Zero Gravity Girl: Arkendream Series: Book I

By Patrick Moran

Norma Christianstead is the first person raised from conception to adulthood in zero gravity. The year is 2200. She is a temporal savant. The goal is to determine how micro-gravity interacts with physical, intellectual, social and psychological development.
Fifteen years later a CRISPR-spawned plague is overtaking Earth. Norma learns there is another goal to the experiment: to respond to the divinations of a secret artifact—a beacon—of an ancient civilization that vacated the Tharsian region of Mars a billion years earlier when the planet’s seas evaporated. The response to the beacon demands nothing less than an epigenetic evolutionary alteration in Norma, for theTharsian genomic code is genophotonic: a hybrid consisting of physical and photonic parts.
In this, Patrick Moran’s fourteenth novel, the author comes to grips with how and why gravity and perception are related. In Zero Gravity Girl he weds the two in a tale that redefines the meaning of love and life, time and space.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716763366

Book preview

core.

Sebastopol, California, Earth 2200 CE

The ad in the paper version of Scientific American took up at most only one-sixteenth of page 103. Black and white. With no artwork and too much text. To Toyon it looked like a fly-by-night spastic colon cure. Mixed among other ads hawking binoculars, self-published books, and rare opportunities to cash in on mining operations in Tanzania, it was innocuous and easy to overlook. No, actually, it begged to be passed over except by the most assiduous reader. And except for Toyon Christianstead, most of the magazine’s other readers did indeed completely ignore it. But Toyon, a cabinetmaker of some renown despite his youthfulness, who was half-African-American and half New-Zealand-Maori in a trade that was mostly lily-white, was used to perusing tiny ads for hidden treasures that he could apply to his woodworking.

Late that afternoon after a long arduous day of planing, routering, sanding, gluing, jointering and swallowing dust until he couldn’t see straight or swallow without gagging, he turned the sheet of real pulped cellulose down and, after noting the comforting wrinkling sound of the page as it came to rest on the one below, read the ad.

Intrepid, stable, self-sufficient and extremely reliable couple in their twenties wanted. Some piloting, menu development, and gardening experience helpful but not necessary. Must agree to an eighteen-year commitment to live in a weightless environment. Timing of contract dependent upon couple’s ability to pass mechanical competency and physical exams, and upon their willingness to conceive and raise a child in that time frame. Compensation is extremely fair, negotiable, and non-taxable. Confidentiality is non-negotiable. If interested, Contact Zero Gravity at...

Huh. Weightless environment. Piloting, murmured Toyon to himself. Where on Earth are they going to find a weightless? Oh! he chuckled, knowing that the ad could mean only one thing: that some couple was being asked to sign on to live long term in space. But where in space? he wondered. Certainly not in one of the international space stations, all but one of which were due to become obsolete in only a few years. As far as he knew there were no other habitable environments that could accommodate a couple expecting a child in zero gravity. Not even the American and Chinese mining operation outposts on the moon and Mars. And of course the most important question was: Why would someone want to pay someone to raise a child in zero gravity in the first place?

But it was the combination of the two stipulations—of conceiving a child and the idea of being paid to live in weightlessness—that piqued Toyon’s interest. Also, the name of the contact—Zero Gravity—seemed auspicious, in that his pet name for his wife Zelda was Zero G—blending flautist Ella G, her deceased grandparents’ favorite recording artist, and Zelda’s love of flying helicopters.

Seeing nothing to lose, Toyon took the magazine out to where Zelda was on an orchard ladder pruning one of their rabble of long-neglected Gravenstein apple trees in the hope of coaxing a crop from it that could be sold to the organic apple juice company in town.

Zelda eyed her husband warily as he approached calling out to her by the name he had given her when they were dating in flight school: Zero. Although she grumbled about it then, she adored it now; for to her, it captured his deep understanding of her true essence in the same way that Ella G was able to capture the true essence of her grandparents with her instrument. From that alone, as well as from Toyon’s ungainly and almost freakishly long gait, she knew that he already had a head of steam under him, which meant that he probably wanted something they didn’t need and couldn’t afford and had already made up his mind about it.

But she didn’t mind. For the one thing she had learned in their six years of marriage was that Toyon’s enthusiasm was always grounded in the same reality that made him the master craftsman he was. This groundedness was of course the diametrical opposite of her grounding reality. That is, if the flute was symbolic of what grounded her, then the taiko drum was symbolic of Toyon’s rootedness. Toyon once said to her that her roots were like those of the plants that were grounded in air, like orchids and epiphytes, and that his were grounded in granite, like ponderosa pines. Thus, whenever Toyon got enthusiastic about something, she knew she should be like an orchid to its host, and hear him out, and, if feasible, help the enthusiasm flower into something that could sustain and support both of them.

