Those Who Knew Earth: Revolution, Part 3

As a young woman, Jewel merged with the generation spaceship’s AI, and now rules their lives. Everyone else has had time to adjust to this hard reality. Doesn’t mean they like it.

This is chapter 5 of a serial about a generation ship. This chapter takes place 75 years into the journey.

The main characters of this chapter are:

Jewel, the 50 year old captain, who merged with the ship AI 25 years ago.

Sun, 49 years old, seems to have had his youthful rebellion squashed but retains a valuable spark of defiance.

Isaac, 31, is caught in the middle as Jewel’s son-in-law and Sun’s nephew.

Sun trudged through the halls, eyes briefly darting to each person he passed. He was fulfilling the off-hand offer to take his daughter’s place helping with the school children. But he always welcomed a chance to speak with his grandson.

Leaning on a cane at times, he followed a pace behind Vanya. His youthful contempt had been driven deep with age. A charitable observer might call this growth. Maturation. Sure, if the quiet of a beaten dog were affection.

He had very little attachment to his continued existence, but he declined on principle to give them legitimate reason to end his life. ‘Them’ was an expansive group, centered in his mind on anyone who told stories of Earth. He was proud of having popularized the idea that the stories of Earth were mere fables, claiming all of existence beyond their once-sleek plastic walls was a lie.

There was no real sense to it. Entropy was an undeniable force, and it was always clear that their reality on the ship had an inevitable end, destination reached or otherwise. Clearly, theirs wasn’t an eternal state of being; they came from somewhere. But he clung to illogical beliefs, and they spread to his peers with surprising persistence, because the alternative was too painful.

Sun counted himself amongst the first exiles after Eden, banished through no sins of his own. Paradise was denied them, with no hope of return. What was a flaming Seraph compared to empty light years? Eden had many names, depending on which of his grandparents had been telling the story, wistfully recalling the cities of their youth: Beijing, Paris, Kyoto, Dublin.1 All simply other words for “Earth” to Sun. Those stories told him nothing so much as his meaningless life had been sacrificed in advance just so his descendants, like Vanya here, would walk upon a distant rock.

Vanya was skipping ahead, almost to the schoolroom. Sun glanced around; a few children were entering the door, but no one was around him. “Vanya,” he called, beckoning the child back. Vanya turned and wandered back to the stairwell alcove.

“What’s up, Sun? I can go to the class myself. I’m almost eight.” Indeed, and being tall for his age still brought him only up to Sun’s midsection, so he stooped down. Sun used smoothing the boys mussed hair as an excuse to look him directly in the eye.

“We haven’t told each other the story today.”

Vanya fidgeted, looking towards the classroom door. “I know it by heart by now, Grandpa Sun. It’s just a fairytale. We were reading in class about ancient Rome. Did you know it —“

Sun cut off the boy’s enthusiastic babbling. “Please, Vanya, it is important. Our special story is what we share together. The hero. What did he do first?” He relied on the boy’s good nature and family love to gain his compliance. Sun had never hinted it had any meaning beyond bonding, never even thought it. And they said he had no discipline.

“He put on his armor.” Despite his protestations of boredom Vanya settled into the routine, straightening up at the attention and affirmation of his grandfather.

“Right. Carefully, covering every part of him, and sealing it tight. Why?”

“Because the air outside the castle is poison. If any touched him, he would die.”

“Just like us, here. Why was this boy the one chosen to face the witch?” The parts of the story emphasized changed, as well as who told what, but it had become a repeated ritual. Sun was hurrying through it today; his grandson was getting older, and less patient.

“Because she controlled everyone else.”

“Yes. Only this boy, the hero, was able to save his friends and family. Where was the source of the witch’s power?”

“Beyond the ceiling. Past the spinning wheel, and down the open hall.”

“Very good. And to defeat—” Sun went silent, a wan smile plastered on his face as another pair of children ran down the stairs past them. “To finally defeat the witch, he had to find her magic scroll, read it, and figure out how to shut it off.”

