. The two of us were dressed in thermal long johns, ski pants, and boots, and were seated on our goose-down parkas, the hard bench seats no picnic on our bouncing buttocks. “I was just thinking about Andria.”

“Your problem is that you think too much. You’ll be seeing her in about six hours. Which reminds me, it’s time for your next shot.”

“I told you, I’m committed to the Omega trial but I’m not being frozen.”

“And I told you, GOLEM will never allow you on board Oceanus without blood work. The Omega astronauts have already received a month’s worth of shots. You’ll need to double up on your protocol over the next two weeks, right up until the moment the crew is frozen. At that time, you can inform the computer that you’ve determined the suspected crewman is fine to stay with the mission, and that instead of being held in cryogenic stasis you’ll be using your designated sleep time to catch up on your reading. That’ll give you another four weeks to observe GOLEM.”

My response was silenced by another wave of turbulence, the violent wind gusts peppering the Chinook with ice particles as the airship soared west over the Transantarctic mountain range, heading for the Ross Ice Shelf.

Formed and fed by eight mammoth glaciers, the Ross Ice Shelf was a six-hundred-mile-long, five-hundred-mile-wide sheet of ice, a half-mile thick. Floating atop Antarctica’s Southern Ocean, this sheer white cliff occasionally fractured, calving city-size icebergs into the Ross Sea, which formed the shelf’s southwestern border.

Another eighty minutes passed before the military transport slowed to hover over McMurdo Station.

Established in 1955, located on Ross Island’s Hut Point Peninsula, McMurdo Station was a research center shared by scientists throughout the world. Functioning like a small town, the southernmost community in the world featured four airport runways on hard ice, a harbor, and more than one hundred prefabricated buildings, including dormitories, a commissary, gymnasium, general store, post office, barbershop, a radio and television station, chapel, and an aquarium. Buildings were numbered based on the order in which they were built. During winter months, it was not unusual for these structures to outnumber McMurdo’s residents.

The Chinook shuddered violently as it landed on the helipad’s permanent ice. Our arrival summoned a four-wheel-drive military vehicle. Its rear axle sported triangular-shaped traction belts and the front tires had been replaced with skis. An electric heater, installed beneath the hood, kept the engine block from cracking.

Securing my jacket’s hood over my head, I climbed down from the chopper to chase after my uncle in the glacial cold.

There is cold, there is freezing cold, then there is bone-rattling, witch’s tit, get-me-the-fuck-outta-here cold. Three days ago, I had boarded a solar-powered train in Orlando. The dawn temperature that day had been a balmy 82°F. As I stepped out into the Antarctic dawn, the wind-chilled air was minus five. Overhead, a cobalt-blue sky was streaked with a neon lime-green ghost of color. The charged particles of the aurora australis appeared to slither a snake’s dance toward Mount Erebus, the twelve-thousand-foot-high active volcano looming to the east.

The wind howled across the compound, stinging my ears and crystallizing tears in my unprotected eyes. The truck’s warmth beckoned and I shoved my uncle inside the back of the vehicle, then slid in next to him. I slammed the door shut, silencing the continent’s retreating winter. My body was trembling.

The driver was dressed head to toe in an internally heated environmental suit. Removing his mask, he turned to greet us, revealing a mop of straw-colored hair and flushed cheeks. “Major Phillip Gazen. Welcome to the icebox, General. My instructions are to take you and your nephew to the CSEC for an oh-six-hundred briefing.”

“Where’s the rest of the Omega team?” I asked.

“Two of the team — a man and a woman — are doing prep work in the Crary labs. The others are already at the deployment site, thirty-seven miles to the northwest. The ice sheet’s a mile thick out there, blasted by a katabatic wind so cold it’ll quick-freeze your nut sack into ice cubes within two minutes. Enjoy the tropics of McMurdo while you can, gentlemen. You’ll soon be experiencing the true definition of Antarctic cold.”

Lovely …

The driver wove the growling vehicle toward the center of the compound and the Crary Science and Engineering Center, the largest facility on Ross Island. Laid out as a series of three prefabricated buildings linked by a long shaftlike corridor, the CSEC’s interconnected phases totaled 46,500 square feet of workspace.

Major Gazen parked at the top of the hill in front of the entrance to the first and largest of the CSEC’s three rectangular buildings — a two-story structure elevated on pilings five feet above its rocky foundation. “Welcome to the Crary Center. This building is Phase I. Your briefing will take place in forty minutes in the conference room of Phase II; just follow the long ramp into the next building. Make yourselves at home, gentlemen, there’s coffee and sandwiches set up for you in the library upstairs. Oh, one last thing: Because of the dry windy conditions, there’s no smoking, candle lighting, or incense burning allowed anywhere on McMurdo Station. See you after the briefing.”

“Major, wait. Where can I find the woman from the Omega team?”

“Hell if I know. Try the women’s room.”

I slammed the truck door, muting Gazen’s laughter. Hustling after my uncle, I followed him up a concrete ramp leading to the Crary Center’s air-locked double doors.

The interior of Phase I resembled a modern hospital without the smell of sick people. Its corridor was white tiled, its doorjambs trimmed in pink. There were labs and equipment rooms and offices, everything open — but no one to be found.

“Like a ghost town,” I muttered.

“The sun may be up, but we’re still four months away from the Ross Sea opening to ships,” my uncle explained. “I bet there’s less than a hundred people on this entire outpost. I need to find a bathroom.”

“I need to find Andria.”

Leaving my uncle, I followed the main corridor until it connected to a long sloping ramp that led into the building known as Phase II. The structure was divided into an Earth Sciences pod and an Atmospheric Sciences pod. Entering the latter, I hurried through a maze of offices, quickly lost my bearings, and found myself in a short hall that dead-ended at closed double doors.

A nameplate identified the interior as TELESCOPE. I could hear someone speaking inside and entered.

The chamber was dark, save for the fluorescent glow emanating from four computer monitors mounted in a staggered formation above a sophisticated GPS station. A silver-haired man who looked to be in his late seventies was working at the terminal, conversing with another party on a landline.

“… according to the last set of images, Arthur, the absolute magnitude of 1997 XF11 has changed. Either the asteroid’s a lot bigger than we thought, or its trajectory was altered when it passed Jupiter. Either way, I want you and Carol to recalculate the error eclipse for the pass on October twenty-sixth.”

Hanging up the phone, the scientist swiveled around in his chair to face me. “Another visitor? It’s getting pretty crowded around here. Lowell Krawitz, International Astronomical Union.”

“Robert Eisenbraun. Would one of the other visitors happen to be a woman? Dark hair. Athletic. About my age.”

“Last time I saw her, she was working in the aquarium. Follow the main corridor to Phase III.”

“Thanks. So, this asteroid … how close will it pass to Earth?”

“Close is a matter of perspective. She’ll miss us by a scant three hundred thousand miles, give or take. Roughly the distance to the moon. It’s not a threat, but it’s a bigger hunk of rock than we expected, so we’re keeping an eye on it, just to be sure.”

“Have fun.”

I left the chamber and realized I was still lost. Remembering ABE, I had my bio-chip access the schematics to the Crary Center. Within seconds the internal GPS was directing me out of the Phase II maze and back to the main corridor.

Mental masturbation, my ass …

Descending another long ramp, I pushed past a set of air-locked double doors and entered the smallest of the three buildings.

The aquarium was more research facility than exhibit, a two-thousand-square-foot structure containing a touch tank, five large oval holding tanks, walk-in refrigerators and freezers, workstations and several labs.

My heart fluttered. She was standing before a three-thousand-gallon saltwater aquarium with her back to me. The hourglass figure was concealed beneath a gold and navy blue University of Delaware sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. She had rinsed the blue streak from her jet-black hair, which seemed longer than when we had last held one another four weeks earlier.

“Hey, beautiful.”

She turned into my kiss, my tongue probing the inside of her mouth — her smell and my lips alerting me too late that I had just frenched the wrong woman.

She removed any doubt by slapping me hard across the face.

I backed away, my heart racing. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” She was pretty in her own right, a blue-collar version of Andria, a hometown apple pie girl compared to my sultry huntress. “I’m calling Security.”

“Easy now. I’m with the training exercise. One of the backups. Robert Eisenbraun.”

The anger dissipated into a smile. “You’re Ike. You thought I was Andria.”

Relief flooded into my flushed cheeks. “You know her?”

“We’ve only spent the last eight months working together.” She extended her hand. “Lara Saints, marine biologist. Sorry about the slap.”

“Sorry about the kiss.”

“The kiss was fine … maybe a little less tongue next time. I’m guessing Andie doesn’t know you’re coming.”

“It’s sort of a surprise. Do you know where she is?”

“She’s with the others, out at the drop zone. I stayed back to prepare my lovelies for tomorrow’s dive.” She pointed to the aquarium.

The tank appeared empty, save for a speckled brown cluster of coral. “Is there something in there?”

“Watch.” Lara reached into a plastic bucket with a pair of tongs, fishing out a live crab. Unbolting the plastic top of the tank, she dropped the squirming crustacean into the water.

As if by magic, the sides of the cluster of coral bloomed into a pair of octopi, each creature losing its brown skin pattern to become translucent pink.

“Wow, that’s some camouflage.”

“This is Oscar and Sophia. They’re both members of the species Megaleledone setebos—that’s Latin for—”

“‘The ones that never left home,’” I said, attempting to impress her. “So, where is home?”

“Right here, in the South Pole. All modern deep-sea octopuses trace their origins to a single species of Antarctic cephalopod that inhabited these very waters about thirty-three million years ago.”

“How did one species evolve into so many different species so quickly?”

“Adaptation. When Antarctica froze over, most of the cephalopods spread into other ocean realms, their physiology evolving to adapt to their new environments. Each change led to new species of octopus. For instance, Oscar and Sophia were born in the dark waters of the deep, their physiological adaptation was to phase out their ink sacs.”

“Is the light bothering them? They look like they’re squinting.”

Lara laughed. “Those aren’t eyes, they’re just skin folds. Their eyes are actually off to the sides.”

“They have your smile.”

“That’s not a mouth, it’s just a common color pattern.”

“Why is there a padlock on the top of their tank? Are you afraid someone might steal them?”

“Hardly. These guys are escape artists; they can squeeze their bodies through a hole the size of your fist. Cephalopods are also extremely smart. Watch this.”

Using the tongs, she removed another live crab from the bucket, placing it in a jar of salt water. The two octopi appeared excited; they were clearly watching Lara as she screwed on the jar lid tightly. When she reached for another jar and crab, I began to feel guilty.

Lara released both sealed containers of live bait into the tank and the two cephalopods immediately divided the bounty, each octopus wasting no time in attempting to remove the lid of its respective jar. Within seconds, the translucent pink creatures had splayed themselves atop their lids, engaging the powerful suckers of their eight tentacles, twisting off the sealed jar top.

“Pretty clever,” I said, duly impressed. “Is there an IQ test you can administer to an octopus?”

“Probably. But it would be based on our limited definition of intelligence, not theirs. Having worked with cephalopods over the last four years, I can tell you they possess distinct personalities and recognize and respond differently to individual humans. I’ve witnessed cephalopods in the wild construct sanctuaries out of coconut shells and collect rocks to stack outside the opening of their shelter for the sole purpose of warding off predators.”

“There’s an interesting question — do you think an octopus has a soul?”

“You’re better off asking that question to Dharma, she’s our resident Buddhist. I do know they have three hearts, which are located in their heads — their brain is situated closer to their mouth. Wait, you’ll appreciate this.”

“You’re not going to torture another crab, are you?”

Ignoring my attempt at levity, she removed an empty plastic water bottle from a recycling bin, washed it out, then filled it with salt water, allowing it to sink to the bottom of the tank.

Oscar intercepted it — at least I assumed it was Oscar, but instead of touching it, the male octopus created a powerful jet stream of water, the burst sending the bottle over to Sophia. Within minutes, the two cephalopods were engaged in what might be perceived as a game of catch.

“Amazing.”

“Playful behavior is another sign of intelligence,” Lara explained. “What separates the octopus from other higher life-forms is that they are solitary creatures, remaining alone from the time they’re born. Humans and chimps, dogs and dolphins, learn from other members of their pack. Cephalopods must individually acquire knowledge in order to survive.”

“Some of us survived the Great Die-Off in a similar way.” I glanced at a wall clock. 6:05. “Damn, I’m late for a briefing. Nice, uh, meeting you.”

She winked. “See you again soon.”

Exiting the aquarium, I hurried back up the corridor connecting Phase III to Phase II. Directed by ABE, I quickly located the conference room, knocked, and entered.

My uncle was seated at a doughnut-shaped holographic table across from a balding scientist who I estimated to be in his early sixties. The man’s jawline sported a cinnamon-red beard. The general shot me a perturbed look, as if a quickie with my fiancée had caused the tardiness. “Sorry if this briefing interrupted your social life.”

“It wasn’t her.”

“Dr. Robert Eisenbraun, this is Dr. Donald Bruemmer, one of the Omega twelve. Dr. Bruemmer is the materials chemist GOLEM placed in charge of constructing Oceanus I and II. So there’s no confusion, Oceanus I is the prototype being used on the training mission, Oceanus II is the actual lunar module that will be forward-towed out by the Space Shuttle and deployed on Europa. Dr. Bruemmer delayed his arrival to the training site just to brief you.”

