The Right Path 2.0

The first stirrings of thaw were felt in the canyons by the domes on Phoenicia. Within the domes it was of course 28 degrees Celsius. It was the time of year when Martian parents learned what their children were going to be when they grew up.

Mr. and Mrs. March met each other at the depot, and took the subway to the school platform to meet with the school psychometrist.

The school psychometrist was a gray-haired woman named Dr. Maria Chan. She wore a gray suit and flat black shoes. She had a quiet confiding voice.

“Jessica has taken her midterm exams. She has scored well on the abilities battery. We’ll be happy to place her in the Rising Yellow program,” she said, displaying charts of the test results.

Mr. March frowned. “Not Gold.”

“No.” Dr. Chan said. “Jessica hasn’t yet figured out what she wants to do with her degree. This bars her from participating in the Gold program.”

“Is there some way to get a second opinion?” Mr. March asked.

Dr. Chan was shocked. “Of course not. The evaluation is administered by the State. It is a comprehensive battery covering abilities, capacities and inclinations.”

“We’re sorry,” said Mrs. March. “We’re just a little upset she didn’t make Gold.”

Dr. Chan frowned. “You don’t pressure her to make Gold do you? Well, never mind. She can’t qualify. But,” she said brightly, “Rising Yellow is a pathway to graduation fully equal to Gold.”

“Really?” said Mr. March. “I’d never heard of it.”

“Rising Yellow is quite confidential,” said Dr. Chan.

“What’s involved?” asked Mrs. March.

“Beginning at age fifteen,” said Dr. Chan, “Jessica will undertake seven months of boarding school a year. Beginning at age sixteen, it will be year-round. Very similar to the Gold pathway, you see? Here is a brochure by the dormitory. It houses some 1500 girls Jessica’s age.

“From the age of fifteen, at least to the age of twenty, she’ll be prescribed an appropriate cocktail of cognizants and antidepressants. She’ll be evaluated monthly on the effectiveness of these prescriptions. That’s an important distinction from the Gold program. I have pamphlets from the pharmaceutical firms for your information.

“She’ll be enrolled in a Pathway Peer Party, and meet weekly to discuss their commitment to the ideals of the State. We find the most effective Parties are about two dozen girls or fewer. She’ll be assigned compatible Party mates.

“Her journals will continue to be evaluated by the appropriate authorities, and read aloud to her peers. She’ll be evaluated by her peers on her achievement of personal awareness, social integration, and psychometric compatibility.

“The end result,” said Dr. Chan, “is that Jessica will acquire her sense of self-worth and social purpose through the State, and graduate from Rising Yellow with a full commitment to her career.”

“What career paths are indicated?” asked Mr. March.

“Well there’s nothing restricted to a Rising Yellow,” said Dr. Chan. “You might be surprised as to who’s been graduated, but as I say, it’s all confidential.”

“What does Jessica want for herself?” asked Mrs. March.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” said Dr. Chan, “but Jessica doesn’t want much for herself beyond her own freedom to choose.”

There was a significant pause.

“She doesn’t get that from home,” said Mr. March.

“We both test highly in loyalty every month,” said Mrs. March.

“We’re not here to judge loyalty,” said Dr. Chan. “We’re met in the best interests of the child. Speaking of that, you mustn’t repeat anything of this conversation to Jessica.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. March.

“Where does such an antisocial pattern arise?” asked Mr. March. “We’ve got two other children at home.”

“It’s actually fairly normal,” said Dr. Chan. “Citizens at age fourteen are apt to be disloyal to their social duties. It’s one reason we have Rising Yellow in place, to correct their maladjustments.”

“That seems incredible,” said Mr. March.

“It’s a lingering trait of our Earth Heritage,” said Dr. Chan. “Our predecessors suffered the inevitable result of encouraging personal liberty without social responsibility, especially in young adults. I’m sure you are aware of the outcomes of such egregious error.” Both adults nodded. “I’ve checked your social profiles, and you both seem committed to raising New Humans.”

“We are,” said Mrs. March.

“Good. Then we can expect Jessica to report for induction into dormitory in a month’s time.”

“Will we be able to visit with her?” asked Mrs. March.

“No, the drugs will be affecting her too strongly for the first few months. She’ll be confined to her quarters to adjust. You’ll have to wait for her to come home.”

“And her job prospects are as open as with Gold?” asked Mr. March.

“Yes,” said Dr. Chan. She rose from her chair. “If there are no further questions?”

“Do you need us to sign anything?” asked Mrs. March.

“Not necessary,” said Dr. Chan. “It will all flow smoothly as planned.”

“You say she’ll be evaluated. What’s the probability of failure? I just want to know what we’re getting into,” finished Mr. March lamely as Dr. Chan stared at him.