Vanya inched towards the classroom door while they were speaking, eager to join the other kids. Sun gave him a half smile and pulled himself up with a grunt. “All right, we can go in. Thank you for listening to Grandpa.” He got a smile flashed in return as the boy ran ahead and dashed in.

By the time Sun entered, Vanya was well immersed in the chaos of the class, building a tower out of a set of nesting plastic blocks with a couple of other, darker boys, second cousins. Around the room were two dozen more children between ages four and eight, some doodling pictures on tablets, others playing with simple cloth dolls or inflated rubber balls. At that age it was tricky, but endlessly fascinating, to time the catch. They tossed it down the length of the room, running after it in a herd.

A young woman about the age of Sun’s daughter wandered over. She was a little on the plump side. Soft, then, which was a luxury compliance earned. Chastity, was it? No, Charity. Granddaughter of Sun’s aunt which made them — what was the Earthborn expression? Right — who gives a damn.

Charity leaned in and gave Sun a quick hug. “Thank you, uncle. You don’t really need to stay. Jaya was mostly just coming to hang out and keep me company.” She laughed, adding, “And use me as an excuse to avoid repeating mending duty.”

Sun looked around at the children playing and shrugged. He’d always liked children. Not babies, those were endless work and hassle. Children were fun, though: trusting, open, forgiving. He looked at Vanya, recreating a tower after having sent the blocks tumbling with a kick. For a moment, Sun was almost sorry. The boy may soon pay for his innocence. But Sun chased away the incriminating thought, not allowing hidden ambitions to dwell within his consciousness, bound within the demesne of the AI as it was. He was just a weary old man who liked to tell stories. “I understand. I have no other plans this morning. If you have use for me, I’ll remain.”

“Actually, yeah, that’ll be great. I can differentiate the reading groups and work with the intermediate children while you read along with the youngsters. Let me get you a tablet. Pull up anything in the yellow beginner section. I’ll start organizing them into groups.”

Sun accepted the touchscreen device, sleek and sturdy though marred by three prior cycles of grubby little hands. Generally such devices were the playthings of children too young for the Cyonics2 install. Cyonics: tools and traps and toys.

He browsed the selections, choosing between simply told fables starring bucolic bears, rebellious rabbits, and pampered princesses. Rabbits it is, he decided, gingerly sitting down at the knee-high plastic table. Charity tapped several children on the shoulder and sent them to Sun. Soon he had his cohort taking turns reading lines on their own tablets as the bunny lied, stole, and engaged in a variety of other delightfully antisocial behaviors, inevitably getting caught and sent to bed without supper. Vanya was at the other table, though Sun’s nephew’s youngest daughter, Vita, was at his ankle, her braids bobbing as she giggled at the rabbit’s antics. Sun managed to forget himself in the children’s amusement for a time, until the opening of the door drew his attention.

A tall, stocky man with long grey hair and a bushy beard walked in, his bulk punishing the tattered leather jacket he wore. Was it better called a swagger? Maybe. But if anyone deserved a bit of confidence, it was Dima, grandson of a fallen hero3, a chosen apprentice of the first captain, representative to a defunct council, a leader of men with nowhere to take them. Definitely a bucolic bear type. It wasn’t the gentlest entrance, and Vanya looked up, calling cheerfully “Uncle Dima!” with a wave. Right, he was Sun’s daughter’s, father-in-law’s… eh. He felt a headache coming on.

“How’s it going, Vanya? Hey, Charity, Hosanna sends her regrets from the mending room.”

“Oh, Dima, you didn’t have to come, but thanks. Can I give you some students to read with also?”

Dima gave an expansive shrug. “Why not?” He likewise was given a third of the pupils, and with three groups it became difficult to hear the tiny voices confusing their d’s and b’s. But Sun had learned patience, and continued on through the further adventures of the rebellious rabbit.

