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  “The development of empathy,” Alice said.

  “That too. Empathy requires that we try to put ourselves in another’s situation to understand how they might feel. This is different from sympathy, obviously, which doesn’t require such cognitive acrobatics. So a child of five would flinch and hold their hand after observing someone get hit on the hand. It’s almost like the pain of another is their pain.”

  “Are you saying that there’s a difference in the development of the theory of mind between collectivist and individualist cultures?” Ian asked. He’d clearly read her book and was now helping his team to quickly get up to speed on the subject.

  “Yes. In a collectivist culture, the theory of mind is paramount. The focus of collectivists is on others, so the success of the culture is dependent on nuanced social interactions that require complex cognitive activity and deep understanding of the feelings and motivations of others. In individualist societies, the focus is on the self, so the theory of mind is of less central importance.”

  “Thus robots designed by collectivist cultures would be less likely to kill,” Ian said.

  There were murmurs among the people around the table. Apparently not everyone was buying the conclusion about the robots.

  “Didn’t you just say that in a collectivist society it is easier to commit a crime?” Alice asked.

  “Not easier, but with less guilt—and, even then, only so long as the crime isn’t discovered by others in your group. In a collectivist society, as long as the crime remains hidden from the group, there are no ill consequences to the individual. But note that committing a murder requires a deep understanding of what others know, how they will react to the crime, and how they will feel about the perpetrator. One would need a deep understanding of the entire web of social interactions.” Vars paused. “Again, I’m talking about extremes. But it stands to reason that robots created by collectivist societies would be designed with a focus on the theory of mind, with the ability to analyze problems from multiple perspectives. And such social cognitive flexibility puts more restraints on antisocial behavior than guilt alone.”

  “So the robots we design are more violent?” Alice asked.

  The “we” came up a lot in Vars’s classes. Everyone assumed that Western cultures were the most individualistic.

  “Only if we design them so,” Vars said. “But most of this is discussed in my book, and you clearly all have access to my work…” She trailed off meaningfully. All of this was in her book. It didn’t make sense to her to be dragged urgently across the country for this predawn meeting. What did EPSA really want from her?

  “Ibe,” said Ian. “Could you run the short version of our presentation for Dr. Volhard, please?” He turned to Vars. “It’s really the best introduction to our problem, and we can fill you in on details after.”

  The way he said “problem” made Vars uncomfortable.

  Ibe and Ebi both got up and set up the presentation. One of them pulled up the oversized sleeve of his black sweatshirt and exposed an ostentatious set of D-tats on his right arm. That twin was a lefty, Vars noted, and a body-computing junky. She’d bet there was another, equally extravagant set of D-tats on the other arm.

  She glanced around the room and noted a few other PCD tattoos peeking from people’s clothing. Vars heard that EPSA was heavily invested in cyberhumatics—the science of human implant technology and its connectivity with global networks and robotic extensions—so it wasn’t surprising that D-tats were the norm among this group. But Vars had no implants, and it made her feel even more of an outsider.

  Dark shades descended over the wraparound windows, cutting off the rays of the morning sun. The lights turned off, and the room was swallowed in a soft purple gloom. Vars yawned into the darkness—it would be so easy just to fall asleep in here, even with an almost full cup of coffee in hand. She heard others yawn as well. Yawning, she knew, was contagious among primates and other empathetic animals.

  A 3D projection of the solar system lit up in the center of the conference table. The planets slowly rotated in their orbits. It was a very nice model, but of course it would be—this was EPSA.

  “This is our solar system,” Ebi said. Her voice pegged her as a girl.

  Ibe spoke next. “This is Saturn. And this is Mimas.” Based on the timbre of his voice, Vars judged him male. So not identical twins.

  Using a combination of hand gestures and rapid tapping on his D-tats, Ibe zoomed in on Mimas, Saturn’s closest moon. One side of the small whitish moon had a giant crater with a dimple in the center. “Mimas is primarily made of water-ice. As you can see, it’s heavily cratered. The big one is named Herschel and is nearly a third of the moon’s diameter.”

  “That’s almost eighty miles wide and over six miles deep,” Ebi added. “That pimple thing in the center is a mountain that’s almost four miles high.”

  “That must have been some impact,” said Vars. Based on the initial questioning, this was not how she’d thought the rest of the morning would go.

  “It liquefied the little moon,” Ibe said.

  Most of the Saturn moons were well explored, and EPSA was actively working on establishing permanent science stations on some of them. But as far as Vars knew, none of the moons of either Jupiter or Saturn harbored anything more complex than simple bacterial life. Impressive, certainly, but old news now. And not something that an evolutionary socio-historian could help with. Vars’s specialty was the development of self-aware cultures.

  “A year ago, we detected a signal coming from Mimas,” Ian said.

  Ibe zoomed in on the giant crater and focused the image on the mountain. The rotation stopped, and the holographic image froze on a close-up. Vars could clearly see something protruding from the ice—a small, dark structure near the base of the central mountain.

  Vars inhaled. She was no longer sleepy; all tiredness had been wiped clean. “What’s that? One of ours?”

