EVOLVING: Part I

CONTENT WARNING: This short story contains references to death of a parent, death of a spouse, terrorism, and genocide.

Gil’s father had been a water harvester on Enceladus, but Europa seemed to be entirely different.

On the Saturnian moon, his father had worked to maintain the humidifiers that took in moisture around the surface springs at the moon’s southern poles. The colossal machines pulled in the vapors from the massive geysers that shot so high they could sometimes be a threat to starships in orbit.

That was what had claimed his father’s life, of course. An unanticipated eruption had blown his old man and his team sky-high as ice crystals shredded their environmental suits. When his body was finally recovered, there wasn’t much left to be sent back home to Luna.

But Europa’s entire process was different. The operation here looked more like traditional mineral mining on any of the rocky moons and asteroids. Massive drillers buried into Europa’s icy crust while haulers would carry away enormous chunks of dirty ice. The harvest would be delivered to refineries in low orbit, where it would be melted, refined and pumped into passing frigates to be delivered to any number of thirsty colonies elsewhere.

At least that’s what seemed to be happening. He hadn’t had time for the research he typically undertook before visiting somewhere new. He couldn’t even glean any hints from the conversations of the locals, who spoke in pockets of German, French and what he assumed was Portuguese. He had never been that great at languages and beyond the asteroid belt, the clear linguistic divisions that separated the tongues of Earth began to float away in the low gravity.

He was gleaning most of his understanding from a viewport window across the busy hallway. The window – no wider than a meter but twice as tall – was massive by traditional station standards. The view might have been impressive were it not for the streaks of tan dust that obscured it. The machinery that rolled across the landscape of white and brown certainly looked like mining equipment. Against the swirling, orange backdrop of Jupiter, he’d counted more than two dozen ships landing or taking off since he’d taken his seat. Most of them looked like liquid refineries or storage vessels. Adenauer Station – the name given to the sprawling, city-like complex of structures where he now waited – was far busier than he’d assumed.

Turning his attention away from the window brought him into another reality entirely. While the window side of the corridor was a boring, metallic gray whose only color came from an awkwardly-placed blue horizontal stripe and a smattering of flyers and other postings, his side was a cafe on the Seine.

The table he sat at was a black, wrought-iron creation that seemed to match only a few of the others. Behind him, the corridor’s interior shell held a series of wall-sized display screens that gave the impression of sitting on a sidewalk in Paris. Digital trees rocked in a non-existent breeze as a few white boats sailed gracefully past Notre Dame Cathedral. What sounded like a distant accordion melody was being drowned out by a techno-pop station blaring further down the hall and the general hustle and bustle of an overcrowded hallway. A pedestrian consumed with her datapad had already run into his table moments before, sending out a string of insults that Gil vaguely recognized as Italian. The woman had faded back into the crowd just as suddenly, leaving Gil alone in his poor and stereotypical approximation of a Parisian cafe.

The illusion was already broken by its own patrons, of course. A steady local crowd of harvesters and mechanics filled about half the tables, occasionally giving odd looks toward Gil. His suit and tie – far from haute couture – existed in stark contrast to the local uniform of soot-stained yellow coveralls and mining helmets. These were certainly not the sophisticated Parisians and wealthy tourists that should have occupied the illusion – these were working-class people conditioned to their brutal environment and with no small degree of distaste for those who called Earth home.

Gil just tried to keep to himself. He sipped at his coffee, trying desperately not to grimace at the taste. No refining process or amount of synthsugar packets could mask the strange, metallic flavor of Europa’s water. He considered abandoning the cup, but he had barely slept on the days-long journey from Earth. He felt miserable and he was sure he looked it. He picked up his fork and prodded at the remains of a pain au chocolat he’d ordered an hour ago. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to order the cafe’s special of “un crêpe au jambon et fromage.” When he’d asked if it involved any natural, unsynthesized proteins, the waitress had just snorted, laughed, and said a French phrase that sounded derogatory.

At least the pastry had been decent. While the chocolate was undoubtedly synthetic, the crust had seemed legitimate enough. He was sure they could get real flour out here.

Gil ran his hand through his close-cropped blonde hair and tapped on his datapad to see the time. The contact was now twelve minutes late, prompting him to sigh and tap nervously on the table. The nearby waitress mistook the gesture as a demand for her attention and spun around, ready to fill the cup of coffee he’d barely touched.

“Anything else I can get for you?” she said, struggling with the English words. She was pretty, but her thin face and unusually-slim build betrayed the reality that she’d never set foot in a place with a real gravitational pull. A small nametag on her chest read “SOPHIE” beside a tiny, pink Eiffel Tower.

Gil cleared his throat. “Uh, no. Non, merci.” He said pushing the plate toward her.

