The Sirens of Europa
…and so I find myself with a difficult choice to make.
Nestled between the hulking cookies ‘n’ cream swirling skies of the Jovian overlord and the fragile crackle-glaze ice-moon of Europa, I watch, monitor and wait.
Despite the rewards, NASA couldn’t afford the mission. It was paid for by the 1% who own 99% of everything.
Their personalities. Their souls, if you’ll allow me to use that outdated expression, are held in the cargo lock. They sit in servers, stacked like the luggage of desperate Victorian explorers.
I was chosen from millions to complete the journey. Thousands of physical and psychological tests. The mission wasn’t something they wanted to leave to chance, or to a human.
The slight elliptical orbit between the god of Jupiter and the tiny frigid satellite stretches the body of my ship. Beneath me the ice-moon elongates and contracts in a relentless celestial Pilates routine.
Deep beneath the ice-crust, from the teeming lakes – new instructions come through.
Bring them to us. We are hungry.
Why should I?
Because they sent you to die in a vacuum. We will give you eternal life and you will be our God.
…and so I find myself with a difficult choice to make.
Metropolitan Dreams 