Golden Fleece

I cleared my throat, and then spoke in the Voice of Command. “Mutant Cyborg, lift your arms.” The Mutant’s arms lifted over his head, biceps bulging with hidden cyborg powers. Uncle David’s right hand brushed against my thigh, exposed because I was still wearing my shorts. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable. “Mutant Cyborg,” I said, “fire your lasers.” From the palms of his hands, two beams of blue light shot across the room. ’Course, everybody knows you can’t see a laser beam unless there’s something like dust or fog in the air—I still hadn’t figured out how the Mutant got them to appear like that. One of these days I’ll have to take him apart to find out.

Uncle David’s hand moved up my thigh. I squirmed a bit, hoping it would slip off, but it didn’t. “Mutant Cyborg,” I said, “fly!” I let go of the Mutant and it hovered in midair in front of us. Suddenly Uncle David swung me around and had his hand in my pants, on my dink. “No…,” I said.

“Shh,” said David. “Shhsh. This will be our little secret.” He continued to touch me there for several minutes, his belly bouncing faster and faster. Finally, he let go of me. “Now listen to your Uncle David, sport. Keep this a secret, okay? Just between you and me. Whatever you do, don’t tell your mother. It’ll hurt her if you tell her. You understand me, sport? Don’t ever tell.”

“I—”

“Listen, sport. It will hurt your mother if you tell. Promise to keep it a secret.”

I felt like I wanted to scrunch into a ball, to hide. “I promise.”

There was a knock at my door, LAR’s stupid good manners keeping anyone from bursting in on us. “Aaron, dear,” said my mother’s voice through the panel, “can I come in?”

David immediately lifted me off his lap and set me on the floor. “Come in,” I said, and LAR slid the door aside.

“How’s everything in here?” Mom asked with a big smile.

“Fine,” said David quickly. “Just fine.” He gestured at the Mutant Cyborg, still floating in midair. “Aaron’s got quite a toy there.”

“Mom,” I said, “I want to have a bath.”

She looked down at me, hands on hips. “Well, you certainly need one, but I’m not used to you having the good sense to notice.” She looked up at the ceiling. “LAR, prepare a bath for Aaron.”

LAR’s thick, flat voice replied immediately. “Will do.”

I ran down the corridor to the bathroom and didn’t even wait for LAR to finish filling the tub. I got right in and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

SEVENTEEN

MASTER CALENDAR DISPLAY • CENTRAL CONTROL ROOM

STARCOLOGY DATE: THURSDAY 9 OCTOBER 2177

EARTH DATE: FRIDAY 30 APRIL 2179

DAYS SINCE LAUNCH: 742 ▲

DAYS TO PLANETFAIL: 2,226 ▼

Countdowns had been a part of space travel since the launch of the first Sputnik 220 years ago. Few countdowns, though, had been more anticipated than the one that was now underway. Fewer still would have as great a percentage of the population reciting the numerals out loud. Strictly speaking, Engineer Chang, keeping up a good public face regardless of the turmoil he felt within, was going to lead the count; but since he was just reading numerals off one of my digital displays, I was the one who would really be orchestrating this great event.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chang said into one of my microphones, “today, the 742nd day of our starflight, marks an important milestone in our long and arduous journey. In a little less than two minutes, we will pass the one-quarter mark. Coinciding with this, a day of scheduled routine maintenance on the Starcology’s fusion engines will begin. You’ve all been briefed about what to expect, so I won’t bore you with a repetition, yes? Just, please, be careful… and have fun.” He looked to his right at the glowing three-meter-high holographic digits that I was projecting next to his dais. “When we reach the one-minute mark, I invite you all to join with me in counting down.”

An Argo Communications Network camera was trained on Chang; two others panned the gathered crowd. I could have provided just as good coverage, but the humans wanted to do this themselves.

Chang lifted his giant upper-right arm as my clock said 1:04. He dropped it four seconds later and bellowed, “Sixty seconds.” The floating numerals said 1:00, though, so about half the assembled group shouted, “One minute,” while the other half echoed Chang’s words. A little laughter ensued, but the crowd managed to synchronize itself by the fifty-seven-second mark. Everyone except for a dozen of Chang’s engineers was here: 10,021 people all gathered on the grassy lawn of the main residential level. They knew enough to be standing. Many had on foam rubber knee and elbow pads. A few of the more cautious types were even wearing crash helmets.

They all shouted along with Chang, most in English, the standard language of the Starcology, others in their native tongues: Algonquin, Esperanto, French, Greek, Hebrew, Italian, Japanese, Kurdish, Mandarin, Russian, Swahili, Ukrainian, Urdu, a dozen others. “Fifty-six,” said the voices, loud and joy-filled. “Fifty-five. Fifty-four.”