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Louis Shalako
It
all started off innocently enough, as such things often do, from a casual
remark over a pint down at the old Cock & Bull.
Perhaps
it was that third pint, but Harry had gotten this look on his face—Harry often
had that look on his face, and this was one of those times.
“Spiders.
Spiders writing Shakespeare—in space.”
“Hah.
It will never go, old chap.” Hamble made a face. “It’s too obvious—too
derivative.”
“Oh,
I don’t know.”
Hamble
snorted.
“What
are you going to do? Gobble down some radioactive psilocybin and write that
up?” He shook his head. “Why not monkeys, anyways?”
They’d
have a much better chance in his opinion.
“It’s
just like you said. It’s a little too derivative.”
“Uh,
huh. Why not. It’s a hundred-million dollar grant, after all. Or more.”
The
competition would be fierce, and not all of them crackpots, either.
Hamble
considered it further.
“All
right. We have nothing to lose. Just promise that you will try and keep it
short—”
In
the end, they had agreed to go with the monkeys.
***
The
American Association of Astronautics had been founded by a bunch of major
tech-bros in order to do some third-party lobbying on behalf of an entire
industry. This was understandable enough, considering their plan to put a gazillion
satellites into orbit, not to mention colonizing Mars and eventually, at least
to hear them tell it, the very stars; and maybe even Uranus. Their biggest
problem in terms of public relations was the prospect of forty launches a day, from
each of a hundred-odd sites all across the nation, and as often as not from
ecologically-sensitive areas, and just a little too close to suburbia in some
cases. The odd rocket blowing up on the pad, or worse, above people’s heads,
was only a secondary consideration.
Some
genius had suggested a competition, open to all comers—and in their own words,
give us your idea, and we will put you
into space.
The
total pot was two-hundred-fifty billion dollars. Once a year, in what had
become an annual media ritual. Literal pocket change, or pulled out from under
the cushions of the couch, for what were some fairly major dudes...
The
competition involved first, second and third place, with a series of
consolation prizes of one hundred million each.
Harry
grinned, hunched over the keyboard.
Using
existing assets, he figured he could easily do it for a couple of hundred
million, three, three and a half at the most.
A
few work-from-home engineers and a post office box was all they really needed.
It
wasn’t the technical feasibility which worried him—it was the rationale for such an experiment,
especially as he was going up against all the best universities, as well as a
hundred, a thousand other hopefuls, big defense corporations and even
high-school science projects. These were always good for some feel-good
publicity, and every year, it seemed an effort had been made to squeeze one or
two of the latter into the launch schedule. Calling it pure science, for some
future benefit of the human race, (or hetero
sapiens, by a recent presidential decree), had been the best he could do,
and no one expected the President of the United States to be all that good at
Latin anyways. Or even anthropology—
It
was all laid out, thirty-one pages, all nicely formatted and with a few
artist’s impressions just to bring it to life.
It
was all there.
He
bit his lip, and hit send.
***
The
International Space Station had its challenges these days, abandoned for some
years in fact, but a team of professional astronauts had brought up the
original cargoes, first the work-stations, then the feeding and watering
apparatus, a few bales of straw for bedding, and then, finally, a half a dozen
monkeys, who, in some sense, reflected the challenge of maintaining a number of
unsophisticated hominids in Low Earth Orbit when the subjects had limited
knowledge and zero understanding of the ethical implications of their existence.
They
were, in a sense, colonists—
They
would have to be fed and watered, and provided with heat and an atmosphere just
like everybody else.
When
it came to intellectual stimulation, all that really took was a few pictures of
bananas on a screen.
The
last flight had brought up Hamble, joining Harry through the hatch and after
stowing his gear, they had spent a few hours bringing in priority consumables.
After a quick breather, on a word from Harry, he was strapping his backside
down for a thorough briefing.
Sooner
or later, the ISS must come down, but in the meantime, the human complement
were all volunteers and all operations were on their own personal waivers.
He took
a good sniff and heaved a deep sigh.
Hamble
could smell every person that had ever been up there, and that was just a fact—
“So.
Tell me about the spiders.”
***
 |
| Those are some ugly spiders... |
“I’ll
get to the spiders in a minute. Suffice it to say, the monkeys haven’t gotten
too far along, although they did come up with a pretty good little sonnet just
the other day…it was quite romantic. Also, you’re going to be up here for a
hundred and seventy days. Try not to masturbate too much; it saps your
vitality.”
“Hah.”
Hamble’s brow clouded.