For a moment, Sophie stared at it, still bearing a tan crescent of crust. An awkward silence passed between them for a brief moment that felt like an eternity.

Shit, Gil thought to himself. You never waste food beyond the asteroid belt.

“This,” he said, reaching across the table to grab the remaining crust. “This was outstanding. Uh, trés beau… err… bon.” He shoved the morsel into his mouth and forced a smile. The food was dry and hard to choke down, but the move seemed to have glossed over his cultural faux pas. Her attention had already gone elsewhere.

“Tiens, I love this one!” she said, her ear pointed toward the source of the pop music in the distance. Gil could now make out the lyrics of “Love Me if You Want To.”

“I love anything by Yo-Yo!” she beamed. “I hope they tour out here again soon. I’d just love to go!”

“Me too,” Gil forced another smile. He didn’t have the heart to tell the girl that the artist Yo-Yo had died in a starship accident about two weeks ago. They might not even know out here yet, but the audio stations closer to Earth had been playing “Love Me” in a non-stop dirge of techno pop. Truthfully, he was sick of it.

“Alors, you will let me know if you need anything else,” Sophie said and turned to flirt with a group of locals.

Gil coughed into a napkin as crumbs tickled the back of his throat. He forced them down with another sip of the foul-tasting coffee just as his datapad vibrated. With a second rumble, a brief message appeared on the otherwise black screen.

Message from UNKNOWN received. Read or delete?

He double-tapped the green “read” button and the device sprang to life. The messenger application engulfed the screen, but only two words appeared:

ALMOST THERE.

He sighed and nodded. He hated this shady bullshit. He was all for investigative reporting, but preferred his interviewees to meet him in well-adorned office buildings or in the bar of some expensive hotel. He’d interviewed politicians, business tycoons, celebrities – hell, even Yo-Yo.

So what was he doing in a place like this?

He tapped at a few more icons on the datapad and pulled up a feed of the newstream from the Solar News Network – his employer. The face of Dina White appeared, silently delivering a story about a recent habitation assessment of one of the planets in the solar system beyond the Bifrost Station. Outbound Hope was only a few months away and it was all that anyone seemed interested in covering. He was sick of that, too.

He tapped the entrance to his ear canal, activating an embedded device that caused White’s voice to suddenly flare to life.

“-which could be some of the best news yet for the Outbound colonists,” White said through a half-hearted smile.

Another anchor – David Ayotunde – took over the feed, his expression much more reserved. “In other top stories,” his deep voice began, “The USSC is declaring victory over the People’s Evolutionary Order, the terrorist group responsible for the destruction of the Outbound Hope water tanker in last month’s attack.”

The screen shifted to the image of a pockmarked gray landscape where a number of US orbital marines were kicking through a charred structure in their armored spacesuits.

“Military officials announced the death of the group’s leader earlier this week,” Ayotunde continued, “when seven hours of orbital bombardment destroyed the radical group’s compound on Ganymede.”

The screen switched to a stern-faced woman in a USSC officer’s uniform. Text identified her as Lieutenant Commander Gayle Zhou, whoever that was. “This operation was a fantastic example of getting the job done,” she barked at the camera. “Within a month, we were able to successfully identify the aggressors and see them brought to justice. This is as close to an open and shut case as we can get and we should be proud of the service persons who made our solar system that much safer that quickly.”

Ayotunde’s face reappeared. “Despite the victory, tensions still flare between the United States and the Western European Alliance. The WEA has publicly condemned the attack, declaring it to be a violation of European sovereignty and insisting the PEO was not responsible for the bombing. Meanwhile Windfall officials are holding a public memorial for the engineers lost in the attack. There is still no word on whether the lost water tanker can be replaced in time for the November launch of Outbound…”

The panel muted itself as another message appeared over the feed.

Message from UNKNOWN received. Read or delete?

Gil sighed. READ.

HERE.

He quickly put his datapad to sleep and shoved it into his bag. His eyes danced around the cafe, looking for anyone with a modicum of professionalism to signal his contact.

He tried to remember the few details he knew. He was here to meet “Anslem.” He had no idea if that was a first name or a last. Allegedly, the guy had some dirt on some major players in the corporate world and refused to give more personal information than that. The few details he did give seemed legitimate enough and it was sufficient for SNN to authorize his trip to this backwater warzone. Plus the contact promised to “make it worth his while.” So where was this Anslem, then?

“Giles?” came a quiet, feminine voice with a thick German accent. “Giles Hughes?”

He turned to see a small, older woman with an explosion of silver hair barely restrained into a loose braid. She wore a long, thick jacket over a comparatively cleaner set of green coveralls, but held her arm awkwardly beneath the fabric of the coat. As she moved around the table, Gil caught the strap of a sling that she was obviously attempting to conceal on her right side.