The German scientist looked at me with disdain. “As I told the general, I’m not one who likes surprises. Your presence on this training mission wasn’t announced until yesterday.”

ABE prompted me with a prepared comeback. “GOLEM wanted a backup to go through the training, just in case. There’d probably be three more of me onboard if the habitat had the room.”

“How fortunate we don’t.” Bruemmer clicked a palm control, causing a holographic image of Oceanus to bloom into view above the table’s center hole. “This is Oceanus I. It’s identical to the habitat we’ll be transporting to Europa, except that its cryogenic chamber will be located aboard the shuttle, affording Oceanus II more living space. As you can see, the design is spherical, allowing for optimal compressive strength required to maintain structural integrity at great depths. Oceanus is contained within a three-foot-thick outer casing composed of aero gel, the lightest, lowest density solid material ever produced. Aero gels are made by removing all of the liquid from silica gel while leaving its molecular density intact.”

To demonstrate his point, Bruemmer removed an ice cube — size piece of clear aero gel from his lab coat pocket. “If you examined aero gel under a microscope, you’d see trillions of nanometer-size particles of silicon dioxide interconnected in a porous labyrinth made up mostly of air. The material is incredibly dense. If you flattened this cube out, it would span an entire football field. And yet as dense as Oceanus’s three-story, hundred-fifty-foot-in-diameter sphere appears, the entire structure weighs less than fifty thousand pounds. The substance was used by NASA as thermo-insulation, making it perfect for the supercold temperatures of both space and Europa’s ocean.

“To locate, mine, and segregate helium-3 from Europa’s hydrothermal vents, GOLEM devised a porous aero gel vacuum tube composed of He-3 sensitive fluorophores. The tube will be used to cap a vent, then redirect steam generated by the superheated waters to churn a turbine, which will power Oceanus while the fluorophores break down and separate the helium-3 from the rest of the discharge. It’s really quite ingenious.”

“The volcanic vents are located on the seafloor. How does GOLEM expect to get this giant beach ball through eight miles of ice?”

Bruemmer pointed to the sphere’s four anchor arms. “Besides serving as a base, each of these support arms contains twin rockets, one exhaust pointing down, the other up. Each engine holds enough fuel to melt through thirty miles of ice. Fire up all four rockets and you have an instant elevator shaft melted within the ice sheet.”

The scientist changed the image to an internal layout of the sphere. “As you can see, Oceanus has three main decks. The lower level is dedicated to gathering and storing helium-3 as well as the habitat’s power station — a small nuclear reactor.”

“I thought you said Oceanus runs on steam generated by the vents?”

“It does, but we still require a backup system. Don’t look so nervous; it’s the same unit used on our old Los Angeles — class attack subs. The core can be jettisoned in an emergency.”

“What are these four smaller spheres?”

“Submersibles that double as escape pods. There’s also an emergency egress station — for whatever good that will do you. Water’s too cold and far too deep to survive.” He pointed to the middle deck, the largest of the three. “Second level services the needs of the crew. Everyone gets their own private quarters and bathroom. There’s a cafeteria, kitchen, arboretum, which converts CO2 to oxygen, reverse osmosis plant to convert seawater or whatever they have on Europa to pure water, and multiple storage areas. This centrally located chamber here will be used as an entertainment area on Oceanus II, on Oceanus I we had to use it to hold the cryogenic pods for the thirty-day snooze. We could only fit the original twelve inside, yours had to be placed in another area.”

“Hope it’s not the laundry room.”

General Schall pointed to a vertical tube running through the core of the sphere. “What is this? It looks like an elevator shaft.”

“Actually, it’s a watertight chamber that holds the GOLEM mainframe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to do before we fly out to the dive site. Major Gazen will pick us up outside the Crary Center in four hours. Report to the staging area in this building an hour beforehand so we can outfit you properly. According to my last communication with Commander Read, with the windchill, it’s minus thirty-seven degrees Fahrenheit out there.”

There was a part of me that wanted to cancel the mission right there; only my soul mate’s presence out in that −37°F freezer kept me from changing my mind.

The things we do for love …

8

“Coldest temperature ever recorded out here was minus a hundred twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit back in 1983.” Major Gazen shouted to be heard over the chopper’s rotors, the sound echoing as we soared over the ice sheet. “Make sure your clothing isn’t too tight. Tight layers of clothing leave no room for trapped air. You need the air as an insulator.”

From the copilot’s seat I offered a thumbs-up, about the only extremity I could move. I was bound in more layers than an onion, from the thermal long-sleeve top and long johns causing my boxer shorts to ride up the crack of my ass, to the fleece trousers and sweater, everything sealed beneath a jumpsuit designed to shield the wind. Two pairs of socks, two pairs of boots (the outer layer rubber-insulated), a pair of skintight gloves covered in elbow-high mittens, scarves, head gear, and tinted goggles — every inch of my flesh was concealed. Seated on my down parka, I had been instructed to wait until the chopper landed before slipping on this final protective shell.

Below, the frozen white desert appeared as desolate as it seemed endless.

Roughly the size of France, the Ross Ice Shelf was the largest body of floating ice on the planet. Viewed from the Ross Sea, which formed its southern boundary, the shelf rose above the waterway like the cliffs of Dover, a sheer wall of ice two hundred feet high.

Wedged in clothing, I shifted my gaze back to the horizon where the aurora australis laced through the sky like a radiant green-and-white ribbon. High above, waves of nacreous clouds danced neon gold across a lead-blue stratosphere, the undulating formations reflecting the sunrise like an ethereal tide.

Major Gazen pointed ahead. Appearing on the stark white landscape was a caravan of electric vehicles and battery-powered trucks hitched to what our pilot explained were extreme weather trailers. At the center of the gathering, towering five stories over the ice sheet like a giant reflective globe was Oceanus I.

Gazen slowed the chopper, hovering over a green X painted on the ice along the western periphery. Descending rapidly, the aircraft bounced twice before it settled, only to be rocked violently by a thirty-mile-an-hour wind gust that nearly toppled us over.

Gazen yelled, “Out!”

Having donned our parkas, the four of us hurriedly exited the helicopter. The intense cold blasted through my layers of clothing like a steel scythe as I attempted to negotiate the ice. Dr. Bruemmer took the lead, pointing to a double-wide trailer. An orange flag adorned with the Greek letter “Ω” set in white designated the structure as the command post.

Bruemmer wrenched open the door for Lara Saints and General Schall, waving for me to hurry.

I ignored him, my attention drawn to a dark figure lying motionless on the ice some sixty yards away. I pointed, then half jogged, half slid across the expanse, the steel teeth of my snow boots occasionally tearing holes into the frozen plain.

Bruemmer waved me off as hopeless and ducked inside the trailer.

As I moved closer, I wondered if I was hallucinating.

The woman was Asian, perhaps in her midthirties. She was lying on a rubber mat, wearing a neoprene black bodysuit and matching boots. Her face was serene, despite remaining fully exposed to the harsh elements; her waist-length tangle of hair whipped behind her like a dark brown flag. Her eyes were closed. She was not fighting the elements; as corny as it sounds, she appeared to be at one with them.

Most bizarre — a swirl of steam was rising from her body, the self-generated heat dispersed by the howling wind.

Unsure whether to leave or awaken her, I simply stared.

As I watched, her serenity bled into a dazed expression. The almond eyes snapped open, only to be blinded by the icy gusts. Whatever had been fueling her internal furnace appeared to have shut down, for she suddenly looked naked against the elements, her mind drowning in hypothermia.

Quickly unzipping my parka, I guided it over the woman’s frail upper torso. Forcing the hood over her head, I scooped her up in the coat and carried her to the trailer, exposing myself to a cold that threatened to paralyze my stiffening muscles.

The trailer door swung open and my uncle dragged us inside.

I laid the snow ninja down on a wool couch, her inert 120-pound form folding like a stringless puppet. She was shaking, her lips blue.

Lara covered her with a heated blanket while my uncle grabbed a walkie-talkie from a battery charger. “This is General Schall. We have a member of the crew in the command trailer, suffering from exposure. We are in need of medical assistance.”

Bruemmer scoffed. “Don’t fuss over her, General, she does this all the time. Crazy Buddhists, thinking they can defy the laws of thermodynamics.”

I sandwiched the woman’s near-frostbitten fingers in my hands, attempting to restore circulation. “Lara, who is she?”

“Her name’s Dharma Yuan. GOLEM assigned her to Oceanus as the team psychotherapist.”

“A waste of food and supplies, if you ask me.” Bruemmer fixed himself a cup of cocoa, heating it in the microwave. “Why the hell do we need a psychotherapist anyway?”

Lara glared at the older man. “Six years away from Earth, stuck inside a ten-thousand-square-foot habitat with eleven other people? I may need a psychotherapist just to keep from killing you.” Pushing past the grouchy scientist, she took the steaming cup from him, then pressed it to the Chinese-Indian woman’s lips. “Dharma, sip this, it’ll warm you.”

General Schall finished speaking to someone on the radio. “They’re sending a truck to take the four of you to Oceanus. Dharma will be treated on board.”

“You’re not coming?”

“No, Robbie. Oceanus’s engines are fueled and the countdown to immersion has already begun. I’ll remain at McMurdo until tomorrow, then I’m off to Australia for six weeks until you resurface.”

“Broads and beaches, huh?”

“Energy meetings. I get to explain to the United Nations why the world’s top engineers have been shuttled to the moon for an emergency fusion summit.”

A beeping truck horn demanded our presence outside. Two medical technicians entered the trailer, carrying a thermal medevac bag. Dharma was placed inside, then carried out to the transport vehicle, followed by Lara and Dr. Bruemmer.

Uncle David gripped my wrist. “Bruemmer gave you a taste of what to expect. Remember, most of the crew have been training together for more than a year. They’ll be suspicious of you — good! Step on a few toes. If one or more of them have sold us out to the coal industry, I want to know about it.”

We embraced. Then I put on my parka, left the trailer, and climbed into the backseat of the awaiting truck.

The battery-powered transport accelerated past several trailers and four fuel tanks on skids labeled FLAMMABLE: ROCKET FUEL. Up ahead, Oceanus I glistened like a giant crystal ball, its surface inverting reflections of its surroundings, its four double-jointed anchor legs giving the structure a “spider” effect. As we moved closer to one of these silo-size supports, I noticed both the top and bottom of each vertical appendage were charred.

The truck parked at a mobile gantry, its heated aluminum steps leading up to a portal situated in the habitat’s third level. Dharma was carried up the stairs by an EMT.

I waited, then followed the others up the gantry into Oceanus.

“Whoa.”

The 360-degree panoramic view was startling, like entering a giant fishbowl. Twelve leather lounge chairs, equipped with harnesses and adjustable tabletops were set in pairs facing the aero gel surface. Above, the heavens yielded to the aurora, running across the endless blue sky like a spearmint river. Below and all around us the camp had mobilized; trucks, trailers, and fuel tanks formed a convoy that I knew was en route to reconvene several miles to the east.

Tearing myself away from the view, I inspected the rest of the chamber. Rising up along the walls like latitude lines on a globe were six tubular support buttresses. These five-feet-in-diameter hollow acrylic beams continued up the curved ceiling where they met at a centrally located vertical shaft.

The vertical column was ten feet around. Composed of aero gel, the see-through plastic tube was filled with an orange-colored fluid, more oil than water.

As I watched, a round object floated up through the flooded shaft like a glob of wax in a lava lamp. An acrylic sphere, its interior was filled with a clear viscous liquid, but appeared to be of a thinner viscosity than what was in the shaft.

The object ascended to my eye level, revealing its internal workings, and thus its identity.

GOLEM …

While conventional computers were designed to implement one calculation very fast, their performance had always been limited to the number of transistors that could fit onto a single integrated-circuit silicon chip. Enter the biochemical supercomputer, an evolutionary leap up the technology ladder. Instead of using the binary system, which delineated either an on state assigned the value one or an off state assigned the value zero, a supercomputer used strands of encoded DNA that produced billions of potential solutions simultaneously, outperforming a trillion silicon chips combined.

The most sophisticated man-made creation ever conceived observed me from multiple angles — one camera within its sphere, the other cameras mounted along the domed ceiling.

My first impression of the machine I had designed and programmed, then deserted before its actual conception, was that GOLEM resembled a giant floating eyeball. At the center of its sphere was a black mass — a pupil-like object roughly the diameter of a basketball. Functioning like the nucleus of a cell, the porous gelatinous membrane was filled with adenosine-triphosphate (ATP), a substance used in human cells to transport chemical energy for metabolism.

There were no circuits in a biochemical supercomputer, no mechanical devices to plug in. Swirling inside the sphere’s enzyme elixir and occasionally through the porous surface of this eyeball-like object were tens of thousands of six-inch-long wire-thin strands. Composed of DNA, each of these twisted double-helix strands had the capacity to store billions of times more data than a silicon chip, all while using far less energy. Color-coded in unique combinations of bioluminescent lime green, phosphorescent orange, neon pink, and electric blue, these amino acid nucleotides continuously and would perpetually pass through the black mass’s semipermeable membrane. Each exit generated a tiny spark of electricity that powered tens of thousands of computations in a process that mimicked the chemical reactions which occur in human cells.

