John Moralee - Future Imperfect - A Collection of Science Fiction Stories

At the lowest levels, below the clouds, below the ground, my citizens scurry in darkness, existing in a hellish nightworld, never seeing sunlight. There are five billion urbanites living underground, workers maintaining the Great Engines, which produce the raw materials to construct more of my city above the ground, where g-trains transport the forged matter up and up the many, many tiers to where construction continues far above the clouds and thinning atmosphere.

It is at the top where my city touches space. Fewer residents live in the glittering upper tiers and only a small elite live at the very top, in the shiny towers that are in the hard vacuum outside the exosphere. They live in luxurious palaces. I live among them in my central tower built from smartmatter that rises like a diamond-tipped needle. My tower points at the gas giant around which every planet orbits.

It is my duty to rule, protecting the rights of my citizens while maintaining friendly relations with the other Royal Houses.

For ten millennia I have ruled my city in peace – but discord is ever present among my citizens. Those at the bottom strive to become those at the top. Through hard work some rise from the darkness to the lower levels – but I limit their numbers. I must always have more workers at the base than in the clouds. I need them to continue building higher and higher. In the Sixty Worlds only one thing matters to the Royal Houses – status. To prevent war and destruction, each world is apportioned voting power according to the height of the royal tower above their planetary surface. One day mine will exceed the others and I will become the Ring Emperor – but until that day comes I need to continue building higher and higher, rising my status literally above those of the Sixty Royal Families.

My plan required more matter – so I sent out ships to the outer system to redirect a comet to add to my planetary mass. My plan was to greatly increase my rate of construction – but something happened before the comet arrived at the gas giant. Instead of decelerating as it approaches my world, it has increased velocity, no doubt sabotaged by another House.

Now I watch helplessly as the comet rushes towards my city like a giant fireball. When it strikes, my city will crumble and fall, leaving nothing behind except a scorched dead world, knocked into another orbit much closer to the sun, where a new god will rise.

My unborn child moves inside the membrane between our ship and the hard vacuum of space, squirming in delight as she downloads memories of Earth from the archives. She floats in the zero-gee tank as though that was how she was meant to be gestated – without the comforting warmth of my body and womb. It makes me ache to see her that way – but it can’t be done another way here on the Orbital, where everyone must fulfil their duties to the ship. The regs don’t permit pregnancy.

I feel my flat stomach and sigh, regretting my decision to leave Earth for the Orbital, where life is hard and short. I press my hand against the glass and connect to my baby’s neural link. I feel her emotions. She’s content. Blissfully happy. She doesn’t need me, her mother, not with the ship giving her everything she needs to grow. In a few months she will be ready to come out of the incubation pod – but for now she is still forming, an embryo swirling in a tank of nutrients against a background of stars. She’s lovely, and she’s mine. I feel a wave of love for her, but also apprehension.

The Orbital is not a place for a child.

An orange jumpsuit reflects in the glass. It’s Stefan floating down the tunnel from the hub. He grabs me when he reaches the birthing chamber. He grins.

“Are you going to stare at her all day, Lu?”

“I’m off-duty for another three hours,” I say. “This is how I relax. Watching our daughter.”

“I can think of another way we can relax.”

“I know you can. That’s how we ended up with a baby in space. Shouldn’t you be guarding the executives on omega deck?”

“They’re in a meeting in the bubble, interfacing with the AI. They let me have an hour. I’m bored, Lu. Let’s go to our cabin.”

Stefan kisses me – but I pull away. “Did you feel that?”

He frowns. “What?”

“Something is wrong with the Orbital.”

“You can’t possibly know—”

But I do. The stars are moving behind our baby – which means the ship has altered course. Our nameless child reacts by curling up into a ball, a defensive gesture against whatever unknown thing is affecting the ship. My skin tingles like it has been brushed with cold feathers.

The view outside has changed. Now the purple gas giant is visible. Stellar data confirms my suspicions. We’re no longer in a stable orbit. We’re heading towards the upper atmosphere at greater and greater velocity, where the Orbital will break apart like a popped balloon … unless … unless …

“What’s happening?” Stefan says.

Our baby turns in the tank.

Her tiny mouth forms a smile.

I know what is happening.The neural link to the ship works two ways. Our child has hacked the ship’s network. She’s taken control.

She doesn’t want to live here.

We’re slingshotting.

We’re going back home.

We had been living on Eris for twelve years when we detected the signal, a strange pulse of data, streaming from the dwarf planet we inhabited. Someone, or some thing, else was sending out a message. The Xena Prime colonists were supposed to be the only humans in our section of the Kuiper Belt—so everyone on the base thought the same thing; we were in a First Contact situation with some form of alien life. I organised a research team of fifteen scientists. They joined me for a briefing, pooling ideas.

“Where exactly is the signal’s origin?” I wanted to know when I saw the raw data on my tablet. The data looked like a software program written in a language I had never seen.

My wife Alice was analysing the signal. “It’s coming from 42 degrees north of us and 92.4 kilometres away.”

“What else do we know?”

“The orbiting sats picked it up last night. The signal’s so weak it would never have been detected from Earth—or even the base on Pluto. It seems to happen once every eighty-eight minutes and lasts one point two seconds. The pulse contains enough data for three billion hours of ultra-def video. Bennet and Chang are running it through an isolated computer system, trying to make sense of it.”

“That’s great,” I said. “We’ll go in the cat to the origin point, take a closer look at our mysterious friend.”

Alice frowned. “Is that wise? We don’t know what it is yet. It could be hostile. Did you read the protocols in the Agency manual on First Contact?”

“I read it and wrote parts of it,” I said. “And there’s nothing in it that says we can’t take a look from a little bit closer. We need eyeballs on this thing, whatever it is.”

My wife looked worried. “I think we should have a vote. We shouldn’t rush in.”

Some people agreed. Others didn’t. There was an almost even split—but I had the deciding vote as elected commander of the base.

“I could go alone,” I said. “That would limit the danger.”

“It doesn’t have to be you,” Alice said. “You could send someone else. Or a drone. You’re the commander. Don’t endanger your life, Dan.”

I was eager to go immediately—but I remembered the protocols. “Okay—I’ll send a drone first, then we’ll send a team.” I logged onto the network and ordered a probe launch. It was heading for the origin point as I sipped some coffee and monitored its feed. It would take fifteen minutes for the drone to reach the location and hover over it using its thrusters. I was impatient. “How long will it take Bennet and Chang to analyse the data?”