Toyon held the ladder steady as he waited for the thirty seconds it took Zelda to lower herself to the ground, and then watched as she swept a wisp of blond hair from her eye. As their gazes met, they smiled, and he saw her cheeks were flushed and her upper lip was moist with beads of sweat, and that her chest heaved beneath her white overalls from the exertion of sawing sixty-year-old limbs with a cranky handsaw. Toyon felt his desire for her surge at the possibility of bearing a child with this ravishing woman—and being paid for it, much less—which, for financial reasons, was something they had agreed to put off for a minimum of ten years. And that would put them smack dab in the middle of the current American average for first-births.

Can I read you something? he said.

Sure. Is it long? You have six minutes before I lose all enthusiasm for cutting wood. And I have macaroons I need to get going if we’re heading into town.

He’d forgotten about the macaroons Zelda, a professional baker in her spare time when she wasn’t flying medi-vac helicopters around the county, needed to deliver no later than three o’clock that afternoon. It’s short. It’ll only take a minute. Toyon then read the ad aloud.

What do you think?

Hmm, interesting, even provocative, Zelda said, and she eyed Toyon inquisitively, unsure exactly why he wanted to read the ad to her, since to her it was obviously a hoax. But in seeing the expectant look on his face, her eyes opened wide. Wait, you don’t think we, she began, then halted, knowing that if she phrased her question negatively, it might make Toyon feel foolish for taking the ad seriously or, beyond that, even considering flying into space with her and raising a child there for eighteen years. I mean, she continued, hoping that he wouldn’t clam up, are you saying you think we—you and I—should apply?

I don’t think it would hurt to see what they’re talking about. I mean, how many ads for employment have you seen that combine self-sufficiency, piloting, menu development, gardening, mechanical aptitude, a desire to bear a child and a willingness to live in a weightless environment for eighteen years?

Zelda shrugged and answered with a question. None?

Right. Never. Me neither. And if you think about it, we could be more qualified than probably ninety-nine percent of anybody else who might apply.

Zelda took the magazine from Toyon and after reading the ad to herself said, I wonder what they’re paying someone to do this. I mean, eighteen years is a very long commitment. We would be forty-six when it was over. And if we conceived right away, our child would be eighteen at least.

At the mention of how old they and their child would be in eighteen years, Toyon’s shoulders sagged. Yeah, eighteen years. Who in their right mind would agree to something like that?

They both fell silent, then Zelda looked down at her watch. Gotta take the macaroons out of the oven. Want one? To which Toyon nodded vigorously. If you’ll finish with the pruning, she went on, I’ll bring one dipped in chocolate out with some coffee. And we can fantasize more about this.

She then handed the magazine back to Toyon, and disappeared into the overpriced farmhouse they had purchased only a year earlier that now kept them working with their noses closer to the grindstone than either had bargained for.

When Zelda returned fifteen minutes later Toyon had finished the pruning, a job which would, she noted, probably have taken her the rest of the afternoon. He sat waiting for her beside the bed of Strelitzia in the shade beneath an avocado tree at a café table next to the door of their garage that had been converted into his wood shop. She bore three macaroons wrapped inside a paper towel and two cups of coffee. But it was her bearing that caught Toyon’s attention; for it contained something he had not seen in her before: a lighthearted blitheness that fairly lit the air around her.

What’s up with you? he said.

Even though I think it’s probably a ruse, I want to apply for the weightless job, she pronounced crisply, plopping herself down on the opera chair next to his to put an exclamation point on her words.

Taken aback, Toyon said, You do? Then taking a bite of macaroon, he shook his head. My God, these are good.

She nodded. Actually, they’re great. But as I was dipping them in the chocolate, I thought, here’s the deal: Even if I made macaroons that were better than any Eucharist in the Vatican, I’d still only get a buck apiece for them. And your job, which I know you really like, and mine too, which I really like, aren’t going to ever make us rich enough to live in a place like this without having to worry about money all the time. But how long can we do this before we burn out from working two, three, even four jobs? And there’s that glass ceiling in your trade that’ll be tough to break through. But the real clincher for why I want to turn in an application is children. How are we ever going to afford a child if we can hardly make ends meet now? Even in ten years. Before Toyon could answer, Zelda answered for him. We’re not.

Toyon had not really expected that Zelda would embrace the outrageous proposition, and had shown her the ad mostly for its curiosity value. Now that she had embraced it, wholeheartedly it seemed, he suddenly felt anxious, regretful that he had even brought the matter up. After all, their lives were not all that hard compared to many of their friends, especially the ones who had two or three times more student debt to pay back and were struggling to find decent jobs that weren’t in danger of being replaced by AI hubots that could do what they did at a fraction of the cost, and even hold their own against the Chinese who were churning them out as fast as they had their grandparents’ vidphones.

Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, Zero, he said. You know, I could go back and renew my commercial pilot’s license. That would mean more income.

Toy, be serious. We’re different. You love to fly but hate to have to fly. I like to fly but, more than that, I love getting paid for it.

Eighteen years, Zelda? Toyon queried. I assume the job entails raising a child for that time in weightlessness. Is that something you think you want? For yourself. For your child. And what’s more, it’s never been done before.