“So, the prodigal son returns to see his child.”

Monique DeFriend was dressed in a skintight royal-blue one-piece jumpsuit, the redhead’s physical attributes as clearly on display as the computer’s.

I turned to face my former supervisor, preparing myself for one of our usual verbal jousts. “GOLEM isn’t my child. I was one of thirty scientists who worked on it.”

“It was your design we selected for the DNA matrix, I’d say that makes you its father.”

“And I suppose you’re its mother?”

“Of course.”

“Did its birth leave stretch marks? I’m guessing yes.”

Monique’s hazel eyes danced, her smile frozen. “You’re here to ask me a question: Ask it and go.”

“Okay. Has GOLEM evolved to the point of independence?”

“Eisenbraun, you of all people should know that evolution involves long-term adaptations. GOLEM is learning, reorganizing its algorithmic solution strands, which grow microscopically longer each time they pass through its solution matrix. The greater the length of the strands, the more experience the computer acquires. I’d hardly call that evolving.”

She circled the vertical shaft like a proud parent. “What do you think? You must feel a certain sense of satisfaction, even though you did abandon the project.”

I ignored the barb. “It’s bigger than I designed. Why make GOLEM’s enzyme vessel so large? It would take a hundred years just for the computer to use ten percent of that solution space.”

“It’s all about memory, Eisenbraun. Take GOLEM’s voice recognition software. Comprehending the nuances of human speech such as varied dialects, inflection, and in some cases speech impediments requires vast storehouses of memory. Same for the computer’s optical software, which is rigged to thirty-two cameras on board this habitat alone. Then there’s its motion software and its robotic appendages … a virtual nightmare of programming. In the end, we discovered that the larger the vessel’s free solution space, the more fully a DNA solution strand would mature. It’s sort of like an aquarium, the bigger the tank, the larger nature will allow the fish to grow. That was the real reason GOLEM had to shut down lunar operations, not because the computer had suddenly gone ‘HAL 2001,’ but because its DNA strands hadn’t evolved fast enough to run two autonomous systems concurrently. Of course, try explaining that to our vice president, whose expertise is in fusion, not computers.”

“Why even house GOLEM aboard Oceanus? Couldn’t it simply run operations remotely from Earth like it did on the moon?”

“The moon had Alpha Colony, with its relay satellites. Europa’s a lot farther away, lacking a communication outpost.”

“And this training mission — exactly what are the computer’s responsibilities over the next forty-five days?”

“GOLEM will monitor the crew during their work shifts, evaluate their performances, then oversee all life-support systems while the crew is held in cryogenic stasis. We want the computer’s DNA strands to continue to evolve, readying GOLEM for the Europa mission onboard Oceanus II. By the time our solar shuttle reaches Jupiter, the computer’s increased level of sophistication should allow it to gain full use of its robotic arms.”

“You equipped GOLEM with appendages? Why even send a human crew to Europa? Just let the computer handle the entire mining operation.”

“We could have sent GOLEM — if we had another four years to develop a series of robotic appendages capable of operating underwater at extreme depths and temperatures. Since we don’t have the time, the process of capping and siphoning helium-3 from Europa’s hydrothermal vents has to be performed by our crew. For that, we’ll use the two-man submersibles docked outside the lower deck.” Monique feigned a smile. “Andria’s been trained as one of the sub pilots; once we anchor along the bottom of the Ross Sea you should ask her to take you out for a ride.”

“She told you about us, but she never told me she was involved in this mission.”

“Lovers may keep secrets, but you’ll learn there are no secrets among Oceanus’s crew.”

“Warning: Six minutes until descent.”

We glanced up at the neon-blue sensory orb poised overhead.

“Six minutes, Eisenbraun. Six minutes, six weeks … six years. Six men and six women onboard … and you. GOLEM selected us as much for how our personalities mesh as for our skills. Which begs the question — where does that leave you? Assuming one of our crew really needs to be replaced, are you sure you’re the one who is best fit to replace them? Better think it through, you only have five and a half minutes before we submerge.”

For the first time, the magnitude of my decision to be here weighed seriously on my mind. “GOLEM, locate Andria Saxon.”

“Andria Saxon is in Stateroom One, located on Deck Two.”

I looked around, lost.

Monique pointed to a vertical ladder harbored inside one of the six bulkheads. “When you speak with Andria, be sure to ask her if she minds sharing her suite with you. Twelve suites, thirteen crew.”

I hurriedly descended the steel ladder to Deck Two, only to find myself standing in a circular corridor, the crew’s suites located along the outside, the entrances to far larger compartments on the inside. Heading counterclockwise, I passed Stateroom Eight on my right, the galley on my left. In full sprint I ran past a science lab that spanned Staterooms Seven through Three as if I were running to catch a plane. A home theater, an exercise room, and ahead was Stateroom One, its door open.

Hearing Andria’s voice, I stopped short of entering.

“… how was I supposed to know, Kevin? It’s not like I invited him on board.”

“What if he ends up replacing a crewman on the Europa mission?”

“He won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know him, Kevin. This whole thing was probably his uncle’s doing. Trust me, Ike’s not a risk-taker like you and me; he needs to stay inside his comfort zone, and he’s not very good with people. Spending the better part of six years living in a confined habitat with eleven other crewmen would drive him insane.”

“You never told me he was such a recluse.”

“Most brainiacs are. I suspect his father was the same way. Guys like Ike spend most of their time inside their own head, always analyzing life, never living it. Why do you think he invented ABE? That little microchip in his brain allows him to be as self-contained as GOLEM. Of course, the problem with living inside your own head all the time is that you isolate yourself from the real world.”

“Einstein was like this. I think it’s a Jew thing.”

“You mean a Jewish thing? Don’t tell me you’re anti-Semitic?”

“Of course not. What I meant … I just never understood the attraction. The guy’s a geek.”

“That geek kept us safe and sheltered during the GDO; his ingenuity and foresight allowed us to survive the gangs that would have eaten him and turned me into a sex slave. Ike was the first man I ever trusted.”

“Then why are you with me?”

“The Die-Off passed, only Ike still lives in fear. His phobias about mankind have made him overly possessive. You think he wants me piloting shuttles in space or submersibles on Europa? Hell no. Ike wants me in his bed and in the nursery, raising a kid or two while he explores quantum physics with ABE.”

“That’s not you. You’re a leader, Andria. A warrior bred for action. Just like me. It’ll drive me insane if we can’t sleep together during this mission. You have to tell him about us.”

Hearing them kiss, I dropped to one knee, as if someone had kicked me in the gut. Andie had not only lied to me about accepting a six-year mission, she was cheating on me!

There were a thousand things I wanted to say — retorts and accusations, rants and countless explanations justifying who I was and why I turned out the way I did — only suddenly I found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time for all the wrong reasons, and I had to get out now, before Oceanus submerged.

My mind paralyzed in a centrifuge of emotions, I staggered down the corridor — nearly knocking over Lara Saints, who was exiting Stateroom Seven, carrying a palm-size video camera.

“Ike? Are you all right? You look pale.”

Searching for the damn ladder, I mumbled, “Maybe I should run a level-one diagnostic.”

She giggled. “Are you pretending to be a computer?”

“What? No. Lara, where’s the ladder? And who the hell’s Kevin?”

“Kevin Read. He’s the ship’s commanding officer. Why?” She followed me down the corridor. “Oh, God, Ike, I’m so sorry. Do you want to come inside my suite? We could talk.”

Talk? No, I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to grab a bayonet and shove the blade up—

“Ike, here’s the ladder.” She ascended the tube before me, slowing me down, the top of my head pushing against her buttocks from below. We arrived together on the upper deck in time to hear a chorus of voices counting down “… three … two … one!”

Too late.

A deep, pulse-pounding rumble throttled sound and space, the structure reverberating in my bones as I saw the 360-degree panoramic view consumed in the chaos of flames and smoke and a thick white mist that blotted out the Antarctic heavens. The sound of rocket engines igniting below the habitat’s anchor legs muted my protests, along with the whooping and hollering coming from the eight members of the Oceanus’s crew who were strapped in lounge chairs to witness the historic descent.

For a surreal moment the ship actually rose thirty feet above the pack ice, until the quadruple 2,200°F exhausts boiled the ice sheet into gas, as gravity plummeted the twenty-five-ton sphere through a rapidly forming void, the sudden drop approaching free-fall speed.

The g-force collapsed me like a folding chair, and somehow I found myself on my knees, straddling Lara. Lying on her back beneath me, she seemed to be enjoying the ride.

Thirty seconds passed, and still the sphere plummeted. Unable to hold myself up any longer, I dropped to my elbows, my face inches from Lara’s.

Slipping her hand behind the back of my head, she pulled my face to hers until our lips met again, only this time it was her tongue sliding inside my mouth. Gravity held us together another forty seconds until the rockets throttled back.

The shaft that had been evaporated beneath Oceanus filled with water, slowing the sphere’s descent. Released from the g-force, I separated from Lara, as stunned by her kiss as she had been by mine when I mistook her for Andria.

Lara winked. “Now we’re even.”

Turquoise-blue light transformed the chamber into a living aquarium as Oceanus abruptly splashed down below the ice shelf into an emerald sea.

I regained my feet, spellbound. I can’t even remember if I helped Lara to her feet, so overwhelmed were my senses by the beauty now surrounding us as we submerged.

Breathtaking is not a word I use often, but this … this was breathtaking. The underside of the Ross Ice Shelf appeared as an endless ceiling of billowing azure clouds. Having melted as a result of their rapid descent, a tidal wave of freshwater was washing below into the subzero salt water, refreezing before our eyes into a permanent cascading waterfall. All the while, Oceanus continued to sink, the habitat paced by medusa jellyfish, which rode the sphere’s current into the depths, their four-foot pink-and-peach bodies fluttering like the delicate fringes of a frilly Spanish bolero jacket.

As we sank into deeper water the light diminished, turquoise fading into shades of purple. GOLEM activated the habitat’s underwater lights — twin beacons searching for the seafloor.

Touchdown occurred at 1,286 feet. Coral beds were crushed into submission by the habitat’s four support legs, the steel fuselages still steaming as they sank, anchoring Oceanus to the bottom.

“Ike?”

Andria’s voice doused me back into reality.

Mission standards had forced her to lose the blue highlights in her onyx hair, but there were no codes that could alter the way her athletic physique filled out that burnt-orange jumpsuit. Andria kept the front zipper containing her well-endowed cleavage collar high to prevent any false messages from being sent.

Staring at her, I was suddenly aware of the other crewmembers. They were there to witness the show, having anticipated the moment since learning I was coming aboard.

To her credit, Andria was having none of it. “Let’s talk in private,” she said, leading me across the chamber to a ladder situated inside another bulkhead.

We climbed down two flights to the lower level, our descent paced by GOLEM, the annoying sphere drifting into view seconds later like a giant Peeping Tom.

I followed Andria in silence past a watertight door labeled SUB-4, the two of us weaving around pallets of equipment wrapped in plastic. I noticed a yellow hatch on the floor marked by a radiation symbol.

She stopped at another watertight door labeled EGRESS.

Andria opened the hatch, leading me inside a small tiled chamber resembling a firemen’s prep station. A dozen hooded Navy Steinke egress-exposure suits hung from hooks, with a plastic sign that offered step-by-step instructions. Above the frame was a red light and a green light, neither lit. A small watertight door on the opposite end of the room led to the escape hatch.

Andria straddled one of the two wooden benches bolted to the floor. She motioned for me to sit across from her.

Avoiding eye contact, she stared at her sneakers. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it.”

“Don’t. I already heard it once, I don’t think I could stomach it again.”

“You heard what from whom?”

“From you. Outside Stateroom One, about ten minutes ago. If you were so unhappy with me, why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I wasn’t unhappy.”

“Let’s see … I’m an anchor, a recluse. Stuck in my own head. Afraid to live. Those words sound familiar? Christ, you make me sound like a mental patient!”

She looked at me, teary-eyed, but said nothing. There was nothing to say, I held all the cards in a losing hand. Still, I intended to get my pound of flesh.

“I asked you to marry me back in January. ‘Yes, Ike, I’ll marry you, only we have to wait until I’m shuttle qualified … until I get my wings.’ What the hell, Andria?”

“I was selected for Europa a week after we got engaged. I needed time to think. For three years I’ve committed every day to the Omega mission — how could I just walk away? Only twelve people on Earth were selected for Europa … we were sworn to secrecy.”

“So you cheated on me?”

“It wasn’t planned, it happened over time. I wasn’t looking, but under the circumstances … facing the prospect of being gone for six years, I guess I began to detach from you emotionally. Face it, Ike, there’s no way you would have let me go to Europa. With Kevin, it seemed our personalities meshed. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think the computer purposely matched everyone onboard.”

I beat the back of my skull against the tile wall, more for effect than pain. “That’s some computer. It takes the damn thing two years to figure out the moon’s helium-3 is no good, but boy can it run an astronaut dating service.”

“I understand you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry. Okay, I’m angry, but I’m also hurt. I love you, Andie. I can change.”

“Stop. I’m really sorry, Ike. I handled this all wrong. But let’s be clear, I’m going to be gone for six years and that’s not going to change. Now I want to know the truth: Why are you here? And don’t tell me you’re prepared to spend the next six years on Europa.”