Charity announced free play again when the three groups had finished their second reading, and the noise level increased considerably. Sun dodged various missiles — foam blocks, rubber balls, a doll’s head — before he decided his safety took precedence over avoiding company. He wandered over to the corner where Charity and Dima were chatting.

“…told her that she can’t expect to get away with half-assing the mending. Not with queen bee buzzing around our heads.” Dima chuckled at his own description. Sun faced downward and glanced at Dima’s expression from his peripheral vision. Perhaps the man wasn’t such a bucolic bear after all.

Charity returned the jest with a wan smile. “Well, Jaya had a point. Things are wearing out here.”

Sun shuffled a bit, leaning on his metal cane, and grunted non-committedly.

Dima gazed at the kids running helter-skelter. “Frankly the state of our wardrobe is the least of my worries. Just a symptom of our misplaced focus. Like the way the schooling is being run…”

Charity frowned. “What’s wrong with our school?”

“It hasn’t changed a damn bit in fifty years, Chari. Reading and math through age eight, then virtual ‘til… well, death I guess. But these kids are going to do more than just sew up uniforms and wash nappies. They need to focus. Specialize. That boy —” he pointed to a fair haired boy tossing a block through the air. “He should know every single thing about clouds and air currents there is to know. Your daughter, Grace? She should be spending every spare moment learning about, say, planting grains or something. We need experts and specialists, not compliance.”

Charity shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I run the class per Jewel’s approval. If she has any concerns —”

Dima cut her off with a scoff. “That’s the trouble with that damn woman, she’s got us all conditioned to think her whims are the goal we’re shooting for, instead of thinking for ourselves. Ack…” He winced a moment, rubbing his head with the palm of his hand.

Each of the adults heard a familiar voice as the Captain intruded into the conversation mentally. “Dima, please try to set a positive example for the children. Further, if you have concerns, please address me in private. I see no reason for morale to take a hit from your complaining. Charity is doing good work here today. Sun, too, even.”

Dima grit his teeth. “No offense intended, Charity. Seems you’re better off without me here today.” He continued muttering under his breath as he turned and left.

Sun turned to Charity, whose plastic smile was slowly melting on her face. “We should remember to respect the Captain,” he said. Naughty rabbits get punished. When they are caught.

An arrow struck a ram’s body, dropping it from the rocky hills at the same time a blue and silver ball bounced off its face. Raban sprawled on a couch in the section three lounge while watching the children’s virtual instance play out on a screen. He tossed a rubber ball off the screen and caught it. Though he wasn’t paying close attention to his baby-sitting duty, he still appreciated the skill his nephew exhibited with the bow.

On the screen, Djinn set down his bow and crept up to the downed beast. It bleated pitifully as he approached. His arrow was lodged deep behind the front shoulder. He nudged it and blood pumped out around the shaft, matting the dusty hair and pooling in the sand. Curious, Djinn dipped his finger into it; it was of a similar hue as his skin but brighter, shining in the simulated savannah sunlight. Impulsively he wiped his finger on his tongue, then spat.

The boy started as another arrow zipped through the air. It impaled the ram in the skull, inches from Djinn’s face. He back-peddled furiously. His feet skidded in the sand, and he spun around to face the direction the arrow had been loosed from.

Several paces down the gentle slopes of the hillside, a tall anglo-featured boy stood smirking, arm still outstretched with the bow pointed towards the target. Another boy and two girls snickered around him, their weapons slung on their backs. On the screen in the lounge, the rubber ball bounced off the newcomer’s head and landed back in Raban’s grasp.

“That was my shot,” Djinn said. He balled his fists and glowered at them.

“Relax,” the older boy, Honor, said, “I’m not trying to score your kills. Good job tracking it before us.” A gentle breeze blew down the canyon behind them, scattering dust eddies around their feet. Above them the twin orbs of sun and planet beamed down. The scene was a mix of speculation about their home and environmental features of Earth dredged up from the ship’s digital library, programmed by the resident guru, Abe.