I want a child with you, Toy. Period. And right now. But as it stands, we’ll have to put off having one for at least ten years. But if we get this job and it’s real, and if we conceive a child right away, he or she’ll be close to eighteen when we’re done. If we don’t get this job, he or she’ll only be ten in eighteen years. And we’ll be almost fifty. And we’ll be almost sixty before she goes off to college.

What do you think life would be like for a child living in weightless space? Are there going to be other couples, other children?

Zelda shrugged. We won’t know if we don’t contact Zero Gravity. I say we at least call the number and talk to them, and hear what the job entails. And how much we’ll be paid. Extremely generous the ad said. So, if we’re each paid for eighteen years of work and our living expenses are taken care of, and we’re living in space, and there’s no place to spend our money, don’t you think that means we’ll probably be able to save most of what we make? And the ad said it was tax-free, didn’t it?

It did, Toyon replied, after taking the last bite of his first macaroon. But eighteen years. I don’t know. He leaned across the table and hugged Zelda, which she interpreted as him wanting her to end the conversation. But she persisted.

Both of our parents are dead, she went on. So if we went into space there’s no need to worry about not seeing them again. And think of the experience we’d have. We would be pioneers. We could write books. We could... Her voice trailed off when she realized that Toyon, who had sat down in his chair, had surreptitiously unfastened the buckles of her dungaree’s shoulder straps, letting the coarse garment slip below her breasts, which were covered only by a thin camisole.

She caught his gaze, which was twinkling mischievously. How did you...? Oh, no you don’t, buster, she said, shaking her head in mock warning when she recognized the beckoning look in his eyes. I have macaroons to deliver.

You have sweets to deliver to your Toy first, young Zero Gravity woman, he growled pleasingly. Whereupon he skirted the table and lifted her to her feet. Your only choice is the address. Here on the patio, in the bedroom, or in outer space.

Zelda felt herself grow moist at Toyon’s hardness against her thigh, and pressed herself tightly to him. Here, she moaned. Here, in outer space.

Toyon decided to contact Zero Gravity that same afternoon. He called the number in the ad, and in that it was an 800 number, he had no idea where he was calling. The phone was answered by a woman who, despite his effort to draw her out, would give him no further information apart from the things he had already read in the ad, saying to him that particulars had to be talked about privately and in person only, the latter of which was the only word she emphasized. Of the woman herself the only thing Toyon took away from his conversation with her was that she spoke in a voice that contained the sort of officious reticence matched with practiced blandness he remembered in his dealings with analysts at The Pentagon, people who were trained to be observant and adept in divulging nothing of themselves except facts pertinent to any given situation.

In that it was a Monday and already past mid-afternoon when he made the call, Toyon was surprised to find that Zero Gravity wanted to see him and Zelda at the start of business the very next morning. As it happened, the location Toyon was given for their interview was off Sand Hill Road, which was in the middle of Silicon Valley and only an hour’s drive from their home in Sebastopol. No specific address was forthcoming, however. Instead, they were given the option to either drive to San Francisco where an autonomous vehicle would take them the rest of the way, or have a taxi come to their home and drive them the whole way. Neither Toyon or Zelda had any interest in bucking commute traffic through The City or down The Peninsula into Palo Alto, so they opted for the ride from their home and back.

Neither one of them got much sleep that night, as, after downing a bottle of Chardonnay and a big green salad for dinner, followed by more macaroons, they went straight to bed and talked about what to expect. Though neither took the possibility of living in space for two decades with a child as a serious proposal—if that was indeed what was offered—or that they themselves would actually be offered the job, they nonetheless went back and forth between the exhilarating high tide of expectations and the scarey low tide of anxieties, and in particular about the psychological and financial healthiness of committing themselves to something so vague and so lengthy and, frankly, something so far out from their known world as to be the stuff of fantasy. Thus at about three in the morning, three hours before the taxi was to arrive, both Toyon and Zelda were ready to jettison the whole idea as scatterbrained at best and wacky at worst.

But as the sun peeked over the vineyards east of The Laguna that next morning, Zelda adjudged from the hot pain radiating outward through her lower back that she was ovulating. How nice it would be to not have to use the fucking diaphragm, she thought, as she listened to Toyon’s rhythmic breathing and watched the motes of night flicker away like swallows careening through the vines. Then she remembered their tryst on the patio, and she swore to herself that, given her ovulation, she would have to take a morning-after pill, which was something she detested not only for its physical side effects but for its sobering, searing, sad lethality in squelching the possibility of emotional bonding with new life.

How fucking nice it would be to be able to have a child and not worry about where the next fucking paycheck was coming from, she grumbled, under her breath. But unexpectedly, since she was supposedly the more sensible half of their partnership, her thoughts coalesced like a rogue wave of yearning towering within her, and she, a ship caught up in the onrushing undulation of necessity, was overwhelmed with a reckoning to go forth into yes despite the odds that screamed no.