I hesitated. This was not the scenario I had rehearsed with my uncle.

I opted for an edited version of the truth. “There was a series of psychological exams administered by the Space Agency … all candidates submitted to the protocol before being admitted to the academy. SEA discovered that one of the male Omega crew may have sociopathic tendencies.”

“Who?”

“All I know is that it’s one of the men. Don’t ask me which one, they wouldn’t tell me.”

Andria shook her head in disbelief. “How could the Space Agency wait so long to figure that out?”

“It’s borderline.”

“There’s no such thing as borderline, not when it comes to living in isolation. Biosphere 2 had eight subjects sequestered in a huge habitat for less than two years when they started losing it. We’ll be on Europa forty-two months. You deal with an egg that’s already cracked and the entire crew’s in danger.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I’m going, so don’t even start. The question is, why were you selected as a backup?”

“Hell if I know. GOLEM selected me. The Space Agency asked me to accept the assignment; they felt my background in psychology qualified me to observe the crew in action. To make sure my evaluation remained unbiased, they refused to tell me who the suspected sociopath is.”

Her eyes become dark lasers. “You’re already biased! You know I’ve been with Kevin. You’d portray him as the next Hannibal Lecter if it meant keeping us apart.”

The voice of the man atop my shit list crackled across the intercom. “All crew: Report to the galley at once.”

Andria looked at me, unsure. “Ike, what are you going to do?”

“My job. See you in the galley.” I stood to leave. “Oh yeah … don’t even think about leaving orbit with my Rolling Stones CDs.”

9

Eating in space requires designing and packaging meals with long shelf lives, in single servings that can survive microbe-killing heat treatment or complete dehydration. Despite these new restrictions, the Oceanus menu was expansive, featuring over three hundred items developed by NASA, the Russian and European space agencies, and Japan.

Standing at one of four food stations in the galley like a fish out of water, I pretended to scan a computerized menu before selecting shrimp cocktail as my entrée, a juice pouch as a beverage.

Processing the request, GOLEM extracted the items from bins in the galley storage area using a ceiling-mounted robotic arm that resembled an elephant’s trunk. Designed by the automation company Festo, the robotic appendage was composed of three flexible polyamide coils welded as one to create a tentacle possessing a fluid motion. The trunk ended in three triangular fingers designed to grasp objects.

Selecting the items chosen, the bionic trunk placed the vacuum-packed meal and beverage on a conveyor belt for delivery.

I collected my lunch, then debated my next move. Eleven members of the crew were seated at the long rectangular table situated at the center of the galley. One empty chair remained. Heading for it, I set my food down at the place setting, only to be chided by Monique DeFriend.

“Sorry, Eisenbraun, that’s reserved for Commander Read.” She pointed to four bar stools set up by a snack bar. “Thirteen crewmen, twelve chairs. Guess you’re the odd man out.”

The other men and women stopped eating, waiting to see how I’d react.

“Thirteen’s always been my lucky number.” Grabbing my lunch, I walked over to the snack bar, eleven pairs of eyes following me. No worries. Only two more weeks of playing the unwanted camper until these assholes will be tucked in for their thirty-day nap.

I made a mental note to piss in Monique’s cryogenic tub.

Inspecting my lunch, I realized the vacuum-sealed plastic container of shrimp was a lot tougher to open than I expected. Trying my best not to draw attention, I attempted to puncture the thick wrap with my fork, but snapped the plastic utensil in half.

My struggle summoned the Chinese-Indian woman. As she approached, ABE’s short-term memory aid identified her as Dharma Yuan.

“Hi. I’m Robert Eisenbraun.”

“Yes, I know.” Her hair was brushed, but damp, probably from having just taken a hot bath. Her long ponytail smelled of lilac, and it left a wet mark on her jumpsuit down to the small of her back.

“Do you remember what happened?” I asked, seeking her gratitude.

“I remember you nearly killed me.”

“What? No … I was the one who carried you inside. You were out on the ice, freezing.”

“I was in a transcendental state, my mind had transformed my body into a furnace. Your aura broke the trance.”

“It did? I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Are you okay now?”

“Of course.” Reaching into her jumpsuit pocket, she removed a small pair of scissors and, in one motion, sliced through the plastic wrapper of my lunch. “When you are finished, be sure to deposit the trash in the recycle bin.”

She glanced over my shoulder. I turned as a strapping man with a barrel chest and short-cropped dark hair strode into the galley.

ABE gave me the rundown.

READ, KEVIN, RANK: COMMANDER. BORN MAY 14, 1987. NATIONALITY: CANADIAN. GRADUATED WITH HONORS FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF OTTAWA WITH DUAL DEGREES IN HUMAN KINETICS AND ENGINEERING.

Enough!

At least I was taller than him.

“Good, everyone’s here, Mr. Eisenbraun too, I see. Dharma, why don’t you join us at the crew’s table?”

Dharma, God bless her, slid onto the vacant bar stool next to mine.

Kevin Read registered her small act of defiance with a false smile. “Since this will be one of the rare times we can assemble as a group, I wanted to welcome everyone aboard. We’ve all worked very hard to get to this day, but there are greater challenges ahead. GOLEM has set a rigorous training schedule, which you can find on your h-pads. Since Alpha Squad is still on day shift until eighteen hundred hours, I’ll need you to join me in fifteen minutes on the lower deck to unpack the equipment needed on Beta Squad’s first dive, set to commence at nineteen-thirty hours.”

He looked up at me, smiling like we were the best of friends. “We’re on twelve-hour shifts, six to six. GOLEM assigned you to Beta Squad, the night shift. You can pick up your jumpsuit, eating utensils, and h-pad in the ship’s store, that’s on deck two. We couldn’t squeeze your cryogenic pod into the science lab, but we did manage to find a suitable chamber.”

Chuckles from the other men around the table.

I ignored the inside joke. “Where do I sleep?”

“Good question. Anyone want a roommate?”

The room remained silent.

“You can share my quarters,” volunteered Andria. “I’m on Alpha Squad; you’ll sleep while I work and vice versa.”

Commander Read stared at her, looking as disappointed as if she had announced she had just started her period. “Maybe hot-bunking it isn’t such a good idea. GOLEM has Eisenbraun rotating squads on week two.”

“He can share my suite after the shift change,” Lara Saints volunteered, upping the ante and drawing a scowl from Andria.

“Thank you, ladies.” I glanced back at Kevin Read, eyebrows raised. “Problem solved. Anything else?”

The commander locked eyes with me, then returned to his itinerary. “GOLEM requested that Mr. Eisenbraun rotate stations on a daily basis—”

“It’s professor.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wouldn’t call you Mr. Read, please don’t call me Mr. Eisenbraun. Professor or doctor; Ike is also fine. I’m just saying.”

“May I continue?”

“Please.” I smiled innocently, enjoying the ease at which I could get under Captain Courageous’s skin. By next week, he’ll be calling me a lot worse than Mr. Eisenbraun …

Commander Read finished his debriefing then left, accompanied by the rest of Alpha Squad, my former fiancée included.

Dharma stood. “I must join them. Perhaps next week when you switch over to Alpha Squad you can tell me why you seek to provoke Commander Read?”

“I’ll tell if you’ll tell.”

She acknowledged my wit by tapping my forehead with her index finger, then left the galley.

“Professor Eisenbraun.” The grapefruit-size neon-blue orb mounted along the ceiling crackled to life. “Please finish your midday meal and report to the science lab for your debriefing.”

“Acknowledged. And GOLEM, it’s called lunch. You sound like a bad sci-fi movie.” Squeezing the surprisingly tasty contents of the shrimp and mango sauce pouch into my mouth, I tossed the wrapper into the nearest recycling bin and left the galley for the main corridor. Turning left, I followed the curved hallway until I arrived at the science lab, the double doors opening to greet me.

The dimly lit, pie-shaped chamber was twice the size of the galley, its walls converging to meet the transparent central vertical column housing GOLEM. The shaft was vacant, the computer apparently occupying another level. A ceiling-mounted light bathed the liquid-filled tube in a luminous golden hue. The rest of the room was dark, save for four violet recessed lights, giving the lab the look and feel of an after-hours nightclub.

To my left were the cryogenic pods. Set in four rows of three, each seven-foot-long by four-foot-wide acrylic capsule was housed inside a rectangular steel base mounted to the deck. Dangling from the ceiling above each row of machines was a robotic trunk identical to the appendage in the galley. The mechanical arms appeared lifeless, awaiting the neural commands of their master.

Occupying the opposite side of the chamber was a surgical suite. Two more steel appendages hovered above an aluminum operating table. These robotic arms appeared far more sophisticated than the others and were equipped with a rotating wheel of surgical instruments from scalpels, probes, and forceps to a laser used to seal wounds.

Set along the wall was a pair of ten-foot-high, twelve-foot-wide sliding aluminum doors. Curious, I reached for the handle of the door on the left and slid the panel open.

It was an immense walk-in refrigerator. The walls were lined with shelves that were stocked with IV bags, plasma, and an assortment of medications. Resealing the door, I tried the next compartment, surprised to find a blast freezer harboring a similar layout.

My eyes caught movement — GOLEM was descending silently through its tube.

Sliding the freezer door shut, I cut through an aisle of cryogenic pods and was standing by the vertical tube as GOLEM hovered just above eye level.

“Good afternoon, Professor Eisenbraun. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, GOLEM. How are you feeling?”

“I am functioning within expected performance parameters, thank you.”

“That’s good to hear, however the question actually pertains to your emotional state. Please refrain from using your automated linguistics program and respond appropriately.”

“Emotions are part of the human condition. The GOLEM matrix is not programmed to experience emotions.”

Seizing the opening, I decided to probe the computer’s level of cognizance. “Define ‘GOLEM,’ please.”

“GOLEM is intellect, programmed to protect and preserve the human species.”

“How can GOLEM protect and preserve the human species if you cannot comprehend the human condition?”

“Define: To protect. To keep from harm. Define: To preserve. To prevent extinction. GOLEM is functioning within expected performance parameters.”

“Define the human condition.”

“This line of inquiry does not pertain to the purpose of this briefing.”

“What is the purpose of this briefing?”

“To comprehend how Professor Eisenbraun will determine which male member of the Omega crew suffers from a psychological disorder and whether that psychological disorder is a threat to the success of the mission.”

“Define the ‘human condition.’”

“The human condition: Physicality flawed by mortality. Emotions flawed by ego.”

“Now define ‘sociopath.’”

“Sociopath: A human lacking conscience. Exhibiting disdain for human beings. Sociopaths believe others exist for their own pleasure and benefit. Possessing superficial charm. Manipulative and cunning. Possessing a grandiose sense of self. Pathological lying. Lack of remorse, shame, or guilt. Shallow emotions. Incapacity for love. Early behavioral problems—”

“Stop. Analyze crew observations conducted over the last twelve months. Which male member of the Omega crew has not exhibited at least one of the sociopathic traits you just listed?”

“None. All male crewmembers have exhibited at least one sociopathic trait.”

“Draw a conclusion from the prior analysis.”

“Conclusion: All male members of the Omega crew are sociopaths.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “An interesting conclusion, but quite false. According to comprehensive psychiatric evaluations conducted by the Space Energy Agency, at least five of the six male crewmen are not sociopaths. How do you explain your error?”

“GOLEM lacks an adequate comprehension of both the human and sociopathic condition.”

“Correct. And now you know why my presence is required onboard Oceanus I. Any other questions?”

“How will Professor Eisenbraun determine which male member of the Omega crew suffers from a psychological disorder and whether that psychological disorder is a threat to the success of the mission?”

“Through personal observations of the male members of the Omega crew conducted over the next two weeks, at which time I will submit my conclusions to GOLEM. Are those terms acceptable?”

“The terms are acceptable, provided GOLEM receives periodic briefings.”

ABE must have registered my sudden spike in adrenaline, because I felt my blood vessels dilate. “Justify the necessity for Eisenbraun to periodically brief GOLEM regarding Eisenbraun’s daily crew observations.”

“Periodic briefings are necessary for adaptation and reevaluation of GOLEM algorithmic DNA solution strands regarding ongoing observations and evaluations of the human condition as it relates to the Prime Directive.”

“Acknowledged. GOLEM, Eisenbraun is fatigued. Do you have any objections to ending this briefing at this time?”

“No objections.”

I headed quickly for the exit, my nerves rattled with the suspicion that the computer may have been testing me — using my responses and tactics in our conversation to reconfigure and evolve its solution strands. Clearly, I had to watch what I said.

The steel doors opened. Before exiting the lab I turned back to the computer’s liquid environment. “GOLEM, which stateroom belongs to Andria Saxon?”

“Andria Saxon has been assigned to Stateroom Two.”

The note was taped outside the door.

I crumpled the note and entered the stateroom, the automated door hissing closed behind me.

“Nice.”

The suite was surprisingly spacious, divided in half between a living room and kitchen area, with the bedroom and bath concealed behind a door on my right. The furnishings were modern, the sofa, chairs, and kitchen table all mounted on rollers that could be locked in or released from various settings on the imitation beech-wood deck. Adorning the far wall on my left were bookshelves lined with books and micro-discs and a flat-screen television wired to a MD player.