His
most recent conquest had been a pretty little blonde of indeterminate gender
orientation, with corn silk hair that had, in the end, gotten caught up in his
teeth.
“A
hundred seventy days, cooped up with half a dozen monkeys…and how many spiders
did you say?”
“Well,
it’s not that bad. We have to keep our eyes on the goal, after all, which is
whatever cash is left over after all of this. And then there’s our memoirs,
late-night talk shows, obscure podcasts, merchandising, and the like.” He
glanced at his notes. “…so. In order to avoid explosive decompression, the
bananas had to have an atmosphere at sufficient pressure to be transported into
orbit. This is how the original spiders, or a bunch of eggs maybe, got up here.
They seem to be doing very well, once the first few generations hatched out,
and it’s all very exciting…somehow they survived all physical checks and
routine irradiation, stuff like that…” He’d been thinking about that
irradiation, and the micro-gravity, and perhaps some unique genetic expression
in a novel environment.
People
thought that evolution took a hundred million years, the very same people who
had added five or six inches of height and a hundred pounds of average body
weight in a single century.
It
wasn’t always like that—the Galapagos finches, for example.
The
monkeys, born on Earth, had been thoroughly screened and no surprises there.
Hamble
considered it.
“The
PETL people are all over it.”
“The
what?”
“People
for the Ethical Treatment of Literature.”
“…ah.”
“…why
can’t we just get AI to do it, that’s what they’re saying…”
“Because
that would be too easy—and it wouldn’t get us a few hundred million for this
bullshit either. It would also defeat the whole purpose of the experiment.
Which is to get a few hundred million for this experiment, but enough said
about that…”
“If
it wasn’t for bad news, we wouldn’t have too much news at all.”
“Hmn.
Speaking of bad news, in compartment eleven, there’s a big, fat marmot that
likes to eat rocks. No idea where he came from…that being said, we’re not here
for science, so much as to generate controversy.” This was the old Russian
module, which had leaked like a sieve.
Repairs
had been carried out with brushes and crazy glue, and it was said the crew had
been high for days due to the fumes…
Hamble
stared, mouth open.
“Ah—a
what?”
“A
big, fat marmot that likes to eat rocks. My current theory is that it was some
kind of unofficial mascot from a previous mission. When they returned, of
course they had no idea of what to do with it. Figured it would just die or
whatever, but, by this time, it was such an influencer, a real internet
sensation, that some folks founded a foundation, and decided to feed the thing
as long as it lived…” It was just one more payload, at so many dollars a kilo.
“His name is Peter and the kids just love him.”
“And
where in the heck did the rocks come from?”
“Ah.
Gifts from adoring fans, just raising awareness of the need to send rocks or
something. Some little place in southern Illinois. Ineffectual do-gooders, if
you can believe it.”
“Oh,
Darwin.”
“We
only did so much research, right, and this was one of those popular
middle-school projects. Miss Hillman’s grade-seven class of 2034, somewhere in
Illinois, all those bright and shiny little-kid faces. The judges went for that
one like fruit-flies on a baby’s blanket.” In that sense, an unforeseen
circumstance.
***
Harry
consulted his notes again.
“Okay.
One more thing.”
“What’s
that?” As if that weren’t enough.
“The
spiders have come up with something resembling a short passage of Nietzsche infused
with subtle undertones of Kafka. And I mean new material, and not just some
egghead rehash…in spite of all those legs, plus the mandibles, all them
freaking eyes, spiders really don’t
type all that much faster than monkeys. Also, the caps-lock appears to be stuck
on. It may be a while before we get much more on that one…”
Argh.
He
looked up.
“So.
I guess it’s about time we had a look at those spiders.”
***
“Ah!
Ah! Ah!”
Hamble
recoiled from the small view-panel on the hatch. The common, yellow house
spider, Cheiracanthium, hundreds of
them, had grown impressively large, their abdomens now as big as a tomato…
“I
did say it was interesting.”
“Ah!
Ah! No…no.”
“Yes.”
Harry uttered a long, deep sigh. “Come on, Buddy. They’re beautiful spiders.
It’s only a hundred seventy days…we might even learn something from it.”
“I
want to go home.” Oh, Mother, how he wanted to go home—
But
those spiders were effing big.
Hamble
had a thought. He turned to look at Harry.
“How
in the hell are you feeding them things, anyways?”
“Oh.
Very, very carefully.” With a twist of the crank of the hatch, and one good,
quick shove, Hamble was in there and it was time to kill the microphone and the
cameras for a while.
So
far, so good.
And—
Tomorrow
was another day.
END
Louis
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