Zelda, full of hopeful exuberance, shook Toyon’s shoulder. Wake up, wake up, Captain Toyon, she whispered in a singsong voice, playing on the lyrics of a song her grandfather had loved in his youth.

Toyon turned over, his eyes lidded with sleep. I’m awake. Been awake since four, he yawned. Then lifting himself to his elbows, he added, Do you really think we should go ahead with this meeting, Zero?

She shrugged and rolled onto his chest. What do we have to lose? A few hours in the South Bay talking to whack-job teenage pinheads about something that’s impossible. Unless we’re being shanghaied, that is. Are we? Being shanghaied, I mean.

Toyon shook his head and pursed his full, wide, dark-rimmed Polynesian lips that naturally curved into a grin that, together with his gray-green eyes, mop of black hair, masculine jaw and muscular neck gave him the countenance and bearing of the Maori warrior kings and queens from whom he was descended. Don’t think so, he said. Not if they paid to have their advertisement go into the paper edition of Scientific American.

Well then, I say we go hear what they have to offer, and then we can decide for ourselves what we want to do. If it seems too flaky or too weird, we won’t do it.

Toyon reached under the orange and black San Francisco Giant’s tee shirt Zelda had worn to bed and cupped her breasts with hands that were callused but amazingly soft for ones that plied wood all day. Then he kissed each of her nipples and laughed ironically. What if they’re not. Flaky or weird, I mean. And what if, god forbid, we actually decide we want to do it? His tone was light and the words seemed to dangle in the morning air like armatures dancing in a mobile provoked by an unreal inner wind.

Then that’s our decision. She lowered herself onto him, and he took his weight off his elbows and his hands probed her longingly, lovingly, as they sank into the mattress entwined in each other’s arms. The only thing that matters to me is that you love me, Zelda said. If we’ve got that, then I can live with anything we decide to do, as long as we’re together.

Three hours later a driverless taxi texted Toyon that it was nearing the house, and five minutes later it pulled into the gravel roundabout in front. It was a Tesla Ten of course, but unlike all the other models of Tesla Tens that Toyon or Zelda had seen, this one’s windows were tinted to such a high degree they were rendered opaque from both the inside and outside, and there were also no logos of any sort painted on the outside to identify it as belonging to Zero Gravity or any other company. What was more odd—not that it really mattered in an autonomous vehicle—was that both the windshield and back window were completely opaque.

The driver, whose cheerful face was projected on the screen where the windshield should have been, introduced herself as Sheila. Welcome to Zero Gravity, she said, after Toyon and Zelda seated themselves behind the glass panel separating Sheila’s control module from the occupants. If you would like some refreshments, feel free to help yourselves. They are located in the panel in front of you. Compliments of Zero Gravity.

Thank you, Zelda replied, just as she finished writing the text message she was going to send to her boss, even though it was her day off, to let her know where she’d be; because those employed in the Medi-vac business were always on call. But when she pressed her finger on the send icon, she was more than a little surprised to find that there was neither a 10G nor a wifi connection available, since both were extremely strong signals at their home.

As Sheila, at the wheel of the car on the screen, drove around the roundabout and headed out onto the dirt lane in front of the house, Zelda said, Sheila, why can’t I send a text from this car?

There was an inordinately long pause—for an autonomous vehicle module, which must assess life-and-death situations instantaneously—before Sheila finally responded. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. Christianstead. I noticed your text was being sent to a number associated with an aviation company. In light of Zero Gravity’s intersecting interests, such calls are not allowed from within this vehicle unless express consent has been forwarded to me beforehand.

You noticed where I was texting?

Sheila glanced up into the projected rearview mirror, in which Zelda could see that Sheila’s eyes were the color of amethysts and that her congenial appearance placed her as being a Gosei, a fifth generation Japanese-American. She said, Yes, of course. I have the ability to intercept all communication devices within the vehicle.

And block them from transmitting?

Sheila lowered her eyes from the mirror to the road ahead of her, which was not a representation of the actual road leading to Toyon and Zelda’s house, but a generic one that passed through an equally generic landscape of pastures and gentrified estates. She said, And from receiving.

Should we be worried? Toyon inserted, realizing that he had no idea where they were being taken.

Worried? Sheila’s computerized voice feigned hurt. But there was enough irony programed into it to make her response seem teasing, which prompted Toyon to purse his lips; for he knew from having flown F-42s for the Air Force that to create such linguistic nuance in AI was equivalent to spending hundreds of millions of dollars to make a mach-5 plane go ten miles faster. She continued. I have had no accidents in two hundred sixty-nine thousand five hundred forty-three point six miles.

Realizing that the caliber of Sheila’s wordplay, and probably her executive functions of recognition were so far above and beyond most of the canned electronic agents and bots that were extant across the world, especially those assigned to autonomous vehicles, Toyon modulated his own voice so that, hopefully, it did not reveal the anxiety he felt. That’s not what I mean, Sheila. I mean, we can’t see where we’re going. We can’t call out. Are you abducting us? Toyon added, deciding at the last second to add this last question to make it sound like a joke.