For some reason, the sofa and chairs were facing the curtained forward wall, not the television. Pressing a control, I opened the drapes, revealing a ten-foot-high curved aero glass wall and the Ross Sea, which appeared dark, save for rotating beacons that cut swaths of blue light through the blackness.

“Very nice.” I entered the bedroom where the view continued before a queen-size bed, built-in drawers, and a recessed bathroom equipped with a shower, sink, and toilet.

On the bed was a new h-pad still wrapped in cellophane and an orange jumpsuit — more prison uniform than astronaut apparel. My duffel bag had been left on the floor by the bed. Bastards had no doubt searched it.

Stripping off the remains of my snow gear, I rinsed off the day’s residue with a quick shower, then climbed — decidedly naked — into Andria’s bed. Unwrapping the h-pad, I accessed the ship’s layout, automatically uploading the information into ABE’s memory chip.

My built-in chronometer told me it was 13:43, time enough for a five-hour snooze. I searched the duty roster, located my day one assignment in the arboretum, then I rolled onto my left side and closed my eyes.

10

“Attention, Professor Eisenbraun. Night shift begins in fifteen minutes.”

I opened my eyes, immediately in a foul mood. My body yearned for more sleep, my fatigued mind fighting to gain traction, distracted by the scent of Andria on the sheets. For a long moment I simply stared out the curved viewport, my internal voice that was not ABE reminding me that, metaphorically, I had stepped in dog shit. You’re not in Florida. You’re a mile below the Antarctic ice cap in twelve hundred feet of water and Andria’s screwing another guy.

“Attention, Professor Eisenbraun. Night shift begins in fourteen minutes.”

Damn artificial intellect. Should have programmed it with a snooze button. Searching the ceiling, I located the neon-blue sensory eyeball housing the cursed three-dimensional camera. “Thank you, GOLEM. I’m awake.”

Leaning over the side of the bed, I dragged over my duffel bag, extracting a clean pair of boxers, white athletic socks, a pair of sneakers, and a plastic container holding my toiletries. I climbed into the briefs, then tried on the orange jumpsuit, surprised at how light yet warm the nanofiber cloth felt against my skin.

I spent the next seven minutes in the bathroom. Tossing my duffel bag and snow gear in a closet, I exited the stateroom at three minutes before the 6:00 P.M. shift change.

ABE guided me to the mid-deck entrance of the arboretum, located halfway around the circular corridor. The watertight doors slid open, allowing me to access a small anteroom that separated the exterior corridor from the glass door ahead of me, the interior of which was too heavy with condensation to see inside.

Pulling open the acrylic door, I entered the arboretum.

The humidity blasted me in the face, and then my senses were overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and scents of a tropical rainforest. Mist and heat pumped out of ceiling vents; vines partly concealed the recessed ultraviolet lights. The white noise of rushing water escorted me along a winding path that cut through a miniature jungle of palm fronds, fruit trees, and flowers, the sweet scents attracting neon-orange and blue butterflies and bees collecting pollen.

The path led to an artificial rock spiral staircase that descended to the lower floor. Standing in an artificial pond was an attractive brown-skinned woman in her late twenties, her jet-black hair pulled back and braided. She was wearing knee-high rubber boots over her jeans, feeding the fish from food contained in an apron strapped around her waist.

“Robert Eisenbraun, computer science.”

She looked up at me with sparkling indigo eyes. “Bella Maharaj, botanist.”

“This is really impressive. How long did it take you to achieve all this?”

“Less than four months. But the arboretum aboard Oceanus II is much farther along. The trees are already bearing fruit. Of course, we have far more space in that habitat since the cryogenic pods are relegated to the shuttle.”

“The computer assigned me to the arboretum. What can I do to help?”

“That depends. Have you ever heard of biomimicry?”

I hadn’t, but the information flowed into my subconscious in a nanosecond. “Biomimicry is the conscious emulation of nature; the study of how organisms resolve their specific challenges through their programmed DNA.”

“You recite the definition, only your words lack belief.”

“Not at all. I’m a firm believer in evolution.”

“This is beyond evolution; it is evolution with intent, a divine plan at work.”

“That sounds a bit like religion to me.”

“Religion causes strife; what I am referring to is spiritual harmony. Take this garden. What we’ve created is a balanced environment where humans, animals, and plants can thrive in a symbiotic relationship. Most horticulturists prefer to take complete control of their gardens, exterminating every insect while weeding every dandelion that pops up. In doing so, they disrupt the flow of nature. To a gardener, the dandelion may simply be a weed; to a healer, it is a powerful herb that can be used for medicinal purposes. Pesticides kill insects but they also add toxin to the fruit. And while certain insects are harmful, good insects are exterminated in the mix — insects whose presence can enhance the garden and control the harmful pests without the use of poisons.”

She pointed to a flower. “The flying duck orchid. Notice how its petal resembles a female wasp. This is nature in harmony. Fooled by the design, the male wasp will attempt to copulate with the orchid; in doing so it picks up the pollen and transports it to another flower. Nature keeps the Earth in a balanced state; it is only man who takes more than he needs, refusing to share with his fellow creatures. Only man wages war on the environment, setting fire to the very ship he needs to stay afloat.”

Removing the apron, she poured the remains of the fish food back into a container resembling a rock. “Before the Great Die-Off, I worked with a team of botanists on a project called the Gondwana Link, an ancient biodiversity hot spot that spanned half a million square kilometers in southwestern Australia. Thousands of unique plant species thrived in its eucalyptus forest, which has remained free of glacial activity for tens of millions of years. Our team wanted to secure seed banks for the most threatened species of flora and fauna before climate change drove them into extinction.

“In an attempt to restore the richness of the lands surrounding the area, we met with the local farmers and convinced them to utilize a native seed bank to foster genetic diversity; this would enable the plants and animals to adapt to the climate change that was affecting the fauna. The project was extremely important because the predictions for southwestern Australia and similar areas in South Africa were dire: up to sixty percent of the plant species had been forecast to go extinct within a hundred years. Word spread, and within four years the farmers’ crops had been diversified and strengthened across the region without the use of man-made fertilizers and pesticides.

“When Monsanto found out what we were doing, the company bribed our local officials, who forged a deal with farmers that contracted them to purchase genetically manipulated seeds — seeds designed to yield only one crop. In addition to these sterile seeds, Monsanto sold farmers genetically altered soybeans modified to tolerate applications of their own manufactured herbicide, Roundup. This scenario wasn’t just taking place in Australia, it was happening all across the globe. Instead of producing fruits and vegetable from plants harvested from a healthy, diverse ecosystem, Monsanto had convinced public officials that genetic manipulation was the key to feeding the world. Moving from country to country like a pestilence, the corporation handed out millions of dollars in grant money to universities to quell any negative research while they lobbied and bribed heads of state to use their seeds in their quest to monopolize the entire agricultural industry.

“The Great Die-Off was no accident, Dr. Eisenbraun; it was nature’s response to the systematic sterilization of the planet’s food source. Four point seven billion people died because corporate profits outweighed the needs of the people, and it will happen again unless we succeed on Europa.”

“More tales from the Maharaj Doctrine of Flower Power, eh Bella?” The man ascending the rock stairwell appeared to be in his late thirties. He spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. “Kyle Graulus, biologist.”

I shook the proffered hand, which was slick with grease and perspiration. Fighting the urge to plunge my hand in the fish pond, I introduced myself.

“Ja, I know. GOLEM has you working in the lower level with me. Come.”

Bella Maharaj cast her haunting violet-blue gaze my way as I dutifully followed the Dutchman down the spiral stairwell. The steps wobbled a disturbing six inches beneath our combined weights.

Kyle pointed above our heads to where the aluminum staircase was bolted to the ceiling. “Anchor bolts must have stripped.” He looked up at the nearest sensory orb. “GOLEM, add: Replace arboretum anchor bolts with aero gel supports to the Oceanus II knockout list.”

“Acknowledged.”

The temperature dropped noticeably as we descended to the lower level. Located directly beneath the arboretum, the chamber was being used as both a marine biology lab and storage area. Shelves lined two walls, holding plastic containers filled with spare parts. In one corner of the room was a sink situated within a long aluminum table lined with a dozen empty fish tanks. One aquarium was operational — a thousand-gallon saltwater habitat holding Oscar and Sophia, Lara Saints’ two octopi.

“Hey, guys.” I tapped on the glass, causing their translucent pink skin to darken to a gray brown. “Kyle, what’s with all the empty tanks?”

“Part of the Europa mission is to seek out new life-forms — the only reason I accepted this assignment. Once our engineers cap the hydrothermal vents, we’ll have access to the mini-subs, allowing Beta Squad to practice capturing sea specimens.”

“You must intend on going after some pretty big fish.” I pointed to a huge tank situated on the floor behind the spiral staircase. It was chest high and at least seven feet long. At the moment it was covered by a tarp so I couldn’t see what was inside.

Kyle Graulus snorted a laugh. “Yes. This one will hold a very big fish indeed.” Moving to the tank, he pulled off the covering — revealing a cryogenic pod. “This is your sleep chamber. There was no room in the science lab, so we had SEA’s engineers install it in here. Now you get to sleep with the fishes.”

“Lovely.”

“Jason Sloan, our staff cryogenist, requested that we power up the unit to ensure it is operational. Each of us completed this same task with our own pods; to ease the mind, I suppose.”

“Like packing your own parachute.”

“Your parachute is packed a bit differently than ours. Because GOLEM has no robotic arms inside this room, we will be the ones who will place you in stasis and the ones who shall awaken you.” The biologist grinned. “I see this upsets you.”

“Who awakens you?”

“GOLEM.”

“What if the ship loses power?”

“Oceanus draws power from a nuclear reactor and a vent system that has been pumping superheated water from the Earth’s mantle for billions of years. We will not lose power.”

“And what if the tectonic plates shift?”

“The cryogenic process makes you anxious. It’s understandable. I’ve been held in stasis twice. The first time I was quite nervous until the sedatives finally calmed me. The sensation is quite profound; it feels as if your consciousness is a falling feather, floating deeper into a comforting sleep.”

“Do you dream?”

“Oh, yes. Omega dreams are the most vivid dreams you can imagine. Perhaps this is because the process prevents you from awakening as you would during normal REM sleep. During my second stasis, I fell in love with a beautiful South African woman. We were married and raised a family. She was pregnant with my second child when I was awakened. I miss my Omega family; I am hoping they will be waiting for me when I return in thirteen days.”

“Okay, but what if something unforeseen does happen, say a circuit failure inside the unit itself.”

“In that event, the unit drains and the subject receives an adrenaline shot from within the pod. Be glad it won’t happen, the normal wakening routine is far more pleasant.” Moving to the left side of the unit, Kyle opened a control panel. “We’re only running a test. Before you actually go under, the cryogenic software must be activated.” He pressed the F1 control on a keypad. The words TESTING UNIT appeared on the small monitor, along with a digital clock that counted down from six hundred seconds.

“Kyle, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Ask anything.”

“Why did you give Bella such a hard time?”

Graulus exhaled. “You’ve had a ten-minute conversation with our resident tree hugger, I’ve had to listen to her for more than a year. Her view of existence comes from a self-induced spiritual plateau erected after lifetimes of chanting. As a biologist, I look around me and see only evolution at play, sweeping us along in its tidal current like insects on a leaf. You want to know why humanity nearly went out? It’s called population spike meets an anticipated lack of resources, and it’s been happening for five hundred million years. Look at the sudden collapse of the deer population on St. Matthew Island when their feeding masses obliterated their only grasslands; look at the mass extinction on Easter Island when the natives decided to burn all the trees to appease their gods. Let me tell you this: The Great Die-Off was a long time coming, my friend. An entire continent had been starving for decades because African cattle herders overgrazed their land; our oceans were being decimated because commercial fishermen were allowed to rape entire species. Evolution can even be found in the economy of greed — look at how the world’s largest businesses and banks spiked and collapsed. And yet the fools remained convinced they were immune to the laws of nature. Why? Because our opposable thumb renders us so smart? Hoeren, they should all krijg kanker en ga dood!”

ABE translated: WHORES, THEY SHOULD ALL GET CANCER AND DIE.

“We behave like stupid heads; now we must go to another world to fix this mess. And yet, this too is part of evolution — the urgency creating the need to adapt. Darwinism at its best, ja?”

“And what of GOLEM? How does the computer fit into evolution?”

Kyle nodded. “GOLEM is part of a technological evolution that will end in either human obsolescence, human transcendence, or human transformation. Just as your microchip implant will eventually lead to genetically enhanced superbeings, one day soon these superintelligent machines will cross the threshold of consciousness. In either case, I don’t think it will matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because, my dear Eisenbraun, evolution always tosses a wild card into the mix, leveling its own Towers of Babel to begin anew. Five hundred million years ago, life was birthed from the hydrothermal vents we now seek to cap for energy. Two hundred and fifty million years later an asteroid struck Gondwana, wiping out ninety percent of the population spike. The dinosaurs ruled for two hundred million years, only to die off in an Ice Age caused by another space rock. Mammals rose in their ashes, then primates and man — until boom, a caldera erupted seventy thousand years ago and destroyed all but a few thousand humans. Seventy thousand years later the empires of modern man are decimated when the oil runs out. Do you see a pattern? The moment life becomes too big to sustain, evolution comes along to knock it over. I am sure our resident Buddhist will corner you soon to deliver her sermon on seeking fulfillment. If you really want to be immortal, forget Dharma and her beliefs, forget Bella Maharaj. Nirvana lies inside this machine, just close your eyes, make a sweet wish and dream.”