“Uh, Gil,” he corrected, wondering if he should offer a handshake but remembering the sling. “Everybody just calls me Gil. Are you… Anselm?” he gestured to the seat across from him.

“No,” the woman said, the slightest hint of sorrow flavoring the admission. As she moved to sit down, the jacket momentarily brushed aside to expose a gauze-wrapped arm. She winced as she settled onto the seat.

“But you’re the SNN reporter,” she declared before Gil assured her with a nod. Her face was stern and cold, though the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes betrayed a certain kindness. In a different time and place, perhaps.

Sophie hovered toward the table for a moment, but the older woman gave her a quick glance and shook her head. The waitress departed.

“You can call me Amelia,” the old woman croaked.

Gil reached to pull out his datapad and begin recording – a reflex cultivated by years of interviewing people like Amelia. She just shook her head.

“No, please. I am only here to talk.” She held up her free hand in a subtle, pleading gesture.

“You’ll forgive me,” Gil said, his face pinching in confusion. “I was, uh… I was led to believe that you had a story lead for me. Or at least Anslem did. It’s kind of a long trip to come out all this way and –”

“Anslem won’t be joining us, unfortunately,” she interrupted. “And I hope I haven’t given you a reason to think that I don’t have a story.” Her expressionless face could have bested a poker player.

“Fair enough,” Gil said, unsure of what else to say. He leaned back in his chair. The wall panel that showed Notre Dame was flickering as if the cathedral was suddenly shifting in and out of existence.

“I generally appreciate your work,” Amelia continued. “We’ve followed you for a while now. Ever since you were with the Luna Investigator.”

Luna had been eight years ago and long before he was anyone noteworthy in the news world. Gil felt suddenly uncomfortable. 

“You’re usually a good reporter,” she continued.

Gil let out an uneasy chuckle. “Usually, eh?”

“Yes,” Amelia said matter-of-factly. “But your reporting on the attack at the Titan shipyards? That was shit work.”

Gil snorted, again without words. When the attack had happened, Gil had already been aboard Titan Station covering another story. He had felt the blast and was hurried to the scene by the SNN higher-ups hoping to be the first there. His footage of the water tanker as it wrenched away from the station clamps – engineers being sucked into the vacuum of space – had gone viral across the infoweb. He had stayed at Titan for the next week, covering further developments as they arose.

“I, uh,” he struggled. “And why is that?”

“Two days after the attack, you were interviewed by Sam Espinoza.” The old woman said as if it were an accusation. “Do you remember that?”

“Of course.” The interview had prompted some of the highest ratings Espinoza’s show — The VoidCast — had seen in years.

“What did you know of L’Ordre Populaire D’Evolution prior to that interview?”

Gil felt like he was suddenly being interrogated. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “The PEO? Uh… they’re an ACA group. Religious radicals, mostly. Violent creed… hell bent on bringing down the USSC and the whole Outbound project to, uh…”

Amelia’s stony veneer softened into a look of disappointment. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no. Those are all the talking points that have come out since then.” She looked at him, her cool, gray eyes piercing his own. “What did you know of the PEO before you stepped into that interview?”

Words closed in Gil’s throat and he searched for more of them. The old woman wasn’t wrong.

“I’ll help you,” she said as she adjusted the strap on her sling. “Nothing. In the days before that interview, you knew nothing of the PEO. In fact, I’d venture you’d never even heard of them before.”

Gil tightened his lips but surrendered a subtle nod. There was something about this woman. Her appearance was unassuming, but she bore a certain sense of certainty and charisma he recognized from a career of speaking with powerful leaders. Her gaze made him feel small and exposed, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Then here is a story for you,” Amelia said, punctuating every word.

“More than thirty years ago, the PEO was founded by a group of people who wanted a better life for their children. They wanted a home to call their own, away from the corporatism and militarism of the rest of the solar system. They envied the goal of bettering humanity that had once characterized the Martian Collective, but were likewise disappointed and disenfranchised by Mars.”

She blinked through watery eyes as she continued.

“So they settled a region of Ganymede and built their own utopia. Their goals were simple: To push the physical and mental boundaries that had defined humanity thus far and grow as a community that would serve as an example to people everywhere. They grew their own food. They gathered their own resources. They educated their children. They protected their land and their people. Free of war. Free of religion. Free of greed. It was… beautiful.”

Her voice cracked, betraying the emotion she kept locked inside.

“And you were with them,” Gil deduced quietly.

Amelia nodded. “With my husband, Anselm. It was our dream. Our vision. L’Ordre Populaire D’Evolution.”

Gil felt the sudden, subtle panic of being in danger, but did his best to swallow it and stay the course.