Again Sheila took a long time to respond. That is not possible. I can break no laws. The windows are tinted to protect your privacy and that of Zero Gravity. And the virtual landscape is designed to put you at ease.

Then why stop us from sending messages?

I am programmed to stop only those communications that may come into conflict with Zero Gravity’s interests. Otherwise, you can call anyone anywhere you would like.

I’d like to call the café to see how my macaroons went last night, Zelda said.

Sheila paused for only a second, then said, Done. If you are ready, I am prepared to dial that number for you now.

But how do you know what number I want to call?

I have access to your call logs and contacts, as well as to your bank accounts. Is it Aroma Roasters, whose check you deposited yesterday, that you want to call?

Zelda rolled her eyes and shook her head in a way that expressed her ruefulness and deflation over the draconian TLP—the Thomasonian-Loss-of-Privacy—laws that had followed the gutting of the nation’s privacy laws after the second Coronavirus pandemic (of four) had laid waste to the world economy and democratic political systems and, into the vacuum, instituted crony oligarchic corporatoidism as the default financial and legal framework.

Yes.

You do know that that information is encrypted, don’t you? Toyon said.

Yes, I know. Now, she went on, if you wish, I can dial that number for you, Mrs. Christianstead. Shall I?

Yes.

Sheila brought up a dial tone. But before she dialed Aroma Roasters, she said, Before I place the call, Mrs. Christianstead, I must ask you and Mr. Christianstead to refrain from mentioning Zero Gravity to the other party. As a further precaution, your call will be set for a one second delay in case you inadvertently have a slippery tongue. Do you both agree to abide by these requests?

Toyon smirked at the inaccurate idiom. Can we get out of the car?

Of course. Any time you wish. Except when there are dangers to your health and safety that prevent me from stopping.

Then we’re not your prisoners.

Sheila actually laughed at this. That would be illegal. I cannot break the law. It was a laugh that sounded like any one of the ten thousand Toyon had heard on streaming laugh-tracks through the years, which caused Toyon to register it as meaning that Zero Gravity, while seemingly miles ahead on linguistic subtlety was, like almost all mid-level AI, woefully deficient in valuing the importance of ironic humor when assessing how humans learn.

With that, Zelda asked Sheila to call Aroma Roasters, which she did. By then they were out on a real highway—116—traversing miles of virtual pastureland that looked like the lands that had been kept as open space in order to disseminate treated sewage over hayfields. As Sheila had asserted, the idyllic display on the windshield and on the side windows were indeed relaxing, and forty-five minutes later, the rumble of the vehicle crossing a suspension structure told a dozing Toyon they were on the Golden Gate Bridge. It also shook Zelda awake from the light nap she had taken. Half an hour later, the vehicle turned off the highway and began winding through and up and then down into hills that, on screen, looked to Zelda suspiciously like those in the Santa Monica Mountains above Pacific Palisades, five hundred miles to the south, where she had grown up.

They finally pulled into a space that by the lack of vibration from the tires and by the minuscule increase in air pressure against both Zelda’s and Toyon’s eardrums, which were exquisitely attuned to such changes from their years of flying, Toyon reckoned was a garage parking structure floor. A moment later or so it seemed, Sheila brought the car to a halt and both rear doors sprang open to reveal they had indeed entered an enclosed, well-lit cylindrical-shaped enclosure that curved up and all around them like a cavernous parking structure whose size was hard to determine owing to the structure’s many protruding facets that, to Toyon, were like the crystalline insides of an amethyst geode. What was clear was that whatever this place was, it was its own self-contained environment. And more than that, no expenses had been spared in its construction.

No sooner had Toyon and Zelda stepped out of Sheila than they were met by a woman who approached them from behind seemingly out of thin air. No more than an inch over five feet in height, and not more than a pound over eighty-five, and perhaps in her late forties, she wore her stringy gray-blond hair pulled back with barrettes, and stood with stooped shoulders in an unironed white blouse, a plaited, calf-length pastel-blue flannel skirt and mud-colored flats. Finally, with her sallow complexion, the woman could charitably be called unadorned and easily mistaken for a backroom stock clerk at a Silicon Valley warehouse. In a word, she did not inspire confidence.

Welcome to Zero Gravity. My name is Madeline Roundaline. Madeline Roundaline is my name, she said, in a well-modulated, chirpy, and clearly echolalic tone that did little to conceal that she was on the autistic spectrum. In fact, her whole demeanor bespoke of the type of awkward rote assuredness that comes from an ability to focus with singular attention on one thing only while being oblivious to all else. And you must be Toyon, she said, shaking his hand. And Zelda. She shook Zelda’s hand in metronomic time to the shaking of her head. And both handshakes were pumped assertively six times each for two seconds too long before ending abruptly with Madeline dropping their hands like she was releasing her grip on a circuit breaker. Toyon and Zelda. Zelda and Toyon. I like that. She smiled approvingly in a discrete three-step progression that saw the expression on her face go from flaccidness to engagement, to enjoyment.