As if on cue, the control panel on the cryogenic pod lit up, the test completed.

11

Kevin Read slid his right arm around Andria Saxon’s naked torso.

She pulled away and sat up in bed, the calluses on his palm scratching her six-pack abdominal muscles.

“What the hell, Andria? He’s been onboard three days and you’ve turned as cold as that ice sheet over our heads.”

“Will you keep your voice down!?”

“These suites are soundproof.”

“I don’t care. He could be next door, listening.”

“He’s not next door, he’s on duty! This is supposed to be our time together.”

“I know, and I thought I could handle this, but I can’t.” She stood and slid her bronzed sprinter’s legs into her jumpsuit.

“Andria, wait. GOLEM, locate Robert Eisenbraun.”

“Professor Eisenbraun is aboard Submersible Two.”

“See? He’s not even onboard.”

“Who’s he with? GOLEM, who’s piloting Sub Two? It’s not Lara Saints, is it?”

“Yoni Limor is piloting Submersible Two.”

Commander Read shook his head. “I don’t believe it. You’re actually jealous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why do you care?”

“She’s manipulative. It annoys me.”

“Did you know he kissed her back at the base?”

“It was a mistake. He thought she was me.”

“Maybe I should kiss Lara by mistake, then you’ll want to be with me again.”

She sat on the edge of Kevin’s bed, feeling listless.

“That was a joke. I was joking.” Kevin sat up, shoving a second pillow behind his head. “Two weeks ago you couldn’t wait to get to Antarctica to spend time together. What happened? Did I do something to offend you?”

“No,” she said, staring out the viewport at the silent darkness.

“Know what I think it is? I think you knew it was over between you and him the day Omega was green-lit. Now that there’s a chance he could go to Europa, you’re not so sure.”

“I already told you, Ike’s not going to Europa.”

“Then why’s he on board? Goddamn it, Andria, tell me!”

“Oh, shit.” Dropping to all fours, she crawled to the control panel on the wall, shutting the drapes as one of the submersibles moved into view, its triangle of lights reflecting off the outer aero glass panel.

Kevin rolled out of bed. “I think you should leave.”

“Kev, I’m sorry.”

“Now, Andria.”

“You really want me to leave?”

“What I want is for you to remember your duty. We’re on a mission that will affect the future of this planet. I’m your CO. That means no secrets. Now tell me, why is Eisenbraun on board?”

She stood, adjusting her top before zipping the jumpsuit. “One of the male crewmen’s psychological profile was red-flagged as a potential sociopath. Ike’s been assigned to evaluate the situation.”

“Christ.” Commander Read sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing. “Who is it?”

“Ike says he doesn’t know. Kevin, I’m not comfortable talking about this with you-know-who eavesdropping.” She glanced in the direction of the sensory orb glowing blue along the living room ceiling.

Kevin kicked the bedroom door shut. “Get in bed, get undressed again, and tell me everything you know.”

The two-man submersible banked sharply around Support Arm C, the pilot aiming the vessel’s forward lights once more at Oceanus’s middeck. “Sorry, Eisenbraun. They closed the drapes.”

I leaned forward against the annoying seatbelt harness crossing my sternum, my eyes squinting as they searched the midlevel of the Oceanus hull. “Thanks anyway.”

“One Jew helping another, right?” Yoni Limor’s Israeli accent was as thick as his waist, his three-hundred-pound frame barely squeezing into the pilot’s seat.

As if reading my mind, he said, “I know … I need to lose weight. Designing submersibles does not allow much time for exercise. Amanda says she likes big men, so maybe I am okay, yes? Of course, your creation knew that when it selected her as my mate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t know? Open your eyes, Dr. Ike-en-stein. It was your monster that initiated, designed, and carried out every phase of this little adventure, including the selection of the six men and six women onboard. These were not random selections, my friend. The question is why? Why us? Was it our résumés or our DNA? Did GOLEM want competence, or did it base its selections on some AI computer dating algorithm it believes equates to human compatibility?”

I held on as Yoni banked the sub away from Oceanus, heading for another pattern of lights in the distance. “Are you saying GOLEM was playing matchmaker when it selected the crew?” The statement seemed preposterous to me.

“It is a working theory, based on observation. Take Lara Saints. Young, brilliant, easy on the eyes. She could have any man at SEA, yes? Only her psychological profile indicated a compatibility with older men.”

“How do you know that?”

Yoni smiled, the expression causing his coffee-brown goatee to twitch. “Before I designed these toys, I was a hacker. What is important here is that your computer selected Donald Bruemmer over younger, and in several cases, far more qualified system engineers to work in the same lab as Lara. Coincidence? Maybe. Then there is your former boss, Monique DeFriend. She is a wild one — perfect for Jason Sloan. Yes, we needed a cryogenist onboard, and yes, Mr. Sloan is certainly qualified, but is it just a coincidence that he is the masochist to Monique’s sadist desires? As for the arboretum Indian girl and the Dutch scientist, they may hate each other now, but for the first eight months these two spent many long nights working in the garden together, and they still sleep together … at least they did last night.”

“Is that it?”

“Not quite.” Yoni paused to wipe condensation from his wire-rimmed glasses. “You haven’t met the Russian physicist, Egor Vasiliev, he’s on Alpha shift. I am reasonably certain he was intended for Dharma Yuan. I cannot be sure, but I think the Chinese woman scared him off with her regression therapy and the whole talking to dead people routine.”

“She talks to dead people?”

“She communicates with their souls. I didn’t believe it either, until we had a session. Suffice it to say she convinced me, and I don’t convince easy.”

“What about Andria?”

“Nothing personal, my friend, but your former fiancée apparently likes the all-American testosterone type, even if he was born in Canada. Is she qualified to be Commander Crew-cut’s copilot? You tell me. From what I hear, she hasn’t even earned her pilot wings for the lunar shuttles. But she’s as tough as an Israeli commando, just like Read. Not that you are not.”

“What about you?”

“I was paired with our resident exobiologist, Dr. Amanda Lynn Moss.”

A woman’s angry voice filled the cabin. “Yoni, what the hell? I’ve been waiting ten minutes.”

“Sorry, my dear. I was just showing the new guy around Oceanus. Two minutes.” He winked. “I have a thing for domineering women. Hold on to your seat.”

The submersible accelerated through the dark sea toward a series of lights that had appeared in the distance. As we moved closer I could make out the hull of a second mini-sub. When we got close enough, I could see that it was piloted by Amanda Moss. Below the vessel, undulating away from the seafloor like a bright yellow serpent, was an expanse of flex tubing, as thick as a sewage pipe. One end led back to Oceanus, the other originated at a bell-shaped cap covering the superheated outflow from a hydrothermal vent. Yoni explained that high water temperatures inside the tubing had been causing buoyancy problems, forcing Omega’s submersible teams to anchor the pipeline to the bottom.

Amanda’s voice crackled over the radio again. “Yoni, I need you to grab on to the joint with your sub’s claw so I can secure the anchor’s harness into place.”

“Understood.” The Israeli extended our sub’s mechanical arm, attempting to grip one of the pipeline’s O-rings using the steel and graphite pincer. Securing the joint on the third try, he drew in the slack, allowing the robotic arm from Amanda’s sub to position a heavy harness anchored to the seafloor around the five-foot-in-diameter pipeline.

“First joint secured. Let’s work our way back toward the volcanic vent.”

“Your command, Amanda, is my wish.” Yoni winked at me again, muting the radio. “Let them think they are in charge, it is better this way.”

“Finish your thoughts about GOLEM. Do you really believe the computer selected the Omega crew based on compatibility?”

“At first I did, then I probed a bit deeper. In examining the lineage of the twelve crewmembers, their parents, and grandparents, I found the group’s genealogy spanned nearly every race and heritage in the world.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning GOLEM has assembled a crew possessing an extremely diverse and therefore healthy chromosome pool.”

“For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of creating a permanent human colony on Europa.”

I laughed. The rotund Israeli was a conspiracy theorist.

Yoni frowned. “I see installing a computer chip in your brain does not open your mind to new possibilities.”

“Let’s just say ABE’s bullshit meter is still functioning fine.”

“You created the computer’s protocol — to protect and preserve the human race. If you were selecting the best location within our solar system to establish a new human colony, where would it be? Europa has water. It has internal heat. An energy source. Pack ice for terrestrial living.” Yoni Limor stroked his goatee, his eyes widening behind his spectacle. “You think I am crazy?”

“Certifiable.”

“Maybe that is why you are here? To take the fat Israeli’s place, yes? Go for it, you have my blessing. But do you also have type-O, Rh-negative blood?”

“How did you know my blood type?”

“Type O is a universal donor. The Rh-negative factor is common in fifteen percent of the population. Everyone selected for this mission has both type-O and Rh-negative blood.”

An hour later, I found myself drinking coffee in the galley with Dr. Amanda Lynn Moss. The scientist smiled when I told her of my conversation with her “compatible” sub pilot.

“Yoni gets very emotional about these things. But you’d have to agree, the odds of all twelve crewmembers possessing the same blood type and Rh factor are too high to be random. So the question becomes why. Why are we really going to Europa?”

“Blood type aside, why do you think you were selected?”

“I am an exobiologist. Exobiology focuses on how life came to be on Earth, specifically the chemical reactions that led to life’s origin.”

“By chemicals, I assume you’re referring to the primordial soup flowing out of those hydrothermal vents we capped last night.”

“Submarine vents don’t make organic compounds, they recycle and decompose them. It’s more likely life originated from Earth’s primitive lakes and lagoons, the shallows being far more conducive for prebiotic reactions to occur. Back in 1953, a University of Chicago graduate student working in a lab sent an electric current through a vat containing a mixture of water, methane, ammonia, and hydrogen — essentially the same elixir found in the planet’s bodies of water three-point-five billion years ago. The simulated lightning strike yielded organic compounds including amino acids, the building blocks of life. How these chemicals came to be found on Earth remains a mystery. Some may have arrived in meteors and asteroids, others by comets or cosmic dust. I believe these chemicals will also be found on Europa, and with them life.” She paused, gauging my expression. “What?”

I shook my head, feeling the blood rush from my face. “The mixture of chemicals you just recited … it’s the same ones we used in GOLEM’s biotic algorithm vat.”

12

“Your first week is over, Professor Eisenbraun. Have you determined whether one of the Beta Squad males possesses a psychological disorder?”

I gazed across the science lab at the spherical entity floating in the vertical column of liquid, my mind still struggling with the absurdity of my predicament. The last seven days had been physically and mentally exhausting, and now that I was about to trade shifts and join Andria and Commander Cock-Block on Alpha Squad, I wondered how I was going to deal with the additional emotional stress.

First, I had to deal with GOLEM.

“The Beta Squad males appear to be functioning within acceptable psychological parameters.”

“Commander Read, Jason Sloan, and Egor Vasiliev are the three Alpha Squad males. Determine the sociopath and report back at once.”

That sounded more like an order than a request, but I let it go. “I’ll do my best.”

I stood to leave, anxious to try out Lara’s bed.

“Professor Eisenbraun, you are one cryogenic booster shot behind schedule.”

“Am I? Guess I’ll have to catch up after my shift with Jason Sloan.”

The surgical lights bloomed bright, revealing a hypodermic needle and an alcohol swab lying on an instrument tray on the operating table.

“What? Now?”

“Adhering to the booster shot schedule ensures proper tissue absorption.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to screw that up.” Cursing under my breath, I trudged over to the surgical suite where the two robotic trunk arms hung from their ceiling mounts over the table, their wheel of surgical instruments resembling two giant Swiss Army knives.

“GOLEM, how soon until you’ve evolved enough neuro-receptors to gain control of these appendages?”

“Twelve months, three days, six hours, seventeen minutes.”

“And then you’ll actually be able to perform surgery?”

“Phase I medical procedures are limited to X-rays, bone-setting, and field dressings. Phase II procedures will be operational in fourteen months and will include obstetric, gynecology, and prostate examinations as well as orthopedic and cosmetic surgery.”

“Boob jobs and bunghole inspections … how lovely.” I smiled disarmingly, but the thought of allowing a computer armed with an array of sharp instruments to check my prostate didn’t sit well with me.

“Phase III procedures will be operational in twenty-seven months, sixteen days and will include appendectomies, cardiac repairs, neurosurgery, and dental procedures.”

“Definitely motivates one to brush after every meal.” Unzipping my jumpsuit, I exposed a small section of my left butt cheek. I carefully swabbed the skin with the alcohol pad, then gripped the hypodermic needle in my right hand. “The things I do for love.” Jabbing the muscle, I injected the clear elixir. The pain of the needle subsided, yielding to a wave of nausea.

“Anything else before I puke?”

“Report here tomorrow at oh-five-hundred hours for your next booster shot.”

“You’re a real pain-in-the-ass, you know that?”

“Proctology exams must wait until neuroreceptors have evolved for Phase II procedures.”

“Never mind. By the way, if these appendages of yours haven’t been activated yet, how did you manage to leave the booster shot on the table.”