The taller, dark skinned girl walked past them, crouching by the animal. “It’s a nice shot,” she granted, pulling the two arrows out. “Guess we shouldn’t hope to compete with a holy child.”

What was that about? Did she mock Djinn’s name, showing off knowledge of the mythology of Raban’s Great-grandmother’s people?

The observer wasn’t alone in his curiosity. “What do you mean, holy child?” asked the third boy in the group. He pulled out an arrow and notched it to his own bow, aiming it at the various Baobab trees on the ridges overlooking them. Djinn tried to affect disinterest in the explanation, but he faced Solaria, waiting.

“Oh yeah, his whole family is holy. On account of his great-grandmother’s virgin birth.” Solaria smirked at her joke. Raban squeezed the ball tightly in his hands, glaring at her.

“What’s that mean?” asked Aether, the other girl, peering at Djinn closely.

“Don’t you listen to your Mamie’s stories? God came to Earth through a virgin’s…” she blushed and giggled, then finished, “privates.”

Honor chuckled. “He should have used a spaceship.”

“But what’s virgin?” David asked, loosing the arrow. It thudded into the fat trunk of the nearest tree, and he turned back to Solaria with a satisfied grin.

“Virgin’s what we are,” Solaria continued the lesson. “There’s two ways of making a baby. The way we learned in school — and however his grandma was made. See, virgin birth, like the Earth God.”

Djinn looked confused, trying to determine whether he was being mocked or praised. Seeing the expressions on the other boy’s faces, he made up his mind and yanked his arrow back, kicking sand on Solaria’s feet in the process. “Shut up.”

“Wait, that’s right,” Honor said. “If Gabriel4 was… sleeping, how’d he make a daughter?”

“You see? Magic.”

“Snotty little brat,” Raban muttered to himself outside the instance.

“Stop talking about my family!” Djinn stepped towards the girl. His neck was tilted awkwardly back to look the taller girl in the eyes.

“Ah, chill,” the older girl said, pushing past him. “We gonna continue the hunt or not? Grandpa Abe said there should be a whole herd in this valley.”

“I’d rather shoot you,” Djinn muttered.

“That a boy,” said his uncle, watching the scene.

“Hey, that ain’t a bad idea,” Honor said with a grin. He pointed his weapon at Solaria.

“What are you doing?” she said. She folded her arms across her chest, projecting bravado. Watching from outside, Raban detected a bit of fear in her voice.

“We can’t get hurt in here, right?”

“It hurt when I slipped on the cliff,” Aether put in, stepping back from the conflict.

“I mean injured. We can feel pain, a bit, but our bodies are fine. Let’s play tag.” He loosed the arrow at Solaria. She flinched, curly braids whipping about her face as her hands flew up for protection.

The arrow hovered in the air, an inch away from her chest. “Children,” spoke a calm but stern feminine voice. Jewel materialized an avatar in their midst, plucking the arrow from the air and dropping it casually. “Lethal play is forbidden.”

The boys dropped their bows, averting their gaze. Honor grunted. “I wasn’t…. we can’t…”

“I’m not opening a discussion, Honor. You will be washing dishes tonight, and no one will be in an instance with a weapon for a week.”

Raban shook his head angrily. “You’ll scold the boys for playing rough in virtual, but not stop them picking on Djinn, Jewel?”

Despite his being outside the instance, her image turned to face the vantage point of the screen and responded to him. “I have better things to do than police feelings, Raban. Moreover, it was your job to monitor the children. Please take your responsibilities seriously.”

“Please suck my…” he found his tongue unwilling to finish the taunt.

“Come now. You are an adult. Act like it.” She disappeared from the screen. Raban chucked the rubber ball at it. It bounced off and flew down the hall.

Next week we explore the exciting world of sewage treatment! Oh, and a tense showdown at dinner, as Isaac proves his worth.

In the meantime, sound off on how you’re enjoying your stay aboard our ship!