We’re here to answer the ad, Ms. Roundline, Zelda said, appraising Madeline in a glance as being someone whose quirkiness in voice and appearance was both a charming and also a formidable asset in the same way that a chameleon can be beautiful and also change its color.

Oh, yes, I know that. You have been pre-screened. We have looked at your medical and employment records, your genetic panels, your transcripts, your credit rating, your browsing history, your purchasing patterns, and your genealogy. You can call me Maddy, she pronounced brightly, as though she were addressing a webinar audience. Then she added, her zeal out-sizing her words by a factor of five, Can I call you Zed? And you Toy?

Toyon and Zelda only shrugged in answer, perplexed in equal measure as they were by this strangely exuberant woman, and confounded by the breadth of her research into their personal histories. Toyon could not help but voice his ambivalence when he spoke. What do you do for Zero Gravity, Maddy? he said, adding parenthetically, No slight intended.

At this aside, Madeline drew in her elbows to her rib cage, like chicken wings, and burst into a rollicking round of ticklish laughter that was followed by the words, Maddy is the the owner of Zero Gravity! And I am Maddy, Zero Gravity’s owner! that fairly exploded from out of her. But then her demeanor changed abruptly back to flaccidity. But, come, let me show you our facility and go to my office where you can meet my husband and we can discuss the terms of employment. Zelda and Toyon looked doubtfully at one another, and Madeline, sensing their discomfort, flicked her thumb and forefinger of her right hand in a stylized snapping motion such as someone might employ when playing a game of marbles. That is, if you can look past my peculiarities, which I can see have put you off, and you are still interested.

No, no, Zelda inserted hastily. We’re still interested. It’s just that...

Yes, yes, I know. It’s just that I am a strange duck to take in on one’s first impression, Madeline went on. If you haven’t already figured out—no, I take that back. I know you already have figured it out—that I am... How should I say it? Strange? Weird? A nut job?

On the spectrum, Toyon blurted. The autistic one.

Madeline beamed at this. Precisely. And that is one of the reasons why I have brought you here. You see, I am the youngest of six siblings. We are all on the spectrum. All my brothers and sisters have children. And all my nieces and nephews are on the spectrum. I have seven great nieces. And they are all on the spectrum. And we all have photographic memories.

Though this was disheartening for those who had family members on the spectrum and were themselves looking to have children, it was not particularly noteworthy news to Toyon and Zelda; for ever since the 1990s it was common knowledge that the incidence of ASD—autism spectrum disorders—had mushroomed steadily worldwide, from a little over one birth per thousand then, to a current rate approaching thirty births per thousand. For some, like Madeline, it clearly had not been a totally debilitating condition. But for many others, including Zelda’s youngest brother, it was devastating. This was especially so for families without resources to engage early intervention regimes which could help their children carve out independent, non-institutionalized lives for themselves.

But neither Zelda or Toyon were prepared for what Madeline said next. According to our AI division here at Zero Gravity, she said, we have determined through your histories that you will have a ninety-eight-point seven-four-percent chance to bear an ASD child. But there is more, much more that we can talk about if you will hear us out. Let me reassure you, though, if you are the right two people, I promise we will make your sacrifice and that of your children worth your while many times over. Now, shall we go have a look around?

Sure. Since we’ve come all this way, Zelda said, dismissing Madeline’s assertion of the likelihood of bearing a child on the spectrum as nothing more than a melodramatic version of what she had heard already from her own physician.

With that, Sheila skittered away, her tires scrunching against the polished concrete of the garage floor like dental amalgam being pressed into a cavity. Madeline then led Toyon and Zelda toward what appeared to be a blank wall, but which was, as it turned out, the exterior of a geode-like landing into which the elevator doors were invisibly installed within a holographic crystal amethyst interface. They then exited the garage through another geode-like conveyance whose entire insides were decorated with similar holographic amethyst crystals, and whose floor was sand.

Madeline kicked off her shoes and asked that Toyon and Zelda take theirs off as well. She also presented them with lightweight, body-length coveralls to pull on over their own clothing, as a precaution, she said, against outside contamination being introduced into their facility. Then, unexpectedly, since Toyon and Zelda were in a grotto-like underground garage and had expected the elevator to rise, it did the opposite: it descended. And in a moment, the elevator came to a halt four floors beneath the garage. The doors opened to reveal an office, bathed in 360-degrees of sunlight, with windows that looked out across an expanse of sapphire-blue sea lapping against a palm-covered tropical island beneath an azure sky dotted with fleecy white clouds interspersed with more amethyst crystals.

Here we are, Madeline said. We are here.