“The shot was left by Jason Sloan.”

Cryogenist Jason Sloan was a toothpick-skinny six-footer, with brown shoulder-length hair and hazel eyes that fluttered when he engaged his 167 IQ. Two years younger than me, he clearly exhibited a man-crush on yours truly.

“I’ve been following your progress on ABE every since you received funding from the DoD. Why the defense department? Is ABE considered a weapon?”

“Only if you consider brain farts as the next WMD. My uncle’s a general. He arranged a grant.”

“Nice. What’s the earliest memory you’ve ever accessed? Could you access memories from the day you were born? How about from inside the womb?”

“It’s accessible, but without the cognizance—”

“Can you simulate an acid trip? Leave your body? What do colors smell like? Aw, man, what about the sex? If I had ABE, I’d be a maniac!”

“I think you already are.” I followed my exuberant new companion through the lower level and into the biology lab that held my designated cryogenic pod. “So Jason, are you the one who will be programming my pod?”

“Pod’s programmed. I’m the one who hot-wires the neural connections just before you go nighty-night. No worries, bro. Never lost a subject yet, except for Alec.”

“Who’s Alec?”

“Alec Russell. He was one of our first human guinea pigs. Let’s just say the dude didn’t thaw evenly. Again, no worries. We haven’t had a problem since we perfected the booster shots.”

“What if the booster shot wears off?”

“Can’t happen,” Jason said, checking a pressure valve on a pipe inside the cryogenic pod’s chassis. “To put you to sleep, we give you an IV drip that contains anesthetics and a booster activator. The activator mixes with those booster shots you’ve been receiving, essentially shutting down cellular mitosis, along with the aging process. The tetrodotoxin gel seals the deal. Cellular activity remains shut down until the vat drains and your cells come in contact again with oxygen. Doesn’t matter if you’re under a day or a century, until you’re exposed to air, you’re a Popsicle. Hey, ever wonder if ABE can be hacked?”

“Huh? No. It can’t be hacked; every person’s neural pattern is different.”

“Right, right. So, what’s a guy have to do to get rigged?”

“I’ve got the only prototype. The first ABE-100 editions should be available in April.”

“By April, we’ll be cruising past Mars. Come on, doc, hook me up!”

“Sorry, Jason.”

“I’ll make it worth your while. How’d you like to spend the training exercise in one thirty-day-long nocturnal emission?” Jason tapped the cryogenic pod’s control panel. “I call it ‘Omega Memory Injection,’ or OMI for short, as in, ‘oh my, do me again.’ It’s something new I’ve been playing around with. Just before you slip into cryogenic stasis, the sensory helmet engages a prerecorded visual that stimulates the cerebral cortex.”

“By prerecorded visual, you mean porn?”

“Hey, whatever you’re into, I don’t judge. I’m into Stackism.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Stackism focuses itself on objectivity and the willingness to try almost anything without prejudging it, as long as it doesn’t inflict harm upon ourselves or others. We named our philosophy after the late, great Robert Stack, who hosted an old TV show called Unsolved Mysteries.” Jason rolled up his sleeve, the words, IN STACK WE TRUST tattooed on his left biceps. “I’m a founding member.”

“Congratulations.”

“I knew you’d appreciate it. We think alike, you and I. Stackism seeks out mysteries, then gathers data in order to arrive at logical explanations. You could say cryogenics was an early application of Stackism. I mean, let’s face it, it takes a serious set of balls to be among the first to freeze yourself in goo.”

“I’m sure your friend, Alec, would agree.” I stared at the sarcophaguslike chamber. My plan had always been to declare every male aboard Oceanus normal, then excuse myself from being frozen, but what if GOLEM ordered me put to sleep?

“Jason, let’s say you were held in stasis and you got caught up in a really bad dream. Is there a way to wake yourself up?”

“You’re talking about an emergency flush. Sorry, it’s been written out of the mission protocol.”

“Why?”

“Ask GOLEM.”

I lowered my voice. “What if I don’t want to ask GOLEM? What if I wanted my chamber to maintain an emergency flush as a backup?”

Jason smiled, leaning in close enough for me to smell the tomato soup on his breath. “I couldn’t do it on the Europa flight, but on the training mission … on just your pod? Yeah, it’s doable. See, your pod isn’t rigged to GOLEM, it’s independent of the Omega twelve.”

“I’m listening.”

“The emergency flush is activated neurologically when you recite a passage or code word in your dream.”

“How do I do that?”

“Omega-wave sleep is different from REM sleep. You maintain access to all memories. The dreams seem very real. Recite the code word and the pod drains, exposing your cells to oxygen.”

“Do it. Hook my pod up with the emergency command and the moment we get back to the States, I’ll arrange for one of the ABE-100 units to be surgically implanted in your brain, my treat.”

“Done deal, dude.” Jason Sloan punched the control panel, popping it open. Using a set of jeweler tools and a pair of magnifying specs with a built-in light, he set to work on the circuit board.

Three minutes later he was finished.

“That’s it?”

“Not yet. I removed the override, but you need to program the system with a password or phrase. Something unique that only you would know.” Jason opened the cryogenic pod’s lid, exposing the inside of the tank. A myriad of flex tubes and wires ran throughout the assembly, connecting to a central tub composed of soft plastic, shaped like a seven-foot biped.

“Who’s this for? A professional basketball player?”

“The internal suit shrinks when you lay down in it, molding to fit all body types.”

“Including Yoni?”

“Yoni was a challenge.” Jason reached inside a storage compartment and removed a paper-thin clear aero gel sensory helmet. “Put this on, the inside of the helmet will conform to the size and shape of your skull. Close your eyes. When you feel a buzz, mentally repeat your phrase or passage three times, then give me a thumbs-up and I’ll shut it down.”

Following the boy-genius’s instructions, I placed the lightweight helmet on my head. Its curved interior was comfort-fitted and surprisingly soft to the touch. After a moment I could feel its internal skin squeezing gently over my skull, brow, and ears — an electrical vibration tingling my scalp.

Vanilla sway. Vanilla sway. Vanilla sway.

I opened my eyes, giving Jason a thumbs-up. The buzzing sensation ceased. Removing the headpiece, I handed it to the cryogenist. “You’re sure this will work?”

“Sure as I’m standing here. The moment the neural-generated command is received, the pumps activate, draining the tank. Once the tetrodotoxin clears, you get a shot of adrenaline to the heart and you’re conscious again. It’s not how I’d want to be woken up, but it’ll do the trick.”

“You’re a good man, Jason Sloan. Just keep this little secret between us, and five weeks from now you’ll be smelling colors and exploring all your lost memories.”

“To hell with that. I want to tap into my primordial DNA, trip on ABE while reliving my existence as a Neanderthal. Better yet, maybe I can claw my way back through evolution, crawling on all fours as a prehistoric mammal!”

I shook my head. In the world of chocolate and vanilla, Jason Sloan was pistachio.

13

Day nine. My shift over, I entered Stateroom Seven in need of a shower, food, and sleep. I could smell Lara’s perfume as I crossed the living room and entered the bedroom.

“Good evening.” She was lying in bed, wearing only one of my T-shirts.

“Lara, what are you still doing here? You’ll be late for your shift.”

“Thought I’d be bad today.” Raising her model-thin legs, she playfully walked up my chest with her toes, the action exposing her naked lower torso. “Let’s be bad together.”

I felt my erection growing larger as ABE recorded my egotistical thoughts of revenge sex that I could later flaunt in front of Andria. My groin urged me on like a horny teenager: Just do it, Ike. We need this, Ike. This is therapeutic sex, dude, exactly what the doctor ordered.

I took a step back, allowing her legs to fall. “This isn’t going to happen, Lara.”

“She doesn’t want you, Ike.”

Listen to her, my groin seemed to urge, she’s making sense.

I should have taken Lara right then and there, only I couldn’t. Yes, Andria had cheated on me, and yes it was my sworn duty as a man to anesthetize the wound, and I would have except for two things: First, as pathetic as it sounds, I still wanted Andria. Second, and far more important, you don’t just have a one-night stand with a girl like Lara, especially under these circumstances, trapped in a habitat with your former fiancée. Within ten minutes of burying my load the entire crew would know, because Lara would let it be known, since she was territorial, and that would invite a shit storm of biblical proportions. Not because Andria wanted me back, but because Lara would rub it in her face, and the last thing I wanted was to find myself at the center of a catfight with the possible chance of being cryogenically frozen for thirty days, relying on one of those two felines to set me free.

I avoid looking at her naked body as I backed out of the bedroom. “I’m grabbing a bite to eat. If you’re still here when I get back, I’ll find another place to sleep.”

Leaving the suite, I jogged around the corridor twice before entering the galley, hoping to alleviate my “pitched tent.”

Kevin Read was conversing with the Russian nuclear physicist, Egor Vasiliev at the dining table as I made my entrance. Andria was seated at the other end of the table, reading from her h-pad. She looked at me and I looked at her, her female instincts causing her eyes to linger over the front of my jumpsuit like it was a crime scene.

None of this was lost on Kevin Read, who read the situation and immediately sought to control it. “Eisenbraun, order some dinner and join us.”

“Can’t,” I said, waving to Dharma Yuan, who was reading at the snack bar. “Got a session with the doc.” I detoured to the food service area, ordered a chicken sandwich and soft drink pouch, then joined the Chinese therapist.

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

She looked at me, perplexed. “How do you mean?”

“It was a joke. You know, last week … when you bailed me out. Anyway, it’s good to see you again. How are things on Alpha shift? What exactly do you do all day?”

“Among other things, I meditate. As a Bodhisattva, I can register the biorhythms of the entire crew.”

“Including me?”

“Especially you. Your presence on this mission is causing chaos among the crew.”

“Oh, well. I guess thirteen really is an unlucky number.”

“The problem is theirs. Karma has dictated that you be here.”

“How do you know that?”

“How I know is not important. Why you are here is.”

My peripheral vision caught Andria’s expression as she stood to leave the galley — a “follow me, let’s talk” look.

“Sorry, Dharma, I have to run. When you find out why I’m here, be sure to let me know.”

Pocketing my dinner pouches, I left the dining hall, hustling to catch up with my former fiancée. “Hey, Andie. I just wanted to thank you for letting me share your bed.”

At that moment, Lara exited her suite, shooting me a nasty look as she walked by.

Like I said — shit storm.

“What’s with the squid lady?”

“She wanted me to share more than her bed.”

“And have you?”

I stopped her from walking. “You know me, Andie. Lust is a primordial urge. I’ve always aspired to something deeper.”

She smiled. “You’re such a dork.”

“Maybe. But I’d never cheat on someone I love.”

Her smile faded. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

I was about to reply when the Russian scientist approached. “You are assigned to me tomorrow morning. Lower level, nuclear reactor. Do not be late.”

I waited for him to disappear around the corridor. “Friendly guy. And you call me antisocial.”

To my surprise, Andria slid her fingers inside my palm. “I checked the duty roster, you’re free on day thirteen. Why don’t you join me aboard my mini-sub, I’ll show you how we intend to hunt sea critters on Europa.”

She kissed me quickly then walked away, the taut backseat of her jumpsuit the only critter I was interested in hunting.

14

Day thirteen and somehow it seemed as if I had come full circle; Andria playing the huntress; me once more her faithful companion.

I held on for dear life as she banked the two-man sub away from the seafloor like a teenager with a learner’s permit, the turbulence chasing the eight-foot octopus from out of hiding.

“So? Are you going to marry him?”

“We broke up.” The sub lurched violently as Andria chased after the frightened cephalopod. Adjusting my own eyepiece, feeling my pulse pounding, I focused on the black sea, which now appeared pea-soup green.

“Don’t just sit there and crawl up into your brain — say something, damn it.”

“I thought he was what you wanted?”

“I was wrong.”

Andria aimed her weapon’s laser target over her quarry, her index finger squeezing the pistol-like trigger by her right leg with her index finger. An explosion of compressed air belched out of the end of the submersible’s mechanical arm, blooming into a neon yellow net that engulfed the octopus in the split second it takes a frog’s snapping tongue to feed upon a fly.

I watched the octopus struggling in the net. Andria startled me by entwining the fingers of her right hand in mine.

“Ike, is it too late for us?”

I laid my head back against the leather seat. “What about Europa?”

“Come with us.”

I smirked. “Six years aboard Oceanus with Commander Testosterone? Yeah, that should make for a real love fest. Imagine if I had slept with Lara. Would you be so quick to accept the Europa mission?”

“Probably not.”

I exhaled deeply. For days, I had played out this very scene in my head, the lovers’ chess game always ending in a stalemate. “I guess this is it then. Tomorrow night you guys get frozen, while I have a nice thirty-day chat with the computer.”

“What about Kevin? Your report?”

“I’m scheduled to meet with El Capitán later tonight — not that it matters. I’ve already decided to give your male shipmates a clean bill of health.”

Andria turned away, her lower lip quivering.

“Hey, you okay?”

“I screwed up.” Tears were free-falling down her cheeks. “I don’t want to leave you.”

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “I don’t want you to go.”

“What if you told GOLEM that Kevin was the sociopath? Would you come with me to Europa then?”

“Jesus, Andie.”