  “No,” said Ebi and Ibe in unison.

  “And that’s the main problem of the day,” Ian said.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Vars asked. “It’s been what? Twelve—”

  “We have been able to divert one of our probes, and it arrived on site a few weeks ago,” said of the men from the JPL team. Ben?

  “So this picture…” Vars said.

  “Yes, it’s from that probe,” said Ben. “We have detailed close-ups.”

  Ibe zoomed in even further, until the structure occupied most of the conference table.

  “Wow,” Vars whispered.

  Chapter Three

  The meeting lasted until late morning, until Vars just couldn’t go on. Too tired, too much information, too much. Ian, seeing that Vars could no longer absorb anything new or contribute in any coherent way, insisted on taking her to an on-campus guest suite.

  “My dad and I live just thirty minutes away,” Vars protested, but Ian wouldn’t hear of it. He and one of those guys in uniform—neither of whom had said a word the whole time—led her through the labyrinthine hallways. And without ever setting foot outside, Vars arrived at a small bedroom with a view of redwoods.

  “I’ll pick you up in a few hours and take you to lunch, okay?” said Ian. He smiled broadly and closed the door.

  Vars’s suitcase had made it to the EPSA guest room ahead of her and was waiting next to the bed, as was her backpack, which held her tablet and a few copies of her book. Even her raincoat was hanging on a hook by the door.

  She took off her shoes and the fashionable orange scarf and thought about everything she’d heard. She still wasn’t sure why EPSA wanted to talk with her, although she was thrilled to be included. This was the biggest thing ever. She was thankful for the alone time to process the information a bit. She needed to get a handle on what they were telling her. It was all so…so…incredible!

  She pulled up her computing tablet and set it
up on a desk by the window. Like her dad, Vars abhorred the PCD tattoos and had never even considered having one implanted. Well, nothing more than an ID microchip, which was required by law anyway. And the personal tablet, too, was an old-fashioned affectation. In her whole life, there had never been a circumstance or a place that didn’t provide all of her computing or communication needs at any time she wanted it. Equipment was ubiquitous; in fact, for those who opted to get the new D-tats, it was never farther than their skin. But Vars’s dad always used his own computing equipment, and she just picked up the habit.

  She needed to get in touch with her dad. Even when work took them to different sides of the world, they talked every night, if only to exchange a few words. But last night, Vars had never gotten around to it, and she knew he would be worried about her. It was just the two of them—Vars’s mother had died when Vars was just an infant, and they had no other family left, unless you counted some distant cousins on the other side of the world, in Norway or something. Her dad communicated with them only once or twice a year, and even then only out of a sense of obligation rather than familial closeness.

  She considered versing with him but, at this time of day, her dad would be out in the field collecting samples. He did research on the effects of microplastics in the environment and tended to spend his mornings dredging through coastal tidal plains. It made more sense just to send him a note. She would tell him about her insane trip to EPSA later tonight when she got home. The idea of spending a night as a guest of EPSA seemed totally ridiculous—she lived just a short ride away.

  She recorded a brief vers: Dad, I’m back home in Seattle. Got invited to EPSA! Don’t worry. All is good—talk tonight. Love you.

  She hit send. And nothing happened.

  She tried again. Nothing. The blinking light on her tablet indicated no connection.

  That made no sense. There was no longer a place on the Earth or the moon where communication devices didn’t work. Even as far out as Mars, people complained when the services were down. Everyone was fully connected to the planetary network everywhere at all times. How else could anyone function?

  Vars tried multiple times. She even restarted her PCD tablet—something she had never done before. But still nothing. Perhaps it was the room? All those redwoods outside?

  She took the tablet out into the corridor. The man in uniform was standing just outside her door. He smiled. Vars smiled back, but her stomach did a double flip. She told herself that she hadn’t been kidnapped, but clearly this man was guarding her in some way. Holding me prisoner?

  “I’m not getting any connection in my room.” She felt the need to explain and immediately got angry with herself. They couldn’t keep her here against her will...could they?

  “Dr. Volhard.” Vars was sure the man was just about to salute her before relaxing his arm again. That was reflexive—years of training taking over. “Dr. Rust asked me to stay with you and help you navigate the facility when you were ready to resume work. Would you like me to escort you back to the tree house conference room?”

  “No. I didn’t get a chance to rest yet,” Vars said uncertainly.

  “Is there something I can get you? Coffee?”

  “My connection doesn’t seem to be working,” Vars said again. She lifted her portable PCD to the man’s face as evidence.

  “Oh. Yes. Dr. Rust mentioned that the connection might not work here.”

  “Well, I need to get in touch with my father. Is there someplace I can go to do that?” Vars asked. “I didn’t see any equipment back in the room.” As soon as she said it, Vars realized it was true. There had been no public terminals there, which too was very unusual.

  “I was only told to take you to the conference room if you were ready before Dr. Rust picked you up for lunch,” the man said.