And where is here? Toyon asked, stepping onto a sandy beach and gazing around in wonder at the sheer audaciousness of the room, which was a circular dome about a hundred feet in diameter whose ceiling rose almost to the same height.

It’s Jost van Dyke, came a stern rebuke, from out of a bamboo shanty on the far side of the room. It’s an island in the Carribean.

Of course. I should have known that, Toyon answered tartly in reply.

Madeline strode purposefully across the sand toward the hut, saying as she proceeded, Strickland, this is Toy and Zed. Toy and Zed, this is my husband, Strickland. Then to Toyon, she said, Don’t mind him. Like me he is naturally rebarbative and doesn’t mean to offend you, Toy. It’s something that comes with ASD. Isn’t it, Strictly? Strictly, isn’t it?

Thereupon a man stepped out from beneath the hut. Yes, Maddy is right. Rudeness comes with the spectrum, I’m afraid. Sorry if I was in your face. If I was in your face, I’m sorry. Please forgive me my bad manners. I’m Strickland.

Barefoot and in a shimmery spandex jumpsuit, he began to stride through the sand underfoot, which, because it was surprisingly warm, Toyon reckoned was radiantly heated from below.

But you can call him Strictly, can’t they, Strictly? Madeline chimed, clapping her hands gleefully, evidently over a private joke.

Er, yes. Strictly. ‘Strictly Maddy’ is how Maddy likes to introduce us to investors. She says it’s a way for us to give them a shot off the bow that takes the edge off of our ‘stereotypical spectrum behaviors’ so that investors can negotiate with us without worrying about how ‘weird’ we are, he added, accentuating several portions with exaggerated air quotes.

His voice, like Madeline’s, was echolalic, with the same awkward rote assuredness born from a dedication and obliviousness to a singular focus. Unlike Madeline though, who in appearance was plain as a cucumber, Strickland was, in contrast, such a clamor of bright tropical inflorescence and exotic patterns that Zelda was reminded at once of the birds-of-paradise flowers on the south side of Toyon’s workshop that she nursed like ducklings against the frost every winter.

Strickland was a foot taller than Madeline and equally as fine boned, with the same stoop-shouldered posture. But whereas Madeline’s complexion was sallow, Strickland’s looked to have been painted over with bronze body paint. It was, Toyon adjudged, a result that could only have been brought about either by slathering on copious amounts of artificial tanning lotions, or else by spending weeks being fricasseed alive under tanning lights. Either way, he thought Strickland’s appearance was to Madeline’s like a peacock’s to a mouse.

Strickland came up and shook their hands, and just as Madeline had done, he pumped the handshakes in a metronomic, overlong manner. After he released his grip on Zelda’s hand an awkward silence ensued, which Zelda finally broke. What’s with the Jost van Dyke decor? she said, gesturing toward a clump of palms fluttering in the breeze on a sandy spit.

One of my heroes was Sir Richard Branson, the founder of Virgin Galactic, he said. He owned an island around the corner from The Bitter End. I just wanted to honor his early contributions to the field of space excursions."

And be knighted just like him too. Don’t leave that part out, Madeline inserted.

That would be nice, Strickland acknowledged. Since I do hold dual citizenship.

Then gesturing toward another slatternly structure on the palm-lined shore of the cove pictured on the wall to their left, where an oval rattan desk and matching chairs were arranged in the sand in front of it, he added, Let’s mosey over to the Foxy’s Taboo conversation pit for your interview.

Madeline directed them to sit down opposite her and Strickland. Toyon noted that the Foxy’s Taboo was a tropical watering hole of the kind that abounded in Kauai, where he had grown up until he went away to college. Dispensing with any small talk, Madeline began the interview by reiterating the ad in its entirety from memory.

Intrepid, stable, self-sufficient and extremely reliable couple in their twenties wanted. Some piloting, menu development, and gardening experience helpful but not necessary. Must agree to an eighteen-year commitment to live in a weightless environment. Timing of contract dependent upon couple’s ability to pass mechanical competency and physical exams, and upon their willingness to conceive and raise a child in that time frame. Compensation is extremely fair, negotiable, and non-taxable. Confidentiality is non-negotiable. If interested, Contact Zero Gravity at—

Blah, blah, blah, Strickland inserted, cutting her off. Look, let’s cut to the chase, he continued, flicking a switch on his desk, which opened a panel behind him in the open air window of the bar. My wife and I know by looking through your records that you both have piloting skills. Living where you do, you have both developed gardening experience. You, he nodded to Zelda, have gourmet level menu development skills. The panel behind him flickered to life as he went on. I think we can dispense with the mechanical competency exam too, since both of you have shown skills in this area through your employment. And as far as the physical exam goes, Sheila and the elevator are examination capsules. They did full body scans and conducted other metrics on both of you in the time it took for you to come here. And I am pleased to inform you that both of you have passed those exams with flying colors. With flying colors both.