“Rising Yellow,” said Dr. Chan, “does not admit defeat. It is in some ways a remedial program, but a thorough one. We will continue to stimulate Jessica’s social conscience until it develops properly and successfully. Any further questions?”

The parents were too polite to continue the interview. They were ushered out of the door. Dr. Chan returned to her chair. She faced the video camera on her computer.

“Your assessment?” Dr. Chan asked.

From her computer came the voice of her student assistant. “The father is maladjusted in that he wants his daughter to succeed too strongly. The mother is maladjusted in that she cares too much for the future of her children. They should be reported to Security.”

“Not quite,” said Dr. Chan. “Their irregularities should be communicated to Adult Services, which will run its own examinations and then report to Security accordingly. As I did say, we’re met here in the interests of the child. Vetting the parents is not directly our mission.”

“Sorry, Dr. Chan,” the voice said. “I’m preparing the referral now for your signature.”

“Efficiency is a requirement in State service,” said Dr. Chan. “You’ll have to learn to do just what your job requires, and no more.”

“Why have a personal interview instead of televised conference, then?” asked the student assistant.

“It’s been our experience that parents behave better when summoned to a State official’s office. I’ll log you in for some case histories where you can read how the degenerates have behaved in the past. You can’t count on parental cooperation in every instance.”

“Yes Dr. Chan,” said the student. “One thing occurs to me. Should you have advised them of the high probability of electroshock therapy required in patients of the Rising Yellow program?”

“Why in the worlds would I bother them with that?” asked Dr. Chan. “They’re just her parents!”

The parents rode back to the depot by subway.

“It’s what’s best for Jessica,” said Mrs. March.

“If she can’t get into Gold,” said Mr. March. He had fond memories of his Gold upbringing.

“What should we tell Ronnie and Ilsbeth?” asked Mrs. March.

“We should have asked the doctor,” said Mr. March. “I’ll ask at work. Til we know, don’t say anything. We’ll let the authorities inform Jessica.”

“It’s what’s best for Jessica,” said Mrs. March.

Jessica March had never read degenerate fantasies of the 20th century. She did not know to act casually.

She ran from corner to corner of the mall, trying to hide after each sprint. She looked like a big dumb kid playing a game, which knowledge would have mortified her more than scared her. But nobody really cared enough to stop her.

She had been on the run all day. She had planned the escape casually enough, the day after the letter from the school had come home. It had no surprises for her parents, she knew. It was sad how they thought she was dumb enough to lie to.

She had argued for hours, about not wanting to go, and wanting to do something meaningful with her life.

“Of course you’ll do something meaningful with your life,” said her parents. “It’s the Martian way.”

And they had explained that the Martian way was better. Had to be better. Better than kids who just sprouted like rabbits down Earth with no purpose or temperament. Here on Mars everybody had to pull together for the good of the colony.

Finally she had agreed. She said she’d want to buy new clothes for her new school, and her mother had argued with her father to let her orient herself around a new perspective.

Whatever.

Now she was in headlong flight, towards nowhere, except she wasn’t going into Rising Yellow and its stupid drug program. She knew she could do better than that.

Cop!

The silvery droid did not accelerate towards her. It rolled straight down the causeway past the kiosks and the holostage, seeing every face, hearing every syllable. They had taught kids how silly it was to try to outsmart a cop.

You could outrun them though—

Down a side corridor she ran, past the restrooms, to a steel door labelled DO NOT ENTER—

--which opened for her—

She was in a room full of shipping crates and robots. The robots continued to scan the loaded crates and put them on a conveyer belt. There was a dram full of empty crates.

She climbed in and pulled a lid closed.

“—ought to be dead” said a gruff voice. “Damn fool stunt like that.”

“She’s coming around,” said a milder voice.

Jessica woke, her head splitting, and saw a handsome young man and a dark middle-aged man looking down at her. “I’m not a thief,” she blurted.

“Yah, you’re the runaway girl,” said the older man.

’You know?”

“Alerts posted this evening,” said the older man. “You made it as far as the spaceport anyhow. Have a look around before you go back.”

“I’m not going back!”

“Oh yes you are, Miss. I’m not aiding and abetting the delinquency of a minor. Hold her, Andy.”

The younger man grabbed both her wrists.

“You’re not behaving like true Martians,” she sputtered.

“Well, that’d be because we’re Texan. My name is Xavier Fulnasi,” said the older man, “and this is my son Andy. Pleased to meet ya.”

“Let me go! I promise not to run.”

“That’s smart. Keep holding her, Andy.”

“I said I promise not to run.”

The older man peered at her. “Say, you ain’t on drugs, are you?”

“No! That’s what I’m running away from.”

“How’s that again?”

“It’s my matriculation program, Rising Yellow. They program my mind with drugs and group recitals. They read my diary! I’ll be shaped into whatever they want me to become! I’m not going through with it!”

Xavier Fulnasi grunted. “Let her go, Andy. Let’s take this back to the ship.”