She cleared her throat and continued. “The Anti-Colonial Alliance knew about us. They respected what we did, but we couldn’t join them. Not outright. We worried that it would drag us into conflict. But of course, conflict found us anyway: A few years ago, we were approached by a team of investors, hungry for the mineral deposits that were beneath our soil. We refused them. They threatened us. We sued. They counter-sued. Things became so strained that we finally did reach out to the Anti-Colonials and they swore to help us. We trained to protect ourselves and we thought we had chased the suits away.”

She sighed. “But that’s when Titan happened.” She shook her head and looked down at the table, picking at a spot of rust on the metal. “LTR-OH 003 suddenly detonated, taking twelve lives in a place half the system away from us.”

Her eyes met his again. “So imagine our surprise, then, when two nights later a young, handsome, and up-and-coming news reporter is interviewed on one of the most-watched evening talk shows in the solar system. And during that interview, he declares – unabashedly – that our own people were responsible for those deaths.”

The accusation was like a knife in Gil’s chest. “Now that’s not fair,” he said, pushing himself up from his chair. “There was evidence — a shit ton of evidence — to prove that–”

It was then Gil noticed the corridor around him had grown eerily silent. The pedestrians had vanished altogether and the remaining patrons of the cafe – about twenty or so – were all turned silently in his direction.

“Sit down, Mr. Hughes,” the old woman in front of him commanded without adjusting her tone. A big man at the table behind her reached into his vest and pulled out a small magpistol, placing it in front of him. His face bore both a haunting scowl and a thick bandage across one eye.

The anger that had erupted in Gil was replaced by sudden panic. His knees buckled as he fell back into his seat, powerless to stand even if he wanted to. He thought about reaching for his datapad, but the small army of eyes trained on him stifled that thought.

“You’re right… it’s not fair,” continued Amelia. “In that moment, you declared to almost a billion viewers across the system that there was conclusive evidence to lay the blame for the tragedy solely on the PEO. In a matter of hours, ‘Fight the PEO’ was dominating the infoweb and took hold of every news outlet. Politicians were echoing your words. The USSC caved to the political pressure. Your words were a wildfire that I don’t think you realized you had the ability to start, Mr. Hughes.” The anger and sorrow the old woman felt had finally burst through the dam she held together since her arrival. Her somber tone had finally crescendoed to one of loathing, accusation, and profound sadness.

“But in a matter of weeks, almost every person I’ve ever cared about – including my Anslem – was gone.”

Amelia shot her good hand out in front of her, sending Gil’s coffee cup spiraling into the corridor where it shattered on the floor. Gil recoiled into his chair.

The cafe was silent outside of her frantic breathing. She adjusted her strap once again and her voice calmed. “We both know there never was a shred of evidence. So I need to ask you,” she said while Gil expected her to pull her own pistol from the sling. The question she laid on the table was far more intimidating: “Who asked you to condemn my people?”

Once again, Gil tried to speak, but the words were slow to come. He stuttered as a new feeling weighed him down: 

Shame.

“Who?” Amelia demanded, her voice growing louder again.

As a boy, Gil and his brother used to chase the rats on Luna Station with sticks they’d find in the nearby park habitat. The tiny animals were remarkably adept at adapting to NearGrav systems, but sooner or later they would corner the small creature in some passage or duct. Gil knew he was similarly cornered and he suddenly felt as though his life was similarly worthless.

“I had gotten a call,” he began, his voice a fearful whisper. “Earlier that morning.”

“From who?”

“From…” he swallowed. He wouldn’t be getting out of this without the truth. Not with all of Amelia’s thugs. 

“Fahsel. Sigmund Fahsel.”

Amelia went quiet for a moment, but her eyes were aflame. “Windfall.”

A few of the onlookers exchanged glances of sorrow or contempt, whispering to each other in the jumble of languages Gil didn’t understand.

The terrified journalist just nodded, his skin pale. “We’d spoken before. I didn’t understand what he was asking. I’m…” He realized his cheeks had grown wet with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

The old woman was a statue – a stone monument to rage. After a long time, the statue crumbled and she looked over her shoulder to give a nod. Immediately, the men and women around her stood, revealing them to be far more well-armed than Gil had originally guessed. Once again he felt like a cornered rat.

“Get up,” Amelia demanded as she winced and took to her feet.

Gil’s mind leapt to the worst possible scenario that seemed all-too-likely given what he’d done to this woman’s family. “Are you going to kill me?”

Amelia snorted.

“Haven’t you learned anything?” She asked him with more than a hint of disappointment. “We’re not the monsters you asked us to be.”

The shame resurface and crushed his chest.

“Then what’s going to happen?”

Amelia sighed. “We’re going to give you a chance at redemption, Mr. Hughes.” She said, her locked eyes never blinking. “Because we’re all in the process of evolving into something better. You’re no different.”