At that juncture, the screen behind him brought up a series of pictures of Toyon and Zelda that showed their various internal systems and their functionality. Though surprised by this unwanted invasion, they also knew there was no use in quarreling over the uninvited intrusion into the privacy of their bodies; not since TLP limitations on privacy laws expanded the notion of equivalency between human and corporate rights and had rendered the fourth, fifth and fourteenth amendments of the Bill of Rights toothless.

With flying colors you have passed those exams, Madeline interjected. And if you’ll look at your figure, Zed, she continued, with so much enthusiasm that, to Zelda, it seemed she was going to burst out in applause, you’ll see in the lower right quadrant of your abdomen an increase in temperature. Do you know what that means?

Zelda nodded. It means I’m ovulating. It’s like clockwork with me, Zelda added. Same time every month.

Since you have replied to our ad, I assume that means you are planning to have children. Is having children your plan?

You assume correctly, Toyon replied dryly.

If you are ovulating, you could conceive today. What’s preventing you?

Toyon winced. I am, he said. I’m not willing to fly commercially anymore to make the money we need to support a family.

No, I am, Zelda put in hastily. Even if Toy flew, it wouldn’t be enough. We have to wait until his woodworking business grows and we can save some money. I don’t want us to get burdened down with debt when we’re this young, because then we’ll be like our parents and their parents before them and never get out from under it, and like them we’d probably die young.

Why don’t you want to fly commercially, Toy? Strickland inserted.

Toyon shook his head as if to ward off a gnat. Because flying commercially means it’s a job. He shrugged. The thing is, I love flying. And having to do it for other people spoiled it for me. It replaced love with obligation, and, to me, those are not interchangeable.

What if Maddy and I were to tell you Zero Gravity will make it worth your while to conceive? Would you be willing to have a child?

Toyon stood and walked over to where the image of Zelda’s body was projected. He gazed at the spot her ovary was pinpointed within an island of crimson in a seascape of rubescent iso-lines lapping against its shore. He placed his palm lightly against the wall on the center of the island and faced Zelda. In a heartbeat.

He then turned to Strickland. So, Strictly, he said, mimicking Madeline’s tone, it sounds like you and Maddy are saying we might qualify for whatever it is you’re asking us to do. Don’t you think it’s high time you tell us what exactly that something is?

Yes, the time is high. High is the time, Madeline answered. But before we proceed any further, we must first ask you to sign a document that says you will not publically disclose any aspects of our conversation on pain of loss that shall not exceed the value of all your worldly assets.

Toyon and Zelda gasped, and Madeline continued. As you can see, we are very serious about privacy, especially in the world we live in, where secrecy is more valuable than gold. Sheila, for example, she went on, is designed to thwart the curious who would want to locate our campus. And this campus, if you haven’t already guessed, is built entirely underground in order to forestall any attempt to intercept our internal communications or to eavesdrop on us from overhead.

If you’re so concerned about people locating you, then why did you tell me you were off Sand Hill Road when I called? Toyon asked, pulling his phone from out of his pocket I could easily have tracked where we were going on this.

To which Strickland scoffed, We designed Sheila’s suspension so that, from the inside, you would think you were going down 101 and crossing the Golden Gate Bridge and going through the hills above Stanford. In reality, we’re nowhere near Silicon Valley or the Stanford campus. If you look at your phones, you’ll notice we blocked their GPS and network time settings so that they wouldn’t be able to keep track of where you were going and where you are now. Look at your clock. Can you tell me how long your naps were?

You drugged us? Zelda exclaimed, as Toyon checked the time, which, he informed Zelda, was stuck on the hour they had climbed into Sheila.

No, of course not, Strickland said, frowning as if he was affronted by the accusation. We may be obsessively private, but we’re certainly not evil. We are good, very good, however, at creating environments that are both nourishing and relaxing. He gestured toward the idyllic scenery encircling them. We simply made the ride conducive to falling asleep and losing track of time internally.

Madeline had become fascinated with a cane of rattan on the edge of the table that she had worked loose, which she twisted between her fingers. To her husband, she said, Strictly, let these poor people be. They, like the others, have been gracious enough to answer our ad, so we can at least try to be as cordial and informative to them as they have been to us. Then, to Toyon and Zelda, Forgive my husband. He is ultra, ultra concerned about privacy. He wears those atrocious clothes of his not because he thinks I like them or because he likes to be stylish, but because he thinks the patterns and colors in the metallic fibers of the spandex help insulate the electromagnetic waves radiating from him from being measured. He is right in being concerned. Others, though, think he’s a nut. I think he is a genius. But he also doesn’t know how to talk to people about things.

I’d rather talk to machines. Machines are who I’d rather talk to, Strickland admitted. But that actually brings me to the reason why you are here. Maddy and I are obviously on the spectrum, and one of the things that that means is that she and I do not have a fully functioning complement of mirror neurons that functions as do yours. Here. He pressed his hand against his forehead. "These, the mirror neurons, are the fast track to the back of the brain. They allow humans to assess and react quickly in environments that require immediate responses. Like social interactions. That is