  “I just need to send a message to my dad to tell him I’m okay,” Vars tried again. “It’s short. See?” She played the brief recording to the man and immediately hated herself for acting like a child who needed permission to talk to her own father.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Volhard. All I can do is take you back.”

  “Well, I don’t like being out of reach like this,” Vars snapped. Again she felt like a kid, whining about not getting what she wanted. Not that she had ever been that kind of kid.

  Embarrassed, she stepped back into her room and closed the door. Perhaps she was just tired and misinterpreted what was going on.

  She climbed into bed and placed her PCD tablet on the pillow. She watched the connection indicator show an error. She blinked. Blinked again.

  The next time she opened her eyes was when a knock sounded on her door, four hours later.

  “I should have introduced you earlier. This is Major Terry Liut,” said Ian.

  Vars smiled thinly at the man sitting across the table from her in the small EPSA cafeteria. She recognized the officer as the other uniformed man in the back of room during the morning conference. “Nice to meet you, Major Liut,” she said.

  Ian smiled. “Terry—we are very informal here—explained to me that you tried to contact your father?”

  Tried and repeatedly failed. Even here, in the cafeteria, Vars had no connection on her tablet, and she had yet to see a single public terminal anywhere in the building. Perhaps that was because of EPSA’s military component—the agency was a mixture of civilian workforce and the air force of its active member nations. Or perhaps all EPSA employees were required to get a PCD tattoo, so no terminals would be needed.

  “Yes,” she said. “I just want to let my dad know that I’m all right.”

  “And we’re working on that,” Major Liut said. “But you see, we ran into a little problem. We don’t have Dr. Matteo Volhard’s DNA profile.”

  Every human had their genetic code registered with authorities the moment they were born—or even sooner in cases of prophylactic genetic testing to identify possible medical problems. After the Keres Triplets asteroid fragments hit the Earth in 2057, wiping out half the human population and ninety percent of all other life on the planet, genetic testing had become a must. Even over a hundred years later, it was the only way to maintain a healthy gene pool.

  “I assume it’s just some error,” Vars said. The Human Genome Heritage Project was regularly underfunded. Glitches were bound to happen.

  “That’s what we assumed at first. But it doesn’t seem to be a glitch,” the major said.

  “So…what are you trying to say?” Vars asked. She was getting irritated.

  “We ran your DNA sample this morning while you rested, to check it against your officially registered sample—”

  “You did what?” Anger simply erupted out of her.

  Ian raised his hands in a soothing gesture. “Vars, I know you feel like this is a big violation, but—”

  “Violation?” Vars felt herself trembling with rage. First kidnapping, then cutting off all my communication with the outside world and keeping me prisoner, and now this? “So that’s what the coffee was all about!” A dark realization hit her. “No wonder you kept giving me fresh cups. And, like a sucker, I just assumed you were being considerate and nice. All the while you were stealing my DNA from me.”

  “Vars—” Ian began.

  “I think we should stick to formal address, Dr. Rust.”

  “If I may,” Major Liut interjected. “Ian was very much against gathering your DNA sample without your explicit permission—”

  “But he did it anyway,” Vars spat. She needed to get out of here. As she scanned the room for exits, she saw that several other military personnel were stationed around the cafeteria, and all of them were now staring at her.

  “He didn’t have a choice,” the major continued. “When your work was identified as necessary for this project, we had to look into your background. Your father’s lack of genetic credentials was flagged.”

  �
�I assure you that was in error,” Vars said.

  “And I can assure you that EPSA doesn’t make mistakes,” said Liut. “At least not in this area. By law, we have to track all of our people’s genetic material. We are charged with creating a genetically diverse population for off-Earth colonization. We take genetic diversity seriously.”

  “And I think you might have made a mistake this time,” Vars said quietly.

  “The only way a citizen of Earth, or of any off-world colony, would not be part of the Human Genome Heritage Project database is if he or she was born in one of the human seed vaults,” the major said. “Are you aware of any information that might lead you to believe that your father might be a former Seed?”

  Vars felt her head spin. There were several human seed vaults on Earth, one on the moon, and one planned on Mars. There was talk about establishing yet another one in the outer reaches of the solar system. The establishment of the Vaults was one of the governmental responses to the cataclysm that followed the Keres Triplets asteroid strike. As the nations of Earth recovered, they worked together to build the Vaults partly in order to ensure the genetic diversity of humanity. Individuals were selected by a secret set of criteria and spirited away into underground catacombs that were supposed to be impervious to all disasters. That was almost three-quarters of a century ago. And, in each year since, a genetic lottery had been held to deposit a few more babies into the Vaults.

  The Seeds, as the humans who grew up in those communities were called, developed an almost monastic lifestyle. All were required to donate sperm and eggs to the outside world. The resulting embryos were highly prized by those interested in embryonic adoption. Seeds who reached the age of maturity at about thirty years old or so—Vars wasn’t too familiar with their secretive ways—were allowed to make a choice to leave their society and join the general population or to stay and spend their entire lives below ground. Vars had heard horror stories of Seed children and adults being exploited for their unique genetics. She found the whole system detestable.