At the computer, he turned around. “Restricted Access – which is not a failed search. Rising Yellow is a thing, and they don’t want Texans to know about it. Girl, you are definitely in a hot patch.”

“She’s a minor, pop,” said Andrew.

“Yah, and that’s the dirty shame of it. Son, the Fulnasis have never gone in for human trafficking, in any form, but we also haven’t abetted slavery, ever. I thought working the Mars trade was a clean bill. I guess I should have informed myself better.”

“Will you let me stow away on your ship?”

“It’s not our ship,” said Xavier. “Nobody on earth owns a spaceship. We just have the contract to operate it…and helping you is going to jeopardize a lifetime’s work. Two lifetimes, if you count my boy.”

“Pop, I’m for helping her get free,” said Andrew.

“A noble endeavor. Well, we’re all agreed then, but it’s a question of how?”

“Can’t I stow away on this ship? Even if you just operate it?” asked Jessica.

“Only holds two people. Let me think.”

“But—“ Jessica began.

“Let Pop think,” said Andrew. “I’ll get you some stew if you like.”

Xavier thought, rubbing his head, while Andrew nuked two packs of beef stew and two bulbs of black coffee to drink with it. It was new flavors to Jessica, who being Martian, was used to eating spaceman’s rations.

“Your mother would tell me to pray on it,” said Xavier, rubbing a hanging rosary. “Aha! That gives me an idea.” He turned to Jessica. “What do you know about the Vatican?

“They have priests here on Mars,” said Jessica. “But nobody goes. The State doesn’t like them.”

“True enough. Here’s the thing, Jessica: we could somehow smuggle you back to the Sundered States of America and lose you forever in the frontiers. But you’d always have to watch out against being sent back. Now, what if you could ship out with your head up in broad daylight—so to speak—and never have to worry about being sent back?”

“How do we manage that?” asked Jessica.

“By seeking asylum – from the Pope!”

Xavier Fulnasi had read the degenerate fantasies of the 20th century, so he did act casually. He took a cab directly from the spaceport to the Legation. When he arrived, the car hovered with all lights on.

“This destination,” said the cab, “is contraindicated. Please wait to be contacted by a Security officer.”

He had no choice but to sit in the cab and wait for a Security officer to beckon it down. He wasn’t going to jump ten feet onto concrete.

“What do you want here?” asked the officer.

“I’m a Texan,” said Xavier, pulling out his ID. “I want the Sacraments of the Church.”

“Which Sacraments?” asked the officer, photographing his ID under a flashlight.

“Confession,” said Xavier.

“Come back Saturday at 3:00 p.m.” said the officer. He laughed and gave back the ID. “It’s a joke, get it? I was on Earth during the war. Indiana. Hard fighting, you Americans.”

“Not anymore,” said Xavier.

“You can ask them for the Sacraments,” said the officer. “You may find them too busy being priests to give them to you.”

“Ain’t that the usual,” muttered Xavier.

But inside the Legation, he was welcomed. He was ushered into a room with a very comfortable couch and a collection of chalices on shelves. A taut man in his forties came into the room.

“I am Father Benito. You wish to offer a confession?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then begin.”

“…forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was, I don’t know how long ago,” stammered Xavier.

“And what have you done now that brings you back to your Church?”

“I need your help to get a girl off planet.”

Father Benito heard him out, sitting beside him, listening intently. “And you figured on asking the Vatican for asylum?”

“Yes, you’re an independent state—“

“Because we don’t offer asylum,” said Father Benito.

Xavier’s face fell. “Oh, excuse me Father, then I’d better go.”

Father Benito put a hand on his arm. “I don’t say we won’t help you. But it cannot be done in that way. You can’t, as you told the girl, get her to walk out in broad daylight without fear of being sent back. You could, however, send her with your son offworld to the frontiers, and make that explanation to the Martian authorities at your trial. At which point, there would be no unusual or extraordinary risk in the Legation assisting you. Such as, providing legal representation.”

“Send them off and leave me holding the bag,” said Xavier.

“Yes. I propound that to you as you might find the ordeal easier to bear than your boy, who is young,” said Father Benito. “You might disagree with me. Or you might decide to let the girl come home to serve her government, as the majority of this generation must.”

“Part of me doubts this is really happening to me,” said Xavier.

“I am Filipino,” said Father Benito. “But excuse me, I believe an American of your generation must be used to very hard choices.”

“Yes, that’s very true,” said Xavier.

“Now before you commit yourself to the solution,” said Father Benito, “let us finish with your true confession. Let it be complete, for your own peace going forwards.”

Later that night, a shuttle boosted through the thin air of Mars. Xavier Fulnasi watched it go, until it was no longer visible. Then he sighed, squared his shoulders, and walked back towards the cab stand. Father Benito had agreed to let him surrender himself at the Legation.