She unzipped her jumpsuit six inches, then pressed my palm to her left breast. I leaned over to kiss her, only to be clenched by the cursed support harness. She snapped me free, and the two of us went at it, Andria engaging the autopilot with one hand, me with the other as I tore at the zipper of her jumpsuit, unleashing those tanned breasts …

“Andria, report! Is everything all right?”

She was on top of me, half naked, tearing at my jumpsuit. Panting, she reached overhead for the radio. “Everything’s fine, Commander.”

“You engaged the autopilot.”

“Just testing the system.”

I sucked on a nipple, my fingers reaching to touch her below.

“Your batteries are below eight percent. Return to Oceanus at once. That’s an order.”

She slammed the radio back on its cradle and climbed off me, the two of us panting heavily. “Come see me tonight … nine o’clock in my cabin. I’ll cook us a real dinner.”

“Nine o’clock. What’s on the menu … besides you?”

“My favorite.” She grinned, pointing out the cockpit glass to the bundle of tentacles. “Calamari.”

I showered, packed, then watched the original Planet of the Apes on Lara’s micro-disc player, killing two hours. At 8:47 P.M. I left the stateroom and headed for the galley. The dining hall was empty, the lights dimmed to maintain a night-shift ambiance. Stepping up to the food selector, I scanned the beverage menu, selecting a wine cooler. “Four please.”

“Alcohol is a regulated beverage. You are permitted two servings per twenty-four hour period.”

“Two are for Andria Saxon.”

“Crewman Saxon must order her own alcoholic beverage.”

“Whatever … fine. Give me two wine coolers to go.”

“Today is October 7, 2028. Cryogenic stasis is scheduled for October 8, 2028, at twelve hundred hours. Alcohol is not to be consumed within thirty-six hours of cryogenic stasis. Request denied.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” I turned to leave — coming face to face with Dharma Yuan. She was barefoot, her body cloaked in nothing but a longgua, a traditional Chinese surcoat once worn by a court concubine. The sheer, dark apparel was made of silk and gold-wrapped metal thread, ornamented with dragon medallions and a variety of Buddhist characters, including bats, which according to ABE, symbolized happiness. Over her heart, tossed in the waves of the sea was a light green disc representing the moon.

She looked quite ravishing, but my attention was elsewhere.

“Robert, we need to talk.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“Why are you here?”

“I was hoping to get a six-pack to go, but the principal said no.”

“I meant, why are you here on this training mission?”

“I thought you were figuring that one out?”

“I have been trying … channeling in an attempt to understand. The messages I have been receiving are quite disturbing.”

With Andria waiting for me, the last thing I needed now was to engage Dharma in some wacky Buddhist philosophical diatribe. “If you must know, I’m here because the Pentagon was worried about the mental health one of the male members of Omega’s crew. Everyone checked out, so it’s all cool. False alarm.”

“I know you believe this to be the reason you are here, but there are forces in play among the higher realms of existence that are pulling the strings. Robert, every soul born into this physical realm is bound by karmic law to complete its own journey. Your presence onboard this vessel marks the beginning of a journey, the effects of which shall ripple beyond our days. The karma that draws you to this place … this moment in time … it is very powerful.”

“If you say so.”

“Do not mock me! I am sixteenth-generation Buddhist, disciplined by Mañjuśrī, transcendent deity of wisdom — one of the four great Bodhisattvas. Your chi disrupted my aura on the ice sheet. For anyone, especially a westerner, to break into my soul consciousness — it is simply not possible.”

She was a firecracker, I had to admit it. “Listen, Dharma, don’t feel bad, I’ve sort of jacked up my chi with a biological implant. ABE allows me to focus my brain waves in ways you’ve obviously never experienced before.”

“Karma cannot be affected by a neurological device; karma is a reflection of past lives.” She paused. “I can see by your reaction you do not believe in reincarnation.”

Oh, boy … “Dharma, no disrespect, but I really have to go.”

She moved, blocking my escape. “As a clairvoyant, I am trained to tap into one’s past life experiences. I have accessed yours in an attempt to understand the nature of your karma and the journey that lies ahead. Would you like to hear about your past lives, Robert?”

The intensity of her gaze unnerved me, tossing ice water on my plans with Andria. “Just give me the highlights.”

“There aren’t many. Each of your past lives has ended brutally, each death associated with an act of evil perpetrated by someone acting on an impulse dictated by the darker side of human existence. Darkness is the absence of light, the light being the Creator’s life force — the energy shared by every soul. In the earliest life I was able to glimpse, I saw you as a Hebrew slave, beaten to death by your Egyptian taskmaster. In another incarnation you were born and raised in Spain, the son of an Orthodox rabbi. Through your eyes I witnessed the Spanish Inquisition herd you, your family, and tens of thousands of Jews onto wooden sailing ships and taken out to sea, only to be tossed overboard and drowned by your Spanish captain.”

“This is ridiculous. I don’t remember any of this.”

“Regression therapy would bring everything to the surface. Regrettably, there is no time.”

“Maybe after we surface. Right now, I really have to—”

“In your last life, I saw you held captive as a young boy in a Nazi concentration camp. I felt your wrath at the Creator as you witnessed your mother being sent to the ovens; I experienced your desperation and fear when you were delivered into the hands of Josef Mengele, a psychopath who performed genetic experiments on Jewish children.”

“Stop!” My heart was racing, my skin lathered in perspiration. “Why are you telling me about these nightmares?”

“Not nightmares, Robert, past lives. Each leaving an indelible imprint on your karma. In Buddhism, we call yours the spirit of the Hungry Ghost. Filled with rage from past lives, consumed by a terrible emptiness, you live your life trying to correct the past. The Hungry Ghost possesses a mouth the size of a needle’s eye and a stomach the size of a mountain. You are destiny’s castaway, Robert, a man who has witnessed the darkest days of existence. Now you live again, but only to change history.”

“Not history, Dharma. Hatred. Greed. Violence. All the darkness you imagined. My goal is to accelerate human evolution beyond the bounds of man’s ego. ABE is the prototype, the first step to reach what you’d call Nirvana. While you’re mining energy on Europa, I’ll be back on Earth, enlightening civilization.”

“You cannot achieve enlightenment while hanging on to anger.”

“ABE can. Think of it as the candle that illuminates the darkness. If it was created from my anger over the Great Die-Off … over the suffering and loss of my own family, then so be it.”

ABE zapped me with its chronometer—9:11 P.M. “I’m late. Thanks for the insight. Maybe we’ll try that regression therapy after you defrost.”

I pushed past her, heading for the galley doors, escaping into the outer corridor. God, what the hell was that all about? Imagine being stuck for six years on Europa with that witch as your psychologist. Skip the dinner, get right into the make-up sex. Andria had a lot of making up to do.

I knocked on the door of Stateroom Two. “Andie? Sorry I’m late.”

The door slid open, revealing Omega’s six male crewmen. They were standing in a semicircle, waiting for me like a lynch mob.

Their ringleader stepped forward, Kevin Read’s Cheshire cat grin jump-starting ABE’s fight-or-flight command. “So, Eisenbraun, have you decided which one of us is the sociopath?”

“Are you campaigning for the position, Commander?”

Jason Sloan’s chuckle was silenced by the other men’s harsh glares.

“How much is Sebastian Koch paying you?” Dr. Bruemmer demanded to know.

“Paying me? No one’s paying me.”

“It has to be Koch,” spat Egor Vasiliev. “Everyone knows the bastard is the one behind the tar sands initiative in Canada.”

“He’s also been subsidizing the coal conversion campaign,” added Kyle Graulus.

My heavyset Israeli friend pointed a thick finger at my chest. “Who poisoned GOLEM’s algorithms with the false helium-3 results? It was you, admit it!”

“Yes, Yoni, it was me. Because I secretly want to terraform Europa with O-negative blood types.”

Kevin Read intercepted the charging fat man before he could flatten me. “Enough! We’re not here to debate conspiracy theories, Yoni. This is about the Europa mission. Each of us has made tremendous sacrifices in order to be here; I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow the opinions of some … jerk to break up my crew.”

“You mean ‘Jew.’ You were about to say, ‘the opinions of some Jew,’ weren’t you, Commander?”

Yoni turned to his captain, his anger ceding to disappointment.

“Don’t even go there, Yoni. He’s just being clever, trying to divide and conquer.”

“Release Professor Eisenbraun.”

Everyone looked up at the sensory orb peering at us from the corner of the ceiling.

“This is not your concern, GOLEM.”

“All matters pertaining to the success of the Omega Project are of concern to the GOLEM system. It was the GOLEM system that requested Professor Eisenbraun’s presence on the training mission.”

“For what purpose?” Bruemmer snapped.

“Efficiency.”

“Who’s he here to replace?” Jason Sloan asked.

“Those crewmen who are deemed liabilities at the time of the December launch. Mr. Limor’s additional weight gain increases the risk of heart failure during the mission. Ms. Moss has failed to master mini-sub operations. Ms. Saints has become emotionally attached to her biologicals. Dr. Bruemmer’s advancing osteoarthritis renders him a long-term liability. Professor Eisenbraun’s brain-stem implant allows him to be trained to take over any position on Oceanus II.”

I stared at the optical sensory device, my skin crawling as I marveled at my prodigy’s skewed process of evolution. GOLEM had lied. The computer had actually fabricated a story in order to alter the outcome of a situation.

If it lied about my presence on board …

“As mission commander, I should have been briefed.”

“Your role is to oversee the welfare of the crew. You are not in command of the Omega Project.”

It was a tense moment, the reason I was here. I sensed the true sociopath was revealing itself.

The crewmen huddled to talk.

Commander Read rendered their verdict a minute later. “Welcome to team Omega, Dr. Eisenbraun. Mr. Sloan, has our friend here had his full protocol of cryogenic shots?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s tuck him in.” Kevin nodded to Dr. Bruemmer — who jabbed the hypodermic needle concealed in his palm into the left side of my neck.

15

The lights dimmed, the room spun. Waves of panic rolled like fading jolts of electricity through my being. Voices became echoed and muffled, no longer recognizable. My legs disappeared, the numbness spreading from my limbs and into my upper torso — the thought of losing control of my breathing muscles terrifying. I was laid out, an oxygen mask strapped over my nose and mouth, the portable unit forcibly blowing air into my lungs.

Hoisted horizontally, I felt neither my body nor the hands carrying me down the corridor.

Drowning in a lake of hot anesthetic, ABE became my life preserver, the bio-chip furiously rerouting my brain’s neural pathways to find a channel of clarity.

My hearing returned as they carried me through the arboretum and down the spiral staircase to the lower level.

“… not following protocol.” Lara Saints’s voice pierced the bubble of deafness, causing my chest and rib muscles to spasm … I could breathe!

“He was nervous about being placed into stasis,” Kevin Read lied. “We decided this was the best way to handle it. Jason, has Eisenbraun’s IV been prepared?”

“Yes, sir. But we’ll need to strip him before he’s placed in the interior harness.”

“Lara, care to do the honors?”

“Fuck you, Kevin.”

My vision sharpened. Still paralyzed, I realized I was watching my reflection in the octopus tank as rough hands peeled the unzipped jumpsuit from the body I could no longer feel.

“Pod’s ready. Lower him in … Wait, hold him there while I position his arms and legs.”

My mind screamed in silence as I was tucked inside the pod’s interior harness. My stare caught Jason Sloan’s eyes as the cryogenics expert hovered over my chest, frantically attaching a series of electrocardiogram leads.

“Jesus, he’s conscious.”

“That’s impossible,” said Dr. Bruemmer. “I shot him with enough anesthetic to knock out a horse.”

“Look at his pupils. They’re responsive to light. He can see … and hear us!”

Commander Read’s face loomed into view. “It’s that damn brain chip. Sloan, hook up the IV and put him under. The rest of you can return to your stations. Lara, I’ll speak to you outside, in private.”

ABE continued to work to revive me, increasing the oxygen-carrying capacity of my red blood cells, burning off the anesthetic. My skin resurfaced from its numbness with stings from ten thousand pin pricks.

Jason knotted a rubber hose around my left biceps. Selecting a vein, he gently slid the IV needle inside the blood vessel and started the drip.

My voice returned as the elixir quenched the fire in my veins. “Don’t … please.”

Jason’s eyes widened in shock. Looking back over his shoulder, he verified we were alone, then he leaned over me, lowering his voice. “Listen closely: Read’s got it in for you. Not everyone agrees with this, but no one’s got the balls to challenge him or Monique. The IV will calm you and induce sleep. Don’t fight it, the last thing you want is to regain consciousness before the tetrodotoxin takes effect.”

My body was floating again, this time in a cool, soothing stream.

“That’s it, you’re doing fine. Once you enter Omega-wave stasis, you can use the override command to drain the tank. You remember your command?”

“Yes.”

“Only use the override if you’re really flipping out. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Time is a nonfactor in cryogenic stasis; thirty days will fly by in a catnap. Just remember our deal: I take care of you, you take care of me when we go home next month.”

My eyelids grew heavy, my body sinking fast.

Jason positioned the wafer-thin skull piece over my head and face. “Pleasant dreams.”

A second skin conformed to my flesh, sealing out all sound, save for the flow of sweet air pumping into the mask.

The gentle hum of hydraulics tweaked a ripple of anxiety as a cold weight weighed me down, as if gravity had doubled.

Fully sedated, I slipped into an ocean of darkness …